God walks with us

At the edge of time itself the world was created. As creation unraveled into earth, sea and sky, humanity itself was birthed from the very fabric of the earth itself. Humanity’s respect for the created world soon diminished and the fall from grace required the creator himself to intervene.

He first entered human history through the stories of the patriarchs, judges, prophets and kings – each time humanity rejected his outreach, until there was no option. God himself took on the flesh of humankind, in human time, in a human place, circa 6 BCE, possibly Bethlehem in Judah. He was given the name Yeshua (or Joshua) which in Hebrew meant ‘the Lord delivers’.

The written story is bereft of the details that would make it satisfying. It is saturated with Davidic imagery, messianic expectation, an alignment with the poor and marginalised, angelic apparitions, it provides answers for which we do not know the questions.

One third of the world’s population are followers of this Yeshua. Through his life, ministry and ultimately his death and resurrection, these followers carry the firmest conviction that a new reign was inaugurated. With faith, this reign of God would transform both the present and future.

25 December, long a pagan festival of the winter soltice or of the Roman Sol Invictus, has been enthroned since the third century as the birthday of the person we know as Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, the Son of God.

Intimately linked to the Annunciation of the Lord, as the moment of God’s incursion into human form, Christmas is the celebration of God’s incarnation. For this is the day when God chose to walk with us, to breathe the same air, to eat the same food, to love a family, to learn to talk, walk, read and write, to labour, to experience joy and sadness – this is the intimacy that the Christian believes he has with his God, the gift of Christmas.

May your Christmas be one where in the companionship of your family and friends, you find the face of God.

With every blessing to you.

Ask in prayer

Many of us, in our darkest hours and times of need, have placed ourselves in the presence of God and prayed.

The science of prayer indicates mixed results. Some studies show a definitive efficacy for prayer, while others show that those who are not prayed for are just as likely to make good progress. One study shows that those who are believers fare better than those who don’t. Secular humanists deny any impact at all.

And yet the Jewish and Christian scriptures reveal a conviction that prayer makes the difference. In fact the scriptures give an outline of what to pray for, when to pray, where to pray and how pray. For the faithful there is prayer of intercession, of praise, of thanksgiving, of forgiveness.

Around the world, every second of every day, there are people at prayer. In churches, chapels, classrooms, prayer rooms and meeting rooms are gathered those who believe that the expended energy which focuses on the needs of others, for the healing of the sick, for the reconciliation of sinners and the broken-hearted, for the consolation of the bereaved.

We all share stories of disappointment in prayer, starting with those of innocent childhood to those of unrequited love, and yet the confidence of the Christian is unshakeable: if our prayer is genuine, if it is God’s will, what we ask will be granted.

From his letter to the Philippians (4:4 – 7), Paul advocates: There is no need to worry, but if there is anything you need, pray for it, asking God for it with prayer and thanksgiving…

This 3rd Sunday of Advent is called Gaudete Sunday. The first word of the entrance antiphon is rejoice, hence ‘gaudete’. The joy that is celebrated is the joy of salvation, of God’s care for us, of the impending gift of his Son. In that ancient story which records the history of salvation, the plea, the hope, the prayer to the Lord was the deliverance of Israel from her enemies at the hand of God’s own chosen, anointed one, the Messiah. For Christians, Jesus fulfilled this prayer.

Teaching our youngsters about prayer, about what it does and how it happens is not about gullibility or misguided faith, it is about preparing them to be open to God’s action in their lives, to assist them to recognise his ongoing presence in the world around them and in the relationships they experience. Prayer and joy come together not only this Sunday, but every day. Make your days days of thankfulness and prayer, so that your families may see the fruit of good, prayerful lives in the way you celebrate each other.

I thank my God

The city of Philippi no longer exists. Where once, two thousand years go a busy metropolis and a lively Christian community flourished, now graze cattle. To this community which had proven itself a faithful supporter of Paul’s mission, Paul, now under house arrest, writes one of scripture’s most beautiful passagesFrank Anderson, a Missionary of the Sacred Heart, put this passage to music some years ago in an equally memorable and moving song, ‘I thank my God’.

Writes Paul: Brothers and sisters: I pray always with joy in my every prayer for all of you, because of your partnership for the gospel from the first day until now. I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will continue to complete it until the day of Christ Jesus. God is my witness, how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus. And this is my prayer: that your love may increase ever more and more in knowledge and every kind of perception, to discern what is of value, so that you may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ (Philippians 1:4 – 6, 8 – 11).

Over the last couple of evenings I have listened with humility and perhaps some embarrassment to the words of my peers on the North West coast, and to members of my former boards of management as they made their formal farewells. Make no mistake, it is great to hear good words said about one’s self, but in the business of Catholic education it is all about the person and mission of Jesus. Without the Gospel, without fidelity to that Gospel, our efforts as Catholic educators is meaningless.

I am no St Paul, and certainly no saint. Here was a man driven by the deepest passion, by the deepest faith, to take the Gospel of Jesus to the then known world. We know that eventually he paid the full price of that passion. Paul, as you would gather from a brief viewing of his letters, took issue with many of the early communities, and he dealt with them by putting himself in the mind of Jesus: how would he respond, what would Jesus do? In other words he contextualized his responses. Undoubtedly, had he lived today, I suspect that he would have said and done things differently.

Our family friend Pam has packed her bags and has left for a 13 month stay at the School of St Jude in Tanzania working with Gemma Sisia, the school’s founder. Pam is a very experienced social worker and a former librarian, and it is her librarianship skills that Gemma has seized upon. Pam has a husband, children and grandchildren. These 13 months are her gift, to St Jude’s, to those in need, and those who need her. What she is doing is extraordinary.

You and I are not asked to got to the ends of the world, but what we are called to do is be thankful for what we have been blessed with, and thankful for those who do great work – in building up the Kingdom, or just making the world a better place for all.

This Sunday is the 2nd Sunday in Advent. Come and worship.

Stay awake

Since taking up the gym a few years ago, I look forward to the summery, warm days, when I can walk with my son’s dog for that extra bit of exercise, consider the possibility of taking a dip in the coolness of Bass Strait, and hopefully lose my winter extra before the start of yet another year.

On the northern part of the globe, preparations for winter are being made. The Advent they await leads into the chilliest time of the year. At the other end of the world, the same Advent season breaks into summer.

The word adventus is the Latin translation of the word parousia, yet another word which describes the second coming of the Lord. Thus we await in anticipation of both the birth of Lord and his second coming.

Gift buying, pudding making, tree hunting, holiday planning, lunch arrangements, family travel, are significant parts of the agenda for this time of the year. We have made it busy.

The Gospel in the new liturgical cycle that begins this week is Luke. Luke writes to a gentile audience and brings new colour to the Jesus story, providing an original infancy narrative, expanding on the role of women and new perspectives on the resurrection. Yet the reading that begins our Advent (21:25 – 28, 34 – 36) comes from Luke’s apocalyptic passage. Here Jesus teaches his disciples about the signs of their coming liberation. They must ‘stay awake, praying at all times for the strength to survive all that is going to happen and to stand with confidence before the Son of Man.’

We must keep our eye on the ball, for the focus of Advent is the person and mission of Jesus. The incidentals that make up our preparation for Christmas are not unimportant, but if we wish to ‘stand up with confidence before the Son of Man’ then our preparation must include our own attentiveness and prayer.

We might also choose to be fitter, thinner, more sociable beings, and there is no reason why this preparation for a healthy lifestyle should not parallel our internal preparation to that great feast of the Nativity of the Lord.

The Church is not only a grand institution, it is also a rich resource in assisting you to grow into your relationship with our God. Advent is as opportune a time as any to seek guidance. Come, worship and stand with confidence.

Christ is king

The earliest kings were no more than small tribal leaders. Some possessed both political and religious functions. The word is derived from the Old English word cyng and is related to the German and Dutch words for king, and not surprisingly comes from the same root as the word kin, for family.

