Beginnings and Endings: the Presentation of the Lord (Candlemas)

The Prsentation by Nicholas Mynheer
The Presentation by Nicholas Mynheer. Oil and gold leaf on handmade paper. Image copyright.

Today’s feast is one that looks two ways: back to Christmastide and forward to the Passion. I think that must be why it was chosen as the World Day of Prayer for Consecrated Life, because monks, nuns, friars, Religious Brothers and Sisters and so on are all marked with the grace and glory of the Incarnation in baptism but must, by virtue of their vows, follow also the often dark path that leads to Christ’s Passion and Death. We share in the privilege and the pain, but the focus must always be on Christ. That is why the Presentation of the Lord is such an important celebration, and the candles we hold in our hands are a reminder of both what we are and what we hope to become.

Today’s feast is always one of great gladness and rejoicing because it marks the point at which Jesus is taken up into the Temple and begins his mission. I think we could also say it is a great feast of the Church qua Church. For we do not think only of the joy of Mary and Joseph as their infant son is offered to the Lord. We think, too, of Simeon and Anna, nearing the end of their lives, and the fulfilment of their hope in the Messiah. There is something very moving about the way in which their long fidelity is portrayed in the gospel. Every night at Compline we sing into the darkness the Canticle of Simeon, the Nunc Dimittis, and affirm our faith in the Light that enlightens the gentiles, just as they affirmed, at the end of their lives, their undimmed hope and trust. Christ’s light must pierce even our darkest, drearest moments — the times when faith seems hollow and we cling on by our finger-tips. And when we cannot, we know that the rest of the Church will, for that is the meaning of the Communion of Saints here and now.

Yesterday, we received a beautiful gift from a friend and oblate of the community. The circumstances surrounding the gift, and the giver himself, make it very special. Nicholas Mynheer’s depiction of the Presentation is quite small, 20 cm by 20 cm, but it glows with great intensity (the illustration does not do it justice). It lights up the room in which it hanges. This morning as I was praying before it, it struck me that this wonderful feast of light and joy is itself a great gift to the Church. It allows us a little glimpse of eternity, a warm and supremely accessible vision of what the Church is and the importance of every individual within her, young or old. Today, please pray for the donor of the painting, for the maker of it and for the whole Church, especially those who think themselves ‘small and of no account’. It is what we are in the Lord’s eyes that counts, and to him we are worth much.


New Year 2018

The Virgin Mary (statue)

Today is the Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God, the Octave Day of Christmas and the first day of the secular New Year. One year passes into another; the Incarnation marks the passage of the Creator into his creation, the intersection of eternity and time; and Mary stands as a hinge between the Old and New Covenants, making possible the fulfilment of the one and ushering in the promise of the other in the person of her Son, Jesus Christ. We look back, and we look forward, like the old pagan god Janus, after whom this month is named.

Inevitably, as we reflect on both past and future, there is often a strange disquiet, an underlying guilt about wasted opportunities in the past and a vague anxiety about what is to come in the future There is, however, no point in trying to live in the past or the future: all we have is now, which is why the present moment is so important. It is now that our salvation is being worked out; now that we meet God. Today is therefore a day of great hope, no matter how we feel or don’t feel. Its possibilities are, quite literally, infinite. The prayer of the community for our readers is one with that of the liturgy:

May the Lord bless you and keep you.
May the Lord let his face shine on you and be gracious to you.
May the Lord uncover his face to you and bring you peace.


Religious Platitudes

The problem with religious platitudes is that they are exactly that: flat (from the French, plat). They are usually true, or at least half-true, but they are uttered unthinkingly, or with a vague sense that they are appropriate in the circumstances, and have become thin with over-use. So, when somebody dies, there are well-intentioned mutterings about the deceased being ‘at peace now,’ or, rather presumptuously to Catholic ears, ‘with Jesus in heaven.’ Meanwhile, I am busy praying for the dead person’s soul and the forgiveness of their sins, not presuming but hoping, with firm faith and trust, that our merciful Lord will indeed forgive. The comfort offered by the platitude is no comfort at all if it obscures rather than illumines and prevents us responding as we might.

