Rev. Graetz: Standing Together for Justice

Rev. Graetz: Standing Together for Justice

Rev. Robert and Jeannie Graetz Photo: Mary van Balen

I browse New York Times (NYT) headlines in the mornings even though the news is often depressing and stirs anger and frustration rather than wonder at new-day possibilities. But one morning in August, I was surprised by a headline and photo of an old friend, Rev. Robert Graetz. “Bombed by the K.K.K. A Friend of Rosa Parks. At 90, This White Pastor Is Still Fighting,” it read. The article, by Alan Blinder, included an interview with Robert and his wife, Jeannie.

After being ordained a Lutheran minister in Columbus Ohio, he was assigned to his first pastorate in 1955—Trinity Lutheran, a predominantly Black congregation in Montgomery, Alabama. There he was practically the only white minister who publicly supported the bus boycott and as the NYT headlines reveal, he and his family paid a price. According to Jeannie, threats began “As soon as the Klan and the Klan-type people knew that we were involved.”

Back in Ohio

The Graetzes moved back to Ohio a few years later. They lived in a simple house nestled in the woods of southern Ohio. Robert wrote a monthly column, part of the “Point of View” series that ran during the 70s and 80s in the Catholic Times, the diocesan newspaper of Columbus, Ohio.

I knew Robert from reading his columns (and his first book, “Montgomery: A White Preacher’s Memoir”), but in October 1992, we met at an alternative observance of Columbus Day. The 4-day event was led by Indigenous Peoples. Covering it for the Catholic Times, I saw Robert, and we shared lunch and good conversation.

Rev. Graetz spoke at some Martin Luther King Jr. Day services I attended over the years. So, in the early 2000s, when I was an adult educator for a family literacy program severing poor, mostly single, young parents, Robert was my first choice to be an MLK Day speaker for our students.

Rev. Robert and Jeannie Graetz addressing a group of students

Photo: Mary van Balen

He and Jeannie came and shared stories, not only of their time and roles in Montgomery and the bus boycott, but also of their continued work for causes of justice and equality. It included the fight against racism and embraced other forms of injustice: sexism, income disparity, oppression of minorities based on ethnicity, sexual orientation, or anything that separates persons as “other.” Their message was written large on a tablet displayed beside them as they spoke: R.A.C.E.– Respect All Cultures Equally.

It wasn’t only the “big” message that touched my students. It was the little things. “Did you see how Jeannie slid that cough drop across the table to him when he started to cough?” they asked. Her simple act deeply moved those young parents who had been abused for most of their lives. They insisted that we drive up to Columbus to hear him preach at St. Philips Lutheran Church.

I enjoyed reading the NYT article that morning and learned that the Graetzes now live in Montgomery. It was good to remember people who inspired. Who walked the walk. People who did their best to love as Jesus loved and to take a stand against oppression and injustice when they saw it, despite danger to themselves and their family.

Divisiveness, violence, and hate that swirl around us today are disturbing. When asked for his thoughts about what was happening in Alabama and across our country, Robert said it’s “…one of the most dangerous periods of time I’ve ever been through in this world.” Sobering from one who has lived through tumultuous years of the Civil Rights Movement.

Hope

Photo of the bus Rosa Parks was riding when she refused to give up her seat.

The bus Rosa Parks was riding when she refused to give up her seat. Now at the Henry Ford Museum, Dearborn, MI.

Yet there is hope. During a 2011 PBS interview, Robert observed that many people thank Jeannie and him for what they did. He’s quick to point out that it wasn’t only what “they” did. He gives credit to the Women’s Political Council made up of Black American women who started the bus boycott and all those who were involved. “It was 50,000 Black people who stood together, who walked together, who worked together, who stood up against oppression,” he said. “If it had not been for this whole body of people working together, this would not have happened.”

At the end of the NYT article, he said that seeing two people getting together and smiling was a source of optimism for him.

I take these two thoughts to heart. Today we need to “be peace” where we are, in the little moments, showing love and support. Like Jeannie and the cough drop, you never know when small kindnesses will touch someone’s heart.

But we also need to work together as we speak out and stand up for justice today.

