Kathy Coffey

“In the end, it is the reality of personal relationships that saves everything.” — Thomas Merton

As the jangle of politics hits a feverish pitch, let’s turn to something timeless, human values that uplift and endure: the feast of five recent martyrs. On Oct. 23, 1992, three Adorers of the Blood of Christ were killed in Liberia, after two others in the order had been shot three days earlier. They were innocent victims caught in the craziness of civil war.

When I gave retreats to this community, both in Ruma, IL and Wichita, KS, I was impressed by a spunky-wonderful bunch of women. As I learned their history, that first impression turned to awe. One background note among many: in 1985, the Adorers of Ruma became the only Catholic organization in the area to defy the law and offer sanctuary in their houses to Cuban and Central American refugees.

In limited space, it’s impossible to write about all the martyrs (see When the Saints Came Marching In for the fuller picture.) But here are brief cameos of two:

Sister Barbara Ann Muttra was a nurse who wasn’t above bribery. At her clinic, she discouraged the common practice of driving off evil spirits by placing pepper in a newborn’s mouth, (which caused blisters) and mud on the umbilical cord, causing tetanus. She encouraged  parents’ cooperation with baby clothes donated by friends in the U.S. Eventually, she cut infant mortality from 80% to 20%, from two deaths a week to two a year.

Sister Shirley Kolmer loved Liberia because the gap between her front teeth was considered a sign of beauty there. A Ph. D. in Math, she taught it at St. Louis University, and first went on a Fulbright to the University of Liberia in 1977 and 1978. As provincial, her vision was of “loving the comfort, but ready to get up and go at a moment’s notice–women who dream dreams and continue to promise.” In Liberia, Charles Taylor’s rebels had recruited child soldiers as young as 10, and revived ancient practices of torture and mutilation. So Shirley started a counseling program for boys pressed into war, both perpetrators and victims.

Asked, “what made them tick? Why would they return to Liberia after a dangerous escape a year before?” the sisters who knew them well respond: “If there were five martyrs, there were probably eight motives.” The words “pious” or “prissy” never come up. “Bold” and “tenacious” are more likely to surface. They had practical work to do: teaching poor, illiterate, powerless women, staffing medical clinics, counseling, feeding the hungry. (By 1990, 40,000 civilians in Monrovia had died of starvation.) Over and over, one hears of a love for the Liberian people, the drive to meet their needs and share their lot.

Their persistence also characterizes an ASC sister who, as principal of an East St. Louis school, got garbage collection where there had been none, and celebrated as merrily as the neighbors on the day the trash cans arrived. Let’s praise and celebrate and follow  women such as these.

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

“From silly devotions and sour-faced saints, Good Lord deliver us!”

“May God preserve us from stupid nuns!”

No matter how hard they try, hagiographers can’t camouflage Teresa’s tart brusqueness. In her day, the sixteenth century, the Inquisition tried to force change through threats, imprisonment and violence. One suspects that Teresa’s humor had longer-lasting effects.

She reformed not only the Carmelite order, but also attitudes about women and approaches to prayer. Because her early training had shoe-horned her into trivial conversation with too many women jammed into one house, she created orderly spaces where her sisters could turn inward. “My daughters, we are not hollow inside,” she reminded them.

Then she took on the prevailing ideas of prayer: mindless repetition of rote formulas imposed by the clergy. Most people considered direct experience of God, without priestly intervention, subversive. Teresa gave images of contemplation that were close to daily life: the watered garden, beehive, interior castle, heart of God like the innermost, edible core of the palmetto. The face of God that Teresa reveals is not punitive or distant, but precious as a lover, close as a friend.

All the while she was dancing around the Inquisition, coyly claiming she had no idea what she was talking about. How could others condemn her when she beat them to it? Meanwhile, probably grinning self-protectively, she focuses on God’s generosity: “Do you think it’s some small matter to have a friend like this at your side?”

Excerpt from Women of Mercy by Kathy Coffey,  art by Michael O’Neill McGrath, Orbis  Books, 800-258-5838

When I lived in Colorado, autumn was defined and clear as a political opinion. Labor Day meant pack away the shorts and retrieve the ski sweaters. The third weekend of September brought peak aspen-changing, when mountain roads clogged with leaf peepers and newspapers inevitably captioned photos, “Colorado’s Other Gold.” By Halloween it often snowed, so the costumes were buried under down jackets, and hot chocolate sounded better than a Hershey bar.

