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The Confusing Mysteries.

Today is a fast day in our Archdiocese, declared by the archbishop, a response to the pandemic.  It’s the same rules as Good Friday or Ash Wednesday.  I had coffee for breakfast, and some instant miso in the middle of the day with a few spoonfuls of leftover cooked brown rice and peas stirred in.   We still plan to order takeout for dinner from some local restaurant; it isn’t hard to find one that will sell us a pesto melt or fish tacos.

 

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Thoughts and prayers.  Thoughts of food, and prayers.  I took a walk today while the kids ate their cheese pizzas:  I walked south until I finished the rosary, and then on my way back a Divine Mercy chaplet.

 

It’s Wednesday, and that’s the Glorious Mysteries, but every single time (n=1,...5) that I started a decade, I said “The n-th Sorrowful Mystery” by mistake and had to correct myself.  And what stood out to me wasn’t the glory at all, but the moments of sheer confusion.

 

They have taken my lord away, and we don’t know where they have put him.

 

they were looking intently at the sky... “Why are you standing there looking at the sky?”

 

They were all astounded and bewildered and said to each other, “What does this mean?”

 

I couldn’t feel anything at all except the confusion.  I went with it, though.  I know that there is a resolution, an explanation, in all three of the stories, but I sat, or rather walked, with the confusion.

 

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I am going easy on myself this afternoon, just as I usually have to on the ordinary fast days.  I did housework all morning while Mark worked on his laptop in the attic:  laundry, then I set up the bread machine, hoping the yeast was still good (it was).  Then I got some hot soapy water and washed all our light switches and doorknobs.  We have been quite isolated since we abandoned our trip, but it seemed like a good idea to start.  Sooner or later someone will need to venture out to a grocery store or something, and they will touch knobs and such when they come back, and maybe by then I’ll want to follow the path from the door to the handwashing station, disinfecting.

 

After that I read and commented on blogs, and answered emails from friends, and checked in on some specially created FB groups.  Before, I called that “wasting time” but now it is on my official to-do list, because it feels good for us all.  And then the walk, and now I am resting, and writing on my tablet propped on a pillow on my knees.  I don’t really have much energy left, though after breaking fast tonight I will probably have energy for something or other.

 

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St. Francis de Sales’s Introduction has a multistep method of mental prayer where you begin by choosing one of four ways to place yourself in the presence of God.  If you are seasoned, the ways will all sound pretty elementary.  The fourth way is to imagine Jesus in his humanity in the room with you, as you might imagine a friend (“I imagine I see such-and-such a person, doing this and that,” says St. Francis), and then you move on to the next steps.  Usually I straightforwardly picture the presence of an adult Jesus sitting just behind my shoulder where I can’t see, but today on a whim I thought instead of myself sitting by the manger instead.  What should I do now? I wondered, and the thought came, Pick up the baby, and I desired to and of course I can’t.   And there was a flash of real grief, here and then gone... but strong, and I did not know what to do with it.

So that was a sudden felt longing.  And an impression that pick up the baby is a sort of guiding principle that I can lean on in the coming weeks, even though what exactly it might mean for me leaves me, well... confused.

Self-care with St. Francis de Sales.

(Read my other posts on Introduction to the Devout Life by following links here.)

Introduction to the Devout Life may be read online here.  Link goes to table of contents.

But if you are willing to purchase a physical book, and believe me this work is worth it because it's the sort of thing you might want to carry around with you, my recommended translation is that of Fr. Michael Day.  Look for it as a used book.

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When the year comes around to the end of January, close to St. Francis de Sales's feast day, I like to go through the method of "annual renewal and preservation of devotion" that he lays out in Introduction to the Devout Life.    

A little ways into the method there's a fairly detailed, fairly general examination of conscience.  In fact, St. Francis offers two different forms of examination of conscience, a long form in V.3-6  and a shorter form in V.7; I'm considering the longer form, which he suggests doing in pieces over the course of one or two days. 

It's quite reasonably structured, and might work well as a day-to-day examination of conscience as well:  it is divided into instructions on how to make the examination, then considerations of one's behavior towards God, towards self, and towards neighbor. 

Despite this relatively ordinary form, it's a somewhat unusual examination of conscience.  It's not a simple accounting of sins, for the purpose of making a good regular confession.  Nor is it an overview of one's faults, temptations, inclinations, and bad habits, as one does before making a general confession (you know, the type that often requires one to make an appointment and block off an hour).  It's the medium-perspective E. O. C., with an object that is hardly penitential and accusatory. 

Rather, it's celebratory, serene, and motivating.  Look at the language:

• Protest [to God] that you wish to note your progress, not for your own satisfaction but to rejoice in it for God's sake;
• not for your own glory but for his, that you may thank him. 
• Protest also, if you seem to have made little progress or even fallen back, that you will not give way to discouragement and become faint-hearted and lukewarm,
• but on the contrary that you will stir yourself to greater efforts, humble yourself and strive with God's grace to remedy your defects. 
• Having done this, consider calmly and peacefully how you have behaved up to the present towards God, your neighbour and yourself.

I want to pull out specifically a subsection from V.5, "Your Behavior Towards Yourself."  This is the very essence of self-care, now and circa 1609:

3.  What sort of love have you for your heart?  With what care do you seek to cure it in its infirmities?  It is your duty to do all you can for it when it is tormented by passions and to lay all else aside to bring it relief.

Now, the precise definition of "heart" here matters.   I took some time to search for other occurrences of the term "heart" in the book, working with an English translation (one of these days I'll attack the French, but I haven't cracked my copy yet).   

In my opinion, what St. Francis de Sales means by "heart" is the seat of affections, inclinations, attachments, and emotions.  It's not, to him, the only part of the self, but a component that's closely linked to the body and to relationships both human and divine.

I love St. Francis de Sales's tender regard for the human self, not a kind of disappearance of the self in favor of the divine, but recognizing the value of the human person as a creature that can be taken up to participate in the divine.   

Amy Welborn wrote about this on the feast day, last week, and it's really closely related:

In an empty, meaningless universe, if we can start there – you matter – well,that’s where we have to start. It may strike me as solipsistic and goopy, but if you have been formed to believe that your life means whatever you want  which means, in essence your life means nothing –  to learn that: your life has happened because the Creator of the Universe wants  it to…

….is, indeed, transformative.

But here we are, back with St. Francis de Sales. And he won’t let you rest there. He won’t let you rest with I’m okay, I’m loved, I’m here for a reason, I have amazing gifts and talents. 

Nope.

Traditional Catholic spirituality – as expressed by today’s saint – is not about resting on our laurels and delighting in our unique gifts and talents. It’s about honestly looking at ourselves, seeing what trash we’ve allowed in, and sucking it up, embracing hard discipline, and moving forward.

