Brief musings on religious faith upon meeting a devout Chabadnik at 770 Eastern Parkway

There's a man in 770 who spends two and a half hours every Shabbath afternoon, standing in front of the Rebbe's old chair, clapping and chanting Yechi. When I talk to him, his countenance is one of pure friendliness and joy. Yet when I look in his eyes, I see a thousand scimitars of the Prophet, the ingenious instrumentation of Torquemada, and the nuclear warheads on both sides of Wagah.

The differences between my messianic friend's benign form of worship and the more malignant version formerly practiced by Mohamed Atta and his ilk in this very city seem trivial; a matter of arbitrary coincidence. Understanding this, as we stand around 770 and make small talk, a strange feeling rises within me. Not fear - just an equanimous acceptance of zealotry's persistent existence, and an almost benevolent reverence of its timeless power.