11th December 1954
MEDITATIONS IN ADVENT
III: Rejoice in the Lord
By SEBASTIAN BULLOUGH, O.P.
Rejoice in the Lord always, Again I say, rejoice.
MID-ADVENT Sunday: Gaudete : rose-colored vestments —a color
which expresses optimism, which suggests a lightening of the sombre violet of
the penitential season. But why is Advent a penitential season? Why no Gloria,
not even today? Because it is a time of waiting, and waiting means not having:
we cannot wait for what we have, we cannot hope for what we already possess, we
cannot look forward to what is present before us. But in Advent we are looking
forward to the Gloria in excelsis of
Christmas, the song of the angels at Bethlehem. At Christmas we shall stand in
spirit amid the heavenly host, and shout for joy at the birth of the Prince of
Peace. But meanwhile, liturgically, we impose upon ourselves a period of
waiting for that moment, the four weeks of waiting that make the moment more
joyful for the waiting.
There is a special fullness in the rejoicing that follows
upon anticipation, and in the anticipation itself there is a kind of restrained
and silent happiness. This anticipation, this looking forward to a moment of
bliss, is something that all children understand and know so well. It is indeed
human to look ahead, to anticipate events; and it is normal human behavior to
look ahead to better times, to anticipate moments of happiness, to depict to
ourselves a rosy future, to live in hope. It is abnormal human behavior to see
beyond the heavy purple clouds of the present only the black vestments of
night, without spying the rising dawn, the roseate-fingered. Yet in our
experience on earth, once past the clear dreams of childhood and carefree
rejoicing at their day-to-day fulfilment, we sometimes find that the joy of the
event pales in comparison with the hidden happiness of the anticipation. This
pain is one of the shocks in the experience of growing up. But the benefit
gained is the realization that the only joy in anticipation quod non fallit eventus, the only
waiting that is fully rewarded, that brings no disappointment, the only hope
whose fulfilment never pales, is Advent waiting for Christmas, mankind hoping
for its Redeemer, the thin chants of our choirs anticipating the song of the
heavenly host, earth awaiting heaven.
Herein lies wisdom: the simple human wisdom of the liturgy
and its seasons, the simple meaning of the violet vestments, the absence of the
Gloria, the silence of the organ: the anticipation, the waiting, the looking
forward to the joy to come, with the special happiness that anticipation
brings: the joy in privation, the joy in waiting. And it is this rose-colored
Sunday that emphasizes that waiting has its joy: Rejoice, and again I say,
rejoice. Although the Gloria is absent in Advent, the Alleluia is never
stilled, and the melodies of the Advent Alleluias are particularly festive. The
grand melody in the fourth mode for Gaudete Sunday reappears on no less joyful occasions
than Ascension and Pentecost, and on the first Sunday in the gay green season
after the Epiphany octave; similarly the eighth mode Alleluia of the First
Sunday of Advent is used again on Christmas Day, in Easter week, at
Ascensiontide, and on the remaining Sundays after Epiphany. The value of these
observations is their demonstration of the essentially joyful nature of the
Advent liturgy.
For Christian joy is a curious thing; as curious as
Christian sorrow: for they are complementary and are always present together.
The privation of Advent, when we identify ourselves liturgically with those who
were still waiting for the Redeemer, is tempered with songs of Christmas,
Easter, Ascension and Pentecost. And at the height of liturgical joy, when we
identify ourselves with those who first greeted the New-born King, the crucifix
is always there. Indeed the presence of a crucifix in our churches, in our
workrooms, our playrooms, our homes, is a normal part of Catholic life. A
Catholic will sing and dance and make merry, and will not hesitate to do so
with the crucifix before him. His rosary carries the image of his crucified
Master. Behind the Christian's happiness is the happiness in the hope that
comes from redemption: he knows that his salvation came through the Cross: for
"the chastisement of our peace was upon him, and by his bruises we are
healed." The chastisement of our peace: our peace through his suffering.
And this is how the sorrow of the Christian carries peace with it: since the
Crucifixion, suffering on earth has been canonized: there is joy in it, joy in
privation, joy in anticipation, anticipation of the joy that can never pale.
Here is the Alleluia in purple vestments, and in purple
turned for a moment to rose, to give us courage; and the Alleluia in rose is
the same melody as the silver Alleluia of the Ascension, the final triumph of
the Risen Christ, homo in fine temporum,
in heaven, yet with the marks of his pain; the same melody as the red-hot
Alleluia of Pentecost, when the Apostles' doubts and anxiety and sadness were
turned to love and courage and perseverance by the strength of the Spirit.