It's New Years Eve and we prepare to ring in not only a new year, but a new decade. When I was a boy, New Years Resolutions were the big deal, but I never met anyone who claimed to have been changed for the better for those resolutions. In other words, no one kept them.
But here is a very beautiful quote from St. Isaac of Syria (c 613-c 700) that we might print and keep near until we have memorized at least the sense of it, if not the exact words. I would suggest these lines from St. Isaac's homily (81) summarize the essence of true religion.
Notice the saint composed these thoughts in the 7th century, indicating that even then creation—the animals, the plants, the water, soil and air were being assaulted. We have not changed, indeed, some would say we are devolving with endless wars and the mind boggling expense of maintaining planet-destroying arsenals, the sex trafficking of even the littlest children, our love of guns and violence, with the rolling back of environmental protections, the huge numbers of plant and animal extinctions, the poisoning of the air and the water.
What is a heart of mercy?
It is a heart on fire
for the whole of creation,
for humanity,
for the birds,
for the animals,
for demons,
and for all that exists.
By the recollection of them
the eyes of a merciful person
pour forth tears in abundance
by the strong and vehement mercy that grips such a person's heart,
These two psalms have so much in common: vocabulary, refrain and theme; they are believed to be one. They also seem to be the prayer of an individual, but an individual who is giving voice to the community. Is the anxious psalmist far away from the Jerusalem Temple? Is he thinking back to the days of the Babylonian Exile? Or is he just giving poetic expression to the more general life-themes of danger, threat, anxiety, trust and hope?
Biblical faith maintains that human life depends upon our relationship with God. But human life is interior even more than simply exterior. Human life is also my life lived in inner balance and wellness, my sense of wholeness, purpose and meaning. Many people pay scant attention to this, our culture so absorbed with diet fads, fitness machines, how one looks, a pill for whatever ails you.
The psalmist is expressing his deep felt need for God's help. Do you feel this need too, these days of gun violence and death, political upset, church crisis, climate change and war? Not to mention the need for help in our own personal and daily life-struggle.
Verses 1-3: The psalmist begins, speaking of his need as a thirst. A soul-thirst. Another translation doesn't use the word soul, but says, "my whole being." This might mean my mind, emotions, relationships, abilities, memory, spirit.
Thirst can be an intense word. I'm dying of thirst, we might say. The psalmist believes that God is necessary to be really alive. Contrast this with the TV commercials which suggest, You're only really alive if you drive our vehicle or vacation in our sexy, alcohol -fueled, sunny, blue-watered resort. The psalmist seems to be away from the Jerusalem Temple. He expresses it beautifully, "When can I enter and see the face of God?" Or maybe it's even bigger than that; maybe he's despairing that lately he's not sensing God's presence at all. There are people who go to church regularly but feel nothing, who say prayers but feel nothing, who go through their day and feel nothing of (or for) God. Verse 4:"My tears have become my bread." Here's another expression of wanting to experience God. The bread is the temple bread. Do you remember the words of Jesus when he referenced David and his men eating the reserved temple bread as justification for his hungry disciples picking grain on the sabbath? (Matthew 12:4) But now, this sad psalmist speaks of his tears as bread. Do you ever bring tears before God? Do you ever experience tears for the plight of others? Psalm 56:8 reminds us that God keeps our tears in a bottle. Finally, the psalmist lets us know that the mockery of others makes things worse. Verse 5: The psalmist recounts a happy pilgrimage day up the Temple hill—the rejoicing crowd, their gladness and thanksgiving, the pilgrims wild with joy. Verse 6: But sometimes remembering lovely or happy events can be painful. We use words like gut wrenching or heart sick. And so the psalmist lapses back into the sad refrain: bent over in sorrow, inner pain, moaning and crestfallen. Maybe we can identify with his feeling of hanging on by a thread. Verses 7-8: More reminiscing. Back in verses 1 and 2, there was insufficient water, but now there is too much water: roaring water, waves that sweep over the psalmist's head. Water gives life, but water can also take away life. I might think of my own passing through the waters of Baptism which began my re-birth according to the pattern of Jesus. But that same water can (if I will allow it) take away the life of the old man living within me—whatever would keep me from the love of God and neighbor. Verse 9-10: Here the psalmist turns to hope again—God's loving presence is sure and enduring, like day and night. Despair and hope can co-exist in tension. Life if not so black and white as some would