We post-Vatican II babies were raised to look back at this type of spirituality and shudder: Scrupulosity! God loves you just as you are!

The basic difference has been:

• Salvation = understanding and accepting that God made you and loves you as you are
• Salvation = cooperating with the grace of God to restore the you he made. 

And this is why St. Francis de Sales is so wonderful. He bridges this gap, he is realistic on every score, reminding us that we are not perfect and that we should be striving for perfection, but warning us against unrealistic expectations as well...

I think I'd like to add that really, this vision of the human person and their relationship to God can be totally sufficient for conversion of people in 2019 -- as long as we remember that it's not just ourselves for which we bridge this gap. 

• We need to accept that other people, our neighbors, aren't perfect, but that they're not hopeless either, they're capable of striving for perfection, and it's appropriate to their dignity that we mentor those in our care to do so.
• We must be warned against unrealistic expectations of those other human persons as well.
• God made our neighbor, and loves our neighbor as they are.  Really!
• Our neighbor is capable, is wanted, cooperating with God to restore the one he made.

And if you read into St. Francis you'll see that there's constantly this tenderness (and realism) about the soul's relationship with other human beings. 

I keep telling people that it's ahead of its time.  It feels like a modern book.  This is why I prefer the most contemporary-sounding language possible in the translation; anything with a scent of antiquity about it tends to obscure the frank and clear voice, the way a black-and-white photograph feels more distant from us than one in color.   It's the best manual I've found so far, at least for myself, because (I think) it was truly written, four hundred and some years ago, for someone like me.

Pronouns in the Divine Mercy chaplet.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the mercy-related problem of, so to speak, "meeting people where they are."  About one dilemma of the good news:  some demands of Christian life are scary, off-putting, downright repugnant at times.  Certainly from outside, but I've felt that way from the inside from time to time too.  So how do we attract and welcome people, exercise the hospitality and mercy we are commanded to do, avoid hurting people or driving them away, and yet, be honest and not lie about the difficulties?  We know we must reject lies and reject everything that separates human beings from God; we must not do so by rejecting human beings, or provoking them.   "The truth hurts" is the world's saying, not ours. 

It is an old problem, tackled by saints and yet not solved; a problem that reinvents itself in every place and time.  So even though it's the saints' problem it's our problem too.  We can all try to approach it and yet be doing new work.  

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It's been a long time since I made it to any Saturday-morning mass, let alone a first Saturday, so I was glad this past weekend to be entirely free.  I carried some special intentions for old friends having hard times, and one of the children's rosaries hooked away from its thumbtack on the schoolroom bulletin board, to the parish thirty blocks south where daily mass happens on Saturday.  

I got there near the end of the rosary but before the Chaplet of Divine Mercy.  And found myself, as I recited along with the parishioners, thinking about the first-person pronouns in the CDM.  I copied them down in my notebook after the chaplet, while I waited for mass to start.  Let me show you what I mean:

Eternal Father, 

I offer You the body and blood, soul and divinity of Your dearly beloved son, our Lord, Jesus Christ,

in atonement for our sins and those of the whole world.

For the sake of His sorrowful passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world.

 

So what I was asking myself is:  Who is "I?"  Who is "us" and is it the same "us" to whom belong "our" sins?  

Who is "the whole world?"  Is that the same "us" or is it actually a "them?"  Or is "us" a part of "the whole world?"

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One of the beauties of communal prayers, like this one, with agreed-upon texts, is that they can and do have slightly different meanings inside the heads of all the individual people who say them.  But I want to be clear about what they mean inside my own head.  I want them to be real words, not just my mouth moving in agreed-upon patterns.  So I think about those words and sometimes form theories about them.  Even the pronouns.

(If you like this sort of thing, here's a guest-post I did for Jen Fulwiler some years ago.  Good times.)

 So let's get started, and why not start with the first person.  I'm not exactly taking these phrases in order as they appear in the poem, by the way, but more in the order in which they came to my mind.

1.  "I" offer

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that the "I" refers to the person speaking the prayer.  For now let's just note that it's an "I" not a "we," although later we'll speak of "us" and not "we."  The agent of the offering-sentence is an individual, not a collective, despite the fact that the Chaplet is very often a communal prayer, and it has a very communal-prayer feel to it if you ask me.  The sense of community comes out the most when it is recited -- even alone -- at 3 p.m., the "hour of mercy," the time when the Church especially invites us to recite it.  So at that hour one knows that one is among many with the same, or similar, intention.  And yet we do not say, "we offer you."  I offer you.   This offering is a personal offering.  I offer the part that I possess in myself, however much or little that may be.  It is not, so to speak, pooled, at least not at the moment that I offer it.

2.  ...[to] "You"

Is "You" God?  Yes, but more precisely, "You" is another "first person" -- in this case the first person of the Trinity, the Father, and precisely, distinct from the Son and from the Holy Spirit.   This is made obvious by the first two words of the prayer.  The Father is the one whose will Jesus does on earth, and the one to whom he makes offering of himself on the cross.  So when "I offer" the offering mentioned in the prayer, "I" make that offering to the same Person.  

3.  ...in atonement for "our" sins and those of the whole world"

This sentence makes it clear that "I" am making an offering not just for myself, but for others.  In fact I am making the offering on behalf of everybody ("the whole world.")  

But here is a curious puzzle.  As long as this offering is meant to make atonement for everybody, why do we not just say "...in atonement for the sins of the whole world?"  Why is there an "us" and a "them" of sorts here, or if not that, at least an "us" and a wider "us?"  

I see two possibilities.  Either we are meant to make a sort of mental distinction between "us/our" and "the whole world," or we are meant to make a distinction  between the "our sins" and "those [sins] of the whole world."    The prayer makes it clear that everybody's sins demand atonement, "ours" as well as "the whole world's," but why the distinction?  Who is "us?"

Before embarking on this contemplation, my mental picture of the "us" had been framed by my habit of reciting the CDM mainly in community, like I was doing on Saturday with other parishioners before Mass.  I had been picturing the "us" as "all the people here in this room with me, all of us here together reciting in this place."  "The whole world" then, must have meant to me "everybody outside this room."  And it may be an acceptable interpretation of the phrase; I don't know.  

 But it breaks down for me a bit when I remember that the chaplet is not only to be said in community, but also alone.  So I'm inclined to think that "our" is more expansive than "the people in this room."   Fortunately there is another clue...

