An Advent Calendar: Day 25

"Do not be afraid!"

"You who already possess the priceless treasure of faith,

you who are still searching for God,

and you as well who are tormented by doubt: 

...

Do not be afraid to receive Christ and to accept his authority!

...

The absolute, yet also sweet and gentle authority of the Lord answers both to the deepest depths of man, and to the highest aspirations of his intellect, will and heart. It does not speak with the language of force, but through charity and through truth.

...

Do not be afraid! Open, rather shatter open the door to Christ!

...

Do not be afraid! Christ knows ”what is inside the human heart.” Only he knows!

...

Nowadays man is often unaware of what is going on inside him, in the depths of his soul, and of his heart. And thus he often becomes unsure of the meaning of his life on earth. He is taken over by doubt, which then becomes despair. Allow, then – I beg you, I implore you, with humility and trust – allow Christ to speak to the human being. Only he has the words of life – indeed, of eternal life!

... 

God who is infinite, inscrutable and ineffable, has become near to us in Jesus Christ, his only begotten Son, born of the Virgin Mary in the stable at Bethlehem."

These fragments are taken from John Paul II's first public address after his election (October 1978). The call is as valid as ever; indeed, it is eternal - but perhaps it sounds even more poignant to the modern man. 

It is also a call on which we can meditate just now, the day before the Birth; when the child Christ invites us to open ourselves to him, and thus to become ready to receive him as he is: humble, poor, and vulnerable - and also the Way, the Truth, and the Life.

An Advent Calendar: Day 21

"When I reached C Company lines, which were at the top of the hill, I paused and looked back at the camp, just coming into full view below me through the grey moist of early morning. ...

Here love had died between me an the army. ...

Here at the age of thirty-nine I began to be old. ...

Here my last love died. ...

So, on the morning of our move, I was entirely indifferent as to our destination. ...

I slept until my servant called me, rose wearily, dressed and shaved in silence. It was not till I reached the door that I asked the second-in-command, 'What's this place called?'

He told me and, on the instant, it was though someone had switched off the wireless, and a voice that had been bawling in my ears, incessantly, fatuously, for days beyond number, had been suddenly cut short; an immense silence followed, empty at first, but gradually, as my outraged sense regained authority, full of a multitude of sweet and natural and long-forgotten sounds - for he had spoken a name that was so familiar to me, a conjuror's name of such ancient power, that, at its mere sound, the phantoms of those haunted late years began to take flight." 

These fragments are from the Prologue to Evelyn Waugh's Brideshead Revisited, and they describe his unexpected return to, or rather stumbling-upon, the place where, and around which, he had lived the highest peaks of his life: from the dizzy Spring of youth with Sebastian, to the high Summer and early Fall lived with Julia.   

And yet those days are all past, now; and Sebastian, and Lady Marchmain, and (notably) Lord Marchmain - and also, and in different ways, Cordelia - and, finally, Julia - are all gone; if not gone as persons, then gone from Charles's life. Gone - and, as explained in the beginning, his life itself seemed to have ended; his last ersatz love, of duty, of the army, dying just before the "rediscovery" of Brideshead Castle.   

And yet that "death" only constitutes the prologue to the book. What follows is a recalling of those highest peaks of life, all connected in one way or another, with Brideshead. And what will follow after those lengthy recollections, will be a return to the present and... 

But where does one go, when one has died, inside? When one's life - those eagerly-climbed peaks, and honeyed meadows - seem to have passed? When the things, the places, the people one has loved have passed - if not from life, than maybe from one's life? Can there be life, after late November - and thereafter, a future?

Sebastian was gone, seemingly lost - but one evening, while all were despairing of the situation, Lady Marchmain read to them from a Father Brown story (from G.K. Chesterton); in it, 

"Father Brown said something like 'I caught him... with an unseen hook and an invisible line which is long enough to let him wander to the ends of the world and still to bring him back with a twitch upon the thread."

And Lord Marchmain's passing became something completely different, from what could or should have been expected; and Julia's decision thereafter was sober and clear, even under all the confusion of those moments; and her life now was sober and dutiful, but probably on a path of clarity (albeit without the glamour so sought-after before). All these ends were not really "ends," were they?

So, is there life, and of what kind - after what seems like the end of one's life?

If there is, certainly it is no longer the life of naïve enthusiasm (as in that early youth), nor of high passion (as in that early adulthood). If there is hope, it is not childish - but something more mature - perhaps more sober, more dutiful, yet possessed of a deep (but on the surface invisible) clarity.

So, back in the present, and back at Brideshead, Charles Ryder walks by the beautiful fountain (now deserted, and protected by wire), and to the RC chapel. In the chapel, notwithstanding all the brutal changes and the war (and the destruction, and the passing of the world), he still finds - he yet finds -     

"a small red flame 

- a beaten-copper lamp of deplorable design, relit before the beaten-copper doors of a tabernacle; ... 

burning anew among the old stones."

The hope of youth and of early adulthood is the hope of transience, of the world; the hope that follows and surpasses the end of life is related to eternity.

And thus the hope and joy of Christmas, while celebrating with earthly joy the Birth of a child, also include in themselves the Death that is the purpose of this Birth - and also, and inevitably, and victoriously, the eternalized joy of the Resurrection that will conquer that Death - i.e. of the final victory of (eternal) life over (worldly) end of life.        

An Advent Calendar: Day 16

The Visitation refers to Mary's visit to her cousin, Elizabeth, who had become pregnant at an advanced age, and needed help with all the preparations. What is especially attractive about this event is its ordinariness; Mary takes this trip to her cousin, while herself in the early stages of her pregnancy, simply because of very normal human needs and duties: your relatives need help, so you go to lend them a hand. And yet this ordinariness and utter humanness is also an occasion for the sacred to manifest itself, to irradiate outward; when she meets Mary, Elizabeth feels as if her own child "leaps" in her womb, and is suddenly aware of the grace that had been bestowed on Mary ("blessed are you among women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb"). And then the days went on, and Mary helped Elizabeth, and everybody was busy with the preparations for the birth, and for the ceremonies and celebrations that were to follow. 

What this very human (yet also sacred) event points to, is the fact that the sacred does not abolish or eliminate the human condition, but manifests itself in and through it. In fact, for most of us it is probably the path of ordinary duties and tasks - familial, because family is good; and social; and professional - that is also the path on and through which one has to live out one's sacred vocation. As Thérèse of Lisieux indicated and showed in her life, there is a "heroic" way of living out the "ordinary," simply by performing even the littlest duties and tasks in and out of charity.

And the ordinary - the most ordinary - will also characterize the context in which the Birth of the awaited Child will happen. A simple, unknown young family - a father, a mother, and a child. Ordinary, anonymous, caught in the middle of following a recently passed governmental act (of having to travel to the man's hometown, to register for the census), and trying to make do while on the road, in difficult conditions (it is probably winter, they are on the road, the wife might give birth at any moment, and they have found no place to stay overnight). One can put oneself very easily in the frantic mindset of the young father, as he is trying to figure things out and to take care of his young family, with little means, and with little help from the people around.  

Indeed, it would be a dangerous and in-human thing to try to erase and abolish the human - or, one could say, historical, immediate - dimension of the sacred events. Doing that would result in separating the sacred from our own lives, in fact - because the sacred becomes something extraordinary, "magical," otherworldly, "angelic," and thus unattainable; and thus something that can not actually concern us. But if everydayness is the place and the space where the sacred is lived out - and where we can live it out simply by giving to the ordinary a direction and a meaning that come from the Love that grounds all existence - then every day becomes a task, and an opportunity for an (imperceptible, but true) living out of the sacred.  

