Venus Transit 6.5.12 photo by Mark Mathosian The three transit viewing glasses I had purchased at COSI science museum nestled in my purse all evening. Despite a cloudy forecast, I remained hopeful: Weather conditions can change here every hour. But they didn’t. Gray skies and sprinklings of rain moved in during the morning and camped out all day.

I took the glasses to Sabbath House meeting…a group that has met monthly for years to share food, conversation, and prayer. I knew my friends would be happy to take a look at the Venus Transit after dinner, or whenever the sun broke through. Which it didn’t.

Mid-evening, I took a few moments to walk around the yard and driveway, hoping to see a patch of clear sky, but settled for knowing that something wonderful was happening beyond the clouds despite circumstances that made a first hand experience impossible. I closed my eyes and imagined gazing past Venus to the sun. Because we cannot see something with our own eyes does not mean it does not exist.

That is one bit of perspective. Like Job, I am humbled, an infinitesimal part of the expanding universe. Unfolding every moment. Full of planets and stars. And lots and lots of dark space. Of possibilities. And then there is the universe of family and friends, the universe of my street, my workplace, the grocery store where I shop. I cannot imagine what is going on in the many places and hearts that fill this tiny corner of the world.

Back from the driveway into the warm embrace of Sabbath House. And friends. Companions on the way. Dinner, as always was nourishingly delicious from wine and bread to homemade cardamon coffee cake for dessert. At least as vital was the conversation: Movies to see, the Vatican and LCRW, a letter of support from the president of a prominent Catholic foundation sent to sisters worldwide, including the ones at whose table we gathered.

Laughter. Holding a heart struggling with pain and anger and tears. I love this little part of the universe and thank God for it.

I pulled back sheer curtains all evening, hoping to find a crack in the cloud canopy. No. This is Ohio, after all. But Venus was crossing the face of the sun, as it does so many times a year. But this time, this century, we were invited to watch. Seeing a planet silhouetted against the sun is eerily like viewing a classroom model of the solar system without wires, without dust, that suddenly exploded into the real thing and I am floating in space gazing from in the midst of it.

Or not. It was happening, though. Sometimes you don’t have to see to believe.

In our little space, we sat around the living room, graced with a flame dancing on the oil lamp’s clay ball. Like earth. Like a planet resting. All aflame with Presence. The oil lamp sat on a square Sardinian place mat. A gift from a daughter. I wondered if she would see the transit in Denmark where she was at the moment.

We prayed, reflecting on imagination and the encouragement we give and receive when our lives hit a “blank wall.” Then we asked for a blessing. Max gave us each a copy of her new book, “Silver Linings: Blessings for Shadow Times”. We chose a blessing that spoke to our need. It was read by the person to our right.

“May God be present to you whenever you are angry, energizing you to discover divine truths wherever they may be found…May the God who holds you in your anger, the God of Patience, bless you.” Amen. Amen.

“…May you recognize in God’s unconditional love for you that there is already a place for you, assigned at your creation which only you can fill and only your gifts can bring to fullness…May the God of Stillness bless you.” Amen. Amen.

“May the God of Courage bless you.” “May you be found by God when your path is obscured by the ashes of your life. When the contentment of the present is disturbed by the failures of the past…May the God of New Fire bless you.” “May your embrace of God’s dream once again fire the passion that is in you. May the God of Encouragement bless you.”

Amen. Amen.

We left by the front door, entranced by four young robins packed into the small nest cemented to the grapevine wreath hanging above the mailbox, claiming the address written in black on the yellow siding. Their mother watched nervously from a nearby tree.

“It’s the second family.” Max shared photos of the first gathered in a small album.

“We thought about putting that yellow tape around the porch, posting a sign: Maternity Ward.”

Covered with Blessing, I waved goodbye, the last to leave, and flicked the car’s interior lights to the one standing in the doorway seeing me off.

I checked my phone. A text from a daughter ” I just saw the transit, hanging out with my NASA friend…”

Driving home I kept glancing at the sky. Clouds were beginning to separate. A bit of sunset peeking through.

