“Gratia Plena” by Stephen Heilmer PHOTO: Mary van Balen

While in Seattle, I visited the Chapel of St. Ignatius on the campus of the Jesuit’s Seattle University. The chapel, designed by architect Steven Holl using “A Gathering of Different Lights” as the guiding concept, won a design award from the New York Chapter of the American Institute of Architects and the scale model of it is part of the permanent collection of the Museum of Modern Art in New York. The chapel is stunning. All of it. But today, being the feast of Our Lady, Mother and Queen, I decided to focus on one of the striking elements of this place of prayer. I don’t identify the title of “Queen” for Mary, but “Mother” is another story.

“Be sure to see the statue of Mary,” my Dutch cousins suggested when they learned I would be visiting the chapel with my friend the following day. “It is unique.” How right they were. One walks through the chapel doors (a story themsleves) along a sloped entryway and along the processional corridor, and looks to the right into the nave or main sanctuary. Much vies for attention in a subtle kind of way, but my eyes fell immediately on the Mary statue, unlike anything I have seen before.

I stood a long time there, gazing at the golden bowl head, the overflowing stream of milk that poured from it and covered the figure. Carved out of one piece of marble the figure is unspecific yet particular. I could not move my eyes from the bowl and milk which flowed from it.

Maybe my experience of being mother myself, one who nursed three children and who had an abundance of milk to nourish them, made the image more powerful. Perhaps not. Maybe everyone who sees it, mother or not, is riveted by the image of outpouring of life and grace.

Pouring out. That is what I saw. Pouring out as a mother does in countless ways: Life from her womb. Milk from her breasts. Love from her heart. I rejoiced and ached at once, for what mother does not do both?

An image of Mary, Mother of Jesus. An image of God who is Mother as well. An image that calls us to both receive grace as children of the Divine and to pour it out as sisters and brothers of Jesus, transforming the world.

Slowly, I turned my eyes to other parts of the chapel. The light playing on plain walls. The Blessed Sacrament chapel with wall covered with six-hundred pounds of (That’s another story). My friend and I did not have much time. Not enough, this trip anyway. When I return to Seattle someday, I hope, I will take more time in this place. I will sit before the statue. I will simply be. With milk and grace and beeswax and love falling all over me.

Abbot John Klassen OSB PHOTO: Sr. Edith OSB Part Two: “I am doing something NEW….”

Recall, however, that the prophets not only announce to the people an end that the community cannot admit; they also proclaim a hope that the people can hardly believe. There are two dangers or temptations that arise in times of transition. The first is nostalgia, which is essentially a state of denial. The strategy of nostalgia denies that the loss has happened or is happening: with increasing desperation it attempts to cling to a way of life and of faith that are no more.

The second danger or temptation is that of despair, a stance that says that faith is no longer possible in this new situation, that all is lost (alles ist verloren), that no future possibilities are to be found here. Despair inevitably leads to resignation, cynicism, apathy, and spiritual death. Both the strategy of nostalgia and the stance of despair are present in our monastery and in the Church today.

Abbot John Klassen OSB Saint John’s Abbey, Collegeville MN
From : Conference, December 10, 2005 “See, I Am Doing Something New!”
Prophetic Ministry for a Church (and a Monastery) in Transition

I have had the privilege of worshipping with the monks of Saint John’s Abbey, and at times, I hearing Abbot John preach. The conference referenced above, moved me. While much of it is directed at the struggles of monastics today and though it was presented almost two years ago, it seemed a timely reflection for the current position of the LCWR, the Vatican, and the Roman Catholic Church in general.

The confrontation is an indication of the times of deep change in which we live. Of the overwhelming challenges. Of the need for new ways of responding and being people of faith in the world. The two dangers that Abbot John spoke of are very much present in today’s Church. While I am not guilty of the first, I recognize in myself a tendency toward the second.I read articles and listen to radio interviews, and some homilies, and despair of a Church that can change and respond in a meaningful way to its own people, let alone the world beyond its doors. Abbot John speaks of a “hospice theology,” one in which we know God can work miracles, but likely not the ones we expect.

