Long ago, a little girl in Catholic grade school, I was introduced to art appreciation once a month on Friday afternoons. Each child received a five-by-seven-inch print on cardstock of either a painting or a sculpture with a short description on the reverse side. I can still smell the fresh ink on those cards and how thrilled I was to be given these precious little gifts. The art teacher pointed out obvious highlights and nuanced features, instructing us on how to “see” a work of art. After the presentation, we were told to put our heads down on our desks, be perfectly still, and imagine ourselves inside the artwork. After about ten minutes, we were asked to write a short paragraph on what we thought the artist was trying to convey.
The day we were given Van Gogh’s “A Starry Night” was a turning point. I knew nothing about the artist’s tortured life but thought he might be a child, like me, whose parents had allowed him to go crazy with paints. When I placed the print on the desk for our time of meditation, I kept my eyes open and felt like I was in the painting, walking through turbulent indigo, under a comet-filled sky.
Like so many people, I fell in love that day with Vincent Van Gogh and even more with our Creator who gifted him with these celestial visions. Our paths crossed many times over the years, in gardens of irises and daffodils, in fields of wheat, under wild trees and cherry blossoms, on Paris street corners, in self-portraits and faces of ordinary people. In the 1970s, when the song “Vincent” (by Don McLean) hit the pop charts, I played it about a million times and cried every time, thinking of Vincent’s despair which culminated in death by his own hand. “Now, I think I know what you tried to say to me, How you suffered for your sanity, How you tried to set them free. . .“
Several weeks ago, I went to the Van Gogh Immersive Experience with my three daughters, their Christmas gift to me. This craze has been sweeping the country for the past year so undoubtedly many of you have also attended.
We entered a huge, dark warehouse hidden in the back of the Del Mar fairgrounds. After strolling through a gallery of information about Van Gogh’s life, the inner sanctum appeared. I almost took off my shoes for this seemed more like a temple than an exhibition hall. Despite being with my family and many strangers, I felt suddenly alone as mood-altering music began and Van Gogh’s paintings lavishly appeared on the walls, ceilings, and floors, like ocean waves of spilled paint, until we were immersed inside his voluminous life’s work.
On the black surroundings, handwritten quotes appeared slowly at first, then the colors, flowers, trees, faces, places, and the very soul of Vincent Van Gogh were splashed on every corner of the immensity. At one point, a young woman danced, couples embraced, some took selfies, many were intent upon recording the experience on their phones as if they could not bear so much stimulation.
I sat as still as a statue on the edge of a wooden bench, drinking in the colors, feelings, hundreds of paintings, both familiar and foreign, utterly inebriated with beauty and wonder. Caught up in the embrace of the Beloved, free from time and space, an intimate moment of “oneing,” written about by great mystical lovers, poured into my soul. I took a “long, loving look at the Real,” that night, my favorite definition of contemplative prayer. My heart silently cried out, “My Lord and my God!” after this consecrated moment, now forever etched into my memory.
On the ride home, we discussed what Van Gogh might think of the immersive experience. I do not know, of course, but I felt his personal, passionate, presence streaming through the confines of time and space and modern technology, inspiring generations to fall on their knees in wonder and adoration. What better legacy of love is there?
For three decades, I taught several classes on the History of the Catholic Church. Dividing two thousand years into 500-year chunks was an overwhelming task. But I loved it. Since this was not for college credit but rather for the formation of neophytes, I used a storyteller’s conversational style, pointing out quirky connections to modern culture. When I did evaluations at the end of the year, Church History was most often checked as the favorite topic.
People seemed most intrigued (rather morbidly perhaps) to my discussion of the plague, as in Bubonic, the pandemic that ravaged basically every country of the then known world from 1346-1353. Seven long years of the “Black Death” took its toll on medieval life. I often heard gasps and “wows” when I showed my PowerPoint charts of how many people perished (estimated around 200 million). There was a certain relief that it “couldn’t happen today,” since we have modern science and superior medical resources not known 650 years ago.
