Epiphany

For he shall save the lives of the poor,

and the needy who are helpless.

He will have pity on the weak 

and save the lives of the poor.

                                   Psalm 71 

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 It seems to me to be no accident that this Psalm is set for Epiphany together with the passage from Isaiah 60: 'Arise, shine...for your light has come'. That's the big news story of the day: the light that enlightens every human being has come into the world, and all the nations (the wise men being the pioneers) will come to see Him. And this--saving the lives of the poor--is what He has come to do.

I am reminded most frequently by my son, who is 8, that this is what it's all about. His spiritual life is anchored in care for the homeless poor. It amazes me to hear his prayers and see the concern reflected in his face when we talk about such things. A year or so ago, he explained that he was going to write lots of books, in order to sell them and make money. What did he intend to do with the money? Give it to the homeless. He has a big soul for a little boy, a tender heart and a certainty about the possibility of making a difference. Just yesterday I reminded him of one of the loveliest of his prayers: he wanted to pray 'for all those who don't have anyone to pray for them'. He had forgotten this prayer, I think, because he turned to me and said, 'but they do. They have us'.

May it ever be so.

The Douai Martyrs

The Lord will not abandon his people

  nor forsake those who are his own;

for judgement shall again be just

  and all true hearts shall uphold it.

.   .   .

Last year at this time, we were remembering the Douai Martyrs with the community gathered at Ushaw College, founded here in the northeast of England from the English College at Douai. This year, Ushaw has closed (Lucy was baptized in the chapel at Ushaw in June), and the memorial becomes just that much more melancholy. Universalis has this to say: 

The English College at Douai was founded in 1569 to educate English Catholics, and in particular to act as a seminary training priests to enter England covertly, minister to English Catholics, and attempt the re-conversion of England to the faith. Simply being a Catholic priest was high treason in England at this time, with the penalty of hanging, drawing and quartering, and more than 160 of the priests from Douai were thus executed. Each time the news of another execution reached the College, a solemn Mass of thanksgiving was sung.

I am humbled by the reminder that, however much I find the way of discipleship a challenge at the moment, I 'have not yet resisted to the point of shedding [my] blood.' I am grateful for the witness of the Douai martyrs and all those who have given their lives for the sake of the gospel. 

monday in ordinary time

Blessed day by day be the Lord,
who bears our burdens; God, who is our salvation.
God is a saving God for us;
the LORD, my Lord, controls the passageways of death.
(Psalm 67 LXX)


Jesus was teaching in a synagogue on the sabbath.
And a woman was there who for eighteen years
had been crippled by a spirit;
she was bent over, completely incapable of standing erect.
When Jesus saw her, he called to her and said,
"Woman, you are set free of your infirmity."
He laid his hands on her,
and she at once stood up straight and glorified God.
(Luke 13)

.   .   .

Standing up straight has never been my strong suit. Not because I can't, but because it requires an attention to my body, the was I carry myself, that I just haven't practiced. I suspect that standing erect came as a delight after eighteen years of stooping. The next day, though? How did she do? Did she stoop out of habit? That's what I find, at least, after moments of revelation, of healing: it's living out of the newness of life that's difficult. Habit pulls me in the opposite direction, and I stoop. I forget that the one who heals also remains; he 'bears our burdens' so that we can walk upright. 

Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?

 Far from my deliverance are the words of my groaning.

O my God, I cry by day, but you do not answer; 

And by night, but I have no rest. 

Yet you are holy, 

O you who are enthroned on the praises of Israel. 

In you our fathers trusted; 

They trusted and you delivered them. 

.   .   .

By happy accident, I read the wrong bit of Psalm this morning. (I should have read Psalm 24.1-6, but never mind.)

The astonishing thing, though, is that I read it at all. For the last couple of months, I haven't been able to approach the Scripture: the darkness had become that dark. But in the life of the soul as in the cycles of day and night, it seems that the night is darkest just before the dawn. 

It is a happy accident, because for eighteen months or so, I have been utterly bewildered by this age old question: 'why have you forsaken me?' Why is it that our forebears trusted and were delivered? Why were they not disappointed? 

Slowly, though, the light has been creeping back into my soul. And today I find, to my surprise, that the sun shines. The sun shines more brightly than I thought it ever would again. 

