Jesus, Servant-King
November 29, 2020 By 2 Comments

Jesus, Servant-King

Even with my usual activity restricted by an ever-worsening pandemic, time has passed quickly for me. The liturgical year is drawing to a close this Sunday with the Feast of Christ the King. Then the new year begins with Advent.  

I’ve never warmed up to the image of Christ the King. “King” has too many political overtones. Images of a stern king enthroned and bedecked in robes and a gleaming crown, maybe with one hand grasping a scepter, a symbol of power, have put me off. It seems an odd segue into the celebration of the ongoing Incarnation and the remembrance of Jesus’s birth in poverty.

Kings and kingship have a long history, including the Judeo/Christian tradition. Samuel resisted the people’s desire to have a king. Their reasoning – because everyone else has one – seemed shaky. But a king they got, for a while.

I suppose there have been genuinely good kings (and queens) over the centuries, but the associated trappings of power and wealth are hard to overlook. And they do tend to corrupt.

In his lifetime, Jesus resisted the title of king, and when people clamored to make him one, he made himself scarce. Of course, the “kingdom of God” is central to his message. But it is a kingdom unlike any earthly kingdom: there is room for all. It isn’t observable. It’s a work in progress, and the progress depends on the people.

It isn’t about exteriority but what’s in the heart, for that is where the kingdom resides, where the Word is spoken and takes root and grows. The signs of the kingdom are love, service, joy, peace, willingness to suffer for the good of others. God sows this Word-seed in human hearts. It has power to grow and transform every person and, through them, works to transform the world.

In our particular time and place in a world ravaged by pandemic and political turmoil, the call is to follow this Servant-King. The power to be wielded is that of Love, prayer, and service.

The kingdom is both/and. Already here and yet to come. “Already here” because the Holy One has placed a bit of Divinity in everyone. “Yet to come” because it must grow with cooperation and surrender.

The kingdom is Presence and Possibility. All creation exists in the embrace of the Christ – “The soul is in God and God in the soul, just as the fish is in the sea and the sea in the fish.” (St. Catherine of Siena) All creation, including human beings, is becoming – “Above all, trust in the slow work of God.” (Pierre Teilhard de Chardin)

It is a servant-king that Jesus modeled. He didn’t sit on a throne or live in opulence or control with commands or hang out with those in power. He didn’t have a place to rest his head. He led by example. The poor and marginalized where his companions.

Jesus was a man of both action and prayer. He preached, healed, fed, walked, and sat with others. And when he prayed, he didn’t sit in a privileged place but more likely on a rock in the wilderness.

In our particular time and place in a world ravaged by pandemic and political turmoil, the call is to follow this Servant-King. The power to be wielded is that of Love, prayer, and service. Jesus provides the job description in Sunday’s gospel. When he does “sit on his glorious throne,” the criteria for judgement is love in service. Did you feed the hungry and give drink to the thirsty? Did you clothe the naked and visit the prisoners? What did you do to open yourself to Love and then give it away?

If I were asked to create an image of Christ the King, it would be of a person busy taking care of others. Ordinary attire would replace robes and crowns. The scepter would be gone, and if a hand was free at all, it would hold a shepherd’s staff or maybe food to be given away, a stethoscope, a cooking pot, seeds, a pen, a book, a brush. Whatever one needs to be who they are created to be. To do their work in bringing the kingdom.

Papier-mache mask
Artist: Laurie VanBalen

©2020 Mary van Balen

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The Challenge of this Special Time
September 24, 2020 By 10 Comments

The Challenge of this Special Time

Musée d’Orsay, Paris
Photo: Mary van Balen

In a recent letter, a Trappist monk who has been my friend for decades, wrote this to me: “It is a special time to be living and praying…” This simple phrase immediately went to my heart. It seemed true, with a depth of meaning I would lean into in the days ahead.

My friend is right. These are difficult times with crises on multiple fronts: coronavirus, political upheaval, racism laid bare, climate change, anger, fear, distrust, hatred.

