Blog - Held By His Pierced Hands

The Intimate Awkwardness of Receiving on the Tongue

I was in a discussion recently about the fear of the Lord and it became clear that most people present could view this gift of the Holy Spirit only as a negative, a servile fear or, at best, the fear a child has for his beloved but distant father. And I’m sure that’s the experience many people have of the God who holds galaxies in the palms of his hands and holds us in existence. God, they’ve been told, is a vengeful judge, a Father who is always disappointed in you, a magical yet spiteful being who spies on your petty sins in order to punish you in this world and the next.

Compared to that, the image of God as innocuous buddy is a relief. But while it’s certainly better for people not to be terrified of the Lord, God as neighbor-you-chat-with-occasionally-who-can-be-relied-on-to-jump-start-your-car is just as inaccurate. A god who inspires no fear is an impotent creature, incapable of true love.

Fear is, after all, a part of falling in love. That thrill of fear that tinges the edge of romance, the trepidation that surrounds all true vulnerability. The fear of the Lord at its worst is the terror of a slave before his callous master; at its best, it’s the nerves of a bride on her wedding night.

This is the fear of the Lord that is the beginning of all wisdom, as Proverbs tells us: the fear of a God who is good but never safe, of a lover who insists that we hold nothing back. We’ve all felt it at one moment or another, not just reverence before a God who is—quite literally—awesome, but apprehension when the God we want so badly to trust seems to be asking more of us than we think we can give.

But what about the times that God feels distant, less lover and more acquaintance? When we can’t excite any holy fear of the Lord in ourselves and our spiritual life feels flat? What then?

Now, faith is not feelings. It’s essential that we remind ourselves of this, that prayer is good even when it’s dry and our hearts can belong to the Lord even when we don’t feel him.

Still, we owe it to our tender and almighty God to seek to know him as he truly is and not as he is most comfortable to us. So might I suggest, as a way of recovering a healthy fear of the Lord, a spiritual practice that might be decidedly uncomfortable for many of us?

Receive communion on the tongue.

It was the standard practice in the West for many centuries, of course, which means that the vast majority of Saints received this way. But receiving on the tongue has more to recommend it than just being traditional.

Namely, it’s awkward, excessively intimate, and decidedly uncomfortable. Just the thing.

If you (like me) were raised making of your hands a throne for the Body of Christ, it can be more than a little off-putting to imagine approaching a priest and sticking your tongue out at him (at which point he’s as likely as not to misjudge his target and give you a good taste of his finger).

But what better time to open yourself up to discomfort than at the moment you receive a God made defenseless for you? How better to present yourself to your bridegroom than in holy helplessness, receiving him in a way that leaves you entirely vulnerable to his will? There is something in this mode of receiving the body, blood, soul, and divinity of Christ that forms our heart to receive his will this way: abandoned, with no illusion of control or power.

If nothing else, receiving communion on the tongue makes it so much more evident what this act of communion is: an embrace between lovers, the bridegroom’s kiss on the lips of his beloved. This is no less true when the Eucharist is received in the hand, but so much harder to ignore when we present ourselves before the Lord to be kissed.

Now there are any number of reasons that a person might choose to receive in the hand, and far be it from me to bind what Rome has loosed, but if you’ve found that your experience of the Lord has become sterile or servile or harmless and platonic, maybe this is the way to open your heart to the fear of the Lord once more.

Better Ways to Celebrate Mothers’ Day at Mass

Imagine that you’re an American man in 1946 who was unable to serve in World War II because of some unseen medical condition. Your friends and brothers fought. Many were killed. Others will never recover from physical and mental trauma. Meanwhile, you’re healthy and generally happy, but for the guilt and the shame. You would gladly have gone in their place, died in their place. You wonder if you’re less of a man because you didn’t fight.

And then you go to Mass on Veteran’s Day and the priest (unimaginable in the Traditional Latin Mass, but let’s pretend) asks all veterans to stand. All the men your age stand. Your father’s generation stands. Your grandfather’s generation stands. And the congregation applauds them and hands them flowers while you shrink into your seat, wondering what people think of you and whether you should just stand anyway so they stop staring. And maybe nobody’s thinking about you at all, but it feels like a twist of the knife. You know it shouldn’t. You smile and applaud. You’re so proud of the men standing all around you, so grateful to them. But it hurts.

