4 April: Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.

The boy Samuel, living in the temple, hears one night a voice calling him by name: ‘Samuel, Samuel.’

He at first thinks it’s the old priest calling him, but eventually is advised by Eli to answer, ‘Speak Lord, your servant is listening.’ When he says this, the voice of God gives him as a prophet for all the people.

Too often I am speaking so much in my prayer, telling God what I want, that I forget to say to God, ‘Speak Lord, your servant is listening.’ I need to say to God: ‘Lord, what are you saying to me about the worries I have, the anxieties I feel, the decisions I need to make? Tell me how you want me to pray. Give me the words.’ This is better than saying instead: ‘Listen Lord, your servant is speaking.’ We need to cultivate a listening heart in prayer.

Engraved in the wood panelling of the sanctuary, here in St Thomas of Canterbury Church, are the words Magister adest et vocat te. The English translation is: ‘The Teacher is here and calls you’ (spoken by Martha to her sister Mary, in John 11:28). The other Latin sentence on the wood panelling is Loquere Domine quia audit servus — the words spoken by Samuel in today’s first reading, ‘Speak Lord, your servant is listening.’ May we in the parish, this year, develop the same listening attitude that characterised Samuel and the friends of Jesus.

This post is shared from Canon Anthony Charlton’s blog at St Thomas of Canterbury parish.

28 January: Fluttering then firmer.

Emily Dickinson observes another peaceful death, but feels the pain of bereavement.

Morns like these we parted;
Noons like these she rose,
Fluttering first, then firmer,
To her fair repose.
 Never did she lisp it,
And ‘t was not for me;
She was mute from transport,
I, from agony!
 Till the evening, nearing,
One the shutters drew —
Quick! a sharper rustling!
And this linnet flew!”

From “Poems by Emily Dickinson, Series Two”.

‘Transport’ here means a transport of delight; the dying woman is mute, unable to speak for joy, while Emily is in silent agony at losing her.

11 January: Paul VI Silence, address at Nazareth

Sixty years ago this week Pope Paul VI was visiting the Holy Land as a ‘passing pilgrim’ but he found time for this reflection.

  How gladly would I become a child again, and go to school once more in this humble and sublime school of Nazareth: close to Mary, I wish I could make a fresh start at learning the true science of life and the higher wisdom of divine truths.

  But I am only a passing pilgrim. I must renounce this desire to pursue in this home my still incomplete education in the understanding of the Gospel. I will not go on my way however without having gathered – hurriedly, it is true, and as if wanting to escape notice – some brief lessons from Nazareth.

  First, then, a lesson of silence. May esteem for silence, that admirable and indispensable condition of mind, revive in us, besieged as we are by so many uplifted voices, the general noise and uproar, in our seething and over-sensitized modern life.

  May the silence of Nazareth teach us recollection, inwardness, the dispo-sition to listen to good inspirations and the teachings of true masters. May it teach us the need for and the value of preparation, of study, of meditation, of personal inner life, of the prayer which God alone sees in secret.

May we find moments of silence each day in this New Year, whether it be in our daily work, if that allows us such opportunities, or domestic chores, performed in physical silence with a quiet mind; perhaps getting in the zone whilst travelling home from work, or sitting quietly together with loved ones.

• I was only able to find this text in French and Spanish on the Vatican Website.

9 October, The Divine Strangeness IV: the quiet eye of the storm.

#When Jesus reached the territory of the Gadarenes, two demoniacs came towards him out of the tombs—they were so dangerously violent that nobody could use that path. Suddenly they shouted, “What do you want with us, Son of God? Have you come to torture us before the time?” Now some distance away there was a large herd of pigs feeding, and the devils pleaded with Jesus, “If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.” And he said to them, “Go, then,” and they came out and made for the pigs; and at that the whole herd charged down the cliff into the lake and perished in the water. The herdsmen ran off and made for the city, where they told the whole story, including what had happened to the demoniacs. Suddenly the whole city set out to meet Jesus; and as soon as they saw him they implored him to leave their neighbourhood (Mt 8:28-34).

