New Year's Blessing

The Lord bless you and keep you!

The Lord let his face shine upon you,
   and be gracious to you!

The Lord look upon you kindly,
   and give you peace!

      Numbers 6: 22-27

Peace on earth

A few scenes from the area around and inside
Saint Meinrad Archabbey Church
on Christmas Day ...  

"I am with you always,
to the end of the age."

Matthew 28:20

The circle of life

Sunday, Dec. 26, 2010
Feast of the Holy Family—A

Sirach 3:2-6, 12-14
Colossians 3:12-21
Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23

Grace builds on nature. Holiness emerges through the ordinary.

God coming among us in the person of Jesus means that we don’t have to stretch and strain toward the heavens. God is to be found in everyday life—especially within the family circle which radiates out from the center of our culture.

Our relationships with one another must be an expression of our relationship with God, particularly in the context of family life. The passage from Paul’s letter to the Colossians offers us a simple set of qualities we must adopt for daily living as God’s family:

Compassion
Kindness
Humility
Gentleness
Patience
Forbearance
Forgiveness
Love
Peace
Gratitude
Praise and worship of our God in all that we do or say.

The Holy Family is our model, and through Christ—fully human and fully divine—we have become part of it. Let us live as “God’s chosen ones, holy and beloved,” each one of our days.

A little dignity, made to order

Following is the homily given by Archabbot Justin DuVall, who presided at Mass on Christmas Eve at Saint Meinrad Archabbey Church.

In Nativitate Domini
   Ad Missam in nocte

Isaiah 9:1-6
Titus 2:11-14
Luke 2:1-14

“In those days a decree went out from Caesar Augustus that the whole world should be enrolled.”

Confrères, and brothers and sisters:

The Christmas mystery which we celebrate this night began to unfold against the backdrop of a human attempt to impose order on the whole world. A Roman emperor exercised his authority over conquered peoples in an effort to control rebellion. But in the birth of the Christ, the One through whose wisdom the original chaos of creation itself had been put in order gently and mightily (fortiter suaviter), was content to take his place in the disorder of a muck-filled, mule-shed-made-an-inn.

The history of the human race might be seen as a succession of efforts to impose order where disorder—or perhaps the perceived wrong order—prevails. Far more than visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads, the Christmas story is the vision of the advent of God’s kingdom by which he restores right order to the whole of his creation. It is therefore the beginning of our rebellion against every wrong order, and it gives us the gift of hope, even as we remain under the sway of continued human efforts to impose a preferred order on the world.

When Joseph and Mary made their way to Bethlehem, to be registered in accordance with the decree of Caesar Augustus, they acted no differently than other people of their own country. They were the little people of the day whose lives were affected by decisions made from high up on the chain of command. It didn’t mean they weren’t faithful Jews who believed in the promises of God; but nevertheless, what Caesar ordered, Caesar got. The Pax Romana prevailed and its order governed the world.

In time, of course, the Roman Empire crumbled, but it heirs have been lining up ever since. The human desire to impose a world order—or even a world peace—shows itself over and over, and often without regard for the cost to the lives of ordinary folks. Tonight the span of peace doesn’t quite stretch over Korea or Iraq. Even while the United States and Russia have agreed to reduce the stockpile of nuclear weapons, North Korea threatens to use them against South Korea for what it perceives to be a menace to its good order, rekindling the unthinkable in a world that had grown hopeful for the banishment of such weapons. And as we are well aware, the prolonged state of war in Iraq has created a torrent of refugees whose lives have been disrupted in ways that we can’t begin to imagine from our vantage point of an unquestioned security. The little people of that region, many of them the Christian minority, are at the mercy of the powers that be.

However noble in itself, the human desire for good world order shows its flaws when it fails to engage in the difficult work of protecting the rights of everyone it affects. Mary and Joseph were among the little people of their day, and their life together was affected by the decree of Caesar Augustus that took them from the familiarity of their hometown to the uncertainties of their destination, all part of a plan to enroll the whole world.

But God’s plan for the whole world was also under way.

