SIMCHA FISHER

I’m not going to pretend that it’s easy to figure out how to respond to the refugee crisis. We have real reason to be afraid of terror attacks from radicalized Muslims, and one of the basic functions of government is to keep our country peaceful and safe. I’m not in favor of just opening the flood gates and welcoming in anyone who can tell a sad story.

But we cannot say what Ben Carson has said, especially as pro-lifers. We cannot. There has to be some middle ground between “Come one, come all” and “Too bad for you – you go die now.”

Read the rest at the National Catholic Register.

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photo by Gage Skidmore via Flickr

But I got it anyway, because I have a 13-year-old son who is practiced in the art of Jedi towel tricks. Check it out:

That’s my boy. We now return you to Advent.

Most years, we hear our priests gently (or irritably) reminding us that it’s still Advent! Not Christmas! Not Christmas yet! Stop with the “Merry Christmas,” because the Baby hasn’t been born yet!

So we’ve tried hard to keep Advent as a separate season: joyous anticipation rather than celebratory blow-out. It’s hard to hold off when the rest of the country is already whooping it up, but the restraint feels worthwhile when Christmas finally dawns.

So it landed with a bit of a thud when our bishop, Peter Libasci, issued a letter asking the Diocese of Manchester (NH) to make some changes in how we spend our Advent.

He encourages lively decorations that suggest life and hope, and calls for an emphasis on warm, personal hospitality, especially toward the poor; he exhorts us to “avoid whatever may encumber you during this time,” and invites us to make a pilgrimage through Holy Doors.

These things are not too much different from what we already attempt (other than the Holy Door thing – must read up on that!), but this part is new:

Beginning with the FIRST Sunday of Advent, in every rectory, convent, Catholic school, diocesan institution and Catholic home, display the image of the Christ Child in a suitably decorated place of prominence and approachability. Not the crèche, just the infant.

and

Beginning with the FIRST Sunday of Advent and throughout the Advent Season, the music at Mass should include Christmas carols that enjoy the quality of a lullaby and center on the great mystery of the Incarnation and birth that did occur in history. (Away in a Manger, O Come Little Children, The First Noel, Little Town of Bethlehem.)

Huh! Really? Usually we stick to Advent music as much as possible, and if we put up a crèche, we keep the Baby Jesus packed away in tissue paper until Christmas morning. But I’m delighted to have a bishop who actually asks us to do stuff, so I’m game.

I thought of the Roots of Empathy program, which has teachers in poor, tough neighborhoods welcoming babies into their classrooms. They believe these visits, and subsequent discussions, teach the school kids empathy, rather than the lesson of “survival at any cost,” which is what they’re learning everywhere else they go. This story from the Washington Post says:

Roots pairs each classroom with a baby, who visits nine times throughout the year with his or her mom or dad, a volunteer recruited from the community. Each child has a chance to look the baby in the eye, squeeze its toe and say hello before the class settles into a circle around a green blanket.

They watch the baby respond to songs and games, and they talk about what he’s feeling and why he behaves as he does. The kids and the teachers have noticed a great change in the classroom: more peace, more respect, and better learning, too.

 The idea is that recognizing and caring about a baby’s emotions can open a gateway for children to learn bigger lessons about taking care of one another, considering others’ feelings, having patience.

Our bishop is looking for a similar transformation in his flock, putting the Baby right in front of us before the altar, and having us sing lullabies before we head back out to the world on Sunday morning. In his letter, he says:

during the Advent season, we take the INFANT as our centerpiece, remembering that He came as one of us. When an infant is in the house, everyone must be conscious of that presence and speak more softly, be more attentive, welcome family and visitors, exercise patience, accept inconvenience—even in the extreme, for the sake of the fragile life entrusted to our care.

Okay, but . . . the Church demands a bit more than being caring and considerate, yes? The Incarnation was not some kind of inner city niceness project, and “considering others’ feelings” is not one of the Ten Commandments. Can we not, as a millennia-old institution, set the bar a little higher?

No. We can’t.

Don’t you roll your eyes at me! The older I get, the more I realize that God usually wants us to do very basic, mundane things — and the more I realize how hard it is to do those mundane things well, with my whole heart.

And here’s the main part: The older I get, the more I realize that the whole point of the Incarnation is that the divine and the mundane are now inextricably linked. There cannot be a meaningless act of service, because of the incomprehensibly great service God has performed for us. There is no longer any such thing as a small act of love, since God, who is love, became small and asked us to care for Him. There is literally nothing greater, more meaningful, or more transcendent we can do than to care for each other for His sake. All acts of love are great. All acts of love make us more like Him.

