TRÁI TIM MẸ:  NƠI CON NƯƠNG NÁU - ĐƯỜNG ĐẾN VỚI CHÚA

"Chúa Giêsu muốn dùng con để làm cho Mẹ được nhận biết và yêu mến"

 

 

  December 3/2009 - Thursday of 1st Week of Advent 

 

LITURGICAL/THEME MEDITATION:

"Who shall enter the kingdom of heaven?"

UNIVERSAL CHURCH/WORLD EVENT(S):

On the "Singer of Charity"

SAINT OF THE DAY

St. Francis Xavier

 GENERAL MARIOLOGY
Nativity of the Virgin Mary

THE GOSPEL OF THE NATIVITY OF MARY

 DIVINE MERCY

Divine Mercy: The Miracles

Consuelo So Lucero

 TEACHING/TESTIMONY/CONVICTION:

I WAS A TEEN-AGE ATHEIST:
Memoirs of a Catholic girlhood

 

DAILY LITURGICAL MEDITATION

 
 
Thursday (12/3): "Who shall enter the kingdom of heaven?"

Scripture: Matthew 7:21,24-27

21 "Not every one who says to me, `Lord, Lord,' shall enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of my Father who is in heaven. 24 "Every one then who hears these words of mine and does them will be like a wise man who built his house upon the rock; 25 and the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat upon that house, but it did not fall, because it had been founded on the rock. 26 And every one who hears these words of mine and does not do them will be like a foolish man who built his house upon the sand; 27 and the rain fell, and the floods came, and the winds blew and beat against that house, and it fell; and great was the fall of it."

Old Testament Reading: Isaiah 26:1-6

1 In that day this song will be sung in the land of Judah: "We have a strong city;  he sets up salvation as walls and bulwarks. 2 Open the gates, that the righteous nation which keeps faith may enter in. 3 You keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on you, because he trusts in you. 4 Trust in the LORD for ever, for the LORD GOD  is an everlasting rock. 5 For he has brought low the inhabitants of the height, the lofty city. He lays it low, lays it low to the ground, casts it to the dust. 6 The foot tramples it, the feet of the poor, the steps of the needy."

Meditation: What’s the best security against disaster and destruction? In the ancient world a strong city, an impregnable fortress, and a secure house were built on solid rock because they could withstand the forces of nature and foe alike. Isaiah speaks of God as an “everlasting rock” (Isaiah 26:4). He is the rock of refuge and deliverance (Psalm 18:2) and the rock in whom there is no wrong (Psalm 92:15). Scripture warns that destruction will surely come to those who place their security in something other than God and his kingdom. Jesus’ parables invite us to stake our lives on the coming of his kingdom or face the consequences of being unprepared when the day of testing and destruction will surely come.

When Jesus told the story of the builders he likely had the following proverb in mind: "When the storm has swept by, the wicked are gone, but the righteous stand firm for ever" (Proverbs 10:25). What's the significance of the story for us? The kind of foundation we build our lives upon will determine whether we can survive the storms that are sure to come. Builders usually lay their foundations when the weather and soil conditions are at their best. It takes foresight to know how a foundation will stand up against adverse conditions. Building a house on a flood plain, such as a dry river-bed, is a sure bet for disaster! Jesus prefaced his story with a warning: We may fool humans with our speech, but God cannot be deceived. He sees the heart as it truly is – with its motives, intentions, desires, and choices (Psalm 139:2).

There is only one way in which a person's sincerity can be proved, and that is by one's practice.  Fine words can never replace good deeds. Our character is revealed in the choices we make, especially when we are tested. Do you cheat on an exam or on your income taxes, especially when it will cost you?  Do you lie, or cover-up, when disclosing the truth will cause you  injury or embarrassment? A true person is honest and reliable before God, one's neighbor and oneself.  His or her word can be counted on. If you heed God's word and live according to it then you need not fear when storms assail you. God will be your rock and your refuge. Is your life built upon the sure "rock" of Jesus Christ and do you listen to his word as if your life depended on it?

"Lord Jesus, your are my Rock and my Refuge. Help me to conform my life according to your word that I may stand firm in times of trouble and find hope in your promises."

Psalm 118:1, 8-9, 19-21, 25-27

1 O give thanks to the LORD, for he is good; his steadfast love endures for ever!
8 It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to put confidence in man.
9 It is better to take refuge in the LORD than to put confidence in princes.
19 Open to me the gates of righteousness, that I may enter through them and give thanks to the LORD. 20 This is the gate of the LORD; the righteous shall enter through it.
21 I thank thee that thou hast answered me and hast become my salvation.
25 Save us, we beseech thee, O LORD! O LORD, we beseech thee, give us success!
26 Blessed be he who enters in the name of the LORD! We bless you from the house of the LORD.
27 The LORD is God, and he has given us light. Bind the festal procession with branches, up to the horns of the altar!
 

www.dailyscripture.net
 

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UNIVERSAL CHURCH/WORLD EVENTS

 

On the "Singer of Charity"

"Only One Task Is Entrusted to Every Human Being"


 
VATICAN CITY, DEC. 2, 2009 (Zenit.org).- Here is a translation of Benedict XVI's address during today's general audience in St. Peter's Square.

