Reflection for February 15th, 2015 by Louise Lafond

6th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Jamie’s very recent request to do this weekend’s reflection could not have come at a better time for me as I just started my first placement as a student nurse. Yes, Holy Spirit, I am hearing you loud and clear!

It is hard from a 21st Century health perspective to understand what is truly going on in Leviticus. “Outside the camp” is the 7th Century BCE equivalent to a negative pressure isolation room that tries to prevent anyone else from becoming infected. The Israelites knew that they had no clue how to prevent the spread of infection and their only option was isolation. This does not mean that they did not care, but were powerless to help. This is shown in God’s punishment of Miriam1, Moses’ sister, who was made leprous and was forced outside the camp for seven days “…and the people did not set out on the march until Miriam had been brought in again.”

How then do we, as Paul asks us, not to cause anyone to stumble but to find the good of the many by following the example of Jesus? Tall order, as I, unlike Jesus, have not cured anyone by touching them and saying “Be clean!”

So, in this run up to Lent, what is my best offer to you who, like me, seek to serve and be like Jesus?

My modest proposal is twofold: One is aimed at all of us and the other is for the more tech savvy (or those who know someone who is tech savvy).

1. Look beyond the ribbons, whatever worthy colour they are, and learn about the people who suffer from an illness and how it affects their lives. For example: A great illness for study is schizophrenia – a devastating psychiatric illness that tends to strike adolescents and young adults. Discover the mechanisms in society that cause them to stumble, for example – the criminal courts, and work to end their isolation “outside the camp.”

2. For the tech savvy, I urge you to donate your computer time to the World Community Grid. Developed by University of California at Berkley, “World Community Grid is a simple way to support cutting-edge research into important global humanitarian causes.”2 As I was writing this reflection, my computer was working on cancer markers and genomes. This option is great for the many of us who do not have a lot of time to donate, but our computers are always sitting around.

Let us be like Jesus and do more of the doing rather than expounding our exploits and thereby confusing the medium with the message. It is not the cure, it is the disease and our willingness to touch and be touched by that which and those who are hidden from us and to bring them into the light.

1 Numbers 12
2 http://www.worldcommunitygrid.org/ under “How you can Help” retrieved 2015-02-11

Reflection fo February 8th, 2015 by Fr. Andy Boyer

Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time

For printable Version: 5TH Sunday in Ordinary Time

The Gospels of Matthew, Luke and John all begin, in one way or another, with stories related to the birth of Jesus. But Mark doesn’t tell us anything about Jesus’ birth. In fact, he begins his story when Jesus was 30 years old.

So what does Mark have in mind? Obviously, we can’t read the author’s mind, but one gets the feeling that Mark can’t wait to get into the story of what Jesus was DOING. The Gospel of Mark is very much an action gospel. It’s as if Mark were saying, “The world needed Jesus”

So in the ordinariness of our lives, all of us struggle and I believe we struggle in three ways. First, sometimes we struggle simply to maintain ourselves, to stay healthy and stable, to not fall apart, to not have our lives unravel into chaos and depression. It takes real effort just to maintain our ordinary health, stability, and happiness.

But, even as this is going on, secondly, another part of us is forever reaching upwards, struggling to grow, to achieve higher things, to live a life that is more admirable, noble, and altruistic.

Then, thirdly, at another level, we struggle with a threatening darkness that surrounds us. The complexities of life can overwhelm us, leaving us feeling threatened, excluded, and insignificant. For this reason, a part of us is forever conscious that we stand one breakdown, one lost relationship, one lost job, one death of a loved one bringing us away from descent into paralyzing depression, an illness, or a dark chaos that we cannot control.

In short, we struggle to maintain ourselves, struggle to grow, and struggle to keep depression and death at bay. Because we struggle at these three levels, we need, therefore, three kinds of spiritualities in our lives.

