TREASURES FROM OUR TRADITION
 

Carnival

Today, in the streets of Rio and New Orleans and in the canals of Venice, Carnival reaches its height.  We stand on the brink of Lenten discipline and order, of sacrifice and prayer, and like a diver for pearls, we take a deep breath of life’s abundance before immersing ourselves.

Literally “Good-bye to the Flesh,” these once were days for clearing out
the barnyard and having one last good roast before turning to fish, to eggs and cheese and porridges.  In some places, masks and disguises are worn as a reminder that all falsehood must be stripped away in Lent and our true identity as the baptized must prosper.  In others, the green, purple, and gold beads tossed in playful salute have their origins not
only in the gifts of the magi, but also entwine the liturgical colors of Ordinary Time, Lent, and Easter.

The message, sadly missed by many, is:  Embrace the Lenten journey, and find your life transformed.  Dedicate the next few days to savoring life’s wonders, to the abundance of tables laden with great food and surrounded by the laughter of dear friends.  Then, as you step forward to receive ashes on your brow, you will have already acquired
a yearning for the renewing splash of Easter’s waters.
 

What would you say is the oldest, most frequently sung, most translated, most memorized, most beloved song text in the Christian world today? An astute and surprising answer might be the Gloria, “Glory to God in the Highest.”

In three weeks’ time, the Lenten fast will begin, and the Gloria, sung at the beginning of Sunday Mass, will be silenced. It is an heirloom from a treasury of hymns spun from the songs of praise on the lips of Mary, Elizabeth, and Zachary. We move in the prayer from the song of the angels at the first Christmas, to the praise of God, and to a final plea to Christ to continue and complete his work in us. For nearly 1500 years, the singing of the Gloria has been a sign of the festive quality of a particular Mass.

From the beginning it was a song of the people, not of the choir or clergy. These last few Sundays of winter Ordinary Time allow us a chance to savor the hymn and give ourselves over to the chorus. How is the song of praise arising from your pew? If you claim the song as yours, its absence from Lent will be more striking, and its return at Easter will cheer your heart.
 

The story of Job seems at first hearing to be an extension of February’s gloom into the liturgy. The monumental suffering of a good man is so horrific that the laments of the front page of modern newspapers barely measure up. The whole story is not long to tell, but its resolution is of great comfort. We can trace in its plot the stirrings of a belief in an afterlife, and in God’s great power to right every wrong and raise human beings from suffering.

In the Gospel, we see the fulfillment of these longings in the hand of Jesus, grasping an ill woman by the hand and raising her up to vibrant life. Peter’s mother-in-law becomes her best self, attentive to her guests, providing hospitality, the warmth of her laughter, the delights of her kitchen. Last week, at Candlemas, candles were blessed, including baptismal candles for some not yet born. Today is a day to check the fragile flame of your own baptismal candle. Against February’s customary lethargy, its background whines and ailments, the liturgy summons us to life, grasps us by the hand, and sends us to serve in Christ’s name.

Forty days after Christmas, this week’s ancient feast of the Presentation of the Lord (February 2) is an extension of the shining days of Christ’s coming into the depths of winter. This is the day when, for a thousand years, the Church has blessed a year’s supply of candles. In many places, a procession forms outside the church. The core memory is of Simeon and Anna’s meeting with the infant Jesus and his parents outside the temple on the fortieth day after the child’s birth, and the delight of going to the table of the Lord for the Eucharist, a foretaste of our final meeting with Christ.

For some Christians, today is known as “The Meeting”, suggesting not only the encounter in the temple, but also our assembly at the Lord’s table and our longing for the kingdom. One story suggests that the commotion made by so many candle-bearing, hymn singing faithful in the wintry fields of Germany on their joyful way to Mass stirred the badger from hibernation to examine this promise of springtime. The interrupted nap of the groundhog is amazingly linked to the light of Christ driving away the shadows of the world’s darkness. This beautiful feast only rarely falls on a Sunday. What better reason could there be for candles at dinner tonight?
 

“Ordinary” is not always a desirable adjective.  Who would not be insulted to receive a thank-you note for your “ordinary birthday gift,” or “the ordinary hospitality at the dinner party”? No restaurant advertises its “ordinariness,” no car dealer seats a customer at the steering wheel and whispers, “Look how ordinary it is!” Yet here we are in “Ordinary Time.”  The word carries a different meaning here:  it does not mean these days are dull, boring, pedestrian, uninteresting.  It means “ordinal,” or “numbered” Sundays, a season of the year when we follow the story of Jesus’ life and ministry in an ordered way, with each Sunday assigned an ordinal number.

You can amaze your friends with this example of Catholic arithmetic:  the “Ordinary Sundays” begin with the last Sunday of Christmas, the Baptism of the Lord, continue until the Sunday before Ash Wednesday, and resume after a cluster of feasts following Pentecost Sunday.  The numbers are calculated by counting backwards from the Solemnity of Christ the King, the Thirty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time.  Now you know there is nothing “ordinary” about “Ordinary Time!” 

Church Unity

Every year, close to the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul on January 25, and before the feast of the Chair of St. Peter on February 22, the cause of Church unity is commended to Christians everywhere. Sadly, Protestants, Orthodox, and Catholics have settled to a status quo of separation. 

When baptized people become Catholic, we speak of them as being received into “full communion.” That means we already share a communion in faith in many ways, including the Word of God.  Many Protestant denominations have received and revised the three-year cycle of readings first arranged by Catholics in the early 1970s. Therefore, many of your neighbors who are not Catholic are celebrating and reflecting on the same readings we are savoring on most Sundays of the year.

This makes for a new spirit of cooperation among preachers of the gospel, and gives hope that the cause of reunion, desired by Christ, has great vitality at the table of God’s Word, and will one day lead to unity at the table of the Lord’s Body and Blood. 

James Field, Copyright © J. S. Paluch Co.