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.