Even now

I posted this 13 years ago.  After reading this meditation the first time, I hung a star in my room as a reminder.  It has moved with me over the years and still hangs in my room.  

 

Take a moment–perhaps with a cup of tea and a lit candle–to sit quietly and read this editorial from this month’s Magnificat [December 2011] by Fr. Peter John Cameron.  If you don’t have time at the moment, print it out or bookmark it to read at a time when you have the space and quiet to read it slowly.  Don’t scan this quickly; it deserves the right pace to speak to your soul.   And may it speak deeply to your soul . . .

The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches that Jesus knew and loved us each and all during his life, and gave himself up for each one of us (see 478). Which means that from the moment Christ is conceived in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Jesus is loving us and giving himself to us personally. He is calling to our hearts, wooing us with all his tenderness.At this very moment, the aged Simeon stands at his post in the temple… vigilant… filled with expectation… looking for Mary’s baby. Once the infant Jesus appears, no one will need to tell Simeon that this is the One he has been waiting for all his life.

For five years already a lame man has been lying by the sheep pool in Bethesda, too weak to hoist himself into the stirred up waters. Even now, Jesus begins his approach to him. It will be thirty-three years more before Christ stands beside the man, but even now he asks him the question we are all aching to hear: “Do you want to be healed?”

Any day now a mother and a father will give birth to a little girl who will grow up to acquire a bleeding disease that will baffle all doctors and afflict her for twelve years. Even now, Jesus is pitying her, healing her, and calling her “daughter.”

Who can say how long the leper has lived alone, lurking in the shadows? Yet even now something has happened that will not allow his tortured heart to give way to despair. So even now, from a distance, he starts searching the faces in every crowd, certain that some day Someone will appear to whom he will beg, “Sir, if you will to do so, you can cure me!”

At the moment, the woman destined to be the Gospel’s famous widow is a beautiful young maiden newly betrothed. She spends all her passion in preparing for her wedding – for the day she will be a bride. Yet the days of her marriage will not last long. And with the death of her husband, she will spend her life loving others with a total gift of self. Even now Jesus the Bridegroom is watching, commending her for giving all she has to live on.

Even now Bartimaeus in the abyss of his blindness is crying from his misery, “Son of David! Have pity on me!” The child born in the city of David is readying even now to restore his sight.

Even now Jesus is settling on the tree up which Zacchaeus will scurry. Even now Jesus plans to stop, and look up, and call Zacchaeus from his limb. Even now Jesus is promising him, “I mean to stay with you today.”

At this point in time, the Samaritan woman at the well has not yet married Husband Number One. Little does she know that she will have five husbands and another man besides. But even now Jesus is appealing to the thirst that is her life and promising to slake it with the gift of his very self.

Even now the mere lad Matthew hasn’t any idea about what he will be when he grows up. What leads him one ill-fated day to betray his religion, his nation, and himself in becoming a tax collector we will never know. But even now Jesus is making his way to Matthew’s tax collecting post and summoning him from his heart with the words, “Follow me.”

Even now something makes the centurion restless, uneasy. He cannot truly be himself until he professes, “This man was the Son of God!”

Just about now the little boy Peter is beginning to learn how to fish from his father. But even now Jesus sees him on the seashore and summons him to be a fisher of men. Even now Jesus is forgiving his sins and calling Peter “Rock.”

Even now Jesus is silently beckoning us all: Come to me, you who are weary and find life burdensome, and I will refresh you. Your souls will find rest in me. I am gentle and humble of heart. Do not live in fear. I have come that you might have life and have it to the full. If anyone thirsts, let him come to me. I am the way, and the truth, and the life. I am the Bread of Life. I call you friends. I am with you always.

Even now a wondrous star has arisen in the heavens of the far-off East. Even now Magi have left all else behind, and have begun to make their way to a manger, following a path laid out by the shining star’s luster. Let us go with them.

Rev. Peter John Cameron, O.P.
Copyright Magnificat

A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark

I have shared Jan Richardson’s poems before. She’s perhaps on my mind because every Advent I pull out her book, Circle of Grace, to accompany me on my Advent journey. Here’s another of her poems that I love.

Go slow
If you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.

Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.

I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.

But this is what
I can ask for you:

That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name. 

Look for the light

I was so struck by this by Sally Clarkson from her new book, Well Lived. I have sensed the Lord wanting me to dwell with the word “watchfulness” during Advent this year. And this piece of writing spoke into that, especially since moving to a new house that is full of light (as compared to my past bedroom that looked out on a brick wall).

