Grace in the Moment

August 17, 2020 By Mary van Balen 7 Comments

Perseverance, Faith, and Open Hearts

Painting of a refugee woman holding a small child — Virginia Carvour acrylic on canvas 16 x 20
Columbus Crossing Borders Project

The account in Matthew’s gospel of the conversation between Jesus and a Canaanite woman asking him to cure her daughter provides insight into the transformational power of a genuine encounter with another.

Showing the determination and faith of a mother who was seeking help and the humanity of Jesus who was growing into a deeper understanding of himself and his mission, this story surprises.

One who encounters

Jesus often engaged with people like this woman who was dismissed as unimportant by others, including his disciples.

They didn’t want her hanging around and following them. She was a nuisance as far as they were concerned. To them, she was “other,” like the Samaritan woman at the well, marginalized because she was a woman and because she was a Gentile. They encouraged Jesus to send the troublemaker away.

But Jesus wasn’t about sending away. When crowds followed him, tired as he was, he took time to be with them, sometimes speaking, healing, or sharing food. No, Jesus wasn’t about turning his head when people came to him hurting and in need. He was all about seeing, paying attention, and listening deeply.

One who perseveres

The Canaanite woman was aware of his reputation as healer and an approachable one at that. Still, she needed courage to ask for help. She had to get by his disciples who were intent on protecting him and perhaps themselves from those who could cause problems or divert attention from what they thought was important.

She took the first step, finding and following them. When the time seemed right, she called out, respectfully asking for help, explaining that her daughter was tormented by a demon. After silence, Jesus’s initial response was dismissive: He was sent to the house of Israel, and she didn’t qualify.

Again, she honored him and pleaded for help. Jesus said, “No.” It wasn’t right to throw what was meant for the children of Israel to the dogs (a derogatory name sometimes used for Gentiles).

Despite his rebuke, she persisted. She had no special claim to his power other than being an anguished human speaking in behalf of someone unable to plead for herself. And she had faith that Jesus could help. That was enough.

She took a breath. Even dogs, she reminded Jesus, ate scraps from the table of their masters.

Jesus was listening. And when he looked, he saw her. He recognized her dignity as a child of God who held a spark of the Divine in her soul. He didn’t look past her or see her as his disciples did – an inconvenience.

He heard her pain. Emotionally engaged, he empathized and was moved. And he couldn’t miss the faith she had in him.

Transformation

Looking through her eyes, he saw something new about himself. (Isn’t this what happens when someone truly, deeply engages with another? They learn about themselves, their world, and their place in it.) Jesus wasn’t afraid of seeing something new. He wasn’t afraid to draw his circle even wider.

What he had to give he could give to all, couldn’t he? The One who sent him was limitless Love. There was no shortage to go around. For Jesus, there would be no “others.”

I think of John Lewis when I read about this woman and Jesus. As the late Representative and civil rights activist lived and advised, she “stood up and spoke out” when she saw something that was unjust.

She spoke the truth. Jesus listened and heard with an open heart. And it made all the difference. He healed her daughter and in doing so, the anguished mother’s heart. She healed him of a blind spot, urging him to grow into who he was.

Open hearts

Pray for such grace and courage.

John Lewis’s life witnessed the power of speaking the truth with love, of being willing to suffer for it, and of persevering. His training and belief in non-violence as the path toward change didn’t waver. In interviews he said his heart had no room for bitterness or hate.

Pray for the grace and wisdom to engage in conversations with such an open, humble heart. Listening without an agenda that prompts a quick defensive response or turning away is challenging whatever the situation. But such encounters will help move this country toward healing and becoming a more just society.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: attentive, courage, encounter, faith, grace, inclusion, Jesus and the Canaanite Wioman, open hearts, perseverence, present to the moment, Rep. John Lewis, speak the truth, transformation, transforming love, truth

July 2, 2020 By Mary van Balen 13 Comments

Letting the Light In

Full disclosure: I’ve tried to write this column for weeks. Thoughts and notes spill across my journal pages; drafts of documents sit on my laptop. Prayer and vigil candles are spent. Life feels heavy. Sometimes overwhelming. The state of our world and our country is revealing the dark, shadowy side beneath our comfortable façade. And cracks in that façade are everywhere.

