I have been meaning to tell this story for a while, but the beginning of Latin Advent seems as good a time as any. In the quiet darkness of the November-December cold—the time of prayer for the dead and hopeful expectation of the Nativity of God—some light is always needed: an Advent candle, a prayer, in this case, a story.
It was a few weeks ago, maybe a month or two at this point, when I heard the following from a priest, in the form of a homily.
His grandfather was a Jew from Austria-Hungary, who felt guilt, guilt for leaving Europe before the horrors of World War II. He had immigrated before Hitler’s terror shadowed the continent, and now could not help but feel pity—and anger—at the fates of his family members and friends still in the old country. And so, after the War, he began taking in Holocaust survivors: at first family members, though later anyone who could find his or her way over.
Eventually a man, horribly gaunt, broken from what he had endured, showed up at their doorstep. He was rude, even cruel; a deep cynicism had infected his way of being such that his comments alienated the priest as a child, even making him cry. A hate of sorts began to build in the young boy’s heart until one night when it all came to a head.
His grandmother had made a special soup, something the family greatly enjoyed, a treat that brought them all together. When the soup reached the man staying at the house, he said in German: “this food isn’t fit for pigs.” Of course, the extended family at the table nearly killed him; they all wanted to beat him for his insane insolence. This reaction, this manifestation of anger in the face of cynicism was not their fate. Instead, the grandfather walked over to the man with a ten dollar bill, handed it to him, and said: “if the food here doesn’t suit you, please take this and find some that will.”
He broke down; he wept, and from that day on the man’s bitterness began to fade, slowly, but surely; he improved: laughing, smiling, and treating those in the household with respect and gratitude. Eventually he moved out—transformed.
The priest—then a boy—asked his grandfather as this transformation was taking place: “why is this man so mean?” His grandfather responded: “because he has lost so much that he had loved.” Shown love again, the man, after living through concentration camps and the deaths of many family members and friends, began to feel the warmth of hope once more.
In this Advent season (and Nativity Fast!), it is my hope that we all might turn back to love, to the kindling of faith and hope, just as the priest’s grandfather did, just as, truly, we are all called to do.
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