Today, I thought of a different kind of blog. Essentially, it is to do with being ‘English’, a rather esoteric, elusive and somewhat mysterious concept – something that a local Leylander thinks we may have lost – largely, because of the influx of foreigners into our country, ‘foreigners’ with their seemingly strong cultures.

By comparison, our ‘Englishness’ may seem weak and ‘wishy-washy’ when measured against the strength of the Gujurati, Hindu, Pakistani, cultures; or, for that matter, and nearer home, against the well-established Latin cultures of Italy, Spain or France.  Whether or not we have a ‘wishy-washy’ culture – and I am not at all convinced by the idea – the suggestion put forward by my ‘Leylander’ has made me think. Certainly, we ‘Englanders’ have something important to share with the rest of the world – though it may not be easy to define it – to put our finger on the essence of what that may be. 

Finding myself in a position of having to respond, to an allegation that I find a little unsettling, my first thoughts centre on an exemplary in the person of Cardinal Newman, a shy English gentleman with an acute mind, a heart as ‘big as they come’, undemonstrative in his style, but very much a leading figure, and demonstrative in what he did, when he deliberately chose to enter into full communion with the Catholic Church, on 9 October 1845; yet, in his culture and thought processes, he seemed not to cut himself off, from his Anglican roots.  We parishioners in St. Mary’s, now have a focal point, in Church, putting us constantly in mind of Blessed John Henry Newman, and this is not only because of his recent beatification by Pope Benedict, but also because we are beginning, within the Parish our ‘Newman Fund’. You can read about this by going to www.myleyland.co.uk 

But, to continue, the following sonnet was printed in the Parish Magazine of St. Austin’s Parish – one of our Ampleforth parishes, in Liverpool; to me, it seems to provide a helpful first answer to this question of ‘Englishness’. 

COME KINDLY LIGHT 

Come kindly light, which led John Henry on;

and shine through him to light us on our way.

Revered in death, we trust his night is gone;

disclose that triumph, Lord, for which we pray.

In dreary times as these, when seemingly

no sanctity, no wisdom has prevailed,

a saintly guide who weathered much may be

Love’s answer, to inspire; to inspire the sore assailed.

Now, Lord, we know that he who heavenward towers

extends his power of prayer; so in his name

we pray for cures, for heavenly gifts in showers.

May God permit his vicar to relay

a Father’s joy the angels’ glad acclaim;

news of his gaining everlasting day. 

Peter Ryden wrote these lines to mark the beatification of John Henry Newman, by Pope Benedict XVI, September 2010. His aunt, Isobel Ferguson, is a parishioner of St. Austin’s.  

I also think, that one of the many strands that explains our ‘Englishness’, comes from our language. It is a very hard one – difficult in fact – for foreigners to speak perfectly, because it follows no logic, and even though its rules of grammar are few, the pronunciation can be very difficult to grasp.  I wonder if not many of the absurdities we read in ‘Alice in Wonderland’ come partly from our language, which can be profoundly absurd in its pronunciation – something that leads us to enjoy that rather wonderful  sense of the ridiculous – but something that I have never come across in foreigners?  Moreover, this ‘nonsense’ within the language – and its unique humour – largely escapes those not totally conversant with the Englishman’s ‘funny’ way of expressing himself.  

Over the years, I have come across a few ‘rhymes’ that make fun of the difficulty of our pronunciation, and the one following, also printed in the St. Austin’s Parish Magazine, caused Fr. Theodore and I to burst into paroxysms of laughter. 

THE CRAZIEST LANGUAGE (by John C. Woods) 

We’ll begin with a box and the plural is boxes;

but the plural of ox is oxen not oxes.

Then one fowl is a goose, but two are called geese,

yet the plural of moose should never be meese.

You may find a lone mouse or a nest full of mice;

yet the plural of house is houses, not hice.

If the plural of man is always called men,

why shouldn’t the plural of pan be called pen?

If I spoke of my foot and showed you my feet,

and I give you a boot, would a pair be called beet?

If one is a tooth and a whole set are teeth,

why shouldn’t the plural of booth be called beet?

Then one may be that, and three would be those,

yet hat in the plural would never be hose,

and the plural of cat is cats, not cose.

We speak of a brother and also of brethren,

but although we say mother, we never say methren.

Then the masculine pronouns are he, his and him,

but imagine the feminine, she, shis and shim.

So English I fancy you will all agree

is the craziest language you ever did see. 

This poem was contributed by a St. Austin’s Parishioner, John Grice. He says it was written by a colleague at ICI, an American by the name of John C. Woods. Perhaps, working in ICI, is a good foundation to becoming a ‘bard’, and perhaps’ in the USA’ they feel just as crazy as we do’ about their culture. 

Pondering these questions, I am driven to ask the question as to whether it may be that our ‘English’ contribution to the cultures of the world, comes from this kind of background – a background that allows us to laugh at ourselves, yet be calm and collected in the face of danger and disaster; the ‘Dunkirk Spirit’ is something that comes to mind, something to be compared with the calm of the policemen, in London, after the 7/7 Underground Bombings, or the quiet modesty of Blessed John Henry Newman. 

It would be most interesting to hear what readers of the ‘blog’ think about ‘England’, ‘Englanders’ and our ‘English’ contribution to our world. 

(Unfortunately, in sending out this blog by e-mail, ‘Word Press’ distorts the original formatting of the document.  Readers are, therefore, advised to visit the website www.stmarysblog.co.uk should they wish to read it in its intended format).

In John’s Gospel, Chapter 14 is a special chapter. We have the phrases of Jesus ‘Do not let your hearts be troubled, believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places’; ‘I am the way, the truth and the life’ and also the phrase that really struck home to me on the feast of the Apostles, Saints Philip and James, last Tuesday 3^rd May: 

Philip said to him, ‘Lord, show us the Father and we will be satisfied.’

Jesus said to him,

‘Have I been with you all this time, Philip, and you still do not know me?’ 

