Kathy Coffey

This season for Christians, as for other traditions that take time to repent, marks a turning point. From what to what? Jesus didn’t know or use the word “sin,” which wasn’t part of the Hebrew construct. But he clearly understood the context of anything less than the fullness of what God wants us to become.

So he says, “Turn from all that drags you down.” Are we haunted by worries about the future or shame about the past? Are we still angry about something that happened years ago? Lent means springtime: it presents us with the opportunity to slough off like a snakeskin all that deadens. Instead, we turn to the God who made us, who redeemed us and who lives in us.

Just as Jesus would say “the Prince of this world has no hold on me,” so we belong to God, not to all that threatens. If we over-identify with our emotions, achievements, children, work or ideas, we risk being in bondage to one sector of our lives, out of balance as a whole person. Instead, Jesus invites us to belong completely to him, with all we are. The only door into the future is trust. God who has been faithful before can be trusted again. Can we step towards that life source this Lent?

Some gospel accounts of Jesus’ temptations end with the phrase, “and angels waited on him.” After a dreadful ordeal, when Jesus is hungry and probably exhausted, the presence of the divine is somehow still with him. It is possible that angels attend all our lonely desert places. Where we sense the least comfort, there it abounds. Perhaps it’s a relationship, health or job issue, looming decision. And how have light wings touched us today? Through kind friends, relatives who don’t tire of our cranky moods or repeated stories, a satisfying meal, a lovely sunset, good news, books, movies or films?

Ever tire of the incessant chatter in the head, the mind endlessly repeating the same loops, often needlessly fearful, envious or worried about stuff that never comes to pass? In her book Unbinding, Kathleen Singh compares these thoughts to a gang of thugs, robbing us of our truest selves, who live deeply in peace with God.

Sometimes it helps to step lightly into another tradition, in this case the Buddhist. In previous books like The Grace in Living, the Grace in Aging and The Grace in Dying, Singh has been a splendid, accessible guide, often quoting the best of the Christian mystical tradition too. St. Bonaventure, for instance reminds us that we can’t view things truly unless we see “how God shines forth in them.” (p. 8) St. Teresa of Avila asks whether we pray “as if God were not present.” (p. 99) Or do we live as if God were not present?

At some level, we know that every breath is given by God, that our exquisitely designed bodies and minds are animated by God. Yet we continue to churn out a stream of anxieties (“What if I’m late? What if she doesn’t like me? Did he just look funny at me?”) as though we weren’t deeply grounded in the divine. Singh uses the word “grace” as an ecumenical reference to God or the sacred, the Great Mystery to which words can only point. Sadly we allow habitual thought patterns to create a constant illusion of separateness from this living, pulsing Source.

I cringed to recognize how I sometimes resort to blind habits—I dislike this person who reminds me of someone who mistreated me in third grade—hence “allowing some fairly untrustworthy drivers to take the wheel” (p. 117). Furthermore, crystallized thought modes prevent our seeing creatively with wonder, freshness and delight. “Bin there, done that,” we may grumble when a new opportunity presents itself. Singh compares that constricted attention to living in a house with no windows (p. 105).

Singh poses two questions that, if we pause and ask them often enough, may help move us past the mental assumptions. First, “what is really going on here?” Am I craving something I think will make me blissfully happy, even when it’s fantasy, ignoring the happiness of right here and now? Does the craving mask the longing for the divine? And, “Who is looking now, grace or self?” The “small tight knot of self” keeps us distant from grace, our birthright and delight. Just as we grow disenchanted with small talk and malls, we gradually recognize the awe and joy of “a beautiful, improvisational dance with the sacred,” free of ego’s controlling machinations—and control itself is an illusion.

Such a brief review barely does justice to a complex and compelling work. Interestingly, Singh completed this book shortly before her death—so she knew first-hand about letting go of the self’s puppet dictatorship, as we all must do in the end.

In the hilly neighborhood around our home, radio reception is spotty. So often I’ll get a surge of Mozart followed by a news clip: “USAID funds cut,” then a swirl of Vivaldi and “World’s Richest Man Stops Feeding World’s Poorest Children.” It’s enough to make one’s head spin, but may be an accurate reflection of the world in which we live.

So, with dizzying channels probably due to my tech incompetence, I was driving to an Oakland elementary school where I’d volunteered to read for Black History Month, one small step to combat racism. It’s a delight to see the welcoming committee of spit-and polished fifth graders, hear first graders correctly identify Rosa Parks, and when asked what this month meant, admire the beaming response of a kindergartener: “It celebrates US!”

