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!! [↩]
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!
In case you’re feeling a bit defeated by the evil that surrounds and infects us, here are some reminders of the goodness of this world, despite everything the enemy does to pervert it.
At an eighth grade retreat, the kids are standing around awkwardly during free time when a girl with Down Syndrome walks gleefully up to a classmate and asks him to dance. Not a cool kid who can do what he wants without fear of ridicule; not a nerdy kid who’s got nothing to lose. She picks a hanger-on, one of those kids whose social stock could plummet with a single misstep. He takes a deep breath, then takes her hands as she spins and twirls and dips herself. And nobody laughs or whispers or smirks. They hold their breath as they watch. They envy her abandon, they honor his goodness. Middle schoolers, friends. And nobody laughs.
A three-year-old at a children’s holy hour1 runs to the foot of the altar and reaches for the monstrance, shouting in the same voice he uses to demand cookies, “OOOHHHHH! I want JESUS!!”
A twelve-year-old girl comes up to me after a talk at her youth group. She hugs me and slips three dollars into my hand “to help.” A widow’s mite.
Catherine sits with me at Mass every day so that I can take care of one of the twins while she watches John Paul and Cecilia. She carries Cecilia to communion and holds her hand as we walk to the car. Catherine is ten and has no connection to the family except that she sits on the same side of the church as us. But every day she comes and minds the toddlers so I can mind the baby. I could not do it without her.
And finally:
Newborn twins holding hands.
And if that doesn’t make your heart smile a little bit, I don’t know what will.
When God made it clear to me that he was calling me to belong exclusively to him, I was miserable. I knew with every fiber of my being that this is what I had to do, but I wanted marriage and motherhood so badly that there was no joy in it. I consented because I knew it was God’s will. I sobbed and said, “Oh, fine.” It was basically the most unpleasant consent to a marriage proposal in the history of ever.
And I’m so glad that it happened that way. If I had been responding to a desire for consecrated life, I don’t know that I ever would have felt fully convicted. I would have worried that my motives were impure or that my discernment was clouded by my desires. Since he drew my intellect first and my affections only gradually, though, I feel confident that I’m following his will and not my own.
A few months after my snotty betrothal, I was beginning to feel some joy in my vocation but only in the tremendous shadow of my perceived sacrifice. And then I was given this book by a vocation director. I think no book has affected me more profoundly (barring the Bible, of course) than Fr. Thomas Dubay’s And You Are Christ’s. Suddenly, I began to realize that I was really terribly in love with Christ. I began to see how my vocation fit the longings of my heart. I began to let myself rejoice in being his.
I love this book so much that I give it to pretty much any woman who I think might maybe possibly ever in a million years have a vocation to consecrated life. But for those of you who can’t bring yourself to order a copy, here are all my favorite lines from the book. After you read it, I bet you’ll want to buy it in bulk for your single female friends, too.1
Excerpts from “And You are Christ’s:” The Charism of Virginity and the Celibate Life
by Thomas Dubay, S.M.
Gospel virginity is a love affair of the most enthralling type. It is a focusing on God that fulfills as nothing else fulfills.
[A religious vocation is] to be head over heels in love as a divine invitation.
From our mother’s womb, indeed, before we were conceived, each of us has been personally called to the universal and most basic destiny of an eternal enthralling embrace with Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.
You and I are to be head over heels in love with God. All of us in every state of life are to love him as we can love no other: with wholeness of mind, heart, soul, strength (Lk 10:27). We are to be in such deep love that the eye of our mind is on him always (Ps 25:15), that we pray to him continually (Lk 18:1), that we sing to him in our hearts always and everywhere (Eph 5:19-20). This is the language of lovers. Admittedly. But the Christian virgin is to be a lover before anything else. This is why one does what he does. Only one who is in love gives up everything for the beloved.
The virgin anticipates the final age in which there is no earthly marriage (Mt 22:30), the final enthralling fulfillment of all human life. Even in this world, she gives undivided attention to the Lord as her very way of life.
The virgin who fully lives her vocation is vibrantly alive, much more alive than she could be with an earthly husband, for her Beloved is infinitely more alive than any mere man could be: her heart and her flesh sing for joy to the living God (Ps 84:2).
She can now give herself up to continual prayer “day and night” (1 Tim 5:5)—devotion to prayer and more freedom for this is always the primary New Testament rationale for continence.
The celibate man and woman are thus to be consumed by nothing but doing the Father’s will (Jn 4:54). They have no other desire, no other ambition. They are utterly free for the kingdom, completely available to their sole love.
The Benedictines of Mary on profession day–check out the groom on the cake topper.
Actually, there is no more apt and normal image of an intimate, total self-gift between two in love than the spousal one. Biblical writers inspired by the Spirit knew this, and they liberally used the symbolism to describe the everlasting and unfailing love of the Lord for his people. Isaiah speaks of Yahweh rejoicing in his chosen ones as a bridegroom rejoices in his radiantly beautiful bride (Is 62:2-5). Hosea writes of this God wooing his wife in the wilderness that he may speak to her heart and win her back from her infidelity (Hos 2:16). The Corinthian church is for Saint Paul a virgin bride wedded to one husband, Christ (2 Cor 11:2; cf Eph 5:25f). Each member of the ekklesia is to cling so intimately to the Bridegroom as to become one spirit with him (1 Cor 6:17), and their love is to be absolutely total—to love with their whole mind, their whole soul, their whole heart, and all their strength (Mt 22:37). It is a love so profoundly intimate that it brings about a profound inter-indwelling, each living within the other (1 Jn 4:16).
