Surprised by Pope Francis: Day and Merton

Surprised by Pope Francis: Day and Merton

Close up of Dorothy Day

First published in The Catholic Times, October 11, 2015 issue

 

I stayed home from work the morning that Pope Francis spoke to the United States Congress. I wanted to watch his face and the faces of those gathered to hear him: A congress mired in partisan politics, hopelessly polarized. What would Pope Francis say to them? To the country? How would our elected officials receive his words? It was a moment I wanted to witness as it unfolded.

The pope did not disappoint. Just a couple of weeks ago, at a gathering of citizens concerned about issues of social justice and a stalled political system, a gentleman expressed dismay that the concept of the common good was no longer a topic in public discourse. Pope Francis took care of that.

He had barely spoken a hundred words when he directed attention to our solemn responsibility for the common good. “You are called to defend and preserve the dignity of your fellow citizens,” he said to the lawmakers, “in the tireless and demanding pursuit of the common good, for this is the chief aim of all politics.”

By now, most who read this column will have read (or heard) various commentaries on the address and what the pope did and did not say. But, what surprised me was how he said it: He used the example of four great Americans who gave their lives to service and to the betterment of society. Two, Abraham Lincoln and Martin Luther King, Jr., often serve as inspirational examples, fittingly so.

The other two are the ones I didn’t expect: Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton. In my late teens I read a number of their books. They influenced my faith and spirituality. Still, I wondered, how many of the government officials sitting in the room knew those names? How many watching and listening around the country wondered who they were and searched for them on mobile phones and tablets?

They’d find Dorothy Day, born in 1897, was a radical who advocated for women’s suffrage, a pacifist who opposed all wars, and a tireless worker for social justice who saw the need not only to serve the poor she encountered in daily life, but also to change the system that created such poverty and injustice. She was a writer and journalist who gave voice to marginalized people and causes.

A convert to the Catholic faith that fed and sustained her, Dorothy attended daily Mass, read scripture, and wove prayer throughout her days. As a friend who once heard her speak said, “She was prayer.

Dorothy, along with close friend Peter Maurin, founded “The Catholic Worker” newspaper and the movement of the same name. Catholic Worker Houses continue to welcome the poor and are places where the corporal works of mercy are lived out. As Pope Francis encourages, they are places of encounter.

The pope spoke a second name that I didn’t expect to hear: Thomas Merton, a Trappist Monk at the monastery of Gethsemani, in Kentucky. We celebrated the 100th anniversary of his birth this year. Pope Francis singled him out for his openness to dialog with others of all faiths, seeing them as pilgrims on the same search for ultimate truth. His last journey was to Bangkok where he attended an international conference on monasticism, organized by Buddhist monks. Like Day, he calls us to deep encounter with those unlike ourselves.

Thomas Merton standing outside Pope Francis also recommended Merton’s openness to God in a contemplative style of prayer. Merton in the midst of a world immersed in “noise” of all types—digital, visual, aural—pouring out of players, electronics, out of the depths of our souls, calls us to quiet presence. For those who fill up every moment with activity and distraction, he says, “Be still. Listen.”

Like Dorothy Day, Thomas Merton was a writer and a convert. His books addressed spirituality and political topics. He was an outspoken critic of the Viet Nam War and the arms race.

Two people of deep faith and prayer: One active in the world, the other a monk responding to world issues with his pen; both social activists who pointedly challenged the status quo and whose words speak to us today. Immigration, poverty, climate change, racism, and violence require bold responses from all of us, not only governments.

If you’re not familiar with Dorothy Day and Thomas Merton, consider reading some of their work or finding out more about their lives and spiritual journeys. Pope Francis’ choices challenge us all.

© 2015 Mary van Balen

Pope Francis and the Common Good

Close up of Pope Francis addressing US Congress 9 24 2015

 

 

 

 

 

This past Sunday, while spending an evening with the Nuns on the Bus, I heard one man say that the words “the common good” had all but disappeared from public discourse. Today, Pope Francis put it back—front and center. He stood before Congress and in the first minutes of his speech, reminded those legislators: “You are called to defend and preserve the dignity of your fellow citizens in the tireless and demanding pursuit of the common good, for this is the chief aim of all politics.”

