Brother Leo remembers Brother Francis

An older one today... But one I keep coming back to....

Brother Leo remembers Brother Francis.

“What was he like?” 

I asked,

exhausted from my climb to pierce the

cold cliff top cloister of

this cowled brother’s retreat 

hoping to stir to remembrance his soul 

first stung by the Seraph’s fire so long ago,

yet burning still in eyes ancient but clear

that gazed upon my lack of grace with mercy, 

and smiled at me from a distance I cannot fathom.

“What was he like?” he whispered to himself 

holding my question as carefully as the jug 

with which he poured me water, cave cold and clear,

to quench a pilgrim’s thirst.

Then on that hill above Assisi

the old hermit friar spoke,

slowly at first, and stumbling,

as though his tongue, long lost in silence

of cave and forest, had now to stretch itself

and awaken language once spoken long ago,

like one who comes home from a foreign shore

and finds now the accents of his own confusing. 

So we sat before his cave he and I, 

friar and novice both,

lost in legends and lore, 

all the more beautiful for being

at the same time, 

truth; 

and needing to be told once more

to a world longing for his possibility to be made present

in edenic blessing

once again.

"What was he like?"

"Like a Tree he was, 

that on Summer days shines green 

and in its topmost branches feels, 

the waft of Heaven’s winds 

and dances even at the stillest hour, 

or that in Autumn clings not to leaf 

but 

changes loss to gift by 

casting clothes windwards and 

delights in lightness, 

its bare bones describing sky 

and pointing arrowlike 

always upwards."

"What was he like?"

"Like a Stone he was, 

smoothed by the sweet rain, 

graced by countless hours of chiselling prayer 

into a solidity of stillness. 

A cornerstone, a keystone, a foundation stone 

able to hold the weight of wisdom lightly,

yet bear up the broken and bridge the gap;

a stepping stone to wholeness and home

for those long lost."

 

"What was he like?"

"Like the Night Sky he was, 

open, and sheltering, and many 

couloured in magnificence, but 

starlit in simplicity. 

Its beauty simply a gradation of light, 

infinite in scope and eternal in origin."

"What was he like?"

"Like Fire he was, 

tracing his storied path from spark to ember, 

even in stillness, a banked flame, 

and always energy of exultation breathing blessed,

a conflagration of communion, 

buried just beneath the ashes of abstinence."

"What was he like?"

"Like a Stag he was,

who knows where the sweet water flows, 

and travels the deep dark valleys 

and mountain crags to reach his slaking spirit stream."

"Loud as a Bear he was, 

and as quiet too, 

spending his winters between 

wakefulness and sleep, 

lost in the cave of the heart, 

barely breathing, 

but 

murmuring mercy for all, 

until spirit spring stirs and his 

honeyed roar was heard again 

upon the hills."

"Like a Wolf he was, 

singing soul songs beneath sister Moon’s gaze 

with clear eyes lost in Heaven’s love, 

calling to himself his pack, those

who heard their song and soul sound 

in his echoes of emptiness."

"Badger brawny and 

filled with faith’s wisdom he was, 

and, likened to old Broc 

he knew the ancient ways and 

night walked, as they do, 

secret silent paths of prayer,

long trodden, but needing 

refinding always, in each 

generation’s journey."

"Like a Salmon leaping he was,

glittering like glass,

light sparkling from sliver scales, 

struck by sunlight, suspended

between sky and stream in a 

moment of stillness

over ever rushing river."

"What was he like?"

"A living song spark wrapped in the 

nest of Mother earth,

enfolded in the dun dust brown of the Sparrow,

small and thin he was,

with a barefooted skipping gait

barely holding the joy that burst from his breast,

his cross feathered soul 

never far from song."

"Like a Wren in a thornbush he was,

cocking its eye wryly at the earth bound,

certain of its power of flight

and yet choosing our company."

"Like a Robin he was,

who, tree hidden from view,

sings its piercing song of Heaven

drawing down remembrances 

of innocence past

into tired hearts sure they were 

long past childhood’s delight in sheer being,

and there waking wonder once again."

"Thin like a Thrush he was, 

who seeks the highest branch

even in storm, and sway-sings with delight a tone made purer

for the assault of wind, and rain, 

and thunder crackling all around it."

"Like a Hawk he was, 

staring with unblinking eye into Love’s light 

and falling like a stone from heaven 

to shock his sleeping prey awake."

"And now?"

"What is he like now?"

"Like a Lark he is, 

free and flying heaven high

whose sun-kissed song 

seeks only an open soul and then, 

beckons all skywards."

"And I miss him, though 

he sings his lark song in my heart too,

Aye, and in yours as well or you 

wouldn’t have visited me here

now would you?"