 

4.  "our" Lord, Jesus Christ 

Here at least, "our" is apparently those of us of whom it may be said, Jesus Christ is Lord.  The phrase "our Lord" is an appositive; it mentions a second time and renames "Your dearly beloved Son;" it is, strictly speaking, unnecessary.  One of its purposes is apparently to stress that Jesus is "our" Lord.  So going out on a limb here and assuming that the two "our"s have the same antecedent:  the "we" is the set of all faithful Christians, all those who recognize Jesus and sincerely call him Lord and try however imperfectly to follow His commands.   I tend to think that here we can interpret the set relatively broadly and not restrict it to Christians who are visibly members of the Catholic Church; I think there's room for discussion there.

So what does that get us?  Well, I think it means that "the whole world" refers to all the other people who don't call Jesus Lord for one reason or another, and possibly some people who do call Jesus Lord but insincerely or with an entirely wrong idea about who Jesus is or what Lord means.  Roughly, Christians and non-Christians, or followers of Christ and others, or the Church and people outside the Church (with perhaps some acknowledgment that there may be folks who are really in the Church but only God knows it).  This does jibe pretty well, incidentally, with Scripture tending to contrast "the world" with Christ.

And the salient point here is that "I" am making this offering in atonement for the sins of Christians, and, apparently equally, for the sins of everybody else.

 

5.  Have mercy on "us" and on the whole world

I don't need to belabor the point again, so I'll just note that the distinction between "us" and "the whole world" is significant enough to make it twice.  I think this underscores that it's a real distinction.  "I" ask for mercy for "us" and for all the other people too.

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All this being said, let's come back to "I" in the context of exactly what it is that "I" am offering.

 

6.  the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity

It's meditating on the meaning of this that got me thinking about this at all.  How can "I" offer this, which is basically "Himself," what Jesus offered on the cross?  I know how Jesus could do it; it was His to give.   I know (sort of) how a priest at Mass does it:  He is alter Christus and makes the offering in persona Christi.  What is it for someone like me to offer these back to the Father?

The way I figure it is that "I" can offer the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ only because I somehow possess it -- and the way I possess it is through having received it the Eucharist.

I freely admit that I may have worked it out wrong, but the Eucharist itself only remains literally with a person for a short time after Communion.  So one possible meaning here is that each of us makes this offering by dedicating the fruits of the Eucharist that he has received to do God's work and God's will; another is to consecrate the graces the Christian has received from it back to God, which may mean, so to speak, allowing God to redistribute or enact them for His good will and not specifically the good of the person making the offering.  

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The latter possibility, I clearly came up with under the influence of the idea of Marian consecration, and perhaps it's mixed up too much, so let's explore the first option:  That "I" offer the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, by dedicating the fruits of the Eucharist that I have received outside myself somehow.

The fruits of the Eucharist are said to be seven (cf. the Catechism, ¶1391--1398; scroll down from this link to the section):

• augments our union with Christ
• separates us from sin
• preserves us from future mortal sin
• wipes away venial sins (specifically, by strengthening our charity)
• makes the Church
• commits us to the poor
• signifies our unity

There are many, many people who in their circumstances do not or cannot receive the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity.   But the whole world can receive its fruits, no matter who they are or what their circumstances.

God can increase and make full any person's knowledge of and union with Christ.

God can detach any person from whatever sins trouble them.

God can wipe away any person's venial sins.

God can preserve any person from mortal sin.

God's power and mercy can incorporate anyone God chooses into the mystical body of Christ.

God can turn any heart toward the poor.

God can, someday, unite any person at all to the rest of us in the gift and sign of the Eucharist, and grant to any person the possession, not just of its fruits, but of the Eucharist itself.

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I think that when "I" am offering to God the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, I am saying:  You, Father, may take these fruits back from me, and spread them around to everyone; or at least, I say to you, God, that the fruits you have given me through the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity, help me to use these fruits for the good of everyone else.  To realize these fruits for the people who (though they cannot yet receive the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity) may yet receive its fruits, by my words and actions.

By the works, you may say, of mercy.

The offering makes atonement, and enacts mercy, at the same time.  Atonement requires a sacrifice, and the sacrifice that the Chaplet enacts is a commitment to turn the great gift of the Eucharist outward, not keep its fruits just for myself, but actively work toward their wider distribution.

 

 

The seventh corporal work of mercy.

Philando Castile (whom I mentioned in a post the other day) was laid to rest here in the Twin Cities on Thursday. Mr. Castile's funeral was hosted by the Cathedral of St. Paul at the request of Valerie Castile, his mother. There are some moving photos taken outside the building here at this article from the St. Paul newspaper website. There you can also view photos of the program detailing the chosen readings and speakers.

At the end of the article are comments, which I in no way recommend you to read. Some of them gave me the impression that the Archdiocese has received some comments from persons identifying as Catholic who object to the Cathedral's welcoming the Castile family to bury their son at a public ecumenical service. Castile was not a Catholic, and a Baptist minister was invited to deliver a sermon, while the rector of the Cathedral delivered introductory prayers.

My impression was strengthened by the Cathedral's release of the following statement:

 

The Archdiocese was honored that Philando Castile’s mother, desiring that her son’s funeral be an opportunity for “people to come together in a new way,” thought our cathedral could be a fitting setting for an ecumenical service at which our community could unite with her family to pray for peace and reconciliation.

During his general audience on September 9, 2015, Pope Francis said “the assembly of Jesus takes the form of a family and of a hospitable family, not an exclusive, closed sect.”

At this difficult moment we feel privileged to have the opportunity to offer hospitality to the Castile family and to our hurting community.

We are praying that our cathedral might serve as a place where all might encounter a God who offers consolation and hope.

 

I endorse this wholeheartedly.

Some of the objections to Mr. Castile's burial from the Cathedral are of a character that I will not dignify with a rebuttal.

On the other hand, the question "Why can Mr. Castile, a non-Catholic, have a 'Catholic funeral?'" is a reasonable one, even if expressed--rather insensitively--during the funeral in question, to judge from the time-stamps on the various comments. So is the corollary continuation "....when my brother/dad/son/grandpa was not allowed to have one?"

Let me just offer some context for that one.

The term "Catholic funeral" is imprecise. There is such a thing as a Requiem Mass, which is the quintessential "Catholic funeral." It can only take place inside a Catholic church or Catholic chapel.

There is also among the ecclesiastical funeral rites a "Funeral Liturgy Outside Mass," which is also a type of Catholic funeral. If you have been to a "Catholic funeral" in a funeral home chapel, in a private home, or in a cemetery chapel, that is what you most likely experienced. Sometimes (for example, in families that include Catholic and non-Catholic members) this is deemed the most fitting pastoral choice regardless of the location of the funeral.

It is also permitted (in fact it is encouraged!) to hold ecumenical prayer gatherings inside Catholic churches, presided over by Catholic and non-Catholic clergy, for many different reasons. These can include funerals and memorial services. Mr. Castile's funeral would seem to fall into this category.

