Restoration
Posted May 01, 1999:
May / June 1999
Archive of articles from the May/June 1999 issue of Restoration.
My Dear Family
OUT OF THE WIND CAME FIRE
by Catherine Doherty
How afraid the disciples must have been when Christ ascended! Oh yes, he had promised not to leave them orphans, and that he would send them an Advocate, but so many times they did not understand.
Nor do we. So many times he speaks in our hearts and we discard his soft voice. It doesn’t jibe with our brilliant, technologically-trained intellect; so we either miss it or discard it.
Well, the apostles believed. But who was this Advocate? Who was this strange Person who wouldn’t leave them orphans after Christ left? They couldn’t understand, so for ten days they cringed with fear around Our Lady in the upper room. And cringed is the word!
They were afraid of the Sanhedrin. They were afraid of the Sadducees, of the Romans, of anyone in authority. They were afraid of their own people, the Jews. So they cringed.
But there was one good thing about that cringing; it led them to pray fervently with Our Lady. They prayed and waited with her. And then, one day—we call it Pentecost—they heard the roaring of a great wind.
Did it ever occur to you that God has often come in the wind? He talked to Adam and Eve in the soft breeze of evening. He came to Elijah (who expected him to come roaring like thunder) in a gentle wind. If you listen well, my friends, he will come to you—usually in a gentle wind.
But this time he didn’t. No, at Pentecost the wind was indeed roaring. It shook the place. Their fears grew for a moment. But then out of that wind came fire! Yes, tongues of fire, which rested upon the heads of the apostles and Our Lady. The Promised One had arrived—the Third Person of the Trinity!
Bow down your head. Prostrate yourself, for the place is beyond holiness. God came to man in tongues of fire! The word ‘holy’ ceases to apply! Once more man, though he didn’t realize it, beheld heaven, for heaven is Love, and Love is God!
The Promised One had come, he whom Jesus Christ called the ‘Advocate’. In Russian, as in Greek, the word is Paraclete, which means ‘consoler’, one who stands close by (para) to speak (kalein) a word of encouragement.
So then, to the Western mind, an advocate pleads before a judge and, it is hoped, consoles the one for whom he pleads. In the East, however, the word is simply ‘consoler’, and the Trinity is named the Father, the Brother, the Consoler.
Just think of that! You who are lonely, don’t be! You have a Father. You have a Brother. You have a Consoler. Moreover, you have a Mother—Our Lady of the Trinity!
Ignorant as I am of mysteries, I did ‘lay my hands in the lap of my heart’ when I came to write this. And I did listen. I do not try to penetrate any mystery of God with my intellect. The wings of my intellect were truly folded before the mystery of sobornost—our unity of mind and heart, in the heart of the Trinity.
In his infinite mercy, gently, the Lord spoke to me. He spoke to me as he will speak to you, if you close the wings of your intellect, put your folded hands in your open heart, and rest in him.
And while resting in him, you must allow him to tell you that which he wishes to tell you—not that which you desire to know. For once you are in that state of rest, all desires disappear except the desire for the Desired One.
I think of Our Lady as being in the midst of the Trinity. And I think of the Trinity as movement, fire and peace. Mary is the spouse of the Holy Spirit, the mother of Jesus Christ, the daughter of the Father. Obviously, she must be in their midst, in that eternal peace.
But of what use are the words ‘in their midst’, when the Trinity embraces not only our poor little planet but all the spheres, constellations and galaxies? The dark void is no void to the Trinity. All is light because all is embraced by God. I have no words that can describe this picture.
We are all in the midst of the Trinity, for we are all baptized in the resurrected Christ. The others are in him, too, because one cannot deny that he died for everyone—the Hindu, the African, the Indian, the Chinese, the white man—for all the nations.
If we could see with the eyes of God, we would see all the peoples of the world wending their way down the road of history. Whether they realize it or not, they are moving into the resurrected Christ. They are all to be greeted by the Lord of history, whose arms are outstretched to receive them, even as was done for the Prodigal Son.
Yes, we have talked about sobornost, and now we meet it in its fullest reality: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, who are united by the bond of a love beyond our understanding.
And because we are one with the Trinity and thus one with all mankind, we must tend our hearts carefully—as an interior garden. We have to ‘water’ sobornost by loving God. And the Holy Spirit, the Consoler, who is forever hovering over the garden, watches to see that our sobornost is well nurtured.
Oh yes, we have free will. We can let this plant die—the plant of sobornost. But what a tragedy! We watch the Consoler, who holds the water that will revive the plant. He asks for a sign. He wants to pour out his consolation, which is the water. But we say we do not need it. We can make it alone!
If we do that, the Holy Spirit respects our wishes. He does not pour out consolations. Instead, Our Lady’s tears will wash the plant. But all her tears and prayers cannot restore unity among us—not unless we truly want it!
Because we are created as free beings, we can reject the Trinity. We can reject God the Father. We can reject our Brother. We can reject the Consoler. We can gather up the tears of Our Lady and throw them away. Such is the power of the human soul, the human will, created in the image and likeness of God.
But those who believe in God, who are baptized in him, will allow the waters of the Spirit to flow freely. Those who follow God faithfully, who reflect the face of the Father as they walk the path of the Lord Jesus Christ, will allow themselves to rest in the arms of the Holy Spirit. They will accept his consolation. And they will keep it, as they journey along, by holding the hand of Our Lady.
From Sobornost, pp.156-161,
available from MH Publications.
Combermere Diary
LESSONS LEARNED OUT OF SCHOOL
Children in class study the three R’s: reading, writing, and ‘rithmetic. At MH, we’ve had a month of three R’s: resignation, redemption, and relationships. It’s been a learning experience.
We resigned ourselves to the fact that, every ten years, a flu epidemic ravages the globe—usually during the winter months of 19x8-19x9. You who read this may also have been victims, so you know what resignation is: to accept, to endure, to ‘muddle through’—step by faltering step.
When the flu first visited us, it seemed almost benign. Later, it moved into an epidemic mode. Those who had a touch of it earlier in the year were struck down by a second bout. So we canceled classes, get-togethers, and other gatherings where multitudinous hackers and coughers get too close to the healthy ones. We continued to have daily Mass.
