To the editor,

Nearly every Thursday night on the corner of Seventh and Massachusetts, men from a local church take turns shouting “the gospel” from atop a planter while the braver of the passersby shout back at them. In between sermons, the church choir shouts its way through several old hymns, doing their best to drown out the saxophone player on the opposite corner, who is always there playing – softly, sensitively – before they arrive. He plays on despite the interruption, despite the rudeness. They’ve lost him; they’ve lost the rest of us.

Meanwhile, the air overhead is filled with chimney swifts and nighthawks, whose flight and songs, were we able to hear them, offer a far better witness to the love, faithfulness and beauty of God than does the noise this church makes.

Kelly Barth,

Lawrence