Death Comes for Us All

Death has been on my mind increasingly of late, and not merely because we have just come through the intense commemoration of Christ's death in the Easter Triduum.  That mystery, however, casts its shadow upon every experience of death and every pondering thereof.  For where our Lord has conquered death by His death there must also be life.

The reality of death never affected me much as a child.  Even now I can count on one hand the times that death has touched me closely, butchery of chickens and viewing of murder mystery shows notwithstanding.

I think of a priest I met who shared with us words his mother had repeated to him about how where there is death there will come life.  That priest knew a couple who received a newborn boy after they had longed eagerly for a child they had been unable to conceive on their own and had prayed through the intercession of the priest's mother.  Their new child was born on the same day that the priest's mother had died.  Where there was death there came life.

I think of tulips planted in rocks beside the ocean with their roots sheltered by soil carefully patted around them.  As their bright colors caught my gaze, I found my heart reflecting on death contrasting with their bright and vibrant life, for I thought perhaps the tulips stood as testimony to some lost love.

Before the mystery of death I have no words, writer as I am.  Still, writer as I am, I must strive to put words where only silence can adequately respond.  I must speak out from my heart what I know in its quiet beating, even though in the end I will say nothing of what I know with all my many words, but speak only of all that surrounds it, of all the little petty details that seem to mean nothing.

Perhaps it is best to rely upon poetry whose imagery speaks what prose cannot.  Here a little piece from G.K. Chesterton:

The Skeleton

Chattering finch and water-fly
Are not merrier than I;
Here among the flowers I lie
Laughing everlastingly.
No; I may not tell the best;
Surely, friends, I might have guessed
Death was but the good King's jest,
It was hid so carefully.

To Continue or Not to Continue, That is the Question

After spending Lent in various daily practices it seems strange to discontinue them, particularly the writing each day upon this blog.  As I ponder whether to continue, my inclination is to ask you, my readers, whether it is valuable for me to keep writing daily meditations to pass to you through the pixels of your screen.

Is it folly to thus ask for visible fruits?

We are called to give of ourselves, to give without counting the cost, to give without asking for any reward.  Surely then it ought to be unnecessary to consider whether my efforts draw you, dear seekers, any nearer to our Lord.  Yet I must needs dispense of the time given me wisely.

Discernment of this small piece of the time given me requires thought and prayer just as does every decision of our lives (although the quantity may vary substantially according to the weight of the outcome).  Sometimes we are given a clear answer in exterior circumstances or conviction that strikes our heart.  Sometimes, though, we have no illumination, but must choose to step forward in faith, hoping that in abandoning ourselves in the darkness we choose the right way, trusting that our Lord will guide our steps.

So I step on, pondering and seeking....

O Glorious Day of the Lord's Resurrection!

A blessed Easter to you and yours!

On this glorious day, I would like to share with you two things.  First, a beautiful Easter hymn of which so few people are aware and that I know thanks to my Anglican heritage.  The hymn is called "Hail Thee Festival Day."  It is difficult to find a good version where you can hear the words and the glory and power of the organ music, but here is one of decent quality so that at least you may become familiar with it:

The second thing I would like to share with you is one last meditation from the aforementioned character:

Dawn springs at last for the empty heart, setting free those bound in slavery to themselves and their own sins chaining them in misery. Only one who has tread the paths of self-servitude can understand what it means to be gripped suddenly by the light, to be pierced to the heart with truth and to dance with joy in the new day.

In that morning, the soul leaps up to the Lord to praise Him with song and all darkness has been banished. For the Lord has called each by name and now they have heard His voice. Each soul listens in the radiant glow of freedom and knows that he belongs to the Lord, that he is a wondrous work of creation, and that the Lord thirsts for his love.

Fear may strike the heart that first hears the sweet voice of love in his heart. Those bound in sin and servitude and accustomed only to the voices that drag them deeper in their misery do not know how to respond to such love. The light of freedom seems as darkness to them and they prefer to cling to their own misery rather than step forth on a path that leads to the heavens, on a road that stretches beyond their knowledge and understanding.

