Sunday, 16 April 2017

See How They Run - Resurrection’s Twin Gazelles!

A poem based on Matthew's account of the resurrection of Jesus,
With the twin gazelles being the two Mary's who first witnessed to this glorious event.

'Noli Me Tangere,' Fra Angelico, 1440-1442.

 This is the night, when dawn first shewed her face,
When two Mary’s walking forth, lo what grace!
Heaven’s angel thundered down, shook the earth,
Rolled away thick tomb’s stone, announced rebirth
Stating thus in words of fire, blazing
Seraphic countenance, flash of lightening,
Robed in snow: “Tremble not ye maiden’s fair,
I know whom thou dost seek—he was slain up there
On Calvary’s crest, but He’s not here, nay!
For He has risen as He said, this day!
He’s torn the yoke of death, climbed Zion’s peak,
Opened wide heaven’s gate to all the meek
Rising like the sun, like an eagle glad,
With healing in His wings, so smile ye sad!
Midst angelic shouts, the harp, horn and lute,
An Exodus he led, followed limbo’s troop,
Riding forth like a stallion unsheathed
Thy fair Jesus before,” so he did speak,
“See for thyself sweet maids where he once lay,
Then go with haste announce this happy day!”
And seeing the empty tomb on they ran
When suddenly upon their way a man,
A man stood there upon the path aglow.
“Peace beloved daughters,” gentle and slow,
And falling on their knees they clasped his feet,
Weeping with awed delight, no words to speak,
As palped their hearts within their breasts, again
He spoke: “Be not afraid, I have risen
As I said. Go on make haste, and tell ye
My brethren to leave for Galilee,
For there I shall be, and there they’ll see me,”
And at that he disappeared, they could not see,
They paused enrapted, then looked at each other—
Off they ran like twin gazelles, and shudder
Did the soil beneath their feet, for never
Have human feet ran so quick—not ever
Since the dawn of time, not even Daphne
In Apollo’s chase outdid pace of these,
And nor has better news—what happy news! —
Been brought than that carried by these hinds’ shoes.
So enter in O blessed maids, my soul,
And let me hear again this day—unfold—
This happy news that’s past but never old.

16th April, 2017.

Friday, 14 April 2017

I Am Forgotten Like The Unremembered Dead

'Man of sorrows,' Anonymous, Reverse Painting on Glass, Spain, 19th century.

At this year’s Good Friday Passion liturgical commemoration, the following verse from the Responsorial Psalm (31:12) resonated with me:

I am forgotten like the unremembered dead.

Psalm 31 foretells the inner sufferings of Jesus throughout His life, and above all throughout His Passion and as He hung crucified on the cross. The above verse is no exception to this. One need only look around on Good Friday at our lapsed Christian society which has forgotten about Jesus and His sacrifice on the cross—reflected above all, by the sort of activities carried out on this solemn day. One can sense the grief this must have caused Jesus, who being Divine, knew full well the extent of today’s forgetfulness even as he hung dying at Calvary.

Yet as unfortunate as our society’s failure is to remember our Lord and His death, a people who do not believe and/or who perhaps through no fault of their own do not understand the significance of Jesus and His death, nor even the concept of redemption, can hardly be chided in an exacting way. Thus the onus falls on us Christians, on those who believe and know that Jesus is who He is, and what it is that He has done for us.

The pointing finger must face ourselves as we beg our Lord to help us truly and really remember Him. Not just to carry out the outward aspects of this Good Friday, from fasting to attending Stations of the Cross and the Passion liturgy, or by attending a sermon to watching The Passion of the Christ for the sixteenth time. These are good and recommended things, but the observance of them can fool us into thinking our remembrance of Jesus and His sacrifice is complete because we’ve checked the list, and have done as a Catholic does.

I am forgotten like the unremembered dead.

In these simple words our Lord laments being forgotten. Translating literally from the Hebrew the verse reads, “I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind.” The preposition כְּ means “as” or “like,” and a truth is revealed by means of it. “I am forgotten like the unremembered dead”—because Jesus, though alive, having risen from the dead, is forgotten and dismissed today as though he were a dead man. And not just any old dead man, but as an unremembered dead man. For one, unbelieving individuals, and generally speaking, society as a whole, does not believe Jesus rose from the dead, and so they forget Him as though He were dead. Yet we cannot rest on this as our scapegoat to avoid the call to self-conversion, and as a means of puffing ourselves up by passing the buck to that evil, wicked thing called ‘secular society’.