Now I’m puzzled when Californians speak of seasonal change. It may get a bit cooler, but trees are green in December, flowers still bloom in January, and by February fruit trees are flowering. The changes must be so subtle, I’ll need to explore them more carefully.

So too for seasons of life. Once I was the Wage Earning Adult, teaching classes that began strictly at 9 am. No waffling in the “I’m Mom” department either. “Do it because I’m bigger.” Roles were rigidly defined, without much room to breathe.

So does semi-retirement make one a quasi-adult? My next deadline isn’t ‘til end of October, and I can write the article in my pajamas. My four children are the busy ones, with responsible careers and heavy obligations. I get delegated to chauffeur, supervise the playground, and build sand castles with Louisa while the grown-ups clean the beach house.

My more responsible side resists the change. But the better self likes lingering on this threshold. I can observe and delight in grandchildren as I never could when my constant mantra was, “I don’t have time!” With the surprising gift of time, I can find out if “California fall” is an oxymoron. I can glow with professional pride when the 4-year old tells his mom, “grammy made us a great dinner!” meaning she nuked the mac-n-cheese in pre-measured plastic bowls. I can look forward all day to 5 pm, not for faculty cocktails or the end of a work day, but to the explosive joy when a 20-month old barrels across the day care center, knocking over smaller children and yelling, “Gammy!” Not to brag, but I’ve measured just the right amount of gravel to voice Thomas the train engine for the 3-year old.

Once I was quite serious about my resume, listing every award and publication. Our society values achievement and by gum, I was an Olympic ladder climber. Now the tiny steps downward into being more fully human won’t be recorded. But a threshold beckons, mysterious as autumn in California.

Someday it may seem mild, but a priest who openly admitted being alcoholic and gay, then went rollerblading in his sixties was pushing the narrowly defined boundaries of priesthood in the seventies and eighties.

At one time, Mychal Judge drank so heavily he had blackouts. The drinking began in the seminary with little sips of altar wine. By 1976, “his alcoholism had become so serious that it became both crisis and opportunity.” After joining AA, Judge later attended as many of its meetings as he could. Some thought he was more familiar with the AA book than with the Bible.

The risk was dramatic at a time when “if a friar had drinking problem, it was hushed up or he was sent away for therapy.” So too for his second frontier: being gay. Judge was open about his gender preference even at a time when Archbishop O ‘Connor was quoted in the  New York Post as saying, “I would close all my orphanages rather than employ one gay person.” At first hesitant to march in New York’s first inclusive St. Patrick’s Day parade in 2000, Judge received wild acclaim from the crowd—and nervous disapproval from the church.

That continued when he was reported to the diocese for not wearing vestments at firehouse Masses. Judge told the young clerical bureaucrat who called him on the carpet: “if I’ve ever hurt the church I’ve served and loved so dearly for 40 years, I want to be burned at the stake on 5^th Ave., at the front doors of St. Patrick’s Cathedral.” “No matter how many robes Cardinal [O’Connor] put on or how much power he tried to exert, he still could not… quash Mychal Judge.”

The story of his death is well known: Judge rushed to the World Trade Center to be with the fire fighters responding to the disaster. Some speculate that he removed his helmet to pray the last rites over a dying firefighter, was struck on the head by debris and died. Five rescue workers carried him out through the rubble; Shannon Stapleton’s photo of them was widely published. (His friends joked that even in death, Mychal still loved a photo-op.) Firefighters laid Judge’s body before the altar in a nearby church, covering it with a sheet, his stole and badge. His eulogist pointed out how appropriate it was that Judge died first; then he’d be in heaven to meet over 400 first responders who arrived later.

Judge’s biographer comments on the impromptu ritual of two cops praying over his body at Ground Zero. It’s not only OK for laity to give last rites in an emergency. It “was, in fact, entirely in keeping with Father Mychal’s own sacramental theology of hallowing the moment and was typical of the way ordinary people generated light in the darkness of that day.” [1] The overflow crowd outside Judge’s funeral proved what his eulogist said: “When he was talking with you, you were the only person on the face of the earth.. . . We come to bury his heart but not his love. Never his love.”

