P: First Presbyterian Church, Oxford, Miss.

First Presbyterian Church sits just off the Square in Oxford. Two octagon towers and a larger bell tower in front give the brick building, though tastefully set behind a lawn, an imposing presence. Inside, the sanctuary feels surprisingly close, with little room between pews. Is the seating scaled for the smaller people of a previous century?

Or does the order of service suffocate me? I grew up with the hymnal, the men in neckties, the Doxology, and Lord’s Prayer with its debts and debtors. Today is Transfiguration Sunday. Jesus, in dazzling white, appeared with Moses and Elijah before Peter, James, and John. Peter spoke. He offered to set up three tents. God replied from behind a cloud. He said, shut up.

Today’s sermon was about listening. Or being struck dumb. The pastor cited examples of when words prove inadequate. Like Hurricane Katrina: “anything we can say to explain Katrina is empty and trite.” There is no one to blame. I exchanged glares with Julie. No blame for the President? Or the poverty that turned the natural disaster into a human one? Or the refineries that compromised wetlands that could have absorbed the storm’s shock?

Delivered to a comfortable, well-healed Congregation, the pastor’s words felt empty and trite.

After church, Julie and I went to Bottletree bakery across the street. We bought a chocolate croissant.