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

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