* * *

Dear brothers and sisters,
 
In a previous catechesis I presented the figure of Bernard of Clairvaux, the "Doctor of Sweetness," great protagonist of the 12th century. His biographer, friend and admirer was William of Saint-Thierry, on whom I will pause in this morning's reflection.
 
William was born in Liege between 1075 and 1080. From a noble family, gifted with a lively intelligence and an innate love of study, he frequented famous schools of the time, as that of his native city of Rheims in France. He entered into personal contact also with Abelard, the teacher who applied philosophy to theology in such a particular way as to incite many perplexities and opposition. William also expressed his own reservations, requesting his friend Bernard to take a position in confrontations with Abelard.

William responded to that mysterious and irresistible call of God, which is the vocation to a consecrated life, entering the Benedictine monastery of Saint-Nicaise of Rheims. Widespread at that time was the need to purify and renew monastic life, to render it authentically evangelical. William worked in this sense within his own monastery, and in general in the Benedictine Order. However, he met with not a few resistances in face of his attempts at reform and thus, notwithstanding the contrary advice of his friend Bernard, in 1135 he left the Benedictine abbey, took off the black habit and put on the white one, to join the Cistercians of Signy. From that moment until his death, which occurred in 1148, he dedicated himself to prayerful contemplation of the mysteries of God, always the object of his most profound desires, and to writing spiritual literature, important in the history of monastic theology.
 
One of his first works is titled De natura et dignitate amoris (The nature and dignity of love). Expressed there is one of William's fundamental ideas, valid also for us. The main energy that moves the human spirit, he says, is love. Human nature, in its most profound essence, consists in loving. In a word, only one task is entrusted to every human being: to learn to will the good, to love, sincerely, authentically, freely. However, only at the school of God can this task be accomplished and man can attain the end for which he was created. In fact, William wrote: "The art of arts is the art of love. ... Love is awakened by the Creator of nature. Love is a force of the soul, which leads it as a natural weight to the place and to the end that is proper to it" (The nature and the dignity of love 1, PL 184,379).

To learn to love requires a long and demanding journey, which William articulated in four stages, corresponding to man's age: infancy, youth, maturity and old age. In this itinerary the person must impose on himself an effective ascesis, a strong control of himself to eliminate every disordered affection, every shadow of egoism, and to unify his life in God, source, goal and force of love, until attaining the summit of the spiritual life, which William defines as "wisdom." At the conclusion of this ascetic itinerary, one feels great serenity and sweetness. All man's faculties -- intelligence, will, affection -- rest in God, known and loved in Christ.
 
Also in other texts, William speaks of this radical vocation of love for God, which is the secret of a successful and happy life, and which he describes as an incessant and growing desire, inspired by God himself in the heart of man. In a meditation he says that the object of this love is Love with a capital "L," namely God. It is he who flows in the heart of the one who loves, and renders him apt to receive him. He gives himself to the point of satiating and in such a way, that from this satiety the desire [for him] is never lessened. This rush of love is man's fulfillment" (De contemplando Deo 6, passim. SC 61bis, pp. 79-83).

Striking is the fact that William, in speaking of the love of God, attributes notable importance to the emotional dimension. Indeed, dear friends, our heart is made of flesh, and when we love God, who is Love itself, how can we not express in this relationship with the Lord also our most human feelings, such as tenderness, sensitivity, delicacy? The Lord himself, becoming man, wished to love us with a heart of flesh!
 
According to William, then, love has another important property: It enlightens the intelligence and enables one to know God better and in a more profound way and, in God, persons and events. Knowledge that comes from the senses and from the intelligence, reduces, but does not eliminate, the distance between the subject and the object, between the I and the you. Love instead produces attraction and communion, to the point that there is a transformation and an assimilation between the subject that loves and the object loved. This reciprocity of affection and attraction permits then a much more profound knowledge than that operated only by reason. Explained thus is a famous expression of William: "Amor ipse intellectus est" -- love itself brings knowledge. Dear friends, we ask ourselves: Is it not like this in our own life? Is it not perhaps true that we know only who and what we love? Without a certain attraction one does not know anyone or anything! And this is true first of all in the knowledge of God and his mysteries, which exceed the capacity of comprehension of our intelligence: God is known if he is loved.
 
