Smoke erupts
from shattered
Buildings hanging
through the orange
glow of flame.

This narrow strip
of sea-edged land
littered streets
torn metal, broken
brick, shattered

tiles, lifeless forms.
Costly retribution for
a savage act, lost
lives, wailing cries
and threat of siege.

This land of youth
broken piece by piece.
Christ-caught in the
shadow of the cross.
A gale of destruction

sweeps the land
leaving a trail of
hollow hope amid
fading distant dreams
and worn-out words.

What next? and when?

• Chris McDonnell is from England. A regular contributor to La Croix International, and contributes occasionally to CathNews NZ.

In so many ways, it has replaced the pub as a meeting place, a stop-off point for anyone and everyone to pause a while over a hot coffee, to read or have a chat.

Across the world, café names have become an integral part of the High Street, an international brand that is immediately recognized.

The café has become commonplace, each with its own character, furnishings and specialities.

Even though they are not quiet places, maybe, in fact, because of it, they do provide a comfort zone where words arrive and stories develop.

Often an overheard phrase finds its way into something I am writing, sparks a movement, and stimulates an idea, only to re-emerge in a poem or article phrase sometime later.

I always carry with me a book to read and a notebook for writing, for they are part of what I do when I find a comfortable seat and order a cappuccino.

I have met a good many and varied people in the café, a passing nod of ten minutes conversation, unlikely to be repeated again, but informative and enjoyable while it lasted, some help on the way.

The staff who serve become familiar faces and, with frequent visits, have remembered names.

The history of the café goes back hundreds of years.

In the 17th and 18th centuries, the café was a well-established, cosmopolitan meeting place, not only for social exchange but as a place where business might be conducted.

The world-renowned London Stock Exchange started trading in Jonathan's Coffee House in 1698 in the City. Other well-known establishments, such as Christies and Sotheby's, developed from the café gathering of interested merchants and businessmen.

It is not uncommon nowadays for laptops to be set open on tables, with a tapping of keys heard between sips of coffee and the person using it to be illuminated by the screen.

Apart from the convivial meeting place after the school run or an alcohol-free zone for a relaxing chat, they can also be places for serious exchange, for stories to be told and a time of careful listening.

"Meet me for a coffee sometime soon" can be another way of saying, "I have something to say, will you listen with me?"

Nourished by the Eucharist

Those churches that have a parish hall where groups can gather after sharing the Eucharist are indeed fortunate.

It raises the question as to whether or not community arises from Eucharistic sharing or does our Eucharist spring from the gathering we often call parish.

Either way, humans are gathering creatures, anxious to share in so many ways.

It is natural for us to share with each other and, along with company, to eat and drink together. It's what we do.

So our journey goes on day by day, nourished by the Eucharist, our presence helps others with their problems and difficulties.

Look around at the other tables the next time you are in a café; watch the expressions on the faces of those who sit and drink and talk, who stretch out a gentle hand in comfort to a friend.

Friendship is about both laughing and crying together, sharing the load.

I have just received a new collection of poems by the young Irish poet, Kerrie O'Brien. One of them, entitled "Hemingway" concludes with these lines:

How could he be so close
And I not know it
The worst time to search
Whiteout, blizzard sleet
I hadn't eaten
The hunger raw and persisting
But he led me
And right where he lived
A café
Rose star
In the wilderness
Warm jewel
Run by an American woman
Big hearted
Who took me in
And gave me a muffin
Flooded with raspberry
Bloodsweet, glittering, hot.
It then came
A thudding chant
Be still, still
In the howling
Have faith
Just a little longer

Maybe her last two lines — Have faith, Just a little longer — form the core of the Epiphany we live when sharing the Eucharist, nattering in the parish hall or being with strangers in the café.

It is the daily expression of our being Christian.

• Chris McDonnell is from England and is a regular contributor to La Croix International.
• First published in La-Croix International. Republished with permission.

Now known as Dun Laoghaire, it is also where most passenger ships arrive at and leave from Dublin both then and now.

The idea of the Kingstown Pier as a disappointed bridge, unable to go all the way across the Irish Sea, says much about our many journeys.

And for those of us with an Irish background, it also tells of our ancestors who, forced by circumstance, nevertheless had courage to leave home.

Piers take you beyond the restrictions of the coastline.

They offer a different view and, most importantly, some bracing fresh air.

Bridges, on the other hand, take you over obstacles from one side to the other and enable you to continue the journey.

The Second Vatican Council of the mid-1960s could at first be considered a pier, a vantage point from where, leaving the safety of the shore, new visions could be seen.

John XXIII talked of "opening windows", many of which had been screwed shut for years.

There was excitement in the air, a springtime of expectancy, openness and confidence.

The Council remained no more than a pier for some.

Because of the anxiety, this new vision raised, they sought to make sure the pier never became a bridge.

At the first opportunity, they headed for the safety of the shore.

