Author, Columnist and Speaker on widening our circles of awareness and inclusion
PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Let me seek, then, the gift of silence, and poverty, and solitude, where everything I touch is turned into prayer: where the sky is my prayer, the birds are my prayer, the wind in the trees is my prayer, for God is in all.
Photo by James McGinnis
The headlines are difficult to read: Plane shot down over war zone, man struggles for two hours during his execution, turning children away at the border, Christians driven from their ancient homeland in Iraq, rising casualties in the Gaza war, conflict escalation in Ukraine, teenagers bludgeoning a homeless man to death…I can’t bear to read much of it. If my heart is weeping, what about the One who created this universe, this exquisite planet and all the people on it?
There are bright spots for sure: New executive orders that provide protection for many among us, interest in wind power in Texas, individuals responding to others in need, moving reception of bodies from Malaysian flight 17 tragedy as the Netherlands declares a national day of mourning and accepts and honors all victims remains regardless of nationality. Good things do happen. We don’t hear about them as much.
This morning, all I could do was sit quietly and hold the world in my heart before God in prayer….and let my tears mingle with those shed by the Divine.
PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Reentry is always a challenge whether one is returning to work or school from vacation, rejoining estranged groups of family or friends, adjusting to changing seasons, or for a select few, taking the bumpy ride back into earth’s atmosphere from a stint in outer space. When we “enter again” we are not the same people we were when we left. If they do what is intended, vacations change us into more relaxed and revitalized versions of ourselves. Engaging again with people who have caused us hurt or pain or whom we have hurt and avoided requires growth and maturity, an open heart and a bit of courage. I can’t imagine the change in perspective that affects those human beings who have had the privilege of seeing the earth from outer space. (A stunning book of photographs and reflections of astronauts from around the world give a glimpse into that experience: The Home Planet by Kevin W. Kelley ed. with a forward by Jacques-Yves Cousteau. I am not sure it is available to purchase, but you might find a used copy or one in a library.)
Wherever we are coming from and going to, retuning to life’s routines after a time away presents opportunities. Can I return to work without allowing the pace, atmosphere, and demands overwhelm me? If it’s a job I don’t like, can I keep a positive attitude and look for what is good in it? Am I able to let go of anger and the urge to see just one point of view, mine, when attempting to reconnect with those I’ve been avoiding?
I’m experiencing a reentry myself. After a ten day residency for a two-year spiritual guidance program, I’m doing laundry and preparing to return to work, writing, and family connections. It’s not easy. While the schedule was full of presentations, reflections, and hard work, it also provided a silent sabbath of retreat for a couple of days. The class had gathered from around the country and new and deep friendships were begun.
For ten days I didn’t have to prepare food or wash dishes. I could wander around the fifty-acre spiritual center in Maryland listening to birds and watching deer, foxes, and fireflies. On the night of the Perigee Moon (Super Moon) I found a comfortable place to sit and kept vigil with binoculars and a camera, fueled by a homemade chocolate chip cookie and cup of tea.
Part of the gift of the residency was the opportunity to cultivate a quiet, listening heart, sharing silence as well as conversation and presentations as a group. We focused on the Divine Presence in our lives and in the lives of those we serve. We held in prayer those dear to us, those hurting in our world torn by violence, and creation that offers solace and grace even while reeling from effects of 7 billion people living on the planet.
The night before we would all return home, our class had a party. Spontaneous. Food showed up on tables. People pitched in to arrange the space. Lots of talk. Lots of laughter. I walked over to add some snacks to my plate and laughed when I saw what a couple of clever folks had added to the offerings: From Trader Joes: Inner Peas. From Brewer’s Art in Maryland: Resurrection Beer.
Two things to remember as I ease back into life at home: Take time to be still and to cultivate the sense of living in the Divine Presence. Have faith that God brings good from all things and invites us to be part of bringing Grace into the world, into our time and place and to rest in the Spirit that blows where it will.
And, when I forget, I just might pick up a bag of Inner Peas, wash them down with some Resurrection Beer and move into prayerful silence.
Photo: Mary van Balen
“Speed Bump Ahead” The warning to slow down. An apt sign for the road along the property of Holy Trinity Spiritual Center in Maryland. It is, indeed, a place to slow down.
