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

Reflecting on 2 Corinthians 12: 7-10

This is the fifth Sunday in a row in which we’ve read from 2 Corinthians. I’m so glad we conclude today with my favorite phrase from that entire letter: My grace is sufficient for you (12:9). I must remind myself of that promise a few times every day, and it’s true every single time.

Now, there were times when I experienced grace in droves—tons and tons of it. And there were a few times—getting further and further in the rearview mirror, thank God—when the only grace I could cling to was that exact scripture, hanging under a photograph on my bedroom wall. It became my mantra, and, over time, the grace I begged for visited me again.

I suppose it depends on what the word “sufficient” means. Today, healthy and robust, sufficient grace means the grace to meet the world with competence, preparation, and prayer. Many, many years ago, sufficient grace meant enough strength to breathe. I need more grace, I told God. My grace is sufficient for you, the poster on the wall replied. Just barely, I returned. Just barely.

It’s possible that some dear reader out there today is hanging on by the barest thread of grace. Maybe it’s a terrible physical illness. Perhaps it’s a terrible loss. Perhaps it’s despair. It’s possible that some reader has already begged God for more grace already today. Okay, Church, let’s do this:

Imagine that person. God knows who it is, so we don’t have to. Pray for sufficient grace for him or her. As Elizabeth said to Mary at the Visitation, “Happy are you who believed that the promise of the Lord would be fulfilled” (Luke 1:45).

Do you need more grace today? Expect that you are included in this prayer.

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Responsorial Psalm 30: 2, 4, 5-6, 11, 12, 13

Every time that refrain for the Responsorial Psalm comes up in the lectionary—I will praise you, Lord, you have rescued me—I find myself singing it all week. I hope you do, too. I hope you feel rescued.

Just in case you don’t, practice this for a week. Several times a day, notice how you were rescued. Maybe you delayed changing lanes for a second, and then saw that speeding car come tearing down the lane into which you nearly drove.

Maybe you were out for your walk and happened to notice the crack in the sidewalk that wasn’t there yesterday, just before you went careening into it. Maybe you had something gossipy and mean on the tip of your tongue, and you stopped just before spitting it out into the world. Good for you. You grabbed God’s grace, and you were rescued.

Sometimes, the very thing that looks like failure ends up being rescue. Aren’t you glad you DIDN’T end up with your junior-high girlfriend/boyfriend? (But apologies to those who did. Congratulations!)

It causes me to tremble when I think of all the things, terrible or just inconvenient, from which God has rescued me. (Someday I’ll regale you with my medical history.) And you know what? All of those Rescues have built up a history of faith in me, so that when the day comes when, for any reason, I am beyond rescue, I’ll remember that the same God who was faithful to me in the past will be faithful to me as I pass into the valley of the shadow of death.

That’s where the greatest rescue of all is waiting for each of us.

What is your best story about being rescued? Tell someone today. It builds a reservoir of faith.

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mk. 4: 35-41

Is there any silence as palpable as the silence of God? Those disciples in that quaking boat railed against it so much that they were able to wake Jesus, who was serenely asleep during the storm. Sure, he rebuked them and wondered at their paltry faith, but the scolding was worth it. He did, after all, arouse and calm the terrifying sea.

If only we could be in that boat and scream so loud that Jesus would wake and heal all the storms in our lives. If only he would wake from his deep sleep and heal every person we love who needs his healing gaze so much.

I just finished reading Richard Gaillardetz’s stunning memoir of his terminal illness, While I Breathe, I Hope (Liturgical Press, 2024).  Every chapter of the book takes the reader further into the last months of his illness from Stage Four pancreatic cancer. Terrible as his suffering was, he graciously included in each chapter short passages from some of the great Christian writers throughout history. Each of them had wrestled with the silence of God, and each had come to the same conclusion:

In God’s seeming silence, there is the clear voice of the Body of Christ. As my great friend Father Patrick Dolan says, “When we say that God doesn’t give us more than we can handle, the operative word there is WE.” If the Body of Christ rallies around, supports, prays with, and pulls as hard as it can to release us from the terrors of death, there is Christ in the midst of us.

Find someone who needs your strong, fierce love today. That’s Christ himself, roaring at the sea.

