Jesus is King: A reflection on the man and the music

“We must be careful that we do not perpetuate the assumption that those particular songs represent the genre as a whole. Kanye’s conversion is not only revealing deep-seated hypocrisy within our hearts as believers but prejudice toward an entire artistic genre. However, the release of JESUS IS KING offers the remedy to both biases, for it demonstrates the possibility, through Christ, of a transformed person, as well as a transfigured genre: the secular restored to the sacred through the power of the Gospel.”

A Bookish Charm

It is impossible to go on social media without seeing posts, arguments, and even memes about the latest revelation in the music industry: Kanye West’s conversion and the subsequent release of his latest album, Jesus is King. 

Many Christians (and perhaps even more non-Christians) are skeptical: has Kanye really changed? Christians worry publically that this transformation is not what it seems, that Kanye is faking faith to reach a wider audience and increase media attention. Ironically, non-Christians are on the offensive, frustrated that a big-name is not only claiming Christianity but is actually living it, as evidenced by a mocking article declaring that Kanye is “hell-bent” on his new faith.* This article indicates that if this is indeed a career move for Kanye, it is a very poor one, for it risks losing a large part of his typical audience. (Luckily, he seems to have caught the ears of enough…

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Question and Answer: Anticipating Christ in the Book of Job

A Bookish Charm


In rereading the Book of Job, I once more find it both wonderful and troubling. Job is, at its core, a terrifying book: a man is selected for the worst trials imaginable (loss of family, livelihood, and health) not because he is wicked but, indeed, because he is faithful.

The Book of Job is, in this sense, a 40-chapter refutation of “prosperity preaching.” However unfair this seems, it reveals the justice of God; as supreme in goodness and the Creator of all, even apparently righteous men are unworthy of His favor. In recognizing this, Job reveals the true source of his righteousness as his faith in a Redeemer and Mediator.

Before declaring this faith, though, Job first presents a case in his own defense. It is important to note that, while Job does question God, he never curses Him. To engage authentically in prayer and lamentation is a marvelous privilege…

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Shining New Light on the Dark Ages

The classic British comedy Monty Python and the Holy Grail illustrates the perception that most modern people have toward the Middle Ages.  In the film, King Arthur, driven by a false sense of chivalric machismo and misguided religious fanaticism, goes on a search for the Holy Grail.  Along the way, he encounters a witch-burning, a learned knight who tells him that the earth is “banana-shaped,” and a self-governing commune whose inhabitants confound the backward king when they discuss individual rights and popular sovereignty.

As a cinephile, I like The Holy Grail.  It is whimsical and funny and something I find myself returning to repeatedly.  As a medievalist, however, the inaccuracies and anachronisms are as breathtaking as they are humorous.  For one thing, medieval people had a very complex notion of basic human rights; Europeans, especially Britons, had a well-developed sense of limited government, often defending those rights in armed rebellions, most notably the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381.  Furthermore, no educated Medieval person ever thought that the earth was “banana-shaped,” or even flat for that matter, and some would have even been able to calculate the earth’s circumference. Perhaps most embarrassingly of all, the Medieval Period did not see a particularly high number of witch burnings.  Despite the fact that the terms “witch hunt” and “Middle Ages” are almost synonymous, kings, councils, and popes passed numerous injunctions against “witch hunts” based on the (at that time ubiquitous) Christian belief that witches did not exist. 

I do not want to lay the blame for these errors on Monty Python.  They are comedians, not historians. The movie is funny, not because it’s true, but because it plays on the conceptions that modern people already have of the Middle Ages.  The average modern person believes that the Middle Ages were a uniquely backward, dirty, ignorant, superstitious, hypocritical, moralistic, theocratic period whose offenses were unprecedented at the time and have not been equaled since.  

