Places of worship in Amsterdam

On Easter Sunday, I visited the “Miracle” Chapel in the Begijnhof Community, a community of lay women (called Beguines) dating from the 14th Century. The Chapel is now the parish church for French-speaking Catholics in Amsterdam.

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The last Beguine died in 1971, and the homes are now privately owned.

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That same morning, I also visited the Portuguese Synagogue, which was founded in 1639 by Jews fleeing religious persecution in Spain and Portugal. The Synagogue has not been updated with heat or electricity (lighting comes from the candles), and it is surrounded by smaller buildings that serve as classrooms, a library, and rooms that hold the treasures of the Synagogue (including fabrics, ritual vessels and scrolls).

Of the 4,300 Portuguese Jews in Amsterdam before World War II, 3,700 were murdered during the war. The community continues to worship in this Synagogue.

Architecture in Amsterdam

One of the most interesting buildings I toured in Amsterdam was the Tuschinski Theater, a beautiful building with both Art Deco and the Amsterdam School style of Architecture, built by Polish immigrant Abraham Icek Tuschinski (1898-1942) and opened in 1921.

Light fixture in ceiling in lobby, with changing colors.

Light fixture in ceiling in main theater

The corridors have a butterfly theme in the light fixtures and the paintings.

Other areas of the building feature a variety of artwork and posters.

The main theater curtain and details along the side of the stage.

The ceiling in the lobby over the staircase.

The audio tour offered many details of the history of this marvelous art deco building, from design through construction to the famous people who attended events throughout the decades to its current use as a cinema.

Resistance

Last Sunday, we heard these words from Acts 3:13-15: Peter said to the people: ‘The God of Abraham…has glorified his servant Jesus, whom you handed over and denied in Pilate’s presence….’

Wait a second, I thought. Isn’t this the same Peter who denied Jesus three times before the cock crowed?

I can flip back a few pages in my Bible and find Peter claiming he does not know Jesus, and yet here he is calling out others for doing the very thing he did.

What nerve!

I pondered this situation and thought about what enabled Peter to call out others for doing the same thing he had done.

What transpired between the time Peter betrayed Jesus and Peter called out others for betraying Jesus?  

What transpired is that Jesus called out Peter. Peter, he asked, do you love me? Three times he asked, and Peter replied yes three times. Then he was forgiven and reconciled.

Forgiveness and reconciliation are the keys to moving forward, to healing relationships, to rebuilding trust.

Two weeks ago, I visited the Resistance Museum in Amsterdam, and since then, I have been thinking about what enables some people to resist and others to cave. Why did some people protect the people the Nazis sought to kill while others turned in their neighbors?

And, of course, I wonder what I would do if faced with the same situation. Would I protect myself or would I risk my life to protect others?

I can imagine Peter saying to those who turned in their neighbors during World War II, you denied them and handed them over….

By extension, I can imagine Peter asking me if I have protected anyone who was at risk, if I spoke up for someone who had no voice—even (or especially) if it meant putting myself at risk. About whom would Peter say to me, you denied them and handed them over?

I also visited the Anne Frank House in Amsterdam and watched a video called Democracy is Yours.

How quickly democracy was lost, first in Germany when Hitler came to power, and then in the countries the Nazis invaded. Fear can be a powerful motivator.

Finding our voices, speaking up for truth, defending those who are vulnerable and at risk of being marginalized, those labeled “other”—are difficult things to do.

Finding the courage to speak up and the freedom to risk everything for another is, for me, part of the Easter message. Jesus died and rose so I have no reason to fear anything, not even death.

A few weeks ago, I read that God “does not ration his spirit” (John 3:34) and I wondered if I ration God’s spirit. Or do I allow God’s spirit free reign with me? Am I timid or bold? Trusting or fearful? Living in abundance or scarcity? God’s spirit invites me and empowers me to be bold, trusting and living in abundance. If I do that, I will be able to be courageous, loyal and fearless.

Doors of Amsterdam

Etty Hillesum drew me to Amsterdam and Camp Westerbork, and since I read her dairy, An Interrupted Life, in the mid-1980’s. I have wanted to see where she lived and worked, to walk the streets she walked.

A plaque by the door of Etty Hillesum’s apartment near the Van Gogh Museum.

Although most of the doors in Amsterdam are brown, black or a green so dark it looks black, many have interesting carving, transoms or other decoration to make them stand out..

