A Shout-out For Creation

At the church where I had services this morning, three of them to be exact,  I was asked to say a few words about "Rogation Sunday".

Strictly speaking, there is no liturgical term "Rogation Sunday", but the Book of Common Prayer does refer (p. 18) to "The Rogation Days, traditionally observed on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday before Ascension Day...", which latter feast will be celebrated this coming Thursday, May 21.  Thomas Cranmer, therefore, probably won't be too put out if we think of today as "Rogation Sunday".

"Rogation" comes from the Latin verb rogare = to ask, beseech.  The common prayer on the Rogation Days was a responsorial psalm or prayer, a litany, calling on all the saints for all sorts of reasons.  Early on, processions with prayers -- a reaction to similar pagan practices -- became Church practice, especially in praying for the crops.  5th century Bishop Mamertus of Vienne inaugurated processional litanies on the Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday before Ascension Day because of the earthquakes which his city experienced.  Similar "rogation" days spread to Gaul, England, and Italy.  During the papacy of Gregory the Great (6th-7th cent.) St. Mark's feast on April 25 was observed as the day of a "Major Litany", begun as a Christian substitute for the Roman pagan celebration of Robigalia, named for Robigo, protector of crops.  The Rogation Days, as we've come to know them, are largely of Gallic origin, referred to by some as the "Minor Litanies".

Earlier, in some places, it was customary to fast in preparation for the feast of the Ascension, and to have crops blessed then, since Ascension Day normally occurred in North America in the spring each year.  Another practice was the ceremony of the "beating of the bounds", in which a procession of parishioners, led by the priest, the church warden, and choirboys, would proceed around the boundary of their parish and pray for its protection in the forthcoming year.Since our culture has changed from an agrarian to an industrial, and now to a digital society, we have in the Church today a mere remnant of the Rogation Days as they were previously celebrated: in the Great Litany (BCP, pp. 148ff.) and in three Collects (pp. 258-259), one each "For fruitful seasons", "For commerce and industry", and "For stewardship of creation".

During my 13 years in Catholic seminary the Rogation Days were celebrated every year with the singing of the Litany and a good trek outside in the fresh morning (except if it was raining).  Having a visual experience not only of the seminary's crops, but of all God's creation: birds, sun, wind, etc., while shouting out to the Almighty, Te rogamus, audi nos (We beseech You, hear us), was very satisfying and memorable.  I'll also always remember standing on the porch one day at St. Augustine's House (still there) in Oxford, MI with my late dear friend and noted Lutheran ecumenical pioneer, Fr. Arthur Kreinheder, founder of the the Order of St. Augustine.  It was one of those quiet moments as we looked together out over the beautiful grounds, perhaps in the spring.  Fr. Arthur finally exclaimed: "God is so lavish!"

The reading from Ecclesiasticus in this morning's Office reminded me of all God's lavishness in creation, as it obviously occurred to the writer of Ecclesiasticus also: "...The sun when it appears, proclaims as it rises what a marvelous instrument it is, the work of the Most High.  At noon it parches the land, and who can withstand its burning heat?...Great is the Lord who made it; at his orders it hurries on its course.  It is the moon that marks the changing seasons, governing the times, their everlasting sign.  From the moon comes the sign for festal days, a light that wanes when it completes its course. The new moon, as its name suggests, renews itself...The glory of the stars is the beauty of heaven, a glittering array in the heights of the Lord...Look at the rainbow, and praise him who made it; it is exceedingly beautiful in its brightness. It encircles the sky with its glorious arc; the hands of the Most High have stretched it out.  We could say more but could never say enough; let the final word be: 'He is the all'..."

That we may always treasure Your stunning creation, Loving God, that we may exult in and enjoy it all our days, that we may tend it ever with reverence and great care...Te rogamus, audi nos!  

    

The Monk Who Wanted to Know Christ

Today is the second anniversary of the death of a beloved friend, brother, and spiritual mentor, Fr. Brendan, OCSO.  I find myself missing him today, though I know he's quietly present with me.

Thomas Merton, in Entering the Silence, Volume Two of his journals, speaks about the founding of Our Lady of the Holy Trinity Trappist Abbey, Huntsville, UT.  It became a daughter-house of Gethsemani in the days when Fr. Frederic Dunne, OCSO was abbot.  Merton knew that the lives of the founding monks would be rigorous since they were starting from scratch. Attracted by that fact and the idea of being surrounded by mountains, he made his desire known to Dom Frederic. His journals hint of this in several places: "...it is hoped, he has bought land for the new monastery of Our Lady of the Holy Trinity, where it may be that I will be carrying out this obedience usque ad mortem [until death]...Fr. Anselm just went by and said he would pray that I should be sent out there...I think this foundation might well turn into one of the finest houses in the Order...And in a way the mountains attract me from a natural point of view, but all that is stupid...Surprises always happen and in two months I might be out there with the rest of them.  That is for God to decide..."  1800 acres in the Wasatch Mountains were purchased in March, 1947.  33 monks, including some monks to whom Merton was close, left Gethsemani the evening of July 7, 1947.  Thomas Merton was not among them.

Thirteen years later, c. June 20, 1960, having just graduated from the University of Dayton, I was welcomed into the monastic closure of Our Lady of the Holy Trinity Abbey, bearing the name Frater M. Gaspar, in honor of St. Gaspar del Bufalo, founder of the Missionaries of the Precious Blood, in whose seminaries I'd been studying for nine years. Nine days after entering, on the feast of SS. Peter and Paul, I heard Fr. Brendan preach for the first of several times. Brendan particularly liked St. Paul's epistles, as I do, and I enjoyed hearing him quote passages from Paul in his sermons which were among my own favorites.  Notes taken from that first sermon of his characterize him well.  He always spoke with a genuineness that could only have come from daily experience:  "...So often we ask for God's mercy (cf. the liturgy, etc.) but how often do we realize what we ask for? God's mercy isn't only negative, but also has a positive element.  He gives us sanctity, He gives us perfection -- out of His mercy.  But we have to be prepared to receive it. Otherwise it's as if someone handed us a box which we thought to be light, but which is really heavy.  We're thrown off balance.  So we have to prepare ourselves for God's mercy, which is shown in His power..."