We instituted early nights to bed, and sleep-ins in the mornings. To no avail. The un-well kept the well awake. Dormitory walls echoed the strangulated baritone coughs of once healthy sopranos and altos. A number lost their voices completely, often for over a week.
St. Goupil’s—a staff dorm for women—had its 20 beds converted into a hospital ward. The healthy moved out; the sick moved in. Someone hung up a large sign, saying Ward G—G being short for Goupil.
Two of our older men staff (one lay, one cleric) went to the hospital in Barry’s Bay after they developed complications: pneumonia and bronchitis, respectively. A few days under doctor’s care was sufficient to restore them to ambulatory duties.
Both the well and semi-well pinch-hitted in jobs not normally theirs, doing the minimum to survive. A low point was hit in our dining room: 36 people at meals, not the usual 90. We learned to cope.
Redemption came at the end of Lent, after we had carried the cross of influenza for 40 days and 40 nights. But there were respites along the way.
Mr. John Burbidge, retired professor of philosophy from Trent University in Peterborough, gave a talk in the Christian Vision of Culture series we’ve been hosting for area residents. Due to the flu, attendance was less than we had hoped; but there was a goodly number of local teenagers present: home-schoolers who are studying philosophy. They took abundant notes at John’s lecture, in order to discuss them at their next class.
His title was apt: "the Love of Wisdom—a basic introduction to philosophy, the search for life’s meaning." Reshaping a semester session for philosophy students into a one-hour talk for the general public isn’t easy; but John did quite well.
He kept it basic and introductory, for the most part—an attempt at an ordo disciplinae (a method of teaching) rather than a summa philosophiae (a summation of definitively categorized points).
For myself, one particular detail touched my heart. At university, John would quote Augustine, Thomas Aquinas, and other saints to his students, who were mostly agnostic or atheist. They bridled at hearing ideas from religious thinkers, fearing that they’d be hoodwinked into error.
By revealing how to reason logically and honestly, John tried to lead his students to use their own thinking processes to consider the possible existence of God—a crucial step in seeking life’s meaning.
In our post-Christian age, it’s a vital technique to learn (or relearn), a necessary step before moving on to the understanding of revealed truths. It’s our mission: This may be a wicked age, but your lives should redeem it (Eph 5:16).
Winter abated; spring ‘fell’ upon us with a vengeance, literally. It snowed all night and continued into the day that the calendar maintains is officially spring. Well, snow is good for the soil … so they say.
Kieran Kilcommons won the ‘when will the snow go?’ contest and got the prize cookie baked by Alma Coffman. His guess: 2 p.m., Easter Wednesday. Because I hate losing, I used to shudder at this contest each year. Now I ignore how fast the snow melts, and just put down April 13, my mom’s birthday. So, even if I lose, I still win!
The contest is based on the disappearance of snow in our apple orchard, a flat piece of land that gets the sun all day long. In the shadow of hills and buildings, there’s still piles of snow. And the nights still fall below freezing. Good for the maple syrup, they say. And good for the stomach, if combined with pancakes.
Brendan, with four years of cooking school under his belt (so to speak), had worked in a restaurant before visiting us. He and the other men guests made noodles for lasagna on March 25, feast of the Annunciation—and a whipped-cream custard for dessert. Little celebrations like this, in the midst of Lent, prepare our hearts for Easter redemption.
Egg-dying, traditionally done at MH on Wednesday of Holy Week, is always traumatic for me; I’m such a klutz at handicrafts. It was interesting, however, to see how different the colors and shades come out on brown eggs, compared with white ones.
Holy Thursday was a gray, quiet day, both in weather and in soul. Many old friends were with us, from Ireland to California. At supper, some staff sang Eiliyahu Hanavi (Elijah the Prophet), traditionally sung at the end of the Seder meal, with the "Elijah cup" elevated. The tune is probably 2200 years old. The words would certainly have been sung at the Last Supper by the disciples. It asserts their hope of future redemption, at the appearance of the Messiah.
The Jewish custom is that no one drinks from the cup of Elijah, for the time is not yet ripe. When Jesus lifted the cup and said, "Take and drink," he was intimating that he was the Messiah, and that the fullness of time now had come.
Significantly, two counselors from Elijah House—Vicki and Thea—were here for the supper. Elijah House is a Christian group dedicated to helping people come to God. By means of spiritual guidance, the confusion, loneliness, and pain in life can bring them to God for healing and redemption.
The weeks of Easter, that great time of celebrating our redemption, was a joyous season. Some of the staff sang a Russian Easter song. A priest from Malta sang a Maltese Easter song. A bishop from the state of Bihar, in India, gave a talk about life there.
It seemed Jesus was telling us, as he had to Mary Magdalene, not to cling to him, not to ‘hang on’ to old relationships with God, but to open ourselves up to a new relationship. He was saying, "Give me your life. And I will show you what resurrection is!"
Easter was a time of ending old relationships with many of our guests. They moved out into the wider world—these young men and women who’d been with us for two, four, eight months—so as to ‘redeem a wicked age’ by their lives, as St. Paul said.
This great exodus emptied our dormitories and our hearts (a temporary condition; others will come, we know not who).
The parting was peaceful and prayerful—on both sides. We were philosophical; we did not cling.
India Diary - Part 2
SHARING OUR LIFE
In the fall of 1998, the author, along with Theresa Davis and Mark Schlingerman, gave a series of retreats in the Assam region in the North East of India. He continues here his account of their experience.
After Mark arrived in Shillong, we returned to Guwahati to prepare for our first retreat. Before it began, Archbishop Thomas invited Mark and me to go with him on a tour of some of his mission stations.
We passed refugee camps where people had fled to escape the local violence among tribes. We visited budding parishes, still using thatched structures for their churches, in the hope of more permanent buildings in the near future. We attended a ceremony to open a new parish rectory, and saw grounds marked out for a new convent of nuns.
It was especially inspiring to see new Christians in these parishes, the first ever from the tribes in this part of the world. Each place we went, we were greeted with song, and often with tribal dancing.
In one of my retreat talks, I referred to this experience and urged my audience not to lose these artistic forms, but to teach their new converts how to sing and dance the Christian mysteries. We in the West have lost these arts, and have to go to night school to learn them!
In all my priestly life, I had never seen a mission parish rising up in the countryside. It occurred to me that this is how many of the parishes of the world must have begun. For me, it was a new experience of the fruitfulness of the Church.
At one of the Masses, a lovely group of novices in saris brought up the offertory gifts in a liturgical dance. It was reverent and beautiful.
Mark, who is a wood carver, saw in one of the thatched roof chapels a wooden crucifix that he considered truly fine art. He was fortunate, at the end of our retreats, to meet the artist.
The two retreats were each five days long and were meant to help prepare the Church of Assam for the third millennium. Priests and religious came from most of the dioceses of the region; over 200 attended the first retreat in Guwahati.
It was an encounter with the whole Church of Assam. I do not know the exact statistics, but probably two-thirds of those attending were tribal converts. It was inspiring to address this new Church of Christ, and to see religious congregations springing up to serve the people of God.
It was also inspiring to hear liturgical music being sung in local languages as well as in Hindi which, along with English, is one of the national languages. I was impressed by how much translation has been done: the Bible, the breviary, and other liturgical texts are all in Assamese.
The whole region is called Assam, but there are countless other tribes there as well. One reason that they are attracted to Catholicism, we were told, is the notion of sacrifice. Many tribes have sacrifice and priesthood as part of their traditional religions, so the concept is familiar to them.
One reason for the recent persecution of Christians (there are more Protestants in Assam than Catholics) is that there is a radical wing in the present BJP government whose slogan is, India for the Hindus!
The tribal people are not Hindus, however, and don’t want to be. But this radical wing accuses Christianity of stealing ‘their’ people. They are not stolen; they never belonged to the Hindu religion in the first place.
Within Assam, the different religions get along well; the trouble comes from outside. Archbishop Thomas has publicly refuted the charges of ‘stealing converts’.
Giving the retreats was an inspiring experience for the three of us. (Mark said it was the best retreat he had ever made.) Each day there were three talks. Often I gave two, and Mark and Theresa the third, although some days I gave only one. I preached at Mass each day. There was also an hour of adoration of the Blessed Sacrament.
We were stuck by the spontaneous and familial prayers offered to Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament. They talked to him openly as a loving friend, truly present and listening to every word they said. For me, the hour of adoration each day was one of the highlights of the retreat.
Because it was a retreat (and because, generally, people in the East prefer silence), there wasn’t a great deal of time set aside for public questions and discussion. There was enough interchange at the tea breaks and during the meals to respond to questions.
The feedback we got was positive. A few people were nervous that we were trying to ‘push’ Madonna House, in order to get vocations for our community; so we often made the point that we’d simply come to share our way of life with them.
Once in a while I used the word ashram to describe Combermere. This helped them to connect our way of life with something familiar to them.
We showed several videos about Catherine and MH, and brought six boxes of MH books and prayer cards to distribute. By the end, none were left over.
Just an aside: as we carted these books through airports and customs, I thought that it was a small chore compared to the early missionaries who had to transport all their belongings over sea and land.
to be continued
Nazareth Today
THE FLICKERING FLAME
I have a hard time getting out of bed this morning. Those who’ve lived with me over the years can testify that even on my best days I’m not exactly a ball of fire first thing in the morning, leaping out of bed to face the new day with enthusiasm and vigor. No, I’m more the ‘flickering flame’ type—lethargic and subdued are my more typical attitudes that first part of the day, at least until some combination of caffeine and Morning Prayer kick in.
This morning, though, is particularly difficult. I seem pinned to the bed by an unseen force. Cold seeps into me: early spring can be chilly in Combermere, and the wood-generated heat of the small dormitory I live in rarely lasts the night. Temptations race through my mind: I can fall back to sleep—nobody will notice! Just this once!
Sternly quelling such thoughts (get behind me, Satan!), I eventually lurch out of bed, staggering around a bit as I make my morning ablutions.
A half hour later, Lauds begins. "The Lord is risen from the tomb, alleluia." I sing with full voice and strength, but my heart already begins to drift back tomb-ward. It’s shaping up to be one of ‘those’ days (you know what I mean?). Fatigue seeps into my psyche and spirit. Today’s labors, not the least of which is writing this article, buzz around in my head (try as I may to stay present to the liturgy). They seem impossible, insurmountable.
Yesterday’s struggles and failures weigh on me. And the future, at this moment, stretches before me—an endless replay of yesterday and today: struggles, failures, insurmountable tasks and impossible burdens.
Oh well. Catherine always told us there’d be days like this. ‘Gray days’ (even though the brilliant April sun is streaming through the chapel windows), days of monotony, discouragement. Days when, at least for the moment, life seems to have been downgraded to a matter of sheer survival, to just ‘getting through’ the next thing. It’s not always like this, but there are times …
Back to Lauds. The first psalm fits my mood well: The enemy pursues my soul, he has crushed my life to the ground. … Why are you cast down my soul, why groan within me? Hope in God, I will praise him still, my savior and my God (Ps 42).
Ah, yes. This is why we pray the psalms. They capture so well the nitty-gritty, down-and-dirty reality of the human condition, but their true inspired genius is that they connect it all to God. They sing, not just truth, but The Truth about life. Your soul is cast down? Hope in God, and praise him still! I enter into praying the psalm, and my soul lightens up a bit.
The second psalm: To you all flesh will come with its burden of sin. Too heavy for us, our offenses, but you wipe them away (Ps 64). Amen, amen, my heart cries. Mercy it is and mercy it must be that alone saves us. The psalm goes on to speak of spring with its sure promise of new growth. It proclaims the truth of who we are and who God is, the truth of the resurrection: God’s mercy and love overcoming our sin and death and lavishing life upon us like spring rain. Along with my brothers and sisters, I sing the truth of who I am.
Still, though, a lingering sadness remains in me. After the Scripture reading (which I confess I miss entirely as my brain is still in its morning fog) we have a period of silent meditation. I ponder this lingering heaviness. Why is my soul so cast down, anyway?
My mind starts to build its case, proving beyond dispute that I should be discouraged: "Well, Denis, there’s that struggle you’ve had since you attained the age of reason, which isn’t getting any better. What’s more, last Lent you identified about six different areas (previously unknown to you) where you need major repentance and conversion, and it ain’t happened yet.
"You’re tired, and the paper is nowhere near being finished for the month. You’ve got a stack of letters to answer a mile high, and in most cases you don’t have a clue what to say, blah, blah, blah …"
Well, okay. Defeated, I figuratively slump to the floor (I’m already sitting on the floor, or I’d do it literally). Why shouldn’t I be cast down, O my soul? Why shouldn’t I groan within me?
