Seasonal Sarum Blue

Around Advent, you see lots of purple, with a streak of pink. That’s the liturgical color, and Advent wreaths with their purple/pink candles are the to-go symbol of the season.

But not everyone uses purple. Liturgical colors somewhat varied for centuries, as local meanings and available colors greatly differed. Purple, now liturgically associated with penance, was often associated with royalty because it was so expensive to produce. Worthy of the Kings of Kings, but hard to acquire for parish celebrations.

In the sixteenth century, Pope Pius V made some reforms, including streamline the colors: white, gold, red, violet, purple, green, black. But even as purple for Advent/Lent became more adopted, there was a wide range of shades used, based on what was available in different areas. Some were reddish violent and others were blueish indigo.

In medieval England, blue was very common. Salisbury Cathedral used a distinct dark blue, named Sarum blue after the Latin for Salisbury. In the nineteenth century, there was a revival of pre-Reformation traditions, and some Anglicans, Episcopalians, and Lutherans adopted the Sarum blue.

The dark blue represents the night sky, waiting from the light of Christ. Blue is also traditionally associated with Mary, so having a blue for Advent is a reminder that the season focuses on Mary and her bringing Christ into the world in the flesh.

I think the use of a different liturgical color is fascinating (it probably helps that it’s a pretty shade). The meaning attached to colors affects how we see the season: blue reminds us of Mary where purple reminds us of the King; blue reminds us of the coming Light where purple reminds us to prepare from that Coming. Color can affect our understanding and our attitudes. Our worship should be deliberate and have meaning. Often it’s unconscious, but liturgy should affect us—teach us, guide us, help us to worship.

Monday Motivation: Advent's Intention

 "Advent is concerned with that very connection between memory and hope which is so necessary to man. Advent’s intention is to awaken the most profound and basic emotional memory within us, namely, the memory of the God who became a child. This is a healing memory; it brings hope. The purpose of the Church's year is continually to rehearse her great history of memories, to awaken the heart's memory so that it can discern the star of hope." - Pope Benedict XVI

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Who is Mary?

The mother of Jesus has long drawn people closer to her Son, but she has also caused a lot of controversy, especially between Catholics and Protestants disagreeing how much praise this holy, human woman deserves. When does appreciation become veneration? When does veneration become worship? How far is too far, and how little is not enough?

The Dicastery for the Doctrine of the Faith recently released a doctrinal note, “Mater Populi Fidelis” (“Mother of the Faithful People of God”) clarifying the Church’s position on Mary. It discouraged using the titles “co-redemptrix” and “co-mediatrix” noting that such titles caused confusion for many. The titles have been used, unofficially, for several decades, without formal approval and without clear definition of what they mean. This has caused arguments over implications of Mary’s role in salvation history.

“Co-redemptrix,” the note said, “carries the risk of eclipsing the exclusive role of Jesus Christ” in salvation.

“Co-mediatrix” could imply that Mary could somehow mediate the grace that she herself received and should not be used in a way that casts doubt on “the unique mediation of Jesus Christ, true God and true man.”

Day Springs Eternal

One of the O Antiphons during Advent celebrates the oriens, or eastern dawn, coming dayspring. On Dec. 21, the shortest day of the year, we pray, “O Radiant Dawn, splendor of eternal light, sun of justice: come and shine on those who dwell in darkness and in the shadow of death.”

Dayspring is another way of saying dawn. It is the first light. Isaiah prophesied, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned” (Isaiah 9:2). Then at the birth of John Zechariah prophesied, “And you, child, will be called prophet of the Most High, for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways, to give his people knowledge of salvation through the forgiveness of their sins, because of the tender mercy of our God by which the daybreak from on high will visit us to shine on those who sit in darkness and death’s shadow, to guide our feet into the path of peace” (Luke 1:76-79).

In an age of electric lights everywhere, it’s difficult to remember the power of light in darkness. It is vision; it is warmth; it is growth. Light means life and renewal.

Regardless of Jesus’ actual birthdate, we celebrate the Light of the World’s arrival at the darkest time of year, because the darkness reminds of the power of light. Even the faint, yellow glow of a winter sunrise illuminates the sky and ushers in the day. As the days grow shorter, we light candles and hang lights. We long for light, for hope, in a darkening world.

And Jesus is that light. He is the dawn, the dayspring, that casts back the darkness and brings warmth and life. 