Finally, at any memorial service at all, at a gravesite, in another church, at a wake, in someone's home: if a Catholic priest happens to be in attendance, he might accept an invitation to offer prayers or a blessing.

The first two categories, because they belong to the ecclesiastical funeral rites, are properly called "Catholic funerals." The latter two are not.

 

The diocese and the pastor have leeway in deciding who may or may not be buried according to the ecclesiastical rites, anyway. In some dioceses, under some circumstances, a baptized non-Catholic may be buried with full funeral rites. In other dioceses and in other circumstances, it may not be allowed. It can seem as if the standards are looser for non-Catholics than for Catholics, because in some dioceses a so-called "non-practicing" Catholic might not be permitted a "Catholic funeral" while a person who never was a Catholic might be permitted one, or at least might be buried in a Catholic cemetery.

It is undoubtedly upsetting for a bereaved family, at a vulnerable time, to be told that their loved one cannot receive a requiem Mass, or that a requiem Mass cannot be held at the location and/or time that they are planning to have the funeral, or that the deceased is ineligible for the ecclesiastical rites at all. Some of the commentary and pushback probably comes from this place.

To that I can only say: This post is the short answer giving reasons why Philando Castile could be permitted a memorial service in the Cathedral. There really is no short answer as to why some particular person might not be permitted the type of funeral desired by his or her family. You would have to talk to the pastor, and listen to the explanation, and then possibly do a lot of reading, in order to understand that. No short answer. I am sorry I cannot help relieve that pain.

 

The purpose of Catholic ecumenism is to foster true Christian unity. When Valerie Castile called the Cathedral and asked that it host her son's funeral "for people to come together in a new way," this was precisely what she was asking -- and she asked it not just of the Cathedral parish, but of the whole local church, the diocese. In a sense she asked it of our universal Church.

Who are we to turn her son away?

If I had been the one to take that call, I would have wept in humility before Mrs. Castile. It was she who honored our church, not the other way around, by reaching out to us.

Furthermore, everyone knows that Mr. Castile's funeral was not just a funeral. It was also a gathering to call for peace, justice (in the Christian sense), and love in the wider community.

For what the Catholic Church has said about ecumenism, I encourage you to refer to the Pontifical Council's Directory for Application of Principle and Norms on Ecumenism (link). Here is an excerpt:

108. Where appropriate, Catholics should be encouraged, in accordance with the Church's norms, to join in prayer with Christians of other Churches and ecclesial Communities. Such prayers in common are certainly a very effective means of petitioning for the grace of unity, and they are a genuine expression of the ties which still bind Catholics to these other Christians. Shared prayer is in itself a way to spiritual reconciliation.

109. Prayer in common is recommended for Catholics and other Christians so that together they may put before God the needs and problems they share—e.g., peace, social concerns, mutual charity among people, the dignity of the family, the effects of poverty, hunger and violence, etc. The same may be said of occasions when, according to circumstances, a nation, region or community wishes to make a common act of thanksgiving or petition to God, as on a national holiday, at a time of public disaster or mourning, on a day set aside for remembrance of those who have died for their country, etc. This kind of prayer is also recommended when Christians hold meetings for study or common action.

110. Shared prayer should, however, be particularly concerned with the res- toration of Christian unity. It can centre, e.g. on the mystery of the Church and its unity, on baptism as a sacramental bond of unity, or on the renewal of personal and community life as a necessary means to achieving unity. Prayer of this type is particularly recommended during the "Week of Prayer for Christian Unity" or in the period between Ascension and Pentecost.

111. Representatives of the Churches, ecclesial Communities or other groups concerned should cooperate and prepare together such prayer. They should decide among themselves the way in which each is to take part, choose the themes and select the Scripture readings, hymns and prayers.

I see no evidence at all that Mr. Castile's memorial service was not a suitable instance of the sort of ecumenism discussed in this document.

(Incidentally, paragraphs 120 and 121 of this same document explicitly grant to the local ordinary -- normally the bishop -- the discretion of offering full funeral rights as well as prayers and blessings of other types to non-Catholics.)

For a deeper examination of the role of ecumenism, one could consult two documents of the Second Vatican Council in particular, Lumen Gentium and Unitatis Redintegratio.

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I am grateful to Mrs. Castile for reaching out to our diocese, and I am glad that our Cathedral rector responded with welcome. I'm sorry that anyone calling themselves Catholic publicly objected to the rector's decision, which was entirely in accord with Catholic teachings. May Mr. Castile rest in peace, and may eternal light shine upon him.

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My Lenten reading/blogging: That other Francis, again.

For Lent this year I picked up a copy of The Sermons of St. Francis de Sales for Lent, part of a series of the saint's sermons published by TAN.

I won't be giving up the Internet at all for Lent this year -- not Facebook, not Twitter, certainly not blogging.   (Though as usual, I'll stay off it on Good Friday.)  I can see myself setting a timer so I don't overdo it, but I'll still be here.

If anything, I might try to blog more.  This little corner has been sadly neglected, and it's probably (for me personally) the most fruitful writing I do.

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There are twelve sermons in this book, and I am going to try to read them and blog them all, approximately on Wednesdays and Fridays, which should take me to Holy Week. 

Today, without sneaking a peek ahead to the first Lenten sermon, I looked at the book's preface, written by Rev. John A. Abruzzese, S.T.D.  Here are a few quotes from it.  All emphasis is mine.

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"As a young priest and preacher St. Francis was consumed by a burning desire to proclaim the love of God to all people, regardless of social class or intellectual distinction.  Therefore, he chose in preaching to adopt the homily as his style, long out of vogue in his day.  From his experience in hearing the popular orators of Paris churches, St. Francis saw that if he were to be an effective preacher he would have to speak in a manner which the people could understand clearly, devoid of the accustomed elaborate rhetorical devices and seemingly endless Latin and Greek quotations."

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"In doing so, he risked his reputation and even prompted the following criticism from his father:

[Y]ou preach too often... In my day it was not so, preachings were much rarer; but what preachings...!  They were erudite, well thought out; more Latin and Greek were quoted in one than you quote in ten; everyone was enraptured and edified; people used to go to sermons in crowds.  Now you have made preaching so common, this will no longer happen and no one one will think very much of you!"

(Anybody catch a little whiff of "Your sermons are so popular that no one will want to listen to them?" Yogi Berra, pray for us!)

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St. Francis "reminded him [his own brother, also a bishop] of his duty and emphasized that preaching must be accessible to all:"  

We must not be like those little trickles of water that spring from artificial rocks in the garden of great folk and to which one scarcely dares approach... To fulfill our office we must be like the great and open fountains from which water is taken in abundance, not only for men, but also, and even more frequently, by beasts -- everything, even snakes, having free use of it... We must never repulse anyone, even though our peace and comfort may have to suffer a little.

