Simple Thoughts on the Rosary: Introduction
To say the Rosary as I ought, two things are requisite—(1) in my exterior deportment the reverence becoming one who is in converse with the Queen of Heaven; (2) reasonable pains to withdraw my mind from irrelevant thoughts, and fix them on one or other aspect of the many-sided mysteries I am contemplating. I should, therefore, try to banish from my mind frivolous or useless recollections, and should seek as far as may be a time and place where objects that would strike my senses and draw my thoughts from the subject I am considering may be shut out. We cannot think of two things at once, and we must get rid of one set of thoughts if we are to make room for another. I must leave as far as possible the scenes of my daily life, and betake myself—with my anxieties and difficulties if I will—to other scenes, where a perfect life was lived for me, and where difficulties and anxieties were perfectly met in order to be my example.
Far-off scenes and persons are made marvellously real to us in these days by means of the cinematograph and the gramophone. We see a train come puffing into a station, the passengers alight, come down the swarming platform, and smile at us as they pass. In a concert room we may hear the very tones of the voice of some famous singer. Little effort is needed to recall the memory of these sights and sounds. Nay, considerable effort is necessary to efface them from the imagination on which they have engraved themselves.
If only we could so bring before our minds the Gospel scenes as to be impressed with something of this sense of reality! And why not? We can familiarise ourselves with the Gospel narrative, put together pictures we have seen, and descriptions we have heard, and in this way create for ourselves a very helpful environment when we come to contemplate an incident in the life of our Lord or of His Blessed Mother. Of course, there cannot be quite the same vividness, and, of course, there must be effort and diligence—what is ever done without? But how can effort be better spent? Little by little our scenes take shape, and at last the very name of a mystery brings before us the picture that will not only help to fix our imagination, but be a source of holy and helpful thoughts.
We see the little room at Nazareth, and the child of fourteen at her prayer. We see her reverence, her stillness, the Angel coming in. We hear his salutation, and listen for her reply. We notice the beautiful virtues that come out in it, and love these virtues more and more for seeing their loveliness in Mary. We feel, as it were, the expectancy of heaven and earth in that midnight hour, the most eventful in the world’s history. We see the cave at Bethlehem, how low and dark it is. We feel the prickly straw. We hear the few whispered words of Mary and Joseph.
And so in the other mysteries. In all of them we watch our Lord as if we were present and saw Him in the Temple, in the Garden of Gethsemane, on His way to Calvary. We note His attitude, the expression of His face, His words, His silence, His gestures. And through these exterior signs we try to learn what is passing in His Heart. Thus the picturing of the scene leads by a natural transition to the contemplation of persons, words, and actions.
In all this we must not tire the head by over-taxing the imagination. The rule here as in all things is, to take what helps and to leave what hinders us. Only, it is well to give the representation of the scene and the dwelling on persons, words, and actions a fair trial. Indeed, it is hard to know what we can substitute for this that is not the same thing—supposing of course we do not limit our attention to the words we are saying. To understand the Rosary as the Church understands it, and as she proposes it to us, we must bear in mind that it is a study of Christ and of His Blessed Mother. The study may be no more than a quiet, restful gaze, but even this supposes some such concentration of the mind on persons, or on what they are doing or saying.
It may not be amiss to notice the objection of those who say: “If our pictures were anything better than the creatures of our own brain; if we could bring before us the scenes we wish to contemplate with anything like truth of detail, then indeed they would help; but how few of us can do this.” There is some force, perhaps, in this objection, though it did not trouble St. Bernard or St. Bonaventure. Those who find it unsurmountable can only let their brain pictures alone. By far the greater number of us, however, are helped by even an approximation to the truth. When Gustave Doré was at school, his professor of history often made use of his talent for the benefit of his companions. “Doré, step up to the board and draw a portrait of Nero, that these gentlemen may fully understand what I have been saying.” Even an imaginative portrait has its value in fixing the attention, as the French professor well knew.
St. Ignatius would have us consider whether the road from Nazareth to Bethlehem “be level or through valleys and over hills: whether the stable or cave of the Nativity be large or small, low or high, and how fitted up.” As if the imagination might be left a good deal to its own power of construction. At the same time, it cannot but be praiseworthy to aim at historical accuracy as far as possible. Love delights in detail; the love of God for us, and our love for Him is no exception to this rule.
If a friend leaves the old country and settles in Australia, we must know all about the new home out there—how the house lies, the extent of the ground it covers, its plan, prospect, rooms; above all, his own sanctum, and the place where the greater part of his day is spent. We must have photographs to help out his description. We want to picture him to ourselves. So we put together all the material that comes to hand, and let loving imagination fill up the gaps.
Can it be less interesting to know what the Holy House at Nazareth was like, and the Temple, and the Supper Room on Mount Sion? Surely the chief and noblest work for which our imagination is given is to occupy itself with the mysteries of the God-Man during His life on earth.
Still, there are many who find no help in representing to themselves past and distant scenes. They like to say their Rosary in the actuality of the Real Presence. Choosing an hour when the church is quiet, they take up their position before the tabernacle, and by an act of vivid faith try to realise that He is there who came to Mary, and hung in agony, and rose in glory.
But in whatever way we strive to bring home to us the mysteries of our Lord’s life, let us bear in mind that our study is no mere head exercise. The head works only for the sake of the heart and the will. We look and learn with a view to practice, remembering that our Lord did, or said, or suffered this or that, with us in His mind, and on purpose for us. The thought uppermost in our mind must be—all this for me. We have such a way of thinking of our Lord’s life as a piece of New Testament history that was a great deal to John and Magdalen, who listened to His words, and stood under the Cross; but as not concerning us individually, not concerning me. Whereas it was for me as well as for Mary Magdalen that he said—“Thy sins are forgiven thee.” As much for me as for John that He said to His Holy Mother—“Behold thy son.” We lose what our Lord meant us to gain by the story of His life, unless we remember that we individually were present to Him in all the Gospel scenes, and that it was because our needs had to be provided for, that He spoke and acted as we read.
In a certain connoisseur’s collection of paintings is a very old picture of the Crucifixion. It is not beautiful, but it is striking. The canvas is cracked, the figures are stiff, the colours are hard and dull. Our Lady is there and Magdalen and John. And kneeling at the foot of the Cross, is a nun looking up at our Lord, whose face is turned to her. The picture has a curious story. The nun was the abbess of a certain convent and a friend of the artist. Hearing he was going to paint the Crucifixion, she said to him—“Oh! do put me in. I was really there, you know. Our Lord had me in His mind when He hung on the Cross. He saw me, He spoke to me; do put me in.” The picture may not be more interesting to others for her presence there, but to herself it must certainly have made the Crucifixion, and the death of her Saviour for her, a fact more vividly realised. Let us do for ourselves what no artist is likely to do for us—put ourselves into the scene whenever we look at Calvary or any other scene of our Lord’s dear human life. We shall soon find what a difference it makes. Some look at a procession from a window. Others follow it on foot, have a part in it, perhaps carry an emblem. In like manner some contemplate the life of Christ with a pious but theoretical eye. We must have a part in it if it is to influence our lives.