Domenico Ghirlandaio - Visitation (1486-90)

Jacopo Pontormo - Visitation (1528-29)

An Advent Calendar: Day 14

"I have often had a fancy for writing a romance about an English yachtsman who slightly miscalculated his course and discovered England under the impression that it was a new island in the South Seas.  ... There will probably be a general impression that the man who landed (armed to the teeth and talking by signs) to plant the British flag on that barbaric temple which turned out to be the Pavilion at Brighton, felt rather a fool. ... But if you imagine that he felt a fool, or at any rate that the sense of folly was his sole or his dominant emotion, then you have not studied with sufficient delicacy the rich romantic nature of the hero of this tale. His mistake was really a most enviable mistake; and he knew it, if he was the man I take him for. What could be more delightful than to have in the same few minutes all the fascinating terrors of going abroad combined with all the humane security of coming home again? What could be better than to have all the fun of discovering South Africa without the disgusting necessity of landing there? What could be more glorious than to brace one's self up to discover New South Wales and then realize, with a gush of happy tears, that it was really old South Wales. 

This at least seems to me the main problem for philosophers, and is in a manner the main problem of this book. How can we contrive to be at once astonished at the world and yet at home in it? How can this queer cosmic town, with its many-legged citizens, with its monstrous and ancient lamps, how can this world give us at once the fascination of a strange town and the comfort and honour of being our own town?

... [In this book] I wish to set forth my faith as particularly answering this double spiritual need, the need for that mixture of the familiar and the unfamiliar which Christendom has rightly named romance. ... The thing I do not propose to prove, the thing I propose to take as common ground between myself and any average reader, is this desirability of an active and imaginative life, picturesque and full of a poetical curiosity, a life such as western man at any rate always seems to have desired. .... [And] nearly all people I have ever met in this western society in which I live would agree to the general proposition that we need this life of practical romance; the combination of something that is strange with something that is secure. We need so to view the world as to combine an idea of wonder and an idea of welcome. We need to be happy in this wonderland without once being merely comfortable. It is THIS achievement of my creed that I shall chiefly pursue in these pages.

But I have a peculiar reason for mentioning the man in a yacht, who discovered England. For I am that man in a yacht. I discovered England. ... I am the man who with the utmost daring discovered what had been discovered before. ... [F]or this book explains how I fancied I was the first to set foot in Brighton and then found I was the last. It recounts my elephantine adventures in pursuit of the obvious. ... I am the fool of this story, and no rebel shall hurl me from my throne. I freely confess all the idiotic ambitions of the end of the nineteenth century. I did, like all other solemn little boys, try to be in advance of the age. Like them I tried to be some ten minutes in advance of the truth. And I found that I was eighteen hundred years behind it. I did strain my voice with a painfully juvenile exaggeration in uttering my truths. And I was punished in the fittest and funniest way, for I have kept my truths: but I have discovered, not that they were not truths, but simply that they were not mine. When I fancied that I stood alone I was really in the ridiculous position of being backed up by all Christendom. It may be, Heaven forgive me, that I did try to be original; but I only succeeded in inventing all by myself an inferior copy of the existing traditions of civilized religion. The man from the yacht thought he was the first to find England; I thought I was the first to find Europe. I did try to found a heresy of my own; and when I had put the last touches to it, I discovered that it was orthodoxy [the right faith]."

This is a fragment from G.K. Chesterton's famous introduction to his remarkable and fascinating book, Orthodoxy. It relates to the Advent path in many ways; for one, because Advent, just like any other season of the liturgical year, or any recurring feast, is an attempt and opportunity to "rediscover" the familiar, to find again the strange and the surprising in what we thought we knew so well, to be shocked anew by what we are tempted to take for granted. 

And what makes the surprise, the shock, the (re)discovery possible, is the fact that the truth, while never-changing, is ever-fresh, and ever-young - it is alive, and is life. While error, while always seemingly new and attractive and diverse, always turns out to be, at the end of the day, repetitive, the same, same old same old error - and rooted in un-living, and ultimately dead. 

One, then, is the renewed promise of romance and hope (and, as Chesterton mentioned, who does not need that?); while the other always turns out to be prosaic everydayness and mediocrity - and with the solidity and duration of dust.  

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 12

"Comfort, give comfort to my people,

says your God.

Speak to the heart of Jerusalem, and proclaim to her

that her servitude has ended
...

In the wilderness prepare the way of the Lord!

Make straight in the wasteland a highway for our God!

Every valley shall be lifted up,

every mountain and hill made low;

The rugged land shall be a plain,

the rough country, a broad valley.

Then the glory of the Lord shall be revealed"

These are the words of one of the prophets of Israel, Isaiah. Who were these "prophets"? Quite simply, they were people who, often against their will, followed the irresistible call to speak out to the chosen people, and to convey to them - to remind them of - "the truth;" which often meant pointing out how they have strayed from the path of truth - from God. The "prophets," therefore, by being mouthpieces of this inner truth, acted as the conscience of the people of Israel - along the long road to, and awaiting of, the Messiah.  

The so-called "Old Testament" is the collection of historical, prophetic, legislative, philosophical and poetic texts that (overall) expresses the story of the relationship between the twelve tribes of Israel, and the God of the universe with whom they had entered into a covenant (thus becoming His "chosen people"). This relationship was not static, however, but happened in time, and was thus historical, and had a direction; it was in fact the historical-spiritual road that Israel followed, through history, toward the goal (which was the advent of the Messiah who would remake and redeem Israel - and everything else).

This is why the "New Testament" (which is made of narratives and of letters that cover the birth, life, death and resurrection of the Messiah, and then the beginnings of the community of those who will follow him) only makes sense if one truly understands that it is the fulfilment of that long road of Israel (covered in the "Old Testament").

The words of the prophets, therefore, while addressing the people of Israel at a particular historical moment (as described in the Old Testament), also connect with and talk about the events of the like of Christ (described in the "New Testament"). And this is why the narratives of the "evangelists" (the four writers who tell the story of the life of Christ in the New Testament) are replete with references to, and quotes from, the "Old Testament." 

Isaiah's words, mentioned above, are thus quoted by several of the evangelists, in connection with the mission and work of John the Baptist; as in Luke, who talks about how 

"during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John the son of Zechariah in the desert. He went throughout the whole region of the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah: 'A voice of one crying out in the desert: Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths. Every valley shall be filled and every mountain and hill shall be made low. The winding roads shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth, and all flesh shall see the salvation of God." 

This is said by Luke in connection with John the Baptist, whose public activity took place just before Jesus of Nazareth began his public work - and whose mission (John's) was to prepare that public mission of Christ, by asking the people to get ready for it, internally - to make ready their souls to receive (the words of) the Christ.         

And the same words from Isaiah are also read during the period of Advent. Once again, it seems, we are like the people of Israel, grasping through the darkness of time, in expectation of the advent of the Messiah, an expectation that is guided by faith and hope. 

At the same time, we also have the benefit of hindsight (because we have the New Testament) - and thus we can look at, and understand, the Birth of Christ from the perspective of what happened thereafter: his life, words, death and resurrection. The Birth of Christ is thus, for us, imbued with meanings both from the Old and from the New Testament. We are thus addressed both by the prophets of old (Isaiah), and by the voice calling in the desert (John); their message being, essentially, the same - that (contrary to expectations) the arrival of the Messiah, while a visible event, in the shape of the birth of a child, will only become understandable and accessible as an internal event. Because he will not be born to become the ruler of any worldly, visible kingdom - but of a spiritual kingdom, the kingdom of the truth - the Kingdom of God. 

