Rest a while

Today in our Church we celebrate the feast day known as the Assumption. It is a Catholic dogma that Mary, at the end of her earthly life, was taken body and soul into heaven.

While believed down the ages, this dogma was defined by Pope Pius XII on 1 November 1950 in his apostolic constitution “Munificentissimus Deus”.

Some readers of this page may be older than the formal declaration of the dogma.

Many people read this dogma as saying Mary never died. The dogma does not say this.

Orthodox spirituality has another name for this feast day: the Dormition of the Most Holy Theotokos. Literally, “the falling asleep of the Mother of God”.

The Musée de Cluny (‘Cluny Museum – National Museum of the Middle Ages’), in Paris, is a museum dedicated to the art of the Middle Ages.

One of its collection pieces is a 10th- to early 11th-century ivory plaque of the Dormition of the Virgin, apparently originating in what was then Constantinople (today known as Istanbul, Turkey).

The plaque shows the apostles gathered around a funeral bier. The Virgin Mary lies on the bier.

There is a sadness in the faces of the apostles.

One clings dearly to the feet of the Virgin – how often do we witness a similar scene at funerals? Family members gather around a casket, some with their hands touching the lid or sides.

Another of the apostles swings an incense burner – again, an action all too familiar from our own funeral rituals.

Did Mary die? Does it matter?

Earthquakes and fires are great news items. Both visual and written news stations provide up-to-date coverage of these events.

As I write, parts of Europe, notably France and Spain, are working to control major fires.

Similarly, earthquake recovery efforts are underway in Venezuela and Japan.

At times, family and community stories include a fire and/or an earthquake. The Ballantyne Department Store fire of 1947 forms part of the story of the city and people of Christchurch.

So too do the major earthquakes that struck that city in September 2010 and February 2011. The consequences of, and recovery from, such events take time for individuals and communities alike.

Both earthquakes and fires are also noisy. So is a very strong wind.

An event known by many as “the Wahine Disaster” involved the sinking of an inter-island ferry in April 1968. The ferry was caught in a violent cyclonic storm and foundered at the entrance to Wellington Harbour. Fifty-three people lost their lives.

Have you ever heard a major news station give coverage of a gentle breeze? Even a weather report ignores such an event.

A gentle breeze happens almost silently, though there may be a little rattle from an unsecured window. An important feature of a gentle breeze is that you can leave your door ajar and your windows open.

This Sunday’s First Reading is taken from the First Book of Kings (19:9, 11–13) and recounts the prophet Elijah’s encounter with his God.

God was not in the mighty wind, nor in the fire, nor in the earthquake. Then came a gentle breeze, and Elijah “covered his face with his cloak and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.”

Unfortunately, our text concludes at that point. What happens next is the important part: God asks Elijah, “What are you doing here?”

All who know the story will know that Elijah has in fact run away and is in hiding. So what does God say? “Go, return.”

The moral of the story is this: when you reckon you have found a safe hiding place and are letting the gentle morning breeze catch your face, be very cautious.

The Gospel this Sunday is from Matthew 14:13–21, and all the Bibles I have read preface the passage with the heading ‘The Feeding of the Five Thousand’. Commentaries and homilies almost invariably focus on this event, which is understandable.

However, our passage describing this ‘feeding’ of many is prefaced by another ‘feeding’ — the feeding of one.

Our passage begins: ‘When Jesus received the news of John the Baptist’s death, he withdrew by boat to a lonely place where he could be by himself.’ (The Bible text I use most often uses the word ‘deserted’ rather than ‘lonely’.)

It invites us to reflect on how we process grief.

The text is accommodating: ‘When Jesus received the news of John the Baptist’s death’ — for goodness’s sake, his cousin had just had his head chopped off!

For all we know, Jesus and John may have played together as children. They may have gone to the same school and been in the same class. Knowing Judaic traditions, they most certainly would have shared meals together.

News of death is received individually, and so is grief.

Even within a family, members attend to their grief in individual ways — ‘our dad’ in life becomes ‘my dad’ in death.

News of another’s death closes a relationship. As each relationship is particular to the two people involved, so too is how its closure is managed.

Grief is as individual as a fingerprint.

The Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung called grief a natural, sacred inner journey.

Jesus’ own journey took him across water: ‘He withdrew by boat to a deserted place where he could be by himself.’

And what happens? He is met by a crowd.

How often this happens in life, around grief. Wanting to be alone, I am met by a crowd — well-meaning, to be sure, but at times intrusive with their presence, their advice, their suggestions, and their counsel.

Grief is as individual as a fingerprint.

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls; on finding one pearl of great value, he went and sold all that he had and bought it.” (Matthew 13:45–46)

An oyster spends almost its entire life fixed to a single spot. It opens its shell only to filter food from the water.

For some, oysters are a gourmet delicacy.

But their most extraordinary claim to fame is their ability to produce an exquisite gem. Yet that gem has an unlikely origin.

A pearl begins its life as a parasite, an irritant. It starts when a microscopic parasite drills through the oyster’s shell and settles inside.

To protect itself, the oyster covers the parasite with its mantle. It then secretes layer upon layer of calcium carbonate, known as “nacre”, around the intruder.

Over time, this layering forms a pearl.

That which irritates you most, if you protect it, may become for you the pearl of great price.

Manihiki is a remote coral atoll in the northern Cook Islands, famously known as the “Island of Pearls”. Here, the oysters produce black pearls, formed the same way as any other, through the same irritation.

So, if the irritant in your life turns you black, have no concern, have no fear. You are just as precious, and just as sought after.