I need angels in autumn

By Daria Sockey

St. Michael by Fra Angelico
 (phto credit: Wikimedia Commons).

September 29th thru October 7th is one of my favorite stretches of the entire year. On the natural level, the fall foliage is approaching its peak. Just walking the dog or driving out to buy milk becomes an exercise in joy, as sky and trees compete with one another to astound us mortals with their beauty. Liturgically, we get a string of beloved feasts: The Holy Archangels, St. Therese, The Holy Guardian Angels, St. Francis of Assisi, and Our Lady of the Rosary.

The only downside to this time of year is something I call on both my Guardian Angel and St. Francis to assist me with. Anyone who drives through the farms, meadows and forests of northwest Pennsylvania these next ten weeks runs a huge risk of hitting a deer. It's mating season among our hoofed and antlered furry friends. The boys are (literally)  chasing the girls, and no one is watching where they are going. True, deer never pay much attention to cars in the best of times, but they are twice as careless in the autumn. The roadside body count goes up dramatically this time of year. Along with insurance claims.
 
Continue reading at Daria's blog Coffee and Canticles.

For those who long for a more comtemplative life

By Daria Sockey

Photo credit: Wikimedia Commons.

Father Greg was a good monk. So humble. He loved the peace and quiet of his monastery. It was so easy there to dismiss the distractions of the world and devote himself to prayer.

But then, Fr. Greg was chosen to be a bishop. That was then end of the serene contemplative life. He resisted the invitation at first, but finally submitted to the will of those who felt he was the only man for this particular job.

Dealing with his new diocese was really tough for Father Greg. He said he felt “divided and torn to pieces” by all the competing demands on his time and energy. Administrative tasks were the worst: the diocese owned lots of property. All sorts of projects and people needed money, and some were so manipulative in their attempts to get a piece of the pie that the bishop secretly thought of them as “robbers”. It was hard to be patient and charitable with these people. There were both physical and spiritual dangers of all kinds for the Bishop’s flock. Heretical ideas were gaining traction among the people. Criminal gangs were a huge problem in the city, and the bishop spent hours working with government officials to minimize the damage and devastation caused by them.

Bishop Greg (we had  better call him that now) worried about losing sight of his apostolic commission to preach the gospel, so much did all these chores distract him. His position forced him to spend lots of time with men of the world: politicians, the wealthy. He had to drop the introspective, retiring persona of a monk, and , well, “do as the Romans do.” Not wanting to appear judgmental or uncharitable, Bishop Greg talked with them about what they were interested in: sports, entertainment, the business world: “I began to talk freely about things I once would have avoided. What once I found tedious I now enjoy.” He felt bad about that change in himself, remembering the kind of spiritual life he had in the monastery.

Ever a humble man, the bishop admitted all this in a sermon. He said he often felt like a hypocrite, and a failure, not living up to his own preaching and mission. His congregation was bewildered, since as far as they were concerned, their bishop was a saint.

And now…the rest of the story.

Bishop Greg was a saint.

St. Gregory the Great. He became pope–bishop of Rome– under protest in the year 590. The description of his troubles above was taken directly from a sermon of his. It can be found in the Office of Readings as part of the liturgy that commemorates his feast day, September 3rd.

The only liberty taken in telling this story (besides the informal “Greg” and neglecting to mention that his diocese was Rome) was to refer to “street gangs” rather than “roving bands of barbarians”. This was the dark ages, when Rome was little more than one big refugee camp due to years of political strife and invasion. While dealing with all these problems, St. Gregory managed to blow off a heresy or two, reform the western liturgy, and revitalize the Church’s slumping missionary efforts.

But what I most admire about Father Greg—I mean, St. Gregory—was his humility in admitting how difficult it is to pursue holiness while living an active vocation. “Torn to pieces” by competing demands, he said. This makes him a sympathetic patron, not only of popes and bishops, but of all of us who long for a spiritual life but are sidetracked by many, many obligations.

This story appears in an upcoming book by Daria. She retains all copyrights to it. You can read more of her writing at  Coffee and Canticles.

Veils off! Veils on! And other random delight in the Transfiguration

by Daria Sockey 

Transfiguration by Bloch (photo credit:Wikimedia Commons).

 

Part of this title seems like  a shameless ploy to get page view traffic, drawing in readers who are interested in the question of wearing mantillas at mass. Or the even hotter controversy in this wide world over the hijab. But what I'm actually thinking of is the liturgical readings  for tomorrow's feast of the Transfiguration-- one of my very favorite feasts.

