I have realised only recently that I don't often 'promise' things. Of course. I do say that I will 'do' something (and pathetically, quite often 'don't') or, what's worse, 'talk about doing' something which, when you think about it is even more pathetic because it gives you an escape hatch to climb out of if you don't do it, because you never actually 'said you were going to do' this or that - you just 'talked about doing' this or that. Therefore, you can mount a case (albeit a pitiful one) that you were never 'committed to doing what you talked about doing' - you just 'talked about doing something' which is not the same, so therefore you could not be held accountable for 'not doing what you talked about doing'. Well, I am determined to change all of that. While I did not actually 'promise' to write about some particular things in the blog, I did say that I 'would write about some particular things', and from now on, that shall count as a promise. I am now and into the future, going to mean 'promise' when I say 'will do' and am going to try to remember to actually say the word 'promise' more often. 'Promise' is actually a very beautiful word, I think. So without any further delay (or more speech marks) I am going to fulfil a 'promise' (sorry, just one for the road - old habits are so hard to break...) and write about my and my family's connection with MMcK, just like I promised I would.
My mother is the keeper of all our family's MMcK stories but I think I remember how most of them go. I shall relate three but there are others. Not sure whether you call these events miracles really - to be honest, what they might or might be called really doesn't matter all at much anyway. I think I will just tell the stories.
Story No 1: When my younger sister was born (she is 8 years younger than I am), she had all manner of health issues as a consequence of her premature birth and my mother being sick for most of the the pregnancy. She spent much of it actually in the hospital. Things became desperate one evening when the doctors told my parents that my baby sister's life was in the balance. In the meantime, Mum or Dd (can't quite recall which one) had been in contact with our local primary school (St Jerome's Punchbowl) which was run by the Sisters of St Joseph because someone had told them that they had in their possession a relic of Mary MacKillop's habit which they sometimes loaned to those who might need 'special help'. They were right and after being loaned the relic by the Sisters, it was brought in to the hospital and pinned to my sister's clothing. They were also told to pray to MMcK - which she did. The next morning when my sister awoke, there was nothing wrong with her.
Doctors were dumbfounded - they could offer no explanation. She suffered no ill-effects from her ordeal, which had included a collapsed lung. Go figure... Mum was still pretty sick however, and it was a while before she was well enough to come home and bring my sister with her. She also had another 4 children to look after when she got home and she never did write up what had happened. That was something she always regretted.
Story No 2: This was my story, the one written up in the Daily Telegraph article. It goes something like this: Not long after starting Year 10, I contracted a staph infection above my right eye which my doctor did not know to treat. It became so nasty that my specialist (not a very good one) placed me 'in the hands of God', as he told it, which apart from giving me morphine, was probably the best thing he did for me. My local parish priest was called in and I was given that 'special blessing'. I had the relic which was pinned to my clothing, just like with my sister some years before. Meanwhile, Mum and Dad began furiously trying to find another specialist who didn't think I was a lost cause. When they came back the priest was gone and I apparently told him, and then them, not to worry any more because MMcK had just told me that I was going to be okay. Soon after, they did find a specialist (a very good one, as it turned out) who arrived at the hospital in the early hours of the morning and got to work. He figured out the source of the problem (sadly, not before a very painful lumbar puncture - man, they're nasty...), changed the antibiotics I was being given and things quickly improved. I was out of hospital in two weeks. Mmm...
Story No3: I think this one fits the category of being odd rather than miraculous. Again, it involved my mother and me. It was not all that long after my own ordeal. Mum was once more hospitalised but this time her condition was not critical. Still, each time one of us was in this situation, someone would pay a visit to the St Jerome's convent and borrow the relic until we got better, then take it back. Mum asked me if I would go and get it this time and bring it to her in the hospital.
When I went to the convent to ask for the relic again (I think we must have accumulated some serious frequent user points by this time), I was told by nun who received my request that it had already been borrowed by someone else. They just didn't have it. There was nothing to be done so, knowing that Mum would be dreadfully upset with this news, I jumped on the train and headed out to St John of God Hospital Auburn.
