LEISURE: A PATHWAY TO PRAISE

by Susanne Stubbs

About two years ago, I finally got around to reading a book that I have been hearing about for more than forty years. And now, I have been wanting to talk about it ever since. It’s a classic of Christian philosophy called Leisure: The Basis of Culture by a very famous Catholic philosopher, Joseph Pieper.

This book came out in Germany in 1952, not too long after the Second World War at a time when people there and throughout Europe were very busy rebuilding their war-torn nations. It was an interesting time to write a book about leisure.

Joseph Pieper drew from Greek, Roman, and medieval philosophy, including St. Thomas Aquinas, and very early in the book he points out something about the Greek language that stopped me in my tracks. I had to close the book and think about it for a while.

And it’s simply this. That in the Greek language, the word for leisure is skole, which in Latin would be “skola.” This means that they saw time as principally time for learning. But what was even more interesting to me was that in the Greek language, there is no definite, distinct word for work.

The word they used for what we would call work was askole, and it meant “when you’re not at leisure!”

Do I need to say any more about the Greeks to convey that they seem to have had a different notion of work than we do!

Then Pieper goes on to define what leisure is. It’s not he says, “a day off,” or “spare time.” Spare time does not ensure leisure.

Leisure is really an attitude, an attitude toward what you’re doing. Drawing from ancient wisdom, he lists three major elements of it:

(1) To be at leisure is to not be busy. This doesn’t mean that you’re not doing anything. You can be very much at leisure when you’re weeding the garden, for example. What it means is that you’re not centered on trying to get things done.

Leisure implies letting things happen. It means little planning. It means allowing life to unfold. That’s the basic element of leisure.

(2) There must be silence —actual silence. Absence of sound is a first step, and, as Catherine Doherty used to say, “Silence is sometimes the absence of noise, but it’s always the act of listening.” So you have to have enough quiet to be able to listen. Alertness is the essence of silence.

Silence is not a selfish thing. Joseph Pieper is not talking about withdrawal.

And he is not only talking about the silence of the ear, the absence of audible noise, but also about “visual noise.” In our world, there is lots of visual noise.

I think that’s a good way to describe what you see when you go into a supermarket. In such places, because there is so much to see, we have a hard time seeing anything.

(3) Leisure includes an acceptance of mystery. In order to be at leisure, we need to recognize our inability to understand, let alone control, the universe. We need to let go.

When Pieper talks about leisure, he is talking about a very definite thing, something that leads to a great inner calm and peace. And when we get that quiet, we cannot help but see things more clearly, and seeing them more clearly, we perceive their wonder and beauty. If we are Christians, this leads us to the praise and worship of God.

In fact, Pieper says, the epitome of leisure is a feast day. I think this is one of the things that makes me love this book so much. For everything it says about leisure happens best at Madonna House on our feast days.

And another encouraging thing is that, according to this way of defining leisure, we can be at leisure even when we are working. It’s all in our attitude. If we go about our work in peace and calm, trusting God with the results rather than trying to make them happen, we are at leisure.

In fact, Joseph Pieper talks about leisure as the desirable way for all people to be a lot of the time. And I don’t know that there are many books floating around our world which talk about it that way.

Pieper also talks about how necessary leisure is for the arts. For, he says, it’s only when we are at leisure that we can really see.

He speaks of two kinds of seeing. The first is physical and even on that level, most of the time, we don’t see clearly or deeply.

It is often said that artists see things that other people don’t see. And if you’ve ever tried to draw pictures seriously, or even half-way seriously, or sculpt, you feel like you’ve never really seen anything before.

You have to really work hard to see the shape, the contour, the color, the way the light hits, and so many other things.

Artists even see colors the rest of us don’t see. Donna, one of the artists here in MH, was showing me one of her paintings a few days ago, and she referred to the mauve table. Well, I looked at that table and it looked brown to me. But she saw mauve and I’m sure if I went into the daylight and really looked hard I’d find mauve there, too.

Here in Combermere, when we’re in poustinia, we often take walks and come home with rocks or pieces of birch or, depending on the season, leaves or flowers. I think we do this because when we’re in poustinia, we are at leisure. And because we are, we are able to see the beauty around us.

More important than the physical seeing, though, is the spiritual seeing. When Donna paints her models, she sees a lot more than their physical appearances. When you look at her paintings, you sense her value system, you feel emotions.

The way artists see is a kind of almost instantaneous perception. It’s not a rational kind of thinking that requires a lot of work, but it’s a more intuitive kind of realization and understanding.

One time about 20 years ago when I was in the handicraft department, a religious sister told us there was a survey being done to determine whether or not Catholic community life is conducive to creativity. I never read the result of this study, but I decided to take my own “survey” in Madonna House.

I asked people what in our way of life inspired their work. I really wanted to find out: does creativity spring from “the poustinia of the heart”—the “living in the presence of God” to which we are called.

One evening, I noticed that Donna had put a quote from Catherine Doherty under one of her paintings:

“Artists stand still before God in order to talk to people. They speak to God with a silent language and an open heart through their creations. And in this silent journey, God speaks to them. So the artists of Madonna House must be people of prayer, people of silence, people of faith.”

When I first read Dr. Pieper’s book, I didn’t realize it, but later, when I re-read it, it struck me. When Dr. Pieper is talking about leisure, he is really talking about contemplation. We have such narrow notions of contemplation. But contemplation is like culture; it includes everything.

When I asked one of the musicians here the source of her creativity, she answered, “Ultimately, I believe that it is the daily living out of the duty of the moment with my brothers and sisters that is most conducive to the creative process in me. Sometimes doing `the duty of the moment’ just feels like the daily grind, but there is a beauty in it. There is a constancy in our Madonna House life and, if I am faithful to it, it teaches me. It shapes the ears of my soul to hear what is good or not good, and what is essential or non-essential.

