The Moment Eternal, The Tabernacle of the Beloved

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©2009, Randall A. Beeler

O my God, Trinity whom I adore; help me to forget myself entirely that I may be established in You as still and as peaceful as if my soul were already in eternity. May nothing trouble my peace or make me leave You, O my Unchanging One, but may each minute carry me further into the depths of Your mystery. Give peace to my soul; make it Your heaven, Your beloved dwelling and Your resting place. May I never leave You there alone but be wholly present, my faith wholly vigilant, wholly adoring, and wholly surrendered to Your creative Action.—Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity: Prayer to the Trinity, first stanza

May I be established in You, O Lord. May nothing trouble my peace or make me leave You.

At first this seems like a plea to be away from the hectic nature of life—"just let me be in You, so that everyone and everything would leave me alone."

Yet, Elizabeth adds, "but may each minute carry me further into the depths of Your mystery."

Here Elizabeth's prayer unites with Saint Therese's "little way." Yes, Elizabeth seeks immolation in the Trinity—but not as a dissolution of self. Rather, as a fulfillment and maturation of self—something compared to which her presence in this life is as gossamer as a shadow in fog.

Elizabeth's seeks a peace in the Trinity not through retreat from this life but by being steeped in this life. Each minute is God's gracious means of immersing us more deeply in His love—precisely through those things that would destroy our peace with him.

So the works of the devil come to naught. For even as the devil plots evil in order to frustrate God's will, so God's immeasurable love transforms even such plots into means of steeping us more deeply in the self-giving fire of the Trinity.

Elizabeth seeks a way in which every moment is the only moment, eternal. The moment eternal is God's gracious carrying of us deeper into his mystery. The fragile earthen vessels of our embodied souls thus become, in the most trying moments, the tabernacle of the Beloved.

In such moments, even the most dire moments, the Bridegroom says to his bride,

Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. (Song of Solomon 3:10b-13, RSV)

My soul, His bride, says in return,

16 My beloved is mine and I am his, he pastures his flock among the lilies. 17 Until the day breathes and the shadows flee, turn, my beloved, be like a gazelle, or a young stag upon rugged mountains. (Song of Solomon 3:16-17, RSV)

I Want to Be A Carmelite When I Grow Up

©2009, Randall A. Beeler

To live in the presence of God; that is surely an inheritance left to the children of Carmel by the prophet Elijah, who cried out in the fervor of his faith:

"The God I serve is a living God"... A life of prayer is the essence of the Carmelite vocation; the heart to heart communion that never ends, because when one loves, one no longer belongs to oneself but to the Beloved, and so lives more in Him than in oneself. That is what life in Carmel means: to live in God, contemplating His goodness and beauty, and dedicated entirely to the fulfillment of His blessed Will. Then every immolation, every sacrifice becomes divine; through everything the soul sees Him whom she loves and everything leads her to Him... it is a continual communion. All day long, she surrenders herself to Love, by doing the will of God, under His gaze, with Him, in Him, for Him alone.

This is the life of a Carmelite: to be a true contemplative, another Magdalene, whom nothing can distract from the 'one thing necessary.' I want to be an apostle from the depths of my beloved solitude in Carmel; I want to work for God's glory and the good of all His people, especially His priests; and for that I must be full of Him. Then I should be all-powerful: a look, a wish, would become an irresistible prayer that could obtain everything one asks in the Name of Jesus. I want to remain like Mary Magdalene silent and adoring at the Master's feet, asking Him to make the words of apostles bear fruit in souls.—Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity, 1st Part of Her "Meditation on the Carmelite Vocation"

I want to be a Carmelite when I grow up. If I grow up, that is. Perhaps, then, I will be a child of Carmel.

Although, the Mount of Carmel does not seem hospitable to children. After all, was it not the harsh abode of Elijah, who saw the whirlwind, felt the earthquake, tasted the fire, and heard the whisper of the still, small voice?

Perhaps that is why Christ and Carmel welcome little children. For children are attracted to still, small voices, like Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity and Saint Therese of Lisieux.

And I mean that both ways--Elizabeth and Therese are little children. And they listen to still, small voices as children will, as only children will dare to hear.

Elizabeth and Therese are not listening for a what but a Whom. And like Horton who hears a Who, Elizabeth and Therese, too, are overlooked. Yet, they prefer it that way. For then they can get on with their listening.

