Kathy Coffey

Drexel’s efforts to educate African Americans met with blatant prejudice. In 1913, the Georgia Legislature, hoping to stop the Blessed Sacrament Sisters from teaching at a Macon school, tried to pass a law that to prevent white teachers from teaching black students.

Furthermore, “in 1915, when Mother Katharine purchased an abandoned university building to open Xavier Preparatory School for black students in New Orleans, vandals smashed every window. Her lively sense of humor helped her endure. She was often self-deprecating; that joy would remain a gift throughout her lifetime.

Despite the prevailing bigotry, Drexel made possibly her most famous foundation–Xavier University, which sends more African-American graduates to medical school than any other university in the country. Despite harassment from the Ku Klux Klan, by 1942 her order had established a system of black Catholic schools in 13 states, plus 40 mission centers and 23 rural schools.  

Her biography takes a surprising turn in 1935, when Katharine had a heart attack, and two years later retired as superior general. She had traveled constantly by train and stagecoach, gathering knowledge about the Navajos, the Sioux, and the deplorable state of education for native and black children. Until poor health at age 76 forced retirement, she made an annual visit to each of her far-flung foundations (145 missions and 12 schools for native Americans, 50 schools for black students).

It must have been a huge transition for one who had been so dramatically active and always on the move, but from her wheelchair she continued praying for justice to those she had served so long.  She had wanted a more contemplative life, and she spent her last twenty years in prayer. She must have savored a cornucopia of memories, writing: “God has let me see with my own eyes the good results of God’s desire.”

Excerpts from When the Saints Came Marching In (Liturgical Press)

When Pope Francis visited Philadelphia, he must’ve known the story of the city’s famous daughter, Katharine Drexel. She was born into great wealth, and during her canonization at the Vatican, a gospel choir sang and native Americans danced. What’s the story behind her?

When her father died in 1885, the financial genius left a $15.5 million estate, divided among his three daughters. About $1.5 million went to several charities, leaving the girls to share in the income produced by $14 million—about $1,000 a day for each woman. In current dollars, the estate would be worth about $250 million.

But as a young girl, Katharine had been sensitized to the poverty of native Americans. During a papal audience, she pleaded for missionaries to work with them. Pope Leo XIII parried with an astute question: “But why not be a missionary yourself, my child?”

Katharine’s final decision was trumpeted by a banner headline in The Philadelphia Public Ledger: “Miss Drexel Enters a Catholic Convent—Gives Up Seven Million.” That May 1889 news, which shocked the city’s elite, wasn’t quite accurate. She didn’t give up seven million; she would during the next 60 years give away about $20 million. It went to support of her work, building schools and churches, paying the salaries of teachers in rural schools for blacks and Indians.

It began in 1891, with the profession of Drexel’s first vows as a religious, dedicated to work among the American Indians and Afro-Americans in the western and southwestern United States. What quickly followed was the establishment of a religious community with thirteen other women, the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. They started in 1894 the first mission school in Santa Fe, and one day eventually begin 50 missions for native Americans in 16 states.

^{to be continued}

Excerpts from When the Saints Came Marching In (Liturgical Press)

On his way up the coast of what is now California, Father Serra walking always with a painful, ulcerated foot, the result of a snake bite in Mexico, had his first encounter with natives who had not been in previous contact with any missions. In northern Baja, his writing is filled with reverent wonder for their unashamed nakedness, grace, vitality and charm. Unique for his time, Serra also acknowledged that the country was theirs. He offered them figs; they gave him fish.

While Serra’s writing delights in the smell of sea , the discovery of fresh water and roses, even jokes about the natives wanting his  ragged grey habit (because clothing was highly prized), he must have also seen how unrealistic was his dream of native peoples gladly presenting themselves for baptism. A culture based on personal freedom and individuality was reluctant to embrace the missions’ highly organized communal living. Despite his relentless optimism, Serra may have gradually come to recognize that a man nailed to a cross had little appeal to a buoyant, happy people whose abundant resources met most of their needs. Coastal Californians formed the oldest habitation in North America, dating from 11200 BC. 178 due to a moderate climate, skilled fishing and hunting, and clever cooking of plants, seeds and nuts

Few now know how precarious the California venture was, with the constant possibility of abandoning the whole attempt. So many Spaniards sickened or died, it was hard to see how the natives would ever want to become like them.