The primary question I raised during these presentations was: How did the plague affect religious practices and attitudes? Understanding the past is key to comprehending the present, a necessary and essential educational step. I tried hard to fit historical events together like a big jigsaw puzzle for clarity. Here are the top ten points that summarize the after-effects of the bubonic plague:
Empty churches. Not only did clergy and congegation die off, but survivors became afraid to gather in big groups and so they stopped attending.
Somber Liturgies. Often focusing on death, liturgical prayers and hymns were dominated by pleadings for release from purgatory, reparation for sin, and collective protection from harm.
Blaming Weak People: Individuals who engaged in immoral, evil acts (especially sexual sins) were blamed for causing sickness and death.
Blaming Ethnic and Social Groups. Jews, Muslims, immigrants, foreigners, pagans, atheists were targeted as the cause/spreaders of the plague.
Negative Image of God. God was seen as punishing, revengeful, angry with his creatures and had intervened by “culling” the population with the plague.
Rise in Superstition. Protection from harm was sought from novenas, rosaries, holy hour devotions, pilgrimages, and donning medals, scapulars, crosses, etc. Donations were given to clergy and institutions for time off purgatory.
Pervasiveness of Dread, Fear, Anxiety, Depression, Hopelessness. Emphasis on the afterlife, the desire for heaven, the fear of going to hell, promoted a negative view of life on earth as a place of trial and suffering.
Rise in Elitism. Those who were rich had better food, water, healthcare, than those who were poor. Hoarding food and medical supplies was common.
Determinism and Belief in Predestination Increased. Everything is up to God and happens “for the best,” or “for a reason.” Some are chosen and some are not. People were taught to obey and accept whatever hand they were dealt.
Skewed View of What is Blessed and Holy. A growing belief that a productive, disciplined life of work and spiritual devotion shows God has blessed and rewarded certain people. Conversely, those who experience sickness and death are not as blessed or loved by God.
Perhaps the biggest story of 2021-22 centers on the after-effects of Covid 19 (the modern plague) on our lives. Most people see the story as medical, or even political, but not so those of us interested in global religious trends. Hidden behind the daily statistical screen crawl are literally millions of stories about how coping with the virus has affected overall quality of life, images of God, church attendance, prayer, and a sense (or absence) of the divine.
Over the Christmas holidays, I tested positive for the omicron variant of Covid 19. Yes, I have been vaccinated and have never been risky about crowds, obediently following protocols. Nonetheless, the strain spread like wildfire throughout the whole family after our Christmas gathering. Fortunately, the medical folks speak the truth about the experience, which is mostly mild cold-like symptoms in the head and throat. The children had it for about two days. The adults had it about a week. The quarantine over the Twelve Days of Christmas was tortuous to me. As I resigned myself to ten days of isolation and solitude, there was ample time to think, write, and pray. For a few days, I was curiously resistant.
Eventually, I contemplated my Covid 19 experience, a battle I had fought so valiantly for 18 months. From the beginning, I told my family and friends not to think of me as “vulnerable.” I hated all that rhetoric about anyone over 60 or with “co-morbidities” needing to be sheltered like some hothouse flower. Ugh. Who wants to think of themselves like that? I worked full-time and was around lots of people throughout the worst months of Covid 19, pre-vaccines. Honestly, I never felt afraid and repeatedly said I would rather take the risk and be with my loved ones than hide in fear until it ended for good. I never understood those who preferred to distance and only see each other on Zoom. So, I guess you could say that I was prepared to get Covid if I had to—of course– I preferred winning the battle rather than losing it. When those two pink lines appeared on the rapid test, I faced a sobering dish of humble pie.
While isolated, I returned to my plague after-effects list and was rather stunned to recognize these realities within myself and my former community. In the 21st century, churches are still empty and many people have yet to return in person for one reason or another. Moreover, liturgies have become more somber and do not inspire hope. Gone are the joyful hymns and upbeat atmosphere. The music at my parish throughout the pandemic has sounded like a slow dirge and did not change one bit during the Christmas season. Priest homilies are canned messages about the readings we have all heard a million times. Often bookended with silly warnings about gum chewing, pleas to come to confession, or pitches for more money, these little sermons lack relevance and do not speak to the current hunger for meaning in this anxious time in history. I now leave mass feeling even more depressed than I was when I arrived. I prefer to watch mass online (St. Monica’s in Santa Monica is terrific) than go to the local parishes. It’s not fear of the virus that keeps me at home. It’s my sadness and disappointment that parishes are merely surviving and not inspiring that keeps me away. I love the Eucharist and I love community so this is a big sacrifice for me.
