Breathing Easter;

Breathing Easter 

There 

is a 

moment

of perfect

stillness

between 

the 

in-breath

and the 

out-breath;

small,

silent,

vulnerable,

and so often

missed;

but, 

when we 

attend,

always 

infinite 

in 

depth.

It dwells

where

the now,

radiant and

eternal,

is touched

as transformation,

as grace;

for there

the

Risen One

is revealed

in the 

burning

bush 

of our breath,

of our being.

Just

as a garden,

emerging

frost tipped

from night's

entombment,

knows 

the delight

of dawn's 

first touch

and yields 

to the 

daily

moment

of resurrection

with the

inhalation

of light,

with the 

exhalation

of

birdsong.

Pic of Easter Sunday Dawn at Ards Friary 2019

The Unknown Joy of Mary

 The Unknown Joy of Mary

It is often asked where the risen Christ was when first Mary of Magdala and then the other women and later the Apostles got to the garden... Mystics and Mothers (who are often the same thing) have always known the answer...

After all where would any Son who had put his mother through so much go to first but to her...

The following lines by Catherine Doherty express this hidden and unknown joy of Mary, a very ancient tradition of the Church, perfectly... May it be your meditation this Easter morning...

May the light of the Risen One and His Holy Mother full your hearts and lives and homes today and always +

Mary's Reunion.

The stone rolled off,

And no one saw it.

Her heart was jubilant

And full of ecstasy.

She knew that a sea of joy

Would flow out of the sea of sorrow;

Although it would 

Recede to sorrow again

 

She could remember

Being born in the midst of

God the Father,

And being created

Before creation.

Did She truly watch

Light come out of darkness?

Did she see shores

Come into being?

It seemed you could play

See-saw on a wave!!

 

She never moved.

Quietly and closed in a room,

She sat behind a door

That no one dared to open,

And looked upon the streets

Of her beloved Jerusalem,

Watching the crowds

Hurrying hither and yon;

Watching, and not seeing at all;

For the sea of sorrow

Was receding

Into the desert

Where seas go;

And she was playing

See-saw on a wave

Made by God.

 

He touched death

For an instant – 

Abolished it forever,

And it became

An angel of surpassing beauty;

For whom men of faith

Would wait with bated breath;

Death hasn’t icy fingers at all

They are warm – 

The fingers of the angel of love.

The ice, the cold, the decay

That is for men of earth to see;

For their eyes are not conditioned

To the resplendent state of the

Soul.

 

She knew

He was not dead forever;

Not one bone would decay.

He slept, quietly, obediently,

In the tomb;

For He was obedient

Even after death.

 

But when they rolled

The stone before the tomb

He was free to roam;

To come, to go

To be

Where all those years

He could not be

Or could show Himself.

 

Out of the tomb

To hell,

To bring joyous news;

Then, like a man

Would visit

In a pilgrimage of love,

The places that made His heart

Beat faster

As a man.

When She had held His cold-warm

Body

She trembled

With the joy of it – 

Knowing He would come

To visit Her first

The Magdalene would be the next

To see Him. 

 

So She sat alone

With the door closed – 

They thought to grieve

But no! To wait.

Who was there to see

Or hear what passed?

Who was there to know

The glory

Of music born in that room?

The Music of His voice and Hers

Mingling as voices

Never did before.

 

"Share in one of my unknown joys.”

 

“He came to Me

In my chamber,

My Son!

My Lover!

And overflowing rapture

Condensed in utter ecstasy

Filled Me again.

“It was as if

I had conceived anew,

For all my being

Felt His coming.

The room pulsated

With the beat 

Of angels’ wings

But even the seraph’s eyes

Were sealed.

Not even they

Could look then

Upon the Mother and the Son

And so they chanted

Alleluias.

 

“Did you know that I,

The first stigmatic,

Had the wounds?

It happened simply,

Perhaps He was two or three,

Perhaps, I am not sure.

It is hard 

for one who encompasses

eternity

to think in time.

One day He was playing

At My feet,

And suddenly

Like a little swallow

He kissed each foot.

The wounds began to throb.