Leonard Cohen’s lyric from Anthem comes to mind: “There is a crack, a crack in everything, that’s how the light gets in.” True enough. But cracks can also make things fall apart – as some must do – before they are put back together or something new is made. In the process, it’s often the cracks we see, not the light.

You may find that true today. The world struggles to find responses to climate change and the will to implement them. The the pandemic brings not only sickness and death, but economic crisis, causing millions to struggle to survive. It challenges the world’s “normal” which, really, hasn’t been working all that well.

Our country, fractured by political turmoil, division, and fumbled responses to COVID-19, must also recognize the racism that is staring in our collective face. The video of George Floyd’s murder by policemen was a tipping point, coming closely on the heels of other senseless murders of African Americans. Protests erupted across the U.S. and the world and continue today. They must. They make us look. They reveal cracks that have crazed our nation even before it was born.

“What can I do?” I ask myself. I don’t have answers; I have questions. It’s time for white people to look deeply at their own stories and those of their ancestors and recognize how they have benefited from systemic racism for generations. We can educate ourselves. Reading and discussing the book Waking Up White: And Finding Myself in the Story of Race by Debby Irving, is jarring as our group listens to the long history of racism and slavery in our country from the beginning, hearing how early it was codified into our laws.

Truth illuminates the cracks. It’s the light that gets in. And once it does, we have a choice. The line before Cohen’s famous one quoted above is this: “Ring the bells that still can ring. Forget your perfect offering.” Our efforts will not be perfect, but they must be made.

We all must do the hard work of hearing the truth and making changes in our lives and in the laws and practices of this country. On a walk in my neighborhood I noticed two messages painted on the sidewalk: “Black Lives Matter” and “You can do hard things.”

These unprecedented times demand we recognize the truth of both. There is much in our world and in our nation that requires doing hard things for the good of all.

This year, July 4 presents an opportunity to reflect on our country, to consider its history through an inclusive lens, and to work for its future. When I pondered the Roman Catholic Lectionary readings for this holiday, the one from Philippians spoke to my heart:

Finally brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things…

It is hopeful. It reminded me to look for what is good in the world, in one another, in our dreams and values. To focus on justice and truth. To hold tight to them. To look for the light coming in through the cracks.

But that wasn’t all. The reading continued:

Keep on doing what you have learned and received and heard and seen in me.

What have we seen in Jesus? Love. He was all love. Love of God. Love of neighbor. He stood with the poor and marginalized. He challenged those who abused power and were greedy, concerned only with their own comfort and well-being. He told the Good Samaritan story: everyone is our neighbor; we must take care of one another. He never saw anyone as “other.” Everyone belonged. In the end, he was murdered by a world that couldn’t accept such radical, inclusive love.

This reading calls us to hope and also to act, like Jesus, keeping our hearts set on what is good and just. On Love. To use our hands and feet and minds and talents to bring more of it into this world. And, as the reading ends, Then the God of peace will be with you.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment, Widening Our Circles Tagged With: Action, Anthem, Black Lives Matter, civil rights, Cracks that's how the light gets in, equality, hope, humility, justice, Leonard Cohen, light, love

May 15, 2020 By Mary van Balen 14 Comments

No Matter How Small, Everything Matters

Collier’s Cranes, Gates Atrium, MIT PHOTO: Mary van Balen

These days of pandemic are challenging in a myriad of ways. One is the dilemma of finding a way to respond. What can I do in the face of this? How can I help? Answers to these questions may be difficult to find. I offer this example.

Sometime in the past couple of weeks, a load of stress burst from wherever I had hidden it and overwhelmed me. When friends asked how I was doing, I usually had answered “fine.” After the initial shock of the pandemic and fear of contracting COVID-19 (I’m in a vulnerable demographic), I thought I was dealing with the situation pretty well.

