trust

March 22, 2024 By Mary van Balen 4 Comments

Celebrating Change, Bit by Bit

I took a walk in the sunny cold air this morning, just once around the block before lunch, and chatted with landscapers piling dark, smelly mulch around the gardens of an old, ranch double. We smiled. One man predicted warm weather ahead. “Suddenly, spring is here!” he said. And so it seemed.

But just when I had hope of swapping winter parkas for my favorite lightweight fleece, a fierce storm brought lighting and thunder, pelting rain and hail, plummeting temperatures, and tree-felling tornados.

This is Ohio after all.

I know “you should never say ‘never’,” but I’ll chance it. Change is never smooth. No. It comes with starts and stops, pains and joys, and not necessarily in that order. It demands letting go of the old before we can embrace the new. And it’s never once and done.

The plants I thought were dead after the first freeze have been growing and changing in one way or another, unobserved, through the Midwest’s persistent winter until they seem to pop up overnight. Like the crocuses that painted my neighbor’s lawn with purple one morning. Of course, they’d long been working toward that moment; I’ve just not been alert to the process. Change is rarely predictable. And with growing things, it’s seldom sudden.

How many miniscule shifts had protective leaf scales made before I finally noticed them relaxing, inviting buds to soak up sun and stretch their sweet bodies into warmer air? Uncountable.

So, as far as spring goes, I try to wait patiently, trusting that the forces of change are at work in the background. Eventually, enough atoms will have shifted, insects nibbled, and water and temperature flowed up and down and around, that even with my limited abilities to observe, I can see that something’s afoot.

I cultivate the habit of looking and listening closely. I slow down on my walks, spend more time gazing out my windows, and get comfortable with quiet so nature’s sounds have a place to sing.

Is this why Mary Oliver started every day standing in the doorway, notebook in hand, welcoming morning, noticing? She knew that to see the flow of glory she had to be there every moment, open, senses alert, ready to be amazed.

Can I do the same so when skunk cabbage appears in marshy places or forsythia bushes bloom or maple leaves unfurl after their flowery tassels have festooned the trees and then fallen to the sidewalk, or more birdsong fills the air – so when these things happen, I am at the door to welcome them as surprising yet awaited guests who arrive in their own time.

It’s not just the “out there” physical, observable matter that changes under cover. Movement within the human spirit is ongoing and often unnoticed. My spiritual eye is frequently clouded and unable to see. I don’t stay still long enough for it to focus. I don’t sit quietly long enough for my inner ear to hear sacred whispers.

When a shroud of darkness seems to suddenly lift from my soul, there is likely nothing sudden about it. Like plants in winter, Holy Presence that dwells within has been busy opening me bit by bit to its love and warmth that have been there all along. So I believe.

When I experience a moment of grace or encounter, am I finally noticing the ongoing transformation happening from the inside out? I wonder, do human beings need an accumulation of “holy” before they see it?

Like Mary Oliver, I can stand at the door of my house and my soul and be still. Quiet. Patient. Attentive. Trusting that, seen or not, the miracle of transformation is happening, inside and out. And it is amazing.

Photos: Mary van Balen

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: amazed, attentive, change, Mary Oliver, noticing, ongoing transformation, Patience, spring, trust

January 31, 2024 By Mary van Balen 10 Comments

Surprised by Wisdom

Do you have storage places that hold treasures for years, tucked back into an overlooked corner or hidden beneath a pile of unused linens or clothing? Something special enough to keep but long forgotten. While looking through my cedar chest the other day, I lifted a heavy item encased in paper and bubble wrap from beneath a stack of dishtowels. I carefully removed the packaging and caught my breath.

There was a red clay sculpture of cupped hands made by my youngest daughter decades ago when she was in middle school. It used to sit on an end table in our home, but after moving into a small apartment 13 years ago, I stored it along with other things I wanted to keep but had no place to display.

I held the sculpture and followed their easy curve with my fingers. As they moved over the red clay, a tightness that had taken up residence in my body and spirit began to loosen. Long fed by fear and worry, the fist curled up in my gut began to unclench. The hands offered an invitation: Relax. Open. I tried.

A cleansing sigh passed through my lips. Tears and laughter pushed each other about in their rush to respond. I sat back on a nearby chair, closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. The sculpture conveyed a profound sense of receptivity. Solid and steady, they seemed comfortable with vulnerability. Something, it seems, often I am not.

What, I wondered, sustains such an attitude as I move through life? Trust, I think. Trust that in the end, good will prevail. Faith in a pervasive Goodness that enlivens and dwells within and without all creation. It is called by many names: God, Love, Ground of Being, and it persists even through suffering and dangerous times. How else to explain a John Lewis? The thousands of refugees risking lives to walk to our borders? Gazans who rise each morning determined to survive. People around the globe who endure disasters, both of natural origin and those brought upon them by systemic injustice, and people motivated by ignorance, fear, and hatred.

