This might be the richest, most beautiful story in all of Luke’s gospel, and, of course, only Luke knows it. That makes sense. It’s about Mary, after all, and another woman, and the hidden strength of those who are poor (like the child in Elizabeth’s womb).  Whew. It took us three years, but we are finally back to this profound gospel.

Think about this young girl. The mysterious angel has announced to her that she has been chosen to be the mother of God. And not only that, but to give her strength to believe, the angel tells her the extraordinary news that her aging, infertile cousin is now pregnant!

What does this loving young lady do next? She heads out immediately for the ninety-mile journey to the hill country of Judea to visit Elizabeth, and to stay with her to help her during her third trimester. And here’s where it gets really good. As she and Jesus—a tiny embryo in Mary’s womb—enter the house of Elizabeth and Zechariah, the six-month embryo in Elizabeth’s womb leaps for joy.

It’s the littleness of it all that gives it all away. Two women embrace, and the world is changed forever. And in that embrace, two tiny embryos touch, and the mighty power of God is unleashed. As Fr. John McKenzie, SJ, asked, “Could we believe that the promise God wove into our very souls might give birth to something big?” Out of the hidden smallness of Bethlehem rose the shepherd of all the world. We, the little of the world, wait, and trust. God is using our kernels of faith to build something to last until the end of time.

What little thing do you do each day that makes the world better?

Kathy McGovern c. 2024

Reflecting on Philippians 4: 4-7

Anxiety. Isn’t that the epidemic of our age? I read a story recently about a college student who couldn’t use her meal card because it had been torn, and she was too anxious to speak to the person in the office who could replace it. She wanted her mom to drive her meals to her dorm daily to save her from walking into the office and asking for a new card.

I have a feeling this story resonates with more people than we know. The challenge of looking someone in the eye and speaking to them is somehow so terrifying that those afflicted with crippling anxiety would rather isolate themselves than accomplish the normal interactions that are so vital to a happy life.

Compare this story to Paul’s letter to the Philippians, written around 62 AD, while Paul was in prison in Rome, awaiting execution. A Roman citizen, St. Paul knew that he would be spared the torture of the crucifixion with his Lord endured. Beheading was the normal mode of execution for those lucky enough to be citizens.

But still. He’s in chains in Rome. He knows that the next person at his door could be his executioner. And what does he write to his beloved little community in Philippi? Have no anxiety at all, but everything in prayer and supplication. From whence comes this serenity, this perfect peace?

That moment on the road to Damascus, of course, held him tight for the rest of his life. This is what I pray for all of us: that we might hold fast to the grace of our baptisms, and let that grace keep us in peace and strength.

How will you use this beautiful Advent season to allay anxiety?

Kathy McGovern ©2024  

Reflecting on Luke 3: 1-6

Ah, the tetrarchs of Rome. Remember them? Nope. Surely the High Priests have some inspiring words that have lived on in memory? Not really.

In the clamor and chaos of these “mighty rulers,” only one voice has survived the ages: the voice of the Baptizer. We can hear him even now, shouting in the wilderness to the throngs who’ve come to see this man with the garments of camel’s hair, eating locusts and wild honey. He preaches a baptism of forgiveness! And preaches HOPE to those who’ve walked in darkness for so long. What about him draws so many out to the dry, thirsty desert to hear him, and to be baptized in the Jordan River?

For that matter, fast forward just thirty years and listen to the words that St. Paul spoke to the Philippians so memorably: And this is my prayer, that your love may increase ever more and more. Think about that. He’s writing in chains in Rome (where he will eventually be beheaded), yet his warm letter to this little community is filled with HOPE that their work (and his) will be brought to completion in Christ Jesus.

Even Baruch, writing in the far exile of Babylon, is filled with HOPE that those “led away on foot by their enemies…will be brought back, borne aloft in glory.” We stop here to remember the hostages of October 7^th, and the 44,000 killed to avenge them.

The authors of these Advent readings commanded us to live in HOPE. Let’s take their strong words to heart. I will say that, in the cancer community, these things remain: faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is HOPE.

What HOPE do you share, through the witness of your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Today’s world has many advantages over that of years ago. Take waiting, for example. Before huge cineplexes in every neighborhood, we used to have to buy tickets in advance, or wait in long lines for seats to movie openings. Remember Star Wars, anyone? Or, in more recent memory, the long waits for groceries during the empty-shelf COVID years?

On the other hand, it’s good to muster the discipline for some delayed gratification in life. Painful as it was, waiting for the bus or for a favorite TV show to return after the long summer break formed a certain character in us. I call on that character all the time when I’m waiting for a medication to work, maybe, or waiting for test results from the doctor.

