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By Philip Bulman I saw clouds radiant as dawn, each cloud holy, some seeing me in their shadows, casting auroras to enshroud and hallow. Often, I called them by name and they descended, bowed toward Bethlehem, blessed me before ascending to heaven to exclaim and adore. Clouds deep in prayer said they never stopped moving altogether but would pause and weep over paralysis. Jesus saw paralyzed people in Galilee; then I saw them in Philly, one trapped in a bottle, another in a syringe, one mesmerized by lust, always leering. I saw addicts motionless in sedation only to writhe again in craving, heard desolation shatter veins. I never saw a cumulus marooned in the sky, unable to dance or pray. No, I never met still clouds, only angels who said tell people: Love is movement; lay down your bottles, syringes, obsessions, and rejoice with us and the clouds. Philip Michael Bulman, a native of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, currently lives in Maryland. His poems have appeared in Eastern Structures and Gargoyle.
Philip's other work on Foreshadow: Elegy for Desert Flowers (Poetry, July 2022) Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book.
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 After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google and other platforms. Listen to other Forecasts here. Valencio Jackson has been a student of engineering, an aquatics director and a music teacher -- but what unites these different jobs has been his approach to putting God and other people above himself. Will speaks with Valencio about the throughlines in his work, his prioritising God and other people above himself, and the people and experiences that have shaped him. They also discuss the challenges and joys Valencio has experienced in journeying with people and keeping himself open to God's voice. Valencio Jackson is a music theory professor at the Mercer School of Music. You can learn more about his work here.
Will is a co-host of Forecast. Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Steven Searcy When morning sunshine streams between green leaves and the breeze blows but there are no clouds to drift, let me receive the gift– let my heart hymn, and as my soul receives, let me remember where the world is dim. When callow clouds camp out and gray the earth and the weight of shadows presses hope slim, let me see what’s not here yet– let my heart trust that there will be new birth one day, that life can be remade from dust. Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, Georgia, where he earns a living working as an engineer in fibre optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in Ekstasis Magazine, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine, and The Clayjar Review.
Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Chris Roe I. Dawn A gift, an empty space to retreat, rethink, respond, recall, understand. Stand still and listen: the wind, the voice of the trees. Words of love you should have spoken, pathways still to follow. Stand still and listen again to the silence you have yet to hear: the song, the blackbird, the dawn. II. Healing Rest with me in this moment, as a leaf floats gently downstream among diamonds of sunlight returning to the sky. Stay in this moment as the morning mist floats above the surface of the lush green meadows on the far side of the stream. Stay and listen to the morning song, bringing music to the silence, a prelude gifted to the rising sun. Walk with me on my journey. We will talk of forgiveness and peace. III. Soul Be silent, be still, be awakened. Be the silence that struggles to be heard. Perceive acknowledge be the wisdom. Love be loved be silence. Be this space, this inner sanctum, your soul. Chris Roe was born and still lives in Norfolk, England. Writing has been a hobby since he was in his mid-teens. Individual poems have been published in magazines and on websites around the world. In 2008, he self-published a collection of 45 poems entitled 'In Search of Silence'. Most of his working career has been spent within the agricultural industry, from which he is now retired.
Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. By Alina Sayre Prayers are candles in a dim stone church. Some are slim tapers in tall glass flutes. Mine are squat, smeared with sooty fingerprints, mismatched all. Still, the flames rise and light. Alina Sayre is the award-winning author of five books, a graduate student of theopoetics and an editor of Foreshadow. You can learn more about her work here, and you can find her book of poems Fire by Night here, where 'Stone Church' was previously published. The poem has been republished here with the author's permission.
Alina's other work on Foreshadow:
Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. Advice to Writers: Thomas Merton and the Vocation of Writing (Part 5 of 5; Forecast Ep 34)15/8/2022  After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the podcast to load. You can also listen on Spotify, Apple, Google and other platforms. Listen to other Forecasts here. Josh shares highlights from 'Chapter 5: Advice to Writers' in Echoing Silence: Thomas Merton on the Vocation of Writing edited by Robert Inchausti. Here, Merton describes the necessity of personal integration for contemplation (and, it is suggested, writing); the presence of play and delight in writing; how writers can best reach or help others; the importance of contentment; and some tips on publishing. This episode also includes a poem read and written by Foreshadow contributor Matthew J. Andrews. Josh is the founding editor of Foreshadow and a co-host of its podcast, Forecast.
