I am at the cottage. The weather has been iffy; today the sun is shining, a steady wind blowing, and a coolish 70+ temp.
Tomorrow is my beloved daughter's 21 birthday. Driving here, just the two of us, was a great gift. Our talk was sweet. I am stunningly unworthy of the gift of relationship with her which God has chosen to grant me, in His great mercy. I sometimes wonder if the quick turnaround with her, and the degree of warm appreciation with which she gifts me, may be a portent of a shortened life. I would not have expected it until I am gray(er) and she was in the throes of her own childrearing.
Stunningly generous, He is.
I'm sitting at the shady end of the new deck on the front of the main building, watching the kids down on the beach below me. The view is wonderful; the deck is a great addition. I'd be sitting in the sun in an effort to cover up all the imperfections of my pasty arms and legs, but when I do, I can't see the screen. So it's the shade for now. Vanity will have to wait.
And I'm typing to you, beloved reader, of the silly minutae. Wishing you were here, perhaps.
It's been hard to carve away devotional time this trip. Each time I try someone I love appears and wants to chat. Sometimes multiple people. This morning a flock of young people appeared, and my sister in law said that it was because of the Bible on my lap. I'm certain that is true. It draws invisibly.
My daughter reported that her grandmother annointed her with holy water this morning. Apparently she does so every day for her little beagly mutt, and BD wanted in. Sounds like I need to give my mother in law a bottle of annointing oil so that she can both bless -and- annoint. BD is drawn to sacramentals. I love it.
As the young ones gathered around we talked about today's North Korea test missiles, followed by the apparently unjust and no longer necessary trade embargos with Cuba. Yesterday it was how hand sanitizer would kill us all in 20 years, and a comparison of fecal matter quantities between tofurkey italian sausages and Oscar Myer weiners.
It is a joy to watch energetic dedication to causes. Fire burns hot in the young.
I am more banked coals and smoulder. Waiting for a puff of warm breath to bring the fire to life.
Breathe on me...
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Shakespeare on love (12)
From a Midsummer Night's Dream:
Love looks not with the eyes,
but with the mind,
and therefore is winged Cupid
painted blind.
Love looks not with the eyes,
but with the mind,
and therefore is winged Cupid
painted blind.
Friday, July 3, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Meow
Lay your jacket down for me
so that, cat like
I can sniff your cuffs and collar
push my head into the dark tunnel of your arm
and rub my face against the shiny lining.
I'll knead myself a black nest
sink down into your scent
and start to purr.
--Chantelle Franc
so that, cat like
I can sniff your cuffs and collar
push my head into the dark tunnel of your arm
and rub my face against the shiny lining.
I'll knead myself a black nest
sink down into your scent
and start to purr.
--Chantelle Franc
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Christ in the howling wilderness
You will never find Jesus so precious as when the world is one vast howling wilderness. Then he is like a rose blooming in the midst of the desolation, a rock rising above the storm.
-- Robert Murray M'Cheyne
-- Robert Murray M'Cheyne
Monday, June 29, 2009
All curves and sweet intoxication
I am besotted.
As soaked with love
as a wine-steeped pear;
drenched red
with heady sweetness
and the desire
to be consumed.
--Chantelle Franc
As soaked with love
as a wine-steeped pear;
drenched red
with heady sweetness
and the desire
to be consumed.
--Chantelle Franc
"The Cloud of Unknowing" on Sensuality
From Chapter 66:
Before ere man sinned was the Sensuality so obedient unto the Will, unto the which it is as it were servant, that it ministered never unto it any unordained liking or grumbling in any bodily creature, or any ghostly feigning of liking or misliking made by any ghostly enemy in the bodily wits. But now it is not so: for unless it be ruled by grace in the Will, for to suffer meekly and in measure the pain of the original sin, the which it feeleth in absence of needful comforts and in presence of speedful discomforts, and thereto also for to restrain it from lust in presence of needful comforts, and from lusty plesaunce in the absence of speedful discomforts: else will it wretchedly and wantonly welter, as a swine in the mire, in the wealths of this world and the foul flesh so much that all our living shall be more beastly and fleshly, than either manly or ghostly.
Before ere man sinned was the Sensuality so obedient unto the Will, unto the which it is as it were servant, that it ministered never unto it any unordained liking or grumbling in any bodily creature, or any ghostly feigning of liking or misliking made by any ghostly enemy in the bodily wits. But now it is not so: for unless it be ruled by grace in the Will, for to suffer meekly and in measure the pain of the original sin, the which it feeleth in absence of needful comforts and in presence of speedful discomforts, and thereto also for to restrain it from lust in presence of needful comforts, and from lusty plesaunce in the absence of speedful discomforts: else will it wretchedly and wantonly welter, as a swine in the mire, in the wealths of this world and the foul flesh so much that all our living shall be more beastly and fleshly, than either manly or ghostly.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Three classes of men
"There are three classes of men; lovers of wisdom, lovers of honor, and lovers of gain."
--Plato
--Plato
Monday, June 22, 2009
Love you Janis
On Saturday night I went to see a local production of "Love, Janis". It was unbelievable (in a good way).
First off, I confess that I've always been a Joplinaphobe, lumping her in with Hendrix and a few of their contemporaries who's psychedelically strident style always made me feel too high with no way to come down.
(And not in a good way.)
I was born a few years to late to get the whole hippy thing. Not to mention that when buzzed I preferred either the humorous (ala Zappa) or the trippy mellow (ala Pink Floyd). I just never understood the screaming, jangling, psychodelic vibe. My nerves couldn't take it.
But I digress.
Given my predilections and prejudices, I never knew that Janis was rich, and soulful, and bluesy. Not sure how I could have not known it, but I didn't. I also didn't know she had a southern dialect. Or that 27 is so desperately young an age at which to die.
Her story in this show, told through real letters to her family, song, and snippets from interviews with the media, portrays a hungry heart. A heart which yearned the way this blog yearns. It presented one talented girl's search to fill that hunger in all the wrong ways. The beauty of her soul shone through and all you wanted to do was save her.
All I wanted to do was save her.
To show her He who loves her. He who is all in all.
I wonder if she is in heaven? If she is, I imagine that she may be one of the specially beloved ones; she was so very, very hungry.
I'm going to buy some of her music. And perhaps add her to my list of souls I request to pray for me.
First off, I confess that I've always been a Joplinaphobe, lumping her in with Hendrix and a few of their contemporaries who's psychedelically strident style always made me feel too high with no way to come down.
(And not in a good way.)
I was born a few years to late to get the whole hippy thing. Not to mention that when buzzed I preferred either the humorous (ala Zappa) or the trippy mellow (ala Pink Floyd). I just never understood the screaming, jangling, psychodelic vibe. My nerves couldn't take it.
But I digress.
Given my predilections and prejudices, I never knew that Janis was rich, and soulful, and bluesy. Not sure how I could have not known it, but I didn't. I also didn't know she had a southern dialect. Or that 27 is so desperately young an age at which to die.
Her story in this show, told through real letters to her family, song, and snippets from interviews with the media, portrays a hungry heart. A heart which yearned the way this blog yearns. It presented one talented girl's search to fill that hunger in all the wrong ways. The beauty of her soul shone through and all you wanted to do was save her.
All I wanted to do was save her.
To show her He who loves her. He who is all in all.
I wonder if she is in heaven? If she is, I imagine that she may be one of the specially beloved ones; she was so very, very hungry.
I'm going to buy some of her music. And perhaps add her to my list of souls I request to pray for me.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Shakespeare on love (11)
VALENTINE
Why, how know you that I am in love?
SPEED
Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn'd, like
Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish a
love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that
had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his
A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam;
to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears
robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas.
Why, how know you that I am in love?
SPEED
Marry, by these special marks: first, you have learn'd, like
Sir Proteus, to wreath your arms like a malcontent; to relish a
love-song, like a robin redbreast; to walk alone, like one that
had the pestilence; to sigh, like a school-boy that had lost his
A B C; to weep, like a young wench that had buried her grandam;
to fast, like one that takes diet; to watch, like one that fears
robbing; to speak puling, like a beggar at Hallowmas.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
When will our eyes meet?
Warning: TOTALLY hokey music alert!
This morning I woke up with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" (aka "when will I hold you again") running through my head.
I know, I know...
(I don't even dare tell you the little ditty that I couldn't ditch while showering on Tuesday.)
I'm not sure where either of them came from, but I can at least make some kind of a connection for today's version.
Last night's class centered around the "irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired" (as Frost put it.) We are born with the longing for completion as a central part of our being.
"Weekend in New England" was popular when I was a teenybopper, with no experience of love. I'd never had a boyfriend, and had no idea of what the pain of separation felt like.
But something in my soul sang along with this song and knew it to be true. I felt the longing, the yearning, the loss. And the ache it created in my heart was somehow also a pleasure.
Here are the lyrics, for your delectation.
Last night I waved goodbye
Now it seems years
I'm back in the city
Where nothing is clear
But thoughts of me holding you
Bringing us near
And tell me
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?