I’ll bet you have daily challenges with that essential character trait, too. Are you waiting for those painful pounds to come off, for news from a loved one who is deployed, hospitalized, or just missing from your life? That kind of waiting is agonizing.

Or maybe your long wait is to overcome a resentment that’s had you in its grasp for decades. More likely, your wait is for healing for a child who is in the grip of depression, or an addiction, or has problems at school. That’s the most agonizing wait of all.

I have an idea. How about if every reader of this column around the country prayed for someone reading these words right now this Advent? Talk about waiting. We won’t know until we see Jesus who we were praying for and who was praying for us. Ready? I can’t wait.

How would you like your unknown prayer partner to pray for you?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on John 18: 33b-37

Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice. This is Jesus’ defense before Pilate, the man who will decide between his life, or death. And what does Pilate say in response? Truth. What is truth?

We don’t hear that chilling and cynical question because it’s the verse just outside the boundaries of today’s gospel. We’ll have to wait ‘til Good Friday to hear it, but it should give us pause when we do. In fact, that sentence is the oldest extant piece of the New Testament ever discovered. Can you imagine being a biblical archaeologist digging the dry Egyptian dirt, and finding THAT sentence, and, after analysis, learning that you had unearthed the oldest piece of the New Testament ever found?

It might be the oldest question in the hearts of the earliest Christians, or our hearts, too. Can Jesus be trusted? So many religious (and secular) ideas are competing for our hearts. Can we trust this crucified Messiah? The first-century followers of Jesus, especially his disciples who, out of terror of the Romans, abandoned Jesus to face Pilate alone, had to have asked this question themselves.

Yes, they’d been with him when he healed the man born blind, the hemorrhaging woman, the woman bent double, and so many more. They even watched him raise Jairus’ little twelve-year-old daughter from what appeared to be death. And now he was standing before Pilate, testifying to the Truth, and everyone on the side of Truth would listen to him until the end of the world. And yes, the martyrs, too.

We live in a day when the sophisticated agnostics among us believe that all truth is relative. Pilate would have been very comfortable with them.

What is your Truth?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mark 13: 24-32

I am a fearful person. I’ve been too careful, too cautious. The world was certainly ending soon, and I wanted it to hurt as little as possible. Growing up, there were just enough prophets of doom around to keep me in a perpetual state of alarm. Some of their dire predictions have come true over time, but many have not. I confess that I chose fear over faith in every case.

It’s been three spins around the sun since we heard Mark’s terrifying apocalyptic account of the end times, but this time, I’m noticing something there all along, waiting for me to grab hold and reach safety.

It’s this: right after Mark portrays the terrible tribulations—stars falling from the sky, neither the sun nor moon giving any light—Jesus says, “Learn a lesson from the fig tree.” What is the lesson that all fruit-bearing trees have for us?

Check it out, they say. Come in closer. See the leaves that fell last winter? They were stamped down into the earth by rain and snow. The tiny insects came and decomposed the leaves. Some of that was released into the atmosphere, and other parts remained and nourished the soil. See those tiny buds? Uh-huh. Apples. Peaches. Figs. Just you wait.

Just you wait, friends. Take a lesson from the fig tree. The Divine Plan is never that we should be paralyzed by fear. I get that now. It’s embedded in the DNA of trees. God intends to give us “a future and a hope” (Jer. 29:11).

Oh, and here’s some other good news. The joy-filled Gospel of Luke is right around the corner.

How has a fearful heart stopped you from embracing a life of faith?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mark 12: 38-33

This gospel reading is one of the thorniest in the whole lectionary, mainly because it can have several interpretations. One of them is that Jesus is NOT praising the widow for her immense sacrifice in giving all she has to the Temple treasury.

This might be the equivalent of a poor, unhoused person coming into Church, hearing a compelling homily about sacrificial giving, and coming forward to put his or her last penny into the collection basket.

Who wouldn’t want to shout to the ushers, “Give back every penny that unfortunate person just dropped in the basket! How will she eat today? Where will he sleep tonight? How dare we take from the poorest of the poor? They are the very ones for whom collection plates are meant.”

Is there any one of us who wouldn’t react that way to this imagined scenario? But not so the scribes. Sitting in their places of honor, they observe this dangerous gift on the part of the poor widow and do nothing to stop her.

Why is this donation dangerous? The word “widow” means one who is silent or unable to speak. That was the status of the widow. She has no voice and no one to speak for her.

