Today is the feast of St. Raymond Nonnatus (1204-1240). He was, like Macduff "from [his] mother's womb / Untimely ripp'd" -- a Caesarian -- and thus bore the designation "Nonnatus" (not-born).
Early in life (thank God, since he only lived til 36) he decided to dedicate himself to freeing the slaves. He did this -- successfully, I might add -- by ransoming them from their captors. I've pointed out before that a certain stripe of conservative will get on their high horse and insist that "We will not negotiate with terrorists," who are analogous with the kidnappers and slavers. After all, one could argue, one is only encouraging this evil behavior by paying ransom. And I see that argument. But St. Raymond, radical that he was, believed in the absolute value of human life -- all human life, each human life -- and in the only relative value of money. Why NOT ransom the captives? He even gambled his own life by offering HIMSELF for the ransom of captives when he ran out of funds. He was accepted, and then this dangerous man was silenced. And I do mean silenced. Literally. His lips were pierced with a red-hot iron and a padlock inserted, which only the governor had the key to. It was a crime to speak about religion to a Mohammedan man -- and St. Raymond, the eloquent, the negotiator, the ransomer, the charitable one, was very much a criminal!
He was kept alive due to his value (he was worth many hostages) and perhaps, to Islamic honor. Eight months later he himself was ransomed by those in his order (the Mercedarians). He was reluctant to leave North Africa, but went under obedience.
He was nominated cardinal and yet continued to live as a poor, simple man. He was called to Rome by Pope Gregory IX, but he died on the way. St. Raymond, pray for us.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Today August 30
Today is the feast of St. Jeanne Jugan (1792-1879), founder of the Little Sisters of the Poor, committed to caring for the elderly. "We must spoil them all we can," she famously said. (original emphasis) Good. We are all aging and it's sure nice to see someone devoted to helping US as we grow old instead of the cute little moppets everyone wants to help!
She was a very proud person, though born poor, of a poor fisherman and one of eight children. Her father died when she was young and her family struggled. Even though they were outlawed, the Third Order of the Heart of the Admirable Mother sisters taught them their catechism, as well as the other children in Brittany. She became a servant later and luckily had good employers who visited and helped the poor. Although she was encouraged to continue in service (even to the point of being promised a higher salary and fewer hours), she felt called to help the poor and old full-time. She never meant to found an order. She just went around begging for the poor and sick, especially widows -- even though they were often drunkards. She even gave up her own bed for one of them, Anne Chauvin. Jeanne attracted other young women -- well, not so young; she WAS 45, after all -- to herself, perhaps naturally, because she was kind and joyful. She slogged it out day by day and eventually took over an old Daughters of the Cross convent that had been abandoned and kind of had to come up with a rule and an order. She modeled it on the very active Third Order of the Heart of the Admirable Mother (or Eudist Sisters), but was kind of on her own. The sisters slept on the floor and were as poor as some of the old folks they cared for. They took them in -- without pay -- fed the, nursed them, visited them (those who had homes) and indeed, spoiled them. God blessed her order: there were 36 houses, 2400 Little Sisters and 4000 old people by the time of her death in 1879. She was 87 and in poor health -- nearly blind as well. She longed for death, but not because she was scared or in pain, but because she wanted "to go and see God." She died on this date in 1879. She'd lived a quiet life, having been replaced as superior early on (by a young and controllable woman, on the orders of the domineering parish priest) and never drew attention to herself later in life. Her last words were: "O Mary, my dear Mother, come to me. You know I love you and how I long to see you."
She was a very proud person, though born poor, of a poor fisherman and one of eight children. Her father died when she was young and her family struggled. Even though they were outlawed, the Third Order of the Heart of the Admirable Mother sisters taught them their catechism, as well as the other children in Brittany. She became a servant later and luckily had good employers who visited and helped the poor. Although she was encouraged to continue in service (even to the point of being promised a higher salary and fewer hours), she felt called to help the poor and old full-time. She never meant to found an order. She just went around begging for the poor and sick, especially widows -- even though they were often drunkards. She even gave up her own bed for one of them, Anne Chauvin. Jeanne attracted other young women -- well, not so young; she WAS 45, after all -- to herself, perhaps naturally, because she was kind and joyful. She slogged it out day by day and eventually took over an old Daughters of the Cross convent that had been abandoned and kind of had to come up with a rule and an order. She modeled it on the very active Third Order of the Heart of the Admirable Mother (or Eudist Sisters), but was kind of on her own. The sisters slept on the floor and were as poor as some of the old folks they cared for. They took them in -- without pay -- fed the, nursed them, visited them (those who had homes) and indeed, spoiled them. God blessed her order: there were 36 houses, 2400 Little Sisters and 4000 old people by the time of her death in 1879. She was 87 and in poor health -- nearly blind as well. She longed for death, but not because she was scared or in pain, but because she wanted "to go and see God." She died on this date in 1879. She'd lived a quiet life, having been replaced as superior early on (by a young and controllable woman, on the orders of the domineering parish priest) and never drew attention to herself later in life. Her last words were: "O Mary, my dear Mother, come to me. You know I love you and how I long to see you."
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Today August 29
Today is the feast of the Martyrdom of St. John the Baptist. Almost unique among saints is John, as we celebrate both his birthday and his death date, his so-called "birthday into heaven." A few weeks after John was trying to convince his followers that Jesus, his kinsman, was "the real thing," he was arrested for publicly opposing the scandalous affair of King Herod Antipas, homewrecker. Herodias left her husband, Herod Philip, for his brother, Herod Antipas, and brought with her her charming daughter who may have been named Salome. They were from Rome, and Salome, at least, had learned some fancy dancing there. At Herod's birthday party, she performed a very fancy dance that delighted everyone to the point that Herod rashly promised her whatever she wanted, even up to half his kingdom. She went to her bitter mother, who suggested John's head. The daughter herself added the detail of the valuable platter; a girl's got to get something out of all that. Well, Herod's pride didn't allow him to reject her claim, though he held John in awe, and reluctantly he acceded to her request. Herodias was delighted when she saw the severed head; and according to St. Jerome, she even thrust a blade through its tongue. Brrr. That's cold. But Herod himself was tormented; he bore a guilty conscience until the end of his days. But our saint entered the glorious kingdom, the last prophet of the Old Dispensation became the first of the New. St. John the Baptist, pray for us.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Today August 28
Rejoice, rejoice, it is the great feast of St. Augustine, doctor and African, priest and bishop, first autobiographer, our father in faith, bright star, shining sun (354-430 AD). Can you tell that I like him? What can I say about this great doctor of the Church that hasn't already been said in other places much better than I could say here?
I mentioned he was first autobiographer (his "Confessions" is a masterful and profound work of autobiography and self-perception). And perhaps that is something great about him. "We might wonder along with St. Augustine, that men go abroad to marvel at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the circular motion of the stars and planets, and yet they pass by themselves without a second glance." - Saints. O philosopher, know thyself! And he truly did . . . though it took awhile.
Yes, after a life given over to sensuality, even fornication, and to heresy, even paganism (he was a follower of Manicheism, an early form of dualism and puritanism), he opened himself to the guiding of the Scripture, the Spirit, and the teaching of the Church. He was finally baptized at the Easter Vigil, 387, at the age of 33, by St. Ambrose of Milan, a gentle and scholarly bishop "whose sermons showed him how he could believe the scriptures interpreted according to the teaching of the Church without sacrificing his intelligence" - Angelus Book of Saints. Yes, finally after a life of teaching rhetoric; struggling with his relationship with his wonderfully Christian mother, St. Monica; gaining praise, yet failing to make a fortune in Rome; feeling the whole emptiness of a life lived for pleasure; feeling the equal emptiness of a spiritually bankrupt heresy (not unlike a cult called "The Way", in which things of the spirit were so elevated and things of matter -- the flesh, particularly -- so denigrated, that, rather than advocating and inspiring bodily purity, actually discourage it. They said, "It doesn't matter WHAT the body does." Heresy springs eternal.), he discovered and embraced Christ. First he embraced the concepts and intellectual beliefs, then the heart, in a sudden and dramatic conversion (described in the 8th chapter of the Confessions). He went on, having sent away his mistress (whom he never mentioned by name), taking care of his son, Adeodatus, giving up his position as teacher of rhetoric, retiring and giving himself over to writing. That would have been enough! But he felt called to the priesthood -- praise God -- and became not only priest, but bishop, first co-adjutor of Hippo (his hometown diocese in Africa), then bishop. He continued to write, however, and gave us at this time his unparalleled Confessions and the truly great "City of God." "His legacy of thought has been recognized by most western Christians as the richest left by any Christian teacher after St. Paul" - Angelus Book of Saints. His insightful, delightful, contentious, precise, glorious works -- on everything from his Rule for monks to his clarification of the nature of grace in his disputation with the heretical Pelagians -- continue to guide us today.
He was a loving and moderate priest and bishop: living very simply, but enjoying wine at every meal (good man), tolerating every man's contribution and opinion -- everything but gossip, heresy and scandal -- even if it came from his fellow bishops. I get the impression he would have made a thoroughly excellent dinner guest! He was a man of service, grace and hospitality. His heart was broken to see the brutal Vandal invasion of his beloved Africa in 429, but he weathered it with great equanimity, since his eyes were on the prize, on the everlasting homeland, the "city of God." His last words were: "Thy will be done. Come Lord Jesus!" Wow. That's what one should say, and all one needs to say. St. Augustine, pray for us.
I mentioned he was first autobiographer (his "Confessions" is a masterful and profound work of autobiography and self-perception). And perhaps that is something great about him. "We might wonder along with St. Augustine, that men go abroad to marvel at the heights of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the circular motion of the stars and planets, and yet they pass by themselves without a second glance." - Saints. O philosopher, know thyself! And he truly did . . . though it took awhile.
