prayer

August 15, 2022 By Mary van Balen 16 Comments

Morning Prayer at the Café

I’m spending more time outside this summer than I have in years, mostly walking but sometimes reading poetry and sipping tea on the porch. Or, as now, enjoying time at a small French Bakery and Bistro before the afternoon heat arrives.

I arrived early to meet a friend and spent twenty minutes walking around the neighborhood then returned to La Chatelaine and waited. When my friend didn’t appear, I texted: “What a beautiful morning for coffee and a chat! I’m here.” He responded: “Oh no! Not this Wednesday. Next Wednesday. So sorry for the misunderstanding.” He was right. His text had clearly stated next week as a good time to meet.

Not to squander the opportunity to sit outside at the lovely café, I bought a coffee and pastry, borrowed a pen from the young woman at the counter (Couldn’t believe I didn’t have a pen along with the notebook in my cavernous purse!), and returned outside to the cool morning.

Traffic picked up, and several people went into the Bistro and emerged carrying coffees or breakfasts to go. An ambulance sped by; its sirens blaring. A quiet Hail Mary sprang to my lips, an enduring practice ingrained by the nuns in Catholic elementary school. A siren meant someone was in trouble, unexpectedly sick, or had been in an accident. They were in need, and when we heard one, we stopped our work and prayed for them.

Sixty years later I still do, though not always a Hail Mary. More often I utter something simple like “Help them. Love, be with them.” Or maybe I hold them silently in my heart as I am mindful of the Holy One, the healer and comforter, present to them in the moment.

I don’t hesitate to whisper into the Sacred ear a reminder to hold the suffering person a bit closer and to fill the hearts of those caring for them with compassion. I figure even the Holy One can use a reminder. “Don’t forget this one,” I say. It’s the mom in me. I know she’ll understand.

The ambulance passed, and I turned to my notebook. I love coming to this place. Perhaps because it’s not the inside of my modest apartment or because it reminds me of time spent in Parisian cafes. Or maybe because it is what it is: A charming space on a busy American street that offers amazing French pastries and an outside area to sit around tables under big canvas umbrellas, a shady canopy so like the green ones in Parisian parks.

I savored the last bit of flaky palmier that tasted like the creme horns I devoured as a child when mom gave us a few quarters to spend at the bakery as she shopped at the grocery next door.

Palmiers have no filling nor the cloying sweetness of the thick, sticky cream that filled my childhood treats, but the flavor is similar enough to bring back memories with each bite. I push the empty plate away, an offering for the sparrows that scavenge on the patio and tables to feast on crumbs patrons leave behind.

“How lucky to be able to do this,” I thought. “To sit. Feel cool air. Watch traffic. Sip coffee and write in my notebook.” It’s the life I imagine that I want and then am sometimes surprised to discover I already have. While not near the ocean, the perennial pull for me, it is in a place of relative peace. There are no bombs dropping. No war at my doorstep. I can enjoy the sounds of friends meeting for breakfast or indulge in conversation with a guy who walked from his office to work outside.

Following the sparrows, my eyes moved to their perches on gnarly branches that spread from two, low-growing trees bordering the patio. The twisted lines, the mottled bark of browns and greys begged to be sketched or painted. They reminded me of trees in some of van Gogh’s work or Monet’s. I took a few photos, thinking I might give it a try.

Overwhelmed by the moment, I moved into quiet prayer, filled with wonder and gratitude for Divine Life stirring within, swirling without. Freely given. The simple but transforming experience that pulls us all into the circle of mystics: experiencing communion with Holy Mystery right where we are. Eventually I opened my notebook, clicked my borrowed pen, and guided it over the pages. Words and more words. They helped me unpack the morning’s glory. They are my prayer of thanksgiving.

Watercolor sketch Mary van Balen 10.2021

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: gratitude, journaling, La Chatelaine, mystics, prayer, Presence within, present to the moment, the life you want

February 27, 2022 By Mary van Balen 6 Comments

Dreams, Hope, and “Making Do”

During February, Black History month, I read work by Black authors, poets, and theologians. As the month ends and world events take an even darker turn with Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, a section of book Love Is the Way: Holding on to Hope in Troubling Times keeps surfacing in my thoughts. According to its author, Bishop Michael Curry, his grandmother and aunts knew how to hold on to hope despite “… the titanic power of death, hatred, violence, bigotry, injustice, cruelty, and indifference.” They sank their roots into ancestral wisdom accumulated through centuries of unspeakable horrors. They not only survived, he would say, but they thrived. They found joy.

