As ashes were signed on foreheads Wednesday, some heard what seems like a more meaningful translation: “Turn from fear; trust the good news.” What does that mean? Turn from all that drags us down. Trust God who has always been faithful; it’s the only door into the future.

And what shall we fast this Lent? The old practice of giving up candy bars or cigarettes was almost too easy. It only addressed one side of ourselves, the physical. This year, try fasting from negative put-downs, anxiety, time wasted on fluffy entertainment or games that are beneath us. Substitute compliments, a deliberate direction of the brain channels away from anxiety, time spent in quiet reflection. That will make it seem like a breeze to forego the candy bar!

No, Mr. Trump, we did not march to celebrate your economic gains, as your tweet mis-defines us. But then, we’re not so crass as to vote ourselves millions in tax breaks, or hold fundraisers at our own hotels, neatly paying ourselves. If over 150,000 people in the Bay Area marched Jan. 20, there were probably as many reasons why. As one marcher lamented: “So many issues. So little sign.” Just a few:

Because no one should toy with nuclear weapons which could kill millions of people

Because a president who publicly admitted to sexual harassment is still in office, when many others, not even proven, have resigned.

Because it’s unconscionable to deny health care to poor children (CHP), endangering nearly 10 milion lives and rewarding billionaires.

Because we cherish our national parks and monuments and hate to see them destroyed or diminished

Because it’s immoral to deport 260,000 Salvadorans to one of the most violent countries on earth

Because drilling in our oceans could cause irreparable harm

Because 43% of the Nigerians you slammed come to this country with a BA degree or higher.

Because we can’t stomach racism, sexism, any other ism, or return to the 50s

Because Dreamers, Muslims and immigrants of every shade are valued as part of our national fabric

Because we’re embarrassed by the face of our country which you present to the world

Because some children are afraid that if they go to school in the morning, their parents will be deported by the time they get home

Because we believe what scientists say about global warming

This list only scratches the surface.

It’s tempting to quote the signs, succinct enough for even one who doesn’t read books. For instance: “They tried to bury us. They didn’t know we were seeds.”

You probably don’t read Shakespeare, but he said: “She may be little, but she is fierce.” Stay tuned.

We’ll be marching again in November. To the polls.

Hooray for the emergence of strong women telling Arrogant Ole Boys, no more exploitation! Let’s focus on three women who’ve been in the news recently. Oprah Winfrey touched a chord when she spoke of being a child, sitting on linoleum floor, amazed to watch Sidney Poitier receive a Golden Globe award. The unspoken message: things could be different for her. She alerted viewers: other little girls are watching this broadcast. How will we change the current climate for them?

Jane Goodall opened the doors for young women in science. The movie “Jane” showed her at 26, fearlessly and curiously going to Tanzania, accompanied by a supportive mom, to study the chimpanzees. Her arrival there in 1960 began “one of the longest and most rigorously conducted inquiries into animal behavior. Her finding, published in Nature in 1964, that chimpanzees use tools — extracting insects from a termite mound with leaves of grass — drastically and forever altered humanity’s understanding of itself; man was no longer the natural world’s only user of tools.” (“Jane Goodall Is Still Wild at Heart,” NEW YORK TIMES, 3/15/2015)

She continued to work tirelessly for conservation, traveling all over the world to promote “Roots and Shoots” for children and the Jane Goodall Institute, a conservation NGO she founded in the 1970s. A fierce advocate for forest conservation and sustainable development, she also completely reformed the methodology for contemporary field biology.

Kay Graham didn’t choose to be editor of the Washington Post at a critical juncture in its history. She thought it perfectly natural for her father to turn the family business over to her husband Phil. But when he committed suicide, she inherited the job. The film “The Post” recounts her dangerous decision to publish the Pentagon papers, despite furious threats from President Nixon.

The leak, through Daniel Ellsberg, revealed years of lying to the American public about a war in Vietnam that authorities knew was unwinnable. Unwilling to admit colossal mistakes, Secretary of Defense Robert McNamara perpetuated the sham, as countless boys continued to die. Graham’s own son fought and survived, but she seems clearly motivated to prevent more needless deaths. She risks imprisonment from a vindictive president, but boldly chooses for freedom of the press.

And the tradition of bold women? Stay tuned for the blog: “The Real Wonder Women.”

In Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander (1966), Trappist Thomas Merton wrote prophetically: “The ‘nuclear realist’ can be quite cool and deliberate in his games with his computer and his ladders of escalation… perfectly calm dementia…”  (p.209)

How appalled Merton would be by the unstable leaders of North Korea and the US today, threatening nuclear war, boasting about the size of their “buttons,” apparently oblivious to the tragic toll in human lives they so cavalierly ignore. This demented circus seems to have numbed the outrage one would naturally expect from thoughtful people everywhere. It shows how low the bar has sunk when some of the clearest opposition is coming from the entertainment arena.

“Sound and Fury,” the 1/14/18 episode of “Madam Secretary” showed the process of a president’s removal through Article 25 of the Constitution.  It can NOT have been mere coincidence, although the plot is somewhat contrived. President Conrad Dalton begins to act wildly out of character, loudly denouncing Russia, threatening an attack out of proportion to the cause, which turns out to be groundless suspicion. To his credit, the Secretary of Defense refuses the order to bomb, knowing it will lead to world war. He is summarily fired. Secretary of State McCord begs with the president, “you’re not well,” enlists his wife’s help, and confers with the Chief of Staff. All agree this is not the measured, careful person they’ve known for years.

When the president continues to rage and refuses to back off his military escalation against all the advice he receives, the Cabinet convenes, invoking  Section 4, which outlines procedures for the removal of a president deemed “unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office.” After some debate, they vote for  removal. Elizabeth McCord explains eloquently how the Constitution privileges the lay person, the ordinary citizen represented by Cabinet members. Perhaps the founding fathers foresaw the threat of military coups.

It’s all wrapped up a bit too neatly for viewers stuck with 3 more years of escalating  rhetoric  and impulsive leadership. Turns out the president has a benign brain tumor pressing on the frontal lobe, disrupting his objectivity, planning and response functions. With some medication and simple surgery, he’s back to himself.  Indeed, Dalton goes on national television to thank the Cabinet which took the drastic step of removing him from office. In a moving conclusion, the camera pans the ordinary North Americans watching his broadcast, then shows beautiful, illuminated monuments such as the Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials.

All of this—our most ordinary meals, conversations, jobs, sports activities, church services, family reunions, classes, etc.—would be annihilated by a nuclear bomb.  Daniel Ellsberg believes only 1% of the human race would survive the ensuing nuclear winter.

If hopelessness stems from failure of the imagination, then we must vividly imagine what could happen—and alternative strategies. Would the current Cabinet have the courage to intervene if the danger worsens? What are we doing to preserve our beautiful blue-green planet, the human race beloved of God?

“People on Molokai laugh now—like other people in the world, laugh at the same things, the same dilemmas and jokes.” — Sr. Magdalene, Cope’s nurse

We of miniscule penances and negligible achievements envy Sr. Marianne Cope. We huddle close to security; she embarked on uncharted waters for a risky and unpredictable mission. We admire her clear call, when ours seem muddled, her brisk rolling-up of sleeves to scrub a filthy hospital, when we feel paralyzed by too many choices, “falling in love with her work” when sometimes we can barely drag ourselves to ours.

Born in Germany, Cope moved as an infant with her family to central New York.  Joining the Sisters of St. Francis of Syracuse at the age of 24, she quickly became a leader in the community. After serving as a teacher and principal, she helped found and administer two hospitals. There, she instituted policies which seem common now but were revolutionary then: accepting patients regardless of race or creed, insisting on patients’ rights, treating “outcasts,” such as alcoholics rejected by other hospitals.

The medical protocols she developed there were transplanted to Hawaii when she cheerfully volunteered to serve those with Hansen’s disease. In 1883, the Hawaiian government was searching for someone to run the Kakaako Receiving Station for people suspected of having leprosy. More than 50 religious communities in the United States and Canada refused. Thirty-five Syracuse sisters volunteered immediately; six actually went. In her letter accepting the request, Cope wrote, “I am hungry for the work…I am not afraid of any disease, hence it would be my greatest delight even to minister to the abandoned ‘lepers.’”

Kalaupapa, Hawaii is a peninsula cut off from the mainland by high cliffs and from the rest of the world by the ocean. The sick were cruelly ostracized there, dropped off on the beach by boat, quarantined from their families because the disease was incurable and contagious. While St. Damien had first brought hope there in 1873, Sr. Marianne was able to assure him when he lay dying that his work would continue. Indeed, after his diagnosis with leprosy, the Church and the Government were afraid to welcome him. Only Cope offered hospitality, after hearing that his contagious condition had made him an outcast.  He died in 1889, six months after her arrival, probably confident that the work he began would continue in good hands.

