We had another class reunion last week. We’re all so close we can’t stop getting together. In attendance were our brilliant and humble valedictorian, our beautiful cheerleader-school principal-grandma, and a heartbroken mother whose son had just died from cancer. He was going to give her his kidney, to save her from three days a week of dialysis.

Each of us sat with her, holding her hand, listening as she described the many terrible deaths in her family in recent years. And then we moved on. There were so many people to see, so many photos to pull up on our phones. But one classmate, who has never been attracted to religious observance, said to our grieving friend, “You will never go to one more dialysis appointment by yourself. I will pick you up at 5:30 am and stay with you through every appointment. Don’t even think about going through this alone.” Works without faith is such a powerful witness.

And I always preface this next story by saying, “That’s who I went to high school with.” One bitterly cold January afternoon I was attempting to navigate the icy ramp out of the grocery store, my cart slipping to the left and right. A beautiful young lady, maybe fourteen years old, was just coming out of the store. “Can I help you?” Relief flooded through me. “Yes! I’m in trouble here. Please help me.” She immediately and easily took my cart down the ramp and to my car. While unloading the groceries, her grandma looked at me in surprise and said, “Oh, hi, Kathy.” We hadn’t seen each other since our last reunion.

Don’t you love seeing “works” at work in the world?

What good works are you extending these days?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Is. 35: 4-7a

Two weeks ago, I had an unforgettable experience. August 23^rd, the feast day of St. Rose of Lima,  set off a weekend of joyful reunions at St. Rose of Lima Catholic Church in Denver. The parish celebrated its one-hundredth-year anniversary. The little church with the big heart, sitting snugly in the Platte River Valley, has been home to various ethnic groups—-from its German founders to its present, vibrant Hispanic community—and hundreds of “legacy families” that filled the pews for generations.

The word “grace” means “undeserved kindness.” During the 1980s, I had the grace to serve on the staff at this uniquely loving parish. Coming back after several decades, I was nearly lifted into the air by the stunning congregational singing at the joyous anniversary Mass. But why was I crying so uncontrollably, that evening and well into the next day? It was because the scales fell off my eyes, and my deaf ears were opened. I saw and heard all the loving family and friends, many deceased, many still alive, who had been so present to me during those years.

I saw every dear choir member who gave up so many precious evenings in order to learn music for the beautiful Sundays we shared at St. Rose. I saw those gorgeous “sock hops” we had in the gym, colors swirling through the room, the live band keeping hundreds of dancers going ‘til the late hours.

I saw the beloved bishop of our Archdiocese, coming home from the chancery and checking in with each of the housekeeper’s kids. I saw a great cloud of witnesses to those one hundred years. I hear their voices even now.

Close your eyes and see the ancestors who built your parish. Say, thank you.

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mark 7: 1-8, 14-15, 21-23

Be doers of the word and not hearers only, deluding yourselves. Oh, boy. Leave it to the letter of James to hit you straight in the heart. I’ve decided that my generation is the Education Generation. We came of age at Vatican Council 11. The Catholic Biblical School was bursting with adult students, eager to spend hours a week at the feet of their teachers, and then in study before the next class. Everywhere you turned, there were fascinating classes to take. There still are, and I’m signed up for every one of them.

Even though I’m now a mini-expert on racial equity, migration issues, eco-spirituality, and all the other human rights under the Respect Life banner, I confess to you that I am more successful at learning about Catholic Social Teaching than I am at carrying it out.

It’s taken me YEARS to remember to bring my own silverware and dish to a potluck so I’m not adding more plastic to the landfill. Yes, I carry my own coffee mug with me. No, I don’t remember to bring it into whatever marvelous class I’m taking. Pass the Styrofoam cups, please.

At present, I know of a single mom and three kids who are living on the street because they don’t speak the language and don’t have anyone to interpret for them. A community of families has taken in 600 migrants just like them. I love reading and learning about them, from afar. Their commitment terrifies me.

We live in an era of Catholic Information Explosion. But can I do a better job of ACTING on all that I know? It’s challenging to HEAR the Word. It’s more challenging to DO it.

In what ways are you DOING the Word you’ve heard?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on John 6:60-69

The bells are ringing, calling the pilgrims who have traveled to the Martyrs’ Shrine in Midland, Ontario to prayer. The Jesuits came here to New France in the 1630s, to freeze and starve, to paddle canoes over thousands of miles of treacherous waterways, and to live and die in the camps of the Hurons. Eight Jesuits―six priests and two donnés, or lay helpers―were martyred here and in upstate New York.

We Americans know St. Isaac Jogues the best of the eight because he was killed by an Iroquois tomahawk in New York, and he left the most unbelievably vivid and brilliant journal of his life as a missionary to the Mohawks.