Yes, after a life given over to sensuality, even fornication, and to heresy, even paganism (he was a follower of Manicheism, an early form of dualism and puritanism), he opened himself to the guiding of the Scripture, the Spirit, and the teaching of the Church. He was finally baptized at the Easter Vigil, 387, at the age of 33, by St. Ambrose of Milan, a gentle and scholarly bishop "whose sermons showed him how he could believe the scriptures interpreted according to the teaching of the Church without sacrificing his intelligence" - Angelus Book of Saints. Yes, finally after a life of teaching rhetoric; struggling with his relationship with his wonderfully Christian mother, St. Monica; gaining praise, yet failing to make a fortune in Rome; feeling the whole emptiness of a life lived for pleasure; feeling the equal emptiness of a spiritually bankrupt heresy (not unlike a cult called "The Way", in which things of the spirit were so elevated and things of matter -- the flesh, particularly -- so denigrated, that, rather than advocating and inspiring bodily purity, actually discourage it. They said, "It doesn't matter WHAT the body does." Heresy springs eternal.), he discovered and embraced Christ. First he embraced the concepts and intellectual beliefs, then the heart, in a sudden and dramatic conversion (described in the 8th chapter of the Confessions). He went on, having sent away his mistress (whom he never mentioned by name), taking care of his son, Adeodatus, giving up his position as teacher of rhetoric, retiring and giving himself over to writing. That would have been enough! But he felt called to the priesthood -- praise God -- and became not only priest, but bishop, first co-adjutor of Hippo (his hometown diocese in Africa), then bishop. He continued to write, however, and gave us at this time his unparalleled Confessions and the truly great "City of God." "His legacy of thought has been recognized by most western Christians as the richest left by any Christian teacher after St. Paul" - Angelus Book of Saints. His insightful, delightful, contentious, precise, glorious works -- on everything from his Rule for monks to his clarification of the nature of grace in his disputation with the heretical Pelagians -- continue to guide us today.
He was a loving and moderate priest and bishop: living very simply, but enjoying wine at every meal (good man), tolerating every man's contribution and opinion -- everything but gossip, heresy and scandal -- even if it came from his fellow bishops. I get the impression he would have made a thoroughly excellent dinner guest! He was a man of service, grace and hospitality. His heart was broken to see the brutal Vandal invasion of his beloved Africa in 429, but he weathered it with great equanimity, since his eyes were on the prize, on the everlasting homeland, the "city of God." His last words were: "Thy will be done. Come Lord Jesus!" Wow. That's what one should say, and all one needs to say. St. Augustine, pray for us.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Today August 27
I've been gone awhile; I had to drive my oldest child to college. It's a new phase of life -- challenging but exciting.
Okay, okay, I know it is the feast of St. Monica, mother of Augustine and patron of all mothers (along with some others) but since we are giving her son his due tomorrow, we can't just skip the great, the wonderful, St. Poemen of the Desert (late fourth, early fifth century). This great saint was called "The Shepherd" -- and so he was. He led by example, more than anything, and was a master of discretion, patience and humility.
When a great old man was offended because the people came and listened to Poemen instead of to him, Poemen, who was troubled at this, since he thought of himself as one who was "nothing," decided the thing to do was to make the old man some food, bottle up a little wine (Mmm.), and go ask for his blessing. The old man, miffed and misunderstanding, sent him away, but Poemen stayed there all day in the hot sun and the old man had a change of heart and welcomed him in, saying, "Truly, I now see that all that I have heard about you is true, and your good works are even greater than that."
Once a great and charitable man came to see him. The man went in to Abba Poemen's cell and went on and on about Scripture and spiritual and heavenly things. But Abba Poemen turned his head and answered nothing. The great man went away sad. Later, when a brother asked Abba Poemen why he had been silent, he said, "He is great and speaks of heavenly things and I am lowly and speak of earthly things. If he had spoken of the passions of the soul, I should have replied, but he speaks to me of spiritual things and so I kept silent."
He was a good psychologist, too. he said, "Do not live in a place where you see that some are jealous of you, for you will not make progress." He knew not to discourage anyone, but to buck him up and spur him on to better things, rather like a father than a judge.
He could take the example of many things and use them for education. He observed a woman mourning loudly at a gravesite and said, "If all the delights of the world were to come [to her], they could not drive sorrow away from the soul of this woman. Even so the monk should always have compunction in himself."
He saw vocation in many different ways. He wisely said: "If three men meet, of whom the first fully preserves interior peace, and the second gives thanks to God in illness, and the third serves with a pure mind, these three are doing the same work."
He was realistic. "The greatest thing a man can do is to throw his faults before the Lord and expect temptation to his last breath."
And my favorite: "Teach your tongue to speak what is in your heart."
Okay, okay, I know it is the feast of St. Monica, mother of Augustine and patron of all mothers (along with some others) but since we are giving her son his due tomorrow, we can't just skip the great, the wonderful, St. Poemen of the Desert (late fourth, early fifth century). This great saint was called "The Shepherd" -- and so he was. He led by example, more than anything, and was a master of discretion, patience and humility.
When a great old man was offended because the people came and listened to Poemen instead of to him, Poemen, who was troubled at this, since he thought of himself as one who was "nothing," decided the thing to do was to make the old man some food, bottle up a little wine (Mmm.), and go ask for his blessing. The old man, miffed and misunderstanding, sent him away, but Poemen stayed there all day in the hot sun and the old man had a change of heart and welcomed him in, saying, "Truly, I now see that all that I have heard about you is true, and your good works are even greater than that."
Once a great and charitable man came to see him. The man went in to Abba Poemen's cell and went on and on about Scripture and spiritual and heavenly things. But Abba Poemen turned his head and answered nothing. The great man went away sad. Later, when a brother asked Abba Poemen why he had been silent, he said, "He is great and speaks of heavenly things and I am lowly and speak of earthly things. If he had spoken of the passions of the soul, I should have replied, but he speaks to me of spiritual things and so I kept silent."
He was a good psychologist, too. he said, "Do not live in a place where you see that some are jealous of you, for you will not make progress." He knew not to discourage anyone, but to buck him up and spur him on to better things, rather like a father than a judge.
He could take the example of many things and use them for education. He observed a woman mourning loudly at a gravesite and said, "If all the delights of the world were to come [to her], they could not drive sorrow away from the soul of this woman. Even so the monk should always have compunction in himself."
He saw vocation in many different ways. He wisely said: "If three men meet, of whom the first fully preserves interior peace, and the second gives thanks to God in illness, and the third serves with a pure mind, these three are doing the same work."
He was realistic. "The greatest thing a man can do is to throw his faults before the Lord and expect temptation to his last breath."
And my favorite: "Teach your tongue to speak what is in your heart."
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Today August 15
Today is the feast of the Assumption. Nearly everything about this feast does a hagiographer's heart good: the antiquity of the feast (prior to the year 500 AD), the universality of it (celebrated both East and West), and historical probability -- no city ever claimed to have her body, although a greater human relic could hardly be thought.
The theology of the feast is ample, if subtle. There's emphasis on her great faithfulness, because of which the Lord will not let her suffer corruption; her bodily purity, making her assumption fitting if not absolutely necessary; and her humility, which Fr. Vincent McNabb focuses on in his homily for this great feast. He focuses on this virtue in her life and takes an example from an incident in her earlier life. "None learns so easily as he who is humble. Here we have an example of Our Lady willing to learn through the shepherds." She was not so high as to disdain illumination from even so low a source. Wise men know they can learn even from their lessers -- which is good news for those of us who are quite small in this world. If we stay faithful and pure, if we strive after truth, we too can be messengers of God.
There is some difference between East and West in regard to this feast. The Orthodox and Eastern Catholics say she never actually died; the Westerners say she did . . . The holy Father Pius XII deftly avoids the controversy: "when her earthly life was over" (true in both scenarios: life is over when we die, but "when earthly life is over" doesn't stipulate death) "the Immaculate Virgin was taken up body and soul into heavenly glory." Amen.
The theology of the feast is ample, if subtle. There's emphasis on her great faithfulness, because of which the Lord will not let her suffer corruption; her bodily purity, making her assumption fitting if not absolutely necessary; and her humility, which Fr. Vincent McNabb focuses on in his homily for this great feast. He focuses on this virtue in her life and takes an example from an incident in her earlier life. "None learns so easily as he who is humble. Here we have an example of Our Lady willing to learn through the shepherds." She was not so high as to disdain illumination from even so low a source. Wise men know they can learn even from their lessers -- which is good news for those of us who are quite small in this world. If we stay faithful and pure, if we strive after truth, we too can be messengers of God.
There is some difference between East and West in regard to this feast. The Orthodox and Eastern Catholics say she never actually died; the Westerners say she did . . . The holy Father Pius XII deftly avoids the controversy: "when her earthly life was over" (true in both scenarios: life is over when we die, but "when earthly life is over" doesn't stipulate death) "the Immaculate Virgin was taken up body and soul into heavenly glory." Amen.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Today August 14
Today is a great feast day: St. Maximilian Kolbe, saint of Auschwitz (1894-1941), home of the most notorious and most efficient death camp of the Nazis. But it really was a nice little town before that, full of clean streets, well-tended gardens, and humble buildings. It changed.
When Raymond (for such was his baptismal name) was only 10 years old, he suddenly matured, though he'd been a typical and playful little boy up until then. He had a mystical experience of Our Lady (whom he called the Immaculata), who offered him two crowns -- one red and one white, which she explained were the crown of martyrdom (red) and the crown of purity (white). Like the equally precocious and loving St. Therese of Lisieux, he said, "I'll take everything!" At 16, he joined the Conventual Friars of St. Francis. He was a great student of science and philosophy; he had a holy and joyful confidence; and, he had absolute trust in Our Lady. He wavered a little just before taking his final vows. He was troubled with what he felt was a call to become a soldier instead -- especially since he was such a Polish patriot. But through the advice of Marianne, his beloved mother, he realized that as a Franciscan friar he WAS a knight, slaying dragons for his wonderful Lady. Indeed, this was the beginning of the Militia Immaculata . . . a virile group of knights fighting the good fight against sin and ignorance under the banner of Mary. Just because he wielded the weapons of nonviolence doesn't mean he wasn't powerful!
