There is nothing more foundational to redeemed humanity than the priesthood; yet, these days, it seems ready to fall. As a great mountain balanced on the head of a needle, only a miracle seems to hold it upright. It is no small wonder that the needle has not already been crushed. And so, what do we find there, holding up this mountain? And why is it so small? The wind of false doctrine could not blow down the mountain, but the sea has been battering its shores all around. The waves have eroded the foundation; yet the mountain stands. It stands upon a slender rock, needle thin, diamond strong, the rock of faith—the faith of mothers and fathers, and their children; the faith held like the beads of a rosary, passed from finger to finger, and its words, lisped from lips nearly too young to speak, halting and unsure of the words, but somehow the surer of their meaning; the faith still sung in eloquence of voice and music, in lungs which have not tired, which have not wearied, because they sing something as strange as the world could hope for: A redeemed relationship with God, who is their rock, their peter, their priest.