Alienated From God

Not where the wheeling systems darken, 
And our benumbed conceiving soars! - 
The drift of pinions, would we hearken, 
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors. 

The angels keep their ancient places- 
Turn but a stone and start a wing! 
'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces, 
That miss the many-splendored thing.
(Francis Thompson)

The ideas conveyed by this poem, 'In No Strange Land', are fairly simple and straightforward; that God and His kingdom are all around us and that it is our self-induced blindness not His absence that cause us not to see Him. In commenting about it, then, it is easy to fall into banal commonplace remarks. This though would be to do a great misjustice to the poet who was intent not so much to convey ideas as to share with us his deep anguish and suffering.

The reality which he and we experience is that of estrangement. One senses that he is speaking to us with his body all bruised and battered from repeated assaults against the prison door seeking by the strength within him to tear it open. He does not experience despair but he does know the taste of bitter failure. It is no consolation to him to know that it is he himself that shut, barred and bolted the door. Before it opens he expects to experience more anguish, more distress, more suffering yet.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder) 
Cry- and upon thy so sore loss 
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob's ladder 
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Only when he is at his most extreme end of pain, so sad that he cannot be sadder, does he believe that his eyes will be opened, the door will be unlocked, the light will infuse his being.

Again, there is a temptation to say certain things which are theological truths but which in this context appear trite. Yes, he requires to be fully converted, to repent, to do penance. And yes, even then it is by God's grace not by His own labours that he can hope to see the face of God in Jesus Christ. But we do not know the state of his conscience, like Job's comforters we may be sharing platitudes which miss the mark.

It may be that it is his vocation to throw himself passionately against a locked door and bruise himself. This, not as a punishment nor in order to gain a reward but just because that is God's purpose for him. If he sat in stillness and quiet awaiting the Spirit to descend he might be defying God's will. And others if they did not so sit but imitated the poet would in their turn be defying the Father's will since He does not have the same purpose for each of us.

King David was inspired by God to build a Temple for Him in Jerusalem. But having implanted the desire in David the Father then forbad him to execute it. It sometimes happens that we are moved to attempt the impossible and then fail. God is love itself, and God is justice itself but we are too limited to understand what these things in their fullness really are. If He seems unloving and unjust to us and we go on doing His will anyway because it is our greatest desire to serve Him then perhaps we can understand this poem a little better. And pray for the soul of poor anguished Francis Thompson.
@stevhep

Catholic Scot has a Facebook page

My *other* blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is Pandemonium by John Martin 

Mary & the Poets: 5 The Air We Breathe

Mary Immaculate,
Merely a woman, yet
       Whose presence, power is
Great as no goddess’s
Was deemèd, dreamèd; who
This one work has to do—
Let all God’s glory through,
        God’s glory which would go
Through her and from her flow
Off, and no way but so
(The Blessed Virgin Mary compared to the Air we Breathe)

This is a long poem by Gerard Hopkins which I can only briefly touch on here. I highly recommend that people read it in full when they get a chance.

Our Lady has one task, the unique privilege of being the channel through which the Glory of God, the Word of God, enters the world as flesh of her flesh and bone of her bone while yet remaining wholly Divine. This is not a vocation that began at the Annunciation and ended at Christmas. Mary and Jesus were intimately united throughout their lives on earth and death cannot defeat such a union. God does not change His ways, if He came to us through Mary once then He comes to us through her always.

She, wild web, wondrous robe,
Mantles the guilty globe,
Since God has let dispense
      Her prayers his providence:
Nay, more than almoner,
The sweet alms’ self is her
And men are meant to share
Her life as life does air.

The Blessed Virgin is mediatrix of all grace. Through her hands flow the gifts of love, forgiveness and mercy which the good God pours out upon the world. One cannot add to His gifts so she herself is part of that gift. She comes to us with God's grace. She enters our lives with her gentleness, her smile, her maternal solicitude. With her presence the gift is fully complete and we enter into the life of Christ with her by our side.

A mother came to mould
Those limbs like ours which are
   What must make our daystar
Much dearer to mankind;
Whose glory bare would blind
Or less would win man’s mind.
Through her we may see him
       Made sweeter, not made dim,
And her hand leaves his light
Sifted to suit our sight.

If we saw God as He is we would be terrified by His power, by His glory, as the children of Israel were at Mount Sinai when Moses ascended to receive the Decalogue. So He comes to us as a child with a mother, as the Crucified One comforting the stricken Mary. Where He is she is. And when we see Him through her eyes, in her presence, it is the human Christ we see. We learn to love Him as she loves Him and this perfect love casts out fear.