I hadn’t realized how much I needed to heed the admonition. Too busy to notice, I guess. I thought I was doing pretty well. Squeezing in scripture readings and some quiet prayer. Well, not as much as I’d like. The busyness of work and the rest of life had become routine. Normal. As it does.
I’m a proponent of meeting God in the moment. Any moment. Every moment. But, it seems, taking time now and then to be still and let my soul catch up with my body, is necessary to allow those God moments to sink in. And, I am finding, slowing down after months of barreling ahead takes longer than slowing down when it is a habit. A bit like putting the brakes on when driving a big truck or my little Civic. One takes longer to stop than the other.
PHOTO: Mary van Balen
So, I am grateful for ten days at this center. There are sessions filled with information and words and movement, but also with times of silence. I am grateful.
I ended this night sitting outside with binoculars, a homemade chocolate chip cookie, and a super moon rising above the trees. I’m slowing down!
Photo: Mary van Balen-Detail Lectern Holy Trinity Church, Sloane Square, London
Of Sunday’s two readings describing the coming of the Holy Spirit to the disciples, I have always preferred the one from John’s gospel where Jesus on his followers huddled in fear behind locked doors and says simple, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” Never one for lots of drama and fanfare, this account is quiet. The Spirit comes with a breath. No one jumps up mysteriously speaking so everyone can understand no matter the language. No instant transformation. These same disciples are huddled together when Jesus returns again (Granted, he does come through locked doors. A bit of drama.)to show his wounds to the unconvinced Thomas.
All in all, the followers of Jesus needed some time to respond to the gift of Spirit. Life had been confusing. Jesus had been crucified. Nothing turned out as they had expected. The Spirit had a lot of work to do, sinking into the hearts and souls of these wounded and confused folks. They needed time.
Maybe that’s another reason I like this description of the coming of the Holy Spirit: It resonates. Life has not turned out as I had expected either. Does it ever? I need time to heal from the deeper hurts. I need time to get up from life’s more stinging blows and, when I do, to rebuild trust in this God of the Psalms who, despite being billed as our guardian and protecter, sometimes lets things slip by, at least from my perspective.
So, I basked in the Pentecost celebration at Mass yesterday, swaying to songs with beats from Pentecostal to Caribbean. I soaked up joy and hope. This morning, as I read today’s Mass readings I stuck with the Psalmist’s prayer, “My help is in the One who made heaven and earth,” and know that, like the disciples, I will grow into deeper trust and the peace that comes on the same breath as the Spirit
Next Sunday, Pope Francis will canonize two very different popes, John XXII and John Paul II. It is a politically astute move since elevating one or the other could have been seen as “victory” for the followers of one over the other. The two popes were very different men who left behind vastly different legacies.
Those who know me know, of the two camps, I fall in behind John XXIII. He was the pope who called the Second Vatican Council to open the windows of the Church letting fresh air swirl around as I was coming of age in a Catholic family and elementary school. The changes begun by VCII went beyond moving from Latin into vernacular in the Mass or increased lay participation in the same. The council engaged the Roman Catholic Church with the modern world and produced documents that influenced the course of the Roman Catholic Church for decades. Still do. But could do more…
John XXIII is remembered as the “good pope,” the one who walked the streets of Rome to meet the people, who was the pastor rather than theologian. (His studies were in Church History.)
John Paul II was also a man of great influenced not only on the Church but also on the world once he moved onto its stage. He is often credited with playing a large part in bringing down the Communist regime in Eastern Europe. He reached out to people of other faiths, praying in a mosque and at the West Wall in Jerusalem. He called together leaders of many faiths to pray for peace at Assisi. And he reached out to the young Catholics with his charismatic ways.
On the home front, however, he was, as John L. Allen Jr. said on the occasion of JPII’s death, a pope who “leaves behind the irony of a world more united because of his life and legacy, and a church more divided.” (See NCR editorial “New Papal saints have flaws as well as greatness.”) Some will say the divisions began with VCII.
