By Bryant Burroughs Creator of the stars at night, your people’s everlasting light St. Ambrose Come, you three, follow me to a space you do not know. A child conceived with no man, God sparking himself in her womb. Angels sing and shepherds run to marvel at this child. You three, hurry, come and marvel. I, Caspar, follow this strange star that shines and moves as if its very motion declares a coming moment in which we must attend. Are we following, or is it pulling us? It curves close and near as if it has secrets to tell. I listen half-expecting it to speak, for it knows more than we do. I, Melchior, follow in fear this poem of God writ large with light. How will we hear the unhearable? How will we learn the unknowable? Who am I to know such secrets? Yet the poem holds the very secrets for which my soul yearns. We hear a rumor of God come near, stepping from behind his house of light. I, Balthasar, walk in step with this star, made in the earliest of days when God clothed the void with light. Now it leads us, a fire in the desert, blazing as in the old stories, a lantern of God dazzling the sky and shooting hope into our hearts. We hear a rumor of a God who visits, a God come near. Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith, Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022) The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023) The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023) Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023)
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By Bryant Burroughs The Day of Vengeance had come at last! The Magdala marketplace vibrated with news that a magnificent dinner-party would be held that very evening in nearby Capernaum, and the host for this party was none other than Simon, the man I hated. The market gossip praised him: Simon the Pharisee; Simon the wealthy lawyer; Simon who had the ear of the High Priest and, it was rumored, that of Herod. To me he was Simon the Murderer, the destroyer of all I had treasured. Hurrying home to pack a rucksack, I stepped into my parents’ room. It was quiet and still, a room of memory. My mother’s carved wooden box with its ivory-encrusted top lay in its usual place on the bedside table. The box had been a wedding gift from my father to his mesmerizing bride. I slid the top open, revealing the ivory-handled hairbrush with which she had brushed our hair every morning and night. Every day, brush and talk and laugh. I caressed the handle, and memories flooded my heart. Sobbing bitter tears of loss, I clasped the wooden box to my chest and collapsed onto the bed. I don’t know how long I wept, but after a time I turned onto my side to look again inside the cherished carved box. One by one, I removed the contents resting on a linen cloth at the bottom of the box. The gold ring that my father gave my mother on their wedding day. A necklace of celestial blue gemstones, a wedding gift from my grandmother in Magdala. Two gold bracelets with fish-shaped clasps. A tiny clutch of red hair. How many times had my mother opened this box, held these treasures, kissed these strands of hair? Love lived in this carved box. It was this precious box that my mother had saved as she and my father frantically bundled me in blankets in the midnight blackness and fled the inn that my father’s father had built. I was not yet a year old. Countless retellings have implanted memories that fill my senses. I feel my father’s shock when his friend Joseph roused him from sleep with frightening news: “I’ve had a dream-warning from God.” I tremble with my mother’s terror upon hearing that soldiers were coming to murder every young boys in Bethlehem. I hear my father’s cries, “There’s not a minute to lose,” as they stuffed a few bags with clothes and food. I sense, too, my mother’s hope as they began their escape northward toward her home village. “We’ll be safe in Magdala,” she said over and over. The small fishing village was their “magic place.” It was in Magdala’s fish market she had met the young innkeeper seeking to secure a good price for a half-dozen barrels of pickled fish. He was entranced by the red-haired woman who won his heart with a glance . Within a few days, he returned to Bethlehem with pickled fish and the woman he would marry. Two years later, harried by fear for their daughter’s life, they again looked to Magdala as a magic place, this time for safety and sanctuary. I recall the day as a young girl that I blurted a question to my mother: “Why didn’t you and Papa go back to your inn? Why did you stay here in Magdala?” She paused a few seconds. “It was an evil time,” she responded. “Many babies were killed. We brought you to a safe place.” Even a twelve-year-old recognized that her answer was incomplete. “Are children still being killed there?” I quizzed. “Oh, no, Mary, dearest daughter. We're safe here. It’s just that….” Mother grasped my hands. “Your Papa’s uncle is not as good on the inside, where it counts, as he appears on the outside. He is a dreadful man, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Her words baffled me. What did being good on the inside have to do with their refusal to return to their inn? And why had I never heard of this evil uncle? I tried again. “Mother, I don’t understand.” Catching the hint of