PHOTO: Mary van Balen I slipped into the pew a little late and noticed the lovely palm branches. Some people held them in their hands, some had laid them on the seat behind them. A few secured them with the hat clips on the pew backs, relics of days when hats were ordinary attire for men. They were not the long slender palm buds that my father had woven into crosses or interesting cone shapes when I was a child. These were the dark green leaves of the Emerald Palm and this was first time I had seen them.

As the familiar passion story was proclaimed, my mind wandered. When the story told of Jesus standing before the high priest, I thought of people today, standing in a court room, perhaps with families and supporters attending; perhaps the accused were alone. What dread fills their hearts? Remorse for the guilty ones? Anger for those wrongly accused? What fear for those who love them?

I thought of the emotions of those gathered in support of Travon Martin’s parents in Miami. Thousands gathered. I wondered about the family and friends of George Zimmerman in the face of a growing movement and escalating tensions across the country. I thought of all those in our prison system. I thought of the obscurity of most of their cases. And I thought of Jesus.

Who could have imagined, in his day, that this drama played out in a garden, a courtyard, a place of execution, would become what I imagine is the most told story in human history? A first century preacher, betrayed by friends, given over to authorities motivated in part by fear, ambition, and ignorance is an unlikely hero.

I listened as the story continued. I thought of those fighting other battles, suffering other indignities and injustices. “Everyone struggles with something that can strangle the spirit if not the body. Most of them I will never know. Most stories do not extend beyond family and intimates.”

So, what comfort the passion story? Jesus has walked in our shoes or sandals. His bare feet were cut and bruised by life and death. God knows our plight. God shared it then. God shares it now. The comfort? We have a companion on our journey who understands how pain and suffering transform as much as love and joy. Perhaps more. We haver a companion who has walked the path and knows it ends, not it death, but in life. When we see only darkness, our Companion reminds of that light will come. Has come. Sometimes, Jesus even lends us his eyes to see. What counts is the journey and what happens to us along the way.

I slip out of the pew early to drive to work as so many do, even on this holy day. On my way out of church, I take a palm leaf from the basket by the main aisle. I will be busy today with people walking their journeys. My prayer is to reflect our Companion’s hope and compassion. To be green with life, like the palm in my hand.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen “This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready/to break my heart/ as the sun rises,/ as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers/ and they open— / pools of lace,/white and pink…”

from “Peonies” by Mary Oliver

Spring has come early this year. Dogwoods that bloom on Mothers’ Day are already holding crowns of pink and white blossoms. Magnolia flowers have come and gone weeks ago along with crocuses, snowdrops, and grape hyacinths. The May flowers are here now, and the earth, soft and fragrant, calls out to be opened and trusted with seedlings and plants.

Still, I am cautious. I have seen 13″ of snow in April. Yet, this spring feels like it is here to stay. I could not resist and I planted some peonies from my parent’s home. I have the perfect place: A long strip of ground running along the south side of my brick flat. I pulled fistfuls of weeds to make room. The earth gave them up easily, having softened in rains and warm days. Using a borrowed shovel, I turned up a patch of ground large enough to hold the plants, just a few inches high.

Now I wait. I don’t know if they will bloom this year, having been moved from their fifty-year old place between our family home and the neighbors to the north. Maybe they will spend a year keeping memories of blossoms bowing down from sheer weight of their delicate pink lace and deep red silk. Maybe they, too, need time to grieve the passing of an era. No matter. I will wait with them, finding memory and promise in the green and red stems, the deeply notched leaves.

One day, I will gather their blooms, as when I was a child looking for something beautiful to place at our homemade May altar. Mary, I was sure, would savor the glorious explosion of petals and fragrance as I did

London School of Economics crest Yesterday I walked a couple of blocks to the local parish’s Lenten fish fry. My sister had recommended it saying the fish was good and the people friendly. My refrigerator was empty and enjoying at least one Lenten fish fry sounded like a good idea.

