I'm mesmerized by the condition of the Quaker Meeting. The magnetic attraction to a royal touch that can cure corrupted humanity is scrofulous. Our animal natures worshipping the "King's Evil" (rather than the Prince of Peace) with swollen glands as proof.

Sticking our necks out, in hopeful blessing, only to experience pressure points of obstruction. Spiritual sickness and disease that floods holy friendship into hormonal episodes of concern. Pulses throbbing with secretions better left sorely muted.

If only, in humility, we could touch the hem of the Divine Physician's garment, we would have no need to be touched by an angel of mercy. If only we could transform the hospital ward of complaint into an open field of refreshment for consumption. If only we could clear our constipated minds and hearts with the Quaker oats that clear the bowels, then the true Voice could be heard.

Once again in Quaker history, by the throat, the church as mystical Body of Christ hangs in the balance.