'Suora Marianna' by Francesca Alexander

 

                                  ‘Suora Marianna’

Translated from the Italian by Francesca Alexander

 

Little children, will you listen to a simple tale of mine,

That I learned at San Marcello, in the Tuscan Apennine,

From an aged, saintly woman, gone to heaven long ago?

It has helped me on my journey, and as yet you cannot know

Half the wisdom stored within it, nor the comfort it can give;

But still, try and not forget it! You will need it if you live,

And some day, when life is waning and your hands begin to tire,

You will think of Marianna, and her vision by the fire.

 

In a convent, old and quiet, near a little country town,

On a chestnut-shaded hillside, to the river sloping down,

Dwelt a few of those good sisters who go out among the poor,

Who must labour late and early, and much weariness endure.

And the one who did in patience and in all good works excel,

Was the Sister Marianna, she whose story now I tell.

 

She was ever kind and willing, for each heavy task prepared:

No one ever thought to spare her, and herself she never spared.

All unpraised and all unnoticed, bearing burdens not her own,

Yet she lived as rich and happy as a queen upon her throne!

 

She was rich, though few would think it; for God gave her grace to choose,

Not the world’s deceitful riches, but the wealth one cannot lose.

There are many heap up treasure, but it is not every one

Who will take his treasure with him when his earthly life is done.

 

Was she beautiful? I know not.  She had eyes of peaceful light,

And her face looked sweet and blooming in its frame of linen white.

To the sick and heavy-hearted she was pleasant to behold,

And she seemed a heavenly vision to the feeble and the old.

 

She was happy when she wandered up the wandering mountain road,

Bearing food and warmth and blessing to some desolate abode,

Though the ice-cold winds were blowing, and her woman’s strength was tried;

For she knew who walked there with her, in her heart and by her side.

 

She was happy - oh, so happy! -in her little whitewashed cell,

Looking out among the branches, where they gave her leave to dwell,

In her scanty hours of leisure; for there, looking from the wall,

Were the dear and holy faces that she loved the best of all.

 

‘T was an old and faded picture, poorly painted at the best,

Of Our Lord, the Holy Infant, in His Mother’s arms at rest.

But her faith and loving fancy had a glory to it lent,

And the faces that she saw there were not what the artist meant.

 

And the wooden shelf before it she would often-times adorn

With the buttercup and bluebell, and the wild rose from the thorn,

Which she gathered, when returning, while the morning dew was bright,

From some home, remote and lonely, where she watched the sick by night.

 

So her life was full of sunshine, for in toiling for the Lord

She had found the hidden sweetness that in common things lies stored:

He has strewn the earth with flowers, and each eye their brightness sees;

But He filled their cups with honey, for His humble working bees.

 

But there came a time--poor sister--when her rosy cheek grew pale,

And her eyes, with all their sunlight, seemed to smile as through a veil;

And her step was weak and heavy, as she trod the steep ascent,

Where through weeks of wintry weather to her loving work she went.

 

‘T was a footpath, lone and narrow, winding up among the trees,

And ‘t was hard to trace in winter, when the slippery ground would freeze,

And the snow fall thick above it, hiding every sight and mark;

But she went that way so often she could climb it in the dark!

 

‘T was to nurse a poor young mother, by fierce malady assailed,

That she made the daily journey, and she never once had failed.

Now the short sharp days were over, and the spring had just begun;

Every morn the light came sooner, and more strength was in the sun.

 

All around the grass was springing, and its tender verdure spread,

Mid the empty burrs of chestnuts, and the old leaves, brown and dead,

Low and small, but creeping, creeping till it almost touched the edge

Of the daily lessening snowdrifts, under rock or thorny hedge.

 From the wreck of last year’s autumn, life awakened strong and new,

And the buds were crowding upward, though as yet the flowers were few.

 

Many nights had she been watching, and with little rest by day,

For her heart was in the chamber where that helpless woman lay;

There the flame of life she cherished, when it almost ceased to burn,

Praying God to help and keep them till the husband should return.

 

‘T was the old and common story, such as all of us can hear,

If we care to, in the mountains, every day throughout the year!

She who languished, weak and wasting, in the garret chamber there,

Had been once as strong and happy as the wild birds in the air.

 

She had been a country beauty, for the boys to serenade;

And the poets sang about her, in the simple rhymes they made,

And with glowing words compared her to the lilies as they grew,

Or to stars, or budding roses, as their manner is to do.

 

Then the man who played at weddings with his ancient violin,

With his sad, impassioned singing, had contrived her heart to win;

And one brilliant April morning he had brought her home, a bride,

To his farm and low-built cottage on the mountain’s terraced side.

 

‘T was a poor, rough home to look at, and from neighbours far away,

But with love and health and music there was much to make it gay.

They were happy, careless people, and they thought not to complain,

Though the door were cracked and broken, or the roof let in the rain:

They could pile the fire with branches, while the winter storms swept by;

For the rest, their life was mostly out beneath the open sky.

 

Time had come, and brought its changes, sunshine first, and then the shade,

Frost untimely, chestnuts blighted.  Sickness came, and debts were made;

Fields were sold, alas, to pay them; yet their troubles did not cease,

And the poor man’s heart was troubled thus to see his land decrease!

