Last week, I was caught in afternoon traffic driving home from a retreat. When the school bus ahead of me reached a red light, two little girls flattened themselves against the back window. How cute, I thought—followed by, Why do we let this precious cargo ride like loose eggs in a box? Both thoughts were chased from my mind, however, when that precious cargo began mugging and gesticulating at me. Whacky faces, strange hand gestures . . . what the heck?!?
Kids today, I muttered, striving to keep my eyes averted and my face impassive.
I don’t know what made me peek at the girls again. (Holy Spirit, perhaps?) When I did, I noticed that they weren’t trying to get my goat; they were trying to get me to play Rock-Paper-Scissors! I grinned, made eye contact, and gave the familiar one-two-three hand gesture. They jumped with delight, and we got three rounds in before the light turned green and I needed my hands back. We continued to play at every light until our paths diverged and we had to wave goodbye.
Rock crushes scissors (in case you didn’t know)
This month, my IVC Virtual Community is reading a chapter of Greg Boyle’s Cherished Belonging called “The Blindfold.” That’s Boyle’s image for whatever prevents us from seeing one another as God sees us. “When this blindfold falls,” he says, “we focus on what is precious in the soul of the person in front of us” (p. 65).
When this blindfold falls, we focus on what is precious in the soul of the person in front of us.
Playing Rock-Paper-Scissors with those precious girls was (in the words of a woman I met at my American Pilgrims on the Camino gathering last week) the kind of “joy snack” that could keep me going for the rest of the day. I had been judging the kids’ behavior so harshly, on so little information. I’m glad the blindfold dropped in time!
Wishing you at least one eye-opening experience this week.
Christine
P.S. Typing the phrase “get my goat” above made me wonder about the origin of that expression. Curious? NPR has your answer!
I watched a lot of baseball last month. (To be clear: I watched a lot of baseball for me.) After the Phillies were eliminated in post-season play, I embraced those scrappy Toronto Blue Jays and followed them all the way to the heartbreaking eleventh inning of game seven of the World Series.
A curious thing happens to me when I’m watching baseball. I don’t exactly forget which team I’m rooting for, but occasionally I do cheer at the wrong time. Sometimes, when the “other” side pulls off a spectacularly good play or “my” side makes an egregious error, I respond in a way that causes my husband to shoot me a baffled look.
I could blame it on the change of uniforms from home to away, or on my divided attention. But maybe it’s something more human. The player diving into a stolen base with a quarter inch to spare deserves my admiration, just as the player running backwards to catch the ball but losing it in the lights deserves my sympathy. In that moment of relief or disappointment, the categories of “us and them” dissolve. I’m happy for the guy; I’m sorry for the other guy, even if I’m not “supposed” to be.
In Fr. Greg Boyle’s new book, Cherished Belonging, the Jesuit founder of Homeboy Industries says that God’s dream for the world would be to replace “Us VS. Them” with “Nobody VS. Anybody.” Perhaps that’s what Saint Paul was getting at when he encouraged us to “rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep” (Romans 12:15).
No Us and Them, just Us. This is, indeed, God’s dream come true.
Fr. Greg Boyle, SJ
In these polarizing times, it is so easy to demonize the “other side” (whichever side of whatever thing that happens to be for us). But can we also recognize goodness or sorrow, even in people whose views and actions we abhor? Can we acknowledge flaws and blind spots, even in people pursuing causes dear to our hearts? Can we forget—just for a moment—who we’re supposed to be rooting for, and simply be humans together?
Nobody VS. Anybody is a tall order. Most days, I’m not there; I’m too angry at politicians and corporations who put job security and profits ahead of human decency, and who gin up enemies for people to fear in order to keep us pitted against one another. That’s why I’m grateful to baseball: for providing the occasional moments of obliviousness that allow me to glimpse how God’s dream might be possible.
During Jeff Draine’s memorial service last Saturday at Wallingford Presbyterian Church, I had the privilege of speaking about his faith. I have written about Jeff here before, in the 2018 blog post “Eat the Peaches” after he was diagnosed with young-onset Alzheimer’s, and in the the long account of our friendship after he died last month. Here’s what I said at his beautiful, joyful memorial.
