First Spring

By:

Greens and blues, the yellow light turns red
spreading itself across the floor of the chapel
and warms through the window. Winter ended
only yesterday; I cannot yet tell
myself, this is it, unprepared
to see what I already see: that man
is made of dust. Moses dared
to look into the face of God. He demanded
to know God’s unpronounceable name. But
who could speak
the largeness of the Lord? — who stilled flood
waters with a word, whose thoughts could creak
to life the stone-still world? What mouth could
shape itself to that unending shape,
hold in it bread as life, as man, as blood? —
It falls on me like dust, the broken light, great
shadows, the light that blinds.

First published in St. Katherine Review, 2022.

Paid subscribers will also find an audio reading of the poem below. Poetry was meant to be heard as well as read, and listening can reveal the music and meaning of the words in a different way.

I’ve also included a brief biography of Thompson, and a just a few of my musings on the poem—not a lesson a close reading line by line, just some thoughts that might pass between friends reading together.

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The Visitation

By: St. Robert Southwell

Proclaimed queen and mother of a God,

The light of earth, the sovereign of saints,

With pilgrim foot up tiring hills she trod,

And heavenly style with handmaids’ toil ac-

quaints :

Her youth to age, herself to sick she lends,

Her heart to God, to neighbour hand she bends.

A prince she is, and mightier prince doth bear,

Yet pomp of princely train she would not have;

But doubtless heavenly quires attendant were.

Her child from harm, herself from fall to save :

Word to the voice, song to the tune she brings.

The voice her word, the tune her ditty sings.

Eternal lights enclosed in her breast

Shot out such piercing beams of burning love.

That when her voice her cousin’s ears possess’d.

The force thereof did force her babe to move :

With secret signs the children greet each other,

But open praise each leaveth to his mother.

Paid subscribers will also find an audio reading of the poem below. Poetry was meant to be heard as well as read, and listening can reveal the music and meaning of the words in a different way.

I’ve also included a brief biography of Thompson, and a just a few of my musings on the poem—not a lesson a close reading line by line, just some thoughts that might pass between friends reading together.

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I see His Blood upon the Rose

By: Joseph Mary Plunkett

I see his blood upon the rose
And in the stars the glory of his eyes,
His body gleams amid eternal snows,
His tears fall from the skies.

I see his face in every flower;
The thunder and the singing of the birds
Are but his voice—and carven by his power
Rocks are his written words.

All pathways by his feet are worn,
His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,
His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,
His cross is every tree.

Paid subscribers will also find an audio reading of the poem below. Poetry was meant to be heard as well as read, and listening can reveal the music and meaning of the words in a different way.

I’ve also included a brief biography of Thompson, and a just a few of my musings on the poem—not a lesson a close reading line by line, just some thoughts that might pass between friends reading together.

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As Kingfishers Catch Fire

By: Gerard Manley Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

Take breath and read it with the ears, as I always wish to be read, and my verse becomes all right. —Letter from Gerard Manley Hopkins to Robert Bridges.

Listen to the poem:

“…for Christ plays in ten thousand places,/Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his/To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”

In an article by Dr. Holly Ordway for Word on Fire writes: “‘Kingfishers’ is a deeply experiential poem. The octet (the first eight lines) and the sestet (the next six lines) flow from beginning to end with pauses but no full stops; like water flowing downhill, we fall from one image to the next in sequence, ending up pausing at the opening phrase of the sestet: ‘I say more.’ Reading the poem aloud (go ahead, do it!) brings out its music.”

Not only does this poem sound harmonious, it shows creation living in harmony with God’s plan—each creature being what it was made to be. Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

Then Hopkins turns to God’s final creation, Man, and what happens when he acts in accordance with grace; Christ lives in him.1 The just man “Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is— / Christ.”

There is freedom and joy in that identity; Christ doesn’t just live in us He plays.

We become little Christs, and through Him we come to our Father in heaven.

Regarded as one of the Victorian Era’s greatest poets, Gerard Manley Hopkins was a Jesuit priest whose innovative use of rhythm and imagery brought a fresh intensity to English poetry. Deeply inspired by his Catholic faith, his work celebrates the beauty of creation and the presence of God in the natural world.

Born in 1844, Hopkins studied at Oxford, where he was received into the Catholic Church under the influence of John Henry Newman. Soon afterward he entered the Society of Jesus.

Hopkins developed a distinctive poetic style, including what he called “sprung rhythm,” and wrote poems that celebrated the uniqueness of created things and the glory of God reflected in nature. Though he composed some of the most powerful religious poetry in the English language like The Windhover most of his work was not published during his lifetime.

After his death in 1889, his friend Robert Bridges edited and published Hopkins’s poems, bringing wider recognition to a body of work that would come to be regarded as one of the great contributions to modern religious poetry.

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Happy Easter! He is RISEN! This is part of our Eastertide poetry series—one Catholic poem each week, delivered to your inbox every Monday until Pentecost.

New here? You can read our introduction. Paid subscribers receive audio recordings, extended reflections, and a monthly printed poem by mail.

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Ikon: The Harrowing of Hell

By: Denise Levertov

Down through the tomb's inward arch
He has shouldered out into Limbo
to gather them, dazed, from dreamless slumber:
the merciful dead, the prophets,
the innocents just His own age and those
unnumbered others waiting here
unaware, in an endless void He is ending
now, stooping to tug at their hands,
to pull them from their sarcophagi,
dazzled, almost unwilling. Didmas,
neighbor in death, Golgotha dust
still streaked on the dried sweat of his body
no one had washed and anointed, is here,
for sequence is not known in Limbo;
the promise, given from cross to cross
at noon, arches beyond sunset and dawn.
All these He will swiftly lead
to the Paradise road: they are safe.
That done, there must take place that struggle
no human presumes to picture:
living, dying, descending to rescue the just
from shadow, were lesser travails
than this: to break
through earth and stone of the faithless world
back to the cold sepulchre, tearstained
stifling shroud; to break from them
back into breath and heartbeat, and walk
the world again, closed into days and weeks again,
wounds of His anguish open, and Spirit
streaming through every cell of flesh
so that if mortal sight could bear
to perceive it, it would be seen
His mortal flesh was lit from within, now,
and aching for home. He must return,
first, in Divine patience, and know
hunger again, and give
to humble friends the joy
of giving Him food—fish and a honeycomb.

Paid subscribers will also find an audio reading of the poem below, as well as a brief biography of the poet, and a just a few of my musings on the poem—not a lesson on poetry or a close reading line by line, just some thoughts that might pass between friends reading together.

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Happy Easter! He is RISEN! This is part of our Eastertide poetry series—one Catholic poem each week, delivered to your inbox every Monday until Pentecost. But this week I’ve included a bonus poem!

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Easter

By: Joyce Kilmer

The air is like a butterfly
With frail blue wings.
The happy earth looks at the sky
And sings.

Trees

By: Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see

A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Paid subscribers will also find an audio reading of the poem below. Poetry was meant to be heard as well as read, and listening can reveal the music and meaning of the words in a different way.

I’ve also included a brief biography of Kilmer, and a just a few of my musings on the poem—not a lesson on poetry or a close reading line by line, just some thoughts that might pass between friends reading together.

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Happy Easter! He is RISEN! This is the first part of our Eastertide poetry series—one Catholic poem each week, delivered to your inbox every Monday until Pentecost.

New here? You can read our introduction. Paid subscribers receive audio recordings, extended reflections, and a monthly printed poem by mail.

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God’s Grandeur

By: Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Paid subscribers will also find an audio reading of the poem below. Poetry was meant to be heard as well as read, and listening can reveal the music and meaning of the words in a different way.

I’ve also included a brief biography of Hopkins, and a just a few of my musings on the poem—not a lesson on the Petrarchan sonnet or a close reading line by line, just some thoughts that might pass between friends reading together.

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Before the legends, there was a man once lost, then found by Christ. “The Confession of Saint Patrick” is not only a humble testimony of grace, but also one of the oldest surviving written documents from Ireland, offering us a rare glimpse into the faith of the early Church on the Emerald Isle.

I present it to you in full for a quick read on this St. Patrick’s Day. I’ve also included the PDF for easier reading. Sláinte!

The Confession Of St

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I, Patrick, a sinner, the rudest and least of all the faithful, and most contemptible to very many, had for my father Calpornius, a deacon, the son of Potitus, a priest, who lived in Bannaven Taberniae, for he had a small country-house close by, where I was taken captive when I was nearly sixteen years of age. I knew not the true God, and I was brought captive to Ireland with many thousand men, as we deserved; for we had forsaken God, and had not kept His commandments, and were disobedient to our priests, who admonished us for our salvation. And the Lord brought down upon us the anger of His Spirit, and scattered us among many nations, even to the ends of the earth, where now my littleness may be seen amongst strangers. And there the Lord showed me my unbelief, that at length I might remember my iniquities, and strengthen my whole heart towards the Lord my God, who looked down upon my humiliation, and had pity upon my youth and ignorance, and kept me before I knew him, and before I had wisdom or could distinguish between good and evil, and strengthened and comforted me as a father would his son.

Therefore I cannot and ought not to be silent concerning the great benefits and graces which the Lord has bestowed upon me in the land of my captivity, since the only return we can make for such benefits is, after God has reproved us, to extol and confess His wonders before every nation under heaven.

For there is no other God, nor ever was, nor shall be hereafter, except the Lord, the unbegotten Father, without beginning, by whom all things have their being, who upholds all things, as we have said; and His Son, Jesus Christ, whom, together with the Father, we testify to have always existed before the origin of the world, spiritually with the Father, ineffably begotten before every beginning; and by Him were the visible things made—was made man, death being overthrown, in the heavens. And he hath given Him all power over every name of things in heaven and earth and hell, that every tongue should confess to Him that Jesus Christ is Lord, and whose coming we expect ere long to judge the living and dead; who will render to every one according to his works; who hath poured forth abundantly on us both the gift of His Spirit and the pledge of immortality; who makes the faithful and obedient to become the sons of God and coheirs with Christ; whom we confess and adore one God in the Trinity of the holy Name. For He Himself has said by the prophet: “Call upon me in the day of thy trouble: I will deliver thee, and thou shalt magnify me.” And again he says: “It is honorable to reveal and confess the works of God.”