have it. The psalmist claims, "God is my rock," but he also knows what it feels like to be forgotten by God and oppressed by an enemy. Verse 11: The psalmist is tauntingly asked, "Where is your God?" For all our talk about Trust in God, printed on our money and hanging on the courtroom wall, a North American Christian may feel like a resident alien, mocked by the culture. My own feeling of being an alien in my own country hasn't come about because of the hot-button religious issues of the day that wind up in the Supreme Court, but because of the way we treat each other, and how wasteful we are, how obsessed we are with possessions, eating, money, weapons and looking eternally young. A high end car was advertised before Christmas with the motto: Joy to the World. The Christian who knows and rabidly defends his interpretation of the Second Amendment, but doesn't know the second of God's Ten Commandments, let alone the two commandments Jesus combines into the essential one. How enslaved to our political ideology, devoid of human/spiritual content. How increasingly we seem to live divisively apart from the ways of the heart with regard to other persons, especially those who are negatively thought of as them or the others. Permanent aliens in our own country, we live in an environment that is hostile to God, and we don't even know it. Verse 12: But the psalmist ends with a burst of hope—"Hope in God; I will praise him still..." Psalm 42 continues these themes. Verses 1-3: The psalmist is feeling vulnerable among the people of a pagan nation (it's not someone else!) and asks for a sign of the divine presence - something akin to the pillar of fire in the night sky by which God led the ancient Hebrews to safety. "O send forth your light and your truth; let these be my guide." Verse 4:In this verse we hear the words from the Prayers at the Foot of the Altar from the Tridentine Mass many of us grew up with: "And I will come to the altar of God, the God of my joy." But why are so many people, especially young people, not feeling this draw or pull towards God, at least in the life of the Church. One priest official of a huge diocese told me that only 8% of the Catholic people in his diocese attend Mass on any given weekend. Why is this? Many want to blame the young people themselves for being godless, lazy or careless. I wouldn't agree with that. I think the Church must look to itself. Not a few Catholics and among them, not a few priests, don't want a religion that has much of anything to do with the world in its questions, pain, confusion and complexity. Young people are not interested in a religion they deem irrelevant for its lack of interest in the real world. Verse 5: And there it is again—the refrain sounding a final note of hope. Hope is trusting that God can and will act.
On the Feast of the Holy Family,/ may we learn to love people as we find them,/ or as they may become./ We pray to the Lord.
Celebrating that at Christmas,/ in a new way,/ God came to be with us here on earth./ Give us insight,/ willingness and resolve/ which may yet save the life of our dying planet./ We pray to the Lord.
For families in need of healing,/ where there is debilitating sickness,/ anger,/ violence,/ poverty or despair./ Bless the world's children with the security of being wanted,/ welcomed and loved./ We pray to the Lord.
Strengthen Pope Francis in his world mission./ Keep him in good health./ Give the world ears to hear his message,/ and a new heart which strives to create human solidarity./ We pray to the Lord.
As we draw near to starting a new year and a new decade,/ we pray for the President of the United States,/ our congress and those who govern around the world./ Encourage those who work vigorously to defeat greed,/ indecency,/ hostility and division./ We pray to the Lord.
We entrust our own families to God care./ May we look to that wider sense of family which makes room for the new comer,/ the weak ones,/ the stranger,/ and those who/ for lack of money/ are of no consequence./ We pray to the Lord.
Duccio Di Buoninsegna lived from 1255 to 1318. He is considered one of the greatest Italian artists of the high Middle Ages. Here is the Christmas image taken from perhaps his greatest work, the Maesta altar piece. The painting is essentially a Byzantine icon that has been Italianized.
The Mother of God is resting and wrapped in a lapis mantle. The Holy Infant is also wrapped, but in swaddling clothes, anticipating his Good Friday shroud. His crib resembles an altar. The donkey and cow warm him. They are not mentioned in the Gospels but the artist's imagination is tender and alive. The animals understand—do we?
An animated angel chorus sings the good news. One angel bends low to tell the shepherds where to find the Child. Joseph sits on the far left, almost breaking out of the icon. He is confounded, but will again and again spring into action to guard and protect his family. There is the sub-scene below of midwives bathing the Infant Christ, signifying that this Child is truly human, as needy as the rest of us. Behind the flock of sheep there is a dog sitting upright - an image of the soul, faithful and true to Christ.