St. Philip, Apostle

Philip must have known Jesus for about 2½ to 3 years. I have known him for at least sixty years, and yet I felt that those words might have been: ‘Have you been with me all this time, Jonathan, and you still do not know me?’ Without wanting to exaggerate any deficiency, it does strike me that, knowing Jesus and knowing God the Father – both intimately connected – is the interest of my life, but there is always more to learn, and a sense that, when you learn more, I at least, understand that, what I knew before was not really enough. 

This ‘knowing’ is not the same as the ‘knowledge’ that one learns at school. It is much more to do with being so sure of another that, you can always, and without any hesitation, trust that person. Furthermore, it is to do with knowing the one with whom you are completely ‘in love’ – to the exclusion of anyone else. 

My own reflections, on this, centre on two things:

In the first place, we should try to remain in the presence of God in every moment of life. This is where that phrase of Jesus, to the Apostle Philip, and to me, makes sense. It is so easy for me, at least to drift along in life, and often to forget God – to my own harm and the harm of others! St. Benedict must have reflected on this, because our Abbot quoted him on this very point, quite recently.

St. Benedict and Abbot Cuthbert Madden

It occurred to me that it was interesting that a monk’s life ought always to be Lenten in character because elsewhere Benedict says, ‘You should recognise with awe that there will be a day of judgment for all of us, which should make us fear the doom of an evil life. Above all, however, you should cultivate a longing for eternal life with a desire of great spiritual intensity. Keep the reality of death always before your eyes. Have a care about how you act every hour of your life’ (RB 4.44-48). A similar idea is to be found in a number of places in the Prologue which suggests to me that this is a central part of Benedict’s understanding of the monastic life.

In the second place, God is an interesting ‘conundrum’, because God exists in everything around us, and, in particular, in the people around us. Therefore, we need to love the people around us, in order to love God, to the ultimate. There is a proviso, however. This love for others needs to be love with a detachment, and that is a long and hard lesson to learn. Most of us have a temptation to put all our love into a person, or an ambition, or an enterprise, or things of this earth (say money), rather than in the immortal, and all embracing person, who loves us more than any other; he alone is really worthy of all the love in a human heart, to the exclusion of all else. Once again this is where Jesus’ comment to St. Philip, the Apostle – in a secondary sense – comes nearer the truth of things. I wonder if it is God, himself, who is at the heart of things in my life, rather than created things, whether they be people, circumstances, or ideas….. 

St. Catherine of Siena

St. Catherine of Sienna throws light on this matter. It would have been her feast day, during the Octave of Easter, but the feast of Easter meant we did not read these beautiful lines. 

O Eternal Trinity, eternal godhead! This godhead, your divine nature, made immensely precious the blood of the only-begotten Son. Eternal Trinity, you are like a deep sea, in which the more I seek, the more I find; and the more I find, the more I seek you. You fill the soul, yet somehow without satisfying it: in the abyss which you are you so fill the soul that it ever continues to hunger and thirst for you, desiring you, eager in your light to see you, who are the light…… 

Eternal Trinity, you are the Creator, I the creature. I have come to know, in the new creation you made of me in the blood of your Son, that you are in love with beauty of your creature. 

God is in love with Catherine, and with me, and with you dear reader. This may be mind-boggling – but it is really true. The end-results, for you, and me, are to do with our behaviour. 

‘Have you been with me all this time, Jonathan, and you still do not know me?’

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‘For your love is better than life, my lips will speak your praise.

So I will bless you all my life, in your name I will lift up my hands.’ (Psalm 62 (63))

Each day during Easter week, we say these beautiful words, as they are, from the first Sunday Psalm for Morning Prayer. Sunday is the day of the ‘Resurrection’ each week of the year, a great feast day for those who want to follow Jesus, and that is what we celebrate each and every day in the week following Easter Sunday, in what is termed the Octave of Easter. Each day of the 8-day octave is a ‘Sunday’; how perfectly delightful! 

In the quotation from the Psalm, ‘love that is (more important) better than life’ does not imply that we should not love life, and to the full. Rather it gives clarity to the sacrifice that the English martyrs made when they, willingly, went to the scaffold at the time of the English Reformation, rather than deny their faith in the Mass and the central position of the Papacy.  They loved life, but this did not deter them from giving it up for love. 

The picture, above, is one that is a part of a ‘PowerPoint’ presentation on the St. Mary’s Website, sending out Easter greetings. A colleague, who works with ‘teeming’ regularity in the Priory House, remarked to me that this picture affected him a lot, largely because, when we look from ‘up there’  i.e. from the view of the Risen Lord, with whom we are united, our difficulties – according to the Lord’s own testimony – seem very different. The task before us is to remain up there, in Jesus, and with Him, at the right hand of the Father. We often prefer to ‘lick the wounds’ of life – whatever they may be – at ground level, and from that viewpoint, things can lose their proportion.

My friend and colleague went on to say he wondered where this photograph came from, as it is a bit ‘scary’ when you look at it, especially as the overhanging rock seems to have a fault in it. Here, I think, is a good image of the trust we should have in God, and His Love, especially at Easter time. It is not everyone, however, who could do what that young man is doing; most would hesitate, I imagine, before chancing one’s life, walking to, and sitting in, such a precarious position.  Talk about ‘vertigo’!

God’s love is ‘better than life’ itself, according to psalm 62 (63). When we realise this, we can then praise God all our lives, because things are rightly in proportion.

(Unfortunately, in sending out this blog by e-mail, ‘Word Press’ distorts the original formatting of the document.  Readers are, therefore, advised to visit the website www.stmarysblog.co.uk should they wish to read it in its intended format).

