Bangor Antiphonary

If beauty is often found in the most unlikely of places, then from the point of view of the “civilized” world in the seventh century, Ireland was one such unlikely place. Yet at a time when political and ecclesiastical institutions in Western Europe were being shaken to their foundations by war and chaos, Ireland’s remote position on the edge of the western ocean, far from the great Christian centers of the Mediterranean, became its great advantage. Irish monastics preserved and expanded upon the heritage of patristic theology in many areas, including the liturgy.

Due to Ireland’s own tragic experience of of war and invasion later, much of this heritage would in great part be lost. We are fortunate however to have intact a work known as the Bangor Antiphonary, produced in the late seventh century at the Irish monastery of Bangor under the direction of Abbot Cronan. This precious document is the only surviving example of the monastic office for the early Celtic churches and contains many insights on the centrality of the liturgy and the Eucharist in the lives of the faithful at this period in history.

The antiphonary contains seven short scriptural quotations, or “antiphons”, intended for people to recite as they approach communion. They are drawn primarily from the Psalms, both literally or in paraphrase, but also, as the following example shows, from the gospels (John 6:51-52):

This is the living bread which has come down from heaven, alleluia, alleluia.

He who eats of it will live forever, alleluia.

Some of the antiphons are clearly intended to be chanted before the reception of Communion, others in thanksgiving afterwards. We can perhaps learn much about the joyful attitude of these Irish liturgists  from the fact that all but one of the eucharistic antiphons contain the word “alleluia.”

But the shining gem of the Bangor Antiphonary is surely the poem “Sancti, venite,” directed to be sung during the reception of Communion. It certainly dates back well before the seventh century, and legend attaches it to the time of St. Patrick himself. According to the story, the two holy men Patrick and Sechnall had quarreled. When Patrick came to see him, his arrival interrupted Sechnall’s Mass right before the reception of Communion. Sechnall went outside the church to greet Patrick, and the two were reconciled. As they walked together through the cemetery in the churchyard, they heard an angelic choir singing “Sancti, venite, Christi corpus,” and from this point on this angelic hymn was appointed to be sung in Ireland during the reception of Communion.

This story reminds us that even the saints can quarrel, and they too need the eucharist for reconciliation and healing. As their eventful walk through the monastery indicates, the communion of saints extends to the beloved dead and the angels themselves, who are the companions of the living in our spiritual journey.

The ancient Latin hymn itself was translated into English by the great Victorian priest, hymn writer and translator J.M. Neale for The English Hymnal, and from there has made its way into other collections and prayer books.

Fr. Neal’s translation, like the original Latin, is a beautiful expression of patristic eucharistic theology, undoubtedly worthy of the angelic choirs from whom an anonymous Irish monk long ago drew his inspiration:

Holy ones, come, receive the body of Christ, and drink the holy blood by which you are redeemed.

Saved by the body and blood of Christ, fed on them, let us sing praise to God.

By this sacrament of body and blood all are freed from the jaws of Hell.

The Bestower of Salvation, Christ the Son of God, has saved the world by cross and blood.

Sacrificed on behalf of all, the Lord has been himself both priest and victim.

The law wherein sacrifice of victims was bidden is the foreshadowing of the divine mysteries.

The Giver of Light and Saviour of All has granted a glorious grace to His holy ones:

All approach with pure mind and faith to receive an eternal guarantee of salvation.

The Guardian of the saints, their Ruler as well, is the Lord, the Grantor of everlasting life to the faithful.

He gives the bread of heaven tot he hungry, proffers drink to the thirsty from the Living Spring.

Alpha and Omega, Christ the Lord Himself, has come, will come to judge mankind.

 

 

 

Brother Lawrence

At a recent silent prayer meeting at All Saints church, the rector read a lovely piece from Brother Lawrence of the Resurrection to get us started. This reminded me of how much over the years I have come to appreciate this humble and unassuming giant of the spiritual life. Br Lawrence was a seventeenth century Carmelite lay brother in Paris. He 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.

There is much wisdom in his simplicity and approach, all focused on calmly throughout the day, in whatever work or occupation one finds oneself, calling gently to mind the presence of God. As he 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, he came up with a much simpler approach. Br 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 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, and in every task and every human encounter, can resonate with everyone.

