Grace in the Moment

December 15, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Quieting Down to Listen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, December 14, 2014

The gospel from the first Sunday of Advent showed Jesus instructing his followers to be alert. Warning against the possibility of dozing and being asleep when the lord of the house arrives, Jesus had one word for them: “Watch.”

When I taught writing to elementary students and later to adults, my advice was to “be wide awake.” They kept a writer’s notebook, a place to hold thoughts, interesting articles, and favorite poems, anything that spoke to their hearts or passed through their lives. Sometimes what they jotted down ended up in an essay or launched them into a theme that developed into something longer. Most didn’t. The process of noticing and of being present to the moment was the important result. They developed “writerly habits.”

Prayer and writing have a lot in common. Jesus wasn’t instructing his followers to be writers, but to be “wide awake” for God’s presence. Jesus wants us to develop a “pray-ers habit.” “I am with you always,” Jesus says at the end of Matthew’s gospel, “even to the end of time.” The struggle for us is being still enough, inside and out, to become aware of and respond to that presence. Some people in Mark’s gospel audience were preoccupied with the future. They wanted to know when the end was coming, when Jesus would return. Jesus told them that wasn’t for them to know. Instead, they were to live in the present, alert to the “now.”

That’s what Advent is saying to me this year: Don’t spend the time I have in one place while my mind and heart are somewhere else. Don’t fill my mind with mental “chatter” that drowns out what the moment is saying. Easier said than done. I can’t tell you how many mornings I get up with the intention of spending twenty minutes in quiet prayer, simply trying to be present to God-with-Us, but instead end up rushing out of the house on my way to work without having sat still for a moment.

Stuff happens. I’ve thrown in a load of laundry, fretted over finding some other job, responded to emails, and perused the New York Times headlines. I gulp down my cup of tea and can’t remember if I had Constant Comment or Lady Grey. A pity since the aroma and taste of each is worth appreciating.

Even while driving to work I’m thinking about what I’ll do when I finish my shift. Never mind that the sky is clear and bright or that a friendly driver slowed down so I could make my turn. No matter that I have been given another day to live and breathe and love.

Yesterday, I read through Advent’s mass readings. Lots of them are concerned with justice and compassion, God’s and ours. God hears the cry of the poor, promises rest to those who are tired, takes care of sending rain and sun for crops, cares about the lost sheep, the littlest one, cures blindness, lameness, and broken hearts. God wants to love us all, but I’m afraid I’m often too busy to notice.

I think when Zechariah was stuck dumb it was to make him be quiet long enough to become a better listener…to pay attention and to see God at work in ways he didn’t expect.

Mary said “Yes,” after hearing the angel’s invitation. Joseph heard Wisdom in his dreams and took his pregnant fiancé into his home despite appearances.

You have to be listening to hear the “angels” of the moment or God talking in your dreams. You have to be paying attention to recognize God in the poor and suffering in this world. You have to be still to hear Divine Love and share it with others.

Advent’s a time to recall that the God who created us, who came to us in Jesus, and who will come again is, most importantly, here in each and every one of us this very moment. God’s concerned about the least among us. About justice and compassion. About what’s in our heart. Advent’s a call to be still and to be amazed that the most Holy Mystery wants to spend gracious time with us.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Advent, attentive, compassion, grace, justice, quiet, quiet prayer, silence, wide awake

November 7, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Creation Gives Voice to Presence

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, November 9, 2014

Volume 64:6

Emily Dickinson’s poem, Exultation is the going of an inland soul to sea, comes to mind each time I have the opportunity to head to the beach. Someday, I tell myself, perhaps I will live near the east coast, close enough that a trip to the ocean could be measured in minutes rather than hours. As it is, I’m grateful for the times when the long trip is possible.

One of my daughters lives a few hours from a national seashore, and we’ve made a tradition of spending at least a couple of days at the beach when I visit. In October the air is cool. We don’t swim but walk for hours along the sand. This year we wore scarves and sweaters as we sat in beach chairs and enjoyed looking far and gulping the salty air deep into our lungs.

As we watched, gulls and sanderlings entertained, and dolphins moved slowly out beyond the breakers. Pelicans dove for fish, and crabs disappeared down their sandy tunnels. The planet seemed to breathe with the ancient rhythm of the surf moving in and out. We talked about death and life, remembered beach vacations with my parents, and wondered how life would continue to unfold. Then, two pilgrims, we simply sat in silence.

