IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
I once had the privilege of visiting Holy Land. It’s a strangely different place. Soaked in history, in struggle, in religion, in blood. Virtually every inch of its soil has been soaked in blood, including the blood of Jesus. History leaps out at you from every stone.

Ancient things come to the surface there and mix with the things of today. When you stand in its sacred spots, you begin to understand why Moses was told to take his shoes off and why, through the centuries, so many wars have been fought over this small strip of desert. Aptly named the Holy Land, I walked its ground, barefoot in soul.

Of all the things I saw there, including the tomb of Jesus, few touched me as deeply as did the Church of the Visitation. It stands in sharp contrast to most of the other churches there that mark the key events in Jesus’ life.

Unlike most of the other churches, the Church of the Visitation is a very modest building. You don’t see any gold or marble. Its wooden walls and oak ceiling are plain and mostly bare. However, on the front wall, behind the altar, there is a painting that depicts the scene of the Visitation, and it was this painting that struck me deeply.

It’s a picture of two peasant women, Mary and Elizabeth, both pregnant, greeting each other. Everything about it suggests smallness, littleness, obscurity, dust, small town, insignificance.

You see two plain looking women, standing in the dust of an unknown village. Nothing suggests that either of them, or anything they are doing or carrying, is out of the ordinary or of any significance. Yet, and this is the genius of the painting, all that littleness, obscurity, seeming barrenness, and small-town insignificance makes you automatically ask the question: Who would have thought it? Who would ever have imagined that these two women, in this obscure town, in this obscure place, in this obscure time, were carrying inside of them something that would radically and forever change the whole world?

Who would have thought it? Yes. Who would have thought that what these obscure peasant women were gestating and carrying inside of them would one day change history more than any army, philosopher, artist, emperor, king, queen, or superstar ever would?

Inside them, they were gestating Jesus and John the Baptist, the Christ and the prophet who would announce him. These two births changed the world so radically that today we even measure time by the event of those births. We live in the year 2025 after that event.

There’s a lesson here: Never underrate, in terms of world impact, someone living in obscurity who is pregnant with promise. Never underestimate the impact in history of silent, hidden gestation. How can any of us have any real significance in our world when we live in obscurity, unknown, hidden away, unable to do big acts that shape history?

We can take a lesson from Mary and Elizabeth. We can become pregnant with promise, with hope, with the Holy Spirit and then, hidden from the world, gestate that into real flesh, our own. We too can reshape history.

If we can grasp this, there will be more peace in our lives because some of the restless fires inside us will torment us less. In brief, there’s a perpetual dissatisfaction inside us that can only be stilled by accepting something we might term the martyrdom of obscurity, that is, the self-sacrifice of accepting a life in which we will never have adequate, satisfactory self-expression. That acceptance can help still that pressure inside us which pushes us to be known, to make a difference, to make our lives count in terms of the big picture.

We all know the feeling of sitting inside of our own lives and feeling unknown, small time, undistinguished and frustrated because our riches are unknown to others. We have so much to give to the world, but the world doesn’t know us. We yearn to do great things, important things, things that affect the world beyond the boundaries of the small towns we live in (even when we are living in large cities).

What can help bring some peace is the image expressed in that painting in the Church of the Visitation, namely, that what ultimately changes the world is what we give birth to when, in the obscurity and dust of our small towns and in the frustration of lives that forever seem too small for us, we become pregnant with hope and, after a silent gestation process, one not advertised or known to the world, we bring that hope to full term.

When I was teaching at Newman College in Edmonton, our president then was a Holy Cross priest who brought us some Maritime color. When surprised by something, he would exclaim: “Who would have thunk it?”

Yes, two pregnant women, two thousand years ago of no status, isolated, standing in the dust, forever changing the world? Who would have thunk it?

