A Rare Occurrence—Remembering and Embracing a Homily

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Bible and Crucifix               Public Domain

By Larry Peterson

Many love the Mass, and I count myself among them. What transpires during this splendid celebration of life, death, resurrection, and redemption is what we call the Mystery of Faith. We honor the life of Christ; we journey with Him as He is tortured and killed, and we rejoice in His Resurrection, which heralds our salvation. United, we all say in one voice, “We proclaim Your death, O Lord, and profess your Resurrection until you come again.”

As often as possible, I attend daily Mass and have been doing so for many years. I have heard many sermons at these Masses. However, I have something to admit, something I am not proud of; I rarely remember homilies. I do not know why that is. I did some research, and according to the Pew Research Center, the average length of a Catholic homily is 14 minutes. (Mainline Protestants are at 25 minutes; Evangelicals at 39 minutes).

One-third of Catholics say they are “very satisfied” with homilies, while fifty-two percent say they are ‘somewhat satisfied.  Fifteen percent say they are ‘not at all satisfied.” Statistics on those who “did not remember” sermons eluded me. Therefore,  I assume that there are others out there that are in the non-remembering category like me.

Then came Wednesday, September 13, 2020. HALLELUJAH—-a homily that STUCK. And it was about LOVE—and what is the Mass about?  It encompasses the Greatest LOVE. And the purity of it all was simply splendid. It all was because of 1 Corinthians 12:31 and 13:1-13.

Chapter 13 of 1 Corinthians is read in its entirety during this Mass. I will only focus on verses 4 thru 7. This is where Father Kevin (our pastor) tied together these verses that made them (at least for me) most memorable. He presented it in such a way that I now  believe this part of the reading should  be made available to all Catholics, including children, as a tool to teach us what love truly means. I’m a senior citizen and I have heard this reading many times. My wife and I even chose it for a reading at our Nuptial Mass. And the wonder of these words never clicked in for me until Father Kevin gave us this easy technique to use. It was a simple case of adding and subtracting. Let me explain.

The reading from 1 Corinthians 13: 4-7 is as follows: “Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, love is not pompous,  it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interest, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoings but rejoices with the truth. It bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

Now, here comes the adding and subtracting with the subtracting coming first. What we simply do is take the word LOVE and references to LOVE i.e.: “It is” or “it does not” out of the reading. and replace each removal with our own name. See the sample below. My name, LARRY, will replace the word LOVE.  See what happens.

“LARRY is patient, LARRY is kind. LARRY is not jealous, LARRY is not pompous,  LARRY is not inflated, LARRY is not rude, LARRY does not seek HIS own interest, LARRY is not quick-tempered, LARRY  does not brood over injury, LARRY does not rejoice over wrongdoings but rejoices with the truth. LARRY  bears all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

The short reading about LOVE becomes a personal self-help tool. Having your name replace the abstract word, LOVE, might help us refocus, get our bearings, check our emotions, and remind us how God wants us to be. He wants us to be like Him, and God is LOVE. Imagine having this for not only yourself but also your children. A printed card posted on the fridge with little Jack’s name or his sister Sally’s name written in place of the word LOVE could be a reference point. “Okay, kids, enough! Go read the cards. See who you really are.”

This could be our personal reality check about Jesus and LOVE. After a while, it would stick inside all our heads. We adults might have business-size cards in our pockets or wallets with this printed on it. If you are having a trying moment, reach for your card, and read it.

Interestingly, the Responsorial Psalm for the day was Psalm 33. “Blessed the people the Lord has chosen to be His own.”  Yes, that is us and being counted among the chosen requires all the self-help tools we can have. One final thought, I timed it , and it only took me fifteen seconds to read it.

Semper meminisse, est amor Dei   (Always remember, God is Love)

copyright©Larry Peterson 2020

The Deadliest Fire in American History was No Match for the Blessed Virgin Mary

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We hear of the raging forest fires on the west coast but here is the true story of the worst firestorm in United States history (originally posted in 2017) It happened outside Green Bay, Wisconsin. in 1871. It is also the site of a documented miracle.