The birth of a child happens on its own schedule, no matter what else is going on in the world, and so while Joseph and Mary were in Bethlehem, “the time came for her to have her child, and she gave birth to her firstborn son.” Babies are born every day, part of the cycle of human life; it’s nothing earth-shattering. The birth of Jesus had all the humanity of any birth, but in another way it was anything but ordinary. This child would in fact inaugurate a new order that no human decree could effect. The good news of his birth, as the angels announced to the shepherds, was to “be for all the people.” And so more was at stake than simply the birth of a child to be enrolled in Caesar’s count.

We cannot forget that this child whose birth we commemorate tonight is the Savior of the world. He will not stay a small child; he will become the man who will bear the weight of human sinfulness, and be delivered to death for our salvation. This child, looking so harmless in a manger, would disrupt the world at its deepest level by sowing freedom among God’s children who—with few exceptions—are hardly capable of receiving it. * In him God restored the original good order of his creation and made it clear that anything opposed to that good order is at odds with his purpose.

When Jesus saw suffering, he healed it; when evil crossed his path, he cast it out; when he encountered sin, he forgave it; and death, the final enemy of life, he conquered. All these things are at odds with God’s good order, and none of them have a place in the purpose of God for his creation. In Christ the rebellion against every false hope began, and this hope permeates our celebration of Christmas. The good news of this night is, as the angels announced, for all peoples, and it drives the Church in its mission in the world. Mary gave birth to the one prophesied by Isaiah as the Prince of Peace, and in this birth God established his good order for the whole human race.

The birth of Christ, then, lays claim to us even as we still labor under the constraints of the present world. Christmas points us beyond the stillness of this night to the fullness of all time, because the birth of Christ is the overture to the great and final appearance of Christ in glory. The simple shepherds keeping their sheep on that night were sent on a mission to find the child who was a sign for them.

In the same way Christmas launches us on the search for the God who restores the original dignity of our human nature. It is not an aimless search, one which is content merely to be charmed along the way but not challenged by the goal. We are, after all, now enrolled in the rebellion which Christ himself leads against false hopes. St. Paul wrote to Titus, “The grace of God has appeared, saving all, and training us to reject godless ways.”

We have to live in this world, of course, and so we will necessarily confront ways that are opposed to God’s ways. But because we have been redeemed, because our true nature has been restored to us in Christ, Christmas claims us, not just for tonight or tomorrow or for the holidays—but for all our days. “Christian, claim your dignity,” we hear from St. Leo the Great, “it is God’s own nature that you share.” This dignity should make a difference in the way we live and how we grasp the truth of what God is doing in the world. St. Benedict found a way to express this dignity in how he set the order in community for his monks (Rule, Ch. 63). He dismantled the order set by society, based on class or wealth or education, and instead based seniority on a monk’s day of entrance into the community, marking the start of his dedicated search for God. For any Christian to say that he or she has been made a new creation in Christ is more than clever rhetoric; it involves both a privilege and a duty.

By celebrating the Christmas mystery tonight with faith, we will leave this church as more than people of good will whose hearts have been warmed by sights and smells and songs; we will leave this church as a people who claim our dignity over against every attempt to belittle it. Christ has redeemed all of our life, from birth through death, and everything in between.

An infant wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger was the sign for the shepherds of the good news for all peoples. That good news equips us to meet all of life’s challenges with hope, and with the ability to give thanks in all things for the saving power of God at work in us.

Tonight we recall the beginnings of our salvation in the birth of Christ. Twenty centuries have passed, yet the mystery of Christmas has not aged; it is as fresh as it first was in Bethlehem, still straining towards its fulfillment. Tonight let us welcome Christ and the gift of life that he brings so that all our days and years and seasons may be ordered in God, and that we may know the true joy of God’s presence among us.

Archabbot Justin DuVall, O.S.B.

Saint Meinrad Abbey Church

December 25, 2010

* Cf. The Doors of the Sea, by David Bentley Hart, pp. 86-87.

Shout like a snowflake

Saturday, Dec. 25, 2010

The Nativity of the Lord

The snow is gently falling on Saint Meinrad Archabbey this Christmas Eve. Word is we could get anywhere from 1 to 3 inches by morning. Looking around the monastery and church, I think all the decorations look as good as they ever have on this, my fifth Christmas here. Everything is reserved, but elegant. A few wreaths, lights, poinsettias, and a crèche. Perhaps tomorrow I will take a photograph or two to post here.

