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Lost Lent, Found Easter
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Photo: Mary van Balen
This year’s Lent was not one of my best. Disciplines, a bit vague from the beginning, fell away early. Life simply “happened” as usual. I did write my columns, always a spiritual discipline I tell myself, and prepared for a presentation on compassion. But other resolves seemed to dissolve, swallowed up by illness, cataract surgery, and well, just life.
I don’t go to Holy Thursday mass anymore (always my favorite) because incense doesn’t agree with my lungs. Friday, after working in the morning and getting work completed on my car and feeling a bit guilty about my “lost Lent,” I decided to take an evening walk and pray with my steps.
The almost blue moon was brilliant in a clear sky. I cleared my mind and simply walked, mindful of the Presence which enveloped me and everyone else on our struggling planet. Trying not to think too much, just to be open, I found myself at the door of a local Catholic church. Lights were on. Lots of cars in the parking lot. I decided to go in.
I’m not sure where everyone was. Two women sat quietly in the front pews, one on each side of the center aisle. That was it. I sat in the back. The altar, usually draped with white or liturgically correct colored cloths was stripped bare. The tabernacle, which in Catholic churches usually contains consecrated hosts from previously celebrated Mass, stood empty, doors ajar. At the bottom of the steps leading to the altar was a crucifix flanked by two tall beeswax candles, flames steady.
As I focused on the crucifix, I became aware of how white the figure of Jesus was, white with auburn hair. I don’t know why, but it just struck me. I looked at the paintings that cover much of overhang above the chancel. White men. White Madonna. White child Jesus.
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Last Supper #6 by William L. Hawkins
Exhibit: William L. Hawkins: an Imaginative Geography
Columbus Museum of Art
Photo: Mary van Balen
Suddenly I remembered the art exhibit I had seen at the Columbus Museum of Art (CMOA) a couple of weeks ago: William L. Hawkins: An Imaginative Geography. Hawkins was a self-taught artist born in Kentucky in 1895. He moved to Columbus when he was 21 and remained there for the rest of his life. His paintings are described in a CMOA description of the exhibit as “intense, playful, wondrous, quirky, and flamboyant.” What came to mind as I sat in church on Good Friday were the paintings in his Last Supper series. Eight of the nine he created are hanging in the exhibit
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Last Supper #9 by William L. Hawkins
Photo: Mary van Balen
Thought to have been inspired by a painting on velvet that Hawkins had recovered from a trash bin, in which Jesus and his disciples were portrayed as Black men, Hawkins offers a vision of the Last Supper that is at once unique and universal. Unique in that the images are like none other I’ve seen depicting this iconic scene. They definitely don’t show thirteen white men gathered around the table.
The signage at CMOA stated that “…perhaps the greatest achievement of the Last Suppers is how, through his manipulation of paint and found mass media images, Hawkins took a story central to the Christian religion that had been whitewashed in the Western imagination and broadened it to include an almost universal cast.”
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Detail from Last Supper # 9 by William L. Hawkins
Photo: Mary van Balen
Almost anyone seeing these paintings could identify with someone in them. They include men and women of many races. When collage was used, even the food on the table seems familiar. The pictures cut from newspapers or magazines, are of plates filled with ordinary dishes you might order at a restaurant or make at home. Everyone could find a place at this table. Of course, you’d have to be comfortable with diversity to enjoy the meal.
As I left the quiet of the church, the images of Hawkins Last Suppers came too. Along with the almost blue moon, the candles, the pleasant night air, the turmoil of our times, the candle flames, and the white Jesus on the cross, they had slipped into an opening in my heart and kept me company on the walk home.
Today, Easter, I celebrated with a diverse group of people packing the OSU Newman Center. My lost Lent was not an issue. No one there was wondering about how anyone had observed Lent. I don’t think God was interested either but was simply glad we had shown up at the table.
The amazing thing is that no matter how we got there, we all found our way to be together, to share faith, and as the presiding priest reminded us in his homily, to give thanks for the unimaginable love of a God who is crazy in love with all of us. To give thanks for Jesus’ willingness to remain faithful to who he had come to know himself to be…God’s own Love in the world, even when it led to the cross. And to believe that as we share in Jesus life and death, we also share in his love and resurrection.
Happy Easter!