Although I am imperfect in many things, I wish my brothers and acquaintances to know my dispositions, that they may be able to understand the desire of my soul. I am not ignorant of the testimony of my Lord, who declares in the psalm: “Thou wilt destroy all that speak a lie.” And again: “The mouth that belieth, killeth the soul.” And the same Lord: “Every idle word that men shall speak, they shall render an account for it in the Day of Judgment.” Therefore I ought, with great fear and trembling, to dread this sentence in that day when no one shall be able to withdraw or hide himself, but all must give an account, even of the least sins, before the judgment-seat of the Lord Christ.

Therefore, although I thought of writing long ago, I feared the censure of men, because I had not learned as the others who studied the sacred writings in the best way, and have never changed their language since their childhood, but continually learned it more perfectly, while I have to translate my words and speech into a foreign tongue; and it can be easily proved from the style of my writings how I am instructed in speech and learning, for the Wise Man says: “By the tongue wisdom is discerned, and understanding and knowledge and learning by the word of the wise.” But what avails an excuse, however true, especially when accompanied with presumption? For I, in my old age, strive after that which I was hindered from learning in my youth. But who will believe me? And if I say what I have said before, that as a mere youth, nay, almost a boy in words, I was taken captive, before I knew what I ought to seek and to avoid. Therefore I blush to-day and greatly dread to expose my ignorance, because I am not able to express myself briefly, with clear and well-arranged words, as the spirit desires and the mind and intellect point out. But if it had been given to me as to others, I would not have been silent for the recompense; and although it may seem to some who think thus that I put myself forward with my ignorance and too slow tongue, nevertheless it is written, “The tongues of stammerers shall speak readily and plain”; how much more ought we to undertake this who are the epistle of Christ for salvation unto the ends of the earth, written in pure heart, if not with eloquence, yet with power and endurance, “not written with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God”; and again the Spirit testifies, “Husbandry, it was ordained by the Most High.”

Therefore I undertook this work at first, though a rustic and a fugitive, and not knowing how to provide for the future; but this I know for certain: that before I was humbled, I was like a stone lying in deep mire, until He who is powerful came, and in his mercy raised me up, and indeed again succored and placed me in His part; and therefore I ought to cry out loudly, and thank the Lord in some degree for all his benefits, here and after, which the mind of man cannot estimate. Therefore be amazed, both great and small who fear God; rhetoricians and ye of the Lord, hear and enquire who aroused me, a fool, from the midst of those who seem to be wise, and skilled in the law, and powerful in speech and in all things, and hath inspired me (if indeed I be such) beyond others, though I am despised by this world, so that, with fear and reverence and without murmuring, I should faithfully serve this nation, to whom the charity of Christ hath transferred me, and given me for my life, if I shall survive; and that at last with humility and truth I should serve them.

In the measure, therefore, of the faith of the Trinity it behoves me to distinguish without shrinking from danger, and to make known the gift of God and everlasting consolation, and, without fear, confidently to spread abroad the name of God everywhere, so that after my death I may leave it to my Gallican brethren and to my sons, many thousands of whom I have baptized in the Lord. And I was neither worthy nor deserving that the Lord should so favor me, his servant, after such afflictions and great difficulties, after captivity, after many years, as to grant me such grace for this nation—a thing which, still in my youth, I had neither hoped for nor thought of.

But after I had come to Ireland, I was daily tending sheep, and I prayed frequently during the day, and the love of God, and His faith and fear, increased in me more and more, and the spirit was stirred; so that in a single day I have said as many as a hundred prayers, and in the night nearly the same; so that I remained in the woods, and on the mountain, even before the dawn, I was roused to prayer, in snow, and ice, and rain, and I felt no injury from it, nor was there any slothfulness in me, as I see now, because the spirit was then fervent in me. And there one night I heard a voice, while I slept, saying to me: “Thou dost fast well; fasting thou shalt soon go to thy country.” And again, after a very short time, I heard a response, saying to me: “Behold, thy ship is ready.” And the place was not near, but perhaps about two hundred miles distant, and I had never been there, nor did I know any one who lived there.

Soon after this, I fled, and left the man with whom I had been six years, and I came in the strength of the Lord, who directed my way for good; and I feared nothing until I arrived at that ship. And the day on which I came the ship had moved out of her place; and I asked to go and sail with them, but the master was displeased, and replied angrily: “Do not seek to go with us.” And when I heard this, I went from them to go thither where I had lodged; and I began to pray as I went; but before I had ended my prayer, I heard one of them calling out loudly after me, “Come quickly, for these men are calling you”; and I returned to them immediately, and they began saying to me; “Come, we receive thee in good faith; make such friendship with us as you wish.” And then that day I disdained to supplicate them, on account of the fear of God; but I hoped of them that they would come into the faith of Jesus Christ, for they were Gentiles; and this I obtained from them; and after three days, we reached land, and for twenty-eight days we journeyed through a desert, and their provisions failed, and they suffered greatly from hunger; and one day the master began to say to me: “What sayest thou, O Christian? Your God is great and all-powerful; why canst thou not, then, pray for us, since we are perishing with hunger, and may never see the face of man again?” And I said to them plainly: “Turn sincerely to the Lord my God, to whom nothing is impossible, that He may send us food on your way until ye are satisfied, for it abounds everywhere for Him.” And with God’s help it was so done; for, lo! a flock of swine appeared in the way before our eyes, and they killed many of them, and remained there two nights, much refreshed and filled with their flesh; for many of them had been left exhausted by the wayside. After this, they gave the greatest thanks to God, and I was honored in their eyes.

They also found wild honey, and offered me some of it, and one of them said: “This is offered in sacrifice, thanks be to God”; after this, I tasted no more. But the same night, while I was sleeping, I was strongly tempted by Satan (of which I shall be mindful as long as I shall be in this body), and there fell, as it were, a great stone upon me, and there was no strength in my limbs. And then it came into my mind, I know not bow, to call upon Elias, and at the same moment I saw the sun rising in the heavens; and while I cried out Elias with all my might, behold! the splendor of the sun was shed upon me, and immediately shook from me all heaviness. And I believe that Christ my Lord cried out for me; and I hope that it will be so in the day of my adversity, as the Lord testifies in the Gospel: “It is not you that speak,” etc.

Some time after, I was taken captive; and on the first night I remained with them I heard a divine response, saying: “You shall be two months with them”; and so it was. On the sixtieth night the Lord delivered me out of their hands, and on the road He provided for us food, and fire, and dry weather daily, until on the fourteenth day we all came. As I have above mentioned, we journeyed twenty-eight days through a desert, and on the night of our arrival we had no provisions left.

And again, after a few years, I was with my relations in Britain, who received me as a son, and earnestly besought me that then, at least, after I had gone through so many tribulations, I would go nowhere from them. And there I saw, in the midst of the night, a man who appeared to come from Ireland, whose name was Victorious, and he had innumerable letters with him, one of which he gave to me; and I read the commencement of the epistle containing “The Voice of the Irish”; and as I read aloud the beginning of the letter, I thought I heard in my mind the voice of those who were near the wood of Focluti, which is near the western sea; and they cried out: “We entreat thee, holy youth, to come and walk still amongst us.” And my heart was greatly touched, so that I could not read any more, and so I awoke. Thanks be to God that, after very many years, the Lord hath granted them their desire!

And on another night, whether in me or near me God knows, I heard eloquent words which I could not understand until the end of the speech, when it was said: “He who gave His life for thee is He who speaks in thee”; and so I awoke full of joy. And again, I saw one praying within me, and I was, as it were, within my body, and I heard, that is, above the inner man, and there he prayed earnestly with groans. And I was amazed at this, and marvelled, and considered who this could be who prayed in me. But at the end of the prayer it came to pass that it was a bishop, and I awoke and remembered that the apostle said: “Likewise the Spirit also helpeth our infirmity, for we know not what we should pray for as we ought, but the Spirit Himself asketh for us with unspeakable groanings.” And again: “The Lord is our advocate, who also maketh intercession for us.” [And when I was tried by some of my elders, who came and spoke of my sins as an objection to my laborious episcopate, I was on that day sometimes strongly driven to fall away here and for ever. But the Lord spared a proselyte and a stranger for His name’s sake, and mercifully assisted me greatly in that affliction, because I was not entirely deserving of reproach. I pray God that they may not be found guilty of giving an occasion of sin; they found me after thirty years, and brought against me words that I had confessed before I was a deacon; from anxiety, with sorrow of mind, I told my dearest friend what I had done in my youth, in one day, nay, rather in one hour, because I was not then able to overcome. I know not, God knows, if I was then fifteen years of age, and from my childhood I did not believe in the living God, but remained in death and unbelief until I was severely chastised, and, in truth, I have been humbled by hunger and nakedness; and even now I did not come to Ireland of my own will until I was nearly worn out. But this proved a blessing to me, for I was thus corrected by the Lord, and he made me fit to be to-day that which was once far from my thoughts, so that I should care for the salvation of others, for at that time I had no thought even for myself.

And in the night of the day in which I was reproved for the things above mentioned, I saw in the night.] I saw in a vision of the night a writing without honor before me. And then I heard an answer saying to me, “We have heard with displeasure the face of the elect without a name.” He did not say, “Thou hast badly seen,” but “We have badly seen,” as if he had there joined himself to me, as he said: “He that touches you is as he who toucheth the apple of my eye.” Therefore I give thanks to Him who comforted me in all things that He did not hinder me from the journey which I had proposed, and also as regards my work which I had learned of Christ. But from this thing I felt no little strength, and my faith was approved before God and man.

