St. Sebastian: The Beautiful Martyr

Image: Jusepe de Ribera, St. Sebastian, 1651, Museo del Prado, Madrid — rendered in dramatic chiaroscuro, Ribera’s Sebastian is muscular and mortal, his suffering grounded in flesh rather than idealized beauty.

Few figures in Christian art have captivated artists — and viewers — quite like St. Sebastian. The story is simple enough: a Roman soldier and secret Christian, Sebastian was condemned to death for his faith and tied to a post, shot through with arrows by his fellow soldiers. He miraculously survived, only to be executed later by beating. Yet, through centuries of retelling, the tragedy of his martyrdom has transformed into something far more layered — even sensual.

From the Renaissance onward, artists rendered Sebastian’s suffering with remarkable beauty. Painters like Andrea Mantegna, Perugino, and Botticelli turned him into an icon of idealized male youth — strong, nearly nude, his body pierced yet luminous. In later depictions by Guido Reni and El Greco, that same body seems to glow with a kind of erotic spirituality. The saint’s expression — serene, even enraptured — blurs the line between agony and ecstasy.

Image: El Greco, St. Sebastian, c. 1577–79, Cathedral of San Sebastián, Illescas — the saint’s elongated form and upward gaze merge suffering with divine transcendence.

Image: Guido Reni, St. Sebastian, c. 1615, Palazzo Rosso, Genoa — the most famous of Reni’s versions, his Sebastian glows with serene sensuality.

It’s no wonder that Sebastian became, over time, a queer icon — often called the “gay saint.” His imagery offered something radical: a male body displayed with vulnerability, sensuality, and beauty in a religious context. For centuries when expressions of same-sex desire were forbidden, these paintings became coded images of longing. The male form, sanctified through martyrdom, became a vessel for hidden desire.

Twentieth-century artists and writers reclaimed him openly. Yukio Mishima, Derek Jarman, and photographers like Robert Mapplethorpe saw in Sebastian not just the suffering of faith, but the suffering — and resilience — of queer existence itself. His arrows became metaphors for persecution and for the piercing, transformative power of desire.

Image: Kishin Shinoyama, Yukio Mishima as St. Sebastian, 1968 — the novelist and playwright reimagines the saint’s agony through a homoerotic lens of beauty, discipline, and death.

Image: Robert Mapplethorpe, St. Sebastian, 1979 — a modern photographic interpretation that turns suffering into defiant beauty.

Image: Derek Jarman’s film Sebastiane (1976) — the first feature-length film entirely in Latin, reimagining the saint’s story through an overtly homoerotic lens.

There is, after all, a kind of paradoxical holiness in his image: a man struck down yet made radiant; punished yet beautiful; vulnerable yet defiant. Whether we read him as a symbol of endurance, forbidden beauty, or queer faith, St. Sebastian endures as the saint who invites us to see the divine not in denial of the body, but through it.

About St. Sebastian

Feast Day: January 20

Patron of: Soldiers, athletes, archers, and plague victims

Symbol: Arrows, tied tree or post, youthful male figure

St. Sebastian was a Roman officer in the Praetorian Guard who secretly practiced Christianity. When discovered, he was condemned by Emperor Diocletian to be shot with arrows and left for dead. Nursed back to health by the widow Irene, he later confronted the emperor and was beaten to death for his defiance. His legend spread quickly, and his image became a symbol of endurance, courage, and—through art—a timeless meditation on the beauty and vulnerability of the human form.

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Wednesday Musings

My office work week is officially halfway over—two down, two to go. This morning should be a busy one with a few school groups visiting the museum. If I didn’t have tours scheduled, I might have been tempted to crawl back into bed for a few extra hours of rest.

Yesterday’s migraine really took it out of me. I fell asleep around 8 p.m., woke up briefly at 9:30 to get ready for bed and take my nightly medicine, then slept straight through until 5 a.m. Isabella tried to rouse me earlier, but it was halfhearted. She seems to know when I truly need the sleep. This morning she was patient and let me wake up on my own—such a sweet girl most of the time, even if she can be a bit impatient and demanding. She’s a cat, after all.

Well, that’s about all I have for today. Here’s hoping the rest of the week goes smoothly!

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The Raven

The Raven (excerpt)
by Edgar Allan Poe

(For the full poem, click read more below.)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—
Only this and nothing more.”