But here in Canada, St. Jean de Brébeuf is the most beloved of all those martyrs. He was a large, generous, extraordinarily loving man who lived with the Huron/Wendat for nearly twenty years. It is his name that the native converts called when they were sick and dying. And when the village where he was giving a mission was raided by the Iroquois one terrible night in 1649, instead of fleeing from the fires they said, “Come, let us die with him.”

And so they became eyewitnesses to the destruction, through hours of torture, of the body of the man who had baptized them, comforted them, nursed them through illness, and brought them to Jesus. Because of them, we know that, in the end, his tormentors cut out his heart and consumed it so that they might have, in their own bodies, his strength and power.

Unless you eat my Body and drink my Blood you shall not have life within you.

I think I get it now.

In what ways does your reception of the Eucharist give you Jesus’ strength and power?

Kathy McGovern c. 2024

Reflecting on John 6: 51-58

Turn your radio on. That’s the only way to truly tune into the precise and beautiful wavelength of the Fourth Gospel. The author of the Gospel of John is determined to take his readers on a different, more intuitive, more poetic journey into Jesus’s signs, and the glory of his death and resurrection.

Take these five weeks of intense study of John 6. Did you notice, last Holy Thursday, that even though we always hear from John’s version of the Last Supper on that night, he is the only evangelist who doesn’t mention the words of Consecration? John doesn’t include them in remembering Jesus’ words and actions on the night of his arrest. Instead, it’s only John who tells us that Jesus took great pains to wash his disciples’ feet that fateful night.

Now, it’s very probable that John already knew the Synoptic (“same eye”) gospels well. The theory is that they had circulated widely in the decades after the Resurrection, so he wasn’t interested in repeating what Mark, Matthew, and Luke had already told so beautifully about the giving of the Eucharist on Holy Thursday. He chose, instead, to link the basin and the towel, where the glory of God is revealed when we serve one another.

Besides, as we see so powerfully these five weeks in the summer of Cycle B, where Mark’s gospel is interrupted so the whole Church can meditate on John’s lesson on the Eucharist, we learn everything we need in his sixth chapter. But this requires us to fiddle with the channels of our brains, quietly waiting for the John Channel to bring in the voice of Jesus, loud and clear.

How has your embrace of the Eucharist changed over your lifetime?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on 1 Kings. 19: 4-8

The one experience I’ve had of being hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and miles away from home was a boiling hot summer day in 1993. EKKLESIA, the Christian music group from Denver, was singing at the World Youth Day event in Cherry Creek State Park. We walked into the park, singing the psalms all the way. We were energized, and thrilled to be part of the historic event.

Coming out several hours later, I was sunburned, thirsty, hungry, and in pain. Hundreds of thousands were in the park, all jostling for the same resources. My endlessly merciful husband Ben carried me out of the park and gave me nearly all his water. Like Elijah, I “came to” and made the rest of the journey on my own.

Last week, my sister and brother-in-law were hiking in one-hundred-degree heat in Yosemite. Short on water, they somehow became separated, and both of their phones were nearly dead. Nearly unconscious from the heat, Mollie was miraculously noticed by a passerby, who took her to the lodge where she was staying. She and John were reunited soon after. Married for 55 years, this was the closest they’d ever come to something terrible happening. After water and food, they “came to” and continued their vacation.

I’ve written before about the heavenly strangers who saw 19-year-old Ben, lying in the desert heat next to his bike. At first, they drove by, but then, worried, returned. They lifted him into their station wagon and drove to the nearest Catholic Church, where the bishop’s housekeeper nourished him back from sunstroke.

That angel who revived Elijah for his long walk ahead has certainly been active in my life, too.

What angels have met you in the deserts of your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Manna. Yuck. Can you imagine a multitude of half a million people, hungry and thirsty, in a terrifying desert? Crying out to the mysterious God of Moses, they begged for food, and what did they get? Some evaporated dew. It seems it was a small, round, wafer-like cake that resembled hoar frost. The Israelites used it to make bread, which they called “bread from heaven.”

My friend Celeste remembers leading a group in the Sinai years ago, and actually seeing quail fall from the sky. Exhausted by trying to fly over the desert heat, they fell, giving the pilgrims a first-hand look at what the Israelites were given as food.

So, manna and quail. For forty years. No wonder they initially hungered for that place of slavery, where the fleshpots and bread filled their bellies, even though their cruel Egyptian masters administered it.

Little by little, though, they grew used to trusting that the same God who had called them to walk out of Egypt would provide their daily bread. Water from rocks, quail and bread from the sky,  at some point they adapted to the food God sent. They even learned to gather up the double portions God sent on Friday, so they would have food for the Sabbath.