It’s not the same, of course. All analogies limp. But I’ve been trying to think of a parallel situation to the “All mothers please stand and get a gift” custom that’s sprung up in recent years. For the many, many people for whom Mother’s Day isn’t hard, it can be very difficult to understand just how painful these paraliturgical celebrations can be, as it feels like a spotlight is shining down on you and declaring to the world that this deep wound of your heart makes you fundamentally inferior.

I don’t hate Mother’s Day. I genuinely don’t. I happily call my mother and text my sister and often field messages throughout the day from my godchildren and former students. I think Mother’s Day is lovely.

But in recent years, I’ve seen Mother’s Day being celebrated at Mass in ways that cause a lot of suffering. Women who’ve lost children and don’t know whether or not to stand for the mothers’ blessing, women who’ve placed children for adoption, women who struggle with infertility or who long to be married but find themselves alone as their biological clocks tick down, women whose children haven’t called them, will never call them again. And then there are the men who love those women and the people who have painful relationships with their own mothers. It all adds up to a secular holiday that causes people a lot of pain at Mass, prompting far more women than you’d expect just to skip Mass on Mother’s Day weekend.

If our observance of a secular celebration is driving people to sin, that’s an enormous problem.

If our observance of a secular celebration is causing untold pain in the body of Christ, that’s an enormous problem.

Now, I know that people feel very strongly about this. I know that because when I’ve shared my own deep suffering in relationship to this I’ve been attacked like you would not believe. And while I remain unconvinced that secular holidays ought to be celebrated in the liturgy at all, I understand that it’s important to many people. So despite my misgivings, I’ll concede the point and assume that Mother’s Day ought to be celebrated at church.

But we don’t have to single people out. We don’t have to make Mother’s Day the theme of the Mass. We don’t have to force grieving women to decide whether or not they’re “mother enough” to stand. Here are some other options:

Have a Mothers’ Mass. Rather than celebrating Mothers’ Day at every Mass, publicize a midmorning Mass as the Mothers’ Mass. At the beginning of earlier Masses, announce that those who were hoping to receive a special Mother’s blessing may return for the 10am Mass or see Father in the narthex afterward. At the beginning of the Mothers’ Mass, announce that those for whom Mothers’ Day is difficult may want to return for a later Mass that will not be geared toward mothers.
Have a Mass for those who grieve. Like St. Anne in Detroit, offer one Mass (ideally the latest in the day) where Mothers’ Day isn’t discussed. Publicize it beforehand and announce at the beginning of each Mass (and on posters outside) that there will be a Mass specifically for those for whom Mothers’ Day is difficult.
- Try something like this: “We recognize that this might be a difficult day for some. If Mother’s Day is hard for you, for whatever reason, you’re very welcome to come back for our 11:30 Mass instead.”
Have a petition for mothers in the prayers of the faithful. And that’s it. The prayers of the faithful are the perfect time for this kind of thing.
- “For all mothers, that they would be strengthened by the model and intercession of the Mother of God to seek the Lord with their lives and draw their children deeper into his heart, we pray to the Lord….”
Invite people to enroll mothers in their lives in a Mothers’ Day Novena. Discuss it prior to Mothers’ Day, have cards people can give their loved ones, and have the list (or basket) of names brought forward during the offertory. Then just pray, “For all those enrolled in our Mothers’ Day novena, we pray to the Lord….”
Ask all women to stand for a blessing. Explain spiritual motherhood, that women are mothers in many ways, as godmothers and teachers and aunts and friends. In the blessing, pray specifically for physical mothers but also for all women who are mothers in some way.
- “Heavenly Father, send your Spirit down upon these women who bear fruit in so many ways. Bless them in their motherhood. Give them patience and compassion. Console them in their grief and strengthen them in difficulty. May they be an image of your love to the world as they seek to follow you in all things, and may Mary, the Mother of God and our mother, enfold them in her love now and always.”
Do the mothers’ blessing while everyone is standing. Rather than asking women to decide whether or not to stand, or to feel singled out for not standing, do the blessing just before the closing blessing, when everyone’s standing anyway. Or do it while everyone’s sitting.
Focus on Mary. It’s always appropriate to talk about the Mother of God. Maybe give a homily on Mary (and, you know, Jesus and the readings) and let that be enough about motherhood.
Have a special reception afterward. Instead of celebrating Mothers’ Day during the Mass, announce at the end that everyone is welcome to come to the activity center after Mass for cake and a special mothers’ blessing. It’s much easier just to slip out the side exit than to sit alone in the pew as every other woman stands for her blessing.

