Month: March 2019

finding Jesus in the Temple

What St. John of the Cross describes as “the dark night of the soul” is, as far as I understand it from saints’ writings, a true loss of all consolation, or a sustaining sense of having been abandoned by God. The presence of God, however strong or faint, which had sustained such souls in their vocations, no longer calms their spirit or is their source of strength; they feel quite alone. Most recently, the world was shocked—even scandalized among some groups—to learn of the darkness and silence that had pervaded the spiritual life of the great Mother Teresa, who served God faithfully to the end. The response of holy men and women is not to despair, but to have faith in the darkest time.

Yet one can experience God’s stillness or silence without a dark night of the soul, and it can be unsettling. Though there may not be a temptation to despair, there is a temptation to panic, to act impulsively, or to find consolation elsewhere. Just as Jesus’ time in the desert gives us insight into the trial of temptation, and Jesus on the Cross illuminates the forsakenness of the “dark night of the soul”, an earlier event in His life offers some clarity on that more gentle, but aggravating sense of a loss of His presence.

It’s appropriately labeled a mystery- “Finding Jesus in the Temple”—and the Gospel account can be found in Luke, chapter two . Joseph and Mary head to Jerusalem in a caravan for Passover, and Jesus accompanies them as a boy of twelve. After everything is done according to the law—and undoubtedly beautiful, fruitful moments have passed between Jesus and His parents as they speak of Jerusalem, God’s covenants, and the Mosaic Law—the Holy Family departs. But it turns out Jesus is not with them, and Joseph and Mary are, for three days, left with unimaginable imaginings about their son as they scour Jerusalem for him.

They must have thought they saw him several times, only for their hearts to drop when they realized it wasn’t him. Of course, we know they found him, and in the Temple no less, amazing the scribes with His wisdom. (Some of those scholars must have remembered Jesus when he returned twenty years later.) Both a peace and anxiety must have come over those holy parents—a peace to see Jesus already understanding and fulfilling His mission, and an anxiety that it has begun. What Mary and Joseph felt, thought, and did after that is speculation, or contemplation; we only know what is written in the Gospel account.

Twentieth-century Catholic writers Caryll Houselander and Adrienne von Speyr do just that—they speculate and contemplate what this event meant to the Holy Family. Both writers discuss the trial of trust that Mary and Joseph underwent in those three agonizing days. Von Speyr calls it “the school of noncomprehension”, the act of learning how to surrender one’s intellect in God’s intimate workings. She writes:

        No Christian is spared the collision with God’s ever-greater reality or the blind obedience from man that is included in it and required by it. Christ’s parents, too, must already come to know in their Son the hidden presence of fathomless divine mysteries.

And when His parents confront Him in the temple, Christ still offers no explanation. He only asks, almost rhetorically, “Did you not know I must be about my Father’s business?” This is not a rude retort, but Him pointing the way, the way of not needing to comprehend, but to follow. This is not the first time Mary and Joseph have been asked to obey without comprehension. And they will be asked to do this again, particularly Mary during Christ’s ministry and death, and so preparing all Christians to do the same: obey without comprehension. Through Mary and Joseph’s example, we see it’s not an occasion to grow angry or despair, but is cause for a “greater opening-up of [the] soul to God and, therefore, a new fruitfulness.”

Houselander writes that this story from the Gospel is revealed to us because Mary and Joseph “experienced the loss of the Child because it is an experience which we all have to go through, that our love may be sifted and purified.” Houselander calls this sense of loss “the most universal and most purifying.” She goes on to describe the different ways and circumstances we might experience this sense of loss. She even writes of people who may suffer daily emotional ups and downs, who feel keenly what they perceive to be the loss of Christ’s presence through scruples and irrational guilt—this disposition can walk with Mary and Joseph through Jerusalem.