I send the image with hopes for your consolation and strengthening in difficult times—my Christmas prayer for you and your family as well.
At Christmas,may confident faith and hope sustain you, may your heart be a cradle of love for Christ, may your home be a new Bethlehem. At Christmas, may your family be held in safety and peace, may you feel God's compassion in the Holy Child's face, may Mary's shepherd-welcoming-smile inspire you to hospitality. At Christmas, may your life be an open door to Christ, may you share the eagerness of the shepherds, may you desire Joseph's contemplation and courage. At Christmas, may you learn to treasure what is little and fragile, may Bethlehem's remoteness challenge you to go beyond your own small world, may the night of angel-song lead you to realize a religion that is of the heart. At Christmas, may God's incarnate breakthrough lead us to reconciliation, may the peace-message of the angels be your theme, may the animals of Christmas make you long for understanding. At Christmas, may hostility and fear be healed, may Christ's birth teach us to love what is most deeply human, may the Holy Child of Mary's gaze simply thrill you.
Here is a detail of Giotto's early 14th century wall painting of Christ's Nativity, found in the Scrovegni Chapel outside Padua, Italy. The Holy Child is wrapped in swaddling clothes. A midwife assists. Mary's eyes and the Child's eyes interlock. It is suggested that Mary is not reaching to take the Child to herself, but rather, perhaps knowing something of the future, it is the first moment of her letting go. She is mother, but also first disciple. She patterns for us what it means to let go. "Let go and let God," the bumper sticker says.
Lots of folks can't let go. In our neediness, we can't let go of other people. There's the corporation that can't let go of greed. The hierarch, president, premier, pastor, judge, majority/minority leader, who can't let go of power. The cleric who can't let go of status. Parents who can't let go of their children. The partisan who can't let go of ideology or candidate-worship. The Christian who can't let go of possessions or resentments. And for all of this, we remain exhausted, spiritually impoverished, un-evolved, incomplete. So here's a Christmas prayer-wish for all of us:
Deep peace of God's Bethlehem newness to you.
Deep peace of Christ's Nativity night.
Deep peace of Mary's shepherd-welcoming.
Deep peace of Joseph's dream awakeness.
Deep peace of your inner desert blooming.
Deep peace of Christ's coming to you.
Deep peace of Christ's visitation in disguise.
Deep peace of learning to love rightly.
Deep peace of discovering our human commonality.
Deep peace of embracing God's first book of nature.
Deep peace of your growing a non-violent Christ-heart.
Deep peace of living without desires and distracting pleasantries.
Deep peace of living without power.
Deep peace of God living in every human person.
Deep peace of being conscious of God.
Deep peace of interior silence to you. Deep peace of changing, but changing only yourself.
Deep peace of lessened anxiety and dread.
Deep peace of do-ing, but doing only for God. Deep peace of retaining the Holy Spirit.
Deep peace of a clean heart to you. Deep peace of a de-militarized heart. Deep peace of an inclusive heart. Deep peace of a confident heart. Deep peace of the children of God.
Over the years, a priest can encounter many hundreds (even thousands) of people. Some of these are in passing at a baptism or wedding. Some remain distant, no closer than the twentieth pew on the left or in the fleeting moment of the Communion line. But others draw near, giving and receiving life. This week the folks of the small rural parish where I was pastor for eleven years, buried Tina, a most dear and gracious lady. Pastor's Delight.
Tina was a real, but not high profile parish presence—quiet, unassuming. No gossip, tale bearing, judging, tysking. She had the clean heart of Jesus' Sermon on the Mount. When a large group of us pilgrim-d to Lourdes, she took on the simple yet demanding work of the piscines. So, I want to bless God—God arranging that our paths should cross, grateful for her patterning the beauty of the Gospel.
Tina, bless you for your un-grasping friendship, your cultivation of plants, respect for animals, your Cristic cornerstone. Tina, bless you for your embrace of Gospel ABC's, for your elegant goodness, freedom of self-gift, the spreading of your table. Tina, bless you in your modesty, your authentic devotion, and refusal to hate, in the silence of your light heart; your repentant heart. Tina, bless you for your discretion and wisdom, the simplicity of your prayer, your embrace of things necessary, in the readiness of your smile. Tina, bless you in your appreciaton of beauty, the valuing of the little and the small, your docility, yielding, bending, surrendered. Tina, bless you, tintinabulator of God's good news, that universal, enwrapping love— love for each and all.
