Bob Birchall

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

“My sheep listen to my voice; I know them, and they follow me.” John 10, 27-30

Last month, the Australian media gave a lot of attention to comments about gay people made on social media by a high-profile Australian Rugby player. While officials of the Australian Rugby Union stated that the player is entitled to hold to his religious beliefs, they indicated that his contract would be terminated because of his intemperate, discriminatory and bigoted comments posted on a public media site. In the player’s view, gay people have no place among Jesus’ sheep. So, in the context of today’s gospel reading, I found myself wondering who’s “in” and who’s “out”. I even wondered if John had quoted Jesus accurately, and what exactly Jesus meant when he said: “My sheep listen to my voice;”

We all know from experience that many people get turned off religion when they hear categorical statements made about who is “saved” and who isn’t. Over the centuries, fanatical adherents from a wide range of religious institutions have publicly voiced this kind of discrimination. I find it depressing, for it gives religion a bad name. Every now and then, I encounter somebody or other who has the gall to judge my orthodoxy, to give me a spiritual once-over with a measuring rod of their own making. I find myself wondering about how such people arrived at their calculation standards. However, I am always comforted by the remark of an elderly religious sister who was pressured into reluctant retirement after spending thirty years among poverty-stricken people in India. In her delightful Irish brogue, she would sometimes say: “It’s better to be around sinners. They don’t put on airs and graces, you know.”

Yet, today’s gospel reading still leaves me with the uncomfortable impression that some sheep belong and others don’t. Moreover, the other two readings don’t help me very much. The second one from the book of Revelation gives me the message that those who are persecuted for their faith (members of John’s Christian community) are definitely “in”: “He will guide them to springs of life-giving water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes” (Revelation 7, 17). Persecution and the threat of death are not exactly the most attractive indicators of assuring anyone that he or she is in the right group of sheep.

There’s a bit more encouragement for me in the first reading from Acts. It describes something of the dilemma experienced by those who set out to proclaim the message Jesus had entrusted to them. When Paul and Barnabas experienced opposition in Antioch, we are told that they “shook the dust off their feet in defiance” and went to Iconium. They had made no impression at all on a group that insisted on basing their religious practice on soul-destroying, rigid adherence to rules and regulations: “Paul and Barnabas spoke out even more boldly: ‘It was necessary that the word of God should be spoken first to you (Jews). But since you reject it and do not consider yourselves worthy of eternal life, we will leave you and go to the Gentiles’” (Acts 13, 46). However, those (converts) who did listen to them “were filled with joy and the Holy Spirit” (Acts 13, 51)

Therein, I suggest, is to be found the clue for recognizing just who belong to Jesus’ sheep. They are the people who have come to the realization that God truly loves them. We all struggle to be convinced of that. But people whose lives are bound by rigidity and correct and controlled performance rarely demonstrate much in the way of love and joy.

Underneath that is a question for all of us: Is the parish or community to which I belong noted for its vibrant, energetic, joyful members who are ready to engage with one another and make visitors welcome? There’s a challenge for our churches today! Is there anything attractive about them? Do we read welcome on the faces of their leaders? How much energy is expended on reminders about who can and who cannot receive communion? And then there are the really momentous questions and debates as to whether “altar girls” are allowed or grudgingly tolerated, or whether women qualify to have their feet washed on Holy Thursday. Can you believe that St Peter’s Basilica in Rome still has a dress code, and temple police to enforce it: Men in shorts, women in short skirts and with bare shoulders are not permitted to enter. Control is the order of the day. One wonders if Paul and Barnabas would shake the dust from their feet today if they experienced the controls practiced in some of our parishes and churches. But let’s not go too far in the direction of shaking dust from feet. There are some very vibrant parishes and communities in which people are actually “full of joy and the Holy Spirit”. Perhaps it’s true that Jesus’ sheep are distinguished by their graciousness and their cheery smiles.

But we can’t leave today’s gospel reading without giving some attention to the opening words attributed to Jesus: “The sheep that belong to me listen to my voice…” Guided by God’s Spirit, we are invited to listen to the voice of Jesus in the depths of our heart, and in the cries of his and our brothers and sisters calling for compassion and care in the world around us.

This fourth Sunday of Easter is also “Vocation Sunday”, and therefore a reminder to us to live true to our vocation as disciples of Jesus. Whatever our state in life, as Christians we would do well to remind ourselves that each one of us might be the only gospel that some people will ever read or encounter. Our vocation as Christians is to somehow be the face and the voice of Jesus to the people who come into our lives each day, and to see the face and hear the voice of Jesus in everyone we meet. I think we have little difficulty in seeing reflections of Jesus in those who have been officially recognized as saints. But we often fail to see Jesus reflected in the very ordinary “saints” we encounter in the office, on public transport, in the newspapers and magazines we read, and in the people who live with us. About 12 years ago, I was struck by a book review I came across in The New York Times. It was about a book written by Pauline Chen, a surgeon who specialized in liver transplants, but who took time out to write about what she described as “the troubled relationship between modern medical practice and the emotional events surrounding death”. She even admitted to the discomfort she experienced in medical school, when she and others were given “lessons in denial and depersonalization” which were intended to help would-be doctors to achieve high levels of technical competence without letting their emotions get in the way. She then wrote of doctors she met who were unable to empathize with the relatives of dying patients or even confront their own fears about death. However, she wrote movingly about her experience of a man whose heart began to fail rapidly after a long battle with colon cancer. She called his family, and then summoned the surgeon on duty. The man’s wife arrived first and Dr Chen took her to her husband’s bedside and quietly slipped away (as hospital protocol required). When the surgeon arrived, he quietly took the woman’s hand and gently explained what was happening. He indicated what the monitors were registering and whispered to her that her presence and her holding her husband’s hand were a comfort to him as he breathed his last. The surgeon stayed with the woman for another thirty minutes. Shortly afterwards, the man’s wife stepped out and quietly thanked the surgeon and Dr Chen. Pauline Chen went on to explain that what the duty surgeon did that morning completely changed her way of dealing with dying patients (Pauline Chen, Final Exam: A Surgeon’s Reflections on Mortality and William Grimes, New York Times, Jan 10, 2007, Doctor Confronts the Human Drama’s Inevitable Finale). The face and voice of Jesus are reflected to us in unexpected ways. We, in our turn, might reflect something of his face and voice to others.

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

Jesus said to Simon the third time: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?”
John 21, 1-19

Before we launch into a discussion of today’s gospel reading, I think it is worth noting that Scripture scholars point out that this last chapter of what is officially John’s Gospel was not written by the person who wrote the first twenty chapters. The style and vocabulary of this chapter are so different from the rest of the book that the experts conclude that it was an addition at a later date, probably to pick up on the unfinished story of Peter. The last mention of Peter before Jesus’ resurrection was of him standing around a charcoal fire warming himself and vigorously denying that he had any connection with Jesus. Presumably some member of the early Christian community wanted to explain how Peter found his way back to acceptance and future leadership. Among other things, this epilogue story describes Peter and the disciples gathered around another charcoal fire.

