Tags
contemplation, humility, light, love, poverty, presence of God, St. Clare, St. Francis of Assisi, The Sophia Center for Spirituality, vision
St. Clare of Assisi, whom we celebrate today, was a great example of the adage “Behind every good man, there is a good woman.” While he did not see her often, St. Francis counted on her holiness and wisdom to shore up his determination in times of doubt and difficulty. Clare was a clear mirror of the presence of God for Francis and for those women who followed her to the convent of San Damiano, and he was the same for her. She was a woman of great strength and perseverance who believed that she was the one who knew best what should be written in a rule for women in a religious order. Although she easily accepted the rule that Francis has written in the early days, after the death of Francis she continued for 27 years to submit a revised rule to bishops and popes until she finally received and signed a constitutional document of her own two days before her death on August 11, 1253.
Living in the freedom of poverty and the humility of a cloistered community, motivated by love alone, Clare wrote to a younger woman to encourage her in her living of religious life:
Happy, indeed is she to whom it is given to share the sacred banquet, to cling with all her heart to Him Whose beauty all the heavenly hosts admire unceasingly, Whose love inflames our love, Whose contemplation is our refreshment, Whose graciousness is our joy, Whose gentleness fills us to overflowing, Whose remembrance brings a gentle light, Whose fragrance will revive the dead, Whose glorious vision will be the happiness – of all the citizens of the Heavenly Jerusalem.
Praise be to God for this wonderful woman!
This morning’s first reading from the prophet Micah is one of the more familiar texts from the Hebrew Scriptures used in prayer services at events, especially if the audience is considering a social justice agenda. Chapter 6, verse 8 even appears on posters and is a great summary in answer to the question: “What does God ask of us?” It’s succinct, broad-based and even lyrical in its construction in most translations.
The gospel holds a question that I have never before stopped to consider in the way I heard it today. As I reflected, I noticed even a lot more in the short passage that led me to a deeper place. In MT 9:1-8, Jesus has just returned to “his own town” where he encounters a paralyzed man, brought to him on a stretcher by people who obviously have faith in his power to heal. There is no conversation; Jesus just saw their faith and immediately said, “Courage, child, your sins are forgiven.”
Today we have an appearance of those two outspoken disciples, James and John, the sons of Zebedee. We first meet them in the gospel of Matthew as they are with their father preparing their nets for fishing. As with all the others who left what they were doing to follow Jesus, one wonders about the reaction in their family. We never meet the father again but their mother shows up in the gospel of Matthew asking for privilege for her sons (MT 20) and today we have Mark’s rendition of that event (MK 10:32-45) where the brothers speak for themselves. It’s a rather shocking passage but maybe understandable if you consider the haughty behavior of their mother recorded elsewhere. Asking Jesus that they be “seated one at your right and one at your left in your glory” is not at all in keeping with the humility expected of the closest followers of Jesus. Even worse is the fact that Mark pairs that conversation with Jesus telling the Twelve what was going to happen to him in Jerusalem – his suffering, death and resurrection.
Psalm 49 speaks loudly of the reality that “you can’t take it with you.” No matter our success or wealth, wise people die, the psalm says, “and likewise the senseless and the stupid pass away leaving to others their wealth.”
Today Christians celebrate the feast of St. Mark, known as the author of the shortest of the four canonical gospels. Mark never wrote anything superfluous but got right to the point. That reminds me of my father’s frequently repeated phrase, “short stories” when we were explaining something in a longer narrative than necessary. It also brings to mind something I learned long ago about interactions in groups. I was taught to ask myself three questions: 1. Is this necessary to be said, 2. Is it necessary that I be the one to say it, and 3. What will be the result of saying it?
The waiting is over. Prepared or not we acknowledge that Christ comes today to each of us and all of us, calling our hearts to a love that is as divine as it is human, drawing us forth in the humility of one born like us while at the same time offering us riches beyond our comprehension, if only we agree to pour ourselves out in generosity of spirit. The paradox is that this gift to the Christ can be given in the smallest of ways: each day a smile or a kind word to someone starving for affection, ten minutes of silence to heal a noisy world or…name your own offering of light. Every gift is acceptable to the Christ. Now it is He who is waiting for us. Let us rejoice and give thanks!
My sister gave me a book a long time ago entitled, Our Lady of the Lost and Found. A work of fiction, the story is about a middle-aged writer who (the book jacket explains) “on a typical Monday morning, enters her living room and finds a woman standing by her fig tree. the woman is wearing a blue trench coat, white Nikes and a white shawl over her hair. She is holding a purse and a suitcase. She is the Virgin Mary…”
Between conflicting stories on broadcast news and devastating weather reports of raging fires in the west and three additional hurricanes brewing in the waters off the southeastern coast of the United States, I decided moments ago that the only answer for me would be to race to the closest monastery and close the door on it all. So I pulled out David Keller’s book, Oasis of Wisdom, to give me something to work with – a verification of the need to escape, I mean. Here’s what I found in the first few pages of this book on the early Christian monastic life, stories of the “desert fathers and mothers.”
Although Saturday can be a day to catch up on all sorts of mundane tasks and chores, occasionally I savor the opportunity for a bit of leisurely delving into reflection on something found in one of the many alluring books on my shelves. This morning I returned to Thomas Merton’s Book of Hours, noting that I had not visited with him – or mentioned him here – for quite some time. Rather than quotes from his various texts, Saturday’s entries in Kathleen Deignan’s book of Merton’s writings are all parts of his amazing prose poem, Hagia Sophia (Holy Wisdom).