"Brother Thanks-be-to-God": St. Felix of Cantalice, the first saint of the Capuchins

Today, the eighteenth of May, is the feast of the first canonised saint of the Capuchin friars!

So I would like to share a little of his story with you...

(the following is a collation from various sources)

Felix was born to a family of farmers and so knew hard work from a very early age. He was known for his great physical strength, always an advantage on a farm in those days, and he was even a very good wrestler! From childhood he was known for his piety listening avidly to the stories his parents would tell him of the Desert Fathers, the first Christian Monks, and their deep ascetic mysticism. Wanting to dedicate himself to God he wasnt sure where to go until an Angel appeared to him in a dream and told him to go to the local Capuchin Friary and become a friar! Twice he journeyed to the friary and twice he couldn't find the Guardian and so came home again! The Angels must have been patient as he was told a third time to go and on this occasion he did meet one of the Superiors. He brought him before the Crucifix in the Church and told him to pray while he would go and fetch the Guardian to speak to him. The friar left and promplty forgot all about him until returning to the Church that evening he found Felix lost in prayer in the same position that he had left him in hours before. That was enough for the friars and they accepted him immediately.

Felix had hoped that in the Capuchins he would be sent to one of the mountain hermitages to pursue a life of prayer and contemplation but this was not to be! Instead he was sent to Rome where he became the chief Questor (official beggar) for the friars. He would begin his day at the crack of Dawn in prayer, and meditation and by assisting at Mass and then make his alms route around the city begging for the needs of the poor and the friary. He often laughed at the sense of Hunour that God must have, when asked why he thought this was so he would tell people that on becoming a friar he had renounced even touching bread and wine ever again as a penance, but the first job he was given as a Questor was to beg for bread and wine!

As he travelled around the streets of Rome he became a familiar and much loved figure to two generations of Romans. He was soon nicknamed Fra Deo Gratias, "Brother Thanks be to God" because this was his customary greeting and response to all circumstances. When asked once by a Roman society lady what his philosophy of life was he responded, "Eyes on the Ground, Hand on the Rosary, Heart on God".

He aimed to make every moment a living prayer and to recognise in every person, regardless of their station in life a brother or sister in the Lord. He was friends with St. Philip Neri and St. Charles Borromeo, he advised princes and cardinals, dukes and duchesses and never refused any person who was in need. He would bless bread and fruit to be sent to the sick who would eat it and then recover. Felix always attributed these miracles to the intecession of the Blessed Virgin for whom he had a particular love. He would make up songs and rhymes about her which he then taught the children to sing. On one occasion the Pope, who had been a franciscan before his election, asked for a piece of bread from Brother Felix. He immediately sent him a piece of mouldy black bread as a reminder that he was still a friar and should live like one despite his papal election. At a time when the Capuchins were still a young reform of the Franciscan order it was the holiness and fame of Brother Felix that won for them papal approval.




Nights were times of prayer and meditation for Felix when he would spend hours before the Blessed Sacrament in prayer of adoration and petition. During this time he was gifted with many visions and on one occasion one of the other brothers saw the Blessed Virgin appear and place the Child Jesus in his arms, a sign of his incredible purity of heart and devotion. Eventually worn out after so many years of unrelenting service he became sick, collapsing in front of the brothers to whom he wryly announced, "This little donkey has fallen and won't be getting up again!" At his deathbed he suddenly sat up and a light was seen to shine from his face. One of the brothers asked him, "Felix, what do you see?" "I see the Blessed Virgin surrounded by throngs of Angels!", he replied. Holy Communion was quickly brought to him and as the Host was brought into the room he sang the hymn "O Sacrum Convivium" in a loud voice, then received the Body of the Lord and gave up his spirit. As he passed away the bells in some of the nearby churches rang by themselves and some of the children of Rome ran through the streets shouting, "The saint is dead, the saint is dead" All of Rome turned out for the funeral of the little brother who had laboured amongst them for so long. Canonised as St. Felix of Cantalice he became the first of the Capuchin branch of the Franciscan Order to be canonised and remains in his joyful simplicity and deeply contemplative spirit and model for every Capuchin since.

St. Felix pray for us!