The numinous place where land and sea meet is always a place of prayer for me. Power. Beauty. Mystery. Waters of immense depth, churning and filled with life, speak of the One Who is the Beginning. This day there were no revelations. No new understandings or answers to questions that move in my heart like the waves at me feet, but Presence simply inviting me to enjoy and to trust.

We headed back to my daughter’s apartment carrying a few shells, a small piece of driftwood for her mantel, and two pieces of seaglass that eventually would sit on my prayer table. The next day I drove home through mountains glowing with fall colors. In one more day, with sand still clinging to my pant legs, I was walking a road winding through wooded hills and watching birds landing on feeders outside a cabin’s windows.

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

I lit a candle and wrote in my journal, making sketches of shells and a list of birds at the feeders: woodpeckers, nuthatches, and tufted titmice. Looking up, I was amazed at the variety of colors and textures outside the window: Huge yellow, brown, and deep red oak leaves, smooth barked and deeply ridged tree trunks, green shrubs dotted with red berries, all against a backdrop of blue sky and grey leaf-covered ground.

Unlike my days at ocean when my eyes looked out across the water at the horizon, the day at the cabin offered obstructed views, but they were rich. Leaving the chill of the cabin, I moved outside to the sun-warmed deck, and still the pilgrim, sat silently on the weathered bench.

Wind rustling leaves filled the woods with a sound similar to the ocean’s surf, not rhythmic, but constant.

Creation psalms came to mind with their images of a God who made the sun and moon to mark time and confined the oceans so life could flourish on the land. ‘How varied are your works, Lord! In wisdom you have made them all” (Ps 104, 24). Like Job reminded by God, I have no idea how all this came to be. The “Big Bang” is likely, as Pope Francis recently affirmed. The how and the why remain a mystery, engaging professional scientists and theologians and expanding the minds and spirits of the rest of us who think about it.

But, deep down, I’m pondering Presence in the moment, in the now of sitting on the beach, walking through the woods, or working at Macy’s. In doing laundry and cooking dinner. In reading poetry and scripture, in drinking tea, and falling asleep. It’s the grace to be alive and open to the wonder of each bit of life that I’m looking for.

Being still in the midst of creation nurtures that prayer in us. It’s always been so, as the psalmist says: The heavens are telling the glory of God; and the firmament proclaims his handiwork.Day to day pours forth speech, and night to night declares knowledge.There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world (Psalm 19, 1-4).

PHOTO: Jennifer Stephens

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: autumn, beach, big bang, creation, Emily Dickinson, Grace in the Moment, ocean, October, Pope Francis, Presence, Psalms, quiet prayer, silence

October 10, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Saint John XXIII and the Holy Spirit

Originally published in The Catholic Times, Oct. 13 Vol. 64:2

This week we celebrate for the first time the feast of Saint John the XXIII. The day of his feast, October 11, was selected because it was the date of his opening the Second Vatican Council in 1962. His initiative surprised those who thought he would be a “caretaker” pope.

When Pope Francis canonized him in April of this year, he pointed to Pope John’s willingness to follow the Spirit: “In convening the Council, Saint John XXIII showed an exquisite openness to the Holy Spirit. He let himself be led and he was for the Church a pastor, a servant-leader, guided by the Holy Spirit. This was his great service to the Church; for this reason I like to think of him as the pope of openness to the Holy Spirit.”

A young student during those years, I loved the Pope. I liked his round brimmed hat and quick smile. I liked his visiting ordinary people in Rome. He reminded me of my grandma.

We drove to Pittsburgh to visit her. When we arrived at her home, which was on the second floor of what had been a hotel, we raced up the stairs to be the first to rest on her ample lap, wrapped in her strong, soft embrace. I thought Pope John the XXIII would’ve been that kind of grandpa.

In high school, I read the documents of the Council. After years of sitting in classrooms where vocations to priesthood and religious life were presented as the most desirable states of life and marriage was for those who couldn’t measure up, reading Chapter V of Lumen Gentium, “The Universal Call to Holiness,” was vindication of what I had already observed: Parents and families and single people were living lives every bit as challenging, grace-filled, and transforming as those of the priests in the rectory or the sisters who taught in our schools.