My heart thirsts for such wisdom. For hope when the world seems to be falling apart. It’s not only the latest flagrant violation of human rights and international law instigated by Russia’s strongman president that anguishes my heart, though that’s top of mind now. It’s also the lack of collective will to deal with climate change. It’s the eagerness of many lawmakers in this country to legislate ignorance of its history and obfuscation of the truth because the dark chapters cause discomfort (as they should). Requiring teachers to wear microphones to monitor what they teach has been proposed in Florida’s state legislature. Remember “Big Brother” anyone? Republican legislators speaking at White nationalist gatherings. Attacks on transgender youth and their parents. Evil seems to be winning.

So, what did Curry’s grandma know that might help me hold on to hope? She knew how to “make do.” In the kitchen, that meant taking cheap cuts of meat and vegetable scraps, whatever they could afford, and turning them into delicious feasts of soul food for family and friends. “Making do” extended beyond the kitchen.

It meant taking the reality of the present, imagining possibilities, and making something new. Curry cites St. Paul, “Do not be overcome with evil, but overcome evil with good.” That’s “making do.” It sounds pie-in-the-sky. Naïve. Impossible. But the way of love is the only way to combat hate.

Painting by Gaye Reissland of diverse group of people with hands held high forming a heart shape with their fingers while approaching the Statue of Liberty. — Gaye Reissland acrylic on canvas 26″ x 12″ Painted for the Columbus Crossing Borders Project

Curry highlights three ingredients of “making do.”

Ancestral Wisdom

The first is a deep dive into one’s tradition that’s more than rituals or surface observances. Delve into the wisdom of your ancestors and find the truths that enabled them to contend with the evils and challenges they encountered. He writes from the perspective of a Black man in America, looking to those who faced slavery, violence, and oppression yet still had hope for the future.

Besides finding inspiration from his stories, this call to draw from ancestral wisdom pulled me to stories of my Dutch relatives who participated in resistance movements during World War II. Of my father and so many of his generation who joined the battle against Hitler and Nazism. Of my grandmother, Becky, who made soup with a beet tossed to my mother by a vegetable vendor during the depression. Becky welcomed into her home a young woman who needed refuge from an unhealthy family situation. She lived with my grandmother and mom until she married.

Painting of heart with a green plant sinking its roots into the center — Watercolor: Mary van Balen

I find wisdom and support in the faith tradition of my roots: incarnational theology, social justice teachings, spiritual mentors like saints Benedict and Francis, like Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton.

Heroes like John Lewis, who never lost hope, left us his hard-won wisdom and a call to embrace the path of non-violence and love in the face of evil. It’s a long road requiring deep faith and immense courage, but it’s the only way that eventually brings true reconciliation and peace.

Imagination

Imagination is the second ingredient of “making do.” While faced with grim realities, some people imagine possibilities. They hang on to dreams of what the world could be; dreams that often are considered unrealistic. But think of movements and people who have changed the world. They all imagined something better, held on to their dreams, and worked courageously to make them happen. As Curry pointed out in his book, after his “bush-side” chat with God, Moses dreamed of a world without slavery.

Civil Rights leaders from Gandhi to Mandela to Martin Luther King Jr. all had dreams that ordinary people standing up to corruption and evil could change the world. The dream of Paul Farmer, the doctor, humanitarian, and medical anthropologist who died unexpectedly on February 21, was to bring state-of-the-art healthcare to the world’s poor. To most in that field, his vision seemed impossible. But along with a few friends and colleagues, he co-founded Partners in Health and changed the trajectory of global health efforts. Movements like “Black Lives Matter” and “MeToo” were begun by people who imagined a world without systemic racism or socially accepted abuse of women.

Today, Ukraine’s president Zelensky and the Ukrainian people clutch the dream that they can stand together, overcome ruthless Russian aggression, and remain a democracy. With support from the rest of the world, I pray they do.

It’s not foolish to hold on to a dream of a better world. It’s essential. Harlem Renaissance writer and poet Langston Hughes expressed their importance in his poem, “Dreams.” He called his readers to “Hold fast to dreams,” and wrote that when dreams die, “Life is a broken-winged bird/That cannot fly.”

God

The third ingredient Curry lists is God. Just as altering or adding a variable in an equation changes the outcome, Curry says, “When God—that loving benevolence behind creation, whose judgement supersedes all else—is factored into the reality of life and living, something changes for the good…Another possibility emerges.”

