George

I'll call him George. He sat in the seat in front of me on Sunday, and at the part of the service where we greet people and chat a few minutes, he spun around and said hi to me. His hair was tussled and his breath was foul as he leaned into me, and his hands were clammy and oily and I wondered if I would catch something. He was evidently "off" to some degree and asked me my name several times (which, come to think of it, I often have to do too).

But it was the bad breath that got me to thinking that when we read the gospel stories about Jesus and the times he lived in and the roads he walked on and the people he associated with, the thing we're missing in the accounts-the thing the narratives are not able to convey-is the smells. I remember being similarly disillusioned when, as a child, some grownup burst my romantic bubble about medieval castles with a comment about plumbing and bathing habits.

But we don't have to be odiferous or odd to be embarrassing to other church people. We only have to admit our sins and struggles openly. That will do it-or maybe we would be surprised and find that our risky admission of sins would open a floodgate.