One of the books for older children was Above the Rim, How Elgin Baylor Changed Basketball by Jen Bryant. Beyond Baylor’s formidable athletic prowess, he led a revolution which the book parallels to students training to integrate the schools and lunch counters of the south nonviolently. The Lakers team, touring West Virginia in 1959, found “Whites Only” signs at restaurants and hotels. To their credit, they refused to stay or eat in places that wouldn’t admit Elgin, their team member. The fifth graders and I agreed that our favorite scene was Elgin sitting on the bench at a game, wearing white shirt, tie, and dress slacks.

Fans who’d paid to see the game were grumbling that they wouldn’t see his famous shots, but he replied, “I’ll suit up and play when you treat me like a human being.” Newspapers and the NBA took note, quickly creating a policy that teams wouldn’t stay in hotels that discriminated. I cheered the success of that movement, then looked for parallels today. We can play two channels simultaneously in terms of time, too, our own era starting to sound like Baylor’s. The issue is the same: the dignity the Creator gives every human, and the current official contempt for human rights.

But resistance is bold: for instance, Cardinal Robert McElroy of San Diego who will soon move to DC, (the pope who appointed him must have a sense of humor—or justice) decrying the White House crackdown on undocumented immigrants: “We must speak up and proclaim that this unfolding misery and suffering and, yes, war of fear and terror cannot be tolerated in our midst.” “We must speak up and say: ‘Go no farther’ because the safety … humanity of our brothers and sisters, who are being targeted, are too precious in our eyes and in God’s eyes.”

On February 11, Pope Francis, who rarely engages in national affairs, weighed in to support the U.S. bishops, reminding everyone that Jesus, too was exiled, fleeing to a foreign land and another culture, his life in jeopardy. “The act of deporting people who in many cases have left their own land for reasons of extreme poverty, insecurity, exploitation, persecution or serious deterioration of the environment, damages the dignity of many men and women, and of entire families, and places them in a state of particular vulnerability and defenselessness,” the pope wrote. 

On another topic, Alistair Dutton, secretary general of Caritas Internationalis, head of the Catholic Church’s global charity arm said: the decision to gut foreign aid is “reckless” and will likely “kill millions of people and condemn hundreds of millions more to lives of dehumanizing poverty.” “This is an unhuman affront to people’s God-given human dignity, that will cause immense suffering.” To the billionaire making these cuts, foreign aid — which makes up less than 1% of the annual federal budget–must look like chump change.

Two themes interplaying with McElroy, Pope Francis and Dutton sounding like Mozart and Vivaldi. In every era, the light and dark mix—and one hopes desperately, more voices like theirs and Elgin Baylor’s will protest loud and clear. As this is written, it’s unclear how the courts’ intervention will affect the power grab, but sounding direct and forceful as Beethoven, Judge John Coughenour of Washington responded emphatically to the attempt to end birthright citizenship, enshrined in the 14^th amendment. “I’ve been on the bench for over four decades, and this is a blatantly unconstitutional order.” Amen!

When I really like a book, I fill its pages with sticky notes and my journal with quotes from it. In the case of Cherished Belonging, LOTSA stickies and quotes! Readers of this blog are probably already familiar with the work of Greg Boyle, SJ, founder of Homeboy Industries, the largest gang-intervention and rehabilitation program in the world, based in Los Angeles. His other books like Tattoos on the Heart have made him justifiably famous, and they follow a similar pattern: charming anecdotes about the “homies,” (former gang members), quotes from various saints, poets and insightful people (like Boyle’s mom), then all the sources pulled together for remarkable insights.  In each, the author seems to grow more mystical.

Boyle’s message echoes all the mystics—Julian of Norwich, Rumi, Teresa of Avila, Mechtild, Merton—on God’s abiding presence, and our constantly choosing union with the Beloved. But he gives that tradition a unique wrinkle with stories of guns, grief and gangs. No one could ever accuse Boyle of being lofty or impractical—the homies who fill his office and his days have seen the worst, in their own homes and our institutions. (Poignantly, one told of his struggle to copy the work on the blackboard in his third grade classroom, but the teacher would always erase it too soon, and he became a drop-out then.)

