Heal me

 

A leper came to Jesus and pleaded on his knees: 'If you want to,' he said,'you can cure me.' Feeling sorry for him, Jesus stretched out is hands and touched him. 'Of course I want to!' he said. 'Be cured!' And the leprosy left him at once and he was cured,

Mark 1:40 - 42

Platitudes are wasted breath. There have been a thousand apologies for those whose country we have invaded and occupied for a mere blink in the eye of this continent's human history. There is no scale to the pain of those 130,000 forgotten British children whose lives were torn and shredded by do-gooding agencies who exiled them and transported them for life to foreign lands, or those children who were betrayed and abused by those who knew better but took advantage of their childhood and silence – who will be ever scarred with the terror of lost innocence and whose childhood memories of places, rooms and haunting faces are now etched into a solemn and unforgiving tragedy.

The tears that fall from our eyes as we hear the pained stories of heroic and panicked escape from misery; the recounted miracles of being saved by the ordinary - and sometimes extraordinary - efforts of people who gave a damn and made a difference, can often veil our own struggles to make sense of senseless suffering.

And for those whose lives lie buried in 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 that only the Gospel can offer.

Mark (1:40 – 45) tells of the leper who came to Jesus pleading to be cured. Feeling great compassion, 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. Thirdly, leprosy is a metaphor for uncleanness - a statement about our human condition. There is always hope, for Jesus has the capacity and desire to touch each of us, and most especially 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.

Jesus, for all his power for healing may be invoked through prayer, but the need for human intervention to transmit is most often required. Our action, our compassion, our personal and professional expertise, the support of government and community are necessary, medicine, counsel, presence are the tools he most often employs (see Matthew 25:35 - 40)

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.

 

Peter Douglas

The following article was submitted by Sr Margaret.

WHY PRAY?

 James Martin SJ

 

There are as many reasons to pray as there are people. But as one of the world’s best-loved Christian writers explains, all are different ways of responding to an invitation from God rest of your life.  

Let me suggest the first reason: God wants to be in a relationship with you. How can you know this? Because you want to pray. And how do I know that? Because you’re reading this. That may sound sarcastic, but it’s not. There’s a serious point here: your desire for prayer reveals something about how God created you. Deep within you is a natural desire to communicate with God, to share yourself with God, to have God hear your voice, or, more basically, to encounter God. Deep within you is a longing to be in a relationship with God. So, you long to pray. You may doubt many things when it comes to prayer. You may doubt that you’ll be able to pray. You may doubt that God wants to communicate with you. You may even doubt God’s existence. But you cannot doubt that you feel a desire for prayer. After all, you’re reading this. So clearly something within you desires prayer. Where does the desire for prayer come from? From God. The most common way God draws you closer is by placing within you the desire to be closer, the desire that drove you to think about prayer and to read this article. Strange as it sounds, your reading of these lines at this moment is a sign of God’s call. How else would God draw us closer, other than by planting a longing inside us? Once I saw a ceramic plaque in a retreat house that summed this up: “That which you seek is causing you to seek.” This insight is helpful to those beginning their journey of prayer because it helps them feel, even before they’ve started to pray, connected to God. It helps them to know that God has taken the initiative, that God is calling to them, that God desires them. It helps people take the first tentative steps toward God. Many of us have felt that there is more to life than what we know. We feel a sense of incompletion. We long to feel complete, to be connected, to be satisfied, to know. Inside us are nagging feelings of longing, restlessness, and incompletion that can be fulfilled only in a relationship with God. There is a hole in our hearts that only God can fill. Augustine put it best when he wrote: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord. And our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” Your desire to pray is a sign that God desires you. It’s an indication God is calling you. And that is perhaps the most important reason to pray. Not simply because you desire it, but because the desire is a sign of something else. You desire to pray because God desires it.

A second reason for prayer is a slight reframing of this. We pray because we want to be in relationship to God. That may sound obvious – of course we pray to be closer to God. But it’s important to state that the aim of prayer is not simply physical relaxation, mindfulness, knowledge, or a connection to creation, as important as those things are. These are goals that many people mention when speaking about meditation. But the goal of prayer is closer union with God. More basically, we pray because we love God. William Barry SJ writes: “The primary motive for prayer is love, first the love of God for us and then the arousal of our love for God.” We pray to come to know God as well. “Who is God?” is an important question in the spiritual life. So, are “Who is God for me?” and “Who am I before God?” Prayer reminds us of our need for God. It reminds us that we are not the centre of the universe and that we are not God. Sometimes when things are going well, we can grow arrogant and complacent in our self-sufficiency. Prayer, which places us in the presence of God in an intentional way, reminds us of who is in charge, or rather who is nurturing us. Gerard W. Hughes writes in God of Surprises: “To begin prayer it is sufficient to acknowledge that I am not self-sufficient, that I am not the creator of myself and creation. If I can do this, then I acknowledge that there is some power – I may not know whether it is personal or not and may be in complete ignorance of its nature – greater than I.” This inevitably moves us to humility, as we realise more and more our need for God. Thomas Merton went further, saying that prayer is inseparable from humility. Humility, he said, “makes us realise that the very depths of our being and life are meaningful and real only in so far as they are oriented toward God as their source and their end.”

A third reason is that we have to. If you’re not used to praying, that may sound ridiculous, but once you start, you’ll see that it can feel as natural as breathing. Our innate desire for God means we naturally crave a relationship with God. Prayer is an outgrowth of the human longing for the divine. In a sense, we can’t not pray, because prayer is part of being human.

There are other reasons that prayer feels necessary. In the face of your problems, how can you not ask for help from your Creator? I’ve never met anyone who felt that his or her life was free of problems.

