THINGS OLD AND NEW
By Ruth Powers
With the increasing popularity of the Divine Mercy Novena, which began on Good Friday and ended on the Sunday after Easter, many Catholics are rediscovering an ancient form of Catholic prayer which has fallen out of regular use in recent years — the novena. “Novena” comes from the Latin word novem (nine) and refers to a nine-day period of public or private prayer to obtain special graces, to ask for special favors, or to make special petitions.

There is no mention of nine-day celebrations among the Jewish people in the Old Testament, so it is likely that the origin of the novena is not in Jewish practice. However, Roman culture had a tradition of celebrating nine days of prayer for various reasons, such as to avert some evil predicted by soothsayers or in the aftermath of some “wonder.” There was also a nine-day period of mourning after the death of a loved one, with a special feast on the ninth day. These practices make it likely that the origin of the novena is in the adaptation of Roman culture to Christianity as the Christian religion began to spread outside of Palestine. The very first novena of the followers of Christ, however, is described in the New Testament. Between the Ascension of Christ and the coming of the Spirit at Pentecost nine days later, the Acts of the Apostles recounts that they spent the time in constant prayer.
In the ancient church, novenas continued to be associated with nine days of prayer after someone had died, just as in the pagan Roman community. For this reason, some of the Church Fathers, such as Augustine, warned against the practice. As Christianity spread, however, the practice expanded to include periods of prayer honoring a particular saint, in preparation for a feast day, or to ask for special favors from God. Church writers began to associate the nine days with specifically Christian themes, such as the nine months Jesus spent in the womb of Mary, Jesus giving up his spirit at the ninth hour, and the nine days between the Ascension and Pentecost. Some writers also gave numbers various symbolic meanings. The number ten was seen as symbolic of the perfection of God, so the number nine was seen as symbolic of imperfect humans turning toward God. By the Middle Ages, novenas of all types had become popular, especially those associated with Mary. After the Protestant Reformation, novenas used by Catholics had to have papal approval, and Pope Pius IX (pope from 1846 to 1878) was known for approving large numbers of novenas and promoting their use.
Novenas generally have one or more of four basic purposes. There are mourning novenas to pray for the soul of a departed loved one either before or after burials, which was their original use. Preparation novenas are joyful and are prayed in preparation for a feast day. Petition novenas ask God for intervention or some other help, usually through the intercession of a saint. Finally, Indulgence novenas are acts of penance and are usually said in conjunction with the sacrament of Reconciliation.
Novenas can be a spiritually fruitful form of devotion when approached properly. First, we must remember that a novena is an act of devotion to God. One possible reason for the decline in popularity of novenas recently is that they came to have superstitious overtones. Some people approached them almost as a form of “magic,” believing that if they said a particular novena their prayer would always be granted, rather than seeing a novena as ultimately an act of devotion with its outcome dependent on God’s will. The traditional novena is said over a period of nine days although it can be said in a shorter format by saying the prayers once per hour over a period of nine hours. It is helpful to pray the novena at the same time each day or each hour to develop the discipline of prayer. Novenas can be prayed privately or with a group. Some parishes have even experimented with praying a novena in a social media live stream that people can join virtually!
If you decide to explore this devotional practice further, there is available a multitude of novenas to many different saints, for many different needs and for many different feasts. Try one!

(Ruth Powers is the Program Coordinator for St. Mary Basilica Parish in Natchez.)

From the hermitage
By sister alies therese
I was particularly reminded of mercy when Pope Francis was in Iraq. He has been heavily quoted, but this touched my heart, so I offer it again:
“From this place, where faith was born, from the land of our Father Abraham, let us affirm that God is merciful, and that the greatest blasphemy is to profane God’s Name by hating our brothers and sister … Peace begins with the decision not to have enemies!” (Pope Francis, Ur, 6Mar21)

In fact, I suspect that everything we have had, have now, are, or want to be is tied up in this web of God’s mercy. If like the Pharisee we try to wriggle out of the web and think only of ourselves, rather than like the tax-collector who knows his blessing is in God alone … well, how will we reach the mercy seat?
A few years ago, I wrote this little meditation:
“Where do you want to meet, greet, and spend all of eternity? ‘Come ye Disconsolate,’ where? At the mercy seat, the very throne of God. How shall we arrive there? We shall be carried on the shoulders of the Good Shepherd, in the arms of friends who love us, or by catching onto the coattails of that ‘holy’ friend who, as s/he ascends toward heaven, carries us along, to Jesus. The question God will ask each of us as we stand before this mercy seat is, where are all the others? Who did you bring with you? Who did you enable to receive mercy that they might never again live an ungrateful or useless life? Why are you here by yourself, and where are your wounds … what did you do with what came your way? You know the scars that still hurt a bit? The terrible wounds of childhood or the loss of a child. Maybe the scars are from addictions or physical abuse? Regrets or what you did to others? Sin. The mercy seat is for those who were changed by God’s mercy to the extent that nothing means more to them than being a wounded servant like Jesus. If you wish to sit at the mercy seat with Jesus and His friends, experience the fulfillment of joy and love for eternity, become a mercy-maker and bring lots of others along with you.” (The Mercy Seat, pg. 43, Contemplative Drawing and the Gifts of Mercy, 2016)
This year has been tough. Lots of negatives and lots of opportunities maybe for the first time to learn real service, real mercy? Who did we see who really needed us? And what did we do?
St. Sister Faustina tells this: “Jesus came to the main entrance (of the convent) today, under the guise of a poor young man who was emaciated, barefoot and bareheaded, with his clothes in tatters. He was frozen as the day was cold and rainy. I went to the kitchen, searched about, found nothing but some soup I reheated and crumbled in some bread. He ate it and told me He was the Lord of heaven and earth. When I saw Him as He was, He vanished from my sight … in my meditation I heard these words in my soul: ‘My daughter, the blessings of the poor who bless Me as they leave your gate have reached my ears. And your compassion, within the bounds of obedience, has pleased Me. … I have tasted the fruits of your mercy.’” (St. Faustina’s Diary, #1312, 2005).
Until we literally bump into the mercy of God everything done to us or that we have done to others remains festering deep within. When we are brave enough to accept God’s mercy and grace to give it over, we change our focus, and our life is shiny and new. Then we can become true friends, real lovers, people of the Way. Then we can recognize Jesus in the poor, Jesus in the rich, Jesus in everyone! Wound together in the soft web of God’s mercy we will be gently held, by hands wounded for us, and full of joy.
‘Hold a true friend with both your hands.’ (Nigerian Proverb)
St. Augustine tells us what sitting at the mercy seat is going to be like. I want to be there, with you and all the people God has in mind, and that is everyone who wants to come! Nothing completes our life, not another person, thing, or duty. Nothing is enough until filled with mercy.
“When I am completely united to You, there will be no more sorrows or trials; entirely full of You, my life will be complete.” (Augustine, Confessions)
BLESSINGS.

(sister alies is a canonically vowed hermit with days formed around prayer and writing.)

IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
One of Dorothy Day’s favorite saints was Therese of Lisieux, Therese Martin, the saint we call “the Little Flower.” At first glance, this might look like a strange affinity. Dorothy Day was the ultimate activist for justice, protesting in the streets, being arrested, going to prison, and starting a community and a newspaper, the Catholic Worker, in service of the poor. Therese of Lisieux was a contemplative nun, hidden away in an obscure convent in a small town in France. Indeed, during her whole life, except for one brief trip to visit to Rome with her family and parish, she never left her small town and, at her death, was probably known by fewer than two hundred people. Moreover, in her writings, one finds precious little that might be considered explicitly prophetic in terms of social justice. She wrote as a mystic, with a focus on the interior life and on our personal intimacy with Jesus. Not exactly the stuff of protests in the streets. So why did Dorothy Day, whose life looks so different, have an affinity for this young recluse?
Dorothy Day was drawn to Therese’s spirituality because she understood it beyond its popular misconception. Among all known saints, Therese of Lisieux stands out as one of the most popular saints of all time and as one of the most misunderstood saints of all time, and her popularity is part of the problem. Popular devotion has encrusted her person and spirituality in an over-simplistic piety that generally serves to hide her real depth. Therese termed her spirituality “the little way.” Popular piety, for the most part, thinks of her “little way” as a spirituality that invites us to live quiet, humble, simple, anonymous lives wherein we do everything, especially the small humble tasks asked of us, with fidelity and graciousness, unassuming, childlike, grateful to God just to be of service. While there is a lot of truth in that understanding, it misses some of the depth of Therese’s person and spirituality.

