Category Archives: Family Spirituality

During the last week, we celebrated the feasts of All Saints and All Souls, our ancestors who have preceded us into eternal life. People in some churches heard or read the Beatitudes on Tuesday.

When Jesus first walked among the crowds saying, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven,” his promises must have seemed extraordinary. But Christians throughout history have recorded their own astonishment at the amazing fulfillment of what must have initially seemed utterly outlandish.

Some people seem unaware or struck dumb by the gifts they have received. They may feel the amazement but putting it in words is the work of the poets. So Raymond Carver, who died at fifty, marveled that the last ten years of his life were “gravy.” Because of his alcoholism, he had received a terminal diagnosis at age forty. The love of poet Tess Gallagher, with her encouragement to stop drinking, bought him years he never thought he’d see.   

C.S. Lewis describes the abundance that underlies the Beatitudes:

“If we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.”

So perhaps these feasts lift our sights, restoring the spectacular knowledge that the holiness of ordinary folks is a participation in God’s, that our inheritance is that of God’s daughters and sons, and that jankety and limited as we are, we are still sure, redeemed, everlasting.  

A slightly different spin on this Sunday’s gospel

He taught me to climb trees, and not many girls did that in Jericho. Sycamores were his favorite; he’d show me the knotty hand-holds. Once we were swaying at the top, he’d sweep the horizon with one open hand. “Box seats on the whole town, sweetie!” I’d grin back at him and feel like I was queen of the world. From my leafy perch, I ruled with kind nobility, tall and true. And he would be my king. Later, I’d appreciate his giving me a spunk my friends didn’t have. By the time I was twelve, I stood as tall as he. We’d play like buddies together, tuning out any disapproving clucks about the bark in our hair or the scrapes on our shins.

But as I grew older, I noticed grumbling. People hated daddy’s profession and his wealth. The Roman military occupation meant some people lived in constant fear they’d lose their livelihood or land to high taxes. Probably because they were scraping to eat regularly, we seemed by contrast too carefree in our high balcony of branches. But swaying there, imagining I could touch lacy clouds, I didn’t much care.

Of course, dad took me with him the day that Jesus entered town. He never wanted me to miss anything, so we ran ahead of the crowd like lookouts, gasping and flushed. I had scrambled up the tree beside dad when suddenly, I glimpsed an upturned chin. Even better: the face below us was grinning and inviting himself to our house.

Closing the door of our home firmly on the gossips outside, Dad broke out the best wine—how else to celebrate such an uninvited, honored guest, bringing a welcome message of acceptance to his house? While he and his guest exchanged toasts, I scurried to the kitchen, dreading what I’d find. As I’d guessed beforehand, my mother was flummoxed, whispering in irritation: “No one told me about dinner guests! I had enough lamb and bread for us three, then unannounced, another hungry one appears at the door!”

But I liked this surprise guest, because he had the same lilting laughter as my dad. So I didn’t mind helping to prepare a meal. Who else would run next door to borrow more food? The stranger breathed deep of the roasting fragrance, and complimented both mom and me. To him, I wasn’t the annoying kid. I was the princess who ruled with wisdom and grace. I wonder if he’s a tree climber too?  

Excerpt from More Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey. Orbis Books, 800-258-5838 http://www.Orbisbooks.com 

Fair warning: I’ve already convinced three people to become as addicted to this Netflix series as I am. You, dear reader, could be next. It’s fiction, but often quite realistic. It won the seventh highest audience for a show in Korean cable history and in its seventh week on Netflix, was the most watched series around the world.

The star of this Korean show is 27-year-old attorney Woo Young Woo, a genius who’s on the autism spectrum. She graduated summa cum laude from Seoul National University law school. Her single father, the essence of goodness, worried when she didn’t speak at age five. But suddenly and unexpectedly, she began spouting laws, having memorized his law books lying around their home.

That was just the beginning; with an IQ of 164, she eventually got a job at the prestigious Hanbada law firm in Seoul. Each episode covers a different legal case, while at the same time, her relationships with her colleagues grow. Most touching is her friendship with Jun-ho, who first teaches her how to dance into a revolving door, one of many predicaments that initially baffle her. The two eventually “like” each other; his kindness, patience and restraint are admirable.

