Perhaps one of the most familiar passages in the Gospels is Saint Matthew’s account of Our Lord’s Beatitudes. Among them we find, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” (Matthew 5:8) Saint Paul also reminds us that our vision of God will one day be complete: “For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)

The Catechism breaks purity of heart into three categories: charity, chastity, and love of truth. All three of these are important, but I think we tend to associate the word ‘purity’ primarily with chastity. It can sometimes seem like chastity is the pinnacle of Christian perfection because people are often most ashamed of sins against chastity. However, charity and love of truth are clearly as important too. Saint John Cassian, in his Collation On Chastity, reminds us that “charity and chastity are so closely linked that one cannot be possessed without the other.” Charity is the guiding principle of all the virtues, and so when we practise charity, chastity (and all the other virtues) will naturally follow.

Saint Philip offers similar advice about chastity. He says that “one of the most efficacious means of keeping ourselves chaste is to have compassion for those who fall through their frailty, and never to boast in the least of being free, but with all humility to acknowledge that whatever we have is from the mercy of God.” Saint Philip reminds us then that we should remain humble and love our neighbour if we wish to foster the virtue of chastity. Through acts of charity, we become pure in heart and so hope to see God face to face.

The Collations of St John Cassian are among the oldest and most influential books of Christian spirituality. The book is presented as a series of conversations between Cassian, his friend Germanus, and the great monks of the Egyptian desert, preserving the wisdom of men who had devoted their lives entirely to the pursuit of holiness.

The reflections over the coming weeks are based on ideas found in the Collations. There is no need to read them to follow each reflection, but the work is available, in an excellent modern translation by our own Fr Jerome, from our bookshop in person and online.

Cassian gives us good advice about how to prepare for prayer. All of the renunciations of a monk are aimed at helping to do this, but they are not enough. Despite seclusion and poverty, the monk can still be distracted by worldly desires. We do not have the same detachment as a monk. Therefore, how can we hope to observe sufficiency in our lives when we have so many things, and stop material concerns from distracting us?

Getting rid of our things is not the answer, since material concerns can affect even a monk who owns nothing. Cassian suggests grounding the mind in peace, and that peace comes from joy. If we have joy that permeates our life, then we may have material interests, but not concerns that capture our mind and prevent us from prayer.

It is quite natural that different prayers will come to us at different times. If we have material business to do, then we should carry that to prayer with us. We should not become so engrossed in material concerns that we are unable to pray about them because we cannot disengage from them for a moment.

We find great help in short, frequent prayers. These are so short that they do not have time to be disturbed, yet lift our mind to God. The relationship which they build with God means that, when we come to pray for longer, we are able to do so without distraction from material concerns. We are united less to them than we have become united to God through our frequent prayers.

Our life must be ordered in a way that is amenable to prayer. The point of religion is sanctification. That comes through Christ and through prayer that is a constant communication with God. We do this in different ways: Christ was healing at one time, teaching at another, praying vocally at yet another. Yet, we are never interrupted by any union greater than that which we have with God.

The Collations of St John Cassian are among the oldest and most influential books of Christian spirituality. The book is presented as a series of conversations between Cassian, his friend Germanus, and the great monks of the Egyptian desert, preserving the wisdom of men who had devoted their lives entirely to the pursuit of holiness.

The reflections over the coming weeks are based on ideas found in the Collations. There is no need to read them to follow each reflection, but the work is available, in an excellent modern translation by our own Fr Jerome, from our bookshop in person and online.

Saint Philip teaches us that whenever we are in temptation, we should pray to God, saying, “O God, come to my aid, O Lord, make haste to help me.”This advice comes from Saint John Cassian’s Collation On Prayer, where he reflects on this verse from the Psalms.

Cassian promotes its use for all occasions. He says that it “meets every emotion that can affect human nature and can be suitably adapted to every state of life.” Whatever moment we find ourselves in—yes, in temptation, but also in joy, in sorrow, at work or at rest—we can always use this short prayer. For Cassian, making use of this psalm verse throughout the day is the surest way of fulfilling Saint Paul’s command to “pray at all times.” 

Cassian says that these words should “follow you throughout the day.” Saint Benedict took this advice literally, mandating in his Rule that “O God, come to our aid; O Lord, make haste to help us” be said first at each Hour of the Divine Office. Saint Gregory the Great eventually extended this practice across the Roman Church. Since then, each hour of the Divine Office has begun with this verse, and you may have heard it sung at the start of Vespers in our own church. 

Saint Philip says that we ought “always to have some little prayers ready, and to be darting them up to heaven frequently during the day.” The short psalm verse recommended by Cassian can become one of those ‘darts’ we shoot into heaven. Even in the midst of a hectic day, we can raise our minds and hearts to God, who strengthens us in all we do.

The Collations of St John Cassian are among the oldest and most influential books of Christian spirituality. The book is presented as a series of conversations between Cassian, his friend Germanus, and the great monks of the Egyptian desert, preserving the wisdom of men who had devoted their lives entirely to the pursuit of holiness.

The reflections over the coming weeks are based on ideas found in the Collations. There is no need to read them to follow each reflection, but the work is available, in an excellent modern translation by our own Fr Jerome, from our bookshop in person and online.