“Our life with one another is rooted in joy, suffering, struggle, and growth, and I know that if is to be authentic, music must be an expression of life.

“If I can live my MH vocation, God will provide the material for the music. The creative process or initiation of this process is usually out of my control, and it occurs when I am not aware of it.”

A writer among the staff says, “There is no end of character studies in community life! And situations and people relating to one another are endless sources of plots.”

And another one of our artists says, “My gift is to look at something from nature close up and from all directions and to work with its color, its shape, and its lines and then to simplify, simplify, simplify, until I hone down to its essence.

“The way of contemplation, part of the Christian vocation, helps me to have the courage to do this, to follow my heart’s learning.”

Perhaps pursuing true leisure requires courage, but it brings learning to the heart.

Combermere Diary

THE VIEW BELOW THE KNEES

by Mary McGoff

Writing this Combermere Diary is challenging in this way: what aspect of our ordinary life should I focus on this month? As I was trying to decide what approach to take, I became aware that recently my eyes have been consistently on my feet. That is not only because I have been deep in thought, but because there is lots to see down there below the knees, and much that needs to be seen.

For example, our temperatures recently (I’m writing this at the end of February) have been rising and falling, between -20 C and +5 C, and so the weather varies between sun and snow and rain. The paths between buildings alternate between beautiful powdery fresh snow, muddy rivulets of water, and treacherous lanes of ice. One has to watch one’s footing.

Because of our unusually mild winter, we didn’t get much chance to ice skate this year, but we have little choice about sliding across our icy paths and parking lots.

God bless our men who are out daily with whatever tools are needed: snow plows and shovels, buckets and carts of sand, and hoes and axes to chop ice.

I’ve also been noticing lots of tracks in the snow especially around the bird feeders: birds, cats, dogs, mice. No people tracks though because we don’t want to pack down the snow over our flower beds. They need fluffy blankets to keep the bulbs from freezing.

Also on the subject of feet, as part of our winter lecture series, we had a toe-tapping time as we listened to Julie Leahy, one of the Leahy Family who are very popular in the Canadian music world, on the topic of Celtic music and culture. Julie had help for her presentation from her mother, Julia, singing a song in Gaelic, her brother Angus playing the fiddle, and her sister Agnes doing a variety of dance steps.

I asked Fr. Louis about the prospects for this year’s maple syrup crop. With all this ice and slush will it be difficult to walk in the bush to get to the trees? “Difficult and maple syrup do not belong in the same sentence,” said Fr. Louis, who loves maple syrup as part of his French Canadian culture as well as for its taste. “We will have our usual 1000 taps, and we will collect what God provides.”

We had a chance to experience some of our own MH “culture” in our annual Pre-Lent Event, which was MC’d by five women staff in the formed-for-the-occasion “Five Foot Club.’’ Five feet tall, that is. It was a fun evening with lots of music, laughter, dancing, and even a Madonna House “fashion show” for the third millennium.

Do you remember our new hardwood floor that we mentioned last month? It is beautiful and everyone is walking around admiring it. And as we come in from the messy outdoors, we are especially conscientious about taking our boots off.

But we do this, not only at the main house, but in all of our buildings. This means that on average, not counting extra trips to the outdoor jon, we take our boots off or put them on 16 times a day! Believe me, by this time of year, I can tell you every knot in my shoe lace and every water mark on my boots.

Actually we all have lots to think about as we lace up or kick off our boots. Everyone seems to have weekly classes to attend. The staff, in groups of ten, are getting together for an hour on Friday afternoons to read and discuss some of Catherine Doherty’s letters to the staff on such topics as interpersonal relations, communication, poverty, obedience, and freedom. It’s a great way for us to understand our spirituality and way of life more deeply and, through sharing our thoughts, struggles, and desires, a way to come closer to one another. The ages in my group range from 30 to 96.

The guests have been studying The Catechism of the Catholic Church with Fr. Paul Burchat. When I asked some of them if it ever gets boring, they told me no, that they are kept on the edge of their seats by Fr. Paul’s matter-of-fact witticisms.

For example, about the Sacrament of Reconciliation: “Have you, like me, made an abysmal mess? If so, it has more punch to clean up the messes.” And: “You should all mark down the last sentence of paragraph #1861 because you will want to read it regularly.” And “Once you leave here, I’m not worried about whether or not you will change the world. I’m worried whether or not the world will change you! So stay close to what you know is true.”

The applicants have been studying Madonna House spirituality, and those who are in their first year are reading the history of our apostolate. On February 15th, the anniversary of the foundation of MH in Harlem, I really enjoyed being at the dinner table with them as they refreshed my memory with details from their reading.

A new addition to our list of anniversaries was the anniversary of the beginning of St. Mary’s eight years ago as a separate community within MH Combermere. The building, originally a convent boarding school, is very large, and many events and activities take place there.

It was at St. Mary’s, for example, that close to a hundred local women gathered for a parish-inspired and planned day of recollection. Cynthia Donnelly performed A Woman in Love, the play about the life of Catherine Doherty that she wrote and does as a one-woman show.

As part of the day, Cynthia also gave two conferences on the theme of forgiveness after which several priests were available for confessions.

The next day we were able to receive 35 participants for an Elijah House retreat (which combines prayer and counselling). It was a grace-filled time for our applicants, several staff, and a few people from an organization in Toronto.

