Category Archives: Family Spirituality

I sometimes think of Rohr’s work as the fifth gospel, and own enough of his books to read them in constant rotation. His message is so uplifting, I can never absorb it all, and want to reflect on it over and over. My journals are filled with his quotes, which become mantras to live out each day. Although ALL the books are marvelous, I especially like Immortal Diamond, Falling Upward, The Divine Dance, The Naked Now, Yes, and…, The Universal Christ. For those who prefer podcasts, many are available from his Center for Action and Contemplation, near Albuquerque, NM.

This brief overview can’t begin to do justice to all Rohr has meant to me over many years. Ironically, his common sensical themes are deeply rooted in Christianity, but sadly we rarely read or hear them. Perhaps most important: “it is all finally and forever okay.” (The Divine Dance, p. 180) This is a God of no blame, only acceptance, because God is not punitive, angry nor vengeful. (The wrathful God of some Old Testament passages marked a historical point in humanity’s thinking. But the narrative arc moves “toward an ever-more-developed theology of grace, until Jesus becomes grace personified.” (The Divine Dance, p. 136) Jesus then ignores or opposes punitive, exclusionary or imperialistic texts. Although Rohr provides abundant proof, I won’t go into it all here—but it’s fascinating and consoling.)

As is this passage: “You are bone of God’s bone, and that’s why God cannot stop loving you. That’s why no amount of effort will make God love you any more than God loves you right now. And… you can’t make God love you any less than God loves you right now.” (The Divine Dance, p. 135) Those words come like balm to people raised on the ol’ “just try harder” school of theology—as if we could ever earn God’s freely given love!

Although Rohr is a Franciscan priest, he has a breadth many clerical authors lack. Their frame of reference seems to be primarily the sacraments and liturgy. He looks to the full scope of the Perennial Tradition, gathering wisdom from many of the world’s religions. Because he is a Franciscan, he can sidestep much of the hierarchical nonsense of the Catholic church, and simply take the alternate, still perfectly legitimate path St. Francis did.

In Falling Upwards, he ends forever the stigma attached to failure. After all, the crucifixion of Jesus could be seen as a colossal disaster. Or, like our own disappointments and tragedies, the necessary prelude to Resurrection.

Although I’ve never met Rohr personally, I’ve attended some of his talks and heard many of his interviews. (He once joked that his worst nightmare was to be interviewed by Krista Tippett for “On Being” and appear shallow.) He comes across as affable, self-deprecating and funny. He has welcomed women as co-authors and partners in teaching. Best of all, he shows us that the truths he has reached don’t come via the thinking mind, but from contemplation, a world beyond our usual thought patterns, the only way to approach the infinite divine.

Sometimes in a rare bit of serendipity the scripture readings for the day coincide with the seasonal events in the larger culture. Such was the case for the happy occurrence of the gospel: “Let the children come to me, and do not prevent them; for the Kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these” (Mt. 19:13-15). That message of welcoming the child (Jesus actually takes them in his arms) clearly echoed as some excellent schools reopened.

The atmosphere was festive as a long line of littles, parents, grandparents, sometimes whole clans converged on the local elementary school. Arches of balloons marked the gates, with large “Welcome” signs for the students. For the first time in three years after lockdown, parents were allowed back on campus to drop off their kids, and what a swirl of  energy that created. The school had even arranged spots for photo ops, thus a record of “First Day Kindergarten, Third Grade, etc.”

Many different ethnicities and backgrounds were reflected in that crowd, but most had the same high expectations. So far, no child had goofed up; everyone more or less began on a level playing field; the future was bright with potential. I overheard in broken English the plea: “Make a new friend!” In a school such as this, children come from a broad variety of homes where 17 languages are spoken, but all will emerge amazingly fluent in English.

My granddaughter had carefully selected her Ensemble for the first day of second grade: sparkly lavender top with frothy ballerina skirt, leopard print vest, blingy jewelry. The designer wardrobe paid tribute to the solemnity of the event. Quickly she was drawn into “hellos” to her friends and new teacher (whom she loves), a hug and goodbye to me.

Walking home, I wondered. Was I ever welcomed back to school? My memory is primarily of drudgery and discipline. It was the era of memorizing the Baltimore Catechism, marching in regimented lines like Marines, keeping silence for long stretches, sitting rigidly in desks for inordinate stretches of time. I’ve often pondered: I hated school and I was good at it. What torture must it have been for classmates less academically inclined? But enough has been written about that subtle, polite form of child abuse. Indeed, many schools were worse. How much creativity, indeed the “freedom of God’s children” was squelched by that militaristic system?