But let’s start with another story. It’s about a young lad who had gone with his sister to stay on their grandparents’ farm. The boy’s grandfather had given him a slingshot and sent him off to practice with it in the woods. Despite all his efforts, the lad failed to hit anything he aimed at. As he made his way back to the house for lunch, he took aim at his grandmother’s pet duck. This time his aim was accurate and the duck fell dead in front of him. At first, he was shocked, but then guilt at what he had done overcame him. He was afraid to tell his grandmother and was also aware that his sister, Sally had seen him hit the duck and then watched him as he hid it in the wood heap. But she didn’t say a word. After lunch, Grandma asked Sally to help her with the dishes. Instantly, Sally replied: “Grandma, Johnny told me that he wanted to help you in the kitchen today, didn’t you, Johnny?” Then, she whispered in his ear: “Remember, the duck!” So, Johnny quietly helped with the wash-up. Later that afternoon, Grandpa asked if they wanted to go fishing with him, but Grandma said that she needed Sally to help her to get the evening meal ready. Sally, however, didn’t miss a beat, and quickly volunteered Johnny to help Grandma: “Johnny already told me that he wants to help you, Grandma.” Then she whispered to Johnny again, “Remember, the duck?” So, Sally went off fishing and Johnny stayed in the kitchen helping Grandma. This went on for several days, with Johnny doing all the helping around the house, and Sally enjoying herself endlessly. Finally, Johnny cracked and went and told Grandma how he had killed her pet duck. She bent over and gave him a big hug, saying: “I know, sweetheart. I was standing near the window and saw what happened. But I love you very much, Johnny, and forgave you immediately. However, I’ve been wondering just how long you’re going to let Sally make a slave of you.” Sometimes we can let guilt tie us up in knots and allow it to paralyze us.

Another clue that helps us see today’s gospel reading as an addendum to John’s Gospel is the fact that it doesn’t fit into the sequence of the resurrection stories of the last two Sundays. There is a strong suggestion that the disciples were at a loss following the death of Jesus and, in their grief, they went back to doing something they were used to doing and which would distract them for their grief. They went back to fishing. As they were winding up their night’s unsuccessful work, they heard from the shore something that every fisherman is used to hearing – the voice of a stranger calling out: “Lads, did you catch anything?” When they admitted that they had had no luck, they got the advice that lots of fisherfolk get from passers-by: “Well try somewhere else.” Except this particular morning, the stranger calling out told them to put their nets out on the other side of the boat. Their success was immediate and so far beyond expectation that one of them realized that the stranger calling out was more than an ordinary passer-by. It could only be Jesus. Impetuous Peter was in the water in no time, and before long the others joined him around the charcoal fire, having dragged their net and their catch behind them.

When they had all eaten, Jesus singled out Peter and asked him three times: “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” This, of course, is part of the story-teller’s stock in trade: Jesus’ three-time questioning parallels Peter’s three-time denial. And that fits perfectly the Jesus the disciples had come to know. Mercy and forgiveness were the focus of all he had said and done. There was not an ounce of vindictiveness in him. And that’s the reassurance that Jesus offers every one of us. This story recounts how Peter was forgiven and reinstated as leader of the community. It also reassures us that Jesus is in touch with the realities with which every disciple struggles – a ready willingness to give generously together with the knowledge that we all falter and stumble, despite our best efforts. Yet forgiveness is readily offered to us all.

2003 saw the publication of Kiss of Death: America’s Love Affair with the Death Penalty. It was written by John Bessler and published by Northeastern University Press, Boston. Bessler is a serious researcher and gives an exhaustive account of how law codes throughout history have evolved. He recounts how the Babylonian Law Code of Hammurabi (1750 BC) listed 25 offences punishable by death. Among them were corruption, theft and the fraudulent sale of beer! The Legal Systems of the United Kingdom and the United States differ considerably, but both have come a long way since Hammurabi. However, both have evolved and both have struggled with capital punishment. It is no longer practiced in the U.K. There are strong campaigns in the United States to have it abolished. Martin Luther King’s widow, Coretta Scott King has stated that the death penalty “does a disservice to everything my husband lived for and believed.” A brochure published by campaigners states: “We can’t stop all violence but we can work to stop the violence carried out by a government that kills in our names.” Three Federal Government prisoners have been executed in the United States this century. One was Timothy McVeigh who discharged a bomb in a Federal Government building in Oklahoma in April, 1995. The explosion killed 168 people and left more than 500 injured or maimed. Bud Welch, whose only daughter was killed in the blast, was one of the few people who spoke out against McVeigh’s execution: “The day Timothy McVeigh is taken from that cage in Indiana and put to death is not going to bring Julie Marie Welch back and is not going to bring me any peace or anybody in this nation any peace,” he said. “God did not make us so that we feel good about killing a caged human being.” For months after his twenty-three-year-old daughter died in the bombing, Bud Welch, a Texaco service station owner, felt only rage, depression, and grief. “I didn’t even want trials for them,” Welch said of Timothy McVeigh and his codefendant, Terry Nichols. “I wanted them fried.” After smoking three packs of cigarettes a day and drinking himself to sleep at night, Welch, realizing his life was falling apart, finally abandoned thoughts of revenge, let go of his rage, and arranged to visit Bill McVeigh (Timothy’s father) at his home near Buffalo, New York. “The reason Julie and 167 others were dead was rage and revenge,” Bud Welch would say before Timothy McVeigh’s execution. He went on to say: “If Timothy McVeigh is executed I won’t be able to choose to forgive him. As long as he is alive, I have to deal with my feelings and emotions…It’s a struggle I need to wage. To me the death penalty is vengeance and vengeance really doesn’t help anyone in the healing process.”

The message that rings out from today’s gospel reading is that Jesus wants nothing to do with vengeance or vindictiveness. Nor does he want anyone to be imprisoned by guilt. Both stifle life, both run counter to the Gospel. We are less than we can be if we allow ourselves to be controlled by the hate and bitterness of others. The choice is ours.

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

When the disciples said: “We have seen the Lord,” Thomas answered: “Unless I see the holes that the nails made in his hands…I refuse to believe.” John 20, 19-31

One of our distinguishing characteristics as human beings is that we have a thirst for knowledge. When things puzzle and challenge us, we ask questions. When we can’t find answers, we become frustrated. Our thirst for knowledge becomes apparent early in life. We see evidence of it in little children who seek to satisfy their curiosity with endless “Daddy, why…?” questions. The history of scientific exploration and philosophical hypothesizing is peopled with inquirers from Socrates to Galileo, from Marie Curie to Rita Levi-Montalcini, from Charles Darwin to Einstein. These giants, and many others like them, have been driven in their search for answers to questions which only they had the intellectual acumen to formulate and the determination to pursue.

In his last book, published only after he died, the great mathematician, physicist and cosmologist, Stephen Hawking posed questions the answers to which may not be found this side of eternity. His opening question: Is there a God? is one that has been asked and explored ever since human beings have walked the earth (Brief Answers to the Big Questions, Bantam Books, NY 2018).

We all struggle with questions. Our inability to answer some of them with speed and certainty not only frustrates us, but confronts us with our limitations. Most of us struggle to fully accept our limitations and the reality that we belong to a limited species.

