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cassianus · 3 years

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Diverting a bit from my approach to the writings of the Philokalia, I wish to put forward a few thoughts about how we often think about illness in our lives and how the Holy Fathers offer us fresh insight into the mystery of evil, sin, illness and their place in our struggle for holiness.

Often, when we are young, we do not think much about physical illness and the spiritual life. Life passes quickly as we are fully engaged in our work, studies and ministry and many of us rarely struggle with ill health except for the occasional flu or cold. But when illness does strike, in one form or another, suddenly our busy and “productive” lives can be disrupted and we are forced, as it were, to reconsider a great deal of things; not merely the meaning of health, that we have perhaps taken for granted, but the nature of our relationship with God, the depth of our faith or lack thereof, the meaning of suffering and how to engage it and not to become discourage even when we have been completely humbled by the burden of our physical and emotional vulnerabilities. When such circumstances arise, we are often unprepared for the trial - never imagining or wanting to think about the possibility of such a cross - a cross the comes to most all of us at some point. When illness plunges us into unfamiliar territory, even to the point of death, what place does it have within our struggle toward holiness? How do we pray when prayer seems impossible and when it feels as though our heart has been turned to stone? Where do we find our hope and with what faith must we enter the mystery of illness and suffering in order to know the healing touch of Christ, the Physician of our souls and bodies?

I offer for your consideration today brief excerpts from “The Holy Fathers on Illness” compiled by Bishop Alexander Mileant; in particular those thoughts from the Fathers on “Illness and Work of Perfection”. Their words offer some perspective on sickness and redemptive suffering as a means of glorifying God. There is much to say certainly about the meaning and origins of illness well beyond the purview of a simple post, but the Fathers show us in word and deed that it can be and often is a privileged way of holiness. Through thankfulness, endurance, and patience one can realize the highest form of ascetic practice and follow a spiritual path to intimacy with God. At such moments, one may exhibit no extraordinary virtue other than to suffer illness and its poverty with patience and so have this as one’s path to salvation. Thus, the Fathers’ words are full of hope and challenge:

“The desert ascetic Father, St. Abba Dorotheus, exhorts his disciples to "take the trouble to find out where you are: whether you have left your own town but remain just outside the gates, by the garbage dump, or whether you have gone ahead little or much, or whether you are half way on your journey, or whether you have gone two miles, then come back two miles, or perhaps even five miles, or whether you have journeyed as far as the Holy City and entered into Jerusalem itself, or whether you have remained outside and are unable to enter" (On Vigilance and Sobriety).

Illness helps us to see "where we are" on life's road: "sickness is a lesson from God and serves to help us in our progress if we give thanks to Him" (Sts. Barsanuphius and John, Philokalia).

No one may use illness as an excuse for resting from the labor of spiritual living. "Perhaps some might think that illness and bodily weakness hinder the work of perfection since the works and accomplishments of one's hands cannot continue. But it is not a hindrance" (St. Ambrose, Jacob and the Happy Life).

In the life of Riassophore-monk John, latter-day disciple of St. Nilus of Sora, we see how bodily infirmity is not allowed to interrupt the struggle for salvation. Riassophore-monk John was a cripple; because of this he had been compelled to leave the Monastery of St. Cyril of New Lake. Feeling sorry for himself, he shortly afterwards was standing for an all-night vigil in the deep of winter. "Suddenly he saw an unknown Elder in schema come out of the altar to him and say: 'Well, apparently you do not wish to serve me. If so, return to St. Cyril.

"At these words, the Elder struck him with his right hand quite strongly on the shoulder. Noting that the Elder exactly resembled St. Nilus as he is depicted on the icon over his relics, John was filled with great joy, all his grief disappeared, and he firmly resolved to spend the rest of his life in the Saint's skete" (The Northern Thebaid).

Even if we are bedridden, we are to continue the struggle against the passions, producing fruits worthy of repentance. This work of perfection demands that we acquire patience and longsuffering. What better way to do this than when we lie on a bed of infirmity? St. Tikhon of Zadonsk says that in suffering we can find out whether our faith is living or just "theoretical." The test of true faith is patience in the midst of sufferings, for "patience is the Christian's coat of arms." "What is it to follow Christ?" he asks. It is "to endure all things, looking upon Christ Who suffered. Many wish to be glorified with Christ, but few seek to remain with the suffering Christ. Yet not merely by tribulation, but even in much tribulation does one enter the Kingdom of God."

To those who suppose that they can only progress in the spiritual life when all else is "well," St. John Cassian replies, "You should not think that you can find virtue when you are not irritated — for it is not in your power to prevent troubles from happening. Rather, you should look for patience as the result of your own humility and longsuffering, for patience does depend upon your own will" {Institutes). Towards the end of his life, St. Seraphim of Sarov suffered from open ulcers on his legs. "Yet," as his Life tells us, "in appearance he was always bright and cheerful, for in spirit he felt that heavenly peace and joy which are the riches of the glorious inheritance of the saints."

"You are stricken by this sickness," the Holy Fathers say, "so that you will not depart barren to God. If you can endure, and give thanks to God, this sickness will be accounted to you as a spiritual work" (Sts. Barsanouphius and John, Philokalia).

Bishop Theophan the Recluse explains: "Enduring unpleasant things cheerfully, you approach a little to the martyrs. But if you complain, you will not only lose your share with the martyrs, but will be responsible for complaining besides. Therefore, be cheerful!"

In order not to lose heart when we fall sick we are to think about and mentally "kiss the sufferings of our Savior just as though we were with Him while He suffers abuses, wounds, humiliations...shame, the pain of the nails, the piercing with the lance, the flow of water and blood. From this we will receive consolation in our sickness. Our Lord will not let these efforts go unrewarded " (St. Tikhon of Zadonsk).

The patience we can learn on a sickbed cannot be overemphasized. Elder Macarius of Optina wrote about this to one who was ill:

"I was much pleased to hear from your relation how bravely you are bearing the cruel scourge of your heavy sickness. Verily, as the man of the flesh perishes, so is the spiritual man renewed."

And to another he wrote: "Praised be the Lord that you accept your illness so meekly! The bearing of sickness with patience and gratitude is reckoned highly by Him Who often rewards sufferers with His imperishable gifts.

"Ponder these words: Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed."

St. Ambrose of Milan compared an infirm body to a broken musical instrument. He explained how the "musician" can still produce God-pleasing "music" without his instrument:

"If a man used to singing to the accompaniment of a harp finds the harp broken, and its strings undone...he puts it aside and instead of calling for its notes he delights himself with his own voice.

"In the same way, a sick man allows the harp of his body to lie unused. He finds delight within his heart and comfort in the knowledge that his conscience is clear. He sustains himself with God's words and the prophetic writings and, holding these sweet and pleasant in his soul, he embraces them with his mind. Nothing can happen to him because God's graceful presence breathes favor upon him....He is filled with spiritual tranquility" (Jacob and the Happy Life).

Quite often the most God-pleasing spiritual "music" of all is produced in anonymity, by unknown or nearly-unknown saints. But such holy "melodies" are all the more sweet because they are heard by God alone. One such modern sufferer who lived an angel-like life in spite of advanced and terrible sickness was the holy New Russian Martyr, Mother Maria of Gatchina. Her story is known to us only because it pleased God to providentially arrange for one of her visitors, Professor I. M. Andreyev, to record his memories of her.