 

Fields were gone, and bread was wanting, for there now were children small;

Much he loved them, much he laboured ---but he could not feed them all.

So he left them, heavy hearted, and his fortune went to try

In the low Maremma country, where men gain or where they die,

With its soft and treacherous beauty, with its fever-laden air;

But as yet the fever spared him, and they hoped it yet would spare.

 

‘T was a long and cruel winter in the home he left behind:

Lonely felt the house without him, and the young wife moped and pined:

Still her children’s love sustained her, till this sickness laid her low;

When good Sister Marianna came to nurse her, as you know.

 

Week on week had hope been waning, as more feeble still she grew:

Marianna tried, but vainly, every simple cure she knew.

Then the doctor gave up hoping, and his long attendance ceased:

“I can do no more,” he told her; “you had better call the priest.

To her husband I have written; he will have the news today:

If he cares again to see her, he had best be on his way!”

Now the priest has done his office; at the open door he stands,

And he says to Marianna: “I can leave her in your hands,

I have other work that calls me; if tonight she chance to die,

You can say the prayers, good sister, for her soul as well as I.”

 

So they left her, all unaided, in the house forlorn and sad,

Still to watch and think and labour with what failing strength she had.

There was none to share her burden, none to speak to, none to see --

Save a helpful boy of seven, and a restless one of three,

And their little dark-eyed sister (she was five, and came between),

And a baby, born that winter, which the father had not seen.

 

Two days more!  Her friend lay sleeping, and she watched beside the bed:

In her arms she rocked the baby, while the Latin prayers she said,

Prayers to help a soul departing -- yet she never quite despaired!

Might not yet the Lord have pity, and that mother’s life be spared?

 

‘T was so hard to see her going --- and such a mother, kind and dear!

There was ne’er another like her in the country, far or near!

(So thought Sister Marianna.)  Yet to murmur were a sin.

But her tears kept rising, rising, though she tried to hold them in,

Till one fell and lay there shining, on the head that she caressed,

Small and pretty, dark and downy, lying warm against her breast.

 

She was silent; something moved her that had neither place nor part

In the grave and stately cadence of the prayers she knew by heart.

Then she spoke, with eyes dilated, with her soul in every word,

As to one she saw before her--- “Thou hast been a child, my Lord!

 

Thou hast lain as small and speechless as this infant on my knees;

Thou hast stretched toward Thy Mother little helpless hands like these:

Thou hast known the wants of children, then---Oh listen to my plea,

For one moment, Lord, remember what Thy Mother was to Thee!

 

Think, when all was dark around Thee, how her love did Thee enfold.

How she tended, how she watched Thee; how she wrapped Thee from the cold!

How her gentle heart was beating, on that night of tears and strife,

When the cruel guards pursued Thee, when King Herod sought Thy life!

How her arms enclosed and hid Thee, through that midnight journey wild!

Oh, for love of Thine own Mother, save the mother of this child!”

 

Now she paused and waited breathless; for she seemed to know and feel

That the Lord was there and listened to her passionate appeal.

Then she bowed her head, all trembling; but a light was in her eye,

For her soul had heard the answer: that young mother would not die!

 

Yes, the prayer of faith had saved her! And a change began that day:

When she woke her breath was easy, and the pain had passed away.

So the day that dawned so sadly had a bright and hopeful close,

And a solemn, sweet thanksgiving from the sister’s heart arose.

 

Now the night had closed around them, and a lonesome night it seemed!

For the sky was black and starless, and for hours the rain had streamed:

And the wind and rain together made a wild and mournful din,

As they beat on door and window, madly struggling to come in.

 

Marianna, faint and weary with the strain of many days,

On the broad stone hearth was kneeling, while she set the fire ablaze,

For the poor lone soul she cared for would, ere morning, need to eat.

“Now, God help me,” said the sister, “this night’s labour to complete!”

 

‘T was a meal she knew would please her, which she lovingly prepared,

Of that best and chosen portion, from the convent table spared,

Which she brought, as was her habit, with much other needed store,

In the worn old willow basket, standing near her on the floor.

 

On her work was much depending, so she planned to do her best;

And she set the earthen pitcher on the coals as in a nest,

With the embers laid around it; then she thought again, and cast

On the pile a few gray ashes, that it might not boil too fast.

 

But the touch of sleep was on her, she was dreaming while she planned,

And the wooden spoon kept falling from her limp and listless hand.

Then she roused her, struggling bravely with this languor, which she viewed

As a snare, a sore temptation, to be fought with and subdued.

 

But another fear assailed her -- what if she should faint or fall?

And tonight the storm-swept cottage seems so far away from all!

How the fitful wind is moaning! And between the gusts that blow,

She can hear the torrent roaring, in the deep ravine below.

 

And her head is aching strangely, as it never did before:

“Good Lord, help me!” she is saying: “this can last but little more!

O my blessed Lord and Master, only help me through the night--

Only keep my eyes from closing till they see the morning light!

 

For that mother and that baby do so weak and helpless lie,

And with only me to serve them, -- if I leave them, they may die!