Bizarrely, my mother already had the relic pinned to her hospital gown when I walked into her ward. What was going on here? I told her that I had come to deliver to her the news that I couldn't get the relic for her because another family had already borrowed it, to which she replied that she did not know what I was talking about as I had brought it in the day before.
I had not done so although I can be so absent-minded sometimes that I started to entertain the notion that maybe I did bring it in the day before even though I distinctly remember being somewhere completely different at the same time (like school). Clearly it stood to reason that someone else had brought it in and mum had been mistaken - good drugs can cloud the judgment of the best of us. That all made good sense but no one in the family said it was them and when Mum recovered and came home, I tried to return the relic to the convent, only to be told that theirs had already been returned and this one did not belong to them. I told Sister what had happened and she advised me to keep the relic I had, which I did. It remained in the family for the next 30 years until quite recently when it was inexplicably got lost after being pinned to my father during one of the many operations he has had to endure over the years. Maybe someone else needed it more than we did now. It somehow seemed right.
So there. What do you make of all that! To be honest, I am not asking to be believed or disbelieved or challenged or ridiculed (particularly ridiculed!) for my recollection of these events. There seems little doubt to those of us who were players in the stories that for reasons we cannot explain, we have been granted some very special blessings. One day, the reasons for those blessings may become clearer. Mum told me the other day that she still has a conversation with MMcK every night before she goes to sleep and that she is her 'closest friend'.
I suppose it is not hard to see now (even for a dullard like me) why me being in Rome for the canonisation meant so very much to her. I am sure the two friends have had plenty to talk about lately...
Gratefully yours
Mark
Monday, November 8, 2010
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Starting again: The Final Daze:
I have now been back home in Sydney for just over two weeks and until now I still have not written about the event which really was at the centre of my reason for going to Italy in the first place - the canonisation of St MMcKotC. I really want to apologise for that. This is not the way that blogs operate, I know. My limited understand of how/why this medium works is because of its immediacy (and intimacy) - a sort of 'see it, think it, feel it, write it' kind of thing. That is what I always intended to do but unfortunately, it didn't quite work that way in the end. The last few days were a frenzy, and I didn't manage to quarantine writing time. I regret that. I know the moment is over in a way, but I am back at my computer and writing again. It won't be the same but it will be what it is, and I guess that will have to be enough.
I loved Rome but I don't understand it. Although I had spent no more than one or two days in each of the places I had visited prior to now, I felt each allowed me close enough to be able feel its heartbeat and know something of who it was. Maybe Rome knows itself too but it certainly didn't give much of itself away to me. If a city can have a personality, then Rome had multiple ones.
Traffic, loud and thick, welcomed our arrival in the Eternal City. We stayed in a huge hotel with lots of other tour groups. It was comfortable, clean, had four lifts, free internet access once you had purchased a USB cable from the hotel gift shop (that was odd..) and completely without character or charm. Staff were efficient, gave answers to my questions with polite indifference as well as the distinct impression they had one eye on the bundy clock that would tell them when they could go home. The most charming staff were the cleaning girls - every single one I spoke to was charming, smiled, wished me a nice day and seemed to mean it.
Almost as soon as I arrived at Hotel Indifference, and after purchasing my E5 internet cable from the Hotel Indifference Gift Shop (it was on display right next to a colorful handbag that cost E250 (on special that week), I jumped into a cab and headed down to St Peter's Square. It was early evening. I had been contacted back in Sydney by Tony Vemeer a journalist from the Sunday Telegraph who had heard that I may have had an interesting Mary MacKillop story to tell. I had met Tony before and thought highly of him so agreed to be interviewed and photographed for the story. There would be four of us in the piece and we were all to meet in St Peter's Square around 7ish. Anne, one of my fellow travellers, was also one of the four involved in the story so we taxied together.