When Deb first asked me to speak today, the question she posed was this: how would you have known Jeff was a Christian without being told? Well, you might have spotted the Celtic cross he always wore inside his shirt. A perusal of his home bookshelves sure would have given you a clue. You might have known how important this church was to him. And if you knew him long enough, you might also know he was raised as a Methodist preacher’s kid, attended a Lutheran church in Richmond, flirted with Catholicism for a hot minute, and for many years was an active member of an American Baptist church—which he would want me make sure y’all know was not Southern Baptist.
But what if you hadn’t peeked under his shirt, or stood at his bookshelves, or stalked him on Sunday mornings, would you know Jeff was a Christian? Not necessarily. We all know that Jeff could speak at GREAT length about anything that interested him, but he wasn’t a proselytizer, and while he held forth on many topics, his inner life wasn’t one of them. He expressed his faith in deeds more than words. Too often, Christians use the word “Christian” as a sloppy synonym for “kind” or “nice” or “good.” But the truth is, the good deeds that Jeff did in this world—and they were many—could just as easily have stemmed from Jewish or Muslim or Quaker or any number of secular inspirations.
And yet, to know Jeff was to know that the things we admired about him were the putting-into-practice of his deep-seated Christian convictions. And, while every believer has a selective approach to Scripture—our personally curated go-to passages—the thing that really strikes me about Jeff is how passionately—dare I say, literally—he embraced some of the most challenging lines of the Gospels.
For example, in Matthew 25, in the parable of the last judgement, Jesus says, I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me. When I met Jeff at Freedom House thirty-eight years ago, he was already working on the first four, tending to the needs of our unhoused guests for food, drink, clothing, and above all, welcome. But for the bulk of his professional career, through his research on the intersection of mental illness and incarceration—Jeff laser focused on the final two. And I can tell you that I was sick and in prison and you visited me are the ones that most people who call themselves Christians rarely take literally. It is much easier to ladle soup in a homeless shelter or donate the clothes that don’t fit us any more than to walk into prisons over and over—to spend your life advocating for those the world considers “the least of these.” But that’s what Jeff did.
I also think of the line in the Sermon on the Mount where Jesus says: Do not judge, so that you may not be judged. Though Jeff certainly could be professionally irritated and politically outraged, he was personally prepared to give just about anyone the benefit of the doubt. He was not given to judgmental rants, nor did he enjoy listening to them; he would rather turn the temperature down than ratchet people up. More than most people I know, Jeff had a keen sense of what was in God’s provenance alone. He was a very smart man who kept an open heart and mind in relation to all that he recognized was unknowable.
My final observation is about Jeff’s equanimity regarding his Alzheimer’s. Although the disease often made him anxious and agitated—especially in the later years—whenever he spoke of what was happening to him, there was never a trace of “poor me” or even “why me?” He recognized his suffering as part of the human condition. He was conscious of the many blessings that still surrounded him, and he wanted, above all else, to be useful. (That’s why he donated that big brain of his to the University of Pennsylvania, so he could keep teaching!) Now, again, one doesn’t have to be a Christian to hold that perspective. And yet . . .
As Pastor Taylor said, Jeff chose every word read and sung today. That includes the passage we just heard from John 21, with these powerful words, “Very truly, I tell you, when you were younger, you used to fasten your own belt and to go wherever you wished. But when you grow old, you will stretch out your hands, and someone else will fasten a belt around you and take you where you do not wish to go.” Jeff knew what was coming. He had no illusions about the hard path ahead. But he held his diminishment in a spiritual context. He understood Alzheimer’s as the particular way he was going to walk with Jesus, all the way to the end of the road. And he gave us that reading today as a gift, a reminder that—even when his mind and body were a mess—it was well with his soul.
Even when his mind and body were a mess, it was well with his soul.
Jeff had no way of knowing that this memorial would take place on “No Kings Day,” but I think it’s appropriate. Not just because, in his better days, he totally would have been out there protesting. But because of the words he picked to begin this service: The King of Love my Shepherd is, whose goodness faileth never. I nothing lack if I am His, and He is mine forever.