 

“At seven or eight

He kissed each palm,

Lingeringly.

And I knew

The feel of nails.

 

“He came once

In early spring,

On a shiny sunny day.

His hands were full of flowers.

He sat on a small stool

And wove a crown for Me.

I knew the weight 

Of thorns

Upon my head.

 

“In May, in your land,

Children repeat His gesture.

It brings back the memory

Of thorns, sweet, deep, sharp.

 

“He was a suckling at My breast.

One night,

Somehow, His face fell

From My nipples;

And His warm mouth touched my side.

Was it a kiss?

Was it a lance?

From that blest night

The pain was there

Never to go.

 

“So you must know 

My unknown joy,

The rendezvous We held – 

My Son and I – 

The night they thought

They had sealed His tomb

So tight.

Where do you think

He went?

He went to the place

He loves most in Palestine – 

The room of His Mother.

 

“Wonders will never cease!!

The room was aflame;

For where My Son is,

There is My spouse,

The Crimson Dove

Who holds Me tight.

The angels’ wings

Made melody of strings

As they chanted their 

Alleluias

In a circle of bliss,

And He sat at My feet

And I looked into His eyes – 

Above to below.

 

“The Crimson Dove

Brought the flame of love;

And the Father was there

Unseen, jubilant, joyous,

Taking delight in His Son.

And as He did,

The Crimson Dove grew,

And a flame covered the earth.

Alleluia

Alleluia

Alleluia.

 

“The stone was still tight

On the tomb of My child 

Who was with Me.

 

“I give you the Paschal gift.

Put out your hands

And take it to your heart

This is the night of joy!

Alleluia!

I am an 

Alleluia

In the flesh

Tonight.”

Lines taken from The Unknown Mysteries of Mary by Catherine deHueck Doherty.

Meditation for Holy Saturday

                           Meditation for Holy Saturday: 

There is no rest for Christ. 

The Word works always... though His body lies in death still He descends into the world of the dead and breaks the power of Hell forever... He harrows hades... and lifts into the fullness of Heaven all those who lay in limbo until the gates were broken down...

There is no place or power of darkness that will not flee before His light...

A beautiful meditation poem (one of my favourites) on the moment Christ appears in the world of the dead follows... 

Limbo 

by Sister Mary Ada, OSJ

The ancient grayness shifted

Suddenly and thinned

Like mist upon the moors

Before a wind.

An old, old prophet lifted

A shining face and said:

“He will be coming soon.

The Son of God is dead;

He died this afternoon.”

A murmurous excitement stirred

All souls.

They wondered if they dreamed –

Save one old man who seemed

Not even to have heard.

And Moses, standing,

Hushed them all to ask

If any had a welcome song prepared.

If not, would David take the task?

And if they cared

Could not the three young children sing

The Benedicite, the canticle of praise

They made when God kept them from perishing

In the fiery blaze?

A breath of spring surprised them,

Stilling Moses’ words.

No one could speak, remembering

The first fresh flowers,

The little singing birds.

Still others thought of fields new ploughed

Or apple trees

All blossom-boughed.

Or some, the way a dried bed fills

With water

Laughing down green hills.

The fisherfolk dreamed of the foam

On bright blue seas.

The one old man who had not stirred

Remembered home.

And there He was

Splendid as the morning sun and fair

As only God is fair.

And they, confused with joy,

Knelt to adore

Seeing that He wore

Five crimson stars

He never had before.

No canticle at all was sung

None toned a psalm, or raised a greeting song,

A silent man alone

Of all that throng

Found tongue –

Not any other.

Close to His heart

When the embrace was done,

Old Joseph said,

“How is Your Mother,

How is Your Mother, Son?”

The Tipping Point: a poem for Good Friday night.

 A meditation poem for Good Friday night:

The Tipping Point.

The tipping point 

is now reached 

at last.

The ancient scales 

of justice, 

long fixed,

creak stiffly and tilt

mercywards,

weighed anew,

re-balanced

by wooden thorns

and three iron nails,

stirred

by that last shattering cry

of consummation,

more of a breath 

than a shout

by then,

delivered into winds 

suddenly woven

from calvary's calm;

as though inspired by 

His exhalation to wake 

all who weep,

or sleep,

or wander,

now drawn to new ways,

all while rocks crack 

beneath 

the sacred strain

of holding Him who 

holds them in themselves,

and a once sure crowd 

feels the fear of sudden clarity too late, 

too late.