Perspective. Question. Who is this great God who keeps us all, planets and birds, daughters and friends, and all I cannot imagine, in her hands? Who is this God who dances like flame on the clay ball and in my heart? Who is this God who blesses? Who is With, cloudy or not?

Like the Venus transit, I don’t have to see to know…

And the viewing glasses? They wait in a drawer for the next celestial event that requires looking at the sun!

Operation Chowhound/Manna Delft Commemorative Tile Bud, wearing his veteran’s hat, spoke to the staff on Memorial Day, as he always does. He reminded us of the sacrifices made by men and women in uniform. I listened with a heart still grieving the loss of my father. The first Memorial Day since his death. The first time in a long while that my siblings and I didn’t visit him and thank him for his service.

As a child, I hung his photo on the bedroom wall, Dad looking dashing in uniform, a rare photo of him with a mustache and pipe. I loved the one of him wearing a Scottish kilt taken while stationed in England. I loved them all. I loved my Dad.

He returned from the war a bit quieter than he had been. So I was told. He was a gentle spirit, responding to a need, but not a solider at heart. He was proudest of Operation Chowhound, or Manna, as our Cousins in the Netherlands called it. Near the end of the war, American and British airmen flew over the country devastated by the German army. Bridges had been bombed, fields flooded, canals mined. The Dutch people were starving.

I have heard the story from my father, from family in the Netherlands, and from a couple there who still live by the field where they watched bombers fly low, dropping not bombs, but boxes and tins of food: Operation Manna.

Dad served in the United States Eighth Army Air Force, 490th Bomb Group (H) as an intelligence officer and asked if he might go on one of the Chowhound flights. His Dutch father was one of sixteen children and Dad had lots of aunts, uncles, and cousins in Holland. He watched as boxes fell and people on the ground gratefully waved their thanks.

One Dutchman told me that German soldiers agreed to fire across the fields as food fell from the sky to discourage anyone from dashing out into the open spaces. The containers were heavy and could seriously injure or kill someone driven by hunger who might try to take some. The food was gathered and stored until it could be sent to those most in need.

I thought about my father, his family, and the food drop as Bud spoke to us before our workday began. In the midst of suffering, atrocities of war, and hatred, goodwill reigned for a few hours during the days between April 29 through May 5. Hostilities gave way to humanitarian response to suffering.

I think of Syria, of Afghanistan, of places on our earth ravaged by war where not only soldiers but civilians, children and adults also suffer the consequences today. I pray for Grace somehow to move hearts and minds, armies and politicians to make a way for humanitarian aide to again replace hostilities. I am sure in children’s bedrooms here and around the world, photos of fathers and mothers in uniform hang on the walls. All those young ones will not be as blessed as I was; all their parents will not return.

“Pentecost” by Linda Schmidt, Textile Artist, Quilter,Designer Despite having to drive across town, I decided to attend St. Thomas the Apostle for Pentecost Sunday. It had been home to me for almost two years while I was living with my father. Over sixty years before, St. Thomas had been my parents’ parish. I was baptized there. For the past year I have been going to various churches, trying to attend closer to my little flat. I have found some good places, but today, I wanted to “go home” for the feast.

Like any real “home,” the folks there take you in, no matter how long you have been away. One of my favorite ushers hugged me back with a smile when I could not resist giving him a warm greeting despite arriving a bit late. When I walked up the aisle to find a seat, a woman offered me a place in her pew.

“Mary, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, yes. And you are…” I was embarrassed by the lack of recall. She didn’t mind. Once I heard her name, I knew it well: her family and my family go way back. I settled in and looked around, happy to see so many familiar faces.

I came hoping for an infusion of spirit. A week ago I confessed to my spiritual director that I was low on energy. I wanted to move ahead, discern direction, etc. etc, but I just didn’t have much spiritual oomph.