He could have written that these are terrible times to be living through, dangerous and scary—also true. But he didn’t. He said they were special times to be living and praying. The power of that phrase lies in its implication of responsibility. We are living now, in the midst of national and global turmoil and a once in a century pandemic. And because we are here, we are the ones who must do something about it. Living and praying deeply.

The author of Ecclesiastes writes that all is vanity. That there is nothing new under the sun. That what is now has been before and will be again. It’s the long view of human history, and in many ways, it is true. Strife and struggle have always been part of life. Our time on the earth is short. When death comes, the world continues to turn, as impossible as that seems in the midst of fresh, anguished grief.

Yet, here we are. Living. With choices to make, in this particular time in history. Choices, big and small, that will, for good or ill, make a difference. The fate of humanity, of this earth, is not written in the stars, something pre-determined that we watch come around and go away and come around again. The incarnational aspect of our faith says differently. We are not bystanders; we are partners in bringing the kingdom. 

Every person makes a difference. Each one has the call, the gift, to transform the world in some way by being faithful to and sharing the bit of Divinity that lives within. Every act or omission matters.

Ecclesiastes also says there is a time for every thing under the heavens: to be born, to die; to plant, to harvest; to weep, to laugh. The list is long.

What is it time for, now? What do these days demand? What cries out from that biblical list? A time to heal, a time to build, a time to gather stones together. It is a time to discern what to keep and what to cast away – there is much that needs to be cast away. It is not a time to be silent. It is a time to speak. And surely it is time to love in the midst of hate.         

And how will we help these things happen?

My friend’s deceptively simple words suggest living and praying. Not in a superficial way. Living actively in the moment. Praying with our actions. But also finding strength in prayer that connects us to the Presence of Love within that sustains and does the heavy lifting.

To authentically live and to pray in these times is challenging. Again, some biblical wisdom:

Paul writes to the community of Corinth about eating meat that had been sacrificed to idols. In the U.S., not something we deal with every day. (Though what modern “idols” do we worship that demand the sacrifice of lives and health of “essential workers” who harvest our food and process our meat?)

Paul says, “I will never eat meat again, so that I may not cause my brother to sin.” It’s not his response to a dilemma of his age that speaks to me; it’s his reason – a profound love and concern for the other and the willingness to sacrifice some part of his own comfort for them.

Again, this time to the Philippians, Paul writes of putting others first: “Do nothing out of selfishness or out of vainglory; rather humbly regard others as more important than yourselves, each looking out not only for their own interest, but also for those of others.”

And, of course, the life of Jesus, who gave everything he had, even his life, showing us what Love looks like.

My friend’s words have become questions: How will I live? How will I pray, in this special time?

© 2020 Mary van Balen

Pray as though everything depended on God. Work as though everything depended on you.

St. Augustine
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A Morning Walk’s Prayer of Attention
August 24, 2020 By 16 Comments

A Morning Walk’s Prayer of Attention

green leaf glowing with sunlight
PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Sometimes my “church” is the outdoors. I take an early walk for exercise and to pray the prayer of attention and gratitude for whatever is given. Last week, I was two blocks from home when the morning sun shining through large, broad leaves of an old tree stopped me in my tracks. Some leaves caught the morning rays and glowed bright green against the deep shades of others hanging in the shadow, gleaming like illumined stained-glass windows in the dark stone interiors of medieval cathedrals.

Light streaming through the canopy of leaves into a small ravine was the next gift. Tucked between two homes, the space held trees, undergrowth, and scattered, pop-up choirs of resurrection lilies singing out praise with their glorious purple-pink blooms.

And so it went. But before long, I found myself distracted by walkers and runners, like me, out to enjoy the morning. Unlike me, not wearing masks. As we approached one another on the sidewalk, few made any effort to distance themselves. Time and again, I crossed the street to ensure safe distance. Irritation began to overshadow meditation.

I reclaimed my focus, intentionally moving it away from people and back to the moment, being attentive to the Sacred proclaimed by creation. Slowly, wisdom rose in my heart: gratitude for the beauty around me and awareness of the privilege that allowed me to walk in a neighborhood that offers such respite.

