Advent: 21 November 2025

I was asked to help give a small talk at our local parish for a women’s night focusing on Advent. Our current climate is witnessing a decline not only in physical but spiritual motherhood as women are becoming hardened not only by the world that demands what it ought not demand, but by their own interior poverty and the inability to appreciate the delicate nature of our vital role in the world. It happens that the most powerful woman in scripture is also the one of the fewest words, whose role was ever present yet rarely seen and this being the opposite sort of life of what secular society often encourages, means that there is a wealth of practical and spiritual gold right under us in the example given by Mary the Mother of God. The talk was received rather well, and so we thought it appropriate to share some of it here for any who would benefit from this Advent meditation.

How Shall This Be?

O Virgin of virgins
How shall this be?
For neither before thee was any like thee,
Nor shall there be after.
Daughters of Jerusalem,
Why marvel ye at me?
The thing which ye behold,
Is a divine mystery.

Zachariah questioned God and became afflicted.
Mary questioned God and was hailed Full of Grace.

What was the difference between Zachariah and Mary? After all, both had good reason to be perplexed. The difference was not only in the substance of their words, but resided much deeper in the disposition of their hearts.

Zachariahs’ disbelief was almost defiant - he knew that Elizabeth could not bear a child - she was too old - and the finality of his doubt left no room for explanation, no time to marvel or to ponder, and so his mouth had to be shut.

Mary responded, instead with docility and openness despite certain confusion and fear with the question: How shall this be?

How shall this be?

It is almost as if the entire universe could fit within the openness of that question, and in a way, it did. In the case of the Blessed Virgin, something even greater in depth than the whole of all creation came into that question, into the docility of her fiat, into the contemplative heart, as the incarnate word of God was conceived within her womb by the Holy Spirit and she became a living tabernacle of flesh containing all eternity within her finite humanity.

In the darkness of that unknown night, the Church invites us to enter into the mystery of Mary’s fiat, to emulate her ‘yes’ and her gentle receptivity in order that Our Lord may be born into our lives.

This ‘yes’ is hardly an easy one, and the full scope of Mary’s fiat did not begin and end with her agreement to bear the Son of God, but continued through the care and protection she gave to the Infant in the wake of King Herod’s terror, raising Jesus into a young man, and eventually following Him along that bitter road to Calvary. Her ‘yes’ resided in every meal, every piece of clothing sewn, every triumph and tragedy, and every moment that she may have felt as though life was spiraling out of control.

The intimacy of her relationship with God acted as an anchor, grounding her in both reality and the peace of total trust as she abandoned the illusion of control and placed her life into the hands of a God who she knew as pure love, a God who said to Jeremiah “For I know the plans I have in mind for you, plans for your welfare and not your woe, so as to give you a future of hope.”

Caryll Houselander explains the nature of our own fiat in her work The Reed of God:

“We shall not be asked to do more than the Mother of God; we shall not be asked to become extraordinary or set apart or to make a hard and fast rule of life or to compile a manual of mortification or heroic resolutions; we shall not be asked to cultivate our souls like rare hothouse flowers; we shall not, most of us, even be allowed to do that. What we shall be asked to give is our flesh and blood, our daily life - our thoughts, our service, to one another, our affections and loves, our words, our intellect, our waking, working, and sleeping, our ordinary human joys and sorrows - to God. To surrender all that we are, as we are, to the spirit of Love in order that our lives may bear Christ into the world - that is what we shall be asked.”

This is reminiscent of Saint Therese of Lisieux’s Little Way - that simple way of sanctity that utilizes the always available and ever operative grace of God in those daily and ordinary sacrifices and the recognition of our littleness and poverty.

It happens so often that we decide for ourselves what kind of charity, what kind of penance, what kind of virtuous act we will perform for God, and surely, He sees our efforts, yet, how much more pleasing is it to Him when we suffer those unexpected and sometimes unwelcome surprises with patience and charity, surrendering ourselves to Him?

The days of a mother are hardly ever short of the opportunity to exercise charity and patience. These moments offer a grand opportunity to exercise mastery over our own will by denying it in favor of the will of God who sanctifies us through that self gift in countless ordinary moments - attending to a crying infant, a sick husband, a hurting friend, the needs of an elderly family member. Motherhood is never easy, but nothing worth doing ever is.

None of us as women are exempt from this joyful cross of motherhood regardless of our state in life. This is because all women were made to be mothers - physically, spiritually, or both. This role is not a curse of the lowly and detestable, but one of quiet dignity that commands much of society from the hidden warmth of the home. Archbishop Fulton Sheen reminds his audience of the power that women have when he says: In as much as a woman is loved, it follows that the nobler a woman is, the nobler a man will have to be to be deserving of that love. That is why the level of any civilization is always the level of its womanhood.

The liturgical new year is set in the darkness of waning daylight and the silence of a barren landscape that bids us back indoors, into that domestic environment, private and well suited to entering into engagement in the life of God through prayer, which is nothing more, says Saint Teresa of Jesus, than an intimate conversation between close friends.

But for many of us who are caught up in the consumer mentality characterized by fast fashion, big bargains, and endless social pressure, it is difficult to escape the veritable atom bomb of flashy Christmas memorabilia that drops down on every storefront earlier and earlier every year - a barrage of sights and sounds infiltrating our senses. It riles, it agitates, and it is inescapable.

There is a particular challenge presented to us as the voice of God is drowned by the endless loop of White Christmas and We Three Kings that plays on the radio before we have made our Thanksgiving plans. We have all seen it, recognized its ills, perhaps even complained about it, but the question remains: how do we respond?