Perhaps we ourselves treat Jesus as though he were dead. Forgetting that He is truly and really alive, and that His Presence in our lives is not distant, removed and disinterested, but near at hand, bound up with the mess of our existence, and thoroughly intrigued by who we are and the lives we lead, and should be leading.

If Jesus was present with us in every waking moment of our ordinary day, what things would we cease doing? What things would we try and start doing, or do more of? How much more would we pray? How much more fervently and with how much more care would we pray, knowing Jesus is right there, and looking right at us? What would we do right now?

The fact of course is that Jesus is with us, we just have the tendency to forget it. The phrase, “Jesus is with you,” or “God is with you always” and other like statements can easily roll forth from our lips as nice sayings, and can begin to sound like the dripping of a tap to someone who ‘knows it already’. It’s considered as elementary Christian stuff, belonging to the Basic 101 Class.

Yet the question “Do I remember Jesus and His love for me by dying on the cross?” is always relevant, and we have to have the humility to confess that no matter who we are we do not remember Jesus how we should or how we could. This doesn’t mean we weep in despair, but that we simply ask Jesus to teach us how He personally wants us to remember Him—today, this hour, and right now.

Perhaps it will be by reading the Scriptures, such as the Gospel account of our Lord’s death. Perhaps by simply spending a minute in silence, invoking His Name in the belief that He is pouring His love into our hearts. Perhaps by catering to the need of someone in our household with the intent of doing so to please Jesus and to put one’s remembrance of Him into action. Perhaps by visiting our local church and by spending time with our Lord in the Eucharist, which is itself the abiding remembrance of His Life, Death and Passion passed down from the Last Supper.

When our Lord hung dead upon the cross a soldier came and pierced Him in the side. Our Mother the Virgin Mary was mystically pierced by the suffering’s of Jesus Himself as She stood before Him. It is a tradition on Good Friday to sing the Stabat Mater, where we ask the Virgin Mary to bring us to share in the piercing of Jesus and Herself:

Holy Mother! pierce me through,
in my heart each wound renew
of my Saviour crucified:

May Psalm 31 lend itself through the grace of God as the very lance by which we come to grow deeper in union with our Lord who loves us awfully much. May these words sink into our heart and stir us with compassion and gratitude for He who laments the rejection He faces from human hearts… including our own.

For all my foes I am an object of reproach,
a laughingstock to my neighbors, and a dread to my friends;
they who see me abroad flee from me.
I am forgotten like the unremembered dead.

Then switching slant, we might recognise and remember our Lord by borrowing the words of the Good Thief: “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

'Christ and the Good Thief,' Titian (Tiziano Vecellio), 1566.

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Enter the Wilderness

'Desert Speed,' James Xu

OUR TREK THROUGH LIFE IS ONE BIG SOJOURN through a desert wilderness. An Egypt left behind. A Promised Land ahead. With the haunting allure of Egypt’s onions and garlic tugging at one’s appetite along the way, whilst manna is providentially sprinkled along one’s path as strength for the journey ahead. The sun beating down one moment, eliciting sweat and angst; feet heavy, body sore, mind taxed—an entree from purgatory or hell; and a cool refreshing spring the next. Bringing with it fresh hope, new vision, and awakened creativity and motivation—as though a slice of paradise has been served early.

All in all, it’s the natural ‘up’ and ‘down’ fluctuation of the life we’re used to—indicative of our fallen human state. A fluctuation which C.S. Lewis calls the law of undulation.[1]

That’s the big picture. That life here bellow is one big desert—on the threshold of the heavenly land of promise at best, with Pharaoh and his army, that is the devil and his warping of the world, ever at our heels threatening to enslave us to the dark ways of our false-selves, if only we yield up the quest which those around us, like the Israelites of old, deride as hopeless and even fantastical.

The Many Deserts of Life

Yet on another level, on the small scale, we pass through hundreds and thousands of deserts in a lifetime. In fact, every day is in some way a desert in itself, with a mini Promised Land at the end.

On the literal side of things, we taste the Promised Land of eternal bliss when at the end of a day we hit the hay and find that welcome rest. Such rest can sacramentally lead us to savour the grace of eternal rest won by Christ, who rested in death after completing the work of the new creation on the cross, declaring “It is finished” (Jn 19:30). Just like the Father who rested when He had finished the work of creation.

Yet we don’t always find this tangible rest.