Yet this is a caricature of the period and a rather bad one at that.  To see the actual achievements of the Middle Ages, one need only peek into a medieval cathedral. Among the tall stone pillars, stained glass windows, and vaulted ceilings—placed there by generations of nameless workers—one would find a world that defies belief.  At the lectern, a priest (who spent years training in one of the planet’s first institutes of higher learning) would read from a hand-written Bible or Psalter that some highly-literate monk spent a year of his life writing and illuminating. At the Quire, they would be singing complex harmonies and reading music notation that was a precursor to modern scores.  When the priest delivered his homily he would speak in one of a number of Latin-based languages which, when counted together, are spoken by almost half of all people on Earth in the twenty-first century.  One of the reasons we don’t have as vivid a picture of the Medieval cathedral as we do of, say, the Greek gymnasium, is because the names of the artists, and singers, and cathedral builders rarely survive to the present day.  Medieval man preferred this, wishing to give the glory of his greatest works to God rather than himself.  

This can be contrasted with the period which was to come.  Many of our misperceptions about the “Dark Ages” can be attributed to one man, Francesco Petrarch.  Petrarch was an Italian poet who pioneered a way of looking at the world that he called “Humanism.” Emphasizing the importance of the individual over institutions like the Catholic Church, Petrarch encouraged artists, scholars, and politicians to work for the glory of humanity rather than purely for the glory of God.  Because his way of viewing the world represented a distinct philosophical change in the West, Petrarch needed to demonize the epoch that he found himself in. He wrote, “my fate is to live among varied and confusing storms. [However, this] sleep of forgetfulness will not last forever. When the darkness has been dispersed, our descendants can come again in the former pure radiance.”  The “born-in-the-wrong-time” cliche was around before Petrarch and survives to the present day. We should not blame Petrarch for this, but we should blame ourselves for defining the Middle Ages according to the angst of a fourteenth-century humanist poet. Calling the Medieval Period the “Dark Ages” uses the vernacular of a historical crusader, not a chronologist. It would be the equivalent of asking Thomas Jefferson to write a biography of King George III or asking Martin Luther to recount the history of the Papacy!

One of the reasons that Petrarch’s light-dark dichotomy lives so large in modern times is because of its blissful simplicity.  Partially because of our difficulty with the all-important art of chronology, the historical imagination of the broader public seems to have divided all of history into periods of enlightenment and of darkness.  Into the period of enlightenment go the ideas of Voltaire and Montesquieu, but not the Reign of Terror they inspired; the brilliance of Martin Luther but not the antisemitism endemic to his work. Into the period of darkness goes the prudish Victorian Period but not the revolutionary writings of Dickens and Hardy; the fanaticism of Oliver Cromwell but not his patronage of Milton.  This darkness “bin” seems to have received the haphazard title of “medieval,” even though the superstition, inequality, and moralism that define it are not unique to that period.

The Middle Ages were not perfect, yet to judge them by modern standards would be anachronistic and unfair.  We excuse our modern faults because they are the oxygen we breathe. We treat ancient people like infants, telling them how smart they were to have invented the wheel and the plow.  Yet, because of their unique position between “Ancient” and “Modern” times, Medieval societies are almost expected to achieve modern results with ancient tools; to be measured against the standards of modernity without experiencing the grace shown to the past.   The churches, songs, manuscripts, and languages of Medieval Europe survive to the present day, even if they lie in ruins like the Cathedral of St. Andrew in Scotland. Those who care enough to look may find that our modern perception of the Middle Ages is—as Monty Python so brilliantly pointed out—simply laughable.

Up the Ladder, Down the Ladder

“He now is struck with wonder by
what’s wonderful in him. Unwittingly,
he wants himself; he praises, but his praise
is for himself; he is the seeker and
the sought, the longed-for and the one who longs;
he is the arsonist— and is the scorched.”

The Metamorphoses of Ovid

In his Metamorphosis, Ovid paints a poignant picture of unrequited love: Echo desires Narcissus, who desires the beauty of his own reflection. This tale demonstrates that to love in vain is to love too little too much: to love the particular rather than the universal, the carnate rather than what is being incarnated. As creative and intellectual beings, we must not devolve to prefer images to realities, but rather to use earthly glimpses of beauty to turn heavenward. 

