Kathy Coffey

On this day in 1610, Italian Jesuit Matteo Ricci died in Beijing and was the first Westerner honored with burial in the capital. His story is an intriguing one of openness to another culture, of asking how one could ever bring the gospel to someone they didn’t know. His “friendly conversation” style of evangelizing makes all the other efforts of his era seem clumsy, intrusive, disrespectful and violent.

Sent to China in 1583, he spent 15 years becoming proficient in the language, learning Confucianism, Chinese customs, literature and etiquette. A scholar of mathematics, astronomy, philosophy and geography, he dressed in appropriate silk robes like other mandarins. His world map astonished and impressed the Chinese, who were unaware of other lands beyond their own. Ricci believed that the 4000 year old tradition of China converted him. Despite maintaining armies, the Chinese didn’t wage wars of aggression, in contrast to European nations consumed with the idea of domination.  

Furthermore, Ricci worked out a synthesis of Confucianism and Christianity, and adapted liturgy to the Chinese style. Today it’s called “inculturation”; then it was mind-blowing.  Throughout the age of discovery, the track record of Christian missionaries was abysmal: baptism by force, widespread slaughter, alliance with military rule. How might it have been different if Ricci’s attitude prevailed: enter lands new to Europeans, housing other cultures, with wonder and appreciation, curious about what westerners could learn?  Instead of branding native peoples “savages,” and plundering the resources of their lands, missionaries could’ve acted on the Christian belief that the indigenous, like all humanity, held the spark of God within, and respected the beauties of God’s creation in uncharted terrains.

It’s probably no surprise that the Vatican, epitome of a “closed system” hostile to new ideas, condemned Ricci’s efforts in 1704 and more vehemently in 1742. They seemed especially troubled by filial respect to ancestors and called the rites to honor the dead superstitious and idolatrous. Ironic, in a church with a long history of honoring its saints and founders, erecting statues to them in every church. But Robert Ellsberg describes the prevailing attitude in All Saints: “When in China, do as the Romans.” What underlying fears of difference motivate such arrogance? Whatever happened to the deep security of the beloved child of God, curious about God’s varied creations?

Several centuries later, a similar scenario recurred. French Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, a respected scholar, paleontologist and geologist was sent to China because his creative ideas ruffled hierarchical feathers. There, he made marvelous discoveries and happily worked with native scientists. The Vatican forbade him to publish, suppressing his writing as they had in 1704 shut down a fresh infusion of eastern ideas that could have enhanced western spirituality.

In the complex and lengthy process of naming someone a Catholic saint, Ricci reached the stage called “Venerable,” or close to the finish line, in 2022. It took only 412 years for the Vatican to recognize him, but perhaps one should be grateful they reached this point at all. When oh when will they canonize St. Teilhard?

“I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy might be complete.” John 15: 11

Sometimes a dip into contemporary culture can affirm the gospel message of joy. For a rollicking dollop of it, see “Wicked Little Letters,” a British film which has been showing in theaters, and maybe by now is streaming. Olivia Colman stars and gives us her first dire glimpse of religion along the lines of, “if our Blessed Savior suffered, then we who must suffer grow closer to him.” It might not be so funny if it weren’t expressed with such eye-rolling piety. Olivia plays Edith Swan, who lives with her parents in the early 1920s and has been beset by a plague of anonymous nasty letters.  

The film is more or less based on a true story of the Littlehampton Libels, a scandal in Sussex filled with battling neighbors and lots of profanity. (If this bothers you, then the movie may not be your cuppa.) Edith and her parents immediately blame their neighbor, Rose Gooding. She’s a perfect target: rambunctious, irreverent, bawdy, obscene, often drunk, and newly arrived from Ireland. It’s enough to swing the townspeople and police into glorious self-righteousness. In the real case, Rose was convicted and served four months in Portsmouth Prison. But the letters to many people continued, and the issue was not so neatly resolved.

Enter policewoman Gladys Moss, who with an unlikely and hilarious band of women detectives cleverly cracks the case. Edith Swan remains a model of stiff propriety, flinching at the disgusting language she must nobly endure. But as her domineering father becomes more emotionally abusive, and she appears more repressed, one starts to wonder… When a grown woman is forced to copy out Bible verses as punishment for some minor infringement, might she in turn spew venom with glee?