Support us by sharing this post or buying us a book. A short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita Hanging upside-down on his cross, St. Peter experiences flashbacks of his encounters with Christ. Read the first half of this short story here. -- Out at sea, Peter thought about all of Jesus’ miracles and began to feel a glimmer of hope. Perhaps, he thought, perhaps Jesus would rise from the dead, as He had promised. Perhaps all was not yet lost. Perhaps he shouldn’t be afraid. And yet, he felt a nagging doubt, a thorn at his side, a wound in his soul as deep as the wound at Jesus’ side as He had been pierced by Longinus’ spear. Maybe he was deluding himself, thought Peter. After all, there is a fearful divide between filling a boat with tilapia and conquering Death. So Peter cast his nets into the sea of Galilee and waited for the fish, uncertain about what the future portended. As Peter had thought, the open air and the strenuous activity of fishing and rowing were good for his soul. Do not be afraid. Do not be afraid. Peter repeated the words in his mind and remembered his Master’s pleas during the Last Supper: “Don’t let your hearts be troubled,” He had said, “and don’t let them be afraid!” And He said it knowing what was to come, the torture He would have to endure. Perhaps his Master was sending him a message from wherever He had gone that all was not yet lost, that there was no reason to despair. For Peter was afraid not only for his physical safety, knowing that the Pharisees would come after Jesus’ friends, but mostly because he feared a life in the absence of his Master. The water was dark green now, so green and dark that it reflected the state of his spirit when he had first learned of the death of Jesus. He decided to just drift for a while, for he had grown tired of oaring against the current. He sat as close to the bow as he could get and rested against the wood, sitting in the sunshine, a brilliant light, dazzling like faith and reflected as bright uneven ripples on the dark green water. A woman had told him, amid her tears, Your Master is no more. She was an olive-skinned woman named Joanna, an intimate of Mary Magdalene, who had been possessed by seven demons, which the Lord had cast out in one of His many miracles. Peter had a hard time believing his Master was dead, even though he had known for hours about the verdict of crucifixion and had seen the throngs on either side of the road as Christ was lugging His cross – although he had not seen the Christ Himself, for Peter in his fear had made sure to keep a distance from the crowds. He had forgotten his Master’s admonition, Do not be afraid, and had cowered in the darkness caused by the looming cumulonimbus clouds that seemed to announce the death of his Messiah. The fear had started immediately after his Master had been apprehended. Peter had walked through the streets hugging the walls aimlessly, not knowing where he was going, the night gripping his spirit, but steadily following his Master as He was led to the High Priest. All of the other apostles had dispersed, and Judas would soon hang himself. Suddenly a young woman saw Peter’s face in the light of a torch and recognized him. “Weren’t you one of the Twelve?” she asked. “Weren’t you one of the friends of the One who called Himself the Son of Man?” “I never met the Man,” Peter dissembled. “You must be mistaken.” Then a man next to her insisted. “I’m sure I saw you with Him as He was preaching.” “No,” Peter lied again. “You must have seen another person.” Finally, a third man spoke to him. “Certainly you were with Him, for you are also a Galilean.” “Man, I do not know what you are talking about,” responded Peter, and a rooster crowed in the night, as His Master had predicted. *** And then, back on his cross, Peter dreams of something that has never happened. He is on a small skiff, with a line in the water, searching for bottom dwellers, his hook many fathoms below the surface of the sea. At some point, a big fish takes the bait, and Peter knows that it is a huge bloated fish, a fish so grand and proud that Peter has never seen its like before. Peter does not reel him in right away – he has to be patient with such a great fish – so he slackens the line and lets the fish pull at the skiff in any direction he wants. In his dream, Peter sees clearly that the fish represents a human soul, vain, cruel, unbelieving, and Peter knows it will be especially difficult to pull him in from the bottom. The fish races through the sea for hours, Peter’s line always taut. For some reason, the fish is swimming against the current, and Peter finds solace in that, for the fish will soon tire. Most of the fish he has caught have been small and humble, easily rescued by his nets. But this is a behemoth, probably eighteen feet long, and it is almost impossible to reel him in, as Peter’s line can be torn at any moment, and the fish can dart back to the bottom. After many hours of slackening the pressure of the line and then pulling it closer to him, Peter senses the huge fish approaching the surface, and then miraculously, he sees the fish break through the water, shining purple and golden in the light of the sun. Peter knows that he will have to kill him, piercing him through with a harpoon, but that symbolizes his death in Jesus, the death to his sins, the death to his bottomless pride and to temptations of the flesh. But then Peter sees something else. Sharks are beginning to surround the great fish, and Peter knows that he has to act quickly, lest they reach the huge fish before he does. The great beast is stubborn and continues to pull against Peter until he snaps the line. And the sharks are all too happy to devour him. Peter wakes up in a sweat, as if exhausted from pursuing the great fish that had escaped. He hears the distant screams of male and female Christians as they are whipped. As he hangs from his inverted cross, Peter ponders his strange dream. Who was the proud fish that had gotten away from the fisherman only to be swallowed by the sharks? Herod, who killed infants? Judas, who sealed his betrayal of the Lord with a kiss? Caiaphas, who tried the Christ? Or did it reflect the peril faced by Peter’s own doubting and terrified soul that distant Friday afternoon when he had fled from Jesus? *** The next time he falls asleep, he returns to the sight of his original vision and finds himself fishing on the Sea of Galilee again, the day after Jesus died. His net had been filled with tilapia, forcing him to pull at the heavy net with great difficulty. In some way, his Lord was telling him that even if he didn’t catch all the big fish, he had been triumphant with smaller creatures. And with time, Peter would learn to catch even the biggest sturgeon, would discover how to reel in even the greatest