On my way to the stone church hall, I passed patches of bluets splattered beneath huge trees hung with swelling buds. A close look at harshly trimmed shrubbery growing along stuccoed walls that separated high priced condos from the ordinary sidewalk revealed honeysuckle in bloom. Brave, those flowers, or naive: What of a sudden burst of winter? We have had them before, in April. Winter, denied, shows up for one final display reminding us it can come if it wants to. As I walked, scents of spring filled the air, mingled with birdsong, and I hoped winter would stay where it has hidden these past few months and save its bluster for next year.

The line at the parish hall was long…out the door, donw the entrance steps and into the parking lot. I stood behind a couple who were chatting with friends who had already eaten their fill. Children played at movie making in an area behind the rectory garage: “Take two!,” one shouted at the others, and a young girl posed, looking like she was preparing to sing.

I looked at the sweatshirt of the man in front of me. It was green and emblazoned with an unfamiliar crest: A beaver, old books, and a scrolled banner that read:Rerum cognoscere causas. I studied it and pulled on five years of Latin to translate.I came close: To know the causes of things. As a way of starting conversation, I asked the gentleman where the sweatshirt came from. “The London School of Economics,” he replied. “Our daughter goes there, but don’t ask me what the Latin means.”

“Actually, I think I have a pretty good idea,” I said, and shared my rusty translation. While his wife and I chatted, he called his daughter on his iPhone.

“You were close,” he said. “She said it means “To Understand the Causes of Things.”

The conversation continued. I learned their daughter was finishing her graduate year inin London, that Latin was not a favorite high school subject for him, and that they had moved into the neighborhood not too long ago. We carried our plates piled with delicious fried perch to a round table and joined two couples who were just finishing up. The two husbands had attended a car show, and their wives, happily, had not. We shared pleasant table talk, and I decided that if my work schedule permitted, I would return again before Easter.

On the walk home, I pondered the motto of the London School of Economics. Sometimes we can understand the causes of things. Science helps in that regard concerning physical phenomena. Yeast makes dough rise when I make bread; the spinning of the earth, its tilt and orbit contribute to our experience of light and darkness, changing seasons, and constellations marching across the sky.

The mild winter and untimely blooming of honeysuckle are another thing altogether. Some propose climate warming. Others argue continuation of natural cycles.

But what of other things? How does one understand the causes of violence in the world, or poetic genius, or longings of the heart? What about a God who enters into the very life she created? Or a God that suffers?
What about the sudden rupture of old heart wounds, or the inability to let go things that are harmful to our souls?

There are age old puzzles of doing what we don’t want to do and of evil, of what comes after death. There are immediate ones like why why I can never buy the right amount of groceries for one or why faith once fecund is dry as old bones.

I unlocked the side door and entered my kitchen, hung up my keys, and took a deep breath. Theology is sometimes referred to as “faith seeking understanding.” I guess it is the seeking that counts.

PHOTO: Syria Under Government Crackdown, Elizabeth Arrott public domain Seek the Lord while he is still to be found, call to him while he is still near. Let the wicked man abandon his way, the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn back to the Lord who will take pity on him, to our God who is rich in forgiving.
Mid-morning reading (Terce) Isaiah 55:6-7 © Universalis

Yesterday while at work, I caught a bit of television coverage of the continuing massacre in Syria. The video was heart wrenching: bodies of children, of families, huddled in death against blood-stained living room walls. I offered a prayer as I entered our fitting rooms to clean them out. On the other side of our department, I again checked on fitting rooms. The television there broadcast a different channel. This one showed a young woman, ecstatic over her game show winnings. People were cheering and the game show host was pleasant as ever.

I couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling that the juxtaposed visuals stirred in my soul. I felt slightly ill for the remainder of my shift and even on the drive home, the images stayed in my mind. Massacres have happened throughout history, but in this era of instant communication, disturbing images are flashed into our living rooms (and department stores) all day long. Bombardment with the world’s horrors can numb us to their reality, mixed as they are with the mishmash of media offerings.

