St. Nicholas Dawn

Feast of St. Nicholas the great Santa Claus himself today...
Always reminds me of that one morning I was privileged to encounter him some years ago...

St. Nicholas Dawn

On the sixth morn of the
month that's dark,
while walking in that hallowed park,
and breathing deep the icy air
I felt the grace of Nicholas there.

I stood a moment in the frost
and felt the yearning of the lost
on land or sea who wandering go,
whose minds and hearts are often low,

as, gripped within by sadness grey,
they stumble through another day
and
long to feel the gift of light
break in upon their inner night.

Then feeling deep their dark and pain
I vowed to ne'r come there again,
until I felt him standing there
all bright against the freezing air.

A bishop robed in red was he,
who looked with kindness upon me,
while leaning on his gnarled staff
his beard it shook as he did laugh,
and said in tone of deepest cheer,
"Why, what on earth do we have here?"

"A little friar out in the cold,
whose failing heart is not so bold,
for overcome with grief is he
for those whose lives in darkness be,
and those who know the belly's wail,
and those who sit alone in jail,
and those whose hearts know only pain,
and those who sleep outside in rain,
and those who fear the stronger power,
and those who nearer feel death's hour!"

And scarce he spoke, but I replied,
"Tis true you see what lies inside!"
"But what can I do next to you,
who dwell above the azure blue,
and as a saint may do so much
to bring the light and healing touch
of Heaven' s blessing earthward sent,
to those whose lives by pain are rent?"

At this, his face it darkened then,
as though despairing of all men,
like me who seek a grace to flow,
but far too often still say no
when called to be a mirror through,
the poor, the lame, the sickened too,
will see a glimpse of heaven's light
that lifts them from the pit of night.

Then as I stood before his face
he touched my heart and blessed this place,
and said, "It's right that this you know,
that saint I am and saint I go,
throughout the world both night and day,
to hear the cries of those who pray
and then I bring their yearning strong
to Him who seeks to right their wrong,
and sent am I by His right hand
to all the hearts within the land,
who gentled are by graces dear
and shed their sweet impassioned tear,
that they would know their call is this,
to enter into Heaven's bliss,
by healing, helping, lifting, raising
listening, watching, minding, saving
the weak, the poor, the little child,
as I did here before I died."

"For this they call me Santa Claus,
I who kept sweet Heaven's laws,
and now I pass them onto you
O little one, who now dares to
extend a hand that helps and heals,
and so the light of God reveals,
to let each poor one deeply know
that Christ their saviour bowed so low,
that babe he came in frost and cold
our Shepherd King, who serves the fold,
and in His mother's arms did cry
for all the sheep, for you and I,
and none He lost, and none forgot
not even those who choose the lot
of greed, and pride, and selfish gain,
for them He offered every pain."

"So come my friend and stand with me
beneath the branches of this tree,
and we shall watch the dawn arise
and light grow in the eastern skies,
and pray, and psalm, and praise again
the One who is the light of men!"

At this the old man smiled at me,
standing 'neath the ancient tree.
As in my heart again I vowed
to cry to all with voice aloud,
of Him who loves us deep and well;
to be a Christmas tolling bell,
that rings and calls both one and all
to heed that ancient Yuletide call,
to light each other's gathering dark
and share within the healing spark,
which He first kindled with His breath,
The One who broke the power of death!

Then as the light grew all around
I seemed to hear a merry sound,
of bells, or chimes from out the air
and laughter deep that saints do share,
and gone he was, my Bishop bright,
there at the dawning of the light,
So I was left once more alone,
filled with a song of Heaven's tone,
that flames within my heart so bright
I fear not now no lack of light!
And forth I went to sing this lay
of the light that shone on Nicholas' Day.

Celtic Christianity: a brief essay

Celtic Christianity:

For the Feast of the All Saints of Ireland here is an essay on Celtic Christianity!
I was invited to write this by Sr. Stan Kennedy for inclusion in her 2015 Book: To Live from the Heart.