sinners. Peter was alone this time, which made his work collecting the fish doubly hard. He wished his brother Andrew were with him, as well as the sons of Zebedee, but they were mourning the Christ along with the other apostles. Communal fishing was so much easier, Peter thought, as he attempted to carry the tilapia one by one onto his boat, a process that took him several hours. Finally, his boat filled with fish, he decided to return to the land and to the house where the other apostles had congregated. *** “Do not be afraid.” Those were the words the women reported that the angel had told them when he had first appeared to them at the entrance to the sepulcher where the Master had been buried. And then the women reported that the crucified Christ Himself had appeared to them. A number of the apostles said the women’s words were idle chatter and did not believe them. Peter also doubted, but he pricked his ears and asked them to explain. According to Mary Magdalene, they had found that someone had removed the stone blocking access to Christ’s sepulcher, and they had found no one inside. Suddenly, an angel had appeared to them and asked them, “Why are you seeking someone alive among the dead?” Upon hearing these words, Peter and John, the apostle Jesus loved, rushed to the sepulcher. When they arrived, it was as the women had said. The stone at the entrance to the tomb had been removed, and the tomb was empty. The linen clothes of the Lord were lying on the ground. But the Master did not appear to them. Peter, downcast and dejected, returned to the home he was sharing with the other disciples and muttered to himself that the Christ was not risen. Like many fishermen, he had learned to speak to himself when he spent long hours alone at sea. And his first instinct was always disbelief. At some point, as Peter hangs on his inverted cross, he opens his eyes from his reveries and realizes that he has gone completely blind. There is simply too much pressure on his eyes, which he now realizes are also bleeding. In his darkness, he cries out for a drink of water. “Anybody, please, I’m thirsty!” he exclaims. But he only hears the chuckles of someone in the distance and the sound of the hooves of a horse clopping on the ground nearby. “Die like your Christ!” he suddenly hears somebody taunt him, and he remembers, half-awake now, how the Christ had appeared to him after His Resurrection, once again bringing to mind thoughts of the sea. *** Peter and several of the disciples had spent the whole night fishing but had caught nothing. Suddenly, shortly after sunrise, a man had asked them from the shore, “Children, do you have any meat?”, and they had responded no, there was nothing in their nets. And then the stranger had said to them, “Cast the net on the right side of the skiff, and you shall find your fish.” And when they hurled their nets into the sea, they captured a multitude of tilapia, mackerels, and sardines. At that moment, John, the disciple Jesus loved, told Peter that the man on the shore was the Messiah Himself. And Peter, this time unafraid, jumped into the waters and swam until he reached the beach, whereupon he threw himself at Jesus’ feet. Soon the other disciples arrived, pulling the net full of fish behind them, and they were afraid to ask the stranger who He was, for they knew He was the Lord. The Master asked them to dine with Him, not only fish but also bread that He had brought with Him. And being in His company and eating after a long night at sea strengthened and comforted the fishermen, especially Peter. After the meal, Jesus approached Peter and asked him a question point-blank: “Simon, son of Jonas, do you love me more than these?” And Peter had replied, looking at Jesus fixedly in the eyes, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” In the distance, he could hear the waves and suddenly the thunder. But Jesus had insisted and asked him a second time, “Simon, son of Jonas, do you love me?” And Peter heard the stubborn roar of the waves, the insistent thunder. “Yes, Lord,” Peter answered. “You know that I love you.” Jesus asked the same question a third time, and Peter was discomfited. “Simon, son of Jonas, do you love me?” The water of the waves came close to them, and again there was a clap of thunder. “Lord, you know everything,” Peter retorted. “You know that I love you.” “Feed my sheep,” his Master ordered. And at that very instant, amid the roar of the waves and the thunder, Jesus predicted that as an old man, Peter himself would be crucified. “When you grow older, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will tie you and carry you where you don’t want to go.” Peter trembled with fear, not needing to hear the gruesome details to understand just what his Master meant, and yet he bowed his head down without saying anything, in blind acceptance of his fate. That was one of his tipping points. And the good Lord said, “Follow me!” Follow me into crucifixion! Follow me into martyrdom! Follow me to the gates of Heaven through the ladder of the Cross! *** Hanging upside down on his cross, Peter lapses in and out of consciousness. At some point, dizzied by the blood coming down to his brain and oozing from his eyes, he thinks briefly of begging his tormentors to unfasten him from the wood or, at a minimum, to alter the position of the cross so that he would be upright. “My Lord, my Lord, why have you forsaken me?” his Master had asked during His own crucifixion. But Peter does not use the same words, for he does not feel that God has forsaken him. Instead, Peter says, “Let me sleep,” and God grants his wish. *** In a dream, Peter remembers how he had first mustered courage – not because of his own strength but because the Holy Spirit had descended upon him. And yet Peter was not only a passive recipient of the Lord’s grace and power. He fully embraced it, although it was up to him to accept it or reject it, just as Judas Iscariot could have embraced or rejected the Lord during his final moment of decision. It was another tipping point in Peter’s life, and it launched him into a life of service. At first, there had been a great wind frightening all of the apostles in the Upper Room of the house they shared. Then they had seen tongues of fire descend upon their heads, and at first, they had been afraid. But soon they realized it was the Holy Spirit that was descending upon them, giving them great strength, allowing them to speak in tongues, and pushing them on their mission to convert the world to faith in the resurrected Messiah. Suddenly, Peter left the house and began to preach in a multitude of languages, since a great number of men had gathered outside the home of the apostles, and some of them came from distant lands. He found himself inculcating trust in Jesus to an Egyptian in his own tongue – Peter, a fisherman who had never traveled far from Galilee, and certainly not to Egypt. Then, a man from Crete approached him, asked him about the miracles performed by Jesus Christ, and Peter was shocked to realize he had become fluent in his dialect. And so it happened with many others: Parthians, Medes and Elamites, inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia, Pamphylia, and the districts of Libya, as well as those who hailed from Rome. Peter felt a frisson of excitement when he suddenly realized that he was able to preach intelligently and in multiple languages. He quickly realized he was a participant in a great miracle, which redoubled his fervor to preach the message of his Master to the masses. He knew he would probably be arrested by the Sanhedrin, possibly killed, for his activities, but that was unimportant. Suddenly, he felt great courage and a great certainty, so unlike the nagging fear and doubt that had plagued him intermittently throughout his life. And that courage and fearlessness was a choice; he could have looked the other way, but he chose not to do so. He accepted the Way of the cross, with all the agony and suffering that entailed. In the end, Peter converted more than three thousand souls to the Way in a single afternoon: quite a catch for a lowly fisherman from Bethsaida. “Save yourselves from this corrupt generation,” he had told them, a message that could have been proclaimed in many other times in human history. And yet, as he suspected, the enemies of Jesus were soon hot on his trail, for he had performed an unpardonable act: he had moved thousands of men to quit the faith of their forefathers to follow the Way of Jesus. The persecution would last for thirty years, flowing and ebbing with time, even as Peter spread the faith throughout the known world and eventually led the Lord’s Church in Rome, the eternal city he had once derided as “Babylon” and the place where he would meet his ultimate antagonist, Emperor Nero, rumored to be the Antichrist. *** It is in Rome, where Peter died after two days of pain, that Caravaggio the chiaroscurist lives. He knows all of Rome’s nooks and crannies, its hidden spaces, the dark alleys where prostitutes and beggars gather. He has just been involved in a brawl, like so many other times, for he is furious in light of what he has just discovered. He returns bloodied and bruised to his studio, where Cecco's face is lit by the light of a lamp. “What has happened?” Cecco asks as he wipes Caravaggio’s forehead with a green silk handkerchief. “Those idiots are doing it again,” Caravaggio answers. “I think they want me to paint the conversion of Saint Paul and the crucifixion of Saint Peter once again. They already rejected my two prior paintings on those themes, and they were perfect works, Cecco. Now they want me to try another time.” “Why are they going to reject the pieces? I don’t understand. I thought they were marvelous paintings.” “They have come up with the silliest of objections. They say that the haunch of a horse is too prominent in The Conversion of Saint Paul. And that in The Crucifixion of Saint Peter, too much space is given to the backside of one of Saint Peter’s tormentors, that it is the first thing one sees when looking at the work. They claim it is almost sacrilegious.” “I’m sorry,” Cecco says. “Some people don’t understand your work.” “That’s an understatement,” Caravaggio responds. “What could be a greater homage to the saints than the way I represent them? The critics notice the backside of one of the executioners, but they don’t see Peter raising his illuminated face in defiance as he places his faith in God in the darkest of moments. I tell you, those people know nothing about God.” “Do you believe, my master?” “What prompts the question?” “Well, your paintings are so full of devotion, and yet the way you lead your life – the brawling, the prostitutes, other things I won’t get into –” “I am a great sinner, that’s true, but I paint miracles. And I believe in miracles too. In some way, I’m a fisherman just like Peter. My works draw people violently into the faith in Jesus, thousands of them, Cecco. Anyone who witnesses my Crucifixion of Saint Peter will be challenged to seek God through the experience of viewing the painting.” “So you’re at peace with God?” Cecco asks. “Let’s say that I’m a work in progress. I exist in media res. I fall, I rise, I fall again. But I never tire of seeking God’s mercy. At some point, I shall depict a scene of Saint Peter with a bloated sturgeon hooked after the apostle wrestled with the great fish for three days. And the face of Peter’s prey shall be my own.” Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Sandro's other work on Foreshadow: The Crucifixion of St. Peter (Part 1 of 2) (Fiction, August 2022) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. A short story by Sandro F. Piedrahita  Art: Caravaggio, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons “Your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, your young men shall see visions, your old men shall dream dreams…” Acts of the Apostles, 2:17 Peter’s feet and hands are nailed to the half-raised cross, his body bloodied and crucified upside down, unlike his Christ. One of the workmen, his face shielded like that of the others, is pulling a thick rope at the top of the cross, where Peter’s feet are secured. Another is beneath the cross, trying with all his might to lift it so that the stake might sink into the ground. The third has both hands below the wood attached to the apostle’s feet. On the ground, a shovel vaguely reflects light as a knife would. And in front of the cross is a rock. Caravaggio looks at his painting and thinks it is a masterpiece. Caravaggio has spent all morning and afternoon adding the last details to the painting, accompanied by his assistant Cecco, who is quickly learning. Caravaggio has multi-colored paint all over his workclothes, on his hands and arms, even on his curly black hair and his swarthy face. Caravaggio never prepares his paintings based on drawings but paints directly in color and often doesn’t know how he will complete a piece until the very end. The last thing he painted in his piece on Peter was the rock at the foot of the inverted cross. He wanted it to be perfect. He has always told his assistant that even the most minute detail in a painting must be masterful. He learned to paint as an adolescent in Milan, helping Simone Peterzano by adding minor details to his master’s works – an apple, a flower, the blond locks of an angel – and he has never forgotten that even the most insignificant aspect of a painting is important. It was also in Milan that he learned to brawl. Caravaggio has always been ill-tempered, ready at any moment to use his fists to resolve an argument, which