Questions & Answers

by Fr. Paul Burchat

Question: I would like to know more about the Spanish Civil War (1936-39). I’ve heard that many religious were killed and churches destroyed. Is there a good book you would recommend?

Answer: The outbreak of violence against Catholics during this conflict was the most recent persecution of this magnitude of the Church in Spain. It was the culmination of long-standing tension between ecclesial and anti-ecclesial forces within the country, which can be traced back to the War of Independence against Napoleon.

After that war, even though the country was defended, it became infected with many of the extremist ideas which had fuelled the French Revolution, during which the Church also suffered greatly. To learn more about The Spanish Civil War I would refer you to the, New Catholic Encyclopedia, McGraw-Hill, New York, 1967, under the article entitled, `Spain’. The information you want is under the subsections, `Years of Violence: 1808-1936’ and `National Movement: 1936-1939’. The bibliography for this article lists other references which may be helpful.

Question: Can a Catholic attend Sunday evening prayers at an Anglican church, having already been to a Catholic Mass on Saturday evening or Sunday morning that same weekend?

Answer: Under these circumstances there is no problem. Of course, the one thing you may not do is receive communion—should it be offered—at such a service or any Protestant service for that matter.

Question: What do the words `Ecclesial Permission’ mean, especially when seen on holy cards?

Answer: First, let’s consider the word `permission’. Fr. Hardon’s, Modern Catholic Dictionary, Doubleday, New York, 1980. It defines `permission’ as: “Authorization to act, especially to act in a way other than a particular law allows without this special permission.” The authorization must come from the proper authority: i.e. the person who has the right to grant or refuse authorization.

In the case of ecclesial permission, then, this simply means that the appropriate authority within the Church has authorized someone to do what would otherwise be forbidden.

In the case of the printing of a holy card `eccelsial permission’ can be granted by any bishop, and means the card is free of theological error and can be disseminated. A card lacking this permission should be checked out with a priest whose judgment you trust.

Question: Does God play a role in the technological advancement of the modern world or is man just going his own way?

Answer: God certainly does play a role in scientific and technological advances, in that he provides mankind with all the necessary intellectual gifts, moral guidelines (contained in the magisterial teaching of the Church), and physical materials which are needed in order for us to make the things we manufacture and use.

God is the first or primary cause of all that exists. His part in creation is free from any error or evil, as Scripture tells us (Gen 1:31, Wis 1:14, 1 Tim 4:4,5). We creatures are the secondary causes of things that exist: tools, weapons, drugs etc. It is in us, tainted by sin, that the problem lies.

Because of sin, our intellects are clouded; we do not perceive clearly what the true goods are that God wants us to pursue. Our wills are weakened; even if we see clearly what goal to pursue, we lack the resolve needed to do so. Sin entices us to question the Church’s moral teaching and to reject it.

So, up to a point God certainly does play an active/intentional part in technological advancement (e.g. he blesses and endorses our work at finding a cure for a particular disease). However, the moment we stop working towards a good goal or end, God’s role is reduced to a permissive one. He allows us to continue our actions so as not to violate our free will, but no longer encourages what we are doing.

Mail your questions to Restoration Editor, Madonna House, Combemere Ontario, Canada K0J 1L0.

My Dear Family

A Strange Pilgrimage

by Catherine Doherty

In Russia, a pilgrim is always blessed by his father and mother and parish priest before he sets off on his journey. It is not so everywhere, but it should be. The blessing of parents is a tremendous thing.

Do you know what the reality of pilgrimage is? Let us review it. The actual pilgrimage, in which you leave your home, your family, and conform to the image of a pilgrim is one thing. But it is something else to pilgrimage within oneself to meet the God that dwells within, and having met him to understand that from that moment you do not belong to yourself anymore.

It is a strange state of affairs, for anybody can be a pilgrim. I tried to explain in my book Poustinia that a pilgrim is a person who puts one foot in front of the other to traverse the world if necessary. Or he may not go very far from home, but still fulfills the function of being a pilgrim. Or he may stay absolutely still.

The function of a pilgrim is first and foremost to embrace a poverty that doesn’t incline too drastically or hurriedly to changes of life. No, it is a poverty of the heart, a humble heart. Humility and poverty of heart are twin companions of the pilgrim.

The pilgrim views everything he has and is as belonging to God and his brethren. There is a strange bookkeeping going on in his head: the least for himself; the most for others. His motto is `I am third’: God, others, himself.

Yes, that’s the strange reality of being a pilgrim in the resurrected Christ. It is hard to explain how, having been ready for crucifixion out of love for God, he suddenly sees that this is not what God meant. Consider Abraham. God held the hand of Abraham so that Isaac was not hurt.

The pilgrim knows God doesn’t want him to be crucified on an actual cross, but in his will—the pilgrim’s will—because of a passionate love of Christ that desires this strange crucifixion.

What is this strange crucifixion? Why should a pilgrim experience this, and not every Christian? Well, every Christian should desire it, but a pilgrim incarnates it because he must walk as a Gospel among his brethren.