I was, and then suddenly I wasn’t. Just like that. Working from home, I couldn’t focus. Talking with my daughters and friends flooded me with desire to see them, hug them, or share a meal. Of course, I couldn’t. Tears surprised me at odd times, like while I was folding towels or making dinner.

Instead of taking life one day at a time, I spent time wondering about the future. When will I feel safe going outside, visiting family and friends, or sitting in a favorite restaurant? There’s no going back to “normal.” Will we emerge with a heightened sense of interdependence with one another and our planet? Will we be willing to make changes required for a more just and sustainable future? No answers.

I ended up washing the floors in my apartment. People who know me well will surmise the level of stress. Housecleaning is near the bottom of my priority list. If I’m cleaning, either company is coming or I’m dealing with something.

In this case, it was my sinking spirit.

So, last night, I listened to my heart instead of my head, which was telling me to get to work on my column or clean off the table. My heart, on the other hand, pleaded with me to stay put on the sofa, smartphone in hand, where I was singing along with videos of Peter Seeger and the Weavers from their 1980 reunion at Carnegie Hall.

The concert was pure joy. When Pete threw his head back and belted out the song “Wimoweh,” his energy surged right out of the phone. (If you’re don’t remember the older versions of the song, you’ll remember it from The Lion King.)

Moving from song to song, I ended with the one that closed the concert: Good Night Irene. Slower. Softer. It was perfect.

Cheers and applause exploded in the packed hall, washing over the performers who returned the sentiment by standing and clapping for the audience. Love wrapped everyone in a long embrace. Me included. It didn’t matter that I was listening decades later, and hundreds of miles removed. Time and space can’t keep Love contained. Once it’s loose in the universe, it doesn’t end. It expands. It heals. It gives hope.

The Weavers and those who had travelled from around the country to attend that concert felt the power of love that evening. But they couldn’t’ possibly have known that forty years later, in the midst of a pandemic, their talents and effort, their appreciation of and presence to that moment, would buoy the sinking spirit of a woman self-isolating alone, sitting on her living room couch, singing along.

We never know what healing and hope our acts of love will unleash into the world. In these days, when most of us are sheltering in place, our contributions may seem small, but every one counts. Every one.

While front-line workers release love into the world, so do those with more hidden work to do. It all counts, whether we’re cooking for elderly neighbors, making grocery store runs, staying home, wearing face masks when outside or in a building, reading to children, contributing to the public discussion, or even writing a column.

Being faithful to what we have been given to do, large or small, does indeed matter – now and always – because every act of love is an outpouring of the Love that creates and sustains all.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, connectedness, everything matters, hope, peace, small acts of love, The Weavers

April 9, 2020 By Mary van Balen 12 Comments

Celebrating the Triduum Together While Apart

Holy Thursday begins the Triduum—time set apart to reflect on the meaning of events from the Last Supper to the Resurrection, not only in the lives of Jesus and his disciples, but also in the Paschal Mystery unfolding in our lives.

Following the great tradition observed by generations of Christians, we gather to commemorate these events. But this year is different. We cannot gather. Our buildings are closed.

We are church

Photo: Mary van Balen

Covid-19 requires us to find new ways to “be church.” At its most basic, church is people, not buildings or doctrine or hierarchy. It is the people of God. And while the liturgies of Holy Week are beautiful sources of grace, we don’t need to be in a particular place or follow established rites to experience God-with-us.

In John’s gospel, at the last supper, Jesus promises his disciples that the Spirit will come and dwell within them. That Divine Presence, which lives within each of us, has animated all creation since the beginning: from the tiniest atoms to the furthest galaxies. The challenge of these days is to recognize that Presence in each moment, wherever we are.

While the supper is the setting in John’s gospel read today, the first Eucharist is not the centerpiece. It is the other events of that evening that John remembers. They move our souls with their intimacy and the love that soaks every moment.

During the meal, Jesus rises, ties a towel around his waist, fills a basin with water, and gets on his knees. He cradles his disciples’ dusty feet, washing and drying them one by one. When he’s finished, he asks if they understand what he’s done.