As I began this article “looking below the knees,” I thought of the Holy Thursday Liturgy when we re-enact Jesus’ washing the feet of the apostles. In the desert of the Middle East, washing guests’ feet was a chore for slaves and probably almost as common as our “boots on-boots off.” And as I think of Jesus washing the feet of his apostles, I can imagine him taking the time to assist me with my tangled laces.

May the Risen Lord be with you, too, in your most every-day mundane chore, your greatest anxiety, and your most cherished moment. Christ is risen! Happy Easter!

Easter Time

PREPARING FOR HEAVEN

by Catherine Doherty

The liturgy of Paschaltime, the seven weeks that stretch between Easter and Pentecost, celebrates the wondrous intimacy of God with man. It reminds us of the reunion of the glorified Christ and the Father to whom he has gone ahead of us. It announces the future meeting of all humanity and God.

Eastertime liturgies invite each one of us, here and now, to an intimate meeting with the Father in the depths of our souls.

Paschaltime is truly a novitiate of our forthcoming heavenly life. It constantly invites us to be silent, to listen, to adore, to contemplate, to develop the interior attitude that will bring about this meeting here and now, of man and the Father.

The weeks from Easter to Pentecost are weeks of tremendous Christian joy: the joy of knowing that the Lord is risen to everlasting life, and the incredible joy of sharing his resurrection through baptism.

Consider the immense joy of possessing the Eucharist, the joy of living with our minds lifted to the supernatural world, the deep realization that we have divine life and can live supernaturally, and the joy of being witnesses to the risen Christ in this world.

This is the glad news that we have to impart to the world: God loved us so much that he became a child, a human being, a man like other men. He walked and talked and lived among us.

The earth can witness to this. It still bears his holy footprints. He himself taught us. He suffered and died for us. He resurrected and ascended. Alleluia!

Through these seven weeks or fifty days of Eastertime, the Church—bride that she is —never grows tired of making the world ring with her shouts of joy. Nary a penitential note or sound is heard from her lips. No more fasting or penance for a while!

No more tears, for Christ has won his victory. Alleluia! For forty days we are going to rejoice with the apostles in the company of the risen Christ.

If we really enter into the spirit of the Paschaltide liturgy, who can doubt that we will meet Christ—maybe personally, maybe collectively—in some upper room of ours, or on some road that leads to our Emmaus, as the apostles met him on the side of the lake and in the mountains of Galilee? Yes, we could meet him anywhere, for we too must not seek among the dead for the living (Lk 24:5).

Let us seek the living Christ where he waits for us. That may be anywhere if only we are silent, at peace inside, prayerful, with a flaming desire to meet him, constantly searching in faith, constantly ready for his appearing, as appear he did to the apostles.

Easter week, week of the baptized! Having died with Christ and been born anew with him, we have become a new creation! We are free! We live the life of God! Christ has led us into the Promised Land, the Church, the gathering of those who have been saved.

The daily pattern of our life flows and follows from the paschal mystery. With Christ we have died and risen. We must live as those brought to newness of life. Nourished on the flesh of Christ, our Paschal Lamb, united by his love, we ask God to keep us all one in heart so that we might be leaven of that unity, love, and peace to our brethren in the world.

Incredible as this seems, we are able to lead people to Christ and no one can prevail against us, for it is our faith that overcomes the world (1 Jn 5:4).

Excerpted from Season of Mercy, pp. 123-125, available from MH Publications.

My Story

MY SEARCH FOR BEAUTY

by Irene Sullivan

God, the source of all truth, beauty, and goodness draws us by each of these qualities. For me, it has always been beauty that has affected me the most profoundly.

One morning when I was about four or five, I saw smoke billowing up like clouds in our kitchen. I ran to my mother and said, “Look, Mom! Heaven is in the kitchen!” She laughed and said it was just burnt toast.

Heaven! So many times as a child, I was caught up in awe as I beheld beauty—in the ocean or in the forest on camping trips with my family.

Though I could not put words to these experiences, from my earliest years, beauty has been a beacon shining forth—renewing my faith, restoring my trust, and giving me courage. And throughout my life it was beauty that opened my heart to the truth that God is all-loving and that everything in creation is a pure gift.

It was also in church that the transcendent power of beauty touched me—the colors pouring through the stained glass windows, the sweet smell of the incense, and the solemn sounds of Gregorian Chant in Latin. All this drew me into another world, a world where heaven and earth meet.

What a tremendous gift to have been born into a Catholic family and to have had the solemn beauty of the Latin Rite liturgy etched in my memory forever!

But when I was seven or eight, I lost much of this beauty. Because it was sinking on its sand foundation, our beloved parish church, St. Aloysius in Montreal, had to be demolished. I distinctly remember the day my father took me to see it just before it was torn down. What a sadness to walk amidst those bare, gutted walls!

And after it was gone, we had to use a school auditorium in a basement for a church. There instead of the beautiful carved wooden pews, we sat on hard metal folding chairs, and instead of the beautiful Gothic arches and the images of Christ and Our lady, we had only bare ceiling to look at.

And, to make things worse for me, this coincided with the increased secularization of the culture and the simplification of the liturgy after Vatican II. I felt lost.

I found it more and more difficult to pray as I had before.

My desire for beauty, however, kept me searching, and even when as a teenager I gradually drifted away from the Church, my heart was still open to God. I was on a path and now looking back, I know that God was watching over me with careful and loving attention.

As a child I was continually drawing, especially angels, and later on I had taught arts and crafts to inner city children which I had found rewarding. So, when I went to university, I majored in art education and planned to teach art and to foster a love of beauty in others, especially children.

Then when I graduated, what a shock and disappointment to discover that there were very few positions for art teachers. For during my time in college, there had been a major shift in educational priorities. The focus now was on technology, especially computers.