Time in New England
Took me away
To long, rocky beaches
And you by the bay
We started a story
Whose end must now wait
And tell me
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?
I feel the change coming
I feel the wind blow
I feel brave and daring
I feel my blood flow
With you, I could bring out
All the love that I have
With you, there's a heaven
So earth ain't so bad
And tell me
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you . . .
again?
Naked confession time: sometimes I channel Dolly Parton. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl. The occasional taste of Barry Manilow gives me the same kind of trashy pleasure that Spam does.
There; I've said it.
Once in a while, I actually eat spam.
And I like it.
This morning I woke up with Barry Manilow's "Weekend in New England" (aka "when will I hold you again") running through my head.
I know, I know...
(I don't even dare tell you the little ditty that I couldn't ditch while showering on Tuesday.)
I'm not sure where either of them came from, but I can at least make some kind of a connection for today's version.
Last night's class centered around the "irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired" (as Frost put it.) We are born with the longing for completion as a central part of our being.
"Weekend in New England" was popular when I was a teenybopper, with no experience of love. I'd never had a boyfriend, and had no idea of what the pain of separation felt like.
But something in my soul sang along with this song and knew it to be true. I felt the longing, the yearning, the loss. And the ache it created in my heart was somehow also a pleasure.
Here are the lyrics, for your delectation.
Last night I waved goodbye
Now it seems years
I'm back in the city
Where nothing is clear
But thoughts of me holding you
Bringing us near
And tell me
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?
Time in New England
Took me away
To long, rocky beaches
And you by the bay
We started a story
Whose end must now wait
And tell me
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you again?
I feel the change coming
I feel the wind blow
I feel brave and daring
I feel my blood flow
With you, I could bring out
All the love that I have
With you, there's a heaven
So earth ain't so bad
And tell me
When will our eyes meet?
When can I touch you?
When will this strong yearning end?
And when will I hold you . . .
again?
Naked confession time: sometimes I channel Dolly Parton. You can take the girl out of the trailer park, but you can't take the trailer park out of the girl. The occasional taste of Barry Manilow gives me the same kind of trashy pleasure that Spam does.
There; I've said it.
Once in a while, I actually eat spam.
And I like it.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Scent of love
I am focusing on the Song of Songs in this week's Love Letters from Home class, and because of it am increasingly interested in scent.
I find myself wanting to smell the scent of love. I want to breathe deeply of his scent, and see how it varies from beard to nape, from throat to wrist.
I imagine his fingertips to smell faintly of copper and salt.
In the fulfillment of time, will there be sweat?
I find myself wanting to smell the scent of love. I want to breathe deeply of his scent, and see how it varies from beard to nape, from throat to wrist.
I imagine his fingertips to smell faintly of copper and salt.
In the fulfillment of time, will there be sweat?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Missing you
I have been soooo busy lately that I haven't made time to post! Preparing for and teaching the Love Letters from Home series is consuming my mental and time bandwidth, amongst other adventures. Two more sessions to go. This coming week will center around what the Song of Songs tells us, along with the concept of desire as an experience of God. The series will culminate with the annunciation and the Eucharist as consummation of the wedding feast.
But I miss this place!
But I miss this place!
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Friday, June 5, 2009
On the Lady from The Great Divorce
"...only partly do I remember the unbearable beauty of her face."
"...there is joy enough in the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life."
"...her beauty brightened so that I could hardly see anything else,"
"...the invitation to all joy, singing out of her whole being like a bird's song on an April evening, seemed to me such that no creature could resist it."
"Few men looked on her without becoming, in a certain fashion, her lovers. But it was the kind of love that made them not less true, but truer, to their own wives."
"Love shone not from her face only, but from all her limbs, as if it were some liquid in which she had just been bathing."
"...there is joy enough in the little finger of a great saint such as yonder lady to waken all the dead things of the universe into life."
"...her beauty brightened so that I could hardly see anything else,"
"...the invitation to all joy, singing out of her whole being like a bird's song on an April evening, seemed to me such that no creature could resist it."
"Few men looked on her without becoming, in a certain fashion, her lovers. But it was the kind of love that made them not less true, but truer, to their own wives."
"Love shone not from her face only, but from all her limbs, as if it were some liquid in which she had just been bathing."
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Soul sick
I had a close encounter with man's inhumanity toward man a little while ago, in the form of a skinny white high school senior who had been jumped by 4 big gangsta punks. We just missed the actual beating by a minute or two. I came across him while driving my son and a classmate home. (I drive the other child each afternoon because 2 years ago he had also been jumped walking home in the same area.)
We stopped and I tried to run interference between a teacher at the school who tried to contact the boy's parents, the police, and ambulance personnel.
The boy will probably be fine.
The blood he was spitting was probably from his mouth rather than from an internal injury.
My soul is sick.
I'm not sure who I hurt more for; the boy who was kicked and beaten, or the 4 boys who did it.
We stopped and I tried to run interference between a teacher at the school who tried to contact the boy's parents, the police, and ambulance personnel.
The boy will probably be fine.
The blood he was spitting was probably from his mouth rather than from an internal injury.
My soul is sick.
I'm not sure who I hurt more for; the boy who was kicked and beaten, or the 4 boys who did it.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Shakespeare on love (10)
After him I love
more than I love these eyes,
more than my life,
more by all mores...
more than I love these eyes,
more than my life,
more by all mores...
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Shakespeare on love (9)
Your brother and my sister no sooner met but they looked;
no sooner looked but they loved;
no sooner loved but they sighed;
no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy.
no sooner looked but they loved;
no sooner loved but they sighed;
no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason;
no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy.
Friday, May 29, 2009
Shakespeare on love (8)
For such as I am, all true lovers are,
unstaid and skittish in all motions else
save in the constant image of the creature
that is beloved.
unstaid and skittish in all motions else
save in the constant image of the creature
that is beloved.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
O Let it Freely Burn
From the Forward Day by Day devotional, for May 31, 2009:
Here am I, O Love divine.
I rise, I dress, I eat, I work, play sleep, and rise again.
It’s not a bad life, and yet it leaves a cold and empty place within me.
So come down, O Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven, to earth come down!
Seek thou this soul of mine, for I cannot seek thee.
I know neither where nor how to look.
Seek thou this soul of mine, and visit it with thine own ardor glowing.
Warm the cold and fill the empty place with thyself, for thou thyself art warmth and thou thyself art fullness.
Thou art all compassion; pure unbounded love thou art.
O Comforter, draw near.
Nearer and nearer draw to me till thou art nearer than the breath in my lungs and the beat of my heart.
Within my heart appear—be seen be felt, rule.
And kindle it, thy holy flame bestowing, until my heart burns with holy fire.
Then let it freely burn, till earthly passions turn to dust and ashes in its heat consuming, with a flame no ocean can quench.
Unhindered, unchecked, O let it freely burn!
I rise, I dress, I eat, I work, play sleep, and rise again.
It’s not a bad life, and yet it leaves a cold and empty place within me.
So come down, O Love divine, all loves excelling, joy of heaven, to earth come down!
Seek thou this soul of mine, for I cannot seek thee.
I know neither where nor how to look.
Seek thou this soul of mine, and visit it with thine own ardor glowing.
Warm the cold and fill the empty place with thyself, for thou thyself art warmth and thou thyself art fullness.
Thou art all compassion; pure unbounded love thou art.
O Comforter, draw near.
Nearer and nearer draw to me till thou art nearer than the breath in my lungs and the beat of my heart.
Within my heart appear—be seen be felt, rule.
And kindle it, thy holy flame bestowing, until my heart burns with holy fire.
Then let it freely burn, till earthly passions turn to dust and ashes in its heat consuming, with a flame no ocean can quench.
Unhindered, unchecked, O let it freely burn!
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Shakespeare on love (7)
So tedious is this day
as is the night before some festival
to an impatient child that hath new robes
and may not wear them.
as is the night before some festival
to an impatient child that hath new robes
and may not wear them.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Shakespeare on love (6)
I am giddy. Expectation whirls me round.
The'imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense.
The'imaginary relish is so sweet
That it enchants my sense.
Monday, May 25, 2009
Sunday, May 24, 2009
Shakespeare on love (4)
Madam, you have bereft me of all words.
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Shakespeare on love (3)
Hot blood begets hot thoughts,
and hot thoughts beget hot deeds,
and hot deeds is love.
and hot thoughts beget hot deeds,
and hot deeds is love.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Shakespeare on love (2)
...when love speaks,
the voice of all the gods
make heaven
drowsy with the harmony.
the voice of all the gods
make heaven
drowsy with the harmony.
Thursday, May 21, 2009
St. Francis de Sales on confidence in God
"The everlasting God has in His wisdom foreseen from eternity the cross that He now presents to you as a gift from His inmost heart. This cross He now sends you He has considered with His all-knowing eyes, understood with His divine mind, tested with His wise justice, warmed with loving arms and weighed with His own hands to see that it be not one inch too large and not one ounce too heavy for you. He has blessed it with His holy Name, anointed it with His consolation, taken one last glance at you and your courage, and then sent it to you from heaven, a special greeting from God to you, an alms of the all-merciful love of God."
