Meditation for St. John’s Eve

Meditation for St. John's Eve:

Now, as Vespers sings itself

to dusk’s silent sitting,

the beacons begin to burn.

Men watching for the moment

of Moon’s waning,

in twilight midsummer sky

lit by a Sun too lazy to truly set,

so to kindle flame for the Forerunner;

John.

He whose element is fire.

Both lamps now hanging

in cloth of such deep blue

that the world seems enfolded

in the mantle of one

who midwifed his birth,

even as she joined her magnificat

to old Elizabeth’s pangs,

and doubting Zechariah’s silence,

beneath the shining stars of desert sky.

Now, as Matins touches midnight

of Monks long vigilling,

the herbs are gathered.

Women seeking

the helpers and the healers

in wood, and dell, and garden bed,

where, blessed by dew and moonlight

and the long warmth of Sun’s summer,

the Yarrow and the Bracken,

the Fennel and the Rue,

the Rosemary and the Foxglove,

always the Elder and

the great yellow flower of the Forerunner

willingly give up

their essence on the night

that marks the first whisper

of the Word’s healing breath,

breathed through the one

who is His herald Voice;

John.

Dried, and hung,

and laid upon the Lady Altar

to become more than they are

they will bestow divine healing.

Twice gifted and graced

by Summer’s picking

and Autumn’s

Assumption blessing,

they reveal the medicine

present always, beneath.

Now, as Lauds’ psalms sun skywards

the pots and pans

and ancient drums are beaten.

The children sing the old songs

and the rhymes long lost to meaning,

as young men and women, harelike,

leap heedless across the

dying flames together.

Recalling he who leapt with joy,

filled with fire, even in womb’s waters,

so near was the One who first kindled flame,

rendered the rivers holy and made the wells

vessels of new birth.

Now, as Mass bell tolls dawn’s daily resurrection

monks and men,

and women, and children all

hear the summons of the Sanctifier

and His herald

loud upon morning’s breeze

as embers die down, and herbs are hung up.

Beneath the vaulted stone they gather

to join their voices to praise

that vastness veiled

in simple bread and wine,

and hear again the word first spoken by

the herald,

the lamp,

the flame,

the leaper,

the prophet,

the angel,

the voice,

the Baptist,

whose birth they have

blessed anew,

cry across the ages

“Behold the Lamb of God!”

I wrote this in 2016 to illuminate so many of the customs we have lost that wove the wisdom of the wild and the faith together so beautifully. On St. John's Eve, (The Vigil of the Feast of the Birth of St. John the Baptist), the last official day of the solstice, bonfires were set burning to commemorate the fire of the Baptist's faith and the facing into the waning of natural light after the longest day.

Couples leaping across the fire was an old betrothal custom. This was also the traditional night for gathering the herbs that would be used as medicine for the year to come. Gathered tonight and dried until Assumption Day they would then be blessed in the Monasteries at the first Mass at Our Lady's Altar... The songs and noise making around the boundaries of the hills and the fields was to frighten away evil and stagnancy so as to refresh the fields and prepare for the Harvest... Our faith was and is both holy and holistic and we must return to such deep knowing again... May the Baptist pray for us on this the feast of fire!

Meditation for Midsummer’s Eve

I post this for Midsummer’s Eve each year and each year it seems more true for all of us… the blessing is in the paradox!

The Paradox of Presence; 

a Meditation for Midsummer's Eve

Here I am Lord;

I am a passing shadow

I am a breath on the edge of being

I am a body of dust and ashes

I am a child of earth

I am from nothing

I am only ever almost

I am a ripple in the pool of life

I am a whisper in the silence

I am lost in time

I am unfulfilled yearning

I am a distorted reflection

I am delusion

I am desire

I am for now

And yet,

Here I am Lord;

I am made in your image

I am growing into your likeness

I am an idea in the Divine mind

I am called forth from nothingness

I am an exhalation of love

I am a child of God

I am an eternal soul

I am a word spoken by the Word

I am the temple of the Divine

I am from Being itself

I am called by name

I am held in being by Love

I am interpenetrated by light

I am sustained by pure attention

I am healed by Divine Compassion

I am redeemed by Mercy

I am for eternity

And so, I answer once again

caught in the pain of paradox,

on this point between the

shortest night

and the longest day:

Here I am Lord;

To be light in the shadows

To be your breath of love

To be the place where Being heals being

To be the moment where time touches Eternity

To be the voice who speaks the word into the silence

To be the torch aflame in the darkness

To be the temple of Divine encounter

To be the emptiness without absence

To be the call to compassion

To be the wound that heals

To be the child of heaven and the child of earth

To be in time and dwell in eternity

To live my I am in the I AM

To lose all so as to find all in you.

