Sr Andrea Fraile

Pope St John Paul II, whose memory we honour today, was a man of such breadth and depth that it’s difficult to know which facet of his life to pin down in a few words. The most obvious angle for me, certainly, are his thoughts surrounding the encyclical he wrote 30 years ago, Evangelium Vitae (the Gospel of Life). Still, obvious as it might be, I’m going to stick with it: an issue that is more polarised than ever on both sides of the Atlantic, perhaps we should revisit this spiritual giant and enquire anew as to what it means to be pro-life. What did he mean when he wrote of the Gospel of Life and of creating a civilisation of love?

I was 20 years old when Evangelium Vitae was promulgated, and it was hardly a surprise to read an affirmation of the dignity and sacredness of every human person in the midst of the various assaults on human life that have led to what St John Paul rightly called the culture of death. But the words that really arrested me as I read it were the words of Christ Himself: “I have come that they may have life and have it to the full” (John 10:10). These words, that I’d heard so many times before, became in that moment a guiding light and the mustard seed of my vocation. It struck me then, and now with even greater clarity, that to be pro-life is so much more than saving lives at all costs – which is, lamentably, how the pro-life movement is increasingly perceived. It is about creating the conditions by which human life can be cherished and allowed to flourish.

John Paul saw the dignity of personhood through the lens of culture and, for him, a culture that has divorced itself from the Gospel is, de facto, a culture of death. (See Tracey Rowland, The Culture of the Incarnation for more on this.) The civilisation of love, on the other hand, is nothing less than the declaration of Jesus Christ as the Master Key to the meaning of the universe, the goal and fulfilment of human history.

The civilisation of love speaks of an attitude towards life and love so alien to what we commonly experience. It means that power and autonomy give way to love, vulnerability and dependence; it means that the heart, so often silenced by the head, is given space and time to reflect on what it truly desires; it means that the mystery of a person is welcomed and not reduced to mere biology and history; it means that creativity is nurtured and lauded as a thing that marks us indelibly as human, not as a sideshow to the serious business of work and frenzied productivity. Everything St John Paul was, everything he wrote and did, spoke to this flourishing of human life: the dignity of work, the inextricable link between faith and reason, theology of the body, the feminine genius; his towering presence in the face of Communism, the Carmelite spiritual tradition that resonated with him so deeply, his plays and poetry, his famous expeditions to the mountains with his students and so forth. (If these last two seem relatively unimportant, consider the words of Josef Pieper in Leisure: The Basis of Culture: ‘Leisure is a receptive attitude of mind, a contemplative attitude, and it is not only the occasion but also the capacity for steeping oneself in the whole of creation.’). The mystery of creation leads us to what is hidden and invisible and, when we see that, we have no trouble recognising the dignity and infinite worth of every human being.

Banners, slogans, chants and marches have their place but, for those pro-lifers who shy away from the polarisation and acrimony they represent, let us remember the life and witness of St John Paul for whom giving a family a pram, teaching a mother to make soup and encouraging a person to write are all part of the beautiful business of creating a civilisation of love.

Here was a man truly alive, who held the key to life for all of us: it is Jesus Christ who gazes at us and says, “I have come that you may have life, and have it to the full.”

Fr Nick Welsh

Since 1208 when Our Lady appeared to St Dominic, the rosary has been a staple feature of the Church’s devotional life and a powerful means of intercession. In certain ecclesiastical circles it is considered, pejoratively, as a prayer of the simple. But the rosary is not simply the mindless repeating of formulaic prayers; the rosary is a prayer of relationship, a means of entering into the very heart of the Gospel through the eyes of Our Blessed Mother.

St John Paul II, who had a deep devotion to the rosary as well as to Mary, can help us understand the rosary as a prayer of relationship. John Paul’s insight finds its root in the truth that the human person is created in the image and likeness of God, who is love. To be created in God’s image means that we only truly come to know ourselves when we make a sincere gift of ourselves[1]. Life, for the disciple, is not something that we cling to as our possession; life is received from God, as a gift, and it becomes fruitful when it is given in love. Mary shows this truth in her fiat: ‘Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.’[2] Mary receives the gift of Christ and offers herself fully to God’s plan.

When we speak of the rosary, we enter into Mary’s contemplation of the mysteries of Christ: in the joyful mysteries, we see how God’s gift comes into the world through the humility of Mary and Joseph. In the sorrowful mysteries, we see Christ making a gift of himself on the Cross. In the glorious mysteries, we see how that gift ins transformed into life and glory. And in the luminous mysteries, added by John Paul II, we see how Christ gives himself in his public ministry, especially in the Eucharist, the sacrament of self-gift. Praying the rosary, then, cannot be considered a passive rattling of beads; rather, it forms our hearts to live according to this ‘logic of the gift.’

In the person of Mary herself we see a model of self-gift. Mary does not keep Christ for herself. She immediately goes to bring the good news of Jesus’ coming to her cousin Elizabeth; at Cana she intercedes for the couple and points the servants to Jesus; at the foot of the Cross, she receives the disciple John as her son and becomes mother to us all. Mary shows that the gift of life in Christ is never for us alone. Her gift of herself gifted Christ to the world, and she invites us to make the same gift of ourselves.

