VIEW FROM THE PEW
There’s an aged poinsettia plant near my front door. At the tip of one bedraggled branch, there’s the tiny beginning of a red blossom. I’m writing a week before Christmas so maybe there’ll be a blooming miracle of color soon enough for this poor t’ing to perform as it has for several happy seasons.
I can’t blame the plant or nature in general. I banished it months ago into a shady corner to make way for a construction project, then forgot it. It survived in spite of me and insufficient water and sunshine.
I’d be embarrassed to even display it if I were competing with the neighbors next door who mark the season with widespread bling including a plump greenhouse-generated poinsettia at their gate.
But I love my struggling flower. I identify with it in a year when it seemed I banished hope to a shadowy corner and forgot it, too.
I recognize that I’m writing myself into the Charlie Brown Christmas tree story.
There’s that medieval self-flagellating Catholic thing going on, about embracing suffering, about diving to the depths of the soul. Added to which is the ancestral burden: “The Irish have an abiding sense of tragedy which sustains them through temporary periods of joy,” in the words of an Irish writer.
Perhaps I got stuck at the first Sunday of Advent when we heard the words of Jesus about scary signs and portents, fear and anxieties. “Nations will be in dismay, perplexed by the roaring of the sea and the waves. People will die of fright in anticipation of what is coming upon the world. 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. For that day will assault everyone who lives on the face of the earth.”
Oh woe, it felt like the news media’s year-end wrap-up of current events. Actually, the Gospel of Luke was a “good news” story, with Jesus telling us to expect his return and redemption is at hand.
Grim realities
“The Gospel reading today is stark,” said Bishop Larry Silva, who was at St. Patrick Parish Dec. 2 on his annual visitation. He compared our Advent outlook with the kickoff of the secular holiday at the Honolulu City Lights celebration the previous night. “We would like our lives to be full of light, colors, fantasies, beautiful things. We can give in to fantasies but we are called to look at realities.”
The bishop cited some grim realities:
There was a recent diocesan meeting to “discuss what we would do if faced with an active shooter” incident in a school or church.
“The sex abuse scandals that caused an earthquake in our church.”
“Our youth are so pressured … they don’t have time to be themselves,” said the bishop, citing stress to achieve in school and sports competition and immersion in social media.
“When we look at the tents along our roads … what can we do” to address the causes of poverty and to help the poor “live with the dignity they deserve.”
“It’s important in the midst of earth shaking events, that we hold our heads high, because Jesus is with us … has called us to himself,” the bishop told us.
That’s the message I should have carried away. I mean, this is not my first rodeo … oops, I mean my first faith reality check.
But no, I was wrapped in a purple mental mantle like the Advent wreath.
I intended to plumb the plum-color theme here at length, but I’ll make it long story short. The vision is dimming, the joints are twinging, my doctor has the nerve to retire before I die, the list of deferred maintenance at home grows while the government with its road rage rail plan and Kaiser Permanente dip deeper into my pocketbook.
Despite the background music extolling a jolly, holly Christmas, I’m finding social conversations are more like those whining country songs — you know, the car, the dog, the plumbing are gonna die and leave me hopeless in my old age. Singing along with “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” where “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight” — guess which syllable I accented.
I did use the word hope in a conversation recently with one of the powers that be in my parish. “I hope I don’t live to see the changes you’re making to St. Patrick’s,” said I, despairing at plans to reverse the openness of the sanctuary that was reconfigured decades ago in the spirit of the second Vatican Council. I see the multi-million dollar fund drive as another excessive dig into the depleted pockets of many of us.
I don’t regret saying it as a lament, an attempt to speak truth to the powerful who didn’t want my input. But shame on me for even thinking “hope to die” in any circumstances, particularly in a year when mourning our brother has cast a shadow throughout the family.
A total surprise
Much as I love to dramatize my late-blooming bush flickering into glory, I have to confess it’s not really set in the midst of a bleak landscape. We celebrated the Christmas spirit before we even got to Advent. A successful plot by my sister, her daughter and grandson, to bring us all together for a week at Thanksgiving was a total surprise to me. There’s nothing like days packed with full-speed-ahead activity, lots of laughs and time together to recharge the emotional and spiritual batteries.
This family of mine reminds me of the most extravagant Christmas display of glorious and hardy blooms. Hope and joy, bring it on! I’m ready.
The house is fragrant from the tall pine tree and, by this reading, I expect to be resting up after hours of kitchen time cranking out umpteen batches of cookies and bread. Jars of those goodies were tucked into Christmas packages to the young ones on the mainland and into the hands of friends and neighbors. We have hopefully moved past experiencing the pressure, obligations and lists of the season and have quiet time to contemplate God’s great gift to us. His love for us is way too much to tuck in a box, under a tree. We look at the nativity scene, but his gifts of love, peace and hope are bigger than the manger.
I got a late start with the Christmas music, but I wonder if the neighbors might be maxing out on my choices shared at high volume.
I’m thinking the songs might be fertilizing my poinsettia, inspiring it to thrive. So let the music roll on into the new year. There’s an Advent hymn that fits my theme: “Oh Come, Divine Messiah, the world in silence waits the day, when hope shall sing its triumph and sadness fade away.”
Or how about this floral poetry about the Blessed Mother, “Oh how a Rose e’er blooming, from tender stem has sprung. It came a flower bright, amid the cold of winter when half spent was the night. Oh, Flower, whose fragrance tender, with sweetness fills the air; dispel with glorious splendor, the darkness everywhere.”
Oh, poinsettia of mine, now I see you as a bright signal of hope and cheer for the year we are about to enter.
You’re more beautiful than a rose. Your color is identified with the Holy Spirit. Your spiky red leaves remind us of his appearance as tongues of fire descending on the Apostles at Pentecost.
Hey, maybe I can keep you glowing long enough to celebrate that event months from now.
Hmmm. I wonder if the neighbors can survive the music? I may have to find a new tune. I’m open to suggestions.