Perhaps the better question for those of us who survived is whether we can welcome our inner child as Jesus did. Under all the accretions of adulthood, she’s still there: playful, vulnerable, often perplexed or frightened. Children can live with the abundant evidence of their screw-ups: a chain of broken objects precious to their parents, lost items (3 sweatshirts in a week?), saying the wrong thing loudly, crashing into people, usually unintentionally, and sometimes hurting them. But at the same time, they know they’re forgiven and loved, in spite of mistakes and sometimes even more. Adults have a harder time accepting that.   

But no matter how wounded we’ve been or how many serious flaws we have, still the invitation is open; we’re welcomed into that cosmic hug; those hands rest upon us.

On one level, this movie is fluffy fairy tale. On another, it’s parable. Let’s look at that angle.

Simple plot: London cleaning lady sees a wealthy employer’s Dior dress and longs for one. The beautiful garment sets Mrs. Harris’ imagination flying; no practical considerations interfere. A long, improbable sequence results where she eventually accumulates enough money, flies to Paris and attends a designer fashion show. As she watches one beautiful garment after another on a series of graceful models, the look on her face is pure delight. A war widow, her usual attire is shabby apron. She is more accustomed to hanging, cleaning and mending other peoples’ clothes than owning anything lovely herself. Her cheeky cockney comments puncture the other-worldly atmosphere of French haute couture. Again defying reality, she makes friends there and orders her dress.

The only realistic note in this sugar-spun tale is the garbage collector’s strike, so scenes of Paris are strewn with piles of rubbish even the formidable Mrs. Harris can’t clean up. (She has briskly arranged a romance, threatened a garment workers’ strike and helped direct the house of Dior towards a more sustainable future, marketing an accessible, affordable line.) But like Cinderella, she returns to her dismal London flat and lonely life. With a few last-minute saves, the film ends on a happy note. But more important elements of parable underlie the plot.

Garment metaphors in Scripture begin with God’s gentle question to Adam and Eve in Genesis 3:1-21, “who told you that you were naked?” In the final verse of that passage, God like a protective mum makes soft “garments of skin” to clothe them. Isaiah 61:10 says that God clothes us as bride and bridegroom adorn themselves. The father of the prodigal son clothes him with “the best” robe, sandals and ring to restore his lost dignity (Luke 15:11-32). Our identity is affected by what we wear: contrast the doctor or nurse in white coat or scrubs with their at-home attire of jeans and sweats. Sometimes in a new shirt, we feel like “hot stuff.”

African-American theologian and author Howard Thurman learned from his grandmother that knowing one was God’s daughter or son affirmed the dignity even of slaves. He writes in Jesus and the Disinherited: “And you know, when my grandmother said that she would unconsciously straighten up, head high and chest out, and a faraway look would come on her face.”

Ah, Mrs. Harris, internal daughter of royalty beneath your apron and beyond your floor scrubbing! If we truly believe in our inherent dignity and preciousness to God, then aren’t we all the cleaning lady lifted into the swishing beauty, the dream of what-could-be?

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

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

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

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

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

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

A simple plaque placed in the castle of Loyola, Spain dated 1491 says, “Aqui nacio.” On a literal level, it means St. Ignatius was born there. Symbolically, it reaches more broadly: the start of a creative, alternate narrative no one dreamt would spread so far, endure so long.

At a time when clergy were the only intermediaries between ordinary people and God, Ignatius differed. Gloriously, he told ordinary shmucks: “God has a dream for you.” Ignatius’ alternative didn’t emphasize external rules. Instead, the interior process of the Spiritual Exercises asked not what? but who? Called into “conscious living relationship with the person of Christ,” Ignatius exchanged his sword for a walking stick. He traded the macho drama of a knight’s life for a mysterious process. He had no idea where it would end, but limped into it trustingly.

With genius and craziness, Ignatius directed his followers into the swirl of cities, where lively plazas offered places to preach and exchange new ideas. His directions for the order he founded, the Jesuits are remarkably flexible: no office in common, no excessive penances; regarding dress, “the manner is ordinary.” He often inserts the realistic qualifier to fit circumstances: “or whatever’s best.” Just as Biblical prophets clash with worldly authority, so the Jesuits have had perpetual differences with the powers-that-be. Gospel fidelity often conflicts with unjust human law; no other religious order has spent as many man-years in jail.