For being overlooked is a tremendous part of their faith. Being overlooked by the world reminds them of how much they overlook the workings of God in their own lives. What is Therese's "Little Way" except an ardent fast against her--and humankind's--will to be enormous, strident, tall, on-top-of-the-mountain?

She knows her own tendency to seek only the mountain top. And her ascent of Mount Carmel is a descent into the littlest of things--the details of her so little life … dishwater daily splashed in her face by an unattendant sister … being blamed for breaking a vase she never touched … being utterly silent about the tuberculosis that slowly consumes her. God is in these details.

And Elizabeth's immolation in the Trinity, her immersion in the oil of self-forgetting adoration that she pours out, like Mary Magdalene's tears on the feet of Jesus. She belongs to the Beloved.

That is why I want to be a Carmelite when I grow up. Because I fear ever being able to grow up into childhood like Elizabeth and Therese do.

Yet, that's where their little and self-immolating way gives me hope. My consumption with the mountain-tops of life, my fiery passions for this thing or that, my self-spawned earthquakes, and my blustering winds--these are the invitation to immolation, to be made small, to have my daily life be a Carmel, where I, unbeknownst to others--and even more unbeknownst to myself--daily wash the feet of my Beloved with my the oil of my life, with the tears of my joy.

This is joy.

The good God would not inspire unattainable desires; I can, then, in spite of my littleness, aspire to sanctity. For me to become greater is impossible; I must put up with myself just as I am with all my imperfections. But I wish to find the way to go to Heaven by a very straight, short, completely new little way. We are in a century of inventions; now one does not even have to take the trouble to climb the steps of a stairway; in the homes of the rich an elevator replaces them nicely. I, too, would like to find an elevator to lift me up to Jesus, for I am too little to climb the rough stairway of perfection.—Saint Therese of Lisieux, from The Story of A Soul

The West, Gandalf, Europe, & Benedict

Cover of Europe and the Faith

©2009, Randall A. Beeler

The Church's proclamation of salvation in Christ Jesus is ever ancient and ever new. ... As Europe listens to the story of Christianity, she hears her own. Her notions of justice, freedom and social responsibility, together with the cultural and legal institutions established to preserve these ideas and hand them on to future generations, are shaped by her Christian inheritance. Indeed, her memory of the past animates her aspirations for the future.—Pope Benedict XVI, September 27, 2009, Prague, Czech Republic

So things have gone. We have reached at last, as the final result of that catastrophe three hundred years ago, a state of society which cannot endure and a dissolution of standards, a melting of the spiritual framework, such that the body politic fails. Men everywhere feel that an attempt to continue down this endless and ever darkening road is like the piling up of debt. We go further and further from a settlement. Our various forms of knowledge diverge more and more. Authority, the very principle of life, loses its meaning, and this awful edifice of civilization which we have inherited, and which is still our trust, trembles and threatens to crash down. It is clearly insecure. It may fall in any moment. We who still live may see the ruin. But ruin when it comes is not only a sudden, it is also a final, thing. In such a crux there remains the historical truth: that this our European structure, built upon the noble foundations of classical antiquity, was formed through, exists by, is consonant to, and will stand only in the mold of, the Catholic Church. Europe will return to the Faith, or she will perish. The Faith is Europe. And Europe is the Faith.—Hillaire Belloc, Europe and the Faith, 1920

The distance of nearly 90 years between Hillaire Belloc’s prophetic words and Pope Benedict XVI’s assessment of Europe 20 years after the collapse of communism ought not to surprise us. We ought not to be shocked that thinkers from two different eras and milieus could arrive at the same conclusion.

For both are holding onto the same lifeline—an umbilical cord. Europe nurtured both men, just as she reared all Western Civilization. This observation is not “Euro-centric”—rather, it is a statement of fact. The civilization that we call “Western” was born in antiquity from the roots of the Greco-Roman cultures and their melding with the Judeo-Christian heritage in the transformation of the Roman Empire into Christendom.

Some of my readers may not prefer Western Civilization. Some may decry its abuses. Some may accuse it of patriarchy, hierarchy, or imperialism. Some may even call it an ark that has been sunk, as many in Europe and America are now attempting to do.

Yet, Pope Benedict keeps returning to the cultural centers of Europe—Regensburg, Prague, and soon Britain, to again and again remind us who we are and Whose we are.

His words are amazingly astute and obviously missed by the media and the Muslim world … perhaps because he was speaking neither to the Muslims at Regensburg nor to the media at Prague. He is speaking to us, the races in the last days who have inherited Western Civilization. He is telling us a bedtime story of a young prince and princess who lost sight of their castle and are searching for a voice in the forest that will lead them home.

