Kathy Coffey

I go never knowing what to expect, only that there’s a purpose for the pause, and that time by the ocean will always be richly rewarded. In Northern California, summers are often cool and grey due to the marine layer. But in September the sun is a gift, and the beaches are deserted. Prime time for dozing and gazing.

The breeze brings a salty, fishy scent difficult to describe and unmatched anywhere. The waves surge, foam, plume, thunder, spray, cavort, buckle, twist, crash, froth in never-ending motion and vitality. Mary Oliver describes them in her poem “Winter”: “And the waves/gush pearls/from their snowy throats.” No uber-expensive, ultra-contoured mattress could match the comfort of warm sand on the back. Lying within the thrumming music of the waves, a nap is irresistible.

Perhaps the serenity here comes from knowing we’re all small waves in a big ocean; our moods and worries will peak and fall, peak and fall as easily, rhythmically. And all we’re seeing is the surface: what treasures the depths hold! Mary Oliver says in the same poem: “and the sea still streaming in like a mother wild with gifts–/in this world I am as rich/as I need to be.”

The shimmering play of light on water must be one of the most beautiful sights on our planet. A silvery, brocade carpet stretches gleaming to the horizon—maybe to Fiji or the Whitsunday Islands? Invitation to a mystery so lovely it aches…

In The Sea Around Us, Rachel Carson explained our fascination with the sea: an adult human body is about 60% water; ocean beats in our veins. Mark Nepo adds, “the ribbon of God’s sea passes through my gills.” Swimming, a fish takes in water and its gill turns the water into the air it needs to live. As we swim through our days, Nepo says, we must turn “our experience into something that sustains us…pain into wonder, heartache into joy.” (The Book of Awakening, pp. 302-303)   

Beauty, power and vastness: aren’t these all attributes of the Creator? Words are small things to hold such magnificence; perhaps the only authentic stance is a contemplative silence. Once people deified “the circuit of the stars or the mighty water,” “out of joy in their beauty.” But the author of Wisdom 13:1-5 says, “let them realize from these things how much more powerful is the one who made them. For from the greatness and the beauty of created things their original author, by analogy, is seen.”

A seasoned yoga teacher was describing a new teacher: “he’s a natural. He doesn’t use that weird teacher voice.”

The same could be said for Henri Nouwen, who died 30 years ago, but whose voice and influence still resonate. A rarity when his books began to appear in the 70s, he never claims clerical privilege or uses that abstract, pontifical voice. Anyone genuinely seeking a healthy spirituality runs screaming from Pronouncements. But Henry saw himself and his readers as feeble, beloved. When we recognize ourselves in this “fellowship of the broken,” we sit up and pay attention.

Although his life was that of a traditional ordained priest, he never passes on the platitudes nor relies on the comfortable pieties. We read him because he still startles, challenges, reassures. In whatever situation we’re in, he consoles, “seek signs of hope and promise.” Of all his books, my favorites are Return of the Prodigal Son and Life of the Beloved. Now I start each day with a brief, free meditation excerpted from Nouwen’s work–https://www.henrinouwen.org/daily-meditations

One of Nouwen’s most striking themes is his own woundedness. He is boldly honest about his physical and mental health concerns, his craving for approval, his injuries and breakdowns. His view of God as a welcoming home was rare for his time. In contrast to the prevailing thought that we had to earn nearness to God by not sinning, Jesus freely gives “a union [with God] so total and full, there’s not the slightest place for the experience of absence or separation.”

It is impossible to cover work of such depth and breadth in a small space, so maybe a few quotations will serve as invitation to explore further.

Lord, you want to keep me, hold onto me, fight for me, protect me, help me, support me, comfort me, and present me to your Father. It is indeed your divine task not to lose me! 

Fear or despair is not of God. 

Prayer is the experience of knowing that God is the source of everything we claim as our own. Rather than prayer being drudgery or obligation, it’s “a great adventure, because God defies all our calculations and predictions.”

“I can let the experience of belonging to God be the place from which I can live the human pain of homelessness and estrangement.”

God molds us as the sculptor molds the clay. Our response is a careful attentiveness to the loving hands on our shoulders, sculpting and guiding.

Jesus’ ministry sprang “from his deep experience of being unconditionally loved and was in no way motivated by a personal need for affirmation and acceptance.”

