Good Shepherd calls by name

In our wildest dreams none of us can imagine having to offer up our lives for someone else, whether it be for a spouse or for a child. While television dramas provide a plethora of scenarios when this might happen, the news also regularly reports of parents saving their children from flaming homes or raging currents. They are not always successful.

War brings an incomprehensible and tragic loss of life, military and civilian. Few Australian or NZ families of the early and middle years of the last century failed to be impacted by war fatalities. No one, rich or poor, educated or unschooled, farmer or businessman escaped. When such tragedies envelope whole townships, cities, states, countries and peoples the immensity is plainly overwhelming.

Less than 2 years ago I stood at the Menin Gate in Ypres, Belgium as the last post played. There were people present from across our planet, each sharing this poignant moment, remembering those who died on the battlefields of Europe. People nearby were shedding tears. It was extraordinarily moving.

Further east at Gallipoli 5,833 Australian soldiers died. A further 1,985 died of wounds, bringing Australia’s total losses on those shores to 7,818. 19,441 Australian soldiers were wounded. New Zealand lost 2,721 men and 4,752 were wounded.

Their motives for fighting a war far from home were complex and there was certainly a strong desire for adventure and to serve God, King and Country, and if called upon, they would lay down their lives.

One of scripture’s strongest images is of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. It is he who calls his sheep by name, who seeks them out when they are lost, who when they hurt carries them back to the fold, and who – when all else fails – lays down his life for his flock.

This Sunday’s Gospel of the Good Shepherd coincides with ANZAC Day. The image of our men and women leaving these verdant, beloved shores to enter into the hell-holes of war, and that of Jesus as the kind, loving shepherd is incongruous, but is critical is coming to understand the desire of these young soldiers of freedom to protect their homes and loved ones. Though so many died on foreign soil, the ultimate sacrifice is anof love of a monumental scale. And though we have acknowledged that love with physical memorials, the Menin Gate being a most famous example, the most resonant and lasting is the freedom we now possess.

Few of us will be called to lay down our lives for those we love, but we are most definitely called to love deeply, to give of ourselves, so that the lives we live will matter, will have meaning and purpose, to mirror and model the Good Shepherd.

This Sunday, the 4th Sunday of Easter is also called Vocations Sunday.
, Menin

Face to face with Jesus

Over Easter I attended a national conference for Catholic principals in Hobart. The program was dense but inspiring and there is much I have yet to unpack, absorb and enact. While standing in line I heard the voice behind me utter: ‘Don’t you say hello to your old friends.’ As I turned and faced the owner of the voice I had zero recognition, so I looked at his name tag, looked at his face again. It had been 28 years since we had last met. A rush of memories overwhelmed me.

Our capacity to recognise faces is usually much better than this experience, though admittedly we had both aged considerably, had less hair, more bulk and had long, but wonderful stories to tell. When newborns bond with their mothers they read the face, absorb the smells and react to the stress and anxiety. These faces are fixed into our memories, and we have this ability to refer this knowledge to new faces, to see racial or regional characteristics or where we see familial similarities. There is a name we give to the disorder when people cannot recognise faces they know – prosopagnosia.

In our Gospel reading this week (John 21:1 – 19) the disciples encounter Jesus while fishing. Jesus calls out to them. Only one disciple, ‘the disciple Jesus loved’, recognises that it is the Lord, and it is then that Peter also acknowledges, ‘It is the Lord.’ Yet, despite the ‘recognition’ when all the disciples join Peter and Jesus for a breakfast of bread and fish, ‘none of the disciples was bold enough to ask, ‘Who are you?’ for they knew quite well it was the Lord.’ It is possible that the disciples were still expecting a resurrected Jesus to be a revivified corpse? Or was the resurrected Jesus not quite recognisable because he was substantially different, or was the transformation so significant that not only was their facial recognition ability impaired, but so was their very perception of the person of Jesus. This, according to John, was the third time that Jesus had ‘shown’ himself to his disciples, and obviously they still didn’t get it.

This is the problem also faced by the disciples on the road to Emmaus. Although the stranger explained all the scriptures and the prophets, it was not until the breaking of bread that they recognised who he was, and then he disappeared from their sight.

The key for us is recognising the person of Jesus alive amongst us. His resurrection means that he continues in some way within our community, he exists as a person, as the Body of Christ. Our faith calls us and invites us to explore that presence through service of the community, through the Body of Christ. The faces we see every day, those we know well and those we have never met and those which have gone before, and those yet to be born will all bear the image of Jesus himself. Will you recognise him?