Our Lady of Sorrows: A Meditation

Our Lady of Sorrows: A Meditation for the Feast.

Each year we come to this celebration like a full stop.

It arrests us, holds us, freezes us as we look inwardly at that scene we think we know so well.

The Woman and the Man,

the Mother and the Son…

and the Cross; always the Cross…

Mother of Sorrows we call her and she is the Mother of Sorrow today, for her Son is not just the God who is Love, but the God who is the Sorrow that Love becomes when it is refused, rejected, even hated…

In a universe of hate and betrayal she will be the one point of pure light, the one point of pure love, the one point of pure sorrow over Sorrow’s pain.

Mother of Compassion we call her. “Cum Passio” is the phrase at the root of this word; to be with the suffering. For all she can do is be with Him in His Suffering and long, as so many mothers have longed over countless ages, to end His suffering, to take His place, to stand in the place of her child.

How many war zones, sick beds, hospitals, prisons have been hallowed by such prayers over the ages?

In a universe of pain and suffering she does not look away, she stands, strong for Him who has become weakness itself in this moment, that the wound at the heart of it all may be healed. She chooses yet again, as surely as she chose in the light of the Angel all those years ago. She utters a Yes once again, this time not with words but with presence. Words without presence mean nothing… but presence, even when it is silent, is louder than thunder.

Mother of the Seven Sorrows we call her. Her life graced and blessed has been punctuated with pain. The pain of the moment and the pain of knowing, darkly at least, what is coming. Seven great sorrows we name, but they are only the beginning. Every mother knows sorrow… the sorrow of knowing that her child is not her own, not really, not in their essence, and that they must be set free to become all that they were meant to be. For her this natural letting go is revealed as a graced begetting of blessedness anew. She will let Him go, she will let Him go to His death and her faith will be the point of light and love that will call Him home to her when first He rises. The prophecy of Simeon, the Flight to Egypt, the first Loss in the Temple, the Meeting on the Road, they will all lead inevitably to the Cross, to holding her dead Son in her arms, to entombing in the womb of the Earth the One she had carried safely in her own womb. And yet, when all will be death and despair she will stand as Woman, as Mother, as the faithful witness, as the one who walks the path of living martyrdom, as the one who, on our behalf, believes past believing; doing this as only a mother can, as only a woman can, winning the victory by the purest kind of faith, unselfish Love.

Our Lady of Sorrows we call her. Ours! Yes she is ours… for in the moment of her greatest pain she says Yes to another, deeper call within her consecration. His last words will bequeath His greatest gift. Present to Him with all her love, with all her still strength and grace she is now ours too. Behold your Mother. This is the generosity of God, of Grace, of Love itself… holding nothing back for itself it gives its greatest gift away. This is the generosity of Mary that she says Yes and accepts us all in the very moment of our greatest rejection of her Son. At the pinnacle of hate she becomes the very first fruits of love, and compassion, and peace, the place where the fruits of the Cross are first tasted, the one through whom grace is liberated and the one in whose immaculate heart, pierced in the piercing of her Son’s the song of our resurrection will first be sung.

Our Lady of Sorrows, Mother of Compassion be with us and help us to carry our own Cross in faith and hope and love.

Pics above: The First is the famous rendering of Our Lady's face based upon the proportions of the Face of the Holy Shroud. The second is by Angela Yerber.

  

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.

Queen of Carmel; Queen of Contemplation's Heights

Today we keep the Feast of Our Lady as Queen of Carmel...

From Old Testament times Carmel was seen as the mountain of prayer and contemplation, the place of encounter with God and longing for the Messiah. The Prophet Elijah spent time here and there founded a brotherhood of prophets, later Christian hermits gathered there and began the Carmelite Order seeking the way of Contemplation through the intercession of Mary as Queen of Carmel. Over the centuries the Carmelite family has given to the Church some of its greatest masters of prayer, meditation and the contemplative way. St.'s Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Therese of Lisieux, Teresea Benedicta, (all depicted in the Icon above), and so many others continue to lead us to the heights of prayer and trust in the mercy and love of God.

Our Franciscan family has great ties to Carmel as both communities have enriched each other over the years.
(The franciscan mystics St. Peter of Alcantara and Brother Francis deOsima were the spiritual directors to St. Teresa of Avila for example!)