Thomas, one of the central figures of today’s gospel reading, is a character who is often misjudged for his apparent disbelief. I want to suggest that he is worthy of our admiration. He had seen and felt the fear, doubt and depression that had overwhelmed himself and his fellow disciples in the wake of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. When he was confronted with the assertion that Jesus had risen and appeared to his companions, he did what most intelligent people would do. He asked them if they had let their imaginations run away with them or whether they had drunk too much in trying to drown their sorrows. Maybe he concluded that, out of desperate hope, the other disciples had become delusionary. He was not going to let himself be drawn in that direction. So, he was honest and open in stating that he was not prepared to accept an assertion that had no evidence to substantiate it. But he was punished for his honesty. Because he insisted on being given hard evidence, he found himself alienated by his friends, cut off from the group to which he thought he belonged.

But let’s not forget that John had already presented Thomas as a down-to-earth, plain-spoken man. When Jesus announced his intention to return to Bethany after receiving news of the death of his friend, Lazarus, all the disciples, except Thomas, tried to dissuade him, for it had been in Bethany that some Jews had tried to stone Jesus. Thomas, however, insisted that they not let Jesus go alone, even if that meant risking their own lives: “Let us also go to die with him” (John 11, 16). During Jesus’ long farewell speech, he was bold enough to interrupt, asking him to speak plainly, instead of talking in the kind of poetic and flowery language that he clearly found baffling. Jesus was saying: “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. . . where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” This was too much for Thomas, who interjected with: “Lord, we do not know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” (John 14,5)

A week after Thomas’ demand for convincing evidence of Jesus’ resurrection (and it must have been a long week for him), Jesus reappeared to the whole group. His first words were clear indication that he had neither isolated nor rejected Thomas. He simply invited him to set aside his doubts and believe. By making allowance for Thomas’ scepticism, the risen Jesus made it clear that he is open and ready to meet all of us, wherever we happen to find ourselves. The palpable irony of the story is that from the mouth of the man, who has subsequently been labelled as “doubting Thomas”, came one of the greatest expressions of faith: “My Lord and my God.”

While John put the focus on Thomas’ doubt, he glossed over the doubt of the other disciples. Even though Mary Magdalen had told them of her encounter with the risen Lord, all of them except Thomas stayed in hiding, while he, the practical one, might well have been out doing the shopping or even trying to verify what Mary Magdalen had claimed.
Yet, if we are honest, we have to admit that we, too, waver between faith and doubt, but come down eventually in favour of faith. In the course of our lives, we gain knowledge through direct experience, deduction or reasoning and through putting our faith in what others tell us. Social researchers point to the fact that more than 75% of our knowledge comes from accepting what others tell us. For example, if I go to a pharmacy searching for medication for an upset stomach, I accept the pharmacist’s recommendation or take as true the instructions for use and the description of possible side-effects printed on the package or bottle containing the medication I purchase. Whenever I board a plane, I take it on trust that the crew members are qualified to fly the plane. I don’t ask to see the captain’s flying licence. However, if we experience severe turbulence on a flight, we might catch ourselves questioning the competence of the captain. When we stop to reflect on an intangible reality like religion, most of us experience intellectual doubts from time to time. We catch ourselves wondering if the miracles in the Gospel actually happened. We have doubts about the divinity of Jesus and the existence of God. These days, we are aware of lots of Catholics doubting how a Church with a history of terrible sexual abuse can really be the Church that Jesus founded on Peter. And then there are our emotional doubts that come to the surface when tragedy and illness strike us or those we know and love. Those who have been faithful to their religious practice find themselves thinking that they are entitled to better treatment from a God who allegedly loves them.

Thomas wanted assurance and evidence. He also wanted Jesus and needed personal connection to dispel his doubts. While others can inspire and encourage us, they cannot give us their faith. The journey to faith in God and Jesus is ultimately personal and sometimes lonely. In today’s gospel we come to see that Mary could not experience the resurrected Jesus for the disciples, and the disciples couldn’t experience Jesus for Thomas. In the long run, we come to understand that it is faith, shaken at times by doubt, that keeps us on the path of searching for our own experience of Jesus. And we need the support of community to help us along that path. John’s Gospel spells out that the fundamentals of being a disciple of Jesus are faith and love. To grow into these is the journey of a lifetime. And we human beings will never achieve them perfectly.

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

When the disciples said: “We have seen the Lord,” Thomas answered: “Unless I see the holes that the nails made in his hands…I refuse to believe.” John 20, 19-31

One of our distinguishing characteristics as human beings is that we have a thirst for knowledge. When things puzzle and challenge us, we ask questions. When we can’t find answers, we become frustrated. Our thirst for knowledge becomes apparent early in life. We see evidence of it in little children who seek to satisfy their curiosity with endless “Daddy, why…?” questions. The history of scientific exploration and philosophical hypothesizing is peopled with inquirers from Socrates to Galileo, from Marie Curie to Rita Levi-Montalcini, from Charles Darwin to Einstein. These giants, and many others like them, have been driven in their search for answers to questions which only they had the intellectual acumen to formulate and the determination to pursue.

In his last book, published only after he died, the great mathematician, physicist and cosmologist, Stephen Hawking posed questions the answers to which may not be found this side of eternity. His opening question: Is there a God? is one that has been asked and explored ever since human beings have walked the earth (Brief Answers to the Big Questions, Bantam Books, NY 2018).

We all struggle with questions. Our inability to answer some of them with speed and certainty not only frustrates us, but confronts us with our limitations. Most of us struggle to fully accept our limitations and the reality that we belong to a limited species.

Thomas, one of the central figures of today’s gospel reading, is a character who is often misjudged for his apparent disbelief. I want to suggest that he is worthy of our admiration. He had seen and felt the fear, doubt and depression that had overwhelmed himself and his fellow disciples in the wake of Jesus’ crucifixion and burial. When he was confronted with the assertion that Jesus had risen and appeared to his companions, he did what most intelligent people would do. He asked them if they had let their imaginations run away with them or whether they had drunk too much in trying to drown their sorrows. Maybe he concluded that, out of desperate hope, the other disciples had become delusionary. He was not going to let himself be drawn in that direction. So, he was honest and open in stating that he was not prepared to accept an assertion that had no evidence to substantiate it. But he was punished for his honesty. Because he insisted on being given hard evidence, he found himself alienated by his friends, cut off from the group to which he thought he belonged.

But let’s not forget that John had already presented Thomas as a down-to-earth, plain-spoken man. When Jesus announced his intention to return to Bethany after receiving news of the death of his friend, Lazarus, all the disciples, except Thomas, tried to dissuade him, for it had been in Bethany that some Jews had tried to stone Jesus. Thomas, however, insisted that they not let Jesus go alone, even if that meant risking their own lives: “Let us also go to die with him” (John 11, 16). During Jesus’ long farewell speech, he was bold enough to interrupt, asking him to speak plainly, instead of talking in the kind of poetic and flowery language that he clearly found baffling. Jesus was saying: “In my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. . . where I am, there you may be also. And you know the way to the place where I am going.” This was too much for Thomas, who interjected with: “Lord, we do not know where you are going, so how can we know the way?” (John 14,5)

A week after Thomas’ demand for convincing evidence of Jesus’ resurrection (and it must have been a long week for him), Jesus reappeared to the whole group. His first words were clear indication that he had neither isolated nor rejected Thomas. He simply invited him to set aside his doubts and believe. By making allowance for Thomas’ scepticism, the risen Jesus made it clear that he is open and ready to meet all of us, wherever we happen to find ourselves. The palpable irony of the story is that from the mouth of the man, who has subsequently been labelled as “doubting Thomas”, came one of the greatest expressions of faith: “My Lord and my God.”

