On the Edge of Waiting: A Meditation for Christmas Eve, Eve.

On the Edge of Waiting: A Meditation for Christmas Eve, Eve.

Shhh.

Come away a moment,

my friend.

Come away

from the lights,

and the crowds,

and the shops,

and the noise,

and the pressure,

and the worrries,

and the old wounds that

winter us

before our time.

Come and sit with me here.

Rest.

Just for a moment.

Let me share with you once again

what we forget in our festive

frenzy:

He is coming…

Down the long ages of despair

He comes as Hope.

Down the rough road of doubt

He comes as Faith.

Down the broken byways

of the

human heart

He comes as Love.

He is coming…

Sit with me on the edge of waiting…

Sit in sacred stillness…

Breathe the deep breath of

blessing.

You do not have to do anything.

He is coming…

Whether you are ready or not

Aware or not,

Able or not,

Present or not,

Believing or not,

He is coming…

As the sun rises,

as the moon shines,

as the tides turn,

as the stars dance,

He is coming…

So do not worry.

Let the tyranny of

tension

fall from you…

You never needed to carry it.

Let the false face of

righteous readiness to defend,

dissolve.

You never needed to wear it.

How could you ever be ready

for this?

For the first proclamation of the

Kingdom to be heard in a baby’s

cry.

Nothing is asked of you

but

to be here and now

who you are.

Truly.

Fully.

Broken?

Yes.

Weak?

Yes.

Called?

Oh yes.

He is coming…

And He is calling you to come to Him.

As He always does.

As He always will.

So, how will you greet Him,

the One who is coming?

The One who calls you,

to His crib.

(Yes, you.)

Will you prepare a place for Him?

Will you open the cave of your heart to Him?

Will you place Him in the sanctuary of your soul?

Will you lay Him upon the rough straw of your life?

Will you swaddle Him with your silence?

Will you offer Him the gentle warmth of animal breath?

Will you offer Him your love?

Or not.

He is coming…

Do not miss the moment

Of Mystery’s

mangered birth

by succumbing to

Bethlehem busyness.

No.

Become as still as a shepherd watching the flock of slumbering sheep.

Become as still as a sage watching the long dance of the stars.

Become as still as Joseph hearing Angels on the edge of dreams.

Become as still as she who is the stillpoint of love’s longing, filled with light.

Be still and you will know

He is coming…

Always…

In stillness,

on the edge of waiting…

He is coming for you…

He is coming to you…

Always.

He is coming in Love.

Our Lady of the Solstice

Our Lady of the Solstice

At the moment
of
the
deepest dark
and,
at
the sharp point
of the
longest night,

at such distance from 

dawn
that we groan
beneath
the burden of
being,
and touch within
ourselves
only
the winds of winter
and the
wild longing
where
light
is only a memory
long lost
and left behind in
summer sun;
then we,
suddenly,
and just for
the merest of moments,
are hushed
into silence,
as the turning
of the 
ancient
wheels of wonder
stop,
and sun and stars
all,
still their divinely 

directed dance
and take their
yearly yearned for
deep remembering

rest,
like lovers suddenly 

still,
when struckby desire's reverie;
or dancers,

pulsing with passion,
awaiting the next 

beat
of beauty's music
to liberate life within.
They,
our elder siblings 

of the sky,
recall in
their
sacred stillness
that moment
when
once,

just once,
their fiery song,
sung since
first
divine kindling,
was 

paused,
hushed,
stilled,

stopped;
just 

once,
long ago,so as 

to
listen to
a new note
joined to
the
great hymn of gratitude
that all
offer
simply by their very being.

For in that 

moment
of their listening
was revealed
she who is 

our true solstice.

The Woman,

that moment of
perfect stillness
between 

divine in-breathing
and creation's
exhalation of excelsis.

So they watched,

as she who is the 

stillpoint 

of

the dance of story,

and the sanctuary

where 

myth becomes flesh,

then,

before angelic emissary,
dropped the pebble of her
yes,
in its utter simplicity,
longed for through the countless
ages of agony,
into the pool of our pain.

Behold the Solstice of the Lord…

Be it done unto me according to His Word…

Looking deep they
saw its
ripples now run to the
edges of existence
trembling them with
the promise
of a new
Spring.

And the Story became flesh…

And dwelt amongst us…

This young girl,

this Lady of light.
who is our solstice.
She,
the perfect place
of stillness,
so attuned
to the coming of the Light
that in her
all
creation stills,
the old cycle of sin
is broken
and,
even the deep dark
of despair
must yield
to glow of dawn.

She, 

the light that glows before 

the rising Sun,

heralded by Robin 

and Wren 

and fluting Blackbird,

She, like that blessed moment

when Sun and Moon 

both

hang in the deep blue together 

and bow as they pass

gentling our hearts 

and 

drawing us from dreams

to welcome
the advent of the One
who
IS
Love's Light
and eternal Word both,
spoken now into time’s renewed turning
by the Yes of one who
holds
within her heart
the perfect emptiness of Love.