Not waiting for an answer, he tells them: If he, their master and teacher, washes their feet, then they should be ready to wash one another’s feet.

In this moment…

In this present moment, many are providing such physical acts of caring. Healthcare professionals, parents at home with small children, and those caring for sick family members serve the vulnerable. Farm laborers and grocery store workers keep food flowing to our tables. Sanitation workers and janitors keep our streets and buildings clean. Many find ways to feed the homeless and provide a place for them to sleep. The list is long.

This is a eucharist: the self, sacrificed out of love for another.

John also tells of Jesus giving a new commandment: “Just as I have loved you, you should also love one another.” He says it twice.

During this crisis, we share that love for one another by staying home; by venturing out only when necessary and keeping our distance when we do; by virtual visits instead of meeting face to face. For some, these actions mean loss of jobs and income. How can we show care for them now and when this time has passed?

Jesus reassures his disciples that they will not be forgotten or left alone. He prays for them and for those who will believe through their word: “…that they all may be one. As you, Father are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us…”

In the midst of self-isolation, we ensure that friends and family do not feel forgotten. We draw one another into the circle of oneness and love with calls, texts, and video chats. We check that they are ok, share a laugh or a story, and hold their grief at the loss of loved ones.

Then Jesus goes forward, endures betrayal, suffering, and death, showing the unfathomable depth of God’s love. His disciples spend their sabbath filled with confusion and fear. Then on the first day of the week, Jesus appears to Mary Magdalene. He instructs her to tell the others what she has seen and heard.

When Jesus appears to them all the following day, he greets them with “Peace,” and as promised, bestows the Spirit with a simple breath.

It is that Spirit who makes the present moment the place where we encounter God. We remember the risen Christ is with us. The indwelling Holy Presence abounds in the simple routines of everyday life. While we miss celebrating the Paschal Mysteries together, we are finding new ways to live them while apart.

That is why our churches are closed. At first glance, they appear empty. But really, they are filled with love.

Chapel of St. Ignatius Seattle University
Photo: Mary van Balen

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: acceptance, Covid-19, Easter, faith, hope, present to the moment, Triduum, trust, unconditional love

March 12, 2020 By Mary van Balen 2 Comments

Lent: Letting Love Enter In

On Ash Wednesday I took tentative steps into the Lenten season. I wasn’t sure what disciplines to embrace, but that morning I lit a candle and sat quietly in prayer before going through liturgical readings for the season. I attended a noon service and stood in line to receive ashes on my forehead, remembering that I was dust and someday, to dust would return.

After work I made a few calls checking on a friend who had undergone surgery for a broken hip, chatting with a daughter who was celebrating a birthday, and catching up with someone I hadn’t seen in a while.

Then again, a prayer candle burned as I read through the lectionary one more time. Lent is full of powerful readings.

They include passages that remind us the most important commandment is to love and care for others, especially the least among us. And when we do, Jesus tells us, we are caring for him. Isaiah insists that the sacrifices God wants aren’t the drooping of ash-covered heads or the rending of garments.

That’s not the drama the Holy One desires. No, the desired actions are more along the lines of freeing the oppressed, sharing food, taking care of the marginalized, being civil in speech, and working for justice – all facets of the Love commandment.

There’s the Samaritan woman who’s the first to recognize Jesus as the Messiah. After accepting the truth about her own life and also the love offered to her by Jesus, she hurries back to town, telling everyone that she has met the Messiah, right over there at the community well.

Instructing the people to repent of their wrongdoing, Nineveh’s king showed humility and sincerity that changed God’s mind about destroying the city. Queen Esther beseeches God for help in foiling the enemy’s plan and turning her husband’s heart in order to save her people.

These are just a smattering. But in the midst of the more grand and familiar passages sits a small one from Isaiah, just two verses. They grab my heart. Maybe it’s the simple comparison of the life-bringing fall of rain and snow onto the earth to the transforming entrance of God’s word into the universe:

Just as from the heavens / the rain and snow come down / And do not return there / till they have watered the earth, / making it fertile and fruitful, / Giving seed to the one who sows / and bread to the one who eats, / So shall my word be / that goes forth from my mouth; / It shall not return to me void, / but shall do my will, / achieving the end for which I sent it.