This led me to a time of intense searching for my vocation. I worked in various capacities: as a day care teacher, with multiple-handicapped children, and with the elderly. And though I was interested in helping people, it was clear that my plans for a career were not turning out as I had hoped.

Then came a series of events in which I experienced beauty in ways I had not expected and through people God sent to assist me.

One major influence was one of my art teachers, Sister Miriam, in a course I took after graduation. Before each class, we prayed, and our art work was done in an atmosphere of prayer. Thus my “re-conversion” process began.

Through Sister Miriam, I was soon attending Bible Study and charismatic prayer meetings.

Also, through the influence of some devout people, and probably the prayers of my family who had stayed so faithful to their Catholic devotions, the beauty of the rosary reentered my life.

I was finding much joy and life in my faith and I began attending Mass more frequently, and finally, daily. Also, my new parish had many programs for the poor.

I began to be drawn to a more committed Christian lifestyle. I had an inkling that God was calling me to some special kind of work. But what could it be?

Soon after this, I spent a year with the Jesuit Volunteer Program in Seattle, Washington. It was while I was there that I made a week’s retreat at Our Lady of the Rock, a Benedictine priory. Here, in the midst of the beauty of the San Juan Islands, I witnessed the beauty of the Catholic faith lived in its fullness—a life where work and prayer blended into a harmonious whole.

Listening to the Sisters singing the Divine Office in Gregorian Chant (which I hadn’t heard in years) filled me with peace and joy. I left with a renewed sense of appreciation and love for my Catholic heritage, the “Rock” on which I was called to stand firmly.

It was here too that a seed was planted in my heart, when one of the Sisters asked me if I had ever thought I might have a vocation to religious life.

Some time after this I attended an artists’ retreat, a retreat inspired by Fr. Bernard Sander whose desire was to bring new life into the Church through the beauty created by artists of deep faith. It was here that I heard Michael O’Brien, an artist and writer, speak on the role of art in the Church. From this talk I learned that the twentieth century had witnessed a great divorce between art and the life of faith. Finally I had words to express my experience of the absence of beauty within the Church.

Soon after this two events occurred which led to a major turning point in my life: the death of one of my sisters and the loss of a relationship I had so hoped would lead to a truly Christian marriage.

These losses and the pain that resulted opened my heart to hear God’s voice. Finally I was ready to listen.

Two years later a friend told me about Madonna House. I decided that when I visited my family in Montreal, I would visit there.

My first impression was that this was truly a unique place, and I was in awe and amazement that such a place existed. After this first short visit, I returned for another. Truly this was a place where beauty, truth and good were present, and I knew that my spirit could breathe here.

Our Lady of the Woods chapel with its simple yet striking style, had a particular beauty that I felt immediately at home in. And the Byzantine liturgies opened up a whole new world to me. I was filled with a sense of wonder and awe similar to what I had experienced as a child in my parish church.

The icons also became powerful “presences,” and I grew to love them as I had loved the images of the Sacred Heart and Immaculate Heart of Mary.

And Archbishop Raya’s “You are what you contemplate” expressed what I had been unable to put into words.

As St. Paul also says, And we with our unveiled faces reflecting like mirrors the brightness of the Lord, all grow brighter and brighter as we are turned into the image that we reflect. This is the work of the Lord who is Spirit (2 Cor 3:18).

Furthermore as Archbishop Raya says: as we enter into the contemplation of the God, we ourselves become vehicles of grace for the transformation of the world back to its original beauty. Even now this transformation is beginning.

For creation waits with eager longing for the revelation of the sons of God… Creation itself retains the hope of being set free, like us, from its bondage to decay, to enjoy the same glorious liberty as the children of God (Rom 8:19-21).

Book Review - Poetry

NAMING THE HOLY

by Emily Huston

A Basket of Bread by Catherine de Vinck. Alba House, New York. 185 pgs. Price: $9.95 US - $15.95 Can., paperback. Phone: (US) 1-800-343-2522 Phone: (Can.) 1-800-668-2078 Fax: 1-718-698-8390

ISBN: 0-8189-0769-X.

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Poetry can provide a festal banquet. Not always. But, when it does, it works an art kindred to the might of God. For the poet is empowered to allay hunger in the human spirit.

Poetry activates the senses of the soul, drawing our being into fresh spheres of sight, sound, and touch, even taste and smell. Texturing, enhancing, it gives cadence and bouquet to encounters and the commonplace.

Not only can poetry shift the normal into a new key, it also bonds our human experience to the world of mystery. To augment this repast, it can serve a ravishing drink. Piercing to the inwardness of things, true poetry taps the font of splendor—the Living God.

Preparing this feast requires an artisan—one who has a secure foothold both in and beyond the ordinary. The poet crafts as a smith as well as a chef. For his or her whole person, like a foundry, is the site of arduous interior labor.

Such is Catherine de Vinck whose anthology, A Basket of Bread, is now available.

Born in Belgium, Catherine lived through the Nazi occupation during World War II. She didn’t learn English until she settled in the United States with her new husband, Baron Jose de Vinck. But since that time, 1948, three American universities have awarded her honorary doctorates for her literary accomplishments.

Primarily she has remained a wife and mother (now a grandmother), raising six children. Her home and its environs provide the smithy, so to speak, for her writing and the spring board for her metaphors. Therein she forges her Catholic faith and her womanhood, her bright mind, keen powers of observation, and deep prayer life into sparkling language.

How did she become an accomplished poet? By practice, lots of practice. The matrix of much of her writing appeared with the birth of her second child, Oliver.

Born brain-damaged, Oliver was destined to remain a blind, mute infant—bedridden yet blessing all around him. Wonderfully cherished by his whole family, Oliver defied predictions and lived until the age of 33.