Today’s memoria of the Holy Rosary, instituted as a thanksgiving for the victory at Lepanto, reminded me that love of Our Lady has given rise to a large number of quite cringe-making platitudes concerning her. They do her an injustice even as they seek to honour her. Mary is indeed our mother, but she is first and foremost the Mother of God, a woman of such unique faith, courage and holiness that she inspires a loving awe, a reverent fear, as she directs our gaze towards her Son, Jesus Christ. The wonderful array of titles with which the Church has invested her are the measure of this, each of them worth pondering carefully. Her appearances in the New Testament are comparatively few, but each one is telling. Today, if you have a moment or two, read through the gospel for the feast, Luke 1.26-38, and ask yourself what it means to be the handmaid of the Lord (and if you happen to be male, ask yourself the same question because the whole Church is feminine before God). The answer may disconcert you.


Beauty and Brutality: The Feast of Our Lady’s Birthday 2017

For those of us who live our lives according to the liturgical calendar, there can be both felicitous co-incidences and awkward disjunctions. The latter are more thought-provoking because they call in question many of our unexamined assumptions. Take today’s feast. I have often waxed eloquent about its beauty, as shy and lovely as the Autumn Crocus called ‘Naked Lady’ from its association with this feast. At other times, notably in this post for 2015,  I have been at pains to reflect on Mary as the archetypal mulier fortis, not at all the idealised milksop of much conventional piety. But I have not often drawn attention to the fact that we are sometimes confronted with a huge gap between what we are celebrating in choir and what everyone around us is experiencing. This morning that is especially marked. We sing of beauty but those devastated by the floods in South-East Asia or Hurricane Irma in the Caribbean know only the brutality of the disasters that have engulfed them. If we look further afield, we see more and more human suffering in the endless bloody conflicts and mass movements of people that characterize this century. How difficult it can be to go on affirming the promise of Micah 5. 1–4 or the confident assertion of Romans 8.28–30! Shall we really live secure, does God actually turn everything to our good?

I think the only honest answer to these questions is akin to that which Mary gave to the angel at the Annunciation. We do not know how, but we give our assent, we trust in the goodness of God. To those who have not tried it, that response will seem pathetically inadequate. It admits that we do not have any explanation (who could know the mind of God . . .); it acknowledges that there is no easy solution, no quick fix, no soothing balm (our wound is incurable . . . ). It simply says, God is God and as such he can be trusted; we cling to that knowledge with a wisdom wiser than we know, for it is faith and faith alone that can lead us. I love St Bernard’s image of Mary as the aqueduct that brings us the Water of Life. This morning, however, I think it is the image of Mary as a new-born child, unaware of her tremendous destiny, that both comforts and challenges me. It is not power or wealth that determines the outcome but love. There’s something in that for us all to ponder.


What is Normal?

Having begun to emerge from my usual post-chemo yukkiness, I have been asking myself, what is normal? What is the normality to which most of us, consciously or otherwise, aspire? My ‘normal’ would probably be extremely boring to anyone half my age, especially as it is increasingly couched in negative terms: not to feel sick, not to feel tired, not to be struggling to breathe. But even as I tap out those words, I realise I am missing something. I cannot spend half my life thinking that ‘normality’ is something other than what I am experiencing. I could, of course, call it ‘the new normal’, but that is a bit of sophistry. The truth is, life embraces all sorts of experiences, good and bad, welcome and unwelcome. They make us what we are, and because we can only live in the present (we remember the past, we dream of the future, but we cannot live in them) they constitute the normality, the everyday reality, of our existence.