Beyond making the community clean and safe, Cope must’ve known like Dorothy Day and Mother Teresa of Calcutta, that “we are saved by beauty.” Artistry might seem the last thing anyone would worry about, overwhelmed by lepers’ needs. But Sr. Marianne proposed that large, wide-necked bottles, decorated with shells, would make beautiful altar vases.

Her artistry flourished—trimming hats for the girls, requesting the latest fashion magazines for their dressmaking, creating lovely bows. As Sister Antonia Brown wrote, “viewed from the back, one would think they were New Yorkers.”

What made St. Marianne tick? Most powerfully, in her own unique way, she followed One who, shortly after teaching the principles of the Sermon on the Mount, touched gritty reality. Approached by a leper, he stretched out his hand and cleansed him immediately (Mark 8:1-4). He also promised his friends, “whoever believes in me will do the works that I do and will do greater ones than these” (John 14: 12). As Cope wrote in 1905, the time to do good is short:  “Let us make best use of the fleeting moments. They will not return.”

Excerpt from When the Saints Came Marching In Liturgical Press, 2015, litpress.org, 1-800-858-5450

Scholars say that the mythic elements in today’s story– the sky opening, the voice of God, the descent of the dove—are common to spiritual experiences in many religious traditions. What makes Jesus’ unique?

Even in more ordinary circumstances, he remained attuned to the source of that experience: to God his father. Whether he was engaged in hot debate, confronting hideous disease, or teaching in the marketplace, Jesus didn’t forget that voice, that spectacular affirmation. He acted always as God’s beloved child. Furthermore, he saw everyone else through that same lens—no matter how cantankerous, sick, or stupid they were.

Do we? When doing dishes or driving, do we remember we are precious? Confronting a crisis, do we carry into it the same qualities that have gotten us this far: our courage, strength or skill? When we’re angry, mistaken, rejected, exhausted, ill, betrayed, depressed, unemployed, or told we’re worthless, does that sense of affirmation rise up within?

What God said to Jesus, God says to us: “you are my dearly beloved child. I’m pleased with you.” That should matter more than all the applause or awards in the world. And we should in turn hear that same description of everyone we meet.

This experience marks a pivotal point for Jesus: he emerges from it energized and inspired for his public ministry. Even in the long desert days, he must hear the echoes of that voice. When we’re tempted to focus on the criticisms, we could turn instead with joy to that life-giving praise.

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

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

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

The first thing we must get straight is that a holy family isn’t a perfect family. Today’s gospel corrects any delusions about Jesus’ family being the perfect model. If a sentimental writer were describing his childhood, the family would stay pleasantly secure in a thatched cottage with climbing roses and a picket fence. Jesus would chat amiably with the squirrels and perform a miracle whenever Mary or Joseph needed help. Presto, bongo! A clean kitchen or a full water jug.

Instead, they hear news that must terrify a new mother: “you yourself a sword will pierce.” Wasn’t the insecurity of the birth in Bethlehem, the usual sleep deprivation enough?

By being part of a real family, not an ersatz, phony, plastic one, Jesus blesses our own families, with all their messy grit. He shows us that the family—not the church, retreat house, university or seminary—is the primary school of love and forgiveness. In ways that are charming, stupid or violent, families make mistakes. Furthermore, they are innocent victims of oppression like Herod’s. None of that seems to bother Jesus. He could’ve become human and lived his earthly life in a palace, synagogue or military post. Instead, he comes to an ordinary family, with all the graces and scars that entails. Thank God for that!

At some point, even the most beautiful liturgy and symbol fail to communicate, because God is so much greater than all our efforts. God doesn’t need our feeble attempts in order to communicate God’s self with astonishing clarity. God is greater than Advent wreath and can burst the bonds of any catechism with startling power. But we start with simple, concrete things, because we need to remind ourselves we stand on holy ground. God is revealed in the material, so we look closely: the great unveiling is at hand.

Around the shortest day of the year, December 21, comes radiant illumination: God takes on human sinew and bone, a child’s voice, toenails and wispy hair. No longer is God remote and distant; God bears the human face of Jesus whom we can love. Furthermore, this incarnation makes us all God’s daughters and sons. It’s our birthday too: we are born again and again into a new identity as “temples of the Holy Spirit” (1 Corinthians 6:19).