What of His fled followers?

Did they feel it too?

The sad shuddering 

of the earth's molten heart 

boiling and breaking 

in grief, 

those who hid themselves 

like Adam from an 

all seeing eye

of love, 

like children who,

thinking to 

conceal their faces,

close their own eyes.

Yes, these, 

who would soon return,

almost all,

and be gathered 

again

around 

she who was 

His parting gift,

who had first gifted Him 

with all He human had.

She the solid earth healing

his broken fisherman foundation

until solidity returns

thrice assured.

Now He seems to return

to rest

upon her lap,

but Soul journeys still 

in realms long lost to us

He routs rage 

and restores

right.

His light harrows Hell 

where revealed now

as Word,

and Lord,

and King,

He claims His dowry,

the seeming dead 

of all the ages,

freeing and raising

before being risen

Himself,

while His body,

salved,

shrouded,

and entombed

waits for wedding kiss

of resurrection

dawn.

(stained glass of the Passion from Ards Friary)

The Seven Sayings: A meditation poem for Good Friday

 The Seven Sayings:

These are the seven sayings

that made the world aright,

breathed upon the wind

by the Lord of light,

as from his wooden throne

they conquer broken hearts,

and spoke by Him alone 

then healing sundered parts.

The first it was forgiveness

offered to us all,

who would pierce the God-man

with a bloody awl.

The second was a promise

offered to a thief,

who then gainéd heaven

by his new belief.

The third it was in parting

His mother to behold,

to all of us then given

as queen to love and hold.

The fourth it was a great cry

from His broken heart,

yearning for His Father

while torn by sin apart.

The fifth it was a thirsting

for the souls of all,

dying for their living

healing then their fall.

The sixth it was a whisper

that thundered in the sky

bringing to completion

His quest to live and die.

The seventh was a yielding

of His final breath,

rendering now His spirit,

Life now touching death.

These are the seven sayings

that made the world aright

breathed upon the wind

by the Lord of light

as from his wooden throne

they conquer broken hearts,

are spoke by Him alone

then healing sundered parts.

On this blessed Friday

may we make our way

to the skull topped hill

there to see and pray,

to gaze upon the God-man,

to hear these words of grace,

to adore the saviour

who then took our place,

and by these sacred sayings,

these blessed words of power,

unmade the serpent's wounding

in that fateful hour.

So glory let us give Him

and always let us praise

who by His seven sayings

did our sins erase,

and ever let us speak them

aloud for all to hear

for by their very sounding

His mercy draweth near.

Art by Salvador Dali based on the vision of St. John of the Cross.

Gethsemane’s Agony: A meditation poem for Holy Thursday Night

 Gethsemane’s Agony

Once again, a garden; 

where silence settles slowly like dust,

falling over the ancient olive branches 

twisted in terror at 

what their knotted faces had to watch;

so becoming old witnesses, rooted in righteousness, 

while mere men slept against their sides unheeding. 

Grasses, mob trampled moments ago, begin to rise

stretching towards sky in supplication 

for celestial comforters;

or, broken stemmed, lie down in the 

wake of wildness now passed, 

prostrate in prayer.

The old rock is stunned into a stillness 

it may never recover from;

feeling bloody sweat running over its surface yet, 

it yearns for ancient days of volcanic years to 

mould itself into a vessel for love’s libation,

but hears instead the drip

of crimson dew upon the ground,

as Mother Earth receives her secret 

holy communion too,

shuddering as, at its taste, eden memory stirs 

in her long wildered garden soul.

The after glare of torches, shouts and swords 

fades into the city below while

Moon rises gently, 

bestowing her kiss of reparation 

on this place

with softest light.

Slowly, in silent reverence,

angels and animals appear 

and sit together 

beneath the

blessed branches,

a sundered union sealed,

as witnesses

of the Garden’s 

holy agony.

