From confusion to confession

Tonight I was reading a pdf document on the computer that was shrunk down to a miniscule font. Being too lazy to right-size the text with the cursor, I just squinted and read on. When I got to the part of the document about the Prayer of Confusion I was, well, confused.

What in world is the Prayer of Confusion, I thought. I mean, I’m reasonably well-versed liturgically, but I’ve never heard of that! Squinting even further I saw what it really said: Prayer of Confession. Oh.

I chuckled to myself over the mistake, but as I thought about it I realized there is hardly a more appropriate malapropism than accidently substituting confusion for confession.

Truly, I am confused most of the time. I’m even confused in my confession, not always fully aware of my own mistakes or the condition of my own heart. I stumble through confession as I stumble through life, not always knowing the true state of affairs.

Indeed, I - and dare I say "we" - see through a glass darkly, confused about the extent of our infirmity, or too afraid or too spiritually sluggish to open our hearts to the illuminating light of Christ. We just squint, and walk on in the darkness.

A good Examen can go a long way toward leading us out of confusion, out of darkness. Before Compline tonight, our Prioress called our attention to the Holy Father’s remarks of earlier today as reported by the Vatican Information Service. She suggested that they would constitute a good Examination of Conscience for each of us and challenged us to take his words to prayer in these final days leading toward the Nativity of the Lord.

As I do so, I pray that I can cease any spiritual squinting, that I can open my eyes and see the way from confusion to genuine confession, and thus to true reconciliation.

May the Light of Christ, shining in the darkness, illuminate our hearts and minds.

http://www.vis.va/vissolr/index.php?lang=en
(click on the top two of the entries dated 22/12/2014)

Like a litany...

These days of mid-December have always felt a little awkward to me.

On the one hand, we still are still draped in the shawl of Advent, with the color of violet filling the chapel and the O Antiphons filling our O-shaped mouths with the sound of longing.

On the other hand, we are busy decorating trees, arranging crib sets, draping garland along the Ottilia Hall banister, wrapping gifts and hanging wreaths. We’ve had our Employee Christmas Party and received seasonal visitors. We are writing cards and receiving cards. Except for the chapel, the whole monastery is looking a whole lot like Christmas. (And even the chapel is full of Christmas strains as the schola rehearses for the upcoming season.)

This year, I’ve participated a little less than usual in Christmas preparations around the monastery. Yet I’ve paid close attention as others have gone about their tasks – first one tree, then another, then the garland, then one crib set, and then another, and then another, and then another tree…and on and on.

As I've watched, I've begun to feel less and less awkward, experiencing the preparations this year as a kind of litany…first one thing, then another, and another, then another…all variations on a theme...all punctuated, like a litany, with a cry: “O come, O come, Emmanuel”…like a litany that says first in one way and then another that we long, and that we believe. We long for the Lord, and we believe the Lord is nigh.

I also see it - indeed I feel it - as a litany of footsteps, the footsteps of a donkey on a darkened road under a shawl of violet sky…the footsteps of a tired husband and fatigued wife walking on the words of an angel…a litany of footsteps that says, against all odds, I believe.

And so now I don’t feel awkward at all. The violet vestments in chapel somehow seem all of a piece with the shimmering lights on the trees and the garland that drapes the staircase. The lights, the garland, the trees, the cards are like the lines of a litany that says, I long, and I believe.

Come, Lord Jesus.