Treasuring in 

the holy dark of
her womb the hearth
where Spring's spark is 

kindled
and brightens with beauty 

as a
first place of
promised Easter exhalation 

the cave of
rebirth;
in which
eternity and time
are married,
and infinity will wed itself
forever
to clay's embrace. 

Here, in this
sacred solstice place,
Eve's aching
is healed,
and
here, 

Adam's sin
undone,
as from the dry root
of the
sundering tree
a new shoot rises at the word of
one
whose whole being
is Yes
whose whole being
is
Love,

And so,
yearly
we sit,
rooting ourselves
once again
in Mother Earth's embrace,

and while looking ever upwards
we find the still point 

of the skies
and yet

inwardly gaze 

into
the light of story 

long-kindled 

against the cold of winter,
and so become

re-minded,
re-hearted,
re-souled,
by she who is our solstice,

whose self-forgetting 

Yes 

brought to us

the turning of the light

and blessed us

all
like barren trees 

brought to beauty
by a sudden

anointing 

of 

new snow.

    

St. Nicholas Dawn

Feast of St. Nicholas, Santa Claus himself today...
Always reminds me of that moment I met him...

St. Nicholas Dawn

On the sixth morn
of the month that's dark,
while walking in that hallowed park,
and breathing deep the icy air,
I felt the grace of Nicholas there.
I stood a moment in the frost
and felt the yearning of the lost
on land or sea who wandering go,
whose minds and hearts are often low,
as gripped within by sadness grey
they stumble through another day
and long to feel the gift of light
break in upon their inner night.
Then feeling deep their dark and pain
I vowed to ne'r come there again,
until I felt him standing there
all bright against the freezing air.
 A bishop robed in red was he,
who looked with kindness upon me,
while leaning on his gnarled staff
his beard it shook as he did laugh,
and said in tone of deepest cheer,
"Why, what on earth do we have here?"
" A little friar out in the cold,
whose failing heart is not so bold,
for overcome with grief is he
for those whose lives in darkness be,
and those who know the belly's wail,
and those who sit alone in jail,
and those whose hearts know only pain,
and those who sleep outside in rain,
and those who fear the stronger power,
and those who nearer feel death's hour!"
 And scarce he spoke, but I replied,
"Tis true you see what lies inside!"
"But what can I do next to you,
who dwell above the azure blue,
and as a saint may do so much
to bring the light and healing touch
of Heaven' s blessing earthward sent,
to those whose lives by pain are rent?"
At this, his face it darkened then,
as though despairing of all men,
like me who seek a grace to flow,
but far to often still say no
when called to be a mirror through,
the poor, the lame, the sickened too,
will see a glimpse of heaven's light
that lifts them from the pit of night.
Then as I stood before his face
he touched my heart and blessed this place,
and said, "Its right that this you know,
that saint I am and saint I go,
throughout the world both night and day,
to hear the cries of those who pray
and then I bring their yearning strong
to Him who seeks to right their wrong,
and sent am I by His right hand
to all the hearts within the land
who gentled are by Graces dear
and shed their sweet impassioned tear,
that they would know their call is this,
to enter into Heaven's bliss,
by healing, helping, lifting, raising
listening, watching, minding,saving
the weak, the poor, the little child,
as I did here before I died."
"For this they call me Santa Claus,
I who kept sweet Heaven's laws,
and now I pass them onto you
O little one, who now dares to
extend a hand that helps and heals,
and so the light of God reveals,
to let each poor one deeply know
that Christ their saviour bowed so low,
that babe he came in frost and cold
our Shepherd King, who serves the fold,
and in His mother's arms did cry
for all the sheep, for you and I;
and none He lost, and none forgot
not even those who chose the lot
of greed, and pride, and selfish gain,
for them He offered every pain."
"So come my friend and stand with me
beneath the branches of this tree,
and we shall watch the dawn arise
and light grow in the eastern skies,
and pray, and psalm, and praise again
the One who is the light of men!"
At this the old man smiled at me,
standing 'neath the ancient tree.
As in my heart again I vowed
to cry to all with voice aloud,
of Him who loves us deep and well;
to be a Christmas tolling bell
that rings and calls both one and all
to heed that ancient Yuletide call,
to light each other's gathering dark
and share within the healing spark,
which He first kindled with His breath,
the One who broke the power of death!
Then as the light grew all around
I seemed to hear a merry sound,
of bells, or chimes from out the air
and laughter deep that saints do share,
and gone he was, my Bishop bright,
there at the dawning of the light,
So I was left once more alone,
filled with a song of Heaven's tone,
that flames within my heart so bright
I fear not now no lack of light!
And forth I went to sing this lay
of the light that shone on Nicholas' Day.