"But I shall fly to him soon, 

and there we will sing together 

once again our lark lauds for the One

who gathers all, bird, and beast, and brother, in blessing."

And then we sat, old and young together

Cowled in brown both, though centuries between,

and ghosts to each other,

meeting in eternity's one moment,

until the sun set and the moon rose

waiting for the Nightingale to chant her compline call

and Assisi bells 

to ring out again 

in midnight matins 

his song of peace.

Priest, Monk, Brother... What's the difference?

Monk, Priest, Friar, Brother... 

What's the difference?

Over the years, and particularly recently, many people have asked me what the difference is between the terms above... Sometimes it can even cause confusion to those who are discerning a vocation... "You're a brother but you say Mass???" Hopefully the following will help!

Priest: a Priest receives the Sacrament of Holy Orders (instituted by Christ Himself at the Last Supper) by which he is ordained to offer the Sacraments, especially the Eucharist or Mass, and the Sacrament of Reconciliation or Confession, and also to minister the Word of God to the people. He takes a Vow of Obedience to his Bishop or Religious Superior if he belongs to an Order, and a promise of Celibacy if he has not already taken the Vow of Chastity. (This is in the Roman Rite... Married diocesan clergy are allowed under certain conditions in the Eastern Rites and in exceptional circumstances in the Western Rite). The Priest is called to be an Alter Christus, another Christ, in that as he steps into the celebration of the Sacraments Christ chooses him to become present through him to the world in those sacred actions. 

This is nothing to do with his own personal holiness or worthiness but is a grace conferred at the moment of Ordination when the Bishop lays hands on his head and prays the prayer of consecration. 

A monk (from the Greek Monachos root meaning solitary or alone) is a member of a Monastic religious Order such as the Benedictines, Cistercians, or Carthusians to name a few. This is the oldest form of Religious or Consecrated life for Men. It may be lived in a solitary or community form. He takes perpetual vows, sometimes called Solemn Vows, by which he professes the Evangelical Counsels of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience, (often under the form of "conversion of life"), and to this may be added other vows such as Stability, (that vows him to a particular monastery), or even of Silence. 

He follows a Rule of Life that establishes the conditions of day to day life enabling the monk to dedicate himself to prayer. He may be ordained as a priest or not. His life is dedicated to Prayer first and then to manual work and study and sometimes works of charity too. The Superior is known as an Abbot or Prior. Traditionally to meet a Monk you go to them! Their spirituality is often based on the scriptural descriptions of the gathering of the first disciples in the Acts of the Apostles...

The Mendicant (begging) Orders of Friars are a development/reform of the monastic orders that took place in the 1200's beginning with St. Francis of Assisi. The Friars also take Solemn and Perpetual Vows of Chastity, Poverty and Obedience and follow a Rule of Life. The Franciscan, Dominican, Carmelite, Servite, Trinitarian and Augustinian Orders (and many others) belong to this group. The Friars are bound to the Order but not to particular communities and travel to preach and to be present to the needs of the people. They find a balance between contemplative and active life with the various groups finding their own level of balance depending on their tradition and the teaching of their founders. Like their Monastic forefathers they may be ordained or not. The important thing is Profession of Vows first and Ordination is seen as a secondary Vocation within the primary Vocation of Friar. The word Friar is an old English word simply meaning brother. They may be referred to as Father if they are ordained but in the Capuchin Franciscan tradition, returning to the primitive tradition of St. Francis and the first Friars, the only official title is Brother and all of the Brothers are equal based on Profession of Vows and not on Ordination. As we Capuchins often say, "All of the Fathers are Brothers, but only some of the Brothers are Fathers!" Got it?

St. Francis also rejected any title that implied power over someone and asked that the superiors would be called Guardians rather than Abbot or Prior.... A reminder that they were servants of the fraternity and were there to guard the "places" of the Friars so that they would be free for the work of prayer and ministry.

Religious Brothers: Brothers such as the Christian Brothers, De La Salle or Presentation Brothers are part of a movement of Religious Congregations of men and women that began in the late 1700's. They are dedicated to specific apostolate such as teaching, nursing, missionary work etc. They may take either simple or temporary vows renewed every few years or perpetual vows taken once, often with promises related to their apostolate. They would be classed as active or missional rather than contemplative in character though often have a very deep spirituality of work. In the male congregations ordination would not be usual though some practice ordination for the sake of the community, ie a brother may be ordained for sacramental ministry to the brothers themselves...

While the above descriptions give clear boundaries to the various institutions it should be understood that on an individual level there can be blurring in the way an individual group or order understand themselves; however the above are the basic major categories of male religious life in the Roman Catholic Church all descended from those first monks who entered the deserts of Egypt and Syria in the early days of the Church in order to follow the command of Christ to seek first the Kingdom of God and to learn to pray always by becoming living prayer.  