What can a person do? I prayed for the victims, for the perpetrators, for those in powerful positions, that they might intervene to stop this senseless terror. But my prayer seems small and ineffectual in the face of evil. The rest of the world seems to roll right along, as the game show reminded me. The feeling is a bit like the astonished disbelief I feel while driving in the funeral entourage of a loved one and noticing that people are going about their routines. How can that be, when the world has suffered the loss of my beloved?

In today’s gospel, Jesus casts out a demon and is accused of doing so by the power of evil. Here we find the well-known response:‘Every kingdom divided against itself is heading for ruin, and a household divided against itself collapses.’ Jesus casts out evil with the power of God, of Good, of Compassion.

God’s presence alone can stop this unspeakable evil. How can we, can the leaders of the world, bring that Presence to bear? I don’t know. I write emails to government officials; I sign petitions. Today’s psalm from Terce reminds us that the Lord is still near, that God is rich in forgiving. So, I continue to offer my prayer, and try to bring that Presence to the people and places in my life. This seems futile, but today’s gospel ends with Jesus’ words: ‘He who is not with me is against me; and he who does not gather with me scatters.’

Perhaps enough small bits of Holy Compassion gathered together by people throughout the world will make a difference.

PHOTO: Syria Under Government Crackdown, Elizabeth Arrott public domain Seek the Lord while he is still to be found, call to him while he is still near. Let the wicked man abandon his way, the evil man his thoughts. Let him turn back to the Lord who will take pity on him, to our God who is rich in forgiving.
Mid-morning reading (Terce) Isaiah 55:6-7 © Universalis

Yesterday while at work, I caught a bit of television coverage of the continuing massacre in Syria. The video was heart wrenching: bodies of children, of families, huddled in death against blood-stained living room walls. I offered a prayer as I entered our fitting rooms to clean them out. On the other side of our department, I again checked on fitting rooms. The television there broadcast a different channel. This one showed a young woman, ecstatic over her game show winnings. People were cheering and the game show host was pleasant as ever.

I couldn’t shake the disquieting feeling that the juxtaposed visuals stirred in my soul. I felt slightly ill for the remainder of my shift and even on the drive home, the images stayed in my mind. Massacres have happened throughout history, but in this era of instant communication, disturbing images are flashed into our living rooms (and department stores) all day long. Bombardment with the world’s horrors can numb us to their reality, mixed as they are with the mishmash of media offerings.

What can a person do? I prayed for the victims, for the perpetrators, for those in powerful positions, that they might intervene to stop this senseless terror. But my prayer seems small and ineffectual in the face of evil. The rest of the world seems to roll right along, as the game show reminded me. The feeling is a bit like the astonished disbelief I feel while driving in the funeral entourage of a loved one and noticing that people are going about their routines. How can that be, when the world has suffered the loss of my beloved?

In today’s gospel, Jesus casts out a demon and is accused of doing so by the power of evil. Here we find the well-known response:‘Every kingdom divided against itself is heading for ruin, and a household divided against itself collapses.’ Jesus casts out evil with the power of God, of Good, of Compassion.

God’s presence alone can stop this unspeakable evil. How can we, can the leaders of the world, bring that Presence to bear? I don’t know. I write emails to government officials; I sign petitions. Today’s psalm from Terce reminds us that the Lord is still near, that God is rich in forgiving. So, I continue to offer my prayer, and try to bring that Presence to the people and places in my life. This seems futile, but today’s gospel ends with Jesus’ words: ‘He who is not with me is against me; and he who does not gather with me scatters.’

Perhaps enough small bits of Holy Compassion gathered together by people throughout the world will make a difference.

Like the Water-Wendell Berry

LIKE THE WATER
of a deep stream,
love is always
too much.
We did not make it.
Though we drink till we burst,
we cannot have it all,
or want it all.
In its abundance
it survives our thirst.
IN THE EVENING WE COME DOWN TO THE SHORE
to drink our fill,
and sleep,
while it flows
through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us,
except we keep returning to its rich waters
thirsty.
WE ENTER, WILLING TO DIE,
into the commonwealth of its joy.