The angel in Joseph's dream made it clear to him what he was to do./ We ask heaven to assist us in our own choosing and deciding,/ that we may live authentic,/ God-pleasing lives./ We pray to the Lord. Pope Francis is courageous when he says that even possessing nuclear weapons is immoral/ as the maintenance of huge arsenals robs the planet of resources that could lift whole countries out of poverty./ May we learn how to be brave for Christ's sake./We pray to the Lord. We pray boldly for the nation/ to be protected through times of crisis,/ disaster and wrong-headedness./ Grant that we would learn wisdom of heart,/ and be renewed in faith and love./We pray to the Lord. For the safety of holiday travelers,/ for the consolation and endurance of any who have suffered great losses this past year./ For those without family or friend./ We pray to the Lord. We ask to come to Christmas healed of our own resentments./ We pray for the sick and for those who are far away./For those who will work through Christmas./ For Christians who no longer believe./ We pray to the Lord. We pray for the children of Christmas,/ mindful that many are crushed by poverty,/ war,/ domestic violence/ trafficking or neglect./We pray to the Lord.
The night sky photographed here is seen from the Flambeau River State Forest in Wisconsin. It's one of a number of places where people can visit to see the night sky without light pollution dimming the view. We've all got a patch of sky over our heads. I live pretty much out in the sticks where the night sky is still vivid. Maybe you'll remember the psalm verse (147:4) - "He knows the number of the stars, and calls them each by name." Stellarium is a mobile app that can show you (wherever your location) the named stars, constellations and planets of your piece of sky. Here's my own 4:15 A.M. outdoor thoughts.
A flock of a dozen or so ground-feeding Mourning Doves show up faithfully each morning at the winter feeders here. Actually, I think the birds are here year round, but are spread out when seeds are abundant. When the snow comes, the feeder brings them together, making it easier to count them. I've just read that a Mourning Dove's life expectancy is no more than two years, so mine might well be thedescendents of the first flock I noticed years ago.
Mourning Doves are prolific birds, raising several families each year. They don't wear fancy feathers or bright colors, but shades of brown and tan. There are over 350 million Mourning Doves across the continental states, which is considered a healthy population, considering about 75 million are shot by hunters every year. The edible part of a Mourning Dove is about the size of a man's thumb. If I stopped to expound on this, I'd expect to find myself fighting with someone in short order. Sufficient to say, I'm glad they make their safe home here.
Watching the Mourning Dove flock for some time after this week's big storm, here's an Advent Blessing Prayer for you and your family.
May you find joy in the people you call each other;
open to the each others yet to be known.
May you remain enduring and grateful for the abundance.
May you be protected from what hunts you down. May your heart learn what it means to fly. May you be grounded in patient compassion. May seeds of humility sprout and flourish in you. May you have what you need in the day to day, and out of that, be eager to share. May your manner inspire thoughts of peace. May you survive the gloom and darkness. May you be gladdened to know, as with the sparrow, God keeps a loving eye on you.
For Pope Francis,/ who this week celebrates both his 83rd birthday/ and his 50th anniversary of priest-ordination./ We pray for his safety and good health,/ asking that his ministry to the Church and the world would be fruitful./ We pray to the Lord. It is Gaudate Sunday,/ may we find some inner cause for joy/ and not succumb to bitterness,/ cynicism and fear./ We pray to the Lord. We pray for ourselves,/ but also for our families/ and those with us at Mass today./ For those who are alone at Christmas,/ or who are feeling confounded,/ angry or sad./ We pray to the Lord. We pray for the Jewish people who celebrate Hanukkah this month,/ asking for an increase of light in our world,/ the end of wars,/ terrorism,/ planet destruction/ and the poverty which claims the lives of children./ We pray to the Lord. The simple beauty of Christ's Bethlehem birth,/ stands in contrast to the imperial power of ancient Rome./ Grant that world leaders would be wise people of good conscience and clean heart./ We pray to the Lord. We pray for the sick,/ those in hospitals and nursing homes./ For those who are wounded or broken by accident or disaster,/ asking for gifts of healing,/ consolation and enduring strength./ We pray to the Lord.