A deeper recognition stirred, one of being part of the greater Whole. Along with the tress and other growing things, I am part of a reflection of an unknowable Presence – unknowable, but with Grace, sometimes experienced.

The trees spoke to me of Presence that exists beyond, yet encompasses all time. The Mystery informs each moment and remains when the moment has passed.

I noticed old trees that have witnessed much and thought of ancient ones around the world that stood as wars have come and gone. Trees that have seen floods, droughts, and fires rage. That have outlasted plagues. Trees that have seen governments and empires, dictators and saints, come and go. The ancient ones that have watched economic booms and busts, seen hatred and the love that overcame it.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I remembered a quote by Thomas Merton:

“A tree gives glory to God first of all by being a tree. For in being what God means it to be, it is imitating an idea which is in God and which is not distinct from the essence of God, and therefore a tree imitates God by being a tree.”

Thomas Merton Seeds of Contemplation

What is true for the oldest of trees is true for the newly sprouted plant coming up between cracks in cement. It is true for the birds and squirrels that rustled leaves on trees and shrubs as they sought safety when I walked by. And it is true of me.

When I am authentically myself, I reflect the Divine within to the world without. Presence permeates all that is. That will never end.

When I am gone from the earth, well before the trees I passed, I will still “be” in some way or other. And along with the trees that will remain to calm some other earth-walkers in future decades, I will be a part of the Mystery.

These days are passing, but while I am here in this moment, it is important to share the Divine spark given to me. It is equally important to welcome the Presence, to sink into it, to melt into it and know peace in the reality that all things are part of the One Holy Mystery, now and always.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

© 2020 Mary van Balen

 “Open your eyes, alert your spiritual ears, unlock your lips, and apply your heart, so that in all creation you may see, hear, praise, love and adore, magnify, and honor your God.”

St. Bonaventure Itinerarium

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Sunday Prayer: A Mindful Loaf
April 22, 2020 By 14 Comments

Sunday Prayer: A Mindful Loaf

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

Bread baking ingredients sitting on a kitchen counter: olive oil, bag of whole wheat flour, honey, salt, measuring spoon with yeast, a beeswax vigil candle burning.My old Tassajara Bread book’s cover is stained and bent, but its respect for the ingredients and the nourishment of body and spirit as well as its slow, mindful approach was perfect for my prayer – of course it would be. The book’s author was a young Zen student, later Zen priest, at the Tassajara Zen Mountain Center, Edward Espe Brown.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

broken whole wheat roll on blue ceramic plate, matching chalice, and burning beeswax vigil candle sitting on counter

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

 

©2020 Mary van Balen

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Wisdom of the Good Pope John XXIII
October 13, 2019 By 1 Comment

Wisdom of the Good Pope John XXIII

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

© 2019 Mary van Balen

 

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Do What You Are Doing
July 28, 2019 By 5 Comments

Do What You Are Doing

Liturgically speaking, summer is all “ordinary time.” It’s a break after the Lent/Triduum/Easter seasons that concluded with the feat of Pentecost. That’s fine with me. Summer is full enough without more events and expectations. Besides, I love “ordinary” time. It gives us breathing room to discover just how extraordinary ordinary is.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

There is a Latin phrase that provides wisdom for living and praying the “ordinary time” moments in our lives: Age quod agis or “Do what you’re doing.” Finding the origin of the Latin phrase was impossible. Finding its use was easier. It appears in things as diverse as the old western movie, Tombstone, Pope John XXIII’s Journey of a Soul, Saint Ignatius and Jesuit spirituality, and school mottos to name just a few.

Whatever you’re doing, do it with attention. Throw your whole self into it. It’s tempting to idealize this interpretation of the phrase, applying it to individual tasks. You know, if you’re folding laundry, well, concentrate on the laundry. Enjoy the smell and feel of clean clothes. Be grateful you have that neat stack.

On the other hand, such single-mindedness isn’t always possible and isn’t always the wisdom age quod agis offers at a particular moment. The recent family scene in the living room of my nephew and his young family comes to mind.

