where you can revel in the JOY of being Catholic
What was the color of that Blossom bright?
White to begin with, immaculate white.
But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood,
When the Rose ran in crimsonings down the Cross-wood.
In the Gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall worship the wounds with thee, Mother of mine.
-from the poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
The great temptation of Advent, at least for me, is the petty sin of low horizons and little expectations — missing the moment to focus on the great sweep of the history of salvation and the glorious promise of heaven, held out to me in my baptism, and choosing instead to look ahead to the commemoration of Christmas.
And, of course, the great temptation of Christmas is nostalgia; to wallow in the thousand little seasonal customs of my own life and family, especially now I have a daughter just old enough to appreciate them.
For me, the great urge of nostalgia is to keep still, to stay home, to look back. But, of course, there is no keeping still, and there is no going back. We do not ever stop moving forward in time — and when you consider the orbit of our planet, the sweep of our solar system within the arc of the Milky Way, and that our galaxy is itself rocketing out into the ever expanding void, we never stop moving in space, either.
However much my desire is to stay home, the reality is my home, as a Christian, is not somewhere I can make or maintain for myself. And it is no fixed point on the map to which I can return.
My home, our home, is elsewhere, and we are all on pilgrimage toward it. The challenge, I suppose, is appreciating that reality and not allowing myself to give in to the illusion of a stationary life.
Advent is good for that.
The Pillar is right: our solar system is a vortex. I try to explain that this is the model for our liturgical cycle as well, since we are spiraling closer to Jesus each year:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0jHsq36_NTU
One of the most astute observations about the true meaning of the season I have ever read, Carl Olsen's substack article places my sorrow over the loss of my wife into its eschatological context. It is indeed What I Need Now:
We have been saved by the Lamb of God, but we still await the Marriage Supper of the Lamb. Advent reminds us that this state of in-between is real and difficult, but also passing and temporary:
The Kingdom of God has been coming since the Last Supper and, in the Eucharist, it is in our midst. The kingdom will come in glory when Christ hands it over to his Father.” (CCC 2816; see 1405, 1682, 2861)
St. John Paul II, in Ecclesia de Eucharistia, his final encyclical, wrote at length about this tension, noting that the “Eucharist is a straining towards the goal, a foretaste of the fullness of joy promised by Christ (cf. John 15:11); it is in some way the anticipation of heaven…” (no. 18). He emphasized
Those who feed on Christ in the Eucharist need not wait until the hereafter to receive eternal life: they already possess it on earth, as the first-fruits of a future fullness which will embrace man in his totality. For in the Eucharist we also receive the pledge of our bodily resurrection at the end of the world: “He who eats my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up at the last day” (Jn 6:54). (no. 18)
The “eschatological tension kindled by the Eucharist,” he noted, “expresses and reinforces our communion with the Church in heaven” (no. 19; emphasis in the original). Foremost among those, of course, is the perfect disciple of our Lord: his blessed Mother, the ever-Virgin Mary, as well as the one who is least among these (cf. Matthew 11:11), his cousin John the Baptist.
The readings during Advent focus on both; they are exemplars in the Faith and true family who have gone before us. The Theotokos bore and loved the Word perfectly; the Baptizer decreased to the point of martyrdom. Their lives were not easy in the least. What we need now is to remember and accept—not with resignation but with supernatural resolve—that Advent is not about easy living, but about eternal life.
"It is sometimes asked whether poets are not more commonly found external to the Church than among her children; and it would not surprise us to find the question answered in the affirmative. Poetry is the refuge of those who have not the Catholic Church to flee to, and repose upon; for the Church herself is the most sacred and august of poets." -St. John Henry Newman, doctor of the church
While waiting for Advent and preparing for it as a catechist, I am drawn more and more deeply into my lifelong love of this season, now that I am in a season of grief. Advent longing and expectation express the surge from the heart of the mourner, tired of dwelling in this vale of tears and exile. More than at any other time in the year, the world comes alongside the griever in the Advent season and waits.
As one blogger describes it:
Advent, like grief, reminds us that the world is broken and we long for all to be made right. Advent invites us not to rush to the Nativity, but to cry out from the darkness. Advent reminds us of the promise, that we will be restored. The Lord is already at work in your grief, even if you don’t feel it yet. Being made new in the depths of your heart can take a very long time.
Grief is a reminder that this world is not our home. It brings an ardent longing for Heaven. After my son died, I didn’t know how to be here without him. Grief taught me to detach from the world and gave me an eternal perspective. Advent invites us to the same.
That call to be made new is echoed at this blog too:
Whenever we lean into loss to seek the ways God is calling us forward in faith, we testify to the work of God, who will make all things new.