© 2018 Mary van Balen
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God’s Love Is Always Big
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Acrylic – Richard Duarte Brown 2009
Originally published in The Catholic Times, March 11,2018
One of the scribes came to Jesus and asked him, “Which is the first of all the commandments?” Jesus replied, “The first is this: Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is Lord alone! You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.” Mk 12, 29-31
For Jesus, it’s all about love. Love of God. Love of self. Love of neighbor. When asked which commandment is the greatest, Jesus quotes from Hebrew Scriptures. First from Deuteronomy, proclaiming that God is one and that love of God is the most important “law” in one’s life. Then from Leviticus, Jesus quotes from a long list of commands given by God to Moses and says “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” is the second great commandment.
There is it. Love. Nothing else is more important. Matthew’s gospel includes Jesus saying that “The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments. It all boils down to love.
Of the three, I wonder if “loving self” might be the most difficult. It isn’t easy. And as Jesus knew, when we can’t love ourselves, loving anyone else is close to impossible. That tiny phrase “as yourself” carries a lot of weight.
Most of us are aware of our faults. We can become preoccupied with them and tied up in minutia, focusing on what’s wrong with ourselves and with others. We forget about love and end up fixated on rules, who’s keeping them and who’s not. We can even believe that God’s keeping score as we struggle through life. It’s easier than tackling “Love.”
Recently I spent an evening with a small group of women who had been gathering at one another’s homes for decades. Being mothers brought them together. Now grandmothers, they still meet, supporting one another and engaging with invited speakers. That night, I was the speaker, and our topic was “compassion.”
What struck me during our time together was that no matter how insignificant moments of love might seem, they never are. Encounters with Love are always transforming.
Once when I was about ten, I remember telling my mother she was “the worst mom in the world” and storming off to vent to her mother, who had always lived with us. I can’t remember what triggered my anger. (Mom was one of the best!) I do remember my Grandmother’s response.
She listened as I recounted my grievances. She didn’t interrupt or try to correct me. No lecture. No defense of Mom. After a pause she smiled and asked if I’d like to play a game of Canasta.
That was it. Love and healing came not with flash but with a game of cards. I couldn’t have worded it then, but her invitation said volumes about me being ok, someone she’d like to spend time with. Someone who was hurt and needed nothing more (or less) than graceful Presence.
In the scheme of things, barely a drop in the bucket. But love is never small. Once received, it changes the giver, the receiver, and ripples out.
I thought of my friend, a “missionary of Presence” in a small village in the Guatemalan rainforest. Her December newsletter recounts the transformation of women who were stigmatized by being alone, abandoned by their husbands, and left to provide for their families. She gave physical assistance but realized they needed more.
So they gather twice a month, read scripture, pray, share their stories, weep, and laugh. They know they are somebody. They are loved and now have more love to give away.
Love is powerful, but not easy. One woman in the small gathering I had been asked to attend made that point with a question. The Parkland school shooting had occurred just days before. “Do we have to show compassion to the shooter?” Silence. Then a number of voices said “Yes.”
With Love there are no exceptions. Such inclusive Love is hard to take. We’d rather draw lines, “them” on one side, “us” on the other. In some cases, it seems the reasonable thing to do. But God doesn’t see our lines. No one is beyond God’s embrace. Not our fault-filled selves, not those we close out, not the shooter.
By ourselves, we can’t be such love in a world that’s aching for it. With God’s love transforming us from the inside out, we can. After all, it’s God’s love we’re sharing.
© 2018 Mary van Balen
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Howard Thurman: Black Theologian, Mystic, and Mentor
The reading from Mark’s gospel about the Gentile woman’s request for Jesus to heal her daughter possessed by a demon is one of my favorites. Jesus had slipped away from the crowds, but the woman found him and threw herself at his feet, asking for help. When Jesus answered that the children must be fed first (a reference to the Jews) and that it would not be right to throw their food to the dogs, she was undeterred. Her faith was more expansive than that, and she told Jesus so. “Even the dogs under the table eat the children’s scraps.”
It seems her words hit home. Perhaps her faith helped Jesus understand the inclusivity of God’s loving mercy and of Jesus’ own mission. He sent her on her way with the assurance that her daughter was healed.
