As the last candle was lit on the Advent wreath last Sunday, I felt deep sadness. I carried the hearts of all the people I recently met in my heart, their suffering and pain, and it felt heavy.
For I cannot change things, make their lives better... yet. For now, I can only remember them, and pray for them. Like them, I can only wait for the light of Emmanuel to come, and in the words of the Benedictus or Song of Zachariah, to "illuminate those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to direct our feet in the way of peace.”
This melancholic state represents my current mood. Some of it comes from the typical end of year reflection: What have I accomplished in this year that just sped by? All I feel is tired. I have rushed around doing a million things, without really accomplishing much. I have wasted precious time on mindless activity without giving more time to the Lord, as I so desired.
The other part of this emptiness comes from having to wait. My impatient soul demands instant gratification. Yet, Advent demands that I prepare my heart for the birth of Christ in a particular way. As Father Ron Rolheiser wrote in early December:
He goes on to add: Messiahs can only be born inside a particular kind of womb, namely, one within which there's enough patience and willingness to wait so as to let things happen on God's terms, not ours.
I allowed God to lead my heart this Advent and He took me to the Philippines and showed me poverty, despair and injustice. He also showed me abundance, hope and love. One of the questions we reflected on at the close of reverse carolling was how does this experience of reverse carolling fit into my life back home?
This trip was made not to salve my conscience, boost my ego or help me become a more interesting conversationalist, rather, it was a personal invitation to participate in Advent in a more intimate manner, to wait and see how the Christ child will be born in my life in a new, unprecedented way.
I strongly felt that I was asked to be the voice of those without one. To remind others of those who were marginalized and easily forgotten. To make a difference by not remaining indifferent. To make my tears count.
As Father Rolheiser concludes:
Hence, ideally, every tear should bring the messiah closer. This isn't an unfathomable mystery: Every frustration should, ideally, make us more ready to love. Every tear should, ideally, make us more ready to forgive. Every heartache should, ideally, make us more ready to let go of some of our separateness. Every unfulfilled longing should, ideally, lead us into a deeper and more sincere prayer. And all of our pained impatience for a consummation that seems to forever elude us should, ideally, makes us feverish enough to burst into love's flame.
We commemorate the birth of Jesus this coming evening, an event that is the icon of pure, selfless love. It is right and just to give pause and simply adore Him.
For I cannot change things, make their lives better... yet. For now, I can only remember them, and pray for them. Like them, I can only wait for the light of Emmanuel to come, and in the words of the Benedictus or Song of Zachariah, to "illuminate those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to direct our feet in the way of peace.”
This melancholic state represents my current mood. Some of it comes from the typical end of year reflection: What have I accomplished in this year that just sped by? All I feel is tired. I have rushed around doing a million things, without really accomplishing much. I have wasted precious time on mindless activity without giving more time to the Lord, as I so desired.
The other part of this emptiness comes from having to wait. My impatient soul demands instant gratification. Yet, Advent demands that I prepare my heart for the birth of Christ in a particular way. As Father Ron Rolheiser wrote in early December:
Advent is a gestation process that cannot be rushed. Tears, pain, and a long season of prayer are needed to create the conditions for the kind of pregnancy that brings forth a messiah into our world. Why? Because the real love and life can only be born when a long-suffering patience has created the correct space, the virginal womb, within which the sublime can be born.
He goes on to add: Messiahs can only be born inside a particular kind of womb, namely, one within which there's enough patience and willingness to wait so as to let things happen on God's terms, not ours.
I allowed God to lead my heart this Advent and He took me to the Philippines and showed me poverty, despair and injustice. He also showed me abundance, hope and love. One of the questions we reflected on at the close of reverse carolling was how does this experience of reverse carolling fit into my life back home?
This trip was made not to salve my conscience, boost my ego or help me become a more interesting conversationalist, rather, it was a personal invitation to participate in Advent in a more intimate manner, to wait and see how the Christ child will be born in my life in a new, unprecedented way.
I strongly felt that I was asked to be the voice of those without one. To remind others of those who were marginalized and easily forgotten. To make a difference by not remaining indifferent. To make my tears count.
As Father Rolheiser concludes:
Hence, ideally, every tear should bring the messiah closer. This isn't an unfathomable mystery: Every frustration should, ideally, make us more ready to love. Every tear should, ideally, make us more ready to forgive. Every heartache should, ideally, make us more ready to let go of some of our separateness. Every unfulfilled longing should, ideally, lead us into a deeper and more sincere prayer. And all of our pained impatience for a consummation that seems to forever elude us should, ideally, makes us feverish enough to burst into love's flame.
We commemorate the birth of Jesus this coming evening, an event that is the icon of pure, selfless love. It is right and just to give pause and simply adore Him.
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