Meditation for St. John's Eve

Meditation for St. John's Eve:

Now, as Vespers sings itself to dusk’s silent sitting.
The beacons begin to burn.
Men watching for the moment
of Moon’s waning
in twilight midsummer sky
of a Sun too lazy to truly set,
to kindle flame for the Forerunner;
John.
He whose element is fire.
Both lamps now hanging in cloth of such deep blue
that the world seems enfolded in the mantle of one
who midwifed his birth,
even as she joined her magnificat
to old Elizabeth’s pangs and doubting Zechariah’s silence
beneath the shining stars of desert sky.

Now, as Matins touches midnight of Monks long vigiling
the herbs are gathered.
Women seeking the helpers and the healers
in wood, and dell, and garden bed
where, blessed by dew and moonlight
and the long warmth of Sun’s summer
the Yarrow and the Bracken,
the Fennel and the Rue,
the Rosemary and the Foxglove and
always the Elder and
the great yellow flower of the Forerunner
willingly give up their essence on the night
that marks the first whisper
of the Word’s healing breath,
breathed through the one who is His herald Voice;
John.
Dried, and hung, and laid upon the Lady Altar
to become more than they are
they will bestow divine healing.
Twice gifted and graced by
Summer’s picking
and Autumn’s
Assumption blessing, they
reveal the medicine present always beneath.

Now, as Lauds’ psalms sun skywards
the pots and pans and ancient drums are beaten.
The children sing the old songs and rhymes
long lost to meaning,
as young men and women harelike
leap heedless across the
dying flames together.
Recalling he who leapt with joy,
filled with fire, even in womb’s waters
so near was the One who first kindled flame
and rendered the rivers holy and made the wells
vessels of new birth.

Now, as Mass bell tolls dawn’s daily resurrection
monks and men, and women, and children all
hear the summons of the Sanctifier and His herald
loud upon morning’s breeze
as embers die down, and herbs are hung up.
Beneath the vaulted stone they gather
to join their voices to praise that vastness veiled
in simple bread and wine,
and hear again the word first spoken by
the herald,
the lamp,
the flame,
the leaper,
the prophet,
the angel,
the voice,
the Baptist
whose birth they have
blessed anew
cry across the ages
“Behold the Lamb of God!”

I wrote this last year to illuminate so many of the customs we have lost that wove the wisdom of the wild and the faith together so beautifully. On St. John's Eve, (The Vigil of the Feast of the Birth of St. John the Baptist), the last official day of the solstice bonfires were set burning to commemorate the fire of the Baptist's faith and the facing into the waning of natural light after the longest day. Couples leaping across the fire was an old betrothal custom. This was also the traditional night for gathering the herbs that would be used as medicine for the year to come. Gathered tonight and dried until Assumption Day they would then be blessed in the Monasteries at the first Mass at Our Lady's Altar... The songs and noise making around the boundaries of the hills and the fields was to frighten away evil and stagnancy so as to refresh the fields and prepare for the Harvest... Our faith was and is both holy and holistic and we must return to such deep knowing again... May the Baptist pray for us!

The Paradox of Presence; a Meditation for Midsummer's Eve

The Paradox of Presence;
a Meditation for Midsummer's Eve

 Here I am Lord;
I am a passing shadow
I am a breath on the edge of being
I am a body of dust and ashes
I am a child of earth
I am from nothing
I am only ever almost
I am a ripple in the pool of life
I am a whisper in the silence
I am lost in time
I am unfulfilled yearning
I am a distorted reflection
I am delusion
I am desire
I am for now
And yet,
Here I am Lord;
I am made in your image
I am growing into your likeness
I am an idea in the Divine mind
I am called forth from nothingness
I am an exhalation of love
I am a child of God
I am an eternal soul
I am a word spoken by the Word
I am the temple of the Divine
I am from Being itself
I am called by name
I am held in being by Love
I am interpenetrated by light
I am sustained by pure attention
I am healed by Divine Compassion
I am redeemed by Mercy
I am for eternity
And so, I answer once again
caught in the pain of paradox,
on this point between the
shortest night
and the longest day:
Here I am Lord;
To be light in the shadows
To be your breath of love
To be the place where Being heals being
To be the moment where time touches Eternity
To be the voice who speaks the word into the silence
To be the torch aflame in the darkness
To be the temple of Divine encounter
To be the emptiness without absence
To be the call to compassion
To be the wound that heals
To be the child of heaven and the child of earth
To be in time and dwell in eternity
To live my I am in the I AM
To lose all so as to find all in you.
So,
Here I am Lord;
journeying from nothing to something
journeying from darkness to light
journeying from emptiness to fullness
by
journeying from something to no-thingness
journeying from light to light so bright it blinds and darkens my still too earthly sight
journeying from fullness to emptiness of being...
Here I am Lord;
a pilgrim on this paradox path
lost and found
and lost again
but with faith in the finding always...
and on this night of edges and shadows and barely there darkness
I surrender to the
silence of the Word
and simply say with open hands and
broken heart,
Here
I
am
Lord

At the centre, the Heart.