The Spirit obliged. The liturgical celebration was joyful from the readings, to the baptism, to the music. African drums, piano, organ, electric guitar, rainsticks, and voices showered down on us from the choir loft and as usual, got us moving.

I loved the reading from John, the low-key arrival of the Spirit. No high winds and fire, just the sweet breath of Jesus, breathed on everyone in the room. He breathed out, they breathed in. So did I.

Then a baptism: A tiny girl baby felt water poured over her head and didn’t make a sound. Her small fingers spread wide when she felt anointing oil dripping through her hair; her white-socked feet dangled against her mother’s dress while her proud father looked on. Still quiet, she received a new garment that looked like a tiny chasuble. “Maybe someday, those of our gender will be able to wear that priestly garb,” I thought. The Easter candle was lowered so her godfather could catch its flame on her very own candle. The church erupted in applause to welcome her into the family.

Mass continued. Reminding us of the plethora of languages spoken in Acts’ dramatic retelling of the first Pentecost, the Prayer of the Faithful was read in French, Spanish, Italian, Ugandan, Russian, a few I didn’t recognize, and finally Latin.

Eucharist, the taste of bread, the warmth of wine, feeding the Spirit within.

One thing I love about St. Thomas is it’s spontaneity. Everyone smiled and some of us turned around just to see the music makers when a song began with loud drums and base. The music. The words. They fed my Spirit too:

“Spirit of the Living God, Fall fresh on me…Melt me, mold me, Fill me, use me. Spirit of the Living God, Fall fresh on me.”

And She did.

“Malo! Malo!” Togan for “Thank you!”
“Obrigado!” “Gracias!” “Kam sa ham ni da!” ” Si Yu ‘us, ma a’ se!” “Maraming salamat!””Merci beaucoup!” “Lanu u!” “Spaseebuh!” “Grazie!…..”

Perhaps my favorite, called out with enthusiasm and joy by the woman cantor: “Xie! Xie!”

I didn’t have to leave early or even immediately after Mass as I often do to make work on time. I stayed chatted with friends, drank in hugs and smiles and joy.

“I think I will be coming here on Sundays,” I told Denis.

Thank you Saint Thomas, for sharing the Spirit so well.

On this feast of the Ascension, I offer the reflections of two Catholic’s on the subject, one a theologian and the other a specialist in the fields of spirituality and systematic theology. The first is Karl Rahner, a German Jesuit whose contributions including those at Vatican II have made him one of the most influential theologians of the twentieth century. In the book The Great Church Year: The Best of Karl Rahner’s Homilies, Sermons, and Meditations, he writes of the gift of the Spirit which is the gift of the Ascension. Though through his leaving Jesus seems to be removed from us, he is really closer to us than he could have been in the flesh: He dwells within us in the Spirit.

“We notice nothing of this, and that is why the ascension seems to be a separation. But it is a separation only for our paltry consciousness. We must will to believe in such a nearness–in the Holy Spirit.

The ascension is the universal event of salvation history that must recur in each individual, in our personal salvation history through grace. When we become poor, then we become rich. When the lights of the world grow dark, then we are bathed in light…When we think we feel only a waste and emptiness of the heart, when all the joy of celebrating appears to be only official fuss, because the real truth around us cannot yet be admitted, then we are in truth better prepared for the real feast of the Ascension than we might suppose.”

Hmm…How does that work, in my life? In yours?

It has to do with the percieved dichotomy: If one is poor, one cannot be rich, right? In this case, wrong. Being poor, deprived of the earthly presence of Jesus, in fact makes us rich because the Spirit comes to live in each of us. Feeling alone and empty can enable us to receive grace and become aware of the Presence within. As one of my favorite poets, Sir Thomas Browne, writes in his poem,
If thou could’st empty all thyself of self:

“But thou art all replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity,
That when He comes, He says, `This is enow
Unto itself – `twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for me.`

In his book, The Holy Longing,Ronald Rolheiser, the second scholar, presents an interesting way of looking at what Rahner says is the “universal event of salvation history that must recur in …our personal salvation history…” In more colloquial language, Rolheiser says the paschal mystery in our lives is “a process of transformation within which we are given both new life and new spirit.” In this process, the ascension is the time of “letting go of the old and letting it bless you, the refusal to cling.”