The pilgrim in the resurrected Christ preaches the Gospel without ceasing, night and day. He isn’t only preaching it, he is living it. It is this pilgrimage of living the Gospel day by day that a pilgrim embarks on after he has surrendered his will to God and entered fully into the resurrection of Jesus Christ. That is exactly what he has to do!

What does that mean in daily life to you and me, who are not experts in theology or spirituality or anything of that type, but whose hearts yearn to love God, to come closer to him, to be one with him? We know now that the only way to come closer to him is to come closer to our brethren, for if you say to your brother, “I want to touch God,” all he has to reply is “Touch me.”

The reality of the pilgrimage in the resurrected Christ demands a surrender of one’s will to God in a sort of totality. It demands that we do the most ordinary things, which spiritual books call the duty of the moment, because they are the duty of God. All the time we pilgrimage to attend to the duty of the moment.

Let us analyze this a little. If you are a youth, the duty of the moment would probably be studying, going to school, doing your best in school, helping your parents in any way you can. It is walking in the midst of your peers unafraid, trusting that you are not going to say yes to anything that is not of God.

Even if you are ostracized by your peers, you still say a resounding no. Because of this, in due time, they will understand that you have preached the Gospel with your life. It is very difficult for a young one, a teenager, to defy peer pressure. If you love God and realize that you have been called on a pilgrimage of preaching the Gospel, that is what you are going to do.

The wife will attend to her duty of the moment, whatever it might be. Washing diapers and dishes, cooking and scrubbing and cleaning might be her lot, and she won’t rebel against it because she is a pilgrim, and knows she is only stopping in that house temporarily. God brought her there. Death will make her free, though she doesn’t particularly crave freedom, because she has the immense freedom of uniting her will to God’s.

There is a kind of excitement and joy in doing things over and over again. The floor shines brighter. The windows are clearer. It’s not only the floors and windows that are shinier: it is you that shines, resembling more and more the icon of Christ. People who see you, know you, and talk to you, look through your eyes made clear and beautiful because they reflect God.

It is a strange pilgrimage that is only concerned with the duty of the moment and knows that every moment in God is the moment of beginning again. But there is more to it. It sounds drab and uninteresting presented this way, but it isn’t. It is impossible to explain what happens to a pilgrim, who pilgrimages in the resurrected Christ, in the full realization that he is a pilgrim.

Perhaps a little story would help. I had a friend who was a fashion buyer for a big store. Twice a year she went to Europe, to Paris and other centers to gather the latest fashions.

She had a lovely apartment filled with knickknacks, a cupboard full of clothes and jewelry. She always looked magnificent.

One day she went on a Dominican retreat. Afterwards, she called me up and said, “Catherine, I have to talk to you.”

Whoever the good, holy Dominican retreat master was, he emphasized bourgeois living, the lack of poverty in the States, the lack of surrender to God’s will, and so on. It had made a profound impression on my friend.

She said, “I am going to clean this place up,” and she did. She gave away all the beautiful knickknacks away, and most of her clothing, keeping a few dresses that she made over. She was an excellent seamstress, and showed me how to change a dress just by putting a piece of lace or costume jewelry on it.

She redid her apartment, painting it gray. She had a red sofa bed and two red armchairs, explaining that “I made them red so I will remember the wounds of Jesus Christ.” The colors all matched well.

She kept only one picture, a large and beautiful one of St. Francis. That was all. Then she opened her apartment. If anyone was lonely or recuperating from illness, she invited them in. She had an extra bedroom.

All the time, she was the best-dressed woman in the place, looking chic and smart. Nobody suspected her inner and deep poverty.

A pilgrim who understands, who walks the inner road of poverty, also walks the road of fasting and prayer. But nothing shows on the outside. Such is the road of the pilgrim who walks in the resurrected Christ.

Strannik, pp. 69-74, available from Madonna House Publications.

Nazareth Today

What Else Is Life For?

by Denis Lemieux

For months we’ve planned an issue of Restoration on the theme of pilgrimage.

It’s one of the great calls of the Jubilee; the Pope and our foundress have written extensively on the subject, several MH staff have been on pilgrimages recently and wrote of their experiences. It was going to be an easy issue to put together, right?

As it happens (only God can arrange this sort of thing) the Jubilee intention for February is `that all pilgrims be bearers of the good news’, a fact I only discovered after we were well into the issue.

Personally, though, I didn’t know what I was going to say about it. I’ve been living for 11 years in one place—MH Combermere—and for most of the time, have done the same job, or at least different aspects of it: getting Restoration edited, laid out and mailed month after month.

Even by MH standards, I’m a pretty stay-at-home kind of guy. Weeks and months pass without my going further than from the main house to St. Mary’s (a half-kilometer walk) and back again several times a day.

I’ve often thought of myself as a medieval peasant—you know, the type who spent his whole life within a 20-mile radius of where he was born. What was I going to say about pilgrimage, except that maybe it would be nice to go on one?