Regarding Oliver I quote from an article Catherine wrote in the 1977 issue of Sign magazine, an article cited in the introduction to A Basket of Bread.

———-

“For many years I was confined to the house, alone. Jose was at work all day, and I was with Oliver and the other five children. This enforced seclusion was difficult for me. I had a restless, seeking spirit.

“Through Oliver I was held still. I was forced to embrace a silence and a solitude where I could `prepare the way of the Lord.’ Sorrow opened my heart, and I `died.’

“I underwent this death unaware that it was a trial by fire from which I would rise renewed, more powerfully, more consciously alive. I looked into the abyss of human sorrow and saw how dangerous and how easy it is to slide into self-pity, to weep over one’s fate.

“I was given the grace to understand that one has to be on guard against such grieving, for it falsifies one’s grasp on life and erodes one’s inner strength….

“Looking at Oliver, I saw the power of the powerless. His total helplessness speaks to our deepest hearts, calling us not merely to pious emotions but to service.

“Through this child I felt bound to Christ crucified and also to all those who suffer in the world. While caring for Oliver, I also felt that I ministered, in some mysterious way, to all my unknown brothers and sisters who were, and are, grieving and in pain throughout the world. Through Oliver I learned the deepest meaning of compassion.”

———-

While I was savoring A Basket of Bread, many reflections stirred in my heart. I will share two.

First, a line from the Athanasian Creed came unbidden to mind. “We believe in God, the Father, the Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth, of all that is seen and unseen.” This line is, I think, given flesh by this poet.

If “to see” is, as one philosopher puts it, “the spiritual capacity to perceive the visible reality as it truly is,” I think Catherine has honed her belief to a fine degree. She leads her readers to what “truly is.”

———-

For instance, “…We have hands other than to touch / eyes other than to see; and the light we force / out of oil and sticks / shines dark before the candelabra / set high in the templed stone of this house: / seven-branched and all-knowing / it drips hot with God’s wax / …”

Her imagery draws forth what “truly is” from the “unseen” that is buried within it.

“The name of God is a flying shuttle / weaving, weaving without pause / the broken threads, the pitiful fragments / all the loose, the lost ends, lives / thrown away on the scrap-heap/ but retrieved, redeemed, restored / to the loom where the final tapestry / unrolls its luminous sequence.”

“…The day is a plaything, a rubber ball / bounding on concrete, a reality / of living equilibrium, repose, leap…”

“…Sometimes doubt shakes us / and we go limp, rag dolls / slumped on the ground of our being. / We go about our lives / dumb, blind, scared / until we begin to hear the stones / in their sealed silence / singing.”

“ …Inside the self lies a giant knot / a reptilian tangle, half-conscious / half-formed riddles hidden from the light …” “You are our dreams / moving through our fears / pushing away their coiled hissing mass…”

And she can confront: “…It is late in the day / near evening maybe on the cosmic clock / …What have we done all time long? / Sold what belongs to others? / Chosen cowardly silence? / Forsaken the poor? / Deliver us from evil: / from the glut and the smell / of bulging cupboards / of closets where we store / more than we need. / Turn the mind, that strange stone / to the fire-light of your truth / …Let us begin to be human!”

———-

Second, Catherine’s poetry helped me to muse on the parable of Lazarus and the rich man (Lk 16:19-31). Who will pass over between Lazarus in his blessedness and the rich man in Hades? Who can cross the gulf man has created between paradise and agony?

Perhaps this gulf is also buried in our hearts. Or that which sunders human communion. For, as the parable says, between you and us a great chasm has been fixed (Lk 16:16). Who will bridge that rift?

Humankind is subject to rifts and fissures. Agonizing, we long to claim our core dignity; for in God’s own image are we created. We are meant for wholeness, union, and divine splendor. Yet these elude us.

Who will cross, pass over —from agony to paradise— either way? Christ does. In him, we can. Judging from her poems, Catherine does, moving back and forth between paradise and agony.

She traverses the rifts and fissures in our searching souls and proclaims the promise of integration. Her metaphors call us toward our deepest truth.

Skillfully Catherine marshalls metaphors in service of her readers, humbly calling us to dance who we each truly are: God’s beloved image.

This poet is passionately in love with the Lord who restores our image. To him she writes: “…invent my life, light / a passionate fire; a thing of blazing gold; / and let me laugh in your joy; my laughing God; / and leap in your rising / my Dancer.”

At the anvil of her prayer Catherine learns to name the holy. And for us she does so, even as she writes. “…If I dance with happiness / at the sight of the circling hawk / knowing for a moment what it is / to float over the swamp / in a robe of dark feathers; / and if I do hear the summons / hidden within the miracle of stones: / then I can name the holy / the Fire within the fire of all things.”

Word Made Flesh

OH, NECESSARY MISTAKES!

by Fr. David May

The following is a reflection on the Gospel for the Third Sunday of Easter, April 24th (Luke 24:13-35).

———-

The Gospel about the two disciples meeting Christ on the way to Emmaus has such richness that my heart, like theirs, is set aflame when I hear it. Let’s look at it together.

As they walk along, the disciples are, as varying translators put it, “downcast,” “sad,” or “in distress.” They’re sharing their disappointment, pouring it out to one another. It sounds as if it was a lively exchange.

When Christ starts walking with them and asks them, “What are you discussing?” they drain their souls. At least Cleophas does, and we presume the other is with him in this. They take the whole burden they are carrying and they give it to Jesus.

And Jesus, having received this burden, speaks the words that set their hearts on fire: Was it not necessary that the Messiah suffer these things and so enter into his glory? (Lk 24:26) “Was it not necessary?”

