Easter Saturday

Give thanks to the Lord,
 for he is good,
for his love has no end.

The Lord's right hand
 has triumphed;
his right hand raised me up.
I shall not die,
 I shall live
and recount his deeds.
                           Psalm 117

.       .      .

Some days this is the heart's cry: God has triumphed, and the soul rejoices. The evidence of God's goodness is obvious and close at hand. Even the senses seem to attest to God's goodness, as the psalmist elsewhere exclaims, 'Taste and see that the Lord is good!'

And then there are those other days. On those days, the objective truth of God's goodness remains. It is, after all, Easter week. The triumph of the Lord is--or should be--obvious and close. But, though even the heart knows the truth of God's victory and the extent of God's goodness, the joy and gladness do not seem to follow.

On those latter days--I admit that today is one of those--I am grateful for liturgical seasons and appointed feast days. Holy days of obligation are a gift to me, and the psalms set for Mass and for the daily office make way for me to give thanks to the God of heaven, the One who raised Christ Jesus from the dead.

I am not blessed with a constant experience of the joy of my salvation. Would that I were, that the happy praise of the Lord were always on my lips and in my heart. But I am low some days, downright glum. But that doesn't change anything about who God is, or how right and just it is to praise the Lord 'always and everywhere.' Tomorrow, I will join the rest of the congregation in the alleluias and amens, and happily so: for the company of the faithful supports me (however little they may be aware of it) simply by offering that praise and inviting me to join in. By their presence, they testify to the truth I know, that the Lord has called us all out of darkness and into his marvellous light.

For that, I am glad--truly and deeply glad--indeed.

Deo gratias.

Sixth Tuesday in ordinary time

From the Psalm for Mass today (93 [92]):

When I think, 'I have lost my foothold',
    your mercy, Lord, holds me up.
When cares increase in my heart,
    your consolation calms my soul.

.                 .                .

What could I possibly add to that?

Only this: Deo gratias.

St Vincent de Paul

O send out your light and your truth,
    let them lead me;
Let them bring me to your holy hill,
And to your dwelling places.
                                              Psalm 42 [43]: 3

This is one of a set of two psalms, which, with their refrain ("Hope in God, for again I shall praise him, the help of my countenance and my God" [NASB]) ,were the core of my spiritual life for a large part of my twenties. Despair often settled on me, and I found myself asking "Why are you downcast, O my soul, and why so disquieted within me?" along with the psalmist. "Disquieted" seemed like the perfect adjective to describe my soul a lot of the time. I was grateful for the psalmist's response to his own soul, and repeated it to mine: "Hope in God..." Honestly, this psalm and a handful of others kept me going when things seemed bleak.

During those years, I was too unsettled to see the direction of the psalm, beyond my soul's hope, to the hope of the whole world. The psalmist cries out, "O send out your light and your truth, let them lead me," and so he has. His Light and his Truth came to dwell among us in Jesus. And that holy hill, where God dwells, is also the mount of crucifixion. God is there, too, even as God was there--closer to me than my own soul--during the darkest and most difficult times. It was not for nothing that I encouraged my soul to "hope in God."

Twenty years ago, I was helped by the psalms; now I am also helped by the saints, those who have followed God's Light and Truth before me. Today we remember St Vincent de Paul, who devoted his life to helping the poor, and reminds us that "the Lord takes delight in his people; he crowns the poor with salvation,"and that God's Light and Truth became poor for our sake, that again we might praise him.

Deo gratias.

Wednesday in ordinary time

I give him thanks in the land of my captivity, 
     and I show his power and majesty to a nation of sinners.
                                                                           Tobit 13: 6

.          .         . 

There is a video that has been making its way around the internet: "Scientists discover one of the greatest contributing factors to happiness." I was curious about the thing that increases happiness (despite the slightly awkwardly-placed modifier)--who wouldn't want to find out what she could do to be happier? Laughter, I thought, maybe.

I was surprised to find that (in case you haven't seen the video) what increases happiness (between 4 and 19%, according to the guy in the lab coat) is expressing gratitude. Immediately, I thought of a verse from one of my favorite psalms:

I know all the birds of the air,

    and all that moves in the field is mine.

 “If I were hungry, I would not tell you;


    for the world and all that is in it is mine.

Do I eat the flesh of bulls,


    or drink the blood of goats?

Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving,


   and pay your vows to the Most High;

and call upon me in the day of trouble;


   I will deliver you, and you shall glorify me.”

                                               Psalm 49 [50]: 11-15

So the 'science' reminded me of something I already knew: giving thanks is a balm for the heart. And Tobit seems to have known it, too. He doesn't say, "I give thanks because God has rescued me from captivity"; he gives thanks in the land of captivity. Some days I get stuck between the joys and duties of motherhood and the joys and duties of my life as a (sort of) academic theologian. I love what I do in both roles. I am living two dreams, really, doing what I always wanted to do. So on those days when the tension between motherhood and career seems like captivity, I know what to do: give thanks. 

Deo gratias, Deo gratias.