Victim of Love: Bride of His Blood

Joan of Arc.  This song has particular meaning to this nothing Catholic hermit, each word, each thought, each action, all love.  God bless Joan of Arc and all who willingly yet painfully suffer with Him, for all souls and for the Church:  Victim of Love, bride of His Blood. 

Thanks Be to God

Thanks be to God for many temporal details, lately.  My computer hard drive crashed.  That was a blessing because my pain was out of control, and the head pain was becoming unbearable.  If I'd had the laptop, I would have written and written from a point of pain beyond coping, no doubt.  The darkness would have been too dark and incomprehensible, probably misunderstood, and fodder for misjudgments.

Only those out there who have experienced heavy suffering of the sort that takes the mind to another dimension and that of deep despair, would have grasped.  One of the last aspects of spiritual distress that I recall, is that of making it to Mass on Monday morning.  After what was typical for this parish, parishioners and priest--of which the state of such tends to be reflected or sensed within, throughout the Mass, any Mass--the woman of the very first day's conversation asked to speak to me.  Then another woman joined her.

It was The Inquisition.  I tried to remain very kind and patient, and I did my best to answer their questions which were put in accusatory manner.  The one woman repeated her current judgment, despite my explanation.  I finally tried to sweetly and firmly point out that perhaps she was beyond her capacity to grasp and experiential level, and that it seemed a bishop, a priest of many years, as well as a psychologist gifted with the paranormal have more ground upon which to stand in assessing what the week before I had suggested she just stop trying to analyze and let it be.

The other woman got into that it could be the devil, and yes, it could, but no, it is not.  That has all been dealt with, although I have no doubt at all that the devil continues to attack in various ways.  It seems he was busy using others to try to figure out and have their theories rather than their paying attention to His Real Presence in Mass.  The devil may have been quite successful, also, in having these women think it was their duty to give me a hard time of it, and to scrutinize and judge.

I never minded when a bishop did so.  That seems more the task of a bishop or even a parish priest.  This particular parish priest avoids any contact.  But he is part of the mix there, and why so little going on, the spiritual ebb flow low.

I did commend the women on their at least speaking to me.  Others do not--not a smile, not a "hello", not a glance as we are all leaving or outside.  I suggested to the two Inquisitors, that we try to just let the analysis drop, leave it for those others, if any, whose business it might be, and get to know one another as Christians.  I said there remains still an itty bit of sense of humor remaining, and I laughingly pointed at my shoes and that my feet are on the ground, and I'd love for them to visit me in my fixer upper, or to ask me to join them for a cup of coffee, and to talk of other than what is difficult to grasp and does not really matter, or should not.

But the encounter was deeply foul, as well as the situation spiritually there.  I called the spiritual father and reported to him, but also by then the physical suffering was so great, that my returning to this particular parish was not feasible.  When I called after I realized my having been taking the wrong medication for the head pain and not realizing it sooner, I could better explain about the Mass at that parish, the priest, and the encounter with two of the handful there.

Is this parish and this priest some kind of assignment for me?  My spiritual father does not know. He mentioned again how critical is the priest in parishes, for unhealthy ones tend to propitiate dis-ease.  As the leader goes, there go the followers.  We discussed, from the conversation I had with the women of which there was more than I have commented above, that these people likely are content with their parish and spiritual lives and not wanting other.  My silent, immobile presence had irked them, that was obvious.  Yes, there was much more to the Inquisition.

At one point, one of the women asked what I sense of their parish.  I did not want to say, but she asked again.  I put it that there seem to be some issues there.  It was not easy to throttle the words so prominent, but I held them in.  The best descriptor remains:  Creepy.  It is so sad and creepy.  How I wish I did not sense things so deeply, and even more deeply during Mass. Painful.

It is concluded for now that I will need more direct and obviously discernible instruction from God before I will return.  This may be a scenario of people entangled in the heavy nets just beneath the water's surface, and my trying to tread water and cut the ropes and try to help--but not at all what God wishes of me.  He may be saying again:  Swim on out into the deep.  They will be all right.  God is taking care of them.  Who am I?  I am nothing.

My spiritual father reminded me that people and situations aren't going to change over night.  But he also does not know if these people desire more.  Seems not.  I desire more, though, and my own spiritual life is hindered and weakened when I tread water and try to be where presence seems negative.  I asked Jesus the other night, "Lord, where is the freedom? Where is the joy?"