World-mothering air, air wild,
Wound with thee, in thee isled,
       Fold home, fast fold thy child.

Holding fast to Mary we can be raised by her to her Divine Son. Mary is our mother as she is His mother. Jesus tells us that the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as can become like children. Mary was protectress, teacher, wise counsellor to Our Lord in His childhood if we make ourselves children for the sake of the kingdom then she will be our Protectress, Teacher and Wise Counsellor too.
@stevhep

Catholic Scot has a Facebook Page

My *other* blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is The Virgin of the Navigators by Alejo Fernandez 

Mary & the Poets: 4 Mary My Love

Lightbearer, Christ bearer, Mother of Hope.
Given us by God to bring God to us.
Sedes sapientiae, Seat of Wisdom
Hearer and doer of the Father's Word.
Virgin mother, all glorious within,
Pure light before dawn, bright star of the sea.
You shine in my thoughts, in my dreams draw near,

Radiant with the Son which love brought forth,
Your dear Christ child, my Lord, the Paschal lamb.
The heart of your life is life of my heart
The Logos of God, the fruit of your womb
Jesus of Mary, Salvator Mundi.
I love you dear Lady, mother of mine
In giving us Him you give us your Self


This is by me so I'm probably the last person in the world to comment upon it. You may wonder why in a series featuring real poems by proper poets I have the chutzpah to include my own work. Two things-

Firstly, this is, after all, my blog and if I don't publish my poems it is certain that no one else will. And, more importantly,

Secondly, when a child gives a present to its mother, however naive or artless it may be, she looks with more intent at the love with which the offering is made than at the quality of the offering itself. So I have some hope that Our Lady will accept this inadequate gift for the sake of my devotion to her.

Incidentally the poem consists of fourteen lines each having ten syllables. This yields a total of one hundred and forty syllables. 140 is a number which is divisible both by seven and by ten and adding the numerals 1, 4 and 0 gives us five. Medieval readers would have seen mystical significance in the ten commandments, seven sorrows of Mary and five wounds of Christ being represented in such a fashion. Whether, in fact, any such significance exists is for me to know and you to find out.
@stevhep

Catholic Scot has a Facebook page

My *other* blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is Virgin and Child with Milk Soup by Gerard David

Mary & the Poets: 3 Wordsworth's Virgin

Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost 
With the least shade of thought to sin allied; 
Woman! above all women glorified, 
Our tainted nature's solitary boast; 
Purer than foam on central ocean tost; 
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn 
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon 
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast; 
Thy Image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween, 
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend, 
As to a visible Power, in which did blend 
All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
Of mother's love with maiden purity, 
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!

(William Wordsworth)

This comes from a series of Ecclesiastical Sonnets which Wordsworth wrote about the historic Church in England. Here he is reflecting on the time of the 'Reformation' when much iconoclastic fury was expended in destroying the beautiful things for God which so many of the faithful had created. This explains the central use of the word 'Image' since both our Lady and her threatened cult were on his mind. Similarly the reference to 'not unforgiven' may be about how so many ordinary humble Christians at this time were persecuted or scorned by the powerful for refusing to abandon their devotion to Mary and the saints.

However that may be the essence of poetry is the words which the poet gives us and the meanings which they have for us. Two things in particular spring out of this sonnet for me, firstly-

Woman! above all women glorified, 
Our tainted nature's solitary boast

Our Lady, conceived without Original Sin and cooperating so fully with grace that she committed no actual sins is the new Eve. That is, she is Eve as she should have been, as she would have been but for the Fall. And as Eve was the mother of all the living we are her children. Mary, therefore shows us what we should be and do and become. To the extent that we are truly the children of Mary after the Spirit as we are the children of Eve after the flesh we can share in her purity and in the victory over sin and death which the gifts of the Paraclete and the merits of Christ Crucified gave to her.

Secondly-

All that was mixed and reconciled in Thee 
Of mother's love with maiden purity

In short form poetry every word is carefully used by a poet. When Wordsworth, then, uses the word 'reconciled' in connection with Mary he would have had a definite purpose. As Jesus effects the reconciliation of Man to the Father through the Cross so the Blessed Virgin in her way effects a lesser reconciliation. Before the Logos of God could become fully human as well as fully divine Mary had to become both Virgin and Mother. Again we see the power of the Spirit working within the human heart where cooperating with the will and reason of a person it can conquer and subdue mere flesh to the purposes of God. Mary is not only the ground upon which Jesus her Son stands she is the model and exemplar for Christians of all ages as to how we should make our religion a lived reality within the very centre of our being.
@stevhep

Catholic Scot has a Facebook page

My *other* blog is thoughtfully detached.