Accordingly, preparing to receive this "king," although expressed by the prophets through "external images" - mountain, road, valley - is actually a matter of inner preparations,. Of making straight the crooked path, levelling the mountains, of filling up the valleys - of our souls, within our hearts. Thus the only way to access and make sense of the birth of the Messiah, of this strange child who is supposed to be King  - is by readying for him the realm that he truly comes to rule - that is, our souls. Because it is there - in the inner realm - that the spiritual kingdom for which Christ came, to be its king - is to be established. 

These prophets, therefore, old and new, are the voices of conscience for us, as well - just like they were that for the people of Israel, and for the contemporaries of Christ; reminding us unceasingly of the truth, and of our straying from that path of truth - and calling us "to prepare." And this is the meaning of Advent - to be a period, or opportunity, for that necessary inner preparation - without which the Birth celebrated at Christmas remains only an external, passing event.

An Advent Calendar: Day 11

The three "magi," or "wise men," or "kings from the Orient," who "followed the star" to find the Christ child in Bethlehem, symbolize - and factually represent - the "pagan" (i.e. non-Jewish) world's search for the truth, which led them to the same end, or result, as the chosen people's expectation of their Messiah. "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life," will say later the adult Christ; and, just like the mono-theistic God of Israel was not actually a god of a people, like the many other polytheistic gods, but, while choosing a people for himself (Israel), was acknowledged even by them as the one God of the entire universe, and the Creator of all that is; so the Christ, later called the Son of God, while born in a marginal province, does not represent a "provincial," or "particular" answer to the quest for the truth - but is the Truth. The Truth, as in the answer to the quests of all the true philosophers ("the lovers of Wisdom") and of all the righteous people no matter the time (BC or AD) or place in which they lived. 

The "three wise men," therefore, who will bring gifts and will adore the newborn Child (the Truth), are a symbolic and also factual accomplishment of the multimillenial quest for truth of humankind itself. Our own Advent, therefore, harkens back to the journey of these three men, which they endeavored guided by the frail light of human reason and knowledge - and of the "star." And yet their pursuit was rewarded in an extraordinary fashion - as they became part of the very, very small society of those who first had a glimpse at, and access to, the newborn Truth. It is worth thinking, therefore, at their journey, as we endeavor our own Advent journey; their journey which, while supported by human reason and knowledge, was most probably pursued in constant incertitude, and thus was in fact led by hope (since they could not know if their endeavor was not completely futile), and by a kind of faith. 

Giorgione - The Three Philosophers (1508-09)

Gislebertus - Dream of the Magi (1120-30)

Sassetta - The Journey of the Magi (c.1435)

       

An Advent Calendar: Day 10

Sometimes the accustomed, oft-repeated words lose some of their poignancy, of their edge; it is a natural and very human process, no matter how beautiful these words might have been, in their original form and meaning. In such moments, though, perhaps a rephrasing, a re-expression that goes directly to the lived, everyday experience (instead of the metaphor) is one of the paths to follow, in order to regain that original freshness of meaning. 

The much beloved song, "Ave Maria" - more precisely, "Schubert's Ave Maria" - is in fact an adaptation of a piece written by Franz Schubert, as part of his seven song suite that was based on Walter Scott's poem, The Lady of the Lake. Thus, what we now know as "Schubert's Ave Maria" is an adaptation of "Ellen's Third Song" from said suite; a song which, in its original as well, is a prayer to Mary; but whose Scottian lyrics were replaced with the words of the traditional "Hail Mary" ("full of grace...") prayer. Beautiful music, Schubert's composition - and beautiful words, of the traditional prayer... but by now this is a song so often sung - and sung, more often than not, unsubtly, and "for effect" (relying on a given, guaranteed effect), that I wonder if its real beauty and content have not been obscured by now (at least a bit) for many of us. It is like Leonardo's Mona Lisa or The Last Supper; everybody knows these objects, and that they are supposed to be "important" and "beautiful;" so much so that by now their "fame" and "radiated image" have in fact obscured (for most viewers) the direct access to, and encounter with, the artistic object itself. 

While I do not think that that is necessarily the case with the "Hail Mary" prayer itself (although that, too, can happen, of course), it certainly is when it comes to the song, to "Schubert's Ave Maria". Especially since, as said, most of the interpretations that we usually hear are, at the end of the day, unsubtle, inattentive, hurried; they always remain superficial, because they rely mostly on the superficial and guaranteed effect that this song will have on the listeners. Sort of a "greatest hit" syndrome. 

It is in this context, then, that I was so pleasantly surprised by, and taken with, Jessye Norman's interpretation of the original "Ellen's Third Song" (which, as said, is a Marian prayer, as well)  - a performance that I found so refreshing: fresh both with artistic beauty, and with meaning. And this has to do, on the one hand, with Ms. Norman's interpretation, which enthralls one with the care and close attention given to each line, vibrato, emphasis and intensification - and to the clear pronunciation of the German words, as well. Because, yes, the lyrics also contribute to the effect - lyrics which are, in fact, the very earthly, grounded prayer of (what sounds like) an ordinary girl.

For example:

"Listen to a maiden’s entreaty

... We shall sleep safely until morning,

however cruel men may be."  etc.

Not very high-minded, not very metaphorical, but immediate and genuine-sounding, and therefore persuasive; these are the words that any girl might or could say, as her evening prayer, isn't it? 

And these two factors - the attentive and delicate musical performance, and the accessible, immediate, and thus fresh anew words, contribute to making "Schubert's Ave Maria" song that we (think we) know so well, fresh again - with reinvigorated meaning (because what is Ave Maria if not the simple evening prayer of a simple man), and with rediscovered admiration for the subtle beauty of the music.   

Lyrics [German / English]:

Ellens Gesang III

Ave Maria! Jungfrau mild,

Erhöre einer Jungfrau Flehen,

Aus diesem Felsen starr und wild

Soll mein Gebet zu dir hinwehen.

Wir schlafen sicher bis zum Morgen,

Ob Menschen noch so grausam sind.

O Jungfrau, sieh der Jungfrau Sorgen,

O Mutter, hör ein bittend Kind!

Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! Unbefleckt!

Wenn wir auf diesen Fels hinsinken

Zum Schlaf, und uns dein Schutz bedeckt

Wird weich der harte Fels uns dünken.

Du lächelst, Rosendüfte wehen

In dieser dumpfen Felsenkluft,

O Mutter, höre Kindes Flehen,

O Jungfrau, eine Jungfrau ruft!

Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! Reine Magd!

Der Erde und der Luft Dämonen,

Von deines Auges Huld verjagt,

Sie können hier nicht bei uns wohnen.

Wir woll’n uns still dem Schicksal beugen,

Da uns dein heil’ger Trost anweht;

Der Jungfrau wolle hold dich neigen,

Dem Kind, das für den Vater fleht.

Ave Maria!

Ellen's Song III

Ave Maria! Maiden mild!

Listen to a maiden’s entreaty

from this wild unyielding rock

my prayer shall be wafted to you.

We shall sleep safely until morning,

however cruel men may be.

O Maiden, behold a maiden’s cares,

O Mother, hear a suppliant child!

Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! Undefiled!

When we sink down upon this rock

to sleep, and your protection hovers over us,

the hard rock shall seem soft to us.

You smile, and the fragrance of roses

wafts through this musty cavern.

O Mother, hear a suppliant child,

O Maiden, a maiden cries to you!

Ave Maria!

Ave Maria! Purest Maiden!

Demons of the earth and air,

banished by the grace of your gaze,

cannot dwell with us here.

Let us silently bow to our fate,

since your holy comfort touches us;

incline in grace to a maiden,

to a child that prays for its father.

Ave Maria!

 

* Today, December 8, being also the feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary.             