“Once Upon a Midnight Dreary”

There’s no poem more synonymous with Halloween than Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” Even if you’ve never read the whole thing, you probably know the rhythm of its most famous lines:

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary…

It’s a poem that practically sounds haunted. Poe’s mastery of meter—specifically trochaic octameter—creates that heartbeat of dread, the steady pulse of something inevitable drawing closer. It’s hypnotic, musical, and just a little bit claustrophobic, which is exactly what makes it unforgettable.

First published in 1845, “The Raven” cemented Poe’s reputation as a master of the macabre. It’s a simple enough story: a grieving man, alone at night, haunted by memories of his lost love Lenore, and visited by a mysterious talking raven whose only word is “Nevermore.” But that single refrain becomes a psychological echo chamber. The poem isn’t just about a bird—it’s about despair, loss, and the way grief has of turning every question we ask into the same hopeless answer.

The imagery is classic Gothic: midnight shadows, rustling curtains, lamplight, and a chamber filled with memory. The bird itself feels almost supernatural, perched high above the door like a prophet of doom—or perhaps the physical embodiment of the narrator’s own unraveling mind.

So why has “The Raven” endured for nearly two centuries as the quintessential spooky poem? Because it captures the feeling that true horror doesn’t come from monsters or ghosts—it comes from our own thoughts in the dark. The fear that we’ll never escape our sorrow. The whisper that maybe hope really is gone forever.

And yet, there’s a strange beauty in it too. Poe’s language is lush and musical, the kind of poetry that demands to be read aloud by candlelight on a chilly October night. Every “tapping,” every “Nevermore,” pulls us deeper into the darkness until we almost welcome it.

The Voice of Vincent Price

For me—and I suspect for many others—the poem truly comes alive through Vincent Price’s iconic reading. That smooth, sinister voice, tinged with both elegance and dread, feels as though it was made for Poe’s words. Price doesn’t just recite the poem; he inhabits it. Every syllable trembles with tension and theatrical flair. You can hear the madness building, the grief curdling into obsession, until that final “Nevermore” echoes like a spell being cast.

It’s impossible for me to read “The Raven” without hearing Price’s voice in my mind—a voice that turns the poem from literature into pure atmosphere. His performance reminds us that Halloween isn’t only about visuals; it’s about sound—the creak of the floorboard, the rustle of wings, the trembling cadence of a haunted heart.

Maybe that’s why, year after year, we return to “The Raven.” It reminds us that Halloween isn’t just about fright—it’s about fascination. The allure of the unknown. The comfort of knowing that even in our deepest gloom, someone else—perhaps Poe himself—has been there before.

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore.

About the Poet

Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849) was an American writer, poet, editor, and literary critic best known for his tales of mystery and the macabre. Born in Boston and orphaned at a young age, Poe led a turbulent life marked by poverty, loss, and artistic brilliance. He is often credited with pioneering the modern detective story, influencing early science fiction, and perfecting the Gothic short story. His poems—especially “The Raven” and “Annabel Lee”—combine musical rhythm with haunting emotion, exploring love, death, and madness. Though he died at only forty, Poe’s legacy continues to cast a long and ghostly shadow over American literature—and Halloween wouldn’t be the same without him.

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Monday Again? Already?

It’s Monday. Mondays suck! There’s really no other way to put it. The alarm went off way too early, the weekend flew by, and no amount of coffee seems to be enough to get me going.

It rained off and on most of the weekend, and I had a migraine the entire time, so it honestly feels like I didn’t even have a weekend. The migraine’s still hanging on this morning, and I’m seriously contemplating calling in sick—but I hate doing that on a Monday. It always feels like people assume you’re just trying to extend your weekend.

Some folks say Mondays are a fresh start, but let’s be honest—they’re more like a rude interruption. Mondays always seem to bring more emails, more meetings, and more “urgent” things that could have waited until Tuesday.

Still, we push through. We show up, we get the work done (somehow), and we count down the hours until we can go home again.

Here’s to surviving another Monday—may the boss be mercifully distracted, the day be short, and the week get better from here.

I hope everyone has a wonderful and stress free week!

