Author Archives: Kathy Coffey

Someday it may seem mild, but a priest who openly admitted being alcoholic and gay, then went rollerblading in his sixties was pushing the narrowly defined boundaries of priesthood in the seventies and eighties.

At one time, Mychal Judge drank so heavily he had blackouts. The drinking began in the seminary with little sips of altar wine. By 1976, “his alcoholism had become so serious that it became both crisis and opportunity.” After joining AA, Judge later attended as many of its meetings as he could. Some thought he was more familiar with the AA book than with the Bible.

The risk was dramatic at a time when “if a friar had drinking problem, it was hushed up or he was sent away for therapy.” So too for his second frontier: being gay. Judge was open about his gender preference even at a time when Archbishop O ‘Connor was quoted in the  New York Post as saying, “I would close all my orphanages rather than employ one gay person.” At first hesitant to march in New York’s first inclusive St. Patrick’s Day parade in 2000, Judge received wild acclaim from the crowd—and nervous disapproval from the church.

That continued when he was reported to the diocese for not wearing vestments at firehouse Masses. Judge told the young clerical bureaucrat who called him on the carpet: “if I’ve ever hurt the church I’ve served and loved so dearly for 40 years, I want to be burned at the stake on 5^th Ave., at the front doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.” “No matter how many robes Cardinal [O’Connor] put on or how much power he tried to exert, he still could not… quash Mychal Judge.”

The story of his death is well known: Judge rushed to the World Trade Center to be with the fire fighters responding to the disaster. Some speculate that he removed his helmet to pray the last rites over a dying firefighter, was struck on the head by debris and died. Five rescue workers carried him out through the rubble; Shannon Stapleton’s photo of them was widely published. (His friends joked that even in death, Mychal still loved a photo-op.) Firefighters laid Judge’s body before the altar in a nearby church, covering it with a sheet, his stole and badge. His eulogist pointed out how appropriate it was that Judge died first; then he’d be in heaven to meet over 400 first responders who arrived later.

Judge’s biographer comments on the impromptu ritual of two cops praying over his body at Ground Zero. It’s not only OK for laity to give last rites in an emergency. It “was, in fact, entirely in keeping with Father Mychal’s own sacramental theology of hallowing the moment and was typical of the way ordinary people generated light in the darkness of that day.” The overflow crowd outside Judge’s funeral proved what his eulogist said: “When he was talking with you, you were the only person on the face of the earth.. . . We come to bury his heart but not his love. Never his love.”

Excerpt from When the Saints Came Marching In by Kathy Coffey, Liturgical Press, 800-858-5450

Throughout history, church bells have invited people to worship and celebrate, as well as rung out warnings of danger like invasion or fire. On Sept. 20, 2019, they rang in solidarity with the climate strike of 4 million young people in 150 countries. Some rang for 11 minutes, signaling the 11 years scientists say we have to limit global warming to a maximum increase of 1.5 degrees C, or risk catastrophic loss of lives. Why should people of faith care about the current climate crisis? Why should they, in fact, see it as a burningly relevant question of justice?

Answers to that question lead us back to the psalms, ancient Celtic and Native American spirituality, St. Francis of Assisi who would sing in wonder at moon, stars or sun, and writers like St. Bonaventure, who said creation was God’s first book, leading us back to God if we “read” it properly. Today, Pope Francis’ letter “Laudato Si” is an eloquent plea. “The cry of the Earth and… the poor cannot continue,” he wrote there. If we don’t see creation as sacred, it’s much easier to exploit and destroy it. As the pope points out, we must love the beauty of our world or we’ll treat it like “consumers or ruthless exploiters.”

The faith community can be an effective force for change in the environmental crisis. Surely 1.2 billion Catholics and 2.2 billion Christians, united in stewardship, could make a difference. Many churches already take the lead: converting to solar or wind power, changing parking lots into community gardens, divesting from fossil fuels, investing in alternate energies, minimizing plastic waste, educating parishioners and neighborhoods about their carbon footprint.

Furthermore, climate change dovetails with other social justice issues because it has the worst effects on the poorest. People of color suffer higher rates of asthma and cancer, disproportionately affected by air pollution caused by industrial plants in their neighborhoods. Drought in Africa has led to starvation, forcing more refugees into exile. For their sake, and for future generations, the question rings with maddening frustration: If we could use almost-free, renewable, natural power sources like solar, wind, geothermal or hydro-electric, why would we choose toxic, diminishing fossil fuels instead?