Sometimes, I wonder how long we could last at our house if the grocery stores (and restaurants) closed and we had to make do with what we have in the cupboard right now. And that begs the question, why are our cupboards so full if we never take anything out? The lesson of the manna is to trust God, and not hoard. I’m making a run to the food pantry.

Have you ever had to trust God every day for food?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on John 6: 1-15

According to a (very flawed) survey from several years ago, many Catholics see the Eucharist as a “symbolic reminder.”

Does that seem plausible to you? I’ve never believed it. I think those who responded didn’t understand the meaning of “transubstantiation.” A Catholic who doesn’t believe in REAL PRESENCE is the equivalent of a science student who thinks the earth is flat. The most critical building block for Catholic faith is missing, and a house without a strong foundation cannot stand.

The next step in dismantling the faith would be to believe that the gospels are “symbolic reminders” too. Every miracle is symbolic; every story involving Jesus is an invention of the evangelists. Let’s test that theory with today’s gospel, the first of our four-week interruption of Mark’s gospel with the Eucharistic stories in John 6.

Did the multiplication of the loaves and fish really happen, or is it symbolic? All four gospels assure us that it REALLY HAPPENED, and, as usual, John’s gospel gives us some new information. For example, why does Jesus ask Philip where to go to buy food for the massive group of followers? Because Philip is from Bethsaida (the likely locale for this miracle), and the word Bethsaida means “fishing village.” Philip was precisely the person to ask.

Why barley loaves? Because the feast of Passover, which only John tells us was “at hand,” coincides with the barley harvest. And why did Jesus choose this particular day in the Jewish calendar to feed the multitudes? Because it echoes the story of God feeding the hungry, wandering Israelites in the Exodus from Egypt, which is, of course, the Passover story. (Ex. 16).

So beautiful. So REALLY TRUE.

How does learning the background of the gospel stories stir and build your faith?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mark 6: 30-34

There are shepherds in our lives who may have gone to God decades ago but live in our DNA so deeply that, without our realizing it, are still touching us many times a day. I’m sure dear Miss McMurria, my kindergarten teacher, would be shocked to know that a photo of our play (I was a stalk of corn) rotates with hundreds of other photographs on my computer screen. My life flashes before me every two to three days, and there she is, young and beautiful, smiling at the camera. That was 68 years ago. That was yesterday.

When I stand in front of a classroom of adult students, I bless my high school speech teacher, who taught me how to quiet my nerves and project to the end of the room. And I never teach a word of scripture without channeling my own scripture teachers. They are with me in every word.

And yes, there have been some terrible shepherds, too. Every math teacher I ever had made me cry, and I realize now how I must have made them cry, too, when they saw me walk into the room. I’ve heard some terrible homilies. I’ve listened to many stunningly beautiful ones.

What kind of shepherd are you? Are you the friend who glibly promises to pray for a friend’s teenager but never does? The parent who checks your phone hundreds of times daily but checks in with your kids far less? The aging parent who tells your aching adult child that you refuse to revisit the past? Or are you that strong, wonderful shepherd whose sheep feel utterly safe and loved?

Each of us is shepherding someone. How will you be remembered?

Who is a particularly great shepherd in your life?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Amos 7: 12-15

Sometimes, when I read a beautiful scripture text, I wander off into the world the text describes. It’s fun to imagine little Amos talking back to the big-shot priest in the king’s sanctuary. Amaziah isn’t happy with the challenges Amos presents to him and to the affluent Jews living in the North. Amos keeps harping on the scandal of the financial inequities that exist in the North. The rich have found a way to make many times more than those who are poor, and they don’t care about the suffering of those who missed out on the big economic windfalls. Sound familiar?

Amaziah is cozy with the king. And then this Amos shows up, as annoying as sand in your swimsuit. Go back and make a living as a prophet in your own hometown! They don’t have any money there. They’ll like your rampages against unethical business practices!

This is funny. Amaziah assumes Amos is in the prophecy business because he can make a living from it. Why else would someone set up shop in a new town and start criticizing the (deeply heretical) status quo? Amos rails back that he was just a shepherd and dresser of trees, minding his own business, when God called him to leave it all and move up north to speak of God’s great displeasure with how religion and royal power have converged there.

But then my mind wandered to this from the responsorial psalm, another convergence, but the kind with God in the middle of it: kindness and truth shall meet, justice and peace shall kiss. Imagine kindness and truth meeting. Imagine justice and peace kissing. Imagine that world. Amos imagined it, too.

How have you tried, in your own way, to build a more just society?

Kathy McGovern ©2024