The Carmelite friars managed to log over two centuries in Europe before there was any serious attempt to establish a structure for communities of women. And yet, there were women who wanted to follow the spirituality and rule of the hermits of Mt. Carmel. To be sure, there had often been individual people, both women and men, who had associated themselves with existing Carmelite communities, and participated in a variety of ways with both their spirituality and their ministry. But there was never any official structure or pattern for attracting women to the Carmelite family, and assuring good formation in that way of life.

One of the most typical of these individuals may have been Blessed Joan of Toulouse, who lived around the year 1400. She was a woman of noble birth who lived close to the large Carmelite community in Toulouse, and spent her nights and days in prayer and penance to support the work done by the friars. She ate as little as possible, and did without even the simplest comforts. She made it a point to teach and encourage the younger members of the community, and joined her powerful prayers to their own works. Although she was only one person, her support was generally seen as the principal reason why the community was so popular and successful in that city.

During the middle ages, it was fairly common to have communities of women who lived virtuous lives without actually belonging to any religious order. Especially in northern Europe, there were informal groups of unmarried women or widows, called “beguines,” who lived together for security and mutual support. They often prayed together, and sustained themselves by caring for the sick and the infirm, or by doing other charitable works which were vital to a well governed city or town. Many municipal councils supported these women with free housing, or subsidies for their food. In the long run, these were people who might become a burden to the state, but actually helped others instead. So for a busy commercial city with limited funds, it made more sense to pay an allotment to these beguines, as they took care of others who needed more help than themselves.

During the 15th century, the vigorous reformer Cardinal Nicholas of Cusa promoted the affiliation of these loosely organized communities with established orders. His motives were both better formation and control, and the greater sense of identity which would follow. So it was fortunate that this was the exact time when Blessed John Soreth, prior general of the Carmelites from 1451 to 1471, was planning to open membership to both religious women, and to lay people of both genders. John had already established a strong reputation as a zealous reformer. To his way of thinking, expanding the Carmelite family to include other people of strong faith could not fail.

John was in the Netherlands in 1452, working out the details of one affiliation, when he got some unexpected help. The community of Florence wanted to regularize their partnership with several devout women, but felt that they needed more authority to make it legal. The prior of the community, Bartolomeo Masi, rode off to Rome to ask Pope Nicholas V for permission. The Pope responded by giving him the sealed document (or “bull”) Cum Nulla which authorized the Carmelite prior general and provincials to establish and regulate convents of religious women. Although the Florentines had only asked for one single case, the Pope had given them a very broad document which amounted to a blank check! John Soreth now had all the power he needed.

The basis of the life in these convents, of course, was the Carmelite Rule. But there were other considerations as well, which took some trial and error to work out. Because the ancient spirituality of the Carmelites focused on the powerful presence of God, and the need to pray and reflect continually, only strictly cloistered convents were considered for the early nuns. Each house was required to have an enclosure or cloister which no men were allowed to enter. A parlor or visiting room was built outside the enclosure, where the superior of the house could receive visitors and transact business. The chaplain had contact with the sisters only through this parlor or the chapel. Since the cloistered sisters never left the cloister, there were other non-enclosed sisters, or externs, who took care of errands, shopping, begging, and the many practical tasks required to sustain the life of the convent.

Within the enclosure, each nun lives in a small, bare cell, which was to be the primary place for her encounter with God. Carmelite heritage underscores the importance of the cell, and its decisive role in meeting the God of the universe. The community chapel is another pivotal space, since most of the formal prayer takes place there. By their vows, the sisters pledge to live their lives in common, not merely as good individuals under the same roof. They commit themselves to eat together in a common refectory, usually in silence, as they listen to reading from some spiritual book. They promise to work and recreate together in common rooms, according to the timetable established by the community.

As John Soreth established each of his new convents in the Netherlands, the process became more refined, and more women came forward to ask for entry. One of the most successful houses was at Liege, the Convent of the Three Marys, which evoked the powerful image of silent women praying at the foot of the Cross. The times were so good for spiritual renewal that many vigorous communities spread throughout the Low Countries and northern Europe.