Pope Benedict arrives, hardly the media sensation that Pope John Paul II was. Pope Benedict seems pedantic and fuddy-duddy, and the media more assiduously observes that a spider is crawling on him than it registers WHAT he is doing and HOW he is doing it.

He is reminding us of home. Our civilization. Our heritage. He is reminding us of the home we have forgotten but the home that he has the delight of recalling to our eyes, hearts, and souls.

We can dismiss his words or let them fade or be ignored by the media. But we cannot mistake his presence. The Vicar of Christ, standing in the Person of Christ, echoing the words that Christ taught to Peter to “Feed my sheep.”

Pope Benedict is a Gandalf, called into the Middle-Earth during the late ages of Western Civilization. He embodies what we have always believed and stood for and have troubled remembering but cannot shuck away from ourselves at anything less than the price of ourselves.

He reminds us—in Europe, America, and all the world that has inherited Western Civilization—that we bear a precious gift of great power and peril. And that we must bear it wisely. Mercifully. And most importantly, with the welcome greeting of returning home and seeing the place as for the first time.

From this perspective, we understand more clearly why Christians are obliged to join others in reminding Europe of her roots. It is not because these roots have long since withered. On the contrary! It is because they continue - in subtle but nonetheless fruitful ways - to supply the continent with the spiritual and moral sustenance that allows her to enter into meaningful dialogue with people from other cultures and religions. Precisely because the Gospel is not an ideology, it does not presume to lock evolving socio-political realities into rigid schemas. Rather, it transcends the vicissitudes of this world and casts new light on the dignity of the human person in every age … Let us ask the Lord to implant within us a spirit of courage to share the timeless saving truths which have shaped, and will continue to shape, the social and cultural progress of this continent.—Pope Benedict XVI, September 27, 2009, Prague, Czech Republic

Saint Wenceslaus Day

I have never been a fan of Christmas in July, but I am devoted to singing the carol, "Good King Wenceslaus" every September 28th.

Wenceslaus lived out Matthew 25:31-46. And, as the hymn recounts, he did so on the Feast of Saint Stephen, the first Martyr and the first Deacon, whose charge was to distribute bread and comfort to the widowed and orphaned. His job was also to deliver the Bread of the Good News to those widowed and orphaned by the world, and he was stoned for doing so.

Saint Wenceslaus was a Little Stephen, who was himself a Little Christ.

Although Saint Wenceslaus was martyred more than 1,000 years ago, his self-giving faith lives on. The Patron of Czechoslovakia was again venerated this morning with Pope Benedict XVI's words, as reported by Vatican News Service:

In his homily Benedict XVI pointed out that St. Wenceslas "is a model of holiness for all people, especially the leaders of communities and peoples. Yet we ask ourselves: in our day, is holiness still relevant? ... Do we not place more value today on worldly success and glory? Yet how long does earthly success last, and what value does it have? … "Only those who maintain in their hearts a holy 'fear of God' can also put their trust in man and spend their lives building a more just and fraternal world. Today there is a need for believers with credibility, who are ready to spread in every area of society the Christian principles and ideals by which their action is inspired. This is holiness, the universal vocation of all the baptised, which motivates people to carry out their duty with fidelity and courage, looking not to their own selfish interests but to the common good, seeking God's will at every moment".

What can I add to the Holy Father's wisdom? Join me, please:

Good King Wenceslas looked out on the Feast of Stephen,
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even.

Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel,
When a poor man came in sight, gathering winter fuel.

“Hither, page, and stand by me, if you know it, telling,
Yonder peasant, who is he? Where and what his dwelling?”
“Sire, he lives a good league hence, underneath the mountain,
Right against the forest fence, by Saint Agnes’ fountain.”

“Bring me food and bring me wine, bring me pine logs hither,
You and I will see him dine, when we bear them thither.”
Page and monarch, forth they went, forth they went together,
Through the cold wind’s wild lament and the bitter weather.

“Sire, the night is darker now, and the wind blows stronger,
Fails my heart, I know not how; I can go no longer.”
“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread now in them boldly,
You shall find the winter’s rage freeze your blood less coldly.”

In his master’s steps he trod, where the snow lay dinted;
Heat was in the very sod which the saint had printed.
Therefore, Christian men, be sure, wealth or rank possessing,
You who now will bless the poor shall yourselves find blessing.