Therefore I dare to say that my conscience does not reproach me now or for the future. I have the testimony of God now that I have not lied in the words I have told you. [But I feel the more grieved that my dearest friend, to whom I would have trusted even my life, should have occasioned this. And I learned from certain brethren that, before this defence, when I was not present, nor even in Britain, and with which I had nothing to do, that he defended me in my absence. He had even said to me with his own lips: “Thou art going to be given the rank of bishop,” though I was not worthy of it. How, then, did it happen to him that afterwards, before all persons, good and bad, he should detract me publicly, when he had before this freely and gladly praised me? And the Lord, who is greater than all? I have said enough. Still, I ought not to hide the gift of God which he gave me in the land of my captivity, for I sought him earnestly then, and found him there, and He preserved me from all iniquity, I believe, through the indwelling of His Spirit, which worketh within me unto this day more and more. But God knows, if it were man who spoke this to me, I would perhaps be silent for the love of Christ.

Therefore I give unceasing thanks to my God, who preserved me faithful in the day of my temptation, so that I can to-day offer him sacrifice confidently—the living sacrifice of my soul to Christ my Lord, who preserved me from all my troubles, so that I may say to Him: “Who am I, O Lord! or what is my calling, that divine grace should have so wrought with me, so that to-day I can so rejoice amongst the nations, and magnify Thy name, wherever I am, not only in prosperity, but also in adversity?” and I ought to receive equally whatever happens to me, whether good or evil, giving God thanks in all things, who hath shown me that I should, undoubtingly, without ceasing, believe in Him who hath heard me though I am ignorant, and that I should undertake, in those days, so holy and wonderful a work, and imitate those of whom our Lord predicted of old that they should preach His Gospel to all nations for a testimony before the end of the world; which has been accomplished, as we have seen. Behold, we are witnesses that the Gospel has been preached to the limits of human habitation.]

But it is too long to detail my labors particularly, or even partially. I will briefly say how the good God often delivered me from slavery and from twelve dangers by which my soul was threatened, besides many snares, and what in words I cannot express, and with which I will not trouble my readers. But God knows all things, even before they come to pass [as he does me, a poor creature. Therefore the divine voice very often admonished me to consider whence came this wisdom, which was not in me, who neither knew God nor the number of my days. Whence did I obtain afterwards the great and salutary gift to know or love God, and to leave my country and my relations, although many gifts were offered to me with sorrow and tears. And I offended many of my seniors then against my will. But, guided by God, I yielded in no way to them—not to me, but to God be the glory, who conquered in me, and resisted them all; so that I came to the Irish people to preach the Gospel, and bear with the injuries of the unbelieving, and listen to the reproach of being a stranger, and endure many persecutions, even to chains, and to give up my freedom for the benefit of others. And if I be worthy, I am ready to give up my life unhesitatingly and most cheerfully for His name, and thus, if the Lord permit, I desire to spend it even until my death.]

For I am truly a debtor to God, who has given me so much grace that many people should be born again to God through me, and that for them everywhere should be ordained priests for this people, newly come to the faith, which the Lord took from the ends of the earth, as He promised formerly by His prophets: “Our fathers falsely prepared idols, and there is no profit in them, to thee the Gentiles come and will say.” And again: “I have set thee to be the light of the Gentiles, that thou mayest be for salvation unto the utmost parts of the earth.” And thus I wait the promise of Him who never fails, as He promises in the Gospel: “They shall come from the east and the west [from the north and from the south], and shall sit down with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob.” So we believe that the faithful shall come from all parts of the world.

Therefore we ought to fish well and diligently; as the Lord taught and said: “Come ye after me, and I will make you fishers of men.” And again: “Behold, saith the Lord, I send many fishers and many hunters,” etc. Therefore we should, by all means, set our nets in such a manner that a great multitude and a crowd may be caught therein for God, and that everywhere there may be priests who shall baptize and exhort a people who so need it and desire it; as the Lord teaches and admonishes in the Gospel, saying: “Going, therefore, teach ye all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, even to the consummation of the world.” And again: “Go ye into the whole world, and preach the Gospel to every creature; he that believeth and is baptized shall be saved, but he that believeth not shall be condemned.” The rest are examples. [And again: “This Gospel of the kingdom shall be preached in the whole world for a testimony to all nations, and then shall the consummation come.” And again, the Lord, speaking by the prophet, says: “And it shall come to pass in the last days, saith the Lord, that I will pour out my spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions. Moreover, upon my servants and handmaids in those days I will pour forth my spirit, and they shall prophesy.” And Osee saith: “And I will say to that which was not my people: Thou art my people: and to her who hath not found mercy; and they shall say; Thou art my God. And in the place where I said to them, You are not my people, it shall be said to them, Ye are the sons of the living God.”]

Wherefore behold how in Ireland they who never had the knowledge of God, and hitherto only worshipped unclean idols, have lately become the people of the Lord, and are called the sons of God. The sons of the Scoti and the daughters of princes are seen to be monks and virgins of Christ. [And there was one blessed Irish maiden, of adult age, noble and very beautiful, whom I baptized, and after a few days she came to us for a reason, and gave us to understand that she had received a command from God, and was informed that she was to become a virgin of Christ, and to draw near to God. Thanks be to God, six days after this she most excellently and eagerly entered on this state of life, which all the virgins of God now adopt, even against the will of their parents, even enduring reproaches and persecution from them, and notwithstanding they increase in number; and as for those who are born again in this way, we know not their number, except the widows and those who observe continency. But those who are in slavery are most severely persecuted, yet they persevere in spite of terrors and threats. But the Lord has given grace to many of my handmaids, for they zealously imitate him as far as they are able.

Therefore, though I could have wished to leave them, and had been ready and very desirous to go to Britannia, as if to my country and parents, and not that alone, but to go even to Gallia, to visit my brethren, and to see the face of my Lord’s saints; and God knows that I desired it greatly. But I am bound in the spirit, and he who witnesseth will account me guilty if I do it, and I fear to lose the labor which I have commenced—and not I, but the Lord Christ, who commanded me to come and be with them for the rest of my life; if the Lord grants it, and keeps me from every evil way, that I should not sin before him. But I hope that which I am bound to do, but I trust not myself as long as I am in this body of death, for he is strong who daily tries to turn me from the faith, and from the sincere religious chastity to Christ my Lord, to which I have dedicated myself to the end of my life, but the flesh, which is in enmity, always draws me to death—that is, to unlawful desires, that must be unlawfully gratified—and I know in part that I have not led a perfect life like other believers. But I confess to my Lord, and do not blush before him, because I tell the truth, that from the time I knew him in my youth the love of God and his fear increased within me, and until now, by the favor of the Lord, I have kept the faith.

Let him who pleases insult and laugh at me; I will not be silent, neither do I conceal the signs and wonders that the Lord hath shown to me many years before they took place, as he who knew all things even before the world began. Therefore I ought to give thanks to God without ceasing, who often pardoned my uncalled-for folly and negligence, who did not let his anger turn fiercely against me, who allowed me to work with him, though I did not promptly follow what was shown me and what the Spirit suggested; and the Lord had compassion on me among thousands and thousands, because he saw my good-will; but then I knew not what to do, because many were hindering my mission, and were talking behind my back, and saying: “Why does he run into danger among enemies who know not God?” This was not said with malice, but because they did not approve of it, but, as I now testify, because of my rusticity, you understand; and I did not at once recognize the grace which was then in me, but now I know I should have known before.

Therefore I have simply related to my brethren and fellow-servants who have believed me why I have preached and still preach to strengthen and confirm your faith. Would that you also might aim at higher things and succeed better. This shall be my glory, because a wise son is the glory of his father. You know and God knows how I have lived among you from my youth up, both faithful in truth and sincere in heart; also, I have given the faith to the people among whom I dwell, and I will continue to do so. God knows I have not overreached any of them, nor do I think of it, because of God and his Church, lest I should excite persecution for them and all of us, and lest the name of the Lord should be blasphemed through me; for it is written, “Woe to the man through whom the name of the Lord is blasphemed.” For though I am unskilled in names, I have endeavored to be careful even with my Christian brethren, and the virgins of Christ, and devout women, who freely gave me gifts, and cast of their ornaments upon the altar; but I returned them, though they were offended with me because I did so. But I, for the hope of immortality, guarded myself cautiously in all things, so that they could not find me unfaithful, even in the smallest matter, so that unbelievers could not defame or detract from my ministry in the least.

But when it happened that I baptized so many thousand men, did I expect even half a “screpall” from them? Tell me, and I will return it to you. Or when the Lord ordained clergy through my humility and ministry, did I confer the grace gratuitously? If I asked of any of them even the value of my shoe, tell me, and I will repay you more. I rather spent for you as far as I was able; and among you and everywhere for you I endured many perils in distant places, where none had been further or had ever come to baptize, or ordain the clergy, or confirm the people. By the grace of the Lord I labored freely and diligently in all things for your salvation. At this time also I used to give rewards to kings, whose sons I hired, who travelled with me, and who understood nothing but [to protect] me and my companions. And on one day they wished to kill me; but the time had not come yet; but they put me in irons, and carried off all we possessed. But on the fourteenth day the Lord released me from their power, and what was ours was restored to us through God and through the friends we had before secured.

You know how much I expended on the judges in the districts which I visited most frequently. For I think I paid them not less than the hire of fifteen men, that you might have the benefit of my presence, and that I might always enjoy you in the Lord. I do not regret it, nor is it sufficient for me. I still spend, and will still spend, for your souls.] Behold, I call God to witness on my soul that I do not lie, neither that you may have occasion, nor that I hope for honor from any of you; sufficient for me is the honor of truth. But I see that now in the present world I am greatly exalted by the Lord; and I was not worthy nor fit to be thus exalted, for I know that poverty and calamity are more suitable for me than riches and luxury. But even Christ the Lord was poor for us.