The immolation that I am to be may be this tremendous life of physical suffering and hardship, and the deep, spiritual suffering of seeing and experiencing what is and not being able to do anything about it--other than get swimming out into the deep and uncharted (at least by me) waters.

I've admitted to His Real Presence that if I am to not pay any attention to such as these women, or the others, or the priest or the essence of the unhealthiness sensed during Mass, that I need more strength and more graces and more assurance to return.  For now I pray for all of us, yet from a distance.  There is much work to do both spiritually and physically right here, in the plight of Te Deum House and in my imperfect soul abode.

There are so many other prayer concerns coming into our spheres of consciousness, even in the growing soul awareness, the spheres melding and evolving in one progression in His love, in His Real Presence.  Tend these prayer needs of so many other souls and circumstances.

Press on, press on.  Thanks be to God, the grace and strength to press on, not quite knowing how or where to press, other than press on.

I give thanks to my^* God always for you because of the grace of God that has been given you in Christ Jesus, ⁵for in every way you have been enriched in him, in speech and knowledge of every kind— ⁶just as the testimony of^* Christ has been strengthened among you— ⁷so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ. ⁸He will also strengthen you to the end, so that you may be blameless on the day of our Lord Jesus Christ. ⁹God is faithful; by him you were called into the fellowship of his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord.  (1 Cor 1:4-9)

Which is the Greater Immolation?

Yesterday was the 30th anniversary of the life-altering car accident.  Pain has been my constant companion ever since.  And, this year, a pain siege preceded and continues during this time period: elevated, exhausting, preemptive pain.

I decided to drive to the morning Mass in the local parish, which is for me quite a drive, regardless.  I had not been for a couple of days, and it was not easy to make myself go--not so much due to the pain of body but due to the emptiness and coldness of the people there, and the priest with so many, many unhealthy issues.  It is quite sad, all in all.

I arrived and entered.  I decided to see if anyone would smile or give eye contact, or even speak on the way into the vestibule.  I met a woman in the parking lot and smiled at her.  She did not respond.  No human effort at connection.  In all fairness, she had just finished off some conversation using a speaker phone or such.  Her mind was elsewhere, although she did see me.  How could she not as I smiled and slowed, just feet from her as we walked in?

People there do not genuflect before the Tabernacle.  It is an odd arrangement.  The tiny chapel is just off the sanctuary and body of the church proper.  The chairs face a small altar; the Tabernacle is behind the chairs.  Nothing is bolted down, but they evidently do not want the Tabernacle behind the altar and facing the people as they sit in the chapel.  I always have an urge to turn my chair around and face Him.

However, on this morning (yesterday), I genuflected and had the distinct essence that Christ is not in that tabernacle.  I said so, within.  "You are not even in there, Jesus, are You?"  No, I really do not think so.  I suspect the Host is not actually consecrated in that parish, in that church.

I had encountered a couple other people upon entering that chapel.  They are stone cold, unflinching.  I smiled and sent love from within me.  There was never any flicker of warmth.  The one woman who had given me a hard time the first day I had returned, nearly two weeks ago, glanced uneasily and shifted in her chair.  The woman who was exasperated and had not recognized when I wore my glasses a week prior and asked, "Who IS this woman who has been coming here?", walked within inches of me, gray and sad as hardened granite.

It would all be wonderful if they were stones.  There is a natural beauty and strength in granite.  But it is not suited to human beings who claim Christianity as their belief system.  I asked within of His Real Presence, "Is this the immolation You desire of me, or is the path of greater suffering and sorrow to not be here, and rather that I should suffer in isolation in the confines of my little fixer-upper?"  I asked if I was to remain for Mass there, that He would inspire any one of the human stones to indicate by any motion or sign of warmth or joy in being there.  After all, we are bodily inches from one another awaiting the supernal feast, the Mass with all seven Sacraments present as well as the reality of His Living Word.  Where are our souls in His and our humanity as well as spirit?

I knew this would be my answer to remain or to depart.   There was no warmth of life.   I departed.  I passed the priest on my way out, as he waits until the very last to come out of his office, away from his desk where he keeps thick volumes of poetry of such I had read in my undergraduate English Literature days.  I wondered if he would speak, smile, or show any sign of recognition that a human person with a soul was passing him in the vestibule.  Nothing.