To understand Therese’s “little way” and its connection with justice for the poor, we need to understand certain things in her life that helped constellate the vision that lay behind her “little way.”
Therese of Lisieux had a very complex childhood. On the one hand, her life was touched by deep sadness, not least the death of her mother when Therese was four years old and several bouts of clinical depression from which she nearly died. She did not have an easy walk through childhood. On the other hand, she had an exceptionally graced childhood. She grew up in family of saints who loved her deeply and honored (and often photographed) her every joy and pain. She was also a beautiful young girl, attractive and graced with a disarming warmth and sensitivity. Her family and everyone around her considered her special and precious. She was much loved; but this did not make for a spoiled child. We can never be spoiled by being loved too much, only by being loved badly. Her family loved her purely, and the result was a young woman who opened her heart and person to the world in an exceptional way.
Moreover, as she matured, she began to notice something. She noticed how when she was a child her every tear was noticed, valued, and honored, but that this was not the case for many other people. She recognized that countless people suffer heartbreaks and injustices, endure abuse, are humiliated, live in shame, and shed tears that no one notices and no one cares about. Their pain is not seen, not honored, not valued. From this insight, she articulated this ground metaphor that undergirds her “little way.”
Her words: One Sunday, looking at a picture of Our Lord on the Cross, I was struck by the blood flowing from one of his divine hands. I felt a pang of great sorrow when thinking this blood was falling on the ground without anyone’s hastening to gather it up. I was resolved to remain in spirit at the foot of the Cross and to receive its dew. … I don’t want this precious blood to be lost. I shall spend my life gathering it up for the good of souls.
From this, we see that her “little way” is not about privatized piety, but about noticing and responding to the pain and tears of our world. Metaphorically, it is about noticing and “gathering up” the blood that is dripping from the suffering face of Christ which this face is presently suffering in our world in the faces of the poor, the faces of those who are bleeding and shedding tears because of heartbreak, injustice, poverty, lack of love, and lack of being deemed precious.
Dorothy Day walked the streets of the poor, noticing their blood, drying their tears, trying in her own way to gather them up. Therese did the same thing mystically, deep inside the body of Christ. It is no surprise that Dorothy Day took her as her patron saint.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

SPIRIT AND TRUTH
By Father Aaron Williams
When the Old Testament readings and their corresponding psalms and canticles are read, one of the more dramatic moments of the church’s liturgy occurs: the return of the Gloria. There are some interesting rubrics which detail this moment of the liturgy. The Roman Missal calls first for the priest or a cantor to intone the glory (i.e., to sing the first line). Then, the organ is directed to play in a festive manner while bells are rung and the altar candles are lit. In the older form of the Mass, it was not permitted for images to be unveiled or for flowers to be used until the Gloria at the Easter Vigil, so servers had to rush at this moment to unveil everything and set out the vases of flowers before the Gloria had concluded.
The liturgy is often meant to paint a picture for us of the mysteries we celebrate. Traditionally, the return of the Gloria at the Vigil was meant to mark the ‘moment’ of the Resurrection in our liturgical celebrations. There is a nice spiritual meaning to this, that just as the angels sang ‘Glory to God’ at the birth of Christ, it is fitting that we sing the same at His rebirth. This was more starkly represented in the older liturgies used in Holy Week when the chanting of the Gloria also marked the time when the priest would change from the violet vestments of Lent into the festive white and gold vestments of Easter.

The liturgy keeps this sense of drama when, just a few minutes later, the Alleluia also makes its return. The Roman Missal calls for the priest or cantor to chant the Alleluia with the people repeating it back. Then it is sung a second time, but this time I step higher. And again, a third time another step higher. This elevation of the key of the Alleluia is meant to symbolize the Rising of Christ, and our eager desire to praise him with the Hebrew ‘hallel’ — ‘praise be to God’.
The modern form of the Mass moves the Baptismal rite from its traditional location before the Gloria to after the homily. This seems a fitting change so that once we have both heard and reflected on Our Lord’s own rising, the new members of the Christian community then experience their own share in the death and Rising of Christ in holy Baptism. In ancient times, the catechumens would have, up to this point, assembled in a separate building where they would be baptized before being brought into the main body of the church. Many of these ancient baptistries were designed with eight sides so symbolize Christ’s rising as the so-called ‘eighth day of creation’. Even today, it is common for baptismal fonts to be designed with eight sides for this same purpose.
The ritual used to bless the baptismal font contains an odd custom, the meaning of which is likely lost to most people. During the prayer of blessing, the priest is directed to plunge the base of the lit paschal candle once (or three times) into the font, and then to leave it in the water until the prayer is concluded. This is meant to symbolize Christ’s own baptism. The prayer of blessing connects Christ’s baptism to blessing the water of the Jordan River: “so that the very substance of water would even then take to itself the power to sanctify.” The Paschal Candle is always meant to symbolize the risen Christ to us, and so it is fitting that when the water of the Baptismal font is blessed, the Paschal candle be symbolically ‘baptized’ as well.
In the modern form of the liturgy, the remainder of the Mass is much the same as any Mass. This wasn’t the case prior to the liturgical reform of 1969. Traditionally, the Easter Vigil wasn’t actually considered an Easter Mass at all — that was saved for Easter morning. And, so the remainder of the Mass lacked some of the normal elements which we would expect such as music at the offertory or communion as well as the sign of peace. These would make their return the next morning. The return of the sign of peace on Easter Day proposes a very interesting piece of liturgical drama in itself.
Traditionally, the ‘Kiss of Peace’ (as it is referred in the Roman Missal) was omitted on Holy Thursday night, since it was by kiss that Our Lord was betrayed. This omission would also occur on Good Friday and Holy Saturday. But, our Lord’s first greeting to His Apostles after the Resurrection was “Peace be with you.” Therefore, traditionally the liturgical rite of peace was saved until Easter morning.
Even though this is not a mandated rubric in the new rites, the rubrics of the Roman Missal allow for the Sign of Peace to be omitted in any Mass. Perhaps some parishes would be interested in adapting this small bit of symbolism by omitting the Sign of Peace on Holy Thursday and Holy Saturday. If this is done, it might be helpful for the service leaflet to be printed with a note about this omission so that people may be made aware of the symbolism.
The Easter Vigil concludes with the dismissal “Go forth, the Mass is ended, alleluia, alleluia.” This dismissal is used at all Masses until the Second Sunday of Easter, and again on Pentecost. Tradition strongly recommends that this dismissal be sung.

(Father Aaron Williams is the administrator at St. Joseph Parish in Greenville.)

ON ORDINARY TIMES
By Lucia A. Silecchia

It was a happy confluence of mundane events that brought three long awaited signs of hope in a single week.

First, the temperature reached 60 degrees for the first time in months. On that sunny and (relatively) warm day, everyone I greeted on campus, running errands, or walking in my neighborhood had something joyful to say about the spark of springtime that we all shared.

Second, I saw the first crocuses of spring bloom from my neighbors’ snow glazed lawns. As if on cue, these giddy optimists of the floral world burst forth with the solemn purple and bold gold of their blooms.

Third, the owners of a small-town ice cream shop that is a favorite summer destination of mine began a springtime countdown on their Facebook page. The post listed the number of days until spring and teasingly asked “Who’s Counting?” I certainly am!

These three events, coming together as closely as they did, were especially welcomed this year because it has been a long winter in more ways than one. There is something in human nature that seems to seek for the good ever more eagerly in challenging times. To me, the warmth of a bright sun, the bloom of a new flower, and the promise of ice cream to come are all things I am celebrating just a little more than usual this year.

A few days after the sunshine, snow fell again. There will still be a wait before other flowers join my neighbors’ crocuses for a genuine start to spring. And the promise of long summer nights eating ice cream on a park bench is still too far away to taste.

But, maybe the glory is in the glimmer. Maybe it is just enough to see that there is good that lies ahead. Maybe it is promise that provides the joyful hope that brightens the lingering darkness of winter.

Life, too, is that way. So often, what makes challenges possible to face is to be able to hope for what comes ahead and lies beyond today. Anyone who has lost a job and seeks another knows that. Anyone who has had a dream dashed and dares to dream again knows that. Anyone who hopes for the return of a wayward loved one knows that. Anyone who endures long days of illness hoping for healing knows that. Anyone who weeps at the grave of a loved one, with a broken heart that whispers “life is changed, not ended” knows that.

Lent, too, is that way. It is no mere coincidence that the ancient root of the word “Lent” is the word for spring. It is that time that bridges the darkness of winter, of longing, of weakness, and of suffering and connects it to the joyful hope of fulfilment, triumph and Resurrection after suffering and death lose their grip.

When I think of the joy that fills my heart when I contemplate sunshine, flowers and ice cream, I have to stop and think how small and, even, trivial, those joys are compared to what is yet to be and what lies ahead. And, yet, I am so deeply grateful for a God who gives me these small pleasures to cherish because He knows that, most often, my heart cannot quite contemplate much more.

In April, I will rejoice in the glory that is beyond my comprehension when Easter joy fills a weary world. But for now, for Lent, I will say a quick and quiet “thank you” for the promise of joy that unfolds when slowly and gently, spring comes to ordinary times.

(Lucia A. Silecchia is a Professor of Law at the Catholic University of America. “On Ordinary Times” is a biweekly column reflecting on the ways to find the sacred in the simple. Email her at silecchia@cua.edu.)