While John put the focus on Thomas’ doubt, he glossed over the doubt of the other disciples. Even though Mary Magdalen had told them of her encounter with the risen Lord, all of them except Thomas stayed in hiding, while he, the practical one, might well have been out doing the shopping or even trying to verify what Mary Magdalen had claimed.
Yet, if we are honest, we have to admit that we, too, waver between faith and doubt, but come down eventually in favour of faith. In the course of our lives, we gain knowledge through direct experience, deduction or reasoning and through putting our faith in what others tell us. Social researchers point to the fact that more than 75% of our knowledge comes from accepting what others tell us. For example, if I go to a pharmacy searching for medication for an upset stomach, I accept the pharmacist’s recommendation or take as true the instructions for use and the description of possible side-effects printed on the package or bottle containing the medication I purchase. Whenever I board a plane, I take it on trust that the crew members are qualified to fly the plane. I don’t ask to see the captain’s flying licence. However, if we experience severe turbulence on a flight, we might catch ourselves questioning the competence of the captain. When we stop to reflect on an intangible reality like religion, most of us experience intellectual doubts from time to time. We catch ourselves wondering if the miracles in the Gospel actually happened. We have doubts about the divinity of Jesus and the existence of God. These days, we are aware of lots of Catholics doubting how a Church with a history of terrible sexual abuse can really be the Church that Jesus founded on Peter. And then there are our emotional doubts that come to the surface when tragedy and illness strike us or those we know and love. Those who have been faithful to their religious practice find themselves thinking that they are entitled to better treatment from a God who allegedly loves them.

Thomas wanted assurance and evidence. He also wanted Jesus and needed personal connection to dispel his doubts. While others can inspire and encourage us, they cannot give us their faith. The journey to faith in God and Jesus is ultimately personal and sometimes lonely. In today’s gospel we come to see that Mary could not experience the resurrected Jesus for the disciples, and the disciples couldn’t experience Jesus for Thomas. In the long run, we come to understand that it is faith, shaken at times by doubt, that keeps us on the path of searching for our own experience of Jesus. And we need the support of community to help us along that path. John’s Gospel spells out that the fundamentals of being a disciple of Jesus are faith and love. To grow into these is the journey of a lifetime. And we human beings will never achieve them perfectly.

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

Then the other disciple (John) who had reached the tomb first also went in; he saw and he believed 

.                                                                                                   John 20, 1-9

In recent years, surveys conducted in both the United Kingdom and the United States have revealed that a little more than 50% of respondents in both countries believe in an afterlife, without necessarily believing in God. Moreover, there has been a spate of books describing near-death, out-of-body experiences attesting to a life after death. In 2010, The Boy Who Came Back From Heaven was published, and sold millions of copies. It is the story of Alex Malarkey who was left a quadriplegic after a traffic accident, and describes the boy’s experiences of heaven, angels and hearing God’s voice while he was in emergency surgery. It was written by the boy’s father, Kevin who was in the accident with his son. Kevin later admitted that the story was a fabrication. Alex’s mother, Beth, subsequently told reporters that her son was not some kind of supernatural being and is still a quadriplegic. As a consequence of the writing and publication of the book and its subsequent withdrawal from sale, Alex’s parents are now separated. In stark contrast, Heaven Is For Real, also published in 2010, has sold more than 10 million copies. It recounts the out-of-body experience of Colton Burpo during emergency surgery to remove his burst appendix. It was co-written by Colton’s father, Todd Burpo and a family friend, Lynn Vincent and has been made into a film that has pulled in more than $101 million at the box office. It describes Colton’s experience of seeing Jesus and Mary in heaven. While I am not inclined to recommend either of these books to anyone, the volume of sales point to the urge in people to want to believe in heaven or an afterlife.

If that’s not enough, the popularity of the TV show, The Walking Dead, reinforces this acceptance in people of an afterlife. The programme is so popular in Australia that Foxtel tied up rights to it, preventing fans from buying weekly episodes from iTunes and Google (Sydney Morning Herald, October 2016). All of these contemporary productions get some of their inspiration (perhaps unconsciously) from very old creations like Dante’s Divine Comedy or Milton’s Paradise Lost. Despite the advent of rationalism and the cynicism of Post-Modernism, there seems to still exist a deep conscious or unconscious longing in much of humanity for the existence of an afterlife.

I suggest that this longing is somehow connected to humanity’s search to find meaning in the unanswerable questions that life’s struggles and disappointments throw up. Somehow, very ordinary people instinctively conclude that the efforts they make to live decent, honest lives really come to nothing if death is the ultimate winner. Whether we are of any religious faith or none, deep down we cling to an intuition that we are going to die into life (albeit different) rather than away from life. We have within us a sense that the intangible realities of love, faith, hope, kindness, compassion and beauty will never die. The very fact that so much of humanity experiences a longing for more is testimony that there really is something more. Our continuing living and longing work together to keep this “truth” alive. It’s not a factual truth to which we can point, but it is a “truth” we come to by deduction.

I am writing this reflection in New Rochelle N.Y. where I have been for about a week. Yesterday, I came upon a story recounted by Michael Shermer, a member of the Skeptics Society and founder of their magazine Skeptic. The story was published in the magazine and is an account of an incident that happened on the day he married Jennifer Graf, who had emigrated from Germany to the United States in 2014. They married a year or so later. In transit from Germany, a trunk carrying some of Jennifer’s possessions was damaged, together with a transistor radio she treasured because it belonged to her deceased grandfather who reared her after her own father had died. All efforts to repair the transistor radio proved fruitless. Following their wedding, and during the reception held in their home, Jennifer confided to Michael that, despite her happiness, she felt really sad that there was nobody from her German family at the wedding and that the person she missed most was her grandfather. Shortly after confiding this to Michael, they farewelled guests and went up to their bedroom, where they heard music coming from somewhere. Eventually they traced it to a drawer in one of the cupboards. The 1978 Phillips transistor radio had come to life, and with tears running down her face, Jennifer acknowledged that her grandfather was at the wedding after all. She and Michael fell asleep listening to the classical music coming from grandfather’s transistor. By next morning, the music had stopped, and the transistor did not work again.

One final story: People who knew Pope Francis when he was a bishop and cardinal in Buenos Aires, find it difficult to understand what they see as a marked change in his personality since his election. In Argentina, he had a reputation for being shy, even boring, with no spark in his interpersonal engagements. When he was asked to be Pope, he said he was reluctant but accepted because he saw it as God’s will for him. When an interviewer in 2015 asked him: “Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?”, he replied: “I am a sinner. That is the most accurate definition. It is not a figure of speech, a literary genre. I am a sinner.” However, he did confide to a good friend and fellow bishop from South America some time before the 2015 interview: “On the night of my election, I had an experience of the closeness of God that gave me a great sense of interior freedom and peace, and that sense has never left me.”

Stories like the ones above give me reason to pause and ponder. They challenge me to ask myself exactly what it is to which I am committing myself when I recite the Creed at Mass on Sundays. Do I really look forward to “the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come”? These have been some of my thoughts and ruminations as I approach Easter.

