Our Lady's Lamp

This weekend -- the last weekend before Advent begins -- is the Feast of Christ the King. It's a reminder of WHO we are awaiting as we enter Advent as well as a reminder that all the Christmas Joy is not about shepherds and wise men and little lambs and mangers. Instead, it is about the Incarnation of the King of the Universe: God became man, lived, died, and rose to His Throne on high.  And so the Church asks us, before we pull out the advent wreaths and before we hang tinsel, put up trees, and turn on carols, to reflect on what the Kingship of Christ is. What does it mean ? I've written before and shared before about many of the things I've felt about the humility of Christ's coming as a little baby, the fact he bears his wounds while he is King, the reality that if we are part of the Body of Christ, we have a share in his Kingship. But that's not what I want to talk about today.  Father Nick gave a homily last night about how Monarchs in the Old World -- of which

I am sitting right now, watching the Easter Vigil Mass from my couch. It’s my favorite Mass of the year, and I wondered what it would be like not being able to be part of it. Yeah, I’ve had to miss before, but then I could always rest in the knowledge that many others were gathering to celebrate this glorious day. But how do you have a celebration with so few people? With only the priests and necessary readers? How does the majesty of the Easter Vigil translate without the people? We are an Easter People, a People of the Eucharist, and yet, we cannot gather to celebrate Easter, we cannot gather to receive Christ in the Eucharist.  The answer came almost immediately. A couple years ago, I wrote about the beauty of the candles and the flames that could be divided, but never diminished . The Vigil starts in darkness, with an Easter Fire outside and the light is brought in by the Easter Candle. Candlelight dominates the first half of the Liturgy of the Word. But this year, it was their

Two thousand years ago, time fractured. Two thousand years ago, time was entered by its Infinite Creator. Two thousand years ago, the King of Kings came to the world. Two thousand years ago, we were given a new way to live: Not the way of men, demanding kings and requiring strength, but the way of a child, offering softness and allowing vulnerability.  Jesus came, not riding on the clouds with trumpets blaring, but into a small, poor family. He grew inside of a woman and was born as a baby. He came to the world with nothing but the ability to cry and be helped. He left behind His royal trappings, left behind His golden throne, and entered into a small family.  He came in a way that any could approach him: the shepherds, the animals, the wise foreign kings. Babies don’t care about any of that, and He chose a mother and father who wouldn’t push away any who came to adore.  But, perhaps even more profoundly, He came to show us new life. He came to show us how to be human,

Advent is a season for preparation. A season for impending change. A season for growth.  It's so easy to get lost in the hustle and bustle of life, traffic, decorating, wrapping up finals, getting that project for work done, having people out for the holidays, everyone being sick, family drama, figuring out New Years Resolutions, and the other hundred things that we need to do. For some, this is also a painful season because of broken families, deaths, lack of funds, or many other reasons. And, if w're honest, we can let our whole lives be this way: Caught up in the business of life.  I know I spent a good couple years answering "How's it going?" with "Busy." Which is usually a good indication I'm letting busyness overwhelm the rest of me. We can keep up for so long, but, eventually, the wave of life will knock us back down. I take my emotional, spiritual, and even temporal growth and hide it behind the accepted achievements. If I'm busy,

“Ohana means family. Family means no one gets left behind or forgotten.” But what do you do when the meteor of life comes in and crashes into your family, fracturing it, sending it in more directions than the bowling pins after a strike? What does Ohana mean when nothing is enough to keep your family together? When you’re too young, or the hurt is too deep, or the world just conspires against you? When mental or physical illness, addictions, distance, and deep wounds create gulfs you no longer know how to mend? When your Ohana is the source of your soul’s deepest wounds? Can a broken family still be Ohana? Are you allowed to have Ohana if brokenness is your past?  I remember a time when Ohana was the unadulterated gift that all the posters, all the articles talk about. I remember the passion of family being the wave that carried me through life. But I also remember when that wave crashed into the cliff, shattering. I remember being left on the rocks wondering how I’d gotten h