Author Archives: Kathy Coffey

Katharine Drexel’s story shows that even the wealthy can be saints. When her father died in 1885, the financial genius left a $15.5 million estate, divided among his three daughters. About $1.5 million went to several charities, leaving the girls to share in the income produced by $14 million—about $1,000 a day for each woman. In current dollars, the estate would be worth about $250 million. Mmmm—I’m already fantasizing about beach houses, mountain lodges and shoe sales…

But as a young girl, Katharine had been sensitized to the poverty of native Americans. During a papal audience, she pleaded for missionaries to work with them. Pope Leo XIII parried with an astute question: “But why not be a missionary yourself, my child?”

Katharine’s final decision was trumpeted by a banner headline in The Philadelphia Public Ledger: “Miss Drexel Enters a Catholic Convent—Gives Up Seven Million.” That May 1889 news, which shocked the city’s elite, wasn’t quite accurate. She didn’t give up seven million; she would during the next 60 years give away about $20 million. It went to support of her work, building schools and churches, paying the salaries of teachers in rural schools for blacks and native Americans.

It began in 1891, with the profession of Drexel’s first vows as a religious, dedicated to work among the native Americans and Afro-Americans in the western and southwestern United States. What quickly followed was the establishment of a religious community with thirteen other women, the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. They started in 1894 the first mission school in Santa Fe, and eventually began 50 missions for native Americans in 16 states.

We may admire, but the road wasn’t easy; in fact Drexel faced enormous bigotry.  In 1913, the Georgia Legislature, hoping to stop the Blessed Sacrament Sisters from teaching at a Macon school, tried to pass a law to prevent white teachers from teaching black students.

Furthermore, in 1915, when Mother Katharine purchased an abandoned university building to open Xavier Preparatory School for black students in New Orleans, vandals smashed every window. Her lively sense of humor helped her endure. She was often self-deprecating; humor would remain a gift throughout her lifetime.

Despite the prevailing prejudice, Drexel made possibly her most famous foundation–Xavier University, which sends more African-American graduates to medical school than any other university in the country. Despite harassment from the Ku Klux Klan, by 1942 her order had established a system of black Catholic schools in 13 states, plus 40 mission centers and 23 rural schools.  

Her biography takes a surprising turn in 1935, when Katharine had a heart attack, and two years later retired as superior general. She had traveled constantly by train and stagecoach, gathering knowledge about the Navajos, the Sioux, and the deplorable state of education for native and black children. Until poor health at age 76 forced retirement, she made an annual visit to each of her far-flung foundations (145 missions and 12 schools for native Americans, 50 schools for black students).

It must have been a huge transition for one who had been so dramatically active and always on the move, but from her wheelchair she continued praying for justice to those she had served so long.  She had wanted a more contemplative life, and she spent her last twenty years in prayer. She must have savored a cornucopia of memories, writing: “God has let me see with my own eyes the good results of God’s desire.”

During Drexel’s canonization at the Vatican, a gospel choir sang and native Americans danced. Must’ve livened up the solemn spaces considerably!

February 27 won’t be celebrated as a national holiday or marked on the official calendar of saints. But maybe it should be. On this day in 2003, Fred Rogers died of cancer.

I’ll admit that when my children were small, I was simply grateful that Mr. Rogers and “Sesame St.” entertained them for an hour so I could cook dinner. (No coincidence that the two shows appeared during cocktail hour.) Although I overheard the sound track playing in the next room, I didn’t begin to understand what Mr. Rogers was doing until the documentary film “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” hit the theaters last fall, and was surprisingly popular.

This ordained Presbyterian minister saw as no one else did the potential in the relatively new medium of television. In the long run, he’d touch more people more deeply than he would’ve by following  a more traditional clerical role. His first show launched in 1968 with a ritual that would calm and settle children for the next 33 years: Mr. Rogers would put on his cardigan and tennies, singing his theme song, “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.” Then off he’d roll into explorations, music, intriguing discussions.

His approach wasn’t as simplistic as it might sound. He tackled topics that were on everyone’s mind, like integration, assassination, divorce, bullying, death, and explained them clearly for children. By enjoying a cool wading pool with a black neighbor, their feet mingling side by side, he spoke profoundly about human equality without a word. He encouraged children to feel the whole gamut of emotions: sad and angry were OK too, and needn’t be stuffed. He was deeply present to everyone he interviewed on the show, and to the many children who attended his personal appearances.