Love letters from home
Yesterday I named the series I'll be teaching. I'm calling it "Love letters from home."
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Time to get off the bench...
A few weeks ago God began whispering to me "Get off the bench."
Part of me wondered what the heck He was talking about; I'm working for Him constantly.
But most of me knew what He meant.
And then the door opened.
Starting in June, I will be introducing a group of women to the concepts I play with here. Please pray for me; that the women would blossom in response to the intimacy He desires with them.
Part of me wondered what the heck He was talking about; I'm working for Him constantly.
But most of me knew what He meant.
And then the door opened.
Starting in June, I will be introducing a group of women to the concepts I play with here. Please pray for me; that the women would blossom in response to the intimacy He desires with them.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Pencils in the hand of God
We are all pencils in the hand of a writing God, who is sending love letters to the world.
-- Mother Teresa
-- Mother Teresa
Magical decoys for eternal delights
From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):
"'What is human love? What is its purpose? It is the desire for union with a beautiful object in order to make eternity available to mortal life.' It is a fundamental teaching of the Neo-platonists that earthly pleasures are an invitation to eternal delights. Ficino says that these things of ordinary life that enchant us toward eternity are 'magical decoys.' In other words, what appears to be a fully earthly relationship between two human individuals is at the same time a path toward far deeper experiences of the soul. ... The early Romantic German poet Novalis put it quite simply: love, he says, was not made for this world."
"'What is human love? What is its purpose? It is the desire for union with a beautiful object in order to make eternity available to mortal life.' It is a fundamental teaching of the Neo-platonists that earthly pleasures are an invitation to eternal delights. Ficino says that these things of ordinary life that enchant us toward eternity are 'magical decoys.' In other words, what appears to be a fully earthly relationship between two human individuals is at the same time a path toward far deeper experiences of the soul. ... The early Romantic German poet Novalis put it quite simply: love, he says, was not made for this world."
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Desire for pure absorption
From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):
"There is something about being in love that wishes for blindness, pure absorption and freedom from complexity."
"There is something about being in love that wishes for blindness, pure absorption and freedom from complexity."
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Only one cure
From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4):
"A general principle we can take from Freud is that love sparks imagination to extraordinary activity. Being 'in love' is like being 'in imagination.' The literal concerns of everyday life, yesterday such a preoccupation, now practically disappear in the rush of love's daydreams. Concrete reality recedes as the imaginal world settles in. Thus, the 'divine madness' of love is akin to the mania of paranoia and other dissociations.
Does this mean that we need to be cured of this madness? Robert Burton in his massive self-help book of the seventeenth century, The Anatomy of Melancholy, says there is only one cure for the melancholic sickness of love: enter into it with abandon."
"A general principle we can take from Freud is that love sparks imagination to extraordinary activity. Being 'in love' is like being 'in imagination.' The literal concerns of everyday life, yesterday such a preoccupation, now practically disappear in the rush of love's daydreams. Concrete reality recedes as the imaginal world settles in. Thus, the 'divine madness' of love is akin to the mania of paranoia and other dissociations.
Does this mean that we need to be cured of this madness? Robert Burton in his massive self-help book of the seventeenth century, The Anatomy of Melancholy, says there is only one cure for the melancholic sickness of love: enter into it with abandon."
Friday, May 15, 2009
On unearthly cravings
From Care of the Soul (Ch. 4)
"Love releases us into the realm of divine imagination, where the soul is expanded and reminded of its unearthly cravings and needs. We think that when a lover inflates his loved one he is failing to acknowledge her flaws--'Love is blind.' But it may be the other way around. Love allows a person to see the true angelic nature of another person, the halo, the aureole of divinity. "
"Love releases us into the realm of divine imagination, where the soul is expanded and reminded of its unearthly cravings and needs. We think that when a lover inflates his loved one he is failing to acknowledge her flaws--'Love is blind.' But it may be the other way around. Love allows a person to see the true angelic nature of another person, the halo, the aureole of divinity. "
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Not to mention a Saturday morning...
Knowing you'll have something good to read before bed is among the most pleasurable of sensations.
-- Vladimir Nabokov
-- Vladimir Nabokov
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Come see a man who told me everything I have done
During devotions this morning I began to think about how the scriptures repeatedly couple the concepts of marital infidelity and deific infidelity.
I've also been thinking of how many Gospel encounters describe Jesus' interacting with women in sexual sin. He seems to have a special affinity for them.
And I wonder why this is. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, just still wondering.
I've also been thinking of how many Gospel encounters describe Jesus' interacting with women in sexual sin. He seems to have a special affinity for them.
And I wonder why this is. I haven't come to any conclusions yet, just still wondering.
Monday, May 11, 2009
On dancing before the Lord with abandon
In yesterday's musical worship at mass I thought about David's abandoned dance before God, contrasted with my own reserved participation in the act of singing as praying twice.
I love to dance. What a joy it would be to enter into whole-body worship of Him who is song itself. But it's hard to picture entering into the sensuality of dance amidst the congregation, those people who know me but don't -know- me.
My dance would be lovemaking from a distance. My dance would be the enchanted swaying of a charmed snake. My dance would be a cry for union.
My dance would make them uncomfortable and suspicious.
So once again I realize that I am both like and unlike my namesake. Like him, I long to dance with abandon before my Lord. But unlike him, I refrain because of the reaction of those who would witness it.
I love to dance. What a joy it would be to enter into whole-body worship of Him who is song itself. But it's hard to picture entering into the sensuality of dance amidst the congregation, those people who know me but don't -know- me.
My dance would be lovemaking from a distance. My dance would be the enchanted swaying of a charmed snake. My dance would be a cry for union.
My dance would make them uncomfortable and suspicious.
So once again I realize that I am both like and unlike my namesake. Like him, I long to dance with abandon before my Lord. But unlike him, I refrain because of the reaction of those who would witness it.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Suzanne
A client sang part of this to me over the phone one of the first times I spoke to him a few years back. The recent Hokey Music post caused me to stumble over it, and I realized I'd never heard the real thing.
Suzanne by Leonard Cohen, sung by Neil Diamond
Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.
Suzanne by Leonard Cohen, sung by Neil Diamond
Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river
You can hear the boats go by
You can spend the night beside her
And you know that she's half crazy
But that's why you want to be there
And she feeds you tea and oranges
That come all the way from China
And just when you mean to tell her
That you have no love to give her
Then she gets you on her wavelength
And she lets the river answer
That you've always been her lover
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that she will trust you
For you've touched her perfect body with your mind.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.
Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Blessed assurance
A friend told me on Wednesday that she'd dreamt a strange dream of me the night before. She said that I was covered in tattoos (in RL I have none) of planets and stars which twirled and spun. She said it was very beautiful and she kept calling people to come over and see.
She woke wondering what it was about, and then thought about it and decided it was because she wanted everyone to know how awesome I was.
What a lovely gift for her to give me, from God's lips. He was speaking to me at a time when I needed to hear such a thing from Him.
She woke wondering what it was about, and then thought about it and decided it was because she wanted everyone to know how awesome I was.
What a lovely gift for her to give me, from God's lips. He was speaking to me at a time when I needed to hear such a thing from Him.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
Hokey music alert!
Neil Diamond's Play Me is running through my head this morning, which suits my mood. I looked up the lyrics, but decided to post just the refrain:
You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the words
I am the tune
Play me.
You are the sun
I am the moon
You are the words
I am the tune
Play me.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Hopefully not...
I don't fear death at all, though I do fear certain methods of dying. For example, while topping off the air pressure in a tire this morning, I remembered my fear of dying by exploding, over-full tire.
Eschatological Procreation
I wonder what sort of procreation will occur in the fulfillment of time, with our resurrected bodies and Christ as our bridegroom?
Monday, May 4, 2009
An apple by any other name
I sought the impossible;
a word to describe you.
The closest I came
was
delicious.
--Chantelle Franc
a word to describe you.
The closest I came
was
delicious.
--Chantelle Franc
Victorious denial
I realized yesterday that all my greatest victories, my greatest conquests, have been acts of submission and self denial.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
His fruit is sweet to my mouth
Warning: here goes my mind again...
I heard part of a Christopher West talk on the Theology of the Body over the weekend, and once again my mind traveled to interesting places. He echoed one of my favorite topics of contemplation, saying that all of the sacraments reflect the essential reality of Christianity as a marital covenant between us (the bride) and God (the bridegroom). He spoke of how we are to understand the Song of Songs, and touched on communion as consummation.
My mental meanderings connected to thoughts I'd had at mass that morning, about how the placing of His body upon my tongue seems too rushed, too formulaic, too much of one-more-person-in-an-assembly-line. I thought of how lovely it would be to linger with His hand approaching, then resting against my mouth; His body approaching His bride...
I believe in the wisdom of a celibate priesthood for many reasons, but began to wonder what it would be like to be married to a priest.