Holy (Mandy) Thursday: the day of the gifts of Presence

 Holy (Maundy) Thursday: The day of the gifts of Presence.

As sister Moon rises this evening the Easter Triduum begins... The three days that are "One Great Day"...one continuous action of Divine Love...

We begin with the day of the gifts: 

Three parting gifts are given by the Lord to His followers today and each of them are usually celebrated in our evening Mass of the Lord's Supper. Each of them is a way of meeting the Lord's real presence and each a sign of love and a transforming grace that when met changes the person and invites them into a deeper communion of Love with God in the other person. While this year our celebrations are constrained and even absent in many places due to the virus we are still, wherever we are, in the presence of Love; the presence of God and in our caring for each other by staying apart in these days, even though it breaks our hearts to do so, we can be sure we are fulfilling the great commandment of love...

What are these gifts we celebrate today?

They are the gift of the Holy Eucharist, the gift of the Sacramental Priesthood and the gift of the New Commandment of Love (Mandatum Novum), from which the day takes its name.

In the Commandment of Love the old law is fulfilled, completed and superseded and the operating philosophy, theology and methodology of the Church is given. Our God is the One who bows low and serves His people; loving them back into wholeness... The example He gives we are to follow. We have no part with Christ if we do not bow low too and find the Divine Presence in each other. In the taking off of the outer garment He removes all that would separate us from Himself, in the wearing of the apron He becomes the servant and the lamb, in the washing of the feet He prepares us for the journey into the depths of Love...

In the Sacramental Priesthood He establishes an eternal conduit of sacrificial grace in which the eternal salvific events about to unfold may be touched in time by each succeeding generation. In the emptying of self that the priest is called to, especially in the sacramental moment, He is present and His people touch His power and love and mercy. His priesthood is a servant, sacrificial priesthood and His priests are called to follow the lamb to the altar and to calvary...

In the Holy Eucharist He gives Love's greatest gift; Love itself remains incarnate and eternal with His people for all time. In this unspeakabale and awe inspiring gift of Divine generosity He demonstrates the sheer immensity of Divine Love and its longing to be with, to be in communion with us... He becomes our food, our medicine, our soul spouse and the furnace in which we are purified and become what we were always meant to be... And he does all this for us who are about to betray, run away and crucify Him... and He does it now today too... in this moment and in every succeeding moment... calling out to us from the priesthood, from the altar, from the Blessed Sacrament, "A new commandment I leave unto you; that you love one another as I have loved you!"

The picture is of the Chapel of the Upper Room in Jerusalem, the ancient site of the Lord’s Supper and the place wherein these gifts were first made manifest by Divine Love.

Spy Wednesday: a meditation poem

          A meditation poem for Holy (Spy) Wednesday

Spy Wednesday

We feel it once again

approach,

as a shiver on the

spine,

the annual reminder,

the telling of the

true tale;

of the betrayal

of love,

of light,

of God;

existing

not just then

but

always;

an option in each

moment.

Beguiled by shadows

of desire,

always appearing

bigger and better

than that whose

shape

they,

in their smoke selves

flickeringly take

falsely;

we tell ourselves

the story

as old as eden:

It is for our good,

or

for their good,

or

for goodness sake,

or

for eventual good.

But we

know,

always,

deep down we

know,

as inch by inch,

step by step,

we turn our back on

Him,

on Love,

and allow

the callous clinking of

coin

to fall upon the

floor

of a once clean

sanctuary,

our fairy gold that

disappears

in morning light,

yet we,

knowing that good is

hard,

too often

take the eden easy

way,

and

descend the

steps of

desire

until despair

beckons...

Hold!

He is looking at

you,

always!

In this moment,

meet His eyes,

who saw you

first in

eternal

gaze of Love

from everlasting,

and hear Him call

your true

name!

Give Him

your

judas shrunken self,

lost in egoic agony,

and let

His betrayed and bought

blood

purchase for you

instead

Peter's

true tears,

crystalising

into repentant

rock

beneath

Easter's

thrice told

benediction.

"The real sin of Judas was not the betrayal of Christ but his rejection of the forgiveness offered for that betrayal."

