Author: Daniel Scofield, MTS

How do we maintain the belief that God came down from heaven, took on human flesh, conquered all suffering, and altered the course of human history? Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that it isn’t easy to believe amidst all the evidence that seems to contradict it, but its credibility is contingent upon it being correctly understood. Christmas is not a magical event, a Cinderella story without midnight. Rather, its very center speaks of humiliation, pain, and forced fleeing, which is not unlike that being experienced by millions of refugees and victims of injustice on our planet today. The Christmas story mirrors the struggle that’s being experienced within our own world and within our own tired hearts. Incarnation is not yet the resurrection. Flesh in Jesus, as in us, is human, vulnerable, weak, incomplete, needy, painfully full of limit, and suffering. Christmas celebrates Christ’s birth into these things, not his removal of them. Christ redeems limit, evil, sin, and pain. But they are not abolished. Given that truth, we can celebrate Christ’s birth without in any way denying or trivializing the real evil in our world and the real pain in our lives. Christmas is a challenge to celebrate while still in pain. The incarnate God is called Emmanuel, a name which means God-is-with-us. That fact does not mean immediate festive joy. Our world remains wounded, and wars, strikes, selfishness, and bitterness linger. In the words of Avery Dulles: “The incarnation does not provide us with a ladder by which to escape from the ambiguities of life and scale the heights of heaven. Rather, it enables us to burrow deep into the heart of planet earth and find it shimmering with divinity.”  George Orwell prophesied that our world would eventually be taken over by tyranny, torture, double-think, and a broken human spirit. To some extent, this is true. We’re far from being whole and happy, still deeply in exile. However, we need to celebrate Christmas 2024 heartily. Maybe we won’t feel the same excitement we once felt as children when we were excited about tinsel, lights, Christmas carols, special gifts, and special food. Some of that excitement isn’t available to us anymore.  But something more important is still available, namely, the sense that God is with us in our lives, our joys, and our shortcomings. The word was made flesh. That’s an incredible thing that should be celebrated with tinsel, lights, and songs of joy. If we understand Christmas, the carols will still flow naturally from our lips.

Jesus may have been immaculately conceived. However, as the gospels make clear, much of his origins is as jolting as any contemporary church scandal. For example, in giving us the origins of Jesus, the gospels point to as many sinners, liars, and schemers in his genetic and historical lineage as they do to saints, honest people, and men and women of faith. Beyond these less-than-saintly characters in Jesus’ lineage, we see that some of the institutions that shaped the Jewish faith were also less than saintly. Institutionalized religion back then suffered from many of the same problems it has today, including the corrupt use of power. Indeed, Israel itself (perhaps justifying the deed by referring to what Jacob had done to Esau) seized the land of Canaan from those who had a prior claim to it, claiming ownership by divine privilege. We see, too, that the lineage that gave us Jesus built itself up not just on the great and the talented but equally on the poor and insignificant. In the list of names that make up the ancestors of Jesus, we see some that are famous but also others who cannot claim specialness or significance. Jesus’ human blood, scripture tells us, was produced equally by the great and the small, the talented and the talentless. Renowned biblical scholar Fr. Raymond Brown tells us that God writes straight with crooked lines, that we shouldn’t accept an overly idealized Christ, and that our own lives, even if they are marked by weakness and insignificance, are important too in continuing the story of the incarnation. The God who wrote the beginnings with crooked lines also writes the sequence with crooked lines; some of those lines are our own lives and witness. A God who did not hesitate to use the scheming as well as the noble, the impure, and the pure men to whom the world harkened and women upon whom the world frowned – this God continues to work through the same mélange. If it is a challenge to recognize in the last part of Matthew’s genealogy that totally unknown people were part of the story of Jesus Christ, it may be a greater challenge to recognize that the unknown characters of today are an essential part of the sequence. Christianity isn’t just for the pure, the talented, the good, the humble, and the honest. The story of Jesus Christ was also written and keeps being written by the impure, by sinners, by calculating schemers, by the proud, by the dishonest, and by those without worldly talents. Nobody is so bad, so insignificant, so devoid of talent, or so outside the circle of faith that he or she is outside the story of Christ.