The effects of what Jesus did in Holy Week are powerful. It was a rather strange experience for me to watch a recent TV documentary, in which the subject matter was all concerned with the future of the Christian Churches in Britain; Ann Widdecombe was the programme’s presenter. There were interviews with young people, and it was astounding to hear some 20 to 30 year old ‘girls’, in particular, saying their number one priority was themselves – and what they wanted to do in life. To me, this came across as something akin to pure selfishness. Anything that approached or sounded like the Gospel ‘maxim’, “He who loses his life will save it” was significantly absent. Since the programme, I met with a friend who is an alcoholic; he came to chat, and at the time he was quite the worse for drink. He was not looking for money – or food. What he wanted was to sit and converse, and, especially, to share a worry he was carrying, in that his friends – all of whom are also alcoholics – are talking about taking their own lives. They are, in his words, ‘fed up’ with life as they find it and so they ask themselves the question: “Why live?” My young friend thought the others were being stupid and that you should never think about taking your own life. In his drunken state, he seemed quite sensible, but, obviously, the thought never occurred to him, that to self-indulge in alcohol – as with any of today’s addictions – is also putting ‘self’ first, regardless of whatever consequences. 

I tried to show him that the only way to get out of his alcoholic ‘trap’ was to live, not for self, but for the good and benefit of others, to put self-centredness out, and accept help to overcome his addiction and his homelessness. “Oh yes!” he said; he would like to do that; he accepted that he needed help and would welcome it.  He also said that, if somebody was in need, he would always try to help them with money to buy food, or a drink. All this made me think how desperately important it is, to find help and support – practical support – for people who cannot cope. This man needs someone he trusts, someone he can like and respect, to help him keep any lodgings he may acquire in good condition. He also needs help to budget his money, to guide him in his personal hygiene, how to cook, wash his clothes, and in many other practical things. His present circumstances leave me wondering, at the wonderful contradictions we human beings carry within us!

Ecce Homo – Pilate Presents the Scourged Jesus to the Crowd – (Antonio Ciseri 1821 – 91)

Jesus was utterly unselfish in the giving of himself, out of love for all humanity, and this he clearly demonstrated by means of his unbearable suffering and ignominious death on the cross. For me, one of the greatest signs of God’s presence, in Jesus, is in the silence Jesus maintained before Pontius Pilate, and throughout the Passion story. Only a very strong person remains silent, and is not provoked to react in the face of such mountainous pressure. Jesus could have called on the legions of angels in heaven, to help him at any time; however, he did not reply to Pilate, and from the cross, refused to come down, despite the taunts of those who jeered at him. 

The Fathers of the Church had their own quite original way of meditating on the Passion and Death of Jesus. They realised the truth, that what Jesus did, was unique, and that what Jesus endured provides the redeeming cause of our salvation. At the same time, in a very small way, the passion happens in our lives. We mere mortals do not save the world; Jesus has done that already, but we can make a tiny contribution to its saving. Just as a grain of sand joins with others to create a desert, so our contribution, perhaps as small as a grain of sand, can do the same. A desert is nothing more than masses and masses of sand grains! On the Stations of the Cross in St. Mary’s, the metal that Arthur Dooley used shows encrustations of bits of metal on the body of Jesus. I like to think of these as our human involvement, in the sufferings and death of Jesus.

Icon of St. Gregory Nazianzen

St. Gregory Nazianzen (325-390 AD), realised that, even in our own lives – in our own times – we could re-live the characters that were part of the Passion story: 

“Let us accept everything literally, let us imitate the passion by our sufferings, let us reverence the blood by our blood, let us be eager to climb the cross. 

If you are Simon of Cyrene, take up the cross and follow. 

If you are crucified with him as a robber, have the honesty to acknowledge God. If he was numbered among the transgressors because of you and your sin, you must become righteous because of him. Adore him who hung upon the cross through your fault; and while he is hanging there, draw some advantage even from your own wickedness; buy salvation by his death, enter paradise with Jesus and learn what is the extent of your deprivation. 

If you are Joseph of Arimathea, ask the executioner for the body: make your own the expiation of the world. 

If you are Nicodemus, the man who served God by night, prepare him for burial with perfumes. 

If you are one, or other Mary, or Salome or Joanna, shed tears in the early morning. Be the first to see the stone removed, and perhaps the angels too, and even Jesus himself.” 

For my own part, I have, so often, seen God acting in power, because of the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Jesus, coupled with the Gift of the Holy Spirit. One year, during Holy Week, we had the usual penance service, followed by Confessions. I remember a lady came, with her granddaughter, and both wanted Reconciliation together. I found this request not ideal, even though it could be allowed, in some circumstances. In the end, they did separate, but not before the grandmother told me her ‘tale of woe’. Her daughter – mother of the girl who accompanied her – was utterly inadequate, suffering from severe addiction problems and in a state of constant distress. Furthermore, it became apparent she had been suffering from such problems for a very long time, and, as a result, she – the grandmother – had failed to celebrate the Sacrament of Reconciliation for 20 years. She was ‘terrified’ at the very thought of ‘going to confession’, yet, when reconciliation was concluded, she could not at first believe, through tears of joy, that all her sins – her many sins – had been forgiven; then was the power of Jesus’ Crucifixion and Resurrection most clearly seen. It was also a perfect example of the Passion and Resurrection narrative, being played out in the lives of ordinary – people just like us. That day, I saw a ‘resurrection’ take place before my own eyes. 

(Unfortunately, in sending out this blog by e-mail, ‘Word Press’ distorts the original formatting of the document.  Readers are, therefore, advised to visit the website www.stmarysblog.co.uk should they wish to read it in its intended format).

Monks regularly pray together in the Divine Office. At Ampleforth, we pray formally six times together on most days, including the celebration of Mass. With this background, you would think that it would be easy for men, who pray daily together in a formal way, to pray together, informally, as other issues arise and when monks meet up with each other; perhaps some do!  But, this is not within my experience. Strangely, it is not easy, for instance, to say to a brother monk: “We have a problem here; let us pray about it together.”  We would often discuss the problem and try to think of a solution; certainly, we would try to support, and help each other as best we could, and in so far as that was possible.  But Pray?