Today, with the Carmelite family, we once again place ourselves and our prayer life under the patronage of Mary who calls us to the heights of prayer, to the heights of Carmel...

Below is the beautiful antiphon sung to Our Lady of Carmel, the Flos Carmeli:

Flower of Carmel,
Tall vine blossom laden;
Splendour of heaven,
Childbearing yet maiden.
None equals thee.

Mother so tender,
Who no man didst know,
On Carmel's children
Thy favours bestow.
Star of the Sea.

Strong stem of Jesse,
Who bore one bright flower,
Be ever near us
And guard us each hour,
who serve thee here.

Purest of lilies,
That flowers among thorns,
Bring help to the true heart
That in weakness turns
and trusts in thee.

Strongest of armour,
We trust in thy might:
Under thy mantle,
Hard press'd in the fight,
we call to thee.

Our way uncertain,
Surrounded by foes,
Unfailing counsel
You give to those
who turn to thee.

O gentle Mother
Who in Carmel reigns,
Share with your servants
That gladness you gained
and now enjoy.

Hail, Gate of Heaven,
With glory now crowned,
Bring us to safety
Where thy Son is found,
true joy to see.
O Flower of Carmel!

The Wild Nativity

The Wild Nativity.

We have our prophecies too
you know,
we tell our own tales,
and so we knew
to gather there
that night,
ambassadors of our
varied kinds all.
Before old Joseph
came back
with supplies from the inn.
We were there,
hidden in the hay,
up amongst the old beams,
resting by the manger
or drawn there
by the new star
that rose that night
pure and shining
like a snowflake
in its light.
We were there.
We had felt the
old pull of Eden
in our furred and feathered hearts
and felt his long forgotten nearness
once again who walked with us
once in evening light.
Old rivalries forgotten,
or at least put aside tonight,
we sat peacefully
in storied rank
half hidden in the shadows,
lost in awe at her,
settled
so still
in the straw,
her eyes closed
as though present
to a mystery
within.
We were there
waiting for Him
with her.
Let us prepare
His place we said...
Wren moved first,
to pluck her own breast
scattering the softest down
amongst the rough straw
and sparrows followed
weaving moss and herbs
as mattress
as Owl, and old Crow
and Hawk directed.
"I will keep him warm",
said Robin,
reddening his breast
while fanning flame alight.
"We will sing to him
when at last He comes"
said the little ones,
four footed and furred
and long tailed too,
piping in their tiny voices
choiring high as mouse
and vole, rabbit
and hedgehog all
assembled there,
followed by fox's clear tenor
and Badger's earthy baritone
to sing their
benediction of
wild welcome.
And then he came.
How? As sun shines sudden through a cloud breaking blindingly!
How? As the first rays of dawn mark that moment when night becomes a new day.
How? As a scenting nose is suddenly aware of a change in the air.
He came.
More than that we will not say.
Ours alone was that privilege to see and we will guard it down the ages...
And Mary looked upon us with love
and thanked us all
and in her smile and words
we heard old Eve laugh
at last again.
And then there was noise,
and people,
so many people,
and we withdrew
as we always do
to the shadows
again.
But not before He smiled at us
a smile of long recognition
graced and grateful
both.
After the shepherds left,
and their piping drumming din
went off amongst the crowds.
After Bethlehem finally became still.
After old Joseph nodded off
to his Angeled dreams.
We were there
and came forth again
from the shadows
to dwell with them,
our new Adam and Eve,
and heard then
our Gospel
preached to us,
who are already
of His kingdom
and always were.
We made our covenant
with Him then,
to be the first apostles
of His love
and in
our being blessed
and shared with you
to remind you
of the innocence
you lost
and He renews
if you would but follow
our
wild way to
Eden's light
again.
We have been
forgotten now
as shepherds, kings
and crowds
followed,
but not by Him,
who from his mother's arms
smiled past them all at us
hiding in the shadows
there.
And we would later
meet Him
in the desert
and the garden,
there
we will be with Him
again,
for we have
our prophecies too
you know,
and tell our tales
too,
whispering
to each other
across the woods
and hills,
on this night
each year
as you toll your bells
and sing,
we look to the skies
and
remember;
we
were
there.

