Advent Vespers

 The Holy Season of Advent begins at sundown with the lighting of the first candle of the Advent wreaths and the Office of Vespers this evening...an old meditation poem for this evergreen moment of turning towards the light in the midst of darkness follows...

Advent Vespers

At the thinnest time 

of the year,

when

the worlds whisper 

to each other 

across the cosmos,

and tell their ancient tales

while the darkness draws in,

we draw the cloak of comfort

close against the cold.

And,

at our vesper vigiling,

a spark is struck 

then

enfolded 

in the ever-green,

that circle of 

hoped for Spring,

sprinkled

with blood-berried scarlet,

of wounds wilding, 

and see

once again

time's yearning path

retold 

in leaves,

the slow greening

of patriarch's prayer 

and prophet's longing.

So we wreathe ourselves 

in hope,

again,

as 

a wavering flame 

proclaims 

faith's abiding presence 

beyond 

dark's doubting 

and 

invokes the coming 

of the One who 

is always present;

knowing that 

as flame will beget flame

until

the candled constellation 

is complete,

and our caroled voices 

rise 

to join the sister stars 

in their long remembering 

of that ancient night 

when,

once, 

they 

stilled their dance 

awhile,

and,

awestruck,

watched

the silent Word 

appear,

whose light,

now hidden 

beneath

Mary's mantle

and

settled on straw,

first

kindled their flame 

and 

set the measure 

of their orbit's pace.

But,

in this moment's breathing 

we 

simply stand 

and psalm our way 

to Advent's

gates of longing,

and there,

with open hands

and heart's made poor again,

we are gentled 

by a single flame's

appearing,

and watch 

soul's inward sky

for Grace's 

first falling 

flake,

as children

look up

and long 

for 

snow.

Our Nesting Season?

Nesting Season


There is always
a choice.
Perhaps in these
strange moments
it is a simple one;
to dwell on
what has been taken away
or to dwell
in what we have been given;
to build our nests anew
weaving safe and soft
a chance to breathe,
with all the terrible
possibility that brings;
to reflect,
to wonder,
to sit anew
in the secret depths
of those actions
of holy ordinariness;
eating,
drinking,
walking,
sleeping,
cleaning,
being with,
being alone,
simply being.
Taking the time
to watch the earth
reset and heal,
to allow our inner
sky to clear of
all our worry weather,
often as grey
and insubstantial
as clouds,
until the
one thing necessary
shines through
at last,
and we see
the present moment,
sky blue,
and fragile
as a blackbird’s egg,
nesting secure
in the heart,
deep within
the brambled hedge
of our thorn tangled
thoughts,
awaiting the stillness
of a spring morning
when we grant ourselves
new greening,
awaiting the sunbeam
of divine attention
to warm it to life,
awaiting our
sitting breath,
faith feathered
and yielding,
to hatch within us
a new way.

Brother Richard

Mar 30th 2020

St. Patrick, Pandemic, and the Divine Presence of God: Brooke Taylor wit...

An interview with Brooke Taylor for the Feast of St. Patrick covering all things Pandemic too.

May it bring you and yours blessings for the feast and let us all pray that St. Patrick may intercede for a quick cessation to the current viral pandemic.

You can access the interview at this link:

interview on St. Patrick, the pandemic and the Divine Presence

Lockdown - Brother Richard Hendrick

With thanks to Fr. Michael Surufka OFM: A sharing of my poem Lockdown that took place in the US yesterday... How wonderful that we can share our community even in the midst of the difficulties of this time: The text of the poem follows:



Lockdown

Yes there is fear.
Yes there is isolation.
Yes there is panic buying.
Yes there is sickness.
Yes there is even death.
But,
They say that in Wuhan after so many years of noise
You can hear the birds again.
They say that after just a few weeks of quiet
The sky is no longer thick with fumes
But blue and grey and clear.
They say that in the streets of Assisi
People are singing to each other
across the empty squares,
keeping their windows open
so that those who are alone
may hear the sounds of family around them.
They say that a hotel in the West of Ireland
Is offering free meals and delivery to the housebound.
Today a young woman I know
is busy spreading fliers with her number
through the neighbourhood
So that the elders may have someone to call on.
Today Churches, Synagogues, Mosques and Temples
are preparing to welcome
and shelter the homeless, the sick, the weary
All over the world people are slowing down and reflecting
All over the world people are looking at their neighbours in a new way
All over the world people are waking up to a new reality
To how big we really are.
To how little control we really have.
To what really matters.
To Love.
So we pray and we remember that
Yes there is fear.
But there does not have to be hate.
Yes there is isolation.
But there does not have to be loneliness.
Yes there is panic buying.
But there does not have to be meanness.
Yes there is sickness.
But there does not have to be disease of the soul
Yes there is even death.
But there can always be a rebirth of love.
Wake to the choices you make as to how to live now.
Today, breathe.
Listen, behind the factory noises of your panic
The birds are singing again
The sky is clearing,
Spring is coming,
And we are always encompassed by Love.
Open the windows of your soul
And though you may not be able
to touch across the empty square,
Sing.

March 13th 2020

"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!

Homily for the Easter Vigil 2019

Homily for the Easter Vigil 2019

It begins with fire… a spark is struck and an explosion of light transfigures darkness…

It begins with a flame… courageous, strong, held aloft and carried into a dark and empty space

It begins with light… a point of luminescence that is shared and spreads without ever dimming or becoming less…

A light that is the light of all but kindled in the heart of each and every person…

A light that the darkness now discovers it can never overcome…

It begins with a cry an invocation of light called with hope into a darkness that seems to be the death of all things

Lumen Christi we cry and we hold our flame aloft…

Lumen Christi we cry before the forces of sin, and darkness and death…

Lumen Christi we cry and we watch in awe as sin is forgiven, darkness is swallowed by light and death touches life itself and so becomes no more…

This is our faith and this is why we gather all over this world on this holiest of nights to vigil from darkness to light, from dusk to dawn, from death to life

Keeping our watch as a vast flaming tide of faith catches fire and flows across the face of the earth as the people of God sing the song of resurrection…

Tonight, we exult with joy over a victory, not just promised but already given, as we see the ancient enemy thrown down and the cosmos healed and renewed in the light of the Risen One stepping from His tomb; his wounded and glorified feet gentle upon the soft grass of the garden as Mother Earth thrills to know that the seed buried within her not three days hence held within itself the gift of a new and eternal spring for all creation.

A new beginning for all that was, and all that is and all that will be…

For from this moment all is new and the One before whom the first seven days of creation unfolded in power and majesty is now become the eighth day Himself, the beginning and the ending, the alpha and the omega the origin and the completion of all things…

Now the great cry of resurrection is heard as the call of the Good Shepherd to all of creation to come home to the house of the Father!

The doors and gates of sin that we erected in our error and pride have been knocked down and the empty Cross stands as the key that gains us entry into Love for all eternity…

Now the lord Adam and the lady Eve and all their generations are loosed from the limbo of the ages and hear their Son and Lord call them home at last…

Now Peter is called from his tears to look into the eyes of love and become the rock the foundation stone of faith…

Now the Apostles will be woken from their grief and fear to become sparks of the flame of love that will over run the whole world…

Now even Judas is looked upon in love if only he can open his pride sealed eyes…

Now the mourning of the women will become the joy of the comforted…

Now the faith of the Mother is fulfilled at last and the Son embraces her in a moment so sacred so profound that even angels are rendered silent before the sight…

And down the ages the flame comes….

