Today, the first Sunday of Advent, The Divine Office reminds us that we are to consider the three comings of Christ - in history, today and at the end of time, as well as how we are to come to Christ.
Blessed Elizabeth of the Trinity, whose second miracle is being examined in the cause of her canonization, would inspire us to think not so much about coming to Our Lord, but about His increasing presence in us as we yield ourselves to Him.
She says:
"I have found heaven on earth, since heaven is God, and God is in my soul."(Letter 122)
"A soul united to Jesus is a living smile that radiates Him and gives Him."
"I can't find words to express my happiness. Here there is no longer anything but God. He is All; He suffices and we live by Him alone." (Letter 91)
I think that in heaven my mission will be to draw souls, by helping them go out of themselves to cling to God by a wholly simple and loving movement, and to keep them in this great silence
within, that will allow God to communicate Himself to them and transform them into Himself.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Good Friday, 2011
Today is Good Friday, or was half an hour ago. I've been a senior citizen for more than a decade now, and, like most of us, an orphan without even an aunt or uncle left to call on the phone. Death does not unsettle me anymore.
When thinking about the events we commemorate on this day, I most often think of Mary standing unobtrusively near as they unfold until she stands beneath the cross watching her 33 year old son, a good boy and a fine man, suffer and die. It's hard for her to be there, but she has to be there, however much it hurts, because He is her son, He is in pain and she can't let Him go through this alone.
When someone explains the crucifixion in terms of balancing the scales of justice it makes no sense to me. What does make sense, however, is that in a world where everyone bears the responsibility for making his or her own decisions, mistakes are made, bad things, even evil things are as likely to happen as good things. Someday, perhaps, I may understand redemptive suffering, but right now the best I can do is understand this in terms of Jesus' example - - by choosing to forfeit rather than insisting on His rights, He averted a war. The take-home lesson is that we shouldn't do anything that will make things worse, even if that means refraining from insisting on our own rights. In that sense, allowing ourselves to suffer means others don't have to.
Sometimes the Good Friday service moves me to tears. This year, however, I walked away feeling empty. It was dimly reminiscent of the day not so long ago when I walked away from my best friend's grave, mildly surprised to realize that I am still alive, noticing that I would probably need to eat supper after a while.
This year I can follow Mary a bit farther. She will go home to pack up a few things and move in with John, or John will move into Jesus' room. What next? They didn't know back then, we don't know now. Fix supper, maybe. Pray.
When thinking about the events we commemorate on this day, I most often think of Mary standing unobtrusively near as they unfold until she stands beneath the cross watching her 33 year old son, a good boy and a fine man, suffer and die. It's hard for her to be there, but she has to be there, however much it hurts, because He is her son, He is in pain and she can't let Him go through this alone.
When someone explains the crucifixion in terms of balancing the scales of justice it makes no sense to me. What does make sense, however, is that in a world where everyone bears the responsibility for making his or her own decisions, mistakes are made, bad things, even evil things are as likely to happen as good things. Someday, perhaps, I may understand redemptive suffering, but right now the best I can do is understand this in terms of Jesus' example - - by choosing to forfeit rather than insisting on His rights, He averted a war. The take-home lesson is that we shouldn't do anything that will make things worse, even if that means refraining from insisting on our own rights. In that sense, allowing ourselves to suffer means others don't have to.
Sometimes the Good Friday service moves me to tears. This year, however, I walked away feeling empty. It was dimly reminiscent of the day not so long ago when I walked away from my best friend's grave, mildly surprised to realize that I am still alive, noticing that I would probably need to eat supper after a while.
This year I can follow Mary a bit farther. She will go home to pack up a few things and move in with John, or John will move into Jesus' room. What next? They didn't know back then, we don't know now. Fix supper, maybe. Pray.
Finding God in Lucia
This is the first Saturday of Lent, 2011. Today the Met broadcast its HD performance of Lucia di Lammermoor with Natalie Dessay. Since God is to permeate every part of the lives of believers, and for Catholics this should happen most especially during Lent, it seemed especially inappropriate at this time of year to go to an opera whose a plot is driven by characters who understand forgiveness as weakness, a sign of faithlessness, even a lack of virtue.
