Divers men may walk by the seaside
and the same beams of the sun giving light to them all,
one gathereth by the benefit of that light
pebbles or speckled shells for curious vanity,
Christ is always with us, always asking for room in our hearts. But now it is with the voice of our contemporaries that he speaks, with the eyes of store clerks, factory workers, and children that he gazes; with the hands of office workers, slum dwellers, and suburban housewives that he gives.
The sun has disappeared.
I have switched off the light,
and my wife and children are asleep.
The animals in the forest are full of fear,
and so are the people on their mats.
We did not make ourselves,
it was the Lord who made us,
and it is the Lord, too,
who has remade us,
setting himself from the start
to accomplish the mystery of our salvation.
It surpasses all thought, it amazes, it confounds, to think of God becoming man; the Infinite enshrined within the finite, the Lord of all blended with His servant, the Creator with His creature! It is a depth of mystery unsearchable. We must shrink with awe when we pronounce it.
May God who sent us the light of the world
and who has given us the light of this day,
grant that we may come to know the lightness of being
which allowed Mary to say, “Yes.” Amen.
‘The Lord’s servant.’ Here is Mary as the Servant-Mother. Hold on to that reply and ponder it. For it may be that it gives us a clue—the clue?—to the meaning of her son’s life and death. The Servant-Mother was about to bear him who, above all others, was to be the servant of the Lord.
A favorite Scandinavian holiday tradition is tied to the beautiful white clad figure of Lucia, the “bearer of light,” who illuminates the darkness of winter on the morning of December 13th. Very early, before dawn, when the world is still blanketed in darkness, Lucia appears at each bedside, dressed in a white gown with a red sash.
One of the classical themes of Advent is patience, the virtue ascribed to Mary and urged by the prophets upon Israel. But patience comes to me as easily as vegetarianism to a lion. From the looks of our lives, I seem to have abundant company. We are all busy, laboring diligently, noisily, impatiently to usher in a new and presumably improved life on earth.
Lots of people these days are seeking recollection, writing books about it, urging us to do it. It seems like a nice idea all right—until you try it. What a lot of the books don’t tell you about is the terror. To know the love of Christ that surpasses knowledge may mean not knowing much of anything else.