When I get into a funk like this, I automatically turn to Our Lady. I’m not sure why; I guess it’s because I’m consecrated to her. I figure that if I belong to her, then this includes everything—struggles, sins and difficulties are all part of the package. It makes for a much bigger package than if I just give her my ‘good deeds and smiles’, by the way.
I glance over at her icon, and pray one of those great, theologically deep prayers: "Mama! Help me!" No immediate response, but I think I catch her smiling reassuringly.
Lauds continues. While part of me attends to the responses, canticles and litanies, my focus shifts to the Paschal candle, situated a couple feet in front of the icon.
A tiny flame flickers from the top of the column of wax, symbolizing our humanity, illuminated by Christ’s victory. While the feast of Easter fades into memory, the candle remains, lit at each liturgy until Pentecost, a mute reminder of the presence of the risen Christ in our midst.
I think, "But it’s so small!" The little flame is barely noticeable amid the electric lights of the chapel. Why, it doesn’t even illuminate the whole candle—just the top few inches!
The question resurfaces: why are you cast down, my soul? Isn’t that it? The resurrection of Christ, it’s victory in my life, seems so ‘small’, especially as we move away from the feast itself into the fifty days of its remembering.
Life goes on. Yesterday’s struggles are today’s and will no doubt be tomorrow’s. Getting out of bed remains hard, more so on some days than others. Simple fidelity to the vocation and the duties of each moment will be at times a hanging-on-by-the-fingernails, grim fight for survival (not always, but there are times …).
In the midst of it all, there is Christ. He is hard to see; to my clouded eyes and befogged psyche, he is very dim indeed at times, but yes, risen and victorious.
Lauds ends, and I proceed to breakfast and thence to my work day. Not too much has changed—I still want to go back to bed! But I don’t, and I believe that, consequently, somewhere in me a spark of light grows brighter. A fraction of an inch more of wax is illumined by Christ. It’s not too perceptible, but just maybe my ‘flickering flame’ may grow to a bonfire of love yet. I think I’ll stick around to find out, anyhow.
The Pope’s Corner
THE FATHER LOVES YOU!
The following is excerpted from the Pope’s message for the 14th World Youth Day.
It may not always be conscious and clear, but in the human heart there is a deep nostalgia for God. St. Ignatius of Antioch expressed this eloquently: "There is within me a living water that murmurs: Come to the Father" (Ad Rom., 7).
Lord, show me your glory, Moses begged on the mountain (Ex 33:18). No one has ever seen God; the only Son, who is in the bosom of the Father has made him known, (John 1:18). So, is it enough to know the Son in order to know the Father?
Philip does not let himself be so easily convinced. Show us the Father, he asks. His insistence brings us a reply beyond all that we could hope for: Have I been with you so long, and yet you do not know me, Philip? He who has seen me has seen the Father, (John 14:9).
After the Incarnation, there exists a human face in which it is possible to see God. Believe me that I am in the Father and the Father in me, (John 14:11). Jesus says this not only to Philip, but to all who will believe. So, whoever receives the Son of God receives the One who sent him.
A new relationship now is possible between the Creator and the creature, that of the Son with his own Father. When the disciples want to enter into the secrets of God and ask to learn how to pray as support for their journey, Jesus, in reply, teaches them the Our Father.
Calling upon the Father is the secret, the breath, the life of Jesus. Is he not the only Son, the first-born, the loved one towards whom everything is directed, present to the Father even before the world existed, sharing in his same glory?
From the Father, Jesus receives power over all things. The disciples themselves do not belong to him; it is the Father who has given them to him, entrusting him with the task of keeping them from evil, so that none should be lost.
Thanks to Jesus’ work of salvation, the same loving relationship that exists within the Trinity was brought into the relation between the Father and redeemed humanity.
The Father loves you! (John 16:27). How could this mystery of love be understood without the action of the Spirit poured out from the Father over the disciples thanks to the prayer of Jesus?
God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life (John 3:16). The world is loved by God! And, in spite of the refusals of which it is capable, it will continue to be loved to the very end. ‘The Father loves you’ always and forever: this is the unheard-of novelty, the simple yet profound proclamation owed to humanity by the Church.
Even if the Son had given us only this word, it would be enough. We are not orphans; love is possible. Because—as you know—we are not capable of loving if we are not loved.
But how are we to proclaim this good news? Jesus points out the way to follow: listen to the Father in order to be taught by God and keep the commandments. This knowledge will then grow: I have made known to them your name, and I will make it known (John 17:26).
In our time, the Church and the world have greater need than ever of missionaries capable of proclaiming by word and example this fundamental and consoling certainty. Being aware of this, young people of today and adults of the new millennium, let yourselves be formed in the school of Jesus.
In the Church and in the various environments of your daily existence, become credible witnesses to the Father’s love. Make it visible in your choices and attitudes, in your way of accepting people and placing yourselves at their service, in faithfully respecting God’s will and his commandments.
‘The Father loves you.’ The wonderful words are uttered within the heart of the believer who, like the disciple beloved of Jesus, rests his head on Jesus’ breast and hears what is spoken in confidence: He who loves me will be loved by my Father, and I will love him and manifest myself to him (John 14:31), for this is eternal life, that they know you, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom you have sent (John 17:3).
MH Brazil
GESTURE AND SPEECH
This letter, written last December presents a ‘typical day’ in MH Brazil, and, although the ensuing months have seen a number of staff changes in that house, it still provides a glimpse of daily life in our house in Natal.
Up with the rising sun, I attend to personal needs, and water the plants before joining the other staff on a short walk to the convent.
At 6 a.m. Mass there, we follow Portuguese booklets for the responses and songs. Returning to complete some daily chores, we sit down to enjoy Steve’s breakfast.
Our family at table includes Steve, Sidcley and myself. Jim, prayerfully supporting the house with three days in poustinia each week, eats separately and returns to his room in Sao Jose.
Elizabeth is making a one-day poustinia in Sta. Catarina. However, she is soon sought; for Marie Jose and family arrive to say a final goodbye to all of us.
