Category Archives: Family Spirituality

“God will make a house for you” comes the Advent promise of 2 Samuel 7. An echo comes in Matthew 1:24: “[Joseph] took his wife into his home.” Despite the natural hesitation he must’ve felt, Joseph brings Mary first into the home of his heart, then his physical dwelling. In his adult life, Jesus would give people who wandered ungrounded and unhoused homes within himself, promising in John 15: 4, “Make your home in me, as I make mine in you.”

It’s such a natural metaphor, easy to imagine. Home is where we cook, eat, relax, eagerly return when it’s cold or rainy, cry, read, invite friends and family, sleep and laugh: the shelter of our truest self. In The Reed of God, a book I’ve read many Advents since high school, Caryll Houselander says, “It’s as if the human race were a little dark house, without light or air, locked and latched.” When Mary says “Yes” to Gabriel, she opens the door to a clean wind and light, “and in that little house a child was born.”

The shared belief of Christians is that Jesus has become one with humans, indeed has pitched his tent within us. None of us deserves this, so we celebrate God’s lavish abandon, the scandalous gratuity of God’s gift.

If this seems a tall order, if we’re too tired or depressed to rejoice, we can take heart from the ambiguity of the feast. Mary’s reaction to the angel is to be “much perplexed.” Indeed, the whole experience is for her a two-edged sword: joy tempered by natural, human fear.

Oh Mary, if you could see us now. Trying to evade the relentless cheer of holiday songs repeated so often we could scream, figuring out how we’ll “get it all done,” buzzing with details. You created a balance between anticipation and confusion. You focused on the important thing: making a home in yourself where the small and vulnerable could shelter.  Bring us home to ourselves, to our creative calling.

Need a gift to help an older person appreciate all they mean to us? Try A Generous Lap: A Spirituality of Grandparenting. Orbis Books, 800-258-5838, or their website: https://orbisbooks.com/

This season seems permeated with impossibilities like the dead stump of Jesse budding. Even if we could wrap our minds around the idea of God becoming human, “pitching a tent in us,“ it’s an even longer leap to see ourselves as God’s children, heirs to the divine kingdom. Irish poet John O’Donohue writes of “being betrothed to the unknown.” Christmas means we are also married to the impossible, getting comfortable with the preposterous. It all began with Mary’s vote of confidence: “For nothing is impossible with God.” When we hear Mary’s “Magnificat,” we might remember Elizabeth’s words that precede it: “Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord will be fulfilled” (Luke 1:45).

It’s a good time to ask ourselves, do we let bitterness and cynicism poison our hearts? Ironically, WE are conscious of our own limitations. GOD keeps reminding us of our high calling, royal lineage and a mission so impeccably suited to our talents and abilities, no one else in the world can do it. Again, Mary is the perfect model. She might not understand half the titles given her son in the “Alleluia Chorus” of the “Messiah.” Mighty God? Prince of Peace? Such language is better suited to a royal citadel than a poor village named Nazareth.  While her questions are natural, she never wimps out with “I don’t deserve this honor.” Instead, she rises to the occasion.

What’s become of our great dreams? Have we adjusted “wisely” to reality, or buried ideals in a tide of cynicism? Mired in our own problems and anxieties, do we struggle more with good news than with bad? If these questions make us squirm, perhaps we need the prayer of Macrina Wiederkehr, OSB: “God help me believe the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is.”

Remember that the adult Jesus hung out with some unsavory characters: crooks and curmudgeons, loudmouths and lepers, shady ladies and detested tax guys. In his scheme of things, our virtue trips us up more than our sin. The ugly stain of self-righteousness blocks our path to God more than natural, human failures.  Limited as we know ourselves to be, we might ask ourselves the question raised by novelist Gail Godwin, “who of us can say we’re not in the process of being used right now, this Advent, to fulfill some purpose whose grace and goodness would boggle our imagination if we could even begin to get our minds around it?” (“Genealogy and Grace” in Watch for the Light. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2004, 167)

Notice the angel Gabriel’s first word to Mary: “Rejoice.” The baby in Elizabeth’s womb as she greets Mary “leaps for joy.” Let’s remember that tone this week, which can be one of the most hectic in the year. The angel says, “rejoice.” Not “spend. Clean. Cook. Decorate. Shop. Bake. Wrap. Shop again. Create the perfect holiday ambiance. Work to exhaustion. Make everyone in the family sublimely happy.”