How, one might ask, does a person become a mystic when surrounded by people who’ve suffered crippling childhood trauma, self-medicate with an array of drugs and booze, spend considerable time in jail, and live in neighborhoods filled with violence? Maybe the point is not only that Boyle does it on the dangerous streets of L.A., but that we learn to do it in our own environments. So the equivalent of our homies might be our work colleagues, family members, students, annoying customers, friends, or random strangers. For ALL, Boyle models how to give “the tender gravity of kindness” and reverent attention to the complexity people must carry. A dose of his humor is better than caffeine if we want to live with joy and fearlessness, not God-fearing but God-seeing, choosing to brighten days.

For those who struggle with the current White House occupant (and if you don’t, stop here), Boyle gives one of the most generous descriptions I’ve seen: “No one wakes up in the morning and says to himself, ‘you know, today I think I’ll try malignant narcissist, with a side order of sociopathy.’ He didn’t choose this illness; it chose him. This illness makes him…unfit to be president but worthy of our compassion.” (p. 68) In Boyle’s world, there are no enemies, no “good guys and bad guys,” but seen through God’s eyes, only ever beloved daughters and sons. May we all try on his lens.

Dorothy Stang’s story has all the attributes of a folk tale, so let’s tell it that way. First, the setting(s). In Brazil, less than 3% of the population owns 2/3 of arable land. Displaced farm workers can’t find jobs in the city, so the government grants them land in the northeast, the last frontier. However, loggers and ranchers consider the Amazon their domain. They burn poor settlements, sell valuable timber, then use land for grazing cattle (to supply our McDonald’s!) The consequent loss of the rain forest is tragic. Some call it “the lungs of the planet.” As it shrinks, global warming increases.

It’shard to imaginea place more distant from the Amazon than Dayton, Ohio. Young Dorothy Stang lives here, her backyard a model of organic gardening, because her father is a chemical engineer. She learns composting and the dangers of pesticides. In a typical 1948 story, she becomes a Sister of Notre Dame and teacher. You expect her to become a benevolent nun who dies of old age in a quiet convent, right? That’s when her story gets interesting.

Our heroine volunteers for Brazil when her order calls for missionaries. In the 70’s she accompanies families to Para, bordering the rain forest, where they’ve been given land. Sr. Dorothy organizes people into co-ops: they learn about crop rotation, read the Bible and worship with music and dance. (Because priests are rare, she becomes the “shepherd.”)

When her people are attacked, she tells them brusquely to quit crying and start rebuilding. Her car, an old VW Beetle, wobbles over bridges with rotting planks. For her people, she travels to Brasilia and camps out at government offices. When officials deny receiving her letters, she finds them in their files. Persistently, she asks for protection of poor farmers, but nothing is done.

Here’s the amazing part—she keeps this up for 38 YEARS. Dorothy starts fruit orchards with women and projects for sustainable development. The Brazilian Bar Association names her “Humanitarian of the Year” in 2004.

Enter the villains. The ranchers hire gunmen who shoot her six times on February 12, 2005. Dorothy doesn’t run, cower, or plead for her life, as most folks would, when she sees the gun. Instead she pulls out her Bible and reads the Beatitudes aloud.

Despite her brutal murder, her model continues to resonate. Without much in the way of institutional church, she finds God in the green canopy of trees, the cathedral of forest.

She asks the right questions: not narrow denominational or territorial concerns, but “How do we preserve the earth’s treasures? How do we empower God’s beloved people?” She reminds that we all need the large stage of the natural world. When we lose our sacred connection to the earth, we’re stuck with small selves and petty concerns. Her wonder at the miracle of the rain forest’s resilience is contagious.

Her brother David explains, “she was so in love with what she was doing, she didn’t notice her dirt floor, primitive plumbing or no electricity.”

As the population ages, Dorothy is patron saint for slow butterflies and reluctant caterpillars. She didn’t remain captive to her traditional upbringing. Vivacious and feisty, she tried new things, journeyed to new places. Her face is so youthful, it’s hard to think of her as 73. She could’ve hunkered safely into the retirement center, counted her wrinkles and monitored her ailments—as some elders have earned the right to do. Instead, she pours the wisdom of her experience into service of poor Brazilians.

Finally, she models innovation in the church. Brazil’s tremendous needs for ministry can’t be restricted by gender-defined roles. It didn’t much matter if Dorothy was male or female, ordained or not. What DID matter, burningly, was “no greater love than this–to give one’s life for one’s friends.”