Undoubtedly David, king of Israel, was not unlike those early kings. There were no castles, princesses or other paraphernalia we attribute to modern kingship. David was chosen by the Lord and anointed by Samuel. He eventually becomes king iof Judah and later of a united Israel. He is remembered as a warrior, a poet and a musician. The memory of this king was imprinted on the minds and hearts of Jews. Any Messiah would be a descendent of this king. And while the Jews expected a warrior-king to free them from their various enemies and captors (Assyrians, Greeks, Romans), the acclamation of Jesus of Nazareth as both Messiah (Christ) and king was greeted by derision.

So, if Jesus was a king, what kind of king was he? Where was his kingdom? John (18:36) reports Jesus words: Mine is not a kingdom of this world. The parables, the miracles, the Beatitudes all hint as to what this kingdom would look like and feel like. The scriptures suggest that this kingdom has already been inaugurated (in the words and actions of Jesus) and will be completed when he comes again.

The feast of Christ the King which we celebrate this Sunday was instituted by Pius XI in 1925. It came at a time when monarchies were failing across Europe, when nihilism, Marxism and other philosophies were challenging the Church. Commentators of the time believed that the feast was a reminder that Christians owed their allegiance not to earthly supremacy – as claimed by Benito Mussolini, but to their heavenly, spiritual leader.

The timing of this feast as the last Sunday of the liturgical year invites us to consider the promise of what is to come at the end of time, and we then begin a new year with the Sundays of Advent.

The fact that we are bordering on being a republic, that our monarch lives on the other the side of the world, that she and her descendents live privileged lives and are expected to be exemplary citizens, makes it difficult for us to gain a full appreciation of what the feast has to offer. Our pope, Benedict XVI’s insight into Christ's kingship is that it is not based on "human power" but on loving and serving others. And that is how each of us can acknowledge Christ’s kingship and each of us can actively enter into, bring about and sustain his kingdom – by our love and service for others.

Lest we forget

I loved the way my children would count down the days to their birthdays and Christmas. For if parts of the media have complained bitterly about how early the Christmas juggernaut begins its journey, many are grateful for the warning and do, in fact, begin preparations.

We human beings have a strong sense of optimism, it is a part of the religious drive we experience throughout our lives. Though it is often blurred when times are difficult, we either anticipate or retrospectively see the positive outcomes: death is a release from pain; from a tragedy comes a stronger, more resilient family; from a mishap we learn valuable lessons.

The apocalyptic literature we find in the sacred scriptures is a response to the same dilemmas we face each day when as a single human being or as a single humanity, we face up against the odds: that is, how can God be righteous and yet allow us to suffer? While the earliest prophets expected a messiah to restore Israel to the Hebrews, the continued delay extended that expectation past the immediate future to an afterlife, and for Christians – the anticipation of a parousia, the second coming of Christ. In this coming he would be clearly revealed, and he will then vindicate the righteous and faithful.

These three aspects, preparation, optimism and expectation are to be found in Mark’s account (13:24 – 32) in which Jesus describes the end times, his second coming. In a parable he explains that just as twigs grow supple on the vine and the leaves come out, we know that summer is close. So too, do we have to read the signs around us to recognise his impending coming – though he sternly warns (verse 32): But as for that day or hour, nobody knows it, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son; no one but the Father.

As Remembrance Day passed us yet again, these three words echoed in me: preparation, optimism and expectation. Though totally captured by the excitement of fighting for the Mother Country on the battlefields of Europe, our young men and women left their homes, prepared to give their all in the greatest adventure they could imagine. Their optimism would save Australia, the world, their children’s children, from the tyranny of German aggression. They expected to be home by Christmas, they expected an early victory, they did not expect to die in such numbers. 416,000 young Australians enlisted, 332,000 embarked for war, 215,000 were listed as casualties.

As Australians, as a nation, the deep wounds and the darkness of that ‘Great’ war, gave a renewed sense of who we were as a nation, it was bloody, but it fortified the spirit of this young country, it was terrifying and bleak, but its yield has been nothing less than a brilliant optimism.

Charles and Milan

Milan is a beautiful city. Its people are beautiful. It is the home of Armani and Versace. At its heart is the utterly impressive Galleria Vittorio Emmanuele I, an enormous, glazed arcade of immense proportions, named for the first king of a united Italy and built between 1865 and 1877. This is real window shopping. This retail centre is adjacent to the spiritual centre, the Duomo (Cathedral) of Milan. 500 years in the making, the Duomo is breathtakingly beautiful. After St Peter’s in Rome and the Seville Cathedral, the Duomo is the third largest church in Christendom.

Charles Borromeo was 12 when he was created an abbot; 21 when he completed his doctorate in law; 22 when his uncle Pius VI named him a cardinal; then archbishop of Milan. He founded seminaries, supported decrees of the Council of Trent and was rigorous in the reform of his diocese. His work and generosity to the poor was renowned. Charles brought a new simplicity to the Duomo, removing ornate tombs, banners and ornaments. He died in 1584. 25 years after his death, Charles was canonised. He is now the patron saint of bishops, students for the priesthood, catechists and catechumens. He was interred in a crypt under the Duomo, expressly contrary to his request.

The crypt is an eerie, dimly lit place. You have no doubt you are in the presence of the holy, of the sacred. Lying beneath the majesty of the Duomo, Charles’ tomb is a link between the saintliness we are each called to, and the humanity which drives our urges, hungers and desires.

We are familiar with Mark’s story (12:38 – 44) of the widow’s mite. Clearly Mark is teaching that those who give from their excess are not being generous, but those who give of their entire livelihood are worthy of great honour. Charles came from a family of great wealth and position, and while had titles of his own, he called on his total being as a gift to his Lord and God. Wealth and titles were for him but tools at the service of the poor and ignorant.

The City of Milan is a testament to humanity’s capacity to create beautiful churches, shopping complexes, motorcycles and clothing and should be a must see on your Italian sojourn, yet its rich and deep faith simmers not only in its underbelly, but in the celebration of life that the Milanese enjoy in their bounty.

St Charles Borromeo’s feast day was yesterday.

For all the saints

Paul often referred to his addressees as saints, or the holy ones. He wasn’t writing about those very holier-than-thou canonised variety of saints, but the regular every day faithful who chose to live out Christian lives with conviction. And, they weren’t perfect by any means.

I have known some great saints; people of patience, honesty, trustworthy and trusting, compassionate, kind, gentle and loving. Oh yes, some liked to party. Brother Gabriel Preston, Brother Damian Ryles, my late dad and my mother, Mrs Mary Webb, my father-in-law Jim, his father-in-law Basil O’Halloran, Sister Mary Sarto, great aunt Gwendoline. And yes, they were not or are not perfect.

The people who impact on our lives for the better, are those who challenge us by the way they live their own lives. They may be great teachers, great academics, sports people, financiers, military, clergy, religious, artists, musicians, builders, librarians, homemakers or office workers – they are good at what they do, but they have an enormous capacity to care about others, they want others to dream dreams, reach for the stars, be healthy and know love.

Gwendoline, whom we called Aunty Jimmie, was a nurse. The pictures of her in the 1920s and 30s present a vivacious and attractive young woman. She took to nursing like a duck to water. She did service in New Guinea, and returned to Australia a wiser human being. She never married; she was one of the first graduates of the College of Nursing Australia’s Diploma in Nursing Education, taught, and then retired to nurse her ailing sister. She lived a wonderful, rich and fruitful life, nursing and caring for thousands. Her life affected so many, and none more so than my own. Her humour and concern for others was infective and influenced many young woman to take up careers in nursing. Aunty Jimmy was certainly not what I would call religious, but she was certainly faithful. And a saint.

Matthew (5:1 – 12) sets out his criteria for ‘sainthood’ – the Beatitudes. To whom does the kingdom belong? It belongs to the poor in spirit, the gentle, mourners, those who hunger and thirst for what is right, the merciful, the pure in heart, peacemakers, those persecuted in the cause of right, those who are abused and persecuted on account of their faith. They are indeed saints.

