Today is the shortest day in the year. It is also the coldest, the longest, and the darkest night of the year. What can we say? Perhaps the shivering of this December day and night reflects our hearts as this year, this 2012th year of salvation draws to a close. What have we seen? What have we heard? It is the question asked of the shepherds. Perhaps it is our question as well. We have seen dissention, political rancor, cynicism rising from the earth. We have heard the cries of children and parents around the world losing sight of one another as they pass from this life often by violent means. We have heard bad news all around, in the financial world, in the social world, on blogs and in the comments sections of the news. We have seen anger, shame, bitterness, terror, fear. Has this year been any different from other years? Probably not and yet, it often seems like there is a triumph of fear, a glory of cynicism in the air. Even in our rarified seminary environment, all of us, including me, often find more to gripe about than to give praise to God for. On this Christmas Day, can we put all of that aside? Can we find a way on this shortest day of the year to put away all pain, all bitterness, all complaining? We celebrate a mystery on this day, a mystery that we should, we must, renew each day of our lives, the triumph of the God of Thunder over history and its discontents. He triumphed over the powers of this world, over evil itself by deigning to be born in the manger, by humbling himself. He became like us in all things except sin. He took on the truth of our humanity, a humanity that is prone to doubt, to pain, and to misfortune. Let us try something. Let us try to be like him. Let us humble ourselves. Let us live honorably as in the day. Let us be different men and women in the coming days and months and years than we have been before. Let us triumph over death by becoming harbingers of life. Let us drown out the cynicism and the cries of anguish we hear around us with great shouts of joy, shouts that shatter the darkness of night and wrong. Brothers and sisters, as we celebrate the birth of Our Lord in this Christmas season, let us make a firm resolution. Let us love one another more. Let us put aside all negative, critical thinking and talk. Let us be shining examples of the simplicity of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, standing as they are right now, in the light of a Christmas night, in the light of angels, in the light of the manger, in the light that encompasses every human heart, making bright the coldest, the longest, the darkest night of the year. May you and your families have a truly blessed Christmas, and a holy, happy new year.

Rejoice in the Lord always! I say it again, rejoice! Can you imagine? Can you imagine the confusion in that secluded little house in Newtown early Friday morning? Can you imagine the look on the mother’s face, a look of pure confusion and pain, then, with hope, peace? Can you imagine the fever in the boy’s mind as he collected the guns and ammunition, as he armed and armored himself? Can you imagine his mind as he made his way to the school, that place of innocence, that shrine of littleness? Can you imagine the look on the faces of the principal, the counselor as they heard the racket in the hall at 9:30? Can you imagine the teachers hearing the noises and quickly locking doors and shepherding little boys and girls into the closet? Can you imagine the fear, the anguish of standing still, stunned as shot after shot rings out in hallways filled with pictures of Santa Clauses and menorahs? Can you imagine the heat, the flash of the giant, silent man in black with the look, the look of hatred on his face? Can you imagine the moment when he turned that gun on himself, in front of screaming children and adults? Can you imagine being the police arriving at the scene knowing nothing, knowing not where to turn or go? Can you imagine the brave teachers who threw themselves in the path of danger? Can you imagine reading a story to little boys and girls to keep them calm in the face of hell? Can you imagine being a parent and hearing the news of what had happened, what was happening? Can you imagine driving or running to that school for news, some news, any news, no bad news? Can you imagine the day creeping forward and the stories that were spreading? Can you imagine the press of the media in such a time of panic and confusion? Can you imagine seeing your little boy or girl running from that school with their eyes covered so as not to see the blood? Can you imagine not seeing your little boy or girl running from that school? Can you imagine the nightmare of that fire station? Can you imagine the day drawing on as news becomes sickening tragedy? Can you imagine finding in the space of a morning a connection with places seemingly so distant, like Pakistan, Syria, Africa, and countless other places where children and innocents daily fight the fight of life and lose? Can you imagine finding your way home at the end of the day and walking into your seven-year old’s room and knowing he wasn’t coming back? Can you imagine that this day stretches into weeks and years and lifetimes? Can you imagine that tomorrow another story will take its place? Can you imagine the lives of all of those shattered forever? Can you imagine trying to speak about all of this? Now Can you imagine verdant field at 9:45 or so last Friday morning? Can you imagine a little girl wearing her school clothes neatly, newly scrubbed? Can you imagine her yellow white hair gleaming in a golden, never-setting sun? Can you imagine her toothless smile as she sees her friends around her? Can you imagine her face as she catches sight of the man in the black vest, the black vest fading away, his armor fading away, his anger fading away? Can you imagine his confused face as the little girl walks over to him in the verdant field and puts her arms around his waist, as high as she can reach? Can you imagine her saying, “It’s OK Adam. It’s over. You are loved forever here.” Can you imagine his peace as he sits down with a group of boys and girls and some grown folks, more than twenty, or more, children and grownups of every language and nation, and they say nothing, they just bask in the sun together? Can you imagine the depth of forgiveness and love needed in Newtown? I hope I can. I hope I can say today, after Friday, after Newtown and all the other atrocities. Rejoice in the Lord always! I say it again, rejoice!

