The opening verses of this week’s Gospel might put listeners to sleep as they spell out who the political leaders were in power when John the Baptist was born. The names and regions they ruled are strange sounding—perhaps as strange as some names that people will read about in the centuries ahead—when the world is very different from what it is today.
Why did Luke bother to cite those names and places? Probably to remind readers that names will change over time, but the human race will still need to hear what his Gospel is reporting. The story he tells will need to be heard by generation after generation. He is telling the story of a leader whose message is for all times and places and people.
This reading, and Advent in general, reminded me of my novitiate—the first 2 years of formation within the Jesuit Order. This period of training is sometimes referred to as a “desert experience.” Except for having certain pastoral experiences during this time, we did not have access to TV, radio, telephone, newspapers, cars, travel, home visits, and other “deprivations” of what most people take for granted.
Moreover, we observed silence during meals and during most times of the day unless granted permission during our hour of nightly “recreation” (i.e., conversation or ping pong play after lunch or dinner). We had one break day a week, and this consisted of being assigned to take a walk in the country with 2 other novices. The day began at 5:30 a.m. and lights out took place at 9 p.m. N.B.. a Jesuit friend from that period said that spending 2 years in Sandstone Prison for acts of civil disobedience wasn’t at all challenging. His novitiate period was more daunting.
This regimen was intended to help us “get in touch” with what we REALLY needed in living a life that was dedicated to the service of God by serving others. It was a time during which we had prayer periods and meditation periods that would have us try to contour our speech and behavior in accord with what Jesus spoke and did. A phrase commonly heard was that we give one another “the plus sign.” That is, “plus” refers to us putting a positive spin on one another (the “plus” being both a symbol of the cross and a positive sign).
Why does this novitiate experience come to mind? Because Advent is a kind of retreat for all of us. It’s each of us once again entering the “novitiate” of learning how to be a Christian, a Catholic, a Christ-like person. We try and imagine ourselves walking the road to Bethlehem in our everyday experience—and celebrating new life when Christmas day arrives. Advent calls us to reflect on our life-experiences that have been good, bad, or indifferent. And during this reflective period, we keep in mind what Theresa of Avila said. Namely, “God writes straight in crooked lines.” And so, this period calls us to reflect on how God has spoken to us in both crooked lines and straight ones.
This past week gave us powerful examples of how fellow Catholics lived their lives inspired by the Gospel. For example, Francis Xavier’s feast day was December 3rd. He helped found the Jesuits along with St. Ignatius Loyola. Born into nobility, he was asked by Ignatius to take the place of another SJ and go to China and Japan as a missionary. This was something he, a nobleman, had not planned to do. However, as an obedient “son of Ignatius,” he did as his “General” commanded (the Jesuits were modeled on the military).
He then spent the rest of his life in that part of the world—and is today the patron saint of missionaries. My mom gave me a biography of St. Francis when I was in the 4th grade, and at that early age was emotionally moved by the man’s example. Since my middle name was “Francis,” I took “Xavier” as my confirmation name. Maybe reading that book helped me also read the crooked lines that led to my entering the Jesuits.
This past week also saw the anniversary of the American women killed in El Salvador in 1980. They were ordinary, God-fearing folk from Ohio who could pass for our parishioners here. They read the crooked lines of their lives as an invitation to work with the poor. They volunteered to teach religion and help at clinics. The U.S.-supported government did not want anyone educating illiterate peasants—so troops were ordered to rape and murder these women (troops later murdered Jesuit priests, too).
The Reagan-era Ambassador to the U.N, Jeanne Kirkpatrick, represented American lies when she said the nuns might have exchanged gunfire with troops when ordered to stop their van on the highway (the Reagan White House knew full well that no gunfire was exchanged and that soldiers had perpetrated the crimes). As noted in previous bulletins, religious Orders have boots on the ground globally, and we Jesuits knew early on that the White House was seducing Americans with specious talk of “fighting communism” in Central America (Jesuits accused of being gun-runners—more lies upon lies that a gullible America confused with patriotism).
