A Year of Joy

Behold, God is my salvation; I will trust, and will not be afraid; for the LORD GOD is my strength and my song, and he has become my salvation." With joy you will draw water from the wells of salvation. And you will say in that day: "Give thanks to the LORD, call upon his name; make known his deeds among the nations, proclaim that his name is exalted. "Sing praises to the LORD, for he has done gloriously; let this be known in all the earth. Shout, and sing for joy, O inhabitant of Zion, for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel." (Is 12:2-6, RSV)

One of the more common reactions that I receive from Catholics when they see me in the habit and know that I am pursuing this vocation is rather gushing expressions of gratitude, typically thanking me for "being willing to make such a tremendous sacrifice," or something along those lines. I understand the sentiment, I really do, but I also think it can potentially distort the discernment of this vocation, and in an unintended way, distort the nature of this life.

Of course there are sacrifices involved in religious life and priesthood, but that is true of any vocation. There is nothing worthwhile in this life, no vocation to which we can be called, that does not involve sacrifice. Sacrifice is of the very essence of love. I don't imagine that ever in my life will I make greater sacrifices than my mother and father have already made for me and for my siblings; I don't know that I will ever make sacrifices as great as my sisters and brother do for their families now. Yes, my life involves sacrifice, and yes they are of a different nature, but by emphasizing the sacrifices that priests and religious make in order to fulfill their vocations the greatest reality of this vocation ends up being missed. That reality is simply this: My decision to follow this vocation, certainly rooted deeply in a sense of calling, at the same time was made primarily because this is the way of life where I believe lies my greatest joy. The present reality and future anticipation of this profound joy, I believe, does nothing less than confirm the very fact that this is where I am called.

The joyfulness of religious life is so often overlooked, so easily unrecognized, and so unfortunately kept secret. I think it is necessary here to distinguish between joy and happiness. It is true that there will be times in this life, as in every human life, where I am unhappy. No one escapes the walk on this side of heaven without deep encounters with misery and suffering. It is the inevitable lot of fallen humanity. But the sufferings and trials and distresses that are unavoidable and which lead to that experience of unhappiness, at least for a time, need not be contrary to a deep and abiding sense of joy, a joy which penetrates the depths of the human soul, the depths where we are essentially united to God in love. This joy is discovered, I believe, when we discover God's will for us and surrender to it without resistance.

The consequence of this, I suggest, gives us the key to discovering our own vocation. Discernment must always begin with a prayerful desire to know God's will, and to surrender to it. When this prayer is stitched into the very fabric of our soul, I believe the key then is envisioning that life which fills us with the deepest sense of joy and fulfillment - not happiness in any superficial sense, but a true, deep and abiding joy. For discernment to be authentic and mature I believe necessitates time dedicated to silent listening, to the silent gaze into the loving face of God. It is in this silence that the reality of our existence is revealed to us, the reality of God's love, and it is in this silence that somehow, mysteriously, things just begin to fall into place. It is in this silence that I am able to discover that I simply cannot envision myself anywhere else, doing anything else, in any other way of life. The silence reveals to me that this is truly who I am, and precisely so because it is where God calls me to be.

The reason I am writing all of this now is because as another year fades into the realm of memory and a new year crosses the threshold of anticipation, one area where I recognize that I need to improve is developing my own sense of gratitude and thanksgiving. Yes, there are struggles with this life, as with every life. But because God is faithful, kind, and loving, through all of these difficulties He ever fills my heart with joy, and has led me down a path where my joy may be complete. This is the same desire He holds for each of us. I pray that this year we may all come into deeper contact with that joy of God which can transform our lives into outpourings of love, thankfulness, and selfless giving, and that "with joy we will draw water from the wells of salvation."

Happy New Year, everyone!

Pope Benedict XVI's Urbi et Orbi Message

URBI ET ORBI MESSAGE
OF HIS HOLINESS POPE BENEDICT XVI

CHRISTMAS 2010

“Verbum caro factum est” – “The Word became flesh” (Jn 1:14).

