The Gospel of Matthew invites us to see the birth of Jesus
through the eyes of St Joseph. He, not Mary, is the central figure. The
story is simple but profoundly significant. As Carmelites, we have the assurances
of Teresa that St Joseph can help us to welcome the coming of Jesus in silent
prayer. She writes: 'Those who cannot find a master to teach them prayer
should take this glorious saint for their master, and they will not go astray.'
This is a lesson for all of us, as we prepare in silent prayer to welcome
Christ into our hearts, 'so that when he comes he may find us watching in
prayer, our hearts filled with wonder and praise.'
Joseph is the great man of silent prayer in the Gospels - a man of prayer
and also of action. Not a word of his is recorded. An aura of silence envelops
his person and everything that he does. But it is an eloquent silence that
reveals in a most profound way the inner prayer life of the man. The Gospels
speak only of what Joseph did - his actions; but in those actions we can
discover, shrouded in silence though they are, the authentic traits of a
quiet contemplative. He is a man of silence whose prayer bears fruit in
good works and concern for others.
We are told that he was 'just': 'being a just man he was unwilling to put
Mary to shame and resolved to send her away quietly.' We already find a
portrait of Joseph in the 'just' man of the first psalm: the one 'whose
delight is the law of the Lord and who ponders his law day and night'. Words
that must surely find an echo in the heart of every Carmelite, called as
we are by our Rule 'to ponder on the law of the Lord day and night
and to watch in prayer'. No wonder St Teresa presents Joseph to us as her
model of contemplative prayer and John Paul II echoes her teaching: 'Those
souls most sensitive to the impulses of divine love have rightly seen in
Joseph a brilliant example of the interior life.'
Like the 'just' man of the first psalm, we find Joseph pondering the demands
of God's law to dismiss an - apparently - unfaithful wife. We can only surmise
the inner anguish and turmoil of his silent questioning. The Pharisees would
later chide Jesus with words that speak volumes about Joseph's acute problem.
They challenge the very legitimacy of Mary's child: 'We were not born in
fornication,' the Pharisees said. Their implication, of course, was that
Jesus was. All through his life Joseph had to grapple in silence with the
ignominy of this possible misunderstanding by others of Mary's seemingly
scandalous pregnancy. For Joseph, the mystery was resolved in part by God's
word: 'Do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife.' But it only plunged
him more deeply into the silence of a profound mystery: 'what is conceived
in her is of the Holy Spirit.' That mystery will take an eternity to unfold.
The ponderings of Joseph are the perennial spring of his surrender to God's
will. For Teresa, the acceptance of God's will, translated into action,
is the acid test of authentic prayer: 'everything I have advised you about
in this book,' she says in her Way of Perfection, 'is directed toward
the complete gift of ourselves to the Creator, the surrender of our wills
to His.' And she adds in her final masterpiece, The Interior Castle:
'This union with God's will is the union I have desired all my life.' There,
she also identifies the fruits of deep contemplative prayer: 'the birth
[in us] always of good works, good works'.
This is what we see, too, in the case of Joseph: 'When Joseph woke from
sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him.' His actions speak
louder than words. Joseph is a doer of the word which he receives in silence;
he is not a mere listener. Here again, he is like the 'just' man of the
first psalm who yields lasting fruit like a tree that strikes its roots
deep into 'the flowing waters' of a life-giving stream - 'and all that he
does shall prosper'.
The experience of Joseph's hidden life in Nazareth, 'a life hidden with
Christ in God', is a lesson for all, anticipating Vatican II's message of
the universal call to holiness. The stuff of sanctity is not the
extraordinary, the glare of life in the public eye, but the simple, ordinary,
humdrum communing with God who 'walks among the pots and pans' - a holiness
within the reach of everyone. Paul VI sums up this aspect of Joseph's life
beautifully:
There are also many other telling lessons that we can learn from the life
of Joseph lived in the quiet and remote village of Nazareth. Not least an
invitation to spend quiet time in silent prayer, ever watchful to
receive Christ into our hearts; and an encouragement to remain always open
to the mystery of God's will as it unfolds in all the concrete circumstances
of our lives. The example and prayer of Joseph are always there to help
us.
***********************
STORY OF AN EXTRAORDINARY LOVE:
VISIT TO THE CARMEL OF THÉRÈSE
The author is a Carmelite nun in the community of Kilmacud, County
Dublin. In this article, she shares some of her memories of a visit to
the Carmel of Lisieux which are still as vivid, almost eight years on
- and she speaks, too, of how this visit helped her to understand Thérèse,
whom she had always loved, even better.
BRIGEEN WILSON
Crossing the threshold
Some years ago, I had the great privilege of spending two days in Thérèse's
own Carmel in Lisieux. Every moment is etched in my memory, not least
the moment of my arrival! At a quarter to five in the evening on Monday,
June 14, 2004, I was crossing the threshold of the Lisieux Carmel. I felt
I was dreaming. Soon I was being led by one of the Sisters along the red
brick cloister corridor and we arrived at an open door. As we entered
the room, my heart missed a beat. I was actually standing inside the sacred
space of the infirmary cell where Thérèse spent her last
months of agonising suffering, and died in an act of love.