Truly, I, a poor and miserable creature, even if I wished for wealth, have it not; neither do I judge myself, because I daily expect either death, or treachery, or slavery, or an occasion of some kind or another. [But I fear none of these things, relying on the heavenly promise; for I have cast myself into the hands of the omnipotent God, who rules everywhere; as the prophet says: “Cast thy care upon the Lord, and He shall sustain thee.”

Behold, now I commend my soul to my most faithful God, whose mission I perform, notwithstanding my unworthiness; but because He does not accept persons, and has chosen me for this office, to be one of the least of His ministers. “What shall I render to Him for all the things that He hath rendered to me?” But what shall I say or promise to my Lord? For I see nothing unless He gives Himself to me; but He searches the heart and reins, because I ardently desire and am ready that He should give me to drink His cup, as He has permitted others to do who have loved Him. Wherefore may my Lord never permit me to lose His people whom He has gained in the ends of the earth. I pray God, therefore, that He may give me perseverance, and that He may vouchsafe to permit me to give Him faithful testimony for my God until my death. And if I have done anything good for my God, whom I love, I beseech Him to grant to me that with those proselytes and captives I may pour out my blood for His name, even if my body should be denied burial, and be miserably torn limb from limb by dogs or fierce beasts, or that the birds of heaven should devour it. I believe most certainly that if this should happen to me, I have gained both soul and body; for it is certain that we shall rise one day in the brightness of the sun—that is, the glory of Christ Jesus our Redeemer—as sons of God but as joint heirs with Christ, and to become conformable to His image.

For that sun which we see rises daily for us; but it will not rule or continue in its splendor for ever, and all who adore it shall suffer very miserably. But we who believe in and adore the true sun, Christ, who will never perish, neither he who shall do His will, but even as Christ shall abide for ever, who reigns with God the Father Almighty, and with the Holy Spirit, before the ages, and now, and for ever and ever. Amen.

Behold, again and again, I shall briefly declare the words of my confession. I testify in truth and in joy of heart, before God and His holy angels, that I never had any occasion, except the Gospel and its promises, for returning to that people from whom I had before with difficulty escaped.]

But I beseech those who believe in and fear God, whoever may condescend to look into or receive this writing, which Patrick, the ignorant sinner, has written in Ireland, that no one may ever say, if I have ever done or demonstrated anything, however little, that it was my ignorance. But do you judge, and let it be believed firmly, that it was the gift of God. And this is my confession before I die.

If you are new here and enjoyed reading the words of Saint Patrick, consider subscribing to receive more Catholic literature, reflections, and poetry. Paid subscribers also receive a beautiful poem delivered by snail mail each month.

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There are some experiences of the human heart that feel impossible to express in writing by any other means. Poetry captures Beauty and Truth in a way that really makes the heart sing.

Unfortunately, reading poetry often feels as elusive as writing it.

Many of us really struggle with reading poetry because we were never taught how to really appreciate it, or rather, we really weren’t given a chance to. When approaching the subject in school, teachers often opted for a far more critical take than contemplative, treating poetry like puzzles to solve than a piece of the human heart. 1

Perhaps you remember learning about what a sonnet is or how to write a haiku; maybe you remember picking apart the imagery and decoding the metaphors trying to decipher just what the heck the author was trying to say.

But have you ever just let the words of a poem wash over you?

Have you tasted the words in your mouth and savored them?

Have you given a poem the chance to change you (without necessarily knowing why or how)?

This Eastertide, I want to offer something for you to savor during this time of Resurrected joy: a weekly poem from a Catholic poet, sent straight to your inbox every Monday from Easter Monday through Pentecost.

It is my hope that this project will, not only introduce to you a number of gifted Catholic poets, but will bring you deeper into the mystery of the Resurrection.

After all, those who first encountered the empty tomb did not immediately understand what had happened. The mystery unfolded over time; meaning was found through human experiences—a name spoken, bread broken, wounds touched—like a poem.

Let’s practice savoring the sweetness of the mystery together.

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For the first time (!!!), I’m offering special perks for paid subscribers that I think will help you experience these poems more fully.

Subscribers at this level will receive:

• Audio Reading of Each Poem — Listen as the poem is read aloud, allowing the language, rhythm, and beauty to unfold slowly.

• Extended Reflections — Deeper commentary, information about the author, bonus poems, and tips for reading and appreciating poetry

• Monthly Printed Poem by Mail — A beautifully formatted poem2 delivered to your mailbox, because there is something special about holding words in your hands. (This poem-by-mail project will last through the year, not just through the Easter season).

  • To receive your printed poem by post, simply upgrade to a paid subscription and send me a direct message with your preferred mailing address. Once I have your details, you’ll be added to the mailing list for upcoming deliveries.

“There was once a little man called Niggle, who had a long journey to make. He did not want to go, indeed the whole idea was distasteful to him; but he could not get out of it. He knew he would have to start some time, but he did not hurry with his preparations.”

The first time I discussed Leaf, by Niggle with some friends, I was amazed that each of us had managed to take something completely different away from the story. With each reading something new stood out to me and I find myself in awe of the great truth contained in Tolkien’s writing. Despite being one of the shortest stories in The Professor’s catalog, Leaf, by Niggle is just as profound as his other works.

Unlike the vast mythic architecture of The Lord of the Rings or the deep histories of The Silmarillion, this story is small, quiet, and intensely personal. Tolkien wrote Leaf, by Niggle in the early 1940s, during a period of frustration and exhaustion. He was overwhelmed by administrative duties, academic obligations, and the constant interruptions that pulled him away from his “real work”: his Legendarium.

What emerged from that season was not another epic, but a parable of sorts—one that Tolkien later acknowledged as his most autobiographical. Niggle, the fussy and well-meaning artist at the story’s center, mirrors Tolkien’s own fear that the work he longed to complete would remain unfinished. Tolkien once wrote that the story arose from his “pre-occupation with The Lord of the Rings, the knowledge that it would be finished in great detail or not at all, and the fear (near certainty) that it would be ‘not at all.’”

Leaf, by Niggle offers some consolation both to Tolkien and to each of us, as it presents us with a vision of hope rooted in eternity. The story teaches that when human dreams, desires, and creative talents are ordered toward eternity through goodness, truth, and beauty, God, in His loving providence, redeems even our incomplete work and weaves it into His eternal kingdom.

At the center of the story is a painter named Niggle, whose great work is a painting of a Tree, though much of his attention is given to a single leaf. He labors over its shape and color, sensing that something immense lies behind it—something he can see but cannot fully capture. His heart, like ours, is drawn toward a Beauty too great to fully grasp. His work gives him only a mere taste of its Source.

Yet Niggle’s devotion to beauty is imperfect. He becomes absorbed in his work at the expense of practical responsibilities and neighborly charity, revealing the danger of pursuing beauty detached from goodness. On the other hand, we have Parish–Niggle’s neighbor and frequent irritant. Parish embodies moral responsibility and practical concerns, but he lacks imagination and appreciation for beauty. He cannot see the Tree for what it is, nor can he understands why it matters.

Tolkien presents these two characters as distorted reflections of the transcendentals: Niggle pursues beauty without sufficient goodness, while Parish upholds goodness without openness to beauty. Neither lives in the fullness of truth, which requires the integration of both. Order will one day need to be restored.

Throughout the story, Niggle knows that he must one day take “the journey,” but he postpones preparing for it. There is always one more detail to perfect, one more leaf to paint. Death, when it comes, is sudden and terribly inconvenient. He hadn’t packed; he had left several jobs unfinished.

When Niggle boards the train, he carries nothing with him and because he did not take pains to prepare before the journey, Niggle is sent to the Workhouse, a clear image of Purgatory. There, through labor and discipline, his heart is healed. His impatience and self-absorption are slowly stripped away, and his creative longing refined, aligning his desire for beauty with a sincere charity.

The conversation between the two Voices—Justice and Mercy—is one of the most explicitly theological moments in the story. Niggle’s life is weighed honestly. His generosity is acknowledged; his selfishness is not ignored. The Second Voice is clearly that of Christ, and (thankfully) has the final say. Niggle is led into the bright county and finds the Tree–his Tree but not as he left it. It stands before him living and whole. The leaf he labored over now belongs to something vast and beautiful, far beyond what he could have achieved his own.

All the leaves he has ever laboured at were there, as he imagined them rather than as he had made them…Some of the most beautiful–the most characteristic, the most perfect examples of the Niggle style–were seen to have been produced in collaboration with Mr. Parish…

Niggle soon realizes that the forest surrounding the Great Tree still needs tending, and that he cannot do this work alone. To his surprise, Parish arrives. The two men work side by side to tend the landscape and find healing together. In this place, the roles begin to reverse, Niggle becomes the harder worker and Parish learns to really look at the trees. What was fragmented on earth is unified in eternity. Beauty and goodness, once divided, are reconciled.

Having learned to live in harmony with both beauty and goodness, Niggle is finally ready to journey onward to the Source of it all, to Mountains he could only glimpse in his old life but could never fully imagine.

After Niggle’s death, two men discuss his life and work. They dismiss him as a rather silly fellow, noting that he did not really “contribute” much practical value to society. His painting took up space; his efforts produced nothing useful. In their eyes, Niggle’s life amounted to little. And in time, Niggle is completely forgotten.

But this scene is sharply contrasted by another conversation between the Two voices, talking about how his service and devotion to beauty is “very useful indeed” as “for many it is the best introduction to the Mountain.” While beauty is not utilitarian in the narrow, worldly sense, Tolkien shows that it is deeply necessary. Beauty awakens longing, directs the soul upward, and prepares hearts for eternity. Niggle’s art, though incomplete and misunderstood on earth, becomes a means by which others are drawn toward their ultimate end.