With these successes fresh in his memory, John moved on to visit the province of Touraine, in north-western France. There he met the young Duchess of Brittany, Frances d’Amboise. Her husband had recently died, and she was under heavy pressure (heavy enough to include the King of France) to marry again. She had already been a popular and benevolent duchess, helping the poor and promoting the happiness of her people at every occasion. But Frances wanted to remain free to pursue her stronger religious sentiments. She and John struck up one of those classic friendships between noble, holy people with similar ideals.

With John’s encouragement, Frances wrote to Pope Pius II for permission to found a convent at Bondon, where there was already a house of Carmelite friars who could support the nuns. The Pope applauded her efforts, and John sent a band of nuns from Liege to support the foundation in 1463. The new convent also took the name of the Three Marys, and shared the popularity of its parent house, as women of every class asked to enter. In short order, one convent was not enough – other foundations were created throughout France.

Within 5 years, Frances herself requested admission. She who had enjoyed rich clothing, beautifully styled hair, and gracious living, ringed by servants, now asked to live with nothing. It was not easy for a duchess to become a simple nun. She insisted on the radical equality of all sisters, but that was a hard lesson for most of the other nuns. They elected her prioress for the rest of her life. Though she asked again and again for release, her natural leadership served them well.

With convents springing up throughout Italy, France, the Netherlands, and Germany, it became a serious priority to assure good formation for the new sisters. One place where the new communities found great popularity was Spain, but there was also an inborn weakness. John Soreth never managed to visit Spain, and the houses established there were founded by good people with lesser ability. Some of the Spanish convents tended to be large and enthusiastic, but with little or no sense of the enclosure which set the nuns apart from the secular world. Teresa of Avila entered this world during the following century. She found the way of life to be a fine opportunity to love God, but not much in harmony with the original Rule of St. Albert. Her Reform was a strong drive to recapture that vigor.

But that is another story.

Caryll Houselander

As to your Lent...I can only tell you my own experience. A mass of good resolutions, I think, are apt to end up in disappointment and to make one depressed. Also direct fault-uprooting: it makes one concentrate too much on self, and that can be so depressing. The only resolution I have ever found works is: "Whenever

want to think of myself, I will think of God." Now, this does not mean, "I will make a long meditation on God," but just some short sharp answer, so to speak, to my thought of self, in God. For example:

"I am lonely, misunderstood, etc."

'The loneliness of Christ at his trial; the misunderstanding even of his closest friends."

Or:

"I have made a fool of myself."

"Christ mocked—he felt it; he put the mocking first in foretelling his Passion—The Son of Man shall be mocked, etc.'—made a fool of, before all whom he loved."

Or:

"I can't go on, unhelped."

"Christ couldn't. He couldn't carry the cross without help; he was grateful for human sympathy—Mary Magdalene—his words on that occasion—other examples as they suggest themselves—just pictures that flash through the mind." This practice becomes a habit, and it is the habit which has saved me from despair!...

Different people have different approaches to Christ. He has become all things—infant, child, man—so that we all can approach him in the way easiest for us. The best is to use that way to our heart's content, and not to trouble about any other.

Caryll Houselander

We do not pray in order to improve our talents, to develop more clearly an intellectual synthesis, or widen our culture, religious or otherwise. We pray in order to tell God once again that we love him and know that he loves us, and to relate ourselves to the plan of mercy that is his.

We run still greater risks in the realm of sensibility, and in believing that our prayer has value only when we have "felt" something. The modern world takes special interest in "experiences," descriptions, states of the soul; there is a kind of cult for everything that can yield some kind of "interior witness." We delight in working out a projection of ourselves that arises from the senses.

Prayer is an extremely favorable opportunity for realizing such a projection. But this will always be the great difference between Christian and non-Christian prayer: the former does not contain its own end. A person does not pray primarily in order to find himself, but to give himself, to enter into a plan of salvation that goes beyond himself. In Christian prayer, what matters above all is not the quality of the interior experience, which can sometimes be very shallow, but the Person who is the "object" of this experience. Saint Paul speaks of "groanings" (Rom 8:26) or of a "cry" (Gal 4:6). What is important is not our experience but the gift we make of ourselves. We should enter into prayer, not to receive, but to give, to give ourselves and lose ourselves. And if friendship with God is to remain pre-eminent in our prayer, we must enter into prayer in order to give ourselves as a free gift, with the knowledge that we may not always really give what we are giving, and yet without being concerned about what we are giving.

Father Bernard Bro, o.p.

Dom Anscar Vonier, o.s.b.