When criticized for making a whole generation feel “special,” he asked if that wasn’t the basis for Christianity? And if everyone isn’t special, we’re in trouble! A vocal critic of slick marketing and violent programming for children, he’d be appalled at what’s foisted on them now. One small note of personal delight: my grandchildren know the “Won’t you be my neighbor?” song. When I asked where they’d learned it: “Daniel the Tiger!” Apparently this character who appeared originally on the show when their parents were young lives on now. May another generation profit from the profound insights, compassion and gratitude conveyed by Mr. Rogers.

I’ve written extensively about this bold woman, but it seems even more important to tell and retell her story now, when some in government thoughtlessly disregard the precious resources of the environment.

Dorothy Stang was a gutsy idealist, who had always wanted to be a missionary. Arriving in Brazil with her friend Joan Krimm in 1966 was a dream come true. It’s embarrassing that after 400 years of Catholicism in Brazil, they have 18 million homeless and the largest gap between rich and poor of any country in the world. By 1974, greedy loggers and ranchers had destroyed 40 million acres of invaluable rainforest, a process which continues. This extraordinary gift of God’s creation contains 30% of the world’s biodiversity. Worse, the wealthy landowners treat their workers like slaves, and exploit them heartlessly.

Seeing the children’s malnutrition and the people’s ignorance of their rights ignited Dorothy. She worked with women to establish base communities, and even delivered–in a jeep—a baby who was named by her mother “Maria Jeepa.”[1] In Anapu, she built 36 schools in 36 years, then insisted the teacher get the government salary required by law. Perhaps most importantly, she upheld the dignity of human beings constantly threatened by the police, military or landowners.

Furthermore, Dorothy had studied Brazilian law, and had no problem calling federal officials to accountability. They would let her wait for hours, then treat her condescendingly. Impatient with their stonewalling, she would sometimes dig into their files to find the protests they denied receiving. Any small victory loomed large, such as farmers blockading a bridge until the government finally fixed the road.

On her home visits, Dorothy would get medical treatment for worms, study life-giving subjects like Creation Spirituality, enjoy parties and ice cream. She came downstairs for her golden jubilee wearing her usual uniform, a t-shirt and shorts. Other sisters pleaded, “surely for this day, you could wear a skirt?” Her happiness seemed unassailable; she was doing what she loved in Brazil and was eager to return.

Only in later years do her letters reveal some ambiguity. Progress seemed slow, the poor were getting poorer and fighting among themselves[2]. She was growing tired, and her body, older. After she turned 70, long walks through the jungle became harder. Nonetheless, she continued arduous trips to Brasilia, reporting illegal logging. She was up against a hard fact: Brazil was becoming the largest cattle exporter in the world. With a booming logging business, the economy was improving. No government wants to impede that—and few officials wanted to hear the protests of “an old woman,” as Dorothy termed herself in her seventies. The $20,000 bounty offered by loggers and ranchers for anyone who’d kill her seemed astronomical to poor people.

At the same time she got death threats, with an irony that seems peculiar to Brazil, she received awards: the Chico Mendes Medal and Humanitarian of the Year award in 2004. She continued to delight in unscarred rainforest, its green canopy her cathedral, and small reforestration efforts a joy.

One friend of Dorothy, Luis, encouraged other farmers to stay on land that was rightfully theirs. But the rancher Bida sent drunken henchmen to threaten Luis and his wife Francisca’s seven children. Allowing the frightened family a little time to escape, the thugs then burned down his house and crops. Although Dorothy reported the crime to federal police, they had little interest in arresting anyone. Dorothy had a map that clearly showed the land belonged to Luis and other farmers, and planned a meeting with them for February 12, 2005.

She never got there. Beneath magnificent towering trees, two men confronted her on the path. She showed them her map, again explaining the farmers’ rights. Asked if she had a weapon, she replied, “only one,” and pulled out her Bible. She read aloud the Beatitudes, so her last words would have been “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.” What a graceful prelude to a violent death. Shooting her several times, the gunmen vanished.

Ordinary people grieved; ranchers and loggers exulted, thinking that after a few days the turmoil would subside and they could continue on their arrogant ways. They didn’t anticipate the solidarity of crowds who were outraged, the banners demanding justice for the killing, the voices of human rights groups, lawyers, Notre Dame sisters and friends, the long series of trials.