Christmas Blessings to you and yours this Holy Night +

(Pic is of The Christmas Star by Lynn Bywaters)

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

On the Edge of Waiting.
(A Meditation Poem 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,
and whose silence
brought forth the
Word of Love.
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.

(I wrote this last year and just discovered it has been shared over 1000 times on FB! As it seems to be something we all need to hear I'm posting it again. May its words continue to bless all who read it... Happy Christmas Eve, Eve to all)
Brother Richard

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.

 

Palm Sunday Ponderings: Entering the Sanctuary of Silence this Holy Week

Palm Sunday Ponderings...
  
The Holy Week begins...
The Sanctuary waits in silence...
Clothed in purple and palm it stone-stands in stillness
for the first acts of the Divine drama
soon to be played out upon its steps,
as time touches the eternal Now
and sister Moon's cycle signals
the annual encounter with the deep remembrance of redemption's blooded blessing...
Here in sacred time, we are called to trace, to encounter once again,
the Sacred Mystery of Divine Love poured out for humanity.
In this holiest of weeks, 
clothed in the wedding garments 
of symbol and song, 
of liturgy and light, 
the Eternal Action of the Word made Flesh 
inter-penetrates history, 
heals the sin-sundered cosmos, 
and grace weds humanity to divinity once again...
Hurry...
Leave aside Lenten longing...
Be ready to live 
in the in-between of these blessed days 
that 
begin with Hosanna 
and end in 
Alleluia 
and whose 
still centre 
is the cosmic silence 
that follows the last 
healing breath 
of 
the Blessed One...

Blessings to you and yours this Holiest of Weeks...

Homily for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve Jubilee Year of Mercy

Christmas Blessings to one and all!

Here is the sermon I gave at Midnight Mass at our friary last night...

May it bless you and yours. +

Brother Richard

 Christmas Eve 2015 The Year of Mercy

Our God bows low…

This is the message of Christmas Night…

The One who is the Lord of Lords, and the Light from Light from all eternity;

the One who is the only begotten Son and the Eternal Word of the Father bows low…

Bows because of us…

Bows before us…

He bows so low that He descends, emptying Himself of all that would keep Him separate from us,

of all that would make us feel unworthy, or lost, or shameful…

The awful and terrible All-Holy presence in the Garden of Eden who sent Adam and Eve hurrying to hide their fallen selves now hides Himself in our flesh.

The voice of thunder upon the Mountain of Sinai that made all those who heard it throw themselves on the ground in fear while they begged Moses to pray that they would never hear it again is now heard in the cry and gurgle of new born baby.

The One whose luminous glory filled the Temple and whose reign transcends space and time chooses the deep rich darkness of a woman’s womb and delivered into time is now swaddled against the night’s cold and barely fills the manger He lies in…

Our God bows low…

He has descended to be with us, to seek us out.

He has descended to raise us up…

The Word became Flesh and dwelt amongst us…

Amongst us sinners!

We who were meant to be the joyous light filled pinnacle of creation but who had fallen to the lowest place of darkness and despair, now find ourselves called out of darkness and into His own wonderful light…

And His light is not the proud light of glory, but the gentle glow of lantern in a stable that is really only a little cave; just a crack in the earth that over the ages will crack the hardest of hearts open if they just hear its call…

Our God bows low…

He bows down to raise us up,

He empties Himself so that we may be filled,

He leaves the 99 to seek the One who is lost.

He comes not as conqueror or Lord, though He is truly both;

but only as Shepherd, Healer, Teacher, Carpenter…

Child…

But we forget…

we forget this every year…

every day…

even, perhaps, every moment…

We fail to hear the cry of the newborn calling us to this new beginning and so we need our Christmas celebration… and perhaps this year we need it like never before… we need its reminder of the Love and mercy that is poured into our world. The infinite Love and Mercy which sustains it and nourishes it and heals it and renews it in every moment…

We need it to call us to watch with the Shepherds and the Wise men for that glimmer of light in the sky of our souls, for that song of the Angels that we stopped singing a long time ago when we fell from the Eden of our innocence. It’s harmony has always been there just at the edge of hearing, on the threshold of our dreams, resting within our heart waiting to burst forth again and renew us with the light of Christmas, the light of Christ Mass, the light of the Child of Bethlehem who makes everything new and whose light the darkness can never overpower.