Mother Maria suffered from encephalitis (inflammation of the brain) and Parkinson's disease. "Her whole body became as it were chained and immovable, her face anemic and like a mask; she could speak, but she began to talk with half-closed mouth, through her teeth, pronouncing slowly and in a monotone. She was a total invalid and was in constant need of help and careful looking after. Usually this disease proceeds with sharp psychological changes, as a result of which such patients often ended up in psychiatric hospitals. But Mother Maria, being a total physical invalid, not only did not degenerate psychically, but revealed completely extraordinary features of personality and character not characteristic of such patients: she became extremely meek, humble, submissive, undemanding, concentrated in herself; she became engrossed in constant prayer, bearing her difficult condition without the least murmuring.

"As if as a reward for this humility and patience, the Lord sent her a gift: consolation of the sorrowing. Completely strange and unknown people, finding themselves in sorrows, grief, depression, and despondency, began to visit her and converse with her. And everyone who came to her left consoled, feeling an illumination of their grief, a pacifying of sorrow, a calming of fears, a taking away of depression and despondency" (The Orthodox Word, vol. 13, no. 3).

"Thus God has acted. Like a provident Father and not like a kidnapper has He first involved us in grievous things, giving us over to tribulation as it were to schoolmasters and teachers, so that being chastened and sobered by these things we may, after showing forth all patience and learning, all right discipline, inherit the Kingdom of Heaven" (St. John Chrysostom, Homily 18, On the Statues).”

Excerpts taken from:

Missionary Leaflet # EA30

466 Foothill Blvd, Box 397, La Canada, Ca 91011

Editor: Bishop Alexander (Mileant)

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lazyevaluationranch · 4 years

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I was wondering if you would be willing to share the titles of your resilience-inspiring lesbian farm books? My google search led me to a book titled “Attack of the Lesbian Farmers” which, while certainly inspiring, is not exactly what I was looking for.

Here are two very different books in the Farm Lesbians Write Honestly About What Went Wrong And How They Got Through It genre. Hopefully at least one is to your taste.

It's nearly fifty years old now, and can be hard to find, but Country Women: A Handbook for the New Farmer is deeply important to me. Country Women was a black and white xeroxed magazine written by a collective of woman-run farms in California in the 1960s. (There are some issues scanned at the Lesbian Poetry Archive). Each issue was half articles about feminism and half articles about small-scale farming. In the 1970s, the how-to articles on farming were expanded and organized to make the book, along with some scattered journal entries, lovely hippie-style line drawings and poetry about wood splitting, bees, and gazing at one's beloved while fixing the tractor on a summer day. The contributors have names like Jean and Ruth Mountaingrove, Ellen Chanterelle, and Sam♀ Thomas.

It's written in an informal and pragmatic style, mostly organic hippie farming, but using pesticides or conventional medications when necessary.

This afternoon the Anderson brothers began teaching me how to graft fruit trees - the careful joining of life with life. Even more than I loved gaining a new skill, I loved learning from two old men who have so very much to teach me. I admire the audacity of eighty-three-year-old men setting grafts that will not bear fruit for years: the total involvement in a process they love. Those trees will stand and live; I doubt whether Jake or Fred even stop to wonder if they'll pick the fruit. I want to live my life with that kind of harmony and purpose. I want to be planting seeds the day I die.

The first lamb was born today. Premature and dead. Olivia, the mother, seems to be all right though. I had a dream a few weeks ago that the lambs were born tiny (like mice) and pink. And that I struggled to save them, but they were too small to feed. The lamb today was small and pink, its fleece plastered against its body, thin and sparse. For a moment it was nightmareishly like my dream... This is my first animal death. The beginning of a long cycle. It seems even harder to have death come before life, than to have an old one die giving birth. Hopes for the future stillborn.

Driving home today, I suddenly realized that this really is going to be a sheep ranch, that I have done, and am doing, and will do it. That I'm making my livelihood from the land. The canyon is fenced now. There are sheep out there on pastures that were open hillsides two years ago.

The very act of building this place, the simple actions of tamping dirt, stretching wire, dumping hay in feeders, has profoundly changed my sense of self. I'm doing things I never dreamed I could do, and I'm doing them easily without even considering whether I really can. Last night I was talking with Susan about fencing the front meadow for feeder calves, and I realized that I could say that realistically, no fantasizing, no bragging: I can fence the front meadow as soon as I get done with the hay barn and get a little more money.

Like almost every other farmer in America today, I'm in debt and hoping for a good season. I'm only at the beginning now, and I know there are many struggles to come and overcome and come again: Someday I too, like my neighbours, will be counting carcasses killed by a marauding dog or watching the spring oats be wash away in an "unheard of" late storm. No matter how prepared I am, there us always that vulnerability - to the weather, other animals, disease - that seems to strike when things are finally going smoothly. But inside me there is also this incredible joy: This life is real and good, and it has made me strong and real and good too.

I gotta stop or I'll type the whole book into this post. One more:

My father is here this week ... working on the truck whose engine has been alien to me. I am learning now what I could have learned at 7, 11, 15. Beneath my truck, side by side, lie his seven-year-old son and his twenty-five-year-old daughter, both of us learning for the first time how bearings fit together, how to remove pistons. And here beneath this truck the patriarchy stops: he has passed his knowledge to his daughter, and from me it will pass to sisters, from sister to sister to sister.

That's this book. The things women weren't supposed to know in the sixties. They found people to teach them; they taught each other; they learned through bitter loss. The book says: we have gone before you and you are not alone. Here is what we have learned, and here is how we have learned it. We have failed, and we have wept, and we have gotten up and gone on, and it was alright. Here is the fire, passed from hand to hand to hand. Here is the light that will never be put out.

The week after we first got goats, we received a package in the mail from my coolest relative, a veterinarian who was the first woman to graduate with a specialization in large animal medicine at her school. People thought that women just weren't physically capable of handling large animals. (Hint: the bull weights 1100 kilograms. It doesn't much matter if the veterinarian weighs 50 kilograms or 150 kilograms.) I remember staying with her a child, in summer, laying on the stainless steel operating table in the barn; it always felt cool when the heat was unbearable.

The package, of course, contained Country Women. An old well-loved copy, with notes on long-ago calving dates penciled in the margins, and random scraps of paper with sketches of possible gardens and goat sheds as bookmarks. A light passed from hand to hand, a light that will not go out. It was like receiving a video game quest artifact.

Country Women is rooted in second wave feminism, which is not everyone's cup of tea. For something more modern and story-focussed, consider Hit By A Farm or Sheepish by Catherine Friend. These are collections of short, funny autobiographical essays about farming and relationships. Their tone is honest and wry, self-deprecating. You can see Catherine Friend's blog here and decide if you like her writing style. She wanted to call Hit By A Farm "Sheep Sex and Other Disasters" but her editor didn't think it would sell.

In Hit By A Farm, Catherine - a professional writer - goes along with her partner Melissa's lifelong desire to ranch sheep, and describes the results from the perspective of the slightly reluctant farmer's wife as they start a farm in Minnesota. Sheepish is written fifteen years later, when they're thinking about quitting the farm, after all the shiny newness of farming and the relationship has worn off. There are different mistakes then, different sorrows, and new joys.

From Sheepish:

We rarely pay attention to middles. Perhaps we ignore them because they're problematic. The middles of our beds often sag. The middles of our bodies sag. The middle of a long story told by your brother-in-law is likely to sag, and so you'll need another beer to stay focused. Everyone needs a reason to keep going when they're in the middle.

And:

Don't expect a farm to fix your life, for once the romance dims, you must still muck out the barn and stack hay bales and give that sick goat an enema...Although there are tons of stories about starting something new, there just aren't that many about how to keep doing something, about how to slog through the middle when the going gets tough.

The quotes are all from Sheepish; I can't find our copy of Hit By A Farm:

My spinning wheel continues to torture and confound me. I realize I'm not interested enough in the craft to really commit to learning it. After a few more tries, I tuck the wheel into a corner of our living room and turn it into what Melissa likes to call a Dust Accumulation Research Project. Clearly our wool market will continue to be the wildly unlucrative wholesale warehouse.

