ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Several weeks ago, I was visiting a parish not my own for Mass on a Sunday morning. I sat about a third of the way back – on the left had side as I usually do. When I came in, I noticed some young children sitting a few rows behind me. I did not pay too much attention to them during Mass because they were remarkably quiet.

But then … we reached the sacred moment of the Consecration. The bells rang and the Blessed Sacrament was elevated in that holy moment I so often take for granted. At that exact instant, there was a small voice from a young child who said, clearly and simply, “wow.”

Maybe he was reacting to the bells. Maybe he was impressed by something entirely unrelated to Mass. Maybe one of his siblings had done something that caught his attention. Maybe his parents were embarrassed by his exuberance. Maybe I should have been critical of the way he broke the sacred silence.
But I was grateful.

I was grateful for that tiny voice that said “wow.” He drew my attention to the fact that I had just witnessed something awesome for which “wow” seems to be the only right reaction. It was a reaction that recognized that what he, and I, and we had just seen was a miracle far beyond our comprehension, and yet within our grasp.

We had just seen the miracle that, through God’s lavish generosity, happens every moment of every day in grand cathedrals and silent chapels in every corner of the globe. It is the miracle that has happened for nearly two millennia.

As an adult, I know with my mind what happens at Mass. Sometimes, though, the heart and soul can lag behind. They can fail to see how glorious that miraculous, sacrificial gift is. Sometimes, the heart and soul need to hear “wow” to remember what awe really means.

The Catholic Church in the United States is in the first year of the National Eucharistic Revival. The Revival’s aim is “to restore understanding and devotion to this great mystery.” As the years of the Revival unfold, the invitation to delve more deeply into the heart of this “great mystery” will take many forms in our dioceses and in our parishes.

Certainly, the aim of restoring understanding is a critical first step in bringing about a fuller appreciation for the great gift of the Eucharist and the reality that it is, truly, Christ Himself. If this understanding leads to greater devotion, the Revival will have been a great gift to the church in our time.

Yet, my tiny friend’s “wow” leads me to think that understanding and devotion are but the first two steps on the journey to awe.

My tiny friend’s “wow” was the invitation to stop taking this daily miracle for granted and really notice what happens.

My tiny friend’s “wow” expressed the grateful reverence and reverent gratitude that should not belong solely to the young. It belongs to all who rejoice in this great miracle of ordinary time.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

As 2022 came to an end, so too the earthly life of Pope Benedict XVI drew to its close. “Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon him.”

In the days and weeks to come, much will be said about his legacy as Pope and his impact as a leading theologian of his era. I will be reflecting on that myself. As a lawyer and not a theologian, I have studied Pope Benedict’s writings on the social issues of our time to see what they may mean for pressing questions of law and public policy. I have found in them – particularly in his trio of encyclicals – a deep well from which many will continue to draw deep insights on the moral roots of modern maladies.

Personally, however, Pope Benedict’s passing has given me insights on something else – a complement to lessons learned from his predecessor almost eighteen years ago. Both St. John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI taught me, and the world, something profound about how to face the end of life.

St. John Paul II is the first pope I truly remember. A relatively young man when he became pope, he captivated the world with his strength, energy, peripatetic journeys to the ends of the earth, and his role on the world stage through some of the most pivotal events of the late twentieth century.

The early images of St. John Paul II showed a vigorous man on ski slopes, alighting airplanes, and with agility, kissing the ground as he entered new countries for the first time.

Yet, as he grew older, St. John Paul II showed us all, in a very public way, what it is like to suffer through illness. So often, those who are ill, frail and approaching death are hidden away. They can too often be separated from friends and family who no longer visit because it is difficult to see loved ones change. Many want to remember those in declining health “as they really were” – without realizing that when we are weak and suffering we are still, truly, who we “really” are.

I remember the very last images released of Pope St. John Paul II. They showed a man weakened by illness and bereft of the robust energy that had marked the earlier years of his papacy. Yet, in that he showed the world the great dignity of those who suffer on the way to eternal life. It is unlikely most of us will ever approach death in such a public way. However, suffering and infirmity is part of our common humanity.

From St. John Paul II, I learned a great deal about the acceptance of suffering, the importance of keeping those who suffer at the center of our lives and not at the margin, and the dignity of those who are facing their final illnesses and the physical deprivations that accompany that journey.

