PAINTING: The Annunciation by Henry Ossawa Tanner

Before the world was made, he chose us: he chose us in Christ, to be holy and spotless, and to live through love in his presence.
Ephesians 1,4

In the Roman Catholic calender, today is the feast of the Immaculate Conception of Mary. Sometimes confused with the virgin birth of Jesus, it celebrates Mary’s conception without original sin, the human condition that inclines us to do what we know we shouldn’t and not do what we know we should. I admit that I have never found this particular feast compelling; the explanation of “being free from the stain of original sin” sounds esoteric and, well, odd. I never could get into the “stain of original sin” language. I read something on the Universalis website that helped me begin thinking about this feast in a new way.

I used an image of the annunciation on today’s post for two reasons. First, this is the season to ponder the birth of Christ, and Mary’s “yes” to the impossible reality proposed to her by the angel Gabriel was the beginning of that. Second, Mary would have needed extraordinary grace to respond as she did to the knowing she experienced: She had faith that she was not imagining such a thing (who could?), and she willingly assented to the plan which would change her life in ways she could not imagine as well as in a few that she could.

Mary would have known that few would believe her story when she turned up pregnant before she should have. Such an offense could mean death, and if not, it could mean the end of her relationship with Joseph and with her people. Yes, Mary needed tremendous grace, and if that is what the Immaculate Conception is about, then it is meaningful to me.

The reading for today from Morning Prayer and is a short excerpt taken from the Second reading at Mass. Mary was chosen from the moment of her conception for her unique role in salvation history. Through her openness to God’s call, Jesus became one of us and lived his life and died his death to reveal to us that we, too, are chosen. Each one of us. Through Christ we have the special grace to enable us to say, “yes” to the life we have and to God’s working in it.

Like Mary’s “Yes,” ours is not to aggrandize ourselves but to participate in God’s entrance into the world in fresh ways, to continue the Incarnation.
©2010 Mary van Balen

Photo: Eprodicals.com
He is like a shepherd feeding his flock,
gathering lambs in his arms,
holding them against his breast
and leading to their rest the mother ewes. Is 40, 11

Tonight I came home from work hoping to write an encouraging or inspirational blog since I couldn’t put one together this morning. I pulled up today’s Mass readings, readings for the Liturgy of the Hours, and information on the saint whose feast we celebrate today: Saint Ambrose.

Good material, all of it, but I am not up for the task. Instead I identify with the mother ewes in the first reading who must have been completely exhausted. Isaiah doesn’t say much about the mother ewes other than Jesus led them to their rest. Having raised three children I can identify with them. Children, blessing that they are, wear you out. “Physically, when you are younger,” a theology prof once shared with me, “and emotionally when they are older.”

Either way, the mother ends up worn out. Even though my weariness is not child related today,I am still one tired sheep.

The second Mass reading today comes from Matthew 18:12-14…

Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Tell me. Suppose a man has a hundred sheep and one of them strays; will he not leave the ninety-nine on the hillside and go in search of the stray? I tell you solemnly, if he finds it, it gives him more joy than do the ninety-nine that did not stray at all. Similarly, it is never the will of your Father in heaven that one of these little ones should be lost.’

When I read it I was relived, and decided to write a simple prayer from my heart:

Good Shepherd,
I am here,
on the old living room couch,
waiting for you.
I am not wearing anything special,
or doing anything note worthy.
Actually,
I am pretty unremarkable in every way.
I hope you notice that I am missing from your flock
when you go to gather them together for the night.
I am easy to miss.
I don’t have the energy to call out for you,
so I just wait.
And hope.
And doze off
when I should be thinking lofty thoughts
and composing memorable lines.
It is Advent.
A good time for waiting I am told.
I hope you are not long.
I’m cold and tired,
and have no idea what else to do
besides wait.
I’m counting on your Good Shepherd heart
to seek me out
and bring me home.
Amen.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Strengthen all weary hands,
steady all trembling knees
and say to all faint hearts,
‘Courage! Do not be afraid…’
from Is 35

Today is the feast of Saint Nicholas, the “ancestor’ of sorts to our Santa Claus.The readings from today’s Mass reflect the divine generosity and compassion that are common attributes of Saint Nicholas found in stories about him. Though much we hear about Nicholas is legend, legend often has its beginning in historical people and events.

The earliest written record of Nicholas, bishop of Myra (now in Turkey), is a Greek document from around 400 AD. Nicholas appears on some lists of those who attended the Council of Nicaea, and the tale of his rescue of a poor man’s daughters who would likely have been sold into a life of prostitution without Nicholas’s generous intervention appears in no other saintly hagiographies. Stories about his saintliness were circulating during his lifetime.