Such saints are within our grasp. We know them, they are not superhuman beings, but they are superb human beings.

This Sunday, is of course, All Saints Day, in recognition of God’s grace so generously bestowed on us through the exemplary lives of our forebears in faith. This is followed by All Souls Day on which we recollect our many loved ones who have gone before us, Brother Gabriel, Sister Mary Sarto, Basil, and Aunty Jimmy, holy ones indeed, each chosen by God, and loved by him – and they will be made perfect by him.

What do you want me to do for you?

In the last twenty years we become somewhat inured to the plight of the poorest of the poor. We are bombarded with images of volcanoes, floods, landslides, earthquakes, tornados, bush fires, hurricanes, tsunamis – not to mention Iraq and Afghanistan. These images bring an immediacy not present where cultural, political and climactic change is slow, but progressive, where entire provinces lose populations to neighbouring provinces and countries, where searing poverty and its sister, hunger, overwhelm remaining populations. Education, health, water supply, women’s rights, freedom of religion, of movement, of occupation, of origin, of political persuasion are critical indicators not only of human rights, but of humanity itself.

We fight so many battles, and many we win. But some battles that we ‘fight’ on African continent or the Indian sub-continent appear unwinnable.

The Gospel this week is unequivocal about its message. Mark (10:46 – 52) records the story of Bartimaeus, a blind beggar. On hearing that Jesus was passing nearby, he called out, ‘Son of David, Jesus, have pity on me.’ Those accompanying Jesus attempted to silence him. Jesus approached him and asked, ‘What do you want me to do for you?’ Bartimaeus replied, ‘ Master, let me see again’. Jesus responds, ‘Go, your faith has saved you.’

You see, it is we who are passing by who must hear the cry of the poor and the lame, and it is they who cry for pity (that is, sorrow and compassion). And what do they want us to do for them? They want healing, they want wholeness, they want life – and we do have the capacity to provide for many of their needs, and that is why our response must also be unequivocal: we must make a difference.

Last Sunday was also Mission Sunday. The invitation we received through its celebration was for each one of us to commit to action, in prayer, through the gift of money, time or goods to make real the mission given to the Church by Jesus. It’s a tough call. The bottom line is that this is a response that arises from our baptism, no more no less. We are empowered by baptism to hear God’s word with clarity, entrusted to respond with generosity and impelled to proclaim God’s saving power and love.

So whether the ‘voice’ comes from the devastation of Samoa or Indonesia, or the ruin of Sudan or Sri Lanka, we must ask: What do you want me to do for you?

Peacethinker Obama

Like many others, I was surprised by Barack Obama’s Nobel accolade. Should we compare him to other peace prize laureates such as Jimmy Carter, Jose Ramos-Horta, Nelson Mandela, Shimon Peres, Aung San Suu Kyi, Mikhail Gorbachev, the Dalai Lama, Desmond Tutu, Mother Teresa, Lech Walesa, Martin Luther King, Albert Schweitzer? In 120 years the prize has been awarded 97 times to individuals and organisations. Many of the laureates had already found great fame, and had been recognised as world class leaders, bureaucrats, emissaries, politicians, churchmen, freedom seekers. Their combined impact on world affairs is immeasurable. But Obama?

In my first real job as a junior clerk, I wondered how I would ever make it up the ladder to success. My bosses seem to have such extraordinary knowledge, could pay such attention to detail, and commanded the respect of staff. Yet, in hindsight, they were ordinary human beings, had lived and worked hard to achieve what I now see as modest success. They had hopes and dreams, visions for a better world, for prosperity, to see their children’s children grow to adulthood. My father was one of these men. So, Nobel laureates are human beings like us: they eat and sleep, go to work, have families, watch their spending, negotiate traffic, watch TV.

I want to say that each of us is a potential laureate: we might never receive recognition for the contributions we make, but I can assure you, that in the right places it will be counted.

The gist of Mark’s Gospel this coming 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time (10:35 – 45) is that the ‘Son of Man himself did not come to be served but to serve and to give his life as ransom for many. The Christian is not to lord his authority over others, those who want to be great (or successful) must be the servant of others. Here Jesus turns our understanding upside down. Service is the key to success. Not power. This is what makes a great boss, this is what makes a great leader – the capacity, the ability, the drive to serve others: but when the motivation becomes selfish, self-aggrandising and conceited, it is no longer service.

The letter to Hebrews (4:14 – 16) equally reminds us that when service in performed in the name of the Son of God, that we should ‘be confident … in approaching the throne of grace, that we shall have mercy from him and find grace when we are in need of help.’ Great leaders know they are the recipients of great mercy and grace, for they are called to do great things. And you and I are no less worthy recipients, for we have our own parts of God’s kingdom to build.

So Obama? Why not? Much is expected, much will be asked, and divine and human assistance will be fundamental to his success as a peacethinker and as a peacemaker.

Words of wisdom

If I were to distill my mother’s philosophy of life, it would probably be, ‘Live, and love life to the fullest.’ It is more than apparent to me that this is how she has lived her life. Married at 18, mother of 11, widowed at 45. After raising her children she sold up and travelled the world. Now freshly returned from Canada where her grandson married, she takes Tai Chi classes, tends her vegetable garden, helps out at netball, spends time on the internet communicating with her diaspora of descendents. Now 78, she is the wise and most loved mother, grandmother and great-grandmother.

Most of us have a healthy skepticism about those who would present themselves as possessors of wisdom. Indeed, the political and retail industries are adept at the selling of wisdom – beautifully packaged as policies, health, well-being, satisfaction. Then there are the gurus of every persuasion, there’s one for every cause – some well meaning, some necessary, some radical, some conservative, maybe religious, economic or environmental. They all have something to offer, a view into the world in which we live, an understanding of the way that things come together. We certainly take on the views that make sense to us, and we seek to be informed by those who share similar views. Each of us needs this kind of wisdom to get through life. Today we would call these ‘ethics’.

In the Book of Wisdom that comes to us from the 1st or 2nd century BC we catch a glimpse of how wisdom was understood by our ancestors in faith. Wisdom was sought after, highly valued, almost deified. Writes the author: I esteemed her more than sceptres and thrones; compared with her I held riches as nothing. In our Catholic tradition we have attributed this wisdom to the person of Mary. But we can already see that this wisdom is unlike the ethics of today. It is multi-dimensioned and many layered.

Within 150 years of the writing of the Book of Wisdom, Mark (10:17 – 30) tells us the story of the rich young man and his dilemma: he asks Jesus, ‘What must I do to inherit eternal life?’ to which Jesus replies that he must keep all the commandments. Mark writes: And he said to him, ‘Master, I have kept all these from my earliest days.’ Jesus looked steadily at him and loved him, and he said, ‘There is one thing you lack. Go and sell everything you own and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me. We know what the young man’s response is.

The wisdom we possess must have a bottom line. If our ethics are fuzzy and full of exceptions to our general rule of life, what will get past the keeper? The bar that Jesus set is obviously very high. Is your bar suitably high? Is your wisdom strong enough and deep enough to enable you to live out the remainder of your life with fidelity to yourself and the Gospel? How would others summarise your philosophy? What wisdom will they see in you – from your actions and your words?

Complete in marriage

I spent my 25th wedding anniversary on my own in Tokyo on a stopover. I’d rather have been home, of course. It’s the first anniversary, and quite likely the last, that I have missed.

One of the favourite texts chosen for weddings comes from Genesis (2:18 – 24): it tells the story of how woman was created from one of man’s ribs. There’s a poignancy and a richness to this story. It is folkloric, it’s an explanatory text – not scientific, yet it is at the heart of understanding of our relationship with our creator and with each other in marriage. The making of man is incomplete until woman is created. Man and woman are bound to each other in this moment; woman is ‘bones from my bones, and flesh from my flesh’. This account is about marriage, how this story relates the marriage of man and woman as they become one body. And present in this marriage is the divine hand of God which draws one from the other and then brings that back together.