We need to remember that when the Lord speaks to us as Messiah, he’s our representative and we’re one with him. (There’s a distinction but no separation.) So when he says Was it not necessary that the Messiah suffer these things and so enter into his glory? what the disciples heard was that, but they also heard, “Was it not necessary for us to so suffer and then enter into our glory?” For they and we are one with him.

Well, we’ve walked through Lent and it’s over! But let’s see where it’s taken us in the light of this Gospel. We too have been walking along, and from time to time, we too perhaps have had conversations where we shared our disappointments and burdens with someone else.

It feels good to be together at such times, to share our burden with a friend. And in the midst of this discussion, this sharing, did you at some point perhaps recognize that there was Another with you? And did that Other say, “Drain your soul into my heart. Give it all to me. Hold nothing back.”

When we do this, the Lord, who can receive all because he has drunk the cup of our burden to the dregs, can say to us a mysterious phrase that only he can say: “Was it not necessary that you suffer these things?”

Was it not necessary, was it not ordained by God, this Lent, that you suffer these things, so that you might share my glory?”

This reminds me of an incident at Cana Colony, our retreat-vacation for families, when I was chaplain. We were discussing our lives—the ordinariness, the endless little things that need to be done, the hiddenness, the monotony and all those little and big difficulties that people talk about in such discussions.

Then, in the middle of it, one man got very agitated and said, “I don’t know what you people are talking about. I don’t want all this stuff. I just want to be happy!”

I detected in my heart this Lent, this same attitude, this same prayer: “I just want to be happy, Lord. Or at least less unhappy. Will that do? I’ll take it.”

But the Lord says, “I have so much more to give you. I want to share with you my glory.”

O happy misunderstandings among us that have led us to have to go deeper into love and forgiveness! O necessary mistakes multiplied all over this Lent, right through Holy Week, up to this minute!

“Unnecessary,” you say? But they pushed us to let go of ourselves and our accomplishments and to cling to Someone else.

O blessed faux pas! They’re pursuing me wherever I go, these faux pas.

I think this is where the Lord was leading us to this Lent.

We don’t like to see ourselves failing. We don’t like to admit it, not even to ourselves. Oh, we say, “Everyone makes mistakes. I’m not perfect. I’m weak.” We may even say, “I’m a sinner.”

But often, underneath that, there’s a kind of self-glorification. “I may be a failure, but at least I fail well.” We’ll cling to anything, anything but the Lord. Anything but making him alone our security and the center of our lives.

Do you ever find that in your heart? I do.

Did you find yourself at the end of one of your ropes this Lent? This is one of my favorite expressions. I used to think that the expression “the end of my rope” said it. “I’m at the end of my rope, finally.”

Then I discovered that I don’t just have one rope. I’ve got a whole collection of them. So, when I find myself feeling like I’m at the end of my rope, I find that it’s just this rope. So I’m OK. I’ll just continue holding on to the others.

This Lent, if the Lord in his infinite mercy, through the difficulties he has of necessity allowed me to go through, has enabled me to let go of one of my ropes even a little bit, Alleluia. And to that extent that I now cling to him, Alleluia.

After all I’ve been through, does that mean it’s not over yet? Does it mean I haven’t arrived in the new Jerusalem? Yes, I haven’t quite arrived. But I can cling to my Lord.

Yes, he is here to cling to. And when I remember this, when I keep it in mind, my heart burns.

I feel down awfully easily. I felt fine a few minutes ago, and now I’m down again. “Stay with me, Lord. Speak to my heart.”

“Lord, I can’t forgive.” The Lord gives me his Body. He says, “Take my forgiveness.” “I hold on to resentments, Lord. I have a hard time letting go of them.” He says, “Take my generosity of heart.”

“I’m so afraid, Lord. I’m afraid to take the next step.” “Take my courage,” he says. “Take me.”

Christ says, “Don’t hold on to yourself. Hold on to me. Eat me. I’ll give you everything you need. For I’m sharing myself with you. I’m sharing my glory with you.

“To the extent that you have let go, I am yours. To the extent you have not let go, take my freedom. Take my hand.”

This is the beauty of the resurrection. No matter what block to divine life I come up against in myself, the resurrection embraces it. It encompasses it with love and mercy.

Then just when I realize I was encompassed by the victory of mercy, suddenly I’m kind of upset again. It encompasses that, too. The victory of the resurrection is a victory ever greater.

So let us who have shared his suffering now share his glory. And let us receive this glory with grateful hearts.

CHILDHOOD MEMORIES OF GOD

Introduced and Compiled by Julie Coxe

One day at breakfast, a few of us staff got to talking about memories or moments in our childhood, moments that affected us deeply and helped shape our Catholic faith and relationship with God.

What I found so interesting is that for all of us, these profound memories did not come during specific times of formal teaching or catechism but rather from sacramentals and simple traditions of the Church, the “things” and customs that have been part of Catholic family living for generations and—for some of them—for centuries.

Here are a few of our memories:

———-

When I was growing up, my family used to say the rosary together in the evening. I especially remember one evening when I was still little. I must have been four or five because my little sister Catherine was in a high chair. I clearly remember that she wasn’t old enough to know how to speak.

I was sitting there looking at her during the rosary, and I suddenly realized deep inside of me that she was praying with us. Her lips weren’t moving, and she couldn’t say the words, but I knew that she was right there praying along with all the family.

That was when I understood what prayer wasn’t. I knew is was about something other than words; I knew it was more like a communion.