Thoughts of thirst, water, and joy stay with me these days. I think I am thirsty for many things, but it mostly boils down to God.

I attended Mass with a friend this morning, for the first time in a couple of weeks. It felt wonderful. The readings brought forth images of a thirsty desert people drinking water gushing forth from a rock, and a Samaritan woman entranced by her conversation with an interesting Jewish man who promised to give her living water, water that would forever quench her thirst. Naturally, she was curious.

Dry myself, I sat in the pew and let the words soak me like rain. I loved hearing about the complaining people who reminded me of myself, wondering if they had come out into the desert to die. No, no. Love would not bring them that far only to allow them to perish from lack of water. No. For the beloved, water from a rock.

Or eavesdropping on a conversation between a thirsty Jesus and a woman who had a bucket to draw water from Jacob’s well. I could imagine holding a bucket up to my lips and taking long deep drafts of water that would slide down my throat and drip from my chin. An abundance of water.

The physical water would be good enough, but today I was inundated with the abundance of Love as well. The drink that slakes the longing for what is complete and whole. The Holy Mystery.

I gulped down the words and the sermon, delivered by an unusually gifted preacher. I felt the hands that held my own when we exchanged peace. I savored the host and relished the warmth of the wine. I rejoiced in reconnecting with a friend I hadn’t seen for over thirty years, and common friends that rejoiced in the reunion.

A friend and I shared homemade baba ghanouj and quinoa pilaf. We took a long walk along neighborhood streets soaking up sun and discovering a small park.

I called a friend at his monastery to see how he was doing. (Too much lifting at 90. He is tired out!)
My daughter and her friend came over bearing gifts of unbelievably delicious cup cakes made with lots of butter, cream, Baileys, Jameson, and Guinness in honor of St. Patrick, of course.

Love always IS too much. But today, I am luxuriating in its abundance and offering prayers of gratitude for the joy that it holds for us all.

PHOTO: Elizabeth van Balen Delphia – Bean Creek Funny how a piece of mail that arrived late could be just on time. Two weeks after the beginning of Lent, a one-page reflection on a program for the season appeared in my mailbox. Sent from the Benedictine Abbey in North Dakota, Assumption Abbey, it contained exactly what I needed to jump start my already waning efforts at keeping Lent. I had begun the season with a half-hearted intention to refrain from eating candy or desserts and a more sincere plan to regularly post Lenten blogs.

The candy and desserts fast was easily broken when I had dinner at a friend’s home and was served something sweet. Benedictine hospitality would see the dilemma and come down on the side of reverencing the host. Of course, after breaking the fast once, I could find lots of reasons, perhaps not so Benedictine, to indulge. There was the potluck at work to raise money for a summer food program for children. I had to taste a couple of the goodies. And then a coworker bought a Godiva raspberry filled dark chocolate bar and offered me a couple of squares. You get the picture.

I have been somewhat more successful with blog posts if I compare my success to the number of Advent posts, though they were so few that the victory is hollow. So what was my problem? Two weeks in, Lent was a bust and to be honest, I didn’t mind that much.

Then Brother Alban Petesch’s reflection was dropped in my mailbox. His suggestion that nurturing a sense of joy and gratitude is a Lenten practice hooked me , and I read on. He contrasted happiness and joy. Happiness , like ripples on the surface of a stream, can sparkle and shine, but comes and goes. Joy, on the other hand, is like the strong deep current that keeps the stream moving no matter what the surface shows.

Actually, I thought, the deep current CREATES the stream, doesn’t it? I mean, without that motion moving the water along you don’t have a stream. You have a pond or something else.

The image hit home. I have been struggling with happiness lately, or perhaps more accurately, with its fickle nature. I am fine, and then something happens (or doesn’t) and tears come and water the empty hole, amazingly heavy, that is lodged somewhere between my heart and my stomach. I say “water” because the thing seems to be growing.

That “deep down” current is what I am really longing for. It is God’s Presence within, no matter what is going on without. It is Spirit that creates me, like current makes the stream. I crave that Presence and not eating sweets isn’t helping.