From Pope Benedict XVI, I learned another lesson – the importance of prayer as preparation for passage from this life. When he shocked the world with his resignation nearly a decade ago, Pope Benedict XVI turned from a very public life of action to a secluded life of prayer and contemplation. His prayer was a way to serve the church through a very powerful way vastly different from the way he had served the church through so many decades of his life.

More recently, however, public statements and reports to the press have made it clear that Pope Benedict XVI was also deep in prayer in preparation for the end of his own life when he – like all of us – would meet his God.

In that, I learned a second valuable lesson. When I look ahead, I make plans for how I will live if I am blessed with the gift of years. I think about my physical health, financial security, and what my last wishes might be for myself and my family. These things still do not cross my mind very often, but I understand the practical wisdom in attending to them with care. From Pope Benedict, I have learned that it is not merely the practical and physical planning that need attention. Rather, time spent in prayer is the often neglected and best preparation for a happy death.

It is unlikely that most of us – unless called to a contemplative vocation – will willingly make such a dramatic surrender of the active life to devote the final decade of our earthly life to prayer. Yet, if it is in prayer that we better come to know and love God, then there can be no better preparation for eternity than growing to know and love the One with whom we hope to spend that eternity. From Pope Benedict XVI I saw that lesson lived.

These two Popes – collaborators in life and in prayer – will be remembered for what they did, wrote, said and decided during their lives. But for their fellow pilgrims, the very different lessons they taught about life’s end were their final gifts and blessings.

Thank you both for the ways you surrendered your ordinary times.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America’s Columbus School of Law. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

She was selling her wares at a rural autumn festival – the hand-knitted scarfs, sweaters, baby clothes and blankets that she made to sell to those of us gathered around her table to admire her creations.

I had purchased a few things from her last year – for myself and for loved ones. So, I was glad to see that she was back. Patience is not a strong suit of mine. Hence, my admiration for those who take so much time to make something beautiful by hand is particularly great. This year, I bought a blanket knitted with some favorite colors in a joyful design.

There was a fortunate, brief lull in the activity around the table – interrupted only by a young woman who stopped by to buy a dinosaur hat that, somehow, she managed to wear with style. The chill in the air, perhaps, prompted this otherwise unlikely fashion choice.

In that interlude, I asked how long it took to make a scarf, or a baby blanket, or, yes – a dinosaur hat. The friendly artisan gave me her best estimates. But then she told me that it could take much longer because sometimes she found herself in the midst of a project, would look at it honestly, decide it was not right, unravel it and begin again.

I suppose it should not have surprised me that someone who created such beautiful things would have a bit of the perfectionist in her. Yet, it also struck me that it must be difficult to look at something that had taken so much time and effort to make and be willing to unravel it all and start anew.

I wonder, though, if there is great wisdom in having the strength to do just that. To make a change and to unravel errors, misplaced values and mistaken priorities takes grace and strength. To start afresh without clinging to the false starts of the past is a gloriously difficult challenge.

Perhaps, as the days shorten and another year is winding down, the knitter’s wisdom may have a place. When we start to look back at the year that is drawing to a close and prepare for the excitement of a new year with its fresh starts and resolutions, it is easy to tinker around the edges of things and make some small adjustments to the patterns of everyday life.

Yet, sometimes in life, there can be an invitation to do more and to make more radical new beginnings.
I suppose that I would never have noticed if the blanket I bought had defects in it. “Pretty good” would have been good enough for me. Yet, it would not have been good enough for the talented woman who knitted it together. She knew that sometimes starting over was the best way to move beyond “pretty good.”

Maybe in this season of joyful hope and new plans, a prayer for the grace to unravel the old and begin again is a prayer worth praying.

A blanket, hat or sweater created from the unraveling of imperfect ones are beautiful things. Yet, we have also been promised that “whoever is in Christ is a new creation.” 2 Cor. 5:17. I have to think that a newly created son or daughter of God is far more beautiful.

So, with gratitude for the good example of a knitter willing to unravel the old and reweave the new, I hope she is an inspiration to do the same and remake our ordinary times.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Recently, I enjoyed one of my favorite rites of autumn – the search for perfect pumpkins for home, office, and anywhere else that might be brightened with glorious gourds. In a long drive through quaint corners of the countryside, I relished the splendor that is autumn.

