Mary van Balen

May 5, 2020 By Mary van Balen 10 Comments

Liberation Day and Inspiration from WWII

“Food, Peace, Freedom” Commemorative Plaque 1945, Delft

Yesterday I received an email from a cousin in the Netherlands telling me about two special days observed in her country, yesterday and today: Day of Remembrance (May 4) and Liberation Day (May 5). The first honors those who gave their lives during WWII. The second celebrates the end of German occupation of Holland and the end of the war.

In her email, she shared stories of her mother and father’s work during those dark days. Her mother helped bring hungry children from the city to Friesland (a northern province of the Netherlands) where the farmers had food and people were happy to provide shelter and nourishment to the youngsters. Her father helped collect guns, air dropped in nearby fields, to be used by the Dutch resistance. He and his comrades carried messages by bicycle- with wooden wheels- to those in the resistance. (Bicycles were forbidden, so just having one was dangerous.) All this was done on moonless nights to avoid being discovered.

Today, the people of the Netherlands will remember the Allied Forces that brought the war to an end and the GIs who rescued the “hungry and exhausted people of Holland.”

She also remembered my father, who joined in a flight that was part of Operation Chowhound/Manna dropping food to the starving Dutch people. He was stationed in England, an Intelligence officer, but went on the mission because his father was a Dutch immigrant with a large family remaining in the Netherlands.

Decades later, a Dutch couple appeared at my parents’ door. They brought a brass flare that had been used to light up the field where food was dropped near their home. It was a gift to Dad, a “Thank You.”

I have a Delft plaque that memorializes that food drop. Looking at it now, I pause, remember, and give thanks for the self-giving of so many.

Life brings unexpected challenges. For my parents’ generation, WWII called them to great sacrifice, making the world a safer place for generations to come.

For us today, the great challenge is the pandemic. The first call is for us to do our part in stopping the spread of COVID-19 starting with quarantine, social distancing, and wearing face masks. But a bigger challenge will remain after a vaccine is found and the people of the world are able to move about more safely. Like WWII, the coronavirus will require people and countries around the world to work together. But instead of fighting to end the scourge of Nazism, our struggle is to change the way human beings live on this planet.

We must find ways to respect the earth and live without destroying it. We must find ways to live as a global family, not as warring tribes.

Remembering, along with my cousin, the sacrifices made by our parents has awakened a deep appreciation for the example they have given us: the courage to hope at a time when what needs done seems impossible; the willingness to sacrifice for the good of others, and the strength to go on when all seems lost.

Today, commitment to the common good is lacking in the hearts of many who, instead, hold on to a sense of privilege and of the value of working for self interests rather than for what is best for all. The uneven response in the U.S. to this pandemic and the clinging to an illusion of rugged independence with little regard for “the other” is evidence of such a mindset.

Mindful of the demands WWII placed on people of the world, I listen in disbelief to protestors today who cry that their rights are being trampled when they are told to wear a face mask. Wearing a face mask in public to protect others and combat this virus is too much to do? Really? A friend suggested that perhaps they don’t understand the importance of that simple action. Perhaps. I hope they catch on soon.

Our challenge is overwhelming. It’s about creating a new, sustainable way of being with one another and with the earth. Different than what faced those in WWII, the response must also be different. The way forward needs to be one of peaceful cooperation, not war. It seems impossible.

Now, when I look at that Delft plaque, it will be a source of inspiration to move ahead and not only of remembrance. It will encourage resolve to continue the legacy of those who worked together for a common purpose. As we begin the long process of change, I’ll draw hope from their hope. And love from their love.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: climate change, Common Good, cooperation, justice, Liberation Day, Response to COVID-19, WWII

April 22, 2020 By Mary van Balen 14 Comments

Sunday Prayer: A Mindful Loaf

Sunday, I decided, was the perfect day to use some of my precious yeast and flour to make a single loaf of bread – the day Christians set aside to gather and remember God’s great gift of self, given and shared with all creation. Baking would be my prayer.

My old Tassajara Bread book’s cover is stained and bent, but its respect for the ingredients and the nourishment of body and spirit as well as its slow, mindful approach was perfect for my prayer – of course it would be. The book’s author was a young Zen student, later Zen priest, at the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, Edward Espe Brown.

