6 August, 2020
So, I stared down at the golden pyx balanced on the bleached-white linen, the corporal, partly avoiding the gazes of the late risers, partly watching my steps on the dusty bumpy untarred pedestrian side of the road, then I saw the clearly capitalised inscription, SHIP (without the letter ‘P’), which reminded me of the ancient popular symbol of the mystical body of Christ, the Church; it took almost a heartbeat to realise that I was reading it wrongly, it was inverted. But what difference did it make?
7 August, 2020
So, I go on foot. I simply don’t have a car. Not that I can’t borrow the PP’s car, but there is no use of it when the houses I visit are about 70 meters radii around the parish.
I go on foot. It has missionary root and implications. It leaves the born-Protestants wondering at what such early morning religious trek would mean. I see the search for meaning on their stare, their glances, their pause. I respond their wave with a nod or keep my focus on the rough road.
My sparkling alb sweeping the dusty street, my oversized stole responding to the wave of the wind, my overused-less-fashionable-sandals being the ugliness in my vestiture, or perhaps a biblical symbol of missionary outfit…
The visit to the sick has missionary dimension, a non-verbal one which I hope to explore. Not many Christians are as vocal and aggressive as St. Paul. Some of us have chosen models that perfectly fit our personalities.
One day, I just might give a trail to the Pauline verbality. For now, let the perceptible signs do my bidding.
8 August, 2020
So, the home of the ailing communicant has certain distinguishing olfactant, a mixture of herbs and mint (basically), which impregnates the atmosphere, leaving off nauseating effects in the sweet-bodied care-givers. The impatience of such care-givers are heightened by the sight of phlegm, slurry speech, sluggish raising, mumblings…
But we’re not just care-givers but Christ-giver; we both subdue the hopelessness of the smelly pills with the perfume of love and offer Christ himself as the true ‘pill’.
So, the deacon relates with the ailing communicant with the five senses: we feel the hot mint earlier used to massage the body, we inhale it gladly, we do not protect ourselves (enough) from whatever comes out of the sneezes and cough, we see the phlegm, have a test of the anguish, we pray, we offer Christ to them.
9 August, 2020
So, while the Sacred Eucharist, enclosed in a golden pyx, passes by the corners of the ogbe, some fervent devotees, standing behind an abandoned clay shack with idle arms crossed on their breasts and attentive ears consuming the latest gossip from a tattler, suddenly let off faint grasp of surprises as they catch sight of the approaching deacon. With their hesitant half-embarassed discussant, who probably is a Protestant or a non-devoted lapsed faithful, they fall on their knees on the sharp sandy soil with such suddenness that can wound the kneecap. Then they permit only three fading steps or few more to return to their topic. The smirk is undeniable; blaséness is the fungus on a devotee’s faith.
But when traces of such pretension is lacking or when the adoration is genuine, the temptation falls on the mini-eucharistokos, who begins to forget that such adoration can only be meant for a divine being, a supreme majesty seated in a litter and not the slave-bearer; that this mundane servus, the bearer, is once again the same Jerusalem Donkey whose hooves kissed the palm-adorned city entrance, as he bears its Creator. Then conscience knocks away such pride back to truth.
10 August, 2020
So, Donatism is the poison, the self-deception, self-indulging haughty self-exaltation, self-divinisation, hyperinflation and hyper-aggrandization of a little spark of a charis, given by the Holy Spirit. This poison, by which a mere mortal begins to appropriate the divine work of healing (et alia) according to the merits of his own sanctity, can be the greatest temptation, both of empty wishful thinking or of practical behaviour, of a deacon who serves the same need to the same person, repeatedly, monotonously, almost exhaustingly. He could say to himself, if unguided, “a louder vocal supplication, a sweat, a rigorous fast, an absolute purity of life, and all the illnesses will be over; the illnesses persist as long as I’m not in the state of grace.”
11 August, 2020
So, the suffering of the sick is worsen by loneliness, rejection, alienation. But this visit tells them that the Eternal Emmanuel (God is with us) does not abandon his own. Through this visit, he is sacramentally present with His child; Christ visits his suffering son or daughter, together with his body the Church. So, we come to bring to them the comfort of the people of God, their solidarity in hope, their prayers and support.
We begin by bringing the word of God to them, the message of the days liturgy, to prepare their hearts to receive Christ sacramentally, to share with them the same message of the day others had heard at Mass. So, this visit is an extension of the celebration of the community. Somehow, every message of the day speaks on different aspects of their situation, in all, constantly renewing the collective hope.
