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Disagreeing Respectfully
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The Jakob Hutter Story
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Readers Respond
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Free Care and Prayer
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Our Home, Their Castle
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Sister Penelope in Expectation
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Covering the Cover: Educating Humans
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The Most Valuable Joads
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Timber Framing with Teenagers
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Iron Sharpens Iron
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Grand Canyon Classroom
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The Homeschooling Option
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Teaching the One Percent
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Educating for Freedom
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Why I Became a Firefighter
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The School that Escaped to the Alps
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Does Teaching Literature and Writing Have a Future?
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Schools for Philosopher-Carpenters
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Deerassic Park
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Why We’re Failing to Pass on Christianity
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For the Love of Public School Teaching
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Let Children Play
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The Music on Mount Sinai
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The Green Paint Incident
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How Math Makes You a Better Person
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The Reluctant Goddess and the Roasted Hogs
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Should I Read Scary Fairy Tales to My Child?
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Lernvergnügenstag: A Day for the Joy of Learning
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Freedom of Speech Under Threat
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Poem: “A Meditation on Figs”
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Poem: “Hearing a Lecture on the Mandelbrot Set”
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The first of my umbrages is how utterly
humdrum eternity seems.
There is, of course, the pomp of angels
one might expect
in a papal commission. In the center
space of golden aureoles
and just above an alabaster Christ (who
looks more than a bit like
Raphael himself) displaying his nail-punched
palms, reigns this very old,
unenthused Father-God figure as if crowned
with a nimbused mortar board,
holding his globe in one hand while gesturing
blessings with the other.
On the right side of the Jesus image sits Mary
in devotion—apparently the only
woman worthy of note. Who can dissent from
Moses, both Johns, the Baptist
and Revelator, martyred Peter and Paul
being in paradise?
But Adam being there, after that bedlam
of damnation which he and Eve
unleashed, is I suppose, where we have to allow
for grace. Next, there’s the eerie cloud
of rosy-faced putti like chubby beasts
of burden suspending
all the elect—not much enticement to give up
a life of carousing and covetousness.
Were I given to iconography, rather than my reds
and blues being used for
Renaissance robes, they’d be saved
for the plumes of marvelous,
praising birds that fluttered near waterfalls,
where beautiful horses
graze and gallop through summer days, and where
resurrection would abound
in instantaneous geraniums, with golds scumbled
over backlit rainbows.
Anyway, below Raphael’s vision of the sublime,
a more animated, temporal fray
about transubstantiation takes place among mostly
the usual suspects, such as Augustine,
Ambrose, and various popes, as well as Savonarola
and stony Dante—presumably,
all of them to be tempered by Aristotle’s inclusion.
One redeeming thing
is the ghost-white dove with wings spread
in flight beneath Jesus’s feet
and who appears to be headed for Earth, swiftly
toward their monstrance
to help settle this magnificent trivia being waged.
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