In the first reading of the Office of Readings(2 Corinthians 3:7-4:6)--a very appropriate reading, since it speaks of  Moses, a supporting player in today's feast--St. Paul plays on the metaphor of the veil. The Veil that hid the reflected glory of God on the face of Moses, the veil  of misunderstanding that keeps the Jews from seeing Scripture fulfilled in Christ, and the veil that the "god of this present age" puts between unbelievers and the truth. And finally, the joy of that veil's removal, so that we may now see "the glory of God shining on the face of Jesus Christ.

The second reading, from the fairly obscure Anastasius of Sinai, has answered a question that I had for years. You know when Jesus said in Matt 16:28, "Truly I say to you, there are some standing here who will not taste death before they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom" ?  I always wondered what He meant there. After all, the apostles died before the second coming.  I supposed that Jesus must have been referring to St. John, who certainly saw the triumphant Kingdom in his visions on Patmos. I never noticed what Anastasius noticed: that this prediction is followed up in the very next sentence  with its fulfillment: six days later, Jesus took with him Peter, James, and John...  the Transfiguration  the event in which three apostles saw the glory of the kingdom before they tasted death!

Of course, Anastasius was not hindered by the chapter divisions in the gospels that tend to keep  us from connecting these types of dots.

Okay. Here's one more thing I always think about and laugh about (it's a feast day--we should find things to laugh about!).  How did the apostles recognize Moses and Elijah? We're told that the Jews eschewed most  representational art out of concern for avoiding the temptation to idol worship. So how did they know who was speaking with Jesus on Mt. Tabor? Was Moses carrying his signature tablets of the law? Did Elijah arrive in his chariot, or perhaps have that helpful raven on his shoulder? The gospels don't tell us. Inquiring minds want to know!

There is so much in the Transfiguration account: the voice of the Father, the sweet and gentle, “rise and do not be afraid” from Jesus, and the interesting connection between Elijah and John the Baptist. It's no wonder the Church has us mark this event twice a year-once on a Sunday in Lent and once as a feast.

Pay attention at Evening Prayer (vespers) today. The New Testament canticle is one we only get today and on the feast of the Epiphany.  It's an adaptation of 1 Timothy, 3:16, with a repeated response worked in. For those of you who don't pray the Liturgy of the Hours, here it is:

Praise the Lord, all you nations.
Christ manifested in the flesh,
Christ justified in the Spirit.

Christ contemplated by the angels,
Christ, proclaimed to the pagans.

Christ who is believed in the world,
Christ exalted in glory. Praise the Lord, all you nations.

Knowing that this passage is only used for these two feasts out of the entire year makes for a great little meditation on  how those two are connected.

Daria blogs at   Coffee and Canticles.

Praying with your body

by Daria Sockey

St. Francis in Meditation by Zurbaran (photo in Public Domain)

This morning, I began my usual Morning prayer from the Litugy of the Hours, making the sign of the cross while saying the opening verse: "O God, Come to my assistance/Lord, make haste to help me.”

Later on into the prayer, I again made the sign of the cross while praying “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel, He has come to his people and set them free...” in the canticle of Zechariah. I did this once more at the conclusion, while saying, “May the Lord bless us, protect us from every evil, and bring us to everlasting life.”

It struck me—what an interesting thing it is to make the sign of the cross while saying other words than the usual invocation of the Trinity. I was expressing two different prayer-thoughts at once, by using two different language formats: spoken English and sacred sign language. Put another way, my mind prayed one thing (“God, come to my assistance”) while my body prayed another (invoking the blessed Trinity.)

Come to think of it, there are many ways we pray with our bodies, whether or not our minds and lips are praying at the same time. The simple act of kneeling down is itself a prayer—an act of humility before God. Likewise, genuflecting, kissing a crucifix or other holy object, taking holy water, folding or raising one's hands in prayer. All these gestures, and many others, are themselves acts of prayer, even before a single word crosses our lips or even our minds.

A Protestant teacher of mine once expressed befuddlement with her experience attending mass: “All the up-rising, down-sitting, kneel here, bow there—I just couldn't keep up with it. It was like an exercise class.” I wish I could go back in time to high school and explain to her, “Yes, that's the whole idea. We pray with our bodies, minds, and souls."