So our frail candles could also be birthday candles. Furthermore, they hint at larger light: the return of powerful sun, the crashing open of the gates of paradise, spilling wide with voluminous brilliance. “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:1). God hasn’t forgotten or given up on us, even if everyone else has. Any debt or guilt we may imagine is erased. “Speak tenderly to Jerusalem and cry to her/ that she has served her term, that her penalty is paid” (Isaiah 40:2). What a relief to see the jail door sprung, the prison gate open wide as a grin. And the light within us is even more dazzling.

If we believe that everything in Christ’s life occurs somehow in ours as well, what does God want to bring to birth in us now? If that sounds like a large order, we must remember that for us as for Mary, “the power of the Most High will overshadow you…” (Luke 1:35). God’s elegant initiative, God’s magnificent doing, the creative vitality of One who spun the planets into orbit more than compensates for our limitations.

To those who pooh-pooh Christmas and its attendant commercialism, saying Easter is the greater feast, Richard Rohr counters: “If incarnation is the big thing, then Christmas is bigger than Easter (which it actually is in most Western Christian countries). If God became a human being, then it’s good to be human and incarnation is already redemption. Resurrection is simply incarnation coming to its logical conclusion: we are returning to our original union with God. If God is already in everything, then everything is unto glory!”  (“Incarnation Is Already Redemption,” Friday, June 5, 2015, Center for Action and Contemplation, Cac.org.)

That all seems more than enough reason to light the Advent wreath.

When John the Baptist appeared, “The people were filled with expectation” (Luke  3:15). How splendid if those words could still describe us: open to wonder, chins uplifted, eagerly responding to the words of the Mass, “sursum corda,” “hearts on high!”

This season seems permeated with impossibilities like the dead stump of Jesse budding. Even if we could wrap our minds around the idea of God becoming human, “pitching a tent in us,“ it’s an even longer leap to see ourselves as God’s children, heirs to the divine kingdom. Irish poet John O’Donohue writes of “being betrothed to the unknown.” Christmas means we are also married to the impossible, getting comfortable with the preposterous. It all began with Mary’s vote of confidence: “For nothing is impossible with God.” During liturgies when we hear Mary’s “Magnificat,” we might remember Elizabeth’s words that precede it: “Blessed are you who believed that what was spoken to you by the Lord will be fulfilled” (Luke 1:45).

It’s a good time to ask ourselves, do we let bitterness and cynicism poison our hearts? Ironically, WE are conscious of our own limitations. GOD keeps reminding us of our high calling, royal lineage and a mission so impeccably suited to our talents and abilities, no one else in the world can do it. Again, Mary is the perfect model. She might not understand half the titles given her son in the “Alleluia Chorus” of the “Messiah.” Mighty God? Prince of Peace? Such language is better suited to a royal citadel than a poor village named Nazareth.  While her questions are natural, she never wimps out with “I don’t deserve this honor.” Instead, she rises to the occasion.

What’s become of our great dreams? Have we adjusted wisely to reality, or buried ideals in a tide of cynicism? Mired in our own problems and anxieties, do we struggle more with good news than with bad? If these questions make us squirm, perhaps we need the prayer of Macrina Wiederkehr, OSB: “God help me believe the truth about myself, no matter how beautiful it is.”

Remember that the adult Jesus hung out with some unsavory characters: crooks and curmudgeons, loudmouths and lepers, shady ladies and detested tax guys. In his scheme of things, our virtue trips us up more than our sin. The ugly stain of self-righteousness blocks our path to God more than natural, human failures.  Limited as we know ourselves to be, we might ask ourselves the question raised by novelist Gail Godwin, “who of us can say we’re not in the process of being used right now, this Advent, to fulfill some purpose whose grace and goodness would boggle our imagination if we could even begin to get our minds around it?” (“Genealogy and Grace” in Watch for the Light. Maryknoll, NY: Orbis, 2004, 167)

So the “Gaudete” or Joyful Sunday represented by the pink candle invites us to forget our lame excuses (Oh not me! I got C’s in high school, I can’t tweet or sing on key, I’ve always been shy, blah, blah, blah) and come to the feast, join in the dance. To put it in the simple terms of “Happy Talk,” a song from “South Pacific”: “If you don’t have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?”