Kathy Coffey

In chilly, dark December, we sang with gusto, “Oh we need a little Christmas, right this very minute. Need a little Christmas now!” Maybe this year, we should echo, “We need a little Easter, now!”

Each day’s news brings another crushing assault on our democracy, and every new headline describes major, cruel policy shifts we never voted on. But fine columnists like Nicholas Kristof in his article “War’s budget could save lives, not end them,” did the research to discover:

–For just over two weeks of war on Iran, we could give free college tuition to every US family earning less than $125,000 annually

–For four hours of this war, we could get eyeglasses to the 2.3 million low-income children in the US who need them but don’t have them

–For less than 13 hours of this war, we could screen uninsured women who need it for cervical cancer, which kills a woman every two hours on average in the US.

The list goes drearily on, and grows even more tragic when the bill for war contrasts with the good we could be doing abroad, like saving children from starvation. Maybe the dire situation and the hopeless frustration point even more convincingly this year to our need for resurrection. We can’t pivot too easily towards Easter; the passion narratives show the arduous, grueling pain that finally brings new life. What we must do is audaciously, defiantly imagine what we can’t see now, the hope that hovers beyond what’s visible.  

As Jim Finley says on his podcast, “Turning to the Mystics,” Jesus always approaches people who are caught in something unresolved. He sees beyond the current impasse to what endures: God’s infinite love for God’s child. Post-resurrection, that continues with the disciples walking towards Emmaus. The hallmark of an Easter people is always joy, because as theologian Karl Rahner says, “If they can take it away, it’s not God.”  

Surely the tender, tiny leaves emerging on trees sing of new life. As Thomas Merton wrote in When the Trees Say Nothing, “beech leaves are the loveliest things in creation when they are just unfolding.” Other signals call us to hope in the larger arena: the millions who turned out on March 28  for No Kings Day protests with hilarious and brilliant signs, the diversity of the Artemis II astronauts and the excitement of their mission to the moon, the group at the San Diego federal courthouse that laid palm branches down the path migrants would take to detention hearings, reverencing the parallel to Jesus’ unjust condemnation, Cecillia Wang, the ACLU lawyer arguing for birthright citizenship guaranteed by the Fourteenth Amendment who “walked in the spirit of my parents and so many people’s ancestors who came to this country with hopes and dreams, and they gave birth to future Americans, and that’s us.” A first grader sounds out a word and writes it in shaky letters, and the women find the tomb empty. From a group of unruly, distracted middle schoolers, a choir director coaxes beautiful song; Mary hears her name in familiar tones.

Anyone who lives long enough questions. Why do the wicked prosper? Why do the young die? Why does potential wither while evil thrives?  Why do high hopes sometimes smash against rocky reality?

The genius of today’s gospel is that Jesus doesn’t try to answer such unanswerable questions. He enters into them. After his arrest, he can’t act as he has before. He’s rendered passive—and from that stance, saves humanity.

Seeing his hopes unravel and his plans destroyed, Jesus plans a last meal. His concern in his final hours isn’t with imminent, brutal suffering but with a last, poignant gesture of friendship. He reaches out to them–and to us–with the nurture of bread, the spirit of wine and the praise of song. During his whole ordeal, there is no word of recrimination, though it would be understandable. He responds to crushing betrayal by pouring out love.

According to Frederick Buechner in Peculiar Treasures, the early church held a tradition that Judas’ suicide wasn’t based on despair but on hope. He knew God was just, thus knew where he was headed. But he also knew that the merciful Jesus would make a “last-ditch effort to save the souls of the damned” in hell. So, Judas figured, hell might be the last chance he’d have of heaven. No one really knows, but it’s interesting to speculate. “Once again they met in the shadows, the two old friends, both of them a little worse for wear after all that had happened, only this time it was Jesus who was the one to give the kiss, and this time, it wasn’t the kiss of death that was given.” (93-94)

An interesting spin on the story we’ve often heard. The questions aren’t answered, but One goes before us who lives through them, endures.

Read “Grounded in Creation” by Kathy Coffey, US Catholic, March 2026, 23-25.

The story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead will be read in many Christian churches this weekend. Seeing its parallels to our own time deepens its meaning and relevance.

The tomb seems especially dark now, three weeks into war-on-a-whim.

The belligerent attack on Iran represents a violent, tribal mindset that we might have hoped humankind was outgrowing. The President told NBC News on March 14 that strikes on Kharg Island, home to Iran’s primary oil export terminal, “totally demolished” most of the island but that “we may hit it a few more times just for fun.”