What remains constant in all the stories is the bishop’s intervention on behalf of the poor, the unjustly accused, the ones with little hope or recourse. legends are grisly (children butchered and put in a salty brine from which they were rescued years later by Nicholas); some gentle (his sharing his fortune even before becoming bishop with the distraught impoverished father of three daughters); some gutsy(coming to the rescue of three innocent men by rushing in and grabbing the sword from the executioner poised to behead the men.).

Nicholas is credited with miraculous deeds. Once, when the people of Myra were starving, he convinced the captain of three ships harbored by the city and loaded with grain on their way to Egypt to sell some of the grain to the citizens of Myra. Nicholas convinced the captain that no shortage of grain would appear when he arrived in Egypt with his cargo. And so it was.

Today’s readings include the story of Jesus healing the paralytic who had been lowered through the roof to the floor in front of him by friends who believed that Jesus could heal the man. He did, but only after first healing the man’s soul, to the consternation of the Pharisees witnessing the miracle.

Nicholas was filled with Jesus’ compassionate love and generous spirit. He had a sense of justice and came to the aid of the poor. Jesus calls us to do the same, but not without his healing touch on our hearts and souls. Like Nicholas, we do not work alone, but with the gift of the Spirit dwelling within.

PHOTOS:Mary van Balen

My daughter and I have shared caring for her plant (a schefflera) for years since since she is, in her words, “a nomad.” Such is the plight of an archaeologist. I did not mind, but worried when leaves turned yellow and dropped or an attack of some pest or other threatened to bring its end. Once I cut off healthy stems, rooted them, and carried the rest to the compost pile.

Most recently, after an unusually vicious attack by bugs, I cut the stems off at almost dirt level, and took them with me to my daughter’s new apartment since she would probably be able to stay there for a couple of years. I intended to dump behind the garage what remained and then dispose of the pot since none of my efforts had eradicated the bugs.

I never got around to that, and the other day when I walked through the spare bedroom where it was kept, I was surprised to see tiny green “umbrella” leaves sprouting form the stump. Of course, I thought of this passage from Isaiah that begins: “On that day a shoot shall sprout from the root of Jesse…”

What seems to be dead still holds the sap of life and can give birth again. I love today’s Old Testament reading, full of rich images and unlikely scenarios: a lion lying down with a lamb; a child playing in a cobra’s den; the lion become a vegetarian, eating hay like an ox. (My vegan sister-in-law would love that!)

These pictures adorn Christmas cards and find their way into songs and poetry. They show the world we long for, a world of no hurt or pain, “no harm or ruin on all my holy mountain,” as the prophet says. We will be filled only with the knowledge of the Lord, drowning in its glory just as the water covers the sea.

We may feel spent, our energy gone, our hopes dashed. We may battle demons of depression and mental illness. We may be physically sick or unemployed. Our spirits may seem dead with us. But the juicy sap of God’s self still flows somewhere in our depths, persevering the possibility of life in our darkest, driest times.

Like the child in Isaiah’s magnificent verses, we cannot judge by appearance, but instead can know that God wills good for us and is able to bring it about no matter how impossible that seems.

Sometimes, when we are at our lowest point, we cannot bear to hear such good news because our own suffering overwhelms us. There is no room inside us for joy or hope. Too often we have allowed ourselves to dream only to have our dreams dashed to nothing.

God’s Mercy does not abandon us, even in those times. It remains and will surprise us with something good when we least expect it, like the little schefflera leaves surprised me.
Let’s allow ourselves to share in the glorious vision of a peaceable kingdom where people get along and the Holy One fills everything with Love. Being able to imagine something so wonderful is a step toward allowing it to happen.

PHOTO:Hamilton CA Habitiat for Humanity
And when he saw the crowds he felt sorry for them because they were harassed and dejected, like sheep without a shepherd. Then he said to his disciples, ‘The harvest is rich but the laborers are few, so ask the Lord of the harvest to send laborers to his harvest.’
He summoned his twelve disciples, and gave them authority over unclean spirits with power to cast them out and to cure all kinds of diseases and sickness. These twelve Jesus sent out, instructing them as follows: ‘Go rather to the lost sheep of the House of Israel. And as you go, proclaim that the kingdom of heaven is close at hand. Cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out devils. You received without charge, give without charge.’ Matthew 9:35-10:1,5,6-8

Jesus was moved by the people he saw. He needed help to address their needs, but looking around he wondered,”Where is everybody?” His disciples received the commission: Give freely what you have been given. There is a hurting world out there. Heal it. Change it.