We seek that light in every Christmas bulb kindled on tree or shop-front or street corner, in every sparkle of tinsel or flame of hearth even when we do so un-remembering why it has ever been our human need to light lamps at the darkest time over the countless ages of our longing for He who is the Light for our darkness…

So how do we touch this mystery the Word Made Flesh, this mystery of mercy made flesh in our midst?

How can we, the cynical and the proud, the lazy and the lost, the anxious and the tired recover this gift offered to us in every moment?

We must come to the crib…

Do not hold back…

Do not let our sins hold us back…

We have been invited…

There is a place for us…

If there were not, if it were only a place for the holy and sainted then there would have been no shepherds, those unclean men of the fields and the hills, always excluded from the town and the temple.

Yet they are the first called, the first Apostles of the Lord who speak face to face with Angels and bring the message of the miracle to the people round about and to us…

Down through the centuries that message they were given comes to us again and speaks to us all the louder in these days of war and violence and so much pain:

“Glory to God in the Highest Heaven, and Peace to all people of good will!”

If we were not invited there would have been no Ox, no Donkey, for us to find ourselves between… they have their place there by right… they the only honoured witnesses to the moment of the Divine Birth.

Greeted by the newborn Babe as His gentle friends, they the emissaries of that kingdom whose countless centuries of simple animal obedience honoured him more by their very being than we have ever done until He came and gave us our new beginning in Love, are first to carol His coming with the warmth of body and breath.

So come now, join with St. Francis and the brothers who journey through the ages to the Crib taking not the smooth paved road to town square or shining basilica but a mountain track into the deep forest where a cave lies prepared to stun the people back to innocence. Follow those torches lighting their bare-footed steps and sing with them those ancient songs, of Holly and Ivy, of Blood and Berry, of Candlelight and Crib as we travel to the Cave where time stands still and the white candle is kindled as eternity enters time and the Babe is born to die; where God bows low and the Father of the World to come, sleeps gently on His Mother’s breast…

Come to the crib…

Come to the cave where Mother Earth holds her most precious treasure and there bow low too…

You will have to…

I will have to…

For none can enter this place without bowing…

Without stooping…

To enter this first Holy Door of Mercy you must enter at a child’s height, and with a child’s heart… and then you will hear the whispered choirs of the ages sing their eternal “Venite Adoremus” and looking around you will find that no matter how old, or hardened, or weak you are you have the shining eyes of a child again…

This is the first gift to you of the One who is Mercy itself, the One who restores innocence and heals hearts long hardened… and then you will discover Christmas, the reality of Christmas again…

Not the Christmas of the shops and the TV’s and the black Fridays, and the rows, and the drinks, and the noise, and the pressure, and the stress, and the stuff, (so much stuff), and the buying, and the queuing, and… and… and…

Stop, breathe, be…

All that is another thing altogether… a distraction… the mere wrapping paper on the real Christmas Gift…

Having bowed low you will come to stillness there sitting upon the rough straw of the crib, the perfect stillness of a Mother and Child, and stilled yourself you will know the new beginning that comes with the Child.

You will discover again the true Christmas that always sits in your heart and there opens a stable to One who is greater than all.

One who is Compassion.

One who is mercy.

One who IS Love…

Our God has bowed low…

He bows so low that wherever we are, He is…

Even in the mess, even despite our sins…

He entered the world in a dung filled stable…

How could He ever draw back from you, draw back from me…

He bows so low that He seeks to enter the stable of our hearts now and in every moment and once born there to invite us to begin again in love

He bows so low that, yes, we can sometimes forget Him… for sometimes what is nearest to us we do not see unless we open the eyes of our heart again with a child’s simplicity; until we come to the crib, yearly, daily, even in every moment entering the Holy Door of Mercy by serving each other in compassion and love, by simply bowing low.

So bow low this Christmas and be met by the God who bows low.

Enter the cave.

Come to the crib.

Cross the Holy Door of Mercy.

Become Love.

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.