Pope John XXIII Calling for Vatican Council II

Reading the words felt good: “It is therefore quite clear that all Christians in whatever state or walk of life are called to the fullness of Christian life and to the perfection of charity…” “The forms and tasks of life are many but there is one holiness, which is cultivated by all who are led by God’s Spirit…”

Gaudium et Spes” offered more hope: “The invitation to converse with God is addressed to men and women as soon as they are born.” “The best way to fulfill one’s obligations of justice and love is to contribute to the common good according to one’s means and the needs of others…” “Just as God did not create people to live as individuals but to come together in the formation of social unity, so he ‘willed to make women and men holy and to save them, not as individuals without any bond between them, but rather to make them into a people…”

Vatican II began to move the Roman Catholic Church away from fear of and toward engagement with the modern world. The council reached out to all: “We cannot pray to God the Father of all if we treat any people as other than sisters and brothers, for all are created in God’s image.”

It’s fitting to reflect on Pope John XXIII’s courageous willingness to follow that holy lead as the church gathers in a synod to consider the family in today’s world. I wish those invited included more ordinary couples, more women, and more diversity of family experiences. Still, the gathering is hopeful. We’ll see.

Pope Francis’ address to the thousands of people gathered in the piazza to pray for the synod reminded me of John XXIII’s Spirit led effort. “May the Wind of Pentecost blow upon the Synod’s work,” Francis said, “on the Church, and on all of humanity. Undo the knots which prevent people from encountering one another, heal the wounds that bleed, rekindle hope.”

His homily at Sunday’s opening mass warned of the possibility that those charged with nurturing God’s people can bring harm instead out of their self interest, greed, and pride: “God’s dream always clashes with the hypocrisy of some of his servants. We can ‘thwart’ God’s dream if we fail to let ourselves be guided by the Holy Spirit,” Pope Francis said. “The Spirit gives us that wisdom which surpasses knowledge, and enables us to work generously with authentic freedom and humble creativity.”

We can honor Pope John XXIII by praying for the continuing unfolding of Vatican II wisdom and for openness of all, no matter their position, to the Spirit who is blowing through windows and refreshing the air in our church.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Gaudium et Spes, Holy Spirit, hope, Lumen Gentium, Pope Francis, Pope John XXIII, Saint John XXIII, Synod of the Family, Universal Call to Holiness, Vatican Council II

September 18, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Tenderness and the Cross

Saint John’s University Arboretum PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times September 21, 2014

I have a friend who’s leaving to spend a year living and working in the L’Arche community in Trosly, a small town north of Paris, France, so I was particularly interested in the interview with L’Arche founder, Jean Vanier, in the recent issue of the National Catholic Reporter. (For those unfamiliar with L’Arche, it is an international organization that forms communities of people with mental disabilities and those who live and care for them.)

As I read the article, two words stood out. First was “community.” Vanier sees individualism as “the greatest evil of our time,” and says that people enter the world of individualism to show how good they are and often that they are better than the rest. It’s a proving ground.

Community, on the other hand, is “a school of love.” There we reveal our woundedness and needs as well as respond to the needs and woundedness of others. Community is transformational. It isn’t easy as any person

living in one can attest. Community isn’t always marriage, family, or religious life. It can be our parish or work community, extended family, a close circle of friends or coworkers for a common cause. Whatever form it takes, true community requires sacrifice as well as celebration.

The other word was “tenderness.” Vanier referred to a psychiatrist who, when asked for a sign of maturity, said “tenderness,” and understands tenderness, not non-violence, to be the opposite of violence.

While speaking of those with disabilities who come to L’Arche, Vanier noted the importance of helping them discover their preciousness and beauty, not so much by what is done, but by “being with.” Listening, treating them with respect, with tenderness, that is where transformation happens. “What is important,” Vanier says, “is relationships.”

Our world is broken, and all carry pain within. Many people expressed surprise after discovering Robin Williams had been battling deep depression for years. As Vanier suggested, those types of wounds are not shared in the world of individualism, but in community.

Some people’s struggles are more visible resulting from ignorance, fear, and oppression. The poor. Women. The LGBT community. People of color. Homeless people, many of whom suffer from mental illness. How do we respond to them with tenderness? My experience tells me that “being with” is what opens my heart to those I might otherwise see only as “other.”

Before reading this interview, I was working on a column reflecting on the mystery of last Sunday’s feast, the Exultation of the Cross. As I read about L’Arche, the two themes wove themselves together: The cross present in the living of community, and tenderness both leading to and flowing from embracing the cross.

Sunday’s mass collect put me off: “O God, who willed that your Only Begotten Son should undergo the Cross to save the human race…” I’ve never been able to get my head around the image of a God who would demand a bloody sacrifice, of a son, no less, to appease Divine justice. Unfortunately, that is often the approach taken to make sense of Jesus’ suffering and death. It just doesn’t fit with Jesus’ image of God as “Abba,” “Daddy.”

