Ordinary Time?

You probably think the word “ordinary” means plain or unremarkable, yet when it comes to the liturgical season of “ordinary time” it actually means orderly and numbered. Ordinary Time = standard, counted time. Ordinary time is the longest liturgical season in the Church. Since other seasons begin or end with movable feasts, Ordinary time can vary in length but it’s usually about 33 weeks. The weeks are numbered, as in: the 1st Sunday of Ordinary Time, the 2nd Sunday of Ordinary Time, etc. We are in Ordinary Time now until March 1st, when Lent begins (this year.) 

And yet, reflecting on the world around us, if these are ordinary times, it could be easy to fall into the despair Longfellow wrote of: “And in despair I bowed my head; ‘There is no peace on earth,’ I said: ‘For hate is strong, and mocks the song of peace on earth, good-will to men!’”

In 1863, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s 18-year-old son Charley secretly left home to enlist in the Union Army. Within months of his enlistment, Charley fell ill with Typhoid fever and was sent home to Massachusetts for some months before rejoining his unit in August.

On December 1, his father received word that Charley had been severely wounded in the Battle of New Hope Church, Virginia. (Anyone who ever watched Ken Burns’ The Civil War may remember how ghastly any injury could be with the weapons of the day and available medical care.)[1]  On Christmas day, 1863, Longfellow wrote the poem (below) hoping to capture the dissonance in his own heart and the world around him.

I don’t suppose any of you need me to draw a picture of why I’d bring this up. Our nation and our world are awash in a maelstrom of parochialism. xenophobia, homophobia, jingoism, bigotry, intolerance, hatred… (I don’t use the word “racism” since to my mind it’s a misnomer. We are all the same race, all human.) My heart cries out, “This isn’t be ‘ordinary’” but my heart seems to be wrong – for now.

In a world of injustice and violence that seems even now to mock the truth of hope, we can stress. We can despair. And like that maelstrom of above (I don’t believe I’ve ever actually used that word before in writing) it can become an unending whirlpool, circling and circling but never leading to a better place.

Yet I will live in hope. I choose to trust that if you and I (and so many others that care) will lead lives of compassion and justice, if we allow ourselves to be used by God to effect good, then hatred will not have the last word.

Longfellow’s poem is one of internal and external experience. Its sensory repetition as he notes the sounds of bells – and cannon – leaves him questioning, then coming back to hope. “God is not dead, nor doth he (sic) sleep.”

Hope is not a given; it’s a choice to trust. Choose it. Then act in it.

Christmas Bells (Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
    And wild and sweet
    The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
    Had rolled along
    The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
    A voice, a chime,
    A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
    And with the sound
    The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
    And made forlorn
    The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
    "For hate is strong,
    And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
    The Wrong shall fail,
    The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

[1] Charley would eventually recover, but his military service was at an end.