Amid shouts of “Dorothy Vive!” she was buried in her favorite dress with a sunflower pattern. St. Julie, the foundress of her order had said, “turn to God as sunflowers turn to sun.” Certainly she had lived the Notre Dame motto, “Women with hearts as wide as the world.”

Excerpted from When the Saints Came Marching In by Kathy Coffey. Liturgical Press: 800-858-5450, http://www.litpress.org

Many people don’t know the story of Josephine Bakhita, but it’s one that should be told and retold. Born in 1869, she was captured by slave traders at the age of nine, and would never see her family again. One particular torture stands out in a list of horrors. Pinned to the ground, Josephine was cut with a razor in over sixty places. Salt was rubbed into the cuts to prevent healing and leave more visible scars, which increased the profits to slave masters when they were sold. She was then left on a mat for three months, without any care. Her only comment? “I thought I would die.”

Fortunately, she was later sold in the Khartoum market to an Italian diplomatic family, and accompanied their child to school in Italy.  Learning the Christian religion there changed her life dramatically. When the family ordered her to return with them to Africa, she refused. It caused an international crisis, but she remained adamant: “I can’t risk losing God.” Finally, she remained, free because slavery was illegal in Italy.

The former slave continued to marvel she was a daughter of God, and eventually became a sister, where she served the community as cook, seamstress and doorkeeper. To children who’d never met an African, she reassured, “I’m made of chocolate!” Steadily, she endured two world wars, humbly and faithfully warming plates in winter to make sure her dishes arrived hot and tasty. Her attitude toward her captors was, “Poor things! They did not know God.” “Survivor” is a term glibly tossed around on reality TV shows, but Bakhita gives the words new meaning—and redefines forgiveness.

On Tuesday 1/29, I heard the host of “On Being” (https://onbeing.org) podcasts speak at Stanford University. Sponsored by the Haas Center for Service Learning, Krista Tippett is the Mimi and Peter E. Haas Distinguished Visitor; her conversation with Abraham Verghese and Denise Pope centered on “Emerging Generations’ Redefinition of the Meaning of ‘Success.’”

For those not familiar with the project, each episode addresses three questions: What does it mean to be human? How do we want to live? Who will we be to each other? Fascinating interviews have been done with John O’Donoghue, Mary Oliver, Martin Sheen, David Whyte, Simone Campbell, Jean Vanier, Brene Brown, Jonathan Sacks, Richard Rohr, James Doty and Nikki Giovanni, among many others. While those interviewed explore the three deep questions, they’re encouraged to avoid dogma, certainty or the mention of God.

Amy Larocca does an in-depth study of the Tippett phenomenon in New York Magazine  1/17/19: (https://www.thecut.com/2019/01/npr-on-being-host-krista-tippet.html#_ga=2.23339834.1069807446.1548957347-348962154.1548957347).

She cites an interesting statistic:

people born between 1928 and 1945—85% identified as Christian

people born between 1989 and 1996– 56% identified as Christian.

While the figures definitely point to a more multi-cultural society, and don’t cite the believers who are Muslim, Jewish, Buddhist or members of other traditions, it’s still intriguing. It makes one wonder if we’ve reached a point where religious language has grown so tired, overused, or abstract that it doesn’t speak to contemporary seekers.

In the same article, Tippett says, “I do love deep religious conviction, and I really honor that, but I like the idea that we can hold that in a creative tension with a real humility before mystery.” She’s definitely touched a chord with the growing group that now rates their own acronym: SBNR (Spiritual but not religious). As our society grows crazier and harsher, many look for “stories and ideas and attitudes that resist or overwhelm the hostile staccato rhythm of most contemporary culture. All of this means that Tippett has very much met her moment.”

The focus of this discussion was on alternative definitions of success when money, celebrity and power don’t cut it. How could we set more thoughtful, compassionate goals? Pope’s research shows that the expectations placed on high school students come with high costs: anxiety, suicide ideation, eating disorders, sleep deprivation, intense anxiety. And it turns out that the choice of a college which many parents and teens agonize over doesn’t matter as much to life-long happiness as the level of student engagement once there. All the speakers exalted what they learned from failure, and called perfection “the booby prize in life.”

The evening’s most poignant moment came when Tippett asked Verghese (author of Cutting for Stone and professor at Stanford Medical School) to read one of his favorite poems: e.e.cummings’ “i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)”. He began, but teared up and asked Pope to read. A profound, unintended glimpse of what it means to be human!