Many open-hearted people don’t just survive. They go forward to do good where they are. Somehow, they see beyond their current situation and trust that in the big picture even small efforts make a difference. They refuse to give into cynicism and despair, believing as others have that “The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”

This desire to give is another gift of openness and trust.

You may see such people in a parking lot collecting petition signatures to demand change in gerrymandered maps and voter suppression or sharing food at a drive-through pantry. They are companions and, as Mr. Rogers called them, “helpers.”

This sense of embrace is another gift the cupped-hands sculpture offered. My neighbor felt it too. She came over for dinner and saw them sitting on the small stand that sits beneath a mirror at one end of the dining table. I had made space for them between a vigil candle, some poetry books, and a Galileo’s thermometer. She looked at them for a while and, not taking her gaze from them, said, “They are so welcoming.”

Yes. The hands expressed willingness to hold. To comfort and care. To simply “be with,” which isn’t simple at all. They conveyed not only openness but also hope. The little hands reminded me that I am held and loved and treasured for what who I am and what I have been given to share, when I’m up for it and when I’m not.

Detail of painting by Richard Duarte Brown

The sculpture encouraged me to open and receive whatever each day would bring. To trust that no matter what it was, that the Goodness and Love in the world, in people, in community, would hold it with me. To suffer. To celebrate. To work. To rest. I wouldn’t have to hold it alone.

It reminded me that sometimes I need the hands of others and sometimes I must be the hands for others, living with faith in Goodness even in dark times.

How did the small sculpture communicate all that? Did they always, and I was just too busy raising kids, working, and navigating a difficult marriage to notice? No. It is the gift of true art of all kinds. Art isn’t a static creation. It’s an encounter, a conversation. What the painting, drawing, words, or music communicate has as much to do with the one who experiences them as it does with what the artist has given. Different grace at different times depending on what the observer brings: Fullness. Need. Joy. Despair.

The little hands spoke to the need I brought. I’m grateful for the moment to hear them.

…yours are the hands, with which he blesses all the world… Christ has no body now on earth but yours.
Teresa of Avila

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: art, faith, goodness, helpers, hope, open hands, open hearts, open to grace, Openness, Presence, present to the moment, receptivity, trust, welcome, wisdom

April 7, 2023 By Mary van Balen 8 Comments

Befriending Good Friday Darkness

While staying alone at a friend’s woodland cabin one Good Friday night, I turned off the lights and stepped outside for a walk. My eyes needed a few minutes to adjust until silhouettes of bushes, trees, and clumps of weeds emerged from the blackness. Darkness changes even the familiar, and while I knew where the little creek spilled past the end of the driveway and how the area beyond it opened to a path up a hill and along the ridge, I chose my steps carefully, listening to animal sounds and feeling the earth give way beneath my feet. Night heightened my senses, alert for danger as well as beauty.

I stepped on the end of a weathered, grey board, part of some long-gone fence or building, and the other end sprung up from the ground, startling me. It seemed alive, expectant as I was, aware that we both were in the midst of some unknown something that was coming or perhaps was already there. The board settled back onto the ground once I continued on my way. I imagined it returned to quiet attention. All creation seemed to be waiting through the night for what, I didn’t know.

The dark hours of Good Friday invite us to settle into a time of not knowing, of finally sitting peacefully, if not comfortably, with emptiness. It offers a time of deepening faith that something transformative is always happening under the surface, at the heart of things. It moves, but we cannot see. Like seeds buried in cold winter soil or a caterpillar dissolving and recreating in the shroud of its chrysalis. Like Jesus laying in the tomb. Life is at work even in what looks like death.

That truth reveals itself in the “little deaths” that everyone encounters: illness, loss, struggle, depression, uncertainty. At some point we learn that, as much as society tells us we are in control of our lives, we really are not. Some things are beyond our choosing or our making. These opportunities to let go of control and embrace our own powerlessness and uncertainty invite us to grow in trust. Trust that in the end, as Jesus said, Love cannot be overcome.

He showed us in his life and in his death, what trusting God’s Presence looks like. He lived knowing he was not alone in his journey and assured us that we aren’t either. In his lifetime, those in power tried to put him to death, to snuff out Love that made them uncomfortable and that threatened their position of privilege and their way of life. But Love that is the source of all being would not be destroyed.

Instead, by embracing his own death, Jesus transformed it from an “end” into a “beginning.” We are invited to do the same. To befriend darkness and let it in. To let it open us to surrender and receptivity. The dark times, the Good Fridays, are necessary steps into a new place. Their emptiness provides space for Love to grow deeper and to emerge transformed as Jesus did from the tomb.

At a time when the world is filled with darkness, with violence and hatred and divisions, somewhere, good is happening. Love is growing and changing us and our world. Jesus showed us that it is human to be afraid and angry, but also to trust. Trust that deep down, in places we cannot see or know in the moment, Love is alive and Eastering in us, getting ready to rise and reveal itself again and again.