Jeans hanging over full white laundry basketHe and his wife were busy folding loads of laundry and sorting it into piles for each of their four children. They were preparing for a month-long trip to visit both sets of grandparents and, in addition to that, camping for a week. In the midst of their preparations, they offered hospitality to a visiting aunt, which would be me. And of course, all four children were around, talking to their visitor and taking care of their own preparations—which may have included cleaning rooms and gathering books to take. I leave it to your imagination. Not a lot of time there to sniff the laundry.

Life and prayer are a communal endeavor. “What you’re doing” can be one thing or a number of things. Those young parents were taking care of laundry while answering questions, directing activity, and making me feel welcome. Their “what you are doing” was being good parents while welcoming the visitor. They gave it their all.

Same with us. We might be students, teachers, employees, parents, or members of a community (vowed or not). We might be children, arranging care for an aging parent. And while it would be nice to give ourselves completely to a solitary walk on the beach, listening uninterrupted to a symphony, or gardening quietly in our yard, life doesn’t always happen that way. It’s more likely a hodgepodge of activity.

What ordinary time says to me is that’s ok. No, not just “ok.” That’s the path to holiness. “Do what you’re doing.” No matter what that is in the present moment, it’s where we meet God.

We celebrate feast days of a number of saints in July who were good at this. While the lives of all these virtuous predecessors can speak to the holiness of living fully the ordinary, everyday life, Benedict (July 11), Mary Magdalene (July 22), Joachim and Anne (July 26), and Martha (July 29), hold a special place in my heart.

Watanabe Sado (1913-1996) Tokyo. Stencil print on rice paper.Hangs in the Gathering Place at the entrance to Sacred Heart Chapel at Saint Benedict’s Monastery, St. Joseph, MN

Benedict for his great Rule written with emphasis on community as a way to holiness and his understanding of humility, compassion, and care for one another as spiritual disciplines right up there with prayer and fasting. Flexibility was key then as it is now. Mary Magdalene for her courage and deep love of Jesus. Hers was the woman’s voice that first proclaimed the resurrection to others who were disinclined to believe her. Joachim and Anne (or if those aren’t their actual names, the parents of Mary) for being good parents. Enough said! Martha, who often gets a bad rap for hanging out in the kitchen when she could have joined the others at the feet of the teacher. She took care of the nitty-gritty and, as one who has spent countless hours doing that, surely heard most of what was said!

Happy summer. Courage! Age quod agis!

© 2019 Mary van Balen

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Making Space One Book at a Time
February 8, 2019 By 6 Comments

Making Space One Book at a Time

White bookshelves holding books, a journal, glasses, pens, and a ceramic bowl and figure

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Sometimes the simplest of chores become prayer. It’s about paying attention and being present to the moment. That’s what wisdom teachers have always said whether they were early Christian monks living in the Egyptian desert or a contemporary Buddhist monk like Thich Nhat Hanh; a Sufi poet like Rumi or a modern poet like Mary Oliver. Jesus told us the kingdom of God is within, is now. This moment. I guess I just didn’t think that applied to moving bookcases around in my apartment.

But here I am (and have been for weeks), sitting with boxes and piles of books. And, as it turns out, with God. I switched my bedroom and office, giving the office more space and a guest bed. Kind, young (read strong and enthusiastic) neighbors helped with moving furniture, but I alone could put the mess back together.

I love books. Getting rid of any one of them is a major decision, even ones barely read or languishing on a bottom shelf, out of sight. You never know when it will emerge as just the one you need. That’s what I usually tell myself.

But I’ve been determined not to put all those books back. It’s time for a sorting, and not just the books. Choosing which to keep and which to share with others presented an opportunity to reflect on where I’ve been, where I am, and how open I am to what lies ahead.

A writer and lifelong student, books provide a map of my journey starting with high school and wending its way through the twists and turns of a life. The collection is eclectic to say the least with a book on the rituals of the Lakota sacred pipe sharing shelf space with Madeleine L’Engle, Biblical commentaries, and The Nature of Cape Cod.