Back to Basics

I think back increasingly these days, catching my breath from time to time in St Andrews, on why I became a medievalist, and what made me first realize I wanted to study the middle ages. It was undoubtedly the influence of books and teachers back when I was a freshman at Monsignor Farrell High school on Staten Island. My religion teacher, Ed Stivander, was quite a character, and literally taught theatrically, dressing up on one occasion as St Francis and another as the pope! But one thing he did was tell me was that it was time for me to read The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings; and he was absolutely right. As I devoured these, and then CS Lewis’s space trilogy, I not only loved these books, but also fell in love with what Tolkien and Lewis were in their professional lives, namely scholars who studied and taught about medieval language and literature. I began to realize that I wanted to do what they did.

While I read these books under Ed Stivander’s tutelage, I also simultaneously was enjoying an etymological book that we used in English class. The book was in alphabetical order, and I still remember  enjoying the Latin roots of “abdicated” and “abrogate”. But when we came to “baneful”, and I learned the Old English word bana for “slayer”, it was love at first sight. I began to spend countless hours going through the old giant Webster’s dictionary we had in our house, enjoying finding Anglo Saxon roots, and also references even to Old Norse and Sanskrit! Later in high school I expressed the desire to learn Old English, and Fr. Maurice Carroll helped me. He introduced me to the old Barnes and Noble textbook warehouse on 18th street at 5th Avenue, which I understand sadly closed some years ago. While walking through the old place, its creaky floors and giant shelves, I came upon a book sitting in a corner by itself and purchased it, Markwardt and Rosier’s Old English Language and Literature.

I took this book home and began to teach myself Old English, and made some good progress. While I would also work at home, I began the habit, after an introductory visit with Fr. Carroll, of working with Bosworth-Toller’s Old English dictionary, located in the Great Reading Room of the Public Library located on Fifth Avenue. I soon felt at home but never lost my sense of awe of this wonderful space, which to me was as sacred in its way as my beloved St Patrick’s Cathedral a few blocks away.

 

As an undergraduate at Emory I was able to study Old English for a year, and even took a semester of Gothic, the ancient Germanic language of the Visigoths and Ostrogoths. As college went on I moved more into historical studies, and eventually went on to get my doctorate in medieval history. But I never forgot my love of ancient Germanic languages, and what first made me love the middle ages. And now, with the help of an old friend, which I purchased long ago in Manhattan, I am once again reviving my reading in Anglo Saxon, and reading the biblical text in Old English. I am thoroughly enjoying it,and if I can keep it up, a day at a time, I hope soon to be reading Old English poetry again. Can Gothic and Old Norse be in the future? Who can say, but what I can say is that I am very happy to be back to basics, doing something that speaks to my heart for the sheer joy it brings. And I hope professors Tolkien and Lewis are watching over me.

Justine Ward

 

The roots of singing in Christian worship lie deep in the Old Testament. Whether the victorious hymn of deliverance by Moses or most obviously the Book of Psalms, song has always been an essential part of the prayer of God’s people. As the corporate worship of God in the Catholic Church developed throughout the centuries, chant, whether or not accompanied by musical instruments, became a very important way Christians expressed intense devotion in the liturgy. But by the modern period, the congregation had come to rarely participate in the singing or chanting of the Liturgy, and one of the goals of the modern liturgical movement, encouraged by no less an authority than Pope Pius X ( 1903-14 ) , was to restore to the laity their appropriate and active role in sung prayer during the Eucharist.
One of the most active forces in the renewal of sung liturgical prayer was Justine Ward (1879-1975). A convert to the Catholic Church, she was a scholar and musician who promoted an understanding and appreciation of the Church’s musical heritage among the laity at every level, from elementary schools to the cofounding of the Pius X School of Music in 1918 at Manhattanville College of the Sacred Heart. Through her work at this school and her many writings and addresses, Justine Ward tirelessly promoted the work of liturgical beauty and renewal.

In an essay entitled “The Reform in Church Music”, published in 1906, Justine Ward developed the idea that church music is an art made up of music and prayer. Thus musicians involved in the liturgy must not only learn the musical arts, but also learn the ways of prayer by listening to the saints. As human beings and part of nature we need ritual, but this ritual must express the faith which lies behind it.