Dear brothers and sisters listening to me here in Rome and throughout the world, I joyfully proclaim the message of Christmas: God became man; he came to dwell among us. God is not distant: he is “Emmanuel”, God-with-us. He is no stranger: he has a face, the face of Jesus.

This message is ever new, ever surprising, for it surpasses even our most daring hope. First of all, because it is not merely a proclamation: it is an event, a happening, which credible witnesses saw, heard and touched in the person of Jesus of Nazareth! Being in his presence, observing his works and hearing his words, they recognized in Jesus the Messiah; and seeing him risen, after his crucifixion, they were certain that he was true man and true God, the only-begotten Son come from the Father, full of grace and truth (cf. Jn 1:14).

“The Word became flesh”. Before this revelation we once more wonder: how can this be? The Word and the flesh are mutually opposed realities; how can the eternal and almighty Word become a frail and mortal man? There is only one answer: Love. Those who love desire to share with the beloved, they want to be one with the beloved, and Sacred Scripture shows us the great love story of God for his people which culminated in Jesus Christ.

God in fact does not change: he is faithful to himself. He who created the world is the same one who called Abraham and revealed his name to Moses: “I am who I am … the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob … a God merciful and gracious, abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness (cf. Ex3:14-15; 34:6). God does not change; he is Love, ever and always. In himself he is communion, unity in Trinity, and all his words and works are directed to communion. The Incarnation is the culmination of creation. When Jesus, the Son of God incarnate, was formed in the womb of Mary by the will of the Father and the working of the Holy Spirit, creation reached its high point. The ordering principle of the universe, the Logos, began to exist in the world, in a certain time and space.

“The Word became flesh”. The light of this truth is revealed to those who receive it in faith, for it is a mystery of love. Only those who are open to love are enveloped in the light of Christmas. So it was on that night in Bethlehem, and so it is today. The Incarnation of the Son of God is an event which occurred within history, while at the same time transcending history. In the night of the world a new light was kindled, one which lets itself be seen by the simple eyes of faith, by the meek and humble hearts of those who await the Saviour. If the truth were a mere mathematical formula, in some sense it would impose itself by its own power. But if Truth is Love, it calls for faith, for the “yes” of our hearts.

And what do our hearts, in effect, seek, if not a Truth which is also Love? Children seek it with their questions, so disarming and stimulating; young people seek it in their eagerness to discover the deepest meaning of their life; adults seek it in order to guide and sustain their commitments in the family and the workplace; the elderly seek it in order to grant completion to their earthly existence.

“The Word became flesh”. The proclamation of Christmas is also a light for all peoples, for the collective journey of humanity. “Emmanuel”, God-with-us, has come as King of justice and peace. We know that his Kingdom is not of this world, and yet it is more important than all the kingdoms of this world. It is like the leaven of humanity: were it lacking, the energy to work for true development would flag: the impulse to work together for the common good, in the disinterested service of our neighbour, in the peaceful struggle for justice. Belief in the God who desired to share in our history constantly encourages us in our own commitment to that history, for all its contradictions. It is a source of hope for everyone whose dignity is offended and violated, since the one born in Bethlehem came to set every man and woman free from the source of all enslavement.

May the light of Christmas shine forth anew in the Land where Jesus was born, and inspire Israelis and Palestinians to strive for a just and peaceful coexistence. May the comforting message of the coming of Emmanuel ease the pain and bring consolation amid their trials to the beloved Christian communities in Iraq and throughout the Middle East; may it bring them comfort and hope for the future and bring the leaders of nations to show them effective solidarity. May it also be so for those in Haiti who still suffer in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake and the recent cholera epidemic. May the same hold true not only for those in Colombia and Venezuela, but also in Guatemala and Costa Rica, who recently suffered natural disasters.

May the birth of the Saviour open horizons of lasting peace and authentic progress for the peoples of Somalia, Darfur and Côte d’Ivoire; may it promote political and social stability in Madagascar; may it bring security and respect for human rights in Afghanistan and in Pakistan; may it encourage dialogue between Nicaragua and Costa Rica; and may it advance reconciliation on the Korean peninsula.

