6th Sunday of Ordinary Time

My first ministry appointment as priest was to the parish of the Sacred Heart in Hastings, Hawkes Bay.

I was a young and relatively fit young man.

I regularly rode my bike from Hastings to Havelock North (some 5km) and swam in a heated pool.

Swimming up and down the pool on a Tuesday morning was difficult.

Tuesday mornings belonged to young mothers and their preschool children.

Hopeless for an energetic young man and his quest for fitness.

Superb for a young man learning about his God!

The young mothers stood in the pool near the edge. Then, with a clap of the hands and a call of the child’s name, the mother extended her arms and PLOP!

The young child would jump off the edge towards their mother and land in the water!

The child’s initiative to jump came from the reassuring call of the mother, “Come to Mummy!”

The child knew that voice and could trust that voice. The voice was reassuring.

In today’s First Reading from the prophet Jeremiah, we hear,

“Blessed is the one who trusts in the Lord,

whose hope is the Lord.

They are like a tree planted beside the waters

that stretches out its roots to the stream:

it fears not the heat when it comes;

its leaves stay green;

in the year of drought, it shows no distress,

but still bears fruit.” (vv 7,8)

5th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Whom shall I send? Here I am, send me!” (Is. 6:8)

Among the many books written by Henri Nouwen (1932-1996), one stands out as an enduring little classic, The Wounded Healer.

For those who knew him, this book is especially powerful because, without expressly intending to, it describes so well the man himself.

It was because of his own wounds that he was able to touch the lives of so many people. “By his wounds we have been healed,” St Peter wrote of Jesus (1 Peter 2:24).

From Nouwen, again, from his book Out of Solitude: “When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving much advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a gentle and tender hand.

“The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not-knowing, not-curing, not-healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is the friend who cares….

“By the honest recognition and confession of our human sameness we can participate in the care of God who came, not to the powerful but powerless, not to be different but the same, not to take our pain away but to share it.

“Through this participation we can open our hearts to each other and form a new community.”

In the first reading at today’s Mass, God’s call made Isaiah aware of his own weakness and unworthiness, exactly as Jesus’ call to Peter made Peter blurt out, “Go away from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!”

If, as Christians, we do not carry the precious knowledge of our own weakness and sinfulness, then all our attempts to help another are nothing but an ego-trip:

    • by ‘helping’ you they are feeding on your strength and making you weak.
    • by ‘loving’ you they are seeking ways to snare you and make you dependent on them.
    • by ‘caring’ for you they are preening their own image.

“Go away from me, Lord, for I am sinful,” – that is how you can be of best use to me, replies my God.

Feast of the Presentation of the Lord

The Dutch artist Rembrandt van Rijn painted today’s Gospel story at least twice, in 1631 and in 1669.

As well there are numerous pencil sketches.

The difference between Rembrandt’s most well-known paintings of this event in the life of the person of Jesus, may well illustrate something of the journey of a spiritual person.

Simeon’s Song of Praise, 1631, is housed at the Mauritshuis, The Hague.

To say the painting is busy is stating it mildly.

Nearly two dozen other figures line the background, looking on.

Here young Rembrandt shows what he’s capable of. Your eye could spend an hour touring the canvas, and you still wouldn’t see all that’s there.

The young, 25-year-old Rembrandt is out to show off his skills.

The second painting, painted thirty-eight years later in 1669, the year of Rembrandt’s death, is very different.

This painting was found on the easel in his studio at the time of his death. Rembrandt was 63.

Gone are the crowds looking on.

Gone are the columns, and filigree, and architecture.

Gone is the brilliant beam of light.

The crisp brushwork of a steady young hand has given way to the shaky, mottled, impressions of the old master’s touch.

The aged Rembrandt is content to deliver warmth over detail, individuals over a crowd, and simplicity over grandeur.

Might that well be the recipe for our own Christian journey? to deliver “warmth over detail, individuals over a crowd, and simplicity over grandeur. “

Third Sunday of Ordinary Time

One day a young boy was herding his goats along the dusty road that lead from his village.

Lying on the road was an elderly gentleman. The gentleman was dead.

Hurrying back to the village the boy called the adults and explained the situation.

A group of older men went out and found the elderly gentleman just as the boy had said.

They looked for some item that might identify the dead person, without any success. All the dead man had was an old rucksack which contained a shirt and a very old and well used book.

The villagers buried the dead man and took possession of the book.

The book was well used and by its appearance had been out in all conditions.

The lettering on its cover was so faint and faded it made its title unintelligible.

The book was full of stories and each night, after haven eaten, the villagers gathered round the fire and in turn read a story aloud.

The central character leaped out at them from the book’s musty pages.

This man was full of vitality yet possessing great gentleness and compassion.

He never seemed to stay in one place for too long, however spent time with persons who were sick or in some way needy.

The beauty and authority of his words made a deep impression on the villagers.

Slowly, the villagers would reread each story, each time finding something new.

Without being aware of it happening each took something from the central character ‘s life and tried to imitate his behaviour in the way they lived.

The more the book was used and read the more fragile became is pages until it became too unstable too handle.

As a result, the villagers wrapped the book in a cloth.

The book was no longer opened; however, the villagers continued their ritual of gathering after they had eaten each night and took turns at recounting the stories by heart.