An Advent Calendar: Day 8

As indicated on Day 1, Rorate Caeli is a traditional chant sung on each of the Sundays of Advent, one verse at a time. Rorate becomes thus a refrain that accompanies us, and marks the main stops, along the road of Advent, each verse deepening our understanding and living out of its meaning, and getting us closer to the awaited goal. This is similar to how on each Sunday a new candle is lit on the Advent wreath, signifying (among others) the modest, incremental, but very real increase of "the light;" that, while we are still walking through the darkness of the night, we are (through faith, and not by sight) approaching the arrival of the Light of the world.  

Second Sunday of Advent

Refrain:

Rorate caeli desuper,

Et nubes pluant justum.

Drop down dew, you heavens, from above

And let the clouds rain the Just One.

 

Verse Two:

Peccavimus, et facti sumus

Tamquam immundus nos,

Et cecidimus quasi folium universi:

Et iniquitates nostrae

Quasi ventus abstulerunt nos:

Abscondisti faciem tuam a nobis,

Et allisisti nos

In manu iniquitatis nostrae.

We have sinned, and we are made

Like unto our uncleanness,

And we have all fallen like a leaf:

And our iniquities

Have carried us away like the wind.

You have hidden your face from us

And you have crushed us

In the hand of our iniquity.

[Verse Two begins at 1:18]

An Advent Calendar: Day 7

 "One dark night,

fired with love's urgent longings ...

I went out unseen, my house being now all stilled. ...

 

On that glad night ...

with no other light or guide

than the one that burned in my heart.

 

This guided me

more surely than the light of noon

to where he was awaiting me

- him I knew so well - ...

 

O guiding night!

O night more lovely than the dawn!

O night that has united 

the Lover with his beloved,

transforming the beloved in her Lover."

 

This is a fragment from the mystical poetry of John of the Cross (1542-1591); more precisely, from his famous poem, The Dark Night. John of the Cross' poetry is a powerful (and, of course, lyrical) expression of his spirituality (or spiritual path), which is commonly associated with the spiritual experience of the so-called "dark night of the faith" (among other things).

More simply, though, and perhaps more immediately, the poem quoted above can be read as a poignant expression of the nature of faith itself - faith, which is nothing else but one's answer to the irresistible (and yet often resisted) call of Love, of the Lover, of the One who loved us first. And, while following this call is as "going through a dark night," faith being the only - unseen yet reliable - light that guides us, this is nonetheless the path that takes one to the joy of man's desire - the already beloved, to the Lover.   

An Advent Calendar: Day 6

 

Claude Lorrain, Landscape with Rest in Flight to Egypt (1647)

What I like about this picture (zoomable version here) is the inconspicuousness of the (young) holy family, almost lost (seemingly) amidst the immensity of the landscape, and (apparently) obscured by the busy-ness of daily life depicted in the foreground. Indeed, one might have to read the title of the painting, first, in order to realize its "subject" (inverted commas, because Claude Lorrain was, first and foremost, a landscape painter). 

It takes attention, then, and a certain kind of "tuning," to observe and to pay attention to the element of the landscape whose importance actually surpasses that of everything else in the picture - notwithstanding what our eyes might tell us, initially. 

And yet the rest of the picture remains beautiful, and the everyday scene remains fascinating. And yet they all receive a different meaning, once the horizon of the painting is re-centered (not visually, but in our understanding) around this new focal point (which is interior, not exterior). 

However, this inversion of meaning(s) is up to the "reader," to the one who engages with the scene. In this duality - natural beauty and daily business vs. the spiritual reality in its humble guise - the choice is always with the subject who engages this complex reality..     

An Advent Calendar: Day 5

"The wisdom of the world is this. To say, There is 
No other wisdom but to gulp what time can give.
    To guard no inward vision winged with mysteries;
    To hear no voices haunt the hurrying hours we live;
    To keep no faith with ghostly friends; never to know
    Vigils of sorrow crowned when loveless passions fade...
From wisdom such as this to find my gloom I go,
Companioned by those powers who keep me unafraid."

This is a poem by Siegfried Sassoon, one of those famous WWI poets. The First World War, where the flower of England  - and of the other countries - went, carried on the wings of illusions, and perished - or came back utterly changed. And what resulted from this experience was either the swinging twenties, with the insatiable drive to gulp down all of the ephemerality of life; or, on the other hand, perhaps a renewed understanding of the meaning of one's time, of the time given to us (see above). Indeed, in those miserable trenches, in frozen mud, surviving day after day of monotonous deathly dread, one was faced with brutal immediacy with the question about the end (or, what Thomas More and many others in the tradition called "the four last things"). More simply put; one was inevitably and physically faced with the need to look at one's life "from the end backwards," and of re-valuing and re-evaluating it from that perspective: how one has lived, and how one lives. And, if not right then and there in the trenches, where one's main duty and worry was survival, then thereafter, or in a time of quiet. 

As indicated in the poem, what results from such a glance backwards from the end is an apparently paradoxical conclusion. That hanging on in despair to the perishable fruits of the fleeing moment is actually the recipe of sorrow; and that the hanging on to the truths that transcend the immediate minute is the path of everlasting hope.

An Advent Calendar: Day 4

"London. ... Implacable November weather. As much mud in the streets as if the waters had but newly retired from the face of the earth. ... Smoke lowering down from chimney-pots, making a soft black drizzle, with flakes of soot in it as big as full-grown snowflakes—gone into mourning, one might imagine, for the death of the sun. Dogs, undistinguishable in mire. Horses, scarcely better; splashed to their very blinkers. Foot passengers, jostling one another's umbrellas in a general infection of ill temper, and losing their foot-hold at street-corners, where tens of thousands of other foot passengers have been slipping and sliding since the day broke (if this day ever broke), adding new deposits to the crust upon crust of mud, sticking at those points tenaciously to the pavement, and accumulating at compound interest.

Fog everywhere. Fog up the river, where it flows among green aits and meadows; fog down the river, where it rolls defiled among the tiers of shipping and the waterside pollutions of a great (and dirty) city. ... Fog creeping into the cabooses of collier-brigs; fog lying out on the yards and hovering in the rigging of great ships; fog drooping on the gunwales of barges and small boats. ... Chance people on the bridges peeping over the parapets into a nether sky of fog, with fog all round them, as if they were up in a balloon and hanging in the misty clouds.

Gas looming through the fog in divers places in the streets, much as the sun may, from the spongey fields, be seen to loom by husbandman and ploughboy. Most of the shops lighted two hours before their time—as the gas seems to know, for it has a haggard and unwilling look. ...

On such an afternoon, if ever, ..."

This fragment from Charles Dickens' Bleak House gives us a glimpse (foggy, muddy, half-perceptible) of nineteenth-century London, more specifically of a November in nineteenth-century London. Things are as if half-seen, dark, and ill-tempered. But must this be nineteenth-century London? Could this not be any-century any-city, and any other November of inner-outer gloom? Could this not be B.C., as much as A.D.? Are we all - them, in that London; us, today; and any-November, in any-place - are we all not equally in the same desperate need for a permanent dissipation of the gloom, and for the arrival (advent) of a lasting light? Plus ça change... the more it changes, the more it stays the same; the same state, this natural state, the human condition, and its deep and indelible need for a change, a transformation, that is not transitory and impermanent, no longer just socio-political or economic - but existential, everlasting, and definitive. 

Advent is a time of expectation during which we can become again aware of this deep and fundamental human need and longing... by realizing again the contrast between the ever-November of any place and any moment in human history, and the coming Nativity of the everlasting Light that we all desire. 

An Advent Calendar: Day 3

The image featured today, of the "Virgin and Child with St Catherine and St Barbara" (1520-25), painted by the so-called Master of the Holy Blood, might be somewhat inappropriate for the Advent season that we are marking (as it depicts the Virgin with the already-born Child). However, it might also be useful for other purposes, of deepening our understanding of the Advent season that we are going through. 