The patron saint of spinners is, interestingly enough, Saint Catherine. She was a Christian martyr in Alexandria. In 307 AD, she was condemned to be torn apart by the spokes of the wheel.

Well. No wonder.

Spoiler: things get pretty rough, there’s illness and hard winters and financial issues, but they do not, in fact, give up the farm or each other.

The book says: We made it. You will too.

#the-revolution-will-be-feminized

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buckyownsmylife · 4 years

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Not About Angels - Sebastian Stan Fluff

The one where, after you die, you find out that the love of your life isn’t really who you thought he was.

Warnings: Devil!Seb AU. hellish themes? Bit of smutty conversation. Light angst. Mentions of death without details That’s pretty much it.

A/N: I’m already working on a smutty part II that picks up where this one stops, so hype me up on that and it might come sooner rather than later

Seb’s P.O.V.

“Sir?” Sebastian looked at the demon who had just joined him in his throne room with only partial interest. “That thing that you asked us to warn you about has just happened.” And just like that, he was out of his room in a flash, eager to see you again. Of course, in the actual life, he had just left you to “work”, as he had been doing every day since he met you by chance in one of his visits to the land of the living, but he had no idea when he had kissed you goodbye, that today was the day you would join him in the afterlife. Your forever was about to start, and he itched to touch you, kiss you, to have you in his arms again even if not much time had passed.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been, actually. Time worked differently around here, but even though it was longer, to him it felt like an eternity until he found your confused eyes staring back at him in the hall of his own home.

“Seb? W-what is going on?” Suddenly, he felt as if his heart was dropping to his stomach. He hadn’t thought this through. You were scared, that much was clear by the way your fingers trembled and how you chewed on your bottom lip. The same bottom lip he had feasted on so many times before.

And that much was to be expected, wasn’t it? You had just died, and here you were, in hell. All because of him.

“Seb?” You took a step closer to him, reaching out for the man you loved and all he could do was stare emptily back at you. His heart pounded against his chest as he thought over what he had done. What it meant now that you were here with him.

“What did they tell you?” You blinked twice, before completely comprehending what he’d said. He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh and cold, he was just terrified at the prospect of you hating him for what he did.

“W-what?”

“What. Did. They. Tell. You?” He didn’t miss the way you flinched at his tone, he couldn’t. Not only was he completely attuned to you, it would also be visible to anyone from a mile away.

“N-not much. They didn’t tell me… Nothing at all, actually. They just… Asked me to wait here. For you.” The sight of her water-filled eyes broke my heart and forced me to look away, out of the window, at the bright lights of a city that I had created and looked over. My heart felt heavy now, as I tried to urge myself to look at her again and explain everything.

“What do you remember?” I monotonously asked, still not staring at her, although I could see her fidgeting with her fingers from the corner of my eyes.

“Again, n-not much. I remember…” I could have seen exactly when she realized what had happened, I knew it was coming from the way she suddenly dropped her arms and let out a tiny, “Oh.” But I didn’t. I closed my eyes instead, my hands tucked all the way inside my pants’ pockets as I waited for the inevitable outcome of what would happen. Only it never did. Instead, I felt a tiny, warm hand pressed against my cheek, carefully asking me for attention.

I could never refuse her. I couldn’t when she was alive, there was no way I’d be able to start doing that now. So I looked down at her, finding her bright eyes filled with a warmth I was used to seeing directed at me but was in no way expecting to still be in the receiving end of it in such a circumstance.

The feeling of her touch on my skin was enough to break my control and I found myself wrapping my arms around her waist, pulling her body close to mine while our eyes remained connected.

“I died, didn’t I?” I could only nod as I tightened my grip around her, scared to see her run away from me. “Baby…” Her own grip on me tightened, both of her hands holding my face now. “Where am I?” Sighing, I dropped my head to connect her forehead to mine.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

Sebastian looked… guilty as he finally raised his gaze to mine again. “You’re… you’re in hell, darling.” Perhaps I should have felt something other than curiosity, but as I remained tightly embraced by the man I loved, I just couldn’t find it in myself to care. So I just snorted. That made him raise an eyebrow at me, an incredulous look on his face. “Did you just… Are you finding this amusing, doll?”

I broke down in a fit of laughter as he tried to contain his own chuckle, at last dropping his hands from my body. He allowed me to bend over in an effort to gather air into my lungs. “Y-yes, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just never thought I’d end up here.” That seemed to have been the wrong thing to say, by the way his smile dropped and he started to avoid my eyes again. “Okay, enough of this, my love. Will you tell me what is going on?” I cautiously approached him again until I was able to wrap my arms around his torso this time.

“What do you want to know?” Good, he returned my hug. We were making progress.

“Well, now that I know where I am, I would like to know why you’re here. Did you happen to die at the same time as I did? Did you…” As the thought passed over my brain, I couldn’t help but to gasp loudly as I pulled him to look at me again. “Sebastian freaking Stan, tell me you didn’t kill yourself when you heard I had died.”

My boyfriend looked very conflicted at my display of anxiety. On one hand, I felt like he was trying very hard not to laugh at my question, but at the same time, I saw in his eyes he was very concerned about something.

“Come on, baby. Talk to me. I won’t judge… Well, I will most definitely be angry at you, but you have to remember that I love you and I’ll get over it eventually.” I watched as he screwed his eyes shut very tightly before answering.

“No, I didn’t die.” Well, that didn’t serve to lessen my confusion.

“Then…”

“You’re asking the wrong question, darling.” That shut me up, but only for a second.

“What was I supposed to be asking?” I felt his thumbs softly caressing my hips, just like he always did. It relaxed me, but only a little. I suppose that much was expected, given the situation.

“Why you are here.” Huh. That was not what I was expecting him to suggest to me. It hadn’t even crossed my mind, actually. I had just accepted the fact that I was here, and that was it. I mean, did I know that I hadn’t committed any major sins while alive? Yeah, of course. Just as I was sure that I must have committed a lot of minor ones that would interfere with my path to heaven. It had just always been the way I saw the possible afterlife. I figured only actual saints and martyrs went to heaven, while the rest of us would be trapped in hell or its equivalent.

“I don’t care,” I explained, shrugging as I hugged him to me again. “Whatever it is, at least it brought me to you. If you’re here too, I’m glad I’m not in heaven. It wouldn’t be heaven to me. Not without you.”

Seb’s P.O.V.

Fuck. How the fuck was I supposed to do this? I had to, though. She deserved as much.

“Baby…” I started, carefully pulling away from her so I could watch her face. She frowned, probably confused about why I didn’t want to hug her anymore. “There’s something you don’t know about me.”

I pulled her with me so we’d get out of the entrance hall and further into the house. She silently let me drag her through all of the main floor, and though I didn’t turn around to look at her, I knew she’d be staring at my house with a gaping mouth.

It was a bit much, even I could admit.

But for now, I didn’t have the time to give her the tour or explain my decor choices. Perhaps after I was done with my story, if she still wanted to be with me.

Please, let her still want me.

We finally made our way to the back balcony, and I brought her to my garden. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been here, but it was still well-kept by some of my demons - well, as well-kept as I liked it to be. I’d always enjoyed the more overgrown look, so that was the theme of my backyard. Except for the little path that took us to the fountain, dark green dominated the environment, and I hoped she would like it.

If she didn’t, she could always change it however she wanted, if she decided to stay.

Please, make her decide to stay.

We stopped in front of the fountain. Once there, I let go of her hand and finally turned to look her in the eyes again.

