PHOTO: NASA
The heavens declare the glory of God;
the sky proclaims its builder’s craft.
One day to the next conveys that message;
one night to the next imparts that knowledge.
There is no word or sound,
no voice is heard;
Yet their report goes forth through all the earth,
There message, to the ends of the world.
Psalm 19, 2-5

What profound beauty fills the cosmos. We are blessed to “see” some of it with the help of scientists, astronauts, and engineers. The Hubble Telescope sends back exquisite photographs of a universe still in process. God’s creation continues and we are granted a look deep into its past.

What wonders quietly unfold at every moment? How often am I aware of them? How often do I gaze into the night sky or wake to the glory of morning light? Such constant miracles: our planet, the furthest reaches of space, the subatomic world! Without a sound they proclaim God’s glory and generous love.

I will take time to stand still and rejoice in the mystery of it. I join my song to the silent song of the cosmos and give thanks.
© 2010 Mary van Balen
PHOTO: NASA

PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN
You who dwell in the shelter of the Most High,
who abide in the shadow of the Almighty,
Say to the Lord, “My refuge and fortress,
my God in whom I trust.”
God will rescue you from the fowler’s snare,
from the destroying plague,
Will shelter you with pinions,
spread wings that you may take refuge;
God’s faithfulness is a protecting shield…

All who call upon me I will answer;
I will be with them in distress;
I will deliver them and give them honor..
Psalm 91, 1-4; 14-16

“Momma,” said a shaky voice on the telephone, “I am sick.”

No matter how far away they live or how mature my children are, when they are sick, they call their mother. Not that I can do anything physically for them. The daughter who owns this morning’s voice studies nine or ten hours from my home. Still, a mother’s voice is comforting. She may advise the sick one to take her temperature or to find someone to buy coke and chicken broth, what is most needed is knowledge of her momma’s presence and love.

While expressing the gamut of human emotions, the Psalms offer to us such knowledge of God. Today’s psalm reassures us that no matter where we are or what difficulties we face, God’s Presence and love are with us. Like a mother of a sick child, like a hen gathering her chicks, God shelters us under the divine wing.

My problem is trusting that. In the midst of uncertainty or suffering, when my children are struggling, when the world seems especially dark, believing in God’s protecting presence is not easy. I don’t see any solutions on the horizon. When I am wrestling with late night demons and can’t get to sleep, praying this psalm reminds me that answers are not my purview. I do my best, but in the end, I have to wait, and trust God loves me, my children, and this world, and will not let any of them be lost.

Reading these words is a little like my daughter calling me this morning and telling me she was sick. She knew she would have to resist the desire to gulp down a glass of water after a night of throwing up; she knew she would need to rest so her body could heal, but telling her mother, and knowing she cared, just hearing her voice, made the illness more bearable and her return to health seem more likely. Darkness is not so bleak and dawn not so far away when someone is waiting with you.

My prayer today is for trust in God’s protecting Presence. Like an infant trusts the adults in her live to take care of her, I want to trust God taking care of me, my family, and the world in which we live.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN

After this he went out and saw a tax collector named Levi sitting at the customs post. he said to him, “follow me.” And leaving everything behind, he got up and followed him. Then Levi gave a great banquet for him in his house, ad a large crowd of tax collectors and others were at table with them. Luke 5, 27-29

Yesterday’s reading spoke of fasting. Today’s gospel tells of the tax collector, Levi, leaving everything behind to respond to Jesus’ call, and the first thing Levi did was throw a party and invite all his friends to meet and hear Jesus. To the Pharisee’s consternation, Jesus attended. I imagine he enjoyed himself. He was not one to avoid celebrations. As recounted in Scripture, his public ministry began with a miracle providing wine when the bridal couple’s store was running low.
The image that comes alive in my mind as I read this gospel is that of Jesus sitting with what we might call “riff-raff.” Tax collectors often came from questionable populations because no self-respecting Jew would work for the occupying Romans. Who were Levi’s friends? What did they do for a living? According the the Pharisees who happened by, the group was made up of sinners.

I picture a few well-dressed, proper religious leaders, uncomfortable with their proximity to the unclean and undesirable, thinking they had Jesus bested this time. What would a true teacher or rabbi be doing eating in such a place where dietary purity laws were surely ignored?

As stiff and self-righteous as they were, Jesus, I think, would be relaxed, smiling, and enjoying the meal and conversation which he would steer artfully into a discussion of his passion: the kingdom of God, present and available to all.