As we do seasonal tasks this week, may we do them not as perfectionists, but with a mantra of gratitude and praise: Not “I have to do this,” but “I get to do this. Let me do it with thanks.” An added incentive: “Masaka Kids,” a Netflix documentary about children who were living on the streets in Uganda, many orphaned by AIDS, who have little to rejoice about, but dance like a fast-moving portrait of joy.

Need a gift to help an older person appreciate all they mean to us? Try A Generous Lap: A Spirituality of Grandparenting. Orbis Books, 800-258-5838, or their website: https://orbisbooks.com/

The human ego resists change, especially as we age. “Gimme my safe rut, even if it’s miserable!” we say, defying logic. But Advent presents a different approach to change.

In Jesus’ time, the governor, tetrarch and high priest seemed like the marble pillars of society, suggesting stoic permanence. Against such stony political, military and religious might, how could a voice crying in the desert have any effect at all? Ah, stay tuned… What a topsy-turvy, crazy toppling will ensue.

Change is bound to come our way this season too—the usual routines so disrupted that some people eagerly anticipate the resumption of school and work schedules. But the two key figures of Advent, John the Baptist and Mary have no guarantees, no script foretelling the future, no promise that everything will go back to normal post-holiday.

Mary models the perfect response to God’s unexpected, even scandalous intervention in her life. When she told Gabriel, “May it be to me as you have said,” she had no idea what that meant. All she’d learned was the trust handed on by her great great-grandmothers: if it comes from God’s hands, it must be perfectly tailored for me.

In times of central heating and plentiful food supplies, we no longer battle the winter as our ancestors did, finding it a precarious season to stay alive–isolated from others, running low on resources. Our great-grandparents who endured many cold, gloomy nights must’ve rejoiced at those glints of light in dark forests, when almost imperceptibly, the planet tilted towards spring, and the days became longer.

We too have reasons for despair, crippling fears, anxiety over how much we need to do before Christmas. If problems are more serious, do we run from them, or lean into them, wondering what they might teach us? Can we befriend our pain, knowing we’re more than its sting? Could we embrace for once an imperfect holiday, not scripted by Martha Stewart, but perhaps closer to the first, where an unmarried couple had to scrounge an inhospitable place to have a baby?

This Advent may be one of the darkest ever, especially for fearful immigrants, hungry people losing food security, those deeply concerned about the future of our democracy, and those watching their health insurance premiums soar. All that is desperately wrong may highlight our need for God. It may also alert us to the glimmers of hope—the watchful whistles warning of ICE raids in Chicago, the staunch federal judges unafraid to name unlawful government actions, the churches and synagogues that continue the centuries-old tradition of offering sanctuary, the bold journalists—and comedians!–who name the evil.

Such signs help us start Advent not with dread or foreboding, but with joyful anticipation. It’s like welcoming into our homes a dear friend or relative whom we haven’t seen for a while. There’s probably a flurry of cleaning, grocery shopping and cooking—all done with delight. When we look forward to renewing a close relationship, the preparation isn’t a burdensome chore. It may be tiring, but it’s happy.   

Jesus gives the disciples similar advice in today’s gospel: don’t be snoozing when an important visitor arrives. Be alert, awake, watchful as people are at an airport, searching the crowd for a beloved face.

How much more carefully we await the arrival of God. God is already with us, always and everywhere. Our Advent preparations highlight that presence, helping us become more aware. If we are lulled into anesthesia by despair, busy schedules or overfamiliarity, Advent is the wake-up call. Look beyond the current mess, towards God’s unfailing care. Do we surrender our bedrock beliefs because of a would-be dictator, who might be short-lived? Do we give up hope so easily?