I got to know Brendan, who was the Prior and the Infirmarian at the time I entered, from my visits to the Infirmary for chronic aches in my right ear.  We never did figure out what was causing it, and there continues to be diminishing hearing in that ear as I grow older.  During those visits both of us shared the highlights of our lives; a friendship between us just "clicked", and it endured for 47 years.  Brendan was big-boned, tall, shy, with sort of a plodding gait when he walked.  He had a smile that could bedevil the devil himself, a sharp, pointed nose, and magnificent peaceful blue eyes: the kind that those close to God have.  He was an Irishman from the old sod and had the brogue to prove it. He'd served in the U.S. Army during World War II.  As both a postulant and novice, I was struck by Brendan's kindness, gentleness, and the sense of his simple but deep communion with God.  

After I left the monastery, Brendan and I didn't correspond a lot, but usually every Christmas we exchanged letters.  As he got older I worried about his failing health, especially when I didn't hear from him in a while.  That happened in 1999 and I e-mailed Abbot Leander to see if he was still around.  He'd had a heart attack in 1996 and an angioplasty. The next summer he'd come down with shingles.  Brendan wrote at Easter of '99, reassuring me that he was OK, that the community was down to 24 members [about half as many as when I was there], and that they were considering building a new monastery, of all things!  That hasn't happened to this day, and the community is still using the original 1940's Quonset huts, remodelled many times over! Brendan expressed amazement at "how much you accomplish and have accomplished" and noted that he himself could never make it  in "the fast moving world."  He then quoted Paul's famous lines, which surely describe the great wish which he retained to the end of his life: "All I want is to know Christ and to experience the power of His resurrection, to share in His sufferings and become like Him in His death, in the hope that I myself will be raised from death to life..."  He closed his letter by saying: "I pray every day for you at Mass and I intend to continue that until I celebrate my last."

The last time I saw Brendan was in August, 2000 when I traveled to Salt Lake City to do some family genealogical research at the LDS Center there.  I arranged to go the Abbey for the weekend.  Interestingly, the interim Superior at the time was Fr. Alan, OCSO, who'd been a young monk when I was there.  He stopped by my room as I was waiting for Fr. Brendan, and in our conversation I learned that Alan had also been a student at St. Joseph's College in Indiana, as I had been for two years. He remembered a good number of the former Precious Blood priests and brothers there.

Brendan and I had a long leisurely visit, and he brought me up to date on the monks I'd known and some of the current politics.  He showed me the plans for the proposed new abbey.  Apparently, there were strong feelings, pro and con, about building the new monastery.  He felt it could serve well as a retreat center, drawing in potential new vocations.

Not long after my visit to Huntsville, I sent Brendan Frederick Buechner's biography of St. Brendan.  Brendan's observations, in response, were insightful as well as informative: "...he [Buechner] is not only a prolific writer but the scope of his subject matter is very impressive...he handles the legends surrounding St. Brendan very cleverly...but I must admit I find his dialogue a bit crude. Even in the time of St. Patrick the bards were very literate and disciplined...They were great poets, story tellers, they established a tradition for love of learning that still lives in the Irish soul.  The country people are very down to earth, true but never crude.  His style of speech seems to be his own invention but interesting...On Summer vacations as a boy I lived with country people and those days are still among my fondest memories for wisdom, gentleness and holiness...He [Buechner] has as you said some real insights in his book, 'The yellow thick cream of the psalms.  The prophets' bitter broth.  The fresh lovely bread of the Gospel...'" 

In 2007 I sent my usual Christmas letter to Fr. Brendan.  I'd been aware that he'd had taken a fall a year or so previously.  Just after Christmas I received a note from the recently-elected new Abbot, Fr. David Altman, OCSO:  "...On May 16th of this year, our dear Fr. Brendan passed away.  He would have been 94 on July 1st.  He was doing well, walking his wheelchair around, but just before Vespers at 5:30 on May 15th, he had a minor blackout, and the serious fall.  He broke his pelvis and leg.  The docs had to operate, but when they started the procedure, his heart rate shot up dangerously.  They were caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place.  When the doc said to our Abbot at the time [Fr. Kasimir], 'This is a body that wants to die,' the Abbot gave permission to remove the oxygen mask, and Fr. Brendan's body functions shut down in a couple of minutes.  This had been Brendan's desire for some years now, if you didn't know.  He practiced the best spirituality in waiting for the Lord.  He sends you Christmas greetings and prayers from above..." 

And today, dear Brendan, I send you blessings from below...

     

Mother: A Transparent Exhibit of God's Perfect Love

Women, especially mothers, know a thing or two about love.  It's not at all surprising, then, that they would be spoken of together on Mother's Day.

The Scriptures for today's liturgy [Acts 8:26-40; 1 John 4:7-21; John 15:1-8] speak, in one way or another, about the nature of God as Love, and how each of us, by “abiding”, being oned in Jesus, God’s Son, can be transformed into what one commentator has called “a transparent exhibit of the perfect love of God.” 

In the reading from Acts, Philip the Deacon, passionately enthusiastic to proclaim the “good news about Jesus”, which is God’s love, pursues and patiently helps a eunuch to come into the embrace of Jesus‘ love and to receive new life through baptism. This was a person explicitly excluded by the ancient laws of Deuteronomy from being “admitted to the assembly of the Lord”, one who came from Ethiopia, which people of that time considered the farthest edges of the earth, where the sun scorched people’s skin into blackness, a foreigner and an outcast. We know that region today as the Sudan.

In the Epistle, St. John redefines the meaning of love in terms of the Christ event. He was quite aware that the Greek language has not just one, but three words for love: 1) eros = meaning ordinary human, fleshly love: good in itself, but which, because of human weakness, can degenerate into mere lust, treating persons as things and objects; 2) philía = meaning familial love, “brotherly/sisterly” love, the love of friendship; and 3) agape = the sort of love which God has for us human beings, love which is willing to go out of itself, to sacrifice itself for the beloved. “In this is love,” says John, “...that God loved us and sent his Son...if we love one another, God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.”