 

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"The charism of his personal holiness broke down all resistance... St. Francis stated it ... simply, 'To love well is sufficient for speaking well!'"

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 ...[T]he disposition of the hearer is equally essential in the 'heart to heart' communication on which St. Francis based his preaching...  According to an incident which is said to have taken place during the Lenten series preached at Annecy:

The Saint had the habit of pausing at the beginning of a sermon and looking across the assembly ranged before him for a few silent moments.  A member of the cathedral chapter ventured to ask him what his silence signified.  "I salute the guardian angel of each one of my audience," he answered, "and I beg him to make the heart under his care ready for my words.  Very great favors have come to me by this means."

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It has always been controversial, the question of which is the better preaching and teaching style:  the learned, or the populist.  

I am of the mind that the style must be adapted to the audience, or conversely, that if we have evidence that the speaker or writer is competent, that we may judge who is the audience by considering the chosen style.  

A populist, simple way of speaking, however, intended to reach everyone, is at its most effective when the speaker is in fact quite personally erudite, personally holy, personally learned.  He has more fruits to pick from in his quest to offer the juiciest morsels to the hungry crowd; a deeper well to draw from,  the better to give the masses of thirsty to drink.

St. Francis de Sales, according to this book's introduction, is a patron saint of writers and journalists, as well as of the Catholic press.  

I think he makes a fine patron saint for Catholic bloggers as well, and a decent one for those whose task is to educate the young.  We ever have to gather up a complicated, sprawling, reality, part the tangled mat of fibers in order to display that which is essential, in words that can be understood by everyone; and yet, not pretend that the simple essentials are all that is, but remain true to the complications.

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But the point is well taken:  "Heart speaks to heart," says St. Francis, and that means that it takes two hearts for a connection to be made.  The speaker cannot take full responsibility for the hearer.   Yes, the speaker has a responsibility to be as clear as possible, and speak in a language that the hearer is capable of understanding.  But none of us can force another's heart, it isn't possible; there is always a will; and the hearer may choose to hear or to not hear.  

There is such a tendency to blame the messenger, or at least the messenger's style.  But the hearer has control over the channel too -- if not over his own intellect, or his language, he does have command of his attention, his capacity to ask questions, his capacity of reflection and self-examination.

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Come on along and we'll see together what this Francis, that scandalously simple preacher, has to say to us.

Direction of intention according to St. Francis de Sales.

Having time for just a quick post this morning, I thought I'd return to my series on the very practical body of Salesian spirituality, in particular, St. Francis de Sales's Spiritual Directory.  There's a quite short, but useful, bit in it that I want to highlight.

I had just gotten started on the series about the Salesians  before our family's month in Europe, and then I started trip-blogging and lost the thread.  Here's a quick recap of the series:

Salesian spirituality: Four examples.  Why Salesian spirituality resonates with me; introductions to St. Francis de Sales, to St. Jane Francis de Chantal, to St. John "Don" Bosco, and to Elisabeth Leseur.

Francis de Sales:  The patron saint of to-do lists?  In which St. Francis sanctifies the act of making one's daily to-do list by turning it into the Morning Offering.

The Salesian preventive system, or:  How to not punish kids.  John Bosco's philosophy as an antidote to the spank 'em and show 'em who's boss strain of Protestant-influenced American Catholic parenting.

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In the second post up there, the bit about "to-do lists," I dug down into the Spiritual Directory:

It's sort of a rule of life for the religious he supervised -- only instead of specifying so mant hours of work, so many of sleep, so many of prayer, etc., he specifies little acts of devotion and intention to be performed throughout the day, connected to rising, worship, work, meals, bedtime -- the whole cycle of an ordinary day. They are, so to speak, spiritual exercises, not for a novena or a retreat but for every day.

 "It is true that the Directory proposes many exercises," Francis writes,

"Yet it is good and fitting to keep one's interior orderly and busy in the beginning. When, however, after a period of time, persons have put into practice somewhat this multiplicity of interior actions, have become formed and habituated to them and spiritually agile in their use, then the practices should coalesce into a single exercise of greater simplicity, either into a love of complacency, or a love of benevolence, or a love of confidence, or of union and reunion of the heart to the will of God. This multiplicity thus becomes unity."

I like this idea of patiently developing little habits that "coalesce" over time into character.

I went on in that post to describe Article 2, "Meditation," which is the bit about making your to-do list -- okay, Francis doesn't call it that, he calls it "the exercise of the preparation of the day."  

There are other articles:  how to enter into the praying of the hours, notes for how to properly prepare themselves interiorly for Mass, examination of conscience, meals and recreation, night prayer, and so on.  But it's not neatly organized, and tucked into Article 1 with "Rising" is a little bit called "Direction of Intention" that I think exemplifies what he is trying to get at in the introduction, about making each day a single exercise of greater simplicity.  Because it has to do with sanctifying every action of the day.

Here's how it goes, with paragraph breaks added by me for emphasis.

They who wish to thrive and advance in the way of Our Lord should,

at the beginning of their actions,  both exterior and interior,

ask for his grace

and offer to his divine Goodness all the good they will do.

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In this way they will be prepared to bear

with peace and serenity

all the pain and suffering they will encounter

as coming from the fatherly hand of our good God and Savior.

His most holy intention is to have them merit by such means 

in order to reward them afterwards out of the abundance of his love.

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They should not neglect this practice in matters which are small and seemingly insignificant,  

nor even if they are engaged in those things which are agreeable and in complete conformity with their own will and needs,

such as drinking, eating, resting, recreating and similar actions.

By following the advice of the Apostle, everything they do will be done in God’s name to please him alone.

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I think "the advice of the Apostle" refers to Paul's letter to the Colossians, cf. Col 3:17, or possibly First Corinthians, cf. 1 Cor 10:31, but could also be a general description of Paul's advice.  

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So, I guess this is the gist of the direction of intention:  

You're about to do something -- anything.  

(Really, anything.  Start your work, start your coffeemaker, wake the children, change a diaper, eat a sandwich, begin a blog post, take a nap, walk up to receive the Eucharist, make that phone call you've been putting off all day, go to bed with your spouse, step on the treadmill, meet a friend for drinks.  Anything.  Something you're looking forward to or something you're dreading.  It doesn't matter.  Anything.)

Do this (quickly, silently, or it will never do for all your actions):

-- Ask God for grace

-- Offer God all the good that comes of it

-- Try to intend in the doing of your action what God intends:  That you may gain merit through patiently bearing any and all suffering (however minor!) that comes via that action.  