Just like the other "seasons" of the liturgical year, the Advent season slices up the astronomical (cosmic, calendar) year into sections which hearken back to and re-present (i.e. make present again) key moments or periods from salvation history (the history of the relationship of God with his people, with mankind). By doing that, they transport us into that moment of salvation history, and elevate us to a different plane of meaning. This is how, as we mentioned, the Advent that we live through each year is a re-living of the period of expectation that Israel itself, and mankind itself, experienced and lived through, before and leading up to, the birth of the Son of Man.   

Today's painting, then, is a good illustration of the same mechanisms and connections, of the same plays with different kinds of "time" and meanings.

While painted in the sixteenth century, this triptych depicts interactions and relationships that span fifteen hundred years. At the center of the frame is the Virgin and the Child (first century), adored (and physically touched) by St Catherine (fourteenth century) and St Barbara (third century, Byzantine). On the side wings of the triptych, the two donors (who paid for the making of this painting, and thus contemporary - from the sixteenth century) are depicted, each of them being supported by their patron saint (St Joachim, by tradition the father of the Virgin, and thus first century) and St Judocus (seventh century). In the background, other scenes from salvation history or from the lives of these saints are depicted, spanning various centuries of cosmic time. 

And yet, no matter this crisscrossing through various moments and periods of historical time  the story depicted is coherent, as it all takes place in the extratemporal "now," in the everlasting "present," of eternity. The eternity of God, which is also the eternity of faith. 

But let us return again to the painting, and notice that the buildings and habitations depicted are all contemporary (i.e. sixteenth century); in fact, there might even be a Christian church (!) on the hill to the left (which would be highly incongruous with a historical depiction of the infant Jesus and of his Mother). Continuing with this temporally-rooted examination, one will also notice that all the characters, while belonging to different eras and culture (and perhaps excluding the Virgin and the Child), are dressed in "contemporary" fashion - in the fashion of the time (sixteenth century), and of the place (Northern Europe - current Belgium). 

What is happening here? Surely the author was well aware of these "historical" or "cultural inconsistencies." Of course. But dressing the characters of salvation history, and of the history of the Church, in contemporary gowns, and situating them in the context of our day, of this moment, and of our surroundings, also carries a very powerful message. Namely, that we are all part of the same "story", a story that is not past, but actual and immediate; and that, notwithstanding the accidents of geographic or temporal differences, we all partake in the same human condition, and in the same sacred condition (in terms of our relationship to the eternal God). 

The danger, as Kierkegaard pointed out, and as illustrated in a recent film by Terrence Malick, rests exactly in the attempt to use temporality (historical distance) as an excuse and as protection, against facing the radical questions and provocations of salvation history: of facing the infant Jesus, of being looked in the eyes by the Christ. 

Living - truly living - the seasons of Advent is thus a means of bridging this faux gap and bypassing this temptation, as it puts us right in the middle of the great questions, and of the great invitation: such as the question of "What is truth?", which Pilate asked, when faced with Christ; and the invitation "Venite adoremus" (oh, come let us adore him), which is the invitation of Nativity offered to us, today, just like it was offered, contemporaneously, to the magi or to the shepherds.

 

An Advent Calendar: Day 1

Advent is the name for the season that precedes Christmas. The meaning of Advent is to be a time of quiet expectation and inner preparation for the coming ("adventus") of the long-awaited Messiah. In fact, the entire historical period preceding the birth of the Christ could be considered to have been a kind of an Advent; that period during which the people of Israel hoped and lost hope, strayed but were chastised, and returned to the path of God, and then strayed again - all the while continuing on that path and "covenantal mission" of awaiting the coming of the Messiah, who would renew not just Israel, but heaven and earth themselves. And the Gentiles, too, even without knowing it, were they not going  through a kind of an Advent? Being in the darkness, does one not desire, inherently, the Light? Being deprived of it, does one not thirst, inherently, for the Truth?        

Our yearly Advent parallels thus, in a way, the historical period that preceded the birth of the Messiah. We, too, grasp, hope and lose hope, believe and stray from it - and yet, inherently, qua human beings, can not but long and desire for the Truth, the Good, the Light. And, just like the people of Israel, we too are called to make straight our roads, to level our mountains, and thus to prepare the way (in our hearts) for the arrival of the Lord; and to do this every year, as we prepare for the Nativity.   

That is the purpose of Advent; but, at the same time, how can Christmas itself have any meaning, without the Advent? The apparently satiated one does not thirst! The apparently satisfied - self-satisfied, or satisfied with the world - does not see the need for renewing heaven and earth. What meaning can the Arrival have, without an Expectation thereof?  

...

In many places in Europe a tradition of the Advent Calendar developed, as a physical aid and accompaniment during this yearly season of expectation and preparation. Typically, an Advent calendar has a number of "windows," corresponding to the number of days between the beginning of Advent and the Birth of Christ (December 25). Opening each window, one usually finds a treat or a nugget of some sort - maybe a chocolate, maybe a holy image, maybe a quote - all of which are meant to ease one's thirst, a bit, and thus to renew one's strength and perseverance during this time of waiting, expectation and preparation.   

What I will propose, then, is a kind of contemplative and meditative, artistic and spiritual, sacred and profane, virtual Advent Calendar - perhaps helping us along the way, and perhaps reflecting (on) our condition as pilgrims on this road of Advent.

 

Day 1 - First Sunday of Advent

This is the traditional Advent chant, Rorate Caeli, that is sung on the Sundays of Advent (one verse each Sunday). Its refrain expresses, through simple but very poetic imagery, the desire and thirst for the "opening of the skies" and the raining down of the Just who will quench man's infinite thirst (and thirst for the Infinite).

Refrain:  

Rorate caeli desuper,

Et nubes pluant justum.

Drop down dew, you heavens, from above

And let the clouds rain the Just One.

Verse One:

Ne irascaris Domine,

Ne ultra memineris iniquitatis:

Ecce civitas Sancti facta est deserta:

Sion deserta facta est:

Jerusalem desolata est:

Domus sanctificationis tuae

Et gloriae tuae,

Ubi laudaverunt te patres nostri.

Do not be angry, O Lord,

Nor remember iniquity forever:

Behold the Holy City is made a desert,

Zion has been made a desert,

Jerusalem is desolate:

The house of thy holiness and thy glory,

Where our fathers praised thee.

The Category of Joy (7)

After our Easter Octave investigation into the category of joy, which we endeavored without pretensions of exhaustiveness, or even of utter precision – and during which we looked at the state of joy as being associated with (artistic) creation, with (a type of, or a state of) laughter, with the act of marriage, with unconditional love and with sacrifice, and finally with Resurrection (or what follows after the Resurrection) – after this week-long series of discussions, then, perhaps it is time now to draw a line and to summarize what we have learned, proposing some...

7. Conclusions

And what have we learned? Well, essentially, that the state of joy seems to be associated with a (true) expression of being. And we saw this in artistic expression (or creation) – with the artist who, like a bird, can but sing... And we saw this, in a similar, “natural” fashion, in the case of children at play – who are unruly, like “wild animals”, unless they are tamed and guided – but in whose play there is an inherent goodness, being the natural expression of their (pre-moral, or on-the-way-to-becoming-moral) being.

But here we get into more troublesome territory, and closer to error – by which I mean all the misguided attempts at pursuing “joy” - that is, all that generally passes under the name of “pursuit of happiness”, yet is lived as a pursuit of self-satisfaction, of self-enjoyment (in various guises). Yes, there is a natural goodness to being. However, our human condition also contains the choice  - of the right living out of being, or of the wrong living out thereof; and the difference between these alternatives is that one of them is actually truthful to the true order of our being – while the other one is not.