At one level, we need a spirituality of maintenance, that is, a spirituality that helps us to maintain our health, stability, and ordinariness. Too often spiritual teachings neglect this vital aspect of spirituality. Rather we are forever being challenged to grow, to be better Christians, to simply be better than we are at present. That’s good, but naively takes for granted that we are already healthy, stable, and strong enough to be challenged. And, as we know, many times this isn’t the case. There are times in our lives, when the best we can do is to hang on, not fall apart, and fight to regain again some health, stability, and strength in our lives, to simply get one foot in front of the next. At these times in our lives, challenge isn’t exactly what we need, rather we need to be given permission to feel what we’re feeling and we need to be given a warm hand to help draw us back towards health and strength. The challenge to grow comes later.

And that challenge comes with an invitation that invites us upwards, towards a spirituality of the ascent, our second spirituality. All spiritualities worthy of the name, stress the need to make a certain ascent, to grow beyond our immaturities, our laziness, our wounds, and the perennial shallowness of our culture. The emphasis here is always to reach upward and towards all that is more noble, altruistic, compassionate, loving, and saintly. Much of classical Christian spirituality is a spirituality of the ascent, an invitation to something higher, an invitation to be true to what is deepest inside of us, namely, the Image and Likeness of God. Much of Jesus’ preaching invites us precisely to something higher. Confucius, one of the great moral teachers of all time, had a similar pedagogy, inviting people to look to beauty and goodness and to forever reach in that direction. In our own time, John Paul II used this very effectively in his appeal to young people, challenging them always to not settle for compromise or second-best, but to look always for something higher and more noble to give their lives to.

But the challenge to growth also needs a spirituality of descent, our third spirituality, that is, a vision and a set of disciplines that point us not just towards the rising sun, but also towards the setting sun. We need a spirituality that doesn’t avoid or deny the complexities of life, the paralyzing losses and depressions in life, and the looming reality of sickness, diminishment, and death. Sometimes we can only grow by descending into that frightening underworld, where, like Jesus, we undergo a transformation by facing chaos, darkness, satanic forces (whatever these may be), and death itself. In some ancient cultures this was called “sitting in the ashes” or “being a child of Saturn” (the archetypal planet of depression). As Christians, we call this undergoing the paschal mystery. Whatever the name, all spiritualities will, at some time in our life, invite us to make a painful descent into the frightening underworld of chaos, depression, loss, darkness, and death itself.

Life reveals itself above us and below us and on the flat plain of ordinariness. None of these may be ignored. And so we need always to maintain and steady ourselves, even as we reach upwards and sometimes allow ourselves to descend into darkness.

And there’s still time to do all this. As Rainer Marie Rilke once wrote:

You are not dead yet. It is not too late

To open your depths by plunging into them

And drink in the life

That reveals itself quietly there.

So yes, this is a holy reminder, with Lent some 10 days away. You and I – we who call ourselves Christians and who want so much to be worthy of that name – we’re the ones who represent Jesus in a world that needs him altogether as much as it did 20 centuries ago, when he came physically to be among us. This is surely what Mark wants us to know.

Because our world is still in need, it still needs the Christ of Cavalry, with his compassion for our human need. And now, you and I are part of that team. We are called to help in the healing of our world.

Reflection for February 1st, 2015 by Ewelina Frackowiak

Fourth Sunday in Orinary Time

“I could hardly believe my eyes when I saw the name of the shop: THE TRUTH SHOP. The saleswoman was very polite: What type of truth did I wish to purchase, partial or whole? The whole truth, of course. No deceptions for me, no defenses, no rationalizations. I wanted my truth plain and unadulterated. She waved me on to another side of the store. The salesman there pointed to the price tag. “The price is very high, Sir,” he said. “What is it?” I asked, determined to get the whole truth, no matter what it costs. “Your security, Sir,” he answered.  I came away with a heavy heart. I still need the safety of my unquestioned beliefs.”