The process has been an examen.

Which books have helped me encounter the Holy One, to be more present to the moment? Which ones bring deep joy or help me engage with the world and my journey? Which ones contain knowledge and wisdom that inform my writing? Which ones open windows on the world that give me a fresh perspective so compelling that I return again and again for the view? These are the books I want close at hand.

And which books have done their work by laying a foundation, getting me through grad school, providing diversion, or nourishing me in a place I no longer inhabit? These books can go.

Answering the questions requires thought and prayer. It calls for discernment and, eventually, willingness to let go. Not just of books, but of paths not taken. Of hurts. Of the illusion that every path needs tried, or that broad and shallow is better than narrow and deep.

So far I’ve separated myself from three large bags of books. A couple boxes remain, but they are filled with as much paper and small items as with books. This particular prayer is drawing to a close.

I’ve heard people talk about downsizing to a smaller house or seriously simplifying their living space. It wasn’t easy but resulted in a sense of freedom. I’m feeling that. My newly organized office provides ready space to sketch and paint and explore the prayerfulness of art. Before, the chore of clearing a space squelched the activity before it began.

Surprisingly, I find looking at shelves that aren’t solidly packed with books is restful. I appreciate the visual space. And creating space on the shelves creates space within giving the Divine room to stretch and move. Without so much clutter, perhaps I’ll be better able to feel the stirrings.

All those wisdom teachers were right, and Jesus wasn’t kidding: God is with us now, in the moment whatever and wherever it is. Being present to it with some soul-space, we can discover Grace already there.

©2019 Mary van Balen

Published in similar form in The Catholic Times 2.10.19

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Thomas Keating and Centering Prayer
November 12, 2018 By Leave a Comment

Thomas Keating and Centering Prayer

beeswax candle burningI’m not sure when I began reading books by Thomas Merton. Probably late high school or early college. I’m also not sure how I discovered them. Though I was naturally drawn to contemplative prayer, the word was unfamiliar to me until Merton’s writings provided it. “Contemplative” was not something you heard about sitting in the pews on Sundays or even in religion classes. Not usually. Reflecting on that later, I never understood why. Christianity has a long, rich contemplative tradition.

 

Hunger for deeper prayer experience

Some of my friends from those early days, searching as college students do and longing for an alternative to rote prayers and rituals that, for them, had become mindless habit, explored meditation found in Eastern traditions. They hungered for a deeper relationship with God.

A way to sink deeply into that relationship is contemplative prayer. Not reserved for “special” people or for a few “advanced” souls as sometimes thought, it is simply resting in silence with the loving God who dwells within each of us.

I was lucky to find not only Thomas Merton, but also a small community that introduced me to classics in Christian literature like Teresa of Avila and John of the Cross and provided a vocabulary to talk about contemplative prayer. What a gift it was to finally have others with whom to pray and share the journey.

Later, I found the Desert Fathers and Mothers, The Cloud of Unknowing (written by an anonymous 14th century English monk), John Cassian, Julian of Norwich, and other mystical writers. I had begun to practice Lectio Divina and realized that my longtime journaling was part of my contemplative prayer journey (something I love to share at retreats and workshops). Time spent with Benedictine monks and sisters broadened and deepened my prayer experience.

The hunger for contemplative prayer among many Christians remains as deep as ever. Even if it’s not talked about much in parishes, there are many resources available today.

What prompted me to reflect on this was the passing on October 25 of Fr. Thomas Keating, at age 95. He is likely the most well-known Trappist monk since Merton. Keating is recognized for his development and promotion (along with others including M. Basil Pennington and William Meninger) of the centering prayer method of Christian meditation.

Beginnings of Centering Prayer

This prayer practice began in the 1970s at Saint Joseph’s Abbey in Spencer Massachusetts where Keating was abbot for twenty years. It was a prompted by conversations with young Christians, who, like my college friends, were seeking a prayer path that was meditative and transformative. They stopped by the Abbey to ask directions to a Buddhist meditation center that had been opened nearby in what once had been a Catholic retreat house. When Keating asked the young searchers why they didn’t look for a path in the Christian tradition, their answer was the same as my friends’ might have been: There’s a Christian path?