Naming these two different men “saints” does not make them so, but simply expresses the Church’s conviction that indeed they are enjoying eternal life with the God they gave their lives to serve. It also holds them up as role models for those of us still on our way. This is where my unease enters. Holy people are not required to hold the same political beliefs. They do not have to share the same vision for the direction the Church should go. They are people with histories and experiences that shaped them. They are not perfect. It is not JPII’s vision of the Church, more conservative than my own, that gives me pause. It is his handling the sexual abuse of children and the protection of hierarchy who shielded pedophiles in their dioceses. His calling Cardinal Law to be archpriest of a major basilica in Rome after he resigned in disgrace as archbishop of Boston was devastating. At least to me and to many others outraged by the ability of bishops to transfer known pedophiles from parish to parish or across the country.
We all have faults and need God’s Grace and mercy. I’m not saying I don’t think JPII is a saint as Maureen Dowd says in today’s New York Times op-ed. I am saying the time isn’t right. I’m not comfortable with holding him up as a role model when the RCC has yet to deal with the role of hierarchy in the sex abuse scandal in a way that holds them accountable. I hope Pope Francis will address this issue. Until someone does, the healing cannot be complete.
Many if not most will disagree with me, I suppose, and the canonization will go forward, and life will go on. So will the Church’s struggle to come to grips with the scope of the abuse and the depth of anguish left in its wake. And with the clericalism that allowed it to continue for decades.
PHOTO: Mary van Balen
As is her custom, a friend of mine invited some women friends to her home for a Holy Thursday prayer and dinner. This year, four of us gathered around her table, sang, read a reflection, and shared food. During the evening, she told us each was invited because of the ministries we have been living for years. One woman was the first (and surprising to me) the only Black American principal in her diocesan school system. She remembered flaming crosses lit along the street the day she was appointed. She continues to work with young people and is active in the Ladies of Peter Claver association. Another woman has been organizing her parish’s religious education for years. Our hostess particularly noted her work with the teens and how she has been able to encourage and inspire them, not easy task as anyone who works with young people know.
Our friend chose to focus on my ministry of writing columns, articles, and books, which has spanned decades. At the moment, waiting is a big part of my “work,” waiting for an agent to find a home for my latest book. And our hostess is well-known in the area for her work with women, often poor and marginalized. The list of her work would take a post of its own, but her prophetic voice has always spoken clearly for the truth she knows, no matter how her message is received.
After dinner and before dessert, we prayed together and blessed one another, poured water over hands that have worked hard over the years to be priest to God’s people. Of course, all are called to holiness, as Vatican II documents proclaim. All share in the common priesthood of Christ through their baptism. Still, as I sat in the presence of these women, I wondered again about the Catholic Church’s refusal to admit women to the order of priesthood.
I thought about women around the world who know the call from God, they know themselves to be “priest,” and yet they must do their work quietly. Often, their efforts meet resistance. I read that Pope Francis is open to the idea of married men being ordained. He doesn’t seem so open to ordaining women.
As I sat with these women and prayed, I gave thanks for those women who, called to priest God’s people in a special way, do so as best as they are able, faithful to their call, even if the Roman Catholic institution has yet to recognize what is being lived before their eyes.
PHOTO: Mary van Balen
A friend of mine observed that, while most were complaining about snow on April 15, she reveled in it. I share her feelings. Not a hot weather person, I don’t look forward to hot, humid summer days. (Of course, if I am near a beach, that is a different story!) Cold, crisp days are welcome, anytime. There is something special about a spring snow. It dusts early flowers and budding shrubs with a reminder of the season that provides time and rest necessary for some of spring flowers to bloom, like tulips and daffodils. No cold weather, no blooms.
Other plants have a variety of mechanisms that help them survive winter. All involve using less nourishment. The plants slow down or become dormant. Water can be a problem if it freezes in plant cells, like water in pipes: it expands and bursts the cells. Amazingly, some plants move the water out of the cells and store it in spaces between them.
Like bulbs and plants that live through winter’s harsh conditions, I periodically need time to rest, regroup, and prepare to resume a busy life. I can’t go full bore all the time. Luckily, I don’t have to wait for weather to change. My “winters” can be self-generated by retreating into quiet, not filling up my calendar, and saying “no” more often. Not selfish. Self preserving.
Sometimes life provides the winter season when I don’t want it: Illness, dying relationships, loss of a job, death of someone close. Events I cannot control can bring life as I know it to a screeching halt. It can be uncomfortable. It can lead me to drawing a hard shell around me wounded self, like plants that develop sturdy seed coats to protect potential life until conditions are favorable.
