Bishop Hugh Latimer on the Lord’s Prayer

Tudor church history is at the same time a truly fascinating, poignant and tragic subject. There were martyrs on all sides as the power swung from monarch to monarch, and as various clergy and others found themselves on the “wrong side” of the current situation, they often paid with their lives to witness to the strength of their convictions. On such figure was the Bishop of Worcester and Anglican reformer Hugh Latimer. By no means innocent of co-operation in the persecution of Catholics, he himself was burned at the stake for his Protestant views under the rule of Mary Tudor. All of this to me is profoundly sad. He, along with fellow bishops Cranmer and Ridley, is immortalised in a famous 19th century memorial monument to their martyrdoms in Oxford.

Bishop Hugh Latimer on the Martyr’s memorial in Oxford.

In these less rancourous and more ecumenical times, one can hopefully appreciate the spirituality and courage across the divides of Tudor ecclesiastical politics. Latimer was deeply committed to pastoral care, and encouraging among the laity a serious Christocentric piety. Nowhere is this more evident than in his sermons on the Lord’s Prayer.

Latimer’s pulpit in Cambridge.

Today I was reading one of them, his fourth in a series, and I was struck by some very lovely passages. The one I would share today is his reflection on how the adjective “Our” in the Lord’s prayer, in its opening and throughout, insists upon a profound equality and identification of all believers with one another, and the need to overcome any artificial divisions. For the prayer that is given to us by Christ himself to be efficacious, it must be offered in a spirit of not having disdain, arrogance or feelings of superiority towards anyone around us. This is a lesson whose importance never goes away, and is as timely as ever. We are in this together, as equals, in sincere humility, or else our Christian profession and prayer is no more than a posturing sham.

“Now to make an end: we are monished here of charity, and taught that God is not only a private Father, but a common Father unto the whole world, unto all faithful; be they never so poor and miserable in this world, yet he is their Father. Where we may learn humility and lowliness : specially great and rich men shall learn here not to be lofty or to despise the poor. For when ye despise the poor miserable man, whom despise ye? Ye despise him which calleth God his Father as well as you; and peradventure more acceptable and more regarded in his sight than you be. Those proud persons may learn here to leave their stubbornness and loftiness. But there be a great many which little regard this : they think themselves better than other men be, and so despise and contemn the poor ; insomuch that they will not hear poor men’s causes, nor defend them from wrong and oppression of the rich and mighty. Such proud men despise the Lord’s prayer : they should be as careful for their brethren as for themselves. And such humility, such love and carefulness towards our neighbours, we learn by this word “Our.”

Thomas Traherne: a Litany of Thanksgiving for the Exaltation and Virtues of The Blessed Virgin

As we enter now the month of May, I continue to reflect upon beautiful and classical devotion to St Mary as found in the Anglican tradition, indeed centuries before the Oxford Movement and its Anglo-Catholic successors of the nineteenth century and beyond. I hope this summer to focus in my own reading more on the great Anglican poet and mystic Thomas Traherne (1637-1674).

His stature as one of the great “metaphysical poets” continues to grow as the scholarship on his poetry demonstrates both his continuities with ancient devotion and the mystical tradition, and also as a precursor of Romanticism.

More on Traherne as the summer progresses. For today, this first day of May, I want to share this Litany of thanksgiving, drawn from his reflections on the feasts of the saints. Those familiar with Byzantine Orthodox hymns to the Theotokos and the Roman Catholic Litany of Loreto will find a real kinship with Traherne. I come back for reflection to these lovely phrases, so resonant with ancient, medieval and Baroque imagery.

“And first, O Lord, I praise and magnify thy Name

For the Most Holy Virgin-Mother of God,

who is the Highest of thy Saints.

The most Glorious of thy Creatures.

The most Perfect of all thy Works.

The nearest unto Thee in the Throne of God.

Whom thou didst please to make

Daughter of the Eternal Father,

Mother of the Eternal Son.

Spouse of the Eternal Spirit,

Tabernacle of the most Glorious Trinity.

Mother of Jesus.

Mother of the Messias.

Mother of him who was the Desire of all Nations.

Mother of the Prince of Peace.

Mother of the King of Heaven.

Mother of our Creator.

Mother and Virgin.

Mirror of Humility and Obedience.

Mirror of Wisdom and Devotion.

Mirror of Modesty and Chastity.

Mother of Sweetness and Resignation.

Mirror of Sanctity.

Mirror of all Virtues.

The most illustrious Light in the Church,

wearing over all her beauties the veil of Humility

to shine the more resplendently in thy Eternal Glory …

And yet this Holy Virgin-Mother styled herself but the handmaid of the Lord, and falls down with all the Glorious Hosts of angels, and with the armies of Saints, at the foot of Thy Throne, to worship and Glorify Thee for ever and ever.

