July 18, 2010 | David Crosby
Passage: Psalms 119:81-88
Maybe it's because I am in the possession of a small clay pot that was covered with soot when I claimed it. That pot, unearthed from an Incan grave, sat on a shelf in a little house 10,000 feet up in the Andes Mountains in northern Peru. A fire burned inside almost continually, and the smoke crept up the walls and across the ceiling, sneaking out through cracks and crevasses.
Imagine a leather pouch hanging in the tent of a Bedouin. The heat and smoke curl around the top of that tent, and the wineskin dries and cracks.
Sometimes people feel like wineskins in the smoke.