Beauty Archives - Page 10 of 14 Held By His Pierced Hands

Weakness

On Christmas morning,¹ Father gave a homily that focused on the weakness of the infant Christ. Since I had custody of a 3-year-old and an infant at the time, I didn’t hear much, but I’ve been meditating on the weakness of the omnipotent one a lot since then.

I tend to focus on Christ’s weakness and poverty as a manifestation of his desperate love for us, that he was willing to suffer anything to be united to us. And certainly that’s true–he wanted to be like us in every way but sin² and so he began with that most basic of human conditions: weakness. And yet I think there’s so much more than that to learn from a God who can’t hold up his head–in the manger or on the cross.

Now isn’t that just the prettiest vicious instrument of torture and execution you’ve ever seen? By the way, go shop at Hobby Lobby, especially this Saturday January 5th–they’re really fighting the good fight with this HHS business.

There’s something about the helpless baby Jesus that draws us, something about his very weakness that appeals to what is good in our humanity. We turn from Christ stripped and beaten, take him off our crucifixes or at least wash off the blood, but we can’t help but approach the little God-child in the manger. In his weakness, he calls to us as his strength never could.

You see, our God is terrifying. He’s anything but approachable. In the moment of the Fall, Adam and Eve saw God through the eyes of sin and hid from him. And in spite of everything God sent to our ancestors to draw them back to him, in spite of floods and plagues and prophets, in spite of the Song of Songs and the temple restored, still they hid. The only god worth worshiping is a God who holds galaxies in his hands, a God who rends mountains and smites nations. But who would dare love that God? So the Israelites did what was logical–they worshiped the true God with incense and sacrifices and then went home to pour their hearts out to their weak little household idols.

Because a god who can do nothing is at least a shoulder to cry on but a real God, one with real power? That’s not something to be trifled with.

Our God would not be distant from the hearts he so loved, though, and so he fought for us. The entire Old Testament is a history of God’s attempt at wooing man. But whatever he did, still we hid and cowered and held him at arm’s length. Despite our need for him, we ran from him.

And so the almighty, immortal, all-knowing God chose to need us. Not in any real sense of the word, of course. But he became that most needy of creatures: a human infant.³ Because we would not approach his majesty, he became supremely approachable in the form of a soft, sweet, chicken-legged little baby who needs to be held and rocked and loved. Through his weakness, he draws us to himself. We would not love him reigning in heaven, so he asks us to love him powerless on earth. Our beloved Holy Father spoke about this at Midnight Mass this year:⁴

Again and again it astonishes us that God makes himself a child so that we may love him, so that we may dare to love him, and as a child trustingly lets himself be taken into our arms. It is as if God were saying: I know that my glory frightens you, and that you are trying to assert yourself in the face of my grandeur. So now I am coming to you as a child, so that you can accept me and love me.

And in becoming weak to draw us close, he dignifies weakness. He teaches us that suffering and poverty and even shame have value and meaning. He teaches us that the weak are not despised by God who himself became weak.

Jesus loved the outcasts And if we are Christ-lovers, then we must become lovers of the weak, the scorned, the poor, the abused. We must love him in them not simply because he told us to (Mt 25) but because in the womb of the 13-year-old girl waiting for her bus with swollen ankles and a more swollen belly we see our Savior, threatened from the moment of his conception by a world that thought he had no right to exist. In the little boy whose daddy is being deported, we see our God in exile with no legal right to safety from the terrors of what should have been his home. In the little girl who’s three years behind in school, we see the Word illiterate, learning to read at his mother’s knee. In the losers and the freaks sitting alone in the cafeteria, we see Love rejected and despised. In the homeless, the unemployed, the terminally ill, the criminal we see Christ. And if we’re serious about this Jesus thing, we fight to love them not despite their weakness but because of it.

Still it gets harder–further up and further in, after all. We love God in his weakness and so we love people in their weakness and so we must love ourselves in our weakness as well. We refuse to be discouraged when we are lonely because, after all, Christ was lonely. We weep beside him, hunger beside him, long to be loved beside him. The God of power and might did what seemed impossible–became weak–not only to show his love or call out for ours, not only to dignify weakness or teach us how to love others. He shivered and cried and toddled and fell and lisped and stank and suffered and died in order that we might not grow weary and lose hope.⁵ To give us patience with ourselves, to remind us that he’s not done with us yet. Tonight, I am weak and a little discouraged. And maybe as the world makes lists of resolutions, what we need isn’t more gym memberships or book lists but the simple promise that when we fail, it will be okay.

God became weak for us. Maybe weakness isn’t something to be ashamed of after all.

*********

If you’re in the Mobile, Alabama area, make sure to check out Vino and Values, a women’s evening with speaker Hallie Lord. Free wine, cheese, door prizes, fellowship, and a fabulous speaker–what’s not to like? (And if you’re not in Mobile, at least check out this great article by Hallie on how being hard is what makes marriage great.)