Rest in peace, dear friend.
There are so many photos of Jeff and me together at family parties, you might think we were a couple, but really, we were just a couple of introverts!
I’m delighted to share that my review of Eric Clayton’s new book, Finding Peace Here and Now, has appeared in the National Catholic Reporter.
It is not enough to wring our hands and pray for peace, Clayton insists: “If peace is what we desire, then we need to practice it.”
How, then, does one practice peace? What are the repetitive, foundational movements that precede mastery — the spiritual equivalents of piano scales or basketball set shots? (Can I get two points for using a sports metaphor here?)
Whether we aspire to be peacemakers on the national or global stage, or (more likely) prefer the intimate theater of family, parish or neighborhood, we must first discover the way to peace in our own hearts. Clayton’s subtitle reveals his roadmap: How Ignatian Spirituality Leads Us to Healing and Wholeness.
From the Pew: June 8, 2025 Pentecost Sunday (John 20:19-23)
When I was in my thirties, my mother and I had a running disagreement about whether she should lock her screen door at bedtime. “The only person a locked screen door keeps out is a relative with a key!” I would insist—usually after spending way too long trying to get my parents’ attention on a Saturday morning before cell phones. But Mom could not be dissuaded. Although the home was secured by a lock and a German shepherd, flipping that little latch gave her a bit more peace.
One can’t blame the disciples for bolting the door after Jesus’ execution; as his followers, they were understandably terrified. And yet, just as Mom’s screen door was vulnerable to any two-bit burglar with a box cutter, the disciples’ barricade was not going to thwart anyone truly bent on doing them harm. Nor was it an obstacle for Jesus, who appeared in their midst and offered them peace.
But note what Jesus did not offer them: safety. He didn’t say, “You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” or “Nothing bad will ever happen to you.” Indeed, he did the opposite: showed them the brutal evidence of his crucifixion, then sent them forth as the Father had sent him. And we know that they went on to suffer for their faith, often meeting violent ends.
The fears that keep me up at night cannot be put to rest by even the strongest lock. Everyone I love will die—unless I beat them to it, which may also be no picnic. Untold hardships await us all. Fortunately, the peace Jesus bestows is not dependent on untroubled circumstances, but on our embrace of his Spirit’s abiding presence.
Fear locks the door, but Jesus walks right in. Will we accept peace on his terms?
Where were you when Pope Leo XIV was elected? How did you react? Busted Halo solicited a group of writers to answer that question in 300 words or less. Loving a tight word limit, here’s what I wrote:
“I assumed you were dead,” my brother said. What other explanation could there be for my silence following his 12:12 text (White Smoke!) and 1:16 follow-up (American Augustinian! Villanova grad!)?
Blame it on the weather. After five drizzly days in Maine — where my husband and I had come to ready our summer cottage for the season — the sun appeared and we plunged into garden cleanup, sans phones. I remember glancing at the Catholic church across the harbor, thinking, “If we get a new pope, I wonder if they’ll ring the bells?” (Apparently not.)
At 1:50, I wandered inside and discovered my blown-up phone. Calling my brother — a graduate of (then) Augustinian-run Msgr. Bonner High School outside Philadelphia — I got an earful about Pope Leo XIII and Catholic Social Teaching. Too much too soon! Where was the time machine that would whisk me back 98 minutes to watch the announcement in real time?
Oh, there it was, sitting on the kitchen table. I opened my laptop, pulled up YouTube, and watched David Muir and Fr. James Martin receive and react to the astounding news.
Since then, I’ve been riveted by a litany of personal connections to the new pontiff. My mother taught theology at Bonner for 25 years; there’s a photo of Fr. Prevost visiting during her tenure, which means Mom (now gone to God) probably met the pope. In college, he worked as a groundskeeper at the cemetery where my grandparents are buried. A friend at Merrimack met him several times. And don’t get me started on people from Chicago!
In Cherished Belonging, Fr. Greg Boyle writes about God as Meister Eckhart’s “Wild One.” Rather than simply trying to get butts in pews, Boyle insists, “this wild, astonishing God may have more spacious plans for us.”
I’m fastening my seatbelt.