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

KNEADING FAITH
By Dr. Fran Lavelle, D. Min
On my recent trip to Italy, I witnessed a daily ritual every morning just outside our hotel. A small van would park across the narrow street on what was basically a wide sidewalk. Two men routinely hopped out of the van and proceeded to gather baskets of freshly baked bread, bundles of fresh herbs, and a basket of seasonal vegetables and fruit. The delivery was made around 6 a.m. And, being a lover of good bread, I was excited to note the fresh delivery every day. The scene struck me as quaint and European.

It was not until I returned home for the full impact of this daily ritual to sink in. I was reading my news feed on my phone when I saw that the board of Tesla was voting later that week to give Elon Musk a trillion-dollar, performance-based stock package. The words “trillion dollars” bounced around my brain like a thousand pingpong balls being lobbed at a wall. One. Trillion. Dollars.

Now before anyone thinks this is an anti–Elon Musk missive, it is not. He happens to be the subject of this particular absurdity. He, as the richest man on the planet, may be part of the problem, but he is not the primary problem.

I tried to wrap my head around what a trillion dollars represented – it is actually 1,000 billion. Spending $1 million per day, it would take approximately 1,148 years for Musk to exhaust his fortune. There are 8.1 billion people in the world. An estimated 808 million people, or about 1 in 10 people worldwide, are living in extreme poverty in 2025. Imagine how many people could be lifted out of poverty with a trillion dollars.

I think we can all agree that a trillion dollars is an absurd amount of money for one person to possess. For whatever reason, I saw in my mind’s eye the small delivery van and the basket of freshly baked bread. The phrase from the Our Father followed: “Give us this day our daily bread.” Our. Daily. Bread.

In light of this reality, perhaps the social commentary is not about Elon Musk or even the class of multibillionaires around the globe. The question we need to focus on, especially in this age of increased poverty, is when did we lose sight of having “enough”? Daily bread. What does enough food look like? What makes a house a home? Are our basic needs being met?

I am the first to admit that in the story of the grasshopper and the ant, I am the ant. I work diligently, storing away summer’s bounty in the freezer for the winter months to ensure we can enjoy tasty oatmeal and blueberries on cold February mornings, or that we have garden-grown bell peppers in March for a heartwarming bowl of beans. But preparing for lean times and hoarding are two different things.

Is the quest for more than enough just a part of who we are as humans? Jesus told us that we would always have the poor among us. Is that an outcome of our inability to share, or something else entirely?

Pope Leo XIII saw similar trends and in the late 1800s formalized the modern approach to Catholic social teaching. These principles have been consistently affirmed by popes over the subsequent years. Our current Pope Leo XIV, recognizing the devastating reality of poverty, once again is shining a light on the principles of Catholic social teaching, especially regarding preferential treatment of the poor.

It is no surprise, then, that care for the poor is the subject of Pope Leo XIV’s first apostolic exhortation, Dilexi te (Latin for “I have loved you”). The document was being drafted by Pope Francis at the time of his death. Thankfully, Pope Leo saw to its completion and publication. In it, the faithful are encouraged to renew our commitment to the poor by animating Christ’s love and recognizing that current global poverty goes beyond material need.

Dilexi te draws from Scripture, church teaching, and the lives of saints. Together, these three form a solid basis for exploring what it means to serve the poor.

As we continue our journey through Christmas, it is an excellent time to deepen our appreciation of exactly how Jesus came into the world. His humble beginnings remind us to lift up the lowly, to comfort the afflicted, to see each other as God’s begotten sons and daughters.

Dilexi te reminds us that Christian love calls us to go out to the margins and unite people in the love of Christ. Changing culture, economic structures, and perhaps most importantly, changing hearts will not be easy. We are being called to empty ourselves of want. We are being called to examine our needs. We are being called to care for one another. Perhaps when we are satisfied with “our daily bread,” we can begin to recognize how to share with those on the margins.

(Dr. Fran Lavelle is the director of faith formation for the Diocese of Jackson.)

