From
the visions of the Catholic mystic Maria Valtorta.
Above,
against the pure, so blue and gentle sky, stands a flaming figure
that seems to be made only of incandescent fire. A fire whose
brilliance is more vivid than that of the sun, which emerges from
behind a wooded mountain range with a splendor of rays and glories
that sets everything ablaze with joy. This being of fire is clothed
in feathers. […] It looks like an angel because two immense wings
hold it suspended and fixed against the immaterial cobalt of the
September sky, two immense open wings that form a cross, supported by
the resplendent body.
Two
immense wings that are the whiteness of incandescence, open against
the shimmering incandescence of the body, clothed in other wings that
completely envelop it, gathered with their supernatural feathers of
pearl, diamond, and pure silver, around the person. It seems that
even the head is wrapped in this singular feathery garment. Because I
cannot see it. I only see, where that seraphic face should be, a
glimmer of such vivid splendor that I am left as if dazzled. […]
The cross of burning feathers stands fixed in the sky with its
mystery.
Below,
a gaunt little friar, whom I recognize as my seraphic Father
[Francis], prays on his knees on the grass, not far from a bare,
rough cave, frightening like a precipice of hell. The ravaged body
seems not to inhabit the […] overly large habit. The neck emerges,
a pale brown, from the grayish cowl, a color between that of ash and
certain slightly yellowish sands. The hands emerge with their thin
wrists from the wide sleeves and are extended in prayer, palms turned
outwards and raised as in the "Dominus vobiscum". Two
hands, once brown, now yellowish, of a suffering and emaciated
person. The face is a thin face that seems sculpted in old ivory,
neither beautiful nor regular, but possessing a particular beauty
made of spirituality.
The
brown eyes are beautiful. But they do not look upwards. They look,
wide open and fixed, at the things of the earth. But I don't think
they see. They are open, resting on the dewy grass; they seem to be
studying the grayish embroidery of a wild thistle and the feathery
one of a wild fennel, which the dew has transformed into a green,
diamond-studded "aigrette" [headdress]. But I am certain
that he sees nothing. Not even the robin that descends with a chirp
to look for some small seed on the grass.
He
prays. His eyes are open. But his gaze does not go outwards, but
inwards, into himself. How and why and when he becomes aware of the
living cross that is fixed in the sky, I do not know. Whether he felt
it by attraction or saw it by an inner calling, I do not know. I know
that he raises his face and searches with his eyes, which now come
alive with interest, confirming my conviction of his previous lack of
external vision.
The
gaze of my seraphic Father meets the great, living, flaming cross. A
moment of astonishment. Then a cry: “My Lord!”, and Francis falls
back slightly on his heels, remaining in ecstasy, with his face
lifted, smiling, shedding the first two tears of beatitude, with his
arms more open. And behold, the Seraph moves its shining, mysterious
figure. It descends. It approaches. It does not come to earth. No. It
is still very high up. But not as it was before, midway between
heaven and earth. And the earth becomes even more luminous because of
this living sun that in this blessed dawn unites with and surpasses
the other sun of every day.
As
it descends, with wings always outstretched in a cross shape,
cleaving the air not by the movement of feathers but by its own
weight, it gives off a sound of paradise. Something that no human
instrument can produce. [...] And now, while Francis laughs, and
cries, and shines even more in ecstatic joy, the Seraph opens its two
wings – now I understand well that they are wings – that are
towards the middle of the cross. And the most holy Feet of my Lord
appear nailed to the wood, and his long legs, of a splendor, in this
vision, as vivid as his glorified Limbs have in Paradise. And then
two other wings open, right at the top of the cross.
And
my sight, and I believe also that of Francis, however much he is
aided by divine grace, suffers from the joy of the blinding light.
Behold the trunk of the Savior that pulsates with breath, and behold,
oh! behold the Fire that only grace allows one to gaze upon, behold
the Fire of his Face that appears when the shroud of the sparkling
feathers is fully opened.
The
fire of all volcanoes and stars and flames, surrounded by six sublime
wings of pearls, silver, and diamonds, would still be little light
compared to this indescribable, inconceivable radiance of the Most
Holy Humanity of the Redeemer nailed to his cross. The Face, then,
and the five wounds find no comparison to describe them. I think of
the most resplendent things […], this is a condensation of the sun
multiplied by an incalculable number of times.