I don’t pretend to know how that works, how prayer makes a difference, but I believe it does. Perhaps when one is open to sacred Presence of Love and Goodness, that transforming Love flows through them freely into the world. Even a little bit. I believe Love let loose in the universe changes things for the better.

I also know that when facing fear and difficulties in my life, experiencing that Presence within provided the courage I needed to move forward. Courage to make decisions that brought love into the small part of the world I inhabit. I am not alone in the mess of life. No one is. The Holy One is within and is shared through those around us and through creation.

If evil and hate, spewed into life by a few or many, changes reality (the situation in Ukraine, for example), then infusion of goodness and love must also make a difference.

Photo of beach at dawn — Dawn at the beach PHOTO: Kathryn Holt

Finding hope

I’m still not awash in hope but I have dipped the fingers of my soul in it. I feel it in the courage and resolve of those around the world holding on to dreams in these days of crisis and anguish. I see evidence of it in lives of those who endured such times and worse in days gone by. People who have persevered in hope and who have made a difference. And I have experienced the Holy One within and seen that Love in others.

Hope, like prayer, is a communal thing. When I have none, I can draw on the hope of others. And when others find their hope buried beneath the days’ anguish and somehow, that day, if hope lives in my soul, they can draw on mine. It is through each of us that God is present. Individual acts of love seem small and ineffective in the face of overwhelming evil, but, in the end, they can and will, transform the world into what it was created to be: a place of life and light for all, for the Beloved Community.

The new dawn balloons as we free it. / For there is always light, / if only we’re brave enough to see it, /if only we’re brave enough to be it.
Amanda Gorman : “The Hill We Climb”

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: "Dreams", "The Hill We Climb", Amanda Gorman, ancestral wisdom, Bishop Michael Curry, hope, imagination, Langston Hughes, love, Love Is the Way: Holding on to Hope in Troubling Times, Making do, non-violence, Partners in Health, Paul Farmer, prayer, Presence

October 5, 2021 By Mary van Balen 10 Comments

“Breath-Praise” – The Simple Prayer of Being

I am slowly reading my way through Mary Oliver’s Devotions, a thick book of her poems that she selected for publication in 2017, just two years before her death. I think of Devotions as a parting gift. I’m less than halfway through the 442 pages of brilliance, unveiling life’s glory and grace.

Balckburnian Warbler perched in shrub — Blackburnian Warbler
Photo: Michael Delphia

And so, I found myself, a week after the arrival of Autumn, reading a poem celebrating summer! No matter. Each season has its own gifts as well as those it shares with the other three. In this case, that gift is birdsong. A Meadowlark’s to be specific. The sound broke in to Oliver’s consciousness while she worked on a summer poem. As I read the finished piece,¹ a few lines captured my attenition:

“…the faint-pink roses / that have never been improved, but come to bud // open like little soft sighs / under the meadowlark’s whistle, its breath-praise, // its thrill-song, its anthem, its thanks, its // alleluia. Alleluia, oh Lord.”

“… its breath-praise …”

“Breath-praise.” In.

“Breath-praise.” Out.

The meadowlark. Me. We both have “breath-praise.” Most often unconscious, its participation in Grace. Immersion in Presence, Breath, Life. A simple prayer of being. When done with awareness, breath-praise is the recognition of a reality larger than oneself, reverencing the creator, the force, of which one is a part.

The time of business is no different from the time of prayer.
Brother Lawrence

Breathing it in. Breathing it out. Brother Lawrence, the 17^th century Carmelite, knew this truth. A lowly lay brother in a Parisian monastery, he is best known for his uncomplicated prayer of becoming aware of being in God’s presence throughout the day and carrying on a conversation with God in those moments. Lifting his heart in praise and recognizing the enveloping Sacred Presence in which he moved, Brother Lawrence, like the meadowlark, practiced “breath-praise.” He knew he had work to do (for years, it was in the monastery kitchen, which he did not like) and went about it simply. He didn’t need to be in a chapel or at Mass to pray.

One of his quotes adorned my refrigerator during my childrearing years: “The time of business is no different from the time of prayer. In the noise and clatter of my kitchen, I possess God as tranquilly as if I were upon my knees before the Blessed Sacrament. ²

I sometimes had trouble with the “tranquilly” part, but all in all, his sentiment was a great reminder of the holiness of life’s quotidian tasks.

red and yellow autum leaves against the sky

In New Seeds of Contemplation,³ the great monk, mystic, and author, Thomas Merton wrote:

A tree gives glory to God by being a tree. For in being what God means it to be it is obeying God. It “consents,” so to speak, to God’s creative love … Therefore each particular being, in its individuality … gives glory to God by being precisely what God wants it to be here and now … Their inscape is their sanctity. It is the imprint of God’s wisdom and God’s reality in them.