In his letter, Bishop Libasci says,

To be judged as having achieved a fuller awareness of human fragility and potential, is to be judged as growing more closely to “the full stature of Christ.”

Anyone can blaze with righteous glory for a moment. Anyone can get wrapped up in an exquisitely arcane theological puzzle. But just treating each other well, day after day, in and out of season, whether they deserve it or not? That’s hard, hard, hard. As hard as caring for a baby who won’t stop crying no matter what you do. As hard as being that Baby, when you didn’t have to be.

Step beyond your duty and be actively generous. Be gentle when you could justifiably be harsh. Acknowledge that you are “disadvantaged,” that you think too much of your own survival and not enough about the unreasonable needs of the helpless people around you. Fight down the battle cry and substitute a lullaby.

The Baby’s needs are simple and basic. Start with those before you consider yourself ready to move on to higher things. There are no higher things. Start with the Baby, because that’s what God did.

Have I mentioned lately that I’m on the radio? Okay, not quite Lester the Nightfly. I’m Mark Shea’s co-host on his show, Connecting the Dots, every Monday from 5-6:00 PM Eastern. You can listen live here, and if you’d like to call in, we’d love to chat! The number is 1-573-4BREAD4  or Tweet us @Breadboxmedia.

We talk about all manner of things, and if you listen hard enough, you can definitely hear someone barking (the three-year-old) or someone crying (the dog) on my end. One time, I even threw up on the air! But that was when I was pregnant, so you can’t count on that happening every week. 

You can also listen to podcasts of previous shows here.

This year, there’s no time to recover from Thanksgiving before it’s time to dive into Advent. Luckily, the thing about celebrating Advent is that, by definition, you have to keep it simple.  A lush, lavish, complicated Advent makes about as much sense as a simple, understated fireworks display on the Fourth of July.

There are lots of wonderful ideas out there for how to observe the season, but it’s not only impossible to do it all, it would be contrary to the spirit of the season to go overboard! Score one for the busy, the lazy, the disorganized, the overwhelmed.

THE MINIMUM

We do two things without fail every Advent. If these are the only two things we do, I consider it a successful Advent.

The first is to make and light an Advent wreath, which we attempt to light every night while singing “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” (adding two verses each week). Some years, we only manage to do it on Sundays or weekends.  I just bought a cheapo twisted twig wreath at the dollar store, and I send the kids out to gather greenery from the yard. Use about forty yards of thread or wire and strap those suckers down.

If I can’t find purple and pink candles, I just use white, and tie on bows made of ribbon or cloth in the right colors.  Oh, and after a lifetime of trying to attach candle holders to a wreath, I just gave up, and now use (again, cheapo dollar store) glass candle holders, which I set inside the wreath.  I put the whole thing on a pizza pan, so I can easily move it off the table and store it in a safe, unpunchable place when it’s not in direct use.  Some years we have little golden balls and berries and doves, but other years, it’s just the greenery.

Some people do paper Advent wreaths. I would be sad not to include actual flames and actual greenery (the evergreens remind us of everlasting life; the flames remind us of Christ, the light of the world); but for goodness’ sake, if you just had a baby, or if the idea of flames in the home makes you grind your teeth, do what makes sense for you.

Here are prayers for each Sunday, and here are all the verses to “O Come Emmanuel.”  Print them out and tape it to your pizza pan or something.

Remember:  Advent is dark.  Lights out.  Once you have candlelight and acapella singing, it’s just as magical and luminous and mysterious as whatever the Vatican is doing on that same day. The child pictured above is utterly failing to think, “Tippy candle?  No pinecones?  This Advent is not impressive at all!”

The second thing we do for Advent is we all go to confession once or twice before Christmas. Here are various examinations of conscience for adults, kids, and others; “Confession” is a $1.99 app with a customizable examination of conscience; Mea Culpa is a free app; and here is a very good book which prepares kids for their first confession (and is a great way to brush up your own understanding of the sacrament.) And while we’re at it, this short, enormously encouraging essay about confession from a priest’s point of view deserves another read.

That’s it: light the wreath, sing, go to confession.  That’s the bare minimum, and some years, it’s also the maximum we can manage. There are plenty of wonderful Advent ideas.  But please remember, KEEP IT SIMPLE.  Don’t go overboard.  Pick one or two, and don’t make it elaborate.  And make sure you get to confession!