This is why Jesus’ remark is not praise, but a LAMENT that this injustice is happening in front of the scribes, who certainly know the mandate—repeated FOUR TIMES in the Hebrew scriptures–to care for the widow, the orphan, and the alien in the land.

Care for the widow was the very reason for the Temple treasury. Jesus isn’t praising the widow. He’s lamenting that this travesty is happening right before them.

What do you think of this interpretation of today’s gospel?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mark 12: 28b-34

What a reference letter! The unnamed scribe in today’s gospel hears Jesus say, “You are not far from the kingdom of God.” He’s extraordinary, of course. Unlike his peers, this anonymous man has been listening with his whole heart, and soul, and mind. He’s not there to trip Jesus up, but to learn from him.

He affirms Jesus’ pairing of Deuteronomy 6: 4-5 (which he probably prayed that very morning, since it was required of every Hebrew male) with Leviticus 19:8 (about loving one’s neighbor as oneself). So, says Jesus, the greatest commandment has two parts, the first about loving God, the second about loving neighbor. The anonymous scribe, deeply touched, says, “Yes. That’s what I’ve figured out, too.”

It turns out that the kingdom of God isn’t very far at all. It’s right here, at the intersection of love of God and love of neighbor. And we step in and out of it all the time. You can feel your entrance into the kingdom when you participate in things that build community, and that forge peace. For me, that’s any time I get to volunteer for a Guns to Gardens event.

That’s where people bring their unwanted firearms to a designated spot and safely surrender them.

What happens next is stunning. Their unwanted weapons are forged by blacksmiths into garden tools! Their swords are turned into plowshares (Is. 2:4); scripture is fulfilled right there, in their participation in the kingdom.

What moments in your life are immersion in the kingdom? Taking care of grandchildren? Lending your life skills to parish committees? Seeking out an estranged friend? Look there! You are not far from the kingdom of God.

How many of the roles you play in life are solidly in God’s reign?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Jeremiah 31: 7-9

A few years ago, I had the life-changing experience of taking a Justice Matters class on Migration. The worst part was that, unlike my nightly discipline of shielding my eyes and ears when footage of the migrant boats came on the news, we actually had to watch the videos. If I think about it, I’ll cry, and my tears will just add to the rivers of tears shed for the millions of migrants who suffer every day in order to escape the terrors of home.

Imagine, then, the image that Jeremiah offers today. God will gather ALL who migrated out of their homelands, either in the chains of victorious armies, or from the chains of drought and famine.

God will gather them from the ends of the earth. They departed in tears—terrible, throat-choking tears—but they will return wrapped in the comfort and mercy of God.

Those who prayed for water as they left their homes will find streams and streams of it, and on level roads, not on top of treacherous hills and mountains. Jeremiah had clearly traveled with those who migrated out of Jerusalem under the sword of Nebuchadnezzar. He knew about the terrors of traveling outside the safety of home.

But here’s the best part: the pace of the travel was measured by the pace of the blind, the elderly, and the disabled. However slowly they needed to move, that would be how the entire caravan moved, companioning them. Think of the grace of everyone moving to the pace of mercy. Think of yourself, today, moving to the pace of mercy. How does that change your schedule?

Pray for the peace of all the troubled homelands.

How are you following Catholic Social Teaching regarding migration?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mark 10: 35-45

Imagine this: it’s Thanksgiving dinner, and, at the table, you pour the wine for the toast. Each guest receives a portion commensurate with their age and status.

Uncle Jack brought his own alcohol to the party and is already on his fourth glass of wine. You pour him a small glass, knowing that he’ll come back, again and again.

On the other side of the table is your thirty-year-old son, recently out of rehab for his own alcohol problems. He’s been sober for four months. Weak with gratitude, he turns his glass over, indicating he will be declining alcohol. You smile and move on.

The kids, naturally, might get just a sip or two in their cups. It’s a delight for them to raise their cups with the grown-ups and offer a toast of thanks. The rest of the wine flows freely, filling the glasses of the adults, with, perhaps, the most generous serving going to the hosts who have provided the feast.

Jesus references this cultural situation when he asks the two brothers, James and John, if they can drink the cup that he will drink. Now this is a great honor, to drink from the largest portion, the cup of the Rabbi! Not only is it delicious, but it honors them above the others. Of course they can drink it!

And so it was. James was the first apostle to be martyred, in 44 AD.  John, after surviving several tortures, died of extreme old age in Ephesus. Their misunderstanding of what the “cup” meant was, after the resurrection, transformed into a radiant desire to share in Christ’s passion, so as to live with him in glory.

In what ways have you grown to desire to be “the least” in your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2024