A synthesis of the thought of William of Saint-Thierry is contained in a long letter addressed to the Carthusians of Mont-Dieu, to whom he had gone on a visit and who he wished to encourage and console. The learned Benedictine Jean Mabillon already in 1690 gave this letter a significant title: "Epistola aurea" (Golden Epistle). In fact, the teachings on the spiritual life contained in it are noteworthy for all those who wish to grow in communion with God, in sanctity. In this treatise William proposes an itinerary in three stages. One must pass, he says, from "animal" man to "rational" man," to come to "spiritual" man. What does our author intend to say with these three expressions? At the beginning, a person accepts the vision of life inspired by faith with an act of obedience and trust. Then with a process of interiorization, in which reason and will play a great role, faith in Christ is received with profound conviction and one feels a harmonious correspondence between this real and satisfying communion with God. One lives only in love and for love. William bases this itinerary on a solid vision of man, inspired by the ancient Greek Fathers, above all Origen, who, with an intrepid language, taught that man's vocation is to become like God, who created him in his image and likeness. The image of God present in man drives him toward likeness, namely, toward an ever fuller identity between his own will and the divine will. One does not attain to this perfection, which William calls "unity of spirit," with personal effort, even if it is sincere and generous, because another thing is necessary. This perfection is attained by the action of the Holy Spirit, who makes his dwelling in the soul and purifies, absorbs and transforms in charity every outburst and every desire of love present in man. "There is then another likeness with God," we read in the "Epistola aurea," "which is no longer called likeness but unity of spirit, when man becomes one with God, one spirit, not only by the unity of an identical will, but by not being able to will something other. Thus man merits to become not God, but that which God is: Man becomes by grace that which God is by nature" (Epistola aurea 262-263, SC 223, pp. 353-355).
 
Dear brothers and sisters, this author, who we can define as the "Singer of love, of charity," teaches us to make in our lives the ultimate choice, which gives meaning and value to all other choices: to love God and, for love of him, to love our neighbor; only thus will we be able to find true joy, anticipation of eternal blessedness. Let us put ourselves then in the school of the saints to learn to love in an authentic and total way, to enter in this itinerary of our being. With a young saint, doctor of the Church, Thérèse of the Child Jesus, let us also say to the Lord that we want to live for love.

And I conclude in fact with a prayer of this saint: "I love you, and you know it, divine Jesus! The Spirit of love kindles me with its fire. Loving You I attract the Father, whom my weak heart keeps, without escape. O Trinity! Be a prisoner of my love. To live from love, down here, is a giving of oneself immeasurably, without asking a salary ... when one loves one does not make calculations. I have given everything to the Divine Heart, which overflows with tenderness! And I run lightly. I no longer have anything, and my only wealth is to live from love."
 
 

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DAILY LITURGICAL SAINT

   

Thursday, December 03, 2009

St. Francis Xavier

(1506-1552)
 

Jesus asked, “What profit would there be for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life?” (Matthew 16:26a). The words were repeated to a young teacher of philosophy who had a highly promising career in academics, with success and a life of prestige and honor before him.

Francis Xavier, 24 at the time, and living and teaching in Paris, did not heed these words at once. They came from a good friend, Ignatius of Loyola, whose tireless persuasion finally won the young man to Christ. Francis then made the spiritual exercises under the direction of Ignatius, and in 1534 joined his little community (the infant Society of Jesus). Together at Montmartre they vowed poverty, chastity and apostolic service according to the directions of the pope.

From Venice, where he was ordained priest in 1537, Francis Xavier went on to Lisbon and from there sailed to the East Indies, landing at Goa, on the west coast of India. For the next 10 years he labored to bring the faith to such widely scattered peoples as the Hindus, the Malayans and the Japanese. He spent much of that time in India, and served as provincial of the newly established Jesuit province of India.

Wherever he went, he lived with the poorest people, sharing their food and rough accommodations. He spent countless hours ministering to the sick and the poor, particularly to lepers. Very often he had no time to sleep or even to say his breviary but, as we know from his letters, he was filled always with joy.

Francis went through the islands of Malaysia, then up to Japan. He learned enough Japanese to preach to simple folk, to instruct and to baptize, and to establish missions for those who were to follow him. From Japan he had dreams of going to China, but this plan was never realized. Before reaching the mainland he died. His remains are enshrined in the Church of Good Jesus in Goa.
 

Comment:

All of us are called to “go and preach to all nations” (see Matthew 28:19). Our preaching is not necessarily on distant shores but to our families, our children, our husband or wife, our coworkers. And we are called to preach not with words, but by our everyday lives. Only by sacrifice, the giving up of all selfish gain, could Francis Xavier be free to bear the Good News to the world. Sacrifice is leaving yourself behind at times for a greater good, the good of prayer, the good of helping someone in need, the good of just listening to another. The greatest gift we have is our time. Francis gave his to others.