There was her iron bed with the propped-up pillows, and
the curtains tied back at the four corners. High up on the wall opposite
was the statue of Our Lady of the Smile, and facing me on the other side
of the bed was a strikingly beautiful photograph of Thérèse
reposing in death, with her crown of white roses. It was awesome. I fell
to my knees, moved beyond words. Imagine, I was to spend the next hour
there, and many times during the two days I would be drawn back to this
sanctuary.
A runway to heaven
Thérèse longed for martyrdom: not just one
kind of martyrdom, but in her love for Jesus she wanted to suffer the
torments of all the martyrs… and to the end of time. She did indeed
suffer atrociously, without a single injection of morphine. At the end
she admitted: 'Never would I have believed it was possible to suffer so
much! never! never! I cannot explain this except by the ardent desires
I have had to save souls'; 'I am not sorry for delivering myself up to
Love'; 'Yes, my God, yes, my God, I want it all!' (LC, pp. 203 & 205).
Yet amid such extreme suffering, Thérèse always retained
her lightness of touch. To the end she was her playful, mischievous happy
self. She had the abandon and trust of a child, safe in the arms of a
loving Father. Here, her 'Little Way' was lived at white heat.
As I knelt there, that little iron bed seemed like an altar.
All I had read in the Last Conversations flooded through my mind
and heart. To think that all that drama of love had been played out in
this hallowed spot. This little room was for Thérèse the
runway to heaven. From here she took flight into the embrace of God's
Merciful Love. She had written to her spiritual brother, Maurice Bellière:
'I am not dying, I am entering into Life' (LT 244). She even exclaimed
to her sister Pauline: 'I am as one risen; I am no longer in the place
where they think I am' (LC, p. 52).
To my amazement, when I lifted the pillow to slip in my
petitions, I discovered hundreds of petition envelopes! Many others
had been there before me! Like Jesus, power went out from Thérèse,
bringing healing to all. I also saw, over on the mantelpiece, a photograph
of her beloved parents, Louis and Zélie, now recently beatified.
How appropriate, I thought. Thérèse was the fruit of their
love and of their shining example. Indeed, how much we all owe to our
parents.
The freedom of the garden
On those lovely warm bright June evenings, I had the freedom
of the garden. I was in my element, exploring and drinking in everything.
I did not want the days to end. Here is the famous Chestnut Avenue where
Thérèse in her wheelchair was smothered with the attentions
of her Sisters as she struggled to finish writing Story of a Soul.
Here's the hay field, the flowers, and over there the little alcoves and
shrines which she loved and adorned… And this must be the outdoor
laundry Thérèse wrote about… And there are the clogs
the Sisters used for work. I felt she was there herself, showing me around.
There is one little incident I will never forget. One day,
during Thérèse's last illness, Pauline had accompanied her
on a walk in the garden. They came upon a mother hen sheltering her large
brood under her wings. At this sight, Thérèse was moved
to tears and unable to speak. When they came inside, Thérèse
had recovered and confided to Pauline that the hen with her chicks reminded
her of the motherly tenderness of God towards us. After Thérèse's
death, Pauline planted a little bush on the spot. The sprays of branches
resemble the outstretched wings of a hen. I was thrilled to sit under
this leafy canopy for a period of prayer. Then, as I emerged at the end,
what did I find at my feet: a little white feather! I was absolutely charmed
and felt it must have been Thérèse herself who left it and
was hiding nearby to enjoy my reaction!
Brothers and sisters
The next day, I saw the chapter room where Thérèse
had made her profession. On that day, when she took her vows, she declared
that she had come to Carmel 'to save souls and especially to pray for
priests' (SS, p. 149). What a multitude of priests she now has as her
spiritual brothers! May she help them all in these difficult days.
I visited the recreation room, one of the few rooms where
a fire was lit during the severe Normandy winters. It was around this
very fireside that the Martin sisters were gathered one evening and Thérèse
was recalling some incidents of her childhood. Her sister Marie pressed
Pauline, who was then prioress, to ask Thérèse to record
her childhood memories in writing. Though reluctant at first, Thérèse
set to the task of writing these memoirs under obedience, and she produced
the inspired pages of the little spiritual masterpiece we now know as
Story of a Soul! Millions of copies have been printed in dozens
of languages, and have influenced countless souls!
Just as she had left it…
I was shown into Thérèse's little cell where
she had actually written most of this autobiography. Again, so much was
familiar from what I had read about or seen in photographs: the low trestle
bed with its coarse brown coverlet, her little stool, her portable writing
desk, her work basket with a set of sewing needles - just as she had left
them, neatly arranged… Then the oil lamp and hourglass. I felt so
honoured to sit on her little stool beside the bed with her writing desk
on my lap! The very one on which she had leaned to write her Story
of a Soul!