I would strongly recommend that if you have not seen St Peter's Square, and one day get the chance to do so, see it first by night.It is breathtaking beautiful. Tony told me to meet him at the Obelisk in St Peter's. I had no idea if that would be hard to find (or, if I had to be honest, exactly what an obelisk was...) but I agreed. When the taxi pulled up at the top Via Conzilione (sorry Romaphiles, don't think I spelled that correctly), I looked up in wonder and awe at this achingly beautiful space. It was enormous in size but somehow didn't seem so. It was bathed in a soft light that allowed you see just about everything but only just. There were people wandering around talking and looking and taking photographs. The closer you walked inside the square, the more you realised how big it all was. There was the Obelisk right in the centre of the Square and there were two magnificent fountains positioned on either side about equal distance from it. There were already thousands of chairs out in the Square in preparation for the big event in a few days time and there were barricades everywhere, although not placed in any particularly strategic or purposeful order. I soon learned that was the Roman way.
Anne and I met up with Tony, the Herald Sun photographer Dave and the other two people who were part of the story, Fr David Catterall who had survived a rare form of breast cancer and the charming Amy Green who was now free of a once-debilitating epileptic condition. Both attributed their recovery to the intersession of Mary MacKillop. My friend Anne had also survived two encounters with cancer and while she doesn't claim miraculous intervention (actually, none of us do), she is in no doubt that she was given the strength she needed to cope with what she had to deal with through the support of MMcK - who she is in fact related to! With Australia warming to the notion of celebrating the proclamation of its first Catholic saint, there was now great media interest in the event.
We did the story and photo shoot (Herald Sun Dave took hundreds of photos before he was convinced he had enough - do you realise just how hard it is to smile non-stop for almost an hour?) and as I expected he would, Tony did a lovely piece which appeared in the Daily Telegraph the next day. It all felt a bit weird really. The nature of my work means that I get quoted in the media quite a lot but I have never had a story done 'about' me. People contacted me and were very kind with their comments. The one which moved me the most was from my mum. I guess like most mums, she has unfailing faith in her son (I would contend that in my case, this is misguided) and I could hear the emotion in her voice when I rang her. I can't explain to you in the here-and-now why this all meant so much to her but I will try to in subsequent entries. She's been through such a lot herself - I was reminded in all of this just how extraordinary a person she was, and moved (to tears, as it turned out) by the joy she was feeling.
Shoot over, and now back at Hotel Indifference, I set up things for the days ahead. The internet worked a treat, camera batteries and mobile phone were charging, I did a couple of quick radio interviews, made calls to two people I love a lot and then wrote a little bit. I then went downstairs to the hotel, waited 10 minutes to order a drink, realised that it would be some time soon before that order would be taken (there were glasses to be cleaned, after all) so went back up to my room to a shower and a sleep. I managed the first but not the second.
I shall stop now because as usual, I am writing too much. I had this notion when I opened the blog again that I would do one big entry that would cover Rome in a single sweep. I realise, not for the first time, that I have over-estimated and underachieved. Things just keep finding their way into my head and I keep saying to myself 'I should write about that...', and I now remember I have made promises to write about stuff that I have not honoured yet. Honour's not really my strongest suit but for I will try to stay focused!
In the intro to the blog, I wrote that, in the end, it might become important for reasons other than reporting on the events surrounding the canonisation. I now know that is true. Sorry, that's for another time too..
Chaotically yours
Mark
I loved Rome but I don't understand it. Although I had spent no more than one or two days in each of the places I had visited prior to now, I felt each allowed me close enough to be able feel its heartbeat and know something of who it was. Maybe Rome knows itself too but it certainly didn't give much of itself away to me. If a city can have a personality, then Rome had multiple ones.
Traffic, loud and thick, welcomed our arrival in the Eternal City. We stayed in a huge hotel with lots of other tour groups. It was comfortable, clean, had four lifts, free internet access once you had purchased a USB cable from the hotel gift shop (that was odd..) and completely without character or charm. Staff were efficient, gave answers to my questions with polite indifference as well as the distinct impression they had one eye on the bundy clock that would tell them when they could go home. The most charming staff were the cleaning girls - every single one I spoke to was charming, smiled, wished me a nice day and seemed to mean it.