The Twelve are alive in me: a meditation poem for Holy Tuesday

 

A Poem for Holy Tuesday:

The Twelve are Alive in Me.

There are days when it feels

as though all the Twelve 

live in this poor disciple’s heart.

For, depending on the moment’s mystery

each has his place, and his preaching

is heard in my soul.

Peter is present,

a rock and foundation stone

thrice cleft by betrayal

and cleansed by tears at

cockcrow,

but fitting fully now nonetheless,

this rough fisherman of grace,

overawed at Love that does not depart

in the presence of sin,

or even self satisfied importance,

but teaches patiently

through the impetuosity

of one who would,

build tents to tame heaven

on a hill,

or swing a leg over the side 

to begin the water walk of wonder

until storm tossed seas

recall a quavering heart to the lesson of humility

and later call “Quo Vadis?” 

to One whose way he follows to

an upside down end.

O yes. 

Peter is present in me.

Andrew beckons too,

the announcer of the Lord.

First called and first to call others.

“Come!” 

he cries in me, “I have found Him!”

And this is the life of Andrew in me

finding and losing and finding again;

only to lose again 

so that I may call others to

the finding in their turn,

and in that struggle to perhaps

at the last, find all that I have longed for

and sought in every teacher;

the One from whom all knowledge comes,

the One who is the Wisdom of the Ages,

the Lamb walking wild towards His

Paschal place while saying all the while

“Come and See…” 

“Come and See…”

O yes. Andrew is present in me.

The Sons of Thunder have their place in me,

brothers both and twice blessed

James and John; lions of the Lord,

tamed slowly into Apostles of

mercy and love.

They shine the light

on all unreconciled in me, 

all that is yet to yield

to the gentleness of grace, 

transforming fire into fire,

light into light, they smoulder within 

until finally alight, the mystic flame

burns away my blindness

and gives the eagle’s eye,

the pilgrim’s staff,

to see and walk the way

beyond the way 

of this world 

Matthew dwells here too.

Tax Collector, Publican, 

who yet holds the priestly name

too in his heart, even in his broken days.

Forgiven his compromise 

with the world and called clean

from the heart of horror

by One who sudden stands unbidden

in the midst of the unclean place

to cleanse and call.

His story told me to hope

that I too could be called,

not once only, but daily

from the hard taxation 

of sin’s slavery

and its distractions to become

a living Gospel of His grace,

evangelising all in exultation

over mercy found, not once only,

but many times,

where even the tale of my betrayals

becomes a blessed gate to grace

for all who hear.

O yes. Matthew is present in me.

Philip and Bartholomew,

those brothers of the road 

and companions on the way 

are found in me.

Spirit led preachers and questioners too,

seeking wisdom’s light and imparting

wisdom’s blessings all in the power of

the Word. 

In their pain they preached

and fulfilled their longing

to see with their own eyes,

and touch with their own hands.

They teach the lesson of being open to Angels

met upon the road in all the disguises

of grace; stepping lightly and not long upon the earth

they dance across deserts 

and invite me to flow freely in faith

O yes. Philip and Bartholomew are present in me.

Thomas too is here,

sometimes still appearing as

Didymus the Doubter;

needing the touch of truth, 

the gaping wound that proves Love’s

labour, birthing blessedness in blindness.

Yet also, and more often

he in me affirms faith and its freedom

describing divinity in mystery 

and Lordship in light

touching presence, yes

by becoming the very vessel 

in which is seen and heard

the One who is the face

of the Father.

O yes. Thomas is present in me.

Three come forward now

Each with their own share 

Of me, in me, with me,

Simon, James and Jude

Of the first two named

I owe the allegiance of the east,

for into the sun rise they walked

their way of faith together 

once healed of the heaviness

of seeming loss and ruin on Calvary’s Cross.

In its sign they bought with their blood too

the blessing of a harvest 

still to be reaped, not just in distant lands

but in this my soul, that lies too often in darkness

and yearns for resurrection dawn.

Of the third what can I say 

but that his gift is hope, perhaps

the greatest grace of all save love,

but can love be kindled 

save at hope’s hearth?

