Image: Jesus Comforts Our Lady of Sorrows by Lucy Stothard
If there’s one thing people in the modern world can’t seem to get enough of, it’s arguing on the Internet. One of my earliest experiences of this came at the age of around seventeen, when I saw a ferocious keyboard dual waged over LiveJournal (and only readers of a certain age will know what that is). It took place between a militant pro-lifer and a teenage goth girl who emphatically stated, numerous times, that the unborn child was nothing more than ‘a blob. Of. Goop.’ I can’t remember who ‘won’. In these matters, victory is most often marked by one person leaving the platform in a huff. Similar scuffles take place regularly in the comment sections of YouTube videos, often between Christians and atheists, Christians and Muslims, and Christians and Christians. Debates in all categories often involve a fair bit of mud-slinging on both sides, as well as attempts (again, on both sides), to score points and experience “gotcha!” moments. By the grace of God, though, this isn’t always the case, and while the Internet may be flooded with religious people loudly and tenaciously defending their particular set of beliefs, purely and simply for the purpose of being right, there are others (although perhaps not nearly enough). These souls genuinely seek the truth in humility and are open to having constructive dialogues with their brothers and sisters of other faiths. I once read such a dialogue between a Muslim and a Christian. The first young man was asking what I felt was a very pertinent question about the Christian doctrine of substitutionary atonement – the idea that Jesus died “for us”. The point of enquiry went something like this: if Jesus rose from the dead, how could His death on the cross be an effective substitution? He died – sure. But then He came back to life. Doesn’t that render His sacrifice invalid? Hmm. Good question! Not being a theologian, this isn’t a topic I’d feel qualified to offer a definitive answer on. However, several months ago I was having a conversation with a nun over a cup of coffee (still being in discernment, this is something I do quite often). She mentioned one of the revelations Christ gave to Julian of Norwich: that He’d had to spend a good amount of time with His mother in the days and weeks following His resurrection. This was because, even though He’d risen from the dead and was now walking around alive and well, she was still traumatised and grieving over having seen Him killed. This was something I’d never really thought about before, and it resounded with me on several levels. It helps to answer the above question, insofar as the miracle of Christ’s glorious resurrection in no way diminishes the agony of His passion and death. Although Our Lady was no doubt overjoyed to see her son raised from the dead, she wouldn’t have been able to unsee the incredible cruelty which had been inflicted on Him just a few days earlier. Nor would she have been able to unlive her experience of every parent’s worst nightmare: the death of her child. It’s a reality which used to make my grandmother, a Catholic of Italian descent with five sons of her own, weep every time she thought about it. We, as Christians, are not spared any of this. At Easter we celebrate the joy of resurrection, yet we still grieve over the Lord’s passion. The symbol of our faith is, after all, not an empty tomb but a man on a cross. And it applies to our own lives, too: Christ’s death and resurrection might have removed the eternal consequences of our sins, but the temporal consequences remain. We can be harder on ourselves than even the most old-school of confessors, and often the harshest penance simply takes the form of regret, deeply felt and unshakeable. Thoughtless words cannot be taken back, foolish actions cannot be undone. The problem isn’t on God’s side – it’s on ours. He casts our sins into a sea called ‘Forgetfulness’, never again to call them to mind. He forgets. We find it impossible. And what of the Lord Himself? Survivors of similar levels of violation, torture and cruelty are usually so traumatised that it takes decades of therapy for them to recover mentally – if, indeed, they ever do. It’s well-known that Christ bears the physical wounds of His passion, even in Heaven – so it would be safe to assume that the mental and emotional scars remain, too. Nevertheless, in this revelation from the life of Our Lady, we see a Christ who is apparently unconcerned about His own trauma and suffering, whose focus is instead on comforting and consoling His mother. Jesus has more reason than anyone to wallow in self-pity, yet He refuses to do so, instead working to bring the healing and renewing love of God into the lives of His people. It’s work He continues to accomplish in our lives, as He sends His Spirit to wipe our tears and bind up our wounds – even the self-inflicted ones. In doing so He provides a model of how we ought to work out our salvation, showing us that the way out of the stormy waters of shame and regret lies not in self-pity but in self-forgetfulness. We can’t change the past, but we can shift our focus outward and bring the Good News of God’s perfect love to others who need it (and who doesn’t?). And on the occasion that we do find ourselves grieving over our own failures? We know that Christ – and Our Lady – will be there to comfort us. by Lucy Stothard
