By Joel Stepanek
I have a unique relationship with Mary. Like any mother and son, we’ve gone through ups and downs together. As a child, praying the rosary was often punishment for breaking the rules, usually disobedience against my parents. Not surprisingly, I resented it (though I’ve come to see some humor in that particular punishment for the offense).

As a young adult, the rosary became a comfort as I held it close with shaking hands through some of my life’s darkest and most broken moments. I cherished it.

I also have an image of Mary that was gifted to my wife and me on our wedding day that I meditate on often, yet there are other images of Mary that I find no connection with at all.
Perhaps that is the beauty of Marian imagery – it can speak to many people in many different ways.

One particular image to which I find myself particularly drawn is the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

It might be the story of the image that resonates — a humble farmer encounters Mary and, through his diligence, she offers an image that provides consolation and hope to the Mexican people (and to the world). The preservation of the tilma of St. Juan Diego, upon which that image is imprinted, is miraculous. But what resonates the most is Mary’s appearance, thereon.

She appears in a manner that speaks specifically to the people she is appearing to — not as an outsider, but a mother. The symbols in the image and her complexion are so indigenous to the region to the point that St. Juan Diego initially thought he beheld a native princess. In the initial apparition, Mary even speaks to him in his native language.

This should not surprise. Mary is our mother; by appearing in ways we best comprehend her, she leads us to Jesus.

In this movement of Eucharistic Revival, that can be a profound reflection for us as we gaze upon Our Lady of Guadalupe: Who are we uniquely suited to bring Christ to?

Revival is a grassroots effort; it happens within each one of us. There is no strict formula for revival outside of boldly living our faith and joyfully sharing it with others. And each of us can uniquely point to Christ and speak to specific groups of people. Each of us is a living “inculturation” of Jesus.

Sometimes, I worry that many of us resist publicly leaning into our faith out of fear it will strip away the unique attributes we possess and leave a stale version of what it is to be “Catholic.” But, there is no mold to fit into and no particular icon we need to replicate. There is a deposit of faith upon which we build our lives. Beyond that, we leverage the unique gifts, talents, cultural backgrounds, and experiences that we possess to share that faith with others.

Mary, human and not divine, shows us what the living inculturation of the Gospel looks like by revealing herself as one of the people to whom she appears. Juan Diego doesn’t see an outsider; he sees a mother and trusts her. In the same way, we encounter countless people who might not recognize many expressions of Catholicism – who would find them to seem foreign and “other,” — unless they come from something authentic within us.

We can be a native representation of Christ to others when we live our faith well.

Revival happens in these moments of living inculturation as we fulfill the mission uniquely entrusted to us — and if we all lean into that reality, revival doesn’t become a possibility but an inevitable outcome.

Joel Stepanek is Chief Operating Officer for the National Eucharistic Congress, Inc. and is responsible for guiding the teams that empower and energize the grassroots efforts of the Eucharistic Revival.

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI

In the days of apartheid in South Africa, Christians there used to light candles and place them in their windows as a sign to themselves and others that they believed that someday this injustice would end. A candle burning in a window was a sign of hope and a political statement. The government didn’t miss the message. It passed a law making it illegal to place a lit candle in a window, the offense being equal to owning a firearm; both were considered equally dangerous. This eventually became a joke among the kids: “Our government is afraid of lit candles!”

And well they should be! Lit candles, more than firearms, overthrew apartheid. Hope, not guns, is what ultimately transforms things. To light a candle as an act of hope is to say to yourself and to others that, despite anything that might be happening in the world, you are still nursing a vision of peace and unity that’s based upon something beyond the present state of things and upon deeper realities and powers than what the world admits. To light a candle is to state publicly that you believe that, at the end of the day, more than what you see on the evening news will shape the final outcome of things. There are other powers also at work. To light a candle is an act of political defiance and an act of hope.

What is hope?

First, it’s not wishful thinking. I can wish to win a lottery, but that wish, in itself, contains no real power to make it happen. Second, hope is not simply temperamental optimism, an upbeat temperament that always sees the bright side of things. An unwavering optimism about things can sometimes be helpful, but it’s no basis for hope; like wishful thinking it lacks the power to make its own dream come true. Finally, hope is not simply shrewd observation and common sense, a talent for sorting out the real from the fluff. Useful as this is, it’s still not hope. Why not?

Because hope doesn’t base itself upon a shrewd assessment of the empirical facts, but upon belief in a deeper set of realities: God’s existence, God’s power, God’s goodness and the promise that flows from that.

There’s a story told about Pierre Teilhard de Chardin that helps illustrate this. Teilhard wasn’t much given to wishful thinking or even to an optimistic temperament; he tended rather toward a lonely realism. Yet he was a man of real hope. For example, on one occasion, after giving a conference where he laid out a vision within which ultimately unity and peace will be achieved on earth in a way that parallels the vision of scripture, he was challenged by some colleagues to this effect: “That’s a wonderful, idealistic vision of things, but suppose we blow up the world with a nuclear bomb, what happens to your vision then?” Teilhard replied, “that would set things back some millions of years, but this will still come to fruition, not because I say so or because the facts right now indicate that it will, but because God promised it and in the resurrection of Jesus has shown that He is powerful enough to deliver on that promise.”

Hope, as we can see from this, requires both faith and patience. It works like yeast, not like a microwave oven. Jim Wallis, the founder of Sojourners, expresses this colorfully: “All politicians are alike,” he says, “they hold a finger up and check which way the wind is blowing and then make their decisions in that direction. That will never change, even if we change politicians. So, we must change the wind! That’s hope’s task – to change the wind!”

When we look at what has morally changed this world – from the great religious traditions coming out of deserts, caves, and catacombs and helping leaven whole cultures morally, to apartheid being overthrown in South Africa – we see that it has happened precisely when individuals and groups lit candles and hoped long enough until the wind changed.

We light Advent candles with just that in mind, accepting that changing the wind is a long process, that the evening news will not always be positive, the stock markets will not always rise, the most sophisticated defenses in the world will not always protect us from terrorism, and secular liberal and conservative ideologies will not rid this planet of selfishness.

However, we continue to light candles and hope anyway, not on the basis of a worsening or improving evening newscast, but because the deepest reality of all is that God exists, that the center holds, that there’s ultimately a gracious Lord who rules this universe, and this Lord is powerful enough to rearrange the atoms of the planet and raise dead bodies to new life. We light candles of hope because God, who is the ultimate power, has promised to establish a kingdom of love and peace on this earth and is gracious, forgiving and powerful enough to eventually make it happen.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

Guest Column
By Father Patrick Briscoe, OP

Of all the things and people to be present at the birth of Jesus Christ, there were shepherds! I would probably have been more surprised if there were not shepherds. After all, David was a shepherd boy from Bethlehem. David taught us to pray, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” (Ps 23:1) And Christ fulfills David.

Imagine the life of a shepherd, his days spent under the vast expanse of open sky, hills and valleys stretching out before him. St. Patrick, a shepherd himself, was no stranger to this way of life. And then, on that glorious night, the angel of the Lord announced the good news of Christ’s birth to shepherds in the fields around Bethlehem. Patrick, too, found God while pasturing sheep.

–Shepherding the shepherds

The shepherd of shepherds will lead the way through unknown paths of life. He sent his angel to lead shepherds to him. And find him they did. But regardless of what comes, each step can be taken with the assurance that the Incarnate Lord walks alongside them. In solitary pastures and on stormy nights, every shepherd will pray, “Christ with me.“

The shepherds of Bethlehem, who lived as one with their flock, discovered on Christmas night a shepherd who lives as one with them. Their lives entwined with their sheep, they find a savior whose life will be inseparable from theirs. “Christ before me,” the shepherd humbly prays, kneeling before the infant king’s crib.

Christ is there when the shepherd rises in the crisp morning air, when he sleeps beneath the starry canopy, when he breaks bread at the end of a weary day’s toil. In all these moments, “Christ behind me, Christ within me” becomes a whispered assurance that the incarnate God is there – in waking and sleeping, in moments of rest and labor. “Christ beneath me, Christ above me …”

The shepherd’s life mirrors the encompassing nature of the Incarnation. Christ isn’t a distant figure but an ever-present companion, woven into every aspect of the shepherd’s life. “Christ on my right, Christ on my left …”

–Invited to set out in our hearts

This discovery of the presence of Christ is not hypothetical. Luke’s Gospel tells us, “They made known the message that had been told them about this child. All who heard it were amazed by what had been told them by the shepherds.” (Lk 2:17-18) And just as God called the shepherds, he calls us. “Exactly the same sign has been given to us,” says Pope Benedict XVI. “We too are invited by the angel of God, through the message of the Gospel, to set out in our hearts to see the child lying in the manger.”

Weakness and sin and all, he calls us. Like a shepherd, he calls us. He calls us to come to him, to see the babe among the animals and know that he is near. “Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down …”

The mystery of Christmas is the mystery of discovering Christ among us and carrying him with us from this day on. Never do we have to be alone. Never do we have to fear. Never do we have to agonize about the way we should go. Love has come and love will lead us. “Christ when I arise …”

And, please God, may others see his love in me. “Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me, Christ in the mouth of every man who speaks of me …”

This Christmas, I’m praying the Breastplate of St. Patrick at the manger. And I hope you will too. Together we can think of the shepherds, and in so doing, may we find again the Good Shepherd, who first revealed his love in the manger.

(Father Patrick Briscoe, O.P., is a Dominican friar and the editor of Our Sunday Visitor.)

Reflections on Life
By Melvin Arrington

Each year the Christmas season gets underway with carols and festive songs on the radio, parades, parties, decorations and a host of holiday-themed movies on television. When you think of Christmas movies, certain perennial favorites come to mind, such as A Christmas Carol (1938), It’s a Wonderful Life (1946) and Miracle on 34th Street (1947). And if your taste runs to more modern fare, the viewing possibilities become almost endless.

But if you prefer movies of Hollywood’s Golden Age (1930s – 1950s), as I do, you may want to take a look at a couple of short films from the 1940s that, although seldom shown on TV, deserve some recognition and even a little fanfare. These little-known and unjustly neglected films: The Greatest Gift (1942) and Star in the Night (1945), with running times of 11 minutes and 22 minutes, respectively, are guaranteed to warm your heart and put you in the proper spirit to celebrate the birth of our Savior.

The Greatest Gift, as we learn in the opening frame, is based on a medieval French legend concerning monks who, while snowed in during the winter months, dedicate themselves to fashioning gifts they will offer to the Virgin when springtime arrives. When a half-frozen itinerate juggler, played by Edmund Gwenn (Kris Kringle in Miracle on 34th Street), is found outside the monastery, the abbot, Father Cyprian, has the poor man brought inside and cared for. The juggler, Bartolomé, was hoping to make it to the winter fair in Florence before the snow closed the pass to Italy, but the pass is already closed, so he will have to spend the winter with the monks.

With the coming of spring Bartolomé prepares to go on his way, but he is persuaded to remain for the next day’s festivities in honor of the Blessed Lady. As the monks add the final touches to their gifts, Bartolomé, intending to make an offering of his own, selects his two best juggling clubs, but Father Cyprian, in his wisdom, tells the poor juggler he will not allow him to give away his only means of earning a living, adding that after all, “a grateful heart is the greatest gift of all.”

The next day the monks process into the little chapel chanting and carrying their gifts – fine candles and fancy candlesticks, beautiful altarpieces and illuminated manuscripts – all of which they lay before the statue of the Virgin. Bartolomé offers a gift as well, but you will have to watch the film’s spectacular conclusion to discover what it is.

In Star in the Night (winner of the Academy Award for that year’s Best Short Film) the scene shifts from medieval Europe to Christmas Eve in the southwestern part of the United States in the 1940s. We see three men on horseback loaded with gifts they purchased because they wanted to impress a salesgirl. As they ride along in the dark, wondering what to do with all these store-bought items, they notice a bright star in the distance and ride toward it. The source of the light is a huge star-shaped sign advertising the Star Auto Court (as motels were called at that time) owned by the cynical, Scrooge-like Nick Catapoli and his virtuous wife, Rosa.

Nick, who thinks the worst of people and hates Christmas, refuses hospitality to a passing hitchhiker, a man who only wants to warm himself by the stove and get a cup of coffee. The hitchhiker espouses peace, brotherhood and love, but Nick calls these things “a lot of baloney.” On this night when everyone should be of good cheer, all the guests display just the opposite. They are discontented because they are thinking only of themselves: a woman complains because the people in the cabin next to hers are signing loudly (they are singing Christmas carols); a man is upset because the shirts he sent out to the cleaners were improperly ironed and one is torn; an elderly couple argue with Nick over getting extra blankets for their cabin.

At this point a young couple, José Santos and his wife María, arrive at the auto court. José asks for a cabin because María is not well. But Nick can’t help them because there are no more vacancies. However, Rosa generously offers them the use of a little shed, a barn, where the young couple can rest. Most viewers, long before this scene, will have figured out that Star in the Night is a re-telling of the Christmas story. What ensues after Rosa leads José and María to the barn is not unexpected, but it’s what happens to all the other characters that makes this little gem of a film memorable and well worth watching.

This Christmas season treat yourself to these two short films and you will wonder why they are not regularly shown on TV during the holidays. Each one is available on YouTube. For The Greatest Gift the website is: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n6QmDPF-ln8 and for Star in the Night go to: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OXjdBs70syY. Happy viewing and Merry Christmas!

(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

I live on both sides of a border. Not a geographical one, but one that separates the church pew from the academic halls of theology.

I was raised a conservative Roman Catholic. Although my dad worked politically for the liberal party, most everything within my upbringing was conservative, particularly as this pertains to religion. I was a staunch Roman Catholic in most every way. I grew up under the papacy of Pius XII (and the fact that my youngest brother is named Pius will tell you how loyal our family was to that Pope’s version of things). We believed that Roman Catholicism was the one true religion and that Protestants and Evangelicals needed to convert and return to the true faith. I memorized the Roman Catholic catechism and defended its every word. Moreover, beyond being faithful churchgoers, my family was given over to piety and devotions: we prayed the rosary together as a family every day; had statues and holy pictures around our house; wore blessed medals around our necks; prayed litanies to Mary, Joseph and the Sacred Heart during certain months; and practiced a warm devotion to the saints. And it was wonderful. I will forever be grateful for that religious foundation.

I went from my family home to the seminary at the tender age of seventeen and my early seminary years reinforced what my family had given me. The academics were good, and we were encouraged to read great thinkers in every discipline. But this higher learning was still set solidly within a Roman Catholic ethos that honored my religious and devotional background. My initial university studies were still friends with my piety. My mind was expanding, but my piety remained intact.

But home is where we start from. Gradually, through the years, my world has changed. Studying at various graduate schools, teaching on graduate faculties, being in daily contact with other expressions of the faith, reading contemporary novelists and thinkers, and having academic colleagues as cherished friends has, I confess, put some strain on the piety of my youth. Truth be told, we don’t often pray the rosary or litanies to Mary or the Sacred Heart in graduate classrooms or at faculty gatherings.

However academic classrooms and faculty gatherings bring something else, something vitally needed in church pews and in circles of piety, namely, a critical theological vision and principles to keep unbridled piety, naïve fundamentalism, and misguided religious fervor within proper boundaries. What I’ve learned in academic circles is also wonderful and I am forever grateful for the privilege of being in academic circles most of my adult life.

But, of course, that’s a formula for tension, albeit a healthy one. Let me use someone else’s voice to articulate this. In his book “Silence and Beauty,” Japanese American artist, Makoto Fujimura, shares this incident from his own life. Coming out of church one Sunday, he was asked by his pastor to add his name to a list of people who had agreed to boycott the film, “The Last Temptation of Christ.” He liked his pastor and wanted to please him by signing the petition, but felt hesitant to sign for reasons that, at that time, he couldn’t articulate. But his wife could. Before he could sign, she stepped in and said: “Artists may have other roles to play than to boycott this film.” He understood what she meant. He didn’t sign the petition.
But his decision left him pondering the tension between boycotting such a movie and his role as an artist. Here’s how he puts it: “An artist is often pulled in two directions. Religiously conservative people tend to see culture as suspect at best, and when cultural statements are made to transgress the normative reality they hold dear, their default reaction is to oppose and boycott. People in the more liberal artistic community see these transgressive steps as necessary for their ‘freedom of expression.’ An artist like me, who values both religion and art, will be exiled from both. I try to hold together both of these commitments, but it is a struggle.”

That’s also my struggle. The piety of my youth, of my parents, and of that rich branch of Catholicism is real and life-giving; but so too is the critical (sometimes unsettling) iconoclastic theology of the academy. The two desperately need each other; yet someone who is trying to be loyal to both can, like Fujimura, end up feeling exiled from both. Theologians also have other roles to play than boycotting movies.
The people whom I take as mentors in this area are men and women who, in my eyes, can do both: like Dorothy Day, who could be equally comfortable, leading the rosary or the peace march; like Jim Wallis, who can advocate just as passionately for radical social engagement as he can for personal intimacy with Jesus; and like Thomas Aquinas, whose intellect could intimidate intellectuals, even as he could pray with the piety of a child.

Circles of piety and the academy of theology are not enemies. They need to befriend each other.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

Kneading Faith
By Fran Lavelle

Twenty-four years ago, the theme for Mississippi State’s Catholic Student Association Fall retreat, now known as Cowbell Catholic, was “Open Wide the Doors to Christ.” It was my first retreat with the Catholic college students at State. I was thinking about that retreat recently when I discovered the tee shirt in the bottom of a dresser drawer. It brought great comfort in remembering a cherished part of my past ministry, and it also provoked a realization that we, perhaps, more now than ever, need to open wide the doors to Christ.

The statement comes from St. Pope John Paul II’s inauguration of his pontificate in October 1978. He stated, “Do not be afraid. Open wide the doors for Christ. To his saving power open the boundaries of States, economic and political systems, the vast fields of culture, civilization and development. Do not be afraid.” The then Pope John Paul II was asking us to put aside our differences, to let go of conventions of power, and be open to the transformational power of Christ without fear.

In a similar way Pope Francis at the opening Mass for the Synod on Synodality in October implored the faithful to help build the church by first being welcoming to everyone (tutti). He used the word tutti three times in his exhortation to be an open and welcoming church. In his own way, Pope Francis is asking that we move beyond the conventions of the world and open our doors and hearts to everyone. What would it look like if we all carried a sense of welcoming in our hearts at church and in our ordinary lives?

I have been saying for over a year that we as Catholics have a real opportunity to lead this country away from dualistic, vitriolic and divisive rhetoric. This kind of change must first, however, start with our own conversion. All around the globe people are allowing fear to dominate the political and religious narrative. Fear based narrative divides people “us against them.” A house divided will not stand. St. Pope John Paul II was right in saying, “Do not be afraid.” Pope Francis is right in saying that everyone is welcome. Everyone. What do we have to fear in the Body of Christ? That one may think or pray differently?

One of my favorite quotes in a homily by my former pastor and dear friend, Father Mike O’Brien was, “this is not your holy country club.”

We do not have an elevated social status because we go to Mass weekly. We are not more holy, pious or all around better. We are not called to congregate within our social circle. We are called to the margins. We are called to the periphery. If faith is a gift, we are called to selflessly share it with others. It takes hard work to seek out those who are different than us to ensure that everyone is welcome. There are people who rub us the wrong way. It is easy to dismiss them as weirdos. But those so-called weirdos were made in the image and likeness of God too.

Our Synod on Synodality synthesis revealed a great desire for unity and healing. Building unity and advancing healing takes a lot of work. We should be willing to listen to and consider the viewpoints of those who don’t think like us even if we may disagree with them. If not, the discussion around unity is window dressing that might make us feel good but achieves little in the end. So how do we move from “I” to “we”, the bigger “we” and not the “holy country club” kind?

The Pastoral Reimagining Process that all parishes and missions are undertaking right now will aid us in defining how we are engaging and transforming our communities. In this current phase parishes/missions are asked to look at what are areas of growth that may require resources or a new focus. Likewise, they are being asked to look at areas of ministry that are diminishing and discern the viability of the ministry in question.

Every aspect of parish life is to be examined. It is precisely this kind of reflection and examination that fuels change. It wakes us up from the routine and presents us with an opportunity to dream, problem solve and collaborate. The work of the church is to be shared by all of its members. We all have a gift or talent that we are called to share. We take away from Mass the Word and the Eucharist to be leaven for the world in the ordinary places we work and live. Our faith is not lived out at Mass. It is fortified there.
When the congregation is fed spiritually, when we open wide the doors to Christ, when everyone, everyone, everyone is welcome nothing can divide us.

(Fran Lavelle is the Director of Faith Formation for the Diocese of Jackson.)