To question any more might reveal deliciously wicked plot twists. See for yourself, and may your joy be complete.

One phrase from Richard Rohr and I’m on a roll. He writes of resurrection revealing “just enough now to promise.” In other words, the small “r” resurrections that suffuse our days give an initial experience to prepare us for Jesus’ “Capital R” Resurrection, and are perhaps glimmering offshoots, sparks of his. These can be beloved faces, books that open new windows for mind and heart to explore, travel that reveals unimagined beauties, medical diagnoses not nearly as bad as we dreaded, sweeping vistas of oceans, gardens or mountains, the energy of exercise, the ease of sleep, the accomplishment of tasks large and tiny, the surprises we never thought we’d see…

I marvel at a granddaughter I first cared for when I had to support her wobbly head with my hand on her neck. Eight years later, she starts a load of laundry and makes my breakfast before I’m even out of bed. She wins the readathon for third grade, swims on a team, draws and writes with precision. There’s always such hubbub and commotion around small children—“Do you have your water bottle?” “Where are your shoes?” that we somehow fail to notice the incremental growth, the miraculous unfolding, inch by inch, day after day.

The joyous news of resurrection is now underscored by research on neuroplasticity. Humans have a “negativity bias” that dates back to the days when the survival of the species meant being attuned to warning signals like the approaching footsteps of a hungry lion. In other words, we’re more sensitized to red lights than green lights. But Rick Hanson explains in Hardwiring Happiness that we can build on positive experiences, placing them in the “treasure chest of the heart” to strengthen the neural pathways that heal and uplift. He compares it to growing more flowers and fewer weeds in our inner garden. Mary ran towards joy in a garden and encouraged the other disciples to run away from fear. Similar message in a different, scientific language?

Jesus as Good Shepherd may seem a difficult concept for readers whose experience is primarily urban. But the more I think about it, the richer it seems. Never mind that shepherds say the critters they tend are stupid and smelly. No odd aromas nor slow wits deter Jesus. He simply says, “I know my own,” placing no blame.

On Easter Monday, the gospel mentions the women running from the tomb with a cocktail of emotions, “fearful yet overjoyed.” “And behold, Jesus met them on their way and greeted them” (Mt. 28: 9). No matter how meandering our ways, through grocery stores or gyms, offices or schools, retirement centers or prisons, Jesus, eager to see us, meets us on each unique and personal path. We needn’t be running a marathon or ascending to an altar—he’s there waiting, arms open wide.

I recently observed Catechesis of the Good Shepherd, where Emmy, aged seven, her glossy dark hair escaping from the braids where it had probably been neatly placed earlier in the day, was asked what the Shepherd does. One strap of her overalls was unfastened, but she was clear in her response. Softly, she said, “He takes care of us.” All we need to know for security and confidence…

In a relevant tangent: The shrine of Our Lady of Aranzazu, Spain was built on the site where Rodrigo de Balzategui, a Basque shepherd, found a statue of the Virgin Mary nestled in a thorny bush with a cowbell in 1469. Stunned, he asked, “You? Among the thorns?” Exactly where a shepherd might seek the lost, in brambly wild places. St. Ignatius visited the shrine in 1522 on his way to Montserrat. Some suspect the experience must have influenced his signature quest for “finding God in all things.”

Today’s gospel defies all the self-help books about achieving inner peace. Peace is pure gift, according to Luke. Furthermore, it comes unexpectedly, during confusion, mourning, terror and anxiety. The disciples find it too good to be true.

To alert them to reality, Jesus asks for something to eat. He reminds us of adolescents who are always hungry, or long-awaited guests whom we welcome with a special meal. This touchstone in human nature apparently convinces the skeptical. Wisely, Jesus starts with bodily needs, then “opened their minds to understand the scriptures.” (24: 45)

How ironic that he tells the poor, uncertain, wavering crew: “You are witnesses of these things” (48). Jesus always seems to choose the most unlikely prospects. As Desmond Tutu says, Our God is an expert at dealing with chaos, with brokenness, with all the worst that we can imagine.”

