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 Luke 1: 26-38

This Advent I’ve been inviting students to think about this question: With which one of the Advent and Christmas saints do you most resonate? For some, the answer is quick, almost before I can ask the question. ZECHARIAH! said my friend. “What? How can you know so fast? I didn’t even ask the question yet!” “I just know,” she said.

It’s a wonderful meditation. Are you like Joseph, quietly and kindly protecting and providing for your family? Are you like the shepherds, who, after seeing the angels and hearing their tidings of great joy, raced the five miles to Bethlehem to see for themselves the things which had come to pass?

As I read this familiar (and yet still so shocking) gospel account of the Annunciation, I think of my niece, Lauren. St. Luke says that Mary, immediately after her encounter with the Angel Gabriel, set out alone from Galilee to travel ninety dangerous miles to the hill country of Judea in order to be with her aged cousin, Elizabeth, now six months into her pregnancy.

She came to serve her, and stayed three months with her and Zechariah in order to assist her aged cousin with the birth.

I have a niece like this. If I called Lauren at 6am on Christmas Eve and said, “Lauren, I’m having ten people for dinner in twelve hours, and I just can’t do it,” her response would be, “Aunt Kathy, I’m getting in the car right now. It’s ninety miles. I’ll bring breakfast.”

That’s how I picture Mary. Young, beautiful, full of love for her family. I hope you have a “Mary” in  your life. Or is that you?

Meditate on the Advent/Christmas saints. Is there one who especially speaks to you?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Reflecting on John 1: 6-8, 19-28

Are you a voice crying in the desert? It’s frustrating to have a message you’d love the world to hear, and you try to shout that message into the world. But all you hear in reply are crude jokes and snide remarks.

Are we just too sophisticated for the gospel, even here in 2023, when the gospel has never been more desperately needed? Or is it just that people don’t read more than the headlines, and they decide from there what their position is?

It must be so heartbreaking to be a great journalist, to labor for a year on a piece that sees the light of day for one news cycle, and to hear the deafening silence of your audience, clicking past your work for the next cat video.

I think about John the Baptist. I wonder if his diet of locusts and wild honey, and his scratchy garment of camel’s hair, was really just to draw people’s attention from whatever diversions they were enjoying and to draw them out to the desert.

I know for sure that the desert, with its stunning landscapes and fascinating insect life, wouldn’t hold my attention if I could somehow get WIFI and cellphone reception.

I’m sure I’d find some flashy desert video to watch instead of actually tasting and breathing the real thing.

John had a message, a truth that he had found, and he was willing to make himself look ridiculous in order to get the attention of those who needed to hear it so badly. He went to Herod’s dungeon because of that Truth. He died for that Truth.

And if you listen very carefully, you can hear him preaching still.

What would you love to shout out to the world?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Reflecting on Is. 40: 1-5, 9-11

What an image that is. Mountains and hills dissolving into straight, easy paths to walk? Deep valleys raising up so that people of all degrees of mobility can easily pass through them? Isaiah must have had some experience with rugged and unnavigable terrain in order to offer such a delicious image.

He spoke these words of comfort—that geographic boundaries would dissolve so that the Exiles could return to Jerusalem in peace—in order to encourage those who were afraid to set out for home after fifty years of exile in Babylon.

These aren’t words just for a long-ago people. They make perfect sense for us, too. What important life challenge are you afraid to embark on right now? What has the Spirit been nudging you towards? Take Isaiah’s words to heart so that you can achieve that to which you deeply sense you have been called.

Imagine if those Exiles had not been nudged by that beautiful image. There would have been no Second Temple, no restored priesthood, and no descendants of David (Mary and Joseph) to travel to Bethlehem under orders of the Emperor so that the prophecy of Micah might be fulfilled: “But as for you, Bethlehem Ephrathah, too little to be among the clans of Judah, from you One will come forth from long ago, from the days of eternity (5:2,3).

Think back on the bold moves you had the grace to make in your life. You stayed up late and finished that term paper when you were aching for sleep. You got married. You had kids. The same God with you then is with you now. Step out, and watch the mountains move.