The individual virgin embraces a way of life in which she so exclusively focuses on her one beloved that she declines a marital relationship with any other man.
A communion of love, deep prayer, and absorption in the Beloved must be the primary purpose of the virginal life.
The young woman could reject the charism and marry, but she can not reject it without doing some violence to her being. God has captured her as only he can capture. If she rejects his divine desire to possess her in an exclusive manner (God forces himself on no one), she hurts herself in that she turns her back on something that has been done to her. She refuses an interpersonal gift.
The virginal charism so focuses the young woman on God that she cannot give marital attention to another person. She has her fullness in the Lord.
Just as a faithful married woman may be attracted to another man, and yet focuses on no other than her husband, so also a virgin may be attracted to marriage and motherhood, but she knows that she can really give full attention only to the Lord Jesus.
[On John Henry Newman, an Anglican priest considering marriage] He could not, he said, give the attention to the world that marriage requires. God had already captured his heart with the celibate charism, and he experienced the gift whereby he could not be concerned with the things of the world. His heart was too wide and deep, too centered on the divine.
Signs of a healthy religious vocation
The first sign is a joyous non-reluctance regarding the sacrifices implied in the renunciation of all things for the sake of the kingdom. …The virgin has given up earthly marriage and motherhood, yes, but she has entered upon a still greater marriage and motherhood.
The inability to give to the world the attention that marriage requires. Even if the celibate is at a considerable distance from heroic holiness, he should feel at least something of being captured totally by the Lord for the concerns of the Lord.
An ability to see through the superficiality of superficial things.
A love for prayer: the priest (or nun) who is drawn to long (even if difficult and dry) prayer well understands his way of life.
The virginal heart is a large heart, too large to be satisfied in focusing on one man or woman.
God is her first choice. He is more than first (for any person God must be first)—he is the only center of her being.
The Christian virgin is a woman in love. I do not say simply a woman of love. That, yes; but more. Because her heart has been captured by her Beloved, in at least a beginning manner, she is absorbed in him. As Paul puts it, she is not concerned with the world and its business, but with the affairs of the Lord. As anyone really in love does, she gives her undivided attention to him (1 Cor 7:34-35).
Virginity aims at living the being-in-love Scripture everywhere supposes: “My eyes are always on the Lord…my soul yearns for you in the night…ah, you are beautiful, my beloved…with my whole heart I seek you…sing to the Lord in your hearts always and everywhere…” (Ps 25:25, Is 26:9, Sgs 4:1, Ps 119:10, Eph 5:20). This is why the virgin puts prayer first in her life. She is in love with God and with his people.
God calls all men and women of whatever vocation to a deep communion with himself. He invites everyone to a prayer so profound that one becomes radiant with joy; the person tastes and sees for himself how good he is (Ps 34:5, 8). He wants everyone to hunger and thirst for him (Ps 63:1), to pant after his word (Ps 119:131), to meditate on his message day and night (Ps 1:1-2), to rejoice in him always (Phil 4:4), to experience a joy in him so amazing that it cannot be described (1 Pt 1:8), to pray continually, all day long (Lk 18:1, Ps 84:4).
Because she is literally in love, the consecrated woman is before all else a woman of prayer. Like Jesus himself, she is drawn irresistibly to long, frequent times of solitude with the Father. Anyone in love desires to commune long and lovingly with the beloved. No one has to urge her to it.
“The contemplation of divine things and an assiduous union with God in prayer is to be the first and principal duty of all religious” (Canon 663, §1).
What did the mystics write about? A breathlessly beautiful love affair with God, a prayerful enthrallment in him, a being lost in love, immersed in it.
“Too late have I loved you, O Beauty, so ancient and so new, too late have I loved you…. I have tasted you, and I hunger and thirst after you. You have touched me, and I have burned for your peace” (St. Augustine).
The virgin is one who wishes a lifestyle tailor-made so that she may more readily attain that life of prayer to which Augustine refers, so that she may be “already filled with a joy so glorious that it cannot be described” (1 Pt 1:8).
“Virgo est quae Deo nubit” (A virgin is a woman who has married God—St. Ambrose). This formulation well expresses what is implied in the life of complete chastity: exclusive, total love, intimacy of intercommunion, unreserved self-gift, unending fidelity, service to the beloved, mutual delight.
All men and women are called to this utter fullness of God and the primary purpose of virginity is a readier path to it.
Signs of the Vocation
Can a young man or woman know with a reasonably well-founded assurance that God is calling him or her to consecrated chastity? Given that the Lord does beckon “in a special way, through an interior illumination” (an expression of Pope Paul VI), we now ask just what this inner enlightenment may be and what signs may accompany it.
Ordinarily, the indications of a vocation to celibacy are neither flashy nor extraordinary. The interior illumination is not a vision, not a tap on the shoulder, not a voice spoken in audible sounds waves. Not everyone is assailed, as was Saint Paul on the road to Damascus, by a light and voice from heaven (Acts 9:3-6). Yet we may still ask whether there is some perception of the call, some psychological awareness of the divine invitation.