If you're a fan of the 1975 BBC production Poldark, you'll remember hearing the city name, Truro, mentioned often. Indeed, even the horse-drawn late 18th century cab-carriages have Truro painted in bright red on the side.
Today, Truro is a thriving city in Cornwall, England, proud of its beautiful Gothic Revival cathedral, dedicated to The Blessed Virgin Mary, built between 1890 and 1910. The cathedral website presents a vibrant parish with plans to secure their communal life and splendid building into the future. Here is a video of their boys choir singing the lovely Benediction hymn, Soul Of My Savior.
The lyrics are an adaptation of the 14th century Latin prayer, Anima Christi. The tune was composed by the Jesuit priest, William J. Maher (1823-1877).
Nation and Church need some cheering up these days. Click on the choir above; listen and look. Maybe then again, with eyes closed, just listening. The final verse is sung with a descant: an independent treble melody usually sung or played above a basic melody. I'd sum that up more simply—a descant is all engines go - blast off!
Monks and nuns pray the psalms upwards of seven times each day. The bell rings and the community gathers, especially in the early morning, before the work day gets under way. The later-in-the-day psalms might be sung in small groups—where the bread is baked, where the cows are milked, where the truck is repaired. But almost universally, this fourth psalm is sung as a community by heart each night in a darkened chapel. It's a perfect prayer for the end of the day. Verses 1-2: This is a very personal psalm. Notice the psalmist speaks in the first person, "When I call...you released me." Notice too that he (or she) speaks to and about God from lived experience, as if to say, "Show me your kindness again, as you have in the past." Can I name that for myself? What story can I tell of a living God who has brought me to strength, courage, freedom, wholeness? Verse 3: Now the psalmist seems to take to task the people around him who might be listening in on his prayer. He tells his compatriots they've got closed hearts and that they waste themselves running off in pursuit of foolishness and untruth, "You love what's useless and false." Watch an hour of TV with the attendant commercials and see how timely this message still is. We don't know how these listening-in folks felt about the psalmist's accusations. But I think of how refreshing it is today to meet someone who has a docile (teachable) spirit. Are we becoming a nation of Wiki, radio/TV news show know-it-alls? Verse 4: "The Lord grants favors to those whom he loves...the Lord hears me." He's a confident fellow, isn't he? More than a few of us could do with a good dose of that—confidence in God's love—having been brought up perhaps to self-doubt, self-blame, self-condemnation. I remember in 6th grade, after some error in judgment, the nun got me out in the hallway and said, "Sister is very disappointed in you, boy. And I thought you were priesthood material." YIKES! I knew nothing of God's sure love; only God's seriously sad-faced disappointment. Verse 5:"Fear him;" I don't need to fear anything of God except that I might lose God. That wouldn't be God's doing. And if I were ever to lose God, it wouldn't be for some petty, negligible or involuntary thing. "do not sin." This doesn't mean, "You better not break any of the long memorized rules, but observe them rigorously." Sin means, missing the mark. Isn't it strange, we were taught that sin is around every corner. I'd say rather that God's wonderful grace is around every corner. I want to aim for God in everything I do. But as with most things human, we usually come in somewhere short of the mark. God doesn't get un-glued by it all. Rather, like the gentlest of parents, God's got arms outstretched, ready to grab the stumbling toddler who's trying to find her (his) legs. Verse 6: "Make justice your sacrifice." Is the psalmist quietly taking issue with all the temple killing and burning of sacrificial animals? It seems he has a bigger picture of sacrifice when he says, "Make justice your sacrifice (your offering). Justice! Do we even know what it means? Do we think the priest who brings it up in a homily is a liberal, a radical, a socialist, a communist? I mean, really! Maybe some Christians are terrified of "justice" because we know it might require changing our minds. Maybe our real religion is our politics. Verse 7:"What can bring us happiness?" This is one of the big questions we ask. We're a stressed out people—only number thirteen on the list of Happiest Nations. The psalmist knows the answer—"Let the light of your face shine on us, O Lord." Carl Jung said, "The answer to our real problems is a spiritual answer." Verse 8: The psalmist is revealing secret knowledge here. Were he to share it today, he might say of himself, "I have more happiness than the people who have the right watch, wine and vehicle; the right smile, hair and skin; the perfect body, the best interest rates, the best stock market yields." This national obsession with the stock market and thinking it's the indicator of our meaning, fulfillment, human success and happiness. The psalmist would fall down, laughing himself silly. Verse 9: The last thing the psalmist has to propose to us is, "I sleep very well. In a crazed world, I feel secure and safe in God." It's a choice.