Though it may seem cheesy, I enjoyed the graphics when Woo gets an inspiration. Her favorite, obsessive topic is whales; she must be warned repeatedly not to bore people with her detailed knowledge of them. So, as she suddenly sees how to creatively resolve a courtroom dilemma or legal issue, a breeze blows her hair and whales breach in the sea or float through the room or past her train car. If each of us could envision some natural phenomenon for our own bursts of insight, what might it be?

Also inspiring is the small circle of friends who learn how to work with Woo’s disability and admire her strengths. In high school, Dong Geu-ra-mi protected her from bullies, and remains her confidante in adulthood. Another attorney, Choi Su-yeon, resented Woo’s easy superiority in law school, but as colleagues in the firm, Choi defends and befriends Woo.

The series offers moments of challenge, insight, intellectual stimulation and laughter, with the only blemish being the English voices that are dubbed into later episodes, perhaps for those who have trouble reading subtitles. They ring false and distract from many other pleasures of watching. Another possible flaw: some critics think it’s an unfair representation of the autism spectrum, because not all are as bright and happy-go-lucky as Woo.  But an early episode shows a boy at the sadder end of the spectrum, unable to speak. And I’m pleased to discover how I can relate to her dread of loud noises and confrontations, her difficulty opening plastic water bottles.  

In the last episode, Woo creates an apt metaphor for her life: she feels like a narwhal among whales. Nonetheless, she smiles, “It’s a beautiful life.” Series 1 ends on a joyful note, with several threads left unresolved, so it’s heartening to know that Series 2 will start in 2024. Motivation to live that long!

Teresa of Avila (1515 – 1582)

Teresa was the first female doctor of the church, named in 1970. A non-ordained woman was a departure from tradition, but Pope Paul VI said she exercised the priesthood of all the baptized. Thirty-five years earlier, under Inquisition scrutiny, the papal nuncio called her “a restless gadabout, a disobedient and contumacious woman who invented wicked doctrines.” Teresa seemed to inspire extreme responses.

Context

The Influence of the Italian renaissance on Spain produced a golden age of literature, and the Bible translated into the vernacular. Study groups led by women were like the Vatican II renewal. But the challenge to the clerical monopoly on God incensed the Inquisition, which became a doctrinal watchdog, forbade women teachers, and destroyed vernacular Bibles.

In a rigid hierarchy and dangerous climate of suspicion and fear, Teresa danced nimbly around her critics. She became expert with coy disclaimers she didn’t know what she was talking about. How could others condemn when she beat them to it?

Biography

Teresa’s grandpa was a Jew, forced to convert to Christianity. Punished and humiliated in Toledo, Spain, he moved the family to Avila and became successful again.

Her youth was frivolous and flirtatious and she deeply regretted 20 years of indifference. But they were a “happy fault”—giving reason to praise God’s infinite mercies. In convents then, the wealthy had freedom to come and go, an entourage of family, friends, and servants, good wine, food and social life. Illness brought Teresa to deeper spirituality and by 1562, she founded her first reformed convent.  Despite lawsuits, she established 17 convents separated by muddy roads and terrible traveling conditions. These may have prompted her metaphor: “Whoever truly loves you, my God, travels by a broad and a royal road.”

Themes

At the time, prayer meant rote formulas; Teresa shifted it to intimate conversation with a friend. She introduced metaphors like the spiritual life as garden. We work hard at watering, but grace brings rain. One of her most popular books The Interior Castle shows Christ within, the soul’s radiant light. She reminded her sisters, “We are not hollow inside.” “The soul’s amplitude cannot be exaggerated.”

Among her endearing sayings: “From silly devotions and sour-faced saints, good Lord deliver us!” She learned to avoid scruples, and once digging into a feast, chortled, “there is a time for fasting and a time for partridge. THIS is the time for partridge!” Brisk, practical and fun, she admitted she was a sucker for affection: “I could be bought for a herring.”

From “Extraordinary Influencers” by Kathy Coffey, Liguorian.org, Oct. ’22, 866-848-2492, p. 13.

