Grace in the Moment

December 10, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Advent in a World of Turmoil

PHOTO: Jennifer Stephens

Originally published in The Catholic Times, December 13, 2015

“What does keeping Advent mean for us now, today?” I asked myself after reading a couple newspaper articles about mass shootings and escalating fear and anger at terrorist attacks. I was still pondering while making a quick stop at a mall. Lights and hype along with an unending string of Christmas music bombarded the senses, and on the drive home, Pope Francis’s reference to this year’s Christmas trappings being a charade came to mind.

Checking the text, I discovered that he opened his homily with “Jesus wept,” adding later “…because Jerusalem did not know the way of peace and chose the hostility of hatred, of war.” With Christmas coming, the pope said “…there will be lights, there will be celebrations, trees lit up, even nativity scenes…all decorated: the world continues to wage war…The world has not comprehended the way of peace.” The entire world is at war, piecemeal, and the cost is great—A somber message for the coming season of joy and hope.

While terrorism and wars are in the news around the world, they are not the only form of violence. There’s also violence against the poor and marginalized when funding for safety-net programs are cut. Civil rights for all are a continuing issue, as is adequate care for those suffering from mental illness. (Many mass shooters suffer from it.)

The earth itself suffers at the hands of human beings, yet some choose to dismiss the issue of global warming and the investment in new technologies needed to address it. (Did you see the pope’s shoes, sitting along with 20,000 others in a public square in Paris during the climate talks there—A quiet “march” to support those working to find ways for governments to respond to this threat?)

The pope is right: The world has not embraced the way of peace. How do we do that? How do we find hope in a dark world?

A friend sent a poem she has been using for Advent reflection: “Annunciation” by Denise Levertov. “Aren’t there annunciations/of one sort or another/in most lives?” the poet asks before pondering how we do or do not accept the annunciations that come to us. She writes of Mary, a young girl like other young girls, but called to a “destiny more momentous that any in all of Time;” she didn’t hesitate to embrace it.

Levertov concludes that whatever we have to offer is enough. “The blessing is not in the treasure/But in the letting go.” We are called to give what we have, not to hold it close, but to generously pour onto the world. We are called to lavish Love on the marginalized who need our care and nurture, much as Jesus needed protection within the womb as he grew.

Levertov’s poem reminds me of the loaves and fishes story. The young boy freely gave what he had, and Jesus made it enough.

Maybe that’s what’s Advent’s quiet and waiting is about. Avoiding the distractions of orchestrating a “perfect Christmas” and instead giving ourselves time to pay attention to what Grace has been placed in our hearts, not turning from the challenges of sharing it in a dark and often hostile world. Like Mary, we’re called to say, “Yes, I’ll give all that I am.”

A poem by Jessica Powers, considers the Incarnation. “In Too Much Light,” she sees the Magi following one star and laments her difficulty finding one to follow. Her revelation?

Faith cries out ‘til her voice fails, proclaiming that in every spot and time, “…there is not any place/ when the sought Word is not.”

That’s where our hope lies this Advent, when even our pope laments the darkness and choices for war over peace.

It is within, given when the Holiest of Mysteries became one of us, sharing Love and trusting us to share it in our times and places. The hope is discovering that light, not outside us, but in our deepest center. Being selfless with it, giving it away, is embracing the way of peace.

When we discover the divine light within ourselves and within all others in this world, the wounded, the suffering, the marinalized, the fearful, the violent, then we’ll have found the God we prepare to celebrate during Advent.

Jessica again: “Behold, all places which have light in them/truly are Bethlehem.”

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Advent, Denise Levertov, faith, grace, hope, Jessica Powers, light, Pope Francis, terrorist attacks

November 5, 2015 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

A Gratitude Attitude

First Published in The Catholic Times, November 8, 2015

“If the only prayer you said was ‘thank you,’ that would be enough.” Meister Eckhart

The morning’s darkness surprised me as I drove to work. Maybe it was the overcast sky threatening rain that simply blocked out morning sun. Or maybe it was the changing season, moving into winter when sun shines slant onto the earth. Either way, November was poised to replace my beloved October days of blue skies and crisp air.

October was full of friends’ birthdays (and my own), family visits, and trees flaming along the streets. I walked the beach and drove home from Virginia this October as turning leaves reached peak color. The past weeks have prompted many moments of gratitude. I Just wasn’t expecting the gray morning and dark drive home after work.