John the Baptist proclaims God's rule as an alternative to exploitive Imperial Roman rule./ God's Kingdom,/ discovered fully in Christ/ is a kingdom of forgiveness,/ healing and well-being for all./ May we embrace it,/ and play some part in its completion./ We pray to the Lord.
Last Sunday,/ Pope Francis visited Greccio, Italy,/ where Francis of Assisi created a live nativity scene one Christmas night./ May we hear the Pope's message to resist the darkness of indifference,/ and to find our joy in simplicity of life./ We pray to the Lord.
Tuesday was International Day of Persons with Disabilities./ We ask for that depth of respect/ which sees and welcomes each human person as equal in value and importance./ We pray to the Lord.
For the President of the United States and our Congress,/ praying boldly/ that those in government around the world would be un-corrupted people/ whose service to the nation/ would never be weakened by self-interest./ We pray to the Lord.
For the sick,/ and any who are living in pain or loneliness./ For those recovering from/ or preparing for surgery./ We pray for doctors,/ nurses and those who staff hospitals and clinics./ We pray to the Lord.
Winter seems to have arrived/ with heavy snow across the country./ We pray for those who help others in the cold time,/ on the roads,/ in shelters,/ or where there are accidents/ trouble or disaster./ We pray to the Lord.
We've gone back to the first pages of the lectionary - the book of readings, and the missal - the book of Mass-prayers. Dorothy Day said, "We are always beginning again." Beginning again suggests that we are alive.
Sometimes the experience or need to begin again is felt deeply and personally. We want to feel that life can begin again after a failed marriage. We begin life again after a regimen of chemotherapy has ended. When we move to a new home, hoping to make new friends. When we begin a new job. When we start a new prescription. When we set out into sobriety. After the death of a loved one.
Sometimes the need for a new beginning is communal. The nation needs to begin again after these days of awful division. That beginning might feel a long way off. We seem to have forgotten what it means to be an American.
The Church needs to begin again out of the sex abuse crisis. One Orthodox priest has said the Church has become so layered with teachings, rules, institutional problems and expectations, that we need to start all over with the simplest understandings about God and humankind.
Soon we'll begin again cosmically with the mid-December, minute -by-minute increase of light. The message of the Advent-Christmas time says: In all of our beginning-again-stories, God is there for us to discover - God who is faithful and sure in a deep love that has joined us at Bethlehem.
And in much of the country this weekend, there's snow. In symbology, snow is an image of the link between heaven and earth, or the coming down of divinity into humanity. There are not separate divine and human compartments, but like blanketing snow, everything that is human is covered with divinity. Maybe these Advent days, we could remember to look for signs of this.
But snow is only one form of water. Water can change. It can be liquid, solid (like snow and ice) or gas. And we're largely comprised of water. We can change too. and not just outwardly as we age or grow physically. We can change inwardly.
Change is always at the heart of what it means to be a Christian. We can say that at Bethlehem, God has changed his way of being with us. All of Christ's miracles are about changing—water changed to wine, the blind man coming to see, the excluded leper having community restored, the little bit of bread and fish changed into a huge and satisfying meal for thousands. And of course, at the center of our common lives, bread and wine are changed to the Body and Blood of Christ himself.
So, as we're beginning again—opening ourselves to the Biblical word, our personal prayer and our communal prayer here—we might wonder about our changing, which means our growing, evolving and maturing into God's imagined idea of each of us and all of us.
Advent is an interior time - a contemplative time. We spoil it with too much Christmas too soon. A Catholic periodical arrived this week with a whole page dedicated to people being asked, 'When is the right time to decorate for Christmas?"
As the world goes, this isn't one of the big questions. But it does focus for us that Christmas can come too soon, and for that we will have missed the contemplative aspect of Advent—the personal beginning again and the heart-desire for growth and change.