She is better -- yes I know it, but a touch may turn the scale.

I can send for help tomorrow, but tonight I must not fail!”

 

‘T was in vain; for sleep had conquered, and the words she tried to say

First became a drowsy murmur, then grew faint and died away.

And she slept as sleep the weary, heedless how the night went on,

With her pitcher all untended, with her labour all undone;

On the wall her head reclining, in the chimney’s empty space,

While the firelight flared and flickered on her pale and peaceful face.

 

Was her humble prayer unanswered? Oh, the Lord has many a way

That His children little think of, to send answers when they pray!

It was long she sat there sleeping --- do you think her work was spoiled?

No, the fir-wood fire kept burning, and the pitcher gently boiled:

Ne’er a taint of smoke had touched it, nor one precious drop had been spilt;

When she moved and looked around her, with a sudden sense of guilt.

 

But her eyes, when first they opened, saw a vision, strange and sweet,

For a little Child was standing in the hearth-stone at her feet.

And He seemed no earthly infant, for His robe was like the snow,

And a glory shone about Him that was not the firelight glow.

 

And Himself her work was doing! For He kept the fire alive,

And He watched the earthen pitcher, that no danger might arrive

To the simple meal, now ready, with the coals around it piled.

Then He turned His face toward her, and she knew the Holy Child.

 

‘T was her Lord who stood before her! And she did not shrink nor start ---

There was more of joy than wonder in her all-believing heart.

When her willing hands were weary, when her patient eyes were closed,

He had finished all she failed in; He had watched while she reposed.

 

Do you ask of His appearance? Human words are weak and cold;

‘T is enough to say she knew Him ---that is all she ever told.

Yes, as you and I will know Him when that happy day shall come,

When, if we on earth have loved Him, He will bid us welcome home!

 

But with that one look He left her, and the vision all had passed,

(Though the peace it left within her to her dying hour would last!)

Storm had ceased, and wind was silent, there was no more sound of rain,

And the morning star was shining, through the window’s broken pane.

 

Later, when the sun was rising, Marianna looked to see,

O’er the stretch of rain-washed country, what the day was like to be,

While the door she softly opened, letting in the morning breeze,

As it shook the drops by thousands from the wet and shining trees.

 

And she saw the sky like crystal, for the clouds had rolled away,

Though they lay along the valleys, in their folds of misty grey,

Or to mountain sides were clinging, tattered relics of the storm.

And among the trees below her she could see a moving form,

‘T was the husband home returning, yes thank God! He came at last:

There was no one else would hasten up that mountain road so fast.

 

Now the drooping boughs concealed him, now he came in sight again;

All night long had he been walking in the darkness, in the rain;

Through the miles of ghostly forest, through the villages asleep,

He had borne his burden bravely, till he reached that hillside steep.

And as yet he seemed not weary, for his springing step was light,

But his face looked worn and haggard with the anguish of the night.

 

Now his limbs began to tremble, and he walked with laboured breath,

For he saw his home before him, should he find there life or death?

How his heart grew faint within him as he neared the wished-for place!

One step more, his feet had gained it, they were standing face to face.

“God has helped us!” was her answer to the question in his eyes;

And her smile of comfort told him that the danger had gone by.

 

It was morning now, fair morning! and the broken sunlight fell

Through the boughs that crossed above her, where the buds began to swell,

As down the sloping pathway, that her feet so oft had pressed,

Went the Sister Marianna to her convent home to rest.

 

It was spring that breathed around her, for the winter strove no more,

And the snowdrifts all had vanished with the rain the night before.

Now a bee would flit beside her, as she lightly moved along;

Or a bird among the branches tried a few low notes of song.

 

But her heart had music sweeter than the bird-notes in her ears!

She was leaving joy behind her in that home of many tears:

Hope was there, and health returning; there were happy voice and smile,

For the father at his coming had brought plenty for a while.

 

And she knew with whom she left them, for herself His care had proved,

When her mortal eyes were opened, and she saw the face she loved,

On that night of storm and trouble, when to help her He had come,

As He helped His own dear Mother in their humble earthly home.

 

As she went the day grew warmer; sweeter came the wild bird’s call;

Then, what made her start and linger? ‘T was a perfume, that was all:

Faint, but yet enough to tell her that the violets were in bloom;

And she turned aside to seek them, for that picture in her room.

 

Ack. ‘The Hidden Servants and other very old stories’

--- told over again by Francesca Alexander.

(Published by David Nutt, at the sign of the Phoenix, Long Acre, London.1911.)