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The whole rest of the Spiritual Directory is this advice writ larger and more specific.  The exercise of the preparation of the day is a longer and more formal way to ask God for help and to offer God all your intentions.  The exercise upon rising is an offering of all affections and resolutions, and asking God for help and blessing.  So is the exercise before the divine office.  St. Francis suggests a variety of meditations and prayers for the variety of "checkpoints" in the day, but they all boil down to asking for help, offering God the good one does, and uniting one's will to God's will -- that is, to his will specifically for you and your benefit, which should be an easy exercise even to those who are used to doing things for their own will alone.

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The direction of intention "before all your actions" is the stuff for which the little prayers called "ejaculatory prayers" have been invented.  I imagine that each person could easily set down their own version.  As for me, I am fond of taking these two bits from Psalm 69/70:

O God, come to my assistance... Let all that seek you rejoice and be glad in you.

 

An alternative formula from the same psalm could be,

Let all that seek you rejoice... You are my help and my deliverer.

 

Or you could use "the advice of the Apostle" (1 Cor 10:31) as an ejaculatory prayer:

Whether you eat or drink, or whatever you do, do everything for the glory of God.

 

It's up to you.  The point is to form the intention.  Whatever you can come up with that will quickly orient the mind and heart will do.  Maybe put it up on a sticky note in the places where you tend to do things, and see if you can turn it into a habit.

 

 

A new morning exercise, à la St. Francis de Sales.

I took a nice long hiatus from it while I was traveling, but I fully intend to get back to the series I had started on Salesian spirituality.  Today seems like a good day.

First, a recap of the three posts I wrote before we left:

• Salesian spirituality:  Four examples.   
• Francis de Sales:  The patron saint of to-do lists?
• The Salesian Preventive System, or, how to not punish kids.

Bonus:  the post where I went to visit St. Francis and St. Jane Frances:

• Catching up with a few travel notes.

Okay, today's post comes from St. Francis's Spiritual Directory, a set of instructions to the Visitation Sisters on their rule of life.  I've already mined this document once in the bit about to-do lists, where I started by discussing Article #2.

Backtracking, let's talk about the first part of  Article #1, "Rising." 

First of all on awakening, followers of the Directory are to direct their minds completely to God by  some holy thought such as [one of] the following:

• "Sleep is the image of death and awakening that of the resurrection;"
• that voice that will ring out on the last day, "O dead, arise and come to judgment;" 
• with Job: "I know that my Redeemer lives, and that on the last day I will rise again. My God, grant that this be to eternal glory; this hope rests in my inmost being;"
• "On that day, O God, you will call me, and I will answer you; you will stretch forth your right arm to the work of you hands; you have counted all my steps."
• or others which the Holy Spirit may suggest, for they do have the freedom to follow his inspirations.

After the Angelus they will make the morning exercise,

• adoring Our Lord from the depths of their being
• and thanking him for all his benefits.
• In union with the loving offering which the Savior made of  himself to his eternal Father on the tree of the cross, they will offer him their heart, its affections and  resolutions, and their whole being,
• and beg for his help and blessing.
• They will greet our Lady and ask for her blessing,
• as well as that of their guardian angel and holy patrons. 
• If they wish, they may say the Our Father.

All this should be done quickly and briefly.

I don't pray the Angelus, so to adapt this to my own life I unified the two into a single morning exercise.  It tends to work best for me if I tape a copy of it to my bathroom mirror.   I chose just one of the locutions that St. Francis suggests, used an Ave for "Greet our Lady and ask for her blessing," and added an adapted version of a non-childish prayer to children's guardian angels that I found online here.  

Here's my version.

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Morning Exercise

I know that my Redeemer lives, and that on the last day I will rise again.
My God, grant that this be to eternal glory; this hope rests in my inmost being.

O Lord, I adore You from the depths of my being
and I thank You for all Your benefits.

In union with the loving offering
which You made of Yourself to our Father
on the tree of the cross,
I offer You my heart,
its affections,
its resolutions,
and my whole being.

I beg You for Your help and blessing.

Hail Mary...

I humbly salute you, O you faithful, heavenly Friends of my family!
I give you thanks for all the love and goodness you show them.
Continue to watch over them,
providing for all their needs of body and soul,
and pray for me, my husband, and my children,
that we may all one day rejoice in your blessed company.

Sts. N. and N...., pray for us.

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This is going up on my bathroom mirror.  I think it's not too long to be done "quickly and briefly."

Salesian spirituality: Four examples.

Shifting gears a little bit to write about what I've been thinking as a spiritual anchor for my upcoming school year, which we'll be starting late.  

Ever since I first got deeply into the Western classic Introduction to the Devout Life, by St. Francis de Sales, I've been reading bits here and there about the Salesian tradition of spirituality.   I've read bits about Benedictine and Dominican spirituality, thinking at first that these would appeal to me because of their intellectual foundation; but it's really the Salesian material that has spoken to my center.

This path to devotion doesn't seem very common in my circles, and I think that's odd.  The dominant spiritual trends at my own parish appear to be those of St. Louis de Montfort, St. Josemaria Escriva, and (maybe most widespread) Carmelite; there's a Carmelite weekly study group, for instance.  

I know that Carmelite spirituality promises a certain retreat from the world, of staying aloof from it in order to remain focused on the eternal.  St. Thérèse, the little Carmelite flower, brings it back down to earth in her "little" way of scrubbing floors and serving others with great love, while the mind remains turned away from worldly concerns.  I understand that the interior castle is far more expansive than our homes and workplaces, and that for those who are up to their elbows in the frustrations of daily life, Carmel offers a place of refreshment.  

But Salesian spirituality seems to me tailor-made for ordinary moms, working mothers, anyone who is very, very busy with worldly concerns, wealthy as we are by global standards; and in a particular way, those who are daily enmeshed in the work of educating young people:

• Francis de Sales was a spiritual director, most notably, of married women living in the world, women of a comfortable-enough social class, women with familial and social duties.  His Devout Life is directed at "Philothea," a female figure who is assumed to be able to scrape together a little time for solitary meditation, but not a lot.  He directs her to move back and forth between the prayer life and the ordinary life of duties, sanctifying the ordinary with acts of intention, and bringing the ordinary life to prayer in the form of frequent self-examination.   

 

• Jane Frances de Chantal, Francis's protégée, was a widowed mother of four who had to defer her calling to religious life until she had provided for her children; the Order of the Visitation that she started with Francis's help in Annecy was an unconventional sisterhood of women, many of them older, some of them sick or disabled, who eschewed asceticism in favor of public, active outreach.

 

• John Bosco was an Italian priest who dedicated his life to the education of disadvantaged and delinquent youth, whom he attracted to his "little oratory" with games and magic tricks.  He rejected the "repressive" or punitive systems of educating children; his own "Preventive System" of child discipline is "based entirely on reason and religion, and above all on kindness; therefore it excludes all violent punishment, and tries to do without even the slightest chastisement."  He called the religious institute he founded the "Society of St. Francis de Sales."

