Under the dome-sky oneness
translucent and unincarnate as thought,
blank as unburnt light,
the hope of thisness chokes in nebulae
of beetles,
sand grains,
hydrogen atoms.
Gnosis blurs, pits the achilded One
against the unfathered Many.
Asks, ‘‘Who could hear each song
in the All Song?”
Yet the high sun has lanced down.
He washes each square inch of earth
with clear sight,
rays through needle’s eye,
kindles motes with all-fire,
searches out my pupil
and graces even me
with light.
The Spiritual Appeal of Democratic Socialism
As a proud “Reagan Democrat,” I felt blessed to be in Berlin a few days after the…
Christianity Is Not a Tool
On today’s episode, writer Kelly Chapman joins Virginia and Germán. According to the discourse, it’s fashionable to…
AOC’s Illogical Case for Egg Freezing
This is Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’s week. Amid the backlash over her cavalier dismissal of “Woke 1”—the era of…