“Seb?” She asked, confused. I took my time to memorize her just like that, still in love with me, still trusting in the person she believed me to be.

Please, don’t let her change her mind.

Sighing, I took off my overcoat, letting it drop to the floor, before slowly starting to unbutton my black shirt. I watched her the entire time. She was frowning, definitely trying to understand what was going on, and she looked so cute that it hurt.

I knew she remembered what I had in my back. In the living world, it translated into a black tattoo of wings. Here, they were real.

And so I spread them, something I hadn’t done in what felt like forever. Why would I? I had no reason to fly anymore. It was just something I used to do. It reminded me too much of home, of how things were when I was still up there.

And I didn’t want to remember. I had no reason to.

Yet I had to admit that the feeling of flying, even if it was actually just hovering a few feet up in the air, felt freeing. For a few seconds, I was able to forget my anxiety and just appreciate that I was still able to do this. It felt like stretching a muscle that hadn’t been used in a really long time.

But then I had to open my eyes and face the reality that I was living in. So I looked down and found Y/N staring up at me with indecipherable eyes.

I stayed up in the air for a little bit longer, trying to gather whatever sort of reaction I could so I could be prepared for whichever outcome was waiting for me when I touched the ground again. Alas, there were no visible tells, so with a resigned sigh, I came down and closed my wings.

We both stood there, looking at each other in perfect silence, and it felt like there was a battle going on between the two of us, only I didn’t know what it was about. Finally, after what felt like forever, her voice pierced through my dark thoughts with perfect clarity.

“The reason I was sent to hell… My sin…”

“... was loving me,” I interrupted, anxious to get this over with. By now, I was already in pieces, fully prepared for the sight of her horrified face as she realized what she had done, what I had put her through.

Once again I closed my eyes, just so I wouldn’t have to see her leaving me.

Only, instead of the sound of her steps getting further and further away, I was overcome with the feeling of warmth as I was wrapped around a familiar embrace.

Y/N’s P.O.V.

I buried my face in his chest, appreciating the intimate scent of autumn, home and insanity that were ever-present in the man I loved. Guess now it made sense. I let his scent ground me, although, despite the circumstances, I didn’t feel all that confused. I had everything I needed right in my arms.

When I finally felt his arms around my body, reciprocating my embrace, I pushed my face away so I could stare up into his beautiful eyes. He looked so confused, his mouth a bit open, his eyebrows frowning. I could only smile patiently at him, my heart overflowing with emotion for the man I loved.

“Sebastian,” I called his attention to me, despite the fact that it was clear I already had it. “If loving you was my only sin, it was worth it to me.” I raised up on my tiptoes to kiss his red lips, and to my delight, he reciprocated the kiss with an untamed hunger that had to be the remnants of the fear he had been holding inside his mind.

We kissed deeply in the middle of his garden, his hands sprawled across my back making me feel safe and wanted and his. I didn’t care that I was in hell. If this was hell, I was glad I never had to leave.

But suddenly, he abruptly separated our faces, prompting a disappointed moan from my lips as he looked at me with wide eyes, struggling to catch his breath. “Wait. Do you… Do you really understand what I meant? You’re not here because I am an ordinary sinner, and loving me made you sin in consequence. You’re here because…”

“You’re the devil, right?” I interrupted, wanting to save him the effort of having to explain himself to me even further. “I understood, Seb. And I still don’t care. You’re still the one I love. The reasons I fell for you are still here, I can’t simply turn off a switch because I figured out you fell from heaven and are now in charge of dealing with sinners. Not even the fact that you hid this from me bothers me that much, after all, I would have never believed you if you had tried to explain yourself to me while I was alive. So please, let it go, believe me when I say that I still love you and always will and just kiss me already.”

He opened one of those huge smiles that were so rare on him, but managed to steal my breath away anytime they appeared on his handsome face, immediately leaning over me to do as I asked.

The kiss grew feverish quickly, and before I could even process what was happening, his hands had found their way over my butt and he was pulling me so I’d wrap my legs around him, which I did without even thinking. “Where are we going?” I managed to separate myself from him just enough to ask, and he growled, pulling me by the back of my head so our lips would touch again.

“I want to give you a tour of the place,” he whispered against my neck, where he decided to start kissing and sucking after I separated our lips because I needed to gather my breath again. “I figured we’d start in my bedroom.” It was impossible not to laugh at his silly ways.

“You know… I never expected the devil to be this horny,” I teased him, laughing from the way he scoffed, faking offense.

“I think you have the wrong impression of me, my darling… I simply want to begin by showing you the room that will be ours for the rest of eternity. Doesn’t that interest you?” I shook my head, pushing away from him just enough to look directly in his eyes.

“No, but you know what does?”

“What?”

“You. Especially when naked.”

Chuckling, his response came just before he pushed open the doors that I assumed would take us to our bedroom. “And you said I was the horny devil.”

#sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan insert #sebastian stan insert fanfiction #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan writing #my fics #fluff #sebastian stan

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iphisesque · 4 years

Note

Joe + Nicky + Saint Sebastian + ☕

(this started out as a fun little question to answer! might throw around some headcanons! might even reference some of my favourite renaissance artists along the way! and here we are, a couple of months and 1.1k words later, with a fanfiction about joenicky, saint sebastian and antonello da messina. i have no idea how this happened --- you can find the link to this on ao3 in the source!)

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Yusuf loves drawing Nicolò, that much is certain: whether it be a doodle on the corner of a page in his sketchbook or a painting on a panel larger than either of them, he's always found something almost sacred, almost divine about it, about tracing the curve of his nose, the bright glimmer in his eyes, the relaxed grin on his lips and recreating his image like Allah created man in his own. They often joke about Yusuf making Nicolò into a saint, giving his face to George slaying the dragon, or perhaps painting both of their likenesses onto an embrace of Sergius and Bacchus commissioned by another wealthy Florentine with tastes not unlike theirs, but nothing really ever becomes of it --- until.

They're staying in Venice at Antonello's house, not long after he's returned from his latest travel to the Flanders; him and Yusuf are excitedly discussing the latest news in oil painting, while Nicolò is dozing off in bed as he pretends to follow the conversation, still tangled up in their sweat and spill and little else.

He stretches and stirs, more asleep than awake, and both of them look up at him from the desk in Antonello's room they're sitting at; the man glances at his figure, lightly constrained by the bed sheets strategically covering his body, his face still blissed-out, and reaches for his sketchbook, showing his latest preliminary sketches to Yusuf. A young man, tied up with rope to a pole, arrows penetrating his near-bared body in an intent more sensual than murderous, if the man's expression is anything to go by.

"San..." He can't recall the saint's name on his tongue, but he knows the man is one: it's always saints and Marys with Catholic artists, which isn't necessarily a complaint. "Sebastiano," Antonello helps him, his voice low. "I was commissioned a Martyrdom of Saint Sebastian by the Church of San Zulian, and I thought you might appreciate the idea."

He glances up at his lover, fast asleep in bed still, and back down at the sketch. "Who's the man?" he asks, an artist's silent understanding: every painting contains a part of its maker's soul, but masterpieces such as Antonello's seldom are created without a certain familiar face to inspire the hand that paints its likeness.

"An old friend," he answers, his eyes growing dark. "Loved him and left him in Messina, like too many other things in my life."

Yusuf nods, he too well aware of what it means to leave people behind; his heart still aches when he thinks of his sister Maryam sometimes, watches over her descendants in Mahdia and Tunis as best as he can alongside his beloved. "I'm going back there as soon as I finish this commission, tell you that," Antonello interrupts his thoughts. "I far too much miss my dear Smeralda and my dearest hometown, though I'm sure a man like you would have none such problems."