Plato, in Symposium, discusses the love of beauty, and, in particular, the proper ordering of this love toward its highest form: loving the Beautiful itself. He concludes by introducing “Diotima’s Ladder,”a tool for understanding the progression of love from common to virtuous, mortal to immortal.

“First, [the Beautiful] always is and neither comes to be nor passes away… Second, it is not beautiful [in] this way and ugly that way…Nor will the beautiful appear to him in the guise of a face or hands or anything else that belongs to the body. It will not appear to him as one idea or one kind of knowledge. It is not anywhere in another thing…but itself by itself with itself… always one in form; and all the other beautiful things share in that.” 

Symposium, Plato 

Diotima’s Ladder (so named for the prophetess who supposedly first explained it) emphasizes that love is fundamentally driven by the desire for immortality. According to this idea, human affections ought to strive rung-by-rung from what is beautiful yet earthly to the Beautiful: that is, the highest form of beauty, which is eternal, objective, self-sustaining, and preeminent. Beautiful particulars partake in this formal Beauty, which is manifest in but not lessened by their various incarnations. 

By learning to love beautiful things, lovers may ascend Diotima’s ladder to love the Beautiful itself. First, they love the beauty of a single body. Then, this love expands to many bodies before blossoming into a love of the customs and laws which bind people together in harmony. Next comes the love of knowledge, revealing the progression from the physical to the philosophical. Finally, through their developed powers of affection, lovers will ideally come to perceive and adore the Beautiful itself. 

In this philosophy, physical beauty can become a mediator by which admirers might ascend to higher forms of affection. Humanity, though, tends to love too lowly, becoming fixated on the glimmers of beauty found in lesser things instead of turning towards the greatest Beauty. Mankind is moonstruck: content to praise the dimmer beauty of the moon and to forget that its light is a mere reflection of the sun’s. Perhaps it is because the Beautiful is, like the sun, too much for mortal eyes. Mannkind has acclimated to the climate of lowland loves, eyes too weak to look heavenward. 

In his allegory, The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis writes of a painter who suffers from this sort of disordered affection. As an artist, the painter ought to have a better understanding of beauty, but by his own pride, he descends Diotima’s ladder and renders himself incapable of loving neither beauty as manifest in creation nor the Creator Himself. Eventually, he falls in love with his own skill and material subjects—and out of love with the Light itself: 

“‘You’re forgetting,’ said the Spirit. ‘…Light itself was your first love: you loved paint only as a means of telling about light.’

‘Oh, that’s ages ago,’ said the [Painter]. ‘One grows out of that…one becomes more and more interested in paint for its own sake.’

‘…It was all a snare. Ink and catgut and paint were necessary down there, but they are also dangerous stimulants. Every poet and musician and artist, but for Grace, is drawn away from love of the thing he tells, to love of the telling till, down in Deep Hell, they cannot be interested in God at all, but only in what they say about Him.’

The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis

All lovers of beauty are in danger of becoming like this painter. Often a philosopher or artist will, like a Slinky toy, begin at the top of Diotima’s ladder and tumble his way down. Like artists who come to love their craft above their calling, philosophers and even theologians may cease to love God Himself and settle instead for talking of Him, preferring the study to the Person

Creative and thoughtful people are especially gifted with the ability to capture what is good, true, and beautiful in God and to communicate it with others. To paraphrase Lewis, they “catch glimpses of Heaven in the earthly and […] enable others to see the glimpses too.” Unfortunately, while this powerful ability may lead others to perceive and pursue beauty, the artist himself may come to lose sight of his initial end. 

Almost inevitably, artists like the painter in The Great Divorce will topple from the highest to the lowest of loves. It is the same with a bookworm who begins by loving stories for their wisdom and imagination, then loves books for their stories, then eventually loves books for no further reason; eventually, he is destined to become a hoarder rather than a reader. 