St Mary’s Church in Credenhill, Herefordshire, where Traherne was priest and rector.

John Donne on Thanksgiving for the Virgin Mary

The seventeenth century figure John Donne is one of the best-known English poets of the seventeenth century, often regarded as the most prominent of the “metaphysical poets.” Known for a variety of poems, including his Holy Sonnets, Donne was for the last decades of his life a devout Anglican priest and pastor, including various parish ministries and then Dean of St Paul’s cathedral in London. I have found him a steady and valued companion since first reading him when I was a sophomore in high school, in English Literature class, and find myself often returning to his poetry in the Spring.

For today I would just like to share this lovely section from Part V of The Litanie, first published in 1633, in which he gives Thanksgiving for Mary’s role in the scheme of redemption, utilising seamlessly many images and themes from the Tradition:

For that fair blessed Mother-maid,

Whose flesh redeemed us; That she-Cherubin,

Which unlock’d Paradise, and made

One claim for Innocence, and disseiz’d sin,

Whose womb was a strange heav’n, for there

God cloath’d Himself, and grew,

Our zealous thanks we pour. As her deeds were

Our helps, so are her prayers; nor can she sue

In vain, who hath such titles unto you.

Jeremy Taylor on following the example of St Mary

Jeremy Taylor was born at Cambridge in 1613 and ordained in 1633. He was a Fellow of two Cambridge colleges, and chaplain to Archbishop Laud and to King Charles. These connections led to his imprisonment once the Puritans came to power after 1645, and him being forced into retirement as a family chaplain in Wales. After the Restoration of the monarch, in 1661, he became Bishop of Down and Connor in Ireland. Among his many books on theological, moral, and devotional subjects, the best known are The Rule and Exercises of Holy Living (1650) and The Rule and Exercises of Holy Dying (1651), usually cited simply as Holy Living and Holy Dying. 

These books especially led him to being referred to as ‘the Shakespeare of divines’ do to his classic prose style. Taylor’s devotional writings, while reflecting his own Anglican theological commitments, resonate deeply in the older Christian tradition. This is certainly true for a lovely prayer of his asking God for the grace to imitate the virtues of Mary. He does not address Mary directly, but does reflect in his entreaties some traditional doctrinal and even mystical concerns with deep roots in ancient and medieval sources. This prayer is very rich indeed in its theological and devotional content. He follows the ancient council of Ephesus in honouring Mary as Mother of God, or Theotokos, reflecting the common orthodoxy of East and West. There is also the rich idea of living fellowship and ‘converse’ with angels, so resonant with medieval and Celtic Christian sensibilities; and ultimately the best way to honour Mary is to ask for grace from God to imitate her and her virtues. One also finds here the idea found in many medieval mystics of conceiving and nourishing Jesus in our own souls, and finally bringing Him into the world, manifesting in a rich, serious and joyful Christian life.

At this, I will leave this lovely prayer to speak for itself:

O Eternal and Almighty God, who didst send Thy holy angel in embassy to the Blessed Virgin Mother of our Lord, to manifest the actuating of Thine eternal purpose of the redemption of mankind by the incarnation of thine eternal Son; put me, by the assistance of thine divine grace, into such holy dispositions, that I may never impede the event and effect of those mercies which in the counsels of thy predestination Thou didst design for me.

Give me a promptness to obey Thee to the degree and semblance of angelical alacrity; give me holy purity and piety, prudence and modesty, like those excellencies which thou didst create in the ever-blessed Virgin, the Mother of God: grant that my employment be always holy, unmixed with worldly affections, that I may converse with angels, entertain the holy Jesus, conceive him in my soul, nourish Him with the expresses of most innocent and holy affections, and bring him forth and publish him in a life of piety and obedience, that He may dwell in me for ever, and I may forever dwell in Him, in the house of eternal pleasures and glories, world without end.

17th century statue of St Mary, Spanish

Unity in God’s Good Time

Like many of us, I love wandering around in old graveyards, a natural place for quiet contemplation and thoughtful reflection. While on a lunchtime stroll in the graveyard around St Andrews cathedral, I was moved by the gravestone of the Victorian bishop Charles Wordsworth, whose zeal for Christian unity, a cause very close to my own heart, was expressed so well in his epitaph:

These words and sentiments from the late nineteenth century were engraved at a time when church attendance was very high all across Scotland, with thriving parishes of the Church of Scotland everywhere, with those of others, like Bishop Wordsworth’s own Scottish Episcopal Church, also ministering to large flocks.

Times have changed, and the Scottish Kirk, here in the East Neck of Fife as in many other places, is now contemplating the closure of a vast number of churches, including some beautiful historic buildings that have stood at the heart of their communities for centuries. The decline of active members, decrease of clergy vocations, and the cost of maintaining old buildings, all factor in. I have to admit at times this reality gives rise to a vast melancholy in my heart.