I hope they were listening.

The organization of the Pope’s speech was masterful. He reminded us of values and struggles for liberty, freedom for all, social justice, and openness to dialogue and prayer by holding up four Americans: Abraham Lincoln, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Dorothy Day, and Thomas Merton. Many of his listeners may not have heard of Dorothy Day or Thomas Merton. Their lives and writings were integral to the development of my own values and spirituality in my late teens and early twenties. Thomas Merton’s books have a place in my study, and his quote from his theophany at Walnut and 42nd in Louisville, Kentucky hangs on my wall.

Pope Francis highlighted the need to address poverty and climate change. To welcome refugees and those seeking a better life. He warned against reducing complex issues of violence done in the name of religion to labels of “righteous” and “sinners.”  When speaking of the need to  respect life in all its stages, he called for an international ban on the death penalty. Throughout the fifty-some minutes that he spoke, he emphasized the imperative of working not for wealth or personal power, but for the good of all.

And, in a place where it has been tragically lacking, he called for cooperation:  “We must move forward

together, as one, in a renewed spirit of fraternity and solidarity, cooperating generously for the common good. The challenges facing us today call for a renewal of that spirit of cooperation, which has accomplished so much good throughout the history of the United States.”

Pope Francis in front of assembled US Congress.

Pope Francis addressing US Congress 9 24 2015

Life the man himself, Pope Francis’s speech was also full of hope and optimisim. Of joy and love.

And then, when he finished, he left the halls of Congress and the assembly of rich and powerful to share lunch with homeless of Washington.

 

 

Encountering the Other

Encountering the Other

modern painting circle of five people in an embrace

Painting by Richard Duarte Brown

Originally published in the Catholic Times, 9. 1315

A few days ago, while driving to work, I heard a story on NPR about the thousands of immigrants arriving on the small Greek island of Lesbos, refugees fleeing war and oppression in Syria, looking for a place to live. They risked a dangerous journey leaving everything behind and set off toward an unknown future. Husbands and wives, parents and children, friends and relatives, all willing to trust their lives to people and places they do not know.

Listening to reporters interviewing newly arrived refugees, I marveled at the joy in their voices. Thrilled to have survived the journey and to be standing on solid ground in a place free of war and the atrocities that accompany it, they spoke with such hope, such faith in God, or if not in God, in fellow human beings.

I wanted to rejoice with them, but concern tempered my delight as I wondered what the road ahead would bring for them: Mounds of paperwork and bureaucracy from governments hesitant to welcome so many people needing work and aid. Hostility and resistance from those who will feel threatened by their presence, by their “otherness.” Soon, frustration will replace the euphoria of the refugees’ first taste of freedom from constant fear and suffering.

Tragedy already darkens Syrian refugees’ arrival. The United Nations refugee agency reports that over 2,500 people have died this year trying to make the dangerous ocean crossing.

Driving home from work that same day, I heard an inspiring story of Icelanders who had formed a Facebook group, “Syria is Calling,” and is pressuring their government to take in more than the 50 refugees it had offered to accept—a lot more, 5,000. While the large number of people the group is proposing to welcome is impressive, it was the outpouring of individuals’ willingness to help that stirred my heart.

People offered to open up extra bedrooms in their homes and provide food, money, and house wares to help new arrivals settle in. This personal response is more demanding than putting a check in the mail, which is my plan. It means living with people who have different beliefs and values. In some cases, like sharing one’s home with strangers or welcoming them into your city, such action means daily encountering the “other” with openness and reverence for their personhood. It means, in the midst of serious complexities, maintaining the belief that we are more alike than different.

This post from “Syria is Calling” eloquently proclaims this truth: “Refugees are our future spouses, best friends, our next soul mate, the drummer in our children’s band, our next colleague, Miss Iceland 2022, the carpenter who finally fixes our bathroom, the chef in the cafeteria, the fireman, the hacker and the television host. People who we’ll never be able to say to: ‘Your life is worth less than mine.’”