The answer is yes, even though the awareness may not be what the recipient might expect. We may, therefore, profitably reflect on it. The young person called to consecrated chastity will have a greater than usual bent toward God, an attraction to him. This young person will often readily see that a mere earthly existence is insufficient, fundamentally unsatisfying, basically empty. He may indeed enjoy parties, dances, and dating, but they invariably leave him with a sense on incompleteness. Young women attract him but he senses that none of them, no matter how beautiful, will ever fill his heart. He wants more, much more.
During her consecration, a consecrated virgin wears a wedding dress and prostrates herself in surrender to the Lord.
We must return to what we spoke of earlier, virginity as fullness. The young person with this gift has been given by God, at least in an incipient degree, a love-gift, a focusing on God that excludes a similar centering on anyone else. This love-gift may be weak and dim at the beginning, but it is there.
This first sign will be accompanied by a second: an attraction to a particular celibate lifestyle (private dedication, secular institute, active or enclosed religious life), and/or a persuasion that God wants him in that form of dedication. Some youth feel a clear, strong attraction to the active or cloistered life and together with it, a strong persuasion that God wants them there. With these people, there is little or no doubt about the matter. Others feel only the persuasion, more or less insistent, that God is inviting them. Their mind is that if he wants it, they are willing, even if a felt attraction is absent. The inner illumination of which Pope Paul speaks seems in this second group to be mostly an intellectual matter, whereas with the first group it is accompanied by a perceived drawing toward the life.
Sound motivation is the third sign of the virginal charism. Desiring celibacy for the reasons described here is a strong indication that one possesses this love-gift from God. The virgin does not have a negative view of sexuality, nor is she fleeing the sacrifices of marriage or the responsibilities of life in the world—these motives are inadequate. She is a woman in love and she is pursuing her Beloved with a greater freedom. She also wishes to do something to help her brothers and sisters reach God—either by a life of prayer, solitude, and penance or by a life of prayer and apostolic involvement.
The final sign is capability. When God gives the celibate gift, he also gives the physical, mental, and moral health necessary to actualize it in a specific lifestyle. Necessary health need not mean absolute perfection, but it does mean a basic sufficiency. Each institute determines the minimal capabilities required for its life and work.
Preparation in Prayer
The young woman and man called to celibacy are inclined by the beckoning Spirit to a more than minimal interest in prayer. If they are fully open to God’s gifts, this inclination will be strong and persistent, and it will be actualized in practice. There is no better preparation for an eventual embracing of this vocation than a fervent, growing communion with him who is the whole purpose of the life. This private prayer will be fed and furthered by a vibrant liturgical life, by devotion to the first Virgin, by regular, well-chosen spiritual reading, and, when it is available, by competent spiritual direction.
Here is a woman so taken with God that he is the top priority in her life. She lays down her entire being in loving adoration of him.
When a Passionist nun takes vows, she wears a crown of thorns and carries a cross to show her union with her Beloved Crucified.
She declares by her life that no one has here a permanent abode, that we are pilgrims and should live like pilgrims (Heb 11:13-16). She is also therefore a sign of the Cross and asceticism, of the hard road and the narrow gate that lead to life (Mt 7:13-14). Her life tells us that the kingdom does not consist in food and drink but in the joy, peace, and holiness given by the Spirit (Rom 14:17).
The virgin is likewise a symbol of joy. All disciples in every vocation are called to “rejoice in the Lord always” (Phil 4:4), or as Saint Augustine brilliantly put it, to be an “alleluia from head to toe.” Anyone full of love will be full of joy. The joy Jesus gives is not partial; it is full (Jn 15:11). Surely that woman or man who gives undivided attention to him, the very source of delight, can be nothing other than an incarnated alleluia.
The celibate woman and man are persons whose whole attention is focused on Beauty, ever ancient, ever new, persons whose raison d’être is none other than a profound love covenant and communion with the Word and his Father through their Holy Spirit.
Amazing, right? Now, quick! Go buy it, read it, and tell me your favorite lines!
It’s really geared towards women. Sorry, guys! [↩]
I tend to babble about how much I love the Bible. Then I take out my Bible and introduce people to it like it’s a friend. Once we get past the weird looks I get for introducing them to an inanimate object, I often have to deal with this question:
“Don’t you think the Bible’s kind of boring?”
That’s me dressed as Captain of Team Catholic. I even have a gold cape with Bible verses puffy painted on it! You totally wish you were my friend.1
To which I’m obviously supposed to respond, “Ohmigosh no it’s like so interesting and fun and beautiful all the time!!” like the Jesus cheerleader that I am. But I’m too honest for that.
“Absolutely,” I say. I wait for them to look scandalized, then I go on. “It’s hard and it’s weird and parts of it are quite dull. But when I can’t find the beauty in Scripture, it’s not because it’s not there. It’s because I’m not looking hard enough. I’m not open and I’m not ready. So I don’t move on to another book; I sit with this one and immerse myself in it until I do find the beauty.”
Scripture can be very daunting and if you just fly through it trying to find something to stitch on a sampler, you’ll come out the other side with a whole lot of clichés and an unchanged heart. But if you really take time with a passage, trying to enter in, you may find that those platitudes you’ve heard your whole life are rather revolutionary.