Good Friday gifts us with the time to sink into quiet, into darkness. To allow ourselves to recognize emptiness and infirmity, mortality and powerlessness, and yet, eventually, find hope.

Psalm 31, prayed in the Good Friday liturgy, contains the words of surrender and trust Jesus spoke from the cross as he died: “Into your hands I commend my spirit.” But as I read further, the image that stirred my soul was this: “I am like a dish that is broken.” In dark times of unknowing, I feel like a broken bowl, my life, my spirit, in pieces. Good Friday tells me Jesus knew that feeling too. In the end, he trusted that God was holding the pieces. Like kintsugi, the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery by mending them with gold, Love puts us back together, more beautiful, and stronger than before. Able to hold more Love and to give it away.

That night at the cabin, I rested with creation in this Mystery. Unaware of “how,” we were opening to the Eastering always transforming us from within. May this Good Friday be such a gift for you.

Eastering    
      (Unless in silence
      where sings the song?
      What means the morning
      unless first the night?
      Unless into stillness
      where comes the dance?
      Unless into darkness
      where breaks the light?)
Woven warp and weft of things.

- Mary van Balen 1977

Kintsugi bowl painting and weaving photo: Mary van Balen; Feature watercolor and photo: Kathryn Holt

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: "little deaths", creation, darkness, Eastering, embracing darkness, gifts of darkenss, Good Friday, hope, Mystery, Paschal mystery, quiet, surrender, transforming love, trust

February 20, 2023 By Mary van Balen 22 Comments

Whitewashing History

After weeks of writing, reading, research, and procrastination, I have told myself today is the day. The day this column will be finished and published, and I can move on to other projects. Why has this one been so difficult to pull together? I had to work through a lot of emotions: anger, frustration, depression, and perplexity to name the most common. But today I’ve decided to stop reading more articles, stop allowing myself to be mired in feelings that pull me down and knock me out. Instead, I’ll write (which is often how I pray and how I work through difficult times) and tell you what I’m feeling. What I’m thinking. What I hope.

Feelings

I’m anxious about the possibility of state-controlled education that will exacerbate divisiveness, hatred, and “othering” in this country and curtail free speech and democracy.

I am deeply concerned. A citizen and former teacher, I shudder reading about the numerous bills (some already laws) introduced in state legislatures and school boards across the country that restrict or outlaw the discussion of issues of diversity, inclusion, and equality. These include topics of sexuality, gender, and systemic racism. While all such attempts to discriminate against people on the margins are terrible and threaten the well-being of students and teachers and the very survival of democracy in this country, this Black History month I’m particularly mindful of those that impact Black Americans and their place in U.S. history.

I’m overwhelmed by the hypocrisy of legislators, governors, mayors, and school board members scurrying to push through laws and resolutions that ARE the very systemic racism that they deny exists now and in our history.

I’m overwhelmed by the fear that motivates such actions and by the hate, discrimination, arrogance, and self-righteousness that it engenders.

I’m overwhelmed by the willingness of people in power to rewrite history to their own advantage and by the effects their efforts (if successful) will have on upcoming generations and the possibility of peace and reconciliation.

I am troubled. A Christian, I feel that many involved in rewriting our history and perpetuating a climate of racism and fear are doing so in the name of Jesus and under the banner of Christianity.

I feel betrayed that more religious leaders, local and national, are not publicly and strongly speaking out against this appropriation of the faith that is fundamentally about trying to live as Jesus lived. Surely, Jesus weeps. He hung out with the marginalized. He chastised those who put down others. His life is a witness to inclusion, of welcoming all into his family.

I flirt with despair that this nation cannot be healed.

Thoughts

I think re-writing history to favor those is power is something authoritarian governments and dictatorships do. Denying that racism is embedded in U.S. history and laws is one way to do this. Another is to threaten teachers who discuss such topics and present truth, uncomfortable as it might be, to their students. It is whitewashing this country’s past.

The term “whitewashing” at one time primarily meant using whitewash to cover a surface. Since the late 1990s in the U.S., it’s also been used in the entertainment field to refer to the use of white actors to portray people of color or to replace people of color with white characters. In 2019, Merriam Webster added this definition of “whitewashing” to its list of meanings: to portray (the past) in a way that increases the prominence, relevance, or impact of white people and minimizes or misrepresents that of nonwhite people. The Cambridge Dictionary defines it as: an attempt to stop people finding out the true facts about a situation.

It takes courage to acknowledge the past, own it, and move forward together to heal the wounds caused by immoral actions, policies, and institutions. Efforts to deny the uglier parts of this country’s past treatment of Black Americans —slavery and systemic racism embedded in laws and institutions for example— make healing the racial divide impossible. Like a bodily wound that festers and becomes infected, the wounds of the past must be exposed, cleaned, and tended to heal. Otherwise, the infection grows and poisons the whole body.