“Just for fun”? Tell that to the parents of 165 children killed Feb. 28 in an Iranian elementary school by a “target mistake of the US military.” Tell that to the widow of Maj. Alex Klinner, father of three children ages two and under, killed in the crash of a refueling jet in Iraq, which US Central Command calls an “unspecified incident.” And mention the cost–$1 billion a day–to families struggling to pay for health care, groceries and gas.  You play with exorbitantly costly toys, Mr. President.

Yet glimmers of light and flutters of grave cloths still bring hope.

Polls show that a majority of Americans don’t want a war without any evidence of Iran posing an imminent threat of attack, begun without Congressional authorization. Some of our representatives have voiced the public’s outrage. Sen. Adam Schiff and other Democratic senators have twice introduced the War Powers Resolution that would “direct the removal of U.S. armed forces from hostilities against Iran.” Representative Eric Swalwell (D-CA) observed that Trump “has more plans for the ballroom he’s trying to build at the East Wing than anything he’s gonna do next in the Middle East.”

Some religious leaders remind us that Iranians aren’t “the enemy”; war is the enemy.  The current state of affairs isn’t the whole story; we have been part of a better narrative and can return to it. Cardinal Blase Cupich of Chicago condemned a social media video posted by the White House featuring footage from the war spliced with scenes from action movies and captioned “Justice the American way.” Cupich took issue with the video’s focus on entertainment. “A real war with real death and real suffering being treated like it’s a video game — it’s sickening.” (NCR 3/8/26)

Cardinal Robert McElroy of Washington DC said the Iran war fails to meet just war teaching “because it is far from clear that the benefits of this war will outweigh the harm which will be done…nations have the strict obligation to end a war as soon as possible. This is particularly true when the decision to go to war was not morally legitimate.”(NCR March 9, 2026)

Commentators and cartoonists remind us that a big motive for going to war may have been to distract from the Epstein files. Nicholas Kristof informs clearly that after the horrors of World War II, the U.S. led efforts to “try to tame the savagery of combat and, in particular, to shield civilians.” Secretary of War (aptly renamed) Pete Hegseth blithely dismissed these additional protocols to the Geneva Conventions as “stupid rules.”  

And Yet. Lazarus stirs. Somewhere a boat sails across a starry sea. The bells of hyacinths gradually unfold. Children shriek with delight as their swings arc higher and higher. The scent of new-cut grass arises after rain. Simply because we live in an autocracy doesn’t diminish the magnificence of God. We know we can’t change the government single-handedly, so we turn to shared strengths and faith. Jesus approaches the tomb, arm outstretched. We hold tight to the promise: “all who are in the tombs will hear his voice and will come out…” (John 5:28)

Read “Grounded in Creation” by Kathy Coffey, US Catholic, March 2026, 23-25.

I was so excited my son could see, I couldn’t understand how anyone would twist a miracle into placing blame. But the interrogating Pharisees didn’t have my memories: the blind child, moving on instinct, his hands waving before him, sometimes bumbling into doors or trees, the other children jeering, the times when the attempt to keep up became too much, and he collapsed in exhaustion.

But my boy’s wit served him well. He’d met a long series of bullies, so he knew how to stand up to the Sanhedrin. When they probed for information about his healer, he asked slyly, “Do you want to become his disciples too?” “He can speak for himself,” his father said. And he could—eloquent and bold, even through a grilling that would have intimidated trained orators.

Still, I wondered. The rabbis taught that my sin had caused his blindness. How had I made the light die in his eyes? How had I harmed one most precious to me?

But soon the sudden sparkle in my son’s gaze ended the guilt I carried within. My son’s vision restored my own. Like the scales slipping from his eyes, my burden vanished. Jesus freed me from placating the synagogue crowd when he said, “Neither he nor his parents sinned.” Were the rabbis wrong, or had I just moved to a different stage, a greater light and liberation?

Excerpted from Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey, Orbis Books, orbisbooks.com, 800-258-5838

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Read “Grounded in Creation” by Kathy Coffey, US Catholic, March 2026, 23-25.

She just wants to fill her bucket and get home before it gets any hotter. The encounter which changes her life comes in the ordinary drudgery—at the well, not the synagogue; in the office, not the church; in the kitchen, not the temple. Almost like finding enlightenment in the frozen food aisle.

