'Love of the Saints for the Passion'

The following article is taken from 'Meditation on the Passion' compiled from Various Sources by Rev. Reginal Walsh O.P., published by Burns, Oates, and Washbourne Ltd., London,. 1922.

                    Jesus Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane 
                        - Heinrich Hofmann1886 (Wikipedia)


In the Introduction to this book Fr Walsh has this to say:-

‘Among the many subjects proposed by the Church to us for mental prayer, there is none more  profitable than the sublime mystery of Calvary. For even where everything is supremely holy – namely, in the actions of Him Who is the way, and the truth, and the life – the Passion is the culmination of sanctity, the highest exercise of virtue, the greatest cause of merit.  Hence devout meditation on it produces most abundant fruit in souls. And for this reason, Saints and Doctors of the Church – those who are specially enlightened, those who spoke from experience, those who are our best guides in the spiritual life – with one accord praise and glorify it.

                For instance, St. Jerome says: “In the Passion all the other mysteries are contained.”  St. Augustine speaks as follows: “There is nothing more advantageous , nothing better adapted to ensure our eternal salvation, than daily to contemplate the sufferings which Jesus Christ bore for our sake.”  And St. Leo the Great expresses himself thus: “The cross of Christ is the source of every blessing, the fountain of all merit: to the faithful it gives strength from His weakness, glory from His shame, and life from His death.”

                If at the present day countless human beings live as thoughtlessly and carelessly as if their souls had not been redeemed, as if they had not been bought at a great price, surely it becomes our duty to make reparation for their indifference and ingratitude.  In proportion to the world’s forgetfulness should be our remembrance.  This solemn obligation rests on us all as Catholics.  We must not be heedless, we who are familiar with the words: “In the cross is salvation; in the cross is life; in the cross is protection from thy enemies.  In the cross is the infusion of heavenly sweetness; in the cross is strength of mind; in the cross is joy of spirit.”

                It is hoped that they who love to contemplate and consider what the Word Incarnate suffered for their salvation will find this work useful. Here, in passing, we may say that the Meditation now presented to all was in its first shape designed and destined for private circulation only.

                A Member of the Institute of the Blessed Virgin Mary, who, as Mistress of Novices for about thirty years, had gained great experience in the formation of religious as well as in the varied requirements of conventual life, proposed by means of this book to impart to her Sisters the fruit of her own reflections on the Passion, which one so spiritual and enlightened ws exceptionally fitted to compile.

                As might have been anticipated, the excellence of the work, which she had intended for the use of her Sisters, in course of time became known to several persons, in one or other way connected with the Institute of the Blessed Virgin.  And among them, some are of opinion that this treasure should no longer be allowed to remain almost hidden in the cloister.  They have represented that outside the convents of the Institute there are many devout souls to whom the Meditation would be most acceptable. In accordance with their suggestion, and in compliance with their wish, it is now reprinted.

                But in order to increase its utility, so far as persons living in the world are concerned, many passages in the work, as it appeared at first, have been omitted – those, namely, which were addressed to nuns as such; also some other incidental clauses have been either omitted or else slightly c hanged.  This remark will suffice to explain the difference which, as any person who compares them cannot fail to observe, exists here and there between the original and the revised edition.

                That the book may continue to be a help to advancement in the spiritual life, and become an abundant source of blessings to a still wider circle of readers, is the earnest desire of those who have had to do with its reissue.

                                                                                                                                                         Reginald Walsh, O.P.

