Kathy Coffey

The names aren’t mentioned much now, 55 years later, but they should be: Addie Mae Collins, Carole Robertson, Cynthia Wesley, Denise McNair. On Sept. 15, 1963, they were killed in a Birmingham church when it was dynamited. Right after Sunday school, they were innocently changing into choir robes.

The anniversary of their deaths prompts us to ask whether we’ve improved the climate for children in the US. It’s also a unique opportunity to write about gun violence when there hasn’t been a recent school shooting. Typically, concern surfaces then, and ebbs until the next tragic event. But maybe it should be a constant irritant on the national conscience.

Perhaps we should continue to remember the brave Emma Gonzalez, who had to run past her friends bleeding on the floor of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School. After she spoke at Washington’s March for Our Lives on March 24, she remained on stage, silent for the 6 minutes and 20 seconds it took for the Parkland shooting to occur.

Her stillness contrasts with the empty political blather which hasn’t yet achieved gun control anywhere near that of most other nations. Emma and other students had done their homework: “Australia had one mass shooting in 1999, then introduced gun safety, and hasn’t had one since. Japan has never had a mass shooting. Canada has had three; the UK had one. They both introduced gun control.” As she said to legislators and the president, “For shame!” The exorbitant amounts of money they’ve taken from the NRA apparently blind them to the inestimable value of one human life.

Our children–bright, vulnerable, filled with potential—are our national treasure. They may resolve the ecological crisis. They may find cures for cancer, Alzheimer’s, AIDS and heart disease. Their generation may learn to solve human problems without wars. But only if we protect them. Only if we make their schools safe. Only if we make gun control a pressing issue in the November elections. And then, vote. Our doing so seems a small way to honor Addie Mae, Carole, Cynthia, Denise.

When Sr. Simone Campbell was interviewed by Krista Tippett for “On Being,” (https://onbeing.org/programs/simone-campbell-how-to-be-spiritually-bold) the executive director for Network was characteristically upbeat. She laughed with great pleasure at how her organization was a tiny, unpublicized, low budget group until the Vatican condemned them. “We only had nine full time staff at the time and we made the whole Vatican nervous?”

Presto Bongo! Instant Free Publicity! The impetus from that buzz of press may have helped them launch the famous project Nuns on the Bus.

Sister Simone could laugh about that, too. After many battles with Paul Ryan over fair wages and justice to the poor, she said how “sweet” that he once defended her. Another congressman said she shouldn’t be believed because she was censured by the Vatican. “Sister Simone is well within the teaching of the Church,” Ryan replied. The ability to laugh at human folly and appreciate the decency of one’s foes has probably preserved Campbell’s sanity through a busy, arduous career.

She does, however, criticize “grim liberals.” “You could offer a bunch of lamentation, but lamentation doesn’t often help…. what gift do you have to offer to this situation? Who can you connect with? Now, the other piece I haven’t really talked about— but I goof off a lot — is joy. That joy is at the heart of this journey. And if we — too often, progressives are really grim. I mean, it’s not a very good advertisement. ‘Come join us. We’re so miserable.’”

How easy it is to fall into that trap, when so many good causes deserve our earnest attention. And how do we avoid becoming what Yeats criticized in “A Prayer for My Daughter” as “an old bellows full of angry wind”?

We might all think about where we find delight—and how much time we spend there. Each one will answer that question differently, but one irreverent example is my Zumba class. I’m often the oldest there, often the only Caucasian, but this U.N. of exercise is marvelous to behold. The music blasts at ear-splitting levels while mostly women of various ages and sizes dance with wild abandon. Some wear abundant bling; others dress in clashing neon shades of lime and purple.

But the bottom line is, we’re all happy to be there. We may not articulate it, but we could be across the street in the quiet, antiseptic hospital, contending with hip surgery or heart attacks. What a marvelous gift to have bodies that dance, not always gracefully or in rhythm, but with energy and co-ordination!

Zumba isn’t everyone’s cuppa. But to continue the good fight, we must all find our places of delight. Is it nature, poetry, music, humor, children, novels, movies, friends, meditation, art? Where do we find the deep pleasure, and just as important, how much time have we spent there recently?

When so much news of the church and nation is grim, let’s turn to something positive: the uplifting effects of retreat houses. I’ve given retreats in many of these centers, and benefited personally from many others. They are often located in scenes of natural beauty, so we can draw near God without books or rituals, with spontaneous delight in creation. Often people, especially those in ministry or parents, arrive at these centers like the “walking wounded,” exhausted, frazzled, frustrated, depleted.

