Category Archives: Family Spirituality

With six weeks of Lent ahead, some may still be looking for a direction or focus. Joyce Rupp’s Jesus, Guide of my Life, (www.avemariapress.com, 800-282-1865) points out a “path that is a person.”

Disclaimer: Joyce has been a friend and mentor for over 25 years, and I still believe her Foreword to my first book, Hidden Women of the Gospels, accounts for most of its success. In her usual way, she compacts profound substance into short bits. After praying these Lenten meditations daily for over five weeks, I can attest that in a brief time, they provide prayer prompts and thoughtful material for the day.

One thing that has made Joyce’s work enormously popular is how quickly readers can identify with her. By the second day, I was saying, “she’s so like me—quick to judge, wanting to see immediate results of good deeds, easily blinded by ‘decoys’ on the Way.” She doesn’t write from lofty seclusion in a convent, but clearly gets what it’s like to live with the tensions and contradictions of a complex life, filled with work, relationships, stresses, joys and the quirky ways childhood hurts and roles resurface. Sometimes when we’re tired and life looks blurry, it’s a relief to have such a crystalline reminder of Jesus’ “wise insights and compassionate mentoring.”

They may seem small details of style, but as one sensitive to the way authors present content, I was grateful for Joyce’s innovative use of language: for example, anxieties “slurp up your precious daytime energy” (73) and forgiveness “lifts the lid off coffined love.” (83) Like the “99 Beautiful Names for God” in Islam, her prayers are addressed to names for God we might not have used before: Disrupter of Complacency, Source of Easing Burdens, Storehouse of Promises, Awakened One, Companion in the Dark, Beloved Foot-Washer. It’s worth the $13.95 price of the book for its unique spin on Jesus’ wild  inclusivity. In his day, that meant hanging out with prostitutes and tax collectors. The tired translation is often, “be nice to an unhoused person on the street.” But Joyce convincingly describes “conversation with a pony-tailed, leather-garbed, heavily bearded motorcyclist.” (86) Who woulda thought of that?

The trifecta: the book is a guide, Joyce is a guide and Jesus is a guide. We who benefit three ways can learn much from this author who has walked in sync with Jesus for many years, clearly has a deep, close relationship with him, and generously shares creative guidelines for the journey.

Given the economy of Mark’s gospel, a few verses can draw forth subtle meanings and many questions. Such is the case for this week’s gospel, when Jesus cures Peter’s mother-in-law. For centuries, Catholic hierarchs have insisted on a celibate clergy, neatly glossing over the fact that if first pope Peter had a mother-in-law, Peter had a wife.

And what of her story? Did she too long to follow the teacher? Did she resent his luring away her husband, only source of the family’s income? Did anyone consult her about the crowd gathered at her door, seeking healing? In the vast St. Peter’s basilica, is there a single statue to her?

And what about her mom? Some have called the line “then the fever left her and she waited on them” as the ultimate male fantasy. Of course a seriously ill woman, recently healed would leap to her feet and cook dinner for the disciples?! Unanswered questions, rumblings and undertones here.

No question about Jesus. Clear and decisive, he grasps the sick woman’s hand and soothes the fever as mothers have for centuries.

So where’s the center of gravity? I like to focus on the hand of Jesus, outstretched to heal, reaching beyond all the difficulties in the passage, and probably the tensions in the house of the fisherman. It prompts us to think of all the hands, literal and figurative, that have held us through crisis, loneliness, illness. No matter what our fevers—anxieties, money or health problems, relationship issues, concerns about climate change or war—God initiates the healing,  extends the soothing hand.

