Author: Sr. Dorcee, beloved

I am the one whom Jesus loves.

“Just wait a minute”

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Well, I’m already having to “practice what I preached” last night.  I began last night with this quote from Fr. David May:

“We usually picture a stable around that manger, but in the Byzantine liturgy, they sing of a cave where the splendor of Jesus shines forth.
“’O little Child lying in a manger, by means of a star, heaven has called and led to you the Magi, the first-fruits of the Gentiles, who were astounded to behold, not scepters and thrones, but extreme poverty.  What, indeed is lower than a cave?  What is more humble than swaddling clothes?  And yet the splendor of your divinity shone forth in them resplendently.  O Lord, glory to you!’ (Prayer from the Divine Liturgy for Christmas).
“The Child teaches us not to be afraid of the barren winter of our wounded hearts, of our human emptiness.  For, by grace, these have become an Advent for us—a time of waiting for the Desired One.
“He encourages us during this season with a Child’s guileless smile.  He awaits us there where we are most in need and most afraid: in the dark cave of our poverty.”

The main point I was trying to make was about Christ’s desire to enter into the “dark cave of our poverty.”  That is where He decided–and still decides–to be born.  If the inn would have not been full, would He have been born there in the inn?  I think not.  He came–and still comes–to the lowliest and the poorest, to the smelly, messy stables.  That is Good News, isn’t it?  But we can, just like the innkeeper, say that there’s no room.  Or we can say: “Just wait a minute until I get everything fixed up first”–as though we could fix up anything in our souls without Him. We can make so many excuses for His not coming in–at least at this moment.

Anyway, this morning I found myself slipping again into the “Just wait a minute” mode and had to remind myself of what I was talking about last night: the most important thing we can do is be humble and open our hearts to the Christ Child at every moment, not just when we think everything is spic and span and perfect to receive Him.

Smelly Stable

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Tonight is Witnesses to Hope.   I will be speaking on “The Smelly Stable.”  More information can be found at the “Witnesses to Hope” tab above.  Hope to see you all there.  If you can’t make it, you will be able to find  a recording of it here on this site in the next couple of days.

Advent Prayer

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Advent Prayer

Like foolish folk of old I would not be,
Who had no room that night for Him and thee.
See, Mother Mary, here within my heart
I’ve made a little shrine for Him apart;
Swept it of sin, and cleansed it with all care;
Warmed it with love and scented it with prayer.
So, Mother, when the Christmas anthems start,
Please let me hold your baby–in my heart.

Sr. Maryanna, O.P.

Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God’s Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.

“And every voice a song”

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Last year a few very gifted songwriters from our parish put new music to an old Advent song.  It’s become a favorite of mine.  The chorus goes: “Hark, the glad sound!  The Savior comes, the Savior promised long; let ev’ry heart prepare a throne, and every voice a song.”  I’ve been thinking a lot about that last phrase: “and every voice a song,” and asking myself: “What song am I preparing for the Savior’s coming?”  I would suggest that you ask yourself the same question.  Maybe it’s a simple, secret phrase that you sing silently in your heart: “I am Yours and You are mine.”  Or maybe it’s something you want to sing out loud with your whole heart: “I am Yours and You are mine.”  (Yes, I know I repeated myself.)  May the Holy Spirit open your ears to His still, small voice singing in your heart, that you may sing along with full voice–whether silently or full volume.

Beginning to hope

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Today’s post comes from The Magnificat Advent Companion for this year.  I think it is a good meditation for all of us who are aspiring to be Witnesses to Hope:

There is a story of two priests who were speaking about their respective blood brothers, both of whom had strayed from the Catholic faith.  One remarked, “I have been praying for my brother for fifteen years and I’m beginning to lose hope.”  The other responded, not without wisdom, “I’ve been praying for my brother for twenty-five years, and I am beginning to hope.”  The message of the parable is important: when our hearts are tested by the secularism around us (or within us), prayer for others is related to our hope in the power and presence of God’s grace.  Our hope can be tried, but such trials are also related to our own progressive conversion, and therefore serve to our spiritual benefit.  . . .  Advent is a season of hope in the promises of God, hope for the conversion of ourselves and of others.  We should pray ardently for this great good, and allow hope in Christ to change us.  For who are we to underestimate the power of the grace of God?  (Fr. Thomas Joseph White, OP)

“Hidden in our darkness”

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Advent, like winter, is a time of hiddenness and darkness.  The leaves are stripped from the trees, and the trees look dead.  We know life is hid within them, but it’s hard to tell.   One can only have hope if you remember Spring is coming.  The same is true for us. We must have faith in the middle of the darkness.

Caryll Houselander, describing Advent, writes:

“It is a time of darkness, of faith.  We shall not see Christ’s radiance in our lives yet: it is still hidden in our darkness; nevertheless, we must believe that he is growing in our lives; we must believe it so firmly that we cannot help relating everything, literally everything, to this almost incredible reality.”  (Reed of God, p. 29)

Advent Visitation

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An Advent Sunday-poem from Luci Shaw:

Advent visitation

Even from the cabin window I sensed the wind’s
contagion begin to infect the rags of leaves.
Then the alders gilded to it, obeisant, the way

angels are said to bow, covering their faces with
their wings, not solemn, as we suppose, but
possessed of a sudden, surreptitious hilarity.