What would it be like if your husband celebrated the mass with you alone, standing in persona Christi before you, delivering Himself to His bride first through the precious species, and then through his/His body itself?
What would it be like to consummate both weddings in the Eucharistic celebration, the three of you whispering the closing prayers together at the end?
We will not desire candy in heaven.
I heard part of a Christopher West talk on the Theology of the Body over the weekend, and once again my mind traveled to interesting places. He echoed one of my favorite topics of contemplation, saying that all of the sacraments reflect the essential reality of Christianity as a marital covenant between us (the bride) and God (the bridegroom). He spoke of how we are to understand the Song of Songs, and touched on communion as consummation.
My mental meanderings connected to thoughts I'd had at mass that morning, about how the placing of His body upon my tongue seems too rushed, too formulaic, too much of one-more-person-in-an-assembly-line. I thought of how lovely it would be to linger with His hand approaching, then resting against my mouth; His body approaching His bride...
I believe in the wisdom of a celibate priesthood for many reasons, but began to wonder what it would be like to be married to a priest.
What would it be like if your husband celebrated the mass with you alone, standing in persona Christi before you, delivering Himself to His bride first through the precious species, and then through his/His body itself?
What would it be like to consummate both weddings in the Eucharistic celebration, the three of you whispering the closing prayers together at the end?
We will not desire candy in heaven.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
At Jacob's Well
This is the most beautiful thing I've read in a very long time. Needless to say, it comforts me.
carrying her water-jar to Jacob's well
outside the town of Sychar, in Samaria:
what charms, what freshness bubbled up
from which corner of her heart, and made her the oasis
that she was? Five husbands and a lover
come one by one to slake their thirst in her,
and still some water-truce holds in Sychar, protects
this frank green spring from all polluting shame;
and now another thirsty man, this foreigner,
sits asking, and again her charms bubble up
like the water, like her questions. Could that be
what enchants them all, her way of asking
straight to the heart of things? And did she know,
before he spoke, how long her heart had thirsted
to be answered the same way? Hear the dance
of their talk, these strangers, as they sit together
on the path to Jacob's well, speak in circles
around the deep water: thirst and drinking,
husbands and lovers, mountain and temple,
Spirit and truth--askings and answers
bowing in, leaning back, swayed and spun
to the beat of two hidden drums. Here's what
I wonder about the woman, dancing back now
to the village, her water-jar left behind
for him to drink from: did she notice
what the disciples half-saw, how deep he had drunk
from their talk, from their dance? See the gleam
in his dark eyes, like sunlight sparking deep
on well-water; see his toes tap inside dusty sandals
in time to the dancer's steps; now see him rise
and laugh, shake his head, rinsed by her charms,
sated by her questions, enchanted by her thirsty
generous heart, a vessel after his own heart,
a dancer who matches his own steps in the dance
of ask and answer, of Spirit courting soul.
--Elizabeth A. Nelson
At Jacob's Well
Here's what I want to know about the womancarrying her water-jar to Jacob's well
outside the town of Sychar, in Samaria:
what charms, what freshness bubbled up
from which corner of her heart, and made her the oasis
that she was? Five husbands and a lover
come one by one to slake their thirst in her,
and still some water-truce holds in Sychar, protects
this frank green spring from all polluting shame;
and now another thirsty man, this foreigner,
sits asking, and again her charms bubble up
like the water, like her questions. Could that be
what enchants them all, her way of asking
straight to the heart of things? And did she know,
before he spoke, how long her heart had thirsted
to be answered the same way? Hear the dance
of their talk, these strangers, as they sit together
on the path to Jacob's well, speak in circles
around the deep water: thirst and drinking,
husbands and lovers, mountain and temple,
Spirit and truth--askings and answers
bowing in, leaning back, swayed and spun
to the beat of two hidden drums. Here's what
I wonder about the woman, dancing back now
to the village, her water-jar left behind
for him to drink from: did she notice
what the disciples half-saw, how deep he had drunk
from their talk, from their dance? See the gleam
in his dark eyes, like sunlight sparking deep
on well-water; see his toes tap inside dusty sandals
in time to the dancer's steps; now see him rise
and laugh, shake his head, rinsed by her charms,
sated by her questions, enchanted by her thirsty
generous heart, a vessel after his own heart,
a dancer who matches his own steps in the dance
of ask and answer, of Spirit courting soul.
--Elizabeth A. Nelson
Peace among the thorns
Just saw the following as a closing salutation in a mysticism discussion group:
"Peace among the thorns."
I think I might have to start using that.
"Peace among the thorns."
I think I might have to start using that.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Friday, April 24, 2009
Eros in all his splendour
From The Four Loves (Ch 4):
It is in the grandeur of Eros that the seeds of danger are concealed. He has spoken like a god. His total commitment, his reckless disregard of happiness, his transcendence of self-regard, sound like a message from the eternal world. And yet it cannot, just as it stands, be the voice of God Himself. For Eros, speaking with that very grandeur and displaying that very transcendence of self, may urge to evil as well as to good. Nothing is shallower than the belief that a love which leads to sin is always qualitatively lower more animal or more trivial than one which leads to faithful, fruitful and Christian marriage. The love which leads to cruel and perjured unions, even to suicide-pacts and murder, is not likely to be wandering lust or idle sentiment. It may well be Eros in all his splendour; heart-breakingly sincere; ready for every sacrifice except renunciation.
It is in the grandeur of Eros that the seeds of danger are concealed. He has spoken like a god. His total commitment, his reckless disregard of happiness, his transcendence of self-regard, sound like a message from the eternal world. And yet it cannot, just as it stands, be the voice of God Himself. For Eros, speaking with that very grandeur and displaying that very transcendence of self, may urge to evil as well as to good. Nothing is shallower than the belief that a love which leads to sin is always qualitatively lower more animal or more trivial than one which leads to faithful, fruitful and Christian marriage. The love which leads to cruel and perjured unions, even to suicide-pacts and murder, is not likely to be wandering lust or idle sentiment. It may well be Eros in all his splendour; heart-breakingly sincere; ready for every sacrifice except renunciation.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Wild and undisciplined Christianity
Recently my BP described the church universal as being like "...an English country garden - wild and undisciplined but beautiful and blessed to the eyes of our sovereign Lord".
Lovely, no?
Lovely, no?
Monday, April 20, 2009
Effervescing into twilight
I lay on the border of dreams
desire
like wind keening
through empty spaces
heart beating
to the rhythm of your name
while
you-shaped emptiness
expands to consume me
effervescing
into sparkling twilight.
Now
I am awake
and hungry for you still.
--Chantelle Franc
desire
like wind keening
through empty spaces
heart beating
to the rhythm of your name
while
you-shaped emptiness
expands to consume me
effervescing
into sparkling twilight.
Now
I am awake
and hungry for you still.
--Chantelle Franc
Sunday, April 19, 2009
If only the rest of the clergy understood it as well
This is what my BP (beloved priest) does, and encourages us to do.
From chapter 4 of Lilith:
'The sun broke through the clouds, and the raindrops flashed and sparkled on the grass. The raven was walking over it.
"You will wet your feet!" I cried.
"And mire my beak," he answered, immediately plunging it deep in the sod, and drawing out a great wriggling red worm. He threw back his head, and tossed it in the air. It spread great wings, gorgeous in red and black, and soared aloft.
"Tut! tut!" I exclaimed; "you mistake, Mr. Raven: worms are not the larvæ of butterflies!"
"Never mind," he croaked; "it will do for once! I'm not a reading man at present, but sexton at the--at a certain graveyard--cemetery, more properly--in--at--no matter where!"
"I see! you can't keep your spade still: and when you have nothing to bury, you must dig something up! Only you should mind what it is before you make it fly! No creature should be allowed to forget what and where it came from!"
"Why?" said the raven.
"Because it will grow proud, and cease to recognise its superiors."
No man knows it when he is making an idiot of himself.
"Where do the worms come from?" said the raven, as if suddenly grown curious to know.
"Why, from the earth, as you have just seen!" I answered.
"Yes, last!" he replied. "But they can't have come from it first-- for that will never go back to it!" he added, looking up.
I looked up also, but could see nothing save a little dark cloud, the edges of which were red, as if with the light of the sunset.
"Surely the sun is not going down!" I exclaimed, struck with amazement.
"Oh, no!" returned the raven. "That red belongs to the worm."
"You see what comes of making creatures forget their origin!" I cried with some warmth.
"It is well, surely, if it be to rise higher and grow larger!" he returned. "But indeed I only teach them to find it!"
"Would you have the air full of worms?"
"That is the business of a sexton. If only the rest of the clergy understood it as well!"
In went his beak again through the soft turf, and out came the wriggling worm. He tossed it in the air, and away it flew.'
From chapter 4 of Lilith:
'The sun broke through the clouds, and the raindrops flashed and sparkled on the grass. The raven was walking over it.
"You will wet your feet!" I cried.
"And mire my beak," he answered, immediately plunging it deep in the sod, and drawing out a great wriggling red worm. He threw back his head, and tossed it in the air. It spread great wings, gorgeous in red and black, and soared aloft.