Almost as soon as I arrived at Hotel Indifference, and after purchasing my E5 internet cable from the Hotel Indifference Gift Shop (it was on display right next to a colorful handbag that cost E250 (on special that week), I jumped into a cab and headed down to St Peter's Square. It was early evening. I had been contacted back in Sydney by Tony Vemeer a journalist from the Sunday Telegraph who had heard that I may have had an interesting Mary MacKillop story to tell. I had met Tony before and thought highly of him so agreed to be interviewed and photographed for the story. There would be four of us in the piece and we were all to meet in St Peter's Square around 7ish. Anne, one of my fellow travellers, was also one of the four involved in the story so we taxied together.
I would strongly recommend that if you have not seen St Peter's Square, and one day get the chance to do so, see it first by night.It is breathtaking beautiful. Tony told me to meet him at the Obelisk in St Peter's. I had no idea if that would be hard to find (or, if I had to be honest, exactly what an obelisk was...) but I agreed. When the taxi pulled up at the top Via Conzilione (sorry Romaphiles, don't think I spelled that correctly), I looked up in wonder and awe at this achingly beautiful space. It was enormous in size but somehow didn't seem so. It was bathed in a soft light that allowed you see just about everything but only just. There were people wandering around talking and looking and taking photographs. The closer you walked inside the square, the more you realised how big it all was. There was the Obelisk right in the centre of the Square and there were two magnificent fountains positioned on either side about equal distance from it. There were already thousands of chairs out in the Square in preparation for the big event in a few days time and there were barricades everywhere, although not placed in any particularly strategic or purposeful order. I soon learned that was the Roman way.
Anne and I met up with Tony, the Herald Sun photographer Dave and the other two people who were part of the story, Fr David Catterall who had survived a rare form of breast cancer and the charming Amy Green who was now free of a once-debilitating epileptic condition. Both attributed their recovery to the intersession of Mary MacKillop. My friend Anne had also survived two encounters with cancer and while she doesn't claim miraculous intervention (actually, none of us do), she is in no doubt that she was given the strength she needed to cope with what she had to deal with through the support of MMcK - who she is in fact related to! With Australia warming to the notion of celebrating the proclamation of its first Catholic saint, there was now great media interest in the event.
We did the story and photo shoot (Herald Sun Dave took hundreds of photos before he was convinced he had enough - do you realise just how hard it is to smile non-stop for almost an hour?) and as I expected he would, Tony did a lovely piece which appeared in the Daily Telegraph the next day. It all felt a bit weird really. The nature of my work means that I get quoted in the media quite a lot but I have never had a story done 'about' me. People contacted me and were very kind with their comments. The one which moved me the most was from my mum. I guess like most mums, she has unfailing faith in her son (I would contend that in my case, this is misguided) and I could hear the emotion in her voice when I rang her. I can't explain to you in the here-and-now why this all meant so much to her but I will try to in subsequent entries. She's been through such a lot herself - I was reminded in all of this just how extraordinary a person she was, and moved (to tears, as it turned out) by the joy she was feeling.
Shoot over, and now back at Hotel Indifference, I set up things for the days ahead. The internet worked a treat, camera batteries and mobile phone were charging, I did a couple of quick radio interviews, made calls to two people I love a lot and then wrote a little bit. I then went downstairs to the hotel, waited 10 minutes to order a drink, realised that it would be some time soon before that order would be taken (there were glasses to be cleaned, after all) so went back up to my room to a shower and a sleep. I managed the first but not the second.
I shall stop now because as usual, I am writing too much. I had this notion when I opened the blog again that I would do one big entry that would cover Rome in a single sweep. I realise, not for the first time, that I have over-estimated and underachieved. Things just keep finding their way into my head and I keep saying to myself 'I should write about that...', and I now remember I have made promises to write about stuff that I have not honoured yet. Honour's not really my strongest suit but for I will try to stay focused!
In the intro to the blog, I wrote that, in the end, it might become important for reasons other than reporting on the events surrounding the canonisation. I now know that is true. Sorry, that's for another time too..
Chaotically yours
Mark
Monday, October 18, 2010
Photos x 109!
Lots of photos of the Canonisation ceremony at St Peter's Square are ow on the blog. Just click 'Flickr Photostream' to check them all out.
