Monday, November 8, 2004 • Memorial of Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity

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Blessed Elizabeth
of the Trinity, 1880-1906
1. Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity. Below is the introduction to this morning’s liturgy given by Fr. Tom Francis.
      Just a little over 100 years ago, separated by a few hundred miles, two young Carmelites in France, were to die of tuberculosis while they were still in their twenties; one of them, is now Doctor Therese of Lisieux; the other is Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity,of Dijon, a few miles from Citeaux. Both of these young but daring nuns forged new types of spirituality: Therese taught the world about Spiritual Childhood, making the teaching of Jesus on “becoming as a little child” a way of life for millions.
      The other, Elizabeth, forged a spirituality totally focused on the Three Divine Persons, as the source, center and summit of her spirituality. Although Pope John Paul II beatified her recently [November 25, 1984], her Trinitarian spirituality has not yet caught on, neither among her Carmelite family, much less on the universal Church. It is still considered a bit esoteric, not main stream. Elizabeth had neither the charm, nor the literary skills to pull off a sensation as did Therese.
      However, I think in the long haul, we shall see more of the Trinitarian spirituality enter the main stream of the Church’s life. Elizabeth of the Trinity was not a creative writer; she is merely content with repeating the formulas she found in the Gospels and Letters of St. Paul. At least lest us honor her memory today, and possibly examine how much the Triune God is central or peripheral to our own spiritual life.

2. From the writings of Father James Behrens

A Kind of Knowing
by Fr. James Behrens

“And I do not know the name of the little bug that was slowly making its way toward the center of the flower, to a place that seemed particularly bright in the morning light.”
Photo by James Behrens
      There was one morning, and one little bug, and one flower. It was a beautiful autumn morning and the sunlight was so clean and pure. The air was cool—it felt good to walk that morning. I brought a camera with me and was looking at flowers that are growing on a vine near our garden.
      The garden provided us with a lot of vegetables this year and now it is waiting for spring to bring forth another harvest. I am not sure of the name of the flower that I saw—I think it is a morning glory. And I do not know the name of the little bug that was slowly making its way toward the center of the flower, to a place that seemed particularly bright in the morning light.
      The flower had small dew drops on it, each so small and perfectly round. I took a picture and when I saw it later I was happy with how it turned out. It is by no means perfect—I would have liked more clarity and definition, but the image strikes me as beautiful and makes me think back on that morning.
      I thought about what it means to know, and how little I really know. I saw that little bug, inching its way toward what? Food? The brightness of the center of the flower? A scent? I do not know. But it was slowly moving along. It must have done so with some kind of knowing—a knowing that is surely not as sophisticated as mine, but a knowing nevertheless. And I have noticed that the flower, and all its flower friends, open in the morning and close at night. They open to the light, and close when darkness comes. That is a kind of knowing, too. Or at least it is an amazing response.
      And what is the beauty of that flower? Is not that, too, revelatory of some kind of knowing? I did not think about all that as I took the picture. I only thought about it much later, when I walked there again and looked about me and wondered as to all the beauty that is right here, every day, all in a finely orchestrated response to light and movement and the wind and rain and so many other things. In my own way, I suppose I move toward all that, too. And like the flower, I open to it as best I can, and I also close when things get dark. And like the little bug, I seek what I need in terms of food and beauty. I like things that smell good. And I do the best I can, albeit weakly, to follow the lights that are in me and about me.
      There are billions of flowers in the world. And maybe many more billions of little bugs—all moving toward something, moving that they may have life. It fascinates me, living things that turn to light, living things like big trees and little bugs and beautiful flowers.
      Not long ago a friend of mine named Theresa gave me a ride to the airport. As we rode, we passed St. Louis, Missouri and she pointed out to me different things about that city. It was early in the morning and I saw some lights being turned on in the big buildings. As we rode along, we spoke of the church and its problems. We spoke of growth and promise and hope, of better days to come, as more and more people seek the light that is truth and love the church enough to struggle to be the truth that they seek.

      The church is moving, too, though it moves seemingly so slow. It is big and does not move all that easily. Theresa mentioned something about how we somehow have in our very being, our bodies, elements that come from the stars. I remember just how she said it and how full of wonder she was as she told me about that. And I thought to myself, as I looked at the lights of St. Louis, how we humans need lights to live by, for the darkness causes us to stumble and fall. Yet, if we have some kind of a light within ourselves, a light that is good and holy, we manage to help each other through whatever darkness may come.
      The little bug may or may not have an “inner” light. But, like all living things, something in it makes it move. We humans can share light. That is a beautiful thing. God reveals whatever he/she is as a being who is known through sharing. The life of God is shared. We share in God’s life—that is the light we have in us. Yes, there is light in us that has come from afar, from long ago stars, and what a mystery that is. And there is also the light of human love, human compassion, human desire for goodness and truth. We can share these lights and move toward God.
      All those flowers. They are still here—I will see them in the morning—they are adorned in their soft-flesh petals of violet and white and pink and look beautiful as they grow on their green vines, vines which twine around an old metal fence and a tall wooden post. Come to think of it, I do not think the flowers were planted by a monk. They are wild flowers, for I have seen them along the paths here and have seen them in the woods. But it is only recently that I looked carefully at them—which is also why I saw the little bug. And which is why I now think of my life and yours.
      We, too, are so small in this vast universe. The flower dwarfed that little bug and yet it moved along as best it could, drawn by what it must have perceived to be good. It is how God made it. Of course it did not know that as it moved along the soft surface of violet, the flower itself was making its own way toward light for its own good. As I walk and sleep, and wonder and write, I do so knowing so very little. But I pray that I move toward the good, and wonder as I do so if this vastness all about me is also moving toward the same Good, slowly, beautifully, eternally. It is all a kind of knowing, a knowing about a kindness to things, big and small, moving toward the light.