Grace in the Moment

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

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