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Few of us would have been surprised by yesterday’s announcement that the UK government has extended its lockdown for at least another three weeks. Over the past month it’s been said, quite often, that Italy is “two weeks ahead of the UK”. Toward the end of March, as the Italian death toll was soaring, these were words which filled many of us with dread. Were we still going to have parents and grandparents at the end of all this? Would we ourselves live to tell the tale? How, exactly, do you persuade a fiercely independent pensioner to stay at home? (For the record, I tried scaremongering. It didn’t work.) Yet now, those words can fill us with hope. Although Italy will still be in lockdown until at least the beginning of May, the government is starting to loosen restrictions and, across the rest of Europe, there are signs that other countries are also taking tentative steps toward normality. That being said, three more weeks (and who knows how many more after that) can seem like an awfully long time to be cooped up indoors. Yet many have already identified the hidden gifts that this can hold for our spiritual lives. At the beginning of the crisis I was uplifted and inspired by stories of saints who had undergone isolation or unjust imprisonment, and I thought that others might be, too. You can read parts one and two of the ‘Saints in Lockdown’ series, which cover St. Paul and St. John of the Cross, here and here. Continuing on this theme, then, today’s saint might seem like a bit of an odd choice. Mother Teresa never spent so much as a night in a jail cell during her long life; nor was she a monastic, hermit or anchorite. In fact, she was extraordinarily well-travelled, leaving her native Macedonia at the age of eighteen to join an apostolic religious order in Ireland. From there she was sent to Darjeeling to complete her novitiate, before being sent to Calcutta, where she taught for seventeen years. The slums of Calcutta. No problem with tourist crowds here.
Mother Teresa was on a train from Calcutta to a retreat in the Himalayan foothills when the Lord spoke to her, asking her to leave her teaching post to work with the poorest of the poor in the slums of the city. Naturally, it took some time for her to be dispensed from her current convent, and when it happened, she didn’t have much of a plan other than to help: "the unwanted, the unloved, the uncared for." After six months of basic medical training she followed Jesus to the slums. It was there that she would found the Missionaries of Charity, which now operates in well over a hundred countries around the world. Mother Teresa travelled a lot, but she never sought to be anywhere other than where the Lord sent her. She would, I’m sure, have words of wisdom to help us all in our current circumstances, whatever they may be and wherever we may find ourselves. If you’re the kind of person who likes to be out and about doing good, social distancing might be unbelievably frustrating. It’s all too easy to fall into the trap of thinking I could be holy, if only I could go there or do that. Mother Teresa would encourage us to look closer to home – perhaps even within our own home – in order to discover what would most please Jesus in these days: “Stay where you are. Find your own Calcutta. Find the sick, the suffering, and the lonely right there where you are — in your own homes and in your own families, in your workplaces and in your schools. You can find Calcutta all over the world, if you have the eyes to see. Everywhere, wherever you go, you find people who are unwanted, unloved, uncared for, just rejected by society — completely forgotten, completely left alone.” Even in lockdown, we can all be Missionaries of Charity, and we can do it without going as far as the end of our street. If we live with others, we don’t even have to leave the house. Let’s pray that the Lord would open our eyes to the needs – emotional, spiritual and physical – of the people around us, and that He would give us the grace to respond with the same love that Mother Teresa did. Here are some more quotes from this lovely saint to inspire and uplift you this weekend: “What can you do to promote world peace? Go home and love your family.” “The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved, and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair, and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of poverty -- it is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There's a hunger for love, as there is a hunger for God.” “I alone cannot change the world, but I can cast a stone across the waters to create many ripples.” “A life not lived for others is not a life.” “Never worry about numbers. Help one person at a time and always start with the person nearest you.” St. Teresa of Calcutta, pray for us! by Lucy Stothard. Photographers unknown. Please contact us if photos are yours so we can give credit. If you are following the daily Mass readings (https://universalis.com/mass.htm), you may have noticed a “new” element inserted before the Gospel acclamation: a hymn called the sequence.