We’re “at Home while still on the way.”

Happy Feast, Henri. Welcome home.

Hildegard of Bingen (1098 – 1179)

Germany’s greatest mystic, scientist, and doctor, Hildegard was influential in theology, nature, medicine, cosmology, the human condition and the world-at-large. She also assumed ground-breaking roles for a woman of her time: artist, author, composer, mystic, pharmacist, poet, preacher, theologian, scientist, doctor, and political critic. Imagine being the HR director who got her resume! Named a saint and doctor of the church in 2012, she believed passionately in God’s presence and activity in creation, as well as being a life force within. One of her guiding concepts was “viriditas,” the greening power of God, a word which combines the Latin for “green” and “truth,” with connotations of vigor and freshness. While we can observe it in gardens and forests, Hildegard believed we could also cultivate it in our souls.[i]

During her seventies, Hildegard completed two medical texts, which catalogued over 280 plants, cross-referenced with their healing uses. She saw humans as “living sparks” of God’s love, coming from God as daylight comes from the sun. A poet and composer, Hildegard collected 77 of her lyric poems, each with a musical setting she composed in Symphonia armonie celestium revelationum. Her numerous other writings include lives of saints; two treatises on medicine and natural history, reflecting a quality of scientific observation rare at that period; and extensive correspondence, with further prophecies and allegorical treatises. She also—just for fun–invented her own language.

Despite her vows of enclosure—which, in theory, restricted her to the cloister—she managed to remain very much in touch with the outside world. After approval of her book Scivias by Pope Eugenius in 1147, she began to receive visits from and correspond with hundreds of people throughout Europe, including Henry II of England, Louis VII of France, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the empress of Byzantium

Hildegard  thought connection with nature brings people a “primordial joy.” More than eight hundred years after her death, her message rings so true that she could well be considered patroness of environmental awareness. Although she would’ve been appalled by the destruction to the planet, she would’ve cheered robustly for efforts to save it.

Excerpt from More Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey, Orbis, OrbisBooks.com, 800-258-5838.

[i] https://www.healthyhildegard.com/hildegards-viriditas

Her service seems as simple as the pure blue and white lines of her clothing. Mother Teresa cared for the poor, dying and homeless in the slums of Calcutta. To those who face daily the quagmire of business decisions, tangled relationships and complex scheduling, her work by contrast seems a clear, uncomplicated gospel following.

Yet few of us abandon our routines, don saris and join her movement. Perhaps we want to believe that something of Teresa’s spirit can invigorate our lives; some of her clarity can penetrate our shadows; some of her compassion can move through us to those we touch each day. Our contacts may not be as abandoned and diseased as those Teresa cared for, but they have the same needs for attention and affection.

Teresa apparently had the same luminosity that attracted people to Jesus. Everyone wanted to be near her in life, and after death she exerts the same attraction. Her biographer Malcolm Muggeridge believed that for people who have trouble grasping “Christ’s great propositions of love… someone like Mother Teresa is a godsend. She is this love in person.”

No one was less sentimental or more “earthy.” She would engage in lively discussion with beggars about their “take of the day,” eager to hear how it went. One of her favorite words was “beautiful”—in the squalor of Calcutta slums! Indeed, she believed her vocation was to be beautiful. She gloried in life-surviving-against-all odds, exulting when a tiny baby survived: “There’s life in her!”

Like ourselves, she often felt exhausted, alone and miserable. With the publication of her diaries after her death in 1997, we’ve learned she often felt abandoned by God, lost in the “dark night of the soul.” So to one like us we say, “Happy Feast, St. Teresa of Calcutta!”

(Romans 16:1-2)

Let’s eavesdrop as Phoebe tells her own story:

“I simply did what needed doing.

My dear friend Paul commended me for my deacon’s work in the church of Cenchreae, the one mention of me that’s endured. But we had none of the titles that must’ve evolved later. I wanted to bear witness to Jesus, to follow him, and to do his work. You might say he captured my imagination; he became my happiness.

Anyone who heard about him for more than a day or two knew his focus on letting go of non-essentials. To him, those “fields shining white for the harvest” were more compelling than any synagogue authorities. After all, the man was baptized in a river by a fellow who ate locusts! No formal ritual in the temple for his initiation rite. None of the trappings of tribalism for him! Did he ever ask anyone for a marriage license or a baptismal certificate before he cured them? Did he check up on what church they attended or quiz them on purity codes before they had a conversation?