So,

Here I am Lord;

journeying from nothing to something

journeying from darkness to light

journeying from emptiness to fullness

by

journeying from something to no-thingness 

journeying from light to light so bright it blinds and darkens my still too earthly sight

journeying from fullness to emptiness of being...

Here I am Lord;

a pilgrim on this paradox path

lost and found 

and lost again

but with faith in the finding always...

and on this night of edges and shadows and barely there darkness 

I surrender to the 

silence of the Word

and simply say with open hands and 

broken heart,

Here 

I

am

Lord.

Holding on to the beads

Saturday Thoughts: hold on to the beads.

These are Rosaries that were made by Catholic prisoners in Nazi concentration camps.

They made them from bread and thread from their clothes.

They made them from bread.

They were starving and they gave up their tiny rations of bread to make the beads.

They were freezing and they took threads from their clothes.

They made Rosaries knowing that to be found with them meant a beating, torture or even death.

But they held on to the beads.

They held on because they knew that to hold on to the beads is to hold on to the hand of the Mother.

They held on knowing that not even the power of hell can cut the cords of love between the Blessed Mother and her people.

They held on to the beads knowing she was with them in her pain and in her sorrow and that she would be with them always.

They held on to the beads when Mass was impossible and the Church looked like it would never live again.

They held on to the beads as a witness to the power of faith, of hope and of love to light the darkest of times.

They held on to the beads and their testimony speaks to us down the ages.

Whatever you are going through… hold on to the beads… 

Your Mother is holding on to you.

Waking up. Beginning Again. Being in the Now

 Time to wake up... again… and again…

Now is always

the time

to wake up.

Do well and 

you 

will wake to 

discover 

that 

deep down,

past the chaos,

past the sin,

past the pain,

past the wounds,

past the brokenness,

at the deepest part there 

is,

at the very is-ness of it 

all,

all is beautiful,

all is ok,

all is well,

for

all is held in being

by Love...

and then,

waking up to 

this

marvellous and

terrible 

reality,

you will find 

to your

unfailing wonder 

and

astonishment

that,

all is 

transformed.

Chaos becomes peace,

sin is forgiven,

pain is relieved,

wounds are healed,

and the broken is

made whole again

in Divine Love's

embrace.

For there is 

nothing and 

no one

outside of that

holy

communion

of being

arising 

moment by moment

from Love’s

breathing.

If we live from that 

point,

from that 

whole and holy place,

then,

truly,

in stillness, 

we shall 

know,

that all is well

and 

all manner of things 

are

well.

So, 

wake up,

now.

Shadows: a reflection

                     Shadows?

You

say you

feel

your life

is

simply

a

shadow

cast upon 

the

wall of

time,

without meaning

or purpose,

a

random occurrence

without form,

just

function?

But ask yourself

are you seeing 

truly?

So,

look deeper brother,

look deeper sister,

what is a 

shadow 

but

a revelation

of where the 

light

is 

already 

resting?

Your body,

stardust,

forged in the heart

of a 

fire aeons

old.

Not one 

atom of 

your existence

lives 

now

that did 

not also

then

see

the vast 

distances 

of space,

did not

fall through

the long generations 

of

ancestors,

or pass 

through 

many shapes,

on its journey

to bestow 

the form

your senses

perceive as

solid,

a form 

called 

to dwell 

and 

dance 

with 

Divine breath 

in its 

making of 

your marvel 

and your

shadow

until its covenant,

dissolved by

death,

liberates 

love.

Look deeper brother.

Look deeper sister.

You see 

out of infinite 

possibility

you exist.

You.

Here.

Now.

For now 

would be

incomplete 

without

you;

your reason for 

being

passing beyond 

all causes

to the One 

who 

intended 

you

and made you

necessary,

whose love 

attends 

your being,

moment 

by 

moment,

in-breathing love

lest you fall 

away 

into

nothingness.

No 

shadow 

you,

but a 

place 

of 

graced luminosity

so bright

that dazzled by 

your own 

form

your inner eye 

sees, 

for now, 

only 

darkness

describing

a point

of light 

so bright

that Divine Love

dims vision

until 

you are 

ready

to turn

from 

shaped shadows

and face

fully

the brightness

of 

your own

blessed

being.