"Tut! tut!" I exclaimed; "you mistake, Mr. Raven: worms are not the larvæ of butterflies!"
"Never mind," he croaked; "it will do for once! I'm not a reading man at present, but sexton at the--at a certain graveyard--cemetery, more properly--in--at--no matter where!"
"I see! you can't keep your spade still: and when you have nothing to bury, you must dig something up! Only you should mind what it is before you make it fly! No creature should be allowed to forget what and where it came from!"
"Why?" said the raven.
"Because it will grow proud, and cease to recognise its superiors."
No man knows it when he is making an idiot of himself.
"Where do the worms come from?" said the raven, as if suddenly grown curious to know.
"Why, from the earth, as you have just seen!" I answered.
"Yes, last!" he replied. "But they can't have come from it first-- for that will never go back to it!" he added, looking up.
I looked up also, but could see nothing save a little dark cloud, the edges of which were red, as if with the light of the sunset.
"Surely the sun is not going down!" I exclaimed, struck with amazement.
"Oh, no!" returned the raven. "That red belongs to the worm."
"You see what comes of making creatures forget their origin!" I cried with some warmth.
"It is well, surely, if it be to rise higher and grow larger!" he returned. "But indeed I only teach them to find it!"
"Would you have the air full of worms?"
"That is the business of a sexton. If only the rest of the clergy understood it as well!"
In went his beak again through the soft turf, and out came the wriggling worm. He tossed it in the air, and away it flew.'
Saturday, April 18, 2009
On a multitudinously complicated significance
I came across a passage Thursday night which does a decent job of conveying the difficulty I have describing what God whispers to me.
From chapter 9 of George MacDonald's Lilith:
"Here I interrupt my narrative to remark that it involves a constant struggle to say what cannot be said with even an approach to precision, the things recorded being, in their nature and in that of the creatures concerned in them, so inexpressibly different from any possible events of this economy, that I can present them only by giving, in the forms and language of life in this world, the modes in which they affected me--not the things themselves, but the feelings they woke in me. Even this much, however, I do with a continuous and abiding sense of failure, finding it impossible to present more than one phase of a multitudinously complicated significance, or one concentric sphere of a graduated embodiment. A single thing would sometimes seem to be and mean many things, with an uncertain identity at the heart of them, which kept constantly altering their look. I am indeed often driven to set down what I know to be but a clumsy and doubtful representation of the mere feeling aimed at, none of the communicating media of this world being fit to convey it, in its peculiar strangeness, with even an approach to clearness or certainty. Even to one who knew the region better than myself, I should have no assurance of transmitting the reality of my experience in it. While without a doubt, for instance, that I was actually regarding a scene of activity, I might be, at the same moment, in my consciousness aware that I was perusing a metaphysical argument."
From chapter 9 of George MacDonald's Lilith:
"Here I interrupt my narrative to remark that it involves a constant struggle to say what cannot be said with even an approach to precision, the things recorded being, in their nature and in that of the creatures concerned in them, so inexpressibly different from any possible events of this economy, that I can present them only by giving, in the forms and language of life in this world, the modes in which they affected me--not the things themselves, but the feelings they woke in me. Even this much, however, I do with a continuous and abiding sense of failure, finding it impossible to present more than one phase of a multitudinously complicated significance, or one concentric sphere of a graduated embodiment. A single thing would sometimes seem to be and mean many things, with an uncertain identity at the heart of them, which kept constantly altering their look. I am indeed often driven to set down what I know to be but a clumsy and doubtful representation of the mere feeling aimed at, none of the communicating media of this world being fit to convey it, in its peculiar strangeness, with even an approach to clearness or certainty. Even to one who knew the region better than myself, I should have no assurance of transmitting the reality of my experience in it. While without a doubt, for instance, that I was actually regarding a scene of activity, I might be, at the same moment, in my consciousness aware that I was perusing a metaphysical argument."
Friday, April 17, 2009
Blossoming of desire
In prayer this morning I pondered what happens to our desires when we leave this world; desires which are often tarnished with a verdigris of sin.
My first thought was that they would burn away like dross as our metal is purified.
But that is too simple and too dismissive of beauty.
Then I wondered if these desires might get consumed by the burning fire of love for our God, that the beatific vision would enrapture them into it's raging core of flame. And rather than simply being burned away, they would feed the fire that is Him, and grow it.
Better, this explanation, but still a bit shallow.
I finally concluded that the desires of this world which we carry must blossom and bloom after death. Instead of being removed or subsumed, they expand and grow until our whole being burns with love and desire and passion for all of creation, rather than for little pieces of it.
Just as His being does.
I can't wait to find out the truth.
My first thought was that they would burn away like dross as our metal is purified.
But that is too simple and too dismissive of beauty.
Then I wondered if these desires might get consumed by the burning fire of love for our God, that the beatific vision would enrapture them into it's raging core of flame. And rather than simply being burned away, they would feed the fire that is Him, and grow it.
Better, this explanation, but still a bit shallow.
I finally concluded that the desires of this world which we carry must blossom and bloom after death. Instead of being removed or subsumed, they expand and grow until our whole being burns with love and desire and passion for all of creation, rather than for little pieces of it.
Just as His being does.
I can't wait to find out the truth.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
The three become one
I recently sat in a small group celebrating the morning office, and listened to our voices united in praying the Lord's prayer.
My mind wandered where it wanders, and I wondered what it might be like to recite the prayer responsively while in the preliminary steps of lovemaking.
What would it be like to turn lovemaking into worship?
Would the three become one?
(Did I mention that I sometimes wonder about my mind?)
My mind wandered where it wanders, and I wondered what it might be like to recite the prayer responsively while in the preliminary steps of lovemaking.
What would it be like to turn lovemaking into worship?
Would the three become one?
(Did I mention that I sometimes wonder about my mind?)
This saying is hard; who can accept it?
The other day I had a thought which feels both intensely right and disturbingly wrong.
It came while pondering the scourging scene from Mel Gibson's The passion of the Christ. Christ's mother and Mary the Magdalene used white cloths to try and collect His precious blood which was spilled and splattered over the stone pavement around the whipping post. In addition to the blood, you could see scraps of flesh which had been ripped from his body by the barbs of the scourge.
As I meditated on this scene, I thought about the spot becoming forever holy through such an outpouring.
Here is the disturbing part:
I desired to eat those torn pieces of His body, and even lick up the blood which the women must have had to leave behind.
I recognize how grotesque this sounds, and yet I still desire it, and think that it is the only right and reverent thing to do.
Sometimes I wonder about my mind...
It came while pondering the scourging scene from Mel Gibson's The passion of the Christ. Christ's mother and Mary the Magdalene used white cloths to try and collect His precious blood which was spilled and splattered over the stone pavement around the whipping post. In addition to the blood, you could see scraps of flesh which had been ripped from his body by the barbs of the scourge.
As I meditated on this scene, I thought about the spot becoming forever holy through such an outpouring.
Here is the disturbing part:
I desired to eat those torn pieces of His body, and even lick up the blood which the women must have had to leave behind.
I recognize how grotesque this sounds, and yet I still desire it, and think that it is the only right and reverent thing to do.
Sometimes I wonder about my mind...
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Foot washing 2009
What a Holy Week it was! Each year is differently profound.
In mid-March I pondered whether Mary's gift of foot washing and anointing may have been inspirational to Jesus later service to his disciples. My experience last Thursday confirmed it.
As usual in this service, I knelt and wept as people went forward to have one of our deacons or seminarians wash their feet. A lovely man who I'd not yet met turned around twice to ask if I was all right, apparently unused to the sounds of sobs in church. The bent backs and bowed heads of these servants of Christ were heart rending.
I wondered who God had in mind for me, and eventually went up to one who washed us for the first time this year. I sat before him, the sobs rising in intensity as he lifted my foot.
And I still can't believe what he did.
I've participated in these services for 5 or 6 years and each time the men have been unfailingly reverent and tender, clearly acting in the person of Christ. Each one kept his face turned down so that we can better imagine He who first washed us.
I think that the Holy Spirit whispered to this man for me.
He took my naked, humble foot, no thing of beauty, and lavished it with love the same way I imagine Mary caressing Christ. It was an act of profound intimacy which I cannot possibly describe.
I was undone.
I am trying to figure out how to thank him for his obedience to the Spirit's prompting to give me this gift.
The generosity of our Lord...
In mid-March I pondered whether Mary's gift of foot washing and anointing may have been inspirational to Jesus later service to his disciples. My experience last Thursday confirmed it.
As usual in this service, I knelt and wept as people went forward to have one of our deacons or seminarians wash their feet. A lovely man who I'd not yet met turned around twice to ask if I was all right, apparently unused to the sounds of sobs in church. The bent backs and bowed heads of these servants of Christ were heart rending.
I wondered who God had in mind for me, and eventually went up to one who washed us for the first time this year. I sat before him, the sobs rising in intensity as he lifted my foot.
And I still can't believe what he did.