Easter, the resurrection of Jesus, confronts all of us, the sisters and brothers of Jesus, with the prospect and hope of renewed life. It is resounding testimony to the power of love. It is not only God’s validation of the life and death of Jesus, but a profound affirmation that goodness, love, compassion, beauty and hope are enduring.

In the latter years of his life, the great impressionist painter Renoir suffered severely from arthritis. His arms and legs became stiffened and his hands twisted and distorted. Matisse, then one of his students, asked him one day as Renoir was working on a large canvas, barely able to stand: “Why do you keep on torturing yourself like this?” The master painter merely replied: “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.” Jesus came to teach us by example how to be authentically human, how to live with dignity and integrity through the disappointments and ordeals we encounter. His efforts brought him cruel execution from those who could or would not see or listen. But God raised him as proof positive that beauty, love and life will ultimately triumph. It’s for us, now, to reflect some of that life and love and beauty to others. The apostle John “saw and believed”. All the puzzling pieces he had heard previously from Jesus fell into place. He needed no further convincing. Do we?

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

Then the other disciple (John) who had reached the tomb first also went in; he saw and he believed. John 20, 1-9

In recent years, surveys conducted in both the United Kingdom and the United States have revealed that a little more than 50% of respondents in both countries believe in an afterlife, without necessarily believing in God. Moreover, there has been a spate of books describing near-death, out-of-body experiences attesting to a life after death. In 2010, The Boy Who Came Back From Heaven was published, and sold millions of copies. It is the story of Alex Malarkey who was left a quadriplegic after a traffic accident, and describes the boy’s experiences of heaven, angels and hearing God’s voice while he was in emergency surgery. It was written by the boy’s father, Kevin who was in the accident with his son. Kevin later admitted that the story was a fabrication. Alex’s mother, Beth, subsequently told reporters that her son was not some kind of supernatural being and is still a quadriplegic. As a consequence of the writing and publication of the book and its subsequent withdrawal from sale, Alex’s parents are now separated. In stark contrast, Heaven Is For Real, also published in 2010, has sold more than 10 million copies. It recounts the out-of-body experience of Colton Burpo during emergency surgery to remove his burst appendix. It was co-written by Colton’s father, Todd Burpo and a family friend, Lynn Vincent and has been made into a film that has pulled in more than $101 million at the box office. It describes Colton’s experience of seeing Jesus and Mary in heaven. While I am not inclined to recommend either of these books to anyone, the volume of sales point to the urge in people to want to believe in heaven or an afterlife.

If that’s not enough, the popularity of the TV show, The Walking Dead, reinforces this acceptance in people of an afterlife. The programme is so popular in Australia that Foxtel tied up rights to it, preventing fans from buying weekly episodes from iTunes and Google (Sydney Morning Herald, October 2016). All of these contemporary productions get some of their inspiration (perhaps unconsciously) from very old creations like Dante’s Divine Comedy or Milton’s Paradise Lost. Despite the advent of rationalism and the cynicism of Post-Modernism, there seems to still exist a deep conscious or unconscious longing in much of humanity for the existence of an afterlife.

I suggest that this longing is somehow connected to humanity’s search to find meaning in the unanswerable questions that life’s struggles and disappointments throw up. Somehow, very ordinary people instinctively conclude that the efforts they make to live decent, honest lives really come to nothing if death is the ultimate winner. Whether we are of any religious faith or none, deep down we cling to an intuition that we are going to die into life (albeit different) rather than away from life. We have within us a sense that the intangible realities of love, faith, hope, kindness, compassion and beauty will never die. The very fact that so much of humanity experiences a longing for more is testimony that there really is something more. Our continuing living and longing work together to keep this “truth” alive. It’s not a factual truth to which we can point, but it is a “truth” we come to by deduction.

I am writing this reflection in New Rochelle N.Y. where I have been for about a week. Yesterday, I came upon a story recounted by Michael Shermer, a member of the Skeptics Society and founder of their magazine Skeptic. The story was published in the magazine and is an account of an incident that happened on the day he married Jennifer Graf, who had emigrated from Germany to the United States in 2014. They married a year or so later. In transit from Germany, a trunk carrying some of Jennifer’s possessions was damaged, together with a transistor radio she treasured because it belonged to her deceased grandfather who reared her after her own father had died. All efforts to repair the transistor radio proved fruitless. Following their wedding, and during the reception held in their home, Jennifer confided to Michael that, despite her happiness, she felt really sad that there was nobody from her German family at the wedding and that the person she missed most was her grandfather. Shortly after confiding this to Michael, they farewelled guests and went up to their bedroom, where they heard music coming from somewhere. Eventually they traced it to a drawer in one of the cupboards. The 1978 Phillips transistor radio had come to life, and with tears running down her face, Jennifer acknowledged that her grandfather was at the wedding after all. She and Michael fell asleep listening to the classical music coming from grandfather’s transistor. By next morning, the music had stopped, and the transistor did not work again.

One final story: People who knew Pope Francis when he was a bishop and cardinal in Buenos Aires, find it difficult to understand what they see as a marked change in his personality since his election. In Argentina, he had a reputation for being shy, even boring, with no spark in his interpersonal engagements. When he was asked to be Pope, he said he was reluctant but accepted because he saw it as God’s will for him. When an interviewer in 2015 asked him: “Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?”, he replied: “I am a sinner. That is the most accurate definition. It is not a figure of speech, a literary genre. I am a sinner.” However, he did confide to a good friend and fellow bishop from South America some time before the 2015 interview: “On the night of my election, I had an experience of the closeness of God that gave me a great sense of interior freedom and peace, and that sense has never left me.”

Stories like the ones above give me reason to pause and ponder. They challenge me to ask myself exactly what it is to which I am committing myself when I recite the Creed at Mass on Sundays. Do I really look forward to “the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come”? These have been some of my thoughts and ruminations as I approach Easter.

Easter, the resurrection of Jesus, confronts all of us, the sisters and brothers of Jesus, with the prospect and hope of renewed life. It is resounding testimony to the power of love. It is not only God’s validation of the life and death of Jesus, but a profound affirmation that goodness, love, compassion, beauty and hope are enduring.

In the latter years of his life, the great impressionist painter Renoir suffered severely from arthritis. His arms and legs became stiffened and his hands twisted and distorted. Matisse, then one of his students, asked him one day as Renoir was working on a large canvas, barely able to stand: “Why do you keep on torturing yourself like this?” The master painter merely replied: “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.” Jesus came to teach us by example how to be authentically human, how to live with dignity and integrity through the disappointments and ordeals we encounter. His efforts brought him cruel execution from those who could or would not see or listen. But God raised him as proof positive that beauty, love and life will ultimately triumph. It’s for us, now, to reflect some of that life and love and beauty to others. The apostle John “saw and believed”. All the puzzling pieces he had heard previously from Jesus fell into place. He needed no further convincing. Do we?

