There are not many ‘special interest groups’ mentioned by name in the Gospels, but lepers, the blind, the lame, the poor are certainly there along with the well-known Pharisees, scribes, Levites and Zealots. In Jesus’ healing ministry the link between physical healing and spiritual healing (through forgiveness) is very strong. So it is that in Mark 2:1 – 12, when a paralytic is lowered into the room where Jesus is preaching, that Jesus’ first response is to the faith of those who presented him, and secondly to the paralytic himself, ‘My child, your sins are forgiven.’
It is probable that many Jews saw disability as some kind of divine punishment for one’s sins, or even the sins of one’s forebears. As a consequence, Jesus shocked his audience by forgiving the paralytic’s sins first before healing him. This course of events challenged the Jew’s understandings – Jesus was empowered to forgive sins, and that the Mosaic ordering of healing followed by reconciliation and forgiveness was within the gift of Jesus. Jesus has the authority to do so.
Many of those with illnesses and disabilities were, as a consequence, shunned from the religious and social life of the community – they were literally outcasts. For some, their illness denied them even salvation.
Despite the passage of 2000 years, many in our community still possess attitudes to the disabled that have not advanced. Disabilities are described as being a result of maternal smoking or alcohol intake, genetics, bad driving or plain bad luck. Jesus models the compassion, openness and love in the way we receive and welcome the disabled, but it is not pity, although it may well be anger (at the way they are treated) - in the end Jesus is concerned with the person, and not the disability.
Our church too, needs to look at itself in the way it provides for the disabled in our worship, gaining access to our church buildings, finding suitable places to be seated. If they have been called to a liturgical ministry, how can they serve at the altar or read from the lectern, give communion or provide music?
The invitation for us to be ‘lowered into place’ where the Gospel is being proclaimed and heard is before us everyday, and we too ask that the Lord will open his heart to us saying, ‘My child, your sins are forgiven.’
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Healing the helpless
Platitudes are wasted breath. There is no scale to the pain of those whose children will not begin school in 2009, whose children lost their lives in Australia’s worst natural disaster, whose children – still living – will be ever scarred with the terror of lost, burning breath, whose childhood memories of places, rooms and cubbyholes are now erased in the ashes of this solemn and unforgiving tragedy.
The tears that fall from our eyes as we hear the pained stories of heroic and panicked escape; the recounted miracles of being saved by the urgent and frantic aid of the brave all count for little, if all hope is lost.
And for those whose lives lie buried in this national trauma, it may well seem that it is all indeed hope-less. But I cannot believe in this hope-lessness, though I cannot deny the depth of their despair. The stories of Jesus might well not assuage these bereaved and victims, yet there is a power which only the Gospel can offer.
Mark (1:40 – 45) tells of the leper who came to Jesus pleading to be cured. Feeling great compassion, perhaps anger, Jesus touched him and he is healed. Jesus ordered him to say nothing, but to present himself before the priests and make the appropriate offering according to the Law of Moses, yet the man went off and freely told his story everywhere. The consequence was that Jesus could no longer go openly into the townships.
The key to this story is not the leper’s physical recovery, but that Jesus has the power to save even those who are excluded from Israel by the Law of Moses, the helpless, the hopeless. Secondly, despite Jesus’ injunction to say nothing, the healed man is compelled to proclaim the Gospel.
There is always hope, for Jesus has the capacity and desire to touch each of us, and most specially those left bereft and in suffering. His compassion and touch is extended to each and every one of us. As each person is healed, in time and grace, their healing will be a true proclamation of Jesus’ presence and saving power among us.
We pray earnestly for the survivors’ safety, their health and the strength to carry on. This is not some banal, empty platitude. It is at the heart of our faith.
The tears that fall from our eyes as we hear the pained stories of heroic and panicked escape; the recounted miracles of being saved by the urgent and frantic aid of the brave all count for little, if all hope is lost.