The painting The Coronation of the Virgin is from an illuminated manuscript in the National Library of the Netherlands

Mary & the Poets: 2 Nativity of Our Lady

Joy in the rising of our Orient star,
That shall bring forth the Sun that lent her light,
Joy in the peace that shall conclude our war,
And soon rebate the edge of Satan's spite,
Lodestar of all engulfed in worldly waves,,
The card and compass that from shipwreck saves

(St Robert Southwell: Our ladies Nativitye)

The poet, (faithfully Catholic) Jesuit priest and martyr St Robert Southwell wrote a series of fourteen poems about the Blessed Virgin. This is the second of them and it is about Mary's birthday. The tone of the first stanza is celebratory in a twofold way. It firstly rejoices in the present birth of a girl child. Secondly it anticipates the mission which Mary will fulfill.

In poetry every word matters so when Southwell uses 'joy' (present tense) and 'shall' (future tense) twice in three short lines he has a purpose. Mary is a gift to us in herself and we should rejoice in her for herself, she is also the chosen one through whom comes the Saviour who will cause us to experience joy eternally. And in saying 'the Sun that lent her light' the poet reminds us of something that Our Lady herself never forgot that she is what she is because of the merits of her Son. For this reason the verse ends by highlighting that one of her roles is to act as the Star of the Sea that shines out for us through the storms of life leading us toward the safe haven of Jesus Christ.

The Patriarchs and Prophets were the flowers,
Which Time by course of ages did distill,
And culled into this little cloud the showers,
Whose gracious drops the world with joy shall fill,
Whose moisture suppleth every soul with grace,
And bringeth life to Adam's dying race.

Past, present and future are linked in the second stanza where Southwell sees Mary and the child she will have as having been prefigured in the Old Testament, as living in the Gospel times and as changing all human life thereafter in both time and eternity. He uses an image for Our Lady, which he had previously introduced into his poem on the Immaculate Conception, as 'Elias' little cloud.' This is the episode in 3 Kings 18 where the report that 'There is a cloud as small as a man’s hand rising from the sea.' was a prelude to a welcome fall of rain which ended a prolonged and killing drought.

St Robert in this stanza is pointing us to Mary's role as mediatrix of grace. The Father wills that through her hands shall flow the gifts of the Spirit that the merit of her Son has sent upon the world. It is grace that brings us to true life. Not only will it lead us to the kingdom of heaven after death but it enables us to live in the realm of light now in this life as brothers, sisters and children of Jesus the firstborn and, crucially, of all our neighbours too, good and bad alike.

For God on earth she is the royal throne,
The chosen cloth to make his mortal weed,
The quarry to cut out our cornerstone,
Soil full of fruit, yet free from mortal seed,
For heavenly flower she is the Jesse rod,
The child of man, the parent of a god.

The English language has changed somewhat in the more than four hundred years since this poem was written so some of its images are less startling than they may at first appear. The expression 'widow's weeds' is still used sometimes and reminds us of a time when the word 'weeds' referred to clothes. It is, I think, derived from an old English word  "Waed" meaning "garment." The point being, in any event, that Jesus became our Emmanuel, God-with-us, because He was clothed with Mary's flesh, filled with Mary's blood and received His first nourishment from Mary's milk. The mystery of God's incarnation as Man, fully divine and fully human begins with His initiative but is crucially dependant upon Our Lady's assent and cooperation. This girl child will one day utter the words which will allow the Eternal One to enter time and conquer death.
@stevhep

Catholic Scot has a Facebook page.

My *other* blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is Birth of the Virgin by Paolo Uccello 

Mary & the Poets: 1 May Magnificat

May is Mary’s month, and I
Muse at that and wonder why :
       Her feasts follow reason,
       Dated due to season—

Candlemas, Lady Day ;
But the Lady Month, May,
       Why fasten that upon her,
       With a feasting in her honour ?

(May Magnificat, Gerard Hopkins)

In the northern hemisphere, where the practise of devoting a month to our Lady began, May is the high point of Spring. The poet and (faithfully Catholic) Jesuit priest Gerard Manley Hopkins mused about the connection between the season and the person honoured in it. It is a time when the short days and long nights of winter have been left behind.

