The Man of Sorrows   He’s there each Sunday, just outside the church — always the same dirty clothes, trembling hands clutching a cardboard sign with words that were chosen with care — “Homeless. Please help.” No ransom, no rescue in sight. People rush past, intent on taking their places and being on time to earn enough grace to last the rest of the week. Just one hour till freedom — not so bad, and the music is nice. “Come in and join us,” I tell him. “I will,” he says, and sometimes he does. What’s the price of freedom, rescue, grace — just sitting still when we’re told to sit, kneeling when we’re told to kneel? Jesus is out there in the cold.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2022