Some find God in the whisper
Some in the whirlwind
Some find God in the liturgy
Some in the light
Some find God in the song
Some in the silence
Some find God in the stillness
Some in the shout
I find Her in my doubt.
Author: vabutsy
11:45, January 20, 2021
Young women celebrate
Middle-aged women cry
Old women shake their heads in disbelief
(while celebrating and crying
hardest of all)
Vice-President Kamala Devi Harris
Unwelcome Epiphany
Ms. Shirley, twice widowed, is almost blind
and lives in a Catholic retirement home
just about a mile from our house
Mom lives with us
they were on a spiritual retreat
at their women’s Catholic college
when whispers began to ignite
embers of excitement and worry
some hurried to the radios in their dorm rooms
commuter students like Mom huddled together
in cars with radios
The Japanese had bombed Pearl Harbor.
I was in a sophomore geometry class
at my all girls Catholic high school
when the scratchy intercom came on
in my memory the principal said nothing first
I just remember trying to make out what was being said
on the radio held up to the intercom
slow to understand the muffled words
I was still puzzled
when screams and cries began to ignite
through the building
President Kennedy had been shot.
Alone at home
buried deep in a data analysis project
I was focused only on my desktop computer
when the ringing phone startled me
my daughter living in Toronto was almost hysterical
telling me I had to leave NOW
and come back to Canada
I was confused and impatient
my irritation ignited
as I tried to calm her down
The Twin Towers were falling.
Wednesday afternoon
i-pad open on my lap
I was listening to a news conference
Virginia’s governor talking
about COVID-19 cases and vaccination plans
my step-daughter sat nearby
working on her laptop
when news breaks ignited
across my screen
Our Capitol had been breached.
They Needed No Star
They followed no star
Brought no gifts
Spoke to neither
King nor angel
But when Mary was sick
Sarah cooked dinner
While Adah entertained the busy toddler
When Joseph was injured
Rebecca helped bandage the wound
While Naomi distracted the worried boy
When their almost-adolescent disappeared
Ruth comforted them
While Leah searched the caravan
When Mary stood
“Near the cross of Jesus”
She stood with her sister,
With Mary of Clopas,
With Mary Magdalene
They needed no star
They brought no gifts
They heeded not king nor angel
They just helped
Hebrews 11:1
When
the substance of faith
becomes myth
through the years
As
the evidence of the unseen
becomes distorted
through my tears
How
can I rely
on prophets or politicians
on priests or pundits
on popes or presidents
Are
today’s truths
tomorrow’s myths
as yesterday’s certainties
are today’s lies
I struggle
for balance
against hurricane winds
Lashed
by my rope of psalms
to faith’s once steady
mast
Here I Sit
Here I sit
in bed
surrounded by books
paper and electronic
scribbling in my small notebook
Not for me
Luther’s drama
No one forces me to speak
Without horns
“Hier stehe ich.”
“Ich kann nicht anders.”
And yet
here I sit
in my comfortable private bed
in my warm well-lit room
in the 21st century new world
with conscience captive to the Word of God
not trusting pope or councils
no less than that long ago
misogynist anti-Semitic
totally foreign proto-German
Sitting in my comfortable bed
scribbling in my small notebook
no one holding me to account
nonetheless I silently shout
to Pope and priests
with my sisters
Here I stand.
I cannot do otherwise.
Cana Questions
Do I need the wine
Or can I find salvation
In the water?
Do I need authority
Or can I find power
In serving?
Do I need doctrine
Or can I find religion
In doubt?
Do I need the storm
Blowing wild through my life
Or can I find God
In the whisper
Tickling my faith’s ear?
Do I need Christmas celebration
Or can I find peace
In Advent waiting?
About Those Sheep And Goats
Matt 25:31-46
Jesus called God Sovereign and said that at the end of days God will separate the sheep from the goats, putting the sheep on his right hand and the goats on the left. God will praise the sheep for all they have done for him and curse the goats for all they have failed to do.
Neither group understood what in the world, or in their lives, he was talking about. They had all gone to church, they had all tithed, they had all prayed and obeyed the law, they had all been faithful to their family. And none of them – not one of them – had ever even seen God, much less clothed or fed him, visited him when he was sick or in prison.
Those sheep, they were plenty grateful to be praised, they knew they deserved praise, but he was praising them for all the wrong things. He was praising them for things that had never happened. What about those Sunday mornings when all they wanted was another hour’s sleep but instead they got up and went to church? What about that year when they changed their vacation plans to help with the fund raiser for the church roof? What about knowing the Ten Commandments by heart, saying the rosary, grace before meals? Listen, if there’s going to be a reward, it should be for predictable, expected achievements.
The goats agreed completely. What in heaven’s name was he talking about? Wasn’t it enough that the kids went to Catholic School – and that cost a pretty penny, believe you me — when public school would have been cheaper, and had a better football team? Wasn’t it enough that they stayed in the church through all the scandals, even when they learned that Father What-a-waste, that handsome young priest in charge of the youth ministry, was more of a wastrel than a waste? Wasn’t it enough that they never cheated on taxes, always paid their debts, and what about contributing more than their share to that neighborhood fence? What was all this business about feeding and clothing, helping and visiting God? God doesn’t need any help!
Now I like goats as much as sheep, maybe even better. And I happen to be left-handed. So I always felt this parable was harsh on goats and on left hands. But, boy, God really got them, didn’t he? “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.”
I hope the light turns green before I have to stop. That guy with the sign that says he’s homeless is at the intersection again. But he has a cell phone and how does he get out here to a suburban shopping center anyway. I’ve heard it’s an organized scam and I donate to the Food Bank regularly. Phew, thank goodness, the light is green.
The Big Shift
January rushed into February
Everyone wanting less hurry and more quiet
If only I could stay home for just one day
Movement pushes days too fast
Too much to do in too many places
Please, God, slow my life down
Then March
Slowed into April
Slumped into May
Shambled into June
Shuffled into July
Stumbled into August
Stalled into September
Slackened into October
Slumbered into November
As we await the sweet wakening vaccine kiss
Jane To Me
Jane was
briefly
my mother-in-law
twice married
a lawyer of a generation before mine
when almost no women
went to law school
Jane was
Herself
northern
not merely northern but
the antipode
southern woman
She loved telling stories
about herself
(She was mother to six children
stepmother to more
but her stories were her own)
She lived large
in her small farming community
Disorganized and usually disheveled
she was
not to put too fine a point on it
not a housekeeper
nor did she feel responsible
for organizing her lawyer husband
She was noisy and nosy
boisterous and brilliant
no Tarzan’s mate
But her tree-swinger
jungle-dweller
animal-tamer
Self
How strange to her
that nineteen year old unexpected
daughter-in-law
turned on, tuned in, dropped out
hippie with Southern young lady
(Southern Catholic young lady)
sensibilities
She taught me to ride
bareback, of course
She taught me to observe
not just watch
She taught me to examine
not just protest
She taught me to do more than survive
when her son left for greener pastures
(in the shape of my friend Sherri)
One day
long before internet made searches easy
she took me to a university
spent a day pouring over a tome
with me
her soon to be ex daughter-in-law
a book of scholarship possibilities
finding all I might qualify for
(My own parents having given up on me)
We found some
I applied
filled out the forms
huddled on a chair
using a barely cleared corner
of Jane’s disheveled desk
Jane watched
from her lawyer’s chair
ridiculously masculine to me
(Never mind my Gloria Steinem pretensions)
behind her lawyer’s desk
I got a scholarship
finished university
the rest, as they say
is history
But not Jane
two decades dead
Jane still lives
for me
never just history
