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13th Sunday Ordinary Time Year B

The Gospel story this Sunday begins with a request, “My little daughter is at the point of death. Come and lay your hands on her.” (Mark 5:23)

In the environment of today, that request would not be responded to with the immediacy Jesus showed.

Rather there would be caution, a sense of alertness, a sense of “ is this ok?”

Each of the rites of our Sacraments has as part of them a ritual laying on of hands.

I know several priests who, today, are very wary of that ritual action! particularly when the Sacrament is celebrated privately, for example, the First Rite of Reconciliation and the Anointing of the Sick in a private home or hospital.

Is there cause for us to reclaim a genuine theology of the body and of touch?

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12th Sunday Ordinary Time Year B

The Carmelite nun, St Thérèse of Lisieux (1873 – 1897), lived a life that was externally unremarkable, but she knew more inner storms than most.

She wrote

“I was alone in a desert waste, or rather, my soul was like a fragile skiff tossing without a pilot in a stormy sea. I knew that Jesus was there, asleep in my little boat, but the night was too black for me to see him.

“All was darkness.

“Not even a flash of lightning pierced the clouds. There’s nothing reassuring about lightning, but, at least if the storm had burst, I should have been able to glimpse Jesus. But it was night, the dark night of the soul.”

(Story of a Soul: The Autobiography of St. Therese of Lisieux).

People passing her monastery would probably have said, “What a peaceful life they have there!”

But as St Thérèse said, Jesus was there, though apparently asleep.

He slept a lot in her company, she noticed!

But she made excuses for him: other people rarely let him sleep, and so he would come to her for a break.

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11th Sunday Ordinary Time Year B

The parable of the mustard seed was a reply to the question: could the kingdom really grow from such humble beginnings?

It seems that what life intends to be great it first makes small.

Many great things and undertakings begin in small and often hidden ways.

For example, a building begins with one brick on another, a book begins with one word on a page, a song or symphony with the first note, a journey with a single step, a forest fire from a single spark, a giant oak from an acorn, a huge river from a tiny spring, a lifelong friendship from a chance encounter.

Things that have a certain integrity and truth always seem to start from humble beginnings.

Seeds need the darkness, isolation, and cover of the earth in order to germinate.

Therefore, for something to begin small, hidden, anonymous, is in fact an advantage.

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2nd Sunday Lent Year B

Today’s First Reading has one of the most dramatic scenes in the entire Bible.

Yahweh God instructs Abraham to slaughter his son, Isaac as an offering.

Whether the event actually happened I have no idea, and actually find the question irrelevant.

What I do find worth reflecting on is the mythos or sacred story behind what is written.

As Etty Hellisum said in beginning her diary, ‘Here goes then’. Early in 1971 I left my family home and entered the seminary to begin my studies and formation necessary to become an ordained priest in the Catholic Church.

Only in recent years have I reflected on the impact that must have had on my parents.

At the age of 17 I was more like Bilbo Baggins, from Lord of The Rings, taking my hat from the stand, closing the garden gate, and saying, ‘Well, that’s that,’ he said. ‘Now I’m off!’ Bilbo chose his favourite stick from the stand; then he whistled.

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