         Way to Calvary  -  Andrea di Bartolo 1400 (Wikipedia)

Love of the Saints for the Passion

A certain devout solitary prayed to God to teach him what he could do in order to love Him perfectly.  Our Lord revealed to him that there was no more efficient way to arrive at the perfect love of Him than to meditate constantly on His Passion.  St. Teresa lamented and complained of certain books which had taught her to leave off meditating on the Passion of Our Lord,  because this might be an impediment to the contemplation of His Divinity; and the Saint exclaimed;  “O Lord of my soul, O my Jesus Crucified, my treasure, I never remember this opinion without thinking that I have been guilty of very great treachery . And is it possible, Thou my Lord, couldst be an obstacle to me in the way of a greater good?  Whence, then, do all good things come to me, but from Thee?”  And she added: “I have seen that in order to please God, and to induce Him to grant us great graces, He wills that they should all pass through the hands of this most sacred Humanity, in which His Divine Majesty declared He took pleasure”.

                For this reason, Father Balthazar Alvarez said, that ignorance of the treasures we possess in Jesus was the ruin of Christianity; and therefore his most favourite and usual meditation was on the Passion of Jesus Christ.  He meditated especially on three of the sufferings of Jesus – in poverty, in contempt, and pain; he exhorted his penitents to meditate often on the Passion of Our Redeemer, telling them that they should not consider that they had done anything at all, until they had arrived at retaining Jesus Crucified continually present in their hearts.  “He who desires,” says St. Bonaventure,  “to go on advancing from virtue to virtue, from grace to grace, should meditate continually on the Passion of Jesus.  And,” he adds, “that there is no practice more profitable for the entire sanctification of the soul than the frequent meditation on the sufferings of Jesus Christ.”

                St. Augustine tells us that a single tear shed at the remembrance of the Passion of Jesus is worth more than a Pilgrimage to Jerusalem, or a year of fasting on bread and water. Because it was for this end that Our Lord suffered so much, in order that we should think of His sufferings; for, if we think on them, it is impossible not to be inflamed with divine love: “The charity of Christ presseth us,” says St. Paul. Our Lord is loved by so few, because few consider the pains He has suffered;  but he that frequently considers them cannot live without loving Jesus.  “The charity of Christ presseth us” – we shall find ourselves so constrained by His love that we shall not find it possible to refrain from loving a God so full of love, who has suffered so much to win our love.

                Therefore St Paul said that he desired nothing but Jesus, and Jesus Crucified – that is, the love that Our Lord has shown us on the Cross: “I judged not myself to know anything among you but Jesus Christ, and Him crucified”(1Cor.11.2). And, in truth, from what book can we better learn the Science of the Saints – that is the Science of loving God – than from Jesus Crucified! That great servant of God, Brother Bernard of Corleone, the Capuchin, not being able to read, his brother religious wanted to teach him, upon which he went to consult his crucifix; but Jesus answered him from the Cross: “What is reading?  What are books?  Behold I am the book wherein thou mayest continually read the love I have borne thee.”  O great subject to be considered during our whole life; and during all eternity.  A God dead for love of me!  A God dead for love of me!  A wonderful subject!

                St. Thomas Aquinas was one day visiting St. Bonaventure, and asked him from what book he had drawn all the beautiful lessons he had written. St. Bonaventure showed him the image of the Crucified, which was completely blackened by all the kisses that he had given it, and said: “This is my book whence I receive everything that I write; and it has taught me whatever little I know.”  It was this sweet study of the crucifix which made St.Francis become a great seraph.  He wept so continually  in meditating on the sufferings of Jesus Christ, that he almost entirely lost his sight.  We fancy sometimes as we read the Lives of the Saints, that it was easy enough for them to have an intense devotion to the Passion, since they were, at least many of them, favoured with such sensible graces and miraculous favours. Take, for example, Blessed James of Bevagna, from whose crucifix flowed a stream of miraculous blood, as he knelt before it, while a voice issued from it, giving him the assurance of his salvation. How could he ever again have looked upon his crucifix without realizing the love of his Divine Master in pouring out that Precious Blood for the salvation of the human race?   Or again, when the crucifix spoke to St Peter Martyr, in his hour of trial, and said:  “And I, Peter, what had I done?” How easy for him to draw the lesson of patience and resignation under calumny!  But we forget that these and other similar favours were but exterior signs of God’s grace and love; and that, before the Saints received them, they had long practised devotion.  Look at the life of any Saint you like, and you will find an extraordinary devotion to the Passion.  It was the distinguishing mark of the Saints; they would not have been Saints without it.