And for those whose lives lie buried in this national trauma, it may well seem that it is all indeed hope-less. But I cannot believe in this hope-lessness, though I cannot deny the depth of their despair. The stories of Jesus might well not assuage these bereaved and victims, yet there is a power which only the Gospel can offer.
Mark (1:40 – 45) tells of the leper who came to Jesus pleading to be cured. Feeling great compassion, perhaps anger, Jesus touched him and he is healed. Jesus ordered him to say nothing, but to present himself before the priests and make the appropriate offering according to the Law of Moses, yet the man went off and freely told his story everywhere. The consequence was that Jesus could no longer go openly into the townships.
The key to this story is not the leper’s physical recovery, but that Jesus has the power to save even those who are excluded from Israel by the Law of Moses, the helpless, the hopeless. Secondly, despite Jesus’ injunction to say nothing, the healed man is compelled to proclaim the Gospel.
There is always hope, for Jesus has the capacity and desire to touch each of us, and most specially those left bereft and in suffering. His compassion and touch is extended to each and every one of us. As each person is healed, in time and grace, their healing will be a true proclamation of Jesus’ presence and saving power among us.
We pray earnestly for the survivors’ safety, their health and the strength to carry on. This is not some banal, empty platitude. It is at the heart of our faith.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
LIsten to your deeper self
Hugh Lunn recorded his childhood adventures in Brisbane of the 1950s in Over the top with Jim. I have delighted in his remembrances for they struck many chords with the childhood I shared with my brothers and sisters. But for all the hype attributed by 50 year olds to their idyllic childhoods, our lives were not lacking in tragedy. Many families had fathers who never returned from war, or who returned as shadows of their former selves, strangers to their families. The ravages of polio were not uncommon still. There was (often public) condemnation for unwed mothers, divorcés/divorcées, living outside of marriage.
A room full of rocket scientists could argue that childhood is the same – but they would all be wrong. Quite wrong. There are some aspects to childhood today that should give us genuine anxiety. Some of these are touted in the newspapers and on television on an ongoing basis: lack of exercise, poor gross and fine motor skills, obesity, struggling literacy and numeracy, poor self-esteem, lack of resilience – and there are clear links to long hours of television viewing, repetitive violent and sexually implicit videos (and occasionally explicit) and video games. Children are overindulged because of parent guilt about work and the little quality time spent with them. Children’s rooms resemble toy shops: they are overstimulated; children do few jobs about the house and often lack the capacity to accept responsibility for their actions. Children expect to be treated as small adults, so much so that many forget to distance their emotions and behaviour in the presence of other adults, showing a lack of deference for age and of respect for others in the loss of self-control.
And we adults have changed radically too. The easy-going, Australian way of life that we dream of, exists less and less. We are constantly anxious about our children’s achievements (sleeping, speaking, walking, playing soccer/piano/tennis, learning to read/write/dance/sing/do maths/ride a bike/make a bed), make their lives busy, plan you-beaut holidays that keep everyone on their toes. We suffer from road rage, sports rage …
The more that our world becomes fractured, the more we seek to understand who and what we are called to be. In a word, we seek integrity. In the search for truth we need to align ourselves with God’s divine will. How do we discern what that will is for us? The key is to listen – to our deeper selves, to each other, in prayerfulness and reflection. In this way we can inform ourselves what our children most need, not what we most want to give.
A room full of rocket scientists could argue that childhood is the same – but they would all be wrong. Quite wrong. There are some aspects to childhood today that should give us genuine anxiety. Some of these are touted in the newspapers and on television on an ongoing basis: lack of exercise, poor gross and fine motor skills, obesity, struggling literacy and numeracy, poor self-esteem, lack of resilience – and there are clear links to long hours of television viewing, repetitive violent and sexually implicit videos (and occasionally explicit) and video games. Children are overindulged because of parent guilt about work and the little quality time spent with them. Children’s rooms resemble toy shops: they are overstimulated; children do few jobs about the house and often lack the capacity to accept responsibility for their actions. Children expect to be treated as small adults, so much so that many forget to distance their emotions and behaviour in the presence of other adults, showing a lack of deference for age and of respect for others in the loss of self-control.