In today’s Gospel from Mathew, Jesus is asked by what “authority” he is doing the miraculous things people are seeing. Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that there are, as we know, different kinds of power. There’s a power that flows from strength and energy. We see this, for example, in the body of a gifted athlete who moves with authority.  There’s power, too, in charisma, in a gifted speaker or a rock star. They, too, speak with a certain authority and power. But there’s still another kind of power and authority, one very different in kind from that of the athlete and the rock star. There’s the power of a baby, the paradoxical power of vulnerability, innocence, and helplessness. Powerlessness is sometimes the real power.  If you put an athlete, a rock star, and a baby into the same room, who among them is the most powerful? Who has the most authority? Whatever the power of the athlete or the rock star, the baby has more power to change hearts. The Gospel texts, which tell us that Jesus spoke with “authority,” never suggest that he spoke with “great energy” or “powerful charisma.” In describing Jesus’ authority, they use the word “exousia,” a Greek word for which we don’t have an English equivalent. What’s “exousia”? We don’t have a term for it. Still, we have a concept: “Exousia” might be described as the combination of vulnerability, innocence, and helplessness that a baby brings into a room. Its very helplessness, innocence, and vulnerability have a unique authority and power to touch your conscience. It’s for good reason that people watch their language around a baby. Its very presence is cleansing. However, a couple of other elements, too, undergirding the authority with which Jesus spoke. His vulnerability and innocence gave his words an extraordinary power, yes. Still, two other aspects also made his words powerful: His words were always grounded in the integrity of his life. As well, people recognized that his authority was not coming from him but from something (Someone) higher whom he was serving. There was no discrepancy between his words and his life. Moreover, his words were powerful because they weren’t just coming from him, they were coming through him from Someone above him, Someone whose authority couldn’t be challenged, God. You see this kind of authority in persons like Mother Teresa and Jean Vanier. Their words had a special authority. Mother Teresa could meet someone for the first time and ask him or her to come to India and work with her. Jean Vanier could do the same. A friend of mine shares how, when meeting Vanier for the first time, Vanier invited him to become a missionary priest. That thought had never before crossed his mind. Today, he’s a missionary. What gives some people that extraordinary power? “Exousia” is a selfless life and a grounding in an authority that comes from above. In persons like Mother Teresa and Jean Vanier, you see the powerlessness of a baby combined with a selfless life grounded in authority beyond them. When such persons speak, like Jesus’, their words have real power to calm hearts, heal them, change them, and, metaphorically and really, cast out demons from them.

I know that, alone, I cannot see, hear, or touch God in the world. But God in me, the living Christ in me, can see, hear, and touch God in the world, and all that is Christ’s in me is fully my own. These wonderful words from Henri Nouwen bring into our hearts and minds the simplicity, purity, and innocence from God are our very own because they are truly given to each of us to be claimed as our most personal possessions. Henri goes on to say that all that there is of love in me is a gift from Jesus, yet every gesture of love I am able to make will be recognized as uniquely mine. That’s the paradox of grace. The fullest gift of grace brings with it the fullest gift of freedom. There is nothing good in me that does not come from God through Christ, but all the good in me is uniquely my own. The deeper my intimacy with Jesus, the more complete is my freedom. Waiting is, first of all, a waiting together. One of the most beautiful passages of Scripture is Luke 1: 39-56, which tells us about Mary’s visit to Elizabeth. What happened when Mary received the words of promise? She went to Elizabeth. Something was happening to Elizabeth as well as to Mary. But how could they live that out? I find the meeting of these two women very moving, because Elizabeth and Mary came together and enabled each other to wait. Mary’s visit made Elizabeth aware of what she was waiting for. The child leapt for joy in her. Mary affirmed Elizabeth’s waiting. And then Elizabeth said to Mary, “Blessed is she who believed that the promise made to her by the Lord would be fulfilled” (Luke 1:45). And Mary responded, “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord” (Luke 1:46). She burst into joy herself. These two women created space for each other to wait: They affirmed for each other that something was happening worth waiting for. Here, we see a model for the Christian community. It is a community of support, celebration, and affirmation in which we can lift up what has already begun in us. The visit of Mary to Elizabeth is one of the Bible’s most beautiful expressions of what it means to form community, to be together, gathered around a promise, affirming what is happening among us.

