This morning I was meditating on Joseph and Mary’s Advent journey to Bethlehem. So often, I think, we would like our own Advents to be peaceful and calm and balk interiorly–if not exteriorly as well–at inconveniences and grouchy children (and husbands), at interruptions and long lines, etc. And then there are those even more serious situations that we may be facing: the death of a loved one, possible foreclosure on our house, unemployment . . . When we think about what the journey to Bethlehem realistically consisted of, we might do well to join ourselves spiritually to Mary and Joseph in their journey, begging God to give us those same graces.
Here is an excerpt from Come, Lord Jesus–Meditations on the Art of Waiting, by Mother Mary Francis, published posthumously:
We think about our Lady on the way to Bethlehem. Do we really think deeply enough about what she suffered? And about Saint Joseph’s suffering? How do we think he felt to take her off in her condition of expectancy, riding the mule to Bethlehem? Her heart must have been tempted to question, “Why is this?” And surely his heart was tempted to question. Neither was supine; these were real people.
There are struggles asked of us, as were asked of them. And the answer is faith. We will see later on, of course, in the Scriptures, that it says very plainly that she didn’t understand what Jesus said to them after those three days’ loss. And she asked him, “Why did you do that?” Those words, in a sense, sum up her whole relationship with the Son of God, who was the Son of her womb. And he gives her an answer that she doesn’t understand at all. He says to all of us, in a different place in the Scriptures, “What I am doing you cannot understand now, but later you will understand.” That is a precious thought to hold in our hearts. How many times we say, “I just don’t understand this”, and he says, “One day you will understand.”
In the inevitable struggles of life–and the struggles of these special days–we don’t need to understand. We just need to respond, and then to hear him say, “One day you will understand. One day I will explain everything to you–except when that day comes, you won’t need to ask.” (pp. 103-104)
I’m getting ready to leave town tomorrow, and I almost forgot to post today! I can’t help re-posting my favorite picture portraying Jesus and His Sacred Heart, done by James Tissot.
We are all in the Heart of Jesus Christ, since He loves us all, for the way of love is for the lover to lodge the beloved in his heart. (Fr. Timothée de Raynier)
It’s still the time, the season, of remembering Christ’s appearances to those He loved. Let us not move too quickly back into ordinary time. (Is there ever an “ordinary” time with Christ in our lives?) Luci Shaw captures this need to learn to recognized Him in this Sunday-poem. We, too, need to “get beyond the way he looks” in our everyday lives:
“. . . for they shall see God”
Christ risen was rarely
recognized by sight.
They had to get beyond the way he looked.
Evidence strong than his voice and face and footstep
waited to grow in them, to guide
their groping from despair,
their stretching beyond belief.
We are as blind as they
until the opening of our deeper eyes
shows us the hands that bless
and break our bread,
until we finger
wounds that tell our healing,
or witness a miracle of fish
dawn-caught after our long night
of empty nets. Handling
his Word, we feel his flesh,
his bones, and hear his voice
calling our early-morning name.
I love pondering the post-Resurrection appearances of Christ. I guess I feel in good company when those who had spent three solid years with Christ failed to recognize Him. It’s always a reminder to me of the need to sharpen our eyes of faith, to look for Him in His many disguises. In today’s Gospel, we see Jesus showing a sense of humor (in my opinion). He repeats advice that He had given them when He first met them: put the net down on the other side. How many times does that happen to us, that God comes to us in a familiar way? Let’s not miss His appearances to us in our every day life.
One of the things I love about the week after Easter is that the Church relates to each day of the octave as though it is Easter Day. In the Preface of Easter I, the priest is directed to pray during the octave: “We praise you with greater joy than ever on this Easter day when Christ became our paschal sacrifice.” (Unfortunately most of the priests where I attend daily Mass pray “in this Easter season.”) In the Liturgy of the Hours, we pray Morning, Evening, and Night Prayer of Easter Day all week. To me this is a foretaste of heaven when each day will be as the first. “This is the day the Lord has made. Let us be glad and rejoice in it!”
It’s hard to find a lovelier description of our response to this day that that in today’s Office of Readings:
Let us run to accompany him as he hastens toward his passion, and imitate those who met him then, not by covering his path with garments, olive branches or palms, but by doing all we can to prostrate ourselves before him by being humble and by trying to live as he would wish. Then we shall be able to receive the Word at his coming, and God whom no limits can contain, will be within us. (St. Andrew of Crete)
Awake, Mankind! For your sake God has become man. Awake, you who sleep, rise up from the dead, and Christ will enlighten you. I tell you again, God became man.
You would have suffered eternal death, had he not been born in time. Never would you have been freed from sinful flesh, had he not taken on himself the likeness of sinful flesh. You would have suffered everlasting unhappiness, had it not been for this mercy. You would never have returned to life, had he not shared your death. You would have been lost if he had not hastened to your aid. You would have perished, had he not come.
Let us then joyfully celebrate the coming of our salvation and redemption. Let us celebrate the festive day on which he who is the great and eternal day came from the great and endless day of eternity into our own short day of time.
~St. Augustine, Sermon 185
My prayer consists in falling down at Christ’s feet like the poor lepers in the Gospel; I come before God like the poor man who lay on the road to Jericho, wounded and stripped; I say nothing. I only show God my misery and await help from His mercy. (Dom Marmion)