© 2018 Mary van Balen

Similar column published in the Catholic Times, Columbus, Ohio. 9.9.2018

Ordinary Life, Extraordinary Grace

Ordinary Life, Extraordinary Grace

Oil painting of wood and stone cabin in clearing in Autumn woods by Marvin Triguba, 1986

Painting of Koinia, oil on canvas, by Marvin Triguba, 1986

Sometimes an ordinary event becomes an extraordinary grace. That happened to me last week, and I’m grateful. Horrible headlines, day after day, overwhelm. I couldn’t finish reading an article about the violence and abuse that drove Honduran families to risk everything and take a chance on making it to the United States. Some did, only to be turned away. Pope Francis’s declaring the death penalty inadmissible in all cases and changing the Catholic Catechism to reflect that teaching was hopeful. Still, I felt worn out as I sat down to write.

I’d just spent a couple of weeks mentally residing in December, researching Scripture and writing a homily to be published for the second week in Advent. Pulling myself back into August, I read through the week’s liturgical texts for inspiration to write. Lots of feasts and interesting saints, but sometimes your spirit is too tired to do much, even with an embarrassment of riches.

I looked out the window, thinking about nothing in particular when suddenly, the image of a beautiful oil painting came to mind, and I smiled. It changed everything. Here’s the story.

Last week, I had the pleasure of delivering that painting to a couple, Mike and Patty, my friends since I was a college student. It wasn’t just any painting. It was created by a mutual friend and artist Marvin Triguba, a master at capturing the essence of his subject—in this case, a small wood and stone building sitting in the woods near Ohio’s Hocking Hills. We called it “the lodge” but it was really a repurposed cement block garage.

For decades, this building and the surrounding land had been the gathering place for a small community – including Marvin, Mike, and Patty – and their friends. We shared potluck dinners, singalongs, bonfires, and late-into-the-night conversations about God, belief, and what being faithful looked like in our world and in our lives.

The painting had belonged to yet another friend and community member, Fr. Mario Serraglio, who died just a few months ago. It needed a home, and I could think of none better than with Mike and Patty. Before taking the painting to them, I spent time contemplating it and remembering.

It wasn’t just the community gatherings that stirred my spirit. There were times I came alone to pay attention wild flowers or to play guitar and sing my prayer. There were snowy days when I skipped classes at the university and drove down to walk through the woods and along the pipeline that ran over the hills. In the early days, a ramshackle house stood on the property too, and that’s where I stayed. After my walks I slid a chair close to an old gas heater that struggled to warm the house. I read poetry and wrote in my journal, sipping tea until sunset. Some nights the stars took my breath away.

Years later, I shared the place with my family, spending birthday weekends in October and February there. Two of my daughters used flint and steel to light a fire in the lodge’s large stone fireplace and banked it each night, keeping it going for days. We roasted apples, took walks, read books, played Ping-Pong, and enjoyed one another’s company. No TV, phone, or radio.

Detail of oil painting of cabin in an Autumn woods, by Marvin Triguba, 1986

Detail of painting by Marvin Triguba, 1986

The longer I looked at the painting, the more memories floated into consciousness. Ordinary things: autumn leaves falling while woodpeckers hammered away at hollow trees; white trillium announcing the coming of spring; my first taste of oxtail vegetable soup; tall weeds heavy with dew sparkling in the morning light.

Marvin had an amazing way of painting light. He once said that was just how he saw everything and wondered aloud if everyone didn’t see that same way. I don’t think we do. Or we don’t slow down enough to really notice. Just like we don’t always recognize and reverence the Divine Presence in ordinary life. In people. In creation.

But it’s always there, the sacrament of encounter that feeds the soul and brings hope when it’s hard to find. Like the disheartened Elijah wakened by an angel and instructed to eat the divinely supplied hearth cake and water that would provide energy for his long journey, we are invited to waken and be nourished by Holy Grace offered always and everywhere if we have the heart to see it and the courage to take it in.

The words of Brother Lawrence, the 17th century Carmelite come to mind: “In the noise and clatter of my kitchen, I possess God as tranquilly as if I were upon my knees before the Blessed Sacrament.”

Amen.

© 2018 Mary van Balen

This is a slightly edited version of the original published in the Catholic Times, August 12, 2018

God’s Love Is Always Big

God’s Love Is Always Big

Colorful abstract painting of people of all ages and races embracing

Acrylic – Richard Duarte Brown 2009

Originally published in The Catholic Times, March 11,2018

One of the scribes came to Jesus and asked him, “Which is the first of all the commandments?” Jesus replied, “The first is this: Hear, O Israel! The Lord our God is Lord alone! You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, with all your mind, and with all your strength. The second is this: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. There is no other commandment greater than these.”  Mk 12, 29-31

For Jesus, it’s all about love. Love of God. Love of self. Love of neighbor. When asked which commandment is the greatest, Jesus quotes from Hebrew Scriptures. First from Deuteronomy, proclaiming that God is one and that love of God is the most important “law” in one’s life. Then from Leviticus, Jesus quotes from a long list of commands given by God to Moses and says “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” is the second great commandment.