I’m not sure how that works, but it is hopeful in a time when hope is difficult to find.

This passage reminds me of short poem, Indwelling, by Thomas E Brown, an 19^th century scholar, teacher, poet, and theologian born on the Isle of Man.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

If thou could’st empty all thyself of self,

Like to a shell dishabited,

Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf,

And say, “This is not dead,”

And fill thee with Himself instead.

But thou are all replete with very thou

And hast such shrewd activity,

That when He comes He says, “This is enow

Unto itself – ’twere better let it be,

It is so small and full, there is no room for me.”

… … …

The connection between the two? Indwelling suggests to me why God’s word does not return without doing what it was sent to do. It is a living Word that dwells within each of us. As Brown writes, the more we empty ourselves of false selves, of cluttering activity, the more Divine Love can fill us and do its work.

We participate in the Word fulfilling mission – as Jesus prays at the Last Supper – to bring all together in love, united with the One who sent him.

Whatever disciplines fill Lent, may they be ones that allow more Love to enter in.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: emptying, grace, hope, humility, indwelling, lent, living Word, love, open

February 13, 2020 By Mary van Balen 7 Comments

Proximity and Hope

“Nocturne Navigator” Alison Saar, 1998
Collection: Columbus Gallery of Art “…commemorates those involved with the Underground Railroad…The figure’s billowing skirt, illuminated from within, shows the constellations of stars that would help guide the fugitives on their nighttime journey, while her heavenly gaze and outstretched arms suggest a mix of anguish, prayer, and gratitude.” (from museum signage)

A movie or book can be transforming. For Black History Month, I’m sharing an experience with both. In January, I attended a movie with friends: Just Mercy.

Based on the book Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, written by Bryan Stevenson and published in 2014, the movie centers around Stevenson’s representation of death-row inmate Walter McMillian, appealing his murder conviction.

Stevenson is a Black public interest lawyer who, after graduating from Harvard Law School, went to Alabama to represent those who had been illegally convicted or poorly represented at their trials.

Just Mercy is powerful and sometimes difficult to watch. If you don’t think racism’s roots are deeply embedded in this country when you walk in, you’ll be questioning your assumption when you walk out. But the movie isn’t only about the fear, hatred, and oppression that has been visited upon Black Americans since their forced arrival as slaves. Or how fear and ignorance disfigure the oppressors. Its main message is about accepting truth, about hope and the possibility of change.

The movie includes Stevenson’s 1989 founding of the nonprofit Equal Justice Initiative (EJI), located in Montgomery, Alabama. According to its website, EJI is “… committed to ending mass incarceration and excessive punishment in the United States, to challenging racial and economic injustice, and to protecting basic human rights for the most vulnerable people in American society.”

In talks across the country, Stevenson names hope as one of the four things necessary to effect change. He calls it a “superpower” and the enemy of injustice. “It is what makes you stand up when someone tells you to sit down.”

He names another element necessary for change: proximity. In a speech at Penn State in Abington, Stevenson gave this advice: “We need to get closer to people who are suffering and disfavored so we can understand their challenges and their pain. We can’t create solutions from a distance. Decide to get closer to people who are suffering, marginalized, disadvantaged, poor. Only in proximity to those who are suffering can we change the world.”

Reading this, I thought of Pope Francis’s call, early in his pontificate, for priests to be close to the people they serve: “This is what I am asking you — be shepherds with the smell of sheep.”

Jesus lived that out. He spent time with ordinary people and those on the margins. He counted fishermen and tax collectors as his early followers and included women in his close circle of friends and disciples. He ate and drank with sinners, much to the dismay of religious leaders who kept their distance.

I’ve also been reading Howard Thurman’s book, Jesus and the Disinherited. A Black theologian, pastor, and spiritual mentor to Martin Luther King Jr., Thurman reminds us that Jesus was marginalized. He was poor, and he was a Jew in an occupied land. Jesus knew the suffering of those on the edge, or as Thurman might say “those with their backs to the wall.” He devotes a chapter to fear and its effects on people.

