Herald

 

On the 3^rd Sunday of Advent the poetic voice of the writer of John’s Gospel speaks to us (John 1:6 – 8): 

A man named John was sent from God. He came for testimony, to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He was not the light, but came to testify to the light. This is the story of John Baptist who heralds the arrival of the Messiah.

Most of us probably use the word ‘herald’ at Christmas (hark the herald angels) or when we are referring to the The Herald Sun that I buy every Friday (for the racing pages - for my father-in-law, Jim). A herald is somebody who brings or announces important news or who is a forerunner of something or gives an indication of something that is going to happen. Every great story is heralded by an announcement. New programs, new funding, new appointments, new taxes - even new heirs make the headlines. John Baptist headlines his cousin Jesus. The scriptures tell us that John’s baptismal ministry presages Jesus’ public ministry. It is he who prepares a path.

We Christians are unanimous that the greatest message brought to the people of the world is the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. We see not only the life and work of John Baptist, but the entire story of creation and the events unfolded in the first books, as heralding the person of Jesus himself. For John, Jesus is The Word.

For the Hebrews and Jews dabar means ‘word’ or ‘talk’. In the context of the scriptures it often refers to a ‘word event’. This is most evident in the creation story where God’s words – when spoken –  become the thing that is spoken. Thus in Genesis 1:3 God says, “Let there be light,” and there was light. For the writer John, Jesus the Messiah is The Word spoken by God, he embodies what God wills, what God requires. It is magnificent imagery and powerful enough to engage the cleverest of theologians to unravel this extraordinary mystery.

The first verses of John’s Gospel confirm the Word’s ever-presence and creativity from the beginning of all time. John has no need of a folkloric, infancy narrative to explain Jesus’ human inheritance. As The Word, Jesus was always with God.

After many years as a Sunday school teacher, catechist, lay reader and deacon, my sister Vianney was ordained a priest in the NZ Anglican diocese of Te Manawa o te Wheke on Sunday surrounded members of her large family and worshipping community. She is a wife, mother of 4 and grandmother of 4 and a full time education officer with New Zealand's Ministry of Education. Her namesake Jean Baptiste Vianney, the Curé of Ars was an ordinary priest whose extraordinary ministry as a confessor reached far beyond his village church. God's work calls for workers in the vineyard, regardless of gender or marital status. Those who choose to do that work continue to herald the coming of our Saviour and proclaim aloud and in their lives the good news that the reign of God has begun in him.

 

Peter Douglas

Vianney and her husband Pierre

 

Reflection on the Gospel: 3rd Sunday of Advent Year B (John 1:6-8, 19-28)

Veronica Lawson RSM

The first section of today’s gospel reading comes from the prologue of John’s gospel and offers comment on the identity of John the Baptizer. The second section revolves around a question that has already been answered in the prologue. In other words, the reader knows the answer to the question posed by the characters in the second section. The prologue presents John the baptizer as one “sent from God”. He is not “the light”; he is rather a “witness” whose role is to testify to “the light”. The true light [Jesus] was “coming into the world”. As we proclaim Jesus as “the light”, we might take time to appreciate the wonder and the properties of the material reality that informs this metaphor.

In the face of less than friendly questioning, John the baptizer responds simply and honestly to questions about his identity. The questions in this second section of the reading are relentless and John’s responses are unambiguous. He is not the Messiah/the Christ, the Anointed of God. He is not the prophet Elijah that some identified with God’s messenger of Malachi 3:1-3 who would return and restore the “descendants of Levi” He is not the prophet-like-Moses of Deuteronomy 15. He states his identity with reference to the words of the prophet Isaiah: he is the voice crying out in the wilderness, inviting God’s people to prepare the way for God’s advent, God’s coming.