In the stories of Advent, God shows up unexpectedly. God turns destruction into hope when the temple falls in Jerusalem (Mark 13). In the work of John the Baptist, God points to a reality greater than we could have imagined (Mark 1:7-8). When the psalmist and the prophets think that all is lost, God shows up. We see God showing up in Mary’s vulnerable strength and trust that God will fulfill God’s promises (Luke 1).
In our grief, what bigger promise do we seek than God showing up, with our loved ones in tow? As Christians, we do not grieve as people without hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). We grieve as people of hope—hope that God will fulfill God’s promises. With deft determination, we can seek the ways God fulfills God’s promise to turn our mourning into dancing (Psalm 30:11).
There are moments when the ache makes me desire to leave, but I turn with trust to follow the example of those who were witing for the Messiah, as Henri Nouwen describes them:
Those who are waiting are waiting very actively. They know that what they are waiting for is growing from the ground on which they are standing. That’s the secret. The secret of waiting is the faith that the seed has been planted, that something has begun. Active waiting means to be present fully to the moment, in the conviction that something is happening where you are and that you want to be present to it. A waiting person is someone who is present to the moment, who believes that this moment is the moment.
A waiting person is a patient person. The word patience means the willingness to stay where we are and live the situation out to the full in the belief that something hidden there will manifest itself to us. Impatient people are always expecting the real thing to happen somewhere else and therefore want to go elsewhere. The moment is empty. But patient people dare to stay where they are. Patient living means to live actively in the present and wait there. Waiting, then, is not passive. It involves nurturing the moment, as a mother nurtures the child that is growing in her.
Wait for the Lord, whose day is near.
Some notes worth noting about the latest study:
"As for the top pastoral priorities of American priests, they are: youth and young adult ministry, family formation and marriage prep, and evangelization. Each of these was listed as a priority by 94 percent of respondents...
The American presbyterate is united in its support for the family, for young people, and for evangelization. It shares a broad commitment to the poor and to migrants. And it is equally eager to defend life from its beginning to natural end. None of this seems likely to change in the years to come. At the same time, a commitment to Eucharistic devotion and to traditional (if not Traditionalist) liturgy appears likely to grow."
One can't pray enough for the swift retirement of the liberal/boomers, whose data points speak for themselves.
"How long, O Lord, how long must we suffer this generation?"
section 14:
The poor are not there by chance or by blind and cruel fate. Nor, for most of them, Is poverty a choice. Yet, there are those who still presume to make this claim, thus revealing their own blindness and cruelty. Of course, among the poor there are also those who do not want to work … However, there are so many others – men and women – who nevertheless work from dawn to dusk, perhaps collecting scraps or the like, even though they know that their hard work will only help them to scrape by, but never really improve their lives. Nor can it be said that the poor are such because they do not ‘deserve’ otherwise, as maintained by the specious view of meritocracy that sees only the successful as ‘deserving’.
Read all of the Pope's exhortation here.
I join Amy Welborn in her annnual lament: the prayer attributed to St. Francis was written by WWI pacifists, and it had nothing to do with him.
The prayer he actually did write has bit more bite than the sappy-Hippie versions of the man allow, which would account for its disfavor with liberals:
Most High, all-powerful, good Lord,
Yours are the praises, the glory, the honor, and all blessing.
To You alone, Most High, do they belong,
and no human is worthy to mention Your name.
Praised be You, my Lord, with all Your creatures,
especially Sir Brother Sun,
Who is the day and through whom You give us light.
And he is beautiful and radiant with great splendor;
and bears a likeness of You, Most High One.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Moon and the stars,
in heaven You formed them clear and precious and beautiful.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Wind,
and through the air, cloudy and serene,
and every kind of weather,
through which You give sustenance to Your creatures.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Sister Water, who is very useful and humble
and precious and chaste.
Praised be You, my Lord, through Brother Fire,
through whom You light the night
and he is beautiful and playful and robust and strong.
Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Mother Earth,
who sustains and governs us,
and who produces varied fruits with colored flowers and herbs.
Praised be You, my Lord, through those who
give pardon for Your love,
and bear infirmity and tribulation.
Blessed are those who endure in peace
for by You, Most High, shall they be crowned.
Praised be You, my Lord, through our Sister Bodily Death,
from whom no one living can escape.
Woe to those who die in mortal sin.
Blessed are those whom death will find in Your most holy will,
for the second death shall do them no harm.
Praise and bless my Lord and give Him thanks
and serve Him with great humility.
