Enclose My Heart

'Heart of Jesus, I give my heart to Thee, but so enclose it in Thee that it may never be separated from Thee. Heart of Jesus, I am all Thine; but take care of my promise so that I may be able to put it into practice even unto the complete sacrifice of my life.'  

Blessed Miguel Pro

Run Towards the Roar of the Lion!

'Let us stand fast in what is right and prepare ourselves for trial. 

Let us neither be dogs that do not bark, nor silent onlookers, 

nor paid servants who run away before the wolf. 

Instead, where the battle rages, let us find ourselves. 

Run towards the roar of the lion! 

Run towards the roar of battle! 

That is where Christ's most glorious victories shall be won!'

St. Boniface

I Want to Find Jesus

'From things visible, I no longer desire anything; I want to find Jesus. Fire and cross, wild beasts, broken bones, lacerated members, a body wholly crushed, and satan's every torment, let them all overwhelm me, if only I reach Christ.' (St Ignatius of Antioch, while being led to martyrdom)

Painting:  Neapolitan School of Painting, Ignatius of Antiochie, 1600s

Revisiting the Hiding Place

I am appreciating more than ever the Refuge we have available to us in this torn, aching, wounded world.  If we don't realize that parts of our planet and our civilization are in great distress just now, we have been living under a rock.

Yet in the midst of troubling news, moral confusion, and input from a world going mad, we really do have a Rock to live in and on and under. Jesus is our Rock, our Refuge.  He is our Hiding Place, our fortress, our one true cloister.

I see the truth of this when I consider so many saints gone before us... martyrs who much preferred death to the possibility of turning away from Christ.  What grace they received - exactly when they needed it.  This gives me hope.

In Acts 16, for instance, we read of Paul and Silas thrown into jail after having been given many lashes.  Their feet were chained to a stake.  I can imagine myself there, whining and grumbling and feeling sorry for myself.   But were Paul and Silas wailing, angry, groaning?  No.  They were praying and singing hymns to God.

And consider St. Ignatius of Antioch, as he was on his way to be fed to lions.  "Leave me to the beasts," he wrote, "that through them I may be accounted worthy of God.  I am the wheat of God, and by the teeth of the beasts I shall be ground, so that I may be found the pure bread of God.  Greatly provoke the wild beasts so that they may be my grave and leave nothing of my body, so that I won't be a burden on anyone.  Then I will truly be a disciple of Jesus Christ."    

What grace!  The same grace that was given to St. Stephen as he was being stoned.   The same grace (we can believe it) that is offered to people undergoing persecution for Christ today. 

I see Stephen as a perfect patron for those of us who strive to view life "through the grille." If anyone ever saw and responded to circumstances in such a way,  it was he.  Even as his persecutors were preparing to kill him, he boldly exclaimed "'Look!... I see an opening in the sky, and the Son of Man standing at God's right hand."

I am sure this acute view of reality buffered the saint's agony as stones were hurled at him.  "As he was being stoned, he could be heard praying, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'  He fell to his knees and cried out in a loud voice, 'Lord, do not hold this sin against them.'"  (Acts 7:54, 59, 60) 

"The cloistered heart."  I wrote some years ago, "is the heart of David dancing before the ark; of Mesach, Shadrach and Abednego in the fiery furnace; of Paul in prison, Daniel in the lions’ den, John on Patmos, Peter in chains.  The world is not safe from evil – even the body isn’t safe from harm – but within the cloistered heart there is refuge.  The Lord is with me, He is within my cloister.  My heart, as long as He is in it, is safe." 

I must remember this.  In the madness all around, I must remember.

Within the cloistered heart there is refuge.  The Lord Himself is with me.

My heart, as long as He is in it, is safe.

Text not in quotes © N Shuman 
thecloisteredheart.org

This is a slightly edited repost from our archives. It is linked to Theology is a Verb and Reconciled to You for 'It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday.'
 

