Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: crucifix, Good Friday, Holy Week, pope benedict, the Cross
“Let us nail ourselves to him, resisting the temptation to stand apart, or to join others in mocking him.”
– Pope Benedict
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: camino, Camino de Santiago, crucifix, kevin codd, pilgrimage, the Cross, to the field of stars
“I stop once again at the Iglesia de Crucifijo to see if I can feel again what I felt earlier in the morning in this great old church. Well, it isn’t the same, of course; that seldom happens in life. But something slightly different is waiting for me here on this second visit into the crucified one’s world: this camino is already more than a road for me. It is a way. It is his way. I’m on it with him. In spite of so many indications to the contrary, when all is said and done, I realize now, I actually like this way. It is simple and true and. I now know, it is a way that can only be understood by walking along a road like the camino, walking as he walked, gazing at rising suns, passing through sunflower fields, tending to aching feet, eating and drinking with strangers, one step at a time but a million steps all in all. Steps that get me there.”
– Kevin Codd To the Field of Stars
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: crucifix, David Scott, poetry, san damiano, St Clare, St Francis
Up a steep hill and out of town,
looked after by a shuffling, aproned verger
doubling as a housekeeper to the priest
was Ripon’s Roman Catholic Church,
St Wilfred’s; where Lord Ripon lit the first
eager candles of his conversion.
Was it there that the idea first came to him
to buy back San Damiano’s from the State,
at a time when places such as those
were realising very low prices?
He thought of all the place had meant to him
(cicadas, cypress, thyme,
the ancient conjunction of wood and stone,
the lack of any compulsion to respond)
when he had visited there with his friend
and water-colourist, WB Richmond.
The Count of Cavour would have knocked it down,
used the benches for levering gun carriages
out of the mud in his fight against the Austrians,
and stolen the brittle, silver hair,
probably not St Clare’s, and used it
for stuffing King Victor Emmanuel’s footstool.
But there, Francis heard the crucifix speak,
and Clare wrote letters to Blessed Agnes of Prague
signing herself ‘useless handmaid’.
For these and other reasons, Lord Ripon paid
all those noughts of lires
arguing over the exchange of currency
and mistranslations, so that the nuns
could filter back under no pressure to be useful.
San Damiano’s, the place where Francis wrote
Il Cantico di Frate Sole, under its Yorkshire landlord
was returned to an acre of grace.