A number of years ago, while I was supposed to be working on something else, I became entangled in the narrative World War II writings of Cornelius Ryan. His gripping accounts of the Allied invasion of Normandy in The Longest Day and Operation Market Garden in A Bridge Too Far are so significant that both books were adapted into huge Hollywood films featuring basically every male actor from the 1960s and 70s you can remember. 

I’ve never actually seen the films, but I read both books in just a few weeks. Ryan’s narratives are so captivatingly effective because of the details given by the thousands of eyewitnesses he interviewed in the decade following the war. 

Ryan’s first book, The Longest Day, tells the story—from both sides—of the D Day invasion of occupied France in June 1944. The first part of the book covers the many months of planning leading up to June 6th. But the actual day of the invasion wasn’t picked at random:

Eisenhower was faced with a dreadful dilemma. On May 17 he had decided that D Day would have to be one of three days in June—the fifth, sixth, or seventh. Meteorological studies had shown that two of the vital weather requirements for the invasion could be expected for Normandy on those days: a late-rising moon and, shortly after dawn, a low tide.

The paratroopers and glider-borne infantry who would launch the assault, some eighteen thousand men of the U.S. 101st and 82nd divisions and the British 6th Division, needed the moonlight. But their surprise attack depended on darkness up to the time they arrived over the dropping zones. Thus their critical demand was for a late-rising moon.

The seaborne landings had to take place when the tide was low enough to expose Rommel’s beach obstacles. On this tide the timing of the whole invasion would depend. And to complicate the meteorological calculations further, follow-up troops landing much later in the day would also need a low tide—and it had to come before darkness set in.

These two critical factors of moonlight and tide shackled Eisenhower. Tide alone reduced the number of days in any one month for the attack to six, and three of those were moonless. [The Longest Day, part 1, ch. 10]

What amazes me about this passage is that the date of what is arguably the greatest undertaking in military history was selected solely based on the moon: its rising in the sky and the time of low tide. We know, of course, how the story ends—one of the most evil regimes in history was defeated, and it all began on the beaches of Normandy at low tide, the morning after a late moon rising.

Timing is often everything when needing to accomplish an enormous undertaking. Too soon, and you risk not having enough time to prepare. Too late, and you may miss the opportunity. 

We know that God, being perfect, is never anxious about timing. And yet, in the history of salvation, Providence delivers a master-planned invasion of the Incarnate Word into the hearts of humankind.

In this weekend’s Gospel, we hear that at a very specific time in history—the Roman occupation of Judea when Tiberius Caesar was emperor, Pilate was governor, Herod, Philip, and Lysanias were tetrarchs, and Annas and Caiaphas were high priests—the “word of God came to John the son of Zechariah in the desert.” Eisenhower needed low tides, bright moons, and perfect weather. And while God didn’t need Tiberius or Lysanias, he specifically chose St. John the Baptist to prepare the way of the Lord.

Before the battle over sin and death could be won by Jesus, the people had to be prepared. The hardness of their hearts had to be softened by John’s preaching and the effect of their sin washed clean by his baptism. Then their hearts would be ready to hear Jesus, to hear the word of God themselves, just as he spoke to John the Baptist.

Our hearts, too, are occupied by many destructive forces. Just as Judea was occupied by Rome and France occupied by Nazi Germany, we often find ourselves subjected to forces that are not good for us. How can we hear clearly the voice of God when our heads are filled with the noise of the world and our hearts filled with holes dealt by sin, by our inordinate desires to serve other masters: money, prestige, domination, lust, and the narratives of the world—a world that hates God and his supreme majesty.

We each desperately need an invasion for our occupied hearts. In her Prayer to the Trinity, St. Elizabeth of the Trinity perfectly captures our desire for this need for God “de me submerger, de m’envahir—to overwhelm me, to invade me.” 

The French verb envahir—to invade—appears 32 times in the writings of Elizabeth. The word seems rather harsh in our minds. We are not used to invasions having a positive connotation. The ICS translators of Elizabeth’s writings seldom preserve the literal sense of invasion (although we’ve opted for this sense more frequently in the forthcoming vol. 3 to be released in a few months). The French editor of Elizabeth’s complete works, Fr. Conrad De Meester, notes that Elizabeth’s use of envahir began to occur more frequently after the Lenten retreat given by Père Vallée in 1902. De Meester posits that the term may have been uttered frequently by Père Vallée and must have had a significant impact on Elizabeth. We can see this most clearly in a poem Elizabeth writes for her subprioress, Sr. Marie of the Trinity, a few weeks after the retreat, using envahir four times:

In a profound silence, an ineffable peace,
A divine prayer that never did cease,
With her soul all invaded with brightness eternal
There stood night and day Mary, Virgin faithful.
Her heart, like a crystal, reflected the divine,
The Guest who dwelt within her, Beauty without decline.
She draws down Heaven, and now the Father
Will surrender to her His Word, that she might be His Mother!
Then the Spirit of love covers her with His shadow,
The Three come to her, it’s the whole of Heaven that opens,
That bends and leans down, adoring the mystery
Of this God who becomes incarnate in this Virgin Mother!

On the mountain of Carmel is another Mary,
Grand communicant, a soul wholly invaded,
In a recollection, profound, mysterious
Both night and day surrendering herself to God!
I see shining on her a ray of light,
Sparkling reflection of the Face of the Father,
And as at Nazareth, beneath the same brightness,
Toward the virgin leans down the whole Trinity.
“O Gratia Plena, let me like the Angel
Repeat to you on this day the sublime praise.
Are you not invaded, Mother, by the Infinite? . . .
Keep me in your soul, I am your little one.
There is in my heart so much gratitude,
I have said so to the good God in a profound silence
Asking Him for you the great invasion,
The descent of the Three, the consummation! . . .” [P 79, draft translation]

These beautiful verses by St. Elizabeth capture a double invasion in the souls of the Blessed Virgin and, nineteen-hundred years later, a Carmelite nun. Perhaps we, too, can remember a time in our lives when God invaded our occupied hearts and freed us from our captivities. Perhaps we’re praying for such an invasion of grace right now. In a world torn by the invasions of armies, let us not become desensitized to the great invasion that Jesus Christ continues to affect in souls devoted to prayer and frequent sacraments. 

The timing and circumstances are just right for the next invasion. Let us prepare the way of the Lord.