Jesus loved people and he loved the world. He ate and drank and enjoyed the wonder of creation. Lenten fasting is not meant to be a sign of disdain for the fruits of the earth. It provides us with a time to reflect on proper use and enjoyment of what God has given.

We can look to material things, good in themselves, to fill us up. We can indulge to excess, mindlessly consuming food and everything else. Or, we can enter fully into life and its goodness, finding in it a way to encounter the One Who Created All. The variety of people who attended Levi’s banquet enjoyed food and drink, but they did not come to be gluttonous. They came to share a meal with an amazing teacher who changed the heart of their friend. They came to meet Jesus and listen to what he had to say.

The sinners’ hearts were likely more open to receive than those of the judgmental Pharisees.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PAINTING ON CANVASS BAG: RICHARD DURATE BROWN
Is this the manner of fasiting I wish,
of keeping a day of penance:
That one bow his head like a reed,
and lie in sackcloth and ashes?
Do you call this a fast,
a day acceptable to the Lord?
This, rather, is the fasting that I wish:
realeasing those bound unjustly,
untying the thongs of the yoke;
Setting free the oppressed,
breaking every yoke;
Sharing your bread with the hungry,
sheltering the oppressed and the homeless;
Clothing the naked when you see them,
and not turning your back on your own.
Is 58, 5-7

Fasting desired by the Holy One is more demanding than giving up chocolate, texting, or movies. While the author of this section of Isaiah carries on the theme of social justice central to the earlier chapters of the book, he goes further, challenging us to expand our vision of just WHO is “our own.”

I can read the list of requirements of fasting that is pleasing to God and still maintain my distance from those I treat as “other.” I can drop money in a collection for Haiti or take used clothing to a local Saint Vincent de Paul shop and still not recognize and embrace the “others” closer to home.

This reading calls out to me to consider who are “my own,” and how I turn my back on them. The author of today’s OT reading proclaimed to his audience that salvation was open to all and that all are God’s beloved. (Is 56) That means everyone is “my own.” The gay man down the street, the transsexual at work, the popular crowd that makes life unbearable at school, the irritating neighbor, the homeless people on the streets of my own city. The list is endless.

Today’s reading doesn’t suggest I should not give alms or volunteer. Those are good things, but there is more to do. Lent reminds me that actions alone are not enough. It was not enough for the Israelites to participate in cultic rites and fasting. The Holy One was calling them to conversion of heart. They had to come to know that those suffering were “their own,” and when anyone is oppressed, all are oppressed.

The Compassionate One is asking me to share in her Great Heart, to reflect on how my life style contributes to injustice, to increase my awareness of the poor, and yes, those who have no access to health care or decent housing in this country of abundance. I am called to understand that in God’s eyes, no one is “other.” No one is special. No one is less.

Giving up chocolate was a lot easier.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

IMAGE FROM Rhodes Jewish Museum

Blessed is the one who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
nor stands in the way of sinners,
nor sits in the seat of scoffers.
but whose delight is in the law of the Lord,
and who meditates on God’s law day and night
Psalm 1, 1-2

What comes to mind when you hear the word “law?” Traffic regulations? Tomes of legal statutes? Rules that you cannot break without suffering consequences? Laws, unless changed by legislation or edict, are static and guide individual and societal behavior.

Such definitions come quickly to a modern, western mind, but not to an ancient Hebrew one. To them, law (or Torah) was given by God not only to regulate their behavior, but also to help them become a wise people. (see Dictionary of Biblical Theology by Xavier Leon Dufour)

The Law was not static, but developed as Hebrew history unfolded. By the time the Israelites had returned from Exile and the Psalms were written, “law” was equated with “Wisdom,” and to love the Law was to love God.

It is in that spirit that I read today’s Psalm. I cannot imagine meditating on a long, dry list of rules and regulations, but I can imagine spending time, especially during Lent, reading deeply Scripture, the living Word, which draws me into a conversation with the Holy One. If I approach Scripture with an open heart and a quiet mind, Wisdom can reveal herself to me right where I am: Lent 2010. With all its complications and challenges, its joys and sorrows.

The great, ancient prayer of Lectio Divina, often connected with the Benedictine tradition, though universal in its appeal, is a good way to approach Scripture this season. Meditate on it, carry it in your heart, and be still to hear Wisdom speaking in your deepest center.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN

“…Behold, thou desirest truth in the inward being;
therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart.
Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.
Fill me with joy and gladness…
Psalm 51, 6-8a

Today begins the ancient season of Lent. While it is often connected with “giving up something,” the next forty days are more than a time to lose weight by not eating sugar. It is a time to deepen one’s relationship with God by reflecting on what separates us from intimacy with the Holy One.