But Jesus’s response to marginalization was not fear. It was not violence. It was love. It wasn’t separation from those who were suffering. It was proximity. He showed us how to love and to serve our neighbor—who is everyone.

He spoke the truth. He healed on the Sabbath. He said the Kingdom of God is within us. He had hope and faith in the One who sent him and in the power of compassion. He stood up when he was told to sit down.

This month is a good time to reflect on our history, the state of our country, and the divisiveness that is increasingly expressed in violence against “the other” – not only Blacks, but also Jews, LGBTQ+ people, the poor, and immigrants.

If you’re able, see the movie (or read the book). Read Howard Thurman. They invite us to ponder how we can, as Isaiah admonishes, remove oppression, false accusations, and malicious speech from our midst; to ponder how can we share our bread with the hungry and give shelter to the homeless.

They challenge us to follow Jesus’s example of walking with the marginalized and of love, to believe that love will cast out fear and bring hope instead.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: "Just Mercy", Bryan Stevenson, civil rights, compassion, Equal Justice Initiative, equality, hope, Howard Thurman, Jesus and the Disinherited, justice, LGBT, love, marginalized, racism

January 16, 2020 By Mary van Balen 6 Comments

Finding Hope in 2020

photo of color lithograph by Maurice Denis 1870-1943 Shows Shows

The Pilgrims of Emmaus by Maurice Denis, French 1870-1943 Color lithograph
Photo: Mary van Balen

People long for hope, for peace, for cooperation. While some are bent on stirring up distrust, and spreading fear based on dividing the world into “us” and “them,” most of humankind is looking for a better way in 2020.

Many I talked with over the holidays desire an end to such divisiveness. Some Christmas cards I received included handwritten notes expressing that hope. How do we get there in the midst of issues facing us today? I don’t know. Looking at the big picture, I’m often at a loss.

I turned to the Scriptures, reading through the Roman lectionary’s January passages. One line from the first Letter of Saint John made me stop, not because it inspired, but because I didn’t understand what it was saying: “Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed we shall be like God, for we shall see God as God is.”

How can we become like God just by seeing the Holy One? I pulled commentaries off the shelf. Not much help.

So, I sat with it. I didn’t try to figure them out, just let the words sink in. That night, I wrote in my journal:

Slowly, God’s gaze draws forth in our souls the reflection of God that we are. Resting in that Presence, we become aware of the Holy One looking at us with love and recognition of God’s heart within our own.

I thought of loving looks from people in my life. Not a response to something you did, such a look simply celebrates the reality of you. When experienced, you know its power to help you become your best self.

I carried the scripture’s words around for another day and in the afternoon saw “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” starring Tom Hanks as Fred Rogers. I was hesitant about an actor playing the iconic figure, but the story drew me in. I wasn’t disappointed.

No spoilers here. I’ll just say there was a lot in that movie about the power of being in the presence of Love.

As the packed theater slowly emptied, I walked down the steps, stopping as a woman in front of me helped a much older one navigate her descent. The middle-aged woman guided her friend to a walker that was sitting behind a row of seats at floor level.

“Go ahead,” she said to me, “This will take a while.”

“That’s ok,” I replied. “I’m not in a hurry.”

She smiled. “Well, how could you not be kind after watching that movie?” I nodded. “Fred Rogers is the closest person to Jesus Christ I’ve ever seen,” she said.

Her comments mingled with the words of Saint John: How could you not be kind after seeing that movie? Watching someone truly seeing, accepting, loving … it changes us. If seeing a movie could make folks a bit kinder, what happens when one “sees” God as God truly is?

And wasn’t watching the story of Fred Rogers caring about others also seeing a bit of God – God who lives and works in and through us? Isn’t that what we’ve been celebrating this Christmas season: the ongoing incarnation and our call to participate in it?

We become more like God the more we see God, the more God’s love moves through us. That’s where hope rests: in God’s transforming Love.