It was as well to return to a sacrifice of mass in my little mess here, filled with overwhelming manual labor of which my pained body is barely capable of completing.  I stopped at the bank in the village, first, and the tellers and assistant manager immediately waved, greeted, and offered a cookie and coffee.  I was the only customer in the bank, and it struck me how the quiet other than the verbal greetings, was filled with holy, human kindness and warmth.

It struck me how the carpet and the walls of the small bank reminded me of the Catholic church chapel.  The wood counter behind which two smiling tellers stood, each one offering that I could come to their window, eager to assist in my financial sustenance and need.  It reminded me of an alter behind which a priest ought stand, welcoming and happy to have human souls come to be served and filled with His Real Presence, to be shown the portal of life sustenance through which all souls will eventually pass into eternity.

But how different the two and seemingly cross-purposed.  The bank was more a chapel, more filled with His Real Presence in essence, than the chapel with the unwelcoming, wary Catholics and the detached, aloof, unhappy priest.

I declined the packaged-type cookie at the bank but helped myself to a cup of coffee and headed back to Te Deum House.  I spent most of the day in bed, trying to assimilate the 30 years of much suffering from the split second of drunk teen hitting our car, as well as the 19th anniversary of my confirmation as a Catholic and the added 19 years of much suffering from those who have had such difficulty accepting and utilizing for good, one such as me.

By evening I was able to do some watering and planted a handful more perennials I had found on clearance on my way back to my Patmos from three days of helping out the one daughter who has remained in contact with her mother.  I was watching a grandson while the parents worked, and it was there that the pain siege began.  I praise His Real Presence for getting me safely back to this Patmos despite the grinding pain.

I will call my spiritual father and ask of him:  Is the path of greater suffering, is the immolation more to remain away from the sad and stony Catholics and a tabernacle seemingly devoid of His Real Presence?  Or is it for me to continue to insert myself among those most uncomfortable with my human presence, which it seems to me nothing more than my causing them consternation and occasions of sin?

To me, the isolation of removal and having to face the reality of the dearth in that parish and the priest who has not fallen in love with his vocation, which represents the mindset of so many Catholics I have met, is excruciating suffering and profound immolation.  I will wait to hear what the spiritual father opines.  He sometimes says he does not know but usually comes up with an idea or solution.

I'm not at all sure that His Real Presence actually intends all this suffering, particularly the suffering in the midst of people who one would hope to be filled with His Real Presence in faith, hope, and love.  But if He is not in that Tabernacle, and if the shepherd is not in love with his work, that would certainly explain the acres of wasteland and the fearful and unfruitful sheep.

I suppose this is what gets to me the most, however.  The oppression I have experienced, the suffocation from within the Church repeatedly, over 19 years, seems to have snuffed the wick within me and broken this my bruised reed.  I feel as if I am somehow not doing God's will, not being utilized for good in the Church or elsewhere, not using the many gifts and talents He has given me from birth as well as those developed in life.

I so want to be useful and helpful, to glorify God, to build up His church, to inspire others and bring love to all.  I yet have so much love in me, so much love to give.  Yet it is not being accepted.  I suppose only His Real Presence knows for sure all the reasons why.  I have been praying and asking all the more if I am to go out to the Gentiles, where previously in my life the fruit and goodness, the love, was utilized for His glory and the benefit of others, where those who came to worship were happy and alive, warm and receptive to the reality of His Real Presence within souls.

I do not think Jesus wants us to make of His Real Presence, a farce.  He is warm, alive, throbbing, pulsating, vibrant, light-smiling even in whatever suffering.  A flaming wick He does not snuff.  A bruised reed He does not break.

It seems I have been crushed down into the ground by heavy, cold stones and ground into dust from which no remnant of seed remains in which there will be germination and new life.

I consider the young prodigy artist born of a Catholic-reared but fallen-away father and agnostic mother: Akiane.  God is utilizing her in her visions and in locutions, to paint images of Himself and of Heaven.  The family as a result has converted to Christianity.  Not Catholicism, or so I could not find in research, but most likely evangelicalism.

It is Akiane's painting of Jesus that the young boy, Colton who spent extended time in Heaven when he nearly died at age four, that Colton says is the truest image of Jesus, at least of the Jesus he was with.  A God-glorifying and faith-filled book and movie about the young boy's experiences, written by his minister dad, has inspired thousands and thousands as to the reality of Heaven and of God.