Merry Christmas! It’s not Christmas day anymore, but it’s still Christmas. [↩]
Hebrews 4:15–did anybody hear me talking about Hebrews on the radio the other day? [↩]
Believe me–we’re dealing with two right now and we’re all just a little bit crazy from all their neediness. [↩]
Thanks to Christina for helping me find this quotation! [↩]
Hebrews again–12:3 this time. [↩]

Unconditional Love

love Lately, I’ve been pulling my darling nephew onto my lap and snuggling him.

“Guess what,” I say.

“I love you,” he responds, because that is how this game goes.

“How much do I love you?”

“A dillion.” This is, apparently, an enormous number. It’s bigger than a trillion. A dillion squared is a sillion. That’s all we know.

“Will I love you forever?”

“Yes.” He’s smiling.

“No matter what?”

“Yes.”

“What if you do something really bad? What if you kick Cecilia hard? Will I still love you then?”

The first time I asked a question like this, he wasn’t quite sure. He just looked distressed. But now he knows. “Yes.”

“What if you’re really mad at me and you hate me? Will I still love you?”

“Yes.”

“What if you hate Jesus and you never go to church?”

“Yes.”

It goes on with different questions each time. He smiles the whole time, giggles sometimes–not because anything’s funny, just because he’s happy. I tell him over and over that I love him and he knows it but he still needs to hear it.

If you need to hear it tonight, let me tell you. God loves you. Forever and for always, to the moon and back. He loves you more than you could ever imagine and he will never stop loving you. Not if you are cruel to the people who love you, not if you reject him and hate him and nail him to the cross over and over. He will still love you. No matter what.

Jesus snuggling a lamb

And since you maybe don’t hear him when he sings it in symphonies and paints it in wildflowers and suspends it in a monstrance, I’ll say it again.

Whatever you’ve done, wherever you’ve been, whoever you are, whatever the cost. Deeply, madly, desperately he loves you.

Hallelujah.

“Come Closer to Me”

Last night, I left my poor sister alone with the fussy twins because there is very little that can keep me from Midnight Mass. I knelt before Mass soaking in the last chapters of Isaiah. My soul was stilled as the Christmas Proclamation cut through the silence and my heart echoed with joy when the choir sang out “Adeste Fidelis.” I smiled as a little girl with leggings under her Christmas dress laid the baby Jesus in the manger and ached at the beauty of “What Child Is This.” I fell to my knees as I professed my faith in the incarnation and meditated on life as a pilgrim, an outsider conforming to the Center of all being who became an outcast for me.

And then I approached the altar. I bowed before Christ incarnate and went forward to receive my God. As usual, I closed my eyes and opened my mouth to receive the kiss of my Lord. As usual, his touch was gentle. And then I heard him say, “Come closer to me.”

Not a locution, though for a moment I thought it was. Father, having given me communion, was telling the altar server to move closer to him with the patten. But with my eyes closed and Jesus on my tongue, I heard it as I think the Lord intended it:

“I have come close to you. I have taken on flesh that you might know me more fully. I have embraced your weakness and your poverty. I have wept for your consolation, been stripped and beaten and killed that I might win back your heart. I have returned and come for you, waiting for you day and night, calling to you from the tabernacle. I have subjected myself to indignities beyond belief to be close to you. Now you, dear heart. Come closer to me.”

What a grace–this Christmas, I am praying that you and all those you love will be flooded with grace to come closer to Christ. Let us kneel at the manger and worship, kneel at the altar and receive. Merry Christmas, my friends.

Our Christmas in a nutshell: Cecilia is wearing the crown I made her and one snowflake mitten; I'm wearing her Blessed Virgin Mary veil and John Paul's crown. I told her to pose for a picture and she brought the baby Jesus rubber duck from their awesome rubber duck nativity and said, "Wet's kiss Baby Jesus." Yes, of course. — Our Christmas in a nutshell: Cecilia is wearing the crown I made her and one snowflake mitten; I’m wearing her Blessed Virgin Mary veil and John Paul’s crown. I told her to pose for a picture and she brought the baby Jesus rubber duck from their awesome rubber duck nativity and said, “Wet’s kiss Baby Jesus.” Yes, of course.

O Emmanuel

O Emmanuel, king and lawgiver, desire of the nations, Savior of all people, come and set us free, Lord our God.

Anybody remember Animaniacs, that cartoon that was on in the 90s? I was a big fan and still sometimes get lines from the show stuck in my head. I vividly remember watching one episode in particular (the episode itself I can barely recall, but I remember the experience of watching it). It involved an Indiana Jones-style quest to find the meaning of life. I couldn’t have been more than ten years old, but I remember knowing even then that this was the question. I sat riveted to the screen, convinced that at the end of the show, I was going to know what the meaning of life was. When they got to the end and couldn’t find the answer (or whatever happened), I was furious. My little agnostic self was desperate, even at ten, to know the meaning of life. I understood that if there wasn’t some objective answer to the question our existence poses, the whole thing was futile.

In retrospect, I suppose I’m glad that they didn’t give an answer. I was so hungry for truth, I’m sure I would have taken whatever nonsense Warner Brothers came up with as Gospel. My ten-year-old heart knew that there had to be something more than the mundane experience of life that seemed universal. Like everyone, I wanted to know that I mattered, that there was some purpose to my life, that there was some objective morality, and that ultimately–eternally–I could be happy.