Bored by January? Chafing at the narrow confines of bad weather? Depressed by the news?  Crazy with cabin fever? Have I got an answer for you! The free film “Gratitude Revealed,” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1gN0pMCHte4

Many are already familiar with the work on gratitude pioneered by David Steindl-Rast, OSB. As a young Austrian during World War II, he was hidden from the Nazis by his mother, and his family wondered if they’d starve to death. He differentiates happiness from joy, which “doesn’t depend on what happens.” Those who aren’t familiar might try his website: grateful.org or book: Gratitude: the Heart of Prayer. Based on that solid foundation, the film soars into stunning photography around the world, fascinating interviews, and a breathtaking display of what Catholics once called “the Communion of Saints,” ordinary, sacred people in international settings, all sparks of the divine.

Just a sampling of these folks absorbed in doing what they love: chefs, a vineyard owner, a barber, salsa dancers and cliff dancers, surfers, farmers, a blind ice climber, the first woman champion of aeronautic acrobatics (that’s a plane doing wild, spinny gymnastics), a rancher on the Continental Divide, a weaver, a lady in Maine who fishes for lobsters and teaches children, a jazz musician in Waterproof, LA, film producers, a gospel choir, the co-founder of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream, a hat-maker, firefighter, Olympic boxer, an Improv. Comedy class for women recently released from prison. Add in the diversity of children in many nations for sweetness and grace. One eloquent little girl explains how t.v. can’t top the “beautifuller things” she finds, exploring her island home.

Preacher Mosie Burks sparkles with vitality; Norman Lear, screenwriter and producer of over 100 sitcoms glows with quiet humor; author Jack Kornfield offers mystical insights; Pastor Michael Beckwith reminds us to be grateful for challenge, a “gift in work clothes.”  And what a wicked delight to see skimpy salsa costumes in the same film as the robes of a Benedictine monk!

Louie Schwartzberg, who made the film, explains that his parents were holocaust survivors, grateful for many things, especially for having children. He is adept at time-lapse photography of nature, so we see insects in intricate close-up, monarch butterflies taking flight, and flowers opening as gradually as the habit of gratitude develops. With so much beauty, the viewer can forgive a few cliches.

Tired of focusing on dysfunction and disorder?  (Sheesh—Pope Francis can’t even say hell is empty, as St. Catherine of Siena did in the fourteenth century, without provoking outrage.) Try “Gratitude Revealed.”  It’s will cost only 1 hour, 22 minutes of your time. It leads logically and with abundant examples to the theme that cultivating gratitude leads to increased trust in life. And couldn’t we all learn a little more trust? Or in spunkier terms:

“How I long to be in that number

When the saints go marching in…”

I’m not fervent about New Year’s resolutions, but this year, Henri Nouwen’s website on Jan. 1 set a new direction for 2024. The year is young, and we’ll see how long my resolve lasts, but I resonated with his words, “live each day as a day full of promises. Imagine that we could walk through the new year always listening to the voice saying to us: ‘I have a gift for you and can’t wait for you to see it!’”

Pragmatic as usual, I began to try the practice daily. Surprisingly (or maybe because I was more attuned to them) the gifts abounded. One day it was a spectacular sunrise: pale blush along a mountain ridge, and at the same time, a lingering sliver of new moon. Another, it was seeing a marvelous film, “American Fiction,” that made my friend and me laugh aloud. Then, in the mail, thank you notes from my grandchildren for their Christmas gifts, colorfully illustrated. Or welcome news arrives, that the dear family members we’d said goodbye to at Christmas would return to visit President’s Day week. When plans change or events are cancelled, comes the unexpected gift which Ross Gay, author of The Book of More Delights describes, “as if the universe just dropped a luminous bouquet of time in your lap. Time which is scant and sinister…becomes spacious as the sky in Montana.”

Readers can add their own gifts to this sketch of an initial list: the first green tips of hyacinths and daffodils emerging in spring, a brilliant rainbow arching over children walking to school, the simple process of swimming, showering, and slipping into clean sheets, a conversation with good friends over lunch, the fragrance after rain, an intriguing book. Add in: a thoughtless remark that could’ve caused more harm, unsafe driving that could’ve resulted in a ticket or accident—and didn’t.