Today, we celebrate the memorial of the great Spanish mystic St. John of the Cross. Bishop Robert Barron writes that we find ourselves, St. John of the Cross taught, amid a good and beautiful world, but we are meant finally for union with God. Therefore, the soul has to become free from its attachments to finite things to be free for communion with God. When John of the Cross speaks of the dark night of the soul, he is speaking of a purifying passage that an individual undergoes, transforming one kind of life into another. This transformation, as articulated by John, is understood as something that pertains mainly to prayer. Rarely is it understood as something that has to do with our entire lives. However, what John describes in his concept of the dark night of the soul is really the paschal mystery, the movement from death to new life, the movement from Good Friday to Easter Sunday. This movement has to do with the transformation of our whole lives. Thus, John’s outline can serve as a paradigm of paschal transformation. The dark night of the soul traces the pattern that love, service, and prayer must pass through to be transformed to new and eternal life. Like all purifications, this one is painful, especially if one’s attachment to these finite things is intense. It will often manifest itself, John of the Cross said, as dryness in prayer and a keen sense of God’s absence and even abandonment. In this process, God is not toying with the soul; instead, he is performing a kind of surgery upon it, cutting certain things away so that its life might intensify.   

We’re called to live in the light, but we tend to have an overly romantic idea of what that should mean. We tend to think that to live in the light means that there should be a kind of special sunshine inside of us, a divine glow in our conscience, a sunny joy inside us that makes us constantly want to praise God, and an ambiance of sacredness surrounding our attitude.  But that’s unreal.  What does it mean to live in the light? Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that to live in the light means living in honesty, being pure and simple, being transparent, and not having part of us hidden as a dark secret. All conversion and recovery programs worthy of the name are based on bringing us to this type of honesty. We move towards spiritual health precisely by flushing out our sickest secrets and bringing them into the light. Sobriety is more about living in honesty and transparency than it is about living without a certain chemical, gambling, or sexual habit. It’s the hiding of something, the lying, the dishonesty, the deception, the resentment we harbor towards those who stand between us, and the addiction that does the real damage to us and to those we love. Spiritual health lies in honesty and transparency, so we live in the light when we are willing to lay every part of our lives open to examination by those who need to trust us. To live in the light is to be able always to tell our loved ones where we are and what we are doing; not to have to worry if someone traces what websites we have visited; to not be anxious if someone in the family finds our files unlocked; to let those we live with listen to what’s inside our cell-phones, see what’s inside our emails, and know who’s on our speed-dial; to have a confessor and to be able to tell that person what we struggle with, without having to hide anything; and to live in such a way that, for those who know us, our lives are an open book.

On Dec. 12, the Church celebrates the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Across the Americas, millions mark the day with pilgrimages, especially to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe in Mexico City, with songs and festivities at their local parishes, and, of course, with Mass. The Guadalupe event represented a new beginning for the Mexican people. There was an immediate explosion of faith as the news of the apparition was spread by the people themselves and nine million were brought to the Church within six years of the event. While volumes have been written on the richness of the symbolism of Guadalupe, it is sufficient to say that the power of the image rested in its ability to communicate to all the different populations in Mexico from within their own values and ideals. The image of Guadalupe, according to author Virgilio Elizondo in his La Morenita: Evangelizer of the Americas, is what was born in the new “American” synthesis resulting from the racial, social, ethnic, religious, political, artistic, and economic confrontation between Spain and Mexico that began in 1519. She was the foundation upon which the pride of the grandeza Mexicana would grow. She was the basis for the spiritual emancipation of the Mexican nation that would give rise to their political independence from Spain. She has come to stand for the unity and reconciliation, the personal and collective emancipation, and the liberation of Mexico. Furthermore, her importance has continued to grow beyond the borders of Mexico. For example, more than 20 popes have officially honored Our Lady of Guadalupe. In 1945, Pope Pius XII declared her “Queen of Mexico and Empress of the Americas.” In 1999, St. Pope John Paul II declared December 12 a Liturgical Holy Day for the whole continent and entrusted the cause of life to her loving protection. She is also the “Patroness of the Americas” and the “Patroness of the Philippines.” The image of Our Lady of Guadalupe that appeared on St. Juan Diego’s tilma, or simple cloak, should have deteriorated within 20 years. More than 480 years later, the image shows no sign of decay!