Strains of Holst’s The Planets filled my little kitchen with a sense of the cosmos and my small place in it. I gathered the ingredients and, lighting a beeswax candle, took a few quiet moments to remember that, as always, I was in the presence of the Holy One whose Love and Breath is the Source of all that is. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Begin.

The first step was making the sponge – something Tassajara introduced into my vocabulary. This stage gives yeast time to grow, uninhibited by the salt added later. As the sponge rises, gluten is formed; that makes kneading easier. I poured warm water into a large bowl. Sprinkling yeast on the water, I marveled at the tiny grains that would come to life and make my bread rise. Simply by being itself, the yeast would move a pound or two of heavy, dense dough.

May I be myself, moving the world forward ever so slightly, by giving the gifts and Love entrusted to me to share.

I stirred in a little honey to give the yeast something to feed on, added flour, mixed, and then set it aside to rise for an hour, covering the bowl with a damp towel—carefully chosen—printed with illustrations of shells found along New England beaches. I remembered rhythmic sounds of ocean waves, smells of salty air, the variety of sea creatures, all mingled with my awareness of vast cosmic space. My small kitchen was becoming spacious.

There are times in our lives that are “sponge-times,” blessedly free of experiences that hinder growth. They are respites and retreats. They are moments or hours or days.

I am grateful for the sponge-times that bless my life, from childhood to this uncertain moment of pandemic; for the people and places and books and words and music and art and night skies and all things that have been doors of such grace for me.

Next came the folding-in. With gentle, around-the-bowl-and-toward-the-center motion of the wooden spoon, I blended in salt and oil, careful not to tear the tender dough. I folded in more flour until it held together, a ball in the middle of the bowl.

Oh, that we may hold together, this world of people, in these times.

I didn’t use the mixer, but kneaded by hand on the countertop. I felt the dough becoming supple, stretching, not tearing. The gluten was forming, ready to capture bubbles of carbon dioxide made as the yeast grew. Fifteen minutes, maybe twenty, passed.

Can I stretch, not break, when life pushes and pulls in different directions?

Next, more time to rise in the warmed oven. Time to wash dishes, clean the countertop, and put the canister of flour and bottle of oil away. I closed my eyes and listened to the music. I remembered walking on beaches and finding shells and an occasional piece of sea glass.

Lying on the couch, I put my feet up, and wondered: Who tended the bees that made the local honey? Who grew the wheat and ground it into flour? Who delivered the groceries to the store and put them on the shelves? I didn’t think much about these jobs before these days of self-isolation.

I am grateful for the people whose work provides what is needed to make a simple loaf of bread. Scarcity and the need for others to risk their health make me value each ingredient. I am careful not to waste. I am sorry for not always having been so careful.

Next came the punching-down. The yeast and gluten had done their work. The dough had risen high in the bowl. But I made a fist and gently pushed the soft dough until it was almost flat again. It seemed counterproductive. Why squash air pockets the yeast and gluten had worked together to make? Bakers know. Still, it seemed unfair. I punched anyway, re-covered the bowl, and let it rise again. And it did.

May I rise back up when life punches the breath right out of me. Can I trust that the Spirit living within me won’t be beaten so far down that it won’t be able to rise again? Yes, so far. But there have been times – dark times – when I didn’t. I’m grateful for people in my life who trusted the spirit in me when I couldn’t.

I gently kneaded the risen dough one last time and put it in the pan. Yes. It had to rise again. Then it was ready for the oven. The aroma of baking bread filled the apartment. I had time to wash dishes again while listening to the music and imagining planets not included in Holst’s suite: planets spinning around other stars in other galaxies.

I began cutting up onions and mincing garlic for soup to have along with fresh bread for dinner.

The oven timer buzzed. The loaf was ready. I had made a small roll, too, for eating while it was still hot, melting a smear of butter.

Bread. Many grains, one loaf. Gift of the earth. Work of human hands. I placed the roll on a small blue plate, gift of a Cistercian monk-friend years ago. Made by potters down the road from the monastery, the plate’s dark blue glaze edged with white misty swirls has always reminded me of the night sky, the Milky Way, or photos taken by the Hubble. It’s my “cosmos plate.”

I poured red wine into the matching chalice and sat quietly. My family and friends, my communities, the city, the world and all its people, the earth and all the “helpers,” the cosmos—all were gathered in, sitting with me in the Presence of the Source of all.