I love Psalm 51 and it’s statement of the Divine desire for Truth to fill our inmost being. To be filled with God’s Truth is to be filled with Compassionate Love, for ourselves and for all. How can this happen? How does one grow in the ability to hold God’s Presence within?

While giving up candy or too much television may be good things, they are good not because candy or television is innately “bad,” but because they can give us the illusion of filling up the emptiness placed in our deepest center, the emptiness that can be filled only by the Holy One.

What speaks to me in this section of Psalm 51 are the words: “Therefore, teach me wisdom in my secret heart.”

In order to receive this gift of Wisdom, my heart must be receptive. I must be aware of existing in the Holy Embrace, undistracted, present to the moment where God and I both reside.

That is the challenge of Lent for me: To spend time with this greatest Lover, time to repent of habits and preoccupations that keep me from opening my heart and receiving the Gift so faithfully given.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTOS: MARY VAN BALEN
After the third snowstorm in as many weeks, I am receiving emails from friends who say, “Enough is enough!” One, who knows how much I love snowy winters, suggested I go around town, gather up the white stuff and haul it to Minnesota where I happily spent last year.

When Vancouver is getting rain while children in the usually slushy midwest are building their third or fourth snow man, I am sure climate change is at work. But for those who would will winter away, I have but one thing to say: Savor the gifts of the season.

“Winter gifts,” you say?
1. TIME: Take advantage of those closings that scroll across the bottom of your TV screen. When you are unable to attend some activity on your schedule, don’t bemoan the change of plans. Dust off the book or magazine you have not had time to read. Write a letter. Bake cookies with the kids. Build a fire in the fireplace, sit in front of it, and do nothing. Take a nap. Look at cancellations or slick roads not as an inconvenience, but as a gift of time.

2. BEAUTY: Even if you hate the white stuff, you have to admit that it transforms everything it covers. The trash you still have to haul to the back is no longer an eye sore; it is a mound of pure white. Unkempt gardens, remnants of last fall’s leaves, anything that is less than lovely when in view becomes a freeform sculpture. And what about a bird perched on tree branch, shrubs and red berries with tall white caps, evergreen branches drooping with loads of snow looking like they came right off a Christmas card? As Pete Seeger sings in his 1964 song “Snow, Snow” even barbed-wire is beautiful in snow.

3. QUIET: Have you ever noticed how snow muffles sound? Step outside and listen to the quiet. Fewer cars, fewer people, and what noise remains, even grating, irritating noise, is muted.

4. PLAY: When temperatures are moderately cold, snow offers a chance to play. Getting past interia and thoughts of unbearable cold is the hard part. Once you put on boots, coat, hat, and gloves and step out into the weather, you may be surprised to discover that human beings can function just fine on a winter day. build a snowman or be creative and try something else. My brother’s last work of snow art was a five foot squirrel! Do children live near-by? Grandchildren visiting? Have them join in the fun.

Go sledding or for something gentler, take a long walk. Front lawns are like galleries. Instead of tacky plastic snowmen (and women), you will see the real thing.

5. FOOD: What is better than a warm cup of hot chocolate and a plate of cookies on a cold day? Maybe with a splash of Bailey’s. Steaming cups of coffee or tea spiked with something alcoholic for those so inclined. Comfort food tastes even better when munched while looking over a moonlit snowscape.

I can hear the protests. My mailbox may fill up with objections. But I still say, snow is here weather you like it or not. Instead of grumbling, enjoy it’s gifts.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

LINKS: Ted Kooser Home Page
NPR Ted Kooser Shares the Poetry of Valentine’s Day

One afternoon, I heard a story on NPR about a small town post office in Valentine, Nebraska where a kind-hearted and patient woman hand-stamped their unique postmark on thousands of envelopes filled with the holiday greeting. I listened, heartened to know that such things still happen in a modern world filled with people in a hurry. The woman interviewed said she enjoyed her job and had time to add the arrow-pierced heart to anyone’s valentine who took the trouble to get it to her office. Apparently, people from all over the country did just that. I went about my work that day with a smile.