Yusuf scoffs playfully. "I miss more places and people than you could ever think possible, believe me," he replies, and that much is the truth: the pain of leaving people and places he's loved never stops or dulls after centuries of life, or at the very least it still hasn't for himself and Nicolò.

He comes back home that night with his head buzzing, and dreams of his sister, of his past life in sun-scorched Mahdia, of his beloved's embrace as they ate and drank and recited poetry in his family's house in Damascus, back when they were still learning to know and love each other for the very first time. He dreams other, abstract dreams too: a broken arrow, lengths of rope holding strong muscles tight, his beloved's face enraptured, the near-indecency of a drape slipping off his bare lap, and these don't fade from his thoughts even after he wakes up.

He tells Nicolò of the sketch Antonello showed him, the sketch that hasn't left his mind since he first saw it, and his lover's eyes widen, his interest piqued. "Would you like to paint me like that?" he whispers, his voice low and raspy like he knows it drives Yusuf wild.

He nods, not wanting to break the heavy intimacy of the silence hanging between them, and Nicolò presses a kiss to his lips, his hand caressing at first his cheek and then moving lower and lower.

"Paint me then, beloved," he tells him in that same voice, before dragging him to the bedroom, and Yusuf begs Allah to let him at least finish the sketch that night before succumbing to the desires of the flesh. (If He hears that plea, He seems to pay him no attention.)

---

Centuries later, one French art forger baptised as Sébastien Le Livre has joined their warrior group of immortals, and he finds himself with them at a safehouse in Florence sometime between the two world wars; he's still young, barely been undead for more than a century, and cannot wrap his head around the idea of his mates having been alive since way before his country or the one they're staying in were united. Safehouses like that are a blessing to him, filled to the brim with material testaments of his and his companions' eternal lives, and often hiding pieces deserving of a place in a museum; it is one of these he stumbles upon that afternoon as he explores the dusty old attic, holding a torch high and not too close as he theatrically removes the white cloth covering a painting --- late 1400s, he thinks with a glance at the technique and at the style, further proved by the signature in the lower right corner reading "al-Kaysani, 1479".

Yusuf's old art, and certainly not his oldest, he thinks to himself, and he has a better look at the subject: a Sebastian like himself, painted as was the norm in the day, penetrated by arrows and tied up to a pole, in an expression of supposed agony resembling more of a petite mort than a real death.

Only when he pays closer attention to the face does he realise who the subject is, and he recoils so suddenly he drops his lamp in the darkness --- he cannot look Nicolò in the face for a week following the incident, and they only find out about that when Yusuf goes to store another masterpiece in the attic alongside the cursed San Sebastiano. They laugh it out eventually, of course, and it becomes something to tease them both about, but he is more than glad to be leaving Florence and going to London the week after that, where he starts going by Booker and buries his old name for good.

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A few notes:

1) the mention of Saints George, Sergius and Bacchus is not casual: Saint George, in particular, was the patron saint of the Republic of Genova, and Sergius and Bacchus are two saints martyred together who are often thought to have had a homosexual relationship and are somewhat of the patron saints of the gay community.

2) Antonello da Messina was an early Renaissance painter who introduced Flemish oil painting to Italy and Italian perspective technique to the Flanders; his portrayal of Saint Sebastian, inspired by Andrea Mantegna’s, was among the first ones to popularise what we now consider to be the classic portrayal of the martyrdom of Sebastian, aka “young man tied to a pole and sensually struck by arrows”. In Messina, Antonello was friends with Saint Eustochia Smeralda (the Smeralda Antonello mentions), and he allegedly based his masterpiece Virgin of the Annunciation on her.

3) the headcanon of Yusuf coming from Mahdia belongs to @hottopicmonk, and him having a sister named Maryam comes from a conversation with @tovezza!

#the old guard #the old guard fic #tog fic #the old guard fanfiction #the old guard netflix #nicolò di genova #yusuf al-kaysani #sebastien le livre #tog fanfiction #mine #my fic

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church-history · 3 years

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St. Philip Neri

Feast day: May 26

Patronage: Rome, US Special Forces, humor and joy

St. Philip Neri was a Christian missionary and founder of the Congregation of the Oratory, a community of Catholic priests and lay brothers.

He was born in Florence on July 21, 1515 as one of four children to Francesco Neri.

From a very young age, Philip was known for being cheerful and obedient. He was affectionately referred to as "good little Phil." He received his early teachings from friars at the Dominican monastery in Florence, San Marco.

At 18-years-old, Philip went off to live with a wealthy family member in San Germano. He was sent there to assist in - and possibly inherit - the family business. However, soon after his arrival, Philip experienced a mystical vision, which he eventually spoke of as his Christian conversion. This event was an encounter with the Lord and it dramatically changed his life.

He soon lost interest in owning property or participating in business. He felt a call from the Holy Spirit to radically live for and serve the Lord Jesus Christ and His Church.

So, Philip set out for Rome. Once in Rome, Philip was the live-in tutor for a fellow Florentine's sons. Under Philip's guidance, the two boys improved in all aspects of life and faith, proving Philip's special talent with human relationships and in bringing out the best in people.

During his first two years in Rome, Philip spent his time in a solitary life. He also dedicated a lot of time to prayer. He ate very small meals of bread, water and a few vegetables, practicing an ascetical life.

In 1535, Philip began studying theology and philosophy at the Sapienza and at St. Augustine's monastery. Although he was considered a "promising scholar," after three years of studies, Philip gave up any thought of ordination. He set out to help the poor people of Rome and to re-evangelize the city. Sadly, Rome had lost its first love and its inhabitants were no longer really living as Christians.

He began talking to people on street corners and in public squares; he made acquaintances in places where people commonly gathered.

Philip, compared to Socrates, had a knack for starting up conversations and leading his listeners to consider a new and better way of life, the Christian Way. He easily caught others' attention with his warm personality and incredible sense of humor. He encouraged groups of people to gather for discussions, studies, prayer and the enjoyment of music. His customary question was always, "Well, brothers, when shall we begin to do good?"

Losing no time in converting good conversation to good actions, Philip would lead his followers to hospitals to wait on the sick or to the Church, to pray to and encounter Jesus Christ.

In short, Philip was an evangelist. He loved to share the Gospel and help people to find or rediscover their faith in Jesus Christ.

His days were dedicated to helping others, but his nights were set aside for solitude spent praying in the church or in the catacombs beside the Appian Way.

In 1544, on the eve of Pentecost, Philip saw what appeared to be a globe of fire. It is said the fire entered his mouth, causing Philip to feel his heart dilate. Philip was filled with such paroxysms of divine love that caused him to scream out, "Enough, enough, Lord, I can bear no more." Philip then discovered a swelling over his heart, though it caused him no pain.

In 1548, with the help of his confessor, Father Persiano Rossa, Philip founded a confraternity for poor laymen to meet for spiritual exercises and service of the poor, the Confraternity of the Most Holy Trinity.

Philip's appealing nature won him over friends from all societal levels, including that of Ignatius of Loyola, Pius V and Charles Borromeo.

At 34-years-old, Philip had already accomplished so much, but his confessor was determined that his work would be more effective as a priest. Finally convinced, Philip was ordained to the diaconate and then to the priesthood on May 23, 1551.

From there, Philip went to live with Father Rossa and other priests at San Girolamo and carried on his mission, but mostly through the confessional.

Before sun up, until sun down, Philip spent hours sitting and listening to people of all ages. Sometimes Philip broke out informal discussions for those who desired to live a better life. He spoke to them about Jesus, the saints and the martyrs.

Influenced by St. Francis Xavier, Philip thought of going to India to join the foreign mission field, but was dissuaded by his peers because Rome still needed Philip's ministry and influence.