Yes, the pumpkins were the excuse for the journey. But the trip was made more beautiful by the showy splash of autumn surrounding the corn fields gone gray and the farmhouses hung with Halloween wreaths. There was enough of a crisp chill to announce that summer was gone. Yet, the bright sun that bounced off the red, orange and gold in the trees heralded a new season with a loveliness all its own. I rejoiced in the simple beauty of a world made new.

It will not be long until I marvel again when I awaken to the first snow that dusts my city streets. The silent brightness of that blanket, the sound of my neighbors’ shovels that beckons me out of bed, and the hot chocolate I promise myself when I am back inside are all part of a new type of wonder. (I would rather ignore the icy sidewalks and high heating bill that will follow!) In this, I will rejoice again in the simple beauty of a world made new.

Just when the snowy season starts to lose its charms, there will be shy crocuses rising tentatively from the earth, faint traces of green in lawns coming back to life and trees getting ready to burst forth in the lacy splendor of spring. As the days lengthen and the sun grows brighter, I will rejoice again in the simple beauty of a world made new.

While I might, in the fullness of May, doubt that I would ever want to bid farewell to spring, a day will come when the days last long into the night, tomatoes ripen on the vine, and the beach beckons. Summer will hold joys of its own, and yet again I will rejoice in the simple beauty of a world made new.

I am deeply grateful to live in a corner of the world where seasons change around me and every few months life feels different.

Yet, it is not just in the world around us when seasons change. Life, too, has its own seasons.
Some of the people I admire most are those who have the faith and hope that allows them to welcome each new season of life with the same joy I have when I welcome the new seasons of the world around me.

Some seasons of life are filled with excitement and eager anticipation as the start of the adventures of a new school, new job, new home, marriage and parenthood. Some of those that are most important are those we do not remember well, like the transition from infant to toddler. Some are filled with angst – the so-called terrible twos and the terrible teens – and others with peace. Some seasons change of our own volition when we choose a new path. Other seasons come unwelcomed and unbeckoned.

Some are seasons of dreams fulfilled, and others are seasons when a dream moves out of view. There are seasons of suffering and loss that come to each life, and seasons to surrender the things to which we cling. There are seasons that are filled with companionship and those when, for a time, we find ourselves walking alone.

In the depth of our hearts, there are those seasons when we walk closely with God, and other seasons with the taste of the “dark night of the soul.”

As years pass and I look back at the ways in which life’s seasons have changed, I can see that there is, indeed, something to be grateful for in each of them. At the time, some have seemed to me far more beautiful than others. Yet, in their own way, each season of life made my own heart new – whether I wanted it to or not.

I hope that as I watch autumn unfold and winter follows, it will be a reminder to cherish each season of life – to thank God for the blessings it brings, to ask Him for strength through what it may take away, and say a trusting “Amen” to every season of ordinary times.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

On Ordinary Times
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Whenever someone asks how I am, one of my most frequent replies is “Good, but busy.” That is rarely more true than it is in September’s back-to-school season.

For those whose lives ebb and flow with the school year, as does mine, autumn bursts into our lives with a rapid increase in the events, activities, gatherings and obligations that will again fill our days.

For those whose days are not directly driven by school life, there is still something about the fall that brings a rapid new rhythm to life as parish activities, clubs, sports teams and community events get underway after a hiatus. Indeed, after the past two years, this return to community life seems to have an extra urgency about it.

The rapidly filling pages of my calendar are welcome to me since I like the busy-ness of life. Yet, there is also much to be said for the wisdom of rest.

The commandment to “keep holy the Sabbath,” and the Biblical traditions of sabbaticals and jubilees are reminders that time is sacred. In a particular way, they are a reminder that there are certain times that deserve to be safeguarded from the demands of our daily lives.

The Catholic Church proclaims the dignity of the work, the value of labor and the importance of treating workers with respect and concern for their well-being and that of their families. A critical demand of church leaders through the decades has been ensuring that workers are free on the Sabbath to worship God and to be with their loved ones. As St. John Paul II wrote in Laborem Exercens, his encyclical on human work, workers have a “right to rest” that “involves a regular weekly rest comprising at least Sunday.” This Sunday rest from work would allow the worker to meet obligations to God on a day of worship.