The sins of Christians are offenses against a state, the state of the redeemed. By committing sin we walk unworthily of our calling, we prove ourselves to be bad children, people who are unmindful of their election. We sin against Christ, we hurt him in his brethren. Whether we be conscious or not of those implications, we cannot avoid having that kind of guilt on our souls every time we transgress. In his repentance the Christian has to think of many things which are exclusive to him. He has to remember his baptismal robe, he has to bear in mind his adoption as a child of God, the seal of the Spirit, the sweetness of the Bread of Life, the Blood of the Lamb, all of which mysteries he has more or less trampled under foot every time he has sinned grievously. He has saddened his brethren, he has brought shame on the Church, he has made the infidel blaspheme the name of the Lord, he has made the work of the Holy Spirit more difficult, he has been a dead weight on fervent men and women to whom nothing is dearer than the glory of Christ.

All these results and many more are infallibly associated with our sins. Therefore when we repent hosts of invisible powers are set in motion, all demanding to be satisfied and to be vindicated. Now it is the special merit of the Christianas poenitens that he is determined to make full amends for all past outrages, to give satisfaction to the whole hierarchy of the supernatural order, and to repair the gap he has made in the life of Christ's mystical Body. His repentance is more than a sorrow; it is a hunger and thirst after justice; it is an effort to fill up those things that are wanting to the Body of Christ through his guilty acts.

Dom Anscar Vonier, o.s.b.

Sister Ruth Burrows, o.c.d.

We find it hard to accept how involved God is with us, how vital we are—by his free choice—to his complete happiness. Scripture encourages us to find our analogies in human images. We are adopted children. Consider a blissfully happy couple finding all they need in one another. For no other reason than generosity and the desire to share their happiness, they decide to adopt children as their own. From then on their life undergoes a profound change. Now they are vulnerable; their happiness is wrapped up in the welfare of the children; things can never be the same again. If the children choose to alienate themselves and start on the path to ruin, the couple are stricken. They will plead, humble themselves, make huge sacrifices, go out of themselves to get their loved ones to understand that the home is still their home, that the love they have been given is unchanging. This perhaps gives us some insight into redemption. In a mystery we cannot fathom, God "empties," "loses" himself, in bringing back to himself his estranged, lost children. And this is all the Father wants. This is the only remedy for his wound. God is no longer pure God, but always God-with-humanity- in-his heart.

Father Gabriel of Saint Mary Magdalen, o.c.d.

There is no limit to God's mercy. He never rejects us because of our sins, he never grows weary of our infidelities, he never refuses to forgive us, he is always ready to forget our offenses and to repay our ingratitude with graces. He never reproaches us for our offenses, even when we fall again immediately after being forgiven. He is never angered by our repeated failures or weakness in the practice of virtue, but always stretches out his hand to us, wanting to help us. Even when men condemn us, God shows mercy to us; he absolves us and sends us away justified....

How far does our mercy go? How much compassion do we have for the faults of others? The measure of our mercy toward our neighbor will be the measure of God's mercy toward us....

God does not require us to be sinless that he may shower upon us the fullness of his mercy, but he does require us to be merciful to our neighbor, and moreover, to be humble. In fact, to be sinners is not enough to attract divine mercy; we must also humbly acknowledge our sins and turn to God with complete confidence. "What pleases God," said Saint Therese of Lisieux, "is to see me love my littleness and poverty; it is the blind hope I have in his mercy. This is my sole treasure." This is the treasure which supplies for all our miseries, weaknesses, relapses, and infidelities, because by means of this humility and confidence we shall obtain the divine mercy. And with this at our disposal, how can our wretchedness discourage us?

Servant of God Elisabeth Leseur

It is not pride, is it, to call myself your friend, one you have called, your chosen friend? I see the traces of your love everywhere, the divine call everywhere, my vocation everywhere. You made use of trials, suffering, and illness to make me completely yours and to make me holy, first drawing me to you solely by your action within me. You have done everything. Now complete your work; make me holy according to your will; use me for others, for my beloved ones, for all your interests; use me for your greater glory, and let all be done in silence and in an intimate encounter between us alone. From the depths of my being and my misery I say, "Lord, what will you have me do? Speak, your servant listens; I am the handmaid of the Lord; I come, Father, ready to do your will" (Lk 1:38).