I've participated in these services for 5 or 6 years and each time the men have been unfailingly reverent and tender, clearly acting in the person of Christ. Each one kept his face turned down so that we can better imagine He who first washed us.
I think that the Holy Spirit whispered to this man for me.
He took my naked, humble foot, no thing of beauty, and lavished it with love the same way I imagine Mary caressing Christ. It was an act of profound intimacy which I cannot possibly describe.
I was undone.
I am trying to figure out how to thank him for his obedience to the Spirit's prompting to give me this gift.
The generosity of our Lord...
George MacDonald on the Passions
From Phantastes:
"The hot fever of life had gone by, and I breathed the clear mountain-air of the land of Death. I had never dreamed of such blessedness. It was not that I had in any way ceased to be what I had been. The very fact that anything can die, implies the existence of something that cannot die; which must either take to itself another form, as when the seed that is sown dies, and arises again; or, in conscious existence, may, perhaps, continue to lead a purely spiritual life. If my passions were dead, the souls of the passions, those essential mysteries of the spirit which had imbodied themselves in the passions, and had given to them all their glory and wonderment, yet lived, yet glowed, with a pure, undying fire. They rose above their vanishing earthly garments, and disclosed themselves angels of light."
"The hot fever of life had gone by, and I breathed the clear mountain-air of the land of Death. I had never dreamed of such blessedness. It was not that I had in any way ceased to be what I had been. The very fact that anything can die, implies the existence of something that cannot die; which must either take to itself another form, as when the seed that is sown dies, and arises again; or, in conscious existence, may, perhaps, continue to lead a purely spiritual life. If my passions were dead, the souls of the passions, those essential mysteries of the spirit which had imbodied themselves in the passions, and had given to them all their glory and wonderment, yet lived, yet glowed, with a pure, undying fire. They rose above their vanishing earthly garments, and disclosed themselves angels of light."
Saturday, April 11, 2009
George MacDonald on Dying of Desire (II)
From Phantastes:
"He could not come near her, could not speak to her, could not hear a sound from those sweet lips, to which his longing eyes would cling like bees to their honey-founts. Ever and anon he sang to himself: "I shall die for love of the maiden;" and ever he looked again, and died not, though his heart seemed ready to break with intensity of life and longing. And the more he did for her, the more he loved her; and he hoped that, although she never appeared to see him, yet she was pleased to think that one unknown would give his life to her. He tried to comfort himself over his separation from her, by thinking that perhaps some day she would see him and make signs to him, and that would satisfy him; "for," thought he, "is not this all that a loving soul can do to enter into communion with another? Nay, how many who love never come nearer than to behold each other as in a mirror; seem to know and yet never know the inward life; never enter the other soul; and part at last, with but the vaguest notion of the universe on the borders of which they have been hovering for years?"
"He could not come near her, could not speak to her, could not hear a sound from those sweet lips, to which his longing eyes would cling like bees to their honey-founts. Ever and anon he sang to himself: "I shall die for love of the maiden;" and ever he looked again, and died not, though his heart seemed ready to break with intensity of life and longing. And the more he did for her, the more he loved her; and he hoped that, although she never appeared to see him, yet she was pleased to think that one unknown would give his life to her. He tried to comfort himself over his separation from her, by thinking that perhaps some day she would see him and make signs to him, and that would satisfy him; "for," thought he, "is not this all that a loving soul can do to enter into communion with another? Nay, how many who love never come nearer than to behold each other as in a mirror; seem to know and yet never know the inward life; never enter the other soul; and part at last, with but the vaguest notion of the universe on the borders of which they have been hovering for years?"
Friday, April 10, 2009
Wormicide
It was raining the other day, and as I left work and walked across the vast parking lot I watched a worm squirm his way through a puddle. The sight of this gets me every time, and I bent to try to rescue him. He was slippery and annoyed by my "help", energetically resisting my efforts. I eventually did grab him, hoping I didn't hurt him in the process, and walked him over to a landscaped area which offered some dirt.
I felt both virtuous and victorious.
For roughly 13 seconds.
Then I saw another worm, this time already dead.
Then another.
Then another.
And a sense of futility rolled over me; the parking lot was too big. I was surrounded by other parking lots. The city was full of parking lots and driveways and other surfaces all covered with suicidal worms awaiting destruction.
I couldn't possibly save them.
That's when the anger hit; what the heck is wrong with worms that they end up drowning on asphalt?
Where do they all come from?
Why do I feel guilty about them?
And then, as if in a Hallmark card commercial, silent violins began to play and I thought of birds.
Birds were the answer; every rainstorm is a gift to the birds.
And I felt better.
Easter is coming. Alleluia.
I felt both virtuous and victorious.
For roughly 13 seconds.
Then I saw another worm, this time already dead.
Then another.
Then another.
And a sense of futility rolled over me; the parking lot was too big. I was surrounded by other parking lots. The city was full of parking lots and driveways and other surfaces all covered with suicidal worms awaiting destruction.
I couldn't possibly save them.
That's when the anger hit; what the heck is wrong with worms that they end up drowning on asphalt?
Where do they all come from?
Why do I feel guilty about them?
And then, as if in a Hallmark card commercial, silent violins began to play and I thought of birds.
Birds were the answer; every rainstorm is a gift to the birds.
And I felt better.
Easter is coming. Alleluia.
George MacDonald on Dying of Desire
From Phantastes:
"She was found, the next morning, dead beneath a withered tree on a bare hill-side, some miles inland. They buried her where she lay, as is their custom; for, before they die, they instinctively search for a spot like the place of their birth, and having found one that satisfies them, they lie down, fold their wings around them, if they be women, or cross their arms over their breasts, if they are men, just as if they were going to sleep; and so sleep indeed. The sign or cause of coming death is an indescribable longing for something, they know not what, which seizes them, and drives them into solitude, consuming them within, till the body fails. When a youth and a maiden look too deep into each other's eyes, this longing seizes and possesses them; but instead of drawing nearer to each other, they wander away, each alone, into solitary places, and die of their desire."
"She was found, the next morning, dead beneath a withered tree on a bare hill-side, some miles inland. They buried her where she lay, as is their custom; for, before they die, they instinctively search for a spot like the place of their birth, and having found one that satisfies them, they lie down, fold their wings around them, if they be women, or cross their arms over their breasts, if they are men, just as if they were going to sleep; and so sleep indeed. The sign or cause of coming death is an indescribable longing for something, they know not what, which seizes them, and drives them into solitude, consuming them within, till the body fails. When a youth and a maiden look too deep into each other's eyes, this longing seizes and possesses them; but instead of drawing nearer to each other, they wander away, each alone, into solitary places, and die of their desire."
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Foot washing revisited
Here's an article I wrote a few years ago on what is for me one of the most heart-wrenching services. Should have thought to reference it earlier in the day...
Instilling Humility: Maundy Thursday Foot Washing
Instilling Humility: Maundy Thursday Foot Washing
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
SquirrelTree
If not a dog named me
perhaps I can be
a creature near your window
perched in a tree
pretending not to notice
when you watch
and hoping you will join me
in the warmth of my nest.
--Chantelle Franc
perhaps I can be
a creature near your window
perched in a tree
pretending not to notice
when you watch
and hoping you will join me
in the warmth of my nest.
--Chantelle Franc
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Imaginatio divina
At my beloved priest's invitation, for a few weeks I have been practicing what I am calling imagiplation or imaginatio divina; the use of the imagination for experiencing God.
It has been an amazing adventure, one which I need to document in greater detail in future. For now I'll limit myself to telling you about His gift to me this morning.
I approach Him in a particular setting which He created for me, and I climb into His lap. Normally I cuddle in like a child. This morning however, I turned my face up to Him as a woman, not a child. He bent His head to meet me and we kissed a kiss of lovers at rest. And as we kissed, He began to blow His breath into me.
I entered His presence heavy of heart and mind. I left at peace and in wonder.
He is so very generous...
It has been an amazing adventure, one which I need to document in greater detail in future. For now I'll limit myself to telling you about His gift to me this morning.
I approach Him in a particular setting which He created for me, and I climb into His lap. Normally I cuddle in like a child. This morning however, I turned my face up to Him as a woman, not a child. He bent His head to meet me and we kissed a kiss of lovers at rest. And as we kissed, He began to blow His breath into me.
I entered His presence heavy of heart and mind. I left at peace and in wonder.
He is so very generous...
Monday, April 6, 2009
George MacDonald on Reflections
From Phantastes:
"Why are all reflections lovelier than what we call the reality? — not so grand or so strong, it may be, but always lovelier? ... All mirrors are magic mirrors. The commonest room is a room in a poem when I turn to the glass. ... In whatever way it may be accounted for, of one thing we may be sure, that this feeling is no cheat; for there is no cheating in nature and the simple unsought feelings of the soul. There must be a truth involved in it, though we may but in part lay hold of the meaning. Even the memories of past pain are beautiful; and past delights, though beheld only through clefts in the grey clouds of sorrow, are lovely as Fairy Land. But how have I wandered into the deeper fairyland of the soul, while as yet I only float towards the fairy palace of Fairy Land! The moon, which is the lovelier memory or reflex of the down-gone sun, the joyous day seen in the faint mirror of the brooding night, had rapt me away."