I see the loss but not always the hope. I don’t always believe in miracles.

The abbot ends the Conference with these words: “Our prophetic vocation is to help the Church (and ourselves) to accept a loss they (we) cannot admit and to embrace a hope they (we) cannot dare to believe. Prophets do this by attending to the present groans of the people and positing an alternative future vision. This, I believe, is the essence of being a spiritual leader in the Church during this time of transition.”

I am thankful for spiritual leaders, like Abbot Klassen, who give me a new way to look and the current state of the RCC and by reminding me of the prophets of old and their call, give me the heart to hope.

http://www.saintjohnsabbey.org/abbot/051210.html

PHOTO: Mary van Balen No need to remember past events, no need to think about what was done before.
Look, I am doing something new, now it emerges; can you not see it? Yes, I am making a road in the desert and rivers in wastelands. Isaiah 43,18-19

As the representatives of 80% of American Roman Catholic sisters met in St. Louis, one would do well to remember this passage from Isaiah. Sister Pat Ferrell did as she addressed the opening assembly: “We are united in the desire to surrender that which no longer serves so that something new can be born in and through us.”

Actually, this statement is just the response needed to George Weigel’s article in First Things, The Sisters: Two Views Pitting the two major organization of Catholic sisters in the United States against one another, he questions the vitality and relevance of the more liberal orders, siting their new vocation numbers as evidence. (An article published in the Aug. 13 issue of America Magazine challenges this position.)

What Mr. Weigel does not include in his article is the movement of lay associates that is growing across the country. Lay associates, men and women, married and single, make commitments to existing religious orders and promise to carry out the work and charism of that order. (Associates of The Dominican Sisters of Peace are an example.) During times of change and uncertainty, some people move toward what is familiar, what resounds with reminders of a past that looks safe and desirable from the present vantage point. Others are moved to create something new, rooted in rich soil of the past, but responding to new climates, new questions, new challenges.

To pit one group against the other is not productive. Neither is judging one group by its “success” in duplicating the past. Many religious orders represented by LCRW are experiencing growth in new forms, forms Mr. Weigel did not mention in his article.
The Associate movement is one such form. Monastic communities have long had oblates, (See Benedictine Oblates for an example.)lay people who connect themselves with a particular monastery, assuming a life of prayer and service in keeping with their position and training as well as with the rule of the monastery.

The future of the Catholic Church does not lie in the numbers of vowed religious, no matter how liberal or conservative. The future of the Church relies on the Holy Spirit, and the lives of those faithful who work with the Divine Presence and participate in the continuing transformation of the world. In the RCC, the work of Jesus does not rely primarily on ordained or vowed members of the, but on the vitality of faith and work of lay people as well.

As Sr. Pat Farrell suggested in her remarks, God is busy making something new. One cannot judge the efficacy or vitality of religious orders by how many young women become vowed sisters, but by how the communities, including lay members who are an integral part of them, reach out and continue the work of Jesus, transforming the world as their gifts and talents allow. Prayer, worship, and service, enthusiasm for them all, abound in Associate as well as vowed members.

Today’s world offers new challenges and new opportunities. The Church as a whole would do well to look to the orders of women religious that have responded to the great thirst for prayer and spirituality in the world by opening their hearts and doors in new ways to those called to deep prayer and community connection but also to live their lives as lay women and men in the world.

I hope Seattle Archbishop J. Peter Sartain and the rest of the hierarchy are listening.

Saint Augustine’s in the Woods My first day on Whidbey Island included praying Evensong with two Benedictine monks from nearby monastery of The Brothers of Saint John the Evangelist and a few members of the congregation. While waiting for the service to begin, I read the small prayer booklet’s introduction: “Vespers is the ancient evening prayer of the Church in which we look back on the graces of the day just passed and are grateful. Thanksgiving is the theme of this Office.”