A large room was built above the church of San Girolamo to tend to Philip's growing number of pilgrims and other priests were called on to assist him. Philip and the priests were soon called the "Oratorians," because they would ring a bell to call the faithful in their "oratory."

The foundation of the Congregation of the Priests of the Oratory would be laid a few years later with members who encouraged others to deepen their faith. Philip's rule for them was simple - share a common table and to perform spiritual exercises. Philip didn't want his followers to bind themselves to the life with a vow and he did not want them to denounce their property.

Philip's organization was officially approved by Pope Gregory XIII in 1575.

The Congregation was given an ancient church, but Philip made the quick decision to demolish it because the structure was in ruins and the size was not large enough. He had plans of rebuilding on a larger scale. People from all over, including Charles Borromeo and Pope Gregory, contributed financially toward the rebuilding.

By April 1577, the New Church was completed enough for the Congregation of the Oratory to be transferred there, but Philip stayed at San Girolamo for another seven years.

Philip was constantly in a crowd of people; he allowed his followers free access to him and continued hearing confessions and engaging in ministry and prayer.

In the words of one of his biographers, Philip was "all things to all men.... When he was called upon to be merry, he was so; if there was a demand upon his sympathy, he was equally ready..."

Philip was respected and loved throughout Rome; he became a trusted advisor to popes, kings, cardinals and equally as important to the poor.

He whole-heartedly desired the reform of the Catholic Church and worked toward that with a sense of gentleness and friendship, rather than criticism and harshness.

His efforts to reach out to the lay people of Rome and not simply associate with the clergy made him one of the great figures in the Counter Reformation of the Catholic Church. Sadly, the Catholic Church had fallen into clericalism. He soon earned the title, "Apostle of Rome."

On the Feast of Corpus Christi, May 25, 1595, Philip was told by his physician that he was not healthy. He had not looked well for ten years. Philip realized his time had come to pass on to the Lord. For the remainder of the day, he listened to confessions and saw his visitors as normal.

Before heading off to bed, Philip stated, "Last of all, we must die."

Around midnight of May 26, 1595, Philip suffered from a hemorrhage and passed away at 80-years-old. His body lays in the New Church, where the Oratorians still serve.

St. Philip Neri was beatified by Pope Paul V on May 11, 1615 and canonized by Pope Gregory XV on March 12, 1622.

#catholic #catholic history #christian #saints #st philip neri #may 26th

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troybeecham · 3 years

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Today the Church remembers St. Cyprian of Carthage, Bishop and Martyr.

Ora pro nobis.

Cyprian (Thaschus Cæcilius Cyprianus; c. 200 – September 14, 258 AD) was bishop of Carthage and a notable Early Christian writer of Berber descent, many of whose Latin works are extant. He is also recognised as a saint in the Christian churches. He was born around the beginning of the 3rd century AD in North Africa, perhaps at Carthage, where he received a classical education. Soon after converting to Christianity, he became a bishop in AD 249. A controversial figure during his lifetime, his strong pastoral skills, firm conduct during the Novatianist heresy and outbreak of the Plague of Cyprian (named after him due to his description of it), and eventual martyrdom at Carthage established his reputation and proved his sanctity in the eyes of the Church. His skillful Latin rhetoric led to his being considered the pre-eminent Latin writer of Western Christianity until Jerome and Augustine.

Cyprian was born into a rich, pagan, Berber (Roman African), Carthaginian family sometime during the early third century. His original name was Thascius; he took the additional name Caecilius in memory of the priest to whom he owed his conversion. Before his conversion, he was a leading member of a legal fraternity in Carthage, an orator, a “pleader in the courts”, and a teacher of rhetoric. After a “dissipated youth”, Cyprian was baptised when he was thirty-five years old, c. 245 AD. After his baptism, he gave away a portion of his wealth to the poor of Carthage, as befitted a man of his status.

In the early days of his conversion he wrote an Epistola ad Donatum de gratia Dei and the Testimoniorum Libri III that adhere closely to the models of Tertullian, who influenced his style and thinking. Cyprian described his own conversion and baptism in the following words:

“When I was still lying in darkness and gloomy night, I used to regard it as extremely difficult and demanding to do what God’s mercy was suggesting to me… I myself was held in bonds by the innumerable errors of my previous life, from which I did not believe I could possibly be delivered, so I was disposed to acquiesce in my clinging vices and to indulge my sins… But after that, by the help of the water of new birth, the stain of my former life was washed away, and a light from above, serene and pure, was infused into my reconciled heart… a second birth restored me to a new man. Then, in a wondrous manner every doubt began to fade…. I clearly understood that what had first lived within me, enslaved by the vices of the flesh, was earthly and that what, instead, the Holy Spirit had wrought within me was divine and heavenly.”

Not long after his baptism he was ordained a deacon, and soon afterwards a priest. Some time between AD July 248 and April 249 he was elected bishop of Carthage, a popular choice among the poor who remembered his patronage as demonstrating good equestrian style. However his rapid rise did not meet with the approval of senior members of the clergy in Carthage, an opposition which did not disappear during his episcopate.

Not long afterward, the entire community was put to the test of their Faith. Christians in North Africa had not suffered persecution for many years; the Church became self-assured and had lost its zeal for evangelism. Early in AD 250 the “Decian persecution” began. The Emperor Decius issued an edict, the text of which is lost, ordering sacrifices to the gods to be made throughout the Empire. Jews were specifically exempted from this requirement. Cyprian chose to go into hiding rather than face potential execution. While some clergy saw this decision as a sign of cowardice, Cyprian defended himself saying he had fled in order not to leave the faithful without a shepherd during the persecution, and that his decision to continue to lead them, although from a distance, was in accordance with divine will. Moreover, he pointed to the actions of the Apostles and Jesus himself: “And therefore the Lord commanded us in the persecution to depart and to flee; and both taught that this should be done, and Himself did it. For as the crown is given by the condescension of God, and cannot be received unless the hour comes for accepting it, whoever abiding in Christ departs for a while does not deny his faith, but waits for the time…”

At the end of AD 256, a new persecution of the Christians broke out under Emperor Valerian, and Pope Sixtus II was executed in Rome.

In Africa, Cyprian prepared his people for the expected edict of persecution by his De Exhortatione Martyrii, and himself set an example when he was brought before the Roman proconsul Aspasius Paternus (AD 30 August 257). He refused to sacrifice to the pagan deities and firmly professed Christ.

The proconsul banished him to Curubis, modern Korba, whence, to the best of his ability, he comforted his flock and his banished clergy. In a vision he believed he saw his approaching fate. When a year had passed he was recalled and kept practically a prisoner in his own villa, in expectation of severe measures after a new and more stringent imperial edict arrived, and which Christian writers subsequently claimed demanded the execution of all Christian clerics.

On AD 13 September 258, Cyprian was imprisoned on the orders of the new proconsul, Galerius Maximus. The public examination of Cyprian by Galerius Maximus, on AD 14 September 258 has been preserved:

Galerius Maximus: “Are you Thascius Cyprianus?” Cyprian: “I am.” Galerius: “The most sacred Emperors have commanded you to conform to the Roman rites.” Cyprian: “I refuse.” Galerius: “Take heed for yourself.” Cyprian: “Do as you are bid; in so clear a case I may not take heed.” Galerius, after briefly conferring with his judicial council, with much reluctance pronounced the following sentence: “You have long lived an irreligious life, and have drawn together a number of men bound by an unlawful association, and professed yourself an open enemy to the gods and the religion of Rome; and the pious, most sacred and august Emperors … have endeavoured in vain to bring you back to conformity with their religious observances; whereas therefore you have been apprehended as principal and ringleader in these infamous crimes, you shall be made an example to those whom you have wickedly associated with you; the authority of law shall be ratified in your blood.” He then read the sentence of the court from a written tablet: “It is the sentence of this court that Thascius Cyprianus be executed with the sword.” Cyprian: “Thanks be to God.”