“The young remind us that the earth is not a possession to be squandered, but an inheritance to be handed down,” said Pope Francis, affirming Greta Thunberg, outspoken climate activist, the first to strike in her native Sweden. At Davos in Jan. ’19, she challenged the World Economic Forum: “I want you to act as if the house is on fire, because it is.” Will the faith community act as decisively and respond to the climate crisis as brilliantly as this young girl?

In a week of stunning news (de-fund the Post Office to prevent mail-in votes, disenfranchising voters??), a staggering notice from the EPA may have escaped peoples’ attention—and it’s simply one of over 100 environmental regulations weakened since 2016. Their plan to eliminate methane regulation will release an estimated 850,000 tons of the planet-warming gas into the atmosphere during the next 10 years. And their excuse? To save the oil and gas industry, the largest source of methane emissions, about $100 million a year through 2030. Meaning: we are not channeling money to the hungry nor unemployed, but to the fossil fuel billionaires, not coincidentally big financial backers of the current administration.

“Methane is the main ingredient in natural gas. But when it’s released before it burns, say from a leaky valve at a drilling site, it’s far more potent than carbon dioxide,” reported npr.org on August 13. Here’s the irony: while smaller oil and gas companies do find the costs of regulation excessive, the big producers don’t even want the concession. “The negative impacts of leaks and fugitive emissions have been widely acknowledged for years, so it’s frustrating and disappointing to see the administration go in a different direction,” said Gretchen Watkins, Shell Oil’s US president.

She sounds like Pope Francis, who said in “Laudato Si”: “We know that technology based on the use of highly polluting fossil fuels – especially coal, but also oil and, to a lesser degree, gas – needs to be progressively replaced without delay” # 165. Scientists say we have 11 years to limit global warming to a maximum increase of 1.5 degrees C, or risk catastrophic loss of lives. The proposed addition of methane, along with the other gases, could warm the atmosphere by 3-4 degrees. And many scientists believe methane leaks are 2 to 3 times higher than the EPA estimates!

Even for one whose science background is as pathetic as mine, a basic understanding means that the greenhouse gases (carbon dioxide, methane and nitrous oxide) trap the sun’s heat, melting the polar ice caps and warming the oceans. Most of the emissions are CO2, but methane, in its first 20 years in the atmosphere, is 84 times more potent. Most know the disastrous effects. As sea levels rise, the weather that results leads to drought in places, and massive flooding that could destroy coastal areas and islands.

Signs of hope: state regulations, the industry’s policing itself since leaks are expensive and dangerous, investors’ sensitivity to bad PR, the Natural Resources Defense Council and Environmental Defense Fund’s plans to sue, the hope of a more far-sighted president taking office in January. As for the agency designed to protect the environment? “Give an account of your stewardship.”

Why does a blog about spirituality veer precipitously into science? For the answer, see next week…

Two young grandchildren arrive at my door, looking like masked bandits, giggling with delight. They’re excited about today’s “field trip” to a children’s museum that’s moved some of its offerings outdoors. It requires masks of children over five, and this five- and seven-year old are trying to comply.

The widespread (we hope) wearing of masks sets off thought that dovetails with Matt Malone, SJ’s insight that when God found Adam and Eve hiding in the garden, ashamed of their disobedience, God asked, “Who told you that you were naked?” (Gen. 3:11) Fr. Malone hears the question not in a “Charlton Heston” booming, accusatory voice, but in a plaintive lament, “Aw—who told you? There goes all your innocent beauty!” Then God makes clothing for them (Gen. 3:21), as any protective mother would do, sending children into searing heat or chilling cold, knowing fig leaves just won’t do it.

These garments were temporary—until humanity could be clothed in Christ. To restore our confidence, writes Fr. Michael Casey in Balaam’s Donkey, “God has chosen to be unveiled before us. Jesus is the visibility of the unseen God…He calls us to come out of the bushes and be seen as we are, no longer fearful of rejection but confident that we are held in God’s all-embracing love.” Redeemed, we need no longer feel ashamed.

