https://player.vimeo.com/video/212159869

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Christ lives in the Eucharistic Prayer.
He listens carefully.
The Father listens too.
We listen with Them.
The Holy Spirit speaks.
He speaks a great silence.
He listens to the listeners.
We collectively hear.
God.
Three Persons.
His Entire People.
All Creation.
The Sound of One Breathing.
The Sound of Life.
Communion.
—
Amen.
(Jan/4/18)
Can’t keep it neat
Bunched-up cloth
Shifting sand
An avalanche of gifts
Those toward the outside move the most
The trough is fixed in place
“The world turns, the Cross stands still” *
Manger, manger, what happened to you?
Sprouted roots
Began life as a tree
…..A table
……….A sawhorse
……………A wagon wheel
Dusty bumpy road
Excitement of a coming feast
Not quite yet
To and fro
Which place is home?
Bethlehem, Nazareth, Jerusalem
The land of Cana
A wedding toast
Now a wooden throne
Plenty of wine to go around
“The world turns, the Cross stands still” *
Manger, manger, what happened to you?
Sprouted roots
Began life as a tree
* this line is a loose paraphrase of the Carthusian motto: “Stat Crux Dum Volvitur Orbis” (The Cross Stands Firm, While The World Turns)
by Howard Hain

Rembrandt, “The Angel Appearing to the Shepherds”, 1634
Now there were shepherds in that region living in the fields and keeping the night watch over their flock. The angel of the Lord appeared to them and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were struck with great fear.
—Luke 2:8-9
Perhaps the scariest thing to those of us who cling tightly to the things of the world is to accept the job that the Lord assigns us.
Oh, how so many of us are so quick to long for greater adventure!
Yet, when it comes to those humble, little shepherds to whom the angel of the Lord appeared, we are perhaps even quicker to long to be one of them—sitting quietly upon a gentle hillside, effortlessly tending to a passive flock, while the always-full moon provides a soft, ever-so-appropriate illumination from above.
But we are liars. For there’s nothing less romantic in each one of our daily lives, or more mundane. We simply have to be honest, or at least consistent. It all depends on how we look at it. If we see the shepherds in such a delicate light then we also need to see ourselves in the same. For before the angel appears, the shepherds were hardly posing for picturesque landscapes. Perhaps it is for this very reason—their realness, their authenticity, their holy simplicity—that the Lord chose them to be present when He revealed His glory.
It is exciting. We have a wonderful choice, then. Either our “boring” lives make us just the kind of people to whom God prefers to reveal Himself, or our lives are a lot more “exciting” than we ever imagined. Either way, what is vital to making such a decision is true sincerity and genuine gratitude. We need to thank God for who He has made us, for where He has placed us, and for what type of task He has assigned us.
A faithful, humble heart dreams and believes and sees great things among the most ordinary circumstances. Just look at the young virgin and the upright carpenter to whom the shepherds “went in haste” to find in a stable, adoring a child born within the company of the “lowest” of men.
If we spend our time dreaming of being someone else, living somewhere else, and doing something else, we miss the opportunity of being exactly who God intends us to be—and when that happens—we are always in the wrong place, at the wrong time, and most tragically, doing that which matters very little.
For to be the first on the scene, the first to “lay hold”, the first to adore the New Born King, is as good as it gets—even for those whose “normal existence” isn’t standing around all alone—day after day in the scorching sun or biting cold, while picking fleas from matted-down fleece or scaring off hungry wolves.
The angel said to them, “Do not be afraid; for behold, I proclaim to you good news of great joy that will be for all the people…”
So they went in haste and found Mary and Joseph, and the infant lying in the manger. When they saw this, they made known the message that had been told them about this child. All who heard it were amazed by what had been told them by the shepherds.
Then the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all they had heard and seen, just as it had been told to them.”
—Luke, Chapter 2:10,16-18,20
I wonder. Did God ever catch a cold?
Did Mary look at Him while He slept, watching carefully His chest rise and fall?
Did Joseph pace around their small home, looking upward, his right hand touching his brow?
I wonder. Did they wince in sync when Jesus coughed from the bottom of His soul?
Was there a day, a single hour, from the moment Jesus was conceived that Joseph and Mary weren’t concerned?
Concerning all this there’s not much to wonder.
Jesus is human.
Of course He experienced “cold” in all its forms.
Of course Joseph and Mary felt they’d rather die than see their child in pain.
And Jesus is divine.
Of course He was homesick.
Of course He longed to return.
Between Mary’s womb and heaven the desert is awfully dry.
He climbed up high, seeking out mountain views.
He returned to the sea, seeking out salt air.
He stopped to hang out with the little ones, seeking out angels.
Jesus is just like you and me.
Only He allows Himself to be loved.
And that led Him to love to the utter extreme.
All flowed from and toward a family reunion.
His pain, His grief, His hope, His love were perfectly ordered.
Even when He coughed or sneezed or tossed and turned, Jesus did so while in the company of a promise.
And He’s extremely contagious.
Joseph and Mary became homesick too.
There’s only one place they could want to be.
With their only child.
Clinging to Him, to their God with all their might.
A man named Paul lives in my home.
He’s an excellent house guest.
He never imposes.
He’s never and always alone.
My daughter and I talk of him often.
He brings wisdom to our kitchen table.
I’m not exactly sure when he moved in.
But it wasn’t so long ago.
Before and with him there are others.
Theresa, Francis, Bruno, John…just to name a few.
But Paul for some reason never seems to leave.
The others, they kind of come and go.
Paul on the other hand always hangs around.
But then again, I could say the same about the rest.
Is it cliché to say it’s a mystery?
Yesterday I witnessed a “dress” rehearsal for a live nativity. The cast was made up of first and second graders, and the audience was mostly composed of residents of a retirement home for religious sisters, Franciscans. It was spectacular.
Last week I was at Radio City Music Hall to watch the Rockettes in their “Christmas Spectacular”. It was quite a production.
Sitting in the dark this morning I cannot help but contrast the two.
I also cannot help but relate to the seven-year old who played the part of The Little Drummer Boy.
As that child walked so slowly toward the foot of the altar, where the rehearsal was being staged, I saw my vocation in an entirely different light.
The children were all singing their hearts out, and many of the eighty and ninety year-old sisters were mouthing the words. The boy with the drum didn’t utter a sound. He just kept walking, slowly, extremely slowly toward the altar, every once in a while ever so slightly pretending to tap two tiny sticks upon a toy drum. He was beautifully awkward.
There was no greater spectacle on earth at that very moment. Shall I dare to say, no greater event that heaven or earth has ever known?
For a child was born. We were all being born.
———
Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.
Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That’s fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?
Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,
Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.*
* Little Drummer Boy was composed by Katherine K. Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeone in 1958.
Howard Hain is a contemplative layman, husband, and father. He blogs at http://www.howardhain.com

El Greco, “St. Dominic Praying”, c. 1588
Sometimes just showing up is all we can do.
To put ourselves in position to pray and worship—at least physically, even if we just cannot seem to get there spiritually—is an act of prayer and worship in itself. And quite often, it is the best we have to offer.
By confessing our aridity through physical obedience alone, we approach God’s altar with humility, for we come to God in our “nothingness”.
The bowing of head, the placement of knees, and the closing of eyes return us to the dark warmth of the womb. It is no coincidence that the posture of prayer and the fetal position bear great semblance.
It is in the womb that we are closest to God, furthest from the corruption of the world, and possess the least of what our “flesh” considers of value—our “brilliant” ideas, our “magnificent” plans, our “heroic” acts—our self-aggrandizement.
It is in the womb that we find ourselves in complete dependence. We receive all we need without knowing, without speaking, without cost.
In that sense, being in the womb is much the same as being in the world—for in the world we are still completely dependent—it is just that without the obvious reminder of the umbilical cord, we so easily forget our total and complete dependence on God, our Creator, our Sustainer, and our Ultimate End.
Hence we find ourselves “knowing,” “telling,” and “paying a price.” When in reality, the only thing that we can somewhat even come close to taking credit for is being physically present to receive His Word, His Wisdom, and His Will. All of which come free of charge, His Son having already paid the price.
———
“Lord, let me place my knees to the earth. Let me feel the foot of the cross against the caps of my knees. Let me close my eyes and bow my head. Let my brow lay upon your bloodied feet. Let me humbly raise my eyes to gaze upon your battered body. Oh my Lord and my God, let your blood and water rain down upon me.”
Amen.
Howard Hain is a contemplative layman, husband, and father. He blogs at http://www.howardhain.com
Follow Howard on Twitter @HowardDHain
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Paul Cézanne, “Bathers”, 1874-75, (The Met)
I’m Pro Art
In other words:
I’m Pro Truth
In other words:
I’m Pro Beauty
In other words:
I’m Pro Love
In other words:
I’m Pro Creation
In other words:
I’m Pro Life
(Oops, how’d that happen…funny how logic can lead you to such “un-expecting” places.)
(Words do seem to matter—or at least carry some weight—maybe even 7 pounds 8 ounces worth.)
(Before you panic, give it a little, teeny-weeny, infant-sized bit of thought…)
Conclusion:
ProArt (pro-creates) ProLife
ProLife (pre-conceives) ProArt
ProArt (equ=als) ProLife
Howard Hain is a contemplative layman, husband, and father. He blogs at http://www.howardhain.com
Follow Howard on Twitter @HowardDHain
If you enjoyed this post, please consider “liking” it, adding a comment, becoming an email subscriber, or passing it along via the social-media links below. Your support is greatly appreciated. Step by step. All for God’s glory.
Web Link: The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Paul Cézanne, “Bathers”, 1874–75

Rembrandt, “Philosopher in Meditation”, 1632, (Musée du Louvre)
Dream big.
Think small.
Step by step.
Real growth is incremental.
Reaching toward a glory beyond our reckoning.