Third Sunday of Advent C
I
was driving alone Friday evening
when
I had to turn off the radio:
I
couldn’t stand to listen to any more talk
about
the shootings in Newtown, Connecticut.
It’s
not that I’d grown indifferent or uncaring;
it’s
just that my mind and my heart couldn’t bear
to
hear the sad news repeated again.
So
I popped in a new Christmas CD
that
just arrived in the mail that morning.
Before
I knew it, I was belting out Frosty the
Snowman
with
surprising gusto:
“…with
a corncob pipe and a button nose…”
And
then I stopped.
How
could I suddenly be so holly-jolly
when
twenty innocent children had just been robbed
of
this Christmas and all Christmases to come?
this
is known as Gaudete Sunday:
out
of Advent’s somber purple tones,
this
streak of rose breaks through to remind us to rejoice.
That
this ancient tradition of encouraging joy
should
today be aligned with the terrible tragedy of current events
can
seem a rather cruel twist.
But
maybe—just maybe—
the
combination isn’t quite as inappropriate
as
it first appears.
We
hear Zephaniah declare:
Shout for joy, O daughter
Zion!
Be glad and exult with all
your heart!
We
can forget that the prophet
is
speaking to people emerging from hard times,
brought
on by their own repeated infidelities.
The
source of their joy?
Be not discouraged!
The Lord is in your midst.
Then
St. Paul writes to the Christians of Philippi:
Rejoice in the Lord always!
I say it again: rejoice!
We
can forget that the Apostle
is
writing to a community suffering
because
of persecution from without and dissention within,
while
Paul himself lay deathly ill in prison.
So
why the rejoicing?
The Lord is near.
It
would be easy enough to feel guilty right now
for
getting into the Christmas spirit—
as
I experienced while in the car on Friday night.
But
as I began to realize even then,
we
really need Advent and Christmas joy now
as
much—maybe more—than ever.
As
we grieve the senseless death of so many little ones,
it
is still right for us to rejoice in the birthday of a child
who
came to teach us a way through life
other
than the paths of violence and revenge.
As our
time in this world is spent so often
passing
though a vale of tears,
it
is good for us to be glad
that
we are only passing through—
to
celebrate that heaven took flesh on earth
so
that our earthly flesh might enjoy eternal life in heaven.
Such
joy is not about glossing over the heartbreak;
it’s
about recognizing that God is with us—
has
come oh-so-close to us,
is
bearing the hurt right along with us—
here in the midst of it all.
We’re
like the crowds, the tax collectors, the soldiers
that
came to John the Baptist:
we
find ourselves asking, “What should we do?”
For
one thing, we should pray:
pray
for the souls of those whose lives have been lost;
pray
for the loved ones left behind in sorrow;
pray
for the marginalized,
for
those who suffer with mental illness,
for
those who themselves have been victimized
and
so conceive of causing pain to others.
Prayer
is more powerful and effective
than
we often stop to realize.
And
we should take action:
not
with the grandiose promises of changing laws and society
which
always follow on the heals of such cruelty,
but
by making changes in our own sinful lives—
much
as John the Baptist prescribed.
The
workings of evil in the world
are
conquered one heart at a time.
We
should fervently pray.
We
should repent, changing what needs to be changed.
And
we should rejoice…without feeling too guilty about it.
Suffering is the thread
from which the stuff of joy is woven.
Never will the optimist know joy.
Commenting
on this profound insight
Archbishop
Charles Chaput of Philadelphia said:
Those seem like strange words,
especially for Americans.
We Americans take progress as an article of faith.
And faith in progress demands a spirit of optimism.
But Father de Lubac knew
that optimism and hope are very different creatures.
In real life, bad things happen.
Progress is not assured,
Progress is not assured,
and things that claim to be “progress”
can sometimes be wicked and murderous instead.
We can slip backward as a nation
just as easily as we can advance.
This is why optimism—
are so often a cheat.
Real hope and real joy are precious.
They have a price.
They emerge from the experience of suffering,
which is made noble and given meaning
by faith in a loving God.
Joy—it
has been said—
is
the infallible sign of the presence of God. (cf. L. Bloy)
It’s
that divine presence
which
we seek in moments of suffering and sorrow.
It’s
that divine presence
which
we’ll celebrate at Christmas.
It’s
that divine presence
which
is the miracle of this Eucharist.
In
the face of tragedy,
may
it yet give us cause for rejoicing.
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