For the past 23 years, our next-door neighbors, George and Emily, have hosted a Christmas party that we look forward to with much pleasure. One of this party’s features, making it different from most others, is the singing of carols before we sit down to eat.

Children and grown-ups gather around the piano as Emily, a voice teacher, plays and leads us in song. Good singers, along with those of us who can barely carry a tune, join together in festive mood, lifting our voices upwards. This shared experience of music helps form us into a buoyant community for that one evening, at least.

The carols that we sing also introduce us once more to the spirituality expressed by the coming celebration of Christmas. Behind these traditional songs lies frequent mention of the inner gifts associated with the season. The writers and composers knew how to capture the meaning of the Christmas event in ways that can surprise us with their spiritual depth.

“God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” for instance, calls the news about the birth of Jesus “tidings of comfort and joy.”  So Christmas, as understood by the composers of this 18th century English carol is a time for receiving the gifts of reassurance and release from unhappiness.

This same carol urges: “Let nothing you affright.” Christmas, in this view, calls on us to cast out fear and live with confidence in the goodness of God. A few lines later, the “blessed angel” of Luke’s Gospel appears bearing the message so often repeated in the Bible: “Fear not.”

In an era when many people feel afraid, this message has new value. Among other people, it might reassure a young girl who recently told me she did not wish to fly in an airplane “for fear of the terrorists.”

“Hark the Herald Angels Sing” boasts the lyrics of Charles Wesley and the music of Felix Mendelssohn, two great 19th century figures. Here the theme of peace takes center stage. “Peace on earth and mercy mild,” we sing, echoing the song of the angels in the Nativity narrative.

This Christmas, like most others, takes place in a world torn by conflict. In addition to the armed struggles that dominate the news, dozens of wars are going on in places to which the communications media give little attention. People are at one another’s throats over large issues and small. God’s mercy and God’s peace seem far distant, but the carol assures us of their availability.

“Good King Wenceslaus” is a beloved carol made up of parts from different eras. The title refers to a 10th century Bohemian king who had a reputation for holiness. Nine centuries later, a British poet formed words to go with a song written in the 16th century.

The last two lines of the carol bring out the moral of this composition. “Ye who now will bless the poor, Shall yourselves find blessing.” Wenceslaus had shown the true spirit of Christmas by providing food and shelter to a poor man on a cold winter’s night.

This note of compassion forms a proper response to the birth of Jesus. Just as God has been generous to the human family by sending his son to earth, the message says, so we must respond in kind by sharing resources with brothers and sisters in need. Without such a response, Christmas would not have its full meaning.

Finally, “Silent Night,” a sweet 19th century Austrian carol that ranks as one of the most beloved, gives expression to the holy tranquility that surrounds the scene at the child’s manger at Bethlehem.

“Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright,” words sung slowly and reverently, suggest an inner and outer peace that can refresh the soul. If you want to enter into the spirit of the Christmas event, these sentiments suggest, you must allow yourself to rest in the peaceful atmosphere of the scene.

At the same time, the word “bright” suggests the enlightenment that is the goal of spiritual life. As we contemplate the child sleeping “in heavenly peace,” we can open ourselves to the inner light that illumines the mystery of love.

Many more carols carry messages similar to the ones singled out here. Though usually enjoyed simply for the splendor of their words and music, these traditional songs also speak of the spiritual life. In doing so, they suggest the gifts of the spirit that Christmas richly offers.

Richard Griffin

This column features bits and pieces from this one writer’s spiritual experiences of last week. They appear here in the hope of inspiring readers to reflect on their own recent encounters that may carry more meaning than first appears.

One encounter came through reading The Way Things Are, a series of interviews with Huston Smith, the world religions scholar who used to teach at MIT. One passage touches on Smith’s upbringing in China where his parents were Methodist missionaries.

Looking back on this experience and contrasting it with that of many other people, Professor Smith says: “What came through to me from my religious upbringing was quite different: we are in good hands, and in gratitude for that fact it would be good if we bore one another’s burdens.”

From a vantage point of some 80 years, this scholar feels thankful about learning from his parents such positive lessons about his place in the world. He still faces that world with basic confidence of being loved by the master of the universe. And he feels a corresponding impulse to reach out toward other people, showing them compassion.

He wishes every child had been endowed with a similarly affirmative religious outlook. Instead, he has often found his students to look like “wounded Christians” or “wounded Jews,” for example, people who took in religion as basically negative, full of do and don’ts without a positive view of themselves and the world.