 
Patron Saint of:

Japan
Missionaries

 

http://www.americancatholic.org/Features/SaintofDay

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GENERAL MARIOLOGY

 

 

Nativity of the Virgin Mary


The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew
Translation by Saint Jerome

CHAP. 10.--Joseph therefore came from Judaea into Galilee, intending to
marry the virgin who had been betrothed to him; for already three months
had elapsed, and it was the beginning of the fourth since she had been
betrothed to him. In the meantime, it was evident from her shape that she
was pregnant, nor could she conceal this from Joseph. For in consequence of
his being betrothed to her, coming to her more freely and speaking to her
more familiarly, he found out that she was with child. He began then to be
in great doubt and perplexity, because he did not know what was best for
him to do. For, being a just man, he was not willing to expose her; nor,
being a pious man, to injure her fair fame by a suspicion of fornication.
He came to the conclusion, therefore, privately to dissolve their contract,
and to send her away secretly. And while he thought on these things,
behold, an angel of the Lord appeared to him in his sleep, saying: Joseph,
thou son of David, fear not; that is, do not have any suspicion of
fornication in the virgin, or think any evil of her; and fear not to take
her as thy wife: for that which is begotten in her, and which now vexes thy
soul, is the work not of man, but of the Holy Spirit. For she alone of all
virgins shall bring forth the Son of God, and thou shalt call His name
Jesus, that is, Saviour; for He shall save His people from their sins.
Therefore Joseph, according to the command of the angel, took the virgin as
his wife; nevertheless he knew her not, but took care of her, and kept her
in chastity.[1] And now the ninth month from her conception was at hand,
when Joseph, taking with him his wife along with what things he needed,
went to Bethlehem, the city from which he came. And it came to pass, while
they were there, that her days were fulfilled that she should bring forth;
and she brought forth her first-born son, as the holy evangelists have
shown, our Lord Jesus Christ, who with the Father and the Son[2] and the
Holy Ghost lives and reigns God from everlasting to everlasting.

 

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DIVINE MERCY

 

Divine Mercy: The Miracles

Consuelo So Lucero

Consuelo So Lucero is a mother of four children, in her mid-fifties. She heads the Midwives Health Workers of the General Santo's City's Health Department.

In April 1995, during her annual check up, Sol's doctor discovered two growths in her neck which were diagnosed as papillary carcinoma of the thyroid gland. She was advised to undergo surgery. Sol was concerned. She was prone to high blood pressure and laboratory tests showed that she had diabetes.

Sol had surgery at St. Luke's Hospital in Manila on December 1 1995. Surgery was successful. However she lost her voice. She could only talk in whispers.

In October 1996, Sol had her first radiation therapy. The examination showed that she still had cancer cells in her body. Her family heard about the Divine Mercy devotion and began to pray the Chaplet for her.

In January 1997, Sol still had no voice, and still had cancer cells. A man, who was a Divine Mercy devotee, known as Brother Carino prayed over her, Sol describes what happened.

"While Brother Carino was praying over me, I asked for forgiveness for my many sins and the transgressions of my family tree. Then I had a vision. I saw two eyes, then a whole face of Jesus as in the Image of Divine Mercy. He was looking at me, smiling with such tenderness and love. I cried with great joy. Then without thinking I cried out loudly: 'Praise God, Praise God'. My voice had returned."

In October 1997, another examination showed that there were no cancer cells in Sol's body. Another examination in 1999 showed that Sol was free from cancer.
 


 

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 CATHOLIC  TEACHING/CONVICTION/TESTIMONY

   

I WAS A TEEN-AGE ATHEIST:
Memoirs of a Catholic girlhood

By Anita Mathias
F

lames leaped into the horizon. My parents, my sister, Shalini, and I abandoned our dinner to race up to the terrace and watch the blaze. It was Holi, the Hindu spring festival, an explosion of mischief celebrating the god Krishna's shenanigans with the cowgirls. Flung water balloons gushed vermilion; water pistols squirted indigo. Stranger smeared stranger with silver paint stolen from construction sites. Buckets -- dishwater? urine? -- were emptied from high apartment windows onto passersby. Riotousness and devilry burst forth, a ripe sore.
 

Durga, our tiny, curly-haired cook, cycled into town and returned, panting with news. A procession of Hindus, chanting bhajans, statues of shiva, god of destruction, hoisted on their shoulders, had marched past the mosque and forced a pig into it. Rumors of Muslim vengeance for this desecration flew round the town. "I won't tell you in front of the chhota memsahibs," Durga said. The Hindus retaliated. Jamshedpur, my North Indian home town, was 82 percent Hindu and 11 percent Muslim. The fire engines were silent as Muslim slums, homes, and businesses burned.
 

Mesmerized by the flames zigzagging into the horizon, I sat on the parapet, my legs dangling over the edge. In the boredom of boarding school, I had read of front-page disasters wistfully -- hurricanes, earthquakes, landslides, floods, war. But nothing happened, except in the movies. I was seventeen and had just graduated from Saint Mary's Convent, Nainital, a century-old boarding school in the Himalayas run by German and Irish nuns-staid.
 