May the birth of the Saviour strengthen the spirit of faith, patience and courage of the faithful of the Church in mainland China, that they may not lose heart through the limitations imposed on their freedom of religion and conscience but, persevering in fidelity to Christ and his Church, may keep alive the flame of hope. May the love of “God-with-us” grant perseverance to all those Christian communities enduring discrimination and persecution, and inspire political and religious leaders to be committed to full respect for the religious freedom of all.

Dear brothers and sisters, “the Word became flesh”; he came to dwell among us; he is Emmanuel, the God who became close to us. Together let us contemplate this great mystery of love; let our hearts be filled with the light which shines in the stable of Bethlehem! To everyone, a Merry Christmas!

© Copyright 2010 - Libreria Editrice Vaticana

Pope Benedict XVI's Midnight Mass Homily

SOLEMNITY OF THE NATIVITY OF THE LORD

HOMILY OF HIS HOLINESS BENEDICT XVI

Saint Peter's Basilica
Friday, 24 December 2010

Dear Brothers and Sisters!

“You are my son, this day I have begotten you” – with this passage from Psalm 2 the Church begins the liturgy of this holy night. She knows that this passage originally formed part of the coronation rite of the kings of Israel. The king, who in himself is a man like others, becomes the “Son of God” through being called and installed in his office. It is a kind of adoption by God, a decisive act by which he grants a new existence to this man, drawing him into his own being. The reading from the prophet Isaiah that we have just heard presents the same process even more clearly in a situation of hardship and danger for Israel: “To us a child is born, to us a son is given. The government will be upon his shoulder” (Is 9:6). Installation in the office of king is like a second birth. As one newly born through God’s personal choice, as a child born of God, the king embodies hope. On his shoulders the future rests. He is the bearer of the promise of peace. On that night in Bethlehem this prophetic saying came true in a way that would still have been unimaginable at the time of Isaiah. Yes indeed, now it really is a child on whose shoulders government is laid. In him the new kingship appears that God establishes in the world. This child is truly born of God. It is God’s eternal Word that unites humanity with divinity. To this child belong those titles of honour which Isaiah’s coronation song attributes to him: Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace (Is 9:6). Yes, this king does not need counsellors drawn from the wise of this world. He bears in himself God’s wisdom and God’s counsel. In the weakness of infancy, he is the mighty God and he shows us God’s own might in contrast to the self-asserting powers of this world.

Truly, the words of Israel’s coronation rite were only ever rites of hope which looked ahead to a distant future that God would bestow. None of the kings who were greeted in this way lived up to the sublime content of these words. In all of them, those words about divine sonship, about installation into the heritage of the peoples, about making the ends of the earth their possession (Ps2:8) were only pointers towards what was to come – as it were signposts of hope indicating a future that at that moment was still beyond comprehension. Thus the fulfilment of the prophecy, which began that night in Bethlehem, is both infinitely greater and in worldly terms smaller than the prophecy itself might lead one to imagine. It is greater in the sense that this child is truly the Son of God, truly “God from God, light from light, begotten not made, of one being with the Father”. The infinite distance between God and man is overcome. God has not only bent down, as we read in the Psalms; he has truly “come down”, he has come into the world, he has become one of us, in order to draw all of us to himself. This child is truly Emmanuel – God-with-us. His kingdom truly stretches to the ends of the earth. He has truly built islands of peace in the world-encompassing breadth of the holy Eucharist. Wherever it is celebrated, an island of peace arises, of God’s own peace. This child has ignited the light of goodness in men and has given them strength to overcome the tyranny of might. This child builds his kingdom in every generation from within, from the heart. But at the same time it is true that the “rod of his oppressor” is not yet broken, the boots of warriors continue to tramp and the “garment rolled in blood” (Is 9:4f) still remains. So part of this night is simply joy at God’s closeness. We are grateful that God gives himself into our hands as a child, begging as it were for our love, implanting his peace in our hearts. But this joy is also a prayer: Lord, make your promise come fully true. Break the rods of the oppressors. Burn the tramping boots. Let the time of the garments rolled in blood come to an end. Fulfil the prophecy that “of peace there will be no end” (Is 9:7). We thank you for your goodness, but we also ask you to show forth your power. Establish the dominion of your truth and your love in the world – the “kingdom of righteousness, love and peace”.