He went on to say that “man’s work too not only requires a rest every seventh day, but also cannot consist in the mere exercise of human strength in external action; it must leave room for man to prepare himself, by becoming more and more what in the will of God he ought to be, for the rest that the Lord reserves for his servants and friends.“

These words are worth considering as life fills up again. As demands on our time increase, it is tempting – and can often even feel necessary – to treat Sunday just like any other day. This would let us catch up in a fast-paced world and not fall behind in what seems to be a constant seven-day whirlwind of shopping, working, answering emails and doing the work that just did not get done in the six workdays of the week.
School sports and similar activities – good as they may be in their own right – split families apart on Sundays as they race in different directions. Sunday can all too easily become merely the start of the new work week.

Yet maybe the start of the new season of busyness is a time to resolve to keep Sundays holy, to keep them sacred, and to appreciate the wisdom of a God who rested on the seventh day.

In a paradoxical way, this season of new busy-ness is launched with Labor Day, the civic (but not meteorological!) end to summer. Since 1894, when President Grover Cleveland signed a bill establishing our national Labor Day, it has been celebrated as a federal holiday honoring the contributions of workers to the social and economic life of the nation. One of the most significant achievements of the secular labor movement was the drive toward the 5-day work week. This should, in theory, free modern laborers for the worship and re-creation of a Sabbath rest. Yet, in a sad irony, we often surrender this freedom to the temptations to many things that creep into our Sundays.

Maybe this year, as I watch the pages of my calendar fill up, I will take a special look at those things with which I fill my Sundays to see if they honor God and serve my loved ones. I also hope to do so with appreciation for the ability to do so … something that I know so many do not have.

I hope you will have the chance, too, to celebrate Sundays as a slice of the extraordinary that comes to each week of our ordinary time.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law and Associate Dean for Faculty Research at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

June 24, 2022. In the life of a nation – as in the life of each person – days come to face past failings and take steps to correct them. That always begins with an honest admission of prior error.

When the Supreme Court did just this in Dobbs v. Jackson Women’s Health Organization, my first reaction was not, and could not be, unfettered joy. Of necessity, reversal of Roe v. Wade, brings to mind the over sixty million unique, irreplaceable lives lost in the United States alone since Roe was decided nearly half a century ago. Moreover, contrary to furious public discourse, Dobbs does not end abortion in America. Rather, it returns the question to individual states. It is incongruous to me that whether someone’s very life is legally protected is now a function of where his or her mother happens to be. When abortion supporters proclaim that fundamental rights should not depend on the state in which someone is located, I agree with them entirely – except, of course, that we differ on which fundamental right and whose fundamental right is at issue.

I hope for the day, not yet here, when the law of our land offers a shield to protect the lives of those in the wombs of their mothers.
Yet, I still found myself grateful on June 24. Although Dobbs does not provide a shield to protect innocent human life, after 49 years the Supreme Court ruled that the Constitution can no longer be used as a sword to strike efforts to defend that life. For that, I am grateful.
I am grateful as a lawyer pained to see the enormous power of law used to deny the humanity of my youngest sisters and brothers.
I am grateful as a woman who knows well that the adult that I am has grown entirely uninterrupted from the vulnerable single cell I once was.

I am grateful as an American who cheers any step – large or small – that sees the law of the republic that I love become more protective of those least able to defend themselves.

I am also grateful for the fortuitous date, June 24, on which we will remember this landmark. In important matters, I believe there are no coincidences. There is something about June 24 that speaks to the two ways in which we might best shape the post-Roe world with which we are now entrusted.

Due to a quirk in the 2022 liturgical calendar, the Solemnity of the Sacred Heart of Jesus fell on June 24. The heart was made for love. As I watch the explosive reaction to Dobbs, see the crude, vulgar signs carried through city streets and sense the deep fear and profound anger that rages, I am reminded by this feast day that the first response to the times in which we find ourselves must be radical love.

