Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Year B,

 
We pray through the merits of this holy Eucharist, that God gives us the grace to always in our daily lives recognize the signs of salvation with which He visits our streets and our homes, learning to live in this continuous dialogue between gift and welcome. Happy Sunday

DOCTRINE AND FAITH

(Genesis 15,1-6;21,1-3; Ps 104 (105); Hebrew 11,8.11-12.17-19; Luke 2,22-40; Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Year B, 30th December, 2023)

After having made us fix our gaze on the mystery of Jesus' birth, on this feast the liturgy urges us to pay attention to the mystery of welcoming him. First of all to that offered by his parents, Mary and Joseph, but then, starting from this first and fundamental hospitality, the vision broadens towards other figures, such as those of Simeon and Anna, or of the same fathers and mothers in the faith, such as Abraham and Sarah, who preceded and prepared, with their own anticipation, the beauty of this event. The singularity of this birth, which has its own completely incomparable peculiarity, however allows us to recognize, in depth, what happens every time a new life buds on the trunk of humanity. There always happens to be an encounter between a gift that precedes and a welcome that responds; between a promise to wait for and a fulfilment to be savored in joy. The celebration of the Holy Family invites us to rediscover how the dialogue between gift and acceptance is the foundation of every relationship of authentic love. Love manifests itself in the tension between way and a home. It is a path, because it sets one in motion, forces one to make an exodus from oneself and from one's own narrow and limited horizons, pushes towards encounters, opens up to the future with hope, is not afraid to dream, gives impetus and enthusiasm to one's steps, swells the lungs and dilates the space of the heart. However, love also needs to become a home, that is, established, nourished, fruitful, hospitable and fulfilled. Indeed it has to be in an incessant dialogue, precisely, between a gift offered with trust and a welcome given with availability. When one of the two poles fades, or enters the routine of habit and the laziness of resignation, one no longer walks and the house itself metamorphoses, from being hospitable, into a suffocating prison.

The dialogue between gift and acceptance matures first of all in the relationship between man and woman, but then it is called to open up towards the children and towards the very sky of God, as it happens in Genesis for Abram, who is invited by the Lord to combine his expectation of a child with a gaze that rises to contemplate the starry sky. At this moment Abram is disappointed because the promise of his descendants is slow in being fulfilled: "I go without children and the heir of my house is Eliezer of Damascus" (Gen 15,2). These words are to be understood in a strong sense: I am heading towards death without a child yet, and not only because of impending old age, but above all because it is already death to experience the sterility of one's existence. Immediately afterwards Abram adds: “Behold, you have given me no offspring” (v. 3); in other words: the responsibility is yours, for you did not keep your word.

God responds to Abram's affliction by renewing his promise and leading him out: he makes him make an exodus from this bitterness, inviting him to raise his gaze towards a starry sky. So it is night, but precisely in this night of faith, in this night of fruitlessness and disappointment, Abram must find the courage to raise his gaze towards a beyond to be contemplated without being able to dominate it. The conversion to be made, which then becomes a condition for every other transformation in our existence, consists precisely in emerging from an attitude hunched over and withdrawn from our fears or complaints. The God of the alliance is always the God of the Exodus, the one who leads us out. To Abram who asks for an heir, God promises much more: descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky. God underlines the “excess” of his promise with the expression “if you can count them”, which first of all shows how God's plan is infinitely greater than Abram's own hope. Furthermore, this starry sky, which cannot be counted, reminds him that he will have to trust the sign without claiming to dominate it or verify it. Finally, to the one who asks: “What will you give me?” (v. 2), God remembers: “I am your shield” (v. 1) That is to say, even before I give you, I will be with you. This is the foundation of every promise. Even the promise of a son.

God renews his alliance, returns to give us his presence, his being with us. In the mutual acceptance that we are called to live in our relationships, between man and woman, between parents and children, between brothers and friends, he always gives us, if we are willing to raise our gaze and fix it on a starry sky, to welcome the very presence of God who returns to promise us: I am with you, I am with you.

Mary and Joseph, presenting their firstborn to the temple and to the Lord, not only obey the Law of Moses, but recognize its profound meaning: the new life they welcome comes from God and leads to God, because in every true welcome we always open ourselves not only to receive the gift of God, but his very presence. The meaning of life and death then changes. If Abram, in his initial disappointment, says with bitterness: "I am going towards death", Simeon can say with joy: "Now can you, O Lord, let your servant go in peace, according to your word, because my eyes have seen your salvation" (Luke 2,29-30). Here is the invitation that this celebration offers us today: to recognize the signs of salvation with which God visits our streets and our homes, learning to live in this continuous dialogue between gift and welcome.

+ John I. Okoye