7.30am Rome time. I check out this morning and head to the airport for the trip home. I am still not finished my post about the Canonisation - it looks as though that will be a job for the plane trip. If our journey over with Malaysia Airlines is anything to go by, I shall have plenty of time! Very weary now - hope I can sleep on the plane. I will also post a story I wrote for the Catholic Weekly on the big Mary MacKillop concert held the day before the Canonisation.
Ciao for now!
So wearily yours
Mark
7.30am Rome time. I check out this morning and head to the airport for the trip home. I am still not finished my post about the Canonisation - it looks as though that will be a job for the plane trip. If our journey over with Malaysia Airlines is anything to go by, I shall have plenty of time! Very weary now - hope I can sleep on the plane. I will also post a story I wrote for the Catholic Weekly on the big Mary MacKillop concert held the day before the Canonisation.
Ciao for now!
So wearily yours
Mark
The Postless Post
Sorry, I shall have to do a more detailed post for the cliff-top town of Ovieto in retrospect. I have put a few photos up though. That probably tells you more than more often incoherent ramblings ever could anyway. Just one more unique stop in this country of contradictions...
M
M
Selflessness and Sackcloth
Post no 9. Assisi is very difficult to describe. My first glimpse of it was from the bus on our way to Loreto. It was high in the distance as I looked out from my window and it was a majestic sight, even from so far away. It looked like a walled fortress city, purchased high up on top of a mountain. It was a misty grey mid-morning and clouds hovered around the top level of the city (I think it has three tiers). The sight was intoxicating.
Travelling back from Loreto, I was lost in thought about what I had seen that day. My eyes looked out from my window seat as we wound our way back down the mountain and then at one extraordinary little town after another. I know my descriptions are beginning to border on cliches but it all seemed so surreal. These little hamlets were of course built hundreds of years ago. A few of them looked as if their days of prosperity were over, but like I am about so many other things, I may be wrong. The walls of many of the houses were crumbling, gardens were over-run and there were few people out on the streets. There were quaint shops but I was unable to see if they were open or if anyone was in them. There was some building activity happening but it was mostly focused on road works. Outside the townships, as inside, the roads were narrow, winding and treacherous but our tour bus driver, the incomparable Fausto, was more than equal to every challenge!
We arrived at Assisi in the evening. I learnt that apart from the old fortress city on the mountain top, the main commercial part of the town is situated a little away from the base of the mountain, and that is where our very comfortable hotel was located. There were lots of shops - very expensive ones mostly - and I even found a laundromat at which I later did some 'emergency washing'. Here, with two of my tour colleagues Colleen and Therese, I met three young men from the Italian boxing team who had just returned from overseas after a successful international amateur tournament. Seemed ironic that we would meet a group of boxers here in Assisi but I have long since given up contemplating the peculiarities of life in Italy. They were very friendly, spoke no English and smiled repeatedly at my forlorn attempts to use the washing machine.
On this lower level of the town, there was also a another breathtakingly beautiful basilica inside which St Clare (see below) is buried. There is also a small museum that provides an account of her incredible life. We visited it just before leaving on the second day. There was a Mass taking place inside at the time for local hospital chaplains, welfare and support staff. There were about 200 at the Mass. The majority of these were habited nuns. There 71 con celebrating priests.
I stayed behind at the hotel for the first part of the tour of old Assisi and joined the group mid-morning. I estimated that they would be at our second tour destination by the time I got there - St Damiano's Church - so that is where I asked my taxi driver to take me.
St Damiano's is a small, simply adorned but strikingly beautiful Church (more of a chapel really) and the spiritual home of the the Poor Clare Sisters which were founded by St Chiarra (Clare) who based their charism on the example her dear friend and mentor St Francis. On the wall of a small entrance room just outside the main part of the Church is a mesmerising crucifix that I simply could not take my eyes off. I sat in one of the old wooden seats for about 10 minutes, by myself (there was no-one else in there at the time), and just looked at it. The representation of Jesus on the Cross was confronting but I remained transfixed by it. I tried to just sit, listen to my own breathing and think of nothing. There was a moment when I felt as peaceful as I had felt for some time, then some other people came in and that moment was gone. I got up and walked outside, took some pics and waited for the rest of my group to arrive.