Is it only its being brighter
Than the most are must delight her ?
       Is it opportunist
       And flowers finds soonest ?

Mary as our Lady of Light and as the Lightbearer, the one whose Immaculate Conception heralded the end of the great darkness which had covered the earth, is naturally associated with the coming of lightsome days filled with hope. There is another association though-

Ask of her, the mighty mother :
Her reply puts this other
       Question : What is Spring?—
       Growth in every thing—

...All things rising, all things sizing
Mary sees, sympathizing
       With that world of good
       Nature’s motherhood.

Spring is the season of new life appearing, growing, blossoming, gaining strength. This fertility and abundance which comes from mother earth is a material sign of the spiritual maternity of the Blessed Virgin, mother in the flesh of Jesus her Divine Son and mother in the Spirit of the Church and faithful Christians. Another parallel Hopkins draws out is this-

Their magnifying of each its kind
With delight calls to mind
       How she did in her stored
       Magnify the Lord

Which is, of course, a play on words in English. The growth of life in the world like the growth of the Christ in Mary's womb is a magnification of things. The word, however, calls to mind the song of praise to God that the Virgin sang when she visited St Elizabeth 'My soul magnifies the Lord
And my spirit rejoices in God my Saviour'

For the poet there remains another reason why May is especially apt for Mary-

Well but there was more than this :
Spring’s universal bliss
       Much, had much to say
       To offering Mary May...

..This ecstasy all through mothering earth
Tells Mary her mirth till Christ’s birth
       To remember and exultation
       In God who was her salvation.

The final words invoke again the Magnificat and remind us that Mary's honours and privileges stem entirely and totally from God and her relationship to Him, daughter of the Father, spouse of the Spirit, mother of the Son. Additionally, though, there is a purpose behind his use of the words 'bliss' and 'ecstasy.' For theologians and poets these are words that point to the divine union of the soul with God, the Beatific Vision of the Uncreated Trinity which fills with delight those enraptured in eternity. In that most blessed year of her only pregnancy May was the month where Mary experienced that rapture in peaceful tranquility and absence of fear; a brief respite in a life that was to be so full of the shadows and the reality of the Cross.

The bliss and ecstasy of Mary's May is of value to us too. Mary is that ladder of Jacob by which we can ascend to the vision and the presence of Jesus her Son in heaven and descend bringing Him in love to our neighbours. In devoting ourself to her in her special month we are devoting ourselves also to the evangelical task of spreading the Good News about Jesus Christ.  
@stevhep

Catholic Scot has a Facebook page

My *other* blog is thoughtfully detached

The pictures are The Visitation by Domenico Ghirlandaio and a portrait of Gerard Hopkins

A Better Resurrection

My life is like a broken bowl, 
A broken bowl that cannot hold 
One drop of water for my soul 
Or cordial in the searching cold; 
Cast in the fire the perish'd thing; 
Melt and remould it, till it be 
A royal cup for Him, my King: 
O Jesus, drink of me. 
(Christina Rossetti)

It stood among the tumbledown, discarded jumble of the family in a rarely visited room at the back of the house. Every now and again someone would come in to add new junk to the pile of unwanted things. More rarely a servant would seek to retrieve something useful from the mass or a child would look for an unusual object with which to play, allowing her imagination to make up for the deficiencies and blemishes of the unwanted-by-grown-ups item chosen.

The broken bowl sat upon a shelf and she was a sad sight to behold. At some time in the long, long distant past careless hands had let her slip from a great height and she had fallen hard upon the tessellated floor. The favourite of her mistress an attempt had been made to put her back together but it had not been a success. Great gaps were left in her fabric and long cracks, visible and ugly, criss-crossed her face. For sentiment's sake she had not been cast out into the darkness but had been allowed to remain, if only just, within the family home.

Yet what use was a broken bowl? However perfect she had been when leaving the hand of her maker now she was marred and unable to fulfil the purposes for which she had been created. Yet she waited, patiently she waited. Who knew but that at some point her time would come. Perhaps the accident would turn out to be a happy fault and a new and better destiny awaited her. No one could see what good she could ever be but many things that seemed impossible to men nonetheless were true.

Night had long fallen after a pleasant day in early spring. Still she sat on her shelf. Still she waited. Still she was patient. Suddenly the room was infused with a transcendent light. A tongue, as it were of fire, descended upon her and a fierce heat penetrated every fibre of her. She was melting and being transformed from above. Every molecule, every atom danced and moved and changed. Broken no more, dullness and dust banished and clear brightness shining from her.