In my own life, this has been a very real, sometimes painful part of my ongoing transformational process. One example is my divorce, something as a young Catholic woman declaring her vows before God and community, I never imagined would happen. But it did. It needed to happen, but that did not make “letting go of the old” easy. Sometimes the wounds of those years threatened to overshadow the blessing. Rolheiser’s insistence that the old, no matter what it is, has blessings to give is important to remember. My children, of course, are the first and most important of the blessings. There are others.

“Refusal to cling,” is also important. I had to let go, to feel empty and hurt. The temptation is great to hold on to something, no matter how unhealthy, just because it is familiar. Better the known misery that the unknown…

Not true. As Rahner, Rolheiser, and Browne all remind us, sometimes we must be empty to receive.

The women and men who were Jesus’ disciples surely wanted him to hang around, to have dinner and wine and conversation together; to continue to teach and inspire and lead. Letting go was not easy, but it was necessary. The universal “letting go” is also the universal “opening up” that allows the Spirit to fill us and lead us to new ways of living the gospel message and bringing love and transformation to the world.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen But now ask the beasts to teach you,/ the birds of the air to tell you;/Or speak to the earth to instruct you,/ and the fish of the sea to inform you./Which of these does not know/that the hand of God has done this? Job 12. 7-9 from Morning Prayer

Then Paul stood up at the Areopagus and said: “You Athenians, I see that in every respect you are very religious. For as I walked around looking carefully at your shrines I even discovered an altar inscribed “To an Unknown God.” What therefore you unknowingly worship, I proclaim to you. The God who made the world and all that is in it, the Lord of heaven and earth, does not dwell in the sanctuaries made by human hands, nor is God served by human hands because God needs anything. Rather it is God who gives everyone life and breath and everything…though indeed God is not far from any of us. For ‘In him we live and move and have our being.’ Acts 17.22-25, 27b-28

Jesus said to his disciples: “I have much more to tell you, but you cannot bear it now. But when he comes, the Spirit of truth, he will guide you to all truth.” Jn 16. 12-13a

The Athenians knew that something, some divinity existed that they could not know. As the author of Job states, even the earth and what fills it proclaims a God who gives life to all things.

Paul told the Athenians he knew who they were worshiping when they prayed at the shrine to the unknown God: It is the God revealed by Jesus, it is Jesus Christ who died and rose again. Some Athenians were put off by the thought of life after death, but others desired to hear more.

Paul had a message to proclaim. Jesus revealed the face of God to humankind. But, a difference exists between knowing God and understanding God. Sometimes we are tempted to think that we know more than we do about the Holy One.We may think we know how God views those who are not like us. They might anyone whose sexual orientation is different from ours, or immigrants, or those who live on the other side of town. They might be Appalachians or the very poor or even the very rich. In this political season, they might be Democrats or Republicans.

There is a danger to thinking one “knows” God in this way. Such a belief leads to digging in our heels and refusing to value the “others” among us, not hearing their voices, or not being open to receive their wisdom.

Jesus told his disciples that he had much more to tell them, but they couldn’t bear it yet. Only the coming of the Spirit would make them open to new revelation. Jesus is speaking to us, too, warning us not to become complacent, sure we “know” what God wants or exactly what being a follower of Jesus Christ means in our day. Faith and understanding evolve.

We must learn to trust the Spirit, speaking in the hearts of the diverse people of this planet. We must allow ourselves times of quiet to hear that voice within our own hearts, and to ponder what she is saying in the hearts of others.

Trust. We must trust God is with us today as always. The world changes and grows, but our faith and our willingness to hear the Spirit and follow her truth, even if it leads us in new directions, must remain firm.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen The homily at Mass yesterday included a reference to the pelican and the stained glass window depicting a pelican feeding her young. I first encountered this image in an old university building housing the school of theology. Intrigued by the old ceramic tile with the image of a pelican and her young, I made a rubbing of it in my journal and later asked about it.