This is a yearning common to all humanity. We see it reflected in the desperate attempt to capture beauty on canvas or pedestal. We find it in the longing for romantic love and the music that glorifies it. We recognize it in the adolescent need either to stand out or to blend in, the hunger for success, the human tendency toward self-obsession; even the rampant materialism the permeates our society shows that we’re empty and we know it. We are driven to find meaning and purpose, to be accepted, to be seen and known and loved just as we are. That is the desire of every human heart.

And in just three days, the Desired of all nations will come. God with us, our Creator who is the way, the truth, and the life.¹ The divine lawgiver who shows us what it means to love God with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind and our neighbor as ourselves.² Christ our brother who makes us more than family.³ The Divine Word who knows everything we’ve ever done,⁴ never condemning but encouraging us to sin no more.⁵ Love incarnate who, in spite of everything, loves us as his Father loves him.⁶ The Son of God who will welcome us on the last day into the joy prepared for us from the foundation of the world.⁷

Blessed John Paul the Great puts it so simply: “Jesus Christ is the answer to the question posed by every human life.”⁸ When you gorge yourself on comfort food, it is because you hunger for the Bread that satisfies. When you look desperately and indiscriminately for your next romantic relationship, you are seeking One who will complete you. Your drive to do better and be greater comes from the fact that you were made to be perfect and you long to hear him say, “Well done.” When you feel alone or abused or unloved or vulnerable it’s because your identity rests in yourself or others, not, as it should, in Him. Your heart is restless until it rests in Him.

From heaven he called and shouted, sending patriarchs, prophets, and psalmists, but his children–who were looking for him in every brothel or pagan temple or market–couldn’t hear his love thundering through creation. Since the dances of the stars weren’t enough, he sent one star. Since his words of love weren’t enough, he sent one Word.

And on that barren night in Bethlehem, the long-awaited Messiah came quietly into the world to whisper what he had been shouting since the earth was a formless wasteland:

Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest⁹ because I love you.¹⁰ I do not condemn you¹¹ but I have come that you might have life and have it to the full.¹² I have told you this that my joy might be in you and your joy might be complete.¹³ And take heart,¹⁴ for no one will take your joy from you.¹⁵ I give you my peace.¹⁶ Do not worry,¹⁷ I will not leave you orphans; I will come to you¹⁸ for you are precious.¹⁹ Keep my commandments²⁰ and abide in my love²¹ and I will come back for you so that you may always be with me.²²

Everything you’ve ever wanted will be laid in a manger on Monday night. Every longing of your heart is drawing you to Jesus. Your soul wants to belong to the One by whom and for whom it was made. Let your restless heart be captivated by the newborn King who brings the meaning it craves. The Desired of nations, the meaning of life: Emmanuel, God with us. Maranatha.

Another brilliant piece by peggy aplSEEDS. You have GOT to click through to see how this Madonna and child is actually an illustration of the Jesse tree. Beautiful!

Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel,
And ransom captive Israel,
That mourns in lonely exile here
Until the Son of God appear.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

**********

Things I have learned from this series:

I’m not so great at praying when I’m praying, but I’m pretty good at praying when I’m writing or talking. My meditations on these antiphons were awfully shallow in the chapel, but I think I really like how they turned out here.
I’m incapable of mediocrity. Okay, I guess I’m mediocre in a lot of areas. But when I know I can do something well, I will do it well, even when it means sacrificing a lot of other things. I thought I could just throw things together and post them but I spent hours on each one of these–as usual.
The absolute hardest part of blogging is finding good pictures to break up the text.
I could have written half a dozen posts on each antiphon–there’s so much in there!
I will never again (barring a direct command from God) commit to seven posts in seven days when I only have two free hours a day anyway!!!

Jn 14:6 [↩]
Mk 12:30-31. [↩]
Jn 13:34 [↩]
Jn 4:39 [↩]
Jn 8:11 [↩]
Jn 15:9 [↩]
Mt 25:21, 34 [↩]
Or, in greater detail, “It is Jesus that you seek when you dream of happiness; He is waiting for you when nothing else you find satisfies you; He is the beauty to which you are so attracted; it is He who provoked you with that thirst for fullness that will not let you settle for compromise; it is He who urges you to shed the masks of a false life; it is He who reads in your heart your most genuine choices, the choices that others try to stifle. It is Jesus who stirs in you the desire to do something great with your lives, the will to follow an ideal, the refusal to allow yourselves to be ground down by mediocrity, the courage to commit yourselves humbly and patiently to improving yourselves and society, making the world more human and more fraternal.” [↩]
Mt 11:28 [↩]
Jn 15:9 [↩]
Jn 8:11 [↩]
Jn 10:10 [↩]
Jn 15:11 [↩]
Jn 16:33 [↩]
Jn 16:22 [↩]
Jn 14:27 [↩]
Lk 11:29 [↩]
Jn 14:18 [↩]
Lk 12:7 [↩]
Jn 14:15 [↩]
Jn 15:9 [↩]
Jn 14:3 [↩]

O King of All the Nations

O King of all the nations, the only joy of every human heart; O Keystone of the mighty arch of man, come and save the creature you fashioned from the dust.

