Catholic spirituality
is much like a vast global forest. This is the story of just one tree.
I spent part of the 2016-2017 academic year leading a
group of young participants through the RCIA (the Rite of Christian Initiation
of Adults). They were preparing to
become Catholics, and my role was to familiarize them with the core elements of
Catholic tradition. One topic was the
multiplicity of customs, beliefs, and practices that comprise the rich tapestry
of Catholic spirituality. They were amazed to learn how Catholics through history
have attached themselves to small practices that shape their faith life in
hundreds of varied ways.
My recent trip to France with my wife Anne offered a
perfect opportunity to explore one striking example of such practices: the blessing of throats on
the feast of Saint Blaise (February 3).
During a day trip south of Paris, we drove to the
small town of Milly-la-Forêt to visit a tiny
chapel celebrated for its décor, painted by Jean Cocteau.
We were not even sure the chapel would be open on a
weekday afternoon, but as we approached the parking lot I noticed an older man
walking away from the chapel carrying a ring of keys to his car. We stopped and, as I walked toward him, I
called out “Monsieur, would it be possible for us to visit the chapel?”
He began walking to us with an apologetic look on his
face. “I am very sorry,” he said. “I am afraid that will be impossible. The
chapel is undergoing renovations, and the technicians are just now at work
inside while it is close to the public.”
Even before I could express my own disappointment, our
local host Françoise spoke up: “But surely, Monsieur, you cannot refuse these
two visitors, who have come all the way from the United States to visit this
chapel!”
At this point the man got the first of several
surprised looks on his face. “You are
visiting from America?” When we nodded, he went on. “You know, the Americans
came through this very village during the Liberations on their way to Paris
from the south. And after the war I
became friends with one of the GIs, because he married a local girl and took
her back to live in Boston.”
When I quickly observed that we also live in Boston,
the man’s face showed surprise a second time.
“No, really? I have always felt attached to the Americans because of Patton’s
army coming through here.” I offered the further information that General Patton
himself was a resident of the Boston area, and that there is a park named for him
on the North Shore where to this day there sits a genuine Patton tank.
The man’s third surprised look was accompanied by a
shrug. “In that case, Madame is correct,”
he said, nodding to Francoise. “I cannot refuse you your visit to the
chapel. Follow me.”
As it turned out, the chapel in question is in fact
the chapel of Saint Blaise, who was Bishop of Sebastea (in historical Armenia,
now modern Sivas, in Turkey) in the 4th century. When I recalled my childhood experience of
the blessing of the throats on the feast to Saint Blaise, the man shifted
gears. From that moment on he would not
simply be opening the door to the chapel.
He would be providing a detailed guided tour of the chapel and the
surrounding garden.
“Of course, that blessing was done with two candles on
the throat,” he said, demonstrating with his fingers set into the shape. “At the same time the following blessing is
given: ‘May Almighty God at the intercession of St. Blaise, Bishop and Martyr,
preserve you from infections of the throat and from all other afflictions.’ That’s
because of the legend: Saint Blaise was supposed to have saved a choking child
by touching his throat.”
We
wondered why the name over the chapel was Saint
Blaise
des Simples. Our guide explained. “That’s
because, in French, “simples” refers to medicinal herbs, plants that promote
health. And that explains the link
between the saint and the chapel. You
see, due to his legend, he became a patron saint of good health, especially of healthy
herbs--and this village of Milly-la-Forêt
has, since the 10th century, enjoyed a wide reputation for the medicinal herbs grown here. So the link between Saint Blaise and this
place made a dedicated chapel a natural idea.”
It turns out that the garden around the chapel is
still planted with such herbs, each in a separate plot well tended by the
village’s committee of volunteers, of which this man is a leading member. And each plot is marked with a small sign
indicating what herb it contains.
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| Peppermint |
The renovation was necessary to save the paintings
that Cocteau was commissioned to make in the late 1950s as a way of providing
symbolic imagery for the plain interior of this old stone chapel, which had been abandoned for some years.
Cocteau used simple bold
strokes, herbal designs, and earth-tone and plant-tone colors to symbolize the
veneration of Saint Blaise.
There is a
small statue of the saint with a plant-like bishop’s staff in his hands,
Outside the building, our guide took us from one plant
to another, explaining what each might be used for. And at the end of a tour that lasted nearly
an hour (during which Anne took the photos featured here), he accompanied us
back to the parking lot. Francoise suggested that we might get in touch with
his friend after we returned to Boston.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I don’t have his contact
information with me.” Francoise replied, “Why don’t you give me your e-mail
address, and then we can pass that information on to our American friends.”
As he dictated his e-mail address to Francoise, and I watched
her writing, I realized I was about to provoke yet another surprised look from
our new friend.
“So you are Bernard?” I asked.
“Yes, my name is Bernard.”
“Well, I am also Bernard.”
“”Ah non! It’s not possible!” his face suggested that
we had presented one too many coincidences.
But he also looked very pleased.
After that Anne proposed a picture of Francoise
standing with the two Bernards, and then we drove off as he waved his
farewell.
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The Two Bernards and Francoise (Anne Connaughton photos)
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It struck me, as I reflect upon this visit, that a
sort of instant bond between total strangers had sprung up simply due to two converging
factors. First, was the fact that a war
had brought someone from my hometown to his hometown, thus creating a physical
link that none of us knew in advance.
Second was the fact that, as Catholics, we strangers already shared--before
we even talked about it--a tradition that included one particular spiritual
practice, which had in turn given birth to this chapel and created a common interest
among us.
We call that war "World War II" precisely because it
engaged people from such far reaches.
And we call the Church “catholic” because it aspires to be a universal
community that embraces the entire human race across the globe.
In the final analysis then, it is actually not so very
strange that a 4th century bishop from what is now Turkey would inspire a modern
artist’s work in a building in what is now central France, and then trigger a
new friendship between a resident of the village and two visitors from across
the sea. In that sense, it is not too surprising, after all, that someone who
spent his life in a small French village, volunteering his time to attend a
small herbal garden around an ancient stone chapel, would one day come across
two visitors from 3000 miles away who shared his interest in honoring a saint
who himself had lived long ago and far away.
It's a very catholic (and Catholic) thing.