“In the Mass, music is not merely an accessory, but an integral part of the ritual. Words and music form together an integral whole.”1

Liturgical music then is not something to be added to the liturgy to create a sentimental atmosphere, and the forms of music which fit the liturgy “need not fit the latest fluctuation of popular taste.” Music is not a mere aesthetic exercise, but must directly contribute to help the liturgy to teach and to pray.
Justine Ward also stresses how liturgical prayer is an expression of the whole Mystical Body of Christ, not a private devotion:

Liturgical Prayer is not the expression of individual reaching up to God, as in private devotion; it is the Church praying as a Church, officially, as a corporate whole. Her prayer has a fixed form, the outgrowth of the spiritual evolution of the Church, a survival of the fittest in the realm of religion. This prayer has, first of all, dignity: it is addressed to Almighty God.2

Music must not distract the congregation from contemplating the Word of God and the Mystery of the Eucharist. Instead it must act upon the imagination in a way which interprets and intensifies the hidden beauties found in the realm of the Spirit.
It was a deeply held conviction of Justine Ward that the celebration of the Eucharist would be greatly enhanced by the active and informed chanting of the Mass by both priest and congregation in their respective liturgical roles. She felt that the revival of church music must be a “democratic and participatory movement.” As she said on another occasion:

“The desire of the church that the people should take an active part in the liturgical singingí would be pointless unless that singing were one of the essential ingredients of a full Catholic life, unless its vivifying influence were like oxygen to the body, required by each of us, whether rich or poor, talented or not–winged words of eternal life.”3
Finally, it must be said that Justine Ward did not feel music was somehow a “neutral”ingredient of the liturgy. Even the most beautiful music of the world’s most esteemed composers, let alone the merely mediocre and trendy, had no place in the celebration of the liturgy if it did not directly contribute to the task of the liturgy to raise one to the heights of the supernatural. The mere presence of hymns and cantors and congregational singing does not necessarily lead to sung prayer. There is no place for music in the liturgy which interrupts and distracts God’s people from the seriousness and sublimity of hearing the Word of God proclaimed and participating in the Eucharistic Sacrifice:
“If chant is not there to make me pray, let the cantors be silent. If chant is not there to appease my inner anxiety, let the cantor leave. If chant is not as valuable as the silence it breaks, let me go back to silence.”4

1. Justine Ward. The Reform in Church Music. . Educational Briefs Series, 1906. p. 7. Originally published in “The Atlantic Monthly”, April, 1906.

2. Ibid., p. 12.

3. Justine Ward. In Orate Fratres 1 (1927): 112.

4. Justine Ward. Spoken in Paris, 1957. Quoted from How Firm a Foundation; Voices of the Early Liturgical Movement. . Compiled and Introduced by Kathleen Hughes. Chicago: Liturgy Training Publications, 1990. p. 256.

Assumption 2016

What follows is the homily I delivered at All Saints, St Andrews, for the feast of the Blessed Virgin Mary.

Given at All Saints, St Andrews, Assumption 2016.

Today we commemorate a great mystery, surrounded in this church by lovely images and sculpture of the Virgin Mary. This is the day of her passing from this life to the next, in the East emphasizing her Dormition or falling asleep, in the West, while this remains a very important aspect of the mystery and how it is portrayed in art, such as in the fifteenth century sculpture in Frankfurt cathedral, the emphasis in recent centuries has been upon her bodily assumption, a precursor, we hope, following in her footsteps, of the resurrection of own body and its eternal glory in heaven united to our soul. So this is a feast not only about the Virgin Mary, but really about our whole destiny as human beings. It is a time for rejoicing in the face of profound mystery, as an ancient antiphon puts it: “Let us all rejoice in the Lord, celebrating the feast day in honour of Blessed Mary the Virgin: in whose Assumption the Angels rejoice, and highly extol the Son of God.”

The Dormition of Our Lady, Frankfurt cathedral, 15th century.

