From the Editor (December 2021)

- The Most Mundane of Moments
  
  December 25, 2021
  
  In a recent "tolle, lege" lectio divina, a "random" selection of a Bible verse, I was led to what seemed one of the more nondescript of verses in 2 Timothy 4.19: "Greet Priscilla and Aquila and the household of Onesiphorus." The verse underwhelmed, seemed a kind of mundane formality of personal housekeeping, though it did lead me to consider community and the range of personalities, the relationships, the families that made up the early church, and those that make up my own. But it was a subsequent lectio that led me back to the verse, and pried open a deeper meaning. This I found in the account in Luke's gospel of the Visitation, which we read for the Fourth Sunday of Advent. Elizabeth "greets" Mary - "aspazomai" in Greek - to welcome joyfully. It was the use of that same verb that caught my attention. Suddenly it revealed itself to me as expressing the heart of the gospel. A mode of being; a way of living - an openness to others. There is so much implicit in authentic and open welcoming: trust, support, care. Of course, "greeting" has itself hardened and become nondescript: the How Are You and the Have A Nice Day. And when we hear of "Season's Greetings," it elicits the trite formulae and the obligations of the holidays. But does Paul's exhortation to "greet" in 2 Timothy 4 not expose the heart of evangelization? A heart of welcome, if it has substance anywhere, must take hold everywhere within us, between us, among us... God with us. This is no doubt behind the great emphasis placed on hospitality in the Benedictine heritage. It is reinforced, infinitely, on Christmas Day, when the world is called to greet its Savior, the authentic Greeting of this Season. Well, to you, our readers, I would like to send my greeting of the season. I would like to think, to hope, that I am so open, so hospitable, to truly do so. And I hope you may truly greet your Priscillas and your Aquilas, your households, wherever and whomever they may be. May this everyday and mundane moment become for you an encounter and an opening for the Good News with which the welcoming heart is blessed.
  
  Christmas peace,
  
  Blake Billings
- A Mariner's Prayer
  
  December 18, 2021
  
  “There is a ship, and she sails the sea.” I have a certain fondness for these lyrics, for this hymn, as it was sung at my wedding. And I have a fondness for ships, though truth be told I prefer to view them from solid ground. I have often noted the creaking of our nave here at Portsmouth, muted somewhat by more recent renovations that reinforced the clerestory with metal crosspieces. But still noticeable, particularly in a high wind. I love to hear that creaking. It reminds me that the nave is a ship, that we are a people on a journey, a seafaring people. I still have a plaque from my childhood home: “O God, thy sea is so great, and my ship is so small.” A mariner’s prayer. Genesis 1 tells us that God has held those waters at bay, opened a space for life, for us. Isaiah this week has promised us that what God intends to rain down is righteousness, that the sky will send forth yoshua, a savior, a deliverer. And this week we add to our “Archives” a short piece on The Colette. She is a thing of beauty, a work of the hands of members of this community, a tangible and visible piece of our not-so-distant past, and a reminder of our place on the water. A small vessel, for sure, but made for the sea. While she may be drydocked, we, it seems, are not. Has the star appeared yet to guide us in our navigation, like the star leading the magi on their journey, the star of Bethlehem? And are we adequately prepared for this journey? We have heard many reminders in our homilies these weeks – let us prepare. Even so, my childhood plaque reminds me: we may build the ships, but the great sea, it's His. All that preparation, and it still depends on what He decides to rain down. A hopeful Isaiah outlines what that decision, mercifully, is all about.
  
  Pax,
  
  Blake Billings
- The Second Theological Virtue
  
  December 11, 2021
  
  This may be entirely my own perspective, alien to all others, but it seems sometimes at this time of year that the force of gravity has subtly increased, that we are walking on Jupiter, that every step takes more effort, that there is no “simple.” It is odd that, academically, although our School has created a brief two-and-a-half week space between Thanksgiving and Christmas - and this is true for all, in some way, in this country, this interim stretch between these two big holidays – these become the longest weeks in the year. And simultaneously, here in the northern hemisphere, daylight dwindles. Nothing is as bright. Nothing is as light. How appropriate that our liturgical calendar seeks a remedy. Comfort, comfort my people. Rejoice – and let me repeat that, as it bears repeating right now: rejoice. Do we hear Julian of Norwich again... “But all will be well, and all will be well, and every kind of thing will be well”? Emphasis on the future tense. Well, I am still clunking around taking my heavy Jupiter steps, still adding lights to my house to try to illuminate the season, still lighting candles to help disperse the darkness: maybe this is the Advent struggle. But maybe the church’s response, gathered over centuries for believers struggling the same struggle, conveys the necessary wisdom. It is about helping me to learn hope, that second theological virtue. My faith seems to wane with the light; my love seems stifled in a kind of self-centered searching. Maybe it is time to play the hope card. Maybe it is time for the second theological virtue, always hidden there between its two gaudy partners, to truly shine.
  
  Pax,
  
  Blake Billings
- An Unexpected Pilgrimage
  
  December 4, 2021
  
  Our annual Abbot’s Reception in New York City leads me to recount the following story of my own recent trip into the city. I do not visit New York often these days, but had the brief occasion to do so chaperoning our School’s departing Thanksgiving Break bus. As it happened, my plans for the visit were modified and I was to return from the city immediately upon arriving. I hoofed it quickly from the bus drop on 37^th Street over to Grand Central to catch the next Metro North train. I am only loosely familiar with Manhattan, and did not realize that as I walked down 37^th, I would pass Holy Innocents Parish Church. But I noticed the sign across the street as I speed-walked to catch my train, and found myself directed to slow my pace, to go inside. Wasn’t that the church where Dorothy Day made her oblation as a Benedictine oblate? I remembered this, and remembered seeing some pictures of the beautiful interior of the church. It suddenly became a kind of destination for me – not having time for much at all in the city, I could at least pop in to see this site of historical and spiritual significance to me; a kind of Benedictine oblate pilgrimage stop. I did not realize the church had become a kind of center for the Latin Mass. I did not realize that Mass was being said at the very moment I passed. I did not realize the host and the chalice were to be elevated, the priest facing "ad orientem," the very minute I stepped inside. But there it suddenly was, happening before my eyes. It occurred to me that when Dorothy Benedicta Day made her oblation, in 1955, the Mass would have been offered in this very same manner. It occurred to me that I was, in that very moment, encountering the very heart of our shared faith, Dorothy’s and mine. I was overtaken by a sense of gratitude, of community, of a shared faith, of Christ Himself. Not wanting to leave, yet feeling no need to linger, I stepped back out onto 37^th street, much renewed by this unexpected pilgrimage.
  
  Holy Innocents Parish Church, NYC (November 20, 2021)
  
  Pax,
  Blake BIllings
About
- Blake Billings '77, Ph.D. is a graduate and current faculty member of Portsmouth Abbey School. He received his undergraduate education at Dartmouth College in New Hampshire, then joining the Jesuit Volunteer Corps to assist in an inner-city parish in Oakland, California. From Oakland, he went to Leuven, Belgium, receiving degrees in theology and philosophy. He returned to the Abbey in 1987, teaching for three years before getting married and returning to Leuven to pursue a Ph.D. in philosophy, which he was awarded in 1995. Having taught in higher education at various schools, including St. John's University, Farifield University, and Sacred Heart University, he decided his calling was at the secondary level, gratefully returning to Portsmouth in 1996, where he has resided ever since. He became an oblate of the Portsmouth community ten years ago. His four children were all raised on campus and graduated from the school, the youngest in 2020.