Quite rightly we can point to this story as being part of the theology of marriage, but it is all to easy to dismiss it in the face of the reality we face each day. The Gospel this week (Mark 10:2 - 16) proclaims Jesus’ teaching on the sanctity of marriage, and his stand on divorce. Divorce is very real. Though our theology provokes a desire for perfection, more often than not, we have our own experience, the experience of our families, our friends and neighbours, or our own. We find it difficult to resolve the issue of where we stand when our marriages fail. The Gospels appear unequivocal – Do not judge, do not condemn. The Church on the other hand seems to exclude the very people who need its understanding.

In another time divorcees were pariahs. Today, separation and divorce are common. In his exhortation, The Sacrament of charity, Benedict XVI earnestly prayed that such tragedies could be avoided by better preparation and discernment before marriage. This may well be little comfort for those who have already been through a marriage breakdown, and yet like most things in life, while preparation is the key to success, there will be situations unforeseen and unimagined.

We aim for perfection, and oftentimes we just make it. I’ll be home on 22 October as we celebrate our 26th anniversary. May our marriages and our loving relationships continue to be blessed.

Faith and action

This is my first entry as principal of my new school in northern Tasmania.

Letting go is never easy. The difficult farewell as you leave your child for the first time in the hands of carers or teachers is, for some, wrought with stress and emotion. My children never looked back. They loved their carers, they loved their teachers. I especially wanted their teachers to know about their unique gifts, about the things that were important in their lives. I wanted to know if they cared about my kids, if they would listen to their idle chat and make sense of their worlds for them as we had.

Well, their teachers did care and love them in their own way. My sons were ‘characters’ (which is the best way to put it) and my daughter somewhat reticent. Yet they all left school well prepared to take on the next stage of their lives. As parents, we never quite totally let go. I still tell my grownup kids how much they are loved. We need to. That’s our job.

For the last four weeks, the letter of St James has featured in the lectionary. Since the Reformation this letter has been attributed the title of ‘Catholic’ since James, a Jewish Christian in the mid-first Century AD taught that faith alone is insufficient for salvation. Good works flow from faith, and they are the evidence. This certainly contradicted the conclusion to which Martin Luther arrived. Our Catholic tradition has maintained this understanding, and from it flows a great sense of, and commitment to social justice.

And so Mark (9:40) reminds us that we are not alone, that anyone who is not against us is for us. It’s hard to swallow, I know, because we can get hung up on what we consider to be immovable principles; it’s hard knowing that if I do let go of my anxieties, my kids will still do well at school, they will (and need to) develop resilience and fortitude. The world is not black and white, not St Kilda vs Geelong; there is plenty of grey in between, the realm of collaboration and compromise, and of course, compassion.

Mark does give fair warning, however, if we become obstacles to the truth, to the Gospel, promising apocalyptic terror to those who would destroy another’s faith. Such is the seriousness of the responsibility to nurture and grow faith. This is the same faith which calls us to act with justice, in accordance with the Lord’s decrees.

Global warming, third world poverty, child labour, or just trusting my child’s carers and teachers to engage with them and to open their eyes to the wonder that is life will always be a challenge, but it is a challenge that we should all take, that we should all should act upon. Now. It’s a matter of faith and action.

70 years ago on 3 September the United Kingdom responded to Hitler’s invasion of Poland: the war that was declared was to cost upwards of 25 million military deaths and somewhere between 40 – 52 million civilian deaths. Despite the horror that was the Great War, the casualties of the second world war were almost double.

No single country on this earth escaped unaffected from this most tragic and destructive war. Eastern European countries lost up to 14% of their entire populations. The magnitude can be expressed in a myriad of statistics, but is most aptly portrayed in the stone memorials that reach across the globe and upon which are etched the names of those who lives were lost.

They had names. Gabriel Wallace Douglas, Adrian Vincent Douglas, Tommy Awatere, they were loved, they had promise, they had futures, they had dreams. Yet they were buried in foreign lands, far from home, far from the hearths of their childhoods.

And this is how we must measure war. Its victims are not fragile, faded memories: they lived and breathed, were present, were flesh and blood, they sang and cried. They are real.

And that is why the Christian has an unshakeable belief in the resurrection. There are songs that are yet to be sung, stories yet to be told, love still to be shared. It is not just a promise, it is because our God is a God of justice and mercy. Such a God could not desert those whom he loved to be mere scratches on stone, he will make amends. In the liturgy this Sunday we pray:

Lord our God
In you justice and mercy meet.
With unparalleled love you have saved us from death
And drawn us into the circle of your life.
Open our eyes to the wonders this life sets before us,
So that we may serve you free from fear
And address you as God our Father.
(Opening prayer from the 23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year B)

We too are named, loved and known and our place in the heart of God is assured when we too call him by name: Father.

To all our fathers, may your Sunday be blessed, and may you come to know and celebrate God’s love for you. For us all, let us make true peace foundation stone of our nations so that we will no longer know war.

The law of love

It is all that is good, everything that is perfect, which is given us from above;
it comes down from the Father of all light (James 1:17)

Unsurprisingly, my mother has travelled to places that few antipodeans would dare venture – Libya, Jordan, the remote mountains of Turkey. Last year it was to Rarotonga.

My mother, obviously no spring chicken, is soon to travel to Canada for the long-awaited marriage of her well-beloved grandson, David. It has been a few years now since David and my mother made their way from the UK, across Western Europe, through the eastern bloc into Russia. They travelled together by road, stopping at caravan parks along the way. On that journey they were robbed near the Czech border, paid bribes in Russia and enjoyed each other’s company while discovering the treasures of Europe.

While younger members of the entourage travelling to Canada will do some heavy-duty post-wedding touring and traipsing across the border to New York, my mother keep closer to base. My nephew and his fiancée have bought a home, and now have a beautiful son.

There is too much gloom and doom in our newspapers. But it only takes a minute to double-check how rich our lives truly are.

As we return to Mark’s Gospel (Mark 7:1 – 23) this Sunday we are challenged by Jesus’ accusation against the scribes and Pharisees who were demanding to know why the disciples were not following the Jewish rules of washing before eating: You put aside the commandment of God to cling to human traditions. The point being, that when we put tradition before the commandment to love we are well off the mark. There are certainly some things that we do that have their origin in plain old-fashioned commonsense, but which over time have lost their significance.

The distinction between respecting those who pass down tradition (the elders, as Mark calls them) and the tradition itself must be differentiated. Rejection of a tradition, does not mean rejecting those who hold fast to them. We live in a world of constant and rapid change: the Gospel does not prevent us from accepting the multitude of challenges that await us, but we must not allow the diminishment of human respect.

My mother has stories I have yet to hear, explanations for the way we do things in our family that have yet to be expressed in words. She is loved for the person she is, for the gift she is to her family – which is why her presence in Canada is so necessary. We all have a family member who embodies what it means to be a member of our family, a grandparent, great grandparent. Treasure them, love them, respect them.

Two become one

Has it only been three months since she moved out? Well, our daughter has decided to move back home, but only on one condition: that we treat her like an adult. That’s certainly our intention, although she might have forgotten that it’s a two-way proposition. Her reasons are, of course, complex and she knows that the welcome mat is always out. There is the jumble of her acquisitions strewn about the once empty hallway and the decorative pieces we placed in her room have been ejected unceremoniously into rubbish bags. It’ll only be temporary, of course, six months, a year – then she will move on. The empty nesters have a nestling, albeit, an adult.

Representations of daily life in biblical Palestine in movies and television documentaries seldom reflect the lives of women, let alone slaves, or the poorest of the poor. Women’s lives were hard. From sowing seed, harvesting, grinding grain to making bread, our lives would be unrecognisable. The role of women in society was to nurture and support the family, and that meant serving the needs of their husbands, preparing food, providing care for children.

