In the Company of Angels

 

Simply put, we are not alone. We are surrounded by angels. This includes our Guardian Angels, who are with us all of the time. Some think invoking one’s guardian angel is something for children, to comfort them. That well may be the case, but it is also true for everyone! There are angels with us all of the time, our own and those of the people around us. But the tradition of the Church, and the experience of countless saints, also teaches that our churches are also filled with angels, all of the time, but especially during the liturgy. Indeed, during the Mass our voices are literally joined to the angelic choirs when we sing the same hymns they constantly chant before the Throne of God: the Gloria, the Sanctus, and the Agnus Dei. Many churches, and I am fortunate to say my own All Saints parish in St Andrews, surround the altar with statues and stained glass of the angels to help remind us of what one of the greatest of our theologians, the Venerable Bede, teaches:

“Whenever we enter the church and draw near to the heavenly mysteries, we ought to approach with all humility and reverent awe, both because of the presence of the angelic powers and out of the reverence due to the sacred oblation; for as the Angels are said to have stood by the Lord’s body when it lay in the tomb, so we must believe that they are present in the celebration of the Mysteries of His most sacred Body at the time of consecration.”

Humility and awe are quite appropriate, but I would also like to add the consolation and genuine comfort which the presence of the angels bring. I myself felt that today, in a very deep and real way, during Mass in the lovely sanctuary which is All Saints, and I would suggest that we all cultivate the habit of remembering the presence of the angels, our companions now and through eternity.

 

All Saints Church, St Andrews. Photo by the rector, Fr. Alasdair Coles

The Dilemma of St. Oengus

I wrote this poem in honour of the Irish saint St. Oengus, known as the Culdee, or Servant of God, who was famed for his asceticism in the eighth century. After years as a hermit he joined St. Maelruan at Tallaght abbey, where, after first posing as a simple manual worker,he went on to produce the first great Irish martyrology, or calendar of saints.

The Dilemma of St. Oengus

Tend the lamps

And sweep the floor.

quite content with

nothing

more.

 

A sunbeam bathes a

lonely novice

sighing on the bench;

his feather pen

lilts sadly in a pool

of blotted ink.

Tired eyes stare

at the sacred text,

the curving pointy

mystery of letters,

defiant and opaque

despite all his efforts.

I hear him mutter,

scratching at his

newly tonsured scalp,

reddened even more with

anxious consternation.

 

I cannot help myself,

his tribulations draw me near.

Old instincts rise to the surface,

urging me to help him think,

share skills honed

for many years.

But lips collude to

block the tongue,

eyelids close,

opening wide

the gates of memory,

reminding me

just why I’m here.

 

My own desert,

a little prayer house

by the river Nore,

gentle eminence

among the hills,

far from human voices.

Yet still they came,

students seeking answers,

the curious lured

by hopeful gossip

of wondrous austerity.

 

I fled them,

bewildered by interruption,

unwilling and unable

to bear

their earnest scrutiny.

 

Angels with whom

I long communed

lead me then to

            Tallaght,

abbey named for Michael

their darling awful prince.

 

Back to the boy.

His fretful tired mind

cannot see the

subject of amat is

understood from context…..

 

Gaze wanders once again

to the far corner of the

overly-swept room,

shelves of books

and vellum scrolls.

No one here

even knows that I

can read,

            let alone

my lifelong dalliance

with ancient poems

and deeds of saints!

Was it for these

the angels drove me here?

 

Now he cries,

head in hands,

the very picture of

despair.

If I help him,

word

will surely get around,

brother sweeper is not

quite what he appears.

Maelruan will hear,

Christ’s own champion,

wise and great abbot,

but not too great to

seek me out

and put to rest my

silly game.

He has plans for these

books and benches,

will demand I do my share.

 

His angels no doubt

know mine well;

a dubious plan,

to fool a saint.

 

A broom placed gently near the wall,

hands carefully wiped

on an apron

now somewhat reluctantly

discarded.

Love above all things,

the honor is to serve.

 

“Come child, listen and learn.”

 

 

The Universal Prayer

There are many ways to pray, and many different approaches. Jesus of course gave us the prayer known as the “Our Father”, which is incomparable in its profundity, beauty and simplicity. When one goes into the treasury of Christian prayer that has been handed down and added to over the centuries, there are many hidden gems, once popular but now often barely remembered. Once such classic, known in old missals as “the universal prayer”,  is  attributed to Pope Clement XI, a pontiff of the early eighteenth century, who was known for his patronage of the arts and sciences in Rome, the preservation of Roman antiquities, and the expansion of the Vatican library, including the acquisition of many Syriac manuscripts.

Pope Clement XI

Amidst all of this and his struggles with Louis XIV and Jansenism, he was also known for bequeathing to posterity the following prayer. There are times when its calmness and thoroughness have served me well, one stanza at a time; and I hope it can lead the way for others in times when its style and movement can guide the soul which might be having trouble getting started or is not sure where to go next in prayer.

I believe, O Lord, but may I believe more firmly;

I hope, but may I hope more securely;

I love, but may I love more ardently;

I sorrow, but may I sorrow more deeply.

 

I adore you as my first beginning;

I long for you as my last end;

I praise you as my constant benefactor;

I invoke you as my gracious protector.

 

By your wisdom direct me,

By your righteousness restrain me,

By your indulgence console me,

By your power protect me.

 

I offer you, Lord, my thoughts to be directed to you,

my words, to be about you,

my deeds, to respect your will,

my trials, to be endured for you.

 

I will whatever you will,

I will it because you will it,

I will it in the way you will it,

I will it as long as you will it.