Then Albert, the director of the MH laymen, pulled me aside one evening, informed me that I was going to the seminary next fall, and that Paulette Curran would be starting shortly to learn the job of editing the paper!

(In the interest of full disclosure, this did not come as a total shock to me. I had heard intimations of it already, and the possibility had been discussed for quite a while).

So much for the medieval peasant never leaving his birthplace! Oh well, time to start training my replacement, figure out who’s going to assist her and train them as well, decide which seminary to attend, work out all the canonical and administrative details (about which I haven’t a clue). Run here, run there: I’m on a kind of pilgrimage already, and I still haven’t gone further than St. Mary’s!

In the midst of all this bustle, the issue was put together. As I worked on the lead article—Kathleen Labrie’s account of her pilgrimage to Czstochowa—a line leapt out at me: What is a road for, if it doesn’t lead to a church?

This proverb says it all. Where are you going, if not to a church? Or, to be more accurate, to the Church?

Perhaps I could reword the proverb: what is life for, if it doesn’t lead to God? What exactly is the point of all our goings and comings—take this job or that, get married or not, move to this or that city—if we are not on a pilgrimage to the heart of God?

What good is it to go the seminary or not, to go from the main house to St. Mary’s and back, if I’m not on pilgrimage to God? Heck, why get out of bed in the morning unless the day is going to bring me a few small steps closer to the One my heart longs for, even as body and psyche groan and sink pillow-ward.

It’s a cliché to say that `life is a pilgrimage’. But some things become clichés because they’re true. What else could life be for, could it be about, if it isn’t leading us to God, if we are not on a life-long pilgrimage God-ward?

The alternative is that life is about nothing, that all our comings and goings, marrying, having children, working, playing, and praying are simply a meaningless jumble of motion. Scurry here, rush there, do this, do that, repeat until death.

What’s it about, if it doesn’t lead to God? If it does, and every movement of body or soul takes us either one step closer or further away from our pilgrim’s goal, then nothing in life is without great significance. Every step on the journey to God is fraught with meaning.

The outward pilgrimages we make—Rome, Israel, this shrine or that—are ultimately symbols of a deeper reality, that every movement of our bodies and souls leads us, not to a church built by human hands, but to the Temple of God, the heavenly city lit by the uncreated light.

The great mystery and joy of our life is that this light is already with us, that God has robed himself in pilgrim’s garb and travels alongside us. His light guides our way, his staff gives us comfort, and when we grow faint with hunger, he feeds us with the Bread of pilgrims, the Eucharist.

So, God willing, I will arise and go in a few months to begin a new leg of the journey. And I beg (as pilgrims do) for the alms of your prayers for myself and Paulette and all who work on the paper.

And I will pray for all of you, that this Jubilee Year will lead you into an ever-deeper awareness of what life is about, and closer to the goal to which we are journeying. See you there!

Pilgrimage to St.Thérèse

Torrent of Mercy

by Petra Mueller

Last October a group of MH applicants (those preparing to join our community) and staff went to Niagara Falls, to visit the relics of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, which are travelling the world.

My petition going into the pilgrimage was to be totally surrendered to the goodness, mercy, and love of God the Father. I also carried with me the intention to pray for everyone I could think of, especially those in great need.

As we arrived at the Carmelite monastery in Niagara Falls and venerated the relics, I heard the words, “Ask for an angel of purity.” I did.

At the Horseshoe Falls we saw rainbows rising out of the mist coming from the water. It reminded me of the feast of St. Thérèse (Oct. 1), when we saw at MH a double rainbow just before Lauds, and another one after Mass.

Looking at the falls, I heard the words `torrent of mercy’. The last time I had been at Niagara Falls was 15 years ago with a cousin of mine. I was reminded now of a visit to his family, the circumstances of which had been difficult. Remembering this brought me into the very depths of pain.

It was a pointed reminder of my own wounds and those of my family—the thorn on a beautiful rose. But I heard, “Place your heart, and the hearts of all you carry, full of hope, before the torrents of my mercy.”

The rainbow coming from the mist symbolized everyone I prayed for, each color diffused by the light of truth and the waters of grace. It was beautiful beyond compare.

John Romanowsky, who had travelled with the relics through Russia, shared an image that summed up Thérèse’s spirit for him.

He had seen a child on the steps of a church, calling out to his father, “Papa, carry me!” He wasn’t whining, just trustingly calling out. Later on, outside the Carmel, I saw a man with an empty stroller walking around. Then a woman came out with her little son, who pointed and called out with joy, “There’s Daddy!”

We talked about suffering on the way down. Thérèse wrote, “I thirst to suffer and be forgotten.” She also said that we don’t have to go looking for suffering. It’s all around us, a fact of life resulting from original sin.

The good news is that Jesus is with us in the midst of it, that he rose above it and conquered it. It’s this mystery that Thérèse longed to enter.

