Wednesday, 25 April 2007

Extra Ecclesia Nulla Salus?

If that traditional saying makes your theological skin crawl, read this excellent post at The Shrine of the Holy Whapping.

Sunday, 15 April 2007

Sheol

I walk among the graves
of your soul, weeping,
wetting your epitaphs,
so eloquent, with
the tears of a harlot.

I utter to them the
words you would not hear,
for my harshness would
cloak their worth,
and I lisp as I speak.

Cold earth, cold morning.
Breathless dawn, tired.

I trespass unwillingly,
since I am found here,
having ears to hear,
but no hands to touch,
an impotent oracle
and arrogant!

Perhaps my only boon
to this place of slumber
is the tears that wet
the graves of your fathers
long slain by the illusions
holding sway
beating the land into
submission.

Cold earth, cold morning.
Breathless dawn, tired.

I meet you amidst the dead
and you flee from
my face, silent rebuke,
and just. For I am
uninvited, foreign.

My speech is to you
alien. Ill-understood
and loud. Yet we have
come so far, you and I
though our paths never
would touch, except by
fragrant similarity.

Cold earth, cold morning.
Breathless dawn, tired.

Make a draught, my eyes,
of silver mercy, and pour
it out amidst my sins.
Entreat Him to relent,
and have mercy, for
there is no eye open
to mourn for the dead,
not even mine, for I
friend
am blind.

There is Hope in Zimbabwe

And you can find a depiction of it here.

I was disturbed this morning to find that the priest did not recite St. Francis' Prayer for Peace after the General Intercessions, as our bishops have instructed, so as to entreat Almighty God for the catastrophe of our northern neighbours.

Rex Tremendae Maiestatis,
qui salvandos salvas gratis,
salva nos.

Good Lord deliver us ...

... from the Devil, the Plague and THIS.

Monday, 9 April 2007

All Your Waves & Your Torrents Have Washed Over Me

The solemn mysteries that pass by and through us during the Sacred Triduum are of such magnitude, such inexpressibly profundity, that one is tempted, on Easter Sunday, to feel as if you had not quite absorbed it all.
But you have. It is in the water scattered upon you, it is in the essential memory of the chrism-cross on your brow, it resides in the unreachable recesses of your soul where the Presence dwells Eucharistically. You have all of Eastertide to rejoice it, and all the Ordinary Year to ruminate on it.
Duc in altum!