These words challenge all of us around the globe to examine our own attitude toward the “other,” not only the Syrian refugees, but the marginalized people who live in our own cities and neighborhoods.

The Letter of Saint James, included in this Sunday’s readings, speaks forcefully about the responsibility of Christians to put their faith into action: “If a brother or sister has nothing to wear and has no food for the day, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace, keep warm, and eat well,’ but you do not give them the necessities of the body, what good is it? So also faith of itself, if it does not have works, is dead.”

Fear of those who are not like us is no excuse; it is a human failing that must be confronted and transformed by love, a process that can take a lifetime. It is a process that requires encounter.

But suffering and injustice can’t wait for lifetimes. Our faith, our humanity, requires action before we are comfortable. We must respond with love despite our fear, and incrementally, our hearts will change. As Jesus said, love will cast out fear. We are all other to someone. Encounter will transform us: those in position to give and those who receive, privileged with voice and marginalized with none.

© 2015 Mary van Balen

When Spring Freezes

When Spring Freezes

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Not only were the crocuses in my neighbor’s lawn blooming in early March, they were covered with bees! After months of sub-freezing temperatures, inches of ice, and more inches of snow, the earth had warmed enough to coax beautiful purple flowers out of their dark waiting place. Spring, it seemed, had arrived.

Passersby stopped to see what enticed me to stoop low and look closely. “Bees,” I said. “Bees are all over these flowers.”

Some stopped long enough to look themselves. After a frigid winter, we were ready for a change.

Spiritual life can be like that. Sometimes winters of the soul seem to last forever. Then, just when we’ve come to terms with the possibility of unending cold and emptiness, everything changes: Hope wakes up and shakes her feathers. Life erupts like the crocuses. Intoxicated, we nuzzle down into the golden centers and rise up heavy with life-giving pollen sticking all over. Unable to contain our joy, we move from hope to hope, from beauty to beauty. Like bees, we’re called by Mystery to an ancient dance, and we join in, spreading the sticky grace and picking up more everywhere we go.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Then, as quickly as it left, the cold returns. The crocuses across the street are suddenly bowed under a fresh fall of snow. Bees have disappeared to wherever it is they go to escape the freeze. A collective sigh rises from the earth. People bundle up in winter coats again. The few days of warmth make the cold bite deeper, and we shiver in temperatures we would have welcomed a month ago.

Spiritual spring can be just as fickle. Fear or worry blow in from somewhere and hope retreats. Sticky grace feels more like goo. We’re not flitting from  hope to hope. We’re not moving at all. A groan rises from deep inside. The emptiness seems larger after having danced with Joy.

“It won’t last,” we tell ourselves but struggle to believe it.

It’s a good time to listen to music or to sit in the dark and gaze at stars, or a candle, or nothing.  We might curl up with a good book of poetry, or linger with scripture. Story reminds us that this dance with winter and spring is nothing new. If we can settle in with the cold and dark, we discover they  have gifts of their own. And it doesn’t last forever.

Eventually, sun will melt the snow. Flowers will straighten their stems and lift their heads. The bees will come back, and we’ll feast on sticky Grace.

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Love Rules the Day: St. Scholastica

Love Rules the Day: St. Scholastica

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

PHOTO:Mary van Balen

Originally appeared in The Catholic Times, Feb 8, 2015

Tuesday, February 10 is the feast of Saint Scholastica. What we know of her comes from St. Gregory the Great’s famous biography of St. Benedict, though other stories were later written about her. Scholastica is Benedict’s twin sister, both born into a wealthy family of Nursia, Italy in 480. As was the custom, Benedict went to Rome to study while Scholastica likely lived in a convent where she learned to read and write as well as participated in the prayer life of the nuns.

Some stories recount her founding a religious community near her brother’s monastery at Monte Cassino, and becoming prioress. The most famous account of her, though, is found in chapters 33 and 34 in Book II of Gregory’s Dialogues.