The memoirs she had written for her sister Pauline are known
as Manuscript A. But as I sat there, I chose Manuscript B: the shortest
section of the book, but the jewel of all her writings. We remember how
Thérèse describes in it the conflicting desires with which
she wrestled, wanting to fulfil so many callings at the same time, and
then how she found her answer in St Paul's First Letter to the Corinthians
(cf. 1Cor 12:31-13:13) - that marvellous discovery of her vocation to
be Love in the heart of the Church. At last, she was happy and at peace,
because she felt that the vocation of love answered all her longings.
It embraced all times and places. In a word, she exclaimed: 'IT WAS ETERNAL!'
(SS, p. 194).
Burning with love
As I read once again those sacred pages burning with love,
it struck me as never before what a great little Lover Thérèse
was. She was head over heels in love with Jesus. She actually said that
she found it easier to address these pages to Jesus, even though she wrote
them as a letter to her sister Marie. She pours out her love to him in
a torrent of endearing names: 'O Jesus', 'my Beloved', 'my Love', 'my
Life', 'my Lord', 'O divine King of Kings', 'Divine Sun', 'Adorable Star
of Love', 'O Divine Word', 'Eternal Eagle'… She seems intoxicated
with love, and yet it is hard to believe that these burning pages were
written at a time when she was experiencing no consolation, when it seemed
to her that a high wall had risen up between her and heaven.
After her death, the Sisters discovered some words Thérèse
must have scratched with a pin on the inside lintel of her cell door.
It reads: 'Jésus est mon unique amour!' ('Jesus is my only love!').
The community were horrified that Thérèse should have done
such a thing and they tried to scrub it off, but in vain! They even covered
it over, so that visitors would not see it! Yet today, it is surely one
of the most precious relics and testimonies of Thérèse's
heroic faith, hope and love during her dark night of soul and spirit.
It is barely legible, but stunning to see. I felt I was staring at a martyr's
confession.
Opening the door
As I sat there in her little cell, full of silence, peace,
simplicity, prayer and love, I could not help thinking of Mary in Nazareth.
It was to such lowliness that the angel had come, bringing the good news.
Like Mary, Thérèse was one of the poor of Yahweh, the 'anawim'
- the little ones - open to receive all that God wanted to pour out.
The picture on her cell wall is of Jesus knocking on the
door, the door of our hearts. But our hearts can be opened only from the
inside. He comes laden with Love and Mercy - if only we open to
him. He does not force his way in. Thérèse opened wide the
door of her heart from a tender age, never refusing the Good God anything.
She took Jesus by the heart, as she said. He must have found her
irresistible!
Everything transfigured
Reflecting on the Lisieux Carmel while I was there, I was
struck by how small and ordinary everything was. Thérèse
lived within a very confined space, with very ordinary and imperfect people.
Some were not easy to get on with, so she asked Jesus for a loan of his
Love in Holy Communion with which to love her Sisters. She wanted to be
like the Good Samaritan to the ones most wounded by life. Once, when her
sister Céline was complaining about one of the nuns, Thérèse
urged her to have pity on the Sister because she was like an old clock
that needed to be wound up again and again.
Thérèse seized all the little opportunities
of every day: the same little sacrifices that come our way but which we
let slip all too often. Thérèse would have become a saint
anywhere. She took what was given her and transfigured it with extraordinary
love. That spark of divine Love could not remain hidden… it had to
burst OUT! This is an energy that nothing can stop. It makes us apostles.
No wonder she has been proclaimed Patroness of the Missions.
I was filled with an immense sense of wonder and gratitude
at the sheer beauty and wholeheartedness of Thérèse's short
life. It struck me forcibly how much she resembles Jesus in the Eucharist:
blessed, broken by Love, and given for others. Like Mary, she is
called 'blessed' by generation after generation.
Thank you, Thérèse!
In the public chapel, there are hundreds of plaques on the
walls, and also around the enclosure door through which Thérèse
entered Carmel. They form a whole chorus of heartfelt cries of gratitude:
'Merci!', 'Merci!', 'Thank you!', 'Thank you!' - for favours received,
graces of healing and recovery from illness, and many more answered prayers.
I was especially moved by the number that spoke of her protection of their
loved ones in the First World War: a father, a son, a brother, a sweetheart.
Even before she was beatified, she became known as the 'Little Saint of
the Trenches'!
On the last day, as I made my way to the infirmary cell
for a final visit, I had a great desire to find some little farewell sign
from Thérèse. Just then I looked down, and lying on the
tiles of the cloister corridor I saw what looked like a few wisps of straw,
something you'd normally pass by or sweep up. At that moment it flashed
through my mind that in one of her letters to Céline, Thérèse
had written that when we feel the fire of our love growing cold or on
the verge of going out, we have only to keep throwing little 'nothings'
on it (cf. LT 143): little wisps of love and sacrifice to revive the flame.
I picked up those precious little wisps of straw and blew Thérèse
a kiss of thanks! I had got my sign! Merci! Thank you!
***********************