In his Gospel John continues explaining that only by Jesus “abiding” in us and we abiding in Him and, through Him with each other, that we experience real agape-love. He uses an agricultural metaphor, not lost on us here in Sonoma County: that of grapevines and branches. “I am the true vine...my Father is the vinegrower...you are the branches. Those who abide in me and I in them bear much fruit, because apart from me you can do nothing...” The fruit that we’re to bear is to make God’s glory, joy, and love visible to one another, to all in the world.

Women, mothers know a lot about abiding and self-giving love. Let’s never forget that Jesus got to us, was sent, through a woman and mother. Bearing and nurturing and, yes, losing that Son, letting him go, could only be done through the fullness of the Holy Spirit of love and faith. And that Son, Jesus of Nazareth, was the richest fruit ever born of a woman’s and mother’s self-giving, a fruit which abides forever.

Jesus’ healthy and integral attitude toward women, understandably, was reflective of his mother Mary’s influence. When the woman from Magdala was caught in the act of having sex with another woman’s husband, and other local men were eager to stone her according to the Law, Jesus was forgiving, compassionate, yet firm in his expectations of her. Another time, as he was preaching, a woman in the crowd cried out, quite bluntly: “Blessed is the womb that bore you and the breasts that nursed you.” Jesus, without embarrassment, replies, “Blessed, rather, are those who hear the Word of God and keep it.” Delicate situations, indeed: perhaps the kind in which most of us men might feel quite uncomfortable. But Jesus, secure in his mature manhood, treats these women with great ease and respect.

Womanhood, I believe, as depicted in the Gospel, and as I myself have been lucky enough to experience it, both in my own mother, now deceased, and in many women whom I’ve been privileged to know, stands as a unique symbol to humanity and to the Church: a sign speaking, somewhat paradoxically, of two things: motherhood and virginity.

First, woman is a sign of motherhood. In retreats for women over the years I’ve often asked this question: “Did you ever realize that you could have been the mother of Jesus?? As a woman you have everything that Mary had, everything essential, to have been his mother. Perhaps Jesus’ response to the woman in the crowd, mentioned earlier, was his way of saying: “You can be my mother,” not physically, of course, but in a different, yet no less real, way. Today there’s a worldwide hunger and poverty of spirit, of human beings crying out for the one thing so characteristic of a woman and mother: genuine compassion, caring, love, the kind of love found only in the abiding love of God.

Julian of Norwich, great 13th century anchorite and mystic whose feast day we celebrated just this past Friday, has left us with some astounding and mind-blowing thoughts in her book Revelations of Divine Love, about God/Love and motherhood.

Julian writes: 

"...in our creation,
God All Power is our natural Father,
and God All Wisdom, is our natural Mother,
with the Love and the Goodness of the Holy Spirit--
who is all one God, one Lord...

I beheld the action of all the blessed Trinity. In that sight I saw and understood these three aspects:
the aspect of the Fatherhood,
the aspect of the Motherhood,
and the aspect of the Lordhood,
in one God...

...the Second Person of the Trinity
is our Mother in human nature in our essential creation. In
Him we are grounded and rooted,
and He is our Mother in mercy, by taking on our fleshliness...
Thus Jesus Christ who does good against evil is our true Mother--we have our being from Him where the basis of motherhood begins, with all the sweet protection of love that accompanies it endlessly.

...as truly as God is our Father,
so truly God is our Mother.
Our Father wills,
our Mother acts,
our good Lord the Holy Spirit strengthens...

The mother can give her child suck from her milk, but our precious Mother Jesus can feed us with Himself;
and He does it most graciously and most tenderly with the Blessed Sacrament which is the Precious Food of true life.

And with all the sweet Sacraments He supports us most mercifully and graciously.
(And thus meant He in this blessed word where He said: “It
is I that Holy Church preaches to thee and teaches to thee”;
that is to say, “All the wholeness and life of Sacraments, all
the virtue and grace of my Word, all the goodness that is ordained in Holy Church for thee, it is I.”...

To the quality of motherhood belongs natural love, wisdom, and knowledge--and this is God;
for though it is true that our bodily birth is but little, lowly, and simple as compared to our spiritual birth,
yet it is He who does it within the created mothers by whom it is done.
The kindly, loving mother who is aware and knows the need of her child protects the child most tenderly as the nature and state of motherhood wills.
And as the child increases in age, she changes her method but not her love.
And when the child is increased further in age, she permits it to be chastised to break down vices, to cause the child to accept virtues and graces.
This nurturing of the child, with all that is fair and good, our Lord does in the mothers by whom it is done.

Thus He is our Mother in our human nature by the action of grace in the lower part, out of love for the higher part.
And He wishes us to know it; for He wishes to have all our love made fast to Him.

In this I saw that all our debt that we owe by God’s bidding to fatherhood and motherhood (because of God’s Fatherhood and Motherhood) is fulfilled in true loving of God which blessed love Christ works in us.”

Secondly, woman is a sign of virginity, i.e., a sign of the virginal commitment so obvious in the life of Mary, the mother of Jesus. Virginity can be a quality of a woman, whether she’s married or not, whether she’s a mother or not. The full understanding of virginity has much less to do with mere physical integrity, though it is that too, than with the ability which God gives a woman to be openhearted and self-giving: in other words, the ability to love. Being genuinely motherly and virginal means not filtering God’s Word, not turning it off as it comes to you from wherever in your life. It implies becoming an abiding presence of Jesus to and for others.

To be a woman and mother is, in Fr. Robert Capon’s words, “to be the sacrament of place,” to be “the very diagram of belonging”. She is the place where God who is love abides. She is, as Fr. Capon, says: “the where in whose vicinity we are fed and watered, and have our wounds bound up and our noses wiped. She is geography incarnate, with her breasts and her womb...and her hands reaching up to us the fruitfulness of the earth.” (from Bed and Board)

In his book The Grapes of Wrath, John Steinbeck’s character, Ma, observes: “Everything we do -- seems to me is aimed right at goin‘ on. Seems that way to me...Jus‘ try to live the day, jus‘ the day...”

“‘...Woman can change better’n a man,‘ Ma said soothingly. ‘Woman got all her life in her mind. Maybe -- well, maybe nex‘ year we can get a place.’