 

Yes, the Son of God, and also the son of Mary. At the heart of what we celebrate today is in fact a poignant emphasis on the Humanity of Christ, with prayerful reflection on the nature of Christ’s existence from his infancy and early childhood, through his ministry of preaching, and above all in the suffering he endured for humankind during his Passion. This devotional focus manifested itself in manifold ways in the liturgy, art and literature of Christendom. In turn, this devotion to the humanity of Christ also increased attention upon the role of the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus, in the Christian story, and the implications of Mary’s role in the lives of believers. For after all, in considering the life of Christ as the central drama of all human history, who else was there, from the moment of his conception? who also nurtured and taught him through his childhood? who also was present at his first miracle and throughout his ministry, and who, with a mother’s compassionate grief, also witnessed his torture and crucifixion, standing at the foot of the Cross, and also his death and burial? And then felt the inexpressible joy of experiencing her Son alive again, being present at the coming of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost? Who else, due to the glorious mystery of her Assumption after death, is present body and soul with Jesus in heaven, an active intercessor for humanity while at the same time an intense contemplative of her Son and the Blessed Trinity?

Heinrich Bullinger, a Reformed pastor of Zurich who had a very important influence on the 16^th century Reformation in this country, and one whom at first thought we might not find to be supportive of this doctrine, surprisingly expresses his belief that Mary’s “sacrosanctum corpus” (“sacrosanct body”) had been assumed into heaven by angels: as he says in recounting the tradition, “For this reason we believe that the Virgin Mary, Begetter of God, the most pure bed and temple of the Holy Spirit, that is, her most holy body, was carried to heaven by angels.”

What does this mean for us? When we look to our earliest traditions, the patristic Christianity of the North, the Anglo Saxon church which wove together so beautifully threads of Germanic, Roman, Celtic and Greek traditions, we get some beautiful clues to who Mary is to us right now. As the Venerable Bede expressed it, commenting on the very gospel we just heard, first of all we wonder at her uniqueness:

“Mary says My soul magnifies the Lord, and this is true of her more than any of the saints, for she rightly exults with more joy in Jesus, that is, in her special Saviour, because she knew that the one whom she had known as the everlasting author of salvation was, in his temporal beginning, to be born of her flesh; in the one and same person he would most truly be both her son and her Lord.”

But as Bede goes on to point out, Mary’s song in the gospel is about all of us, you and me, right here and now:

“Turning from God’s special gifts to herself, to the general decrees of God, Mary speaks of the state of all humankind, as though she were to say: He that is mighty has not only done great things to me; but in every nation he is pleasing to the one who reveres God.”

So let us take hope today on this solemn, festive day, in this season of earthly and spiritual harvest. Let us turn with trust and reverent awe, inspired by these lovely windows, including this one of Mary and all the Scottish saints, to turn into our own heart and mind, to gaze upon Mary who is now where we aspire to be, who points us toward her Son, and let us share in the lovely prayer of an anonymous Anglo Saxon poet, who I think would have appreciated this window of Mary and all saints:

“O splendor of the world,

now show towards us that grace

which the angel, God’s messenger,

brought to you;

reveal to the folk that consolation,

your very own Son.

Then may we all rejoice

When we gaze upon the Child at your breast.

Plead for us now with brave words…

That He may lead us into the kingdom of His father,

Where free from sorrow we may dwell in glory

With the Lord of the heavenly hosts.”

The Blessed Virgin and the Saints of Scotland, in All Saints, St Andrews

 

 

A Tree Most Fruitful

This poem of mine was inspired by the vision of two early Irish monks. Several years ago I was on the beach with my family at Inishmor in the Aran islands where it took place. St. Ciarán lived in the sixth century, and after spending time with St. Enda on Aran island, responded to a vision and founded a small monastery on the banks of the Shannon river at Clonmacnois in County Offaly. Over the centuries it grew into a vast monastic complex now in ruins, and its famous school became known as a “university of saints and scholars”. It remains an important place of pilgrimage.

A Tree Most Fruitful

 

One by One

the pilgrims come,

drawn from every

sea-washed shore.

 

Expectant hearts

ascend a green hill

to find

the broken

chapel wall,

the haven of my resurrection.

 

Towering crosses

carved from stone

taught the Word,

faithful lanterns for

an eager nation.