This reading is especially appropriate these days when the sense of entitlement, privilege, and exclusivity seems to be on the rise, or at the least, more visible. When discrimination against people based on the color of their skin, their ethnicity, beliefs, or just being who they are becomes acceptable, we must respond.
February is Black History month, and it’s appropriate to celebrate people who have seen injustice and taken action. I would like to write about Howard Thurman. I first learned of him years ago from a friend studying at Andover-Newton Theological School. More recently, I took advantage of the “Howard Thurman Retreat Day” offered online by the Shalem Institute. (You can access this retreat if you’d like by visiting https://shalem.org).
His name remains unfamiliar despite his wide influence as a contemplative, mystic, theologian, pastor, and professor. There are many ways to respond to oppression, and though not in the forefront of marches and demonstrations, Thurman was influential in the Civil Rights movement and served as a spiritual mentor to many involved, including Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
Howard Thurman was born in 1899 and grew up in Daytona Beach, Florida. His grandmother, Nancy Ambrose, a former slave, helped raise him. She shared the deep faith that had helped her survive enslavement, instilling in him a profound sense of identity as a child of God.
Thurman graduated valedictorian from Morehouse college. He studied at Rochester Theological Seminary and upon graduation was ordained a minister. His first pastorate was at Mt. Zion Baptist Church in Oberlin, Ohio. There he met Quaker pacifist and mystic Rufus Jones, a professor at Oberlin with whom he would later study.
Thurman taught at Morehouse and Spelman Colleges and was a professor and Dean of Rankin Chapel at Howard University.
In 1935, along with his wife, Sue Bailey Thurman, and other African Americans, Thurman was invited to join the six-month “Pilgrimage of Friendship” to India, Ceylon, and Burma. Prior to that trip, he and Mahatma Gandhi had corresponded and shortly before returning home, they met. Gandhi was curious about the aftermath of slavery and the conditions of Black people in the United States. They talked about non-violence and civil disobedience, and the importance of maintaining spiritual vitality in order to preserve in their practice.
In 1944, Thurman and Dr. Alfred Fisk founded the Church for the Fellowship All Peoples in San Francisco, California. The first intentional interracial, interfaith congregation in the country, it continues its mission today.
Thurman published numerous books, his most famous being Jesus and the Disinherited that looks at Jesus as a member of a minority class and sees in his life and teachings a guide for marginalized people responding to their oppression. This book greatly influenced Martin Luther King, Jr. who carried it with him whenever he marched.
Later in his career, Thurman became a professor and first African American Dean of Marsh Chapel at Boston University. Martin Luther King, Jr. was earning his PhD in theology at Boston University at that time and attended Thurman’s sermons. Thurman became his spiritual mentor and shared the wisdom and conversations he had had with Gandhi about nonviolent protest.
Thurman’s understandings of the dehumanizing effects of oppression, the effect of hate and anger on those who allow them into their hearts, the necessity of gathering strength by spiritual practice, and non-violence have much to say to us today.
A number of books about him have been published. You can read his own works, and Boston University’s Listening room has an extensive library of recordings of Thurman’s sermons, talks, and lectures. Listen here: http://hgar-srv3.bu.edu/web/howard-thurman/virtual-listening-room
© 2018 Mary van Balen
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Becoming Who We Are Made to Be
Originally published in The Catholic Times Jan. 14, 2018
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Photo: Mary van Balen
Samuel paid attention. His heart was “awake” even as he slept. One night, in the shrine at Shiloh where he lived under the care of its aged high priest, Eli, Samuel heard someone call his name. He didn’t turn over and go back to sleep. “Here I am,” he responded and hurried to Eli, assuming the summons had come from him.
But it hadn’t. Eli instructed the boy to go back to sleep. After this happened two more times, Eli realized that the Lord was speaking to Samuel and instructed him to reply, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” if he were to hear the call again.
God did call again, and the boy responded as Eli had instructed. I wonder if Samuel had any expectations of what he might hear that night or if he was surprised to learn that the Lord planned to fulfill the Divine threats made against Eli and his family for their abuse of priestly duties, dishonoring the God they were to serve.
Samuel listened and then went back to sleep. In the morning, he had the courage to answer Eli’s question about what the Lord had said, and Eli had the humility to accept it. Samuel had spoken and been heard as the prophet God made him to be.
