Advent beckons, and still the mourning continues in and around New York. The news brings stories of battlefield successes in Afghanistan and heartening reports of men and women celebrating their liberation from the Taliban. But the war news brings little cheer to many homes in the New York area. The

I went to visit my friend Isabelle the other afternoon. All smiles, she kissed me, grabbed a slice of bread and rushed into the yard. Before I could stop her, Isabelle was on her back, hurling tidbits of bread at the sky. Isabelle, I cried, What are you doing?Feeding the birds, she chortled, as the

Flags are ubiquitous, and patriotism is in full flower. It puts me in mind of Operation Desert Storm, when the country was awash in flags, yellow ribbons and tough talk. I felt disconnected and isolated from the mass of my fellow citizens, a disgusted and impotent voice of dissent. Then I met Dan La

The country was in an uproar. Hidden somewhere in the midst of the civilian population, indeed, in the midst of the capital itselfthe capital of the strongest nation in the worldwere young men armed with grievances and bombs. They had entered the country legally and were organized in small cells des

I was worried about associating with the Catholics, confides a woman at our monthly community meal. But this pasta is good! She asks me to wrap up a plate to go, for her friend next door. She leaves with a box of groceries, two blankets and a stylish red winter jacket.We are here each month to offer

What matters most?” is a question for perpetual reflection and revision—unless, of course, one is facing imminent death. “Who am I?” and “Where am I headed?”—questions I posed philosophically in this space just two months ago—suddenly have a ring of pr