Lean into the Yearning: A Reflection for the Fourth Week in Advent

The following reflection refers to the Mass readings found here.

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The Bible can be a heartbreaking book. It’s about people, after all. Every story, every narrative, every parable—they may surprise and puzzle us, they may challenge us, but they always speak to something deep within us. We know these stories. We live them every day.

Today’s readings tell the stories of two couples who yearned so hard for something they did not have. They had no child. The painful word used to describe this situation is “barren.” We all know what barren means. It means lifeless, desolate, empty, dry. It means hopeless. It means heartbreak.

The yearning of the wife of Manoah, of Elizabeth and Zechariah, we feel it deep in our gut. We have all yearned this hard and come up barren. We have all felt dry and desolate. Barrenness is not only about the presence or absence of children. It is about being human. It is about yearning.

The sacred answer that emerges from this barrenness is the promise of divine faithfulness. And whether the promise is for children or salvation, it always leads to new life. This story of longing and fulfillment, of desiring and promising, of palpable need and abundant gift, is the story of the Bible from creation to gospel—from the barren earth, void and lifeless, to the incarnation, God-literally-with-us.

As Advent leans toward Christmas, we lean even harder into this yearning. And just there—on the horizon, where the days begin to lengthen—we can see it: a child is born, the fulfillment of all our yearning.

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Amy Ekeh, “Lean into the Yearning” from the December 2022 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2022). Used with permission.

A sun dog on a wintry day in central Minnesota. Photo by Hans Christoffersen.

Grappling with Violence in the Bible

In the first chapters of the book of Genesis, God creates a beautiful, harmonious world. In Genesis 4, a man kills his brother. And in Genesis 6, God floods the earth, having determined that it is the only way to stop the overwhelmingly violent tendencies of the human race.

The violence of these early chapters of Genesis bleeds throughout the Bible, a book we read and pray with, a book we proclaim in our sanctuaries, a book we revere as an authoritative missive of human and divine love. This violence can confuse and even scandalize us. Didn’t God call for an end to killing (Gen 9:6)? Didn’t Jesus command that we love our enemies (Luke 6:27)? Isn’t peace the ultimate promise of God (Isa 25:25)?

Here are a few things to keep in mind when we encounter violent imagery in the Bible:

1. Ancient living was tough. Really tough. Many violent stories in Scripture that cause us to recoil in horror are reflections of the time and place in which they were told and written. Violence was a harsh reality in ancient cultures, where food was scarce and neighboring tribes clashed on a regular basis. Depictions of Israel wiping out entire tribes at God’s command (e.g., Deut 2:34; certainly exaggerated accounts, see below) or Judith beheading Holofernes (Jdt 13:8) are not simply examples of gratuitous violence. They are reflections of a time when people resorted to violence in order to survive.
   

2. People aren’t perfect. Even people of faith. Only one person in Scripture is called “a man after [God’s] own heart” (1 Sam 13:14), and that is David—the same David who had a man killed so he could marry his wife. Two of Jesus’ disciples—in fact, two of his inner circle—asked Jesus if they should “call down fire from heaven” to “consume” some Samaritans who were not welcoming to them (Luke 9:54). The Bible reflects life: all people, not just bad ones, are capable of violence.
   

3. Know what kind of text you’re reading. One of the most famous examples of violence in Scripture is Psalm 137, a prayer that ends with a call for revenge upon Israel’s enemy Babylon, even going so far as to say, “Blessed the one who seizes your [Babylon’s] children / and smashes them against the rock” (v. 9). That certainly doesn’t sound like the appropriate response of a person of faith! And it isn’t. But it is a fully human response, one that expresses the pain of an exiled people who themselves have experienced violence and death at the hands of their enemies. After all, this is not a treatise on how to act or how to forgive. It is a psalm—a prayer, a poem, a cry of the heart. Keeping this in mind helps us understand that the Bible is not endorsing this attitude, but neither is it shying away from the human reality of pain and the natural desire for revenge.

