I’ve told this story before about St. Philip Neri—from before he was a saint, from even before he was a priest.
Alone, he used to crawl into the catacombs outside Rome to pray; it was the sixteenth century, so the catacombs weren’t yet well-managed museums as they are today. Rather, they were just empty, dark catacombs, a good place to get away from people. Anyway, Philip used to go there to pray; and then one day in 1544 he was changed. He prayed for the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit came. It was mystical, maybe even physical: supposedly a ball of fire entered his mouth; his chest expanded in pain as the fire consumed his heart. Philip fell on the ground, crying out, “Enough, Lord, enough! I cannot take anymore!”[1]
Now, make of that what you will. Supposedly upon his death, they discovered his sternum and ribs unusually configured; some said they saw sparks in his mouth, on occasion, as he preached. Whatever that’s about, I don’t know. But he was changed by something; he became a saint. He was a strange man, holy and unusual; he was not a professional priest. You would not have liked him; we likely wouldn’t even ordain his kind today—such a man who, like some mystical fire-eater, supposedly swallowed the Spirit.
I mention Philip Neri, one because he’s a saint and hero of mine; but also to suggest a simple spiritual truth—true for me and true for you. And that truth is this, that it’s possible that sometimes we need to call down the Spirit just like that—like a beggar, like an addict, like a desperate impassioned lover. Sometimes that’s how best to approach God, not like he’s some inert metaphysical commodity we can purchase whenever we please but as he really his—the bridegroom, the lover of our souls; realizing none of this is mere amorous metaphor but the truth of the thing. Philp Neri reminds me how I should draw near to God—not calm, nor bored or complacent, but with goosebumps, with my blood pressure up, with my heart racing. Because I know God could ambush me at any moment, knock me down, conquer me, change me. I don’t know, maybe that’s why my prayers are so often so calm; because that frightens me, that prospect. How often do I pray ready to be changed, willing to be changed by God? How often do you pray like that? I don’t know, maybe that’s it; maybe that’s what’s holding me back, my calm prayers; maybe that’s what’s keeping us from setting holy fire to the world.
I’m meditating here upon our second reading—Paul’s words to Timothy. That seems to be what Paul is saying to him. “I remind you to stir into flame the gift of God,” he writes.[2] It’s not entirely certain what’s going on here, but it’s quite possible that Paul is trying to encourage Timothy after he failed somehow in his ministry. Paul mentions Timothy’s tears. He mentions also hardship, reminding him that he was not given a spirit of cowardice, but instead a spirit of power and love and self-control. Timothy, I don’t think at this stage in his life, was the saint he wanted be; beaten down by what Paul called useless disputes about words, by people with their profane and idle talk, whose words and ideas, Paul said, would “spread like gangrene,” Timothy is a Christian worn down, tired, maybe at the end of his rope—maybe like you sometimes, maybe me sometimes too.[3] I’ve always thought Timothy like one of us in that regard, not idyllic or a constantly perfect hero, but a believer just trying to get along, trying to survive, trying to be faithful in a world that often makes that hard to do.
Which is why Paul’s reminder should remind us too—“to stir into flame the gift of God.” Paul is talking specifically about what Timothy received when Paul laid hands on him, probably about his ordination. But he’s also talking generally about the Holy Spirit, given at ordinations and at confirmations and in all those beautifully uncontrollable, charismatic ways the Holy Spirt gives himself to us. The Holy Spirit descended upon the apostles at Pentecost; the Holy Spirit never ascended. The Holy Spirit is still here. But clearly there are times in our lives when the Spirit must be stirred up within us, when we need to catch our breath, breathe deep—not just the air, but spiritual fire too. The lesson is simple: if you’re in that situation, beat down and tired, anxious or weary or struggling, that’s okay, that’s normal; at least, it’s understandable; don’t beat yourself up; don’t think God’s stopped loving you; he’s a perfect Father; he doesn’t stop loving. Just find a place to be quiet, to rest, and take a deep breath. Pray: Come Holy Spirit, my soul inspire. Try to pray that simple prayer like a beggar, like a lover. Stir up the Spirit that’s already within you. And be patient and wait for him, for the Lord is gentle and courteous, and he knows just when to touch your heart—when it’s finally tender, when you’re ready.
And, just one final note: notice Paul is speaking to Timothy and to no one else. He’s not talking to a group of people; he’s not talking about the larger problems of the Church. He’s not suggesting that if we can only fix these problems first, take care of those people first, then all shall be well with his soul. No, he’s telling Timothy to tend to his own soul first, to tend to his own interior life first, to stir up the Spirit within himself first. Like the flight attendant telling you to adjust your own oxygen mask first before helping your neighbor, Paul is reminding Timothy where spiritual renewal begins—with Timothy, with me, with you. And so, eyes on your own work. Yes, the world is strange, the Church too. But you’re not going to do anything good about it—me either—until we stir up the Spirit within us, one beautifully weary soul at time. Amen.
[1] Paul Türks, Philip Neri: The Fire of Joy, 17
[2] 2 Timothy 1:6
[3] 2 Timothy 1:4-6; 2:14-17
© 2022 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield
