ericbakes
Member Since 2011
Hello, everyone. I hope no one here is offended by the post below, but rather may take solace from it, regardless of your religious beliefs.
Today, I took Melville to our church's annual Blessing of the Animals.
The blessing was held on the beautiful grounds of a monastery next to our church. At various times, this was a home, seminary, or retreat center for religious brothers. Today, due to the shrinking size of the order, it has been made into a retirement home. We don't see much of the brothers inside, but not because they're cloistered. When we do see them, we recognize them not because of any special garments or insignias -- they wear clothes like the rest of us -- but because they're shuffling about on their walkers, or ambling carefully with a cane. When I saw a few of them outside with us, I was thankful, as I know they don't get around easily.
It was a beautiful day. We gathered with 20 families or so, most of whom brought their dogs. Usually, someone brings a lizard, some birds, or something a little unusual. Today, though, the most exotic pet was a hamster. Melville was the only cat.
The service began with a call to worship. The presider, Anne, took a moment to help us center ourselves as a group. We were mindful of things we often take for granted: the air entering and leaving our lungs; wind on our necks; the warmth of the sun; the earth beneath our feet. Within minutes, the crowd was silent and meditative -- even the dogs.
We joined in "Song at the Center," the hymn honoring nature as humanity's first spiritual love. This was followed by several scripture readings, including the popular prophesy from Isaiah, "The wolf shall live with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid... for the Earth will be full of the knowledge of God as the waters cover the seas."
Then, we read aloud The Canticle of the Sun, by St. Francis of Assisi (whose official feast day is October 4). I found it especially poignant today, in an era where we struggle to understand our relationship with the natural world, that a man of the 12th century could write such a poem. I have reproduced it at the end of my post.
A priest blessed the water. Together, he and the presider sprinkled each animal. It was a heartwarming to witness as the animals looked on with curiosity at this strange affair. They were very careful not to "spritz" the animals. I imagine that some of owners use this as a punishment. Instead, they let each pet sniff the bowl of water and parsley plant, then carefully placed a few drops onto the animal's head. It was so gentle and kind.
Finally, we read this closing prayer together:
By this time, Melville was starting to get impatient. Holy water or not, he had waited in his carrier for 30 minutes. The novelty of watching all these people and their dogs had worn off, and he was ready to go home. He had a long day, and he's now sleeping peacefully on the couch. (And for those who must know, his PMPS was 175).
I'm not sure I will attend this Blessing in the future, but I'm glad I did today. I don't expect Melville to magically be cured of his diabetes, but it made me really think about what it means to "bless" something. In one sense, we bless things to "make" them holy. In fact, the word "bless" comes from an ancient Germanic word meaning blood, and references barbaric sacrifice in which blood infused holiness upon its recipient. But there's an alternate meaning, a different way of "making" something holy. When we bless water, animals, or each other, we are taking a moment to recognize that, even though water has drowned many men, even though animals have mauled us ruthlessly, and even though we continue to commit acts of murder against each other -- despite all this, we are acknowledging that, paradoxically, the universal goodness of creation exists in them as well. We "bless" them, we "make" them holy, we sanctify them through our own transformation of love for them.
I see this transformation here among members of this group every day. Thank you all for sharing your stories, your grief, and your support.
Canticle of the Sun (Laudes Creaturarum)
Today, I took Melville to our church's annual Blessing of the Animals.
The blessing was held on the beautiful grounds of a monastery next to our church. At various times, this was a home, seminary, or retreat center for religious brothers. Today, due to the shrinking size of the order, it has been made into a retirement home. We don't see much of the brothers inside, but not because they're cloistered. When we do see them, we recognize them not because of any special garments or insignias -- they wear clothes like the rest of us -- but because they're shuffling about on their walkers, or ambling carefully with a cane. When I saw a few of them outside with us, I was thankful, as I know they don't get around easily.
It was a beautiful day. We gathered with 20 families or so, most of whom brought their dogs. Usually, someone brings a lizard, some birds, or something a little unusual. Today, though, the most exotic pet was a hamster. Melville was the only cat.
The service began with a call to worship. The presider, Anne, took a moment to help us center ourselves as a group. We were mindful of things we often take for granted: the air entering and leaving our lungs; wind on our necks; the warmth of the sun; the earth beneath our feet. Within minutes, the crowd was silent and meditative -- even the dogs.
We joined in "Song at the Center," the hymn honoring nature as humanity's first spiritual love. This was followed by several scripture readings, including the popular prophesy from Isaiah, "The wolf shall live with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid... for the Earth will be full of the knowledge of God as the waters cover the seas."
Then, we read aloud The Canticle of the Sun, by St. Francis of Assisi (whose official feast day is October 4). I found it especially poignant today, in an era where we struggle to understand our relationship with the natural world, that a man of the 12th century could write such a poem. I have reproduced it at the end of my post.
A priest blessed the water. Together, he and the presider sprinkled each animal. It was a heartwarming to witness as the animals looked on with curiosity at this strange affair. They were very careful not to "spritz" the animals. I imagine that some of owners use this as a punishment. Instead, they let each pet sniff the bowl of water and parsley plant, then carefully placed a few drops onto the animal's head. It was so gentle and kind.
Finally, we read this closing prayer together:
By this time, Melville was starting to get impatient. Holy water or not, he had waited in his carrier for 30 minutes. The novelty of watching all these people and their dogs had worn off, and he was ready to go home. He had a long day, and he's now sleeping peacefully on the couch. (And for those who must know, his PMPS was 175).
I'm not sure I will attend this Blessing in the future, but I'm glad I did today. I don't expect Melville to magically be cured of his diabetes, but it made me really think about what it means to "bless" something. In one sense, we bless things to "make" them holy. In fact, the word "bless" comes from an ancient Germanic word meaning blood, and references barbaric sacrifice in which blood infused holiness upon its recipient. But there's an alternate meaning, a different way of "making" something holy. When we bless water, animals, or each other, we are taking a moment to recognize that, even though water has drowned many men, even though animals have mauled us ruthlessly, and even though we continue to commit acts of murder against each other -- despite all this, we are acknowledging that, paradoxically, the universal goodness of creation exists in them as well. We "bless" them, we "make" them holy, we sanctify them through our own transformation of love for them.
I see this transformation here among members of this group every day. Thank you all for sharing your stories, your grief, and your support.
Canticle of the Sun (Laudes Creaturarum)