This icon of the Mother of God is discovered in the Ethiopian Orthodox Monastery, Ura Kidane, on the edge of Lake Tana in Ethiopia (Africa). Pilgrims visit the monastery, though perhaps not in the numbers that travel to Lourdes in France or Knock in Ireland. Ethiopia is a rugged place without first world conveniences. Here's a short tourism video that gives us a hint.
Let's not be tourists, but troubadours, and join the monastic community and friends in their praises. To that end, I have asked the Mother of God to allow my first thought each morning for the past month, to be a thought of her. She has kindly consented. I immediately picture myself standing before the wall-painted icon. The church is open, filled with breezes and scent. I let the imaginary tourists move around quickly with their cameras and comments; I have come to pray. My thoughts begin with an original title for Mary, according to the letters of our alphabet, because I think religion should be at least a little fun. But I must remember that we live in a big world, a troubled world, a world struggling to stay alive, and that the arms of the Christian heart are invited to encircle that world.
Abiding Lady, Before your Ethiopian icon, I've a holy work to do. Symbolically dressed, as offering priest with amice — asking for a clear mind, alb — may my prayer spring out of Baptism, cincture — like a cloister wall around me, stole — may I be restored and stay standing, chasuble — may my prayer be a house of love. I set out with an eager heart, hoping to gladden your own. Benificent Lady, some priests need you to tug on their vestments— the cleric who's forgotten his ordination day, whose heart no longer knows how to bow, highly couture-d, but whose soul is shade— distracted by money, climbing the clerical ladder, kingdom building, taken with power, emotionally un-evolved, lecturing without spiritual vision, no longer seeking beauty. Or simply the poor fellow, dis-spirited, confounded, lonely, afraid. Clement Lady, some politicians need a night visit from you, a kiss, a dream perhaps— that wakes them up in a start— the microphone loving, press room posturing, pandering, partisan, pretender pro-life politician, the scheming, aggressive, greedy, obstructing, vain politician— the ones who've abandoned their servant role. Dulcet Lady, I awake in the dark morning, despair at my door, then remembering the greeting of your angel, Rejoice, favored one! But Gabriel messages me as well— You, the first, and I, sneaking in somewhere along the long line of learners, who aren't content to be admire-rs, but who want to be light-bearers too. Elected Lady, Chosen to give a body to God's breathed-out, self-revealing Word. But elected too, to show us, with your Child, how to stay human, how to become human again, for when we forget, only blood, death, flame and dust remain. Forbearing Lady, when the Polish people pilgrim-ed with your Czestochowa icon to every city and town, the Soviet soldiers ticket-ed them for disturbing the peace, seized your image, placing you under house arrest, sending you back to Jasna Gora. But the people laughed and continued their journey, carrying the icon's empty frame. Oh, that I would be enduring too. Genial Lady, gratitude in me for— cobalt candle light, May procession, lilac bouquet and Monday night novena, sentimental hymn and perpetual help, the middle name of every nun, concrete Mary in the corner garden. But is there real love in my heart? Holy-Apparelled Lady, in your flowered maphorian, reminiscent of your Guadalupe dress and the lush garden the creator made for us. But we're chopping it down, digging it up paving it over. We need to stop. Inclusive Lady, In the human story, the past is savagery, the present is repellent with the blood-letting we enable, protect. Each day, some new awfulness, the only creature which destroys what it creates, even its own children. But all I can do, standing before your icon, is give myself to you, in love, that tomorrow may be happier. Jubilant Lady, There are people who frighten me— the other-ists who tout the American Dream but abhor the ones who come from anywhere else— geographically, spiritually, ideologically— immigrants, women, refugees, Jews, Muslims, Catholics, black, brown, gay, trans. My first morning thought before your African icon— people long to feel safe, to have their dignity recognized, to be loved. Knowledgeable Lady, the monks of Ura Kidane are dancing monks— two interfaced choruses, di-poled line dancers, alternating, rhythmic, shuffling monks, drum beating, hand held, tintinabulators. Lovesome Lady, people travel a great distance to visit you, to smile back at you, traversing high rugged mountains, gorges and valleys, plains and high central plateaus before crossing Lake Tara. And today I will travel the great inner distance of mind, emotion and heart, from the old race of cruelty, to the new race of love. Marveling Lady, at Gabriel's word, the angel song and