It's just another aspect of the Church being so very Sacramental. Things--including our arms, hands, and legs--are vehicles through which God receives our praise and sends His grace.


Read more about praying with the Church at Daria's blog Coffee and Canticles.

How to complain to God in 3 easy steps

by Daria Sockey

Mary Stuart's Breviary (Photo: Wikipedia)

I used to think it was wrong to complain to God. I had overdosed on those stories where saints are portrayed as  positively craving new opportunities to suffer for the love of God-- bursting into rhapsodies of delight at each new illness, inconvenience, and disappointment. And so, when the thought would cross my mind in times of trouble—God, what on earth were you thinking to let this happen to me?—I thought I was being at least slightly sinful.

But King David and the other psalmists complain plenty. They go on in great detail about how bad life is at the moment, and ask God why He hasn't fixed it yet. They tell God they don't understand why He worked so many miracles in the past but doesn't seem to do so anymore. They point out that non-believers are suggesting that maybe God is not so great if He allows  such  disasters to happen to His friends. 

We can't dismiss this by saying, "That was the Old Testament."  After all, the psalms were the prayers that Jesus used. As He was dying, he cried to His Father with the ultimate complaint from Psalm 22, “My God, my God, why have your forsaken me?”

Psalm 42 shows us the way

Yesterday's Morning Prayer from the Divine Office (Psalter, Monday Week II) starts with a wonderful example of the biblical way to complain--Psalm 42. It opens with sheer poetry, expressing our deepest longing:"Like a deer that years for running streams, so my soul is thirsting for you, my God..."

But soon the psalmist makes it clear that he is pretty miserable: "My tears have become my bread by night and by day, as I hear it said all the day long,'Where is your God?'"

"I remember...how I would lead the rejoicing crowd into the house of God...the throng wild with joy."

Now, check this out: "Why are you cast down, my soul, why groan within me? Hope in God, I will praise Him still, my savior and my God." A complete acceptance of suffering? Not quite. After this expression of trust, he is immediately back to complaining. "Why have you forgotten me? Why do I go mourning, oppressed by the foe?...my enemies revile me, saying to me all the day long, 'Where is your God?'"

Despite that, the psalm ends with the refrain, "Hope in God, I will praise him still, my savior and my God."

Complaining and trust aren't mutually exclusive

The pattern is easy to see. Complain while trusting. Trust while complaining.

This makes perfect sense. In fact, it is what good (albeit fallen) children will do. Think of that fussy toddler screaming his head off while clinging to Mom's leg.  The whiny six year old whose favorite phrase is “That's not fair.” Or the  teenager pouting in her room. Despite each age-appropriate version of “why have you rejected me?”  they know that you love them and have their best interests at heart. Not that they are likely to say, “That's okay, Mom. I trust you, even if you don't buy me an Ipad.” These are fallen children we're talking about. But their continued trust is, I think, implicit. Maybe this is part of what Our Lord meant when He said we should become like little children.

Of course, it would be better to follow up our complaints to God with explicitly stated trust in Him. And the psalms are excellent models of how to do this. Complain. Trust. Repeat.

Daria Sockey originally posted this at her blog  Coffee and Canticles.

Holy Spirit to the rescue when I don't know what I want

by Daria Sockey

Window in the Church of St. Clothilde, Paris (Photo Credit: Wikimedia Commons).

 

One of the recent readings for evening prayer had those wonderful verses from Romans 8, worth quoting in full, "Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with sighs too deep for words. And He who searches the hearts of men knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints according to the will of God" (Romans 8:26-27).

What a relief!  If only I remembered this more often when I'm wondering whether I'm even asking for the right thing: should I pray for my son to stop dating a non-Catholic when he might, after all, be the means of her conversion?  Do I pray for this terminally ill elderly person to be cured, or for his happy death? And then there's days that I know there are people who have asked me to pray for them but I can't remember who it was or what they wanted prayers for. Or at those times I'm so overcome with worry or sadness or fear or anger that I can barely formulate a coherent thought about anything, much less a prayer.

All I really have to do in these situations is to say, "Holy Spirit, you know how and what I should be praying. Please sort this out and pray in me according to the will of God."

I'm not sure which of the 7 gifts this falls under. Maybe it is something separate. But it seems to me to be the greatest of all the gifts that the Holy Spirit gives.


Visit Daria Sockey's blog  Coffee and Canticles  for more posts on praying with the Church throughout the year.