(from Anthony de Mello “The Song of the Bird”)

Jesus from today’s gospel and from the gospel in general appears as somebody who gave up the safety of beliefs, who is vulnerable. Only a vulnerable person can speak with authority and had such an impact on listeners. If someone speaks with true authority that means she is
fearless, not afraid of losing anything, because she has nothing to lose…
Although, Jesus spoke with authority, he did not request obedience from his listeners. He rather wanted us to discover the same source of authority in us, the same capability of fearlessness and life in truth. What such life is like?

I think that in such life we recognize that we are bigger than the stories which we tell ourselves about ourselves. We accept that our beliefs do not define us, our work does not define us, our successes or failures – nothing define us. You see, sometimes it is like “we are perceiving ourselves as a cluster of ocean waves, not recognizing that we are made of ocean. When we realize that our true self is ocean, the familiar pattern of waves – our fears and defensiveness, our wants and busyness – remains a part of us but does not define us”. (from Tara Brach “True Refuge. Finding Peace and Freedom in Your Own Awakened Mind”, p. 20)

For years and years I was sure that something was wrong with me. Whatever I started, whether it was a graduate school, a job or a hobby, I feared that my new colleagues will sooner or later realize that I am a fake. It took me time to recognize that this is just one of the narratives that
my mind creates, a narrative fed to me in my childhood, a story that I somehow internalized.

Whatever a narrative we create about ourselves or the world around, if we do not recognize that this is just a story of our mind, we limit ourselves, we limit our perception of the world, since we want our experiences to confirm whatever the story line is. And we isolate ourselves. In such a place of isolation, we may feel threaten by the spontaneity and vulnerability of others. Just as the man in today’s gospel was, the one whom the evangelist described as someone with an unclean spirit. The man saw Jesus as a threat. Again we sense that Jesus has power but his power is not to control and manipulate but is instead the power of powerless love.

(cf. “The Theology of Dorothee Soelle”, ed. S. K. Pinnock, p. 120, 121)

Jesus did not respond directly to the man as if he recognized that the man’s behaviour did not come from his true-self. The man’s reaction to Jesus was a reaction by somebody caught up in fear, and maybe shame and anger. Now it is the time for the man to awake the same awareness of who he is and of who he is not. Time to recognize that the preacher from Galilee has love to offer. That he himself has love to offer, too.

Reflection for January 18th, 2015 by Father Andy Boyer

Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

I came across a short text just recently – Deuteronomy 33:25. “Your shoes shall be iron and brass; and as your days, so shall your strength be.” This was actually a prophesy given by Moses to the tribe of Asher just before his death.

Asher’s land was fruitful and mountainous. To the people who lived in hilly terrain, God promises “iron shoes” for the roads they must travel.

From this we may take a very simple application. Every year is the beginning of a new journey. How will we fare? What will the road be like? Will our way be rough or easy? Our text suggests that we may have some rough road to travel before the year is done.

If our path is to be strewn with flower petals, velvet slipper will do. If all we’re going to do in 2015 is to sit and watch television, we don’t need iron shoes, thick socks will do. But if we plan to walk rocky roads, we need good footwear. As coaches like to say: no pain, no gain, no struggle, no growth.

Then there is the last part of the verse – a promise of great provision: “As your days, so shall your strength be.” God will give strength for every kind of day we may face. Some days are filled with joy, light, and happiness; others will sadness, tears, frustration, pain and heartache. Whatever each day brings, there will be strength enough to meet it.

Ron Rolheiser, in commenting on our readings of today uses the phrase: “Every tear brings the Messiah close.” He says that people are always impatient, but God is never in a hurry.

Our scriptures are often a record of frustrated desire, of non-fulfillment, and of human impatience. We are always longing for a messiah to take away our pain and to avenge oppression, but mostly those prayers seem to fall on deaf ears.

And so we see in scripture the constant, painful cry: Come, Lord, come! Save us! How much longer must we wait? Why not now? Where are you staying? We are forever impatient, but God refused to be hurried. Why is God seemingly so slow to act? Why is God so excruciatingly slow to act in the face of human impatience?

There’s a line in Jewish apocalyptic literature, which metaphorically helps answer this question: Every tear brings the Messiah closer! It would seem that there is an intrinsic connection between frustration and the possibility of a Messiah being born. It seems that messiahs can only be born after a long period of human yearning.