God has become man

Today, had my grandfather lived, he would have been 100. He was born in the wilds of the rural, east coast of New Zealand, far from the comforts of hospitals, sealed roads and bustling city life. He lived an extraordinary, if in the end tragic, life, and was buried a stone’s throw away from the place of his birth. He wrote an extensive autobiography that was published posthumously after 27 years. Remembered mostly as a soldier and war hero, and a very learned man, his record as a husband and father are less praiseworthy. Indeed he was to be feared. And while it took 488 pages to record his own life’s journey, it would be far too difficult to sum up his life in a few brief paragraphs. I spent several of my younger years living with my grandparents.

Jesus’ birth is estimated to have been no earlier than 6 BCE, but some 9 months prior to his birth, Luke (1:26 – 38) tells us that a young woman, recently engaged to be married, perhaps no older than 13 or 14, is visited by a messenger. The messenger brings news that would shock a family as much today as it did then. She was to be a mother. What challenges us is this young woman’s response to this news: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord. May it be done to me according to your word.”

We recall this story as The Annunciation. In this day and age we would call it The Announcement. This announcement inaugurates a new age. For in this announcement God’s relationship with his creatures is changed forever. The relationship which had thus far been between a God who revealed himself in word and action is now enfleshed in the womb of this young woman. God has become man.

The intended birth of every human being is a resounding affirmation of our relationship with the Divine. Every new life opens up possibilities and dreams. Every birth announces an expectation of a life lived fully, of a hope to be fulfilled for the present, for that unknown future, for eternity.

The world in which my children live and breathe is separated from that of my grandfather by a century, and yet when each of my children was in utero our desire for a healthy pregnancy and delivery was accompanied by anxiety of parenthood and the dreams we held for them. What impact will they make upon the world in which they live, what legacy will they provide for their descendents, how will the stories of their great-grandfather be carried forward?

Mary. Mary was the young woman. A most ordinary, a most extraordinary human being. The response that echoes from her heart and which reaches through the ages is, “Here I am Lord, I come to do your will.”

Today is the Feast of the Annunciation, but also my eldest brother’s birthday. A reminder that this Sunday is Passion or Palm Sunday.

The prodigal father

We all heard the warnings our parents gave us about hanging around with those deadbeats, delinquents, troublemakers, recalcitrants and ratbags. Who knows what kind of trouble you’d find yourself in? Needless to say, despite the warnings, we did hang out with them – and in the end most of us turned out quite okay, a few lessons learned, a few brushes with the ‘dark side’.
The word ‘prodigal’ has received some rough press. Because we know how hard end the young man (of the parable fame) was, we tend to think that prodigal means ungrateful or sinful. In fact it has its origin in the Latin word prodigus for lavish or extravagant. Many prefer to call Luke’s parable of the prodigal son, the parable of the forgiving father. I would prefer to call it the parable of the prodigal father. For here is a most extraordinary father. One must assume that this young man had received a sound and God-fearing upbringing, and that his father, though perhaps disappointed with his son’s choice, allowed him the space to choose.
This sounds like the ideal parent, but you would have to wonder what on earth could be going through his mind. Did he fear for his son’s life as he fell into bad company? Did he hope in his heart of hearts that his son would see the error of his ways and return home? Did he think of his elder son, of his fidelity? For here is a father whose love is so lavish, so generous, so welcoming, and so forgiving, that we are not surprised by his elder son’s complaint.
In this parable we are able to see ourselves in each of the characters: the father for whom nothing is more important than loving forgiveness; the elder son who struggles to reconcile his steadiness and fidelity with the lavishness of his father’s welcome to his wayward brother; the younger son who wants to stretch his legs, see the world, burn up his inheritance, and who despite knowing his offences, believes that even as a servant, he is better off at home.
This is a deeply rich story, for Jesus uses it as a metaphor for our relationship with God. For only God’s extravagant love has the capacity to forgive everything and yet still honour those who are steadfast and faithful.
This parable comes to us on this coming 4th Sunday of Lent as a challenge to our world-weary view on young people. Yes, our children will give us a hard time, but they need us to have that longer vision that helps us see to the horizon, constantly on the lookout for their return. You must let them go, and you must always leave the door ajar.

Just one day at a time

One day at a time

I'm only human; I'm just a man
Help me believe in what I could be and all that I am
Show me the stairway
I have to climb
Lord for my sake
Teach me to take
One day at a time

One day at a time, sweet Jesus
That's all I'm asking from you
Give me the strength to do everything that I have to do
Yesterday's gone sweet Jesus
And tomorrow may never be mine
Help me today
Show me the way
One day at a time.

Marijohn Wilkins and Kris Kristofferson


None of us is perfect - though many of us relish and delight in the imperfections and foibles of our friends and less-than-friends. The horror we experience when it becomes clear we are the butt of someone else’s gossip or joke is rife with embarrassment and anger. Sometimes our desire to humiliate others in private is relentless. When we are confronted by the victim, we become indignant and deny our role in the ordeal. It may well be part of the ‘human condition’. Wilkins’ and Kristofferson’s Gospel standard, One day at a time, is accepting of who we are, but it challenges each of us to believe in ourselves, seek and accept guidance, and to improve and deepen our capacity to live full and enriching human lives.