We were looking at the strangeness of evil yesterday, its illogic and its inexplicability. I’d like to consider another element in this story today: the pandemonium. All the major players in this scene except Jesus are doing a lot of running around: the pigs are dashing over the edge of the cliff; the pig-herders are dashing back to town to tell their experience to everyone they see, and then the townspeople are soon dashing back to Jesus, and not to thank him but to plead with him to go away. Mass-hysteria seems to be the word for it. Jesus, however, is stillness incarnate, the quiet eye of the storm. But, no matter how still, how masterful Jesus has been, he has not won over the Gadarenes. They are running scared and want nothing to do with Jesus. The Gadarenes seem to be just as frightened by Jesus now as they had been by the demoniacs before.

And another strange thing: the account in the gospel of Matthew does not suggest that the townspeople and the pig-farmers may have been upset by the loss of income that the pigs’ bizarre death represented. I doubt that this was an accidental omission on Matthew’s part. I think, in fact, that Matthew is telling us that financial considerations were not uppermost in the Gadarenes’ minds. The real issue for them seems to be much deeper. I believe they saw rightly that the conflict that took place between the demoniacs and Jesus was no ordinary conflict, but one of genuinely epic proportions. It seems to have been experienced by the townspeople for what it was: a supernatural conflict between Good and Evil.

I begin to reflect that the people of the Gadara region were pagans and had very little, if any, religious background to help them understand their experience. So they were way out of their depth and could not integrate any of it. They genuinely needed, it seems to me, to place some distance between themselves and this man Jesus, who they knew was the catalyst of this show-down between the primordial Light and Darkness.

I suggest, too, that Jesus understood their problem, because when the Gadarenes ask him to leave, Jesus leaves, no questions asked. He doesn’t reproach them as he sometimes reproaches the Jews for their lack of faith. Maybe, with time, the Gadarenes would come to understand what had happened on that God-forsaken road next to the tombs. But now, they could not cope with it. Jesus respects their need and in no manner does he force himself upon them. Once again: he honours human freedom.

As I draw these reflections to an end, I become aware that this passage is still not an easy one for me. I do not feel that I’ve grown in warmth toward Jesus as I’ve pondered the story. Jesus seems a difficult Jesus in this passage, a deeply serious Jesus, very focused on handling the demoniacs, very intense, quiet and rooted in the Truth. I then realise that Jesus simply isn’t easy to understand, and if I expect him to be so, it’s time to adjust my expectations. Jesus is the Son of God. There is a divine ‘strangeness’ about him as he confronts evil, quietly subdues it by the power of very Truth, and resolutely refuses even to negotiate with evil, to give it any air, or allow it in any manner to prevail.

I see how masterful Jesus is in the supernatural world that revealed itself in the demoniacs. It was a situation that was so evil that no other human being had been able to manage it. I renew my trust in him.

Also, I see how he handles this situation at the deepest possible level. No bandaid-therapy, this. I reflect that he always does that when I pray to him for help. He always answers my prayer, but at a depth that I may not have been ready for and that may not seem at first to improve the situation. I think of the Gadarene townspeople. They have been helped by Jesus, but they are not ready for the depth of help Jesus has given them and they send him away. I suddenly realise that if I were to send Jesus away, he would respect my request and leave immediately, no questions asked. I pray that I am never so senseless as to do any such thing.

I need to integrate this into my relationship with the Lord. But, like the Twelve, who lie doggo for a little while, I too, should be silent and observe closely the way Jesus deals with events that are far beyond my understanding. Jesus is Lord. That much is completely clear.

Rushing about at St Pancras, London.

8 October, The Divine Strangeness III: Calm Power.

When Jesus reached the territory of the Gadarenes, two demoniacs came towards him out of the tombs—they were so dangerously violent that nobody could use that path. Suddenly they shouted, “What do you want with us, Son of God? Have you come to torture us before the time?” Now some distance away there was a large herd of pigs feeding, and the devils pleaded with Jesus, “If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.” And he said to them, “Go, then,” and they came out and made for the pigs; and at that the whole herd charged down the cliff into the lake and perished in the water. The herdsmen ran off and made for the city, where they told the whole story, including what had happened to the demoniacs. Suddenly the whole city set out to meet Jesus; and as soon as they saw him they implored him to leave their neighbourhood (Mt 8:28-34).

We are looking at Mt 8:23-34. We’ve been reflecting for the past two days on some of the unexpected things that happen in this story. I’m trying to gain new understanding of it because something essential about the episode has always eluded me. And I’m not sure what that is. Today I’d like to continue this reflection.