 

• Elisabeth Leseur was an aristocratic Frenchwoman who was surrounded in her social circles by anticlerical, unbelievers, including her dearly beloved husband Félix.  Frequently ill but keeping up a lively correspondence and social life as much as she could, she "focused all of her self-chosen penance on contradicting her natural inclination toward solitude and introversion, and instead joyfully extended herself in genuine love to her active social circle...In this approach to mortification, she followed Francis de Sales who recommended moderation and internal, hidden strategies instead of external practices."  Her correspondence with beloved friends who were unbelievers reveals an exemplary faith in the power of reason and kindness.

 I've explored quite a bit about St. Francis and Elisabeth Leseur here on the blog, although I haven't come close to exhausting the material I have.  In upcoming posts I hope to share thoughts on Don Bosco's "Preventive System," reflections on Jane Frances, and some of St. Francis's rules of life for the Visitation sisters he helped found.  Planning to tie all this together into some recommendations for worldly, well-off, working women -- the group that St. Francis seems (to me) to speak to the most.  

Come along and we'll see what we can see.

"Strive for perfection; encourage one another."

Occasionally I manage to get back into the habit of praying one or more of the Hours -- rarely regularly.   Office of Readings one day in the morning; the thankfully short and repetitive Compline another day when I've already stayed up too late and am really too tired to concentrate.  Sometimes on a feast day I manage the daytime hours.

Office of Readings is my favorite because it has something new for me every day, even though it's long and I feel like I'm cheating by doing it instead of Lauds, which I feel like I "should" be doing.  

(I've been a little more inspired lately thanks to this book, by the way.  Highly, highly recommended, and not just for "beginners."  Will probably write more about it another time.) 

So, anyway, one really great thing about praying the Liturgy of the Hours is that you sink right into the Psalms.  Each one comes around again every couple of weeks or so (less often if you come to the Hours all haphazardly like I do), which over the course of months and years gives you plenty of time both to be exposed to lots of psalms, and to let the repetitiveness gently impress them upon your mind and heart.  There's always something new there.  

Today in Ps. 31 we encounter the fairly-common-psalm-theme of "I'm surrounded by enemies who are out to get me!" which sometimes seems a little overwrought to comfortable and fattened moderns as ourselves.

In your justice, set me free, hear me and speedily rescue me....

Release me from the snares they have hidden...

In the face of all my foes I am a reproach, an object of scorn to my neighbors and of fear to my friends...

I have heard the slander of the crowd... as they plot together against me...

And I'm a little leery of sinking too deeply into this theme of "enemies."  Possibly a bit risky, lest we start thinking of "people who merely disagree with me" or "people who mildly annoy me" as "enemies who are out to get me" in our prayer.   

But one modern interpretation came to me, an idea of "enemies" that works (for me in this season of life at least):  All those chattering faceless voices that bring distasteful news into my home, that peddle outrage and Schadenfreude.  The tearing of hair out over petty matters not worthy of attention; and, more insidious, the repeated indignation over grave matters, murmuring the conscience to sleep, spending outrage in cheap declarations of position, ever calling to action, never acting.

There are real people on the other side of those combox handles and bylines.  Let's not forget that.  Some of them may not know what they do.  If they met us in the street they might be perfectly pleasant.   Some of them claim to be allies, fellow believers.  But make no mistake, they are out there, enemies and quislings.  

Release me from the snares they have hidden, for you are my refuge, Lord.

Snares of despair and outrage.  

O God of truth, you detest those who worship false and empty gods.  As for me, I trust in the Lord; let me be glad...

Let me be glad; not angry, irritated, snide, or superior.

You have seen my affliction and taken heed of my soul's distress, have not handed me over to the enemy, but set my feet at large.

We are not, in fact, in prison to the unhappy state of the world today (nor the state of the country, nor the state of the Church).  We are at large.  We are free to act real acts, in our seemingly tiny sphere of home and work and friendships, where each act and word can have unimaginable consequences.

I have heard the slander of the crowd... but as for me, I trust in You, Lord...

My life is in your hands, deliver me from the hands of those who hate me.

Look, some of the voices you encounter out there... the ones that make you feel shame... they really do hate you.  Hate you for not buying enough stuff.  Sneer at you for having too many children.  Tear you down lest you feel pleased in the decisions you've made that are different from others.  Mock you so you'll feel inadequate without the snakeoil they're selling.  Nobody does negging like someone who wants your money or your vote.

How great is the goodness, Lord,... that you show to those who trust you in the sight of men.

You hide them in the shelter of your presence from the plotting of men; you keep them safe within your tent from disputing tongues.

I often wonder what it means to "trust in the Lord," which we're so often told to do without much practical advice on how to do it, and I think there might be a bit of a clue here in this description.

In part:  

To trust in the Lord is, perhaps, not to let "the plotting of men" worry you; to remind yourself constantly that the advertisers and the policymakers are not, actually, in charge.  

To trust in the Lord is to draw strength and protection from His Presence (his ever-present Presence) rather than be damaged by "disputing tongues."  

(I don't think this means we always have to leave every dispute; some disputes are worth having, after all.   Truth has to be spoken and sometimes it's us who has to speak it.  But we don't have to come to every argument we're invited to just in case.)

Love the Lord, all you saints.  He guards his faithful but the Lord will repay to the full all those who act with pride.

The bit about "acting with pride" is maybe a clue as to when we might not want to join in with those "disputing tongues," lest we reduce ourselves to one.

"I am far removed from your sight," I said in my alarm.

Yet you heard the voice of my plea when I cried for help.

In other words, what to do when we realize we've gotten in over our heads.

Be strong, let your heart take courage, all who hope in the Lord.

What is the world coming to, anyway?   It is coming to the same end it has been coming to for two thousand years, and today's viral video will not change it, nor tomorrow's.

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Good advice from Augustine in the second reading, too:

Rejoice in the truth, not in wickedness; rejoice in the hope of eternity, not in the fading flower of vanity.

Look out for that "rejoicing in wickedness" bit.  The invitation is everywhere, isn't it?  Let's not pretend that "rejoicing in wickedness" means "doing wicked things and enjoying it."  

It also means "hearing about wicked things and enjoying a sense of smug superiority over those who participate."  

Or "hearing about certain people doing and/or saying wicked things and enjoying a sense of satisfaction that they are behaving as I expect them to."  

Or "passing along news of wickedness and enjoying the recognition I get for having raised the alarm."

When you catch yourself rejoicing in wickedness, for heaven's sake, stop.

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And one more thought from Augustine:

Wherever you are on earth, however long you remain on earth, the Lord is near, do not be anxious about anything.

That's right, anything!