Human beings, on the other hand, complicate things, including simply being the self God created each one to be. It’s difficult when voices from all kinds of places – the past, the media, culture, significant people in our lives – have their say and cloud the perception of just what “being oneself” means.

I often confuse what I have (or, more often, have not) accomplished with who I am. For example, the books I haven’t written overshadow the self that is given through countless meals prepared, laundry done, letters written, and the simple ways of living and loving that, as Merton wrote, are the “imprint of God” in me.

Writing is part of who I am (thus years and years of columns, posts, articles, and books), but not the whole of it. The temptation in our culture is to focus on major things. On “doing” not “being.” One of these approaches cannot exist without the other. Life is a both/and endeavor. Br. Lawrence spent his monastic career doing his chores and in the simplicity of his tasks, he was being his true self. His prayer practice contributed to his sanctity, and sharing it provided inspiration for countless others across centuries.

Their inscape is their sanctity. It is the imprint of God’s wisdom and God’s reality in them.
Thomas Merton

Merton knew that being faithful to the God-spark within was all we need do. That looks different for each of person. For him, it included lots of writing: books, poetry, correspondence, articles. Also being a novice master. And, later, living alone in his hermitage.

Mary Oliver is a saint of attentiveness and gratitude. She noticed. She wandered and wondered through the natural world. She loved. And she wrote.

What imago Dei resides in your center? What bit of the Sacred do you bring to every task you do and to every moment you are at rest? What song of gratitude might you add to the universe as you stand at the kitchen sink or the washing machine? When you weep for the world or rejoice with a child or friend? When you work? When you play? When you have no idea where you are going or when you are filled with enthusiasm for the next step?

October is a beautiful month to notice and be inspired by the unconscious praise that rises from the natural world. Opening our eyes, ears, and hearts to the wordless chant of praise that arises every day from every created thing, we can join in their prayer. Recognizing their holiness may stir our hearts with the desire to grow in willingness to be, like them, exactly as God has made us to be. Then our “Amen” will rise with theirs, not from our lips, but like the meadowlark, from our being.

Sources:

Mary Oliver, “While I Am Writing a Poem to Celebrate Summer, the Meadowlark Begins to Sing,” Devotions (2017):203.
Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God, (1985): 145.
Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation, (1972): 29-30.

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: Brother Lawrence, imago Dei, Mary Oliver, prayer, prayer of being, prayer of the quotidian, Presence, Thomas Merton

May 23, 2021 By Mary van Balen 4 Comments

Seeing with Eyes of the Heart

Sometimes life delivers a reminder of the Glory it holds, like this week while I meandered through a small park running along the west bank of the Scioto River. The park was empty except for a few walkers and two knots of birders gazing up into the trees. They carried a variety of cameras and binoculars, some with lenses long and heavy enough to require extra support. It was migration season. Non-resident birds and ducks were traveling through. I’m a casual bird watcher with a life-list begun decades ago where, if I remember, I check off a bird when I see it for the first time. My list is a record of what I’ve been graced to see, not a guide for what I have left to find.

“Hi. What are you looking at?” I asked good-naturedly, observing six feet of social distance.

“Nothing!” an irritated woman spat out. “Nothing! There is nothing to see here.”

I looked around at the surroundings, brimming with spring flowers and trees in various stages of leafing out. The river reflected the sun, and an occasional heron sailed by the white clouds.

“Really? Nothing? My sister and her husband saw a black -billed and a yellow-billed cuckoo here yesterday,” I said, trying to sound like I knew a little about the hobby. I was thinking “you just never know what will show up,” and thought I delivered the comment in a hopeful kind of way.

“Yesterday. Figures. The thing is, they were here yesterday. I wasn’t!”

No, she wasn’t. The problem, as I saw it, was that likely she wasn’t present in the morning’s moment either. Not really. Her experience was constricted by an agenda, and the park wasn’t delivering. I continued my walk, and despite the disgruntled woman’s claim that there was nothing worth seeing, I found plenty. Actually, her outburst, uncharacteristic of birders in general, heightened my openness to the surroundings.

First to catch my eye were dandelions, some sunny yellow and others holding delicate silver globes of parachuted seeds, waiting for a breeze to send them flying. They mingled with fuzzy, thick- stemmed plants sending up shoots topped with a clenched cluster of buds. I leaned in for a closer look. The spotted early earth-hugging leaves gave it way: waterleaf.

