All Hallows Eve: a remembrance

For the night that's in it...

All Hallows' Eve

This was the evening
she swept out the hearth.
I helped,
sort of.
Once clean,
and perfect to her discerning eye,
(milky white, though the light behind them
was sharp and never dimmed),
she would set bread,
(brown soda always),
and salt
before the banked flames.
"For the visitors",
she would say,
whenever I asked,
as I did,
annually.
Her breath whistling
half heard prayers
she would go then
from room to room
straightening cushions,
flicking tables with tea-cloths,
to clear the last vestiges of dust from surfaces so well polished with age and use
they gleamed.
"The house should be clean when they call", she would say.
We would have tea then.
Waiting.
Sometimes she had cake or a ginger snap, (dunked to soften it for dentures.)
I had cake too.
Then she would sit in her stiff backed chair
in front of the fire.
Waiting.
I would sit beside her,
sometimes in the big green armchair
slowly sinking into the old feather filled cushions, so big my feet swung.
More often,
I perched on the stool
beside her chair
where I could watch the TV
with her.
But not this evening.
This was always different.
No RTE news.
No Crossroads.
No Coronation Street's plaintive trumpet.
Just sitting together
in the quiet.
Waiting.
Tonight there would be
just the fire,
and the bread,
and the salt
left out,
blessed and prayed over
and freely given
for the guests,
whenever they would come.
And then she would talk about them.
All of them.
Her mother and father, her aunts and uncles, and tales of Dublin so long ago
it seemed they should begin with
"Once upon a time!"
Her grandmother got special mention,
"They called her a sharp woman, wise, brought in for birth and death you know, she had the understanding", she would say,
and then say no more for a while.
Sometimes,
she would speak in a different voice,
reserved only for him,
of my grandfather Martin,
her husband,
gone an age ago to me,
but still so present to her heart;
and then her eye
looking across the flames
at faces I could not see
would bring to mind all those others too
who had already gone...
and she would go quiet.
"Where had they gone?"
I would ask.
"Home"
she would simply say.
But tonight,
they would visit.
Once,
just once,
it made me nervous to think of it.
She laughed then.
"Nervous of the dead?"
"Don't be silly."
"Aren't they family?"
"Aren't they friends?"
"Don't they pray for us!"
"Don't we pray for them?"
"You can fear the living," she would say,
a sharp smile playing about her wrinkled eyes, "but never the dead."
"A Christian never has to fear the dead."
"Sure don't we have the Blessed Virgin and all the saints around us too."
Then she would take my hand
and we would just sit.
Waiting.
She praying...
I wondering...
Feeling the wrinkled warmth
of her
loose skinned hand.
Safe.
Then she would say
it was time to go home.
So I would go then across the green.
Home to parties
and noise
and black bag wearing,
apple bobbing,
door knocking,
sparkler waving,
"Help the Halloween party!"
roaring fun.
Sometimes I would think of her.
Sitting in front of the fire.
Waiting.
But mostly I didn't.
Until the morning;
All Saints Day.
Off to Mass, a day off school too.
Then,
in the afternoon
I would drop over.
To find the telly on,
the chair turned now to face it once again,
The bread gone,
salt scattered to bless the house and garden.
"It's Richard, Gran!" I'd shout.
And I would hug her and tell her all about it;
the parties and the sweets, and the things we called wine-apples because we didn't know what a pomegranate was,
and the lady who always gave rotten Brazil nuts you couldn't crack,
(Christmas left-overs we were sure!),
and she would laugh and make the tea,
and we would sit again
side by side
and wait for "The Two Ronnies"
and then
I would remember and ask,
(During the ads of course)
"Did they come."
"Oh yes," she would say,
"They always come."
"What do you do when they come?"
"What does anyone do when visitors come?"
She replied, with a slow smile.
"You chat?" I'd say.
"Exactly", she glittered.
"Now be a good boy and turn up the telly."
And I was,
so I would.
A quarter of a century
has passed
since she went
home.
But still,
this night
always,
I welcome the visitors too.
Friars and family both now.
Sitting before the candle flame
breathing the blessed breath
of memory
and prayer.
Waiting.
Just as she
my first elder
taught me.
Waiting.
Until they arrive
once more,
and
she now
a visitor
too.

Now. Here. In. A meditation.

There is only one time: Now.

There is only one place: Here

There is only one direction: In

There is only one time: Now.

The past can only become a source of wisdom, after that it is left in the hands of Divine Mercy...

The future is hidden, but belongs to Divine Providence... So worry and anxiety are useless. God intends the best for you and will not deny any gift or grace that will enable you to become all you are meant to be.

