My apologies for the title, which I could not resist. St Philip’s maxim for today is:

Nothing is more dangerous for beginners in the spiritual life than to wish to play the master, and so guide and convert others.

We often speak of the phenomenon of the “zeal of the convert” which itself is no bad thing at all. It is such an encouragement for those of us who have been Catholics for a long time to see others come to the faith and be on fire with real love for their newfound God. They have found that city of God on the hilltop of the Church which cannot be hidden, that light of Faith which cannot be placed under cover. We are very blessed in the large number of converts who come to the Church here each year and who become such pillars in the life of our community. They bring new perspectives and experiences, but also indeed that great and burning love for Christ which helps us all to rekindle anew our commitment to holiness and our own impression of the reality of our Faith.

There can sometimes, whether in terms of the Faith or the spiritual life in general, be the danger of wishing to run before we can walk. Our Faith is tried in the furnace of perseverance and this is what St Philip realised. This is why the Fathers and Brothers pray each day in Oratory for the gift of perseverance. At the beginning we take baby steps — we need to be held and supported, nourished and guided if we are to run the race for that imperishable crown. We do see in the Church today the danger of self-appointed “experts” and “influencers” who have ideas and opinions on every aspect of the Faith, whilst they seem to have very little grasp of what is really central to living Catholicism. It is not a good thing to proclaim ourselves experts if we can name every cardinal and cite Church documents, but still remain unmoved by the plight of the neighbour we are called to love after the pattern of Christ. We are not, any of us, called to become masters, but to become servants and friends — of God and of our neighbour. We must never seek to point to ourselves, but rather only to Christ. To “love to be unknown” as the great hallmark of Oratorian spirituality has it — “to love to be unknown” so that Christ can be known.

Hence the maxim of St Philip for 18 July:

Beginners should look after their own conversion and be humble, lest they should fancy they had done some great thing, and so should fall into pride.

We cannot give what we do not have. If we really are embarked upon the path of conversion and holiness then others will come to Christ and Church simply because of the influence that our life will have on others. This is what was true for Saint Philip — he sought to bring others to conversion through the influence he could have upon them, through the friendship he made with them, and by his own example — particularly of humility — to bring them to God and to holiness. St John Henry Newman our Cardinal wrote: “It would seem, in fact, that influence, whether secret or open, is the main driving force of the Oratory.”

What influence do we have upon others then — by our conversation, by the way we treat them, what sort of idea do we give them of how a Christian lives by the conduct of our lives? And if we are already adept at making friends and influencing people — do we make them friends of Christ and bring them under his influence? Our Lady is the great model in this: “My soul magnifies the Lord.” For us, who probably always feel as though we are just beginners in the spiritual life, it is first to ask what influence we allow God to have upon us, upon our lives. If he is that influence, that overriding, all consuming force that influences all we are — as he must be — then this alone will draw others to ask why we live differently, and please God, draw them to him who sets the path to Heaven before us.

We are celebrating the launch of our new edition of St Philip’s Maxims this summer by exploring some of those maxims together each week.

Rest and relaxation are seen, sometimes, as the privilege of the well-off, or the care-free, or even the lazy. For those of us who have much to do, such a luxury as relaxation is just a far away dream we might attain to one day. But perhaps this is not the right way to view it.

In the Bible, from the very start, rest is built into the logic of the universe by virtue of the fact our creator rested on the seventh day — he did all his work, saw that it was very good and then rested. Paradise is portrayed here and there as a garden, a place of refreshment, and gardens are never enjoyed hurriedly. Some of the most evocative art portraying scenes from the scriptures show little moments — the woman at the well, rest on the flight into Egypt. And our Lord himself would frequently take time away in a quiet place to be by himself and pray to the Father. These are moments of retreat, but not retreat from any hardship or used as an avoidance tactic, but rather a retreat to the source, the place from where our strength comes and might be renewed again.

Many of the saints, too, found solace and renewal in a time of being away, in those desert moments, and in cloistered escapes. St Philip found his on the little loggia on the roof of the Fathers’ house, watching the birds darting around the Roman rooftops, or out in the cool quiet of the catacombs. He also found his recreation in the picnics and walks out into the countryside with his young friends, where food was shared along with words of holy wisdom and songs were struck-up under the stone pines and the cypresses.

If we are to be resilient in a world which will forever add to our to-do lists, and make further demands on our energies, and challenge those most fundamental aspects of our lives, we have to know how and when to return to the source, like a cool spring. Some quiet prayer is always essential, but so too is an escape, some time away with the laptop closed and the phone on silent, and maybe our rosary in our hand too. A quiet walk, a long sit under a tree, and if we are very fortunate, maybe even a time of retreat. Any and all of these can help to remind us that we are not alone, that it does not all depend on us, and that the one on whom it does depend can often be found in the stillness of a place apart, waiting for us.

And it is an anticipation of something greater. The Hebrew word for peace, shalom, refers to peacefulness, yes, but also to wholeness, safety, completeness. At the end of our earthly life, we pray that we will be welcomed into a place of refreshment, light and peace. Eternal rest is our prayer for our departed loved ones, and the desire for a perfect rest ends the Church’s night prayers each day. To anticipate something is, in some sense, to participate in it, and so if we can carve our some rest now, it is a little taste of heaven, and who doesn’t want that?

As the summer vacation begins for many people, perhaps it is a timely reminder not to make our holidays another source of stress, but to build in to them the kind of rest and relaxation that is a sort of retreat. Perhaps we should all try a bit more to use this time to seek the Lord in the quietness, to listen to his quiet promptings in our heart, and to just sit still with God. I don’t think any of us will be sorry if we try.

