Christus vincit.
Christus regnat, Christus imperat.
This lamp eternally remains lit.
This, have we yet accepterat.

How often do we view public opinion, an addiction, habit, comfort, power or money.
As our King.
None of these things is really worth a penny.
There is only one to whom we should sing.

To be a King is to serve.
But who do we serve.
What do we really want to preserve.
At our death what really do we deserve.

I was thirsty and you never gave me anything to drink.
Perhaps it’s about time I started to think.

It is twilight high upon the Wolds in Lincolnshire.
A sudden heaviness in the air.
After a long walk pleasantly I start to tire.
I am alone, company here is rare.

Despite the grey shrouded hills.
I can see miles upon mile above the Misty vale, clear in sight.
My heart now thrills.
Far below me I see a cottage in lonely welcoming light.

Perhaps four miles away I see.
A car’s headlamps sweeping forward.
Like a ship on some rolling distant sea.
On its silent journey what it, I cannot see, drives toward.

Now in the valley it is completely dark, I have finished my roam.
But smoke rises, the door opens, tea is brewing, I am home.

Hail holy mother who gave birth to the King.
Who rules Heaven and Earth for ever.
It’s easy her praises to sing.
It’s harder this hope in staying alive to sever.

I used to ask myself frankly, isn’t heaven rather boring.
How could one pass the time living for ever on some dreary constant.
But the essence is not in the being, it is in the knowing.
In heaven there is no time, just one glorious instant.

We don’t know, we cannot imagine what is there.
We cannot truly accept what we have never seen or heard.
But faintly, we encounter stillness and uniqueness in beauty even here.
This encounter with a beautiful sunset is a sensation with Heaven shared.

In Heaven, in one sublime moment, we shall see God and all peoples face to face.
And then without remorse of our time constrained humanity, we will leave scarcely a trace.

I love the cottage garden at winter twilight.
Gently into warm greys the light fades.
The kitchen window burns with an inviting orange light.
And here spring up everywhere mysterious and deepening shades.

The high pheasant squawks noisily.
The dog enjoys a last prowl and with his canine ghosts a tussle.
I look forward to hot tea and crumpets happily and yes perhaps a bit greedily.
With no wind today the trees do not rustle.

The warm yellows and browns are fading slowly.
The trees are still and increasingly bare.
I can walk into my home from the nearby wood easily.
The fox is watching perhaps, lying in his lair.

And in this lovely Wold valley place all about is profound silence.
I am utterly alone with only calm thoughts for guidance.

Our Saviour abolished death.
And he proclaimed this through the good news.
When we die, I wonder is this our last breath.
Will our body for ever we lose.

I have often doubted that not just the soul but the body is resurrected.
How can a body live in heaven unchanged.
But it is not that body that is resurrected.
It is something totally transformed.

The mighty oak comes from the tiny acorn.
It is genetically entirely created from it but it is entirely different.
The body in heaven will be unrecognisable, to this we are sworn.
Now we only hear see what is around us, then we will know every lovely scent.

Body and soul are only completed.
If they are never forever parted.

St Roque González and Companions

The light shineth in the darkness.
And the darkness may not overcome it.
The history of the Jesuit missions in Paraguay may be a vision of bleakness.
But a lamp though extinguished was lit .

I recall my visit there and the Guarani people.
And I recall the power of the film, The Mission.
All now is peaceful.
But in the eighteenth century the people were under slavery’s submission.

The Jesuits had a choice.
To sacrifice their order or the missions, myself or yourself.
St Roque did find his voice.
And sacrificed himself.

Do we compromise, we must work in the world, the world is thus.
Or do we recognise, no thus we have made the world, I have made it thus.

The Lord said I think thoughts of peace and not of affliction.
You will call upon me and I shall answer you.
Gentle Carthusian, a life of peace and hope was your conviction.
But King and country called you St Hugh.

I recall a family visit to La Grande Chartreuse.
Buried in its Alpine valley, at this commitment we stood in awe.
Into this quiet place comes no bustling news.
Out of this monastery falls a reviving spiritual dew.

St Hugh had to be ordered to leave by his prior.
To Lincoln unwillingly as bishop, he came.
Working with his own hands on his cathedral after the fire.
Ceaselessly travelling and caring for the poor to great acclaim.

He was not afraid to stand up to the King.
We who will never have his courage, only in his praise can we sing.

PSALM 1

He is like the tree that is planted beside the flowing waters.
That yields its fruit in due season.
With all nature we delight in our sons and daughters.
Sometimes it is instinct that is true not reason.

I dreamt that I was at a busy yet boring meeting.
Suddenly in my dream I was transported from it on a boat on a shimmering lake.
Now only to the calmness of nature could I give a greeting.
I just was, I did not have to make and I did not have to take.

