FROM THE BOUNDARY

Family matters
Have you ever dreamed about Jesus? I was once asked that question by my former parish priest in the UK. He said he hadn’t. Neither had I. Back in Barbados, I asked the question of a fellow Codrington student. His answer was a gaggle of guffaws which amounted to ‘And you haven’t?’ in disbelief. Well what about you? And if you have dreamed about him, what was he like? Was he black, or Nordic or olive skinned, or of indeterminate hue rather like Russian icons or the Turin Shroud face? Do you think these things matter?
 
Well, since then I have dreamed about him once, but not since. It was in the night of March 18-19, my mother’s birthday and the Feast of St. Joseph, some ten years ago. I was flying with him very fast in the clouds, my arms as wings, and slightly behind him. I didn’t actually see him and have no idea where he was taking me. I was simply ‘there’ with him.
 
For myself, I really don’t think it matters very much what he looked like or how he’s depicted. The question is how you see him. Have you ever imagined he’s there with you looking into your eyes? Have you ever told him what’s in your heart – ‘Jesus, I love you. I love you’? Have you seen him smile back at you with all the love of his sacred heart and know that you’re safe? Maybe, as I sometimes do, you think of him as a child, the Child Jesus. Well, if so – and let’s say your name is Caroline or Raphael – you’ve become Caroline or Raphael ‘of the Child Jesus’. Isn’t that a wonderful thought? Not least, he’s the child in the man, in every man and woman, and many miracles are associated with this child. “The wolf shall dwell with the lamb and the leopard lie down with the kid ... and a little child shall lead them.”
 
Think of the way the Child Jesus is venerated in different parts of the world. If you will, follow up, for example, the Shrines of the Infant of Prague, the Divino Nino of Bogota and the Santa Nino de Atocha. I have some lovely holy cards of the child. Two are very special to me. In one, the child is shown fashioning a wooden cross. Underneath, in French, are the words “Is that for me, Jesus?’ Another shows him sitting on Mary’s lap with a little lad kneeling before him, child to child. The Child Jesus’ hand is raised in blessing. I think of the little lad as me.
 
Now, do you remember that two weeks ago, when I was telling you about my new Chapel, I mentioned the ex voto offerings on the walls at the Shrine of Our Lady of Altotting in Bavaria? This Our Lady, a wooden statue, is one of the so-called ‘Black Madonnas’. There are many others. Another favourite is Our Lady of Czestochowa, a wooden icon, in Poland. She has what appears to be two tribal markings on her right cheek, rather like a Yoruba woman, and she’s very beautiful. 
 
Actually, legend has it that the slashes were inflicted by the sword of a Swedish soldier in the 17C. The origin of the ‘blackness’ is uncertain, but most say it’s caused by a combination of candle smoke and grime. Before I die, I’d like to visit these Shrines, light a candle and, in the name of love, add to their blackness. 
 
Many miracles are associated with them. The first at Altotting involved the resurrection from the altar of a three-year-old boy who was said to have drowned in a pond.
If that sounds a bit far-fetched, let me mention an experience of mine. It’s my custom to carry a bottle of Altotting holy water with me in my bag. Once, on my journey back to UK, I sat next to a young woman who complained she’d hurt her wrist and was in pain. I offered to rub her wrist with the holy water and she agreed. At the end of the flight, I asked her about the wrist. She told me the pain was completely gone and the wrist felt as good as new. Make of that as you will.
 
My dream about Jesus on the Feast of St. Joseph was special for another reason. I’d already conceived a devotion to St. Joseph especially after learning of the cures effected through Brother Andre – since 2010, Saint Andre of Montreal – in St. Joseph’s name in Canada. Bro Andre had, like St. Conrad at Altotting, been a doorkeeper – of the Congregation of Holy Cross in Montreal. It had been his greatest wish to see his devotion to St. Joseph translate into a shrine, and over many years his wish became reality. Standing on a hill, the Basilica, formally opened in 1956, is the most wonderful place and perhaps you’ll look it up too. 
 
I have a bottle of holy oil from the Oratory. Bro Andre had himself given the oil, which came from a lamp which stood before a statue of St. Joseph, to the sick and many cures, rooted in faith, had been effected. That tradition continues.
 
Now, I began talking about dreams. Let me end talking about a day dream. It was a coffee shop job, one of those end-of-the-day affairs when you begin to drift away. A voice I thought I knew said, “Hi Clifford. This is Martin.” Now, I didn’t know any Martin. But for politeness sake I asked him how things were going. The voice said he’d been very busy and that it had been a hell-of-a-god day, that he’d had to be all over the place at the same time. I asked him why. “Look”, he said, “It’s not easy being God.” Eh? God? In a coffee shop? Talking to me? And called ‘Martin’ – from Mars, a god of war? “I know what you’re thinking”, Martin said. “But it’s not like that. I have to be everywhere protecting people.” I didn’t understand. He knew it. 
 
“See, the point is that people think they know all about me. To help them I say they’re special and that I’ll defend them. So ok, in one place I’m Bulldog Martin; in another, Krishna Martin; in Germany, I’m Herr, sometimes Fritz, Martin; in Ireland, I’m Paddy Martin; in Russia, Comrade Martin; in Scotland, McMartin; in the Middle East, Ally Martin; in New Zealand, Maori Martin; in Barbados, Dress-Code Martin. Sometimes, to be fair, I let them see me as a girl and become Radha Rani Martin, or just Queen Martin. It’s all quite simple really. See, they want me their way and just can’t handle me as I am, so I have to dress up a bit and be all things to all men. Get it?” 
 
And then he was gone. Do you think I should record what God said in a book?
Go safely – until the next time.
 
Lingua franca from the boundary: “Theologians may quarrel, but the mystics of the world speak the same language” (Meister Eckhart).

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