Forest Fire raging                                                                                         public domain

By Larry Peterson

On October 8, 1871, in or around a place called Peshtigo, Wisconsin, several men were busy setting small fires in the woods. This was a common practice in clearing land for expanding railroads or for developing farmland. Except on this particular day, something unexpected happened. A cold front moved into the area, creating winds that were close to hurricane force. The winds fanned the flames and the resulting Peshtigo Firestorm still can claim the ignominious title as the “deadliest wildfire” in American History.

To this day, no wildfire in the U.S. has ever caused more deaths. Close to 2500 people perished in the raging 2,000-degree inferno. But there is an incredible side-bar to this story. Miraculously, there was a small group who were not harmed at all, and they were right in the middle of the hellacious blaze. This small group of people were with Adele Brise.

Adele Brise was 24 years old when she came to Wisconsin with her parents. The year was 1855, and the family had just arrived from Belgium.  Devout Catholics, Adele had a great devotion to the Blessed Mother and prayed to her daily. They found a Catholic church nearby and would walk there every Sunday morning regardless of the weather.

On Sunday, October 2, 1859, Adele was walking home through the woods when she saw a woman, clothed in white, standing between a hemlock and a maple tree. The woman was encased in bright light and had a yellow sash around her waist.  A crown of stars was above her long, blond hair. Adele, filled with fear, began praying, and the vision disappeared. She told her mom and dad about it, and they said to her that maybe it was a soul in need of prayers.

The following Sunday, Adele, was on her way to Mass with her sister and another woman when she saw the apparition a second time. But her sister and friend, who were walking a bit ahead of her, did not see anything. Returning from Mass, the Lady appeared to Adele for the third time. Adele, who had confided in her parish priest about the mysterious Lady, did as he told her. She asked the Lady the question, “In the Name of God, who are you, and what do you wish of me?”

The Lady answered, “I am the Queen of Heaven who prays for the conversion of sinners, and I wish you to do the same. You received Holy Communion this morning, and that is well. But you must do more. Make a general confession and offer Communion for the conversion of sinners. Gather the children in this wild country and teach them what they should know for salvation.”

Adele was afraid. She knew little about her faith. She asked how she was supposed to do this with so little knowledge. The Blessed Virgin told her, “Teach them their catechism, how to sign themselves with the sign of the Cross, and how to approach the Sacraments; that is what I wish you to do. Go and fear nothing. I will help you.”

Adele took the Blessed Virgin’s words to heart. She began her new, lifelong ministry of teaching children the Catholic faith by traveling by foot from house to house to instruct children in their homes. Adele’s dad, Lambert Brise, built a small wooden structure at the sight of the apparition. A few years later, after Isabella Doyen donated five acres around the site, Adele, started a small school. Also, a  bigger wooden church was built, and it was named Our Lady of Good Help.

In the meantime, the magnificent woodlands of Wisconsin were being harvested for their fine lumber. Mounds of sawdust and dried branches were being littered about with no sense of cleanup or conservation ever considered. Then came the evening of October 8, 1871. The Peshtigo Fire quickly exploded and began to devour the entire area with its rushing flames and 2000 degree heat. The firestorm started to head for Our Lady of Good Help.

People nearby the chapel began heading to it. There was never an accurate count, but many people came, some even bringing their livestock. Sister Adele organized them together, and they all prayed the rosary. Outside the chapel, they walked in procession, holding high a statue of Mary pleading for her protection. The fire kept coming, and the people moved inside the chapel and continued praying. Soon the fire raged all around the compound, and the flames even arched over it. But the fire never touched the Chapel of Our Lady of Good Help or the people there.

Over one million acres were destroyed in the Peshtigo Firestorm. As far as the eye could see was total devastation. Yet, in the middle of it all, the Chapel of Our Lady of Good Help and the fenced property surrounding it was untouched. The property had been spared, and no one had been hurt, including the animals. The five acres sat amid the charred landscape like an oasis in the desert. People who came and saw this incredible sight knew the Hand of God was at work that night. The faithful did not doubt that the Blessed Virgin, Our Lady of Good Help, stood outside the chapel, deflecting the raging inferno away from her children inside.