Rather than anticipating clear air and bright moons of the previous month, I now expect rainy, damp days and nights when brilliant leaves become a mess along roadsides. I once wrote a song celebrating October after a jubilant bicycle ride around my neighborhood. I’ve never written a song about November.

It is the month of our Thanksgiving holiday, though, and this year I’ve decided to spend the days leading up to it being faithful to a spiritual practice that’s been an on again off again part of my prayer life: keeping a gratitude journal.

I have the perfect journal. A gift from my daughter, its brown leather cover is hand-laced with leather both for decoration and for attaching the handmade paper signatures to the binding. A golden cat’s-eye stone graces the front. When she gave it to me, I thought for a week or two about what to write in it, settling on “Blessings.”

That was five years ago. Last year she saw it and said, “That must be filled up by now!” It wasn’t. Not by far. Like other “special” journals, it goes in and out of season. But this November, I’m pulling it off the shelf intending to write down each day’s gifts for which I am grateful.

A friend of mine inspired this. She is an adjunct theology professor and a hospital chaplain who barely makes ends meet. She works long hours and loves both her jobs, though neither pays her a fair wage.

“How ya doing?” I asked when we spoke over the phone a few weeks ago.

“I’m great,” she said. “Still barely squeaking by, but I started keeping a gratitude journal and I have to say, I have so much to be thankful for. Thinking about my day every evening and writing down good things that have filled it has changed my attitude.”

That makes sense. Being grateful requires awareness and being present to the moment—both disciplines that can grow and deepen. You have to notice things before you can be grateful for them: people, opportunities, beauty of leaves glazed with rain, kindness, a warm home, the moon high in a morning sky.

When times are difficult and painful, gratitude is hard-won. It may require long thought. Blessings might not be evident. But, sitting with the hurt or disappointment provide an opportunity to sit with God in it. Maybe we learn to let go of expectations and comparisons. Maybe we silence the critic within who’s saying we’re not good enough. Not always a “feel good” moment, these times invite us to focus on the greatest blessing: Sacred Presence.

So, this year, I hope to arrive at Thanksgiving Day with a more spacious heart, emptied of some of the clutter and ego that keep me from recognizing the Goodness and Presence within.

That will be a challenge. Life if full of violence and poverty. It can be ugly as well as beautiful. Can we find in our hearts something for which to be grateful when life is not pretty? When it’s difficult and challenging?

I don’t know what my blessings journal will contain by the time Thanksgiving arrives. Whatever it is, I hope it the practice will deepen my heart and develop the ability to be present, to notice, to open my eyes and to expect something good, in the midst of struggle as well as in times joy. To get up on rainy gray winter mornings and recognize something to love.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: awareness, creation, grace, Grace in the Moment, gratitude, journal

October 8, 2015 By Mary van Balen 1 Comment

Surprised by Pope Francis: Day and Merton

First published in The Catholic Times, October 11, 2015 issue

I stayed home from work the morning that Pope Francis spoke to the United States Congress. I wanted to watch his face and the faces of those gathered to hear him: A congress mired in partisan politics, hopelessly polarized. What would Pope Francis say to them? To the country? How would our elected officials receive his words? It was a moment I wanted to witness as it unfolded.

The pope did not disappoint. Just a couple of weeks ago, at a gathering of citizens concerned about issues of social justice and a stalled political system, a gentleman expressed dismay that the concept of the common good was no longer a topic in public discourse. Pope Francis took care of that.

He had barely spoken a hundred words when he directed attention to our solemn responsibility for the common good. “You are called to defend and preserve the dignity of your fellow citizens,” he said to the lawmakers, “in the tireless and demanding pursuit of the common good, for this is the chief aim of all politics.”

By now, most who read this column will have read (or heard) various commentaries on the address and what the pope did and did not say. But, what surprised me was how he said it: He used the example of four great Americans who gave their lives to service and to the betterment of society. Two, Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, Jr., often serve as inspirational examples, fittingly so.

The other two are the ones I didn’t expect: Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. In my late teens I read a number of their books. They influenced my faith and spirituality. Still, I wondered, how many of the government officials sitting in the room knew those names? How many watching and listening around the country wondered who they were and searched for them on mobile phones and tablets?

They’d find Dorothy Day, born in 1897, was a radical who advocated for women’s suffrage, a pacifist who opposed all wars, and a tireless worker for social justice who saw the need not only to serve the poor she encountered in daily life, but also to change the system that created such poverty and injustice. She was a writer and journalist who gave voice to marginalized people and causes.