They seemed to disregard the words found in the Book of Proverbs: "Where there is no vision, the people perish" (29,18).

Kevin Kelly, in his book Fifty years receiving Vatican II, described the Council as "a continuing event" — in other words, a pier becoming a bridge.

That is, it's still leading us somewhere.

It is a gift that has been given.

• by being who we profess to be, a community brought together through the love of Christ.
• by listening to each others' story, sensitive to others' joys and sorrows, being willing to walk awhile in their company; not being afraid.
• by talking with each other, by being with each other and by praying together with sincerity; in that way we make our parish community real, we love one another.

"What is parish"

Too often our view of parish is a blend of motorway service station and imposed obligation.

Where is the outreach?

Where is the living liturgy that goes beyond patterns of words to offer inspiration to the people?

Given the increasing crisis in vocations to the priesthood, one of the crucial discussions we should be having, both priests and people, revolves around just three words — "What is parish?" For only when we have some grasp of what is, after all, a complex structure, can we continue bridge-building.

One thing we easily forget is that, although it has become a convenient construct of organization within a diocese, a parish needs a great deal of effort to make it a living, vital community.

Francis of Assisi, the inspiration of our current Bishop of Rome, directly said to the first friars, "You only know as much as you do!"

A parish of passive attenders falls short of the mark.

Not so long ago, those who shared in the Eucharist knew each other by name, they were "local". But not necessarily the case today given our increased mobility.

We are often away from our parish home and become visitors in another place sharing their Eucharist, welcome guests at the table of the Lord.

We need to find new ways forward and not be afraid of change.

• Chris McDonnell is a retired headteacher from England and a regular contributor to La Croix International.
• First published in La-Croix International. Republished with permission.

Those of you already familiar with the writing and teaching of Tom O'Loughlin, Professor Emeritus of Historical Theology at the University of Nottingham, will welcome his new book.

Tom and I share a friendship over many years and both our professional lives have been spent teaching, although in vastly differing fields.

I have come to this book as a layman whose familiarity with theological background is nowhere near that of Tom's. Nonetheless, I have found it to be a fascinating read.

The title answers the question about the Early Church.

There wasn't a singular source from which all teaching grew in a linear fashion but a multitude of communities or Churches that carried the Christian memory forward. The first two centuries were formative and would not have been recognizable to us today.

O'Loughlin quotes Johann Metz "Christianity in not really a Community that interprets and gives arguments but rather a Community that remembers and tells stories". (p48)

We have such a memory in the text known as the Didache which is the oldest text we have that describes the practice and pattern of early Christian life. O'Loughlin, who produced his own translation of this short book a while ago, makes frequent reference to it in this text

These Church groups varied in size, some being as small as house communities.

It was to these varied groupings that the early scriptures, what we now call the New Testament, were read and from which they derived their teaching.

Even these scriptures, attributed to one writer, have varied authorship, for when Paul was speaking, others were listening often who were in awe of Paul transcribed his words and so produced a text in the style of Paul.

We also discover that Discipleship is about learning and discovering within a Community.

"Discipleship is very much a matter that can be located within one's calendar. This is service to one another: feeding, clothing, healing and helping. Moreover, it is not just to the known few, or the circle of other disciples, it reaches out like the divine love to all humanity". (p99)

We must recognize the difference between those times, heavily influenced by the Graeco-Roman structure and tradition and our own time.

"Christianity must have appeared a poor rival for the affections of a religiously minded gentile in that world". (p97)

Gathering around a common table, not an altar, was a key aspect of those early Christian churches for "…one of the key scenes within the memory of Christians is the supper of Jesus with the disciples that took place just before his arrest and death". (p81)

It is ironic and sad that this Common Table has become a point of dissension amongst Christians today when it was clearly meant to be otherwise.

So the meal was the centre-piece of the gathering, the sharing of food, one with another, crossing the boundaries of class and nationality." …to be a disciple meant knowing that meals were important in disciples' memory and that the last supper was but the high point in the memory of the meals of Jesus". (p82)

An understanding of these Early Churches and their patterns of understanding and practice would go a long way toward easing some of the stresses that we face in our Christian communities today.

This book has been a welcome challenge to read, respecting the perspective of the writer, and his depth of understanding of his subject.

Having read it once, it now requires a return in the hope of discovering further insights into the practice of the Early Churches.

• Chris McDonnell is a retired headteacher from England and a regular contributor to La Croix International.

Sometimes that is because we feel we should know the answers and don't wish to appear stupid. In fact, many others also wish to ask the same question but, for similar reasons we all keep our lips tightly closed.

That is a pity, for being inquisitive is the start of a journey in understanding.

In a recent posting on the Irish website of the Association of Catholic Priests (ACP), Seamus Ahearne, a parish priest in Dublin, wrote:

But what is prayer?