One approach to Scripture that calls us to work through the text in a very intentional way is lectio divina (divine reading), an ancient form of prayer in which we ruminate on the text in order to encounter God. Cows are ruminant animals–they chew the cud, working through it again and again to get every ounce of nourishment out of it. When we ruminate on a text, we work through it over and over again in order to get everything the Lord has for us out of his Word. Rather than churning through a passage so we can move on with our day, a fast food approach, we treat it like the feast that it is. We soak in the Word, reading, meditating, praying, and contemplating.
Sometimes you’ll sit down with a passage in mind to meditate on; other times you’ll want to do lectio and you’ll flip through your Bible for a highlighted passage (another reason to get a beat-up Bible); my favorite experiences of lectio come when I’m just reading and the Spirit calls my attention to a particular passage, when I was just trying to get through my daily reading and God stopped me in my tracks to speak to me.
The more you pray through lectio divina, the more you’ll find that the steps don’t necessarily have to come in order. You’ll read a passage and suddenly find yourself speaking to the Lord in response or be transported to a wordless prayer, an encounter with Christ.
To begin with, though, it’s good to work through the steps in order, to start experiencing Scripture in an intimate way. I thought I’d take a few minutes to walk you through lectio divina, especially as it can be done in a group or with a journal. This form of prayer works really well in a group, with reflections being spoken aloud. That way, you hear different translations of Scripture and are exposed to the many different meanings God’s Word can have in people’s lives. If you don’t have a group to do this with, try journaling instead. Write the passage you’re using, then write your reflection on each step.
To give you a feel for it, I’ll explain the steps and then give examples. We’ll use Ephesians 3:19-21 (part of Thursday’s first reading):
Know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge, so that you may be filled with all the fullness of God. Now to him who is able to accomplish far more than all we ask or imagine, by the power at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever. Amen.
Before each step, you’ll take turns reading the passage slowly, then pausing for a bit to digest. I find that reading 3 or 4 times with 20 to 30 seconds in between is thoughtful but not painfully slow.
Lectio–Reading
The first step of Lectio Divina involves prayerful reading. You’ll chew through a few verses over and over, allowing the text to speak to you. You may find that certain phrases jump out at you, that you want to sit with those phrases and repeat them. That’s the idea of this first step–to allow yourself to be drawn to a particular line.
If you’re doing this in a group, each person will go around (after the group has read the text aloud a few times) and say a phrase from the text that strikes him. For example:
“Know the love of Christ.”
“Far more than all we ask or imagine.”
“The fullness of God.”
“Know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge.”
“Who is able.”
These can be two words or a whole sentence, and you’re not committing to focusing on this phrase for your whole meditation. I find that I often meditate on one section during the first step, then hear someone point out a part I hadn’t noticed and switch to that portion for the rest of my meditation.
Meditatio–Meditation
During this second step, you’re interpreting the text. You’re looking for the meaning in the passage or the phrase you’ve been drawn to. This isn’t always going to be the meaning that’s obvious and universal; instead, it’s often connected more immediately to your life.
Your reflection here will be one or two sentences in the first or third person–talking about God and yourself, not yet to God. For example:
I keep trying to prove Christ and to be certain of my love for him, but there’s something beyond the intellectual when it comes to my relationship with him. I have to be at peace with that element of faith.
I don’t know how to trust God.
God’s miracles don’t just come in calmed storms and corpses raised. Sometimes his power works through our weakness to do greater things than we could ever have expected.
I’m empty without God.
Don’t worry if you’re not poetic. The idea here is not to sound impressive but to be real.
Oratio–Prayer
This third step is our response to God’s Word. We speak to him in prayer (now using the second person as well) and respond to what we’ve learned from the text.
If you’re praying with a group, this will be a sentence or two addressed to God. Something like:
Lord, help me to see that all the good I do is a gift of your grace. May I always praise you and live in humble acceptance of your gifts.
Father, I want to know your love.
Jesus, empty me of myself and work in me, through me, for the sake of the kingdom. Free me from everything that is not of you so that I can be a vessel of your grace, bringing your light into the world.
God, you are so good.
Some people are really uncomfortable praying out loud. Remember that beautiful prayer can be really simple. Besides, anyone who’s judging you for not being clever when you’re praying isn’t someone whose good opinion should matter. So pray away and don’t worry about other people–if they’re doing this with you, I’m pretty sure they weren’t judging you anyway.
Contemplatio–Contemplation
This final step is contemplation, often described as wordless prayer. The idea is that you reach a depth of reflection on God’s Word that surpasses anything you can really put into words. it’s more of a feeling or a conviction than it is a thought. Ironically, for the purpose of this exercise, we now have to put it into words.
So in this final step, you’ll use just one word to describe what your lectio has left you with, This isn’t necessarily a word from the text and it can be any part of speech.2 Here are some possibilities:
Humbled.
Glory.
Full.
Challenge.
Your word doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else. You’re doing this in a group because it can help keep you accountable or give you different insights, not because you’re trying to look awesome.
After you’ve gone through the four steps, close in prayer. If you’re in a group, discuss your experience of the text and how it changed as you meditated on it, If you’re alone, try journaling about your prayer time.