   There are other examples of violence in the Bible where knowing the genre, or the type of text we are reading, is helpful, whether we are reading an epic biblical history (where violent escapades were often greatly embellished) or hyperbole (purposeful exaggeration, e.g., Jesus’ suggestion that we cut off our hands or feet, or pluck out our eyes, in order to stop ourselves from sinning; Mark 9:43-47).
   

4. It’s in both testaments. When reading the Bible, it’s important to avoid the misconception that violence is found in the Old Testament but not in the New. The book of Revelation is one of the most violent books in the Bible! And some of its violence is wrought by none other than the Lamb of God, the risen Christ. This is symbolic language, to be sure, but its author intentionally chose it, and we are left to reckon with it.
   

5. Give it to God. Gut-wrenching pleas in Scripture like the psalmist’s bitter cry for revenge (137:9) or the martyrs’ cry for vengeance in Revelation (6:10) may upset us, but they also have an important lesson to share. Those who cry out—who have themselves been treated violently—are not seeking vengeance on their own. They have not taken matters into their own hands. They may wish violence upon their enemies, but they place those wishes into God’s hands. This is what faith does. It doesn’t necessarily change the way we feel, but it does change the way we respond. God can handle our honesty, our emotions, even our hate. We can give these things to God and be free.
   

The Bible is not always easy to read. But we never need to ignore parts of Scripture or be embarrassed by them. They have the power—raw as it may be—to shine light on the complexities of human life and relationships. They remind us that we are a people in need of a saving God. They are part of the story of our salvation.

This article was originally written for Little Rock Connections, the online newsletter of Little Rock Scripture Study (Liturgical Press). Published with permission.

Judith Beheading Holofernes by Caravaggio

A Marian Reflection

Hello, all! And happy Feast of the Birth of Mary! I’m sorry I’ve been out of touch and not blogging for some time. I hope to get back on track with monthly posts. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy this reflection. I originally wrote it for the Assumption of Mary, but I thought it was appropriate for the Birth of Mary also, the day her body made its appearance. Blessings!

The Body of a Life Well Lived

Blessed as she was among women, Mary’s day-to-day life was much like everyone else’s—a life that no doubt took its toll on the body. Scars, sunspots, wrinkles—she would not have escaped them. And why would she want to? Life tells its sto­ries and leaves its beautiful marks on every body.

Like you, I’ve lived into every scar on my body. I’ve earned these wrinkles! Every sunspot is a part of my story—a story of long childhood days in the Texas sun, of every moment I can squeeze into my backyard garden. Every ache and pain is a reminder that I’ve birthed children, carried them on my hip long past when I should have, hauled baskets of laundry up and down basement steps for decades, bent my knees infinity-plus-one times for weeds, socks, and Legos.

My body hasn’t been through as much as Mary’s, working as she did in heat and sun, carrying water, walking great distances, toughing out pain. But it has its own good stories to tell.

Mary always goes before us—but not to show us how dif­ferent she is. Sometimes the likenesses are what prod us for­ward, to know what it really means to be Marian. Clothed with the sun, the moon at her feet, crowned with stars—sun­tanned, vibrant, aging, loved—the body of a life well lived.

She goes before us, body and soul, and we will follow. In heaven as on earth, our bodies will tell their stories.

Amy Ekeh, “The Body of a Life Well Lived,” from the August 2022 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2022). Used with permission.

A Reflection and Prayer for Holy Saturday

The following reflection originally appeared in Daily Reflections for Lent: Not by Bread Alone 2022 (Liturgical Press). The corresponding meditation and prayer were written by my co-author, Thomas D. Stegman, S.J.

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Our Lenten journey has brought us here, to this quiet moment of “already but not yet.” It is a place where we are strangely comfortable, and yet perpetually uncomfortable. Comfortable because we are so accustomed to living “in-between.” Uncomfortable because we want to finally arrive.

