Clare: the burning one!

Clare

There came at last
the night when,
with Bishop’s blessing,
she drew back the great bolt
and, with sudden strength
unknown before,
cast open wide
the ancient oaken doors
and left it all behind.
Breathing the cool free
air of night
her sparkling eyes, now
a mirror of the canopy
of shining sisters overhead.
Veiling herself in night,
and without a backward glance,
she fled to the forested friars
who met this already bright one
with their lamps lit at woodland edge.
So theu beckoned her
to the little house of the Mother,
where she once again
affirmed the divinely kindled desire
of her heart’s longing,
and threw herself into the flames of faith,
a furnace so incandescent
that hair, and clothing, and even name,
are burned away.
And so the robe of blessing was bestowed
and the promises that bind the hearts
of those who know
true freedom made.
He was there, of course,
to receive her sacred vows,
as his first sister,
and a daughter of his prophesying too,
Francis of the dancing fire,
whose sparking words first
heard through her window
open to the world below
found a home in the dry
kindling of her heart
and became a raging firestorm
so strong that,
castle walls and binding ties
could not hold her captive any longer,
but allowed her
leap into the arms of love itself
upon that quiet woodland night
and find within that
merry band of brothers
a garden where
her seed soul spark could
grow and bloom unhindered
and unquenched.
What psalms were sung
and candles kindled through that night
within that little portion that the Lady
had allotted them
who served her Son and Lord anew!
What rejoicing did the Angels make
drawing even the animals
to witness this new beginning
as, unseen but felt,
the fiery Dove descended
and warmed with hidden wingbeat
the heat of grace within this gracious one
now sharing in the lot of those whose
only riches are the gifts of holy love.
So Francis looked
upon this little plant
newly sown in sacred fire
and smiling saw within
the power of her poverty,
the fire that would,
in time, spread undimmed
to countless sisters
who would come
hearing of her wild wonders,
she to whom
Kings and Lords
would bow
humbled by the humility
of one who dared to trust,
as he had trust himself,
in heaven’s promise
to uphold all those
who dance across
the rose red coals
of passion
so light,
so empty,
they can not
be burned
but incandesce
themselves
and become
ah!
Fire.

St Clare’s Day 2018

Portiuncula: For the Feast of St. Mary of the Angels

Portiuncula

All quiet he came, barefoot,
and brown as the leaves that
fell at his feet like blessings.
A wanderer in the woods;
this day, he had woken weary
and in his sitting stillness
felt the call to journey
further into wonder.
He had followed the bird songs
and slanted sun beams as signs,
listening with love to the lay
that seemed always to sing out
from every stone and leaf,
from every bird and beast,
calling him along the way,
until at last, and suddenly,
he stepped into that clearing
and saw so bright
in sudden Sun's appearing
the grey green mossy walls,
the tumbled stone,
the ruined chapel,
long forgotten by all
but Angels and Animals,
who often find in our withdrawal
a safer sanctuary
to keep their innocent vigil,
and psalm together in a harmony
our sin discordant voices can
no longer sing.
He stood there a moment,
as still as one who sees beyond
and knows himself a servant
of the flame that burns the bush
but consumes it not;
slowly understanding his draw to this place
within the deeper call, echoing resounding
once more in soul's song:
to rebuild the ruins,
firm the foundations,
and raise the roof of grace.
Kneeling now, he gently bows
and touches his forehead to the ground,
the holy cross is graven once again
upon his heart, and then he reaches
for a stone, long fallen from its place,
and kissing it with reverence for the gift
of the Mother it makes of itself,
he places it upon another,
and begins again to build the church of God.
That night, as lady Moon
crowned the new set stones with silver,
he lit the long dark lamps
before the face of one his heart
called Queen and Mother both,
and realised with joy
to whom this holy place belonged.
Standing he sings alone his nightly songs:
psalms, and hymns, and lovers lauds
to the Lady of his soul and then he sleeps,
this troubadour in his tumbledown temple.
Until in deepest dark he wakes with wonder
to find a new light all about him,
fairer than moonlight, gentler than stars,
emerging from these old sacred stones,
as all around the gathered sit
in serried rank, birds and beasts alike,
all watching for their
Lady's smile upon her lately sleeping servant.
Now roused he hears the heralds of heaven
sing their own music, alike to his
but deeper, greater, older, sweeter,
lifting his troubadour tunes
into the great song of heaven's hearing.
Lost in love and light he listens,
caught up in creation's hymn,
whose crowning Queen he knows
here now in her sanctuary by sight,
and sits where he,
her knight errant of the road,
had lately slept his labours off.
The music, never silenced, fades, a little,
and beckoning him to her side
she whispers words of such blessing
he cannot believe;
to his care this place is given,
his little portion it will be,
and to his brothers yet to come
also a reminder, an anchor
a place of refuge and renewal,
of beginning blessing,
and the promise of an ending
in the embrace of she who gathers
these poor scared sparrows
neath her mother's mantle
to gift them to her Son.
Then reaching forth,
the Lady touched his tired eyes,
and seeing now with heaven's gaze,
the ages fall about him
telling the tale of all the Friars who follow;
the Sisters too, will have here their birth beginning,
until an even greater forest grows
about this blessed place, planted in peace
and bearing joy as fruit,
born from the seed of Gospeled faith,
sheltering with blessed branch all beings
who seek the shade of pardon and long for peace.
He weeps then, this rebuilder of blessing,
long and loud is his lament,
his mourning for the early days misspent,
 declaring his deeds, he seeks
her departure from one so stained,
yet she, the Lady, smiles all the more,
lifts him up, calls him son,
as much her building
as the stony walls about them both.
Then with a swell of Angel song she leaves,
or at least is seen no more,
and the little brother
does the only thing he can,
as, with makeshift trowel in hand,
and weeping still,
he picks up another stone
from off the floor.