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Melody in Your Heart

“Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your heart to the Lord;

Giving thanks always for all things unto God and the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”

Ephesians 5:19–20

I’ve known this verse by heart since childhood. In the Church of Christ where I grew up, Ephesians 5:19 wasn’t just a favorite scripture—it was a foundational one. The Church of Christ bases its practice of a cappella worship on this passage, interpreting Paul’s instruction to “sing and make melody in your heart” as a call to pure vocal praise without the accompaniment of instruments. The voice itself is the instrument God gave us, and the melody is meant to come from within.

As a teenager, I was our congregation’s song leader. I wasn’t particularly good at it, but with only thirteen members in attendance on most Sundays, I was the best we had after our older song leader, Mr. Wayne, could no longer lead because of emphysema. In a small rural congregation like ours, everyone had a role. The preacher usually led the first prayer, and my daddy always gave the closing one. I helped him pass the Lord’s Supper and the collection plate.

Our service never changed much: two songs while seated, then the prayer, followed by one song seated and a second song standing before the sermon. After the sermon came the invitation song, then communion and the closing song—usually just the first verse—before the final prayer. It was a rhythm as familiar as breathing.

I still remember my favorite hymns from Songs of the Church:

Amazing Grace, Rock of Ages, Send the Light, How Great Thou Art, Old Rugged Cross, Blessed Assurance, Precious Memories, and I’ll Fly Away.

For invitationals, we sang God is Calling the Prodigal, Jesus Is Tenderly Calling, Nothing but the Blood, or Softly and Tenderly.

Our closing songs were nearly always I Know That My Redeemer Lives or Unclouded Day.

I even found an old index card tucked in my songbook recently, one of my services carefully written out:

• 109 – Jesus Loves Me (we started using that once younger people joined)
• 168 – Heavenly Sunlight
• 471 – Shall We Gather at the River?
• Prayer
• 119 – Farther Along
• 536 – The Old Rugged Cross
• Sermon
• 696 – There’s a Fountain Free
• Announcements (It was Mr. Wayne’s birthday that week.)
• Lord’s Supper
• Lord, bless this bread which represents Christ's body the we may betake of it in a way that is pleasing to Thee. Amen.
• Lord, bless this fruit of the vine which represents Christ's blood the we may betake of it in a way that is pleasing to Thee. Amen.
• Collection
• 218 – I Know That My Redeemer Lives
• Dismissal

There were no altos, tenors, or basses in our little church—just us singing from our hearts. The sound may not have been polished, but it was pure. Each voice rose in faith, carrying more sincerity than skill, and that, I believe, is exactly what Paul meant when he told the Ephesians to make melody in their hearts to the Lord.

When I reflect on Ephesians 5:19–20 today, I see more than just a theological argument about instruments. I see the heart of worship itself: that gratitude and melody begin within us. Paul isn’t prescribing what kind of music pleases God; he’s describing why we sing—to give thanks, to speak to one another in faith, and to let joy and hope find expression.

Whether accompanied by an organ or sung a cappella in a little white-clapboard church, true worship comes from a heart that overflows with gratitude. The melody Paul speaks of isn’t confined to vocal cords; it’s the harmony of a thankful soul resonating with God’s love.

And sometimes, when I’m alone and humming What a Friend We Have in Jesus or In the Morning of Joy, two songs that have gotten me through some of my toughest times, I still feel that same peace I knew standing before thirteen faithful souls, leading songs in that small country church where my faith was first formed.

At the end of every service, my daddy always gave the closing prayer. His words never changed much, but they carried deep comfort and familiarity. It was his way of sending us back into the world—asking God’s protection until we gathered again the next Sunday.

Prayer:

Lord, dismiss us as we leave Thy house, bless the ones not with us that they may be with us the next Lord’s Day. Guide, guard, and direct us. In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.

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Moment of Zen: Coffee Couples

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Work-from-Home Relief

Finally, after what feels like weeks, I actually get to work from home. Fridays are supposed to be my regular WFH day, but lately, work responsibilities keep pulling me back to campus. Today, though, I have no in-person meetings (actually, no meetings at all), no special events, and no professors bringing their classes to the museum. For once, I can just relax a little.

And if the fucking annoying emails that filled my inbox yesterday make me want to scream, I can at least do it into a pillow—so I don’t disturb my neighbors.

