Gray day, dry day. A front
blowing in hard from the west. Good Friday. My walk to church
winds through construction. Dirt work.
Earth-breaker. Earth-mover. Huge blade
peeling the ground, scalping caliche to level a wild field for building.
Billowing dust fogs the road ahead of me until the man in a silver hat
pressing and tilting the joysticks sees me
and pauses to let me pass
so the wind will not choke me.
He waves, I wave, our two hands
tearing the veil between us.
My students and I are finding our way into the world again with Evagrius, Teresa of Ávila, and Howard Thurman.
The image of Mary cradling the body of the crucified Jesus known as Pietà (“pity” in Italian) is one of the most powerful motifs in sacred art. We all share the pain of a mother who mourns for her son—especially when he is an innocent victim of injustice. Mary’s lament brings maternal love and compassion into the drama of Christ’s death, dominated by men without mercy behaving badly.
“We turn to Thurman, Bonhoeffer, Day, Heschel, and Niebuhr because they never let us forget the important questions.”
on Calvary . . .
as the song so goes,
for My Son
could
have called
10,000 angels, although
in reality just
one could have
verily turned the tide;
like where was
gabriel on
that desultory
late afternoon . . .
sunless, about
to be Sonless.
then again
as the song so goes
further along
but He died alone,
for you . . . and me
although I’d’ve
rather’d some other
Way; save when I
signed on
to be
His Mom
You are gone, Lord, but I am still hanging.
Though I cannot fathom your agony,
surely you know mine. How can I be free
of your pain and you of my pain?—one wing
wounded is two wings that are un-flying,
even if the bird sings in perfect key.
Once you hung as now I hang, and I see
in your living my own dying dying
to your life of dying on the cross I
now hang on—You forsaken by Yourself
that I may never be forsaken—I
do not hang alone, as You did Yourself:
Raphael, Italian (Umbrian) 1483–1520, tempera and oil on wood
How happily I, Saint Peter, slept, beside the others
while Christ sweated blood, asking the Father
to take the cup from Him. And then—He never asked—
the angel came, the angel strengthened Him,
positioned in the sky, wings of flame.
Now I pass the poem, oranged with fire,
to my namesake, Peter Cooley.
He’ll tell you why you’re reading this.
Paul Contino offers a hope-filled reading of The Brothers Karamazov.
What does it mean to hold sorrow like hammered nails?
What does it mean to carry the grave as a hammering chest?
I see your heart split into blue and gray by the embrace of thorns,
watch your face fold into a grimace as you watch this cross
-road, this moment when you choose between wine and blood.
And I picture you—bright sonflower embracing this darkness,
Photographer Richard Silver began his unique practice of capturing church interiors in a vertical panoramic format in New York City in 2012. Over the last decade, he has expanded and perfected his technique of digitally stitching together five to eight distinct photographs into a single image. He has documented worship spaces this way in more than 90 countries over six continents. His new book, Vertical Churches of the World, which began as a crowdfunded project in 2021, features images from 52 of those countries.