Issue 5

AUGUST 2024

AS SURELY AS THE SUN LiTERARY

 AS SURELY AS THE SUN
LiTERARY JOURNAL

ISSUE V | AUGUST 2024

Copyright © 2024 As Surely As the Sun Literary

surelyasthesun.weebly.com
e-mail: surelyasthesunlit@gmail.com
 CONTENTS

Editor’s Note 6

POETRY

Donna Arthur Downs

Seeking His Presence 8
Oh, Ephesus 10

Daniel Boerman
Language 101 13
Essence and Image 14
One Small Smooth Stone 16

Madeline Roth
Mountain Valley Hymnal 17

David Athey
Back Porch 18

P.C. Scheponik
The Meaning 20

Casey Mills
Greetings 21
Digging 22

Sarah Law
The Finding 24
Daniel Fitzpatrick
The Altar Boys’ Smoke Break in Photographs 26

Alexander Eagan
Fault Lines 27

LyLena Estabine
The Boats 28
The Gaze 29

Skinner Mathews
Questions and Answers 31

Nolo Segundo
Quintessence of Dust 32

Phil Canipe
Fractio Panis 35

Olivia Oster
How Long? 39

Rae Greenwood
The Church on the Corner 41
PROSE

Sydney Lea
More Than Fact 37

Anonymous
The Fall of FPC 42

David Daniel
Galilean Sabbath 23

ViSUAL ART

Jacob Bredle
Job cover

Alex Stolis
Saint 12
Angel 25
Bonaventure 34

Laura Deschenes
A New Day 19
EDiTORʼS NOTE
…

When he established the force of the wind and measured out the waters, when he made a decree for
the rain and a path for the thunderstorm, then he looked at wisdom and appraised it; he confirmed
it and tested it. And he said to the human race, “The fear of the Lord—that is wisdom, and to shun
evil is understanding.”
~ Job 28:25-28 ~

In the wake of tragedy, in times of fear and uncertainty, amidst scarcity and war, the weight of
unanswered questions hangs heavy. Why? We find ourselves imploring. Why does God allow
suffering? Why does He allow pain and sorrow to afflict His own people, and elicit doubts
about His goodness among them?
These questions are at the heart of Job’s lamentation. God permits Satan to take
everything from Job, for reasons unclear to him. Despite the assumptions of his friends, Job did
nothing deserving of such punishment. He maintains his innocence as they continue their
accusations, and begs God Himself to respond. And God does.
In a terrifying whirlwind, God displays the endless breadth of His power and
providence, demanding to know where Job was when He uniquely designed and breathed life
into all of creation. The humbling and awe-inspiring experience would have served as a reminder
to Job of who he was questioning—the God of the universe, maker of heaven and earth.
Yet God does not simply leave Job with this reckoning. Upon concluding His response,
the Lord restores Job’s fortune, giving him twice as much as he had before (42:10).
God never alleviated Job’s distress with an explanation of the testing He had allowed
Satan to carry out. During his anguish, Job was never comforted with the knowledge that what
he had lost would be returned to him twofold. The reason why God chose to withhold this
information from Job is never revealed.
The book gives us, however, the antidote to a lack of answers—trust in God. For
although His thoughts are not our thoughts, and His ways not our ways, we can rest on the
unchanging truth that our Triune God is good, and reigns over all things.
In the gospel of John, Christ tells us that in this world, we will face trouble. He assures
us, though, that our faith in Him is not in vain. Neither is the poetry and art that we offer in
praise.
It is on the grounds of this assurance that I am pleased to present the fifth issue of the As
aaaaaaa
Surely As the Sun Literary Journal. I pray that the works within these pages may kindle wonder
and reverence and a transcendent love for the Lord.

Soli Deo gloria,

Natasha Bredle
Editor-in-Chief
SEEKiNG HiS PRESENCE
Donna Arthur Downs

The glory of this house

exceeds the former. For in temples
of loving, obedient, ordinary people,
Jesus appears and dwells
as we seek His presence.

Your face, Lord, will we seek,

for no worldly treasure
is worth more than
the presence of God
living among us, within us.

Never has a silent God existed;

Your Spirit has continually moved
across waters, over mountains,
into humble, seeking hearts
who want nothing more
than to know You.

Fill this house

with significance, magnificence,
and the splendor of You, Lord.
For what good is it
if we gain the whole world
but lose our very souls.

Appear to us. Dwell among us,

guiding us and drawing us close,
as we— loving, obedient, ordinary people—
seek Your presence
in these temples
of Your Holy Spirit.