In PIttenweem, our neighbouring village, stands a centuries-old parish church which is due for closure in the near future, on the site of what had been a medieval abbey:

PIttenweem, Parish church.

Just across the kirkyard from it is the much smaller but very lovely Episcopal church, which even has one of its walls border on the same kirkyard:

St John Scottish Episcopal church.

The symbolism of these two churches, both of them on the grounds of the same medieval abbey, and sharing but separated by a kirkyard, seems to speak for itself, a symbol of the long-divided post-reformation church in Scotland. But now, in the changed circumstances of our own day, it also presents opportunity. The growing closeness of various Christian churches in Scotland, along with declining numbers, accelerates the need to overcome old divisions and find creative ways to share buildings; such sharing can allow pooling of resources, and perhaps even lead toward the breaking down of old barriers and prejudices and new fellowships. And, just perhaps, help people realise that “God’s good time” for unity may indeed be upon us….

Classic Anglican Devotion to Mary

When one thinks of devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary, what normally comes to mind are the varied practices within the Roman Catholic, Eastern Orthodox, and Oriental Orthodox churches. And of course this is justified, given the extraordinarily rich devotional, theological, liturgical and artistic expressions of this theme in all of these traditions over the centuries.

For those familiar with Anglican developments, moreover, particularly since the later stages of the nineteenth-century Oxford Movement, one also thinks of various Anglo-Catholic expressions of Marian devotion which are derived from and share with in various ways the traditions of the traditional communions mentioned above. These could, depending upon the dispositions and goals of various authors, emphasise Medieval English forms, Baroque Catholic aesthetics, or the doctrinal and, very significantly, iconographic traditions of the Christian East.

However, there is more to the Anglican tradition of devotion to Mary than the later Anglo-Catholics and their heirs. What may come as a surprise to many is the fact that among various 17th century Anglican writers, whether from the “Calvinist” or “Arminian” schools or some combination thereof, there is a rich and robust stream of Marian devotion. Usually it does not take the form of direct requests for her intercession, although this is not always the case. More often it is a joyful consideration of her virtues, and prayers to God that it is the height of Christian piety to imitate her. And also to reflect in wondrous reverence about her unique place in the life of her Son and the whole story of salvation as reflected in the Mysteries of her life described in Scripture. A short collection of various writings in this vein was put together by Canon John Barnes, a one time canon of St Asaph Cathedral, and entitled All generations shall call me Blessed: XV Devotions of Our Lady from Anglican writers of the XVII Century.

It is my intention from time to time in this blog to share excerpts from this lovely book, with selections illustrating the fact that devotion to Mary can be seen as integral to Anglican tradition, in this case as illustrated by various 17th century authors, whether liturgists, theologians or poets. This may I hope reinforce the wisdom found in all of the ancient churches down to today, that a robust Christology ultimately must be accompanied by a rich Mariology, adapted to and expressed in the theological and cultural sensitivities of particular times and traditions. Or as the 17th century Anglican layman Anthony Stafford put it:

“…till they are good MARIANS they shall never be good CHRISTIANS; whilst they derogate from the dignity of the MOTHER, they cannot truly honour the SON.”

17th century statue on the entrance to the University Church of St Mary the Virgin, Oxford.

Benedictine Spirit in Anglicanism

Many years ago my wife Sabine and I visited the hermitage of New Camaldoli in Big Sur, California. I had recently finished my doctoral dissertation at Cornell University, writing on a fifteenth century Camaldolese named John-Jerome of Prague, and while visiting my brother in the Bay Area, we drove down to Big Sur to see the hermitage and to give them a copy of my thesis for their library. We received a wonderful welcome from the prior, Father Robert Hale, and spent a lovely and unforgettable afternoon there.

I kept up contact with Robert Hale, who passed away in 2018. He had been an Episcopalian, and while he became a Roman Catholic, remained extremely active in ecumenical relations between Anglicans and Catholics. He wrote a wonderful article on the deeply Benedictine character of Anglican worship and spirituality, a topic many others have written about, and one very close to my own heart. I recommend it very highly, and provide the link here:

Robert Hale article

Candlemas 2020

Here follows a sermon I gave at All Saints Church, St Andrews, February 2, 2020.

“Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word.
For mine eyes have seen thy salvation,
Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people;
To be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of thy people Israel.”

 

Today, Candlemas, is the traditional culmination of the whole season of Christmas. The Infancy Narratives (the first two chapters of the Gospels of Matthew and Luke) are marked by powerful moments of divine annunciations and epiphanies, as well as by human and angelic response in song. These accounts of the birth and childhood of Jesus have served as profound inspiration for Christian theology and art throughout history, and the truths they embody are central to the Christian imagination. We have journeyed through the birth of John the Baptist, as well as of the events surrounding and following the nativity and epiphany of Jesus. Far from seeing the infancy narratives as a charming prelude to the main events of the Gospel, made up after the facts, we can see in them an indispensable summation of the main themes of the Christian faith, and, more specifically, the fulfillment of the promises of the Old Testament in the coming of Jesus Christ, and our own place in all of this.