It is hard to bear God—but it is even harder not to bear God. The pain one brings upon oneself by living outside of evident reality is a greater and longer-lasting pain than the brief pain of facing it head on. Enlightened people invariably describe the spiritual experience of God as resting, peace, delight, and even ecstasy. If our religion has no deep joy and no inherent contentment about it, then it is not the real thing. If our religion is primarily fear of self, the world, and God; if it is primarily focused on meeting religious duties and obligations, then it is indeed a hard yoke and heavy burden. I’d go so far as to say that it’s hardly worthwhile. I think the promise from Jesus that his burden is easy and light seeks to reassure us that rigid and humorless religion is not his way and certainly not the only way. It is God within us that loves God, so seek joy in God and peace within; seek to rest in the good, the true, and the beautiful. It is the only resting place that also allows us to bear the darkness. Hard and soft, difficult and easy, pain and ecstasy do not eliminate one another, but actually allow each other. They bow back and forth like dancers, although it is harder to bow to pain and to failure. If you look deeply inside every success, there are already seeds and signs of limits; if you look inside every failure, there are also seeds and signs of opportunity. Who among us has not been able to eventually recognize the silver lining in the darkest of life’s clouds? You would think the universal pattern of death and life, the lesson of the Gospel and Jesus’ life would be utterly clear to me by now, yet I still fight and repress my would-be resurrections, even if just in my own mind. For some reason, we give and get our energy from dark clouds much more than silver linings. True joy is harder to access and even harder to hold onto than anger or fear. When I walk my dog Opie and look at the beautiful cottonwood trees in my yard, God helps me experience rest and peace. If our soul is at rest in the comforting sweetness and softness of God, we can bear the hardness of life and see through failure. That’s why people in love—and often people at the end of life—have such an excess of energy for others. If our truth does not set us free, it is not truth at all. If God cannot be rested in, God must not be much of a God. If God is not joy, then what has created the sunrise and sunset? – Fr. Richard Rohr

Pope Francis notes that in the Gospel reading, “we see the shepherd that loses one of 99 sheep. While he could rejoice that he still has 98 sheep, he goes out to search, and when he finds that one, he celebrates and is joyful. The joy of searching for faraway brothers and sisters is born in the same manner. This is the joy of the Church. It is precisely in this way that the Church becomes a mother and becomes fruitful. When the Church doesn’t do this, she stands still inside; she is closed within herself, even though she might be well organized. In this manner, she becomes discouraged, anxious, and sad about the Church, a Church that is more spinster than Mother, and this Church isn’t useful. Such a Church is no more than a museum. When the comfort of the Lord arrives, it disturbs us. It’s He, not we, who commands. God’s generosity cannot be transcended. You have sinned 100 times, partake 200 times of joy: this is how God’s mercy is when He comes to comfort. We try to back away: “It’s too much, Lord!” We often “hire out” small consolations, which are useless. They may help, but they aren’t useful. What is useful to us is only what comes from the Lord, with his forgiveness and our humility. When the heart humbles itself, that comfort comes, and this joy and peace can carry us forth.” The Gospel reading is so dear to Pope Francis that his pectoral cross illustrates the Good Shepherd. Comforting those lost to the Church has been one of the hallmarks of his papacy. Again and again, he tells us that we must go beyond the walls of the Church to go out into the world where people are lost in their despair and distrust. We need to meet people where they are and bring them the message of Jesus and the joy of the Gospel without insisting that they have to be perfect before they can be loved.

Often confused with the Birth of Jesus, the “Immaculate Conception of the Blessed Virgin Mary” is about how Mary was conceived. Church teaching is that Mary was conceived through normal marital sexual relations between Anne, her mother, and Joachim, her father, but was born without “Original Sin,” unlike the rest of us. St. Augustine described the birth of Mary as an event of cosmic and historical significance, an appropriate prelude to the birth of Christ: “She is the flower of the field from whom bloomed the precious lily of the valley…through her birth, the nature inherited from our first parents is changed.” Fr. Richard Rohr offers this reflection on this solemnity. “Today’s often misunderstood feast of the Immaculate Conception is saying that God totally gave even Mary’s dignity from the first moment of her conception, and all she could do was thank God for it. It was nothing she merited. She is a metaphor and archetype for every human life.” Fr. Ron Rolheiser, a priest in the Missionary Oblates of Mary Immaculate and President of the Oblate School of Theology, offers these thoughts on this solemnity. “We’re finding it more difficult to dwell in a universe inhabited by unseen presences: the presence of God, saints, one another. Today’s world is reduced to what is physical, what can be measured, seen, touched, tasted, smelled. We’re mystically tone-deaf; all the goods are in the shop window. All I can say about the Immaculate Conception is that if God is the ultimate creator of the physical Universe and is capable of everything, then it’s perfectly reasonable for God to allow an immaculate conception for the mother of the Son of God. I can live with the mystery, even if I still have questions about the infallibility side of it all. But if the Church’s dogma were revoked, it wouldn’t matter to me because if sinners can become saints, then the power of God can work in anyone at any time.”