Better is one day in Your court

than a thousand elsewhere.
Come, Lord Jesus;
bring us into Your court.
Even if we are but doorkeepers
what joyful, honored, spirit-filled
doorkeepers we will be
as Your glory shines among us.
OH, EPHESUS
Donna Arthur Downs

Oh, Ephesus, how you toiled—

working hard, persevering,
showing no tolerance for the wicked.
How mightily you endured hardship
without growing weary.
Yet your light dimmed amidst the heavens
as the angels declared the loss of your first love.

May we learn from you and dare to claim

an utmost and supreme desire
to know and love God above all else,
with entirety of heart, mind and strength,
knowing no greater love exists
than to lay down a life for a friend.
Yes, the Cross was God’s final answer
to the question of how much He loves us.

May we cry from the mountaintops

how wide and long and high and deep is His love for us
though never will we grasp nor comprehend its reach.
May we know with all our being
what it means to love Him, and to be His beloved.

Neither life, nor death, nor demons, nor angels, nor time,
nor powers, nor height, nor depth
can separate us from our Holy Father’s love.

As our toiling bears fruit

and we endure hardship with perseverance,
may we never be charged with having lost our first love—
for in all things we are conquerors
through Him who first loved us
with eternal love that surpasses
all understanding.
SAiNT
Alex Stolis
LANGUAGE 101
Daniel Boerman

You, Father, the Mind prerequisite

for the existence of thought,
origin of all mental capacity,
my brain would be incapable
of any cognitive conception
without your profound reality.

Son of God, Word of the Father,

perfect image of invisible deity,
through whom alone the ineffable
becomes comprehensible,
without your perceptible revelation
God would be forever hidden.

Holy Spirit, Breath of God, you

alone aerate our lungs, enabling
us to produce audible speech
into the atmosphere you created.
No conversation is carried out
apart from your breath.

Triune God, source of our thoughts,

essence of human language, breath
of our very words, so create,
shape, and inspire what we say
that it may be worthy of this gift
that echoes your divine wisdom.
ESSENCE AND iMAGE
Daniel Boerman

From the chasm of eternity

God speaks the Word,
and the Word shapes matter
into atoms and stars;
and the Word creates life
as trees and ants and elephants,
and the Word is God’s Son.

From the depth of his heart

God loves his own Son,
and his love overflows,
embracing the world and
bathing creation in grace.
And his love renews his people;
and his love is his Spirit.

Language and love,

essences of divine being,
define the nature of Trinity.

I speak a word to you

and you answer me,
and our words bind us
together in harmony
and understanding,
and our words make us human.

I give you my love

and you love me in return,
and our love joins us
and raises us up to
new heights of being,
and our love makes us human.

Language and love

make us who we are:
beings in the image of God.
ONE SMALL SMOOTH STONE
Daniel Boerman

Propelled always forward

by the river’s persistent current
through endless bends and eddies,
in winter’s frigid flow,
spring’s rushing torrent,
summer’s sunny warmth,
autumn’s cool, languid passage,
I collide with huge boulders,
tree roots, and wading creatures.
But through all the distress
I emerge polished and smooth,
a pleasing and precious stone.
MOUNTAiN VALLEY HYMNAL
Madeline Roth

Elk under new moon’s wing

Shadow of crescent rings around the mirrorless sphere
Perfection’s eye a black center hollow
Home to owl, squirrel, and glass bottle.
Come home critters
Let us make measure for measure
Of our flour into bread
Clean water into distillate
Spirit of flesh into cosmic breath
Amen to this river
In whose waters a pebble tumbled
From high mountain peak
Carried by snow melt
Into the spring
Which became a torrent
Which became an eddy
Which became the riverbank
The stone in the center
Of the six-pointed antler
Configuration
Shed a season
Before and before and before
After and after and after
We live in the shadow of the cross
BACK PORCH
David Athey

Across the lake two shimmering oaks

like blossoming pillars of green gold

form a gateway skyward

to a castle
of thunder
and another gate and

another way that will open

in a grand catastrophe

of light
and grace incendiary

descending
descending

upon us
A NEW DAY
Laura Deschenes

God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness.
~ Genesis 1:4 ~
THE MEANiNG
P.C. Scheponik