As was their custom, once a year Benedict, accompanied by some of his monks, met his sister at a house partway between her convent and his monastery. They shared food and conversation concerning spiritual matters. On this particular visit, just three days before her death, Scholastica wanted her brother to stay longer. Perhaps she sensed it would be their last time together. They talked until darkness fell, and she asked him to spend the night “…that they might spend it in discoursing of the joys of heaven.”

Benedict would have none of it, saying that he couldn’t spend the night away from the Abbey. That was the rule, after all.

Not giving up, Scholastica put her head down on the table, laying it on her folded hands, and prayed. As she prayed, a storm came and filled the clear night sky with thunder and lightening. She lifted her head, tears streaming from her eyes, and heavy rain poured from the heavens. Benedict and his monks couldn’t return to the Abbey in such a storm.

“God forgive you, what have you done?” Benedict asked. Scholastica answered with a bit of attitude: “I desired you to stay, and you would not hear me; I have desired it of our good Lord, and he has granted my petition. Therefore if you can now depart, in God’s name return to your monastery, and leave me here alone.”

Of course, Benedict and his monks spent the night, the brother and sister enjoying long conversations until morning. Love, it seemed, trumped the Rule, at least in this case. As St. Gregory wrote: “He found, however, that a miracle prevented his desire. A miracle that, by the power of almighty God, a woman’s prayers had wrought. Is it not a thing to be marveled at, that a woman, who for a long time had not seen her brother, might do more in that instance than he could? She realized, according to the saying of St. John, “God is charity” [1 John 4:8]. Therefore, as is right, she who loved more, did more.”

Whether truth or legend, the story shows the power of love and the importance of listening with the heart. Benedict was right in stating that he and the other monks should return to the monastery. Yet, Scholastica’s desire, born of deep affection for her brother and her longing to continue their conversation and praise of God together, was worthy of bending the rules, even Benedict’s.

How often are we confronted with such a choice? Can you recall times when rigidly holding fast to a tradition or rule has worked not to foster growth and love, but instead to injure and alienate? Clinging to what we think we know is “right” may blind us to the reality of others’ lives and wisdom.

Rules and traditions are important. Benedict’s Rule has proven itself over centuries, leading monastics, helping them live, work, and pray together in community. It has also been a guide for many as they strive to balance prayer, work, study, and recreation in their lives with family and friends, and in their workplaces.

Benedict understood the necessity of responding to particular moments and particular needs in ways that are outside the usual response. His Rule is full of such examples. Still, in this story, it was Scholastica who was listening with the ear of the heart and who found God listening to her.

© 2015 Mary van Balen

Hang In There

Hang In There

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

We are not among those who draw back and perish, but among those who have faith and will possess life.  Hb 10, 39

This morning’s Mass readings were full of “words” that spoke to my heart: Not throwing away what you have been given. Seeds growing, we know not how. The tiniest of seeds becoming the largest of plants. As I sat quietly in prayer, I became aware of the plants that line up along my buffet in front of the window. Of the Peace Lilies, one huge, that filter the air I breathe. Of the mystery of how they grow, turning sunlight into what they need, and how they serve me and the planet. Mystery. So much I can never know.

But it was the line from Hebrews that struck deepest. I think because I’m sometimes among those who draw back. Life isn’t easy for any of us, regardless of appearances. Like the life of the peace lily, it’s full of unknowables. In the face of darkness I’m tempted to forget the Light. In the presence of silence, I’m tempted to forget the Song. Or worse, not believe that Light and Song are out there (or in here) at all. I keep on keeping on, as Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie urged, but without much heart or expectation.

That’s the perishing. The death of hope. The closing up.

The line from Hebrews encourages us to keep the faith. The Holy Mystery doesn’t withhold Life. No. Life is always gushing out. Like rain, it falls everywhere, on everyone. Those hurt or pained by life’s unfair twists and turns may close up tight. The rain of Life runs all over them, but can’t get in. Or can it? God isn’t so easily evaded. Like the rain, Life falls into the soil around each soul, soaking deep into that which holds its roots. Life, sliding off the closed bloom, quietly moves up the stem, sucked up by the inborn will be. The Presence that falls on the outside resides in the center as well.

