apologia pro self righteousness mea

Evening in the heartland.
Ireland's greatest living poet is cadging a free dinner at the home of his Aunty Mary.
It's nice work if you can get it.
"James I was in church today and I thought of you," says Aunty Mary.
I preen awaiting soulful compliments.
"The reading was about you," continues Aunty Mary. "There was something along the lines of: If you have .
mastered all the philosophies and sciences and every field of human knowledge, but you do not have love, then you have nothing. That's you."
"Woman what are you saying to me?" I manage through a mouthful of her best spaghetti bolognese.
"I'm saying that you have no love."
"And are you saying this as some sort of drive by sneering at a lonely single man who is particularly vulnerable because he happens to be eating your vittals or is there some deeper meaning?"
"I'm saying it because of what you write about Muslims."
"What?"
"When you write about Muslims you have no love."
The noble Heelers pauses.
I nod for deeper effect.
"It is not that I love Muslims less," I tell her, "but that I love Ireland more. And America. And Britain. And Israel. And every other free country on earth. Oh and humanity. I have buckets of love for humanity. I can't abide the thought of humanity being enslaved to a new dark ages. Yes I am positively brimming over with love. It's my future supply of spaghetti bolognese that I'm worried about..."