Food freely given exacts from us a promise to go beyond its selfish reception to the unselfish realm of deep gratitude. There we commit ourselves to give to others what we have received. My food mentors—grandmother and mother—cooked not because their sense of dignity depended on others’ opinions of them but because they knew that treating tablemates to the best they could offer was the backbone of every family and nation. Though ingratitude and indifference might have come to their table, it disappeared when they left it. Poured forth from previously pursed lips was a litany of gratitude complemented by what these good souls always wanted to see: sighs and smiles of contentment.
We need to reawaken the art and discipline of what it means to “taste and savor.” Instead of swallowing our food almost whole, we may have to ruminate upon it as we ought to do with a favorite text. When a dish is as delightful to see as it is to eat, it ought not to embarrass us to ask for a second helping. Rather than rushing to leave the table, we may discern that slower eating is as necessary for bodily nourishment as slower reading is for spiritual enlightenment.
A table full of hungry people, celebrating the spirit and the flavor of marvelous food, is a transformative event, exceeding, as do all transcendent experiences, our fondest expectations. In eyes rolling upward, in a symphony of little satisfied sounds, in the ear-to-ear smile of the cook when the dishes are done and the pots and pans are washed—all are witnesses in silent gratitude to the perfect wedding of body and soul.
The season of Advent can be overlooked in the run-up to Christmas, but if we take the time to recognize its hum beneath the busyness of shopping, baking, parties, and decorations, we discover the quiet joy it can bring, those moments apart from the giddiness (or the frustration) of December. Even people who work in ministry can get caught up in the preparations for the Advent and Christmas liturgies and lose sight of the deep joy of the season. Advent challenges us to step away from the hectic activity of the world, even if only for a short time each day. Pope Francis is the perfect guide through this season. Not one to shy away from a busy schedule, he has discovered the secret of balancing work with reflection, busyness with quiet contemplation, celebration with solitude, simplicity with the complexities of daily life. And what is at the heart of that secret? Making sure everything is rooted in Christ. The work we do (and the joy it can bring) emerges from a commitment to bringing the gift of God’s love to those we meet.
The prophet Isaiah wrote at a time when violence and war were the order of the day. The people of Israel had been conquered by the Assyrians and would later be taken into exile. And yet Isaiah could speak of a hope rooted in the Lord’s call for justice and for peace. Our own world seems to be increasingly violent. We might think that Isaiah’s vision is further away than ever before. The Internet brings violence from the far corners of the world into our lives, but we also know that there is violence in our cities, our neighborhoods, and even at times in our own homes. But we also hear of hopeful and heroic actions, often by a few individuals standing in the face of darkness and offering what light they have.
The journey through Advent brings us to the Christmas celebration of God’s intimate presence in human existence. What we discover is that in our waiting for Christmas, God is with us all the way along the journey. In ancient times, people traveled together for safety and support. Often they needed to set aside differences and overcome a fear of unknown traveling companions because the world outside their caravans held too many threats to travel alone. We too find that the more we try to set ourselves apart from others, the more we are threatened by a world “out there.”
Isaiah’s words about swords and plowshares naturally bring to mind war, weapons, and global strife. We might think there’s nothing we can do about such sweeping issues. But think about the ways in which you use words as weapons every day. How might you transform them to words of tolerance, compassion, and love? If we are to be a sign of God to all peoples, how can we behave toward people of other races, religions, or lifestyles in such a way that they will be attracted to the Word of life that motivates us?
Presence exacts its coin — our dearly held desire for self-preoccupation, and the fantasy of control that presumes to preside over and above. Mystics, artists, and prophets exemplify this surrender into solidarity; letting the self be moved by suffering and inspired by imagining. True spiritual practice harbors this same intention — the hand-over of self, that places us on a collision-course with grace and draws us into a deepened state of readiness. This holy intention leads to whole, undivided attention, where we come to know life in its raw fullness!
The Franciscan path of prayer that leads to peace is a path of transformation and witness. Christ is proclaimed not by words but by the example of one’s life, one’s willingness to suffer or perhaps offer one’s life for the sake of another. Christ lives in that Christ lives in us––in our bodies, our hands, our feet and our actions. This is the challenge for our time with its emphasis on rationality and materialism, the challenge of divine risk, of allowing God to enter our lives and lift us out of the doldrums of mediocrity, privatism and individualism. We are called to be vulnerable to grace so that we may be transformed into the living Christ.
Prayer that allows the mystery of Christ to change our lives, is a high-risk enterprise—an uncontrollable experience. Yet, the power of God’s grace is such that one who, like Francis of Assisi, is able to trust God sufficiently can enter into the “cave” of the heart, the place where Incarnation takes place, and be transformed into the triumph of love. Franciscan prayer, therefore, is Christ-centered, affective, contemplative, cosmic and evangelizing. The goal of prayer is to make Jesus Christ alive in the believer. To bring Christ to life is the way to peace.
The life of Christ is the life of all life––the peace of creation, the justice of humanity and the unity of humankind. That is why the Franciscan path of prayer must ultimately lead to peace because it leads to the compassionate love of the crucified Christ. Peace is the fruit of love. Francis became a person of peace because he became a person of love—a love shown in his body and in his willingness to spend himself for others.
Franciscan evangelical life strives to live in this mystery more deeply through a life of unceasing prayer. God is to descend and take on flesh anew in our lives through the indwelling Spirit that joins us to Christ and expresses itself in the body of the believer. Prayer is the breath of the Spirit within us, the Spirit who brought about the Incarnation of the Word of God and who continues to incarnate the Word in our lives. The one Spirit who joins together the Father and Word in love brings us finite creatures into this infinite relationship of love. Because the one Spirit is sent by the one Christ, the fullness of Christ is the fullness of love that is the work of Spirit. The Spirit not only forms one to Christ but brings all into unity in Christ.