With global communication today, we are excruciatingly aware of suffering around the world as well as at home. In addition to truly noteworthy news, as soon as we turn on our computers we are bombarded with stories-just a click away-about a movie star’s speeding ticket, who wore what on the red carpet, and healthy food choices at the mall.

PHOTO:Philanthromedia.org
Who wouldn’t be overwhelmed? Easier to stay home cocooned in one’s close circle of family and friends and let the world fend for itself. We have enough problems of our own. After all, what difference can one person make?

Jesus had other ideas. In his case, one person made all the difference, and he promised that he dwells within each of us. That indwelling makes our actions more necessary and more powerful. In today’s first reading, Isaiah tells us that in the midst of suffering, our teacher reveals himself. “…Whether you turn to right or left, your ears will hear these words behind you, ‘This is the way, follow it.”

During Advent we look within ourselves. There we must see the Divine Presence that became flesh and walked with us. We wait during this season, not only to celebrate what WAS, but also WHAT IS and WHAT WILL BE. We listen for the words, “This is the way,” and pray for the wisdom and courage to follow it.

In todays Liturgy of the Hours afternoon reading we hear: “As the earth makes fresh things grow, as a garden makes seeds spring up, so will the Lord make both integrity and praise spring up in the sight of the nations.” Isaiah 61:11
PHOTO:Dominicans for Peace Tacoma
Where is integrity? Leaders who are looking out for the poor? Tax breaks for millionaires? Cut backs in programs that provide for the most vulnerable? Stalling on nuclear arms treaties?

We can lament: Where are leaders with backbones to stand up to special interests or to say the dreaded words, New Taxes? We can lay the blame at the feet of others, but in this country, if leaders felt strong support from the electorate on such issues, they might be more likely to stand up for programs and legislation that can make a difference on a national and world level.

What we do, where we put out time and money, how we vote, how we serve, does make a difference. We make change little at a time, person to person. And those changes add up and send a message to all: We are charged to give freely what has been freely given to us.

Madeleine L’Engle called the incarnation the “Glorious Impossible.” The continued incarnation that will transform the world is also a glorious impossible: Difficult to believe, but true.

Advent reminds us that we are, indeed, part of the Glorious Impossible. When Jesus looks around for laborers, he will see us.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
I know the plans I have in mind for you – it is the Lord who speaks – plans for peace, not disaster, reserving a future full of hope for you. When you seek me you shall find me, when you seek me with all your heart. (from Mid-morning reading, Terce – Jeremiah 29:11,13)

Today’s readings continue to bathe us in hope, or more accurately, reason to hope. The first reading from the Mass is Isaiah 29:17-24. Verse after verse declares freedom from oppression “for the tyrant shall be no more…” In these lines the blind see, the deaf hear, and “the meek shall obtain fresh joy in the Lord.”

When most news we read today is filled with accounts of war, suffering, and injustice, Isaiah’s words bring relief. I read them over and over, silently and out loud, and they were like cool water sliding down a parched throat. They allowed me to hope and to believe that hope for the poor and hurting in our world was possible. Not only possible, but sure. Not an empty promise but a reality whose time would come.

The gospel reading, Matthew 9:27-31, tells of Jesus restoring the sight of two blind men. Before he touched their eyes, he asked, “Do you believe that I am able to do this?” They answered, “Yes.”

As I read the rest of the story, joy welled up in my heart. Along with the blind men, I found faith to believe. If Jesus had jumped off the pages and asked me the same question, I would have given the same answer. I felt energy and expectation.

Of course, Jesus WAS asking me: In my life, do I believe that he can heal my woundedness? Can he heal the agonizing hurt and suffering of the world’s people? Can he rid the earth of tyrants and those who do injustice? Can I dare to hope?

I feel almost giddy with hope. Why, I am not sure. My faith is not always so strong. I cannot say why, but only give thanks that at this moment, it is so.

When one is graced with hope and faith, one must share more deeply in the work of bringing relief and hope to others. I don’t know how to do that either. All I know is that those who have been given faith and hope must be with those who struggle to find it. Preaching, teaching, evangelizing, those things come later, after the “being with.”

Those of us who are able to hope must grasp the hands of those who cannot, and hold tight. We must listen, hold tears, feed, and share what we have. We are called to do other works in the world that will help bring change. First, I belive, after being moved by the readings of the past days, we must be a presence of hope in a world filled with despair.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Be patient, brothers, until the Lord’s coming. Think of a farmer: how patiently he waits for the precious fruit of the ground until it has had the autumn rains and the spring rains! You too have to be patient; do not lose heart, because the Lord’s coming will be soon. The Judge is already to be seen waiting at the gates.James 5:7-8,9

The reading from this evenings Vespers speaks to my heart. While life seems to fly by the older one becomes, it can also seem to crawl along. Finding a job, for example, takes forever these days. Many things in life take time to unfold, and I try to hurry it along. That is not a good habit, I have discovered, but it is difficult to break.

