Trinity Sunday Reflection, June 3, 2012

“The mystery of the Most Holy Trinity is the central mystery of the Christian faith and life.  It is the mystery of God in himself.  But his inmost Being as the Holy Trinity is a mystery that is inaccessible to reason alone.”  This is from the Catechism of the Catholic Church--a weighty document with which I am becoming increasingly familiar as I am challenged by what many are calling a crisis within the Church today. I am challenged to defend my positions on any number of issues in light of this same document, challenged too as to whether; by my words or actions, I am truly Catholic. I am far less disturbed by the prospect that I might not be “truly Catholic” than by the attitudes of those who would level that charge against me. 

But let’s talk about the Trinity for a moment. I have no expertise in this area; my grasp of Trinitarian theology is weak, at best.  When Fr. Fred asked me to offer a reflection this weekend I went home, looked up today readings and almost said “no.”  A more reasonable person might have, but where reason fails, imagination and observation kick in.  Still, when I came to Friday morning mass, distracted by the fact that I was at a loss as to what to say in this reflection, I put my hand on the door of the church, and whispered, “Help me Lord, because I’ve got nothing.”

Then my head cleared as I looked at the sanctuary walls and thought about how to change the church décor to reflect today’s feast. Trinity Sunday is the first Sunday of Ordinary Time, which follows the Easter Season and the feast of Pentecost.

So, I hung the green, the liturgical color for Ordinary Time.

Green, to represent the creative energy of God the Father, who gives us life and calls us into being.  Red, to reflect the sacrificial offering of the Son, who takes on our flesh and blood to bring us salvation. White for the Holy Spirit, to suggest the breath of God, if you will, that inspires and lives within us all—and is the universal and fiery endowment of Pentecost.

Ok, so it doesn’t have the brilliance and simplicity of St. Patrick’s symbol for the Trinity—the three Persons like the three lobes of the one shamrock leaf.  But it speaks to me, and it speaks to my life within the church—to the way in which I have been called and continue to serve with joy and the delight of working with beautiful fabrics.  Being the “church decorator” is a perfect use of my time, my talent and my treasure—another “trinity” of sorts, I guess.

Trinitarian unities abound in creation, reflections of the One who made them all—the shamrock is but one example.  People in more tropical areas might symbolize the Trinity with a banana—and it might actually be a better one. (When I finished writing this reflection, I thought it should be called, “God is a banana, and we are all nuts.  Let’s make banana bread and feed the world.” That may be poor theology, but it makes sense.)  The cosmic wisdom of three is unmistakable. We speak of such things as mother, father, child—the basis of human and animal families—regardless of how we visualize or live as “family.”  Our democratic government in this country consists of three branches, legislative, judicial and executive.  The Church speaks of itself in this three-fold way, the Church militant, the Church penitent, and the Church triumphant. 

The one I am particularly concerned with at this point in time is the Church militant, the Church on earth.  While the work of the church militant is to do battle against the world, the flesh and the devil, (this from the Catechism) it seems we are increasingly doing battle against each other.  The hierarchy and the Vatican seem to be waging war on our religious sisters, silencing priests and theologians, and even investigating the Girl Scouts.  Our bishops ask us to defend our freedom of religion in this country by opposing the health care mandate, but locally will not give written support for an increase in funding for children’s health care in Alaska. We have drawn battle lines around the issues of homosexuality, contraception and abortion.  We have taken sides and we are increasingly polarized on so many issues.  We call each other liberals, or conservatives, and assume that if a person’s view is “liberal” or “conservative” on one issue, it is therefore “liberal” or “conservative” on all issues.  Instead of talking to each other, engaging with one another and building relationship, we throw up a wall and say, “the case is closed, the Church has spoken, the answer is no.”