Some might ask if the gifts are always good. What about bad news? Over time, perhaps we learn to recognize clever camouflage. What at first might seem disaster turns out in the long run to be blessing. For genuine tragedy, I have no answer, nor desire to drape it in pious language.

On January 16, I was pleased to read Demetrius Dumm, OSB’s reflection in Give Us This Day, differentiating David from Saul. Each represents a choice in our lives. David is “in touch with God’s goodness, looking for the blessing… positive and imaginative in dealing with problems.” Saul is “ready for the worst, cautious to the point of paralysis, fearful…negative.” There’s probably a spectrum in between, but I hope the daily practice of seeking gifts will lean me more towards David.

for taking down the Christmas tree… We put them up and decorate them with such excitement, “Deck the Halls” and other favorite songs probably playing. The tree, fragrant with soft branches, quickly becomes the center of the room. To many homes, it probably brings the most beauty of the whole year. Anticipation is high; the full season stretches ahead. We envision family members and friends gathering here, hot meals and cocoas, enticing gifts piled beneath branches. The ornaments represent the whole arc of a life—from a childhood tiny red tea pot, to souvenirs of travel, to gifts from special people who chose creatively. For over a month the first thing I do every morning is light the tree and the last thing, turn off its bright glow. It’s so hard to take the tree down, I recently spent three days at a retreat center, praying through the transition.

Fortunately, the kind staff at the retreat house gives me a room with a full view of the ocean, so I can watch the play of light take many forms there. The first rays touch the white ridge of waves, then sun lays a blazing path to the horizon at noon, later pours its molten gold and at sunset tints the ocean a deepening fuchsia. Grace too can take many forms, through hellos and goodbyes, the first Sunday of Advent through Epiphany. Or maybe the start and end points aren’t so clear, more like one ocean with high and low tides.

We can navigate the fluctuations like surfers gracefully carving the waters. Firmly tethered to their boards, or in metaphor, the divine, they look past the immediate wave and watch the far horizon, reading the swells, or seeing the Big Picture. My prayer was to learn to ride the sometimes tumultuous waves of life with the same art and trust.

Returning home to the inevitable, removing the tree ornaments and wrapping them in tissue paper, the sweet narratives were wrapped in as well. This year, I showed my granddaughters the ornament their dad had made when he was five—45 years ago. He beamed, seeing a small gingerbread man his teacher had made him in fourth grade. “Mrs. Whitman!” He recognized her immediately, and remembered how she loved his stories. I suspect she planted some seed, so that now as he stands before a large audience, acknowledging an award for his work, he easily uses stories to lighten his talk.

Interesting, that I don’t recall taking down Christmas trees over many years, only that their beauty became a focal point of the whole season. This year, my granddaughter helps me dismantle, thus making the process less painful. Still, hard to ignore an aching void in the corner of the room, one that I hope will fill again next year in life’s unfolding mystery.

It’s not over yet. Sad to take down the Christmas decorations, but the feast of Epiphany still burns bright.

Long before Jesus preached inclusivity, Mary practiced it. Imagine being the mother of a newborn, exhausted from a trip to register for the census in Bethlehem. Then picture giving birth in a stable, which was probably not as cozy and clean as most Christmas cards depict. Mary is far away from her support system, so she can’t rely on her mother, sisters or friends for help. No casseroles, no baby blankets. 

Then, according to Luke, a crowd of shepherds arrives. They must be strangers, but there is no record of Mary feeling uncomfortable with these uninvited guests. Instead, she “treasures” the memories and is filled with gratitude. Matthew’s account of the magi doesn’t mention Mary’s response, but she must have wondered: how many more strangers would crowd into their temporary housing? These surprising visitors aren’t even Jewish–and bring the strangest gifts. 

