Gaude, Gaude, Emmanuel

It snowed again.

It snowed until the roads were indistinguishable from the curbs and the sidewalks. It snowed until it covered every last blade of the tall prairie grass that grows unimpeded now around the haunted house. The pokeberry trees around her old back porch bent over under the weight of the drifts. My backyard lilac bush became a great big vanilla-frosted wedding cake, and the whole earth was sparkle and silence.

The next morning, Adrienne dug the car out of the snow without being asked. I came down from the shower and found her at work with a borrowed shovel. We got down the narrow one-way by driving directly in the tracks of another car, and managed to get up the hill to Sunday Mass. There were the priest and the deacon in rose-colored vestments, and the wreath with more than half the candles lit up. It was Gaudete Sunday, a day for rejoicing.

 Veni, veni, Emmanuel, captivum solve Israel, qui gemit in exsilio, privatus Dei Filio. Gaude! Gaude! Emmanuel, nascetur pro te Israel!   

O Come, o come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel, that mourns in lowly exile here, until the Son of God appear. Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel! 

Do I even know how to rejoice anymore?

Again and again in the past year or two, I’ve found myself happy. It comes over me by surprise when I’m busy doing other things: taking Jimmy’s boy on a field trip, or planning a party for the neighborhood children, or teaching a class at the church outreach. I have been so content lately that I’ve forgotten to be anxious or traumatized, much of the time. But is that the same as rejoicing? Rejoicing isn’t the quiet contentment of having been in a terrible place and finding yourself just a little bit safer, is it? Rejoicing is something louder and more innocent than that.

I certainly haven’t rejoiced in a church in the longest time.

I still cringe whenever I walk into a Catholic church. And I cringe when I go to churches of other denominations as well, so this isn’t going to be solved by my joining a new religion. In a Catholic church, cringe because I’m afraid the music or a piece of art will trigger a flashback to the Charismatic Renewal, a memory of Father Scanlan or the other abusive priests I’ve known. When I go to visit the Orthodox or Episcopalian churches, I cringe because I’m afraid I am not supposed to be there. And in both place, I cringe that perhaps God never loved me in the first place, and this whole journey has been for nothing.

There were the readings, some of my favorites. The first was from Isaiah.  The desert and the parched land will exult; the steppe will rejoice and bloom. They will bloom with abundant flowers, and rejoice with joyful song. The glory of Lebanon will be given to them, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the LORD, the splendor of our God. 

I have always wanted to visit a desert. The closest I’ve ever come to a desert was sitting in the desert room at the Franklin Park conservatory in Columbus and the Phipps Conservatory in Pittsburgh. I like it there. The air is dry and crisp. But what I’d love to see is a desert after rain. I am told that, in the desert, when you get that rare rainstorm, the parched ground rejoices and soaks up every drop. The plants take it all in like gluttons, and then they bloom. Flowers pop out everywhere you look, all over the ground and from the tops of the cacti, and then the birds and bats come out at night to pollenate the flowers and the whole world is renewed. That is something that I’d love to witness for myself.

It struck me that the text is not describing the Israelites escaping the desert. It’s specifically saying that the desert itself will bloom for them, when the time is right. They have to stay where they are in the desert in order to see the flowers.

Rejoice, rejoice! Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel! 

The second reading was the Epistle of James. Be patient, brothers and sisters, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You too must be patient. Make your hearts firm, because the coming of the Lord is at hand. Again, that beautiful anticipation. Don’t try to leave the desert! You couldn’t if you tried. The desert has covered the whole earth. Stay here, and plant your garden where it’s impossible, because you have no other choice. You cannot make it rain. You cannot go to the place the rain comes from. But the rain will come to you anyway, and then you will see the desert bloom.

There was the Gospel. Poor John the Baptist, greatest in the Kingdom of Heaven, was locked up in a dungeon about to die. He sent word to his eccentric younger cousin: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?”

Jesus answered him, “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the deaf hear, the dead are raised, and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them. And blessed is the one who takes no offense at me.”

Then Jesus turns to His disciples, that is, to us, and asks, “What did you go out to the desert to see?”

Lord Jesus, I came out here to see You, but all I see is the World and the Church, and both of them have destroyed me. I have seen the people You put in the World with me doing the most despicable things, to me and to others like me, things so horrific I thought that I was in hell. I have gone to the Church for refuge, and seen the Church doing equally hellish things as if trying to impress the World with her wickedness. I have had my faith shaken to its core. I have hated You for abandoning me here. I don’t rejoice in church anymore. I don’t know if I can ever go to confession again. I am terrified that, after all of this loss, You are angry with me and never wanted me in the first place. I think I would be a thousand times happier if I’d never heard Your name. But I keep coming back, because I don’t know where else to go.

Let’s say the Lord answered me and said, “my name is Emmanuel.”

“Emmanuel” means “God-with-us.” Not God-somewhere-else. Not God-far-away-from-the-desert. Not God-when-you’ve-got-it-all-figured-out. Not God-when-other-people-do-what-they’re-supposed-to-do.  God-with-us.

Not the god I could meet if I ever got out of Steubenville and found that perfect congregation to belong to. Rather, the God Who dwells in Steubenville because that’s where I happen to be.

Not the God Who would accept me if I’d just stop whining and follow the rules. Rather, the God Who was here all along, standing with the brokenhearted, whether anyone follows the rules or not.

Not the God Who  demands you do all the right things and denies you Communion if you fail. The God Who comes to help you get the garden ready, in whatever desert you find yourself, and then Himself becomes the rain.

The glory of Lebanon will be given to them, the splendor of Carmel and Sharon; they will see the glory of the LORD, the splendor of our God.

Gaude, Gaude, Emmanuel, nascetur pro te Israel! 

Just for a moment, I felt the joy.

Just for a moment, I understood.

Mary Pezzulo is the author of Meditations on the Way of the Cross, The Sorrows and Joys of Mary, and Stumbling into Grace: How We Meet God in Tiny Works of Mercy.