9/11

today special tolling of the abbey bells
remembering and praying
for peace
for an end to terrorism
for forgiving hearts

Photograph by Charles O'Connor.

Beatitudes

Jesus is real flesh and blood, resurrected and still here with us; and his place is always with the downtrodden and needy, for he is small like them. And this morning once again he pronounces God’s blessing on human poverty, a promise of blessing for all who are oppressed. Commentators remind us that the Greek word for “poor” in the Beatitudes means literally “beggar” not just a poor person with a few possessions, but a beggar.* The truly poor are those who have nothing at all; the poor are those who have no choice. As monks we want to take our place with them.

In some way our poverty is all we have to offer the Lord. There is too much- so many things exteriorly, more so interiorly; and we may feel like we are stuck with it all. In the monastery we become more and more keenly aware of the reality of our very real inner woundedness and poverty and our desperate need for Christ, a need, a longing to be mercied continually. 

But this poverty is everything to us; it is all we have to offer Christ, offer the Church - the reality of total dependence on the mercy of God from moment to moment.  Ours is certainly not the crushing poverty of the economically poor and destitute; we dare not compare it. Still it’s all we’ve got- all the stuff we’ve got no choice about. And we believe it’s the very place where blessing and mercy can intrude and take root- poverty as blest by God’s loving regard. We are truly blessed, when our poverty is blest as an emptiness to be filled to overflowing with Christ’s peace and most affectionate compassion. This is everything for us as monks. And what is more, we believe that our true blessedness depends upon our willingness to become ourselves mercy-doers, mercy-makers for all who are poor.

And so we hope, and each morning we go to the altar of God, the God in Christ who alone gives us joy and freedom and peace- his very self as food. So much needs yet to be accomplished and prayed through. Our lives lived together in this monastery help to notice and watch and pray.

Photograph by Brother Daniel.

*Daniel Harrington

Our Lady's Birthday

We monks love Our Lady and rejoice to celebrate her birthday. We go to her with all our needs and place ourselves in her keeping.

Domenico Ghirlandaio, The Birth of Mary, detail, 1486-90, Fresco, width 450 cm, Cappella Tornabuoni, Santa Maria Novella, Florence

Won Over

We all need to be won over, for, as St. Paul says, “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.” The question is: how are we won over? From what and to what are we won over?

The gospel mentions two ways. First, there is the individual witness of others: sometimes with persuasive and reasoned arguments; sometimes with fiery emotion; sometimes with silent and long-suffering example. These individuals are trying to call forth the best in us, and their insistence can move us to conversion. Then there is the communal witness of the Church. At times this witness comes with an authoritative word filled with objective truth – and rather bluntly. Sometimes it comes with the gentle tact and earnest care of a mother, encouraging us to take another path. We need both these witnesses.

But from what do we need to be won over? Ultimately, we need to be won over from hardness of heart, a hardness that plugs up our ears. That is the root of the problem: hardness of heart that manifests itself in plugged up ears.

So what do we need to be won over to? I think to a deeper embrace and immersion in our unique vocation and mission. We all have a place prepared for us by God in the Body of Christ. Especially through prayer God clarifies what we are to do for the good of the Body of Christ and the world. Prayer and mission are the way our ears are unplugged and our heart softened.

               

The Eucharist is the whole reason for being won over. Here we have the feast of the Lamb whose blood is the source of all winning over. Let us rejoice in this Eucharist with all the saints who have been won over by this same blood. The Lamb is in our midst, for we are all gathered in His name.

Excerpts from Father Vincent’s Sunday homily on Matthew 16:21-27.

Our Only Hope

Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold.

Too much sadness, far too many tragedies are there in the newspapers that are put out on the large table in the solarium of the monastery, a common gathering room. Too much death and suffering- martyred Christians, flocks of refugees, too many parents cradling wounded children, countless innocent people, far too many soldiers killed. We monks see the photographs, read the stories; our hearts are opened. So much to pray for; too much sadness. Our Constitutions assure us that our Cistercian monastic life has a “hidden apostolic fruitfulness,” assure us that, though we cannot see, our praying is efficacious. We feel helpless; we believe but so often do not understand. Our wounded and risen Lord Jesus is our only Hope. He hears our prayer. That is enough.

 Crucifix of Fra Innocenzo da Palermo, 1637, Assisi, Convento di San Damiano. Quotation from an essay by W. B. Yeats.

At Your Command

While the crowd was pressing in on Jesus and listening to the word of God, he was standing by the Lake of Gennesaret. He saw two boats there alongside the lake; the fishermen had disembarked and were washing their nets. Getting into one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, he asked him to put out a short distance from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat. After he had finished speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into deep water and lower your nets for a catch.” Simon said in reply, “Master, we have worked hard all night and have caught nothing, but at your command I will lower the nets.” Lk 5

“But at your command…” So much seems frustrating; too often hitting the wall of my stubbornness and selfishness. “But at your command,” with you beside me, in my boat, I can move forward. At your command I will continue out into the deep, and lower my nets, trusting your vision of abundance hidden below. You only want my least effort, my docility to your will.

Teach me to do your will, for you are my God;

Let your good Spirit lead me in ways that are level and smooth. Ps 143

Reflection on this morning's Gospel.

At Capernaum

We can imagine a typical Sabbath in the synagogue at Capernaum- people gathering, greeting one another; small groups of men in conversation, perhaps a few women; younger men entering and giving each other a nod. And then they all notice the possessed man coming in. Weariness, some irritation. “Why does his family even let him come here?” The younger men are grinning at one another, a couple of winks, as they recall a recent Sabbath when this guy blurted out an embarrassing truth about one of the elders. They loved that. This ought to be good, they think. What he will come out with today? Then Jesus enters. Some recognize him too. He sits with them, speaks a word, and teaches them simply, clearly, lovingly- not from on high but as friend and brother. For many this is a moment of astonishment as they hear his word of truth and feel their hearts broken open. They close their eyes, their heads lowered. Then it happens, you-know-who starts up: “What have you to do with us, Jesus of Nazareth? Have you come to destroy us? I know who you are- the Holy One of God.” Now there’s even more astonishment. This crazy man has uttered blasphemy on the Sabbath; even though, truth be told, some of them have been thinking the very same thing as Jesus was speaking. “Could he be the One?”

Imagine the gall of that demon shouting out Jesus’ name- for speaking a name is to have power over the other. He blurts out Jesus’ name, as if to pick a fight with him. But Jesus sees into the heart. He knows it’s the demon speaking, not the man. And Jesus does not kowtow or spar with demons. He simply says, “Quiet.” “Stop. Enough. Come out of him; leave him alone. Get out of here. Be gone. Demons do not know me. The poor, the sick, the lost, little ones, they know who I am. They may call upon my name for I have come for them.” 

Imagine this most tender and most efficacious compassion of Jesus. He speaks and the evil spirit knows he’s done for. And as once Jesus spoke to the turbulent Sea of Galilee, to its crashing waves and the raging winds above, “Quiet. Be still,” so now he rebukes the demon who has taken this man’s voice away. “Be still and know that I am God.” Jesus gives him back his voice, his freedom, gives him back to himself, to his family, to his community.

We can only wonder what took place after his convulsion on the floor of the synagogue. What did freedom and fluency feel like? Did he praise God in a loud voice? Did he bow down and worship Jesus as Lord, like so many others who were cured? How did freedom change him? 

Reflection on this morning's Gospel- Luke 4.31-37.