We are still quick to blame others for the pandemic which I also find so disgusting. I refuse to look at Facebook or Instagram or any social media outlet that allows the crazy-minded among us to feed into the big fear by making outrageous claims. I did not allow anyone in the family to do it either. What’s the point? We can never be sure who brought Covid to Christmas dinner so why bother endlessly opining about it? To make the “spreader” feel even worse than they already do? That doesn’t sound very compassionate or Christian to me.
Many people still have the Old Testament, vengeful image of God embedded in their spirituality. Some feel guilty, some feel unworthy, some feel superstitious. I see more people wearing scapulars, trying to ward off the evil by wearing crosses, and sprinkling holy water on everything. I hear claims that the pandemic is “happening for a reason,” and if we get sick and die, then it is “God’s will,” “our time to go.” If we do not contract it then we are “blessed.” Despite 650 years of progress, we are still very primitive in our attitudes toward the divine, especially when we feel threatened by an invisible virus that kills.
These nearly two years of the pandemic have been a time of spiritual desert-dwelling for me. What I am experiencing is familiar territory for I have been in the desert many times in the past, characterized by a sense of aridity and starkness. But there is also beauty in the desert’s night sky, in the shadows of the dunes, in the blooming cacti that appear out of nowhere. My brush with the plague has made me ever more aware of the subtle, incarnational divine presence that exudes from every flower, leaf, animal, person I encounter. When faced with death, isn’t this where we all end up? Clinging to every aspect of this stunningly beautiful life we have been given?
Perhaps the greatest gift of the pandemic has been the opportunity to embrace every minute, even the Covid minutes, with a sense of humble gratitude, yet another reminder of how much I take for granted. Now on the other side of the illness and not having experienced the serious, life-threatening variants of the past, I do feel a sense of relief. My brush with the plague has been strangely yet predictably paradoxical. I have been enriched by the very thing I had dreaded the most. Now I await the renaissance, the rebuilding of our Church and community life in whatever new form must emerge.
In other parts of the world, today is known as “Little Christmas.” Traditionally, on January 6th, the three kings, or Magi, arrive in Bethlehem and pay homage to the Christchild with their mysterious gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Today, people still dress up as kings and give each other gifts. They eat kings’ cake and have parties that flow into the night. In America, most people are done with Christmas by now. Not only do we not give gifts, dress up, or bake cakes, we do not even acknowledge what goes on in other places. Unfortunately, in 2022, January 6th is now associated with the insurrection at the capital last year. How very sad!
Epiphany defined means a “sudden manifestation of the divine in the ordinary” and, when aware, should be happening to us all the time. Use of the word has grown in popularity these days to mean a sudden realization or enlightenment. It’s like a flash of mystical insight when there is no doubt, even for a few seconds, that God is close and real. Obviously, these moments are fleeting. As soon as an epiphany happens, the flash is gone like a sunset and no amount of alchemy can conjure it up again.
I have had many epiphany moments in my life. Some bigger than others. The latest one happened recently when I was raking leaves in my backyard and suddenly felt overcome with happiness over not having to return to work after Christmas. Having been a self-proclaimed workaholic all my life, this was a profound realization for me. A hurtle, really. I always mused about what I would be like when I no longer let work define me and truth told, was afraid to look into that abyss. To feel so utterly free of incumbrances is an epiphany of the highest order. It is a gift, like gold, frankincense, or myrrh, that is unexplainably and paradoxically perfect.
May you be open to the many splendid epiphanies all around you.
“O star of wonder, star of light, star with royal beauty bright, westward leading, still proceeding, guide us to thy perfect light.”
I am feeling a little sad today, not just because the Yuletide officially ends on the Twelfth Day of Christmas, but because I am not baking a kings’ cake nor am I hosting an Epiphany party, something I have done faithfully for several decades (except last year). With the Omicron virus out of control right now, it would be irresponsible to gather in person and so I must celebrate virtually, or simply in my heart, this special day in the year.