We tried to shape our priorities like Jesus’. I was Paul’s co-worker and we had much to do. My home, Cenchreae was Corinth’s eastern seaport, a place of cross-currents where cultures meet and stories spread. Good place to be!  I had managed a household, raised a family and welcomed friends to my home. It seemed a natural step to host Christian communities. Why would I suddenly take a lesser role? Paul certainly wasn’t threatened by me; indeed he welcomed and appreciated all the gifts everyone brought to his magnificent enterprise. So when Paul asked me to carry his letter to the Romans, I said, “of course.” I had the means and the wit; I liked adventure and liked carrying good news—why not? What an honor to read his message aloud for the first time.”

A total of nine women named in the letter to Romans suggests an egalitarian movement with women in positions of authority. Oddly enough, their roles may have been dictated by social norms: e.g., a man couldn’t touch a woman during a baptismal anointing or visit a woman alone—hence, women into the breach! Talk of ordinations and hierarchies would have bewildered them, since Jesus ordained no one. Like any healthy family or community, they simply responded generously to the immediate needs, not concerned with titles or status. Phoebe stands as one whose role was eminently practical, like those who offered their homes for meeting places of the fledgling community.

Some parts of the church, by the late first or early second century, tried to tone down places in Acts showing women being an important part of the early Christian community. Scholars like William Ramsay noted long ago that the church tried to blend in with Roman society, which held women in low esteem, and would look askance at the prominence of women in this new sect. But today a vibrant international movement is reclaiming St. Phoebe, shining symbol of women’s contributions over the centuries. Viva Phoebe!

Excerpts from More Hidden Women of the Gospels, Orbis Press, 800-258-5838, orbisbooks.com

“Oh, the depth of the riches…” (Rom. 11:33)

Maybe we’ve grown anesthetized to the financial corruption of the current White House, the blatant disregard of taxpayer money—we glaze over at $14.7 wasted on no-bid, botched installations for the amoeba-soaked Lincoln reflecting pool, $323 million diverted from the National Park Service to Trump’s vanity projects on the White House grounds (Heather Cox Richardson, “Letters from an American,” Aug. 12) or the $800 million raked into his family through promises of favoritism, reported by the Wall Street Journal. As Senator Elizabeth Warren said, “President Trump is now the first President in history to approve, operate, and supervise his own bank. This is the most brazen act of self-dealing our financial system has ever seen.”

Perhaps Mr. Trump is unaware of other riches, which most of us enjoy for free or cheap. These warm, clear days for instance, that make us think summer will last forever. The cascade of ruby-ripe tomatoes on the 6 foot tall plant that when purchased was 4 inches high, or a profusion of flowers blooming in every tint of sunrise, sunset and sky blue. At a nearby Franciscan retreat house, built in the California mission style, a central fountain sends glimmering jets dancing into the sun, a vivid picture of John 4:14: “The water that I will give will become in them a spring of water gushing up into eternal life.” According to Ilia Delio, St. Clare saw the poverty of God as a fountain—a love that brings us into being, sustains us, and yearns for us. God’s own life is a ceaseless self-emptying, a pouring out of love that holds nothing back.

Other joys that shine in God’s image: an exhilarating swim, an invigorating game of tennis or bridge, a walk in the fresh morning cool. Abundant good books to read are available to anyone willing to wait on the library’s list. Current favorites: The Briar Club by Kate Quinn; Land by Maggie O’Farrell; Whistler by Ann Patchett. Another whole stack awaits on the bedside table…

And so much is available streaming, on accessible channels: “The American Experiment” and “My Brilliant Career” on Netflix, “Munch” and “Professor T” on PBS.

In The Book of Awakening, Mark Nepowrites that because the wave crashes into the same water from which it has come, it has no fear of ending. So too, knowing that we have come from God and are going to God lessens our fear of dying. We are made by God, for God, and will continue eternally in God’s care.  Such security is not for sale.