An intriguing figure in today’s gospel (Luke 2:22-40) is Anna the prophetess. Scripture scholar Barbara Reid believes that she, Mary and Elizabeth continue the long line of Israel’s powerful prophets. After her, women speak in pain or are corrected or disbelieved. But she, overhearing Simeon tell a bewildered young mother she’d be pierced by a sword, redirects the conversation back to where it belongs: to thanking God. 

Luke has the key characters in this little drama enter off stage, not the razzle-dazzle of the main altar or the chief priest, but a side aisle. Artfully he transposes from vastness into human scale. The tableau that really matters is composed of two couples, one old, one younger, centered on an infant. In her quiet way, Anna becomes the threshold to the next quiet chapter of Jesus’ life, when “he grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him.” (Lk. 2:40) Anna signals the spectacular power that coiled beneath the apparently unimpressive surface. Had she spoken in twenty-first-century jargon, she might’ve winked conspiratorially and said, “Stay tuned…”

On 12/28/14, Pope Francis linked Anna and Simeon to grandparents. grandparents know how precious children are. Call them dotty, but they’ve been sidelined to the really important work: cradling. Soothing. Rocking. Humming.  Inventing songs and games. It’s a “hidden way” of life; its immense fulfillment not publicized. What gives it depth and resonance is the echo back to that temple in Jerusalem where two old people waited.

Anna is the patron saint of those whose language speaks through care, the grandparents who sing off-key lullabyes, hunched over a precious lump in crib or arms, the backstage crew, the meticulous researchers who painstakingly prepare the way for the breakthrough discovery, but receive no credit themselves. She also could model for those who wait—sometimes interminably long—but don’t lose hope.

A tiny, rain-soaked Irish town, set in its narrow ways, shortly after the 1962 introduction of electricity—what events of interest could possibly happen here? Plenty. Actually, minor miracles in an unlikely setting.

Add in an improbable hero, Dr. Jack Troy, who is stiff, awkward, taciturn and unapproachable. “His moustache kept his mouth private.” Dr. Troy’s visit to a home was often “the starter’s pistol to get the funeral suit ready.” He and his adult daughter Ronnie, who serves as a kind of receptionist, “shared the lot of the emotionally blind,” with only the “most perfunctory dialogue.” Yet with surprising plot developments, he goes through extreme contortions for her. If you’ve ever had a daughter or wanted one, he shows how powerful the bond can be.

We expect so little of this man, but when pastor Tom shows serious dementia, he compassionately arranges rotating care from the neighbors so Tom won’t have to be institutionalized. Troy fully rises to the occasion when a local boy finds an abandoned baby the day of the Christmas fair, and brings her to his office apparently dead. Mysteriously, Troy brings the infant alive, and hides her in his home because his daughter is totally enraptured with her.

Now the ringer: a single mother in Ireland then would’ve been as scandalous as one was once in Galilee, immediately subject to brusque authorities who’d remove the child. So plot twists ensue, with the doctor working feverishly for the happiness of his daughter and the baby. As his desperate efforts seem to go awry, he sips brandy with the curate, interestingly named Father Coffey. After many sips, his natural reserve and reticence slip away and he makes a powerful speech, explaining what he’s trying to do. “I’m trying to be a Christian. Only the Church and the State are in my way.”

Brief quotes may not do it justice, but the whole speech is worth treasuring: “God saw all our wrong turns and catastrophes, and still loved us. Not because but despite… God made us with the intention of love. And that’s what’s in that kitchen. That’s what came to this house the day of the fair. And that’s what I am going to try and keep alive.” “The word love, said aloud, had the character of a swung thurible, the frankincense of it everywhere.”

Author Niall Williams, who also wrote This Is Happiness, History of Rain, and Four Letters of Love excels at lyrical Irish prose—immersion in his language is like a night in the pub by the turf fire with a Guinness and a session. While this novel is set at Christmas, it would make for lovely reading any time of year, with a message we’d all like to hear more often.

The weekend of January 18-19, some Christian denominations will hear this reading from John 2:1-11

My toes curled, I tell you.

Watching burgundy sheen

lapping the limpid water,

tinting the stone. A blush

warmed my own limbs.

There’d been commotion,

a woman’s voice so earnest

I hurried: not the usual crisis.

The steward clueless as always.

Before he even tasted, I knew:

this was good stuff. Now I

extend my empty glass,

yearning for your wine.

Color my diluted days again.

If water glows like ruby, so can I.

In my world, being a woman AND a servant was the double whammy. Long, exhausting days faded numbly into each other, each identical to the last. No wonder we anticipated a wedding, even though it meant more work. At a wedding banquet, people who never feasted got to eat more than they’d ever dreamed. Even we servants sneaked more food. From a meager diet, we plunged into seven days of eating. For once, we all felt full.