The Church can learn a lot from the mall.

Wait, is there some kind of holiday coming up?¹

If you’ve been in a mall in the past month, you know Christmas is coming. For that matter, if you’ve turned on the radio, been on the internet, or even driven through your neighborhood, you know. The world is preparing for the joy of Christmas. They’re consumed by it. And it may be more about consumption than it is about Christ, but the fact remains that the secular heart is often turned more towards Christmas during December than is the Christian heart.

As in so many things, our world gets a lot right by accident. Just like people know that marriage is important enough to merit an enormous celebration, they know that Christmas is a huge deal. And they get that it’s about joy–joy to the world and all that. Watch Elf and tell me the message isn’t that Christmas is all about joy and love.²

But why must Christmas be joyful? Is there something about evergreens indoors, colorful lights, and excessive consumerism that triggers a release of seratonin? Is it just because we give gifts and spend time with family? Or maybe the world is recognizing something real here: the only joy of every human heart.

Okay, who knows who painted this one? I love that they're flocking to him with an eagerness we rarely see outside of Black Friday and Justin Bieber concerts. — I love that they’re flocking to him with an eagerness we rarely see outside of Black Friday and Justin Bieber concerts.³

Christ is our joy, most especially at Christmas because this is the moment when his coming was declared to the world. For nine months, Mary kept the knowledge that God had come to save us in her heart, sharing it only with Joseph, maybe, or Elizabeth. But at Christmas, the angels sang GLORIA and shepherds bowed their heads in worship, the lowest of men chosen to bear witness to the humility of God. The magi bent their knees before a no-name child in a a no-name village in a no-name province. On Christmas, God who had come near cried from the rooftops that he was here for us.

And this is joy–because God loves you, my friend–not y’all, but you–so deeply, so desperately that while you were still in sin, he came for you. For 33 years, he breathed for you and sweated for you and endured taunts and bug bites and emotional teenage girls for you. For you he preached, for you he suffered, for you he died. But he rose for you, friend, and returned for you in the Eucharist. All for you–with joy, for you.

In this we rejoice–that the God of the universe, the creator of galaxies and molecules, the God who has no need of our praise, this God wanted you. Threw aside the 99 righteous sheep to scour the hillsides for you. This God glows with pleasure when he hears his name on your lips. The God whose ways are as far above ours as the heavens are above the earth seriously does backflips when you go to confession.⁴

Can you imagine? Can you even begin to fathom what Christmas means? Unending love that will stop at nothing even though he knows every nasty corner of your soul. My God saw you filthy and cruel and awful and came running, shoving aside every obstacle, fighting Satan to the death and beyond, so that he himself could clean you and tend you and teach you and nurture you and endure further mockery and mistreatment at your hands. And he rejoices to do it.

This is what it means to be a Christian at Christmas. Pure, unbounded, awestruck joy.

This lady came out of the waters of rebirth screaming "Hallelujah!" Would that we all found such joy in Christ. — This lady came out of the waters of rebirth screaming “Hallelujah!” I think she lives in Singapore but I really want to be her friend.

I know there’s so little time left for cleaning and cooking and shopping and wrapping and all the other little things that we really must do in order to bring Christmas joy to those we love.⁵ But if you’re not overwhelmed by this joy I’m describing, do something about it. Watch The Nativity Story or put on some hardcore Christmas hymns a few days early or take a nap or go to adoration or go to confession⁶ or buy Christmas candy before it’s on sale and enjoy it early–I’m all about the suspense, but if you need a running start to leap up to “in excelsis” where the angels will finally be singing the Gloria on Monday evening, you have my official blogger permission to do what you have to do.

Even my 3-year-old nephew seems to have some spiritual preparation yet to complete. This morning, he came downstairs to find his Little People Nativity set up in a new location. He ran to it excitedly saying “Jesus???” But Jesus is still hidden until Christmas morning, so he exclaimed (with some relief) “Ohhhh Mawy’s still pwegnant!”⁷ I don’t know what he’s got in the works, but apparently it’s important. Like most of us, he needs every bit of Advent he can get.

Because you can have the most perfect Jesse Tree in existence or know every verse to “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” by heart in Latin or wear liturgically appropriate colors all season⁸ and your Advent will be a failure if Christmas doesn’t find you exulting. Every last moment of his life was for you. Take a page from the Target ad and rejoice.