The Monks in Prayer Together at Ampleforth 

The causes of this anomalous situation maybe numerous and varied, but one thing comes to mind. Ritual, like anything ‘formal’ does not allow people necessarily to come to know, appreciate or ‘belong to each other’, in that ‘close’ way taught by Jesus to his disciples. To follow Jesus’ way, that ‘inner spirit’ needs to engendered and nurtured, and formality does not necessarily achieve this. An analogy, for parishioners, would be that attending Mass each Sunday may be more an external ritual, than an inner conversion – for the lay person – and even for the priest who presides at Mass. We need to go below the surface, go that ‘extra yard’ in order to experience that ‘inner’ change, a change very close to the true meaning of ‘repentance’ in the Gospel. 

It is true that, in any family, there may be stresses and strains in the relationships, and this can happen for various reasons; similarly, stresses and strains may affect ‘relationships’ and the good-will that brothers in religion can be expected to have.  Praying together is one thing. However, it could happen that circumstances render it impossible even to discuss a given situation, once communications have broken down. This is what life is like, in practice – for better, or worse! Objectively speaking, it is strange that monks take for granted praying with each other, in a structured and formal way, but find it more difficult, in a personal way, to pray together when there are simple – even more serious – needs. I would wager that few men and women, in religious life, find it easy to pray ‘informally’, with their fellows. 

 Putting all this on a whole new different footing, I remember one day talking with engaged couples, about God in married life. The married couple who led the sessions, talked about their experience of prayer together. They were, both, deeply committed Catholic Christians, regularly worshipping God, in Church on Sundays, and on some other days. They confessed that, when they were first married, they never prayed together; however, as time went on, and other good experiences came their way, they tentatively began to join in prayer. At first, they were embarrassed to pray together but, eventually, they went through a kind of ‘barrier’ and now they find it something natural, and an important part of their lives. In fact, they said that praying together was one, really beautiful, expression of their love for each other, and I found this easy to accept. 

Because of my involvement in the lay movement called the ‘Focolare Movement’, I have learned about praying, together, with others. When talking about the ‘Focolare’, it is important to bear in mind that the characteristic God gave to this particular movement is ‘unity’, and that is a gift that can be applicable to every kind of human association – and to all types of person. So, for instance, unity is needed in the work place, among artists, or politicians, teachers, or those in the medical profession. It is a gift to bishops, priests, those in religious life, young and old people, families, parishes, whole communities of Christians and so forth; indeed, it is gift of God to everyone. Unity is also important for those who belong to other religions, like Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims and Jews. I have met people falling into all of these categories, including atheists, and agnostics, who are associated with the ‘Focolare’. This spirit of unity attracts, and can be of great help, to all these different kinds of people.

One of the characteristic behavioural patterns, of those associated with the ‘Focolare’, is to pray with each other. In the Gospel, there are two verses that are particularly apposite to this: 

“Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven.

 For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” (Mt. 18: 19-20)

Jesus Among His Disciples

In this, it is important to note that, somehow, the culture that the ‘Focolare’ engenders’, enables people to pray together’ about the most simple, or very serious things, without any fuss or embarrassment. This last week, I have prayed for serious matters such as family situations, as well as less complicated, but still serious things, like the need to find a valuable camera, or a wallet containing credit cards and money. But usually, such prayers have been in company with lay people!

Three Men Praying

Once again, I ask, is that not rather a strange phenomenon?  All of this has been occupying my mind and, during this last week, the decision was made to pray, with fellow monks of my own community, outside our ‘formal’ prayer times. This has come as a blessing, for not only did we find the lost wallet and the valuable camera, but it seemed to ‘cement’ relationships. Self-analysis reveals that ‘formal’ prayer together was not enough, in my case, to begin the art of praying, informally and with conviction, in the company of my fellow monks. To be precise, embarrassment is apparently one of the problems; however, there are also aspects of seeming to be ‘holier than thou’, not wanting to ‘lose face’ or to be thought ‘soft-in-the-head’.  It is also very interesting to add that it has been lay people, who have taught me about praying with others, in this delightful, but informal, way. 

Fundamentally, it is important that Jesus, or God himself, becomes more ‘believable’ when you discover the power associated with praying together.  It may be something we should broach with those, with whom we are closely associated, and see what actually happens. 

Perhaps there is a lesson to be learned, here, by all those of us who are priests. 

(Unfortunately, in sending out this blog by e-mail, ‘Word Press’ distorts the original formatting of the document.  Readers are, therefore, advised to visit the website www.stmarysblog.co.uk should they wish to read it in its intended format). 

“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind but now I see.”

Jesus cures the man born blind

How often we are blind – not literally, like the man born blind, who we find in St. John’s Gospel (Chapter 9) – but blind to the goodness of God, and all that he represents, then, now, always.  We are blinded by our passions, by our culture, by our self-centred desires, by conforming to, (copying if you like), the ways-of-life of people around us.  John Newton wrote this autobiographical hymn, in 1773, as a clergyman, after leading a life as a young man that was utterly opposed to God, and his ways. He describes the change that occurred within his own self, as a cure of blindness.  Indeed, that is what it was, and no exaggeration was ever intended. 

It is that ‘cure’ that arouses my interest. We may ask the question: “How many people need a cure in their lives?” I suppose more or less everyone if they are self-aware at all, and honest. Then, we might ask “How are people cured?” The answer is that there are probably as many ways to be ‘cured’ as there are people, but in all, and overall, we are talking about sinfulness – major and minor – sinful ways to turn away from God.  Human considerations, unfortunately, often fail to recognise the seriousness of sin: we might say: “Oh it cannot be helped; it is really not his, or her, fault because of the pressures they are under; that is why they behave in this way, or that”. We may say that a person’s actions have their root-cause founded in his, or her, genes and this means they are not really culpable. We may put the cause down to their background: “They didn’t have a chance in life, and so it is understandable that such people turn to what is sinful and evil.” We may get used to sin through the laws and economic systems we tolerate – through our inertia and lack of commitment to a cause. We have a world in which those who are very poor, (something like 80% of the world population), have almost nothing; many are at food starvation levels, with inadequate water supplies and no recourse to medication, while those of us who live in the wealthier, well-developed countries, have more than we need. Can it be right to sit back and say: “I’m all right, Jack”, and ignore the plight of those who would eat the scraps from Lazarus’ table.  There are millions of ‘street children’ who are doing just that. Furthermore, we acquiesce in laws that make it legal, easily, to break away from the bonds of marriage, to call marriage something that it is not, or allow, all-to-easily, people to terminate pregnancies. 

