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Texts: Angélika Mayr
| A wink from St. Joseph |
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In our hectic lives, it is important to take time off and slow down... at least temporarily. Last Monday, we escaped the busyness of our schedules by driving two hours to the Boston Athenaeum, a private library in the heart of the city, so that we might read and write in peace. Just around the corner is Saint Anthony's Shrine.
"All Are Welcome" is written on and above the door. In the dimness of the lights, people pray. Others light candles in two side chapels, wander around in silence or wait for confessions. At this moment, the upper church is closed, but will open for the celebration of Mass, I suppose so that walk-ins can still pray, undisturbed, in the first floor church.
To the left, Saint Joseph greets me twice, behind a votive display and above the side altar. He smiles at me and reminds me that he is never very far, though I can no longer greet him daily as I used to. Outside, an ambulance screams by. Inside, people drop in on their breaks; all is quiet and I find peace.
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| Pilgrimages of trust |
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Many of you know about my involvement in organizing Taizé prayers. Far from Saint Joseph's Oratory, I continue this ministry in a different way. Abraham and I have no regular day or place to pray. We rather go on a pilgrimage from city to city, wherever we are invited, especially during the seasons of Advent and Lent.
In the car, icons, candles, tripods, risers, guitars, and naturally the big Taizé cross are piled up. Sometimes, this chapel-on-wheels carries one or two more singers/musicians. On site, those who come discover that they form a praying community. Sometimes we are few. This Palm Sunday in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, we were 150 in an Anglican church.
From all denominations, spanning generations, we share our thirst for Christ and his message, confident of his presence in our lives and in our journeys. Some join us once or twice a year only. Others follow us from prayer to prayer, driving miles and miles simply to pray... together.
For more information on the Taizé community go to www.taize.frTo pray at the Oratory in the style of Taizé, consult the Taizé Prayers section of this web site |
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| To Give out of Love - short reflection on Philippians 2,11 |
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I have loved and given many times, many ways. I have even been blessed to love so fully “that I would have given my life” (John 15, 13). And so I thought I knew just how Jesus loved us.
Recently married after being single for too many years, I realize how self-sufficient we have become, and therefore how one-sided my view was, since giving can not be done without receiving. I do not doubt God’s love for me. But how ready, willing or able are we to receive and recognize God’s love, someone else’s love each and every time with all the wonder, gratefulness and joy properly attached to it?
If it is easy to “just do the job myself” instead of welcoming someone else’s help, how easy is it to go through life without fully appreciating what God has done for us? If I am amazed at all the signs of love my beloved can show me, why am I not as much at what God has given us? Do I take my faith for granted or is he not tangible enough to me so that I have trouble recognizing his signs?
God gave his only Son (John 3, 16), Christ gave his life (John 19, 30b) not only for the general, unknown multitude, but for ME. Can I spontaneously say Wow to that?!
“God’s Smile” Unknown source, taken from out-of–the–ordinary photos circulating on the internet.
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| St. Joseph's Table |
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The States might not have the largest shrine dedicated to St. Joseph in the world, but Italian-American communities celebrate March 19th with a feast - literally. Their special devotion goes back to medieval times when Sicily was saved from drought and famine through prayers to this Saint.
Because this feast often falls during Lent, the dishes are without meat: all manner of breads, vegetables, egg dishes, St. Joseph’s pasta (topped with bread crumbs representing the carpenters sawdust), and desserts. It is a time for getting together, sharing at “St. Joseph’s Table”, and giving thanks. Dried fava beans, which survived the Sicilian drought, are given as good luck tokens.*
At the Oratory, someone has been giving bread to pilgrims in that spirit, for as long as I can remember. In a way, it is a centuries old ex-voto, renewed every year. Like all the other signs of thanksgiving hanging in the votive chapel, this gift of bread reminds us of the power of prayer and of the joy, in a non-ostentatious way, of sharing the good news.
* Natalie Ermann Russell, St. Joseph’s Day, USA Weekend, Feb.29-March2, 2008, p. 20
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| Easter eggs |
The tradition of colouring eggs is less spread here in Maine. The strict observance of Lent has lost in popularity in the last decades. So what? Beyond aesthetics or a personal desire to prepare ones heart, what changes does it bring in the sharing of the Easter meal?
