|
SERMON PREACHED BY THE REV'D DAPHNE B. NOYES AT THE CHURCH OF THE ADVENT, I’m no clairvoyant, but I suspect that somewhere in your home, maybe in an attic or basement, or under the bed, or on the top shelf of a closet, or perhaps even in a corner of the living room, there is a box – or maybe more than one box. And I suspect that this box holds things that you fully intend to deal with – someday. Perhaps this box was created the last time you moved, and you just haven’t had time to go through it yet. Or perhaps this box came into being when one of the kids left home, and you’re waiting for that now-adult child to take the box and its contents off your hands. Or maybe this box contains a parent’s or grandparent’s possessions – newspaper clippings, old family photos, marriage or baptismal certificates, letters, tax returns, playbills, school records, recipes – that you don’t quite know what to do with, and can’t quite bring yourself to throw away. Some of you may have a box that contains all the notes and papers from the last seminar you attended, or from college days. At any rate, I suspect each one of us has at least one box, lying in wait in the dark corner or gathering dust under the bed, occasionally telegraphing a sign of its presence when we go to look for something else, or start to deep clean our home, or when we – briefly, bravely – consider pulling out that box, blowing off the dust, opening the flaps and delving into whatever it holds – then decide it can wait for another day. No matter what is in your box, I suspect the contents carry meaning on three levels: first, they may have intrinsic value: a wedding ring, a pocket watch. Second, they may have intellectual value: college notes, magazine articles. Finally, they may hold emotional value: a child’s drawing, a lock of hair. Or it may be a combination of all three. Mother Church, in her wisdom, has given us the season of Advent as a time of preparation. And that preparation can consist of a winnowing, or editing, or organizing (or re-organizing) the passions and possessions that define us, as a way of creating a clear path for God to enter in. Whether you winnow, or edit, or organize or re-organize, the goal remains the same: make way, prepare, get ready. Personal experience with these activities has taught me that they can be highly emotionally charged – to the extent of stopping me in my tracks. Recently I had the daunting task of clearing out my mother’s little studio apartment, which had been crammed full of the flotsam and jetsam, the trash and treasure of the generations. (At least two generations before me on both sides have been collectors of one sort or another – that’s the combined accumulations of six people!) Some decisions about what to relocate, and what to recycle, what to keep and what to toss, were easy. Some were difficult, fraught with memory and emotion. In a bureau drawer, next to a box full of buttons, a pile of cloth handerkerchiefs, a dish of broken necklaces and single earrings, I found my brother’s obituary, right next to his second-grade school picture. I was immediately sapped of energy, my efforts ground to a halt. Thanks to the wise counsel of a dear friend who stood at my side, I was able to resume and find an appropriate place for both of those highly charged items – and many others. At a certain point, the question arises: Do we own our possessions, or do they own us? By now, you have probably deduced that although this kind of activity might appear mundane, it has a strong spiritual component. Sorting through items, organizing and categorizing, filling box after box, finding places for those boxes – and their attendant emotions – is fertile territory for reflection on the attachments and separations of our lives. What really matters? Attachment and separation are two elemental forces that tug at us from the moment of birth until we draw our last breath, and surrender our spirit to its Creator. There is certainly a way in which our life in Christ can be read through the lens of attachment and separation, as well. A recent article examines the spiritual life of St Thérèse of Liseux through the lens of attachment theory.[1] Thérèse was brought up in an atmosphere of traditional piety and separation from the world which was characteristic of a rather inward-looking, middle class nineteenth-century French Catholicism.[2] She struggled with repeated losses of her primary caregivers: her mother, her wet nurse, her sister, her father. She became the third of her four sisters to enter the Carmelite convent at Lisieux, which she did in 1888 at age fifteen. But one of the key turning point in her life occurred a year earlier. Here is what happened: On December 25, 1886, two weeks before her 14th birthday, her father commented crossly on Thérèse’s childish behavior in receiving certain Christmas gifts. Without his knowing she was nearby, Thérèse heard him say: “Thérèse ought to have outgrown all this sort of thing, and I hope this will be the last time.”[3] Something suddenly changed internally. Thérèse’s tears dried up and her heart filled with charity. She realized that her whole life was focused on her own needs and not on others. The revelation freed her. Thérèse referred to this moment as her “Christmas Conversion.” It marked the start of the spiritually most important period of her life; it was the beginning of her “Little Way.” “Charity took possession of my heart, making me forget myself, and I have been happy ever since.”[4] Might this be the year of your Christmas conversion? Might this be the season that charity takes possession of your heart? Charity – caritas – enables us not only to “forget ourselves” as Therese experienced, but perhaps more importantly, charity leads us to that blessed place where we can do no other than remember others. It is altrusim of the highest order, a gift of God. It is God’s love: love of God, love from God. And in this self-emptying, in this remembering of others, we finally may be given the stregth to tackle the neglected or guilt-inducing or anxiety-provoking boxes, and clear a spiritual path that opens a way for the Divine to enter in. John the Baptist is in a prison cell when he hears word of Jesus. Perhaps you, too, are imprisoned: it may be an old self-image that has boxed you in ever since you can remember. Or perhaps there is able a fractured relationship that has grieved you for so long. You may be hanging on to cynicism, or hopelessness, or grief, or misplaced hope, or resentment, or anger, or fear, and you may realize it’s time, finally, to let them go, to clear the way for God’s redeeming love to enter in. You may yearn to receive the grace for this transformation and renewal and reconcilation in your life, you may pray for it daily. Or you may not have thought of it until this very moment. Now maybe I’m off base here, maybe there’s nary a box or stack of unsorted papers in your life. Maybe all your attachments are strong, healthy, and life-giving, and none of your separations carry any ache or pain or regret. But let me emphasize that this exercise of preparation is not only about material objects, the things we allow to attach themselves to us along the way, or about our psychological state of being, the wounds and scars and growth rings that our psyches accumulate day in, day out. It is also about another undeniable truth. In time, each one of us must finally face the ultimate separation of death. At a certain point, there is no longer a choice about what to hold on to, and what to let go. It is out of our hands. This is without doubt a spiritual event. I remember one aging gentleman I visited in the hospital. Beset with numerous medical problems, he remarked, “The temple is crumbling.” The theologian Pierre Teilhard de Chardin sees the cycle of life as one that cradles an Advent time, a time when a way for God is being made ready. He writes:
In this Advent time, Mother Church invites us to prepare a way for God, a path that leads into the center of our own hungry hearts. The prophets passionately proclaim a time of reversal and redemption; of conversion and repentance. May we, like Mary, have the time and space and grace to ponder this in our hearts, and when the long-awaited Word at last comes to us, we may receive Him with open arms and hold Him close, as if our very lives depended on it. Amen. [1] Vitz, Paul C., and Lynch, Christina P. Therese of Lisieux from the perspective of attachment theory and separation anxiety. International Journal for the Psychology of Religion 17(1), 61-80, 2007. |