As happens often, I also took heart from members of my small prayer group this week. Olivia, at whose house we meet, talked about her contact with a spiritual leader from whom she had drawn inspiration. “We are cut off from the holy,” said this man. “We are always taking from the world,” he went on, “but we ought to be giving back.”

Yes, our American culture is terribly secular and materialistic, making spirituality often seem unreachable, but people with vision like this man’s keep calling us back to deeper reality.  

Another source of inspiration came in a talk given at my parish church to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the renewal of the Catholic liturgy. The speaker, a professor of liturgy based in Washington, D. C., emphasized the action of the Holy Spirit in the church’s public prayer.

“The Spirit’s action permeates all of the rites,” he said. “All liturgy is Trinitarian,” he added. The presence of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in the sacred rituals should be seen as basic to the faith of the church.

The lecturer also stressed the ingredient of paschal mystery in the liturgy. By that he meant the ritual re-enactment of Christ’s death and resurrection that takes place when the church celebrates the sacraments. These latter are not simply outward gestures but contain with them the rhythm of dying and rising again that form the center of Christian faith.

Coming back to the heart of his belief, he repeated at the end his vision of the liturgy as a whole. It goes far beyond details about how it is performed. Instead, he insisted, “The goal is the living God.”

I find inspiration here because of being reminded of the deeper meaning of the worship in which I share each week with a community of my fellow Christians. It all goes deeper than appears on the surface: we take part in a sacred celebration that carries the mystery of who we believe ourselves to be.

On another front, a chronic health condition continues to draw me toward spiritual reflection. There is nothing, after all, that quite concentrates the mind like being less than well. It stirs one’s thinking about what remains most important as you continue to search for solutions.

Instead of a solution, one often finds it necessary to live with it. When the doctors have trouble discovering answes, then that seems the only alternative. It serves as fine material for prayer – putting oneself in the hands of an understanding and compassionate God, hoping for a breakthrough but not counting on it.

So these bits and pieces of an ongoing spiritual quest may suffice for this week’s consideration. Taken together, they represent at least this one person’s odyssey toward insight. Here’s hoping for sympathetic vibrations in the souls of others.

Richard Griffin

A discovery about another person, a friend of some four years’ standing, has shaken my world view and has provoked in me ongoing spiritual reflection. All during the time of our friendship I never suspected a fact about this woman that inevitably changes my understanding of who she is.

Rachel is the mother of a young adopted son and we have often talked about her experiences in raising him. At other times, I have had occasion to congratulate her on the excellent dishes she cooks and serves to students and graduate members of the organization where she works. I especially love the delicious desserts she concocts, deep dish apple pie above all.

The occasion on which I made the discovery about my friend was a visit to my favorite bookstore. There, on the table of newly published works, was a book with a handsome full-page photo of Rachel and a brief essay written by her about her life. In this account, she reveals a fact that staggered my imagination. That revelation is that she used to be a man.

I had read about other people making the same change but this instance was different. This had happened with a person whom I knew quite well. She has not been among my closest friends but nonetheless we have conversed often, sometimes about serious issues.

Rachel does not allude to her transformation in an indirect way. Rather, in the essay about her experience, she writes openly: “I was going through a transition – from male to female.  .  . I was born male.”

Presumably, many Americans brought up in a religious tradition will find it hard to accept this kind of personal transformation. It may go against the ideas of fixed gender that they learned at home and found confirmed in the Bible, the catechism, or other authoritative teaching. Other people, too, those steeped in the traditions of our culture, may be inclined to look with disdain on those who have changed their gender.

My own religious tradition has great difficulty coping with gender change. With its strict rules about sexuality, the Catholic Church would seem to have little sympathy with what my friend has done. The continuance of the same gender identity, male and female, is such a given in the teachings of the church that it is hard to imagine the institution approving of sex change.

For people raised and schooled as I was, it can require a new flexibility to accept changes that go against the grain of long accepted ideas. Until recent years, it never occurred to me that a person could change genders. Now, however, I am once again confronted with the need to dig deeply into myself and once more change ideas and feelings.

Whatever one’s views of gender change’s legitimacy, Rachel deserves respect and admiration for her courage. It could not have been easy for her to undergo the physical and mental changes necessary for a sex change. Even now, as she understatedly describes it, “I’m in the in-between space. And the in-between space is not always a comfortable thing.”