 

*********************

Francesca Alexander was the daughter of an American artist and lived most of her life in Italy. A deeply religious woman, Protestant by upbringing, she had this to say about her work, “With regard to this present collection of ballads, I can tell its history in a few words. When I was a young girl many old and curious books fell into my hands and became my favourite reading (next to the Bible, and perhaps, the Divina Commedia), as I found in them the strong faith and simple modes of thought which were what I liked and wanted. Afterwards in my constant intercourse with the country people, and especially with old people, whom I always loved, I heard a great many legends and traditions, often beautiful, often instructive, and which, as far as I knew, had never been written down.” As she grew older Francesca gradually lost her sight, limiting her writing opportunities, but persuading her to adopt poetry in translating these many works, which she believed made the stories ‘vivid and comprehensible’ particularly for children, but also for older people. In her letter Francesca, who for most of her life worked as an artist, commented that “when the Lord took from me one faculty, He gave me another, which in no way is impossible. And I think of the beautiful Italian proverb: ‘When God shuts a door He opens a window.’ “

Cardinal Manning, when writing to Mr Ruskin in 1883 to thank him for a copy of Francesca’s ‘Story of Ida’, writes :---“It is simply beautiful, like the Floretti di San Francesco.  Such flowers can grow in one soil alone.  They can be found only in the Garden of Faith, over which the world of light hangs visibly, and is more intensely seen by the poor and the pure in heart than by the rich, or the learned, or the men of culture.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saints Peter and Paul

                                     

                                       Saint Peter   (European School 18th c.)

The 29^th June is a special day when the Church celebrates the lives of two of the earliest and well known of the Christian Saints, Saints Peter and Paul.

St Peter was a fisherman by trade, plying his skills on the Sea of Galilee which  is in Israel bordering Syria, with his usual crew the brothers James and John. One morning whilst preparing to ‘shut shop’ after a particularly unproductive night during which they had caught no fish, they were spoken to by Jesus Christ, aged then about 30 years, who was unknown to them, but was watching from the shore.  Having complained that they had caught nothing all night, Peter was then told by Christ to cast his nets again. He was sceptical but reluctantly did as Christ suggested, and so many fish were caught in the nets that he had to call for help from other fisherman at the scene. This inexplicable event and incredibly large catch was recognised by Peter as the work of God, the first of many ‘miracles’ which he was to witness. Christ invited him to join Him as His disciple and become a ‘fisher of men’, which he did, as also did his colleagues James and John.  These three became the first of the twelve Apostles chosen by Christ, remaining with Him until he was crucified. During this time Peter was appointed by Christ as Head of His newly founded Church on Earth, the Catholic Church, which today numbers 1.378 billion baptized Catholics throughout the world.

 St Paul was born a Roman citizen, and as a young man with political ambition, became infamous for his ruthless single-minded persecution of Christians. This stopped after he was mysteriously struck from his horse while on the road to Damascus when he heard the voice of God Who asked him why he was persecuting Christians so cruelly. Recognising the error of his ways, Paul’s conversion to Christianity was immediate, and thereafter he spent the rest of his life preaching the reality of Christ’s resurrection from the dead and His teachings that men must follow to please God and attain eternal salvation.  St Paul’s life involved great physical and spiritual suffering, which he describes in his letter to the Corinthians, not out of any sense of vain-glory but for the enlightenment of the souls committed to his charge:-

“Of the Jews five times did I receive forty stripes, save one. Thrice was I beaten with rods, once I was stoned, thrice I suffered shipwreck, a night and a day I was in the depth of the sea.  In journeying often, in perils of waters, in perils of robbers, in perils from my own nation, in perils from the Gentiles, in perils in the city, in perils in the wilderness, in perils in the sea, in perils from false brethren.  In labour and painfulness, in much watching, in hunger and thirst, in fasting often, in cold and nakedness.” et al. (Ch.11  v. 24-27. St Paul’s letter to the Corinthians.)

                                              Saint Paul Preaching in Athens   (Raphael)

 Both St Peter and St Paul suffered martyrdom for their faith, at the hands of both Jewish and Roman authorities who regarded Christianity as a threat to their position of power. Saint Peter was crucified and insisted that he be crucified upside-down as he was not worthy to imitate the death of his leader and master, Jesus Christ.  St Paul as a Roman citizen was protected from crucifixion, and although there is no recorded details of his death, he is  believed to have been decapitated by his captors, this being the customary manner of execution for men such as he.

In the Mass for the feast-day of St Peter and Paul, the Epistle relates the details of a particularly striking miracle involving St Peter:-

            ‘In those days, Herod the king stretched forth his hand to afflict some of the Church:  and he killed James, the brother of John, with the sword; and seeing that it pleased the Jews, he proceeded to take up Peter also. Now it was in the days of the azymes: and when he had apprehended him, he cast him into prison, delivering him to four files of soldiers to be kept, intending after the Pasch to bring him forth to the people. Peter therefore was kept in prison; but prayer was made without ceasing by the Church unto God for him.  And when Herod would have brought him forth, the same night Peter was sleeping between two soldiers, bound with two chains; and the keepers before the door kept the prison. And behold, an angel of the Lord stood by him, and a light shined in the room; and he, striking Peter on the side, raised him up, saying: Arise quickly. And the chains fell off from his hands; and the angel said to him: Gird thyself and put on thy sandals. And he did so.  And he said to him:  Cast thy garment about thee and follow me.  And going out, he followed him: and he knew not that it was true which was done by the angel; but he thought he saw a vision.  And passing through the first and the second ward, they came to the iron gate that leadeth to the city, which of itself opened to them; and going out, they passed on through one street, and immediately the angel departed from him.  And Peter coming to himself, said: Now I know in very deed that the Lord hath sent His angel, and hath delivered me out of the hand of Herod, and from all the expectation of the people of the Jews.’ (Acts of the Apostles Ch. 12 vs. 1-11)

These events occurred some 2000 years ago, yet the battle between good and evil continues unabated.