A convert to the Catholic faith that fed and sustained her, Dorothy attended daily Mass, read scripture, and wove prayer throughout her days. As a friend who once heard her speak said, “She was prayer.

Dorothy, along with close friend Peter Maurin, founded “The Catholic Worker” newspaper and the movement of the same name. Catholic Worker Houses continue to welcome the poor and are places where the corporal works of mercy are lived out. As Pope Francis encourages, they are places of encounter.

The pope spoke a second name that I didn’t expect to hear: Thomas Merton, a Trappist Monk at the monastery of Gethsemani, in Kentucky. We celebrated the 100th anniversary of his birth this year. Pope Francis singled him out for his openness to dialog with others of all faiths, seeing them as pilgrims on the same search for ultimate truth. His last journey was to Bangkok where he attended an international conference on monasticism, organized by Buddhist monks. Like Day, he calls us to deep encounter with those unlike ourselves.

Thomas Merton standing outside Pope Francis also recommended Merton’s openness to God in a contemplative style of prayer. Merton in the midst of a world immersed in “noise” of all types—digital, visual, aural—pouring out of players, electronics, out of the depths of our souls, calls us to quiet presence. For those who fill up every moment with activity and distraction, he says, “Be still. Listen.”

Like Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton was a writer and a convert. His books addressed spirituality and political topics. He was an outspoken critic of the Viet Nam War and the arms race.

Two people of deep faith and prayer: One active in the world, the other a monk responding to world issues with his pen; both social activists who pointedly challenged the status quo and whose words speak to us today. Immigration, poverty, climate change, racism, and violence require bold responses from all of us, not only governments.

If you’re not familiar with Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton, consider reading some of their work or finding out more about their lives and spiritual journeys. Pope Francis’ choices challenge us all.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: catholic, Catholic Worker, civil rights, Common Good, Dorothy Day, faith, grace, hope, love, marginalized, mercy, pacifist, Pope Francis, prayer, quiet prayer, spirituality, Thomas Merton

September 12, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Encountering the Other

modern painting circle of five people in an embrace

Painting by Richard Duarte Brown

Originally published in the Catholic Times, 9. 1315

A few days ago, while driving to work, I heard a story on NPR about the thousands of immigrants arriving on the small Greek island of Lesbos, refugees fleeing war and oppression in Syria, looking for a place to live. They risked a dangerous journey leaving everything behind and set off toward an unknown future. Husbands and wives, parents and children, friends and relatives, all willing to trust their lives to people and places they do not know.

Listening to reporters interviewing newly arrived refugees, I marveled at the joy in their voices. Thrilled to have survived the journey and to be standing on solid ground in a place free of war and the atrocities that accompany it, they spoke with such hope, such faith in God, or if not in God, in fellow human beings.

I wanted to rejoice with them, but concern tempered my delight as I wondered what the road ahead would bring for them: Mounds of paperwork and bureaucracy from governments hesitant to welcome so many people needing work and aid. Hostility and resistance from those who will feel threatened by their presence, by their “otherness.” Soon, frustration will replace the euphoria of the refugees’ first taste of freedom from constant fear and suffering.

Tragedy already darkens Syrian refugees’ arrival. The United Nations refugee agency reports that over 2,500 people have died this year trying to make the dangerous ocean crossing.

Driving home from work that same day, I heard an inspiring story of Icelanders who had formed a Facebook group, “Syria is Calling,” and is pressuring their government to take in more than the 50 refugees it had offered to accept—a lot more, 5,000. While the large number of people the group is proposing to welcome is impressive, it was the outpouring of individuals’ willingness to help that stirred my heart.

People offered to open up extra bedrooms in their homes and provide food, money, and house wares to help new arrivals settle in. This personal response is more demanding than putting a check in the mail, which is my plan. It means living with people who have different beliefs and values. In some cases, like sharing one’s home with strangers or welcoming them into your city, such action means daily encountering the “other” with openness and reverence for their personhood. It means, in the midst of serious complexities, maintaining the belief that we are more alike than different.

This post from “Syria is Calling” eloquently proclaims this truth: “Refugees are our future spouses, best friends, our next soul mate, the drummer in our children’s band, our next colleague, Miss Iceland 2022, the carpenter who finally fixes our bathroom, the chef in the cafeteria, the fireman, the hacker and the television host. People who we’ll never be able to say to: ‘Your life is worth less than mine.’”