Today is the feast of Our Lady of Consolation or Comfort. It was a very popular devotion in the Spanish Netherlands of the seventeenth century, and it is one I have always liked. To console, to comfort, to give strength to another is the work of the Holy Spirit; but I wonder whether we often advert to the fact that it is also a work performed within us by that same Spirit. Our Lady’s life on earth was, in many ways, typical of a Palestinian Jewish woman of her time. Her ‘normal’ was just as unexciting as our own. The things we might think of as high points, the Annunciation, for example, must have been disconcerting, alarming even; but the Holy Spirit overshadowed her and gave her the strength to bear them.

Today, let us give thanks for the unexciting normality of our lives, with all their ups and downs, confident that we have Mary’s prayers and the power of the Holy Spirit to help us through.


The Feast of the Visitation 2017

One never tires of this lovely feast of the Visitation! I seem to have written about it endlessly, as the blog archive will attest. Is there anything new to say? No, but perhaps we can ask a new question —  new to me, at any rate. What dreams did Mary and Elizabeth hold for their unborn children? Were they the happy dreams of ordinary mothers in provincial Palestine, of a healthy, God-fearing son who would be faithful to the Covenant, to marriage and to the bringing up of children of their own one day? Or were they tinged with the immensity of God, with a questioning, wondering hope and fear, a not knowing? Mary, greeted by an angel and overshadowed by the Holy Spirit, was to give birth to the Messiah, but even as she gave her consent did she ask herself who was this child she was to carry and what would he turn out to be? As she made the long journey to Elizabeth, did more questions arise in her heart to which she found no answers? And what of Elizabeth, conceiving in her old age, her husband struck dumb but with a strange tale to tell of an angel prohesying a singular destiny for their son, did she wonder what was to become of her child? Did both Mary and Elizabeth know, as mothers often seem to know, that neither would live an ordinary life, that their happy dreams would never be realised in the way they hoped?

When Mary and Elizabeth met, all those questions resolved themselves. Elizabeth greeted Mary as the mother of her Lord, and Mary responded with the Magnificat, that beautiful expression of trust in God. Elizabeth knew; Mary knew; and everything was changed in an instant. Even apparently bad things — suffering, loss, death — were transformed and became part of God’s saving action. Is that the secret of the Magnificat, glorifying God not just for his mirabilia but also for what he has not done, proclaiming his goodness and holiness no matter how much suffering has to be endured, no matter how many hopes are dashed? Every night at Vespers the Church sings the Magnificat into the gathering darkness, with the same faith and trust as Mary. We, too, say our unconditional yes to God’s purposes. We too glorify him, come what may. We too trust in his goodness for ever and ever. And because we trust, we are empowered to act. This beautiful feast is a reminder of our duty to serve, to be welcoming and hospitable to all in need, but we do so not with our own strength but with the power of him who exalts the lowly.

Five years ago, on this feastday, we took possesion of this house* with many hopes and dreams for the future. Inevitably, my illness has made some of them difficult to achieve. For example, we have not been able to be as hospitable as we would have liked. On the other hand, not being able to do some things in the traditional way has made us try to do things in a new way. Today we give thanks for all that has been, especially for all who have helped us and who help us still. May God bless each and every one of you.

* Honesty compells me to admit that the Bank owns quite a large part of it!


The Annunciation 2017

The Annunciation by D. Werburg Welch
The Annunciation by D. Werburg Welch

Celebrating the Solemnity of the Annunciation on the sixtieth anniversary of the Treaty of Rome and only a few days after Khalid Masood’s murderous Westminster attack is very poignant. We are asked to think about life when death seems to permeate the air, about motherhood when many are grieving for their sons and daughters as war, famine and disease take their toll. Is there some horrible divine irony in this, or something from which we can take comfort (i.e. strength)?

In the West, it is true, Mary is usually portrayed in terms of motherhood: expectant mother, new mother, grieving mother. It is almost as though she had no existence outside or beyond her role as a mother, yet she did. She was also a daughter, perhaps a sister, certainly a friend, a wife, and above all an ordinary Jewish woman with the hopes and dreams of an ordinary Jewish woman of her time. The invitation to become the mother of the Messiah turned many of those hopes and dreams on their head, yet Mary accepted in a moment of unequalled faith — and in so doing changed the world in a way no treaty or act of terrorism ever could.