You are Mad, You Are Not Like Us

"Men will surrender to the spirit of the age. They will say that if they had lived in our day, faith would be simple and easy. But in their day, they will say, things are complex; the Church must be brought up to date and made meaningful to the day's problems.

"When the Church and the world are one, then those days are at hand because our Divine Master placed a barrier between His things and the things of the world.

"A time is coming when men will go mad, and when they see someone who is not mad, they will attack him saying, 'you are mad, you are not like us.'"

St. Anthony of the Desert

Painting: The Christian Martyrs' Last Prayer

How to Apply for Sanctity

Revisiting Teeny Tiny Martyrs

I was raised, in Catholic school, on stories of martyrs. These were gilded, shimmering beings who (I just knew) had floated through their lives on a plane above the rest of us, smiling at their hangmen and singing for joy in prison cells.

It did not occur to me that the wounds of such heroes might actually hurt. Nor that anyone called to such glory would not feel instantly glorious. Oh no. I was sure these shining ones were granted special dispensations from pain.

I even brought them, sometimes, into my young world of pretend.  Crossing arms across my chest, gazing wistfully at the sky with head tilted back, I glided across my front yard confident that I looked exactly like the painting on a holy card. 'Goodbye world... so long, family.... farewell, neighbors playing cowboys. I bequeath to you the cars in my sandbox and my swing hung on a tree and my black cocker spaniel.  As for me, I'm off to dance amid the flames.....'   

Fast forward many years. As a grownup in today's world, I recognize the truth that martyrdom hurts.  Prison cells are far from comfortable. Real people in real flames probably don't feel like dancing. 

I also recognize something else. I have finally gotten the message that sainthood isn't only for some.  It is for every single one of us. And martyrdom? Well, that's not a word we're tossing around lightly these days.

I have been thinking a lot, again, of the littlest martyrdoms. The ones you and I face, day after day after day. The thought of these little deaths is sticking with me, and I am seeing them more and more as opportunities. Chances to lay down my comfort, my popularity, my reputation, my pursuit of fun and luxury and entertainment; chances to stand up for the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

'That pain? You can offer it for this intention'
'When you're insulted for Me, choose to count it joy'
'Pray for My Church'
'Die to your own will in this matter'
'Intercede for an end to abortion'
'Take a stand for My truth about marriage'
'Pray for Godliness in the world'
'Do not participate in this evil'
'Don't react to that person in anger'
'No one is standing up for Me. Will you?'
'The world is in trouble. Do you see that? Will you let Me show you that? Will you work and pray and sacrifice for My truth even when it costs you?'

My little deaths to self are, when compared to true martyrdom, oh so tiny. My steps toward sainthood are wobbly and small.

But I am failing God if I don't take those steps. I'm failing Him when I don't cooperate with His call.

You and I? We may feel spiritually teeny.

But we have the call to be heroes. We have the call to be saints.


Text © 2015 Nancy Shuman. 
thecloisteredheart.org       
Painting: Charles Amable Lenoir, Joan of Arc

This is a slightly edited repost from 2014. It is being linked with Theology Is A Verb and Reconciled To You for 'It’s Worth Revisiting Wednesday'    

To Die Of Joy

Today I came across a letter I'd received, years ago, from a priest who lived on a continent far away. As someone with a worldwide ministry, largely to underdeveloped countries and in a few lands not tolerant of Christianity, this man had witnessed trials I could only imagine.

Father wrote:  'I have been wondering whether the battle rages around the Mass. It does, for the Mass is Christ and He is the focus of hostility. What can we do? Well, love and live our Mass, even when it is not so readily accessible. We can give witness to our great desire and longing for the Mass, as Christians have in all times of persecution. We know the Mass endures and survives. The testimony of persecutions and martyrs confirms this. But like those Christians, we may have to suffer loss and sacrifice for and in our Mass...' 

I read this now and ask myself:  how often do I take the gift of Mass for granted? Do I look at it as the profound grace it is - or has it become, for me, simply routine?

