Obit

I’m reading,” A God of Surprises,” recommended by Sarah, the Catechist on the “Lay Pastoral Ministry,” course I’ve recently embarked on. Sarah promises that its an  adventure, sometimes terrifying, which I can assure you, dear Reader, is true when embarking on an interior journey.

So. “God of Surprises.” There’s this wonderful mechanism when as a Catholic, you venture an original and radical thought: someone has certainly thought it before, and if that someone is a Saint - you’re in! 

This unoriginal thought occupying me at the moment, is, “Christ in you the hope of glory.” St Paul. That’s OK, then,  Christ lives in me, probably undergoes a bit of a struggle to get out and about, but that’s another blog. 

Years ago I put in a mench for Catherine of Genoa, who ran through the streets of .. Genoa, shouting, “The deepest Me is God!” Now that would get you locked up today, but then, it was the bottom rung of the ladder of canonisation. 

Gerard W Hughes (“God of Surprises” ) added another string to this unlikely bow with a quote from Augustine of Hippo ( Saint) “”When the priest holds up the host and says, “The Body of Christ,” reply, “I AM”. Wow. Chewing on that one a while.

But I digress. Gerard ends each chapter with a spiritual exercise, and at the end of Ch 1 it’s, “Write Your Own Obituary.” ( I once offered to video  one to be played at the appropriate point in the Requim Mass, an idea which my near and dear, flatly refused to comply with. Check out my YouTube Channel. It will be there …Though not yet.) 

This was easy. I decided long ago that chiselled on my tombstone will be,”She made herself laugh!” Or as St Paul would have it: “Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say, rejoice!” 

So. Not only did he get there first - he said it twice. 

End Times?

Wiser heads have reasoned we’ve been in the End Times since the day of Pentecost, and the second coming of Christ is yours for the asking with the baptism of the Holy Spirit.

As timing, that’s  as good at it gets, especially since it’s made clear in the handbook, that no one knows the Day or the Hour. Fair enough. 

I have been mildly diverted by the insta posts of the excited deluded posting how they’ve prepared for the Rapture, a twelth century invention BTW, by selling homes and cars, going to prominent places with hands raised, and … waiting. 

How would that work exactly? Would the Rapture be at 0000am GMT all over? Or would there be like a rolling tide of Raptees, heading up as the magic hour hits their time zone? As it happens, such speculation must await another Moment, as diddly-squat happened. As the Big Day drew to an inevitable close, I wonder what the duped were thinking? Would it come as something of a relief, shortly after coming to terms with their rather awkward, “left-behind” status, to discover NOBODY went up with a shout of triumph, so at least there wasn’t the embarrassment of not making the cut … 

I shouldn’t mock, but I will. If Christians spent as much time feeding the poor and loving their enemies as they do obsessing over dodgy prophecies, the world would be much better off. 

Serenity

I thought I’d try something different today. I will practice Oneing, as described by the mystic Julian of Norwich: experiencing union with God.

“Union with God,” may seem a little far-fetched to the vast majority of people, including Christians—although it’s likely that Buddhists have already reached that state, let’s call it, “self-emptying,” and we Christians are trailing behind.

It’s amazing that most religious people don’t practice Oneing, because the very Latin word, “religio”, from which “religion” is derived, means to “reconnect.”

We Christians have a perfectly adequate myth to describe disconnection with The One: the story of Eve (First Lady) being deceived by a serpent into eating an apple, and persuading Adam (First Man), in turn , to do likewise. For this apparent misdeed, the entire human race disconnected from God and now lives in a state of separation.

I’m not entirely convinced of the literal facts of the story of Adam and Eve—so don’t tell my friends who are convinced it’s true—but I sense there is a deeper truth: that once this soul of mine was connected to the cosmos, and maybe by choice now lives a separate identity, with a deep longing to be one with the One once again.

So what did Oneing look like today?

 I deployed all my senses. I found a twig covered in lichen and moss, and I touched it with a deeper awareness of its texture. There was something very  healing in that connection. It would be ridiculous to say I became the twig—but it’s not too far-fetched to say I knew it to be exactly what it is, and that brought me joy. 