So, in order to make this Lenten diversion ok, one foolish believer proceeded to try to drag God, who is omnipresent, you understand, into what she considered to be an otherwise godless experience, praying for the performers as their images were cast onto the screen, for the conductor, the set designers, the crew, the audience at the Met and in the theater. And then of course, for everyone involved to grasp that revenge and hatred are not particularly sensible choices.
Our Lord may have been a bit amused, waiting, as he was, quietly for us all at the heart of Donizetti’s plot.
We have been taught to pray, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven”. Our omnipresent Father resides in Heaven. For us, then, heaven must be where we recognize God’s presence.
In her aria “Quando rapito in estasi” Lucia tells us that heaven opens for her through her love for Edgardo. She recognizes heaven - where God resides - in this relationship, which, for her would have become a consecrated marriage - her vocation in God - had she had the steely resolve of a saint, a wise spiritual adviser, or a reasonably decent brother.
But Lucia was no saint, refusing to do what was clearly wrong for her in her heart of hearts. Nor was her priest, who, out of the goodness of his misguided heart, urged her to violate the promise on which hinged the very essence of her spirit. Her brother, who at that point in his life was totally consumed with hatred and greed, was functionally sociopathic. Driven as he was to provide not just for his immediate family but for his clan as well, he was willing to lie and cheat to restore them all to prosperity, forging a letter from Edgardo, claiming that he was to marry someone else so that his sister could be manipulated into marrying the man whose wealth could put the clan back on it’s feet.
A saint would have refused to sign that marriage document and in a minute or two would have had her heaven on earth when Edgardo crashed the engagement party. And then, too, a saint would not have murdered her husband and from her grave enticed her beloved to commit suicide, as this performance suggests. And so this is a hauntingly beautiful - o those crystal clear tones - eternal tragedy. Except for the kind-hearted Donizetti, for whom Lucia is saved by her insanity, and for whom the two live happily in the ever after, however unrepentant they may remain.
And as for God, well, He is, of course, everywhere and that is our heaven. If we can manage to recognize where He becomes present in our lives and stay centered there, we might just encounter Him any old where, even in a plot based on a Scottish legend lamenting the tragedy of factional hatred and revenge.
So, in order to make this Lenten diversion ok, one foolish believer proceeded to try to drag God, who is omnipresent, you understand, into what she considered to be an otherwise godless experience, praying for the performers as their images were cast onto the screen, for the conductor, the set designers, the crew, the audience at the Met and in the theater. And then of course, for everyone involved to grasp that revenge and hatred are not particularly sensible choices.
Our Lord may have been a bit amused, waiting, as he was, quietly for us all at the heart of Donizetti’s plot.
We have been taught to pray, “Our Father, Who art in Heaven”. Our omnipresent Father resides in Heaven. For us, then, heaven must be where we recognize God’s presence.
In her aria “Quando rapito in estasi” Lucia tells us that heaven opens for her through her love for Edgardo. She recognizes heaven - where God resides - in this relationship, which, for her would have become a consecrated marriage - her vocation in God - had she had the steely resolve of a saint, a wise spiritual adviser, or a reasonably decent brother.
But Lucia was no saint, refusing to do what was clearly wrong for her in her heart of hearts. Nor was her priest, who, out of the goodness of his misguided heart, urged her to violate the promise on which hinged the very essence of her spirit. Her brother, who at that point in his life was totally consumed with hatred and greed, was functionally sociopathic. Driven as he was to provide not just for his immediate family but for his clan as well, he was willing to lie and cheat to restore them all to prosperity, forging a letter from Edgardo, claiming that he was to marry someone else so that his sister could be manipulated into marrying the man whose wealth could put the clan back on it’s feet.
A saint would have refused to sign that marriage document and in a minute or two would have had her heaven on earth when Edgardo crashed the engagement party. And then, too, a saint would not have murdered her husband and from her grave enticed her beloved to commit suicide, as this performance suggests. And so this is a hauntingly beautiful - o those crystal clear tones - eternal tragedy. Except for the kind-hearted Donizetti, for whom Lucia is saved by her insanity, and for whom the two live happily in the ever after, however unrepentant they may remain.
And as for God, well, He is, of course, everywhere and that is our heaven. If we can manage to recognize where He becomes present in our lives and stay centered there, we might just encounter Him any old where, even in a plot based on a Scottish legend lamenting the tragedy of factional hatred and revenge.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)