Our Master lies asleep and is at rest; His Heart has ceased to bleed, His Eye to weep. The sun ashamed has dropt down in the west; Our Master lies asleep.
Now we are they who weep, and trembling keep Vigil, with wrung heart in a sighing breast, While slow time creeps, and slow the shadows creep.
Renew Thy youth, as eagle from the nest; O Master, who hast sown, arise to reap: No cock-crow yet, no flush on eastern crest; Our Master lies asleep.
Christina Rossetti is an Easter person, as is Mary Magdalene and the Other Mary, Jesus’ mother. Together keeping vigil, the cock-crow they await brings not betrayal but renewal and rising.
For church movements and groups We pray that Church movements and groups may rediscover their mission of evangelisation each day, placing their own charisms at the service of needs in the world.
This print at the Missionaries of Africa in Rome shows the disciples helping Jesus distributing the loaves and fishes brought by the boy in blue. Was this the original Church group?
Feeding the hungry is one of the Works of Mercy from Matthew’s Gospel chapter 25:
to feed the hungry,
to give drink to the thirsty,
to clothe the naked,
to give shelter to travellers,
to visit the sick,
to visit the imprisoned,
to bury the dead.
Some or all of these works are the charisms of various groups in the Church; we could point to some of our posts about Missio or the Irish chaplaincy for examples. Let’s pray, as Pope Francis asks us to, for all church groups and movements that they may live out Christ’s’ love with those they work among.
Pope Francis set last year aside as the Year of Saint Joseph; we are just catching up with the idea!
Today is the feast of Saint Joseph the Worker as well as the first day of his wife, Mary’s month. All too often the worker is the man or woman who goes unnoticed, undeservedly so.
Let’s open our eyes, ears and hearts to those who make life possible for the rest of us, and where we can, let us thank them for their service,.
The following paragraphs are from the introduction to Pope Francis’s letter about Saint Joseph, ‘Patris Corde’, or ‘With a Father’s heart’.
After Mary, the Mother of God, no saint is mentioned more frequently in the papal magisterium than Joseph, her spouse. My Predecessors reflected on the message contained in the limited information handed down by the Gospels in order to appreciate more fully his central role in the history of salvation. Blessed Pius IX declared him “Patron of the Catholic Church”,[2] Venerable Pius XII proposed him as “Patron of Workers”[3] and Saint John Paul II as “Guardian of the Redeemer”.[4] Saint Joseph is universally invoked as the “patron of a happy death”.[5]
Now, one hundred and fifty years after his proclamation as Patron of the Catholic Church by Blessed Pius IX (8 December 1870), I would like to share some personal reflections on this extraordinary figure, so close to our own human experience. For, as Jesus says, “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks” (Mt 12:34). My desire to do so increased during these months of pandemic, when we experienced, amid the crisis, how “our lives are woven together and sustained by ordinary people, people often overlooked. People who do not appear in newspaper and magazine headlines, or on the latest television show, yet in these very days are surely shaping the decisive events of our history. Doctors, nurses, storekeepers and supermarket workers, cleaning personnel, caregivers, transport workers, men and women working to provide essential services and public safety, volunteers, priests, men and women religious, and so very many others. They understood that no one is saved alone…
How many people daily exercise patience and offer hope, taking care to spread not panic, but shared responsibility. How many fathers, mothers, grandparents and teachers are showing our children, in small everyday ways, how to accept and deal with a crisis by adjusting their routines, looking ahead and encouraging the practice of prayer. How many are praying, making sacrifices and interceding for the good of all”.[6] Each of us can discover in Joseph – the man who goes unnoticed, a daily, discreet and hidden presence – an intercessor, a support and a guide in times of trouble. Saint Joseph reminds us that those who appear hidden or in the shadows can play an incomparable role in the history of salvation. A word of recognition and of gratitude is due to them all.
Charles Lamb never had children of his own, never married even, but he wrote this moving poem when a friend’s baby died at birth. Easter tells us that such ‘short visits’ into our lives do have meaning, though beyond our earthly perception. Lamb affirms this and explores the questioning, the pain, of bereaved parents, left with a lifeless beauty after months of anticipation.