This is not the way of love; it is the way of absolute power, which corrupts absolutely.  As a woman in the Church today, I simply cannot stand by and say or do nothing.  For the past four Tuesday evenings I have gathered with a couple dozen people in front of Holy Family cathedral to pray in solidarity with our religious sisters, and to pray for our bishops, our pope, and our Church.  It is risky to publicly protest anything, more so to pray publically. Maybe that is why there are less people doing so than there should be.  I know this risk well.  Years ago I was no longer able to write for the Catholic Anchor because, in an letter to the Anchorage Daily News I openly criticized the findings of the John Jay report regarding sexual abuse by the clergy.  I asked Archbishop Schwietz to “bring on the pain” and disclose the full extent of the abuse.  My byline appears occasionally in the Anchor again, but I know by my actions and now perhaps by my words, I may again jeopardize my writing privilege.  To a writer, audience is everything.

As I walked in prayerful reflection with those who joined me on the sidewalks surrounding the cathedral, I thought about all those who have gone before me to make publicly express their discontent with oppression, with abuse of power and with the failure to truly live as Jesus taught us, with love for one another.  I thought of those who worked to end slavery, to secure women’s suffrage, to end racial and all forms of discrimination.  In today’s first reading, Moses asks a question about our God that could be applied to those constitutional changes that resulted from people taking a risk to secure justice: “Did anything so great ever happen before?”  Great things only come about through action, not complacency, not accepting that the dialogue is closed.  We too easily give up our place at the table because we are fearful, or lazy or the absolute worst, just don’t care.  I challenge you to care.

But let’s get back to the Trinity for a bit. The very concept of three destroys the polarity of dichotomy.  Two can oppose or agree with one another. Three do not relate—or oppose one another, in that way.  A whole different dynamic is at work when there are three.  Think of how the addition of a child changes the relational dynamic of a couple. 

The most important thing you need to know about the Trinity is not how to symbolize it, but what it represents:  Relationship.  There is a saying among community organizers (and you know this) the power is in the relationship.  God’s power is the love of the Father for the Son and the Spirit, an infinite reflection of each in the other.  It is a relational dynamic of their creative and sustaining natures.  It is “all power on heaven and earth.” We are baptized in the name of this power and in the reality of our relationship to all the baptized, indeed all who are endowed with the Holy Spirit.

Dialogue then, really isn’t an option. There is no real relationship without dialogue. And like it or not, Paul reminds us that we are all children of God.  We don’t have the luxury of refusing to talk to one another.  He also promises us that while like Christ we will suffer, we will be glorified with him as well.

As we continue to pray and to push for this dialogue, and our place at the table, let’s try to remember to temper our emotions, our rhetoric, and our actions with love.  Tempering is often painful.  To temper something is to strengthen it with intense heat, as with metal or glass.  Perhaps this is why Jesus said, “I have come to cast fire on the earth and how I wish it were already kindled.”  There are some, I believe, who truly wish that this fire would destroy those who oppose the Church. There are those who would burn—at least figuratively—the heretics and the infidels and those who question dogma or authority or the patriarchal power structure of our Church.  They speak of a remnant that will rise from the ashes of the purging of dissent in our midst, as a purer, more authentic Catholic Church.  But this too should perhaps be viewed as a tempering of sorts, an opportunity to be a tested and visible witness of the Holy Spirit at work in the world.  This tempering should strengthen us not only in our resolve to work for justice, but to do so with charity and patience. Right now, this witness looks more like dissonance, polarized factions fighting among themselves while the world careens toward increasing disregard for the dignity of human persons, contempt for creation, demanding our rights while disregarding our duties. 

To be a credible witness in the world, the Church, in my opinion must continually call people back to gospel values, to the work of Jesus in welcoming the stranger, advocating for the weak and powerless, to a self-sacrificing love that demands a certain degree of suffering, even persecution. As I see it, it is our religious sisters, not the Church hierarchy who best exemplify how to live these values.  But as they, and those who stand in solidarity with them know, it isn’t easy, it isn’t always appreciated or recognized.  Sometimes it is met with contempt.  But that’s okay. The central mystery of the Christian faith and life is this Holy Trinity, into which we have died and been reborn. We have been freed of slavery in the waters of Baptism and are not to fall back into fear, as St. Paul reminds us.