The light born by saints and sinners alike for only sinners can became saints…

The fire of Easter borne through days of joy and days of sorrow, through days of peace and days of persecution, through great and glad gatherings and lonely lives lived in isolation and pain…  

In every succeeding age the great of this world proclaim it quenched, the so called wise proclaim it stifled and lost, and yet always, always, it rises again, renews itself again, and from the long banked hearth it flames forth from One who can never die and whose five fiery coals kindle the Church as the harvest of the world eternally governed not by earthly power or wisdom but by the weakness and folly of the Cross…

The fire comes to us too who gather here this night on the holy land of Ards…

It crackles beneath our feet and drums in the heart of our being, gifted to us by Ancestors who saw their own story assume meaning in His greater story, who found hope in His fire and love in His light…

It comes to us pure even of those who along the way corrupted its cry of compassion and peace and hurt so many… and it comes to us to use us to purify the past by becoming fire ourselves… by becoming places of resurrection, tombs that become gardens liberating the Christ life to love through us, with us, and in us the whole of creation and so reach out to the wounded, the poor, the downtrodden, the abused that they might hear their own hope sound anew in our Alleluias!

    

We saw this fire work its wonders this past week when in a country where so many thought the faith dying if not dead already, a burning building brought blessing… not in the flames that consumed a mere building but in the sparks suddenly kindled by that sight that gathered a people and brought them to their knees before their mother singing the hymns of their ancestors and resolving to find again the faith that would raise to the Mother of God such a tribute… The same fiery faith that sent a priest into the burning nave to rescue the Blessed Sacrament and the ancient relics, remembrances of His love for us and give a benediction to the city that burned hotter than any earthly flame…

So do not doubt the power of this resurrection flame… in every age it has burned and we are still dazzled by the light of Easter dawn when even Brother Sun

dances with joy!

A Christian fears no doubt, no danger, no darkness!

For all is aflame with love this night, and fire dances over our heads as we sing our Alleluias to the Rising Son!

My Gran and the Christmas Invitation

My Gran and the Christmas Invitation:

Today, St. Stephen’s day is a very sacred one in our family… not just because of the first Martyr’s witness and passing to the Lord, but because it is also my Gran’s anniversary.

My Mother’s mother, she was, (and is), one of the greatest influences in my life growing up.

I have always regarded Gran as one of my first and best teachers, not only in the ways of faith but even on the contemplative path within it. 

Many, many hours were spent with her, listening to her stories and imbibing her teaching (though she would never have called it that… she simply taught by her very being, as all good elders do). Faith for her was as natural as breathing, and indeed, if you listened as closely as I often did to her whistled breathing as she went about her day, a short prayer to the Sacred Heart or to Our Lady was often just beneath the surface of her breath.

Like her own Mother and Grandmother before her she was a “sharp woman”, as they used to say in Dublin, meaning a wise person and one with a direct line to the Spiritual world. 
Her mother was sought out amongst the Dublin flats as she had “the way” of helping difficult births and deaths and was often asked for advice about a “match” between couples as she had a “good eye” for these things.

Gran was no different and there were many times I would go over to her house to find her sitting beside the phone waiting for the call that would tell her so and so had died. She, of course, already knew as she had “the dream” the previous night… the phone call always came to confirm it and I soon learned to be used to it. 
On other occasions I would arrive to hear her chatting aloud with someone only to discover her alone by the fire when I entered the room.

I never asked.

She never said.

We didn’t need to.

She taught me those ways too. 
“Look into the fire and tell me what you see” she would say, and then smile when, to my surprise, I saw. 

She taught me to look at people’s eyes when they spoke and at the way they stood and moved. 
She had tremendous devotion to the Blessed Virgin who had “been through it all” and her prayers to her were not so much novenas or devotions as a constant conversation born of a life long trust. She had great respect for the friars and religious orders much preferring their churches in town where she could attend anonymously, not liking the front seat parish people as she called them. 
She reminded me often never to judge anyone and taught me to give to the poor, especially beggars in the street. 
“There’s always a story there,” she would say, 
“No one is on the street because they want to be.” 
Women were on the street or poor because, 
“Men put them there.” 
Men were on the street or poor because, 
“Most men are fools for the bottle or for a story.” 
No matter the reason they were to be listened to and helped.