Keating talked to the monks at the Abbey about developing a method of meditation—based on Scripture and Christian tradition—that would be accessible to anyone, those beyond the monastery walls as well as inside them. The result is what is now known as Centering Prayer.

Resources

There are many resources available if you are interested in learning more about it; here are a few: Open Mind, Open Heart by Keating; Finding Grace at the Center by Thomas Keating, M. Basil Pennington, OCSO and Thomas E. Clark, SJ.; Centering Prayer and Inner Awakening by Episcopalian priest Cynthia Bourgeault. The Contemplative Outreach, an organization Keating founded in 1984, has a website full of information and resources. Some parishes have Centering Prayer groups that meet weekly.

Centering Prayer is not the only way to practice and nurture one’s contemplative life. As Fr. Keating wrote in a selection found on the Contemplative Outreach website addressing different approaches to meditative prayer: “In Buddhism there are a wide variety of methods (perhaps techniques would be a better designation). Why shouldn’t Christians have a few?”

There are more than a few! If you find yourself drawn to contemplation, Centering Prayer is one method to consider. It is popular, accessible, and practiced by hundreds of thousands around the globe.

Thank you, Fr. Keating.

©2018 Mary van Balen

Originally published is similar format in The Catholic Times 11.11.18

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Becoming Who We Are Made to Be
January 14, 2018 By 3 Comments

Becoming Who We Are Made to Be

Originally published in The Catholic Times Jan. 14, 2018

Photo of diffuse bright light at the top of stone staircase

Photo: Mary van Balen

Samuel paid attention. His heart was “awake” even as he slept. One night, in the shrine at Shiloh where he lived under the care of its aged high priest, Eli, Samuel heard someone call his name. He didn’t turn over and go back to sleep. “Here I am,” he responded and hurried to Eli, assuming the summons had come from him.

But it hadn’t. Eli instructed the boy to go back to sleep. After this happened two more times, Eli realized that the Lord was speaking to Samuel and instructed him to reply, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening” if he were to hear the call again.

God did call again, and the boy responded as Eli had instructed. I wonder if Samuel had any expectations of what he might hear that night or if he was surprised to learn that the Lord planned to fulfill the Divine threats made against Eli and his family for their abuse of priestly duties, dishonoring the God they were to serve.

Samuel listened and then went back to sleep. In the morning, he had the courage to answer Eli’s question about what the Lord had said, and Eli had the humility to accept it. Samuel had spoken and been heard as the prophet God made him to be.

Scripture provides no definite age for Samuel at the time of this call. He is called “a boy.” He was the son of Hannah, a faithful woman embittered by long years of barrenness and the derision she suffered as a result. While on her family’s annual pilgrimage to the shrine at Shiloh, she laid her anguish before the Lord, weeping and imploring God to give her a male child. If so blessed, she vowed to give him to God’s service for as long as he lived. She had a son and true to her word, when he was of appropriate age, Hannah brought him to Shiloh and left him in Eli’s care.

No matter Samuel’s age, this story of a youth hearing and responding whole-heartedly to the call of God is captivating and is one of my favorites. How had Samuel become so “wide awake,” so attentive and receptive to God?

Photo: Mary van Balen

Surely, as with all of us, his early years were formative. Growing up in a family of faith, nursed and nurtured by a mother who loved and trusted God, and living in the shadow of the ark of God in the tabernacle in Shiloh must have influenced his relationship with the Holy One.

But, Samuel’s life sounds rosier than it was. (Don’t we often idealize the lives of others in comparison with our own?). Remember, his father had two wives who didn’t get along, and Eli and his sons were not faithful to the demands and requirements of their priestly ministry.

In the midst of it all, Samuel was able to attend to the call of God. He was a contemplative, aware of the Presence within and without, in the good and not so good, as he went about his duties. He must have taken time for solitude, resting in God and deepening his ability to hear and recognize the Holy Mystery that was the Source of his life and identity.