The execution was carried out at once in an open place near the city. A vast multitude followed Cyprian on his last journey. He removed his garments without assistance, knelt down, and prayed. After he blindfolded himself, he was beheaded by the sword. The body was interred by Christians near the place of execution.

Almighty God, who gave to your servant Cyprian boldness to confess the Name of our Savior Jesus Christ before the rulers of this world, and courage to die for this faith: Grant that we may always be ready to give a reason for the hope that is in us, and to suffer gladly for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever.

#christianity #early church #martyrs #christian persecution #father troy beecham #troy beecham episcopal #father troy beecham episcopal #saints

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sxlverswan · 3 years

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♡ ♡ ♡ sanji — @xamassed ( cont’d )

So he would stay? That was good. Perhaps two, rather than one, would prove more effective in keeping the darkness at bay. Not the blackness night brings, along with wind and longing, each element as cold as the other, but the kind which resides deep underneath a smile, often camouflaged by the latter's radiance, every so often the glow being proportional to the pain behind it.

Disquiet had taken over Morgan tonight, internal and overwhelming, and she felt cold in her bones, so much so it was nought but the rawness of the wind she felt at first and not its freezing temperature. She was impervious to the outbursts of the sea.

In paramount secret, there was a part of Morgan, small but resilient, that had never grown accustomed to being lost and found in the crowd, surrounded by a sea not of water but of flesh, unless the assembly in question happened to be one of her own cradle. In greater gatherings she felt alone. They could not comprehend, not a single one of them, her woes and wants, or even display an earnest inclination to meet them. Rather than try and be read, Morgan was dealt with as though the lesson was already done and the lady all figured out, for what more could possibly exist in her other than what met the eye?

Even when the company was exceptional and inquisitive, as was the case, loneliness would still perservere, and Morgan would realise, as she did, that she was indeed alone — the odd one, perhaps, even amongst the misfits. And if there was the possibility that she was not that weird and rare a sight, it was still true that she did not have what they did, that incontestable feeling of belonging somewhere, even if such somewhere was nowhere in particular.

She travelled alone. Always.

Silhouetted against the candle light that poured from inside, Sanji loomed black but soft, unlike the night all around them encompassing many a mile; a conspicuous promise of warmth and comfort. Had he not decided to check on her and leave all coziness and merriment behind, albeit momentarily, for the gloom ahead? Between the two scenarios, it should be an easy choice.

At length, the flesh that would not thicken no matter how many years went by seaside did feel whipped by the current of air, causing Morgan to shiver. She was still mortal after all, not a deity of the storm, as the present moment reminded her to prioritise what was tangible and unfolding before her eyes, not sentiments for which there seemed to be no cure.

Like a more modern and no doubt more charming Saint Martin, Sanji draped his coat over her shoulders, mercifully sparing the cloth from being split in twain, and with speedy fingertips Morgan pulled the fabric tighter over her shoulders and chest like the beggar had held on to the martyr’s cape. It was warm and pungent with the smell of tobacco and other fragrances, but Morgan did not mind being spared the fresh air. There was comfort to be had in so exquisite a blend.

She uttered a hushed 'thank you' and supplicated that he stay. One person... one person she could deal with. And after withdrawing herself with no word to her hosts, she did owe it to at least one of them to explain herself. If he would stay, and this Sanji promised, then perhaps Morgan could chat with him and slowly rest her heart.

❝ Your crewmates sure are very lively, curious, unbalanced invididuals... I find that to be quite charming. ❞ She tried for a compliment, and she meant it, for their sense of unity, never mind the oddities and the antics of the individual members, was something Morgan greatly admired.

Everyone who goes out to sea is in search of something, not always knowing what it is they truly seek. Sanji’s friends had already found it. Morgan was still searching.

#xamassed #♡ | ❝ i run to the river and dive straight in; i pray that the water will drown out the din ❞ { v / one piece }#♡ | ❝ a thousand miles down to the sea bed / found the place to rest my head ❞ { ic }#long post for ts #adopt morgan 2k21

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lawrenceop · 3 years

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HOMILY for 4th Sunday after Easter (Dominican rite)

James 1:17-21; John 16:5-14

In today’s Gospel the Lord says to his disciples, why have none of you asked me, quo vadis, where are you going? Perhaps they are overcome by sorrow, or they just did not dare to ask him. But as we heard in last Sunday’s Gospel, our sorrow in this life now is only temporary and passing, for “in a little while”, our Christian hope is that we shall, by grace, see Christ again, enjoying the beatific vision in heaven. So, as the Lord said just a few verses before, he goes “to prepare a place for you” (Jn 14:2), in his Father’s house, that is to say, in heaven. And so last Sunday we considered the three-fold joy of the Saints in heaven, a joy which is to be ours if we remain united to Christ.

However, lest we think that heaven is the universal destination of all human beings; or the well-deserved home of all Christians irrespective of how they’ve lived their baptismal calling; or that heaven is simply that “better place” which awaits all people after death, it is probably vital to realise that although the disciples do not ask the Lord where he is going, the Lord Jesus does ask this of his disciples. Quo vadis? This is the question that Our Lord put to St Peter when he appeared to him after his Ascension into heaven, and the prince of the apostles was on the road out of Rome, trying to avoid his martyrdom in that city. He is trying to flee from his Christian vocation; running for his life. So the Lord comes to him and says to him “Where are you going?” For it is possible to, then, to walk away from our heavenly homeland; to choose a path that takes us further from Christ; to try to avoid the Cross and so to end up in another place, the worst place where all who reject the graces of God are, ie, in hell.

Hence the apostle, ashamed and returning to his better self, returned also to Rome and so went to a martyr’s death like Christ’s. St Peter thus entered into heavenly glory with his Christ, entering into his Master’s joy. For as Our Lord said: “He who loves his life loses it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life.” (Jn 12:25)

So the question that is put to us today, and which we must ask ourselves whenever we examine our consciences is, quo vado? Where am I going? And yes, this is posed in the first person because we are often very interested in where others are going, but the Scriptures remind us to be mindful of our own walk with Christ. So the Lord says to St Peter at the end of St John’s Gospel: “What is that to you? Follow me!” (Jn 21:22) Hence St Paul said: “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling”. (Phil 2:12)

The focus of this church, as I mentioned last Sunday, makes it very clear where we should be going; where we are called by reason of our Christian vocation. We have before us a vision of heaven, and this is made especially evident when the Blessed Sacrament is exposed for Adoration on the Throne, and then the Dominican friars in their white habits are singing the psalms during Vespers, as it happens before this Mass. For the whole apse of this church is designed to show us what, according to the vision of St John, heaven will look like: the Lamb of God seated on the Throne; the white robed army of his followers singing the glory of God as incense goes up; a whole company of heaven looking on, thus the colourful stained glass windows showing the Saints and Angels in heaven. And then, the many pinnacles and niches and gables around the Altar evoking the many rooms in the Father’s house, and the golden walls that remind us that the heavenly Jerusalem is seen to be like pure gold. So, we have before us a vision of heaven, of our destination, and of the joys that await us in union with Mary, our exalted Queen and Mother. So, my brothers and sisters in Christ: Where are you going? To heaven, we hope!

