A Reflection for Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Advent, Mass in the Morning
Find today’s readings here.
You, my child, shall be called the prophet of the Most High,
for you will go before the Lord to prepare his way,
to give his people knowledge of salvation
by the forgiveness of their sins.
When I was in high school, a boy from a nearby school died by suicide. This story is on my mind today, because yesterday was the anniversary of a dear friend of mine dying that way, and it does tie in with today’s readings, so bear with me, please. I know it’s not what you want to read about on Christmas Eve.
His name was Tom, and though I didn’t know him, we had a lot of mutual friends. So I got excused from morning classes to attend his funeral—a classic Irish-American affair, lots of jokes. I didn’t stay for the luncheon afterward but I assume memories were shared, maybe the mood got quieter, maybe some Kleenexes were passed from hand to hand. You know how these things go.
When I got to my car, I sat in silence for a while then started to drive, the window cracked down. It started to rain and I turned on the radio, to the CD that was already cued up: The Mountain Goats’ The Life of the World to Come, an album in which each song is based on a Bible verse. It’s not pious music; it’s quite sad; a lot of the songs, as often happens with the Mountain Goats, are about drugs, and strained relationships, and stubbornly holding on until better days come.
The rain dripped in through the open window and I let it. John Darnielle sang on the radio about visitors coming and going, talking about “days they'd said were sure to come / had a hard time believing” and I imagined Tom’s mom, whom I knew, sitting there at the luncheon not believing when people said it would get better. I wasn’t sure I believed it would get better, either. Despite being one of those church choir, campus ministry kids, I couldn’t summon an ounce of belief, not at the Mass, not in the car. Any thought I mustered fell flat when confronted with this great silence and numbness that filled me. I made an extra turn, away from school, and kept driving.
The Gospel today is about Zechariah, the Father of John the Baptist, who worked at the temple with his wife Elizabeth. They never had kids and assumed they were too old to have any now. So when an angel appears to tell him his wife will have a son to be named John, he doubts. He asks for a sign. And the sign he gets is that he is unable to speak (thus, scripture scholars say, unable to do his job giving blessings at the temple) until the baby is born and it is time for him to be named.
“I saw his little face contract as his eyes met light, try to imagine anything so bright,” the song on the radio continued, “You only see it once and it steals into the dawn / and then it's gone forever.” I closed the window and wiped the water off with my sleeve. Like Zechariah, the medicine for my doubt was silence. And maybe a break from work or school for a while.
It’s the day before Christmas, so I imagine silence will be hard to come by. But if you’re like me, and haven’t had the most spiritual Advent this year, I’d invite you to sit with this lesson—maybe while you drive to other errands, maybe while you’re holding seats for the Midnight Mass—that quiet and rest are God’s antidote to our feeling he isn’t there. (Although the Christmas Octave is meant for celebrations, that quiet week between Christmas and New Year’s is often the perfect time for this kind of a break.)
Tonight’s celebrations, like today’s Gospel, show us what is in store after such a period of rest, whether chosen or imposed: Zechariah, as soon as he is able to speak, names the child John, then bursts forth with the canticle that is prayed around the world every morning in the liturgy of the hours: “Blessed be the Lord, the God of Israel; for he has come to his people and set them free.” It continues ecstatically through salvation history, emphasizing safety and freedom, and ends with some of my favorite words in all of Scripture: “In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.”
Around when the rain let up, I turned back toward school. I didn’t feel consoled, but I knew I had to go. I don’t remember if I had any analogue to Zechariah’s “bursting forth in song” in the weeks and months that followed, but I did have good times again, and later, times of much deeper loss, slow healing, and the profound joy that is a balm after journeying through grief. All of that was to come, but as I drove back to school that day, still numb and lost for words, I adopted the song’s closing lyrics as my prayer: “Open up the promise of the day / And drive the dark things away. / I will do what you ask me to do / Because of how I feel about you.”
Get to know Colleen Dulle
What is your favorite Advent/Christmas hymn?
It’s got to be “O Holy Night.” The line “He appeared and the soul felt its worth” is just unbeatable.
What are you most proud to have worked on at America this year?
It’s a tie between my report on what happened in a contentious closed-door meeting during the synod and our “Inside the Vatican” deep dive into U.S. seminaries and the changes they’re undergoing, which is now our most popular episode of all time.
What are you most grateful for this Advent season?
I’ve been really grateful to spend a lot of time at home with my husband and our almost-two-year-old son this Advent, watching Premier League soccer and reading board books. It’s the best.