The First Letter of Saint John is full of reminders that we are called to love, that we cannot hate others and love God at the same time, that it isn’t enough to believe in the Christ. Our actions must mirror those of Jesus.

However we participate with it, however we speak truth to power, however we look at others with love and acceptance, we are participating in the work of healing and salvation. Hope is trusting God to make it enough.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: compassion, Fred Rogers, hope, Presence, quiet prayer, seeing, The Pilgrims of Emmaus, transforming love, trust

December 5, 2019 By Mary van Balen Leave a Comment

Advent Listening

I am poring through Scripture readings and books while preparing for an Advent retreat, revisiting favorite writings and discovering new ones. As readers do, I filter the words through my current state of mind, faith, and being. A passage that held deep meaning five years ago provides little inspiration this time around. On the other hand, something I had passed over before jumps out from the page and speaks to me. Of course, there are passages that always touch the heart.

An essay in Madeleine L’Engle’s Miracle on 10th Street: & Other Christmas Writings provided the “word” for this reflection: “Advent is about listening.”

I usually think of this season as a time of waiting or keeping watch for something that is coming. While listening is part of active waiting and of remaining alert for what is to come, lately I’ve noticed my lack of practice—at least of the deep listening Madeleine writes about.

I listen for things like the washer or dryer buzzer alerting me that the load is finished. The oven timer lets me know food needs to be checked or removed. My mobile phone signals the arrival of a text message, email, or call with a distinct sound for each. But really, I don’t actually listen for these. They are loud enough that the intricate inner workings of my ear (a miracle in itself) hear them whether or not I’m paying attention. These examples are more “hearing,” I guess.

Then there is the “mother’s ear” that is remarkably attuned to her children’s soft whimpers or cries that alert her that some loving attention is needed. Sometimes she just knows. This is closer to the “listening” of Advent, rooted not simply in sound waves and anatomy, but in soul and attention.

Advent listening attends to more than sound. It listens for meaning, direction, and movement deep down in our center. We listen with the ear of the heart as St. Benedict instructs in his Rule’s prologue. We listen for the Divine within us, the Christ, without knowing what exactly that will sound like or if it “sounds” at all.

A few weeks ago, I saw the movie “Harriet.” (See it if you can.) It revealed much about the most well-known conductor on the underground railroad, Harriet Tubman. She was born into slavery, escaped to freedom, and returned to the South 19 times, freeing around 70 others. (These numbers vary depending on the source.) A remarkable woman in countless ways, she seems to me to have been an “Advent listener.”

She said she didn’t travel alone. The Lord travelled with her, sometimes speaking to her and guiding her to safety. Many people thought she was delusional, but her story never changed. When asked what it was like to hear the voice of God, she said sometimes it was soft like a dream and sometimes it stung like a slap in the face. Either way, she needed to pay close attention to it before she knew what it meant. It led her by safe paths; it directed her to return to the South again and again.

The messages came unexpectedly, sometimes while she was leading a group, sometimes when she was asleep. The thing is, she heard it. Deep-down, she was listening with the ear of her heart, all the time. Open. Ready.

Harriet’s story reminds me of this passage in Isaiah: “Whether you turn to right or left, your ears will hear these words behind you, ‘This is the way, follow it.’” (Is 30, 21)

We will hear if we are listening.

Our world is noisy and keeps us busy. We “hear” lots, but listening is difficult. These weeks before Christmas are even louder and busier than usual, filled with marketing messages bombarding us from television, radios, and computer screens as we hurry about our preparations.

Advent is about listening deeply. Dark nights, candlelight from our Advent wreaths, sweet smells of holiday baking, or long winter walks can provide a bit of quiet. But even in the midst of activity, with practice, the ear of our heart listens to the whisper of the Sacred within: Have hope. God-with-Us is here. Follow the Word.