                But apart from the miraculous graces vouchsafed to the chosen servants of God, something of the same kind has happened to ourselves hundreds of times in the course of our lives.  Who can say that the crucifix has never spoken to him? – spoken in times of trial, of temptation, of difficulty? – I will not say calumny, but when a breath has risen up against us, and we have been tempted to maintain our dignity, stand up for our rights and what we thought was due to us? – as we cast our eyes upon the crucifix, has it not spoken to our hearts; has it not reproved us;  and said in an almost audible voice: I did not act thus!  Does it not teach us the same lessons it taught the Saints, only not in the same sensible way?  Oh, how many times the crucifix has spoken to us and given us courage and grace which have enabled us to bear the trials that surround us. It is not necessary for us to see, and hear, and feel these things as the Saints did. We need not desire to see with St. Catherine and many of the Saints the scenes of the Passion in a sensible form in our imagination, or wish to go in spirit with the venerable Anne Emerich to the spot where our Divine Lord suffered and died; for we have all these things and more than this. Though they were miraculous graces, they were but representations; we have the reality. Every morning at Mass, we assist, not at the representation, but at the renewal of the tremendous sacrifice on Calvary  and the mystic outpouring of that Most Precious Blood. The blood which flowed from Bl. James’s crucifix was only miraculous blood; but in the Mass we have the same Precious Blood poured out anew as on Calvary itself; the Sacred Body is broken again for us, and in Holy Communion which we receive so often, is given into our very hearts, while our lips are dyed with the most Precious Blood of the Crucified.
             

                                                   

         Christ on the Cross  -  Carl Heinrich Bloc 1870 (Wikipedia)


 In order, then, that we may understand and reverence and love the 

Sacred Passion of Our Lord, let us, with an ever-increasing love, 

fervour and attention, apply ourselves to the study and 

contemplation of each mystery of His suffering life- strive to attain 

closer union with our Lord through His Passion.  Let us make our 

hearing of Holy Mass an act of special devotion to the Passion – 

such as it would have been actually on Mount Calvary with Mary, 

the Mother of Sorrows.  When receiving Holy Communion let us 

approach with greatest love the Sacrament of love, that, becoming 

more and more united with Jesus, our dear Lord, we may be able 

share also in His sufferings. St. Gertrude says beautifully, that, “as 

no-one can handle flour without carrying some of it about with her, 

so no one can meditate devoutly and assiduously on the Passion 

without deriving great fruit therefrom.”  As Gertrude was on one 

occasion occupied in considering the Passion of our Lord  it was 

made known to her that there is infinitely more merit in meditating 

on the Passion of Jesus than in any other exercise.  And when 

anyone reads anything concerning the Passion they at least dispose 

their souls to receive the fruits of it, as it is more meritorious to 

meditate on it than on any other subject. Let us therefore 

endeavour  to reflect on it constantly that it may be honey to our 

lips, music to our ears, and joy to our hearts.                                                                                                                 

'Mrs Peabody's Present' - a Christmas story.

We are still in the period of Christmastide, and it seemed a good idea to post another short story from that delightful book ‘The Seven Deadly Virtues and Other Stories’, written by Fr Bernard Basset S.J. in or about the 1950s.  ‘Mrs Peabody’s Present’, emphasises a particular aspect of the Christmas story, which is  recognised by all Christians, but which is also so easy to overlook.

I hope that you enjoy it as much as I do.

                  

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Mrs Peabody’s Present

The quickest and safest way to Mrs Peabody’s sweet-shop was to cut down the little alley behind the grocer’s and then take the second turning on the right.  There was another, more respectable route via Warwick Street, but this took longer and carried with it the risk of being recognised..  Once in the alley one was safe from adult observation and could study Mrs Peabody’s window at one’s ease.