These words challenge all of us around the globe to examine our own attitude toward the “other,” not only the Syrian refugees, but the marginalized people who live in our own cities and neighborhoods.

The Letter of Saint James, included in this Sunday’s readings, speaks forcefully about the responsibility of Christians to put their faith into action: “If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and has no food for the day, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, keep warm, and eat well,’ but you do not give them the necessities of the body, what good is it? So also faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead.”

Fear of those who are not like us is no excuse; it is a human failing that must be confronted and transformed by love, a process that can take a lifetime. It is a process that requires encounter.

But suffering and injustice can’t wait for lifetimes. Our faith, our humanity, requires action before we are comfortable. We must respond with love despite our fear, and incrementally, our hearts will change. As Jesus said, love will cast out fear. We are all other to someone. Encounter will transform us: those in position to give and those who receive, privileged with voice and marginalized with none.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment, Widening Our Circles Tagged With: acceptance, compassion, encounter, equality, grace, hope, inclusion, LGBT, love, mercy, spirituality, unconditional love

August 20, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

A Weary Prophet

Elijah being touched by an angel with yellow wings

Marc Chagall, Elijah Touched by an Angel, from the Bible suite, 1958. Image source: The Jewish Museum, New York

First published in the Catholic Times, newspaper of the Catholic diocese of Columbus, OH August 16, 2015

This Sunday’s reading tells the story of a prophet who is worn out and discouraged. He has served God, trying to bring people back to Yahweh, trying to change the hearts of King Ahab and his wife, Jezebel who was a follower of Baal. She had many of Israel’s prophets killed. In an effort to call them all back to the Lord, Elijah spoke to the people and set up a spectacular contest. Hundreds gathered on Mount Carmel. He instructed the 450 prophets of Baal to pick a bull, cut it up, and place it on wood stacked for a fire, but not lit. That would be Baal’s job. Elijah would do the same when they had finished, calling on Yahweh to set his sacrifice ablaze.

The prophets went to work, but no amount of chanting or dancing could raise a response from Baal. When they gave up, Elijah built an altar of stone, arranged the wood, and placed the sacrifice on it. He dug a deep trench around the altar, and ordered water poured over the bull, wood, and earth. Three times he instructed them to do so until everything was soaked and the trench full.

Then, he prayed, simply. Yahweh’s power exploded in flame, consuming the bull, wood, parching the earth, and drying the trench. The people were convinced and helped Elijah slaughter all the prophets of Baal. On hearing of the contest and slaughter of the prophets, Jezebel vowed to take Elijah’s life before another day passed.

That is where we meet Elijah in Sunday’s reading. He has fled into the wilderness to save his life. Exhausted, he sits under a broom tree and prays the prayer of the despondent. He had had enough, blamed himself, and was ready to die. “Take my life,” he says. “I’m done.” He had tried his best, failed, and was alone.

Haven’t most of us, at one time or another, had similar feelings? Life sometimes brings tragedy, chronic illness, or emotional pain. Many in our world live in poverty or daily encounter discrimination and oppression. Some wake in the morning not sure where they will find the day’s food. Through it all, we try to be faithful. To trust God with us.

But sometimes, like Elijah, we are worn out. Maybe our struggle is not dramatic. It can be a nagging discontent. A doubt about what is ahead. Whatever it is, large or small, sometimes it wears us out. We are tired and discouraged, and God doesn’t seem to be around.

The prophet’s story, at one time or another, is our own. Worn out, he utters his prayer and falls asleep. I’m not sure what he expected, but I doubt it was the angel’s touch, waking him and providing food and drink. He does, then falls back to sleep. The angel comes again and orders him to eat “…else the journey will be too long for you!”

Despite the sternness of the angel’s directions, the scene has gentleness about it. God knows what Elijah needs: Sleep, food, and drink. The angel’s demands aren’t harsh, but are like those of a mother who knows what her child needs even when he doesn’t. So she tells him: Eat. Turn out the light and go to bed.

Elijah did as he was told. The rest and food gave him strength to make a long journey. I wonder what he thought as he put one foot in front of the other for days. How he prayed, if he recognized God walking with him as he went along. Sometimes we work things out in our own minds, and sometimes, we just keep going and they work out themselves. Sometimes we pray and sometimes God prays for us. I imagine both things happened to the Elijah.