Yesterdays snow, lying lighting on pansies on my porch and more destructively on magnolia blooms across the street, remind me that life has many seasons, all of them good. All of them with purpose and gifts. I will try to remember this while sweating and miserable in late July.
PHOTO: Mary van Balen
I had a marvelous friend who was a great artist, Marvin Triguba. Once, when I marveled at the way he captured light in his paintings, he said, “That’s how I see, and I paint what I see.” He wondered aloud, “doesn’t everyone see light that way?”
No, I would have to say. Not in such a conscious way. Of course, light creates shadows and bright spaces. It gives form and definition to what we see. It entered Marvin’s eyes as it did mine, but what his brain did with that raw material was astounding. Me? Sometimes I recognize the ordinary grace that comes with light.
I thought of Marvin a couple of days ago when I looked into the dining room and was stunned by the beauty of morning light playing across the hardwood floors. Some of the boards seemed all light. Others, darker in hue, glowed. I allowed the beauty of that moment to enter not only my eyes and brain, but also my soul.
This morning, when I turned into the living room from the hall, my eyes were bathed in bright light filtering through half-opened mini-blinds and green leaves in a variety of shapes and shades. I drew a quick breath and moved toward the window, putting myself in a place where the light would bathe me, too. Grace.
Isn’t that prayer? Intentionally putting ourselves into a soul space that is open to receive the Holy pouring into it? Longing for Presence as my plants, and my soul, longed for light this morning?
Artist God, who floods the world in Glory, enter my heart. Flood my soul with light that shows not only bright places there, but also shadow places. Open my inner eye to see the beauty of myself as you have made me. The beauty of creation. I give thanks for the artists, like Marvin, that you have given to the world. Their vision and work remind us of the Grace of light.
I saw snowdrops today, spread with abandon across a friend’s yard. Flowers! Spring, rumored to be coming soon, is on the way. After this relentless winter, flowers atop green stems are a welcome sight. Forsythia has not yet bloomed, so, according to my grandmother, we have at least three more snows to go, but I don’t mind. Today’s snowdrops were a seal on the promise of warmer days ahead. “Have a little faith,” they seemed to say. “Remember other years. Spring always comes.”
Of course it has. Millennium after millennium spring has followed winter. We all know that. But sometimes, in the midst of cold and biting winds, we allow ourselves to wonder, perhaps not if spring will come, but when. We grow tired of waiting. A warm day here and there in the past few weeks has been a tease and makes the cold even colder.
“It’s not below zero,” my daughter said a couple of days ago. “We’ve had days much colder than this. Why does it feel SO bitterly cold today?”
Perhaps it has to do with expectation. With having had a taste. A glimpse. The sun is out. The day before saw the temperature reach 50, and we mistook the moment for an announcement that winter was over.
I think of the three who went with Jesus up the high mountain and saw him transfigured before their eyes. There was their friend, their teacher, in all his glory. Peter was ready to build tents, ready to stay. “The wait is over,” he may have said to himself. “No more parables and hardships, and mystery or trying to figure out what Jesus is saying.” The struggles and dilemmas were coming to an end. The good times had arrived and he, for one, would be happy to settle in and enjoy.
Alas, not so. It was a glimpse, and then it was gone. There were more roads to walk. More mystery to embrace. More suffering. I wonder if, during those long days between Jesus’ death and resurrection, if Peter remembered how Jesus looked that day. If he had, would it have given him hope? Or maybe the days were so dark that he could not remember the glory he saw or trust that it could not be snuffed out even by death. Maybe having seen Jesus’ glorified self made the experience of those three days more bitter. Peter had seen what could have been but was no longer.
Like experiencing spring following winter year after year, we have the advantage of knowing that resurrection followed Jesus’ death. Yet, in the midst of our own spiritual winters or the groaning of our world struggling with countless injustice and atrocities, we can forget. “Where is God?” we wonder and perhaps doubt the Holy One is still around.
Our lives seem impossible, too difficult, too complicated, too messed up, to be good again.
Today’s snowdrops remind me that the glimpse of glory does not lie. God is present. Resurrection follows death. The wind will not always feel so bitterly cold.