I thought I found You in goldfinch’s song,

bright hymn of joy from harp-like throat
the color of the sun.
I thought I felt You in the cool morning breeze
that combed the field’s wild hair
and ran soft fingers through all the leaves.
I thought I saw You in the fawn’s deep eyes
dark pools of wonder that made me sigh
for the truth that they embraced.
I thought I touched You in the orbs of dew
that glistened like tears and felt like grace,
which cooled and cleansed my fingertips.
I thought I tasted you in the huckleberries’ blood.
The sweet surrender of their dark flood upon my tongue
filled me with something that felt like joy.
Those mouthfuls of You that taught me how strong
love can be.
But none of it was You as much as it was me
trying to fit eternity into one morning’s majesty,
trying to hold glory in hands that could never cradle fire,
could never understand that truth is so much more than desire,
that holding on is letting go, that knowing You is not to know,
that emptiness is the only bed where perfect wholeness will
lay its head.
GREETiNGS
Casey Mills

saints and their holy brethren

traipse around this town
loaded with loaves of bread and chocolate
their eyes the shining eyes of saviors

sunshine prisms through water

joyfully kicked up in puddles at their feet
the street is glad, buildings swoon
orange poppies dance in vacant lots

their hearts arrive before them

opening doors, spreading into the hard places
hospital rooms, prison cells, shelters full of metal beds
suddenly pillows are soft, the bread is buttered

windows open and the miracle of the Lord

blows in and greets the lost and broken
with the sweet fresh air
of this impossible world
DiGGiNG
Casey Mills

bubbles on the beach show

where the crabs hide
her cupped hands move madly through sand
to reveal them sideways
legs waving through air for purchase

my daughter commits herself

to this task
with the relentless focus
of one who knows
a searing truth

the moment of discovery

is a deep well of holiness
no matter how many times she digs
we never know which handful will uncover
the gleaming pink shell of creation
GALiLEAN SABBATH
David Daniel

Eva and I sit in the shade of the promenade, gazing at the harp-shaped lake as our girls
dole out cold cuts to a clowder of cats. Sabbath morning, Tiberias is a ghost
town—its shops shuttered, its zigzag roads all but empty, save the Haredi on foot to
their ramshackle shuls. Eva remarks how high the waterline rose from the recent rain,
yet to me the swollen sea seems but an echo of the age-old wonders—and by that I
mean the Nazarene who broke the loaves to feed the many, then strode across the
roiling waves, taming the waters for his apostles. No matter, our youngest child
sprints to us in tears, breathless, telling us how a one-eyed kitten appeared just after
she’d handed out her last piece of meat. We vow to return next week, but her tantrum
persists. As her cries vie against the crows of a nearby rooster, I resort to a fireman’s
carry to return her to our car. Back at home, I loll in our driveway, eyeing the starry
sky as our girls bike figure eights before bedtime.
THE FiNDiNG
Sarah Law

This is what God loves:

the scholars and the consecrated souls
discussing life and death, and drawing

finger and learned gaze along the scrolls

in search of infinite old formulae.
God loves the priests in their solemnity,

the choreography of ritual,

the absolutions granted to their
penitents. The archetype of right.

And in among them, God adores the

child, who’s entered the great temple
with a running jump and lively

hands; who skips up through the hall

and calls them all out with his answers:
word-forms fluttering like doves,

startling the sages with their upward flight;

and laughter, like an unexpected hug,
very much to God’s delight.
ANGEL
Alex Stolis
THE ALTAR BOYSʼ SMOKE BREAK iN PHOTOGRAPHS
Daniel Fitzpatrick

Those wings carve terror from the gates

of our painted paradise, screaming unmoved
down the endless air of our empyrean,
Who—Who—Who—Is As He.
Ululeia, ululeia, chant the fallen
in the frigid perfection of their will,
their coral lips creaking
on the vapor of their voices
like crows on their cries in the morning cold.
And his newborn eyes are coals,
and he kisses his cigarette,
swallowing his flaming sword
to thicken incense in the darkness of the temple,
to pause and sigh again what’s gone unsaid
since there was what once was not.
And the burning tip flickers
like a bull in the cool of a cave
as they gather countless on the Godhead,
stepping from their cyclone to smoke,
to stare dead into the open eye, unseen.
FAULT LiNES
Alexander Eagan

Easter only comes once a year, and yet

are you not the beginning and the end? The clocks
run forward, springs uncoil and ricochet in their cages
as I draw nearer to the cross. It’s all at once when
I lay down at your feet—time falters in your presence.
Lord, I want all of you, all the time.

Caution a white flag in the wind,

I climb the cross to be nearer to you. When I
was a child I waited until my parents had left the house
to climb the sycamore tree in our backyard.
I waited in the topmost boughs until they came home.
I was afraid of how high my arrogance had carried me.
I am afraid now, thirsty and lonely.

I drink your sweat, your blood. I find it sweet.