Excerpt from When the Saints Came Marching In by Kathy Coffey, Liturgical Press, 800-858-5450

Her service seems as simple as the pure blue and white lines of her clothing. Mother Teresa cared for the poor, dying and homeless in the slums of Calcutta. To those who face daily the quagmire of business decisions, tangled relationships and complex scheduling, her work by contrast seems a clear, uncomplicated gospel following.

Yet few of us abandon our routines, don saris and join her movement. Perhaps we want to believe that something of Teresa’s spirit can invigorate our lives; some of her clarity can penetrate our shadows; some of her compassion can move through us to those we touch each day. Our contacts may not be as abandoned and diseased as those Teresa cared for, but they have the same needs for attention and affection.

Teresa apparently had the same luminosity that attracted people to Jesus. Everyone wanted to be near her in life, and after death she exerts the same attraction. Her biographer Malcolm Muggeridge believed that for people who have trouble grasping “Christ’s great propositions of love… someone like Mother Teresa is a godsend. She is this love in person.”

No one was less sentimental or more “earthy.” She would engage in lively discussion with beggars about their “take of the day,” eager to hear how it went. One of her favorite words was “beautiful”—in the squalor of Calcutta slums! Indeed, she believed her vocation was to be beautiful. She gloried in life-surviving-against-all odds, exulting when a tiny baby survived: “There’s life in her!”

Like ourselves, she often felt exhausted, alone and miserable. So to one of us we say, “Happy Feast, St. Teresa of Calcutta!”

Excerpt from Women of Mercy by Kathy Coffey, Orbis Books, 800-258-5838

Human trafficking means the enslavement of the innocent, the child made in God’s image, in God’s very likeness, who bears within the spark of the divine. If we truly believe each child is sacred, what are we doing to save and protect them?

Children who have been trafficked have multiple wounds: physical, emotional, spiritual. Thus, their healing is complex and must be guided carefully by highly trained professionals. As one who works in the field says, “If this were easy, everyone would be doing it!” Indeed of 160 Catholic Charities nationally, only one has tackled the question of housing victims after their rescue. (Please correct if I’m wrong!)

There are only about 300 beds available nationally for those who are rescued. There are none in the Oakland, CA area, which ranks #3 nationally for trafficking. Therefore, Nancy O’Malley, DA for Alameda County, who has prosecuted over 400 traffickers locally, asked Bishop Barber for help.

He responded in the only way a Christian could: “Of course. The whole diocese will help.”

And so, Catholic Charities of the East Bay will open Claire’s House, a safe haven for minor girls who are victims of trafficking. These children need more than a bed; they need a home. An institution can’t repair deep psychic and physical damage; that’s the work of a trained and merciful staff. Here, victims will receive respite, hope, trauma counselling, medical care, educational and vocational training, and a spiritual dimension without which their healing is incomplete.

In the ancient Latin, “Adsum” means “I am here.” No matter what the evil has been, the Catholic community has across centuries, arisen to meet the challenge. This is one effort that can make us all proud.

Remember: if you have suspicions that someone, especially a child under 18, is forced to engage in sex or a labor activity and cannot leave, call:

National Human Trafficking Hotline: 1-888-373-7888

When we hear the ugly word, trafficking, what comes to mind? We may think first of the congestion on highways at rush hour. But human trafficking is a far more horrible thing. The average age when first trafficked is 13 for girls, 12 for boys.

Let’s first imagine that you are 15 years old, male or female. You live in perpetual fear. Not of algebra tests or getting a prom date or passing the driver’s license exam–the usual worries of your peer group. No, you are the possession of a human trafficker, who uses and abuses you, exploits you at whim and keeps you isolated. You are convinced that no one knows about your private hell; no one cares. No one has ever told you that you’re bright or beautiful—or that this deplorable situation isn’t your fault.

Somewhere deep within you know this isn’t right, that somehow you are better than this. But you have no idea how to break out of your cage. Once trafficked, your life expectancy is 7 years. It’s unlikely you’ll ever celebrate your 21^st birthday.