“Hope is being able to see that there is light despite all of the darkness.”
– Desmond Tutu

Nelson Mandela and Rev. Desmond Tutu knew this. Mandela created the Truth and Reconciliation Commission and appointed Tutu as its chairman. It gave voice to the victims of apartheid and allowed perpetrators of violence to admit their guilt, seek forgiveness, and receive amnesty. It was about healing not vengeance and helped South Africa move to a democracy. It wasn’t perfect. Nothing is. But it showed the world a way to respond when past crimes are poisoning the present.

The way forward isn’t denial. It is encounter. With the past. With the present. With those wronged and those who perpetrated the wrongs. There is no other way to wholeness.

Jesus knew that.

His life is a witness to honestly facing the hypocrisy of institutions (including religious ones). He didn’t shy away from reminding the Jews of their history—including worship of idols, the murder of prophets for speaking the truth—because facing the past might make them feel uncomfortable or guilty. He didn’t hesitate to call out merchants who were making the temple a “den of thieves.” He named the Pharisees “whitened sepulchers”—pretty to look at but filled with corruption. Jesus didn’t mince words to spare feelings.

His life showed that only in facing personal and institutional sin and history could people and intuitions be healed, made whole, and become a blessing to the world and help build God’s kingdom. His teaching, his life came down to one thing: Love. Love of God and and neighbor, who is everyone. God’s kingdom is a “kindom.” It is filled with people of all ethnicities, skin colors, genders, and sexualities.

Jesus called us to love one another. I admit, I’m not great at that. I struggle to love those I perceive as perpetuating racism, sexism, transphobia, homophobia, and other “isms” that divide the world into “them – bad” and “us – good.” Deep listening is as difficult as taking action when I’m not sure what I can do to make a difference. Praying is hard when my mind is filled with upsetting news articles about one more shooting of an unarmed Black man or one more legislator jumping on the politically expedient bandwagon of whitewashing agendas.

It’s difficult to “see the log in my own eye” when I’m focused on removing the splinter from someone else’s. It’s easier to see the racism and fear of the “other” embedded in laws and institutions than to recognize it in my own heart.

I think courageous Love is the only way.

But I know, somehow, that only when it is dark enough can you see the stars.
– Martin Luther King, Jr.

Hope

I struggle with hope because I struggle with trust, not only in human beings but in God-with-us. How can I trust in Divine Presence drawing all things into union with itself when the world is in such a mess? When so many in positions of leadership are motivated by greed and the desire to hold on to power rather than to serve the greater good, where is hope?

Yet God calls us to hope. To find light in darkness. To BE light in darkness. To be healers.

To be part of that, I realize the importance of encountering God within me and growing to trust that God resides and moves in all creation, however hidden or unrecognized. I can look for light rather than being overwhelmed by darkness. I can grow in experiencing that all things are connected and that humble as well as spectacular acts of love and healing work together to move humanity toward wholeness.

Will it get there? I don’t know. But I don’t need to know before I open up to receive and to share Love in the places where I am. I don’t need to know, but to trust.

The new dawn blooms as we free it. / For there is always light, / if only we’re brave enough to see it, / if only we’re brave enough to be it.
– Amanda Gorman from her poem “The Hill We Climb”

Read: Langston Hughes’s poem:

“Let American Be America Again”

photo Archbishop Desmond Tutu — Archbishop Desmond Tutu
Photo: Benny Good Public Domain
via Wikimedia Commons

Amanda Gorman
Photo: Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff from Washington D.C., United States,
via Wikimedia Commons

Photo Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. — Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Photo: Nobel Foundation, Public domain,
via Wikimedia Commons

Langston Hughes
Photo: Carl Van Vechten; cropped by Beyond My Ken (talk) 07:07, 5 August 2010
Public Domain,
via Wikimedia Commons

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Amanda Gorman, Desmond Tutu, hope, Langston Huges, love, Martin Luther King Jr., Nelson Mandela, trust, Truth and Reconciliation Commission, Whitewashing history

April 9, 2020 By Mary van Balen 12 Comments

Celebrating the Triduum Together While Apart

Holy Thursday begins the Triduum—time set apart to reflect on the meaning of events from the Last Supper to the Resurrection, not only in the lives of Jesus and his disciples, but also in the Paschal Mystery unfolding in our lives.

Following the great tradition observed by generations of Christians, we gather to commemorate these events. But this year is different. We cannot gather. Our buildings are closed.

We are church

Photo: Mary van Balen

Covid-19 requires us to find new ways to “be church.” At its most basic, church is people, not buildings or doctrine or hierarchy. It is the people of God. And while the liturgies of Holy Week are beautiful sources of grace, we don’t need to be in a particular place or follow established rites to experience God-with-us.