Human birth already helps answer that question, gestation cannot be hurried and there is an organic connection between the pain a mother experiences in childbirth and the delivery of a new life. And that’s also true of Jesus’ birth. Tears, pain, and a long season of prayer are needed to create the conditions for the kind of pregnancy that brings forth a messiah into our world. Because the real love and life can only be born when a long-suffering patience has created the correct space, the virginal womb, within which the sublime can be born. Perhaps a couple of metaphors can help us understand this.

John of the Cross, in trying to explain how a person comes to be enflamed in altruistic love, uses the image of a log bursting into flame in a fireplace. When a green log is placed in a fire, it doesn’t start to burn immediately. It first needs to be dried out. Only when it reaches kindling temperature can it ignite and burst into flames. Speaking metaphorically, before a log can burst into flame, it needs to pass through a certain advent, a certain dying out, a period of frustration and yearning. So, too the dynamics of how real love is born in our lives. We can ignite into love only when we selfish, green, damp logs have sizzled sufficiently, and the fire that makes us sizzle is unfulfilled desire.

Pierre Teihard de Chardin offers a second metaphor here when he speaks of something he calls “the raising of our psychic temperature.” In a chemistry laboratory it’s possible to place two elements in the same test tube and not get fusion. The elements remain separate, refusing to unite. It is only after they are heated to a higher temperature that they unite. We’re no different; it’s only when unrequited longing has raised our psychic temperature sufficiently that we can move towards reconciliation and union. Simply put, sometimes we have to be brought to a high fever through frustration and pain before we are willing to let go of our selfishness and let ourselves be drawn into community.

Messiahs can only be born inside a particular kind of womb, namely one within which there’s enough patience and willingness to wait so as to let things happen.

Hence, ideally, every tear should bring the messiah closer. Every frustration should ideally make us more ready to love. Every tear should ideally make us more ready to let go of some of our separateness. Every unfulfilled longing should ideally lead us into a deeper and more sincere prayer.

Brothers and sisters, it’s time to put on our iron shoes! And off we go, adventuring into this year. May God help us to press on to know the Lord better in 2015.

Reflection for January 11th, 2015

Baptism of the Lord Feast

In today’s Gospel John the Baptist and Jesus perform the now well-known ceremony of baptism.   I love baptisms –the hope and endless possibility for new life, the holiness, the forgiveness, the welcome given to new disciples, the white garment, the candles… it’s all so full of wonder and beauty.

But obviously that’s not the kind of baptism Mark is referring to. John the Baptist, the desert-dwelling wild-honey and locust-eating, camel hair clothed, Biblical bush-man dunking inhabitants of Jerusalem in the Jordan River and claiming this results in forgiveness of sins.  All the while, John is making grand statements about a mighty and powerful one who is yet to come who will baptise with the Holy Spirit.

Imagine a similar situation today.  A scruffy, wild looking man who lives in the Gatineau Hills is making grand statements about the coming of a Messiah and offering to rid you of your sins if you take a plunge in the Ottawa River.  Are you getting in that line?  I’m going to guess the answer is no.

And yet, I suspect most of us admire John. He represents the true believer, the proclaimer of the Good News. We’re supposed to want to emulate him.  His devotion, his humility, his confidence in sharing the miracle of baptism at a time when baptism of repentance was not common or viewed as necessary for the Jewish people…

So if we’re not getting in line, how are we each, at the very least, proclaiming our faith outside this building?

I don’t know about you, but most of my friends aren’t practicing Christians.  While many of us come from Christian traditions, I’ve found that, when speaking honestly, the average person’s perspective on practicing Christians is closer to the way in which I’d regard John the Baptist if I met him on a modern-day street corner.  Unrealistic and gullible.