I admire the trust of farmers. They put seed in their fields, do all they can do, but in the end, they wait for rains, warm days and nights, and the process of growth itself, to see what type of harvest the will carry in.

I am called to that trust, as well. Where will I live and work? How will my young adult children will find their ways? Will my books find a publisher? These and countless life challenges take time to be met and for the results to unfold.

We do our best; we do what we can; and then we wait. When the wait is long, the temptation is to, as the author of the reading above warns, to lose heart.

In dark winter nights, I light the candles in my Advent wreath, gaze at the warm flame, and remind myself of the generations of waiting that bore fruit. Remembering that harvests did come, that some struggles have been met and have been resolved in ways more positive than I might have imagined.

Advent is a time to wait. Let us pray for wisdom and hope so we might persevere.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
“On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food…And he will destroy on this mountain the shroud that is cast over all peoples…Then the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces…Let us be glad and rejoice in his salvation for the hand of the Lord will rest on this mountain.” Is 25:6a,7a,8a9b.10 (from today;s Mass readings)

Both the first reading and the gospel from today’s Mass present a warm and compelling picture of our God. Everything about the two accounts pulls us toward the Lord who is generous beyond anything we have experienced. I read these passages and think: “I want to be there.” This God is irresistible.

Hope stirs in my heart that begins to beat faster. Can there be such a place? Does such a God exist? No hunger, physical or emotional. No strife, no tears, no shame. All is forgiven and healed in one immense embrace of Love.

Twice in my recent past, I have been graced with a taste of what is to come. Odd as this may seem to some, one of the places that came to mind as I sat with these passages was a beach house in Thailand. I had been visiting with a friend who had gone there for medical treatment, and since a number of the doctor’s patients were Christians from the western hemisphere, he threw a party for us on Christmas.

“For you, this is a feast of love,” he said, ” and you are far away from your family and friends. So tonight, we will be your family and we will celebrate together.” And celebrate we did. The good Buddhist doctor, his family, staff, and friends, through a party for those who had come for physical healing. The food was unending as was the love and compassion shown to all. I still can feel the warmth and embrace of our Thai friends and friends we had met from around the world. I would return.

The second place that exuded acceptance, warmth, and community is the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical & Cultural Research. When I arrived for the academic year, exhausted in all ways, I was given the time, space, and support that helped restore my physical, emotional, and spiritual self. The setting, was serene and beautiful, as I imagine were the mountain settings in the Scripture readings. While there, I joined with Benedictine communities of monks and nuns in worship and prayer.

As deeply transforming as both of these experiences were, they were but a glimpse of what God has in store for each of us, for all of us together. Matthew;s gospel presents another encounter with Jesus that makes my heart yearn within me:

“Great crowds came to him, bringing with them the lame, the maimed, the blind, the mute, and may others. They laid them at his feet, and he cured them…he took the seven loaves and fish; and after giving thanks he broke them and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all of them ate and were filled…” Mt 15:29-30; 36-37

I once read a book, “The Secret Life of Bees,” that made me want to “go there” to find the fictional home of August Boatwright and make it home for awhile. The draw was the same and as ancient as that found in the Scriptures, in the Buddhist doctor’s actions, and the CIECR’s community: Holy Love. unconditional and poured out on everyone, salving our human hurts and wounds. Food, the kind you eat as well as the kind you draw in through your skin, that fills the empty places within.

Advent is a time of anticipation: Jesus has come to show us the way home to the place that exceeds our most extravagant imagining of all that is good. He came once and walked with us on the earth; he comes now, through others; and he will come again, to show us the way home into the embrace we long for. The place that will finally fill us up.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Jesus was walking along the sea of Galilee and saw two fishermen casting their nets out for a catch. He called to them and asked them to leave their nets and follow him and he would make them fishers of men.

What would make two grown men leave their nets and follow a stranger who promised to make them, of all things, fishers of men? What does that mean anyway? The only thing stranger than the invitation was the response of Simon and Andrew: Sure. We’ll leave everything we know to follow someone we don’t to become something we are not sure what it is.

Once, while reflecting with a group on this section of Matthew’s gospel(4,18-22) which is the reading for today (the feast of St. Andrew)someone volunteered that perhaps Andrew was tired of being a fisherman. He was ready to move on to something else.

