I tell His grandmother to tell His mother to tell Him!

It is amazing how, for all my passion for theology and dedication to a life of prayer, I often envy the very simple faith which those of us with doctoral degrees are 'supposed' to dismiss as folk religion and superstition. I believe it was Thomas Aquinas who stressed that the 'gift comes according to the manner of the recipient,' and know full well that, were I personally to spend too much time in 'folk mode,' I assuredly would begin acting like a half-wit. Still, however from afar, I do admire the trusting, childlike faith which is expressed more often at holy wells than in the libraries (where I am far more comfortable.)

To say that folk religion was rampant in the Middle Ages would be an understatement. I am fascinated by the prospect of pilgrimages at which one viewed the palace of Dives and (my favourite) the stone which the builders rejected - fanciful tales of the saints with which the Golden Legend is replete - at least three relics of the head of John the Baptist on view - trees at Glastonbury which sprang from Joseph of Arimathea's staff (and knowing that the Grail just had to be around nearby.) It was an era where, on one level, people were far more realistic than many of us today. They had no illusions that they could figure out how to avoid illness and death, or that they could control every element of their lives. Our fantasies today are far more likely to divert us from the sort of genuineness that is essential to our spiritual lives. Yet I believe that, in the days when there was more understanding of folk religion, there also was genuine expression of faith which had been internalised through, perhaps, just these homely gestures.

We have lost the sense of poetry - perhaps the gloom of purgatory no longer beckons, but neither is there the sense of drama and passion which was very old in the days when Hosts bled and saints bilocated. :) It was old when Phoebus Apollo was still driving his chariot through the skies. We are too rational - and I shall admit this despite being the most rational of creatures. So much of what is holy is beyond our comprehension, let alone expression, yet we cannot bear to say "I don't know." (I'm not suggesting this is new - it is the eternal scourge of the rational. Gregory's writings on the Trinity are exquisite doxology, yet, in 'essay form,' seem tritheistic. I cannot remember the source for this particular quotation, but agree with the author who wryly commented that Augustine's attempts to explain original sin and evil turned him into a sorcerer's apprentice.)

Yesterday, I remembered my dad on this blog - it is time to remember my mother, Giuseppina (Cipi - a generic Italian sobriquet later comically Anglicised to "Chip" by her first grandchildren.) Chip considered the saints to be a large, supportive, extended family. As with most families, it was very much a case of telling one relative things with which another might not be able to assist. Gerardo Maiella, being from the same region and known to be a very powerful intercessor, was a favourite. (There is a story about how Gerardo once lost a sacred vessel down a well - and that it was retrieved by his lowering the statue of the child Jesus on a rope. Somehow, I don't even doubt the truth of that! The simple often have unusual answers to prayer.) She would pour out grief to Anthony of Padua and ask for the remedies - and then become exceedingly cross and argumentative with him if he did not answer.

Chip had an enormous devotion to Mary, and often said the rosary throughout the day. She saw Mary as a poor wife and mother who had endless worries, the more because her son showed a distressing inclination to a lack of respect for his parents by the age of 12. Chip was quite troubled by how Jesus, breaking every rule which applies to Mediterranean children, would go about as an itinerant preacher, not only angering the authorities but, worse, leaving a widowed mother without the support of her firstborn.

Chip regularly placed my difficulties into the tiny hands of the Infant of Prague. How I wish I had such faith! It was amazing the results that often came from that 'emergency novena.' She also would speak at length to Saint Anne about me, explaining that Anne would better understand because Mary may have had no daughters, so "I tell His grandmother to tell His mother to tell Him."

Chip's theology was simple, and indeed typically southern Italian. For example, there was no notion of atonement, let alone any fear of hell - no one's Father is about to cast him into a pit! :) Chip had experienced extreme poverty, buried a child and her husband, had excruciating pain during the last years of her life - and she was not a sweet sort who suffered in silence - yet neither saw the sufferings as a divinely sent trial nor doubted God would answer the prayers for the temporal necessities - even if a miracle might be involved. (This, of course, was a refreshing change from a viewpoint I saw... elsewhere. One would have the impression that God sends us suffering, and only performs miracles to either prove his own divinity or point out who should be raised to the altars.)

In this post, I am breaking at least ten of my own rules! :) I could easily lecture on the apophatic - on detachment - on the inadequacy of our views of God. Still, I wish that, as Chip easily could, I could take the hand of the Infant of Prague statue, and believe that whatever temporal needs I had, he would be ready with a solution.

My own approaches may be theologically sound (and I have not lost the poetry), but they have an inherent loneliness. I should like to believe that God assists us in temporal needs, but I know full well that the devout often ended up in concentration camps or dying in the street. I long to cry out to him (or to visit the holy wells), with the same trust that my mother had, and my intellectual side reminds me that all with which I should be concerned is that He calls me to more intimate union with him. I'm not supposed to care what misfortunes befall me... but know full well that I do indeed.

Somehow, to add 'rest in peace and rise in glory' here would all but seem inappropriate. :) I more have the image that Chip is sitting at a table with Mary and Anne, and that they are sharing anecdotes about the worries their children presented.