Finally, in desperation, Serra made the painful trip to Mexico City to plead his case before the viceroy of New Spain. Getting a surprisingly warm reception by the unusually enlightened ruler Bucareli, Serra laid out a thirty-two point plan which has been called “the first significant body of laws to govern early California.”  Forthrightly, he defended the rights of indigenous women, whom few others recognized as even human. He even asked: unless the behavior of Spanish soldiers improved, “what business have we… in such a place?”

It’s hard to criticize one who so quickly condemned himself. He recognized the inherent contradictions of his ministry—needing more Spanish soldiers for defense, at the same time knowing they’d prey on native women. In one dark mood, he even pointed out that despite innumerable blunders, right can come from wrong. No one then had any idea how diseases introduced by the Spaniards would decimate the native population. During Serra’s era, natives died at a rate 50% higher than in their years before contact with Europeans.  One scholar points out the great paradox of the missions: they brought both protection and exposure.

Many have pointed out that Serra had the unique blend of qualities that could keep the California missions afloat in distress. If nothing else, he had staying power, remaining when many others despaired, left, or went crazy.  He wanted to bring people eternal life, at great personal cost, unaware they might have been quite happy without his version.

Like most human beings, Serra was complex. As he himself wrote of his experience, “I am quite aware of the enormous difference there is between reading about it and actually going through it.” One has to admire the dedication of a five foot tall, 110 pound man with a badly infected foot and lower leg who walked 1000 miles of his 9000 mile journey. Indeed, when Californians were asked what statue should represent their state in Congress, they unanimously chose Serra.

To judge his religious belief and practice by contemporary standards is anachronistic. Simply because Serra is a controversial figure doesn’t mean he can’t be a saintly pioneer. His paternalism towards the Indians may have been pragmatic: outside the missions, they’d be thrown into the ranches as slave laborers. Nothing in his writing reflects anything but good will towards native peoples, protectiveness, and the wonder that stirred when he first met them in 1769.

Excerpt from When the Saints Came Marching In, available from Liturgical Press, 800-858-5450, litpress.org/family

A common blessing given by parents to their children in Mallorca at the time Miguel Serra grew up there was “May God make a saint of you.”[1] In Father Serra’s case, it happened—by a long, uncharted path. The story of a boy from a small island in the Mediterranean, who founded the long chain of California missions may have begun when he admired the beauty of creation: almond trees flowering, glimpses of blue sea, olive orchards he’d harvest with his father.

After joining the Franciscan community, Serra chose the religious name “Junipero,” or clown of God, after one of St. Francis’ first companions, a man filled with laughter, glee and pranks. It seems an odd choice for a serious, academic sort, but perhaps he remembered Francis’ comment, “Would…that I had a forest of such Junipers!”

Like many people of his time, Serra had always been eager to become a missionary. When he heard a call to go to the New World, he seized the chance, despite being considered “older,” at age 35. In an odd arrangement, the Spanish government paid the priests’ expenses, helping to cement their settlements in Mexico and California, warding off encroaching Russian settlement.

Serra would spend his first 19 years in the new world around Mexico City and Oaxaca. There he was introduced to the debate which raged through the 18th century between friars and government authorities over what to do with the native populations.  Some thought the friars infantilized the natives, whereas the Franciscans simply wanted to protect them. (Understandable when some Spanish soldiers were nicknamed “Exterminators.”) The natives caught in the middle of the debate were oddly voiceless.

Serra also began practices there which he’d continue as president of the missions in California: learning languages and utilizing hands-on ritual like washing feet and Christmas pageants, building beautiful churches and pitching in on construction. As Kenan Osborne, OFM says, a key element of Franciscan life is “getting your hands dirty with good cheer.” He finally left for California in 1767 at 54, an age by which most people of his day had retired.

To be continued… 

Excerpt from When the Saints Came Marching In, available from Liturgical Press, 800-858-5450, litpress.org/family

For Pope Francis’ visit to the U.S., the church put its best foot forward, flew its “Welcome” banners, extended its finest self. If we consider what makes the church here unique, surely one answer might be its saints. When the Saints Came Marching In addresses the question of what makes “our” saints unique? In what ways, if any, do they differ from the saints of other nations?