The final lines of the story brings me to tears every time:

“I think we ought to give the region a name. What do you propose?”

“The Porter settled that some time ago,” said the Second Voice. “Train for Niggle’s Parish in the bay: he has shouted that for a long while now. Niggle’s Parish. I sent a message to both of them to tell them.”

“What did they say?”

“They both laughed. Laughed—the Mountains rang with it!”

Niggle’s leaf and Parish’s practicality, once at odds, are now united so fully that even the land bears their shared name. They now experience true communion, not just with one another, but with God. From that communion flows a joy so great that it makes the Mountains ring.

Tolkien leaves us with a vision of hope: that when human life is ordered toward goodness, truth, and beauty, God redeems even what is unfinished and folds it into His eternal design. The smallest leaf, carefully tended, can build up the Kingdom of God.

After spending time with O’Connor’s fierce clarity, Tolkien’s humble little tale feels like a deep breath. It’s short enough to fit into a season that is already crowded with preparations, gatherings, and a hundred small obligations, but rich enough to give shape and purpose to our waiting.

Though it’s far smaller in scope than The Lord of the Rings or The Silmarillion, “Leaf by Niggle” is one of Tolkien’s most revealing works.

Written during the early years of World War II, Leaf by Niggle grew out of a period when Tolkien felt stretched thin—pulled between his academic duties, family life, wartime pressures, and his desire to complete the great Tree of his legendarium. In many ways, Niggle is Tolkien: a man with a great work in his heart, constantly interrupted by the demands of charity, responsibility, and ordinary life. And yet, in true Tolkien fashion, the story becomes more than autobiography. The story offers a meditation on grace: how God takes our imperfect offerings and brings them to completion in ways we cannot imagine.

For us as Catholics entering Advent—a season defined by longing and preparation both for the Christ Child and Christ to come again—Leaf by Niggle offers a gentle invitation. It helps us see the divine significance of our daily labors and interruptions. It reminds us that our creative impulses are not accidents but whispers of our Creator. And it shows us, in a way only Tolkien can, that even the incomplete “leaves” we manage to paint in this life may one day find their place in God’s great design.

Over the next few weeks, we’ll read slowly, reflect deeply, and let this small story illuminate our Advent journey. We’d love for you to join us.

“Leaf by Niggle” can be found as a stand alone book, or in Tree and Leaf, The Tolkien Reader, or Tales from the Perilous Realm. You can also find the story online with a quick Google search. I also highly recommend the audiobook version of it read by Derek Jacobi.

If you’d like to follow along, make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss the reflections and discussion posts.

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And before you go, leave a comment and let me know if you’ll be reading along!

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You can find the printable reading guide for this story here (scroll to the bottom of the post).

Flannery O’Connor’s friend and mentor, Caroline Gordon Tate, recalled visiting her in the hospital near the end of her life and seeing Flannery sneakily pulling the notebook from under her pillow after she said she wasn’t supposed to be working. She wanted to put the finishing touches on “Parker’s Back,” the last short story O’Connor would write. 1

O’Connor, who usually put off her fiction writing until she was in front of her typewriter, wrote most of this story longhand. She seemed to know her time on earth was running out and she needed to see this story finished.

The story itself turns on fulfillment: O’Connor frames Parker’s encounter with Christ through a series of Old Testament symbols—fiery theophanies, prophetic renamings, and covenantal imagery—that find completion in the New Covenant revelation inscribed on his back.

After getting a taste of Beauty and wonder as a child from the tattooed man at the fair, O.E. Parker spends his life trying to satisfy a nameless longing by slowly covering his body in ink with the exception of his back.

When we first meet Parker, he is dissatisfied with his life, and in particular in his marriage to Sarah Ruth–a relationship that begins in a scene that is reminiscent of the Garden of Eden, when he brings her an apple to eat. Unlike Eve to Adam, however, Sarah Ruth offers Parker neither intimacy nor understanding. Not only does she embody a rigid, legalistic faith, she also is against anything that is not purely spiritual, going so far as to believe that even churches are idolatrous. Parker, on the other hand, is all earth and flesh, indulging in his appetites as he pleases and turning to the world again and again for meaning. As he grows more and more dissatisfied in his marriage, he feels the only answer to it is to fill the empty space on his body.

This restlessness drives him toward the moment that becomes the turning point of the story—the burning tree scene. There, in one of O’Connor’s most striking Old Testament allusions, Parker encounters a vision reminiscent of Moses before the Burning Bush (right down to the removal of his shoes); a revelation that seizes him, commands him, and brings him closer to the answer he’s seeking.

Shoeless and still trembling from his vision, Parker runs to the tattoo artist, insisting on having God inscribed on his back. When he sees the image of Christ with the “all-demanding eyes,” he knows that it is the image that was meant to fill that space on his back. However, unlike the other tattoos on his body, this one is not merely decoration but rather a call that demands his response. And like Jonah, a comparison that is made explicit in the bar fight scene, he tries to run.

As he sits in the alley, he examines his soul and comes to the conclusion that “The eyes that were now forever on his back were eyes to be obeyed.” Everything has changed now for Parker; “he observed that his dissatisfaction was gone, but he felt not quite like himself. It was as if he were himself but a stranger to himself…” yet he still clings to the illusion that he has not changed. When he arrives home and tries to respond to the question of “Who’s there?” with “old O.E” the door remains closed, but when he finally whispers his true name, the door flings open. 2

In Scripture, names are tied to identity and calling, and the changing of a name often marks a profound spiritual transformation or the deepening of a mission (ie. Abram to Abraham or Simon to Peter). Parker has spent much of his life hiding his true name, preferring the casual, impersonal “O.E.” to the full weight of Obadiah Elihue which means “the servant of Yahweh, my God.” In acknowledging his true name, he embraces the call it carries.

“Obadiah,” he whispered and all at once he felt the light pouring through him, turning his spider web soul into a perfect arabesque of colors, a garden of trees and birds and beasts.

This description of Obadiah’s soul is similar to the physical description of the tattooed man who kicked off his search suggesting that Parker found the fulfillment of his desire, but the imagery is much more biblical. It once again calls to mind the image of Eden suggesting that what was lost in the fall was once again restored in Christ through the Incarnation: the Word made flesh on Parker’s Back.

The remaining imagery in the story now shifts toward the New Testament, specifically Good Friday. God came to us as Man to suffer and die for us, and Obadiah is drawn into that part of the narrative as well. Sarah Ruth, who ultimately does not recognize the image of God on Parker’s back, batters both Obadiah and the tattooed Christ and then looks out on the Lord’s servant “leaning against the tree, crying like a baby.”

The Old Testament symbols that shaped his journey—Eden, the Burning Tree, the prophetic naming—lead him to the foot of the New Testament’s central mystery: the suffering of Christ. Sarah Ruth’s rejection does not undo his conversion; it reveals its depth. The God who claimed him now calls him to share, however faintly, in the loneliness and rejection Christ Himself endured.

Through this final, painful scene, O’Connor brings her own meditation on fulfillment to completion. For Parker, as for all of us, the encounter with the Incarnate Christ is not symbolic—it is costly, embodied, and real. And yet it is through this encounter that we get a glimpse of the garden once lost, and finally find rest for our wandering hearts.

Questions for you:

1. What were some of the details/lines that stuck you while reading the story? Share them below!

2. Did you notice the biblical allusions in the story? Any other ones you noticed that I missed?

3. Which O’Connor story was your favorite? Which one would you like read along with us in the future?

Thanks for joining us on this brief pilgrimage into the works of Flannery O’Connor. We’re not through yet though!

We will soon be turning our minds to a lesser known work of Tolkien, one outside of Middle Earth. Any guesses? Stay tuned for the official announcement coming soon!

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If you haven’t read the story yet, do that first! You can find the printable reading guide for this story at the bottom of this post.

Flannery O’Connor, in a letter collected in The Habit of Being, describes a being at a literary gathering with famous writer and essayist Mary McCarthy wherein the two discuss the Eucharist. Mary said “she thought of it as a symbol and implied that it was a pretty good one” to which O’Connor now famously (then shakily) replied: “Well, if it’s a symbol, to hell with it.”

She goes on to write:

That was all the defense I was capable of but I realize now that this is all I will ever be able to say about it, outside of a story, except that it is the center of existence for me; all the rest of life is expendable.

The mystery of the Incarnation, and by extension the true presence in the Eucharist, formed Flannery’s imagination and her worldview; she saw the ways in which God reveals Himself through the physical world and often wrote about them.

“A Temple of the Holy Ghost,” which stands out among O’Connor’s short stories as the most explicitly Catholic, centers on a 12-year old Catholic girl who sounds a lot like a young Flannery– a girl with a wild imagination, who thinks ugly thoughts but is capable (occasionally and often, accidentally) of true devotion. Reading about the flaws of this character feels a bit like reading the author’s prayer journal, full of honesty and a deep self-knowledge.1

It is through this child’s imaginative, perceptive, and sometimes flawed lens that O’Connor is able to reveal her Eucharistic vision of reality, showing how God’s presence inhabits the physical world. We see this vision most clearly through two central and parallel images: the Hermaphrodite at the Freak Show and Eucharistic Benediction at the convent.

When her silly, boy-obsessed cousins come back home from the fair, our young protagonist asks what they saw. The girls talk about how they enjoyed seeing all the freaks in the show except one–the Hermaphrodite. Unlike the others who were offered as objects for their amusement, this “freak” dares to act as a human calling the gawkers to civility and charity: “God made me thisaway…I’m showing you because I got to make the best of it. I expect you to act like ladies and gentlemen. I never done it to myself nor had a thing to do with it but I’m making the best of it. I don’t dispute hit.”