While this is clearly a time of unrest in our Church, I truly believe it is one of great hope and promise.  And why not?  Come what may, Jesus himself promises to be with us until the end of the age.

Mother's Day Reflection

Following is a reflection I gave on the occasion of Mother's Day, May 9, 2010 at St. Anthony Catholic Church, Anchorage, Alaska

In honor of mothers and Mother’s Day, I would like to share the words of another mother, first heard when I was my oldest daughter, Jasmine’s age. It’s interesting how things change. My mother probably had me read this in newspaper:
When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into his sixth day of “overtime” when an angel appeared and said, “You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.”
And the Lord said, “Have you read the specs on this order?
She has to be completely washable, but not plastic; Have 180 movable parts... all replaceable; Run on black coffee and leftovers; Have a lap that disappears when she stands up; A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair; And six pairs of hands.”
The angel shook her head slowly and said, “Six pairs of hands... no way.”
“It’s not the hands that are causing me problems,” said the Lord. “It’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have.”
“That’s on the standard model?” asked the angel.
The Lord nodded. “One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, ’What are you kids doing in there?’ when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn’t but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and reflect, ’I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.”
“Lord,” said the angel, touching His sleeve gently, “come to bed. Tomorrow...”
“I can’t,” said the Lord, “I’m so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick... can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger... and can get a nine-year-old to stand under a shower.”
The angel circled the model of The Mother very slowly. “It’s too soft,” she sighed.
“But tough” said the Lord excitedly. “You cannot imagine what this Mother can do or endure.”
“Can it think?”
“Not only think, but it can reason and compromise,” said the Creator.
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek. “There’s a leak,” she pronounced. “I told you you were trying to push too much into this model. You can’t ignore the stress factor.”
The Lord moved in for a closer look and gently lifted the drop of moisture to his finger where it glistened and sparkled in the light.
“It’s not a leak,” said the Lord. “It’s a tear.”
“A tear?” asked the angel. “What’s it for?”
“It’s for joy, sadness, disappointment, compassion pain, loneliness, and pride.”
“You are a genius,” said the angel.
The Lord looked somber. “I didn’t put it there,” He said.
This was written by the late, great humorist, Erma Bombeck, still mothering us. She was also a devout Catholic.

My son, Jesse choked up a bit when he read an earlier draft of this reflection. His email critique was a full page. I should expect this from a son who inherited his mother’s writing talent and his father’s sense of humor.

He reminded me that the amazing blessing that is motherhood is a gift from him and his siblings, not yet mentioned: Jacques my oldest son; Aron, my youngest son; and Jordan, my youngest daughter. I won’t live this down if I don’t mention them. And they are all my favorites. He also reminded me of the challenge of entering into a world made new through cooperation with the One who created it—a sometimes unnerving, even annoying challenge.

Those we mother, make us mothers. This experience of mothering, in its broadest sense, is not limited, however, to those who have given birth, or even those who have raised children. The attributes of mothers are those of God. He gives them to each of us. Mothering is as much a spirit as it is a vocation, and each of us is called to mother another. As both a daughter and a mother of the church, I must continue to birth it into being, as we must all do.

Paul, in the first reading, is mothering the Church into being, watering the seeds Christ planted, tending young Christians. He is midwife and mother; thinking and reasoning and compromising; to deliver truth to the world, our sacred charge as well. Mothering is how creation begins—spirit brooding over water. It is what brings Jesus to us, to be birthed into our world. Mary’s “yes” enables our salvation to take on flesh, to live as one of us, to be, for Mary, that tear of joy, sadness, disappointment, compassion, pain, loneliness and pride. It is our “yes” to Jesus that allows Him to be birthed and borne again and again into a world that sorely needs Him.