Today is the feast of Our Lady of the Angels of the Portiuncula, a foundational feast for all Franciscans throughout the world. It was at the little forest chapel, rebuilt with his own hands, that Francis founded the Order, dedicating it to Our Lady of the Angels, there he received the vows of the brothers and of St. Clare, spent much time in meditation and finally breathed out his soul to God... The little chapel remains the heart place of the Franciscan soul and is a place of blessing to this day.

The "pardon of Assisi" the plenary indulgence granted to St. Francis to honour this feast and title of Our Lady may be obtained by visiting any public church until midnight tonight, praying the Creed and the Our Father for the intentions of the Pope and receiving Sacramental Confession and Holy Communion within 7 days before or after the feast.

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.

 

St. Mary of the Angels: The Portiuncula

Today, (August 2nd), we in the Franciscan Family keep the Feast of Our Lady of the Angels!

This is the patronal title of the Blessed Virgin under which St. Francis placed the Order. St. Francis had great devotion to Our Lady under this title due to his repairing of the little chapel of the "Portiuncula" (little portion) in the woods outside Assisi and becoming devoted to it as a place of prayer and meditation in which the earliest brothers gathered and St. Clare was first received into her vows, where St. Francis had a number of visions on Our Lady and the Angels and received the famous privilege of the "Pardon of Assisi" from the Pope, (a plenary indulgence that anyone may receive under the usual conditions in any church throughout the world in honour of Our Lady of the Angels.)
Finally, it was at the Portiuncula also that Francis greeted Sister Death and passed to the Lord in the year 1226.

Today the little chapel still exists now surrounded and protected by a great Basilica where pilgrims gather to this day...
Some prayers in honour of Our Lady by St. Francis follow so you can pray with us today.
Hail, Lady and Queen,
holy Mary, Mother of God,
Virgin who became the Church,
chosen by the Father in heaven,
consecrated by his beloved Son
and his Spirit, the Comforter:
in you was and remains,
the whole fullness of grace
and everything that is good.
Hail, his palace,
hail, his tabernacle,
hail, his dwelling,
hail, his robe,
hail, his handmaid,
hail, his mother!

O holy Mother,
sweet and fair to see,
for us beseech the King,
your dearest Son,
our Lord Jesus Christ,
to death for us delivered:
that in his pitying clemency,
and by virtue of his most holy incarnation
and bitter death,
he may pardon our sins.

Holy Virgin Mary,
among all the women of the world,
there is none like you.
You are the daughter and handmaid of the most high King,
Father of heaven.
You are the mother of our most holy Lord Jesus Christ.
You are the bride of the Holy Spirit.
Pray for us, with St. Michael the archangel,
and all the powers of heaven
and all the saints,
to your most holy and beloved Son,
our Lord and Master, Amen.