This family, caretakers for several years on the granja (the small farm on which MH Natal is situated), are returning to their home village in the interior of our state, Rio Grande de Norte. This poignant farewell, done with Brazilian joy and grace, also saddens. We brush away some silent tears after seeing them to the gate.
Elizabeth returns to poustinia. The breakfast table proceeds with halting converse. Sidcley, a frequent volunteer who is looking at the MH vocation, speaks only Portuguese. Communication flows among us by gesture, speech, silence, laughter and repetition, all in low gear.
I get out a dictionary to upgrade my monosyllables. Steve—having an ‘ear’ for languages—tunes in more readily and manages to translate skeletal ideas back and forth.
Exchange continues at the post-meal spiritual reading. This house, due to past labors of staff in translating Catherine’s writings—as well as her existent books in Portuguese—has a growing corpus from which to draw for spiritual reading in two languages.
When Sidcley, or any Brazilian guest, joins us for same, we divide into groups for the initial reading of the item at hand (today we have a chapter from Em Parabolas—Not Without Parables). The readers come together again and share.
Discussion is brief today, for our key person fluent in both languages (Elizabeth) is absent. With an adept translator present, the sharing can be very rich.
At dishes and pot-washing, we discuss the ‘fruits’ of the day. It is summer, and Genesis’ fruit-bearing plants that dot our extensive yard are prolific. However, reclamation of this semi-Eden is not without intensive labor and combat with the insect world and biotic sub-species.
Currently our bougainvillea and lime trees are succumbing to persistent formiga (ants). I say that formiga are formidable!
Sidcley will juice ripe mangos for the mid-morning marenda (break), caja for the afternoon, with caju and carambola waiting in the wings. We had earlier breakfasted on bananas, bearing well from a staffworker’s planting four years ago.
Onward with the rota of chores. I change into lighter cotton (summer temperatures are revving above 30C midday) and tackle this letter.
Sidcley goes on termite and formiga patrol, then monitors the irrigation. In the rainless seasons, watering this Eden is a daily absolute.
Steve gets to his morning regimen of Portuguese study after he irons out a kink in the computer program. Access to this computer has been a long saga. Last October it died.
We commenced praying for skilled help and money. Both came. Our donors Eduardo and Regina, giving us hours upon hours of professional skill, advised purchasing not a new computer, but just a mother board, hard-drive and power supply.
Once installed, these new components had a domino effect, requiring replacement of many other parts. From the original machine, the case, printer and mouse still co-labor agreeably.
11:30 a.m. Lunch—our main meal—includes rice, macaroni, black-bean stew plus a veggie salad. Teresinha Vilar, a ‘godmother’ of this house, pops in with, yes, more fruit, plus a message which Sidcley interprets and will relate to Elizabeth. Throughout the day, he also assists with phone messages.
After lunch, Steve and Sidcley set out, traveling by besta (public van) to Parnamarim, the nearest town, on sundry errands at bank, hardware store, and other vendors. They also purchase our weekly vegetable needs. Most other food staples come in by the generosity of donors.
Elizabeth’s poustinia is once again pierced with a work of mercy. She guides me (via bus, van, and foot) five miles to a doctor in Natal and does the translating. My ear ache is treated, and thus does another good benefactor help Madonna House.
Late afternoon. The coastal breezes and setting sun soften the day’s heat. Rosary in Portuguese is prayed on the back veranda, followed by a half-hour of adoration in chapel. This verbal and silent centering lifts us, the world’s burdens, our benefactors, and the many intentions placed before us, to the hearth of the Triune God.
Supper is an outing with new friends. We five are compressed into a vintage Volkswagen Beetle and taken to Parnamarim by Genilson, where his wife Irenalda and two youngsters greet us warmly.
They offer a tour of their home and relaxation on their open-air porch, which also fronts a snack-vending kiosk. Irenalda runs this, both to supplement the family income while remaining at home, and to serve out the Lord’s life-giving love while she feeds the hungry and listens to the lonely. This Catholic family is edifying, radiating joy and deep trust in God. They are steeped in the spiritual vision and strength drawn from their membership in the lay movement Focolari.
Home by 9:30 p.m., we soon fall into bed to recoup for the morrow’s arising.
Who’s Who in MH
LED TO GREEN PASTURES
When Emily was little, her grandmother, a God-loving Methodist, worried about her. The child’s parents, thinking they didn’t need God, had left their Protestant churches. So Emily wasn’t baptized and had never been to church.
The grandmother, living too far away to see Emily often, prayed for her and sent her a plaque of the 23rd Psalm. It hung on the wall of Emily’s room throughout her childhood.
As she read it over and over, the words gradually sank into her heart. She wondered: "Who is this shepherd? And what are restful waters?"
The daughter of a logger, Emily Leah Huston grew up in the 1940s in the woods of Oregon. She was an only child and neighbors were far away.
For the most part, she played alone. She was lonely, but had a rich imaginative life and was very close to nature. She was the sort of child who always wanted to know the why of things. She was blessed to have parents, Leo and Winifred, who took her questions seriously and tried to give her answers.
They were well-educated, and most of their answers were good. But Emily wanted to get to the bottom of things. Since things are—at bottom—religious, the answers didn’t always satisfy.
"Who made the stars?" she wondered one night as she lay on her back gazing on them in awe. "What holds them up there?" She didn’t know, and it frightened her.
As Emily got older, things changed. Her mother felt lonely and isolated, living in the woods, and suffered increasing distress. In her pain, she developed a hunger for the God she’d known in childhood.
When Emily was 13, the family moved to the town of Eugene, and joined the Congregational Church. Her parents didn’t say much to Emily about it, but informed her that she was going to be baptized. She could choose to go weekly either to church or to Sunday school.
Emily, on the edge of adolescence and adjusting to life in town, resented yet another dislocation, one she neither understood or wanted. But she obeyed, and chose Sunday school. She came to like it, mainly for the fellowship.
At 15, Emily experienced another major change. Her mother became a Catholic! Leo, who remained a Congregationalist, was ambivalent about his wife’s choice. Emily, being a teenager, didn’t want to yield to her mother’s influence, so she sided with her father.
Wisely, Winifred didn’t ‘push’ her new-found faith on the family. But in her heart, she quietly dedicated Emily to Our Lady. And when Emily was applying for scholarships to college, her mother gave her a brochure from a Catholic woman’s college. Emily, figuring she had nothing to lose, applied there. As it turned out, it was the only college that offered her a scholarship. So, Catholic or not, it was there that Emily went.
