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.