Most houses have large windows, sometimes with art displayed on the window sills and sometimes with no window treatments so it is possible to look in and see the wall art.

Old and new side-by-side

Decorative brickwork adds interest to this corner building.

Doorways were also decorated, and I loved the use of tile to add interest to the outside of a house.

Other embellishments included decorative lamps, wrought iron railings and shutters.

Most of the buildings on the canals were built in the 17th century, and businesses were identified by a sign embedded into the building.

This would have been the bakery.

This would have been the person who could write letters for you.

Unexpected

At the beginning of Lent, I enrolled in a class called Praying with Gothic and Netherlandish Art at Manresa Jesuit Retreat Center. Praying with art has always appealed to me, and the fact that I was planning to travel to the Netherlands in the middle of this course made it that much more attractive.

At the Gemäldegalerie in Berlin, I saw one of the paintings we had discussed only weeks earlier–Rogier van der Weyden’s The Miraflores Altarpiece, and I was grateful that I had already spent some time with this painting because I felt a connection I don’t think I would have had if I hadn’t taken the course.

Rogier van der Weyden’s The Miraflores Altarpiece (c. 1442-5), oil on panel, each panel 28 × 17 inches , Gemäldegalerie, Berlin, Germany.

Anyway, throughout Lent, the painting that kept coming back to me was Duccio di Buoninsegna’s The Three Marys at the Tomb and the idea of something completely unexpected happening when they reached the tomb.

Duccio di Buoninsegna, The Three Marys at the Tomb (1308-11), tempera on wood, 51 x 53,5 cm.

I tried to pay attention to unexpected things happening to me while on my trip to Amsterdam and Berlin—and there were quite a few.

For example, in the Detroit airport, waiting to board our flight, a five-year-old girl and her father were standing next to me. She struck up a conversation with me, explaining that she and her dad were traveling to Amsterdam to visit her grandparents and telling me of their plans to go skiing in Switzerland. (She was a somewhat precocious child.)

During the flight, I walked past her seat, and she waved and then turned to her dad and said, “Its my friend from the airport.” I smiled at having an unexpected new friend.

In Amsterdam, I was delighted at the unexpected sight of boxes of tulips floating in a pond. I was also delighted by the chocolate-covered waffles in my hotel’s snack basket and the apple pie, goat cheese croquettes and other tasty treats I tried—all delights I had not expected.

But not everything unexpected was delightful.

As I walked around Amsterdam and later Berlin, I unexpectedly came across stumbling stones, brass markers set into the sidewalks in front of the last voluntarily chosen places of residence of the victims of the Nazis. My spirit grew heavy as I stopped to read the names on these markers.

German artist Gunter Demnig created Stumbling Stones to commemorates people who were persecuted by the Nazis between 1933 and 1945.

At Camp Westerbork, the transit station about 110 miles north of Amsterdam, the lone train car left on the tracks continuously plays a recording of the names of the more than 100,000 people who were processed through this camp—just as their names had been called for the Tuesday train departures to camps in the east. There is an eerie quiet in the Camp, and my spirit was subdued as I listened to the names being read and walked among the memorial pillars lined up as the people once had.

Memorial to more than 100,000 people who were processed through Camp Westerbork between 1942 and 1945.

The deep emotional impact of these visuals was unexpected, and I am still processing.

My Lenten prayer had been to be open to the unexpected and receptive to the surprises God brings to my life. I want to honor all that God offers, whether it be delightful or difficult.

Sights of Amsterdam

Last week, I visited Amsterdam for four days (my first time there) and I had a long list of things I wanted to see; four days was not enough, and I will plan to go again.

Tulips, daffodils, hyacinths and other spring blooms dotted the city, creating a beautiful spring landscape.

My favorites were the floating boxes of tulips in the pond in Vondelpark.

I also appreciated the pots of tulips and small gardens around the city.

Bicycles are ubiquitous in Amsterdam, and I found several decorated bikes as well.

The Botanical Garden was bursting with color and with varieties of tulips I had never seen before.

The Garden, along a canal, is home to sun and shade gardens, greenhouses and a butterfly house.

From a spring flower perspective, I think the timing of my visit was perfect. During my time in Amsterdam, I also visited a number of places connected with World War II, and I was grateful to be able to sit among the beauty of flowers to process my feelings.

Keep an eye on it

The water heater in my house is eighteen years old, making it almost ancient. When the repairman came recently to see to a problem with my furnace, I asked him if I should replace the water heater preemptively.