It’s encouraging to read how people in other, sometimes worse regimes, responded to de-humanizing brutality with creativity and hope. In El Salvador, Chile, Argentina, South Africa, the US during slavery and Jim Crow, and many other places, ordinary heroes mustered their courage, “threw off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.”  This dark Advent may call us, as it did others in history, to a “conspiracy of compassion.” In previous years, we’ve prayed it ritually; this year it may be more heartfelt: “Come Lord Jesus, and do not delay.”

At first it may seem odd to have a feast for a basilica, as Catholics do today for St. John Lateran. But then consider: during the World War II Nazi occupation of Rome, Monsignor Hugh O’Flaherty (yup, Irish) rescued over 4000 Jews and Allied prisoners of war through a clever network of hiding places in churches, monasteries and homes. (The daring exploit was recorded in the film The Scarlet and the Black, 1983.) That feat makes even more special a tradition that has always revered sacred spaces. Furthermore, Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians tells people they are sacred dwellings: “You are God’s building…Do you not know that you are the temple of God?”  (3:9, 11)

While scripture and tradition say clearly that churches should be places for good news, beautiful art and music, nurture, affirmations–never condemnations–most of us learn in more domestic spaces what Jesus means by “make your home in me as I make mine in you.”  What a blessing it is to stay (or live) in a home where the welcome is authentic, the plush towels are piled high, the frig. is well stocked and the conversations are relaxed, interesting. Sometimes I think Thomas Merton, writing from his stark hermitage would laugh at me checking the thread count on the sheets. But he writes: “all our salvation begins on the level of common and natural and ordinary things….the psalms of one’s coughings and sneezings and coffee drinkings… “

And what of those who wash the dishes, change the beds, fold the towels, tuck toothbrushes and band-aids into bathroom cabinets, do the grocery shopping, cook the food, subtly make sure each room is a haven? They’d probably say, “just doing my job,” like the people in Mathew 25:37, who seem genuinely startled when they ask, “When, Lord, did we see you hungry and give you food, or thirsty and give you something to drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you?” Or they act like the good host in Lk. 14:15-24, who despite their rudeness and lame excuses, keeps inviting people to dinner: “come in that my home may be filled.”

It may seem a stretch from St. John Lateran to the local swimming pool. But there, a drama unfolded when a mom brought a boy with neurodivergence for his first swim lesson. The child was terrified, bellowing in fear as he clutched mom and teacher in a death grip. I doubted he’d be persuaded by the toys the teacher tried, but eventually, she eased him into the water. Cradling him tightly, she never let go as they tentatively entered a little shallow water. Gradually, the screams of terror turned to shrieks of delight. By the end of the lesson, the boy rode grandly as a prince on the teacher’s back as she swam a half lap to the delight of other swimmers.  Mom took pictures of a quiet miracle: that teacher had helped the child feel at home in the water. So too parent-God holds us tight in a fearful world, slowly suggesting it’s our home.

Anyone seeking directions on a website or application will discover many routes by different forms of transportation: bus, car, foot, light rail, etc. So too, the saints have found multiple ways to God—or perhaps with vast creative power, God finds multiplies ways to reach them. And let’s consider in this number not only the officially canonized saints, but those who lived unheralded lives of quiet holiness.

Consider, for instance the dazzling diversity between Junipero Serra, who poured energies into building a string of California mission churches, and Thomas Merton, who wrote of the same building: “The church was stifling with solemn, feudal and unbreathable fictions. … The spring outside seemed much more sacred. . . .  Easter afternoon I went to the lake and sat in silence looking at the green buds, the wind skimming the utterly silent surface of the water, a muskrat slowly paddling to the other side… One could breathe. The alleluias came back by themselves. “[1]

Unsung saints continue to pioneer wildly diverse roads today: in the research hospitals that seek a cure for Alzheimer’s, the labs that discover new ways to purify water or use solar power in Africa, the schools that encourage and educate neglected or traumatized children. They carve paths in subtler ways that are no less holy: the parents caring for the autistic child who try different ways each day to touch him, the artist or musician who gives audiences another way to see or hear, the mother trying a new recipe for the hungry kids, the spouse of the Alzheimer’s patient, the scientists who discover alternate forms of energy and innovations to preserve the planet’s resources.