I let go and fall again at your feet.
THE BOATS
LyLena Estabine

~ John 21:1-14 ~

denial has an aftertaste

from which i am always running
to empty tombs and fishing boats
after and before in that order
once again waiting with
this emptiness

your voice calls out

with familiar instruction
and overflowing abundance
but in this moment
i could not care less about
the nets or the food

the boats are not fast enough

i will jump headfirst into waters

once feared just to see you
i will not wait for the wind
i will beat against the tide
and meet you on the shore

where you walk, let me go also

THE GAZE
LyLena Estabine

love has always been

a call and response a hymn
revised from an ancient temple
a pair of eyes gazing into the eyes of one
gazing back

yet i have gazed into a void

i have sung with no instrumental undercurrent
and without response

but when i rest my eyes on Your body

broken and small still whole and holy
why do i hear a soft melody?
why is there some sigh of relief?

“I have been waiting,” it says. “Within

and without the tabernacle
gazing at you patiently desiring
for you to glance back.”

how like my God i have been

watching for the one who has
only seldom (if ever) looked my way
how unlike my God i have been
forever ceasing

how the heart of my God has broken

as i’ve cried out
where is the one
whom my soul loves?

how the response like a song

has resounded
as He gazes down

here I am

here I am

here I am
QUESTiONS AND ANSWERS
Skinner Mathews

~ after Jack Gilbert ~

God is. Exists

in places we have not looked—since
we have stopped looking, seeking
answers to questions everyone other
than God asks: What? Where? How?
Who? And always why? Can we accept
that the answers belong to someone
other than this version of ourselves?
See the dysfunctions of the world
as an incarnadine encompassing
at a low vision below the waters
in a mauve of mud and its inconsistencies?
Dust when wet is blackness bleeding death.
White contrasts the truth no answer holds.
Traveling the slaves’ journey of loneliness
and smaller crimes, undeniable silence
fills the voids of so many poems. Truth
the only answer, as long as we keep reinventing it.
QUiNTESSENCE OF DUST
Nolo Segundo

We are the moving dust,

we are the breathing dust,
we are the seeing dust,
we are the living dust.

But how, you ask, and rightly so,

can dust fall asleep,
dreaming of places unknown
and lovers unmet? How can
dust imagine whole worlds
and love with one heart for
sixty winters and sixty summers?

And do the notes that stir life

come also from dust, just a
little dust, and nothing more?
When the music is played
and dust dances with dust,
and dust laughs with dust,
and soon dust loves dust,
can dust ever understand
the paradox of its own
being, from dust to dust?

Not until the winds come,

the warm winds of Eternity,
will dust be blown away,
leaving the unseen soul
alive, to walk and breathe
and dance and love, bathed
forever in the dustless Light.
BONAVENTURE
Alex Stolis
FRACTiO PANiS
Phil Canipe

First of all, it’s pronounced bruschetta

which you made with tarragon on the night we first met
It’s pronounced aperitif
which we mixed with maraschino and discovered our bodies
It’s pronounced coq au vin
a provincial dish from our first anniversary
It’s pronounced macaron
not macaroon although both make me think of the Seine
It’s pronounced croissant and baguette
and Café du Monde for those nights spent in NoLa
It’s pronounced foie gras
that hateful dish we left for the rats
It’s pronounced gruyère and gouda
and chèvre which you always craved while pregnant
It’s pronounced açaí
our morning routine as the kids run and play
It’s pronounced beef bourguignon
or bœuf, which I hope to discuss over warm Carménère
It’s pronounced cacio e pepe
which we’ll feed to the missionary seeking shelter

It’s pronounced hunger, he said

which is apropos to righteousness
It’s pronounced thirst
which is a kind of inheritance
It’s pronounced weakness
which is where power is made perfect
It’s pronounced loneliness
which is commonplace on Sundays
It’s pronounced guilt
which is the thing felt on Sundays
It’s pronounced grief
which is a form of poverty
It’s pronounced weary and heavy-laden
which is all of us
It’s pronounced sojourn
which is where you’ll find self-giving love
It’s pronounced homeless, or unhoused
whichever the case, pay attention:
It’s pronounced poor, said the missionary
For the poor shall be pronounced
MORE THAN FACT
Sydney Lea