The world is not the same as it was when a tiny virus brought us all into this time of uncertainty. May I have the courage to move forward into a new time with a will to change, to create new ways of being with one another and with our planet. May we all be willing to shed the old “normal,” as comforting as it might seem, and to make something new, kinder, and better, together.

“Eucharist” means “thanksgiving.” My Sunday baking liturgy finished, I gave thanks, broke the bread, and ate. Amen.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: baking bread, coronoavirus, creation, Eucharist, grace, Mindful baking, prayer, present to the moment, spirituality, Tassajara, Zen

April 9, 2020 By Mary van Balen 12 Comments

Celebrating the Triduum Together While Apart

Holy Thursday begins the Triduum—time set apart to reflect on the meaning of events from the Last Supper to the Resurrection, not only in the lives of Jesus and his disciples, but also in the Paschal Mystery unfolding in our lives.

Following the great tradition observed by generations of Christians, we gather to commemorate these events. But this year is different. We cannot gather. Our buildings are closed.

We are church

Photo: Mary van Balen

Covid-19 requires us to find new ways to “be church.” At its most basic, church is people, not buildings or doctrine or hierarchy. It is the people of God. And while the liturgies of Holy Week are beautiful sources of grace, we don’t need to be in a particular place or follow established rites to experience God-with-us.

In John’s gospel, at the last supper, Jesus promises his disciples that the Spirit will come and dwell within them. That Divine Presence, which lives within each of us, has animated all creation since the beginning: from the tiniest atoms to the furthest galaxies. The challenge of these days is to recognize that Presence in each moment, wherever we are.

While the supper is the setting in John’s gospel read today, the first Eucharist is not the centerpiece. It is the other events of that evening that John remembers. They move our souls with their intimacy and the love that soaks every moment.

During the meal, Jesus rises, ties a towel around his waist, fills a basin with water, and gets on his knees. He cradles his disciples’ dusty feet, washing and drying them one by one. When he’s finished, he asks if they understand what he’s done.

Not waiting for an answer, he tells them: If he, their master and teacher, washes their feet, then they should be ready to wash one another’s feet.

In this moment…

In this present moment, many are providing such physical acts of caring. Healthcare professionals, parents at home with small children, and those caring for sick family members serve the vulnerable. Farm laborers and grocery store workers keep food flowing to our tables. Sanitation workers and janitors keep our streets and buildings clean. Many find ways to feed the homeless and provide a place for them to sleep. The list is long.

This is a eucharist: the self, sacrificed out of love for another.

John also tells of Jesus giving a new commandment: “Just as I have loved you, you should also love one another.” He says it twice.

During this crisis, we share that love for one another by staying home; by venturing out only when necessary and keeping our distance when we do; by virtual visits instead of meeting face to face. For some, these actions mean loss of jobs and income. How can we show care for them now and when this time has passed?

Jesus reassures his disciples that they will not be forgotten or left alone. He prays for them and for those who will believe through their word: “…that they all may be one. As you, Father are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…”

In the midst of self-isolation, we ensure that friends and family do not feel forgotten. We draw one another into the circle of oneness and love with calls, texts, and video chats. We check that they are ok, share a laugh or a story, and hold their grief at the loss of loved ones.

Then Jesus goes forward, endures betrayal, suffering, and death, showing the unfathomable depth of God’s love. His disciples spend their sabbath filled with confusion and fear. Then on the first day of the week, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene. He instructs her to tell the others what she has seen and heard.

When Jesus appears to them all the following day, he greets them with “Peace,” and as promised, bestows the Spirit with a simple breath.

It is that Spirit who makes the present moment the place where we encounter God. We remember the risen Christ is with us. The indwelling Holy Presence abounds in the simple routines of everyday life. While we miss celebrating the Paschal Mysteries together, we are finding new ways to live them while apart.

That is why our churches are closed. At first glance, they appear empty. But really, they are filled with love.

Chapel of St. Ignatius Seattle University
Photo: Mary van Balen

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, Covid-19, Easter, faith, hope, present to the moment, Triduum, trust, unconditional love

March 23, 2020 By Mary van Balen 12 Comments

Coronavirus and Being Apart – Together

Changing the slogan

Apart Together – Mary van Balen

A few days ago, a friend sent an email that, among other things, suggested a change to the slogan often heard in the midst of the Coronavirus pandemic. “Getting through this together” could use a little tweak. In light of the urgent need for people to self-isolate, she thought “Getting through this apart” might better reflect the message being sent by medical experts world-wide, and locally, by Gov. Mike DeWine and Director of the Ohio Health Department, Dr. Amy Acton.