He studied in Rome, even as the rise of the anti-clerical movement grew in numbers and power there, mocking virtue and degrading morals, falling into all kinds of error. But he was unmoved even after being dismissed as useless and a crank. He only burned brighter with love for God and His Lady.
On April 28, 1918 he had one bright moment in an otherwise gloomy stay in wartime Rome -- Friar Maximilian was ordained a priest, along with 100 other men! Men from many races and nations. He was "an inconvenient man," one who was fearless in accusing error in his time and whose piety and zeal caused many to bristle and become defensive. But he soldiered on.
He returned to Poland and had to enter a sanatorium in Zakonpanie for his health. He had contracted tuberculosis, apparently. He didn't want to rest, but he obeyed his superiors -- just like the good knight he was. Even then he was able to reach out to others. In a nearby sanatorium attached to a college, he started a religious discussion group -- which he moderated so all could give their opinion freely. His most vocal opponent came up to him later and admitted, simply: "I cannot believe." His response was to give the young man a miraculous medal and to pray for him. Soon after, this man was moved to go to Confession and make his profession of faith.
After a mysterious and some would say miraculous recovery, he went into the publishing business, despite all the obstacles. It was a weapon. But it was an expensive and uphill battle. Even blessed Maximilian fell into despair. He just couldn't work (in publishing) anymore. But lo! He retired to the church and prayed and, after a long time in prayer, he looked upon a statue of the Immaculata and at her feet was an envelope with the exact amount of money he needed to continue.
Later he established Niepokalonow in Poland, a real "Marytown" where all was held in common and men lived in communion. A Communist came and visited the vibrant Franciscan community he founded and proclaimed: "You, you are the real communists!"
Nagasaki, Japan was the site of a new mission very soon thereafter. He wished to touch the hearts of all, no matter where on earth they were. The generous, shy and very proper souls of the Japanese opened to him and his many young men.
He returned home to his troubled and soon-to-be-occupied country. January 10, 1937, he told his brothers he was going to die and told him he was their father, as much or more so than their physical fathers -- and that he took leave of them with joy and peace. "Love the Immaculata," he said, echoing his very last words in the starvation bunker at Auschwitz.
3500 refugees swarmed into Niepakalanow, 1500 of them Jews, and the brothers welcomed them all, calling the Jews "our elder brothers." The Gestapo arrested him, interned him in a terrible Warsaw prison and then sent him to the concentration camp. He was forced into slave labor and often beaten, but he remained true and brave. He still heard confessions and prayed with the sick and despairing (and who in that place was not sick and despairing?)
At the end of July 1941 a prisoner escaped and in retaliation ten prisoners were chosen to starve to death . . . the simplest and cruelest form of death. Kolbe wasn't chosen, but with holy audacity he walked to the front of the line and offered himself in place of a man with a wife and ten children. He suffered for two weeks and in the end offered his arm out to the doctor who injected him with carbolic acid. He looked straight into the eyes of the doctor -- and in his later testimony, the man said such eyes looked into the depths of his soul and spoke words of love. Yes, even in death, he worked a miracle of conversion. Pray for us, St. Maximilian!
When Raymond (for such was his baptismal name) was only 10 years old, he suddenly matured, though he'd been a typical and playful little boy up until then. He had a mystical experience of Our Lady (whom he called the Immaculata), who offered him two crowns -- one red and one white, which she explained were the crown of martyrdom (red) and the crown of purity (white). Like the equally precocious and loving St. Therese of Lisieux, he said, "I'll take everything!" At 16, he joined the Conventual Friars of St. Francis. He was a great student of science and philosophy; he had a holy and joyful confidence; and, he had absolute trust in Our Lady. He wavered a little just before taking his final vows. He was troubled with what he felt was a call to become a soldier instead -- especially since he was such a Polish patriot. But through the advice of Marianne, his beloved mother, he realized that as a Franciscan friar he WAS a knight, slaying dragons for his wonderful Lady. Indeed, this was the beginning of the Militia Immaculata . . . a virile group of knights fighting the good fight against sin and ignorance under the banner of Mary. Just because he wielded the weapons of nonviolence doesn't mean he wasn't powerful!
He studied in Rome, even as the rise of the anti-clerical movement grew in numbers and power there, mocking virtue and degrading morals, falling into all kinds of error. But he was unmoved even after being dismissed as useless and a crank. He only burned brighter with love for God and His Lady.
On April 28, 1918 he had one bright moment in an otherwise gloomy stay in wartime Rome -- Friar Maximilian was ordained a priest, along with 100 other men! Men from many races and nations. He was "an inconvenient man," one who was fearless in accusing error in his time and whose piety and zeal caused many to bristle and become defensive. But he soldiered on.
He returned to Poland and had to enter a sanatorium in Zakonpanie for his health. He had contracted tuberculosis, apparently. He didn't want to rest, but he obeyed his superiors -- just like the good knight he was. Even then he was able to reach out to others. In a nearby sanatorium attached to a college, he started a religious discussion group -- which he moderated so all could give their opinion freely. His most vocal opponent came up to him later and admitted, simply: "I cannot believe." His response was to give the young man a miraculous medal and to pray for him. Soon after, this man was moved to go to Confession and make his profession of faith.
After a mysterious and some would say miraculous recovery, he went into the publishing business, despite all the obstacles. It was a weapon. But it was an expensive and uphill battle. Even blessed Maximilian fell into despair. He just couldn't work (in publishing) anymore. But lo! He retired to the church and prayed and, after a long time in prayer, he looked upon a statue of the Immaculata and at her feet was an envelope with the exact amount of money he needed to continue.
Later he established Niepokalonow in Poland, a real "Marytown" where all was held in common and men lived in communion. A Communist came and visited the vibrant Franciscan community he founded and proclaimed: "You, you are the real communists!"
Nagasaki, Japan was the site of a new mission very soon thereafter. He wished to touch the hearts of all, no matter where on earth they were. The generous, shy and very proper souls of the Japanese opened to him and his many young men.
He returned home to his troubled and soon-to-be-occupied country. January 10, 1937, he told his brothers he was going to die and told him he was their father, as much or more so than their physical fathers -- and that he took leave of them with joy and peace. "Love the Immaculata," he said, echoing his very last words in the starvation bunker at Auschwitz.
3500 refugees swarmed into Niepakalanow, 1500 of them Jews, and the brothers welcomed them all, calling the Jews "our elder brothers." The Gestapo arrested him, interned him in a terrible Warsaw prison and then sent him to the concentration camp. He was forced into slave labor and often beaten, but he remained true and brave. He still heard confessions and prayed with the sick and despairing (and who in that place was not sick and despairing?)
At the end of July 1941 a prisoner escaped and in retaliation ten prisoners were chosen to starve to death . . . the simplest and cruelest form of death. Kolbe wasn't chosen, but with holy audacity he walked to the front of the line and offered himself in place of a man with a wife and ten children. He suffered for two weeks and in the end offered his arm out to the doctor who injected him with carbolic acid. He looked straight into the eyes of the doctor -- and in his later testimony, the man said such eyes looked into the depths of his soul and spoke words of love. Yes, even in death, he worked a miracle of conversion. Pray for us, St. Maximilian!
Monday, August 13, 2007
Today August 13
Today is the feast of St. Hippolytus, died c. 235 AD, during the persecution of Maximinus. He was a brilliant Roman priest and theologian -- and he knew it -- but that didn't keep him from being wrong. He so criticized the commoner Pope St. Zephryinus for "not [being] quick enough to detect heresy" and Pope St. Callistus I, a former slave and embezzler, that he actually went over the line and accused the cardinals' votes for both men as being invalid and set himself up as pope. Callistus was indeed also a commoner and a repentant sinner -- and, more important, the real pope, successor to Peter. Neither held heretical beliefs, including about the nature of Jesus Christ, and in his heart of hearts (brain of brains, as it were; he was a very smart man), Hippolytus knew it too, but any stick will do to beat someone you so oppose. Additionally, Zephyryinus, Callistus (who was killed and thrown into a well), and HIS successor Pontian were, in Hippolytus' not-so-humble opinion, FAR too easy on the lapsi, lapsed Catholics who sinned or apostatized during persecution, because Pontian allowed them to return to the Church after a period of penance. Evidently, Hippolytus disfavored them EVER returning. He wasn't big on forgiveness: not for fornicators, not for adulterers, and especially not for apostates. But then that makes it even more ironic when, in a huge dragnet of persecution of Christians -- heck, to Maximinus ALL Christians looked the same -- Hippolytus was thrown into the same concentration camp as Pontian, and he converted -- reverted -- and asked forgiveness for his own apostasy. Pontian welcomed him back with open arms. Later, Pontian was beaten to death by guards. Hippolytus died of his harsh treatment too, and his body was later buried with honor on the Tiburtine Way.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Homily: Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time: 2007
Brothers and sisters, should we pray for the conversion of the Jews? And . . . Do all paths truly lead to God? Well, well, well, let us face head-on the question of religious indifferentism. Let's take the second question first. Let us say unequivocally for the record, "No! All paths do NOT lead to God." Only one sure way leads to God and that is the path He Himself laid out -- the revealed way, who is Jesus the Lord. But let us hasten to add, though not all ways lead to Him, He can find you whatever road you are on. Not all roads lead to Him -- you can't say Jesus is God and Jesus is not God, or infant baptism is good and at the same time is NOT good, that Mohammed is His prophet and he is NOT His prophet, that there are many Gods and there is only one God, that God is immanent and God is transcendent . . . no. Jesus is God, infant baptism is licit and desirable, Mohammed is not His prophet, there is only one God and He is transcendent . . . well, good that we've cleared THAT up. Let us remember that many, even all, may be saved. The Church never says who is not in heaven, who is damned, who is not saved. But she shows us the truth, the path -- the ordinary means of salvation. God can do what He likes.
But let's look at that path. It started out with the Jews, "the first to hear the Word of God," as our own prayers of the faithful on Good Friday attest. And it was already leading in the right direction. So if people are still on it, Jews still following that path faithfully, who are we to pray for their conversion? That's not to say we are not to evangelize them -- not to give them the Good News, the fullness of the truth. Of course we are! But we are not to despair of them. "With sure knowledge of the oaths in which they put their faith, they might have courage." (Wis 18:6).