The next day Kyrios the Greek servant came into the lumber room grumbling to himself as was his way when made to work harder than he liked.
"Quickly he says. We need another cup he says or we will not have enough for all the guests. Where does he think I can find another cup at this time? Am I a miracle wor..."
Suddenly he stopped. He had seen the reforged bowl. His jaw dropped and his face, never handsome at the best of times, acquired a gaping, stupid ugliness. Picking the bowl-turned-chalice up almost reverentially he appraised it with expert eyes.
"The gods must highly favour this banquet" he said (his Judaism being only skin deep) "they have left us this golden thing which will perfectly suit the Principle Guest." Kyrios then hurried away with the reforged bowl to add it to the table setting for the newly arrived party of pilgrim guests,

The meal proceeded, in turns solemn and merry as often happens when friends gather together to celebrate their friendship and recall their shared sufferings. Finally the Principal Guest took up the reforged bowl. After thanking God He raised it saying
"This is my blood"

@stevhep

Like the Catholic Scot Facebook page

My other blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is The Grail Damsel by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

Hannah the Mother of Samuel

His mother used to make for him a little robe and take it to him each year, when she went up with her husband to offer the yearly sacrifice.
(1 Samuel 2:19)

Often in the Church when we think of holy women we consider them in the context of their relationships. Thus Hannah and St Monica are the mothers of Samuel and St Augustine respectively and St Scholastica is the sister of St Benedict and so on. This approach is not confined to the Church, there was much feminist criticism during the 2016 summer Olympics that commentators referred to the marital or parental status of female competitors but not that of male ones.

It is, I think, true that we are more prone to think of women in relational terms; that they inhabit a complex web of familial relationships which play a significant role in defining them. More or less implicit in this is the notion that these relationships should be a priority for women and that things like sport, business or academia should take second place. Men, by contrast, are considered as free-standing individuals who make the world by their unaided efforts and for whom this world-making is and should be their priority.

This is undoubtedly an unbalanced approach but, I believe, it would be perverse to attempt to counter it by censoring out reference to these relationships. We should, rather, change our attitude towards men. Samuel was the son of Hannah as St Augustine was of St Monica; St Benedict was St Scholastica's twin sibling. These men were no less defined by their relationships than the women were by theirs and, indeed, Samuel and Augustine owed more to Hannah and Monica than their mothers did to them. It takes a village (and a family) to raise a boy every bit as much as it does a girl. Men are not free-standing, individual world-makers they are sons, brothers, fathers, husbands and without these relationships to sustain and nurture them they would not only be low achievers they would be spiritually and emotionally deprived human beings.

It might be contended that it is precisely because men did not prioritise their relationships that they were able to go out and create modernity through exploration, innovation and risk taking. So much the worse for modernity. We are mistaken if we think that material gains and benefits outweigh spiritual and emotional losses and a slower pace of economic and scientific development is a price worth paying for a world in which both men and women are fully engaged in a complementary way with the lives of their families.

To put it another way, what we require is a civilisation of love. By its very nature love is a relational thing which, moreover, is characterised by sacrifice of self in the service of ones obligations towards the beloved. Which brings us to Hannah, the mother of Samuel. There is something poignant in the use of the word 'little' to describe the garment which Hannah took with her on her annual trip to see the infant son for whom she had so longed. Those of us who live in the post-industrial revolution era may miss the significance of the word 'made' but this robe was not a shop bought, factory produced thing. Hannah put it together herself and we can picture her bending over it for hours. Every little action associated with its making would have been charged with love. No doubt she would have shed tears over it, tears of devotion for her son, tears of pain at the long separation from him.

Yet this separation was not forced upon Hannah by a jealous and demanding God it was a freewill sacrifice which she made and sustained in gratitude and love towards the One from whom Samuel had come as gift. The child had been put into the service of the Lord's worship at the Ark of the Covenant in Shiloh as a grateful response by Hannah to the way that God had heeded her prayers. This was by no means a usual thing in Israel, Samuel was the only child so placed, nor is there any suggestion that the Almighty had demanded this as a quid pro quo for ending Hannah's childlessness. The supernatural virtue of Justice consists in giving each their due beginning with God and descending to the least and most vulnerable of His creatures (such as the unborn.) Hannah showed herself to be a just woman because she retained nothing for herself giving to the Lord that which was most precious to her and giving to her son all the love and prayers which she could. Each year she added to that to the extent of a little robe made by her own hands and touched by her tears.