St. Anthony of Padua

Reflection for the Feast of St. Anthony 

Anthony Ascends:

His long travelling days over,

there is now only one direction left;

up, or is it, perhaps, 

more truly, in?

The hilltop hermitage

was not high enough

to discourage those

who would still

seek his words,

disturb his deep prayer,

his long sought peace.

So now the boughs 

beckon him higher

to a cell, a nest woven

between the branches

by the brothers.

This is his place now;

held halfway between

Heaven and Earth

What matter?

His heart has lived this way

all his life;

now the rest of him does so too.

Here, finally, the weariness

of the world may be dropped,

as he, worn out from roads

and crowds, and even from miracles

climbs just a little nearer 

to the clouds.

His body, almost too frail now 

to hold Heaven’s fire. 

Still, there are glints

of golden flame along the edges,

in his flashing eyes, 

in his measured movements,

or on his tongue 

as it tells the hours

in psalming whispers.

He is now,

a prophet become a burning bush,

a priest become a burnt offering,

a brother following the seraph song

all the way to Heaven’s vestibule.

He leans his back 

against the trunk, 

sits still and slowly fades.

A brown robed, grey-friar,

a hooded crow, upon the branch 

as weather beaten as the wood 

on which he rests.

His chapel vault, 

an arching branch.

The greening sunshine 

through the leaves,

his stained glass window.

His choir, the birds.

And he who has learned 

at last, their song of innocence,

hears, understands, and smiles

at their skyborn summons.

From here he will ascend,

this sylvan stylite,

and will be ever after known,

and busied even in eternity as,

Finder of the lost things,

Friend of the poor ones,

Pilgrim preacher of peace,

Brother to the sisters 

in their needs.

But for now, at least, 

there is a moment’s rest,

here upon the hillside

under the passing sun 

and moon,

beneath the branches, 

and breeze played leaves,

above the earth,

alone, at last,

where all the words

are dropped

like leaves

upon the wind,

Anthony 

simply

is.

(At the end, St. Anthony retired to a hermitage but owing to the crowds who came the brothers built him a treehouse in in which to spend his days in uninterrupted prayer. Icon by Br. Robert Lentz)

Feast of our brother St. Anthony of Padua today! Known as the "Good Doctor" for his immense wisdom and learning he was an indefatigable preacher and teacher of the Gospel and the first teacher of theology to the Friars from amongst their own number. 

Known for the immense number of miracles worked during his life he was granted the title of Thaumaturge or Wonderworker. He also worked tirelessly on behalf of the poor and opposed corruption wherever he found it. His last years were spent living as a hermit (in a treehouse!) and teaching the brothers. He is the patron of the poor, of children and pregnant women and of preachers and teachers, and is invoked to find that which is lost and, above all, of miracles! 

He is one of our truly extraordinary brothers and one of my own special spiritual teachers and friends. We entrust ourselves to his prayers this day and always +

(Photos include wonderful moment I got to venerate the cross St. Anthony burned into the wall of the Cathedral in Lisbon with his finger when only 12 years old in order to repel a temptation of the devil to leave his studies to become a priest.)

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SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA - JUNE 13, 2018

.

Glorious St. Anthony, I salute thee as a good servant of Christ, and a special friend of God. You once were favored to hold the Christ Child in your arms as you cherished His Word in your heart.

Today I place all my cares, temptations, and anxieties in your hands. I resolve ever to honor you by imitating your example.

Powerful patron, model of Purity, please win for me, and for all devoted to thee, perfect purity of body, mind, and heart I promise by my example and counsel to help others to the knowledge, love, and service of God. Amen.

The creator of the heavens obeys a carpenter; the God of eternal glory listens to a poor virgin. Has anyone ever witnessed anything comparable to this?" .

"The birds are the saints, who fly to heaven on the wings of contemplation, who are so removed from the world that they have no business on earth. They do not labour, but by contemplation alone they already live in heaven." ~ St Anthony of Padua

The relics of St. Anthony of Padua (of Lisbon originally) exposed for veneration. A detail of them that always makes my heart ache is that upon forensic examination of his bones it was found that his foot bones were worn almost away due to the countless miles he walked to preach the Gospel and serve the poor... Miraculously, his tongue and vocal chords have remained incorrupt to this day.