Back to the masks. The pandemic creates a different form of “naked,” for we are stripped of  our professional and social activities. The usual errands and exercise are gone; we can’t attend a concert or play, give a presentation or retreat, go out for dinner, plan air travel. So little adult agency is left—it’s questionable if we can safely hug, shop, or ride in a car with a friend. How shrunken we seem, how much is lost, how fragile our flimsy masks.  Depression like Michelle Obama’s is natural. It’s a pervasive joke that we live in sweats, the dressier clothes forgotten in the closet.

Jesus’ take on clothes was “consider the lilies.” Maybe we had to re-learn we were precious without the usual accoutrements. God calls us to an identity deeper than suit, better than ball gown. When held in an all-encompassing  love that keeps us alive and united, does it really matter what we wear?

Doing this week‘s newspaper word search with my grandson, all the hidden words contained the root “joy.” That word could name the theme for the life of St. Clare, St. Francis’ lesser known female counterpart (though much more, in her own independent right) and dear friend.

Clare enjoyed the “guarantee of living without guarantees.” That might make us feel insecure and wobbly. We rely heavily on insurance policies; she relied totally on God. Clare saw humans as mirrors reflecting the divine. In the beauty of the Beloved, she found more than enough wealth to offset her life style of poverty.

As Richard Rohr points out in Eager to Love, Clare and her sisters had a topsy-turvy insistence on living without privilege. Totally dependent on God, spending 40 years in one small house and garden, she discovered abundant joy. It seems important to note that in dark times, we can still nurture joy—it’s not a dirty word showing we simply don’t understand our era.

One of the most famous, but misguided, images of Clare was her holding the monstrance high, so that Saracens invading Assisi shrank back in fear and left her monastery alone. It’s true that soldiers did enter her home, San Damiano, but they were European mercenaries hired by Frederick II. The monstrance didn’t exist then—in 1240.

What Clare actually DID, confronting the genuine threat of invasion far outside the city walls where she and her sisters lived unprotected, was take “her usual posture for prayer,” lying prostrate.  It seems the exact opposite to a macho demonstration of power or strength, and yet it was effective. The invaders retreated, causing no harm.

Clare’s process of letting go ego and learning to mirror God led her to write: “Place your heart in the figure of the divine… and allow your entire being to be transformed into the image of the Godhead itself, so that you may feel what friends feel…” Given that intimacy, it’s unsurprising that Clare not only lived but even died joyfully, encouraging her soul to go forth with “good escort.”

Yes, I know there are an overwhelming number of deadly serious topics and terrible news to address now. And I appreciate the skilled columnists and humorists who are doing so. But in the words of Ross Gay, author of The Book of Delights, “Delight doesn’t truck with ought. Or should, for that matter.” See last week’s blog for why I’m so smitten with this book, which coordinates beautifully with what Dorothy Day, quoting Ruskin, called “the duty of delight.” Greg Boyle, SJ, in turn refers to Day’s sequel to The Long Loneliness: “This way will not pass again, and so there is a duty to be mindful of that which delights and keeps joy at the center, distilled from all that happens to us in a day” (Tattoos on the Heart, p. 148).

If Boyle, in the midst of grim poverty and Los Angeles gang wars, could keep such a clean focus on what lifts the spirits, it signals the rest of us. Or as Gay says, “the more stuff you love, the happier you’ll be.” And that stuff can be simple or silly, rarely dramatic or profound. As the Book of Proverbs says of Wisdom, “her ways are pleasant… and all her paths are peace” (3:17).

Many people now celebrate the exuberant color of July’s abundance in the garden. I was also touched by a burst of creativity from our local library. After arranging a contact-less pick-up of books ordered online, the website asked, “would you like a bag of picture books too?” Ever the eager grandmother, I of course ticked “yes.” What a delightful surprise to find waiting, at the precisely scheduled time, a bag designed to be colored and made into a house. The books within were carefully calibrated to what I’d checked out before, honoring the ages and interests of my grandchildren. AND it contained a package of sidewalk chalk for drawing in a contest encouraging the census. Piling into bed with a small grand-daughter and bingeing on books was another delight in that chain. In a messed-up society, a few rarities are true and good.