But Jesus welcomes desire at the well, indeed, considers it even more important than his own drink. Both the woman and Jesus find so much joy in their conversation, they forget the concerns that brought them here in the first place. He never gets his drink; she abandons her jar. But their deep yearnings meet.

As John Main writes in Word Into Silence, “The consuming desire of Jesus [is] to flood [us] with His Spirit.” (p. 46) Or to give “a spring of water welling up to eternal life.” She’s plucky enough to believe him. She responds to a promise, never seeing this miraculous water nor feeling it spill down her sleeves. Maybe she likes his style: to call, never coerce.

Curious how we might respond? Main, says, “numbed by the extravagance of … New Testament claims… we … tone them down in safe theological formulae.” (p. 44) The woman no longer skulks alone and anonymous to the well at noon, when no one else is there. She blazes into the village like a brass band, eager to speak her truth. Newly come to voice, she snags people, holds them in the hollow of her hand.

The Samaritan woman is a model to us all of how to befriend our longing and move towards trust. Her water jar, symbol of domestic duty, is left in the dust. She herself becomes the vessel for the best news anyone could hear.

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Read “Grounded in Creation” by Kathy Coffey, US Catholic, March 2026, 23-25.

We all have moments of transformation. Our clothes may not be radiant and we may not chat with prophets, but ever so subtly a shift occurs, moving beyond our default mode, an inch or two closer to God’s dream for us. Or to reframe the traditional Ash Wednesday prayer, said as ashes are marked on foreheads: we “turn from ego. Trust the good news.”

To become less judgmental, less anxious—such a transformation could take all of Lent and beyond! But like the disciples in the Transfiguration gospel, we go through a broad spectrum. First the shining vision. Then Jesus’ touch lifts from prostrate fear to action. The disciples next encounter an epileptic boy, who falls into fires and water. We may want to linger on the mountaintop, but Jesus leads back to the nitty grit.

Then our challenge becomes, as Jeremy Smith describes, “realizing the power you have to transform an obstacle into an opportunity…reframing a loss into a potential gain, recasting negativity into positive channels for gratitude.” Case in point: my gym moves our classes into a crowded new space, where we feel crammed, with a smaller parking lot that fills fast. We’d grown used to the spaciousness and amenities of the first location, especially the coffee shop conveniently next door for R and R after work-outs. Grumpiness ensued, meself among the most vocal critics. Until the day I decided to reframe.

“We’re all here,” I thought as I saw Sue, Tessa, Barb and Whitney, exercising around me. Our wonderful teachers are making the best of an uncomfortable situation, determined to be cheerful. Best of all, we’re accomplishing what we came for: strength, fitness, flexibility. Aren’t the details fairly minor? Aren’t we lucky to be here, independent and mobile, when—at a “certain” age–we could so easily be preparing for surgery or feeling chronic pain? And after class, aren’t we free to find other coffee shops, coast on adrenaline surge through the rest of the day, doing mostly whatever we want?

I know: it’s a flimsy example, when others are undergoing far worse and managing to see the positives in terrible experiences. But it’s close to home and rooted in the real. Jesus’ magnificent example shows the Best that humans can become, with his compassion healing the epileptic boy immediately after the unveiling of his splendid light. Perhaps his model is almost-overwhelming, so we can’t be in doubt about the high ideal to which we’re called.

So as we grow, details that once seemed so important don’t matter as much. People I once would’ve labeled “strange” are fascinating, and have much to teach. “How can I brighten this day for someone else?” becomes a more important benchmark than “What can I accomplish today?” And G.K. Chesterton gives the perfect example of attitude adjustment: Cinderella whines to her fairy godmother about having to leave the ball at midnight. Her kindly helper replies, “Sweetie, who said you could come to the ball in the first place?”

And so we pray: transform me into Yourself. Help me take on the kindness of Christ.

This season for Christians, as for other traditions that take time to repent, marks a turning point. From what to what? Jesus didn’t know or use the word “sin,” which wasn’t part of the Hebrew construct. As John Philip Newell points out in Christ of the Celts, the doctrine of original sin, invented in the fourth century has tragically taught that “what is deepest in us is opposed to God rather than of God.” It disempowers because it says “we are essentially ugly rather than rooted in divine beauty, essentially selfish rather than made in the image of love.” It has done untold damage, especially indoctrinating children, denying their inherent dignity.