You can read the rest of the essays here: Part I: Allison Bobzien, Fr. Evan Cummings, Laura Yeager, and Jennifer Sawyer Part II: Allison Beyer, Eric Clayton, Nora Kavanagh, Catherine Anne Sullivan, and John Dougherty
Every time I walk into church and spot my friend Jamey Moses, I can count on him to ask me the same question: What day is it? No matter if it’s Saturday, Sunday, or a random weekday, I always reply, This is the day the Lord has made!
At Easter Mass yesterday, I sang Psalm 118: This is the day the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad! And this morning, like the rest of you, I woke up to the heartbreaking news that Pope Francis has gone home to God.
Not feeling very Eastery anymore, I must confess.
And yet. And yet and yet and yet.
The paschal mystery is no respecter of human or even liturgical calendars. Some people’s hearts are awash in gladness, even on Good Friday—as the vibrant music in our parish during the ecumenical Seven Last Words service demonstrated. For others, the “descent into hell” lasts much longer than three days. As Caedemon’s Call sings in their beautiful Valleys Fill First, “It’s like that long Saturday between Your death and the rising day, when no one wrote a word, wondering is this the end.”
In what now appears prescient, my friend Ann Garrido posted a reflection on Good Friday, recognizing in the crucifixion the aching sorrow of our whole world at this political moment. She suggests that, at least for a time, our best response may be silence, “acknowledging that the Word has been taken from us.” I encourage you to read her whole reflection:
As I try to get my mind and soul around the reality of a world without Pope Francis, I’m praying with his Easter message from yesterday—literally, Francis’ final word on many subjects.
More importantly, I’m holding onto this seven-word prayer taught to him by his grandmother: “Jesus, make my heart more like yours.”
This is the day the Lord has made. Whatever day it feels like in your soul, may the blessings of Francis’ witness of life and love carry you along.
My gosh, did I have fun with this one. Fr. Brendan McManus’ The Way to Manresa helped prepare my heart for pilgrimage, and his newest gem, Living the Camino Back Home, is a filled with good advice for how to sustain one’s pilgrim heart. (Also, he kindly blurbed my book; what a guy!)
We shared stories and insights in a rich hour’s conversation with talented interviewer Eric Clayton. (That hour was preceded by almost half an hour of tech troubles, which may be why we sound so comfortable with one another!)
You can play straight from the image below, or visit the AMDG show notes for more information about the podcast and Fr. McManus’ books. (And while you’re there, you can check out the many other awesome AMDG episodes.) Enjoy!
When I returned from the Ignatian Camino, my challenge was to transform a personal experience of pilgrimage into a book that could touch the hearts of people who might never be able to walk away from their life for a month. Now that Finding God Along the Way is out in the world, a new challenge has arisen: transforming words on a page into living, interactive retreat experiences.
I can’t think of a more hospitable place to begin than the Cranaleith Spiritual Center, where last Saturday I led a morning retreat called “The Long Pilgrimage to Justice.” Moved by a spectrum of concerns, ten souls braved the cold to gather in a sunny room and ground themselves for the work ahead. Together, we considered how the metaphor of pilgrimage could allow us to keep our goal on the horizon while staying deeply present to what is right in front of us. Drawing on wisdom from the Ignatian Camino, we discussed finding our “one thing,” taking the next step, redefining failure, and equipping ourselves spiritually.
My favorite part came near the end. Thoughout the morning, I’d been sharing snippets that speak to me—Scripture verses, songs, poems, quotes, etc. Finally, I read a passage from Chapter Sixteen of my book, “It’s in There,” and invited people to share what they carry in their own “go-bag” of inspiration.
The responses began as slowly as an afternoon snowfall, but each offering encouraged the next until the room was blanketed by consolation. It was such a joy to hear people ask one another, “Wait, who was that author?” “What was the name of that song ?” “Tell me that website again!” Phones came out so folks could look things up; pens came out so we could write them down.
One gentleman shared a reflection from Unfolding Light that captured the spirit of the day. It began: Hope is not anticipation of a certain outcome, but trusting goodness. Though the world around us abounds in hateful rhetoric right now—with even people on “our side” (whichever side that may be) delighting in mean memes and zinging caricatures—it was refreshing to remember how much goodness dwells in people’s hearts and memory banks.