I gazed down: fire devouring houses, crashing rafters, distant screaming. The effect was hypnotic, as in a cinema rustling with peanut-crunching, betel-nut chewing, enthralled throngs. But these were not sound effects -- I snapped out of reverie -- these were real people, just like me, burning to death. Suddenly sickened, I ran downstairs and locked myself in my room.
 

The police slapped a curfew on the town: A glare, a curse, a flung stone could spark a riot. Police stood at every street corner, their rifles cocked. The market shut down. Home deliveries of bread and milk stopped. The cook sifted out insects to make parathas from old whole wheat flour. It was romantic in a way, the Indian Family Robinson.
 

The Hindu-Muslim riots held little personal terror: I was Roman Catholic. My forebears from Mangalore on the west coast of India were converted in the mid-sixteenth century by Portuguese missionaries, backed by the Inquisition. It was the prospect of boredom that bothered me. At the first hint of violence, libraries closed their stacks as too-easy targets for arsonists. Though we lived in faculty housing on the campus of Xavier Labor Relations Institute, a business school run by American Jesuits at which my father taught, it was impossible to get books. How would I get through curfew without them? A compulsive reader, I went through our bookshelves: Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, I had read them several times. I shrank from rereading The Return of the Native, Far from the Madding Crowd, or The Mill on the Floss, though I loved those "classics." I settled down with the books I had not already read: Christian books. My father bought them at parish jumble sales as though there were virtue in the purchase. He never read them. To my surprise, I was fascinated. The Cross and the Switchblade, David Wilkerson's tale of Christ's radiance transforming young gangsters and drug addicts in New York City, and Catherine Marshall's Beyond Ourselves were vivid accounts of Christ bursting into everyday life, setting it to music, making it sweet. This felt very different from the fossilized Catholicism forced on us at boarding school.
 

My childhood had been totally immersed in Catholicism- saints, angels, rosaries, novenas, litanies. It was punctuated with those rituals -- baptism, first confession, first Communion, confirmation -- that can so entwine themselves with the fabric of your spirit that to slough off Catholicism is to shiver in uncertainty. It's like stripping off your skin. As a child, I unquestioningly accepted Catholicism, and believed what I was taught; that it was the only true faith. Extra ecclesiam nulla salus: Outside the church, there is no salvation.
 

When I was eleven, I read through a compendium of General Knowledge during the winter school holiday and discovered a new passion: Greek mythology. I abandoned my stamp and postcard collections to read everything I could find on the enchanted universe of Greek gods and goddesses. Then, I chanced upon an idea that shattered my religious complacency.
 

I read that primitive men and women, often devastated by nature, imagined it was God. They worshiped the sun as Apollo; corn, fickle in blight or plenty, was Ceres; the raging sea, they imagined, was the mighty god Poseidon; the north wind, Boreas. Flabbergasted mortals elevated the forces of erratic, uncontrollable nature into gods to adore and placate. I understood. And was Catholicism any different from this awe-struck, foolish approach to nature? I doubted it.
 

I became an atheist and fed off the secret knowledge of intellectual superiority. How benighted they were, these parents, grandparents, priests, and nuns who ran our boarding school -- they and their rattling rosary beads and boring Masses, their sprinklings of holy water from Lourdes, their relics, holy pictures, apparitions of the Virgin, prayers both to and for any good soul that left this earth. Just eleven, I knew better. I whispered to cronies, "I am an atheist," as one might confide, "I am a murderess."
 

Sister Hermine, our stern-faced, square-jawed German principal, summoned her rebellious charges to her office and, from her lowest desk drawer, slowly drew forth her strap -- a thick strip of leather. She rarely had to use it. At the mere sight, the victim whimpered in terror and repentance. I was the only girl she had ever strapped, Sister Hermine often said, shaking her head. When I was sent to the principal's office to apologize for calling Miss Fernandes -- a teacher who had maliciously and unfairly punished me -- a Gorgon and a bitch, I clarified "No, I didn't call her a bitch. I said a witch," which seemed worse. Since I refused to recant (I meant what I'd said) I was struck on the calves with the strap and let off apologizing. Sister Hermine was ambivalent about breaking her students' wills. "What's the merit in taming lambs?" my father's brother, Theo Mathias, a Jesuit, asked her when she was close to expelling me. "But if you get a lion cub, and tame it into a lamb, isn't that something to be proud of?" Sister Hermine agreed.
 

Still, she would be unimpressed by an eleven-year-old atheist, I thought. Outwardly, I went through enforced Catholicism -- daily Mass; Benediction: a cascade of hymns every Sunday evening; adoration: silent prayer before the Blessed Sacrament every first Sunday; confession, rosary, stations of the cross, and choir practices. Inwardly, I scoffed, and as the habit of confidence grew, I rebelled. I got my friends to join me in crawling out of the choir room while Sister Cecilia, behind the organ, warbled in a holy dream. I embedded the altar candles at Mass with the sulfurous heads of match sticks, reducing the girls who strained to catch the hiss, the sputter, the odor, to convulsive giggles.
 