Then, when he arrived at Mount Horeb, the prophet received something else he needed: an experience of God, not in storms, earthquakes, or fire, but in a quiet whisper of a voice.

This isn’t the whole story. It’s a great one to read from beginning to end, not just the bit we hear on Sunday. As I read I was moved by God’s tenderness and care for this weary prophet. and remembered an African saying, shared by a friend years ago: The strength of the fish is in the water.

For the fish, water is everything. For Elijah, when he knew it and when he didn’t…for us, our strength is in God. For us, God is everything.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, humility, mercy

June 21, 2015 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Decluttering Closets and Lives

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, June 6, 2015

I spent the last couple of days cleaning out my closet and getting rid of “things.” The impetus for this activity is a new job. During the past five years, I have worked as a retail sales associate at a large department store where black clothing was the rule. A splash of color on top was ok as long as a black jacket or sweater covered our shoulders and back. My closet, as you might imagine, reflected the dress code. I hadn’t minded too much. After all, I was a Catholic schoolgirl used to uniforms.

At my daughter’s suggestion, before going shopping to add color to my wardrobe, I tired on every piece of clothing I owned. The “donate” pile grew until it filled over four trash bags! I was amazed by the amount of stuff. Some clothing I haven’t worn for years. How had my closet become so full?

Letting go of “stuff” is often difficult, even if we don’t use it. “Maybe it will come in handy later.” “I might wear that next summer.” “I remember when I bought that. It came from…” Fill in the bank with the name of a place you visited, a special person, or an event that holds a special place in your heart. Accumulation is easy.

I must say that cleaning out my closet felt great. I’m ready to tackle the basement and boxes that have been stored unopened since I moved into my present home. Divesting. Feeling lighter. It’s good. Friends who had downsized from larger homes to smaller ones or condos tell the same story. I think that’s because things do more than fill up our homes. They clutter our spirits.

For some nomadic peoples, their way of life precludes “collecting” stuff. Once, while reading “The Mystic Warriors of the Plains,” I was struck by the Lakota’s practice of decorating everyday utensils and teepees with images and symbols, with color and beauty. As they were handled, they must have drawn the users hearts and minds to remember, to pray, to be present. The wisdom born of a nomadic culture impressed me then and now.

How easy, in our culture, to accumulate. We are consumers, and our economic system encourages that. Media bombards us with new gadgets, fashions, and other possessions that we just shouldn’t live without. We can have so much stuff that we rent units to hold what can’t fit into our homes.

Things require care as well as places to be. Our minds, our schedules, our money, even our spirits in some ways, respond to our possessions. “Just keep what brings you joy,” my daughter counseled. Often, things weigh us down rather than lift our hearts. Too many things can make our spaces feel oppressive rather than peaceful. Precious time is used to clean, maintain, and organize stuff that isn’t used. Where’s the joy in that?

Our culture encourages consumption of nonmaterial things as well, encouraging us to accumulate experiences, to spend hours engaged with the time-sink of social media, computer games, and television. These activities can be good, but they also can lure us into addiction. Who has begun scrolling down the computer screen meaning to simply check their facebook page or to play a game of Spider Solitaire and discover, when they check the time, that a couple of hours have passed?

Worthy activities can be overdone, too. Good hearts easily become involved with too many committees and organizations. Even children may have schedules that leave little room for imagination and drawing on inner resources when boredom sets in.

Human beings need quiet. We need silence to hear the whispers in our hearts and souls. We nurture ourselves when we take time to sit with God, to be alone, to notice the moon drifting behind clouds, or to take a close look at flowers and plants growing in our yards and parks. When we aren’t preoccupied, we can be present to the moment.

Emptying my closet helped me recognize the grace of decluttering other parts of my life, too. I’m looking forward to it!

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: clutter, consumerism, consumers, decluttering, grace, joy, media, present to the moment, quiet, stuff

May 8, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

A Mindful Day

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I don’t know about you, but sometimes I feel like God is in hiding. Sometimes that sense of absence lasts a long time. One day, while thinking about that, I decided to take a “Mindful” day, borrowing the term from the Buddhist practice of “mindfulness.”

“Perhaps this disconnect has something to do with my lack of being present to the moment,” I thought. Ironic, since that is what I often write about in this column. “Easier said than done,” or “Easier written than done,” in my case.