Don't sweat the small stuff.  But don't save your anxiety for the important things!  Just... don't be anxious.  Be not afraid.  Really.  That's what all this means.  

How are we supposed to do that?  We're imperfect.  We will feel anxious. We will feel unable to rejoice.  But:

Rejoice, brothers:  Strive for perfection; encourage one another.  

That's today's responsory to Augustine.

Encourage one another.

Encourage one another.

Encourage one another.

Remember that, next combox.  Strive for perfection... by encouraging one another.

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This is why I love the Hours.  Ancient and ever new.

Satisfying bleakness.

I left Mark and his dad with my daughter in her hospital room yesterday afternoon so I could go to Mass at a parish on this side of town. The rest of the family will go this morning, the usual place, the usual time. Now that the 9- and 13-yo boys are both serving Mass, we have a little less flexibility than we used to.

I'm not naming names, but when I opened that door I walked into the bleakest-looking sanctuary I have ever seen.

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It isn't ugly, per se; there was a symmetry and a proportion to it that satisfied the mathematical eye. And it isn't haphazard or cluttered; clearly someone had inflicted this design with a sense of purpose. So I wouldn't call it painful to look at.

But it isn't a place of spareness and simplicity, either, which has its place, if only among monks. It is more like a basketball court repurposed as a tasteful dungeon.

The sanctuary there has no foyer; one walks through the double doors and finds oneself immediately at the entrance of the center aisle, face to face with a smiling usher handing out photocopied 11x14 sheets with a couple of hymns and the Nicene creed printed on them. The pews are arranged in forward-facing ranks. The space is a large box, with recessed can lights in the ceiling far above, pointed straight down. There are square windows crisscrossed with bars that break them into triangles, of frosted glass that filters the light to thin gray, around the very top of the walls. The total effect is very dim despite the large number of can lights. The quantity of light is enough to see by, but its quality is that of a late afternoon, with thunderclouds gathering but never releasing their rain.

The walls themselves are beige brick all the way up to the ceiling. A couple of wide rectangular pillars, the same beige brick, rise on either side of the altar area. Low on the broad face of one is bolted a dull metal Madonna-and-child, symmetrical, hooded, expressionlessly gazing straight forward from mask-like, slot-eyed faces. This piece is surrounded by tea lights each also bolted to the wall.

There is a crucifix, too small for the vast space, hanging on a surface that serves as a signifier of a reredos. This reredos rises in a peak -- so it also serves as a signifier of a sanctuary-shaped space -- and is made of vertical bands of dark wood. The bands are so high-contrast that if you gaze at them or at the crucifix for more than a few seconds and then look away, their ghosts stay imprinted on your retinas, casting stripes everywhere that then disappear.

The tabernacle is a cube with a square pattern of black squares, tucked behind the Madonna's pillar. The altar cloth is plain. Behind the altar are hung three plain narrow banners, off-center, for Ordinary Time. There is a single pot of orange mums next to the priest's chair.

I took a seat in a pew near the front. I was ten minutes early, and there were maybe five other people in the pews. I put down a kneeler and tried to kneel on it, but the kneeler was set so close to the pew in front that my pregnant belly could not fit, so I had to sit back down.

An older man carrying an iPad and wearing a tie was dashing about asking questions; his voice echoed in the space, muffling his words, but it was clear enough that he was tasked with filling vacant slots, perhaps trying find a parishioner who would agree to serve as lector. He leaned over and asked a question of the woman behind me; she said she didn't have her reading glasses. Meanwhile, parishioners were starting to come in through the double doors from the parking lot. They spoke to each other and the reverberating rumbles of their voices in the bare brick box grew louder and louder, their words still indistinct.

"Father." The one clear word came from behind me and startled me so that I half turned. The speaker was a youngish man seated in a pew back and to my left, leaning forward over a metal rubber-tipped cane. I supposed he had been greeting the priest, whom I could not see but who might have been the man dressed in a black short-sleeved shirt and black pants disappearing just now behind the reredos. When I turned the young man with the cane stared back at me and I turned back, a little embarrassed.

Even though the space objectively offended my sight and hearing, something about the sanctuary atmosphere felt weirdly appropriate. I have had a bleak sort of week, starting out by missing Mass in favor of signing in to the emergency room downstairs. I have been plunged into knowing what it is to be sinful and sorrowful; I think a piece of the Memorare has fallen into place for me this week. I have been tired and afraid and lonely, and anguished, and watched my daughter be tired and afraid and lonely and hurting. I have not done any of the things I meant to do this week, and I find I don't care.

So I sat there and thought: Maybe this is perfect, the cherry on top. I get to go to Mass here in this place. God is here too, and I know that, and maybe this is just the reminder I need, that God is in the bleak places.

I sat back, thinking to myself in an Eeyore sort of way, that it was a rather satisfying end to the week.

Then the dashing-about man walked up from the side and put the book of the gospels on a stand at the edge. Next the priest, vested, came out in front and announced that the pianist had not shown up and so the Mass would be "somewhat abbreviated." "Please rise," he said cheerfully. And he climbed right up the steps and launched into "The Lord be with you."

And Mass started, processionless, music-free, chant-free. Readers, there was no Gloria, not even a spoken one. There was no Alleluia, not even a spoken one. I found myself somewhere sparer even than Lent.

Well. I wasn't even sure if this was allowed, but I guess (in an Eeyore sort of way, or perhaps by now we were crossing into Marvin the Paranoid Android territory) it was even more satisfying than I had originally thought.

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The readings being the story of Aaron and Hur holding up Moses's arms until Joshua defeats the Amalekites, and the parable of the widow pestering the corrupt judge until in exasperation he rules in her favor, the homily turned out to be an exhortation on spiritual persistence.

Okay then.

Afterwards, after kneeling for a brief prayer of thanksgiving (well, sort of, with my butt on the pew to make room for my belly), I determined to leave quickly and quietly, getting back to my daughter. I remembered what St. Francis de Sales wrote in the Introduction to the Devout Life:

When you have finished your meditation, take care to keep your heart undisturbed lest you spill the balm it has received: in other words, keep silence as long as possible and transfer your attention to other things quietly, trying to retain the fruits of your prayer as long as you can.

A man who carries a vessel full of some precious liquid walks very carefully, looking neither right nor left but straight ahead to avoid stumbling over a stone or making a false step, making sure that the vessel is well balanced.

This is how you must act after prayer, trying not to be too quickly distracted; for example, should you meet someone you must speak to, accept this as unavoidable, but keep a guard on your heart, so that you spill as little of the balm of prayer as possible.

As I passed by, the young man with the cane looked straight at me and said: "God bless you."

I looked back at him and replied automatically, "You too." I didn't stop but went on out to the car, pondering, hefting my balm.

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