One difference is they were primarily people who explored new frontiers. With the fears, hopes, frustrations, longings and failures of ordinary humans, they thought and acted differently. Like those who floated the Mississippi river for the first time, scaled Pike’s Peak, or settled the unknown regions of Kentucky, they tried something new in health care, science, education, race or labor relations. The frontier has always been vital to the North American experience, inviting discovery and preventing stagnation. Knowing more about these explorers should inspire, delight and challenge. It’s not your usual collection of saints…

As Chris Pramuk, theology professor at Xavier University, Cincinnati, writes:

“When the Saints Came Marching In moves seamlessly between past and present, bringing vividly to life a host of ‘spacious souls’ and North American saints proclaimed ‘by acclamation.’ A few widely known and many often overlooked, these are people simply recognized and celebrated by their contemporaries for their goodness of heart, witness to faith, and courage for justice: Pierre Toussaint, Thea Bowman, Rachel Carson, Cesar and Helen Chavez, Mychal Judge, Dorothy Stang, and many others. At a moment in our social history when cynicism seems the norm and acerbic criticism has become all too automatic, Kathy Coffey locates the diamonds in the rough, turning their lives for us in the light with her usual directness, humor and clarity. In the humanity of these variegated saints we see a reflection of our own, and a luminous reflection, as Coffey suggests, of the church Pope Francis calls us to be. I love Coffey’s earthy, expansive, sacramental vision, and I love this book.”

Available from Liturgical Press, 800-858-5450, litpress.org/family

Next week: Newly canonized Junipero Serra

If your routine has been centering prayer, try praying with music for a change. Or set aside your usual devotions and spend a few silent minutes each day simply listening for God’s whisper. Why cling to practices that fail to nurture? The bottom line: if it’s not feeding you, quit doing it, at least for a while. No hard, fast rules restrict how we read, reflect or pray.

One man vowed on his 50^th birthday to do something new each day. Such openness, such a spirit of adventure challenges us all. Some days it might be a small thing like flipping to a different radio station or website. Others may be major changes, like not vacationing in the same spot we’ve visited for 20 years, or changing jobs.

The worst mental ruts are those of anxiety, bills, health concerns. These can be so paralyzing that our creative juices—exactly what we need to address problems—freeze. Surely the disciples on the road to Emmaus knew that experience. When a “stranger” (Jesus) joins them, Luke 24:17 records, they stood still. Stuck in the ultimate rut of grief, they don’t start moving again until Jesus encourages them to share their story. Disingenuously, he asks what’s been happening in Jerusalem. Those of us in ruts should take note. Telling Jesus our “stuck” situation in prayer seems to be the first step beyond it.

If we’ve slid into a rut, we nurture our deepest self with whatever we need: a walk, a bike ride or a swim, a latte, a new shirt, a change of routine, time with a friend or a book. Self nurture may seem “selfish,” but we are God’s beloved children, who shouldn’t treat others better than ourselves. God designed the human mind, soul and body exquisitely for stimulation, not stagnation.

God’s creation brims with such beautiful variety, it must disappoint God when we explore only 10% of it. Read the Genesis creation story for the marvelous unspooling of sun, moon, stars, oceans, lakes, rivers, creepy crawlers, chirpy birds, lithe gazelles, and squirmy worms. All this God creates with glee—thousands of kinds of insects, 600 varieties of eucalyptus trees, innumerable shades of green, each flower, snowflake and fingerprint unique. Maybe it’s time to look at the night sky, stroll through a meadow or a Botanic Garden, taste something new in the produce aisle or farmers market. Vive la difference!

Originally published in Everyday Catholic

Many spiritual writers address the problem of apathy. Kathleen Norris has written a whole book on the “noon-day devil,” acedia or sloth: Acedia & Me: A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer’s Life. St. Benedict wrote in his Rule, “each day has reasons for joy.” Searching those out could entertain us daily, because each day’s joys are unique and intriguing.

St. Francis’ delight in creation could also bump us out of a rut. In any season, we can find beauty: blue shadows on snow, the first buds tight as fists, the play of light on summer leaves, brassy, autumnal colors of harvest. St. Teresa of Avila once described the spiritual life as dragging buckets to water a garden (remember, she lived in dry Spain). Then, God’s grace comes as rain, disrupting the weary routine.

Paolo Ferucci in What We May Be gives helpful imagery for directing the psychic energies. The psychotherapist asked one client, locked in immobility, to reflect on the concept of risk. It channeled the person’s natural vitality so that he was soon doing small things to jolt him out of his “cocoon”: phoning someone he hadn’t seen in a long time, starting a new hobby, challenging co-workers to ping-pong games.