John knows who he is. He understands the parameters of his mission and he points his questioners in the direction of the truth. His role is pivotal in the story of God’s saving action and in the unfolding of the drama of the fourth gospel. It is worth asking how we might answer the question that the priests and Levites put to John on behalf of the Jerusalem “Jews”: “Who are you?” If we can honestly answer that question, if we can admit who we are with all our strengths and weaknesses, if we can know our place in the scheme of things and own it in all humility, then we are probably in a good position to recognise and, like John, witness to the “one who is coming”, the light of the world, the revelation of God, the Word who became flesh and tented amongst us. For many of us, pandemic time has sharpened our awareness of who we are and how we are called to be.

A caution is in order regarding this reading: not only the opponents of Jesus but most of the actors in the gospel drama are Jewish. The group of characters specifically named as “the Jews” includes some influential members of the Jewish religious leadership, but cannot be identified with them because it comprises a more extensive group who are consistently in conflict with Jesus. It would be a serious disservice to the gospel to condemn the Jewish people on the basis of this and similar stories of Jewish opposition to Jesus.

 

 

Life matters

 

The beginning of the Good News about Jesus Christ, the Son of God. It is written in the book of the prophet Isaiah:

Look, I am going to send my messenger before you;

he will prepare your way.

A voice cries in the wilderness:

Prepare a way for the Lord,

make his paths straight.

 

Mark 1:1ff

Much was spoken and written about the execution of Van Tuong Nguyen 15 years ago on 2 December 2005. There were varying reports then which suggested that anywhere from 50 – 65% of Australians supported his execution and indeed supported the death penalty. It is not so surprising that we have all become so disconnected from each other, that our capacity to forgive and to be truly compassionate has diminished. These past few years have brought us The Voice My Kitchen Rules and Big Brother. We have learned that our singular voice can add weight to the demise of our least-liked contestant or instantly reward our favourite. Our opinions matter. Our judgments matter. The humiliation and pain of those who lose is not our problem. Their broken lives are lived out beyond the screen. I feel for the families of these young people.

We don’t trust our neighbours. We fear strangers.

The Palestine into which Jesus was born was remarkably similar. His country was under occupation by the Romans. The likes of Matthew the tax collector were collaborators with the Romans. The Zealots, the underground; the Pharisees the right wing, conservative politicians. The penalty for defying the Romans was death. Execution by crucifixion. The call for Jesus’ death is a cry from the people of Jerusalem, they speak with one voice. Their greatest fear is that Jesus’ teaching undermines everything they understood about their relationship with God and with their overseers. Fear drives persecution.

Yes, Jesus was guilty of the charges brought against him.

Our Catholic heritage is not pristine, yet in our recent story we have such heroes as Melbourne Archbishop Daniel Mannix (1864 - 1963) who fought conscription in Australia. The Church itself is rigorously anti-abortion. The Catechism of the Catholic Church (2^nd edition) published in 1997 accepted that the state had a right to execute those who commit the most serious of crimes, with the proviso that execution should rarely, if ever, be used. This was corrected by Pope Francis in 2018 who ordered that the Catechism reflect the teaching of John Paul II and Benedict XVI. And just in case that wasn't clear enough, in Francis' encyclical Fratelli Tutti he ratified the total  'inadmissability' of the death penalty.

None of us is perfect, nor are our children. Being human makes us capable of making mistakes – small ones, and big ones. I will always accept that my God loves me and will always forgive me. There will be consequences, both in my relationship with God, and with those I have hurt. But the value of my life can never be undermined by the errors I make as a human being. I look at Van Tuong Nguyen as my son, or my nephew or my grandson, maybe my neighbour, or a child I have taught. Could I look into his eyes and wish him dead?

Advent celebrates the coming of Jesus, both as the event of Christmas and as the ultimate event – the completion of the Kingdom of God.  Such celebrations of life only make sense when life itself is valued above all else.

 

Peter Douglas

 

BEING KNOWN BY GOD

By Virginia Herbers ASC

“Why are you crying?” I asked my 3-year-old niece. “I’m not cwying,” she replied through frustrated sobs. “I am twying to make you unduhstand because you do not unduhstand me.” What I was too dense to “unduhstand” was that when she told me she wanted a red popsicle, what she meant was that she wanted grape. She was still learning her colors, and although she was crystal-clear about what was in her own mind and will, it didn’t translate well into what I was “unduhstanding” and how I was able to respond to her expressions of need and desire. Logic played no role in the ensuing conversation, nor did mercy. Even when she had the grape popsicle firmly in hand, the tears did not subside. Indeed, they could not, because their source was not popsicle flavors; their source was my lack of “unduhstanding.”

