Nativitas Domini nostri Jesu Christi

The Kalenda Proclamation is an ancient chant traditionally sung on the vigil of Christmas formally proclaiming the birth of Christ and putting his birth in a historical context, outlining time from creation to the arrival of Christ. This emphasizes that Jesus existed in a literal, specific time and place as well as lays out the timeline of salvation, from the Fall to the Incarnation.

The name of the chant comes from Greek kalenda or Latin calends. In the Roman calendar, the calends is the first day of a new month (also the word calendar comes from calends). The last days of the previous month are counted out from calends (or the ides/middle). Thus, Dec. 25 is “eight days from the first of January.” The proclamation is centered on time and building up history to the pinnacle (or, penultimate if we consider the Resurrection) moment: Christ’s Nativity.

The proclamation contains nine events to contextualize the birth of Christ. The traditional version was specific in even the earliest dates, but the current version is more ambiguous until reaching historically documented events:

The Twenty-fifth Day of December, when ages beyond number had run their course from the creation of the world, when God in the beginning created heaven and earth and formed man in his own likeness…

The traditional version says specifically, “In the five thousand one hundred and ninety-ninth year of the creation of the world.”

When century upon century had passed since the Almighty set his bow in the clouds after the Great Flood, as a sign of covenant and peace…

Again, the traditional version is more specific: “the two thousand nine hundred and fifty-seventh year after the Flood.”

In the 21th century since Abraham, our faith in faith, came out of Ur of the Chaldees…

The traditional version says, “the two thousand and fifteenth year from the birth of Abraham,” but both versions place Abraham between 2100 BC and 2000 BC.

In the 13th century since the People of Israel were led by Moses in the Exodus from Egypt…

The traditional version says “the one thousand five hundred and tenth year from Moses and the going forth of the people of Israel from Egypt.” The current version shifts this event later, placing it between 1300 BC and 1200 BC.

Around the thousandth year since David was anointed King…

The traditional version says, “the 1,032nd year from David’s being anointed king.”

In the 65th week of the prophecy of Daniel…

From here the traditional and current versions are in agreement. This dates places Christ’s birth within the “seventy weeks of years” given by Gabriel to the prophet Daniel. The 70th week is commonly understood as Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection in the Christian tradition. Christ was around 33 at his crucifixion. If you divide 33 by 7 (to convert it to “weeks of year”) you get between four and five weeks, landing in the 65th week.

In the 194th Olympiad…

This date isn’t relevant to salvation history, but it is a date that helps situate the Nativity in a specific time by a dating method understood by a large group of people within the Roman Empire. The first Olympic games were held around July 1, 776 BC, and the four-year period (the Olympiad) lasted from around July 776 BC to around July 772 BC. Multiplying 193 Olympiads by 4 years is 772 years, placing the Nativity between the summers of 4 BC and 1 AD.

In the year 752 since the foundation of the City of Rome…

Again, a widely-understood date. Rome was held to have been founded on April 21, 753 BC, putting the Nativity around 2 BC.

In the 42nd year of the reign of Caesar Octavian Augustus, the whole world being at peace...

Caesar Augustus began ruling Rome in 44 BC as part of the Triumvirate following Caesar’s assassination. He became sole emperor in 27 BC. The 42nd year of his reign over Rome would be 2 BC. The era was known as the Pax Romana, period of relative peace in the empire.

Jesus Christ, eternal God and Son of the eternal Father, desiring to consecrate the world by his most loving presence, was conceived by the Holy Spirit, and when nine months had passed since his conception, was born of the Virgin Mary in Bethlehem in Judah and was made man:

The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ according to the flesh.

Guide Us to Thy Perfect Light

I love planetariums. I don’t get to go very often, so when I do, I turn back into a little kid. Turn off the lights and teach me space things. So a few days ago when I got to attend a planetarium show, I was there. Leaned back in a dark room, a disembodied voice narrated, describing the constellations and how seafarers used the stars to navigate across the ocean. Lights pointed out shapes and routes. The stars mimicked their nightly course and aligned with that particular place on a particular night. Morning came; an orange glow increased as the stars faded, and the show was over.

By a strange series of events, I found myself looking up at the stars a second time that day. I was at a party on the beach that night, and, after my socializing battery ran low, I wandered off. I didn’t particularly want to be there, and I didn’t want to leave yet either. So I sat on the dark beach, leaned back, and stargazed. It was peaceful and beautiful; the sound of the ocean muffled the party down the beach and the racing of my mind. I could make out a few constellations, but it’s a lot harder without a narrator and light-up lines.

Still, even with my limited astronomy knowledge, I got lost finding the stars I knew, seeking shapes, contemplating how difficult and brave the old sailors were, and mostly just being—thinking of nothing at all.

Some people say looking up at the night sky makes them feel the expanse of the universe and makes them feel small. I’ve tried to feel that, the wonder of the grandness, but it’s not my natural experience. I feel the beauty and the complexity. I know that the tiny sparkles are blazing suns and that the light I’m seeing was emitted years ago, sometimes millions of years ago. I know I’m seeing fires of the past. But in the moment, that knowledge isn’t as important as basic observation. Alone in the night, everything else fades into the dark. The stars appear as if night exists only so that they can speak. They guide us across the geometry of the globe. They recite our myths. They move predictably, over and over across the eons. I find a calmness in their quiet, their predictability.

The universe does have order. From a distance, balls of exploding gases are soft, white stars. From a distance, stars millions of lightyears apart form shapes (sort of). From a distance, all is calm, all is bright. And the calmness takes over when everything is dark and I look up and escape earth, away from it all—responsibilities, people, my own feelings. I get lost in the stories the stars are telling. I don’t drown the vastness. I don’t fly up into the sky. I reach equilibrium. I be.  

Eventually, I lower my gaze, back to the space and time around me. I drove back to my hotel, the city lit up by artificial lights—safe, but not nearly beautiful. Suddenly, the sand and smoke accompanying me home were irritating. The noise, the lights, the obligations—the calmness evaporated as soon as I left the dark beach. And I knew I wouldn’t get to see the stars like that for a long while. But they are still there, in their predicable paths and primal patterns.

At this time of year, it seems like light is all we can think about. The days are short. We light candles, progressively more. We hang lights in trees, on homes, along streets. We hold candles and put them in windows. We sing about the coming light and tell of the wise men who followed a special star. We know the light is meaningful. We need it. We want it. Because the Light is promised to us—he is coming to the world to order chaos and bring us peace.

St. Andrew Avellino

Lancelotto (Andrew) Avellino was born in 1521 in southern Italy. He was intelligent and was sent to Venice to study philosophy and then Naples to study law. It is said he was very handsome and wore the tonsure to deflect women’s interests. In Naples, he got his law degree and was ordained a priest in 1547.

While serving as a canon lawyer in Naples, Avellino was instructed by the archbishop to reform a convent. The convent had lost its religious discipline and the monks were not living a life of piety. Avellino tried to reestablish discipline to the place. Some of the monks opposed his attempts and attacked him. He was severely wounded and taken to a Theatine monastery to recuperate. He wound up joining the new order (the Congregation of Clerics Regular, also called Theatines) in 1556 and changed his name to Andrew after the apostle.  

He visited the tombs of the apostles and martyrs in Rome, then returned to Naples and made master of novices for the order. Later he was elected superior general of the order and founded two new Theatine houses. He was good friends with St. Charles Borromeo, who was archbishop of Naples and a leader in the Counter-Reformation.

Avellino continued to be known for strict discipline and calls for purity and piety. But his style and reforms were welcomed, and he also became known for converting many people who sought his spiritual direction.

On Nov. 10, 1608, Avellino suffered a stroke just as he was beginning Mass and died suddenly. St. Andrew Avellino is the patron of Naples and Sicily as well as the patron of stroke victims and sudden deaths. His feast day is Nov. 10.

Preparing a Place

Recently, I was leading a Bible study on John 14. Our current study isn’t liturgically aligned. Most studies during Advent and Lent focus on the season, predictable themes and predictable scriptures. But, ignoring the season, we found ourselves in the middle of the Last Supper: Holy Week, near death. And yet, the passage was Advent-y, about preparation. Only this time, it was not about preparing ourselves or our homes for Christ’s coming. Christ is preparing his home for us too.  