According to legend predating Christianity, when food was scarce and starvation threatened, the mother pelican would peck at her breast and feed her chicks on her blood, saving them though perhaps dying herself. Christians used the symbol to represent Jesus Christ, who sacrificed his life for all of us.

Often the case with legends, its origin is unknown, though it may have come from the pelican’s habit of pressing its bill to its breast to more completely empty its food pouch. No matter. The image is powerful and an appropriate one to use on Mother’s Day, focusing as it does on the feminine face of God. This day provided me with much to ponder from divine motherhood, the joy of my daughters, and national and international issues that face women and girls around the globe.

Blessed with three daughters who each helped me celebrate the day in their unique ways, I am often reminded that God is our Mother as well as our Father.

After a wonderful, long conversation with my middle daughter, I woke on Mother’s Day to find an e-card from her in my inbox, an unusual event. She had honored me with a donation in my name to the Girl Effect, an organization that addresses issues that prevent young girls from developing in a healthy way into young women who can contribute their gifts to the world. I encourage you to look at the website and view their short video. God’s compassion and demand that we protect and nurture all on our planet, particularly the most vulnerable who are most often girls and women.

My oldest daughter took me out to dinner after my day at work. We talked, laughed, and shared her recent escapades on a small motorcycle race course. Then we watched a movie and laughed some more. We have had many adventures here and abroad, and she always brings a unique blend of common sense, humor, and challenge. God’s stubborn “being with” and propensity to surprise.

When I pulled open the storm door after returning from the movie, I saw a box and two cards balanced on the threshold. One card was from my youngest daughter. A thank you for a “lifetime of love,” it contained an AMC gift card and encouragement to treat myself, even to theater popcorn if I’d like. I smiled. She had been in a wedding on the beach all day and when she tried to call, I was working. Still, she managed to send not only a card, but also the reminder to indulge in something fun and life-giving. God’s desire for each of us to care for ourselves as she does, making sure we are as generous and kind to ourselves as we are to others.

The box and other card? From my “adopted” son, a young man who became part of the family when he and my oldest were in fifth grade. A blessing in countless ways to all of us, he had delivered the cards and box filled with New Orleans pralines from his recent vacation. Sorry I missed his visit, I figured he must have been home in Ohio to spend time with his mother. I confess to enjoying my first Aunt Sally’s creamy praline before going to bed: Heavenly.

After eating the candy and reflecting on my day, I checked my email. There I read an editorial on the House of Representatives alternative to the Senate passed bill renewing the Violence Against Women Act. The Senate version added protection for gay and transsexual persons, increased visas available to undocumented aliens who are abused, and allow prosecution of non-Indian abusers in Indian territories.

Some House Republicans have crafted their own bill, omitting these three new provisions. We must protect women from domestic violence, and women include lesbians, transsexuals, and Indian women abused by non-Indian men. God weeps.
What mother does not want to protect all her children?

Like the pelican of ancient legend, our Divine Mother gives all, her own life, rather than acquiesce to religious and social norms of the day. Every life is important. Every life should be lived free of oppression and harm. In this world, that seems impossible, but we have been charged by Jesus Christ, by the Maker of All, by Divine Mother and Father, to do our best to make it happen.

“Happy Mother’s Day” can be simply sentimental, or it can be a reminder of the great work we have been given to reflect our Mother God’s love into our world.

related links:
The Fight To Reauthorize the Violence Against Women Act
Backward on Domestic Violence

Supermoon, May 5, 2012 I wish I had a photo of the campfire, of someone holding up jumbo marshmallows flaming on the end of a stick looking like a torch, or another women eating the gooey treats like a drumstick. Or a photo of a woman sitting by the pond casting and catching fish into the night. Or of the supermoon edging the dark rain clouds with silver and then emerging glorious and bright.