Yet somehow grace is at work, converting everywhere resistant hearts bent on their own destruction. Those most opposed to the light find themselves suddenly wrapped in it, reveling in a freedom and joy they never knew existed, tasting what one day will belong to them forever.

Somehow, too, each soul becomes mystically one with the Risen Lord, receiving Him in the most holy Sacrament. Lifted high above all creation, they themselves shine with the same light.

Blessed be the Lord who rose in glory that He might draw all men to Himself!

Blessed be the Lord who lifts the darkness and sets the sinner free!

Blessed be the Lord who has called me to be His poor unworthy servant!

Holy Saturday

Continuing with our meditations from said character, here is the one for today:

In silence, our Lady waited, perhaps in grief at the death of her Son and yet with great trust, for she who was conceived with no sin and remained without sin could not doubt the Lord's will. Surely she could not have known, nor understood, that He would rise from the dead any more than the apostles. Yet she trusted, waiting in the darkness of pure faith. What then did she expect? Did she wonder about the future, about what would happen? Her place was merely to accept and embrace all as the will of God, finding therein such intimate union that she needed nothing else. It was not for her to sit and grieve at her loss, at the dashing of all her hopes as some must have done, the apostles no less than the others, but rather she moved among them all with the same peace that had always graced her life, the same smile to encourage those who cowered in fear. Perhaps she spoke words to them of her trust in the Lord, but her presence spoke more than any words, and it was her presence that drew all she touched nearer to Him even without her knowing it.

Even then she must have been praying, pleading for those around her, especially those who seemed to be losing hope. As a mother it was her part to seek first the care of her Son, and so she did, even now in His death, for she served each person she met as if he had been her Son, as if he were indeed God Himself.

So it was that she found Him where no other could see Him, her heart ever the resting place of the Living God. So it was that she guided the Church in the pangs of its birth, when all seemed lost.

It was easy for others to forget her presence, to take for granted the peace she radiated. Few could have known the tremendous part she played in the salvation of the world; for her it was not enough to be the Mother of God: she had also to give her life for others in union with her Son, becoming the servant of all, and suffering all for love of Him, heeding only His will at each and every moment and never displeased that it was not her way, answering each temptation with the simple “fiat” that was her path to the heavens, leading across the sea to the glory of the risen Son.

Good Friday

I continue with the aforementioned character's meditation for Good Friday:

A sacrifice that goes beyond life—beyond death. Who of us can fathom such an absolute self-giving, a gift of love that holds nothing back, that suffers all for love, even the gibes and scorns heaped upon His head. They called Him a lamb because they thought He did nothing, suffering Himself to be led wherever they desired, and yet there was nothing passive in this, for it was a most active gift of self from the Lord who rules the universe.

With His death the world as we know it was rent asunder—is still rent asunder—because the veil that hides the mystery was torn away. We can no longer pass our lives outside the temple, awed at the mystery, gazing toward things beyond us as if they meant nothing to our lives, marveling at a God who reigns over us, ruling from the heavens above.

Nay, now we find ourselves face to face with Him, our Lord and Brother. We see His face, bruised and bleeding, disfigured almost beyond our recognition, a criminal. How oft we turn away! For who could bear to gaze long on that much love concealed in blood and grime? Who could recognize the King of the Universe in a man condemned to die?

And so it is, we turn away, seeking a God who better fits our mind, whom we can bind within the chains of our expectations. And so it is we find ourselves hiding from His face, ignoring the love with which He gazes gently upon us and speaks our name, calling us to Himself. And so it is we find ourselves taking charge more and more, forcing all circumstances to conform themselves to our will, and in the end trying to become God unto ourselves, not only to rule our own destinies, but also that of all the world.

Yet somehow His love will never bear that we escape Him for ever. Somehow whispers come to us, so gently it is easy to ignore them, to forget, but never to escape forever the gentle touch upon our hearts.