My brothers and sisters, what is faith? Well, what does it mean to "keep faith"? What does it mean to "be faithful"? It is a response to an invitation, a powerful and holy invitation, not to be taken lightly. It is a response to do what you have promised to do, to forsake all others, and cling to the one who calls you. And when that One is God, you must be sure to keep your promise! What if you have not been called, you say? How can you be so sure you haven't? By virtue of your baptism, brothers, you have been called. By virtue of your Confirmation, you have been called. By virtue of this Eucharist, if you choose to accept it, you have been called. By the grace of the absolution you received in Confession, praise God, you have been called. By the grace of the sacrament of marriage -- or Holy Orders, as the case may be -- you have been called. Be faithful; follow the commandments; obey the precepts of the church; listen to the pope; honor your bishop; cleave to your priest, for he brings you the Holy One of Israel, Jesus, Who is God.
But let's look at that path. It started out with the Jews, "the first to hear the Word of God," as our own prayers of the faithful on Good Friday attest. And it was already leading in the right direction. So if people are still on it, Jews still following that path faithfully, who are we to pray for their conversion? That's not to say we are not to evangelize them -- not to give them the Good News, the fullness of the truth. Of course we are! But we are not to despair of them. "With sure knowledge of the oaths in which they put their faith, they might have courage." (Wis 18:6).
My brothers and sisters, what is faith? Well, what does it mean to "keep faith"? What does it mean to "be faithful"? It is a response to an invitation, a powerful and holy invitation, not to be taken lightly. It is a response to do what you have promised to do, to forsake all others, and cling to the one who calls you. And when that One is God, you must be sure to keep your promise! What if you have not been called, you say? How can you be so sure you haven't? By virtue of your baptism, brothers, you have been called. By virtue of your Confirmation, you have been called. By virtue of this Eucharist, if you choose to accept it, you have been called. By the grace of the absolution you received in Confession, praise God, you have been called. By the grace of the sacrament of marriage -- or Holy Orders, as the case may be -- you have been called. Be faithful; follow the commandments; obey the precepts of the church; listen to the pope; honor your bishop; cleave to your priest, for he brings you the Holy One of Israel, Jesus, Who is God.
Today August 12
Today is the feast day of Blessed Karl Leisner, (1915 - 1945). He is sort of special to me because I have kind of a connection to where he was killed -- though he didn't die there. Let me explain. Karl Leisner was one of those "put your money where your mouth is" Catholics -- one who spoke the truth, in season and out of season, and you know the profoundly important question "If being a Catholic were a crime, would there be enough evidence to convict you?", well, in Karl's case, it was and there was! He was convicted of anti-Nazi propaganda and interred in Dachau concentration camp, where the majority of Catholic prisoners were (I didn't realize that). My son went there and said, imagine this: 50 high school boys laughing and cutting up the way they do, and all of a sudden they were in complete silence. "It's like, you HAVE to be reverent there." He doesn't know what to attribute it to, since he isn't all that mystical, and is not ready to say the departed spirits themselves command reverence, or if it's all in your head, or if the designers of the memorial just did a very, very good job, but it was entirely moving and kind of scary.
And the other connection I have to that is that my German professor was actually there May 6, 1945 when the camp was liberated -- he was in the American forces there, and said words can't describe the horror of the place. Everyone's heart was moved to see the wholesale slaughter of the dead and the pain inflicted on the poor surviving inmates there. Well, Karl Leisner was one of those, but he contracted tuberculosis while he was there and that's why I said it killed him, even though he died 3 months later in a different location in Germany. Interestingly, he was actually ordained in the horrendous camp by Bishop Gabriel Piquet who was also interred there (he'd already completed his seminary training, including the necessary lesser orders, apparently) and said only one Mass -- in camp -- in his entire life. I'm sure that's not what he expected when he took Holy Orders -- I imagine he intended to offer many reverent Masses, but that's how it worked out. And he still inspires young people -- there is even a whole movement of youth called Karl Leisner Jugend in Germany now. It doesn't really matter how long you live . . . but how well you love, and my goodness, he did!
And the other connection I have to that is that my German professor was actually there May 6, 1945 when the camp was liberated -- he was in the American forces there, and said words can't describe the horror of the place. Everyone's heart was moved to see the wholesale slaughter of the dead and the pain inflicted on the poor surviving inmates there. Well, Karl Leisner was one of those, but he contracted tuberculosis while he was there and that's why I said it killed him, even though he died 3 months later in a different location in Germany. Interestingly, he was actually ordained in the horrendous camp by Bishop Gabriel Piquet who was also interred there (he'd already completed his seminary training, including the necessary lesser orders, apparently) and said only one Mass -- in camp -- in his entire life. I'm sure that's not what he expected when he took Holy Orders -- I imagine he intended to offer many reverent Masses, but that's how it worked out. And he still inspires young people -- there is even a whole movement of youth called Karl Leisner Jugend in Germany now. It doesn't really matter how long you live . . . but how well you love, and my goodness, he did!
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Today August 11
Today is the feast of St. Clare of Assisi (1193-1253 AD), founder of the Poor Clares. Gilbert Keith Chesterton said of her story that had she merely run away with St. Francis, her "knight-errant," it would be one of the most famous and popular stories of book, music and stage. As it was, it is sort of glossed over because it was "merely" spiritual. But what a story! When she was 18 she heard him preach, she sought him out secretly and decided to escape form her castle and embrace -- really embrace -- Gospel poverty. In the middle of the night she and a female companion left via a secret door (one only used for the removal of the dead) from the family palace. She met Francis at the chapel door of the Portiuncula. He and his monks were holding lighted candles and led her to the altar, where she divorced the world and took (wholly uncanonical) vows of chastity, obedience and -- especially -- poverty. And she sealed the deal by cutting her hair and assuming a rough brown habit tied with a cord.
She was housed in the Benedictine convent until she could be established at San Damiano, where she stayed until her death. Francis wrote her (and the sisters who joined her) a short Rule, with a strict -- and completely vegetarian -- diet, which she often exceeded in austerity. Stories of her having dinner later in life with Francis (either with or without a heavenly light) are probably false, but it is true she housed and cared for him in his final illness. (He stayed in a little hut in the backyard; it was there he composed his famous Canticle of Brother Sun.)
She faced the disappointment of her family (who even tried to kidnap her from the Portiuncula), and had to fight clerics all the way up to the level of pope to keep her simple rule, saying when Pope Gregory IX offered to absolve her from the vow of such strict poverty, "I need to be absolved from my sins, but I do not wish to be absolved from the obligation of following Jesus Christ." He signed the bull saying they need never be required to possess property, and later, when Innocent IV tried again to mitigate the rule, she fought him . . . and won. Two days before she died, she received from this same pope official approval of her rule.
She lived simply, humbly, prayerfully. She was voted abbess and though she had all authority, she chose to kiss and wash the feet of the sisters when they returned from begging. She checked on them at night and even pulled up their covers when they kicked them off at night. She loved flowers and always kept the altar adorned with them and with fine corporals and altar cloths she had made by hand. She had great devotion to the Holy Eucharist and even took It to the wall surrounding the city when it was threatened with Saracens (in Emperor Frederick II's employ) and held It up, saying, "Does it please thee, O God, to deliver into the hands of these beasts the defenseless children whom I have nourished with thy love?" Inexplicably, the invading army turned and ran, in great disorder and with unaccountable injuries, though without a shot having been fired.
Stories are told, too, of her talking to the convent cat and admonishing it for dragging the towel when told to fetch it. And in her last illness she was able to mysteriously see the blessed sacrifice of the Mass even though she was far away, thus her patronage of television.
Her last words before she died were: "Go forth in peace, for you have followed the good road. Go forth without fear, for He that created you has sanctified you, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother. Blessed be thou, O God, for having created me." And then she passed peacefully in the 42nd year of her religious profession and the 60th year of her age.
She was housed in the Benedictine convent until she could be established at San Damiano, where she stayed until her death. Francis wrote her (and the sisters who joined her) a short Rule, with a strict -- and completely vegetarian -- diet, which she often exceeded in austerity. Stories of her having dinner later in life with Francis (either with or without a heavenly light) are probably false, but it is true she housed and cared for him in his final illness. (He stayed in a little hut in the backyard; it was there he composed his famous Canticle of Brother Sun.)
She faced the disappointment of her family (who even tried to kidnap her from the Portiuncula), and had to fight clerics all the way up to the level of pope to keep her simple rule, saying when Pope Gregory IX offered to absolve her from the vow of such strict poverty, "I need to be absolved from my sins, but I do not wish to be absolved from the obligation of following Jesus Christ." He signed the bull saying they need never be required to possess property, and later, when Innocent IV tried again to mitigate the rule, she fought him . . . and won. Two days before she died, she received from this same pope official approval of her rule.
She lived simply, humbly, prayerfully. She was voted abbess and though she had all authority, she chose to kiss and wash the feet of the sisters when they returned from begging. She checked on them at night and even pulled up their covers when they kicked them off at night. She loved flowers and always kept the altar adorned with them and with fine corporals and altar cloths she had made by hand. She had great devotion to the Holy Eucharist and even took It to the wall surrounding the city when it was threatened with Saracens (in Emperor Frederick II's employ) and held It up, saying, "Does it please thee, O God, to deliver into the hands of these beasts the defenseless children whom I have nourished with thy love?" Inexplicably, the invading army turned and ran, in great disorder and with unaccountable injuries, though without a shot having been fired.
Stories are told, too, of her talking to the convent cat and admonishing it for dragging the towel when told to fetch it. And in her last illness she was able to mysteriously see the blessed sacrifice of the Mass even though she was far away, thus her patronage of television.
