God who comes and Toots His Own Holy Horn, where angels call and the faces of earth's multitude turn Heavenward with the crossed-fingered, hope of rising first, with those desirous, and who hold the ticket of their small faith, of taking a trip on a cloud like a Disney ride, to the Lord's Forever-Ever-Land, ...Bah! And boo, boo, boo! You know the Plan. No one goes until everybody goes. The notion of The Elect, Your Holy Elect, kills the least of these over and over and over again and again and again. Speak plainly. Mean the words of the mountaintop. Stay with us. Amen.