As you work through a passage, you’ll notice that it has layers and layers of meaning. What seemed to be a straightforward commentary on wealth can become a passage on discernment or devotion or pornography or trust, depending on what the Spirit has in mind for you. This is particularly clear when you pray with a group and hear two people with opposite interpretations who are really both right. This is why Scripture has been enough to satisfy the Church for two thousand years, why I still read with a highlighter on my eleventh time through. The more you plumb the depths of Scripture, the more you begin to realize how right Pope Gregory the Great was:
“Scripture is like a river, broad and deep, shallow enough here for the lamb to go wading, but deep enough there for the elephant to swim.”
Your challenge this week is to try this form of prayer and report back. I’d love to hear about it!
I think I’m standing between Superman and…a Jonas brother? It was a spirit day at school, but in retrospect, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. [↩]
Is my grammar nerdiness coming out enough here? All this talk of first person verbs and parts of speech. Sorry. [↩]
I was born a performer. By the time I was five years old, I was organizing my cousins into a theater troupe at family gatherings. I would write, direct, and star in the show we put on, while the rest of them (all older) would roll their eyes and go where I directed them. I have a vivid memory of striking a deal with them; they wanted to color, I wanted a play. The compromise? I let them color on stage. So we had two minutes of me hamming it up as a teacher in a one room schoolhouse followed by ten minutes of all the actors sitting on stage coloring while I glared at any adult who should happen to whisper. Not my finest moment as an artist, but I am rather proud of my precocious ability to manage people.1
I suppose it comes as no surprise that after learning that I couldn’t be a priest, I found the most visible liturgical roles that I could. I lectored and I cantored whenever I had the chance. I was used to performing, after all, so I might as well do it for God.2
But I found that I got a lot more nervous before I sang at Mass than I did before I sang at an a cappella concert. If I messed up a solo, I looked like an idiot. If I messed up a psalm, I could distract people from God; the stakes were a lot higher.
Can you tell by the look on my face that I’m trying to read the organist’s music from four feet away?
So before each Mass, I made an offering to God. I asked him to guide my voice and told him that I trusted him to do what was best for the salvation of souls. Then if I did well, I knew it was by his grace. And if my voice cracked or I messed up the words, I trusted that he would use that for his glory. Maybe my failure convinced somebody that she could praise God even if she was flawed; maybe awkwardly singing the wrong verse snapped someone out of his daze and got him paying attention again; maybe I was just such a hot mess that it made somebody angry and forced her to confront her temper issues. I didn’t need to know how my screw-ups became blessings, but I trusted God that they did.
This new approach gradually began to transform the way I approached my ministry. I became less self-obsessed and better able to trust in God. But until recently, it stopped there: at liturgical ministry.
This summer, it hit me like a bolt of lightning–that offering, that trust, that surrender–I could do that every day, with everything! I could offer my whole life that way, not just singing at Mass. Instead of being consumed by pride when I do well or self-loathing when I screw up, I could trust God in all matters.
You see, when we say God is sovereign, we mean that he rules over all things. He could very easily intervene in daily matters (and I think he does more often than we give him credit for). When he doesn’t, though, we have to recognize that he chose not to. He is so desperate for our salvation and our holiness that I have to believe that he’s bringing all things together for our good even when he seems absent. Really, I have to believe it because Scripture declares it to be true:
We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to his purpose…. If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own son but handed him over for us all, how will he not also give us everything else along with him? (Rom 8:28, 31-32)
Now, this clearly doesn’t mean that if you’re a good person God will give you rainbows and bunnies. I ellipsized3 the part where Paul says we have to be conformed to the image of Christ. You remember Christ, right–the guy on the cross? Clearly there’s going to be suffering on the way to this good that is promised.
What the passage tells us isn’t that “every little thing is gonna be all right” but that God is able to make all things work for good. Which means that the nonsense that I usually get all stupid about (“Oh, dear God, I was sarcastic to that kid who I thought would find it funny and he didn’t and now he’s going to hate you and your Church forever and be so unhappy all his life and just because I’m a jerk who can’t be bothered to think beyond a punchline and I’m not even funny and I’m just mean and insensitive and why, God, why am I so awful??”)4 isn’t actually the end of the world. Because God can use my idiocy for his purposes just as much as my brilliance. Probably more–there’s far more of the former.
So I’ve been trying recently to start my day with this prayer: Dear God, I offer you every moment of my life for the glory of your name and the salvation of souls.
There’s a joke in here somewhere about being a bank robber. Mostly, I couldn’t think of pictures to use so I found all the strange old pictures of me on facebook. Now the weirdest ones are saved in a folder for just this sort of occasion. You will not be surprised to hear that I’m doing ridiculous things in almost every picture ever taken of me.
Then when I’m an idiot or a jerk (notice I said “when,” not “if”), I can offer my failure again to God and trust that he can work it for good. Maybe it doesn’t make me act any better, but it helps me to be less self-centered.5 The more I can let go of my mistakes, the more I can be present to him and allow him to bless me, undeserving as I am.
I don’t know why not obsessing over the past seems like such an epiphany to me–maybe it’s more the idea of rejoicing in what’s gone before and even accepting all my weakness and poverty as gifts of God and instruments of his grace. In the end, God can work through my failings as easily as he can through my greatest victories.