Months later, I attended a writers’ conference where poet Ted Kooser delivered the keynote address which, much to his audience’s delight, he embellished with readings of his poetry. He read one written for Valentine’s Day and then shared his tradition of sending out valentines to people all over the country. The project began simply as writing a poem for his wife, and then later, sharing it with other friends. At readings, including ours, he offered those attending the opportunity to sign up for the special cards.

“Just find me and give me a copy of your address,” he said. I wrote down my address and that of one of my daughters, a poet herself, and handed the small piece of paper to Mr. Kooser at lunch. He smiled and graciously promised a Valentine when February came around.

I watched him slide the paper into his sport jacket pocket and hoped it would not get lost in his travels. Months went by and as Valentine’s Dap approached, I wondered if my two addresses had found their way onto his mailing list. If not, I would understand, I thought, preparing for disappointment.

Then, on February 14, a small white postcard appeared in my mailbox. A big, red postmark grabbed my attention: Valentine Nebraska! Of course. Ted Kooser lives in Nebraska. I remembered the NPR story and the sweet woman in the little Nebraska post office. My postcard was one of thousands she stamped that year, and Ted Kooser made sure his valentines landed on her desk before one of them sailed into my mailbox.

THIS PAPER BOAT

Carefully placed upon the future,
it tips from the breeze and skims away,
frail thing of words, this valentine,
so far to sail. And if you find it
caught in the reeds, its message blurred,
the thought that you are holding it
a moment is enough for me.

Number 22, and the last of the series.
Ted Kooser, Valentine’s Day, 2007
© 2010 Mary van Balen

LINKS: “Delights and Shadows” by Ted Kooser Home Page Ted Kooser’s Official Website “I’m In Charge of Celebrations”

PHOTOS: MARY VAN BALEN
“He has a fish house on the lake behind the Abbey and goes out there, drinks tea and reads poetry. He welcomes visitors. Once he invited the Queen of England when she was in the States, but she sent her regrets, saying she was “devastated” that she could not come.”

My heart beat faster, and as Byrd Baylor says in her book, “I’m in Charge of Celebrations,” I knew tea in this monk’s fish house would be an experience worthy of anniversary remembrances.

The comment was part of general conversation at my daughter’s college graduation party. Friends gathered to mark the occasion, and while discussing unique aspects of studying at a university connected with community of Benedictine monks in rural Minnesota, a professor mentioned the fish house.

I plied the speaker with questions, hungry for more details. First, there was the matter of learning what a fish house looked like. I had visions of an old oriental carpet laid directly on the ice. What about the hole for fishing? Would that be there? Did he plumb the waters as well as verse? And how did he make tea on a frozen lake without melting something important, like the floor?

My questions were answered patiently, Minnesotan to clueless but curious creature from warmer climes. I hung on every word, both excited and resigned to a life that likely would not include enjoying the opportunity also regrettably missed by HRH Queen Elizabeth.

Six years later, while at the Collegeville Institute, I was riding into town with Br. Wilfred, the Institute’s liaison to the Abbey. As we passed frozen lakes dotted with fish houses on either side of the road, I remembered the graduation party conversation.

“I once heard that a monk here had a fish house where he went to have tea and read poetry. Is that true?”

“Oh, yes,” Wilfred said with a smile. “That would be Br. Paul. He once invited the Queen of England, you know.”

My heart beat faster. “Is he still living?”

Wilfred laughed. “Yes. He’s not that old really; he works at the library. Every winter when the ice is thick enough, he pulls the fish house onto the lake.”

“Wilfred,” I said earnestly, “could you finagle an invitation for me? Ever since I heard about tea in the fish house, I have wanted to go.”

Wilfred chuckled again. Perhaps at my eagerness. Perhaps at my plea for “finagling.” The monks, true to Benedictine values, were hospitable and approachable, and any day after prayer I could have asked Br. Paul myself if I had known which one he was.

“Oh, you will get a chance to go. Every year he invites the Institute scholars out for tea. He’ll send an email.”

I sat back in the seat and smiled. I was going to meet Br. Paul and share tea in his fish house!

Wilfred was right. An email soon appeared inviting scholars for tea. The invitation included a schedule of possible dates and times, a map, and encouragement to bring poetry to share. On February 13, carrying a camera and book of Ted Kooser’s poetry in my bright yellow Thai monk’s bag, I joined two others and we began our trek to the fish house.

Andu, an Ethiopian scholar, was uncertain about the prospect of walking on a frozen lake. Lois and I, usually up for any adventure, had no qualms. We drove as far as we could, parked the car and walked a short distance through snow-covered woods to the lake’s edge.

