Nativity Catholic Church
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Finding God in the "Wrong Places" You may not realize this by looking at me, but I have something in common with Groucho Marx! Obviously, it’s not a full head of wild, black hair, nor is it a fluffy, soup-straining mustache. While I do partake occasionally in a fine cigar, for which Groucho was famous, the real thing that connects us with each other is the fact that we both “starred” in the same show! It was to be my last full day in Boston before making the move back to Chicago. I was finishing up my doctoral studies and preparing to bid farewell to a wonderful parish community, who had graciously provided a warm home for me during my studies. St. Angela’s parish, nestled in the tough and impoverished Mattapan neighborhood, despite its economic struggles, had a big enough heart to make room for a student-priest and blessed me with many experiences of Christ’s multi-cultural presence. Although I had been living in Boston for over a year and had tried to make the most of my abbreviated respites from my academic work at Boston University, I had not been able to travel to Cape Cod, nor to Plymouth Rock. Somehow, I thought that in the days and years to come, as I unfolded the memories of my stay in New England, I would be forever embarrassed to admit that I had never ventured to these “sacred” sites! Fortunately, some good people who had befriended me during my time at St. Angela’s, welcoming me into their home, especially for the holidays that passed in those months, saved me from this future infamy by planning a “surprise” trek down the coast to Plymouth and then on to the Cape. Days before the adventure, I was simply told to be ready for one final day-trip as a parting gift from them to me. (I learned later that they had overheard my lament about missing out on these two tourist “must-sees”.) While the Cape is every bit as rustic, romantic, picturesque, quaint and quirky as the brochures so eloquently describe, it is the trip to Plymouth Rock that jogs my memory now. In a word…it was a…DUMP! As we made our way to Plymouth, passing all the glowing signs indicating our proximity to this bastion of American freedom and glory, I could feel the excitement building in me. Visions of Thanksgiving plays at school, people dressed in heavy clothes and sporting those comical buckled shoes, childhood songs about the Pilgrims and their precarious landing in the “new world”—all sprung to life with richness and vibrancy. And then we arrived…parked the car…made our way to the water’s edge and the always recognizable historical marker post—and saw the famous “ROCK!” What a major disappointment! It really wasn’t much of a “rock” at all. In fact, my parents have removed far larger ones from their backyard in the mountains of Pennsylvania than the one that anchored the Pilgrims upon their arrival. Not only was it puny, but also it was surrounded by a dilapidated fence (must have been erected not long after the first Pilgrims toed the shoreline!) that seemed only to serve the purpose of corralling all the garbage and trash people tossed away before leaving this historic site. I came looking for something wonderful, impressive, magnificent, and stirring—but instead found something quite the opposite. If not for the historical marker, clearly setting out the data about this storied spot, I would have thought I was in the wrong place! Plymouth Rock and the home in Bethlehem where the Magi eventually arrived are far removed from each other in time and place and significance— but the experience of my journey and that of the eastern sages has something in common. We both thought we had found the wrong place—because what we believed to be, wanted to be, hoped to be so spectacular and breath-taking, was wrapped as plainly as could be. For me, it was the historical marker alone that forced me to see I was not deceived by the sight…for the Magi it was the star alone that forced them to see they were not deceived in their search for the “newborn King of the Jews.” How often in the journeys of our lives, especially in our searching and seeking for God and God’s presence, do we think we have come to the wrong place because it doesn’t fit our preconceived notions and dreams about who God is and how God should make God’s self known? We set out, much like the Magi, with plans and maps and “wisdom” that has been passed on to us, and we make our steps confident that in the end we will meet and know God. Along the way, we stumble and get lost, we lose heart, we wonder if the venture is worth the investment—but somehow we persevere because it is God whom we seek—and we believe God is worth the costs of the journey. And then we “arrive”—at least we come to a place or experience that we believe is what God is supposed to be like—and we think we’ve been duped; we think we were misled by priests, and teachers, and scriptures, and ceremonies, and regulations. We come to discover a God who is so plainly wrapped that we wonder about all the fuss—all the stuff that makes up the path of our religious traditions. We come to discover a God who is so plainly dressed that we doubt there’s anything special there. A wafer of wheat, a sip of inexpensive wine, a gentle hand, a dab of oil on the forehead, a broken heart crying out for comfort, a weeping child, the smile of a spouse, the warmth of bodies entwined in love, a simple “thank you,” a few moments spent on bended knees in the darkness, the splash of water in a baptismal font, the ache of loneliness, the rock-bottom of addiction, the sun rising or setting over the horizon, the laughter of aged bingo players in the nursing home, the flower gently placed upon the lowered casket, a photograph from a sweeter and more tender time in life—all so plain, so unnoticeable at first, so unpretentious and unassuming. Are these the places we must look for God? Are these the kinds of places where the shining star of Bethlehem is meant to lead all the “magi” who take up the journey in search of the Christ? The wonder and mystery of the Incarnation seems to answer a wholehearted YES to those questions. A baby, with no credentials, was the endpoint of the Magi’s long and arduous search—and yet, upon their arrival in what must have seemed like the wrong place—they knelt down in humility—a humility borne from looking in the “wrong place,” for expecting something royally spectacular and impressive. Let us also kneel in humility before the God who comes to us in ways beyond our imaginings, yet mostly in small and oh-so-easily missed times and places and encounters and people. Let us celebrate our plain-wrapper God who sneaks into our lives while we are busy looking elsewhere.
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