In writing to the Ephesians (5:21 – 32) Paul explores the mystery of the Christ-dimension of marriage. It is startling at first, and it would be easy to dismiss his words as cultural determinism, as sexist, as offensive to women. He claims that the husband is the head of the wife, and she should submit to him, and he compares that relationship to Christ as being head of the church which itself submits to Christ. Husbands on the other hand ‘should love their wives as Christ loved the church’. Husbands must love their wives as they love their own body, in the same way that Christ cares for his church. And that is why, according to Paul, a man must leave his family to be joined with his wife, and the two become one body. And this, this is the mystery.

This mystery is not what roles we play – it is about love and one’s capacity to give, to be generous and selfless – that is what true submission is, it is the sharing of a singular will and desire, not power or control. Jesus’ own submission to his Father’s will is the exemplar. It is divine love.

While Paul’s analogy is about marriage and the Body of Christ it has an equal affect on all of our relationships. We are all members of the Body of Christ.

We are all much more than the sum of the roles we perform, of our public and private faces, of our singular parts. And so I welcome the return of my adult daughter, I look forward to our shared space, time and energy. I can even put up with her overflowing possessions filling the hallway.

Choosing the good life

I have a son who sports a scar on his forehead, an unwanted gift from a senseless attack on the streets of Launceston some few years ago. His assailant was drunk. Both he and the scar have healed, but it will remain a very physical reminder of that night, that incident, that moment.

Thank goodness no one can ‘read’ our lives when we meet them face to face. Knowing each other’s darker sides, or less flattering parts of our lives is something that will only occur with familiarity, friendship, quality time – unless it is splattered across the pages of your daily read. I truly admire those whose adolescent and young adult lives were blameless and pure. That wasn’t quite me and despite a desire to rewrite my early years, I had a good time. We were all young once. I’ll leave it at that.

It’s not a betrayal of family secrets, but alcoholism has touched my wider family with devastating effect – ruptured families, brain damage, death. It’s one of my greatest fears. We all know someone affected by alcoholism. Our young people’s obsession with binge drinking is a cultural aberration I link to the 6 o’clock swill mentality. They appear to have no fear of the consequences, of whose lives they will impact, of what damage they might cause. It is easy to close our collective eyes, because it is our common drug.

St Paul is utterly inelegant in his criticism (Ephesians 5:18): Don’t drug yourselves with wine, this is simply dissipation. Instead, he exhorts: be filled with the Spirit. Paul cautions that we should be careful about the lives we lead – ‘like intelligent and not senseless people’. And to be intelligent means being able to make good choices, to be able to think through and be responsible for the actions we take. When we do this and discern God’s will, then despite the wickedness that permeates our world (there are names we can give to these sins), our lives are empowered with the capacity to redeem the world in which we live.

In a week in which we have celebrated Blessed Mary MacKillop, we also remember St Maximilian Kolbe, a convert from Judaism and a Conventual Franciscan friar who died a martyr’s death at the hands of the Nazis in Auschwitz. How apt, then, it is that Pope John Paul II appointed him as a patron against drug addiction, and patron of drug addicts (because he was killed with a lethal injection). Here are but two lives which have contributed to the redemption of our world, wrought for us by Christ himself.

We each have such a role; we each have our contribution to make to build up the whole. It begins with you and me, with the choices I make.

MacKillop link

When Mary MacKillop visited my home town from March to May 1902, my grandmother, Marguerite, was all of 4 years old. It is not beyond imagination that Mary, who was in town for the healing, hot baths, may have attended Mass at the same time as my infant grandmother and her parents. My grandmother died six months after I was born, and yet she is but one link to this same Mary MacKillop whose 100th anniversary of death we remember this Saturday, and whose canonisation we await with a collective, bated breath.

Across this country are people, places, words and dreams that connect us to this daughter of Australia. Certainly a handsome woman, but no beauty, of ordinary, humble Scottish stock. Home educated, strong and persistent, Mary’s story is anything but ordinary. Her zeal, matched only by her faith, saw her congregation of the Sisters of St Joseph of the Sacred Heart grow from zero to 130 sisters between 1867 and 1871, from one barn school in Penola to 40. She and her sisters ministered to women in poverty and distress, took in orphans, taught, visited the sick.

Nothing was easy. Mary’s rule of life caused conflict with her bishop. He excommunicated her and attempted to disband the sisters. In seeking Roman approval for her rule, she and her mentor, Father Julian Tenison Woods, had a falling out after Mary agreed to a number of changes.

There are other saintly Australians whose lives have enriched our folklore, our spirituality and even our nationhood: Maude O’Connell, founder of the Family Care Sisters; Catherine Gaffney (from Deloraine, Tasmania) who was a founding member of the Sisters of Perpetual Adoration; Caroline and Archibald Chisholm – ‘The emigrant’s friends’; John Bede Polding, visionary bishop of Sydney and founder of the Good Samaritan Sisters; Ken Barker, who established and still leads the Missionaries of God’s Love within the Disciples of Jesus Covenant Community. There are thousands and thousands of others, perhaps less luminous, less famous, and each of us has been touched in some small or large way by one of them.

Mary MacKillop, like people of faith everywhere, listened to and responded to Paul’s letter to the Ephesians (5:1 - 2):

Try, then, to imitate God, as children of his that he loves, and follow Christ by loving as he loved you, giving himself up in our place as a fragrant offering and a sacrifice to God.

If this became our rule of life, what a difference we could make too. We would only be following the path laid down by many who have gone before us – my grandmother Maggie included.

Happy feast day, Mary.

The things our fathers have told us

The things we have heard and understood,
The things our fathers have told us,
We will tell to the next generation:
The glories of the Lord and his might.
(Psalm 77:3 – 4)

Our children, grown up as they are, pretty well take their own advice. They humour me by not glazing over when my suggestions are offered free of charge, and without being asked. They used to call me ‘Papa’ before that became too embarrassing when everyone else had a ‘Dad’. By high school, they called me ‘Father’ and that’s my parental moniker. I am equally humoured and delighted by their open affection. My urgent prompts for them to study hard (and often), be less exuberant and less regular in their celebrations, get to Mass, come home more often, sometimes fall on deaf ears.

So what do I really want my children to remember? What is it that I want them to carry on to their children and their children’s children? Have I offered or given them that ‘something’? What do I want that ‘something’ to be? OK, there will be a bequest of what remains of our baby-boomer life-style, but this is not about money, furniture, jewellery or houses.

I want them to be decent, kind, faithful human beings who will leave this planet a little better for them having been here; I want them to have loved deeply and shared part of their lives with someone who loved them for who they were; I want them to share their gifts and talents to the full; I want them to read great literature and see great films, great museums, travel widely; be global, responsible citizens; and I want them know, love, and worship the God whose grace is so generously bestowed on them.

This week I have had the privilege of working with two colleagues as they undertook a formal appraisal of my role as principal. This is conducted in the penultimate year of a principal’s contract and its focus is on leadership – educational, administrative, spiritual, pastoral. And while it is about me, it is also about those whom I serve, about how effective I am, about what and I how I could improve what I do for parents, students, staff and the community. My nine years at my school have been a fabulous learning journey, but in the end, it’s about supporting a new generation to love learning, but even more importantly to give them opportunities to grow in knowledge and love of their Creator God - a privilege in itself. Appraisal is also renewal, and again, from this Sunday’s readings, Paul so eloquently puts words to feelings (Ephesians 4:24): Your mind must be renewed by a spiritual revolution so that you can put on the new self that has been created in God’s way, in the goodness and holiness of the truth.

In this appraisal we are all called to account for the efficacy of our lives and work, we are all invited to ‘put on the new self’.