And we adults have changed radically too. The easy-going, Australian way of life that we dream of, exists less and less. We are constantly anxious about our children’s achievements (sleeping, speaking, walking, playing soccer/piano/tennis, learning to read/write/dance/sing/do maths/ride a bike/make a bed), make their lives busy, plan you-beaut holidays that keep everyone on their toes. We suffer from road rage, sports rage …
The more that our world becomes fractured, the more we seek to understand who and what we are called to be. In a word, we seek integrity. In the search for truth we need to align ourselves with God’s divine will. How do we discern what that will is for us? The key is to listen – to our deeper selves, to each other, in prayerfulness and reflection. In this way we can inform ourselves what our children most need, not what we most want to give.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
And who is my neighbour?
In 1988 then-Archbishop Eric D’Arcy brought Renew to Tasmania. This was an invitation for the Church in Tasmania to reflect on its journey. Catholic communities met in small groups to tell their stories and their dreams. Almost 20 years later, I recall some of the pain that some expressed about how difficult it was for them to become members of the local parish and to feel at home with those with whom they worshipped. One lady still felt left out, a ‘foreigner’, after having spent fifty (yes, fifty) years in the parish.
There are still two communities of Samaritans still living in Israel to this very day. Their ancient heritage and religion is a fusion and result of Assyrian and early Israelite intermarriage (some 720 years BC). The Samaritans accepted the Torah (the Pentateuch or first five books of the Bible) as their sacred scriptures. After the refusal by the Jews to accept their assistance to rebuild the Temple at Jerusalem, the Samaritans built their own temple (it was destroyed in 128 BC). The Samaritans would not accept the books of prophets, the Psalms or the history of Israel’s kings, leading the Jews to consider them as foreigners. They were despised for their incompleteness.
In answer to the lawyer’s question: ‘And who is my neighbour?’ Jesus responded with the parable we call ‘The Good Samaritan’.
We live in a global economy. The peas we eat could come from China, our jam from Brazil, our oranges from California, our cotton clothes from India, cars from Korea and Japan, our tomatoes from Italy. The people who provide the necessities for our daily lives are not the neighbours next door, the farmer down the road, or the bootmaker in town, our neighbours truly are international. Yet we are not the same. We cannot compare the Chinese farmer, or the Asian child labourer with our next door neighbour. We share the earth and its economy, but there is no equity.
For all the energy and money we outlay to be more comfortable, we don’t even seem to be able to connect to the people we share offices and workplaces with, let alone a church pew. The invitation from this parable is to prove ourselves neighbours, not merely be neighbours. It is about actively participating and engaging in the world in which I live: my family, my school community, the people who live near me, my church, my town, my state, my country, my world – hungering after justice. And then I can offer generous and gracious hospitality.
Don’t let your neighbours wait 50 years for such an invitation, and don’t be afraid to be different.
There are still two communities of Samaritans still living in Israel to this very day. Their ancient heritage and religion is a fusion and result of Assyrian and early Israelite intermarriage (some 720 years BC). The Samaritans accepted the Torah (the Pentateuch or first five books of the Bible) as their sacred scriptures. After the refusal by the Jews to accept their assistance to rebuild the Temple at Jerusalem, the Samaritans built their own temple (it was destroyed in 128 BC). The Samaritans would not accept the books of prophets, the Psalms or the history of Israel’s kings, leading the Jews to consider them as foreigners. They were despised for their incompleteness.
In answer to the lawyer’s question: ‘And who is my neighbour?’ Jesus responded with the parable we call ‘The Good Samaritan’.
