Tuesday, September 21, 2021

Resuming Cloaks & Cowls

 

The characteristic Cistercian habit is the white cowl which is given to the monk at his solemn profession. It is a sign of his consecration and of the unity of the whole Order. As he blesses the cowl during the rite of solemn profession the abbot prays to the Lord Jesus, "May its ample folds be for our brother a daily reminder of the freedom which he received in baptism. May its form of a cross remind him of the life he is to lead in following you, and may he be clothed entirely in your unutterable mercy."

The cowl is worn by the solemnly professed monks; the cloak is worn by novices and simply professed brothers. In the warmer months, we do not wear cowls or cloaks in church. But as mornings get chillier, we await the prior's announcement which appeared on the community bulletin board last evening: "Resume Cowls and Cloaks for Vigils, Lauds and Mass."


Sunday, September 19, 2021

Little

Then he sat down, called the Twelve, and said to them,
“If anyone wishes to be first,
he shall be the last of all and the servant of all.” 
Taking a child, he placed it in their midst,
and putting his arms around it, he said to them,
“Whoever receives one child such as this in my name, receives me;
and whoever receives me,
receives not me but the One who sent me.”
Mark 9

In the Incarnation, God has come down to us, to imitate us, his own creation and so himself become imitable in his lowliness, littleness. In Christ Jesus, our Lord, the Father has placed a dear Child, his only Son, in our midst to teach what God is really like.

And If we are to be "imitators of God as his own dear children"- it is now possible because God in Christ first imitated his parents at Nazareth. God's Word learned to speak words from listening to Joseph and Mary. The Creative Word learned the trade of carpentry from Joseph.

When we hear Jesus say, "I can only do what I see the Father doing," could it be that he thinks of Joseph as well as his Father in heaven? And when his heart is on the point of breaking and he says: "Into your hands, I commend my spirit," could it be that he is doing what Joseph did with Mary at Nazareth, just what Mary did at her Annunciation - placing his life in God's hands. Indeed, Jesus grew in wisdom and grace, his little heart formed at Nazareth, Christ Jesus empowered by the Father's love, by the love of Joseph with Mary, hands himself over.

How God wants to be ordinary. Christ’s life reveals this so plainly. And in all the accounts of his healings, what he is doing best of all is returning these once sick and isolated folks back to the ordinary. Jesus’ healing restores them to family, kinsfolk, and friends. They are no longer isolated by their maladies. Think of the lepers, the deaf and blind and crippled. Jesus gives them back to ordinariness. The deaf man he cures will, at last, be able to hear a friend say hello, hear her laugh; hear a breeze blow through the trees. He will, at last, be able to speak clearly, tell someone a story; whisper I love you. He can simply blend in again. Jesus has given him back to ordinariness, blessed ordinariness. It is after all where he always comes to meet us. We know that.

God only wants to be ordinary and small. It is why Jesus has come, he is God with us, near us, in us. The ordinary is charged forever with his kind, incessant presence. God longs to be ordinary, not taken for granted, but here, always here with us. Why else would he choose to be a child, why else a carpenter and a wandering teacher? Why else allow himself to be done in by thugs and jealous bureaucrats? Why else choose to be hidden in a morsel of bread on our altar? In Christ Jesus, God Most High has come down to serve us and care for us and teach us to go and do likewise.  

Photograph by Brother Brian.

 

Friday, September 17, 2021

Mercy

The mercy of God is limitless, and it is open to a soul to the last breath. But it must also be chosen by means of a cry for mercy coming from a heart repentant for sins. 

Let us cry out incessantly.

Lines by Father Donald Haggerty

Wednesday, September 15, 2021

Our Lady of Sorrows

 

As the Church celebrates today's memorial in honor of Our Lady of Sorrows, we recall images of Our Lady collapsing in Saint John's arms as Jesus breathes His last on the cross. Perhaps she was braver than that. 

As Mother of God, Mother of Jesus, she empathizes with Jesus' wounded Body even now. Even now Mary, given by Jesus to all his beloved disciples as their Mother, feels with us all the aches and sorrows of our hearts and minds and bodies. She is Mother of Compassion, with us always; His sorrows, her sorrows, and our sorrows are one.