"Why are all reflections lovelier than what we call the reality? — not so grand or so strong, it may be, but always lovelier? ... All mirrors are magic mirrors. The commonest room is a room in a poem when I turn to the glass. ... In whatever way it may be accounted for, of one thing we may be sure, that this feeling is no cheat; for there is no cheating in nature and the simple unsought feelings of the soul. There must be a truth involved in it, though we may but in part lay hold of the meaning. Even the memories of past pain are beautiful; and past delights, though beheld only through clefts in the grey clouds of sorrow, are lovely as Fairy Land. But how have I wandered into the deeper fairyland of the soul, while as yet I only float towards the fairy palace of Fairy Land! The moon, which is the lovelier memory or reflex of the down-gone sun, the joyous day seen in the faint mirror of the brooding night, had rapt me away."
Sunday, April 5, 2009
St. Ambrose on Psalms
What is more pleasing than a psalm? A psalm is a blessing on the lips of the people, praise of God, the assembly's homage, a general acclamation, a word that speaks for all, the voice of the Church, a confession of faith in song.
-- Ambrose
-- Ambrose
Friday, April 3, 2009
Rehearsing goodby
I rehearse your goodbye
in my dreams
the one that moves you away
to lands unknown
and sporadic hollowness
becomes forever.
in my dreams
the one that moves you away
to lands unknown
and sporadic hollowness
becomes forever.
George MacDonald on Truth, Joy and Sorrow
From Phantastes:
"From this I was partly aroused by a glimmering of white, that, through the trees on the left, vaguely crossed my vision, as I gazed upwards. But the trees again hid the object; and at the moment, some strange melodious bird took up its song, and sang, not an ordinary bird-song, with constant repetitions of the same melody, but what sounded like a continuous strain, in which one thought was expressed, deepening in intensity as evolved in progress. It sounded like a welcome already overshadowed with the coming farewell. As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."
"From this I was partly aroused by a glimmering of white, that, through the trees on the left, vaguely crossed my vision, as I gazed upwards. But the trees again hid the object; and at the moment, some strange melodious bird took up its song, and sang, not an ordinary bird-song, with constant repetitions of the same melody, but what sounded like a continuous strain, in which one thought was expressed, deepening in intensity as evolved in progress. It sounded like a welcome already overshadowed with the coming farewell. As in all sweetest music, a tinge of sadness was in every note. Nor do we know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy. Cometh white-robed Sorrow, stooping and wan, and flingeth wide the doors she may not enter. Almost we linger with Sorrow for very love."
Thursday, April 2, 2009
George MacDonald on Self-destructive beauty
This one reminds me of an old me.
From Phantastes by George MacDonald:
"...I am sure she would not look so beautiful if she did not take means to make herself look more beautiful than she is. And then, you know, you began by being in love with her before you saw her beauty, mistaking her for the lady of the marble--another kind altogether, I should think. But the chief thing that makes her beautiful is this: that, although she loves no man, she loves the love of any man, and when she finds one in her power, her desire to bewitch him and gain his love (not for the sake of his love either, but that she may be conscious anew of her own beauty, through the admiration he manifests), makes her very lovely--with a self-destructive beauty, though; for it is that which is constantly wearing her away within, till, at last, the decay will reach her face, and her whole front, when all the lovely mask of nothing will fall to pieces, and she be vanished for ever."
From Phantastes by George MacDonald:
"...I am sure she would not look so beautiful if she did not take means to make herself look more beautiful than she is. And then, you know, you began by being in love with her before you saw her beauty, mistaking her for the lady of the marble--another kind altogether, I should think. But the chief thing that makes her beautiful is this: that, although she loves no man, she loves the love of any man, and when she finds one in her power, her desire to bewitch him and gain his love (not for the sake of his love either, but that she may be conscious anew of her own beauty, through the admiration he manifests), makes her very lovely--with a self-destructive beauty, though; for it is that which is constantly wearing her away within, till, at last, the decay will reach her face, and her whole front, when all the lovely mask of nothing will fall to pieces, and she be vanished for ever."
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Monday, March 30, 2009
Man's best friend
I wish you had a dog named me
so that I could wait at home
and unleash my glee at seeing you
in a frenzied lashing of my tail
and you would stoop
to let me lick your face.
--Chantelle Franc
so that I could wait at home
and unleash my glee at seeing you
in a frenzied lashing of my tail
and you would stoop
to let me lick your face.
--Chantelle Franc
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Screwtape on Christ and pleasure (II)
From The Screwtape Letters:
I know we have won many a soul through pleasure. All the same, it is His invention, not ours. He made the pleasures: all our research so far has not enabled us to produce one. All we can do is to encourage the humans to take the pleasures which our Enemy has produced, at times, or in ways, or in degrees, which He has forbidden. Hence we always try to work away from the natural condition of any pleasure to that in which it is least natural, least redolent of its Maker, and least pleasurable. An ever increasing craving for an ever diminishing pleasure is the formula.
--C.S. Lewis
I know we have won many a soul through pleasure. All the same, it is His invention, not ours. He made the pleasures: all our research so far has not enabled us to produce one. All we can do is to encourage the humans to take the pleasures which our Enemy has produced, at times, or in ways, or in degrees, which He has forbidden. Hence we always try to work away from the natural condition of any pleasure to that in which it is least natural, least redolent of its Maker, and least pleasurable. An ever increasing craving for an ever diminishing pleasure is the formula.
--C.S. Lewis
Saturday, March 28, 2009
Screwtape on Christ and pleasure
From The Screwtape Letters, referring to Christ:
He’s a hedonist at heart. All those fasts and vigils and stakes and crosses are only a facade. Or only like foam on the seashore. Out at sea, out in His sea, there is pleasure, and more pleasure. He makes no secret of it; at His right hand are ‘pleasures for evermore’. Ugh! I don’t think he has the least inkling of that high and austere mystery to which we rise in the Miserific Vision. He’s vulgar, Wormwood. He has a bourgeois mind. He has filled His world full of pleasures. There are things for humans to do all day long without His minding in the least — sleeping, washing, eating, drinking, making love, playing, praying, working. Everything has to be twisted before it’s any use to us. We fight under the cruel disadvantages. Nothing is naturally on our side.
--C.S. Lewis
Friday, March 27, 2009
St. Ignatius on souls wide open
From Letter of 18 July 1536:
"It happens sometimes that the Lord himself moves our souls and forces us, as it were, to this or that particular action by laying our souls wide open. This means that he begins to speak in the very depths of our being, without any clamour of words, he enraptures the soul completely into his love and bestows upon us an awareness of himself so that, even if we wished, we should be unable to resist."
--St. Ignatius
"It happens sometimes that the Lord himself moves our souls and forces us, as it were, to this or that particular action by laying our souls wide open. This means that he begins to speak in the very depths of our being, without any clamour of words, he enraptures the soul completely into his love and bestows upon us an awareness of himself so that, even if we wished, we should be unable to resist."
--St. Ignatius
Thursday, March 26, 2009
on "Twighlight"
I have not read nor seen the movie "Twilight", nor have I wanted to until reading the post below, which I stumbled upon a few minutes ago:
http://beautifulinexactly.wordpress.com/2009/03/25/ill-take-an-order-of-that-please-extra-hot/
Now I guess I'll have to.
http://beautifulinexactly.wordpress.com/2009/03/25/ill-take-an-order-of-that-please-extra-hot/
Now I guess I'll have to.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Pernicious schizophrenia
From: Ignatius the Theologian, Ch. 5 "The application of the Senses"
"A Christian person, in the full sense of what Ignatius was aiming at in the Spiritual Exercises, is one who has overcome the pernicious schizophrenia between soul and body, brain and heart, and thus become fully reintegrated--one who by means of prayer and assimilation to the incarnate Word has put right the 'ill-ordered attachments' of his soul and 'set his life in order'."
--Hugo Rahner, SJ
"A Christian person, in the full sense of what Ignatius was aiming at in the Spiritual Exercises, is one who has overcome the pernicious schizophrenia between soul and body, brain and heart, and thus become fully reintegrated--one who by means of prayer and assimilation to the incarnate Word has put right the 'ill-ordered attachments' of his soul and 'set his life in order'."
--Hugo Rahner, SJ
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Inexpressible
After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.
-- Aldous Huxley
-- Aldous Huxley
Monday, March 23, 2009
on the spiritual senses
"The spiritual senses are the effect of the three theological virtues. From constancy of faith comes the power to hear. From insight into faith comes the power of vision. From hope comes the power to smell. From union in love comes the power to touch. From the enjoyment of love comes the power to taste. This activation of the spiritual senses helps us receive ever greater graces. The helps of grace which Jesus Christ our Lord gives to those whom he loves. He who possesses them will know what this means."