Her last words before she died were: "Go forth in peace, for you have followed the good road. Go forth without fear, for He that created you has sanctified you, has always protected you, and loves you as a mother. Blessed be thou, O God, for having created me." And then she passed peacefully in the 42nd year of her religious profession and the 60th year of her age.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Today August 10
Today is the feast of the great Saint Laurence, martyr, died 258 AD (no birth date). His name is also spelled "Lawrence." He was one of seven deacons of the city of Rome, he died in the great persecution of the Emperor Valerian, three days after the death of Pope St. Sixtus II, whom he knew and served. Those facts are certain. The story of his last witness and death are based on a long tradition, and held by St. Ambrose, the poet Prudentius and others. He followed the pope to his execution, saying, "Father, where are you going without your deacon?" The pope answered, "I do not leave you, my son. You shall follow me in three days."
Laurence was called before the Emperor, who demanded the treasure of the Church. Laurence begged for time, and meantime he gathered a great number of the homeless, the blind, the lame, the maimed, the lepers, orphans and widows; these he brought to the Emperor, saying, "These are the treasure of the Church."
Angered at his audacity, the Emperor declared he be put to death in a particularly painful way, grilled to death on a gridiron. He was stripped and bound to the grill over the fire. After awhile under this torture, he joked with his executioners: "I am quite done on this side, you may turn me over now and eat." Perhaps catching a little of the saint's humor, the Church has declared St. Laurence to be the patron of cooks.
Laurence was called before the Emperor, who demanded the treasure of the Church. Laurence begged for time, and meantime he gathered a great number of the homeless, the blind, the lame, the maimed, the lepers, orphans and widows; these he brought to the Emperor, saying, "These are the treasure of the Church."
Angered at his audacity, the Emperor declared he be put to death in a particularly painful way, grilled to death on a gridiron. He was stripped and bound to the grill over the fire. After awhile under this torture, he joked with his executioners: "I am quite done on this side, you may turn me over now and eat." Perhaps catching a little of the saint's humor, the Church has declared St. Laurence to be the patron of cooks.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
Today August 9
Today is the feast of St. Edith Stein, of course, but I'm going to go with the little-known Mother Marianne of Molokai (1838-1918), a fairly modern saint, and an American. Her baptismal name was Barbara. She was born in Heppenheim, Germany, but her family migrated to the US when she was just two years old. She lived in New York and though she knew she had a religious vocation, she was the oldest of eight children and felt she needed to help her parents. At twelve, she went to work in a factory, turning over all her wages to her parents (she still lived at home, of course) until her father's death in 1862. She joined the Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis in Syracuse, New York and it was quickly discovered that she had profound interpersonal and administrative skills. After some time in the novitiate and in regular duties, she was put in charge of St. Joseph's Hospital in Syracuse -- a good experience for her, in light of her later mission among the lepers in Hawaii -- and in 1877, in charge of her order.
In 1883, the Hawaiian government put out an appeal for women religious to come help with the victims of leprosy in their country, as the disease was reaching epidemic proportions. Although 50 orders were approached before hers, they all demurred, but Mother Marianne's joyfully accepted. Thirty-six sisters volunteered, six were chosen, and Marianne set out from New York to Hawaii just to accompany them. Yeah, you know how that goes. What was just going to be 6 months turned into 35 years! Mother Marianne died among her patients on this date in 1918, happy and peaceful, though racked with pain. She didn't die of leprosy, however. Neither did any of the sisters of her order. She told one of her sisters: "You will never be a leper. I know we are exposed, but God has called us for this work. If we are prudent and do our duty, He will protect us . . . Remember, you will never be a leper, nor will any sister of our order." And so it was.
She threw herself into her work, first running the hospital at Honolulu, then at Maui, and finally at the God-forsaken island of Molokai. Father Damian had already started his church, hospital and home for boys and men there. She built one for women and took over the Men's Home (and Boys' Town) after his death. She knew by this time she would never return to her beloved America. But she cheerfully went about giving the colony a "woman's touch": planting flowers, sewing dresses, adorning the girls with bows and arranging their hair, teaching them to sing, bringing them joy. She loved all things of nature, like her spiritual father Francis, and was happy and content with poverty. We need more people like her!
When a visiting writer came and was horrified by what he saw and told her: "It would be a mercy to put an end to such a hopeless and miserable life," she responded: "God giveth life; He will take it away in His own good time. In the meantime it is our duty to make life as pleasant and as comfortable as possible for those of our fellow creatures whom God has chosen to afflict with this terrible disease."
She herself died of dropsy, complicated by lung hemorrhage, after a long illness. Her cause for beatification is now open.
In 1883, the Hawaiian government put out an appeal for women religious to come help with the victims of leprosy in their country, as the disease was reaching epidemic proportions. Although 50 orders were approached before hers, they all demurred, but Mother Marianne's joyfully accepted. Thirty-six sisters volunteered, six were chosen, and Marianne set out from New York to Hawaii just to accompany them. Yeah, you know how that goes. What was just going to be 6 months turned into 35 years! Mother Marianne died among her patients on this date in 1918, happy and peaceful, though racked with pain. She didn't die of leprosy, however. Neither did any of the sisters of her order. She told one of her sisters: "You will never be a leper. I know we are exposed, but God has called us for this work. If we are prudent and do our duty, He will protect us . . . Remember, you will never be a leper, nor will any sister of our order." And so it was.
She threw herself into her work, first running the hospital at Honolulu, then at Maui, and finally at the God-forsaken island of Molokai. Father Damian had already started his church, hospital and home for boys and men there. She built one for women and took over the Men's Home (and Boys' Town) after his death. She knew by this time she would never return to her beloved America. But she cheerfully went about giving the colony a "woman's touch": planting flowers, sewing dresses, adorning the girls with bows and arranging their hair, teaching them to sing, bringing them joy. She loved all things of nature, like her spiritual father Francis, and was happy and content with poverty. We need more people like her!
When a visiting writer came and was horrified by what he saw and told her: "It would be a mercy to put an end to such a hopeless and miserable life," she responded: "God giveth life; He will take it away in His own good time. In the meantime it is our duty to make life as pleasant and as comfortable as possible for those of our fellow creatures whom God has chosen to afflict with this terrible disease."
She herself died of dropsy, complicated by lung hemorrhage, after a long illness. Her cause for beatification is now open.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Today August 8
Today is the great, great feast of St. Dominic, (1170-1221), founder of the Dominicans (natch), great preacher and teacher. My kids were taught by Dominican sisters (in Nashville), so this is a special day for me. As our deacon said of the sisters in their full-length white habit, long black veils, and oversize rosaries in their rope belts, "They give witness just by walking down the hall." True.
Dominic's mother, Joan, was a young noblewoman brought up in the castle of Aza in Spain; she married another nobleman, Felix de Guzman, and had four children: Anthony, Mannes, Dominic and a girl whose name is lost to history. The boys all became priests (Anthony a "canon regular" and the other two Dominicans -- surprise, surprise; the girl became a wife and mother -- but her two sons became Dominicans, so I suppose she redeemed herself thereby. Just kidding.) There was a lot of space between Mannes and Dominic -- at least 10-14 years, since he was already out of the house -- and Joan prayed for another child. She was in church (natch!) as she was praying, and she had a vision of the church's patron, Dominic of Silos, setting in her mind the name she would give the child were it to be a boy. She later had another vision, this time in a dream, of a dog with a light in its mouth, which is funny because her as-yet-unborn son's order was called colloquially the Domini canes, or "dogs of the Lord." (A little bit of Latin humor there.)
Anyway, he didn't start out that way. He actually started out (at age 14) as an Augustinian, which career he maintained in an undistinguished way for 6-7 years. Then he was tapped to accompany the Bishop of Osma (who had been his prior) on a journey to Denmark to "negotiate a marriage" for the king of Spain's son. While on this journey, Dominic (and Bishop Diego) stayed at the house of a distinguished Albigensian, who engaged him in a religious discussion all night long. I don't know how he did it, but Dominic converted the man from his beliefs to Catholicism. They say you can't argue a man into faith, but perhaps you can sufficiently cause him to call into question his own belief.
Later, when Dominic asked the Pope leave to go evangelize the Russians, the Pope (Innocent III) told him to stay and evangelize those in his own backyard, by which Dominic took to mean the Albigensians. Which as you know, was no small task. Albigensianism was not so much a heresy as a whole other religion, holding dualistic ideas of spirit and matter: basically, spirit -- good, matter -- bad, to the point where salvation was not obtained without total sexual abstinence, little food and drink, and even the advocation of suicide! All of which would lead you to believe the sect would die out in a hurry. But the vast number of Albigensians did not follow that directive; their leaders, the so-called "Perfect," did.
At the time, the leaders in the fight against this heresy (for lack of a better word) were the Cistercians, so Dominic joined them -- not canonically, but physically -- to preach the truth in the Languedoc. He could see the luxurious life (by comparison) of the Cistercian preachers made their message much weaker, so he advised them to give up horses, retinues, and servants and quit staying in the best hotels. Also, to use gentle persuasion and peaceful discussion rather than threats and arrogance. It may be revisionist history to say that he had nothing to do with the establishment of Inquisitions in the course of the fight against the heresy, but it is true that Dominic only counseled the weapons of "instruction, patience, penance, fasting, tears and prayer" and abjured his follower Fulk who went out with men at arms and used violence or threats of violence to wage his fight.
He had taken in some nuns who had asked for asylum from their formerly Albigensian convent, and in some ways could be said to have formed the first group of Dominican nuns, but really, he hadn't a canonical leg to stand on. He had for some time envisioned a new order devoted to preaching and study but when he went to the Pope during the 4th Lateran Council, Innocent wanted to refuse. There were already too many religious orders, he thought. But that night he had a vision of the church crumbling and all that was keeping it up was the figure of St. Dominic. Whatever the reason, the next day he changed his mind and approved it.
The first little community of Dominicans was established at Toulouse (where a later -- and great -- Dominican, St. Thomas Aquinas, is buried). The following year, 1216, Dominic returned to Rome and received the confirmation of his order and his rule by the new pope, Honorius III and it was there he met and embraced St. Francis of Assisi. "You are my companion and must walk with me," Dominic said. "For if we hold together no earthly power can withstand us."