“Mary gave birth to her first-born son” (Lk 2:7). In this sentence Saint Luke recounts quite soberly the great event to which the prophecies from Israel’s history had pointed. Luke calls the child the “first-born”. In the language which developed within the sacred Scripture of the Old Covenant, “first-born” does not mean the first of a series of children. The word “first-born” is a title of honour, quite independently of whether other brothers and sisters follow or not. So Israel is designated by God in the Book of Exodus (4:22) as “my first-born Son”, and this expresses Israel’s election, its singular dignity, the particular love of God the Father. The early Church knew that in Jesus this saying had acquired a new depth, that the promises made to Israel were summed up in him. Thus the Letter to the Hebrews calls Jesus “the first-born”, simply in order to designate him as the Son sent into the world by God (cf. 1:5-7) after the ground had been prepared by Old Testament prophecy. The first-born belongs to God in a special way – and therefore he had to be handed over to God in a special way – as in many religions – and he had to be ransomed through a vicarious sacrifice, as Saint Luke recounts in the episode of the Presentation in the Temple. The first-born belongs to God in a special way, and is as it were destined for sacrifice. In Jesus’ sacrifice on the Cross this destiny of the first-born is fulfilled in a unique way. In his person he brings humanity before God and unites man with God in such a way that God becomes all in all. Saint Paul amplified and deepened the idea of Jesus as first-born in the Letters to the Colossians and to the Ephesians: Jesus, we read in these letters, is the first-born of all creation – the true prototype of man, according to which God formed the human creature. Man can be the image of God because Jesus is both God and man, the true image of God and of man. Furthermore, as these letters tell us, he is the first-born from the dead. In the resurrection he has broken down the wall of death for all of us. He has opened up to man the dimension of eternal life in fellowship with God. Finally, it is said to us that he is the first-born of many brothers. Yes indeed, now he really is the first of a series of brothers and sisters: the first, that is, who opens up for us the possibility of communing with God. He creates true brotherhood – not the kind defiled by sin as in the case of Cain and Abel, or Romulus and Remus, but the new brotherhood in which we are God’s own family. This new family of God begins at the moment when Mary wraps her first-born in swaddling clothes and lays him in a manger. Let us pray to him: Lord Jesus, who wanted to be born as the first of many brothers and sisters, grant us the grace of true brotherhood. Help us to become like you. Help us to recognize your face in others who need our assistance, in those who are suffering or forsaken, in all people, and help us to live together with you as brothers and sisters, so as to become one family, your family.

At the end of the Christmas Gospel, we are told that a great heavenly host of angels praised God and said: “Glory to God in the highest and on earth peace among men with whom he is pleased!” (Lk 2:14). The Church, in the Gloria, has extended this song of praise, which the angels sang in response to the event of the holy night, into a hymn of joy at God’s glory – “we praise you for your glory”. We praise you for the beauty, for the greatness, for your goodness, which becomes visible to us this night. The appearing of beauty, of the beautiful, makes us happy without our having to ask what use it can serve. God’s glory, from which all beauty derives, causes us to break out in astonishment and joy. Anyone who catches a glimpse of God experiences joy, and on this night we see something of his light. But the angels’ message on that holy night also spoke of men: “Peace among men with whom he is pleased”. The Latin translation of the angels’ song that we use in the liturgy, taken from Saint Jerome, is slightly different: “peace to men of good will”. The expression “men of good will” has become an important part of the Church’s vocabulary in recent decades. But which is the correct translation? We must read both texts together; only in this way do we truly understand the angels’ song. It would be a false interpretation to see this exclusively as the action of God, as if he had not called man to a free response of love. But it would be equally mistaken to adopt a moralizing interpretation as if man were so to speak able to redeem himself by his good will. Both elements belong together: grace and freedom, God’s prior love for us, without which we could not love him, and the response that he awaits from us, the response that he asks for so palpably through the birth of his son. We cannot divide up into independent entities the interplay of grace and freedom, or the interplay of call and response. The two are inseparably woven together. So this part of the angels’ message is both promise and call at the same time. God has anticipated us with the gift of his Son. God anticipates us again and again in unexpected ways. He does not cease to search for us, to raise us up as often as we might need. He does not abandon the lost sheep in the wilderness into which it had strayed. God does not allow himself to be confounded by our sin. Again and again he begins afresh with us. But he is still waiting for us to join him in love. He loves us, so that we too may become people who love, so that there may be peace on earth.