I think of those for whom just choosing to live is a day by day challenge. Their “yes” to life is as much opening as they can muster. And it is enough. For those of us for whom simply living does not require daily assent, but challenges our perseverance, closing up tight may be the best we can do on some days. That is enough,too.

Thankfully, God-Life keeps pouring out, never giving up on us even when we give up on God, and eventually, we gather enough green sap to chance opening again. When we are able, we discover not only that we possess Life, but Life has possessed us all along.

 

 

No Place is “Nowhere”

No Place is “Nowhere”

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

“When he looked, although the bush was on fire, it was not being consumed. So Moses decided, “I must turn aside to look at this remarkable sight. Why does the bush not burn up?” When the Lord saw that he had turned aside to look, God called out from the  bush: “Moses! Moses!” He answered, “Here I am.”  EX 3, 2b-4

I read Sunday’s morning prayer from my “Give Us This Day” book and, though the story was familiar, something about it seemed fresh. I guess it was Moses, talking to himself, wondering out loud why the bush wasn’t consumed by the fire and telling himself he should take a minute and check it out.

It was the words, “turn aside to look” that caught my attention. God wasn’t calling out all along…just after Moses stopped to look. Or was the Divine call constant and Moses just heard it when he quit going about his business of tending the flock and got quiet enough to listen?

I’m having trouble listening these days. Weeks of being in bed or on the couch, sick, coughing, and nursing an ear infection haven’t helped. At first, I thought they would. While home from work I would catch up on some reading, do a bit of writing, and you know, just be better at all the stuff I’m usually too busy to do. Sickness doesn’t  work that way. My eyes hurt and trying to read made me dizzy. Writing was out of the question. Mostly, I put on Netflix and fell asleep watching reruns of old TV shows. Then of course, came the attack of unwanted thoughts and recriminations.

“Why haven’t I gotten more done?” “I’ll never finish readings for this course. I’m probably no good at it anyway. Maybe I should quit.” It didn’t take long before the worth of my entire life was in question and the future looked particularly dim. Didn’t help to learn a week into antibiotics and cough syrup, that the store where I work was closing in March. The job I’m not crazy about looked much better from the vantage point of not having one at all. Life. Not all it’s cracked up to be.

Then comes Moses. He meets God in a bush out in the middle of nowhere. “That’s me,” I think, “out in the middle of nowhere.” But can a place be nowhere if God hangs out there? I mean, what puts a place on the map if the possibility of running into the Big Kahuna doesn’t?

That’s hopeful. No place is “nowhere” if  what is most Sacred dwells there. That includes places like work, a dirty kitchen, or a tissue cluttered couch. Even a sick, tired heart.  The problem is the Holy Mystery is exactly that, a mystery, and doesn’t seem inclined to catch my attention with lights or voices. At least not that I notice. And there’s where Moses comes in. He told himself he ought to take a closer look. While I’d be better at noticing if the people or objects holding this Divine Presence were marked with roaring flames, I’m giving attentiveness a shot, again.

Quiet time in the morning before life gets rolling too fast to stop. Noticing the sun painting warm orange colors on the clay pot that holds a fledgling peace plant. Accepting the graciousness of co-workers who worked extra hours while I was languishing at home. Finding a container of homemade soup placed in my refrigerator so I would have something easy and healthy to eat after my first day back to work. Calls from my kids, just making sure their mom was getting better. The smile of a customer.

There are challenges, too. Trusting I’ll find a job with health benefits. Hoping in the face of a country that seems run by big money and a world torn by racism and violence. Believing when prayer doesn’t seem to make a difference. Expecting to find Presence and Grace when I take time to be still and take a closer look at the ordinary stuff that fills my day.