She has had to overcome misunderstanding and hostility on the part of people associated with her. At least one person, a co-worker, apparently considered it part of his religious duty to oppose what she was doing.

This fact emerges from her reference to problems that forced her to leave her previous job. “I was harassed about all kinds of different things, especially by one man who was a born-again Christian. It was brutal and I was actually frightened.”

Ironically for one who professes belief in Christ, this man’s conduct places him seriously at odds with the example and teaching of Jesus who so often reached out his hands to those people who had been marginalized by others.

For Jesus, human differences were no reason for shunning or looking down upon people pushed to the margins of his society. Though Rachel is not a social outcast, she clearly has suffered from being rejected by some other people.

Besides Jesus, one can take further inspiration from the great-souled people of our lifetime, people like Mother Teresa who accepted others as precious human beings, whatever their circumstances. Hers seems to me a fine model for coping spiritually with unexpected changes that we encounter, especially those that upset the views we have held for much of our lives.

Richard Griffin

December marks an anniversary that is special in my life and in the lives of many others who share my religious tradition. This month, 40 years ago, the Second Vatican Council made major changes in the liturgy of the Mass, intended to have a major impact on the spiritual life of Catholics worldwide.

The document on the liturgy carried the date December 4, 1963 and was the first of 16 major statements published by the council. Its emergence qualified as big news at the time and it was featured in many major newspapers of the world.

Most Catholics of a certain age will remember growing up in the days before the council, when Latin was the language of the liturgy. The Eucharist or Mass, as we called it, and the other sacraments were all performed in that ancient tongue no longer spoken, even by the Italians who had originated it. Latin had long since become a dead language except for its use by the Church.

But language was only one of the liturgical changes made by the Catholic bishops of the world when assembled in Rome for the council. They also restored parts of the liturgy, such as communion under the form of wine as well as bread, and removed other parts that did not belong to the classical structure of the Mass.

In doing so, the bishops wanted to bring this public prayer of the church closer to the people. Translating the ancient texts into the languages used in daily life by the residents of each country made the words of the Mass immediately intelligible. No longer would worshippers have to use prayer books, as was the widespread custom previously. Nor would they be so likely to say the rosary during Mass.

The priest who presided at Mass was now expected to face the people rather than to have his back toward them. This served as another sign of a more active role for the laity in the official worship of the church. Their character as the people of God received new emphasis and they were encouraged to make the responses and to sing hymns with enthusiasm.

The council also highlighted the importance of the Bible in the liturgy and in the lives of Catholics. Up until that time, biblical texts had received less importance than they deserved but Vatican II said “Sacred scripture is of the greatest importance in the celebration of the liturgy.” In his homily during the Mass, the priest was urged to emphasize the teachings of the Bible, and laypeople were exhorted to read the sacred books more often.

It took years for the liturgical changes to be fully implemented in Catholic parishes. Not all the clergy and members of the laity welcomed the abandonment of the old ways. Some felt that the church was caving in to the fashions of the age, and the loss of the Latin language especially was mourned in some quarters.

Other critics regretted the loss of what they regarded as the aura of sacred mystery created by the rites they had grown up with.  The language of the liturgy may not have been so intelligible but there was an atmosphere of reverent silence that, they feared, was disappearing from Catholic churches.

However, with the passage of decades, the liturgical changes have come to seem normal in the lives of most Catholics who come to Mass. They find spiritual nourishment in the rites that have become familiar to them. The experience of Sunday Mass strikes me, for one, as altogether more accessible than it used to be.

Father Joseph Champlin, rector of the Immaculate Conception cathedral, in Syracuse, New York, is a priest who took a lead role in implementing the liturgical changes in his diocese. When I asked him his view of this history, he called it “a wonderful development for the church in the United States.”

He feels enthusiastic about the current Catholic way of worship and thinks that problems with the church cannot be blamed on the liturgy. He points to the tension between the horizontal (people oriented) and vertical (God oriented) aspects of the liturgy and recognizes that people can differ about whether one or the other is receiving too much emphasis.

For the vast majority of church members, the liturgy is proving effective, he believes, thus vindicating the wisdom behind the actions of the Second Vatican Council 40 years ago.

Richard Griffin

Have you ever had the experience of visiting the house where you grew up?  Or, better yet, the house in which you were born?

Most normal people, of course, were born in a hospital but no one has ever accused me of being normal. Though a product of the 20th century, I take my place with Abraham Lincoln and millions of other American worthies of previous centuries, in entering the world within the confines of a domestic structure.