There is it. Love. Nothing else is more important. Matthew’s gospel includes Jesus saying that “The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments. It all boils down to love.

Of the three, I wonder if “loving self” might be the most difficult. It isn’t easy. And as Jesus knew, when we can’t love ourselves, loving anyone else is close to impossible. That tiny phrase “as yourself” carries a lot of weight.

Most of us are aware of our faults. We can become preoccupied with them and tied up in minutia, focusing on what’s wrong with ourselves and with others. We forget about love and end up fixated on rules, who’s keeping them and who’s not. We can even believe that God’s keeping score as we struggle through life. It’s easier than tackling “Love.”

Recently I spent an evening with a small group of women who had been gathering at one another’s homes for decades. Being mothers brought them together. Now grandmothers, they still meet, supporting one another and engaging with invited speakers. That night, I was the speaker, and our topic was “compassion.”

What struck me during our time together was that no matter how insignificant moments of love might seem, they never are. Encounters with Love are always transforming.

Once when I was about ten, I remember telling my mother she was “the worst mom in the world” and storming off to vent to her mother, who had always lived with us. I can’t remember what triggered my anger. (Mom was one of the best!) I do remember my Grandmother’s response.

She listened as I recounted my grievances. She didn’t interrupt or try to correct me. No lecture. No defense of Mom. After a pause she smiled and asked if I’d like to play a game of Canasta.

That was it. Love and healing came not with flash but with a game of cards. I couldn’t have worded it then, but her invitation said volumes about me being ok, someone she’d like to spend time with. Someone who was hurt and needed nothing more (or less) than graceful Presence.

In the scheme of things, barely a drop in the bucket. But love is never small. Once received, it changes the giver, the receiver, and ripples out.

I thought of my friend, a “missionary of Presence” in a small village in the Guatemalan rainforest. Her December newsletter recounts the transformation of women who were stigmatized by being alone, abandoned by their husbands, and left to provide for their families. She gave physical assistance but realized they needed more.

So they gather twice a month, read scripture, pray, share their stories, weep, and laugh. They know they are somebody. They are loved and now have more love to give away.

Love is powerful, but not easy. One woman in the small gathering I had been asked to attend made that point with a question. The Parkland school shooting had occurred just days before. “Do we have to show compassion to the shooter?” Silence. Then a number of voices said “Yes.”

With Love there are no exceptions. Such inclusive Love is hard to take. We’d rather draw lines, “them” on one side, “us” on the other. In some cases, it seems the reasonable thing to do. But God doesn’t see our lines. No one is beyond God’s embrace. Not our fault-filled selves, not those we close out, not the shooter.

By ourselves, we can’t be such love in a world that’s aching for it. With God’s love transforming us from the inside out, we can. After all, it’s God’s love we’re sharing.

© 2018 Mary van Balen

Celebrating Alabama

Celebrating Alabama

This morning I stopped at my favorite local stop for tea, quiche and scones—The Cambridge Tea House—for quiche and an order of bacon.

“I’m celebrating Alabama,” I said. The cashier smiled. I’m sure I’m not the only one.

Home, I read the paper’s headline story and enjoyed my breakfast while perusing The Washington Post’s
Preliminary exit poll results: How different groups voted in Alabama.”  It’s worth a look. And before I hurry off to work, I have to say “Thank you,” to the Black Alabamian voters for overwhelmingly casting their ballots for Doug Jones. The number of women who voted for Moore baffle me. Well, to be honest, anyone who voted for Moore baffle me at some level.

Still, it’s a victory to savor. The former U.S. attorney who successfully prosecuted two of the Ku Klux Klansmen who bombed the small church in Birmingham in 1963 bested the outspoken, bigoted Roy Moore. After work, I’ll take a closer look at the Washington Post’s informative infographics. For now, I’m walking with a little spring in my step.

