Blessed are those who do not wonder, for they can't stumble, and fall away. Blessed are the poor in intellect, for they cannot question their God. Blessed is the blind sheep, for he always sees the face of his Creator. Or at least, he thinks he does. I have heard the cosmic monochord fall out of tune, and I listen to the cacophony of what should be the celestial orchestra. No one is playing the same tune, and it does not matter, because their notes don't even match. Something is very broken. Who can fix it? Who has a steady hand and a patient mind to pull together a million or a billion or a trillion shards of sense and order that make up chaos, and order them to order themselves? They are the fragments of 2,000 years or more of stained glass, all laying all over some sad place that wants to be a church. I remember when it was, but I looked again, looked harder, and it was not. Once I saw that, I knew it never could be again. Blessed are those who only take a first look. Divine would be the man who can take it all in, and bring it back to order.