While even the most minor characters in this story have been described at length, the Hermaphrodite’s appearance is reduced to a single detail—“It had on a blue dress.” The child senses the presence of mystery, a truth that cannot be grasped through mere reason; the Hermaphrodite’s body defies human categories being both man and woman. Trying to make sense of it, the little girl feels “...as if she were hearing the answer to a riddle that was more puzzling than the riddle itself.”

As the young girl imagines the Hermaphrodite preaching about its being a Temple of the Holy Ghost, she begins to perceive what she could not name before—that the divine dwells within the human body. The Hermaphrodite has become a symbol of Christ, and therefore of the Eucharist.

The Hermaphrodite’s strange flesh becomes the first “host” she is invited to see rightly, preparing her to recognize the true presence later in the chapel.

At Eucharistic Benediction in the convent chapel, the young girl kneels as the priest raises the monstrance, revealing the consecrated Host—the Body of Christ made present under the appearance of bread–and her thoughts turn again to the mysterious figure of the Hermaphrodite:

“They were well into the Tantum Ergo before her ugly thoughts stopped and she began to realize that she was in the presence of God… but when the priest raised the monstrance with the Host… she was thinking of the tent at the fair that had the freak in it. The freak was saying, ‘I don’t dispute hit. This is the way He wanted me to be’

What was veiled in the unsettling figure of the Hermaphrodite is here unveiled in divine simplicity. Both moments center on the same truth: God’s presence is made known through flesh. Just as the Hermaphrodite declared, “God made me thisaway,” Christ declares in the Eucharist, “This is my Body.” Both utterances reveal a God who humbles Himself to be seen, touched, and even misunderstood.

This revelation in the chapel does not end when the Benediction concludes; it transforms the girl’s vision, though albeit not yet completely. Even though the girl still notices the imperfections of the driver’s body (the fat rolls of his neck and his pig-like ears), she also sees the sun as an “...elevated Host drenched in blood…”; all of creation is charged with God’s presence. And just as the sun left “a line in the sky like a red clay road” after it sunk out of sight, the encounter with this mystery remains present in her soul.

In this way, O’Connor’s story enacts what she once confessed she could never explain “outside of a story”—that the Eucharist is the very center of existence, the mystery through which all of reality must be seen. For both O’Connor and her young protagonist, Eucharist is not merely a symbol but a living presence that changes everything.

And if it’s not, well then, to hell with it.

Questions for you:

1. What were some of the details/lines that stuck you while reading the story? Share them below!

2. What role does mystery play in faith here? Do you think the girl understands what she has experienced?

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Thanks for reading! Our final O’Connor’s story is “Parker’s Back.” It’s not too late to join us! You can download the reading guide for it here.

"Parker's Back" Reading Guide

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We’ve been reading “Revelation” by Flannery O’Connor. If you haven’t read the story yet, do that first! If you have, please enjoy this essay by my husband Ben Pluta.

As mentioned in the reading guide, Flannery O’Connor can’t really be dealt with without dealing with the issue of race.

Paul Elie’s article “How Racist was Flannery O’Connor?” deals with many different issues, some of which are incredibly important not to sidestep, including but not limited to her casual use of racial slurs in her letters. I bring that up only to acknowledge that what we’re dealing with in this essay doesn’t cover the entire issue. Instead, I’ll be focusing on one specific point that Elie makes. He claims that the final vision in “Revelation” is a racist one; sure, blacks and whites both get to heaven, and the blacks arrive first, but ultimately the vision affirms the political situation in America: the two groups are separate but equal. Jim Crow laws extend to even the road to heaven.

Ultimately Elie is interpreting the final vision of “Revelation” solely through the lens of the American legal tradition. But O’Connor would have identified herself first as a citizen of a different kingdom with its own tradition; the Catholic Church. There are actually two major visions or revelations in this story, and when you view them both through the cultural lens of Catholicism which O’Connor treasured so deeply and embraced so openly, a very different picture emerges than the segregationist vision of which Elie accuses O’Connor.

In order to understand the two visions in “Revelation,” one must first understand the medieval vision of hierarchy and order that so deeply informed O’Connor’s own thought. Of all the great medieval works of art, Dante renders it in the way that might most help us to understand “Revelation.” In the third part of his “Divine Comedy”, the Paradiso, Dante envisions heaven as a series of nine concentric spheres radiating outward from the Earth, with God himself residing in a realm of pure light and divinity surrounding the rest of the spheres. Each sphere is very specifically associated with not only a virtue but also certain kinds of souls, so that the closest spheres to Earth are inhabited by the inconstant and the intemperate, whereas the spheres closest to God are inhabited by the greatest saints to walk the Earth.

This might initially seem like a disjointed vision of Heaven. Why did Dante imagine such dramatic separation between classes of people? In fact, the separation disappears when you consider how the spheres move. God himself moves the whole sphere of heaven in one synchronous motion, so that the whole thing moves together. Imagine a wind turbine. The tip of a wind turbine blade moves incredibly fast, somewhere around 150 mph, while the base of the blade moves very slowly. Nevertheless, though the base is turning very slowly and the tip is moving very quickly, they move together. The same is true of the heavenly realms. The souls in the lower realms move more slowly than the souls in the higher realms because of their less fervent love, but nevertheless they turn together. Not only do they turn together, but turning in this ordered way produces a singular image of beauty. The hierarchical structure of the Paradiso is the difference between Paradise being a chaotic mix and Paradise being a harmonious progression of many souls moving as one.

This gives us a good framework to look at Mrs. Turpin’s worldview and the visions she receives of the next world. Mrs. Turpin, much like Dante, does a good bit of categorizing different peoples into a hierarchy. Whereas Dante imagines a hierarchy based primarily on wisdom, and prayer, and above all love, Mrs. Turpin has less noble criteria:

Sometimes Mrs. Turpin occupied herself at night naming the classes of people. On the bottom of the heap were most colored people… then next to them—not above, just away from—were the white-trash; then above them were the home-owners, and above them the home-and-land owners, to which she and Claud belonged. Above she and Claud were people with a lot of money and much bigger houses and much more land. But here the complexity of it would begin to bear in on her, for some of the people with a lot money were common and ought to be below she and Claud… Usually by the time she had fallen asleep all the classes of people were moiling and roiling around in her head, and she would dream they were all crammed in together in a box car, being ridden off to be put in a gas oven.

For Turpin, the “highest celestial realm” contains those with lots of money, and therefore lots of power; those who occupy the least realms are those with the least power: colored people and white trash. Mrs. Turpin’s vision is not based on love but on power, which makes it therefore inherently unintelligible. Dante’s vision creates a harmonious whole because love cannot help but unite, the very meaning of love is unity and harmony. But power does not have the power to unite, only to compete. Mrs. Turpin’s own vision could never hope to produce a comprehensible, harmonious whole. Rather, it devolves even in Mrs. Turpin’s mind into the opposite of a heavenly paradise; whereas in Dante the souls all move freely together and harmoniously through realms of divine light, in Turpin’s vision the various classes of people become a chaotic muddle of people unable to move freely, driven against their will to perish in an inferno.

Finally, we have come to a place to consider Paul Elie’s comments on the story in his essay “How Racist was Flannery O’Connor?” In that essay, he says of Turpin’s vision that it “is a segregationist’s vision, in which people process to Heaven by race and class, equal but separate, white landowners such as Turpin preceded (the last shall be first) by ‘bands of black niggers in white robes, and battalions of freaks and lunatics shouting and clapping and leaping like frogs.’” Elie is interpreting this vision through a modern lens which seeks to eliminate as much distinction and “otherness” as possible in favor of pure unity. However, O’Connor has no interest in adopting the imagery or ideology of the modern tradition. “Revelation” is clearly adopting the imagery of the medieval tradition, albeit in a slightly different way than the spheres of Dante.

O’Connor depicts the march towards heaven as a kind of parade. The same dynamics in Dante still factor into a parade; imagine if you turned on the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade and Santa was in the middle and all the individual members of the high school bands were completely interspersed amongst each other, standing on floats and still playing random music. It would be chaos. What distinguishes a parade from a mob is a certain level of distinction among individuals. The idea here is that rather than being a moiling roiling chaotic mob, the colored people and the lunatics and the white landowners form a parade, a whole unified by love and moving freely together towards an ultimate destination. In this way, O’Connor utilizes the Catholic tradition, the same tradition which produced the Divine Comedy, to give us an image of racial harmony which at the same time embraces differences while also ordering those differences into a single unity.

Questions for you:

1. What were some of the details/lines that stuck you while reading the story? Share them below!

2. What are your thoughts on the original essay and this rebuttal? Which interpretation do you find more convincing, and why?

3. Why is it important for us as readers to wrestle honestly with an author’s personal beliefs while still engaging deeply with the theological and artistic truths present in his/her stories?

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Thanks for reading! Next, we’re reading O’Connor’s story “A Temple of the Holy Ghost.” Because this essay is going out a few days late, I’ve included our reading guide for our next story in this email. Download it now.

A Temple of the Holy Ghost Reading Guide

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This has always been important, but all the more so in recent years as O’Connor has come under fire with accusations of racism. In 2020, Paul Elie wrote an essay entitled “How Racist Was Flannery O’Connor?” It’s an article which recognizes the greatness of O’Connor’s vision while at the same time frankly acknowledging some of the difficulties O’Connor’s personal life poses. If you have some time, you can access the article here. In fact, the article is only one entry in a back and forth between him and O’Connor scholar Angela Alaimo O’Donnell that continues on Commonweal.

The article launched a lot of criticism of O’Connor, obviously on Twitter, but believe it or not in real life, too. A day after the article was released a student at Loyola University Maryland, a Catholic, Jesuit institution, started a petition to change the name of one of the University’s buildings, “Flannery O’Connor Hall.” The petition succeeded. The University’s president, in his statement, said that O’Connor’s work does not “reflect Jesuit values.”

