THE FOURTH DISCLOSURE ~ OUR CUP OF SALVATION

After Julian of Norwich, Revealing the Eucharist

The Fourth Disclosure ~ Our Cup of Salvation

After Julian of Norwich, Revealing the Eucharist

     The blood of Christ, our cup of salvation, 
     flows unceasingly—abundant as water, 
     eternal as love.

In this inner vision, revealed in love
made fully known through insight given,
we are each transformed by Julian’s 
clarity of sight—to become our own.

We see His sweet face—
not shining now,
but pale and hollow,
a body drawn near to death.

Colorless and thirsty,
as if time itself had withdrawn.
No more flowing,
but still, and darkening.

The flesh turned
more to stone than to skin,
the beloved form
drained and discolored.

Here was the death
He did not escape—
not in vision,
not in body, not in truth.

So human,
so with us,
that even His dying
was ours.

And yet—it comes to our mind
that He has made the waters of earth
plenteous for our ease,
for love of us, to cool and cleanse and comfort.

But more than water,
He longs to give us His own Blood—
more precious, more plenteous,
most homely and near.

This is the gift He delights to give:
to wash us, not only with water,
but with love made flesh—
the Blood that binds us
to Him, to our Kind, to joy.

And still—on the altar,
a drop of water joins the wine,
disappears into its depths—
and in that vanishing, we remember

how God joined fully with our flesh,
how Christ clothed
Himself in dust—
and did not turn away.

We take into ourselves what we are becoming:
Christ, who lives in us and through us,
dwelling with tenderness and truth,
as we become His body in the world.

This is the blood He delights to give—
not in wrath, but in welcome;
not in punishment but in presence;
not to condemn but to commune.

So we drink—we partake
in this Sacrament of Faith
and become more like the One
who did not hesitate
to become like us, fully human.

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Becoming the Body: A Poetic Witness for the World

When I sat down to write The Fourth Disclosure ~ Our Cup of Salvation, I wasn’t trying to compose a theological statement. I wasn’t setting out to define doctrine or make an argument for the Eucharist. I was, instead, responding to something I could feel more than explain—a movement of love, a presence that did not demand belief, only attention.

I was listening. And what I heard was the voice of Julian of Norwich—mystic, anchorite, theologian in a time when women did not hold such titles. She didn’t ask for authority; she asked to see Christ more clearly. And what she saw was suffering. What she saw was love.

So I followed her gaze, and what I saw in return was startling in its simplicity: the blood of Christ, offered like water, flowing not with vengeance but with welcome. Not rare, but plenteous. Not distant, but homely and near.

I tried to describe it plainly, as one might describe the turning of the seasons or the way light rests on the altar just before a Sunday service begins. The way the water is poured into the wine—the simplest of gestures—and disappears. And yet, in that vanishing, something sacred is revealed: God with us, fully with us, not metaphorically, not symbolically, but bodily. The divine clothed in dust.

Julian understood this mystery. It’s the mystery I believe the world is still hungry to remember—not in the language of dogma, but in the language of presence. And this is where I think the poem meets its deeper purpose.

Somewhere along the way, I realized I hadn’t written this poem just for those inside the Church—I had written it for those outside, too. I wrote it for people who may not know the language of communion but still desire something more, even if they cannot name it, to be held, seen, and healed. I wrote it for those who long for a table where no one tests them before offering a place.

I’ve come to see and to believe this is how we live out the Great Commission in our time. Not with loud proclamations or polished arguments, but with tenderness. With truth. With poetry. Not everyone will accept a tract or sit through a sermon. But they might receive a poem. They might hear in it a voice that sounds like their own, asking the same questions, aching in the same ways.

There exists here a vision of renewal, a renewed kind of Church. One that doesn’t begin by saying I believe, but rather be still. A Church that meets others in the dark and stays there with them until the light comes. A Church that doesn’t condescend, but listens. That doesn’t dominate, but dwells.

Christ didn’t come to build walls. He came to share bread. To sit down beside the wounded. To pour out His life in ways that still astonish. And if we are His body now, then that is our calling too.

So yes, this is a poem. But it is also a practice. A way of seeing. A quiet act of communion in a noisy world. A way of being Church—not just for Christians, but for anyone willing to sit at the table, and stay. To rest and dwell within this presence.

That’s what I hope this poem becomes. A table. A cup. A place where someone might come, weary from the road, and find they are no longer alone.

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—Ron Starbuck, Publisher
Saint Julian Press, Inc.
Houston, Texas

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At the Still Point: In Conversation with Saint Julian is available from these retailers.

Bookshop.org
Barnes & Noble
Amazon
Lehmanns (DE Germany)
Betteworld Books
The Nile (New Zealand)

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