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

Then the other disciple (John) who had reached the tomb first also went in; he saw and he believed. John 20, 1-9

In recent years, surveys conducted in both the United Kingdom and the United States have revealed that a little more than 50% of respondents in both countries believe in an afterlife, without necessarily believing in God. Moreover, there has been a spate of books describing near-death, out-of-body experiences attesting to a life after death. In 2010, The Boy Who Came Back From Heaven was published, and sold millions of copies. It is the story of Alex Malarkey who was left a quadriplegic after a traffic accident, and describes the boy’s experiences of heaven, angels and hearing God’s voice while he was in emergency surgery. It was written by the boy’s father, Kevin who was in the accident with his son. Kevin later admitted that the story was a fabrication. Alex’s mother, Beth, subsequently told reporters that her son was not some kind of supernatural being and is still a quadriplegic. As a consequence of the writing and publication of the book and its subsequent withdrawal from sale, Alex’s parents are now separated. In stark contrast, Heaven Is For Real, also published in 2010, has sold more than 10 million copies. It recounts the out-of-body experience of Colton Burpo during emergency surgery to remove his burst appendix. It was co-written by Colton’s father, Todd Burpo and a family friend, Lynn Vincent and has been made into a film that has pulled in more than $101 million at the box office. It describes Colton’s experience of seeing Jesus and Mary in heaven. While I am not inclined to recommend either of these books to anyone, the volume of sales point to the urge in people to want to believe in heaven or an afterlife.

If that’s not enough, the popularity of the TV show, The Walking Dead, reinforces this acceptance in people of an afterlife. The programme is so popular in Australia that Foxtel tied up rights to it, preventing fans from buying weekly episodes from iTunes and Google (Sydney Morning Herald, October 2016). All of these contemporary productions get some of their inspiration (perhaps unconsciously) from very old creations like Dante’s Divine Comedy or Milton’s Paradise Lost. Despite the advent of rationalism and the cynicism of Post-Modernism, there seems to still exist a deep conscious or unconscious longing in much of humanity for the existence of an afterlife.

I suggest that this longing is somehow connected to humanity’s search to find meaning in the unanswerable questions that life’s struggles and disappointments throw up. Somehow, very ordinary people instinctively conclude that the efforts they make to live decent, honest lives really come to nothing if death is the ultimate winner. Whether we are of any religious faith or none, deep down we cling to an intuition that we are going to die into life (albeit different) rather than away from life. We have within us a sense that the intangible realities of love, faith, hope, kindness, compassion and beauty will never die. The very fact that so much of humanity experiences a longing for more is testimony that there really is something more. Our continuing living and longing work together to keep this “truth” alive. It’s not a factual truth to which we can point, but it is a “truth” we come to by deduction.

I am writing this reflection in New Rochelle N.Y. where I have been for about a week. Yesterday, I came upon a story recounted by Michael Shermer, a member of the Skeptics Society and founder of their magazine Skeptic. The story was published in the magazine and is an account of an incident that happened on the day he married Jennifer Graf, who had emigrated from Germany to the United States in 2014. They married a year or so later. In transit from Germany, a trunk carrying some of Jennifer’s possessions was damaged, together with a transistor radio she treasured because it belonged to her deceased grandfather who reared her after her own father had died. All efforts to repair the transistor radio proved fruitless. Following their wedding, and during the reception held in their home, Jennifer confided to Michael that, despite her happiness, she felt really sad that there was nobody from her German family at the wedding and that the person she missed most was her grandfather. Shortly after confiding this to Michael, they farewelled guests and went up to their bedroom, where they heard music coming from somewhere. Eventually they traced it to a drawer in one of the cupboards. The 1978 Phillips transistor radio had come to life, and with tears running down her face, Jennifer acknowledged that her grandfather was at the wedding after all. She and Michael fell asleep listening to the classical music coming from grandfather’s transistor. By next morning, the music had stopped, and the transistor did not work again.

One final story: People who knew Pope Francis when he was a bishop and cardinal in Buenos Aires, find it difficult to understand what they see as a marked change in his personality since his election. In Argentina, he had a reputation for being shy, even boring, with no spark in his interpersonal engagements. When he was asked to be Pope, he said he was reluctant but accepted because he saw it as God’s will for him. When an interviewer in 2015 asked him: “Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?”, he replied: “I am a sinner. That is the most accurate definition. It is not a figure of speech, a literary genre. I am a sinner.” However, he did confide to a good friend and fellow bishop from South America some time before the 2015 interview: “On the night of my election, I had an experience of the closeness of God that gave me a great sense of interior freedom and peace, and that sense has never left me.”

Stories like the ones above give me reason to pause and ponder. They challenge me to ask myself exactly what it is to which I am committing myself when I recite the Creed at Mass on Sundays. Do I really look forward to “the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come”? These have been some of my thoughts and ruminations as I approach Easter.

Easter, the resurrection of Jesus, confronts all of us, the sisters and brothers of Jesus, with the prospect and hope of renewed life. It is resounding testimony to the power of love. It is not only God’s validation of the life and death of Jesus, but a profound affirmation that goodness, love, compassion, beauty and hope are enduring.

In the latter years of his life, the great impressionist painter Renoir suffered severely from arthritis. His arms and legs became stiffened and his hands twisted and distorted. Matisse, then one of his students, asked him one day as Renoir was working on a large canvas, barely able to stand: “Why do you keep on torturing yourself like this?” The master painter merely replied: “The pain passes, but the beauty remains.” Jesus came to teach us by example how to be authentically human, how to live with dignity and integrity through the disappointments and ordeals we encounter. His efforts brought him cruel execution from those who could or would not see or listen. But God raised him as proof positive that beauty, love and life will ultimately triumph. It’s for us, now, to reflect some of that life and love and beauty to others. The apostle John “saw and believed”. All the puzzling pieces he had heard previously from Jesus fell into place. He needed no further convincing. Do we?

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

The Criminal said: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” Jesus replied: “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 22,14 – 23, 56

The themes of today’s readings are love and human frailty and fickleness. The following poem is an introduction into the first of those themes.

Love’s as Warm as Tears C.S. Lewis

Love’s as warm as tears, Love is tears:
Pressure within the brain, Tension at the throat, Deluge, weeks of rain, Haystacks afloat, Featureless seas between
Hedges, where once was green.

Love’s as fierce as fire, Love is fire: All sorts–Infernal heat Clinkered with greed and pride,
Lyric desire, sharp-sweet, Laughing, even when denied,
And that empyreal flame Whence all loves came.

Love’s as fresh as spring, Love is spring: Bird-song in the air, Cool smells in a wood, Whispering “Dare! Dare!” To sap, to blood, Telling “Ease, safety, rest, Are good; not best.”

Love’s as hard as nails, Love is nails: Blunt, thick, hammered through The medial nerves of One Who, having made us, knew The thing He had done, Seeing (what all that is) Our cross, and His.

The themes that run consistently and persistently through Luke’s Gospel are those of forgiveness, mercy and love. Luke, and the other Gospel writers, present Jesus as the complete and utter human personification of God’s love. In today’s gospel, the words we hear from Jesus on his way to Calvary and from the Cross are an expression of totally selfless love:

To the disciples, when one of them took a sword and cut of the ear of the high priest’s servant, he said: “Leave off! That will do!” He refused to fight violence with violence. To the women on the roadside watching him struggle to his place of execution, he said: “Don’t weep for me, weep for yourselves and for your children.” For those who crucified him, he prayed: “Father, forgive them; they don’t know what they are doing.” And to the criminal who supported him: “I promise you today you will be with me in paradise.” And all those directives, advice and prayers are for our benefit, too.