I forwarded the email and added my thoughts: How about “Getting through this apart—together”?

A Robert Frost poem came to mind, “The Tuft of Flowers.” I hadn’t thought of it in years.

The poem

This poem spoke to me immediately when I first read it as a teenager in The Complete Poems of Robert Frost, one of my Book-of-the-Month Club purchases.

The speaker in “The Tuft of Flowers” is a man going out to turn the grass in a field mowed by someone earlier that morning. The speaker looks for the one who had gone before, listens for the sound of his whetstone, but without success. He had gone on, alone.

Watercolor sketch for my journal

“As we all must be,” the man says in his heart, “Whether they work together or apart.”

But, getting ready to toss the grass to dry, he spots a butterfly, searching for a flower remembered from the day before, circling around one lying, cut and drying out, with the rest of the grasses.

Suddenly the butterfly turns toward a brook. The man looks and sees what it had discovered: a tuft of flowers, untouched by the scythe, a “leaping tongue of bloom” rising up from the cut grasses along a reedy brook.

He senses that the mower had left the flowers standing out of sheer joy at their beauty. That realization opened him up to be present to the moment, to noticing birdsong. And, to his surprise, a connection with the one who had cut down the meadow and disappeared into the morning.

Instead of feeling alone in his work, the man felt the companionship and support of the unknown mower and carried on a heart-conversation with him, a kindred spirit.

The grace of that encounter with the butterfly, the flowers, and through them, the mower, flipped the man’s perspective. He was not alone after all.

“Men work together I told him in my heart, whether they work together or apart.”

Our work to do

This poem holds wisdom for us, as we face the Coronavirus and Covid-19 pandemic. Taking the lead where our President has not, some governors in our country (Thank you Gov. Mike DeWine and Dr. Amy Acton) have already ordered their citizens to shelter in place. I hope they all do, and soon. Not only for the sake of individuals’ health, but as a way to slow down the virus spread. To “flatten the curve.”

Staying inside one’s home alone or with family members is isolating. But it is our work to do. And as the poem reminds us, what one person does affects countless others. We are interconnected in more ways than we can imagine. Like the mower and the one who came after to turn the grass, we are working together at the same task. Even though we will never know the names of those who heed the warnings, follow the orders, and isolate themselves, we can draw strength from their actions.

For us, they are of life and death significance.

Some people cannot stay home. Healthcare professionals, grocery store workers, and so many others whose work is critical during this time, are putting themselves a risk to serve the rest of us. But for every person who decides not to be part of the effort – those who could stay inside but don’t, those who make unnecessary trips or insist on attending large gatherings, secular or religious, those who go on about life as usual – the strength of the communal effort is weakened. Thousands more will die.

Illusion of an unconnected self

In our country, individualism is glorified. “Doing it my way.” “Pulling oneself up by the bootstraps.” “I don’t need any help.” “Keep government off my back.”

“Going it alone” is an illusion. None of us “makes it” or fails to “make it” alone. And this crisis will not be met by individuals. It will be overcome by a nation, by a world of people working together as they live apart.

If you’d like, read the poem, “The Tuft of Flowers” online. Or if you, like me, have an old 1964 copy of The Complete Poems of Robert Frost sitting on your bookshelves, read it there on page 31.

Journal pages – Mary van Balen

Filed Under: The Scallop

March 12, 2020 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Lent: Letting Love Enter In

On Ash Wednesday I took tentative steps into the Lenten season. I wasn’t sure what disciplines to embrace, but that morning I lit a candle and sat quietly in prayer before going through liturgical readings for the season. I attended a noon service and stood in line to receive ashes on my forehead, remembering that I was dust and someday, to dust would return.

After work I made a few calls checking on a friend who had undergone surgery for a broken hip, chatting with a daughter who was celebrating a birthday, and catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in a while.

Then again, a prayer candle burned as I read through the lectionary one more time. Lent is full of powerful readings.

They include passages that remind us the most important commandment is to love and care for others, especially the least among us. And when we do, Jesus tells us, we are caring for him. Isaiah insists that the sacrifices God wants aren’t the drooping of ash-covered heads or the rending of garments.