It has been a busy evening. Vespers at 5 p.m. Anticipated Vigils at 7 p.m. Midnight Mass (this year at 10 p.m.). I am on bells this week, my last such assignment before making solemn vows precisely one month from Christmas Day.

It has been a somewhat trying week. On Monday I began coming down with a bad bug of some sort—the same sort of nasty stuff that has been going around (someone sneezes around here, and at least half are likely to catch cold)—sore throat, head and chest congestion, coughing, etc. By mid-week, my throat had become so sore that I could barely talk, so I finally gave in and saw the doctor, who put me on antibiotics and other assorted remedies.

Not much you can do about a cold, really. Simply get some rest and let it runs its course. What has made it frustrating for me, however, has been the inability to sing the “O Antiphons” in choir this week. Barely able to speak, I have not been able to participate in chanting the Divine Office per usual, and that always unsettles me. It kills me not to be able to join in the Work of God, as St. Benedict calls it (though perhaps some of my confreres might say it kills them when I am able to join in!).

After Mass Friday morning, I commented to someone that in choir I felt like Zechariah, who was rendered unable to speak until his wife Elizabeth gave birth to John the Baptist. Of course, the last couple days leading up to Christmas, the Gospel readings at Mass have focused on Zechariah, culminating with his liberating and exuberant prophecy Friday morning (Luke 1:67-79). This, of course, is the Benedictus, which we chant every morning toward the end of Lauds: “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel; for he has come to his people and set them free …”

It’s tough not to be able to do something you are used to doing, or want to do. This week, I wanted to sing with Zechariah’s opened mouth, but I couldn’t. Once I surrendered to this reality, however, something wonderful happened. I began simply listening to the rest of my confreres singing, letting the notes and verses flutter down around me like falling snowflakes. Have you ever listened to snow falling? It’s not a sound that shouts out, but rather one that instills a profound sense of inner peace. Yet it’s amazing how deafening a couple inches of silently falling snow can be—it seems to block out all other sound.

I was reminded of a similar experience I had this past summer while in Europe, when I had to surrender to the fact that I could not sing with all the rest (in German, French, or Italian), and simply listen to how beautiful it all was—God’s spoken Word sung back to Him in praise—in any and all languages. This is a gift, I realized, and sometimes when you receive a gift all you can do is simply accept it and be grateful for it. Period.

As nice as it may all be, what we celebrate at Christmas is not about the snow, the wreaths, the lights, the poinsettias, or even the crèche centered on a tiny infant. It is not about being able to sing out. It is about the most extraordinary gift ever given: A Savior has been born for you who is Christ the Lord.

We are a people in need of being saved, and God’s love for us is so great that He became man to suffer with and redeem us and bring us all to everlasting life. As our Fr. Eugene pointed out in his introductory comments Friday morning, Zechariah’s Benedictus does not prophesy a cute kid in a manger, but a fierce and victorious Messiah who turns the status quo upside down. “That frightens us,” he said. “We’d rather focus on the baby in the manger, but that’s not what the season is about.”

The season is about our salvation, born of God’s immeasurable love for us—a love so fierce as to die for us, and so victorious as to conquer death once and for all. This is not child’s play, but God’s zeal to impart grace and save all.

And that is certainly something to shout about, though perhaps as silently as a snowflake.

The grace that gently falls on us in the form of an infant speaks louder and more powerfully than any word spoken before or since. This grace invites a response, but not necessarily (or even usually) spoken. Interestingly, the word “infant” is derived from the Old French form “enfant,” which in turn is from the Latin “infāns”—or, “unable to speak.” The Word made flesh, the very breath of God, silently fills us with His power and glory, and if we truly receive this gift it will keep on giving through each one of us—truly making the mystery of the Incarnation a living and present reality.

With this being the case, whether we can sing or not, we join the angels and saints in praising God, saying:

Gloria in excelsis Deo

et in terra pax

homínibus bonae voluntátis!

O Emmanuel

Sr. Ansgar Holmberg, CSJ

O Emmanuel,

our King and Lawgiver,

the Expectation of all nations

and their Savior:

Come to save us,

O Lord our God.

O King of the Nations

Sr. Ansgar Holmberg, CSJ



O King of the Nations,

whom they have long awaited,

the cornerstone,

who make both sides one:

Come, and save mankind,

whom you fashioned

out of clay.