Summer 2020: " . . . All Around Us is the Sea of Paradise."

Wandering on the ocean of life, whether on a raft or a luxury liner, one would have to be, in the words of St. Bonaventure, “. . . blind . . . deaf . . . dumb . . . a fool” ¹ if the ocean was not recognized as a sea of paradise. And not simply a sea of paradise, but, as Thomas Merton ² wrote in his journal on 21 May 1963, “. . . all around us is the sea of paradise” (emphasis mine). It is apt that Merton made this remark in the Spring of the year.

        I am a cold-months curmudgeon (not quite like Merton who found joy at every turn), which begs the question of why I live in the Berkshires here in southwestern Massachusetts.  Admittedly, every season can work a different and often unexpected magic. That said, I eagerly anticipate the warmer months each year when I find myself more fully able to become absorbed in the sea of paradise. It is a time when large windows open into the thick walls of my spiritual nucleus, windows that give me a glimpse, even if incomplete, of what I hope to enjoy perfectly, peacefully, purely, in eternal life.

        During the warm months the “Franciscan concept of universal kinship” (OFS Rule, 18) invites me with special intensity to whole-hearted stewardship for the gifts I have received (cf. OFS Rule, 11), as a freshly empowered Holy Spirit renews the face of the earth (cf. Psalm 104: 30). A distinct mindfulness visits me without fail during the Spring and Summer seasons, a mindfulness that brings me strongly into the presence of God. Intrusive thoughts of the past and the future are put to flight much more easily, as our Sister Mother Earth, Brother Sun, Sister Moon and Stars, Sister Water call me, indeed every element of Creation calls me, to be present — attentive, deliberate, mindful, and joyful, like a child on a carousel who does not think of yesterday or tomorrow, only the present:  “ . . . unless you change and become like little children . . .” (Matthew 18: 3).

        During the past several years, I have, at the best of times, been relatively confined to my own back yard, so that the borders, both physical and interpersonal, imposed by the COVID-19 pandemic are not especially bothersome. In fact, I delight in being “locked down” in my own landscape at this time of the year. I sally forth, with two simple prayers: first, may God see fit to grant that my work bear fruit in eternal life; second, may each weed that I pull release one hundred souls from Purgatory (weeding is one of my more intense and pleasing pursuits). At no other time of the year are my efforts at undistracted work so conducive to prayer.

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So, the season begins with the sowing of seeds early, a task that brings with it great anticipation. Sunday 12 July marked the beginning of the 15th Week of Ordinary Time and the Gospel of Matthew related Christ’s familiar and season-suitable parable of the sower (Mt 13: 1-23). It is easy to imagine St. Bonaventure underlining verse 9: “Whoever has ears ought to hear.” Only the seed sown “on rich soil” has the potential to produce fruit. As I continue to discern my own vocation in my role as Fraternity Formation Director, I am reminded that each Secular Franciscan vocation rests within a seed of faith that must be planted in the richest soil possible in order for it to flourish; our Rule is that rich soil. But, whether garden seed or Franciscan vocation, rich soil is only one component of the process.

        Consider for a moment the garden seed that is sown indoors. Given rich soil, warmth and moisture are essential if the seed is to sprout. A seed may never lack for either, but it cannot know that warmth and moisture alone, while necessary, are insufficient for its vitality. Once the tender growth appears, light is also essential. But the seedling is powerless to bring itself into the presence of light; it is at the mercy of its indoor milieu, forced to conform to the restraints of its immediate environment with blind biologic obedience. Because its tender growth is phototaxic (reaching for the nearest light source), neglecting or forgetting to provide the light it needs will cause it to languish, shrivel up in hideous physical deformity, and die.

        A tender Franciscan shoot emerges when the seed of faith is planted in the rich soil of our Rule. This new growth, the budding vocation, is Theotaxic, i.e., it grows naturally toward the Eternal Light. The world works its worst to eclipse the Eternal Light, but the spiritual warmth emanating from the mystical Sun is certain and pervasive. This warmth penetrates human nature so uniformly, so effectively, so predictably and so durably that only a misguided use of personal choice, as Bonaventure reminds us, permits it to be ignored. It is the refusal to recognize this most vital of preternatural elements, or recognizing it and dismissing its significance, that makes drawing the Eternal Light’s mystical rays into the darkness in effect impossible. Hideous spiritual deformity develops in the absence of the Light, progressive deformity that cannot be appreciated because no number of mirrors can reflect an image in darkness. If the Light is completely rejected, the Sun’s warmth is finally withdrawn as well and the anguish of eternal separation from God, the ultimate spiritual calamity, will result.

        Francis gave us both the Rule and his example to challenge us, as lay witnesses in the world, to draw the Eternal Light from behind the eclipse of a stubbornly opaque social order that tries to make us think that we can grow in spiritual darkness with impunity.

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It all comes down to choice. The poor garden seedling  has no choice; it relies on either chance or the good ministrations of the gardener. But made in the image and likeness of God we can either project ourselves headlong into judgement or we can fall to our knees (perhaps among the garden weeds, certainly among the “weeds” in our own spiritual allotment), invoke God’s mercy, and embrace the conversio that has become our priceless inheritance from the Little Poor Man: St. Francis of Assisi. Perhaps, along the way, we can pass this inheritance on to those who might otherwise have neglected to treasure it, to those who might not even recognize it. In the end, we are all gardeners. 

¹  The Soul’s Journey Into God, Ch. 1, 15.

²   Thomas Merton (1915-1968) was a Secular Franciscan before joining the Cistercian Order in 1941, eventually being ordained as Fr. Louis.

Basil Cardinal Hume once remarked that being in the presence of God is like being in a dark room with someone you love. You cannot see the person but you know with certainty that she or he is there.