`        Mrs Peabody’s display always deserved careful attention, for she crammed her window with every sort of confectionary guaranteed to upset the stomach and satisfy the taste.  With our noses glued to the glass we could count forty-three different kinds of sweets without squinting, divided roughly into two classes, those which lasted a long time but tasted of nothing, and those which went off with a bang and tasted of nothing on earth.

You could buy long strips of liquorice labelled “Charlie Chaplin’s braces”, or nougat wafers which did in two minutes what a dentist did in half an hour.  Then there were Sherbert Suckers which supplied a sudden and very satisfying sensation, but ended in a sore mouth if you went on too long. Treacle toffees and boiled sweets could be bought for fractions of a penny, and cannon balls, called by a less elegant name, cost only a farthing,  though, with a certain sobriety in sucking, they had been known to last for three hours and a half!

We boys loved Mrs Peabody’s shop.  It stood in what the nurses called a “disreputable district”, and when we were out in a convoy with nurses, prams, sisters and other children, we were not allowed to loiter but had to zig-zag by. Though no-one said so explicitly, yet we always felt that Mrs Peabody was included in the “Lead us not into temptation” of our night prayers. Certainly she was the personification of wickedness to our small intelligences, and some of us hinted that she was a witch.

We reckoned her age was well over a hundred, though Jimmy, who was cautious, plumped for ninety-nine and a bit. Whatever her age, she was stout, florid and forbidding, for she had wrinkled hands, tin spectacles and was short of breath.  Although we knew that she was a Catholic and had once seen her at Church on Sunday, yet we thought that she must be very wicked, and no matter how kind she was when we popped in with our pennies, we should not have been astonished if suddenly, with a hideous cackle, she had flown away on a broom.

At Christmastide when all the shops were decorated with tinsel and holly, Mrs Peabody also had a burst of window dressing; she washed the glass and swept away the wasps which had fallen into temptation the previous summer, and had been buried beneath a new consignment of boiled sweets.  New delicacies appeared beneath lurid labels, and crackers also came if there was room. One Christmas a row of cardboard cribs stood at the back of the window among the sweets. They were not very elegant cribs, but you could see Joseph and Mary with the Infant Jesus in the middle and a palm tree at the back.

I remember this occasion well, for we happened to be passing while Mrs Peabody’s wrinkled hands were putting the cribs in place. As luck would have it, the Parker baby, in the last pram but one, had come unstrapped at that moment, and the whole convoy of children, prams and nurses came to a halt outside Mrs Peabody’s door. We boys were walking on ahead, and of course we blessed the Parker baby and began to rub our noses on Mrs Peabody’s glass. There were the usual squeals of “Oo, look at that nougat” and “Bet you couldn’t swallow three lumps without chewing”, and then one of the girls noticed the cribs.

“Look, there’s Bethlehem,” she cried, “and there’s another and another; see Jesus, Mary and Joseph with a palm tree.”

“There aren’t any shepherds and kings,” rejoined one of the boys sulkily, “and I don’t want a crib without shepherds, do you?”

By now the Parker baby had been strapped into the cockpit, and the various nurses were ready to move on.

“Elizabeth, I don’t want to have to tell you again not to rub your face on that dirty window; Master Henry, it is bad manners to point.  Yes, yes, I can see the Child Jesus, but we can’t stop any longer, we’re late as it is.”

Off we all moved, but the nurses and governesses, when they thought we were busy talking nougat, had a few words together on the sly.

“I don’t hold with putting cribs in the window along with dirty sweets, do you, Miss Philips?”

“No, my dear, I think it’s downright irreverent; what are we coming to these days?”

