The Mystery of Loving Providence – Br. Jack Crowley

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Br. Jack Crowley

The Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Matthew 1:18-25

In April 1892, an illiterate dairy farmer from Ireland named Patrick Crowley boarded a steamship with his wife, Catherine, his father-in-law, Thomas, and their six children. One of their children, John Crowley, is my great-grandfather. He was nine years old when he boarded that ship, probably holding on to his mother’s hand.

One of my favorite moments in my family’s three-thousand-mile journey across the Atlantic to Boston came about halfway through the ten-day trip. My great-great-grandmother, Catherine Crowley, celebrated her forty-fifth birthday. I always try to get inside her head as she turned forty-five in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with her father, husband, and six children by her side. Catherine had been born in 1847, a year many Irish historians call Black ’47, as it was the worst year of the Great Hunger, also known as the potato famine. I wonder how she felt in the middle of the Atlantic, most likely the farthest away from home she had ever been, dreaming of a better life for her children in these United States.

We all have stories like these, dreams of our ancestors. The dreams of loved ones we don’t get to meet this side of the thin line. Although we may not know what their faces looked like or what their voices sounded like, we know their blood runs through our veins. Their DNA is inside of us for good.

Tonight we celebrate the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary. I must confess I have a deep, deep love for Mary. There is no woman I talk with more than Mary. I’ve prayed with her in hospital beds, restaurants, rehabs, monasteries, airports, and especially right here in this chapel. With all our stained-glass windows, Mary is always over our shoulder, in more than one way.

Every year on this feast, I try to get in touch with that loving mystery of Mary’s life. Like our ancestors, there’s so much we don’t know about Mary, and that can feel frustrating, but what we do know is her love for us. What we do know is that Mary prays for us, she intercedes for us. She loves us.

On this day every year, I think of Mary as a baby, with her parents holding her tight. If you’ve ever held and smelled a newborn, you know how magical it is. Her parents must have radiated love that night, perhaps knowing that their child was destined for greatness.

Of course, we all know the life of Mary was not easy. As they say, the greatest tragedy in life is when a parent has to bury their own child. Mary had to endure the loss of her son Jesus. As our Rule of Life says, Mary and the Beloved Disciple stood together at the cross, being steadfast together, enduring all that others found unbearable.

I imagine that when Catherine Crowley stepped off that boat about four miles from here at the docks of East Boston, perhaps her son John in hand, she knew her son’s life was not always going to be easy in this new land. Yet perhaps it was that loving mystery that kept her going, a hope that if the life of her children, and their children after them, was even slightly better than her own, then it was all worth it.

We never know exactly what we are doing. It’s okay to admit it. Catherine Crowley probably never thought her great-great-grandson would be preaching about her at a Protestant monastery, but here we are. In my experience, when we love God and let ourselves be loved by God, the waves of our life tend to break toward love. Wherever it is we end up, it seems to be the right place. That is a mystery I can get behind, a mystery I can love.

So tonight, let’s give ourselves permission to rejoice with Mary in the radiance of the Holy Spirit. Let’s give ourselves permission to open up our hearts and pour ourselves out as an offering of love and sacrifice. Let’s give ourselves permission to love another, to heal, to reconcile, to move on, to love the past but move toward the future into that glorious mystery. Like I said, we have no idea what’s going to happen, but God is with us. Amen.