Patience, gentleness, humility, silence, kindness. To hide all that I can of my physical suffering, and all my moral suffering, my spiritual deprivations. To cover everything with serenity and smiles: all my discomfort, sadness, and renunciations. To try to reconcile the tastes, desires, and needs of each and to take no account of myself, not to think of what I might wish; to sacrifice even my greatest hopes, when, misunderstood, they might irritate or displease another. I shall have all eternity in which to contemplate him whom I adore, to unite myself to him, and to pray. Here, I must think of my neighbor, of others; I must sacrifice myself, and practice contemplation in action. There is plenty of material for renunciation and profound and constant self-denial in this unending abandonment of all that is my deepest longing.

Servant of God Elisabeth Leseur

Monsignor Romano Guardini

Christ on the cross! Inconceivable what he went through as he hung there. In the degree that we are Christian and have learned to love the Lord, we begin to sense something of that mystery of utter helplessness, hopelessness. This then the end of all effort and struggle! Everything, without reserve—body, heart, and spirit given over to the illimitable flame of omnipresent agony, to the terrible judgment of assumed world—sin that none can alleviate and whose horror only death can end. Such the depths from which omnipotent love calls new creation into being....

Ardent with suffering, he was to plunge to that ultimate depth, distance, center where the sacred power which formed the world from nothing could break into new creation.

Since the Lords death, this has become reality, in which all things have changed. It is from here that we live—as far as we are really alive in the sight of God.

If anyone should ask: What is certain in life and death— so certain that everything else may be anchored in it? The answer is: The love of Christ. Life teaches us that this is the only true reply. Not people—not even the best and dearest; not science, or philosophy, or art or any other product of human genius. Also not nature, which is so full of profound deception; neither time nor fate.... Not even simply "God"; for his wrath has been roused by sin, and how without Christ would we know what to expect from him? Only Christ's love is certain. We cannot even say God's love; for that God loves us we also know, ultimately, only through Christ. And even if we did know without Christ that God loved us—love can also be inexorable, and the more noble it is, the more demanding. Only through Christ do we know that God's love is forgiving. Certain is only that which manifested itself on the cross. What has been said so often and so inadequately is true: The heart of Jesus Christ is the beginning and end of all things.

Monsignor Romano Guardini

Pope's Intentions

Universal: Families in Difficulty - That families in need may receive the necessary support and that children may grow up in healthy and peaceful environments.

Evangelization: Persecuted Christians - That those Christians who, on account of their faith, are discriminated against or are being persecuted, may remain strong and faithful to the Gospel, thanks to the incessant prayer of the Church.

Ebook:

Saint Augustine of Hippo

Are you poor? Like Lazarus covered with sores, put your trust in him. Lazarus was poor, Abraham was rich. When we hear in the Gospel that that poor man with his sores died and was carried up by angels to Abraham's bosom, all the beggars, the sore-infested, the cripples, the rejects—when they hear that reading, what do they say? "He was talking about us." Perhaps a poor man in want, scarcely able to support himself, or a beggar perhaps, notices some rich man standing in God's house clothed appropriately to his station. When he hears that reading he says, "He was talking about me; I too, when I die, am going to be carried up by angels to Abraham's bosom." He hears the Gospel say in the same place about the rich man, that when he died he began to be tormented in hell. When the poor man hears this he says to himself, "He said that about me, this about him over there."...

He rewards loving kindness with a crown, not poverty. Sure, God is not going to say in his judgment, "Let the nobleman approach me, let the commoner depart from me." But neither is he going to say, "Let the commoner approach me, let the nobleman depart from me." What he is going to say is, "Let the just approach, let the unjust depart."

So, poor man, hold onto loving kindness if you want to arrive. If you really want to know that what the Lord chose is loving kindness, and it's not riches that he condemned— the poor man was carried up—but where to?—to Abraham's bosom. Read what Abraham was, and you will find he was rich. The rich man went ahead and prepared hospitality and a home for the poor man. That's just what you have in the psalm, all together, rich and poor (Ps 49:2).

Let us glorify God and our Lord Jesus Christ in our good works, and say from the bottom of our hearts, have mercy on me, Lord have mercy on me, because— not in gold, not in silver, not in honor, not in wealth, not in a powerful friend, not in a crowd of supporters, not in a retinue of servants, but—in you my soul has put its trust.