No, he said and then explained that water heaters don’t usually just burst. Usually, he said, a small trickle of water seeps out. Most people either don’t see that little bit of water or they ignore it. Just keep an eye on it, he advised. Check it every day for that trickle of water and call us when you notice it.

Since then, I have made sure to check the water heater every day for any signs of water trickling out.

And I have thought of where else in my life this advice might be helpful. How often do I miss signs of something about to break or that something is wrong? How often do I tell myself that something is really nothing? How often do I miss trickling water?

In the 1990’s, some friends lived in a house on a hill above a small creek—maybe six feet across and a foot deep. It was a lovely spot, and this house had been there for more than one hundred years, overlooking the creek and surrounding trees.

Then a hurricane came through and the creek swelled and rose up the hill and filled my friends’ basement and then flooded the first floor. It seemed impossible that this little creek could become a river and cause so much damage, but it did.

The memory of their flooded home makes me attentive to the possibility of water damage.

Paying attention, noticing what I notice and not ignoring signs are all ways of living more deeply, rooted in reality.

I can find it challenging to admit and accept some of the signs of things I don’t want to deal with or things I think I have already dealt with.

I resonated with one of the characters in the book I recently read.

This character had come from an affluent family and got pregnant as an unmarried teen; her parents sent her away to have her baby and give it up. When she decided to keep her baby, against her parents’ wishes, they shunned her, and she lost everything she had known.

I felt my anger rising at the injustice of her parents shunning her at precisely the moment she needed their support the most. Although I came from a working-class family and did not get pregnant as a teen, my parents shunned me when I got divorced.

Usually, I would minimize or dismiss this rise of anger, but because of my pondering the trickling water, I spent some time reflecting on what had stirred my anger, the unresolved issue that had been touched.

Like a small creek, unchecked anger can turn into a raging river and cause unimaginable harm.

The anger that welled up in me is a message about something that needs further attention.

Creating space for God

Throughout Lent, I have been trying to hold onto an image of myself as I believe God sees me; I have been trying to see myself through God’s eyes.

I believe God’s image of me is of a woman who leans into God, trusting that God has me, is holding me, caring for me. This version of myself—one who leans into God—is relaxed, not anxious; trusting, not fearful; secure, not doubtful.

She is the person God calls a crown of beauty in the hand of the Lord, and a royal diadem in the hand of your God (Isaiah 62:3). God delights in her, just for being herself, just for existing.

One thing that has helped me hold this image is that I fasted from busyness this Lent. I quit six volunteer commitments and opened up my calendar to more time for prayer, reading, baking, sewing and walking. I even went on my first bike ride of the year in March (compared to last year when I did not ride my bike at all). I created lots of time for myself, time to ponder how God sees me and what God desires for me and asks of me.

One day, during my morning prayer time, as I reflected on this new way of being, this uncluttered-calendar/taking-time-for-myself version of myself, an image came to me of a large, empty cavity within me, and of God dropping little gems in.

The gems are things I notice in everyday life which I now have more time and space to ponder and to make connections between these gems and how the Spirit is moving in my life. They are fragments of conversations that make me smile and remind me that I am loved, small gestures that tell me I am seen and cared for, words of Scripture that reassure me of God’s love for me.

I spend two days each week with my sister and three of her grandchildren. The two-year olds ground me in delight as they laugh with abandon over the smallest thing. The infant reminds me of being amazed as he grows in his awareness of himself and his surroundings, every day noticing something new. These children invite me to approach my life with that kind of openness, that kind of delight.

Today is Holy Saturday, a day of anticipating what is to come on Easter.

My Lent has felt like a preparation for this day. Pulling away from busyness and uncluttering my calendar has created space for me to hear God’s invitation to sit in quiet anticipation of something new that is about to happen, something as unexpected as the resurrection was for Mary Magdalen and the other women who went to Jesus’ tomb on Easter morning.

Our God is a God of surprises, and every day God surprises me with little gifts of love.  I want to grow in my awareness of all the gems God is dropping into my life and to deepen my gratitude for them.

Feeling seen

Two days a week, I help my sister with three of her grandchildren—two two-year-olds and a four-month-old. Since I was not able to have children, I am deeply grateful to my sister for sharing her grands with me. These two days each week give me so much joy as we dance, sing, read and play. On top of that, the time with my sister and her grandchildren offers lots of insights.

