St. Anthony of Padua

Reflection for the Feast of St. Anthony 

Anthony Ascends:

His long travelling days over,

there is now only one direction left;

up, or is it, perhaps, 

more truly, in?

The hilltop hermitage

was not high enough

to discourage those

who would still

seek his words,

disturb his deep prayer,

his long sought peace.

So now the boughs 

beckon him higher

to a cell, a nest woven

between the branches

by the brothers.

This is his place now;

held halfway between

Heaven and Earth

What matter?

His heart has lived this way

all his life;

now the rest of him does so too.

Here, finally, the weariness

of the world may be dropped,

as he, worn out from roads

and crowds, and even from miracles

climbs just a little nearer 

to the clouds.

His body, almost too frail now 

to hold Heaven’s fire. 

Still, there are glints

of golden flame along the edges,

in his flashing eyes, 

in his measured movements,

or on his tongue 

as it tells the hours

in psalming whispers.

He is now,

a prophet become a burning bush,

a priest become a burnt offering,

a brother following the seraph song

all the way to Heaven’s vestibule.

He leans his back 

against the trunk, 

sits still and slowly fades.

A brown robed, grey-friar,

a hooded crow, upon the branch 

as weather beaten as the wood 

on which he rests.

His chapel vault, 

an arching branch.

The greening sunshine 

through the leaves,

his stained glass window.

His choir, the birds.

And he who has learned 

at last, their song of innocence,

hears, understands, and smiles

at their skyborn summons.

From here he will ascend,

this sylvan stylite,

and will be ever after known,

and busied even in eternity as,

Finder of the lost things,

Friend of the poor ones,

Pilgrim preacher of peace,

Brother to the sisters 

in their needs.

But for now, at least, 

there is a moment’s rest,

here upon the hillside

under the passing sun 

and moon,

beneath the branches, 

and breeze played leaves,

above the earth,

alone, at last,

where all the words

are dropped

like leaves

upon the wind,

Anthony 

simply

is.

(At the end, St. Anthony retired to a hermitage but owing to the crowds who came the brothers built him a treehouse in in which to spend his days in uninterrupted prayer. Icon by Br. Robert Lentz)

Feast of our brother St. Anthony of Padua today! Known as the "Good Doctor" for his immense wisdom and learning he was an indefatigable preacher and teacher of the Gospel and the first teacher of theology to the Friars from amongst their own number. 

Known for the immense number of miracles worked during his life he was granted the title of Thaumaturge or Wonderworker. He also worked tirelessly on behalf of the poor and opposed corruption wherever he found it. His last years were spent living as a hermit (in a treehouse!) and teaching the brothers. He is the patron of the poor, of children and pregnant women and of preachers and teachers, and is invoked to find that which is lost and, above all, of miracles! 

He is one of our truly extraordinary brothers and one of my own special spiritual teachers and friends. We entrust ourselves to his prayers this day and always +

(Photos include wonderful moment I got to venerate the cross St. Anthony burned into the wall of the Cathedral in Lisbon with his finger when only 12 years old in order to repel a temptation of the devil to leave his studies to become a priest.)

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SAINT ANTHONY OF PADUA - JUNE 13, 2018

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Glorious St. Anthony, I salute thee as a good servant of Christ, and a special friend of God. You once were favored to hold the Christ Child in your arms as you cherished His Word in your heart.

Today I place all my cares, temptations, and anxieties in your hands. I resolve ever to honor you by imitating your example.

Powerful patron, model of Purity, please win for me, and for all devoted to thee, perfect purity of body, mind, and heart I promise by my example and counsel to help others to the knowledge, love, and service of God. Amen.

The creator of the heavens obeys a carpenter; the God of eternal glory listens to a poor virgin. Has anyone ever witnessed anything comparable to this?" .

"The birds are the saints, who fly to heaven on the wings of contemplation, who are so removed from the world that they have no business on earth. They do not labour, but by contemplation alone they already live in heaven." ~ St Anthony of Padua

The relics of St. Anthony of Padua (of Lisbon originally) exposed for veneration. A detail of them that always makes my heart ache is that upon forensic examination of his bones it was found that his foot bones were worn almost away due to the countless miles he walked to preach the Gospel and serve the poor... Miraculously, his tongue and vocal chords have remained incorrupt to this day.