For the first time, Emily was immersed in a Catholic world. It was very foreign to her, but many things in it aroused her curiosity. Before long, she began to seek answers at a deeper level.
Sensing her own interior disorder, she saw a basis of life beyond herself. Here was a guide to the supernatural world that she’d wondered about as a child. Here was a God-created order, a way to the promises made in the 23rd Psalm. Yet it didn’t occur to her to become Catholic.
At the end of the first term, the college offered a retreat. Though not required to attend, she did—it sounded like a nice week of quiet.
In the middle of this week, while taking a shower, she felt a strong conviction: she could become a Catholic! She wanted to become a Catholic! She began to take instructions and, the following May, in 1956, was received into the Church.
Throughout her time in college, Emily learned about God and the Church. After graduation, she taught for two years in a Catholic girls’ school. During this time, as in her conversion period, there were no dramatic events, no powerful experience of God, not even a personal relationship with him. Her movement into faith was a gradual process.
"The Lord was leading me to green pastures," said Emily, remembering the plaque on the wall, "and restoring my soul." Her journey to Madonna House was part of this process.
Having learned of MH from the house we had in Portland, Oregon, she made a side trip to Combermere while travelling across America with a friend one summer.
At the time, MH had a summer school in Combermere, and Emily’s plan was to go there for the week on Social Justice. The next week’s subject was Vocations, and Emily stayed on for this as well.
It was then that her heart was enkindled by the fire of the lectures—especially Catherine Doherty’s. Emily canceled her teaching contract and stayed.
Up to this time, Catholicism had been about ‘God and the meaning of life’. Neither Emily’s solitary life nor her faith had given her a sense of being part of a community or of being responsible to (or for) anyone else.
She learned a confronting truth at MH: that to live the Gospel is to love; and to love is to serve as Jesus serves. Because of her woundedness, Emily was afraid to commit herself to others, afraid of love. God cut through this—not by taking away the fear, but by asking her to trust.
She stayed on and, still without much feeling of love, entrusted herself to God. On August 15, 1962, Emily became a member of MH.
Over the years, Emily has had her struggles. And, as God does with everyone, he has used them to purify her. In the daily duty of the moment, her love for the Lord deepened. In the solitude of frequent poustinias, she encountered God’s Word. Slowly, there came new life and the sense of bonding, even spousal union, with God that had been lacking in her prior journey.
In 1990, God hurled a new challenge at Emily. She developed a condition called environmental illness, or multi-chemical sensitivity. This new disease is a physiological reaction to the modern world. Emily’s body cannot tolerate the man-made chemicals that are more and more rampant. As a result, there are many things she can’t do and places she can’t go.
Though she’s on the editorial board of Restoration, she can’t be in a room with a computer. There are crafts she cannot do, foods she cannot eat. If the MH community has a gathering or an activity in certain places, she cannot participate. She is, in her own words, "stalled to be still."
Slowly, since there are so many things she can’t do, she is learning to seek her security not in what she does, but in God alone. She is beginning to realize that everything we have and are is a gift from God. "How much I took for granted!" she said.
"I was always healthy and expected to use my body as I wanted, when I wanted. Yet my body is a gift. I’ve learned to thank God for every movement and for each of my senses, to live in narrowing circumstances and to give myself to God as an intercessor.
"I try to pray for those who create these chemicals, and for those who suffer from them—ultimately everyone. And I pray for the environment.
"May it be healed. May we become accountable. May we take care of it in ways that enable human beings to live fully human lives."
Emily gives thanks for the support of the MH family and the close presence of the living God. The plaque of her childhood continues to speak to her: "Though I walk through the valley of darkness, You [O God of love] prepare a table for me. My cup overflows."
The Father’s Plan - Part 5
CONQUERING THE LAND
Do you remember how prominent a place the story of Moses—the Passover and Exodus, and especially the passage through the Red Sea—was given in the story of salvation celebrated in the readings at the Easter Vigil? The story of Moses bringing the Chosen People to the Promised Land has always been central to our Judeo-Christian traditions.
This month I would like to look at the next era in the growing relationship between God and his people, namely those times covered in the Old Testament Books of Joshua and Judges. Time and space do not permit an in-depth look at these interesting times but I do hope to touch upon several of the events with which we are familiar from story and song.
It was Joshua, the faithful lieutenant of Moses, who led the Chosen People into the land promised to their father Abraham. The Book of Joshua tells the story of God’s all-conquering power in bringing his people into their land. Perhaps the best known story is that of the capture of Jericho, the first great city that lay in their path. In a story very similar to that of the crossing of the Red Sea, Joshua led the people dry shod across the Jordan River. Then, in a manner well known to most of us, God delivered Jericho into their hands.
The rest of the book tells of the systematic conquering of the Promised Land under the leadership of Joshua. The Book of Joshua, in order to give greater honor and glory to God, combines many local traditions and condenses the history of the takeover of the land of the Canaanites into Joshua’s lifetime. In fact, this complete takeover did not occur until the time of the kings, some 200 years later.
Be that as it may, the point of the Book of Joshua is well taken. God, using human leaders, did bring about the fulfillment of his promise to Abraham and delivered the land into the hands of his people.
The Book of Judges collects many stories about events taking place among the tribes of Israel during this period of conquest. The term ‘judges’ is not to be understood in our sense of the word. Far from being arbitrators of judicial decisions, these people were charismatic leaders chosen by God to resolve a growing problem among his people. As the memories of God’s gifts to their ancestors grew dimmer with the passage of time, the Israelites began to be influenced by the customs of the people among whom they lived. Since they had not been able to totally defeat and exterminate the natives of the land, the Israelites, through intermarriage and other contacts, found their faith in God weakening. They began to disregard the Law of Moses, following the religious beliefs and practices of the Canaanites.
In order to remind them of their dependence upon him, God repeatedly allowed them to be conquered by their enemies. Once this happened, they would remember that they had been unfaithful to God and would ask for mercy and forgiveness.
God would then send a leader to rescue them, to overthrow their conquerors and to lead them back to the proper service of their God. This renewed relationship with God would last for awhile and then the people would once again slip into their former errors. Again, God would allow them to be punished, and would again answer their cries for help by sending a leader who would restore their liberty to once again serve their God.
