The cold has settled in, my candle is burning, and I can hear the 11pm Norfolk Southern way out in the dark, Southwest of where I'm sitting. Today is December 9th, the day where hungry, faithful Catholics celebrate the Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I'm going to talk about that in a minute. First I want to tell you about this cup of coffee I'm sipping on. I poured in a little Jameson to give it grip. "Grip" is the best way I can think to describe what whiskey (or bourbon) adds to a cup o' joe. You take a sip and after that hot coffee goes down and you feel the liquor hit the back your throat, you squeeze the mug, your cheeks and jaw tighten, your tongue presses against the roof of your mouth. You swallow it in deep. Satisfaction.
Advent can have that same effect. "Prepare ye the way of the Lord," cried John the Baptist. "Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand." Translation: Get a grip. On yourself, on your sin, on your bull shit (maybe I like that Jameson a little too much). No one's ever had that Old Time Gospel Repentance without getting a grip. I asked a friend the other day, "Do you love Truth? Can you put the pursuit of Truth above everything else? Above comfort, security? Can you accept the pain that sometimes comes with Truth?" Enneagram Fours (Eric Wolfe) will recognize this as an obvious, fundamental question. Everyone else will think I'm insane or misunderstand what I'm asking.
"If you only knew what darkness I am plunged into," wrote St. Therese, the Little Flower. Here's the thing about the Dark Night of the Soul: when you're in it, it doesn't feel like a "night," the implication being that the sun will rise and "day" will come again. It feels like the end. So when/if it does end, you'll cry and celebrate and dance like you didn't know you could or ever would again. The sun came up on my Dark Night in late 2015. I remember, about that time, sitting in Sunday School, I felt impassioned, hungry for hard truth, reawakened by an "infinite expectation of the dawn." It was a transcendental moment, which has become a not-too-unfamiliar thing for me. I felt a push to "drive life into corner," to live "sturdy and Spartan-like, to put to rout all that was not life," to dispense with identity and ideology and wounds and be burned by holy fire. I sat in my chair, my eyes closed. I wrapped my fingers around the arms, I squeezed them tight. I got a grip.
A peregrino named Ben Camino wrote this during Advent 2013:
I’m talking about hope. Clinging. My vocation is to encourage clinging. With bloody fingernails, if need be, with teeth, arms, words, poetry, advent laments, late night arguments, church reform, hearing confession, the bread and wine, visiting the sick, love, especially love.
Hope's never made much sense to me. But if it involves all that, if hope is clinging, if hope is getting a grip, then maybe I'm better at it than I thought. Hope always sounded like holly-jolly propaganda, like a Macy's benediction under tinsel and glitter, but what's the point of all this preparing and repentance if we aren't, at some level, expecting God to come down remind us that life is definitely worth living, and, more than that, that's it's awesome to be alive and, maybe one day, be alive again? That’s got to be hope.
Okay, I've made you wait long enough. The Feast of the Immaculate Conception. I think highly of my readers. I believe you're all well aware that this does not refer to the virginal birth of Jesus, but rather, to Mary's being conceived without inheriting Original Sin. If you didn't know that, then get a grip. Now, because the Eastern Orthodox Church doesn't believe in a genetic or passed down Original Sin, they celebrate the Feast of the Not-Really-Immaculate-But-Still-Impressive Conception. It should be noted that this is not a commentary on Mary's status as All Holy or on her virginity. And this brings me to the point of this completely non-ironic Advent Meditation: St. Agnes of Rome, the patron saint of chastity and virgins (and many, many other things).
The details are fuzzy, but the tradition of the Church holds that St. Agnes was martyred at the age of 12 by Emperor Diocletian. She was a beautiful, wealthy girl and young men came from all over to propose to her, but she turned them down, as she believed that she had a heavenly spouse in Christ. One scorned man turned her into the authorities as a Christian. She was arrested and dragged through the streets naked but miraculously her hair grew long and covered her body. When a mob tried to rape her, the assailants were struck blind and the son of the prefect who condemned her struck dead. The authorities tried to burn her at the stake, but the wood would not catch fire. A soldier then drew his short-sword and stabbed her through the throat. Would that I had a grip on the faith as strong as this little girl.
According to a half-assed Google search, the name Agnes is derived from the Greek name Hagne, meaning pure or holy, and the Anglo-Saxon name Harnish comes from Agnes. For this reason, I can't help but feel a special connection to St. Agnes, even if she couldn't legally drink the coffee I most enjoy. Her feast day is January 21. At the risk of sounding relevant, I dare say that as the patron saint of rape survivors St. Agnes should perhaps be remembered a little more loudly these days. Maybe next year she'll contend for the cover of TIME.
I'm blowing my candle out and heading for bed. Thanks for reading, pilgrims.
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