And then the quiet healing begins. It takes a while to adjust to the reality of no meals to prepare, no people to care for, no home to clean, no obligations to meet. Within us is divinity, beyond routine, drudgery, expectations, noise, bills, traffic and deadlines. In a retreat setting, that luminous one can emerge—source of wisdom, guardian of memory, forgiver of wrongs, restorer of losses. Gradually, our child-like exuberance emerges. We sense we are being held and carried in arms of infinite tenderness.

Then we start seeing what’s around us with the proper astonishment. One of my favorite places has always been Sacred Heart Jesuit Retreat House near Sedalia, CO (www.sacredheartretreat.org). Long paths wander from the lily pond to the gazebo and around 250 acres in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Since moving to CA, I’ve found other refuges here, like the Franciscan San Damiano, (http://sandamiano.org) artfully shaped around a courtyard with fountain and native plants.

My latest discovery is Villa Maria del Mar in Santa Cruz, http://www.villamariadelmar.org located directly on the Pacific Ocean. Some rooms have full ocean views, and the beach is just a staircase away. “The sound of many waters” praised by the psalmist saturates the place; the dining room and meeting room have sweeping sea views. The Holy Name Sisters who own it are a cheerful and hospitable bunch; no wonder so many parish groups schedule their getaways here.

Since people often ask about food (crucial to fuel the spiritual journey), it’s excellent—locally sourced, fresh, with vegetarian options. The salad bar and selection of fruit are outstanding—coming from nearby fields where artichokes, melon, garlic and strawberries grow in abundance. The cookie jar is always full; the hot chocolate/cappuccino machine never fails.

I’ve always suspected one reason we respond to the magnificence of mountain or ocean it that it tangibly represents our inner vastness. Who can stand before the gleaming sea, powerful and playful, silken and mysterious, and not be awed? “Ah,” we may remember there. “I’m part of God’s creation. I too can gleam.”

Sadly, many retreat houses are closing. They’re expensive to run, and must pay many staff salaries. The demographic of people who take 3-8 days away is aging. Some survivors offer creative, innovative programs for young people; others open their doors to a wide variety of groups needing meeting space. But to lose them all would diminish us as a people. Where would we go to renew, refresh, replenish, restore our relationship with God?

Many of us are still reeling from the news of 300 priests in PA raping over 1000 children. We felt utter disgust that the crime was covered up for years by the hierarchy, and finally revealed not by any church authority but by a grand jury. Shock probably progresses through several forms: revulsion, questioning, action. Even Pope Francis could not muster any stronger condemnation than the poignant line, “we showed no care for the little ones; we abandoned them.”

The Pope’s advisor, Cardinal Sean O’Malley of Boston, voiced truth: “The clock is ticking for all of us in Church leadership. Catholics have lost patience with us and civil society has lost confidence in us.” Theologians have proposed all the bishops resign; other leaders suggest cutting off church donations.  Pennsylvania state Rep. Mark Rozzi, abused himself by a priest when he was in eighth grade, has proposed eliminating the statute of limitations for prosecutions. All excellent ideas, but no one talks much about dismantling the clerical culture that created this mess, or paying attention to the victims.

And what does the ordinary person-in-the-pew do?  How in our concern do we avoid re-victimizing? This early in the process, I’ve come to one practice, the Buddhist tonglen. While rage is appropriate, this prayer also calms and centers, for as the Dalai Lama says, “Inner disarmament first, then outer disarmament.”

Although it may seem counter-intuitive, because most people flee suffering, I begin by inhaling the suffering of the child abuse victims. It almost breaks my heart to do this, because I think of my own grandchildren, so small, vulnerable and innocent. But I try to continue, breathing in the pain, confusion, shame and betrayal the raped children must have felt. Their suffering can seem like a black cloud, which overshadows my narcissistic delusion I could do anything to change what happened.

But I bring them to the only source that can affect their terrible injury: Infinite Love and Healing Light. Some imagine this as Christ, always so fond of children, so quick to defend them from his stupid disciples. I imagine him dissolving the dark cloud and bringing comfort. I may never know these victims, but he does. He cherishes them and wants their healing with all his heart. Knowing they are in safe hands,  I exhale peace, balm, joy.

Tonglen may not be everyone’s style of prayer, but it seems better than being helplessly overwhelmed by the problem. It might even be used by compassionate people to pray for the priest-rapists. What terrible wounding caused their actions? Was it a clerical culture that denied the most natural human warmth and touch, stalling their psycho-sexual development around age 14? Was it seminary training that made them feel so entitled they could grab whatever satisfaction they wanted, with no thought for the damage they wreaked? Did they live in dread of discovery? And what bizarre mental illness persuaded them that preserving the pristine image of the church was more important than ruining countless lives?

