Originally published at crisis magazine
The autumn sky above the old shot-and-beer city was a deep and endless blue. Woodsmoke hung in the air and small boats chugged out purposeful routes on waterways. The Ravens are playoff-bound, and the youth-strapped Orioles made it to the postseason again. All was right on Baltimore’s harbor Wednesday—perfect even—as joggers politely zig-zagged through the 200 or so folks who’d gathered to pray the Glorious Mysteries of the Rosary alongside the world’s loneliest bishop.
Sunlight poured onto the face of Joseph Strickland when he rose from the concrete after leading the Catholic blue-collar symphony in the Salve Regina. Leaves scraped the ground, seagulls called, and a few of the faithful readied themselves to see if the bishop might not mind having his picture taken.
It was as picture-postcard an autumn day as you’re going to find in Baltimore; all seemed just perfect—until that bishop just had to go and spoil everything.
Orthodox. Faithful. Free.
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He picked a fight; he confronted the expanding Babylon.
Ah, but it wasn’t such a lovely day to go and die?
Directly after the Rosary, the outcast from Tyler, Texas read aloud a letter he’d