Tonight’s vigil, with its litany of ancient readings, begins with the spirit of God sweeping across the waters (Gen 1:1–2:2). With that first command of God that light be scattered across our world, a drama of relationship, covenant, and redemption began. That drama plays out in our everyday lives, in chapels and churches, even more in kitchens and cubicles.

The last reading of tonight’s vigil is the Gospel (Luke 24:1-12) which begins, fittingly, with a reference to “daybreak.” From light to light we go, searching for the glory of the risen Christ.

The women come to the tomb expecting to find a dead body, ready to prepare it for burial. But the body is not there. Peter, running to the tomb, also seems to expect a body: bending down and looking inside, he sees for himself the emptiness of the tomb, the burial clothes cast aside.

Holy Saturday is a day when we accept and even celebrate the “in-between” reality of our lives. We know he is raised. We have seen his glory! And yet we still come to the tomb again and again, prepared for something different—just in case—needing to see for ourselves.

This is the empty tomb, where the Spirit of God hovers, where the light has broken in. Our journey has brought us here. We have arrived.

Meditation: The Easter Vigil is the pinnacle of liturgical celebrations. In addition to the litany of Scripture readings, we experience the lighting of the Paschal fire, the clanging of bells and joyous singing of Alleluia, the proclamation of the Exsultet, and the celebration of Sacraments of Initiation as we welcome new members into our communities. All in celebration of the victory of Christ over the grave. How have I experienced new life at Easter celebrations?

Prayer: God of life, open our hearts to the newness of life we celebrate. Thank you for leading us on our Lenten journey. Help us to bear witness with our joy to the resurrection of your Son.

Photo by Tim Vineyard. St. Joseph Catholic Church, Richardson, Texas.

Is Prayer Enough?

Sr. Irene Nowell, a beloved Benedictine scholar of the Hebrew Bible, makes a striking recommendation. She suggests that we pray with the book of Psalms in one hand and the newspaper in the other. While few of us read an actual newspaper anymore, we get the point: pray with the pain of the world.

Sr. Irene says it this way: “Take the psalm book in one hand and the daily newspaper in the other. After every few psalm verses, read another headline. The voices that cry out in the daily news also cry out in the psalm. Every time we pray the psalms, we pray in the name of the whole Body of Christ, in the name of the whole world. We carry all those people in our prayer; by praying the psalms we take responsibility for the well-being of all of them.”

The current situation in Ukraine is agonizing. Other situations come to our minds—school shootings, abuse, drought and famine, the toll of pandemic, wars and violence around the world. What are we to do? “Thoughts and prayers” are not enough.

Or are they? It depends, of course, on how we understand prayer. According to Sr. Irene, prayer is not an individual, inward exercise. It is a communal, universal experience. My prayer, with the newspaper in one hand, is what joins me to my suffering brothers and sisters in Ukraine and around the world. And once joined with them, I must do what I can to alleviate their agony.

Prayer is not an escape from reality or action. It is a commitment to community, a sinking into community, an authentic identification with both the joys and sorrows of others. It is only natural, then, that prayer—which begins as words, silence, the state of the heart—should spur us to action, love, commitment. This too is prayer. Prayer reminds us who we are. It reminds us that we are a people of love. We need the discipline of prayer because it reminds us of this, and we are very forgetful.

Is prayer enough? If prayer is just words, then no, it is not enough. But if prayer is engagement with God and others, words-leading-to-love, an identification with every human being that is lonely or afraid or hungry or hurting, if prayer is action that addresses affliction, silence that clarifies, self-poured-out-for-others, only then is prayer “enough.” Only then do our lives become prayer—when the newspaper, the psalms, and whatever other love we have pondered or uttered have moved us to understand, to be, to change, to serve. Thus the instruction of St. Paul: “Pray without ceasing” (1 Thess 5:17).

Hear, Lord, my plea for justice; pay heed to my cry; listen to my prayer (Psalm 17:1).