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Oh, bid our sad divisions cease,
And be yourself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!⁹

via flickr [↩]
Or just watch it because it’s awesome. And seriously read that article. [↩]
Anybody know who painted this one? [↩]
No, I will not let up. Come on, every Catholic Church in the whole world–or at least a whole stinking lot of them–has confession this morning or this afternoon. You can pick the time of your choice using www.masstimes.org. Just go! [↩]
Believe me, I know it. Anyone remember why I decided to write a blog post every day and crochet multiple Christmas gifts for each niece and nephew and keep on babysitting non-stop and try to hang out with Jesus to get ready for his birthday? Basically, I have crocheted zero things in the past week which leaves me at .9 out of 9 gifts made. God help me, this is going to be a ridiculous weekend. [↩]
Shut up. It’s my goal in life to convince people to go to confession. Why have a blog if not to do whatever the heck I want? [↩]
Totally stolen from my sister’s facebook page, but I was with him for pretty much everything else he said all week, so I don’t feel even one bit guilty. [↩]
Yeah, I wore a sparkly purple sweater for the first two Sundays and pink for Gaudete. Bring it. [↩]
Really, I think both this and “O come, O come Emmanuel” go with tomorrow’s antiphon. But the best I can tell, the other is supposed to go with the”O Emmanuel,” so then there’s nothing left for today so…whatever. [↩]

O Radiant Dawn

O Radiant Dawn, splendor of eternal light, sun of justice: come, shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death.

I knew a girl once who had been raised Catholic but had rejected the faith. At 20, she was pretty militantly anti-religion, although I don’t think I realized it until our small talk one day turned into something more.

She was asking me about my work, so I explained her that I was a high school religion teacher.

“Wait, so do you teach them all religions? Or do you just teach them yours?”

“Well, it’s a Catholic school,” I replied affably, “so I teach Catholicism.”

The look on her face was like I had told her that I drop kick babies for sport. “How can you do that? How can you force onto young minds the idea that your beliefs are right and everybody else’s are wrong?”

I was rather taken aback by this reaction–she really thought I was doing something evil when I tried to draw young hearts to Christ. I’ve had plenty of people think my attempts to evangelize were dumb or naïve but never cruel. So I didn’t have a pat answer at hand as I do with most of the challenges I get from non-Christians or non-Catholics. Fortunately, the Holy Spirit is always on his game.

“What if you had a friend who didn’t like music?” I asked this music major.

“What do you mean ‘didn’t like music’? Who doesn’t like music?”

“This guy. He’s a friend of yours–a good friend–but he just doesn’t care for music. Any music at all.”

“That’s ridiculous! I mean, has he listened to Rachmaninov? Or the Beatles? Everybody likes some kind of music.”

There was a time when the foul, flat, nasal, tinny music from this book was the only thing that would get my nephew to stop screaming. We called it "Awful Book." Eventually we decided that the screaming was preferable. — There was a time when the foul, flat, nasal, tinny music from this book was the only thing that would get my nephew to stop screaming. We called it “Awful Book.” Eventually we decided that the screaming was preferable.

At this point, I’m wondering how on earth she hadn’t picked up on where I was going with this. But I kid you not–I might be fudging some details, but the trajectory of the conversation is 100% accurate.

“Actually,” I put forward, “he’s never really listened to any music. Or maybe he has, but it was all electronic stuff out of awful plastic toys. But he’s never experienced anything real, anything beautiful or moving or even catchy and pleasant. Could you be friends with him?”

“I guess I could,” she said, embracing the hypothetical. “But–I’d make him listen to music! I mean, how can he live without it? I can’t imagine life without music–it would be…worthless.”

“Because you love music that much? And it brings you that much joy, right? Not because he’s a stupid jerk for not loving music?”

“Of course not,” she said. “It’s not about being right. It’s about wanting to share something that makes me happy with someone I love.”

“Exactly.” I swear to you, she didn’t see where I was going until that moment. She started to object, but then stopped to think. I gave her a minute before continuing. “I don’t evangelize because I want to tell everybody they’re wrong and fix them so they can be like me. It’s about love. I’ve found something–someone–so beautiful that brings me so much joy. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t want to share it? I teach people about Christ and his Church because I love them and I want them to be happy.”

My music analogy didn’t convert her–as far as I know, she’s still not a Christian–but it got her thinking. And tonight, it’s got me thinking, too.

Why do I evangelize? Why do I live this crazy life? Because I know him in whom I have believed. But more than that–because once I didn’t.

Tie-dyed shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans with a watch looped around my belt loop while hanging on some boy and desperate for attention? Definitely a recipe for popularity. — Tie-dyed shirt tucked into high-waisted jeans with a watch threaded through my belt loop while hanging on some boy and desperate for attention? Definitely a recipe for popularity.

I was raised with Jesus, but I rejected him early on. I didn’t know him until I was 13. And I was miserable. Cry-my-eyes-out, wish-I-was-dead miserable. The only meaning I could find in life was getting other people to like me and I wasn’t very good at that. And so, from at least 3rd grade, I spent most of my life feeling sorry for myself and wondering why I bothered to get up in the morning.

But then–oh, friends–light. I had walked so long in darkness and when I found Christ, I found meaning and joy and purpose and hope and the world was new. I had to give up all of my favorite vices. I made myself a target for the people whose approval still meant so much to me. But, incredibly, I was happy. Today, I’m a homeless, unemployed nomad. I have no husband or children. I have nothing that this world says will make me happy, but I am. Deeply, irrevocably so. Despite my tendency to freak out and my propensity for making myself miserable, my life is built on Christ and his comfort gladdens my soul.

I’m going to speak for a moment to those of you who may be reading my blog, for whatever reason, who haven’t experienced this Radiant Dawn I’m so in love with. I get it. It’s hard to believe, hard to accept what you think you can’t see. Maybe Christianity is too demanding. Maybe you enjoy your life just as it is.