Parties on Twelfth Night I have had in the past are remembered with great joy: baking a tiny plastic baby in the kings’ cake, donning crowns, moving the three Magi closer to the Christ child, giving little gifts of stars, and chocolate coins to my guests. All these activities have great significance to me, I suppose because my primary love language is gift-giving, and I am grieving the lost opportunity.
But it is a bright, sunshiny day in Southern California. The light this time of year is so brilliant that it reminds me of the star of Bethlehem and a dream I once had: It was the dead of night but suddenly a great light appeared in the sky and everyone woke up, came out of their homes, and walked down to the beach following the radiance. When we arrived, we were enveloped in warmth, unity, peace and joy. We were one in the love that enveloped us, emanating from the trinitarian love song that plays at the heart of all creation. Best of all–we all recognized it!
On this Twelfth Day of Christmas, I plan to leave little gifts anonymously on the doorsteps of my neighbors. I not only want to follow the light, I wanted to be a light for someone today. I hope and pray you are too.
“I wish I had a river I could skate away on; I wish I had a river so long it would teach my feet to fly. . .I wish I had a river I could skate away on. . .” from “River” by Joni Mitchell
No secret revealed, libraries and bookstores rank high on my list of favorite places and I have skated away on a river of books since I was old enough to read. Novels, nonfiction, classic literature, children’s books, well, I love it all. My children and grandchildren are well aware of this facet of my personhood. One of their Christmas gifts every year is a book I think they need to read. To my delight On Christmas day, I had quite an in-depth conversation with my twelve year-old-grandson about the book True Grit (my gift to him) and about Charles Dickens, an author he said he had never heard of. (I had to do some deep-breathing during that statement because Dickens is one of my favorite authors).
This past year, I did something I never pictured myself doing–I decided to listen to audiobooks. I began by borrowing classic novels from the library and listening to many titles long checked off my list. One of the first was A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens. I have read this novel at least five times as well as seen the films but when I heard a distinguished English voice read Dickens, I was mesmerized. The words came alive, the scenes even more vivid, the story clearer than ever before. I also listened to Middlemarch by George Eliot (almost 900 pages), and Promised Land by Barrack Obama, which he read himself! Now I am listening to the Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis and enjoying the voices of the familiar characters in a way I never thought possible. Because I tried something new, I have been immensely enriched and abundantly gifted.
I fear that kids today do not read for escape and pleasure like I did and that does not settle well in my soul. Having seen and listened to many anxious and depressed young ones, I know they need a river to skate away on sometimes. Unfortunately, that river is most often social media, texting, or internet cyberspace environments that do not transport them to a land of enchantment and beauty. My youngest daughter is a high school English teacher and we have many conversations about how to raise and nurture a next generation of readers. While challenging, perhaps we elders need to make the effort to share our wisdom without judgment and teach our young ones how to skate so they will feel the glorious freedom flowing from the river of books right at their fingertips.
“All that I come from, all that I live for, and all that I’m going to be, My precious family/Savior/Jesus is more than an heirloom to me.”(“Heirlooms” by Amy Grant)
“Your house is like a museum,” remark those who first step over the threshold, “there’s so much to look at.” I never know how to take that statement these days when the minimalist movement reigns supreme. Usually, I just smile and usher people into my home, full to the brim with antiques, old photographs, books, and family heirlooms. I am unabashedly sentimental and a keeper of memories. Resisting the urge to become a packrat, I do purge every year, but not everything. Marie Condo’s suggestion to let go of what does not bring joy is not all that helpful to me. I only keep what I love, and I love a multitude of beautiful things, especially when it comes to Christmas.
Dismantling my decorations this time of year is always a bittersweet chore for me. Each ornament has a story; the Nativity figures are the carriers of childhood memories. I always wonder what the state of the world will be like next year when the boxes are unpacked again; if I will be granted another glorious Christmas with family as I have had for so many years. I remind myself to enter each moment and keep telling the stories behind the heirlooms that bind us together in a faith that looks through the trappings of possessions, prestige, and power. This is not about material things at all, but about what they represent.