has often been a subject of his confessions. Once he threw a plate of artichokes at the face of a waiter merely because the poor man refused to tell him whether they were cooked in oil or butter. The piece on Peter does what Caravaggio attempts to do in all of his paintings: it encapsulates a whole life in a single scene, the one moment when a life is riven asunder between the before and the after. Every person’s life must have a tipping point – the irrevocable instant when an existential decision is made, the fork in the road that cannot be reversed. Yet it is also true, Caravaggio thinks, that in certain lives there is a progression of tipping points, one choice leading to another, inexorably, until the final choice is made from which there is no return. Earlier, in painting Saint Paul on the way to Damascus, Caravaggio had depicted the tipping point in the life of Saul of Tarsus, the moment when he was blinded, the moment that rendered asunder the before and the after. The persecutor of Christians in an instant became Christ’s greatest apostle. Peter’s life, by contrast, was more of a progression of tipping points, although Caravaggio thinks it most appropriate to depict him at the moment when he was crucified. Before that moment, there had always been the possibility of retraction, of going back, of somehow refusing his mission. And it is true that Peter had at first decided to escape from Rome to avoid his crucifixion. But as he was fleeing, the Christ had appeared to him at the Appian Gate and told him not to do so, pleading that Peter remain with his flock. Once Peter opted to return, the die had already in some way been cast. He had decided not to abandon his sheep in Rome or to forfeit his episcopate for his own safety. But it was on the cross that he made his ultimate decision. Would he cringe in fear? Would he second-guess his choice? Would he accept his killing at the hands of Nero with cowardice or courage? That’s why Caravaggio chose to depict Peter when he was first nailed to his cross, not a second before and not a second after. Caravaggio also likes to think that his paintings tell a story like written works do. As with any narrative, as in the Bible itself, the protagonist's true character is often revealed by his reaction to extreme temptation in a single dramatic scene. Of course, the story of Peter began long before his crucifixion, although it was obviously impossible to represent it in a single work of art. Nevertheless, Caravaggio tells his 17-year-old apprentice that The Crucifixion of Saint Peter, if analyzed closely, depicts more than one event – indeed, it captures Peter’s entire life. Cecco listens to his master in rapt attention as they speak in his large atelier with its high-sloped ceilings. Cecco knows that Caravaggio loves him like a son, even though the great painter is only thirty years old, but he also knows that Caravaggio is a tough taskmaster. Caravaggio does not allow imperfections in Cecco’s work and was furious when he saw Cecco’s initial depiction of the shovel in the painting of the crucified Peter. For a moment, Cecco thought that his master was about to strike him. Caravaggio had assigned him a minor detail in the piece, and Cecco had not completed it to his master’s satisfaction. But soon Caravaggio’s anger dissipated, and he showed his apprentice how to render the details of the shovel with artistry. On a large canvas, Caravaggio usually began the work with large brushes and larger brush strokes, but as the work got closer to completion, he used smaller brushes. Caravaggio patiently showed his pupil how to paint the shovel with a small brush, telling him that the most important detail was the glint of light reflecting upon it. The next time Caravaggio’s saw Cecco’s work, he was satisfied, smiled broadly, and told his young apprentice that it approached perfection. Cecco had learned from his master and had ably depicted the shovel in chiaroscuro. For the cognoscenti, it wouldn’t be difficult to see that although Peter is here portrayed as an old man, he is still well-muscled, reflecting a man strong in his faith. That would remind them that Peter’s faith had developed like a muscle, growing in strength as he was tested again and again, even if he sometimes failed at the most critical moments – when he was walking on the water, for example, or when he denied the Christ three times before the cock crowed. Caravaggio knows that a man’s conscience can wither away like a muscle if ignored and fortified if followed in the most challenging of moments. And the artist also knows that those who knew Peter’s story would not miss the allusion to the rock Caravaggio has painted at the feet of Peter’s inverted cross. It tells the story of how, long before Peter’s crucifixion, Jesus had told him he was the rock upon which He would build His Church. And yet Caravaggio isn’t fully satisfied. The painting doesn’t have any symbols to represent Peter’s doubts, especially those that assaulted him after the crucifixion of the Christ. Perhaps he should have included a rooster, just as certain fourth-century sarcophagi had done, to remind the onlookers of Peter’s denial of Jesus. Or perhaps a fishing rod or a boat, to symbolize Peter’s role as a fisher of men. But then Caravaggio thinks again. As he was hanging on his cross for hours, dying a slow and grueling death, Peter must have been thinking about the moment when he learned of his Master’s crucifixion and of everything that had happened thereafter. So in a way, by depicting Peter’s face as he was crucified, Caravaggio had represented him pondering the Passion of the Christ and the miraculous events that followed. In a great work of art, Caravaggio believes, everything must be understated. “It’s a masterpiece,” he says to Cecco, “so much better than the depiction of Peter’s crucifixion by Michelangelo. After all, Michelangelo’s fresco is crowded with too many figures, which detracts from the centrality of Peter in the work. In my piece, the light shines fully on the crucified apostle. Nothing distracts the viewer from the brutality of the crucifixion. Peter’s face, bathed in the light of God Himself, is the only one you can see in the massive painting. And while in Michelangelo’s fresco Saint Peter looks toward the viewer, in my painting he is looking toward God.” “What do you mean?” Cecco asks. “Don’t you realize that I have painted him so that his eyes are on the chapel altar once it is placed in the Chapel of Santa Maria del Popolo? Peter is resolute, not fearful, in his final moment, and he is already looking forward to his reunion with Christ.” “So you think your work is comparable to that of the great Michelangelo?” Cecco asks. “I’ve surpassed him. I tell you, I’ve surpassed him. Titian too.” Cecco laughs at Caravaggio’s vanity, knowing that