Today the world faces the frightening prospect of a take-over by a powerful group of pagan elitists, who have been planning over many decades to take control of the world. Currently they have infiltrated and are attempting to  control  the major governments  of the world, politically, economically, militarily, including  all matters relating to health, education, finance, and even ‘religion’. They aim for total and absolute power over all nations under ‘one-world government’. They preach the Malthusian policy of de-populating the Earth, planning to reduce the world’s population by billions.  They do not believe in God the Creator of the Universe, and they have adopted the role of  Lucifer at the time of Creation. Lucifer failed then as the elite will surely fail now,  but we need God’s help, for this is a spiritual battle. 

The world must return to God,  acknowledging His omnipotence and obeying His commandments.  Recognition of Jesus Christ, God the Son made Man, is necessary for our eternal salvation, for He suffered a cruel and unjust death for our sins, in order that we might be saved. God loves us and wants to help us, but we must go to Him.

“Put you on the armour of God, that you may be able to stand against the deceits of the devil.  For our wrestling is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers, against the rulers of the world of this darkness, against the spirits of wickedness in the high places. Therefore, take unto you the armour of God, that you may be able to resist in the evil day, and to stand in all things perfect.”  (St Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, Ch.6 vs.11-13)

Saints Peter and Paul, pray for us all.

'Life of Christ' by Fulton Sheen (Bp)

 

 

I am reading the book ‘Life of Christ’ by Bishop Fulton J Sheen, published in 1959, and find it spiritually informative and refreshing in this age of the diabolically inspired ‘Great Reset’ agenda. I hope that you too share my feelings.

                                   

                                                'The Early Life of Christ'

Bethlehem.

Caesar Augustus, the master book-keeper of the world, sat in his palace by the Tiber.  Before him was stretched a map labelled ‘Orbis Terrarum, Imperium Romanum’. He was about to issue an order for a census of the world; for all the nations of the civilised world were subject to Rome.  There was only one capital in this world: Rome; only one official language: Latin; only one ruler: Caesar. To every outpost, to every satrap and governor, the order went out:  every Roman subject must be enrolled in his own city. On the fringe of the Empire, in the little village of Nazareth, soldiers tacked up on walls the order for all the citizens to register in the towns of their family origins.

            Joseph, the builder, an obscure descendant of the great King David, was obliged by that very fact to register in Bethlehem, the city of David. In accordance with the edict, Mary and Joseph set out from the village of Nazareth for the village of Bethlehem, which lies about five miles on the other side of Jerusalem.  Five hundred years earlier the prophet Micheas had prophesied concerning that little village:

                                And thou, Bethlehem, of the land of Juda,

                              Art far from the least among the princes of Juda,

                        For out of thee will arise a leader who is to be

                              The shepherd of my people Israel.

                                                                                   Mathew 2:6

Joseph was full of expectancy as he entered the city of his family and was quite convinced that he would have no difficulty in finding lodgings for Mary, particularly on account of her condition.  Joseph went from house to house only to find each one crowded.  He searched in vain for a place where He, to Whom heaven and earth belonged, might be born.  Could it be that the Creator would not find a home in creation?  Up a steep hill Joseph climbed to a faint light which swung on a rope across a doorway.  This would be the village inn.  There, above all other places, he would surely find shelter. There was a room in the inn for the soldiers of Rome who had brutally subjugated the Jewish people;  there was room for the daughters of the rich merchants of the East; there was room for those clothed in soft garments, who lived in the houses of the king; in fact, there was room for anyone who had a coin to give the inn-keeper; but there was no room for Him who came to be the Inn of every homeless heart in the world.  When finally, the scrolls of history are completed down to the last words in time, the saddest line of all will be: ‘There was no room in the inn.’

            Out to the hillside to a stable cave, where shepherds sometimes drove their flocks in time of storm, Joseph and Mary went at last for shelter.  There, in a place of peace in the lonely abandonment of a cold windswept cave; there, under the floor of the world, He Who is born without a mother in heaven, is born without a father on earth.

            Of every other child that is born into the world, friends can say that he resembles his mother.  This was the first instance in time that anyone could say that the mother resembled the Child.  This is the beautiful paradox of the Child Who made His mother; the mother too, was only a child.  It was also the first time in the history of this world that anyone could ever think of heaven as being anywhere else than ‘somewhere up there’; when the Child was in her arms, Mary now looked down to Heaven.

            In the filthiest place in the world, a stable, Purity was born.  He Who was later to be slaughtered by men acting as beasts, was born among beasts. He Who would call Himself the ‘living Bread descended from Heaven’, was laid in a manger, literally – a place to eat.  Centuries before, the Jews had worshipped the golden calf, and the Greeks, the ass.  Men bowed down before them as before God.  The ox and the ass now were present to make their innocent reparation, bowing down before their God.