Recall the words of Ecclesiastes: 

“Of making many books there is no end, and much study is a weariness of the flesh.”

-Ecclesiastes 12:12, ESV

The Preacher of Ecclesiastes, ironically, made a book. In fact, he did so with words of both truth and delight (12:10).What the Preacher warns against, then, is not making books, but making them for their sake alone. 

Like the painter of Lewis’ allegory, these verses warn that is unwise to become interested in the act of creating for its own sake or for the sake of reputation. Artists and philosophers can too easily fall from the truest love of Light and Beauty to the lowest pandering. They can sink from gathering glimpses of glory to glorifying the self alone. 

Readers, I too want my words to be read; I want my stories to be shared and my songs to be heard. However, we must remember why we began creating in the first place; we glimpsed something enduring and radiant that we wished to capture, communicate, and, hopefully, commune with. We wished to clothe the divine so that we might better grasp and share it: to incarnate the invisible through our art and study. 

“To paint a picture or to write a story or to compose a song is an incarnational activity.” 

Walking on Water, Madeleine L’Engle

If to create is, at least in part, to image Christ’s incarnation, we must learn to love the words we pen because they are shadows of the Word Himself. We must  pursue art only to increase in ourselves and others an appreciation for beauty and, through this, to draw closer to the Source Himself. We must refuse to grow out of our first love of Light in favor of shadows. 

So, reader, lay aside your “ink and catgut and paint” and let an adoration higher and more overwhelming than your own dictate your smaller affections. Let us not become like Narcissus, in love with the beauty we reflect, nor like Echo, chasing a beauty that will not love us in return. Rather, in turning to the true Light, let us learn to love beauty better and better until we can see its fullness face to face; let us incarnate it in our art and study so that others might see and believe in the Incarnation Himself. 

Works Cited: 

LEngle, Madeleine. Walking on Water: Reflections on Faith and Art. Colorado Springs, CO: Waterbrook Press, 2001.

Lewis, C. S. The Great Divorce. New York: Simon & Schuster, 1996.

Ovid. The Metamorphoses of Ovid. Translated by Allen Mandelbaum. San Diego: Harcourt Brace, 1995.

Plato. Complete Works: Symposium. Translated by John M. Cooper. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2009.

Planets of a Soul

“Planets of a Soul” was born out of a season of restlessness and fear. Like many Christians, I often feel torn between the weight of my own thoughts and desires and the weight of the Gospel; although the message of Jesus is beautiful and life-giving, it is not easy. Many of my conversations with God wrestle with how hard He is to follow, but every time I am still convicted of how much better it is to trust in the hardness of Jesus rather than imploding by myself.

As I contemplated this, an image of a chaotic, disintegrating universe came to mind and I was struck by how much each human soul is like a universe all its own. Scholars more learned than I could probably trace this idea from Plato to C.S. Lewis and beyond, and, while I’d love to pretend that this poem was a meticulously constructed synthesis of the ideas of such great minds, it is no such thing; I simply wrote what I saw and felt. Hopefully, there is some grain of truth in it.

What fills in the gaps of a
Fractured soul – a fractured universe?
They are one and the same. 
The vacuum left by pieces of identity
Pulling apart either fills with stars
Or black holes.
But what happens when the planets collide,
When orbits degrade, when galaxies unravel
Into chaos?
The spheres of a mind torn by fear 
Are powerless to stop their own destruction.
The collision course has already been set.
Even the purest atmospheres,
The sweetest thoughts
Cannot stop hot, dark ideas from tearing
Through the space of the soul
Without gravity, without order, all is lost.
So does a heart implode on itself.
My universe is bleeding.
God, can You fix gravity before it is too late?
Can You change black holes into stars,
Turn planets back to their orbits?
 	*	*	*
If repentance is a turning, I don’t see
How a planet could stop itself from
Turning back again.
Maybe I’m turning around the wrong
Stars altogether. Maybe my
Solar system will die anyway,
Even if it’s perfectly ordered.
Order means nothing
Unless the Son gives light.
But I fear Your rays are
Too strong for me.
What am I to do?
I implode on my own, I explode with You.
I hate both options.
But I suppose I would rather 
Burn quickly than suffocate slowly.
*	*	*
Then again, maybe a soul cannot be destroyed,
But only change form.
Planets cannot be protected,
But their remnants can turn to
Shooting stars, bathing new skies
With Light, power, and dreams.
So re-form me, Father,
Show me a better universe – 
Give me new stars to sing about – 
And give me the courage
To break and burn 
in the Light of  Your Son.