The nuns and laywoman have been fonts of inspiration for people who know their story (there being a full-length film on the laywoman’s life). Literally called to the cross, these obscure women became globally known martyrs. Meeting family and friends of these people moved me to learn of the many ways our government does not always serve the greater good of our nation.
Indian America’s potential saint, Nicholas Black Elk, was honored in many places this past week because December 6th is the feast day of St. Nicholas (the original Santa Claus). After 1904, “Nick” Black Elk was known as “Nick” instead of the more esoteric “Black Elk.”
It was I, a Detroiter with an interest in American Indians, who stumbled my way through graduate studies until at last getting my PhD dissertation published as Black Elk: Holy Man of the Oglala. This book, and another that I wrote, set him on the road to canonization. The crooked lines of HIS life included his fighting the U.S. cavalry and assuming the role of respected medicine man among his people. Known globally for his inspirational biography penned by a writer in 1932, no one knew about his life as a Catholic catechist until my work became known. However, when embarking upon grad studies, I was not aware that this period would be filled with the crooked lines through which God spoke to my experience.
I was to learn that an anthropology program is the longest course of studies in academia. I also learned that the discipline is mainly composed of atheists or agnostics. Because of the makeup of the discipline’s landscape, my time at MSU was quite challenging. Fellow Jesuits wondered if I was just enjoying “the good life” on campus since others had pursued degrees and had completed them in less time than I was taking. Why the delay with me? Socially, I had no ties with fellow students or professors within the department since I had little in common within the ranks.
At the meet-and-greet party, a fellow student confronted me and asked why I was there. After all, “Jesuits and Catholicism ruined every culture they touched.” Fortunately, a professor overheard this comment and suggested we avoid such talk and simply socialize. The fellow student’s attitude was one I felt hung heavy in the air whenever I was visiting the department.
Talk about crooked lines! Isolated largely from the department, I was blessed to connect with campus ministry and bond with students who came to mass (at the parish named “St. John’s”). I struggled through the program and became the first of my class to earn the PhD degree. Of the 15 who started the program, only 2 of us completed it.
Tough times didn’t stop there. When seeking a position at Lake Superior State, a Dean with whom I spoke mused that I was a little old to be getting a doctoral degree. I informed her that I was at the average age that one acquired an anthropology PhD that year. Instead of asking her if that comment violated the law since it suggested “age-ism,” I listened and learned that she was unaware that Jesuits were involved with higher education globally, and that the University of Detroit was one of 28 other well-known Jesuit colleges in the U.S. It was no surprise that there was no position available at LSSU with this woman being the Dean!!
Feeling as if I’d been swimming upstream in higher ed, I could hardly imagine that my dissertation would address the life of Black Elk, and that a Bishop from Rapid City, S.D. would call me 30 years later and ask me to write up for him reasons why I think the man is worthy of canonization as a saint. Bishop Gruss (who I didn’t know and who I never thought of one day working for) submitted the man’s name—on my birthday—of 2017, and the assembled unanimously approved the request. Never imagining myself to be part of anyone’s canonization process, I took this occurrence as the clarification of what had been several years of crooked lines as a priest-student at MSU pursuing an anthropology degree.
Were it not for my involvement with sacramental ministry at the parish, I would probably never have made this contribution to Indian America’s Catholic heritage. Native people were the star that guided me to a Bethlehem experience that has brought new life to others. And that’s why we are a faith community at the altar each week. Quoting Black Elk, we come here to the “table of the Lord”-manger to hear that “a sacred voice is calling” each of us. The challenges cited in my case are of a kind to your own. I described my faith journey—which I took to the altar year-round—especially at Advent. I’ve given you examples from my life to illustrate that sacramental participation helps us read God’s handwriting.
Advent helps us perceive why God made us and what sense we can make of our experiences. They have a message that was difficult to read when going through them at times. God DID create us for a reason, and each one of us has our special calling to make our own special contribution. Advent reminds us that each of us is, throughout life, enroute to Bethlehem—seeking where the Lord can be found in the crooked lines of our life-experience.