Do I focus so much on a church interior I do not like and a style of music I do not like that I forget that Jesus Himself is right there in front of me at the Consecration?

When the homily is more about the local football team than about God, do I grit my teeth and sit in judgement - or do I silently pray for God's word to be spoken and heard?

Do I make every attempt to pray from my heart?

Do I thank God for the opportunity to be at Mass, and do I ever pray for those who are thoroughly aching to have such a privilege?

I look at these questions and find my responses to them (if I'm honest) sobering. 

What a grace it would be to, as St. Jean Vianney prayed, really understand the Mass. Even if only for an instant.

I would gladly risk dying of joy.

Holiday Heroics

The holiday season is almost upon us. Thanksgiving, Advent, Christmas. We will cook, decorate, gather with family and friends. It's time for preparation, festivities, fun.

It can also be a time for heroics.

We talked, in our last post, about our call to be heroes of the faith in our everyday lives. I cannot think of a better season than this one for everyday heroism.

Such opportunities! And oh, how I have squandered them. For too many years, I've shoved aside chances to bake, chop, clean, serve, shop, plan and wrap heroically. I've been found grumbling instead of praying, resenting rather than thanking.

There is much to do in little time with little money. Some of us are surrounded by so many people that we want to run away to a quiet room. For others, the loneliness of yet another holiday can stab with the force of a sword.

In all of it, there are chances for heroism. I can offer up busyness or loneliness as prayer. I can complain about all this cooking and all this wrapping, or I can bring peace to others by simply keeping my mouth shut (for some of us, silence can be truly heroic).

And when I'm seated at Thanksgiving dinner next to that cousin who constantly, publicly, loudly criticizes my faith, I can stick up gently but firmly for Christ. True heroes have died for Him since the first days of the Church. I can die a little to myself by not scrambling to hide the fact that I truly believe in Jesus, and that I choose to live for Him today.  'To be criticized, denounced and despised by good men, by our own friends and relatives, is a severe test of virtue.' (St. Francis de Sales)

The season is almost upon us.  Let the Holiday Heroics begin.




Painting: Franck Antoine Bail, Carving the Pumpkin, 1910
This post is linked to Catholic Bloggers Network Linkup
 

It is Faith

'No one
is a martyr 
for a conclusion; 
No one 
is a martyr 
for an opinion; 
It is faith 
that makes martyrs.' 

Blessed John Henry Newman 


















Painting: Gustave Dore

Itty Bitty Martyrs, Teeny Tiny Saints

I was raised, in Catholic school, on stories of martyrs. Those gilded, shimmering beings who (I just knew) had floated through their lives on a plane above the rest of us, smiling at their hangmen and singing for joy in prison cells.

It did not occur to me that the wounds of such heroes might actually hurt. Nor that anyone called to such glory would not feel instantly glorious. Oh no. I was sure these shining ones were granted special dispensations from pain.

I even brought them, sometimes, into my young world of pretend.  Crossing arms across my chest, gazing wistfully at the sky with head tilted back, I glided across my front yard confident that I looked exactly like the painting on a holy card. 'Goodbye world... so long, family.... farewell, neighbors playing cowboys....  I bequeath to you the cars in my sandbox and my swing hung on a tree and even my black cocker spaniel.  As for me, I'm off to dance amid the flames.....'   

Fast forward many years. As a grownup in today's world, I recognize the truth that martyrdom hurts.  That prison cells are far from comfortable.  That people in flames don't feel so much like dancing. 

I also recognize something else.  I have finally gotten the message that sainthood isn't only for some.  It is for every single one of us. And martyrdom?  Well, that's not a word we're tossing around lightly these days.

I have been thinking a lot, again, of the littlest martyrdoms.  The ones we face day after day.  I know I just posted about this last time, but it is staying on my mind.  It sticks with me like a persistent call to prayer, like the insistent clang of a monastery bell.