Notre Dame

The following is a moving and convicting tribute to Notre Dame, composed while she was burning and the world was watching. The poet employs beautiful language, as well as a well-known prayer to synthesize culture, emotion, history, faith, and philosophy in only these few stanzas.

One red flame is lit among the shambles
The white, wet water lilies choke
A torn blue mantle tossed among the brambles
Shrinks and burns and blackens in the smoke.
The feast of God is eaten by pagans and neglect conjures up
The wide, white demon of a smoky Mephistopheles—
Again the Maid is burning at the stake.
Another linchpin snaps in fracticals
While earth tetters on a limping axil
The orbits of the world in jeopardy,
I set my place for morning tea.
Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee.
Five past eight must be the hour of her decision.
Walsingham and Guadalupe make their intersessions
And turn their maiden eyes to the Isle de la Cite.
The sun sets over Orléans, and Paris passes into darkness,
Save the specter of a flame-licked spire
Teetering like the steady stars.
From some ancient corner of the nave I hear the Maid calling out:
Hold high the cross that I may see it through the flames
While a red-hot Carolingian beam crashes down
For the first time in eight centuries.
In a stunned half second half the world is silent
While the empty Temple of kings and clerics
Burns through the night like the shrines of Childeric
Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
Already I imagine the sterile, angular promontory
That will be your successor
Towering like some brutalistic savior;
Sculpted by a well-meaning socialist
In happy service to his motherland.
I am already assured by my betters that
Our imitation game will be sincere;
That my trembling hand will be held
While any memory of that shimmering spire
Fades like the foggy breath of the Seine
In the first glimpses of the April sun.
Across the river, ten thousand candles keep a different flame
And ten thousand mourners line the streets
As if to bid a queen goodbye—
Silent mourners who expect mortality of men,
But not of churches.  They sing.
Je vous salue, Marie. Pleine de grâce
And they ask Our Lady the burning question:
“Will you demand to exist?”
Will you listen while we ask you why?
Are you mortal?  Can you die?
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.

A Sonnet for My Son, Should He Cry

This poem was penned on an airplane. Something about a baby’s cry in that crowded sky-bus at so-many-thousands of feet inspired me; I wanted to write something for him in language that he could grow into, think over, and pray with over time. So, I took out my phone, opened my memos, and thought of my son.

For all the weary weight you may carry,
Know no burden lighter than lifted eye.
When firsthand you feel Earth heave, Hope tarry,
Clutch tight her broken wings and, in Faith, fly.

From above all is small, though wounds be raw;
Doubt toward his wounds til in His yours you see.
Lead-weighed happiness doubled by grey awe
Oft finds befitting shade under Christ’s tree.

So, bow your bruised heart, and, if needed, bend
Your eyes above, looking down on lowly Death.
Find Grace in your tears, which both pierce and mend,
And all the lonely cries you cry catch breath.

When your sadness swells with heartstrings de-strung,
God grant you peace in your sorrow, my son.

Immediately: Eight Poems on the Gospel of Mark

Healing is a theme central to the incarnation; instances of healing in the gospels demonstrate the relationship of body and spirit, the lordship of Christ, and the faith of the broken.