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

This intimate address to a parent exudes tenderness, not retribution. There’s the father who welcomes home the prodigal son, the mother hen who gathers and protects her chicks, the shepherd who looks for lost sheep.

Then there’s Jesus himself who tells his followers, “When you see me, you see the one who sent me.” Jesus ate with sinners, hung out with those on the fringes, embraced children, and preached giving oneself for others. When asked why he spent time with such people, Jesus replied, “Go and learn the meaning of the words ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’”

Jesus spoke of God as community, Trinity and invited us to join in. As Vanier noted, community transforms. Community with God transforms completely.

No, I can’t imagine God willing Jesus to suffer. While I’m familiar with doctrines of substitutional, even penal atonement, I have to go with my prayer and my heart. The world couldn’t cope with the radical love and truth of Jesus, and rather than abandoning who he knew himself to be, Jesus embraced the cross his faithfulness brought. His death and resurrection poured the salve of unconditional love on the wounds of humanity, and calls us to do the same. Community. Tenderness. Jesus asks us to share in his cross and resurrection, opening the door to a transformative relationship with God and all God’s people.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, Cross, Exaltation of the Cross, grace, Jean Vanier, L'Arche "School of Love", love, mercy, National Catholic Reporter, prayer, tenderness

August 8, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

God Who Comes in Whispers

curly wind clip art.jpg

First published in The Catholic Times, August 10, 2014, Volume 63:3

Sunday’s reading follows a dramatic showdown between Elijah and King Ahab after three long years of drought predicted by the prophet. During his reign, Ahab’s wife, Jezebel, spread the worship of Baal throughout the land and murdered the prophets of the Lord. Elijah alone remained. Prompted by God, Elijah met with the king and proposed they meet on Mount Carmel.

People from all over Israel were summoned including the prophets of Baal. Tired of their unwillingness to choose between the Lord and Baal, Elijah challenged them to watch and decide: The prophets of Baal were to prepare a sacrifice. Elijah would do the same. Each would call on their god to send fire to consume the offering.

You know the outcome. Despite a day of shouting, dancing, and self-mutilation, Baal’s prophets received no answer. Then Elijah, after preparing his sacrifice and inviting the people to douse it all with water three times, asked the Lord to answer his prayer so the people would turn their hearts again to the true God.

Fire consumed the sacrifice, the stones, the wood, and dried up all the water in the trench. Elijah commanded the people to slaughter all the prophets of Baal who were present. A small cloud over the sea grew larger and darker, and as God had promised, at last, rain came.

Jezebel was furious and vowed to take Elijah’s life. He fled until, exhausted, he sat down by a bush and asked God to take his life, but angels, not death, arrived. And they brought food. Twice they fed the old prophet. Strengthened, he traveled forty days to Mount Horeb.

This is where we meet Elijah in Sunday’s reading. After having spent his life striving to be faithful to his God, he wasn’t sure what he had accomplished. In spite of the spectacular results on Mount Carmel and the killing of Baal’s prophets, his world appeared unchanged.

A few lines are left out of Sunday’s reading. Between the night of sleep in the cave, and the command to stand on the mountain to wait for the Lord, Elijah hears God asking him what he is doing there.

He answers, “I have been very zealous for the Lord God Almighty. The Israelites have rejected your covenant, torn down your altars, and put your prophets to death with the sword. I am the only one left, and now they are trying to kill me too.”

Haven’t we felt that same way at one time or another? Having done our best, our best isn’t good enough. We’ve prayed, we’ve worked, and we’ve hoped but eventually, find hope elusive. As the angels observed, the journey is too much for us. For our resources. We need nourishment from God to go on, and even then we aren’t sure what to do next. Poverty, hatred, oppression, and disease continue to plague our world, and we have no answers.

Elijah waited to meet the Lord, but God didn’t come in the violence of wind or storms. He didn’t come in earthquakes or fire. The Lord didn’t come with force, but in a whisper. All the power of God. In a whisper.

I find that comforting. I think it’s because I can do “whispers.” I can do little things with great love. All the bombs raining down fire on people below haven’t brought peace. All the hatred and angry posturing haven’t brought needed change. Like Elijah’s showdown on Mount Carmel, they might look impressive, but in the end, they only make things worse.

We aren’t perfect. Elijah wasn’t either. He had four hundred and fifty prophets slaughtered because they believed in the wrong god. He wanted good. He wanted what God wanted, but couldn’t make it happen himself.