‘We got nothin’, now,‘ Pa said. ‘Comin‘ a long, long time -- no work, no crops. What we gonna do then? How we gonna git stuff to eat?...Git so I hate to think. Go diggin‘ back to a ol‘ time to keep from thinkin’. Seems like our life’s over an‘ done.’

‘No, it ain’t,‘ Ma smiled. ‘It ain’t, Pa. An‘ that’s one more thing a woman knows. I noticed that. Man, he lives in jerks -- baby born an‘ a man dies, an‘ that’s a jerk -- get a farm an‘ loses his farm, an‘ that’s a jerk. Woman, it’s all one flow, like a stream, little eddies, little waterfalls, but the river, it goes right on. Woman looks at it like that. We ain’t gonna die out. People is goin‘ on -- changin‘ a little, maybe, but goin‘ right on.’”

"[Love] bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things...faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love..." (1 Corinthians 13:7 & 13)

Gregory of Nazianzus: The Reluctant Hierarch

SS. Basil the Great of Caesarea, John Chrysostom, Gregory of Nazianzus

If they were a singing group today, they'd probably be billed as Three Holy Hierarchs, which is how they're referred to in Eastern Church circles.  All of them were bishops: John and Gregory,   both of Constantinople.  All were writers.  Basil and Gregory are also part of another triumvirate, along with Gregory of Nyssa: known as the Cappadocian Fathers.  High-powered hierarchs, for sure!

Gregory was not only a P.K. ("priest's kid"), but also a B.K.: son of a bishop! His father, Gregory, was a convert to Christianity, thanks to Gregory's mother, Nonna.  Gregory, Jr. also had a brother, Caesarius.  In their hometown of Arianzus, near Nazianzus, in southwest Cappadocia, they studied rhetoric under their uncle, Amphylokhios, who is also listed as a saint in quite a few places online, but with no specifics about him.  (There's another, younger Amphylokhios, also a saint and bishop, a contemporary of the Nazianzens and one of their students, apparently a cousin of Gregory's and a good friend of Basil.)

Gregory went off to Caesarea, Alexandria, and Athens for advanced studies, and in Athens met Basil, who became a life-long, trusted friend, able to speak his mind to Gregory when he had to, or when Gregory deserved it.  He also studied with Julian, the future emperor.  Julian would be tagged as "the Apostate", having repudiated Christianity and having tried to re-introduce paganism, while Gregory became known as "Theologos", "The Theologian", for his defence of the orthodox Christian faith.  And we thought our nicknames were bad!

Once he finished his education Gregory returned to Arianzus and was baptized, at age 26, by his father.  Three years later he joined Basil at a hermitage near the river Iris in Pontus, to live as hermit monks.  Basil put together guidelines during this time which would later form the basis of Eastern monasticism.  That lasted for only three years because old Bishop Gregory, now 80, asked Gregory, Jr. to come home and help him administrate the diocese.  Gregory got there on Chrismtas Day, 361, and Bishop Gregory's surprise Christmas gift for his son was to forcibly and without warning or Gregory's agreement ordain Gregory a priest.  Surprise, surpise!  Gregory wasn't at all amused, and hightailed it back to the hermitage, grumbling under his breath about "the unwelcome tyranny of the priesthood" (who of us clerics hasn't had similar thoughts!), and stayed there for the next ten weeks.  

Apparently "Catholic guilt" was alive and well even in those days, because Gregory became remorseful and returned to his father, preaching his first sermon at Nazianzus.  His second sermon, one of his most famous, was about the dignity, duties, and spiritual dangers of the priesthood, all in the context of his own recent lived experience.  The sermon was apparently a "keeper", because later Chrysostom and Gregory the Great both borrowed ideas from it in writing their treatises, John Chrysostem, on the priesthood, and Gregory, on pastoral care.  As a priest, Gregory labored for 11 more years in Nazianzus.  

In 372 Basil, who, in 370, became a bishop and metropolitan of the province of Cappadocia, invited Gregory to consent to being consecrated as the bishop of the small diocese of Sasima.  Predictably, Gregory stonewalled Basil for awhile, but eventually he gave in after old Bishop Gregory and Basil begged and cajoled him to accept.  His introduction into episcopal life was to have the governor of the province, who had bought into the Arian heretical movement, forbid Gregory to take over his see! What's a bishop to do?! Gregory simply stayed put in Nazianzus and assisted his dad until old Gregory died a year later.  

Gregory still longed for the peaceful eremetical life.  After reluctantly (what else?) agreeing to be the interim bishop of Nazianzus, he was beset by several serious illnesses, severe enough to give him the out which he needed; so he retired to Seleucia and lived as a desert recluse until 380.  In the meantime, his beloved friend and fellow hermit, Basil, died at age 50 in 379.  Gregory was devastated and turned to writing for solace, composing 12 poetic epigrams in memory of Basil and, in 381, preached his famous elaborate eulogy (some 62 folio pages; probably he didn't actually preach all of it!) on Basil at Basil's former diocese, Caesarea.  Here's an excerpt from the close of the eulogy.  You can almost feel the depth of Gregory's love and respect for Basil, the sense of his own physical frailty and weariness, and his yearning to be with his friend in the life beyond:

"...And now [Basil] is in heaven, where, if I mistake not, he is offering sacrifices for us, and praying for the people, for though, he has left us, he has not entirely left us. While I, Gregory, who am half dead, and, cleft in twain, torn away from our great union, and dragging along a life of pain which runs not easily, as may be supposed, after separation from him, know not what is to be my end now that I have lost my guidance... 

Come hither then, and surround me, all ye members of his choir, both of the clergy and the laity, both of our own country and from abroad; aid me in my eulogy, by each supplying or demanding the account of some of his excellences. Regard, ye occupants of the bench, the lawgiver; ye politicians, the statesman; ye men of the people, his orderliness; ye men of letters, the instructor; ye virgins, the leader of the bride; ye who are yoked in marriage, the restrainer; ye hermits, him who gave you wings; ye cenobites, the judge; ye simple men, the guide; ye contemplatives, the divine; ye cheerful ones, the bridle; ye unfortunate men, the consoler, the staff of hoar hairs, the guide of youth, the relief of poverty, the steward of abundance. Widows also will, I imagine, praise their protector, orphans their father, poor men their friend, strangers their entertainer, brothers the man of brotherly love, the sick their physician, whatever be their sickness and the healing they need, the healthy the preserver of health, and all men him who made himself all things to all that he might gain the majority, if not all.