The following eight poems, written in free verse, provide a means of contemplating the marvelous physical and spiritual recreation found in Mark. The recurring use of the word ‘immediately,’ is used as a unifying device in both these poems and their corresponding verses, which ought to be read in harmony whenever possible.


I. The Woman (Mark 5:21-34)

The crowd is throbbing
as my pain is

I have not come this far in years:
twelve years.
I cannot help them now-
begin to flow,
Flow as the blood has
for twelve years.

I am so close,
but still feel so far and fears
overcome me
as people surround me.

They know.
They all know.

I see their glances:
quick, horrified, averted.
I want to scream:
“Yes! See! See my shame!
See and tell me,
you proud, you healthy,
Is it my fault?”

But instead I fall
to my knees
and stay bent
beneath the weight of despair

But my eyes remain fixed
before me, ahead.

I am fallen
and aching,
but I am not yet dead.

My eyes catch
on a figure weaving
through this throbbing, living sea.

As I rise to walk,
my vision fades.
I stretch my hand and fumble feebly forward…

A hem.
All I seek.

A hem to hem me behind and before
In healing safety.

My finger brushes
the rough cloth
not even for a breath,
but mine returns


Blood dries.
Sight clears.

Love and hope and peace
are all that flow
not from, but over


I am again on my knees,
not for lack of strength
but faith.

I tremble.
Yet this fear is new,
as I am new…


I cannot help
but want to sing,

“Oh, see! See! My shame undone!
See and know!
The saving One!”



II. The Man with the Withered Hand (3:1-6)

My bones lament
with hunger.
My eyes grow dim
from watching— 
watching and waiting
for nothing,

Who would help me today?
The sad irony of the Lord’s Day.

Synagogues and pockets full,
but hearts emptier than my good hand.

At least I would to fill mine;
another sad irony,
for I cannot.

I cannot even reach out
to work or to beg.

Why bother anyway?
You cannot pour from empty jars
and a broken pot like me—
a withered hand like mine—
holds nothing.

Yet here I am,
still waiting.
Waiting for someone
to heal and fill.

And then, “Come here.”

I lift my head.

A hand, not mine, reaches
as I cannot.

An order next:
“Stretch out your hand.”

Will the cruelty ever end?
Why does he mock me?

But then,


I watch fingers uncurl, lengthen.
Nails harden.
Palm fattens.
Muscles strengthen.

And it is my hand,
yet not my hand that is—


Opened and held out
for me.

The skin is softened,
like my heart.


As limb is healed,
I am no longer empty.
And I grasp the truth
that hard hearts are whole jars,
but easily shattered.

Mine beats and bends as my knuckles
to take in life.


Hand in his,
I am sustained
and can sustain.

Oh, happy day!
Oh, sad irony cured



III. Jairus’ Daughter (5:35-43)

“Daughter, your faith has made you well,”
I hear the man say
to a woman kneeling.

Dealing with these commoners
must be tiresome.
Some call him Teacher, after all.
He could be as me:
lofty, a ruler.

I turn away,
but hear it again,
the word I hold dear:


Someone clutches my arm.
I am clutched by fear.


In her bed.

Not sleeping?

No, nor breathing.

I stagger.
A gasp as one struck
escapes my throat.

A wordless cry,
yet I know he will hear.

Common or not,
I have to try.
My girl cannot just

A man holds me back.

“Why trouble the Teacher?”

But I cannot just leave her.
And He heard,
and He knew
what had happened
and what I felt.

And He came.

“Do not fear. Only believe.”

But can words alone dry
a father’s tears?

I know it is not sleep.

But then,
He spoke again,
in His lullaby voice:
“Talitha cumi,”
He tells her, arise.


Quicker than on holiday mornings,
she does.

Eyes bright, arms outstretched
to wrap around
my once-stiff neck.


My daughter
is born to me a second time
of the water I wept.


She stands and,
laughing for joy,
we dance.


The Teacher, True Ruler,
awakes daughter and father
and mourning dawns as morning



IV. The Leper (1:40-45)


I hide myself
lest I am seen
and sent away,
purged from the city
while dogs and rats
are allowed to stay.