As we all know, and mothers in particular, birth is often attended with much pain, not because of some curse of Eve, but because something must give way to allow new life to come forward. It is interesting that the word “tear” and “tear” are so similar. The pain, I believe is God’s way of getting our attention. Tears are our way, it seems, of getting God’s attention. Love hurts.

In today’s gospel, Jesus says, “Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my father will love him, and we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.” It is quite obvious that a pregnant woman’s body is a “dwelling” for her unborn child—so too are our bodies the dwelling for the Holy Spirit. Jesus speaks of the promised Advocate in his farewell at the Last Supper--a farewell much like the ones mothers and family members and friends we give to our graduates, who we honor today as we send them out into the big, scary world. We wish to do as Jesus does, send an Advocate, in our name, to remind our children of all we have told them.

In a very concrete sense we do that, not just in keeping ties with our children through letters or electronic means. Our bond with Christ through the Holy Spirit is as real, material even, as our spiritual and biological connection to our offspring, to each other, and all creation.

As a one time childbirth educator I have helped women and families to prepare baby’s birth; and I have been privileged and humbled to be a labor assistant at the birth of a mother, in its most fundamental sense. In my study of pregnancy and birth, one of the most fascinating things I have learned is about a phenomenon called microchimerism.
A chimera reminds me of the extraordinary beings in John’s book of Revelation—a composite of other beings. Remember the ones with the wings on their feet, four faces on their heads, to see in all directions.

Microchimerism is the fact of biology; that a woman’s body contains fetal cells—actually very small amounts of her child’s stem cells, long after its birth. We too possess the cells of our mothers, and quite possibly those of our grandparents and siblings born before us. Such cells may be implicated in causing, but perhaps, more importantly in healing and preventing disease. It is the Communion of Saints on a biological level.

Dr. J. Lee Nelson, a neurosurgeon and researcher studying this phenomenon referred to these cells as “seeds sprinkled through the body that ultimately take root and become part of the landscape.” It sounds a lot like what Jesus said, “we will come to him and make our dwelling with him.” God takes root in, us coloring and changing our inner landscape, and hopefully our outward living as well.

What all of this suggests is our connectedness to each other and to Christ—a bond celebrated and again made new and real in Eucharist. We see in God’s plan of creation a continuity which ties us to one another and to God. This is Paul’s trust, and ours, to do what is right, to build a legacy of faith. This is the essence of motherhood, of mothering.

Mother Teresa said, “Every mother is like Moses, she prepares a world she will not see.” What we do now has huge implications for the future. It is our vocation to prepare well that world we will not see well, but also to prepare a world we hope to see, a world we believe we will see—the fullness of the kingdom of God.

This is what my mother did for me, in bringing me to church, in teaching and nurturing my faith, as did a long, long line of ancestors—mothers and others—before her. This is what I hopefully do for my children, and they will do for theirs.

It is a cycle yes, but one that spirals forward toward that kingdom; an ever evolving spiral that binds us in relationship, much like the double helix of DNA—simple, elegant. It is life, written in our hearts and in our cells. As my son Jesse said, “We pass on the story of our never ending quest to find more of ourselves in faith”—much as we pass on our genes. In her article on microchimerism in Scientific American, Dr. Nelson quoted poet Walt Whitman who wrote in “Song of Myself,” “I contain multitudes.” What better explanation could there be of the Body of Christ?

A line from a song by contemporary band, Switchfoot says: “The world begins with newborn skin.” And so it is, “In the beginning was the Word…and the Word was made flesh, and dwelt among us. So too does that flesh dwell in the body of Mary our Mother. In a very literal sense, Mary is the tabernacle of God. So too, are we.