The
peak of La Verna must appear as if a thousand volcanoes had opened
around it to crown it. The air, because of the light and heat, which
burns but does not consume, emanating from my crucified Lord,
trembles with waves perceptible to the eye, and stems and leaves seem
unreal, so much does the light penetrate even the opacity of bodies
and makes them light. […]
Francis,
then, upon whom the light pours and invests and penetrates him, no
longer seems a human body. But a lesser seraph, brother of the one
who gave his wings to the service of the Redeemer.
Now
Francis is almost prostrate, so much is he bent backward, with arms
completely open, under his Sun God Crucified! He is immaterial in
appearance, so much do the light and joy penetrate him. He does not
speak, he does not breathe, materially. He would seem a glorified
dead man if it were not for that pose that requires at least a
minimum of life to subsist. The tears that fall, and perhaps serve to
temper the human aridity of this mystical flame, shine like streams
of diamonds on his thin cheeks.
I
hear no words from either Francis or Jesus. An absolute, profound,
astonished silence. A pause in the world surrounding the mystery. So
as not to disturb. So as not to profane this sacred silence where a
God communicates with his blessed one. Contrary to what one might
expect, the birds do not burst into more acute trills and joyful
flights for this celebration of light, no butterflies or dragonflies
dance, no lizards or geckos dart about. Everything is still in an
anticipation in which I feel the adoration of all beings towards Him
for whom they were made. Not even that gentle breeze that made a
sighing sound among the leaves remains. Not even that slow,
arpeggiated sound of water hidden in some hollow of stone, which
before occasionally cast its notes, like rare pearls, on a tonal
scale. Nothing. There is Love. And that is enough.
 |
| Giotto |
Jesus
looks at and smiles at his Francis. Francis looks at and smiles at
his Jesus. But now, the glorified Face, so luminous as to appear
almost as lines of light, like that of the Eternal Father,
materializes a little. His eyes take on that blazing sapphire
brilliance as when He performs a miracle. The lines become severe,
imposing, as always in those hours, imperious, I would say. A command
from the Word must go to His Flesh; and the Flesh obeys. And
from the five Wounds shoot five arrows, five small lightning bolts, I
should say, that descend without zigzagging in the air but
perpendicularly, very quickly, five needles of unbearable light that
pierce Francis.
I
do not see, naturally, the feet, covered by the robe and limbs, and
the side covered by the tunic. But I see the hands. And I see that,
after the fiery points have entered and passed through –
I am as if behind Francis – the light,
which is on the other side, towards the palm, passes through the hole
on the back of the hand. They look like two open eyelets in the
metacarpus, from which two threads of blood descend, flowing slowly
down the wrists, onto the forearms, under the sleeves.
Francesco
lets out a sigh so deep that it reminds me of the last breath of the
dying. But he doesn't fall. He remains as he was for some time
longer. Until the Seraph, whose face I have never seen – I have
only seen his six wings – spreads these sublime wings like a veil
over the most holy Body and hides it, and with the two initial wings
he ascends, ever higher, into the sky, and the light diminishes,
finally remaining only that of a serene sunny morning. And the Seraph
disappears beyond the cobalt of the sky that swallows him and closes
upon the mystery that has descended to bless a son of God and that
has now ascended to his kingdom.
Then
Francesco feels the pain of the wounds and with a groan, without
getting up, he moves from his previous position to sitting on the
ground. And he looks at his hands and uncovers his feet. And he opens
his garment on his chest. Five streams of blood and five cuts are the
memory of God's kiss. And Francesco kisses his hands and caresses his
side and soles, weeping and murmuring: "Oh, my Jesus! My Jesus!
What love! What love, Jesus!... Jesus!... Jesus!..."
And
he tries to stand up, pressing his fists to the ground, and succeeds
with pain in his palms and soles, and he sets off, a little unsteady
like someone who is wounded and cannot lean on the ground and
stumbles from pain and weakness from fainting, towards his cave, and
falls to his knees on a stone, with his forehead against a cross made
of only wood, two branches tied together, and there he looks at his
hands on which a nail head seems to be forming, penetrating and
piercing, and he weeps. He weeps for love, beating his chest and
saying: “Jesus, my sweet King! What have You done to me? Not for
the pain, but for the praise of others, this gift of Yours is too
much for me! Why me, Lord, me unworthy and poor? Your wounds! Oh!
Jesus!”
Maria Valtorta, The Notebooks
1944, September 16, pp. 554-559.
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