An epidemic of epic proportions throws its weird light on all our reflections as we enter the deeper silence of Advent. Many faithful people will celebrate the mysteries at home without attending a Christmas Mass. If some only attended the Mass once a year, to savor its nostalgic redolence, they’ll skip it this year; or attend in stubborn denial of Covid 19’s cruel regime. Some who have attended Mass haphazardly in ordinary times will not appear this year, or ever again.
The pandemic reminds me of those dark years when midnight mass was a clandestine response to Protestant hostility. When it was illegal to celebrate Christmas, Catholics gathered in secret, late at night, often in the ballrooms of wealthy families.
In a similar darkness we hear the names of Jesus’s ancestors today. They remind us of the past, and its weight in our present affairs. The past does not go away because we , or deny it, forget it, or wish it would. Consequences of past events may appear unexpectedly as blessings or curses; and they can alter everything we thought about the future. The violent demonstrations of 2020 in the United States have reminded Americans of sordid chapters and unresolved issues in what we considered our glorious history.
Saint Matthew’s genealogy insists that the Lord God planned from ancient times the appearance of the Messiah, at this time, “in the fullness of time.” He could have been born at no other time, nor in any other place, nor as the child of any other father but Joseph, the son of David, the husband of Mary.
In a novel by Nikos Kazantzakis, “The Last Temptation of Christ,” as Jesus is dying, he is afflicted with a powerful fantasy. In his dream he abandoned his mission to marry the Magdalene woman. He and the guys get together occasionally to reminisce about the wondrous years when he walked on water and multiplied loaves of bread. They laugh about the frustrated Pharisees who attempted but could not control their high-spirited antics. The couple now have children and anticipate grandchildren; they have settled down to the quotidian life of Palestinian peasants.
But in the novel, just as his crucified, tormented body is about to expire, Jesus wakes up to realize the dream is a temptation, and he must embrace with his pinioned arms the pain, horror, and hopelessness of the cross. He belongs where his mission has placed him. And there he dies. Because he has died, we are saved.
In Saint Matthew's Gospel, God comes to us as Emmanuel, as "God with us." Forty-two ancestors tell us that God is with us in the past; and for that reason, our past is holy despite the rogues who appear in Jesus's genealogy and the crimes of our more recent history. The Son of God is with us even on the hard, unforgiving wood of the cross; and would be no where else. Nor should we fear the future for the Lord is with us there.
God with us is present always for there is only one moment -- one present -- in God's time. We call the Eucharist the Real Presence as the Lord invites us to abide with him in this moment, in this Year of Our Lord, 2020, the Year of Covid-19, with neither reluctance nor regret.
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I love to write. This blog helps me to meditate on the Word of God, and I hope to make some contribution to our contemplations of God's Mighty Works.
Ordinarily, I write these reflections two or three weeks in advance of their publication. I do not intend to comment on current events.
I understand many people prefer gender-neutral references to "God." I don't disagree with them but find that language impersonal, unappealing and tasteless. When I refer to "God" I think of the One whom Jesus called "Abba" and "Father", and I would not attempt to improve on Jesus' language.
You're welcome to add a thought or raise a question.