Painting by Safet Zec,

Tuesday, September 14, 2021

Triumph of the Holy Cross

 

This ancient sign of horror and excruciating torture has become for us a tree of life. For the precious blood of Jesus, our Lord has drenched its branches. We rejoice under the cross because by his cross Jesus has rescued us from sin and shame and death. And so we chanted this morning, "We should glory in the cross of Our Lord Jesus Christ!"

Saint Paulinus of Nola will speak to the cross, "You have become for us a ladder for us to mount to heaven." And in an anonymous Easter homily inspired by Saint Hippolytus, the tree of the cross reverses the destruction wrought by the tree of Eden: 

For me, this tree is a plant of eternal health. I feed on it; by its roots I am rooted; by its branches, I spread myself; I rejoice in its dew; the rustling of its leaves invigorates me...I freely enjoy its fruits which were destined for me from the beginning. It is my food when I am hungry, a fountain for me when I am thirsty; it is my clothing because its leaves are the spirit of life. 

We exalt in the Cross of Christ, for this Cross is a royal throne upon which Love has triumphed and transformed our pain, misery, human fragility, and foolishness into a royal gateway to life and hope and immortality. Death no longer has the last word in our lives, the Love of the wounded and risen Lord Jesus does. 

Photograph by Father Emmanuel of our veneration cross embedded with a relic of the True Cross, enthroned in the transept of the Abbey church for today's feast.

Sunday, September 12, 2021

Following Him

 

This morning’s Gospel contains one of Jesus’ hardest sayings: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake and that of the gospel will save it.” This is one of those passages most of us could do without. We prefer passages like “Come to me, all you who labor and are heavily burdened, and I will give you rest,” or “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.” Those are comfortable, safe passages, words that provide some cushion in a sharp and often frightening world. But “deny yourself and take up your cross”?

When Jesus predicts his own death for the first time, Peter rebukes him. In Matthew’s version, Peter even explodes: “God forbid, Lord! This shall never happen to you.” Peter has a way of saying what the rest of us are thinking, and here he is trying to dissuade Jesus from walking right into a trap set for him in Jerusalem, where he will suffer and be killed. Peter can’t imagine his wise, young teacher coming to such a quick and bloody end, especially an end that can be avoided. So he basically protests: “Why take a risk you do not have to take? Can’t you skip this trip to Jerusalem and find another way to save the world? There has to be another way!” And then, what a shock it must have been for the other disciples to hear Jesus call Peter “Satan” (he, the first disciple and rock upon which Jesus builds his church). Recall that in one of the earliest teachings recorded in the Gospels Jesus tells his followers, metanoiete, which could be literally rendered as “go beyond the mind that you have” or “change your way of thinking.” In the wake of Peter’s rebuke, Jesus says something very similar: “Get behind me, Satan! You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.”

So what precisely is the difference between these two frames of reference? To think in the human way is to follow an instinct toward self-protection. To think in the divine way is to follow an instinct toward self-donation. The old mind flees from the cross, but the new mind seeks it out. Do we want to save our lives, or do we want to give them away? Everything that we say and do will be conditioned ultimately by the way in which we answer that fundamental question. The Gospel this morning tells us in a dramatic way that to follow Jesus, to have his mind, means to enter into his death, that is, to accept the essential poverty/emptiness of our human existence, for a purpose beyond ourselves—actually, for a quality life of depth and scope and heft otherwise unattainable.

Barbara Brown Taylor has an interesting take on this scene (found in all three Synoptic Gospels).

The deep secret of Jesus’ hard words in this passage is that our fear of suffering and death robs us of life, because fear of death always turns into fear of life, into a stingy, cautious way of living that is not really living at all. The deep secret of Jesus’ hard words is that the way to have abundant life is not to save it but to spend it, to give it away, because life cannot be shut up and saved any more than fresh spring water can be put in a mason jar and kept in a kitchen cupboard. It will remain water, and if you ever open it up you can probably still drink it, but it will have lost its essence, its life, which is to be poured out, to be moving, living water, rushing downstream to share its wealth without ever looking back. Peter did not want Jesus’ life to be spilled, to be wasted. He wanted to save it, to preserve it, to find a safer, more comfortable way for Jesus to be Lord. But he missed the part: “and on the third day be raised”—that after the suffering and death there is life again, abundant life, life for Jesus and for all of us, life that can never be cut off.