The tree by the stream has a drink.
It does not move.
It does not think.
It is just there to soothe.

I awoke from my dream, I was back at that meeting.
Arguing.

A perfect wife, who can find her.
She is beyond the price of pearls.
I am her eternal debtor.
From that first meeting long ago my head swirls.

I know now love is blind.
Forty years later to me she is the most beautiful girl in the room.
With her my heart is entwined.
I love her love beyond any young beauty’s bloom.

That extraordinary beauty struck me first.
Now this deep set goodness keeps us close.
With parting I never lose this thirst.
But it’s her character I love the most.

Truly she cares for the needy and the poor.
This then is my amour.

Since she keeps pestering me I must give this widow what is her just rights.
Or she will persist in coming and worrying me.
Am I too the unjust judge, trying to keep out of her sight.
That’s why this parable always worries me.

But I know it’s about the value of prayer.
Keep asking.
To coldness of heart beware.
Keep persisting.

If the unjust judge can listen.
If even he can eventually act.
Surely God will to our aid hasten.
That may just be naive faith or if may be fact.

So in the long dark empty hours of night.
My cry will to him, I hope, remains in his sight.

It has given me great joy to find that your children have been living the life of truth.
As we were commanded by the Father.
Ambition festers in us like a sore tooth.
It binds us to pain with a tether.

Why do we crave power.
We hardly ever achieve it for long.
For even the greatest it is as illusory as seed cast on the rocks by the sower.
It gives no joy, only does us or others wrong.

It is creating things.
That gives us joy even as an amateur.
Poems, pictures, gardens, recipes, it is to these that happiness clings.
We need no skill, we can do just whatever we prefer.

If we are just true to ourselves.
Our lives will be happy although our life and work end up on no bookshelves.

The coming of the kingdom of God does not admit of obstruction.
And there is no one to say look here.
We seek restlessly the origin of creation.
We put trust in one then another elder.

We are lonely in our self centred ego.
But will not death release us and open up new horizons.
When our fortress walls we will bid adieu to our own virago.
We will indeed be someone fir all seasons.

With the death of the ego, the soul will be reborn.
The fall of our castle is a victory.
We can finally to love be sworn.
But this passing on is a mystery.

We stand at the edge of the precipice, afraid to open our wings.
But if we listen, a celestial wind sings.

But when the kindness and love of God were revealed.
It was not because he was concerned with any righteous actions, it was for compassion.
It is through mercy that our fate is sealed.
We need only look and we can understand this lesson.

We know that there is something immaterial, reason.
We know that it exists outside of us and time and breath.
Why then can’t I exist unbound by death in any Season.
If it exists outside time why too cannot our soul survive death.

We know that in nature everything dies.
And is constantly in new form reborn.
But our soul survives.
It is free of nature’s churn.

We feel this thing outliving existence.
It is within us as a joyous, hard to touch, yet profound sense.

Tuesday, 32nd Week in Ordinary Time

The older men should be reserved, dignified, moderate.
Sound in faith, love, and constancy.
I don’t know, am I always considerate.
Do I parade my views modestly.

The churches are closed again except for private prayer.
But actually with less action, there is more time to reflect.
Sitting alone with my conscience I peel away layer by layer.
And always there is something to detect.

One thing we always accept, every human is utterly unique.
And every human being has a self regarding conscience.
We alone, right or wrong, seek.
Lurking there, at our core, is always some remonstrance.

Always deep inside us is this forcibly reproachful protest.
And so we continue the quest.

Wherever the water flows all living creatures teeming in it will live.
Fish will be very plentiful for wherever the water goes, it brings health.
The cleansing water from the temple helps us strive.
The pure water gives spiritual wealth.

This water is truly wholesome.
How else when it comes from the sanctuary.
Swept away in its stream, ever changing, no one ever lonesome.
Cleansed by it, crossing the river Styx, we will have no need of a ferry.

The rivers Acheron, Cocylus, Lethe, Philegeton, and Styx all converge in a great marsh.
It is said thus we all arrive in the underworld.
This Greek philosophy is harsh.
But I have a vision of another river in another world.

The waters of our river give joy to God’s city.
All comes right with, to the weak, pity.

Wisdom is bright and does not grow dim.
By those who love her she is readily seen.
In my dreams I see truth at the world’s rim.
But sight in my dreams is all the more keen.

We are told that we believe that Jesus died and rose again.
And that it will be the same for all who have died in Jesus.
I see this truth as a tiny circle of light at the end of an overgrown lane.
We can only pray that one day this truth will seize us.

Wisdom may indeed be bright.
But will the oil in our prayer lamps last.
The oil needs refilling to maintain its light.
Hope must be in the future, doubt in the past.