I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature’s work.
A flow’ret crushed in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in a cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying;
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then strait up shut
For the long dark: ne’er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?
Shall we say, that Nature blind
Check’d her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish’d pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire,
Or lack’d she the Promethean fire
(With her nine moons’ long workings sicken’d)
That should thy little limbs have quicken’d?
Limbs so firm, they seem’d to assure
Life of health, and days mature:
Woman’s self in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,
And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widow’d; and the pain,
When Single State comes back again
To the lone man who, ‘reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
The economy of Heaven is dark;
And wisest clerks have miss’d the mark,
Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral,
That has his day; while shrivel’d crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Coral redder than those lips,
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infants’ glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity?
Lamb asserts the equality of all in death and challenges our values as they are manifested in cemeteries and monuments. It indeed is churlish to deny relatives a few dolls and trinkets on an infant’s grave when wealthy families raise marble monuments to those who made them rich in the first place.
Kipling was right about this question, his War Graves Commission insisting that all ranks should be buried under white stones, identical except for the personal inscription and regimental badge; no overpowering monuments to admirals or generals.
Charles Lamb never had children of his own, never married even, but he wrote this moving poem when a friend’s baby died at birth. Easter tells us that such ‘short visits’ into our lives do have meaning, though beyond our earthly perception. Lamb affirms this and explores the questioning, the pain, of bereaved parents, left with a lifeless beauty after months of anticipation.
I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature's work.
A flow'ret crushed in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in a cradle-coffin lying;
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying;
So soon to exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then strait up shut
For the long dark: ne'er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below?
Shall we say, that Nature blind
Check'd her hand, and changed her mind,
Just when she had exactly wrought
A finish'd pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire,
Or lack'd she the Promethean fire
(With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd)
That should thy little limbs have quicken'd?
Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure
Life of health, and days mature:
Woman's self in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry,
That babe, or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,
And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widow'd; and the pain,
When Single State comes back again
To the lone man who, 'reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimed life?
The economy of Heaven is dark;
And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark,
Why Human Buds, like this, should fall,
More brief than fly ephemeral,
That has his day; while shrivel'd crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbed use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years.
Mother's prattle, mother's kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss.
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells and baby clothes;
Coral redder than those lips,
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infants' glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them.
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave;
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie,
A more harmless vanity?
Lamb asserts the equality of all in death and challenges our values as they are manifested in cemeteries and monuments. It indeed is churlish to deny relatives a few dolls and trinkets on an infant’s grave when wealthy families raise marble monuments to those who made them rich in the first place.
Kipling was right about this question, his War Graves Commission insisting that all ranks should be buried under white stones, identical except for the personal inscription and regimental badge; no overpowering monuments to admirals or generals.
A hard road lies ahead for Peter and the disciples; and for us!
The Mission
Jesus is not about to let Simon Peter indulge in unproductive introspection, but he has picked up Peter’s conflicted feelings about being an individual follower of Jesus and being part of the group. His first question poses this challenge: “Simon, son of Jonah, do you love Me more than these?”
Peter in answering does not compare himself with his companions. This is between him and Jesus, though Jesus has made sure that John and the rest are within earshot and will grasp the meaning of this conversation for Peter and themselves. ‘Yes Lord, you know that I love you.’ ‘Feed my lambs.’ This command from the Lord who has just fed Peter and his companions, setting an example to be pondered for centuries.
Jesus returns to his probing of Peter: ‘Simon Son of Jonah, do you love me?’ No comparison with the others, Peter has passed that test. ‘Yes, Lord, you know I love you.‘ ‘Tend my sheep.’ Peter is upset when Jesus asks again: “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.’ ‘Feed my sheep.’
Then comes the crunch: the description of how Peter will face trial, brutality, lack of earthly freedom; and execution. But then the note of complete confidence in this new Peter: Follow me!