I suffered during Mass one evening. The food I’d eaten that day didn’t agree with me at all, and I felt quite sick all through Mass. However, I took it as something to offer up for all those I carried.

After Mass, there were cookies to tempt me, so I went around and visited people instead. Afterwards, we were taken out by our host, MH associate Fr. Don Lizzotti, for Italian ice cream. I can’t eat dairy products, so I had camomile tea instead, and offered it up for a suffering family member.

At Mass recently one of our priests mentioned the Gospel line Come higher, friend (Luke 14:10). He spoke of Thérèse’s humble little way, and how God exalted her by making her the great saint of modern times and a doctor of the Church.

He didn’t speak of how great she was, but rather the graciousness of the Host of the divine wedding feast, God the Father.

On our way back to MH, we stopped at the Kurelek museum, where his Passion of Christ series is exhibited. I was touched by the table at the Last Supper. It was shaped like a horseshoe, which reminded me of the falls, and the torrent of mercy flowing from Our Lord’s Heart.

We only had a half hour to see 160 paintings—not enough time to do it justice. I didn’t get to spend enough time with the Lord’s resurrection.

I feel sometimes that my whole life is going that way: too much focus on suffering. Lord, I do believe in your resurrection. Help me to live as if I do, and to trust in your goodness, mercy and love.

The Mission of Beauty - Part 1

`Ever Ancient, Ever New’

by Mark Schlingerman

These reflections on the role of art in the Church’s mission were originally part of a series of retreats given to the priests and religious of Assam, India.

A phrase comes to me from the writings of Dostoyevsky which relates to art and artists: beauty will save the world.

I’m not a theologian, literary critic, or scholar. I am an artisan; I make things. I know that beauty attracts, and that it can attract us to the One who saves. The Lord uses beauty to attract us to himself.

Our holy tradition teaches us that beauty is of the essence of God, as are truth and goodness. These three transcendentals—truth, beauty and goodness—working together in a harmonious unity, open us up to the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

I can’t say that only beauty will save the world, but it is one of the reflections of God through which he draws us to himself. I want to show, from an artisan’s view, some of the ways that beauty can do this.

Of all the institutions that God has given to us—family, country, etc.—it is the Church that best understands the saving power of beauty. This understanding is expressed in her liturgy, which is meant to manifest the beauty (and truth and goodness) of the Eucharist; and in the church buildings used for liturgy, which are designed to mirror the beauty of heaven—to be, in a sense, `gates of heaven.’

Beauty exists to attract the human heart to its source and essence, which is God. As members of the Church, and men and women dedicated to furthering its mission, we should become familiar with beauty, learn how to utilize it, understand how it can draw people to God, who is “Beauty ever ancient, ever new,” (St. Augustine).

What is the function of beauty in saving the world? This is an enormous question, and I address just one aspect of it, sharing my personal experience of how God can use even the humblest artistic effort to effect his purposes. I hope these thoughts will encourage anyone who has a gift for art to use it in the service of the Gospel.

It is said that “an artist is not a special kind of person: rather, each person is a special kind of artist.” I like that! It means that everyone is included among those whose mission it is to bring beauty to the world.

Beauty is a Person: it is the face of Christ. The most perfect icon of beauty in the world is the face of Christ. And it is the Holy Spirit who seeks to make Christ beautiful, attractive and appealing to God’s children.

To show the face of Christ to the world is to participate in the action of beauty in saving the world. It is to be a particular kind of artist.

I speak from the perspective of a western Christian. We in the West have made a sea of troubles for ourselves when we come to talk about beauty and art. The biggest problem is that we’ve separated beauty from truth and goodness, and have detached these transcendentals from God.

In so doing, we’ve robbed each of its wholeness, and of its ultimate ground of meaning. Truth, beauty and goodness have become simply `ideas’—no longer related to the Second Person of the Trinity.

Having cut them off from Christ, we can no longer understand them—except through our own individual preferences. When this happens, our concept of beauty becomes distorted, and a work of art may no longer point to anything. As a result, we look for the meaning of art in economics, psychology, technology, or whatever; but not in God.

The Church perceives what has been happening in western thought. Papal encyclicals in the last century speak of the need to restore all things in Christ (Eph 1:10). Catherine Doherty often used the words of Christ from the episode of the multiplication of the loaves and fishes: Gather up the fragments, lest they be lost. (John 6:12).

These directives—to gather up the lost fragments, and to restore all things in Christ—are powerful words to consider as we prepare for the third millennium. To gather and restore the beauty of art is part of the work of the new evangelization.

I’m attracted to the saving potential of beauty expressed in music, painting, sculpture, theater, and literature. I want to gather up this beauty, restore it to Christ, make it a valuable contribution for mission in the next millennium.

My own way of doing this is through wood carving, in using my artistic skills to create liturgical objects for use in churches and in private devotion.