 

 

 

 

Happy Thanksgiving to My Parachute Packers

Happy Thanksgiving to My Parachute Packers

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

The story Fr. Denis told during the homily today was simple but profound. Maybe you’ve heard it: A soldier was forced to eject from his plane during battle and float to earth with the help of his parachute. He landed safely but was captured and spent five years in a prisoner of war camp before finally returning home. Many years later, he was staying in a hotel and engaged in conversation with another older veteran. Turned out they both had served on the same aircraft carrier.

“I was a parachute packer,” the older man said. The two men talked for a while and then parted ways. Only after he had returned home and thought about the conversation did the pilot think, “That man may have packed my parachute. He may have been the one who saved my life.”

Likely, packing parachutes on an aircraft carrier during wartime was a long, tedious job. Doing the same thing over and over. Not glamorous. No medals to be had. Simply doing a job well. I wonder how many lives that man saved with his skill and attention to his task.

Then Fr. Denis wondered aloud about the parachute packers in our lives. Surely, there are many, and many of them strangers. People we will never know. The researchers who help develop drugs that save lives and treat depression or stave off infection. The factory workers who can the pumpkin that shows up on many tables today baked into a pie. Parents. Teachers. Friends. The kind associate who helps you find stuff when you’re in a hurry at the grocery store. People who raise the food you eat. Office workers who funnel all those insurance papers through the crazy systems that help make doctor’s visits or surgeries affordable.

The list, of course, is never ending. There is much to lament in our world. There always has been. But today is a day to focus on what is good, life-giving, and full of grace.

At the end of Mass, Fathers Denis and Dean and the two women altar servers handed out small loves of bread to everyone. A reminder of how we are fed, by God and by one another. We don’t make our way through life alone. We’ve got lots of parachute packers walking along with us. Some stay for the long haul. Some move in and out, maybe once and never again. Today we might take a minute or two to reflect on those who have “saved our lives” and give thanks for them and the God who made us all.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Tenderness and the Cross

Tenderness and the Cross

Saint John's University Arboretum  PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Saint John’s University Arboretum PHOTO: Mary van Balen

Originally published in The Catholic Times September 21, 2014

I have a friend who’s leaving to spend a year living and working in the L’Arche community in Trosly, a small town north of Paris, France, so I was particularly interested in the interview with L’Arche founder, Jean Vanier, in the recent issue of the National Catholic Reporter. (For those unfamiliar with L’Arche, it is an international organization that forms communities of people with mental disabilities and those who live and care for them.)

As I read the article, two words stood out. First was “community.” Vanier sees individualism as “the greatest evil of our time,” and says that people enter the world of individualism to show how good they are and often that they are better than the rest. It’s a proving ground.

Community, on the other hand, is “a school of love.” There we reveal our woundedness and needs as well as respond to the needs and woundedness of others. Community is transformational. It isn’t easy as any person

living in one can attest. Community isn’t always marriage, family, or religious life. It can be our parish or work community, extended family, a close circle of friends or coworkers for a common cause. Whatever form it takes, true community requires sacrifice as well as celebration.

The other word was “tenderness.” Vanier referred to a psychiatrist who, when asked for a sign of maturity, said “tenderness,” and understands tenderness, not non-violence, to be the opposite of violence.

While speaking of those with disabilities who come to L’Arche, Vanier noted the importance of helping them discover their preciousness and beauty, not so much by what is done, but by “being with.” Listening, treating them with respect, with tenderness, that is where transformation happens. “What is important,” Vanier says, “is relationships.”

Our world is broken, and all carry pain within. Many people expressed surprise after discovering Robin Williams had been battling deep depression for years. As Vanier suggested, those types of wounds are not shared in the world of individualism, but in community.

Some people’s struggles are more visible resulting from ignorance, fear, and oppression. The poor. Women. The LGBT community. People of color. Homeless people, many of whom suffer from mental illness. How do we respond to them with tenderness? My experience tells me that “being with” is what opens my heart to those I might otherwise see only as “other.”

Before reading this interview, I was working on a column reflecting on the mystery of last Sunday’s feast, the Exultation of the Cross. As I read about L’Arche, the two themes wove themselves together: The cross present in the living of community, and tenderness both leading to and flowing from embracing the cross.