The house I was born in stands at 4 Smith Street (I have changed the name), in Peabody, Massachusetts, a place I stopped by to look at recently. The first thing I noticed was a disturbing absence: there is no plaque on the side of the house to commemorate the event. What further must I do to become distinguished enough to deserve my name on a blue oval sign?

I also noticed how small everything looked. That is what people are always said to think when they return to their first house after many years away. Things appear to have shrunk, to have contracted.

Home turns out not to correspond with your imagination of it. The ceilings are not so high, the rooms so spacious, or the yard so sweeping. My birthplace definitely did not look grand enough to have produced me.

On arriving there, I walked around the side of the house, looking for signs of my past. But there were more fences and gates than used to be there. I could not see into a neighbor’s yard that I wanted to check out.  The driveway did stir one association: there my father and I were playing catch in the brilliant sunlight. But was it only the photo of this event I remembered, not the actual being there?

It was a dream that drew me to the house. I dreamt about the back porch of the house and about the people next door. My grandmother and aunt, who lived upstairs at number 4, were friendly with the next door neighbors and I wanted to stir up memories of their going back and forth between houses. But a gate barred my access to that part of the house and I did not want to disturb the current householders.

I fantasized about those neighbors catching sight of me, however, imagining them welcoming me warmly to my ancestral home. But, on sober reflection, I knew better: they might even have called the cops and accused me of trespassing. The pieties of past associations may have had no place at all in their hearts.

So my visit on a warm Sunday afternoon turned out unsatisfactory. The place that occupies such a warm spot in my heart seemed uninviting and almost drab.  No one cared about my being there and the place did not speak to me as my dream had indicated it would.

On further reflection, however, the visit does now say something. It stirs spiritual values that continue to loom large in my life.

Above all, that house is the place where I received the gift of life, a gift that I continue to give thanks for. And I love and appreciate my parents, many years after their deaths. My grandmother and aunt who lived upstairs and cherished my arrival also still excite in me warm affection.

It was from that house that I was taken to church for my baptism. There my father’s uncle poured water over my head and, with the Spirit’s action, drew me into the soul’s life that continues today. It would be my introduction to a spirituality that expresses the deepest meaning of my life.

That house first put me in touch with other members of my extended family and to the life of the city where I was born. My maternal grandfather, dead long before my birth, was a presence there. Born in Ireland, he came to the port of Boston where he was only 12 years old. Then he joined other family members in Peabody, went to work in a leather factory, and became successful enough that, when he died, he owned another such factory.

Perhaps the experience of dropping by my birthplace proved the old adage “you can’t go home again.” However, for me it also proved a spiritual encounter with a past rich in meaning and filled with people of grace.

Richard Griffin

How can two short words provoke such controversy far and wide across America?  The phrase “under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance has become the subject of a national debate that will soon reach a climax with a decision by the Supreme Court. The court will rule on whether or not it is a violation of the First Amendment to have public school teachers lead students in reciting the pledge when it includes those two words.

The Pledge of Allegiance was first used in public schools in 1892 and did not contain the now disputed phrase. Nor during all of my years as a public school student, did these words  form part of the pledge. My schoolmates and I simply said “one nation, indivisible, with freedom and justice for all.”

It was in 1954 that the Congress at the request of President Eisenhower, added “under God”. He took his cue from a Catholic fraternal organization, the Knights of Columbus that lobbied for the change as a blow against communism. Eisenhower was glad to endorse their effort because the world seemed dangerously poised for possible nuclear war.

In October 2002, President Bush signed legislation confirming the use of these words as part of the pledge. For good measure he also approved the motto “in God we trust” on United States currency.

Though belief in God has always loomed large in my life, the explicit mention of God in this statement of allegiance to our country has from the beginning seemed to me an outside intrusion. I have never felt the need to include it among the words that express a commitment to the United States.

As a believer in God I am in good company: nine out of every ten Americans share this belief, polls show. Michael Newdow, however, is not among them. Newdow, a resident of the Sacramento, California area, has sued his local public school district, on the grounds that his son should not be exposed to the formula. The father professes himself an atheist and does not want his son to be indoctrinated with any religious beliefs.

It may be worth recalling an earlier Supreme Court ruling in 1943 that said students could not be required to say the Pledge of Allegiance at all. However, in practice, almost everybody, of whatever age, finds it difficult to resist group action, especially when it is endorsed by authority. To be the only one not saying the pledge when all around you are reciting the words makes most of us feel very uncomfortable.