In John’s gospel, at the last supper, Jesus promises his disciples that the Spirit will come and dwell within them. That Divine Presence, which lives within each of us, has animated all creation since the beginning: from the tiniest atoms to the furthest galaxies. The challenge of these days is to recognize that Presence in each moment, wherever we are.

While the supper is the setting in John’s gospel read today, the first Eucharist is not the centerpiece. It is the other events of that evening that John remembers. They move our souls with their intimacy and the love that soaks every moment.

During the meal, Jesus rises, ties a towel around his waist, fills a basin with water, and gets on his knees. He cradles his disciples’ dusty feet, washing and drying them one by one. When he’s finished, he asks if they understand what he’s done.

Not waiting for an answer, he tells them: If he, their master and teacher, washes their feet, then they should be ready to wash one another’s feet.

In this moment…

In this present moment, many are providing such physical acts of caring. Healthcare professionals, parents at home with small children, and those caring for sick family members serve the vulnerable. Farm laborers and grocery store workers keep food flowing to our tables. Sanitation workers and janitors keep our streets and buildings clean. Many find ways to feed the homeless and provide a place for them to sleep. The list is long.

This is a eucharist: the self, sacrificed out of love for another.

John also tells of Jesus giving a new commandment: “Just as I have loved you, you should also love one another.” He says it twice.

During this crisis, we share that love for one another by staying home; by venturing out only when necessary and keeping our distance when we do; by virtual visits instead of meeting face to face. For some, these actions mean loss of jobs and income. How can we show care for them now and when this time has passed?

Jesus reassures his disciples that they will not be forgotten or left alone. He prays for them and for those who will believe through their word: “…that they all may be one. As you, Father are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…”

In the midst of self-isolation, we ensure that friends and family do not feel forgotten. We draw one another into the circle of oneness and love with calls, texts, and video chats. We check that they are ok, share a laugh or a story, and hold their grief at the loss of loved ones.

Then Jesus goes forward, endures betrayal, suffering, and death, showing the unfathomable depth of God’s love. His disciples spend their sabbath filled with confusion and fear. Then on the first day of the week, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene. He instructs her to tell the others what she has seen and heard.

When Jesus appears to them all the following day, he greets them with “Peace,” and as promised, bestows the Spirit with a simple breath.

It is that Spirit who makes the present moment the place where we encounter God. We remember the risen Christ is with us. The indwelling Holy Presence abounds in the simple routines of everyday life. While we miss celebrating the Paschal Mysteries together, we are finding new ways to live them while apart.

That is why our churches are closed. At first glance, they appear empty. But really, they are filled with love.

Chapel of St. Ignatius Seattle University
Photo: Mary van Balen

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, Covid-19, Easter, faith, hope, present to the moment, Triduum, trust, unconditional love

January 16, 2020 By Mary van Balen 6 Comments

Finding Hope in 2020

photo of color lithograph by Maurice Denis 1870-1943 Shows Shows

The Pilgrims of Emmaus by Maurice Denis, French 1870-1943 Color lithograph
Photo: Mary van Balen

People long for hope, for peace, for cooperation. While some are bent on stirring up distrust, and spreading fear based on dividing the world into “us” and “them,” most of humankind is looking for a better way in 2020.

Many I talked with over the holidays desire an end to such divisiveness. Some Christmas cards I received included handwritten notes expressing that hope. How do we get there in the midst of issues facing us today? I don’t know. Looking at the big picture, I’m often at a loss.

I turned to the Scriptures, reading through the Roman lectionary’s January passages. One line from the first Letter of Saint John made me stop, not because it inspired, but because I didn’t understand what it was saying: “Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like God, for we shall see God as God is.”

How can we become like God just by seeing the Holy One? I pulled commentaries off the shelf. Not much help.

So, I sat with it. I didn’t try to figure them out, just let the words sink in. That night, I wrote in my journal:

Slowly, God’s gaze draws forth in our souls the reflection of God that we are. Resting in that Presence, we become aware of the Holy One looking at us with love and recognition of God’s heart within our own.

I thought of loving looks from people in my life. Not a response to something you did, such a look simply celebrates the reality of you. When experienced, you know its power to help you become your best self.

I carried the scripture’s words around for another day and in the afternoon saw “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” starring Tom Hanks as Fred Rogers. I was hesitant about an actor playing the iconic figure, but the story drew me in. I wasn’t disappointed.

No spoilers here. I’ll just say there was a lot in that movie about the power of being in the presence of Love.

As the packed theater slowly emptied, I walked down the steps, stopping as a woman in front of me helped a much older one navigate her descent. The middle-aged woman guided her friend to a walker that was sitting behind a row of seats at floor level.

“Go ahead,” she said to me, “This will take a while.”

“That’s ok,” I replied. “I’m not in a hurry.”

She smiled. “Well, how could you not be kind after watching that movie?” I nodded. “Fred Rogers is the closest person to Jesus Christ I’ve ever seen,” she said.