A recent example is Fr. Stan Swamy, an Indian Jesuit imprisoned for defending the rights of the Dalit (untouchable) people and rural poor. The government charged him with links to violent Maoist groups, which he denied. Despite being 83 with advanced Parkinson’s, he was jailed under anti-terror statutes. Unable to even drink from a cup, he relied on fellow prisoners to meet his needs.  He died of COVID in 2021.

In what seems a tribute to St. Ignatius, Nativity School of Worcester, MA, started flying the Pride and Black Lives Matter flags In January 2021. This was a response to their students, primarily under-resourced boys of color who receive an excellent, tuition-free education there. Laudably, the students wanted to symbolize their stand with the marginalized. Bishop Robert McManus, however, believed “flying these flags is inconsistent with Catholic teaching.” In March 2022, he told the school to take down the flags. When the school refused, he removed its Catholic identity. A letter on the school website (https://nativityworcester.org) from its president assures the community, “Please know that any decisions made by the Diocese will not change the mission, operations or impact of Nativity.” Ignatius might give them a “thumbs up” for spunk. Who could’ve dreamed that seed sown in the 16^th century could flower so boldly today?

This reflection was originally published in Give Us This Day, 7/31/20. www.giveusthisday.org, 888-259-8470. The last two paragraphs were added as an update.

Let’s hope that on the Feast of Mary Magdalene July 22, we all do our part to correct the misperception of her as prostitute. That error, a conflation of three Biblical texts, was given authority by Pope Gregory the Great in the seventh century, and not corrected for 1400 years, until revisions to the Roman calendar of 1969.

Luke’s gospel names her as one of several financially independent women who supported Jesus’ ministry. But her role is more important than financier. Dan Brown’s best-selling Da Vinci Code gave her a romantic role, but again, her centrality in the early Christian community was more than simply a private relationship.

All four Gospels agree she was one of the first witnesses to the resurrection. When Jesus calls her name in the garden, it is a pivotal point of human history. Her name is the hinge to a new order. She was the first to realize that God could vanquish even death, and to tell the other disciples. She convinced them and skeptics throughout history that “love is stronger than death.” To silence her voice and discount her primary role does her a great disservice. She calls us instead to the vision of a world free of sexism, suffering, exploitation and death. Arguments over authority simply distract from that larger hope.

When St. Ignatius said, “God has a dream for you,” he probably didn’t picture a Korean t.v. series about ballet. But “Navillera” gives us fresh images for that traditional theme. Streaming on Netflix with subtitles, the 12 episodes never pall, but show realistically that it can take a long time to achieve a dream.

It all begins when Mr. Sim’s friend dies without realizing his long-deferred goal. He always wanted to go to sea, and feel the waves surge powerfully around him, but the closest he comes is launching a paper boat off the balcony of his care facility just before his death.

That prompts Mr. Sim to re-examine his own dream. As a boy, he’d been drawn to the sight of a ballerina, and tugged on his dad’s hand to pause. “He’s flying like a bird!” he exclaimed in amazement, before dad shuffled him away, mumbling that boys don’t wear costumes and make-up. What follows is a long, boring career as a mailman, a faithful marriage, and raising 3 children in relative poverty.

But when he turns 70, it’s Time. Somehow Mr. Sim persuades a ballet studio to take him on as a student. In an ironic twist, young ballerina Lee Chae-rock is assigned to be his teacher. Almost predictably, the young man’s initial resistance turns to deep, genuine affection by the series’ end.

It’s hard to resist Mr. Sim. He practices daily, shows up faithfully and undergoes grueling physical training with a smile. When he dances, even in the first awkward spurts, his face is transformed with radiant longing. By the time he achieves his dream, performing in “Swan Lake,” the viewer is both weeping and cheering. Then we understand the title: “Navillera” is a Korean word that means “like a butterfly.”

Along the way, the families of both men become entangled. Sim’s family, at first horrified by his plan, eventually comes around to proudly applauding the triumphant performance, deluging dad with flowers and compliments. Chae-rock, so abandoned by his own family that he must write himself sticky notes of encouragement, finds a home with Sim’s and is eventually reunited with his own dad. Before the final show, he writes Sim’s name in his ballet shoes, with the message, “he will soar.”

I was so tied into the series, it made me think about personal dreams. Since most of mine were in the academic/writing field, they were achieved relatively early in life. I’m delighted that dreams of having a family and writing books materialized far better than I ever imagined.

But in physical skills, I lagged behind. All that time and effort which went into writing and child-rearing didn’t leave much surplus to develop any athletic prowess, and friends from grammar and high school know what a klutz I was. Never once did anyone say, “you shine. You soar.”