O come, O Bright and Morning Star,
and bring us comfort from afar!
Dispel the shadows of the night
and turn our darkness into light.
Rejoice! Rejoice! Immanuel
shall come to you, O Israel.

Vigilant and Joyful

Advent means coming. It is a season of anticipation and waiting. It points to the future. Regardless of what your life or the world looks like in the present, Advent urges you to look up, look beyond. There is a coming light, a brighter future.

Advent is two-fold in that we are anticipating both for the celebration of the birth of Christ and waiting for His second coming. In the same way, our duty during Advent is two-fold. We are called to be both vigilant and joyful. We must be vigilant, ready to greet the Lord. Like the virgins with oil in their lamps, we must live our lives always prepared for Christ’s arrival. It is not something to schedule in amongst all your other plans and activities; it is the way you live.

But it is not a fearful vigilance. We are also called to be joyful. The Lord has come to us and will come again. Good will conquer evil. Life will conquer death. There is a light in the darkness. There is hope.

The Clouds are Raining Justice

A Rorate Caeli Mass is a special Mass celebrated during Advent. The name comes from Isaiah 45:8: Rorate Caeli desuper et nubes pluant justum (“Drop down from above, heavens, and let the clouds rain justice”). The verse is used during vespers during Advent to express longing for the Messiah. It is also used as the introit for the Fourth Sunday of Advent and the feast of the Expectation of the Blessed Virgin Mary (Dec. 18).

The Rorate Mass is a votive Mass in honor of Mary. It is usually celebrated in the very early morning or late evening, accompanied only by candlelight. It was popular during the Middle Ages, also called the Angelic Mass or Golden Mass. In some countries, people would walk to the church carrying lamps or candles. Some say the melting wax of the many candles reflects the justice raining down. (Plus, who doesn’t love pretty candlelight in the winter dark?) 

The Invitation Written in the Heart

I’d recently been struggling with feelings of belonging and sense of community. I was in some dark places, spiritually. Why can’t I ever feel like I fit in? Why do I struggle so hard to find deep connection? Why do I want it so badly?

There’s a lot to unpack with all I’ve been going through. But the first moment of comfort came at an Advent retreat discussing the yearning of the human heart.

We are meant to desire more. We are built for community and connection. And we are built for being in a relationship with God. The human heart will always yearn for that. That (sometimes painful) feeling of un-satisfaction comes from the world being unsatisfactory. We are broken and sinful. The world offers millions of distractions to keep us from exploring that yearning feeling. We’re told to find quick fixes, chase hedonistic instincts, dull any pain. We want to shake off that inner feeling that there should be more.

It’s Not Beginning to Look a lot like Christmas

I’m not putting up a Christmas tree this year. No day set aside for forgettable movies in the background while I scratch my arms on plastic needles and figure out why the middle string of lights don’t work. No second day set aside in January to take it all down again and have the room looking empty. No finding needles from the Jesse tree all over the house. No remembering to turn on or off lights or worrying about breaking precious ornaments or going through the holiday routines that no one but me would see. Other than the Advent wreath and the stack of presents on a side table, my house doesn’t look Christmasy at all. And I’m really ok with that.

I thought maybe as Christmas got closer I’d have more of an urge for decorations. But I haven’t. Christmas is still coming. I’m looking forward to the holiday and to the time off work, but I’m also sitting in Advent, reflecting, and not in an overly eager anticipation.

Joy to All the World

Every year, the world experiences one moment when 99% of the human population experience daylight. It mostly goes by unnoticed; after all, it looks like any other day from our perspective. We don’t know we’re sharing in this moment. But how great would it be if we could appreciate the moment, find solidary among each other all over the world?

The “Christmas spirit” is sort of like that. There is a light in the darkness that we all want to see and share with others. There is a sense that we’re all feeling it at the same time—the magic in the air of a shared moment. Aren’t we all anticipating? Aren’t we all joyful? Aren’t we all seeing the cozy glow amidst the dark winter?

Of course, that’s just a feeling. Some don’t celebrate. Struggles continue. There is pain and loneliness, as there always is. On July 8 at 11:15 GMT, millions are experiencing nighttime. Millions more are on the edge of twilight; it might as well look like night. The shared moment isn’t all-encompassing. It’s difficult to get 8 billion people on the same page at the same time.

But the Church offers us as close as a shared moment as we can get. It may oscillate a bit with time zones, but we say the same prayers, read the same verses, celebrate the same holidays together. I don’t need to know you to know we’re sharing a feeling, experiencing the same joy of the coming king. We’re looking up at the same strange star. We’re looking down into the same humble manger.

The surrounding lights and flowers and decorations and sweet smells tell us that others around us are all on the same page. It’s the darkest time of year, but we all are celebrating light. In fact, we’re surrounded by light—the strings of lights, the candles, the goodwill. We can and do find solidarity with one another. We appreciate the season while it lasts. Together we acknowledge a shared moment—across time and space and culture and language. 

In one brilliant moment, amidst the dark and chaos, the Light of the World enters, and we begin to experience our salvation.        

Monday Motivation: Alfred Delp

 “Advent is the time of promise; it is not yet the time of fulfillment. We are still in the midst of everything and in the logical inexorability and relentlessness of destiny.…Space is still filled with the noise of destruction and annihilation, the shouts of self-assurance and arrogance, the weeping of despair and helplessness. But round about the horizon the eternal realities stand silent in their age-old longing. There shines on them already the first mild light of the radiant fulfillment to come. From afar sound the first notes as of pipes and voices, not yet discernable as a song or melody. It is all far off still, and only just announced and foretold. But it is happening, today.” ― Alfred Delp, Advent of the Heart: Seasonal Sermons And Prison Writings 1941-1944

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.

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. 

Waiting on the World to Change

It’s so easy to complain about this year. But look at any time and you can find the signs of the end times: natural disasters, corrupt leaders, war, violence, disease, poverty, loneliness. The world always has suffering. And when you’re in the middle of it, it seems like it will never end. The pain will never go away. The victim will never see justice. The dawn will never come.

Hope is the tiny light in the night, promising that good will prevail in the end. The wait might be long, but victory is just ahead. We are to prepare and hold on through night.

The presents are wrapped. We wait for Christmas.

The votes are counted. We wait for inauguration.

The vaccine is ready. We wait for immunization.

The laws are written. We wait for justice.

The lamps are filled with oil. We wait for the bridegroom.

The prophecy is fulfilled. We wait for the Messiah’s return.

Advent is about being in the present while looking to the future. There is hope, resolution, salvation. But not yet. But the assurance and the anticipation keep us going through the dark nights. God has made a promise to us. All will be well.

Wait for It

Time has gone a little wonky in 2020. Since March, we’ve all experienced differing phases of lockdown. Events are postponed. We’re told to wait. Wait for the numbers to dip before going out. Wait for a vaccine before resuming public life.

Last week was even more waiting. Wait for the votes to be counted. Wait for the call to be made. Wait for our future to be declared. The country waited, if impatiently. Sleepless nights. Doom scrolling. Constant text messages from our pandemic isolations. Any news? Any signs? Praying for the best; bracing for the worse. Trying to keep up hope without getting our hopes up. No deadline. Perpetual March. Perpetual Tuesday.

It’s been a test of patience, prudence, and charity. Learning to live in the waiting and appreciate the wait. Working to do the right thing at the right time. Trying to love those who oppose you, who refuse the wait, and who work actively against the common good.

Advent begins in a few weeks, but this whole year has been an advent. Something is coming. We do not know the day or hour. But we must be patient. We must be ready.

The reading this past Sunday was the parable of the ten virgins. It reminds us to stay vigilant and ready. Something is coming. We can get fatigued in our exile. We can get turned off by the bombardment of distractions and lies. In the parable both the wise and foolish virgins fall asleep. That’s inevitable. But we must be prepared at all times so when we are called, we can wake up and answer. Change doesn’t come when we want it or when we expect it. Healing, justice, and the Messiah is coming. Just wait for it. 

A Lenten Gaudete Sunday

I have trouble showing gratitude. I know how to say “thank you,” and acknowledge my privileges, but I’ve always struggled with expressing gratefulness, even privately. A couple years ago, my penance, regardless of priest or parish, was always to reflect on what I’m grateful for, as if each could hear my melancholy and struggle in each confession.

I’ve worked at it. I try to tell my friends what I appreciate about them. I don’t take friendships for granted, but I’m not one to normally express such gratitudes.

Part of this I think is that I’m better at seeing problems. I’ll nitpick something even if I love it. I’m a perfectionist who wants to everything and everyone to be working at full potential. I don’t expect perfection, but I expect to be moving toward it, be it lining up pens in the “right” order or beating myself up for the one sentence I should have said in the meeting but didn’t. I see the flaws everywhere— the injustices, the diseases, the evil. I focus on those instead of looking at how much is right. 90% is an A to some; it’s 10% short to me. I can like and enjoy something but still only comment on its flaws.

I’m learning that expressing gratitude increases joy. I have so many blessings; of course it does me good to count them. I like receiving compliments; of course I should give them to others. There are terrible things in the world and depressing parts to life, but there is also love and beauty and God’s unceasing patience.

There is a benefit to see the flaws—to push for change, fight for justice, and strive to be closer to perfection. But I have to see the good too, lest I fall into despair. I have to let in joy. I have to let light into the darkness.

It’s been a gloomy Advent for me. I’ve wanted to feel peace and hope and joy and struggled to do so. Advent is traditionally a penitential season, yet we treat it with much more joy than Lent. It’s joyous because we’re waiting the coming of Jesus. Things may be bad now, but the good is coming.

Gaudete. I need the command. Rejoice, let in joy; all will be well.

The Tabernacle of the Womb

When I went to Mass on St. Lucy’s day, I knelt at my regular pew. When I tried to look up at the tabernacle, I realized that the large portrait of Our Lady of Guadalupe, left out from the evening before with offerings of flowers around it, blocked my view. I wasn’t about to actually move from my regular spot, but I was little disappointed that it was blocking my regular view.

As Mass went on, I continued to look at Our Lady of Guadalupe. Her feast being the day before, I had been reading up on her and just recently learned that the image portrays a pregnant Mary. Throughout the Mass, my eyes kept darting to the position where I can normally see the tabernacle. Instead was the middle of this image. I couldn’t stop looking at her womb, knowing the tabernacle was just behind it.

I’ve never had the biggest devotion to Mary. I know she’s our mother, the Mother of the Church, the Mother of God. I usually attribute to my Protestant background; no aversion to her, but we keep a WASPy familial distance. I see others with their deep devotions to her, their daily rosaries, their consecrations. I know her, but not like that.

But there are brief moments like this when I see it—her power in our story of salvation. She said yes and bore God. She cradled him and nursed him and mourned him. She wants us to see who she sees. Unleavened bread and golden boxes don’t always seem so relatable. But she is. The tabernacle is in the womb. She cradles our salvation.

Under a Veil

When I was in RCIA and still trying to sort out the dos and don’ts of Catholicism, I pondered why women had once covered their heads and now didn’t. But it was clear now that no one did, and therefore, it fell low on my figuring out priority list. But there was a lingering feeling that the reason the practice stopped was more cultural than theological and that I needed a better reason.

Two years ago, I finally got the courage to veil. And it did feel like it took courage. It was such an outward sign, and I was afraid people would think I was a radtrad or acting holier than thou. I decided to veil for Advent—just a four-week exercise, and if it helped me in worship I would continue. I thought maybe it would help me remember that I was in a holy place, maybe it would make it meeker.

I didn’t expect to feel empowered, but I did. I felt strong, for an inexplicable reason. I like veiling in church. I like the motion of putting it on as I enter, acknowledging the sacred space. I like the edges of the veil keeping my vision forward, toward Jesus, as I pray. I like the solidarity I feel with all the women who historically have covered their hair. It makes me feel humble and protected and noble. It helps, so I continue the practice.

I’m glad it’s a voluntary practice. I wouldn’t tell another woman that she should veil, and I don’t know how I would feel if it were still obligatory. But I know that for me, it’s a beneficial devotion. Or, as Fred says in A Christmas Carol: “…though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!”

Some women do it because they attend Latin Mass or are more conservative. Some do it as a sign of their God-given femininity. Some do it to emulate Mary. Some do it because sacred things are covered, like tabernacles. I think a lot of people assume the reasons and apply judgments when they see veils, but the reasons are varied and frankly, private.