He too lived his hope unto the gates of Heaven

where hope fades into faith’s fulfilment

and where I pray each day these noble three

may yet bring me and all I love safely home.

O yes. Simon, James and Jude are present in me. 

And yes…

There is a Judas place

in which I am the betrayer,

whose faith is so frail

it cannot imagine a mercy

wide enough for me,

and hurtles instead headlong

through temptation’s tumult

to bestow a kiss,

by which the silver coin of self

turns to doubt’s dust

in an unknowing dawn, a mere second away from resurrection

May I be saved from it by this sacred knowing that

O yes; Judas is present in me.

But there is too a blessedness in me,

though not of me,

that kindles faith and hope and love

even in the face of my own weary weakness,

and calls me yet, as they were called 

from out the ordinary occupation of the day to know

that these Apostles, all alive in me, 

are spokes of one great wheel of love,

that turns the stars and drives the sun across the sky

and pours upon us the uncreated light by which we see the light!

Known to those twelve first as Rabbi, then as Christ, and finally as Lord,

He lights my way, loves me and all that is 

into the blessing of being

and asks me now, as then he asked all twelve, and asks now you, 

“Will you not come and see?”

O yes. He is present in me.

(an older one today but one that feels right as the Gospel of Holy Tuesday today encounters the responses of the Apostles to the prediction by Jesus of His betrayal.)

Meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s anointing

 A meditation poem for Holy Monday of the Lord’s Anointing

Perfume

They were a people aware of smell as we are not.

Thinking ourselves safe in our sanitised 

and oh so hygienic ways we lose so much.

They lived breathing the breath of Mother Earth,

exhaled in a myriad of mists, miasmas and myrrhs;

the Fisherfolk and their slimy shining scales 

the Shepherds and their greasy fleeces, 

Merchants fogged by clouds of spices, 

and Lepers with their cracked and bleeding skins;

above them all, perhaps, the incense fumed robes of Priests

hiding the metal edge of blood poured out upon the altar stone; 

so they lived and died with their own fragrance 

woven into the warp and woof of cloth and skin and lives, 

to say nothing of the sun’s sweat upon the brow and back 

of middle eastern days.

How it must have exploded then, this perfume,

as with the cracking of the sealed white urn 

the ointment poured out, slow as sunrise, 

felt not just upon His feet but in the air, 

the precious nard,

that held within itself the living breath 

of flowers and herbs 

announcing their ancient edenic essence, 

pouring its power into nose and throat and lungs, 

silencing the room with this sacrament of scent, 

at once so sacred and so animal, 

singing its old song to both soul and sense alike. 

Stored long and held precious 

by the Woman for so many days,  

a gift perhaps, taken down 

only to be put back until the appointed time; 

not yet, not yet, she might have said, 

waiting for the heart’s movement as only women wait.

Until today, when He visits once again this blessed Bethany, 

this place of peace and miracle of friendship, 

watered with His laughter and His tears, 

for sisters two and reborn brother all. 

Perhaps she sees in Him the weary dusting of the road, 

perhaps a presentiment of the future way appears, 

no matter what spurs the gift, 

it is given freely as grace is given, 

becoming a deeper grace in that very giving, 

now an omen, to point the way toward the path of pain, 

a knight’s anointing for the combat coming

for Him who is already thrice anointed, 

priest, prophet, king,

yet named anew for death by perfumed oil’s cool touch,

as with her tears and hair she wipes His feet in welcome

liturgy of love that breaks the bounds of law 

and silences all but one, 

whose sense and soul are long since dulled 

to all but self, causing the Word Himself 

to speak and make it known that Love 

itself permits this scenting scene as prophecy

and extravagance, earth’s last gift for Him 

who in its scent song tastes all the notes 

and knows again the touch 

of crib remembered cooling myrrh, 

and its long foretelling tomb, 

for which the time has now at last, arrived.

His feet anointed for the journey He must take

so all may at last attain their home, 

He will become

the perfumed ointment for our healing, 

the fragrant offering, 

the incense burned and offered up.