I know that feeling and suppose it has been the motivation for many people to take a leap into the unkown: The known has become just too painful, depressing, or unproductive to continue. Something else, almost anything else, can appear attractive when one’s life is oppressive. The promise of the unknown is untarnished by its realities.

If Simon and Andrew knew ahead of time what dropping their nets and following Jesus would mean, they might have reconsidered. But they didn’t. Besides, Jesus was a commanding presence.

He must have had overwhelming charisma. I remember hearing Mother Theresa speak and felt the magnetism of holiness as I walked near her in the lobby afterward. People were drawn to her, wanted to touch her clothes, just be close to the Good that emanated from her.

Mother Theresa was holy; Jesus is God. I wonder what being around him, even in the early days of his public life, was like. From the response of Andrew and Simon, I imagine it was overpowering. Jesus’ presence demanded response. Some people moved with him. Others dug in their heels and opposed him.

Sometimes, being faithful to who we are made to be requires courage to leave the familiar behind and embrace the unknown. What makes this possible for me is trust in God-with-Us. I don’t have the grace of having Jesus standing oustide my house calling out directions, but I do have the gift of friends and wise companions who help me discern God’s voice speaking in my heart.

Advent is a time of waiting, of listening, of preparing our hearts to accept the gift of God’s self and what that means in our lives. I may not be as quick as Andrew or Simon to drop my nets, but I pray that I will be as faithful to my new path when I do.
©2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Unexpected activity on the homefront resulted in my arriving late for Mass,and I walked in while the celebrant was delivering his homily.

Bill, one of the hospitality misinters that morning, gave me an especially long, warm hug. I put my head on his shoulder and thanked him for his welcome. I love my little parish. No one feels judged there. All are welcome, even when they are late.

I stood and listened as the priest spoke about two expereinces of time, “chronos” and “karios.” I think reading Madeleine Le’Engle first introduced me to these two concepts. Chronos is the time most of us expereince every day, the time that we measure, plan, fill up, or fritter away. “Chronological” comes from “chronos” and we are familiar with what that means: events follow one another in a linear fashion.

“Kairos” is different. It is “Now,” always present. I think of it as God’s time. It is in the moment that we meet God, that we rest in the Divine. “In God, there is no time.” How often I have heard those words spoken, sometimes while on retreat, sometimes in periods of formation in a community of spritual seekers.

Once, someone asked me why we pray for the dead. “They are dead, gone. What good does it do to pray for them now?” The words that sprung to my lips were: “There is no time in God. Everything exists in one holy moment of NOW. In God’s eyes, there is no past or future. He holds each of us, our entire lives, in the Divine embrace. We exist always in God.”

Our life journeys appear linear to us, but, as one friend said, God looks at us and sees us as we were made to be. I like to ponder that and make space in my days to sit in silence, aware of being in the Presence of the Holy One, aware that all is held in existence by Patient Love. It helps me deal with the chronological expereince of my day, which is often packed with things to do and places to be.

After the homily, I slipped into a pew and joined with the others in praying our way through the liturgy. I received communion and expereinced the sense of kairos: God is truly present within me, within us all.

When Mass was over, I walked to the back of the church and looked at cards hanging on the “Giving Tree,” searching for one that spoke to my heart, for something I could give to a person in need this holiday: ladies pajamas, shoes, jackets and hats. Then I saw it, a card with the name “Geneva H.” printed large. A little Geneva wanted a life-like baby doll. I stared at the card.

My mother’s name was Geneva, as was my grandmother’s, and their last name began with an “H.” I have never met another Geneva, young or old. Never.

My mother died a little over two years ago, but she is part of who I am, and memories of her remain vivid. She loved children. Nothing made her happier than to hear she was to be a grandmother or great-grandmother again. She beamed as if each time was the first time.

“I don’t understand why my granddaughters don’t finish their education, get married, and have a family,” she’d say. “There is nothing better to do with your life.” Granddaughters studying for their PhD’s puzzled her. She was proud of them, of course, but hoped for them that they would one day find the right man, settle down and raise a family.

As I reached out and lifted the card from the tree branch, I expereinced a moment of karios. A moment of knowing that my mother, and her mother, and I, and this little Geneva were all held by God, the Maternal Spirit that wraps us all in Love as we move through time and in time and finally realize that what is essential has always been with us.

I can’t wait to go shopping for a baby doll. I will be faithful to sitting quietly for some part of each day, mindful of the gift of Christmas, the child born from a young woman’s womb, to teach us that what we long for is already given.
©2010 Mary van Balen