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I hate ellipses in texts, unless they are in iMessage, indicating that someone is writing to me – rather than demanding, emotional labor from me to guess what they mean to say – they move in rippling waves like snapping ropes they are straight dopamine into my nucleus accumbens. Right now, three people of them…

Said the priest.Funny that he thinks “father” is something to be got around,An obstacle to thinking rather than aid,A barrier or blockade rather than,What I imagine they are, a bulwark,Foundation—like the earth,Without which, trees cannot reach the sky. Perhaps this is why God is thought of often,rightly,as a mother.Mothers have borders, lines, and edges.They surround…

This is the Word that created this whole world and enlightens it by his loving wisdom. — Athanasius Alright, so here’s a little phrase that is part of the Catholics for Trump world/ QAnon Catholic Gnosticism that is lost on me. I mean, all of it is lost on me, but this phrase in particular I…

I often try to trace my intellectual path from what I once believed to what I believe now, not because I think that there is any difference, but because the people who I agree with have changed. And that’s odd. This morning, I realized that Annie Dillard taught me so much, but not least among…

So the Word was made manifest, as Saint John declares, when, summing up all the sayings of the prophets, he announces that this is the Word through whom the whole universe was made. — treatise against Notes by Hippolytus It’s not a stunning treatise of Hippolytus, an early church writer I don’t know from Adam.…

It just occurs to me that one of the crucial mistakes humans have made, keep making, and will always make, is trying to fix what is wrong in the world. Evil is sort of a grabbing destruction, a forcing of oneself upon the unwilling recipient. Subjugation seems like submission, but it is not. The first…

out of myself, into an awe called God.

Give us joy to balance our afflictionfor the years when we knew misfortune. Psalm 90 is perhaps the quintessential summertime poem, a poem of opulent abundance, a poem of rich gift, a poem that screams of the endless possibilities of grace, the possibilities one can drink of and get tipsy on in the summer sun…

Last night, New York was filled with a July energy so wildly different from the coma of April I persist in believing we are in still. Isn’t it still March? I keep telling myself. The Jameson and shamrock displays in the liquor stores echo my question, reinforce the belief that time has stopped. That in…

I walk out into the post-thunderstorm park.Cherries at twilight, spitting pits out into the cobblestone shadows mustering in the darkof the crepuscular lawn undersycamores secreting cinnamon after the rain, Walk, spit, walk spit.Soft cherry flesh melts,tart and crisp inside my teeth,straining the ridged pit,and launching it lawn-ward with my tongue Walk, spit, walk spit,red cherry…