This love, in a post-Dobbs world, should be tangible. This is the time for renewing material, emotional and spiritual help to mothers in need; lending a hand to those caring for infants; supporting mothers in their workplaces, schools, universities and homes; adopting children with open arms and giving hearts; consoling mothers who grieve in the aftermath of abortions; reminding men of their obligations to their children and the women who carry them; caring for those in the midst of difficult pregnancies; comforting those facing frightening pre-natal diagnoses; and engaging abortion advocates with the peaceful confidence that comes only from a wellspring of deep-seated love.

The pro-life advocates I greatly admire pursue the defense of life with great, gracious love. This love – which I have seen in action – belies angry accusations that those who are pro-life care only for children before they are delivered into the world. This love has deep roots planted not in the shallow soil of politics but the deep soil of loving hearts.

The days and years ahead will need this great response of love. We now have a less fettered opportunity and sacred responsibility to find loving ways to welcome new life, cherish that life through all its stages, and support women who carry that life within them – often in difficult, lonely situations that demand great self-sacrifice.

Usually, however, June 24 is the Solemnity of the Nativity of John the Baptist. So, it will be in the years ahead when we mark the Dobbs anniversary. This suggests the second crucial part of a response to Dobbs.

John the Baptist was a prophet, proclaiming both the need to turn away from wrong and the promise of something greater to come. He died for his courageous witness but was undeterred. As battles for life itself are waged now in statehouses across the land, at medical facilities, and across dining room tables, we need prophets who continue to speak with conviction about the dignity of human life at all stages and in every condition. We need prophets who confront attacks on life wherever they are found and have the courage to defend it.

We need prophets who use their gifts to build a culture of life, advocate for just laws, and prevent innocent life from being discarded in a “throwaway culture.”

We need prophets who challenge us to reform our adoption and foster care systems, improve pre- and post-natal physical and mental health care for mothers and their children, and encourage all that can be done to improve the safety of pregnancy and delivery. We need prophets who demand that women be treated with equal dignity and that those who violate or assault them be brought to justice.

We need prophets who speak about the sacredness of sex, the obligations of men, and the dignity of those born with disabilities. We need prophets who remind us of all that a woman with a child can do and can be. We need prophets who proclaim the promise of something better than the violence of abortion.

Dobbs is but one step forward. It was, undeniably, an important one, but a far from final one. A better future now lies in the hands of all who have the strength to be loving prophets in these new days of ordinary times.

Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.

On Ordinary Times
By Lucia A. Silecchia
As a teacher, I have mixed feelings about graduations. While commencements launch new beginnings for graduates, they are also bittersweet farewells.

Each year, the basic formula of our graduation ceremonies remains the same. The setting, order of events and cherished traditions remain remarkably unchanged, reflecting the enduring desire to mark important passages with predictable rituals. In spite of their comforting sameness, however, each graduation ceremony heralds a significant change in my own life, not just in the lives of my students.

Each year, I see my students’ joy and am happy for them. However, as a teacher left behind there is a certain sadness knowing that each year’s graduating class – as individuals and as a group – will no longer be part of my everyday life. Certainly, commencement day is about my students and not me. Yet, the day when this celebration no longer tugs at my heart may be the day I should start another path of work.

The years I spend with my students are brief – only 3 or 4 years do we walk together. For that time, I am privileged to be part of their lives and to have them as part of mine. I am deeply grateful to my students for all they share with me during the time we travel together along the path of life. The class of 2022, in a particular way, crossed my path in a unique set of pandemic-provoked disruptions. Thus, in a special way, I am grateful for their good will through some challenging days.

I am grateful for all the ways they shared their joys with me. Some of them knew great joy in the years we spent together as they welcomed children, became aunts or uncles, achieved academic success, or wore new rings on their fingers. Some overcame great obstacles, were surprised at wonderful job offers, and learned that they had talents they did not know that they had. Some made life-long friends and I have celebrated at the weddings of those who sat together in my class.

I am grateful for all the ways they also shared their sorrows with me. Some of them had loved ones who started the journey with them but are no longer at their sides to share the joy of graduation. Some had struggles with finances or health, watched plans disrupted and mourned dreams denied. Like life itself, the journey through school has its highs and lows.

I am grateful for all the ways they shared their families with me. Those who teach young children rather than adults see far more of their students’ families than I do. Yet, my students tell me of their loved ones – their parents, children, spouses and siblings. Many tell me much about beloved grandparents because, often, it is in the years of young adulthood that their grandparents pass away.