She had been sharp in other ways too. A hard life and losing her husband early on had made her hard in her mid-life and it was only as a Gran that she softened again. In her later years she would often tell me that she was glad she got to be a Gran after everything she had been through.

She often worried about her death. She was not afraid to die. 
"No one dies alone", she would say. 
She had seen enough deaths to know that, 
“They come to collect you.” 

She was, however, afraid that she would die in the house and that I or another grandchild would find her. So for the last few years of her life she prayed everyday the “Thirty day’s prayer” to Our Lady for a happy death and listed the way she wanted to go:

She wanted to die in her sleep so she could “wake up in Heaven”.

She wanted to die alone but having said her goodbyes and surrounded by love.

She wanted to be ready to go.

She talked about it often, not in a morbid way, but in the way you recite your shopping list.

Going and coming were natural in their very essence and death she had long taught and lived was nothing to be afraid of for a Christian soul.

That Christmas she had been very unwell.

Pneumonia had followed a chest and kidney infection and a stay in hospital was called for. She did not want to go but acquiesced at my Mum’s request. Feeling a little better after a few days of antibiotics she was to be released for Christmas by the Docs even though Mum was not happy that she was ready. She came home to us. She was weak and a slim figure of her former self though I still wondered at the muscled arms of her small frame, a result of countless years of housework when that still meant a physical ordeal. She spent most of the next couple of day’s in bed sleeping. She smiled a lot and we got to visit with her and hold her hand and chat. 
Christmas Eve came and her children and grandchildren all visited with presents and smiles and the occasional worried whispered conversation with my Mum and Dad as to how she was doing. Christmas Day she was very quiet and slept a lot. As the house was beginning to settle down she called my Mum into the room and very deliberately and unusually for a woman of her time thanked her for all she had done and told her she loved her. My Mum was somewhat taken aback but at that moment Gran asked her who it was that was standing behind her. 
There was no one there that Mum could see. 
Gran’s eyes focused on the spot behind her and she relaxed.

“It’s alright,” Gran said, “I know them.”

Mum said her smile was a beautiful thing at that moment.

She told Mum, “You can go down to the family now, I’m fine”.

Mum did, though to the end of her own days she often wondered why she did. 

As she went downstairs she could hear Gran talking quietly in the room.

Later Mum checked in on her to find her sleeping deeply and gently.

That night a Blackbird sang outside the house all night.

I remember looking out to try and see it.

I could not.

I should have known.

Gran had often taught me to watch out for Blackbirds.

“They are special to our family,” she would say, 
“Your Grandfather loved them and they come to warn us of things.”

“Whenever you see one, say a prayer to your Grandad.”

I still do.

The following morning, very early, Mum woke suddenly and went straight to check on her.

Gran had passed away.

She was still warm and she was smiling gently.

Mum called for the Priest and the Doctor and then carefully woke us all. I still remember that there were no tears in the house that morning. It all felt very peaceful and quiet. The Priest administered the Last Rites as he felt that she had only just gone before Mum found her. 
A little later myself and Mum stood in the room with Gran looking out the window. 

On the lawn a hen Blackbird was hopping around.

We smiled at that.

“Well”, I said, “She certainly got the death she had wanted!”

Mum told me then about the things that had happened the previous night and about Gran seeing someone in her room.

Someone who had made her smile.

“Do you think it was Grandad?” I asked.

At that moment, right in front of us, a Cock Blackbird, all shiny and bright yellow beaked flew down beside the Hen on the lawn outside. They greeted each other and flew off  together.

After that there was nothing else to say.

Gran had gotten the death she had asked for and we had received the little signs of her going.

In Ireland there has always been the custom of the “Cuireadh na Nollaig” the so called “Christmas Invitation” the feeling that a death at this time of the year is especially blessed and that the signs around it are powerful. Today, almost thirty years later I write this so that this story of my Gran’s passing may be remembered and may bring peace and hope to all who read it…

And perhaps the next time you see a Blackbird you might say a prayer for all your loved ones gone before you…

(Photo unattributed found on google)