The Nativity, by Gustav Dore. In modern images, the light in the stable tends to come from the star. Traditionally, the light came from Christ, the true Light of the world.

But for many of you, I think there’s a darkness. There’s an emptiness, a longing that you can’t quite seem to satisfy. Oh, maybe you’re okay right now–maybe your love for your family or your service to your community or your success or whatever has taken the edge off your hunger. But I think it will be fleeting. I think you know, like I did, that something’s missing.

Forgive me for being so forward, but I can’t help it. Whether I know you or not, I love you. I really do, and I want you to be happy. I want you to be at peace. Forget the fact that I’ve been intellectually convinced of the truth of the faith–I’ve found joy and love and hope and beauty and I can’t keep that to myself. I need you to know that he loves you and longs to draw you gently into the light of a life lived in joy and peace and love. I’ve been where you are. I wouldn’t go back. Not for anything.

For the rest of you, thank God that he has brought you out of darkness into his marvelous light. If you’re like me, consider who you were and praise the Lord that he’s brought you so far. If you’ve never felt that deep, terrible darkness of the shadow of death, praise the Lord for having claimed you even in your youth. Wherever you were, recognize that you’re not there yet.

This is what Advent is about–reflecting on the darkness dispelled by Christ and the darkness that remains. There are still many dark places in my life, deep crevices that I keep hidden from the light of Christ. But daily he pushes me, stretches me, and brings joy and peace even there.

If you don’t know him yet, maybe now’s the time to try.

Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high,
And cheer us by your drawing nigh,
Disperse the gloomy clouds of night,
And death’s dark shadows put to flight.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Here’s an early Christmas present for you:

Same outfit the next day only I swapped out my mom’s really old sweatpants for the jeans and tied an oh-so-chic sweatshirt (with a large teal sparkly spot made from puffy paint on the sleeve) around my waist. This left me with no belt loops from which to hang my watch.¹ No problem! Just hang it from a chain around my neck and off I go with my mismatched socks to pose very awkwardly by a tractor. This was a day when I was hoping to make new friends.

If only there were some way to attach one’s wristwatch to one’s wrist…. Seriously, what was wrong with me?? [↩]

O Key of David

O Key of David, O royal Power of Israel controlling at your will the gate of Heaven: Come, break down the prison walls of death for those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death; and lead your captive people into freedom.

If Christ’s coming were merely an event in history, even with the ramifications it has on our collective salvation, we would celebrate it with relatively little fanfare. It might get an octave,¹ but it wouldn’t merit an entire season of preparation and then a season of celebration.

Now, it was an event in history–God was made man out of love of us. This is no myth. But our celebration of the Nativity is so much more than a celebration of a historical event. It’s also a celebration of Christ’s advent into the life of each believer. When we pray for the walls of death to be broken down, it’s not some fanciful reflection on something that happened 2000 years ago, it’s a real and serious plea for freedom for you and me and everyone right now.

Hence Advent, a season of darkness that reminds us that we dwell in the shadow of death. We traipse through Ordinary Time blithely unaware of our sin, but this season that places before us a filthy stable awaiting the immaculate king makes us pause. “For me,” we think. “That I might have life.”

Because we’ve forgotten that we’re dead. We’ve painted the walls of our prison cell and turned up our ipods and gorged ourselves on the good food provided to placate our rebellious desire for virtue and we’ve forgotten that we were made for sunshine and joy and freedom and so much more than the prison we’ve made for ourselves by our sin. “I’m a good person,” I tell myself and ignore my temper or my laziness or my refusal to give God even ten minutes a day in prayer. And we might be good people by the world’s standards but Christ says, “Be perfect.”

It starts with a feeling. Unchecked, the feeling becomes an attitude. The attitude becomes an action and the action becomes a habit and the habit becomes a way of life and that innocuous little feeling has suddenly become a wall of vice and I didn’t even notice it! It might not be mortal sin but even venial sin, washed away by communion or contrition or even holy water, leaves a residue that only confession can remove. That residue builds and builds until we don’t recognize who we’ve become. And we who were freed from the prison of Original Sin by the blood of the spotless Lamb have built a new one of envy and lust and sloth.

So here we are, this fallen world bound by sin and walled in to a prison we entered freely. But Christ has come. He has taken on our flesh that he might bear our punishment and has won our freedom. He stands now and knocks at the door of your prison cell, keys in hand, longing to enter and break down those walls. He comes to wake you up to the misery of your captivity to sin and to lead you into the freedom of life in him.

God is a gentleman, though, and will not enter, will not save and heal and sanctify without permission. He stands and knocks and waits for you to invite him in, waits for you simply to speak the word so that he can set you free. This is his advent in your life right now: the restoration of a broken heart to a state of grace. The key to heaven rests in the Sacrament of Reconciliation, God’s gift to the fallen.

In this Sacrament, terrible sinners are justified, yes. But we who try so hard and generally do so well–we too are given grace to persevere. We too are bound by sin and freed by his mercy. We too are transformed and drawn from darkness into light. Don’t think that because you’re a “good person” that you aren’t imprisoned. The Key of David has come to set you free. You have only to ask.

