It’s a New Year, my friends, and we may be forgiven if we tip-toe into the chilly waters of 2006 with a certain amount of trepidation, considering the one just passed.

Sends us to our knees, doesn’t it? Not a bad position to be in as we turn the blank pages of our calendars; not my calendar alone, nor yours, but ours, Christ’s, and yours and mine. Less lonely that way, isn’t it? More hopeful.

And so we begin, as did Mary, one day at a time, seeing not too clearly, nor yet not blindly, for we have been told about His way, have been shown His path.

And Mary knew well the ordinariness of that path. She walks to the well and fills her jar, as do her neighbors, a number of whom wait until she comes, to exchange a simple greeting, to be strengthened by the peaceful joy of her smile, to bring her up to date on a problem at home, because Mary cared, cared about everyone. Unlike the Madonna of our tabloids, there’s no publicity agent at the well, guaranteed to give Mary the greatest exposure possible, a place in history.  That place was secured forever, not by becoming an object of adulation in Herod’s court, though her beauty would have made her so, but because she was who she was, the Mother of God, here in Nazareth.

When we looked back lately on the life of Charles de Foucauld, we found him passionately devoted to the hidden life of Nazareth.  Yet, he did not remain in Mary’s village, but found his Nazareth wherever his journey took him.
Robert Ellsberg, in the Forward to Marion Mill Preminger’s biography of de Foucauld, wrote:

He wanted to bear witness to the Gospel by living it, by being a friend and brother to all.  He knew how much the Church undermines the credibility of its witness when its representatives enjoy a status and comfort far above the level of the poor. The witness of Foucauld – poor, unarmed, stripped of everything, relying on no greater authority than the power of Love – may well represent the face of the future Church, a Church rooted in the holy memory of its origin and its poor Founder.

After eight months and several thousands of miles on foot beneath the blazing Sahara sun, with a diet of a handful of dates and bowlful of barley,  Foucauld arrived in Ghardaia, the mission of the White Fathers, and shocked his friend, Monseigneur Guerin, by his gaunt appearance –ragged, footsore, emaciated, bent and limping – .

“You must be tired, Father, “ Guerin said. “You will rest at Ghardaia.”

“Perhaps, perhaps later.  But first there are so many important things to talk about,” answered the worn-out traveler.

“You will eat with us at the refectory,” announced Guerin.  “No nonsense now.  We must put some meat on your bones.”

“Yes, yes, but first—“

And with that, Foucauld dug into his saddle-bags to bring forth the complete manuscript of the first translation of the Four Gospels, written on the fly, often at night with an oil lamp under a tree or in a tent.  He had made his own ink from charcoal mixed with camel urine.

In three months, he had visited some three- hundred walled ksaur (villages), some merely a dozen mud huts, others fair-sized towns.  In each, Father de Foucauld visited with the Tuareg, prayed, left medicines and alms.

On the day he had finished the translation of the Gospels, he wrote to Marie de Bondy: “Until now there has not been a single book written in this language.   It is a great comfort to me that their first book should be the Holy Gospels.”

After a month with the White Fathers, he set off on foot for Beni-Abbes, a three-week journey on desert trails.  Upon arrival, he found that those whom he had put in charge had neglected his vegetable garden; carrots, barley, cabbage and turnips, would have to be started all over again.

Moussa-ag-Amastane was the one in charge of the entire Hoggar plateau, who was so impressed with what Brother Charles had done there, that he declared he would make Tamanrasset his permanent capital.  “I shall have a palace built here and it shall become the seat of justice for all the Hoggar.”

Charles was delighted, for Moussa was a pious Moslem and an excellent administrator, one who had brought order out of anarchy, won obedience from his underlings, organized his warriors into a disciplined armed force, appointed a cadi to administer justice according to Koranic law, and established severe penalties for murder, looting and robbery.

When Foucauld’s friend, General Lyautey, visited him, he would later describe the conditions of the priest’s ramshackle shanty, the hermitage.

“ His chapel was a miserable hallway between columns covered with reeds.  his altar, a plank.  His altar piece, a picture of the Christ on a calico panel.  His candlesticks were of tin! We sat with our feet in the sand.  And yet I have never heard Mass celebrated as it was by Father de Foucauld that Sunday morning.  I could imagine myself in the Theban desert with the early Christian hermits.  It was one of the lasting impressions of my life.”

The writer has done her homework; her biography of Blessed de Foucauld is replete with stories of his devotion to his people. Two in particular impressed me.

The women had no needles, but used thorns, instead, which, of course, were unsatisfactory.  While on one of his trips to Paris, Charles bought a good supply of needles, pins, safety pins, yarn and knitting needles.  Before he began his journey homeward, he learned how to knit scarves and sweaters.  All went well until it came to knitting the heels of socks.  Those gave him trouble, but he persevered, and after three weeks, he was able to return home and not only give the women needles and wool, but lessons in how to use them. 

After the Gospels were finished, Charles would go from camp to camp, listening to the people’s stories and poems, none of which had ever been written down. Charles’ determination to set down his parishioners’ history and literature in books demonstrates his compassion and respect for them. He worked hard to compose a dictionary to help the people write their own stories.

When a Doctor Harrison came to the area, Charles gave him some advice for dealing with the people: “Be simple, affable, love them and make them feel that they are loved...Don’t act your rank; don’t even act like a doctor.  Don’t be vexed by their familiarity and informality.  Be human, charitable, and always gay.  Laugh always.  As you see, I always laugh, even though I show my bad teeth.  Treat their ills patiently and well, for they respect our science, our kindness, and our power.  And don’t be annoyed if they ask you to treat a goat.”

How fitting it will be, therefore, if this missionary, so full of compassion for the little people of his flock, should be canonized where he worked and suffered, prayed and healed — on the sands of Tamanrasset. ( CNN, listen up!)

As for us, if we take our cues from this saintly priest, making an effort to live the life of Nazareth after the example of the Holy Family, 2006 will be a very good year, indeed.

God’s favor be upon you, and yours, and everyone! 
Happy New Year to all!
Amen.  Amen. 

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