We live in a global economy. The peas we eat could come from China, our jam from Brazil, our oranges from California, our cotton clothes from India, cars from Korea and Japan, our tomatoes from Italy. The people who provide the necessities for our daily lives are not the neighbours next door, the farmer down the road, or the bootmaker in town, our neighbours truly are international. Yet we are not the same. We cannot compare the Chinese farmer, or the Asian child labourer with our next door neighbour. We share the earth and its economy, but there is no equity.
For all the energy and money we outlay to be more comfortable, we don’t even seem to be able to connect to the people we share offices and workplaces with, let alone a church pew. The invitation from this parable is to prove ourselves neighbours, not merely be neighbours. It is about actively participating and engaging in the world in which I live: my family, my school community, the people who live near me, my church, my town, my state, my country, my world – hungering after justice. And then I can offer generous and gracious hospitality.
Don’t let your neighbours wait 50 years for such an invitation, and don’t be afraid to be different.
Thursday, January 1, 2009
Brought up in (the) faith
Long before I even knew the word, I used to stare up at the baldachin at St Mary’s Church. This canopy over the altar was painted blue and covered in stars, a reminder I suspect, of the Blessed Virgin Mary, Star of the Sea. I was fascinated. I stared a lot during mass when I was a child.
The mass was in Latin. The sea of ladies’ hats, scarves and mantillas, the rattling of beads, the smell of incense and wax, wooden kneelers, the Kyrie, Gloria, Agnus Dei and the special feast day singing of Panis Angelicus – it was the stuff of dreams. My father loved church. A whole morning could be spent yarning while we waited desperately to get home for Sunday lunch. We had fish and chips on Fridays, fasted for three hours before communion, bravely attempted the family rosary in May and October, tried desperately to collect indulgences to escape the ravages of purgatory, prayed for the poor babies in limbo, for the conversion of Russia, gave money to save black babies in Africa, kept stamps for the missions, admired my mother’s frosted glass statue of Mary and we had two sets of the Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Favourite gifts for special occasions were fluorescent crucifixes. Such was the culture and faith into which I was incorporated as a baby.
On the very same day I was baptised, a little baby girl was baptised in Launceston some 2000 kilometres away. We became members of God’s family that day in February 1955. Our proud families bustled with joy and it cause for great celebration. Many years later this little girl would be my wife. And we too would present our children for baptism.
We would bring up our children according to our faith, prepare them for Penance, Eucharist and Confirmation. Our hope is that what we provided by deed and word would be sufficient example to imprint upon their essential character, a drive to pursue a deep relationship with their God, a firm desire to explore their faith and the stories of their forebears. They began this journey where I did. In church. Discovering the faces and voices of churchgoers, growing in their familiarity with liturgical word and gesture, making meaning of the space in which we gather as a Eucharistic community. The inessentials have fallen away.
Undoubtedly the Catholic school can unveil part of the life of the church. But it is not the Church. To discover that richness means making the step to active membership. Don’t allow this opportunity to be denied to your children.
The mass was in Latin. The sea of ladies’ hats, scarves and mantillas, the rattling of beads, the smell of incense and wax, wooden kneelers, the Kyrie, Gloria, Agnus Dei and the special feast day singing of Panis Angelicus – it was the stuff of dreams. My father loved church. A whole morning could be spent yarning while we waited desperately to get home for Sunday lunch. We had fish and chips on Fridays, fasted for three hours before communion, bravely attempted the family rosary in May and October, tried desperately to collect indulgences to escape the ravages of purgatory, prayed for the poor babies in limbo, for the conversion of Russia, gave money to save black babies in Africa, kept stamps for the missions, admired my mother’s frosted glass statue of Mary and we had two sets of the Sacred Heart and the Immaculate Heart of Mary. Favourite gifts for special occasions were fluorescent crucifixes. Such was the culture and faith into which I was incorporated as a baby.
