A Jubilee of Hope

Dec 29, 2024

It is suddenly very quiet. The house that has been filled with laughter and stories and loves for the better part of a week, is now empty. Empty with its fullness. What a wonderful Christmas time we have enjoyed. Two large family gatherings and the joys that go along with feasting have been ours to savour. We have enjoyed hosting and cooking and laying our table for our loves. We are so abundantly blessed with FoxHaven, and sharing this with others is the joy of our lives. Some would find it all too much work, but for me and mine, it is a soul pleasure. The planning and preparing, the hosting and serving, the cleaning up and remembering has filled my days and my heart. My ancestral Irish-washer-woman-soul makes another bed and folds another basket of linens. The even older hunter-gatherer-soul makes another trip to the markets. The chef-in-training-soul stirs another pot. That we have the house and property to do so, to be a destination for our families, is a blessing beyond compare. I love that our loves make the journey toward us and grace us with their presence. The silence in their wake is full. The house and the land seems to coo with contentment. Thank you all for the gift of your presence.

I will confess that I spent the better part of today napping, reading, and catching up on some YouTube courses. I have a delicious stack of books that I was gifted vying for attention. The dishwasher churns and the dryer tumbles. The pot of soup, using up some turkey leftovers, simmers on the stove. There is a cold rain falling outside and the fire crackles inside. The dogs nap at my feet. I have been watching a Daily Wire series on The Gospels. My intellect and my theology are being stretched. Such learned exploration. So much deeper and broader than I have ever considered prior. Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Platonic, Buddhist, and Agnostic thinkers wading in on some of the greatest stories ever told. The Gospel, the good news. That they can wade in respectfully, thoughtfully, even from such varied perspectives, is worth the price of admission. So refreshing. Too rare.

Being with our families over the holidays and seeing how different we all are echoes some of this. Respect. We each have our preferences, our sensitivities, our proclivities, yet, we can for the most part, sit down at the table and break bread together. Break bread without breaking hearts. We listen, interrupt, misunderstand, laugh, tease, and love. We love. I am who I am because of their love. I think identity does not happen in an echo chamber or in a vacuum. I believe it is formed in relationship. Messy relationship. Therein is the biggest tragedy of cancel culture. We lose relationship. Family is the bedrock of this relationship dynamic. The bedrock of our culture. Because I love you, I try to step into your shoes or your perspective, even when we disagree. I ask you to do the same for me. We do not have to agree to love. It is this love that opens the doors to my home and to my heart. It pains me that sometimes we can’t see this through.

There is a tradition in ancient agrarian societies called the year of Jubilee. The Jubilee (Hebrew: יובל yōḇel; Yiddish: yoyvl) is the year that follows the passage of seven "weeks of years" (seven cycles of sabbatical years, or 49 total years). During the 50th year, the focus is on the re-establishment of relationships with God, each other, and creation. This focus could include the forgiveness of debts, the freeing of slaves or prisoners, and the rest of the land and the people. 2025 has been proclaimed a Jubilee year in the Catholic Church. In the quiet of Christmas Eve, Pope Francis knocked 5 times and the Holy Door of St. Peter's Basilica was opened, launching what he called a "Jubilee of Hope."

A Jubilee of Hope. So needed in a world that teeters on the brink of despair. The ram’s horn sounds and calls for hope. Hope is not passive. Or benign. Hope announces. Speaks up. Acts. Leans in. I think hope is a courageous act of love. One that calls us home. On Christmas Eve, at midnight, I stood in a small stone church with some of my family. It is the same church where I had been attending a Nativity Novena at dawn for 10 days. On the first 3 days of the Novena, there was no heat in the church. But for the high altar candles, it was dark and it was cold. I sunk deeper and deeper into my coat as I prayed. It was no darker nor colder than in the story it commemorated. As I saw my breath crystallized in the candlelit air, I felt into what it must have been like for that Holy Family. For Joseph. For Mary. For the babe. Shivers ran up and down my spine. My body and my spirit remembered. The inn doors were closed to them and the lowly manager their only choice. Such resilence. Such humility. Such trust. So much hope. For in the most lowly of places, King and babe, heaven and earth, God and man incarnated. By the 4th morning of the Novena, the heat was on and the stone walls began to warm. I loved the discipline of rising at 5:00am each morning to attend Mass. I felt increasingly welcomed. Increasingly at home. By the conclusion of the Novena, I began to recognize some of the faces gathered with me. I was introduced to the priest. I was invited to a gathering. By Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, a riot of scarlet poinsettia and green pine decked the altar. The pews filled. The choir sang. I stood with some of my family. I stood with my new community. That warm little church stood with us as a beacon of hope against the frosty cold midnight. The bells pealed. We left singing. We tumbled into Christmas. Hoping. Loving.

A year of Jubilee is meant to be a year of mending, resting, and forgiving. Maybe it is a sort of reboot to factory settings. For the land. For the people. For relationships. For our world. Let this be a year of finding hope where there seems to be none, opening doors that are shut, and announcing tidings of great joy into the dun of the secular world. My prayer for us all is that this hope, born into our world this season, rising in my own heart, sings the tune without the words - and never stops - at all -.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

By Emily Dickinson