That’s not the drama the Holy One desires. No, the desired actions are more along the lines of freeing the oppressed, sharing food, taking care of the marginalized, being civil in speech, and working for justice – all facets of the Love commandment.

There’s the Samaritan woman who’s the first to recognize Jesus as the Messiah. After accepting the truth about her own life and also the love offered to her by Jesus, she hurries back to town, telling everyone that she has met the Messiah, right over there at the community well.

Instructing the people to repent of their wrongdoing, Nineveh’s king showed humility and sincerity that changed God’s mind about destroying the city. Queen Esther beseeches God for help in foiling the enemy’s plan and turning her husband’s heart in order to save her people.

These are just a smattering. But in the midst of the more grand and familiar passages sits a small one from Isaiah, just two verses. They grab my heart. Maybe it’s the simple comparison of the life-bringing fall of rain and snow onto the earth to the transforming entrance of God’s word into the universe:

Just as from the heavens / the rain and snow come down / And do not return there / till they have watered the earth, / making it fertile and fruitful, / Giving seed to the one who sows / and bread to the one who eats, / So shall my word be / that goes forth from my mouth; / It shall not return to me void, / but shall do my will, / achieving the end for which I sent it.

I’m not sure how that works, but it is hopeful in a time when hope is difficult to find.

This passage reminds me of short poem, Indwelling, by Thomas E Brown, an 19^th century scholar, teacher, poet, and theologian born on the Isle of Man.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

If thou could’st empty all thyself of self,

Like to a shell dishabited,

Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,

And say, “This is not dead,”

And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou are all replete with very thou

And hast such shrewd activity,

That when He comes He says, “This is enow

Unto itself – ’twere better let it be,

It is so small and full, there is no room for me.”

… … …

The connection between the two? Indwelling suggests to me why God’s word does not return without doing what it was sent to do. It is a living Word that dwells within each of us. As Brown writes, the more we empty ourselves of false selves, of cluttering activity, the more Divine Love can fill us and do its work.

We participate in the Word fulfilling mission – as Jesus prays at the Last Supper – to bring all together in love, united with the One who sent him.

Whatever disciplines fill Lent, may they be ones that allow more Love to enter in.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: emptying, grace, hope, humility, indwelling, lent, living Word, love, open

February 15, 2020 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Valentine’s Day Reflection

My uneven heart

I’ve been reviving my prayer practice of drawing/painting. Sometimes my efforts are part of a journal entry. Words often come first. Sometimes, like today the image is first, and words come after.

I didn’t intend the reflection and prayer. The painted heart was to be a Valentine’s Day text to my daughters. I hadn’t planned enough ahead to send a card as I usually do.

So, out came the watercolors. No matter how I try, I cannot draw a symmetrical heart. One side is always rounder or larger or sits lower. Today was no different. Eventually, I quit trying and simply sat in silence with the painted heart for a while, trying to hear what it was saying…

Love isn’t “even,” it said. Love isn’t meant to be measured in its giving or receiving. It’s a flow, a reality in which we dwell.

Sometimes we are full of love and it flows outward. Sometimes we’re running low and, if we’re open, it flows in.

It’s not something we have or hold on to or save up. It’s meant to be savored and given away.

Love is.

And I am grateful for all those in my life’s river of love.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: grace, love, unconditional love, Valentine's Day

February 13, 2020 By Mary van Balen 7 Comments

Proximity and Hope

“Nocturne Navigator” Alison Saar, 1998
Collection: Columbus Gallery of Art “…commemorates those involved with the Underground Railroad…The figure’s billowing skirt, illuminated from within, shows the constellations of stars that would help guide the fugitives on their nighttime journey, while her heavenly gaze and outstretched arms suggest a mix of anguish, prayer, and gratitude.” (from museum signage)

A movie or book can be transforming. For Black History Month, I’m sharing an experience with both. In January, I attended a movie with friends: Just Mercy.

Based on the book Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, written by Bryan Stevenson and published in 2014, the movie centers around Stevenson’s representation of death-row inmate Walter McMillian, appealing his murder conviction.

Stevenson is a Black public interest lawyer who, after graduating from Harvard Law School, went to Alabama to represent those who had been illegally convicted or poorly represented at their trials.