It’s a story repeated in scripture and in our lives. God brings good from our efforts in ways we don’t know. When we can see no path ahead, like Elijah, God invites us to trust. To be still. To listen. God is passing by. God is coming in whispers. Whispers from the lips of children, from a tired mother. From a scarred earth. From a cool breeze. From a kind deed. From some little thing you do that you think makes no difference.

The Holy One who made all that is and who is beyond our imaginings is a God who comes in whispers.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: be still, creation, Elijah, grace, hope, listen, love, Presence, quiet prayer, spirituality, trust, whisper

July 12, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Blessed Rain of Grace

Photo: Mary van Balen

First published in The Catholic Times July 13, 2014 issue

I love the words of the Lord proclaimed by Isaiah in Sunday’s first reading and find them to be a great source of hope. Perhaps it’s the simplicity of the metaphor: Rain and snow and the word of God.

“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….”

Despite countless acres of concrete and asphalt that stretch and tangle around the globe, the majority of rain and snow that fall from the sky land on ground that can soak it up. Last night, hearing thunder in the distance, I walked outside, pulled up a lawn chair, and watched towering clouds move quickly across the sky. Leaves rustled turning bottom up as the storm blew in.

Potted herbs behind me released wafts of rosemary, basil, oregano, and sage as big cold drops hit their leaves. Birds hurried to shelter and a rabbit scampered quickly across the lawn and under a bush. Rain came harder and I retreated inside, carrying the smell of summer rain.

Eventually, water that isn’t sucked up by vegetation or that isn’t trapped deep below the surface returns to the air. The great water cycle we all studied in grade school science class. The moisture doesn’t disappear, it just changes form for a while until conditions are right, and after gathering in clouds, it drops to the earth once again.

“…so shall my word be” says the Lord. “…my word that goes forth from my mouth; my word shall not return to me void, but shall do my will, achieving the end for which I sent it.”

I think of Jesus, the Word of God, who came and accomplished his mission. Saturated with the One who sent him, he could not help but reveal the Holy Mystery. Jesus lived life in accordance with God’s will: To love unconditionally, loving all and calling them to share in Divine life, as he did. Jesus, the Word of God from before all time, came and watered our souls with Love so they could be fruitful.

God’s word also falls into our selves through words of scripture. As we listen to readings at Mass or ponder them at home, the Truth makes the soil of our hearts fertile, able to bring forth God’s life and love into our daily lives and into the world.

We also are God’s word, a bit of Mystery spoken into flesh sent with purpose. Sometimes, I find myself wondering what mine is at the moment. I’m a mother, daughter, sister, and aunt. I’ve been a teacher, author, and social worker. Still, I wonder: What is the word that I am given to speak in the world today? What am I to do that will “achieve the end for which” I am sent into this “now.”

Sometimes God’s purpose for us seems clear. Perhaps it is parenting years. Or times when we comfort the sick or serve those in our family or circle of friends who need help. Sometimes we may be part of something much bigger than ourselves that makes a visible difference in the world. As I write, we are celebrating the 50^th anniversary of President Lyndon B. Johnson signing the Civil Rights Act into law.

Those who were part of that effort from politicians to civil rights leaders, to ordinary people who spoke up and refused to give in to the racist world view…those people were words sent forth from the mouth of God and they spoke their truth.

It’s often in ordinary times that we have difficulty recognizing ourselves as God’s word spoken into the world. It was easier for me when I worked with abused women. Not so clear as a retail associate. Yet, there I am. There we are. In mundane jobs, in ordinary family circumstances, in places we never expected to be.

Simple. Like rain falling from the sky. We do our jobs. We love. We persevere. And the Civil Rights Acts becomes law, or a child learns to read, or a food pantry is stocked, or dinner is prepared, or a lonely soul receives a smile.

I don’t know the details of God’s plan. I know it is about loving and service. And that Holy Word and blessed rain of Grace will fall into our hearts and make it come to be.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: civil rights, grace, Grace in the Moment, Presence, spirituality

June 17, 2014 By Mary van Balen 1 Comment

Being One

Andrej Rublëv – Trinity

First published in The Catholic Times, June 15, 2014 Volume 63:34

Easter season is over and we now begin the long liturgical period of Ordinary Time. This Sunday we celebrate Trinity Sunday. I’d like to reflect on this mystery by pondering Jesus’ words from last week’s readings. They speak of the coming of the Holy Spirit and the unity of all three Persons of the Trinity as well as our inclusion in Divine Life shared.