The story of Sister Adele and Our Lady of Good Help was always well known within the local culture and to the faithful, but many considered it “urban legend”. That was because there was never an “official ecclesiastical judgment” rendered. Then, in 2009, the Diocese of Green Bay launched an official investigation. On December 8, 2010, the Feast of the Immaculate Conception, a special Mass was offered on the site by Bishop David Ricken. At the Mass, the bishop declared that the Marian apparitions witnessed by Adele Brise were “worthy of belief.”

The site of the apparitions of Our Lady of Good Help is only one of 15 worldwide recognized for Marian apparitions.  It is the only one in the United States. Since its ecclesiastical recognition and approval, The  Shrine of Our Lady of Good Help is rapidly growing as a site for pilgrims from around the world. The “cause” for the canonization of Sister Adele Brise will continue. It is a beautiful thing.

 

copyright ©Larry Peterson 2017

No Quarantining for this Priest. He walked straight into the deadly Pandemic to minister to his people. It cost him his life.

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Fr. Patrick J. Ryan      public domain

By Larry Peterson

Patrick Ryan had been born in 1845, and he was never aware of the hard times his mom and dad endured during his first few years. It was during the time of Ireland’s  Great Potato Famine when his family was evicted from their farm. After selling whatever they could, they managed to make their way to New York City. It was here young Patrick would grow up and eventually answer God’s call to serve.

Patrick was an average student and had to study hard to make acceptable grades. When he was 21, he was able to enroll in St. Vincent’s College in Cape Girardeau, Missouri. Patrick was ordained in 1869 at the Cathedral in Nashville by Bishop P. A. Feehan. Ironically, the Feehan and Ryan families were close neighbors in Ireland, and this may be the reason Patrick joined the Nashville Diocese.

Father Patrick took charge of the Chattanooga area on July 10, 1872. He had to take care of not only the city but also of the southeastern part of the state. The baptismal register included towns such as Tracy City, Winchester, Cleveland, and others as places where Father Patrick had traveled to perform baptisms and administer the other sacraments. Father also was keenly aware that the need for a Catholic school was a prime requirement for the growing population.

The parish had always maintained a school for children. It operated under the supervision of the priest in charge, but all the grades were either taught by one man or one woman in the basement of the church. Father Patrick had different ideas. He was bound and determined to have a first-class school in his parish and the area. He also wanted nuns to be in charge. He headed to Nashville and pleaded with the Dominican Sisters of the St. Cecilia Congregation to establish new roots in Chattanooga. The Sisters had been in Nashville for sixteen years, and the timing was right for them to expand.

On January 6, 1876, four Dominican Sisters arrived in  Chattanooga and began the establishment of the Catholic faith in the area. The first thing they did was open the Notre Dame de Lourdes Academy. This school was located in the former rectory, which would also house the sisters. The regular school remained in the basement until a better facilty could be constructed. But the school had a “new life” about it. This was brought in by the nuns who immediately gave the school a level of excellence unseen until that they took charge.

The future of the parish seemed to be filled with hope and unbounded possibilities. Father Patrick was a happy man. But as is the way of things, sometimes things do not follow the way we think they will. A series of disastrous fires had consumed the business district. Then a cholera epidemic threatened the entire population. In 1875 a massive flood had struck. And now, unexpectedly, a little more than two years later, the school had to be converted into a hospital and an orphanage. The flooding created a perfect breeding ground for mosquitoes and Yellow Fever spread like wildfire.

The people of Chattanooga had escaped other plagues and considered themselves protected by the nearby mountains. It offered its hospitality to those in neighboring towns as a haven. But people coming into Chattanooga brought the disease with them.  Within a few days, the disease was declared an “epidemic,” and 80% of the population fled. One person who did not flee was Father Patrick Ryan. This was his home and these were his people. He would never leave them.

Witnesses said  Father Ryan was going from home to home in the worst infected sections of the city. His duty was to help the sick and dying and he was going to do that until he dropped. He came down with Yellow Fever on September 26. He was much sicker on the morning of the 27th and his newly ordained younger brother, Michael, administered Extreme Unction to his big brother. Father Patrick died on the morning of July  28, 1878. He was 33 years old.