I had much to be thankful for: Kathryn’s friendship that called me to the Northwest from Ohio. Her husband’s welcoming hospitality. Breathtaking views of Puget Sound and woods of towering Douglas firs, hemlocks, and cedars. Birds I have never seen or heard. And, not the least, blessedly cool, almost cold temperatures that had already provided respite from the scorching temperatures and humidity in the Midwest this summer.

“Give praise to the Father Almighty, to his Son, Jesus Christ the Lord, to the Spirit who dwells in our hearts, both now and forever, Amen.”I made a slight bow as these words fell from my lips,remembering the Benedictine monks at Saint John’s Abbey in Collegeville, with whom I have shared so many evenings of prayer, and whom I held in my heart that night.

Thanksgiving not only for the day past, but also for the promise of the days that stretched ahead. The end of one day, the beginning of a week. Prayers shared with friends. Thanks be. Amen.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen After a longish day of travel that took me to Seattle via Tennesee, I met my friend Kathryn and her husband Gary for my first experience of Washington state. First impression? Cool, almost cold! Wonderful relief coming from parched midwest. Gary parked the car and we took a walk along Puget Sound until arriving at one of their favorite little seafood diners. All types of seafood was breaded and fried by the owner, an older man who had been running the Sun Fish for quite a few years. Kathryn and Gary had salmon. I tried scallops. Not greasy. Delicious.

We walked back by the beach dotted with white tents, closed, which sheltered all types of art work. A festival of somesort. Along the water, three groups had built roaring bonefires in large firerings. I don’t know if they used driftwood, but it was plentiful. Frisbees, dogs, laughter, music, all part of the scene. But, the one who stole the show was the bubble lady of Puget Sound. At least that is what I called her. She was using poles about six feet long connected with fabric “rope,” and dipped into what I can only say was amazing “bubble juice.” The crowd around her grew as she raised the poles above her head, holding them about a foot apart, and walked slowly, allowing the air to create huge bubbles that twisted and grew, alive with color and movement. So alive did they appear that we were all surpised when they suddenly dissolved into white film that fell to the ground.

She blew into the swirling film and created bubbles inside of bubbles, holding us all, young and old, spellbound. I remembered making a much smaller version of the bubble poles for my children and to use in school settings, but I had not developed a bubble solution as fullproof as the bubble lady’s. When she was taking a rest, I walked over and began a conversation. She sells the “bubble juice” that she had developed far beyond my own dishwashing liquid and glycerin. She also photographs the bubbles and hopes to sell large prints to those decorating office buildings. (You can view her bubbles at Big Dipper Bubbles

“My bubbles are art,” she said. Kathryn, Gary, and I agreed. Art in the moment, and art caught by a camera. We didn’t have the opportunity to see the photos. Disappointing. I will check her website. But what a perfect way to begin a week-long visit with friends: Celebrating life, its simplicity, its beauty, its serendipity. The bubble lady set the tone for this trip to the Northwest that would nourish my spirit with joy and prayer as well as my body with as much seafood as I can resaonably put into it!

St. Mark’s Episcopal Cathedral Sunday I attended Mass with Kathryn at the Episcopal Catherdral in Seattle, Saint Marks. The large church building was on its way to becoming a full-fledged gothic cathedral when the depression hit. Years later, the decision was made to leave it as it was and use the millions of dollars completion would have cost for other, more worthy causes. As a result, the church is an interesting mix: Large windows that were to be stained glass, but that are filled with rectangular leaded panes of glass; the rafters can be seen high above where the ceiling would have been; only a few columns have been surrounded with finishing stone. Behind the altar has been ornamented with one of the few additions…a modern glass scultpure filling the space just in front of the plain glassed rose window.

