When I think about monks and hermits living alone to ‘find’ God I wonder about Jesus’ command in Matthew 28:18-20, also spoken of as the great commission.
Lovely to read this on an April morning. We all seemed to sleep poorly, it is snowing outside, and no one is excited to leave the house for school or work. But the birds are singing in that cloudy morning light and as I read your story I feel a little lighter and somehow blessed 🥰
Thank you, Paul. Since last summer, we have been listening while you have been working through the next phase of the journey. This account, like the others, is rich food for contemplating that next phase. (Both the Lives of Saints and Holy Wells projects seem highly appropriate to me as works that help in contemplating the next phase.) After your Machine essays concluded, everyone has been asking, so what do we do?—a question that almost drove me mad for a few months last year. In the videos of your talks in America at the Front Porch conference, everyone asked the same question. That was when I realized that no one knows the answer. The answer is not simple because as you point out many times, we are all trapped in the Machine, all cooked barbarians to one degree or another, mostly ranging from medium to well done, a few of us conscientiously straining to be medium rare. But this saint is not cooked at all; totally raw. I am content for now to follow your thoughts as I contemplate this myself. Thank you for helping me think. And pray.
Beautiful. I'm convinced that the true sign of a good book, poem, film, short story etc. is that it makes you want to pray. Mission accomplished. It feels almost too audacious to hope to become a Saint. But that I might find some small measure of true prayer and peace. Peace for myself and peace for those around me.
I met one once, someone who knew stuff about me that defied belief, and yet... It was in the '70s, I think. He was hitchhiking under an overpass in Austin, Texas and I offered him a ride. He was aged, but ageless, thin, white tousled hair almost flowing, dressed in nondescript old clothes. His eyes were uncommonly kind, yet piercing. He carried a small umbrella, odd-looking, almost comical. He also had what I think was a well-worn, heavily written-in spiral-bound notebook with bits of paper and notes hodge-podged within it, sticking out all over. I remember a note referencing a Cardinal So-and-So from who-knows where. And he knew about me. To the point that it brought tears to my eyes, almost sobbing, asking, "Who are you? Are you Jesus?" His answer was vague and I didn't see any scars. I don't remember where he was going but our time together was soon over. It wasn't long. I looked for him on the side of the road for many years and thought I saw him once but upon turning around, he was gone.
Wonderful, wonderful. That phrase, "covered in birds" brought to mind a most beautiful song about Mary sung by Patty Griffin. It's worth reading her luminous lyrics too.
Wonderful story, Paul. You probably already know the Seamus Heaney poem "St. Kevin and the Blackbird," which is in Selected Poems 1988-2013. I was always inspired by his story, which didn't mean I could actually imagine holding a nest of birds in my outstretched hand even for a few hours. But even the Church-attested feats found in the lives of the saints are hard for me to imagine. But I can at least work on things like non-judgmentalism, or how about love?
Never trust monks - they’re full of made-up stories. The walking icons, the fantastical miracles … nevertheless, there’s something enchanting about this story. It put me in mind of stories of Saint Seraphim of Sarov.
I love this. Thank you 🙏🏻❤️
When I think about monks and hermits living alone to ‘find’ God I wonder about Jesus’ command in Matthew 28:18-20, also spoken of as the great commission.
Thank you for such a beautiful telling!
This is so lovely. Thank you.
Lovely to read this on an April morning. We all seemed to sleep poorly, it is snowing outside, and no one is excited to leave the house for school or work. But the birds are singing in that cloudy morning light and as I read your story I feel a little lighter and somehow blessed 🥰
How beautiful! Thank you!!!!
Thank you, Paul. Since last summer, we have been listening while you have been working through the next phase of the journey. This account, like the others, is rich food for contemplating that next phase. (Both the Lives of Saints and Holy Wells projects seem highly appropriate to me as works that help in contemplating the next phase.) After your Machine essays concluded, everyone has been asking, so what do we do?—a question that almost drove me mad for a few months last year. In the videos of your talks in America at the Front Porch conference, everyone asked the same question. That was when I realized that no one knows the answer. The answer is not simple because as you point out many times, we are all trapped in the Machine, all cooked barbarians to one degree or another, mostly ranging from medium to well done, a few of us conscientiously straining to be medium rare. But this saint is not cooked at all; totally raw. I am content for now to follow your thoughts as I contemplate this myself. Thank you for helping me think. And pray.
Beautiful. I'm convinced that the true sign of a good book, poem, film, short story etc. is that it makes you want to pray. Mission accomplished. It feels almost too audacious to hope to become a Saint. But that I might find some small measure of true prayer and peace. Peace for myself and peace for those around me.
Thank you for this gift, Paul... Much to ponder...
I met one once, someone who knew stuff about me that defied belief, and yet... It was in the '70s, I think. He was hitchhiking under an overpass in Austin, Texas and I offered him a ride. He was aged, but ageless, thin, white tousled hair almost flowing, dressed in nondescript old clothes. His eyes were uncommonly kind, yet piercing. He carried a small umbrella, odd-looking, almost comical. He also had what I think was a well-worn, heavily written-in spiral-bound notebook with bits of paper and notes hodge-podged within it, sticking out all over. I remember a note referencing a Cardinal So-and-So from who-knows where. And he knew about me. To the point that it brought tears to my eyes, almost sobbing, asking, "Who are you? Are you Jesus?" His answer was vague and I didn't see any scars. I don't remember where he was going but our time together was soon over. It wasn't long. I looked for him on the side of the road for many years and thought I saw him once but upon turning around, he was gone.
Wonderful, wonderful. That phrase, "covered in birds" brought to mind a most beautiful song about Mary sung by Patty Griffin. It's worth reading her luminous lyrics too.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLcRRolgffA&ab_channel=PattyGriffin-Topic
Wonderful story, Paul. You probably already know the Seamus Heaney poem "St. Kevin and the Blackbird," which is in Selected Poems 1988-2013. I was always inspired by his story, which didn't mean I could actually imagine holding a nest of birds in my outstretched hand even for a few hours. But even the Church-attested feats found in the lives of the saints are hard for me to imagine. But I can at least work on things like non-judgmentalism, or how about love?
Reading this in the context of Way of the Pilgrim. Beautifully told.
Never trust monks - they’re full of made-up stories. The walking icons, the fantastical miracles … nevertheless, there’s something enchanting about this story. It put me in mind of stories of Saint Seraphim of Sarov.
A blessed fifth week of Great Lent to you. Thanks; I look forward to a book of these saints someday.
Inspiring!