ADVENT CHAINS

If you want a hands-on project for your kids but aren’t feeling very crafty, here is a free printable chain from Life Made Lovely.  (It’s designed for a different year, when Advent starts on Dec. 1, but if you’re like me, you can roll with these things. Just correct the dates and start a few days late, no big deal.) This particular one just has a short description and a Bible verse to look up and read, and is designed for little kids; but if you Google “advent chain 2015,” you will find other styles, some more elaborate that others.

Print it out, cut the days into separate strips, and staple or tape them into a long chain.  (If you like, you can print them on purple and pink paper, or tape the strips to colored paper.) You can hang the chain on your Christmas tree if you have one already, or anywhere in the house (hang it high, to avoid punching).  Each day (or the night before each day. Look, I’m confused about the dates. You figure it out!), you cut off one link each day and read what’s inside.

You can also just make a plain paper chain out of strips of purple and pink paper, one link for each day of Advent, and clip off one link every day. The idea is that it helps the kids visualize how much of Advent is left, and they can see the chain getting shorter and shorter as Christmas approaches. Explain that it reminds us of the chains of sin, which get weaker and weaker until our Savior arrives — and then the chain is gone.

Another option: Here is a printable Advent chain you can print out, designed by my sister, Abby Tardiff. These have complete short Bible verses on them, with little pictures to color.

If you do do an advent chain that has pictures on it, you could also level up to a . . .

JESSE TREE

Lacking space for a free-standing Jesse Tree, I just clip a branch from a bare tree and bolt it to the wall.  It looks good and weird, like a Catholic home should.

Some families have reusable Jesse Tree ornaments, but temporary ones are fine, too, and you can use the opened Advent chain strips as ornaments. Read the verse, have a kid color the picture, and hang it on the Jesse tree. Done.

We have a tradition of making Jesse tree ornaments each year on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I find a list of ornament ideas (there is no official list!), read them off, and the kids dibs them. There’s usually something for everyone, rainbows to daggers. We dump all the craft materials which we have carefully kept organized and . . . sorted . . .

on the table, and the kids go to work while I go hide for a couple of hours, repeating the phrase “it’s only once a year” to myself, and with the firm understanding that glitter on the floor doesn’t count as a mess unless it actually impedes your walking.

A (VERY LITTLE) LITTLE LENT

Some people keep Advent as a “little Lent” — not as stringent as actual Lent, but still a season of preparation and penance, as we anticipate Christmas day.  I can’t hack this, at least not as a family. It’s too hard to do all the baking and shopping and decorating that really has to be done in December, and also practice self-denial and penance. If I manage to prepare for Christmas without making life miserable for the family, I’ll count that as a spiritual win.

One thing we do manage is to “fast” from dessert on Saturdays (we only have dessert on the weekend) and use that money to buy an extra item for the Vincent de Paul food pantry. Don’t forget, poor people appreciate treats, too especially if they have kids.  It’s very important to donate staples (dried milk, tuna, pasta), but consider adding a box of cookies, a few chocolate bars, or some spices. Non-essentials in the kitchen help poor people feel more human.

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What does Advent look like at your house? Traditions, great ideas, horrible disasters? Share ’em if you got ’em!

Like many cooks, I love to share my best kitchen strategies. Here are a few tips for making a successful Thanksgiving meal:

1. Don’t be stingy with the baster, and your little butterball will all but make its own gravy.

[img attachment=”79336″ size=”full” alt=”corrie baster” align=”alignnone”]

2. Fresh ingredients are best, but sometimes, if it’s been a long day, there’s no shame in opting for canned:

[img attachment=”79338″ size=”full” alt=”corrie can” align=”alignnone”]

3. Even great chefs make substitutions from time to time. If, for instance, the baby has had about enough of your Anne Geddes nonsense, you can keep the oversized stock pot but maybe go with a tougher cut of meat:

[img attachment=”79345″ align=”alignnone” size=”medium” alt=”lucy in pot” /]

4. These seem to be all jokes about eating my children. Hey, look at the time:

[img attachment=”79354″ size=”medium” alt=”Wall_clock” align=”alignnone”]

Happy Thanksgiving, dear readers, if any! I’m grateful to be here at Aleteia.

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clock image via Wikimedia Commons

If you’re anything like me, you will feel terrible if your family spends Thanksgiving gorging on heavy food and then slouching in front of the TV. But you also have no intention of going outside and exerting yourself, because you definitely want to gorge on heavy food. What to do?