(Picture by Daniel F Gerhertz)

The Providence of the Palm: a meditation poem as begin Holy Week

The Providence of the Palm

There is a divine 

tenderness

found at the heart

of the world

still, 

though

often forgotten.

If you do not believe me

that's ok.

But at least 

ask yourself 

why

the Palm tree,

growing silently

and unremarkably

for long years,

then

put forth a branch

a stem,

a flower,

in precisely that

direction;

growing 

inch by

perfect

inch,

to seeming 

touch 

with love

the face of

sacred suffering?

You may have 

many reasons

to say otherwise,

all of them no doubt

are good 

in their own way,

but to me the

providence 

of the Palm

is this,

a reminder

from the ancient

tribe of tree

that we

are called

to stretch toward

the

suffering

and pain of this 

world

and there

tenderly caress 

the 

wounded

face of 

Christ.

The Meeting on the Way: A meditation poem for the last Saturday before Holy Week

 An older one for the last Saturday before Holy Week:

The Meeting on the Way.

I do not think it happened as the pictures show;

the woman swooning into the arms of John,

or held back and cowed by soldiers' spears.

No. 

That is not the way a mother 

is present to a dying child. 

I have stood at the deathbed 

of too many not to know.

No one could hold back a mother

who saw death in the eyes of her son.

Believe me when I tell you

whether in the dusty streets 

or the sterile hospital room

this is how it happens, by and large.

The men?  

They weep and rage there and then as is their way.

But the mothers are a steely silent presence, a rock immovable, 

their gaze granite as they bear their born into the next life.

The swooning and the wailing happen only after 

the final stillness comes.

So it must have been then too.

In that moment of their meeting 

I see a sphere of silence envelope them there,

the sanctuary of their communion 

so present, so profound

that all the chaotic pain of mobbing noise 

seems just for a moment to cease around them both, 

as for the last time upon his bloodied way, He rests.

She had seen Him safely into the world 

and now she will see him safely out of it,

even though nature rebels in the hearts of all parents

who see death in the face of their child.

Even though the ever present sword 

buries itself deeper, 

always deeper into her heart

with every breath. 

She knows its pain well. 

It had begun the moment the angel left.

Even in Nazareth days it was present, 

a shadow overhanging, 

present in every childish cut and bruise and tear 

soothed upon her knee,

and held at bay by love.

Did she remember in that moment the day 

he told her the time had come?

Her life was always yes to all that liberates life, 

as every woman’s is,

whether through the womb, or the heart, or the mind,

but surely, no, was near her mother’s lips that day.

Now all she can do is be,

here,

now.

Present to Him who is 

in this moment more than ever 

simply a son in need of His mother

She will bear him now again into new life.

The pangs of this birth will 

touch death itself and conquer it,

as all birth does, and though 

this time the gate will be the heart,

the hidden womb, that sealed tabernacle, 

will weep also in pain. 

For now they simply gaze, a moment, an eternity 

before which even angels hide their faces in shame. 

It is enough. 

He knows now she is with him.

He will see her at the end.

So He stumbles on

as on the breeze he is surrounded

by the scent of Nazareth:

wood dust, frankincense, fresh bread, 

and even in the street of pain He is

for a moment,

home.

(Picture of Our Lady extrapolated from the Holy Shroud by Julian Lasbleiz. What a wonderful talent!)

Homily for the Easter Vigil 2018

Homily for the Easter Vigil 2018

The Angel said, “You are looking for Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified: He has risen, He is not here. See here is the place where they laid Him. But you must go and tell His disciples and Peter: He is going before you to Galilee; it is there you will see Him, just as He told you.” Mk. 16:8

We have arrived at the place of fulfilment.

We have arrived at the place where all our longing, all our desiring falls away.

We have arrived at the moment of Resurrection, not just of Christ, but through Him and with Him and in Him, a resurrection of all that is.