What experience have you had of the Body of Christ standing with you?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mk. 4:26-34

It’s that time of year again, and it shocks me every time. The perennials on the side of our house have come up, with absolutely no effort or attention on our part, dancing in the breeze and saying, “Surprise! We’ve been here all along, just waiting for sunshine and rain!”

I can’t get over how KIND they are to keep popping up, riots of purple and pink, in spite of our profound neglect for the past nine months. Of its own accord the land yields fruit. God has created this brilliant memory in our gardens and fields. Of their own accord they come back, year after year.

Now, all you farmers are nodding, but also vehemently noting that EVERY harvest requires the back-breaking effort of sowing and tilling the grain, year after year.  But still, the wheat secretly grows beneath the winter snow. That’s God’s creative, utterly dependable work. And the rest of our lives are like that, too.

It took seventeen years, but I am finally in remission from my (easy) chronic leukemia. Around the same time, my veins healed from damage done during the original diagnosis all those years ago. And just last week I slipped into a cute pair of summer sandals, after clogging around in orthopedic shoes for a decade.

If given the blessing of time, we’ll see healing in many parts of our lives. Huh, we might say. When did I stop feeling resentful toward that person? Or,  Huh, I can see now why I got that poor job evaluation.  Or even, Huh. When did my cold go away? I didn’t even notice.

It’s God’s great secret, this healing. We know not how.

What healings have you noticed over time?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

Reflecting on Mk. 3: 20-25

Oh, how those words of the scribes fall on our 21st-century ears.  In our time, the smartest among us are the ones who will NEVER be duped, NEVER send gift cards to phone scammers, because that was way back when we were naïve. We’re smarter than that now.

But let’s be clear: this kind of ‘savvy’ isn’t the unforgivable sin against the Holy Spirit that Jesus discusses. It’s the intentional hardness of the heart, the stubborn crossed arms, and rolled eyes when the Gospel is proclaimed, the willful hostility and contempt for Jesus, which the scribes model today, that truly blasphemes the Holy Spirit.

The ”wise” can dissect every beautiful piece of scripture and pretend to understand why it has no value for us today. It does call to mind John Milton’s Paradise Lost, when Satan says, terrifyingly, Evil, be thou my good. In other words, hatred is Satan’s reality, and hating us is the fuel for his life. If we reject his hate, we starve him to death.

As always, C.S. Lewis gets it right: “What we see in Satan is the horrible co-existence of a subtle and incessant intellectual activity with an incapacity to understand anything.” We who know all, and compete with each other in cynicism,  are incapable of understanding anything at all.

And now…ahem. We need to talk about that disturbing ending, when his mother and brothers arrived and tried to get him away from the crowd. Here’s my take: it’s not that Jesus wasn’t ready for public ministry. His mother wasn’t ready. But it was too late. She had to watch him attract crowds, which would eventually attract the Romans, and then the cross. She wasn’t ready.

Are there parts of your spiritual life that have slipped into cynicism?

Kathy McGovern ©2024

A few months ago, my primary care doctor asked me why I never have my blood drawn at his office after my appointment, where there’s no line, but instead leave and drive all the way to the downtown clinic, where there’s always a long line.

“Well,” I hesitated, “I just prefer their clinic.” “Hmm,” he said, “is that really all there is to it?” And then I spilled the beans. “Okay, okay. They have a magical phlebotomist there. She somehow looks at my torn-up veins and knows exactly where and how to place the needle. I barely feel it at all! I’d drive anywhere to have her.” And his answer was just perfect: “That’s what I thought. That’s why we hired her here. She’ll be right in.”

Through the years, I’ve encountered a few genuinely gifted phlebotomists, and I always ask them how on earth they knew they’d be good at such a delicate profession. Every one of them has told me that they just knew. It came from some deep instinct about how to tap a vein. There is no greater gift to a patient who has to have frequent blood draws than a brilliant phlebotomist who just instinctively knows how to draw blood.

On this Feast of the Body and Blood of Christ, I extend my blessings to all those who, like the magical phlebotomists, can painlessly get our blood flowing, and to all who selflessly donate their blood, the carrier of life. This mirrors the spiritual reality of our unity as humans. We are not just one Body but also one Blood.

Happy Feast Day, Church. This is the feast that tells us who we are.

What is your most cherished memory of this feast?

Kathy McGovern ©2024