'Offer that pain for this intention'
'When you're insulted for Me, choose to count it joy'
'Pray for My Church'
'Accept this cross as prayer for those who are suffering'
'Die to your own will in this matter'
'Intercede for an end to abortion'
'Pray for Godliness in the world'
'Do not participate in this evil'
'Don't react to that person in anger'
'No one is standing up for Me.  Will you?'
'The world is in trouble.'
'Pray'  
'Offer'
'Pray'

My little deaths to self are, when compared to true martyrdom, oh so tiny. My steps toward sainthood are wobbly and small.

But I am failing God if I don't take those steps.  I'm failing Him when I don't cooperate with His call.

You and I?  We may feel that in God's plans we are teeny.

But we have the call to be heroes.  We have the call to be saints.

Painting at top of post:  Scherrer, St. Joan departure, in US public domain due to age
Joan the Woman movie poster in public domain


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I Shall be Telling This with a Gulp

I type the following with a gulp.

'Come, my sweetest Jesus, that I may now be inseparably united to Thee in time and eternity:  welcome ropes, hurdles, gibbets, knives, and butchery; welcome for the love of Jesus, my Savior.' (St. Henry Morse)

I was okay until the ropes.

I can pray the first line of that prayer with all my heart.  I'm able to sing it, rejoice in it, even make it into an aspiration to repeat throughout the day.

But I gulp when I read about the ropes, and the knives, and the butchery.  But then, I'm not in the position of St. Henry, who apparently said these words while facing martyrdom in 1645.

I've been thinking about the sorts of things I'm willing (and not willing) to face if I am going to truly follow Christ.  Things I sometimes encounter in the midst of my ordinary, regular, day-to-day life.

Knives (I've realized) do not have to be physical to hurt us.  Anyone who has ever been sliced by words knows the truth of this.  The butchery of gossip?  Of being mocked or belittled?  Of being verbally attacked for standing up for the Gospel?  It can be brutal.  To remain true to Jesus when we know we'll be cut down for loving and obeying Him - well, that takes grace. 

Thankfully, He provides all the grace we need, just when we need it.  All we must do is accept, and trust, and hand ourselves over to Him (not to 'them,' but to Him) when we are presented with opportunities to do so.

I am convinced that we can reach out for His grace and stand strong for Jesus Christ.  Even in the midst of our gulps. 

'When the hour comes, you will be given what you are to say.  You yourselves will not be the speakers; the Spirit of your Father will be speaking in you.'  (Matthew 10:19-20)

Painting:  Stefano Novo, The Gossips, in US public domain due to age {{PD-1923}}

 

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Unlearning Love of the World

'The true Christian is ever dying while he lives... he has no work but making his peace with God, and preparing for the judgement.... 

Day by day he unlearns the love of this world and the desire of its praise; he can bear to belong to the nameless family of God, and to seem to the world strange in it and out of place, for so he is.  

And when Christ comes at last, blessed indeed will be his lot.  He has joined himself from the first to the conquering side; he has risked the present against the future, preferring the chance of eternity to the certainty of time...

His reward will be but beginning, when that of the children of this world is come to an end.'

Cardinal John Henry Newman

Painting:  Anton Laupheimer Schreibender, Mönch; in US public domain due to age

Of Maximilian, Martyrdom, Migraines and Moods

I write this on the feast of St. Maximilian Kolbe, who was killed at Auschwitz in 1941.  Just this morning I came across a striking article about this hero of the faith.  “The Flowers in Cell 21" is definitely worth a read (just click this line to find it), and has drawn me to spend much of today pondering this saint, in his death cell, wasting away for the sake of Christ. 

I have been thinking of others, too; of martyrs down through the ages.  I've thought about people still standing for Christ today, refusing to renounce Him now.    

And I've thought about me.  

All day I have battled a headache, a "common" migraine.  The kind that makes a person feel as if a bruised brain is rattling around inside a battered skull.  Which sounds rather dramatic, I know, especially since I've been able to function.  I was even able to get to Mass, where I sat in something of a....  