Judgement can come from both sides: those who oppose or take offense to it, and those who are a little too excited to see it. I myself judge men who think women have to veil. I read my own assumptions into that—that they’re conservative, possibly sexist, rigid. Men shouldn’t have a say in telling women specifically what to wear to Mass. I know some men that prefer women who veil, who like the devotedness of it. But I worry about fetishization. I’m not doing it for men or to signal to men or anyone else. I don’t want to stand out. I don’t want to be stared at or have assumptions placed on me. But if I do, it’s the gazers’ problem, not mine. I’m still going to veil. But it was never about them; it’s about me and Jesus, and we’re cool with it.

It's a personal devotion that means a lot to me, but probably less than others think it does. I'm glad I've kept with it, and I intend to do so. Though if I stop, it's no sin.

How can a little piece of cloth mean so much? When it points to God, every little thing matters.

"How Can I Understand?"

I’ve been thinking about the Ethiopian in Acts 8. He is an odd character, not the typical convert that the apostles are meeting in Jerusalem: he’s Ethiopian, he’s a eunuch, he’s in charge of his queen’s treasury, he practices his faith. It is not clear if he is a convert to Judaism or a “God-fearer,” one who believed in the monotheism of Judaism but was not bound by Jewish law. He’s traveled a long way to worship at the temple. He’s reading the scriptures on his own, even though he lacks instruction. He’s a seeker of the truth.

Phillip finds him as he’s reading Isaiah 53:7-8. He asks the Ethiopian if he understands it, and the man says no, that he needs instruction. With Advent coming up, and its readings from Isaiah, I can relate to the man. The prophets are confusing; there is so much cultural context that I can’t understand without instruction. He’s trying, but it’s not clear to him.

Phillip explains how Isaiah predicts the coming and sacrifice of Jesus. The Ethiopian requests baptism, and they stop along the road so Phillip can baptize him. Then Phillip leaves to continue his mission, and the Ethiopian, presumably, returns to Kush (now in Sudan) to spread the Good News he’s learned. Ethiopia does have one of the oldest Christian communities, and the Orthodox community there refers to him as Simeon Bachos.

I really like the account of the Ethiopian’s conversion. While others are joining by the hundreds, this is a personal account. We get to know who he is—where he’s from, his high position, his status as eunuch that probably keeps him from full participation in the community, his faith. He is devout and wants to know the truth. And when it comes to him, he accepts it. The waiting, the seeking, is over: the truth, in Christ, has arrived.

Quick, Rejoice!

The calendar this year really messed up Advent. With Christmas Day falling on a Monday, the fourth week of Advent gets compressed into 24 hours. There is less time to prepare, and most parties are compressed into one week (which is exhausting this introvert). Lent never pulls tricks like this, even when I could really use the shortened time there.

But then Gaudete Sunday arrived, and it lined up perfectly with the beginning of the O Antiphons. And it made so much sense. The light and joy of the third week is the perfect attitude for the antiphons. They are a joyful worship, and they build up the anticipation to Christmas. It may be a compressed Advent. It may be rushed and exhausting. But it can be joyful too.

Gaudete in Domino semper: iterum dico, gaudete.

Bewildered Lamb

While filling the house with candles and lights, the black cloud descended again. It’s the kind of dark that external light doesn’t dissipate. I tried. But in the end, I knew I just had to ride it out. I lit the Advent candles. I normally read scripture with the wreath, but for some reason, I felt compelled to find a daily devotion. And this was the one that popped up first:

“Do you know what it’s like to lose your bearings and be hopelessly adrift in a sea of uncertainty? To be alone, lost, and disoriented without a sense of direction is one of the worst fears we can encounter.” Ok, you have my attention. It went into the parable of the lost sheep.

Now, I’ve always thought that that parable was pretty straightforward: Jesus loves all of us sheep, and he’ll go to any length to gather each and every one of us in. It’s all about the shepherd. But about that sheep that got lost? “Sheep by nature are very social creatures. An isolated sheep can quickly become bewildered, disoriented, and even neurotic. Easy prey for wolves and lions! The shepherd’s grief and anxiety is turned to joy when he finds the lost sheep and restores it to the fold.”

Since I grew up Christian, I never considered myself the lost sheep, and I never considered the condition the sheep was in. Alone, scared, disoriented, in danger. Maybe even neurotic. A sheep cannot save itself. It cannot find its own way back. It has to rely on its shepherd to find it. It can hide or it can bleat out, but mostly, it can only wait to be saved.

I can hide and wallow or I can cry out for help. But I can’t always save myself or fix the present circumstances. Sometimes I just have to wait my shepherd.