I started the day with mass at St. Thomas. A little late, but rush hour traffic tied me up on the trip across town. Despite frustration with lanes of slow moving cars, I managed to take a deep breath and relax. I noticed the sky, battled the wind buffeting my little Civic, and sat through four turns of the traffic light at 5^th and Cassady before walking into church.

Next was a drive down Route 33 for allergy shots. I resisted the temptation to use the drive as an opportunity to catch up with one of my daughters and instead, paid attention to the countryside stretching out on either side of the highway.

The morning light was spectacular. Spring’s greens included a wide spectrum of color. I thought of the debated claim that Inuit people of Northern Canada have fifty or more words to refer to snow (Anthropologist, Franz Boas’s study in the late 1800’s to early 1900’s has been debated ever since.)

“We should have more words for ‘green’,” I thought. I suppose we do if you count adjective descriptors like “sap green” (a favorite water color hue), “Kelly green,” “olive green,” and “forest green.”

What about the green that seems to have sucked up sunlight through the plant’s roots, appearing to glow green from inside out? Or the green that calls us to “watch this space,” with leaves shining with emerging life, changing from hour to hour?

The entire day was like that. I recognized courage and perseverance in the gait of an older man struggling up the slight incline from parking lot to sidewalk in front of a doctor’s office. Appreciation for his effort stirred in my heart, and I stood respectfully by, telling him not to hurry despite his blocking my car door. Like an honor guard for a returning soldier, I stood straight as he moved slowly by. Life is difficult and he was “keeping on,” as Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie said.

One by one, experience by experience, the day nurtured my soul as I paid attention to where I was, turning away from the temptation to fret over the past, worry about the future, or multi-task while eating by reading email or New York Times headline articles. (To all the mothers out there who survive by multi-tasking at home and at work, mindfulness can be like a drink of cool water on a hot day.) I savored tastes and ate slowly, an accomplishment for one who chews a few times and then swallows.

By the end of the day, which I celebrated with a call from my youngest daughter then candles and Rumi at bedtime, I felt full, fuller in spirit than I had been for quite a while.

Mindfulness isn’t a miracle cure for spiritual emptiness or feeling distant from the One we long for. Still, being truly present to the moment helped me recognize the beauty of nature and of souls, and the wonder and Mystery bursting life at its seams. That’s the conventional wisdom, isn’t it? You don’t meet God in the past or future, but in the present. I was able to ponder the possibility that the Divine truly is reaching out from every direction, including from within, to connect with us. (This is much more difficult to do if one is watching reruns of The West Wing or Frazier on Netflix in order to distract from uncomfortable chatter in one’s mind.)

“You sound great,” my daughter observed during our phone conversation.

I shared my “mindful day” with her and heard myself saying, “ This day nourished me.” And when I finally closed my eyes, I had the smallest sense that God was right there with me.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: creation, faith, grace, Grace in the Moment, mercy, Presence, present to the moment, spirituality, spring

April 23, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

God Comes to Us

PHOTO: www.freebibleimages.org

Every gospel reading this week contains an appearance of the risen Jesus. Taken from all four gospels, the accounts vary. In the first, from Matthew, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary witness an earthquake that rolls back the stone, and see an angel who tells them Jesus has risen and directs them to go tell the others. On their way, Jesus appears to them and they respond with a gesture of faith and love: they embrace his feet.

Tuesday’s gospel is from John and again, Mary Magdalene is the first to see the risen Jesus. She doesn’t recognize him at first, thinking he is the gardener. Then he speaks her name, and she knows the voice. She clings to him, but he tells her to go and tell the others.

Next, is the familiar story from Luke. Jesus appears to two travelers on the road to Emmaus. Jesus is not recognized at first. Only after a long conversation in which he explains what has happened do they recognize him when he breaks bread with them.

Thursday’s gospel picks up the story where the two travelers, having returned to Jerusalem, are telling the disciples how they had seen Jesus. Jesus appears to them all, and the first reaction is fear. Joy follows after they realize they are not seeing a ghost, but the one they had followed and believe to be the Son of God.

The Sea of Galilee is the site for the next appearance. After a fruitless night of fishing, seven of the apostles spot a man on the shore. They don’t recognize him at first. Only after he instructs them to throw their nets out one more time and they catch a load of fish does the light go on for John: “It’s the Lord.” They share breakfast on the beach.

