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.)