You can buy Mary’s collection of columns, Reflections for Advent and Christmas: A Grace in the Moment Book, from Biblio Publishing at info@zippublishing.com 614.485.0721.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment Tagged With: Advent, attention, deep listening, God-with-us, Harriet, Harriet Tubman

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

September 27, 2019 By Mary van Balen 8 Comments

Deeds Come First

Peter Claver, a 16^th century Spaniard, was canonized by the Roman Catholic church as a saint in 1888, but he is not well-known. He was born in 1581 and entered the Jesuits there in 1601. In 1610 he went to the missions in America, landing in Cartagena, a port city in what is now Columbia, that was a major stop for slave ships. He was ordained in 1616 and spent his life serving the 10,000 enslaved Africans who arrived every year.

Claver considered himself a slave to the slaves and began ministering to them from the time the ships docked. He made his way into the hold, encountering people who had survived the most horrid conditions imaginable. (About one-third of them didn’t.)

The image I have of Peter Claver is one of a man moving among the people, providing food and water, medicine and care as he treated their physical wounds. “Deeds come first, then the words,” is a quote attributed to him. His life bears that out. It was attention to basic human needs that came first. Only later, using translators and sometimes pictures, would he try to communicate with the Africans some ideas of Christianity and God’s love for them.

Through his deeds and words, Claver treated people with respect, honoring the dignity due every human being. No exceptions. That’s the lesson of his life that stays with me today.

While 400 years have passed since the first slave ship arrived on our shores, the repercussions of slavery remain. Racism is deeply embedded in our country and continues to deny this most basic right to our African American sisters and brothers, challenging us to respond.

Dehumanizing people, marginalizing them is all too easy. The list of “reasons” is long: People look “different,” speak another language, embrace a faith different from our own. Fear of difference, threats to one’s way of life, ignorance—These are on the list, too.

Painting by Laurie VanBalen, Project Director and Producer of Columbus Crossing Borders Project

As I thought of Peter Claver’s instinctive action to first alleviate human suffering, the plight of refugees at our Southern border came to mind. They come mostly from Central and South America, fleeing unspeakable violence, poverty, and fear for their lives. How are they met?

I spoke with Sister Barbara Kane, a member of the Dominican Sisters of Peace in Columbus, Ohio. She and others in her community have traveled to El Paso to serve as they could.

She spoke of refugees’ long waits in enclosed areas (some liken them to cages) until they have their Credible Fear Hearing (when the refugee states what has driven them to seek asylum.)

“The enclosures have concrete floors, are kept at 60 degrees, and are so small people are packed together, unable to lie down to sleep,” Sr. Barbara said. People receive little food. Yet, despite the great needs, no one is allowed inside to help.

After the Credible Fear Hearing, people are sent back to Mexican cities to wait again until their sponsors can be reached, and background checks run. The cities are not equipped to house so many refugees whose stay can last for weeks or months.

Once sponsors are contacted and cleared, the asylum seekers come back to the U.S and are placed in hospitality houses. The Annunciation House is where Sr. Barbara served.

“That’s where volunteers finally meet the refugees and offer help. We provide a hot shower, clean clothes, food, and a bed to sleep in,” Sr. Barbara said. Eventually, volunteers drive the refugees to the airport or bus terminals as they begin the journey to their sponsors. With fewer people making it through to this point, volunteers may have time to listen to the refugees’ stories.

“I came away convinced that the vast majority of these parents just want their children to be safe and secure and to have a future,” Sr. Barbara added. “They’re not gaming the system. They’re not bad people. They’re good, loving parents.”

If you, like me, are unable to go to the border to help in person, there are a variety of ways to support those who do. A quick Google search will provide many options. Sr. Barbara offers these suggestions for donations:

Donate directly to the Annunciation House at their website: annunciationhouse.org/contact, or send a check to 1003 E. San Antonio Ave., El Paso TX 79901-2620.
The Diocese of El Paso ministry, Diocesan Migrants and Refugee Services, Inc. accepts online donation: dmrs-ep.org; or mail a check to DMRS, 2400 Yandell Dr. El Paso TX, 79903.

Filed Under: Grace in the Moment, Widening Our Circles Tagged With: acceptance, civil rights, compassion, Dominican Sisters of Peace, equality, grace, hope, humility, immigrants, inclusion, justice, Peter Claver, Sister Barbara Kane, slavery