In particularly entertaining ways, my students share their families with me at graduation. I still feel a vague dread when someone’s proud dad says, “I’ve heard all about you!” because that is not necessarily a good thing. I sense that my students feel similar dread when a proud mom says, “How did he do in your class?” Fear not, students! I have a well-practiced repertoire of non-responsive answers to that question.

I am grateful for the ways my students thank their loved ones, my colleagues and their classmates as we share our pride and common joy with them. As they receive their diplomas while wearing the strangest of hats and smiling the biggest of smiles at their cheering families, they remind me that few accomplishments are achieved alone.

I am grateful for the ways in which many students have shared their faith with me. Although much is said by many – myself included – criticizing Gen Z’s and Millennials, I have been inspired by them. In an age of shallow soundbites, some have asked me the big questions. In an age of secularism, some have prayed with me. In a time when faith is thought to be private, some have prayed for me. In a time when the world can seem thoughtless, they reach out with commitments to service, good-hearted kindnesses and traces of that idealism a cynical world so desperately needs.

My students – soon to be my former students – were once strangers to me and to each other. Through many different paths, they and I came together for a time and shared a unique season of our lives. As May and June unfold, teachers like me will be saying our good-byes.

“Good-bye,” however, is a comforting word of farewell – an ancient abbreviation of the phrase, “God go with you.” So, to all those whose diplomas say “2022,” I pray that God does, indeed, go with you as you embark into our fragile world. Bring that world your courage, your hope and your love. And, if you think of it, say a prayer for me – I’ll miss you. Thanks for sharing with me some of your ordinary times.

Congratulations! May God go with you, Class of 2022.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at the Columbus School of Law at the Catholic University of America.)

On Ordinary Times
By Lucia A. Silecchia
Throughout March, myriad celebrations of “Women’s History Month” unfold. I understand the sentiment behind this and see the great value in recognizing the contributions that so many of my sisters, past and present, have made to building our society. This is particularly true when it comes to celebrating those who have too often been overlooked.

Yet, I find myself wishing that the world would celebrate women year-round in ways more akin to the way in which I see women celebrated by the church. Let me explain.

In Women’s History Month, I see honor paid to those women who – with the odds frequently stacked against them – succeeded in the eyes of the world. Women who were pioneers, or public figures of influence, or daring “first” women to achieve great feats, or those beckoned by history to play extraordinary roles on the world stage are celebrated with great enthusiasm. Those who used their great scientific, literary, intellectual, entrepreneurial, artistic and musical gifts to advance culture as we know it are honored this month with often overdue praise and gratitude.

The church also recognizes among our saints those women who did extraordinary things in the eyes of the world. We celebrate women who were great warriors like Joan of Arc; intellectuals like Hildegard, Edith Stein and Teresa of Avila; royalty like Margaret of Scotland, Jadwiga of Poland, Elizabeth of Portugal, Elizabeth of Hungary and Helena of Constantinople; foundresses like Elizabeth Seton, Scholastica, Frances Xavier Cabrini, Katherine Drexel and Jane Francs de Chantal. We also celebrate women like Teresa of Calcutta and Catherine of Sienna, whose unique roles led them to challenge those who held great influence in the world at their times.

These women who did great things with great holiness are honored as examples for those called and gifted to do such things with fidelity to the will of God.
Yet, I am proud and grateful that the church also holds out as examples those women who lived lives that were simple in the eyes of the world. That is, after all, the way in which most of us live our lives on this side of eternity.

Honored as saints are women like Ann, Gianna and Monica who lived the vocation to motherhood with extraordinary grace; Therese of Lisieux and Clare of Assisi who lived lives hidden from the world; Zelie of Lisieux who spun lace for a living and raised holy children; Josephine Bakhita and Felicity who, separated by centuries, both bore the abuse of slavery; Kateri Tekakwitha, an orphan scarred by smallpox; and girls like Bernadette, Dymphna, Maria Goretti, Jacinta, Agnes and Lucy who died long before the fullness of years would have given them the chance to have worldly accomplishments to their names.

