Genesis 15:1-6,21:1-3 Hebrews 11:8.11-12.17-19 Luke 2:22-40
Today is the last day of the year. We could do worse than to hear the Canticle of Simeon read out in the Gospel. In the Liturgy of the Hours, this Canticle belongs with Compline, the last prayer of the day, recited or sung just before bed-time. We begin Compline by recalling our sins and repenting of them. Then psalmody, as always, allows us to bring up all sorts of “life debris” to the surface, hopes and fears, thoughts and emotions, disappointments, achievements, and above all other people, family and friends, the Church, and the cares of this troubled world. But we end with these beautiful words uttered by an old, devout Jewish man: “Now, Lord, let your servant go in peace, because my eyes have seen your salvation”, the fulfilment of Your promise.
Even though we can be reasonably certain of waking up the next morning, Compline is like a daily training in Christian dying, a daily preparation for a holy death. It's wonderful that it ends with us “counting our blessings”, remembering promises fulfilled, all the saving encounters with God in everyday situations. This is what we should do today, as the Year of the Lord 2023 comes to an end, bringing with it a certain closure, a little symbolic death. As for promises not yet fulfilled, our own dark side and sin still rampant out there, as for all that seems hopeless and sad, we could do worse than adopt Abraham's attitude and cover it all with faith in God's power “even to raise the dead”, and happily set out into the wild future “without knowing where we are going”. St Joseph the dreamer did just that and, though he was a nobody in this world's terms, became a father to God's own Son as a result. It's never boring on these journeys of faith.
More importantly, however, today is the feast of the Holy Family. While we are still celebrating the great mystery of the Incarnation, the Church is asking us to focus on Jesus, Mary and Joseph together as a unit, to think of their humble life in Nazareth, to learn from them. It's a modern feast, clearly a response to a modern need. Enormous changes in society, in daily life patterns, over the past few centuries have shaken this basic human institution. As is always the case, the stubborn insistence on the Church's part to uphold the family has little to do with her alleged “conservatism”, or even with preserving “traditional values”. Defending the family in our times means defending a correct understanding of who we are, the very basis for a happy life. And we are persons, not isolated individuals. We are God's creatures, endowed with dignity and worth that cannot be taken away, totally independent of our achievements or even merits. We are social beings, born into a complex web of personal relations and not individuals with an unlimited freedom of choice. By relating first to our parents, grandparents and siblings, and then to neighbours, friends, teachers and so on, we learn how to properly relate to God, to nature, and to the rest of humanity. And we find ourselves, our identities, vocations and yes, true freedom, in doing just that, trying to love and respect other human beings. True, real-life families are rarely holy and never perfect, but grace builds on nature. If you do away with nature, grace has little left to build on. While with the help of grace, families can become “intimate communities of life and love”, as Pope John Paul II put it, little “domestic churches”. The Holy Family surely has to be the model here.
But how is any of the above relevant to our lives as monks in a monastery? Thinking about that, I was struck by a reading taken from the writings of Edith Stein which we heard during lunch on St Stephen's day. She was commenting on the strange fact that the Church celebrates feasts of martyrs during the Octave of Christmas. Martyrs seem totally out of place here. Why all these idyllic, rustic scenes filled with angels, shepherds and donkeys are followed immediately by graphic descriptions of violent deaths? But this is no accident. “The mystery of the Incarnation and the mystery of evil are closely connected,” she writes, “Against the light which has come down from heaven the night of sin appears all the more somber and sinister.” Well, monastic life approaches the mystery of the Incarnation from this other side, it seems. There is something of a hermit in each monk. The initial calling is quite unique to each one and does not seem to build on nature in any discernible way. It draws us out into the desert, into thick darkness, to fight demons – mostly the ones which have already penetrated into ourselves. At the root of our calling there is a certain reckless desire for martyrdom then, even if the very thought makes us feel uncomfortable. And so, while Christian families are natural unions that are meant to become churches, that is, supernatural communities, a monastic community is a church (by virtue of all our individual callings) that needs to become a family of sorts. From a purely natural point of view, our life shouldn't really be possible, and certainly should not be happy. Humanly speaking, we would never freely choose to live with one another as a community. But grace brought us together and now we have to catch up on nature, as it were, land on planet earth with all these heavenly gifts, because they are meant for the Church and for the world, not for ourselves. We have to make it work, catch up on human friendship and brotherly love, live out the grace. And here the Holy Family has at least as much to offer to us as an example as it does to natural families. Mary, Joseph and Jesus are just as much a religious community frankly. After all, Mary said yes to God, Joseph or no Joseph. He said yes without consulting her. They remained chaste. Mary ended her life on earth looking after the Church and being looked after by the Church. Let us pray to Her and to St Joseph for guidance and protection.