Just Mercy is powerful and sometimes difficult to watch. If you don’t think racism’s roots are deeply embedded in this country when you walk in, you’ll be questioning your assumption when you walk out. But the movie isn’t only about the fear, hatred, and oppression that has been visited upon Black Americans since their forced arrival as slaves. Or how fear and ignorance disfigure the oppressors. Its main message is about accepting truth, about hope and the possibility of change.

The movie includes Stevenson’s 1989 founding of the nonprofit Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), located in Montgomery, Alabama. According to its website, EJI is “… committed to ending mass incarceration and excessive punishment in the United States, to challenging racial and economic injustice, and to protecting basic human rights for the most vulnerable people in American society.”

In talks across the country, Stevenson names hope as one of the four things necessary to effect change. He calls it a “superpower” and the enemy of injustice. “It is what makes you stand up when someone tells you to sit down.”

He names another element necessary for change: proximity. In a speech at Penn State in Abington, Stevenson gave this advice: “We need to get closer to people who are suffering and disfavored so we can understand their challenges and their pain. We can’t create solutions from a distance. Decide to get closer to people who are suffering, marginalized, disadvantaged, poor. Only in proximity to those who are suffering can we change the world.”

Reading this, I thought of Pope Francis’s call, early in his pontificate, for priests to be close to the people they serve: “This is what I am asking you — be shepherds with the smell of sheep.”

Jesus lived that out. He spent time with ordinary people and those on the margins. He counted fishermen and tax collectors as his early followers and included women in his close circle of friends and disciples. He ate and drank with sinners, much to the dismay of religious leaders who kept their distance.

I’ve also been reading Howard Thurman’s book, Jesus and the Disinherited. A Black theologian, pastor, and spiritual mentor to Martin Luther King Jr., Thurman reminds us that Jesus was marginalized. He was poor, and he was a Jew in an occupied land. Jesus knew the suffering of those on the edge, or as Thurman might say “those with their backs to the wall.” He devotes a chapter to fear and its effects on people.

But Jesus’s response to marginalization was not fear. It was not violence. It was love. It wasn’t separation from those who were suffering. It was proximity. He showed us how to love and to serve our neighbor—who is everyone.

He spoke the truth. He healed on the Sabbath. He said the Kingdom of God is within us. He had hope and faith in the One who sent him and in the power of compassion. He stood up when he was told to sit down.

This month is a good time to reflect on our history, the state of our country, and the divisiveness that is increasingly expressed in violence against “the other” – not only Blacks, but also Jews, LGBTQ+ people, the poor, and immigrants.

If you’re able, see the movie (or read the book). Read Howard Thurman. They invite us to ponder how we can, as Isaiah admonishes, remove oppression, false accusations, and malicious speech from our midst; to ponder how can we share our bread with the hungry and give shelter to the homeless.

They challenge us to follow Jesus’s example of walking with the marginalized and of love, to believe that love will cast out fear and bring hope instead.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: "Just Mercy", Bryan Stevenson, civil rights, compassion, Equal Justice Initiative, equality, hope, Howard Thurman, Jesus and the Disinherited, justice, LGBT, love, marginalized, racism

January 16, 2020 By Mary van Balen 6 Comments

Finding Hope in 2020

photo of color lithograph by Maurice Denis 1870-1943 Shows Shows

The Pilgrims of Emmaus by Maurice Denis, French 1870-1943 Color lithograph
Photo: Mary van Balen

People long for hope, for peace, for cooperation. While some are bent on stirring up distrust, and spreading fear based on dividing the world into “us” and “them,” most of humankind is looking for a better way in 2020.

Many I talked with over the holidays desire an end to such divisiveness. Some Christmas cards I received included handwritten notes expressing that hope. How do we get there in the midst of issues facing us today? I don’t know. Looking at the big picture, I’m often at a loss.

I turned to the Scriptures, reading through the Roman lectionary’s January passages. One line from the first Letter of Saint John made me stop, not because it inspired, but because I didn’t understand what it was saying: “Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like God, for we shall see God as God is.”

How can we become like God just by seeing the Holy One? I pulled commentaries off the shelf. Not much help.

So, I sat with it. I didn’t try to figure them out, just let the words sink in. That night, I wrote in my journal:

Slowly, God’s gaze draws forth in our souls the reflection of God that we are. Resting in that Presence, we become aware of the Holy One looking at us with love and recognition of God’s heart within our own.