I hope my grandchildren will want some of the heirlooms I have saved in my home for them. However, what I hope the most is that they know their worth is far more precious to me than anything I own. Love is the heirloom I most want them to give to the next generation.
“Some children see Him bronzed and brown, The Lord of heav’n to earth come down. Some children see Him bronzed and brown, With dark and heavy hair.” from the Christmas carol, “Some Children See Him,” by James Taylor
When I was in fifth grade, the movie “West Side Story” was released amidst great fanfare. News of this modern version of “Romeo and Juliet” even reached my tender ears in small town Minnesota where I lived. My brother and I pooled our babysitting and lawn-cutting money to purchase the record album together. And then we played it on the stereo, over and over and over again which drove my parents crazy. By the time the movie finally came to our little hamlet, we knew every lyric, fingersnap, and syncopated instrumentation by heart. When written on the memory at such a young age, one never forgets.
Since 1961, I have probably seen “West Side Story” a hundred times, both the movie version and on stage. I was even in a production when I was in college. When I heard about a redo of this timeless classic, I was both excited and dubious. I am not a big fan of attempts to update classic films but I was willing to give this beloved one a try. One of my Christmas gifts from my daughters was the promise to see the film together which this year was a momentous event. We had not been in a theatre since the onset of the pandemic and so we went the very next day.
I was enthralled from the first aerial shot of New York City tenements and heard the familiar startling notes of the overture. With Stephen Spielberg as the director, I anticipated some creative surprises and was not disappointed. He stayed true to the music and dancing but added some intriguing twists and turns that I really did love. What really stood out was the appearance of so many LatinX performers. They lent an authenticity about the story that was missing from the old version. The gangs were much dirtier, grittier, and more believable, even when they were pirouetting through construction sites. Rita Moreno singing “Somewhere” in the drugstore as the Puerto Rican widow of Doc, the Jewish proprietor, brought tears to my eyes. A poignant and powerful statement about the prevalence of prejudice throughout many generations, this scene is one I will never forget.
Sometimes I feel very naive when it comes to understanding prejudice, having grown up in a town that had absolutely no diversity. When I moved to California in the 1970s, I learned lessons from living in several barrio neighborhoods in Santa Ana. Suddenly surrounded by Spanish-speaking friends and neighbors, I ate homemade tamales and burritos, and went to quinceañeras and posadas. I also experienced angst about my undocumented friends who always seemed to be doing everyone’s dirty work. I grew painfully aware of drugs, gangs, and the shadow side of immigration with a permeable border only sixty miles away.
What does the movie “West Side Story” have to say about the state of prejudice today? I hate to admit it but it seems like we have not made much progress. We still have gang members killing each other on the streets. We still have poor people pushed out of their homes in the name of gentrification. There are still stigmas about marrying outside racial lines. Recently, someone asked me if I thought women are better off today than they were before the 1960s. Yes, I answered, but we still have a long way to go. Perhaps the same can be said of prejudice. We still have a long way to go.
Don’t miss “West Side Story” on the big screen. You will be swept away by its electricity and drawn into the timeless struggle of learning what it means to truly love our neighbors.
“I wonder as I wander out under the sky why Jesus our Savior has come for to die for poor orn’ry people like you and like I; I wonder as I wander out under the sky.”
The Appalachian folksong, “I Wonder as I Wander,” has haunted me since I was a young teenager. One of the Dominican sisters who taught English sang it at our high school assembly before Christmas break. Sr. Caitlin was a witty, wise-cracking young woman, full of mirth and practical jokes. When she stepped up to the microphone, no one expected the emotional “wondering” that came from the depths of her powerful voice and beautiful soul. She forever changed my perception of wonder that day.
I generally do not make resolutions on January first. In the olden days, I would take my three daughters to the beach and we would each make a list of prayer requests that I would tuck into my bible and then not look at until the following New Year’s Day. We were always filled with wonder when we opened the list again. Soccer games had been won, and math tests conquered. Squabbles with friends were long forgotten and sick dogs and cats well again. It was always amazing how many prayers got answered, which was a good lesson about seeing life full of abundance and grace.