So, we pray for a fourth reason: we are in need.

A fifth reason is that prayer helps us. This may sound selfish, but it’s another common motivation, similar to reasons for doing physical exercise. If you never get off the couch, you’ll end up out of shape, and that will influence your overall physical condition; less exercise means more pulled muscles, perilous cardiovascular health, and greater stress. Not praying – not spending intentional time with God – means your spiritual life will be out of shape, even flabby, and that will influence your overall physical condition. Less exercise means more pulled muscles, you’ll probably be less grateful and thus more irritable, less connected to the deepest part of yourself and thus more scattered, less aware of your reliance on God and thus more frightened. Prayer helps you. On the rare days that I don’t pray I feel off balance. And I always know why. Certainly, I feel guilty that I’ve not spent time with God in an intentional way, but I also feel, to put it bluntly, worse. I’m more irritable, more distracted, less patient, and less able to maintain perspective on life. Even when prayer feels “dry” it helps me feel more connected to the centre of my being, which is God. Being cantered in that way always means more perspective, because you know where you stand.

Prayer is also a way to unburden ourselves when we’re feeling sad, angry, stressed or frustrated. That’s a sixth reason. Often, after you have told God your problems, you feel less alone. God is always with you, but praying in this way is a great aid, nonetheless. Sometimes I’ve stood up from prayer and said: “At least I know that God knows how I feel.”

A seventh reason for prayer is that it helps us praise God. If you’re a believer, you may wonder about the best way to express your gratitude. You can do good works, live a moral life, and help your fellow human beings. Those are fine ways to show your love in gratitude. As Ignatius Loyola says: “Love ought to show itself in deeds more than words.” But it’s just as important to say “thank you” to God. Prayer is one way of doing this. Simply resting in things you’re grateful for is a way of giving thanks.

Prayer, however, is not a solitary act.

This leads us to an eighth reason: solidarity. When we pray, we are, consciously or unconsciously, expressing a connection to our brothers and sisters who also pray – even if they’re not physically with us. Prayer in common is an essential aspect of the spiritual life. As social animals, we naturally find comfort and support in groups. Praising God in a group makes double sense: we naturally want to do it, and we naturally want to do it with others. Both are part of being human. Whenever we pray, we are united with believers across the world who are lifting their hearts and minds to God. We are also united with those who have gone before us, who continue their prayers before God. This is one part of what Catholics mean by the “communion of saints”.

A ninth reason: we pray to be transformed. This is somewhat different from praying to God for help – but it’s related. Knowing that we are flawed and imperfect, many of us look to God to help us grow into better people. This is not to say that we are all terrible sinners or irredeemable reprobates. Rather, we are all human beings in need of God’s grace. In my own life, that desire manifests itself especially during prayer. If I do something sinful, I am filled with a remorse that becomes more obvious when I spend time with God. A few years ago, I did something selfish that affected a friend. In my prayer the next day I saw how uncharitable it was and was moved to seek out my friend and apologise. I was also reminded of my need for God’s grace and my desire for more charity. We might also become aware not of one particular sin, but of a general pattern in our lives, a place where we are unfree. We may ask for freedom from this in prayer. There is a kind of petitionary prayer here too, but of a different nature. “Help me to be a better person, God” might be called a prayer of transformation. Not long ago, I had been praying that God would change me in a particular way, and not much seemed to be happening. Then, suddenly, it was discovered that I would need some minor surgery. Lying in the hospital bed a few weeks later, tethered by tubes to various machines, I started to think about all the things I was hoping to change in my life: my flaws and failings, all the things I hoped God would change or eradicate. As I enumerated the things that were distracting me from being the person I wanted to become, they began to seem in a word, ridiculous. In other words, I saw the emptiness of whatever was moving me away from God. During those days I felt God saying to me in prayer: “What kind of life do you want to lead?” It was not so much a matter of waiting for God to change me or remove my flaws; God was telling me that the change was largely up to me. It was a transformational moment, as it seemed to offer me freedom and reminded me of my own agency in life. Transformation is another reason for prayer. That short list of reasons why people pray is by no means complete. There are as many reasons to pray as there are people. For now, let’s say that there are many reasons to pray, chief among them that God is calling to you. It’s as if God is saying: “Would you like to spend some time with me?” Why not say yes?

also reminded of my need for God’s grace and my desire for more charity. We might also become aware not of one particular sin, but of a general pattern in our lives, a place where we are unfree. We may ask for freedom from this in prayer. There is a kind of petitionary prayer here too, but of a different nature. “Help me to be a better person, God” might be called a prayer of transformation. Not long ago, I had been praying that God would change me in a particular way, and not much seemed to be happening. Then, suddenly, it was discovered that I would need some minor surgery. Lying in the hospital bed a few weeks later, tethered by tubes to various machines, I started to think about all the things I was hoping to change in my life: my flaws and failings, all the things I hoped God would change or eradicate. As I enumerated the things that were distracting me from being the person I wanted to become, they began to seem in a word, ridiculous. In other words, I saw the emptiness of whatever was moving me away from God. During those days I felt God saying to me in prayer: “What kind of life do you want to lead?” It was not so much a matter of waiting for God to change me or remove my flaws; God was telling me that the change was largely up to me. It was a transformational moment, as it seemed to offer me freedom and reminded me of my own agency in life. Transformation is another reason for prayer. That short list of reasons why people pray is by no means complete. There are as many reasons to pray as there are people. For now, let’s say that there are many reasons to pray, chief among them that God is calling to you. It’s as if God is saying: “Would you like to spend some time with me?” Why not say yes?

From The Tablet of 6 February 2021, pp 4 - 5.

 

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.