Mortal sin, the death of the soul- these make people uncomfortable, but St. Francis was not about comfort. On the 800th Anniversary of this prayer, let's finally find his REAL heart in penitence rather than merely ecological awareness.
UPDATE: NCRegister's Fr. deSouza put it tis way, "The challenge of using the Franciscan framework is that many audiences take Brother Sun and Mother Earth and leave aside Sister Death and the danger of mortal sin. Laudato Si was widely praised in the world for its climate-change-policy advocacy, but left aside its searching critique of a lifestyle dominated by a 'technocratic paradigm' and its indictment of sinful behavior in the commercial realm."
Eschew the commentaries, and judge the merits of the text for yourself: Dilexi Te is a quick read.
The beginning of Autumn is a time of thinness. The veil wisps between living and dead, between harvest and serried fields, between abundance and lack, warmth and cold. The spiritual realm is closer to us; we remember the spirits, the souls of the dead, the Church penitent. The harvest (from haer-fest, the festival of the cutting) reminds us of the harvest of souls, of being cut down, of the cycle of fruiting and dying. This is a time when the spiritual and the material world seem close together, when we celebrate Christ the King and remember that this world will pass. Michaelmas is the door to Autumn.
Calling on the name of Mary, our mother, is invoking one who loves with a mother’s love and to invoke the intercession of someone familiar with every grief and fear we can know in our lives.
The relative silence of Mary in the Gospels, surpassed only by that of St. Joseph, is something I think about a lot. Mary is frequently recounted as pondering the awesome weight of the mystery of salvation, and her seemingly impossible place within its plan, in the stillness of her heart.
If you read it a certain way, it almost sounds placid, though I am sure the reality was anything but that for a young, unwed mother seeing angels, or a widow witnessing the torture and death of her only child.
I try to resist inventing my own character of Mary in my mind. I try instead to think of her, our mother, as I have come to know her through periods of prayer and particular pleas I have made for her aid. Such moments are more often anguished than placid, though often silent.
But in that silence I have had — according to the very real limits of my spiritual imagination — fleeting instances in which I have met she who loves me as she loved her son.
Seeing it phrased this way in today's issue of The Pillar hit me with a jolt: she and I have something very much in common, and that unfolds all kinds of feels.
--------------------------------
Update for Our Lady of Sorrows, from this reflection on Mary's Grief:
Simeon’s prophecy warned of the suffering Mary would endure throughout Jesus’ life and ministry, climaxing in witnessing his crucifixion, which symbolised deep, soul-wrenching grief. His words indicated that Mary herself would not be spared from the varied reactions to Jesus’ role in causing the fall of many and the rise of others in Israel, and that this would be a sign men would refuse to accept. However, the piercing sword would uncover the thoughts of many hearts. Mary’s sorrow over the rejection and murder of her only son reflects (both then and now) the feelings of many regarding Christ’s crucifixion: Jesus’ life and ministry are spoken against. His presence exposes people’s true hearts, forcing them to choose sides and causing a crisis where no one can remain neutral. Mary’s deep personal sorrow, caused by the sword is linked to this revelation of hearts, reflecting the effect of her son’s rejection. The prophecy highlights the ultimate victory and reward of salvation that come from following Christ, even through suffering.
Our Lady of Sorrows, pray for us!
Here is what Happy Catholic quoted on her blog:
Today's feast is an occasion for us to accept all the adversity we encounter as personal purification, and to co-redeem with Christ. Mary our Mother teaches us not to complain in the midst of trials as we know she never would. She encourages us to unite our sufferings to the sacrifice of her son and so offer them as spiritual gifts for the benefit of our family, the Church, and all humanity.
The suffering we have at hand to sanctify often consists in small daily reverses. Extended periods of waiting, sudden changes of plans, and projects that do not turn out as we expected are all common examples. At times setbacks come in the form of reduced circumstances. Perhaps at a given moment we even lack necessities such as a job to support our family. Practicing the virtue of detachment well during such moments will be a great means for us to imitate and unite ourselves to Christ
finally, this greatness, from the great Amy Welborn:
If this world of Passionately-Chasing-Your-Dreams-to-Set-the-World-on-Fire is not your life, if your life, in comparison, seems too quiet and humble and maybe even painful to boast about, if, on a daily basis, you put aside your own desires so you can serve others, and the current flow makes you wonder about that, prompts you to wonder sometimes if you’re actually living an “authentic” “vibrant” “fulfilling” “faith-filled” life? If you are, perhaps, putting your real, important, significant life “on hold?” If circumstances have challenged and upended your achievement-oriented goals and you’re having to spend time shifting gears, serving others and making sacrifices for them and the greater good instead of chasing your own dreams? And if this time of adjustment and sacrifice seems to be defined, most of all by words like confusion, grief, frustration and loss?