The sequence (sequentia in Latin) is the name of the liturgical hymn of the Mass which is sung in connection with four Christian feasts: Easter (hymn Victimae paschali laudes), Pentecost (hymn Veni Sancte Spiritus), Corpus Christi (hymn Lauda Sion) and Our Lady of Sorrows (hymn Stabat Mater). Another traditional sentence is Dies irae for the Requiem Mass. In this Octave of Easter, the ancient sequence Victimae paschali laudes is said or sung. It has been attributed to Wipo of Burgundy, a chaplain to Conrad II who was the German Emperor between 1027 and 1039 (for illustration, in England, King Cnut was crowned in 1016; Shakespeare lovers may appreciate that King Duncan I of Scotland died in 1040, and Macbeth, married to a somewhat ambitious lady, acceded to Scottish throne). Others have ascribed the hymn to Adam of St. Victor, a 12th century poet. The sequence narrates the story of death and life locked in a struggle, wherein Christ, the Paschal victim, victorious over death, reconciles us to the Father. We hear the story of Mary Magdalene, who upon finding the empty tomb of the risen Christ, and finding the clothes which once covered his head and limbs, proclaims: “Christ my hope has arisen.” The sequence is translated in The English Hymnal as follows: Christians, to the Paschal Victim Offer your thankful praises! A Lamb the sheep redeemeth: Christ, who only is sinless, Reconcileth sinners to the Father; Death and life have contended In that combat stupendous: The Prince of Life, who died, reigns immortal. Speak Mary, declaring What thou sawest wayfaring: “The Tomb of Christ, who is living. The glory of Jesu’s Resurrection; Bright angels attesting, The shroud and napkin resting. Yea, Christ my hope is arisen: To Galilee he goes before you.” Happy they who hear the witness, Mary’s word believing Above the tales of Jewry deceiving. Christ indeed from death is risen, our new life obtaining. Have mercy, victor King, ever reigning! Here is a link to a classic rendering of the sequence by the Benedictine monks of Abbaye Notre-Dame de Triors: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQ8zVV9G310 In his 1955 encyclical Musicae Sacrae, Pope Pius XII wrote: “It is the duty of all those to whom Christ the Lord has entrusted the task of guarding and dispensing the Church’s riches to preserve this precious treasure of Gregorian chant diligently and to impart it generously to the Christian people. … In the performance of the sacred liturgical rites this same Gregorian chant should be most widely used and great care should be taken that it be performed properly, worthily, and reverently.” Amen to that. By Fr Tomas Image: Christ resurrected on the day of judgement. Etching after M. de Vos [between 1590 and 1599?] Credit: Wellcome Collection. Attribution 4.0 International (CC BY 4.0) Urban Abbey wishes all parishioners and friends of St. Giles in Reading a very happy and blessed Easter.
Especial thanks to Jan Hearn for so richly blessing us with yet more beautiful and inspiring art. Have a lovely day! by Lucy Stothard, painting © Jan Hearn Image: 'Not the Gardener' by Lucy Stothard.