Jesus tells us this morning, “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.” Those will never be easy words to hear, but they are, in the final analysis, an invitation to follow him into life, both now and later on. We all know that there is a certain amount of pain involved in being human, and a good bit more involved in being fully human, fully alive. Jesus felt it all. His enemies counted on his fear of death to shut him up and shut him down, but they were wrong. He surely was afraid (we have only to think of his agony in Gethsemane and on the Cross until his last breath), but he did not let his fear stop him from giving himself over to the Father and to us. Self-donation, not self-protection. He lived only from and for his Father and saw himself only in this relationship. The Father’s will was the motive force of his life. He had nothing of his own, everything was received. And so it must be for us.

One final thought. When Jesus freely embraced his Cross, we know that he really took up all of our “crosses”—and in so doing gave us an example to follow. In other words, life in Christ is not a matter of only embracing our own cross freely, but especially the crosses of others. I was struck by this in reading the following observation by Caryll Houselander about Simon of Cyrene:

Simon of Cyrene saw only three criminals (of whom Christ was one) on the way to die. He could not know until he had taken up the stranger’s cross, that in it was the secret of his own salvation….We must be ready to carry the burden of anyone whom we meet on our way and who clearly needs help. Everyone is our ‘business,’ and Christ in everyone, potentially or actually, has a first claim on us, a claim that comes before all else. We are here on earth to help to carry the cross of Christ, the cross of the Christ hidden in other human beings, and to help in whatever way we can. We may, like Simon, have literally a strong arm to give, we may help to do hard work; we may have material goods to give; we may have time, which we desperately want for ourselves but which we can sacrifice for Christ. Or we may have only suffering. Suffering may well be the most precious coin of all. Suffering of body, suffering of mind, paid down willingly for Christ in others, enables him to carry his redeeming cross through the world to the end of time.

More often than not we may realize, uncomfortably, that we aren’t up to “losing our life” in order to gain it; that taking up our cross, let alone those of others, is beyond us, too risky. In moments of ingrained self-protection and fear of going beyond the limits of our own comfort and safety, perhaps we can make St. Augustine’s prayer our own, as a first step in humble yet confident faith. He prays in the Confessions:

You will carry us from when we are little until our hairs grow gray. When our strength is from you, we are strong. When our strength is our own, we are weak. Life with you is the good life indeed. When we live apart from you, our life is a twisted life. Let us come home to you, Lord, lest we be lost. Life with you is a life in which nothing is lacking because you are life. We do not fear that there is no home to turn to. We may have turned away from it. But it remains. It did not fall because we fell away. Our home is your eternal life.

Photograph of Canadian geese in the Abbey fields by Brother Brian. Sunday's homily by Father Dominic.


Friday, September 10, 2021

Forgiving

The 14th century mystic Julian of Norwich recorded the following vision: “I understood Christ's passion as the greatest and overwhelming pain. And yet it was revealed to me in an instant, and then it quickly became a consolation. For our good Lord would not have us frightened by this ugly sight... but because of the tender love which our good Lord has for each of us, he comforts us readily and sweetly. And the meaning is this: It is true that sin is the cause of all this pain, but all will be well, and every kind of thing will be well. These words were revealed most tenderly, showing no kind of blame to me or anyone...” 

No blame. Taught so well and so often that difficult was better - you know, no guts, no glory; no pain, no gain; taught that there is no easy grace - the readiness of Christ's forgiveness may embarrass us. Like Saint Peter when Jesus wants to wash his feet, the sense of Jesus' condescension can be disorienting. But his passion and resurrection are all about love and mercy not blaming. This is what Julian of Norwich will call in another passage Jesus' "courtesy."  It is true we are unworthy; his love alone makes us worthy, and so all will truly be well.

Seeing the wounded Jesus, and at the same time acknowledging my own stubbornness and stupidity, which is to say my own woundedness, how could I ever withhold forgiveness, or judge another. If Jesus in his agony could forgive his persecutors, forgive that poor thief writhing on the cross next to him, if he could take back his loser apostles after his resurrection, if he is always so ready to mercy me, who am I ever to withhold forgiveness or nurse a grudge? “Peace,” he says to us, and he breathes on us. Too much has happened, but forgiveness is worth it, love is worth it.