The bright hope of the Treaty of Rome for a Europe free from war and division is fading now; the Westminster attack is yet another instance of people choosing to destroy because they hate rather than love; but Mary remains a symbol of hope and encouragement. She is a life-giver rather than a life-taker. She speaks to us of love and sacrifice, fidelity and generosity, and aren’t those things holier and more attractive than their opposites? Her Son offers us a peace surpassing human understanding, the prospect of eternal life, and a joy no one can take from us. Mary’s fiat has made these things possible for us. Let us thank her for that, and ask her prayers for a world that aches for mercy and compassion.

Illustration by D. Werburg Welch, copyright © Stanbrook Abbey. Used by permission.


O Clavis David and Our Need of Freedom 2016

Yesterday was a dark day. To the now customary tally of deaths in Syria, Yemen and sub-saharan Africa we had to make additions nearer home. The murder of Andrei Karlov, the Russian ambassador to Turkey, sent shivers down the spine. Might it have the same dreadful consequences as the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand in 1914? Then came news of people mown down in a Berlin Christmas market — possibly a terrorist attack, possibly an accident, but a hideous irruption of death into a scene of merry-making here in Europe. The darkness within, the interior prison we create for ourselves, can lead to dark deeds, we know, but we have a habit of positing them outside. They are something other people do, not us. We can do the same with salvation. Other people need a Saviour, not us — or at least, only in a general way. Today’s O antiphon knocks that sort of nonsense on the head. It is, so to say, close up and personal, less about ‘us’ than it is about ‘me’:

O Clavis David, et sceptrum domus Israel; qui aperis, et nemo claudit; claudis, et nemo aperit: veni, et educ vinctum de domo carceris, sedentem in tenebris, et umbra mortis.
O Key of David, and Sceptre of the house of Israel, who open and no one shuts, who shuts, and no one opens, come and free from prison him who sits in darkness and the shadow of death.

The image of the key is a compelling one. To be locked up, even for a short time, with no means of escape other than that provided by the keyholder is an unnerving experience. We soon realise how limited our physical freedom actually is. But we have a way of turning this round and pleading our lack of freedom as an excuse for all the shortcomings we see in our lives. We blame our genes, not our uncontrolled appetites, for the fact that we are fat; we cannot do anything about it, can we? We inherited our moody disposition; too bad that you must suffer the consequences. The prisons we make for ourselves can be comfortable and allow us to avoid confronting that which is unpleasant or challenging.

It is no accident that on the day we sing O Clavis David we also read the gospel of the Annunciation and hear again how a young Jewish girl, a daughter of David’s royal line, consented to be the Mother of God and in so doing set us free from all that had bound us hitherto. Jesus is the Key but Mary’s flesh provides the lock and wards, so to say, that enable the key to work. Her faith, her generosity affect us all. Darkness is scattered by the coming of light; sin will be conquered on Calvary. We have hope and know that we shall be set free — and that is the point: we shall be set free, we cannot free ourselves.

If you would like to read more about Advent and listen to the ‘O’ antiphons sung in Latin according to a traditional plainsong melody, with a brief explanation of the texts and references, see our main site, here. Flash needed to play the music files as I have not yet replaced the player with HTML5


A Liturgical Puzzle

Yesterday, while having chemotherapy, I said my Office using the iPad version of Universalis. Usually, we say our own monastic Office rather than the Roman, so I was very struck by the responsory for the second reading at Vigils/the Office of Readings (Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses). Here is the text, first in English as given by Universalis, then in Latin as given by the 1977 editio typica of the Liturgia Horarium iuxta Ritum Romanum. The words that interest me are highlighted in bold.

The angel Gabriel was sent to announce the word to Mary, a virgin betrothed to Joseph, and she began to fear the light. ‘Mary, do not be afraid you have won the Lord’s favour:* You are to conceive and bear a son: he shall be called Son of the Most High.’
‘The Lord God will give him the throne of his ancestor David: he will rule over the house of Jacob for ever. You are to conceive and bear a son: he shall be called Son of the Most High.’