On Saturday I attended the first quarterly potluck at the new Bittersweet Discoveries B&B, a new venture by a friend who, after years of thinking and praying about what to do with her lovely property, decided to jump in and see what happens.

I drove down after a long day at work but was in plenty of time to enjoy food and conversation. I reconnected with an old friend and made some new ones. On each table my friend had papers and pencils. The papers told a bit about her hopes for the B&B and a list of possible retreat or workshop topics that would be of interest to those attending. The offerings ranged from drawing, journaling, centering prayer, nature studies to how to catch and fillet fish. (I think I know who would teach that one after watching her enjoy angling for much of the evening. )

Whatever choices are made and gatherings offered, the central goal of Bittersweet Discoveries is to offer a safe place of nurture and healing for woman, wounded by relationships, family, or just difficult encounters with life. A good idea. A needed ministry.

As the evening turned into night and then late night a few women remained. One, a photographer, had set up her tripod and was taking photos of the moon. A few remained outside, enjoying conversation and red wine. I went inside and stretched out on a huge couch (thinking how nice to have a place that could hold a few of these) and listened as one woman played “Mostly Bass,” and “How Great Thou Art, on the piano.

“I didn’t know you could play piano!” our host said when she entered the room. I have a feeling many surprises await as she opens her home and heart to more women.

“The retreats will be small,” she said. “I don’t have room for many to sleep, and I am not into ‘big,’ ” she said.

I took one last long gaze at the moon, bid farwell to those who remained, and walked to my car with my friend.

“Clever,” I said, pointing the the orange parking spot lines she had spray painted on a grassy space near the barn.

“Well, I thought if I did that for a few times, folks would know where to park when they come back.”

Come back they will. They may return for specific offerings. They may come back for the quarterly potlucks. No matter. They will all return for the support and camaraderie of a gathering of women ready to share their journeys, wisdom gleaned from them, and hope when wisdom is difficult to find.

Emmaus Soup Kitchen run by Benedictine nuns in Eire,PA When I first heard of the Vatican’s recent “crackdown” on the Leadership Council of Women Religious I was angry but not particularly surprised. Brought to us by the same men who brought us the sexual abuse scandal and who still are unable to accept their culpability in it or deal with it responsibly, this document takes the women religious to task for daring to publicly disagree with some Catholic Church teachings and encouraging dialogue. The sisters spend too much time working with the marginalized and being involved in work for social justice. They spend too little time speaking out against abortion, same sex marriage, and other issues of human sexuality.

As if that were not enough, according to the Doctrinal Assessment of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, some of the sisters have the audacity to suggest that their dissent from some RCC teaching is prophetic. Impossible, the document says. True prophecy “…is a grace which accompanies the exercise of the responsibilities of the Christian life and ministries within the Church, regulated and verified by the Church’s faith and teaching office.”

Might that have been a surprise to prophets of old? To Jesus himself? It seems to me that many utterances of biblical prophets were not in accord with the thought of existing religious officials. In fact, some recognized religious officials had problems with Jesus’ teachings and how he lived his life. He shouldn’t heal on the Sabbath, or pick grain to munch on while he and his disciples were walking about on the holy day. And the people he hung around with, the food he ate…hardly in keeping with the teachings of those ancient religious leaders. Jesus challenged the status quo.

Still, the Vatican and the magisterium are sure the claim to prophetic action must be wrong: “…it justifies dissent by positing the possibility of divergence between the Church’s magisterium and a ‘legitimate’ theological intuition of some of the faithful.”

Could it be that the faithful might have a “theological intuition” that diverges from the Church’s teaching and that they might be right? It wouldn’t be the first time. Blessed John Henry Newman thought so. He had studied the history of the Arians and used some of that history in his article, “On Consulting the Faithful on Matters of Doctrine.” Newman pointed out that the Arian heresy was defeated not by bishops or popes, most of whom supported the Arian position. The faithful, mostly the laity, were the ones who steadfastly held to the truth of the divinity of Jesus, sometimes at the cost of their lives. It was the consensus fidelium or consent of the faithful that saved the day.

