Third Sunday of Advent B
that
told of Advent and Christmas customs
from
around the world.
(Truth
be told: I still love those kind of books!)
I
could recognize so many of the traditions described in there
as
the source of so many of the curious things
we
still do here at this holiday time.
But
there was always one set of customs
that
looked nothing like anything I’d ever seen…
…and
those were associated with St. Lucy’s Day.
was
the memorial of St. Lucy, virgin and martyr.
A
hero of the early Church,
Lucy
died for her faith in Jesus
around the year 303.
around the year 303.
And,
according to legend,
one
of the cruel torments she endured for being a Christian
was
having her eyes cut out.
Thus
she’s become the patron saint of sight.
We’re
blessed to have a relic of St. Lucy
on
the altar at this Mass today.
Devotion
to St. Lucy
was rather popular back in the Middle Ages,
was rather popular back in the Middle Ages,
and
particularly so in Scandinavia—
when
you consider we’re talking about a woman
who
died in far off—and far warmer—Sicily.
As
I learned in those children’s books,
it’s
still customary in Sweden on December 13th
for
a young woman—often the oldest daughter of the family—
to
dress up as St. Lucy.
She
puts on a long white robe with a red sash:
white
for Lucy’s purity, red for her martyrdom.
(Lucy,
you see, was killed
because
she refused to violate the virginity
she
had dedicated to Christ.)
The
girl also wears a crown of burning candles,
since
Lucy’s name means “light.”
(Picture
a small Advent wreath sitting atop her head.)
And
the young lady then goes from house to house
with
a tray of baked goods,
spreading
joy to all she meets.
Other
than the obvious fire hazard
of setting your daughter's hair on fire,
of setting your daughter's hair on fire,
I
can see the appeal of this unusual tradition:
in
the cold, dark days of winter,
who
wouldn’t be attracted by someone
whose
sole mission is to bear to others
warmth
and sweetness and light?
And
when you put it in those terms,
St.
Lucy is a shining example of the most basic vocation
of
each and every one of us Christians.
This
is the third Sunday of Advent—
the
midpoint of the season.
In
scripture and song,
in
prayers and a brief break from somber purple,
the
Church tells her children, “Rejoice!”
It’s
a message we desperately need to hear…
…and not just because Christmas is getting closer.
…and not just because Christmas is getting closer.
I
had a conversation with a parishioner this past week
who
shared that, despite her belonging here for many years,
she
often doesn’t feel very welcome
when
she walks into our churches for Mass.
Oh,
there are the formal welcomes
of
someone with a bulletin at the door
or
the reader before Mass begins.
But
she’s rarely greeted—or even smiled at—
by
anyone else in the pews.
I’ve
heard similar things said over the years,
especially
by new parishioners who find it very hard
to
break in and feel like they’re accepted.
I’m
not sure where this standoffishness comes from.
(Maybe
all the exposure to winter’s cold seeps into our bones!)
But
what I do know is that there’s another way.
When
Catholics leave to join another congregation,
in
not usually over a matter of doctrine,
and
rarely actually caused by any scandal.
It’s
usually because our Protestant neighbors
are
really good at fellowship:
extending
warm welcome, making others feel at home,
radiating
the true joy of the Gospel.
(It’s
probably no accident that the Lutherans
seem
to be the ones most inclined
to
hand out cookies on St. Lucy’s Day!)
And
our own patron, St. André, gives us good example, too.
As
the doorman for his religious order,
and
later at St. Joseph’s Oratory,
his
chief occupation was to bring people in
and
make them feel welcome—
giving
joy and hope to those who were suffering
in
body, mind, or spirit.
“Happiness
attracts!”
Yes,
our faith is serious business…but that doesn’t make it dour.
Christ
came to announce glad tidings—good news.
The
world needs us to be witnesses to that joy!
Despite
the bright shade of my vestments today,
being
a people of joy doesn’t mean
pretending
things are all fine and rosy when they’re not.
We
should not—we cannot—ignore the tough stuff in life.
Isaiah’s
joyful message this Sunday was first delivered
to
a people returning after a long and painful exile;
faced
with rebuilding both their country and its culture,
they
seemed to be up against a nearly impossible task.
The
Virgin Mary’s jubilant canticle—her Magnificat—
is
sung by a young, unwed woman, visiting an elderly cousin,
both
of them quite unexpectedly pregnant…
…and no doubt concerned
…and no doubt concerned
about
what all their neighbors would think.
And
St. Paul’s encouraging letter is written to a town
where
he’d made some converts and started a small community,
but
was then spitefully harassed and eventually driven out.
We,
of course, must deal with the difficulties
of
our own time and place:
personally,
we’ve all known heartbreak and loss;
as
a community, we’re dealing with
a
struggling economy, harsh weather,
and
even uncertainties about the future of the Church.
But
as Christians,
we
find joy not apart from hardship and suffering,
but
right here in the middle of it.
Yes,
we acknowledge the pain and sorrow…
…but
we can see through it.
Marked
as we are by both Christ’s Cross and his Resurrection,
we
know it’s not the whole of the story.
That’s
what sustained St. Lucy:
she
could endure brutal torture and even death
because
she firmly believed that there’s something more.
In
the midst of so much darkness and cold,
who
wouldn’t be attracted by someone
whose
sole mission is to bear to others
warmth
and sweetness and light?
My
friends, that’s our calling!
The
Spirit of the Lord God is upon us to be messengers of joy!
John
the Baptist was sent by God to testify to the light.
“There
is one among you,” he would say,
“whom
you do not recognize…”
If
only the Lord always came to us
with
a tray of cookies and a crown of candles on his head,
we’d
never miss him in his many disguises!
But
by faith we can still see him, and rejoice,
even
on the darkest of days.
to
gain for us clear vision—
both of the eyes and of the heart.
both of the eyes and of the heart.
If
we can recognize Christ present with us
in
the midst of every struggle,
we
discover the only true cause for joy—
a joy
that can’t help but overflow,
and
which never fails to attract others to him.
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