The following is a fictionalised retelling of John 20: 1-18, as well as what we know about the life of St. Mary Magdalene. Mary is believed to have been the first saint to experience the mystical marriage. Anointing the body would have been the job of his wife, if he’d had one. As it is, the duty falls to her. The irony isn’t lost on her as she calls to mind the rumours, things said about their friendship which, before all this, would have made her blush. And Mary of Magdala is not the kind of girl who blushes easily. They’ve got the wrong idea, anyway. She was his confidant, his disciple. He taught her things about God. Made a believer out of her. But it was never like that. Was it? On Friday night she stays with his mother at John’s house. The three of them sit up together until dawn and weep. Peter is there too, his expression listless. They don’t even have the strength to pray and even if they did, they wouldn’t have the words. The following night, they decide unanimously to try and get some rest. But it’s no good. Every time she closes her eyes she sees his face, barely recognisable in his agony, eyes and mouth full of blood. It’s still dark when she gets up, dresses, hurriedly fixes her veil in place. It’s not safe for a woman to go walking around in the dark. She doesn’t care. What more could they take from her? From memory, she finds her way to Joseph’s tomb. Dawn is just about breaking by the time she arrives, the eastern sky gradually taking on a hue of a blue that reminds her of birds’ eggs. At first, she can only make out the outline of the rocky structure, and a sick feeling wells up within her at the thought of him lying there, cold, alone, dead. When she sees that the stone is not in front of the opening, she wonders whether she’s accidentally gone to the wrong place. Further inspection in the dim morning light reassures her that no, this is definitely it. The sick feeling intensifies at the realisation of what must have happened: they’ve taken him away. Couldn’t they let him rest, after all this? The empty tomb confirms her suspicions and, distraught, she drops the heavy box of spices she’d brought with her and runs, all the way back to the house. At first, the men don’t take too kindly to being woken up. Once she tells them what has happened, they jolt into action and soon the three of them are running, John quicker than any of them. He darts into the tomb and, a minute later, comes out shouting joyfully: He has risen – just as he said he would! Mary takes a deep breath and tries not to be annoyed by his naivety. Soon John and Peter have gone but she stays, not knowing what to do or where to go. In the end she crumples, body wracking with sobs as her tears fall to the dry, dusty ground. A soft rustle in the bushes startles her and makes her look up. She glances round for a moment or two, trying to figure out the source of the noise. Another rustle, nearer this time. Someone is moving around just out of sight, weaving in and out between branches heavy with spring blossoms. She strains her eyes in the near-light and can just make out the figure of a man. For a moment, she dares to hope. Could it be? No. Of course not. She remembers that this is a private garden for the wealthy. It’s the groundskeeper. He’s getting nearer, now. Not wanting him to see that she’s been crying she sniffs, hastily wipes her eyes, tweaks her veil and smooths her dress. The gardener stops a few feet away and speaks. “Ma’am?” She tries to keep her voice level and free from emotion, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be kneeling in a garden at the crack of dawn. “Yes, sir?” “Why are you weeping?” So much for putting a brave face on it, although she has no idea how he could tell. She decides to be matter of fact. “They have taken my Lord away, that’s all.” The gardener doesn’t say anything. “And - and I don’t know where they have put him,” she adds at length. She can’t quite make out his face, but it seems like the gardener is smiling now. She wonders how he can be so insensitive and is about to say at much when he says a word that nearly makes her heart stop: “Mary.” “Rabbuni!” All propriety flies out of the window and she leaps to her feet, flinging her arms around him. Jesus is very obliging, holding onto her for a moment or two before gently trying to disentangle himself. Oh, no. She’s not letting go of him. Never, ever again. “Don’t cling to me,” he says, “because I have not yet ascended to the Father. But go and find the brothers, and tell them: I am ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.” Mary has no idea what he’s talking about but she finally, reluctantly, loosens her grip. The dawn is brighter now and she can see his face at last. His eyes have changed colour to the most striking, iridescent blue she’s ever seen, and they are filled with a fierce, burning love that makes her feel very important and very small all at once. Knowing that no more words are necessary, she obeys. Forty days later, Jesus goes to Heaven. Nine days after that, something