REFLECTIONS ON LIFE
By Melvin Arrington

Utter darkness! The total, absolute void of space! When my wife and I toured a cave many years ago, that’s what we sensed when the tour guide led our little group into a well-lit cavern and then flipped the switch. It instantly became infinitely darker than the dim, shadowy murkiness created by any late evening power outage. This was unmitigated blackness. I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face; I couldn’t see anything at all! The guide was only trying to demonstrate what the complete absence of light was like but in so doing he was, in effect, re-creating the conditions of the primordial nothingness immediately prior to the moment of Creation. When he turned the switch back on, the cavern instantly became bright and luminous again. It was like coming back to life from the dead.

The stark contrast between light and darkness in the cave also suggests some other opposing pairs: good and evil; warmth and cold; intelligence and ignorance; wisdom and folly; the conscious and the unconscious; spirit and matter; positives and negatives. Also, life vs. death; that’s the one that should really grab our attention. Jesus, the Light of the World, calls us and draws us to Himself and to eternal life. We are free to accept or reject Him. Those who choose the latter option evidently prefer to be as far from the source of illumination as possible, so they will get their wish and find themselves in outer darkness. The following words spoken by Jesus underscore one of the saddest realities in Scripture: “the light has come into the world, and people loved darkness rather than light because their deeds were evil” (John 3:19).

During the last few weeks we have experienced encroaching darkness as the winter solstice, the shortest day and longest night of the year, draws near. On that darkest of days, it will appear that the shadowy forces have won. But something marvelous happens around the time we celebrate the birth of Christ. By Christmas day luminosity begins to come back into the world. The days become longer and the night recedes. The old saying “it’s always darkest before the dawn” turns out to be true.

So, how do we respond to the advent of the new light? By putting up bright, shiny Christmas decorations, of course. Actually, many begin the Christmas season several weeks early. Some of those dazzling outdoor displays pop up the day after Thanksgiving. Perhaps our love for lights and our efforts to illuminate the night sky represent a deep-seated desire to drive away the darkness and negativity that pervade so many aspects of everyday life.

Children and adults alike have a special fascination with the brightness and radiance that characterize Christmas. We love the vivid colors of ornaments and trimmings, the glittery tinsel, and the sparkling bulbs along the winding cord. And let’s not forget the shining fixture atop the tree, reminding us of the wondrous star that guided the Magi to Bethlehem and the stable where the Christ Child was born.

Forty days after the Nativity, Mary and Joseph presented the infant Jesus in the Temple, where Simeon recognized Him as the long-awaited Savior, the One who would offer the light of salvation to the whole world. Taking the baby in his arms, Simeon spoke the words of the Nunc Dimittis, the canticle recited as part of the Night Prayer of the Church: “Now, Lord, you may dismiss your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all the peoples, a light of revelation to the Gentiles and glory for your people Israel” (Luke 2:29-32). On Feb. 2 the church commemorates this event with the feast of Candlemas.

Candles have important functions in the church. Some have a prominent place on the altar while others, votive candles, can be found off to the side. There is also the large Paschal candle that glows with the new fire of Easter, and the one in the Sanctuary Lamp, signifying the presence of the Blessed Sacrament in the Tabernacle. Each of them in some way points to a link between life and light.

The secularists/materialists like to compare human life to a lighted candle. In their view, when the flame goes out, life ends and there’s nothing more. But Venerable Fulton J. Sheen says they forgot to tell us that “even when the candle has burned out, the light continues to emit itself at the rate of 186,000 miles a second, beyond the moon and stars, beyond the Pleiades, the nebulas of Andromeda, and continues to do so as long as the universe endures.” As St. Francis of Assisi reminds us, “all the darkness in the world cannot extinguish the light of a single candle.” The secularist/materialist viewpoint is in error; the soul of a person of faith, just like that candle light, lives on after death and returns to its Source.

As Christians we should be beacons of hope, pointing the way to everlasting truth, goodness, and beauty: “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven” (Matthew 5:16). Also, we are supposed to “live as children of light, for light produces every kind of goodness and righteousness and truth” (Ephesians 5:8-9). It also produces beauty, as in these words from the popular Advent hymn, “O Come Divine Messiah”: “Dear Savior, haste!/Come, come to earth./Dispel the night and show your face,/and bid us hail the dawn of grace.”

Every time we feed the hungry, visit the sick, welcome the stranger, or contribute to worthy causes, we are doing our part to dispel the darkness. In this great time of celebration let us carry the light with us wherever we go and try to bring some sunshine into the lives of all we meet, especially those who struggle during the holidays.

May the Light of the World fill you with joy, love, hope, and peace during this Christmas season and all throughout the coming year!

(Melvin Arrington is a Professor Emeritus of Modern Languages for the University of Mississippi and a member of St. John Oxford.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
Recently I was listening to a religious talk show on the radio when a caller asked: How do we know that God exists? A good question.

The radio host answered by saying that we know it through faith. That’s not a bad answer, except what needs to be teased out is how we know this through faith.

First, what does it mean to know something? If we believe that to know something means to be able to somehow picture it, understand it, and imagine its existence, then this side of eternity, we can never know God. Why?

Because God is ineffable. That’s the first and non-negotiable truth we need to accept about God and it means that God, by definition, is beyond our imagination. God is infinite and the infinite can never be circumscribed or captured in a concept. Try imagining the highest number to which it is possible to count. God’s nature and existence can never be conceptualized or imagined. But it can be known.

Knowing isn’t always in the head, something we can explicate, own in a picture, and give words to. Sometimes, particularly with things touching the deepest mysteries in life, we know beyond our head and our heart. This knowing is in our gut, something felt as a moral imperative, a nudge, a call, an obligation, a voice which tells us what we must do to stay true. It’s there we know God, beyond any imaginative, intellectual, or even affective grasp.
The revealed truths about God in scripture, in Christian tradition, and in the witness of the lives of martyrs and saints, simply give expression to something we already know, as the mystics put it, in a dark way.
So, how might we prove the existence of God?

I wrote my doctoral thesis on exactly that question. In that thesis, I take up the classical proofs for the existence of God as we see these articulated in Western philosophy. For example, Thomas Aquinas tried to prove God’s existence in five separate arguments.

Here’s one of those arguments: Imagine walking down a road and seeing a stone and asking yourself, how did it get there? Given the brute reality of a stone, you can simply answer, it’s always been there. However, imagine walking down a road and seeing a clock still keeping time. Can you still say, it’s always been there? No, it can’t always have been there because it has an intelligent design that someone must have built into it and it is ticking away the hours, which means it cannot have been there forever.
Aquinas then asks us to apply this to our own existence and to the universe. Creation has an incredibly intelligent design and, as we know from contemporary physics, has not always existed. Something or someone with intelligence has given us and the universe a historical beginning and an intelligent design. Who?

How much weight does an argument like this carry? There was once a famous debate on BBC radio in England between Frederick Copleston, a renowned Christian philosopher, and Bertrand Russell, a brilliant agnostic thinker. After all the give and take in their debate, they agreed, as atheist and believer, on this one thing: If the world makes sense then God exists. As an atheist, Russell agreed to that, but then went on to say that ultimately the world doesn’t make sense.

Most thinking atheists accept that the world doesn’t’ make sense; but then, like Albert Camus, struggle with the question, how can it not make sense? If there isn’t a God then how can we say that is better to help a child than to abuse a child? If there isn’t a God, how can we ground rationality and morality?

At the end of my thesis, I concluded that existence of God cannot be proven through a rational argument, a logical syllogism, or a mathematical equation, albeit all of those can give some compelling hints regarding God’s existence.

However, God is not found at the end of an argument, a syllogism, or an equation. God’s existence, life, and love are known (they are experienced) inside a certain way of living.

Simply put, if we live in a certain way, in the way all religions worthy of the name (not least Christianity) invite us to live, namely, with compassion, selflessness, forgiveness, generosity, patience, long-suffering, fidelity, and gratitude, then we will know God’s existence by participation in God’s very life – and whether or not we have an imaginative sense of God’s existence is of no importance.

Why do I believe in God? Not because I’m particularly persuaded by proofs from great philosophical minds like Aquinas, Anselm, Descartes, Leibnitz or Hartshorne. I find their proofs intellectually intriguing but existentially less persuasive.

I believe in God because I sense God’s presence at a gut level, as a silent voice, as a call, an invitation, a moral imperative which, whenever listened to and obeyed, brings community, love, peace and purpose.

That’s the real proof for the existence of God.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese

“When the soul is willingly emptied for love in order to have Him who is all. Then it is able to receive spiritual rest.” –Julian of Norwich, d. 1416

I had finished my prayer time … in silence, surrounded by my icons … and I gazed out the window to an overcast and cold morning … trying to allow Jesus to give me rest amidst recent anxiety and concern. It was not going to happen, and I was sure of that. I could not make it happen myself, and Jesus seemed far, far away. The middle of Advent and on into the “Os” is a fragile time. The fullness of Christmas had filled everyone else, and many had a lack of peaceful rest.

A few days later, I ran into Cardinal Zen’s “Advent Reflections” while tidying up a bookshelf. Perhaps you have read it or used it for your own reflection?

First, “Who likes darkness? Isn’t the light sure to prevail? Unfortunately, it is not necessarily so. Darkness often tempts us. In the dark, we can do shoddy things.” (p. 23) In so many of our places, the sun sets early. Darkness might be experienced, as Cardinal Zen says, “For Christians, ‘despairing of hope’ for salvation and thinking that God could not save us is indeed a sin … But what is it exactly that you doubt? … the power of God or His mercy? … He is always with us, so His plan must succeed.” (p. 19)

Another: “Because of His excessive love for us, God sent us His Son in the likeness of our sinful bodies – a fragile infant laid in a manger; only with the help of an angel, He could escape the attempt on His life. He wanted to experience all the hardships of human existence, hoping that we might trust Him and recognize Him as one of us.” (p. 74) This reminded me of my favorite saint, Julian of Norwich … who reminds us of the extraordinary love God has for us.

Off I went exploring the nearly end of her “Revelations of Divine Love” … and I read some paragraphs as if I’d never seen them before. I lived for 20 years not some 26 miles from her cell in Norwich (England) and frequently went there to pray.

How could she experience this silence and rest when “surrounded by the Black Death, parts of the Hundred Years War, the peasants’ revolt, Edward III and Richard II, and Henry IV taking the throne”? Does any of that sound in the least like what surrounds you? Pandemics, natural disasters, crime, political intrigue, extreme consumerism … ? How could one be expected to pray in that environment? How can there be spiritual rest?

Today we expect everyone to comment on most things – politics, family, religion. What is our business? What is none of our business? In the day, Julian commented on none of it. “Instead of pointing to men’s failures to be human and Christian, Juliana focuses on the love of a living, loving, personal God, His sufferings, and her response to them. The anchorhold at Norwich might as well have been in China for all the notice she takes of current sins and scandals, local persons and events, or the … immoralities of the failed shepherds of a spiritually starving, helpless flock … she is to observe God alone, to listen to Him and to make her response, and to transmit the experience to her fellow Christians.” (Introduction)

Cardinal Zen’s reflections kept me considering this notion of “excessive love.” Fit right in with Julian. He points to the reality that God wanted from all eternity to be our God, and that we become His people. How do we come to understand this? How do we know we are loved by God?

Julian explained that dread is caused by fright, pain, doubt and reverent dread. Curiously, she says, “Love and dread are brothers. They are rooted in us by the goodness of our Maker and can never be taken from us. We have the power to love from nature and from grace. We have the power to dread from nature and from grace … it is proper for us to love Him for His goodness.” (p. 217)

In considering how we learn to trust, she reminds us that love and dread take on different aspects: “In love we shall be friendly and near to God, and in dread we shall be gentle and courteous.” Advent brings us near to God either through love or dread.

Advent can be a time of renewal or discovery. Cardinal Zen poses this: “How many still do not know Jesus Christ? … How many who know Him are yet unwilling to obey? … But it is undeniable that ‘the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.’” (p. 144)

The darkness will not prevail. Julian tells us: “All shall be well … not only the noble and great things but also the little and small, lowly and simple things … not one of the smallest things will be forgotten … He wants us to be more at ease in soul and more peaceful in love and to stop looking at all the tempests that could keep us from rejoicing in Him!” (p. 132) That is fruitful spiritual rest.

Blessings.

(sister alies therese is a canonical hermit who prays and writes.)

ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia
If there is ever a time when the difference in perspective between children and adults is stunningly clear, it is during the four weeks of Advent.

As Advent begins, children will say, with a sigh of impatience, “Four whole weeks to Christmas.” My younger self did too.

Adults, looking at the exact same calendar, are more likely to say, with a much deeper sigh, “Only four weeks to Christmas.” My older self does too.

Through the eyes of a child, the days of December drag on, with a slow march toward the glory of Christmas – a march filled with excitement and joyful expectation. Through the eyes of adults, however, Christmas arrives in a flash and flurry of activity, and the fleeting days of Advent can go unnoticed because they pass so quickly.

Cynics will say that the excited joy of children comes more from the coming of Santa than of Savior. Maybe that is true. Indeed, my younger self would acknowledge mixed motives.

Yet, there is more. There is something to be learned from the joyful, unencumbered anticipation that children have as they wait, wonder and hope.

They seem, simply, to be more ready than adults. Certainly, some of that is because life’s responsibilities have not yet taken a toll. They have less to do to prepare for Christmas in a season when much adult labor is spent preparing Christmas celebrations for them. They seem less distracted and freer to anticipate all that is to come.

A child counts the days. A child notices when decorations first come out. A child notices when a crèche goes up and rejoices when the figures in the nativity scene move closer to the manger. A child notices when the Jesse trees in their churches start to fill up. A child counts the number of candles that are lit on the Advent wreath – not with fear that the number of days to Christmas is dwindling but with anticipation that what is to come is closer. With special joy, a child notices that on Gaudete Sunday the rose candles offer hope that the wait is almost over.

A child anticipating Christmas seems to understand, more than I do, what it means to wait. Yes, they enjoy the festivities leading up to Christmas. But they also have a single-minded focus on Christmas itself. To adults, so often, it can seem as though Advent is a season of events that can exhaust us before Christmas arrives, leaving us with the feeling that Christmas is over before the Christmas season has even begun.

A child longing for Christmas will never say, as I do, that last Christmas seems like it was yesterday. A child is unlikely to wonder how the year went by so fast because, in the temporal economy of childhood, time moves more slowly, and last Christmas seems like an eternity ago. Perhaps that is why each Christmas seems so special.

The children in my life teach me much about what it means to wait with joy and wait with readiness. They are not distracted by all that they think needs to be done before Christmas. Instead, they are ready to welcome the birthday of Christ with simple joy, uncomplicated excitement and the knowledge that something special and awesome – in all senses of that word – is about to happen.

I cherish the events leading up to Christmas. The traditions, celebrations, time with loved ones and special occasions fill my calendar and my heart. Yes, they also keep me busy.

But this season, I hope to wait for Christmas a little bit more like my younger sisters and brothers in faith. I hope that the distractions and busyness of December do not make my heart hope that Christmas can wait until I am ready for it.

My ancestors in faith spent millennia eagerly awaiting the birth of Christ. The ancients who came before me, and the young who come after me, did not and do not spend their days hoping for delay and more time until that silent, holy night. They want no unnecessary distance between themselves and the night that brings the “thrill of hope” when “a weary world rejoices.” They know how to anticipate that extraordinary time.

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

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
John Muir once asked: “Why are Christians so reluctant to let animals into their stingy heaven?”

Indeed, why? Especially since St. Paul tells us in the Epistle to the Romans that all creation (mineral, plant, animal) is groaning to be set free from its bondage to decay to enter eternal life with us. How? How will minerals, plants and animals go to heaven? That’s beyond our present imagination, just as we cannot imagine how we will enter heaven: “Eye has not seen, nor ear heard. Nor has it entered the heart of man the things God has prepared for those who love Him.” Eternal life is beyond our present imagination.
What John Muir asks concerning animals might be asked in a wider sense: are we too stingy about who gets to go to heaven?

What I mean by “stingy” here is how we are so often obsessed with purity, boundaries, dogma and religious practice that we exclude millions from our church doors, our church programs, our sacramental programs, our Eucharistic tables, and from our notion of who will be going to heaven. This is true across denominational lines. As Christians, we all tend to create a stingy heaven.
However, I can appreciate the instinct behind this. Following Jesus must mean something concrete. Christian discipleship makes real demands and churches need to have real boundaries in terms of dogma, sacraments, membership and practice. There is a legitimacy in creating a dividing line between who is in and who is out. The instinct behind this is healthy.
But its practice is often not healthy. We often make heaven stingy. Metaphorically, we are too often like that group in the Gospel who is blocking the paralytic from coming to Jesus, so that he can only get to Jesus by entering through a hole in the roof.

Our instinct may be right, but our practice is often wrong. We, those of us who are invested deeply in our churches, need to be strong enough in our own faith and practice to be anchors of a spirituality and ethos that welcomes in and dines with those who are not invested. How so? Here’s an analogy.

Imagine a family of ten, now all adults. Five of the children are deeply invested in the family. They come home regularly for visits, have meals together every weekend, check in with each other regularly, have regular rituals and celebrations to ensure that they stay connected, and make it their family business to see that their parents are always okay. They might aptly be called “practicing” members of the family.
Now, imagine that five of the children have drifted from the family. They no longer cultivate any regular meaningful connection with the family, are dissociated from its everyday life and ethos, aren’t particularly concerned with how their parents are doing, but still want to have some connection to the family to occasionally share an occasion, a celebration, or meal with them. They might aptly be described as “non-practicing” members of the family.

This poses the question: Do the “practicing members” of the family refuse them entry into their gatherings, believing that allowing them to come jeopardizes the family’s beliefs, values and ethos? Or do they allow them to come, but only on condition that they first make a series of practical commitments to regularize contact with the family?

My guess is that in most healthy families the “practicing” members would happily welcome the “non-practicing” members to a family event, gathering or meal – grateful they are there, graciously accepting them without initially asking for any practical promises or commitments. Nor would they feel threatened by them joining the celebration and taking a seat at the table, fearful that the family’s ethos might somehow be compromised.

As “practicing” members of the family they would have a steady confidence that their own commitment sufficiently anchors the family’s ethos, standards and rituals so that those who are present and uncommitted aren’t threatening anything but are making the celebration richer and more inclusive. That confidence would be grounded on knowing (in terms of this particular family) that they are the adults in the room and can welcome others without compromising anything. They would not be stingy with the gift and grace of family.

There’s a lesson here, I submit: We who are “practicing” Christians, responsible for proper church practice, proper doctrine, proper morals and the authentic continuation of preaching and Eucharist, should not be stingy with the gift and grace of Christian family.

Like Jesus, who welcomed everyone without first demanding conversion and commitment, we must be open in our welcome and wide in our embrace. Inclusion, not exclusion, should always be our first approach. Like Jesus we should not be threatened by what seems impure, and we should be prepared to occasionally scandalize others by whom we are seen with at table.

Let’s not be stingy in sharing God’s family, especially since the God we serve is a prodigal God who isn’t threatened by anything!

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a professor of spirituality at Oblate School of Theology and award-winning author.)

FROM THE HERMITAGE
By sister alies therese

A driver appeared in court charged with parking his car in a restricted area.

“Defense?” asked the judge.

“Yes, there shouldn’t be such misleading signs around … the sign clearly said, Fine for Parking Here.”
Oops – how things can get easily misunderstood! Still, it is a bit funny, isn’t it? What makes you laugh? What makes you hee hee hee or haw haw haw until your sides wiggle?