Not that it is all so simple. Peter sees his fishing partner John standing nearby. What about him, Peter asks, and is told that’s not for him to know. And again, the call to be single-minded: ‘follow me!’
John and his editors assure us that this story and the rest of the Gospel are true and Good news for us all. The Lord will come for each of us in his own time; Let us use our time wisely, and follow him. May we be blest fishers of men, witnessing to our loving God through the way we live our lives.
This is a copy of the memorial card for Fr Tom Herbst, a contributor and supporter of this blog. The friars also sent a copy of the order of service for the Mass of the Resurrection celebrated when his ashes arrived back in California from Kent, where he served God and his people for many years.
We invite you to pray for Tom and all our dear ones who have died in this season of Resurrection and Life. May they rest in peace and rise in Glory.
O God, creation’s secret force,
yourself unmoved, all motion’s source,
who from the morn till evening ray
through all its changes guide the day:
Grant us, when this short life is past,
the glorious evening that shall last;
that, by a holy death attained,
eternal glory may be gained.
To God the Father, God the Son,
and God the Spirit, Three in One,
may every tongue and nation raise
an endless song of thankful praise!
Saint Ambrose of Milan composed this simple hymn, appropriate for Eastertide with its reflection on a holy death and eternal glory. I wonder what would make a holy death? Or unholy? Accident victims and those who die in their sleep or of a massive heart event we can but commend to God, ‘creation’s secret force’ who can grant eternal glory to whomsoever he will.
The photograph shows the ancient Baptistry beneath the present day Cathedral of Milan, discovered in the 1950s when the metro was being excavated. Notice that it was a proper pool with room for total immersion. It has eight sides because Jesus rose on Easter Sunday, the eighth day of Holy Week. We are baptised into his death and resurrection,as was Ambrose, in this pool, and at his hand, Augustine.
And they brought unto him also infants, that he might touch them. Which when the disciples saw, they rebuked them. But Jesus, calling them together, said: Suffer children to come to me, and forbid them not: for of such is the Kingdom of God. Amen, I say to you: Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a child, shall not enter into it.
Luke 18:15-17.
I am used to rather sentimental pictures of this Gospel story, a stained glass Jesus who looks like a film star, perfectly trimmed beard, freshly shampooed blond hair, flowing, pristine robe … Not what we see here.
But I cast my mind back and thought of the children making the Way of the Cross with me in St Thomas’ church, Canterbury. Spontaneously a group of them gathered around the life size Mary and Jesus in the Pieta. wanting to stroke, console and condole with the Sorrowful Mother.
There was no disrespect in this, and mercifully, no-one present took offence. Yet I could imagine the tut-tuts that might have been uttered another time. No doubt the little ones who met Jesus in the flesh wanted to touch him and climb all over him, and it’s not difficult to envisage the disciples trying to pull them away. But ‘of such is the kingdom of God.’ I think it is fair to let this phrase suggest that Jesus felt himself within the kingdom when the children were swarming over him.
Pope Francis gave his customary press conference on the plane returning from World Youth Days in Panama.
At the end of the conference the Pope thanked reporters for their work, and left them with a final thought about Panama: “I would like to say one thing about Panama: I felt a new sentiment, this word came to me: Panama is a noble nation. I found nobility.
“And then”, he concluded, “I would like to mention something else, which we in Europe do not see and which I saw here in Panama. I saw the parents raising their children and saying: this is my victory, this is my pride, this is my future. In the demographic winter that we are living in Europe – and in Italy it is below zero – it must make us think. What is my pride? Tourism, holidays, the villa, the dog? Or the child?”
Speaking for myself, I am proud of my children, and my grandchildren, though (or even because) they are all very different. But it would not be a healthy pride if they needed to win my approval rather than doing right, and following their own vocation rather than one laid down by their parents. I can say of my family – with those Panamanian parents – this is my victory, this is my pride, this is my future. Though I trust I will not be too much of a burden to any of them when I’m definitely doddering!
Meanwhile, in the Northern Hemisphere, we can see our gardens telling the story of new life, a clue to what, in God’s mercy, awaits us in our eternal life, with the One whose Mother is embracing him here.
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