St Paul famously tells us that our citizenship is of heaven (Phil. 3:20). That doesn’t mean that earthly politics doesn’t matter to us, but it’s not what we place our hope of salvation in. With a general election upon us, today seems like a day to remind ourselves that we belong to Christ’s Kingdom.

Someone once said that, during the course of Jesus’ trial, every political system is tried and found wanting. The religious leaders of the Jewish theocracy, the soldiers of the Roman dictatorship, Herod’s monarchy, the voice of the democratic mob all reject Christ as King. There is no perfect political system. Politics alone will not solve all the problems of the world, as we are warned in Psalm 145: “Put no trust in princes, in the sons of men in whom there is no salvation.”

Not trusting in earthly leaders doesn’t mean having nothing to do with politics. We still have a responsibility to do what we can to co-operate with God in bringing about that prayer we utter so many times a day, “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” It is our duty to vote in a way that puts God’s will into action. But we don’t honestly think that electing the right candidate at the general election will suddenly change the world and solve all our problems, do we?

There has never been a perfect prime minister. There has never been a perfect monarch. Not even Saintly King Edward the Confessor was perfect. Even religious leaders aren’t exempt. There has never been a perfect pope, and there never will be. The fact that Pius X and John Paul II have been declared saints by the Church does not mean that they never made a single mistake in their lives. No political system, no political or religious leader is perfect, because no human being is perfect. Well, except two — and that’s why only Christ is worthy to be the King of the Universe, and his mother to be Queen of heaven.

When we think that we can achieve perfect happiness for everyone through political action, we are trying to save the world through our own efforts. Like Israel in the Old Testament, we are forgetting that God is our King. And that’s going to lead to trouble.

Both our country and the Church have problems running through them from top to bottom, because they are both made up of fallible human beings. But instead of trying to fix things at the top and expecting the change to trickle down, our starting point for improving things should be ourselves. How can I make Christ King of every aspect of my life? If we all really did that, there wouldn’t be many problems left for politics to solve.

Each morning, the Fathers and Brothers assemble in church before the early Mass, in order to make their meditation. At least to try to meditate, since, as in prayer, things do not always flow easily or spontaneously, especially if there are distractions around us. Usually, one would take a subject or an event from the Gospels, or some other spiritual book, and by staying with it for a while, make it the material of prayer.

A meditation is not itself a prayer. Evelyn Underhill described it as “a sort of technique which leads to prayer, turns our minds and hearts and wills towards God, and so helps our Communion with him.” So once our meditation has led us into some sort of prayer, it has done its job and we can move on and simply continue our conversation with God and our self-offering to him.

Of course, people do things differently. One thing suits one person’s temperament, while another method or system is more helpful to another. The first thing is to want God, and I do believe that the soul that wants God has God. Our meditation on some scene from the Gospel or words of Christ opens up a path and leads us into his presence, and then we are praying. It may not be the sort of rapturous or esoteric experience we were hoping for, perhaps, but since ours is an incarnational religion, we must remain, like our Lord, with feet planted firmly on the ground — in the concrete reality of our lives. For that is where the Lord Jesus comes to meet us.

So take a scene and picture it in your mind’s eye. What’s happening there? Who is present? What does our Lord do or say, and what message may be there for us? What is our response? By thinking about these things, we shall soon find ourselves praying — leaving the meditation behind — talking to God quite simply and from our hearts.

Try taking your Bible and go to Mark 10:17–22. There we read of the encounter of the Rich Young Ruler with our Lord. It starts so beautifully, doesn’t it? You can see Jesus on the road and the boy running to him and kneeling before him, drawn to the Master by that wonderful power of attraction, as iron drawn to a magnet. He recognises that Jesus has the words of Eternal Life, which everyone really longs to hear. And the boy, there on his knees, asks him the price of full life in God and for God. He’s not talking about what happens when he dies. He is thinking of the great consummation, when all the prophecies will be fulfilled in Messiah. The young man has already done all that would make him respectable. Since his youth, he tells our Lord, he has kept all the commandments of the Law. Yet, he remains unsatisfied, feeling that there is yet more to be done. Now, picture our Lord looking at him with love as he tells him the cost of discipleship: the price of friendship with God is an unreserved consecration, if you like, total self-abandonment. “A condition of complete simplicity, costing not less than everything.” (T.S. Eliot) Let go of everything that ties you here, “take up your cross and follow me.”

And so from meditating on the scene, we move on, without fuss, to prayer. What about us? Do we have these interior battles? Have we a sense that we could be doing more for Christ and that he is maybe asking more of us than we are currently giving? Are we merely respectable in our belief and practice? What are the possessions we might have to relinquish in order to be free? Somebody? Ambitions? Interests? Comforts? Anxieties? Self-chosen aims? We should pray for honesty and courage when facing these questions. What shall I do Lord? Take from me all that hinders me in paying the price you are asking of me. Cleanse my heart from all self-serving desires. Let me be content to follow you with an undivided heart. Let me do your work with a joyful and loving heart, going wherever you want me to go, acting always without self-interest, remaining your friend and loyal servant.

The story of the Rich Young Ruler is rather sad. There is no happy ending, at least, not in Mark’s Gospel. But maybe later, when he had matured in faith and understanding, he had run back to the Master a second time, now willing and able to make the sacrifice demanded of him, with a wholehearted act of generosity, believing that he would indeed be richly rewarded in the Eternal Life of the Kingdom.