I believe that creating beauty in this way helps to save the world, because it is another way of showing the face of Christ to the world.

to be continued

Word Made Flesh

Tear Off the Roof

by Fr. Patrick McNulty

This month’s article looks at the readings for the 7th Sunday in Ordinary Time (Feb. 20): Isaiah 43: 18-25; 2 Cor. 1: 18-22; Mark 2: 1-12.

“Hello! Yoo-hoo! Anybody out there? I think I’m having some kind of a breakdown!”

Breakdown? Yes. I’m wrapped up in a sweater and scarf in my poustinia. The outside temperature hovers at -20 C. I’ve just gotten over a two-week bout with a bug that made it impossible to celebrate Christmas in any form this year.

We’re five days from the feast of the Lord’s Baptism, and I’m writing about the 7th Sunday in Ordinary Time for Restoration. No sooner will you receive this and we’ll be in Lent and the outside temperature will be +20 C (not quite). If all this doesn’t have the makings of a liturgical nervous breakdown, I don’t know what does!

Of course I could sit around and moan about the situation, but that’s why I like this Sunday’s Gospel: let’s just rip off the darn roof and get at it!

Get at what? “Yoo-hoo! Jesus! I think I’m having some kind of a faith crisis! I’ve been prayin’ for nigh on to 60 years for a miracle in my life. I ain’t seen it yet! Yes, I know there have been hundreds I’ve never seen (millions, if you’re Irish) but that’s not quite what I have in mind.

“I was hoping for something a bit more `scriptural’ like today’s Gospel about the sick man lowered through the roof and … What? Read the Gospel account again?

“Okay. … Uh, I don’t see anything new. … What? Read it again? What are you trying to tell me, Lord?

“Okay, that’s three times now. What am I missing? … Again? Come on, God! Give me a break!

“Oh. Oh yeah. I think I’m beginning to see something.”

This Gospel is not about miracles. It’s not even about sickness and sin. It’s about God’s power to forgive, if we admit our need for forgiveness, our sin; if we admit that we’re so broken we even need help in order to come and ask for forgiveness.

The healing happens within; it is the astounding conviction that we are free, even if all the symptoms remain.

The roof we have to rip off is the one that covers our emotions and memories, keeping us in the dark where they can convince us that nothing has happened. After all, we still feel the same as before, have the same temptations and memories. If we confess our sins and embrace God’s mercy and forgiveness, why does all this other stuff remain? Where’s the darn miracle?

Way back when I began this series, I said something about not being a theologian. Well, I repeat that verity as I now enter into the heart of this matter of sin and forgiveness.

Many of us continue to bear psychological and emotional burdens because we haven’t really confessed our sins—or to say it better, haven’t really repented. For some, this lack of repentance is so deep, so hidden, that we need help to discover its roots before we can repent.

What most of us discover when we do that `rooting’ is that we’ve tried to find a reason for our behavior other than our failure to forgive those who wounded us, to take responsibility for our own behavior, to live by faith—even if the scars of the past and the wounds of the present remain.

Such a faith-journey cannot be outlined in a single article. In our Catholic tradition, we have the sacrament of confession, spiritual direction, and the wisdom of the Church to guide us in it.

In this journey, there’s a common `hole’ into which we often fall. It lies somewhere between believing that we are free to decide our own need for repentance, and thinking that once we’re free (?) of the sins identified by the Ten Commandments that there’s nothing else to be concerned about.

We can fall into this hole from almost any religious perspective or persuasion. Once there, we don’t have to dig much deeper to end up in all sorts of mucky thinking and theology which can keep us stuck in it for a long time.

Serious Christians know that the essence of all morality and the final determinative yardstick of all behavior is love. They also know that the measure and meaning of love is revealed in Jesus Christ.

Whenever we talk of sin, forgiveness, repentance, and emotional wounds, we’re talking of love—how to love and how to be loved.

I don’t need to be a theologian here, since I speak from personal experience. My irresponsible behavior, my sins, my wounds, are rooted in one thing: I didn’t get what I wanted or deserved, whether in the womb or just out of it and somebody’s gonna pay: parents, siblings, society, me. Ultimately, God!

That’s right. Every sin is ultimately directed at God and what he did or didn’t do for me. When I’m angry, it is ultimately with God. When I’m tired of struggling, it’s really God I’m tired of. When I’m confused, it’s a confusion about God. When I’m weary beyond hope, it’s God who wearies me. When I feel deprived of something I need (or think I have a right to), it’s God I accuse.

There are, of course, many objects of our emotional life other than God. But we won’t get to the root of our sin, and `tear the roof off’ of our lack of repentance, until we realize that ultimately all our behavior is directed at God.

If we realized this fully, we’d know what sin really is; why it’s so self-destructive, so anti-life and anti-love. Even more, we’d realize how simple it is to repent! Just rip the roof off all that deadly thinking, lower our soul before God in its irrational sickness, and tell God the truth:

“I don’t like my spouse (the one you picked)!”

“I don’t like how this son or daughter is turning out (the one you gave me)!”

“I don’t like my weakness, my brokenness (the one you won’t take away)!”