Hope is not anticipation of a certain outcome, but trusting goodness.
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
It made me realize that, just as January is a month in which many of us return to a healthier diet after the excesses of the holiday season, so is this a time to be careful about our mental consumption. What we read, watch, and listen to has a profound effect on our spiritual health. Let’s resolve to choose wisely!
Can you spot the potassium-rich banana in Betsy’s backpack? What’s in your “go-bag” of inspiration?
Excerpt from Chapter Sixteen, “It’s in There”
“I know we’re supposed to be praying during the first two hours of every walk. Does repeatedly taking the name of the Lord in vain count?”
I cracked this joke at the end of a particularly pressured segment of hiking, but I wasn’t actually swearing my way across Spain. The only truth in that snarky remark was the word “repeatedly.” When the pace or terrain overwhelmed my ability to pray deeply (by which I mean conversationally, meditatively, or imaginatively), I took comfort in repeating words and phrases lodged in my memory.
It began during that long ascent to Arantzazu. Knowing that we were going to “visit” the Blessed Mother, I was thrown back to one of my mom’s favorite prayers, the Memorare. As I grew more exhausted by the climb, I resorted to repeating the last sentence like a mantra, in cadence with my steps: O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in your mercy hear and answer me.
Gradually, other words emerged from the deep. Once upon a time, I’d memorized a few prayers in Spanish, so I was able to pass a satisfying hour trying to drag those beloved lines out of the mental vault. Later, I challenged myself to piece together all four verses of Tagore’s “Friends Whom I Knew Not,” which I’d quoted extensively in my book Finding God Abiding. In both cases, something about the combination of meaningful words and mental exercise sustained me for quite a while.
Various Scripture passages joined the parade of words in my head. Walking through the mountains, I recalled the beginning of Psalm 121: “I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, from whence shall come my help.” On another day, I clung to St. Peter’s incredulous exclamation after Jesus asked if he wanted to jump ship like other faint-hearted followers: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of everlasting life.” Mile after mile, the rhythmic “Lord, to whom shall we go?” reminded me that there was nowhere I’d rather be.
Certain hymns also provided prayerful refuge. Gospel songs such as “Guide My Feet” and “We’ve Come This Far by Faith” encouraged me to press on. The sight of a little dead bird evoked “His Eye is on the Sparrow,” assuring me that I was not alone.Even though such repetitive prayer isn’t ordinarily my style, I’m grateful to have had access to such richness under duress.
In the age of smartphones, the ability to “look anything up” is both a gift and a curse. Though vast amounts of information are there at our fingertips, the convenience discourages committing things to memory. But even if I’d had cell service in the Cantabrian mountains, what would I have done—pulled out my phone and said, “Hey Siri: What’s a good prayer, poem, Scripture, or song for when you’ve climbed higher than you would have thought possible but still have an impossible distance to go?” (Okay, I just tried it, and got a link to “30 Prayers to Give You Peace of Mind When You Need It Most,” but there’s no way I could have flipped through them without dropping my phone or dropping out of the pack!)
Back in the late 80s, a series of Prego spaghetti sauce commercials featured the slogan “It’s in there!” (All the ingredients a home cook could want, right in one convenient jar.) Prego is Italian for “You’re welcome,” so perhaps that’s God’s response as I offer thanks for all the heartening words that dwell in my memory banks and offer themselves as needed. “Prego!”
I am grateful to my friend Alli Bobzien (whom I met during the amazingly generative “Ignatian Creators Summit” offered by the Jesuit Media Lab last summer) for offering me a guest spot on her Substack, The Pondering Heart.
In it, I dive into my long-standing gripe about tomorrow’s Gospel and how I finally got my heart around it.
While you’re on Alli’s site, be sure to poke around and read some of her own beautiful writing. My favorites among recent posts are “The Heart of the Fire” and “The Inkeeper’s Daughter.” The first is a poem and the second a dive into historical/biblical fiction, but both are gorgeous!
Christine Marie Eberle 