With the memory of our beloved Francis still fresh in our minds, Catholics opened their hearts anew to Pope Leo XIV, joyful over his backstory and his roots in Chicago, moved by his work as a missionary and bishop in Peru, impressed by the many languages he speaks. As he offered his blessing to those in person and watching via TV or some other screen, we could all feel a sense of awe that the Holy Spirit continues to work so powerfully in our Church, giving us what we need at just the right moment in time.

Of course, within hours, there were critics trying (fairly desperately, it seemed) to “dig up” some dirt on the new pontiff, attempting to tarnish the shine before we even had a chance to soak up the joy of the moment. I remember when Francis was first named pope and I wrote a blog post about my hope and excitement, another writer immediately came after me claiming I was turning a blind eye to his flaws. Our pope — every pope — is human. Of course there will be flaws, but how about we take a breath and watch and listen before we judge and criticize. It’s the American way to tear down, especially on social media these days, but we Catholics would be wise to pause and pray rather than join the fray.

The day Pope Leo XIV was elected, my husband, Dennis, who is executive director of the New York State Catholic Conference, was interviewed on Capital Region television regarding the breaking news. At the end of the conversation, the interviewer asked if he thought Pope Leo was “more of a liberal or a conservative under the umbrella of Catholicism.” He responded with a reminder that Catholics are not so easy to categorize, as we do not fit any label. “The terms ‘liberal’ and ‘conservative’ don’t really work as much when it comes to the Church … We are very liberal on some issues, like immigration, and very conservative on others, like abortion,” he explained. “I think he’ll be a Catholic, rather than a liberal or conservative.”

I loved that statement because it is a reminder that we are not a Church of “sides,” but rather one that is literally “universal” in its reach, its mission, its makeup. We are, in a sense, a Church of both/and, not either/or.

When I think back over the popes of my lifetime, I have loved each one of them for different reasons. Born under John XXIII, I love the fact that I was a child of Vatican II. John Paul II was the rockstar pope of my teens, and when I saw him at Madison Square Garden in 1979, you’d think I was waiting for the Beatles to appear. Pope Benedict XVI was a favorite for entirely different reasons, and if you haven’t read his beautiful and accessible encyclicals, they are worth your time even all these years later. When Francis was named pope, I practically swooned with joy, and I could not imagine another pope would so quickly fill me with hope and excitement for our Church. And then along came Leo XIV, whose first words out on the balcony of St. Peter’s made me declare: It’s a great day to be a Catholic!

We don’t know what’s coming. We never do. But we trust in the work of the Spirit and the wisdom of our new pope to guide us through whatever is ahead. After all, this pope is one of us, and if a kid from the South Side of Chicago can become pope, anything is possible with God.

This column originally appeared in the May 14, 2025 issue of The Evangelist.

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Photo by Tina Delaney

That night, however, around 3 a.m., the non-stop honking under my bedroom window made me feel less than smitten with these birds of a feather. When I returned to my retreat group in the morning, I jokingly asked: “Do we still like the geese?” Throughout the next two days, our geese came by regularly to add a comment or two to my presentations. At one point when I was trying to focus on the importance of silence in our spiritual lives, the geese were so loud that I could not speak over them, and our group could not stop laughing. It was time to see what these geese were trying to teach me, and it didn’t take long to figure out.

In Celtic spirituality, the Holy Spirit is seen not as a peaceful dove but as a wild goose — loud, sometimes unwelcome, insistent, unsettling. So often we wait for the Spirit to show up in our life in a way that feels comfortable and appropriately holy, the “still, small voice” we hear of in Scripture. We don’t necessarily want the Spirit to camp out under our figurative window honking and hollering and demanding we pay attention when all we want to do is stay asleep.

On Pentecost, we hear in the first reading from the Acts of the Apostles: “And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house in which they were. Then there appeared to them tongues as of fire, which parted and came to rest on each one of them.”