As well as being poignant there is something beautiful in this scene which Scripture paints for us. The poet Keats tells us-
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all  
    Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'
The nearer we approach to the perfection of a supernatural virtue like Justice, Truth or Love then the more beautiful we and our actions become. Compared to this annual pilgrimage of Hannah no amount of world-making, medal-winning, scientific breakthrough-ing by men or women has a tenth part of its loveliness. We should stop apologising for drawing to attention the fact that women are mothers and start apologising for all the times we have failed to recall that men are sons.
@stevhep

Like the Catholic Scot page on Facebook

My other blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is Hannah presenting her son Samuel to Eli by Jan Victors

Frodo the Mystic

Towards the end of the Lord of the Rings there is a significant piece of dialogue-

" 'Well here we are, just the four of us that started out together,' said Merry. 'We have left all the rest behind, one after another. It seems almost like a dream that has slowly faded.'

  'Not to me,' said Frodo. 'To me it feels more like falling asleep again'."

Each of the hobbits have, physically, travelled long distances but Frodo alone has travelled to places beyond the merely physical. He has had peak experiences of darkness and light and these have taught him that the world we inhabit, so close at hand and seeming solid, is really ephemeral by comparison with what lies beyond the boundaries of normal vision and experience. In that sense he resembles the traveller in the cave allegory of Plato, having seen the Sun he knows that normal life is a focussing on shadows.

More than that, Frodo has been wounded-

'There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same; for I shall not be the same. I am wounded with knife, sting, and tooth, and a long burden. Where shall I find rest?'

Although his injuries were inflicted with malevolent intent, aiming to subdue him to the rule of evil, they have not been effective. His restlessness does not seek slaves to satisfy itself like a Sauron or a Saruman. No, Frodo’s hopes are set elsewhere-

...the ship went out into the High Sea on into the West, until at last on a night of rain, Frodo smelled a sweet fragrance on the air and heard the sound of singing that came over the water. And then it seemed to him as in his dream in the house of Bombadil, the grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise.

The purpose of Christian mysticism is to seek union with God not to enjoy what classical authors call ‘consolations.’ Nonetheless, for many mystics transcendent moments, glimpses of the Divine do form part of the journey. Those moments of grace have the twofold effect that Frodo experienced, that is they make the mystic see the world differently, as less substantial, and they resemble a wounding. The Catholic mystical writer St John of the Cross put it like this-

Where have you hidden,

             Beloved, and left me moaning?

             You fled like the stag

             after wounding me;

             I went out calling you, but you were gone.

Having been wounded the only cure is to seek out the One who inflicted the wound since He alone has the power to heal. This search, though, will often lead through lands of desolation and darkness, akin to the lands Frodo travelled across in his quest.

Why, since you wounded

             this heart, don't you heal it?

             And why, since you stole it from me,

             do you leave it so,

             and fail to carry off what you have stolen?

All we can do is travel, the final decision about when or if we shall encounter the One who heals and then be healed is not ours but His. Tolkien indicates this by the way in which he allows providence and not Frodo himself to effect the destruction of the Ring on Mount Doom. Frodo’s time in the Shire, however, is not simply a passive waiting for the final journey. Although he is little seen and less regarded by most of the hobbits of the Shire it is his wisdom and guidance which lies behind the active measures, and the compassion, by which Merry, Pippin and Sam set things to rights. Mystics, contemplatives and hermits are not called to self indulgently seek a private fulfillment but to be witnesses to the world of the deep truth that lies hidden to eyes that do not seek it. Frodo uses his experience, and his wounds, as a guide to those who have travelled less far than him.

One of the concerns of most religions is to help prepare people for death and Frodo’s last few years in the Shire and his final journey into the West can be seen as metaphors for old age (or sickness) and death. But there is no real contradiction between the mystical path of seeking union with God and the more common one of preparing for a good death. The end is the same, to be at rest in the eternal heart of infinite love who is our God. The mystic, like Frodo, experiences here and now a foretaste of what each of those who are faithful to the end can hope to experience forever.

(this post first appeared on the Quiet Column blog under the name of Étienne McWilliam)

LOTR quotes can be found at http://coco.raceme.org/literature/lordoftherings/returnking/quotes/shire.php

St John of the Cross quotes from

http://onetruename.com/StJohn.htm

Sonnet for our Lady of Light

In my own darkness, alone and stumbling,
Seeking that which is hidden by my choice.
Crying aloud, frantically praying
To emptiness which will not hear my voice.