Fifth Sunday of Lent Reflection

Last week we celebrated Laetare Sunday, which is all about being joyful as we approach the end of Lent and the promise of Resurrection. But I think that despite the considerable references to death in today’s readings they give us even more reasons to rejoice. At first glance you might not think so, to some extent they almost seem like bad scripts to horror movies, dead bodies rising from graves, life given to mortal bodies, and most incredibly a man, four days dead and wrapped in burial cloths, emerging from a tomb. It all sounds kind of creepy—like “Night of the Living Dead” or “Frankenstein.” Hollywood loves zombies, and more recently vampires and all manner of the undead. So apparently, do we, if box office receipts and the lines to buy the "New Moon" DVD are any indication.

Someone unfamiliar with such stories and the scriptures we hear today might dismiss them as fantasies in the creative and morbid mind of a novelist or screenwriter. But sometimes it is the familiarity with these readings that cause us to dismiss them as well—especially the account of the raising of Lazarus. Yeah, yeah, we’ve heard it before, many times, Jesus calls Lazarus from the tomb, can we sit down now? This gospel reading is long and our attention spans short. But it is a richly layered story, dense with meaning—much of which I can’t even begin to explore in this reflection. I must have read this at least a dozen times in the last couple weeks, and each time I found both deeper meaning and less certainty of what it is all about.

If you could for a moment, imagine yourself in Bethany. Perhaps you are a friend or an acquaintance of Mary and Martha, and you too are saddened by the death of their brother. Like these sisters you might be disappointed when Jesus finally shows up that He didn’t arrive earlier. Mary doesn’t even go out to meet him, and she was the one who sat at his feet, of whom He said she had chosen the better part. You think she’s upset? Like Martha, you might trust that Jesus can bring good from what appears to be a futile situation—and you hope, that despite appearances something miraculous might happen, as it has on other occasions. You’ve heard the stories of, or perhaps even witnessed the healings, the multiplication of loaves and fishes which feeds thousands of people, the powerful teachings and words of this one that perhaps like Martha you believe is “the Christ, the Son of God, the one who is coming into the world.”

Or maybe you’re a skeptic, or even an enemy, who misinterprets miracles as magic; words of comfort and hope—especially to the poor and oppressed—as the rhetoric of rebellion; servitude as weakness. You’re just looking for an excuse to condemn this one who comes to save. And you are about to get it.

If you find yourself conflicted in your role as friend or foe, or if you struggle to believe at times that this really occurred; then trust me, you are not alone. I have found myself struggling with these things. But for now, take your place among the mourners in this unfolding drama and a curious thing happens. Confronted with the grief of those who love Lazarus, “Jesus wept.” This is the shortest verse in the Bible, and for me, one of the most enigmatic ones. Why does He weep? When I was younger and life was less complicated I thought, well, if He knew He was going to raise Lazarus from the dead, why would He cry? Some of the reasons I have heard, or have thought about myself are that Jesus knows by raising Lazarus He is taking an incredible risk which will ultimately lead to condemnation and death. When word gets around about His bringing a dead man back to life what kind of reaction will there be—more and bigger crowds, a clamoring for this kingdom of which He speaks. He is becoming far too dangerous. Perhaps He weeps because no doubt Lazarus will be treated much like the blind man in last week’s gospel, hauled before the authorities and questioned, perhaps eventually persecuted. And poor Lazarus, brought back to life, must eventually die again. We have heard the stories of “near death” experiences some have had when they were revived or resuscitated—some not too happy about it as they speak of their "post death" experience as one filled with light and love. This glimpse of what might be on the other side of death seems far more appealing and that is certainly our hope and our belief.

Jesus’ weeping tells us much about the character of this man who was fully human and fully God. Familiar with suffering, He stands in solidarity with us in all the things that sadden and shake us, and death is certainly one of the most profound occasions of grief for all of us. As with Jesus’ Baptism, His mourning is another example of a response that is not required, but His action speaks to our lived and shared experiences, and His willingness to enter into them fully.