When it comes to mothers, Jesus “gets it.” He could spot ‘em a mile away—in the prison visiting area, the ER waiting room, the interminable preschool pageant, awaiting a new driver in the DMV lot, accompanying a guerney ‘til the operating room doors clanged shut. Of all the humans he knew, they (also some dads and other nurturers) were most like himself in their over-the-top, tender adoration of a son or daughter who’d melt their hardened edges and break their hearts with love.

In today’s gospel, he learns Lesson 1: Moms can’t be deterred. Racist slurs like comparing them to dogs, belittling comments like “eat the crumbs” don’t prevent their obstinate, defiant defense of their child. The Canaanite woman might say bluntly, “Ignore and tease me all you want, but she is sick and I’m not leaving ‘til she gets well.”

It’s heartening, how he waffles—just like us. He’d long revered his Hebrew tradition, sung its psalms, followed its customs. Could he cast it aside so easily? No wonder he was silent, thinking hard. Maybe then he looked into her eyes, saw the exhaustion, the pleading—and called her “great.” Assured of healing, she felt as if she ate the whole, fat loaf.

In Letters Catherine of Siena says of this story: “And there’s more.” (With Jesus, isn’t there always more?) “God wanted to show how pleased [God] was with her, and … wanted to give her trust in the Lord credit for the victory.” Not only does he cure the daughter, he gives mom credit! What prodigiously, outrageously magnanimous person does that? 

Kathy Coffey, “Jesus and the Crumb-Catcher,” from the August 2026 issue of Give Us This Day giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2026). Used with permission.

It’s often said in an exasperated tone: “What was I thinking?” Exactly what Peter might have said, walking water, if he weren’t so terrified.  

The gospel story read this weekend might seem far-fetched, ‘til we remember all the times we’ve stuck our necks (or feet) into stormy waters: the project which surely won’t take too long or cost too much but which quickly grows far beyond the initial impulse, the brand new job, relationship, sport or neighborhood. Perhaps we’re reaching for a better self, one larger than our limitations. At this time of year, children are walking tremulously into kindergarten, or boarding school buses taking them into the scary, unknown worlds of middle school or high school. Entering each day, we may have a rough outline of what will happen, but can never predict exactly what mysteries might unfold. The ego craves security and control; understandably, we panic when “we see how strong the wind is.”

A marvelous female model for riding the waves is St. Clare, whose feast is Aug. 11. At the age of eighteen, she decided to follow St. Francis, though his scruffy little band was still controversial. Despite her beautiful idealism and firm commitment, Francis had no clear plan of what to do with her. She, and shortly after, her sister Agnes needed protection from their relatives’ wrath, and the Benedictines gave sanctuary until the little group could be established at San Damiano. Apparently Claire annoyed church authorities by her insistence on total poverty and on maintaining the ties with the friars that Francis had promised, but their grumbling didn’t faze her–on she sailed, serene.

Eventually, Clare became the first woman in the west to write a rule for monastics. It happened because the sisters’ “protector” Cadinal Hugolino wrote one full of fussy detail, later revised by Pope Innocent IV, but still obsessed with hierarchical authority.  On the other hand, Clare writes like one responding gladly to Jesus’ invitation, “Come.” She is filled with common sense, curiosity, wonder and awe, trust that the Holy Spirit who began the good work will help them to complete it. Hugolino’s insistence on the harsh austerity of the life contrasts dramatically with Clare’s vision of its joys.

As she wrote in 1235, “with swift pace, light step, unswerving feet…go forward securely, joyfully and swiftly on the path of prudent happiness.” And if that path happens to cross the sea? Well, trust Jesus’ outstretched hand to lift and carry.   

Two numbers I simply can’t wrap my head around: 37.5 billion, and 19.

The Department of Defense spent nearly $2 billion dollars a day in the first six days of the Iran war. Since then, the total cost of the war has ballooned to $37.5 billion, according to Defense Secretary Hegseth testifying before Congress July 21. He then asked for an “urgent” additional $88 billion. But apparently that is a dramatically low estimate.

Linda Bilmes, a professor at the Harvard Kennedy School and an expert on budgeting and public finance, said on “All Things Considered,” NPR, 7/25: “According to my analysis, the very up-front, short-term costs are, to date, about 120 billion.” The $37 billion that Secretary Hegseth cited is just the tip of the iceberg. Beyond that are “hidden costs”: care of veterans, replacement cost of missiles (at least 50% higher than initial cost), interest on the debt to pay these bills. “But that doesn’t include another $250 billion for rebuilding the hundreds of U.S. facilities across the Middle East that have been destroyed or damaged.”  