Father Patrick Ryan was fully aware of the danger of yellow fever but chose to tend to his parishioners. He died, giving his life for others. On November 16, 2016,  the U. S. Bishops, at their General Assembly meeting in Baltimore, declared that Father Patrick Ryan is a Servant of God and his cause for sainthood has been forwarded to Rome.

We ask Servant of God Patrick Ryan to pray for us all, especially during this Covid-19 pandemic.

copyright©Larry Peterson 2020

Anti-Semitism / Anti-Christianism: Equal Partners in Hate

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fire, hate

By Larry Peterson

Too often throughout history man has allowed hate to control his actions.  Anti-Semitism is a hate that has been around for far too long.

My empathy for the Jewish people began when I was a twelve-year-old, but the journey wasn’t completed until about five years ago. I now I harbor a sense of “passion” about anti-Semitism.  It is an evil bound at the hip with anti-Christianism.

Growing up in the Bronx

I was born and raised Catholic. The Jews were always ‘those other people.’ Yes, I know, Jesus and Mary and Joseph and the apostles, et al, were all Jewish. But as a youngster, I never cared about that or even really thought about it.

I grew up in the South Bronx, in a mostly Catholic-Irish/German/Polish neighborhood. But there were some Jewish families in the neighborhood, too.  The Catholic kids went to Catholic school and Mass while the Jewish kids went to public school and synagogue.  Our social lives at school and church and synagogue were quite different and this caused an invisible separation among us. That was just the way it was.  But there was no hate present.  We were not anti-Semitic.  We bore them no ill-will and to the best of my knowledge they felt the same way toward us.

As such, the first real experience I had with our Jewish neighbors impacted me significantly.  It occurred when I was about twelve years old. I remember very well that Friday night so long ago. It was September, and the screaming started at about midnight. The windows were still open because it was hot, but the wailing seemed exceptionally chilling. Dad got up, and my seven-year-old brother, Danny, whispered from his bed, “I think he’s going down there.”

Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz

“Down there” was the apartment of Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz. We got up and followed him. Dad walked down the flight of stairs and up to Leo’s apartment door and began banging on it with his fist. We watched from the stairs as the door slowly opened.

Leo poked his head out and just like that my father was embracing this little Jewish man who, crying unashamedly, buried his head in Dad’s chest. My brother and I were stunned.  Leo was our landlord and everyone in the building seemed to be afraid of him. Not Dad. Dad disappeared into that apartment with Leo and did not leave for several hours.

When Dad came back up to our apartment, Danny and I were waiting for him. We wanted to know what happened. Dad took a deep breath and began to explain.  As he did, ‘those people’ in the neighborhood morphed into real people.  Two of them were named Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz.

Sophie Rabinowitz had been having nightmares that were created years before. Dad took us back to 1943, and a city called Krakow  The Nazis occupied Krakow.

Sophie’s continuing nightmares were of her two boys, ages 12 and 9, being clubbed to death by the Nazis.  Leo and Sophie had been forced to watch as their children were horrendously murdered.  Leo and Sophie begged their captors to kill them and spare their children, but the Nazis tortured the parents further by allowing them to live.

Try as I may, I cannot imagine what those moments in their lives were like. They were loving parents and were helpless, unable to save their children as godless people clubbed them to death simply because they were Jewish. Such evil can only come into people from the very bowels of Hell itself.

Blessed Are Those Who Mourn

My father has been dead for many years, but he is still teaching me about being Catholic today. How? Through the gospel reading from Matthew 5:1-12 – The Sermon on the Mount. This is when Jesus, a Jewish man, gave the world The Beatitudes. The one that always grabs me is #2, “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” That is what my father did on that night so long ago. The lesson stayed with me and it proved to be profound many years later.

I love my faith and use it frequently as my steadfast companion. I am always ready to lean on it, and I often do. Today I find myself sickened by the wave of anti-Semitism sweeping our nation and other parts of the world. My first thoughts go back to Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz. My own people are being defiled by those consumed by hatred towards people they do not know.

Note that I just called them “my own people.” That is because they are my people. Let me explain.