his master’s biggest flaw, among many others, is his preternatural pride. *** Peter is hanging on his cross, his head pointed downward, trying to remember how his Master suffered a similar ordeal in order to give himself courage. The sores on his back from the flogging of the previous night – more than a hundred lashes as he was being pressed to disavow his faith – are bleeding profusely as they rub against the wood and smarting like bright lightning. He feels great pain at his wrists and his feet, all his limbs immobilized and in a strange contracture. It becomes harder and harder to breathe. The weight of his body, pulled by gravity, makes the act of breathing almost impossible. It isn’t so difficult for Peter to breathe in, but it is excruciating to get the air out of his lungs as his body leans forward, hanging by the arms, the pressure mounting against his chest. But it is hanging upside down that leads to the greatest desperation. He knows the blood is flowing down into his head. He feels great dizziness and lightheadedness and thinks that he is about to go mad. During the first few hours, it hadn’t bothered him greatly, but with the passage of time, it has become sheer torture, interrupting his thoughts, making him see strange visions. He suspects that the effect on his brain of hanging upside down will lead to his death more quickly than will the failure of his lungs and heart. At some point, the weight on the ligaments and muscles of his arms is so great that they are pulled out of their sockets. Throughout the ordeal, he lapses in and out of consciousness, which is a sort of unexpected relief. During these moments, he has visions of his past, of what he went through after the Christ Himself was crucified: about Jesus’s promises, about the Lord’s prediction that he, too, would be crucified. And he remembers the sea – the Sea of Galilee – where he encountered many wonders when he was the least of fishermen. *** On the day when Peter learned of the Christ’s crucifixion, Peter was deathly afraid, and at the same time, he felt a limitless sorrow. The night enveloped Jerusalem in darkness black as death, and the Messiah was dead. Carousers still filled the streets, drinking and laughing, as if they had just witnessed a scene of gladiators and not an unimaginable crime. Dead. Dead. His Master was dead, and Peter could not grapple with the enormity of that fact. His anguish was a stone that weighed not only on his spirit, but also on his gut, an enormous boulder pressing against his chest and asphyxiating his lungs as if Peter himself was the one who had been crucified. Peter, given the name of rock by the Christ, was suddenly crushed by the great stone of despair. Dead. Peter had not had the courage to witness his Master’s torture and crucifixion, afraid he would himself be killed. Thrice he had denied Him, saying “I do not know the man,” and now He was dead, no longer in the world. Peter muttered a prayer under his breath, hoping the wind would take the words to his Master’s ear. But there was only silence and the stillness of the night. His Master was dead, like a rose clipped before blooming, like the saddest insect crushed by the foot of a centurion as the soldier walked across the grass. Peter comes back to consciousness as he hangs from his inverted cross. He looks out with great difficulty at Nero’s Circus Maximus. Being upside down, it is very difficult for him to see things with much clarity. Still, as he adjusts his vision, he can vaguely distinguish all the other crosses, probably more than a hundred of them, where all the other Christians are being killed, all the sheep that he had been unable to save. The stands are full of Romans watching the gruesome spectacle as if it were an athletic match: men, women, children, entire families intent on seeing the death of the men and women they so despise, the besotted Christians who have been accused of burning down the city of Rome. But Peter soon lapses back into unconsciousness. *** Peter had run into John, the apostle Jesus loved, shortly after the Master’s crucifixion. John had been more courageous, had accompanied Mary at the foot of the Cross as the Messiah exhaled His last breath. Alone among the apostles, John had not avoided the scene in terror. John had helped bring the dead body, pale and bloodied, from the tree where His execution had transpired. A dead body just like any other, lifeless, still, unbothered, and now laid securely in a sepulcher guarded by Mary Magdalene and the other women. “Who am I?” the Christ had asked Peter, and he had responded, “You are the Son of the Living God, you are the Messiah.” But now He was in a tomb, just like any other mortal being. Peter wept; he could not cease weeping, despairing because he had not been with the man in His moment of greatest tribulation. “Why have you fallen asleep in my moment of suffering?” the Messiah had rebuked him in the Garden of Gethsemane. And now Peter had done something infinitely worse. He had not been with his Master as His feet and hands were pierced with nails, as His head was crowned by a crown of thorns, as He died – unjustly! – like an ordinary human. Peter remembered the words of Jesus on the previous night: “Watch and pray so that you will not fall into temptation.” But Peter had given small heed to the words of his Master and had allowed himself to be tempted to despair. Peter could not fathom the man’s death. He had imagined a Messiah who would rule over the Jews, an earthly king, a respected ruler more powerful than an Egyptian pharaoh. And yet His holocaust had been akin to that of a lamb, the merest animal, offended and insulted, spat upon by the onlookers. How could such a death be that of the promised Messiah predicted by the Holy Scriptures? Peter asked for another drink at the tavern. He hoped that no one would recognize him in the darkness, covering his head with a cowl, yet he still felt a fear that made him shiver. Surely he didn’t want to die like his Master. Why, oh why didn’t Jesus allow him to smite the men who had apprehended Him? A righteous Messiah would have defended His throne, not allowed Himself to be captured so easily by His enemies. So Peter drank and drank until his body was weary with wine, and in the darkness, he made his way to the home he shared with the other apostles, burdened by monstrous anxiety and sadness as vast as the Sea of Galilee. Matthew the tax collector opened the door. “Peace to you,” he said to Peter, and Peter responded, “Peace.” All the apostles were congregated in the room where Jesus had administered the Last Supper to them earlier in the week, and Jesus’ mother was sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, exhausted by the day’s events. All the apostles were somber, their faces darkened by pain, both physical and spiritual, except John, the apostle Jesus loved. When he saw Peter, he hugged him and, noticing Peter’s ashen face, asked him why he was so distraught. “Jesus has died,” Peter answered. “How do you want me to feel?” “But He will come back,” replied John. “Didn’t you yourself seal his cadaver in a tomb?” Peter inquired. “Didn’t you place a rock in front of His sepulcher? How can you tell me not to be struck by grief?” “You’re forgetting something,” said John. “Do you forget that the Master told you that He would suffer, be killed, and rise again? Do you forget that He warned us about His death time and time again?” “How can I forget?” Peter answered. “I had never seen Him respond as furiously as when I objected to the prediction of His death. ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ He cried out at me. ‘You don’t have in mind the things of God but the things of men.’” “Then why are you lapsing into despair, my brother? Jesus is still with us in spirit. And He will return in body as well, to establish His kingdom. Have you never understood His message? He said it quite plainly: ‘The Son of Man must be delivered over to the hands of sinners, be crucified, and on the third day be raised again.’” “I don’t know,” Peter answered. “I wish I had your faith. But I am bedeviled by doubt. What purpose would it serve for Him to be slaughtered like an animal? What benefit derived from such an inglorious death? Why would the nails go through His hands into the wood? The only thing it’s done is to perplex all His followers. And I must confess to you that I am among the perplexed.” *** Peter is awakened by his own pain and his inability to breathe easily. Sleeping is such a relief that he prays only for that. From his inverted position, Peter can vaguely see that Nero has begun the rest of his show, pitting the strongest Christian soldiers against the beasts: lions, tigers, and python snakes. One brave Christian prisoner, armed with only a kitchen knife and a wooden lance, is facing a black panther. Upside down, it is difficult for Peter to understand what is happening. But upon hearing the tumult among the crowds, the cheers, and the backslaps, Peter is certain that the panther has vanquished its prey. And Peter lapses back into unconsciousness, a vision of the sea, dreams within dreams. Surely, if he doesn’t sleep, the veins of his brain will soon explode. *** The day after the crucifixion of Jesus, Peter decided to go out to sea early in the morning, before it was light. Back to the Sea of Galilee, the sea he loved, where he could be caressed by the breeze, lulled by the waves, enchanted by the sun’s luminous reflection on the water. He knew that it was the Sabbath, and that he should not fish on the Sabbath, but he had breached that law before, and Jesus had not castigated him for it. So he let the sail float around the mast and let the wind take him wherever it wanted. And for an instant, he forgot his pain, his deep sense of loss. His eyes were suddenly undefeated. Hadn’t he walked on this very water on the orders of the Messiah? Wasn’t it on the sea that Jesus had often told him not to be afraid? Peter looked out at the blue immensity before him and at the pelicans, lonely fishermen just like him, swooping down swiftly from the sky to catch fish. Peter had always struggled between faith and doubt. Once, while he and the other disciples were rowing on the water, a great wave rocked their boat, and they were afraid that it would capsize. They feared they would all drown, swallowed by the hunger of the sea. They turned their eyes to heaven and said a silent prayer to YHWH. In the distance, beyond the mounting waves, they vaguely distinguished a human figure apparently walking on the water. Peter mistook it for an otherworldly apparition and trembled with great fright. “It’s some sort of ghost,” he told his brother. “A specter who portends no good.” Suddenly they heard a voice as the figure approached them. “Take courage. I am! Do not be afraid.” The figure, dressed in light, said this as if, by virtue of His very existence, men should never fear. They recognized it as the voice of Jesus, but Peter doubted. It was neither the first nor the last time that Jesus would tell Peter not to be afraid when he braved the Sea of Galilee. “Lord, if it is you, then prove it,” Peter said, still unbelieving. “Tell me to come to you on the water.” “Come,” the figure said. And Peter started to walk on the water, hesitatingly placing one sandal in front of the other. The sea felt as solid as concrete, as solid as hardened bricks, and Peter quickened his pace. It was as if he were striding on terra firma and not on the bottomless surf of the sea. He was amazed by his supernatural feat and felt a frisson of recognition: truly, the man who was calling him was the Son of God! Peter continued to march toward the luminescent figure, growing in confidence at each step, feeling the breeze but not the waves, more and more certain that he would not plunge into the liquid beneath his feet. He began to saunter more quickly, almost running toward his Master, delighted by the steadiness of his gait. But then Peter was afraid, lost his nerve, doubted the miracle he was experiencing, and started to sink into the water. Surely, what he was doing was impossible! No one could walk on water, certainly not an ordinary mortal like him. It must all be an illusion, a dream, a fantasy! He felt his body slowly enter into the sea, first his feet, then his legs up to the knee, then felt the water reach his waist. He was sure that he would drown that very instant despite the admonition of his Master, and in his bottomless despair, he cried out for help. By then, only his desperate face was above the surface of the sea, and suddenly he felt the buffeting waves and heard the roar of the omnivorous water. “Lord, save me!” he exclaimed, doubting he would be saved. Immediately, the Lord reached out, caught him, and helped him walk back to his skiff, one step ahead of the other. “You of little faith,” He said, shaking his head as Peter looked at Him with fear still painted on his face. “Why do you doubt? Haven’t I repeatedly told you not to be afraid?” The truth is, Peter always alternated between faith and doubt, certainty and indecision, although on the sea, he also always felt the presence of God. It was the one place where his faith was restored, peering at the vastness of the water and, above it, the sky its endless mirror. So as he was half-asleep on his inverted cross, he thought again about the delight of fishing, about how on the day after His master’s death, he had decided to fish again, to cast his net into the water. “You shall be a fisher of men,” the Messiah had told him when He had first called upon him to be a disciple. But this day, Peter would revert back to his