The church’s shorthand often refers to a puzzling group. For instance, St. Isaac Jogues “and companions.” Did the unnamed ones not bleed as profusely, scream in as much pain, shake with as many convulsions when they were tortured? Or in more peaceful terms, did the initial six and many sisters who later accompanied Marianne Cope not work as hard in the leper colony of Molokai? When her energies flagged, she probably still got up in the morning because they were all counting on each other. Fifteen unknown sisters helped Katharine Drexel found her first school for native Americans in 1893; by 1903, eleven Navajo women were nuns prepared to carry on her work.

And what about the Irish priests who defended Julia Greeley, or arranged for the early education of Augustine Tolton, who escaped slavery in Missouri as a child and became the first black priest? What of the Franciscans who, when Tolton was rejected by seminaries in the U.S., sent him to Rome for education and ordination, or who supported Cesar Chavez’ early efforts?  

Americans love heroes, but sometimes we overlook the people who support the star. As Carol Flinders points out in Enduring Grace, we must “see the incandescent superstar for what it is, but … see the constellation in which it has come into being, too, the reverent and loving care that has surrounded and nourished it.”[2]

Theologian Elizabeth Johnson names the feast of All Saints the one for “’anonymous,’ whom the world counts as nobodies and whom the church, too, has lost track of but who are held in the embrace of God who loses not one.”[3] The letters of Paul address all the early Christians as “saints,” even when he gets frustrated with their angry feuding.

In what arenas do we still need pioneer saints today? Surely, in health care, immigration, poverty, the environment, rightful places for women in church and society, education, an end to human trafficking; the list is endless. And in many other fields, needs are still undefined. There the saints of tomorrow will shine. If we’re alert, we might even notice them moving subtly among us now.

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

[1] Thomas Merton, Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1968), 295.

[2] Carol Flinders, Enduring Grace, (San Francisco: Harper, 1993), 219.

[3] Elizabeth Johnson, Friends of God and Prophets (New York: Continuum, 1999), 250.

Adolescence for me meant pouring enormous energy into “normalizing” before I knew there wasn’t any “normal,” wearing the heavy armor of a shadowy, unreal self, trying desperately to be “cool.” Needless to say, I wasn’t eager to return for reunions, but finally got lured to one by the “bribe” of an award. Whenever what I’m reading is skillfully interwoven with my experience at the same time, I recognize God’s artistry—surely at play there.

In her book The Easter Mysteries, Beatrice Bruteau advocates transcending our descriptions, our “earthly treasure.” These descriptors may include “parent/grandparent, spouse/partner, daughter/son, doctor, teacher, attorney, chef, the family, profession, nationality, political party or club to which we belong. We rely on these identities to shore up our importance and self-respect. But Jesus’ assurance that we are beloved of God means we have nothing to fear, protect or defend. What could offer greater satisfaction? Our efforts for success and security fall painfully short compared to God’s over-riding care for us.

It’s good news, but hard to believe. Until I saw it in person. One of the girls in my class that I’d consider on a higher plane in the high school hierarchy was knock-down gorgeous (she later modelled), wealthy, with a mane of red hair. She understood the intricacies of make-up and wardrobe in such an advanced way that it made me look like a kindergartener beside a Ph.D. Let’s call her Brooke.

Another girl, equally beautiful, with a swirl of blonde hair and many boyfriends, we’ll name Susan. I admired her from afar and we probably never had a conversation of more than a few words.