“Each year I determine several themes I will choose for the focus of my heart’s eyes. This year I chose to look for light, to observe it, to note its beauty. When in my Colorado home I would notice the sunrise shimmering int he aspen trees near my front window. In Oxford, I walk a short pathway next to my canal most nights to see the sunset playing through the woods and shining on the water. And I remind myself, Jesus is the light. He dances in all my places; He wants to bring the light of His truth to my heart to give hope to my weary days. Light reflects the essence of Christ to me, so I notice light to remind me He is everywhere.

“Because of my determination to look for light, I have noticed it casting shadows upon trees and the leaves seeming to lean forward to catch a glimmer of sunlight. I pay attention to sunrises and sunsets. I look for light because He is light, and it causes me to worship Him for bringing me out of darkness. Honestly, because I made this commitment, light has captured my attention many times a day; each instance whispers to my heart, ‘He is here; you are not alone.'”

Orthodoxy

Last week I listened to a marvelous interview with Scott Cairns whose poetry (and autobiography) I love. I have thought back on it several times since then. I was especially caught by this poem of his and share it as a gift to you this Sunday.

Orthodoxy

by Scott Cairns in the June 2024 issue

—after Kapouzos [ΝΙΚΟΣ ΚΑΠΟΥΖΟΣ]

Yes, sweet, and very sweet the darkness 
of the nave, and also very sweet 
the observant surround, these icons 
of our ancient fathers and our mothers, 
whose images have acquired a warm 
chiaroscuro from centuries 
of fragrant smoke—incense, beeswax wafting 
for centuries attended by seamless 
petition and praise. Such prayers as these 
yet fill the air with yet another 
palpable sweetness. 
                                    So often, the world 
appears wretched, choked by a broken, 
angry and willfully cruel people. 
So often, the world proves wretched indeed, 
and its darkness is bitter. How then 
to mitigate the assault waiting 
just beyond the narthex? How to carry 
at least some distance into the world 
this fragrance, this sweetness, these images?

This poem appears in the June 2024 issue.

Now and Not Yet

This is our current status, living a life of now and not yet. We taste of the things to come but do not yet know them fully.

“Dear friends, now we are children of God, and what we will be has not yet been made known. But we know that when Christ appears, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. All who have this hope in him purify themselves, just as he is pure.” (1 John 3)

The cross we bear from others

Sally Read, a poet herself, shared this poem by Sarah Law about Thérèse in her dying, her complete abandonment to God, even to the love of her sisters who were, in fact, inhibiting her dying–and that becomes part of the cross that she embraces.

The Cross

Because she couldn’t breathe–
was wracked with breath’s lack,
too weak to raise herself,

Marie and Céline have lifted her 
half-up from the bed, her
hurting arms spread and held

about their robed shoulders.
Tipped forward, she hangs
on the cross of herself,

as the night light flickers;
the last speck of sand has run
from the hourglass’s lung.

She is heavy as a world,
a dying sun. But Céline–
unready still–flings out her hand

to force the air to move again;
force the sickroom’s minutes back
into their fragile cycle,

and so they ease her down,
and she offers up their love. 

I feel so blessed to have discovered this poet who has an entire book (!) of poems dedicated to Thérèse.

Cause of Our Joy

Quartz_oisan

Cause of Our Joy

by Anne Porter

Rock crystal
Clearer than crystal
Stronger than rock

Snow crown of Sinai
Melting on the heights
Pouring through the valleys
In pure rushing water
And wine that sings of justice.

* * *

Chose from the chosen
Mystical rose
Your creature petals
Mirror that beauty
No one can see and live
You hide in your heart
Like dew simple and silent
That blazing majesty.

Small as you are, your fragrance
Fills all the world,
Fragrance of hope,
Fragrance of the gospels.

Come to the old woman
Whose lodging is the street
Come to the drugged boy
The landlord, the general
Come to the haunted hunter by his jungle river
Come to the banker, the prisoner, the torturer
The hungry, the shut-in, the runaway in danger
Come to the backward child.

Whether or not we know you
Come to the rich and poor
Come to us all.

* * *

Star of morning
There is still such darkness
Only by the light
Of your innocent fire
We know this is the morning.

But sweet in this dark morning
Is a freshness of new bread
And the newborn Word in his cradle
Is just beginning to stir.

Queen of Angels
You’re up early
Washing, baking, sweeping,
Young country girl
From a scorned province

Broken for the broken

Wife of a carpenter
Mother of a convict
Cause of our joy.

from An Altogether Different Language: Poems 1934-1994