I rarely get to take real vacation time because something always seems to pop up, and when I do, someone inevitably finds something “urgent” that needs to be done. If it’s not an emergency, it’s someone being bitchy or difficult. What makes it even more frustrating is that my boss constantly tells me I have to use up my vacation time before the end of the fiscal year, since I can’t carry any of it over or try to take it all at once at the end. Easier said than done when work refuses to slow down long enough for me to actually take a day off.

Speaking of which, the possible plans I mentioned yesterday for my vacation day ended up falling through. So instead of doing anything exciting, I mostly just tried to rest and recover from the week.

In two weeks, I’ll be heading to a conference that I normally enjoy, but this year I’m dreading it. I have to go with someone who has become increasingly unpleasant and seems determined to make me look bad in front of others. Yesterday, they fired off one of their classic snide emails—trying to throw me under the bus for something that was actually our boss’s doing. It’s not the first time. I’m documenting everything, but I’m just tired of the drama.

I’ll have my Kindle to keep me occupied on the two-hour drive, which I’ll be spending as a passenger this year since they’ve decided they want to drive. On one hand, that’s fine—driving tends to aggravate my sciatic nerve these days. On the other hand, they’re a terrible driver, so it’ll be a long ride either way.

Honestly, work just sucks right now. I’ve got a few job applications out there and a few more to submit this weekend. Maybe it’s time for a change.

For now, though, I’m grateful for a quiet Friday at home—no meetings, no events, no people to deal with face-to-face. Just me, my coffee, and the sweet sound of not having to pretend everything’s fine for a day.

I hope everyone has a wonderful and relaxing weekend!

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Peace, Paws, and a Day Off

I’ve been so busy and stressed at work lately that I’m truly grateful to have the day off today. I have a few tentative plans, and if things work out, I might tell you about them tomorrow. For now, I don’t have much to say—just enjoying the rare luxury of a quiet morning.

Isabella was kind enough to let me sleep until almost 5 a.m., though she started halfheartedly trying around 4. Here’s this week’s Isabella Pic of the Week. Every time I see this picture, I think, “I am cat, hear me roar,” to the tune of Helen Reddy’s I Am Woman.

(Secret: She’s just yawning. 🥱 Isabella is a very quiet cat.)

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Pushing Through the Pain

I awoke up around 2 a.m. with a bad migraine — the kind that makes it hard to tell if you’re awake or just drifting in and out of pain. I dozed off and on for about an hour and a half before finally giving up to Isabella’s persistence and the realization that my headache was getting worse, not better.

If I didn’t have a major event at the museum today, I’d have called in sick and crawled back into bed. I hate when a migraine hits hard enough to bring nausea with it, and even more when I know I can’t give in to it. Some days, you just have to barrel through and keep going because there’s too much to do to stop.

Thankfully, I’m taking a vacation day tomorrow and working from home again on Friday, so there’s a bit of light at the end of the tunnel. My event today ends at 1 p.m., and if I can get everything cleaned up and put back in order quickly, maybe I can head home early.

Sometimes my migraines ease as the day goes on, and if that happens, great. If not, I’ve learned that keeping busy can hold the pain at bay — at least until I stop. Then, of course, it all catches up with me. Hopefully, today will go smoothly and the hours will fly by quickly.

Now and Then

Now and Then
By Charles Bertram Johnson

“All life is built from song”
In youth’s young morn I sang;
And from a top-near hill
The echo broke and rang.

The years with pinions swift
To youth’s high noon made flight,
“All life is built from song”
I sang amid the fight.

To life’s sun-setting years,
My feet have come—Alas!
And through its hopes and fears
Again I shall not pass.

The lusty song my youth
With high-heart ardor sang
Is but a tinkling sound—
A cymbal’s empty clang.

And now I sing, my Dear,
With wisdom’s wiser heart,
“All life is built from love,
And song is but a part.”


About the Poem

When did you first realize that you had gotten older?

For me, it happened when I received an email from a young Marine. He addressed me as Sir and kept referring to me as Mr. ________. I know he was only being polite—showing respect as Marines are trained to do—but it stopped me in my tracks. That single word, Sir, carried a weight I hadn’t quite felt before. It wasn’t the formality that struck me, but the realization that I’d somehow become the older person in the conversation.

