December 2017 Philadelphia Chapter of Pax Christi U.S.A.
I was picking our daughters up from school and, like all the other parents waiting together, was becoming increasingly uneasy by the growing presence of helicopters in the bright blue sky. The students were late and the assistant principal let us know that there had been an incident one block away; they were waiting for the police to let them know it was safe to dismiss the children. Finally I saw the doors open and out come the bright and cheerful faces -- so beautifully unaware of their parents' unease. Later that evening I learned that the incident had been an accidental gunshot, a two-year-old boy in his basement. Rushed to Einstein and pronounced dead at almost the very moment I was greeting my girls after school. Perhaps those with greater faith than I can make sense of such a tragedy; weeks later I am still lost in the darkness of this moment, this world in which my own little boy can be sound asleep, his face in the bright warm sun and another little boy at the same moment is a victim of a fatal gunshot wound. My faith is too small for this.
I was raised in an evangelical Presbyterian home and became Catholic as an adult. In the evangelical tradition there is a constant focus on the victory of Christ over death; the resurrection is the dominating message in every sermon, pamphlet, small group, and Bible camp. So much of the momentum of evangelical fervor depends on the constant awareness of this reality -- that Christ is the ultimate victor. Eventually I got to a place in my own religious journey where this felt very contrived; it seemed that in order to have that type of joyful certainty with each prayer and praise song was to deny the injustice and oppression I saw in the world around me. I felt as though evangelism was telling me I had to hurry up and get to the end of my journey, where everything makes sense and I understand God's perfect plan for me and world. But in Catholicism I found a version of Christianity in which faith is a long, often dark and lonely journey. It wasn't until I became Catholic that I felt safe admitting to myself and God that most days I feel lost in the dark, searching desperately to see any sign of Christ's victory over death. Catholicism doesn't require that we have answers when a little two year old boy is fatally shot; we don't have to rationalize or repackage that tragedy in order to find Christ. Our Savior is there in the suffering. We can only ask for mercy.
Advent is a time when the rich metaphors of Light and Dark feel very real. The darkness consumes us physically and spiritually. The days are short, the nights are long and no matter how many times we turn off the radio or look into our children's faces, the darkness of the world is indeed always crouching at the door. The story of Christ's birth is not only about how a Savior came into the world but also the different journeys we all take to behold this Light. Some, like Mary, are blessed with a great gift: to know intimately and bring forth God's redemptive Light in the face of such darkness. The shepherds are compelled to worship by a great vision. And some of us will always be with the Magi, step by step traveling through great darkness, following a distant promise of hope and peace for all people.
Lauren Grace
Lauren, her husband Rob and children are members of St. Malachy
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