This 5th Sunday of Lent brings us the story of the adulterous woman (John 8:1 – 11). The woman is brought before Jesus by the scribes and Pharisees, who say: “Moses ordered us in the Law to condemn women like this to death by stoning.” Jesus responds: “If there is one of you who has not sinned, let him be the first to throw a stone.” Each of her accusers slowly walks away. No one has condemned her and Jesus directs her to, ‘Go away and don’t sin any more.’ Her accusers acknowledge – but perhaps do not accept – their own sinfulness, their own lack of perfection. Their desire to physically admonish and humiliate this woman has backfired and they walk away shamed by the image they see of themselves.

There are obviously multiple issues in this story: what happened to the equally adulterous man? Why were the scribes and Pharisees hell-bent on testing Jesus? What did they hope to achieve? Were there life-long changes effected by this incident in the accusers and the accused?

We can easily place ourselves into this story – as the woman, or as one of her accusers. Either way we must seek to understand who we are, know where we are in the story that is our life, and seek to live just one day at a time.

You know my name

Choosing names for children is rife with difficulties. Today we are less likely to burden our children with the names of grandparents, uncles and aunts. There are mercifully few Arthurs, Archibalds, Basils, Beryls, Normas, Cynthias, Dorises in schools today, though they too were popular in their day. There are even websites today for those who want to make up names – there is an apparent ‘science’ to it.
My own children were blessed with Lebanese, Polish and Maori names after endless debate and reflection. They’re still unusual, and in my sons’ cases, somewhat rare.
The Hebrews chose proper names that were descriptive or prophetic, they often carried a sense of the spiritual, capturing something of their dependence on God (e.g. Joshua/Jesus means the Lord is our salvation).
In days gone by, we only knew adults – other than relatives – by their surnames. Everyone was a Mr or Mrs. Only relatives or intimate friends called adults by their first names; so it was always a privilege to be invited to call an adult acquaintance or senior staff member by their first name. Addressing others required deference and respect.
When Moses encounters the burning bush (Exodus 3:1-8a, 13-15), he hears a voice calling out to him. The voice announces that it is the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. God then calls and sends Moses to free his people from the hands of Egyptians. When Moses asks by whom he should say he was sent, he is told, “I am who am” – Yahweh – has sent you.
Thus the God who had been revealed himself to Abraham a half millennium earlier, now discloses his own name, and such is the respect for this name, it is still considered holy and unutterable by the Jews and for most Christians to this very day. Where Yahweh is found in the scriptures it is usually replaced by THE LORD (in capital letters).
And this is the intimacy to which you and I are also invited: for while his name may be unutterable, we know it; and this God continues to speak to us through the burning bushes of our everyday life. You and I too are called and sent by this same God to rescue the poor and suffering.
The names we give our children must last a lifetime and be remembered by the generations yet to be born. Choose carefully! This Lent remain vigilant to the voice of God: he will call you by name.

More than all the stars in the heavens

How do you tell your children that you love them totally and unconditionally? When my sons were very young I often told them, when it was time for sleep, that if they could imagine all the grains of sand on every shore, or all of the stars in the heavens, then I loved them even more than that. My children, grown up as they now are, could never doubt the love I have for them.

The ancient Hebrews, too, considered the stars in the heavens as being too many to count. The stories they told attempted to express their relationship with their God, about his infinite love, of his plan for humanity, of his desire to provide all that his creatures needed. Humanity’s fall is matched by the promise of reconciliation, of redemption, of our God’s constant invitation to return to him. Recorded for all time, begun around the campfires, remembered in oral tradition, and recorded in print over many hundreds of years, often mixing older stories with newer ones, the recurring theme of God’s fidelity to, and his love for, his chosen people is epic.

So, as Abram is taken outside by the Lord, he is shown the heavens: Look up to the heavens and count the stars if you can. Such will be your descendants (Genesis 5:5). Having performed a ritual sacrifice, Abram is bound by a covenant with the Lord: To your descendents I give this land, from the wadi of Egypt to the Great River (Genesis 5:18). The narrative wends its way through the trials and tribulations of the Hebrews to the promise, then the birth of Jesus himself.

You and I have become a part of this story, through our baptism, through our being part of God’s New People. How many descendants in faith does Abram have? As many as the stars. How much does God love us? More than every grain of sand on the shore, more than all the stars in the heavens. God still invites us, daily, every moment, to be with him.

This Lent, know how much you are loved, let those who care for you know how much you love them, and then find an opportunity one of these very fine evenings to stare into the night sky to see the proof of God’s love for you.