We humans grasp at metaphors for the divine because God is so utterly and always beyond us, within us, ahead of us, and around us.  We know any comparisons miss the mark, but the Mystery is so compelling, we keep trying to wrap our minds around it somehow.

God as Lamplighter

We often think of Jesus as light of the world, and know that in our better moments, we shine like lamps. Interesting to think of God like the lamplighters in “Mary Poppins,” busily climbing poles, and to think what that must’ve meant to people before electricity was widespread. How they must’ve transformed the darkness into warmth and welcome. Indefatigible, God lights the stars each night and the dawn each day. Sometimes, deep rose tints splashing clouds at sunrise wake us, bleary-eyed, into beauty.

God as Gardener

One stroll through a farmers’ market at harvest season shows God’s abundance. The air is fragrant with strawberries; those crimson jewels will gleam in my cereal or yogurt soon just as they light up the Rodriguez’ farm stand now. Mistaken by Mary Magdalene as the gardener after the resurrection, Jesus like a seasoned farmer also told the parable of the weeds and wheat. Let them grow up together, he advised, or you’ll ruin the wheat trying to pull the weeds. Wise—both for our inner lives and for the cantankerous problems we struggle so hard to solve. How much the farmer leaves to chance—no control over weeds, birds, calamities that could easily befall a small and unprotected seed. Good to remember that next time we turn into control freaks!

God as Dancer

The early Christians coined the marvelous Greek term “perichoeresis” to describe the life of the Trinity. It means the three persons “dancing around,” a dance that fills the universe. We too are part of this all-pervasive dance, invited, never coerced to be partners with God. God is always coaxing us out of our narcissism, anxiety and self-obsession, into a wild and beautiful dance.

While this can only skim the surface, a much fuller, developed and exhilarating book on the subject is Richard Rohr’s The Divine Dance: the Trinity and Your Transformation. He says there that everything, simply by being, offers praise to God in this universal circle of dance. “Might a hand reach out and lead us into the divine dance, whispering in our ears that we were always made for this?” (p. 21)

The Shaker song “Lord of the Dance” sings of God dancing all creation, then Jesus inviting others to join his dance, and continuing the Dance even after his crucifixion. “And” Rohr adds, “the only thing that can keep you out of this divine dance is fear and doubt, or any self-hatred.” (p. 193) Imagine your favorite dancer, style, and music. Then imagine God doing that, being that, your joining in. Like the famous line in “Anna and the King of Siam,” or “The King and I,” “shall we dance?”

Perhaps these initial suggestions can prompt the reader’s own wondering names for God. Even as we try to name, we know God is the mystery beyond any name, and the vast gathering of myriad names.

At first her story seems treacly sweet. Then you look beneath the surface.

There is a reason why this girl who never left her French village, and died at 24, is so universally popular. And it’s not the syrupy piety later writers tried to foist onto her.

The biographical facts are stark: a pampered childhood, then the devastating death of her mother when Therese is four. Four sisters are devoted to her, but the closest one, Pauline, a “second mother,” leaves home to join the Carmelite convent when Therese is nine. At fifteen, she enters the same convent, having convinced the pope she’s old enough.

Simultaneously, her beloved father is hospitalized for mental illness. The teenager subsequently revises her glorious concepts of martyrdom. She sees it instead as her father lying in the 500-bed hospital, a handkerchief covering his head. Therese was never allowed to see him again, and she died an agonizing death, without painkillers, from TB.

For a teenager, life in Carmel can’t have been easy. Many nuns see the way of life as a penance deflecting God’s anger. Therese sees herself as a little child, sleeping fearlessly in her father’s arms, hiding her face in his hair. That contrast fits with how people for centuries equated holiness with grandiose male adventures: bolding fighting battles, founding organizations, dying bravely. She shifts the emphasis to the ordinary grind, no accomplishments, remaining little in God’s greatness, sleeping through her prayers.

So few Christians seem to get it—that the way of Jesus is one of descent, imperfection, disappointment. Instead, we’re hell-bent on ego-driven achievement and success, like everyone else. Therese seemed to understand what it means to follow a crucified Christ. Because her “little way” is one of confinement and failure, it is enormously appealing to those who know the humble limitations of being terminally human.