Scripture provides no definite age for Samuel at the time of this call. He is called “a boy.” He was the son of Hannah, a faithful woman embittered by long years of barrenness and the derision she suffered as a result. While on her family’s annual pilgrimage to the shrine at Shiloh, she laid her anguish before the Lord, weeping and imploring God to give her a male child. If so blessed, she vowed to give him to God’s service for as long as he lived. She had a son and true to her word, when he was of appropriate age, Hannah brought him to Shiloh and left him in Eli’s care.
No matter Samuel’s age, this story of a youth hearing and responding whole-heartedly to the call of God is captivating and is one of my favorites. How had Samuel become so “wide awake,” so attentive and receptive to God?
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Photo: Mary van Balen
Surely, as with all of us, his early years were formative. Growing up in a family of faith, nursed and nurtured by a mother who loved and trusted God, and living in the shadow of the ark of God in the tabernacle in Shiloh must have influenced his relationship with the Holy One.
But, Samuel’s life sounds rosier than it was. (Don’t we often idealize the lives of others in comparison with our own?). Remember, his father had two wives who didn’t get along, and Eli and his sons were not faithful to the demands and requirements of their priestly ministry.
In the midst of it all, Samuel was able to attend to the call of God. He was a contemplative, aware of the Presence within and without, in the good and not so good, as he went about his duties. He must have taken time for solitude, resting in God and deepening his ability to hear and recognize the Holy Mystery that was the Source of his life and identity.
No matter the differences in time and circumstance between our lives and Samuel’s, we share the call to be people of prayer and to grow in our relationship with God. God has placed the gift of Divine Self in every one of us. Identifying that bit of Divinity and living into it, becoming the reflection of God we are made to be and remaining faithful to it is our life task. That’s why the story of young Samuel grabs our hearts: it is the story of us all.
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Photo: Kathryn Holt
As 2018 unfolds, we can choose practices that will deepen our openness and help us “pay attention.” In the midst of life’s busyness, suffering, and challenges, we can take time to be still and rest in God, hearing God’s call however it comes. We can allow the Holy Mystery dwelling within to move and transform us and so, participate in transforming the world. We can say, like Samuel, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”
© 2018 Mary van Balen
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Celebrating Alabama
This morning I stopped at my favorite local stop for tea, quiche and scones—The Cambridge Tea House—for quiche and an order of bacon.
“I’m celebrating Alabama,” I said. The cashier smiled. I’m sure I’m not the only one.
Home, I read the paper’s headline story and enjoyed my breakfast while perusing The Washington Post’s
“Preliminary exit poll results: How different groups voted in Alabama.” It’s worth a look. And before I hurry off to work, I have to say “Thank you,” to the Black Alabamian voters for overwhelmingly casting their ballots for Doug Jones. The number of women who voted for Moore baffle me. Well, to be honest, anyone who voted for Moore baffle me at some level.
Still, it’s a victory to savor. The former U.S. attorney who successfully prosecuted two of the Ku Klux Klansmen who bombed the small church in Birmingham in 1963 bested the outspoken, bigoted Roy Moore. After work, I’ll take a closer look at the Washington Post’s informative infographics. For now, I’m walking with a little spring in my step.
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The “Both/And” of our Our Faith
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Photos: Mary van Balen
Weaving in progress at the Columbus Museum of Art 12 2017
Originally published in The Catholic Times, December 10, 2017
I looked up the word “advenio” in my old Latin dictionary and found that depending on how it’s used, the verb can mean “to draw near” or “to arrive.” The noun, “adventus” is also translated as either “approach” or “arrival.” The season of Advent encompasses both. We wait. We celebrate what has already come. It’s the “both/and” of our faith. God is coming. God is already here.
During this season, we ponder that mystery and our participation in it. Liturgical readings are one place to start. For example, the first week of Advent is filled with passages from what is often called “First Isaiah” and provides glorious images of the kingdom to come: people from all nations streaming up the mountain of God, desiring to learn and walk in God’s ways; a kingdom where all live together in peace; great feasts where God provides rich food and choice wine for everyone.
Isaiah paints more pictures: justice for the poor and vulnerable, abundant harvests, broad pastures and running streams. He shows us a God who does not judge by appearances and who responds immediately to the people’s cries. These images were proclaimed in an eighth century BCE Judah that bears a resemblance to our current world situation. The Introduction to Isaiah in the Saint Mary’s Press College Study Bible describes the wealthy getting richer at the expense of the poor and nations posturing for war.