The Spirit that descends in the upper room was not tame or controllable. It was unpredictable, maybe even scary. This version of the Spirit comes at us with so much spiritual force we might run in the other direction or duck and cover, but that would be to miss out on so much wonder and possibility. Imagine if Mary and the Apostles had closed themselves off to the Spirit that day. Where would we be if they had folded their arms against the gift and waited for something more reasonable? How often do we do just that, push away the loud and insistent call of the Holy Spirit because we don’t like the message or the delivery?

This week, as we celebrate the arrival of the Holy Spirit — the Advocate that Jesus promised would stay with us here on earth — can we open ourselves up to Spirit any way it chooses to show up, whether it’s a still, small voice that gently beckons us or a driving wind that threatens to pull the door of our life off its hinges? Can we, like our Celtic forebears in faith, recognize that the Holy Spirit is not likely to uphold the status quo in our lives but rather disrupt our sleep, disturb our thoughts, and redirect our paths in ways that might not be neat or comfortable but will surely bring us closer to our own version of the upper room?

On the last night of retreat, all was quiet in my room. No honking, no disruption. I had to admit that when I woke up the next morning and didn’t find my goose on the ledge outside my window, I was disappointed, but maybe the point had been made. And maybe I will be ready for the next Wild Goose chase that jolts me from my spiritual slumber and upsets my carefully laid out plans. Will you?

This column originally appeared in the May 15, 2024 issue of The Evangelist.

LISTEN: Wild Geese, read by Mary Oliver

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A friend and I were discussing the problem of letting our faith remain in our heads rather than letting it settle into our hearts and lives. When we remain too much in our heads, grounded in the news of the day rather than the Word of God, for example, our faith can become reduced to a set of beliefs to which we respond with a yea or nay, rather than expanding into a relationship of complete trust built on a practice of prayer.

“But I don’t know how to pray anymore,” my friend said. Today’s second reading reminds us that we are not the first to struggle with this reality: “. . . we do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes with inexpressible groanings.”

St. Paul’s description is so vivid. We can imagine the Spirit gently working to redirect our daily efforts to sidestep God’s will. With “inexpressible groanings,” the Spirit quietly accomplishes what Jesus describes in the Gospel: pulling away the weeds that threaten to devour us, nourishing the mustard seed of our faith, adding leaven to the yeast of our prayer.

Even if we do not know how to pray as we ought, the Spirit will come to our aid if we are willing to trust in the movement of God in our lives and get out of our own way.

From the July 2023 issue of Give Us This Day, www.giveusthisday.org (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical Press, 2023). Used with permission.

Photo by Duncan Kidd on Unsplash

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You can catch my segment here. Just hit play. And feel free to comment with your own experiences of the spirit at work!

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I’m not a big believer in coincidence. Rather, I see those unlikely moments and “chance” encounters that cross our paths—and sometimes change our lives—as something much more significant, as the movement of the Spirit. And although the Spirit is always swirling around us, even when we are unaware, when we actively open ourselves up to this grace and holy energy, we can expect the unexpected.

I found that out in grand fashion earlier last month, when I was managing media coverage of one upstate New York priest’s 24-hour confession marathon. I sat down next to a woman quietly crocheting in a back pew to ask if she was on line. What unfolded over the next hour or so was one of those Spirit-infused moments that you just know was meant to be.

Joan wasn’t from the parish and wasn’t on line for confession. She was there to pray for 24 hours straight in support of the pastor, priests worldwide and all those seeking forgiveness through the sacrament of reconciliation. Beneath her chair was a box of supplies: wool for a prayer shawl she was making, a Bible, prayer books, a bottle of water. As confessions got under way, her powerful prayer presence was making itself felt. As I sat there chatting with her, another woman came in with a therapy dog. The two women began talking, and before I knew it, I could feel a healing moment forming around me as they shared stories of loved ones battling Alzheimer’s, of horses and dogs that help people face their demons, as they offered to pray for one another in the days ahead.

The Spirit was making itself known in obvious ways that day, and again a few weeks later, when I met up with Joan a second time at another confession marathon in a completely different part of our diocese. We smiled and hugged when we saw each other, making me realize that Joan, for reasons I’m not completely sure of just yet, is meant to be part of my journey. A gift from the Spirit.