Genealogy

Our maternal Grandmother was an immigrant from Austria who arrived here as a teenager in 1908. We kids grew up with Grandma living with us, and we took her for granted. We gave no thought as to where she came from, or what her life had been like.  She was just always there. There was never a man in her life.  We never even thought to ask “what happened to Grandpa?”

Grandma died and Mom and dad passed on too, and we never had a chance to ask them about Grandpa.  There had never been any mention of him at all.  The questions only came after we grew up.  I wrote a book about it a few years ago. (If you are interested in reading the story, the book is The Priest and the Peaches, available from Amazon, HERE.)

Our feeble search for Grandpa became virtually non-existent.  Years went by with no information.  But you never know how things will turn out.

About five years ago, I received a message out of the blue on Facebook.  It was from my long lost cousin, Vicki (that reconnect is a story for another time). She had been on a “quest” and managed to locate me. Like dominoes perfectly colliding, after almost 40 years, my sister and brothers and cousins all reconnected.

Vickie had tenaciousness that none of her siblings or cousins possessed. She had plunged into the murky waters of genealogy and found our long, lost grandfather. His name was Isidore Schul.  He was a Hebrew man from Krakow, the very same city Leo and Sophie were from.  Mom’s dad, our Grandpa, was Jewish.  The immigration and naturalization papers all confirmed it. He made it to America in 1907. Just like that, I felt connected to Leo and Sophie Rabinowitz.

Jesus was a Jew

I have written a number of times about how the very first Catholic/Christians were Jewish. Jesus was a Jewish man.  His mom, our sweet Blessed Mother, was Jewish. His step-dad, St. Joseph was Jewish, his apostles were Jewish, and many of His first followers were Jewish. Many of  these Jewish/Christians died for following and proclaiming Jesus Christ. They were martyrs for their new faith.

Understanding my heritage caused a transformation of sorts. I now embrace in my own heart the concept of my Jewish connection. My maternal grandfather was a Hebrew man from Krakow, the same place Leo and Sophie’s children were butchered.  He was the only one on his side of OUR family who made it to America.  What we have discovered is that the rest of OUR relatives from his side died in the Holocaust.

We have no way of knowing the fate of our great grandparents, Simon and Regina Schul. Either they died before the death camps began or died in one of them. Now, when I read or see programs about the Holocaust, it has a whole different meaning for me. Members of my family were killed there. It is almost impossible for me to describe.

During the Holocaust, supposedly civilized people, both men, and women, willingly went about participating in the systematic destruction of close to 12 million people, including six million Jews. Their leaders wanted to eliminate Judaism from the face of the earth. And the ‘”good” non-Jewish, Aryan citizens did as the authorities ordered. They “followed orders” and they almost succeeded in their quest.

A Spiritual DNA

I have never understood such hate but I know, too, that anti-Semitism will likely continue unabated. Today, its ‘blood’ relative is a monster known as anti-Christianism.  It’s now rivaling anti-Semitism for world dominance.

When you think about it, it was inevitable that Judaism and Christianity would be defiled and denigrated together.  The worldwide hatred of Jews and Christians will continue, and we are now joined together in this hatred.  Thomas Merton once said, “If you want to study the social and political history of modern nations, study hell.”

We Catholics read and hear during Eucharistic Liturgy of the Mass from the Roman Canon the following words said by the priest before the words of consecration: “In communion with those whose memory we venerate, especially the glorious ever-Virgin Mary, Mother of our God and Lord, Jesus Christ, and blessed Joseph, her Spouse, your blessed Apostles . . .” 

Were not all of those mentioned Jewish? Yes, they were. There is no denying this fact. And they are all canonized saints.  Their Judaism was always part of who they were, and it all extrapolated into who we Catholic/Christians are today. A kind of Spiritual DNA joins Jews and Christians together forever.

Satan is Hate

Satan rules hell. He put himself there, and his followers plunged right in with him.  When I bring Holy Communion to someone, the first prayer I say is, “We come to know and believe that God is Love. And he who abides in love abides in God and God in him.”

Satan is the opposite of love. He is hate. And those who choose to embrace “hate” embrace Satan, with Satan heartily embracing them back. This war between Good and Evil will continue until the God of Love decides to end it.  We, as believers, must fight for the God of Love, no matter what the cost, up to and including our lives.