Am I ever doomed to wander this way?
Lost and despairing as the devil mocks.
A ship amidst tempest and stormy spray
Rushing swift upon deadly shark-toothed rocks.

No, it shall not be. Light there is I know.
It is you, my love, to you I now turn.
You shine brightly showing the way to go.
Frantic now with joy towards you I run.

Our Lady of Light, my sweetness and life
You are victory of hope, end of strife.

@Stevhep

Like the Catholic Scot page on Facebook

My other blog is thoughtfully detached

Sonnet for the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary

 Far,  far   from   us  you  do   seem   to   fly
 No   more   can   we   share  a  loving   meal
Your  vision  is  now  banished  from  the  eye
 That   kind,  soft   touch  of  yours   we  cannot  feel

Are  we   always   to   be   so   sore  bereft?
Abandoned   here   below weeping alone  .
Unconsoled.  ever   in   grief   to   be   left
 To   be   dark,  in that place   where light  has shone

 But  it is not  really   so, my  love
 Gone   in   seeming  you  only   seem   to   go  .
 On   great  ardour's wings you  soar   high   sweet  dove
 Then   plunging   in my  heart  your  torrents   flow.

 We   assumed  you had  left   us   mother   divine
 But, ah  dear  Mary,  forever  you are  mine.


Like the Catholic Scot page on Facebook
Follow @stevhep on Twitter, Tumblr and Google+ follow Catholic Scot on Pinterest

My other blog is thoughtfully detached

The Journey & Other Poems

The Journey

You're in front of me
And I don't see you. Beside
Me and I don't know.
Fill my emptiness with you.
Touch my darkness with your light

With longing I search
For you. In hope I travel.
Towards or Away?
How can I know or be sure?
I long for your hidden smile.

Will I find you, see
You, know you? Elusive love,
Yet faithful lover.
Journey's end and beginning 
Pilgrim heartsease and hearts wound.

Of this I am sure,
The anchor to which I cling,
That which sustains me,
If I fail, when I fail, you 
Will find me. And we will kiss.

Not Hearing

I am without you.
You, my love, are within me.
Not hearing, I speak.

Within Me

On the mountains I
Look for you, and in the seas.
You are within me.

Zen Sky

Mind and sky empty
Cloudless. Infinite. At peace.
Dogs bark far away.

Harvest Season

Now I realise
My best days are behind me.
Season of harvest

Fragile Icon

Fragile icon. Soon
Your beauty will fade away
But not from my mind.

English Summer

Drumming on flat roofs
Summer shower, brief but fierce.
Abandon picnic!

Pacing the Cloister

Pacing the cloister
A thousand years of silence
Dust motes in the sun

Concealing Spiders

Untended garden
Riotously tangled life
Concealing spiders.

Evening of Life

Evening of life
A walk amid deep shadows.
Not without laughter.

Beyond the Window

Long days, short nights. Sun
Flecked paths. Warm rain. Bright flowers.
Beyond the window.

Our Lady of Light

Mary, filled with light
Mother of God’s pure Wisdom.
Advocate of love

Mary Amid the Darkness

Mary amid the
Darkness, sharing our sorrows.
Mother of our Hope.

Echoes of Silent Prayer

Echoes of silent
Prayer heard in deep stillness.
Shafts of light break through.

@stevhep

Heaven in Ordinary

As Paul went on and on, a young man called Eutychus who was sitting on the window-sill grew drowsy and was overcome by sleep and fell to the ground three floors below.

Acts 20:9

If Eutychus isn't the patron saint of ordinary churchgoers then perhaps he should be. On days when the sky is blue, the sun is warm, the sermon is dull and a tall glass of something cool is waiting for you outside then who is the one whose attention would not waver at least a little? I don’t think that this is a cautionary tale (spoiler alert: it has a happy ending) its more an observation that even in the presence of the famous Apostle to the Gentiles human flesh is weak. If it were not there would have been no need for the Incarnation.

There are many positive arguments that can be made in favour of churchgoing but Eutychus I think points us towards a negative one. Church services can be dull or worse than dull. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. The temptation to think that the Church can pretend to be a part of the entertainment industry is something that should be firmly resisted. However well put together a service is, however many guitars or flashing lights that it has there will always be something much, much better to watch on TV or YouTube. If the demand of churchgoers is ‘entertain me’ then they need to be challenged but I don't think that that is what they/we do demand whatever worried pastors with declining congregations might think. Lively, inspiring and enlightening homilies are always welcome. Worthily celebrated sacraments are gratefully received. But even when these are not present there is still a reason to turn up week after week and if necessary do a Eutychus.