During the service, an announcement was made that one of the church staff would be leaving for budgetary reasons. As one might expect, many parishoners had sent notes and emails, expressing their concern. The poeple were assured that all was well and that the person and familiy were “fine.” They were looking forward to a new ministry, thought as yet, they did not know what that would be. God will provide.

As we drove home, Kathryn and I discussed the theological concept of lament. Sometimes people are hesitant to share their saddness or pain, not wanting to appear to be “whiners” or ungrateful. Or worse yet, of little faith. In fact, lament is not any of those things.

“Hebrew Scriptures are full of lament,” my friend said as she explained more about the idea and how it might have been additionally helpful to the people in that morning’s congregation. Lament is a community experience, bringing people toegther in compassion. Sadness is acceptable. So is anger or frustration. God can handle all that, and by expressing such emotions, one is not rejecting faith, but rather acknowledging human emotions.

As in Psalms of lament, the one lamenting moves from expression of anger, despair, or frustration with a perceived lack of action on God’s part, to an expression of faith. I recently learned of a family whose young daughter was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and was surprised at the lack of “lament” in some of the communications I had read. They praised God for everything, for being with them, for their faith, for the fact that the cancer was more easily treated that some. Nowhere was there a hint of anger or frustration. I am not judging, and if I were is a similar situation, I might not put my anger out there for everyone to see. Still, as I read, the empahsis on praise and the lack of lament was striking. And in a similar way, so was the lack of expression of sadness at leaving the longtime congregation of the the church person who was soon to leave a job with nothing for sure on the horizon.

I am not saying that, faced with tragedy or hardship, we should wallow in self pity or allow anger and bitterness to take over. As I listened to my friend, I do think sharing very human emotions with a community helps us move beyond those feelings and into faith in a way that binds us all closer together and deepens the faith of all.

Lament.

The day had been long. Work. Haircut. Doctor’s appointment. Late dinner with friends. I had met them at a restaurant I had not been to before and had difficulty finding a parking place downtown. When I returned to my car I found a ticket on the windshield: The spot was in a residential permit area. Sigh. I’m not used to thinking about residential permit areas. Mom’s words came to me: “In a year you’ll never know where that money went. Don’t worry.” Thanks, mom. Worrier extraorinaire over some things, she was right about this one.

I had had a wonderful evening, been treated to a marvelous dinner. So, why obsess about a small parking ticket? So, I didn’t. On the drive home, instead of worrying about $40, I recalled parts of the conversations. One of the dinner party, Vicki, is a rabbi, and she shared the story of finding the torah for her new congregation ten years ago. An amazing story of a Polish rabbi in the 1940’s giving the torah to a Catholic friend to keep until the deported Jews would return. Of course, they never did. The torah came to the US and using the internet, Vicki found a few members of that Polish congregation who had come to live in Brooklyn, not far from her congregation. This story goes on.

Another story: Among the nine of us sitting around the table, two had recently learned of the transsexuality of either a relative or friend. With my daughter, that made three. We shared stories. I promised to let them know when my book on the topic is published, and I wondered how many others in the restaurant that night might have similar stories. Harold had a good way of expressing the need we all have: To become more “wide minded.” Indeed.

By the time I arrived home, I was thankful for the richness and fun of the evening. Then I opened the door. Another blessing! Someone, who would likely not want to be identified for her good deed, had come into my house while I was gone and cleaned it! No dishes cluttered the kitchen counters and sink. Actually, the counters were clear and clean and lovely. I looked through the kitchen and saw the couch. Throw neatly folded and draped over the back. Pillows on either side. Chairs in place. Shoes in the bedroom closet where they belong. Then I noticed the floors. Swept. I almost cried.

These next two days will be packed, and I go out of town on Saturday. I couldn’t imagine accomplishing everything I need to do before leaving. Getting out from under the house cleaning had seemed impossible. I had had a colonoscopy the day before, and those of you who have had that test know you don’t get much done the day of or the day of preparation! I had managed some writing, but house cleaning? No. It is almost always the lowest priority in my schedule.