Saint Luke does not say that the angels sang. He states quite soberly: the heavenly host praised God and said: “Glory to God in the highest” (Lk 2:13f.). But men have always known that the speech of angels is different from human speech, and that above all on this night of joyful proclamation it was in song that they extolled God’s heavenly glory. So this angelic song has been recognized from the earliest days as music proceeding from God, indeed, as an invitation to join in the singing with hearts filled with joy at the fact that we are loved by God. Cantare amantis est, says Saint Augustine: singing belongs to one who loves. Thus, down the centuries, the angels’ song has again and again become a song of love and joy, a song of those who love. At this hour, full of thankfulness, we join in the singing of all the centuries, singing that unites heaven and earth, angels and men. Yes, indeed, we praise you for your glory. We praise you for your love. Grant that we may join with you in love more and more and thus become people of peace. Amen.

© Copyright 2010 - Libreria Editrice Vaticana

The Dark Night of Loneliness

I wasn't prepared for how lonely I would feel this Christmas. It hit me some at Thanksgiving, but it's really hitting me hard yesterday and today. While Advent was such a beautiful and prayerful season for me, suddenly, with the force of an earthquake, my soul has been shattered into this place of desolation. I miss my family, which I knew I would, but I guess I just didn't know how bad it would be.

This is one of those experiences where I need my heart to catch on to what my intellect clearly perceives. Missing my family, separation from them, is intrinsic to my vocation. There wasn't any wool pulled over my eyes, I know quite well that there is, to some degree, at least, a sense of leaving the world involved in my vocation, in order to be a different kind of presence and sacramental witness in it. I know this, and so in order for me truly to encounter this loneliness and this desolation, I need first of all to enter more deeply into the silent communion with my Lover in prayer, in order to allow Him to fill me in ways that the world cannot. Yet so often I turn not to prayer, but rather to those exterior things which can never fill me, never fulfill me, and which will ultimately only lead to the most exaggerated form of absurdity in my life. I need to discover what Augustine perceived in his own life "Behold, You were within me and I was outside, and it was there that I sought You." Seeking God on the outside - meaning, seeking my fulfillment in created things, instead of in Him Who created them - will only increase my sense of loneliness, even if temporarily quenching it.

St. Thomas of Villanova, a great Augustinian saint from the 15th century, wrote a letter to the novices in which he addresses this very temptation of religious, that we would seek worldly comforts instead of divine. He writes:

This vocation which is a life of religion and where worldly persons enter in order to attain it is not like the land of Egypt, from which you have come. It is not akin to the world which you are forsaking. It does not contain the pastimes and delights of the present life, these fleshly diversions and pleasures, or moments of ease and leisure, where you sow your seed and irrigate by hand like a vegetable garden where, with seeds being sown whenever they wish, they can be irrigated from these waters, as is done in the gardens of Egypt which are watered by the river Nile whenever one wishes. This land is not of that kind. You cannot gather the water which is earthly consolation whenever you may wish, for you shall not find it. You must be watered with other water now, for, as Christ said to Saint Peter: this land cannot be watered in this way with earthly pleasure, for it is not flat and cannot be irrigated with this foul earthly water; but it is a land of hills and valleys, being harsh and without any base earthly consolation such as you were given there. You shall find yourself greatly deceived if you think that you are to be watered with these waters.

