A Litany of Light

When my oldest son was very young, he sometimes asked me to sing “his name song” before he went to sleep. He meant the Litany of the Saints where his baptismal names—Michael and Joseph—are near the top of the list. As much as he reveled in finding himself named in the chant, I suspect he found its heartbeat-like cadence soothing. I, too, find comfort in a litany’s beat of call and response. Mary, mother of God, pray for us. St. Joseph, pray for us. Angels of God, pray for us . . . . I imagine it reminds me of hearing my mother’s heartbeat as a newborn, held close to her chest, warm and safe in the midst of a cold and confusing world. I am here, it said, where I have always been, since those first moments you came into being within my womb.

Litanies let me enter the torrents, let me stand in never-ending streams of mercy and join my voice with that heavenly chorus that announced the Savior’s birth. They let me wrap words around what cannot be captured in one line, or even ten thousand. They remind me that I am held close by God, close enough to hear God’s heartbeat, close enough for him to hear mine.

Fourth-century bishop and Father of the Church St. Methodius of Olympus, reflecting on the second chapter of Luke’s gospel from which we read on Christmas, gifted us a litany of light for this birth. Hail Zion, shine Jerusalem, your light has come, cries Methodius. The Light eternal, the Light supreme, the Light immaterial, the Light which illumines the ages. A cascade of images, the glory of the Lord poured over us, surrounding us even now. Beating out what we cannot wrap our minds around, what is hidden within, an unspeakable mystery. Light from Light. Christ, God from very God.

Michelle Francl-Donnay

This material may be protected by copyright.

The Wool-Cleaners

“Do not refuse the wool-cleaners. If they do beat and trample you, stretch and comb you, this is how your garment becomes radiant.” Abba Evagrius

I am using Tim Vivian’s devotional Becoming Fire for this new liturgical year, which draws on the wisdom of the desert mothers and fathers. This snippet from several days ago has stuck with me. Who are the wool-cleaners in my life? What is stretching me? What is softening me, as a hide is softened by crumpling? Where am I refusing to let them in? It is one frame for an examination of conscience.

I went to confession this weekend, which is one way to invite the wool-cleaners in. There was a line of sorts, a half dozen ahead of me scattered in the pews. We know who’s next, wordlessly holding each other in care, holding the space for each other. I confessed, was shriven by the pastor and went home. 

That evening I was the acolyte at the 5pm Mass, pouring water over the hands of the selfsame pastor as he prayed, “Wash away my iniquities, cleanse me from my sins.” Returning in some way what had been offered to me. The ministry of the church exercised not only by her ordained ministers but by the people of God that we might all “be radiant with joy and our faces free from all shame.” (Psa 34) 

---

You can find the new edition of Becoming Fire at Cistercian Press. Photo is of my prayer space with its white, soft sheepskins on my chair - grateful for the literal wool-cleaners as well as the sacramental ones!

Ghosts of griefs past

Math Man has come down with COVID (his first bout) and perforce has been banished to his study as the rest of us have tested negative. He is sleeping on the pull out couch in there, like the Earl of Grantham exiled to his dressing room when he and Cora were out of sorts with each other. Meanwhile Crash and his partner are here, Dr. Math Guy is back from THE big state university bearing his brand-spanking new Ph.D. And it would be nice to all hang together, but here we are.

Mystifyingly I have been on the edge of tears most of the day. It’s been a bit of week and I wondered if it was just a post-graduation, post-travel, post-big tea event reaction. Or perhaps the unbloggable work things. As I headed off to church to be shriven before the big feast, it dawned on me. The ghosts of old griefs have come calling. 

I recalled the first Christmas I spent as a widow, everyone at my parents’ bustling about in Christmas mode, and me, still drenched in grief. Off balance without my husband. Trying to hold up for two as one. And here I am again, trying to do all the stuff minus my partner. From the laundry to the groceries to starting up the humidifier. Picking out a Christmas tree and wrapping the gifts. I know how to do this solo balancing act, but like Marley’s ghost its chains rattle noisily. 

Grief is not linear. It ebbs and flows. And even all these years later, its ghosts can still make an appearance.

_______

Photo is of a Christmas far in the past.

Bilocation: Assisi and Philly

 

I have discovered that you can have jet lag without the jet. For the past two mornings I have had one foot in Assisi, Italy (virtually) attending a seminar on proposals to open a space on the Roman liturgical calendar for a feast celebrating the Creator and the mystery of creation. The proposals emerge from the current ecumenical World Day of Prayer for Creation on September 1. Things got moving at 9 in the morning in Assisi, which, of course, is 3am here. Perforce I was up and tuned in both days. The speakers were clear (and the translators - the conference was in Italian and English with instantaneous translation) and engaging so not hard to be awake in the morning. Harder by the end of the day -- which also featured a seminar talk at Temple University's School of Parmacy and a delightful lunch with their graduate students.

As virtual meetings go, this one has been smooth. I missed the chance for the random conversations over shared meals and at breaks, but the ability to be present even in a limited way with people from all over the world was great. 

It was delightful to get to use the synodal listening approach in this more universal context. My parish has been using it regularly, so it was familiar and comfortable for me. 

Scouring the horizon

I read a lovely reflection on hope and expectation at Just(e) Words. Hope, she reflected, is a thing. It tangible, it's at work in the world. It's real.

But I hear the statement with an undertone of teen-ager. It's a thing. It's so tempting to say hope isn't a thing anymore, that hope is just not a thing. Or perhaps, not the thing, in the current world. Hope is for those who have lost something, not for those who have everything. 

Hope is expectant. Hope is for those who are seeking something. For those who are sure there is more than the world promises. Expect, I learned in Just(e)'s reflection, comes from the Latin root spectare  — to look. To expect is to look outward, to see beyond oneself. To expect is to look hard at and toward the future.

My study window at home faces the west and while I can't quite see the horizon for the trees and houses, I catch glimpses of what is coming. Today I am scouring the horizon for any signs of incoming weather. We might have snow. We expect some rain. We are in desperate need of something to ease the drought. (Remind me of this when the basement floods!)

I am scouring my personal horizons as well. I misread so many signs of the Parkinson's. My smaller handwriting, my difficulty writing on the board and stirring my tea and typing. Almost imperceptibly my horizons shrank. My world has expanded again, but I worry about what is on the horizon.