The “Both/And” of our Our Faith

The “Both/And” of our Our Faith

Photos: Mary van Balen
Weaving in progress at the Columbus Museum of Art 12 2017

Originally published in The Catholic Times, December 10, 2017

I looked up the word “advenio” in my old Latin dictionary and found that depending on how it’s used, the verb can mean “to draw near” or “to arrive.”  The noun, “adventus” is also translated as either “approach” or “arrival.” The season of Advent encompasses both. We wait. We celebrate what has already come. It’s the “both/and” of our faith. God is coming. God is already here.

During this season, we ponder that mystery and our participation in it. Liturgical readings are one place to start. For example, the first week of Advent is filled with passages from what is often called “First Isaiah” and provides glorious images of the kingdom to come: people from all nations streaming up the mountain of God, desiring to learn and walk in God’s ways; a kingdom where all live together in peace; great feasts where God provides rich food and choice wine for everyone.

Isaiah paints more pictures: justice for the poor and vulnerable, abundant harvests, broad pastures and running streams. He shows us a God who does not judge by appearances and who responds immediately to the people’s cries. These images were proclaimed in an eighth century BCE Judah that bears a resemblance to our current world situation. The Introduction to Isaiah in the Saint Mary’s Press College Study Bible describes the wealthy getting richer at the expense of the poor and nations posturing for war.

Despite the sins of the people, Isaiah’s prophecies of the Holy One’s faithfulness and the eventual arrival of a messianic king provided hope along with the calls for repentance to those who heard them. Isaiah’s words provide hope for us too, reminding us that God is merciful as well as just, and that with Grace, dark times that challenge and demand we heed God’s word will not last forever.

Close up of a finished section of a weaving in progress at the Columbus Museum of Art. Bright colors and a variety of materials

Advent gospels speak of God already come. They tell not only the story of John the Baptist and how Jesus was born into our world through the faith and willingness of a young Jewish girl.  They also tell of his public ministry, proclaiming God’s kingdom with words and actions. He healed the sick, confronted those in positons of power, and showed compassion for the poor and struggling. When asked what was most important, he replied it was love—love of God, self, and neighbor.

Jesus was open to surprise, amazed at the deep faith coming not from the Israelites, but from “the other”—a centurion. Echoing Isaiah, Jesus told his followers that they’d be sharing the heavenly banquet with people they mightn’t have expected, coming from east and west.

He relied on others to share in his work. When the huge crowd that had been listening to him for days needed to be fed, Jesus asked first that those present share what they had. Then he blessed it. Before sending his disciples out to spread the good news, he lamented that there was much work to be done and few to do it.

Yes, God is already here, and has been since before time as we know it began. Yet, “God is coming.” The events in our world, far from echoing the visions of Isaiah or the example of Jesus, speak of the need for this coming. The poor and vulnerable, so close to Jesus’ heart, are still abused and overlooked by those grasping for power and wealth. Nations continue to prepare for and to wage war. We are far from beating swords into plowshares.

Jesus knew that being faithful to the commandment of love can bring suffering and death in a world unwilling to accept it. After his death and resurrection, he sent the Spirit who dwells within each of us and in every bit of creation. We are part of the “both/and,” the coming” and the “already here.”

How do we live in the tension of this mystery? How do we join in God’s work today? How do we live in dark times and still have both faith in God-with-us and hope in God- to-come? Perhaps, during Advent we can take quiet time to listen for the Spirit that lives in our hearts. To become aware of our part giving birth to that bit of divinity that has been shared with us and that the world sorely needs. We are not only graced with the Presence of God with us, we are called to do our part in birthing the God who is yet to come.

© 2017 Mary van Balen

 

Thankful for the Gift of Presence

Thankful for the Gift of Presence

Originally published in The Catholic Times November 12, 2017

November 9 is the feast of the dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome, the official church of the Pope. The Mass readings for that day, not surprisingly, have to do with temples of one sort or another. The first reading is from Ezekiel 47, but let’s start a bit earlier in the book.

Rendering of Ezekiel's temple by Henery Sulley (1845-1940)

Ezekiel’s temple by Henery Sulley (1845-1940) Public Domain

In chapters 40-48 of Ezekiel, the prophet describes a vision where God transports him to a high mountain in Israel, and an angel gives him a tour of a new city. The vision is long and full of details: precise measurements of walls, inner courts, outer courts, door jambs, and Temple outbuildings, as well as the new Temple itself. Ezekiel witnesses the glory of God returning to fill the Temple, and God tells him that it again will be the Divine dwelling place in the midst of the people.