These words speak so truly to my heart, and the magnify the depths of the struggle that I have with living this life with any sense of integrity. There are certain things that are certainly permissible in the Christian life, and can even be in some ways beneficial, but at the same time are not suited for this vocation, for this life. The life of a friar, in order to be authentic and true, I believe must be a contemplative life, a contemplation that, as St. Thomas exhorts in the same letter to novices, "shall aid you and give you wings, in order that you may apply yourself properly to the active life." But especially in today's world - meaning in the manner of religious life in the Church today, as well as the technological realities of the world - it is easier and easier for a religious to escape into "worldly" consolations, to abandon the life of prayer to which we are particularly called, and to eliminate the true fruitfulness of our vocations to celibacy, a point to which I will return presently.

Today's religious especially are confronted with the realities of the internet, which can be dangerous on many levels. There is the obviously insidious aspect of pornography, to which certainly religious are not immune any more than anyone else; but in a sense that is a less dangerous problem, because it is so easily identified as problematic. I believe the greater challenge is discovering a healthy and well-ordered use for social networking sites like Facebook, the various blogging communities, and so forth. Certainly, as the Holy Father has encouraged, having a presence here is something that consecrated religious and priests should strive to do, so that we may meet people where they are, and use these gifts of technology as a means of sharing our hope and joy in Jesus Christ. But these sites for us can very easily descend into places where we seek comfort, consolation, relief from our loneliness, and so forth, and when this happens, then we risk falling into a vicious spiral where the very core of our religious life no longer makes sense, and we can either lose our vocation entirely, or simply walk through it like a zombie, dead to the world yet still walking among it.

This latter aspect is my great danger, my great temptation, and so often when loneliness afflicts me I turn to the internet instead of turning to prayer. God is not always sensibly apparent, and the senses are where I experience immediate gratification, even if once that satisfaction leaves the hole of emptiness is felt all the more acutely. Furthermore, it deprives me of the ability truly to encounter one of the fundamental evangelical components of my vow of celibacy (well, a vow I will be taking in August, but live it de facto now), which is the ability to minister to loneliness in this world. The very fact that we are called to celibate lives means that of necessity there will be times when we struggle greatly with loneliness. Yet for religious, this experience of loneliness is part of our call, it is essential to the cross that we are called to bear, so that we may devote our energies to encountering our own loneliness in a way that brings us closer to God, and that allows us to enter intimately into the loneliness of those who experience it not by choice, but simply because of the harshness of life in our fallen world. Thus, when we are able to allow our loneliness to draw us into God, when we encounter the loneliness of others we may bring God to them there. In this way we are able to fulfill, in part, the prophetic nature of our vocation as we respond to God's call to Isaiah: Comfort, comfort my people, says your God (Is 40:1).

For me the challenge is intensified because of the years of habits formed within my soul, years of seeking my consolation and my fulfillment externally, whether with drugs and alcohol, women, television, internet, whatever. All of these and many more have been my crutches, and while some have been taken away for some time now, God is now asking me to clear them all away so that I may rely solely on Him. I am not responding well, but His promise assures me of His fidelity and His patience, and His love and mercy assures me that so long as I keep striving, He will do all for me. For so long I slept in my idleness and my sin, but now in the depths of my soul I will listen for the call: Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ shall give you light (Eph 5:14). May this Light ever be born anew within my soul, and within us all.

Encountering Our Poverty

In Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol, when Ebenezer Scrooge is first visited by his former partner, Jacob Marley, as Marley explains to Scrooge how as a spirit he now wanders the world seeing all the good he could and should have done, he says something to Scrooge that struck me as particularly remarkable about the birth of Christ and the visit of the Magi:

"At this time of the rolling year," the spectre said, "I suffer most. Why did I walk through the crowds of fellow-beings with my eyes turned down, and never raise them to that blessed Star which led the Wise Men to a poor abode? Were there no poor homes to which its light would have conducted me?"