How important our names and images for God! What we love determines who we become, and if our God is vindictive, anxious, violent and punitive, guess what we’ll be?

As scripture scholar Walter Brueggemann points out, the development of Hebrew scriptures corresponds to the development of human consciousness. The early books assert certainty, law, order and boundaries. God as rock, fortress, shield gave the people, as it gives young children, the security to grow and develop.

But as we mature, we encounter uncertainty, contradiction. As religion develops from tribalism, our images of God must grow large enough for mystery. But at the same time, they must reflect a God who is close to us, direct, never abandoning.

Islam has 99 beautiful names for God; my list is much shorter. But these have been helpful to me. Briefly described, two appear this week and three Oct. 8:

God as artist

Sept. 23, 2022 marked the first anniversary of the death of artist John August Swanson. His color bursts, swirling forms and general gusto enlivened religious subjects that had been portrayed so often we might grow blasé about them. He gave us a small window into divine artistry.

To focus on only one of myriad objects, the sculpture of a clam shell show God’s precision and grace. The shell is designed to protect the critter within, but beyond that, it’s beautiful. From a creamy center, rainbow arcs in warm earthy tones radiate out. And there are millions of them on every beach! Think too of the tone-poems God creates: a soft, dove-grey morning sky can transform into giant, snowy, puffball clouds against deepest cerulean blue in a couple hours.

God as Guest

We so often think of God as host that we forget the other part of the dynamic, how often Jesus visited others. He was welcomed by Martha, Mary and the woman who anointed him, severely criticized by his pharisee hosts. Sometimes we’re uncomfortable as guests, vulnerable and unsure what to do. We want to take charge and run the show! Jesus models how to let others serve us.

To be continued Oct. 8…

Hildegard of Bingen (1098 – 1179)

Germany’s greatest mystic, scientist, and doctor, Hildegard was influential in theology, nature, medicine, cosmology, the human condition and the world-at-large. She also assumed ground-breaking roles for a woman of her time: artist, author, composer, mystic, pharmacist, poet, preacher, theologian, scientist, doctor, and political critic. Named a saint and doctor of the church in 2012, she believed passionately in God’s presence and activity in creation, as well as being a life force within. One of her guiding concepts was “viriditas,” the greening power of God, a word which combines the Latin for “green” and “truth,” with connotations of vigor and freshness. While we can observe it in gardens and forests, Hildegard believed we could also cultivate it in our souls.[i]

During her seventies, Hildegard completed two medical texts, which catalogued over 280 plants, cross-referenced with their healing uses. She saw humans as “living sparks” of God’s love, coming from God as daylight comes from the sun. A poet and composer, Hildegard collected 77 of her lyric poems, each with a musical setting she composed in Symphonia armonie celestium revelationum. Her numerous other writings include lives of saints; two treatises on medicine and natural history, reflecting a quality of scientific observation rare at that period; and extensive correspondence, in which are to be found further prophecies and allegorical treatises.

Despite her vows of enclosure—which, in theory, restricted her to the cloister—she managed to remain very much in touch with the outside world. After approval of her book Scivias by Pope Eugenius in 1147, she began to receive visits from and correspond with hundreds of people throughout Europe, including Henry II of England, Louis VII of France, the Holy Roman Emperor, and the empress of Byzantium

Hildegard  thought connection with nature brings people a “primordial joy.” More than eight hundred years after her death, her message rings so true that she could well be considered patroness of environmental awareness. Although she would’ve been appalled by the destruction to the planet, she would’ve cheered robustly for efforts to save it.

Excerpt from More Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey, Orbis, OrbisBooks.com, 800-258-5838.

[i] https://www.healthyhildegard.com/hildegards-viriditas

How keenly Jesus is attuned to his audience. He doesn’t send them scurrying to committee reports, library stacks or obscure passages in Leviticus. He doesn’t try to impress; he simply targets the common denominator. What doofus gathers grapes from brambles or builds a house without a foundation? Duh.