They were a true mendicant order, rejecting all property-holding; and were almost unique in not consisting of autonomous houses but united under a superior general. That first superior sent the little group in all directions: to Span, throughout France and to Italy. He desired to make it to Russia but never did.
He died in a borrowed bed, in a borrowed habit, but happy and surrounded by his friars. "Don't let my departure in the flesh trouble you, my sons," he said, "And don't doubt that I shall serve you better dead than alive."
Dominic's mother, Joan, was a young noblewoman brought up in the castle of Aza in Spain; she married another nobleman, Felix de Guzman, and had four children: Anthony, Mannes, Dominic and a girl whose name is lost to history. The boys all became priests (Anthony a "canon regular" and the other two Dominicans -- surprise, surprise; the girl became a wife and mother -- but her two sons became Dominicans, so I suppose she redeemed herself thereby. Just kidding.) There was a lot of space between Mannes and Dominic -- at least 10-14 years, since he was already out of the house -- and Joan prayed for another child. She was in church (natch!) as she was praying, and she had a vision of the church's patron, Dominic of Silos, setting in her mind the name she would give the child were it to be a boy. She later had another vision, this time in a dream, of a dog with a light in its mouth, which is funny because her as-yet-unborn son's order was called colloquially the Domini canes, or "dogs of the Lord." (A little bit of Latin humor there.)
Anyway, he didn't start out that way. He actually started out (at age 14) as an Augustinian, which career he maintained in an undistinguished way for 6-7 years. Then he was tapped to accompany the Bishop of Osma (who had been his prior) on a journey to Denmark to "negotiate a marriage" for the king of Spain's son. While on this journey, Dominic (and Bishop Diego) stayed at the house of a distinguished Albigensian, who engaged him in a religious discussion all night long. I don't know how he did it, but Dominic converted the man from his beliefs to Catholicism. They say you can't argue a man into faith, but perhaps you can sufficiently cause him to call into question his own belief.
Later, when Dominic asked the Pope leave to go evangelize the Russians, the Pope (Innocent III) told him to stay and evangelize those in his own backyard, by which Dominic took to mean the Albigensians. Which as you know, was no small task. Albigensianism was not so much a heresy as a whole other religion, holding dualistic ideas of spirit and matter: basically, spirit -- good, matter -- bad, to the point where salvation was not obtained without total sexual abstinence, little food and drink, and even the advocation of suicide! All of which would lead you to believe the sect would die out in a hurry. But the vast number of Albigensians did not follow that directive; their leaders, the so-called "Perfect," did.
At the time, the leaders in the fight against this heresy (for lack of a better word) were the Cistercians, so Dominic joined them -- not canonically, but physically -- to preach the truth in the Languedoc. He could see the luxurious life (by comparison) of the Cistercian preachers made their message much weaker, so he advised them to give up horses, retinues, and servants and quit staying in the best hotels. Also, to use gentle persuasion and peaceful discussion rather than threats and arrogance. It may be revisionist history to say that he had nothing to do with the establishment of Inquisitions in the course of the fight against the heresy, but it is true that Dominic only counseled the weapons of "instruction, patience, penance, fasting, tears and prayer" and abjured his follower Fulk who went out with men at arms and used violence or threats of violence to wage his fight.
He had taken in some nuns who had asked for asylum from their formerly Albigensian convent, and in some ways could be said to have formed the first group of Dominican nuns, but really, he hadn't a canonical leg to stand on. He had for some time envisioned a new order devoted to preaching and study but when he went to the Pope during the 4th Lateran Council, Innocent wanted to refuse. There were already too many religious orders, he thought. But that night he had a vision of the church crumbling and all that was keeping it up was the figure of St. Dominic. Whatever the reason, the next day he changed his mind and approved it.
The first little community of Dominicans was established at Toulouse (where a later -- and great -- Dominican, St. Thomas Aquinas, is buried). The following year, 1216, Dominic returned to Rome and received the confirmation of his order and his rule by the new pope, Honorius III and it was there he met and embraced St. Francis of Assisi. "You are my companion and must walk with me," Dominic said. "For if we hold together no earthly power can withstand us."
They were a true mendicant order, rejecting all property-holding; and were almost unique in not consisting of autonomous houses but united under a superior general. That first superior sent the little group in all directions: to Span, throughout France and to Italy. He desired to make it to Russia but never did.
He died in a borrowed bed, in a borrowed habit, but happy and surrounded by his friars. "Don't let my departure in the flesh trouble you, my sons," he said, "And don't doubt that I shall serve you better dead than alive."
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Today August 7
Today is the feast of many minor saints, but due to my positive prejudice toward the Desert Fathers, we are going to go with one of those: the somewhat obscure St. Dioscorus. He was an interesting guy. He really lit into his fellow monks about the responsibility of keeping from sin . . . how much worse for the clergy and monks if "after having worn this habit for so long, we are found in the hour of need not having put on the wedding garment (Matt. 22:13)." But just because he was hard on the Catholic men of the cloth doesn't mean he was easy on himself. His disciple found him crying one day and asked him what was wrong. "I am weeping over my sins." "But you do not have any sins, Father!" he exclaimed. The old man replied, "Truly, my child, if I were allowed to see my sins, three or four men would not be enough to weep for them."
All of which points out that we should be hesitant to minimize other's people's consciences. We all do it, however. "Oh, that's okay." . . . "That's not a sin." . . . "God understands." You never know! Keep your eyes on your own papers, people!
And the last story of Dioscorus was that he, one of the so-called "Four Tall Brothers," was a courageous soul when it came to asceticism. He'd give himself a task he would carry out for a whole year, hard as it might be. "I will not meet anyone this year." or "I will not speak," or "I will not eat fruit or vegetables." And whatever he resolved, he carried it out.
All of which points out that we should be hesitant to minimize other's people's consciences. We all do it, however. "Oh, that's okay." . . . "That's not a sin." . . . "God understands." You never know! Keep your eyes on your own papers, people!
And the last story of Dioscorus was that he, one of the so-called "Four Tall Brothers," was a courageous soul when it came to asceticism. He'd give himself a task he would carry out for a whole year, hard as it might be. "I will not meet anyone this year." or "I will not speak," or "I will not eat fruit or vegetables." And whatever he resolved, he carried it out.
Monday, August 6, 2007
Today August 6
Today is the feast of the Transfiguration. Much has been said and much ink has been spilled on this great subject. Our former Holy Father, John Paul II, even made it another mystery of the Rosary (fourth mystery of light). But I think Frank Sheed had a real handle on it when he pointed out that we tend to focus on Peter, James and John in this episode "almost as though the whole incident had been staged for their sake. Strengthened and comforted by it they certainly were, but they were not principals. Jesus conversed with Moses and Elijah: the three apostles were asleep part of the time and contributed nothing. Only one of them said anything at all . . . but he himself tells us, through Mark (9:5), that he was too frightened to know what he was saying." - "To Know Christ Jesus."
Frank Sheed called the Transfiguration "the gospel to the Dead" and insisted that (besides Jesus, of course), the principals are really Moses and Elijah. And in Luke's Gospel we learn they most details, especially what Jesus had gone up to mountain to do (pray) and what he conversed with Moses and Elijah about -- they, too, who were in glory. They were speaking of the death that He would die in Jerusalem.
The gates of heaven were about to be opened, due to the final and perfect sacrifice. Moses, the law-giver, dead these 1500 years, and Elijah, the greatest of the Old Testament prophets, who was caught up in a whirlwind 800 years before, must have received the news joyfully and passed it on to those of the expectant faithful in Sheol ("Abraham's bosom").
I think we don't think of this because, like children, we (the living) think we are the center of the universe, or at least the only thing that matters. As far as the dead, even the glorious dead (like Moses and Elijah . . . or at least Moses anyway), out of sight, out of mind. But God who sees all and more importantly, sees all in its proper perspective, knows that the dead "count" and so Jesus, who is God, shared with them (and by extension, with all those in the bosom of Abraham) the good news that the redemption was at hand and how it was to be accomplished. Good news, indeed!
Frank Sheed called the Transfiguration "the gospel to the Dead" and insisted that (besides Jesus, of course), the principals are really Moses and Elijah. And in Luke's Gospel we learn they most details, especially what Jesus had gone up to mountain to do (pray) and what he conversed with Moses and Elijah about -- they, too, who were in glory. They were speaking of the death that He would die in Jerusalem.
The gates of heaven were about to be opened, due to the final and perfect sacrifice. Moses, the law-giver, dead these 1500 years, and Elijah, the greatest of the Old Testament prophets, who was caught up in a whirlwind 800 years before, must have received the news joyfully and passed it on to those of the expectant faithful in Sheol ("Abraham's bosom").
I think we don't think of this because, like children, we (the living) think we are the center of the universe, or at least the only thing that matters. As far as the dead, even the glorious dead (like Moses and Elijah . . . or at least Moses anyway), out of sight, out of mind. But God who sees all and more importantly, sees all in its proper perspective, knows that the dead "count" and so Jesus, who is God, shared with them (and by extension, with all those in the bosom of Abraham) the good news that the redemption was at hand and how it was to be accomplished. Good news, indeed!
Sunday, August 5, 2007
Homily: Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time: 2007
Brothers and sisters, "Vanity of vanities: all things are vanity!" This is an interesting and great philosophy, rooted in wisdom, but it is not the last word on the subject. It is wise, because it takes profundity to know vanity at all. The seventeenth-century French philosopher Blaise Pascal said, "Anyone who does not see the vanity of life must be very vain indeed."
You work and you work and you work and for what? And soon or late, young or old, you must come to die. To whom will all your pent-up wealth go? (That's assuming it hasn't been taken from you at some point previous.) Your children, you say. But what if you don't have children? What if you have children, but they take your legacy for granted? What if they and their spouses think of you, if they think of you at all, as "that old crank"? Vanity. All things are vanity.
But it's not the last or even the best solution. Consider the life of Job. "Even if He slay me, yet will I trust Him." Life is suffering, but it has meaning because it is from Him, the giver of life. So even in our darkness we can praise the Lord. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
And finally, there is the revelation of the Song of Songs, where life is love. Life has meaning because you love and are loved, no matter how many years of life you had, no matter how much honor with which you were recognized, no matter how much money you made. "Sterner than death is love, stronger than a rushing river. Were one to offer all he had to purchase love, he would be roundly mocked."