In the company of angels

I watched the centuries unfold,

like a protective hen

guiding her young.

How I grieved to see it brought to ruin,

senseless wrath and plunder.

Yet buildings come and go,

flotsam on the stream of time.

Beyond melancholy

dilapidation,

spirit-given visions still endure:

 

The fiery sun sank beneath the waves,

Aran Island bathed in salty twilight.

In wet sand I sat with holy Enda,

to us was given sight in luminous darkness,

the future of our people laid before us:

a great Tree,

rooted deep in Ireland’s heart

and watered by a river.

Birds beyond number

sheltered there,

filled the island with their song,

bore its fruit to distant lands

beyond our comprehension.

 

Sent forth with Enda’s blessing

and the teaching of the saints,

on the banks of the Shannon

I planted seeds of prayer and fasting,

and still they come,

still they come,

to be renewed

beneath the clouds

and taste the fruit

imperishable.

 

 

 

St Sunniva

Tomorrow, July 8th, is the feast of St. Sunniva. According to tradition, she was an Irish princess in the tenth century, who was brought to Norway with some companions as slaves. They escaped the threats of some disreputable local warriors by hiding in a cave, which was miraculously blocked by a stone. But although they escaped that threat, they were walled in and ultimately perished. A grim story, perhaps, from a hard and grim time, the “Century of Iron”!

Not too long after a passing fisherman noted a glow emanating from the cave, and upon investigation a delegation of the King and Bishop found her body miraculously preserved from decay. Soon a monastery, Seljekloster, was built, and the cult of Sunniva quickly became very important in western Norway, the land of my grandfather.

Seljekloster today.

Ever since I read about St Sunniva in Sigrid Undset’s Saga of Saints, a book I highly recommend, I have had an enduring devotion to her. Perhaps it is because she brings together the two sides of my heritage, the Irish and Norwegian, and the richness and complexity of the story of the spread of Christianity in the North. It is also undoubtedly true that I am always moved by some of the precious portrayals of her in medieval art which survived the Reformation, and still express across the centuries to the viewer and pilgrim her combination of gentleness and intrepid fortitude. These qualities undoubtedly helped sustain her faith in the most difficult of circumstances, a displaced refugee in a tough and unforgiving landscape, amidst a group of warriors who, as they and their descendants began to embrace and try to comprehend their new Christian religion, came to see her as a beacon and holy witness to the Light in the North, a role perhaps that she can play again.

 

 

 

Pius Parsch

The liturgical reforms of the Second Vatican Council represent, not a complete break from the past, but rather the culmination of an intense process of scholarly investigation into the meaning of the liturgy which had been going on for over a century. Among those who worked hard and creatively at applying the investigations of scholars to concrete pastoral situations, few had more of an influence than the Austrian priest and canon regular Pius Parsch (1884-1954).

As a military chaplain during the First World War, Fr. Parsch was discouraged by how listless and passive the laity were about the Mass. This contrasted with his subsequent experience stationed in the Ukraine, where he was impressed with the central role the liturgy played in the devotional life of the eastern-rite Catholics he encountered there. Returning to his Augustinian monastery of Klosterneuberg after the war, he soon began an active program of classes on the Bible and the liturgy for people in the neighboring area.  Encouraged by the spiritual appetite he encountered among the laity, these classes soon led to publications which became popular throughout the German-speaking world. This ministry, known as the Volksliturgisches Apostolat, included journals geared for both the clergy and the laity.  Eventually Fr. Parsch expanded these articles into books such as The Sacred Year, which were translated into many languages.

Fr. Parsch’s literary output was paralleled by his participation in important liturgical conferences, and extensive personal contact with like-minded reformers throughout the Church.  He was among those influential in restoring  the Easter Vigil to its proper place as the climax of the Paschal celebration, and was a pioneer in the gradual reintroduction of the vernacular and the Dialogue Mass decades before the Second Vatican Council.   