The topic at the heart of this debate and the actual cultural impact it has on the minds of young students is too large for the scope of our little journey here. But I think it sets the backdrop for why it is important to read “Revelation,” and even more important to work hard to understand it.

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This essay was written by my husband Ben, who once upon a time became an English major to woo me but ended up (annoyingly) being the better English major of the two of us.

Flannery O’Connor described her novel Wise Blood as a “novel in the comic mode.” That remark serves well as a statement about O’Connor’s whole body of work; in general, O’Connor wrote comedies, not tragedies.

In this sense, “comic” means more than just funny; it signifies a dramatic pattern. Think How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days, the most classic example of comedy in the western canon. The movie starts with a mischievous Matthew McConaughey betting his friends that he can make a woman fall in love with him in ten days, and a mischievous Kate Hudson writing an article about driving a guy away in ten days. In a twist of fate they meet each other, chaos and confusion ensues, and finally the main characters realize that they really actually love each other. Confusion moves to clarity, and with clarity comes joy.

This describes pretty well the pattern that a lot of O’Connor stories take. For instance, in “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” the grandmother goes from total confusion about goodness to clarity about the truly good. Even though the event, the “divine mischief” which brings about the revelation is in one sense tragic (nobody wants grannies to die,) in the dramatic sense “A Good Man” plays out like a comedy. Many of O’Connor’s stories follow a similar comic pattern, but not “Good Country People.” This story is through and through a tragedy.

Whereas a comedy begins with mischief and moves to joy, tragedy moves from seduction (either literal, sexual seduction or figurative seduction) to what Aristotle called “peripateia,” or a reversal of fortune.

By way of example, in Macbeth the main character, seduced by the manipulative prophecies of the weird sisters, reverses his fortune as a great man and brings ruin upon himself personally, on his family, and on his kingdom. These themes of deception, seduction, and a reversal of fortune play a major role in “Good Country People”; the story follows a fundamentally tragic dramatic pattern.

Good Country People features Mrs. Hopewell and her daughter Joy, or as the great State of Georgia knows her, Hulga. Hulga believes her mother has been seduced by Southern propriety into thinking of herself as a good woman, when in reality she suffers from spiritual, intellectual, and moral bankruptcy. This plays out in the following interaction:

To her own mother [Hulga] had said–without warning, without excuse, standing up in the middle of a meal with her face purple and her mouth half full–“Woman! Do you ever look inside and see what you are not? God!” ...Mrs. Hopewell had no idea to this day what had brought that on. She had only made the remark, hoping Joy would take it in, that a smile had never hurt anyone.”

For Hulga, her mother has made the mistake of never truly examining her interior life and seeing the “nothing” at the heart of her existence. Mrs. Hopewell functions in the story really only to draw out Hulga’s fundamental belief in herself. If Mrs. Hopewell represents the completely seduced, Hulga sees herself as completely “un-seduced.” She tells Manley Pointer in the barn, “we are all damned… but some of us have taken off our blindfolds and see that there’s nothing to see.” Hulga’s entire identity, her whole self-image rests on the fact that she hasn’t fallen for any of that Southern Christian nonsense.

Hulga not only fancies herself as “unseduced,” she also imagines herself as a seductress, with poor Manley Pointer as the spider in her web. She has visions where she “took his remorse in hand and changed it into a deeper understanding of life.” The reader should not let the irony escape her, for obviously Hulga can seduce a man about as well as a wet sock. O’Connor makes sure the reader knows how inept she is; to get ready for her big date she puts on “slacks and a dirty white shirt, and as an afterthought, she had put some vapex on the collar of it since she did not own any perfume.” Vapex, for those who don’t know, is essentially Vicks Vaporub.

That Hulga views herself both as absolutely un-seduced as well as capable of seduction exemplifies the most clear way that she has been seduced: She has been seduced by arrogance and pride. Here we can see one of the elements of tragedy play out: Hulga could have been a great woman.. She could have learned from her mother’s mistakes and pursued the path of honest introspection. Instead, seduced by her own arrogance, she makes a date with Manley Pointer.

Hulga’s date initially goes all according to her plan. Manley seems super into her, she gets to drop some hot philosophical one-liners on him, (try “in my economy, I am saved and you are damned” next time you’re at a dance) and she gets him right where she wants him: cozy together on the floor of a barn. However, very soon Hulga finds herself way in over her head. Manley wants to see where her wooden leg joins because, he says, “it’s what makes you different. You ain’t like nobody else.”

We should pause here and digest a little of what happens, because this line is key to understanding the tragedy at the heart of the story.

Why did Hulga choose the name Hulga? Why did she go out of her way to identify herself with the most ugly name she could think of? She identifies herself with ugliness because, ultimately, everyone in her life had identified her with ugliness since she had her leg blown off as a child. But now Manley affirms the thing about her which everyone has thought was ugly. This opens up an entirely new horizon for Hulga, and she responds with a gift of self. She agrees to show him her leg, and when she does “it was like surrendering to him completely. It was like losing her own life and finding it again, miraculously, in his.” At this point, I think, Hulga would think of herself not as Hulga but truly as “Joy Hopewell.” I think that this gesture of Manley would allow her to reclaim the beauty at the heart of her true name.

However, Hulga soon realizes that the seductress has been seduced. Manley brings out his suitcase and opens one of the Bibles. The word of God has been cut out and instead the cover contains a box of condoms, pornographic playing cards, and whiskey. For Hulga, this moment of catastrophic revelation completely changes the course of her narrative; she realizes that Manley has successfully done what she had hoped to do. She reacts to this knowledge by flipping out (understandably,) and her reversal of fortunes is completed. She goes from the first true moment of joy and love in her life to being left alone and legless in a barn.

In order for us to understand the significance of this end to O’Connor’s tragedy, we have to compare it again to her comedies. In “A Good Man is Hard to Find,” the divine mischief seems less like a prank and more like a crime; a whole family has to die.

By contrast, Joy’s reversal of fortune is, let’s be honest, pretty benign. The news headline “Georgia man seen running away with stolen prosthetic leg” sounds like the kind of thing more appropriate for a comedy. This reveals a very important aspect of O’Connor’s thought. For O’Connor, the grace of God is effective, God has the power to do truly great though terrible things in order to bring even greater and more wonderful joys.

The devil on the other hand, symbolized by Manley Pointer, does not have this ability. The only reversal of fortune he can affect is the stealing of a leg. Joy is left very much alive. Of course, we aren’t given access to what she does after she has her leg stolen. But O’Connor’s point here is that the devil left her alive; and as long as Joy is alive, she can find hope again.

Questions for you:

1. What were some of the details/lines that stuck you while reading? Share them below!

2. Do you agree that “Good Country People” is a tragedy rather than a comedy? Why or why not?

Thanks for reading! Next, we’re reading O’Connor’s story “Revelation.” Make sure you subscribe to get these posts delivered straight to your inbox. Maybe grab a friend or two as well!

This series is free, but we have plans to offer more to paid subscribers in the future. If you enjoy these reflections, consider upgrading to support the newsletter and be first in line for what’s next.

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“My thoughts are so far away from God. He might as well not have made me... Today I have proved myself a glutton–for Scotch oatmeal cookies and erotic thought. There is nothing left to say of me.”

This is the final entry in Flannery O’Connor’s Prayer Journal, published posthumously after her death. It was written between 1946 and 1947, when she was a brilliant 22 year old student in the oldest and most prestigious writing program in the country, Iowa University Writer’s Workshop. It reveals a young woman with a stark, maybe dramatic vision of her own brokenness.

But the brokenness at the heart of this Prayer Journal entry from 1947 was only a shadow of the darkness that Flannery faced in 1955 when “Good Country People” was released. She was no longer the brightest student in the most prestigious writing program in the country. She was back at her family farm in Georgia, surrounded by folks who just flat-out didn’t understand her writing, being devoured by Lupus, staring the fact of her early death directly in the face.

If Flannery’s Collected Stories were the Bible, “Good Country People” would be Ecclesiastes: “Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.” Whereas most of her body of work very explicitly involves the action of God, God is hardly mentioned in this story. This story is a story of darkness, emptiness, nothingness, left to run its course without the intervention of God.

The end of this course might surprise you. In O’Connor’s world, when God removes himself from the proceedings, the result isn’t more violent– in fact, this is one of the least violent stories in O’Connor’s bibliography. Rather, the result is absurdity. In O’Connor’s world, evil is not strong enough to cause that much of a ruckus.

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If you haven’t read the story “A Good Man is Hard to Find” you should do that first! It’s too good of a story to have it spoiled by me. If you’re interested in listening to this story, there is an audio recording of O’Connor herself reading it.

The Misfit’s chilling line from “A Good Man Is Hard to Find” isn’t just the story’s grim punchline—it’s its thesis. His words haunt you and ultimately emphasizes the story’s central question: what does it mean to be good?

O’Connor uses the word “good” so many times in this story that it begins to feel stale, even hollow. At times, its use is comical, as when the grandmother calls Red Sammy “a good man” right after he has described a car as “good.” The ironic usage reduces the word to a catch-all for anything decent or agreeable.

A good man is hard to find, especially when the word itself has been emptied of meaning.

The story, of course, centers on The Grandmother–an unpleasant matriarch of an unpleasant family. From the very opening lines of the story, we see her self-centeredness and her willingness to manipulate or deceive those she loves to get what she wants. Despite her own faults and her own obvious un-goodness, she is nevertheless very preoccupied with the goodness of others. For her, a good man is someone who comes from “good people,” who shows proper manners, or who conforms to her sense of respectability.

The grandmother, therefore, cares deeply about being perceived as respectable, even dressing up for the road trip so that in the event of an accident “...anyone seeing her dead on the highway would know at once that she was a lady.” This line highlights O’Connor’s brilliant use of foreshadowing because an accident, of course, does occur, but not in view of the world.

And ironically it’s the grandmother’s obsession of being from good blood that caused the accident in the first place, bringing her face to face with the Misfit.