The culmination of the Infancy Narratives is the very feast we celebrate today, sometimes known by its earlier designation as the Purification of the Virgin Mary, sometimes the Presentation of Christ in the Temple, and Candlemas because of the blessing of candles and procession which we undertook today. Over the centuries, this is seen as an episode where both Christ and his Mother, through his presentation and her ritual purification after giving birth, submit themselves to the Jewish law. This, tradition tells us, is a profound act of humility, for such purification is needed, in fact, by neither of them. The infant Christ is presented to the elderly Simeon who, embodying Old Testament wisdom, is enabled to experience the promised, but long-awaited consolation of Israel. His ecstatic song, known as Nunc dimittis by its opening word in Latin, is sung every night by the Church in either Evensong or Compline. The medieval theologian   Bonaventure feels this is quite fitting, as it encapsulates the whole gospel story and its central theological meaning:

 

“Thus in this canticle Christ is praised as peace, salvation, light and glory. He is peace, because he is the mediator. He is salvation, because he is the redeemer. He is light, because he is the teacher. He is glory, because he is the rewarder. And in these four consist the perfect commendation and magnification of Christ, indeed the most brief capsulation of the entire evangelical story: incarnation in peace; preaching in light; redemption in salvation; resurrection in glory.”

 

            For Bonaventure, Simeon can only be explained in light of Old Testament scriptures because he is the representative of the just man, responding for all the just who had come before him and had longed to see this day. Besides Simeon being the fulfillment of Scriptural descriptions of the just man, the embodiment of Wisdom literature, Bonaventure tells us how the Holy Spirit continued to speak to Simeon through the Scripture, making more annunciations: especially on the theme of looking for the consolation of Israel: “Thus the Holy Spirit in a most powerful way  said to him what is read in Habbakuk 2:3 :if he tarries a little, look for him, for he will surely come and will not delay.” Bonaventure argues that the Spirit was present with Simeon through grace and love, Simeon also received, in response to his long years of prayer, a special response of Revelation, that is from the Holy Spirit. [As Bonaventure says,] “Finally, Simeon was told by the Spirit of truth, and prompted to comprehension infused with Joy, that he himself would meet the Lord with the suddenness promised in Malachi 3:1:Behold I send my angel and he shall prepare the way before my face. And presently the Lord, whom you seek, and the angel of the testament, whom you desire, shall come to his temple. Behold he is coming, proclaims the Lord of hosts.

Then Bonaventure moves to the romantic imagery of the Song of Songs, and urges us to imitate the behavior of the elderly Simeon who let down his inhibitions and embraced the infant Jesus: “Let love overcome your bashfulness; let affection dispel your fear. Receive the infant in your arms and say with the bride I took hold of him and would not let go (Song of Songs 3:4).”

Bonaventure then turns to another key figure in this episode, the prophetess and aged widow Anna. As his discussion of her demonstrates, there is even more theological richness to be found in this episode. Bonaventure tells us he will describe why Anna herself is a suitable witness to these great events, but first he makes an important digression to assert that witnesses were needed from every stage of life and both genders, as Christ was coming to restore everything and everyone:

 

“After the testimony of an elderly man there now follows the testimony from a woman. For it is fitting that there be testimony to the advent of Christ from every sort of person, so that those who do not believe the Gospel might be without excuse. Whence there was angelic and human testimony to Christ, and also of the simple and of the perfect of both sexes to show that both sexes looked for redemption just as both had fallen. Therefore to show that there was no crack in the firm foundation of the testimony, there was sevenfold testimony to the birth of Christ.”

 

This sevenfold testimony as shown in the Christmas story, of how all creation must witness to the birth of the redeemer: 1) heavenly testimony from the star  2) source above heaven, the angels ; 3) from under heaven, simple folk like shepherds ; 4) wise men like the magi ; 5) elderly men, like Simeon ; 6) elderly women like Anna; 7) even infants who gave their lives, that is the Holy Innocents in Bethlehem;. “And every nature, every sex, every age produced testimony to the birth of Christ, because he had to restore all things.”) Bonaventure sums this point up dramatically by citing Luke 19:40 about how all things, even the stones and material world, will cry out in response to God’s appearance among us, even if some keep silence. As Simeon is the fulfillment of all the just men of the Old Testament, so Mary and the Prophetess Anna could be seen as functioning in the same way for all of the Old Testament women who responded to God, whether in their prophecies, laments, songs of praise and periods of thoughtful and profound silence.