“I don’t like the way my life has turned out (the one you put me into)!”

“I don’t like this pope, this bishop, this pastor (the one you dumped on us)!”

“I don’t … I don’t … I don’t … blah, blah, blah.”

Okay, you’ve done it. You’ve ripped off the roof. Now what?

Read the Gospel again. This time, listen to Jesus as you lie there on your pallet, having told him the truth about your sins.

What do you hear? I’ll tell you what I hear. Jesus says: “Now we can talk about healing, my friend, because now you’re beginning to repent. And don’t be surprised if you stand up and walk right outta here with a whole new experience of me and of faith.”

In the Gospel, the people standing around said, we’ve never seen anything like this.

If this is still our response, after 2000 years of Christian experience, then we’re in a real crisis of faith, on the edge of a real breakdown.

It’s all right there; we just have to let the Church `rip off the roof’ and lower us down before the One who lowered himself—all the way down from heaven—to teach us about the miracle of repentance and forgiveness.

“Hello. Yoo-hoo. Is there anybody out there?”

MH Paris

Weekend in Paris

by Joanne Dionne

The other night at my French class, the chatty young Spanish woman who always sits next to me asked, “What did you do for the weekend?”

I was caught off guard, but later we three staff chuckled over some of the creative answers I could have given her:

“We hosted two bold young pilgrims who are traveling around Europe, begging for food and lodgings. Also, a young Canadian nanny seeking moral support after a disappointing placement in Spain.

“Later that day, there was a knock on the door, and in walked a nun in full habit. She was filled with stories of her recent trek across Russia with the relics of a saint who died a hundred years ago.

“When we weren’t busy with visitors, we proofread the French translation of a book by Catherine Doherty, soon to be published. When we had a few spare minutes, we gave each other haircuts and made peanut butter.”

This answer might not have made much of an impression on my classmate, but it opened my eyes to the extraordinary in our ordinary MH vocation.

This little poustinia house has a life of its own. Strangely enough, we are just as busy with three people on staff as we were with two. And, despite the smallness of our apartments, we have the space we need.

We make the most of narrow rooms and high ceilings by using bunk beds; the youngest staff (myself) gets the top bunk, the oldest on the bottom. Our dining/listening room is our biggest space, and has been put to good use.

Two women came, a month apart from each other, who had traveled with the relics of St. Thérèse of Lisieux throughout Russia and Kazakhstan: Christelle and Sr. Tamara.

Both had incredible stories to tell of how St. Thérèse kindled flames of hope in the lives and heart of people there.

Recently, a Russian orchestra played at our church, and Teresa Reilander had the inspiration to offer them Russian copies of Poustinia that we had. In her best Cyrillic handwriting, Jeanne Guillemette made a sign saying `Free’, and put it on the table with the books. They all disappeared.

Work on the French translation of Dearly Beloved continues. We are in the final proofreading stage, just before the book is published. I’m getting a taste of what translating and editing involve, not to mention constantly being exposed to Catherine’s words, which never leave one unchanged.

When the European bishops spoke of the new evangelization at a recent synod, they used the image of yeast in flour—small and hidden, but active and effective. I took it as a confirmation of our MH vocation—a call for us to have more confidence and be bold, no matter how small we are.

On Pilgrimage

Journey to the Core

by Emily Huston

During the Jubilee the Church urges us to `do’ pilgrimage. Knowing our human need for `hands-on’, bodily encounters of things religious, she encourages travel to holy sites.

Pilgrimage is traditionally a journey to a shrine for a religious purpose. Usually on foot, the travel can be aided by other modes of transport. The purpose is to worship, seek spiritual aid, fulfill a promise, etc. From the early Church onward, Christians have pilgrimed to the Holy Land and other centers.

We humans need to engage physically, use our muscles, senses, minds and hearts, not only with things and places manifestly holy but also to pull into awareness what lies dormant in our accustomed, mundane routine, for every aspect of that routine, excluding none, is a pilgrimage of faith.

Emphatically the journey itself is just as important as the arrival. We avail ourselves of conscious movement, in part to discover the rejected Lord who, in a manner of speaking, crisscrosses the earth in search of human welcome.

Yes, we need to spend time to consciously pilgrim in order to revitalize our faith.

Because the Church urges pilgrimage in this year of 2000, I muse and pray. What trek is the Lord offering me? I do have a penchant for pilgriming. Show me an open road and I want to take it. Itchy feet and a seeking heart—this lure is implanted by God.

By God’s gift I’ve already spent a Holy Week in Rome, and in-depth time in Israel. Perhaps in 2000 I must seek a closer site. Most people will be physically unable to get to Bethlehem or the Holy Sepulchre or Rome. The Pope encourages going to more accessible sites, local to a diocese or a home country.

I pray. The reply comes softly, in fragments. It confirms: yes, I am a pilgrim. This is indeed a feature of my vocation. But not what I imagine for this year of 2000. Not a geographical journey. Not a hands-on presence at a precise site.