And the best example in this regard, and one that we discussed this past week, is marriage – understood as a re-enactment or, even more so, as a living out of the original truth of the human condition: “Man and woman he created them... in the image of God he created them... [and] God looked ... and found it very good” (Gen 1:27, 31) Yes, one felt a sense of peace, of serenity, of an act being in accordance with “how things should be” (in our own, and in general existence) – when one looked at that statuary group depicting the betrothal. There is, thus, a choice – for us, moral animals – of living according to the truth of our being (and of Being, itself) – or not.

And this choice is the choice of what is truer, better, greater - over what is less so (or even the opposite). And we saw this choice being lived out both in the example of marriage (as choosing one person means rejecting all others, forever), and of the monks of La Grande Chartreuse (or of the Trappist monastery of the Tibhirine). As these monks explained in the film sequences included, theirs was a choice of a greater happiness, of a greater love; greater, in the sense of truer and more complete.

Detail of the Transfiguration Mosaic
from the Basilica of Sant'Apollinare in Classe (6th century) 

The state of joy, then, is not some shallow, ir-responsible, selfish seeking of enjoyment and pleasure, of “fun”. Instead it seems to be a calmer, deeper state of being – in which our being is more truthful to what it truly is, and to what it truly desires – and thus to the true order of existence. And this can mean a living out of the natural self, as in the case of the artist and of the child - pre-moral, as it were, but soon enough needing to be guided by a moral choice: the artist needing discipline, and to say no to self-seeking exhibitionism, in order to remain truthful to his vocation; and the child needing to be guided and to be reined in, so that his joy may be complete. And it can also mean a sacrificial pursuit of the true order, of the truth of our selves - for example, as in marriage, or as in a life completely consecrated to the Being that is the Source of our being.

And we used the term “sacrificial”, and we discussed it – to immediately see that this is, in fact, a voluntary, and most delightful and pleasurable sacrifice (although, yes, it does include a “no” to certain impulses or parts of our selves, and it might include pain), because it is done joyously, out of love (marriage), and drawn by love (monastic vocation). Love... if ever there was a more misunderstood, misconstrued, oft-misused expression! And yet, in the case of this term, “love”, as well, the same distinction can easily help us: between a self-seeking love (pleasure, enjoyment, satisfaction of oneself) - and a self-giving love (of marriage; of monastic life; of unconditional love).

And, indeed, we did talk about unconditional love, as well, as a sort of a basis or condition for joy – namely, for the expression and manifestation of being. For example, as in the case of the watchful gaze and continued care of the grandmother (unrecognized, anonymized), which allows for the children to play. Or, on a grander – or deeper – scale, the unconditional love of, as it is written, the “heavenly Father, [who] makes his sun rise on the bad and the good, and causes rain to fall on the just and the unjust” (Mt. 5:45) – the constitutive foundation of the being of us all.

What do I mean? Well, the fact that - just like with the clueless children, or the fish in the pond – we simply find ourselves within being, and with being; in other words, that our being is not something of our own making, but is an unconditional, unmerited, free gift that we have received - and continue to receive. Being, then, seems to be a fruit of an unconditional love in action; and this is why the monks we cited talk about responding to a love (because we are not the initiators of this relationship of being).

And this takes us to the Resurrection – and to the “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” of the Messiah chorus - which are the eternalized interjections expressing being, or life, finally and eternally victorious - that is, “being” without end.

In fact, the tremendous Easter Triduum (the three days, from the Last Supper, to the Resurrection) illustrates in a concentrated fashion the essential drama of all that we have been trying to express: the sacrifice that seems to be an inevitable corollary of choosing the good (or the truth of our being; as in the marriage choice, as in the monks' choice – and as in the cross of Good Friday), and the victory of Being, definitive, complete, and unalterable (over its apparent opposite – death, non-being, the diminishing of being, the corruption of being). This is how and why we associated “joy” with “Resurrection” – or, in fact, with what comes after the Resurrection. Because, if joy is the expression of being, then Resurrection (eternal life) is the final, complete, and definitive victory of being – its full manifestation. A state in which the members of the choir (which sings those “amens”) partake in the Being who is the very Source of our beings - in the unconditional Love that made us and that keeps our being in existence. Like the child who is drawn to the lap of the grandmother, so being tends toward the source of Being, which is Love.

Because being is - our self is - inherently dialogical, social, open to the other; yes, this is another thing that we have discovered, or that was confirmed, yet again, over this past week. And, since being is dialogical – so is joy; and thus we noticed that every manifestation of the state of joy also entails a relationship with, or at least an openness toward, an other (explicitly or implicitly, visibly or invisibly). This is true for the artistic act – for the child watched over by the grandmother – for marriage, essentially – and for the monks – and, of course, for Resurrection. Because Resurrection (or, more precisely, what follows thereafter) is a dialogical eternal life – a life with the Other (and with the others).

But let us conclude, here, this Easter Octave-occasioned, modest attempt at an investigation into the state of joy - into its manifestations, forms and expressions – and, finally, into its nature. We have listed all of our conclusions - or, the gist of them – above.

What remains to be talked about, perhaps – in a very brief postlude – is laughter. Yes, back to “laughter” – but, as explained, a specific kind or state of laughter. Yes, laughter, because I find it a most handy, accessible, universally available experience – or, at least, sign - of that state of joy that is the expression of true being. Again, we are referring here to a specific kind of laughter – which is the simple, free (childlike), and exuberant expression of the joy of existence itself - but also (implicitly) of the dignity and transcendence of the self, over and against the (sometimes) oppressive, burdensome, reductionist aspects of historical and material existence. A laughter that is the thumbing of one’s nose at the self-seriousness of what are – ultimately – "unserious", passing things. (And, for a manifestation of such laughter, see again the scene with the Carthusian monks sliding down the snowy hillside, in the Alps, not far from La Grande Chartreuse.)

And you can even take this – this idea of laughter - with you as a bookmark, perhaps - to remind you (and us), from time to time, of that state of joy that we have been discussing - that is associated (or so it seems) with the living out of our being, in its plenitude, truth, and openness toward the other (the Other).

The Category of Joy (6)

And...

6. Joy as Resurrection

This is – famously – the very last part of Georg Friedrich Händel’s oratorio, Messiah; and the story is that, after composing this piece, Handel came out of his study and said, “I have seen [or experienced] Heaven!” Now, one could put this (his exclamation) down to a sort of aesthetic exaggeration; and, yes, the story is apocryphal. However, the fact is that I do find this final “Amen” chorus to be a most moving and powerful figuration of the Resurrection – or, more accurately and precisely, of what follows after the Resurrection – of life, eternal and glorious.

Of course, the entire work, Messiah, is a monumental feat of artistic genius. Musically, of course! – but what I am referring to here is its very core concept, of using only (or mostly) texts that are not from the Gospels, in order to tell the story... of the Gospels. In other words, using texts mostly from the Old Testament (the Jewish Bible) - to tell the story of the life of Christ (which is the central story of the New Testament), from his birth, to his death and resurrection. To tell an entire, momentous story, using only (or mostly) indirect language... prefiguration, metaphor, analogy, prophetic language – what a feat of artistic (and spiritual) inspiration! But I did not come to praise Handel – although that is most deserved, certainly – but to give a little bit of a background, which might help contextualize that very last chorus, “Amen”.