But there is another part of Simeon’s words which give us pause, as with one eye we look back and marvel with the events of Christmas and Epiphany. For Simeon also suddenly gazes forward in time and speaks to Mary his prophecy about Christ being the rise and fall of many, and that a sword will pierce her heart. This episode plays an almost unique role in the later medieval devotional tradition, forming as it does, along with the Finding of Christ in the Temple at the age of Twelve, one of the Joyful Mysteries of the Rosary, but also one of the Seven Sorrows of the Virgin Mary. This complexity of the episode reflects that while the parents of Jesus are marveling at Simeon’s words, the elderly man then prophetically indicates doleful things in Mary’s future; as one commentator puts it, “In a stage whisper Luke announces the Cross.”  In this way, there is a poignant combination of Joy and Sorrow which attends this mystery and gives it more depth and matter for reflection, a fitting hinge in the calendar between Christmastide and Lent.

            And in fact Mystery is the word, for so much is hidden here, like in all the Infancy Narratives, in seemingly simple dress.  For when we think of God, the awesome and infinite God, all powerful and all knowing, at times he can seem so totally other and far beyond us. As the fifteenth century theologian Nicholas of Cusa put it speaking to God,

“Moreover, if anyone expresses any likeness and maintains that You are to be conceived in accordance with it, I know as well that this likeness is not a likeness of You. Similarly, if anyone recounts his understanding of You, intending to offer a means for Your being understood, he is still far away from You. For You are separated by a very high wall from all these [modes of apprehending]. For [this] wall separates from You whatever can be spoken of or thought of, because You are free from all the things that can be captured by any concept. Hence, even when I am very highly elevated, I see that You are Infinity. Consequently, You are not approachable, not comprehensible, not nameable, not manifold, and not visible.”

Yet, as Cusanus continues, and as we celebrate today, in Jesus Christ somehow God has nevertheless made himself approachable and accessible. He is our way of approaching God. In becoming one of us, God is eminently approachable. We are called today to do something as simple as to “walk forth to meet the mother and child”. As we did so in procession earlier, let us do so shortly in another procession. To the altar to receive Him in communion. Let us walk forth to meet him, conscious of the Joy of Christmas, conscious also of what he did for us on the Cross, and what he does now.

For this “now” that Simeon sings about, his moment of meeting God, is also a Now for us. As the priest and poet John Donne wrote centuries ago reflecting on this song of Simeon in its relation to us about to receive Christ in the Eucharist:.

 

“For mine eyes have seen thy salvation; Now, now the time is fulfilled!  And all the way, in every step that we make, in his light (in Simeon’s light) we shall see light; we shall consider that that preparation and disposition, and acquiescence which Simeon had in his Epiphany, in his visible seeing of Christ then, is offered to us in this Epiphany, in this manifestation and application of Christ in the Sacrament.”

Thus, to carry a lighted candle as we did today is a profession of faith.  By that little ceremony you say that you have Christ, that you believe in Him, hope in Him, and love Him, and that you are willing to be consumed, burnt up for Him.

The world today, all of us, need Christ, we are hungry for Him without knowing it; we are at times in the dark.  We can help bring light, bring it to each other.  The lighted candle tells us so.  We need but be more fervent in our own Christian and religious life, more faithful to our daily duties, more patient in our daily crosses.  This is to preach Christ, to let Christ’s light shine to all people.  A quiet, humble, holy life is the best of sermons.The blessed candle, in its simplicity and power, reminds us all of this.

 

To end with the words of St Sophronius of Jerusalem, preached to his people some 14 centuries ago,

Our lighted candles are a sign of the divine splendor of the one who comes to expel the dark shadows of evil and to make the whole universe radiant with the brilliance of his eternal light. Our candles also show how bright our souls should be when we go to meet Christ…..

The true light has come, the light that enlightens every man who is born into this world. Let all of us, my brethren, be enlightened and made radiant by this light. Let all of us share in its splendor, and be so filled with it that no one remains in the darkness. Let us be shining ourselves as we go together to meet and to receive with the aged Simeon the light whose brilliance is eternal.

Amen.

Sunday 5 After Pentecost 2019

Sermon given at All Saints, in St Andrews,  July 14, 2019

“But the word is very near you; it is in your mouth and in your heart, so that you can do it.”  Deuteronomy 30:14.

All of us have biblical verses which strike a cord within us and remind us of certain people or moments or events. As I digested the readings this week preparing to preach, this verse from Deuteronomy reminded me of how much over the years I have come to appreciate a humble and unassuming giant of the spiritual life, Br Lawrence of the Resurrection.

