The Lord

I say, “stay with me.” The Lord says, “then stay with Me.”

Ite, missa est. Deo gratias. Linger a little longer as a living tabernacle while the lights are going out and everyone is leaving. This is a gift for you. Look how quickly you enter a desert of silence. Stay silent while Jesus, dissolving within you, brings you into the mysterious communion of the Holy Trinity. Stay here and keep watch.

What about another moment? A few have gone by, now, already a few minutes of moments strung together like rosary beads. Another minute with Jesus. You want to stoke a flame of adoration? Remain longer by the fire. This is what you were born to do: adore. All this sadness for your sins, for others’ sins, for offenses against Jesus – here is where to repair the broken bonds, all of them. The flame will weld you to Jesus. Stay, and console the Lord. Stay, and give thanks. Adore.

Advertisements

Praying well

Fra Angelico, Saint Dominic adoring the Crucifixion. Convento di San Marco, Florence

Before I was Catholic I always wondered how to really pray well. I’d see the spiritual seem to enter into the presence of God and I’d wish I could get that close. I’d close my eyes and raise my hands in a praise song and try to lift my heart up to God. Perhaps I did to an extent. I will mention, also, that I found praying the Scriptures to be the best way back then. It was hard to go wrong with that. It still is! But there was a place deep inside that still thirsted. For me, it was very hard to be still with God. Errant thoughts would come and I thought I’d messed up in some obscure fashion. I had some good models but no saints beyond the first century to follow. Perseverance didn’t come easily when the object of my prayer was not definite.

Then I found Catholicism, and I was returned to sanctifying grace. Initially a highly intellectual journey, my heart gradually found anchors, and one night – all night, really – I found myself in front of the exposed Host in a golden sunburst monstrance, looking at the Sun to Whom my life belonged.

I couldn’t stop looking. “My Lord and my God!” ran through my mind repeatedly. At other points I meditated on all my life until now leading to this moment, or on mysteries of the Rosary. However, what gave me great peace was that I didn’t have to specifically think thoughts so much as fix my eyes on Jesus. I’d found the secret, to me at least, of praying well. I forced my eyes to stay open as the night wore on, because I could not possibly be doing anything better with my life right then than to adore, adore, adore. And thanks be to God, it was far simpler than I had ever feared.

As I continue down the pilgrimage of Catholic life, I’ve come to understand a little bit more about other kinds of prayer. But for me, what I love best is that simple gazing with Christ Himself as the object. And I know that Christ Himself is gazing back.

The Beatific Vision consists of beholding the Face of God unveiled. Adoration is a foretaste. With St. Ambrose, I pray and give thanks:

Face to face,
Thou hast made thyself known to me, O Christ;
I have found thee in thy mysteries.

Night adoration

Here’s a little corner of my room. At night, the construction next door quiets. So does my mind. It’s easy to spend that time before sleep on the introspection and worry that accompany the silence – or on distracting myself from that prospect – but I’d had enough of that. Why not turn my mind outwards towards the King of Love? So I knelt before this little shrine, leaving no light on but the electric candles lighting the Holy Face of Manoppello along with faces from my current roster of heavenly friends and the Pope. And keeping that mysterious gaze from the Holy Face in mind, I transported myself to the chapel where I first encountered Jesus at great length: a humble “chapel of reservation” with glass for walls, a twenty-four hour access code, a back facing the murmuring midnight traffic of a sprawling town, a smattering of chairs, one kneeler, and the only thing that mattered, the One Thing Necessary, Christ hidden in the tabernacle. I prostrated myself before Him as if I were there in person. It was like coming home.

Or, in a sense, it was like getting to work. Leaving myself open for Christ to work in me. Joining Christ as He commenced His great work, the Passion, in the dark garden, and perhaps offering Him some little consolation. Joining others, like Fr. Macrae, when they offer Mass or awaken in the night to flee to Christ’s arms. Working, somehow, for those who left Christ in their despair or who never found Him in the first place, who now lie awake without peace. For these Christ held vigil and died. But for Christ’s mercy I would be there myself, again.

And when my life didn’t turn out how I thought it would, I felt here the impulse to dredge up my list of failures lessen. For in the invisible radiance of His Face I found Him upon Whom my life turns.

The little red light

I enter a church and look for the Lord.  It’s what one does.  In the Basilica of Sacre-Coeur, it is easy: He is radiant in His Eucharistic glory, as a large Host, above the high altar, visible from far back outside the open front door.  Not that I recognized him even then when I visited that church before I was Catholic.  I lacked the eyes of faith to see – and I didn’t even know what the Catholics believed about the Eucharist.

Nowadays, I need to know where the Lord is.  Where do I tell my heart to go and silently dwell?  Where do I turn my gaze?  The little red light points Him out.  How privileged it is, to constantly act as a lighthouse for the safe harbour of the Blessed Sacrament!  It invites us to make the act of Eucharistic faith which should itself be constantly burning inside our souls.  It bids us be silent.  It casts light, as it were, on the Eucharistic Face.  Oh Lord, let me be like that red lamp quietly burning in the night before Your tabernacle!  Let me be like You, Whose Heart constantly burns with love for us and bids us adore!