What grace has God given you in your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Do you love Advent? I’ve never met anyone who doesn’t. And these days, after reading Barbara Brown Taylor’s exquisite book Learning to Walk in the Dark, I think I know why. After the long days of summer and the fading lights of fall, we’re finally ready to give in to the dark. Advent gives us permission to stay in the dark for four delicious weeks (although this year we only get three weeks and half a day(.

Something there is that doesn’t love the dark, but there is another part of us that craves it. Even the most roaring extrovert is grateful to crawl under the covers and let the night come in, with its healing dreams and restorative quiet.

And it is in the dark, of course, where we keep watch the best. The stars guide sailors to safe ports, and the changing shapes of the moon give expression to our own spiritual shifts, from consolation to desolation and back again.

This Advent I’m trying something new, and my soul is ready for it. I’m going to spend more time in the dark. I’m going to watch the darkness give way to the dimmest violet―an Advent color, by the way―in the early hours of the morning. I’m going to sit in the pitch dark―or at least as dark as our over-lit urban landscape allows―and listen for coyotes and night song.

It was, after all, in the night watch when the angels appeared in the sky, announcing the birth of the Savior and singing their Glorias to highest heaven. Just think: if the shepherds had been huddling in a cave, taking refuge by a lantern, they might have missed the greatest moment in the history of the world.

It’s getting dark. It’s time to go outside.

What sacred memories do you have of meeting God in the dark?

Kathy McGovern ©2023

Reflecting on Luke 1: 26-38

I have a very nerdy obsession. I love figuring out how the Gospel and the First Reading are related. I came to this fairly late, I think. The new lectionary, a direct child of Vatican II, debuted on the First Sunday of Advent, 1969. I’ll bet it was a full year later when, after listening to the Gospel, I turned to my dad and said, “Wait a minute. Did anybody ever notice that the First Reading and the Gospel are kind of connected?”

Probably because I discovered this all on my own (and it only took me a year!) I’ve always liked looking at the two readings and coming to my own conclusions about how they are connected. It’s like that time we were in the movie theater watching “Music Man” and my mom started giggling. Marian the Librarian was singing, slowly and thoughtfully, “Goodnight, My Someone,” while Harold Hill was singing, fast and fortissimo, “Seventy-Six Trombones.”

“What’s funny?” I asked. “Listen,” she said. “They’re the same song.” Did you ever notice that? I loved discovering that. One was fast, one slow, one soft, one loud, but the same song. The connection between those two readings—with the responsorial psalm as the light illuminating the theme of both readings—is similar. They aren’t the same, obviously, but they match. Or, as Mark Twain said, “History doesn’t repeat itself, but it rhymes.”

So don’t miss the great, profound rhyme in the readings today. King David wants to build a house for the Ark that traveled with the Hebrews those forty desert years. And the Holy Spirit wants to make Mary the Ark for the One who travels with us. Get it? It’s the same song.

Has Mary ever served as the conduit – or Ark – of encounter with Jesus for you?

Kathy McGovern ©2020

Reflecting on John 1: 6-8, 19-28

Are you a voice crying in the desert? It’s frustrating to have a message you’d love the world to hear, and you try to shout that message into the world. But all you hear in reply are crude jokes and snide remarks.

Are we just too sophisticated for the gospel, even here in 2020, when the gospel has never been more desperately needed? Or is it just that people don’t read more than the headlines, and they decide from there what their position is? It must be so heartbreaking to be a great journalist, to labor for a year on a piece that sees the light of day for one news cycle, and to hear the deafening silence of your audience, clicking past your work for the next cat video.

I think about John the Baptist. I wonder if his diet of locusts and wild honey, and his scratchy garment of camel’s hair, was really just to draw people’s attention from whatever diversions they were enjoying and to draw them out to the desert.

I know for sure that the desert, with its stunning landscapes and fascinating insect life, wouldn’t hold my attention if I could somehow get WIFI and cellphone reception. I’m sure I’d find some flashy desert video to watch instead of actually tasting and breathing the real thing.

John had a message, a truth that he had found, and he was willing to make himself look ridiculous in order to get the attention of those who needed to hear it so badly. He went to Herod’s dungeon because of that Truth. He died for that Truth.

And if you listen very carefully, you can hear him preaching still.

What would you love to shout out to the world?

Kathy McGovern ©2020