Her comments mingled with the words of Saint John: How could you not be kind after seeing that movie? Watching someone truly seeing, accepting, loving … it changes us. If seeing a movie could make folks a bit kinder, what happens when one “sees” God as God truly is?

And wasn’t watching the story of Fred Rogers caring about others also seeing a bit of God – God who lives and works in and through us? Isn’t that what we’ve been celebrating this Christmas season: the ongoing incarnation and our call to participate in it?

We become more like God the more we see God, the more God’s love moves through us. That’s where hope rests: in God’s transforming Love.

The First Letter of Saint John is full of reminders that we are called to love, that we cannot hate others and love God at the same time, that it isn’t enough to believe in the Christ. Our actions must mirror those of Jesus.

However we participate with it, however we speak truth to power, however we look at others with love and acceptance, we are participating in the work of healing and salvation. Hope is trusting God to make it enough.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, Fred Rogers, hope, Presence, quiet prayer, seeing, The Pilgrims of Emmaus, transforming love, trust

March 8, 2019 By Mary van Balen 6 Comments

Now Is the Acceptable Time

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

While reading some reflections by Richard Rohr on the presence of Christ in creation from the beginning, I was struck by the phrase “Christ-soaked world.” It brought to mind two Scripture readings from Paul used for the beginning of Lent: one from 2Corinthians and the other from Romans. In both, he draws from Hebrew Scriptures, and in both, reminds us of the immediacy of God’s presence.

“In an acceptable time I heard you / and on the day of salvation I helped you…” (Isaiah 49) “Now is an acceptable time,” Paul writes is 2Corinthians. “Now is the day of salvation.” Not yesterday. Not tomorrow. Now. This moment. Every moment. Because God has always “heard” and has always “helped.” From before time. That is who God is. Presence. Love. Always given. We didn’t miss it. We don’t have to wait for it. It is always poured out in and through us and creation.

In Romans Paul reminds us: “What does Scripture say? /The word is near you, / in your mouth and in your heart.” (Deuteronomy 30) God assures those listening that what is commanded is not a mystery or far away. “It is not in up in the sky, that you should say, ‘Who will go up in the sky to get it for us and tell us of it, that we may carry it out?’” It isn’t across the sea either. “No, it is something very near to you already in your mouths and in your hearts. You have only to carry it out.”

We may forget this. The Pharisees did. They didn’t recognize God in Jesus let alone the tax collectors and “riffraff” he hung out with. They expected to find God in “holier” places. The temple. The people who kept all the laws. People like themselves. Jesus confounded them with his insistence of spending time with the poor and marginalized, with his talk of God’s care for sparrows and stories of rejoicing over finding a lost coin or wandering sheep. Surely the Holy One was more discriminating than that!

No, not really. God is constantly giving Godself away because that’s what Love does. The incarnation in Jesus didn’t happen because people had made such a mess of things that only the sacrifice of his life could appease an angry God. No. As the thirteenth century Franciscan theologian, John Duns Scotus taught, Christ was always the plan.

Jesus showed us to what lengths Love would go, not to atone for sins or to be a scapegoat, but to be Love’s heart and human face on this planet. “See, this is how much I love you,” he said with arms outstretched on the cross.

These readings, reminders that God lives not far away but in the depths of our hearts at this very moment, set the tone for the Lenten journey. It’s not necessarily about giving up favorite foods or candy (though I wouldn’t mind losing a few pounds) or reading more Scripture, though it could be.

Lenten practice, whatever we choose, is about helping us grow in our trust that divine Love truly does live within us—not somewhere in the sky or across the sea. Lent is a time to listen. To discover what helps us deepen our relationship with God and to do it.

The focus is not personal salvation. It never was. It’s about becoming an uncluttered conduit of love and care for others and all creation. Jesus shows us that we are part of Christ and the work of “soaking the earth” with Love and Presence. As Isaiah tells us, the fast God wants is freeing the oppressed and unjustly bound, sharing our bread with the hungry, sheltering the oppressed and homeless, taking care of the other. (Isaiah 58)

This is the work Lent prepares us to do by reminding us to deepen our relationship with the Holy One who dwells within. Trusting it. Drawing our strength and hope from Love so we can be faithful to our part of Love’s transforming the earth.

This season invites us to take a breath, to nurture our spirits, mind, and body for this work. Now is the acceptable time.

Jesus’ life and eventual death attest to the struggle and danger of being radical love in a world that isn’t ready for it. But, as part of the Christ, that is our call.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptable time, creation, faith, grace, Incarnation, John Duns Scotus, lent, love, Presence, quiet prayer, the Christ, trust

January 16, 2019 By Mary van Balen 10 Comments

Hope in the New Year

White and red vigil candles in Notre-Dame de Paris

Vigil candles in Notre-Dame de Paris
PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I like to celebrate Christmas—all 12 days of the season. So, while discarded Christmas trees line neighborhood sidewalks, mine still shines with white lights and carefully chosen ornaments. By the time you read this, Epiphany will have come and gone, and my tree will be back in the basement. But not yet.