God is blessing the Gentiles for their faith and their living out of the Gospel message of loving Him above all things and of loving others as oneself.  I think the second part of Jesus' greatest commandment, is squelched in many parishes.  There may be love of distant others, such as the poor in other countries or those in the soup lines, but where is the love of the person sitting inches next to us?  There is acceptance of those who are different physically, but not of the spiritually unique.

One can only surmise, although I have perhaps a clearer estimation, of the horrors that Akiane or Colton would have been put through, and their gifts suffocated, had they been Catholics.

I realize this sounds harsh, but there is truth to it.  The truth hurts at times, but it also is necessary if we desire to face ourselves.  My experiences may help in understanding why the PEW research shows one in ten Catholics leave the church and not due to doctrinal disputes.  Check out the article by Fr. Reese, SJ.  It is found online--I believe it was published in the Jesuit paper, NCR(eporter).

God bless HIS REAL PRESENCE in us!  Little children, let us love one another for love is of God.

Be An Immolation in the Mass

My spiritual father was quite ill but improving, thankfully so.  We spoke on the phone yesterday, and I reported my daily Mass experiences in the more local parish.  He had advised me to go there, give it a try, despite being told a year ago by the priest there that I was not allowed to attend daily Mass--only Saturday evening and in the cry room, at that.

Friday's Mass, commemorating the Assumption of Mary, was in the main church with more people than the eight or so who go to the daily Mass.  What has become the usual reaction by people came to fruition.  Some anger with those assuming I was rudely sleeping with the kneeler slammed from behind into the pew, people after Mass avoiding eye contact or pleasantry.

The woman I met the day before spoke, however, saying she noticed that I seemed not aware from the beginning of the Scripture reading through the end.  She said, "You missed the whole Mass!  You weren't aware of any of it!"  I quietly responded that I was very deeply aware, more than could be described.  "I am subsumed into the Mass."  She then said, "But you did not receive the Eucharist!"  I replied that I receive at a very deep level, in a dimension beyond the temporal."  I added that I thought she had the capacity to grasp this, and she said she did.

Still, she kept asking, "So I don't need to worry about you, then?  I can stop worrying?"

I told my spiritual father that it is becoming repetitively sad that we Catholics seem unable to leave off with the assumptions, the judging, the doubting, the fear of what is but an unobtrusive, quiet, stilled experience of the numinous during Mass, albeit not usual but also not unheard of.  I felt sorry that the woman took upon herself to "worry."  Worry about what?  That my soul was in peril?  That I was not aware based upon her assumptions?  That I did not receive His Real Presence tangibly?

She represents us all, I suppose, when we are so in tune with the temporal and external appearances.  But my spiritual father said it is at and in the Mass that we all ought to be immolated.  I had told him that this is my immolation, being at Mass yet under the scrutiny, fear, doubt and judgment of others over what does not neatly fit neatly into the temporal view.

I admit to having awakened this morning, thoroughly sickened to the core with realizing how easy it is for us to fall into making assumptions and being too caught up in temporal views and entangling judgments.  The experiences I am gaining are teaching me in ways nothing other could supersede as a good lesson in seeking the spiritual view of love and mercy and of not succumbing to infertile ground. (Nothing grows there.)

In but four daily Masses, there is consternation among them.  I did approach an older woman to say hello and ascertain if she is the other woman who the man (of the Potato Novena family) told me seemed to be a thoughtful woman.  Evidently she did not recognize me in glasses, for she immediately asked, "Who IS this woman who is coming here now?  Is she a PARISHIONER?"  I realized her confusion, and said perhaps this woman she noticed is or will be....

This is His will to which I am called:  Be an immolation.  I have assurance within, during Mass. that His Real Presence is conforming my body, mind, heart and soul to Him as well as utilizing me in mystical ways for whatever He wills within me and within others.  I am to be an immolation and in that, also, a conduit of His love and mercy.

I stand corrected in many aspects, and fear must be transformed to its flip side:  Faith.

There is no need to be driving longer distances to attend Mass where the parish may be more in tune with good and holy activities of education and outreach, where the priest may be more plugged into his vocation.  The people's reactions have not proven to be any better.