I don’t mean to suggest here the meaningless cliché of “sending thoughts and prayers” that surfaces from politicians after shootings. I mean a practice that takes time and concerted effort, that truly believes “with God all things are possible.” It awakens our finest self, and for some may flower in appropriate action.  All of us doing it together is the Mystical Body at its best, wrapping the terrible suffering in tremendous care.

It’s a terrible juxtaposition: Mt. 18:1-5, read in Catholic churches August 14, and the treatment of refugee children on US borders. In the former, Jesus says the Kingdom belongs to children: “whoever receives one child…in my name receives me.” It hasn’t been in the press much lately: all the more reason to remember that this administration tore approximately 3,000 children away from their parents, their only buffer/security in a strange country with another language. What happened to them next?

In an editorial August 5, the Washington Post reported horrific treatment like refusing water. In “a detention center for migrant minors in Virginia — children as young as 14 stripped naked, shackled, strapped to chairs, their heads encased in bags, left for days or longer in solitary confinement, and in some cases beaten and bruised.” And that’s only one report.

The courage and persistence of U.S. District Judge Dana Sabraw forced the government to return some children, but it’s unclear how many remain alone and frightened. “The reality is that for every parent that is not located, there will be a permanently orphaned child and that is 100 percent the responsibility of the administration,” the judge said. Not only did the Trump government fail to meet the reunification deadline, it failed on its vow to notify the ACLU (which brought the original lawsuit on behalf of separated families) of the time and place of each reunification, so the organization could verify them.

Record-keeping was spotty; the judge recently said he was impressed by the efforts, but who can believe the testimony of the callous, cruel people who instigated this heartbreak? They now say some parents are “ineligible” and others deported. That leaves a child lonely, vulnerable, the Christ in our midst abandoned.

Another contrast: the film “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” about Mr. Rogers’ t.v. show. I must admit that when my children were young, I rarely saw it, but I overheard a lot. A half-hour of it and a half-hour of “Sesame Street” kept the darlings entertained while I cooked dinner. I didn’t realize that he treated controversial topics like integration, assassination and self-doubt in ways that children could understand. Later accused that his emphasis on every child as special may have made a whole generation feel entitled, the response was: If every child ISN’T special, that undermines the very foundations of Christianity. Which brings us back to the beginning, Matthew’s gospel, and the abusive ways that’s been violated.

For some reason, we want to prettify our holy ones, make them antiseptic and perfect: a great dis-service which places them on a distant, unattainable pedestal. (And easily gets us off the hook of becoming like them!) Since St. Clare’s Feast is Aug. 11, let’s look at how it happened to her.

One of the most famous 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 demonstration of power or strength, and yet it was effective. The invaders retreated, causing no harm.

Her strategy fits perfectly into what Richard Rohr describes in Eager to Love as a topsy-turvy insistence on living without privilege or guarantee. Totally dependent on God, spending 40 years in one small house and garden, she discovered freedom and joy. The process of letting go her ego and learning to mirror God is far more dramatic and transformative than the phony images we use to beef up the saints. So why not focus on the true story?

“Try it in G,” the musician suggests and we hear the same song in a different key. So Jesus models a transition from his glorious mountaintop experience to a frustrating one that follows today’s gospel. Descending, he scolds a “faithless and perverse generation,” then rebukes a demon, curing an epileptic boy.

“Will the real Jesus please stand up?” We’re inclined to believe in the one whose face dazzles and whose clothes shine, affirmed by the Father’s voice. Clearly Peter is stunned into babbling an elaborate plan for building tents, so Jesus can converse with the prophets in peace.

Yet it is no less Jesus who repeats, “how much longer must I put up with you?” in exasperation with the disciples’ lack of faith and inability to cure the boy. He heals him “instantly,” so his power is still intact; his compassion still overflows.

We also go through various transformations in our days. We might be praying, then cooking, gardening, paying bills, caring for children or the elderly, chatting, reading, singing, shopping, working on the computer, filling the car with gas or doing the laundry. It’s the same self, in different keys. But because of Jesus’ transfiguration, we do all these things as divine children of the Great King. It’s all prayer in different ways. The disciples who saw Jesus in dazzling light also see themselves anew.  The radiance might not be obvious, but it is there nonetheless, hiding beneath the surface.

There’s a happy connection between the feast of St. Ignatius (July 31) who encouraged the use of the imagination in prayer, and the gospel Sunday July 29 (John 6:1-15). Taking the Ignatian approach to the story of Jesus feeding 5000 from a child’s fish and bread, we might ask, “who packed the lunch?”

Dads today would do it, but probably not in Jesus’ time. So we speculate how that mom felt, she who had probably experienced mostly scarcity throughout her life. Suddenly, a silvery cascade of fish and abundance of bread, smiles crumb-smudged! A lavish banquet filled those whose food had usually been rationed. Their ancestors would’ve said the desert bloomed.