I’ve kicked all the way through this unkempt yard to find the stone for my uncle’s
housemaid, hidden by tall grass and weeds. At last I’ve found it.
I can’t, though, find a counterpart to that touchy uncle’s bachelor for Mary
Griffin. Spinster? I’d choke on that one, though she surely knew worse injustice in
Belfast, Catholic girl in her mostly Protestant nation.
I hadn’t planned to start these reflections by censuring the inequities that left
her harassed, unpraised, and in the end forgotten. I only meant to discover this
modest marker. After all, the abuse she encountered, followed by virtual
disappearance, is all too sadly common. As Shelly has famously reminded us in
“Ozymandias,” even memories and relics of the great and empowered crumble with
astonishing speed.
I’ve never come to this cemetery before, I’m ashamed to say. I’ve been that
ungrateful. And, truth be told, I visit now as much to fetch back scenes that
comforted me as I do to pay homage. I’m a blessed man by almost any standard, but,
over the sixty and some years that Mary’s been gone, like all of us I’ve seen my share of
death and grief. So it still soothes me that I can picture her, say, as she rocks in a chair,
having tended to her volatile boss’s end-of-day demands. And to mine.
I catch the faintest hum as she embroiders things she’ll send to relatives in
Ireland, children she’s never seen and won’t. I’m astonished to recall how such gentle
magnanimity could actually make me jealous. It was only that, come the weekend, I
didn’t want to share any part of her sustaining warmth, which was too often lacking
at home. That’s a fact, though I’m well past blaming anyone, including myself, for
those circumstances.
I’d later also understand Mary’s goodness in keeping me ignorant of how those
rabid neighbors bullied her childhood. At least they did so by my best guess. I have no
other recourse than assumption: she never allowed herself to reminisce out loud
about any personal trials, and when I complained about what I construed as my own,
she indulged me, consoled me.
I hope that a boy’s callow self-pity was less than sinful.
Another instance: I can all but hear the machine that separated the cow’s milk
from the sweet cream I’ll sample after its rattling quits and after I’ve finished the
supper she’ll make for us two.
Then off to sleep. As darkness nears, I summon the bedtime songs she sang to
me in Gaelic, whose meanings were obscure, or so I thought—like the bits of prayer
and chant that steal from the church over there, where she knelt at five each morning
while I lay snug beneath my eiderdown.
Like the more important meanings of those old songs, I choose to believe that
those muffled sounds I hear as I pause in the graveyard offer a greater truth for being
hazy, for containing more than fact.
I want to believe they imply a notion, imprecise but lively, that I still cling to,
however naïvely: that beside the world of grief and bigotry that’s so overwhelmingly
familiar, there may be another where selfless love can thrive.
HOW LONG?
Olivia Oster

~ Job 19 ~

I want to carve this into stone, but

when chisel is poised on ready rock,
the accusers come to question again
and my mind blanks like
the stretching ocean on a calm day,
barely a ripple to disturb the sun glare.

I want to write this down, but

when I find my journal and pen
my pseudo-friends come to henpeck
and my mind blanks like
the piercing blue sky in Autumn,
no cloud to break the enchantment.

I want to type this out, but

when my fingers hit the keyboard
the hand of God strikes me
and my mind blanks like
a drive through Kansas:
wheat field upon wheat field,
the view the same left and right.

I want to publish this book, but

when I pour my words in to the brim
my skin turns feeble and my bones turn weak
and my mind blanks like
the cloudy night sky;
search as you will,
no hint of light comes through.

I want to doubt this God, but

when I go to question Him,
he stands up in the blank spaces,
walking the sea, thundering the sky,
offering the Bread, shining the Light
and my mind is full of the Living Redeemer.
THE CHURCH ON THE CORNER
Rae Greenwood

Every day as I drove to work,

a small church on a busy corner
painted a picture of tranquility
amongst the noisy highway.

The church was small but inviting,

with a powerful steeple and windows of colorful glass,
faint bell chiming in the morning air,
and red doors beckoning passerby.

Many months I sat at the intersection and wondered,

should I turn left and visit the church,
should I consider renewing my faith,
should I heed the calling I feel in my heart?

Daily, I would ponder the church on the corner,

but I always continued forward,
always pushing the church into the back of my mind,
passing it by with just a glance.