ancient trade and simply haul in the blue tilapia and the sardines, though the words of his Master about fishing for men would stay on his mind all morning and into the afternoon. *** Peter remembered the first time his Master had told him to cast his nets and fish. It happened shortly after Peter met Him, after He had cured Peter’s mother-in-law from a terrible fever and had cast out a demon from a possessed man in the synagogue. Peter, as well as James and John, the sons of Zebedee, had been fishing all night but had caught nothing. For some reason, the Lord was always closest to Peter when his nets were barren. In the morning, Jesus sat on Peter’s boat and began to preach, telling all about the kingdom of Heaven. It was a place so different from the Temple, lacking the austerity demanded by the Pharisees, and yet Peter felt it was appropriate for Jesus to spread His message from the sea, since it was so close to Heaven, indivisible from it. At some point, after the preaching was done and the crowds had dissipated, Jesus directed Peter to go out to sea and cast his nets. Peter doubted again. Jesus was a carpenter, after all, and He knew nothing about fishing. If they had been unable to catch fish all night, how much more difficult to do it in the morning? But Peter did not want to disobey his Master. “Because you say so,” he said, “I shall put out the nets,” and then he proceeded to hurl his nets into the water. And then the miraculous happened: they caught so many tilapia that their boat was full, and they had to place the rest of the fish they had caught in another boat. Both boats began to sink under the enormous weight of the multitudinous catch. Peter and his fellow fishermen pulled at their crowded nets with difficulty toward the shore. Peter, astounded by such a miracle, had suddenly felt unworthy of receiving his Master’s bounty. Why would the Lord reward a man as weak as him? “Go away from me, Lord,” Peter cried out. “I am a sinful man.” But Peter soon learned that Jesus does not withhold His favors from sinners. “Do not be afraid,” the Lord commanded, as He did so many times. “From now on, you shall be a fisher of men.” Peter knows that it is only a matter of time before so much blood collects in his head that it will cause his brain to hemorrhage. Lapsing in and out of consciousness, he knows that at some point, he will not return from his dreams, but he isn’t afraid, not this time. He has the strength to pray a little, if only in his mind. And he doesn’t pray only for his fellow Christians, that they would have the courage to endure their ordeal without recanting the Way, but also for Nero, who is in the greatest need of prayer – a man who has not only persecuted the Christians but participated in so many other atrocities: the murder of his mother Agrippina, the death of his legitimate wife Claudia Octavia, the burning of all of Rome. At some point, in a moment of consciousness, Peter can see Nero arrive at the center of the Circus Maximus on a chariot and begin to recite some poems written by his own hand. Peter cannot hear what he is saying, but he well knows Nero considers himself a musician and a poet. And then Peter lapses back into unconsciousness. -- Read the second half of this story here. Sandro Francisco Piedrahita is an American Catholic writer of Peruvian and Ecuadorian descent. Before he turned to writing, he practised law for a number of years. He is Jesuit-educated, and many of his stories have to do with the lives of saints, told through a modern lens. His wife Rosa is a schoolteacher, his son Joaquin teaches English in China and his daughter Sofia is a social worker. For many years, he was an agnostic, but he has returned to the faith. Mr. Piedrahita holds a degree in Comparative Literature from Yale College and a law degree from Harvard Law School.
Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. By Caroline Liberatore Let my verses meander, woven around fields of hallowed kindness with their hummed liturgies. Bee to chicory, chicory to pond; leaning to listen to pebbles whirling beneath, rippling jubilee. The revelry bubbles up into eternity, an apostolic ecology riddled with rhythm and symmetry and color theory. The earth’s very breath is found in delighted yielding, so I lean in too; it is only right to mirror its humility. Sparrows nestle, treetops lean, and I will choose to glean contentment as a charmed transcriber of the Lord’s fountained poetry. Caroline Liberatore is a poet from Cleveland, Ohio. She has also been published in Ekstasis Magazine and Ashbelt Journal.
Caroline's other work on Foreshadow: Library Liturgy (Poetry, February 2022) Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book.  'There is no space for iceberg lettuce in the kingdom of God', says church planter Ryan Fasani. In addition to explaining why that is the case, he speaks with Will about how his experiences in ministry and his own soul searching have changed his understanding of his calling. One element of his self-understanding involves reconciling the demands of his work with paying attention to the people in his daily life, including developing his relationship with and witnessing the wonder of his children growing up. Although his work on the front lines of ministry is often misunderstood, he finds nourishment in finding like-minded people in his tradition who support him. Below's highlight from today's Forecast has been lightly edited for clarity and concision. Coming alive and facing oneself Howard Thurman, the 20th-century preacher, activist and mystic, said something along these lines as it relates to vocation: calling is essentially what makes you come alive because what the world needs is people to come alive. That's not in some ecstatic sensitivity way or some July 4th celebratory-with-fireworks kind of way. I think of what he said as profoundly meaning alive deep within oneself. That is not without encountering darkness, challenge, our shadow self, our idiosyncratic 'demons'. When we are willing to enter into those dark corners and sit there and learn from them, I think we are taking the necessary vocational risk and truly hearing what God's voice has for us from within. One of my best friends and therapists from Hawaii, after I left, said this when I was in a very dark season: Ryan, if you keep running from it, it will never teach you. You must sit with it...There I believe is what Howard Thurman meant. When we get glimpses of hope there, we truly are beginning to hear our vocation. Rev. Ryan Fasani is a pastor, writer and farmer living in the US Pacific Northwest. Learn more about him on his website here.
Will is a co-host of Forecast. Consider thanking our contributors by leaving a comment, sharing this post or buying them a book. |
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