A life consecrated to God will be used, through success or through failure. When I’ve given myself over to him, he’s going to let his will be done in me. I just need to trust him that my failure will not be to no purpose. In Christ, even my brokenness is in his will and is for his glory. So I will try to rejoice in failure because I know that my only success is that of the Cross. Failure is just a veil for the greatness of God working, somehow, through my brokenness.
A large part of the cross I carry is an ongoing battle with shame over such minor things. In this offering, I try to remind myself that a life of discernment, reflection, and recollection means I’m at least trying to do God’s will–there’s nothing to be ashamed of when I fail.
So I’m offering my life–and every awkward moment in it–Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam (AMDG): for the greater glory of God. As Christians, we’ve got a pretty sweet deal. We offer God our shame and suffering and sin and in return, he gives us glory and joy and holiness. I’ve been pretty good at trying to make my whole life an offering to God; now I’m aiming at trusting that every awkward sneeze during the consecration, every ill-timed joke, and every overstayed welcome can be used for the greater glory of God and the salvation of souls.
I’ve been toying with writing this for a few months. Then the other day, I found this prayer on a prayer card. You’re going to love this one:
Lord, I offer you all of me, all that I am and all that I am not. I offer you every good decision and every regrettable mistake, every great accomplishment and every missed opportunity, every divinely inspired gift and every unapplied talent, every success and every miserable failure. I offer you all joy and all heartache, every kindness and every bitterness to be forgotten, every twinkle in my eye and every tear flowing down my cheek, every great love and each lost or irrecoverable act of charity. I offer you every quiet reflective moment and all of the unneeded chaos around me, all things holy and good in me and all things in need of greater purification. I give you every joyful memory and every bitter foul pain, each future moment and every missed opportunity to love, every kind act and each regrettable harsh word, all meekness and humility within me and every misplaced prideful thought, every virtue and every weak vice, every laugh and all misery mixed with weeping. I give you every healthy breath and every weakness of mind and body, every attempt at chastity and every unworthy lustful thought, every restful repose and every anxious sleepless night. O Lord, you can have all of me, the beauty that you’ve deposited deep within me and the emptiness of my sinful faults. I love you and am yours completely. Amen. -Pedro de la Cruz
So let’s thank God for every aspect of our lives, the good, the bad, and the purple6 and trust that whatever situation or vice or awkwardness we can’t triumph over is a gift for our sanctification and the salvation of the world. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam!
Sorry I’ve been MIA–lots of speaking engagements last week. I’ve got a few new Gospel meditations up if you want to check them out. New videos will be posted…soon.
If you’re in the Mid-Atlantic/Southeast region of the country and you’ve got something you’d like me to speak at, hit me up. I’ll be trekking down to Georgia soon before camping out in DC for a while. I’d love to support you in your ministry!
We’re saying “manage people” because if I say I’m proud of how bossy I was–and how good I was at it–then I sound like a jerk. [↩]
Ministry is not performance, I know. I didn’t then. [↩]
You think I am exaggerating. Oh, how I wish I were exaggerating. [↩]
Funny how scrupulosity makes you more sinful, isn’t it? [↩]
As we used to say in my family, although I have no idea why. These things are usually cultural references that I didn’t catch as a child, but googling it only turns up Dragon Ball Z. [↩]
In 1571, the Christian world was under attack. The Reformation had divided Christians, causing them to war with one another rather than uniting to turn their attention against the advancing Turks. On October 7, the Muslim Ottoman Empire sent ships from the port of Lepanto in a battle that would decide the fate of Europe; if the Ottomans won, the Mediterranean would be theirs. It would be just a matter of time before they took (and converted) much of Europe.1
The Battle of Lepanto by Paolo Veronese–check out that heavenly intercession!
It was a terrible threat, and some few nations sent troops under the great Don Juan. But others were too busy quibbling over “minor” matters of doctrine to come to the aid of Christendom. And so Christian forces were far outnumbered.
Pope St. Pius V called on all Christians to pray the Rosary for victory. On the afternoon of the battle, he is said to have had a heavenly vision of a victory for the Europeans, holding off the Turks and preserving the Christian identity of Europe (until they gave it away of their own accord in recent years). The Holy Father declared a feast in honor of Our Lady of Victory, today called the Feast of the Holy Rosary.
I’ll go into the Rosary more later–for today, I just want to give you one of my favorite poems of all time: Lepanto by G.K. Chesterton. It’s long but brilliant. If you’ve got an audience–or even if you don’t–read it aloud. (Fair warning: Chesterton is not the most culturally sensitive fellow. His epithets are not my own.)
White founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips;
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross.
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young.
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain–hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea.
Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri’s knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye,
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.
They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,–
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.
And he saith, “Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces–four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not ‘Kismet’; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate!
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth.”
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still–hurrah!
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.
St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes,
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,–
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria
Is shouting to the ships.
King Philip’s in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John’s hunting, and his hounds have bayed–
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah!
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.
The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man’s house where God sits all the year,
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark;
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings’ horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign–
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate’s sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria!
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!
Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade….