When I turned fourteen-no longer one of the "babies," or the "middle set," but a "big girl," especially in my own estimation -- I knocked on Sister Hermine's door and announced that I did not believe in Catholicism, or in God for that matter, so please, please, could I not have to be a Catholic, and -- especially -- not have to go to church?
 

"I'd much rather join the non-Catholics at 'silent occupation,'" I protested. The Hindus, Muslims, and Sikhs were allowed to read, study, paint, or embroider, provided they sat at their desks in perfect silence -- oh, oasis! -- while we, we went to church.
 

"Can't I just obey the Ten Commandments and not go to church?" I asked.
 

She was amused. "What are the Ten Commandments?"
 

I rattled them off from years of catechism, but stumbled over "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." "See, you can't even say the Ten Commandments. How can you obey the Ten Commandments?" Sister Hermine laughed. "You have to be a Catholic now. Wait until you are twenty-one. Then decide."
 

And that was that. I got no support from my parents for my desire to officially "lapse." They detested adverse attention. You are a Catholic, my mother said, whether you like it or not. Seven years to go.
 

I became openly defiant. As president of the debating club, I chose subjects like "God is dead," and "religion is the opiate of the people," speaking for the motion, annoying the nuns. My favorite writers were
 

Matthew Arnold and Thomas Hardy. (I was not aware that doubt had a more modern face.) I embraced Hardy's bleak Learian vision -- "As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport" -- is absent or malign god.
 

Still, the vanishing of God left a vacuum which was filled by restlessness, unhappiness, and puzzlement about the purpose of life. Like Ivan in The Brothers Karamazov, I concluded that if there was no God, there was also no immutable moral law, nothing intrinsically right or wrong. There was no one to reward goodness or punish wrongdoing in this world, and there was no world to come. So one could do whatever one wanted or, at least, whatever one could get away with.
 

I shared my new philosophy with my friends. We formed a gang, "the bandits," and our first exploit was our daily raids on Modern Store which catered to rich kids from the four expensive boarding schools in Nainital, and to the tourists and honeymooners who swamped the Himalayan resort. Kaye, Savneet, Bella, and I strolled into the store wearing the baggy sweaters of our convent uniform, designed to disguise nubile figures. We stuffed Cadbury's chocolate, Mills and Boon romances, stickers, cards, nail polish, and costume jewelry into our sleeves and up our sweaters. When our desks overflowed, the nuns noticed, made inquiries, then pounced on us. We were marched back to the shop with our booty and forced to apologize: "We are sorry, 'Mr. Modern.'"
 

Furious, I debated with my class teacher, the fiery, Irish Sister Josephine, through a long summer evening. Perched on a piano in the music room (a sacrilege), I argued that if "Mr. Modern" overcharged us all year, it was okay to even things occasionally by "swacking" from him. Her beautiful brown eyes kindled. "The Bible says..." she began. But I did not believe the Bible was "the Word of God," indisputable
 

But at the same time-secretly-I began to crave a moral framework. How easy choice can be when there are absolutes, a road map through the maze of decisions. How wearying to thrash out the morality of every case, every time, all by yourself. I wished I could believe.
 

"You are experiencing an Augustinian restlessness," Sister Josephine said, quoting the saint: "Thou hast made us for Thyself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you." Pascal, she said, wrote of the "God-shaped vacuum" only God could fill. And I was God-bitten. Atheism is closer to faith than indifference is.
 

I was nicknamed "the naughtiest girl in school" after an Enid Blyton heroine. But being a rebel wasn't really fun despite its jaunty aura. If I could have been "good," I would have. When the nuns predicted a conversion experience for me, I feared it. I wanted it. Their naughtiest girls often become the "holiest," they claimed. For was not Saint Augustine a rake, and Saint Francis a playboy, and, as for Saint Mary Magdalen...?
 

When we were to be confirmed, I was eleven. Sister Magdalene, an enormous, squint-eyed British nun, persuaded me to take her name. "Mary Magdalen was a notorious sinner who became very holy. Take her name, and she will ask God to give you the grace of a great conversion," she said. The old story- flamboyant rebellion later swinging to passionate devotion. I did not ask "Maggie" why she compared me to a supposed prostitute, harbor to seven demons. I composed scandalous poems about the nuns: "Sister Secunda eloped with a gunda," a bandit. I ran away from school with Micky, the school sheepdog. In revenge for being sent out of class, I locked my teacher and classmates into the classroom throughout an afternoon. Such things were surely wicked. But too awkward, alas, too "nice," to refuse Sister Magdalene, I became Anita Mary Magdalene Mathias, adopting that stodgy, dated name I hated. The classic coming-to-faith trajectory had its appeal. I wondered if the "Mary Magdalen" might prove prophetic. Would I suddenly turn "good," perhaps even, in a blaze of glory, become "a great saint"?
 