It is tempting to think that this story ends with Lazarus joyfully tearing up his will and throwing a big party. A happy ending no doubt, but the last line tells us this is only a beginning: “Now many of the Jews who had come to Mary and seen what he had done began to believe in Him.” Where does belief begin, when is faith quickened in us? Is it the result of witnessing a miracle? Perhaps, but none of us has witnessed anything like this—the raising of a dead person. Despite our unreasoned hopes, this has never happened since Jesus walked the earth. Something else is going on here. This is not just a story of a profound and unrepeated occurrence, though it does give rise to a very reasoned hope that we will all be called forth from our earthly graves to a new life with God in heaven.

This “new life” however, this beginning of belief is given to us in Baptism—and for our catechumens, who are undergoing their third scrutiny this weekend this dramatic transformation will be played out when they enter the baptismal pool—and literally die to their old selves, to emerge with a new life, united with Christ in His living and His dying. St. Paul makes this very clear in the second reading: “the One who raised Christ from the dead will give life to your mortal bodies also, through his Spirit dwelling in you.” Paul is talking about that new life, here and now, for all the baptized—whether this Baptism occurred when you were too young to even realize it, or as you now prepare to enter into Christ’s death and resurrection in the waters of Baptism at the Easter vigil. This is not a re-animation of dead flesh but literally a new life in the Spirit—a life continually renewed and sustained as surely as breath renews and sustains the body. To illustrate the significance of this it might help to know that in the past catechumens were held under the water long enough to feel oxygen deprived and panicky. Three times their heads were immersed, making it difficult to catch their breath, rather they caught the breath of the Holy Spirit. In a very real sense, they were brought close to literal death. What’s the first thing you do when you emerge from a deep plunge into a pool or a lake? — You breathe in. In Hebrew, the word for breath and spirit is the same—“ruach” which is also a name for God.

But what is the point of all this—this powerful symbol of plunging toward death and emerging a new creation? Baptism is truly the beginning of a new life, a life where we, like Lazarus get to throw off what binds us and holds us in death’s grip. Do we enter into this near death experience simply to save ourselves—to assure our ticket to heaven? Like all the sacraments, Baptism is not about us, as individuals—it involves the whole community. Think about that, every sacrament creates or restores a relationship Remember, Jesus tells the bystanders to untie Lazarus and let him go. Jesus doesn’t until him and Lazarus doesn’t do this himself. It is done for him, by those around him, his community. Jesus gives new life, but the community assists and nurtures it. Think back to the first reading from Ezekiel. God says: “O my people, I will open your graves and have you rise from them, O my people! I will put my spirit in you that you may live” These words are addressed to the nation of Israel, a nation in exile, a people who have lost hope in being restored, folks who for all intents and purposes are as good as dead. Though their bodies live, their spirits are crushed. God promises to settle them upon their lands and God will do it.

To what end then, is this new life given? It is given for the life of the community—a life sustained and renewed each time we come together for Eucharist, each time we receive Jesus and embrace in our “Amen” the very essence of what Jesus is all about. We assent anew to a baptism not just in His death, but perhaps more profoundly in His life, living as He lives, loving as He loves, and forgiving as He forgives. Consider carefully what it means and what is required of us when we hear and affirm the words, “The Body of Christ.” They are not just a reference to this Bread of Life, but an address to and acknowledgement of each and all of us.

Certainly, we can turn our backs on this; we can choose to see in today’s readings just some fantastic stories that make for interesting reading. Baptism cannot be “undone” but we can choose to live a life in the flesh, a life that cannot please God because as Paul reminds us that those who do not have the Spirit of Christ do not belong to him. And that my brothers and sisters is downright scary. What must it be like to never be pleasing to God? That sort of life is one of a horror that even Hollywood cannot truly begin to imagine.

Following is a copy of a reflection I gave on the occasion of the Feast of the Holy Family at St. Anthony Catholic Church in Anchorage on Sunday, Dec. 27, 2009:

In considering the challenges of what to say in regards to the Holy Family in particular and families in general, I was overwhelmed with possibilities, especially given the many obstacles and problems that families face today, many of which Joseph, Mary and Jesus faced in their time as well.

