Views of a new Catholic in an old world, on the joy and inexhaustible meaning found in the Faith.
Guest post by Marian R. Bull
Prayer works, especially the prayer of a parent for a child. That is the vital message of St. Monica. Monica is a later Mary. I revere her because, through her prayer, her son Augustine converted and became a Doctor of the Church. I revere Mary because, through her "yes", she gave us Jesus and brings us to Him. I could learn something about parenting from Monica and Mary, but then I already have Joan of Beverly.
St. Joan of Arc knew she would die a martyr's death long before those around her did. She crowned Charles VII king at the Cathedral at Reims in July 1429, fulfilling a central part of her mission. Two months later, she led an unsuccessful attempt to liberate Paris. The following May she was captured by the Burgundians, allies of the English. Betrayed by King Charles VII, she was sold to the English for 10,000 gold francs. Charged with heresy and witchcraft, she was tried, and found guilty of heresy in a church court (they had to throw out the witchcraft charges because an examination by a duchess found St. Joan to be a virgin) by men with a clearly political agenda.
For a long time I was mystified by several friends of mine. Each was born and raised Catholic, then fell away from the Church in their late teens or early adulthood. What could have caused this, I wondered? I was often critical of these friends. How could they not see the beauty of the Church they were born into? Then I realized that the same thing had happened to me.
“The universe is a story,” writes Peter Kreeft in Catholic Christianity. “God is its Author.” I read that line this morning while marveling at the way my life changes when I see it this way. From where I was sitting, at the Starbucks on Route 62, it seemed that I have a simple choice: let my life be driven by the schedule entered in the iCalendar on the iPhone in my iPocket—or let God drive my life.
I have written before about Thomas More, and he remains one of the reasons I am a Catholic today. A Man for All Seasons was an early influence, and I still play the video (old VHS format) regularly. When I was in RCIA in the fall of 2007, I went to a lawyer's funeral and received a Thomas More prayer card, which I still treasure. On it was a short version of the so-called “Lawyer’s Prayer” below.
St. Joan of Arc is both a saint and a warrior. As a military leader, she is best known for marshaling French troops during the Siege of Orléans (1428 to 1429), breaking 80 years of English dominance during the Hundred Years' War between the two nations. She was 17 years old at the time
I'm getting to the age where a young lady in her midtwenties could be my daughter. And so when I learned that Freida Pinto, the beautiful actress from Mumbai, is Catholic, I started to pray for her.
Centuries ago, the unlikely transformation of an illiterate peasant girl into a brave military leader and a defender of the faith began in her father's garden. "When I was thirteen years old, I had a Voice from God to help me govern my conduct. And the first time I was very fearful. And came this Voice, about the hour of noon, in the summer-time, in my father's garden; I had not fasted on the eve preceding that day." Four years later, Joan of Arc was commanding the French military in its war against English invaders.
Today we celebrate the feast day of Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, a medieval monk, writer and a gifted preacher. This Doctor of the Church was born in Burgundy in 1090. I heard about him earlier this year over breakfast with a dear friend who is a medieval historian and an expert on the Crusades. The only St. Bernard I remember hearing about prior to that conversation was a dog. That breed is named after a different St. Bernard.
Given my recent enthusiasm for St. Joan of Arc, Frank suggested I pray a novena to her, asking her to intercede for my private intentions. Who better to ask to pray for us than St. Joan? She was a courageous warrior for Christ, country and family during a tumultuous time in her native land. Filled with the Holy Spirit, this peasant girl from the French countryside never stopped believing that the voices and visions that began coming to her when she was 13 were messages from God. This novena will end August 28, the feast day of Saint Augustine, who lived 1,000 years before St. Joan and "established anew the ancient faith."
When I was nineteen I stood before what seemed to be the incorrupt body of St. Clare in the crypt of the basilica in Assisi bearing her name. Her body was covered only with a thin gauzy veil, and it looked whole to me. Now, I gather, it is no longer deemed to be incorrupt. But the impression, and the inspiration, have not gone away.
My great-grandfather was one of the founders of the Cream of Wheat Company, which began in the midst of an economic depression in 1892. George Bull was a wheat farmer in Grand Forks, ND, who used some old milling equipment to create a form of porridge from refined middlings, the best part of the wheat. He sent a case of the stuff stamped “Cream of Wheat” to his broker in New York along with a carload of wheat, and the agent wired back:
Guest Post by William “Mac” McCarthy
A reader who uses the handle bo_leggs made a comment on Webster's post Wednesday that hit home with me. The post was about churches that close down in the summer months. bo_leggs wrote: "One of the big differences between Catholics and Protestants is that a Catholic belongs to every Catholic Church in the world. Protestants belong only to their local church." This is one aspect of the faith lifelong Catholics such as myself might take for granted. But as Frank wrote last year, going to Mass on vacation is easy.
This weekly slot was meant to feature poetry and has done so until today. But yesterday afternoon I picked up my favorite book again for the fourth or fifth time, and I can’t imagine writing about any other “Words” right now. You may know Norman Maclean (left) as the author of the story behind the movie “A River Runs Through It.” My favorite book is Norman Maclean’s other book.
The other night, my husband and I listened on the family computer as our son, hundreds of miles from home, DJ'd an alternate-rock radio station. Not quite 14, our son had never been on the radio before; the stint is part of a camp he's attending for high schoolers interested in communications. We could hear how nervous he was, and how joyful, too.