Gérard Lesage

Notre Dame de Lourdes,

Manitoba, Canada

———-

This is my second earliest memory, and so I must have been very small—maybe even three or four. It is a memory of Palm Sunday. It was a beautiful, sunny day, and I was sitting by the window, looking out at the street as I often did, and my mother, arriving home from Mass, came to greet me. She was carrying something and I asked her what it was.

She said it was “palms.” She must have said something about the palms, but I don’t remember that. All I remember is her saying that Jesus had died for me, that his hands and feet had been nailed to a cross, and that he did this because he loved me. And I remember thinking about that and wondering about the nailing and feeling a quiet sense of peace and a feeling of Jesus loving me that sat inside me.

It may have been the first time I was told about Jesus.

Perhaps this is why, throughout my childhood, Palm Sunday was always special to me. I always loved the palms, and I have later memories of feeling joyful when I was given them in church and of sitting at home with them in my hands, looking at them, waving them, and making crosses and small wreaths out of them.

Paulette Curran

New York City, U.S.A.

———-

I came from a large family with an age spread which meant that some of us were going to bed at different times. And except for the youngest ones, whom Mom put to bed herself, she always ended our day by calling out, “don’t forget to say your night prayers.”

That meant on your knees next to your bed praying out loud. I just figured everyone did that.

So when I went to summer camp and was in a cabin with nine other lads, I ended my first day on my knees next to my bed saying my night prayers out loud. Nobody else did that, and I felt like I had just been discovered with a bad case of the “zits” and would have to be quarantined. But for some reason, it was easier the next night and each night after that.

I made some adjustments to that habit as I grew older, but I think I had more comments from other people about seeing a young boy or man kneel down next to his bed in a public situation to pray at night than almost any other religious thing I did.

And even though there were times when it was one of the most difficult public things I did, I was never shamed or harassed by others for doing it. As a matter of fact, I suspect it reminded many of them to say their night prayers, too, just as their moms had probably taught them to do.

Fr. Pat McNulty

Fort Wayne, Indiana,

U.S.A.

———-

On the walls in the home where I grew up, we had pictures and plaques about our faith. I remember one outside my parents’ bedroom that had a picture of the pope and all kinds of fancy writing and designs.

What it meant to me as a child was that, even though I had never met the pope, he must mean a lot to my parents, and even be somewhat like a friend because they had put his picture on our wall.

Years later I learned that it was a papal blessing and a deeper realization soaked into me—that the pope’s and the Church’s blessing on their marriage was really important to my parents.

We also had a picture on the wall near my bedroom of Jesus surrounded by a group of children in nice white clothes. The picture was above the laundry hamper. I used to look at it a lot, and it always gave me great joy. I could see how much Jesus looked with love at those kids, and that they were happy being with him. I was glad, too, that some of them had dark hair because I had dark hair, too.

Julie Coxe

Toronto, Ontario, Canada

The Pope’s Corner

POLITICS OF FORGIVENESS

by Pope John Paul II

The following is part 2 of excerpts from the Holy Father’s message for the World Day of Peace, January 1, 2002

———-

What does forgiveness actually mean? And why should we forgive? A reflection on forgiveness cannot avoid these questions.

Returning to what I wrote in my Message for the 1997 World Day of Peace (“Offer Forgiveness and Receive Peace”) I would reaffirm that forgiveness inhabits people’s hearts before it becomes a social reality.

Only to the degree that an ethics and a culture of forgiveness prevail can we hope for a “politics” of forgiveness expressed in society’s attitudes and laws, so that through them, justice takes on a more human character.

Forgiveness is above all a personal choice, a decision of the heart to go against the natural instinct to pay back evil with evil. The measure is the love of God who draws us to himself in spite of our sin. It has its perfect exemplar in the forgiveness of Christ, who on the cross prayed, Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do (Lk 23:24).

Forgiveness, therefore, has a divine source and criterion. This does not mean that its significance cannot also be grasped in the light of human reasoning, and this, in the first place, on the basis of what people experience when they do wrong.

They experience their human weakness, and they want others to deal leniently with them. Why not therefore do towards others what we want them to do towards us? All human beings cherish the hope of being able to start all over again, and not remain forever in their own mistakes and guilt.

Forgiveness, as a fully human act, is above all a personal initiative. But individuals are essentially social beings, situated within a pattern of relationships through which they express themselves in ways both good and bad.

Consequently, society too is absolutely in need of forgiveness. Families, groups, societies, nations, and the international community itself need forgiveness in order to renew ties that have been sundered, to go beyond sterile situations of mutual condemnation, and to overcome the temptation to discriminate against others without appeal. The ability to forgive lies at the very basis of the idea of a future society marked by justice and solidarity.

By contrast, the failure to forgive, especially when it serves to prolong conflict, is extremely costly in terms of human development. Resources are used for weapons rather than for development, peace, and justice. What sufferings are inflicted on humanity because of the failure to reconcile!

Peace is essential for development, but true peace is made possible only through forgiveness.

Forgiveness is not a proposal that can be immediately understood or easily accepted. In many ways it is a paradoxical message. It involves an apparent short-term loss for a real long-term gain. Violence is the exact opposite. Opting as it does for a short-term gain, it involves a real and permanent loss.

Forgiveness may seem like weakness, but it demands great spiritual strength and moral courage, both in granting it and accepting it.

Reflecting on forgiveness, our minds turn naturally to certain situations of conflict which endlessly feed deep and divisive hatreds and a seemingly unstoppable sequence of personal and collective tragedies. I refer especially to what is happening in the Holy Land.

The present troubled international situation prompts a more intense call to resolve the Arab-Israeli conflict, which has now been going on for more than fifty years, with alternate phases of greater or lesser tension.