If it is true that, as Von Speyr writes, “one does not approach the Cross with the understanding but only with the renouncing surrender of comprehension”, then periods of thirsting and seeking—whether from spiritual dryness, doubt, emotional instability, silence in prayer—promise to prepare us for the Cross that unites us to Jesus.

  • Handmaid of the Lord, Adrienne von Speyr
  • Reed of God, Caryl Houselander

St. Joseph, give me your silence

St. Joseph is a quiet saint. For my first several years as a Catholic, his March 19 feast day passed by without my acknowledgment. This wasn’t fair or just on my part because he’d definitely been around in my life. But, like Mary, his brief appearance in Scripture and near-silence left more to the imagination than I was ready to spend on him. Other male saints—like St. John the Apostle, St. Thomas More, St. Isaac Jogues—captured my attention with their accolades and heroism. St. Joseph was just too quiet to notice.

Yet, like Mary, Joseph’s silence in Scripture, coupled with His faithful obedience to God, offer rich food for meditation. As I grow more deeply in my own vocation—where I will not live a life of big heroics like John, Thomas, or Isaac, love them as I do—my attention has turned more and more towards the Holy Family to find the heart of this interior life that spends itself physically in the home, mostly unseen.

Of St. Joseph’s silence, Pope Benedict XVI wrote it is “a silence woven of constant prayer, a prayer of blessing of the Lord, of the adoration of his holy will and of unreserved entrustment to his providence.” In one homily I heard years ago at a local parish, the priest pointed out that Joseph was so prayerful, he could listen to God in his sleep. Pope Benedict XVI also wrote, “Let us allow ourselves to be ‘filled’ with St Joseph’s silence! In a world that is often too noisy, that encourages neither recollection nor listening to God’s voice, we are in such deep need of it.”

It’s so difficult to find actual, physical silence anywhere, particularly in a home. When I had my first baby, there was so much silence that it made me uncomfortable. Whenever she was asleep, I enjoyed the first several minutes of quiet, but wasn’t sure what to do with myself after that; I was so unaccustomed to silence that it made me agitated. Now, with so much to do and so much activity in the house, I would know exactly what to do with that hour of silence.

But there is a silence of the heart that I am praying for the grace to develop, that stillness spoken of in the psalms, the stillness that Jesus asked of the disciples on the stormy sea. Ideally, one would start the day with prayer or Mass, and I used to have such high expectations—a Rosary! Liturgy of the Hours! Wake-up at 4:00 and pray on my knees! Yeah, that never happened. I have settled for a brief morning offering. It orients my heart and mind towards God in a simple, straightforward moment. Evening prayer has gone the same way: I’ve settled for a brief examination, a brief list of gratitude—and honestly, sometimes it’s just a “Glory Be” beside my bed before collapsing. 

It’s the middle of the day that needs so much work. When life doesn’t happen the way I want it to, even simple daily tasks, I get agitated and that stillness is disrupted: if I don’t eat breakfast soon enough, if I have to clean up spilt milky cereal, if my little ones won’t occupy themselves long enough for me to help another child with division, if my toddler is screaming for food while I’m making dinner… the list is generous. If I fail to pray throughout the day—and these are little prayers, little cries and thank-you’s to God—then I grow more and more disgruntled and agitated, and instead of silence, I have a litany of complaints turning over in my head.

The Holy Family couldn’t have been without those daily annoyances. As a carpenter, Joseph must have dealt with the messy business of getting paid, jobs taking longer than anticipated, dissatisfied customers. And like every family, I’m sure they dealt with not having enough food on the table, illness, the circulating village gossip. But they weren’t somber puritans either—they were friendly, generous neighbors who partook in the feasts and festivals of the year. I’m certain they danced. Yet, in all this, they maintained peace and a still readiness before God. I hunger and pray for that.

