Lent Day 2: Pax Christi in Luke 2

Luke 2 tells the story of Christmas: the birth and childhood of Jesus, and a theme that runs through Luke’s story is peace. The two prayers contained in this chapter both focus around this. When the angels visit the shepherds, they break out in prayer, “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace to those on whom his favor rests” (2:14). Upon seeing the Christ presented in the temple, Simeon exclaims, “Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace, according to your word.”

Clearly, peace is in some way connected to Christ. It’s a theme that goes beyond Luke 2 Ephesians 2:14 calls Christ “our peace,” and Colossians 3:15 discusses “the Peace of Christ.” So what do we mean by this pax Christi? Do we mean lack of war? On one level, certainly. But the Roman empire was in the middle of the Pax Augusta—a period of relatively few armed conflicts enforced by the armies of the Emperor Augustus. If pax Christi means only world peace, we have a problem. After all, not only did peace exist before Christ (and to any Roman, peace within the Empire counted as world peace), but it was brought about by someone entirely different: Caesar Augustus. And anyone who has studied the Church can hardly claim that Christ brought about peace.

Yet, even living in the lack of armed conflict during the Pax Romana, Simeon says he may “go in peace” only upon seeing the Christ. And so we Christians believe Christ is the peacebringer. How? Well, Simeon also says Christ is a “sign that will be contradicted . . . so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” (2:34-35). It is this very “sign of contradiction” that allows us to look for peace in the life of someone whose life ended in anything but a peaceful manner. Us followers of Christ believe peace means more than not hitting someone. Consider the phrase “at peace with yourself.” It doesn’t merely mean you are not physically hurting yourself—though that is a prerequisite—it means more. It means a harmony—a tranquility—without fear and without tension. St. John of the Cross prays “O blessed Jesus, give me the stillness of soul in You. Let your mighty calmness reign in me. Rule me, O King of Gentleness, King of Peace.”

Even in the world in which armed conflict and death occurs in Iraq, Afghanistan, Syria, Chad, Mali, Somalia, Uganda, Colombia, Burma, Mexico—the list goes on and on—Christ is still present in each of our hearts. Even with all the hatred we witness daily in our very own country—even in the very name of Christ—we can still find peace our relationship with Christ. That is the sign of contradiction. And at Lent, as we prepare for that ultimate sign of contradiction—salvation through the Cross—we are called to remember that as we enter the Mass, and lay down before the altar, or even open up the altar of our heart in our daily prayer, we open ourselves up to the Pax Christi that Simeon found in Christ.

Free from passions. Free from sin.

Last week I mentioned that Christian freedom is freedom from sin.  I must admit, I left that a little vague, and if I’m honest, it’s because I really don’t know what “freedom from sin” means. Fortunately, I might have just figured out where some small part of it lies: freedom from passions.  That may not sound like me—I’m a passionate guy, after all—but listen to this story, and then please feel free to attempt to remove the log in my eye. 

Here it was, 2:30 am, and I’m reading another fantasy novel despite my rapidly approaching alarm. (The book was City of Bones by Cassandra Clare, if anyone’s interested).  It occurred to me I had already fallen for half the guys in the book. In my defense, they were basically half-angels and one is actually gay—a rarity in fantasy novels.  However, this happens so often as to be cliché: I start a book, there’s an interesting guy, I develop a crush on yet another guy who’s out of reach, and I can’t stop reading.  It doesn’t matter or 3 whether it’s 3 am and I have to catch a train back from Chicago early the next morning, or it’s the airplane flight during which I promised myself I would finish this post.  I somehow turn page after page, helpless . 

Sadly, the need to read is not the aesthetical appreciation of a burgeoning literary connoisseur.  It’s not even yearning for the magic in them, or a world where you can fight flesh-and-blood demons.  Since the interesting guy in them tends to be the one who somehow becomes the romantic interest of someone or another, I tell myself that I’m experiencing love vicariously because of my remarkably one-sided love life.  But a need wells up in me while I’m reading the book—an appetite—and when the book is over, instead of feeling satisfied, I’m only left wanting more.

Just before reading that fantasy novel, I had just read a passage by St. John of the Cross: “Appetites...resemble little children, restless and hard to please, always whining to their mother for this thing or that, and never satisfied” (The Ascent of Mount Caramel I.6.6).  When the yearning—the appetite—came upon me while reading this book, I suddenly felt overwhelmed by its yoke, and I was moved to say a simple prayer—“Free me, Lord. Release me from this passion.”

This was an odd prayer for me.  With so much of the rest of the world, I’ll admit that I’ve never really been able to understand the detachment teaching so many religions are so wrapped up in. I throw myself into everything I do whole-heartedly. I've always resonated with this quote from my favorite Harry Potter fanfic (yes, I went there, and sadly this work is no longer available on the internet.):

“Draco didn’t waste moments, Draco threw himself into them.  Draco’s enmity towards him had been wholehearted because Draco knew no other way to be.  Draco was utterly appalling or utterly amusing, but he was utterly something, because there was always passion there.”

I’ve always seen detachment as the opposite of passion.  Cold. Aloof. Almost inhuman.  I never understood what was different between detachment and apathy, and, after all, God loves us personally, doesn’t he?  How can He love personally and detached simultaneously?

But suddenly I understood the need.  Isaiah’s words, “He will turn to the right and be hungry, and eat toward the left and not be filled” (9:20) seemed to be the hidden text behind Cassandra Clare’s characters.

I realized I am a slave to that passion—that appetite for human companionship—and I long to be free of this never-ending need.  I know it won’t end with a boyfriend, husband.  And ignore the whole gay thing—it’d be the same thing if tomorrow I woke up straight and married the perfect girl.  As long as I need human love, as long as I am consumed with an appetite for it, I’ll never be able to love a human. I’ll never actually be complete.  “Man...cannot fully find himself except through a sincere gift of himself” (Gaudium et Spes 24).

And appetites and passions are different from being passionate about things.  It is attachment that is the opposite from detachment, and we know that being attached to things of this world will never truly satisfy.  We are in this world, not of it.

Perhaps the passion that ensnares you isn’t reading about interesting guys, or any other human companionship.  It could be money, prestige, “success.”   But I go back to Dean Wells’ point that I mention in my first post, if we can’t love, then we can never truly find ourselves.  We can’t give a sincere gift of ourselves; we hold something back—our appetites demand it.  And as we hold what we desire for ourselves back (often without even realizing it), we poison our love, and we tell ourselves the physical acts that are the inevitable result are somehow a reflection of something holy, when really they are the outward sign of inward disorder.

So, my friends, I may not know what freedom from sin is.  I know it’s not simple, but I know that the road starts with freedom from our appetites. So, my brothers and sisters, in the words of the ancient desert fathers of our faith—“flee.”  Flee from worldly appetites.  Flee to Christ, and Christ will set you free.