During the day, we visited the rest of the St Damiano's, including the cloisters where St Clare and her community of nuns lived and prayed, the main township of old Assisi, including its magnificent churches, its quaint streets and shops and its many monuments. I stopped for a time to change some equipment on my camera when a man of about 40, dressed in sackcloth and barefooted, stepped out from a nearby laneway chanting something about Assisi over and over again. He wasn't asking for money, he smiled constantly and after a time, simply stopped chanting and stepped back into the laneway. I did not see him again for the rest of the day. I was later told that he was something of a town oddity but that he was looked upon with affection.
My favourite part of this tour was visiting the mountain retreat of St Francis himself and seeing the cave inside which he often stayed for days at a time in contemplation and prayer. I have such admiration for people of deep conviction where their focus is not on gaining or asserting power or privilege but on service to others. (I am sure you know people like that. My good friend Maya Cranitch, who has done so much in the cause of supporting refugees and asylum seekers and is currently working as a volunteer trying to bring education to desperately need refugees on the Thai/Burma border, is someone like that). St Francis had the most intense love of God that manifested itself in foregoing everything of material value to focus on prayer and the service of others. I felt completely inadequate being in what was once his space - I wanted to see it all but felt I had no right even to walk the same paths as he and his followers walked.
For me, this has been the most spiritual experience of the pilgrimage so far (there, I used the word pilgrimage). I guess it must be had to balance the notion of providing an opportunity for people like us to see and hopefully experience some of the sacredness of places like Loreto, Assisi et al and still ensure that their sacred, spiritual core is not swallowed up in the commercial realities of modern commerce. I wonder what St Francis himself might have thought about even those who so ardently admire and pray to him being here in this capacity. Don't quite have an answer for that question yet. All I can say at the moment is that it is a privilege to have spent time here.
Introspectively yours
Mark
Travelling back from Loreto, I was lost in thought about what I had seen that day. My eyes looked out from my window seat as we wound our way back down the mountain and then at one extraordinary little town after another. I know my descriptions are beginning to border on cliches but it all seemed so surreal. These little hamlets were of course built hundreds of years ago. A few of them looked as if their days of prosperity were over, but like I am about so many other things, I may be wrong. The walls of many of the houses were crumbling, gardens were over-run and there were few people out on the streets. There were quaint shops but I was unable to see if they were open or if anyone was in them. There was some building activity happening but it was mostly focused on road works. Outside the townships, as inside, the roads were narrow, winding and treacherous but our tour bus driver, the incomparable Fausto, was more than equal to every challenge!
We arrived at Assisi in the evening. I learnt that apart from the old fortress city on the mountain top, the main commercial part of the town is situated a little away from the base of the mountain, and that is where our very comfortable hotel was located. There were lots of shops - very expensive ones mostly - and I even found a laundromat at which I later did some 'emergency washing'. Here, with two of my tour colleagues Colleen and Therese, I met three young men from the Italian boxing team who had just returned from overseas after a successful international amateur tournament. Seemed ironic that we would meet a group of boxers here in Assisi but I have long since given up contemplating the peculiarities of life in Italy. They were very friendly, spoke no English and smiled repeatedly at my forlorn attempts to use the washing machine.
On this lower level of the town, there was also a another breathtakingly beautiful basilica inside which St Clare (see below) is buried. There is also a small museum that provides an account of her incredible life. We visited it just before leaving on the second day. There was a Mass taking place inside at the time for local hospital chaplains, welfare and support staff. There were about 200 at the Mass. The majority of these were habited nuns. There 71 con celebrating priests.
I stayed behind at the hotel for the first part of the tour of old Assisi and joined the group mid-morning. I estimated that they would be at our second tour destination by the time I got there - St Damiano's Church - so that is where I asked my taxi driver to take me.