The scene reminded me of a pastel drawing at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston: “Dandelions,” by Jean-François Millet. His detailed drawings highlighted the flowers’ beauty and caught my attention immediately upon my entering the exhibit. “A kindred spirit,” I’d thought. I’m not an accomplished artist, but when I draw, I work small and focus on common treasures.

"Dandelions" a pastel on tan wove paper byJean-François Millet, French artist. Drawing of dandelions, yellow as well as gone to seed, — *Dandelions*, 1867-68
Pastel on tan wove paper
Jean-François Millet
Museum of Fine Arts, Boston

There were lots of other things to see in the park. Oak, sycamore, maple, locust, and hickory trees. White honeysuckle blooms wet with nectar. The small stream, last week singing with water splashing over its rocky bed, diminished by hot, dry days.

I followed the lichen covered stone wall reminiscent of those crisscrossing fields in New England and the Robert Frost poem that made them famous. In a patch of wildflowers and grasses left to grow wild, bluebells were fading and ground-hugging violets stole the show.

The path stopped at the river. Mallards were gliding past, and farther out, a ruddy duck disappeared under the water again and again. I stood a while, soaking in the scene and then turned to walk back to my car.

The birdwatchers were still gathered in the same place, but this time cameras were clicking.

“What’d you find?” I asked.

“A Blackburnian warbler,” a gentleman replied and guided my eyes upward to a small silhouette perched on slender tree-top branches. Lifting my binoculars, I found the bird, stunning with black, white, and orange markings. Closer to my car, a Baltimore oriole flamed bright on a tree branch. An embarrassment of riches.

I was reminded of my morning walk a few days later while reflecting on the feast of Pentecost by reading poetry of Jessica Powers (1905-1998) an American Carmelite nun. In “Ruah-Elohim,” she writes that “Spirit” in Hebrew is feminine and that the Holy Spirt is tender Love, come to mother us. In “To Live with the Spirit'” she reminds us that the one who walks as the Spirit-wind blows “turns like a wandering weather-vane toward love.”

But it was her description of the Apostles in “The First Pentecost” that caught my breath. They looked at one another. “…words curled in fire through the returning gloom. / Something had changed and colored all the room. / The beauty of the Galilean mother/ took the breath from them for a little space. / Even a cup, a chair or a brown dress/ could draw their tears with the great loveliness/ that wrote tremendous secrets every place….”

I ache to see with such Spirit-opened eyes, our world and one another. Could wars and hatred, violence and earth-abuse continue among human beings with eyes so wide and seeing? Would eyes of the heart see past the false constructs of “them” and “us” to the “we” that shared Spirit makes us? Ah, for such eyes!

Along with this tired planet, with the weary, war-torn beings that live on it, I join my voice to the urgent prayer:

Come, Spirit come! We need the sight you bring.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Jean-Francios Millet, Jean-Francios Millet "Dandelions", Jessica Powers, love, Oneness, Pentecost, prayer, present to the moment, Robert Frost, Spirit, Spirit-opened eyes

November 29, 2020 By Mary van Balen 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

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: bringing the kingdom, prayer, Servant-king, service, transforming love

September 24, 2020 By Mary van Balen 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?

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

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: a time of action, a time to speak out, Being Presence, challenge, compassion, healing, incarnational faith, injustice, Martin Luther King Jr., prayer, racism, transforming love

August 24, 2020 By Mary van Balen 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.

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.

“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

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: authentic self, creation, prayer, Presence, present to the moment, St. Bonaventure, Thomas Merton

April 22, 2020 By Mary van Balen 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.

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.

I 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.

Next 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.

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

Filed Under: The Scallop Tagged With: baking bread, coronoavirus, creation, Eucharist, grace, Mindful baking, prayer, present to the moment, spirituality, Tassajara, Zen

October 13, 2019 By Mary van Balen 1 Comment

Wisdom of the Good Pope John XXIII

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Friday, October 11, is the 57^th 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.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, change, humility, inclusion, Pope John XXIII, prayer, spiritual evolution, spirituality, Vatican II

July 28, 2019 By Mary van Balen 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.

He 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!

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment, The Scallop Tagged With: age quod agis, grace, love, Ordinary Time, prayer, present to the moment, Saint Benedict, Saint Martha, Saint Mary Magdalene, Saints Joachim and Anne, spirituality