Newman said that church authority cannot come from the top down. The hierarchy, the magisterium, the pope, must listen to the faithful before declaring doctrine.

Newman again: “I think I am right in saying that the tradition of the Apostles, committed to the whole Church … manifests itself variously at various times: sometimes by the mouth of the episcopacy, sometimes by the doctors, sometimes by the people, sometimes by liturgies … customs, disputes, movements, and all those other phenomena which are comprised under the name of history. It follows that none of these channels of tradition may be treated with disrespect…I am accustomed to lay stress on the consensus fidelium.”

Benedict XVI and the magesterium do not seem to be willing to listen and enter into dialogue with women religious. Instead they want to get them back in line. I, for one, hope they fail. I hope they are forced to listen by a groundswell of support for these members of the church who spend their lives being with the poor, serving the marginalized, and daring to give voice to the sensum fidelium or sense of the faithful.

As Fr. Michael Himes, professor of theology at Boston University, said in a video on sensus fidelium, if the majority of the faithful do not agree with a doctrine or chose not to incorporate it as they live their lives, one of two things can be true. Either the magisterium have not articulated the doctrine in a way that makes sense to the faithful, or the doctrine is wrong.

I once handed a long letter to a cardinal that told the story of my experience with my transsexual daughter. In the letter I wrote that the Vatican needed to trust the Spirit dwelling in ordinary people. It needed to listen to their stories and hear the truth that they had to say. The cardinal said he would read it, but his secretary whisked it out of the cardinal’s hands.

“I always read his mail first.”

I never heard from the cardinal. Probably never will. I don’t know if he ever read the letter or if his secretary deemed it unfit for his eyes.

Someone has to speak the truth to power. In this case, it may be the women religious and members of the Catholic Church who support them. My prayer is that power will listen.

related sites:
Newman: the ‘sense’ and ‘consent’ of the faithful by Denis Coday
We Are All Nuns by Nicolas D. Kristof
Bishops Play Church Queens as Pawns by Maureen Dowd
Doctrinal Assessment of the Leadership Conference of Catholic Women

© 2012 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen One day last week and friend and I were walking through a small woods near my home.

“Maybe we’ll see a Jack-in-the- Pulpit,” he said.

I had seen them only once before. They are an early spring flower, and one needs to be out at the right time to spot them. As we walked we saw plenty of Mayapples, spreading their leaves and covering large patches of ground, like a crowd of umbrellas on a rainy day. We saw cut-leaved toothwort and whorls of spotted leaves that, while beautiful themselves, probably will sprout a flower in weeks to come. Then we saw it: the Jack-in-the-Pulpit.

Pushing up out of brown leaf cover, the mostly green plant stood straight, the leaf-hood, or spathe, curled protectively over the spadix, a slender spike that hides tiny flowers at its base. I remembered a small church in England I had attended while living with a friend outside London. The pulpit was attached to one of the columns, and had a baffle around and above the preacher, directing the sound of his voice out to the congregation. The sermon was bad enough to send me out early in search of some quiet place to pray which I found on the banks of the Thames.

The Jack-in-the-Pulpit was preaching much more effectively, crying out, as does Psalm 148, for all creation to praise the Creator.Such variety of life on this planet. Such glorious creation to see seen in this Spring’s night skies. A trip back to the woods in a week will reveal more flowers and plants, animals scurrying, water flowing.

The small green plant, easy to miss unless one is looking, was calling out with its simple beauty: “Praise the Lord from the earth, sea creatures and all oceans, fire and hail, snow and mist, stormy winds that obey God’s word; all mountains and hills, all fruit tress and cedars, beasts, wild and tame, reptiles and birds on the wing; all earth’s kings and peoples, earth’s princes and rulers; young men and maidens, old men together with children. Let them praise the name of the Lord for the Lord alone is exalted. The splendor of God’s name reaches beyond heaven and earth.”