“In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. If there were not, would I have told you that I am going to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back again and take you to myself, so that where I am you also may be.” John 14:2-3.

In Lent, the focus of the verses seem to be that he is foreshadowing his death, warning the disciples of what’s to come, but assuring them that he will return. Yet in the candlelight of Advent, he is not just promising his second coming; he is preparing us a place. We spend so much time talking about preparing for his arrival on earth, both in the Incarnation and the second coming, that we don’t think about him preparing for us to arrive in heaven. Christ came to earth so that we might reach heaven with the Father. Through God’s grace, we can go. There is not only room; there is anticipation. He has prepared a place for us. He waits for us. He longs for us.

Reflecting on the passage made it all feel so reciprocal. Normally we’re at the mercy of God’s grace; nothing feels very equal. And yet, we prepare for Christ on earth, and he prepares for us in heaven. We both desire to be with each other. We prepare. We wait.

Sometimes, waiting for Christ can feel like preparing for Christ the King; the arrival and judgment of a high ranking official. Get everything in order, be on your best, be alert and ready. Other times, it can feel like preparing for Christ the Child; the arrival of new baby who needs all the support. Cuddly soft, doe-eyed baby who is wanted and cherished. Get everything he may need, everything he may want, every gift you want to bestow on this person simply because you love him. And that’s how I imagine him preparing for us. We’re about as useful as a newborn baby, but he wants us, and he loves us, and so he is preparing a place for us.

How comforting to know our season of preparation is reciprocated. 

A Grief Observed

It caught me by surprise. It didn’t seem real at first. Throughout the day, updates. And then, she’s gone. When I receive bad news, my first reaction is numbness. I look stoic, unbothered. Even if I’m paralyzed from focusing or functioning, externally it’s hard for others to know I’m reacting. My emotions aren’t for them. But I still feel like I have to outwardly show something, lest they think I’m heartless.

I went to adoration early. There was no one else there. I lit a candle. I prayed. I sat in the stillness and silence. I just waited. Waited to emote, cry, something. Almost. Almost a tear. But no. Frustrating, but I’m used to it. It’s more cathartic when I cry over nothing and can’t stop than when I want to and can’t.

At the funeral everyone’s crying. I still can’t. Again, I try to turn away or feign an almost-cry face so I don’t look heartless. But also I don’t want to this time. If I cry, it’ll be later, alone, probably for no related reason but I’ll use the moment for this too. I think of all the other deaths or disasters where people are emotional and crying and I’m just…there. Wishing they would stop and hating myself for wishing that.

I’m not unaffected. My grief is just internal, hidden, delayed. It’s in the excess food, the drop in productivity, the spacing out, the short patience. It’s learning about secondary PTSD and feeling like a right jerk for getting PTSD without earning it firsthand. It’s someone asking if you’re ok, honestly saying no, but adding, “I’ll just cry when I get home,” like you can control it. But you can’t. But you can drink wine under the Christmas tree trying to buzzed enough to cry (it doesn’t work, but the lights are pretty). It’s wanting to talk but not wanting to bother people and wanting to talk but not wanting people to question why you don’t sound upset when talking.

At least it’s consistent. I know the pattern. I know myself. I know not to force it and not to get frustrated at my stoic face and not to get impatient with others’ tears. Grief, when raw, is wild and unpredictable. We all grieve differently, at different times, for different parts of what we’ve lost. I don’t wail; I observe. I don’t feel; I feel nothing. I would love to choose a sudden outburst over a week of repressed bad habits, but choosing defeats the whole point of it being a reaction.

I watch others grieve too, each different. Usually some outward emoting, but also the numbness, the nonfunctioning, the hyperfocusing, the impatience, the selfishness, the unhealthy coping comforts. We’re not ok. We’re not ok together, but we’re not ok each in our own way too. It’s a lonely journey, even when others are on the same road.

It still doesn’t seem real. I keep thinking of things to tell her before I remember. I feel fine and then, suddenly, not. I stare at blank pages and blank screens and can’t force words. I have sugar headaches. I marked her off my Christmas card list last week. Her address and birthday stay in my address book, though, with all the others I’ve tried to cry over.