my exasperation, she took my hand. “Let’s go up to the rooftop. I promise to tell you what happened.” From our rooftop pallets, the Sea of Galilee shined to the east, its waves shimmering in the sun as fishing boats ambled across the water. To our right, women fetched water from the village well, and beyond the women, a rocky cliff jutted out into the sea. We basked in the warmth of the day and the blue of the water. Then, in a very quiet voice, my mother resumed her story. “When we fled with you in our arms, we were only a few minutes ahead of the soldiers. There was no time to load a cart. We left everything behind. We hurried here, to my village, to my family, to the very spot where your Papa and I met.” She smiled and pointed to a corner of the village square below where we sat. “It was right there.” “I know,” I smiled back. It was our habit to walk to that spot every day. I gave her another moment to collect her words. I sensed that whatever came next had to be said. My mother’s gaze was far over the sea when she said, “The captain of the soldiers had a list. His soldiers went house to house and killed every male child on the list that they could find. Only a handful escaped.” The she exhaled. “Mary, the list...this murderous list…came from Papa’s uncle Simon.” I gasped in shock. “My name was on the list? But I am a girl. He gave them my name?” “Yes. A the end of the list, the very end, Simon wrote ‘the Innkeeper’s child.’ His hatred toward us was such that he would add even our beloved daughter’s name to this list.” Then perhaps it’s a good thing after all that I didn’t know this Uncle Simon. “But that was years ago,” I exclaimed. “Surely the captain of the soldiers has forgotten about the list. Wouldn’t we be safe to return now?” “Yes, the captain of the soldiers may have forgotten,” my mother replied, “but Simon has not. Soon after we settled in Magdala, he sent a letter. Such an evil, treacherous letter. He knew we had escaped, and he knew where we were hiding. He threatened that a single word from him would bring soldiers to our door, and this time you would not escape alive.” I shivered as my mother took my hand and finished the hard words that had to be said. “In payment for keeping our hiding place secret, he demanded our inn. Our inn! And he warned that he had spies – cowards who would alert him if we ever tried to return. We had no choice. We’re safe here. We’ve built our life here.” At last, I understood the whole story, and my heart burst with love for my mother and father. For years Magdala was the safe and happy place my parents had sought. As I grew into a young woman, I never tired of hearing neighbors praise me with “You look just like your mother!” She was beautiful and kind and sure of herself, and I wanted to be just like her, as if she were a conduit to a greater thing. As with all children, I assumed that I would live with my mother and father in peaceful Magdala for the rest of my life. That she and I would brush our hair side-by-side every morning and bedtime, talking as much as brushing. That my father would always call me “Little Red” even after I became a woman with daughters of my own. That the fishing boats of Magdala would go out and in, day after day, as surely as the sun rises and the sea shimmers in its rays. But life is unspeakably fragile, even for lives buttressed by love. A fever swept through the countryside and snatched my mother into death so suddenly that it seemed the angels had needed her urgently in God’s presence. My father, the man everyone considered the strongest soul in Magdala, could not live with half his heart absent, even for the sake of his dearest daughter. Within a few months, I was an orphan. I was not yet twenty. The sun continued to rise and set, and the fishing boats continued to come and go, but there were no more shared brushings, no more “Little Red.” The two people who had loved me since the moment I first opened my eyes had vanished beyond my sight. My mother’s fragrance lingered on the soft linen in the carved box, and her scent roused me from memories. I whispered to her: “If I were permitted to go wherever I wished, I would come to you. I would choose to be with you in the Land of the Dead rather than without you in this land of the living. For there is no living without you.” I placed the ivory-handled hairbrush into my rucksack and kissed the necklace, bracelets, and clutch of hair as I gently returned each to the carved box. Then I opened my father’s desk and retrieved his knife, now gleaming in readiness for this day, and stowed it in the rucksack. A hairbrush for love, a knife for vengeance. I was ready. * * * As I walked along the seaside road that curved north and east from Magdala toward Capernaum, my hopes and fears of vengeance so absorbed me that I failed to notice right away that a stranger had joined me. We walked in silence, the man a step behind and a step to my side. It was he who broke the silence. “You are very quiet for someone who has just reunited with an old friend.” I continued several steps before I realized he had spoken, and another few steps as I considered his bewildering sentence. Just another man, I thought. I’ve rebuffed many like him in Magdala. Shaking my head as I walked, I answered, “You are mistaken. I don’t know you.” “Where are you going, Mary?” he asked. I stopped in mid-stride, and the stranger continued a few paces before turning around. I examined him for long seconds. How could this stranger know my name? His face was unfamiliar. I shook my head again. “I don’t know you. How do you know my name?” His eyes brightened. “I told you. You and I are old friends,” he repeated. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me. We were both quite young when my mother and father visited your inn. They’ve told me that even then you had your mother’s red hair.” I frowned and searched my memory. Who was this puzzling stranger who knew my name and claimed to be an old friend? He waved his hand. “Come, let’s keep walking together toward Capernaum. I’ll keep you company.” “Stop!” I shouted. “Stop! Not another step! How do you know I’m walking to Capernaum? I’ve not told you where I’m going.” “Well, I’m walking to Capernaum. You walk with me then,” he said with an amused smile. “I have friends who live there.” He searched my face. “I’ve been invited to attend a dinner-party there tonight.” I froze as if I’d fallen from a Magdala fishing boat into a wintry sea. That’s it! That’s how he knows my name! “You’re one of Simon’s friends, aren’t you?” I lashed out at him. “Aren’t you? You’ve been spying on me in Magdala.” “No, I assure you Simon does not consider me a friend. In fact, he looks at me as a threat, and in one sense he’s right.” He stopped and looked out to sea. “Simon is a violent man. He thinks that violence is the path to greatness. He doesn’t realize he is walking on false ground.” I clutched my rucksack, feeling its contents. False ground! I thought. Is that what I’m walking on? “Wait,” I blurted. “When did you visit my father’s inn? Did you know my mother?” “In a sense, yes,” he said. “She was very kind to my own mother when I was born. Even today, years later, my mother remembers the innkeeper and his wife with affection and gratitude. Both your mother and father were kind and good.” “And there’s something you should know,” he added softly. “You and I both were on your uncle’s list.” I couldn’t breathe. I knew his next words before he voiced them. The man stepped close. “My mother’s name is Mary,” he said. “But you know that, don’t you? Your dear mother told you all her stories.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “Dear child, don’t you think your mother’s hairbrush is too precious to be in a rucksack with a knife? And you are too precious, too loved, too beautiful to hold such an ugly tool of hatred. Would you let me help you?” “I can’t,” I breathed. “I can’t.” “Yes, you can. You brim with your mother’s heart. Remember all that she put in the ivory box. Let me help you.” I could not look into his eyes. “I… want… to… kill… him!” I rasped through clenched jaws. He did not let go of my shoulders. “If you kill him, Mary, the knife will pierce your own heart. And you will become as evil as Simon.” I shuddered, breathing in soft gasps. He cupped my chin so that I looked into his eyes. “You are your mother’s daughter, like a star plucked from an angel’s wing. Like her, on the outside you have her red hair, and on the inside, where it really matters, you have her beautiful spirit. Let me help you.” He eased the rucksack from my shoulder and pulled out the knife. I couldn’t move. Stepping back, he flung the knife far into the sea. As it splashed into the waves, I gasped and collapsed to my knees in the pebbles of the road, weeping for my mother, weeping for my father, and weeping for the hate that had blackened my heart. The man gently lifted me to my feet. “Mary, child, you are forgiven all your hatred and hopelessness. Put away your misery and madness. Now you can sing and dance as when you were a little girl. Do you remember?” He pulled me forward. “Come,” he said. “I have friends I want you to meet. It’s a fisherman’s house,” he laughed, “but clean and welcoming.” He peered into the sky as if he had seen something beyond the seabirds that soared above the sea. He laughed. “Your mother is teaching the angels to dance.” Bryant Burroughs is a writer and lives with his wife Ruth in Upstate South Carolina with their three cats. His work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith, Hope & Fiction.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022) The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023) The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023) Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023) By Royal Rhodes The night is full of eyes, ranks of speechless stars, that gaze at tilted heads. Flocks and sleeping shepherds, dogs, and midnight creatures the light has shocked in looking. Cascading angel wings like pale and sharpened quills, fill a paper heaven. The eyes of ass and ox, animals in awe, blink in this new light. The little crowd is fixed on gifts of royal glitter, except this tender mother. They shuddered from the cold, but she from all she saw -- a tree and lonely hill. Royal Rhodes taught religious studies for almost 40 years. His poems have appeared in various journals, including Ekstasis, Ekphrastic Review, The Seventh Quarry, and The Montreal Review, among others. His poetry and art collaborations have been published with The Catbird [on the Yadkin] Press in North Carolina.