even more unbelievable happens. Several years later, far too many to count, and she’s living in a cave in a strange land. Decades of fasting and penance have left her looking too-thin and tired; the beauty that used to stop men in their tracks has long gone. Silvery hair falls, tangled, past her waist. But she’s not alone. He’s with her when she lies down and when she wakes up, a living flame of love in her heart whose voice the solitude allows her to hear quite clearly. He speaks to her daily, sings of his love for her and all mankind. Sometimes she even sees him. It’s been a long time since he asked her to be his Bride, a marriage of spirits that raptured her soul in love and ruined her for the world. But at least the rumours aren't unfounded any more. by Lucy Stothard On this solemn day, let me share with you a favourite piece of sacred music for today, by the perhaps lesser known Spanish composer Fernando Sor (1778-1839). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=77geP_k4RHw
It is a moving and expressive work for Holy Week, a setting of the second stanza of the hymn Vexilla regis. While Sor was living, for three years, in Russia, he wrote this sacred choral piece for four voices in connection with the request for him to be admitted to the Order of the Golden Spur, the Ordine dello Speron d’Oro, to which Mozart also belonged. As a result, Sor was admitted to the Order. O Crux ave, spes unica, Hoc passionis tempore Auge piis justitiam, Reisque dona veniam. O Cross! all hail! sole hope, abide With us now in this Passiontide: New grace in pious hearts implant, And pardon to the guilty grant. By Fr Tomas Illustration © Jan Hearn The above photograph was taken in the cloister of Barcelona's Gothic Cathedral in Spring 2017. What follows is a short meditation based on something I felt the Lord was saying to me in prayer a few days ago.
Stand at the foot of My Cross and weep. Not at My shame: the scorn, the spittle Nor at the beating, the scourging, the crown Do not weep as I fall in the dirt The kicking, the jeering, the sting of the dust Nor at the nails, the wood, the piercing. Do not weep, child, as you think on your sin The ill-thought decision, the broken relationship, the careless word. Weep, rather, at this: That you, a finite being A speck of dust Should be so completely and utterly loved Loved to the point of death. Think on this truth, meditate upon it. Stand before a mirror and know it to be true. Then come, walk with Me on this day And stand at the foot of My Cross And weep. by Lucy Stothard It’s all too easy to read the account of St. Peter’s denial and think: that would never be us. Peter might have been having an off-day but with us, it’s different. You know it’s different with us, Lord. Don’t you?
This is no hasty declaration made in the first flush of love; we really would die for You. Rile up the lions, let the headsman sharpen his sword. We are for Christ. But then comes the day when someone cracks a filthy joke in our presence. Not wanting to seem like a prude, we laugh. I do not know Him. Then we’re watching a movie and someone uses Your precious Name in the place of a foul, four-letter word to express shock or disgust. The Name above all Names, the only name in Heaven or on Earth by which men may be saved, dragged into the dirt and trampled on. We barely blink as we keep watching. I do not know Him. Someone makes a comment about all religions being basically the same. We know differently, but say nothing. I do not know Him. A friend challenges us on an aspect of Church teaching which offends them. Not wanting to upset anyone, we say something noncommittal and change the subject. I do not know Him. In a group setting, we hear someone say that religion is a personal matter. It’s okay to have one, just don’t push it on other people. We nod in agreement with the rest. I tell you, man, I do not know Him! Jesus, as I think of all the times I have denied you, I too could weep bitterly. Judas sold You for thirty pieces of silver. I have sold You for social acceptance, a quiet life, a cheap laugh. Yet Peter knows something Judas doesn’t. He knows that You are Compassion and Love, and that this side of Heaven, we can always begin again. That knowledge alone should be enough to get us to jump into the water and run right across the beach into Your arms: we’re sorry, we love You. Jesus, we too have denied you. Today, You will go to Calvary. But on Sunday, You will rise again. And we will run to You. by Lucy Stothard May I make a suggestion for the later hours of Good Friday? We shall all, I am sure, have spent much time during the day saying or reading the Passion and saying the extensive prayers of the day, either alone or in the company of a service streamed by a bishop of the Society; the Good Friday liturgy demands much of us, and rightly so. But when all is done, it seems to me to be so appropriate to tune into Radio 3 for a rendering of Bach's S Matthew Passion between 7 pm and 10. Don't let anything disturb you - just let it happen over you.