Imagine my shock when these distant paragons arrived at the luncheon for our class. Brooke, with advanced Alzheimer’s, came in a wheelchair and was carefully settled at the table next to Susan, who’d grown used to feeding her friend. Brooke had apparently lost all filters, and would occasionally interject a chortle, a cuss word or a comment unrelated to the conversation. Susan had an advanced tremor, and joked about her aim with a fork or sippy cup for Brooke’s mouth. She shook visibly all the time, but kept up other conversations while she assured Brooke she was well taken care of.  Their behavior had apparently gone on for years; others seemed used to it, and ten older women adapted to an unusual lunch. As a 17-year old, I never could’ve predicted that those two could give me a profound model of tenderness and a lesson in easily disrupted expectations.

With another friend, I could’ve predicted she’d become a nurse, as she did, and all knew I’d someday be a writer. But this inversion blew apart my predictions, replaced by something far better: enormous respect for Brooke’s vulnerability, and the care Susan and several other friends had given her for years.

One constant remained: the deeply compassionate friend who’d organized, hosted, driven, gotten special food and remained in touch with all of us. The great grace which came to me as a terrified first grader, venturing into a big, new world, was finding her and becoming best friends. In the last few years, the friendship has rekindled, and it seems like our delightful conversation never pauses, even in four days together. Bruteau reminds us of Jesus saying that to be in God’s reign is to be a child again. Thich Nhat Hanh tells of spending an hour to nibble a cookie, totally absorbed in the experience. Bruteau explains that in the incarnated, resurrected life we share with Jesus, “the ‘cookie of our childhood’ is still there, hidden in our heart, as are a million other tiny sources of pure happiness, and if we are attentive, we will see and enjoy them.” Like the surprising joy of a class reunion…

What intrigues about this story is that the five women martyred in Liberia in 1992 had a chance to escape. They left the violent civil war in 1990, returned to safety in Illinois, but made the decision to re-enter the craziness of maniacal military leader Charles Taylor, armed rogue bands, fire ants, and child soldiers.

Why? The sisters who knew them respond: they had work to do: teaching poor, illiterate women, staffing medical clinics, counseling high school students with PTSD who’d been forced to kill in the war. Over and over, a theme recurs: their love for the Liberian people, their desire to share their lot. Brief biographies:

Sister Barbara Mutra was a nurse specializing in prenatal and infant care. In a previous assignment, she reduced infant mortality from 80% to 20%, from two deaths a week to two a year. By 1990, 40,000 civilians in Monrovia, the capital city had died of starvation. Barbara would commandeer vehicles to bring Catholic Relief Services food and medicine to hungry children, bribing the guards at checkpoints with spearmint gum.

Sister Agnes Mueller taught Liberian women to read. Before she came, one said, “I didn’t think I had a brain and could learn.” Agnes was grateful for “learnings in pain, vulnerability and suffering,” which she might not have experienced in another culture.

Sister Joel Kolmer was especially fearless about returning to Liberia, saying, “it’s impossible for fear and love to occupy the same place in one’s heart.” An elementary school teacher, she waved her red and white baseball cap embroidered “Slick Chick” during a terrifying interrogation by a rebel soldier.

Sister Kathleen McGuire prompted her motherhouse in Illinois to break the law and become the only Catholic organization in the area to offer sanctuary to Cuban and Central American refugees in 1985. A PhD in education, Kathleen wrote, “My work…is to breathe a little life into those I know, help them to come to be a little more fully, a little more freely who they are. And knowing, then, their own grace and beauty, be able to guess at the beauty and graciousness of their Father.”

Sister Shirley Kolmer, a PhD in Math, first went to the University of Liberia on a Fulbright. Her argument for returning: Terrible conditions were exactly why they should go back. She began the counseling program at their high school for boys pressed into war, both perpetrators and victims.

William Twaddell, US ambassador to Liberia, wrote in a telegram confirming the deaths that the sisters were “acting in the most noble tradition of their order and their faith. The safety and welfare of the wounded and defenseless motivated them and were their only concerns in the midst of war.” And aren’t we the lucky ones, to have their bright lights shining on our paths?