I’m hoping to nudge my family into playing some games after the big meal — nice games, easy games, with no running around or sitting entirely upright. Here are a few of our favorites:

Jebrahamadiah and Balthazar (also called “Master and Servant”)

I am not sure why my kids call this one “Jebrahamadiah and Balthazar,” except that (a) it has something to do with the Jeb! flyers we kept getting in the mail, and (b) they are weirdos.

THE RULES: One person gives orders, the other person explains why he can’t carry them out. The answer has to be part of a consistent narrative — you can’t just make up a new excuse for each command.

Here is an abbreviated example. The longer you can draw it out, the funnier it gets:

Jebrahamadiah! Go get me a glass of water.
I would, but I just broke the last glass.
Then go get me a cup of water.
I would, but when I broke the glass, I cut my finger, and I can’t use my hand.
Well, use your other hand.
I would, but when I was searching for a Band-aid for my one hand, I slammed the medicine chest door on my finger, and now both hands are useless.
Then call an ambulance.
I can’t, because, if you’ll recall, my hands don’t work.
Then use the speaker phone.
I would, but when I slammed the medicine chest door, some nail polish remover fell on my phone and now the speaker doesn’t work.
Then just shout out the window for help.
I would, but the neighbors saw me wrecking my phone, and he’s a big jerk, and laughed so hard that he drove off the road and now he’s in a coma.
Well, shout out the other window on the other side of the house.
I would, but when the other neighbor drove off the road, he knocked a utility pole down, and a live wire landed on the house on the other side and now it’s on fire, so I don’t want to bother them.
Well . . . okay, fine, I’ll get my own water.

Shatner!

This one can be played all day long, while cooking, while setting the table, during the meal, and so on, until you put your foot down and tell them to knock it off or you’re going to strangle somebody.

THE RULES: Life goes on as normal, until someone shouts, “Shatner!” — and then everyone has to do what they’re doing as William Shatner.

I actually stink at this game, but my kids are horrifyingly good at it.

Companion game: Duchovny

Pretty much the opposite of Shatner. You respond in such an understated way that people have to fight the urge to check your vital signs.

Greg

This one benefits more than others from either having a few glasses of wine in you, or being eleven years old (I cannot recommend both).

THE RULES: You sing songs, but instead of “I,” “me,” or “mine,” you say “Greg.”

There’s “With or Without Greg” by U2; “Amazing Grace” (How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like Greg); and who can forget that sentimental ballad from The Music Man, “Till There Was Greg.”

Extra points if one of your guests is actually named Greg.

One Syllable Off

This one is either much easier or much harder to do when you’ve had a few drinks, depending on what kind of “had a few drinks” person you are.

THE DECEPTIVELY SIMPLE RULES: All you do is sing a song with the normal lyrics, but you start singing the first syllable on the second note:

So instead of :

Take . . .ME-out-to-the-BALL . . . game . . .
Take . . . ME-out-with-the-crowd . . . .
BUY-me-some-peanuts-and-CRACK . . . er-jacks . . .
I . . . don’t-care-if-we-NE-ver-get-back . . .
So-it’s-root . . . root-root-for-the-home . . . team . . .

you sing:

[beat] TAKE-me-out-to-THE . . . ball . . .
Game . . . TAKE-me-out-with-the . . .
CROWD-buy-me-some-pea-nuts-AND . . . crack-er . . .
Jacks . . . I-don’t-care-if-WE-never-get . . .
Back . . . so-IT’S-root-root-root . . .

and so on. I think I got mixed up in there somewhere. If you find this confusing, you’re in the right frame of mind for this game.

In the manner of the adverb

Okay, this one has a little bit of getting up and doing stuff, but if you’re smart, you can keep it pretty tame.

THE RULES: One person thinks of an adverb, and everyone else has to guess what it is, by watching him do things in the manner of that adverb.

For instance, say I’m thinking about “bitterly.” The other shout, “Make some biscuits in the manner of the adverb!” so you commence muttering resentfully about the stupid butter not being cold enough, and how everybody else has a pastry blender, but you have to get along with two pathetic butter knives, and how you certainly hope they appreciate how much trouble you went to, but it doesn’t seem likely, and so on. And they shout out words like “Resentfully?” or “Angrily?” until someone guesses it.

In other news, I definitely need to get the baking started. Humph. Where’s my butter knives?

I never especially enjoyed the harp interludes (Harpo’s or anyone’s. A harp is a harp), but I was fascinated at the change that came over his face, and the way he carried himself as soon as he settled into the music. The mania dropped away and his eyes softened. We always used to fast-forward past the harp solos, but now I feel grateful that they were left in, because it gives us a chance to see something of the real man. You can see his sincere love of children in the beginning of this clip from A Night at the Opera, where he starts by playing the piano before moving to his harp . . .

