PHOTO: Mary van Balen On February 18, Buddhists in Thailand celebrated Makha Bucha Day or Sangha Day. It commemorates the unplanned yet simultaneous appearance of 1,250 disciples before the Buddha nine months after his enlightenment. They paid him reverence and listened to him before setting out around the country to spread the teachings which became the root of Buddhism.

“You lucky to be in Thailand now,” a friend of mine said. “February a holy month for Buddhists. You go to temple, buy lotus and candle, and walk with the people three times around temple.”

I did. Sandra and I took a taxi to a nearby temple. The young Thai driver parked the car and led us through the rituals. We wended our way through vendors of flowers wrapped with three incense sticks and a deep yellow candle. We walked past a few people selling small wooden cages of birds, or so it seemed. Actually, they were selling the opportunity to set the birds free, a symbol of peace and freedom for the people.

The procession, called Vien tien, moved slowly clockwise around the temple with the people remembering the Three Jewels of Buddhism: the Buddha, the Dharma, and the Sangha. As I walked I again prayed to the Holy One who created us all for peace and justice in this world.

Once people have walked three times around the temple hall, they removed their shoes, climbed the steps and placed the flowers, incense, and candles before statues of Buddha.

I looked up at the full moon in a hazy sky, and then at the people gathering in the green space around the building, waiting for the monks to arrive to lead them in prayer. They gather to pray, to seek truth, to live good and holy lives.

We crossed the main street that had been blocked off and bought some festival food: a cup of juicy sweet corn, sugared and salted, and some small pastries topped with meringue and shredded egg, orange for spicy, yellow for sweet.

Once the monks arrived, the people became quiet. He began to pray. Sandra and I stayed a bit longer and then motioned to the taxi driver that we were ready to leave.

I looked out the window and reflected on my faith. Jesus came to reveal God’s compassionate face, the Divine love for every one, especially the outcast and poor, and to show us the way to live, allowing the Sacred Presence to Grace us and transform the world through us.

On their holy day, my Buddhist friends were reverencing the Buddha, his teachings, and the community of holy men and women who continued to teach his way. They reverenced the community of Buddhists around the world, past and present, who strive to be faithful to their beliefs.

I thought about my own community, my small group who gather each month to eat, pray, and encourage one another on our way. I thought about the little parish church where I celebrate Sunday liturgy along with a diverse group who welcome all, including me. I thought about the larger community of those past and present, who try to follow the example of Christ.

I thought of the people on this planet holding a myriad of beliefs, of so many journeys, so many hearts longing for Good, and I asked the Holy Spirit’s blessing on us all.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
My thoughts are not your thoughts,
my ways not your ways – it is the Lord who speaks.
Yes, the heavens are as high above earth
as my ways are above your ways,
my thoughts above your thoughts.
Noon reading Isaiah 55:8-9

I look over the ancient city bounded by sea and mountains, and think of the eternity of God. The Mystery. The One Who Is. The Holy One has known peoples from all times and places. Those of us who live on this planet in 2011, those who first walked upright and reflected on their own existence, and everyone in between.

I have walked archaeological sites in Europe and wondered at Stonehenge, touching the huge monoliths before ropes and restrictions made their appearance. I have walked into caves dripping stalactites and growing stalagmites from their floors. I have prayed in great cathedrals of Western Europe, and like the character, Lionel Louge, from “The King’s Speech,” have walked over great poets and authors in Westminster Abbey.

Those sites and experiences moved me to prayer and wonder, but walking in the midst of a culture so ancient and so different than my own provides a fleeting sense of the infinitesimal place I hold in the expanse of space and time that are but a moment in the eye of God.

Like Black Elk, the Oglala holy man, I realize that we are each but grass that withers on the hill. Yet, to the Divine Presence, we are each a treasure. How can this be?

“My ways are not your ways,” the Lord says. Each life, each age, each culture, every heart is precious. In a political climate that seems to relegate less importance to the welfare of the poor and vulnerable among us than it does to maintaining lifestyles of the rich and powerful, this truth is indispensable.

When I see Buddhist monks and people at prayer, remembering that God treasures each one of us, no matter our path to holiness, is important. Where we see “other,” God see’s beloved. As today’s afternoon reading reminds us: “God does not see as man sees; man looks at appearances but the Lord looks at the heart.”1 Samuel 16:7
© 2011 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
There is a variety of gifts but always the same Spirit; there are all sorts of service to be done, but always to the same Lord; working in all sorts of different ways in different people, it is the same God who is working in all of them.
1 Corinthians 12:4-6 from Mid-morning reading

Today, I walked to a Buddhist festival at a temple in Thailand. A friend who knows of my interest in spirituality suggested that I might want to see it. The evening was warm and humid after an afternoon downpour, but not unpleasant.