Royal's other work on Foreshadow: A Road Through Ohio Spring (Poetry, April 2023) A Pilgrim's Song (Poetry, May 2023) Journey to Silence (Poetry, July 2023) Remember David (Poetry, July 2023) Magnolia (Poetry, October 2023) A Morning Walk into Light (Poetry, November 2023) A Crisis of Angels (Poetry, December 2023) By Joy Axelson The Prince of Peace from heaven came, no earthly kingdoms to His name, to save the world through sacrifice, to live a blameless, perfect life. He chose to tread the paths we share; humanity, His driving care. A tiny child born Christmas night, incarnate, banished evil's might. He grew to be the Christ who cried in pain yet rescued as He died. For those who mocked and tortured him, He begged God to forgive their sin. And as He hung in scorn and shame, whisperings of Messiah's name were on the lips of those who knew His mission that was nearly through. One task remained: Emmanuel would break the chains of death and hell. And so He rose on Easter morn to feed fresh faith to all forlorn. He lives to intercede for us -- God’s sacred Gift of Christmas. Joy Nevin Axelson earned a B.A. and an M.A. in French. She also attended Trinity Evangelical Divinity School, Illinois. She’s the translation coordinator for GlobalFingerprints, the Evangelical Free Church of America's child sponsorship branch. Her translations of training materials are used at 14 international sites. She enjoys travelling with her husband and two older children.
By Erin Clark December 29th, the day for making pilgrimage to the shrine of Thomas a Becket They’ve my preferred weak London pils on tap here in the Canterbury pub which bears his name. Turbulent priest, disrupting airways since the twelfth century: he did not put on his own oxygen mask first and so – more miracles, please, martyr, at thy crash-shrine. It’s that week after the holiday, when time wibbles, wobbles, unmoored from month and year. The great Mass always is undone by what follows. Brains addle in these disorganized days. They spill onto the cathedral floor awaiting doom’s knock and choir’s chant, tourists of a murderous king’s shrug. No doubt this town, the seat of British Christendom- that-was, owes its importance to this state-sanctioned honor killing. The days of Christmas puddle at the ankles a low salty tide full of commemorations, barnacles. Here, pub-goers play board games, order roasts. An as-yet-unlit woodstove stands cold against the shy sea breeze blowing in from Ramsgate. I keep my wool hat on and quaff my pint pre-evensong, wherein, I’m told, some hidden hands will hammer at the west doors murderously when the hour is at hand. An intentional ghost in aural time anchoring our present wanderings the crowds who drift and largely shop the sales and, if brave or energetic, bestride the muddy hills, walking in all but a pilgrim fashion. Erin Clark (she/her) is an American writer & priest living in London. Her work has appeared in publications in the US, UK and Canada, including The Selkie, the Oxonian Review, the New Critique, Free Verse Revolution, The Primer, Over/Exposed, the Crank, Geez, About Place and elsewhere. Her debut chapbook Whom Sea Left Behind will be out in 2023 (Alien Buddha Press). You can find her online at emclark.co or on Twitter @e_m_clark.
Erin's other work on Foreshadow: Found poem: upon arrival at the Abbey (Poetry, July 2023) Orchard labyrinth, overgrown (Poetry, August 2023) and there is that Leviathan (Poetry, November 2023) 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. Will, Jarel and Josh reflect on the journeys they have embarked on this season. Jarel describes the importance of cherishing every moment as a father, and Josh describes his journey towards becoming a teacher and reminding himself daily to give thanks for all things, particularly in the midst of his work. Will describes his spiritual journey away from traditional Christianity and, in relation, says farewell as a podcast co-host. This episode features original Christmas songs by James A. Tweedie. Will Shine, Jarel Paguio and Josh Seligman are co-hosts of Forecast.