Fortunately, that’s no hindrance at all to experiencing God’s grace. For on the spiritual side, having passed through the desert of a day, its Promised Land lies in the fact that God has led us safely through another day, despite its foibles and pains, for He loves us, and through our repentance and joyful trust, He will turn the dry sandy day that has been into the milk and honey of our sanctification and that of others. For “we know that to them that love God all things work together unto good” (Rom 8:28).

The Promised Land

'Promised Land,' Sara Credito.
This is to say nothing of the tastes of the Promised Land we find in the midst of our daily sojourn, above all in our manna which is the Eucharist, that nourishes the life of grace within us, so that in turn we might taste Christ present in our neighbour, in the created world around us, in the circumstances of our life, and in our very own souls.

In a particular way, every week is also a kind of desert ending with its mini Promised Land of rest and contentment—the Sabbath, which according to a Jewish Talmudic teaching, is a one-sixtieth taste of the Promised Land of the world to come.[2]

The Desert of Lent

Then we come to another kind of desert which comes annually: Lent. A liturgical season by which the Holy Spirit through the Church drives her pilgrim members into the wilderness of penance, to pray, fast and give alms in greater fervour. Not just for the purpose of imitating Christ’s post-baptismal forty-day and forty-night fast in the desert, but for the purpose of receiving through our imitative Lenten disposition, the very grace Christ won for us in the desert all those years ago. The grace of deliverance from slavery to the whims of our selfish will, which because of concupiscence inclines itself towards choosing the three lusts (1 Jn 2:15-16) of satisfying our flesh; our eyes—which according to Augustine is to seek to quell our appetite to know out of vain curiosity; and the pride of life, by wanting to be esteemed as somebodies.[3]

In the desert of Lent, we find the freedom to be who we are, without the suffocating and complicating influences that creep in and steel our heart to God’s tenderness.

Such is the effect of the desert, which etymologically can be literally understood as “thing abandoned” or “thing forsaken”.[4] Since in this stripped-down and barren place—or in our sense, a state—we ourselves become through grace, and with Christ, as a “thing abandoned,” resulting from our renouncement of the world, the flesh and the devil.

Yet not merely abandoned in the negative sense of being abandoned from or by these things, but in the positive sense of being abandoned to and for God in Christ. This is the whole purpose of Lent: a liturgical desert of fasting, prayer and alms giving, designed to draw us out of the city apartment of our cosy inwardness where Christian mediocrity likes us to dwell in the manner of pious individualism—perhaps whilst belonging to a religio-intellectual clique—and deeper into the Promised Land of our God, wherein we can nourish our hearts on the milk of love of neighbour, and the honey of divine love.

Perennial Access to the Promised Land

It is true, the Promised Land— the real and existing archetype which speaks of the object and the objects of our supernatural hope—can seem like a faraway dream. Something for tomorrow, not today. For we must await the full manifestation of the Promised Land in the life to come, and as the life to come.

Yet notwithstanding this fact, we have perennial access to the Promised Land, for the Promised Land came to us in the Incarnation, and it still does today in the Sacrament of the Altar, and by extension in the secret recesses of a believing heart, which nourishes itself by reception and Adoration of this Mana from above, wherein is contained the milk and honey of the twin loves.

Enter the Wilderness

'Elijah Fed by An Angel,' Ferdinand Bol, 1660-1663.
In 1 Kings 19 we read of Elijah, fleeing into the desert from Jezebel who sought to kill him (much like the Infant Christ and the Holy Family, who fled into the wilderness to escape the wrath of Herod). There in the wilderness Elijah rested under a tree where he was eventually visited by an angel and was given nourishment for the journey that lay ahead.

Enter the desert wilderness of Lent and what will we find? The Abandoned One, the Forsaken One, stripped naked, bloody, thirsty and exhausted, hanging on a tree, held fast by Triune love more than three nails; and the shadow cast by the cross and His outstretched arms, which extends itself through every age, right unto this very day.

Here within this shade we are beckoned to rest—just like Elijah. Yet whereas Elijah was nourished by an angel on temporal food, we are nourished by God Himself on the Bread of Angels: the very Body, Blood, Soul and Divinity of Christ. The very medicine that realigns our body’s flesh to the praiseworthy purposes of God, and replaces the proud hunger to be somebodies with a hunger to share in Christ’s abjection. Whilst the disordered craving of our eyes, inherited since Eve goggled with pleasure over the forbidden fruit (Gen 3:6)—curious to know and experience (to taste) right and wrong—finds its remedy in an adoring gaze of the Abandoned One in the Holy Eucharist. In desiring to see Him face to face, and to come to know Him in quiet intimacy.