Of other delights: a hike along cliffs overlooking the ocean where the sense of time vanished. And a visit afterwards with a beloved daughter to Wildflour bakery in Sonoma County. The area is rightly famous for its wine and cheese, but we’ve found there the finest scones anywhere. What great happiness to drive with an armful of warm bread, nibbling a nectarine raspberry scone, past ripening apple orchards and fields of cows who seem to have strolled in from the ads for eating local.

I’ve laughed with friends at how something like a socially distanced happy hour at 5, which once would’ve been the PS of the day, has now become its centerpiece. Or the rare joy of finding a bookstore open, requiring masks and distance, but still almost like The Time Before. Quarantine may have forced us into the duty of delight, but by whatever path we arrive, it’s a fine place to be.

I suspect many people like myself are using the added gift of time during quarantine (yup, CA is still locked down) to educate ourselves about racism. I enjoyed hearing Ibram Kendi speak at the on-line Aspen Institute, and will continue with his book HOW TO BE AN ANTI-RACIST. It contains gems full of hope such as this:

‘Racist’ and ‘antiracist’ are like peelable name tags that are placed and replaced            based on what someone is doing or not doing, supporting or expressing in each moment. These are not permanent tattoos.

It’s helped blur (probably not erase) my tattoo to read THE BOOK OF DELIGHTS by Ross Gay, African-American poet and professor at Indiana University. I’d enjoyed his first book, a catalogue of unabashed gratitude (Please don’t correct; he prefers the lower case title), all poetry.

With this one, he set out to write “a daily essay about something delightful.” In doing so, he discovered the development of a “delight radar” or “delight muscle.” So too, people who keep gratitude journals find that the regular discipline of writing down what they’re grateful for increases their appreciation. Themes emerge: travel, gardens, food, kindness, cafes, relationships. His lyrical prose touches lightly and insightfully on racism, but for the most part, we’re on happy, shared, human ground here.

Some of the more unusual delights are friends who dutifully write their names and phone numbers in the spaces provided in journals or backpacks, a trust in human decency—someone will return this if it’s lost. Or a “new brand of flummoxment” when Gay, a large, athletic man, is caught off kilter and almost sprains his ankle trying to re-align his arms for a friend’s hug. Or the purple stain on the skin from mulberries. Or carefully carrying a tomato plant on a plane, seeing the friendliness it evokes.

While many of the themes are familiar from religious traditions (valuing the meal, “the encyclopedia of human gestures,” the ego’s come-uppance), it’s a joy to read fresh, non-religious language. The word “vulnerable” must be over-used, so Gay’s “small and hurt-able” seems stronger. The poetic phrasing helps us see anew and think twice. His description of a grove of pawpaw trees could fit CA redwoods or mid-western oaks too: “something ancient and protective”… “the groveness also a kind of naveness.” Lotsa sacred places outside of church!

Popular media has conflated suffering and blackness, so Gay brings a unique twist: “A book of black delight. Daily as air.” He also challenges us to find our own: what delights might this day hold?

Hope this isn’t “beating a dead horse,” but her feast July 22 offers a good time to revisit what happened to this central figure in Christianity. In the seventh century, Pope Gregory lent authority to a mistake: the conflation of texts about 3 women in scripture. The mud-slinging against Mary Magdalene continued until a correction in 1969, but the good news of scholarship takes a long time to reach the public. In many groups, one still hears the identification of her with a prostitute. Or in Dan Brown’s novel, the wife of Jesus.

All four gospels agree she was one of the first witnesses to the resurrection, apostle to the apostles. Why did early church fathers shift her role to financier/ crazy woman/Peter’s rival, or ignore her? Partial answers include sexism, misogyny, opposition to women’s leadership, growing emphasis on celibacy. For 1400 years, the authority of a major woman witness was sadly reduced. The amount of energy that has gone into suppressing Mary Magdalene’s voice indicates she must have posed a huge threat to the religious establishment.

Reclaiming her true identity, we can appreciate how Jesus calling her name in the garden after his resurrection is a pivotal turning point, not only for her but for all subsequent human history. She was the first to realize that God can vanquish even death. Which makes all other obstacles seem minor.

This film takes on new meaning in the Trump era, when many people feel the need to resist, but are torn: on which despicable, unjust, racist, inhumane act of the administration should we focus? And how to best use our energies?