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
There’s nothing anti-Islamic about this. Christians wanted Europe to stay Christian; Muslims, naturally, wanted it to be Muslim. Hence the battle. [↩]
Last week I got in my car and drove 16 hours to the kids I left in May. Hours and hours I drove to make it in time for Homecoming, to watch the game and see the dresses and hug the queen and let the new alums curse in front of me because they finally can. I pulled up Thursday afternoon and walked up to the school where I quite literally lived for two years.
To girls who shout “You’re my favorite teacher ever” and insist on taking a picture with me.
To girls who screamed and ran to hug me.
To a wide receiver who told the football team they had to win homecoming for me—not to break an eight-year losing streak at homecoming but to thank me for showing up.
To a team that played their guts out and shattered the streak—and thanked me afterwards for being there.
To “I haven’t told anyone else about this, but….”
To “Please come back. Please—we need you.”
To the quarterback who schedules confessions for the team because I convinced him that he plays better in a state of grace.
To dozens of kids who still know all the books of the Bible in order.
To classrooms full of eager eyes and quick smiles, full of kids who still remember what I taught them.
To a volleyball team that yells not “Team” or “Ravens” but “Ms. H-K” when they go for the win.
To girls who stare at me from the bench until I look across the soccer field and see them waving.
To “I miss your homework and your notes.”
To “I took your notebook to college. Everyone else borrows it to study for tests.”
To “Can we talk while you’re in town?”
To “I need your help,” “Please pray for me,” ”I’ve hit rock bottom,” “I don’t think I can try anymore,” “What should I do?”
To a heart that burns with pride and weeps with frustration and fears and loves and despairs and hopes and prays and prays and prays.
And I ache and I cry because I just love them so hard. And when they ask me to come back I want so badly to say yes. I want so badly to be here for them and to love them and yell at them and challenge and console and listen and teach and advise and suffer and just be theirs.
But they don’t need me. Because if they needed me, I’d still be here. So when they ask me to stay, I just tell them, “I can’t. I’m in God’s will. I have to be faithful to that. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t miss grading or discipline or long days or constant disrespect or any number of stupid issues that plague teachers. But I miss my kids so much. I’m so blessed to be so loved by these little ones—these big ones, these “adults” who are still my babies—but their love makes it hurt all the more.
And I wonder if there’s always a longing when you’re in God’s will. My restless heart wants this life he’s given me and wants my kids, too. But the ache reminds me that this world is not my home. It reminds me that I was made for more. I’m glad of the reminder in the midst of a life so full of grace. I’m glad to feel the poverty of earthly joy because it reminds me to long for heaven. I’m glad to suffer whatever he asks me to suffer for the glory of his name and the salvation of souls. I’m glad, I am.
I’m such a jerk. That’s probably not news to those of you who’ve met me, but I thought I’d put it out there for the many of you who only see the nice polished stuff that I put on the internet.
When I ran into that car issue, I didn’t feel like I was suffering terribly. I wasn’t moaning and lamenting the great difficulty of my life. I was well aware that there were people struggling dramatically more than I and that by all rights I owed God nothing but gratitude.1
And still I whined. I was so frustrated with the situation, with the fact that I was trying to do some really good work and it just fell apart. I checked flights and buses and even trains (turns out Mobile doesn’t have those) and I just knew there was nothing to be done. They couldn’t get me my car in time and I couldn’t afford an alternative.
And so because I couldn’t see how God was going to work this out, I added that petulant line about not knowing whether I’d see the good it brought this side of heaven. Because I knew nothing good was going to come of it now. I’m sure this is good for my soul somehow, I thought, but it definitely isn’t going to work out in the short run.
But God is so good and so generous and so much bigger than I give him credit for. I was cranky and mopey and he just busted my world wide open.
An incredible family—people I’ve never met in my life—contacted me and asked if they could fly me to Florida. Free. (Say a quick prayer for the Hanks family that God would reward them for their incredible generosity. Ready, set, go! … Okay, thanks.)
In case you missed it, that’s a free plane ticket the day before I needed it.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
And once again I went to sulk at the tomb and found it empty.
In addition to the flight, I had offers of help (financial and spiritual) from friends, an invitation to dinner in Mobile, and the continued hospitality of my hosts there. Once I got my travel plans figured out (bus to New Orleans, fly to Ft. Meyers, drive to Ave, reverse), I had two offers of a place to stay in New Orleans and three offers of a ride to the airport. My friends in Mobile are going to pick up my car while I’m gone and even offered to pay for it and let me pay them back if I couldn’t pay over the phone.
Grace and joy and charity unbounded.
I knew from the beginning that there was a lesson in this. But the day before it happened, this was the reading in the Office:
The waters have risen and severe storms are upon us, but we do not fear drowning, for we stand firmly upon a rock. Let the sea rage, it cannot break the rock. Let the waves rise, they cannot sink the boat of Jesus. What are we to fear? Death? Life to me means Christ, and death is gain. Exile? ‘The earth and its fullness belong to the Lord. The confiscation of goods? We brought nothing into this world, and we shall surely take nothing from it. I have only contempt for the world’s threats, I find its blessings laughable. I have no fear of poverty, no desire for wealth. I am not afraid of death nor do I long to live, except for your good. I concentrate therefore on the present situation, and I urge you, my friends, to have confidence…. Let the world be in upheaval. I hold to his promise and read his message; that is my protecting wall and garrison. -St. John Chrysostom
And then that day was the Triumph of the Cross, and then Our Lady of Sorrows, and finally Sunday readings about suffering and taking up your cross. So I figured that the lesson was, “Sometimes things go wrong and there’s nothing you can do but God is still awesome so quit whining.”