The readings of today are held up to us like a mirror which reflects to us the fickleness of our feelings, attitudes and actions. We all have the potential to swing from one extreme to the other, from palm-waving enthusiasm and adulation to the peer-pressure fuelled vindictiveness of: “Crucify him! Crucify him!” We may well recoil from the prospect of the latter, but today’s readings assure us that, even if we slip to that extent, the forgiveness and understanding of a merciful God await us.

Reflection on our own life experience teaches us that we can delude ourselves into acting as though we are messiahs, acting as though we can save others from visiting disaster and destruction on themselves and others. Alternatively, we can put on others such heavy expectations that we elevate them to the status of messiah. Even if we don’t go that far, there are times when we catch ourselves wanting others to live up to our expectations. When they don’t measure up, we can dismiss them and go in search of others in whom we see greater potential for delivering what we want. There are also moments in our lives when we can be drawn into crucifixion. They occur when we launch into demolishing the reputations of those we perceive as threats to us, of those we regard as competitors, of those on whom we look with jealousy and envy. Whenever we engage in stifling the life in others or blocking the life-giving actions of others, we are pursuing the way of crucifixion. The liturgy and readings of today and the next few weeks are a powerful reminder to us that we have a God who knows the rhythm of what we call the paschal mystery. Our God is one whose love and mercy for us is so powerfully expressed in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus. As we try to walk in the footsteps of Jesus as his disciples, we, too, experience the pattern of death and new life as circumstances deprive us of our hopes and aspirations and lead us through the pain of loss to claim new life and new hope.

The Jesus whom Luke presents in today’s gospel reading is entirely consistent with the Jesus who presents story after story illustrating the compassion, forgiveness, mercy and love of God. One after the other, the three parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin and the lost, prodigal son reinforce the message that God does not give up on us, however lost and alienated we may be. It is this same Jesus who invites us to imitate the compassion and selflessness of the Prodigal’s father and of the Samaritan who rescued the beaten traveller, with no thought of ritual contamination to himself. The point of all this, of course, is that we are invited to express those attitudes to everyone who comes into our life. We have no control over how they relate to us, what they feel about us or what they think of us, but it is our choice as to how we relate and respond to them.

Today’s gospel reading is an invitation to us to reflect on the extent to which our story resonates with the story of Jesus. We will always experience people and situations that threaten our integrity or the values and principles on which we want to base our lives. The extent to which our lives reflect the love, compassion and forgiveness that Jesus expressed as he was humiliated, degraded, tortured and executed is the extent to which our story coincides with his. Neither God nor Jesus expects us to do any of those things perfectly. However, Luke’s account of the last day in the life of Jesus asks us if we are courageous enough to reflect even a little of the selfless love that characterized Jesus’ life to the bitter end.

In one part of his letter to the Romans, Paul concludes one of his exhortations with: “Don’t let yourselves be mastered by evil, but overcome evil with good” (Romans 12, 21). Luke’s account of the passion of Jesus is the story of the triumph of mercy and goodness over jealousy, injustice and evil. Today we are asked if we can imitate Jesus in at least some small way.

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

“Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” “No one, sir,” she replied. “Neither do I condemn you,” said Jesus, “go away, and don’t sin any more.”
John 8, 1-11

Scripture scholars have pointed out that the story of the woman caught in adultery is not included in the earliest manuscripts of John’s Gospel. In fact, it was added in the early part of the Third Century, when Christians were involved in heated argument as to whether there could be forgiveness of sin after baptism. While Tertullian, the early Christian scholar and writer from Carthage in Tunisia, was adamant that there was no forgiveness of sin after baptism, other scholars began to ask the question: “What would Jesus do?” That’s a question that has persisted through the centuries, and is often heard nowadays from people struggling with modern moral dilemmas. In the Third Century that question was answered by including in John’s Gospel the story about Jesus and the woman caught in adultery, which had been part of oral tradition from the time of the Apostles. The debate was a clear illustration that even the earliest Christians found it difficult to trust in Go’s unconditional forgiveness.

Christianity has been plagued by those whose only solution to immorality has been drastic action designed to discourage anyone inclined to repeat the immorality. Advocates of capital punishment belong to that group. And the Spanish Inquisition pursued such remedies with a vengeance. Jesus, however, promoted mercy and conversion of heart as the only effective and lasting answer. The blueprint for his approach is to be found in today’s gospel story.

Notice that his integrity demands that he does not gloss over the woman’s behaviour. He names it for the sin that it is, but he does not condemn the sinner. He urges her not to become trapped in guilt but to let go of her past and live her life with her heart renewed. If we don’t remember past mistakes and personal failures, we run the risk of repeating them. At the same time, it’s soul destroying to allow ourselves to become trapped by our past. Memory is an integral part of Jewish culture. The great rabbi Abraham Heschel made much of this when he said: “Much of what the Bible demands of us can be summed up in a single word: remember!” (Moral Grandeur & Spiritual Audacity, 1997). Remember in the sense of calling to mind the past and re-member in the sense of putting back together the broken pieces. Decades earlier, Heschel had written: “There is a collective memory of God in the human spirit, and it is this memory that is the main source of our faith” (The Holy Dimension, 1943). In today’s second reading, Paul remembers how he was once engaged in bitterly persecuting the early Christians. Remembering tells us something of our life journey, including both the good things we have done and experienced and the not so good. But we have to be careful not to fall into the trap of living in the past or being controlled by our past. In the gospel reading, we learn how Jesus rescued the woman whom the Pharisees wanted to condemn to death by stoning. He rescued her from being imprisoned by her shameful past, encouraging her to put back together the pieces of her broken life. Instead of shaming her further, he encouraged her to let go of the past and look to a future full of hope, reflecting in his treatment of her that she, too, shared in the “collective memory of God”.

The risk for the woman in the story was that she had a lot to live down. While those in the group that brought her to Jesus were pressured by him to reflect on their private sinfulness, she had the reputation of being a public sinner. She would have to live with gossip and the way that these Pharisees would continue to stare leeringly at her. She would have doubts as to whether her husband would forgive her. It was one thing to be assured by Jesus that God had forgiven her, but what about all her friends and neighbours? She ran the risk of being trapped in guilt. And that’s the risk we all face. Perhaps there are times when we wonder if we have been really forgiven by God for our past failures and infidelities. And most of us have probably met people who are wracked by scruples, unable to trust that God has forgiven them. One wonders what kind of God they have. And that prompts us to ask ourselves what kind of God we have. Do we believe that God loves us endlessly and unconditionally, no matter how broken our past lives have been?

Yet this story Is as much about the challenge Jesus puts to the Pharisees as it is about the forgiveness of the woman. Jesus is as aware of the seaminess of adultery as are the woman’s accusers. He does not deny the degradation of adultery or try to minimize it. But he does press the point that, before any of us wants to set about demanding that others change their evil ways, we must first change our own hearts. To make the kingdom of God a reality in the here and now, we need to develop both a lived conviction that God really does forgive us and a way of relating to others that is built on generous heartedness, forgiveness, mercy and compassion. There is nothing to be gained by comparing ourselves with those we judge to be sinners in order to give ourselves a self-satisfying pat on the back.

Robert Cormier, in his book entitled Table Talk: Beginning a conversation on the Gospel of Luke, tells the story of an old priest who often wondered about the difference between heaven and hell. One night he had a dream in which he experienced God telling him what that difference really was.