Br Lawrence was a seventeenth century Carmelite lay brother in Paris. After years as a soldier, he entered the monastery and spent most of his life doing kitchen chores and repairing sandals for his fellow religious, and gradually became known as a spiritual guide. His letters and sayings were published after his death, and quickly, under the title Practice of the Presence of God, became an instant classic, translated into many languages, including English. There is much wisdom in his simplicity and approach, all focused on calmly throughout the day, in whatever work or occupation one finds oneself, habitually calling gently to mind the presence of God, whom, he came to realize, is never far away, indeed is always at hand and within reach. As Lawrence puts it,

“He does not ask much of us, merely a thought of Him from time to time, a little act of adoration, sometimes to ask for His grace, sometimes to offer Him your sufferings, at other times to thank Him for the graces, past and present, He has bestowed on you, in the midst of your troubles to take solace in Him as often as you can. Lift up your heart to Him during your meals and in company; the least little remembrance will always be the most pleasing to Him. One need not cry out very loudly; He is nearer to us than we think.”

The seventeenth century was a great time of spiritual writers, and many of them devised rather complex forms of meditation. Lawrence tells us that after reading many books about these methods and many headaches in trying to follow them, he came up with a much simpler approach. Lawrence had been a soldier before becoming a Carmelite friar, and that is reflected in the following description of his method:

“A little lifting up of the heart suffices; a little remembrance of God, an interior act of adoration, even though made on the march and with sword in hand, are prayers which, short though they may be, are nevertheless very pleasing to God, and far from making a soldier lose his courage on the most dangerous occasions, bolster it. Let him then think of God as much as possible so that he will gradually become accustomed to this little but holy exercise; no one will notice it and nothing is easier than to repeat often during the day these little acts of interior adoration.”

It is not surprising that this little book about the little way of being Christian has become a classic in the ecumenical sense, and has helped countless Christians of all stripes in their spiritual journey. His deep sense of finding God and abiding in His Presence among the pots and pans, the sewing of sandals, and in every task and every human encounter, can resonate with everyone. This approach, what we might call the Little Way, of joining love and awareness of God with love of neighbor in the small everyday tasks, the stuff of daily existence, is at the heart of Christian life, and is central to the Gospel reading of the Good Samaritan today.

The life of Mother Teresa of Calcutta witnessed an overwhelming response of the Church and much of the world to her simple but profound way of love: doing the humblest things for the humblest people, driven by her desire to love the children of a God who loved us first. Her constant acts of kindness and inclusivity in her idea of neighbor, each perhaps little in itself, amounted to great things that made the world take notice. Likewise, but in a different context, with St. Therese of Lisieux (1873-97), “the Little Flower”. At the heart of her spirituality was the Little Way, of offering not only great suffering up to God, but also the everyday and seemingly trivial difficulties which arise in our daily lives and relationships with others. Such an attitude goes to the very heart of Christ’s relationships with almost everyone he encounters in the Gospels. Likewise, the parables are full of ordinary people, events and things, and opportunities to show love of God and neighbor.

Just a few days ago the Church celebrated the life of one of the most important figures in the whole spiritual tradition, the sixth century monastic teacher St Benedict about whom Gregory the Great wrote a life. As in all medieval hagiographical literature, miracles performed by God through the intercession of the saint form an important part of the story. In Gregory’s Life of St. Benedict, the very first miracle Benedict performs, while still a young man, is to quietly repair a tray which his nurse accidentally broke. As Pope Gregory describes the action:

The poor woman burst into tears; she had just borrowed this tray and now it was ruined. Benedict, who had always been a devout and thoughtful boy, felt sorry for his nurse when he saw her weeping. Quietly picking up both the pieces, he knelt down by himself and prayed earnestly to God, even to the point of tears. No sooner had he finished his prayer than he noticed that the two pieces were joined together again, without even a mark to show where the tray had been broken. Hurrying back at once, he cheerfully reassured his nurse and handed her the tray in perfect condition.¹

Benedict would go on to prophesy before kings, found abbeys, heal the sick and even raise the dead, but I am not sure if any of those great works of the Spirit are more beautiful than this prayerful and heartfelt desire to reach out and help a fellow human being in emotional distress. His life and his Holy Rule are full of concern for the little things, such as caring for the sick and extending hospitality to all. Many examples could be given, but his description of the duties of the Cellarer in the monastery is typical, describing him in many of the ways that would fit well the Good Samaritan:

He must show every care and concern for the sick, children, guests and the poor, knowing for certain that he will be held accountable for all of them on the day of judgment. He will regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar, aware that nothing is to be neglected. He should not be prone to greed, nor be wasteful and extravagant with the goods of the monastery, but should do everything with moderation and according to the abbot’s orders. Above all, let him be humble. If goods are not available to meet a request, he will offer a kind word in reply, for it is written: ‘A kind word is better than the best gift ‘ (Sirach 18:17).

The Rule also says that all guests must be received as if one is receiving Christ, and hospitality is a central part of the Little Way just as it is in monastic life.

