The work of our time, our time of masked agents, televised genocide, and exhausted utopias, is to make sanctuary for the holy. To 'make sanctuary' for the holy is to host the unnamable, to let the noise sing, to let the monsters come to the table without trimming their claws. It is to keep the geometry open, the wound weeping, the silence trembling. It is to walk without answers, to hold without clutching, to stay when staying is unreasonable. Perhaps this is our vocation: not to heal the holy, nor to polish it into a sermon, but to fester with it, to become its dwelling, to let it rearrange the bones of our belonging. ~ Bayo Akomolafe