It is 2020, and both Judaism and Christianity are under severe attack in the United States of America. It is in our face. We here, in the USA, have had the absolute luxury of practicing our religions and worshiping as we so choose for as long as we all can remember. I think it is the greatest freedom the Founding Fathers gave us.

Still, even that freedom is under assault as the pandemic gives the secularists in power the authority to order churches closed while allowing casinos and race-tracks to remain open. However, we have a most potent weapon against secularism. It is the Rosary. We should pray our Rosary every day for our nation. It is a weapon that Satan cannot overcome.

SHALOM and PEACE BE WITH YOU!

He is the Patron Saint of African-Americans, and his Body lies Incorrupt to this Day

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Benedict the Moor                Public Domain

By Larry Peterson

No one knows what their real names were. That was because they were Negroes kidnapped from Africa and transported to San Fratello, Italy, in the early 16th century. San Fratello was a small town near Messina in Sicily, and this is where the newly arrived “dark people” would spend their lives. Once settled in by their “owners,” they were assigned Italian names. They became Cristoforo and Diana Manasseri.

As the years passed by, Cristoforo and Diana converted to Christianity and led exemplary lives. In 1526, Diana gave birth to a son, and they named him Benedict. Benedict’s mom and dad had fulfilled their duties as faithfully and thoroughly as they possibly could.  Their owner, a devout Catholic and a kind man, rewarded them by granting freedom to their son on his eighteenth birthday. Benedict, who had never attended school because he was a slave, was illiterate.

Benedict continued his work as a day laborer and a shepherd. His meager wages he shared with the poor, and in his spare time, cared for the sick. Because of his lowly status, Benedict the Moor was often the object of ridicule. He stood tall in the face of the name-calling and mockery, and cheerfully told others that he was known as “The Holy Black.”

One day, when Benedict was about 21 years old, he was see being publicly ridiculed by some people because of his color. A  group of hermits from nearby Mount Pellegrino and their leader, James Lanze, noticed him. Lanze was a nobleman who had left the world to live under the Rule of St. Francis. James Lanze spoke to Benedict, and Benedict sold his few possessions and joined the monastic group. It was not long after that he moved with them to Palermo.

His Catholic faith deeply rooted within him, Benedict, a lay brother, happily worked in the kitchen at the Friary od St. Mary of Jesus. But God had other plans for Benedict. When the director of the friary passed away, Benedict was chosen as the Guardian of the friary. He still could neither read nor write. After one year as Guardian, he was selected as Novice Master. Many wondered how he could effectively hold such a position.

As was part of his job, many people sought his counsel. From those that were novices to professed religious,  people of all classes came to him for advice. Benedict, an uneducated black man, possessed an extraordinary gift of prayer and seemingly had full knowledge of the scriptures and an instinctive ability to understand deep theological truths. Learned men were astounded, and word of Benedict’s spirituality spread. Soon the monastery was flooded with visitors. The poor were there asking for alms, the sick were searching for a cure, and others just wanted advice or prayers.

Many said that St. Benedict’s face was seen shining as with a celestial light whenever he was praying in the chapel. While working as a cook, others said that angels were seen helping him in the kitchen and that more often than not, food seemed to miraculously increase as Benedict placed it on the tables.

Benedict would have preferred to live a hidden life, unknown to the world. As he aged, he asked to be relieved of his duties and be allowed to return to the kitchen. This request was granted, and Benedict predicted the day and hour he would die.  He fell ill and, after a short time, passed to his eternal reward. The date was April 4, 1589. It was the day he had foretold.

Benedict’s death saw a huge cult develop, and his veneration spread throughout Spain, Italy, and Latin America. Three years after Benedict’s death, his body was exhumed and found perfectly preserved. In 1611, King Philip III of Spain authorized the adding on to the Franciscan Friary of St. Mary of Jesus, a shrine dedicated to St. Benedict the Moor. His incorrupt body is on display to this very day for all to see.

St Benedict the Moor was beatified by Pope Benedict XIV in 1743 and was canonized by Pope Pius VII in 1807. He is the Patron Saint of African Missions and, along with St. Martin de Porres, is the Patron Saint of African-Americans.