Every day as I drove to work,

a small church on a busy corner
faded into my rear-view mirror
until one warm spring day, I gazed at the church
and turned left at the intersection.
THE FALL OF FPC
Anonymous

The vibrance is gone. The passion has dissipated. What’s left is a rapidly aging
congregation, stalling under mediocre leadership, and rapidly losing members.
Perhaps there’s no better metaphor to capture the role of religion in modern America.
More than ever, faith is marred by apathy, moral leniency, and misguided priorities.
My family started coming to First Presbyterian Church in 2010. This was the
golden age, where phenomenal pastoral leadership, burgeoning children’s programs,
and popular youth ministries intersected to form a thriving community. On Sunday
mornings, the vaulted ceilings of the front lobby would echo with jovial conversation,
as spritely old folks and enthusiastic parents enjoyed the company of their “church
friends”. Down the hall, the brightly colored Sunday school classrooms were filled to
capacity with well-dressed children. They had undoubtedly fought to stay at home
that morning, only to find that they too enjoyed the Sunday morning activities. On
the third floor, a goofy, long-haired Youth minister named John was just beginning
his work with the town’s high schoolers. His magnetic personality made him
exceptional at connecting with young people, and his meteoric impact on the
community was evident in the flourishing Youth Group. In the main auditorium, Mr.
Grey would fire up the antique organ as the main service began. A hush would fall
over the congregation, and Dr. Lewis would confidently take the stand. His imposing
presence, gentle voice, unapologetic authenticity, and incredible wisdom made him
beloved by all. He was the leader of a bustling church community, formed through
seamless synergies amongst multiple generations.
I was too young to understand the nuances at play within the church as things
began to sour. As the congregation changed over the years, the insidious decay was
slow, yet powerful. The Sunday school classrooms now sit unused, dust building up
upon each little chair. Youth Group events no longer take place on the third floor, as
the low attendance hardly warrants such a spacious venue. The sound of live music
from the main auditorium still echoes throughout the church on Sundays, though
aaaa
the few ears it falls on are deaf to it anyway.
The decline began with Dr. Lewis’ cancer. His diagnosis and subsequent
retirement sent painful shockwaves throughout the church, though there was hope
that a new spiritual leader could take up his mantle. Years later, John too announced
that he was leaving to start a family with his wife down South. John’s departure
severed the connection between the church and the local high school, but again there
was hope that a worthy replacement could keep the Youth program alive. In each case
there was hope, and in each case the bureaucracy failed. Presbyterian churches in
America are cursed with ineffective and dysfunctional systems of governance, and
FPC’s is no different. The pastoral search took the church committees well over two
full years, and even then, Dr. Lewis’ replacement was unexceptional from the
beginning. Most recently, his cringy Taylor Swift-related sermon on Christmas Eve is
a stark reminder of the church’s own failure. The task of replacing John was
admittedly more difficult, though it’s now been five long years without success. FPC
still does not have a full-time youth minister, and many within the bureaucracy have
given up on finding a “needle in the haystack”. As a result, the once thriving Youth
program is gone, a ghost of its former self.
Politics also poisoned the fabric of the church, punctuated by the issue of gay
marriage. As the practice was upheld in US courts, religious institutions could not
escape the inevitable question. The need for clarity eventually reached a crescendo at
FPC, and the church was forced to issue a statement on its position. In retrospect, the
church’s indecisiveness exposed a crippling lack of conviction and a rejection of
absolutism. They didn’t pick a side. They walked a moral tightrope that was intended
to please both conservative and liberal leaning Christians, though it ultimately
emboldened preconceived notions among both groups. The political turmoil of the
late 2010’s only added fuel to this divisive fire, leading many churchgoers to become
bitter. This strife was lost on me as a young teenager, but the lasting impact is now
painfully clear. Some regulars on Sundays disappeared, subtle animosities arose
amongst the bureaucrats, and the momentum of the downward spiral grew.
Above all, the pandemic ripped church out of Americans’ lives. To its credit,
this is not FPC’s fault. No one foresaw that the government would forcefully restrict
a
religious worship, a disgusting and abhorrent violation of everything America stands
for. Regardless, the Zoom church services simply weren’t engaging. I would often
dose off if I even bothered to listen in, as the disconnectedness was a stark reminder
that I was merely “going through the motions”. Quite understandably, people grew
weary of it. They longed to be back amidst the congregation, though faith
communities became less and less of a priority as the “good ‘ol days” faded farther
back on the calendar. People learned to carry on in a post-religion world, as the trends
of Tik-Tok supplanted once tightly held truths. The spirit that FPC retained through
its years of transition died with the pandemic, and hope was lost once again.
Occupying the corner of Bridgeboro and Riverton Road, the steeple of First
Presbyterian Church towers above the trees of Moorestown, New Jersey. It used to be
more than a landmark; a place of fellowship shared by much of the town. It used to be
full on Sundays, with people excited and energized to worship. More than anything,
though, it used to be home. It used to be a place of comfort, a place where I felt loved.
Now, I feel like a stranger when I walk through FPC’s front doors. The community
that I grew up with is long gone, leaving my once vivid memories to age and fade.
Now, the church is a shadow, slowly withering away as a concoction of poor decisions
and changing times extinguish its last embers of vibrance.
How do churches like mine regain their spark in this secular world, where
society is designed to make survival increasingly difficult? I see the most faithful and
passionate voices of the church ushered into meaningless careers, ignoring their
higher callings just to wither away in the banality of a nine-to-five. I see mainstream
vilification of Christian culture and tradition, as misguided calls for vengeance against
the West are conflated with scorn for the teachings of Jesus. And, most shockingly, I
see generations of arrogant fools who believe that Man is now God, convinced that
our artificial intelligence, nuclear explosives, and climate-controlling technology have
supplanted the supremacy of a higher power. The thought would be laughable if it
weren’t so frighteningly pervasive.
A mentor of mine once taught me that God works primarily in people’s hearts.
It’s a simple concept, but it aptly captures how the Holy Spirit drives a domino-effect
of change. God is the catalyst; we are the tools. For churches like FPC to rekindle
aaaaa
their fervor and reject America’s decline into sin, the bravery to fortify Western
Christianity will come from God and God alone. As stated in 2 Timothy 1:7, “The
Spirit God gave us does not make us timid, but gives us power, love, and
self-discipline.”
Bravery is the key. The Christians who passively let the Word of God be
dragged through the mud, all for fear of not being sufficiently inclusive, will see their
way of life replaced by reverence to something else entirely. In this age, bravery is to
proudly proclaim three things: 1) There is one truth, 2) There is one true God, and 3)
I am not it. The Christians who adopt this attitude, an attitude unaffected by the
judgement of narcissists, will be crucial to the future of American churches. They are
the people who will fight tooth and nail against religious perversions. They will jump
through hoops to help non-believers find the Kingdom of God. And, most
importantly, they will never give up on lost communities. It’s these special
individuals, through God-given bravery, who will restore support for our faltering
churches in spite of a world that seeks to destroy them.
FPC’s failure was exacerbated by incompetence, but it was the nature of our
changing world that ultimately sank the church. At each crossroads the church faced,
these forces dashed any prospect of hope, making a return to normalcy increasingly
difficult. FPC may be one of many casualties in this modern age of Christianity, but
lost hope in the church does not imply lost hope for the community. In fact, quite the
opposite is true. People in my community will certainly coalesce around strong, brave
leadership if such a leader arises. Although John and Dr. Lewis have moved on, there
are undoubtedly individuals with the courage to profess the truth, rein in
non-believers, and demonstrate total authenticity. Despite the hopelessness of years
passed, one brave soul could change everything.
 CONTRiBUTOR BiOGRAPHiES

