Our toddler slices the air
with a bandaged finger,
her makeshift cross
more complete
by her young, scratched skin,
a reminder of all our “boo“boo’s”
piling up in the flesh
till we cry out
our alphabet beginnings,
Abba gurgling in the throat
we hold up weekly
for the bread and winethat settles nightly
in our wounded souls,
cradles to sleep those childish
doubts now grown“up
in our bodies,
so immature and mortal
and hungry for the calm
clean milk of continuous
childlike prayer.
Marjorie Maddox
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
War abroad. Socialists on the rise. AI upending human life. Endless uproar online. The modern attention economy doesn’t want readers — it wants users enslaved to the tyranny of the present.
First Things is the antidote: literary excellence, timeless truths, and a fixed point of reference in a culture that has lost its bearings.
But we can’t do it without readers like you.
Our goal: Raise $150,000 by November 1 to sustain First Things in the year ahead.
Your gift anchors readers in the permanent things.
Make your Fall Campaign gift now using the button below.
If you have any questions or would like more information, please contact Giovanni Del Piero, Director of the Editor’s Circle, at gdelpiero@firstthings.com or 212-627-1985.
The Church in the Age of Therapy
In 1966, Philip Rieff wrote in The Triumph of the Therapeutic that “Religious man was born to…
Canada’s Deadliest Blind Spot
On September 20, the Daily Mail ran a story with the provocative headline, “Our 83-year-old Christian grandmother…
The Faithful Joy of Dolly Parton and Fulton Sheen
Dolly Parton and Fulton Sheen seem to have had little in common. She favored rhinestones; he wore…