Usually, the abiding sense of the Sacred, comes naturally to me. A gift, but not without cost. In her book, “Still,”Lauren Winner recalls a friend remarking on his wife’s similar natural receptiveness to God’s presence: “…to be naturally anything can make one not have to undergo the training necessary to make that which is immediate a habit” (102).

Lent is a time of training. Perhaps if I linked not eating a proffered delicacy with a prayer of gratitude, giving up sweets might help me feel the strong current pulling at my heart. Or maybe waking up each day and giving thanks, being present to those in my life and responding to their need rather than dwelling on my own would be enough. That’s a problem with happiness: It keeps one drowning in “self,” in past and future, abandoning the only reality – present.

I look at the amazing photograph my sister took one winter in Northwestern Ohio, and ponder these things. How many surface layers of that stream were frozen and caught on trees and plants along its bank? Over the winter months, the creek shrank, less water flowing, more given up to surface ice, going nowhere.

In the spring, the ice will melt and perhaps once again become part of the stream. Perhaps the solid pools of water will be sucked up by thirsty roots. Either way, Bean Creek keeps flowing. The deep down current does not die in winter. It courses on still, not visible perhaps, but keeping the waters alive.

In my winters, Presence abides, offering joy. Engendering hope. Calling forth gratitude. Happily, I still have four weeks of Lent to go!

Click “Works” tab to view my book Today is the feast of Saint Katharine Drexel, daughter of one of the wealthiest families in the United States in her lifetime. She was born in 1858 into the wealthy banking family, one of three daughters. When her father died, she, along with her sisters, inherited 90% of his fortune (He had tithed the rest to charitable organizations.)

Katharine shocked the world by founding an order to serve Black and Native Americans. While in some ways politically incorrect by today’s standards, she was a woman ahead of her time. She used her fortune to establish schools across the country, including Xavier University of Louisiana. Still in operation today, it was one of the first all black colleges and it trained many teachers who then worked in the schools Katharine founded.

Today, we can look at her example of using what she was given, both her natural talents, spiritual gifts, and monetary resources, for the common good. High society was scandalized by her choices and when she entered a religious order, her decision was front page news.

Almsgiving is a traditional Lenten discipline. Katharine’s life challenges us to take a deep look at our own. How do we use our gifts? How do we respond to the poor and marginalized of our time?

Katharine’s life story is interesting as is that of her family. Check out my biography of Katharine and other resources to learn more about her journey.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen I didn’t know the aftermath of divorce would be so difficult, just like I didn’t know my marriage would be untenable. It isn’t what I miss. Surely the good that came of the marriage took root and lives. And of course there are my grown children. No, it is not the missing. It is the acceptance of who I am and where I am that is the struggle.

As the Carmelite poet, Jessica Powers writes in her poem, “To Live with the Spirit,” I am learning to be a listener. Throughout my life I have tried to be a listener to the God Within, so perhaps a more accurate account of my present journey is learning to be a better listener: One who trusts, one who is more comfortable with silence.

Psalm 62, from today’s Morning Prayer, comes at this same truth from another angle: “In God alone be at rest, my soul, for my hope is from her…Trust God at all times, O people. Pour out your hearts before him, for God is our refuge…”

Jessica Powers writes that the soul who lives with the Spirit “…walks in waylessness, unknowing;/it has cast down forever from its hand/the compass of the wither and the why…”

That’s my problem. I want to know the “wither and the why.” I want to know where my books are going (or not). I want to know why I work at a job that makes involvement in other regular activities impossible. I want to know how long. I want to know just where this path is taking me anyway. At the moment, I can’t see very far ahead. I want to know because in the answers I look for validation, for purpose.

I have more to learn about being a listener. Perhaps that fact is precisely why I am in the places I am. But there I go again, wanting to know the “why.”

I am not proposing that one do nothing, no planning, no job searching, no writing or sending out manuscripts. Still, in the midst of working and the activities of our daily lives, the Spirit is speaking.

Lent reminds me to listen. And to trust.