All this leads to countless injustices, deaths, suffering and untold confusion in peoples’ hearts. In the present world situation – including that of our own country – there are crimes that cry to God for vengeance. What about the sufferings and deaths in the Middle East, in the Ivory Coast, in Japan, to name but a few disaster areas in our world. We remain helpless, though able to pray, for those involved in the sad situations of today’s world. And prayer means things are never ‘quite as bad as they are painted’; we should never doubt the power of prayer!  I have prayed, for years, for peace between India and Pakistan, and it seems the World Cup Cricket semi-final played its part. God has his own ways and means and, I suspect, a well-developed sense of humour. 

Unless rejected, sin inevitably leads to untold misery – and ruin.  I take for an example, the statement made to me very recently, to the effect that such-and-such a person should be told to stop behaving so badly, as what they are doing, will ruin their family. Yet, we are ensnared by our own desire for excitement, in a boring home situation, or, we are greedy for this, or that, pleasure, ‘pleasure’ leading to addictions, and further personal, and family, misery. Sadly, the low point of such tendencies – when all can become meaningless and empty – is for people, in our culture, to commit suicide. It happens far too frequently; I wonder if those who have taken such drastic measures can imagine the suffering this causes, to those who belong to – and love – those who die in this way.

John Newton 

The way out of all this, is in the autobiographical hymn of John Newton; the ‘Amazing Grace’ of God, i.e. his life and love and presence. Jesus said “I am the Resurrection”. He is not a vengeful God, always asking us to ‘cow-tow’ to his laws, but a friend who walks closely, by our side, if we will let him. Daily, we can pray, without any self-consciousness or awkwardness – perhaps, with a bit of practice – together with others who are our friends, and who are willing to do the same, for the difficult challenges of each day – challenges that may concern me, directly, or my family. Jesus is the Resurrection; that is the solution to every situation, including the final darkness, and emptiness, that is death. He is not a set of rules to be followed, but a living friend, whom we can meet in prayer, in the Word of God, in the sacraments, and above all with our friends; and, He has the solution for us. 

“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound

That saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now am found,

Was blind but now I see.”

(Unfortunately, in sending out this blog by e-mail, ‘Word Press’ distorts the originalformatting of the document.  Readers are, therefore, advised to visit the website: www.stmarysblog.co.uk should they wish to read it in its intended format).

Last week it was the turn of St. Joseph; this week, following the feast of the Annunciation, 25^th March, it is Mary who ‘grabs the limelight’ – Mary, the mother of God, the mother of Jesus, and the wife of Joseph. When these two feast days were given dates, the Annunciation was fixed in line with Christmas Day, it being exactly nine months, to the day, before the great feast of the Nativity, and the feast of St. Joseph, fixed later, was deliberately put six days in advance of the Annunciation. 

These parents, Mary and Joseph, were the first, and best, of teachers in the ways of faith for their child, which is how our Baptismal ceremony speaks of the parents of all baptised children, in the blessing of the Father, right at the end.  It is significant, and of vital importance, to recognise that parents of baptised children are given the responsibility of looking after ‘little people’, who are now filled with the same life of God, as Jesus was – and is;  according to St. Paul we are all – little ones included – co-heirs with Christ. 

It was at the Annunciation, that we have recorded, the famous reply of Mary, to the angel Gabriel: “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word”. (Lk 1: 38) Mary was not only compliant with what God wanted of her, but was also highly intelligent; according to the motto of this blog, ‘There is nothing more intelligent than to be in the will of God’.

Philippe de Champaigne: The Annunciation, c.1644 

We know she was intelligent, for God gave her a role that led, ultimately, to her becoming Queen of Heaven, and while she lived, she achieved what God wanted of her. The important reflection of all this, is that each of us has role to fulfil, and the intelligent thing to do, is to conform ourselves to the personal design that God – from all eternity – has for each individual.  From Mary we inherit the ‘Magnificat’, and I would guess that nobody in this wide, wide world, in their right mind, would deny themselves the God-given grace, to be filled with the overflowing joy of Mary. 

My soul glorifies the Lord

My spirit rejoices in God, my Saviour…

The Almighty works marvels for me.

Holy his name. 

Everyone can achieve the measure we have within us, if we remain in God and his will. 

I love the story of the Prodigal Son – because its lesson is universal – and because everyone can identify with it. When the ‘lad’ was in the middle of the ‘mess’ he had made of his life, scripture ‘shuts the door’ on the past, and says: ‘He came to himself and said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called you son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’”’  I love the phrase, ‘He came to himself’. Certainly, it took some time, maybe some months, or even a year or two, and all this time, the Father was keeping watch, for his son returning. The mystery is that this was God’s plan for that young man. How wonderful the lesson!  Now, bring the parable up to date, and calculate what a help he has been, for all who, down the centuries, try to live the Christian way. 

For us, in our time, the process of ‘coming to one’s self’ can take 40, 50 or 60 years! It may take less, but often it is that long; oftentimes, it’s a case of two steps forward, and four back.  But this is God’s will for us, and God is working out his purposes. It is a great pity that, in many cases, it does not happen sooner, because, it is only when it does happen, that we can join in the rejoicing of Mary, glorifying God, then with that ‘inner’ freedom that nobody can explain, coupled with a joy that remains an utter mystery as to its origin.  That means it can only be divine! 

The motto stands: ‘There is nothing more intelligent than to be in the will of God’.