I thought of loving looks from people in my life. Not a response to something you did, such a look simply celebrates the reality of you. When experienced, you know its power to help you become your best self.

I carried the scripture’s words around for another day and in the afternoon saw “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” starring Tom Hanks as Fred Rogers. I was hesitant about an actor playing the iconic figure, but the story drew me in. I wasn’t disappointed.

No spoilers here. I’ll just say there was a lot in that movie about the power of being in the presence of Love.

As the packed theater slowly emptied, I walked down the steps, stopping as a woman in front of me helped a much older one navigate her descent. The middle-aged woman guided her friend to a walker that was sitting behind a row of seats at floor level.

“Go ahead,” she said to me, “This will take a while.”

“That’s ok,” I replied. “I’m not in a hurry.”

She smiled. “Well, how could you not be kind after watching that movie?” I nodded. “Fred Rogers is the closest person to Jesus Christ I’ve ever seen,” she said.

Her comments mingled with the words of Saint John: How could you not be kind after seeing that movie? Watching someone truly seeing, accepting, loving … it changes us. If seeing a movie could make folks a bit kinder, what happens when one “sees” God as God truly is?

And wasn’t watching the story of Fred Rogers caring about others also seeing a bit of God – God who lives and works in and through us? Isn’t that what we’ve been celebrating this Christmas season: the ongoing incarnation and our call to participate in it?

We become more like God the more we see God, the more God’s love moves through us. That’s where hope rests: in God’s transforming Love.

The First Letter of Saint John is full of reminders that we are called to love, that we cannot hate others and love God at the same time, that it isn’t enough to believe in the Christ. Our actions must mirror those of Jesus.

However we participate with it, however we speak truth to power, however we look at others with love and acceptance, we are participating in the work of healing and salvation. Hope is trusting God to make it enough.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, Fred Rogers, hope, Presence, quiet prayer, seeing, The Pilgrims of Emmaus, transforming love, trust

December 5, 2019 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Advent Listening

I am poring through Scripture readings and books while preparing for an Advent retreat, revisiting favorite writings and discovering new ones. As readers do, I filter the words through my current state of mind, faith, and being. A passage that held deep meaning five years ago provides little inspiration this time around. On the other hand, something I had passed over before jumps out from the page and speaks to me. Of course, there are passages that always touch the heart.

An essay in Madeleine L’Engle’s Miracle on 10th Street: & Other Christmas Writings provided the “word” for this reflection: “Advent is about listening.”

I usually think of this season as a time of waiting or keeping watch for something that is coming. While listening is part of active waiting and of remaining alert for what is to come, lately I’ve noticed my lack of practice—at least of the deep listening Madeleine writes about.

I listen for things like the washer or dryer buzzer alerting me that the load is finished. The oven timer lets me know food needs to be checked or removed. My mobile phone signals the arrival of a text message, email, or call with a distinct sound for each. But really, I don’t actually listen for these. They are loud enough that the intricate inner workings of my ear (a miracle in itself) hear them whether or not I’m paying attention. These examples are more “hearing,” I guess.

Then there is the “mother’s ear” that is remarkably attuned to her children’s soft whimpers or cries that alert her that some loving attention is needed. Sometimes she just knows. This is closer to the “listening” of Advent, rooted not simply in sound waves and anatomy, but in soul and attention.

Advent listening attends to more than sound. It listens for meaning, direction, and movement deep down in our center. We listen with the ear of the heart as St. Benedict instructs in his Rule’s prologue. We listen for the Divine within us, the Christ, without knowing what exactly that will sound like or if it “sounds” at all.

A few weeks ago, I saw the movie “Harriet.” (See it if you can.) It revealed much about the most well-known conductor on the underground railroad, Harriet Tubman. She was born into slavery, escaped to freedom, and returned to the South 19 times, freeing around 70 others. (These numbers vary depending on the source.) A remarkable woman in countless ways, she seems to me to have been an “Advent listener.”

She said she didn’t travel alone. The Lord travelled with her, sometimes speaking to her and guiding her to safety. Many people thought she was delusional, but her story never changed. When asked what it was like to hear the voice of God, she said sometimes it was soft like a dream and sometimes it stung like a slap in the face. Either way, she needed to pay close attention to it before she knew what it meant. It led her by safe paths; it directed her to return to the South again and again.