I might convert like Paul. A bullet of hatred, galloping to Damascus to kill and destroy, he is struck off his horse and glimpses divinity. "Saul, Saul, it is hard for you to kick against the goad." "Who are you, Lord?" "I am Jesus whom you persecute." His life acquires a purpose: "the surpassing greatness of knowing Jesus Christ, my Lord." "For me to live is Christ, to die is gain," he writes. How wonderful, I thought, to convert just like that, your life transformed -- but I lacked both belief and an object of devotion.
 

Father Clement Campos and Father Ivo Fernandes, handsome Redemptorist priests with twangy-voiced charm, preached our annual retreats: an aesthetic delight, days of hymns and silences, resounding oratory, and prayer by candlelight led by a luscious male voice. And every year we, who from March to December rarely saw a man except the chaplain, developed monstrous, predictable crushes.
 

"And is anyone here an atheist?" the priest asked provocatively on the first retreat evening as he polled our group of Catholics, Hindus, Muslims, Sikhs, Jains, Buddhists-and atheists. And every year, I raised my hand.
 

For the next week, they worked on me-private conferences and counseling, private prayers for healing from whatever trauma brought me, a Catholic girl of good family, to this strange pass. A foot away from the man's animated brown eyes, how easy conversion seemed; how it would please this appealing priest.
 

"Get up at 5 a.m. tomorrow," the priest said, "and sit alone. Watch the sun rise on those snow-tipped mountains and ask yourself, 'Could this grandeur come to be by accident?'" So I raised my eyes to the Himalayas, waiting to be surprised by faith. Gazing up at the mountains, I thought, as I was expected to-"Maybe, maybe...." But back down in the valley, any belief born of eloquence and hormones left with the good-looking priest.
 

Still, I was fertile soil at seventeen as I read the Bible while confined to the house during those Hindu-Muslim riots. On the patio where I sat reading, the sun, a ball of vermilion fire, sank beneath the emerald fortress of trees, lit by the orange-crimson flowers of the Flame of the Forest and the red and yellow Royal Poinciana. I continued reading after dusk by the glow of a kerosene lamp. Was Jesus Christ who the New Testament claimed he was: the God who made and loves us, the creator of the universe, cornerstone and crux of human history, the zigzag of the jigsaw that makes sense of everything else?
 

Paul says, "He is the image of the invisible God. All things were created by him and for him... and in him all things hold together."
 

And Jesus asked them, "Who do you say that I am?" And Peter answered, "You are the Christ, the son of the Living God."
 

Who do you say that I am? Who do you say that I am? Driven by an inchoate hunger, I read and reread the New Testament, my thirst growing even as it was quenched. Gradually, my cherished objections-the lack of scientific proof; the myth-like aspects of virgin birth and a Christ resurrected from the dead; that Christianity was the credulity of fishermen given form and credibility by Paul's sophisticated intellect -- crumbled like clay gods. No, this was not mythology. It differed from the tales of Mount Kailash, Mount Olympus, and Asgard that I had devoured. It differed in the sense of, well, holiness. It had the taste of truth.
 

Jesus' words sang in me like music, like poetry. I found myself praying, "Lord, I believe. Help thou my unbelief."
 

I gradually surrendered the intellectual high ground of cold reason: What I do not see with my eyes, or feel with my hands, I will not believe. I could not spar against the Christ I apprehended dimly -- I who did not understand cars, or logarithms, or tides, or love. It's possible the Gospels are true, I conceded. It's plausible. Intellect can bring you to the brink of belief. Faith is the missing link. I believed: in a leap of the heart as rationally inexplicable as the leap from affection to love. For like love, faith is the heart's knowledge. "Lord," I prayed. "I believe. You are the living God. I will follow you, wherever you lead. I will do your will insofar as you make it clear to me what it is." I did not quail at this largesse, this scattering of blank checks. I did not add, "but be merciful, Lord. Be sensible." With an air of adventure, of rusty doors wrenched from their sockets, revealing fresh vistas, I prayed: "Show me, Lord. What should I do?"
 

I would dedicate my life to Christ, I decided. How then should I live? "A life of love!" How exactly, I did not know, but, being seventeen, I wanted to do something dramatic and do it swiftly. "I want to be a pen in God's hands," I wrote in my journal, "picked up and used, leaving light where I have written."
 

My first impulse, to fly off from Jamshedpur to help David Wilkerson of The Cross and the Switchblade in his work with teen drug addicts and gangsters in Harlem, wasn't exactly practical. While casting about for a vocation, I volunteered in the Cheshire Home for physically handicapped and mentally retarded children, on the outskirts of Jamshedpur. Here, in the postage stamp of my world, I tried to practice the kindness at the heart of Christianity, without which words are noisy gongs, ardor and alms worth little. I lived with the Vincent de Paul nuns and was captivated by their life of prayer, quiet work, and silences. "How beautiful this serene life is, governed by the pealing of bells," I wrote in my journal. "Scaling inward mountains-lovelier by far than a life of distraction, worries, gossip, and moneymaking, a life inimical to the spirit."
 