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Last week, on 19^th March, we had the feast of St. Joseph, and on that same day, there was a wedding in our Church.  What a quite wonderful day to be married, and know that Joseph will be your special protector, all your married life. Truly, he was an amazing man, and, to him it falls to be the guardian of all Christians in the Church. The hymn at the Divine Office of Morning Prayer begins: 

Joseph, wise ruler of God’s earthly household, nearest of all men to the heart of Jesus,

be still a father, lovingly providing for us, his brethren. 

For the wedding homily, I put myself in Joseph’s shoes and wondered if I would have acted in the way he did. He was betrothed to Mary, who was, probably, a lot younger than he was; indeed some Christian tradition suggests Joseph was a widower, with a handful of young children. He was, surely, very fond of Mary, and Mary of him, because both were devout Jews of their time; it is significant that we find them among quite a few couples, mentioned in the Gospel narratives: Zechariah and Elisabeth, Simeon and Anna, Joseph and Mary; no doubt, there are others. My mother, on one day – not long before she died – confided in me, that she was attracted to my father, because she could see he was a ‘good, religious’ man!

(1)   St Joseph with the Child Jesus – Guido Reni (1635)  (2)   St Joseph the Carpenter – Georges de la Tour (1640)

Now, I must ask the question, what if I was betrothed – the word is stronger than engagement and means, essentially, she was destined to be my wife – to a beautiful, young girl, only to find out, after she had been away for three months, that she was pregnant?  Before you rush to answer, please bear in mind that I live in an old-fashioned country, where such unexpected pregnancies are not, in any way to be countenanced, and could, according to law, lead to death. Would I have refused to expose my betrothed, to public disgrace, and therefore decide to, quietly, divorced her, with no fuss? That is what Joseph, described as a righteous man, decided to do (Mt. 1: 19). After that, God sent the angel, who appeared to him in a dream, and told him how Mary came to be pregnant, by the power of God himself, and that he should take Mary as his wife.  Joseph did so, thus facing the public shame that must have been showered on him. 

Once all this has been absorbed, it can be seen that Joseph was a man of deep faith!  Faith entailed for him, as it does even for us today, a life of sacrifice and suffering. But, through all this, he became the man he was destined to be – a man who grew in his love, and knowledge, of God.  Husband of Mary, and guardian and protector of Jesus, our saviour, Joseph became the great saint of all time, that he most surely is. 

                If I were to face the dilemma and make the decisions as Joseph did, then I, too, need to be a man of great faith. There is the calling and the challenge. In this there can be no ‘shilly-shallying’, no half-believing, no half-following God and his will. Only whole-hearted following will bring about the fullness of life that God wants to give, to each and every one of us. 

St. Joseph, pray for us!

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  “It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done;

it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known.” 

It is many, many years since I first read the words above, but I can still feel the lump in my throat as I came to the very dramatic ending of the ‘Tale of Two Cities’ by Charles Dickens.  Also, as I remember, I found it exceedingly hard to hold back the tears, as Sydney Carton utters these, his final words, as he goes to the guillotine.

Now, some may put forward the view that the ending is over-dramatised, but, taken in context with the subject matter, the years of revolution and tumult in France, the propensities to war with England, and the social irregularities, inequalities and class struggles pertaining to both countries, towards the end of the 18^th. century, all of this over-running into the 19^th, I come to the conclusion that the ‘epitaph’ by which we remember Sydney Carton is entirely in keeping with themes and plot of the book.  Having led a life, largely, of waste and excess, as the ‘tale’ progresses Sydney undergoes a change of character; at the finale, he enables a friend to escape the condemned cell, in the infamous prison Bastille, by taking his place, and this leads to his final journey on a tumbrel and a ‘date’ with ‘Madame Guillotine’. 

Dickens, of course, was a story-teller par excellence, his perspicuity and sociological insights into the times in which he lived no less than legendary.  However, he was, as I understand the man, much more than this, for many of his works are commentaries on morality.  If one looks elsewhere among his books, e.g ‘David Copperfield’, ‘Oliver Twist’, ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’, ‘A Christmas Carol’, it is immediately apparent that all – plots, scenes and characters – depend for their ‘lives’ on human relationships – the ‘good the bad and the ugly’.  Without those relationships, the moral lessons would not be driven home as they undoubtedly are. 

The other not-so-surprising aspect of Dickens is his inherent Christianity.  Yes, his work, in totality, relies heavily on the moral code – but this code is by no means a secular one.  In many of his books there are echoes of the Church’s teaching running through them – delivering the same message at the end of the day as Jesus.  Many of his main characters carry their crosses, day by day, and many pay the price in the yielding of their lives for the sake of others.  

Greater love hath no man than this – that a man lay down his life for his friends (John 15:13) 

Jesus came to us as a man, lived a largely ‘ordinary’ life at home with his ‘parents’, was subject to them, becoming apprenticed to St. Joseph to learn the carpenter’s trade.  He would have ‘played’ with his friends in Nazareth, just as all lads do, but we know almost nothing of this.  Thus he grew into a man and it was then that the ‘great call’ came, and he bowed to the will of His Father.  He left home, parents and began his life of ministry, a life that was to end in the forfeiture of his life for his friends – for all those who accept him – accept his love – friends like you and me.  And Jesus said, “…. you must take up your cross and follow me.”  Obviously it is not given that all of us should become martyrs for our Faith, though down the centuries, there have been thousands, I suppose, who have done just that – followed Jesus, cross and all, right to the yielding of their lives in a holy death – a second baptism in blood.  For the rest of us – the multitude of ordinary lives – lived as Jesus would want us to live, but without that fatal touch – it is still given to us to take up our crosses and to follow him.  I think of the people I have known throughout the years of my life, and I am sure all of my readers, for example, can do the same, and whilst ‘scratching heads’ in a ‘blood-letting’ of memories, I cannot actually come up with even one that went through life ‘scot-free’ from  problems along the way.  It may be a truism to say that all life involves suffering of some sort – then, now, whenever…. …?  The secret, I think, is to offer up those problems, those difficulties to God in some kind of reparation for sin – something we can do, but only because Jesus died for us and rescued us, in the first instance. 