This is my offering to thee, Basil, uttered by the tongue which once was the sweetest of all to thee, of him who was thy fellow in age and rank. If it have approached thy deserts, thanks are due to thee, for it was from confidence in thee that I undertook to speak of thee. But if it fall far short of thy expectations, what must be our feelings, who are worn out with age and disease and regret for thee? Yet God is pleased, when we do what we can. Yet mayest thou gaze upon us from above, thou divine and sacred person; either stay by thy entreaties our thorn in the flesh given to us by God for our discipline, or prevail upon us to bear it boldly, and guide all our life towards that which is most for our profit. And if we be translated, do thou receive us there also in thine own tabernacle, that, as we dwell together, and gaze together more clearly and more perfectly upon the holy and blessed Trinity, of Which we have now in some degree received the image, our longing may at last be satisfied, by gaining this recompense for all the battles we have fought and the assaults we have endured. Such are our words on thy behalf..." 

Gregory went on to become the bishop of Constantinople, and suffered much ridicule and worse from heretics, civil authorities, and even from some of the sophisticates in the general public who judged him by his rather simple and poor attire and manner of living.  He continued his ministry of preaching and teaching, which caught the ear of even pagans and heretics.  He attracted other Church notables: Evagrius of Pontus, who became his archdeacon, and even the great St. Jerome from the Syrian deserts who became a virtual Gregory-groupie.

In his last years Gregory left Constantinople and returned to Nazianzus.  He died in 389 at the age of 60.  What Gregory left as a legacy to Christianity is nothing short of astounding!  46 orations, 239 letters, 158 poems, a 2000-line poetic autobiography, and 227 epigrams.

Not bad for a reluctant hierarch who just wanted to be a desert hermit!

Julian of Norwich: God's Messenger of Love

“Julian is without doubt one of the most wonderful of all Christian voices. She gets greater and greater in my eyes as I grow older, and whereas in the old days I used to be crazy about St. John of the Cross, I would not exchange him now for Julian if you gave me the world and the Indies and all the Spanish mystics rolled up in one bundle. I think that Julian of Norwich is, with Newman, the greatest English theologian.”

(Thomas Merton)

This is high praise for someone about whom we know almost nothing, including her real name, the exact dates of her life, and anything biographical about her, other than what’s in the Revelations. What we do know is:

- that Julian is probably not her name; that she adopted the name of the church (St. Julian the Hospitaller was possibly the patron) where she was an anchoress (female form of anachoretes = “withdrawn from the world”);
- that Julian survived at least three onslaughts of the Black Death [1348, 1361, 1369], when she was six or seven, nineteen, and twenty-six years old;
- that when she was about 30 1/2 years old, “a simple creature unlettered”, by her own admission, she fell very ill, to the point of death, and received the last rites after three days and three nights;
- that her mother was at her deathbed, along with those caring for her, including her curate, after she’d hung on for two more days and nights;
- that during the third night, on either May 8 or May 13 of 1373 [the Middle English transcription isn’t clear], she received a revelation from God around 4 o’clock in the morning as she gazed at the crucifix, a “revelation of love that Jesus Christ our endless bliss made...” in sixteen “showings”;
- that on the following night she received the sixteenth showing, the “conclusion and confirmation of all the fifteen”;
- that she did, indeed, live in an anchorhold at St. Julian’s Church, Norwich, in her later life;
- that the account of the Revelations to Julian comes to us in two forms: an earlier short version (of which we have only one manuscript: copied in the mid-15th century from a copy made initially in 1413), and a longer version (preserved in two manuscripts: the Parisian (c.1650), and the two Sloane manuscripts (post-17th cent.?) from the British Library);
- that Julian wrote the short text shortly after May, 1373, and the long text, some 15 or so years later, after much deep reflection, prompted by a revelation which led her to understand more keenly the original showings;
- that this later secondary revelation, probably around the year 1388, clarified for her, in Christ’s words, that “love was His meaning”;
- that, according to several wills and an eyewitness account, Julian was enclosed as an anchoress at least by 1393; that Margery Kempe, a somewhat eccentric “mystic”, attests that she visited Julian between 1413 and 1415, and that “Dame Jelyan was an expert in such things and could give good counsel”; and that Julian was still alive in 1416.

Aside from this, we know nothing of her upbringing, her family, whether or not she was always single, what sort of education she had, or exactly when she became an anchoress. Nor does Julian mention anything about the social/ political/religious turmoil going on all about her in Norwich.

What we do know about her is that Julian is, as Fr. Herbert O’Driscoll notes, “...not only a great lady of the past...”, but “also a great woman in our future.” As the first woman to write a book in the English language, she dares not only to make her subject theology, including the most profound articles of faith -- the Trinity, sin and salvation, the Eucharist, etc. -- but to join a long line of at least 27 other classic mystics and theologians who, borrowing images from Scripture, write about Christ as “Mother”.

Unlike many medieval writers, Julian is a theological optimist. She doesn’t accept that the suffering, pain and evil which she sees in her and other people’s lives is the final reality. Nor can Julian accept that God is angry or wrathful. She sees this as a distorted human image, in no way reflecting who God really is. Julian is adamant that ultimately “all manner of thing shall be well”.

My first reading of Julian's Revelations was in 1996. As I got into the sixth Chapter, I read: “A man goes upright and the food of his body is sealed as in a purse full fair; and when it is time of his necessity, it is opened and sealed again full honestly. And that it is [God] who does this is shown there where He says that He comes down to us to the lowest part of our need...”  My reaction was: “Did Julian just say what I think she said?” Rereading it confirmed that she had, and I fell madly in love with Julian of Norwich, this earthy 14th century woman who could speak so candidly about God’s presence and care of us in even our most private, basic, mundane human needs.

Julian never gave her book a title, though she describes it in the opening chapter of the long version: “This is a revelation of love”. And it’s fairly clear that Julian realized from the start that her record of Christ’s “showings” were meant not just for her personal benefit, but for that of others, whom she terms her “even Christians”.

