By Catholic News Service

IN A NUTSHELL

We don't need beautiful carols or exquisite artwork to tell us that, as Mary surrendered to God's will, she welcomed God's beloved Son with joy.

God has a plan -- even when I don't exactly know what it is or why he chose me for it. Mary taught me that.

The Holy Spirit who comes upon me will help me and will not leave me alone as I endeavor to find and accomplish the will of God in my life.

Surrender, and receive

By Mike Nelson | Catholic News Service

As nearly any of their Christmas shopping lists would suggest, parents know all about surrendering wants and desires -- primarily, their wants and desires -- for the sake of their children. Going "without," or with less, is part and parcel of "surrender."

In the context of faith, we -- as Catholic disciples -- believe that we are called to surrender to God's will, to sacrifice "for our good, and the good of all his holy church," as we declare in the prayer over the gifts at Mass.

Nothing encapsulates this more than the Gospel reading for the Fourth Sunday of Advent, the prototypical story of surrender: Mary's willing acceptance of her role as mother of the Son of God.

Certainly, as Luke relates, the teenage Mary felt bewildered and, no doubt, alarmed by the situation presented to her by the angel Gabriel, as would any "virgin with child."

But in the end, Mary said yes to God. She surrendered, in other words, to God's will: "May it be done to me" (Lk 1:38).

Three decades later, her son Jesus, faced with an even more challenging situation -- his own death by crucifixion -- gave the same response, the same surrender, to God the Father: "Not as I will, but as you will" (Mt 26:39).

But another form of "surrender" warrants our attention and reflection during this Advent season (and beyond, for that matter). It is suggested in a sign on the door of Pope Francis' residence at Domus Sanctae Marthae in Vatican City, a sign that reads: "Vietato Lamentarsi," Italian for "Complaining Not Allowed."

As reported by Crux, the sign elaborates on this message, calling it "the first law in the protection of one's health and well-being." Those who violate its message, the sign warns, are subject to developing a "victim complex" with the subsequent "diminution of their sense of humor and ability to solve problems."

And "complaining in the presence of children," the sign warns, would lead to a "double sanction."

"To become the best of yourself," the sign advises, "you have to concentrate on your own potential and not on your limits, therefore: Stop complaining, and act to make your life better."

Posted earlier this year, the sign -- a gift to the pope from Italian psychologist and psychotherapist Salvo Noe -- embraces a core principle of Pope Francis' outlook on life: Be positive.

That outlook is particularly meaningful in that it comes from a man who worked and served in Argentine slums, among people who had more right than most of us to bemoan their state in life. It is an outlook that reflects the theme of "Suscipe," a prayer attributed to St. Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the pope's own religious order, the Jesuits:

"Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will, all I have and call my own. You have given all to me. To you, Lord, I return it. Everything is yours; do with it what you will. Give me only your love and your grace, that is enough for me. Amen."

"Suscipe" -- also the core of one of the loveliest liturgical songs of recent years, "These Alone Are Enough," by Dan Schutte, one of the original St. Louis Jesuit composers -- is Latin for "receive," and suggests (as does our pope) that we become much happier when we focus on the blessings we receive from God (blessings more abundant than we often realize).

Sometimes, being positive means surrendering our wants, needs and desires to react in a certain (often negative) way when confronted with something we don't care for. And it doesn't necessarily have to involve our taxes, our legislature, our traffic or even our news media.

Last February, several months before receiving the "no complaints" sign for his apartment, Pope Francis addressed the topic of surrender in a daily Mass homily that referred to the disciple Peter's lament, "We have given up everything" to follow Jesus.

The pope repeated Jesus' response: "There is no one who has given up house or brothers or sisters or mother or father or children or lands for my sake and for the sake of the Gospel who will not receive a hundred times more" (Mk 10:29-30).

To surrender, then, is to receive. Surrender the desire for self-pity and receive the gift of awareness of (and assisting) those in need. Surrender the desire for complacency and receive the gift of challenging yourself to grow. Surrender the desire to criticize what is wrong and receive the gift of appreciating what is right.

Complaining -- some would call it "venting" -- is what many of us do, sometimes with alarming regularity over the course of a day. Pope Francis invites us to take a different approach to the pitfalls (real and perceived) in our lives, an approach for which we Catholics have a phrase: "Offer it up."

We don't need beautiful carols or exquisite artwork to tell us that, as Mary surrendered to God's will, she welcomed God's beloved Son with joy. We are called to do the same.

Catholic journalist Mike Nelson writes from Southern California.

During Advent, surrender to God's plan

By Susan Hines-Brigger | Catholic News Service

As a woman and mom, I have always had a special connection with the season of Advent. Maybe I'm inspired by the strength displayed by Mary in the face of an unforeseen and life-changing request. Or, maybe the mom in me basks in the memories of the weeks before my own children were born.

But it was 15 years ago that Advent really spoke to me. It was in a way that I never would have imagined, though. And it all began with a phone call.

"You have multiple sclerosis," I remember the doctor saying, very matter-of-factly. After those four words, I don't really recall anything else he said. I was too busy imagining my world crumbling around me, my future being wrapped up in an uncertain haze.

But I do remember one thing. I remember wondering, Why me? I was too young for this. I had plans. I had kids.

The next few weeks were a blur of doctor appointments, phone calls, research on various medicines and treatments. In the midst of it all, was the question. The question that reared its ugly head every time it saw an opportunity -- Why me?