Our daily lives are filled with dull moments, with mediocrity, with routine. The thousand and one necessary things which we have to do, go to the shops, buy petrol for the car, endure a long commute, listen to boring anecdotes you've heard a dozen times before. Their dullness is as real as their necessity and we cannot dispense with either, they are part of what it means to live a human life. If an hour in church resembles an hundred other hours we have already spent in the previous week that doesn't represent a failure on the part of the pastor. It means that churchgoing is woven naturally into the fabric of our lives. It has this one difference though. At any moment from a phrase of scripture, the verse of a hymn, a sentence in the homily or the elevation of a Host or even a sunbeam dancing on the sanctuary at any moment I say we can suddenly be transpierced by the love of Christ. We can be moved from time to eternity. Transcendence should be a regular visitor to the Sunday service, coming and going as He pleases.

There is a need for Sacred Space and Sacred Time where we can concentrate on what is holy. More than that though there needs to be the possibility of interpenetration between the two. Where we are aware that ordinariness is a part of the church experience then we will also be aware that the sacred can invade and be a part of the ordinary experience too. Our dull days and routine activities, our falling asleep through boredom, are not exempt from an infusion of the divine. Eutychus points us towards this mingling of the two realms. The title of this piece is from the poem Prayer by the Anglican vicar George Herbert it ends with these words, the ‘something understood’ is the subject of this article-

   

Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,

         The land of spices; something understood.

Like the Catholic Scot blog page on Facebook

Follow @stevhep on Twitter, Google+ and Tumblr, follow Catholic Scot on Pinterest

My other blog is thoughtfully detached

The painting is St Paul by Pompeo Girolamo Batoni

Haiku for the Annunciation

Like a thief in the
Night joy breaks into the world.
Hidden in Mary

Swan At The Window & Other Poems

Swan at the window
Glimpses mysterious realm
Stretches wings and flies

Cloudburst in April,
Soon passed, swiftly clearing sky.
The smell of wet grass.

Mild month of May, the
Slow smile of spring clearly seen.
Abundance of light

Cold winds bring a Spring
Pause, growth is slowed, leaves shiver.
But Light is untouched.

Copper coloured leaves
Flutter in a soft Spring wind.
Shadows on green turf.

Mist clings to the side
Of the mountains this morning.
Mournful looking pines.

Mountain path, towards
The rising sun. To reach the
Peak you need a guide.

                                             A Bar at the Folies Bergere by Manet

And then she saw. This,
Beneath the glitter and noise,
Heartless emptiness.

Vapour trails leaving
Pale traces across clean sky.
Polluted beauty

Darkness passed away
Morning sun glories briefly
Before it too fails

All things fade into
Shadow and darkness gathers.
Memories of light.


It lightens the load
If you discard things which you
Really don’t need.

The candle I lit
For you still burns bright And you
Know it always will.

Timid fawn explores
The forest, her bright new world.
Unaware of traps.

Forest path, winding
Through trees, dappled light and shade.
Early summer warmth.


Talons of a hawk
Salmon gasps and struggles, held
In an iron grip

Raven’s brood, dark and
Hungry, mouths ever open.
Cadaver stripped bare

Spiralling slowly
Downwards, drifting in the wind
Handful of petals.

Textures of silence
A quiet, shadowed cloister.
Stillness is prayer

Lattice patterns of
Light and shade lie underfoot.
In the cloister walk

In my heart a flame
Was kindled. From you it came,
To you it returns.

Obscured by mists, the
Farther shore is vaguely sensed.
Searching for a bridge.

Body and mind grow
Weary on the pilgrim way
Only hope strengthens.

If you consent to
Be guided I shall guide you
And you will find peace

Many sorrows, one
Great joy, a life lived for Love
Mother of Jesus

Wisdom and kindness 
Treasured in our Lady’s heart
Offered to the world

Most sweet Advocate
Wisest of all counsellors
Mary my Mother

Plenitude of grace
Freely received freely shared.
Sweet Mother Mary

You are my secret 
Place, my solace in trouble
The smile of my days


See more of my poetry collections at-
Spirit of Haiku
Storm and Spirit, High Tides and Haiku
Month of Mary and Other Poems
Torrent of Haiku
Heart of Mystery Haiku
Bouquet of Haiku

Follow @stevhep on Twitter, Google+ and Tumblr, follow Catholic Scot on Pinterest