Last Thursday, in a reading from John, Jesus proclaims his heart’s desire in prayer. Approaching death, his thoughts turn to those who follow him. He doesn’t wish for earthly power or anything for himself, but desires that all those who believe in him may share in the union that he shares with the One who sent him. It is a prayer of love. A radical love.

Throughout his life, Jesus showed his disciples what that love looked like. It was washing feet. It was taking care of others. He told Peter, “Feed my sheep.” It was speaking the truth regardless of consequences. It was being with the outcast and those on the fringes of society. It was living simply with passion for the kingdom rather than for riches. While the words of that gospel are beautifully poetic, they demand sacrifice.

Jesus prays that all will come to perfection “as one,” not as individuals. We come to healing and salvation together with one another and with God. Our journey is not about personal salvation; it’s about the salvation of the world. Closing ourselves off from the problems of our world and pursing our own “holiness” would be easier. Leaving the messiness behind is tempting, whether violence, poverty, oppression, or care of the planet. Jesus tells us that’s not how it’s done.

I’m often overwhelmed by the challenges facing us and our world today. What can one person do? Is Jesus’ prayer too much to hope for? If we were on our own, the answer surely would be “Yes,” but he reassures us. We are not alone. We have Divine Love moving within us. “…I made known to them your name and I will make it known, that the love with which you loved me may be in them and I in them.”

On Pentecost we celebrated the coming of that Love, the Spirit. In that day’s readings Paul’s letter the Corinthians states that though we are many, we are one. The gifts of the Spirit are unique in each of us, but they are given for the same purpose: “To each individual the manifestation of the Spirit is given for some benefit.” When the challenges of our times overwhelm, we do well to remember this. Each one’s actions are joined with the actions of all others. God’s work is done by all together, healing all by the work God in all.

Sometimes what we do seems to make little difference whether at home, at work, or in the larger community, but we don’t see the whole picture. In spring, we plant seeds. That’s our part. What nourishes them and brings them to maturity bearing fruit, that’s Another’s work. We put small dormant kernels of life into dark earth, wait, and trust. Our call in the world is similar. We do our best and trust that God, gathering all our efforts, will do the rest.

The other two Pentecost readings gave us different accounts of the coming of the Spirit. One, from Acts, is dramatic: a howling wind driving through the house, tongues of fire descending. The other is quieter: Jesus came through locked doors to be with his disciples who were gathered in fear. “Peace be with you,” he said, and he breathed on them. The Spirit came with breath. Either way, the message is the same: The Living God is within us, the source of our gifts and our call as well as the power to be faithful to them.

Today’s feast celebrates the mystery of our God who is Relationship: Three persons dwelling in and with the other, and as Jesus’ prayer reveals, in us. The famous icon, “Trinity,” written by 15^th century Russian painter, Andrei Rubelev, while picturing three angels has been interpreted by many to represent the Holy Trinity. The figures are gathered around a table, leaving open the place facing the one who views the icon. Perhaps it is an invitation to take our seat at table with the Holy Mystery and join in the Love and work of God.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Andrej Rublëv Trinity, family, grace, Holy Trinity, love, One, relationship

May 10, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Grace Overflowing

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, May 11 2014 issue

Despite working until close at Macy’s on Holy Saturday night and arriving home around ten-thirty pm, I had energy and decided to bake hot cross buns. Well, I had energy until they were ready to rise the second time. Dragging, by three in the morning, I was savoring the warm, cinnamony-sweet results and cleaning the kitchen.

When the alarm sounded at 7:45, I wasn’t sure I could pry myself out of bed. “I could go to 11:30,” I thought. No. Nine o’clock was the mass I wanted to attend, sleepy or not. After a shower and a strong cup of tea, I headed out to St. Thomas the Apostle where the parish family was gathering to celebrate Easter.

The church was packed, and even though my usual place was taken, I found a seat next to a lovely older woman wearing an amazing hat. Remember Easter hats? As young girls, my sisters and I had new hats each Easter. Hats. Dresses. White gloves. Part of the ritual.

The altar was surrounded with flowers and on the ledge at the bottom of each stained glass window sat a potted spring bulb flower: hyacinths, tulips, daffodils. The tight buds were beginning to loosen, and hints of color were peeking out. A quite murmur rested in the church as people wished one another “Happy Easter” and caught up on the week before. Then the music began.

One of the many things I love about Saint Thomas is the spirited singing accompanied by a variety of instruments. Organ, piano, guitar, flute, drums, tambourine, trumpet, and on Easter I think I heard a trombone. Someone can set me straight if I’m wrong. It doesn’t matter really. What matters is that people are welcome to share their talents and that so many do!