Not to deny the existence of woundedness, greed and self-interest. Jesus clearly understood the context of anything less than the fullness of what God wants us to become, our birthright. So he says, “Turn from all that drags you down.” Are we haunted by worries about the future or shame about the past? Are we still angry about something that happened years ago? Lent means springtime: it presents us with the opportunity to slough off like a snakeskin all that deadens. Instead, we turn to the God who made us, who redeemed us and who lives in us. As Julian of Norwich said, “between God and the soul, there is no between.”

Jesus said, “the Prince of this world has no hold on me,” so we belong to God, not to what threatens. If we over-identify with our emotions, achievements, fears, work or ideas, we risk being in bondage to one sector of our lives, out of balance as a whole person. Instead, Jesus invites us to belong completely to him, with all we are. The only door into the future is trust. God who has been faithful before can be trusted again. Can we step towards that source of vitality this Lent?

Some gospel accounts of Jesus’ temptations end with the phrase, “and angels waited on him.” After a dreadful ordeal, when Jesus is hungry and probably exhausted, the presence of the divine is still with him. It is possible that angels attend all our lonely desert places. Where we sense the least comfort, there it abounds. Perhaps it’s a relationship, health or job issue, looming decision. And how have light wings touched us during ordinary days? Through health care workers, nature’s shining beauty, kind friends, relatives who don’t tire of our cranky moods or repeated stories? Grace restores our natural, finest self.

It’s “a miracle worth attending,” Joyce Rupp writes of daybreak. She has mentored and inspired me for 30 years, and her phrase sets off a long reflection.  At first, I think of sunrises over the Pacific Ocean—the pink tint on the sand, the blushed sky, gradually the great orange globe rising, and its glaze illuminating the tip-top of waves as they crest. Exhilarating way to start a day, which will end similarly, with a fiery disc on the horizon and a golden pour of honey-light into the water. 

But are we not up-to-our-elbows in unattended miracles between dawn and dusk? Breakfast energizes after low blood sugar; inspiring reading gives anchors for the day. Mobility and health motivate to Zumba class at the gym, where I dance with Asian, African-American, Muslim and Latina women. I’m one of the oldest there, but we all whoop and holler to the jazzy music, forgetting that it’s good for our health because it’s so fun.

Then off to volunteer in first grade, admiring the painstaking process of forming wobbly letters and sounding out words. It’s a place of lopsided haircuts, squirrely spelling, wiggling or missing teeth, unicorn headbands and earmuffs, lots of noise and energy, disheveled pigtails, the occasional meltdown, and more learning than anyone could ever guess. I marvel that my own children mastered reading and writing somewhere along the line, but it all blurs in retrospect. This time I can watch the painfully slow distinctions made between “silent e” and “long e,” the unfathomable lack of logic in English spelling—why shouldn’t it be “moovie”? (Or countless other examples which autocorrect simply won’t tolerate.)

Unguarded faces in all the skin tones of the world shift expression dramatically when I read a story with a twist, or they empathize with a character in trouble. The children themselves, seated on the storytelling carpet, are a library of stories, and in one typical room, they speak five languages at home. When one boy doesn’t respond to a question, others quickly explain, “he speaks Mandarin,” and I’d guess that by June he’ll also be fluent in English. A poster at the entrance to this public school reads, “Diversity is Beautiful.” What a sacred space, honoring difference, despite the concept being out of favor now.

The ultimate canonization should be reserved for the teacher, who rarely raises her voice, and contends with multiple challenges in an ordinary day. Last year, she had three children at a kindergarten level and had to design two curricula; this year she has three on the spectrum who need intensive help. She often has back ache and far too much to do, but comes daily, cheerfully trying again.

It’s a privilege to attend to the daily unfolding, reflect on multiple meanings, unite with the divine in myriad forms.  How wondrous that God sustains all life, and invites our participation in it.

The Bay area where I live in northern California has recently experienced many mini-earthquakes, startling moments where the earth shifts almost imperceptibly. But it’s still an unsettling reminder that the ground beneath our feet may not be so solid. It sparks terror for a second: we’ve all seen photos of terrible disasters, and the largest magnitude of the 50 quakes scientists recorded was 4.2, a seismic shock. This week, an unusual synchronicity: the tremblors occurred as I was reflecting on the readings for the Feast of the Presentation, or Candlemas day.