In today’s charged political environment, this great saint stands out as a model of patience and understanding when it comes to being confronted with racial prejudice. The following are historically black Roman Catholic Churches located in the United States which bear  Benedict’s name; Washington, DC, New York City, Chicago (2), Pittsburgh, PA, North Omaha, Nebraska, Dayton, Ohio, Milwaukee, Wisconsin, Grambling, Louisiana, and, Savannah, Georgia ( the oldest Catholic church for African-Americans in the entire Southeast.

Saint Benedict the Moor, please pray for us.

 

 

 

This Lebanese shrine to Mary is where she waited for Jesus on his visit to Tyre and Sidon

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Our Lady of Waiting is remembered with an icon donated by St. Helena, mother of Constantine.

Our Lady of Waiting                p elie korkanz

By Larry Peterson

Lebanon has always had a special devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. So much so that she is known as Our Lady of Lebanon and is the Patron Saint of Lebanon.   The reasons for this devotion can be found in the fact that while she was living, Our Lady visited Lebanon with Jesus. In the village of Magdousheh is located a special sanctuary dedicated to the Virgin of Mantara. This is the place Our Lady stayed awaiting (known as Our Lady of Waiting) the return of Jesus, who had gone to Tyre and Sidon.

Three hundred years later, St. Helena of Constantinople, the mother of Constantine, donated an icon to the sanctuary which remains there to this day. This place is now called the Shrine of Our Lady of Mantara (Our Lady of Waiting).  Melkite Catholics live in the village to care for the Shrine.

The history of Christianity in Lebanon can be traced back to Peter and Paul evangelizing the Phoenicians. However, the spread of Christianity in Lebanon was slow but steady. Paganism existed, especially in the mountainous regions of Mount Lebanon. A study from 2015 shows that more than 2500 of today’s Lebanese Christians have Muslim ancestry. This study confirms that finding but cannot change the fact that the majority of Lebanese Christians are direct descendants of the original early Christians.

The primary focus of Our Lady of Lebanon is at the Shrine located at the Basilica of Our Lady of Lebanon. The Basilica is located in Harissa, a mountain village north of the capital of Beirut. The Shrine belongs to the Maronite Patriarchate, who, in 1904, turned over administration of the site to the Congregation of the Maronite Missionaries.

Work finished on May 3, 1908.  During the inaugural Mass at the site of the Shrine, the Maronite Patriarch declared that the Blessed Virgin Mary would bear the title, Queen of Lebanon. To this day, the Anniversary of Our Lady of Lebanon is celebrated on the first Sunday of May at the Harissa Shrine, which is also called the Notre Dame du Liban.

The Shrine has drawn millions of faithful, both Christian and Muslims (Muslims have a deep devotion to Mary). In 1954 Pope Pius XII sent Cardinal Angelo Roncalli to the Shrine on the 100th Anniversary of the establishment of the Dogma of the Immaculate Conception. Cardinal Roncalli would become Pope John XXIII. The Shrine was also visited by Pope St. John Paul II on May 10, 1997, in his efforts to support eastern Eastern Catholicism and evangelize the youth.

The Harissa Shrine is considered as one of the most significant shrines in the world that honors Mary, the Mother of Jesus. The focal point is a giant, 15-ton bronze statue, which is 8.5 meters high (approximately 27 feet) with a diameter of five meters (about 16 feet) in diameter. The Virgin Mary extends her hands towards the capital city of Beirut. The statue weighs thirteen tons and is on top of a hill 650 meters (almost 2000 feet) above sea level.

There are stories of miracles that take place at the Shrine. Here is just one: A lady was leaning back over a railing to take a picture of the magnificent statue of Our Lady looming above her. As she was about to slip back over the rail, a young man reached behind her and pulled her forward, saving her from impending disaster. They began to talk.

The young man said his name was Faidi and that he and his mom were very devoted to Our Lady of Lebanon. Faidi’s mom said that she was unable to have children but four days after praying to Our Lady, she found out she was pregnant. She and her son have visited the site on Faidi’s birthday every year since.

Our Lady of Lebanon pray for us.

copyright© Larry Peterson 2020