Well, hang on – and it’s not me saying this. It’s the Catholic spiritual tradition, from Jesus himself on. Be assured: "In your sacrifice and, when it comes, in your sorrow, you are close – very close – to the heart of Christ."
And so in that, peace.
Both Pier Giorgio and Carlo cultivated their love for God and for their brothers and sisters through simple acts, available to everyone: daily Mass, prayer, and especially Eucharistic Adoration. Carlo used to say: “In front of the sun, you get a tan. In front of the Eucharist, you become a saint!” And again: “Sadness is looking at yourself; happiness is looking at God. Conversion is nothing more than shifting your gaze from below to above; a simple movement of the eyes is enough.” Another essential practice for them was frequent Confession. Carlo wrote: “The only thing we really have to fear is sin;” and he marveled because — in his own words — “people are so concerned with the beauty of their bodies and do not care about the beauty of their souls.” Finally, both had a great devotion to the saints and to the Virgin Mary, and they practiced charity generously. Pier Giorgio said: “Around the poor and the sick, I see a light that we do not have” (Nicola Gori, Al prezzo della vita: L’Osservatore romano, 11 February 2021). He called charity “the foundation of our religion” and, like Carlo, he practiced it above all through small, concrete gestures, often hidden, living what Pope Francis called “a holiness found in our next-door neighbors” (Apostolic Exhortation Gaudete et Exsultate, 7).
Even when illness struck them and cut short their young lives, not even this stopped them nor prevented them from loving, offering themselves to God, blessing him and praying to him for themselves and for everyone. One day Pier Giorgio said: “The day of my death will be the most beautiful day of my life” (Irene Funghi, I giovani assieme a Frassati: un compagno nei nostri cammini tortuosi: Avvenire, 2 agosto 2025). In his last photo, which shows him climbing a mountain in the Val di Lanzo, with his face turned towards his goal, he wrote: “Upwards” (Ibid). Moreover, Carlo, who was even younger than Pier Giorgio, loved to say that heaven has always been waiting for us, and that to love tomorrow is to give the best of our fruit today.
Dear friends, Saints Pier Giorgio Frassati and Carlo Acutis are an invitation to all of us, especially young people, not to squander our lives, but to direct them upwards and make them masterpieces. They encourage us with their words: “Not I, but God,” as Carlo used to say. And Pier Giorgio: “If you have God at the center of all your actions, then you will reach the end.” This is the simple but winning formula of their holiness. It is also the type of witness we are called to follow, in order to enjoy life to the full and meet the Lord in the feast of heaven.
https://thedeaconsbench.com/pope-leos-homily-for-two-new-saints/
The dystopian future described so articulately by Charles Camosy in this article has already arrived:
At first, it will no doubt be the wealthy who avail themselves of the opportunity, given the high expense. Our society’s already wide class-based inequalities will be compounded by the biological advantages accruing to the children born on the upper social rungs. Class (defined by one’s place in the social production process) will be reinforced by new conditions of biological caste, giving rise to a new biopolitics: having a child with a disability or a less-than-sculpted body will consign people to the lower castes. Later on, as these practices become cheaper and more widely available, a sort of soft compulsion will likely bear down on all parents to optimize their kids (health insurers might decline to cover claims associated with non-optimized children). Having children the old-fashioned way will be the mark of a few “insane” religious fanatics — freaks and outcasts.
Which is exactly how Christians were viewed by mainstream pagan society in the faith’s early days. Even so, a child-centered, Christian understanding of procreation defeated and replaced the ancient pagan culture’s understanding of reproduction. Could it happen again in our time?
Insurance companies already define their care for people with Marfan Sydrome and similar disorders according to whether or not they've been genetically tested; it's only a matter of time before they flip that switch, yet we are already being conditioned to accept their terms for our coverage.
A beautiful reflection after the tragic news from Minneapolis:
By all appearances, this seems to be a new kind of terrorism. It is not animated by a misdirected love of God, country, or party, but by a seething, despairing nihilism that comes when the heart sees nothing to hope in or cherish. It is telling that his target was a Church that offers the fullness of being.
If we focus only on the violent character of American culture or its broken moral anthropology, we miss something more foundational. We ignore that we are at risk of becoming people incapable of loving, even poorly. Love is a misunderstood word today, enlisted for political projects and treacly sentimentality. For Christians it is a serious business, as shown by the Cross and by those children martyred to nihilism while at prayer yesterday.
Do read it in its entirety, from The Pillar.
Martyred to nihilism.