Rest a while

There is a television programme that airs before the weekday 6pm news bulletin on TV1.

The programme is called The Chase. It’s a quiz show with a difference: four contestants must pit their wits against the Chaser, a ruthless quiz genius determined to stop them winning the cash prize.

On occasion, both the contestant and the Chaser interrupt the quizmaster with an answer before the question has been fully read out. At times, that interruption causes blunders — an incorrect answer that could have been avoided had the contestant simply paused.

Admittedly, today’s Gospel (Mt 16:13–20) is not a quiz. However, it involves asking questions, and it is advantageous to wait until the end before answering.

Jesus first asks: “Who do people say that I am?” Those around him reach back into the history of the Jewish people and respond: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah and other prophets.

Jesus then turns to those he has lovingly invited into his community and patiently taught — those on whom the future of the mission depends — and asks: “Who do you say that I am?”

It is at this critical moment, between the question and the answer, that Jesus must wonder whether all he has shared with them has taken root.

This same question comes to each of us at some point in our own growth into spiritual maturity: “Who do you say I am?”

Do I, like those early disciples, reach back into my history and offer the answer given to me by my parents or caregivers, my teachers, or a religious leader?

Or do I dare provide an answer from the depths of my own inner self? This answer may well differ from that of those who first nurtured me in faith. However, it will be mine, and my relationship with Jesus will be founded on it.

To arrive at that answer, may I suggest we first need to be still and silent — to hear the whole question before we reply.

The image is a mosaic of the face of Jesus, constructed from a collage of many faces.

Today in our Church we celebrate the feast day known as the Assumption. It is a Catholic dogma that Mary, at the end of her earthly life, was taken body and soul into heaven.

While believed down the ages, this dogma was defined by Pope Pius XII on 1 November 1950 in his apostolic constitution “Munificentissimus Deus”.

Some readers of this page may be older than the formal declaration of the dogma.

Many people read this dogma as saying Mary never died. The dogma does not say this.

Orthodox spirituality has another name for this feast day: the Dormition of the Most Holy Theotokos. Literally, “the falling asleep of the Mother of God”.

The Musée de Cluny (‘Cluny Museum – National Museum of the Middle Ages’), in Paris, is a museum dedicated to the art of the Middle Ages.

One of its collection pieces is a 10th- to early 11th-century ivory plaque of the Dormition of the Virgin, apparently originating in what was then Constantinople (today known as Istanbul, Turkey).

The plaque shows the apostles gathered around a funeral bier. The Virgin Mary lies on the bier.

There is a sadness in the faces of the apostles.

One clings dearly to the feet of the Virgin – how often do we witness a similar scene at funerals? Family members gather around a casket, some with their hands touching the lid or sides.

Another of the apostles swings an incense burner – again, an action all too familiar from our own funeral rituals.

Did Mary die? Does it matter?

Earthquakes and fires are great news items. Both visual and written news stations provide up-to-date coverage of these events.

As I write, parts of Europe, notably France and Spain, are working to control major fires.

Similarly, earthquake recovery efforts are underway in Venezuela and Japan.

At times, family and community stories include a fire and/or an earthquake. The Ballantyne Department Store fire of 1947 forms part of the story of the city and people of Christchurch.

So too do the major earthquakes that struck that city in September 2010 and February 2011. The consequences of, and recovery from, such events take time for individuals and communities alike.

Both earthquakes and fires are also noisy. So is a very strong wind.

An event known by many as “the Wahine Disaster” involved the sinking of an inter-island ferry in April 1968. The ferry was caught in a violent cyclonic storm and foundered at the entrance to Wellington Harbour. Fifty-three people lost their lives.

Have you ever heard a major news station give coverage of a gentle breeze? Even a weather report ignores such an event.

A gentle breeze happens almost silently, though there may be a little rattle from an unsecured window. An important feature of a gentle breeze is that you can leave your door ajar and your windows open.

This Sunday’s First Reading is taken from the First Book of Kings (19:9, 11–13) and recounts the prophet Elijah’s encounter with his God.

God was not in the mighty wind, nor in the fire, nor in the earthquake. Then came a gentle breeze, and Elijah “covered his face with his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.”

Unfortunately, our text concludes at that point. What happens next is the important part: God asks Elijah, “What are you doing here?”

All who know the story will know that Elijah has in fact run away and is in hiding. So what does God say? “Go, return.”

The moral of the story is this: when you reckon you have found a safe hiding place and are letting the gentle morning breeze catch your face, be very cautious.

The Gospel this Sunday is from Matthew 14:13–21, and all the Bibles I have read preface the passage with the heading ‘The Feeding of the Five Thousand’. Commentaries and homilies almost invariably focus on this event, which is understandable.

However, our passage describing this ‘feeding’ of many is prefaced by another ‘feeding’ — the feeding of one.

Our passage begins: ‘When Jesus received the news of John the Baptist’s death, he withdrew by boat to a lonely place where he could be by himself.’ (The Bible text I use most often uses the word ‘deserted’ rather than ‘lonely’.)

It invites us to reflect on how we process grief.

The text is accommodating: ‘When Jesus received the news of John the Baptist’s death’ — for goodness’s sake, his cousin had just had his head chopped off!

For all we know, Jesus and John may have played together as children. They may have gone to the same school and been in the same class. Knowing Judaic traditions, they most certainly would have shared meals together.

News of death is received individually, and so is grief.

Even within a family, members attend to their grief in individual ways — ‘our dad’ in life becomes ‘my dad’ in death.

News of another’s death closes a relationship. As each relationship is particular to the two people involved, so too is how its closure is managed.

Grief is as individual as a fingerprint.

The Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung called grief a natural, sacred inner journey.

Jesus’ own journey took him across water: ‘He withdrew by boat to a deserted place where he could be by himself.’

And what happens? He is met by a crowd.

How often this happens in life, around grief. Wanting to be alone, I am met by a crowd — well-meaning, to be sure, but at times intrusive with their presence, their advice, their suggestions, and their counsel.

Grief is as individual as a fingerprint.