As I wandered through the temple grounds, many sights reminded me of parish festivals at home: children hoping to take a gold fish home, games, rides, and lots of food. Of course, plenty of things were different: Monks were chanting as were ever changing groups of laypeople who, after offering orange buckets filled with ordinary items for the monks daily use, knelt and joined in their prayer. No hotdogs or cotton candy, but roasted chestnuts and sweets that included sweet corn as well as chocolates.

Some people purchased a lotus flower, incense sitcks, a candle, and gold leaf squares before stepping over the lintel leading into a shrine of Buddhas. People knelt and prayed, stuck their candles in sand-filled containers and rubbed the gold of the Buddha images.

The evening was an interesting mix of booths, games, food, rides, and prayer. When I looked up the readings for today’s liturgy of the hours I was struck by what Paul had to say: One God, many people; different tasks, different people, same God working in them all.

Our world is groaning under the weigh of wars, struggles against injustice, and ravages of disease. Environmental challenges loom ahead of us. Partisan politics in this country stall work and honest debate in a variety of issues.

I don’t think the Creator of all the earth’s people overlooks one honest prayer or the one who uttered it. I think God’s Spirit resides in us all. No prayer is lost, no person is overlooked, no effort for love and peace expended in vain.

As Paul continues in 1 Cor.: “God has arranged the body and that there may not be disagreements inside the body, but that each part may be equally concerned for all the others. If one part is hurt, all parts are hurt with it. If one part is given special honour, all parts enjoy it.”

Tonight I had the opportunity to walk with a part of God’s body that I do not usually see. My prayer was for peace, for understanding, and for courage to work with those different from myself as well as those who are more the same. Only together, can we bring peace and justice to the world.
© 2011 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
This snowy winter day found me walking the streets of Charleroi, Pennsylvania. Actually, I was doing more slipping and sliding than walking. Anyone could tell by my gingerly pace and occasional grasp at a parking meter for balance that I am basically a flatlander who, while used to messy slush, had little experience with walking through it up and down hills.

I passed lots of empty storefronts and buildings for rent. I was looking for a place to stop for a hot cup of tea and maybe a sandwich. A look to the left revealed the golden arches; a look across the street showed a cheerful plump statue of a chef holding an “authentic GYROS” sign standing by the entrance to Paolos Pizza and Pastaria. As if to add balance, a blue scarfed snowman waved from the other side of the front doors, and pointed to a sign advertising a Sunday Pasta Brunch.

Avoiding puddles of dirty slush, I made my way to Paolos, local always my choice over chains. The neat interior was empty except for two people dressed in black eating lunch. I assumed correctly that they worked there. They both rose when they saw me, the woman hurrying toward the back, the man telling me to make myself comfortable anywhere I’d like. I picked a table, draped my coat over a chair to dry and sat on another so I could look out the front windows at the snowy street.

In a moment, a waitress appeared with the menu and returned with hot tea and water to take my order. She had been gone only moments when a man walked through the front doors and asked if Chris was taking good care of me.

“I’m not sure if it’s Chris, but someone is,” I said, hands wrapped around my teacup drawing whatever heat from it that they could.

“I’ll bring you soup to warm you up,” he said and delivered a steamy bowl of Italian wedding soup that deliciously chased the chill away. As I sat savoring the little meatballs, another customer wandered it.

“Hello! I bet you’re cold. Can I bring you a cup of coffee on me?”

Another customer.

“Hello sir. How ya doing? How about a big meatball while you wait.”

Soon my pizza arrived. I had no intention of eating it all. I would box up three of the six pieces I told myself, but as I ate and watched a TV with the volume off showing an old black and white Tarzan type movie, I thought taking two slices home would be fine. When the waitress came with the check I was guiltily eating the last slice. I had to confess.

“I didn’t plan on eating the entire pizza when I started, but it was so good…”

“Don’t feel bad,” she said. “I do that about twice a week.”

So, I didn’t. I paid the bill, walked across the street and snapped a photo. In a society that has become increasingly uncivil and impersonal, the stop at Paolos warmed me up with food and friendliness and a helping of hope for the future. If you’re ever in Charleroi give them a try, and tell them I sent you. You won’t be disappointed.
© 2011 Mary van Balen

PHOTO:Bernard Gragnon Statue of Saint Paul,Damascus

Jesus said to his disciples, ‘Go out to the whole world; proclaim the Good News to all creation.
Mark 16,15

Today is the feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul. You may remember that, while on his way to Damascus to round up more Christians to take back to Jerusalem for punishment, Paul was knocked off his horse by a blinding light and confronted by the risen Lord: Why do you persecute me? The event and its aftermath changed Paul forever.