The essence of the Revelations is that Julian comes to understand the nature of God through the divine wisdom and love which she sees in Jesus the Christ. Julian reads as her revelatory text the message of love revealed in the suffering body of Christ on the Cross. In Chapter 2 Julian says: “I desired a bodily sight...” She longed for “a more true consciousness of the Passion of Christ.” Frederick C. Bauerschmidt observes: “She does not ‘see’ simply with her eyes, but with her entire body. She cannot maintain the distance that the eyes allow, but sees Christ’s suffering by participating in it...” It’s really the kind of “seeing” involved in the practice of lectio divina. Lectio divina literally means “sacred or divine reading”. It’s been a key ancient monastic practice, and Julian obviously made it one of her practices as an anchoress. Many serious Christians practice it daily as part of their spiritual journey. Primarily it refers to letting the word of Scripture, especially, (though it’s not limited to that) wash over our souls so frequently and deeply that it begins to guide and direct how we think, how we speak, and how we act. In a nutshell, it’s a serious, lifelong undertaking aimed at keeping us faithful in seeking God.

Julian’s manner of “seeing” in her Revelations is meant to convey how her and our learning of Christ’s message of love and trust, not merely with our mind, but with our whole being, might help her and us, her “even Christians”, to live a holy life. As Julian herself says: “...He wants us to be like him in wholeness of endless love toward ourselves and our fellow Christians...”

Julian tells us that even before her “showings” she’d asked for three gifts of God:  

1) the memory of Christ’s Passion, i.e., she wanted to personally participate in it as had Magdalen and the other lovers of Jesus; it was her way of being in solidarity with all who suffer: “sharing”, as Paul says, “his sufferings by becoming like him in his death.” In this way Julian could become more compassionate for both.  

2) serious bodily sickness at a young age, so that she would have the sense of dying.  She says this came to her freely from God, not as something she sought. She says she wanted to be “purged by the mercy of God and afterwards live more to the honor of God because of that sickness.”   

3) to have from God’s gift three wounds, again a sharing in Christ’s wounds:
- true contrition: the abandoment of one’s self-ego as the center of reference;
- natural or loving compassion: a “suffering with” which is other-oriented;
- wish-filled yearning for God: a longing of the will for the only Good which can satisfy; purity of heart/singleminded- ness/a true heart. In Chapter 39 Julian says: “By contrition we are made pure, by compassion we are made ready,

and by true yearning for God we are made worthy. These are three means, as I understand, by which all souls come to heaven -- that is to say, those who have been sinners on earth and shall be saved.”

Julian never asked for these visions or manifestations. She humbly accepted the “showings” she received, but always saw them as God’s gift for which she continually expressed her utmost gratitude. For her the only important thing was the message of God’s merciful love.  

“A single linear reading (or even several) cannot take the place of patient study: this is solid meat and requires a great deal of theological chewing...Julian is...an integrated theologian, for whom daily life and religious experience and theological reflection are all aspects of the same whole.” (Grace Jantzen)  Notice, however, that Julian isn’t a “theologian” in an academic sense; she undoubtedly wasn’t trained in formal theology, but she had the knack of carefully listening to, observing, praying over the elements of the Faith and then pulling that all together in a cohesive and practical whole. She lived her belief through a personal relationship with God, and this came of engaging all her natural and spiritual powers in seeking God through Christ in the Spirit.  The more you read and pray over Julian’s Revelations, the more you see the interconnection, in her thoughts and ideas, of the great truths of catholic faith. 

Not surprising, for she builds on a rock-solid foundation of natural reason; Scripture; the Church’s tradition and teaching; and experience. 1) natural reason: Julian calls it “oure kyndly reson” and comments that: “...our reason is in God, understanding that it is the highest gift that we have received, and that it is grounded in human nature...” (Chapter 83) and later, “...our reason is founded on God, who is essential nature.” (Chapter 56)  2) Scripture:  “Our Faith,” says Julian “is based on God’s word, and it is part of our Faith that we believe God’s word shall be preserved in all things.” (Chapter 32)  Julian incorporates Scripture so well that there’s virtually no distinction between quotation and her own words: another fruit of lectio divina. But even this didn’t stop Julian from admitting her perplexity and confusion over apparent contradictions between Scripture and Church teaching, and what was revealed to her.  3) the Church’s tradition and teaching: Julian is clearly a most faithful daughter of the Church: “...in everything I believe as Holy Church believes, preaches, and teaches...wishing and intending never to accept anything that could be contrary to it...” (Chapter 11)   She insists on this, even though she finds herself personally struggling to resolve certain theological issues, such is how “all shall be well” in a world of sin and suffering, or if, by God’s grace, there is universal salvation for all humankind. “...I was taught by the grace of God that I should steadfastly keep myself in the Faith as I had interpreted it before, and also that I should firmly believe that everything shall be well as our Lord showed at the same time...” (Chapter 32)

A final word from Blessed Julian herself:

“...I am not good because of this showing,
but only if I love God better;
and in so much as you love God better,
it is more to you than to me.

I do not say this to those who are wise, for they know it well,
but I say it to you who are simple,
for your benefit and comfort,
for we are all one in love....

If I look individually at myself, I am just nothing;
but in general terms, I am, I hope, in unity of love with all my
fellow Christians...” (Chapter 9)

“ From the time that it was shown, I desired frequently to know
what our Lord’s meaning was. And fifteen years after (and more)
I was answered in spiritual understanding, saying thus:
‘Wouldst thou know thy Lord’s meaning in this thing?
Be well aware: love was His meaning...’” (Chapter 86)

“God of thy goodness, give me thyself for thou art 

enough to me; and I can ask for nothing that is less that

can be full honor to Thee; and if I ask for anything that is

less, ever shall I be in want, for only in Thee have I all.”

The Woman Who Wouldn't Take "No" For An Answer

Anyone who's been parent to a strong-willed child, particularly a teenager or young adult, readily admires and appreciates a woman like St. Monica, mother of Augustine of Hippo.