Most of us have at some time or another, probably frequently, considered the poverty of Christ and the paradox of the almighty God taking the form of a helpless babe, born in a barn and lain in a feeding trough. That alone is a mystery worthy of many lifetimes of contemplation. What I never considered, however, is the richness of the Magi, and how the light of wisdom guided them to that poor abode, and in that poverty the rich men encountered God. The rich were brought to their knees in worship because in the poor they saw God. What a beautiful image!

Like Marley, this then serves as a call to which I must listen. I indeed am rich in many ways, even if not personally in a material way. With the great riches with which I have been blessed - spiritual gifts, talents, privileges, education, strength, and so forth - will I keep my eyes cast downward and see not the poor to whom my gifts truly belong? Or will I look first within, then without, and allow the light of wisdom guide me to encounter God, the very Christ-child, in the poor and needy of this world.

Yet something still disturbs me. Is that really the message? Or rather, is that the entire message, of redemption, that we who are rich, and often so because of the objectification of "the poor" (notice that we don't even say poor people, poor persons, poor men, poor women, poor children - rather, just simply "the poor," thus stripping away their human dignity), are simply to transform that objectification so that we may see "the poor" as an object of our charity instead of our manipulation? Somehow this still feels wrong to me.

On further consideration, I believe perhaps the great message of Christ's poverty is two-fold: one, by choosing not to be born a rich king in a royal palace, but rather a helpless babe to a vagabond family, Christ has informed us of the deep dignity He has imbued in those who are poor, in those who are hungry, thirsty, in prison, widowed, mourning, suffering, hurting, oppressed in any way, physically, spiritually, psychologically, emotionally. In every human being, then - since really, who does this not include? - there is a deep ontological dignity resulting from the reality of Christ's poverty, Christ's humanity, and the manner in which Christ has eternally united in blessed marriage this broken humanity with the beauty and glory and power and dignity of God. With the eyes of faith then we must always strive to see and respect and venerate this dignity in every human being, from the moment of their conception until their death, and even beyond.

Two, because each of us in our own way suffers from some great poverty, we must resist the temptation to see ourselves as the rich whose duty it is to feed the poor, in a way that perpetuates a devastating imbalance of power. Rather, we must see ourselves as poor, needy, reliant upon our fellow human beings and upon a merciful and loving God, so that when we come to the aid of persons in need and whom we are able to help, we do not do so in a way that objectifies them, but rather in a way that allows us to identify with them, be one with them, unite our hearts to them. And perhaps just as importantly, we must be willing to receive from them. We must be willing to receive in a way that we are the them and they are the we - better yet, in a way that dissolves the we-them relationship into the single, eternal reality of God. This blessed communion is the very meaning of our Eucharist, and so that Holy Communion should especially reveal to us our deep communion not only with God, but with all humanity and indeed all of creation.

While this time of year is often a time of increased charity, of increased focus on poor women, men, and children, on homeless persons, on unemployed workers, and so forth - and that is a good thing - perhaps during this season we might also spend some time reflecting on our own poverty, our own brokenness, our own need for redemption. We might also try to become better attuned to those times when others have tried to help us, but in a distorted sense of etiquette (really just a mask for pride) we have turned down that help, not wanting to take from someone who seems to have less than us. When we find ourselves so proud, perhaps we might become like those Wise Men who, after giving their gifts of extravagance, from the poor child who seemingly had nothing to give they received a gift that infinitely exceeded the value of any gold, frankincense, or myrrh. In coming down from their riches, they received the gift of love, of life, of wisdom, of hope, of joy, of thanksgiving, of communion with the living God and with their fellow man.

Merry Christmas!

Giving Birth to Christ

I haven't been writing much lately, during Advent. I'm not entirely sure why, and while I'm not exactly concerned about it, at the same time I think at times like this it is important for me to force myself to write. With my personality and spirituality, I need to engage in creative outlets, and typically for me that takes the form of writing, whether poetry or prose. Writing for me is prayer, or a form of prayer, and is an essential component to my contemplative practice. And so just as with my practice of prayer, meaning the time I dedicate to silence, with writing I need to persevere through the dryness and get at it despite the apparent lack of inspiration.