For one, we cannot continue to blame corporations for using marketing techniques that work. Commerce is not our enemy, but it has become so only by our own participation in it, and when done in such excess, it becomes an enemy combatant against a spirit of contentment. If the world is a war-zone, then our homes must become an oasis of peace.

Even cloistered Carmelite nuns take extra care to cocoon themselves into the sanctuary of their monastic home during this season. No letters are typically written - instead, the sisters might be tasked with preparing a poem or song to Christ.

Each night, there is a procession of the Infant of Prague through the halls as Advent hymns are sung, and each night the parade ends at the cell of a different sister who takes him into her room for a short retreat, a time of quiet reflection where she is able to invite the Christ child into her life.

The Infant of Prague from our oratory dressed like a Carmelite.

This is a season of increased silence - silent work and silent prayer under the abundant starlight of long, cold, nights, and it is not until those final moments when the sisters arise from that long vigil for that joyful Christmas liturgy, and to retrieve those shining wreaths and ribbons in celebration of the coming of the Incarnate Word.

This begs the question - why would cloistered nuns need to make room for silence? The short answer is that monasteries are not always quiet places - in fact, they can become quite chaotic. I am reminded of the story of Saint David of Thessaloniki who fled to live in the canopy of an almond tree for three years seeking solitude after his monastery became too busy. These such hermits were called ‘dendrites’ after the Greek word for ‘tree’ - it must have been such a phenomenon that it earned itself a title.

Despite the chaos, monasteries remain places of refuge both for the Religious behind their walls as well as for those visitors who often view them as spiritual anchors in their neighborhoods. The stability of this refuge is derived from order and cooperation as the rule and constitutions of the monastery mitigate the chaos of life and create transitory periods between work, prayer, and recreation. This fosters an environment conducive to a recollected spirit. Careful consideration for those rules guard that unique peace, a peace retained even in urban monasteries founded in cities which are hardly peaceful, quiet, or scenic in themselves.

Just as well our own homes should be a refuge for us, a place away from the secular society that weighs down the wings of the soul with many cares, a place of rest with our families and rest in Christ, a place of encouragement and hope - a place we retire to, not vacation from.

This house belongs first and foremost to God, and it is a privilege that we are here. These were among the first words the Prioress of the Philadelphia Carmel spoke to me and to many of the volunteers and those who were interested in a vocation, and these words summarize that rule and order that is proper to any home. If Christ is the head of our lives, He ought also be the kind ruler of our homes and we owe to this sweet Prince of Peace a place of refuge among the people for whom He died in order to earn their salvation.

Our homes should be made places of freedom, safety, and intimacy, ruled by Christ, and ordered by faith, and if they are, this exterior environment will begin to inform the interior. This is the nature of mankind - we are composite creatures made of body and soul so closely united that one is not complete without the other, and because of this integrated form, everything that goes on in our exterior environments will have a ripple effect on our mind and in our soul. If the house is turned upside down and everything is chaotic and backwards, it is likely that our heart will also be chaotic and backwards, but if our homes are a refuge for the Holy Spirit, then the Holy Spirit will make our souls a refuge for Himself.

More and more we hear about this epidemic of isolation and the division of families by way of disownership over political differences or legal divorce, that many families do not have common activities, they do not work together, they do not pray together, they do not eat together.

In monasteries where ancient traditions are upheld, Religious gather for a common meal that is taken in silence as scriptures or the works of saints are read. When I first proposed speaking about this, the idea was received positively, and maybe this is because the monastic practice of table reading carries the potential to remedy this phenomenon of isolation and helps to reclaim the family meal from the clutches of disconnected, solitary, eating, and the tyranny of the smart phone. More than this, it requires no extra time set aside, but only the discipline to make good use of time already allocated to dinner. Advent presents a perfect opportunity to being scripture into our family lives, to take the first 10 minutes of our family meal and read from the Gospel of Luke, which lends so much to the liturgy Advent and Christmas seasons.

Advent also presents the perfect time to make physical space for God in our lives. A Carmel, built to Teresian standards, from the outside may appear rather spacious, however, other than common areas, these monasteries are made of many small rooms - cells and workrooms just large enough, no larger. What the floor plan of a monastery represents par excellence is the partition of space, the creation of dedicated space. The modern way of building is the creation of temporary space, multi use space, open floor plans - these amorphous rooms made to be whatever is needed in the moment and in becoming everything, they remain nothing. Our homes have become much like our smart phones - a place, an object, of far too many disciplines. Because the phone is a place of business, work calls, conversing with friends, arguing with neighbors, buying, selling, doom-scrolling, and dissociating. Wherever we decide to undertake all tasks becomes a place where nothing is done with deliberation, this is why we often do not recreate, we dissociate, and it is why many in the modern world experience burn out. The Church, for this reason of dedicating and consecrating space has always recommended having a crucifix in our home, and even more, a place, a corner or a whole room, dedicated to prayer. If we make such a place like this during Advent, we might find that even after that joyful Christmas celebration has come and gone, we continue to return to this domestic sanctuary whether we are frustrated and confused, happy or sad, sick or well.

This is the beginning of the constancy and perseverance that is the foundation of joy.

‘Joy’ is not synonymous with ‘happiness.’

Happiness is an ever shifting goalpost - the most fleeting feeling of vague levity in moments of success with an intensity and endurance that is all to dependent on personality and disposition. Joy by contrast is that stable disposition of the soul that is the fruit of faith, hope for salvation, and trust in the providence and mercy of God. Joy is the disposition of Job, not prior to his trials, when surely, his riches and children brought a smile to his face, but rather in the worst of his afflictions when he said “We accept good things from God; should we not also accept evil?”

The joy of Advent lies in faith - our expectant waiting is for the promise of the coming Messiah - and a hope for salvation which we must not abandon.