That and this is for all of us.  I realize that each person, each body, each heart, mind and soul present at and in Mass, is an agent of change and fuller realization of all the Sacraments, including His Living Word, evident in temporal and mystical actualization.  We are called from the limitations of the temporal and move toward the mystical, the supernal spiritual--as the priest ought stand at the portal, pointing to and leading us into the Promised Land. 

The instruction to "Be an immolation" requires only that, and very much simply of "being."  I am present in the Mass, very much among and deeply within the Body of Christ in silence and prayerful union of conformity through, with and in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. 

Little children, let us love one another.  Love Is of God.  God bless His Real Presence in us!

Catholic Hermit Reports on Water Walking

I've been busy removing some insulation in a vaulted ceiling in order to just do the job correctly.  Right is always right, in the temporal or the spiritual realms.

I did not want to spend a couple more days, at least, tediously measuring and cutting 2x4's and 2x6's in small sections and nail gunning them between the ceiling joists every two feet.  I had talked myself into just having the ceiling planking run counter to the flooring boards and opposite direction from other ceilings in the lower level.  It is God's time, and I decided to use the time He gives me to do it properly.  This must be the way in both the temporal and spiritual life.

I also attempted the water walking I mentioned in the last post, striving to do so in great faith.  I went not to one morning Mass at the more local parish (still takes half an hour each way), but I have participated in two morning Masses.  It does take courage to go where a priest has said I was not allowed at daily Masses and only at the Saturday evening, and in the cry room behind the plate glass window with little children and parents about.  The other parishioners could see me right there, out of place, and in the mystical state, immobilized.

That had not gone well a year ago.  I'm thankful my spiritual father said to go, regardless, at least to try out the daily Mass--and not ask permission.  If God wants me at Mass, that is enough.

I never know if the state will happen or how it will be.  But, it happened per usual, with the onset of His Real Presence in His Living Word.  Two things occurred deeply within but allowing me to remember them, and a third temporal thing happened at the end of Mass but before I could speak or move.

His Real Presence reminded me to have compassion for this priest who has not wanted to be a parish priest and does the bare minimum.  Even at that, he alters Mass and eliminates much if not most spiritual development in the parish.  These matters and more, are not only from my observation either externally or intuitively.  They are fact.  And part of the reason I stopped attending there was due to the source of anguish during Mass, when celebrated in disarray and disobedience.

Yet, I was being reminded to have compassion for him, and that was that.  The other experience I recall during the state at Mass, on Monday, was that much love and energy of healing was flowing through me and aimed to the left, to a man (I knew no one there) who had a suffering in his throat or esophagus.  I could hear clearly his difficulty and the tick-type noise emanating every so often.  I was shown what a suffering it was--difficult, constant, relentless--and to pray for him as well as allow the flow to the left.  So I cooperated in faith.

The temporal intrusion was toward or at the end of Mass when someone tapped my knee and another was concerned, but someone said they noticed my little sign that fortunately I remembered to put on my lap.  "Do not disturb.  Do not call 911.  Meditating."  That is what in the past I was directed to write so that people would not worry when they could not rouse me, and thus would not injure me by accident.

I also met a woman that the young couple of the Potato Novena had told me to try to meet.  I thought she looked like a secular Carmelite, Discalced, somehow.  His Real Presence is so good to help us in all matters!  But she could not resist what so many Catholics seem to not be able to stave off:  judging, questioning, doubting, and fearing.  

I thus mentioned to her, kindly, that she was doing the same thing that others have done, which is not productive.  I suggested we should let the phenomenon be as it is in Mass, but otherwise get along and enjoy one another as Christians and Catholics, and allow me to be the otherwise regular person that I am.

But she could not easily move forth from it.  She had assumed and then asked me if it was a medical condition.  I will not lie so answered it is a spiritual occurrence.  From there, she started showing the telltale signs of trying to figure it out in terms of temporal doubt and fear.  She repeated three times that I should have a priest guiding me, and sort of shook her head to the negative as if to imply I need more scrutinizing. 

Three times I repeated that I do have a priest [and we all have the Great High Priest!] guiding me, and in fact had called him early that morning, and he instructed me to try the daily Mass despite being told a year ago I was not allowed to be there by the parish priest, and also to talk with the orthodox priest of a parish farther away. 

Then she asked me if I am a practicing Catholic and mentioned, questioned me as to various aspects of regulations.  Just seemed odd, out of place.  I realized we were on different wavelengths and cross-purposes just following our participation in the mystical feast, the Mass.