With an assent, be it a faint nod, the soul becomes open to receive the Eucharist. The Lord’s Prayer. The reception. The Prayer after communion. The blessing. Go in peace. Such unfathomable peace in the midst of suffering made possible because the Prince of peace has been enthroned in the heart.
12 August, 2020
With the athlete’s feet that give a harsh reminder to my old companion of the virility of youthfulness, we briskly bullet through the misty dusty wind of the cool morning; but only my exposed fingers and forehead are left to judge the atmospheric conditions – there is a recently added vestiture, the face-mask, which secularises the liturgical vestments, but advantageously conceal my face from the well-meaning cultured morning salutations.
Today, I’m with my polka-dot face mask, which gives a sense of a converted feminine scarf whenever I see the reflection on the sacristy human-size mirror. It serves multiple functions: first, to protect me from the dry invading harmantan air; second, to fend off salutations – a reminder to the passers by that I’m on a holy expedition; next, to conceal the nostrils from the pheromone associated with our hosts’ domiciles.
But, most times, I don’t care the heavily herbally scented room, I loose my mask, both for clarity of speech and for true sincere solidarity in suffering.
13 August, 2020
So, there are resemblances between the Via Crucis and the experiences of the sick. Such meditations are sometimes hard to correlate. But there was an eureka moment today. Our host lay on the bare floor, face down, still, her blanket-wrapper rumpled on her, leaving us with the certainty that this position isn’t intentional. She’d fallen from her bed. Wide-eyed, I motioned to my companion to examine the situation. My fear was reduced when I saw the weak stir and heard the silent groan. “she’s alive.” In these moments, there was a flash of the third, seventh and ninth stations. And we were the Cyrenaican pilgrim coerced to lift up a fallen stranger in the fifth station.
14 August, 2020
he mood is lighter today. The room felt surprisingly more spacious than usual. She’s seated, not lying. She’d been expecting us. Previously, my companion supplied for the ritual dialogues. But today, she’s strong enough to respond to her part, to give a more audible assent of faith. She’s strong. They’re all strong.
The active weekend had reawaken life earlier than usual. I could feel the multiple half-opened rheum-laden eyes staring. They’re becoming used to this strange silent religious activity. The fumes from the warming automobiles lazily drifts away. The gargling of throats are symphonical. In an exposed bush, a half-naked village child, tries to drain the content from last late night meal, not minding the buzzes of the flies. Some distance away, a mother yells to her children to begin the morning chores…
The street is alive. And so are the rooms of our hosts.
Where there is life and light and love, the voice erupts in praises. I harmonized, to make the praise more befitting. Then, the prayer was longer. No rush. Then, we talked. Heartily. Laughter and amusement and light teasing.
15 August, 2020
The feast of the #Assumption is a sober reminder of the the victory of sin and death. For at the root of dearth, death, decay, and destruction is sin. Successively, these are the stages of the alienation of the body from the soul, of the body and soul from the Ultimate Principle of all life.
So, the groan we make is an outcry of the soul, the arms reaching up to attempt a spiritual ascent. But the feet are clogged in the mire of iniquities, there’s a heavy milestone chained to our neck and feet. We gasp. Pant from trial. The graces are there releasing us, giving us head starts. So, untiringly we struggle until the little cherubim bear us up at the final victory.
16 August, 2020
In sickness we contemplate human fragility, frailty, filthiness, infantility and finiteness; we see our helplessness, our dependence, our loneliness. Yet in it we recognise that supernatural assistance; we feel that spiritual hope; we are aware of a divine companionship…
17 August, 2020
So, the institution of the diaconate was prompted by the neglect of some widows in the care of the Community, on account of their ethnic difference. Today, this Order continues to serve mostly the same neglected widows, who are neglected not so much on the account of ethnicity but on the account of fitness.
Both ethnicity and being healthy have something in common: they are things of nature. We cannot chose where we come from before our birth, neither can we control aging and the weakness that comes with it.
But the human society still discriminate, not so much based on ethnicity, but based on how much relevance you have in the society. These new ‘Hellenists’ are considered liabilities, wastes, washed-outs, good-for-nothing-but-medical-bills, etc. The society waits for their mortal terminus; and when it comes, it is a freedom, a yoke removed, blah blah blah.
But we see life, we see a person, we see an Imago Dei, we see our own mother or sister or father or brother, we see our own, one of us, a member of the body of Christ, we see Christ himself.