Well.  Something of a "mood."  

I know I get to blame at least some of that mood on the headache.  I know migraines can cause sufferers to feel sluggish and out of sorts.   But honestly.   Did the music have to be so loud, and so "bland?"   Why couldn't we have soaring, worshipful, awe inspiring, reverent music?  And silence!  Oh yes, silence after Communion.  On this headachy day, that would have been oh, so greatly appreciated.  And while I was at it, I thought about how distracted I get by modern church buildings that have "Mass in the round."  While such architecture might suit the preferences of others, the distraction of people laughing across the room on this headachy day did not suit me. 

See what I mean by "something of a mood?"  A genuine, poor-me, distracted-by-the-round-sounds, bland-music-battered mood.  

Again I thought about Maximilian.  During his days of absolute starvation, he didn't get to look at anyone.  He did not have other Christians who would glance across the room at him and smile.  His room was a tiny, dreadful cell.  He would have been overjoyed with a round auditorium.  Especially one in which the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass was being offered, and where people had the amazing privilege of receiving the Body and Blood of Christ! 

And then I thought about us.  Those of us who, regardless of surroundings and song selections, have the freedom to gather to worship God, and to speak the Name of Jesus, and to actually receive Him day after day.

And then I thought about them.  These.  Our brothers and sister in Christ who cannot proclaim themselves Christian, at this very moment, without risk.  People who are trying to get their families to freedom, people whose situations are so grim that a migraine every single day for the rest of their lives would be a welcome exchange.

And then I thought about me.  The person who groans about headaches and grumbles aloud at a misbehaving computer (did I just admit that?) and whines about the heat.

There are people in agony for the sake of Christ, people whose very lives are at stake.  And I huff about a slight rise in the temperature.

And so, I think about Our Lord.  I think about the fact that I can join my fellow Christians throughout the world in asking Him to pour His graces upon His suffering servants.  I can pray for them, night and day.  I can pray for peace.  I can offer headaches and tummy aches for those who are willing to bear trials rather than turn away from Him.

I can remember my heroic brothers and sisters when I'm tempted to downplay my own commitment to Christ in the face of those who might mock me or think less of me for such allegiance.  If God can offer grace in life-and-death situations (as He certainly does), He can give grace when I feel stung by a neighbor, a co-worker, a friend. 

He gives grace to enable us to offer up aches and pains, and moments of sadness, and times when our commitment to Jesus Christ is questioned or misunderstood by others.  We can offer these things in prayer, in solidarity with our suffering brothers and sisters.

We can even offer computer snags.  And something of a mood. 


Painting of woman by Edgar Degas
Other Painting is 'The Christian Martyrs Last Prayer'


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Hide Me

Over these last weeks, I am appreciating more than ever the Refuge we have available to us in this torn, aching, wounded world.  If we don't realize that parts of our planet are in great distress just now, we have been living under a rock.

And whether or not we know of the distress around, we may be sure of this:  we can live on and under and within THE Rock.  Jesus is our Rock, our Refuge.  He is our Hiding Place, our fortress, our one true cloister.

I see the truth of this when I consider so many saints gone before us... martyrs who much preferred death to the possibility of turning away from Christ.  What grace they received - exactly when they needed it.  This gives me hope.

In Acts 16, for instance, we read of Paul and Silas thrown into jail after having been given many lashes.  Their feet were chained to a stake.  Surely they were miserable.  I can imagine myself there, whining and grumbling and feeling sorry for myself.   But were Paul and Silas wailing, angry, groaning?  No.  They were praying and singing hymns to God.

And consider St. Ignatius of Antioch, as he was on his way to be fed to lions.  "Leave me to the beasts," he wrote, "that through them I may be accounted worthy of God.  I am the wheat of God, and by the teeth of the beasts I shall be ground, so that I may be found the pure bread of God.  Greatly provoke the wild beasts so that they may be my grave and leave nothing of my body, so that I won't be a burden on anyone.  Then I will truly be a disciple of Jesus Christ."    