But how do we love and how do we attract love? Why, through Him who is love itself. And if you need more practical advice, there's St. Paul in the second reading. Don't be materialistic. Don't be greedy. Be honest. Be pure. Don't engage in premarital sex. Don't look at pornography. Honor your body and don't give in to your baser passions. Don't be arrogant and proud. It doesn't matter if your neighbor is poorer than you, darker (or lighter) than you, more foreign than you, more (or less) overtly religious than you. Here we are all one. Here we are all in the same boat, the boat they used to call the barque of Peter. Peter, the first pope, and by analogy, all his successors. Listen to them.
You work and you work and you work and for what? And soon or late, young or old, you must come to die. To whom will all your pent-up wealth go? (That's assuming it hasn't been taken from you at some point previous.) Your children, you say. But what if you don't have children? What if you have children, but they take your legacy for granted? What if they and their spouses think of you, if they think of you at all, as "that old crank"? Vanity. All things are vanity.
But it's not the last or even the best solution. Consider the life of Job. "Even if He slay me, yet will I trust Him." Life is suffering, but it has meaning because it is from Him, the giver of life. So even in our darkness we can praise the Lord. "The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away; blessed be the name of the Lord."
And finally, there is the revelation of the Song of Songs, where life is love. Life has meaning because you love and are loved, no matter how many years of life you had, no matter how much honor with which you were recognized, no matter how much money you made. "Sterner than death is love, stronger than a rushing river. Were one to offer all he had to purchase love, he would be roundly mocked."
But how do we love and how do we attract love? Why, through Him who is love itself. And if you need more practical advice, there's St. Paul in the second reading. Don't be materialistic. Don't be greedy. Be honest. Be pure. Don't engage in premarital sex. Don't look at pornography. Honor your body and don't give in to your baser passions. Don't be arrogant and proud. It doesn't matter if your neighbor is poorer than you, darker (or lighter) than you, more foreign than you, more (or less) overtly religious than you. Here we are all one. Here we are all in the same boat, the boat they used to call the barque of Peter. Peter, the first pope, and by analogy, all his successors. Listen to them.
Today August 5
Today we celebrate the feast of the dedication of St. Mary Major in Rome. Wow. Where am I going to find the story of a CHURCH? There's a little in Butler's Lives. One good thing about the reform of the calendar (a thing I usually lament) is that the original name of the feast, in this case "Our Lady of the Snows", has been changed to a more descriptive and easier to defend one, "Dedication of St. Mary Church." The reason that is good is because the story of the apparition of our Lady to a layman named John (that part may have been true), asking him to build a church where she would indicate by a very narrow snowstorm in the middle of summer right on the spot on Esquline Hill, "is now everywhere recognized as a myth" - Butler's Lives. I'm not sure why this must be a myth: after all, miraculous roses have bloomed in the snow as signs of her favor -- in universally approved apparitions or associated with certain saints. But I just present the facts.
As to why it is called "St. Mary Major," in Italian "Santa Maria Maggiore" or "Great St. Mary's," that's easy. It is the oldest and most dignified of all the churches dedicated to Mary in that "city of churches," Rome. I wonder if it's also the largest. I'm sure it's beautiful. I wish all churches dedicated to Mary were as beautiful. Heck, I wish all Catholic churches were beautiful! I want graceful, if not soaring, architecture; I want a cross on top; I want stone with suitable carvings; I want representative stained glass; I want statues; I want a tabernacle in a prominent place of honor. I want rich vestments and liturgical vessels of precious metals. And to those who argue that it's all too costly I respond, "And those 'functional' churches cost HOW much?" :)
As to why it is called "St. Mary Major," in Italian "Santa Maria Maggiore" or "Great St. Mary's," that's easy. It is the oldest and most dignified of all the churches dedicated to Mary in that "city of churches," Rome. I wonder if it's also the largest. I'm sure it's beautiful. I wish all churches dedicated to Mary were as beautiful. Heck, I wish all Catholic churches were beautiful! I want graceful, if not soaring, architecture; I want a cross on top; I want stone with suitable carvings; I want representative stained glass; I want statues; I want a tabernacle in a prominent place of honor. I want rich vestments and liturgical vessels of precious metals. And to those who argue that it's all too costly I respond, "And those 'functional' churches cost HOW much?" :)
Saturday, August 4, 2007
Today August 4
In this great month of saints, we now celebrate one of the greatest: St. John Vianney, the Cure of Ars (1786 - 1859). He was a great and interesting man. He met St. Benedict Joseph Labre when the latter made a pilgrimage out near the Vianney's home and stayed with them -- St. John was just a child.
He was drafted into Napoleon's Army; he was labeled a deserter when he didn't fight. I've heard that it was a mistake, and I've heard he got lost on the way to the battle. I never heard that he was a conscientious objector, but who knows?
He struggled with his studies, especially Latin. He almost didn't make it through seminary. But the patient and tolerant tutoring by Abbe Balley and Vianney's obvious piety and devotion got him accepted.
He was assigned to what we would call "the sticks" -- the parish of Ars. He "bloomed where he was planted," staying forever in his little town, which after the Revolution had become almost "godless" -- Angelus Book of Saints. Many of France's priests were burnt out, fallen away, or merely going through the motions. John Vianney was not: he was the real thing, a true believer, one who didn't spare himself. He heard confessions from 1:00 am til 7:00 am, when he then said Mass (Day off? What day off? And wow -- even on Saturdays. Can you believe it?), then heard some more after his thanksgiving until 11:00 am when he taught catechism and had lunch, then yet some more after his visitations to the old and sick, until night prayers, which he said til about 10:00 pm -- leaving only about 3 hours for sleep! But he singlehandedly whipped that parish into shape: he counseled sinners, even effecting conversions of the most hardened; he read souls and even predicted futures -- correctly every time; he eliminated drunkenness, servile work on Sunday and even dancing from his parish. I admit to being a little hard on the old Cure of Ars when I heard about that, until I learned that these dancing parties often involved sleepovers which led to sexual immorality.
He died in the saddle, so to speak, on this date in 1859. Huge numbers of people flocked to him. He longed to quit and join a monastery, but it never was to be.
He was drafted into Napoleon's Army; he was labeled a deserter when he didn't fight. I've heard that it was a mistake, and I've heard he got lost on the way to the battle. I never heard that he was a conscientious objector, but who knows?
He struggled with his studies, especially Latin. He almost didn't make it through seminary. But the patient and tolerant tutoring by Abbe Balley and Vianney's obvious piety and devotion got him accepted.
He was assigned to what we would call "the sticks" -- the parish of Ars. He "bloomed where he was planted," staying forever in his little town, which after the Revolution had become almost "godless" -- Angelus Book of Saints. Many of France's priests were burnt out, fallen away, or merely going through the motions. John Vianney was not: he was the real thing, a true believer, one who didn't spare himself. He heard confessions from 1:00 am til 7:00 am, when he then said Mass (Day off? What day off? And wow -- even on Saturdays. Can you believe it?), then heard some more after his thanksgiving until 11:00 am when he taught catechism and had lunch, then yet some more after his visitations to the old and sick, until night prayers, which he said til about 10:00 pm -- leaving only about 3 hours for sleep! But he singlehandedly whipped that parish into shape: he counseled sinners, even effecting conversions of the most hardened; he read souls and even predicted futures -- correctly every time; he eliminated drunkenness, servile work on Sunday and even dancing from his parish. I admit to being a little hard on the old Cure of Ars when I heard about that, until I learned that these dancing parties often involved sleepovers which led to sexual immorality.
He died in the saddle, so to speak, on this date in 1859. Huge numbers of people flocked to him. He longed to quit and join a monastery, but it never was to be.
Friday, August 3, 2007
Today August 3
Today is the feast of St. Germaine (or Germain, Germanus) of Auxerre, (375 - 446 AD). This dedicated layman, a French noble (more properly, a nobleman in what is now called France), a soldier and leader, was tapped to be bishop. He accepted, parted company with his wife (who went off to be a nun -- willingly, we trust), divested himself of all his worldly goods, and devoted himself to asceticism and hospitality. He was a teetotaler, didn't eat but once a day and that not til evening, and mixed ashes with his bread. What unlikely material for a good host! Let's hope he treated his quite a bit better than he did himself!
He built a church on one side of the River Yonne and a monastery on the other, so the people would have the benefit of the sanctity of the monks and the monks the benefit of closeness to the people. And when I say "sanctity" I don't mean that they weren't sinners (we all are), or even that they didn't have demon possessions of some of their members! One in particular was involved in a story about Germaine. He was supposed to go visit the monastery, but he canceled. His work being done sooner than expected, he decided to surprise the monks. One who was known to be a demoniac stood up in the refectory and exclaimed, "Germanus is at the river and cannot cross because he doesn't have a boat." They didn't believe it, but sent a delegation to the river, and sure enough, there he was on the other side of the river, waiting for a ferry. They sent one over, and when he arrived, he fell at once to praying and drove out the evil spirit from the monk.
Another time, he was visited by a man named Januarius who was carrying a large packet of money. It was accidentally found and kept by a homeless man who was possessed. Later, when Januarius discovered the money was gone, he threw himself at Germaine's feet and begged him to find it, lest he be put to death if he came to the governor without it. Germaine counseled patience. He was about to say Mass and called all the beggars in for a blessing beforehand. There they stayed during Mass, until one of them suddenly rose into the air, crying aloud, yelling the bishop's name and confessing to the crime. The coins were restored to Januarius and the man, after the prayers of exorcism, was freed of the demon.
There are many stories of St. Germaine. He cured fatal throat infections with his fervent prayers and the application of blessed oils. He and his unfortunately-named companion Lupus evangelized Britain. He combated the Pelagian heresy and debated them in public at Verulamium (now St. Alban's), winning a great victory. He helped the hapless Christian Britons in a physical victory, as well, and he did so without firing a shot. The Britons were threatened with attack by the Saxons and Picts in league together. Germaine, the military strategist, lured the enemy into a canyon and arrayed all the Britons on both sides shouting "Alleluia" at the top of their lungs. Their enemies, fearing a large army, hastily retreated and left them alone.