I’ve always liked the image of that custom which goes back centuries: people who lived long before electricity bringing the year’s supply of candles to church for a blessing, then processing home afterwards, light spilling into dark, narrow, medieval pathways. They brought not only the light of Christ, but the powerful reminder: “you are the light of the world.” So too, life resumes after a quake swarm, stability and routine returning. People hug their kids slightly tighter, drop them at school, go to work, keep the day’s commitments. Quiet, dim lights perhaps, but lights nonetheless. People carry their candles within, splintering the darkness of whatever home or workplace they enter. Perhaps it’s habit, or one would like to think, a deeper trust.

What convictions can’t be shaken? I find these in re-reading Gregory Boyle’s Cherished Belonging, about his work with the homies of dangerous gang territory in Los Angeles.Father Boyle sees these tattooed, once violent people, many with long prison records, as precious. He is sensitive to the terrible trauma of their childhoods. After all, he reasons, all God can see is beloved children. The implication is fairly clear: if he can do that with them, then maybe we can handle our annoying colleague or grimly sulking teenager. I like to put his profound insights into 7-syllable mantras—easier that way to carry them through the day and remember in a moment of quiet or screaming need. I hope he won’t mind my condensing his style (eliminating “the” or “a”) but these are the portable versions, the moveable feasts.

We belong to Beloved.

Walk in constant reminder.

Who knows what people carry?

Tender container: kindness.

Connective tissue of wounds.

We’re offered joy, not judgment.

Hold, welcome pain: to teach us.

Live always in forever.

Gratitude practice shifts brain.

Goodness: house we never left.

God wants us to be joyful.

With such core beliefs, we have strong anchors, even in trembling. A brief reminder of life’s fragility may help us cherish every breath even more.

It’s rare and wonderful when the readings align so well with current events. In this mosaic and mesh, the gospel for our times, the people of Minnesota are the true heroes, so in praise of them, a slight revision of the weekend reading:

Blessed are they who walk their neighbors’ children to school

Blessed are they who donate food and deliver groceries

Blessed are they who mourn for Renee Good and Alex Pretti

Blessed are they who protest when the wind chill is -20, handing out hand warmers, naming the evil and calling out, “for shame!”

Blessed are the immigrants, who bring high hopes and many talents, then are heartlessly rejected by the US government

Blessed are they who try to de-escalate raw tensions

Blessed are they who translate documents and offer legal services, educate immigrants about their rights

Blessed are they who stand in solidarity with the Twin Cities, braving the blizzards and frigid temperatures of Chicago and many other cities

Blessed are three cardinals who boldly condemn ICE and the current administration’s policy of “might makes right,” ruining long-standing international alliances

Blessed is the archbishop of the military services, who tells soldiers not to obey an unjust order

Blessed are they who risk their lives to document flagrant attacks in cell phone videos

Blessed are the journalists and commentators who remind us of our history and rights, renew our hopes and humor: Heather Cox Richardson, David Brooks, Rachel Maddow, Nicholas Kristof, Michelle Goldberg, Thomas Friedman, Gail Collins, and many others on the scene

Blessed is the Minnesota National Guard, who brought protesters coffee, hot chocolate and doughnuts, themselves wearing yellow vests to differentiate from federal agents

Blessed are senators responsive to their constituents, trying to de-fund ICE

Blessed are you when they insult, pepper-spray, persecute and bully you. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven.

And what of the men behind the masks, or the cabinet-level spinners of lies, denying events we can see with our own eyes? Of course they deserve our compassion, but they need to dis-arm, leave Minnesota and every other state being punished for voting Democratic in the last presidential election. For states who want ICE? Fine—send them there.

Father Greg Boyle in his work with the “homeys,” toughened gang members in Los Angeles has shown us the way of tenderness towards those who carry an unimaginable load. No psychologically healthy person, no one who is truly whole drives a battering ram through the front door of a defenseless woman, arrests a five-year old, or shoots a suspect TEN times. The mind of tribalism, that believes “might makes right,” like some whooping, belligerent, medieval army on warhorses is seriously out of touch, and shouldn’t be in leadership.

President Obama became known as the Consoler-in-Chief, eloquent and heartfelt as he went immediately to comfort the families of victims at Sandy Hook and Charleston. In contrast, what emanates from the White House now is not compassion for the dead or grieving, but demonizing screeds, groundless condemnations, and comfy black-tie dinners with billionaire buddies. “If the house of the world is dark, then love will find a way to make windows,” wrote Rumi. May we search bravely and creatively for the openings that shine.