A TIME OF GIFTS

Mosaic in the church of Sant'Apollinare, Ravenna

Another text from my favourite hermit, Sr Emmanuelle Billoteau, this time a meditation on the Beatitudes --
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.
Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness: for they shall be filled.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness' sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

THE CHARTER OF THE KINGDOM

The Beatitudes point us to a favoured road to the kingdom of God. The road of those who let themselves be inhabited and profoundly worked upon by the Holy Spirit, for that is where the wellspring of all joy is found. A paradoxical joy of which no one can rob us (cf. Jn 16:22).

Preparation

“O God, thou art my God: early will I seek Thee. My soul thirsteth for Thee.” (Ps. 63:1-2)

Observation

The evangelist gives the proclamation of the Beatitudes a solemn introduction, by a redundancy that attracts the reader’s attention: “And he opened his mouth, and taught them, saying . . .”. Everyone familiar with the Bible will quickly see the link with the gift of the Torah on Mount Sinai. And that only emphasises the differences all the more, for we are now at another stage of the history of salvation. God no longer speaks from on high and in fire, but face to face; no longer to one man, Moses, charged with transmitting His message, but to the multitude. And what does Jesus say? That the road to the Kingdom goes via places one does not automatically expect it to cross: inner poverty, gentleness, tears . . . In short, it goes via the Cross, i.e. via a death of self-sufficiency, of the dream of omnipotence, and via a consent to human vulnerability. The first beatitude, that of the poverty of spirit, is, clearly, the key that opens all the others, because it allows us to receive the gift of God.

Meditation

Perhaps we may reread the Gospel in its entirety to see how Jesus lived these beatitudes: in receiving everything from the Father, in forgiving his persecutors, etc. That way we will find that the Beatitudes offer us a way of conforming ourselves to Christ, he who “became Man that man might become God” (St Irenæus). For we do need to become like him in order to be resurrected with him (cf Ph. 3). So it is up to each of us to incarnate these words in our own life, including the necessary looking toward Jesus, listening to the Spirit, being personally imaginative. The unquestioning openness of Zacchæus, the tears of Mary of Magdala, may also inspire our practice. By whatever opening, let us allow the Beatitudes to enter our life, to evangelise our concept of happiness and to stimulate our pilgrimage toward God.

Prayer

“Praise the Lord, O my soul: and all that is within me, praise His holy Name!” (Ps. 103:1) 

A TRUMP VOTER, A COLLEGE PROFESSOR, AND THE MAYOR OF PARIS WALK INTO A BAR . . .

  

Three events.

One: A recent New York Times column by Thomas Edsall who attempted, with the help of some current social psychologists, to make sense of the mentalité of those who enthusiastically support Donald Trump’s election campaign. Much of the general resentment felt by the typical Trump voter, Edsall claims, is the resentment felt by those who feel their freedom, their small liberties of thought and action, being taken away, or at least impugned and contemned, by those who claim to be more intelligent, better educated, more moral and more concerned with the General Good. The freedoms concerned are not necessarily either good or nice; the consciousness of this only adds to the felt resentment when they are taken away. The villain doing the taking-away is named, for want of a better term, Political Correctness; and the vague guilt mixed in only fuels the anger.

Two: On the other side of the coin – perhaps: perhaps just an adjacent side of a polygon – is a recent column by the very humanitarian Nicholas Kristof, on “Liberal Intolerance,” in which he chided American academia for its intolerance toward conservatives, particularly evangelical Christians, and for which he got a flood of furious comments from liberals who felt that “idiots” have no place in their institutions.

Three: On this morning’s French radio news, an announcement by the Socialist mayor of Paris, Anne Hidalgo, that as of July 1 all cars older than 1997 will be banned from the city of Paris between 8 AM and 8 PM. A laudable anti-pollution measure, to some; for others, a hindrance for the poor who cannot afford newer cars to get to their few and hard-won jobs. Never mind, says the mayor: we will give them free passes on public transit. But that would also force them to trade the small space of comfort and privacy that is a car (even an old banger in a traffic jam) for standing-room-only sardine-space in commuter trains (which also, in France, go on strike regularly).

All this made me – one of the Politically Correct: educated, reasonably moral, reasonably well off – very thoughtful, as I said. If we consider we are objectively right, we have an instant and pressing duty of charity toward those who, we think, are wrong. And the very first part of that pressing duty is to call into question our own opinions and attitudes. Opinions, because it is possible that those we disagree with may not be entirely wrong, and their opinions may at the least be understandable; attitudes, because it is our duty, even in simple human kindness, to approach the bloke or the woman next door, beside us in the waiting-room, or holding forth in a bar, to quote the saying, “as someone fighting a desperate battle you know nothing about.”

What are the consequences for a Christian? At many moments, one could see this as merely the world, shouting. In so far as it is media-speak and does not touch our own lives, we should be right to tune it out. On the other hand, it may impinge, in a waiting-room, in a bar, or during a dinner with friends. And then our hand will show. Have we, in quieter moments, thought about such things? Have we, at times, called our instinctive and even our considered opinions into question? Are we prepared to distinguish between our beliefs and our human understanding and loving-kindness? Do we ask ourselves how our socially responsible opinions and attitudes hold up under the Cross? These are not rhetorical questions. They may hold up; we may distinguish, and love. But what the Cross does is ask the question, and make us ask it also.

As the Carthusians say, Stat Crux, dum volvitur orbis. The world turns: the Cross stands.

LATE AND SOON

In a time when many are shaken; in the winter season when sunshine is rare; at moments when ways ahead are unclear or menacing; one aid -- never easy, but always there -- is the existence of the Carthusians. Above is their symbol: the seven stars are St Bruno and the six companions with whom he founded the Order; the motto explains the image: "Stat crux dum volvitur orbis" -- "the Cross stands, while the world turns". To their writings, always anonymous, we can turn when the world is too much with us. And from one of their books,  The Wound of Love: a Carthusian Miscellany (Leominster: Gracewing, 1994), I share this magnificent passage of consolation.

           The encounter that love desires, between God and me, involves my whole being. Its rendezvous will be the truth, communion between my true self and the true God. But who am I? I enter into the deep caverns of my spirit in order to discover myself and then to be able to give myself. I encounter my demons, the dark forces that dwell in me. I name some of them, but they are legion. I try to determine my interior face, but it dissolves into a thousand changing masks. I want to offer my heart, but my freedom shows itself host to innumerable determinisms, the majority of which elude me. So, am I only the ephemeral confluence of impersonal and obscure forces?

            No, even if all the ‘matter’ of my being were such, my spirit can look at it from outside and say yes or no to it. Seeing what little light I have, I can trust in the light that comes from God and receive from his word the ultimate knowledge of myself. So I know, in faith, that I am made in the image of God, a subject endowed with freedom, called by God to a communion of love, son of the Father in the Son, by the gift of the Spirit. It is the Spirit alone who can tell me my name in the silence of my heart. So let me be silent in prayer in order to hear who I am. My chastity is humble attention before the mystery that dwells in me, that transcends me.

'It is the Spirit alone who can tell me my name in the silence of my heart. So let me be silent in prayer in order to hear who I am.'