No matter the differences in time and circumstance between our lives and Samuel’s, we share the call to be people of prayer and to grow in our relationship with God. God has placed the gift of Divine Self in every one of us. Identifying that bit of Divinity and living into it, becoming the reflection of God we are made to be and remaining faithful to it is our life task. That’s why the story of young Samuel grabs our hearts: it is the story of us all.

Photo: Kathryn Holt

As 2018 unfolds, we can choose practices that will deepen our openness and help us “pay attention.” In the midst of life’s busyness, suffering, and challenges, we can take time to be still and rest in God, hearing God’s call however it comes. We can allow the Holy Mystery dwelling within to move and transform us and so, participate in transforming the world. We can say, like Samuel, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.”

© 2018 Mary van Balen

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Solar Eclipse II: A Reflection
September 20, 2017 By 2 Comments

Solar Eclipse II: A Reflection

NASA photograph of the total solar eclipse taken at Oregon State Fairgrounds by Dominic Hart

PHOTO: NASA taken by Dominic Hart at the Oregon State Fairgrounds August 21, 2017

When the eclipse reached totality, the dramatic appearance of the sun’s corona took the crowds collective breath away—stunning and larger than I had imagined it would be. Was it the blackness of the moon that made the corona look so bright, or the brightness of the corona that made the moon’s darkness absolute, like a hole in the sky looking into emptiness?

“The corona’s always there,” I thought, “just overpowered by the sun’s brilliance.”

Only darkness could reveal the light.

Darkness is often used to describe something to be avoided or escaped. It’s a metaphor for what’s wrong in our world or in us. It’s where we don’t want to be. We read about moving from darkness into light, and the spiritual journey is often described that way.

But the eclipse reminded me that when it comes to darkness, it’s not so clear cut. Darkness has an important role to play in creation, in life, and in spiritual deepening.

Years ago, a close friend of mine was diagnosed with breast cancer. A few weeks later, after having had an inconclusive mammogram, I was called back for a second screening. While waiting for the appointment, I thought a lot about cancer and dying, imagining the worst: Would I see my children grow to adulthood? How well would I deal with the pain and process of treatment? How would it affect my family and friends? Was I ready to face death? And how was my relationship with God?

The morning of the appointment was clear and bright. The prospect of death had sharpened my senses, and on the way to the imaging facility, I noticed everything: the coolness of the air, the color of leaves, the beauty of the city, the crisp, dark shadows on the buildings that made edges sharp and shapes distinct. Without the shadows, everything would blend into everything else. “Maybe that’s what’s meant by ‘the shadow of death,’” I pondered. “It provides definition, bringing life into focus.”

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

The relationship between darkness and light is a constant theme in literature and art. It runs through Scripture. Phrases like “a light that darkness could not overcome” or “calling you out of the darkness into the light” quickly come to mind, portraying “darkness” as evil. But there are others.

The creation story starts out in chaos. God then separates light from darkness suggesting both were present—light in darkness, darkness in light—to make day and night. Neither were banished. Life needs both to work. And God said it was all very good.

In Exodus, God was in the pillar of cloud as well as the pillar of fire when leading the Hebrews out of Egypt, and when Moses met the Holy One face to face, the people hung back and watched from the light as Moses entered the thick, dark cloud because that’s where God was.

Psalm 139 says: “Darkness is not dark for you, and night shines as the day. Darkness and light are but one.”

God is in both.

The great mystics speak of darkness as a necessary part of the journey. It helps us see what is otherwise missed—like the corona that’s present but invisible. Darkness invites us to reach deeper, to look intently, to accept ourselves as we are. And in the darkest times, we may learn how to sit with God in the night while the Holy Mystery does the work we are unable to do ourselves.

Photo Credit: NASA/Carla Thomas

The coming together of darkness and light during the eclipse was magnificently beautiful, a profound experience that will remain for me an image of the power of darkness to illumine the spiritual journey—a metaphor of the grace found in embracing our darkness as well as our light, and encountering God there.

© 2017 Mary van Balen

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