Beautiful New Year

Tavi's Corner

Photo by Aida Matei, used by permission.

White flowers sing at the gate of the heart. Whoever has lived divine love will understand me and will be happy for my happiness. (…) Man is not saved in the monastery only. (…) The helplessness of human nature pains me, but love makes me happy” (Valeriu Gafencu)

These words were written 71 years ago by Valeriu Gafencu, on the new year’s night, in a communist prison in Romania, where starvation and terror were daily ingredients of life.

Alice Herz Sommer, Holocaust survivor: “Every day in life is beautiful. Every day.” “I knew that even in these very difficult situations there are beautiful moments. […] Even the bad is beautiful, I would say. Even the bad is beautiful… It has to be.

A beautifulnew year to all.

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“What Christmas is all about”

I am taken aback by the multitude of people who want to tell you “what Christmas is all about.” Here’s my experience: person after person is asking you whether you are ready for Christmas, assuming, then, that we have a mutual understanding of what Christmas is all about, and, at the same time, person after person is trying to convince you that you have somehow forgotten what Christmas is all about.

“Family,” of course.

“Don’t you dare take Christ out of Christmas!”

“It’s just a holiday, and you should treat it as such!”

“It’s all about giving!”

The amount of certainty that surrounds us is absolutely fascinating. Everyone “knows” what Christmas is all about and everyone wants you to know it too. Everyone seems to be ready to harm you in the name of Christ, in the name of no-Christ, or in the name of whatever idea they may have about Christmas.

I don’t know whether the problem is that “we have forgotten what Christmas is all about.” To me, the problem is that we all “know” what Christmas is all about (which also means that we have forgotten it), and anyone who does not agree with us has “forgotten” the meaning. And, good people as we are, we feel obligated to “remind” them.

I read once something like this (I think it was Fr. Stephen Freeman, see his blog here: Glory to God for all things): “God help us from anyone who wants to fix our lives.”

A blessed Christmas to all!

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Are you ready for Christmas?

I have heard this question numerous times now for the past three weeks or so : when I go to the bank, when an acquaintance wants to make small talk, or when there is really nothing else to say. Regardless of when I hear it, it startles me every time. What do you mean, being ready for Christmas? Yes, I am ready: I’m in a state of expectation every day… And still… no, I’m not… my manger is not ready… The expectation is only a thirst, but experienced as if there is no water anyway. How can He then be born?…

I respond by returning the question: are you ready for Christmas?

“Well, since it’s coming anyway, I guess let it be.”

“Oh, yes, this time I started early. Everything is prepared. I got everything online.”

“No, I’m not. I have so many things to do, gifts to buy… Maybe next year!”

Run, Forrest, Run!

Am I ready for Christmas?

Socrates, in Plato’s Apology: “You too must be of good hope as regards death, gentlemen of the jury, and keep this one truth in mind, that a good man cannot be harmed either in life or in death…”

Even Plato says that you must first get ready; only then are you not harmed either in life or in death. So run, Forrest, run! Towards yourself.


P.S. Today: four years since I started this blog. Thank you!

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Have you prepared your boots?

Tavi's Corner


The eve of St. Nicholas. For Romanian children and probably for children coming from other traditions as well, this means that they have to prepare their boots and place them at the window. St. Nicholas, the one who brings gifts in secret, will pass by and leave something there: perhaps a coin of chocolate, perhaps an orange, or maybe just a piece of bread.

In my childhood, St. Nicholas’ night was filled with magic. We used to get oranges, which were unseen throughout the year in communist Romania (I have heard many people from those parts of the world saying that Christmas smells like oranges), so we were sure that St. Nicholas really brought them from some place far away. But we also used to get a little wooden stick, a “joarda,” so that our parents could use them if we were not good. Of course, they never did. In…

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Mishu’s two fights

10:00 pm. Mishu, our cat, goes outside. In 5 minutes, he comes back to the door, a dead mouse in his mouth. “Don’t scold him,” my wife tells me. “He’s done his job.” He just murdered a mouse because he could do it.

6:00 am, 8 hours after the “mouse event.” Mishu meows to go outside. I let him go. In 2 minutes, I hear a terrible sound, of an animal in great distress. I get out, but I don’t see the crime scene. I only see Mishu, running like there is no tomorrow. I don’t realize it at the moment, but he has a bad wound next to his mouth, and he is bleeding. Some larger animal attempted to murder him because it could do it.