So, like Mr. Sim, I spent 20 years learning yoga, similar to the slow and painful process he endured. It enabled me to practice in beautiful studios all over the world, with special experiences in Bali, Australia and Ireland. I glowed as he did when, unimaginably, I became certified to teach it, and led classes several times a week. My elderly students never had an injury and we all had great, if sometimes clumsy, fun.

So too, I always envied swimmers who were powerful and sleek as seals, or my grandkids who had no fear of water, but jumped in pools or lakes with ease and grace. I didn’t have a swimming lesson ‘til I was 29, but now I happily take my place in a lap lane twice a week as proudly as Mr. Sim danced with a ballet company. Around me, the quiet plash of other swimmers; above, blue sky; every stroke one of gratitude.

Dance metaphors for the spiritual life abound. I’ll always remember the late Eleanor Sheehan, csj giving a retreat where she acted out her first dancing lesson with her dad. “Don’t look at your feet,” he’d said. “Just follow my lead and hear the music.” It wasn’t a huge stretch to apply that advice to spirituality: don’t fret about the details; follow God’s lead.

Now that insight is enhanced by Chae-rock assuring a nervous Mr. Sim before they go on stage: “Do what you love. I won’t let go of your hand.” As the music swells, the ballet offers the beautiful image of two hands, gracefully extended from opposite directions. In a ripple effect, the closing scene shows the studio director accepting another unlikely candidate: pudgy, eager, older, awkward: an unpromising student. As we all are. But God has a dream…

Biographical details are sparse for this Patron Saint of the Environment: daughter of a Mohawk chief and a Christian, Algonquin mother, Kateri was orphaned when her family was wiped out by the smallpox epidemic of 1660, which left her pock-marked and half blind. Adopted by her uncle, she asked for baptism at age 20, and celebrated it in a chapel festively decorated with feathers, ribbons, flowers, and beads. The beauty of nature, which she had always loved, took on new intensity because she knew the creator.

The Mohawks, however, could not accept her conversion and ridiculed her. Eventually she made a long journey on foot to the Sault mission south of Montreal in Canada, where she could live among other Native American Christians. Early French biographers describe her as solid and joyful. She nursed the sick and dying with remarkable cheer, considering that her own health was precarious. Her joy was so contagious that children were drawn to her for storytelling. She showed a key hallmark of holiness: people wanted to be around her. At her burial there was no mourning, only public rejoicing.

At a time when much progress to preserve clean air, water and wilderness is threatened with dismantling, and the recent Supreme Court decision has gutted the Clean Power Plan, we can appreciate how the restrained native American approach might’ve saved the planet. (For more on that topic, see Braiding Sweetgrass by Robin Wall Kimmerer.) In desperate, last-ditch circumstances now, we need Kateri’s wisdom, reverence, and sense of the earth’s sacredness.

How can something be both beautiful and sad at the same time? That’s the question Susan Cain sets out to explore in her newest book, Bittersweet. Her fans will remember Quiet, her study of introverts and their contributions to a noisy, extraverted society like ours. Just as the first book felt counter-cultural, so this one praises “negative” emotions like sadness and grief in the face of a relentlessly cheery society. Our longing, she says, the place where we care desperately, points in the direction of the sacred. It is the “beating heart of the world’s religions.” This yearning for a more perfect, beautiful world can be the source of creativity and compassion. In the state of exile from Home, our broken hearts help connect us.

Cain’s finest example comes in the Prelude: the cellist of Sarajevo. Vedran Smailovic, lead cellist of the Sarajevo opera, played Albinoni’s “Adagio in G Minor” in war ruins. Dressed in formal white shirt and black tails, he sat in the rubble and played this haunting melody for 22 days in a row, despite sniper fire, for 22 people killed by a mortar shell as they line up for bread. (To hear this infinitely sad music, go to youtube.com/watch?v=kn1gcjuhlhg) The rubble reminds us of Ukraine. The cellist’s rhetorical question could apply there too: “you ask am I crazy for playing the cello in a war zone. Why don’t you ask THEM if they’re crazy for shelling Sarajevo?”

We can sense longing transformed into beauty in the music of Leonard Cohen or the writing of C.S. Lewis, who described a “joyous ache,” a search for “the place where all the beauty came from.” “God is the sigh in the soul,” said Meister Eckhart. Somehow, living in a flawed world, we sense a place of peace and wholeness, always beyond our reach. The pain of not achieving it permanently can be transformed into beauty; darkness can become light through artistic expression or compassion.