In this encounter, we see that the grandmother’s faith too is just as shallow as she is. She has reduced morality to politeness and nostalgia; after all being a good Southern woman means going to church on Sundays. So when faced with a moment of crisis, she finds herself unable to pray.

She opened and closed her mouth several times before anything came out. Finally she found herself saying, “Jesus. Jesus,” meaning, Jesus will help you, but the way she was saying it, it sounded as if she might be cursing.

Staring down the barrel of the Misfit’s gun, it’s clear her faith was built on sand; she easily concedes that maybe Jesus didn’t raise the dead, a thought that should shake any true Christian to their core.

The grandmother now faces death, as we all must, alone.

She’s far from civilization, standing in a ditch in the middle of nowhere. Her family has been led off into the dark woods two by two and shot dead. Her body might never be found. She can no longer be concerned with how she is perceived by others. Without witnesses or social scripts, without anyone there to recognize her as a “lady,” the grandmother’s illusion of virtue is stripped away.

The Misfit is another solitary figure, even his name implies that he has alienated himself from society. He doesn’t care about “good blood” like the Grandmother. However, while he speaks and acts with politeness and gentility, he takes “no pleasure but meanness”.

O’Connor herself describes the Misfit as a “prophet gone wrong.” His words reveal that, unlike the grandmother, he confronts the question of what it means to be “good” with a grim kind of honesty. For the Misfit, goodness is not about surface-level decency but about whether one can reckon honestly with ultimate realities, especially the truth of Christ’s resurrection. If the resurrection did happen, he says, then everything must change; if it did not, then everything is permitted.

[Jesus] thown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it’s nothing for you to do but thow away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can-by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness…

“I wasn’t there so I can’t say He didn’t,” The Misfit said. “I wisht I had of been there,” he said, hitting the ground with his fist. “It ain’t right I wasn’t there because if I had of been there I would of known. Listen lady,” he said in a high voice, “if I had of been there I would of known and I wouldn’t be like I am now.” His voice seemed about to crack and the grandmother’s head cleared for an instant. She saw the man’s face twisted close to her own as if he were going to cry and she murmured, “Why you’re one of my babies. You’re one of my own children! She reached out and touched him…”

The grandmother’s last words are a recognition of shared blood and shared humanity. Earlier in the story, her idea of goodness was rooted in the notion of “good blood,” a category she used to divide people into the respectable and the common. Now, however, she sees beyond that false distinction.

In that instant, she sees that the boundary she’s spent her life defending doesn’t exist in the eyes of God. Both of them are sinners. Both are in need of grace. The Misfit is not “other,” but kin.

O’Connor writes of this moment: “Her [the grandmother’s] head clears for an instant and she realizes, even in her limited way, that she is responsible for the man before her and joined to him by ties of kinship which have their roots deep in the mystery she has been merely prattling about so far. And at this point, she does the right thing, she makes the right gesture.”

This moment of grace is fleeting and costly—the Misfit immediately recoils and shoots her three times in the chest—but it is significant. The grandmother becomes, for a brief moment, truly become good–not by living well, but by dying honestly.

Now, I want to briefly point out a detail I think is overlooked by many readers, especially those reading this story for the first time. Grace doesn’t just touch the heart of the Grandmother, it also works to unsettle the Misfit.

Immediately after shooting the grandmother, the Misfit removes his glasses to clean them, symbolizing, perhaps, a similar clearing of vision, though albeit an incomplete one. Instead of asserting again that there is “no pleasure but meanness” his words morph into the final words of the story: “It’s no real pleasure in life.” Grace has touched him (literally) and maybe, one day he’ll be able to accept it. There is hope for redemption yet, and maybe he’ll become the prophet he was meant to become.

For O’Connor, grace is rarely gentle. It arrives instead as a violent mercy, tearing through pride and illusion like the veil of the temple at the moment of Christ’s death—an act at once destructive and redemptive. This story illustrates this in a profound way; only through the shock of violence does the grandmother’s hollow idea of goodness collapse into true charity, allowing her to become, at last, the good woman she never managed to be in life.

Questions for you:

1. What were some of the details/lines that stuck you while reading? Share them below!

2. Do you think the Misfit’s final line (“It’s no real pleasure in life”) suggests regret, despair, or the beginning of redemption? Why?

Thanks for reading! Next, we’re reading O’Connor’s story “Good Country People.” Make sure you subscribe to get these posts delivered straight to your inbox. Maybe grab a friend or two as well!

This series is free, but we have plans to offer more to paid subscribers in the future. If you enjoy these reflections, consider upgrading to support the newsletter and be first in line for what’s next.

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She was a devout Catholic living in the Bible belt, a self-described ‘hillbilly Thomist’ whose fiction confronted the nihilism of the modern literary scene. Her stories, though often strange and shocking, were at their core stories of redemption.

Even now, people often pick up her stories only to find themselves a bit confused (shocked? dismayed?) that her work doesn’t quite fit into their expectations of what good Catholic writing should entail.

O’Connor tells stories of serial killers, con-men, maniacs, false prophets, juvenile delinquents, prostitutes. They make you laugh in places you don’t want to laugh, and shudder when you least expect it. Nothing is ever quite as it seems.

Reading them is unsettling–not because of the wild cast of characters but because of the way God moves within their world.

God, in O’Connor’s fiction, subverts our expectations. He doesn’t act the way you think He’s supposed to. His mercy is often severe, His grace mysteriously comes through (rather than in spite of) violence. As a reader, it makes you uncomfortable and purposely so.

Flannery believed that only discomfort could wake up an increasingly sleepy world.

In her essay, “The Fiction Writer and His Country,” O’Connor writes:

“[The Christian Novelist] will find in modern life distortions which are repugnant to him, and his problem will be to make these appear as distortions to an audience who is used to seeing them as natural; and he may be forced to take ever more violent means to get his vision across to this hostile audience…to the hard of hearing you shout, and for the almost-blind you draw large and startling figures.”

Living in what she called the “Christ-haunted” South, Flannery understood faith can become shallow and distorted, even in a place where religiosity looms large; yet her fiction insists: God is always watching, always near, waiting to break in and turn our world rightside up.

O’Connor’s writing fought against nihilism but also against sentimentality, which dulled the sharp edge of the Gospel, reducing faith to vague comfort or moralism.

O’Connor writes in her collection of letters The Habit of Being: “What people don’t realize is how much religion costs. They think faith is a big electric blanket, when of course it is the cross.”

Authentic faith cannot avoid suffering and sacrifice. To cling to a sentimental version of Christianity—one that avoids the scandal of the Cross—is to avoid redemption itself.

This vision was not abstract for O’Connor. Diagnosed with lupus in her mid-twenties, she returned to her family farm in Milledgeville, Georgia, where she lived until her death at age thirty-nine. Confined by illness, she poured her life into her craft and her faith, raising peacocks and writing stories that continue to unsettle and inspire.

Flannery’s illness did not embitter her; rather, it sharpened her perception of life’s fragility and the ever-present need for grace. Her life and work are inseparable; they testify to a faith that does not shy away from pain, but rather allows suffering to illuminate the depth and urgency of our need for God.

O’Connor’s stories don’t comfort, they confront.

She places her characters—and by extension, her readers—into situations that are shocking, sometimes violent, and always revealing. They aim to disrupt your complacency by forcing you to wrestle with the consequences of sin on your relationships with both God and neighbor.

To read O’Connor is to accept her invitation to be shocked back to reality.

Are you ready?

We’re kicking off our reading of O’Connor’s short stories this month with “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.” You can find the full archive of O’Connor posts on the post below.

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You can also download our “Reading Guide” for our first short story with points to keep in mind as you go to help you get the most out of your read-through.

A Good Man Is Hard To Find Reading Guide

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Questions for you:

1. Is this your first time reading O’Connor or have you read her work before?

2. Please introduce yourself below. Where are you reading from? What are you most excited about/what do you hope to gain from this read through?

Literature forms us in the ways even other forms of art cannot. The books we read shape how we see the world; they help us love what is Good, and convict us more firmly in the Truth. As Catholics, we believe that Beauty leads us to God, and good novels, short stories, and poetry invite us into an encounter with the One who is Goodness, Truth, and Beauty.

The Catholic Church has given us an extraordinary treasury of writers–like Flannery O’Connor, Graham Greene, Walker Percy, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Evelyn Waugh (to name only a few) –whose writing reveals something essential about the human condition and our search for God.

Think of this newsletter as a kind of literary pilgrimage.

We’ll walk together with a Catholic author or work of fiction, pausing along the way to notice the beauty, the strangeness, the challenges, and the grace that emerges in their words.

In October, we’re beginning with one of the most distinctive Catholic voices of the 20th century: Flannery O’Connor. Known for her sharp wit, unsettling plots, and her rejection of sentimental religious fiction, O’Connor’s writing doesn’t flinch from the darkness of human sin, but it also insists on the presence of grace breaking in—sometimes violently, but always truly.

Beginning in October, this free read-along will go through five of Flannery’s short stories (one a week).

• Oct. 13 – “A Good Man is Hard to Find”

• Oct. 20– “Good Country People”

• Oct. 27– “Revelation”

• Nov. 3– “A Temple of the Holy Ghost”

• Nov. 10– “Parker’s Back”

Here’s what you can expect during our October read-along:

• An introduction to Flannery O’Connor’s life and faith.

• Guided reflections on each work that draw out themes, questions, and Catholic insights.

• Discussion prompts to help you go deeper.

• A community of fellow readers who care about faith and fiction.

So, grab your copy of O’Connor’s Collected Stories (or even just look up these stories online—they’re widely available) and get ready to step into her strange, grace-filled world.

Our Pilgrimage begins.

If you know a friend, family member, or fellow reader who might enjoy our literary pilgrimage, please share this post with them. The more voices in the conversation, the richer it will be.

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