Transitus: Passing as a Pilgrim with St. Francis.

This evening, after sundown, in friaries and convents and chapels and hermitages all over the world Franciscans come together to mark the Tranistus, the passing to the Lord, of our holy father Brother Francis. In the year 1226, worn our by his labours and knowing his end was coming close Francis asked the brothers to bring him to the little chapel of Our Lady of the Angels, just outside Assisi so that he could pass to the Lord under the watchful care of the Blessed Mother to whom he had entrusted his life and the Order he was leaving behind. Commemorating this event we franciscans gather every year and in song, chant, reading and reflection meditate upon the way of his passing and the teaching it brings. Last year I was asked to preach at one of these gatherings and a number of people asked me to publish the homily I gave on that occasion. I never got around to it but as the feast comes round again it offer the opportunity to make good my promise! So here it is... may it bring benefit and blessing so that inspired by Brother Francis we will all be a little more ready for our own Transitus whenever it comes...

Homily for the Transitus of Our Holy Father, Brother Francis of Assisi

We have entered into sacred time, into that storied time where past becomes present, as, once again, we stand at that sacred point between life and death, between this world and the next, and, in the eternity that is God, we turn our minds and hearts to that little cell outside the tumbledown chapel of St. Mary of the Angels as Brother Sun sets and Sisters Moon and Stars rise in the heavens, clear precious and fair. There the birds quieten their vesper singing and we take our place with all the followers of the “Poverello”, the little poor man of Assisi, who gather from all of time and space around him as he breathes slowly, gently towards his end… and as we vigil with his brothers and with all of creation we realise that we have forgotten how to die…

Does that sound strange? After all, die we shall. It is the one definite point in our existence. We have been born, we shall die.

But…

Tied up in life and in all of it’s vicissitudes we can begin to believe the great myth of human ego that this earthly life lasts for ever… and then, when Sister Death draws near to us, as she will to all of us, we are lost in panic, lost in pain, we are simply lost… and we hold out against her not knowing that her gentle purpose is simply to bring us home again…

And so we forget how to die…

St. Francis remembered how to die…

He knew that if we would face the embrace of our sister when it finally comes we must do so with love, yielding to her, being ushered by her into the Divine Presence; and for this to happen then in such a gentle way we must practice dying…

We must die, every day… just a little…

We must die to our self, die to our false self, die to every part of us that is not us but is the accretion of property and wealth for their own sake…

We must die to the use of others rather than to the love of others; die to the holding onto power so as to dominate and even and especially die to the belief that I am at the centre of all things and that I am in some way owed my existence, my success, even my life…

Francis…the little poor man now lying bare upon the bare earth, has long since died to each of these…

He has died to the rich home and sumptuous clothes of his youth and even to the joy a young man takes in his own vigour and power…

He has died to the rich young man, who was the toast of Assisi and the centre of attention who was named “Master of the Revels”…

He has died to his family’s longing to see him raise their profile and their fortune…

He has died to the noble knight whose armour was really forged from the ambition of his father and the myths that filled the head of a young boy who believed war could ever be noble…

He has died to a Mother’s love and favour…

He has died to the pride that saw only the sores of the lepers but never their souls…

He has died to the embarrassment of the Poor Man who begs for his living from door to door…

He has died to the rejection of some and the adulation of many…

He has died to the opinion of Bishops and Princes, Popes and Kings…

He has died to the fear that the brotherhood would not listen… and would not follow…

He has died to the desire to be a martyr…

He has died to the fear of suffering and pain…

He has died to his own flesh, to the world, to the devil…

He has died to his own will…

He has died upon the Cross with Christ…

And in so doing he has remembered how to die, and now with the last great effort of his being he teaches his brothers and sisters, present and absent and all those who will come after him how to die so that one may truly live…

Yes, he has died so completely, as only the saints truly die in life, that as Death approaches he recognises her and smiles at her knowing that she is only the shrouded sister whose touch brings entrance into the only real life there is…

His body is now only a mere shell that holds a heavenly treasure of mind and heart and soul so converted by grace, so consumed by Holy Spirit fire, that it can barely contain it anymore. It already shines radiantly from those five crimson stars seraph-sealed upon his body, when the deepest desire of his life to be one with the One who is love was fulfilled upon Alverna’s height…

And so, he who preached joy to men and beasts, to wolves and women, to birds and children and saw with Eden sight what seeds of the new creation are already planted in their souls, now gives to us his last and best sermon, and teaches a world that grasps greedily on to life and so fears the reaper and the quiet and the last stilling breath, simply how to die… so that one might truly live…

Absolved and blessed, and blessing others too he has heard the Gospel with ears now straining for Heaven’s summons and breathing deeply he looks with dim eyes beyond into silence…

And then…

He sings…

This poor man now blinded by tears and weak with sickness borne for humanity’s boon…