--Jerome Nadal
--Jerome Nadal
Friday, March 20, 2009
Spiritual senses
Polanco was a disciple of Ignatius, and this is commentary from St. Ignatius' Application of the Senses:
Through it's longing for Christ, whom it desires to breathe in as the Word inviting us to the enjoyment of full union, it receives a spiritual sense of smell, so that it may walk in the fragrance of Christ's ointments: and thus Christ is its life. And finally, through the love which binds it to Christ the incarnate Word, it receives straight from him, even during this earthly pilgrimage, a sense of taste which enables it to taste how sweet the Lord is. And by embracing him in that pure love which transforms its very being, it receives a spiritual sense of touch."
Through it's longing for Christ, whom it desires to breathe in as the Word inviting us to the enjoyment of full union, it receives a spiritual sense of smell, so that it may walk in the fragrance of Christ's ointments: and thus Christ is its life. And finally, through the love which binds it to Christ the incarnate Word, it receives straight from him, even during this earthly pilgrimage, a sense of taste which enables it to taste how sweet the Lord is. And by embracing him in that pure love which transforms its very being, it receives a spiritual sense of touch."
Thursday, March 19, 2009
A hand not empty
It is amazing that an empty hand, stretched toward you, can contain so much comfort.
St. Bonaventure on inward senses
"And once they are attained the soul beholds Christ, hears him, becomes aware of him through his pleasant fragrance, savours him and embraces him. But this can be grasped only by him who receives this grace of prayer for this is less a matter of intellectual consideration than of loving experience. Thus at this stage of prayer the soul has now won back the interior senses, so that it may behold the supreme beauty, hear the supreme harmony, breathe in the supreme frangrance, savour the supreme sweeness and touch the supreme delight.""
(Itinerarium mentis in Deum cf. 4)
(Itinerarium mentis in Deum cf. 4)
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
St. Augustine inflamed
"I have learnt to love you late, Beauty at once so ancient and so new! I have learnt to love you late! You were within me, and I was in the world outside myself. I searched for you outside myself and, disfigured as I was, I fell upon the lovely things of your creation. You were with me, but I was not with you. The beautiful things of this world kept me far from you and yet, if they had not been in you, they would have had no being at all. You called me; you cried aloud to me; you broke my barrier of deafness. You shone upon me; your radiance enveloped me; you put my blindness to flight; you shed your fragrance about me; I drew breath and now I grasp your sweet odour, I tasted you, and now I hunger and thirst for you. You touched me, and I am inflamed with love of your peace."
(Confessions, X, 27)
(Confessions, X, 27)
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
St. Augustine on clinging to God's embrace
"But what do I love when I love my God? Not material beauty or beauty of a temporal order; not the brilliance of earthly light, so welcome to our eyes; not the sweet melody of harmony and song; not the fragrance of flowers, perfumes, and spices; not manna or honey; not limbs such as the body delights to embrace. It is not these that I love when I love my God. And yet, when I love him, it is true that I love a light of a certain kind, a voice, a perfume, a food, an embrace; but they are of the kind that I love in my inner self, when my soul is bathed in light that is not bound by space; when it listens to sound that never dies away; when it breathes fragrance that is not borne away on the wind; when it tastes food that is never consumed by the eating; when it clings to an embrace from which it is not severed by fulfillment of desire. This is what I love when I love my God."
(Confessions, X, 6)
(Confessions, X, 6)
Monday, March 16, 2009
Intimate kisses
Isn't it strange that after Mary's lovemaking of Jesus' feet, the second most intimate act initiated by man in the Gospels was Judas' kiss?
on reunion with the beloved
I've been reading a variety of classic and newer fantasy fiction as a form of enjoyable research re. the concept of sanctified imagination.
The most current read is the 3rd in Christopher Paolini's Eragon series (titled Brisingr), at the center of which is the relationship between dragon (Saphira) and rider (Eragon). The following is a passage describing a reunion between these two:
"Redoubling his speed, Eragon opened his mind to Saphira, removing every barrier around who he was, so that they might join together without reservation. Like a flood of warm water, her consciousness rushed into him, even as his rushed into her. Eragon gasped and tripped and nearly fell. They enveloped each other within the folds of their thoughts, holding each other with an intimacy no physical embrace could replicate, allowing their identities to merge once again. Their greatest comfort was a simple one: they were no longer alone. To know that you were with one who cared for you, and who understood every fiber of your being, and who would not abandon you in even the most desperate of circumstances, that was the most precious relationship a person could have, and both Eragon and Saphira cherished it."
The most current read is the 3rd in Christopher Paolini's Eragon series (titled Brisingr), at the center of which is the relationship between dragon (Saphira) and rider (Eragon). The following is a passage describing a reunion between these two:
"Redoubling his speed, Eragon opened his mind to Saphira, removing every barrier around who he was, so that they might join together without reservation. Like a flood of warm water, her consciousness rushed into him, even as his rushed into her. Eragon gasped and tripped and nearly fell. They enveloped each other within the folds of their thoughts, holding each other with an intimacy no physical embrace could replicate, allowing their identities to merge once again. Their greatest comfort was a simple one: they were no longer alone. To know that you were with one who cared for you, and who understood every fiber of your being, and who would not abandon you in even the most desperate of circumstances, that was the most precious relationship a person could have, and both Eragon and Saphira cherished it."
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Our desire for the beautiful
This is a quote which was included in an article I recently linked, but important enough that I thought is should also stand alone.
From The Life of Moses:
And so every desire for the Beautiful which draws us on in this ascent is intensified by the soul’s very progress towards it. And this is the real meaning of seeing God: never to have this desire satisfied. But fixing our eyes on those things which help us to see, we must ever keep alive in us the desire to see more and more. And so no limit can be set to our progress towards God: first of all, because no limitation can be put on upon the Beautiful, and secondly because the increase in our desire for the Beautiful cannot be stopped by any sense of satisfaction.
--St. Gregory of Nyssa
From The Life of Moses:
And so every desire for the Beautiful which draws us on in this ascent is intensified by the soul’s very progress towards it. And this is the real meaning of seeing God: never to have this desire satisfied. But fixing our eyes on those things which help us to see, we must ever keep alive in us the desire to see more and more. And so no limit can be set to our progress towards God: first of all, because no limitation can be put on upon the Beautiful, and secondly because the increase in our desire for the Beautiful cannot be stopped by any sense of satisfaction.
--St. Gregory of Nyssa
Friday, March 13, 2009
The feet of the master
He whispered more to me about Mary's act of love and my yearning to stand in her place.
He whispered that I could give this gift to Him through my husband.
Lord make me obedient.
He whispered that I could give this gift to Him through my husband.
Lord make me obedient.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Model for Holy Thursday?
As I stood in prayer before the tabernacle last night, my hands on either side of my face, feeling the texture of the carving, I wanted only to be pressed up against Him directly.
My mind went again to the sinful women who came to the house of the leper in order to bathe Jesus' feet with her tears. The Gospels speak of no other person having such intimate contact with Him.
I so identify with this woman, this sinful one, this sensualist. I wonder if her sensuality, like David's, gave her special entree to God's heart. Does He especially love those who incarnate love, albeit rashly?
As I prayed, I wondered.
I wondered if it is possible for we created ones to give God Himself ideas for expressing love. Jesus accepted her lavishing and praised it, then went on to wash the feet of His twelve.
Could she have been the inspiration?
Was she the model He followed?
My mind went again to the sinful women who came to the house of the leper in order to bathe Jesus' feet with her tears. The Gospels speak of no other person having such intimate contact with Him.
I so identify with this woman, this sinful one, this sensualist. I wonder if her sensuality, like David's, gave her special entree to God's heart. Does He especially love those who incarnate love, albeit rashly?
As I prayed, I wondered.
I wondered if it is possible for we created ones to give God Himself ideas for expressing love. Jesus accepted her lavishing and praised it, then went on to wash the feet of His twelve.
Could she have been the inspiration?
Was she the model He followed?
A gift of caretaking
Thank you Lord for your priests.
I am so blessed by the Father you have sent my congregation. Yesterday, when he knew that I would be coming to spend time in the sanctuary in grief and supplication, he prepared it for me. He lit candles, incensed it with the prayers of the saints, and filled it with Vivaldi's violins singing the seasons.
Our tabernacle is set in the wall behind the altar, fronted with a wooden door that is carved and gilded with chalice and host. I spent an hour immediately before it, my face pressed against the wood as the tears flowed.
The sorrowful mysteries brought great peace, as did a MacDonald passage he later read to me.
I left better prepared.
It was a great gift to have such care taken over me.
A great gift.
I am so blessed by the Father you have sent my congregation. Yesterday, when he knew that I would be coming to spend time in the sanctuary in grief and supplication, he prepared it for me. He lit candles, incensed it with the prayers of the saints, and filled it with Vivaldi's violins singing the seasons.
Our tabernacle is set in the wall behind the altar, fronted with a wooden door that is carved and gilded with chalice and host. I spent an hour immediately before it, my face pressed against the wood as the tears flowed.
The sorrowful mysteries brought great peace, as did a MacDonald passage he later read to me.
I left better prepared.
It was a great gift to have such care taken over me.
A great gift.
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