The mind reels. What could a school or hospital do with $370 billion?

Leaving that unanswerable question unanswered, let’s turn to the second number: 19. That’s the age of Isabella Gonzales, from Carrollton, Texas, an army private killed in Jordan. She had just graduated last year from a high school near Dallas. High school. Let that sink in. That is the truly tragic cost of this war. And how could anyone explain to her family why she died? No satisfactory explanation for the conflict has yet been provided to Congress.

Interestingly, Ari Honarvar wrote a relevant article in Yes! magazine which was first published on the grateful.org website in 2020. She describes her childhood during the eight-year Iran-Iraq War, which killed over a million people. “We Iranians had become accustomed to daily funerals, food rations, political oppression, and an ongoing threat of bombs and missiles.” One night, in her home city of Shiraz, Iran, sirens blared and the electricity was shut off, warning of an imminent attack. Her family crept to the rooftop to watch the anti-aircraft missiles shoot. To her seven-year-old eyes, it was a brilliant fireworks display. But beneath hovered the worry: who would be killed next?

“And then someone from another rooftop shouted a verse of Rumi’s poetry into the clear night air:

Even if, from the sky, poison befalls all,
I’m still sweetness
wrapped in sweetness
wrapped in sweetness…

This was a poetic challenge to the bombers, but it was also a gauntlet thrown down to any Persian in hearing range. The verse soon was rejoined from another rooftop. Even as a young child, I could feel the ecstasy of these verses in my heart, radiating to every cell of my being. In an instant, my world not only became sane, but infinite and glorious. And what bomb could ever touch that?”

So this is “the enemy”: people who exchange poetry across rooftops during a bombing. Some consolation comes from Frederick Buechner: “Life even at its most monotonous and backbreaking and heart-numbing has the Kingdom buried in it the way a field has treasure buried in it. …The Kingdom of God in the sense of holiness, goodness, beauty is as close as breathing and is crying out to be born both within ourselves and within the world…” (Secrets in the Dark, pp.148-9) When the numbers stagger, the Iranians remind us of our holy humanity.

What would you expect from two sisters and a brother? They criticize his clothing choices; he teases them about their latest crush. And maybe at one time, they did. So the feast of Marthy, Mary and Lazarus of Bethany celebrates an imperfect trio—and he wasn’t added ‘til 2021!

In an ironic reversal of the usual order, we know more about the women in the story of raising Lazarus than about the man. The gospel gives cameos of two different personalities: Martha, direct, confrontational, not a shred of syrupy politeness. Holding opposites, she not only accuses Jesus of a tragic delay; with bedrock certainty, she affirms his identity. It’s entirely possible she gives Jesus the mysterious affirmation he needs before he plunges into the passion awaiting him in Jerusalem.

“But Mary sat at home.” Sounds like her usual apathetic sitting at Jesus’ feet while Martha tore her hair out to prepare a meal. Or maybe more? The phrase “at home” always carries rich overtones in the gospel. Of course she was sad, but she could’ve reached deep into herself to a secure place of knowing that God’s care was untethered to specific events. Any parent could look at their own daughters and see the same radical personality differences as in these sisters. Many have pointed out that they represent the whole holy spectrum of action and contemplation.

Can we imagine the family conversation at dinner that night? Was the tone one of hushed awe and overwhelming gratitude, or did the customary taunts slip in?

“You sure had us worried there, Lazarus! Like, out of our minds with grief!”

He smiles. “Didn’t know I gave you such a jolt.”

“What was it like, to hear that voice and shake off the grave cloths?”

Lazarus replies slowly: “Well, I knew Martha would kill me again if I didn’t lurch out of that tomb. And it smelled! Better to be back with you two…”

Martha replies sternly: “Don’t ever joke about it!”

But Mary chimes in, conciliatory: “Look—Martha cooked all your favorite dishes.”

Then the chortle: “Sheesh—what a guy’s gotta go through to get a decent meal around here!”

The sisters happily dogpile their brother, whose protests are lost in a tangle and tumble of tickling, laughter and relief.