Likewise this week our Scottish church remembered another lesser known monk St Drostan, who is particularly venerated in Aberdeenshire. We know little about him, except that most likely he was a disciple and fellow missionary of the great St Columba, and that holy well dedicated to him serves as the water source for Aberlour distillery. But what we really know is that he prayed, recited the Psalms and drew sustenance from the liturgy, and preached and trained others to do so. He baptized and lived in community, being solicitous for the poor, and one miracle for which he is remembered is the simple but kind act of restoring the sight of a priest who had gone blind.

 

What gave these figures the strength to do these things, to persevere in their spiritual paths? There is a threefold way that prepares us for this, that characterizes this monastic spirituality.  One cultivates an attentiveness to God and the needs of our neighbor by first of all living a life based upon praying together in common, through the liturgy, offering our prayers to God as a community as we do this morning, and do week after week, year after year. Secondly, by the prayerful reading of scripture, known as lectio divina, or sacred reading, we ponder over and over the meaning of God’s Word for us. And, thirdly, we do not just think about God and offer up pious thoughts, but we put our faith into action, as the Benedictine motto puts it, ora et labora, prayer and work. Like the cellarer mentioned in the Rule, our work, whatever it is, should be permeated by kindness, outreach to others, an offering lifted up to God, to use another Benedictine motto that is in itself a prayer, “that in all things Christ may be glorified.”

This not just something for monks, and indeed it has long been noted that our Anglican way of worship, though the Book of Common Prayer lived out in parish communities, has deep roots in this Benedictine and wider tradition.

The Anglican monk and spiritual theologian, Bede Thomas Mudge, notes that The Benedictine spirit is certainly at the root of the Anglican way of prayer,  in a very special and pronounced manner:

The example and influence of the Benedictine monastery, with its rhythm of divine office and Eucharist, the tradition of learning and ‘lectio divina’, and the family relationship among Abbot and community were determinative for much of Anglican life, and for the pattern of Anglican devotion. This devotional pattern persevered through the spiritual and theological upheavals of the Reformation. The Book of Common Prayer . . . the primary spiritual source-book for Anglicans . . . continued the basic monastic pattern of the Eucharist and the divine office as the principal public forms of worship, and Anglicanism has been unique in this respect.

 

While this spirituality and discipline, with deep roots in monastic and Anglican tradition, can hopefully prepare us to be attentive to God and neighbor, we must avoid complacency.  As the parable of the Good Samaritan shows, merely being an expert on the letter of the Law was not enough to truly discern who your neighbor is, nor does the painstaking performance of ritual automatically prepare us to understand what God wants from us in our everyday encounters with those around us.

The Lawyer answered Jesus correctly on love of God and neighbor as being the heart of the Law, and Jesus tells him to do this, and he shall live. And when in response to the further question of the lawyer, about who is his neighbor, Jesus relates this parable we heard today, and when the lawyer replied that he was a true neighbor to the wounded man who had showed mercy to him, the Lord responds again with a command, “Go, and do in like manner.” That is to say, remember that it is with such prompt mercy you must love and sustain your neighbor who is in need. And by this Christ most clearly revealed to us, that it is love alone, and not love made known by word only, but that which is proved and manifested also by deeds, which brings us to eternal life.

St Benedict and St Drostan and a host of others teach us in their words and deeds that in the guest we receive, in the ones we comfort and support in whatever type of need they are in, that we also do this for Christ. In such acts we perfectly manifest, and make real, love of God and neighbor. We should not excuse ourselves, saying that these matters are too great for us. The Scriptures and the whole tradition of the Little Way, which is in fact a sacred and golden way, tells us that if we cannot do greater things, then let us all help in the lesser things. Help others to live, whether physically or emotionally or spiritually in need. Give food, clothing, medicines, apply remedies to the afflicted, bind up their wounds no matter what type they are, ask about their misfortunes, speak with them of patience and forebearance, draw close to them. It is hard, but we must have confidence that God will supply us with the strength to see Christ in our neighbor. We must let compassion overcome our timidity. We must let the love of our fellow human beings in need overcome the promptings of fear that hold us back. We must not despise our brothers and sisters in need, we must not pass them by.

If I might end with the words of the great patristic writer Gregory of Nazianzus, commenting upon this very Gospel and its implications for all of us, for God, in our hearts and in our neighbor, is indeed closer to us than we might think:

“O servants of Christ, who are my brethren and my fellow heirs, let us, while there is yet time, visit Christ in his sickness, let us care for Christ in His sickness, let us give to Christ to eat, let us clothe Christ in his nakedness. Let us do honour to Christ, and not only at table, as some did, not only with precious ointments, as Mary did, not only in his tomb, as Joseph of Arimathea did, not only doing him honour with gold, frankincense and myrrh, as the Magi did. But let us honour Him because the Lord of all desires from us mercy and not sacrifice, and goodness of heart above thousands of fat lambs. Let us give him this honour in his poor, in those who lie on the ground here before us this very day, (stricken by wounds both seen and unseen), so that when we leave this world they may receive us into eternal tabernacles, in Jesus Christ our Lord, to Whom be there Glory for all ages, Amen.”