            There was no room in the inn, but there was room in the stable. The inn is the gathering place of public opinion, the focal point of the world’s moods, the rendezvous of the worldly, the rallying place of the popular and the successful.  But the stable is a place for the outcasts, the ignored, the forgotten. The world might have expected the Son of God to be born - if He was to be born at all - in an inn. A stable would be the last place in the world where one would have looked for Him.  Divinity is always where one least expects to find it.

            No worldly mind would ever have suspected that He Who could make the sun warm the earth, would one day have need of an ox and an ass to warm Him with their breath; that He Who, in the language of scripture, could stop the turning about of Arcturus, would have His birthplace dictated by an imperial census; that He Who clothed the fields with grass, would Himself be naked; that He, from Whose hands came planets and worlds, would one day have tiny arms that were not long enough to touch the huge heads of the cattle: that the feet which trod the everlasting hills would one day be too weak to walk; that the Eternal Word would be dumb; that omnipotence would be wrapped in swaddling clothes; that Salvation would lie in a manger; that the bird which built the nest would be hatched therein – no one would ever have suspected that God coming to this earth would ever be so helpless.  And that is precisely why so many miss Him.  Divinity is always where one least expects to find it.

            The Son of God made man was invited to enter His own world through a back door. Exiled from the earth, He was born under the earth, in a sense, the first Cave Man in recorded history. There He shook the earth to its very foundations.  Because He was born in a cave, all who wish to see Him must stoop. To stoop is the mark of humility.  The proud refuse to stoop and, therefore, they miss Divinity. Those however, who bend their egos and enter, find that they are not in a cave at all, but in a new universe where sits a Babe on His mother’s lap, with the world poised on His fingers.

            The manger and the Cross now stand at the two extremities of the Saviour’s life!  He accepted the manger because there was no room in the Inn; He accepted the Cross because men said, ‘We will not have this man for our king.’ Disowned upon entering, rejected upon leaving.  He was laid in a stranger’s stable at the beginning, and a stranger’s grave at the end.  An ox and an ass surrounded His crib at Bethlehem; two thieves were to flank His Cross on Calvary.  He was wrapped in swaddling bands in His birthplace, He was again laid in swaddling clothes in His tomb – clothes symbolic of the limitations imposed on His Divinity when He took a human form.

            The shepherds watching their flocks nearby were told by the angels:

                        This is the sign by which you are to know Him;

                               You will find a child still in swaddling - clothes,

                        Lying in a manger.

                                                                                       Luke 2:12 

He was already bearing His Cross – the only cross a Babe could bear, a cross of poverty, exile, and limitation.  His sacrificial intent already shone forth in the message the Angels sang to the hills of Bethlehem:

                        This day, in the city of David,

                                    A Saviour has been born for you,

                        The Lord Christ himself.

                                                                                        Luke 2:11

Covetousness was already being challenged by His poverty, while pride was confronted with the humiliation of a stable.  The swathing of Divine power, which needs to accept no bounds, is often too great a tax upon minds which think only of power.  They cannot grasp the idea of Divine condescension, or of the ‘rich man becoming poor that through His poverty, we might be rich.’  Men shall have no greater sign of Divinity than the absence of power as they expect it – the spectacle of a Babe Who said He would come in the clouds of heaven, now being wrapped in the cloths of earth.

            He, Whom the angels call the ‘Son of the Highest’, descended into the red dust from which we were all born, to be one with weak, fallen man in all things, save sin.  And it is the swaddling-clothes which constitute His ‘sign’.  If He Who is Omnipotence had come with thunderbolts, there would have been no sign.  There is no sign unless something happens contrary to nature.  The brightness of the sun is no sign, but an eclipse is.  He said that on the last day, His coming would be heralded by ‘signs in the sun’, perhaps an extinction of light. At Bethlehem the Divine Son went into an eclipse, so that only the humble of spirit might recognise Him.

            Only two classes of people found the Babe: the shepherds and the Wise Men; the simple and the learned; those who knew that they knew nothing, and those who knew that they did not know everything.  He is never seen by the man of one book; never by the man who thinks he knows.  Not even God can tell the proud anything! Only the humble can find God!

            As Caryll Houselander put it, ‘Bethlehem is the inscape of Calvary, just as the snowflake is the inscape of the universe.’ This same idea was expressed by the poet who said that if he knew the flower in a crannied wall in all its details, he would know ‘what God and man is’. Scientists tell us that the atom comprehends within itself the mystery of the solar system.

            It was not so much that His birth cast a shadow on His life, and thus led to His death; it was rather that the Cross was there from the beginning, and it cast its shadow backward to His birth. Ordinary mortals go from the known to the unknown submitting themselves to forces beyond their control; hence we can speak of their ‘tragedies’. But He went from the known to the known, from the reason for His coming, namely, to be ‘Jesus’ or ‘Saviour’, to the fulfilment of His coming, namely, the death on the Cross.  Hence, there was no tragedy in His life; for tragedy implies the unforeseeable, the uncontrollable, and the fatalistic.  Modern life is tragic when there is spiritual darkness and unredeemable guilt. But for the Christ Child there were no uncontrollable forces; no submission to fatalistic chains from which there could be no escape; but there was an ‘inscape’ – the microcosmic manger summarising, like an atom, the macrocosmic Cross on Golgotha.