So it is with God and us sometimes. I know exactly what it is that I want, and I try my best to communicate to him precisely the intention, sentiment, or need. When God “hands me back” something other than what corresponds to what I had expressed, I feel like cwying and Being known by God saying, “Why do you not unduhstand me?!” Why does God insist on giving me what I need instead of what I ask for? COVID-19 is teaching us a whole lot of things about need, about fear and hope, about certainty and uncertainty, about ourselves, and about our relationship with God. One of the more surprising lessons I’m learning about myself and about God is that there are different kinds of tears that spring up as we journey through these days together. I suppose I knew this already, but it feels like a new understanding born out of this utterly unique context. Here is what I’ve been noticing:

Tears come from pain. Watching the news, listening to friends and family experiencing loss, knowing about the rising numbers in unemployment, witnessing the growing hunger and desperation of so many, I find tears often welling up and brimming over. There is so much suffering, so much loss, so much pain right now all around us and within. We are hurting and so we weep. Tears come from fear. The uncertainty of how much longer we must shelter in place, the scary reality of financial or work insecurity, the dread that “getting back to normal” might never happen — all of this can paralyse us and leave us weeping silently in the dark, needing desperately to have an outlet for the fear, and yet equally desperate to spare our loved ones from more anxiety by exposing our own gnawing fright. We are afraid and so we weep.

Tears come from anger. When human realities seem to be eclipsed by politics or greed, when the food so desperately needed by some is rotting in the fields of others, when images appear of medical professionals pleading for help and much-needed supplies, I feel red hot tears of anger crying out for compassion, justice and a collective commitment to the common good. We are angry and so we weep.

Tears come from joy. An unexpected bouquet is dropped off at the front door. A phone call comes from a childhood friend with whom I have not had a decent conversation in decades. A YouTube video of virtual choirs or a light hearted exchange about home-schooling woes comes across my screen. The colours of spring and the beauty of the sky remind me of the unrelenting nature of life and renewal. Tears come swiftly with a smile and a deep sigh of gratitude. We are joyful and so we weep.

Tears come from relief. Finding out a loved one who has been hospitalized is coming home, hearing that the son-in-law who was furloughed still has health benefits, seeing the curve flatten — these things relieve our pent up worry and well-justified anxieties, and the unburdening often releases a stream of tears. We are relieved and so we weep.

Tears come from beauty. I look at the delicate pink dogwood framed against a deep blue sky, I listen to Pope Francis’ words in an empty St. Peter’s Square, I listen to Yo-Yo Ma play Mozart in his series “Songs of Comfort.” The sheer beauty of life and love overwhelms me and serves as a powerful antidote to the daily weight of uncertainty and difficulty, and as I allow the beauty to wash over me, the tears come. We experience grandeur and beauty and so we weep. Tears can come from nowhere. Then, for no apparent reason, with no apparent catalyst, I find myself standing over the dishwater or digging through the garden or scrolling through Facebook posts, and the tears just stream. They come without drama or even affect, they come without thought or consciousness. But they come.

We experience our humanity and the realities of life and it makes us weep sometimes. The source of our tears varies, but their destination remains the same. Our tears bring us to the embrace of God. God it is who holds us, cradling us in our fears; God it is who receives our tears as fragile offerings of trust and hope; God it is who stays right here with us, even when we are still snuffling over our popsicles. “It wasn’t about the popsicle itself,” we seem to say. “It was about making sure you still know me.” And the response? “I have loved you with an everlasting love; you are mine. I will never leave you” (Jeremiah 31:3; Isaiah 49:15). As the river is promised to the sea, so are we promised to our God.

Sister Virginia Herbers is an Apostle of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. She is currently on sabbatical after serving as director of spiritual formation at St Louis University.