What grace!  The same grace that was given to St. Stephen as he was being stoned.   The same grace (we can believe it) that is offered to people undergoing persecution for Christ today. 

I see Stephen as a perfect patron for those of us who strive to view life "through the grille."   He fearlessly spoke the truth of God, and those who listened were stung to the heart (Acts 7:54).  And then, as we know, they stoned him (Acts 6 and 7).

If  anyone ever "viewed and responded to circumstances 'through the grille,'" it was Stephen.  Even as his persecutors were preparing to kill him, he boldly exclaimed "'Look!... I see an opening in the sky, and the Son of Man standing at God's right hand."

I am sure this acute view of reality buffered the saint's agony as stones were hurled at him.  "As he was being stoned, he could be heard praying, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'  He fell to his knees and cried out in a loud voice, 'Lord, do not hold this sin against them.'"  (Acts 7:54, 59, 60) 

"The cloistered heart."  I wrote some years ago, "is the heart of David dancing before the ark; of Mesach, Shadrach and Abednego in the fiery furnace; of Paul in prison, Daniel in the lions’ den, John on Patmos, Peter in chains.  The world is not safe from evil – even the body isn’t safe from harm – but within the cloistered heart there is refuge.  The Lord is with me, He is within my cloister.  My heart, as long as He is in it, is safe."  (from the book The Cloistered Heart). 

I must remember this.  In the madness all around, I must remember....

Within the cloistered heart there is refuge.  The Lord is with me.  

My heart, as long as He is in it, is safe. 

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On the Feast of Stephen

Thanks to good King Wenceslas, I always remember the Feast of Stephen.  I like to think I'd do so anyway, for Stephen is one of my favorite saints.  I see him as a perfect patron for those of us who strive to view life "through the grille."

Reading Acts 6 and 7, I find a number of things to love about Stephen.  He was deeply spiritual and prudent, he spoke with wisdom, and he was called to humbly serve by waiting tables.  When he was falsely accused, his face "seemed like that of an angel."  He fearlessly spoke the truth of God, and those who listened were stung to the heart (Acts 7:54).

And then, as we know, they stoned him.

What does this have to do with living as a cloistered heart?  I would say:  pretty much everything.

Stephen was willing to humbly serve by waiting on tables.  At the same time, he fed spiritually, freely sharing the truth of Christ.

And if anyone ever "viewed and responded to circumstances 'through the grille,'" it was Stephen.  Even as his persecutors were grinding their teeth at him, he boldly exclaimed "'Look!... I see an opening in the sky, and the Son of Man standing at God's right hand."

I am sure this acute view of reality buffered the saint's agony as stones were hurled at him.  "As he was being stoned, he could be heard praying, 'Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.'  He fell to his knees and cried out in a loud voice, 'Lord, do not hold this sin against them.'"  (Acts 7:54, 59, 60)

What a way to meet one's Maker. 

I have never had stones thrown at me - not physically.  But smirks and snubs for living and speaking the truth of God?  O course.  This has probably happened to all of us.  Even Jesus told us to expect nothing less.  "You will be hated by all on account of Me."  (Matthew 10:22)

When I feel the sting of tiny pebbles, from neighbors or relatives or associates of any kind, I hope to think of Stephen.  I hope to remember to ask his intercession.

May he help us find the view through the grille. 


Painting:  Bernardo Cavallino, Martyrdom of St Stephen

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This is an edited post from our 2012 archives

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The Martyred Heart

There are in fact two kinds of martyrdom.

  One takes place only in the heart,

the other in both heart and body.

 We too are capable of being martyrs,

even without having anyone slay us.

 To die from someone's enmity is martyrdom out in the open.

To bear insults, to love a person who hates us, is martyrdom in secret.

                                                                                 

                                                                                                 St. Gregory the Great