The shadows persist, to be sure, and the road ahead still looks like a rocky climb. But I know that the light still shines, and I am not afraid. 

Tuesday of the sixteenth week of the year

They tempted God in their hearts
by demanding the food they craved.
Yes, they spoke against God, saying,
“Can God spread a table in the desert?”


Yet he commanded the skies above
and the doors of heaven he opened;
He rained manna upon them for food
and gave them heavenly bread. 


Psalm 78 (77 LXX)

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The psalm for the day recounts the story related in the first reading, from Exodus. The people complain, and God provides. I owe this observation and its connection to the gospel for today to a friend who is a priest. In his homily he pointed out that the parable of the sower is about the sower--it's not a parable about the different types of soil. The sower goes out to sow, and sows the seed generously: he gives. I insist that my children ask politely, say please, and don't demand things. But God, my friend observed, complies with the demands of the people and responds to their complaining by more abundant generosity. 


Now that's what I call preaching the good news: he came that we might have life, and have it abundantly. And we didn't even say 'please.'

Our Lady of Mount Carmel

Inspired by the Carmelite Order, the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel invites reflection on the life  of prayer and devotion to Mary that characterizes the Order. Although we may remember St Teresa of Avila and St John of the Cross for their mystical experiences, their lives were spent in obedience and prayer. The remarkable sense of God's presence is the fruit of a disciplined attention, and, for St John, followed a long 'dark night of the soul'. May his life continue to inspire us as we walk through the valley of the shadow.

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...for his steadfast love endures forever.

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So goes the line, repeated in all 26 verses of Psalm 136 (135 LXX). Every saving act of God recounted in today's psalm should remind us (it seems to say) that God's steadfast love endures forever. The psalm concludes with a stanza that makes me wish I could drop everything and go to Mass immediately:

It is he who remembered us in our low estate,
   for his steadfast love endures forever;
and rescued us from our foes,
   for his love endures forever;
he who gives food to all flesh,
   for his love endures forever.

O give thanks to the God of heaven,
   for his love endures forever.

I am reminded of the ultimate saving act of God, in which God remembered us in our low estate and came to join us. The Son of God came down, so that we might be raised with him, delivered from sin and death, and given new life. And that life, that deliverance, is remembered, celebrated and received anew in the sacrament of Christ's body and blood. No matter how steep the mountain or how stormy the skies, the Lord gives himself as our food, our strength for the journey, for his steadfast love endures forever.

St Bonaventure

St Bonaventure (from the short description on universalis) 'wrote extensively on philosophy and theology, making a permanent mark on intellectual history; but he always insisted that the simple and uneducated could have a clearer knowledge of God than the wise'. Amen to that: the only thing that keeps me doing theology is the belief that it is more important for a theologian to be faithful than to be clever. I pray that I will be faithful, by God's grace.

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How shall I make a return to the LORD
for all the good he has done for me?
The cup of salvation I will take up,
and I will call upon the name of the LORD.


Precious in the eyes of the LORD
is the death of his faithful ones.
I am your servant, the son of your handmaid;
you have loosed my bonds.


To you will I offer sacrifice of thanksgiving,
and I will call upon the name of the LORD.
My vows to the LORD I will pay
in the presence of all his people.


                                        Psalm 115 (LXX)

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Today a friend posted a video to facebook, a song by Casting Crowns (not in my repertoire) called 'Praise you in the storm'. I clicked the link, as the verse from 'On Christ the solid rock I stand' started in my head: 'When darkness veils his lovely face/ I rest on his unchanging grace; / beneath the high and stormy gale/ my anchor holds within the veil'. 


It's been storming for a while now, eighteen months at least, and I (like the writer of 'Praise you in the storm'), think it could well be time for the storm to end. The clouds do have their silver linings, to be sure, but I am more than ready for a season of fair skies.  I am not asking for happily ever after, of course, just a season of smooth sailing in the sunshine, or an easy walk through a meadow. 


That's my plan, but it doesn't seem to be God's plan. And so I understand why thanksgiving is a sacrifice: to give thanks for what I don't want, trusting that I have what I need, and that however hard the road, and however I may stumble along it, I am never beyond the reach of the one who has loosed my bonds. 


     On Christ the solid rock I stand;
     all other ground is sinking sand.
     All other ground is sinking sand.