Promised Rest

This is the desert call of Lent. A call repeated every day of our lives but which takes on an emphasis in this liturgical season. To come away and return to the Cross. To rest beneath its homey shadow, and to cover and nourish ourselves on the love pouring from His side more abundantly than the wine flowed at the wedding of Canna, and more than did the honey and milk in that temporal Promised Land.
In the Gospel of Matthew our Lord invites us to share in the mystery of the Cross, to shoulder its yoke in love that we might find spiritual rest:

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."(Mt 11 28-30).

Suffering is characteristic of life in our post-Fall world. No one can escape it, and everyone wants to find peace and rest - a life free from hassles. Yet here our Lord is telling us that the peace and rest we desire, the Promised Land we seek, is found not by running away from the crosses of our life - which will hunt us down anyway! - but by embracing them, accepting them, and resigning ourselves to them. (Resigning ourselves to crosses that come our way and present themselves, not by being masochists, nor by resigning ourselves to other people's sufferings as some glossed excuse to act indifferently; since shouldering our yoke necessarily involves lightening someone else's load).

We carry out such resignation to our crosses not for the mere sake of it, and not out of the strength of self-will, but by bringing our crosses to Jesus the Afflicted One for the fulfillment of His mysterious purposes, in the confidence that uniting ourselves with His sufferings, He will strengthen us to bear the plight at hand, and will pour into us that grace of peace and rest which is the wages of a life lived in union with Him.

To shoulder our yoke requires faith that God is walking with us in the midst of our sufferings. Surrendering to His Will in this way turns the yoke of our crosses from aimless desert wonderings into speedways directly into God's heart where true peace is found. It also turns each cross from a foreboding obstacle of a Red Sea, like the Red Sea was at first for the Israelite's, into a parted Red Sea - serving as a shortcut towards the Promised Land of our spiritual desires.

Come Away and Rest A While

Our Lord is with us in our desert experiences, and the Cross, like the shade of the tree which sheltered Elijah from the heat of the sun and from the fears of persecution, offers us a refuge of meaning and rest. The words of the Cantor resonate deeply in this context:

With great delight I sat in his shadow,
and his fruit was sweet to my taste,
He brought me to the banqueting house,
and his banner over me was love.[5]

What else is the fruit but the nourishment of Jesus' Body and Blood; the banqueting house but the Immaculate Heart of Mary wherein the Almighty chose to dwell; and the banner of love naught but the Precious Blood, commingled with the water that gushed from His side.

“Let Christ crucified be enough for you,” writes Saint John of the Cross, “and with him suffer and take your rest.” [6] It would seem like a paradox, to find rest in the Cross. But it’s true, and it’s the message of Lent. That in desert of this life, and in its numerous deserts, among them Lent itself, we can find that old rugged Cross, that Tree of Life with its salvific shade, upon which hangs our Promised Land—not as a plot of land, but as a God-man, resting in our hearts and disguised under the appearance of bread and wine, calling us to "come away... and rest a while" (Mk 6:31). [7]

[1] Undulation meaning: a wave like motion. On the law of undulation see C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters, chs. 8-9.

[2] “Sabbath is one-sixtieth part of the world to come.” Babylonian Talmud, Berakoth 57b, available at

[3] “For besides that concupiscence of the flesh which lies in the gratification of all senses and pleasures, wherein its slaves who “are far from You perish”, there pertains to the soul, through the same senses of the body, a certain vain and curious longing, cloaked under the name of knowledge and learning, not of having pleasure in the flesh, but of making experiments through the flesh. This longing, since it originates in an appetite for knowledge, and the sight being the chief among the senses in the acquisition of knowledge, is called in divine language, “the lust of the eyes.” Augustine, Confessions, Book X, Chp 35, 54, available at

[4] “from Late Latin desertum "thing abandoned" (used in Vulgate to translate ‘wilderness’), noun use of neuter past participle of Latin deserere ‘forsake’” Online Etymology Dictionary, “Desert,”

[5] Song of Songs 2:3b-4, RSV.

[6] John of the Cross, Maxims and Counsels, Maxims on Love, 13, available at

[7] “the promised land… is the image of eternal life” (Compendium of the CCC, 253), and it is in Christ in whom this life is lived, who is “The way, the truth, and the life” (Jn 14:6).