Afterwards, the leftover pieces gathered “so nothing may be lost” speaks powerfully to the fragmentation many women feel. Men are regarded as single-minded and dedicated, while women, says anthropologist Mary Catherine Bateson, “have been regarded as unreliable because they are torn by multiple commitments….But what if we were to recognize the capacity for distraction, the divided will, as representing a higher wisdom…a vision… sensitive to complexity, to the multiple rather than the singular?”

Bringing imagination to the gospel deepens our sense of ownership and makes it more relevant to our lives today. Thanks, Ignatius!

For more of this “Midrash” approach to scripture, see HIDDEN WOMEN OF THE GOSPELS by Kathy Coffey, (Orbis Books, www. orbisbooks.com, 800-258-5838) from which this excerpt comes.

The world watches, holding its collective breath and wondering, “will the children be saved?” The answer depends on which country the crisis occurs in. If Thailand, good news. If the US, not yet sure…

The Thai SEAL rescue of the Wild Boars soccer team has been the one bit of heartening news in an otherwise dismal series recently. Details of the story make it even more dramatic: the impossible odds, careful preparations of volunteers from many nations, brave ingenuity, divers’ practice with boys of similar sizes in a school swimming pool, the heroic coach, a former Buddhist monk, who taught meditation and deep breathing techniques, and refrained from food so he emerged the most malnourished. Parents waiting endured an emotional roller coaster from the first news their sons had vanished, to their discovery, and subsequently the daring rescue many thought could never happen. The newest image of Christ as savior now is a diver holding a boy tight, as he propels the child towards light.

It’s heartbreaking that news from our own country is less jubilant. Judge Sabraw of San Diego, the hero of the refugee-children-separated-from-their-parents story ordered that those under 5 be reunited within 2 weeks. But only 57 (slightly more than half) of them were, while 2,551 other children remain in custody, according to latest government estimates. As Health and Human Services stalled, Sabraw responded to their spokesman: “It is clear from Mr. Meekins’s declaration that H.H.S. either does not understand the court’s orders or is acting in defiance of them.”

The New York Times reported, “Questions remain about the futures of children whose parents have been deported without them, which Judge Sabraw called ‘one of the disturbing realities of this situation.’ He set a deadline of seven days for returning those children to their parents once the government had secured the documents necessary for them to travel.” The few reporters allowed to visit the detention centers speak of a pervasive, “aching uncertainty” there.

Isn’t it time to give up on the government and call in the private sector? Our leaders and their lackeys seem to have forgotten that every child is precious to God, irrevocably harmed by each day away from their parents. As the world rallied to save the Thai boys, surely they would do the same to locate the refugee parents—with similar intelligence, speed and creativity. The Thai situation showed the extraordinary potential of ordinary humans. Couldn’t this be a similar chance? Those of us not immediately involved must keep up the donations to organizations like Catholic Charities Rio Grande (www.catholiccharitiesrgv.org). Kudos to the Sisters of St. Joseph, who sent them a $10,000 check AND an associate who’s a lawyer to help.  Fierce prayers continue, deeply rooted in the belief that “nothing is impossible for God.”

Kathy Coffey won her 17^th Catholic Press Award in 2018, with second place for coverage of ecumenical/interfaith issues.

How appropriate that when many North Americans seem to have forgotten that at one time, we were all immigrants to this land, we celebrate a Native American canonized in 2012, Kateri Tekakwitha. Seventeenth century French explorers came expecting savages. Instead, they found saints. Jesuit missionaries to the Mohawk community were impressed by their works of mercy to the orphaned, aged and weak. One priest painted Christian scenes on linen; another who knew the native language translated Christian songs, which the people loved. Kateri was especially drawn to the beauty of the Christmas crib, surrounded by fir boughs, and asked for baptism.

Kateri’s parents and little brother had been killed in the small pox epidemic of 1660, which left her pock-marked and half-blind. Despite her own precarious health, she nursed the sick and dying with remarkable cheerfulness. Her joy became so contagious that children were drawn to her for storytelling. (I’ve always thought the acid test of holiness is, “do people want to hang out with you?”) Her synthesis of Mohawk and Christian spiritualities reconciled the terrible hostilities between the native-born and the colonizers.

Furthermore, Kateri is patron saint of the environment, which is being so recklessly destroyed now. She had always loved the beauty of nature; this pull took on a new intensity as she learned more about the Creator. She often contemplated in green forests, watching the light rippling on leaves, or the snow mantling pines. How appalled she would be by offshore drilling or the wanton disregard for public lands.

How we need her help now!

For more about North American saints, see When the Saints Came Marching In by Kathy Coffey, Liturgical Press, www.litpress.org, 800-858-5450.