David Athey’s writings have appeared in many journals and magazines, including Christianity
and Literature, Iowa Review, Windhover, Berkeley Fiction Review, Relief, Dappled Things,
Notre Dame Magazine, and Harvard Review. Athey lives on a small lake with large iguanas, and
his books, including the Florida spoof, Iggy in Paradise, are available at Amazon.

Daniel Boerman grew up on a Michigan family farm, studied theology, and worked for a
builder's hardware store. He has published numerous articles in both popular and technical
religious periodicals and a boyhood memoir. His poetry has appeared in Time of Singing and
The Penwood Review.

Jacob Bredle is a poet questioning his decision to study engineering at the University of
Cincinnati. In his free time he enjoys drawing and painting, model making, playing guitar and
biking. Homemade applesauce is rumored to be his favorite delicacy.

Phil Canipe lives in Charleston, SC where he runs a small family business. His work can be
found in Ekstasis, The Downtime Review, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and others. Follow Phil
@WatchPhilPost

David Daniel is an American writer with current and forthcoming stories in Cloudbank, arc,
Ink In Thirds, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Severance.

Laura Deschenes is a born again Christian who loves her Lord Jesus and desires to be more like
Him. She is married to a wonderful man of God named Seth. They both enjoy reading The
Bible, exploring the outdoor, and spending their life together.

Donna Arthur Downs is an emerging author and poet. She seeks to tell stories and influence
others to do the same. She believes writing about real life illuminates emotions often forgotten
or hidden in the recesses of our minds. Her first children's book, Always and Forever, was
released July 2024.

Alexander Eagan is a Piney Woods born, Austin, Texas based poet whose work has appeared in
Susurrus. He was a nominee for the 2023 Best of the Net awards. He can be found on Twitter
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@SevenWounds.

LyLena D. Estabine is an award-winning multidisciplinary artist holding a Bachelor of Arts in

Sociology from Harvard University, where she converted to Catholicism. Writing on her faith
and Catholic social teaching, she regularly publishes short poems on Instagram
(@catholicpoems).