The rights and demands of each party can be taken into proper account and balanced in an equitable way, if and when there is a will to let justice and reconciliation prevail.

Once again I urge the beloved peoples of the Holy Land to work for a new era of mutual respect and constructive accord.

to be continued

THE OWL

by Pat Probst

One day, by the outhouse near the cabin where I was making a poustinia, I saw something large and unfamiliar in a tree not too far off. “Too big to be a nest,” I thought. I would have noticed it before, and it was snowing—certainly not nest-building time.

I kept looking at it. It had an owl-like shape. The top part seemed to swivel. It was an owl, a big one! I kept gazing and delighted every time his head swivelled.

“Oh God, please let me see him fly,” I prayed. Admiring and hoping, I stayed rooted, watching. The owl took flight! Past trees, gliding to roof level, he flew out of sight.

“Wow! Blessed are you, God,” I said. “Thanks.”

I walked back to my poustinia, then decided to walk on further—in the direction I had seen the owl fly.

Midway on the path to the water pump, I stopped and scanned the trees. There was the owl, looking bigger, perched on a branch, and swivelling.

“Please, God,” I prayed. “One more time. I want to see him fly.”

Standing there, hands in my coat pockets, watching the owl through the falling snow, I waited and waited, my feet getting colder and colder.

The owl flew! Blessed be God!

“Dear God,” I prayed, “You could arrange for the owl to fly to the apple tree outside my poustinia if you want to.”

I kept the door half open until night fell. The owl had not landed in the apple tree.

Blessed are you, God!

Music

SINGING OUR PRAYER

by Sandra Brewer

Mary who pondered all these things in her heart (Lk 2:19) and who stood in silence at the foot of the cross is the same Mary who sang My soul magnifies the Lord (Lk 1:46).

For us too, prayer expresses itself in both silence and in song. In prayer, silence can lead us into song, and song can lead us into silence.

And if we believe that doing the duty of the moment for love of God saves the world, how wonderful to think that our song, when our “duty of the moment” is to sing in the liturgy, is somehow saving someone somewhere.

If you can sing, even if it is only in your heart, you can withstand more suffering because you are putting your suffering in proper relationship with God. For when we sing in our pain, we are singing in defiance of all that would break us down, for we know a Healer and a healing more penetrating than any evil force, a healing which can save us.

Singing is a supreme antidote. For in singing our pain, our sorrow, our love, and our praise, we proclaim a reality more powerful than our inner screams of anguish, a goal beyond our suffering, and a love greater than all suffering.

When the crunch comes, we know that we have nothing to fear from those who can only destroy the body. And if despite our pain, our hearts are at peace, our souls are shielded from the destroyer.

Our song, then, our pure song, will be an armor covering us, a cloud of our “toned breath” surrounding us with our own fragrant offering and with our own inner thanksgiving and joy.

Song can lead us into sharing the suffering both of others and of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. And it can lead us to joy in our suffering.

My Dear Family

APPROACHING ART GENTLY

by Catherine Doherty

Art, like swimming, must be approached gently. The best way is to let the person get acquainted with water slowly, in shallow spots, then gently and lovingly make him feel secure in the arms of a good swimmer.

Only then do we bring him very slowly to deep water and swim next to him. Then he will discover the joy of swimming and come to love it.

The same applies to art. Knowledge comes slowly, because much ignorance and prejudice must be overcome.

Let us take Madonna House, for example. When I first came to Combermere, seeing art as part of the vision of restoring the whole person, I tried to introduce paintings and sculpture. I hope that I did it gently.

On the shelves and walls, I put any statue or picture that any of the members, visitors, or local people admired. Some of the statues were gaudy, but many of the staff and visitors admired them. Slowly, in the midst of the ugliness (for to me it was ugly), I began to introduce one or two good statues. I did the same with pictures.

I finally made the supreme sacrifice of giving my beloved collection of art books, gathered over the period of a lifetime, to Madonna House. People began to look at the pictures.

One friend used to visit often and would stop and look at the statues. One day she said, “I like this statue better than that one. I thought that I liked the other one better, but now I don’t like the first one as much.”

Yes, here was art education. By putting a good statue next to an ugly one, I let people make their own comparisons.

Then came the day when a few of our members suddenly expressed themselves and said, “Catherine, when are you going to take that horrible stuff off the shelves?” That was a great day for me!

It happened seven years after I began the displays—a short time really for some art appreciation to grow in people’s hearts, minds, and souls. So we took the gaudy statues away, and art appreciation is still growing.

Art appreciation cannot be hurried. It is very personal and grows with the growth of the individual. The main thing is to be exposed to good art. That is why it is good to visit art galleries and to collect reproductions.

In every age, there have been great artists. Their paintings, no matter what era they belonged to, were enduring art. They still affect people—even people who know nothing about art—when they take time to look and meditate on what they see.

The same can be said of modern art which, like every era, has its geniuses and its mediocre artists. It’s the mediocre ones who confuse us. Their paintings can have good colors and good lines, but they are not genuine art. Something is missing from them, and instinctively, we reject them.

One does not have to be a connoisseur to see this. One just has to be a human being. True art always speaks to us in one way or another.

Why should Christians be interested in art? For one thing, it is a universal language. The art of the aboriginal peoples, of Africa, of the Orient, of Europe, and of our own country will, if we are open to it, tell us much.

It will tell us much about the nation and the thoughts and feelings of the people who produced it. It is a way of dialoguing with people of other cultures, a powerful way of coming together in the depths of the human spirit.

Art also enlarges our hearts and leads us to God, for art is beauty and and the fullness of Beauty is God.

Excerpted and adapted by the editor from Dearly Beloved, Vol. 1, pp. 165-169, available from MH Publications.