I felt a strong stab of this “joy laced with sorrow” at a recent birthday celebration. My six grandchildren were exuberant as they rushed into my room that morning. Carrying balloons, streamers, gifts and hand-made cards, they sang “Happy Birthday” and tumbled into bed for abundant hugs and kisses. Beneath joyful tears, I also thought: they will never be these ages (6-10) again. Sooner or later, we’ll return to routine. And I can’t imagine this clear innocence in 5 years, when they start becoming teenagers. Perhaps having limited expiration dates sharpens the edges, so humans better notice the miraculous in the everyday. “Poignancy is the richest feeling humans experience, one that gives meaning to life—and it happens when you feel happy and sad at the same time.”

Most of the book is gripping, but it sags in the middle, where Cain becomes extensively autobiographical about her relationship with her mother, and repeats much of what’s been written elsewhere. By now we’re aware of social codes that make us say everything is fine, and smile no matter what is unraveling.  The pressure on students to achieve perfection and never admit failure has been well documented. Brene Brown has published fine work on vulnerability, and many are already aware of the “tyranny of positivity.” Most of us know the power of journaling. It’s tempting to yawn when Cain reviews Sharon Salzberg’s well-known story and breathlessly discovers metta, the practice of loving-kindness which some readers have done for 30 years. The ultimate question on which the book ends, “What are you longing for?” echoes St. Ignatius’ probing our deep desires.   

Nonetheless, Bittersweet is well worth a read, and may name elusive feelings. It certainly clarifies our discontent with “normative sunshine,” and our mysterious yearning which is ultimately for the divine.

I attended the second movie which follows the six PBS seasons with a friend who isn’t nearly as obsessed with the series as I. But afterwards he said, “I can see why you like living in that world.”

What’s not to like? Beautiful costumes of the 20s, the men in white tie and tails, the women with long gloves and jewels, stately mansions, elegant meals, lush lawns, sparkly Mediterranean vistas. A gun never appears; though arguments happen, they occur only with the utmost civility. Almost everyone behaves graciously; the characters are nuanced so that no one is all good or bad.

Before some grim justice-advocate breaks in to criticize, I know. I realize it’s a lost world and it was probably quite unfair to many people at the time. But haven’t films always offered us a vicarious experience of Hollywood glamor? As Marah Eakin wrote in Chicago Reader: “‘Downton Abbey: A New Era’ is cinematic escapism at its finest and perhaps that’s all it should be.”

This one occurs between two world wars. While people are still suffering the after-effects of the first, few have any premonition that another major conflict looms on the horizon. So most characters can focus on the revelation that their ageing granny has been left a home in the south of France by a man so besotted by her beauty, he didn’t forget her for over 50 years. With no zoom nor e-mail, that leads to an exploratory party checking out the mansion, improbable but handy for the narrative arc.

In typical “Downton” style, simultaneous happenings and twisty plots keep us on our toes. With swift flashes between two countries, one story line follows the group in France, the other a group at home, where a movie company takes over the noble estate for filming. (The roof is sadly in need of repair; one look at the pots in the attic collecting drips convinces the reluctant Earl to take the considerable money offered by the film company.) That eventually leads to a marvelous role reversal, with the servants as film extras dressed to the teeth in 18^th century finery, dining “upstairs.”

The old favorite characters are back: Lady Mary, despite her regal distance, the spine of the family, Tom Branson who always seems to say something kind, and everyone’s favorite, the Dowager Countess. As Bill Newcott writes in The Saturday Evening Post: “Here Violet (Maggie Smith) is again, still dying, yet peppery as ever, holding court in the parlour and hurling droll Violetisms that stick to their targets like clumps of warm figgy pudding.”

I’ve always been impressed by the fact that despite the rigid social hierarchy, some members of the Crawley family have closer friendships with their servants than with their family or friends. Both happy and sad events are celebrated by the entire household. Fans who’ve caught prophetic hints will be pleased by the Shakespearean device of tying up loose ends with new marriages, upstairs and down.

If one believes as I do, and Richard Rohr describes eloquently in Immortal Diamond, the natural trajectory of history leads to resurrection, then the new baby’s appearance at the film’s end is no accident. We who’ve watched the whole family: Lady Mary, Lady Edith, Lord and Lady Grantham endure tragedy are pleased by their joy because someday, it may be ours too. It’s not heavy theology; it’s story, but it points in the direction of new life and goodness. It gives us hope in the unfolding Mystery. Wasn’t that what C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien tried to achieve with their fiction too?