And to all, Jesus extends the same invitation: “touch me and see.” Only by coming dangerously close to this wounded Christ will we too know transformation of our wounds—and resurrection.

Where we might have expected glory and trumpets the first Sunday after Easter, instead we get typical, honest, human groping towards truth. A splendid reunion between Jesus and his friends? Not quite. But maybe something better: Jesus’ mercy, meeting them where they (and we) are stumbling, extending his hand in genuine understanding and compassion.

Despite the fact that it has been celebrated for centuries, the quality of mercy remains an abstraction. Today, Jesus gives mercy a human face and touch.

Before we criticize Thomas too much, we should ask what we might do in a similar situation. Would we also be skeptical if our friends told us that someone had returned from death? Wouldn’t we want to see for ourselves? Thomas may simply voice the questions most disciples harbor secretly.

The first disciples, caught in fear and confusion, are hardly the finest spokespersons for the gospel. But then, neither are we. We have the same mixture of doubt and certainty, anxiety and joy that they had.

Jesus responds to us as he did to Thomas—without harsh judgment. He understands our needs for concrete reassurance. After all, God created us with five senses to help us learn. And if Thomas—stubbornly insistent on tangible proof—can believe, maybe there’s hope for us all.

To us as to him, Jesus extends the same merciful invitation: “touch me and see.” Only by coming dangerously close to this wounded Lord will we know transformation of our wounds—and resurrection. Doubt isn’t evil: it’s the entryway to hope.

Every Easter, I try to post a story about resurrection because when the news is dreary, we need positive, uplifting buoyancy. Here’s a remarkable one I’d never heard. The research left me teary: see for yourself at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CZ2vcCJ-UII, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhkxQEzSR7Q, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WlapEAWWDQc, or https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVaKXr87sQE

To summarize:

Between 1831 and 1833, around 20,000 Choctaw people were forcibly relocated to Oklahoma from their ancestral lands in present-day Mississippi and Alabama. Historians estimate that 4,000 died along the way, which has aptly been named the Trail of Tears. (Smithsonian Magazine)

Only 16 years later, still recovering from the trauma, they heard about the Irish Potato Famine. One commentator named it “a familiar heartache”—most of the food grown in Ireland was exported by the English under military guard as the starving Irish watched, their diet of potatoes wiped out by disease.

The Irish population in 1845 was 7 million—then 2 million either died in the famine or emigrated. The suffering struck a chord with people 4,000 miles away who had suffered terrible deprivation themselves and had little money. But the Choctaw of Skullyville, Oklahoma, donated $170, funds distributed by the Quakers, which would amount to over 5,000 in today’s dollars. The bond of shared oppression was intense.

In 2020, 173 years after the original donation, the Navajo and Hopi tribes were devastated by the pandemic. They had the highest rates of COVID-19 in the US, outside of New York and New Jersey. As one news commentator pointed out, the constant injunctions to wash hands were meaningless when 1/3 of the people had no running water. A native news anchor said “we’re almost invisible in the U.S.,” but the Irish came through—donating over $5 million for food, water and supplies. The donations from Irish people were accompanied by touching messages: “the favour is returned!”  “You helped us in our darkest hour. Honoured to return the kindness. Ireland remembers, with thanks.” “You helped us when no one else did.”

Connections continue. In 1995, to mark the 150^th anniversary of the Choctaw donation, the president of Ireland, Mary Robinson, visited Oklahoma to thank native people. Prime Minister Leo Varadkar also paid them a visit. In 2017 a sculpture titled “Kindred Spirits” was installed in Midleton, Ireland. It beautifully depicts an empty bowl, framed by a graceful circle of feathers.

The Choctaw-Ireland Scholarships are another unique partnership. The Republic of Ireland provides tuition and expenses for a Choctaw recipient to study at University College, Cork. More scholarships were later made possible by a matching donation through the Chahta Foundation to allow more native students to study in Ireland. So it continues: The stunning power of kindness… and memory. Resurrexit!

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 the questions. He enters into them.

Mark’s passion begins with the exquisite scene of Jesus’ anointing. The rigid, bottom-line bean-counters hate the scandal: how will they justify the expense or fit it on their spreadsheets? But Jesus praises her–“she has done what she could”–thus, hold onto kindness and beauty, which help us through the worst.