The messages came unexpectedly, sometimes while she was leading a group, sometimes when she was asleep. The thing is, she heard it. Deep-down, she was listening with the ear of her heart, all the time. Open. Ready.

Harriet’s story reminds me of this passage in Isaiah: “Whether you turn to right or left, your ears will hear these words behind you, ‘This is the way, follow it.’” (Is 30, 21)

We will hear if we are listening.

Our world is noisy and keeps us busy. We “hear” lots, but listening is difficult. These weeks before Christmas are even louder and busier than usual, filled with marketing messages bombarding us from television, radios, and computer screens as we hurry about our preparations.

Advent is about listening deeply. Dark nights, candlelight from our Advent wreaths, sweet smells of holiday baking, or long winter walks can provide a bit of quiet. But even in the midst of activity, with practice, the ear of our heart listens to the whisper of the Sacred within: Have hope. God-with-Us is here. Follow the Word.

You can buy Mary’s collection of columns, Reflections for Advent and Christmas: A Grace in the Moment Book, from Biblio Publishing at info@zippublishing.com 614.485.0721.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Advent, attention, deep listening, God-with-us, Harriet, Harriet Tubman

October 13, 2019 By Mary van Balen 1 Comment

Wisdom of the Good Pope John XXIII

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Friday, October 11, is the 57^th anniversary of the opening session of Vatican II. It is also the fifth time the Catholic church celebrates the feast of Saint John XXIII.

Almost 12 when the Council began on October 11, 1962 and a student in a Catholic school, I knew something important was happening. This was partly because the teachers talked about it: the first council called in nearly 100 years. The pope said it was time to “Throw open the windows of the church and let the fresh air of the Spirit blow through.” No one knew what it would look like, but we knew change was coming.

But, more than the talk and the tangible changes, it was the man himself who stirred my heart and imagination from the start. The rotund Angelo Giuseppe Roncalli, whose parents were peasant farmers, greeted the world with a smile when he emerged on the balcony and said his name was John. He looked happy, and approachable, like a grandpa. A little girl when he was elected, I liked him. I liked to see pictures of the pope who laughed and seemed so full of life.

Much is written, and rightly so, about the accomplishments of his short papacy and profound effects of the council he called. His ability to see good in the contemporary world moved the Catholic church beyond its deep distrust of modernity. His humility, hope, positive view of the human person, and the recognition of the universal call to holiness speak to me as I ponder his life today.

Here are a few quotes that I’d like to share.

“Prayer is the raising of the mind to God. We must always remember this. The actual words matter less.” There are times when we can be still, recite favorite prayers, pray with our communities at Mass, other liturgical celebrations, or simply around the table. But there are also times when we can’t. When our work or families or situations demand our attention. When we are emotionally worn out or just trying to survive. But we can for a moment, “raise our minds to God.” No words needed.

In his spiritual diary, Journal of a Soul, St. John XXIII wrote: “I am not St. Aloysius, nor must I seek holiness in his particular way, but according to the requirements of my own nature, my own character and the different conditions of my life.… If St. Aloysius had been as I am, he would have become holy in a different way.”

And there are as many ways to become holy as there are people. Vatican II reflected this wisdom in affirming the universal call to holiness. We each have a spark of the Divine dwelling within. God has placed the Spirit in our hearts and depends on us to give it away in the work of transforming the world, in Christ’s work of bringing the kingdom. We won’t be St. Aloysius or John the XXIII or any other saint you can name. But like them, we can be faithful to the unique expression of Divinity that we are made to be.

“Now more than ever, certainly more than in past centuries, our intention is to serve people as such and not only Catholics; to defend above all and everywhere the rights of the human person and not only those of the Catholic Church; it is not the Gospel that changes; it is we who begin to understand it better….The moment has arrived when we must recognize the signs of the times, seize the opportunity, and look far abroad.”

These words are as true now as they were when spoken from his deathbed on June 3, 1963. We are called to defend the rights of all human beings, people of any faith or none; people everywhere, including on our southern border and in places of poverty, war, violence, and natural disasters. And we are always beginning to understand the Gospel better. It’s part of the evolution of spirituality.

As we remember Pope John XXIII and the Council he convened, let us heed his call to recognize the signs of the times, seize the opportunity, and find hope and courage to look far abroad.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, change, humility, inclusion, Pope John XXIII, prayer, spiritual evolution, spirituality, Vatican II