What do we find at the centre of our faith?
The Cross, uniting earth and Heaven in a communion of Love stronger than death, despair or evil.
What do we find at the centre of that Cross?
A human heart that holds the fullness of Divinity.
What do we find at the centre of this heart?
A burning wound of fire and light wherein our woundedness is healed, our darkness illumined, our sin forgiven, and our existence united with Divine Nature forever.
What do we find at the centre of that wound?
The point where time and eternity meet in that mystery of Divine Love we call Incarnation, we call Jesus.
What do we find at the centre of the Incarnation?
The answer to all the questions of our being:
We have come from Love.
We are now because of Love.
We are called into Love for eternity.
And we are loved so much that God would break His own heart for eternity to prove to us just how much we are loved.
Most Sacred Heart of Jesus
I place all my trust in thee.

Thoughts about #Thoughts&Prayers

Thoughts about #Thoughts&Prayers

Last night, as the terrible events unfolded yet again, this time in London, social media lit up as it does with tragic familiarity with the chaos of contrary bulletins, appeals for help and offers of assistance, congratulations to the first responders and condemnation of the perpetrators and, following quickly of the politicians too…

And then comes the wave of hashtags: #prayers&thoughts, #PrayforLondon etc… and, as is usual of late, following hard and fast on their heels come the wave of those who do not want the “platitude of prayer” or are frustrated with the offering of “prayers and thoughts” that seem to do nothing but make people feel better about themselves and perhaps even seem to absolve of responsibility…

“Do something!” the crowd roars… “Don’t just stand there thinking and praying do something!”… and then the virtual crowd tears itself apart as it tries to decide just what it is we should be doing… how we should be reacting… and very quickly shock becomes sadness, and sadness becomes frustration, and frustration becomes anger, and anger becomes hate and hate seeks a victim, and violence begets violence and it is all understandable…but lamentably so.

So I wonder… perhaps this hashtag is more important than ever in these days of struggle with fundamentalist forces and knee-jerk reactions to events? After all, the terrorists want to do one thing and one thing only… they want to dictate how you should pray and what you should think. This is the reality of religious fundamentalism. They do not want you to reflect and to choose your reaction as thousands are doing in Manchester and London tonight, choosing love over hate, and even more so in the case of our Coptic brothers and sisters of Egypt, who astound with their long suffering forbearance, and choose forgiveness over hate. The terrorists, indeed the fundamentalists of any sect or group, are always most threatened by a human being choosing to reflect, to think, to pray according to their own conscience. And so they engage in terror, in random acts of violence calculated to disturb, to anger, to disable our rationality so that our knee jerk reactions will simply fulfil their twisted prophecies of hate and spiral out of control into ever decreasing circles of fear, anger, pain, death.

No, instead let us truly offer our thoughts and prayers. Let us, people of all faiths and none, choose the reflective path that looks not at symptoms but causes and then attempts, calmly but unflinchingly, to deal with the symptoms by changing the causes, while consistenly and constantly affirming the rights of all to the freedom of thought, of faith and of prayer that is at the core of what we all believe.

Before we do something let us think, and pray, and reflect. Then we will be more likely to do the right thing. At the very least we will be doing the one thing they do not want us to do; for after all, our thoughts and prayers are exactly what the terrorists want to control.

Peace to London, to Manchester, to Afghanistan, to Egypt, to Syria, to Iraq, to the Philippines… peace to all…

And yes... my thoughts and prayers are with them all tonight.

Blessings +

 

 

Reunion of the Mother and Son: Easter Dawn

It is often asked where the risen Christ was when the 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 go first who had put his mother through so much?
The following lines express this hidden and unknown joy of Mary perfectly...
May it be your meditation this Easter morning.

 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.

She knew the Pieta was Piety.

The sorrow in her face

Was sorrow of the past.

Upon it lingered still

The shadow of the cross

And Him upon it;

But when her hands

Had touched His face,

Which the disciples thought was

Dead,

She felt the warmth

Pulsating through it.

How could God die?

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.

“Tonight is the night

Of my first unknown joy.”

“It is just as well

That men count them as seven;

For how else could they count

My joys or sorrows?

There are not enough stars

In heaven

To add them up –

Seven will do nicely.”

“Come

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 hels –

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 from Catherine deHueck Doherty's epic poem: "Our Lady's Unknown Mysteries.)