Saturday’s gospel from Mark recounts the disciples’ disbelief when Mary Magdalene tells them she has seen Jesus. They don’t believe the two travelers either. When Jesus appears to the eleven while they’re eating, he rebuked them for not believing and instructs them to go out into the world and preach the gospel to all.

This Sunday, the gospel tells of Jesus passing through locked doors to be with the disciples who huddled together, not knowing what to think or do next. “Peace be with you,” he said, and then he bestowed the Spirit on them with a breath.

Two things struck me as I read through the week’s gospels. The first was that Jesus was persistent. He wanted to connect with those who had been with him as he preached the Kingdom of God. He found them in the garden, by the sea, on the road, in the room where they gathered to eat and support one another. He went where they were. He didn’t hold court somewhere and ask them to come. No, he went to them.

The second thing I noticed was the variety of responses to Jesus’ post-resurrection appearances. There was downright disbelief. There was confusion and fear. Recognition occurred when Jesus spoke Mary’s name, when he filled their nets with fish, when he ate breakfast with them or broke bread at dinner. When those who followed him realized who he was, there was joy.

Centuries later, the realities are the same: The risen Jesus still wants to be with us and comes to us right where we are. Whether at home or at work, with others or alone. Sometimes we are receptive and sometimes we’re not. Sometimes we recognize the Divine in our midst, and sometimes we look right past it.

As we move through the Easter season, perhaps we can reflect on this unimaginable mystery of the Most Holy One’s great desire to be with us. That God’s Love seeks us out. No matter where we are or how we feel or what life battles we are fighting. God does not give up. Like Jesus spoke to Mary, God calls us by our names. By the Grace of the Spirit breathed into us, if we listen in the quiet of our hearts, we might hear and believe.

Blessed Easter!

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Easter, faith, grace, Jesus, resurrection

March 5, 2015 By Mary van Balen 3 Comments

Howard Thurman and Readying Our Spirits

PHOTO: BU Photo Services, Howard Thurman

Originally published in The Catholic Times, March 8, 2015

“Have you read any of Howard Thurman?” my friend wanted to know. A student at Andover Newton Seminary, she was curious about my familiarity with this African American theologian, preacher, professor, and mystic. I’d never heard of him. “Really, Mary, you should read Thurman.”

Years later, as a participant in a spiritual guidance program, I’m finally discovering not only the writings of Howard Thurman, but also his profound influence on the non-violent civil rights movement in the United States.

A Baptist minister raised by his grandmother, a former slave, in segregated Daytona, Florida, Thurman’s first pastorate was at Mount Zion Baptist Church in Oberlin, Ohio. Later he moved on to become a professor at Morehouse and Spelman Colleges. He was Dean of Chapel at Howard University, but left in 1944 when he and Dr. Alfred G. Fisk, a Presbyterian minister and professor, founded the first interracial and culturally inclusive church in the United States: The Church for Fellowship of All Peoples. (This church remains active today in San Francisco and has as one of its central “commitments” the need for growth in understanding all people to be children of God. True then. True now.)

In 1953, he was named Dean of Marsh Chapel at Boston University, the first African American to hold that position in a predominantly white university. There he met Martin Luther King, Jr., who earned his PhD at BU. Thurman was his spiritual advisor and mentor, sharing the message of non-violence he had received from Gandhi on a visit to meet the Indian leader in 1936.

Over his lifetime, Thurman wrote twenty-one books and hundreds of sermons. One of his books, “Jesus and the Disinherited,” interpreted the gospels in light of non-violence and Jesus’ stand for those who had been deprived of their God-given rights. The book was foundational to the civil rights movement led by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. He is said to have carried this book with him during the Montgomery bus boycott and to have read from it on evenings before a march.

During his lifetime, Thurman disappointed some who wanted him to be more political, their “Moses,” but instead, saw him focus on prayer and the need for personal transformation and spiritual growth. This was necessary for social change, he said.

Just beginning to read Thurman, I’m not an expert on his thought or teachings, but this emphasis on prayer and spiritual discipline drew me to think about him as we immerse ourselves in Lenten observances.

He described religious experience as “the awareness of meeting God” that happens through all life, through nature, and through the arts. Spiritual disciplines are necessary for this to occur, Thurman says, since they “ready” our hearts and minds, our emotions and spirits to be open to God.

Describing the function of spiritual disciplines as “readying” us for an encounter with God resonates with me. We need to be ready to receive, no matter the gift.