More than all others, the church honors Mary of Nazareth who did the greatest of all things when, in an instant, she gave the “yes” on which salvation turned. She is honored by such great names as the Mother of God, Queen of Heaven, Queen of Angels, and Queen of All Saints. Yet, the only title she gave herself was “handmaid of the Lord.”

I hope that this month we continue to celebrate those women whose great deeds have made our world better. Yet, if that was all we did, much would be missing.

I hope that, like the church, we also take time to honor those women whose lives are not marked by the extraordinary deeds they did, but by the extraordinary love, grace and fidelity with which they did the simple things entrusted to their care. History is full of those women even if their names and stories are lost to time.

If you are blessed to know such women in your life, this month may be a chance to say a simple thank you. If you were blessed to know such women who have left this life, this month may be a particular time to pray in gratitude for the goodness of their lives – a goodness perhaps hidden from the world but known to God. May God bless the great and the good women of ordinary time.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at the Columbus School of Law at the Catholic University of America.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

Can a lazy lack of creativity ever be good for the soul? Normally, I would answer no – unless you asked me during Lent when I was 19 years old.

That was a Lent I intended to take more seriously than I had before. A growing realization that, ready or not, adulthood was dawning led me to reflect more thoughtfully on that sacred season. Even then, I understood that in the wisdom of the church’s ancient calendar, forty days is a perfect length of time for a season of preparation.

I know that number has its origins in sacred traditions. But, as is true with so many things, the sacred tradition is beautifully matched with human nature. Forty days devoted to preparation is a season that is short enough that a commitment to something ambitious is less frightening than it might otherwise seem. Yet, it is long enough that a new practice or habit of the heart and soul has a chance of becoming more permanent.

In spite of my good intentions, when the Sunday before that long-ago Ash Wednesday rolled around, I had not yet decided what I could do so that my 19th Lent might be the season I hoped it would be. There were three days left, and nothing of note had crossed my mind.

Fortunately for me, that Sunday I was blessed to hear a homily that changed my life. It was filled with practical suggestions about Lenten practices that seemed especially intended for those of us who had not planned ahead. One that caught my ear was the simple, obvious invitation to attend Mass during the week during Lent. I had rarely given that any thought. Unless it was a special occasion, I was on the Sunday plan.

However, to my practical mind, this was a do-able Lenten suggestion. Conveniently, I walked past my parish church every morning on the way to my college classes. The three Masses celebrated every day meant no early wake-up was required. It was merely a half-hour time commitment. Most importantly, although I did not know the exact words from the Catechism at the time, I knew in my heart that Mass was “heart and summit of the church’s life.”

Thus, for want of another plan, I very casually began a practice that has lasted, with varying degrees of regularity, to this day – decades after that long ago Lent drew to a close.

I found that I began to treasure this weekday celebration, secure in the happy knowledge that around the world in tiny remote chapels, grand urban cathedrals, crumbling city churches, secluded mountain monasteries, far-flung military bases, parochial school auditoriums, and quiet convents, countless others were doing the same. A weekday morning Mass is the Eucharist at its simplest. Without distractions, it is a quiet, intimate start to the day and a cherished oasis before the hectic pace of life begins anew.

I love a grand liturgical celebration. Whether it is celebrated with an enthusiastic student choir, or majestic organ music shrouded with incense, or, yes, even the felt banners and tambourines of my childhood years, such celebrations fill the heart with awe. A large Sunday crowd gathered to praise the same God together is a beautiful reminder that we are all part of the family of God. A stirring Sunday homily, carefully planned, and an altar reverently adorned with flowers all point the way to God in a powerful celebration. The sometimes-too-rare moments of silence in a large Sunday crowd offer a chance to offer praise, petitions, apologies and thanks in the company of an extended parish family.

Yet, when I have the wisdom to make time for it, I also treasure those quiet celebrations during the week when two or three or more of us gather in God’s name, bringing Him the hopes, happiness, worries and woes of the day and receiving far more in return. I am grateful for the silence before and after this celebration, the way this time of the day reminds me that the journey through the day is never traveled alone or without sustenance.

I am grateful for that chance invitation years ago that introduced me to the sacredness of the simple, daily Mass. Now, I share that invitation with you. Come and share this beautiful prayer of ordinary times.

May your journey through Lent be filled with blessings this year.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at The Columbus School of Law at The Catholic University of America. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)