When the government seems to lack any moral grounding, it’s refreshing to find it anywhere, but especially in that surprising media, t.v. Not that I watch much, but as disclosed previously, I’m a rabid fan of “Madam Secretary,” http://www.cbs.com/shows/madam-secretary.

The episodes on 12/23/18 and 1/6/19, easily viewed at the website above, tackled the thorny problem of refugee children separated from their parents at the border. Although some would inflate the issue into hordes of criminals ransacking the country, the program shows the reality: a thin, desperate mother escaping a violent country with her 6-year old son to save his life. What ensues is painfully familiar: the child taken into “custody,” the bewildered, anxious mother treated as a criminal because she innocently asked for asylum. The viewer cringes as she promises him they’ll meet soon.

Then the joyous treat begins. When the White House hears that the governor of Arizona is behaving this despicably, President Dalton and his staff are outraged. They heap invectives about a “trumped up crisis” on the inhumane treatment, and stoutly maintain this is not who we are as a country. They immediately seek recourse in the courts and legislature. When these channels for change fail, the Secretary of State goes personally to visit the children’s detention center.

Elizabeth McCord is horrified by the scene of children, some crying, some curled in fetal positions, some numb, held in cages. She quickly dispels the myth that “it’s like summer camp” floated by Fox News, and rightly terms it a moral outrage. Indeed she acts on her convictions, is arrested by the sheriff, hand-cuffed and jailed. When the president offers to retrieve her, she refuses, since the refugees have no such quick out.

The show draws attention to the problem again, keeping firm focus on this egregious violation of human rights when we can be distracted. It raises intense concern about the numbers of children still in federal custody, a situation a Harvard child psychiatrist says creates irreparable harm. Federal agencies like Health and Human Services have such poor communication and miserable record-keeping that they can’t account for the children in their care. Nicholas Kristof in The New York Times www.nytimes.com/2019/01/12/opinion/sunday/trump-shutdown-border-wall.html?emc=edit_nk_20190112&nl=nickkristof&nlid=7376996320190112&te=1 cites a study  (www.propublica.org/article/border-patrol-families-still-being-separated-at-border-after-zero-tolerance-immigration-policy-reversed)  showing a four-year old boy ripped from his Salvadoran father and sent to New York, where Catholic Charities held him in foster care, unaware of his heartbroken dad.

Sure, “Madam Secretary” is fiction. But telling a story so close to truth should nudge the national conscience, remind us who we are, encourage protest and enact immediate change.

Box it up, put it away:

Nativity Scene, 2018.

Infant in a cage,

Magi banned from travel.

Desperate parents fleeing

murderous thugs, saving

the child’s life. While

Herod-in-Chief names them

thieves and murderers, amasses

armies to defend rampant fear.

The moral unraveling not so

easily packaged and shelved:

we tolerated this atrocity.

Still on southern borders

a child sleeps beneath aluminum foil,

wakes to the glint of sun on fence.

Kathy Coffey will speak at St. Joan’s parish in San Ramon CA 1/25. Admission free, but pre-registration required: https://www.eventbrite.com/o/fr-ray-and-st-joan-of-arc-staff-7811088537

I’ll readily admit, I don’t tune into many sessions of Congress. Nor have I ever before grown misty-eyed watching one. But this year’s was a first, perhaps for many of us.

The words, “Ms. Pelosi, I extend to you this gavel” carried enormous weight. In simple, ritual words, Republican Rep. Kevin McCarthy signaled a transition of power. No tanks filled the streets; no military presence controlled Washington DC. Yet all had shifted in the 116^th Congress.

That august chamber, the House of Representatives was filled with children. Sometimes noisy, clearly excited, dressed up for the rare event, they gathered ‘round Grandmother Pelosi as she took the oath “on behalf of the children of the United States.” It represented tangibly our hope for the country to improve for the next generation, especially for the Dreamers, the refugees and the children separated from their parents at the border.

Some parents and grandparents, also sworn in as new members, represented the most racially, ethnically and gender-diverse body ever assembled. The visual was superb: a Palestinian thobe, a Muslim hijab, a Pueblo dress, mirroring, though not yet completely, the people the House represents.