That was that, and a few days before Christmas I was out on some small commission at the grocer’s, and it was only one minute down the alley and the second turning on the right to Mrs Peabody’s shop. Perhaps I had persuaded myself that my father would like a nougat wafer for his present, perhaps I had settled my doubts by an earnest glance at the cribs in the window; all I can remember is that I was in the shop with my eyes on a box of chocolates, and with four pennies in my hand. Heavy breathing off-stage heralded the approach of Mrs Peabody, and I clasped my coppers as Casablanca might have gripped a floating spar.

“One of these, please,” said I in a faint whisper, keeping my eyes averted lest Mrs Peabody should cast a spell.

She shuffled across the shop to survey the window, then looked at my quaking finger to see which way it led.

“One of which, my dear?” she queried, breathing over the bon-bons, then all at once she smiled and pounced upon a crib.

“There you are, dearie,” said she, “the cave of Bethlehem for four-pence, and you are a good, pious well-instructed boy to want a crib with all them sweets about.”

A good, pious, well-instructed boy I may have been, but I was also greedy, and the sudden danger of losing the chocolates and my four-pence brought panic to my head.

“Excuse me, please,” said I, “but I wanted a box of chocolates.  I don’t want a crib, because there aren’t any shepherds, and I don’t hold with putting cribs in the window along with the sweets. I think it’s downright irreverence.”

Mrs Peabody looked at me and blinked behind her spectacles, and then she paused and gazed at the crib in her hands. Next she peeped at the row of cribs in the window as though making up her mind. Slowly, and perhaps sadly, she reached down for a packet of chocolates, and stood it on the counter with the rejected crib by its side. I knew now that I had hurt her, and being kind-hearted like most children, I was anxious to make amends

“Excuse me,” said I, “But I hope that you are not offended, I only told you what Nurse Parker said.”.

Mrs Peabody looked at me again and made a clicking noise with her teeth to denote disapproval of Nurse Parker, and then she picked up the crib.

“See here, my dear,” said she, pointing to the Child in the manger, “Who is this?”

“Jesus,” said I promptly, bowing my head in the approved manner and feeling less afraid.

“What is He doing in the manger?” asked Mrs Peabody kindly, to which I answered with some hesitation:

“He’s not doing nothing; He’s just waiting for the shepherds to arrive. You haven’t got any shepherds in your crib, but we’ve got ever so many on the mantelpiece at home.”

Mrs Peabody smiled.

“Well, dearie,” she replied, “You can’t expect shepherds and sheep for four-pence, and besides, they don’t matter so very much anyway.  All those shepherds who went to the cave on the first Christmas, they died hundreds of years ago, didn’t they, and they are all now enjoying themselves in heaven, as they deserve.”

“Suppose so,” said I, though I’d never before thought of the lot of the first shepherds, but Mrs Peabody obviously wanted me to agree,

Mrs Peabody was pleased

“They are all dead,” she continued, “but the Holy Child is still in the manger, isn’t He? He’s still alive, the same yesterday, today and for ever, because He’s God.”

She had been bending over the counter, holding the crib before her, but now she suddenly stood up.

“Run home, dear,” she said, “and take your chocolates, four-pence, thank you, and you can have the crib without the shepherds as Mrs Peabody’s Christmas present. There ain’t no shepherds now, they’re all dead and buried, but He’s still alive and He’s waiting for you. That is why I put a whole row of cribs in my window, so that all you children, when you peep through the window, can take the shepherds’ place. There ain’t no shepherds now, and don’t you forget it, because it now rests with you and me.  If we don’t remember Him at Christmas then He lies alone in the manger just as much as if the first shepherds had not bothered to come. He’s always the same, He always wants the same love and affection, but the shepherds change. Each Christmas the chance and the choice comes to a new crowd of people, and this Christmas, if you and I don’t bother about Him, then there ain’t no shepherds at all. Now you run home, there’s a good boy, and enjoy your chocolates; maybe you’re a bit young to twig what old Mrs Peabody is trying to say. Just take a peek now and again, at old Mrs Peabody’s present, and remember that if you can’t be bothered, then He’s one shepherd short. There ain’t no shepherds now, they are all dead and buried, but He is still living and waiting for me.”