From touch to smell: it has rained heavily for two days here in Redmond, and the lakeside woodland was giving up a delicious scent. Laugh if you must—it would be ridiculous to say I became the woodland—but I stayed for a few moments with the presence of the forest.

Sight:what did I see? A bright blue sky quietly surrounded by forest. In the distance, mountains. Beneath  the trees on the green, a group of women slowly moving through Tai Chi poses. Swimmers heading for shore. A mother with her baby in a buggy, returning his gaze. It would be ridiculous to say I became a mountain or rolled in with the lake—but I looked upon those things with great pleasure, and I felt a desire to tell all those people how much they are loved.

Often at times like this, I look around me at natural beauty and I give thanks for the bouquet of the day—wild, asters this morning- and an orchestra. Today that was different birds going about their business with varying degrees of tuneful intensity. It would be ridiculous to say I became the  orchestra—but I conducted it in my heart, and I bowed to the beauty around me.

I finished my time sitting on a branch that reached out into the lake. It would be ridiculous to say I became God—but in truth, I felt His presence in the silence and in the song. 

And I believe I understood what Lady Julian meant when she spoke of Oneing. 

Oneing.

Being A Godsend

The weekend began with a bang. I wasn’t there to observe the explosion, fortunately , but I was first on the scene for the clean-up. My intention was to meet the guy delivering the flowers for the afternoon baptism, at 9 am, do a bit of a tidy-up, and scoot home ASAP. 

On opening the kitchen door, I noticed immediately that the fridge door was open, the plastic door compartments had exited the door, and the floor was covered with a brown liquid. A half- consumed bottle of coke in a plastic bottle had unaccountably exploded, leaving its environs ae described above.

It could have been a lot worse. All the bits of the fridge were unharmed and easily reassembled, after a run through the dishwasher, I took the opportunity to defrost the fridge, and gave the floor a healing scrub. All done.( Never found the bottle top … weird.) 

The flower guy showed up in good time, but because operation coke-bottle took more time than anticipated, I stopped off at The Manna House for a sandwich, which sorted  lunch.

Ray was away, so I got to determine which jobs to assign to Abu who helps out in the garden. I put him on cutting back the pink elder, which is stressed, and probably dying, and had him clear the trails through the shrubbery, which are  hide and seek opportunities for the grandchildren, now doubling up as a prayer labyrinth. I made him an American Brunch, treating myself to a spare pancake.

Free for the rest of the day, I set about making soup for tomorrow, then settled down to watch uplifting videos on YouTube 

Sunday began slowly. I rose early to pray, which I combined with watching butterflies and walking the labyrinth. July is good for all three. Having done all that was necessary yesterday, I didn’t need to be too early for church, so I ambled up just 15 minutes before kick-off to find a very agitated friend, Michael*, in a heated discussion with Fr  Liam, who was totally at a loss as to why St Mary’s was closed, so unable to give an explanation. 

It’s at this moment I become a godsend. I know Michael well from taking lunch at the community kitchen on Thursdays.  Michael is a volunteer chef and I am one of his customers. 

I know that St Mary’s is closed because the congregation has hoofed it up the road to Gorsley Baptists to celebrate the vicar’s 65th birthday. I got the email. Michael can’t read or write, so he didn’t. St Mary’s takes great care of Michael, and this circumstance is not typical. 

“Come with me, Michael, I’ll explain, and you can do church with me today,” 

Michael too, was a godsend. During my prayer time, I’d reflected on St Paul’s words in today’s gospel. “Christ in you, the hope of glory …” and I’d determined today to see Christ in everyone. Christ came to me today as a fifty-one year old man with learning difficulties who needed a friend, and I came as Christ  to him, to reassure him and guide him through his first Catholic Mass. Fr Liam broke protocol and agreed to give Michael Communion. “Jesus understands,” he affirmed. 

The grande finale … Christ came to both of us in bread and wine. The greatest godsend of all. 

*Not his real name.