Viewers may already know the story of the White Rose: a group of brave German youth who wrote leaflets detailing their opposition to a war which Hitler could “prolong but never win.” Hans Scholl, 24, a medic with the German forces on the eastern front, had seen first-hand the callous waste of life and devastation there. His sister Sophie, 21, supported him and assisted in distributing the illegal leaflets at the university in Munich and throughout the city. The small group of students were armed only with a duplicating machine, their conviction and intelligence. Presbyterians, they seemed marginally aware of Nazi treatment of Jews, a rumor whispered among neighbors.

One measure of their audacity was how it threw the Nazis into unhinged vehemence. According to the film, convicts usually got 99 days before they were beheaded. The brother and sister were caught on Feb. 18, 1943, convicted of treason, and killed on Feb. 22, shortly before the German defeat. She was a pediatric nurse; he a medical student—what a waste of resources the war-torn nation could’ve used.

The film, available on Amazon Prime, is stark, befitting its subject. Sophie remains cool and calm, with only a few scenes that show her humanity: weeping in fear for her parents, basking in the sun on her face as she walks to her execution. Photos of the actual Sophie at the end show her laughing, beautiful, alive. Even a Nazi interrogator seems intrigued by her clarity and conviction. He once offers her real coffee, but then follows the dull path of many sycophants. (Et tu, Archbishop Dolan?)

Perhaps the most dramatic scene is the trial, when the defense attorney doesn’t say a word on behalf of the Scholls, and the judge rants in a belligerent, deranged, repetitive tirade. (Does the style sound familiar?) Because of its focus on the last days, the film omits one of my favorite details in the story: when their dad was earlier imprisoned by Nazis, the siblings played classical music at his window so he could listen through the bars. As the young people walk to the guillotine, one has a strong sense that their story doesn’t end with the clank of the blade. Indeed, British planes would drop their smuggled leaflets all over Germany, near the time of the Allied victory.

Sophie referred to herself as “a little candle,” but she still shines a brilliant light on our inertia and complacency.

“It is essential to know all the times and seasons of one good place.” –Thomas Merton

An unexpected benefit of quarantine has been returning via computer to a parish in Denver I’ve always loved: Most Precious Blood. Seeing pictures on-line of the sanctuary with audio of the choir singing helped me realize how much it meant to me for many years. I began attending there when I was in graduate school nearby—alone and brand new to the area. Later, I taught in their school, then began bringing my infants and toddlers, later children who attended the school too. When my sons began seriously dating the women who’d become their wives, we brought them there on Christmas Eve. Although my residence changed three times in a 50-year span, MPB parish remained a steady constant.

When I’m in town, I always return and find familiar faces. Not to idealize: over the years, there were inept pastors, terrible preachers, annoying parishioners and time-wasting activities. But the whole human spectrum played out in one arena: there were also fine lectures, lotsa coffee and potlucks, superb music, an introduction to RCIA which would be important personally and professionally, deep friendships. I’d always objected to the way priests toss around the term “community,” as if rubbing elbows with 500 strangers were the be-all and end-all. But for a few years, I think I experienced its bonding blessings there, spilling into the watering hole across the street and many private homes.

Often, I was eager to escape after Mass since demands loomed: guests for dinner, grocery shopping, exercise, social or work commitments, a trip to the mountains. But maybe I should’ve lingered: pervading the place was a sense of faithful people doing tons of good. Their list of ministries is long, and now, fine people anchor the staff: music and liturgy directors, education leaders, social outreach coordinators.

The pastor, Pat Dolan combines unique talents: extraordinary musical ability and a wild sense of humor. Over the years, my journals have been sprinkled with his memorable ideas. He phrased beautifully the mantra I’ve used since moving OUT of my comfort zone several years ago: “I’m not in my element here, but how can I help?” Committed to a Spirit “much bigger than us,” he never gets too lofty or self-impressed. In a recent reflection on “Salt and Light,” he described attending a racism protest wearing full black clerics and face mask, unable to find the other ministers he planned to meet, in 90 degree heat. “It wasn’t an ethereal moment,” he grinned.

For some, MPB may be too liberal, and for others, too conservative. But for many it has been a blessing that stretches through seasons and years.