A few days later, bound for Canada via Detroit, I was feeling stressed. As I drove myself to the airport, I tried to shake it off and put it all in God’s hands, even going so far as giving thanks for what was yet to come, not knowing what that might be. Trust me when I tell you that this is not standard operating prayer procedure for me. I took my window seat in row three of the very small jet, hoping for two hours of quiet to review the talk I was about to give. I had just settled in when the gentleman next to me asked about my final destination that day. After only a few words and within a matter of seconds, we realized a spiritual energy moving around us. He had just come from leading a retreat at a center I love; I was headed to a university to give a Lenten talk on the connection between food and faith and the habits that often keep us from moving forward, topics he addresses in both books and workshops. We did not stop talking until we landed in Detroit, at which point I felt as though I had just been on a retreat myself. I was in a better spiritual place as I approached my own speaking engagement because of that encounter. More grace.

Sometimes it’s in the simplest—or even most frustrating or stressful—moments of our lives that we recognize in hindsight a great Force at work. We don’t have to lock ourselves away in spiritual solitude for days on end to encourage the Spirit to enter our hearts and minds. All we have to do is be willing to let the Spirit take us where we are meant to go. We’re guaranteed a spiritual journey like no other, no suitcase or passports required.

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I reluctantly went for a walk today, not because I wanted exercise but because I needed to get outside of my own head, and walking has a way of taking me to that particular interior destination. As I wandered through the neighborhood, the wind was whipping up, bending branches of the mighty oaks and pines and maples towering overhead, and for the briefest moment I felt as though the Spirit was blowing right through me.

By the time I returned home, I felt grateful, blessed, renewed. Suddenly my usual whininess seemed so small and unnecessary, and I marveled at what a short walk can do for the heart and soul and mind when the Spirit decides to make itself known.

I immediately sat down at my computer and noticed a friend’s request for prayers for her pregnant daughter, well past her due date and struggling with fear and a stalled labor. I had another message from a longtime acquaintance who shared feelings of guilt over her mother’s suicide many years before, and a third message from yet another friend who was on the threshold of what seemed like a devastating breakup.

As I responded to these emails, I felt an echo of that holy breeze that had buffeted me just a few moments before. I sent out a prayer-chain request for the pregnant friend. I emailed the grief-stricken friend with whatever words of comfort I could muster but then I reached out to another friend who has experienced suicide close to home and asked if she might have some words of wisdom to lift this person out of her darkness. Then I quickly sent a message of love and support to the friend feeling abandoned and afraid.

As I did all this—connecting people, sharing with people, asking for prayers, and offering sisterhood—I had the distinct feeling that something was changing in my life, that the wind that was physically swirling around me on my walk that morning was now figuratively swirling around me and trying to take me somewhere new, somewhere uncertain and maybe even scary.

With all this running through my head, I scrolled through some news stories and found a quote from Pope Francis’ homily earlier that same day:

“To speak plainly: The Holy Spirit annoys us…We want the Holy Spirit to sleep. We want to domesticate the Holy Spirit, and that just won’t do because he is God and he is that breeze that comes and goes, and you don’t know from where.”

Such wise words, and just when I needed to hear them. (The Spirit strikes again!) The Holy Spirit does annoy me on a pretty regular basis, what with all the goading me into things I don’t really want to do, pushing me to give up control and trust God, pulling me onto right paths with a subtle whisper or inconvenient shout or total spiritual smack down. But clearly the Spirit has been trying to get my attention lately.

Just this past weekend, as Bishop Howard Hubbard of Albany confirmed my son, Noah, I couldn’t help but think the homily directed at the confirmands—the one about letting the fire of the Holy Spirit set our hearts ablaze with a passion for God and for others—was meant for me as well.

Wind and fire—such powerful forces of nature, such powerful images of the Spirit. No wonder we are so often scared or annoyed by the Spirit. How can we withstand such a force? We can’t, at least not if we want to walk the path God has set before us.

I still haven’t figured out where the Spirit wants to take me. I think I’ll have to become a spiritual storm chaser and sit in the silent eye of the hurricane, waiting—with a little fear and trembling—to hear the whisper that signals the direction I’m meant to take.

“Come Holy Spirit, fill the hearts of your faithful…”

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