Although we no longer participate in this exact ritual, (they are all mothers with children of their own) I still spend a fair amount of time ruminating over my personal prayer list on New Year’s Day. I call this “wondering.” I wonder why some prayers get answered exactly the way I think they should while others remain open-ended. I wonder why human beings are still so cruel to one another; why we do not share resources so that all people can have food and clean water. I wonder why we want to fight over images of God, of who is and who is not in heaven; why we quibble about doctrines and words to creeds. I wonder about the world-wide pandemic, when it will end, what good has come out of the devastation. The list goes on.
There is another kind of wondering I do on January first. I wonder over the beauty of nature, the perfection of a child’s face, the random acts of kindness that spill out of ordinary circumstances. I feel wonder arising when I think of so many friends who have loved and supported me when I was too busy to notice. I wonder that I have lived twenty-two years into the new millennium and can still feel enchanted by wonderful things.
Today, the prayer list includes a request for your New Year: may the next twelve months bring you many experiences of wonder.
“For auld lang syne my dear, for auld lang syne, we’ll take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne.”
Every December 31st morning, for the past ten years, I have been guiding others through a reflective prayer process called “Soul Collage.” For several hours, we come together to create an icon or holy card to express the state of the inner journey. Print images are chosen that picture the frequently hidden depths of the true self. The collages are mysterious to those who gaze upon them but to those who create them, represent very real depictions of the transcendent. More than anything, these collages record and chronicle the soul’s quest for meaning.
I began making collages out of magazine photos when I was very young, using the finished products as greeting cards, story-telling, and to scrapbook memorable events. Resources were tight then and so this was a cheap way to express myself. Many years later, after having completed the certification for the art of spiritual direction, I was thoroughly delighted to meet Seena Frost, author of Soul Collage: Evolving An Intuitive Collage Process for Self-Discovery and Community, who introduced me to an expansive way to use collage for spiritual growth. Since then, I have created dozens of soul collages, but the best ones are always on New Year’s Eve. This morning, nine women gathered on Zoom, including a new friend from Canada. No, it was not the same as being together in person (which we had planned to do until Omicron reared its ugly head), yet, the magic of the process prevailed. The sharing was deep, heart-felt, and inspiring.
I have entitled this year’s collage “Liberation,” and am still working on the finishing touches, including some lines of poetry. The little boy, freefalling into the lake, is how I feel since I retired from ministry. Far from regressing, he is the inner child which has connected with me again in this, my 73rd year. The other parts of myself, including the generative woman on the dock with a portrait of Mary, the flexible, balanced and disciplined Amazon woman, and the wise crone staring into a sunset at the beach. In the sky, the Beloved eagle soars, inviting me to fly high after I plunge into the waters of new birth.
Happy New Year everyone! May your souls soar into 2022 with hope, resolve, and a tidal wave of love.
“Oh the weather outside is frightful but the fire is so delightful; since we’ve no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”
It might not ever snow in Southern California, but it rarely rains either, until it does, which is has, off and on these past two weeks. I love the sound of it, the smell of it, even the gray skies that beckon me to hunker down, bake something delicious, read my books, and tackle the puzzle Santa left for me under the tree.
My dog Wylie, being a wily sort of canine, really hates this weather. It cuts into his quality time outside, our daily walks up and down the hills of our neighborhood. We play catch in the house with his stuffed toys but he still looks at me with his soulful eyes as he stares longingly at the front door. My two cats, the feral not domesticated out of them, do not seem to mind the raindrops at all. They meander in and out of our cat door with their usual disdainful looks, dropping in for their daily repasts. Occasionally they curl up on the fleece blanket by the fireplace heater, always ready to high-tail out of here if a loud noise interrupts their reveries.
My herb garden on the patio just outside the back door is leaping for joy in the daily showers as are my succulents, roses, and all things potted. I know there is work ahead of me to clean up after the winter storms but I do not care. Have you ever seen such brilliant shades of green? This morning, a frog has been loudly croaking out a message just outside my window. I like to think he is grateful too for these raindrops of respite that force us to slow down and just be.
On the sixth day of the Christmas season, I am content staying home and sinking into the holy leisure of this hushed time. I hope you are too.
Seeking Wisdom 