At that holiest of feasts, we are known not just by our official names but by the names people use who have known us longest and most intimately. We are welcomed not as the solid citizens that our Sunday best suggests we are but in all our inner tackiness and tatteredness that no one in the world knows better than we each of us know it about ourselves—the bitterness, the phoniness, the confusion, the irritability, the prurience, the half-heartedness. The bread of heaven, Freddy, of all people? Molly? Bill? Ridiculous little What's-her-name? Boring old So-and-so? Extraordinary.
-Frederick Buechner, The Clown in the Belfry, 10.
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