Words From The Edge

Right now it’s hard to escape election talk – by politicians, by commentators. News bulletins are dominated by smiling, hard-hatted, crowd-greeting political candidates. In a few weeks, along with the rest of the country, I will line up to vote for the political party that I am trusting will deliver the kind of policies that they have promised will benefit ordinary Australian families – I hope! Expectations surrounding hope are like Emily Dickenson’s “thing with feathers”. So often they float away, too light to sustain reality.

“We had hoped . . . “summed up the complaint of two of Jesus’ disciples plodding their way between Jerusalem and Emmaus, mourning not just a friend but their expectations that, among other good things, he would be the political saviour of Israel. Their hopes dashed, they were turning their backs on Jerusalem, and with it the dream that had seemed so close, so right.

Catholics today, especially those who are older, are treading their own road to Emmaus. Vatican 2 had raised hopes and expectations that all of us, not just the clergy, are Church. As the years went by being a catholic seemed to becoming more – well, user-friendly. Then the clerics in Rome, watching their power dribble away, issued directives aimed at reining in experimental liturgical practices and out of the blue the sexual abuse scandals became general knowledge. Suddenly catholics had to face a lot of disconcerting and unpleasant facts.

At the time I was employed as a Pastoral Associate and I had had my own dreams of how Catholicism might move into the twenty first century. I had hoped that each language group might have liturgical language and practices that were more in keeping with their cultural practices. There was a possibility that the church’s educational focus might focus more on adults than children. I was feeling almost confident that at last women might take their rightful place alongside men in all aspects of church. And I assumed that when the church talked about marriage and families it would be in the company of married men and women.

It hasn’t happened as I had dreamed it might. Now, adding to the disillusionment, our only Australian cardinal was sentenced to a jail term on sexual abuse charges. Just as the Emmaus two plodded along, weighed down by expectations that they were finding hard to relinquish, I too can find it hard to believe that God is somewhere, anywhere, in this twenty first century Catholic church.

Just as the Friday we now call Good looked like the end of the world to the Apostles locked in an upper room and the two disciples trudging to Emmaus, so too do my expectations of how Church could be. What I’m learning as I walk my Emmaus road is that it’s longer than I thought and, more importantly, that my Church dream may not be the blueprint God had in mind!

But I don’t walk alone. There is a great company of us, and in our midst is the Christ, the risen Jesus, stirring the fire in us just when we feel it’s gone forever, assuring us that our hopes for the future, if not the details we hold dear, are in safe hands, that he will be with us – today and all the days to come.

Judith Scully

Years ago I came across this story, a retelling of a traditional story by an unknown author. As you read it, give it time to talk to you about Jesus’ life, death and resurrection . Then maybe read it again, and see what it has to say about the way you experience life.

Once upon a time, in the heart of the Western Kingdom, lay a beautiful garden. And there, in the cool of the day, the Master of the garden used to walk. Of all the plants in the garden, the most beautiful and most beloved was a Bamboo.

Year and year, Bamboo grew more noble and gracious, conscious of his master’s love and delight, but modest and gentle with all. And often when wind came to revel in the garden, Bamboo would cast aside his grave stateliness to dance and play, tossing and swaying and leaping and bowing in joyous abandon, leading the great dance of the Garden and delighting the Master’s heart.

One day the Master drew near to contemplate his Bamboo and Bamboo, in a passion of adoration, bowed his great head to the ground in loving greeting. The Master Spoke: “Bamboo, Bamboo, I would use you.” Bamboo flung his head to the sky in utter delight. The day of days had come, the day for which he had been made, the day to which he had been growing hour by hour, this day in which he would find his completion and his destiny.

His voice came low: “Master, I am ready. Use me as you wish. The Master’s voice was grave: “I need to take you, and cut you down!” A trembling of great horror shook Bamboo. “Cut me down? Me? Cut me down? No, not that! Use me for joy, but don’t cut me down:” The voice of the Master was graver still: Beloved Bamboo, if I do not cut you down, I cannot use you:”

The garden grew still. Wind held his breath; Bamboo slowly bent his proud and glorious head. Then in a voice full of pain bamboo said, “Master, if you cannot use me except by cutting me down, then, do your will and cut me down”

The Master said: “Bamboo, beloved Bamboo, I would cut your leaves and your branches also.” Bamboo pleaded: “Master, Master, spare me. Cut me down and lay my beauty in the dust, but do not take away my leaves and my branches!”

The master whispered: “Bamboo, alas! If I cut not them away, I cannot use you!” The sun hid his face. A listening butterfly glided fearfully away. And Bamboo shivered in terrible expectancy, and then whispering low, said: “Master, cut away!”

With a crying voice the Master added: “Bamboo, beloved Bamboo, I would cleave you in two halves and cut out your heart: for, if I don’t cut you I cannot use you!” Then Bamboo bowed to the ground and softly whispered: “Master, Master, then cut and cleave: I’m yours:”

So did the Master of the Garden take Bamboo and cut him down and hack off his branches and strip off his leaves, and cleave him in two and cut out his heart. And lifting him gently carried him to where there was a spring of fresh, sparkling water in the midst of his dry fields. Then, putting one end of the Broken Bamboo in the spring and the other end, into the water channel in his field, the Master gently laid down his beloved Bamboo.

And the spring sang welcome and the clear sparkling waters raced joyously down of channel of Bamboo’s torn body into the waiting thirsty fields. Then the rice was planted and the days went by and the shoots grew and the harvest came and hungry mouths had their fill. And the master was happy and the people rejoiced.

In that day, Bamboo, once so glorious in his stately beauty, was yet more glorious in his brokenness and humility. In his beauty he was life abundant, but in his brokenness he became a channel of abundant life.

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Judith Scully