One day recently, my two-year-old great niece climbed onto my lap, looked into my eyes and put her little hand on my cheek. She gazed at me, hand firmly on my cheek, not saying anything, and I thought, “She is making a memory.” I was deeply touched by her gesture, the tenderness of it, the love in it. And then I thought, “She sees me.”

I grew up in the shadow of my older brother, feeling invisible, and it has taken me a long time to feel seen. Moments like this one with my great niece remind me that I am seen, by her and by God.

The next day, I was at a Jesuit Friends and Alumni Network (JFAN) luncheon, and a Jesuit stopped as our paths crossed, and he said, “I know you.” I could tell he didn’t remember where we had met, so I supplied that information, and, again, I felt seen. He remembered me from a pot-luck supper more than four years earlier.

Then I remembered being introduced to someone because we had both lived in l’Arche communities, she in Kansas City and I in Winnipeg. She told me that while she was an undergrad at Marquette, some people from l’Arche Winnipeg came to Marquette to visit one of the priests there who had lived in the community when he was in formation. At a gathering, she met Ross, a man who has Down Syndrome and lives in l’Arche Winnipeg.

She told me that Ross walked through the crowd and came right up to her, put his hand on her arm and said, “There you are.” She felt seen, singled out, and she took this as a sign that she was supposed to live in l’Arche. After graduation, she moved to l’Arche Kansas City.

I didn’t tell her that this was Ross’ way of approaching strangers to start a conversation and that I had seen him do it with others. I didn’t tell her because it didn’t matter; what mattered was that she felt seen.

Like my great niece and the Jesuit seeing me, Ross has that gift of seeing people—and letting them know he sees them.

All of this made me wonder about how often I let people know that I see them, how often I acknowledge people. I thought about people standing in line at the grocery store, serving in restaurants or standing at corners asking for money.

Can I be more like my great niece, the Jesuit and Ross and acknowledge people and let them know that I see them?

Entering a new land

Two Scripture passages recently caught my attention and keep coming back to me. The first was Exodus 20:2.

“I, the Lord, am your God, who brought you out of…that place of slavery…”           

The word slavery jumped out at me, and I reflected on where I am enslaved, trapped, bound. Lots of ideas came to mind, including my fears and anxieties, which can paralyze me and keep me stuck.

I thought of the Israelites who were literally in slavery in Egypt and how God rescued them and freed them. For forty years, they wandered in the desert, following God’s lead.

For forty days, I am wandering through Lent, trying to pay attention to where God is leading me out of bondage and into freedom.

A few days later, I read Deuteronomy 4:5.

“…in the land you are entering to occupy….”

Something clicked for me between these two lines of Scripture. The Israelites literally left one country and entered a new one.

I thought back to the times I have entered new lands. I remembered when I moved from Michigan to southern Virginia when I was eighteen and entered a land where people spoke with a different accent and used different terms. “Y’all” became part of my language, and I became acquainted with heat, humidity and a slower pace of life. Growing up in Detroit, I went to the bakery every week for rye bread, but bakeries were uncommon in Virginia, and I missed the smells of fresh baked bread and pastries.

Seven years later, I moved from Virginia to Pennsylvania and left behind hush puppies and southern accents and became acquainted with cheese steaks and soft pretzels. “Youse guys” replaced “y’all,” and after seven years of listening to drawling Southern speech, I had to adjust to the rapid-fire talk of Philadelphia. It took me some time before I caught on that “jeet yet” meant “did you eat yet.”

After twenty-eight years in Pennsylvania, I moved back to Michigan, and I was immediately aware of many cultural differences, including calling soft drinks “pop” instead of “soda” and eating Coney dogs (hot dogs) instead of cheese steaks. Encounters with bank tellers in Michigan involved conversations—like the bank teller telling me about her daughter’s wedding, apropos of nothing. I don’t ever remember bank tellers in Pennsylvania starting conversations; they were all business.

Often in that first year in Michigan, when I noticed a different way of doing things, I would say to myself, “I am not in Kansas anymore.” What I did know was that I was in a place that was not like the place I had left—food, language and customs were different.

All this reflection led me to wonder about Lent and the journey I am on. After these forty days, will I notice changes, even subtle ones, that tell me I have left the place I used to live? Will I be freer? Less anxious? More trusting?

How will I recognize this new land I am entering to occupy?