I don’t remember all the songs we sang that morning, but I remember the joy with which they were sung, the clapping to the rhythm, the harmonies. A favorite “sprinkling” ritual at that parish is the procession up the center aisle to a large earthenware bowl that holds baptismal water. Pews empty out one by one, and when each person reaches the bowl, they dip their hand into the water, turn, and make the sign of the cross on the forehead of the person behind them, all the while belting out Marty Haugen’s song, “Up from the Waters.”

“Up from the waters, God has claimed you, Up from the waters, O child of Light. Praise to the One who called and named you, Up from the waters into life…”

Choir members brought up the end of the line, the last two keeping time with their instruments. The tall gentleman who played the tambourine was last. Having no one behind him to bless with the water, he turned, raised his hands and shook the tambourine making a large sign of the cross: He blessed us all, and we applauded our “amen.”

The responsorial song was sung with a strong voice and a bright smile.

And so it went. The celebrant chose to read the Gospel from the Easter Vigil Mass where the two Marys, having been told that Jesus had risen ran “overjoyed” to tell the disciples. They saw Jesus on their way.

The theme of joy ran through his homily, and with a child’s abandon, a young member of the congregation punctuated one of Fr. Denis’s comments with a heartfelt, “Yeah!”

It fit.

A sung Eucharist Prayer, shared peace, shared communion. The wine was sweet. Sun poured into the windows, waking the flowers as we sang our Alleluias and closing hymn. No one was in a hurry to leave. I told the lady next to me how much I liked her hat, then found some friends who had been across the aisle and exchanged Easter greetings.

I lingered, soaking in the Mystery and Grace, and then made my way across the parking lot. Coming out from the common room in the basement, a few people were carrying boxes of candy-filled plastic eggs to scatter for the Easter egg hunt that would follow the later Mass.

Waiting for the traffic light at the corner to change, I looked at the green grass beside the rectory and church. It was absolutely covered with colored eggs. An abundance. I hadn’t kept Lent particularly well, yet there it was, God’s gift of Self overflowing. A never ending Fountain Fullness as a Franciscan friend says. I put down the car window, waved, and took a deep breath, glad I had pulled myself out of bed for nine o’clock Mass.

A joyful Easter Season to you all.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: creation, Easter, grace, Grace in the Moment, hope, lent, love, mercy, present to the moment, spirituality, spring

April 10, 2014 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Being an Appreciator

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times, April 13, 2014, Volume 63:27

A good friend, Rita, once said years ago that she knew herself to be an appreciator: an appreciator of God revealed in the world of creation, of people, of life. I thought of her when I read a reflection by Carole Crumley, Episcopal priest and Shalem Institute’s Senior Program Director. Carole’s morning prayer practice is gazing at the world outside in her backyard, enjoying watching the day wake up as she does. In the reflection she mentions poet Mary Oliver, one of my favorites, whose poetry celebrates the glorious sacred in every day. Oliver, like Crumley, and my friend Rita, is an appreciator.

I’ve often told classes of aspiring journalers and writers that writing helps me stay “wide awake” as I move through life. It helps me notice and appreciate. As spring arrives after a particularly relentless winter, many of us notice the first crocuses and daffodils, the forsythia blooming, the feel of soft earth that just weeks ago was hard and unmoving beneath our feet. Winter makes us into appreciators, at least for a while.

We quickly become accustomed to green crowned trees, warm air, and colorful blooms. Before long many of us will be complaining of the heat and finding refuge in air-conditioned spaces, alert for cool breezes and cooler temperatures. So goes the cycle. The sense of wonder and joy seems greatest at boundary times: winter into spring; Lent into Easter; sickness into health; danger into safety. Then it fades.

The call to be an appreciator or “pray-er” requires one to find the extraordinary cloaked in the ordinary, to marvel at our planet circling the sun even when the sun’s heat is oppressive, to see the Divine Mystery even when it is lodged in someone we don’t like.

Routine may be the greatest challenge to those who desire a poet’s heart or a saint’s prayer. How quickly we look past what surrounds us everyday, longing for something to lift our spirits or inspire us, when we tromp over miracles piled underfoot.

Artists of all types help us see these wonders more clearly. Hasn’t your heart moved at the beauty of a close-up photograph of something very plain: a tea cup, blue paint peeling off an old door, weeds pushing up through cracks in sidewalks? Haven’t you become lost in the light of a van Gogh painting? It’s by looking closely at what we all walk past everyday and wondering at it enough to celebrate it in words, music, or form, that artists awaken the poet and saint in us all.