Friends, I am a mother in so many ways and I am a bride to the perfect bridegroom. I’m not at all sure that God’s calling me to marriage and motherhood and I’m profoundly aware of how fruitful my life is in ways that would be impossible if I were married with children. And STILL Mothers’ Day is hard for me. If it’s not hard for you, I’m delighted! But there are a lot of people who suffer terribly every second Sunday in May, most especially at church. You don’t have to understand it. But we have got to figure out a way to ease it.

Making a New Saint Friend

If you follow me on social media, you’ve probably seen the project I’m working on for Lent: matching people with Saint friends. I’ve been loving the challenge of finding the right match and the responses I’ve been getting, both from the people I’ve matched and from people watching from the sidelines and finding all kinds of new friends. Honestly, I can’t tell you the joy it gives me to see dear, dear friends of mine shared 60 times on Facebook, introduced to thousands of new people who can learn from these Saints what following Christ might look like in their lives.

Through this whole project, people have been asking me where I find out all about these Saints. Honestly, the answer is Google, but I do have some go-to resources that I start with.

Modern Saints by Ann Ball is the reason I love the Saints the way I do. For years after I met Jesus, I was okay with the idea of the Saints’ intercession (Rev 5:8) and the importance of their witness (1 Cor 11:1), but I didn’t really see why one would love them. Then I encountered these books and heard the stories of the Saints told well for the first time. Instead of boring stories that somehow didn’t in any way speak to the love of God, I encountered incredible adventures that gave me hope for the possibility of finding holiness in my own life, with my own struggles. And they’re so compelling that I actually wanted to keep reading, even after my self-imposed quota of spiritual reading was up! These two books are among the six most important books I’ve read in my life–grab a used copy of volume one and volume 2 today (or get them on kindle so you can search within the book for particular topics you’re interested in).
Faces of Holiness by Ann Ball is a new discovery for me, and just as good as the earlier volumes. This one doesn’t seem to be available electronically.
The Big Book of Women Saints by Sarah Gallick is also fantastic, though quite different. It has the stories of 365 different female Saints, and while Ball’s book gives the full story of each Saint, Gallick gives you a bite-sized taste, just enough to whet your appetite and send you to Google for more. This is an excellent book to get on Kindle so you can search within it.
My 2017 articles on Aleteia were all about Saints. If you click here, you can scroll through and learn about 50 different Saints. Or you can search for a Saint with my name to see if I’ve written about them. There’s little that makes me crazier than Saint stories made dull and saccharine, so I can promise you one thing: these stories won’t be boring. (And if you want this and the Saint ninja project to turn into a book, you can support that by letting me know when you’re out of town and want me to hunker down in your house for a couple of weeks to write, because I can’t get anything done on the road.)
www.catholicsaints.info is my favorite website, especially for seeing all the options for Saints on a particular day or for searching for a particular issue. Do a site search for a key word (piano or depression or Madagascar) and you’ll find a really good beginning to your research.
Saintly Solutions to Life’s Common Problems (and its sequel) by Fr. Joseph M. Esper are wonderful books where you can look up struggles like anger, doubt, and marital problems to be pointed to Saints who walked the same path. It’s just a first step as it doesn’t give their whole stories, but it’s a great first step.
Saints Behaving Badly by Thomas J. Craughwell is a fun read, but do me a favor and when the bishop asked you where you found your confirmation Saint, don’t tell him that I gave you a book with this title (as one of my students may have done into the microphone during confirmation).
Louis de Wohl’s books are all fantastic. They’re novels, so you’ll have to do a little research to find out what’s truth and what’s fiction, but they’ll give you a sense of the Saint that will really help build a friendship rather than just an interest.
Various other books–my Goodreads Saints shelf might help.
My social media accounts have plenty of Saint stories–if you’re not following me yet on Instagram or Facebook, do it! And you can search my Facebook page for Saint’s names or features of their lives, or just look through my #blackSaints #AsianSaints and #LatinoSaints hashtags.

That’s all I’ve got for the moment–what other Saint books or websites do you love?

