ob·li·ga·tion/ˌäbliˈgāSHən/ noun
1. An act or course of action to which a person is morally or legally bound; a duty or commitment.
2. The condition of being morally or legally bound to do something.
~~~~~~~~~
Because of love’s obligation, and because of the darling heart of an accountable Catholic professional, this week I had a pastoral phone call from somewhere on up high.
The next morning I awoke to this daily reading.
Galatians 3:22-29
Before faith came, we were allowed no freedom by the Law; we were being looked after till faith was revealed. The Law was to be our guardian until the Christ came and we could be justified by faith. Now that time has come we are no longer under that guardian, and you are, all of you, sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. All baptised in Christ, you have all clothed yourselves in Christ, and there are no more distinctions between Jew and Greek, slave and free, male and female, but all of you are one in Christ Jesus. Merely by belonging to Christ you are the posterity of Abraham, the heirs he was promised.
And now that I have done everything under Catholic Canon law humanly possible to rectify my situation, beyond what most others would have endured or deemed acceptable, I am to understand pastoraly that God would surely take mercy on me in my situation. And therefore bearing that in mind, I should now choose to live my life according to my conscience, in the face of the demands being imposed upon me, especially if it were to mean that those immediately around me are to suffer because of those impositions no more. And therein lies my problem.
One could not have travelled down such an arduous road in the first place, without having been changed in conscience along the way. One can not pass through the garden of Eden and out the other side without their eyes having been opened, without having been awakened by authentic Love.
Bugger.
Above the chapel balcony in the English College in Rome, there are a series of rather gruesome paintings depicting the final days and moments of the lives of the Martyr’s. I hopefully will never know what it is to actually be hung drawn and quartered, but metaphorically I do. Emotionally I do. Spiritually I do. In a different kind of physical way I do. And most of all in Love I do.
And there in all my essence, I seep into the bark of the wood of the sacrificial cross. Iron, flesh and amber sap. One.
This morning I woke from a bizarre dream, I could not remember much beyond it, only the intensity of the vision imprinted upon my soul. At the very core centre of the cross, where the two lines meet, where the horizontal and the vertical intersect, therein lies All power. I know this. I have known this only since I have known authentic All awakening Love.
If I die I want a simple wooden cross with the words God and Love intersecting at the O.
. L
G O D
. V
. E
As in the very heart and soul of my being, this intersection is where that ever secret, All-powerful place is, the place where God and Love intercede within me. This is the place where me and my beloved will forever reside in Him, and it is from here where all other Love is discharged.
A passage from Hugo Victors Notre-Dame de Paris.
‘It is eternally developed upon the soil according to the same law. There are, invariably, two naves, which intersect in a cross, and whose upper portion, rounded into an apse, forms the choir; there are always the side aisles, for interior processions, for chapels,–a sort of lateral walks or promenades where the principal nave discharges itself through the spaces between the pillars.
That settled, the number of chapels, doors, bell towers, and pinnacles are modified to infinity, according to the fancy of the century, the people, and art. The service of religion once assured and provided for, architecture does what she pleases. Statues, stained glass, rose windows, arabesques, denticulations, capitals, bas-reliefs,–she combines all these imaginings according to the arrangement which best suits her. Hence, the prodigious exterior variety of these edifices, at whose foundation dwells so much order and unity. The trunk of a tree is immovable; the foliage is capricious.
We have just attempted to restore, for the reader’s benefit, that admirable church of Notre-Dame de Paris. We have briefly pointed out the greater part of the beauties which it possessed in the fifteenth century, and which it lacks to-day; but we have omitted the principal thing,–the view of Paris which was then to be obtained from the summits of its towers.’
In another ridiculous coincidental moment of pale blue contemplation I stumble across St Therese of Lisieux.
“May today there be peace within. May you trust God that you are exactly where you are meant to be. May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith. May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. May you be content knowing you are a child of God. Let this presence settle into your bones, (bones which appear to be accompanying me) and allow your soul the freedom to sing, dance, praise and love. It is there for each and every one of us.”
Is it really possible to be so inspired in such tiredness, when all I really want is Love ?
magsmuse 