The Collations of St John Cassian are among the oldest and most influential books of Christian spirituality. The book is presented as a series of conversations between Cassian, his friend Germanus, and the great monks of the Egyptian desert, preserving the wisdom of men who had devoted their lives entirely to the pursuit of holiness.

St Philip knew the Collations well. It was his textbook for the Oratory. Many of his own familiar counsels can already be found there. Yet he also warned that beginners should approach it with caution.

The danger, we might suppose, is that these desert fathers encourage impossible standards of fasting and prayer. There is certainly plenty of both. Cassian is, after all, a monk writing down the wisdom of other monks for the benefit of…monks. Yet what shines through the Collations is something rather different: not a glorification of extreme penance, but rather sensible advice and a profound understanding of human nature.

Even our natural limitations are viewed not as obstacles to spirituality, but as a kind of safety feature. Because while our fervent spiritual desire for the glory of God is meant to make us want to eat less, sleep less and pray more, our physical limitations — our bodily weaknesses — prevent us from overdoing it. Spiritual desire overcomes our temptations to physical excess, but bodily weakness prevents temptations to spiritual excess — both to our benefit.

In this wisdom, charity always takes first place over all other considerations, so that hermits are warned not to fast so strictly that they don’t have food to eat should they need to show hospitality to a visitor. Holiness is measured less by extraordinary interactions with angels and demons than by patience, humility and victory over one’s own faults.

Beneath the surface of this monastic advice lie refreshing insights into human nature. Perhaps that is why this wisdom of the desert still sounds so fresh. The circumstances of life may have changed enormously, but human nature has changed remarkably little. Prayer amid discouragement, perseverance amid temptation remain the concerns of every Christian, whether living in a fourth-century Egyptian monastery, sixteenth-century Rome or a twenty-first-century family home. Over the coming weeks we will be sharing some of the insights from the Collations that have nourished Christians for sixteen centuries. We hope that the wisdom of the desert will prove just as fresh to us today.

The Collations, in an excellent modern translation by our own Fr Jerome, are available to buy from our bookshop in person and online.

The first couple of weeks in August are filled with the feasts of some wonderful saints — but what makes them special?

Today we celebrate St Jane Frances de Chantal, foundress of the Visitandine nuns and a dear friend of the (first) Oratorian Doctor of the Church, St Francis de Sales. She was an extraordinary woman, who was a devoted wife and mother to a large family. When her husband died, she finished raising her children herself, and she could easily have been excused for spending the rest of her life in comfortable retirement. But no — she dedicated the second part of her life to the service of God, founding her order to enable other women at her stage of life to find a place in religious life.

Just recently, we celebrated St Dominic, the great founder of the Dominican Order. He saw the need in the Church of his day for powerful preachers to bring people who had fallen away back to devotion to God, and he got up and did something about it. His Order spread across Europe even within his lifetime — he personally sent the first friars to preach in England from his deathbed — and, more than eight hundred years on, his legacy still remains. His sons, now spread throughout the whole world, are still preaching the Good News to people who need it.

Yesterday we celebrated another holy foundress, St Clare, who was one of St Francis’ closest followers from the beginning of his ministry in Assisi, and founded the women’s branch of the Franciscan family. She was faced with great adversity — her unbreakable commitment to poverty set many against her new order. But she saw a need for this new, radical form of religious life in the Church, and her vision has borne fruit in the order that still bears her name today, the Poor Clares.

A few days ago we celebrated St John Vianney, the holy Curé (parish priest) of Ars. He, too, is remarkable — but he is not remarkable for founding a new order or leaving some lasting legacy behind him. He is remembered for his extraordinary devotion to the very ordinary. He arrived in a small village parish, and simply did his duty — preaching, hearing confessions, celebrating the sacraments — but he did it with extraordinary devotion to God and to his people. Soon, people travelled across France to make their confessions to him, such was his reputation for holiness — but he got that reputation simply through dedicated service to his little parish.

All the saints, in their own way, were extraordinary people. They served God extraordinarily well. They were extraordinarily holy. But is that what makes a saint?

The consequences of answering “Yes” are rather uncomfortable. Am I an extraordinary person, an extraordinarily holy person? Perhaps you, my dear reader, are — someone has to be! But I think most of us, really, aren’t. We try our best — we say our prayers, we come to Mass when we can, we try to go to confession regularly — but we don’t really measure up to a Clare, or a John Vianney, or a Jane Frances. So if their extraordinariness is what makes them saints, is saintliness — life with God in his heavenly kingdom — really for us? Is it something beyond our reach?

Our answer, of course, has to be “No”. Christ came to call everyone to himself — Jew and Gentile, rich and poor — and he extends the invitation. He is the King of the wedding feast, who shares his table with anyone who will come. He doesn’t demand extraordinary things of us, only that we go where he calls us. In the Divine Office, the Church celebrates her saints — but it also tells us what it is to be a saint. One of the responsories on some saints’ feasts is this: “The Lord loved him, and adorned him; he clothed him with the stole of glory.”

Read it carefully — it’s not “He loved the Lord”, but “The Lord loved him”. Yes, we need to do our best at loving God. We do need to come to Mass, to say our prayers, to follow his commands and confess our sins when we fail in them. But that isn’t what makes us saints. Becoming saints is, in fact, completely beyond our power. And yet, even though we can’t possibly do it ourselves, it’s what we are all supposed to do. And so: what does it mean to be a saint? It means to love God, yes — but so much more than that, it means that God loves you.