Feast of the Immaculate Heart

Feast of the Immaculate Heart of Mary:

We may say the Incarnation first took place in Mary's heart, before it took place in her womb, for her heart, the centre of her being, was that place that had, from the first moment of her existence, been the tabernacle of the Most High and the place in which dwelt the Holy Spirit so fully that the Angel could name her full of Grace. It was from her heart that Mary assented to the request of the Angel and it was with the heart of a mother that she conceived and bore her Son, and it was her heart, united to her Son's sacred heart, that participated in His sacrifice on behalf of humankind. 

It is Mary who in her loving acceptance of the Angel's message gave Jesus the gift of our humanity... The Sacred Heart was formed in the Womb of His Mother out of the Loving "Yes" of her Immaculate Heart.

Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us!

As Mother Teresa used to pray, 

"O Mary, give me your Heart: so beautiful, so pure, so immaculate; your Heart so full of love and humility that I may be able to receive Jesus in the Bread of Life and love Him as you love Him and serve Him in the distressing guise of the poor."

Sacred Heart

Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus;

Today is the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus: the Feast of Divine Love made manifest in time. In preparation for the Feast I've been using the following meditation by the great mystic and monk Thomas Merton which you may like to pray with...

Blessings to all +

O Great God, Father of all things, whose infinite light is darkness to me, whose immensity is to me as the void, You have called me forth out of yourself because You love me in yourself, and I am a transient expression of Your inexhaustible and eternal reality. I could not know You, I would be lost in this darkness, I would fall away from you into this void, if you did not hold me to yourself in the heart of Your only begotten Son.

Father, I love You whom I do not know, and I embrace You whom I do not see, and I abandon myself to You whom I have offended, because You love in me Your only begotten Son. You see Him in me, You embrace Him in me, because He has willed to identify Himself completely with me by that love which brought Him to death, for me, on the Cross.

I come to You like Jacob in the garments of Esau, that is in the merits and the Precious Blood of Jesus Christ. And You, Father, who have willed to be as though blind in the darkness of this great mystery which is the revelation of Your love, pass Your hands over my head and bless me as Your only Son. You have willed to see me only in Him, but in willing this You have willed to see me more really as I am. For the sinful self is not my real self, it is not the self You have wanted for me, only the self that I have wanted for myself. And I no longer want this false self. But now Father, I come to You in Your own Son’s self, for it His Sacred Heart that has taken possession of me and destroyed my sins and it is He who presents me to You. And where? In the sanctuary of His own Heart, which is your palace and the temple where the saints adore You in Heaven.

Amen.

From Thoughts in Solitude

Thomas Merton

A Franciscan Litany for Corpus Christi

 An old one (from 2014) for the day that's in it: 

A Franciscan litany for Corpus Christi : 

The feast of the Body & Blood of the Lord.

Sacrament of the Poverty of God: 

Make us poor from the giving of ourselves

Sacrament of the Emptiness of God: 

Empty us of ourselves that we may be filled

Sacrament of the Littleness of God: 

Make us know our smallness in joy

Sacrament of the Silence of God: 

Invite us to dwell in your silence always

Sacrament of the goodness of God in creation: 

Make us reverent before You in all your creatures.

Sacrament of the mercy of God: 

Make us merciful to all and to ourselves

Sacrament of the invisible God: 

Teach us to seek your presence always

Sacrament of the marriage feast: 

Invite us into the embrace of infinite love

Sacrament of Remembrance: 

Teach us to remember You always

Sacrament of the Humility of God: 

Teach us the way of humility.

Sacrament of the Real Presence: 

Teach us to be really present to our brothers and sisters in their need.

Mary our mother, 

vestment of God, 

and first tabernacle of the Most High,

teach us the way of silent love, 

the deepest contemplation, 

and the opening of the heart 

as a dwelling place for God.

For St. Kevin of Glendalough

 For St. Kevin of Glendalough

Only after

finding the 

forested place

of stillness

between

the lakes,

between 

the worlds;

only after

all the words

had been 

dropped,

though reverently, 

like leaves, 

upon

the woodland floor;

only after 

the hands,

now worn,

wrinkled, 

thin,

were gently opened

palm to sky;

only after 

the hooded mind 

was

emptied 

of 

all the 

shadows

that seeming 

are;

only after 

the heart

let go the chains

of its own 

forging;

only after the 

breath

became the slow 

foundation 

of being;

then, 

only then,

did the deep stillness 

arise,

and the eye of prayer 

open,

and the Spirit 

breathe 

the embers of 

the long banked heart-fire

into blaze.