And then I got that email—the one that told me that God continues to work miracles today through his body the Church. And I realized how close he holds me and how much he blesses me and how completely undeserving I am. Even when I’m faithless, when I forget how powerful he is and how desperately he loves me, he continues to work for my good. Even when I’ve decided what he can and can’t do, he’s not limited by my faithlessness. Even when I’m a jerk and get all caught up in myself, he keeps drawing me close.
If this trip to Ave had gone off without a hitch, it would have been just another trip. Now it’s a gift, an opportunity for grace, a challenge to deserve what’s been given to me.
Sometimes the obstacles we encounter are there to strengthen us, sometimes to teach us, and sometimes to smack us upside the head and remind us how little we are and how big is our God. Meg, consider yourself smacked.
So thanks to David, Melissa, Coleen, Chrissy, Sean, Margaret, Elizabeth, Grace, Veronica, Calleen, Cathy, Katherine,2 and everyone who was sending silent prayers my way. Thank you for being the hands and feet of Christ.
I’m beginning to think that some great things might happen while I’m down at Ave—it sure seems like Satan doesn’t want me to get there and God clearly does. So will you throw up some prayers for me and the souls I’ll be speaking to? And let me know if you’re in that area—I’ll get you the info on the sessions that are open to the public.
God is good, my friends. Even when we can’t see it.
And in case I didn’t know that, I found out soon after posting my last that a dear friend has suffered a miscarriage. Please pray for their sweet little family. [↩]
I hope I didn’t miss anyone! It’s early and I’m writing this in the airport–thank you, too!! [↩]
I was planning a much better-developed post on this topic, but God kind of forced my hand.
I’ve been praying recently about the fact that I do crazy, radical things because I trust God. I consent to perpetual celibacy, I quit my job and live out of my car–you know, pretty much the usual for a successful, educated woman pushing thirty. And yet I’m super anxious and obsessive about stupid, unimportant matters: whether I might run out of gas before the next rest stop because I didn’t feel like stopping at the last one even though the light was already on; whether I’ll be able to find a parking spot downtown in time to make it to Mass early enough for it to count as Mass; whether the check that’s been following me around America will finally catch up with me in time to cover my bills.1
This is ridiculous! Why do I trust God with the salvation of the entire world but I don’t trust him with my calluses? Why am I willing to offer him hours in prayer every day but I just can’t give him the two minutes left in my holy hour because what if my host is waiting for me?
Seriously, it just feels pathetic, largely because it’s so irrational. I trust God with the creation, care, and salvation of every human soul, with the design of the genome, with the tiny little flashes of inspiration that lead to a life of faith. I trust him with my whole life–just none of the details of it.
So today in adoration, I made a list of things I trust God with:
The happiness and salvation of everyone in the world.
That’s pretty BA, huh? I’m, like, practically a saint.
So then I made a list of the things I don’t trust God with:
My car. (It might break down.)
Traffic. (I might be late.)
Other people’s opinion of me. (I care more than anybody ever should.)
My success. (What if I never get any jobs?)
Anything involving paperwork. (That stuff stresses me out!)
My stuff. (I don’t have much, so if I mess it up, I’ll have to replace it and that’s really frustrating.)
A place to stay. (I trust God to provide in general, but what if I can’t find someone to put me up next Thursday?)
And, like a good little Christian, I asked God to teach me to trust him. I told him I wanted him to be Lord over the details in my life, not just the big picture. I prayed to delight in his will3 and offered every moment of this day for the glory of his name and the salvation of souls.
And then I went to my friend’s mechanic because my brakes had suddenly started feeling squishy. Quick patch on the brake line, I thought, and we’re good to go.
Nope. $800 fix. Oh, and the part won’t be here till Thursday, so I have to stay in Mobile till then because my brakes will almost certainly go out completely if I do any more driving on them.4
I’m supposed to be at Ave Maria in Florida on Monday.
So, for those of you keeping track at home, that’s an expensive car repair (#1 and #6) that makes me miss speaking engagements (#4) and strands me at someone’s house (#3–what if they think I’m a burden? They absolutely don’t and I know that and they’re wonderful but what if??). Oh, and if I skip Ave, I don’t know where I’ll go before Indiana on the 23rd (#7).
So here’s all the wisdom I can muster on the cross I was handed on the Feast of the Triumph of the Cross:
If I figure out this side of heaven what the silver lining to this is, I’ll let you know. Until then, I’ll enjoy an extended visit with dear friends and wonder why Megabus doesn’t go from Alabama to Florida. Feel free to throw some prayers my way, for miracles, resignation, or both.
Notice that these are all travel-related. Because that’s pretty much all I do. [↩]
You know, that he’ll take care of me even though I’m living out of my car and don’t have a real home. [↩]
It’s the brake master cylinder–apparently that’s important. And I think it’s all legit because it was a Firestone, so he’s got no real incentive to mess with me, especially since he spent 45 minutes on the phone trying to get the part quicker. He managed to get a promise of “Monday or Tuesday.” I’m not optimistic. [↩]
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.