Augustine was one of those kids whom, from the time he was a baby, you could tell was headed for trouble.  He even records it in his Confessions: "...I wished to make my wants known to those who could satisfy them.  Yet I could not do so...So I tossed my limbs about and uttered sounds...When they would not obey me, either because they did not understand or because it would be harmful, I grew angry at older ones who were not subject to me and at children for not waiting on me, and took it out on them by crying..."  Of his boyhood he says: "...I did not love study and hated to be driven to it...I would have learned nothing unless forced to it...I detested the Greek language...The first stages of our education, when we learn reading, writing, and arithmetic, I considered no less a burden and punishment than all the Greek courses..."  By age sixteen Augustine had discovered girls: "...Where was I in that sixteenth year of my body's age?...the madness of lust, licensed by human shamelessness...took me completely under its scepter, and I clutched it with both hands..."  Always competitive, Augustine and his friends tried to outdo each other: "...I ran headlong with such great blindness that I was ashamed to be remiss in vice in the midst of my comrades...I pretended that I had done what I had not done...See with what companions I ran about the streets...I willed to commit theft, and I did so, not because I was driven to it by any need... For I stole a thing of which I had plenty of my own and of much better quality...In a garden nearby...there was a pear tree, loaded with fruit that was desirable  neither in appearance nor in taste.  Late one night -- to which hour, according to our pestilential custom, we had kept up our street games -- a group of very bad youngsters set out to shake down and rob this tree...we did this to do what pleased us for the reason that it was forbidden..."

Amazingly, Augustine somehow managed to finish his schooling and ended up as a professor in Carthage: a sort of 4th century "yuppie", engaged in philosophical discussion and teaching others by day; carousing, enjoying adult theater shows, and carrying on numerous sexual liaisons by night.  So brazen that he admits: "...Even during the celebration of Your mysteries, within the walls of Your church, I dared to desire and to arrange an affair for procuring the fruit of death..."  But Augustine was miserable, unhappy, almost despairing, intellectually and spiritually confused.  The best he could do by way of prayer was to cry out to God: "Give me chastity and continence, but not yet!"

Through all these early years the one person who stood by him and tried over and over to get him on the straight-and-narrow was Monica, although in the Confessions she comes in for her share of criticism as a parent by Augustine.  But her heart was in the right place, as, frankly, was Augustine's -- even in the midst of his debauchery and intellectual error. More than anything, Monica, herself a devout Catholic, wanted her son to find Christ.  Regarding this, in Book 3 of the Confessions, Augustine tells of a dream which Monica had.  She saw herself standing on a wooden measuring rod, symbolizing the rule of faith.  Though she herself was heavily grieving, she saw a young man coming towards her -- splendid,  joyful, and smiling. He asked her why she was so sad and was crying, and she responded that it was over what she perceived as Augustine's being spiritually lost.  The young man told her that she could rest secure: he "instructed her that she should attend and see that where she was, there was I also..."  And when Monica looked again, Augustine was there, standing on the same measuring rod.  When Monica later related all this to Augustine, he insisted that she'd got it wrong; that it really meant that she shouldn't despair of becoming what he already was. "...'No!' she said.  'It was not said to me, 'Where he is, there also are you,' but 'Where you are, there also is he.'"  

It took several more years for Augustine to work his way through to the miracle of conversion.  In the meantime, Monica went to Ambrose, the great bishop of Milan, and begged him to talk to Augustine.  She knew that Ambrose had the expertise and the academic knowledge to refute Augustine's Manichean beliefs.  Ambrose, experienced as he was, knew that that approach would come to naught.  Augustine, he said, was "lacking in docility", and simply wouldn't be able to hear Ambrose's arguments.  Basically, he advised what a good many of us priests have similarly counselled when in these situations: "All we can do is pray."  Well, Monica wasn't about to simply go off in a corner and simply pray, though she'd done a whole lot of that over the past 30 some years! Augustine observes: "...she still would not keep quiet, but by her entreaties and flowing tears urged [Ambrose] all the more to see me and discuss matters with me..." He observes further that, again, like a good many of us priests have done, Ambrose "...became a little vexed".  He told her: "Go away from me now. As you live, it is impossible that the son of such tears should perish..."

Ambrose was dead-on right.  On Easter Sunday, 387, Augustine was bathed in the waters of Baptism.  Not only him, but also his friend, Alypius, and, more importantly, his own fourteen year old son, Adeodatus, "gift from God", the fruit of his fiancé's and his relationship.  The unnamed woman, whom Augustine admits to loving and for whom he was willing to wait, was two years too young for them to be legally married, and so was returned to Africa, never to be seen again. Adeodatus died three years later, at age 17, and in the fall of 387, not even a year after they'd been baptized, Augustine's beloved mother, Monica, died. 

So much loss, but because of Monica's tears, because of her refusal to take "No" for an answer, so incredibly much gain. Augustine had found himself and also the true Love of his life.  Who can ever forget his eloquent testimony to this, written in Book 10, Chapter 27 of his Confessions: "Late have I love you, O Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you! Behold, you were within me, while I was outside...You were with me, but I was not with you...You have called to me...You have blazed forth with light...and you have put my blindness to flight!...I have tasted you, and I hunger and thirst after you.  You have touched me, and I have burned for your peace..."  

   

The Alleluia Shepherd

Each week Fr. Gregory, OJN, the Guardian of our Order of Julian of Norwich, of which I’m an Oblate, sends us a copy of his Chapter Talk to the Members Regular. I took special note this week of his opening question: “Why do we say ‘Alleluia’? What is the actual content, the belief or experience behind our ‘Alleluia’?”

He goes on to observe that most Christians, whose connection with the Easter mystery may be rather tenuous in their everyday living, probably say “Alleluia” because everyone else in church is saying it; because it’s something which our prayer books prescribe that we do between the feasts of the Resurrection and of Pentecost; because saying “Alleluia” confirms that we, indeed, belong to this community which is doing the same thing. There’s certainly nothing wrong with that in itself. But what if that’s the only reason you and I join in saying it? If that were so, “Alleluia” wouldn’t mean much of anything. It would be but another “church word” which crazy Episcopalians and Lutherans seem to throw around so frequently!