In addition to seeing the physical structures, Ezekiel learns the rules for those who serve in the Temple, how land is to be appropriated, how feasts are to be observed, and a list of protocols and procedures for Temple worship and sacrifices and that would make a Royal event planner’s head spin.

As I read these verses, I was glad it was Ezekiel and not me who had been instructed to remember every detail so he could share them with the exiled Israelites when he returned to them in Babylon. They had pretty much lost hope. Jerusalem had fallen, and despite the prophet’s valiant efforts to help them recognize that its destruction was imminent, many had clung to the illusion that Jerusalem would survive and they would go back home, resuming life as usual. I can identify. It’s a human tendency to ignore signs that portend the coming of something calamitous or the slow creep of something bad.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Next comes the description of the spring in the Temple. That’s the first reading for November 9. It’s abbreviated in the lectionary (To get the full effect, I suggest reading all the first twelve verses.), but it’s still a magnificent image.  A stream begins in the Temple, runs under the threshold, and flows to the Dead sea, swelling into a river too deep for anyone to cross.

When it reaches the sea, it makes the salt water fresh, teeming with all kinds of fish and water creatures. People flock there with nets. Wherever the river flows, it brings life and healing. Trees along its bank produce new, delicious fruit every month. Even their leaves are medicinal.  All this because it is God’s life flowing from the sanctuary.

When I read these words, I wanted to jump in! I wanted to splash through the river and sink beneath the water, let it do its healing, and then burst up through the surface full of hope, energy, and joy, free of the worries and concerns that fill my heart. Perhaps that’s how the Israelites felt when they listened to Ezekiel recount the story.

The good news is that God doesn’t dwell in temples or churches. Paul writes to the Corinthians, and to us, that we are the temples of God. (1 Cor 3, 16-17) The Spirit lives in each of us, neighbor and stranger alike. The glorious, healing, life-giving Presence that Ezekiel sees coming from the Temple, flows in and through all, gracing the people and places it touches. We don’t have to look for that river streaming down from the city on a hill; that “river” is everywhere. We can sink into Holy Presence wherever we are. Incarnation means God has entered into the matter of creation. We are immersed in that Presence whether we realize it or not. Open to it, Grace transforms us and all it touches. We can move into our deepest center and meet God there.

God is truly with us: strength in our struggles, joy in our celebrations, hope when we are tempted to despair. God walks with us when we are afraid, offers rest when we have worn ourselves out, waits when we are too busy to notice, fills what is empty, mourns with us in our grief, and sits with us when we don’t know what else to do.

The last words in Ezekiel, naming the new city, sum up this wondrous reality: “The name of the City shall henceforth be ‘The Lord is here.’” (48, 35)

© 2017 Mary van Balen

Farewell Cassini, Thank you NASA

Farewell Cassini, Thank you NASA

Cassini’s trajectory into Saturn

Even though it was a day off, I woke at 6:45, pulled on my old black t-shirt with the solar system silkscreened half on the front, half on the back. It’s seen eclipses and meteor showers. It would bid farewell to the Cassini spacecraft on Friday morning, September 15.

In the kitchen, I began preparing food for a daughter’s visit while watching NASA TV’s coverage of the final half-hour of the Cassini mission.

Ligeia Mare – Sea on Titan (False color)

I listened to scientists sharing their thoughts as Cassini sped towards its fiery end in Saturn’s atmosphere. My iPad, sitting on top of the microwave, streamed live interviews with project scientists and engineers, some of whom had spent entire careers working on the Cassini mission. There were images of Saturn and its largest moon, Titan, with methane-rich lakes and rivers. Computer-generated graphics showed Cassini’s 22 dives into the dark space between Saturn and its rings as well as how the spacecraft would meet its end by entering the atmosphere and burning up.

Cassini’s Grand Finale orbits

I was glad making chili didn’t require much attention because mine was on the screen. The images were mesmerizing. (NASA has made an eBook of some of those images and it’s available to download here.)

While chopping onions and green peppers, I learned more about the unexpected length and scientific bounty of this mission as well as the team’s ability to make changes in orbits and trajectories to take advantage of surprise discoveries almost 900 million miles away.