________________________

Two demoniacs, of whom the entire town is afraid, have just had their shouted opening gambit met with the power of Jesus’ silence. They obviously can’t take his silence and immediately begin to plead with Jesus: “Send us into the pigs.” They don’t use any other ploys. They are reduced to begging. And Jesus acquiesces immediately and his words are few: “Go then,” he says. And very quickly it’s over for the demoniacs.

As I ponder this story, it gradually comes home to me that Jesus does not actually punish the demoniacs. Nor does he overwhelm them with an overt display of power or intrude upon their freedom in any way. The demons are the ones who punish themselves, freely choosing the form their punishment will take, freely choosing their own fate. Jesus’ words simply confirm what they themselves have elected to do. “Go, then.” And they go into the pigs. Few passages of holy scripture bring out more powerfully the respect our God has for the freedom of our souls, our minds, our wills, our lives, our choices. He does not punish them, he honours their freedom and gives them what they freely ask for.

Nothing about Jesus’ words or behaviour toward the demons suggests that what he does is difficult for him to accomplish. By the brevity of his words and by the calmness of his manner he shows his power over everything that has life. But I can’t help but notice a certain discrepancy of proportion. Only two demoniacs are involved here, but they require the whole herd of pigs to absorb their evil. As they charge off the cliff and drown in the water below, I suspect that the pigs screamed and snorted savagely and acted like the possessed creatures they became. But Jesus’ power is greater.

Again, I would not have wanted to be there. To my mind, this business with the pigs is the strangest part of the story. I cannot understand why the demoniacs wanted to be sent into the pigs. Is it that they were so frightened of what Jesus might do to them in punishment for their evil life that they think that becoming suicidal pigs would be preferable? It is hard to make sense of this. But then, it occurs to me that they are evil, and evil will always be strange and senseless if examined closely. Perhaps it seemed senseless to Jesus, also.

I draw near to Jesus now in prayer. I want to use my freedom for his glory and truth and ask him to help me.

Tomorrow we will continue our reflection.

(I think Sister Johanna sent this photo a few years ago. Will T.

7 October, the Divine Strangeness II: what did the demons know?

When Jesus reached the territory of the Gadarenes, two demoniacs came towards him out of the tombs—they were so dangerously violent that nobody could use that path. Suddenly they shouted, “What do you want with us, Son of God? Have you come to torture us before the time?” Now some distance away there was a large herd of pigs feeding, and the devils pleaded with Jesus, “If you drive us out, send us into the herd of pigs.” And he said to them, “Go, then,” and they came out and made for the pigs; and at that the whole herd charged down the cliff into the lake and perished in the water. The herdsmen ran off and made for the city, where they told the whole story, including what had happened to the demoniacs. Suddenly the whole city set out to meet Jesus; and as soon as they saw him they implored him to leave their neighbourhood (Mt 8:28-34).

We are looking at the story of the demoniacs of Gadarene, and I’m trying to come to terms with some elements in the story that I have never quite dealt with before. Yesterday we looked at two things I have always found perplexing about this story and ended with a meditation on Jesus’ power and unfathomable magnetism.

The Strangeness

I would like to start today’s reflection with a third perplexing thing: the demons’ prescience. In the demoniacs we find two violent beings, evil and in thrall to the Prince of Lies, actually getting something right. They know who Jesus is and do not try to falsify it. They call Jesus by his true name: Son of God. They do this long before anyone else in the gospels has tumbled to the truth.

Then I pull back and reflect on this so-called rightness of the demoniacs. I remember that the devil and his minions look at everything and evaluate everything through the lens of power. Because of this, they immediately understand that Jesus’ level of supernatural power is far superior to their own. I realise now that this must be why the demoniacs don’t try to falsify absolute truth in this instance: it’s because the demons know they have too little power to support their own lies in the presence of Truth Himself. Thus, the demoniacs speak the truth about Jesus’ identity as Son of God. They have no choice. They know their game is up.

I return to the text. It tells us that they “shout” their questions to Jesus: What do you want with us, Son of God? Have you come to torture us before the time? I suddenly feel a reluctance to study the demoniac’s behaviour too closely here. I don’t really want to know why they choose to shout, don’t want that much insight into the way their evil minds work. But they must know that Jesus isn’t deaf. Theatrics? They’re scarier when they shout? In any case, for a moment, I expect Jesus to say something, I don’t know what, in response to the demons’ yelled questions. Then I observe that Jesus says very little in this story. The contrast couldn’t be greater. Evil has to shout. Goodness has no need to. Jesus is almost completely silent. He does not engage in any real dialogue with the demonic beings.