Sunday’s mass collect put me off: “O God, who willed that your Only Begotten Son should undergo the Cross to save the human race…” I’ve never been able to get my head around the image of a God who would demand a bloody sacrifice, of a son, no less, to appease Divine justice. Unfortunately, that is often the approach taken to make sense of Jesus’ suffering and death. It just doesn’t fit with Jesus’ image of God as “Abba,” “Daddy.”

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen

This intimate address to a parent exudes tenderness, not retribution. There’s the father who welcomes home the prodigal son, the mother hen who gathers and protects her chicks, the shepherd who looks for lost sheep.

Then there’s Jesus himself who tells his followers, “When you see me, you see the one who sent me.” Jesus ate with sinners, hung out with those on the fringes, embraced children, and preached giving oneself for others. When asked why he spent time with such people, Jesus replied, “Go and learn the meaning of the words ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’”

Jesus spoke of God as community, Trinity and invited us to join in. As Vanier noted, community transforms. Community with God transforms completely.

No, I can’t imagine God willing Jesus to suffer. While I’m familiar with doctrines of substitutional, even penal atonement, I have to go with my prayer and my heart. The world couldn’t cope with the radical love and truth of Jesus, and rather than abandoning who he knew himself to be, Jesus embraced the cross his faithfulness brought. His death and resurrection poured the salve of unconditional love on the wounds of humanity, and calls us to do the same. Community. Tenderness. Jesus asks us to share in his cross and resurrection, opening the door to a transformative relationship with God and all God’s people.

 

© 2014 Mary van Balen

“Get Away” or “Get on Board”

“Get Away” or “Get on Board”

Christ in the House of Mary and Martha  by Jan Vermeer 1665

Christ in the House of Mary and Martha by Jan Vermeer 1665

As I listened to today’s Gospel reading, I pictured Jesus telling Peter to get out of the way, leave, calling him “Satan” to boot. Peter had protested Jesus’s statement of his impending suffering and death. It didn’t fit into Peter’s understanding of what Jesus was about and he didn’t hesitate to say so. Jesus knew what he was about and knew that living his life faithfully would enrage those in power. Suffering and death were in the cards. The only way to avoid it would be to be untrue to his call, and Jesus would have none of that.

In his homily, Fr. Denis put a different spin on Jesus’ response to Peter. Rather than telling Peter to “go away,” Jesus was admonishing him to “get on board.” “Get behind me” can mean “get with the game plan,” “support me.” I’d never thought of it that way, but it made sense. Why would Jesus want to banish the one he had just called “the rock,” the solid foundation of the church? He wouldn’t. He would, instead, point out the problem and encourage Peter to support him.

That’s heartening. Many times I’m sure my understandings or concerns get in the way of God’s work in and through me. What I think would be most productive may not be so. We just can’t see the whole picture. None of us can. A friend of mine in St. Louis pointed that out in her last email. While it may be convenient or seem best to paint the militarized police force as “bad guys,” it isn’t that simple. Dialogue, peace, and progress won’t happen until we banish that “Satan”  and engage one another in open conversation. Demonizing either side makes true reconciliation impossible. Yet, in the heat of the moment, many of us are inclined to see narrowly and act out of misconception.

Icon Mina and Jesus

Icon Mina and Jesus

Giving ourselves to Jesus’ mission of love and transformation of the world surely entails suffering for each of us. Life is hard. Loving is hard. Embracing our vocations, as they unfold throughout our lives, is made a bit easier with the support of friends and family. Their love doesn’t do away with the hard work, difficulties, and suffering we encounter, but it helps us “keep on keeping on” as Pete Seeger used to say.

Jesus spent time at the home of  Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. He enjoyed meals and walks and conversations with friends and disciples. Jesus didn’t want to boot Peter because he didn’t see the big picture. Jesus wanted him standing squarely behind him, supporting him even when what he did made no human sense.  Jesus wanted Peter to live like he believed the declaration he had made: You are the Messiah, the Son of God. Jesus wants us to live that way, too, trusting in the big picture we cannot see.