Narrow jets of gas and vapor from Saturn’s moon Enceladus

For example, when geysers of vapor were found spewing out of the south pole of Saturn’s tiny moon, Enceladus, the spacecraft actually flew through them and analyzed the composition, finding ice particles, water vapor and organic chemicals. Cassini also determined that beneath the moon’s icy surface sloshes an ocean of salty water.

For the last ten minutes of the broadcast, I turned my full attention to the screen. Even from my kitchen, I wanted to be one of the thousands, maybe millions around the world, waiting for that last signal from Cassini.

Where Cassini entered Saturn’s atmosphere

Through the commentary of those who had worked most closely with it from the beginning, the spacecraft had taken on an anthropomorphic quality, doing everything it had been asked to do, right down to the last images sent as it struggled against Saturn’s atmosphere.

The vastness and variety of creation overwhelmed me as the final signals faded. In my kitchen, chili was simmering. On Titan, methane rivers flowed. Saturn’s majestic rings, better understood, still grace our night skies.

Human imagination and wonder have paired with knowledge and skill to give us an extraordinary window into the universe. From ancient times, human beings have marveled at the night sky. Never before have we had such a view.

Saturn from Cassini spacecraftMy response is gratitude for those who have worked so long and hard to provide it. And to bend my knee before the One who creates it. I join with the ancient psalmist in prayer: The heavens proclaim the glory of God/and the firmament shows forth the work of his hands./Day unto day takes up the story/and night unto night makes know the message./ No speech, no word, no voice is heard/yet their span goes forth through all the earth,/their words to the utmost bounds of the world.

 

All images are from NASA

 

Cassini 12 Years at Saturn

The Cassini-Huygens mission was a joint effort of NASA, the European Space Agency, and the Italian Space Agency, Agenzia Spaziale Italiana. Many other countries were involved in the manufacturing of components.

What’s NASA doing next? Read this NYT article for some tantalizing descriptions of missions already on the calendar.

NASA Cassini at Saturn 

 

Solar Eclipse II: A Reflection

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

A Confluence of Events

A Confluence of Events

Originally published in the Catholic Times September 10, 2017

Sometimes disparate events come together, touching a common place in my heart. Only after reflection and usually some writing, do I understand their connection and what they are saying.

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White supremacists clash with police (36421659232)

By Evan Nesterak

Protests and violence in Charlottesville, Virginia, and the responses that followed uncovered what we’d rather avoid. Racism, anti-Semitism, and white supremacy raised their ugly heads reminding us that, no matter what we thought or what we want to believe, anger and hatred based on race, ethnicity, and fear of the “other” remain a blight on our country’s soul.

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Pencil drawing of Blessed Fredric Ozanam

Blessed Fredric Ozanam

Perusing this week’s liturgical calendar, I discovered Blessed Fredric Ozanam (1813-1853). He moved to Paris at 18 to study at the Sorbonne. Conditions were wretched for the poor and working class. As a result of its old and public alliances with the aristocracy, the Catholic Church was attacked by intellectuals as oppressive and harmful. Ozanam had a different view. The Church was more than its hierarchy. It was all, clerics and lay alike, and he understood service to the poor as central to the call to discipleship. Actions must accompany words. He organized debates and argued that the Catholic Church had brought much good to the world.

There is a story that during one of these debates, when challenged to show what the Church was doing to help the poor and suffering in Paris, he had no answer. A few days later, Ozanam gathered a small group of Catholic students and together they began what would become the Society of St. Vincent de Paul. They were helped by Sister Rosalie Rendu who served the destitute in the Mouffetard area of Paris and insisted that the young students visit them in their homes and learn what was truly needed.

painintg of Saint Peter Claver surrounded by African slaves

Saint Peter Claver

I read about St. Peter Claver (1581-1654), a Spanish Jesuit who found his life’s work in Cartagena, a hub of slave trade, in what is now Columbia. When slave ships arrived, he managed to get into the hold and minister to them with food, water, and medicine.

“Deeds come first, then words,” he said.

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

PHOTO: NASA

I joined two daughters, a friend, and other family to experience the eclipse in Columbia, South Carolina. We gathered with others in a school’s athletic field. The mood was festive and people moved in and out of the green space to observe the moon sliding in front of the sun. But, with fifteen minutes to go, they found a spot, put on eclipse glasses, and didn’t move.

When totality arrived, glasses came off. People clapped, shouted, cried, or stood in awed silence as the black disk of the moon covered the sun, revealing its brilliant corona. For those two minutes and thirty seconds, we were one people, small creatures on a single planet in the vast universe.