Mary’s experience should give us fair warning. If we hang around with Jesus, we’d better keep our doors open. He brings along an odd assortment of friends. They may not bring frankincense or myrrh, but they arrive unexpectedly when there are only two pork chops for dinner. They come disguised as the children’s friends or the lonely neighbor who talks too long while the rolls burn. They phone at the worst possible times and they interrupt our most cherished plans. And in these, says Jesus, you’ll find me. This feast seems to celebrate James Joyce’s description of the Catholic church at its inclusive best: “here comes everybody!”  

An intriguing figure in today’s gospel (Luke 2:22-40) is Anna the prophetess. Scripture scholar Barbara Reid believes that she, Mary and Elizabeth continue the long line of Israel’s powerful prophets. After her, women speak in pain or are corrected or disbelieved. But she, overhearing Simeon tell a bewildered young mother she’d be pierced by a sword, redirects the conversation back to where it belongs: to thanking God.  

Luke has the key characters in this little drama enter off stage, not the razzle-dazzle of the main altar or the chief priest, but a side aisle. Artfully he transposes from temple vastness into human scale. The tableau that really matters is composed of two couples, one old, one younger, centered on an infant. In her quiet way, Anna becomes the threshold to the next quiet chapter of Jesus’ life, when “he grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him” (Lk. 2:40). Anna signals the spectacular power that coiled beneath the apparently unimpressive surface. Had she spoken in twenty-first-century jargon, she might’ve winked conspiratorially and said, “Stay tuned…”

On 12/28/14, Pope Francis linked Anna and Simeon to grandparents. In better moments, grandparents know how precious children are. Call them dotty, but they’ve been sidelined to the really important work: cradling. Soothing. Rocking. Humming.  Inventing songs and games. It’s a “hidden way” of life; its immense fulfillment not publicized. What gives it depth and resonance is the echo back to that temple in Jerusalem where two old people waited.

Anna is the patron saint of those whose language speaks through care, the grandparents who sing off-key lullabyes, hunched over a precious lump in crib or arms, the backstage crew, the meticulous researchers who painstakingly prepare the way for the breakthrough discovery, but receive no credit themselves. She also could model for those who wait—sometimes interminably long—but don’t lose hope.

Excerpts from More Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey, Orbis Books, Orbis Books, 800-258-5838, or https://orbisbooks.com/

Perhaps the challenge of the Christmas season is whether we can hear familiar stories and songs with wonder, not the yawn of “déjà vu.”  Our model might be the three-year old boy, who,  entering a vast, baroque cathedral for the first time at Christmas, seeing the trees, banners, huge statues, a jillion tiny white lights, glittering mosaics arching overhead into infinite space, breathed one word: “wow.” Can we allow the stories we’ve heard a thousand times—of a journey to Bethlehem, a stable, angels, shepherds and magi, to resonate at a deeper level this year? Can we attend with care to whatever God wants to birth in us during this season? As Eugene Ionesco warns, “over-explanation separates us from astonishment.” Perhaps the rest of the year can be cut-and-dried, but this is the season for mystery to flourish.

If ever we misperceived God as stingy or punitive, the scriptures of this season should correct that image, as God pours forth God’s self in the only Son, who begins his great adventure now. Like beautiful bells, the prophets foretell: something spectacular is on the way!

The psalms keep the focus where it belongs: on the praise of God, not on human predicaments nor flaws. They bring out today’s equivalent of the big brass band: lute and harp, the songs of forest, plains, earth and sea.  And limited human beings brush shoulders with angels as all sing God’s glory.

John’s letters after Christmas might startle those who spent their childhoods following the rules, pleasing authorities and winning awards. God gives everyone gold stars, an inestimable gift of adoption as God’s heirs that no one can deserve. This inheritance would fill us with confidence and gratitude if we weren’t numb to the implications. One response might be to break into the glad abandon of dance—or to carry that exuberance more quietly within. The season also celebrates saints who took the lavish promise seriously, raising the question, “Can I too believe that God delights in me?”

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.” During liturgies 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.”

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.

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 guarantees, no script foretelling the future. All she’d learned was the trust handed on by 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, great-grandparents endured many cold, gloomy nights. How they 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?