In my opinion the most important thing in addressing such a challenge is to begin at the beginning. In respect to family, I would say, that in its simplest manifestation a family begins when a child is conceived, for in a very real way the union of two results in the creation of a third. This is foundational; this is, in truth, a dim reflection of the Most Holy Trinity. As the Trinity gives birth to the universe and all of creation, the family gives birth to societies and civilizations. Families are all about relationship. Good families are about right relationship, and the Holy Family which we honor and celebrate today is all about how best to live that right relationship.

So, let’s take a look at this family. We have Mary, destined before her birth to be the Mother of God, holy and conceived without sin. We have Jesus, destined before time to be the salvation of the world, fully human and fully divine, also conceived without sin. And we have Joseph who is just like us in many, many ways. Saintly, yes, a sinner, also yes. I sometimes wonder what life must have been like for Holy Family, who we often think of as perfect. What might Joseph have said when he was working in his shop and smashed his thumb with a hammer? What might have been Mary’s reaction to burning the barley cakes, or Jesus’ response to the frustration of learning a new task. I can think of any number of expletives that are currently popular, but I doubt anything like the more sanitized “Jesus, Mary and Joseph” would have come to their minds.

I pondered this situation with my youngest daughter Jordan and asked her if she thought it would be difficult to contain one’s anger, one’s tendency to gossip, one’s temptation to cheat or to lie or engage in any of a number of petty mean behaviors that sometimes characterize our family interactions—especially for Joseph, who was living with the Mother of God and the Son of God. Her response surprised and delighted me. She said, “Maybe living with them made him a better person.” That’s what living in a family does for us—makes us better persons.

The Holy Family should not be a yardstick against which we measure our own shortcomings, their goodness a glaring spotlight which exposes our propensity for evil or our tendency to sometimes dwell in our own darkness. Rather this family of divine and human origins similar to our own families in so many ways is a supreme example of the best features of all families, whether they are biological, legal, created by choice or by accident or circumstance.

The root of the words “family” and “familiar” in the English language and several others I know of are the same—they both imply and define the quality of being known. It has been said that a family is a group of people who know all about you and have to take you in anyway. I think that’s a pretty adequate definition. But this statement, while quite simple, speaks volumes about what it means to be family.

In considering the qualities that make up a good family, that are exemplified in the Holy Family, many come to mind, but for me, certain characteristics stand out. These are my family values, they may not be yours. In no particular order, let’s look at a few of these:

Fidelity: It is perhaps this quality that most endears St. Joseph to me. To be faithful to one’s spouse, one’s children, one’s friends, even one’s faith is a choice born out of love or even a sense of duty. It is, in my estimation, the consistent practice of “being there.” When Joseph learns that Mary has not been unfaithful to him, he also learns the child she bears is not his own flesh and blood. Still, he chooses to care for both of them as he promised her at their betrothal. Hannah, the mother of Samuel in the first reading also honors a vow she makes to God. The retelling of this selfless offering of her child to the One who created him has to tug at the heart strings of every mother who hears it. Millions of folks have followed both Joseph’s and Hannah’s examples and stepped up to the plate to raise children who were not their own, or to give their offspring to the service of God or mankind, if only in support of the choices their adult children make to do so. I can’t help but think of the parents of children who choose to serve in the Peace Corps, the military, or dedicate their lives to the priesthood or sisterhood. Millions more choose every day to honor a vow made in love.

Sacrifice: Even mediocre parents know something about sacrifice, and the best usually sacrifice the most. From the waking for 2 am feedings, or waiting up for a curfew breaking teen, to watching a Son die upon a cross, the sacrifices of parents and other family members is never easy and never ending. But it is ultimately rewarding and even redeeming—even if we don’t see that reward in our lifetime. When I was nearing the end of my pregnancy with my first child, I asked my mom (who is a mother to seven) if having a baby was really as painful as people said. Her response was that it wasn’t nearly as painful as raising one. While that response both perplexed and frightened me, after 25 years of birthing and raising five children of my own I know exactly what she meant, and I suspect you parents do as well. In many, many respects, mothers and fathers do lay down their lives for their children.