This year I added a small book of daily readings to my holiday ritual: The Work of Christmas: The 12 Days of Christmas with Howard Thurman, by Bruce Epperly. It helped me reflect on Christmas well beyond the Advent struggle to keep mind and heart centered on God-with-us while busy with pre-Christmas preparations and dealing with holiday stress when the day finally arrived.

Christmas was especially enjoyable for me, filled with lots of family and company. Despite the activity, I made time each day to sit with this book. And when the holidays passed, family returned to their homes, and I returned to work, feelings of joy and hope that have been elusive, stirred in my heart.

2019 begins with dark days in our nation and in the world. Wars rage around the globe. Refugees, fleeing oppression and violence are being turned away from places once considered welcoming, including our country. Division, fear and anger abound. The environmental crisis of global warming threatens catastrophic change for people and living things that inhabit the earth. Even progress that has helped clean up air and water is being turned back, profits more important than health.

Not much had changed between December 25 and January 1. So, where was this sense of joy and hope coming from? Why the easy smile? Why did grace and beauty pop into my view more often?

I thought it had something to do with the book, so I sat with it again and began reading from the beginning, searching for particular words or phrases that might have awakened these feelings.

Perhaps it was looking at Christmas through the eyes of an African American theologian and mystic born in Florida who grew up in the south during the days of Jim Crow. A man who knew oppression and could empathize with the oppressed and marginalized people in today’s world.

Or maybe, I thought, the words that recognized beauty in the midst of darkness helped me to become more aware of the beauty that resides in the world today. I kept looking.

Suddenly, these words filled my mind, pushing everything else aside: You are not alone.

The Pilgrims of Emmaus by Maurice Denis 1895 Color Lithograph – Columbus Museum of Art
PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I closed the book. That was it. Experiencing that truth over the past two weeks had made the difference though I hadn’t realized it at the time. Whether reading examples from Thurman’s own life, reflecting on the Scripture passages chosen and reflections written by Epperly, or living it with my daughters, family, and friends, I experienced the Epiphany revelation: God is with us. Always has been. Always will be.

And that is source of my hope.

It doesn’t make everything easy. Thurman didn’t sentimentalize Christmas. When he spoke of light coming out of darkness, he knew what he was talking about. Still, he had hope. In “The Mood of Christmas,” he reminds us that “… good is more permanent than evil.”

Epperly’s reflections focused attention on the reality that Christmas is not only blessing but also work, as Thurman’s poem “Now the Work of Christmas Begins” expresses. It is God’s work that we are created to do. Each of us. In our own way. In our own time and place. With our own gifts.

We do it together, sustained by countless acts of love and creativity. We live in the river of Grace that has flowed through all people and creation since the beginning of time. And it flows still. We contribute to it by being faithful and sharing the particular Grace we have been given.

Trusting that, trusting that God, indeed, is with us, allows us not only to have courage to contribute to that river of life in dark times as well as in light, but also to enjoy beauty and goodness along the way. And to hope.

Originally appeared in The Catholic Times, January 13, 2019 with different title

If you are interested in learning more about Howard Thurman and his spirituality, consider registering for the Howard Thurman Retreat Day offered by the Shalem Institute. I took advantage of this online retreat last year and highly recommend it. Thurman has much to say to us and our times. Follow the link above for more information.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: 12 Days of Christmas, grace, hope, Howard Thurman, love, Presence, trust

August 11, 2016 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Look at Me. Just Me.

Dome of Pantheon, with light streaming in.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Dome of Pantheon, Rome, Italy.

Originally published in The Catholic Times August 14, 2016 issue

While preparing to write this column, I read through the Mass readings for the week as I often do. Actually, I had a topic in mind, but the Spirit had another tucked into Sunday’s second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews. “Brothers and sisters:” it begins, “Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us rid ourselves of every burden and sin that clings to us and persevere in running the race that lies before us while keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus, the leader and perfecter of faith.”

It was the phrase “keeping our eyes fixed on Jesus” that let me know clearly, this was the column. Here’s the back story. Last month, I sent an email to a good friend in Boston asking for prayers. We’d met during our first gathering for members of Shalem Institute’s Spiritual Guidance Program a couple of years ago and have stayed in touch ever since, continuing to share our journeys through letters, emails, and an occasional phone conversation.

When I wrote that email, life was feeling particularly overwhelming. Changes in family routine and a world where violence seemed more random and sinister than ever—though of course it’s always sinister and often random—were getting the best of me. My “worry gene” had kicked in, and I couldn’t quiet my mind or spirit for long. Falling asleep at night was difficult.

The email request for prayer wasn’t about this sense of turmoil, but as the Spirit would have it, my friend’s answer was.

