The Memorial of Saint Bridget
The Lord's word came to me, saying, "Go and proclaim in the ears of Jerusalem, saying, 'The Lord says, "I remember for you the kindness of your youth, Your love as a bride, How you went after me in the wilderness, In a land that was not sown. Israel was holiness to the Lord, The first fruits of his increase. All who devour him will be held guilty. Evil will come on them,"' says the Lord."
I brought you into a plentiful land To eat its fruit and its goodness; But when you entered, you defiled my land, And made my heritage an abomination. The priests didn't say, 'Where is the Lord?' And those who handle the law didn't know me. The rulers also transgressed against me, And the prophets prophesied by Baal And followed things that do not profit.
"Be astonished, you heavens, at this And be horribly afraid. Be very desolate," says the Lord. "For my people have committed two evils: They have forsaken me, the spring of living waters, And cut out cisterns for themselves: broken cisterns that can't hold water.
Your righteousness is like the mountains of God. Your judgments are like a great deep. Lord, you preserve man and animal. How precious is your loving kindness, God! The children of men take refuge under the shadow of your wings.
They shall be abundantly satisfied with the abundance of your house. You will make them drink of the river of your pleasures. For with you is the spring of life. In your light we will see light.
Oh continue your loving kindness to those who know you, Your righteousness to the upright in heart. Don't let the foot of pride come against me. Don't let the hand of the wicked drive me away.
The disciples came, and said to him, "Why do you speak to them in parables?"
He answered them, "To you it is given to know the mysteries of the Kingdom of Heaven, but it is not given to them. For whoever has, to him will be given, and he will have abundance; but whoever doesn't have, from him will be taken away even that which he has. Therefore I speak to them in parables, because seeing they don't see, and hearing, they don't hear, neither do they understand. In them the prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled, which says, 'By hearing you will hear, And will in no way understand; Seeing you will see, And will in no way perceive; For this people's heart has grown callous, Their ears are dull of hearing, And they have closed their eyes; Or else perhaps they might perceive with their eyes, Hear with their ears, Understand with their heart, And would turn again, And I would heal them.'
"But blessed are your eyes, for they see; and your ears, for they hear. For most certainly I tell you that many prophets and righteous men desired to see the things which you see, and didn't see them; and to hear the things which you hear, and didn't hear them.
Saint Bridget of Sweden was a medieval mystic, mother of eight, and founder of the Bridgettine religious order — a woman who somehow held together the demands of family life, political courage, and deep contemplative prayer. She's a good companion for what these readings are asking of us today.
Jeremiah opens with God recalling something tender: the early days of the relationship, when Israel followed faithfully through the wilderness. There's a wistfulness in that image — the honeymoon season of trust, before comfort and security dulled the senses. And then the indictment: "They have forsaken me, the spring of living waters, and cut out cisterns for themselves — broken cisterns that can't hold water."
Notice how precise that image is. A cistern is a reasonable thing to build. It stores water, it's practical, it gives the illusion of self-sufficiency. The problem isn't the effort — it's that the cistern is cracked. All that labor, and still empty.
We do this constantly. We construct elaborate systems of control, distraction, or achievement to meet a thirst that only living water can satisfy. We work harder, scroll longer, stay busier — and still feel the dryness.
Then Jesus, in Matthew, speaks of eyes that see and ears that hear. The disciples aren't smarter than the crowds. The difference is openness — a posture of receptivity, a willingness to let something land rather than deflect it.
Bridget understood this. Even amid the noise of medieval court life, she kept returning to the source. Her mystical visions weren't escapes from ordinary life — they were what ordinary life looked like when the heart stayed permeable.
The invitation today is simply to notice where we're working hard to fill ourselves with something that can't hold.
What cisterns are we currently maintaining that leave us empty? Where has the heart grown just slightly calloused without our noticing? And what would it mean, just today, to turn back toward the spring?