Slogging heavy stone jars, I simply cursed the weight of 120-180 gallons of water. My aching arms were stiff, but the woman’s voice I overheard in the crowd was unique. She didn’t speak loudly, but the force of her conviction was powerful. Usually I’d question—she was just an ordinary guest–but something mysterious compelled me to follow her words: “Do whatever he tells you.” What had she said to her son, or he to her?

What force of his hand shifted the color in the water jar? Was he an artist? A magician? I had no idea, but still: crazy-hopeful, I sneaked a ladle-full. That unexpected wine surpassed anything I’ve ever tasted!

Sipping it, I understood for the first time what the rabbis had always taught. Marriage was a symbol of the relationship between Israel and God. I’d always loved the promise God made through Isaiah of rich food and well-aged wines (Isa. 25:6). I could picture it because I’d served a few of those feasts. But I never thought I was invited to the banquet.

Now with incomparable deliciousness filling my mouth, I thought: God chose me. From the beginning of time, God sought me like a bride. Always God’s compassionate hand had reached towards me. Maybe it was through a friend, or an angle of light as I walked home after a long day. Maybe it was morning energy after exhaustion, or my reliable good health. My name means “green herb,” and I felt the vital juice running through me. Words couldn’t capture my awe, but water-turned-wine could. This odd intoxication wasn’t the usual drunk. It lasted long.

Life afterwards became dull again, the daily trudge repeated endlessly, grueling hand-to-mouth survival with no relief in sight. But I would remember how the colorless water became effervescent. I’d carry that taste within. 

Just when I thought I might be getting used to this radical about-face attitude, a friend told me a story from that surprising wedding guest, whose name I learned later: Jesus. He shocked people when he told the story of the servants being served (Lk. 12: 35-40). This man seemed to have an odd affinity with us bottom-of-the-heap sorts. A master acting as a servant? The rumors even said he called himself a servant. Almost as if God cared about folding sheets and blankets or mopping the mess on the floor! Maybe it’s not so startling. Jesus also said only the “little ones” get it (Mt.11:25). Couldn’t get much littler than me!

Now, after that dramatic shift of water-into-wine, I don’t feel so belittled and denied. I can picture an endless series of rooms opening up, each doorway marked “yes.” I walk nobly through the arches, sipping a glass of That Wine. Strong and confident, I wonder what powerful effect this stranger’s had on me. When the rabbis or my boss tell me I’m evil and filled to the brim with putrid sin, I close my eyes for a minute and return to the taste of loveliness that better shows who I most truly am.

Was the wine in his words? It’s as if he said, “I don’t want you to ever feel small again.”

Excerpt from More Hidden Women of the Gospels, Orbis Press, 800-258-5838, OrbisBooks.com.

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.

A retreat day for the parents of pre-schoolers can be dicey, sometimes punctuated by an inconsolable wail, an urgent need for snacks, or a caregiver requesting immediate help with a diaper. But into the chaos Isaiah sounds like bells:

Nations shall walk by your light, / and kings by your shining radiance. / Raise your eyes and look about; / they all gather and come to you: / your sons come from afar, / and your daughters in the arms of their nurses. Then you shall be radiant at what you see, / your heart shall throb and overflow…

To the ancient Hebrews, the real wealth was their children. They were on to something: parents’ faces light up as the littles tumble back into the room, covered with snot or chocolate, hair disheveled, clothes askew. In the noisy chaos, “the wealth of nations shall be brought to you.”

At the center of the Epiphany tableau is a child. Around that child are gathered adults who are childlike in the best sense. The magi know what it is to follow a seemingly impossible quest, a distant star, not knowing the answers, filled with curiosity.  Mary and Joseph had no recourse to experts, simply relied on God and each other, bumbled through and cherished.

Our own epiphanies are marked by similar qualities: vulnerability, curiosity, playfulness, delight that can quickly spiral into woe. When the disciples argued over ego-driven measures of success, Jesus held up a child (Mt. 18:3): oblivious to appearances, focused on love, filled with wonder. Where are we on that scale of values?

Returning puzzled and jet-lagged, did the magi maintain unshakeable joy? Do we?

Kathy Coffey, “Childlike, Radiant, Overjoyed,” from the Jan. ’25 issue of Give Us This Day giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2025). Used with permission.