Feeding a crowd

My wife turned into a great cook. She has plugged away at recipe books left to her by her mother, aunts and grandmothers as well as defining her own style. And where we once would regularly entertain friends, we find ourselves welcoming our children for Sunday night dinner. It’s a new tradition, perhaps two years old. A great part of the day is spent cooking (while someone else is kept busy scanning the world news) and the result is a lavish feast. Cooks enjoy sharing their successes and are keen for feedback. The recent cook-off on Master Chef saw a recording-breaking number of viewers take their seats in front of the box! Cooking is indeed a skill well worth possessing and growing, but without hospitality great food is just food, another meal.

Once our visitors arrive there are drinks to offer, appetizers and welcoming conversation about the events that have moulded our week’s story. There is companionship, affability, homeliness and the return of adult love and respect shared around a common table and experience. These are moments to value.

One of the keys to Jesus’ ministry is hospitality, to his disciples and to strangers. This is no more clearly evident than in his feeding of the 5000 with no less than 5 barley loaves and two fish (John 6:1 – 15). It is Jesus’ intention from the beginning that he provides for them all, indeed there were twelve hampers full when they were finished. There are, naturally, many layers to this story – it is Eucharistic, it is a precursor to the heavenly banquet that awaits the faithful, it also reveals the growing awareness of Jesus’ messiahship and his reluctance to be the kind of messiah that the crowd was seeking.

John’s Gospel delights in its rich images of bread and wine, and these become metaphors for Jesus himself, and in the context of the Eucharist itself, the bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ. The interplay is tantalising and fascinating. And the link is Jesus’ desire to offer God’s hospitality to all – we are all welcome to his table, each of our stories is waiting to be heard, a banquet has been prepared, our cups overflow and the rich conversation brings pleasure and joy.

We don’t need to put on a feast to be hospitable. A cup of tea will do when we’re caught short. Extending hospitality is something we learn, like the way we cook. We model it on our families and it is a case of ‘doing to others as you would have others do to you’. It truly is a Gospel value. While meals may be memorable, the companionship of our friends and family around the table is the stuff of life.

Writes Kevin Bates SM:
Come to my table, taste of my Word
Bring me the life that you’ve lived.
Bring in the dancing. Bring in the pain.
Bring me the whole of your journey.

Holy rest

We all need a break. We’re so busy, it’s hard to find time to ourselves. None of us can function at 100 per cent every day without ultimately affecting the quality of our relationships, work or sanity. The word holiday has its origins in Middle English, itself taken from the Old English hāligdæg, from hālig (holy) and dæg (day).

The word comes to us from a time when the only breaks from work were holy days (Easter Day, Christmas Day and local feast days). The story of human labour is one of survival. Days were long, though storytelling and the passing down of tribal lore would take place around the family or community hearth. Up to and beyond the middle of the 19th Century even children laboured and only the most fortunate and very few had the opportunity to learn to read and write. So a holiday was a most welcome and awaited occasion for all.

Holidays were granted at the whim of potentates for such occasions as the marriages of princes or auspicious signs of divine intervention (rain, volcanoes, spring and harvest festivals). In Christian villages and towns throughout the world holidays were celebrated with parades, feasting, religious ceremonies. Holidays truly were a break from the tedious rhythm of workaday life.

How fortunate we are to have weekends, rostered days off, public holidays and four weeks paid leave each year, where we can re-create ourselves, and yet how astonishing it is that despite the freedoms we have obtained, we have been become constricted by the demands of timetables. Our holidays no longer celebrate life, they are days for doing even more of what we do every other day. And we’re tired.

The disciples rejoined Jesus (Mark 6:30 – 34). He invited them to come away with him to rest a while, for there were so many demands on them that had not even eaten. Yet despite their efforts, the crowds anticipated where they were heading, and many had reached their destination even before they had set a foot ashore. Even Jesus himself struggled to find that time for himself. There are pointed moments in scripture where Jesus seeks a quiet place for prayer and refreshment – time set apart from work (e.g. Mark 1:35, Luke 5:16).

You and I need holy days – time set apart from all that stuff we do day in and day out, and we need holy places – of quiet and stillness. Indeed the quiet that you are invited into, just as the disciples were, is the presence and person of Jesus. And your holy day, your holiday, is any day of your choosing – for that is the day that God will celebrate with you. But should you, like those disciples of Jesus, want to find a time and space with others who share your need, come, worship and rejoice any Sunday.

Of human kindness

Tugging at our heartstrings is the job of professional charities, and they do a great job. Those that can afford to plug away on the television and airways or take out quarter page ads in the dailies have great turnovers. I would estimate that each week at least two charities’ appeals would land on my desk, and perhaps one direct appeal by phone per week on average. Even before the Victorian bushfire disaster, Australians were well known for their extraordinary generosity. There has always been the fear of donation ‘burn-out’, yet it has not come to pass.

On the other hand, the very fact that charities are now professional organisations is indicative of the slow passing of the volunteer. They still exist, of course, but they are members of a dying breed: Lions, Apex, Rotary, Guide Dogs, World Vision, RSPCA, Boys’ Town, Camp Quality, Australian Red Cross, St Vinnie’s, and the dozens on medical charities of which there are too many to name. These organisations have orchestrated promotions, coloured brochures, tear off slips, the opportunity to deduct from your credit card or savings account, monthly or however often you would like. But the slice of your $ that is required to operate their fundraising grows the bigger the charity is.

It would seem we would prefer to be at a distance from those in need, and that our generosity is satisfied by the giving of money. It’s indicative of the time-poor world we live in.

In the not too distant past, I’ve knocked on doors collecting for Centacare and Red Cross, letterbox dropped for a variety of causes, I’ll happily buy raffle tickets that save the old growth forests, but which give me the chance to win a car, or a house on the Gold Coast. I put a tick the box for money given to charities in my tax return, but can’t seem to find those very little, miniature receipts when I need to.

When charities were comprised of volunteers, there was a personal commitment from the individual to the aims of the organisation, a compelling rationale, a belief in its mission.

The first disciples possessed such an understanding: their charity was the very love of God itself. Their mission – to take that love, that message, to every door. Mark (6:7 – 13) tells us that Jesus sent them on their way with nothing but the clothes on their backs and a staff – without bread, a bag or money. These men (and women, though unspoken) managed to change and transform a world, not by huge events, but by the face-to-face interaction with their fellow human beings. The best return for the gift offered to you is that you are the beneficiary, the gift is free. If there is a cost, it is the provision of hospitality, of human kindness. Sometimes it is really is a matter of just loving your neighbour, and sometimes you will be asked to save the world.

The miracle of acceptance

Living on Tasmania’s North West is like living in a big country town. You meet familiar faces and you get to know people who know people you know! And like most other Australians we take a mild interest in what people are up to, how successful they are at sport or school, who they married, how many children, what part of town they now live in. Men might be interested in whether they hunt or fish, what kind of car or ute they drive, how hard they work, what kind beer they drink (and how much) and whether or not he’s a good bloke – worthy or capable of being a friend.

Women might (and here, fearfully, I tread on shaky ground) want to know where there favourite shopping places in Melbourne or Launceston are, how they chose their children’s names, how to find time to themselves or how often they organise girls’ nights, what their quickest and most delicious meals for children are, whether it’s a clean dry white or a mature rounded red.

We put this stuff into our heads and hearts. It’s how we get to know one another. I married into a North West family. In my first teaching position in Burnie I taught two relatives by marriage and got to know many others. In Ulverstone I taught yet even more, and worked alongside other teachers who were related to my wife. Even here, I am related by marriage to a staff member, and her children attend the school.

It’s not surprising that having taught at Ulverstone, Deloraine and Latrobe there are interesting family links – in this case the family of Joe and Enid Lyons, whose children variously attended each of these schools. The story of our local hero Teddy Sheean is one that is owned and celebrated by the Latrobe and wider communities. Yet, like our Australian brothers and sisters across this great land, we too have a tendency to like taking a swipe at those who are just a wee little too big for their boots, just a mite too successful for their own good, who just need brining down a peg or two, you know, just for their own good…

Nazareth, Judea, circa 29 AD was no different. Mark (6:1 – 6) records Jesus returning to his home with his disciples. Being the Sabbath Jesus goes to the synagogue and begins teaching: in response to his preaching and confronted by the stories of miracles elsewhere, his relatives and neighbours decry him, ‘This is the carpenter, surely, the son of Mary…. And they would not accept him… He was amazed at their lack of faith.’