In my 19 years as a Catholic, I have never had the notion or thought to ever ask anyone if he or she is a practicing Catholic.  It never came to mind, nor would I have the presumption even if it had.  In my 44 years as a Protestant, nothing of the like ever came to mind to ask if one is a practicing Protestant or practicing Christian, or if they are "saved."

 I returned to the daily Mass today, Wednesday.  The priest takes Tuesday and Saturday off.  I decided to because I felt more strongly that I must do as Jesus told me a couple years ago.  He showed me parishioners (a clutch of women in foreground and women and men and priests in the background).  He said they would criticize and misjudge me, but that I was to pay no attention.  (I realize this is repetitive of what I've already shared, but it kept coming to me when praying if I should return to daily Mass here, especially with how the one woman reacted and questioned.)

Today the state was more conscious of the Mass itself, noting parts eliminated but all else flowing, as I do not recall specifics other than the assurance it was all right.  But I was told deep within, that these people including the priest are not my judges.  Jesus is my judge.  I was also told that I am not their judge, either.  Jesus is their judge.  His Real Presence "nailed it."  My heart quickened with these realizations and truths.  They are imbedded forever in my will, intellect and very soul.

 The last couple of days, while sawing and nailing boards, it also came to me in prayer that His Real Presence is expecting me to practice more the fifth S out of the Nine S':  Selflessness.  And this means to be selfless unto Him at Mass, no matter what people think or say, or judge or fear, doubt or scrutinize.  

It came to me that "Be an immolation" includes being so, right there in the Mass amidst our conjoined humanity, and allowing myself to be utilized by His Real Presence in whatever way or means He wills and desires.  If it is to be used as a conduit of love and healing to someone either physically there or presented in inner sight, or if it is to be told truths and directives that I need to be told and thus to obey and change my own wretched heart and soul and outlook--just be there and be an immolation of His Love.

As best I can, if bodily pain allows, I will continue in faith, knowing that I am not there for my inclusion or with regard to any interaction or temporal utilization.  I am there to be an immolation so that His Real Presence can work in my soul as well as flow through me if He wills and desires, in any ways He wills and desires, for others present in person or in spirit, this world or the other.

I must continue stepping out of the boat and into what can be stormy and fearsome waters, in faith.  I must walk across the waters, and if I start to sink, He will reach out and lift me up.  Have no fear.  Be an immolation.  Practice the S of selflessness, by His example and grace.

God bless His Real Presence in us.

A Post from the Past That Stuns

I was looking for anything regarding being an immolation, as it seemed to me in the wee hours that when the Lord told me to "be an immolation", I had been told that in some way, before.

So here was this description of the odd occurrence in the Cathedral chapel where I used to live, with the host flying up and over and landing on the floor, and my sensing that it would be me--that I was going to be brought very low.  I will reprint it; it is surreal as I have suffered yet again today with the maimed and pained right shoulder.

It was that very chapel floor upon which I fell and was immobile in the mystical state all during a morning Mass, June 13, 2011.  Except I was at the end of the aisle from where the Host had fallen and from where I had kissed the ground.  I was on that aisle, on that ground, humbled and to bear the wound and pain for the rest of my earthly life.  Recently it has been the emotional and psychological pain in addition to the physical pain--of all that transpired.

My cousin called today.  She reminded me, too, of how horrible it was--just that time period and the priest and bishops, plus reminded me of the first surgeon who missed the SLAP tear and was so cruel when I kept going back, saying something surely had to be wrong still.  Finally, he was quite rude, and when I called again begging for any kind of help with the shoulder, his nurse said the doctor refused to see me.  It all is so unbelievable, other than it all happened.  But my cousin does not know the full truth of how terribly crushing and cruel were the priests and the bishop and then the new bishop, and the coldness of people.  She did remind me how some humans can be very mean.

But this past three years prior to my injurious fall right in that very chapel, on that very aisle, at the other end of the altar--this somehow helps my faith tonight, for it was an uncanny prescience and response to that Host that leapt out and over and fell to the hard floor.

Thursday, February 7, 2008

The Nothing Catholic Hermit Sees the Sign

Last evening, in prayer, the loveliness of Ash Wednesday lifted the nothing's soul into joy. There had been a consolation. This seemed to lead to the understanding of the soul, united with Christ, being lifted by the hands of the priest, as the Host is lifted high above the altar--but then inevitably brought down for the immolation, to be broken and shared: the Body and Blood.