When the little satin wind arrived,
I felt it slide through the cracked-open door
(A wisp of prescience? A change in the weather?),

and after the small push of breath–You
entering with your sir of radiant surprise,
I the astonished one.

These still December mornings
I fancy I live in a clear envelope of angels
like a cellophane womb.  Or a soap bubble,

the colors drifting, curling.  Outside
everything’s tinted rose, grape, turquoise,
silver–the stones by the path, the skin of sun

on the pond ice, at night the aureola of
a pregnant moon, like me, irridescent,
almost full-term with light.

 

Advent: the season of the woman

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As we begin Advent, I would like to share an excerpt from a newly published collection of Advent meditations by Mother Mary Clare PCC:

I am quite confident all of us have a deep sense of expectation, joy, and wonderment that Advent is about to begin.  We look at the different facets of this season, turning it like a jewel in our hands.  Certainly it is a season for children.  It is a season of the child, the joy of the Child who came to give joy to the world.  It is a season, certainly, of the family, of the community.  Family life was solidly established in a lowly, humble, poor place, with three persons who loved utterly and were utterly given–even the CHild, from the first moment, because he was divine.  It is a season of great tenderness, and a season of hush. It is a season for everyone.  It is a season particularly of the woman.   It is the woman, especially the religious woman, who has great potential for the spiritual maternity which was so basic in our Lady and which was ratified on Calvary when she became the Mother of all the redeemed: ‘Woman, behold your son.’  It is a precious season.  Advent summons us to fold the wings of our souls.  There is rich meaning in the expression ‘folded wings’.  Wings that remain always folded and are never spread to fly in giving would be wings that would deteriorate in atrophy, whereas wings that are always spread and never folded in intense personal prayer, reflection, contemplation would be wings quickly spent or, perhaps, misspent.  With all of this–the joy, the tenderness, the maternal sense, the deepening of womanhood, the folded wings–Advent is a season of tremendous purpose . . . .

Mother Mary Clare was the abbess of a Poor Clare monastery in Roswell, New Mexico. These conferences to her Sisters were collected posthumously, and I for one am very grateful. I have read every book I could get my hands on by her and was saddened that her writing would cease when she died. I am eternally grateful to her dear Sisters.

Carrying another’s burdens

Sr. Dorcee, beloved1 Comment

I have been thinking a lot about forgiveness lately.  And, why, you might ask, would I post about forgiveness the day before Thanksgiving?  If you’re like me, you probably find yourself encountering all kinds of family-linked-emotions around Thanksgiving time . . . and, also if you’re like me, sometimes that means dealing with forgiveness of past or present hurts.  Anyway, this morning during Mass the picture below popped into my mind:  I first came across this picture in a commentary on Matthew by Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis (see Books to Read tab above).  I love this picture because Jesus and Symon of Cyrene look so alike.  It’s speaks to me so much of how much Christ took on our humanity, our likeness.  But what struck me this morning in Mass is how apt a portrait this is of forgiveness.  When we truly forgive someone, we decide, in our heart of hearts–despite however we may be feeling–to carry his/her burdens (cf. Gal 6.2).  We become Simon of Cyrene to them and to Christ in them.  We help them to carry their poverty . . . which has met us in our poverty. (That’s usually why there is a need for forgiveness.) Another beautiful aspect of the depiction above is that Christ and Simon have their arms wrapped around each other.  When we truly forgive we wrap our arms around Christ in the other person . . . and His are wrapped around us in return.

Maybe you’ve already had the grace to forgive, but you have trouble with the “forgetting” part.  (That’s where I get tripped up so often.) Again, we can decide to be Simon of Cyrene.  Every time that past hurt comes up, we can decide to continue to walk side by side with that person in our life.  It may be at a physical distance, but close-in-proximity in our hearts.   Of course, this all takes the grace of God, the mercy of God, and the sure knowledge of how many times He has been that Simon of Cyrene for us, carrying much, much more weight of the cross than we every deserve.  From the Office of Readings for today’s commemoration of the martyr, Andrew Dung-Lac: “Our Master bears the whole weight of the cross, leaving me only the tiniest, last bit” (from a letter of Saint Paul Le-Bao-Tinh sent to the students of the Seminary of Ke-Vinh in 1843).

Just a further thought: sometimes that “other” person in need of forgiveness is ourselves. . . .

Let us, this Thanksgiving, beg Him for this grace, this profound grace of forgiveness, so that we may encounter Christ in every person we need to forgive.  May you each have a very, very blessed Thanksgiving.  I thank God for each of you.

What God can see

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One of my favorite screensavers is a collection of photos from outer space taken by the Hubble Telescope. What is out there, that we can’t see with our naked eye, is utterly beautiful.  Besides those I’ve posted here, there are countless others at their website.  Now let me tell you the reason I really like looking at these photos: because each one is a reminder of what God can see and I can’t.  What that reminds me of is that there is so much going on in my soul, so much that the Spirit of God is doing deep in my soul, that is of great beauty, even though I can’t see it.  Think about that, will you?  And your soul (and mine) is infinitely more beautiful than any of these pictures . . .