Celtic Advent - Day XX - December 4

 

Celtic Advent - Day XX - December 4

"Our knowledge of God is perfected by gratitude: we are thankful and 

rejoice in the experience of the truth that God is love." ~ Thomas Merton

"As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest

appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them." ~ John F. Kennedy

My grandmother had "little shrines everywhere" in her home. There were little statues of various saints, in front of which stood a votive candle, some in red cups, some in blue, some in green, and some in clear. 

There seemed to be a significance attached to the particular color and if she explained it to me once, I confess I have forgotten it. 

Sometimes, when she ran out of little glass votive cups (because sometimes, she had more than one petition for each saint), she would use the small tins of cat food she fished out of her neighbor's trash, removing the paper labels and scrubbing them clean in hot soapy water (I have come to think of these as the origin of the idea for 'tea candles'). 

You can be assured, however, that my grandmother did nothing religious unless it had significance - some more significant than others. 

Every room in her house had a table in it with at least one saint and a votive light. The position of each saint in the room and the direction it faced also had significance. You'd most likely find St. Gerard, the patron saint of families, in the living room, in the east end of the house - seeking wisdom about how to deal with one of her children. 

St. Jude? Patron saint of lost cases? Well, you could find him on the shelf above the sink in the kitchen in the west end, where the sun was setting so that his light would be the one that burned brightly against the darkness.

The BVM (Blessed Virgin Mary) was everywhere, in every room, placed in every direction. Same with the Infant of Prague, except for the Very Large statue of him, dressed in layers and layers of white crinoline, which took precedence on the top of her very tall bureau.  

There was also a hierarchy to the order of saints on her bureau. Right next to the Infant of Prague stood a statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus - which was Jesus in what I call his high school graduation picture (long hair, perfectly coiffed, pleasant smile and backlighting), with him pointing to the place in his white graduation gown where his exposed heart was clearly visible. Encircled by a crown of thorns, flames of passion stood on the top of his heart, on top of which was the cross. 

It was always that pleasant little smile on his face that undid me. Every time. I mean, how could he sit there and smile with thorns around his heart and flames on top of his heart??!!?? I know, I know. He was Jesus. But, seriously. It really freaked me out as a kid.

On the other side of the Infant of Prague was a statue of the Immaculate Heart of Mary. There stood a young woman dressed in a white robe and white head scarf covering her flowing auburn tresses. A beautiful, large sky-blue robe was perfectly draped over her shoulders and arms like a large shawl. She's looking down, demurely, of course, and she's also pointing to her heart, which was also exposed. 

Mary's heart rested on a crown of thorns and there were seven swords that pieced her heart (for the seven sorrows) which was encircled by three roses. Flames also came out of the top of her heart but there was no cross, just flames, burning with her virginal love for God, her motherly love for her son, our Lord, and her tender love for all of humankind (I think those words are right out of the prayer we said every night to her statue). 

There they were, the Holy Trinity of my grandmother's faith: The Infant of Prague, the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. 

Oh, and the pictures above her bureau? The one on the right was John Fitzgerald Kennedy, Jr., the first Roman Catholic President of the United States. The other guy on the left? Well, that spot was reserved for whoever was Pope at the moment. 

There were other saints on her bureau, of course. I remember St. Dymphna, the patron saint of those with mental illnesses - for an uncle of hers who had "gone insane" and killed himself which, the church said, earned him a one-way ticket to hell. His body couldn't even be buried in the Catholic cemetery. So, she thought if she said novenas to St. Dymphna she could "earn" his way out of hell and at least make his way up to Purgatory. (I am not making this up.)

She had a fondness for St. Agnes and prayed to her to protect her daughters and granddaughters. St. Lucy and St. Brigid were also favorites. I mean, why wouldn't you pray to St. Lucy to protect your eyes and St. Brigid to make sure you didn't choke on fish bones. (I am not making this up.)

But the statue that earned a place on her bedside table was the one of St. Anne and St. Joaquin, reportedly the parents of the Blessed Virgin Mary. 

No, you won't find their names in scripture, but just because they aren't mentioned doesn't mean they didn't exist. They are, apparently, named in the writings of someone called "James the Lesser". 

The stories about Anne and Joaquin were not exactly apocryphal but perhaps better described as being more in the Jewish tradition of midrash (rabbinic interpretation), or probably more accurately as aggadah (rabbinic narrative). 