Despite the sins of the people, Isaiah’s prophecies of the Holy One’s faithfulness and the eventual arrival of a messianic king provided hope along with the calls for repentance to those who heard them. Isaiah’s words provide hope for us too, reminding us that God is merciful as well as just, and that with Grace, dark times that challenge and demand we heed God’s word will not last forever.
Advent gospels speak of God already come. They tell not only the story of John the Baptist and how Jesus was born into our world through the faith and willingness of a young Jewish girl. They also tell of his public ministry, proclaiming God’s kingdom with words and actions. He healed the sick, confronted those in positons of power, and showed compassion for the poor and struggling. When asked what was most important, he replied it was love—love of God, self, and neighbor.
Jesus was open to surprise, amazed at the deep faith coming not from the Israelites, but from “the other”—a centurion. Echoing Isaiah, Jesus told his followers that they’d be sharing the heavenly banquet with people they mightn’t have expected, coming from east and west.
He relied on others to share in his work. When the huge crowd that had been listening to him for days needed to be fed, Jesus asked first that those present share what they had. Then he blessed it. Before sending his disciples out to spread the good news, he lamented that there was much work to be done and few to do it.
Yes, God is already here, and has been since before time as we know it began. Yet, “God is coming.” The events in our world, far from echoing the visions of Isaiah or the example of Jesus, speak of the need for this coming. The poor and vulnerable, so close to Jesus’ heart, are still abused and overlooked by those grasping for power and wealth. Nations continue to prepare for and to wage war. We are far from beating swords into plowshares.
Jesus knew that being faithful to the commandment of love can bring suffering and death in a world unwilling to accept it. After his death and resurrection, he sent the Spirit who dwells within each of us and in every bit of creation. We are part of the “both/and,” the coming” and the “already here.”
How do we live in the tension of this mystery? How do we join in God’s work today? How do we live in dark times and still have both faith in God-with-us and hope in God- to-come? Perhaps, during Advent we can take quiet time to listen for the Spirit that lives in our hearts. To become aware of our part giving birth to that bit of divinity that has been shared with us and that the world sorely needs. We are not only graced with the Presence of God with us, we are called to do our part in birthing the God who is yet to come.
© 2017 Mary van Balen
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Thankful for the Gift of Presence
Originally published in The Catholic Times November 12, 2017
November 9 is the feast of the dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome, the official church of the Pope. The Mass readings for that day, not surprisingly, have to do with temples of one sort or another. The first reading is from Ezekiel 47, but let’s start a bit earlier in the book.
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Ezekiel’s temple by Henery Sulley (1845-1940) Public Domain
In chapters 40-48 of Ezekiel, the prophet describes a vision where God transports him to a high mountain in Israel, and an angel gives him a tour of a new city. The vision is long and full of details: precise measurements of walls, inner courts, outer courts, door jambs, and Temple outbuildings, as well as the new Temple itself. Ezekiel witnesses the glory of God returning to fill the Temple, and God tells him that it again will be the Divine dwelling place in the midst of the people.
In addition to seeing the physical structures, Ezekiel learns the rules for those who serve in the Temple, how land is to be appropriated, how feasts are to be observed, and a list of protocols and procedures for Temple worship and sacrifices and that would make a Royal event planner’s head spin.
As I read these verses, I was glad it was Ezekiel and not me who had been instructed to remember every detail so he could share them with the exiled Israelites when he returned to them in Babylon. They had pretty much lost hope. Jerusalem had fallen, and despite the prophet’s valiant efforts to help them recognize that its destruction was imminent, many had clung to the illusion that Jerusalem would survive and they would go back home, resuming life as usual. I can identify. It’s a human tendency to ignore signs that portend the coming of something calamitous or the slow creep of something bad.
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PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Next comes the description of the spring in the Temple. That’s the first reading for November 9. It’s abbreviated in the lectionary (To get the full effect, I suggest reading all the first twelve verses.), but it’s still a magnificent image. A stream begins in the Temple, runs under the threshold, and flows to the Dead sea, swelling into a river too deep for anyone to cross.