Celtic Christianity

The interplay of culture and faith has always produced unique ways of being Christian,

(or Buddhist, or Hindu, or Muslim), When a faith encounters a new culture there are two possibilities – domination, which leads to resistance, fear or even violence; or fusion, which leads to a comfortable inter-being in which the best of what was is nourished by the best of what is. In the Christian tradition, this second way of being has over the centuries led to the beauty of the various Rites of the Church. Each is distinct in language, history and ritual yet all are one Church in confessing one Lord, one faith, one baptism. Unity in diversity is the very mark of the Church in its

catholicity, in its universality.

In the faith communities that grew up in Europe at its westernmost edge between the fourth and tenth centuries this accommodation to native culture, and yet illumination and completion of it by the Christian message, was undertaken in a way never seen before in the history of the Church. A faith community emerged, which though seeing itself as part of the larger Christian Church nevertheless had a unique way of being and a distinctive vision of itself, of the world and of God; a vision that is characterized today as ‘Celtic’. Much of this has been lost in successive waves of invasion and ideology but the traces that remain whisper to the sacred places in many people’s hearts and offer a glimpse of a way of relating to faith and to the Church that seems to ground them in this world and the next in a way both fully human and fully in communion with creation.

The ‘Celtic Christians’ in essence inherited an older form of Christianity from the deserts of Egypt, Lebanon, Syria and perhaps even as far away as Ethiopia. Theirs was a monastic Church, founded by monk missionaries who carried the disciplines and teachings of a contemplative form of life that both completed and transformed beautifully the ‘pagan’ understandings of the pre-Christian Celts. Perhaps it was this origin in a monastic and contemplative way of being that led to the ready fusion of old and new, for the Christianization of the Celtic tribes and lands, particularly Ireland,

happened quickly, and largely without violence or persecution.

To a people who worshipped a pantheon of deities and saw the presence of the divine in every aspect of nature, the revelation of Christ and the Trinity offered a Hero and a High King as well as a God who was, at one and the same time, utterly transcendent of and gloriously immanent in his creation, so it took little to bring the pantheistic pre-Christian Celts to a more subtle understanding of a pan-en-theistic faith, especially when the transition nourished their longing and hope for an afterlife that could be gained without the sacrifice of lives in war, one open to all genders and classes of people regardless of their rank or tribe. Awareness of the presence of the divine in and through the beauty of nature is a mark of this particular expression of Christianity: to such adegree that whilst it is present, and always has been, in the Judaeo-Christian tradition, it had never been so poetically and beautifully expressed before, and would not be again until the Franciscan School in the 1200's.

So what were these ways of being Christian that were manifested in such a unique way in the Celtic forms of Christianity? The early Celtic Church often built on the foundations of monastic communities, each led by an elder known for their holiness and wisdom. The parallel of this structure to the tribal/clan system of the indigenous peoples under a chief meant that there was an immediate understanding, as the two systems seemed to share a common way of life despite their different origins. Loyalty to Clan and to Chief and through him to the High King beautifully paralleled the monks’ obedience to the Elder and above all to Christ, the High King of High Kings. A people raised on the sagas of the Fianna and the Red Branch Knights saw the sacrifice of one’s life to an ideal, and especially to the service of a king, as noble and to be admired. Leaving home and family to serve the Gospel became attractive, even to those of royal and noble blood. This can be seen in the stories of

Colm Cille (Columba) and Brigid. The so-called ‘green martyrdom’ of trusting in the providence of God called forth great missionaries like Brendan and Columbanus, who brought the Celtic expression of the Christian faith to parts of northern Europe and perhaps, in the case of Brendan, a good deal further! Rowing out from land into the ocean currents, they simply went wherever wind and wave, fellow servants of the High King of Heaven, brought them and there lived their life of prayer and praise.

