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.

Journey into Jerusalem

My life changed yesterday afternoon – definitely for the better. I will get to bed earlier and sleep longer. I will regain some ‘me’ time. And, yes. My daughter has finally got her P plates. Time to celebrate!

Such a change – though welcome, does, of course, bring other difficulties – some foreseen, some unforeseen.

The solemnity of Passion Sunday signals the beginning of Holy Week – from the joyous welcome into Jerusalem, from his acceptance and acclamation as king. Holy Week ends with the death and burial of Jesus.

This is a journey that we know intimately. Retelling it has not altered its meaning or impact. We wonder what was in these people’s minds as they waved their branches and laid out their cloaks along the road. It is not only a question of who they were welcoming. It is equally a question about who they were and what they were expecting. This entrance of Jesus is Messianic. This event has been prophesied by Zechariah, the throwing of the cloaks alludes his royal status, while the strewn and waving branches recall the procession of the Feast of Tabernacles. This is the Davidic king whom they have awaited. They cry, ‘Hosanna!’ – using this term of praise to God, taken from the Jewish liturgy, and attributing it to this man who arrives seated on a colt.

Did they see more than a man? What drove them to gather in crowds to see him? What had they heard about him? What did they want from him? Did they know who he was? Is this the same crowd that days later would call for his death? For a crime in which they complicit?

Undoubtedly their patience with God was running thin. They had been promised salvation, and now, following the Greeks, the Romans now controlled the country. Hundred of years of subservience to foreigners. How strong was their desire to offload their oppressors? What kind of Messiah did they long for? A general? A politician? A high priest? A great prince? A carpenter’s son from Nazareth?

We know how this story ends. We’re heard it before. It’s not good. And yet it is also a beginning, and in the continuing story, it is all revealed.

I don’t know what lies ahead as my daughter takes to the road. Yes, I’m free. Others on the road will expect her to follow the rules, to drive safely. In turn she will expect the same from other road users. She will have to use her commonsense, her growing skill. There are consequences if you get it wrong. It’s about choices.

Who are you waiting for? And, why are you waiting? Start your journey today.