I have a friend who said he would like to have a “knocked off my horse” experience, something that would help him know with surety what direction to go in his life. Wouldn’t we all? With all due respect to Saint Paul, making a drastic life change would be easier to do if Jesus Christ flooded me with light and we had a heart to heart about what he wanted me to do. Of course, Paul needed courage and faith to follow his road which was fraught with conflict, persecution as well as success. His conversion and mission eventually led to his death.

Most of us do not have a “knocked off my horse” moment, but rather discern God’s presence and direction in our lives bit by bit. Here our path is similar to Paul’s.
However the Holy One communicates Grace to us, we must be open to receive it. A well-educated zealous Jew, Paul was receptive to Jesus’ message because he was a man of faith prayerfully committed to serving God. He was a sincere seeker of Truth and willing to suffer as he remained faithful to it.

We are called to be people of prayer, to expect to encounter God in our world and our lives. We are called to nurture an open heart and willing spirit. God may speak to us, as to Elijah, in a whisper, but we must not mistake a quiet process of growing closer to God with an absence of the Holy in our lives. Conversion is a constant part of life that requires discipline and prayerful presence to the moment.

We may not have a “knocked off the horse” moment, but we can be sure that God is always with us, revealing the Compassionate Love that will lead us to the Divine embrace.

PHOTO: unknown
Death was not God’s doing, he takes no pleasure in the extinction of the living. To be – for this he created all; the world’s created things have health in them, in them no fatal poison can be found, and Hades holds no power on earth; for virtue is undying. Wisdom 1:13-15

Taken from today’s afternoon reading (None)

Yesterday, I shoveled the driveway twice. After working from one end to the other, I looked toward the garage where I had started and saw already another inch had accumulated there. Snow stopped sometime during the night and this morning the white stuff is sparkling under bright sunlight. Even the streets are white, an indication of temperatures too cold for salt to do its work.

Perhaps this verse from Wisdom was more striking being read in the midst of winter. The words made me think of lush spring and early summer when blooms stand atop thick green stems that snap and ooze sappy juice if they are broken. Creation is “juicy” with what sustains it flowing through xylem and phloem, arteries and veins.

And spirit. Or soul. Or whatever we name that which holds the Divine spark that animates us and feeds our deepest selves. God has created everything “To Be…” as the reading reminds us, to be with vitality in every cell.

Yet, we know, winter comes and flowers wither and die. Spirits, too, dry up in the face of life’s challenges and natures fickleness. Too much or too little water. Earth’s crust splits to accommodate tectonic plates’ restless jumps and dives as they shoulder one another to get comfortable.
Winds change, drive fires, and send frigid temperatures flying around the globe.

We see death as much as life when we look around. Where is this “health” God has put in every created thing? Where can a war orphan look to see it? Or those suffering from drought or driven from their homes by flood? Where is God-given “health” found in a body ravaged by cancer or a mind clouded by Alzheimers? What has happened to the mental health of a young man who walks up to a congresswoman and shoots her in the head?

So, where is this “health” unconquerable by death and hell?

I am reminded of the last stanza in Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “God’s Grandeur”

“And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.”

God’s own Self is the oozy sap that gives us life. The Creator’s Grace enables our spirits to survive whatever befalls us. Our bodies, as amazing as they are, eventually succumb to age, disease, or harm. But what is essential, the “dearest, freshness deep down things” will live to give glory to the One who put it there.
© 2011 Mary van Balen

SCULPTURE: Lament by Connie Butler

While I was hanging up pajamas at the store, the television above the entrance to the fitting rooms was tuned to CNN. Anchors spouted various polling percentages of disapproval of Obama’s healthcare reform. When I returned to pull robes off the rack, the talk was about who the reform was helping and how repeal would contribute to the deficit.

“We are the only nation in the West that doesn’t have healthcare for its citizens,” a co-worker lamented. “I just don’t GET these people.!”

My heart sank.

Breaking news later: a shooting in a LA high school; an earthquake in Pakistan.

Local news: a naked man, scratched and bleeding, had approached a home and begged the residents to let him in. Understandably, they were hesitant and called police. When they arrived, they could find no trace of the man. He was later found dead. Pictures of a tattoo were to be broadcast later in the hopes that someone would be able to identify him.

I ate dinner out this evening and read an alternative paper as I enjoyed Lebanese cuisine. The new governor, inheriting a financial crisis (as so many are), wants to cut services and benefits. No new taxes. I sighed. Working with poverty programs for years, I know some of those who will suffer most. Teaching for more years, I know that cutting frenzy reaches classrooms, too. How can we keep deluding ourselves that we can run a city, state, or country, without increased revenue?
Somewhere I read that Illinois governor is considering new taxes. The rest of the governors are “still in denial.”

My heart fell lower still.