I made the point, above, that not all of us are given that singular grace, that enables us to give up our lives for God.  But, from the many thousands who have managed to do just that, I mention, here, just two who gave their lives (in different ways) – for God, and for those people connected closely with their lives.  In my last blog, 10 February 2011, I included two priests among those who have achieved sanctity in our lifetimes.  The first of these, Father Maximilian Kolbe, was martyred in Auschwitz Concentration Camp, 1941, and the second, Father Damian, (Damien), who, whilst serving the lepers in the islands of Hawaii, contracted leprosy, himself, and died of the disease in 1889.  The manner of these martyrs’ deaths was, factually, different, the first being executed, the second of a virulent disease – but, in essence, both gave their lives for their friends.

Father Damien of Hawaii:  Born Jozef De Veuster, in 1840, the seventh child of a Flemish corn merchant, he entered the novitiate of the ‘Sacred Hearts of Jesus and Mary’, once old enough, and took the name, Damien, on the occasion of his first vows, thus following in the footsteps of his brother Auguste.  As a missionary brother, he arrived in Hawaii in 1864 and,

Portrait of Father Damien, attributed to Edward Clifford, 1868, Honolulu Academy of Arts 

shortly thereafter, was ordained priest, at the Cathedral of Our Lady of Peace, Honolulu.  From there, he was assigned to the mission at North Kohala, on the Island of Hawaii. Round about that time, the islands were in crisis, many potentially fatal diseases having been introduced by foreign traders and sailors, and thousands died of influenza, syphilis and leprosy – to name just a few.  Because of fears regarding the spread of leprosy, especially, those having contracted the disease were segregated from the rest of the island community, and over 8,000 were moved to leper colonies at Kalaupapa and Kalawao, divided from the rest of the island by a steep mountain range.  This segregation was nothing less than a disaster for these easy going people, who became uncared for, neglected, and the easy-going and happy way of life became one of drunkenness and debauchery.  The bishop, seeing what was happening wanted to send a priest to minister to the lepers’ needs, but realised that, in doing so, he was pronouncing a death sentence on any missionary chosen. After deliberations, four priests volunteered to go to the leper colonies, and Father Damien was the first of these to be sent to Kalaupapa, there to minister to 816 lepers.  His first course of action was to build a church and establish the Parish of Saint Philomena, but his role was not limited to being a priest: he dressed ulcers, built homes and beds, built coffins and dug graves. Six months after his arrival at Kalawao he wrote to his brother, Pamphile, in Europe: 

…I make myself a leper with the lepers to gain all to Jesus Christ. 

Undoubtedly, his arrival in the colonies marked a turning point in the lives of the lepers; the people returned to their more civilized ways of life, basic laws were introduced, they had good housing, working farms to provide food, and schools the provide for their education. 

In December 1884, while preparing to bathe, Damien inadvertently put his foot into scalding water, causing his skin to blister. He felt nothing, for, by then, he had contracted leprosy. He did not let this bother him, but worked vigorously at the programme he had designed for the continuing welfare of the lepers – a programme he hoped would be continued after his death.  Now a leper, himself, Damien was well cared for by a Japanese Leprologist, Dr. Goto, and by his nurse, but, disease apart, he pushed forward his reforms for the community, giving and taking no respite.  But the disease was taking no prisoners (as they say) and by March 1889 he was bed-ridden, the disease having by then taken hold of his limbs.  He died in April of that year at the age of just 49.  In 1995, Damien was beatified by Pope John Paul II and canonized, October 2009, by Pope Benedict XVI. 

Father Maximilian Kolbe: Born Rajmund Kolbe, January 1894 in Zdunska Wola, which was part of the Russia, at the time, he was the second son of Julius Kolbe and Maria Dabrowska. He had four brothers, Francis, Joseph, Walenty (who lived a year) and Andrew (only to the age of four).  In 1914, his father, Julius, was hanged by the Russians, for his part in the struggle for the independence of a partitioned Poland.  His mother worked as a midwife – often giving her services for charity. 

St. Maximilian Kolbe – Prayer Card 

His life, even as a child, was strongly influenced by a vision of Our Lady: 

“That night, I asked the Mother of God what was to become of me. Then she came to me holding two crowns, one white, the other red. She asked me if I was willing to accept either of these crowns. The white one meant that I should persevere in purity, and the red that I should become a martyr. I said that I would accept them both.”

In 1907, Rajmund and his elder brother, Francis, decided to become religious; they illegally crossed the border between Russia and Austria-Hungary and joined the Conventual Franciscan seminary in Lwow.  In 1910, he was allowed to enter the novitiate and professed his first vows in 1911, whereupon he took the name Maximilian; he professed his final vows in 1914, in Rome, adding the name, Maria, as a mark of his devotion to Our Lady.

He completed his studies in Krakow and Rome, achieving a doctorate in philosophy, and it was during his time as a student in Rome that he witnessed violent demonstrations against Popes Pius X, and Benedict XV, largely orchestrated by young Freemasons.  He describes the placing of a black standard, depicting the defeated archangel, St. Michael, lying at the feet of the Devil, and anti-Catholic pamphlets, as shameful attacks on the papacy.  These events brought about Maximilian’s efforts to organize what he called the ‘Army of Mary’ to work for the conversion of sinners, and the enemies of the Church.

Maximilian was ordained priest in 1918, and shortly after that returned to Poland, now newly independent, where he was very active in promoting devotion to Our Lady – also in the founding of a monastery near Warsaw.  In the 1930’s, he was engaged in a series of missions to Japan, founding a monastery on the outskirts of Nagasaki, and a seminary.