But here was a gift, pure and simple. Someone noticed. Someone took the time to help, unasked. Someone has my deepest gratitude. I am running in as many directions as a crazed cat, and someone had taken the time to clean up the “center.” She and God are exceedingly good.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen “There was the work hard, play hard Eden of childhood truths and treats. Run out in the rain, my Czech grandmother would say urgently, run quick! I flew out the back door, naked, screeching with demented joy, to stand under the drainpipe, rainwater sluicing down my tadpole body.”

…………………………….from “The Florist’s Daughter: A Memoir” by Patricia Hampl

Sometimes, in the midst of news of wars, poverty, illness, and hateful rhetoric, something comes along that reminds us of the human capacity for joy, sheer joy. Often simple, it arrives unheralded, breaking into the quotidian of life or the darkness of suffering or despair.

On Saturday I attended a pool party given by a counselor friend who includes a large number of transsexuals in her practice. I had never ventured into the pool at these annual gatherings, but did last week. My swim suit fit a bit tighter that I remembered, but, oh well. Pride aside, I caught my breath as I waded deeper into the water. Laughter filled the evening as people executed dives, some better than others, tried silly stunts, and slipped under the water as they tried in vain to keep a ball in the air. Nothing amazing. Just fun. Fun, food, and conversation shared by those touched by challenges of transsexuality. I stayed late, but was not the last to leave by far. Who wants to let go of such moments?

No. We open wide and suck them in, gulping down the sweet delight.

Sometimes joy comes with a joke, or a dry one-liner during a game of euchre. My dad was good at that. At work, I hear a baby cry as its parents or grandparents try do to a little shopping. But once in a while, a baby or child gets the giggles and her laughter floats through the store. It is contagious. Soon everyone is smiling, not knowing what is funny but enjoying the moment anyway. One of my coworkers has the greatest laugh. I might be hauling a load of bras and dresses out of a fitting room or trying to make a dent in the rails of undergarments waiting to be hung correctly and returned to the rack.

Then, Seretha’s laugh would fly over the Muzak and noise of business and make my day. I pictured her face, her broad smile, and was glad I belonged to the “sisterhood” as she called us.

Sometimes music is the source of exhilaration, like the Trans Siberian Orchestra concert I attended last year. I bought a couple of their CDs and played and replayed my favorites for weeks. Or, the first time I heard Luciano Pavarotti singNessum Dorma or the part ofRodolfo in Puccini’s La Boheme. I have no words.

Yesterday, a friend sent me a musical video that made me laugh and click the replay icon again and again. Watching talented musicians having so much fun tickled hope in me.

Have fun!

PHOTO: Mary van Balen – In scholars study lounge, Collegeville Institute “I have a prayer request for you,” my sister said. “A young man, twenty-six, discovered that he has stage four lung cancer.” Never a smoker. The prognosis is unknown, but it does not appear likely that he has long to live.

“It seems I am being constantly reminded of the fragility of life.” my daughter said when I told her of a friend of ours who was hit by a car while riding on his bicycle and sustained serious spinal chord injury.

“There is one word you will never hear around here,” my friend in the nursing home told me: “Death.”

She was right. At least from what I heard when I visited my father there. I suppose we were all trying to make the last years or months of life as full as we could. Conversation was often difficult since many of those living there were hard of hearing or very tired. Around the dining room table we talked about the food and about family or friends who had come to visit. When someone from the small group died, no one told the others. The absence of the table mate spoke for itself. Once, when I asked about someone who was gone, the aide whispered that he had died. They didn’t usually tell the others because they didn’t want to upset them.

I am sure this is done with all good intentions. Perhaps the news would upset some of the people there, but the unwillingness to talk about death struck me as strange in a place where most people go knowing they will likely die there or in the nearby hospital.

