The Poor in Spirit

John Taylor was in his mid-50s when he came home one day from a game of golf and shared with his wife a strange pain he had begun to experience in his hands. He was soon diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a rare form of cancer that would slowly reduce his athletic body to mere skin and bones in a span of just 20 years. As the illness grew in strength, part of his tongue was removed; he couldn’t speak or eat, so he was fed directly through a tube. Though I had trouble understanding what he was saying, I enjoyed his company very much. He had a great sense of humor, and Anne was a beautiful cook, so I ended up spending many evenings with the family. In 2011, at the height of his illness, John, who belonged to the Church of Wales, expressed his desire to become a Catholic like his wife Anne! On Christmas Eve, a Mass was held for him in their living room. At the time of Holy Communion, I poured a little jug of the Precious Blood through his tube directly into his stomach so that he could celebrate his First Holy Communion. It was one of the most extraordinary First Holy Communions I've ever seen and one of the most beautiful Christmas Eve of my life. The memory of that day and that blessed couple still reminds me of what I am doing as a priest—bringing the Incarnation and the Precious Blood of Christ to the world. During his last days, John bled profusely every morning, so Anne had to repeatedly change his bedclothes. It was extraordinary—while John’s state reminded me of the crucified Christ, Anne was configured to the Virgin Mary who stood by and took care of Him in His passion. We buried Anne last year, more than a decade after John’s passing. Jesus said the Saints would shine like stars in the Kingdom of God; now, with two more, the night sky is brighter.

One of my favorite places on earth is the great Cathedral of Chartres, located about an hour by train south of Paris. For me, it represents the richest expression of Gothic architecture, and the Gothic is, again for me, the most religiously evocative type of architecture. When I was a doctoral student in Paris many years ago, I would journey as often as I could to Chartres, and each time that I approached the building, I did so, not in the manner of tourist, but as a seeker coming to the end of a pilgrimage. Chartres is famous, of course, for its transcendently beautiful stained glass, but it also boasts hundreds of exquisitely rendered sculptures of Biblical figures. On the north porch of the cathedral, there is a statue that I particularly savor. It is a depiction of John the Baptist, and it shows him as an emaciated figure (after all, the Bible tells us that he ate locusts and wild honey) holding an image of the Lamb of God. But what is most striking about the sculpture is the face of the Baptist. He bears an expression that bespeaks an aching, a longing, a looking toward something that he does not have but wants. Some of the Saints that surround Chartres Cathedral seem blissful, already in possession of the great good for which they longed. But not John the Baptist. He yearns, pines, hungers still. And this makes him, par excellence, a Saint of Advent. This holy season, of course, calls to mind the coming (adventus) of Jesus in history, but it also anticipates the arrival of the Lord at the culmination of the age, that time when, as Saint Paul puts it, Christ will be “all in all” (1 Corinthians 15:28). This fulfillment, obviously enough, has not yet happened, for the world is still plagued by wars, famine, floods, earthquakes, and pandemics. And our lives are still marked by depression, failure, sin, and frustrated plans. None of this tells against the fact that God’s creation is good, but it does indeed confirm the intuition that this life is, as the Salve Regina puts it, ‘a vale of tears.’ All of us, therefore, wear the expression of the John the Baptist of Chartres: craving an absent good. Might I suggest some practices for all of us Advent people during these upcoming weeks? First, we should deepen our lives of prayer. As John of Damascus told us long ago, to pray is to “raise the mind and the heart to God.” It is to be consciously aware of God, present to Him. Even if we wear a somewhat anguished expression as we do so, we should turn our faces purposely to God, and as we pray, we should allow our yearning for God to surface. C.S. Lewis told us that the aching of the heart for God–and it is a real suffering–is properly called ‘joy.’ Prayer, in a way, is the cultivation of precisely that sublime form of joy. One of the very best ways to practice this form of spiritual attention is to spend an uninterrupted hour or half hour in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament. A second Advent suggestion is this: wear the world lightly. The reason that we feel spiritual anguish is that the deepest desire of our heart cannot be met by any merely worldly good. We look to something beyond our ken and capacity precisely because we realize, consciously or unconsciously, that the hungry soul cannot be satisfied by any amount of esteem, riches, power, or pleasure. The attainment of any of these goods produces a momentary bliss followed by a letdown, a disappointment. But this truth mustn’t be allowed to depress us; rather, it should compel us to adopt the spiritual stance that the spiritual masters call ‘detachment.’ This means enjoying wealth and then letting it go; using power for good but not clinging to it; taking in honor and not caring a whit for it. It is to adopt the attitude that Saint Ignatius of Loyola calls ‘indifference.’ Advent is a privileged time to practice this virtue. A third and final suggestion is this: we should devote ourselves to doing one of the corporal works of mercy. These acts–feeding the hungry, giving drink to the thirsty, clothing the naked, visiting the imprisoned, etc.–are concrete acts of love. It is easy enough for religious people to speak of love in an abstract manner, but to love means to will the good of the other. Therefore, it is dense, real, particular, something that shows up. And Heaven–that ultimate joy that we long for–is nothing other than love, love in the fullest possible sense, love without limit. Aquinas says that in Heaven, faith will fade away (since we will see God face to face) and hope will disappear (since we would have attained what we hoped for), but love will remain (since Heaven is love). So, when we love someone here below, in even the simplest way, we anticipate our return to the homeland, we stir our craving for Heaven. So, as we move into the spiritual space of John the Baptist, as we enter the season of Advent, we should pray, we should let go, and we should perform the works of mercy.