And then,

only then,

did the blackbird 

of heaven

nest,

and lay its sky blue 

blessings

of resurrection 

promise

upon your 

branched 

hand,

anointing 

with song 

the promise of 

heaven

for new beginnings,

while you, 

tree tall

and

stone still,

beneath the 

bowed benediction 

of the

oaks,

became

monk,

became 

sage,

became

prayer,

became

you.

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(Today in Ireland we keep the feast of St. Kevin of Glendalough, hermit, monk and founder of the monastery of Glendalough. It was said of him that his prayer became so deep that on one occasion he was so still a blackbird mistook him for a tree and nested on his outstretched arm. He remained in stillness until the eggs hatched. This poem came to me after a visit to Glendalough some years ago. I share it every year on his feast as a reminder of the possibilities inherent in faithful prayer.

The Surfacing of Summer

In gratitude for peaceful Summer evenings...

The Surfacing of Summer:

At last,

the tide of Summer

turns.

And the land,

like a great grey whale, 

sudden surfacing

from the deep of

winter's waters

into sunshine's seas

feels the waves 

of warmth,

white tipped with

tree blossom 

foam,

call her

into blessed breaching

and joyous 

jumping.

Singing her wild

whale song

of summer in every 

form of

flower

she charms us 

who chase 

light,

and spouts 

the fragrance 

of the 

Summer Kingdom into 

hearts

that remember a 

home

once lost 

and longed for, 

and now, 

lilting

lovingly draws

lo,

in each 

lauds

praising

of love's 

eternal

conquest.

Basking in 

blessedness,

she becomes the 

Summer Isle,

on which we shivering 

sailors

pitch up and 

recover 

rest,

while white birds 

soar

above her in blue

and lift our souls

skywards

once

more

to the stillness

of stars

in a summer's

night sky,

offering their 

divinely

ordered dance

above the 

phosphorescent 

flash

of mountaintop flukes,

tipped 

with the golden 

sheen

of last 

light's touch 

of love.

June; the month of the Sacred Heart

A poem of old remembrances as we enter June, the month of the Sacred Heart:

Sacred Heart

I remember still, 

with the sharp light 

of a child's knowing of newness, 

my Gran's bedroom. 

Spartan, yet equipped with things 

of a quality we do not have 

in many places now.

Long used. 

Loved. 

Meant to last.

Her carved bed seemed enormous to us 

as we flung ourselves onto its satin spread, 

sliding across it to thump, 

giggling, 

on the hard floor.

A mirror, a brush, a comb, all laid out 

upon the dresser as carefully 

as a surgeon's tools, 

heavy and cold to the touch,

but glowing with the warm barley sugar 

inner light of polished tortoise shell.

An old clock that worked, sometimes, 

its numerals glowing in the dark 

a faded ghost green. 

And there, upon the dresser too 

he stood, in stone stillness. 

Flaking slightly, but still royal 

in his red robe, revealing the love 

that is at the heart of all things. 

He seemed huge to my small hands.

I would climb onto the bed beside her 

as she whispered her prayers 

in his direction;

she would hand him to me then 

and he would sit comfortably 

upon my knees,

as I, entranced, traced the thorns 

entwining his poor heart, 

and tried to pull them out;

feeling his heart a flame, 

a fire for me, for her, for all!

I would whisper to him then,

my childish news and secrets

and I remember (can you believe it?)

sometimes, he whispered back

words of such love

they exist now only as 

scattered shards of light 

within my own heart's memories.

There and then I promised, I would 

one day, pull out those thorns.

Gran smiled when I told her this

"Maybe you will", she said toothlessly,

the liturgy of dentures coming after prayers

in the morning's ritual,

"But maybe you'll put another thorn or two 

in there too; 

don't worry, we all do from time to time, 

but never forget He loves you still!" she said, 

smiling sadly at my stricken face.

Then I kissed him hard, as children do,

and made the foolish promise

of a child to ease his heart a little.

A promise I confess I have yet to fulfil,

though no shortage of thorns 

have I added to his crown.

Devotions done she restored him to his place 

upon the dresser,

and I, sliding off the bed,

now thought only of the day before us: 

of buses into town, bookshops, 

and Bewley's cafe!

Then we went downstairs 

to breakfast on tea and toast,

always, me going first,

she coming behind,

her breath, 

her voice as one, 

whistling upon each step,

the background music

of her life;

"Sacred Heart of Jesus,

I place all my trust 

in Thee."