Long lost in self, long lost in despair, long lost in death we had felt the coldness of a life that seems to have no meaning, no essence, no hope…

we had felt the darkness of a wintered night without and even more so within…

we know what the long night of sin has done to us…

it has worn us down…

it has shamed us…

it has taken from us all that we hoped for…

as sin always does…

since the garden we have known its false promises and since the garden we have thought them real, only to stumble and fall again and again…

And yet for thousands of years we have hoped for deliverance, for freedom, for restoration…

We have been promised such in the proclamations of prophet and in the whispers of patriarchs, in the songs of the holy women and in the innocence of children we have seen another way, we have been recalled to righteousness, we have been invited again and again into covenant…

and we have heard that it is possible that the God who is Love never abandons His creation. Never abandons His people, never abandons you, never abandons me…

And He has promised…

he has declared that not only will He be Emmanuel, the God with Us, but He will be Jesus, the One who saves us from our sins. How? By facing down our darkness. He who is light will descend into the darkness of our sin. God from God, Light from Light, true God from True God; the everlasting Word of the Father will descend, will empty Himself and descend into the very bone of our bone and flesh of our flesh… this is how much He loves us…

He will become us and in becoming us He will face our darkness, consume our sin, heal our wounds…

He will be our sacrifice, the only sacrifice acceptable to the Father for in His humanity He will descend to heal us and in His divinity He will raise us up to our eternal home in the very heart of the communion of Love that we call God…

Yes He will descend and in descending touch the darkness, touch the despair, touch the sin, touch the misery of our selfishness and for just a moment, for just a seeming moment seem to be consumed. He will touch death, death on a cross. He will touch your death, all that is dead in you, all that is dead in me…

just for a moment…

they touch…

they embrace…

they kiss…

and from the darkened Golgotha sky the source of life and light breathes out his Spirit over the chaos we have caused…

And then…

and then He conquers!

Darkness is overcome by Light

Death is overcome by Life

Despair is overcome by Hope

Love… Love…Love

conquers all!

He is Risen!

Alleluia!

He is Risen!

This is the heart of existence, the heart of the story of creation, this is what it is all about and always was and will be about…

He descends and in that universal moment of Resurrection I am raised too, you are raised too, and crackling along the great faultline of history forwards and backwards into the world of the dead and the world of those yet to come all feel that great earthquake of power as death is conquered, the gates of hell are broken and the lamb reveals himself as the Lion of Judah

and He goes before us…

listen to the words of the Angel…

He goes before us…

We will see Him there just as He told us…

He goes before us…

the One who was foretold through the ages…

the One who emptied Himself of Divine Glory so as to become one with us…

goes before us…

The One who suffered and died and rose again goes before us…

He goes before me…

He goes before you…

Do you know what that means?

It is the great Easter secret…

from now on there is never a moment in your life or in my life, never a joy, a suffering, a place, or a time where He is not already there, waiting for you to arrive and be present to Him so that He may pour out love and light and power upon you… The resurrection is not just a moment in history it is happening now…

in this moment and in every moment we will ever face!

Our choice tonight and in each moment is to liberate His power in us, to allow Him to be the God He is who waits until we allow Him in… until we become present to Him…

Otherwise we miss it… we can be like the disciples who hear the word of hope and power and dismiss it… it can’t be we think! I had my plans and they failed… I had my hopes and they failed… I know who I am and I am a failure…

So I will dismiss the easter message tonight and descend back into my worry, my pain, my story of how things should be, could have been, would have been…

No not tonight! I beg you not tonight!

Leave the tomb of the past behind… walk out into the garden of the new morning of God’s Love.

He has died to show you how much you are loved. Your God has died for you!

He has risen to show you how much you are loved. Your God has risen for you!

He has gone ahead of you to prepare a place for you. Your God goes ahead of you!

No more fear of the future then!

No more regret for the past then!

As the Lamb He has cancelled your past

As the Lion He fights for your future…

So we on this holiest of nights begin again with the God of beginning

We say to Him again Lord that I may see! Lord that I may follow! Here I am Lord in all my mess, my pain, my glorious brokenness! Here I am for you! Let me begin again this day, this very moment. Not my will but yours…

What have we to fear?

We have it from the Angel’s mouth…

He has risen…

He is not here in the place of the tomb…

He is going before you…

It is there you will see Him…

Just as He told you…

And let us pray: Lord I will follow you into the easter light of the life you have prepared for me…