Service: In the words of singer/songwriter Bob Dylan, “you gotta serve somebody.” It’s always easier and more gratifying when the ones you serve are also ones you love, especially when they show a bit of gratitude for that service. Still, even in the most loving of families, service can sometimes be drudgery, repetitive, mind numbing and thankless. And for followers of Christ that service must extend beyond the family to strangers at best, or our enemies, at worst. It is in serving those who spurn our charity, are oblivious to our sacrifice and hostile to our offering that we best exemplify to our children and others what it means to be Christian.

Forgiveness: It is my contention that more marriages are unglued, more relationships are severed, more damage is done by our failure to forgive than by any other breach of fidelity or lack of willing sacrifice or service. To a certain extent I believe that while we often think of forgiveness as a preferred response to sinfulness, even in the absence of sin there is often a need for forgiveness because we aren’t always aware of the ways that we unintentionally hurt each other. A good example of this is in the gospel. Jesus intends no harm by staying in the temple but his parents are clearly grieved by the fact that he is missing. I’d like to think that he apologized to them for the anxiety he caused, not because he had to, but, as with his baptism in the Jordan, as an example to us.

Last, but certainly not least; Love: Without love, all the foregoing qualities are difficult, if not impossible to exhibit and certainly to maintain. While obligation and a sense of duty may help us in the short term, they wear thin over the long haul. In an alternate reading for today, St. Paul tells us, “And over all these put on love, which is the bond of perfection.”

What greater bond of perfection is there than that of the Holy Family? This is not just a family that lived 2,000 years ago. This is our family. St. John tells us so, “See what love the Father has bestowed on us that we may be called the children of God. And so we are.” Like that little family of Nazareth we too will be made perfect in that love, and with the example of Jesus, Mary and Joseph as our guide we can work at improving the lives that God has entrusted to us as members of a family. As it is said, “Practice makes perfect.”

Winter too soon

In Alaska, winter is never quite gone. In June, northern breezes lift from distant glaciers and shiver the bud's tentative green promise. Flowers open hesitantly, schizophrenically, dazzled by sun but stunted by cold as old as permafrost, deep, primordial, mingling with dinosaur bones and mastodon tusks.

This morning, snow slides inexorably down mountains, though the land below is littered with gold, and more gold, shaken like summer rain from trees. The wet smell of what, in early October, is late autumn, hangs in the air like ice crystals soon grown to frost, too soon to grow to whiteness, too soon, too soon, the lament of these days.

Too soon, the cry of Canadian geese, both as they leave and return to this landscape, land scraped by ice, hewn and stacked in mountain and woodland, glanced by light extreme and obscure. Too soon in May's frozen bogs and fields for food to have been ennervated by a waxing sun. Too soon in the mournful gaze of the warm-blooded who huddle in fur and fiber and retreat to dens of warmth and wood and wait, and wait again for the return of life to a land that so often deals death like a beautiful and merciless mistress. "Come to the table," she calls, icicle fingers wrapped round ripe autumn bounty, the memory of endless suns trapped in flesh, in flower, in fruit. "Eat" for winter is long and coming and coming again.

First Offerings

Just navigating the necessary steps to create this blog has been a bit daunting, but I must say, I am amazed to see my name, photo, profile, etc. out there for anyone's perusal. I am old enough to be dazzled (and intimidated) by the technology that allows such things, and young enough to believe that it is all just some delightful magic. Someone asked me what my favorite possession was and I had to say my ipod because I love music and having it all crammed into this tiny little gadget that delivers such awesome sound at the touch of a button, well, like I said--some delightful magic...