"Try praying," people would tell me when they found out about my diagnosis. "Maybe that will help you find some peace with your diagnosis." All my prayers seemed to end the same way, though. Me ranting at God, and asking why I had to carry this burden. "Why me?" seemed to become my new mantra.

My faith, that had been such a pillar in my life, that had always been a source of comfort in times of need, was beginning to crumble.

With each month that passed, I slowly began to wrap my head around my new reality. By the beginning of the Advent season, I had come to a somewhat tenuous peace with both my multiple sclerosis and God.

Being mad at God wasn't going to change my reality. I was stuck with this disease, and I was bound and determined to find some joy and peace in the Christmas season.

And then it happened. As I have found so often in life, sometimes the greatest insights come at your darkest moments -- in the most unforeseen ways. As in sitting in church, listening to the Gospel. This week's reading was the story of Mary's "yes" when the angel Gabriel announced God's plan.

I found myself wondering about Mary's immediate reaction to the news. Was there ever a moment of "Why me?" I wondered. Because, if there was, it would have been completely understandable.

But, yet, there wasn't. No, Mary simply said, "May it be done to me according to your word."

A number of times over the next few weeks, I would catch myself thinking back to that reading and envying Mary's complete trust in God's plan. She didn't know what the future held for her when she said "yes," and yet she did it anyway.

I began to reflect and pray on Mary's complete surrender to God's will, in an attempt to open myself to God's message for me. Over time, I began to hear less "Why me?" and more "Why not?"

Maybe, I began to think, there is a purpose for this path on which I've found myself. Maybe, like Mary, I just need to learn to trust in God's plan.

I am in no way saying that I am anywhere near to being as open and trusting of God's plan as Mary was. My "Why me?" days are still much more frequent than my "Why not?" ones.

On those days, I try to remember that God has a plan -- even when I don't exactly know what it is or why he chose me for it. Mary taught me that.

Hines-Brigger is a columnist with St. Anthony Messenger.

Advent prayer of surrender: A meditation of Mary

By Effie Caldarola | Catholic News Service

Dear Jesus,

Help me to be like your mother. Help me to be ready to surrender to your will.

Place me with your mother on the day she discovered that God was asking her to be part of salvation history. Place me with her, a virgin betrothed to an older man, in the backwater village of Nazareth.

Let me imagine myself alone with her in her small home. It's an ordinary day, a day filled with the usual tasks of a very young woman. Is she sewing, perhaps in anticipation of her impending marriage? Has she been to the village well for water? Is she cooking or baking?

Is she beautiful, dark hair, dark eyes, a lilting and hesitant laugh? She must have been thoughtful, intelligent, a reflective and prayerful girl, this woman who doesn't yet know in this hour that she will be asked to give birth to and raise the Savior.

A knock punctuates the afternoon's stillness. As I gaze expectantly at the door that Mary rises to open, neither of us knows that the traveler outside has been sent by God. Gabriel enters. The world shifts, imperceptibly.

I watch Mary as she receives this stranger, already expressing bold words in a soft, reassuring voice. "Do not be afraid," he tells her, the words angels always use.

I listen with Mary as he asks the seemingly impossible and absurd of her. She is asked to bear a son, Jesus, who will inherit David's throne: Son of the Most High.

"How can this be?" Mary is young, but strong and unafraid to question. She is incredulous, but listening.

How must it feel, to be told that the "Holy Spirit will come upon you and the power of the Most High will overshadow you"? I sit with Mary as she absorbs these words.

Mary does not tell Gabriel to leave her; she does not ask for more time. She does not say she will need to find someone to advise her. Be still; imagine how Mary ponders this in her heart as Gabriel waits silently for her answer.

"I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word."

When Gabriel leaves, I talk to Mary about her surrender to this request. I ask her to help me to recognize the angels God sends into my life. I ask her to help me to be open, but questioning, thoughtful, strong in examining and determining God's will in my life.

I listen to Mary explain the power of those words: Do not be afraid -- words that are repeated over and over throughout Scripture. Do not be afraid of what God asks. I understand that trials and struggle may be part of my journey of surrender, but God remains with me throughout.

The Holy Spirit who comes upon me will help me and will not leave me alone as I endeavor to find and accomplish the will of God in my life. Guide me, Mary.

Caldarola is a freelance writer and a columnist for Catholic News Service.

 FOOD FOR THOUGHT

Christianity seems to be full of striking juxtapositions:

-- Strength and weakness. "My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness," Christ tells St. Paul (2 Cor 12:9).

-- Death and new life. "To accomplish your plan, (Christ) gave himself up to death, and, rising from the dead, he destroyed death and restored life," reads Eucharistic Prayer 4.

-- Surrender and fulfillment. "We can only learn to know ourselves and do what we can -- namely, surrender our will and fulfill God's will in us," St. Teresa of Avila said.

A common thread weaves between these seemingly contradictory themes: acceptance, submission and trust in the Father's plan for our lives.

The opening lines of the Catechism of the Catholic Church read: "God, infinitely perfect and blessed in himself, in a plan of sheer goodness freely created man to make him share in his own blessed life" (No. 1).

God's plans are good. Surrendering to his will brings fulfillment. Death to ourselves brings new life. And when we are weak, he will make us strong.