Missus est Gabriel angelus ad Mariam Virginem desponsatam Ioseph, nuntians ei verbum; et expavescit Virgo de lumine. Ne timeas, Maria, invenisti gratiam apud Dominum. Ecce concipies et paries, et vocabitur Altissimi Filius.
Dabit ei Dominus Deus sedem David, patris eius, et regnabit in domo Iacob in aeternum.

The scriptural references are to Luke 1, verses 26, 27, 30, 31 and 32. It is well known that antiphons and responsories often paraphrase the words of scripture or rely on older texts than those we normally use. My first thought, therefore, was that this ‘fearing the light’ might come from an Old Latin (i/e pre-Vulgate) version of Luke, but preliminary searches online have yielded nothing. Then it was suggested that the line might just be an addition based on the usual Old Testament reaction to the presence of an angel, fear. That is entirely plausible, for the responsory goes on to tell Mary not to fear. If that is the correct explanation, it is what we might call a psychological addition to the text. I know that some learned reader will p0int me in the direction of the true explanation and source of the words, but let’s stay with them a while and see what they offer us.

Angels are not chubby little cherubs. They are messengers of God, robed in fire and flame, truly terrifying to those of impure sight and mind. Mary’s reaction to the angel is not merely alarm, its is dread (expavescere is a strong form of pavescere, which would be the more usual form to be translated as ‘begin to fear‘). We know that there was nothing impure about her, and Luke’s narrative of the Annunciation is constructed in such a way that we are impressed by Mary’s calmness and humble acceptance of her strange and wonderful destiny. Do these words, so quickly said and equally quickly forgotten, remind us of something we all need to ponder this Advent season? From time to time, God has a way of shining light on the secret places of our hearts. Unless we are unusually receptive, our first reaction tends to be to shy away or plead some excuse or mitigating circumstance. Deep down we know it is all pretence: we must choose either to stand in the light or hide from it. Only daring to stand in the light of God’s truth will prepare us for the gifts he wants to give us. All of us can learn from that young Jewish girl he chose to be his Mother — and ours.


Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception of the B.V.M. 2016

One of the problems with Marian feasts is that they are often misunderstood; another is that they tend to attract a lot of bad art. I cannot do anything about the bad art, but a few years ago I wrote a rather dry post summarising what the Catholic Church actually teaches about the Immaculate Conception of Mary, and if your ideas about it are a bit hazy, you may find the post useful:

It is a pity that Mary has inspired so much bad art and, dare I say it, lazy theology. Once we have grasped that everything the Church believes and teaches about Mary is meant to help us focus on her Son, all makes sense. The Syrian Fathers, in particular, are lyrical in her praise, but they, too, want us to look beyond her to God himself when they call her the ‘all-inviolate spotless robe of him who clothes himself with light as with a garment . . . flower unfading, purple woven by God, alone most immaculate.’ Now, as it happens, earlier this year Michael Peppard published a fascinating article in The New York Times, in which he argued that a wall painting from the baptistry of Deir ez-Zor, Syria, now in the Yale University Art Gallery, might possibly be the oldest extant depiction of Our Lady. I cannot reproduce the illustration for copyright reasons, but you can read the whole article here.

We are so accustomed to images of Mary with floating drapery set against Renascence skies that we tend to forget the earthliness of earlier depictions — Mary reading as the angel arrives to ask her consent to be the Mother of God; even earlier, Mary drawing water from the well as Peppard suggests is the case at Deir ez-Zor and in many icons from the Orthodox tradition. It is when we forget what I call the earthliness of Mary that we forget or misprize her true greatness. The miracle of grace we see in her shows us what our frail and often grubby humanity can become. Today’s feast is not remote or arcane. It is an encouragement and a joy, and the fact that it occurs during Advent is a reminder that God wills that all should be saved through the coming of his Son, Jesus Christ. Let us give thanks for that.