Of course it’s not perfect.  Much work remains to restore the best this country can be and stop the abysmal abuse of civil rights and destruction of the environment. But hope is a gift and a grace from God, which like all gifts and graces, is mediated by human voices and hands. As Rev. Cynthia Bourgeault writes, “Mystical hope is not tied to a good outcome, to the future. …It has to do with… being met, held in communion, by something intimately at hand.” It’s not American optimism, that everything will turn out the way I want, but ultimately, the way God wants.

How appropriate that the dramatic opening of Congress occurred three days before the Christian feast of Epiphany with its reassurance that light will overcome even the darkest times. The radiant star and Herod’s slaughter of babies rub shoulders in the day’s readings.  So we continue the expectation that the Divine Mystery will be revealed in human things, a healthy humility mixed with a buoyant hope.

Yes, you have much to do. You confront a massive agenda; many people are counting on you for reform. First on your list should be sane, national gun control.

The Parkland students rallied the country and changed some Florida laws—but too briefly, too little. Since then, we’ve had the Thousand Oaks and synagogue shootings. In what kind of country are kids afraid to go to school? “You go to a movie theater in Aurora and all of a sudden your life is taken,” Columbine High School principal Frank DeAngelis said. “You’re at a shopping mall in Portland, Oregon, and your life is taken. It has to stop, these senseless deaths.”

The U.S. must follow the lead of Canada, Australia, Japan, the UK, France and every other civilized nation, to abolish or severely restrict firearms. Other countries’ death rates by guns are miniscule compared to ours. U.S. residents aren’t inherently more violent; they simply have an unrestricted access to deadly weapons that astonishes residents of other countries.

The Second Amendment gave citizens the right to muskets–not military assault rifles. Although polls suggest most people favor stricter gun laws, the NRA contributed $31 million to Trump’s campaign, and countless more to other legislators. The popular slogan puts it pungently: “teachers stand up to gunmen but Congress won’t stand up to the N.R.A.”

Richard Blanco continued that theme in a poem read at the 2013 inauguration:

“the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain

the empty desks of twenty children marked absent

today, and forever. “

Tom Teves, whose 24-year old son was killed in the Aurora CO shooting says, “If you can’t shoot a deer with one bullet and kill it, you’re not a sportsman.” No hunter uses the kinds of weapons nor large magazines that have caused such devastation. Yet, the Federal Assault Weapons Ban, which expired in 2004, has not been renewed.

You could change that. As you prioritize issues, ask the parents of a six-year old, murdered at Sandy Hook, what should come first.

We interrupt the liturgical flow of this season for a bulletin about a film, so readers can catch it before it leaves their cities. One of the finest this year, it features a black classical pianist, Dr. Don Shirley (Mahershala Ali), and his driver, Tony “Lip” Vallelonga (Viggo Mortensen), an Italian-American bouncer who had been working in New York City’s Copacabana club.

Based on a true story, the two embark on a concert tour of the south in the sixties–when they need a guide book (the “Green”) to identify hotels and restaurants that will serve African-Americans. Most of those places are pretty dismal, and it’s painful to watch the highly educated, refined Shirley adapt to such scruffy quarters.

But the journey (as in most metaphors) becomes more than a series of scheduled performances. It’s poetic to watch the fastidious Don Shirley eat fried chicken with his hands for the first time—Vallelonga got a bucket of Kentucky Fried in Kentucky. Tony is so uneducated, he refers to a classical trio as “the band” and Chopin as “Joe Pan.” His letters to his wife begin at a third grade level, but Don coaxes him into a lyric romanticism. Their discoveries of each other are shot through with humor, and the random match brings together two who are brilliantly suited.

The duo encounter blatant, violent racism and the audience legitimately fears for their safety. Tony is shocked by the insults to the superb musician, but always defends him, so his “bruiser” skills come in handy. Deep down, Tony holds marvelous good, which Don comes to appreciate. With frequent starts and stops, they develop a friendship which continued until their deaths in 2013, within a few months of each other.

Those who have studied the True and False self can see how much energy Don pours into maintaining his tuxedoed façade—which may explain why he drinks so much. But in the final scenes, he heroically drives his exhausted driver through a blizzard so Tony can rejoin his family for Christmas Eve dinner. In Don’s climactic meeting with these loud Italians, they are at first shocked into silence. But then someone orders in best “mange bene” style, “get the man a plate!”

Some valid criticisms have surfaced in reviews of the film, and it’s probably not perfect. But it’s one of the best vehicles for the message of incarnation anyone is likely to see this holiday season. How much we mean to each other.