If you haven’t been to confession yet this Advent season,² do it. Whether it’s been a month or 30 years, the time is now. Prepare your heart for the pure infant Jesus and receive the gift of new life.

Oh, come, O Key of David, come,
And open wide our heav’nly home;
Make safe the way that leads on high,
And close the path to misery.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

It certainly would have in the old calendar. [↩]
Not to beat a dead horse, but this is really important. [↩]

O Flower of Jesse’s Stem–Advent and Aslan

O Flower of Jesse’s stem, you have been raised up as a sign for all peoples; kings stand silent in your presence; the nations bow down in worship before you. Come, let nothing keep you from coming to our aid.

In this prayer, we begin with the right words, the words of adoration that seem to fit the occasion. We speak lovely, fitting, shallow, empty words when we approach the Lord. “Heavenly Father,” we say to a God who is our dictator or our servant, but never our Father. “Thank you, Lord,” we say, however bitter we may be at what the Lord has withheld. We’ve become so accustomed to lying to God–“Thy will be done”? Who really means that?

But then we stumble. It’s as though we are praying as we “ought” when our desperation breaks through with something real. We catch our breaths and repeat in earnest, “let nothing keep you from coming to our aid.”

There’s a longing in that stutter that expresses so perfectly what Advent is intended to be. We are overwhelmed by God’s majesty and goodness at condescending to be with us. We know all the right words about his glory and all that–but, oh! We just want him–we need him!

As Christmas draws near, the Church invites us to ache for Christ. She reminds us of the darkness of life before the Savior came near and asks us to allow all our brokenness and emptiness and need to well up in our hearts and to cry out, “Come, Lord. Oh, please, please come!”

I’m not sure I can make sense of the longing and tenderness and desperation and awe and sorrow that I feel except to say that it’s quite the same way I feel about Aslan. When I read the Chronicles of Narnia,¹ I need him. And when he comes I’m thrilled and I want to run to him and bury my hands in his mane but I know I have to hold back, because while he is entrancing, he’s also terrifying. And his voice thrills and comforts and challenges. I’m afraid to look into his eyes because I know I’ll see myself as I truly am, not as I pretend to be; but I know that while I’ll see myself I’ll also see how deeply he loves me and I’ll be able to bear it. Truly, I love Jesus so much the more because I loved Aslan first.

When I think of the coming Christ this way, I begin to believe that, like Hwin, I’d suffer anything for him.² Like Eustace, I’d submit to any pain at his hands. Like Reepicheep, I’d go to the ends of the earth for the glory of his name. It’s just that–when I’m in Narnia–oh, I ache for him!

This is what Advent is supposed to do–just exactly what Lewis does when he tells us “Aslan’s on the move.” When you read that line–if you love these books as I do–you almost feel for your sword before you remember that you haven’t got one and you wouldn’t know what to do with it if you did. You’re thrilled and terrified and ready and the only thing that matters is his coming.

I suppose it comes down to this–I would give everything to be breathed on by Aslan, to have him whisper in my ear and call me “Dear heart” as he does Lucy. Do I give everything to come near to Christ? When I let myself long for Aslan and then direct that longing to Christ, suddenly it’s all so real. Suddenly I’m past the nonsense of fancy ideas and just filled with a longing to be his. Suddenly I cry out, “Come–let nothing keep you from coming to my aid!”

You know what? Never mind. Just go read The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and try to feel about Jesus the way you feel about Aslan. That’s the idea, after all.

Oh, come O Rod of Jesse’s stem,
From ev’ry foe deliver them
That trust your mighty pow’r to save;
And give them vict’ry o’er the grave.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

(This verse seems particularly irrelevant to my ode to Aslan, but I’ve got a pattern going, so we’ll all just have to deal with it. Now go read some Lewis!)

I gave away my copies–the ones I’d marked up. Writing this post as it deserved to be written without them (and on a time crunch) was impossible. So you get no quotations, just feelings. Add the quotations in the comments if you’re so inclined. [↩]
“Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else.” [↩]

O Sacred Lord of Ancient Israel

O sacred Lord of ancient Israel, who showed yourself to Moses in the burning bush, who gave him the holy law on Sinai mountain: come, stretch out your mighty hand to set us free.

These last days before Christmas, I’m just ready to hold sweet baby Jesus in my arms. I’ve longed and ached for him all of Advent and I want to hold his tiny baby body and kiss his soft baby head. And just as the baby-lover in me threatens to take over, leaving me with images of snuggling a baby that have little to do with the majesty of the Incarnation, this antiphon drops by to remind me that he is so much more than just a sweet baby, that this is so much more than just a birth.

There is in Christmas the somber promise of Good Friday. There is in the joy of the Nativity the suffering foretold by the myrrh of the Magi, the anguish of the Innocents slaughtered as the Christ child is spirited away. The wood of the manger is the wood of the Cross, and this child raised by a carpenter will hear daily the echo of the nails that will bind him to his death. The freedom we are promised by the Lord of Israel is given us by the blood of the Lamb.