Mary Oliver writes in her poem, “When Death Comes,” “When it’s over, I want to say: all my life/ I was a bride married to amazement… I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.”

I think that the Incarnation and the love that impelled the Creator to walk this earth with us, to eventually die for love of it and us rather than resort to grasping at power and control, invites us to live as poet and saint. Night imparts an appreciation of day, as does day of night. Winter gives us a heart for spring. Lent, a desire for Easter. Routine hides singularity.

Jesus was an appreciator. He saw the Glory of the Divine in poor fishermen and women spurned by society or the men in their lives. He saw majesty in lilies and grace in the poor widow’s gift of pennies. His celebration of all life challenged those who would cherish life only on their own terms. He accepted death at the hands of the extraordinary and powerful only to witness to the victory of what, at first glace, seemed ordinary and weak. An itinerant preacher of love and service, easily dismissed by most, conquered death and invites us to do the same: to see with him the Glory of God infused into every moment, even the darkest, to expect to find wonder and Presence, and to celebrate it by the way we live our lives.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: appreciator, creation, Grace in the Moment, Mary Oliver, Shalem, spirituality

March 6, 2014 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Lent: Winter, Flowers, and Pete Seeger

retreat bouquet from daughters Originally published in The Catholic Times, March 9, 2014 issue

A lover of winter, even I am ready for spring this year. Snow, ice, and frigid temperatures just keep coming. And coming. As I arranged a small “prayer table” in my dining area, I decided to add flowers. Some years I have placed small branches in a vase or a container of stones and bulbs, forcing them to sprout and bloom by the end of Lent. This year, I am starting with blooms. I’m not feeling particularly “spiritual.” I need a reminder that even in the midst of winter, spiritual as well as physical, God’s love is present.

Besides flowers, the space holds a book of Scripture readings, a Tibetan singing bowl to call me to prayer, a small, bronze cross, and some bits of nature gathered or given by friends. A candle sits atop a tall wrought iron stand fashioned for me by my daughter many years ago. For some reason, this year I think I will need all these sacramental objects to keep me focused and hopeful.

It’s not just winter weather that has made my spirit weary. Life has been busy with writing projects, healing, and work. News of world conflicts, genocide, drought and famine, while not unique to this moment, weighs particularly heavy on my heart. Closer to home, political rancor and intolerance continue to grab headlines. Our world needs hope. It needs Easter.

Winter has not been without moments of beauty and grace. One was a sing-along gathering people from around the city to remember and honor Pete Seeger who died at the end of January, ninety-four years young. Parking a few blocks away from the Mennonite church where it was held, I joined others walking in the street to avoid icy, unshoveled sidewalks. The space was packed. Led by a trio on guitar, banjo, and bass, we raised our voices (in harmony, no less), singing the old songs. It felt good. The day Pete Seeger died, I took my guitar out from under my bed and played for a couple of hours, wondering why I didn’t do that much anymore. Singing and playing are prayer for me, much like writing.

“This Lent, I’ll sing more,” I told myself.

Pete Seeger used to say that we shouldn’t wish for a great leader. Instead, we should hope for lots and lots of good leaders who work hard right where they are. Think globally. Act locally. It will be participation that saves the world, he’d say.

Lent is like that for me, this year. I’m trying to nurture the awareness of being part of something much bigger than myself, bigger than my little world of home and work, family and friends. Jesus gave us the big picture, the call the help in bringing the kingdom. But he calls us to
“act locally.” He didn’t ask his followers to become national figures or world leaders. He called them to love one another. To respect and to serve, right where they were.

When those he healed wanted to go with him, he often told them to stay put and tell their story to those with whom they lived and worked. It’s harder to do that. Leaving one’s routine behind sounds exciting. It’s easier to love people we don’t know that well.

It’s easier to think about big events and projects than about calling our political representatives, taking time to visit with a grumpy neighbor, or becoming aware of how we might live more consciously of our effect on the planet. Following Jesus is more little steps than giant leaps. It’s more nitty-gritty than glitz.

Lent’s about embracing death, sure of life to come. It’s also about enjoying flowers in the wintertime. It’s about giving ourselves down time to remember that even when we don’t feel God with us or in our world, the Holy One lives in us all. Lent reminds me of this winter that prepares the earth for spring.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Easter, grace, lent, love, Pete Seeger, Presence, spring, winter