19 August, 2020
So, there are some extremist devotees who believe so much in the efficacy of the Eucharist, so much so that they denounce pills as poisons. It’s a neo-gnosticism; a poor understanding that even the sacraments themselves make use of perceptible signs; a heretical separation of the spiritual from the corporeal.
While I suspect a shy escapism from bills, I reiterate that while the sacrament brings both bodily and spiritual healings, we strive to preserve life too with the gift of human (medical) science
20 August, 2020
The ‘monotony’ of our rites is one big taste of faith(fulness). It is a striving imitation of the divine Hebraic HēsēdwaĒmēţ, that steadfastness and constancy in compassion that is unwavering in the face of human irreciprocality and ungratefulness. We, the beggers, grumble at such monotony even when God, to whom we appeal to, has never complained; we complain on his behalf…
But by the ‘spicing up’ of the ritual by the different reflections from the particular vusiting days, such ‘monotony’ is harmonized into a sonorous symphony of consolation, with each message of the days of visitation, speaking to different aspect of the struggles of the sick brethren.
21 August, 2020
Giving Communion to a sick grandmother in front of her grand kids, is a big catechetical momemt!
22 August, 2020
It is usually within the context of this visit we visibly see the domestic Church, where the Eucharist is present within a family home, binding everyone in love and unity, because Love himself has come to dwell in their midst.
24 August, 2020
Dusty and dirty is the path we strode to the dark and dank cubicle, where our host has been isolated. Down, drowned in her own misery. Partly deaf to our words, for she doubts the divinivations, her syncretic mind sees the same ineffective dance of the dibia.
Yet, she perceives the purity of love in this visit.
25 August, 2020
We live in a different era from the very elderly ones. So, when an old woman tells you the distance to the home of a sick aged woman “isnt far”, do not take it on a face level!
They do not calculate time and distance the same way we do: for us, time has been divided into tiny particles of seconds and minutes, each having significant wasteful values; for them, time is divisive into day’s valuable work/walk and tide’s fruitful harvest. Distance for them is purposeful, we travel for leisure…
So, she said, “her home isn’t far.” And I believed her😐.
…it was a 37-minutes walk…just for the journey to…
Behind the thin surprisingly agile old woman, I bullet through the sunny late-morning, the streets partly deserted by the famer-inhabitants. I was lost in anger at the lie, frustrated by the piercing scorching August morning sun. “This woman lied to me!”, I thought. Was it a lie? But she comes daily to Mass from that distance. So, it isn’t really far to her then. Nothing should separate us from the love of God…
And slowly my anger and frustration dissolved into admiration (of the Old woman’s faith) and devotion (to Jesus in the Eucharist who wishes to visit his child).
26, August, 2020
The syncretic mind arms herself with religious amulets wound around her neck. It sees the long dibia’s divinations as the jargons of the deities, her unwavering concentration is vital to accentuate her faith and conviction in its potency. Then with a weak nod, she receives the secret potion, however unappetizing it may taste.
There is thus, a need for a renewed Catechesis.
28 August, 2020
“Dibia adi’ agw’onwe e” This is a famous adage on the lips of our elders whenever the dibia (the spiritual and bodily healer) is down. It’s unfathomable that the healer becomes the recipient of healing, in our traditional setting. So, the submission to this confusion is that, “though he heals, he can’t heal himself.”
This confusion turned into a jeer on the lips of the Pharisees when the divine healer hung ‘helpless’, down with fatigue and lacerations (Matt 27:42).
But there is a paradox to it all: God chooses what is weak in the world to shame the strong (1 Cor 1:27).
30 August, 2020
So, at what point would the sick brethren return to the assembly? For the gathered ecclesial is the body of Christ, offering worship and praise, to God the Father, together with the Son, by the power of the Spirit…
At what point does the sick brethren tell him/herself that s/he is strong enough to join this most solemn assembly, from which s/he has been deprived for so long, by the weaknesses and sufferings of sickness? Does the doctor’s certification suffice? Does a sick old person ever feel well again? Or well enough to worship with the community?…
So, there are those who truly do not recover; for these we labour to bring Christ to them. There are those who never feel strong enough to come back to the community worship, but are strong enough for other (economic and social) activities and gatherings; these we labour for, but leave their consciences to God. And there are those who long to reunite themselves to the community; they are quick to spring up whenever they notice the slightest feeling of recovery; and these shout the loudest praise during the Eucharistic gatherings.
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