Feast of the Immaculate Heart

Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary:

We may say the Incarnation first took place in Mary's heart, before it took place in her womb, for her heart, the centre of her being, was that place that had, from the first moment of her existence, been the tabernacle of the Most High and the place in which dwelt the Holy Spirit so fully that the Angel could name her full of Grace. It was from her heart that Mary assented to the request of the Angel and it was with the heart of a mother that she conceived and bore her Son, and it was her heart, united to her Son's sacred heart, that participated in His sacrifice on behalf of humankind. 

It is Mary who in her loving acceptance of the Angel's message gave Jesus the gift of our humanity... The Sacred Heart was formed in the Womb of His Mother out of the Loving "Yes" of her Immaculate Heart.

Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us!

As Mother Teresa used to pray, 

"O Mary, give me your Heart: so beautiful, so pure, so immaculate; your Heart so full of love and humility that I may be able to receive Jesus in the Bread of Life and love Him as you love Him and serve Him in the distressing guise of the poor."

Sacred Heart

Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus;

Today is the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus: the Feast of Divine Love made manifest in time. In preparation for the Feast I've been using the following meditation by the great mystic and monk Thomas Merton which you may like to pray with...

Blessings to all +

O Great God, Father of all things, whose infinite light is darkness to me, whose immensity is to me as the void, You have called me forth out of yourself because You love me in yourself, and I am a transient expression of Your inexhaustible and eternal reality. I could not know You, I would be lost in this darkness, I would fall away from you into this void, if you did not hold me to yourself in the heart of Your only begotten Son.

Father, I love You whom I do not know, and I embrace You whom I do not see, and I abandon myself to You whom I have offended, because You love in me Your only begotten Son. You see Him in me, You embrace Him in me, because He has willed to identify Himself completely with me by that love which brought Him to death, for me, on the Cross.

I come to You like Jacob in the garments of Esau, that is in the merits and the Precious Blood of Jesus Christ. And You, Father, who have willed to be as though blind in the darkness of this great mystery which is the revelation of Your love, pass Your hands over my head and bless me as Your only Son. You have willed to see me only in Him, but in willing this You have willed to see me more really as I am. For the sinful self is not my real self, it is not the self You have wanted for me, only the self that I have wanted for myself. And I no longer want this false self. But now Father, I come to You in Your own Son’s self, for it His Sacred Heart that has taken possession of me and destroyed my sins and it is He who presents me to You. And where? In the sanctuary of His own Heart, which is your palace and the temple where the saints adore You in Heaven.

Amen.

From Thoughts in Solitude

Thomas Merton

A Franciscan Litany for Corpus Christi

 An old one (from 2014) for the day that's in it: 

A Franciscan litany for Corpus Christi : 

The feast of the Body & Blood of the Lord.

Sacrament of the Poverty of God: 

Make us poor from the giving of ourselves

Sacrament of the Emptiness of God: 

Empty us of ourselves that we may be filled

Sacrament of the Littleness of God: 

Make us know our smallness in joy

Sacrament of the Silence of God: 

Invite us to dwell in your silence always

Sacrament of the goodness of God in creation: 

Make us reverent before You in all your creatures.

Sacrament of the mercy of God: 

Make us merciful to all and to ourselves

Sacrament of the invisible God: 

Teach us to seek your presence always

Sacrament of the marriage feast: 

Invite us into the embrace of infinite love

Sacrament of Remembrance: 

Teach us to remember You always

Sacrament of the Humility of God: 

Teach us the way of humility.

Sacrament of the Real Presence: 

Teach us to be really present to our brothers and sisters in their need.

Mary our mother, 

vestment of God, 

and first tabernacle of the Most High,

teach us the way of silent love, 

the deepest contemplation, 

and the opening of the heart 

as a dwelling place for God.

For St. Kevin of Glendalough

 For St. Kevin of Glendalough

Only after

finding the 

forested place

of stillness

between

the lakes,

between 

the worlds;

only after

all the words

had been 

dropped,

though reverently, 

like leaves, 

upon

the woodland floor;

only after 

the hands,

now worn,

wrinkled, 

thin,

were gently opened

palm to sky;

only after 

the hooded mind 

was

emptied 

of 

all the 

shadows

that seeming 

are;

only after 

the heart

let go the chains

of its own 

forging;

only after the 

breath

became the slow 

foundation 

of being;

then, 

only then,

did the deep stillness 

arise,

and the eye of prayer 

open,

and the Spirit 

breathe 

the embers of 

the long banked heart-fire

into blaze.