This morning, during the Consecration, the nothing was reminded of this image, and that such a consolation as yesterday would be brought to the altar of sacrifice--so to ponder it and offer the soul to God at the point of elevation, and to offer the soul for the Bishop's prayer request.

Just as the priest was preparing to offer the Body of Christ to the extraordinary ministers of Holy Communion, a consecrated Host literally flew up and out of the chalice, and catapulted over the white-linened altar, and tumbled down the other side of the altar onto the black marbled floor where it bounced two or three times and sat immobile. A woman quickly reached down, picked Him up, and gave the Host to the priest who consumed.

The nothing watched that Host flying out, up, over and down. It saw it lying there on the black marble floor--not at the altar height, immolated on the white linen, but at the lowest point of the Sanctuary, where feet tred without consideration of having trod, where priests genuflect after Mass, their feet and knees touching that black marble flooring.

As the Host performed the gymnastic feat, the nothing saw within itself: I am that small species of Christ. I am not brought down upon the altar. No, I am going to be brought down to the lowest point--off the altar of sacrifice, in front of the altar, and on the floor. It is going to be some feat of perpetual humbling.

After Mass, the nothing went back to the Sacristy and shared this with the priest, for less than 24 hours previously he had been one of the three to be asked to pray for perpetual humility for the nothing during Lent--not that any of them must pray for the nothing at all! But the nothing asked him about that Host that flew into the air, and he remarked he'd not had anything quite like that. Then the nothing said: That is to be me.

The nothing explained about last night's prayer, of being elevated by the words of the Bishop, and having a foresight of being brought down upon the altar of sacrifice--but now knowing it would be even lower than altar height, and alone, bouncing and then lying still upon the black marble floor. The nothing said, "That Host is a sign to me."

This priest understood immediately. He said, "You'd better start praying immediately for fortitude and endurance for when it happens." The nothing said it would no doubt fall apart. Again he said, "That is why I say to pray now for fortitude to withstand it." Yes, the nothing is praying, but still, part of the humbling will probably be not handling it well. A chill of fear crept the spine as the nothing departed the Sacristy. Be not afraid. Do not become spooked. It is the Lord Who grants prayer requests, especially for a much-needed virtue.

The nothing returned to the pew, finished the morning office, waited until all had left the chapel. The nothing knew it was to accept whatever is to come. In the silence and emptiness, the nothing walked to the spot before the altar where the leaping Host had bounced and landed, knelt down, kissed the ground.

Lord, whatever it is that will grant perpetual humility, I am willing--even if it is worse than anything You've allowed me ever to endure. Even if it is beyond any expectation and takes me by surprise, which is how the gift of humility usually is given. Even if it is something slow and long-suffering. Now, Lord, I will try not to anticipate or fear, but to lend myself limpid for You this Lent.

Be an Immolation

The heavy suffering continued through the night and am woozy and weak and pained today.  Am trying to do some watering, tree by tree, laying down the hoses, running two at once.

Last night I prayed fervently, asking the Lord what He wills of me.  I awoke in the night and heard His Voice say:  Be an immolation.

It seems as if sometime in the past years, He has told me that, but I'm not sure.  There has been much, and I am rather worn out.

I looked up the word immolation, although I know what it means.  A sacrifice.  A victim.

I did not realize it was first used in the 1500's, not prior.  But, other words such as sacrifice and victim have been used far longer.

It all comes to the same or similar intent and meaning.

Be a sacrificial victim.

Lord, I am trying to hang on.  It is not easy.  It is not easy in isolation, under living conditions very rugged.  The symptoms of the suffering make it all the more difficult.  Well, it is the greater immolation, all this.

I hope to write more, later, on some details of the time of the death experience in 1987.  It is not all that important.  Perhaps it won't inspire others or give them hope or more faith that God is so real.  Yes, these things, such as "Be an immolation" and a death experience--dying and being sent back--mean much to the person who experiences and probably not much to others.  I don't mean to build up any expectations.  My time with God was not all that long at any given stretch.  I was not in heaven but rather in the anteroom which is heavenly enough in itself.  Being within God in such intimacy is supernal.  The closest to it on earth has been the mystical state during Mass.  But that was just a taste of the Feast to come.

God bless His Real Presence in us!