The rosary is not a formula, but a prayer of transformation. As St John Paul said, it ‘marks the rhythm of human life,’[3] in harmony with God’s own gift of love. When we take up those beads we are not mindlessly repeating prayers, we are training our hearts in the logic of self-gift. As we honour today Our Lady of the Rosary, let us ask us to teach us how to receive our life as a gift and how to make of our lives a gift for others.

Our Lady of the Rosary, teach us to live in the mystery of Christ, to that our lives, like yours, may be a gift to God and to the world.

At the age of five, I was obsessed with princesses and mermaids; at five, St. Thérèse was already pondering the things of Heaven. At fifteen, I was learning to use makeup and giggling over boys; Thérèse, on the other hand, had obtained special permission to enter consecrated life. At nineteen, I was out exploring the world as a young adult; she was behind the grille, in silence and prayer.

Though some may scoff at her extraordinarily sweet demeanour and childlike simplicity, the Little Flower has drawn in masses of devotees, including myself.

Despite living a hidden life, she is one of the most widely known saints, with many traditions, celebrations, and novenas in her honour. I often ponder what it is about the Little Flower that captures the interest of so many. The first word that comes to my mind when I think of St. Thérèse is “purity”.

“Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” – Matthew 5:8

Today, one may have a narrow understanding of what the word pure means and might reduce it simply to sexual continence. However, the original Greek word used in this verse is katharos, which more fully translates to clean, pure, and clear – both in the literal sense (when referring to material substances or physical cleanliness) and in the spiritual sense (when describing someone’s virtuous character). In this context, it refers to someone who is free from any form of corrupt desire, sin, or guilt. A key word here is desire, since true purity stems from inward intention (cf. Mark 7:18-22). Indeed, Thérèse was so consumed with a true desire for purity and had such an extreme aversion to sin that, after her general confession, her spiritual director exclaimed:

“Before God, the Blessed Virgin, the angels, and all the saints, I declare that you have never committed a mortal sin.”

Free from the burden of mortal sin, St. Thérèse had the capacity to see God with great clarity. She saw the grandeur of His divine love effortlessly. In response to this love, Thérèse in turn bore a profound love for her Holy Spouse. At the pinnacle of her devotion to Him was her love for the Eucharist. Thérèse had a deep longing for unity with Christ through Holy Communion and took great delight in receiving Him daily. In one of her poems, “My Wishes Before the Tabernacle”, she describes her envy of corporals, patens, and chalices because of their intimate proximity to the Most Blessed Sacrament – all while acknowledging that He is unreservedly hers when she consumes Him in the Mass. By her intentional receptivity during Communion, the life of Christ dwelt within her and occupied the entirety of her undivided heart and mind. In Him, fully, did she live, move and have her being.

The fruit of this loving relationship between God and creature was evident in her daily endeavours. The “Little Way of Spiritual Childhood”, which St. Thérèse is perhaps most well-known for, is her philosophy of undertaking seemingly little things with great love. With this in mind, the joy Thérèse found in the Eucharist overflowed into the rest of her day: she was famously sweet to her fellow sisters in the convent, she committed herself to little works of service and charity, and she faced suffering – even very grave suffering – with extraordinary fortitude and patience.

Although these aspects of St. Thérèse’s conduct made her a great saint, perhaps her most noteworthy mark of holiness was the simple response she had to her vocation. Thérèse wrote in her autobiography that, in prayer, she was moved to a great desire for many vocations – that of a priest, a soldier, an apostle, and a martyr, to name a few. After speculating in some detail about the great and mighty acts she would perform in such vocations, Thérèse concludes that, through this examination of her zealous desires, she at last found her true vocation, which, quite simply, is love. She writes:

“I understood that love embraces all vocations, that it is all things, and that it reaches out through all the ages and to the uttermost limits of the earth, because it is eternal.”

With this profound understanding of her vocation, St. Thérèse continued her life of prayer and equated her small daily sacrifices to the grand sacrifices she would have made in other vocations, since she saw that her little offerings were most pleasing to God. She says:

“I will let no tiny sacrifice pass – no look, no word. I wish to profit by the smallest actions, and to do them for Love.”

Because of the exemplary mission of her heart to practice great love in all things, this enclosed contemplative nun was named the patron saint of missionaries in 1927.

After examining the simple yet saintly life of St. Thérèse of Lisieux, what can we as ordinary laypeople learn from her? The answer, in fact, is that we can learn quite a lot. St. Thérèse is a Doctor of the Church, which means that her writings and spiritual insights are relevant for all people and for all ages. The reality is that most of us will not, in our lifetime, perform grand acts such as founding a religious order, writing great theological works, or enduring physical martyrdom. However, St. Thérèse shows us through her example that, with a great desire in our hearts to honour God, all we need to do is diligently commit to our little, ordinary things with extraordinary love. Like Thérèse, we can cultivate simple, pure, all-consuming love by uniting ourselves to Christ in the Eucharist. If we do this we will, like the Little Flower, bring joy to the Heart of Christ our Lord.