Parsch’s classic The Liturgy of the Mass grew out of his many articles, and is a perfect example of how he combined his own remarkable pastoral insights with the erudite research of scholars such as Fr. Josef Jungmann, SJ.  This work, translated into English by Fr. Clifford Howell, SJ, an important voice in the liturgical movement in his own right, became for many priests and laity an entry point into new perspectives on the history and meaning of the Mass.  In his preface to his final edition of this work, Fr. Parsch set forth his reason for writing this book, namely that it might help Catholics and also their “separated brethren” to come to a deeper appreciation and rediscovery of the “treasure of great price”, the liturgy:

“Another such treasure, and truly one of great price, in the field of the Church is the Holy Sacrifice; yet for so many Christians it lies buried and unappreciated. Those of us who long to live with the Church and to offer sacrifice with her, we have found  this treasure, and our one concern now is to lay hold of it and to make it our own.”1

Characteristically Fr. Parsch anchors his discussion of the Mass in Scripture. In remarkably concise and accessible prose, he sets forth a discussion of Old Testament prefigurations of the Eucharist. He summarizes the rich scriptural imagery from both testaments which underlies almost every phrase of the Roman Rite, a task he continues in subsequent chapters devoted to particular parts of the Mass.  In doing so Fr. Parsch persuasively and enchantingly confronts us with what is the central point of all the pioneers of the Liturgical Movement and their successors today:

“From such considerations as these there emerges some inkling of the stupendous worth of the Mass, as the greatest, the most precious treasure that we Christians have on earth. The Mass must be, as it were, the High Altar in the Cathedral of our souls. Every other devotion, all other festivities of the Church, are but side-altars which, however sacred and beautiful they may be, must not obscure our view of the great High Altar. If we love the Liturgy we will set ourselves with all eagerness to gain a wider and deeper understanding of this most sacred mystery, the Lord’s Supper, and make it the focal centre of the whole of our spiritual life.”2

1. Pius Parsch.  The Liturgy of the Mass. 3rd Edition. St. Louis: B. Herder,  1957. p. xiii.

2. Ibid, p. 35.

Klosterneuburg abbey

St. Samthann and her Scholars

I wrote the following poem in honour of the Irish St. Samthann, who  was abbess at Clonbroney in Meath in the eighth century. Her school there produced some future monastic saints, including the ascetic Maelruan and the missionary Ferghall, who as young students feature as characters here. Known as a woman of firm and prudent counsel, Samthann’s surviving sayings form the kernel of this poem.

St. Samthann and her Scholars

 

Samthann: Come, my dears,

the time is here,

tell me

all you learned today,

reading Cassian’s

text on Pride.

 

Ferghall: Our lessons were left off

last night, our books lay closed

from then till now.

 

Maelruan: It’s true, dear Mother.

But weighty matters

we discussed,

far from idle,

and now would have

advice and counsel.

 

Samthann: My sons, proceed.

your burning eyes

and earnest gaze

bid me spare

the rod this day.

 

I.

Maelruan: Mother, we are young;

God speaks to us with

heat and fire.

Our mentors here,

weighed down by years,

shackle us

with Psalms and prayers,

day in day out,

the same old thing.

 

Fergall: How many times must we

beg God’s mercy on

calloused knees?

We tire of

the same old Rule,

the drone of ancient

prayers in choir.

We have the Spirit,

we need not men,

we want to set the

world on Fire!

 

Samthann: Zeal comes in two types,

yours teeters on the brink;

Beware the edge,

you have no wings

with which to fly.

new born eyes can’t

bear the sun,

better suited

are the young

to gaze on ancient stars,

allow their glow

to light your way,

illuminate hearts

blurred by impatience.

Heed your guide:

ruin and death

succeed neglect.

Better the body

without a head

than a monk

bereft of soul-friend.

 

II.

Maelruan: Today before the dawn,

we entered church to light

the candles, prepare the way for

morning praise.

As we tended

to the lamps,

meager light

nudged dim shadows,

revealed three monks

hard at prayer.

 

Ferghall: Strange to observe,

each held their body

in a different manner.

one stood eyes closed

facing east, awaiting

(so it seemed)

the sun’s return.

Another sat against

a wall, gazing

rapt upon a cross

almost hidden

in the gloom.

a third lay face down

on the floor,

arms stretched wide,

murmured prayers

muffled by the stone.

 

Maelruan: These poses

lacked decorum,

most unfit for converse

holy and sublime;

which way is best,

most pleases God,

we argued half the morning.

