The sky pools red this Hallowtide.
We enter, ease into a pew,
And whisper prayers for those who died,
For relatives she never knew.
They’re my lost souls. She wears all black
For later when she’ll trick or treat
And thinks of candy in her sack
As I write names across the sheet.
Midway through life, caught on time’s hook,
I wonder if some day her child
Will open the remembrance book
To make sure that my name is filed.
Returning to the leaf-clogged street,
I see masked bones in revelry,
A whirl of ghouls and scuffling feet,
An angel glancing back at me.
—Steven Knepper
Christian Ownership Maximalism
Christendom is gone. So, too, is much of the Western civilization that was built atop it. Christians…
The First Apostle and the Speech of Creation
Yesterday, November 30, was the Feast of St. Andrew, Jesus’s first apostle. Why did Jesus call on…
Kings, Behold and Wail
I was a full-time parish priest at a time when we still visited people in their homes.…