Read the rest of this post at the National Catholic Register, where I blog once or twice a week.

photo credit: The Marx Brothers via photopin (license)

Hi. I’m Simcha Fisher, and I’m new here.

Since we got off to a kind of bumpy start with my blog here, I thought I’d set a few things straight. First of all, who is Simcha Fisher? Might you be Simcha Fisher?  Answer these questions to find out.

1. You have more kids than there are planets, even with Pluto. With a family this size you’re the perfect one to:

(a) Evangelize, or something.

(b) Serve as a horrible example of what happens when you never learn how to use a thermometer. Thanks a lot, Common Core.

(c) Maybe find a hobby? There’s a fine line between being open to life and making a spectacle of your fecund self.

(d) Write a book about natural family planning. About natural family planning.

2. When someone asks how many kids you actually have, you’re likely to say:

(a) “Two.”

(b) “Exactly the right number. Hashtag blessed! Hashtag soblessed!”

(c) “I don’t like to impose my own numeronormative notions of quantity on them, so I’m going to let them grow up and decide for themselves how many of them there are.”

(d) Tearfully, “I dunno.”

3. Look up. What do you see?

(a) A wide open vista full of promise and possibility, at once challenging and inspiring.

(b) The sky curling up like a scroll and these freaky bird lion dudes with extra heads. No more gas station wine cooler for you, man.

(c) Some memorization notes for Latin verb conjugations. Nope, not studying for at test; you just like to keep the old noodle active.

(d) Literal noodles. Again. After you specifically made a rule against flinging noodles on the ceiling.

4. One of your most cherished memories of your formative semester in Rome is:

(a) Sketching cathedrals.

(b) Making a documentary about a grassroots campaign to let seminarians grow awesome beards because Theology of the Body Something Something.

(c) Eating, praying, loving, emphasis on all three!!!!! <3 <3

(d) That afternoon at that Italian police station with the four pregnant teenagers who stabbed somebody.

5. You met your husband:

(a) At a turkey trot. You had forgotten your energy gel, and he had an extra pouch – but it turned out to be Tri-Berry Gluten Free! And you’re allergic to tri-berries. Great conversation starter, anyway. He still looks great in sweat-wicking leggings.

(b) Through an online dating site. You were both working on designing a new algorithm designed to cut down on matches that ended up with pregnant Italian teenagers stabbing people.

(c) Last week. You’re getting married next week. Gift registry here.

(d) Surrounded by trees, darkness, destiny, and gin.

6. The last time you met a really important person, you:

(a) Got shy and clammed up.

(b) Came off a little giggly when asking for an autograph, but he must be used to that.

(c) Offered a firm handshake, and moved along. We’re all equal in God’s eyes, after all.

(d) Inadvertently made a joke about Archimedes’ Screw, which you totally would have gotten away with except that you then snort-laughed and said, “Oh, I’m sorry, that’s a terrible thing to say!”

7. The whole time you’ve been writing this:

(a) You’ve been continually offering your typing fingers up to God, so that He may work His holy will through you, in ways large and small, capitalized and italicized, even unto that wiggly thing on Spanish “n” (it’s option+N, and then “n.” You’re welcome)

(b) Your children spontaneously cordoned themselves off into a different wing of your orderly, peaceful, adequately-sized house, and organized by liturgical color their collection of pre-Vatican I mantillas.

(c) You’ve been dripping sweat onto your specially designed laptop desk for use while planking. Fab abs don’t fab themselves! Theology of the Body again, woooo!

(d) Your child actually took an actual bite of her diaper.

8. You travel around the country giving speeches to Catholic audiences. This is because you:

(a) Are extraordinarily outgoing and sociable; might as well make a career out of it!

(b) Had a dream in which St. Josemaria Escriva and St. Christina the Outstanding sang a snappy show tune about how you had to.

(c) Enjoy pumping milk in the bathroom at O’Hare. Invigoratin’.

(d) Have a coupon for 40% a gorgeous dress with pockets and need an excuse to use it before it expires.

9. You keep getting hired to write for respectable Catholic websites because you:

(a) Have a degree in theology.

(b) Have a degree in canon law.

(c) Surely have a degree in something, anything.

(d) Understand the word “deadline.”

If you answered mostly (d),* you are Simcha Fisher.

God help you.  And God help Aleteia.

*Except for the one about Archimedes’ Screw. That was my mother.