Two similar events. Two fights between animals, fights in which the stronger one attempted to murder the weaker. In the first, the strong one was applauded; in the second, the potential death of the weaker produced sadness and worry. When I think of Mishu’s suffering while his jaw was in the mouth of his attacker, my hearts shudders. I don’t really feel much for the mouse–it does not even cross my mind that the death of the mouse would be the occasion for any feeling of compassion toward it. Is it only because Mishu is “ours”? Or because I do not like mice?

Crime and punishment… There must have been a purpose in Mishu “studying” the book with this title a few days ago. We can all find justifications for Napoleons, for Raskolnikovs, except when the old pawnbrokers, the Alyona Ivanovnas, are us.

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The old man in the choir


A beautiful catholic cathedral and the Bradley Community Chorus.

Dixit Dominus Domino meo, sede a dextris meis.

I turn right to my wife and whisper to her: “Do you see the old man?”

He is in the first row of the choir. He stands apart, but not because of his age. Surrounded primarily by young students, but also members of the community, he is the most alive of them all. His movements do not seem to be appropriate for a choir performance. In all of his entrances, his torso moves forward; he slides his head together with his shoulders at a change of mode in the song, and he accentuates the “hammers” on the drum with his entire body; all his “amen” plunge from his mouth straight to the core of the earth, to make it sound.

Beatus vir qui timer Dominum: in mandatis ejus volet nimis.

He emanates a feeling of total freedom; presence in the moment. It is the freedom given by the thought that I may die tomorrow–a thought that makes me more alive than anything else. This is not because death may be feared or desired, but rather because of its certainty. And so life is now, not tomorrow, not in the day after tomorrow, but now, in this very moment in which I hear a child cry amidst the sounds of the choir; it is in every second I live. I turn to my wife next to me; she is incredibly beautiful. She will be so even without teeth, even in the decrepitude of old age, because now, in this moment, I live, and she lives in me. People say that we are born and that we die alone, but now, in this moment, we are together for eternity and nothing can separate us. An old man in a choir brought us together.

Laudate, pueri, Dominum; laudate nomen Domini.

“Only when we are so old, only… we are aware of the beauty of life” (Alice Herz-Sommer, Holocaust survivor).


Magnificat, anima mea Dominum; et exultavit spiritus meus in Deo salutari meo.

The old man raises his torso once again. He sings from a freedom in which any day becomes a good day to die because you are already alive. I have no idea whether he could sing into a professional choir, but I know the universe is singing in him today.


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John Locke’s secondary qualities and the synergy between God and humans



There’s something profoundly spiritual in John Locke’s idea that secondary qualities do not belong to things themselves, but they are created in us during our interactions with the world. There is no color, no taste, no smell, no sound in the world that God created if there is no being that perceives them. Just think about it: God’s world has no music without us; it only has sound-waves. God’s world does not have the beautiful colors of the fall without someone to perceive them. Everything in which we rejoice sensorily is there only because we are also there. There’s no beauty in God’s creation without our contribution to it. Perhaps just one other way in  which we are co-creators of the beauty of our world. The world that is made for us to rejoice in it and offer it back in thanksgiving. And we do so in the awe experienced before the mighty gift we have received: to accomplish God’s world in our beholding of it, in synergy with God.

Perhaps one other way in which we are pregnant with the Beautiful.


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I became an American citizen today


I become an American citizen today.

I wake up with strange feelings. How will this change me?

I go to the gym at 5:00 a.m.; normal day. The usual people around me: are they citizens, I wonder? Do they know that I am not? Does it matter? Will they see me differently tomorrow? They already are “my morning people,” and our community or early-risers and gym-goers is already formed.

It strikes me that I’ve never felt odd because I was not a citizen here. I was just that, a free human being, most often embraced by others, and embraced as the person I was, beyond any citizenship. A free human because the source of genuine freedom is not a government, but Love, divine Love, most often experienced through the others. What more can I get in a few hours when I become a citizen?