Perhaps Mrs Peabody did cast a spell, for I cannot otherwise explain how a boy of ten stood so still for seven minutes in a sweet shop, nor is it usual to remember a lesson or sermon after more than twenty years. Her shop has gone, her sweets are now sold at double the price in hygienic wrappers, and Mrs Peabody is with the other shepherds on the eternal hills. But her point remains and deserves a thought each Christmas, for the shepherds are gone, but the Child remains and it is our choice now.

“There ain’t no shepherds now and He’s waiting for me,” is Mrs Peabody’s message, to which the governess replied:

“You wicked boy, you’ve been playing in that disreputable district: how many times have I told you not to say ‘ain’t’?”

(Ack. ‘The Seven Deadly Virtues and Other Stories’ by Rev. Bernard Basset  S.J.)

'St. Aloysius and the Tomatoes' by Fr. Bernard Bassett S.J.

Today is the last day of the year 2019 A.D. and I feel the need to complete my limited number of posts this year with a light-hearted tale by Fr Bernard Bassett S.J. entitled 'St.Aloysius and the Tomatoes',.  probably written in the 1950s, and subsequently published in his delightful book 'The Seven Deadly Virtues' published by Sands and Co., London.

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 Saint Aloysius and the Tomatoes

'I discovered only the other day that Marjorie entertains some very odd notions about saints. Of course, I have known for some time that her prayer book was packed with pictures of saints in impossible postures, but now I know that her head is also full of impossible ideas. For myself, I own with some confusion that sanctity has often appeared a dull and rather monotonous profession, for I was never much use at prayer or preaching, and certainly should be tongue-tied if called upon to preach to the birds.

          Marjorie’s  difficulty lies rather in not preaching to everybody and everything which comes within range  of her batteries,  but I cannot picture her standing for all eternity with a lily in her hand.  Perhaps she is right when she calls me a cynic, but I would rather be sceptical than commercial  in my devotions,  and her love for the saints is measured by their ability to get her out of a muddle,  or to find her other pair of spectacles which she had put in so safe a place that they have not been seen for three months.

          Marjorie is very lavish with sanctity and attributes it to anyone who dares not say boo to a goose.  “Oh, she’s a perfect saint,” she once remarked of Mrs Heskith, “you can see it from the way that she walks back from the Communion rail”,;  though what Marjorie was doing staring about at such a moment I did not dare to ask.  Anyway, I had a squint at Mrs Heskith myself next Sunday, and I agree that she does not look unlike the pictures in Marjorie’s prayer book;  at least she has her head on one side.  Far be it for me to say anything against Mrs Heskith’s candidature for a niche over the altar, but I should be sorry if St Peter decided our places in heaven by the elasticity of our necks.

          Then there was Sister Raphael, the portress at the convent, “a saint if ever there was one,” to use Marjorie’s expression,  whose qualifications as far as I can judge. were an inability to raise her voice above a whisper or her eyes above the lowest bolt on the convent door.

          On the other hand,  Mother Aphonsus, the headmistress, who could call a spade a spade and who told Marjorie that she could not have the children home two days before the term ended,  was dismissed by her as “one who means well but who has no manners and is not at all my idea of a nun.”

          From these and other examples it is clear to me that Marjorie’s saints suffer from spiritual tuberculosis in this life, while in heaven they spend their time looking for her spectacles with their heads on one side.