This is the first Advent that I have been so separated from the chaos that has overtaken the anticipation of Christmas. I've not been in any malls, not been Christmas shopping, not been to any holiday parties. This year, Advent has really been Advent. It has been naked, it has been raw, it has been subtle, it has been prayerful, it has been quiet, it has been hopeful, it has been sad, it has been joyous. It has been all these things, and because it has been all these things, it has been perfect.

My encounter with all of this has led me to a greater appreciation for the ebbs and flows that are natural to the spiritual life. It has led to one more experience where I have moved from an intellectual knowledge of some area of our walk with Christ to the beginning of an experiential knowledge of it. I came to the novitiate prepared in some way for these ebbs and flows, and have had some experience of them before, but there is something about the magnification of the novitiate that intensifies both the experience itself and the knowledge thus imparted.

One of the common pitfalls into which I so often fall is the idea that because I have grown a bit lax in prayer, or because I have been less charitable today, or because I have been less consciously aware of God's presence today, and so forth, and the flip side of that, because I have been so attentive to prayer today, because I have been quietly charitable today, because I have so strongly felt God's presence today - in all of this, I have the tendency to think of myself as either closer or farther away from God, and worse yet, the experience of the distance then leads me to a deep sense of being a failure. These are terribly unhealthy spiritual thoughts, and they are rooted in three basic lies: one, that the depth of our faith is measured by the intensity of our feeling; two, that it is both desirable and possible to have a relationship with God that is non-bodily (I will explain what I mean by this presently); and three, that anything like a constant, perfect union with God in Christ is even possible during this life.

Living a faith according to these deceptions will almost always lead me to a merciless relationship with myself rooted in utterly unrealistic expectations of who I am and how I will experience God's love. The fact is that, as St. John of the cross describes, faith is a dark night, which means that in this life we proceed in faith, we proceed in doing what the Gospel calls us to, as best we can, regardless of any feelings of God's presence that we might experience. The simple reality of our bodiliness is such that we are destined for these ebbs and flows, for times of fatigue, depression, anxiety, fear, irritability, hunger, and so on, all of which can have a profound impact on our spiritual reality and spiritual consciousness. When we add on to this the various illnesses, both physical and mental, that so often affect persons, then we are forced to confront the reality that in this unglorified state of the pre-resurrected body, we will fall, we will sin, we will doubt, we will be cold in charity, we will despair. This is not to say that we are powerless over all of this, and so we strive each day anew to turn to God in prayer, to live renewed in Jesus Christ, to love as best we can. But these challenges will always be with us and be a part of our daily existence.

Related to all of this has been perhaps the greatest lesson that I am beginning to learn: none of this affects the greatest reality of our human existence, the most important defining factor of our humanity, the most essential element of who we are: We are deeply loved by God, always!. Our prayer then should always begin and end with the singular search for this most definitive truth, the truth of our being loved. This is indeed the source of our redemption, for it is only in our recognizing - rather, by experiencing in the very depths of our being that we are loved by God that we can hope to live a life of true thanksgiving, of true hope, of true joy. When this experience is indeed revealed to our soul, then we can truly say that we drink from the waters of life that never run dry. It is precisely this deep experience of being loved by God that allows us to experience joy in the midst of sadness, hope in the midst of pain, love in the midst of failure.

Perhaps this is the key to understanding Jesus and how it was that He lived this life without sin. Yes, He was God, and so that is one way of expressing why He was sinless. But I think another way of expressing this same reality is that His divine nature informed His human nature in such a way that He was ever able to live in the awareness of the Father's love for Him, and living in this awareness allowed Him to live always as the perfect human being, the perfect Son of God.

This, then, I believe, offers the key to our own theosis, our own participation in the divine nature. As we approach these final days of preparation for the celebration of the birth of Christ, perhaps you might join me in praying that our own hearts give birth to Christ so that united to Him, we might always see and know and experience our own lives as being perfectly loved by the Father in heaven, and in this experience, we might know ourselves truly as daughters and sons of God.