Belief for me is a flickering light.
But trying to believe keeps joy bright.

I have learnt to manage on whatever I have.
I know how to be poor and I know how to be rich.
Possessions are only a temporary salve.
Like us they all end up in a ditch.

But we don’t want to be poor.
Perhaps not rich but we want to have enough.
Our fear of poverty is a running sore.
We have no intention of sleeping rough.

Fate will be kind.
And fate will be unkind.
But we can develop a peaceful mind.
With the help of the one who is never blind.

I am listening to Latin plainchant from the Abbey.
Calming, mysterium fidei, creating in one’s mind a spiritual abbey.

Second Lockdown

I rejoiced when I heard them say, let us go to God’s house.
And now our feet are standing within your gates.
The churches are empty save maybe for a lonely mouse.
No place then to meet our mates.

The churches were so cleansed.
The people so socially distant.
Yet the people are evicted.
I don’t think they knew what it meant.

We can still go to God’s house.
It is now in our mind.
Only disturbed by our thoughts, not the tiniest mouse.
Is it really all such a grind.

I will not be disturbed by anyone’s fidgeting.
But of course the mind will wander and I shall keep forgetting.

The Passing of a Soul

Rejoice with me.
I have found the sheep that was lost.
These beautiful leaves will all fall from the tree.
All life has in death its cost.

Cherish life yet accept death.
We can accept the law of double effect.
It can be as mistaken to artificially extend life as it is wrong to cause death.
Morphine to kill pain may allow us to die in peace even if a speedier death is the effect.

Everything we see, our whole world is dying.
Even the sun in its seeming permanence is dying.
Some things even in a day are passing.
Almost as soon as we arrive we are leaving.

But I trust palliative care will ease my passing.
And departing will lead to entering.

St Charles Borromeo

It is God for his own loving purpose.
Who puts both the will and action into you.
We all in life are given on eternity one purchase.
We all have a chance to take our place in the only worthwhile queue.

A man born to riches and power.
A cardinal at twenty one.
He chose to climb to the top of the spiritual not material tower.
He left no stone of religious reform undone.

And to his see.
Came English refugees from persecution.
They sought refuge under his loving lea.
Their fate at home bloody execution.

His example shows we can stand aside from worldly ambition.
To make a final and heartfelt rendition.

The first said I have bought land, please accept my apologies.
Another said I have bought oxen, please accept my apologies.
Perhaps we should place less hope in technologies.
And more hope in theologies.

We are late for the feast.
We should have gone.
We would not let it rise, the yeast.
Now we are alone.

The poor, the crippled.
The lame.
Will be there happily pickled.
Our chance has gone after it came.

But in this game we are always allowed to try again.
It never will be entirely broken, hope’s chain.

Their going looked like a disaster.
Their leaving us like annihilation.
We should not see death as our master.
This earth is not the only nation.

Covid has ended our services.
We asked the PM to think again.
His answer to assuage our nervousness.
In four weeks we could like a candle again.

I walked disconsolate to the Cathedral.
To find it socially distanced full and the doors shut.
Inside there were too many people.
It was a blow to my gut.

Well anyway our government will allow us to pray.
Let’s hope we can go to mass again before we go grey.

And then I heard how many were sealed.
A hundred and forty four thousand out of all the tribes of Israel.
How is this number revealed.
Is this truth visible or spiritual.

I prefer not to take this literally.
Is it just a convenient mathematical number.
Faith should be taken lyrically.
We all will be woken from death’s slumber.

Happy the pure in heart.
They shall see God.
I prefer to believe, we all have aright to play our part.
All of us have a right in his presence to be awed.

We all have the right to seek his face.
We all have the right to grace.

Life to me of course is Christ.
But then death would bring me something more.
My soul is enticed.
After this life I see before me an open door.

Should I welcome death, will it come early or late.
I have a one hundred per cent chance of meeting this rendezvous.
Why then fear Covid with a ninety nine per cent survival rate.
My meeting is anyway overdue.

I see the running stream before me.
In its cool waters I could submerge and soothe my fears.
But I will be patient, I will neither advance nor flee.
Fate will decide as well as passing years.

The gate is there but what lies beyond.
I do not know and never will until I cut this life’s bond.

Praise me the Lord, I will praise.
In the assembly of the upright and in the congregation.
But why would an almighty God want or need praise.
I may love Him but do I require praise from my beagle or an Alsatian.

How do I know He’s there anyway.
I cannot prove it.
Because I feel good because when in His church I stay.
But that could be some natural trick that the mind may permit.

But this I know, I feel His presence.
I cannot know if He really is there.
To feel the presence I just need patience.
All that is required is prayer.

So do not worry about what you can prove.
Enjoy what you feel and feel the joy move.