I can imagine some confusion– “Why has this happened?”– as
well as some annoyance and frustration– “Who made this decision? What does this
all mean?” I could even imagine some reactions of resentment– “Why were these
changes made without talking to us?”
I’ve been thinking a great deal about the new liturgical
translations– their sources, their impact, their reception by the clergy and
the laity, and the theological worldview that they express. Some of the more
contentious issues– the process that produced the new translation, the heightened sense of
human imperfection in relationship to divine grace, and a shift away from
colloquial to more formal language– I’ll set aside for the moment. What strikes
me at the moment is that potentially stark encounter between a new ritual
language and a group of individuals whom it may surprise and shock. But wasn’t
Jesus’ birth– God made human, a poor and unmarried woman bearing the world’s
savior– no less surprising and unexpected, whether to those familiar with prophecies or those who
simply received the news?
These are themes that continue to characterize my prayer this Advent; I can't imagine how or why Christ would choose to dwell in the spaces of darkness, emptiness, and brokenness that I feel within me. Yet I sense a call to await his coming even there, perhaps more so than in the places where I'm used to finding him– a conversation with a friend, contemplation on a favorite psalm, or amidst a quiet stroll at sunrise. As Advent goes on, and Christmas draws closer, I believe that Christ continually desires to surprise us, to encounter us in unexpected ways, and to gently challenge us to develop a truly honest vision of one another and the ties that bind us. Hopefully this message will be clearly heard this Christmas, regardless of how the new language of the Mass sounds.
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