The Cup That I Drink Of

J.B. Toner

To feel the lash-cuts on my naked spine,
 The dirty spikes that grate on human bone:
 To suffer for the sins that are my own—
Sweet Christ, I wish so bless'd a fate were mine!
My penance is to let You bear the price,
 To know I shoved the spear into Your side,
 And my worst self was laughing when You died
Because I had escaped the sacrifice.
 Your mercy has more justice than we think;
 My ruined soul Your grace can surely raise,
 But from Your grace and mercy still I shrink—
 For when I meet You at the end of days,
 Who drank the cup that was my own to drink,
 How will I ever meet Your bloody gaze?

House of Cypress

Mark De Cristo

On the peninsula there is a wild forest that has been allowed to stay as it is without new development. There are cypress trees that grow and crawl and expand out over the small hills that empty into the ocean. They lead right down into it. The trees look confused, mangled, and definitely not ordinary. I really appreciate them. I had driven a small black car through the windy roads in and out of their shadows. I thought some day I’d like to own a small plot of land by the ocean somewhere and plant a lot cypress trees. Is it true you have to be rich to buy land near the ocean? I don’t think so. I am a dreamer, so I am allowed to believe it. [Read more…]


Cristina A. Montes

Delicate blossoms
at the foot of the trellis.
Still in full bloom,
The weight of raindrops
was too much for them.

Forgiveness Through the Eyes of the Soul

Tonita M. Helton

We know in faith that there is a supernatural realm, a world with demons and angels, evil and grace, a world that interacts with our own in an intimate and profound, yet unseen, way. We know that a battle rages in that world for the soul of each and every human being on Earth. And sometimes we see, in the most unexpected of moments, a rare glimpse of what happens in that world, of what lies beyond the veil that thinly separates our reality from the ultimate reality.

It happened when I was in my third year of law school. I had met and began dating a man we’ll call Jack. Jack was fairly good-looking, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a generally handsome face. He was of above average intelligence, could be quite charming, and had a truly amazing voice when he sang, which he did perhaps too often. Jack was not the man I would have chosen for myself, however. He was not physically my “type,” but more critically, he was not a man of faith, and could be selfish, boorish, and materialistic. There was something beyond me at work, however, when I met him, and my spirit was moved deeply, in a way that it had not been before and in a manner that I did not recognize at the time. As a result, I quickly came to conclude—became quite convinced, in fact—that this was the man that God wished for me to marry. And, although not in the way I believed, Jack was indeed destined to change my life forever. [Read more…]


Stephanie Manuzak

They had divided up the Saturdays of house-hunting, she said, like bath towels. Hers, his, hers, his. Today was his, and Jan was standing on the sidewalk, turned away casually from the house they had come to look at, as if reading the breeze that blew from the harbor and cataloguing the decades-old stained-glass panels that still remained above some front doors. Mac had known she would do this. At least it’s only this one, he imagined her thinking as she crinkled her nose as a stray hair blew across it. She would laugh at him about this house later, he knew, because she loved him. He knew that too and it made his stomach give a lurch that threatened to topple the narrow street, with its rectilinear square-topped rowhomes and parked cars, brick and formstone, pigeons, and an old man walking a waddling terrier: capsize, turtle the whole thing. It was all very new to him, and he supposed the shock would dissipate over time. But a four month engagement and five weeks of marriage still gave him these surreal jolts. How can anyone function like this? he wondered, and he wondered then what would happen if things changed, about how he would handle a lurch in the stomach from something other than happiness, how she would. But that hasn’t happened yet, he told himself again, and concentrated on looking for Kenny, the guy who was selling the house. He would be driving a beige pickup, he said. And right then a small, aged truck rumbled around the corner by the muddy park, driven by a small grayish man with large glasses. [Read more…]

Measure for Measure: Shakespeare’s Parable

Ken Lasnoski

With what measure you mete out, it shall be measured unto you (Mark 4: 24).

The tangled plot of Shakespeare’s comedy Measure for Measure might initially convince any audience that Shakespeare finds little of serious value in the Christian tradition. The Duke of Vienna leaves his troubled town in corrupt hands of his highest deputy, Angelo, and masquerades in a friar’s guise. Posing under this religious pretense, he encourages and orchestrates an act of fornication. Further, he deceives Isabella, making her think that her brother Claudio is dead. Finally, he brings the play to a comic conclusion using marriage and unilateral forgiveness in a manner that seems to signal a failure to bring justice to a town reeling with lax law enforcement and moral depravity. Why does the Duke knowingly submit Vienna to Angelo’s cold corruption? How can the Duke’s representation of religious authority be anything other than mockery if he sanctions and even causes immoral acts? How can an audience accept a comic ending brought about by such “dark deeds”—an ending that seems to unilaterally solve social ills by means of imposed marriage?1 [Read more…]


Neil Silva

“The peace of God be with you,” I intoned. “And also with you,” they replied. I continued in a singsong voice, raising my hands where I should, bowing at the right moments: the believing shepherd of a believing faithful. It helped that I had done this for a decade—the tedium of habit has its uses—though I planned to finish fast, and to skip the homily. I still had platitudes in reserve, but even actors have limits. [Read more…]


Brandon Zimmerman

All that is left is the waiting
Not a waiting in the dark,
But a waiting in the light
    that things might be seen clearly
    that hopes might be considered wisely
    that feelings might be felt truly
          without deception
It is a waiting that seems a lot like living
Not living incomplete or unconsoled
But living well, to have an abundance
    to invite her into, to give unto her
    if the dramatis personae should alter
    and chance, and faith, and goodness conceive
          a happy denouement

A Visit to the Tate

Bo Helmich

This spring, on the final afternoon of a sojourn in England, I wandered the banks of the Thames, coming at last to the Tate Britain, home to one of the largest collections of William Blake’s art. Was it irony or grace to find his work there, in the heart of the city whose sins and afflictions were so grievous in Blake’s time? Gone now are the infamous “dark satanic mills” of England’s early industrialization; gone (or at least hidden from sight) are the “marks of weakness, marks of woe.” Prosperity has largely replaced poverty, and the streets no longer feel “charter’d”—controlled repressively by the English crown.

After two weeks of rain I had happened upon that rare English joy: a sun-washed afternoon—a magic time for strolling and browsing, for hopping on and off red buses more or less at random, for happily spending all eight kinds of coins that the Brits carry about in their pockets. On such a day it would have been a shame to go indoors were it not for the promise of great art, and the inspiring assurance one receives as a gift from the old masters. [Read more…]