 

Samthann: Each and all are proper.

Reverence makes a Home,

humble hearts a sanctuary.

devotion finds a posture,

when spirit guides the flesh.

pray as you can,

not as you can’t,

compare yourselves

to no one.

Dismiss anger,

jealous distractions,

allies of the Enemy.

 

III.

Maelruan: As I linger

over books, complex

pages crowded

with the ruminations

of the wise,

I long for the

freedom of my cell,

oratory’s quiet calm.

 

Ferghall: Study, Mother,

wears me out.

I would give my time

to God,

not the tomes of

learned men,

riddles of

the One and Three.

Simple prayer’s

enough for me.

 

Samthann: God gave you brains

to concentrate;

focus on the Word.

Romantic musings,

Pretense to piety,

please not the Lord.

Prayer is not

an idle whimsy,

this sacred work

demands your best.

Indulgent, lazy minds

hear not the King of Heaven.

In many ways God

speaks to us,

not the least in books.

Reflective reading

waters souls,

teaches what we did not know.

Train your mind to honest study,

a prudent mind embraces wisdom,

avoids insipid dreams of demons.

 

IV.

Maelruan: Mother, I’m complacent here,

these walls, my brothers,

all conspire,

to bid me rest

in human comforts,

not find in God

my heart’s desire.

 

Ferghall: We must leave all,

our books, the choir,

to wander far

through wild and

unsettled lands,

bring the Christ

to hardened hearts,

risk it all to

find ourselves in Him.

 

Samthann: To preach God’s Word,

to give up all familiar

ways, has its place,

I’m sure of that.

if called to do it,

do it well.

Yet keep in mind,

my little ones,

the Kingdom can be reached

from every land;

God’s throne must

be your only haven.

The soul in whom

the Spirit dwells,

may journey far

through all the worlds,

but always be at home.

 

 

 

The Obedience of Birds

I wrote this poem in honour of St. Columbanus. He was a seventh century Irish monk who was a disciple of St. Comgall of Bangor,and became one of the first and greatest Irish missionaries to the continent. He and those who followed him did much to reinvigorate Christianity among the violent and feuding Frankish monarchs, and to spread Christian learning again on the continent. Several of his powerful sermons and letters survive.

The Obedience of Birds

 

On the ruins of an old Roman road,

Columbanus pauses on his journey.

Beasts and Birds joyfully

dance around him,

like cats about the feet of their mistress.

 

Dreaming he sits on the trunk of a rotten oak,

the smell of the book in his lap

launches unexpected visions.

thoughts fly up through sheltering beams of fir,

travel far to windswept Bangor,

Ireland in the extreme ocean.

 

Youthful burning fire of obedience;

wherever salvation led him,

there he would go.

His reverend master,

severely gentle Comgall,

teaching adorned with eloquence,

enkindled that deep desire

to see strange lands.

The discipline of psalmody

trained Columbanus for future strife,

secured for him joyful virtues

from phalanxes of unseen enemies.

 

Joined by brothers,

companions half-mad with trust,

and eager for salvation,

the bond of peace,

a worthy solace,

companions thrust into the sea,

escorted by gulls through

the windy watery desert.

 

Aliens amongst the Franks,

those fierce and strange

long-haired children

who have learned

to play with knives.

 

Wandering through dark woods

with books of holy scripture

strapped to shoulders,

food furnished by bark and herbs,

unterrified and full of courage.

 

Mountains and forests have their charms:

better to suffer from wild beasts

than the madness of men who

lose their souls,

evildoers who bawl envious detractions.

fierce Brunhilda, her viper Theuderich,

venting their wrath like

dogs fighting over a bone.

 

Great flocks of birds of prey

came to love and fear him.

sharp-clawed bears

discerned his power,

ravens returned stolen goods.

A wondrous thing,

the broken are restored to

joyful hope.

Pilgrims are joined by men whose

sincerity cannot be doubted,

a net in the water,

filled now with so many fishes,

he could scarcely lift it.

A marvelous thing,

this obedience of birds.

 

An owl rustles in the tree,

cascading images of times and lives

release their grip.

All memories converge again

as eyes focus on the page, while

sunbeams point the way to prayer.