I pull back again and after a moment I realise that Jesus’ silence is as meaningful as his speech. Surely, no one knows better than the Son of God that the Evil One might for a moment seem to speak the truth, but he certainly won’t keep on doing so. Give an evil being a conversational handle, even a momentary one, and before you know it, the demon will be exploiting it for all he’s worth, contradicting both you and himself in order to manipulate the exchange, endlessly twisting your words and his own, distorting the truth, taking you for a rough ride into places of obfuscation and misery, all in an attempt to unseat you from your understanding of truth and to ensure that he’s the one who ends up ‘on top’. Granted, Jesus proved repeatedly during his public ministry that he could hold his own in any argument, no matter what demon he is dealing with, but he also knew that speaking to a being who wants power more than truth is an exercise in futility. Jesus has no desire to go there. Jesus is silent. Mostly.

I finish today’s reflection with a deeper awareness of Jesus’ quiet power. I imagine myself present at this event, standing near the Twelve, rather off to one side, but close enough to see Jesus well. I see him standing there; I see two filthy, deranged, hostile and tortured souls loping about and screaming in front of him. They are overflowing with hostility. Jesus is overflowing with Goodness. But he is stern here, nevertheless. His eyes are trained upon the demoniacs and he does not look away from them. He is the Judge. He is equal to handling whatever may occur next.

Tomorrow we will continue our meditation.

These demons were dancers in A Charge of Blasphemy by Walter Cerquetti, Canterbury Cathedral, 2013.

8 August: What Did He Just Say? – I Wasn’t Listening!

From Canon Anthony Charlton of Saint Thomas’, Canterbury, the first of a mini series about words and language.

I can recall the moment in primary school when the teacher asked me in class, “what did I just say?” I hadn’t a clue. I hadn’t heard a word he had been saying. I wasn’t listening.

The voice from the cloud in today’s story of the Transfiguration of Jesus on the mountain said to Peter, James, and John, “This is my Son, the Beloved; he enjoys my favour. Listen to him.”

The command, the encouragement, was to listen to Jesus. How do we listen to Jesus? Are we listening to Jesus? What words of Jesus do we hear? To listen means to hear, understand and respond. The word of God that we read, that we hear, need not go in one ear and out the other, but we want it to enter into our hearts.

Think of the gesture that the deacon or priest makes when he proclaims: “A reading from the holy Gospel according to N.” He makes the sign of the cross on the book and on his forehead, lips, and heart. We are encouraged to do the same. By making this gesture, we are saying:

“May my mind be pure and open that I understand what I hear, may my speech be a means of sharing the words that I hear, and may the words I hear take root in my heart so our love for God and one another be strengthened”.

This listening will result in a change in us. Isaiah says;

“As the rain and the snow come down from the heavens and do not return without watering the earth, making it yield and giving growth to provide seed for the sower and bread for the eating, so the word that goes from my mouth does not return to me empty, without carrying out my will and succeeding in what it was sent to do.” (Isaiah 55)

To be better listeners, we need to cultivate more silence. The first words of the rule of St Benedict are:

“Listen carefully, my son, to the master’s instructions and attend to them with the ear of your heart. This is the advice from a father who loves you; welcome it, and faithfully put it into practice.”

As one commentator observed:

“The silence of Christian monasticism is not merely an asceticism of self-control or emptying our desires, but rather a posture of listening to a God who speaks. We do not silence ourselves for the sake of being silent, but rather for the sake of hearing more clearly. Our silence is not a matter of isolating ourselves, but rather of opening ourselves. It is relational. Silence is the necessary precondition for hearing God and encountering Him in prayer and in life. Too often we make the mistake of getting lost in the world and never slowing down enough or silencing ourselves enough to meet God, to hear Him and simply to be with Him.”

Lord help me to be slow to speak and ready to listen. Give me a spirit of silence in my prayer that your word may not only be on my lips but take root in my heart.

5 August: Stop talking to yourself!

Today we are burying the ashes of our contributor, Sheila Billingsley. Among her papers we found this poem which we hope you enjoy. It is light-hearted but profound in its challenge to our chatter-filled minds. Enjoy the poem and please pray for the poet!

