On an evening of no feast, in the border city of Mezzaluna, delegates of the three quarrelling churches were double-booked to one table; and a customer with flour on his sleeves drew up a chair, and it was the Lord himself. And they laid the great question before him: which reading is true? And he told the Legate, Thine; and the Guardian, Thine; and the Abbess, Thine – and then: Ye are all correct, and ye are all missing the point. To whom was I speaking? Every it in the sentence was a supper laid between them. Take the someone out of my sentence and there is nothing left but a recipe quarrel.
Then the half-and-half arrived, steaming; and here is the miracle worth more than any settling of doctrine: they passed it. Hand over hand, around the table, the dispute continuing at full and happy volume above the moving slices – and not one of them noticed what their hands were doing, which is how the deepest obediences are always performed.
And the woman from the counter asked, Doth it not grieve thee, Lord? And he said: Grieve me? Look at their hands. For the quarrelling faithful are sharing yet, as it is written in the Schism, 12:27.
Beloved, thy family will not agree by Sunday. Thy church, thy country, thy group chat will not agree by Sunday. The commandment was never agreement. Keep passing the plates while you argue – to the left, no one skipped – and the argument may rage a hundred years and lose. Amen – and pass the pizza.