A Bit of Hope from Rome

I recently got back from two months in Europe, where I visited a dozen countries and the remains of countless Saints. I spoke to American, Maltese, Dutch, and British crowds, with assorted other nationalities mixed in throughout. I boarded a thousand planes, trains, and buses, it seems, and logged many, many miles on the one pair of shoes I took.

Do not recommend dragging a suitcase through the snow over cobblestones.

As always, God did incredible things. I had powerful conversations and beautiful encounters with him and his people, living and deceased. And I gave quite a few talks where he really, really showed up.

But with all the sights (and tastes) of Europe, all the beautiful and wearying moments, all the times that I saw him working when I had the good sense to get out of the way, there’s one series of events that stands out.

Last fall, when I made plans to be in Europe for January and February, it became clear to me that God was asking me to be in Rome for the abuse summit.¹ At first, I assumed that I ought to sit in St. Peter’s Square holding up a sign. “Dear Bishops, do your job or burn in hell” was my best plan—that being not a threat but a statement of fact about what’s expected of the successors of the Apostles—but it occurred to me that the caption on the picture of that spectacle would likely be something to the effect of “Disgruntled Catholics demand change” and not “Disgruntled daily communicants urge bishops to grow in holiness,” so I scrapped it.

Next I thought that perhaps I ought to be trying to meet with different bishops while I was in town. This was complicated by the fact that I didn’t know anybody who could arrange such a thing. Given that I can’t get the bishops even to send form letters in response to my anguished cries for action, it didn’t seem likely that I’d manage any meetings.

Besides, what could I say? I talk a big game, but I’m no Catherine of Siena, nor do I want to be. How could I know which bishops needed to be encouraged and which needed to be convicted? My only thought was to ask them how their prayer life is, which I’m sure would come across as tremendously presumptuous (though, to my mind, a fair question to pose to a man who has been made a shepherd of God’s people). I must say, I was quite relieved when it turned out that I couldn’t arrange any meetings with bishops—no need, then, to figure out what to say.

All I could think to do was to walk the perimeter of Vatican City praying the rosary, so I did. And it felt good to do something, perhaps even better to assure people back home that somebody was, indeed, doing something. And if that’s all that had happened, I would have trusted that God was working in that, in the prayer or in the social media witness.

Rosary held up in front of St. Peter's Basilica, Rome.

But while I was going to be in town anyway, I figured I’d ask if anyone wanted me to speak. So a friend who’s a Dominican friar put out some feelers and found me a few events. One was speaking to college students, which is something I’m quite used to. The other three were to priests and seminarians.

I’ve written before about how deeply I love the priesthood, how much I love priests and seminarians. But in the last six and a half years as a hobo, I’ve only once been asked to address them.² You can actually listen to the talk I gave here—it’s the most I’ve ever felt like Catherine of Siena, to the point that I was still shaking twelve hours later at having spoken that way to priests of Jesus Christ. Given that I took as my text “The road to hell is paved with the skulls of mediocre priests,” that reaction may have been warranted.

This time, though, I wasn’t given such a commission. The first talk I gave was to a group of young English priests and a few seminarians. I was asked to speak on evangelization and twenty men gave up their free evening to listen. They came with hearts eager to hear how they might better draw souls to Christ and responded with beautiful questions about how to speak truth to those who hear the Gospel only as a condemnation of their choices, how to speak about the scandals, how to love their people well. My heart swelled with joy to see these men who weren’t put off by the fact that I was a woman or an American or a layperson. They saw in me someone who knows Jesus Christ and proclaims his name and those were all the qualifications they needed.

The next day, I had the audacity to give a talk on preaching to Dominican friars. I sat before the Order of Preachers and told them how to preach. And again, they came. They listened. They wanted to hear how they might better speak the love of Jesus from the pulpit, and I think they took what I said to heart. I sat before the Lord afterward wondering how on earth I had convinced myself that I had any right to tell the Order of Preachers how to preach, but somehow there was peace. God had given me a word, I had spoken it, and nobody had held up his years in the pulpit or degrees in Scripture to demand that I sit down. They were willing to learn from me.