No. Rather, why not appropriate the journey to my heart? This year, seeking should be quelled by a few steps inward to the compass of the Triune presence. It seems God lures me to what might be called `the pilgrimage of standing still.’

Is not the human heart a site of the holy? What place could be more accessible? What site offers more intimacy? What locus is a closer gate to heaven? What earth-bound abode could yield as much abiding rest?

At what shrine could encounter more fully our Triune God? What trek in time could so imbue my bodied person with God’s Lordship of time? Infuse it with eternity?

St. Maximus the Confessor wrote: “The Word of God, born once in the flesh, is always willing to be born spiritually in those who desire him.

“In them he is born as an infant as he fashions himself in them by means of their virtues. He reveals himself to the extent that he knows someone is capable of receiving him [emphasis added].

“He diminishes the revelation of his glory not out of selfishness, but because he recognizes the capacity and resources of those who desire to see him.”

The journey to the core of who we truly are is perhaps the hardest walk of all. There are no planes or trains or spas to speed or soften this travel. Walking toward the heart and the awaiting God who dwells within inexplicably reorients one’s entire being. But there will be the slog through illusion, stripping of false assumptions, confrontation of habits, and all the rigors of bucking the idolized self.

The pilgrimage itself provides rest. “All the way to heaven is heaven,” says St. Teresa of Avila. Not a little does this route change our gears and priorities and introduce new bearings. On the way, from pause to pause, if ever so briefly, one eats of the bread of uncommon order, and drinks the water of abandonment—letting go and letting God.

The route to one’s heart requires few steps. I venture that steps I call the three d’s could cut the first track. Three resolute steps—desire, decision, and doing—would break the trail, soon supplemented by imploring aid: “Lord have mercy. Lead me, Lord. I want to stand still. Bring me to yourself.”

Or simply, “Help!” God cannot ignore our cries for help.

These use only brief intervals—minutes, maybe—which if repeated beat a well-worn path. A path to pilgrim in times of ease or stress, illusion, confusion, whatever.

I picture it this way. First call to mind that desire for God which itself so yearns for recognition. Set aside a small block of time. Close the door on the mind’s busyness, and head toward the heart. Pass to `go’—which is the will empowered by baptism. Claim this energy. Call for help. Bypass all machinations of control. Cross the threshold of the heart. Just do it.

Halt when necessary. Stand still. Stand very still. Perhaps pull up a stool to comfortably pause and wait. Simply desire to let go and let God.

Thence return to dialogue with the demands of time. We may not yet draw from that infinitesimal moment which radically upturns all bonds of time. But we will bear glory back to the weight and snares of its flux.

We will take the touch of eternity into our earthbound ordinary. We, having come near the imbuing Trinity, will hear in our very being the inflow of God who seeks us, saying “I come to serve. Let me be your rest.”

Our Lady of Combermere - Part 20

The Way to Go

by Fr. Emile Brière

The main purpose of this column is to remind you of the love and tenderness of God and his Mother, Our Lady of Combermere, for you.

We continue to meditate on the titles found in the litany of Our Lady of Combermere.

Questing Madonna of all God’s children: Mary is a questing Madonna for everybody. She belongs to the whole human race. We are all her children. In MH, when we become aware of the needs of others, anywhere in the world, we pray to Our Lady of Combermere to help them.

Our hearts go out to all suffering people. We invoke Our Lady and do what we can in our own area.

Questing Madonna of thirsty hearts and hungry souls: many search for God. They don’t know what they’re looking for, but they hunger and thirst. So Mary seeks them out, and brings many here. She is the mother of all the hungry and thirsty who come here.

Mother and Consoler of the sick: we have a great respect for the sick in our family. Catherine told us that to care for the sick, we should mortgage the house if necessary. Mary is mother of the sick all over the world. She wants to be with them. We should pass this insight on to others. If you visit a sick person say: “Our Lady is your mother. She is right with you, to be your nurse and your consoler!”

Mother and Consoler of those distracted in mind: this means neurotics and psychotics. That she is their mother is proven by the fact that so many come here to MH. In a sense, we are all neurotic to some degree. Our Lady loves us, so she evidently loves neurotics and psychotics.

Many people come here to be at her feet. Of course, if they have serious mental illnesses, we generally send them to where they can receive professional help. But most of the staff, one way or another, require a level of help to deal with emotional and psychological wounds.

It takes time to restore people. When we accept a vocation, we know we have ten years of hard work ahead of us! But when neurotics are free of their neurosis, or at least in control of it, then they can choose to love. That’s our goal: to help people be free to love. To accept God’s love, and love him back; to accept the love of others, and to love them back freely. To be free of guilt and depression—free to love! This is the purpose of psychological healing.

Mother and Consoler of the lonely: I mentioned this before, so that in our loneliness we go straight to her and Jesus to be consoled. Don’t seek consolation from other human beings; this will happen, if we don’t look for it. We console each other in many ways, but not when we look for it or demand it.

