When Francis stripped himself naked at Santa Maria Maggiore, he was reaching for the heart of God. The undressing of his body was merely a symbolic gesture of the undressing of his heart. Most or all of us will never have reason to do what Francis did. Perhaps, though, we can hear in this holy place the call to have the courage to undress our hearts with another and to deepen that grand mystery of intimacy that leads us into the tender heart of God and the wonder of life with him.
Jesus told us that we’re the light of the world, and do we ever take him seriously when we’re celebrating his birth! We string lights inside and outside, wrapped around pillars and fences, trailing from rooftops. Now we have laser light shows that play on the front of the house. We string lights in the house around doorways and up and down stairs. The tree might have big lights, little lights, LED lights, bubble lights, and a lighted star at the very top. And no matter how old we get, there’s still a little bit of magic when we switch them on. Our love of light may go all the way back to an ancestral memory, at least in the northern hemisphere, of fearing the darkness and the cold of winter. The twinkling holiday lights give us not so much utilitarian light as a sparkle and dazzle that imitates the stars on a crisp cold night. So it’s not surprising that spiritual teachers through the millennia, beginning even before Jesus, have used light as a metaphor for holiness, for joy, for peace.
As researchers study the effect of various kinds of light on the parts of our brain that control waking and sleeping as well as mood disorders, we gain knowledge and insight. People in climates that have long stretches of dark, gray days have learned to use light therapy to keep depression and seasonal affective disorder at bay. But mostly, we’re putting a name to what we already know instinctively: Light makes us happy.
—from the book The Peace of Christmas: Quiet Reflections from Pope Francis by Diane M. Houdek
Because man is both body and spirit, our prayers can be vocal and meditative. We learn that vocal prayer expresses the movements of our hearts and minds, enabling us to pray with the fullness of our being. Another form of prayer is meditation, which the Catechism tells us is “above all a quest.” In meditation, we employ our thoughts, imagination, and emotions to deepen our union with Christ. Today’s readings are Catechism paragraphs 2700-2708.
“Throughout Sacred Scripture, we find that when God’s people fast, the power of their prayers is increased, especially when they are engaged in spiritual warfare. In the Old Testament, the Lord told Isaiah that a fast properly undertaken would ‘loose the bonds of wickedness … undo the thongs of the yoke … let the oppressed go free’ (Is. 58:6) … In the New Testament, we find that Jesus fasted for forty days and nights in the wilderness in preparation for His battle with Satan, who came to tempt Him (see Lk 4:1-2) … If prayer is a spiritual weapon, fasting is the spiritual whetstone on which it is sharpened. It’s the spiritual muscle that, when exercised regularly, strengthens the thrust of that weapon to pierce the Enemy and drive him away.”— Paul Thigpen, p. 42
There is a phenomenon—if there’s a scientific name, I don’t know of it—where the trees break and fall into one another’s arms. I’ve come to call these tree pietas. A ripped branch catches at an angle in the V-shape of a nearby tree, and the stronger tree holds it. Almost always, each walk brings me to the angular shapes of a newly formed, geometric tree pieta. Often, an entire tree weakens, no longer able to stand upright, and instead of falling horizontally on the ground, its trunk is being cradled within the branches of the taller, vigorous tree. I’m now a seeker of these tree pietas, because they remind me of how the psalms catch me. Something tender stirs within me when I see the connections of these trees. When I myself need to let go of parts of my life, or my spirits are falling, the lines and stanzas of the psalms catch me and keep me there. Sometimes my need for support is as random as flipping open to a page and finding “He blows with his wind and the waters flow.” Where I was once breaking and falling, I am now embraced by the words and held aloft in their branches.
While we are quite familiar with being disappointed by the worst we see in the world, we cannot deny the extraordinary heroism of which humanity is also capable. All around us, ordinary people are performing acts of sacrifice, giving up their own lives so that others may live. It is nearly impossible to look into the world and not see love overflowing at every turn. Science cannot explain it; logic doesn’t understand it. And yet, love emanates more powerfully than any substance we can measure. Truth transcends any instrument or equation. In moments of pessimism, when we find ourselves impatient with the world, do not grow hopeless, but trust in the unexplainable love lived by so many. Trust the goodness you see. Be still, and know that God is the source of all that is Good, Beautiful, and True, and that all love exists because God wills it.
Despite knowing from the onset that following Christ means two sure things—God is ultimately in charge, and nothing we can say or do will prevent God’s plan from being successful in the end—we have certain expectations, even certain demands, for the way things should go. Sometimes, even when we know these two constants, we find ourselves on the road to the kingdom but instead of being filled with joy, we’re frustrated and disappointed. Often we discover that our hopes are not of the kingdom at all, but of our own creations and fantasies. If we want to follow Jesus, we must let go of our hopes and expectations, our visions for the future, our demands for the present, and remain radically open to what God is doing right in front of us.
“A spiritual Communion acts on the soul as blowing does on a cinder-covered fire which was about to go out. Whenever you feel your love of God growing cold, quickly make a spiritual Communion.’ ‘Quickly!’ There’s a sense of urgency here. The saints are trying to tell us that we should not limit our union with Christ in the Eucharist to sacramental Communion once a week, or even once a day. We need Christ’s living presence in our lives moment-by-moment to nourish us and protect us from sin, so we need to renew our union with Him regularly, especially any time we feel ourselves drifting away. Christ is not merely present in the Eucharist during Mass! The Eucharist is an ongoing fulfillment of Christ’s Gospel promise to remain with us: ‘Behold, I am with you always, until the end of the age’ (Mt. 28:20).”— Vinny Flynn, p. 98-9
God calls us to mystical activism, a deep-rooted spirituality inspired by our encounters with God and commitment to our spiritual practices, to bring beauty and healing to the world. Walking in the footsteps of Francis and Clare, we are called to be mystics of the here and now, not some distant age. When we look in the mirror, we may exclaim in disbelief, “Me, a saint? Are you kidding?” Within the concrete limitations of life, our gifts are lived out and expand as we devote ourselves to prayerful activism. Still we ask, recognizing our fallibility and limitations: Am I to be a saint or a mystic? Who am I with my temptations and fallibilities, impatience and intolerance, to be in God’s presence and claim my role as God’s companion in healing the earth? What can I do? The challenges are so great, and I am so small!