St Damiano's is a small, simply adorned but strikingly beautiful Church (more of a chapel really) and the spiritual home of the the Poor Clare Sisters which were founded by St Chiarra (Clare) who based their charism on the example her dear friend and mentor St Francis. On the wall of a small entrance room just outside the main part of the Church is a mesmerising crucifix that I simply could not take my eyes off. I sat in one of the old wooden seats for about 10 minutes, by myself (there was no-one else in there at the time), and just looked at it. The representation of Jesus on the Cross was confronting but I remained transfixed by it. I tried to just sit, listen to my own breathing and think of nothing. There was a moment when I felt as peaceful as I had felt for some time, then some other people came in and that moment was gone. I got up and walked outside, took some pics and waited for the rest of my group to arrive.
During the day, we visited the rest of the St Damiano's, including the cloisters where St Clare and her community of nuns lived and prayed, the main township of old Assisi, including its magnificent churches, its quaint streets and shops and its many monuments. I stopped for a time to change some equipment on my camera when a man of about 40, dressed in sackcloth and barefooted, stepped out from a nearby laneway chanting something about Assisi over and over again. He wasn't asking for money, he smiled constantly and after a time, simply stopped chanting and stepped back into the laneway. I did not see him again for the rest of the day. I was later told that he was something of a town oddity but that he was looked upon with affection.
My favourite part of this tour was visiting the mountain retreat of St Francis himself and seeing the cave inside which he often stayed for days at a time in contemplation and prayer. I have such admiration for people of deep conviction where their focus is not on gaining or asserting power or privilege but on service to others. (I am sure you know people like that. My good friend Maya Cranitch, who has done so much in the cause of supporting refugees and asylum seekers and is currently working as a volunteer trying to bring education to desperately need refugees on the Thai/Burma border, is someone like that). St Francis had the most intense love of God that manifested itself in foregoing everything of material value to focus on prayer and the service of others. I felt completely inadequate being in what was once his space - I wanted to see it all but felt I had no right even to walk the same paths as he and his followers walked.
For me, this has been the most spiritual experience of the pilgrimage so far (there, I used the word pilgrimage). I guess it must be had to balance the notion of providing an opportunity for people like us to see and hopefully experience some of the sacredness of places like Loreto, Assisi et al and still ensure that their sacred, spiritual core is not swallowed up in the commercial realities of modern commerce. I wonder what St Francis himself might have thought about even those who so ardently admire and pray to him being here in this capacity. Don't quite have an answer for that question yet. All I can say at the moment is that it is a privilege to have spent time here.
Introspectively yours
Mark
Looking for direction in the Holy House of Loreto
Blog post no 8
Oh my, I am so far behind! There have been so many things happening over the past week that I have not been able to keep up-to-date with the blog. So sorry one and all (and I am sure that for some it s blessed relief!) There has been a great deal of Australian media interest in our travels and this has taken some time and energy. On occasions, we have not arrived back from our day's tours until quite late and this has left very little time to write. The days are quite draining. One or two internet connection problems haven't helped. Tried typing on the bus once (didn't work) and then had a go at writing longhand (and was almost sick) so I am trying to get back on track and doing the best to read my scrawly notes.
Loreto is one of the most visted sacred Catholic sites in the world. The main reason for that is that in its majectic Cathedral is what is believed to be the actual house that the Holy Family lived IN during their time in Nazareth. It had been transported here after being situated in other countries over the past two thousand years but it is now located in this exquisite little medieval town that is perched atop of a mighty hill.
The Holy House is right in the middle of the Cathedral. It is now a small chapel, with only a few candles for lighting. On the wall behind the altar is a stunning statuette of the Black Madonna with the infant Jesus in her arms. I was struck at once by this image of a black Mary and am determined to find out more about it. That investigation is still to come. I suspect that our very knowledgable guide probaby covered it in her commentary but I am sure it would come as no surprise to you to learn that I missed that.
I sat in the chapel for about 10 minutes listening and trying very hard to pray in a way that was approriate for where I was (I wonder why I think like that...). I placed my hands on the walls and tried to 'feel' or 'sense' the holy presence but nothing profoundly deep and spiritual registered within. Still, it was beautiful and serene. I was deeply moved by a young man with Downs Syndrome who stood sobbing quietly at the front of the altar with his hand also on the wall. He didn't want to leave when motioned to by his carer who I suspect was his father, but eventually he did go outside. When I got up to leave a few minutes later, he was coming back in.
