Finding the Pause

This morning's Gospel reading of Mary's fiat brings to mind Adrea della Robbia's masterpiece, "The Annunciation", which I saw several years ago at the Sanctuary of La Verna in Italy.

This familiar scene has been reduced to the essentials in which everyone is waiting for Mary's reply. The angel, God, the cherubs, and even the wings of the dove are waiting in suspense for the free will decision of Mary. Her face is thoughtful; one hand rests on the passage from Isaiah (Behold, a virgin shall conceive...) while her other hand rests on her heart, searching for God's will.

This incredible work demonstrates the moment—that silent moment—just before Mary gives her fiat. And her words, not yet uttered, are inscribed on the base: "You see before you the handmaid of the Lord, let it be done to me as you say."

It is a hold-your-breath kind of moment, a little drama before something monumental happens.

One can find that same thing happening in the caesura dividing the two stanzas of the Hail Mary. The first stanza ends with the words "blessed is the fruit of your womb" (hence, Mary is with child). In the silence of the caesura separating the first stanza from the second stanza (which begins with the words "Holy Mary, Mother of God"), Mary has given birth and is now a mother.

A lot happens in the silence of a pause, and in our busy, every day lives it can be incredibly beneficial to find that silence: before speaking, before an important decision, in prayer to hear what God has to say, as a way to begin, or end, the day.

A simple pause where silence can speak volumes.

[photo: The Annunciation, Andrea della Robbia, La Verna, Italy

Advent Sunday 3: Journeys (Verso l'Alto)

This is part III of a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts – Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in following in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary as they traveled to Bethlehem and the Wise Men as they followed the star.

Verso l'Alto

Last Friday I attended an evening Christmas concert at St. Teresa’s. Sitting in the semi-dark church, listening to the performance of the choir and the orchestra, my gaze kept shifting upwards: to the crucifix, the ceiling, the beautiful stained-glass windows illuminated by candlelight. And sitting there, taking it all in, it wasn't long before my very soul was uplifted. 

So much about the architecture of a church is about that upward movement: the vaulted ceilings, towering columns, pointed arches, tall candlesticks, raised altar area, and hanging crucifix all draw our eyes upward.

Even the rituals of Mass direct our eyes heavenward: the Book of Gospels is lifted on high, incense curls toward the heavens, candle smoke drifts heavenward, the consecrated host is raised, and even our voices are elevated in praise and prayer.

After the Christmas concert, we wandered outside on the church grounds where spotlights illuminated the Three Wise Men figures positioned at the bottom of a hill. During Advent, they will slowly be moved up toward the stable perched on top of the hill. Again, the verticality of movement. 

When we returned home, I pulled out a prayer card with a photo taken in 1925 of Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati climbing a mountain. Written across the top are the words Verso l’alto, which translated literally means towards the heights. Those words have become a rallying cry of what it means to walk on this earth while striving to reach the summit of eternal life.

It’s a simple idea, but while verso l’alto can refer to the physical act of climbing, on a deeper level it refers to what we are doing while climbing: who we are as a child of God; how we act, forgive, live our faith, help the sick, love our neighbor. And during Advent, this season of preparation, we are reminded of those things we need in order to find meaning and purpose on our climb. 

Verso l'alto. 

Advent Sunday 2: Journeys (Setting Forth)

During these Sundays in Advent, I am posting a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts – Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in following in the footsteps of Joseph and Mary as they traveled to Bethlehem and the Wise Men as they followed the star, and let’s reflect on this journey we call life.

 Setting Forth

The suitcases were packed and standing in a line by the back door; I was in that in-between place of being ready, but not yet going, balanced between two worlds: the one I was coming from (familiar and safe) and the one I was going to (full of the unknown).

Incredibly exciting.

Equally as frightening.

Trip, journey, pilgrimage, sojourn … there are so many ways to describe that act of going forth, of venturing into what is unknown because any movement into the future will have the unexpected, the unplanned for, the closed doors and detours.

This past August I was standing next to my father on the stern of an Alaskan cruise ship. This cruise, sandwiched between my father’s lengthy hospital stay and his unexpected cancer diagnosis, had become a metaphor for sailing into unchartered waters of radiation and chemotherapy treatments, all of which awaited my father once we returned home.

There were so many unspoken questions with no clear answers, but sometimes you just have to live the question and take that first step of a journey, whether physical or metaphorical, and trust that with faith, hope, and more than a little courage the path will be illuminated with every step.

But oh …  it is that first step, when you have to let go of the known and grasp the unknown, which is the most challenging because we know, deep in our soul, that we are about to be changed.

During this Advent as we embark on a journey connecting memory and hope, Joseph and Mary show us what it is like to take that step into the unknown. And by their example, we are reminded how any journey – spiritual, physical, redemptive, etc. – begins with that first step. It may be the biggest step you may ever have to take, seemingly impossible and impossibly difficult; it may be a hesitant step, or a bold one; it may even be a forced one.

But that one step can become a leap of faith.

 

Advent Sunday 1: Journeys (Readiness in Memory and Hope)

For the next four Sundays I will share a series called Journeys, personal reflections on the season of Advent presented in four parts: Readiness in Memory and Hope, Setting Forth, Verso l’Alto, and The Return. Join me in this Advent journey toward that stable in Bethlehem.

Journeys: Readiness in Memory and Hope

Yesterday I ordered my 2025 planner. I always look forward to its arrival: empty pages with quotes and blank spaces to write down goals and, most importantly, the 365 empty squares lined up like stepping stones going forth into a year of tomorrows.

In big ways and in small, each of those stepping stones will lead me on a journey propelled by Time which marches forward in seconds, minutes, days and years. With every breath, with every step, with every thought or action or prayer, it will all be a journey.

Sometimes the journey will be planned and carefully mapped out, but other times it will yank and pull and drag us where we do not want to go—the illnesses, tears, and hardships that give us "what" without understanding "why". Sometimes the journey will be a battle with inner demons of self-doubt. Sometimes it will call us to foreign lands, a new career path, or a religious vocation. Oftentimes the journey will be exciting and adventurous, but just as often it will be a whirlwind of the ordinary with carpool, dinner, chores, work, and children.

I will turn the pages of my brand new planner. I will fill in the squares with birthdays and anniversaries and family trips. I will embrace the empty squares as stepping stones of hope rather than blank squares of the unknown.

Then, I will put away my old planner, its squares of yesterdays which were once tomorrows but are now stepping stones of memory.

Tonight, we will light a candle to mark Advent’s passage, and I am grateful for this season with its gift of time to both recognize the journey and to reflect on it—to gather and learn and step forward in readiness.

In his book, Seek that Which is Above, Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger (Pope Benedict XVI) describes Advent as a connection between memory and hope; that is, the healing memory of the God who became a child, and the hope that memory brings.

Memory. Hope. A readiness to journey onward.