Despite the lush greenness of much of the Celtic territories the spirituality of their monastics was influenced greatly by the fathers and mothers of Christian monasticism who had flourished in the deserts of Egypt and the Lebanon; large monastic complexes – often called ‘Disearts’ for the perceived extremity of the observance – often vied with each other in their pride in the monks and nuns who fasted the most or kept the most vigils, or whose elders worked the most miracles. This ‘boasting in God’ was not meant as a source of vainglory or pride: it came from the bardic culture that esteemed its heroes and heroines and commemorated their deeds to inspire the spiritual practice of others. The bardic culture of long epic poems and sagas created an educated class who,

along with the druids, were among the first Christian converts; they aided in the exchange of ideas, links between cultures and cultivation of wisdom that led to the Celtic monasteries’ reputation as bastions of learning and contemplative practice when the rest of Europe was falling into the chaos of the so-called “Dark Ages”. In Celtic monasticism the fusion of desert spirituality with a holistic understanding of creation and humanity’s place in it saw redemption as bringing

about such a healing of the person that a new and holy unity with creation was the result. Through the ancient remedies of prayer, meditation, fasting, vigils and charity, the monastic began to experience that oneness with nature that Adamic humanity first knew. We have many stories of the Celtic saints and their animal companions: Kevin and the otter, Colm Cille and his horse, Gobnait and her bees, among so many others, show a marvellous intimacy with our fellow creatures in which we all serve the Lord of Creation according to our capacity and gifts.

The visible creation can be a door to the unseen world too. For the Celts, a liminal and animistic people, the nearness of the supernatural, the world of angels, demons and elemental powers carried over from pre-Christian days, was actively completed by the sacramental view of nature that is at the very heart of the Christian contemplative tradition in which all that exists is a word from the Word of God, and creation itself the universal testament to all peoples of all times of Divine Beauty and its nearness to us in every breath.

In the Celtic, domestic form of spirituality every household act, no matter how small, could be performed mindfully in the presence of the divine and

thus assume a cosmological and redemptive purpose and meaning. The blessing prayers and poems that come down to us from places like Donegal and Kerry

and especially from the Hebrides hold an immense lexicon of benedictions for every activity and task of the day and important moment in life. The making of bread, the laying of the fire, the opening of the hall door, the kindling of the evening lights all had their blessing prayer and ritual (usually performed by women in the home and by men on the land), and each had its patron saint or angel. The domestic scene, an expression of the Church in its own right, mirrored and deepened the life of the larger Church, nurturing the sense of belonging and being part of the redemptive mission of Christ through his Church.

With the turning of the year the old festivals found their fulfilment in the liturgical calendar. For example, the honouring of the ancestors at Samhain has its counterpart in the feasts of All Souls and All Saints in which the ancestors were no longer to be feared or placated but to be assisted by the prayers of the living. The old grave offerings became the blessed salt and bread left in the hearth overnight and consumed the next day. The Fires of Lughnasa became the bonfires of St John’s Eve and the dancing around them continued, as did pilgrimages to holy wells and trees and mountains, places now sanctified by the observances of the saints and the miracles they wrought. “Cuimhnionn an tir na Manach,” the people would say ever after: “the land remembers the monks”. So the people would gather to celebrate the goings in and goings out of life; the births, the marriages and the deaths, sanctifying them by their association with the saints of old in ruins and caves

soaked in centuries of prayer.

Today, this unique spirituality and way of being Christian appeals to a generation that achingly feels its distance from the earth and her seasons, that is stressed and distressed by the pace of life and by separation from its inner rhythms. In the wave of mindfulness and meditation programmes and classes that has swept across the Western world we can detect a hunger for the wisdom of the old ways and old paths. Perhaps we need to return to the pace of the ancestors who lived with a foot in both worlds, and in domestic familiar intimacy with God; to return to a pace slow enough for us to discern the language of praise and beauty that issues from every tree and rock and rivulet of water, to realign humanity with its ancient purpose and meaning as the Celtic Christian understood it.

It would be no small thing if this wisdom was recovered and renewed for the next generation. A humble affinity with nature and a sense of our place in the cosmic context of creation and redemption would allow us to recover ourselves as pilgrims

passing reverently through this world with one eye always on eternity and a heart and soul on fire for the High King of Heaven who blesses every place, every moment and every breath.

November: The Month of the Dead

For the Feast of "All Hallows"or All Saints:
A little article I wrote some years ago on the Month of November as a special time of remembering those who have gone before us and the Spiritual Practices associated with it...
Read on..


