A Very Special Episode: The Feast of Saint Ignatius

POP CULTURE SPIRIT WOW

In the running for scariest picture there has ever been.

Today is the feast of Saint Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits and pretty nifty guy (assuming you didn't know him during the period he was wearing the same sack cloth day after day and letting his bare feet bleed on the pavement).

(This is what happens when you insist you can be more Franciscan than St. Francis. You gets crazy.)

The great thing about Ignatius was that he believed that every single person in the world could have their own personal relationship with God. By "personal relationship" I don't mean "voice in my head that instructs me to do everything that by coincidence I actually wanted to do" (although, SWEET) or "spooky ghost lover", but a mentor and a friend, someone who listens and empathizes and encourages and challenges and above all walks with you. Like Obi-Wan.

(Seriously, how cool would it be if Alec Guinness turned out to be God? Oooh, or Rose from "Lost".)

Loved her so much.

Even "God as friend" may sound kind of nuts; like, how exactly do I get to there because I'm just pretty much with the Our Fathers and the Hail Marys. But that was what Ignatius discovered in his life, that God was just out there waiting for us (and communicating through our dreams and desires). And more than anything what Ignatius tried to do is give people opportunities and exercises that might help them have their own encounters with that loving, welcoming figure waiting for them in the wings.

One of my favorite Jesuits in the world is Peter Steele, an Australian who spent his life loving words and writing poetry. (He REALLY loved words -- he would read dictionaries and technical books just to find new words to try out. Some of his best poetry has lists of flowers or animals or ingredients that delighted him.)

Here's one of my favorite poems by Peter, which also happens to be about prayer.

Praying

Sometimes it feels like Jimmy Durante, calling
goodnight to Mrs Calabash, whoever
she was or whether. Sometimes it's the tenth
hour in the trans-Pacific plane,
all glamour gone and connections still to make.
And it's been known to turn dirty,
as if a cutter, back from the peat-hag, found
his ass's pannier loaded with nothing.

But whistling in the dark, as the poet said,
is good practice for whistling, so
one goes on doing it and cognate things,
knowing a little and holding out
for a touch of what shows in the eyes of the old
hands at the business, their voices surrendered,
a better than Boeing winging their hopes, the laden
flesh beginning to take fire.

Peter Steele, SJ

Have a great day. And wherever your Mrs. Calabash is, be sure to wish her a good night.