Hence the Lord, having revealed to us the joys of heaven last week, and having told us that we shall have to endure sorrows in this life for a little while, meaning, for our lifetime, he now reveals to us the very necessary help God gives us so that we can live this life well, as faithful Christians, as steadfast pilgrims who are heading always forward towards our heavenly destination. So Jesus says: “If I go, I will send him [the Holy Spirit] to you. And when he comes, he will convince the world concerning sin and righteousness and judgement… When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth”. (Jn 16:7-8, 13)

Yes, Lord, give us now your Spirit of truth! For with purifying truth, the Holy Spirit will convince us of sin – not the sin of others, which we are quick to see and point out, but the sin that is hidden, the sins that we are too ashamed to admit to ourselves, the sins that we do not want to see but need to bring before God’s mercy if we’re to be saved. These hidden sins the Holy Spirit will bring to light so that we can be healed of them, so that we can have true repentance.

Then, having rejected our sins, the Holy Spirit will come with clarifying truth to convince us of righteousness, that is to say, he will teach us to desire virtue, and to seek the wisdom of God’s ways over the wisdom of the world. As we are observing the Year of St Joseph and yesterday was his feast day, let us look to his example to show us the wisdom of God’s ways. Pope Francis, for example, points out that “as we read the infancy narratives, we may often wonder why God did not act in a more direct and clear way. Yet God acts through events and people. Joseph was the man chosen by God to guide the beginnings of the history of redemption. He was the true “miracle” by which God saves the child and his mother. God acted by trusting in Joseph’s creative courage… A superficial reading of these stories can often give the impression that the world is at the mercy of the strong and mighty, but the “good news” of the Gospel consists in showing that, for all the arrogance and violence of worldly powers, God always finds a way to carry out his saving plan. So too, our lives may at times seem to be at the mercy of the powerful, but the Gospel shows us what counts. God always finds a way to save us, provided we show the same creative courage as the carpenter of Nazareth, who was able to turn a problem into a possibility by trusting always in divine providence.” (Patris Corde, 5)

And thirdly, having given us the Holy Spirit and his gifts and virtues to lead us, we shall be led by the Spirit of truth to judgement. To be convinced of God’s judgement is to know that we shall be called to account for what we have done with our human freedom, and to account for how we have benefited from the gifts and graces that God has given us. Thus each day we are being asked by the Holy Spirit: Quo vado, where are you going? Am I growing in charity, for as St John of the Cross says: “In the evening of life, we will be judged on love alone.” Therefore St Paul reminds us: “Why do you pass judgement on your brother? Or you, why do you despise your brother? For we shall all stand before the judgement seat of God… So each of us shall give account of himself to God.” (Rom 14:10, 12)

Many medieval churches used to have an image of divine judgement painted above the Altar to constantly remind us of this post-mortem necessity. But the question we’re asked is: Where are you going? To which the answer is not merely that we go to be judged on love alone, but rather, we go Him who is Love. The vision of heaven, therefore, which is the vision of our communion with God who is Love alone, is surely the end for which we long, and for which we hope, and by which our actions are motivated. For only Love can motivate us to love. Nevertheless it is noteworthy that in the Sistine Chapel with its monumental painting of the Last Judgement, the mouth of hell is painted directly behind the Cross on the Altar. For it is the Cross of Christ, his holy Sacrifice, his saving Love and Mercy, that has barred Man’s entry into hell.

Hence, when St Peter tried to avoid the Cross of his martyrdom and was running away, the Lord appeared to him to gently turn him around. For we too must go to the Cross; we too must be led by the Spirit of truth to follow our Crucified Lord. For in this way we remain faithful to our Christian vocation. So Jesus said: “If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it; and whoever loses his life for my sake, he will save it.” (Lk 9:23-24) Indeed, the Cross bars our entry to hell, for through it we shall be raised up with the Lord into the joys of heaven. May Our Lady, Queen of Heaven, pray for us!

#heaven #hell #judgement #righteousness #virtue #sin #Holy Spirit #repentance

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13th April >> Mass Readings (Except USA)

Tuesday, Second Week of Eastertide

Saint Martin I, Pope, Martyr.

Tuesday, Second Week of Eastertide

(Liturgical Colour: White)

First Reading

Acts of the Apostles 4:32-37

The whole group of believers was united, heart and soul

The whole group of believers was united, heart and soul; no one claimed for his own use anything that he had, as everything they owned was held in common. The apostles continued to testify to the resurrection of the Lord Jesus with great power, and they were all given great respect.

None of their members was ever in want, as all those who owned land or houses would sell them, and bring the money from them, to present it to the apostles; it was then distributed to any members who might be in need. There was a Levite of Cypriot origin called Joseph whom the apostles surnamed Barnabas (which means ‘son of encouragement’). He owned a piece of land and he sold it and brought the money, and presented it to the apostles.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 92(93):1-2,5

R/ The Lord is king, with majesty enrobed. or R/ Alleluia!

The Lord is king, with majesty enrobed; the Lord has robed himself with might, he has girded himself with power.

R/ The Lord is king, with majesty enrobed. or R/ Alleluia!

The world you made firm, not to be moved; your throne has stood firm from of old. From all eternity, O Lord, you are.

R/ The Lord is king, with majesty enrobed. or R/ Alleluia!

Truly your decrees are to be trusted. Holiness is fitting to your house, O Lord, until the end of time.

R/ The Lord is king, with majesty enrobed. or R/ Alleluia!

Gospel Acclamation

cf. Revelation 1:5

Alleluia, alleluia! You, O Christ, are the faithful witness, the First-born from the dead, you have loved us and have washed away our sins with your blood. Alleluia!

Or:

John 3:15

Alleluia, alleluia! The Son of Man must be lifted up so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life. Alleluia!

Gospel

John 3:7-15

No-one has gone up to heaven except the Son of Man who has come down from heaven

Jesus said to Nicodemus:

‘Do not be surprised when I say: You must be born from above. The wind blows wherever it pleases; you hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. That is how it is with all who are born of the Spirit.’

‘How can that be possible?’ asked Nicodemus. ‘You, a teacher in Israel, and you do not know these things!’ replied Jesus.

‘I tell you most solemnly, we speak only about what we know and witness only to what we have seen and yet you people reject our evidence. If you do not believe me when I speak about things in this world, how are you going to believe me when I speak to you about heavenly things? No one has gone up to heaven except the one who came down from heaven, the Son of Man who is in heaven; and the Son of Man must be lifted up as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him.’

The Gospel of the Lord

R/ Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ.

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Saint Martin I, Pope, Martyr

(Liturgical Colour: Red)

(Readings for the memorial)

(There is a choice today between the readings for the ferial day (Tuesday) and those for the memorial. The ferial readings are recommended unless pastoral reasons suggest otherwise)

First Reading

2 Timothy 2:8-13,3:10-12

Anybody who tries to live in devotion to Christ is certain to be attacked

Remember the Good News that I carry, ‘Jesus Christ risen from the dead, sprung from the race of David’; it is on account of this that I have my own hardships to bear, even to being chained like a criminal – but they cannot chain up God’s news. So I bear it all for the sake of those who are chosen, so that in the end they may have the salvation that is in Christ Jesus and the eternal glory that comes with it. Here is a saying that you can rely on:

If we have died with him, then we shall live with him. If we hold firm, then we shall reign with him. If we disown him, then he will disown us. We may be unfaithful, but he is always faithful, for he cannot disown his own self.

You know, though, what I have taught, how I have lived, what I have aimed at; you know my faith, my patience and my love; my constancy and the persecutions and hardships that came to me in places like Antioch, Iconium and Lystra – all the persecutions I have endured; and the Lord has rescued me from every one of them. You are well aware, then, that anybody who tries to live in devotion to Christ is certain to be attacked.

The Word of the Lord

R/ Thanks be to God.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 125(126):1-6