It's a wonderfully creative, imaginative way of filling in the stories of our faith and responding to some of our natural curiosity about Mary.  

Here's the way that story goes (Spoiler alert: It involves the visitation by an angel so you know, straight away, that some creative license is being taken.)

So, Joachim is fasting in the wilderness and Anne is mourning in her garden, both of them lamenting their childlessness in their old age (there seemed to be a great deal of infertility in antiquity, doesn't there?). Anyway, just when things seemed their lowest, an angel appears (right on cue) and comes to Anne, promising her that she will conceive and then tells her to seek out and find her husband to tell him the news. 

Anne finds Joachim at the Gate to the City of Jerusalem and the two share a wonderful embrace (but do not kiss), a scene of popular depiction in medieval art.  Apparently, the angel has told Anne that their child will be a Queen, powerful on heaven and earth. 

Anne does conceive and they dedicate their daughter, Mary, to God, keeping her from sin and evil, as one does when one anticipates that their child will be Queen of Heaven and Earth and their grandson will become the Savior of the World. 

The story continues that when Mary is three (3) years old, Anne and Joachim present her in the temple, where Mary dances on the third step of the altar and was loved by "all the house of Israel". 

Just for good measure, the story includes the fact that Joseph (yes, that same Joseph - because, perhaps, he is a friend nearer their age?) is named as her protector when she reaches the age of twelve or thirteen years of age. He is also chosen as her betrothed after a sign from God . . . . (ready for this?) . . . a dove came out of his staff. (I am not making this up.)

My grandmother told me these stories as if they were true, because I honestly believe she believed they were true. And, why wouldn't she believe they were true? They were told to her by her mother and handed down, generation to generation, by priests and nuns.

So, yes, of course, I believed these stories. With my whole heart I believed these stories. They were fabulous stories! Other kids had silly comic books and Nancy Drew mystery novels. My grandmother told me mystery stories that had miracles and wonders and angels and doves flying out of staffs!  Why wouldn't I believe them? 

As I've grown and my faith has matured, I have come to look with fondness on these stories of the saints, especially Anne and Joachim, the parents of Mary. Maybe their names were Anne and Joachim. Maybe their names were Ethel and Fred. 

Does it matter, really?

At the end of the day, my grandmother and I had spent time in prayer that sent petitions and requests out to the cosmos for healing and health, for forgiveness and reconciliation, for a change of heart and mind, and for rest and peace for those who had died. 

And, with each petition, with each request, we lit a candle of hope, a bright spark of promise, illuminating a pathway for the answer to find its question and the response to find the source of its request. 

I have come to see that my grandmother saw in that candle, lit by the statue of Anne and Joachim that stood by her bedside, the aspirations and inspirations for the parenting responsibilities she shared with her husband. 

Oh, she knew she fell short of Anne and Joachim. Then again, that Holy Couple held an impossibly high standard to achieve. Besides, they only had one child and she had had twenty pregnancies and twenty-two children, only nine of whom lived to adulthood. 

Even so, she did the best she could with what little she had - financially, emotionally and the few scraps of memories of her own mother who died when she was just a young girl. 

Do you have little shrines or altars in your home? Do you have a place - a chair, a table, a nightstand - that helps you to bring focus to your prayers? Perhaps you read there or use your rosary or Anglican prayer beads to meditate and pray? Perhaps you keep a journal with your thoughts and feelings, your petitions of prayers and thanksgivings? 

If you don't have a "sacred space" in your home or apartment or condo, perhaps this time of Advent would be a good time to consider creating one. If you do have one, perhaps you might take this time to consider if it needs something to more deeply reflect your spirituality. 

Here is a poem for tonight's meditation to take to your sacred space. 

ADVENT

by Pamela Cranston, 2011

(On a Theme by Dietrich Bonhoeffer)

Look how long

the weary world waited,

locked in its lonely cell,

guilty as a prisoner.

As you can imagine,

it sang and whistled in the dark.

It hoped. It paced and puttered about,

tidying its little piles of inconsequence.

It wept from the weight of ennui,

draped like shackles on its wrists.

It raged and wailed against the walls

of its own plight.

But there was nothing

the world could do

to find its own freedom.

The door was shut tight.

It could only be opened

from the outside.

Who could believe the latch

would be turned by a pink flower - 

the tiny hand

of a newborn baby?