There’s a reason Christ was born in the dead of night, a reason we celebrate his birth in a time of barren coldness.¹ Certainly, we see that his coming brings us into greater light. But I think we also need his coming to be surrounded by quiet and darkness and just a little bit of fear. It would feel wrong to celebrate in July, remembering with cookouts and fireworks our king born to die. In winter, our joy is tempered by the chill. We sing “Joy to the World,” indeed, but also weep for the day, coming too soon, when the world will mourn. The best Christmas carols remind us of the purpose of the Christ child:

Why lies He in such mean estate
Where ox and ass are feeding?
Good Christian, fear: for sinners here
The silent Word is pleading.
Nails, spear shall pierce him through,
The Cross be borne for me, for you;
Hail, hail the Word Made Flesh,
The babe, the son of Mary!

Today’s appeal to the God of Exodus carries the weight of wonder, the awe and fear that surrounded any encounter with this Lord of plagues and sacrifices and walls of water. It is this Christ whom we worship, sweet and silent in his mother’s arms. The God made man to save us is the God before whom Moses cowered in fear. The freedom he wins for us is bought at a terrible price.

Do we greet this child with smiles and stockings and move on, pleased to have celebrated family and love? Or do we fall on our knees before the God born to die? Advent calls us not only to prepare for the joy of the incarnation but to repent, to recognize the gravity, the horror of a God who offers himself as a sacrifice in our stead.

In his infancy, he was given myrrh to anoint his beaten body when at last his life came to fruition. Offer him, friends, the myrrh of repentance. Anoint his tiny body, formed so perfectly to suffer so terribly, with the balm of your prayers, your acts of charity, but most especially your sins offered at the foot of his cradle, the foot of his cross. If you haven’t yet been to confession this Advent, humble yourself before the God of Israel who merits all honor yet stoops to kiss your feet. Give him the gift of your wretched, sinful heart and let him return it to you whole and new.

Oh, come, oh, come, great Lord of might,
Who to your tribes on Sinai’s height
In ancient times once gave the law,
In cloud and majesty and awe.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!

Unless you’re south of the Equator, in which case, hello!! [↩]

O Wisdom

I have all kinds of big ideas when it comes to this blog: posts half-written in adoration that never see the light of the internet, mp3s recorded on my phone of ideas that come to me on the road, series that I know will never come to fruition. I generally hold these things in my heart so that if they don’t come to pass, nobody knows but me. This time, I’m cluing y’all in first so that when I miss a post, you can all smirk knowingly.

Also, it doesn’t make a lot of sense to start posting on the O antiphons every day without telling you what I’m doing. So here’s the skinny:

From December 17-23, Christians are in a time of eager anticipation. The intentional expectancy becomes intense as we enter the octave before the birth of our Lord. We throw aside the normal prayers for particular prayers that show our hope, our trust, our longing for the Christ child. Each evening, the antiphon preceding the Magnificat in Evening Prayer proclaims one of the ancient titles of the Messiah, giving us the text of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and excellent fodder for meditation.

So my hope this week is to share with you my daily meditations on these antiphons. With all the hours I’m putting in with the babies, I can’t promise polished prose or pictures, but I’ll give you what’s in my heart and hope that’s enough.

O Wisdom, O holy Word of God, you govern all creation with your strong yet tender care. Come and show your people the way to salvation.

The God who is coming into our midst is the God of all creation, the wisdom of the Father by whom and through whom and for whom all things were made. And yet, with all his power, he chooses weakness for love of us. The God who could announce his presence with thunder and trumpets and booming words from heaven speaks instead in shepherds’ voices. This God who could force us to love him invites instead. He speaks tenderly to our hearts, beckoning, begging, but never compelling.

This is wisdom: the God of power and might becomes an infant. Because he couldn’t forbid suffering without impairing our freedom, he chose to suffer with us. St. Augustine reminds us, “God had one son on earth without sin but never one without suffering.” Too strong to be defeated by death, he was yet tender enough to die. Too strong to abandon us in our sin, he was yet tender enough to allow us to reject him. God in his wisdom is everything we need–just enough and never too much. He woos us as far as we will come and then mourns as we choose ourselves over him. In his wisdom he leaves us free, though we might prefer to be enslaved but happy rather than free in the misery of sin.

And when he shows us the way to salvation, he doesn’t call from afar or point the way through peril and misery. He walks with us, shoring us up by his strength and tenderly wiping away our weary tears. He asks of us nothing that he hasn’t himself done or suffered or been subjected to. When we are hurt, we find his pierced hands lifting us up. When we are rejected, his pierced brow speaks of his betrayal. When we are lonely, we hear the echo of “My God, my God.”

This is the wisdom of the incarnation: the foolishness of the Cross. This is what we long for in Advent: not merely the coming of the Christ child in the liturgy but the coming into our hearts of him who breaks down the walls we’ve built and gently smooths our rough edges.

What tender strength. What wisdom. Come, Lord Jesus.

O, come, O Wisdom from on high,
Who orders all things mightily;
To us the path of knowledge show,
and teach us in her ways to go.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!