To know Jesus, one must accept him. There can be no miracles in our own lives unless we too believe. We are rich, full human beings and all the details of our lives that we share in friendship and neighbourliness are but shadows compared to what the Lord himself knows about us.

Saved from death

My nephew was eight months old when his father, my brother, died in a tragic accident in 1991. He turned 18 in April. He has an elder brother and a sister, by all accounts wonderful young people and a mother who is utterly devoted to them. My mother and my many brothers and sisters have provided a familial network and my nephew has grown to be an upstanding young man.

My sister-in-law’s tenacity as a mother is second to none. She has given everything she has to ensure that her children have what they need.

Death places huge, unexpected challenges before us. None of us can be shielded from death, nor can we escape it. In the history of humanity there have been many attempts to explain what lies beyond it. Some argue that death brings extinction of the self, others suggest a cycle of lives before reaching one’s highest potential or that there a continuation of the self after death. Still others proclaim a unity with creation that sees the self extinguished.

The Christian explanation is complex, for while it builds on the Hebrew experience it is strongly influenced by Greek philosophy. Christians link life after death to salvation: that is, because we are separated from God by sin, we need to reunited with him. God took human form, the person of Jesus, to save humanity by the way he lived, died and the rose from death. His resurrection became a foretaste of what awaited the faithful. The Christian scriptures advise that on the last day all will be judged and the righteous will be raised. Many modern Christian thinkers propose that all humanity will ultimately be saved. In the post-modern world, our loved ones ‘live forever’ in our hearts.

Mark (5:21 - 43) relates two interconnected stories, both well known. One is known as Jairus’ daughter, and the other, the Woman who touched Jesus’ cloak. Each story is a story about life, hope and the healing power of Jesus. In Jairus’ daughter a court official asks Jesus to heal his desperately sick daughter. Before Jesus can get there, the girl dies. Jesus tells the family that she is only asleep and bids her to wake. Now what held Jesus up was that on his way to Jairus’ home, was a woman who suffered from terrible haemorrhaging touched Jesus’ cloak in the hope of being healed of her disease. Jesus asks that whoever touched him declare themselves. The woman steps forward and Jesus recognises her faith.

The raising of Jairus’s daughter, like the story of Lazarus is a clear reminder of God’s power over death, of the promise of eternal life, of the offer of salvation for those who have faith. Both these stories speak to our deepest need for hope, that there must be, that there is such hope and salvation.

I dream that my nephew will come to know his great dad, not only through the stories passed to him by his family, but because ultimately, one day, he too will share with his father, eternal life.

Calming the storm

At the beginning of the holidays my daughter, our last child at home, moved out to flat with a friend. She hasn’t moved far. Next door in fact. Yet she now has a power bill in her own name, buys her own groceries, and with her flat mate, she cleans bathrooms, cooks and does her own dishes. She still visits regularly to use the internet and joins us for a family meal on Sunday evenings.

We have a long corridor that leads to five bedrooms. But for our room, the four other bedrooms are empty, their occupants now moved on, and perhaps never to return permanently. It’s a quiet ache. Tidy bedrooms don’t make up for children who have to grow up and start looking after themselves.

This is, after all, what we as parents aspire to. It’s our job. We have faith in our children, in the way we have taught them.

One of the richest, allegorical texts of Mark’s Gospel (4:35 – 41) is the story in which Jesus’ calms the storm. It has been understood as a picture of the confusion of the early church. Jesus’ questions his disciples, ‘Why are you so frightened? How is it that you have no faith?’ The disciples had failed to recognise Jesus’ presence, thinking him ‘asleep’. It is no surprise, that at the heart of this story, there is a story about who I am. It is no trouble being a person of faith when the going is good, but when my life is thrown into turmoil I struggle to see God walking with me. Notionally I know he is there, but in my anxiety doubt grows. Mark clearly tells us that his presence is constant and real, we need but call on his name.

And while this story still has an application to the life of the church today (clerical abuse, women and married priests, left-wing radical theologies, right-wing ‘traditionalists’, etc.) it is applies equally to letting our children go, to make their own decisions, to be independent, and trusting them to do right. They will experience life in a turbulent world, have enormous ups and downs, but in the end, we trust that they will know that you are there to love and support them. And, it’s your job. For the duration of your life. And as we live in Christian hope for life eternal, it’s forever.

This Sunday the cycle of our Church’s calendar returns to Ordinary Time. Isn’t it time too that you returned to join this cycle?

Ascent

As a child I had a great imagination, fueled as it was by stories told to us by the Sisters that often filled the ‘missing gaps’ of the Gospels – extended versions of Jesus’ childhood, the shroud of Turin, conversations between Mary and Martha. Throw in repeats of Flash Gordon, images of a bearded God, and an infant Jesus who could perform miracles. Top that up with the ascension stories of Enoch, Ezra, Baruch, Ezra and Moses, and the wonderfully brave stories of the Maccabees, mixed up with Bonanza!

The world of my childhood gave me dreams and games, ideas and opportunities. Just recollecting conjures up lively images. Saints with haloes, stigmata, virgin martyrs! Nothing was too much of a stretch for my imagination. The Immaculate Conception of Mary, Annunciation, Visitation, Nativity, Resurrection, Ascension, Pentecost were all not only possible, but made sense when we could count on miracles at Lourdes, babies and mothers were saved by St Gerard Majella, and when the Sacred Heart and Immaculate Heart reigned over our family in grave serenity from the dining room and living room.

Then we grow up. Then we learn to think for ourselves. Then we critique. We make sense of the stories and they fall into place – they have meaning – and not necessarily what we first thought.

The Evangelists wrote more, far more than history of course. Imbedded throughout are assumptions about the audience, about their faith, about their community, about their struggles and triumphs. The stories about Jesus and his disciples are viewed from many years later and possess strong convictions about who the person of Jesus was for them. Some stories are by way of explanation. Such is the Ascension.

Within and without the Bible ascension into heaven was expected of holy and great persons, for it indicated divine approval and the continuation of their power in the heavenly realm. In the hierarchical world of the ancients, heaven could only be up, for God ruled from above. Ascension could only mean going upwards.

For the first listeners the Ascension, then, was an affirmation of Jesus’ authority (for he subsequently sends out his disciples on their greatest mission), it is a clear statement about his abiding, continuing presence among them, working in them and through them. This is their unmistakable understanding and experience.

When you and I hear this story, it is not an invitation into a child’s imagination. It is a palpable call to see Jesus not only in our own lives, but in the lives of those about us. Jesus’ constant call to love others, to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, give drink to the thirsty, visit the imprisoned - because we do this to him, should be as unmistakable now to us as it was to those first disciples.

Twists and turns

The road to Hobart is very familiar to me. I travel it regularly, from early morning to late at night. I am able to anticipate towns and villages, overtaking lanes and pit stops. In recent years I have enjoyed using the magic of cruise control. It’s an easy drive.

That’s how it is with familiar drives, familiar pathways. We have an urge to recognise landscapes and landmarks, the twists and turns, looking for patterns, for regularity, we make sense of our environment. There are, however, always dangers on the road, unpredictable road conditions, even more unpredictable drivers. There are other factors, of course, speed, attention (passengers, CD players), tyres. Familiarity, as they say, breeds contempt, and we can often take unnecessary risks.

As we progress towards the end of our Easter season, the easy familiarity we associate with the Alleluias, the post-resurrection stories and the frenetic energy of the first disciples as they begin to preach the Good News, it is so easy to accept the familiarity and suddenly find ourselves on cruise control negotiating the bends without being aware of where we are, of what we are doing.