As does a meal with friends. Jesus’ 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.

To the logical, it makes no sense. But to the believer, the powerless triumph. Those who seem defeated ultimately win. The questions aren’t answered, but One goes before us who lives through them, endures.

St. Patrick’s Day seems the perfect excuse to pause the Lenten reflections and praise Celtic spirituality. I’ve already explained my attraction to it in A Generous Lap: A Spirituality of Grandparenting. This orthodox stream of Christianity developed parallel to the Roman, more attuned to preserving imperial might and power. Easy to see the appeal of an approach that is more poetic than doctrinal.

Its emphasis on God shining through creation seems well suited to children, who have finely attuned sensual antennas to the world they are discovering. It’s not unusual to see them scooping up an intriguing bug or worm for closer inspection, sinking their faces deep into a fragrant flower. When they hear music, they dance without inhibition, their bodies instinctively responding fully, while adults might primly tolerate a slight toe tapping.

John Philip Newell is an expert on Celtic spirituality, and it was a privilege to make two weekend retreats with him. I still remember my delight-in-discovery, and how it spilled into subsequent weeks after I’d been more attuned to God’s footprints and fingerprints in the natural world.

In his book Listening for the Heartbeat of God, Newell differentiates with two apostles’ names two ways of thinking which are complementary: John’s discovers God in all creation, light wherever it is to be found. Peter’s enshrines the light in the Church: the rock of shelter in tradition and sacraments. For the former, all creation is God’s temple: “For a true contemplative, a green tree works just as well as a golden tabernacle.” (p. 171) For the latter, God stands in relation to a particular people, within four walls. The two come together: “Being part of the song of creation and, as members of the Church, of the living communion of saints, are two aspects of the one mystery.” (p. 98)

A healthy spirituality needs both emphases, but at different times in our lives, we might favor one perspective over the other. Once, I would’ve been uplifted by good liturgy with rousing music and a fine homily. Now, I find that spark of joy in the veil of clouds parting to reveal a glistening mountain range, or the play of light on water. “Our religious sanctuaries are at best side chapels onto the great cathedral of creation.”

In Newell’s book Christ of the Celts, I found an essential difference with the doctrine many of us learned early: first and deepest, we are of God, not opposed to God. Grace is given not to make us something other than ourselves, but to make us radically ourselves. (p. 10) His description of his grandmother hit home: she knew he was mischievous, but looked deeper. “I knew that to her I was precious and would always be precious… my epiphany moment came when I realized that Granny was more loving than the God of my religious tradition.” (p.88)

I can no longer define myself, my children, grandchildren or any human by the “blight” of evil, “instead of seeing what is deeper still, the beauty of the image of God at the core of our being.” (p. 12) Any religious service which focuses on sin fails to nurture, and indeed, contradicts our oneness with God, our primary identity as beloved children.

So cheers to the lyric joy of Celtic spirituality, and the long, lovely tradition of St. Brigid and St. Pat!

Nicodemus gets a bad rap. He’s criticized for coming to Jesus “by night.” But consider the references to him after today’s gospel. Courageously, he defends Jesus against his angry peers, asking whether their law judges a man who has not had a fair hearing (John 7:50-51). After the crucifixion, he helps embalm and bury Jesus’ body (19:39).

He is an honest seeker, who won’t settle for tried-and-true cliches. His colleagues quickly dismiss anyone with a different angle. Nicodemus, however, explores the new teaching carefully, which takes some time. He questions honestly, and Jesus doesn’t reject him. Instead, Jesus welcomes their discussion and reveals himself magnificently, as light penetrating darkness.

Jesus even seems to tease Nicodemus as a teacher who doesn’t “get it” (v. 10). Nicodemus must be overwhelmed: he doesn’t respond.

Or maybe he answers through his life. After an avalanche of ideas, he sifts through them and applies them to daily events. Apparently Jesus’ teaching withstands that reality check; Nicodemus becomes an admirable follower, “his works done in God.”

Do we act like him, or do we stagnate in unexamined prejudices and stale beliefs? Are we open to the insecurity of Spirit’s unsettling winds?