It turned out he was on a challenging retreat. With the change of venue from a lovely new retreat house on the ocean (the building had fallen behind schedule and wasn’t ready) to a gloomy, old institutional building that once housed a seminary, and the discovery that the retreat was for spiritual directors giving the Ignatian Exercises (which he was not), the first few days were tough going.

He felt distant and agitated. Then, as he wrote: “I heard Christ telling me: ‘Look at me. Just at me.’ Finally, last night, I was able to settle a bit in prayer.”

I couldn’t get those words out of my mind. “Look at me. Just at me.” That night, I tried to do that, to keep my focus on Christ. Not on events swirling around me and pulling me with them into dis-ease and anxiety. I fixed the gaze of my heart on Jesus. The one who loves. The one who holds. The one who is always “with.”

It wasn’t easy. Nagging fears and a sense that the world was somehow careening out of control kept calling for my attention. Not being sucked into the chaos required a conscious choice again and again, to heed Christ’s words: “Look at me.”

Slowly, that choice to look at Love made a difference. The grip of events that were tempting me with illusions of the ability control them loosened. Instead of imagining control, I felt moved to surrender to trust instead. Not a trust that everything was going to go as I wanted it to or that evil didn’t exist, but a trust that everything didn’t depend on me and my constant attempts to figure it out. The chatter that filled my head started to fade until finally there was blessed quiet. Churning and turmoil was being replaced by stillness and calm.

I slept well that night, and many nights after. Whenever I felt worry taking hold or fear seeping in to my center, I repeated the Christ’s injunction: “Look at me. Just at me,” and turned the eyes of my heart to Love.

So today, when I came across the admonition in Hebrews to embrace the wisdom of the “cloud of witnesses” and let go of burdens and sin that cling to us, to go forward and meet whatever is ahead while keeping our eyes on Jesus, I remembered my friend’s words that have become a powerful prayer for me.

It’s not magic. Sleep sometimes eludes. Deep openness is still gift. I wake up knowing I have work to do. Transforming the world is everyone’s work. But we don’t do it ourselves. We do it by letting Love fill us until we can bring that Holy Mystery to every place and every person we meet. Somehow, we face the evil and craziness and unknown with the steadiness of Love. I’m not sure how it works. It has something to do with being present. It has something to do with trust. It has everything to do with Love.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: centering, faith, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, love, prayer, Presence, quiet prayer, spirituality, trust

August 24, 2015 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

The Big Picture

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Last week, I had an early morning endodontist appointment. Since it was my first visit, I used Google Maps on my Android and arrived on time. A little over an hour later, I was on my way to work. I decided to take Main Street into town. The drive would be easy, and on the way, I’d stop for coffee and gas. That’s when the problem began.

Even though I’m not a morning person, there was no excuse for not realizing I had turned the wrong way coming out of the station. Sun rises in the east. Driving straight into it should have alerted me: Work was due west. As I said, I’m not a morning person, and the sun’s position wasn’t enough to clue me in; it was the changing vista that finally did.

“I’m heading out into the countryside not into the city,” I thought. Google Maps to the rescue. I keyed in my office address and took off. Something was wrong. Pulling to the side of the road, I checked. Somehow, the destination glowing at me from the screen was the dentist’s office. I reentered my work address, and tried again.

Twisting and turning along back roads and housing developments and sure I knew better, I backtracked. No, that didn’t work either. Google again directed me along a mysterious path. “Faith, Mary,” I said to myself. (Yes, by this time I was talking to myself.) “Faith.”

It paid off. Finally, the entrance ramp to the freeway came into view, I knew where I was and that work was about 20 minutes away.

Lesson? Traveling with Google Maps is not a substitute for knowing the big picture. Maps stick out of pockets in both my car doors, but I rarely use them anymore, depending instead on the friendly voice from my phone to guide me.

I used to read maps and teach elementary students how to read and draw them. Now, as I drive, I don’t pay close attention; the phone app is doing that. Finding my way back to a good starting over place would be easier if I had the map in my head.

Life is like that, too. I don’t have the big picture. I may think I do, but really, I don’t. Making choices, pursuing one path instead of others, or doing nothing can lead to unrecognized places. Sometimes, the journey, full of twists and turns and takes me where I don’t want to go.

Thank goodness God writes with crooked lines…or to paraphrase: God draws us to the Divine Self using winding ways! And the BIG picture? The one we can never see? “Faith, Mary, Faith.” I don’t believe our paths are predetermined or that choices, no matter where they plunk us, can keep us from reaching our goal: Oneness with the Holy One and with each other. I do believe patient, loving Grace is with us throughout the journey.

We move forward in darkness as well as in light. I walked into the office that morning, late, but I was there. It doesn’t hurt to study the big maps, but in the end, we’ll end up where we are called to be.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: big picture, faith, Google Maps, grace, maps, trust