It happened in a country like Tibet,
My dream: I’d climbed a mountain pass and found
Where locals wrote their slips of prayer and let
Them rot between the rocks and on the ground.
Asleep, not feeling any reverence,
I picked one out and saw to my surprise
That it had been addressed to me. Its sense
Was mystical; it said, “With open eyes,
You’ll never see the proof that God exists,
Only the evidence: The fire, the ice,
The snowballs melting in your frozen fists.”
Shutting my eyes in dream, I woke up twice
And, groping for the prayer, I couldn’t find it,
Nor could I remember who had signed it.
The Church of Ratzinger (ft. Sam Zeno Conedera)
In this episode, Sam Zeno Conedera joins R. R. Reno on The Editor’s Desk to talk about…
Pelvic Theology, Pelvic Justice
In a recent New York Times guest essay, Catholic writer David Gibson praised Pope Leo for moving…
Can These Bones Live?
The Saturday after Easter, on a cloudless morning, I fell and shattered my left elbow while taking…