          To Marjorie I am the complete Philistine, for I see sanctity in cheerfulness and a sense of humour with plenty of spiritual fresh air and exercise.  I would not condemn old Mr Herringbone, as Marjorie does, because his fingers are stained with tobacco, for such trifles are beside the point.  Marjorie says that St Aloysius would not have had yellow fingers, nor would he have yawned as Mr Herringbone does in church.  She goes further and accuses me of picking my saints to fit my own low standards so that I can settle my conscience.  Few of my favourite saints, like Thomas More or Thomas of Canterbury, had any recorded vision, they expressed no particular affection for dumb animals, and they did not hold their head on one side.  Marjorie in her nasty way says that my heaven is going to be an eternal cup-tie final,  and the only snag for me will be  that as it is eternal there will be no half-time.

          As far as I could make out, the Canon did not agree with Marjorie at all when he held forth on the saints the other evening, but Marjorie maintains that it might have been herself speaking, which is partly true.  There she was chatting away and trying to reduce the Canon’s contribution to an occasional affirmative at the end of each paragraph, but his Reverence was not to be silenced by such propaganda.

          It happened like this.  The meal was progressing according to plan, when suddenly Marjorie looked at me with her famous imitation of Garbo and begged me to be a saint and fetch the tomatoes from the second shelf on the left just inside the pantry door.  I replied with dignity that I would gladly fetch the tomatoes, but that sanctity did not enter into the matter, and I added that quite a number of saints might have refused to answer her request.  Marjorie countered by dragging in St Aloysius who would certainly have fetched the tomatoes for his mother, though he was a great prince.  That gave me the chance of saying that I could not appreciate the virtue of St Aloysius and that he would have brought the tomatoes with downcast eyes, for his biographer tells us that he always cast his eyes down.

          After that Marjorie fell back to other saints and other stories, and told us about St Elizabeth of Hungary, feeding a beggar and then finding hundreds of roses in her lap.  I could not see what this had to do with St Aloysius and the tomatoes, so I said so, appealing to the Canon for support. Before he could finish his mouthful, Marjorie was off on a tale about St Francis Xavier tearing up his letters from home unopened,  and another of St Lawrence Justinian, who buried both his parents without shedding a tear.  She had just reached another story about a saint hanging his coat on a sunbeam while sweeping his cell at the command of the abbot, when the Canon interrupted to arbitrate.

          The Canon agreed with me that not all the habits and customs of the saints could be appreciated by twentieth- century Englishmen, but he thought it was foolish to condemn where we did not understand.  Marjorie was delighted at this and began to nod approval, but the Canon caught her a dig with his next sentence, for as he said, we only know the saints as their biographers portray them, and not all biographers are saints. They stress the wrong points or they emphasise trivial qualities, or they try to make the saint what they imagine a saint should be. This was particularly the case in Victorian biography, when Little Lord Fauntleroy was in fashion, and poor St Aloysius had been decked out in velvet breeches and a sickly smile.

          The Canon was so annoyed by stupid stories that I took the opportunity to kick Marjorie under the table, but in such a way that she might think that the Canon had done it by mistake.

          As the Canon rightly said, one century cannot judge another, their whole outlook and atmosphere and customs were different, and if some cynics laughed at the early saints for not washing, it is well to remember that Queen Elizabeth and Shakespearian England was just as bad. Each age has its own standards, its own peculiar virtues and vices, and the saints are typical of their age.

          “Sanctity,” said the Canon, “can show itself in a hundred and one ways, all quite different,  but though it varies in its manifestations it remains the same in essence wherever it is found.  I’m not sure that it is possible over baked apples and custard to analyse its ingredients, but it was accurately and humanly explained by Our Blessed Lord when He told the story of the merchant who sold all that he possessed to buy a pearl of great price. Now that merchant was a wise and shrewd man, not a fool nor an enthusiast, and we may be sure that when the priceless pearl was in his possession he did not pine for the money by which it had been obtained.  So it seems to me that the saints were not idealists or fanatics, but common-sensed and hard-headed men.  Once grant that the pearl for sale is priceless and they become the most logical men in history;  nor were they people who set out to make themselves miserable, but carefree enterprising merchants, who had picked up a tremendous treasure at a trifling price. If the saints puzzle us it is not because they were crazy, but because we have not properly estimated the value of the prize.”