Was there a spiritual conenction for me at Loreto? Kind of, but I have to be honest and say that it was a not a profound one. To understand what it means to be in what could have been the house where Jesus would have lived and slept is not an easy experience to descibe. The more humble structure somehow appealled to me more than the majesty of the massive cathedrals and basilicas that are so common in this extraordinary country. To be honest, I don't know what I should feel or even what I should expect to feel when I enter these sacred places. Maybe your reaction to what you come out with is subeject to what you take in with you. Can anyone help here?
I strolled around the town for an hour, bought a few little things, took some pics and then headed back to the bus. It was a greyish day and my own mood was unsettled. I am beginning to understand what many famous religious scholars and mystics mean when they talk about peace and contentment coming only when we are able to clear our mind of everything and focus on what matters above all - which for them is their love of and devotion to God. I am neither scholar nor mystic and when it comes to possessing a deep faith, compared to them, I am swimming in the shallow end of the pool (sometimes, when my head is above water, I can see the deeper end - it is very blue) but I sense that this is true. A cluttered mind full of the things unresolved really has no room for anything sacred...
Inadequately yours
Mark
Oh my, I am so far behind! There have been so many things happening over the past week that I have not been able to keep up-to-date with the blog. So sorry one and all (and I am sure that for some it s blessed relief!) There has been a great deal of Australian media interest in our travels and this has taken some time and energy. On occasions, we have not arrived back from our day's tours until quite late and this has left very little time to write. The days are quite draining. One or two internet connection problems haven't helped. Tried typing on the bus once (didn't work) and then had a go at writing longhand (and was almost sick) so I am trying to get back on track and doing the best to read my scrawly notes.
Loreto is one of the most visted sacred Catholic sites in the world. The main reason for that is that in its majectic Cathedral is what is believed to be the actual house that the Holy Family lived IN during their time in Nazareth. It had been transported here after being situated in other countries over the past two thousand years but it is now located in this exquisite little medieval town that is perched atop of a mighty hill.
The Holy House is right in the middle of the Cathedral. It is now a small chapel, with only a few candles for lighting. On the wall behind the altar is a stunning statuette of the Black Madonna with the infant Jesus in her arms. I was struck at once by this image of a black Mary and am determined to find out more about it. That investigation is still to come. I suspect that our very knowledgable guide probaby covered it in her commentary but I am sure it would come as no surprise to you to learn that I missed that.
I sat in the chapel for about 10 minutes listening and trying very hard to pray in a way that was approriate for where I was (I wonder why I think like that...). I placed my hands on the walls and tried to 'feel' or 'sense' the holy presence but nothing profoundly deep and spiritual registered within. Still, it was beautiful and serene. I was deeply moved by a young man with Downs Syndrome who stood sobbing quietly at the front of the altar with his hand also on the wall. He didn't want to leave when motioned to by his carer who I suspect was his father, but eventually he did go outside. When I got up to leave a few minutes later, he was coming back in.
Was there a spiritual conenction for me at Loreto? Kind of, but I have to be honest and say that it was a not a profound one. To understand what it means to be in what could have been the house where Jesus would have lived and slept is not an easy experience to descibe. The more humble structure somehow appealled to me more than the majesty of the massive cathedrals and basilicas that are so common in this extraordinary country. To be honest, I don't know what I should feel or even what I should expect to feel when I enter these sacred places. Maybe your reaction to what you come out with is subeject to what you take in with you. Can anyone help here?
I strolled around the town for an hour, bought a few little things, took some pics and then headed back to the bus. It was a greyish day and my own mood was unsettled. I am beginning to understand what many famous religious scholars and mystics mean when they talk about peace and contentment coming only when we are able to clear our mind of everything and focus on what matters above all - which for them is their love of and devotion to God. I am neither scholar nor mystic and when it comes to possessing a deep faith, compared to them, I am swimming in the shallow end of the pool (sometimes, when my head is above water, I can see the deeper end - it is very blue) but I sense that this is true. A cluttered mind full of the things unresolved really has no room for anything sacred...
Inadequately yours
Mark
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