And then,

only then,

did the blackbird 

of heaven

nest,

and lay its sky blue 

blessings

of resurrection 

promise

upon your 

branched 

hand,

anointing 

with song 

the promise of 

heaven

for new beginnings,

while you, 

tree tall

and

stone still,

beneath the 

bowed benediction 

of the

oaks,

became

monk,

became 

sage,

became

prayer,

became

you.

.

(Today in Ireland we keep the feast of St. Kevin of Glendalough, hermit, monk and founder of the monastery of Glendalough. It was said of him that his prayer became so deep that on one occasion he was so still a blackbird mistook him for a tree and nested on his outstretched arm. He remained in stillness until the eggs hatched. This poem came to me after a visit to Glendalough some years ago. I share it every year on his feast as a reminder of the possibilities inherent in faithful prayer.

The Surfacing of Summer

In gratitude for peaceful Summer evenings...

The Surfacing of Summer:

At last,

the tide of Summer

turns.

And the land,

like a great grey whale, 

sudden surfacing

from the deep of

winter's waters

into sunshine's seas

feels the waves 

of warmth,

white tipped with

tree blossom 

foam,

call her

into blessed breaching

and joyous 

jumping.

Singing her wild

whale song

of summer in every 

form of

flower

she charms us 

who chase 

light,

and spouts 

the fragrance 

of the 

Summer Kingdom into 

hearts

that remember a 

home

once lost 

and longed for, 

and now, 

lilting

lovingly draws

lo,

in each 

lauds

praising

of love's 

eternal

conquest.

Basking in 

blessedness,

she becomes the 

Summer Isle,

on which we shivering 

sailors

pitch up and 

recover 

rest,

while white birds 

soar

above her in blue

and lift our souls

skywards

once

more

to the stillness

of stars

in a summer's

night sky,

offering their 

divinely

ordered dance

above the 

phosphorescent 

flash

of mountaintop flukes,

tipped 

with the golden 

sheen

of last 

light's touch 

of love.

June; the month of the Sacred Heart

A poem of old remembrances as we enter June, the month of the Sacred Heart:

Sacred Heart

I remember still, 

with the sharp light 

of a child's knowing of newness, 

my Gran's bedroom. 

Spartan, yet equipped with things 

of a quality we do not have 

in many places now.

Long used. 

Loved. 

Meant to last.

Her carved bed seemed enormous to us 

as we flung ourselves onto its satin spread, 

sliding across it to thump, 

giggling, 

on the hard floor.

A mirror, a brush, a comb, all laid out 

upon the dresser as carefully 

as a surgeon's tools, 

heavy and cold to the touch,

but glowing with the warm barley sugar 

inner light of polished tortoise shell.

An old clock that worked, sometimes, 

its numerals glowing in the dark 

a faded ghost green. 

And there, upon the dresser too 

he stood, in stone stillness. 

Flaking slightly, but still royal 

in his red robe, revealing the love 

that is at the heart of all things. 

He seemed huge to my small hands.

I would climb onto the bed beside her 

as she whispered her prayers 

in his direction;

she would hand him to me then 

and he would sit comfortably 

upon my knees,

as I, entranced, traced the thorns 

entwining his poor heart, 

and tried to pull them out;

feeling his heart a flame, 

a fire for me, for her, for all!

I would whisper to him then,

my childish news and secrets

and I remember (can you believe it?)

sometimes, he whispered back

words of such love

they exist now only as 

scattered shards of light 

within my own heart's memories.

There and then I promised, I would 

one day, pull out those thorns.

Gran smiled when I told her this

"Maybe you will", she said toothlessly,

the liturgy of dentures coming after prayers

in the morning's ritual,

"But maybe you'll put another thorn or two 

in there too; 

don't worry, we all do from time to time, 

but never forget He loves you still!" she said, 

smiling sadly at my stricken face.

Then I kissed him hard, as children do,

and made the foolish promise

of a child to ease his heart a little.

A promise I confess I have yet to fulfil,

though no shortage of thorns 

have I added to his crown.

Devotions done she restored him to his place 

upon the dresser,

and I, sliding off the bed,

now thought only of the day before us: 

of buses into town, bookshops, 

and Bewley's cafe!

Then we went downstairs 

to breakfast on tea and toast,

always, me going first,

she coming behind,

her breath, 

her voice as one, 

whistling upon each step,

the background music

of her life;

"Sacred Heart of Jesus,

I place all my trust 

in Thee."