In the distance we saw a small plywood hut raised slightly over the ice by what appeared to be long boards resting on six sets of wooden blocks spaced along the two longer sides. Paul appeared outside and walked toward us, smiling and waving as he came.
Over the past week, air temperatures had risen above freezing a few of times, and the ice was brittle where it had melted and refrozen over small pockets of air. Andu’s face registered horror as he took a couple of steps and heard crackling sounds as his feet broke through the thin top layer and sank a centimeter or two before coming to rest on solid ice. Paul reassured him and we laughed as we made our way to fish house.

The front had a door and small window that closed with glass and a shutter. I later learned that the two windows, one in front and one in back, were used to regulate the temperature in a rudimentary way: When the room was too hot, they were opened; when the inside became cold, they were closed.

Paul opened the door and warmth and smell of burning wood welcomed us. In the right back corner that was lined with metal printing plates sat the smallest wood burner I have ever seen. A few chairs, a bench, and a table draped with a red cloth and set with white teacups, silver ware, and bowls of nuts and cookies filled the remaining space.

The afternoon passed pleasantly. Paul, meticulous about brewing tea (The Queen would have approved.), filled the teapot with hot water from a kettle that sat on top of the little stove, swirled it around and once the pot was warmed, tossed the water out the back window. He then poured boiling water over loose tea, timed its steeping with a gold stopwatch, and filled our cups with steaming Earl Grey.

We ate nuts and cookies as conversation turned to St. Benedict and his Rule.
The monks’ promise of conversion of life moved me. Isn’t that what we are all called to do? To be open to change, to growing and deepening in our experience and understanding of God and what that demands of us? The Benedictine does that in the context of the community to which he or she belongs.

When a Benedictine monk advises one to take the “long view,” he is speaking from experience. The Benedictine “Order” is ancient, predating any others and its members can view the slow evolution of Church doctrine and organization as well as political and environmental issues with patience borne of immersion in an institutional memory spanning fourteen hundred years. The Benedictines have a unique structure. Sometimes called “the Order without order,” each Abbey is autonomous and links with all others in a loosely connected federation, really not an order in the canonical sense.

“We are pretty much left alone by bishops and the Vatican. They don’t know what to do with us,” Paul joked. It sounded like a good position to me.

We moved on to talk about Icelandic epic poetry and illustrations from the Edda that formed a border around the top of the walls just below the ceiling. Years ago, when he arrived at the Abbey, Br. Paul asked a literature professor for an Icelandic grammar and had taught himself the language to read Icelandic poetry.

Then we shared the poems we had brought. Lois brought one she had written about her deaf mother and growing up in a large Mennonite family. I read Ted Kooser’s poem, “A Box of Pastels,” reflecting on the wonder of holding Mary Cassatt’s pastels in his hand. His poetry reveals the sacredness of quotidian, and our afternoon in the fish house was surely a sacrament of the ordinary. Andu had not brought a poem. Instead, he stood and swayed gently, moving his hands as he sang an ancient Ethiopian hymn in its unique cadence and mode.

Paul pointed to a paper hung on the wall: a poem written by a friend who had visited the fish house years ago. We talked about the picture of Queen Elizabeth that gazed at us from her perch over the door and about other visitors who had shared tea in this room.

Time passed quickly. Evening Mass was fast approaching. Paul insisted on doing the clean-up. A wilderness backpacker, he would bundle up everything, tie it onto his orange plastic sled, and pull it back up to the Abbey. Lois, Andu, and I returned in high spirits and joined the others at Mass. This time, I had no trouble spotting the monk with the fish house. We exchanged smiles across the sanctuary as we had across the table at tea: both holy places… both places to celebrate the Sacred in our midst.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN
My world is more chaotic than usual. I am still looking for a job, throwing my net wide. The move from one home to another is not complete, and early this week, my father was taken to the hospital. Along with my brothers and sisters, I have been spending time there, talking with doctors, holding dad’s hand, and keeping other family informed. This morning I woke at 5am, overwhelmed with thoughts of preparations to bring dad home and writing tasks left undone. My agitated spirit reminded me that I had not spent time with Lectio for the past few days either.

I dressed and settled at the dining room table. The empty house was quiet and as I began to sing “Come Holy Ghost,” tension began to ebb away. I opened my small black Bible and began reading slowly to find my “Word.”

The Spirit hovered over the chaos.
© 2010 Mary van Balen