James 5:14-16 *

I walk past the old cemetery. A large section of the wrought iron fence has been damaged, wrenched off its posts and left leaning in place. I look up, suspecting high winds, falling branches, or even the giant criminals who roam these sad urban streets at night.

I turn into an alley. A man is approaching. He rides a bicycle. He wears a do-rag and a pained expression. Twenty feet from me, he stops, leans left, and unloads a voluminous esophagus-ful of vomit into the weeds and broken glass on the ground. “Oh God,” he says, mid-eruption. I step forward, feigning assistance, but heed the unspoken advice of the throng with whom I walk, and we quickly step around the dangerous-looking fellow. My heart skips a beat, then another, and I consider the consequences of losing consciousness so close to his sick. I imagine harmful microbes, liberated from the sticky mess and attaching themselves to my soles or my hair should I fall here. But the throng buoys me up, and, safely, we pass.

*Is any among you sick?