            In His First Advent, He took the name of Jesus, or ‘Saviour’; it will only be in His Second Advent that He will take the name of ‘Judge’.  Jesus was not a name He had before He assumed a human nature; it properly refers to that which was united to His Divinity, not that which existed from all eternity.  Some say ‘Jesus taught’ as they would say ‘Plato taught’, never once thinking that His name means ‘Saviour from sin’.  Once He received this name, Calvary became completely a part of Him.  The Shadow of the Cross that fell on His cradle also covered His naming.  This was ‘His Father’s business’; everything else would be incidental to it.

                        (Ack. ‘The Life of Christ’ by Fulton Sheen. Published by Peter Davies London. 1959.)

'Mass for the People' by Caryll Houselander(1901-1954)

' Father O’Grady looked at his watch, the server was late. He checked a feeling of irritability and was shocked by the difficulty he felt in checking it. 

 Was sanctity within his reach after all, he asked; could his great hands lay hold of it, he who never knew the sweetness of this complete act of love; the unbroken prayer, the whole hour of meditation, the work accomplished, the sensible sweetness of the sacramental word spoken; even one hour out of the twenty-four, unbroken, for his personal delight! 

Could he who never knew that completeness in his soul, that inward closed circle of light, be a Saint? Could his day of fragments be a day in a Saint’s life?  

The answer came to him paralysing in its beauty; this broken life of his was the breaking of the bread, that in the broken bread, the whole Christ be given to his people. Soon, in a few minutes now, his people would be at the altar rails, opening their mouths like sparrows for their crumb of Life, and in their crumb of Life they would receive all Life, whole. 

 Father O’Grady paced up and down, rubbing his hands together to keep warm ---“Break me, dear Lord, but in the breaking of the Bread, be whole in Your Body upon earth!” 

 Lately, he had asked himself as he trudged home from the parish visits, what is the meaning of the lives of these unknown, insignificant people, who yet must somehow fulfil the strange prophecy, “And there are some of whom there is no memorial: who are perished as if they had never been born, and their children with them. But they were men of mercy, whose godly deeds had not failed.” 

 The priest was on the side of life, he had no other work, no other raison d’etre but to give life, and the life he gave could not be killed. He was not outside of the world’s love because he was a priest and alone, he was the heart of the world’s love, its core, because the Life of the World is born every day in his hands at Mass. 

He looked at his watch again. How late the boy was! He tried to say the Acts of Faith, Hope, and Charity, to fill his mind with the words of the prayers to dismiss his distractions. But it was no use. This morning, distractions got the better of him, do what he would. 

 At last, a clatter outside proclaimed the arrival of the little server. How often Father O’Grady had tried to impress upon this boy that he represented all the Christians in the world before the Altar of God when he answered Mass, and how well the Christianity of the world should brush its hair and clean its shoes and wash its hands, to enter the Holy of Holies and offer the heart of mankind! Today he was even more dishevelled than usual, tousled, smeary, his bootlace undone, and it was apparent that the World had overslept and tumbled straight out of bed, and would today be even more than usually absent-minded and clumsy --- yet Father O’Grady looked at the urchin tenderly, all his irritability passed. After all the world is like that, late, distracted, grimy, but with a good if unstable will to serve; and might not this sudden new tenderness in the priest’s heart be a reflexion from aeons and aeons away, of the tenderness of the Eternal Father, waiting from eternity for the scruffy, sniffing, unconcentrated, often unwashed, imperfect, weak, and loving Christian world, to come to Him. 

 “Tie your shoelace,” he said, “and damp down your hair --- and here, flick your face with this wet towel, and hurry now, put on your cotta, and light the candles.” And the dishevelled Christian World, transformed, in a smooth white cotta, with a wet golden curl, and nothing of ‘the old man’ left but the huge boots jabbing out from his cassock, walked out with the expression of a Botticelli angel, to light the candles for Mass. 

 Even during the few steps that he walked from the sacristy to the sanctuary, the humiliation of being himself left Father O’Grady. The emptiness, the dryness of his soul, ceased to matter at all. He had only to give himself now, to give himself to the words and the movements of the Mass, to give his body, his hands, his tongue, to give his whole being, easily, unresistingly, to move through the groove trodden out for him, to move in it like water flowing in the deep groove in the rock, worn through the heart of the world by generations of the adoration of men. 

 At the entrance to the sanctuary, he turned to the congregation and said, “this Mass is offered for the people of the parish.” 

 There were only a few people present, the little server, a handful of old women, an Irish sailor, and a very old man. But since Christ was present in them, the whole Christian world was there, so all the people of the parish for whom Mass was offered were there. 

 The dockers already loading and unloading the big ships; the sailors who had just put out to sea, and the sailors ploughing their way home; the factory girls on their way to work, making the streets gay with their bright skimpy finery; the women scrubbing the steps with their arms up to their elbows in soapy water; the mothers washing-up the menfolk’s early breakfast before waking the children; the children sleeping the warm, woolly sleep of early morning; the marketers setting up their stalls; the flower women in their shawls and their gents’ straw boaters, carrying their great baskets of bronze and red and yellow flowers; the patients in the hospitals, newly washed and smoothed in cool white wards, the night nurses, pale and craving for strong tea and sleep; the day nurses pinning their starched caps, and wondering if it would be fried bread and bacon, or only fried bread for breakfast; the old folk in the workhouse, sitting quietly on their wooden benches; the prisoners in the gaol, looking up at the slit of silver sky, through the high, narrow windows of their cells: all were there, at the Mass that was being offered for them, the people of the parish. 

