The Irish Catholic Hermit

  Blessed Are the Persecuted A h, sure, there’s a way of livin’ that only the truest hearts can understand. It’s a way of walkin’ the earth where the measure of your soul isn’t by the comforts you’ve gathered or the praise you’ve earned, but by how much you align yourself with the Word of God. And when our Lord says, “Blessed are ye when they revile and persecute you, and say all kinds of evil against you falsely for My sake,” (Matthew 5:11), well, He’s tellin’ us somethin’ mighty deep. The persecutions we face aren’t random or for nothin’, but because we’ve dared to stand with Him, to hold His words close and let them shape the very core of our lives. T his isn’t just the way of the everyday folk, you see. No, this way belongs to the ones who’ve fallen madly in love with God. Those who’ve chosen to make Him the center of it all. The ones who’ve made up their minds that their will will be crucified and that God's will will rule the day. They’re the ones who’d rather suffer in His...

  The Holy Turnabout of the Soul. T here’s a quare story told among the old desert lads, and there’s more truth in it than in a yard of newspapers. Abba John the Dwarf goes to Abba Poemen, all soft-eyed and settled, and says to him he’s after reachin’ such a grand peace of soul that there’s no temptations left knockin’ at his door. Not a whisper, not a tug, not a bother. And Poemen, the old fox, looks at him and says, near gentle but sharp as a scythe: “Pray to God, brother, that the battle comes back to you, the broken heart, the lowliness you had before. ’Tis only in the fight the soul puts on flesh.” A nd there you have it, the great riddle of the spiritual life, turned upside-down like a creel on the strand. What the world curses as misery and shame, the soul that’s half-awake knows as blessing. What the world runs from, the saints lean into, slow and steady, like a man walkin’ into a headwind he knows will make him strong. T he world has its own crooked wisdom, God help us. It...

  S geul na Slí , A Tale of the Road A h now, gather in close, a chairde, for I’ll spin ye a yarn, soft as turf-smoke and sharp as the wind off Carrauntoohil. ’Tis a tale of a soul’s wandering, a story of a man who set his face toward the Ever-Living Christ, and found that every footstep of his life, whether on stony boreen or soft meadow, was bend for bend a journey toward Himself. S ure wasn’t it known to him, as clear as a winter star, that long ago our first folk strayed from the good road, and all the misery of the world came spilling after them like sheep through a broken hedge? And so, says he, we’re free people, we can take the crooked tracks of our own stubbornness, fall flat on our faces, and carry the ache of our foolishness. Or we can turn, slow or sudden, and follow the Christ-path, the only one that leads us home. N ow this wise man spent many a dawn and dusk with the Gospel open before him, testing each thought against the living memory of the Church and the hard-won...

  The Sacred Gift of a Moment with God. Oh, if only poor creatures knew the immeasurable grace contained in a single moment of true audience with God! How blind we are to the treasure that lies hidden in prayer, that simple, sacred act by which eternity bends down to listen to time. When the soul kneels in the secret chamber of the heart and speaks with her Creator, a veil is lifted between the seen and the unseen, between the fleeting and the eternal. Prayer is not merely the utterance of words; it is the mysterious exchange between the finite and the Infinite. In that sacred silence where the soul finds herself alone with God, the world begins to fade like mist before the morning sun. The noise of life grows distant, its anxieties lose their hold, and every earthly care is swallowed up in the great stillness of divine presence. Then creatures no longer weigh upon us with their judgments or attachments, for we perceive that our true home is not here. The burdens of mortality grow ...

T he Holy Fire of Madness and Mercy. A h, sure, they’ll be callin’ it madness, won’t they? The world’ll scratch its head and whisper about it behind closed doors, but the man in the habit, he’ll be callin’ it clear-mindedness. They’ve a name for it too, the Fathers, they say it’s “sober drunkenness,” the kind of drunkenness that don’t come from the bottle, but from the heart. When the soul tastes the sweetness of God’s love, it’s like being caught in a whirlwind of contradiction. What the world would call daft, grace turns on its head and calls wise. What folks see as a loss, the monk will find, is the very gain of his life. W hen he steps into his cell, don’t go thinkin’ it’s just some tiny, quiet room. Oh no, it’s a place where the heart is squeezed tighter than a grape in the press, till it bursts open, and out pours the sweet wine of repentance and love divine. The door closes, and that’s when the storm begins. He’ll cry, and sure, it’s not just a few tears. It’s like the sea itsel...

  Gregory of Nyssa on Prayer This quote speaks for itself. It is from Gregory of Nyssa's first Homily on the Lord's Prayer We must learn first of all that we ought to pray and not to faint. For the effect of prayer is union with God, and if someone is with God, he is separated from the enemy. Through prayer we guard our chastity, control our temper, and rid ourselves of vanity; it makes us forget injuries, overcomes envy, defeats injustice, and makes amends for sin. Through prayer we obtain physical well-being, a happy home, and a strong, well-ordered society. Prayer will make our nation powerful, will give us victory in war and security in peace; it reconciles enemies and preserves allies. Prayer is the seal of virginity and a pledge of faithfulness in marriage; it shields the wayfarer, protects the sleeper, and gives courage to those who keep vigil. It obtains a good harvest for the farmer and a safe port for the sailor. Prayer is your advocate in lawsuits. If you are in pris...