          The Canon paused to consume some baked apple, and Marjorie was off on St Aloysius and the tomatoes again. The Canon swallowed quickly to cut her short.

          “St Aloysius,” said he, “is the most maligned of all the saints, thanks to his biographers, who present him as a sickly young man wearing a cotta and carrying a terrific scourge in his hand.  That is what comes of one century trying to judge another, without remembering the essential that a saint is a merchant out to buy a pearl of great price.  The merchants of every century are hard-headed and so are the saints. The contract, the price, the methods of purchase vary, the prize is the same. Don’t judge a saint by mere accidentals, put him in the circumstances which we all understand.  I cannot repeat too often that a saint has to get up in the morning, perhaps talks to himself while shaving, fills in the days and weeks with occupations which we ordinary twentieth-century Englishmen can appreciate.  His life is not made up of ecstasies and scourgings, and though the methods differ, the essentials of sanctity remain the same.”

          The Canon put down his spoon and fork.

          “I’ll admit,” said he, “that Saint Aloysius seemed very insipid to me until I had an intimate glimpse of him many years ago.  I was a young curate then, working in a poor parish, and I was invited to spend my fortnight’s holiday with rich titled friends.  There I was in a country house, with a feather bed, and trout for breakfast, and several dignified servants to put my pyjamas and tooth-brush away..  At first I was shy of these servants.  I rose early and said my breviary in the garden, but it did not take long before I was growing used to the leisure,, enjoying the lovely garden and the excellent food and wine..  Gradually my breviary got pushed into the last hours of the evening, and I stayed in bed longer in the mornings to have what my hostess called a real rest.  I began to fish about for further invitations, I delayed my departure, I saw a new world which I had never known before.  It seemed to me that I was squandering my youth and talents in my poor parish, when I was so obviously a success with my cultured friends.

          “Well despite all my efforts and evasions, the famous fortnight at last was over, and I returned to the presbytery with a heavy heart.  My poky little room and the Irish stew gave me jaundice, and I looked at my boy’s  club and other activities with a yellow eye.  On one terrible occasion, I don’t mind confessing, I sat at my desk, a man of twenty-six, five foot ten and a half in my stockings, and cried like a brat.  For one dreadful moment I doubted if I could ever resume my parish drudgery, and at that very moment old Canon McSweeney burst in, without knocking, to ask about a baptism.  He stopped dead in the doorway, for not even he expected to find his curate crying, and then he began to chuckle in his cheerful way. “Don’t tell me,” he said, “I need no explanation and will give no advice.  I know what’s the matter, and you’ll get over it, and the experience will open your eyes.  At any rate, my lad, you can’t do better than have a word with St Aloysius, for how that boy ever had the grit to leave a palace and a ducal crown and pomegranate toothpowder, to rough it in a presbytery or its equivalent, is more than we fish can understand.  Small wonder that he had to use extraordinary methods and that he wore himself out in a short time.”

          The Canon put down his napkin.

          “There you are,” he said, “that was McSweeney’s biography of St Aloysius, and my own short experiment as a country gentleman endorses his account.  We who have never enjoyed his means cannot appreciate his methods, but we ought to raise our hats or birettas to his strength of purpose.  Aloysius would have fetched the tomatoes, he might have cast his eyes down as he brought them, but the fatigue of getting them, like the pain of quitting his palace would have been no less than the common-sense of the young merchant who sold all his possessions with joy to buy the pearl of great price.” '

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“God, Who is unchangeable, would appear now as a child in a stable, now as a boy in a workshop, now as a criminal on a scaffold, and now as bread upon the altar.  In these various guises Jesus chose to exhibit himself to us; but whatever character he assumed, it was always the character of a lover.”

Ack.  ‘Thoughts from St Alphonsus’ compiled by Rev C McNeiry C.SS.R

               'Wishing all readers a blessed and happy New Year'