Christopher Today, Pope Francis presided over the Mass of the Lord’s Supper in St. Peter’s Basilica. The liturgy known as in coena Domini, takes place on the first day of the Easter Triduum and commemorates the institution of the Eucharist. Contrary to tradition that normally sees the Pope celebrate Holy Thursday Mass outside the Vatican, this year’s ceremony took place at the Altar of the Chair in an almost empty St. Peter’s Basilica. The liturgy did not include the washing of the feet, out of respect for directives intended to curb the spread of Covid-19. The Mass was streamed live and Christians across the world were invited to participate.
The Pope recalled how Jesus washed the feet of the Apostles and invited the faithful to allow the Lord to love and serve them. In his homily, the Holy Father thanked God for the ministry of so many unnamed priests, several of whom have sacrificed their lives – especially those who have died recently while serving the sick in hospitals and clinics amid the coronavirus pandemic. Pope Francis reminded Christians that only by allowing the Lord to love us will we be saved. Jesus Himself says: “If we don't eat His body and we don't drink His blood, we will not enter the Kingdom of Heaven”, said the Pope. “It is difficult to understand that we need to allow the Lord to serve us,” continued Pope Francis. He then reflected on St. John’s Gospel which describes the exchange between Jesus and Peter who told the Lord: “You will never wash my feet”. Jesus answered: “Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me”. “You must ask the Lord to allow you to grow,” the Pope said, “to forgive you.” Pope Francis then gave thanks for the priesthood. “I want to be near to priests,” he said, “all of them: from the newly ordained all the way up to the bishops and to the Pope.” “You have been anointed to confer the Eucharist, you have been anointed to serve,” he added.Noting it had not been possible to celebrate the Chrism Mass on Holy Thursday morning, the Pope said he hoped it could be celebrated before Pentecost. Referring to the celebration of the Lord’s Supper, he said, “I can't allow this Mass to pass by without mentioning the priesthood and all the priests who offer their lives for the Lord.” Pope Francis recalled that in these dramatic days marked by the coronavirus pandemic, more than 60 priests have died here in Italy while caring for the sick, together with doctors and nurses in the hospitals. “They are our ‘next-door-neighbour’ saints,” who have given their lives to serve the Lord and the faithful, he said. Pope Francis then turned his thoughts to the many parish priests and prison chaplains who take the Gospel into small towns and into prisons, and to the scores of anonymous priests in mission territories, many of whom die and are buried far from the eyes of the world. “No one knows their names,” the Pope said. “They are good priests and I carry them in my heart.” He also spoke of the many priests who have suffered calumny and insult, “who cannot walk the streets” because of the shame brought by bad things that have happened in the Church. “Today you are all with me at the altar,” he said. “Don’t be pig-headed like Peter: allow the Lord to wash your feet, learn to forgive the other. Just as you have forgiven, you will be forgiven. Never be afraid to forgive.” Pope Francis concluded his homily giving thanks to God for the grace of the priesthood: “I thank God for you, priests. Jesus loves you. I ask only that you allow your feet to be washed.” By Fr Tomas using the press release of © Dicasterium pro Communicatione, The Vatican Illustration © Jan Hearn |
Lucy Stothard & Fr David & Fr TomasLucy is an Intern at S Giles, Fr Tomas is is our curate, and Fr David is the vicar. We hope to offer some regular words of encouragement during this difficult time. Archives
May 2020
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