If we don’t take our routines too seriously, we discover that the world doesn’t end if we shift them a bit. Listen to jazz a lot? Try classical. A stalwart at the 9 am Mass? Try the Saturday afternoon. You may meet old friends you haven’t seen in years. For a wild and crazy break from routine, attend a different parish! (Might make you appreciate your own.) If scripture is growing stale or overly familiar, spend time instead with the marvelous spiritual authors writing now: Rolheiser, Rupp, Livingston, or in a pinch—Coffey (such subtle self-promotion!)

To be continued… Originally published in Everyday Catholic

She was in a rut. As she trudged through the routine, she ticked off the mental litany: get water, wash dishes, do laundry, cook meal.

He was in a rut. He’d learned how to think along straight lines. Follow those direct paths, don’t deviate from safe assumptions, and success was certain.

Then they both got nudged out of the rut and into another world.

Sound familiar? You may know them by other names: the Samaritan woman, Nicodemus.

They may seem like ourselves. The woman approaching the well follows a worn path which continues, even in her thinking, when she’s surprised by a stranger. His request for a drink is preposterous. Orthodox Jews even today don’t share meals or vessels with those whose dietary practices are less strict.

Furthermore, he comes thirsty and tired to a well without a bucket! Even more shocking, he who isn’t supposed to talk publicly with a woman takes a playful, conversational tone with her. Jesus also nudges Nicodemus: for a teacher of Israel, he stays complacently with tired concepts, which Jesus tries to broaden and expand.

From his interactions with these two figures, it appears that Jesus is no lover of ruts. It’s heartening to hear that “in him all the fullness was pleased to dwell” (Colossians 1: 19). And “from his fullness we have all received: grace in place of grace” (John 1:16). Repeatedly, Jesus reminds he came to bring us abundant life, spilling over any rut.

He entered human life in a totally unexpected way—born in a stable, not a palace, to young peasants, not royalty. He refused to believe the teachers who protested, “but we’ve always done it this way!”

His effect on people seems to be shaking up their comfy grooves. He broke the taboos, he healed and he invited people to more compassionate life. Blind Bartimaeus gladly gave up his begging routine; Matthew abandoned the daily grind of tax collecting. Jesus startled his disciples, upsetting their calcified notions of holiness. And we who follow Christ: what do we do when we’re stuck?

To be continued… Originally published in Everyday Catholic

The Problem of Jesus’ Humanity

We want him to act like a powerful Messiah, and he overturns that expectation. He’s born as a helpless infant—not a military general, popular hero, or political leader. He eludes people who want to crown him king. He’s accused of being a glutton and drunkard, and annoys both religious and state authorities.

One way scripture scholars know a passage is authentic is the “embarrassment criterion.” In other words, early authors wouldn’t invent an action that casts Jesus in a bad light. (Only the secure parent tells the story of a son’s night in jail or a daughter’s unfortunate maroon hair coloring.)

So if Jesus unnerves us, he’s right on target—the natural consequence of his radical call: Forgive as you’ve been forgiven. Much will be asked of those to whom much has been given. If we’re not squirming, we should be.

Look at those who took it seriously—Francis and Clare of Assisi, Oscar Romero, Dorothy Stang. Their attention to living the gospel made them larger human beings. What matters isn’t our discomfort. What matters is becoming saints like them.

Originally published in Everyday Catholic

Too Good to be True?

The gospels have been misused to incite guilt. Some may need that stern correction to over-spending or luxuriating while others starve. But many hard-working people are simply trying to survive, raise their families, and do their jobs, while being as generous as they can with time and treasure. They don’t need another guilt trip!

What we may find harder than guilt is the gospel’s insistence on how splendid we are. Jesus walked among people who were probably diseased, smelly and sweaty and assured them that even in poverty, mourning or persecution, they were “blessed”—the kingdom of heaven was theirs. Mired in our own problems and anxieties, do we struggle with good news?

Admittedly, the central message is hard to absorb. WE, limited and flawed as we are, are made in the very image of the divine. Furthermore, God continues to dwell and act in us. Jesus once said, “you will do greater things than I have done.”

Throughout the gospel, the message recurs: you are not a slave, but a friend, an adopted child with an eternal inheritance—not condemned to futility or the finality of death. Jesus has sanctified everything human, making us indeed a “chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation” (1 Peter 2:9).

The implications could be unsettling. God chose each of us for a unique purpose and equips us to get it done. So no whining or stalling—get on with it!

To be continued… Originally published in Everyday Catholic