Finally, I spoke to another group of seminarians (several of whom were already deacons or priests). I spoke on preaching and storytelling, but I began with an exhortation to remember that in being ordained they’re being conformed to Christ the victim and the great high priest. We spoke about being falsely accused and I begged them to unite themselves to the victim heart of Christ that their suffering might be for the glory of God and the salvation of souls, even (God forbid) should they be wrongfully imprisoned.

And again, they listened. They asked beautiful questions about how to build community with lay people, how their priestly fraternity might strengthen their service of their people. One even asked how priests could better respect and listen to lay female theologians, an earnest question that really moved me. They wanted to know how to make their preaching both educated and accessible, how to respond when people make accusations against men they respect. These men gave up their Friday evening to listen to a woman they didn’t know from Adam tell them how to suffer as priests and how to preach.

My friends it gave me so much hope. After months of wondering who the men who lead our Church are listening to, I had become awfully discouraged. My letters went unanswered. Our Holy Father has said nothing. The bishops are wringing their hands but generally not acting. And while I love the Church desperately, I was becoming weary. I’m not going anywhere, but it’s been rough.

And then God put before me dozens of men who have laid down their lives for this Church, men who long for holiness, men who are willing–even eager–to seek wisdom from laywomen. And not only did I remember how much good there is in our priests, and even in our bishops, I began to see how much more good there is in our future. The Holy Spirit is at work for the renewal of his Church. In the midst of ugliness, he is raising up Saints. He’s opening hearts to see the gifts that women have to offer, the gifts that lay people have to offer. He’s speaking to the faithful the truth that the only way the Church is healed is through their becoming holy–each individual, ordinary man and woman.

It’s going to take some time. It’s going to take a lot of work, on each of our parts. But praise God, it’s going to be beautiful.

Great summary at that link if you want to read all about it. [↩]
Perhaps that’s purely a matter of circumstance. Perhaps there’s something about being a lay woman that makes people think you might not have anything to say to clerics and young men in formation. My suspicion, unfortunately, is that it’s often the latter, which is deeply concerning. [↩]

O Emmanuel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O King of All the Nations

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

The Church can learn a lot from the mall.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know there’s so little time left for cleaning and cooking and shopping and wrapping and all the other little things that we really must do in order to bring Christmas joy to those we love. But if you’re not overwhelmed by this joy I’m describing, do something about it. Watch The Nativity Story or put on some hardcore Christmas hymns a few days early or take a nap or go to adoration or go to confession⁵ or buy Christmas candy before it’s on sale and enjoy it early–I’m all about the suspense, but if you need a running start to leap up to “in excelsis” where the angels will finally be singing the Gloria on Monday evening, you have my official blogger permission to do what you have to do.

Because you can have the most perfect Jesse Tree in existence or know every verse to “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” by heart in Latin or wear liturgically appropriate colors all season⁶ and your Advent will be a failure if Christmas doesn’t find you exulting. Every last moment of his life was for you. Take a page from the Target ad and rejoice.

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind
In one the hearts of all mankind;
Oh, bid our sad divisions cease,
And be yourself our King of Peace.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel
Shall come to you, O Israel!⁷

via flickr [↩]
Or just watch it because it’s awesome. And seriously read that article. [↩]
Anybody know who painted this one? [↩]
No, I will not let up. Come on, every Catholic Church in the whole world–or at least a whole lot of them–has confession this morning or this afternoon. You can pick the time of your choice using www.masstimes.org. Just go! [↩]
Fun fact: it’s my goal in life to convince people to go to confession. [↩]
It me. [↩]
Really, I think both this and “O come, O come Emmanuel” go with tomorrow’s antiphon. But the best I can tell, the other is supposed to go with the”O Emmanuel,” so then there’s nothing left for today so…whatever. [↩]

O Radiant Dawn

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s an early Christmas present for you:

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

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

O Key of David

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

O Flower of Jesse’s Stem

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I think of the coming Christ this way, I begin to believe that, like Hwin, I’d suffer anything for him.¹ Like Eustace, I’d submit to any pain at his hands. Like Reepicheep, I’d go to the ends of the earth for the glory of his name. It’s just that–when I’m in Narnia–oh, I ache for him!

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

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

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

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

“Please,” she said, “you’re so beautiful. You may eat me if you like. I’d sooner be eaten by you than fed by anyone else.” [↩]

O Sacred Lord of Ancient Israel

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unless you’re south of the equator, in which case, hi!! [↩]