On the very same day I was baptised, a little baby girl was baptised in Launceston some 2000 kilometres away. We became members of God’s family that day in February 1955. Our proud families bustled with joy and it cause for great celebration. Many years later this little girl would be my wife. And we too would present our children for baptism.
We would bring up our children according to our faith, prepare them for Penance, Eucharist and Confirmation. Our hope is that what we provided by deed and word would be sufficient example to imprint upon their essential character, a drive to pursue a deep relationship with their God, a firm desire to explore their faith and the stories of their forebears. They began this journey where I did. In church. Discovering the faces and voices of churchgoers, growing in their familiarity with liturgical word and gesture, making meaning of the space in which we gather as a Eucharistic community. The inessentials have fallen away.
Undoubtedly the Catholic school can unveil part of the life of the church. But it is not the Church. To discover that richness means making the step to active membership. Don’t allow this opportunity to be denied to your children.
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Incarnation, becoming flesh, being human
What can it mean for human history when God chooses to become like us? Not like us in some ways, but in every way. To enter his own creation as a helpless infant. He was fed by his mother, learned to recognise her voice, uttered first words and made first steps. He was taught to love with an open heart. He was introduced to the landscape of the Holy Land and heard the stories of his Hebrew people. He grew, over time, to come to understand who he was and what he was called to be. No doubt this child Jesus along the way, said or did things he may have regretted, been hurt by what others may have said, fallen, been saddened, bereaved, admonished, corrected, admired, celebrated. To be anything less, is to be less than human.
What purpose do the infancy narratives in Luke and Matthew’s have? Why are they so plainly different from each other? What do they tell us about the mystery that is the Incarnation?
We know that the narratives are later constructions in their respective communities and that they respond to very specific circumstances in those communities. The three Magi of Matthew, for example, emphasise the Christian mission to the gentiles and the primacy of Israel among the nations, how these men from foreign lands are able to ‘read’ the stars, follow the star to Bethlehem and then worship the child as Lord. The choice of Bethlehem as the child’s birthplace has already been determined by the prophets (Micah 5:1). The flight into Egypt and the Holy Family’s return to Nazareth mirrors the Hebrew’s migration to and subsequent flight from Egypt. Luke uses a rich tapestry of images from the scriptures, his Jesus is wrapped in swaddling clothes like a child born to poverty, his shepherds remind us of the church ready for the coming of the Lord, awake and watching, again mirroring the life of Israel as it awaits its own saviour, the Christ.
What feelings for her son Jesus did Mary possess that each of you has not felt at the birth of your own children? What heartfelt joy, what protectiveness, that flows from deep within us. You each know the healing and warmth that comes from a newborn child. As you hold your child you dream of futures unknown, of potentials yet to be unleashed, of returns that promise to be savoured.
Were Mary and Joseph aware of what they were heading into? I cannot imagine they knew anything more about parenting than we did when we became parents. Were their moments of satisfaction and relief accompanied by choirs of angels and visits from shepherds and Magi? In reality I don’t know, and for me they are just incidental to this wondrous and most beautiful and godly sacrament we call the miracle of life. Jesus has come amongst us. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
What purpose do the infancy narratives in Luke and Matthew’s have? Why are they so plainly different from each other? What do they tell us about the mystery that is the Incarnation?
We know that the narratives are later constructions in their respective communities and that they respond to very specific circumstances in those communities. The three Magi of Matthew, for example, emphasise the Christian mission to the gentiles and the primacy of Israel among the nations, how these men from foreign lands are able to ‘read’ the stars, follow the star to Bethlehem and then worship the child as Lord. The choice of Bethlehem as the child’s birthplace has already been determined by the prophets (Micah 5:1). The flight into Egypt and the Holy Family’s return to Nazareth mirrors the Hebrew’s migration to and subsequent flight from Egypt. Luke uses a rich tapestry of images from the scriptures, his Jesus is wrapped in swaddling clothes like a child born to poverty, his shepherds remind us of the church ready for the coming of the Lord, awake and watching, again mirroring the life of Israel as it awaits its own saviour, the Christ.
