Words From The Edge

Last Sunday was my grandson Jack’s first communion day.

Nine years ago he was baptised. If Jack had been baptised in the early days of Christianity it would not have been as a baby, the water gently trickled over his forehead, but as an adult. After a lengthy preparation time he would have been plunged, naked and trusting, into a pool of water. Dry again, and dressed in a white robe, his head and hands smeared with perfumed oil, he would have been led to the Eucharist table to share the bread and wine with the rest of the community.

That Sunday morning nine years ago, as the priest swirled the water in the clear glass bowl and poured a scoop of it over Jack’s head, I was aware that, one way or another, the waters of Baptism would ripple through his life. Now, in what seemed to be no time at all, Jack had reached the second stage of his baptism.

And there he was, his school uniform replaced by a suit, shirt and tie, freckles standing out in excitement and a shy grin. In the outer Melbourne suburb where he lives there is no stand-alone church, but there are two very large catholic primary schools. The massive assembly hall at one of them was set out with hundreds of chairs occupied by parents, siblings, grandparents and assorted other family and friends, greeting each other and chattering in a mixture of languages. I walked in and felt the breath catch in my throat. The place felt so – alive!

Flowers and twinkling lights marked a table set with silver cups and the Mass book. The priest moved to the table and as the hubbub gradually died away the choir sang and the girls and boys who were to receive their first communion processed into the seating set apart for them. The priest solemnly told the assembly that for the next hour it would not be the Stella Maris school assembly hall, but a sacred space.

I don’t know why he bothered. We knew that. We are used to finding God where we are. It’s just something not many people talk about or share easily. We don’t need a purpose built space for that. Our very presence was an act of faith, an acknowledgment that God has a place in our lives. Mass might not be a weekly or even a six monthly choice for most of the parents or their extended families, but God faith had powered their choice of baptism and catholic schooling for their children.

I have no memory of my first communion, not even a certificate. But I know that it was in a double classroom that was cleared every weekend for Sunday Mass – not very different to Jack’s first communion Mass.

I’m surprised that so many years on, the sacraments of first communion and confirmation are still tied to a particular grade level instead of parents being the ones to discern when it would be appropriate for their child.

In some ways the Australian Catholic Church, or possibly the whole church, has put more emphasis on educating children in faith and assuming that that’s enough to see them through adulthood. It isn’t, and the children like Jack who have just received their first communion are going to need a more creative and hands-on approach to enable them to live out their adult Baptismal relationship with God in a twenty first century world.

Jack, his family and close friends finished the day as it had begun – gathered around a table. And God rejoiced with us.

Judith Scully

As linguists they decoded baby cries into” I’m bored”, “I’m hungry”, “ My nappy’s wet”, graduating through toddler talk and on to reading between the lines accompanied by a working knowledge of teenage slang –for information only.

As diplomats they smilingly attended parent teacher interviews, negotiated the minefield of adolescent relationships and prayed that God understands what it’s like to parent.

As mediators they walked a daily tightrope answering the needs and relationships involved in being a mother or a partner, an employee, a friend and a sibling.

As peace-makers they were called upon to listen to competing stories with justice intersected by experience, masquerading as eyes-in-the- back- of my- head, and mixed with a dash of concern for the underdog.

As educators they heard the questions – weird, curly, repetitive, embarrassing and unanswerable though they sometimes were – and did their best to answer them, all the time knowing that one day the child will overtake the parent.

As psychologists they knew who needed a hug, intuited if it was time to hold on or let go and, most importantly, sometimes put housework on hold to fly kites in the park –or whatever.

As taxi drivers they shared a car with assorted young people, empty water bottles, take away wrappers and odd pieces of clothing, one eye on the road ahead and the other on the rear vision mirror in an effort to discern what is going on in the back seat.

As chefs they are still somewhere between My Kitchen Rules and Master Chef, welcoming extras to the table, familiar with a dozen ways to disguise vegetables and cook with mince as well as how to make a birthday cake that looks almost like one in the Woman’s Weekly Cookbook.

As healers they soothed the cracks in broken hearts and dispensed Mickey Mouse band aids, kisses and emergency visits to outpatients. Soothing broken hearts and lost dreams still applies.

As bankers they doled out pocket money in accordance with age and responsibilities, developed a keen eye for bargains and sighed when the mortgage and power bills came before designer – anythings. They probably still do!

As mystics they are now old enough and experienced enough to know that God is always there, in the joy of a family moment, the anguish of an unwanted diagnosis, in bone-wearying tiredness, when money is tight and in the flash of love –from whoever and wherever.

There is more than one way to ‘mother’. So, to all ‘mothering’ women, and men, never forget that you are God’s loving face to those you mother.

Judith Scully