The Present arises from the moment by moment loving attention of Divine Compassion... Your "job" is to get past the distractions to see the Now for what it is: Divine Love in action... Co-operate with this Love that is God, yield to it fully and be faithful to its call and the present becomes an infinite space of encounter with the God who IS Love.

There is only one place: Here

You are nowhere but here. Here, wherever it is for you in this moment we call now, is the place of Divine Encounter. It is your desert, your temple, your tabernacle, your burning bush. God, said St. Bonaventure, is One whose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere. Divine Presence is always fully present to you. You are just distracted by all the thoughts and desires of egoic nature that would have you yearn to be elsewhere in different circumstances. If you are here then so is God and your here is where He will work with and through you for the building of the kingdom if you tune in and know and it is this attendance to the present moment that changes our circumstances. He is where you are that you may be one day consciously where He IS.

There is only one direction: In.

All other directions are limited. Eventually we tire of them, we exhaust them and are exhausted by them and discover that they are fading and will one day fade completely. All except In. Only In lasts. Only In is. In is the direction that brings us to the self, and through the self to the place of stillness and emptiness and clarity beyond the false and fallen self where we finally know our true self, our heart, beholding it in the Light of Divine Love from which it first arose as a perfect idea. We were eternally an idea in the Divine Mind, a movement of the infinitely creative love that we call God, who in the fullness of time brought us into being, loved us into being, holds us in being in Love and calls us to abide in Love eternally. In teaches us who we are. We discover we are love loved by Love. All other names may change, all other circumstances may come and go, arise and fall, change and even disappear. Only love is eternal and only In brings us to the source of real Love.

There is only one time: Now.

There is only one place: Here

There is only one direction: In

St. Francis of the Elements: a meditation for his feast.

St. Francis of the Elements:

Brother Air:

Francis, 

you were a feather born upon the breath of God; dancing with the unseen and manifesting the invisible in your skyborn steps inviting all to see again the Divine dance into which they are blessed born...

Francis,

you were an Autumnal leaf gilded by grace's sunshine and shower; now unafraid to let go of anything that would keep you from the freedom of flight and happy to journey to the dissolution of all in offering... 

Francis, 

you were a snowflake; unique and Heaven sent, you kissed the earth lightly and woke us to her own beauty and wisdom long lost in our lies...

Francis, 

you were a lightening strike; shattering a clear sky and bringing the Divine storm that renews and creates, bringing beginning and drawing a new Spring from stuffy stalled hearts...

Brother Fire:

Francis,

you were a spark; struck by Grace from the Flint of heart's hardness, yearning for the dry straw of sin to be kindled in kindness consuming...

Francis,

you were a hearth on a Winter's night; leeching the indifference from our cold ecclesial bones, welcoming all to sit in storied circle and be one in warmth...

Francis, 

you were a forest fire; consuming all in the conflagration of your consecrated love, incandescent within the light of Grace flaming through your burning bones...

Sister Water:

Francis,

you were the dew of dawn; appearing to announce a new morning of magic when beasts and birds become brothers and sisters and our tongues are loosed at last in Eden's song...

Francis, 

you were a sweet spring; burbling with joy that knows no end, offering to all a deep draught of the Divine the only answer to soul's thirst...

Francis,

you were a mountain stream; singing your silver song upon a pilgrim path, refreshing worn feet and charming the divine dance from stony hearts...

Francis,

you were an ocean's drop; borne upon the tide of love you yielded to the pull of prayer and lost yourself in the sacred sea of His resurrection gaze and became yourself in unbecoming all you were not...

Sister Mother Earth:

Francis,

you were a grain of dust upon the road; herald and holy, you dwelt in truth's humility, barefoot upon the brown earth fading at distance into the truth of her embrace...

Francis,

you were a stone; becoming stillness you yielded yourself and were chisel formed into a foundation, while still a friar free to rest upon the rock of faith...

Francis,

you were a healing herb; condensing in yourself the medicine of first divine in-breathing when all that is, is named as good, for reminding us of redemption's remedy you gave root and leaf and flower and fruit for all...

Francis,

you were bird and beast; all found their friend in you and revealed their inner teaching of praise at your prayer; wondering to hear in you the voice long lost from creature's canticle sung by all that is, as you drew even tears from those who by Adam's naming had felt their brother-sisterhood of being lost until your call...

Francis,

you are beyond all elemental being now, plunged sainted and seraphic into Love's fire of origin and union and ending, all in one eternal communion of praise, where God is all in all and all are one. Pouring out upon those who are brave enough to follow your bloody footprints upon the Gospeled path an ever flowing fountain of peace and joy and brother beckoning us ever onward, ever upward from earth's embrace, to sing with wind and fire and water our way into the Divine Dance of Being! 

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