The scripture reading in church Sunday gave me a jolt — Exodus 32, which refers to the Chosen People wearing earrings, men as well as women. Yikes! Moses got his ears pierced?

And then a bigger jolt. God is so furious at the C.P. for worshipping the golden calf (forged from their earrings) that He talks about consuming them with fire, but Moses talks Him out of it, which sort of dents one's faith in divine omniscience, the Lord taking a sharp turn like that? ("Oh, I hadn't thought about that — OK, cancel the thunderbolt!") I brood over it, as I do about more and more these days. Walk at night down misty streets through yellow leaves and question everything and keep it to myself.

I let other people carry the conversational ball when it comes to religion, or politics, these days. I've known enough old bores to want not to be one of them. Old honkers with ratchety voices who hold everyone hostage and make their point 16 times and lay waste to the dinner hour. Not me, dear hearts.

As I write this, the sun is coming up over the Mississippi Valley. It rises on people facing challenges far beyond anything in my rackety life. A beautiful cheerful woman of 26 has been handed a jagged diagnosis of cancer like a big wet albatross on a necklace. A friend struggles with severe depression, slogging through the day, wishing the meds would kick in. And there is Patrick, whom I met Saturday, a very bright boy who lies speechless on a gurney, a trach tube in his windpipe, a pump humming softly on a shelf below. His parents explain that he was stricken by a rare neuromuscular disease and that's all they say about it. They're animated, buoyant, jokey, and Patrick smiles and raises his eyebrows — and suddenly one's own tiny troubles aren't worth mentioning.

The existence of human suffering seems to me to affirm the Christian faith. It's the sacred duty of the faithful to uphold the Patricks of the world against the prevailing Darwinist forces, but a Patrick shouldn't be asked to sit by the roadside waiting for a kindly Christian motorist to stop — he is entitled to mercy as a basic human right, and it is merciful of Christians to expect government to handle this duty.

The safety net has become seriously frayed, as the parents of the Patricks of America know very well, and now the sun has risen on an October day of pure blue sky, with yellow and red boughs raised against it, and the day must be acknowledged. What a gorgeous life we lead, here in this gaudy forest, the smell of smoke and apples in the air, and three weeks to go before the election.

The American people are poised to do something that could not be imagined 10 years ago, which is to vote for the best man regardless of his skin color and elect him president. The campaign against him is not one that anybody will point to with pride in years to come. It is a long trail of honking and flapping and traces of green slime, as if a flock of geese had taken up residence in the front yard. But Barack's cool poise in the face of blather is some sort of testament to American heart and humor. The man has walked tall.

Onward, America. We've all seen plenty of the worst — the sly cruelty, the arrogant ignorance, the cheats, the weaselish and piggish and the buzzardly — but we can rise above it if we will only recognize a leader when one comes along and have the sense to let him lead.

Garrison Keillor's "A Prairie Home Companion" airs 6 to 8 p.m. Saturdays on KHPR FM 88.1 and 6 to 8 p.m. Sundays on KIPO FM 89.3 His column appears Wednesday at www.honoluluadvertiser.com/opinion and in Sunday's Focus section.