But they say
I am unclean
and I do not argue;
I am an unlucky one
who cannot hide his sins
beneath a cloak of
smooth, clear skin.

I am as unclean
outside as within,
so I conceal my body,
but my spirit I’ll bear
as an offering.

The sacrifice of Psalmist’s praise
is not made of a lovely face,
but a contrite heart—
a heart such as mine.

Perhaps my only organ spared
but even it is broken.
Its pieces cry out
with my failing limbs:

but yearning,
I step out:
painfully, timidly,
from where I’ve been
hiding, waiting, dying,
decaying while still alive.

To my knees
I sink before You
to present my pitiful lot
before You.

Its package fails, unclean,
but if you will…

You will?
Can it be?

At your word,
at your touch—

Ah, how long since I’ve been touched!
Oh fearful joy!


I am clean.

From that gentle press of the fingertips,
life springs.


I feel it.
I feel it in nerves revived:
shivering, pulsing,
skin reforms before my eyes.

But even more—


My mangled heart,
laid at Your feet,
is touched too,
molded and cradled,
by hands invisible.


I stand humbled without shame:
Purified shell, Sanctified soul.

I am wonderfully remade
and run to present my whole self



V. The Paralytic (2:1-12)

People just keep going
around, across, any way they can,
stepping over me even.

But what can I do?

Nothing but what I am doing:
lying here, still,
in one piece
yet shattered,
beneath the weight
of despair

And at the same time

Lying here, I can recall
when lying was pleasant:
with words to fool
or women to love
in secrecy.

I fight a bitter laugh.
Is it not funny how desires
so frequently
turn to damnation
in a single, fateful

The crowd is thick.
I watch as someone trips
over the legs I no longer
think of as my own.

As I am carried to the roof,
still in my bed,
the thought crosses my mind
that falling would not be so bad,
but even my end
is not in my power.

They lower me down.
A face comes into view
looking down,
but not in pride
or pity.

His eyes are sad
as if he sees
the past I wish to hide.

“Son,” he says, claiming me.
“Your sins are forgiven.”


Though my body remains still,
my heart leaps
and my soul rises.


Outrage erupts around,
but I hear only one voice:
The Authority
Who speaks again.


I obey.
Could I ignore
the One who says,
“Rise and walk”
without a hint
of mocking
or madness?


I stand and take my bed.
No more lying for me.
Walking even is not enough
if it is not with Thee.

In your movements,
Your dance,
I will follow


VI. The Deaf Man (7:31-37)

I cannot tell
what these gestures mean.
Why do you all wave
your hands at me?

I can only guess at
the words on your lips
and can only make
vain attempts
to do as you do,
to speak as you speak.

By your wrinkled brows
and worried looks,
I know I am failing.

Where are you taking me?
Who is this man?

Oh, do not leave me!
I cannot understand
your mute tongues,
but do not forsake me!

Where is he taking me?

I try to shout,
but fall into silence,
not that I am ever not
in that painful, ringing

We stop when the crowd
is out of sight.

The man reaches out.

I flinch,
expecting a blow,
as from the cruel youths
who see me as a game,
an uncomplaining beast.

But no blow comes:
just a soft warmth
as He covers the sides of my head
and the tip of my tongue
with His hands.

Eyes wide, bewildered,
I watch.

He sighs.
I feel His breath on my face
and see Him mouth a word.

No— more!
More than see!


Before the word
has flown from His lips,
I hear.

I hear it!


As He speaks,
“Be opened,”
I hear!

And I realize the crowd
is out of earshot
as well as sight.


My newborn ears
are tuned to one voice.
I do what is natural,
though moments ago,

I shout and proclaim
of hearing and healing



VII. The Blind Man (8:22-26)

“Touch me, someone!
So I might know you are there!”

Greet me, anyone!
So I am not alone,

Isolated in my own darkness,
I am begging,
begging for more than food
or loose coins you can spare.