“What else do we do to ready ourselves for something?” I pondered. Spring-cleaning has many benefits I’ve heard, and one is clearing film from windows, allowing light to pour through with more intensity. Students of nature study markings of birds, attributes of plants, and sea shell shapes and colors to increase their awareness of the variety that fills our world.

Have you ever studied pros and cons of cars before finally purchasing one? When you finish your ‘research,’ you recognize makes and models that you never noticed before.

Not having much background in classical music, pre-concert lectures on the pieces to be preformed enrich my experience. A special theater presentation of an exhibit of Rembrandt’s later works deepened my appreciation not only of his work, but also of the quiet beauty of the faces of people who fill my life.

This is how I imagine readying our spirits with disciplines of prayer and attentiveness encourages “religious experiences,” awareness of encounters with God. The process doesn’t invite God in. Rather, it helps us recognize where God already is.

I’m not sure this is what Thurman meant, but for now, I’m grateful for his phrase, “readying our spirits” and how it has deepened my Lenten prayer.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment

February 5, 2015 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Love Rules the Day: St. Scholastica

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

Originally appeared in The Catholic Times, Feb 8, 2015

Tuesday, February 10 is the feast of Saint Scholastica. What we know of her comes from St. Gregory the Great’s famous biography of St. Benedict, though other stories were later written about her. Scholastica is Benedict’s twin sister, both born into a wealthy family of Nursia, Italy in 480. As was the custom, Benedict went to Rome to study while Scholastica likely lived in a convent where she learned to read and write as well as participated in the prayer life of the nuns.

Some stories recount her founding a religious community near her brother’s monastery at Monte Cassino, and becoming prioress. The most famous account of her, though, is found in chapters 33 and 34 in Book II of Gregory’s Dialogues.

As was their custom, once a year Benedict, accompanied by some of his monks, met his sister at a house partway between her convent and his monastery. They shared food and conversation concerning spiritual matters. On this particular visit, just three days before her death, Scholastica wanted her brother to stay longer. Perhaps she sensed it would be their last time together. They talked until darkness fell, and she asked him to spend the night “…that they might spend it in discoursing of the joys of heaven.”

Benedict would have none of it, saying that he couldn’t spend the night away from the Abbey. That was the rule, after all.

Not giving up, Scholastica put her head down on the table, laying it on her folded hands, and prayed. As she prayed, a storm came and filled the clear night sky with thunder and lightening. She lifted her head, tears streaming from her eyes, and heavy rain poured from the heavens. Benedict and his monks couldn’t return to the Abbey in such a storm.

“God forgive you, what have you done?” Benedict asked. Scholastica answered with a bit of attitude: “I desired you to stay, and you would not hear me; I have desired it of our good Lord, and he has granted my petition. Therefore if you can now depart, in God’s name return to your monastery, and leave me here alone.”

Of course, Benedict and his monks spent the night, the brother and sister enjoying long conversations until morning. Love, it seemed, trumped the Rule, at least in this case. As St. Gregory wrote: “He found, however, that a miracle prevented his desire. A miracle that, by the power of almighty God, a woman’s prayers had wrought. Is it not a thing to be marveled at, that a woman, who for a long time had not seen her brother, might do more in that instance than he could? She realized, according to the saying of St. John, “God is charity” [1 John 4:8]. Therefore, as is right, she who loved more, did more.”

Whether truth or legend, the story shows the power of love and the importance of listening with the heart. Benedict was right in stating that he and the other monks should return to the monastery. Yet, Scholastica’s desire, born of deep affection for her brother and her longing to continue their conversation and praise of God together, was worthy of bending the rules, even Benedict’s.

How often are we confronted with such a choice? Can you recall times when rigidly holding fast to a tradition or rule has worked not to foster growth and love, but instead to injure and alienate? Clinging to what we think we know is “right” may blind us to the reality of others’ lives and wisdom.

Rules and traditions are important. Benedict’s Rule has proven itself over centuries, leading monastics, helping them live, work, and pray together in community. It has also been a guide for many as they strive to balance prayer, work, study, and recreation in their lives with family and friends, and in their workplaces.

Benedict understood the necessity of responding to particular moments and particular needs in ways that are outside the usual response. His Rule is full of such examples. Still, in this story, it was Scholastica who was listening with the ear of the heart and who found God listening to her.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, Grace in the Moment, humility, love, present to the moment, Saint Scholastica, spirituality