He died trying to obtain a pardon for the Armorican (Armorica = Brittany) rebels, in whose war against Rome he had bravely intervened, even grabbing the bridle of the Roman's barbarian chief's horse, turning it back. He traveled to Ravenna to plead (successfully) with the Emperor and the bishop there. He died and his body was taken back in honor to Auxerre.
He built a church on one side of the River Yonne and a monastery on the other, so the people would have the benefit of the sanctity of the monks and the monks the benefit of closeness to the people. And when I say "sanctity" I don't mean that they weren't sinners (we all are), or even that they didn't have demon possessions of some of their members! One in particular was involved in a story about Germaine. He was supposed to go visit the monastery, but he canceled. His work being done sooner than expected, he decided to surprise the monks. One who was known to be a demoniac stood up in the refectory and exclaimed, "Germanus is at the river and cannot cross because he doesn't have a boat." They didn't believe it, but sent a delegation to the river, and sure enough, there he was on the other side of the river, waiting for a ferry. They sent one over, and when he arrived, he fell at once to praying and drove out the evil spirit from the monk.
Another time, he was visited by a man named Januarius who was carrying a large packet of money. It was accidentally found and kept by a homeless man who was possessed. Later, when Januarius discovered the money was gone, he threw himself at Germaine's feet and begged him to find it, lest he be put to death if he came to the governor without it. Germaine counseled patience. He was about to say Mass and called all the beggars in for a blessing beforehand. There they stayed during Mass, until one of them suddenly rose into the air, crying aloud, yelling the bishop's name and confessing to the crime. The coins were restored to Januarius and the man, after the prayers of exorcism, was freed of the demon.
There are many stories of St. Germaine. He cured fatal throat infections with his fervent prayers and the application of blessed oils. He and his unfortunately-named companion Lupus evangelized Britain. He combated the Pelagian heresy and debated them in public at Verulamium (now St. Alban's), winning a great victory. He helped the hapless Christian Britons in a physical victory, as well, and he did so without firing a shot. The Britons were threatened with attack by the Saxons and Picts in league together. Germaine, the military strategist, lured the enemy into a canyon and arrayed all the Britons on both sides shouting "Alleluia" at the top of their lungs. Their enemies, fearing a large army, hastily retreated and left them alone.
He died trying to obtain a pardon for the Armorican (Armorica = Brittany) rebels, in whose war against Rome he had bravely intervened, even grabbing the bridle of the Roman's barbarian chief's horse, turning it back. He traveled to Ravenna to plead (successfully) with the Emperor and the bishop there. He died and his body was taken back in honor to Auxerre.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Today August 2
Today is the feast of St. Peter Julian Eymard (1811 - 1868). This man, this "saint of the Eucharist," had a rocky relationship with his dad, who was opposed to his vocation and was not above using guilt to discourage him, notably after the death of his mother (which he only heard about too late to make her funeral, even though he rushed home from the mental hospital where he worked). It actually wasn't until later -- after a dynamic Oblates of Mary preacher convinced his father that he let him go.
Peter, whom even in life was declared to be "a great saint" by another saint, St. John Vianney, who met him and admired him, was very much his own man. He was a middle-class guy, his dad was in trade (oil and knives, actually), and he received only a middle-class education. He was expected to go into trade himself, but he knew he had a vocation to the priesthood. He tried to teach himself Latin, but that never works as well as with a teacher. So he apprenticed himself to a priest who promised to teach him, but put him to work with the mentally ill instead. While it was both a danger and a disappointment to him, I like to think that it was a tremendous growth experience for him and is somewhat responsible for his remarkably patient and kind attitude later in life, despite the almost Jansenistic and certainly severe and puritanical spirit in which folks received their religious training in those days.
He advocated frequent Communion (way ahead of his time) -- one could say Communion was the center of his life: he started orders based on adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, for men, women, and laymen -- and he even counseled a young man to consider leaving the (priestly) order to continue with his art. "One should not enter our order as an escape but as a fulfillment," he said. That young man turned out to be the great sculptor Auguste Rodin.
He'd been a diocesan priest but asked to leave to join the Marists. After serving them for 17 years, he asked to leave them to start his own order. He had no money and no prospects, but he scratched up some "calico, which cost us 8 cents a yard, to cover the altar" -- the altar in the chapel was always beautifully decorated. Our Lord was in good hands. St. Peter was very happy and died in peace. Before he died, St. John Vianney told Marguerite Guillot (a female platonic friend of St. Peter's and with whom he'd founded the women's order, the Servants of the Blessed Sacrament), "When you see him, tell him for me all that friends tell each other when they meet, and that we shall all meet in heaven."
When his crumbling coffin was opened 9 years after his death, his body was found perfectly intact. He'd been dug up to take him from La Mure to Paris. Folks who'd known him in life recognized him, of course, but even people who'd only seen him from his picture recognized him. He'd never been embalmed, but there he was, with no trace of even an odor of decomposition. At a later exhumation, there was nothing left but bones. St. Peter Julian, pray for us.
Peter, whom even in life was declared to be "a great saint" by another saint, St. John Vianney, who met him and admired him, was very much his own man. He was a middle-class guy, his dad was in trade (oil and knives, actually), and he received only a middle-class education. He was expected to go into trade himself, but he knew he had a vocation to the priesthood. He tried to teach himself Latin, but that never works as well as with a teacher. So he apprenticed himself to a priest who promised to teach him, but put him to work with the mentally ill instead. While it was both a danger and a disappointment to him, I like to think that it was a tremendous growth experience for him and is somewhat responsible for his remarkably patient and kind attitude later in life, despite the almost Jansenistic and certainly severe and puritanical spirit in which folks received their religious training in those days.
He advocated frequent Communion (way ahead of his time) -- one could say Communion was the center of his life: he started orders based on adoration of the Blessed Sacrament, for men, women, and laymen -- and he even counseled a young man to consider leaving the (priestly) order to continue with his art. "One should not enter our order as an escape but as a fulfillment," he said. That young man turned out to be the great sculptor Auguste Rodin.
He'd been a diocesan priest but asked to leave to join the Marists. After serving them for 17 years, he asked to leave them to start his own order. He had no money and no prospects, but he scratched up some "calico, which cost us 8 cents a yard, to cover the altar" -- the altar in the chapel was always beautifully decorated. Our Lord was in good hands. St. Peter was very happy and died in peace. Before he died, St. John Vianney told Marguerite Guillot (a female platonic friend of St. Peter's and with whom he'd founded the women's order, the Servants of the Blessed Sacrament), "When you see him, tell him for me all that friends tell each other when they meet, and that we shall all meet in heaven."
When his crumbling coffin was opened 9 years after his death, his body was found perfectly intact. He'd been dug up to take him from La Mure to Paris. Folks who'd known him in life recognized him, of course, but even people who'd only seen him from his picture recognized him. He'd never been embalmed, but there he was, with no trace of even an odor of decomposition. At a later exhumation, there was nothing left but bones. St. Peter Julian, pray for us.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Today August 1
Today is the feast of a number of different saints, but we are going to go with the traditional feast of the Maccabees (c. 168 BC), one of the few Old Testament saints (or groups of saints in this case) who are honored in the universal church. The Eastern Church honors, on different dates, SS Abraham, Moses, David, Elijah,. . . even Adam and Eve, but the Western Church only keeps the feast of a few, including today's saints, who take their name from the assumed name of Juda, son of Mathathias, the leader of the Jewish force against the pagan invasion from Syria. Antiochus Epiphanes tried to force them to convert and they refused -- bravely, in the face of torture and death. I especially like the words of an old man called Eleazar (who was privately told by [pagan] friends to just pretend to eat pork [a violation of his religion] and thus escape death without actually violating his conscience). "Such pretense is not worthy of our time of life, lest many of the young should suppose I in my ninetieth year have gone over to an alien religion, and through my pretense, for the sake of living a brief moment longer, they should be led astray because of me, while I defile and disgrace my gray hairs." (2 Macc. 6 - 7) Those of us already with gray hairs can relate and be proud . . .
The seven brothers and their mother were tortured and killed, one after the other (the mother last: "I do not know how you came into being in my womb. It was not I who gave you life and breath, nor I who set in order the elements within each of you. Therefore the Creator of the world, who shaped the beginning of men and devised the origin of all things, will in his mercy give life and breath back to you again, since you now forget yourselves for the sake of his laws."). Also the actions of Judas Maccabeus were honorable, for when he discovered on the bodies of the fallen faithful, idols of Jamnia ("which the law forbids Jews to wear") he exhorted the people not to sin and took up a collection for the dead, saying prayers that their sin be forgiven. "In doing this he acted very well and honorably, taking account of the resurrection." For this one line Luther rejected the entire book (ostensibly because it was rejected by the Jewish council at Jamnia, who accepted as canonical only those books originally written in Hebrew. Maccabees was written in Greek.). But it's a good line in a thoroughly good -- and divinely inspired -- book.
The seven brothers and their mother were tortured and killed, one after the other (the mother last: "I do not know how you came into being in my womb. It was not I who gave you life and breath, nor I who set in order the elements within each of you. Therefore the Creator of the world, who shaped the beginning of men and devised the origin of all things, will in his mercy give life and breath back to you again, since you now forget yourselves for the sake of his laws."). Also the actions of Judas Maccabeus were honorable, for when he discovered on the bodies of the fallen faithful, idols of Jamnia ("which the law forbids Jews to wear") he exhorted the people not to sin and took up a collection for the dead, saying prayers that their sin be forgiven. "In doing this he acted very well and honorably, taking account of the resurrection." For this one line Luther rejected the entire book (ostensibly because it was rejected by the Jewish council at Jamnia, who accepted as canonical only those books originally written in Hebrew. Maccabees was written in Greek.). But it's a good line in a thoroughly good -- and divinely inspired -- book.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)