It is light that I am starving for—
a light to show me out,
out of this eternal, internal,
personal night.

My heart yearns
morning and evening,
though both are to me
the same.

Oh, I shudder.
The chill of winter
and aches of hunger
are nothing
to this infinite imprisonment
within myself.

I cry out again—
Perhaps someone will reply—
“Oh, stranger friend,
whoever among you, passersby,
has any pity
I entreat you
to touch me,
hear me,
see me.
See me, if I cannot
see you.

But what’s this?
I start as a hand
descends and draws me.

My pleading fades.
I follow in silence,
though I know not
who leads me.

Then a pressure
against my eyes,
those shuttered windows
to my lonely soul.

Next a voice asking,
“Do you see?”


I am blinded
no longer by darkness,
but by light:
Dazzling and radiant.


I answer,
“I see, people?
Or are those trees?”

I blink and try again.


The man’s hands
descend once more,
unfogging the glass,
this time completely.


I see and am seen.
Freed, freed!
Released from my prison
where I grieved
in midnight black—
Oh, at last:

The Son is shining and I see,



VIII. The Demon-Possessed Boy (9:14-29)

There is no other name
for the things I have seen,
and sat helplessly by:

My son —
My son.
Ripped from my arms
by a force I could not fight.

I am his father!
Guilt claws at my chest,
cuts like a knife.
But how can I defend when
the enemy, the invader
wages war from within?

Within my own flesh and blood,
my beloved,
my son.

He cast himself into flames
too quick for me to quench,
then plunged into the water
kept for this fire.

I am but man
a body of dust.
How could I conquer a spirit
when my own is worn
and weary
and losing

Alas! Why do you come,
you crowd, seeking spectacle?
You do not want to see
what daily seeks,
through my son,
to destroy me:

Demon Doubt
grapples for my soul
as the other strangles my son’s life
with his own fingers.

His demon casts him down,
frothing, convulsing.
Mine pulls me too,
but before it succeeds,
I cast myself down
in desperation
at Your feet.

Before the growing crowd,
before You, Lord:
“I believe, but oh!
Help my unbelief!”


Stillness falls.

Has death come?
Merciful relief?
Dare I hope for better?
It seems beyond belief
and yet…


Quiet reigns
where screams once were
and peace floods my soul,
at once burning fear,
quenching doubt,
as two evils are expelled,
far, far from here.


Your hand raises him,
the Son returns my son
back to the arms
from which he was torn.
And in that moment,
two faiths are born


An Apology

Although Inkarnation Press is a new website and collaboration, it is nothing new conceptually. From the twelve disciples to the Inklings, Christians have always been bound together by the Gospel and kept in fellowship as they studied, worshipped, and created for the Glory of their Lord. As we launch Inkarnation Press into whatever the future may hold for it, we want to make clear our inspiration and intentions.

First of all, we find that:

  1. The modern church is sometimes forgetful of its historic contributions to aesthetics, philosophy, and theology.
  2. The literary market is in need of quality art and articles that express goodness, evoke conversation, and emulate Christ.
  3. This generation is starved for substance, craving resources and fellowship that will inspire true thought and communion.

As a friendship of thinkers, writers, artists, and — above all — Christians, we feel called to satisfy these needs by working together to provide reading lists, artwork, music, and writing (both nonfiction and fiction) to foster thoughtful discernment and discipleship.

Our motto, “Creation, Conviction, Communion” best reflects our reason for founding Inkarnation Press. Created in the Image of God, we desire to reflect Him through creativity, rationality, and community. Convicted by the Gospel of Christ, we desire to share His message through all mediums. Finally, called to Communion, we use our studies to foster cross-shaped connections as we remember those who came before in fellowship with our contemporaries.

We dearly hope that Inkarnation Press will become, as its namesake, a mediator which brings together the best of many authors and artists to support their creativity, share their convictions, and promote thoughtful communion.

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