Checking email at home I noticed an AP article about a letter from the Vatican to Irish bishops sent in 1997 warning them not to report all suspected child abuse cases to the police. My heart sank lower yet. When will the hierarchy admit their collusion in this horrendous scandal? When can I believe what I hear coming out of Rome? I am sickened and angered again by what feels like betrayal.

My heart is on the ground.

Oh God, how long? How long must we wait?
There is nothing I can do
to move these souls,
to bring justice,
to wash the stink from the land.

Oh God, how long?
I have no answers
and little hope,
Yet somewhere
in my heart
you have planted faith
and I am hanging on
to its solid branches
with all my resolve.

I am weak and sinful,
but I trust in your Word:
You will not abandon
the peoples of the earth.

Still, I wonder
How long?

I guess this falls under “I wish I had written that.” This morning while perusing the New York Times, I came across an op-ed written by David Brooks titled “Tree of Failure.” He lauds President Obama’s memorial speech and his call for a return to civility but points out the “Tree of Civility” has roots in recognition of our failures, sin, and weaknesses.

At the risk of cliche I will say that “It takes a village.” Everything we do well involves others in one way or another. Despite rampant individualism, the truth is, no one gets to heaven on their own. Salvation is not a “personal” accomplishment. We get there together or we don’t get there at all. As Grace would have it, the God who is calling us to Oneness has promised the success of the journey, but it won’t be one by one.

Similarly, a climate of civility will not return to this country by isolated efforts or by people, convinced of the truth of their views, working to win over the rest of us.It will come when we accept our sinfulness, our weakness and failures, and humbly join our efforts with the efforts of others. Together we can discern a path forward as we seek to find a way to provide healhcare to all. Together we can hammer out a budget that is just. Together we can find a way to reduce violence in our streets, or in front of a Tuscon grocery.

It takes humility. It takes openness to the thoughts and ideas of others. It takes recognition that none of us has a corner on the truth.

I encourage you to read Mr. Brooks column. And I pray for national resolve to engage in personal reflection and soul searching, a sort of examen to become aware of what we have to offer and what we have to learn.

PHOTO: J. Scott Applewhite/AP

There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
Psalm 46 (from President Obama’s speech)

President Obama delivered a powerful speech in Tuscon yesterday as he remembered those killed and wounded in Saturday’s shooting rampage and called Americans to respond to the tragedy in a way that would honor the victims. His words were eloquent and heartfelt. He spoke with the humility he recommended to all Americans.

After remembering each victim and recognizing those who assisted at the shooting scene and the medical staff who ministered to the wounded, Mr. Obama turned to inward reflection as well as the need to move forward.

Such a tragedy, similar to the sudden loss of a family member, moves us to reflection on our lives, how we treat others, and how we can change for the better in our public and private lives. Indeed, Mr. Obama’s words and presence created a feeling of intmacy and “family” among those listening to his words.

His speech helped me believe that change in political discourse is possible. Perhaps civility and respect in debate is not a lost cause. He sounded a call to work together for the common good, and as a good leader, helped us believe that we can do it.

Looking at the good qualities of our nation, government, and people in general through the eyes of the child, Christina Taylor Green, helped us see again the good in the world. He exhorted us not to look for an easy explanation or to point fingers at those who think differently than we do, but to search for answers in a way that in a way worthy of Christina.

Mr. Obama asked us to react in a way that lives up to the expectations of all our children. Using Scripture again, he referred to Job looking for light but finding only darkness. We cannot understand the presence of evil in the world, but we are responsible for how we live our lives combating the darkness in our own corner of the world.

I hope his words inspire us all, particularly those in Congress, to go forward willing to listen and to tackle the challenges we face without demonizing those with whom we disagree.
© Mary van Balen 2011

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
“Getting ready for the snow storm?” I asked as I handed the customer her bag of Cuddle Duds long johns.

“Yes, and I’m going home and making a big pot of chili for dinner.”

“I’ll be over,” I joked. She laughed as she walked away, but I couldn’t get a big pot of chili out of my mind. Actually, it sounded so good I decided right then that I was going to stop at the grocery after work, buy the ingredients, and make myself a big pot of chili.

Funny how something as simple as that can lift one’s spirits. I smiled for the rest of the afternoon and enjoyed every moment of browning meat, onions, and green pepper before adding tomatoes and beans. The chili needed to simmer and I treated myself to a cup of tea and time to read some of “The Week.”

My sister unexpectedly stopped by and we visited while spicy smells filled the house. At nine o’clock I ladled out a steamy bowl of chili, topped it with extra sharp cheddar, and crumbled saltines over it all.

Ahh. I uncharacteristically took small bites and savored each one. How often do I eat without even noticing the flavors, textures, and aromas? Too often. I closed my eyes and gave thanks for a place to live, to cook, and for the wonders of chili on a cold winter night.
© 2011 Mary van Balen