When Mary and Joseph took Jesus to Jerusalem to be presented, as prescribed by the law, they encountered Simeon and Anna in the temple. Simeon was a righteous and devout man who prayed daily for the Christ child to come. Anna, who worshiped day and night with fasting and prayer, was also waiting for the redemption of Jerusalem. They had both been waiting eagerly, day in and day out, for the coming of the Messiah. They prayed, fasted, and hoped. I wonder, at the end of the day, as each of them went to sleep, if they whispered to God: “The Christ child did not reveal Himself today as we hoped He would. But we will continue to pray and trust that it will happen.” I believe that they persevered in praying daily. If Anna and Simeon had grown so weary that they gave up praying, fasting, and hoping for the Christ child, they could have easily missed the Heavenly encounter. But they were faithful and continued to pray, trust, and hope each day. They listened to the Holy Spirit daily. Because of their faithfulness and willingness to be led by the Holy Spirit, when Mary and Joseph came into the temple with the Christ Child, they knew that He was the awaited Messiah. When my prayers seem to go unanswered, it is tempting to get discouraged. Faithful Simeon and Anna, help me to keep on going and never stop praying. It may be that my prayers will not be answered on this side of Heaven. However, if Simeon and Anna can trust, pray, and never give up hope, then I too will trust, pray, and hope.

You won't guess where my boyfriend invited me to go on our first date! I met him in my late twenties. On our first date, he asked if I wanted to go to the Adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. From that moment, we became adorers. A year later, he proposed to me there and our relationship ever since has been based on Jesus in the Eucharist. Every time I sit in front of the Blessed Sacrament, I feel like the kid who gave the Lord his five loaves and two fish. When I give an hour of my time, He multiplies that into many graces in my life. One of the most beautiful things that I have experienced when I bring my shortcomings, problems, sadness, dreams, and desires to the altar, is that I receive peace, joy, and love in return. When I first started Adoration, I came intending to ask God to change people or their lives. But when you sit in Adoration, before His grace, He outpours the gifts and fruits of the Holy Spirit, helping us to slowly learn how to forgive and be more patient, loving, and kind. My situation wasn’t changing; instead, I was changing. When you sit with the Lord, He changes your heart, mind, and soul in such a way that you begin looking at things from a different perspective—through the eyes of Christ. Earlier, I was looking for wealth, fame, and relationships, but when I came to know Him in the Blessed Sacrament, I felt this incredible love that poured into my heart, changing my life and filling the void in my heart. He speaks to my heart and that gives me love and consolation. It’s like a love affair…I’ve always wanted this incredible feeling of love in my heart. He is the Savior that I was looking for and I found Him in Adoration. He will find you, and you will find rest in your heart by resting in Him as you adore Him.