As with so many words which we use in the liturgy, “Alleluia” is a Hebrew combination of “hallelu = “praise or give praise to” and “ya” = an abbreviation of the sacred name, “Yahweh”, which the Jewish faithful respectfully don’t even pronounce. “Alleluia” is an ancient liturgical invitation, in both Judaism and Christianity, used some 23 times in the Psalms, a religious cry possibly used to encourage congregational participation. After the time of the Macchabees (2nd cent. BCE) and beyond, it became primarily a joyous shout: for example, by the Jews of Alexandria after being saved from annihilation by the Egyptians, and as the angels song of praise to God in the Book of Revelation. But what does “Alleluia” really mean to say? What does it celebrate? Why praise God more, liturgically speaking, during Eastertide than at other times of the Church year? Why does it have such an important place in our 50-day long celebration of the Resurrection mystery? Perhaps the texts for today's liturgy, Easter 4, -- 1 John 3:16-24 and John 10:11-18 -- give us some understanding.

To do proper justice to the reading from 1 John, however, we need to go back several verses and notice what’s said in vv. 11 ff.: “For this is the message you have heard from the beginning, that we should love one another. We must not be like Cain who...murdered his brother...All who hate a brother or sister are murderers, and you know that murderers do not have eternal life abiding in them...”

Then, at this point, the passage for today begins: “We know love by this, that [Jesus] laid down his life for us...” John the Evangelist is writing from the perspective of his own church community in the late first century CE which is consumed with a “sibling rivalry” which has torn the community apart. He says earlier: “...Children, as you have heard that antichrist is coming, so now many antichrists have come...They went out from us, but they did not belong to us; for if they had belonged to us, they would have remained with us...”

Only John uses the unique word “antichristos” = “the one against the anointed or Messiah”, and by that he refers to early second century secessionists in his community, false teachers, schismatics, possibly even Gnostics, i.e., those who claim to have “special” or secret knowledge of the the truth. How very relevant, both in his day and in the 21st century Episcopal Church, where even some of our bishops' recent actions, sadly, seem to fit the description! It seems that there are people in every age of the Church who “hate” and, figuratively, “murder” fellow Christians, clearly distancing themselves from Jesus, the source of “eternal life”. In a favorite book of mine from back in the 1950’s, called God’s Frontier and translated from Spanish, author José Luis Martin Descalzo puts these words in the mouth of his main character, Don Macario, a priest who is dying: “...Toward love there is one straight road: love. All the others are devious. But of them the shortest is hate, which so often is only a way of love, a disguise...”

John proclaims that there’s only one way to understand and know what love really is: from the One who “laid down his life for us” so that “we ought to lay down our lives for one another.” The meaning of the word "love", especially as applied to God, of course, can be slippery and hard for us human beings to define. But John gets about as specific as one can. He says that if you and I want to know if and how God who is love abides in us, we need only ask this: “Do I, with all that I possess, notice brothers and sisters in need, any need whatever, and still refuse to respond to those needs?” John says that our words and speech are one thing, but when it comes to love only truth and our actions can tell us if we really have it. I’m guessing that reading John’s words can make you, like me, feel pretty guilty. John was obviously aware of that, because he reminds us that when our hearts “condemn us”, his words, -- and they will -- we can be comforted by realizing that “God is greater than our hearts”: that God knows the truth of our struggle to truly love, that all he expects is that we continue to ask, to try to obey, to forge ahead in trying to “do what pleases him”; that we believe, i.e., “set our heart on” the Person and example of Jesus; that we open ourselves to the gift God sends us, which is the Spirit who “abides” in us: not for just a little while, but always and in all ways. In another part of the book, God’s Frontier, which I cited earlier, Don Macario observes: “...Yes the hardest thing to bear at the Last Judgment will not even be the sight of our own emptiness, but knowing that God is so good that He forgives event those of us who take advantage of that kindness of His to sneak through to salvation by the back door...”

In the Collect we pray: “God, whose Son Jesus Christ is the good shepherd of your people: Grant that when we hear his voice we may know him who calls each of us by name, and follow where he leads...with you and the Holy Spirit...” All through these first three weeks of the Easter season, we’ve heard stories of the Risen Jesus’ interaction with various people: Mary Magdalene and the other Mary, Cleopas and the other disciple on the road to Emmaus, Thomas, Peter, Nathanael, James and John. In almost every case, Jesus addresses these people by their name. Each person is personally important to Jesus. Though they may have some reservations, doubts, fears, Jesus is nevertheless completely at ease with each one; he feels an intimate bond with each of them.

That’s the kind of person John describes in his account of the Gospel today, using an image familiar to his hearers, and one repeated in today’s Psalm 23: that of the shepherd. Sheepherding in Jesus‘ time was far from the domesticated, idyllic metaphor which sermons on this Sunday generally tend to conjure up. It was hard, dangerous work, and no particular honor went with it. The animals were pretty stupid, and shepherds and their flocks were always on the move, whether the weather was inclement or not, and there were always unknown factors present. Despite this, ancient Israel used the shepherd metaphor, in referring both to God as well as to other great leaders.

John speaks of Jesus as the “good”, the “noble”, the “ideal” shepherd -- one who, as he later says in his Epistle, “lays down his life for his sheep”. He contrasts Jesus to the “hired hand”, the one who merely goes through the motions: sloppily, inattentively, usually and primarily out of financial considerations, and with an eye to taking care of his own self. But Jesus knows “my own” and they know him. There’s relationship between them, a mirror of Jesus‘ relationship with the Father: a relationship of love because love comes from God because God is love.

As the ideal shepherd, according to John, Jesus excludes no one from the “flock” or from the embrace of his love and mercy.  “I have other sheep that do not belong to this fold. I must bring them also, and they will listen to my voice.”
Everyone, without exception, is called by name, to be one with Jesus and with all the others, to share the love which is Godself. Jesus proves it by his willingness to “lay down my life in order to take it up again”. Jesus intention is unambiguous: that there be “one sheep-herd and one shepherd”, abiding in the love of God.

How does that sit with you and me? What if you and I were willing to live like this? to treat every sister and brother we encounter today as Jesus does? to be willing to call one another by name: the name of Love?

I think, then, that we could not resist shouting -- all the time -- with full awareness of what we are saying: “Alleluia! Praise God for Godself!  Alleluia! Praise God for myself!  Alleluia! Praise God for my sisters and brothers!”