Viva La Vida

By John O'Brien, S.J.

On the feast of St. Maximilian Kolbe (Aug 14), patron of journalists among other things, I noted that my birthday — or “anniversaire” as they say here in Quebec — had arrived.

It’s the anniversary of being “dato alla luce” (literally: given to the light), as the Italian phrase goes. But enough linguistic poaching. I’m presently enjoying days of villa with my Jesuit brothers on a lake in the Laurentian Mountains west of Montreal. “Villa” is Jesuitese for our annual week of relaxation, usually accompanied by hikes, films, novels, and this year at least, paint-ball. Yes, a large group of late-20 and 30-something professed religious let their primal survival instincts loose in an epic game of urban warfare. But I digress. As my birthday often falls during our summer villa-week, I get plenty of fraternal feting and roasting (the two go hand-in-hand in notre petite compagnie). But it also is a pleasant reminder each year to take stock, as a good existential philosopher might do, of the horizons of my being.

All right, downgrade that. I’m less an existentialist than I’d thought, and probably less a philosopher. But as I begin the seventh year of Jesuit life, and the 38th year of human life, I realize more and more how much all is truly, at its most essential nature, a gift. Before a certain year in the late 1970s, I was not. Now I have probably lived half my life. In a few short decades hence, I will, again, not be, at least not in the corporeal form I presently enjoy. And during this time there is so much that has been granted freely, starting with the breath I breathe, the world I inhabit, the family and friends I love, and even the basic elements like colour, and smell and sound. “Tout est grace!”, as the little Therese said. I cannot but be overwhelmed by the fact that this life, now more and more swift in its passing, is less something of my making, and more a collaboration with the ministrations of grace. It’s also remarkable how the more I surrender, in all the facets that compose “self”, to the transforming action of God, the more I seem to receive. That’s the ultimate paradox of this existence.

So my prayer this day must be a blend of thanksgivings: for the human life I’ve been given and the Jesuit vocation that’s now given it form. For this, I can think of no greater words than a song penned by a 22-year-old named Robert Robinson in 1757, with lyrics recently adapted to give them an Ignatian twist. May it be likewise the prayer of all those I know and love, and of those who might read this post today.

Come thou fount of every blessing
Tune my heart to sing thy grace
Streams of mercy never ceasing
Calls for songs of loudest praise.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Bought me with His precious blood.

O, to grace, how great a debtor,
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to thee:
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it;
Seal it for thy courts above.

Take my freedom and my mem’ry,
Understanding, my whole will,
All I have in my possession
Are the gifts you have instilled.
Lord, to you, I make this off’ring
For your glory and your praise;
Do with me as you find pleasing,
Give me but your love and grace.  

(Come Thou Font, by Robert Robinson, alt: Gregory Celio, SJ and Rob Van Alstyne, SJ)