Both are foremost and ideally a family activity. Each way of decorating eggs, each Lenten season ask for an implication and an openness to the wonders of our world. It is a metamorphosis that we choose to undergo without knowing the results. Though we prepare ourselves each year to celebrate the death and resurrection of Christ our Lord, each experience remains nevertheless new and unique.
Resurrection implies change. It is Jesus that the women saw at the tomb, but it is also Christ. Decorating eggs, living the Lenten season is participating in a transformation of which we do not know the results, while still recognizing through it what it was. It is embellishing what is intangible to better anchor in us the paschal message. Happy Easter! Photo: Abraham A. Schechter
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| ''Come, follow me'', Jesus said, ''and I will make you fishers of men''. At once, they left their nets, Mt 4:19-20 |
A friend asked me what faith – taking a leap of faith – was. As I thought about it, my own journey came back to me. I had been happily working for 7 years at the Oratory when I woke up one night. Would I leave everything to go to Maine? As the question and the ensuing panic rose, I also clearly saw the answer. No matter my objections and fears, the fact that I was asking the question meant that I was also – though unconsciously – sure of my answer.
Taking a leap of faith is leaving something behind - or going towards something - when, deep inside, you know that this is what you have to do, beyond all that could hold you back. A year after this fateful night, I have left my job, my family and friends, my city, activities and Parish to embark on a great Journey. Beyond a dot on the map, I did not know where I was going, whom I would meet or what my future would be like.
As I settle slowly in and create a family of my own, I search for new friends, new work, new every-day life. I do not know what lies ahead, but I know I have made the right choice for me. “Letters from Maine” incorporates some of my reflections and discoveries. Photo: Abraham A. Schechter
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| Perseverance as a means to meditation |
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During the long months that led me ultimately to Maine, I crocheted two things. What’s my point besides gloating? Each piece has been a preparation towards long awaited joy. A very soft cape would keep me warm during my January wedding; a blanket would welcome a child to be born to a new friend of mine.
As any good reflection, they are creations of time, love and labour. Beyond a general idea, it is difficult to predict the final results of these masterpieces, especially when there is no pattern to begin with. Sometimes, it is necessary to undo many hours of work to correct and start over. The mind, busy counting stitches, meditates meanwhile on the happiness to come. It is a desert experience, where one needs to count each grain of sand before being able to hear the song of the well and the laugh of the Little Prince. (Saint-Exupéry, Antoine, Le Petit Prince)
The crochet projects are over. The cape has been used and is now filled with memories. The blanket has been given and will keep a little treasure warm, before becoming one itself. As for the reflections, they go on with each drop of water that is given to me to drink.
Photo: Abraham A. Schechter
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| Christmas with the Quakers |
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Recently arrived in Maine, I was still caught in the whirlwind of moving and settling in, and therefore had had no time to prepare my heart for the holidays. On December 24th at 5 p.m., a friend handed me my coat and said: “Come”. I followed him to a small church consisting of one bare room with several rows of chairs all around it. Only a few candles shone, illuminating faces eager for the celebration to come.
For almost an hour, I sat in a filling silence, barely interrupted by a few carols and bible readings. So as not to distract the children, it was only at the end that light was spread – as opposed to throughout the evening – flame to flame, person to person, in a way I usually associate with Easter. But if light shone at our Christ’s resurrection, why not also at the remembrance of his birth?
I came home, my heart open to the wonders of the night. We lit candles, sang carols, read the same bible excerpts. We opened presents and had a light meal. Later, we went to the traditional midnight mass, at the nearest Parish. Christ was born in simplicity and silence, by simple candle light, only interrupted by a few words and a lullaby.
For more information about the Quakers: www.fum.org
Photo: Abraham A. Schechter
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| Reaching out |
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On January 27th 2008, I read in the Boston Herald an article about Theology on Tap. In Boston, MA, as well as in 100 other locations in several countries, religious lecture series are held periodically in bars. This Catholic program started in Chicago in 1981 and is one way of reaching out to adults in their 20s and 30s.
How often have I heard complaints about the lack of young adults in (the Roman Catholic) Church, and the wish to “getting them back into the fold”. But young adults are spiritual and live their faith. Just differently than the older generations. Evangelism means taking the message to the people, not expecting them to run after you – and be disappointed if they don’t.