Catholic children brought up by nuns or priests brace themselves against a vocation: a tap on the shoulder, inward marching orders, an imperative you can ignore, but at the cost of your soul. At some time, we all think we've caught it: That's it, we are the chosen of God, chosen for a lonely, lovely way, another bride of Christ.
 

Now, I began, obsessively, to wonder if I had a religious vocation. God was the only thing that was real, I kept reminding myself, and all else -- college, marriage, career, social life, money -- was vanity. I wanted to find a way to live, always, close to Christ, tasting his joy and peace. Surely leaving "the world," becoming a nun, was the only way to do that.
 

While at the Cheshire Home, I read Edward Le Joly's Servant of Love about Mother Teresa's congregation, the Missionaries of Charity. How utterly radical they were in their following of Christ, I thought, as I read of their austere life, stripped down to essentials. They owned but two saris, a Bible, and no more than could fit into a bucket-heir "suitcase" when they traveled. How seductive to slough off everything, to live deep in the embrace of Christ, the creator of the universe, friend sufficient for every need. Wow! Without training, with impetuosity, they plunged into all manner of human misery, their reach widening year by year, their mandate simply to serve "the poorest of the poor," defined broadly: lepers in Yemen, shut-ins in Melbourne, crazed drug addicts in New York, freezing homeless people in London, orphans in Peru, tramps near the Vatican, the dying destitute in Calcutta. The energy of it all and, unconsciously, I guess, the prospect of adventure dazzled me. They did just what Christ commanded, I thought, impressed: I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was sick and you looked after me. Whatsoever you do to the least of my brethren, that you do unto me. I felt an inner push, a shove toward this congregation, so literal in its imitation of Christ.
 

In a burst of headstrong lucidity, I sloughed off the destiny my parents had mapped for me: college, followed by (an arranged) marriage. No, I would become a Missionary of Charity. I would help those unable to help themselves. I would feed constantly off the light and joy of Jesus. The notion glowed.
 

Minutes after I'd returned from the Cheshire Home, full of bright decision, I announced it to my parents. I left the room swiftly as I saw my father's face freeze. My mother followed me. "Go and see your father."
 

The muscles of his face worked. There were tears on his cheeks. "Why must you bounce from one extreme to another?" he asked. "You've always found it impossible to conform. In the convent, 'It's yours not to reason why.' It will be a life of exhausting manual work. Mother Teresa recruits simple women from the villages and you're an intellectual snob. You'll have nothing in common with them. Your mind will atrophy. You will be bored!
 

"However, if you are sure that God is calling you to this..." he acquiesced eventually. "But go slow. Be sure. Wait." Wait! "I will not wait," I said. "I will call them today. I have heard my vocation."
 

I left for the convent that August, feeling, with the naivete of late adolescence, holier already, as if the Christian's life task of "being conformed to the image of Christ" could be accomplished in a dramatic grab for holiness, and showy, though worthy, doing would speed the slow, almost imperceptible process of transformation called sanctification. I grew. I grew through the next two years, through the aspirancy, postulancy, and novitiate. I grew through work in the orphanage, with the mentally retarded and the dying destitute; through prayer and Scripture study; through friendships and conflicts and the "testing of vocations," and through the tears and humiliation. And I grew through sickness and exhaustion that never let up, and eventually made the whole enterprise untenable, and which, after I left, was diagnosed as tuberculosis.
 

I left the convent sadly, with a sense of falling off, to study English as an undergraduate at Oxford University, to go to graduate school in creative writing in America, and later to forge myself into a writer and a faculty wife in suburban America -- the less poetic path. I still see Christ as the wisdom that created the universe. I still see following him as the sanest way to live, a way I am committed to. The Christian imperatives which Jesus with his Gordian-knot-slashing directness reduced to two -- to love God mightily and to love your neighbor as yourself-remain the same. There is just more distraction. The traditional monastic disciplines -- prayer, meditation, adoration, the beautiful liturgy of the hours, and "spiritual reading" -- served to draw one's thoughts back to Christ, the breadth and depth of his love, and his enabling grace. It now takes ingenuity to carve for myself a circle of silence to feed on Scripture and the transforming presence of Christ it houses, and to live contemplatively, mindful of Jesus not only amid the beauty and tranquillity of my garden, my writing, and my books, but amid a child's cries and crankiness, the crucible of marriage, and the haste and busyness which haunts America as poverty haunts India. Nurturing two young children, creating a loving family life, running a peaceful household-the demands to give of oneself are constant, without the convent's periodic sanctioned escape into the sacred ivory spaces of psalmody and song. In fact, I now consider domesticity, marriage, and motherhood a smithy in which the soul can be forged as painfully, as beautifully, as amid the splendid virginal solitudes of the convent.

 

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