Of course, it didn’t last. Totality passed. Eventually people picked up their chairs and coolers and walked home or to their cars. The one family became tribes again.

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Photo of poet Nikki Giovanni

Nikki Giovanni

Krista Tippett’s On Being podcast featured an interview with poet Nikki Giovanni. Tippett describes her as a “revolutionary poet in the Black Arts Movement that nourished civil rights.” Now in her seventies, Giovanni is joyfully alive, a professor at Virginia Tech, and still writing.

“…race was a bad idea 200 years ago, 300 years ago. It’s a ridiculous idea today,” she said in the interview. “Hatred was a bad idea, and it’s a ridiculous idea today. We’re on the third planet from the yellow sun. We have got to come together to see—and how to make sense out of this…How do we find a way to make the best of us?”

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How indeed. How to root out hate and anger? How to stand with the marginalized and oppressed? How to bring Love into this time?

Ozanam, Rendu, and Claver saw what is often forgotten: Every person is a child of God deserving respect and love. They responded to physical needs as well as spiritual ones; actions accompany words. We are called to do the same, recognizing all are God’s people—Black, White, Latino, Indigenous people, refugees, LGBT, Jews, Muslims, prisoners, the poor. All one family on this planet. No exceptions. As Giovanni said, there is no place to go but forward. We do what we can. We love. We speak the truth we have been given. Bit by bit, we let go of what separates us and hold on to what binds us together. We listen. We pray. Like Mary, honored this week with the feast of The Nativity of Mary, we are called to birth Christ into the world.

© 2017 Mary van Balen

Solar Eclipse I: The Experience

Solar Eclipse I: The Experience

After a flight into Maryland and a 625-mile drive to Columbia, South Carolina, I was ready to experience the total solar eclipse on August 21 with two of my daughters, a friend, and extended family. A long trip that was more than worth every mile.

Predictions of thunderstorms at our intended viewing site initiated a quick change of plans. Instead of driving from our hotel in Murrells Inlet to nearby Georgetown, we went to Columbia and met with my niece and her family who were hoping for good weather there for the event.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

By 12:45 pm we headed to a nearby middle school with a large, open athletic field, and set up our chairs under the shade of a covered walkway. Slowly more people arrived with chairs and pop-up canopies. Some brought picnic lunches and spread blankets under the few trees edging the field. Others tossed baseballs or threw Frisbees, or just sat and chatted.

When first contact occurred at 1:29, everyone stopped what they were doing, put on their eclipse glasses, and watched as the black moon began to slide over the sun. We moved in and out of the field for the next hour mesmerized by the beauty, marveling at the power of the sun that even as it was disappearing behind the moon, kept the air hot and the light bright.

sky during totality

PHOTO: Mary van Balen Darkening sky during the totality

Row of people sitting in chairs holding their eclipse glasses on and gazing at the sky

 

By 2:30, voices lowered, balls and frisbees were forgotten. The temperature had dropped and the sky was darkening.

People moved into the field. Standing or sitting, you could feel the crowd holding it’s breath.

Excitement built as the sliver of sun became thinner, thinner, and suddenly my glasses went black. I pulled them off and saw the sun’s corona blazing out behind the black moon.

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

People applauded, shouted, gasped, laughed, and cried. Some stood in awed silence before the magnificent sight. I did them all and hugged my daughters, grateful to be sharing the moment with them. Words can’t communicate the experience. It was profoundly moving, stirring something  elemental deep within.

Together, the sun and moon, spoke truth: Remember, you are part of something beyond anything you can imagine; you are creatures on a tiny planet in the vast universe.

For two minutes and thirty seconds we were one people, standing together, not in Columubia, not in the United States, but on earth. Boundaries and current national and worldwide issues lost their power to divide. For two minutes and thirty seconds.

Then it was over. Some lingered to watch the moon complete its transverse of the sun. Eventually, people carried their chairs and coolers  back to their cars and left.

Driving long hours back to our hotel, we shared our thoughts. Words continued to fall short, though we tried: amazing, awesome, unbelievable, overwhelming, beautiful, unforgettable, stunning….

In moments of silence, I wondered if the powerful event would change some who experienced it? Will we remember and embrace an expanded vision of who we are and how we live? Of this planet and the people we share it with? Of the Mystery who is the Source of all?