Maurice

Rebuke

'Stop talking to yourself!'
Ten, twenty, thirty times a day
You say
''Just listen'', 
Do you understand what you miss,
All this mind-filling chatter?

'Organising, planning.
So ridiculous. 
Stop talking to yourself,
Just wait.

'Do you understand?
Can you understand?
After so long,
Do you not sense my waiting?

'Stop talking to yourself!
I give you silence
And you plan tomorrow's lunch.
Try to understand.

'I am not distant,
Just listen.
What I would give you do not receive,
So busy, talking to yourself! 
Listen to what I have given,
Could I have given more?
Does the giving end?
How can you understand,
Talking to yourself?'

9 June, Reflections on the Mass, V: Prayer Which God Alone Sees.

We continue sharing Canon Anthony Charlton’s reflections on the Eucharist in preparation for the feast of Corpus Christi.

——————————————————————

In June last year, Pope Francis issued an Apostolic letter on the Liturgical Formation of the People of God.

In Latin it was entitled Desiderio desideravi — Luke 22:15 — ‘I have earnestly desired to eat this paschal meal with you’. His intention was to ‘offer some prompts or cues for reflections that can aid in the contemplation of the beauty and truth of Christian celebration’.

There was one thing he wrote toward the end of the letter which struck me. He said that silence occupies a place of vital importance in the Mass.

In our missal, moments for silence are prescribed, but I realise that as a celebrant I often fall short and don’t give these moments of silence their due.

The entire Eucharistic celebration is immersed in silence. It is good to settle into silence before we announce and sing our first hymn. Silence is present in the Penitential rite; after the invitation ‘Let us pray’; in the Liturgy of the Word (before the readings, between the readings, after the homily and in the Eucharistic prayer); after communion.

Pope Francis says:

‘Silence is a symbol of the presence and the action of the Holy Spirit who animates the entire action of the celebration of Mass. In the Penitential Rite the silence enables the Spirit to move us to sorrow for sin and the desire for conversion. It awakens a readiness to hear the Word and awakens prayer, and it disposes us to adore the Body and Blood Christ.’

When I was training for the priesthood our rector at the seminary was very keen on a time of silence after communion, especially at the early morning Mass. Some of us would become concerned when the period of silence stretched to several minutes and there was loud coughing to be heard among the student body who were afraid he might have fallen asleep.

The Pope’s final sentence in this paragraph on silence is:

‘For all these reasons we are called to enact with extreme care the symbolic gesture of silence. Through it the Spirit gives us shape, gives us form.’

I love Mother Theresa of Calcutta’s prayer:

‘The fruit of silence is prayer.
The fruit of prayer is faith.
The fruit of faith is love.
The fruit of love is service.
The fruit of service is peace.’

St Pope Paul VI, reflecting on the life of the Holy Family in Nazareth, offered these thoughts on silence.

‘May esteem for silence, that admirable and indispensable condition of mind, revive in us, besieged as we are by so many uplifted voices, the general noise and uproar, in our seething and over-sensitised modern life.

‘May the silence of Nazareth teach us recollection, inwardness, the disposition to listen to good inspirations and the teachings of true masters. May it teach us the need for and the value of preparation, of study, of meditation, of personal inner life, of the prayer which God alone sees in secret.’

Amen.

Canon Father Anthony Parish Priest

Help Spread the Word……

1 June: Three humans hanging on in there.

Maynard’s Spittal, alms houses for aged persons, XVI Century, Canterbury.

From Visitation III.

And, hearts heavy with the weight of hope they carry,
Mary, Elisabeth and her good old husband
Go to sit, the three together, on the doorstep,
Filled with shadow and silence, hands on their knees.

Far away, filmy fields fade into filmy sky:
Its crop of golden stars will soon be flowering.
Elisabeth, tired, wonders if she’s feeling pains.
They look at the evening, dream, wait, and wait again.

From Hanging on in there, an essay in meaning.

Selected poems of Marie Noël. p80.

Marie Noel (1883-1967) is new to me. An unmarried provincial French woman, she had the gift of poetry and an incarnational theology, evident here in the last two stanzas of this poem. The story and yesterday’s feast of the Visitation will be for me all the more lively for this image of three tired human beings at the end of their day, sitting in silence under God’s good heaven, watching the stars, maybe watching and waiting for one star in particular.

Waiting, not for Godot who never comes, but for God’s son and his herald; every day let us watch and wait, and prepare the way of the Lord.