 Father O’Grady made the Sign of the Cross. “In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, Amen,” and bowed down under the burden of the sins of the whole world. His own sins were a heavy enough load, and now he bowed under the weight of all sin. But when he straightened himself up from the Confiteor, the burden of the whole world’s sin, and his own with it, had fallen from his back, and his shoulders were strong. For it was Christ who rose and went up to the altar ---Christ who had seen evil, naked, face to face, Christ who had been brought down to the ground under the world’s sin, to sweat His blood into the dust, and Christ who has overcome the world. 

 The Mass moved forward with beautiful precision. “Kyrie Eleison.” “Christe Eleison.” Sharp, urgent little knocks at the door of Heaven. “Gloria in Excelsis Deo ……” The angel’s carillon swung into motion by the beating of a man’s heart, and onward, hurrying forward with the urgency of a lovers’ meeting. The bright, short prayers sparkling over the priest’s mind, bringing him swiftly to the Offertory.

 He lifted the un-consecrated Host, light as a petal on its thin golden paten, and with it lifted the simple bread of humanity, threshed and sifted by poverty and suffering. He offered the broken fragments of their love, made into one loaf. He lifted the wine and water mixed in the Chalice, and with it offered the blood and the tears of his people to God. And God accepted the offering, the fragments of love were gathered up into the wholeness of Love, and nothing was wasted. 

 The Mass moved swiftly, hurrying forward as if the longing of generations had set its urgent pace towards the climax. But now the pace grew slower, charged with so immense a momentum of Mystery that it could only move forward in larger, fuller, slower gestures. The wonder rising like the rising of the tide to the flood. And as the Miracle came closer and closer, time ceased to be at all. Simply, effortlessly, directly the Mass moved, not backward or forward in time, but into the eternal now of the Last Supper. Into the stillness of the Upper Room, where the voice of Christ fell upon the souls of His Apostles, like summer rain falling upon the sown earth.

 Slowly, exactly, Father O’Grady repeated the words of Consecration, his hands moved in Christ’s hands, his voice spoke in Christ’s voice, his words were Christ’s words, his heart beat in Christ’s heart:- “Who the day before He suffered, took bread in His holy and venerable hands, and lifting His eyes to Heaven towards Thee O God, His all-powerful Father, giving thanks to Thee, blessed and broke and gave to His disciples, saying TAKE AND EAT YE ALL OF THIS, FOR THIS IS MY BODY.”   Father O’Grady lifted up the consecrated Host in his short, chapped hands, the server rang a little bell, the sailor, the handful of very old women and the very old man bowed down whispering “My Lord and my God”, and the breath of their adoration was warm on their cold fingers. 

 

Father O’Grady was lifting up God. A cry arose from all over the world, “Come down from the Cross if you are the Son of God!” “Save yourself and us too if you are the Christ!” But Christ remained on the Cross. His fingers closed on the nails. He would not come down from the Cross. He would not dethrone the children, He would not discrown the poor, He would not scatter the fragments of the bread of love. He would not break faith with sinners or fail the failing. He would not forsake the young men coming up to die His death. 

 “Come down from the Cross! come down! come down! save yourself and us!” But Christ remained on the Cross. His fingers closed on the nails. The Crown of Thorns was in flower, the five ribs like the five fingers of the world’s pain gripped His heart, and His heart broke open and the river of the world’s life flowed out of it. A flood sweeping His heart and brain and flowing out into the tips of His fingers, swept through His Mystical Body. Through the eternal heart of Rome, through the lonely mind of her august Shepherd, out into the least and lowliest of men, and the last little infant howling at the touch of the waters of Baptism, the blood of the world’s life flowed into the fingertips stretched out on the Cross, measuring the reach and stretch and extremity and ultimate possibility of love. 

 “Come down from the Cross if you be the Son of God!” “Save yourself and us too if you are the Christ.” The world strained at the nails, wrenched and dragged, the Cross was shaken in the earth, bent like a tree in the storm, dragged earthward by the weight of man’s body, but it was rooted in rock, and the Cross was built to the shape of man, not man to the shape of the Cross. The world’s suffering was built and fitted to the size of each man, and the Cross stood. 

 “Come down, come down, come down!” But Christ would not come down from the Cross. The life of Riverside went on, the day’s work had begun, a ship was coming in from the sea, another putting out. An old man was dying, and a child was being born. The little server rang his silver bell. The people bowed down low. Time stopped. Father O’Grady was lifting up God in his large, chapped hands. Christ remained on the Cross. The blood and sweat and tears of the world were on His face. He smiled, the smile of infinite peace, the ineffable bliss of consummated love.' 

 Caryll Houselander (Ack. ‘Book of the Saviour’ an anthology, published Sheed & Ward, 1952.)