Lenten Traditions: Food

Over the years, our family has developed Lenten traditions. Some of those have to do with food, which may sound strange since it’s Lent, but even fasting should have an element of beauty and joy to it. I’m not an adventurous cook, so I won’t make a habit of talking about me in a kitchen, but these are worth sharing:

The Redwall Cookbook

A few of our kids (and my husband) love the Redwall series by Brian Jaques, stories about rodent-monks in a medieval setting. And, lucky for us, there is a Redwall cookbook, and it’s all vegetarian. “Stones Inna Swamp” sounds a lot more delectable to kids than vegetable soup with dumplings. It always cracks me up to see them get excited about food they would otherwise roll their eyes at. There are little stories to accompany some of the recipes, and the illustrations are very well done, reminiscent of Beatrix Potter.

Red Lentil Soup

For the first several years of marriage, meals during Lenten fasting days consisted primarily of variations on bread and cheese. The first time I tried making soup, for some reason I thought I could wing it, but it was pretty bad (let’s just say I put the “lent” back into lentil soup). I went hunting for recipes and found one that has officially become a tradition: Red Lentil Soup, with manchego cheese on the side (a creamy sheep cheese from Spain, sooo goooood). For a small meal on a day of fasting, it’s satisfying.

Lenten Scones

Several years ago, when I had three children under four, I had just quit teaching and was a full-time at-home parent. I easily grew listless at home; I had no at-home hobbies, and sometimes the hours seemed to creep on by. My saving grace was a handful of friends I had in the area who, I’m fairly certain, felt similarly. We all came together for company and friendship for both ourselves and our children.

I remember one particular day in March when I needed it more than usual. March is often a difficult month in the Pacific Northwest—lots of gray skies and rain. It’s easy to get stir-crazy. Plus, it’s Lent, so you’re often left without those stand-by pick-me-ups like coffee or chocolate. A friend of mine called me up and invited me over. I remember sitting down at her table, and taking a deep breath, relieved to have my kids occupied with her kids. She set down a steaming cup of tea and a scone in front of me.

There was a story behind this scone, which she called a “Lenten scone” (and it looked very Lenten—lumpy with oats and raisins). She had received the recipe from a family friend in her hometown. Whenever she made these scones—and only during Lent—it reminded her of her home 2,000 miles away and the family whose company she sacrificed for the sake of her new family.

Perhaps the reason I like making these scones is that it reminds me of my friend—and not just that particular friend, who is still dear to me, but for that group of young women who were friends at just such a time. It reminds me of those days of early motherhood that felt Lenten in their sacrifices and self-surrender as I struggled to navigate a life that was no longer about me. I’m still figuring that out, of course, still struggling with it, but those early days were more difficult in their newness.

I make these scones for Ash Wednesday, then for every Friday during Lent. They’re definitely Lenten, but also delicious and weighty. With a side of cheese and carrot sticks, I count them as a small Lenten meal on a fasting day. If you try them out, share them with a friend to keep up the tradition! (And my family is gluten-free, so I just use 1-to-1 gluten-free flour substitution, as well as gluten-free oats. And I’ve substituted buttermilk for cashew milk which works pretty well.)

Ingredients

  • 2-3 tbs. sugar (quantity of tbs. sugar = how Lenten do you want to get?)
  • 1 1/4 cup. flour
  • 1 tsp. baking powder
  • 1/2 tsp. baking soda
  • dash of salt
  • 1 cup oats
  • 1/3 cup raisins or currants
  • 4 tbs. butter
  • 1/3 cup buttermilk

Directions

  • Combine: 2-3 tbs. sugar, 1 ¼ cup flour, 1 tsp. baking powder, ½ tsp. baking soda, dash of salt
  • Stir in 1 cup oats and 1/3 cup raisins or currants
  • Cut in 4 tbs. butter
  • Work in with a fork 1/3 cup buttermilk
  • Press onto a cutting board or counter and cut into squares, or form into a circle and cut into triangles.
  • Bake on a greased cookie sheet at 350 degrees for 20 minutes

Christ must increase, and I must decrease… in body fat…

The other day I went to the local coffee shop to buy hot chocolates for my kids; it’d been a rough week at home, the cold weather had limited our activities, and with Lent around the corner I figured a little mini-mardi-gras pick-me-up was in order. As I stood waiting for six hot chocolates, the barista struck up a conversation. Ordering six of anything usually leads to a conversation. She wanted to know what the occasion was, and I explained that since Lent was coming soon, this was our last hot-chocolate-hurrah of the season. She seemed familiar with the idea of Lent and asked about what we do.