If bars or cafés are unconventional place to hear the Word, they are a place where adults gather and, with the comfort of a good chair and something to drink, can enjoy lectures and discussions about all kinds of topics… including Christ. After all, “Jesus and the apostles drank wine in their times of fellowship”.
Boston Herald - Article ''Theology on tap. Gatherings mix spirits, spirituality: www.bostonherald.com/news/regional/general/view.bg?articleid=1069216
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| If that be the only thing... |
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Lately, newspapers seem to only speak of politics and football. I am not a fan of these things. I vented my exasperation to a friend of mine, who promptly responded: This is good news. This means there are no natural catastrophes, no horrible massacres, and no storms of the century!
As Lent is beginning, this incident lets me count my blessings and reminds me of how favoured we are. Yes, there is war in Iraq. Each day, the numbers of dead and wounded are published. But this is far away. This is abstract. It is difficult to feel concerned. So I complain about my little woes. When I think about it, I have enough to eat, do not fear for my life, people are polite and welcoming… there are not even traffic jams on these roads!
Christ has given his life for us. If I remember his death, why consider these numbers almost as statistics? The upcoming elections give me a chance to act, to let my voice be heard against this insane deed that is war. Change will not happen in one day. But if, following in Christ’s footsteps, I do not start the wheels turning, if I do not reinforce the voice of those who do, how could things improve?
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| ''My Cathedral'' - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow |
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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was born in Portland, Maine in 1807. Although he spent his adult life in Massachusetts where he died in 1882, he was always nostalgic about Maine. This longing shows in many of his works, his most known being Évangéline. As I was browsing through his poetry, I fell upon this text. The next time you walk in the woods, recall it to your mind and let it speak to you, as it did to me!
My Cathedral – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Like two cathedral towers these stately pines
Uplift their fretted summits tipped with cones;
The arch beneath them is not built with stones,
Not Art but Nature traced these lovely lines,
And carved this graceful arabesque of vines;
No organ but the wind here sighs and moans,
No sepulchre conceals a martyr’s bones.
No marble bishop on his tomb reclines.
Enter! The pavement, carpeted with leaves,
Gives back a softened echo to thy tread!
Listen! The choir is singing; all the birds,
In leafy galleries beneath the eaves,
Are singing! Listen, ere the sound be fled,
And learn there may be worship without words.
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| Ode to resilience |
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On February 2nd, I stopped at St-Anthony’s Monastery, held by the Franciscans, in Kennebunkport, ME. Strolling through the snow, I followed hidden paths through woods and to the oceans inlets. Some trees were pillars for small shrines. Further, statues depicted devotionals. The air, characteristic of the Maine coast, smelled of pine and sea.
I was stopped in my tracks just around a bend. Beside giant rhododendrons – which I still have to get used to seeing – were trees covered with lush green leaves. A little further, fern and other ground plants were in full growth and colour, as you expect them to be in July. Winter’s grip might have been unmistakable all around but there it was.
When someone is deep in the face of adversity, we often try to instil hope through the promise of spring even after the harshest of winters. But who encourages those who keep on shining as they did during “the good days”, not in denial or defiance, but simply as they try to live each moment as best they can, given the circumstances? Unaware of it themselves, they become “miracles of survivals” and guiding lights for those who still tread in the darkness. To them, these plants paid a vibrant tribute.
Photo: Angelika Mayr
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| Prayers |
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On that same visit to St-Anthony’s Monastery, held by the Franciscans, in Kennebunkport, ME, I visited their outdoor chapel. A large nativity was still up, with magi and deer, and with a representation of a young Joseph. On the altar, all kinds of signs of faith had been left.
The chapel is obviously not in use during the cold season. Nevertheless, people find their way to it and leave prayers. As I looked beside the official box, I saw new and weather beaten papers, weighed down by figurines or the usual array of medals, rosaries, pennies and other religious symbols. Some messages were engraved in shells, others where entrusted to rocks, twigs and pine cones easily found about.
As a mantelpiece or a shelf, bearer of our homes’ most precious or fragile memories, the altar gathers these prayers. They are Christ’s memorabilia now. Only He now knows the true meaning of each, and he cherishes them all, even the prayers we can no longer see. My own prayers, now added to the pile, lingered as I left.
For further information: www.framon.net or www.franciscanguesthouse.com
Crédit photo: Angelika Mayr
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