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Is There a Problem with The Shawl Ministry?

Posted on Tuesday, April 19, 2022 by Susan Brinkmann

RG writes: “At my (Roman Catholic) church today, some women in the narthex were promoting a "prayer shawl ministry" and handed me a brochure promoting this website: http://www.shawlministry.com/. Overall, it sounded like a good idea - providing comforting prayer shawls for the homebound and hospitalized. I thought it odd that there was a reference to "applied Feminist Spirituality." So when I went home, I checked out the website. There are a few troubling non-Christian things discussed there such as where they talk about "chakras" under Symbolism --> Aroma therapy. They also talk about a "mothering God" which sounds a bit New Age-like to me. By the way, they are willing to teach people how to knit and crochet, and I would like to learn (learned as child, but forgot). I just don't want some New Age agenda pushed on me or to do anything contrary to my Christian faith. Would like your comments.”

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Most glorious Lord of life

Posted on Sunday, April 17, 2022 by Women of Grace Staff

Easter Sunday
Most glorious Lord of life that on this day
Didst make Thy triumph over death and sin,
And having harrowed hell didst bring away
Captivity thence captive us to win;
This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin
And grant that we, for whom Thou didst die
Being with Thy dear blood clean washed from sin,
May live forever in felicity.
And that Thy love we weighing worthily,
May likewise love Thee for the same again;
And for Thy sake that all like dear didst buy,
With love may one another entertain.
So let us love, dear love, like as we ought,
Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
–“Easter”, Edmund Spenser (1553-1598)

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In the tomb with Jesus

Posted on Saturday, April 16, 2022 by Women of Grace Staff

Holy Saturday
I am not moved to love Thee, O my Lord,
By any longing for Thy Promised Land;
Nor by the fear of hell am I unmanned
To cease from my transgressing deed or word.
‘Tis Thou Thyself dost move me, — Thy blood poured
Upon the cross from nailed foot and hand;
And all the wounds that did Thy body brand;
And all Thy shame and bitter death’s award.
Yea, to Thy heart am I so deeply stirred
That I would love Thee were no heaven on high,
That I would fear, were hell a tale absurd!
Such my desire, all questioning grows vain;
Though hope deny me hope I still should sigh,
And as my love is now, it should remain.
-To Christ Crucified (16th or 17th C.),
Translated from the Spanish by Thomas Walsh

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At the foot of the cross

Posted on Friday, April 15, 2022 by Women of Grace Staff

Good Friday
Jesus:
O Mother dear, didst thou but hear
My plaint of desolation,
Thy tender heart would burst apart
With grief of separation!
I am not stone, yet all alone
I hush My soul’s outcrying, --
Alone to tread the wine-press red,
To bear the pain of dying.
My lips are dumb, the night has come;
Ah! Solace I might borrow
Had I but thee to bide with Me
In this wild waste of sorrow.
Mary:
“Gentle moon and start of midnight,
Golden apples born of sunshine,
Precious pearls and jewels rare, --
All things glorious, all things shining,”
Thus the sorrowing Mother spake;
“E’en ye bright, transfigured faces,
Mourn with me for Jesus’ sake.
“Sparkle, gleam, and glow no longer:
Only moan and mourn for Him.
Shine not, shine not, weep forever,
Till your thousand eyes are dim;
For the mighty One has fallen,
And my Beautiful is slain;
In the dense wood pierced, my Shepherd, --
Weep ye, weep ye for my pain!
O most oppressed of all oppressed,
Heart of my heart, my all, my Son!
Grief’s keenest sword doth pierce my breast:
I die with Thee, my only one!
Alas! the pain is all too great,
Since, living, still I share Thy fate.
“Yes, mine Thou wert to bear and rear
Through life and light, and pain and loss;
And now, ten thousand times more dear,
I yield Thee to the cruel cross!”
-“Dialogue at the Cross,” Frederick Spee, S. J. (1591-1635)
translated from the German by Mary E. Mannix

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A poem for Holy Thursday

Posted on Thursday, April 14, 2022 by Women of Grace Staff

Holy Thursday
 Prone in Gethsemene upon His face,
His eyelids closed, — lay Christ of all our world,
The winds with endless sorrows seemed enswirled;
A little fountain murmured of its pain
Reflecting the pale sickle of the moon;
Then was the hour when the Angel brought
From God’s high throne the Cup of bitter horn,
While on His hands tears trembling fell like rain.
Before the Christ a cross arose on high;
He saw His own young body hanging there
Mangled, distorted; knotted ropes half-tear
The sinews from their sockets; saw He nigh
The jagged nails’ hot rage, the direful Crown
Upon His head, and every dripping thorn
Red-laden, as in fury of its scorn
The thunder battered all kind voices down.
He heard the pattering drops, as from the cross
    A piteous sobbing whispered and grew still.
        Then Jesus sighed, and every pore did spill
A bloody sweat.
-From Gethsemene
by Annette Von Droste-Hulshoff (1797-1848)

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