In the end we have to face Him. Something comes to bring us to Him and we can no longer avoid the searching judgment of our lives. At that moment we are taken into His death. It is then that we must humble ourselves and unite our pain to His or else spit upon His face and turn away, knowing that His gaze of love follows us still and if we will allow it, converts our hearts and brings us back to Him at last.

Maundy Thursday

Today I would like to share with you words from a character of mine—a pirate captain turned priest.  Here is his meditation, roughly translated, which conveys at least some of the beauty of the original language and thought I hope:

How eagerly He desired that moment, how eagerly He desired that they might understand, how eagerly He desired that He might share His suffering with them by sharing His very life! For what does love desire except to give itself wholly to the beloved and to keep nothing for itself? So much He loved us that He would not keep even that to Himself!

So it was that on that night He knelt and washed their feet, teaching them how greatly He wished to turn their preconceived notions upside down. And so He still does. He calls us to follow Him and then reverses all that we expect in following Him.

He sat there then, asking them to come to Him, even as He asks of us now, as He said to them: “This is My Body,” and “This is My Blood.” This He said because it was His life He gave for us, and so it was that He asked us to do the same, to give our lives for Him and for our brothers.

This is what a priest is called to do, whether a ministerial priest or any baptized person sharing in the life of Christ. We are asked—for He always asks and rarely commands, begging our love—to become ourselves a living sacrifice, to pour forth our blood for others and to let them eat of our body in His memory, not as we eat of His Body and Blood, but in a spiritual way that is in communion with His sacrifice so that all we do, all we suffer, all that others ask of us, and all that each moment brings may be an offering of love to Him.

Yet always, weak and sinful creatures that we are, our time is cut short. We think that we are in the garden to keep watch with Him, but then we find ourselves sleeping and all our efforts lost, all our attempts to pray in vain. When He says it is time to go, we do not understand. We want to beg Him to wait, but it cannot be so. We can only let go the past and meet the next moment for love of Him, trying once more to be faithful where we have so often failed.

Our Hearts' Desire

How much do you desire God?

That was the question heading the most recent Restoration newspaper I read from Madonna House and it is a good question.  Ultimately it is the question that underlies all that we do throughout our lives, but particularly during Lent.

The whole purpose of Lent is to identify our desire for God.  We sacrifice goods in order to purify our desire within that we may recognize it as such.

Desire is like a flame; it starts small and it grows.

So Catherine Doherty wrote in the first article I read and I think the simile is so apt.  Desire truly is like a flame, which, as we feed it, grows and grows, while when we give it no fuel it dies away into embers, waiting perhaps for fresh kindling and a breath to bring it back to life.  The more we feed that desire the larger it grows until it becomes a bonfire and we are set on fire.  And then, as Saint Catherine of Siena said:

If you are who you should be, you will set the world on fire.

That conflagration may start from the smallest of flames.  It matters little whether you find in your heart only a coldness and emptiness or whether you feel that your desire for things of the world outweighs any desire for God.  If you feed the tiniest flicker with prayer and abandonment to God, you will become that burning light.

We exist to desire the Desired One: God.  As St. Augustine said, "Our hearts were made for Yourself, O Lord, and they are restless until they rest in You."

Catherine Doherty's words speak so powerfully to the reason for our existence.  One of the greatest struggles of our lives is to determine the answer to that question: why do we exist?  The Baltimore Catechism answers it simply: To love and serve God in this life and be happy with Him in the next.  In that simplicity there is great truth and it is our desire for God that prompts us to love and serve Him.

In order for that desire to grow, however, and in order for that flame to burn, there must be room for it.  As Catherine Doherty puts it:

His every act, His every word, must be enclosed in our desire, for if we are to fulfill our desire to see Him when the door of death opens (and even before, for the Kingdom of God begins now), we have to imitate Him whom we are going to look at.

This will require that we empty ourselves of many things, since the kind of fiery desire we have takes a lot of space.  It is not just a little kindling that we are going to ignite but huge dry wood.

We must desire to empty every corner of ourselves of everything but this person called Jesus Christ, God and man, who died and resurrected so that we might see the face of the Triune God....