Daniel Fitzpatrick is the resident poet at the New Orleans Museum of Art. He teaches
English at Jesuit High School in New Orleans, where he lives with his wife and four children.

Rae Greenwood is a teacher and writer from California. Some of her poems appear or
forthcoming in Blue Villa, As Surely As the Sun, miniMAG, and elsewhere. She is the author of
two poetry chapbooks.

Sarah Law is a poet, author and tutor living in Norwich in the UK. She edits the online journal
Amethyst Review for new writing engaging with the sacred. Her latest collection, This
Transfigured Chapel of the Threads, won a bronze medal in the 2023 Illumination Book
Awards.

A former Pulitzer finalist in poetry, Sydney Lea served as founding editor of New England
Review and was Vermont’s Poet Laureate from 2011 to 2015. In 2021, he was presented with
his home state’s highest distinction of its kind, The Governor’s Award for Excellence in the
Arts. He has published twenty-four books: two novels, six volumes of personal and three of
critical essays, and sixteen poetry collections, most recently What Shines (Four Way Books,
NYC, 2023). His latest book of personal essays, Such Dancing as We Can, is now available from
The Humble Essayist Press, and his second novel, Now Look, has just been published by
Downeast Books.

Skinner Matthews is a poet living and writing in Bluffton SC. He writes for the
enlightenment, and with an informed knowledge of the disaffected working class. He hopes his
poetry brings light to the many dark places that exist like landmines in the streets,
neighborhoods, and family households of the working class.

Casey Mills writes poems early in the morning while his kids sleep and the birds wake. He lives
in Northern California by a creek he spends a lot of time with. His poetry has been published in
Heart of Flesh, Amethyst Review, Ekstasis, and Solid Food Press.aaaaa
Olivia Oster is a writer living on Lookout Mountain, GA, whose fiction and poetry explore
the spiritual aspect the elements of life with which she is most familiar: chronic pain, parenting,
gardening, cooking, and homemaking. Olivia’s poetry has been published in The Reformed
Journal, The Lake, and others. She has also published A New Grammary, a grammar book
focusing on grammar formulas, and a poetry chapbook called Poetic Faith. Olivia is a teacher,
wife, mother of five, and one who enjoys reading long novels while snuggled up with her
rescued dachshund-beagle and chihuahua-mini-pinscher. Find her on instagram
@Kingdomolivia.

Madeline Roth is a writer, musician, artist, and mystic from Salt Lake City, UT. Her debut
self-illustrated poetry collection I Am Daughter: A Manifesto reflecting her journey back to
Christ will be published in early September 2024 and will be available wherever fine books are
sold. Visit her website thestreetmystic.com for essays, podcasts, and more. Follow her Instagram
@madeline.roth23 for photos, reflections, and updates.

P.C. Scheponik, is lifelong poet who lives with his wife, Shirley, and their shizon, Bella. His
writing celebrates nature, the human condition, and the metaphysical mysteries of life. He has
published five collections of poems: His work has appeared in numerous literary journals He
was a finalist in Adelaide Anthology Contest 2017, 2018, 2019, and 2020. A 2019 Pushcart
Prize nominee, his sixth collection, Seeing, Believing, and Other Things, is scheduled for
publication in spring 2021.

Nolo Segundo, pen name of retired teacher [America, Japan, Taiwan, Cambodia] L.j. Carber,
77, became a published poet and essayist in his 8th decade in some 200 literary journals in 15
countries and 3 poetry collections published by Cyberwit: The Enormity of Existence [2020];
Of Ether and Earth [2021]; and Soul Songs [2022]. These titles reflect the awareness he gained
over 50 years ago when he had an NDE whilst nearly drowning in a Vermont river: That he
has--IS--a consciousness predating birth and surviving death, what poets since the Psalmists and
Plato have called the soul.

Alex Stolis lives in Minneapolis; he has had poems published in numerous journals. Two full
length collections Pop. 1280, and John Berryman Died Here were released by Cyberwit and
available on Amazon. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in Piker’s Press,
Jasper's Folly Poetry Journal, Beatnik Cowboy, One Art Poetry, Black Moon Magazine, and Star
82 Review. His chapbook, Postcards from the Knife-Thrower's Wife, was released by Louisiana
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Literature Press in 2024. http://www.louisianaliterature.org/2024/04/11/new-release-announc
ement-alex-stolis/ RIP Winston Smith is forthcoming from Allen Buddha Press. He has been
nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize.