Epiphany

In the daily exercise of our pastoral office, we sometimes have to listen, much to our regret, to voices of persons who, though burning with zeal, . . . can see nothing but prevarication and ruin. They say that our era, in comparison with past eras, is getting worse and they behave as though they had learned nothing from history.

-Pope John XXIII, in his opening address of Vatican II

One of the great joys of my ministerial life is celebrating the Sacrament of Reconciliation: being grace with the opportunity to tell a person that he is loved by God in a quite absolute way, that she is absolved of her sins because she is beloved of Christ Jesus. To be able to do this on behalf of the Church—i.e., not through my power, but through God’s grace—can be truly overwhelming. 

Yet, beyond the grace of reconciliation that is offered to an individual, Confession can also provide insight into the movement of what St. Ignatius calls “the enemy of our human nature” within a community; it can help reveal patterns of sin that are moving through the Church, causing hurt and pain in various forms. It can help us see the effect of external events on the lives of individuals, and how our sense of those events corrupt our spirit, fracture our peace. Thus, in recent months, as the media has been filled with gruesome images of racism, antisemitism, Islamaphobia, and gun violence at home, as well as genocidal war and terrorism around the world, I have grown aware of a deepening sense of despair among many people, a sense that perhaps God does not really care about me, about us—either as individuals or as a people. Though we often blame ourselves for this despair (which only adds guilt and shame to the mix), we sense that God seems absent from our lives, or that we have disappointed God so much that he has abandoned us. As social media overflow with tales of blood and fear, manufactured outrage and real despair, many of us, even the most faithful and religious, feel alone and unlovable in some deep part of ourselves—and this loneliness comes forward in resentment or jealousy, in unfocused anger or depression, in self-righteousness or in various forms of self-hatred. Even if, intellectually, we profess a personal, loving God, an environment so filled with dark images and hateful words, with worries and fears, seeps into our souls, planting anxiety in our hearts, and leading us to believe that the world is lost, and we are alone.     

The sense that the world is going to hell in a hand basket goes back at least as far as the writings of Plato; yet, since the Cold War and 9-11, the pandemic and January 6, this anxiety (heightened by a 24-hour news cycle, and the growth of social media) drowns us in a flood of disaster. Bombarded by sensation and doom, we have learned to hunker down like soldiers waiting for the next attack: full of boredom and yet ever on edge; prone to rage and yet fiercely loyal to those we consider allies; arming ourselves with weapons for enemies we imagine are just about to strike and yet feeling, simultaneously, impotent and victimized in the face of world events. Whoever we follow, we stake out our ground and hold it—convinced that the leftists or the reactionaries, the fascists or the socialists, the terrorists or the corporatists are just about to destroy everything we hold dear and drag us down into a dystopian future where all life is “nasty, brutish, and short.”

For many years, the Church was itself a contributor to this culture of brokenness. In the wake of revelations of abuse and of systemic corruption, many in the American Church, rather than pursuing a model of humility and repentance—the “field hospital” of Pope Francis—often built, instead, a “bunker mentality,” in which the protection of the organization became paramount. Even today, zealous in the anxiety that so marks our culture, many still believe that the openness and mercy of Francis is contrary to the “tradition” of the Church. Like a self-hating penitent, they seek a purification of the Church—a purging of all that is part of the modern world (including the synodal movement) and a return to a supposedly more “original” Church. 

Yet, in the midst of our loneliness and fear, in the midst of threats of violence and calls to arm ourselves, in the midst of all the darkness and despair assaulting us from every screen and image, it comes—quietly, powerfully, inexorably, it comes: “the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

This week the Church celebrates the Solemnity of the Epiphany—that is, “the shining forth”—of Christ into the world. In this feast, we recall the light of that star, which shone in the darkness, and which led three magi—three individuals who knew nothing of the Covenant of Abraham or the Law of Moses, but knew how to pay attention—into the presence of the Son of God. We recall their coming, and recall, as well, all those who did not come; those who, like Herod, were too caught up in their power or their politics, in their maneuvering or their problems, to notice the star that shone above their head or to visit the child who would liberate their lives. But even for those who did not seek him, the manifestation of God came, and his light comes still, even in the cold and dark of our world, even when our hearts seem close to despair. For the Epiphany is not a single event, but the beginning of a blaze that shines even now: it shines in the humility of Francis, who seeks to hear the experience of all women and men at the table of the Synod, and to bless LGBTQ and divorced Catholics at the table of faith. Epiphany shines in the people of Gaza and Israel, who resist the senseless acts of terrorism and the unyielding violence of retaliation. It shines at St. Ignatius, where parishioners welcome refugees from El Salvador and Mexico, and where our children are reminded the Word of God belongs to them. The light shines, and the darkness has not overcome it, because we are loved—and able to love—in the image and likeness of God.

Fr. John Whitney