Veni, Veni

Today marks the First Sunday in Advent, the four-week liturgical season that presages not only Christmas, but Christ's eventual triumphant return on earth. For as long as I can remember, my family and my parish church have commemorated the season with a wreath of five candles, four marking the four Sundays preceding Christmas and a fifth white candle to be lit on Christmas. I've loved this tradition; as a child, watching the candles burn down bit by bit each evening provided an important rhythm as the family prepared for the holiday. The advent wreath also heralds a very joyful and hectic time of year for the family, as we commemorate several birthdays (including mine) and a wedding anniversary all in the weeks before Christmas.

As I got older, I came to see Christmas with a mixture of anticipation and dread. I still loved the joy of the season - fortified with so many good memories and countless blessings over the years, I felt that the month of December was a time set apart, with an abundance of happiness, joy, and good will. But I dreaded the the sheer work involved and the stress of the season. Not only was December the apex of our family's social life together, but it was also the busiest time in school. Dealing with the social obligations and the demands of work and school came to be a bit much.

But the advent wreath was always a symbol of peace, and a potent, graceful reminder to me of God's love, which is deep and abiding. This is why I light the wreath, year after year. Lighting the advent wreath has come to be the thing that I look forward to the most at Christmas.

To a Catholic, Advent is the season to commemorate the events leading up to the birth of Christ, but it is also a reminder that we expect Christ to come again. Because of this, my relationship with God comes into very high relief during this season, as I ponder His presence in my life, and the degree to which I embrace that divine presence.

In the last few years, I have found my faith clouded by the relentless march of life, so much of which seems to be devoid of God's presence, and by lingering doubts in my soul over my worthiness as a Catholic. Although we are told that we are made in the image of God, and to celebrate God's love and care for us, sometimes - well, many times - that is not entirely self-evident to me. I've come to realize that some of these doubts have their origin in the unfortunate condition of my sexuality being a political issue, both in the church and in civil society. As much as I would rather be seen as an integrated, fully endowed human being with many qualities, the prism of public conversation both in and out of the church keeps focusing on one aspect of me: my sexuality. I hate being in the limelight that way, I hate being used as a symbol, and I hate having perceptions, values and behaviors projected upon me. This is the world in which I live, and it makes feeling the full embrace of the Catholic communion difficult for me at times. Simply, my doubt stands in the way of my faith.

But does it, really?

In the last few years, I've developed a new sensibility on the question of doubt and faith that has helped me through the challenges I've faced in my religious life, and elsewhere. And earlier today, this new sensibility has crystallized into a deeper understanding of doubt and its role in the Christian experience.

The Gospel of Mark offers a vivid account of Christ's final moments on earth:

About noon darkness fell upon the whole land and lasted till three o'clock. At three o'clock Jesus cried out with a strong voice: "Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani," which means: "My God, my God, why do you abandon me?" (Mark 15:34 - Kleist-Lilly translation)

One of the greatest legacies of Christianity is our belief that Christ, though divine, is human. He experienced the full panoply of human experience, including passion, joy, temptation, dispossession, and at least in the final moments, agony and doubt. Whether Christ was speaking for us or for himself is a matter for debate, but either way, the line in Mark is a testament to his fellowship with us, as a human being. If nothing else, God as man understands and feels our doubts and fears.

Doubt, which is nothing more than uncertainty, is integral to faith. For if we had perfect knowledge about everything, would we need faith? No Catholic I know of has seen a virgin birth, a transfiguration, and certainly not a corporeal resurrection. These events are outside of our perception. And yet, although none of us can be certain of these things, many of us believe in them. Faith in this understanding cannot exist without a modicum of doubt.

A common interpretation of Mark 15:34 was that Jesus' cry was a recitation of a psalm, and the fulfillment of a prophecy that God would hear him when he cried out, and would deliver him. And of course, we believe that's exactly what happened. Likewise, our doubts give rise to our pleas and our prayers. When tempered by faith, doubt can be the fertile ground in which we cultivate a relationship with the Divine, whose ultimate nature is unknowable to us.

This crying out for deliverance has become a ritual in the Roman Catholic advent liturgy, in the form of one of the most haunting and beautiful songs of our religion, one whose words date back to the ninth century: "Veni, veni Emmanuel" - O come, o come Emmanuel.

The lesson of Advent is that God is with us. As I commemorate the birth of Christ, I am also reminded that although I cannot see God, He is present in my life. Even though I doubt, I find that when I cry for help, an answer is never far away. I often find it in the love I experience from my partner, my family, and my friends; in the talents and gifts that I see in others and in myself; and even in something as mundane and repetitive as a sunrise.

From now on, I need to learn not to let my doubts hinder me from crying out. Thanks for reading, and may your Advent and Christmas be full of abundance and joy.