My wife has to stop by work before the oath ceremony, so she has already left. There are so many things I need to finish today: papers to grade, an essay to write… I may become a citizen today, but I have worked and lived as a full member of this community for years. Will this ceremony change anything?

Over 650 people become citizens today in my city. Very difficult parking, and I’m not particularly known for my patience. After a 40 minutes journey that would normally take me 20 minutes, I am in the middle of them… Have you seen people crying when they become citizens?

Over 650 people…

What connects me with them?

I sit next to my wife and some friends, and we speak Romanian. The people in front of us speak Spanish. Behind us, German and Arabic. To our right, French. My fellow immigrants. All of us, the soon-to-become citizens, are in the rows in the middle of the arena; in the stands, families and friends. Their joy is overwhelming. And my phone starts beeping: colleagues from work, students, friends… All of them rejoicing in my becoming an American. Their embrace melts me. And I remember Markus, Fr. Zosima’s brother, from Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov: What have I done to deserve such love? Why would you love me? I’m just a man born in a small town in Transylvania, who used to love playing soccer on the streets and who once ordered a “pig sandwich” because he did not know the word “ham.”

Who am I?

I am a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a friend, the same I was yesterday and the same I will be tomorrow. But I am also someone who is considered a fellow by all of these people around me. I am overwhelmed by their love, and I love them back.

I rise to take the oath.

“I hereby declare, on oath…”

I became an American citizen today.

It is not freedom that I gained, but responsibility. May I wear it with humility.

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Student tears




I think I see tears in her eyes.

She’s probably in her late thirties, and she participates in the Convocation for freshmen at her college.

I don’t think I have seen her before. She may be in one of my classes in the future. Or, who knows, she may have taken philosophy some other place. Still, I can’t get over the fact that I think I saw tears in her eyes. At Convocation…

Perhaps it is her first experience in college. It’s not easy to come back to school after so many years. It’s not easy to see that everyone around you is truly dedicated to you, especially after years in which you may have dedicated yourself to others.

Perhaps she has had a difficult life, trying to navigate having a family and having a desire to pursue an education. Or she may have come to school with no such desire, but rather out of a need for a better job.

It does not matter.

Here, now, I think I see tears in her eyes.

I know there will be moments during this semester when I may no longer find resources for dedication–students’ lack of care and of interest, regardless of the reasons one may have for it (being overwhelmed, not loving the field of study etc), is a good friend with despondency. And the semester is long; such things always happen. But I need to remember these tears. I cannot become passive in the presence of these tears.

Give me one student tear out of love for education, and millions of teachers will come back to life.


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The Sunday Walk to Golgotha

In his The Sacred and the Profane, Mircea Eliade speaks of the break in the space that is brought about by that which connects individuals with the divine (see here a video in which I speak about this). For the majority of peoples, the place of worship provides this separation. It is the Center of the World, from which humans take their own being. And so, Eliade says, “the religious man sought to live as near as possible to the center of the world” (43). The Center of the World, the place of worship, “is precisely the place where a break in plane occurs, where space becomes sacred, hence pre-eminently real” (45). Thus, in traditional villages, the church is placed in the middle, and all the other houses are built around it. The reality of each one of the villagers, their being, but also the being of their own dwellings,  depends on the communication (perhaps communion) with the divine.

The fortified churches of Transylvania provide plenty of examples for this. See below the fortified church of Biertan (I found the photo on Wikipedia):


“The centrality of the church does not appear everywhere,” a friend of mine recently told me. “In my region, in Moldova, churches are built on a hill. When you go to church on Sunday morning, you go up the hill, just as you walk to Golgotha. You don’t just go to the church, but you are ascending there, you make an effort to be there. Those walks with my grandma when I was a child are more memorable to me than what happened during the service.”

Satul Luca.jpg

The Village Luca (found on the website Viata Foto)

It is, of course, a different manifestation of the same attitude toward the sacred. We still have the break in space, but this time with a new aspect. The sacred is not only separated; now it also requires a journey. The same road was taken for burials, since cemeteries were also placed on the hill. It may be a suggestion that our lives are such journeys to Golgotha, the final destination. But it may be more than that–a delicate understanding of Christianity that gives us a Kingdom which is already present but still not fully yet here, and thus a walk to Golgotha, to death, on every Sunday of the resurrection.


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