 

Lord, enlighten my understanding, I pray:

arouse my will,

cleanse my heart,

sanctify my soul.

 

May I weep for past sins,

repel future temptations,

correct evil inclinations,

nurture appropriate virtues.

 

Give me, good God, love for you, disdain for myself,

zeal for my neighbor, contempt for misguided worldliness.

 

May I strive to obey my superiors,

to help those dependent on me,

to have care for my friends,

forgiveness for my enemies.  

 

May I conquer sensuality by austerity,

avarice by generosity,

anger by gentleness,

lukewarmness by fervor.

 

Render me prudent in planning,

steadfast in dangers,

patient in adversity,

humble in prosperity.

 

Make me, O Lord, attentive at prayer,

moderate at meals,

diligent at work,

steadfast in intent.

 

May I be careful to maintain interior innocence,

outward modesty,

exemplary behavior,

a regular life.

 

May I be always watchful in subduing nature,

in nourishing grace,

in observing your law,

in winning salvation.

 

May I learn from you how precarious are earthly things,

how great divine things,

how fleeting is time,

how lasting things eternal.

 

Grant that I may prepare for death,

fear judgment,

flee hell,

gain paradise.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

 

Declan’s Oratory

Here is a poem I wrote in honour of St. Declan of Ardmore,  the apostle of the Deisi in southern Ireland, the area where my ancestors lived. He is credited with many miracles. His oratory and sacred well are still places of pilgrimage.

 

Declan’s Oratory

 

A fiery globe

dancing over my mother’s

birthing bed in the cold dawn,

began your servant’s journey, Lord;

prophetic sign for wise old men,

already source of many tales,

these long eventful years.

 

Old knees and calloused feet

ascend again, the final time,

this worn narrow path,

up the slope of iron headland,

exposed finger of the land

poking out into the sea,

silhouette against the sky.

 

Green grass cushions

grey stone walls,

nearby a stream

feeds a well,

trees and bushes all around,

every rock and branch

a wise old companion.

 

This prayer house is a rough place,

and even rougher prayers were

offered here.

It will not be confused

with Martin’s shrine or

Peter’s house in Rome.

It has sufficed.

 

Wise like a serpent,

gentle as a dove,

industrious as a bee

avoiding poisonous herbs,

sacred science was my joy,

constant prayer my very being.

Pained very much

to lose this peace,

I yielded to your voice,

set out in haste

guided by an angel

to do your will.

 

An ocean full of unknown monsters

with gaping mouths faced me,

the misery of unbelief

sought my ruin.

You had me strike

tumultuous waters,

convert the king of Cashel,

wield my rod like awful Moses,

staff hovering in the air

with heavenly wings,

gospel book in hand.

 

I baptized thousands

and wanted to go home,

to ponder Psalms

and watch the sun

play with clouds

beside the sea.

 

Yet they all seemed so helpless,

hardly able to withstand

the terrors of your world.

A plague came,

a horror turning people

yellow as it killed.

Moved by your power and mercy,

I raised the dead in Cashel,

gave their walk to cripples,

healed blind and empty eyes,

and infirm folk of every kind.

 

Only you, Lord,

know the cost to me.

 

Tomorrow my sons

will bring to me

your sacred body

and precious blood,

and weep that Declan must depart.

Lying on my mat,

I see a fiery ball rises to

a patched ceiling,

magnifies my humble candle,

lighting up hidden corners

nearly forgotten and rarely noticed.

I am content to see

how clean it all looks,

certain now that all

has been accomplished.

 

St. Declan’s Well

 

Do you love me?

In these early Spring days after Easter, as far back as I can remember my mind has always been drawn  to the conversation between the Risen Jesus and Peter on the beach (John 21:15-17). Living as I do in an ancient fishing village in Scotland, where I can sit on the beach and watch the fishing boats going by, makes this all more real and palpable than ever.  To me, it is one of the most poignant moments in all of Sacred Scripture. Jesus had already appeared several times to the apostles and other disciples, but from the point of view of Simon Peter, each appearance and conversation, as joyful and astounding as they must have been, must have been accompanied by a feeling of guilt and apprehension. How would Jesus feel, the distraught fisherman must have thought, about Peter’s own bluster and arrogance, and ultimate failure not only to stand by Jesus, but even to deny that he even knew him?  As Peter sat on that beach, fish cooking over a crackling fire in the wind, watching Jesus, he probably simply did not know what to say.

But fortunately for Peter, and for us, Jesus did and does know what to say. He knows our failings, he knows our insecurities, he knows our strange delusions of our own spiritual strength and independence. And when he looked into the heart of Simon, when Jesus could feel his shame and sorrow, he did not even need to name it. Instead he asked Peter three times the only question that really mattered, “Simon, do you love me?” And in answering the questions, more painful each time, Jesus reached into the heart of Peter’s grief and transformed it into the power of pastoral love and  genuine sacrifice that would mark the rest of Peter’s astounding life until his own martyrdom:

¹⁵ When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” He said to him, “Feed my lambs.” ¹⁶ A second time he said to him, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” He said to him, “Yes, Lord; you know that I love you.” He said to him, “Tend my sheep.” ¹⁷ He said to him the third time, “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Peter was grieved because he said to him the third time, “Do you love me?” And he said to him, “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.” Jesus said to him, “Feed my sheep.”

Peter could have run away from Jesus on that beach, made excuses, found a way to rationalize his denial with predictable words. He chose a different path. He sat in silence with Jesus, eating a meal with fish fresh from the sea, listening to the waves and feeling the wind, being present to the Lord, with his genuine grief and heartfelt sorrow. And Jesus knew just what to do, and Simon Peter and the whole world would never be the same.