First Sunday of Advent To you, I lift up my soul, O my God. In you I have trusted These are the words of the entrance antiphon for today’s Mass. They usher in for us the season of advent, a new liturgical year. They are powerful words, words that challenge us in their greeting. I don’t know about you but I have always had a kind of morbid fear about the Advent season. Perhaps it has to do with my completely irrational terror of that fat furry bearded elf that seems to be standing at every street corner today. Perhaps it has to do with the waning days, the early sunsets, the long nights that accompany the dawning of December. Perhaps it has to do with readings that are filled with a bit of gloom. Perhaps it has to do with old childhood memories. And perhaps we have some reason to feel a bit anxious in these days, even from a grown-up perspective. We know we don’t live in a perfect world. Far from it. We see daily what is going on around us, outside the protective sandstone of these walls. Certainly there is decoration. Certainly there are Black Friday specials. Certainly the economics of Christmas are thriving this year, we are attentive to our lists and to our holiday TV schedules Yet, even in the midst of so much rejoicing, so much rosy-cheeked sentiment we know: The days are coming, says the LORD, when I will fulfill the promise I made to the house of Israel and Judah. Is it morbid? No, it is true. In advent, if we are truly attentive not only to our Christmas lists and the television schedule, but to the readings presented to us as something new, something fresh, we realize full well that there is a time of judgment. It is not at the end. It is at the beginning of the liturgical year. The time of judgment is a time of renewal. The time of judgment is a time for waking up The time of judgment is a time to consider again The time of judgment is a time to become who we truly are and to shake off the ravenous tinseling of these times and fulfill in our hearts the promise of truth and goodness and honesty. The time of judgment is a time to put away childish things, churlish sensitivities and grow to the full stature of our discipleship. In Advent we are invited to understand more profoundly that perhaps we have done the Gospel a disservice by debilitating its raw energy, its edge, even its threat. Do we neglect to preach the Gospel if we do not preach the whole Gospel and acknowledge that sin is real, that problems are real, that poverty is real, that death is real and that there are real consequences for our actions? Advent calls us again to take the reality of God seriously A reality that does threaten our complacency Our very idea of the good and the virtuous and the perfect Our comfortability with ourselves and others Brothers and Sisters, Advent is a time for stirring the pot and shaking the branches, not just for throwing change in the pot and tinseling the branches. It is a time for serious and sober reflection on our vocations. It is a time of holy cleansing. What did Jesus say? Beware that your hearts do not become drowsy from carousing and drunkenness and the anxieties of daily life, and that day catch you by surprise like a trap. And perhaps we need to hear that message more, and feel that fire of the Holy Spirit burning a little more in our lives. Perhaps we need to pray a little more, preach a little more with our lives. Perhaps we need to give a little more, to appreciate God’s message a little more, to love each other a little more, respect each other a little more. And to complain a little less, gossip a little less, speculate a little less, harp a little less, grouse a little less, think of ourselves only, a little less. This is the message of renewal kindled deep down, in the recesses of our beings, at the heart of this community and Jesus in his advent, in his coming among us, even his violent coming among us, is that message. And there is little doubt that the coming of Jesus is fraught with violence. The violence of his traumatic birth, the signs of contradiction, the threat from outside forces. The massacre of the innocents and innocence. The violence of a life of ministry filled with difficulties and misunderstanding The violence of followers who cannot grasp the message and run away The violence of a death, a criminal’s death on a cross of shame. There is violence in the Gospel, and it is not so different from the violence that we know every day from the news websites, from our own experience. Even as the world is turning its practiced eye to the holy night of peace, the little town of Bethlehem sleeping insipiently in the glow of the golden aches and blue light specials, we recognize that we do not always live in a world of peace. But a world of war of violence of hatred of threat of death of hunger of lack of respect of bigotry of callousness WE live in a world where the poor are getting poorer and the rich richer, a world in which life is respected less each day. A world of rancor and pain. And so words of peace and pacifism, gestures of hope, signs of kindness become contradictions in themselves Our pacifism is violence to a world of violence our goodness, threatening to a world of sin our kindness is DANGEROUS to a world of fear mongering, greed, and apathy. Our respect for life, death to a culture of death Perhaps what we need to hear in this advent season is that all of this is very real. Far from traversing merely the milder byways of the human experience, our faith cuts to the core of what is true and authentic, what is meaningful and deep in us. We need to realize that we do not inhabit a cyber world, an alternative universe, but a real world, that we live in and we have a real need to express truthfully and without apology, our desire, our desperate desire, for respect, for life, for home. In this season of violent anticipation we hear again, perhaps for the very first time the voice of Christ: Be vigilant at all times and pray that you have the strength to escape the tribulations that are imminent and to stand before the Son of Man Brothers and sisters as we stand at the foot of this semester and at the head of a new liturgical year let us renew his passion within us A passion for peace A passion for self-respect and respect for others A passion for our community A passion for our vocations Our families Our country Our world The truth of this season is that it unites the threat of the coming of Jesus with the fulfillment of the passion of Jesus in a joint act of renewal, in the human condition, in the Godhead, in us. Perhaps especially in us as we become passionate again in Him. In that passion, we can we can truly say with the prophet: In those days Judah shall be safe and Jerusalem shall dwell secure; this is what they shall call her: "The LORD our justice." Until we have known that assurance, that justice, that righteousness, then all of this is merely dress up and chaff. In this season of Advent, let us resolve to take God more seriously. And to take ourselves more seriously. In this season let us resolve to know, to live Christ more deeply. Then we can say assuredly in this Mass - To you, I lift up my soul, O my God. In you I have (truly and finally) trusted.