"It is a holy and wholsome thought to pray for the dead that they might be loosed from their sins"
2Mac, 12:46

A few people from different Religious traditions have asked me about the customs associated with Hallowe’en and the month of November in my tradition so this article will hopefully answer most of the questions.
In the Catholic Tradition the whole month of November is dedicated to praying for and remembering the dead. We begin with Hallowe'en, the eve of the feast of All Hallows or Saints on the 31st of October this falls on the old Celtic Feast of Samhain which again was to do with remembrance of the dead and was seen as the time when the veils that separated the worlds of the living and the dead were at their thinnest. This feast was subsumed into the Christian Calendar from very early on as entirely commensurate in essence with Christian theology and practice. Prayers and Rituals were offered for the departed, and often a candle or light was kindled specially in the home or at the graves of the deceased as a way of remembering those who had gone before. This continues right up to the present day. In my Grandmother’s time the custom was to clean the house and sweep out the hearth and leave bread and salt in a dish as the ancestors would come and visit the house and bless it on this night.
The feast of All Saints, Nov 1st issues in the month properly with its remembrance of all the saints of all times and places. All those Men and Women who have lived lives based on compassion and goodness and who have been gathered together in the kingdom of heaven. On this feast we celebrate not just the Canonised Saints but also the “common or garden” saints, as one old priest I knew used to put it… all those who though appearing to live "ordinary" lives, (there's actually no such thing!), were transformed by grace and love to live extraordinary lives that brought peace and compassion to the world.
The feast stresses that sanctity is the destiny of every human being and that it is within reach of all of us. In the churches Solemn Masses and blessings with the relics and icons of the saints are offered and we give thanks for the lives of all holy men and women of all times and places...
The second of November is dedicated to the feast of All Souls, here we remember all of those souls who, though departed from this life, are still “in via”, on the way to God. On this day we remember those souls who are completing their journey to heavenly life through the state of Purgatory. We call them the Holy Souls, for their salvation is assured and they in turn can pray for and help the living but we also call them Poor Souls for they are dependent on our prayer, penance and acts of charity.
Prayer for the Holy Souls is considered an important way of offering Spiritual Alms and so, on this day, every priest may offer three Masses and the Office of the Dead are prayed by priests and Monks and Nuns. The faithful attend Mass, light blessed candles and visit the graveyards throughout this month. One beautiful custom, which as far as I know is only found in Ireland, relates the prayers for the dead to the falling of the leaves off the trees in that if a leaf falls from a tree in front of your face it was taken to be a message from one of the Holy Souls asking for prayer.
In the Christian tradition, Ghosts in the proper sense, (not poltergeists or mere psychic impressions), are known to be Souls in purgatory who appear to ask for Spiritual Help via prayer so as to complete their purgatory and move on to heavenly life. The faithful also record the names of their departed loved ones on the “November Dead Lists” and these lists are placed upon the Altar and Mass is offered for those whose names are recorded daily throughout the month. Special services of remembrance of all those who have died in the past year are held in most churches with their families being invited to come back and light a candle for the deceased. The candle is then given as a gift of remembrance to the family that they can bring home and light to remember their loved one. People often fast from meat and or alcohol and add extra prayers and daily attendance at Mass for the Holy Souls as well. Perhaps these or some other practice or prayer may be something you would like to take on for this month of remembrance?

One of the oldest prayers for the dead is the “De Profundis” Psalm 129 which goes like this:

Out of the depths we have cried to thee O Lord,
Lord hear our voice
Let thine ears be attentive to the voice of our supplication.
If thou O Lord would mark our guilt; Lord who would endure it?
But with thee there is found forgiveness:
For this we revere thee.
My soul is waiting for the Lord,
I count on His word.
My soul is longing for the Lord
More than watchman for daybreak
Let the watchman count on daybreak and Israel on the Lord
Because with the Lord there is mercy and fullness of redemption,
Israel indeed He will redeem from all its iniquity
Glory be to the Father, and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit
As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be world without end.
Amen
O Lord hear my prayer
And let my cry come unto you
Let us pray,
O God the creator and redeemer of all the faithful, grant to the souls of thy servants the remission of all their sins, that through theses pious supplications they may obtain the pardon which they have always desired.
We ask this through Christ Our Lord.
Amen

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.