Bethlehem star, the palm tree's shade, the cherry tree's yielding, the Egyptian road, the bandit's change of heart, the wild boar becoming tame, the spring of water out of desert sand. Maybe you marvel that I still believe. I've got nothing to say, just my smile; my gaze. Noble Lady, I'm not afraid of the 4 A.M dark, the animals in the woods— the bear, the porcupine, the raccoon, the fox, the skunk— they're not interested in me. But the darkness of hate, of destructive greed, of exploitive selfishness— I fix you in my eyes as healing antidote. Open-handed Lady, be medicine for the sick at heart, be like rain to the spiritually dry, like a star for the lost. Offer the comfort of your lap for the friendless, a gladdening shout for the sorrowing ones, deliverance for the distressed. Preserving Lady, above your head, handsome angels bear double-edged swords, not menacing, but at the ready. Are they flying nearby to ward off the little gods, alluring, who threaten to de-throne you in hearts? But oh, now I remember— the double-edged sword cuts twice— that the Child's command, to love God and others would enter my heart doubly-deep. Qualitied Lady, your eyes, wide opened, your head, gently inclined; I expect you are listening. But your mouth is small and closed— no toothy, white-glistening, sexy smile. And we, running voice-over, scrambling for something to say. Silence the talk-a-thon, make us more ponder-rs. Rejoicing Lady, strange, this first morning thought— remembering the neighbor man who stood under the tree, pointing a rifle up at the possum he'd cornered, the frightened animal looking down with glassy black eyes. And I asked, "Why are you going to kill it?" just doing what possums do— sniffing the air, returning to its young, turning over a stone looking for its breakfast. And he answered something stupid, like, "Because it's there." God gave us the honor of naming the animals. When did we stop letting them take our breath away? All-Seeing Lady, not watching to catch us out— our childhood mistakes the petty examinations of conscience, but like a mother, whose child plays along the edge of danger. Thank-Worthy Lady, there are only a few stars seen this morning, the still air, the thick clouds, obscuring. But Sirius, standing out in the pre-dawn, is the brightest star in the night sky, of the constellation Canis Major, trailing behind Orion as he sets in the west. Ura Kidane Lady, I meet you at the level of interface, along the chapel's ambulatory way, round and round, returning, returning, we are always beginning again. Veridical Lady, coinciding with reality— the Creator's idea for us. Your Child looks anxious, perhaps anxious for us, that we are stuck in barbarity whose features are war— entertaining ourselves with it, protecting it, preparing for it, expending on its behalf, re-imagining it, it giving us meaning. But you're of the next race, with the divinized mind. Wonder-Working Lady, see me down below, hidden, tucked into the bottom left corner with the down-to-earth monk whose eyes look up to you from out of the margin of our hallucinations— the thing of real value having garnered five stars, the loudest shout out, the side-splitting laugh, the actor's endorsement, the authority's go-ahead, the longest applause. Exalted Lady, exaltare— our coming up and out from within— our glory, like water deeply sourced, I love you... We'll see each other again... I'll stick with you forever... Give peace a chance. Make love, not war!
But how alienated is this— the child-sound, imitating birds, tweet, tweet, the elder tapping the canary's cage, tweet tweet, now devolved into the label for our smear campaigns, ego tripping, our wild, incendiary ramblings and rants. Exaltare— our coming up and out from within. Young-at-Heart Lady, the day before diaconate ordination word went round that the nine of us were to meet right away in the crypt chapel. The Academic Dean and the Moral Priest-Prof met us. Leaning on the altar, we were told to put our signature on the line at the bottom of the promise that we would never marry. A last minute check off— like signing up for the cable channel or the refrigerator's extended warranty. The palpable sigh of relief above the bishops' tombs that someone had remembered in the nick of time. Imagine if we'd first sat around in a circle near your icon, and talked at length about what Jesus might have meant when he said simply, Blessed are the clean of heart. Zephyrous Lady, my first morning thought is really a night time thought— of patting down the wall beyond the great wooden doors of the dark and vast seminary chapel, a molecule of intimacy and light before the side altar's oak statue of the young mother and her infant son, standing in the carved gothic niche, the rust-red dorsal curtains with gold-embroidered flames. I asked to be a holy man; not an ordained tradesman, a new Pentecost, new Elijah-breeze, waking us out of our cerebralized, rubricized, codified lives.
