Kathy Coffey

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?

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 that she didn’t know what she was talking about. How could others condemn when she beat them to it?

Biography (1515 – 1582)

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.”

The situation Jesus describes in the gospel some will hear this weekend —master inviting servants to eat–sounds like a preposterous reversal until we consider the times it’s actually happened. The roles we expect are of course, servant donning apron and serving food and drink, then eating after the master is finished. But what about the times that doesn’t happen?

In Jesus’s life, guess who’s first to see the water-turned-wine at Cana? Big hint: it’s not the clueless steward, the bride or groom, but the folks who lug the heavy jars. He continues to set the example at the last supper, removing his outer garment (symbol of public self, “official” role), tying a towel around himself and washing the feet of his friends. Bear in mind, these are gnarly feet that have walked long miles in sandals on dusty, rocky roads. And in that culture, the grubby job of foot-washing was the work of women and slaves.  

Or consider the work most parents do without giving it much thought. Does the Ph.D., M.D., attorney or other highly educated person let that stand in the way of diapering, burping, or bathing her child? Does the healthy CEO call the butler to pick up the toddler who’s fallen off a trike? Or does he simply get on with bandaging the scrapes and wiping the tears on his monogrammed, designer shirt sleeve?

A recent film, the Finale of “Downton Abbey” shows a community raised in a strict hierarchy of dominant/subservient relationships. Upstairs and downstairs were clearly delineated; the servants watched the board of ringing bells to see where to bring tea or help dress the nobility for a formal dinner. But those lines began to dissolve in earlier episodes when Sybil, youngest daughter of Earl and Lady Grantham, married their chauffeur. (The shock waves throughout the family and society were palpable.) World War I further eroded class distinctions, when the aristocrat might crouch alongside his valet in the trenches, and mustard gas or cannon didn’t distinguish social class. At Downton, Lord Grantham is personally close to his valet, Bates—they’d served in the Boer War together, and as the Crowleys are about to leave their estate, the two men reminisce like old friends about their youth. So too, his daughter Lady Mary is probably closer to Anna, her maid, than to her sisters or her friends.

In a lovely scene at the end, Mary remembers a special holiday ball when the cook danced with the Lord, the Lady danced with the butler, and the parlor maid danced with the heir apparent. Fiction bordering on soap opera? Maybe. Or a vision of a kingdom where the impossible becomes real; a mulberry tree could uproot and be planted in the sea? Today when the wealthy possess prodigious power and the rights of “lower” classes are trampled upon, Jesus points to another order. “Have faith,” he seems to say. “God doesn’t parcel out infinite love by social ranking. The apparently insurmountable ladder you see now may, as Merton says, be built against the wrong wall–and it won’t last forever. Reversals can surprise, establishments can crumble, boundaries can be breached, and human relationships don’t always stick to a strict hierarchy. You got one identity that matters here, and it comes with no distinguished titles, awards or epaulets. Servant or master—you’re one with God—can’t top that.”

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: boldly 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.

Retreat at Marillac Center, Leavenworth, KS

The Genius of Jesus, The World of Women–Kathy Coffey

October 13 at 4pm (arrive in afternoon)– October 18 after lunch

For more information or to register,

visit https://www.scls.org/prayer-spirituality/marillac-center/

or contact  retreats@scls.org   913-758-6552