This conversation came to mind when I discovered that today is the feast of Saint Camillus of Lellis (1550 – 1614). Born in Italy, Camillus left a life of compulsive gambling and riotous living to become a servant of the sick and dying and eventually founded an order dedicated to that ministry. Serving the sick during the time of the Plague often meant putting one’s own life in jeopardy, and the willingness of Camillus and his order to do that made the commonly heard phrase, “To serve the sick, even with danger to one’s own life,” became a fourth vow of the order.

You can read more about the Camillians at their website. One interesting fact is the large red cross that Camillus chose to put on their black cassocks was the original “red cross,” a symbol we now associate with care for those in great need.

Our unwillingness to talk about death was brought to my attention yesterday in a piece on the Huff Post Religion Blog by Travis Reed that highlighted Stanley Hauerwas and his video series, “Living with Death.” A prominent theologian, Hauerwas contends that just what those in Medieval Europe feared was what we want: a sudden death. Those in Medieval times wanted to know they were dying so they could make peace with their family, friends, church, and God. Hauerwas thinks that modern folks fear death more than God and work hard to avoid dealing with it.

He raises interesting questions. While life is surely a gift to be celebrated and safe guarded, death is also a gift. At least that is what St. Francis thought, calling it “sister death.” More recently, Henri Nouwen wrote a wonderful book, “Our Greatest Gift,” that is a meditation on dying and caring for the dying. Many books dealing with this issue are available, but the words of my old friend echo in my head. No one wants to talk about death, especially to those who are dying.

I include here the video clip of Stanley Hauerwas. It is thought provoking, no matter our thoughts about the subject. While I would not want to embrace an image of an angry, vengeful God who needs appeased before I die, as those in Camillus’ time might have had, I do see the value in wanting time to prepare for our final act on earth.

Of course, all our life is preparation, filled with “little deaths” that present opportunities to prepare for or physical death. And living life well and full is a preparation, too. As Mary Oliver says in her poem When Death Comes:

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder/if I have made of my life something particular, and real./I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,/ or full of argument./

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

Life and death. Inseparable mysteries. Gifts.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “You’re a natural contemplative,” a priest/friend once told me in high school. A few months before, I wouldn’t have known what he meant. Raised Catholic and having attending Catholic schools from the start, one might have imagined I would have already learned about the rich tradition of contemplative prayer in the the Church. No. Perhaps at that time, such knowledge was deemed unsuitable for the person in the pew. Or perhaps the diocesan clergy were not practicing contemplatives themselves: You can’t give what you don’t have.

A community of Carmelite nuns, opening their doors to those hungering for something deeper, gifted me with vocabulary and understanding of what I had been drawn to since a child: a quiet way of prayer that was simply part of who I was. They also provided a place where I could come and, well, pray. Sitting in the quiet chapel for a half hour before Mass, just aware of being with others in the Presence of God, was one of the most life-giving times of the week during those years.

Through my Carmelite friends I learned of Sts. Theresa of Avila and John of the Cross. I learned that meditation was not the property of Eastern philosophies and religions that many of my friends had looked to for something beyond rote prayers taught in most Catholic schools. And once given words for my way of being prayerful, I found more “teachers” in literature on the topic of contemplative prayer.

The writings of Thomas Merton and Dorothy Day spoke to my heart. I gobbled up what I could find. Who knew? Madeleine L’Engle, beloved author of of young adult literature I read to my fourth grade students, was also drawn to comtemplative prayer and had written books that explored it in her life. And of course there are the poets.

L’Engle’s books introduced me to some metaphysical poets: George Herbert, HEnry Vaughan, Thomas Traherne. The great but unsung modern Carmelite poet, Jessica Powers is one who feeds my soul as does Mary Oliver.

The list goes on, and grows, and becomes more inclusive. But today, on the feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, I remember those who opened the doors for me. I treasure the friendship of one Carmelite friend particularly. To this day, when I need to weep or to delve into the meaning of Hebrew words, she is the one I call. Thank you.

And Happy Feast Day!