When it reaches the sea, it makes the salt water fresh, teeming with all kinds of fish and water creatures. People flock there with nets. Wherever the river flows, it brings life and healing. Trees along its bank produce new, delicious fruit every month. Even their leaves are medicinal. All this because it is God’s life flowing from the sanctuary.
When I read these words, I wanted to jump in! I wanted to splash through the river and sink beneath the water, let it do its healing, and then burst up through the surface full of hope, energy, and joy, free of the worries and concerns that fill my heart. Perhaps that’s how the Israelites felt when they listened to Ezekiel recount the story.
The good news is that God doesn’t dwell in temples or churches. Paul writes to the Corinthians, and to us, that we are the temples of God. (1 Cor 3, 16-17) The Spirit lives in each of us, neighbor and stranger alike. The glorious, healing, life-giving Presence that Ezekiel sees coming from the Temple, flows in and through all, gracing the people and places it touches. We don’t have to look for that river streaming down from the city on a hill; that “river” is everywhere. We can sink into Holy Presence wherever we are. Incarnation means God has entered into the matter of creation. We are immersed in that Presence whether we realize it or not. Open to it, Grace transforms us and all it touches. We can move into our deepest center and meet God there.
God is truly with us: strength in our struggles, joy in our celebrations, hope when we are tempted to despair. God walks with us when we are afraid, offers rest when we have worn ourselves out, waits when we are too busy to notice, fills what is empty, mourns with us in our grief, and sits with us when we don’t know what else to do.
The last words in Ezekiel, naming the new city, sum up this wondrous reality: “The name of the City shall henceforth be ‘The Lord is here.’” (48, 35)
© 2017 Mary van Balen
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Doing What We Have Learned
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Painting by Richard Duarte Brown
Originally published in The Catholic Times Oct. 8, 2017
Perhaps it’s because I’m weary of the divisive speech that is becoming more commonplace in our country and of the racism and ignorance of the “other” that undergird it. Maybe it’s hearing hateful comments, seeing intolerance, and recognizing that choices are being made to stoke fear and anger rather that to encourage true listening and dialogue. It’s these things and more that make me read and reread Paul’s words this Sunday, healing, like balm on an open sore:
Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. (Philippians 4, 8)
A friend at work gave me a flyer about a unity celebration being held at a local Episcopal church that Sunday evening. I’m glad I went. It was something gracious and lovely that reminded me of the many good people who, in ways large and small, are being love in the world.
A woman opened the celebration with a drum call to gather everyone, including the ancestors. I thought of my parents. Of people who have gone before, working for civil rights. I thought of the communion of saints.
The rector welcomed us and read “Blessing When the World is Ending” by Jan Richardson. It finishes on a hopeful note:
This blessing/will not fix you,/will not mend you,/ will not give you/false comfort;/it will not talk to you/about one door opening/when another one closes./ It will simply/sit beside you/among the shards/and gently turn your face/toward the direction/from which the light/will come,/gathering itself/about you/as the world begins/again.
A young Syrian refugee, 13 when she arrived speaking no English, 17 now, shared her powerful poetry. A woman pastor reminded us that while we look different on the outside, we are the same on the inside and pointed out the fact that human beings are made with two ears and one tongue, perhaps indicating we should listen more and talk less.
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PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Two young women in flowing white dresses gracefully danced their prayer to the One we can’t live without, expressing with their movements the prayer in my heart. An Imam spoke of Islam and respect for all prophets. We listened and learned.
A folksinger led us in “We shall not be moved,” a song loosely based on verses from Jerimiah about one who is like a tree firmly planted by the water surviving drought and yielding fruit. A young girl called out that we should sing for peace. And we did.
A Jewish rabbi considered that we have many names the for same Holy One. She spoke of the prophets of old and wondered about today’s prophets. About being prophets and being bold.
A soloist shook the rafters and sang about God breathing on us, and I felt the Spirit-breath.
A community organizer pulled wisdom from each presentation and put them into questions for us to ponder.
Afterwards, we shared food, listened to stories, and wondered why all churches don’t have evenings like this.
Paul’s final words in that verse from Philippians—Keep on doing what you have learned and received and heard and seen in me. Then the God of peace will be with you—prompted me to consider that what we learn from Paul, he learned from Jesus. What have I learned and heard and seen in Jesus that transforms me?