We are told the stories of twelve of these judges to illustrate this cycle of relationship with God which developed over time. The stories of three of the Judges are quite well known; that of Deborah and Barak, which includes Deborah’s beautiful Song of Praise; that of Gideon, which includes the first murmuring about the possibility of being ruled by a king; the well-known tale of Samson of the tribe of Dan and his personal fight against the Philistines, a people from Crete who had settled in the area of Gaza and the coast of the Mediterranean Sea.
Again we must keep in mind that when they were written down, the stories of these leaders were idealized and editorialized to emphasize the theme of this faith cycle which persists throughout the history of the Old Testament.
The Book of Samuel brings us to the end of this phase in the history of God’s people. It begins with the beautiful story of Samuel himself, the faith of his parents and God’s gift of a son to Hannah, his mother. Hannah’s magnificent hymn of praise is of great interest to us since it obviously was well-known to the Blessed Virgin Mary and formed the basis for her own Magnificat.
That Samuel was a chosen servant of God is shown by the story of his being called by God in a very special way. His "Speak Lord, your servant is listening," is echoed down through the history of the prophets. It is to the credit of Eli, the priest, that he encourages and guides young Samuel, preparing him for his key role in the history of God’s people.
Samuel serves as the last of the judges at a time when there was great unrest among God’s people and a rising sense that they would be better able to grow as a nation with a more stable form of government.
The difficulties of living a theocracy under the guidance of a High Priest were becoming more and more obvious. Many believed that some form of kingdom similar to that of the peoples around them would serve their needs better. Perhaps the service of God could be better regulated if the people were organized in some human form of government.
It was when Samuel, the man sent by God, became too old to serve as judge and leader of the people and turned the office over to his sons, who did not follow his example of obedience to God, that the question came to a head.
After much prayer and discussion with God, Samuel agreed to anoint the first king of Israel. With this decision the nation optimistically entered into a new relationship with God. Next month we will see whether or not this optimism was justified.
Questions and Answers
WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW?
We are pleased to begin this month a new column in Restoration. Many who responded to our readership survey requested such a column, or asked us to provide basic catechesis to our readers. We are happy to do so. Note: references to the Catechism of the Catholic Church are abbreviated as CCC.
Question: I know many Catholic families who have joined the Society of St. Pius X. I believe the Church excommunicated this society, but I don’t know where to find the official pronouncement saying so. Having this matter clarified could possibly prevent people from leaving the Church.
Answer: The official decree of excommunication can be found in L’Osservatore Romano, and was promulgated by the Congregation for Bishops on July 1, 1988. It can also be found in a publication called Origins, in the issue dated August 4, 1988.
Archbishop Lefebvre, founder of the Society, died on March 25, 1991, without being reconciled with the Church. All members of the Society of Pius X are considered to be excommunicated. The decree states this very clearly when it says:
"The priests and faithful are warned not to support the schism of Archbishop Lefebvre; otherwise they shall incur ipso facto the very grave penalty of excommunication."
Some of the Archbishop’s followers were reconciled to the Church at the time of the excommunications and subsequently joined the Priestly Society of St.Peter, which has "permission to use the Latin-language Tridentine Mass as long as the validity of the liturgy according to Vatican II reforms is recognized," (Origins, Aug. 4, 1988, p.152).
Question: How can sins be forgiven outside of the sacrament of confession?
Answer: Venial sins do not need to be taken to the sacrament of confession, but can be forgiven through any number of ways, which are some form of fasting, prayer, or almsgiving (CCC 1434-1438).
The Catechism goes on to say, however, that: "Without being strictly necessary, confession of everyday faults (venial sins) is nevertheless strongly recommended by the Church" (1458).
Mortal sins are forgiven outside the sacrament of confession by an act of perfect contrition. "When it arises from a love by which God is loved above all else, contrition is called ‘perfect’ (contrition of charity). Such contrition remits venial sins; it also obtains forgiveness of mortal sins if it includes the firm resolution to have recourse to sacramental confession as soon as possible" (1452).
Question: How powerful is the rosary?
Answer: After the worthy reception of the sacraments (especially the Eucharist) and the recitation of the Liturgy of the Hours, the rosary is probably the most powerful form of prayer available for Catholics.
Pope Paul VI, speaking about family prayer in his Apostolic Exhortation Marialis Cultus, said: "There is no doubt that, after the celebration of the Liturgy of the Hours, which is the high point family prayer can reach, the rosary should be considered as one of the best and most efficacious prayers in common that the Christian family is invited to recite" (54).
He concludes by saying: "The rosary is an excellent prayer, but the faithful should feel serenely free in its regard. They should be drawn to its calm recitation by its intrinsic appeal" (55).
Question: I understand genuflecting to be a sign a respect before Our Lord in the tabernacle.
Some churches these days have the tabernacle in another room, rather than in the sanctuary. but I notice that many people in such churches genuflect towards the altar or the sanctuary before sitting in their pew and before leaving.
My question is: is it proper to genuflect when entering and leaving a church where there is no tabernacle in the sanctuary, or is genuflecting reserved for the Blessed Sacrament?
Answer: In the Roman Rite, genuflecting is reserved primarily, but not exclusively, for Our Lord’s presence in the Blessed Sacrament.
"A genuflection, made by bending only the right knee to the ground, [emphasis added] signifies adoration, and is therefore reserved for the Blessed Sacrament, whether exposed or reserved in the tabernacle, and for the holy cross from the time of the solemn adoration in the liturgical celebration of Good Friday until the beginning of the Easter Vigil" (Ceremonial of Bishops #69).
"No one who enters a church should fail to adore the Blessed Sacrament, either by visiting the Blessed Sacrament chapel, or at least by genuflecting" (#71).
"This act [genuflecting] requires that it be performed in a recollected way. In order that the heart may bow before God in profound reverence, the genuflection must be neither hurried nor careless" (Inaestimabile Donum, April 1980, #26).
The General Instruction of the Roman Missal states: "If there is a tabernacle with the Blessed Sacrament in the sanctuary, [emphasis added] a genuflection is made before and after Mass and whenever anyone passes in front of the Blessed Sacrament" (#233).
It goes on to say: "A bow of the body, or profound bow, is made toward the altar if there is no tabernacle with the Blessed Sacrament" (#234).