So, back to the chorus, let’s ask ourselves what does this word "amen" (of Jewish origin) actually signify? Well, in brief, it is an expression, affirmation and confirmation that something truly is; a “yes”, a “verily”, a “truthfully so” given to... well, to what is this “yes” given, in the oratorio? In the Messiah, the “Amen” chorus follows right after a piece that intones, “Worthy Is the Lamb”: “Worthy is the Lamb that was slain, and hath redeemed us to God by his blood, to receive power, and riches, and wisdom, and strength, and honour, and glory, and blessing... for ever and ever.” In other words, the “Amen” chorus is preceded and prepared by a brief restatement of the death (on a cross) of the Lamb - and by a statement of the victory of the Lamb over said death (victorious act that is usually expressed through the word, "resurrection").

And what does this word, “resurrection”, mean? Etymologically, it means to rise again (in Latin: resurgere) – or, to rise from the dead (in Church Latin: resurrectionem). And what is “death”? It is, apparently, the radical opposite, the sworn enemy, the end and the destruction, of life.  But! - not here! – as here the Lamb that was slain passes from life temporal – through death – to life eternal (through the act of Resurrection). Thus, “O Death, where is thy sting?”, sing the soloists, in a preceding section of the oratorio... The “amen” that comes at the very end of the oratorio, therefore, does not mark the "end" of the story of Christ - but is a repeated and confirmed affirmation of the fact that there is no end.

The meaning and the aftermath of the act of the Resurrection is, then, the definitive and ultimate victory of life, over death –. and the repeated “amen!” is given to that victory of life. And, listening to this chorus, we hear the musical lines (sung, as it were, by millions upon millions...) flowing up and down, swelling, overtaking each other, overflowing - “amen”, upon “amen”, upon “amen” – an eternalized crescendo of the eternal joy of the victory of life, eternal and glorious. “Amen”, then, becomes an expression of the unending joy of witnessing and of partaking in Life, eternal - in being, accomplished and fulfilled.

As we have seen in the previous installments of our investigation, the state of joy seems to be associated, in a deep way, with being - with the plenitude and the full manifestation of our being. Resurrection, on the other hand, is precisely the definitive victory of being - over and against what apparently is its very opposite, death (and, more broadly, over finiteness, imperfection, temporality, misery...) And this is why I have proposed this equivalence, of “joy as Resurrection” - and why I have used, as illustration, the final chorus from Handel's Messiah – because this final “Amen” seems to be an expression of the joy of Being - Being unending, glorious, victorious.

Indeed, I find this “Amen” chorus so uplifting and moving because it proclaims the eternal victory of Being - through the continuous, repeated, magnificent – joyous – affirmation of the simple yet powerful expression: “IT IS” (“amen”).

***

And thus we have reached the end (almost) of our inquiry into the category of joy. What remains to be done, still, is to review and to conclusively summarize what we have learned from this week- (or Octave-) long investigation; and that is what we will do in tomorrow’s, final installment of this modest series.

The Category of Joy (5)

What is joy? Continuing our investigation...

5. Joy as Sacrifice

At first sight (and not just at first sight), these terms seem incongruous. And, if someone is familiar with Mother Teresa of Calcutta’s experience of the “dark night of the soul”, the picture below might seem slightly inadequate, as well.

What could this mean, then – this, “joy as sacrifice”? Well, let’s just think of the example of the grandmother, as discussed in yesterday’s installment of our little investigative series – who was the “giver” in that relationship of unconditional love, which the receiver lived out as (a condition of) joy; and let us remember that we asked ourselves then whether “joy” might actually be found (felt) at that giver’s end, as well, and not just at the receiver’s. How can we answer that question? Well, what do we know about the “giver” of unconditional love? We know that such giving of (and from) the self is – or implies, inevitably - an act of self-denial, of self-sacrifice – and that, as such, it also incurs, inevitably, pain, as well. So why does the grandmother do that? Out of love, would be the immediate answer – yet this is no sentimental, fluffy, romantic love, but the actual, harsh love of self-giving (giving of the self, and from the self). And, being an act of true love, there is in it – or behind it, beneath it -  a deep sense of joy, as well, a joy that is associated with living out what appears to be the vocation of the human being – which is, essentially, the giving of the self to(ward) the other. (Note that the same act of self-gift, but in reciprocal form, is what constitutes that “unity of man and woman” that was discussed in yet another earlier episode of this series).

It seems therefore that sacrifice is an aspect, or element – perhaps the visible one, the one that we perceive most readily – of what is, at a deeper level, existentially, a mysteriously joyous (?) act of self-gift (“self-gift” that is the true meaning of “love” – far from the sappy, romantic, sentimental, even self-seeking mis-understanding of the concept).

And now let us look at this thing from yet another angle, using the video below, which is taken from a documentary, Into Great Silence, which presents (with little to no commentary) the daily life of the Carthusian monks of La Grande Chartreuse (in France). It should be noted that the Carthusian order is among the so-called “strictest” contemplative orders; for example, the monks spend most of their days – even their time together, at meals or at work - in silence.

But here the aforementioned notion of “strictness” necessitates some further elaboration - and, in order to do that, let’s start by asking, “who are these monks, and why are they there?” The answer is that these are men (from different walks of life, originally, and of different origins) who have voluntarily decided to turn away from “the world”, from the temporal, in order to dedicate themselves completely, bodily and spiritually, their entire time, and life, to God. The aforementioned “strictness” of the order, therefore, is not some externally imposed, arbitrary, nonsensical rule – but it is the personal choice of each of them, to renounce the things that, in their eyes, represent a lesser or a partial good (of the world, of the temporal order), for a greater, eternal good (of God). Here is another excerpt from the same documentary, in which one of the monks talks about how their choice is, in fact, for happiness - a greater happiness.

I have chosen these examples in order to exemplify “the other side”, as it were, of sacrifice. Indeed, their style of life, of these monks, and their discipline, will seem – for many of us – very hard, even harsh; that, indeed, is the “sacrifice” part. And yet this sacrifice is but a means and a path toward what is considered by them a greater goal, a truer end – which is not dissimilar to how in marriage one in fact renounces (a sacrifice) all other possible options, all other persons – in favor of only one person - in the name of a truer and greater love. See below a short snippet (just some seconds, really) from the trailer of a movie, Of Gods and Men, which recounts the true story of a group of Trappist monks from Algeria, from the monastery of Tibhirine; in this very short sequence, an older monk, while in conversation with a young woman from the village, explains that he has known human love (which is a good), but that he has given up that kind of love, for a greater love (i.e. for Love itself).

[that sequence starts at 1:01]

Can there be, then, deep joy in sacrifice? It seems that there is - but not in a superficial, light, easy way. Instead, that deep joy seems to be the specific counterpart of a certain kind of sacrifice – one that is life-pursuing, life-searching, and life-giving. It seems also that this deep joy is associated with – and might arise from - choosing what we start to grasp as the truth of our being - while sacrificing what is only apparently or temporarily (or perhaps selfishly) so. Meanwhile, however, all of this does not remove the sting and the pain of the act of sacrifice. And yet – at least within this temporal human condition – it seems that sacrifice is almost a necessary corollary, even an inevitable condition - for the pursuit of that deeper joy.

Paradoxical, isn’t it? Well, yes, just like Good Friday is the necessary, inevitable, paradoxical path and condition – for experiencing the joy of Resurrection; so much so, that there is no resurrection without the cross. And what is “resurrection”, if not the experience of the plenitude, fullness, and accomplishment of being? But more on these, later.

And, not to leave our initial reference to Mother Teresa somehow open-ended, and inconclusive – and to further explain my initial choice of using her picture – all of this might also reflect how, in Mother Teresa's case, her inner “dark night of the soul” (her inner sacrifice, suffering) became, when turning toward us, the image and the face of unconditional love and inexpressible joy – in a very real way, for so many of us!  But these are not easy things...