He sings…

And the brothers who had gathered sombrely and sadly, now with smiles newly rekindled begin to chant with him the song of his illumined heart the canticle of Sir Brother Son… a song a lifetime of grace in the making…

He, Francis, sings…

And for a moment, just for a moment, the Troubadour of peace, the Herald of the Great King, the one who charmed the birds and the beasts and the fierce men of war into silence and peace with his songs is amongst them once again…

“Laudato si mi Signor!” Be Praised my Lord… each verse rises as his farewell benediction… exulting one last time in the beauty that speaks more eloquently than any missive or word of sacred writ could ever do of the Love that holds all things in being and now calls back to itself Francis, its little one and its servant, first sent into the world to remind it of its beauty, its original blessing, its redemption and final calling into a communion of love in the Christ who is Love…

And so he surrenders himself to Love… singing as he goes upon his last journey, this pilgrim brother whose songs filled the roads for too short a time… and in his going he teaches us how to die…

How to leave behind all that would hold us back…

How to come empty handed before the One who fills us with His Song of Love holding back nothing of ourselves for ourselves so that the One who gave Himself totally for us may receive us totally…

Then… comes a moment of silence and stillness… the brothers stand in quiet reverence… the song seems to cease…  

And, barely above a whisper, his last words sound, “Welcome my sister death.”

The echo of his last breath, his last song, has barely passed and then from hills and valley and woods all about, in twilight star speckled skies, a mighty rush of wings is heard as the larks, those truest of his disciples, who own nothing more than their song, rise like arrows into the air, as brothers flocking together in the moon light and star light and sing his soul skywards…

His passing is complete…

He lived and died a little every day… and so in dying shows us how to live… that we too would remember to die a little every day until we may greet our Sister Death with only our own soul song to sing…and with empty hands but full heart enter into Life…enter into Love…

Let us begin again, for up until now we have done nothing...
Let us begin to die... so that we may live.

Amen.

 

Poem for the Feast of the Stigmata of St. Francis

Today is the feast of the Stigmata of St. Francis. It commemorates the apex moment of Francis' earthly spiritual journey when, in answer to his prayer to feel as much as possible both the compassion of Christ for His creation and the pain He went through upon the Cross to redeem it, he became the first person in history to receive the Sacred Stigmata, the visible imprints of the five wounds of Christ upon his body. Many people are unaware that this took place on the Feast of the Holy Cross while Francis was keeping the "Lent of St. Michael", 40 days of prayer and meditation to prepare for the Feast of the Archangel under whose protection he had placed the Order. This connection with St. Michael led me to a poem, (in a vaguely medieval style), some years ago.

The Lay of St. Michael and Brother Francis

Angelic being whose nature is fire,

whose song cried loudest and star brightest flamed.

Born as a spark from the light of God’s radiance

to the Glory of One in Threeness revealed.

First to defend the honour of Him; whose

silence allows all accept or complain,

first one to honour the plan then put forward

of dying, and rising to glory again.

One who was then made Captain of Heaven,

One who was then made Weigher of Souls.

One who was then made Guardian of Gates,

Keeper of Keys, and Master of Rolls.

Lord of the Cherubim, Master of Seraphs,

all the nine choirs bow low before him,

who bowed lowest first, to the Light that dims never

in silence surrounded from last until first.

He was made bearer of Heaven’s fell sword,

emblazoned it is with name, “Verbum Dei”.

He was made bearer of the shield of the just,

whose name is remembered as “Gloria Dei”.

He is the one whose bright helm is crowned

with star of bright fire in Tau shape arrayed

He is the keeper of Heaven’s great seal

the one whom the saints do call when afraid.

He bears the Rod and the Orb of  Shekinah

standing aside the throne of their Ward.

His is the voice that rang out with the challenge,

“Who could ever be like unto the Lord!”

All this is given in glory to him,

Heaven’s great prince, who first saw in the Light,

Better to serve both truth and humility

than to crawl for the dark one, who once was the bright.

This our dear father, Francis the Brother,

smallest of those, who account themselves small,

knew as he rendered praise and thanksgiving,

for to arms like St. Michael, he heeded the call.

Of him did he learn the way to be humble,

the grace to begin and accept being sent.

To him he accorded the honour of fasting,

to him he ascribed the gift of a Lent.

And in that sweet time, to his honour and glory

Francis, in prayer aloft on the mount,

sought for a share in Love’s light so redeeming

the pains of the Cross as joy he would count.

Then given the grace of a sight so ecstatic

he burned with a fire that never would end

For stamped was he then, with those wounds called stigmatic

sealed as a Seraph, made kin to his friend.

And later he went to that throne long prepared

and there he doth sit, at Heaven’s bright board.

Where Michael and Francis to ages unending, 

both joyfully sing, “Is aught like the Lord!”