Until one day—the freedom you’ve dreamed of arrives. Police beat down the door where you’re held captive and arrest your owner. “You are free!” they announce.

Except that–you don’t know what this means. Furthermore, there is nowhere to house you.

Let’s leave your imagining there, and interrupt with statistics. 100,000 children a year in the US are trafficked; it’s a $32 billion business nationally. The U.N. estimates that 2 million children world-wide are trafficked.

There are only about 300 beds available in the US for those who are rescued. Most kids wind up in foster care or juvenile detention. Neither placement is appropriate: often, they ran away from foster homes which were abusive or negligent. And they’re the victims, not the criminals. Read next week about what a group in Oakland, CA is doing to provide a house of healing for minor victims.

Meanwhile, if you have suspicions that someone, especially a child under 18, is forced to engage in sex or a labor activity and cannot leave, call:

National Human Trafficking Hotline: 1-888-373-7888

For some mysterious 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 was 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?

For more about St. Clare, see:

Blessed Among Us: Day by Day with Saintly Witnesses by Robert Ellsberg   GUTD.net/BAU for more about the book and a 20% off introductory offer.

She could be the patron saint of people who have some cringing disagreements with their institutional churches. Her father’s financial failures meant the loss of many childhood homes, and constant moving with her 7 siblings. But at least he educated the children. At 14, Mary went to work to help support the family. With two of her sisters, she eventually started a school in a Penole stable. (Cue “Away in a Manger”?)

When in 1867, Mary founded the Sisters of St. Joseph of the Sacred Heart, their school was revolutionary for admitting both paying and non-paying students. She was the first religious sister outside the cities, and first to educate children in far-flung regions. With characteristic humor, the Australians called the nuns the “Brown Joeys,” after the color of their habit.

Then the story gets really interesting. The audacity of the congregation being directed by an elected mother general, rather than the local bishop caused predictable grumbling among Australian hierarchs. Worsening the situation, the sisters lived in the community, not in convents—Mary even consulted a neighbor about the fish she was trying to cook, which crumbled. Not the way nuns did things! When Mary and her sisters reported a priest who’d sexually abused children, the tension with Australian bishops hit a peak: for a time they excommunicated her. (A diorama in Sydney shows the bishop railing at her and kicking her dramatically out on the streets.) The country people supported the sisters, and Mary named those who caused this suffering her “most powerful benefactors.” From a remote corner of the Australian outback, she tapped an insight known to the world’s wisdom traditions: we sometimes learn more from our “enemies” than our friends.

While the bishops’ names are mercifully forgotten, Mary became Australia’s first canonized saint in 2010. The Harbor Bridge in Sydney bore her name in lights, and Australians at the Vatican belted out their raucous Olympic cheer, “Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi!”

For more about Mary and other creative upstarts, see:

Blessed Among Us: Day by Day with Saintly Witnesses by Robert Ellsberg   GUTD.net/BAU for more about the book and a 20% off introductory offer.

St. Martha might admire the take-charge brilliance of Hillary Clinton. She’d also know what it means to get bad press. In comparisons to her sister Mary, she usually comes off as the officious social director, fussy and anxious, when her sister’s contemplation is “the better part.” But let’s look again at her role in the raising of Lazarus (John 11:1-53).

Annoyed by Jesus’ delay after she’d sent him word that her brother was critically ill, she spewed pure venom: “if you’d been here Lazarus wouldn’t have died!” But Jesus, like a forgiving friend, continued their conversation. Oddly, he seemed to need something from Martha, an affirmation before he raised Lazarus and proceeded to his own death. So few people understood him; perhaps all he wanted was the support of one person. Martha gave it.

When he walked purposefully to the tomb, then to the fate awaiting him in Jerusalem, did he hear Martha’s words echoing in his ears? Only one other person had affirmed him as Messiah, Peter. But a few verses after that bright spot, Jesus called him Satan because his understanding was so woefully inadequate. Where Peter challenged, Martha supported. Where Peter doubted, Martha energized. Happy feast to her and all women who speak boldly.

Excerpt from Hidden Women of the Gospels by Kathy Coffey, Orbis Press.