I’m the oldest person at the museum now, and though I have friends who are older, most of the people around me are younger—college students with endless energy and a sense that life stretches far ahead of them. I work with them every day, and I see in them the same bright spark I once had. Over the past year, especially with my health issues, I’ve come to accept what I used to quietly resist: I am middle-aged. Not just in years, but in how others see me—and in how I’m beginning to see myself.

Charles Bertram Johnson’s “Now and Then” captures that awareness of time’s passage with both poignancy and grace. It traces a journey from youth’s exuberant song to the quiet wisdom of later years. The refrain that begins as “All life is built from song” evolves into something deeper: “All life is built from love.” Johnson reminds us that while youthful joy may fade, it transforms into something richer—an understanding shaped by love, endurance, and perspective.

In the gay community, that realization often feels even sharper. We live in a culture that idolizes youth—smooth skin, perfect bodies, the illusion that desire belongs only to the young. But aging brings its own kind of beauty, one rooted in truth rather than performance. When we let go of chasing who we were, we can begin to appreciate who we are.

My youth may have left nearly twenty years ago, but it left behind something far more lasting: gratitude. The song may sound softer now, but perhaps that’s because it’s finally being sung with love.


About the Poet

Charles Bertram Johnson (1880–1956) was an American poet whose work appeared in the early decades of the 20th century. Though little is known about his life, his poetry often explores the quiet transitions of aging, the nature of love, and the search for meaning in ordinary experience. In poems like “Now and Then,” Johnson captures the gentle shift from youthful exuberance to mature reflection, reminding us that the truest songs of life are often those sung softly in its later years.

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Feeling Better (Mostly)

I survived the after-effects of the COVID vaccine and am feeling much better today. Yesterday morning was rough, but other than an intense migraine, all of my other symptoms went away by the afternoon. I did have some extra pain in my back, which may also have been triggered by the vaccine, but it’s manageable now.

I still have a slight migraine—what doctors call a postdrome. Migraines often have four phases: the prodrome, which comes before the headache and can include fatigue, food cravings, or mood changes; the aura, which some people experience as visual or sensory disturbances; the headache itself; and finally, the postdrome, a sort of “migraine hangover” that can leave you tired, foggy, or achy even after the worst pain is gone.

Other than that, I’m doing okay. I’d love another day to recover fully, but I have three meetings today and plenty of work waiting for me.

To make things even more interesting, my internet provider appears to be part of the global outage affecting many major services. So this will be a short post today, as I’m posting from my phone’s network—which works fine, just very slowly out here where I live.

Here’s hoping everything, including my head and the internet, clears up soon.

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Renewal in the Midst of Aches

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.

— Romans 12:2

As I write this, I’m dealing with my usual reaction to the Pfizer COVID vaccine—headache, body aches, chills, and a migraine for good measure. It’s not pleasant, but I know from experience that it will pass, and by tomorrow I should wake up feeling fine. My body is working hard right now to protect me, and in that small reminder of how healing happens, I can’t help but think of Paul’s words to the Romans.

Transformation and renewal—whether of the body, the mind, or the spirit—are rarely comfortable. They require energy, patience, and faith. For LGBTQ+ Christians, that renewal often means shedding the false messages the world has pressed upon us and allowing God’s love to restore our sense of worth. It’s not always easy work, but it is holy work.

So today, as my body does its healing, I’m reminded that renewal often begins in discomfort. If you’re also in a season of weariness or change, take heart—God’s love is already transforming you, one tender act of grace at a time.

May you find peace and renewal today, even in your weariness.

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Moment of Zen: Country Boys

If you grew up in a place where there were more cows than people, you remember the kind—tight jeans that hugged just right, boots scuffed from work, and sun-kissed shoulders that spent more time bare than covered. They didn’t have gym bodies, but the kind that came from throwing hay bales, fixing fences, and long days working the fields, tending their crops beneath the hot Southern sun. On weekends they were up before dawn to hunt, out fishing by midday, and sipping beer from a bottle or a red Solo cup by nightfall. Some wore cowboy hats, though in Alabama it was more likely a baseball cap. They smelled like sweat, soap, and summer air. Some were rowdy, some were sweet, but all had that quiet confidence that could make your heart skip. They were good ol’ country boys—the kind who worked hard, laughed easy, and lingered in your memory long after you left home, and if you’re honest, one of them was probably your first crush.