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The Good Samaritan by Vincent van Gogh
In the gospels, I have learned that love, not power, is important. That one’s life doesn’t consist of possessions. That everyone is my neighbor, and I must take care of them. I have seen Jesus heal the sick, feed the hungry, hang out with those on the margins, and eat with outcasts. He was welcoming, patient, and merciful. He was a man of prayer. On his last night on earth he prayed “…that they may be one as we are one—I in them and you in me…” I watched Jesus wash his disciples’ feet and instruct them to do the same. He spoke truth to power, faithfully lived that truth, and was murdered for it.
I heard him say that whatever we do to the least among us, we do to him. And when it came right down to it, when someone asked him what was most important, he had two things to say: Love God. Love your neighbor as yourself.
These are the things we need to keep on doing, each of us bringing the God of peace who dwells in us into our times and places. Through all people of peace, God transforms the world.
© 2017 Mary van Balen
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Farewell Cassini, Thank you NASA
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Cassini’s trajectory into Saturn
Even though it was a day off, I woke at 6:45, pulled on my old black t-shirt with the solar system silkscreened half on the front, half on the back. It’s seen eclipses and meteor showers. It would bid farewell to the Cassini spacecraft on Friday morning, September 15.
In the kitchen, I began preparing food for a daughter’s visit while watching NASA TV’s coverage of the final half-hour of the Cassini mission.
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Ligeia Mare – Sea on Titan (False color)
I listened to scientists sharing their thoughts as Cassini sped towards its fiery end in Saturn’s atmosphere. My iPad, sitting on top of the microwave, streamed live interviews with project scientists and engineers, some of whom had spent entire careers working on the Cassini mission. There were images of Saturn and its largest moon, Titan, with methane-rich lakes and rivers. Computer-generated graphics showed Cassini’s 22 dives into the dark space between Saturn and its rings as well as how the spacecraft would meet its end by entering the atmosphere and burning up.
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Cassini’s Grand Finale orbits
I was glad making chili didn’t require much attention because mine was on the screen. The images were mesmerizing. (NASA has made an eBook of some of those images and it’s available to download here.)
While chopping onions and green peppers, I learned more about the unexpected length and scientific bounty of this mission as well as the team’s ability to make changes in orbits and trajectories to take advantage of surprise discoveries almost 900 million miles away.
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Narrow jets of gas and vapor from Saturn’s moon Enceladus
For example, when geysers of vapor were found spewing out of the south pole of Saturn’s tiny moon, Enceladus, the spacecraft actually flew through them and analyzed the composition, finding ice particles, water vapor and organic chemicals. Cassini also determined that beneath the moon’s icy surface sloshes an ocean of salty water.
For the last ten minutes of the broadcast, I turned my full attention to the screen. Even from my kitchen, I wanted to be one of the thousands, maybe millions around the world, waiting for that last signal from Cassini.
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Where Cassini entered Saturn’s atmosphere
Through the commentary of those who had worked most closely with it from the beginning, the spacecraft had taken on an anthropomorphic quality, doing everything it had been asked to do, right down to the last images sent as it struggled against Saturn’s atmosphere.
The vastness and variety of creation overwhelmed me as the final signals faded. In my kitchen, chili was simmering. On Titan, methane rivers flowed. Saturn’s majestic rings, better understood, still grace our night skies.
Human imagination and wonder have paired with knowledge and skill to give us an extraordinary window into the universe. From ancient times, human beings have marveled at the night sky. Never before have we had such a view.
My response is gratitude for those who have worked so long and hard to provide it. And to bend my knee before the One who creates it. I join with the ancient psalmist in prayer: The heavens proclaim the glory of God/and the firmament shows forth the work of his hands./Day unto day takes up the story/and night unto night makes know the message./ No speech, no word, no voice is heard/yet their span goes forth through all the earth,/their words to the utmost bounds of the world.
All images are from NASA
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Cassini 12 Years at Saturn
The Cassini-Huygens mission was a joint effort of NASA, the European Space Agency, and the Italian Space Agency, Agenzia Spaziale Italiana. Many other countries were involved in the manufacturing of components.
What’s NASA doing next? Read this NYT article for some tantalizing descriptions of missions already on the calendar.