By Ailisha O'Sullivan Peace on earth good will toward men. And then the soldiers came. The decree had gone forth that all male children under the age of two were to be killed. Such wailing and keening such crying and screaming would have drowned the chorus of the angels in the Bethlehem sky -- only the angels were long gone. No angels came. Stop. Yes. One time before long, long before when Pharaoh decreed that all male Israelite babes be killed at birth: Then angels midwife angels saved them, let them live. But now even as Mary and Joseph warned by one solitary angel spirit the promised child to the strange safety of Pharaoh's land in accordance with one prophecy, Rachel weeps over her children and will not be comforted in accord with another. For fulfilling a prophecy is a pricy affair, and even the life of the child now spared will one day be forfeit too for the life of the world. Ailisha O’Sullivan graduated with an honours degree in History and English Literature from University College Cork, Ireland, and worked in the Chicago Public Library system for several years as a librarian and storyteller before moving to Cluj, Romania, where she held a position as managing editor at Koinónia Publishing. She currently divides her time between translation and editing projects and working with local non-profit organisations. Her work has been published in the Scriblerus Arts Journal, the Amethyst Review and the Dime Show Review.
By James A. Tweedie After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the song to load. Who, being a man, would choose to be a baby? Who, being a king, would choose to be a slave? Who, having might and majesty and power Would trade it all away for a cross and a grave? Who, being Divine, would choose to be a mortal? Who, being Life, would choose instead to die? Who, having angel choirs sing his praise Would trade it all away for a poor baby’s cry? “Only a fool!” Is what the world would say. Only a fool would give it all away. Only a fool would give up all he had. But the Lord gave it up . . . and I am glad. Only a baby lying in a manger; Wealth, status, power, have all been set aside. Costly the gift of love which knows no ending; For us a Child is born and for us Jesus died. “Only a fool!” Is what the world would say. Only a fool would give it all away. Only a fool would give up all he had. But the Lord gave it up . . . and I am glad. -- Music and lyrics by James A. Tweedie James A. Tweedie is an author, composer, performer and publisher.
The lyrics to 'Come and See' were first published in Crucifix Askew: Poems of Resurrection & Incarnation by James A. Tweedie (Dunecrest Press). They have been republished here with the author's permission. James' previous work on Foreshadow: Joseph's Lullaby (Music, December 2023) Lullaby for Jesus (Music, December 2023) By James A. Tweedie After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the song to load. Baby Jesus! Baby Jesus! Do you know who you are? Angel choirs sing lullabies by the light of a star. Little baby in the manger, Are you sleeping tonight? Does the angel’s singing wake you? Does the star’s bright light? Son of God and son of Mary, Son of David, Son of Man; Born tonight, yet born forever; Born before all time began. Baby Jesus! Baby Jesus! You were born and you will die! You will rise and reign forever For poor sinners as I. Baby Jesus! Baby Jesus! (pause) Shepherds seek the Lamb of God See them worship Thee. (pause) Wise Men seek your Way, your Truth, See them bend the knee. Baby Jesus! Go to sleep (shhh!) Everything is all right. Snuggle warm within the arms of you mother tonight. Baby Jesus! Baby Jesus! Sleep and dream in your stall. You are King of kings forever; You are Lord of all. King of kings! Lord of lords! Baby Jesus! -- Music and lyrics by James A. Tweedie James A. Tweedie is an author, composer, performer and publisher.
The lyrics to 'Come and See' were first published in Crucifix Askew: Poems of Resurrection & Incarnation by James A. Tweedie (Dunecrest Press). They have been republished here with the author's permission. James' previous work on Foreshadow: Joseph's Lullaby (Music, December 2023) By James A. Tweedie After clicking 'Play', please wait a few moments for the song to load. Silent night, holy night; All is calm, all is bright. May’s child, newly born, Let me hold you close and warm. Mary sleeps, so should you. Jeus, close your eyes and I will, too. Tiny child, hush your cry. Hear your Daddy’s lullaby. Are you God’s? Are you mine? Are you human flesh? Or flesh divine? Miracle! Mystery! God’s most precious gift to me! -- Words and music by James A. Tweedie James A. Tweedie is an author, composer, performer and publisher.
The lyrics to 'Joseph's Lullaby' were first published in Crucifix Askew: Poems of Resurrection & Incarnation by James A. Tweedie (Dunecrest Press). They have been republished here with the author's permission. |
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