Back in Poland, in the early years of World War II, he provided shelter to Polish refugees including 2,000 Jews, whom he hid from Nazi persecution, in his friary at Niepolalanow.  He was arrested by the Gestapo, early in 1941, and imprisoned for some three months before being transferred to Auschwitz Camp, in May.  In July, three prisoners ‘escaped’ from the camp, and this caused the deputy camp commandant to pick ten men to be starved to death in an underground bunker, as a deterrence to further escape attempts. One of those selected cried out: “My wife! My children!” and it was then that Fr. Maximilian volunteered to take his place.  In the starvation cell, he celebrated Mass each day for as long as he was able and gave Holy Communion to the prisoners, covertly, during the course of the day; the bread and wine for the Eucharist came from some  of the kindly guards – sympathetic to the plight of the condemned men.  He led his cell-mates in song and prayer, and encouraged them, telling them that they would soon be with Mary, in Heaven.

 Stained glass of Maximilian, prisoner, Franciscan Church of Szombathely, Hungary, and Monument to Maximilian at Chrzanow, in Poland

When the cell was checked, he was usually standing, or kneeling, in the middle of the cell, his demeanour being one of calm throughout. After two weeks deprived of food and water, only Maximilian remained alive, and it was then, because the authorities wanted the bunker emptied that they gave him a lethal injection of carbolic acid. His remains were cremated on August 15, the feast of Our Blessed Lady’s Assumption.

Father Maximilian was beatified in 1971, and later canonized, as a martyr, by Pope John Paul II in 1982.

St. Damien, St. Maximilian and all holy martyrs, pray for us, that we may receive the grace from God, to renew and strengthen our faith. Amen.

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 We are just beginning Lent, and many of us will have received ashes, as a sign of repentance. The purple colour of the vestments in Lent is usually linked to mourning and sadness; it is the usual colour of the vestments at a funeral Mass. The Greek word for repentance is ‘metanoia’ and it means a profound transformation or conversion, and what has always stuck in my mind is the image of person walking in one mistaken direction and then turning round and taking the opposite one – a ‘U-turn, if you like! My feelings about Lent since adolescence – reinforced by early monastic life – were always coloured by thoughts of dull austerity, hard work and a period of suffering. We have now entered Lent 2011, and this leads me to reflect. 

‘There is no gain without pain’ is an often quoted maxim that makes sense to me. The ‘pain’, however, is not quite so important as the ‘gain’; the gain gives purpose to – a ‘raison d’être’ for – the pain. A concert pianist needs to practice eight hours a day, if he, or she, is to be competent to continue at professional standard, and a good athlete trains in equivalent ways, daily; without that vital training, he, or she, will simply not be ‘up to it’. These examples throw light on the matter in hand. 

Difficult problems, sadnesses, separations, periods of boredom, lacking in food and sleep, to say nothing of society’s injustices – there are many others I could mention – are all part of our everyday lives. But, these can be used to good purpose. For ourselves to be ‘forged’ in the spiritual life, we should, consciously, allow these everyday experiences of life to ‘mould’ us and thus grow closer to Jesus. As our target, we can aim at the fruits of the Spirit, ‘Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control’. All these are real attributes of God within us, and, personally speaking, I would find the last one quite a challenge, still. We cannot attain, or obtain, these gifts without training ourselves, and this training is actually a gift from God. One can have fun training in worldly success; the musician might enjoy music-making; the athlete might enjoy the keeping fit; for us, especially, our ‘spiritual’ training is to make us grow in union with our greatest friend, who is also our spouse. 

This training, using the ordinary events of life, is best done in two ways.  Firstly, try to find some other companions who will support and help you. This may be from Church, from those you know and with whom you can chat and discuss – not necessarily, directly, about the plan to let the fruits of the Spirit be what you aim for – but support, as a fellow parishioner, on the way to union with God. It may be as simple as joining friends for coffee after Sunday’s 9.30am Mass; it may be as part of a group in Church, the Cleaners, the Choir, the Folk Group, the KSC, the Catenians or whatever. Secondly, aim to live the present moment well, and in that present moment, do your best to live out what that moment demands, driving the car, cooking the tea, talking to a colleague, listening to the children, praying, or whatever the demands of the day call you to do. In this way we will not be ‘vague’ and ‘wishy-washy’ about this strenuous spiritual training, but it will amount to something real, and active, in the practical daily details of life. 

In Lent, I think it behoves us to be willing to take on ‘extra’ things to help us to ‘change’ and to ‘grow’ – always in one direction – towards God, our Father. Where, then, do we choose to be in forty days’ time, when Holy Week comes, when we share with Jesus that ‘culmination’ of the earthly life? St. John’s Gospel calls it the ‘glorification’ of Jesus, when he was raised up on the Cross, with all its ghastly horror – and evil personified! Perhaps, in different ways, we may be called by God to experience something like that.  Clearly, people do go through such sufferings, as recent news of the horrors of the Libyan ‘civil war’ brings to our notice. Only recently, an elderly lady, still cheerful despite the intense pain of her cancer, pointed out that we have nothing to complain about, compared with what those Libyans are going through.  That lady is certainly advanced in her life of union with God. Would we not, in forty days’ time, prefer to be more fully ‘human’, as a result of being more ‘fully tuned in’ to our ‘real’ self – a self made in the image and likeness of God? 

Below is a picture of the altar frontal, in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel, that we use in Lent. It shows the cross almost ‘alive’ as a person. It is bending down over the repentant sinner and seems to be saying: “Do not worry; do not take yourself too seriously; come into the arms of the Love that Jesus has for you and be certain that He will support you in that profound transformation and conversion that God wants for you.”

Yes, Lent can be joyful! It may be about experiencing something difficult and painful; it may be about denying ourselves something we enjoy; it may be we do not do something we like, in order to spend time with God; it may be about reading, in a meditative way from scripture, or praying; it may be about denying ourselves some pleasure; it may be about attending an extra Mass, because our faith teaches us that the Eucharist enjoins both living the way of Jesus, in our daily lives, and the source of strength to live his way.  The beauty of it is that, having overcome the painful processes, having denied ourselves for Jesus, or having ‘gone that extra mile’ for Him, the result is great joy.   

Lent is not necessarily linked with misery, for that, essentially, is ‘negative’ thinking. But, on the positive side, joy can be the culmination of doing that little bit more for Jesus. 

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