I approach the issue with mixed feelings. On the one side, I appreciate our country’s history of honoring God publicly and praising the Creator for the blessings we enjoy. What has been termed “civil religion” seems to me valuable in itself and a glue that helps bind us together as one people.

And yet, the separation of church and state holds great importance for me and those of my Catholic tradition, as it does for those of other faiths. We all benefit from the constitutionally guaranteed freedom to practice our religion. The law protects us from governmental interference so long as we are not doing anything that infringes on the rights of others.

Ultimately, it seems to me not of great importance whether the phrase “under God” remains part of the pledge of allegiance or not. I can argue both ways but, whatever happens, people of faith are not going to lose that faith or grow up without it simply because of two words found in the formula.

What remains of greater importance is the quality of one’s love of God and country. Patriotism cannot be allowed to become a substitute for God and made into a religion. To make of the Pledge of Allegiance a statement of ultimate concern would be to violate the spiritual traditions that most Americans believe in.

With or without the phrase “under God,” the pledge raises vital questions for those who recite it.

Can we love God as one who is for all people, no matter their skin color, economic condition, or country of origin? And can we love our own country, not because it is rich and powerful or because it allegedly acts with more altruism than other nations, but rather because we keep alive the hope of achieving liberty and justice for all?

Richard Griffin

“Shine on me, Lord, and I shall be light like the day.” So goes one line of an ancient prayer from the Syrian Orthodox tradition. I found it in a 1998 book called “Gifts of the Spirit” co-authored by Philip Zaleski and Paul Kaufman.

This prayer, when repeated often in the early morning before dawn, can build anticipation of daybreak. Then, when the sky lightens and the sun rises, it comes as a blessing. The day has started with an act of worship the influence of which can be felt throughout the day’s remaining hours.

In its root meaning, the word “day” has a vital connection with light. It comes from an ancient Indo-European root meaning “burning” or “shining.” Making this radical association between day and fire and illumination can lead us to a deeper appreciation of what each day can be.

All traditions value inner enlightenment as one of the great spiritual goods. Any day that brings greater light to one’s soul has special value. It counts as a privileged time among the many days we experience.

Last weekend the season of daylight savings time came to an end and we entered a period when we will see less natural light during the day. And as the winter months approach, the days will become shorter still, rationing the daylight hours. It can test our spirit to lack longer periods of light for week after week until the spring arrives.

How can we live by the light under these conditions of diminishing availability?  Perhaps by asking in prayer for inner illumination. That’s what the next line of the prayer does: “The creation is full of light; give light also to our hearts that they may praise you with the day and the night.”

It’s not only people who can see with their eyes that can receive this light. People who are physically blind can, of course, hold that light within them.  My friend Paul strikes me that way. At a recent meeting in a subway station, I was again impressed with his spirit of buoyancy and concern for other people.

Paul is the same person who, in his days as a college student, took part in a peaceful demonstration against the Vietnam War and when the police refused to take him with the other demonstrators, demanded that they arrest him too. That took courage, a sign of inner light, as he prepared for handcuffs and a jail cell.

The request to have the Lord shine on you will perhaps remind you of one of the blessings frequently given at the end of a liturgical service. “May the Lord make his face to shine upon you,” the liturgical leader prays. Again, the underlying image is of light flowing from God to the upturned countenance of the worshiper.

The Syrian Orthodox prayer expects more, however. In saying “I shall become light,” the person praying anticipates a personal transformation. It’s as if, through God’s action, the darkness in him or her will be reduced and the newly available space taken over by light. It’s a way of becoming a sun, and thus becoming able to shine one’s inner light on everyone you meet.

Philip Zaleski suggests that few people actually greet the day joyfully and live in the light. Instead, he writes, “Most of us, I suspect, wake up in a fog, go to work in a funk, come home in a fuss, and fall asleep in a fret.”

Many people undoubtedly have some days like that, 24-hour periods when everything goes wrong. But as a description of an average day this strikes me as unduly pessimistic. After all, many Americans begin the day or end it by meditation, prayer, or reflection about God in their lives. They perform other spiritual exercises, too, as they call to mind the divine presence. The day may turn out to be not all light but, at some moments at least, we can feel ourselves illumined by it.

“Shine on me, Lord, and I shall be light like the day.”  Those who made this prayer their own many centuries ago knew its power to transform their lives. Perhaps it can serve us, too, their fellow seekers after enlightenment so many years later.

Richard Griffin