Rembrandt. The Good Samaritan.

 

 

 

Bishop Joseph Hall, Scripture, and the Blessed Virgin Mary

Church history is full of surprises! One of the reasons I love ecclesiastical history so much is that I am not only always learning about new writers, but also how so many of them defy stereotypes in intriguing and edifying ways. One such person I recently discovered is sometime bishop of Exeter and then Norwich Joseph Hall (1574-1656), scholar, satirist, controversialist and devotional writer.

Hall lived and wrote in the tumultuous decades of the mid seventeenth century, and certainly was involved in many of the varied controversies of the day. What interests me, as usual, is how he often took moderate positions, using his learning and intellect to build bridges while upholding central principles. Thus while a strong adherent to the decisions of the Calvinist Synod of Dort, he tried very hard to mediate between various degrees of Arminians and Calvinists in the English Church. Likewise, although a strong and able defender of Episcopacy in the English Church, Hall also came under the suspicion of Archbishop Laud for his mild treatment of those who did not share his views of church government. Interestingly, Hall did not deny that the Roman Catholic Church, despite what he saw as errors in its teachings, still remained a real Christian church. As Bishop of Norwich during the Puritan and parliamentary ascendancy in the English Civil War, he had to witness Cromwellian soldiers despoiling and ransacking the cathedral, burning liturgical books and vestments.

(Norwich cathedral and cloister)

While his controversial and satirical works were important at the time, he was better known even then for his moral works, which gained him the nickname of the ‘English Seneca’, after the famed ancient Roman philosopher. But most of all, Bishop Hall was most famous for his published Meditations on the Bible.

These prayerful reflections have endured, and are no less lovely and beautiful today than when they were first published. What strikes me are some of the lovely meditations on episodes in the life of Christ in which the Calvinist bishop writes so beautifully of Mary the Mother of Jesus. The first I would share is his meditation on the Annunciation, in which he reflects on the Angelic Salutation to Mary, which for Catholics is the basis of the famous Ave Maria prayer:

Upon Consideration of the Annunication

How gladly do we second the angel in the praise of her, which was more ours than his! How justly do we bless her, whom the angel pronounced blessed! How worthily is she honoured of men, whom the angel proclaimeth beloved of God! O Blessed Mary, he cannot bless thee, he cannot honour thee, too much, that deifies thee not. That, which the angel said of thee, thou hast prophesied of thyself: we believe the angel, and thee. All generations shall call thee blessed, by the fruit of whose womb all generations are blessed.

[Constantijn Daniel van Renesse & Rembrandt Harmensz. van Rijn, The Annunciation to Mary, 1652.]

Even more strikingly, Bishop Hall articulates a full and robust reflection on Mary as the Mother of Sorrows, very familiar to Catholics, with deep roots in Scripture and medieval devotion:

Upon Consideration of the Sorrows of the Virgin

But above all other, O thou Blessed Virgin, the Holy Mother of our Lord, how many words pierced thy soul; while standing close by His Cross, thou sawest they dear Son and Savior thus bleeding, thus dying, thus pierced! How did thy troubled heart now recount, what the Angel Gabriel had reported to thee from God, in the message of thy blessed Conception of that Son of God! How didst thou think of the miraculous formation of that thy divine burden, by the power of the Holy Ghost? How didst thou recall those prophecies of Anna And Simeon concerning Him, and all those supernatural works of His, the irrefragible proofs of His Godhead! And, laying all these together, with the miserable infirmities of His Passion, how wert thou crucified with Him! The care, that He took for thee in the extremity of His torments, could not choose but melt thy heart into sorrow: but oh, when, in the height of His pain and misery, thou heardest Him cry out MY GOD, MY GOD, WHY HAST THOU FORSAKEN ME? What a cold horror possessed thy soul! I cannot now wonder, at thy qualms and swoonings: I could rather wonder, that thou survivedst so sad an hour.

[Mater Dolorosa, Titian]

One would be hard pressed to find a more intense, heartfelt consideration of the constellation of the Biblical episodes in the life of Mary, and their meaning for us through the ages. This address to the Blessed Virgin calls to mind the meditations of many Catholic authors, and goes to the heart of the scriptural and emotional bases for admiration and emulation of her. The fact that they were produced by a Calvinist theologian and Anglican bishop at the height of an age of religious discord and controversy is certainly something that is surprising and helps dismantle stereotypes. But even beyond that,  it is an important example of how the prayerful reading and sincere meditation on Scripture reveals common ground and the basis for dialogue among very different types of Christians on subjects normally seen as controversial and divisive. And for this I am always thankful.