Then into the same salad he tosses good and evil, the oil and vinegar of their lived experience. To follow his cue, we could sit for a moment with the good fruit. The bus drivers, health care workers, janitors, teachers, many who leave warm beds on dark, frigid mornings. The volunteers from around the world who rescued a soccer team from a flooding cave in Thailand. The school lunch personnel who got food to hungry kids even during lockdown. The small boy who gives his granny her morning kiss despite her scary facial scars.

But even the bad belongs. Jesus is no Pollyanna; he knew brutal Roman oppression in his day. And in ours, he sees big business raking in obscene profits from opioid addiction. Or the rampant racism that murders unarmed people of color. The examples deliberately show the worst extremes, an oversimplification Jesus avoids. He doesn’t insult with glib explanations of evil; he feels the hammer vibrations in his own palms.

He offers his audience a larger capacity to be with everything, to enter Mystery. In that sacred place with firm foundation, no one resolves anything. But we know the Presence stands with us, sure as the probing voice resonating throughout the Galilean hills and beyond.

Kathy Coffey, “No Easy Answer, Only Invitation,” from the September 2022 issue of Give Us This Day www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2022). Used with permission.

I’m having an argument in my head with St. Gregory the Great, whose feast is today. (If that sounds crazy, St. Hildegard of Bingen created an entire language for her own amusement.) While he was responsible for many fine achievements, his theology reflects his patrician background and dualistic view.

Gregory comes from a 6^th century Roman style, which saw each day “hastening toward the final judgment.” Cheery, huh? Had he come from the Celtic style in the same century, he might’ve seen each day as a chance to praise the shining world: trees, rivers, wells. I won’t quibble now with his concept of riches as thorns that wound our minds and entice us to sin. (Whew—so much for riches that enable mind-expanding travel, education or generosity to others.)

What prompts my argument is his condemnation of the transitory: “Why then do you love what is left behind?” Well, how else do we learn to love? Isn’t the meaning of Incarnation that Jesus took on bone, sinew, muscle; ate, drank and blessed the things of earth? He seemed to value flowers of the field, birds of the air, gushing water, leaven in lump, wine and bread, making fairly ordinary things  his vehicles for teaching.

Consequently, some faiths developed the concept of sacramentals: objects, people, places or activities  that convey the divine presence. In this category, we might place a garden bursting with pink and purple sweet peas, afternoon light silvering lake or ocean, pills that heal a painful medical condition, deep conversation over coffee or wine, the first sight of a long-absent friend at an airport reunion, books, music and art that inspire, a flannel shirt soft with memories of mountain trips and cold evenings by a warm fire.  

Certain objects—this candle holder from Connemara, this Christmas ornament that hung on my grandparents’ tree, this sweatshirt from a beloved place, this pearl bracelet from a deceased relative–convey more than their utilitarian purpose. They aren’t simply decorative knick-knacks, jewelry or clothing; they bring back a whole world when I see or use them. Ultimately, they speak of the Creator’s care. To treat them indifferently would be ungrateful.

For a recent birthday, my granddaughter was eager that I open her gift first. She is six; her joy translates to physical wriggling, hugging and helping to unwrap. She had excitedly gotten me a mug which I now use daily. The brown bear on its side represents the Colorado Rockies which I love; a little spoon fits deftly into the handle. Most importantly, she bought it with her own money—and a parental supplement. Each time I sip from that mug, I taste her kindness. I’m transported to a shining morning; it’s my birthday again. Surely an object which can convey so much bears an imprint of the divine.

For the same birthday (it was a milestone), my daughter bought all the grandchildren and myself matching t-shirts that said, “I’d Rather Be Reading.” That’s a family hallmark—we all love to read. How could I ever wear it without remembering her thoughtfulness, and all of us lined up together in identical shirts on a couch?

Theologian Richard Rohr puts it in more sophisticated theological language: infinity pouring itself into finite expression. It’s the “self-emptying of God into physical, visible forms” (The Divine Dance, p. 126). How can I get tangled up in the “dilemma du jour” when that rich outpouring is happening? The sacramental tradition always insists: there’s more to this than meets the eye. Much more…