There are many lonely people in the world, and we try to pass this truth to them in various ways. Are you lonely? Here’s the way to go.

Your loneliness is a call from God. You’ll grow in intimacy with God through your loneliness, because he’s lonely too. In your loneliness, you console the lonely Christ. Pass it on.

Let’s conclude this column with our usual prayer, saying it together:

Father of Our Lord Jesus Christ, we thank you and praise you for giving us Our Lady of Combermere to be our mother, guide and director.

May we entrust our wills to her so that your divine will may be accomplished in us, namely that each of us becomes another Christ and that all of us together be formed into a living icon of love reflecting the love you share with your Son and the Holy Spirit. We ask this confidently through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Pope’s Corner

Treading the Stones

by Pope John Paul II

In this letter from June 1999, the Holy Father speaks of his own desire to go on pilgrimage in the Jubilee year.

The Jubilee prompts me to offer some thoughts connected with my own desire to make a special Jubilee pilgrimage, to visit some places closely linked to the Incarnation of the Word of God.

My meditation therefore turns to the places in which God chose to pitch his tent (John 1:14) among us, thus enabling man to encounter him more directly.

In a sense, I am completing what I wrote in Tertio Millennio Adveniente, in which the dominant perspective against the background of the history of salvation, was the fundamental relevance of time. In fact, the spatial dimension is no less decisive than the temporal in the accomplishment of the Incarnation.

At first sight, it may seem puzzling to speak of precise `spaces’ in connection with God. No less than time, is not space completely subject to God’s control? Everything has come from his hands, and there is no place where God cannot be found. He is equally present in every corner of the earth, so that the whole world may be considered the `temple’ of his presence.

Yet that does not take away from the fact that, just as time can be marked by special moments of grace, space too may by analogy bear the stamp of particular saving actions of God. Moreover, this is an intuition present in all religions, which not only have sacred times but also sacred spaces, where the encounter with the divine may be experienced more intensely than it would normally be in the vastness of the cosmos.

In relation to this common religious tendency, the Bible offers its own specific message, setting the theme of sacred space within the context of the history of salvation.

On the one hand, Scripture warns against the inherent risks of defining space of this kind, when this is done as a way of divinizing nature: here we should recall the powerful anti-idolatrous polemics of the prophets.

On the other hand, the Bible does not exclude a cultic use of space, in so far as this expresses fully the particularity of God’s intervention in the history of Israel. Sacred space is thus gradually `concentrated’ in the Jerusalem Temple, where the God of Israel wished to be honored and, in a sense, encountered.

In the New Testament, this concentration of sacred space reaches its summit in Christ, who is, in his person, the new temple in which dwells the fullness of Godhead.

With his coming, worship was destined radically to surpass material shrines in order to become worship in spirit and truth (John 4:24). In Christ, then, the Church too is to be a temple, as is the individual disciple of Christ, since each is inhabited by the Holy Spirit.

Clearly, this does not mean that Christians cannot have places of worship, but it must not be forgotten that these are intended only to serve the liturgical and fraternal life of the community, at the same time knowing that the presence of God by its nature cannot be restricted to any one place, since his presence, which has its fullest expression and communication in Christ, pervades all space.

The mystery of the Incarnation therefore reshapes the universal experience of sacred space; on the one hand relativizing it, and on the other hand underlining its importance in new terms. The very taking of flesh by the Word is in fact in reference to space.

In Jesus of Nazareth, God assumed the features typical of human nature, including belonging to a particular people and a particular land.

Hic de Virgine Maria Iesus Christus natus est. These words take on peculiar eloquence in Bethlehem, inscribed over the place where, according to tradition, Jesus was born: `Here Jesus Christ was born of the Virgin Mary.’

The physical particularity of the land and its geographical determination are inseparable from the truth of the human flesh assumed by the Word.

For this reason, in light of the 2000th anniversary of the Incarnation, I strongly desire to go pray in the most important places which, from the Old to the New Testament, have seen God’s interventions, culminating in the mysteries of the life, death, and resurrection of Christ.

These places are already indelibly etched in my memory from the time when in 1965 I had the opportunity to visit the Holy Land. It was an unforgettable experience.

Today I still gladly go back to what I wrote then, pages full of emotion: “I come across these places which you have filled with yourself once and for all.

“Oh place, you were transformed so many times before you, his place, became mine. When for the first time he filled you, you were not yet an outer place; you were but his Mother’s womb.

“How I long to know that the stones I am treading in Nazareth are the same which her feet touched when she was your only place on earth. Meeting you through the stone touched by the feet of your Mother.

“Oh corner of the earth, place in the holy land—what kind of place are you in me? My steps cannot tread on you; I must kneel.

“Thus I confirm today you were indeed a place of meeting. Kneeling down I imprint a seal on you. You will remain here with my seal—you will remain—and I will take you and transform you within me into the place of new testimony. I will walk away as a witness who testifies across the millennia,” (Karol Wojtya, Poems, Wydawnictwo Literackie, Kraków 1998).