Apart from the Blessed Sacrament, we genuflect, at Christmas and on the solemnity of the Annunciation, during the Creed at the words, "and he became man."
So, to answer the question, it is not proper to genuflect to anything other than the tabernacle on entering a Church. If genuflecting is directed to something other than the tabernacle, the gesture will lose its significance. People will forget or never know Who is in the tabernacle; it will come to be seen as merely another piece of interesting, albeit unimportant, church decor.
Finally, should someone be unable to genuflect due to a physical impairment, then a bow to the tabernacle or some other gesture of respect for Our Lord is acceptable.
Question: In Byzantine icons, some of the images are depicted holding up two fingers. What does this mean?
Answer: In the Byzantine Rite, the priestly blessing is given with the index and middle fingers pointing up and the thumb and other fingers joined below these. The two fingers together signify the two natures of Christ (divine and human) and the other three represent the three Persons of the Trinity. This is what you are seeing in the icon. It will be seen only in an icon of a bishop, a priest, or Christ himself.
Question: What is the role of a deacon?
Answer: "Among other tasks, it is the task of deacons to assist the bishop and priests in the celebration of the divine mysteries, above all the Eucharist, in the distribution of Holy Communion, in assisting at and blessing marriages, in the proclamation of the Gospel and preaching, in presiding over funerals, and in dedicating themselves to the various ministries of charity" (CCC #1570).
We invite you to send in your questions, addressing them to: Restoration Editor, Madonna House, Combermere ON, Canada K0J 1L0.
A Vision of Painting - Part 2
WHAT LIES HIDDEN IN THE HEART
This article was originally part of a lecture series offered at MH entitled A Christian Vision of Culture.
I have stressed the importance of the paint and the tools themselves. This focus on the materials is really a 20th century gift to painting.
I believe that most people look at a canvas without really seeing it. A painting is, first of all, a piece of stretched fabric on which paint has been applied. People tend to see only the subject depicted. But this is only a part of what constitutes the painting.
How the paint is brushed on, the choice of colors, the lines and movement, the design and composition: these are important elements in the art work. This is what makes painting different from music or theater or photography. For example, painted icons have a ‘presence’ that is lacking in icon prints.
There is beautiful theology that permeates the process of making an icon, so that all of creation is included in the painted image: the breath and hand of the artist as well as the materials used. These are just as important as the spiritual presence of the image. Each element gives the icon life.
I find this is also true in the painting of what is considered ‘secular imagery’. The image and the tools each have their own life. I must pay attention to what they are telling me so that we evolve together into the image that is coming to birth.
Speaking of imagery, I find that the question of subject matter in a work of art is a tricky one. The balance between ‘content’ and ‘form’ has been the focus of critical discussion for a century, since the Impressionist movement. Perceptual painters walk a tightrope, but perhaps this is part of the challenge of post-modern representational painting. I myself have been lost in its maze a number of times, and can hardly say I’ve managed my way to any clarity.
I can only re-emphasize the source of my own motifs: namely, beauty. Beauty of light and color; beauty seen in life and in art. My aim is to render an atmosphere of place, a place which is visual, but which also evokes the emotional and spiritual qualities inherent in a particular arrangement of colors and shapes, of figures and objects.
The way I choose to compose these on canvas opens the work to a variety of interpretation, particularly with the figure: the gesture and expression, their interaction and placement, etc.
It is, however, through the process of selecting and isolating, gathering together and arranging, that an image emerges which can illuminate the ordinary with meaning and with poetry.
There is something magical about this. What dwells in the work is pregnant with layers. It reflects myself, the social and cultural circumstances of the times, the inner resonance of reality. It also reflects the viewers and their own milieu.
This is where the role of the viewer comes in. The artist’s role ceases when the painting is finished and hung for display. Though a painting is complete when it begins to vibrate with its own life, the process of experience and response remains alive. It continues with the one who gazes upon the work.
The artist’s initial intent with the piece is less important from this point on, because the evolving discovery of its mystery continues with the viewer. What resonates now is between the canvas and that which lies hidden in the heart and soul of the one who contemplates. to be continued
SONG OF BLESSING
"Would you like to hear what was going on when you were born?" I was asked. The person speaking had a huge ‘audiotape of life’.
He clicked on the tape at the precise moment of my birth, and I was stunned by the most beautiful outpouring of song I’d ever heard! It was my father, singing his love for me.
At that moment I awoke (yes, it was a dream) with the thought: that was my Heavenly Father singing a passionate song of love for me!
For days after I had this dream, my heart kept singing, "I heard the Father’s voice! I heard his blessing upon me!" All that I once believed in faith, I now know in the depths of my being.
What does the Father’s love sound like? It is a passionate aria. Unable to be contained, it pours out into the universe, a song of joy unbounded, love unfettered, sheer and utter delight in the creation of his child. That song of the Father’s love and blessing is, of course, bursting forth continuously over each one of us. We are each enveloped and cradled by the Father’s tender and vibrant hymn, whether we hear it or not.
I wonder: when Jesus went away to pray, was he able to hear that song more clearly. When the Father proclaimed This is my beloved Son, listen to him (Matt 17:5), was it in song? When Jesus finally broke through the layers of guilt, shame and fear of the Samaritan woman at the well (John 4), did she hear the strain of the Father’s blessing? Is that what caused her to bound back to the townspeople who had rejected her, to bring them the good news?
Is that how she could cry out with joy: He told me all I ever did! We know what her past was. Only such a powerful, all-encompassing blessing of her Creator could wipe away that shame. And when the townspeople exclaimed Now we no longer believe because of what you have told us; we have heard him ourselves and we know that he really is the savior of the world, did they hear the same hymn?
I wonder: often when I sing, I feel the stirring of God within, and others can sometimes sense it, too. Is this an echo of the first voice I ever heard?
Or sometimes when I find it difficult to settle into interior silence, I have only to sing softly from the heart, and suddenly I am in that inner chamber: the Spirit of the Father himself prays and sings in me, his beloved daughter, drawing us into union.
In this year dedicated to the Father, I wonder if this is the call: more than us honoring him, it is a year in which he will find ways to break through our deafness, that we may hear him pour out his song of blessing upon us.
Oh, by the way, did you know that God is a tenor?
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