What feelings for her son Jesus did Mary possess that each of you has not felt at the birth of your own children? What heartfelt joy, what protectiveness, that flows from deep within us. You each know the healing and warmth that comes from a newborn child. As you hold your child you dream of futures unknown, of potentials yet to be unleashed, of returns that promise to be savoured.
Were Mary and Joseph aware of what they were heading into? I cannot imagine they knew anything more about parenting than we did when we became parents. Were their moments of satisfaction and relief accompanied by choirs of angels and visits from shepherds and Magi? In reality I don’t know, and for me they are just incidental to this wondrous and most beautiful and godly sacrament we call the miracle of life. Jesus has come amongst us. Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Despised prophets
We love celebrities. Especially when we they are from up the street, we’ve known them since they were born. We know their aunts and cousins or went to school with them. They’ve really done well for themselves. And we. Well, we have bathed in their reflected glory and let our acquaintances know of our outstanding luck in our relationships and we can pass on titbits of intimate information. Then, well, you know what happens. You can’t believe that they snubbed you when your ‘pal’ made a guest appearance at the school fair, or looked at you with disdain. What a snob. And how the mighty fall.
The tall poppy syndrome is alive and well in our neighbourhoods, towns and cities. We just love winners. But, quite surprisingly, we take a pretty unhealthy interest in their fall from grace. Alan Bond, Mark Latham, Richard Butler, Michael Jackson, Shane Warne, Peter Hollingsworth. Do they ring a bell?
Jesus tells the people in his hometown (Mark 6:1ff), ‘A prophet is only despised in his own country, among his own relations and in his own house.’ We must beware, that in holding up or putting down others, that we do not lose sight of the truth – their true gifts to us: financial wisdom, political leadership, arms reduction, popular music, sportsmanship on the field, social commentary. This does not deny their wrongdoing, only that we are all more than act of stupidity or criminality. Our neighbours’ gifts could well be companionship or friendship, laughter, encouraging support, independence, fellowship or prayerful presence.
Paul, in writing to the Corinthians exclaims, ‘to stop me getting too proud I was given a thorn in the flesh, an angel of Satan to beat me and stop me from getting too proud.” In reality it is not our job to beat up people to stop excessive pride, it is the acceptance of others. What surprised Jesus was how little his relatives really knew about him. All they could see was the outward person, not the inner person. For him it was their lack of faith – in God, in their story, in his message, but mostly, I suspect, in each other. You and I could make a difference. Believe it.
The tall poppy syndrome is alive and well in our neighbourhoods, towns and cities. We just love winners. But, quite surprisingly, we take a pretty unhealthy interest in their fall from grace. Alan Bond, Mark Latham, Richard Butler, Michael Jackson, Shane Warne, Peter Hollingsworth. Do they ring a bell?
Jesus tells the people in his hometown (Mark 6:1ff), ‘A prophet is only despised in his own country, among his own relations and in his own house.’ We must beware, that in holding up or putting down others, that we do not lose sight of the truth – their true gifts to us: financial wisdom, political leadership, arms reduction, popular music, sportsmanship on the field, social commentary. This does not deny their wrongdoing, only that we are all more than act of stupidity or criminality. Our neighbours’ gifts could well be companionship or friendship, laughter, encouraging support, independence, fellowship or prayerful presence.
Paul, in writing to the Corinthians exclaims, ‘to stop me getting too proud I was given a thorn in the flesh, an angel of Satan to beat me and stop me from getting too proud.” In reality it is not our job to beat up people to stop excessive pride, it is the acceptance of others. What surprised Jesus was how little his relatives really knew about him. All they could see was the outward person, not the inner person. For him it was their lack of faith – in God, in their story, in his message, but mostly, I suspect, in each other. You and I could make a difference. Believe it.
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