You know what I mean. What do you consider hilarious? Michael Dorris, the Native American author of Guests, once wrote, “I got dizzy from laughing, lost my breath from laughing. My stomach hurt from laughing. Tears ran from my eyes, everything was funny.”

Quite possibly, on the other hand, you do not laugh but a little he he hey … almost like a tiny sneeze? Or are you a giggler, one who guffaws, or one who hides behind your hands and lets no one know you found something amusing? Maybe laughter is not your thing – or so you say – and yet you laugh and laugh when hidden in the bathroom or away from people.

Henry Ward Beecher once said, “A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs – jolted by every pebble in the road.” I have to say, I think a sense of humor is critical to the spiritual life. Where do we begin?

A good laugh at ourselves usually works. Not taking myself too seriously helps me get things into perspective. As Proverbs 17:22 reminds us, “A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.”

Yes, go to the Scriptures and discover laughter mentioned more than once: “He will fill your mouth with laughter and your lips with shouts of joy.” (Job 8:21) Check out the Psalms: “Our mouths were filled with laughter, our tongues with songs of joy” (Psalm 126:2), and “The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in him, and he helps me. My heart leaps for joy.” (Psalm 28:7)

As with our driver who got it wrong, we can as well – by laughing at others. Not recommended. Nothing is more painful than being laughed at. Yes, we are called to laugh, but how about laughing with?
I marvel at those who have been badly treated, who teach me so much about laughter. W.E.B. Du Bois, the African American educator, once wrote in “My Soul Looks Back, ’Less I Forget”: “I am especially glad of the divine gift of laughter; it has made the world human and lovable, despite all its pain and wrong.”
Can you laugh in November? That’s a good test! Death, purgatory, people dying around us, wars, abortions, hunger, governmental challenges, the death penalty – darkness falling all around us. So what’s so funny?

It is more difficult to laugh or make decisions when the days are rainy, cold and lonely. Yet Norton Juster reminds us in “The Phantom Tollbooth” – “Ordinance 175389: It shall be unlawful, illegal and unethical to think, think of thinking, surmise, presume, reason, meditate or speculate while in the doldrums.”

What comes, however, into our orbit near the end of the month? Thanksgiving, of course – and if you don’t laugh at that dinner table, you will cry! Maybe it will be an old story Uncle George tells, a funny accident by a 3-year-old or even a teenager venturing out to tell a joke. Who knows? It might be the food. It might be just anything.

Go prepared – or you might get caught in a bit of misery. Arguments are ugly. I love this little prayer: “Give me eyes to see what I would miss without you!” (anonymous)

Go to that kitchen to help, that table to eat, and take that opportunity to clear up – having asked the Lord to show you! You just might be the one to prevent a Thanksgiving Day disaster.

T. Hulbert of Rockaway, Oregon, once shared this in Guideposts (1999): “My 1998 resolution: With the help of God, I resolve to be a good witness to those around me by what I say and through what I do.”
David Saltzman wrote in “The Jester Has Lost His Jingle” – “Laughter’s like a seedling, waiting patiently to sprout. All it takes is just a push to make it pop right out.”

Be careful at that table, in that kitchen or dining room. Things often pop out that we had no intention of saying! There is much left to heal.

“Laughter is God’s medicine; the most beautiful therapy God ever gave humanity,” says an anonymous author. Why in the world would laughter be medicine? What needs healing? We often don’t find out until someone pushes that little button we thought we had hidden so artfully away.

There is hope for most of us if we have learned anything this past year. When we join others at the table, watch the person you trust the most before you speak. He or she will give you the go-ahead or hold up a hand – like any good base coach.

I have that super picture of Jesus laughing in my prayer corner. He had to laugh now and then – look who he surrounded himself with!

“Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4)

Your laughter does not need to be outrageous or loudly offensive – just a good deep chuckle will get those endorphins working. It might even be as simple as a sweet smile to dispel the gloom.

As Sister Monique of Owatonna once said, “May this Thanksgiving help you give thanks for all the turkeys in your life.”

Blessings.

(sister alies therese is a canonical hermit who prays and writes.)