“Individually we all give up or do certain things,” I replied, “but as a family we give up dessert.” (And if you know our family, dessert is a major sacrifice. One eats dinner in order to have dessert.)

The barista’s face lit up. “What a great idea! Lose all that Christmas weight!”

I laughed awkwardly, and didn’t say much more. I figured a crowded coffee shop wasn’t the best place to go into the true purpose of Lent. But her response is not altogether unreasonable. In our culture, we give up food to lose weight. When I found out I was gluten-intolerant, I was surprised at how many people were interested in my gluten-free diet, said they were “trying it out”, like it was another diet fad. Besides the fact that a lot of gluten-free bread is made of starch and has very little fiber, it generally doesn’t taste good—why would someone willfully subject themselves to that? I had to explain that I was gluten-free, not by choice, but because gluten made me physically ill. Fasting, without the primary goal of losing weight, is non-comprehensible to many people.

This non-comprehension is something I’m definitely familiar with, and it’s related to why I don’t fast. I fast according to what the Church instructs, the small meals on meatless Fridays, and I find that doing this as a family increases its meaning as we all ponder our gratitude, or lack thereof, for having more than enough. But for the first several years I was Catholic, I tried to fast on top of that, fairly ambitious with new-convert zeal and enthusiasm, but I failed miserably. I got to the point where I dreaded Lent, associating it with failure and discouragement, with old wounds re-opened.

When I was a teenager, like many teenage girls, I struggled with self-image and a borderline eating disorder. When I started to pursue a career in acting, it only heightened. I remember a fellow actor during a lunch break look at my food and laugh, “Rabbit food again?” I’m from a line of sturdy-built farm women, so I had to nearly starve myself and exercise like a crazy person to achieve a slimmer side of curvy, but it was never slim enough. This lifestyle of mine, which had its roots in other issues, was wholly unhealthy not just for my body, but for my mind and spirit as well. That was a long time ago now, yet I still have a hard time disassociating those unhealthy dieting habits from fasting.

It took me a long time to learn that food is not the only thing one can fast from. It seemed like the most ascetic choice, maybe in my mind that meant holier. But if the point is to grow spiritually, I would have to choose a form of self-denial that would truly bear fruit.

In an interview about the Missionaries of Charity, Mother Teresa spoke about how difficult it can be for young postulants to adjust to their new life in the order. Some, she said, have “more” to give up than others. For example, one postulant had been used to ice cream every night after dinner, and later admitted to Mother Teresa that it had been very difficult to give it up, even to suffer the memory of it. In my own lack of charity, I imagine that Mother Teresa, who was daily face-to-face with poverty, hunger, and death, would have heard that and scoffed. But no, Mother Teresa, in her great charity, understood the degree of sacrifice the young woman had made, instead of focusing on the thing she sacrificed.

I’ve borne many frustrating Lents, at the end of which I feel discouraged and not at all prayerful. Maybe someday I’ll be mature enough to fast prayerfully. But for us modern Americans with shame-faced first-world problems, there are lots of fruit-bearing forms of self-denial: abstaining from television, Facebook, and frivolous googl’ing; waking up early, praying the Liturgy of the Hours, daily reading the Bible; picking up after people without complaint, bearing toddler tantrums with patience, you get the idea—these are difficult (embarrassing as that is). Lent is about self-denial, but the kind of self-denial that will bear fruit; self-denial that will allow us to decrease so that Christ may increase.