My experience in daily life has taught me that most practicing Christians of us must be closet-Christians.  We don’t walk around with billboards advertising our religion (ok, I take it back, Father Andy pretty much has a billboard… but the rest of us don’t)

We don’t introduce ourselves “hi I’m Rachel, I’m Roman Catholic”, we don’t usually hang crosses on the outside of our homes, and I don’t often hear grace being said at restaurants. Why is that?

My own religious practices tend to come up in passing, explaining why I can’t join Sunday morning running groups, or where I know one of you from when I bump into you on the street, or why my 2 year old son is always talking about baby Jesus when someone mentions Santa Claus.

And it strikes me as odd, whenever these things come up, that my colleagues, friends, and acquaintances tend to raise their eyebrows at me and say “You’re a Catholic?”  What is it? The strong, outspoken personality? The socially liberal values? Being a feminist? The red high heels? What exactly makes me so incompatible with being a Catholic?

After this initial shock, some people want to have a quick discussion about religion generally, tell me why they are not religious or ask which church I attend. Occasionally, I receive antagonistic reaction, a mocking joke (mostly meant in playful fun, but usually turns more than a little uncomfortable), and I try my best not to react, not to take it personally – because they don’t understand, and reacting will get me nowhere.

Then occasionally, weeks or months later, a colleague will come into my office to tell me how he’s spending Christmas Eve giving care packages to the homeless.  Or a friend will tell me she’s decided to start attending the church down the street in order to explore her spirituality.  Or someone who mocked my faith will share that they are having their new baby baptised.

I often don’t know why people come to me to confess these things. Are they quietly confiding their own beliefs to me because they think I’ll understand or approve?  Why do they care?  Why do they share?

This brings me back to today’s Gospel and to the other half of the story: Jesus’ baptism by John the Baptist.  As Jesus emerges from the water, a voice from the Heavens acknowledges him “You are my beloved Son; with you I am well pleased.”  God welcomes Jesus publically into his family for the first time.  We recreate this moment every time we baptise someone in this church.  Acknowledging that we will accept and support the new members of our Catholic family.  That we are united through Christ.

Is that’s what’s happening when others come to me with their quiet admissions? Somewhere, in all this mess of callousness, is there is still a shred of belief and hope?

Are they trying to get back to their faith by doing charitable work, or acknowledging that their child will miss out if left without the formal initiation to faith?  Are they quietly asking for acknowledgement that they’re part of our Christian family – even if they aren’t wearing crosses around their necks?

Perhaps God doesn’t need each of us to be John the Baptist.  Maybe admiring him and being inspired to continue to live out our faith is enough – even though we too are flawed, even though we are openly questioning different aspects of faith, even if we are feminists who wear red high heels and don’t fit the stereotype of the traditional Catholic.

Through my interactions with various acquaintances, I’ve come to realize that unlike others I’ve never believed there’s anything hypocritical about being a practicing Catholic and not fitting the archetype of the perfect Catholic.  Good grief, who in this room fits that description?

Nor do I think it’s impossible for a person who spends time dedicated to critical thinking, or politics, or social activism, or sports, or the arts to also have a strong faith.

I look around this room and see people of different views, levels of education, interests, ages, backgrounds – teachers, students, athletes, cooks, mothers and fathers, children and teens, hairdressers, public servants, nurses, computer experts, runners, musicians, gay persons and straight persons – how many of us fit the stereotype of the “good Catholic” – and by good, I don’t mean kind and helpful, I mean unquestioning and gullible.  Somehow, that’s the realization that others come to when they raise their eyebrows at me and say – “you’re Catholic?”  What they’re trying to say is “but you don’t fit my expectation of what a Catholic looks like or acts like.

God doesn’t need each of us to be John the Baptist, God needs each of us to be our true selves and to accept one another.  To see beyond the stereotypes of what a Catholic is or should be and to know that we can get there a different way – Though maybe we could try to say grace at restaurants a little more often!  Because others need to know that our Catholic family is diverse.   Only a diverse family can claim “everyone is welcome”, and through Baptism we all accept that we’re all practicing our love for God; doing our best, and willing to let others try, in their own way, to do their best too.

By Rachel Heft