So let us conclude by remarking how the state of joy that we are investigating seems to be very different from, and utterly unlike, the easy, superficial state of “having a good time”, or of “being happy” - understood as self-centered satisfaction. Indeed, we see yet again that joy seems to be an essentially outward- and other-oriented state – perhaps because our very being is essentially dialogical, and open toward the other / the Other. Finally, it seems - again - that this state of joy corresponds to a living out of - with a living according to - the truth of our being.

The Category of Joy (4)

Continuing our Easter Octave investigation into the various possible aspects, or meanings, or manifestations, of the state of joy, today let us talk about:

4. Joy as Unconditional Love

As you can see below, in order to illustrate this meaning of the concept of joy, I have chosen the image of a grandmother’s hand, holding her grandchild's hand. I am sure that, for some, an even better representation would be that of a mother’s hand, holding her child’s hand – and that is perfectly fine. There are various reasons for using this image, from my perspective – and one of them is that I consider that a grandmother’s love possesses an added dimension of frailty and vulnerability - of a love given, as it were, without authority – and thus, of gratuitousness - of unconditionality.

Still, this equivalence (and this concept, of unconditional love) is not without difficulties – first of all, because we implicitly tend to look at unconditional love from the perspective of the receiver (because this is how, instinctively, we associate it with the state of joy). But what corresponds to this “at the other end”, of the giver - a “giver” that gives so deeply, without holding back - is there also “joy”? Perhaps we should talk about this in another installment of our modest investigative series. For now, though, let us be satisfied with, and “joyous” because of, benefiting – as receivers– from this unconditional love, and let us look at the concept from this perspective.

Here again, though, we notice that the concept continues to pose difficulties - and I am referring to the fact that unconditional love, instead of being joy, seems rather to provide the condition for joy. What do I mean? Well, let’s take the example of a child (of the grandchild), for whom, more often than not, (the) unconditional love (of a grandmother) passes completely unobserved, being perceived as a natural condition of being, as normality. Later in life, of course, the ex-child will discover that nothing just is – and that what they experienced once as a given, as normality. was in fact something created, sustained, and offered to them, by someone else – mostly, without them observing. But back then, when they were at the receiving end, these children were like fish in the water, basking and swimming in it without care, unawares and unbothered by thinking about the necessary conditions... for the existence of water. And, just like said body of water, unconditional love is life-giving, life-sustaining and life-caring – even if the stupid fish seem to know nothing about it.

Thus, unconditional love seems to provide the condition for being to be - freely, in its natural state - with some good and not so good behavior, with straying and with coming back etc. You know – like the animal, in its natural habitat, doing what the animal does.

Unconditional love is thus connected with joy by being the underlying condition that allows, or that provides, for being to exist. Or, if it is joy, this unconditional love, it is that only at a deeper level, or in a deeper way; for example, at the level of a glorious summer afternoon of play from our childhood – in which we were busy with the rush and with the give-and-take of the play, with all its screams and chases, agitation and laughter – all the while not knowing and not observing that the glorious summer afternoon was – so normal, so everyday-like it all seemed. Unconditional love is like that afternoon – it is, so that we can be.

Later on, during adulthood, the former child will learn to distinguish and to notice the presence of such glorious summer afternoons - by learning to experience their absence. To put it differently, the adult will gradually learn to think about receiving unconditional love – especially in what concerns interhuman relations – as well-nigh a miracle, its possibility so remote as to be effectively dismissed (unless it is received from their still-living grandmother - or mother etc.). Until, of course, it is this adult’s turn (if it ever comes) to give that sort of unconditional love – perhaps as a grandparent - modestly, unknown, self-giving; but that, again, is a different side of the story.

To conclude, unconditional love seems to be the thing that provides the condition and the possibility for being - to be, to manifest itself, to flourish, freely. It is therefore associated with “joy” inasmuch as it seems to provide the condition (remember: life-giving, life-caring, life-maintaining) for the plenitude of being (to manifest itself); and, as this investigation proceeds, we seem to associate  - more and more - the state of joy with a state of plenitude of being. 

Unconditional love – then – makes being possible – and thus makes joy possible.

The Category of Joy (3)

Let us continue our investigation into various hypostases of the state of joy, by talking about:

3. Joy as Marriage

What in the world could this mean? Well, if the term “laughter” necessitated clarifications, this term (and this equivalence) surely does, as well. In order to do that - to look into the ways in which “marriage” corresponds to and is expressive of “joy” - I will employ as a visual aid the following image, of a statuary group from the Cathedral of St. Matthew in Washington, DC.

the betrothal of Joseph and Mary
(by Vincenzo Demetz, Italy; installed 1961)

So, in what manner would the term “joy” find its manifestation – or one of its manifestations - in “marriage”? Gazing at this image of the betrothal of Mary and Joseph, one is struck (or I am, at least) by a sense of “peace”, of settledness, of “things being right” (impression that is, of course, supported by our contextual knowledge about this couple). Indeed, marriage – that covenant or sacred bond between two people, endeavored before God (see the enlarged image of the chapel, below) – is, according to John Paul II (in his commentary on the book of Genesis) reflective (in its original state) of the perfection and unity of God.

How does that work? Well, according to the mythical story of the Book of Genesis (“mythical”, in the sense that its main concern is not with relating “historical events”, but with revealing some essential truths about the nature and the condition of the human beings), after God created the human being (in Hebrew, adam - which is not a person’s name, but a general term denoting human beings, without determination of sex), the resulting human being looked around and “saw”  that he was as yet unaccomplished, incomplete – that it was alone. In consequence – so the mythical story goes, revealing additional information about the nature of the human beings - God put adam in a deep sleep, and then out of this adam He made man (in Hebrew, ish) and woman (in Hebrew, ishah). Then and thus - and only then and thus - was the creation of the human being accomplished:

“God created mankind in his image;

in the image of God he created them;

male and female he created them.” (Gen 1:25)

In other words, the perfectly accomplished creation of the human being, in the image of God (i.e. reflecting His perfection, goodness, and unity), is only accomplished in this “original unity of ish (man) and ishah (woman)”. And “[t]hat is why a man leaves his father and mother and clings to his wife, and the two of them become one body.” (Gen. 2:24) – i.e. thus, marriage. According to this Jewish-Christian understanding, then, marriage is a sacred covenant through which the man and the woman live out, together - and, in a way, re-enact - that original harmony and perfection of the original human condition – even if now only imperfectly, and in a flawed manner.

Thus, the image above, of the very Jewish wedding of Mary and Joseph (see, to the right, the young man who leaves, seemingly disappointed, while breaking a stick on his knee - which is a sign, according to Jewish customs, of being a rejected suitor of the bride), seems to embody and to reflect such a moment and state  - which connects them (and us) with, and which re-enacts, that original state of unity and harmony (of the creation of man, in the image of God, accomplished in the unity of ish and ishah). As such, what one “gets” from looking at this statuary group is a sense of peace, of “things being right”, of the world “being set aright” - of all the puzzle pieces finally falling into place, for once.

And it is in this sense that I identify in marriage another manifestation of - and thus set of meanings for – the existential state of joy. Joy, as a deep living out of our being being “at right”; of us being in the right place and in the right condition; before God, who is the source of our (and of all) being.

Note also that marriage is – naturally and essentially - a social, dialogical act; that this state of harmony and peace is attained (or aimed at, imperfectly) only through the common act of two persons, an act that binds them; that it is this covenant in which they enter, together, that endows them (as a couple) with the perfection (again, imperfectly lived out) that we were talking about (the image of the original unity and perfection of the human being). Thus we see, yet again, that joy seems to be a state that is essentially social, or at least fundamentally open toward the other - just like the human being itself is essentially open to - and in need of - the other.

The “Wedding Chapel”
(Cathedral of St. Matthew, Washington, DC)