John’s Gospel, the rich landscape in which and through which the story of Jesus wends, proclaims a message both familiar and extraordinarily challenging: This is my commandment: love one another as I have loved you. A man can have no greater love than to lay down his life for his friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you (15:12 -14). We hear it at ANZAC Day, Remembrance services and at funerals. But this is no charge for bravery under fire, this is about the way we get up every day and face the world we live in, 365 days a year. Sometimes our days have patterns that we can no longer recognise and around which we revolve until our day is complete. This Gospel pericope offers a clear proposition for all humanity: if you live the commandment of love and are willing to lay down your down life for your friends then you are indeed Jesus’ friend.

Cruise control is fantastic, but it should be left for long trips. As we drive through our days before Pentecost, let’s challenge ourselves to be aware of, and open to, the people around us, to view each twist and turn of our day as an opportunity to learn and to celebrate our friendship with Jesus. The opening prayer for the 6th Sunday of Easter reminds us:
Ever-living God,
help us to celebrate our joy
in the resurrection of the Lord
and to express in our lives
the love we celebrate.

Missionaries at the door

Occasionally, when I happen to be home on a Saturday morning, there is a knock at the front door. Young men, white shirts. You know the scenario. At other times, there are friendly young Jehovah’s Witnesses bringing copies of the Watchtower. I have always given these committed young people hospitality, and I have enjoyed the company of the Morman missionaries who have travelled far from their homes to preach their message. These doorknockers are ordinary human beings, doing an extraordinary job, a job that arises as a response to their faith.

Now, as you can imagine, I don’t agree with the conclusions they have reached, though we share in the great stories of Christianity, but these men and women do something that I cannot do. They proclaim their faith to their neighbours, face to face, at their front doors.

The Acts of the Apostles (9:26 – 31) recalls Paul’s story as he preaches the Good News in Jersualem. He preached ‘fearlessly in name of the Lord’. The consequence of which the Hellenists were determined to kill him and the disciples had to send him to Caesarea and thence to Tarsus.

In another time, regular external displays of our faith were shared in public. Catholic men would remove their hats passing a Catholic church, we had regular processions on Marian feast days and on the feasts of Christ the King or Corpus Christi, we wore scapulas under our shirts, carried rosary beads in our pockets and had our patron saint’s medals pinned into our jackets, and no less than a St Christopher’s medallion hanging from the car mirror. Now such displays seem to be anathema. A gold cross hanging from the neck has become a mere decoration.

Our internal displays of faith have also disappeared, sometimes without a trace. Our local church is bereft of children though we have 150 enrolled in our local Catholic school. There are key teachings of our church concerning marriage, the value of human life, the dignity of the individual, the centrality of the Eucharist, even the divinity of Christ that are treated with disdain by those who claim a place under the umbrella of the Church.

Yes, these missionaries who clamber at our doors are latter day St Paul’s. They want to make public their lives of faith, and do so with vigour and commitment. There is no call for you to knock on your neighbour’s door, but as a minimum you are called to nurture and grow your faith and you have a serious and unalienable obligation to do so for your children’s sake.

Lavished with love

My epitaph as a parent might well read, ‘He tried really hard!’ and I suspect that I would be quite happy with that. I can’t claim to have always done my best, but I have certainly tried. As I have pointed out previously – there is nothing greater you can do for your children than to love them. You cannot predict what will become of your children, but I can assure you, as many child psychologists, pediatricians and psychiatrists can also assure you, that children armed with unfettered, unconditional love will be successful. They will have success in loving others, in being available, in being considerate, open and kind-hearted. And, it’s a known formula. It’s not a secret.

Because of this power of love, we use ‘love’ to express the relationship between the Divine and ourselves, most aptly expressed in 1 John 3:1:

Think of the love that the Father has lavished on us, by letting us be called God’s children, and that is what we are.

Note that God’s love is lavished upon us, not just given or offered. His love is sumptuous, extravagant and rich, almost beyond our capacity to understand. And this is where our human love becomes indicative of that Divine love. Our human love is a ‘taster’. As children of God, the ultimate revelation is that we, one day, shall be like him (1 John 3:2), we shall understand that love fully, we shall participate in the same loving action through which the Divine calls creation into being over and over again.

In the Gospel this Sunday (John 10:11 – 18) Jesus is the metaphorical shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep. Such is the strength of this image that there is no comparison to his role to that of a shepherd who cares for his flock. No. Jesus is the shepherd, and we are his flock. Jesus’ understanding appears absolutely and utterly literal. And this is the sense that we should take. God’s love is literal, expressed as it is through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, through the story of Israel, through our own inspired experiences of loving and being loved.

And this story begins anew and afresh in you. Love your children lavishly. Give it freely.

Praise the Lord

Have you noticed how we struggle with ‘Easter’ language? What do you call the day before Easter Sunday (it’s Holy Saturday. Easter Saturday is the next Saturday and the end of Easter week)? Do you wish people a ‘Happy Easter’ (yes, you can)?

Alleluia, is a transliteration of the Hebrew word Halleluya meaning ‘Praise Yah (‘The Lord’). In the First Testament it is found in the Psalms, and in the Second Testament only in the Book of Revelation. For Christians, alleluia, has become an exclamation of joy in the Lord, an acclamation of our faith in the Risen One.

Alleluias are distinctly absent from the liturgy during Lent. They return magnificently at the Easter Vigil. The darkness is washed away by the light of Christ expressed so beautifully in the Paschal candle as it passes into the darkened church, while the flame is passed from person to person. The Gospel acclamation is sung with evident joy and enthusiasm. Signs and symbols imbedded in our culture and life burst forth in alleluias, making sense of who we are and what we are called to be. We have arrived at the intersection between our human lives and the divine.

Easter is not over, of course. The season of Easter lasts for 6 weeks. During these weeks the lectionary reiterates the central thesis of the Gospel accounts: the Lord has risen. His presence is felt and understood by the disciples. They are convinced by word and by action. They see him, touch him and hear him.

This week’s Gospel follows on immediately after the story of the Road to Emmaus (Luke 24:35 – 48). The disciples return to Jerusalem and having begun to explain what had occurred, Jesus again appears. He shows himself to all the disciples and invites them to touch him. Jesus asks them for food and they give him grilled fish. The disciples are told that they too are witnesses to the resurrection.

Luke wants to it be abundantly clear that this Risen Jesus, is also the same person as the Jesus they knew, he wants us to know with absolute certainty that what he writes is what is witnessed by the disciples. He is truly risen. But Luke also ensures that we too can become witnesses, if we model our lives on those of the disciples. We must constantly listen to the scriptures, we must participate in the breaking of bread (Eucharist), we must see him alive and present in one another (service).

May your Easter continue be joyful! Alleluia!

Pietà

Once inside St Peter’s Basilica, just to the right in a very small chapel shielded with a Perspex-like window, is Michelangelo’s Pietà. It is so much smaller than what I had imagined. It was in 1972 that it was attacked with a hammer, and despite my tender age then, I remember as if it were yesterday.

Michelangelo’s depiction of Mary with her crucified son shows a youthful mother cradling the body of her son. Mary is not distressed and broken-hearted. She appears serene and other-worldly. If words could fall from these stone lips, they would utter, ‘This is my son; my beloved’ echoing the words of the Father at Jesus’ baptism.

As much as our tradition invites us into the suffering and death of Jesus, we are equally invited into the mystery of that suffering and death. It is not pointless. It is not an end in itself. In the mystery is the revelation of God’s supreme love poured out through his son’s selfless and gracious act. Then from this death the potential of every human being is realised. Jesus becomes but the first of us all to remade anew.

Little wonder, then, that Michelango’s image provides us with a vision of hope, of anticipation and expectation. His mother gathers a broken body and she offers him, her beloved, to all. This mother, this Mary knows what awaits.

May your Easter be holy. Accept this gift.