God showed him hell first, and he was stunned to see that there were no flames and no horned and pointy-tailed devils prodding others with forks. But there was a crowd of very angry people, all holding 10-foot-long wooden spoons and jostling one another as they struggled to get their spoons into large wooden bowls that were placed in the centre of picnic tables and filled to overflowing with food. But, when any of them managed to fill their spoons, they were not able to turn the spoons around and get them into their mouths. The frustration, the arguing and the bitterness were sheer hell! Then God gave the priest a look at heaven. He saw the same wooden tables and bowls and people with the same 10-foot-long wooden spoons. But there was no jostling and pushing. There was an atmosphere of real peace and contentment. Here the people were happily engaged in feeding one another.

Today’s gospel reading makes it clear that, if we are to confront the evils of the world in which we live, we have to start by confronting the evils within ourselves. We just won’t be able to life up the broken and the alienated until we realise that we, too, are broken and we, too, alienate ourselves from God and from our brothers and sisters. It is futile to think we can credibly pass judgement on others until we assess our own lives and seek the healing that God offers us. We have the capacity to create both heaven and hell in our own time and place. When we find within ourselves the willingness to feed one another from the bounty of God’s gifts to us, we will get a glimpse of heaven. Hell is nothing but the abundance of selfishness and the endless presence of bitterness and spiteful competition.

Today we are invited to put down our stones of indignation, bitterness and superiority and to look within ourselves at the place where good and evil meet and wrestle with one another. Any of us without sin can lead the stone-throwing.

by Br Julian McDonald cfc

The tax collectors and sinners were all seeking the company of Jesus to hear what he had to say, and the Pharisees and scribes complained. “This man”, they said, “welcomes sinners and eats with them.” So, he spoke this parable to them.
Luke 15, 1-3, 11-32

We all know today’s gospel parable of The Prodigal Son so well that we can repeat it by heart in all its detail. So, as we pause once again to reflect on its significance for our lives, let’s keep in mind a saying to which many storytellers subscribe: “The story begins only when the teller stops talking.” I am confident that Jesus would have shared their view. So, what will this story evoke from you and me?

I want to suggest that the context in which Jesus first told this story is of equal importance to the story itself. Luke tells us that Jesus is among tax collectors and sinners, all eager to hear what he had to say. Meanwhile, the Pharisees and scribes were looking on, tut-tutting at the fact that Jesus was associating and even eating with the dregs of society, those detested for their depravity and corruption. However, by the time we get to the end of the parable we are left in no doubt that nobody earns entrance into God’s kingdom. It is all gift. And there is an additional message for all those among us who see themselves as upright, religious people. A heavy investment in religious knowledge and practice, however impressive it might look, is no proof that we have a healthy relationship with God. What we display on the outside is not always a good indication of what is going on in our hearts. Impeccable religious observance may be doing more for our own ego than for those around us. It may also be doing little to nourish our relationship with God.

So, I am suggesting that this parable is especially directed at the good religious onlookers who would not even think of mixing with the group of sinners, prostitutes and tax collectors close to Jesus, let alone eat with them. Now, let’s look at some of the characters in the story and the significance of their actions. We’ve already mentioned the educated, religious leaders who were the standard bearers of morality, law and religious observance. They were the ones with status, power and control in the society of the day. Then there are any number of public sinners – those already mentioned, but also the two brothers, and the pig farmer, representing those despicable people who prey on the vulnerable and who use their cunning to seduce them from their culture, their principles and the values they learned from their childhood. And there’s the father who not only breaks all the conventions and expectations of how fathers were supposed to act, but who contributes to the dissention between his two sons. And these characters all have their modern-day equivalents.

We all know from bitter experience that none of us is above sin. We all fail, and fall from grace in one way or another. We also know that we can be quick to identify those whose sin is public while we do our utmost to keep our sinfulness away from the public gaze. But among us there are many so-called religious people who are intent on hiding their sin and their human frailty. We now know from bitter experience that even the administrators of some religious institutions colluded in keeping hidden the sins of their leaders.

While today’s gospel reading opens with Luke identifying the two groups (public sinners and religious leaders) listening to Jesus, the parable itself begins with the very direct statement: “A man had two sons” – just like the two groups listening to Jesus’ story. And the story is apparently directed at the public sinners, as the religious leaders smugly look on. But as the story unfolds we come to see that the younger son is a public sinner and the elder a private sinner. It is true that the younger son sank to the depths of depravity and infidelity. By demanding his share of the inheritance, he effectively told his father that he wished he were dead. Interested only in himself, he rejected his father, his family, his Jewishness and his religious practice. In so doing, he earned the hatred of his brother. Moreover, his reasons for deciding to return home are based on self-interest. He calculates that he can get a job on his father’s estate, be paid a wage and be given his meals. He returns on his own terms. And his father bends over backwards to welcome him back and restore him to his former status. His father asks no questions as to why he has returned. He is simply overjoyed that his wayward son has come back.

But while the younger son left in a way that humiliated his father, and went on to pursue a scandalous life-style, the older one was never really at home for his father. It is clear that he, too, was just waiting for his father to die. He adopted a martyr complex, regarding himself as a servant who spent his time slaving away on the estate, but was resentful, totally selfish, and full of anger and passive aggression. When his father left the party and went outside to coax him to come in and join the celebration, the elder son angrily pushed him away and blamed him for being forgiving and indulgent. All he wanted was a private party for himself and his friends. If we put the two brothers side by side, we see that they are not very different, except that the older one is a private sinner who not only can’t see that he has done wrong but even interprets his behaviour as virtuous. As the elder brother in a Jewish family, he had a responsibility for both his younger brother and his father. It was his job to go searching for his little brother and his job to protect his father from being humiliated in front of all his friends and neighbours. The younger son turned his father into a public laughing-stock, and the older son couldn’t care less. The younger of the two, despite his callousness, irresponsibility and utter selfishness, eventually came home. And we are left wondering if the older one relented, stopped pouting, let go of his anger and came into the party and back into the family.

When all is said and done, this parable invites us to look into the mirror to see for ourselves with which of the two we identify.

In sitting among the tax collectors and public sinners, Jesus adopts the role of a truly responsible brother, prepared to reach out to his brothers and sisters who have strayed, to celebrate their return and, thereby, to hold God’s family together. In that sense we can say that Jesus becomes the parable of God. And therein lies the challenge to those of us who like to pride ourselves on our fidelity and regular religious practice. Have we yet discovered who God is and do we ever reach out in welcome to and acceptance of those who have apparently gone astray? The parable invites us to reach out in mercy and forgiveness to others, and also to come in and celebrate whenever those we might be inclined to avoid accept the mercy, forgiveness and unconditional love of God which we sometimes take for granted.

Finally, there is something about this parable which is ageless. The younger son does not really want a father and the older one does not want a brother. Their attitudes are alive and well in our contemporary world. We meet any number of people who want no one to answer to, who shun the commitment of close relationships, who refuse to be accountable to anyone, who see themselves above and beyond the law. They want to be unrestrained to pursue a lifestyle that ultimately leads them to self-destruct. In addition, there are those around us who want neither sister nor brother. They don’t want anyone who might make a claim on them. They are intolerant of difference, and slip with ease into racism, discrimination and religious bigotry. Can we find it within us to reach out to these too?