• It is the taking off of shoes.
• It is the burning bush.
• It is the gentle breeze.
• It is the awareness of nature.
• It is gratitude.
• It is beauty.
• It is wonder.
• It is the poetry of the soul. It is the music of life.
• It is awesomeness.
• It is kindness.
• It is goodness.
• It is gentleness.
• It is the eyes of the heart and imagination open to whisper - "thank you".
• It is the big heart of laughter.
• It is the touch of comfort.
• It is the warmth of love.
• It is the awareness of the uniqueness and mystery of a little life.
• It is finding a Tent of Meeting.
• It is any old mountain that gives a view.

The question he posed is one that we have all grappled with at various times, coming up with a multitude of answers, some of them wide of the mark. Honest attempts maybe.

But limited in their usefulness. In a few words, Seamus Ahearne opens a door and offers a joyful mix of meaning for us to explore.

Prayer is a rich vein that runs through all our lives and finds expression in so many ways.

Too often we have a narrow view, both in the words used and the place chosen.

Yet even in a cursory reading of the ACP excerpt we are offered a breadth of understanding that goes beyond our usual perceptions.

Our posture in prayer says much about our understanding and appreciation at different times. We either sit or kneel or stand, we join our hands together or open our palms in a gesture of reception. We bow low or remain still and motionless.

With others we use words that are a common currency. Alone we may utter only the occasional phrase or just remain silent, in reflective listening.

There is no "one right way", but an "every way" that responds to circumstance of place or mood.

The psalmist asks us to be still and know that God is with us. There is a personal awareness in prayer that we are not alone, that our singularity in space is forever surrounded by the presence of God. Prayer is our response to God who creates us day by day.

"Pray to learn how to pray"

Often during our celebration of the Eucharist, we are offered the invitation, "Let us pray." And we dutifully stand for the public words of prayer.

Yet each of us reflects and responds in a personal, individual way to what follows. Bound in community by our Christian faith, we are none the less singular in our love for God and his love for us.

We often ask each other for prayers, seeking the support of friends in their time of prayer. It reminds us that we are part of a greater whole.

In one of his journals, Thomas Merton writes that we should "pray to learn how to pray". It is a task, a work of the journey that each one of us is undertaking.

"Prayer and love are learned in the hour when prayer has become impossible and hearts have turned to stone," Merton observed.

In the first Chapter of Mark's Gospel we are told the following: "Very early in the morning, while it was still dark, Jesus got up, left the house and went off to a solitary place, where he prayed."

That reflection of a solitary place and the dawn of a new day offers an example of prayer at a particular time and in a chosen circumstance.

Each to their own way.

"Most of the time, we are lost in the past or carried away by the future. When we are mindful, deeply in touch with the present moment, our understanding of what is going on deepens, and we begin to be filled with acceptance, joy, peace and love," notes the Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh.

We are not clones reacting in identical ways. Our own struggles with prayer are personal.

Yet we can help each other in so many ways, one of them by just being there.

I still remember my Godmother, Jenny, who often took me to Mass on a Sunday. She taught me so much about prayer, not by telling me the words to use but by showing me how she prayed.

We teach each other by being who we are.

• Chris McDonnell is a former headteacher from England and a regular contributor to La Croix International.
• First published in La Croix International. Republished with permission.

Sometimes when we use them in a careless or slipshod manner, their meaning becomes confused and misunderstandings easily occur.

One such word is 'critical'.

Unfortunately, the tone of the word is often one-directional. It implies that something is wrong, not up to standard and so in its expression can be a cause of pain to others.

But it is a much broader word than that.

Being critical can, in fact, be a sign of sincere friendship, a friendship secure enough to cope with honesty, with a suggested adjustment in language made in good faith, made with good reason. Such an exchange is in fact a sound measure of a real friendship.

Critical comment within the Church isn't always taken that way.

Too often in the past and, regrettably still in current times, it has been presumed that critical comments are a sign of disaffection. Yet that is not necessarily so.

Within a family there is usually a freedom to speak, knowing that understanding is there. The negative reaction of the Church only gives rise to further problems.

The prophet is always assumed to be the one who in some way foretells the future. Maybe we should re-adjust our view and accept the prophet as one who is critical of the present circumstances, of how we got here and where we might be heading.

The sadness is that we do not always listen to our prophets, that they are ignored and the vibrancy of their message falls by the wayside. Later we realize our mistake as hastily discarded words are read again and their true beauty and truth realized.

When the word 'critical' is followed by the word 'care', then we realize there is an urgent need for attention. The implication is that an emergency has been declared.

Likewise, with government declarations of security levels, 'critical' is the most serious of terrorist alerts.

Some would suggest that there are aspects of Church practice that have reached the critical care phase. That may be so, but as we address them we need to remember that the Lord promised his presence would be with us always.

Still we have to listen and act in consequence.

It is possible for an institution to silence the critical view in a heavy-handed manner as happens in totalitarian regimes.

Physical repression and prohibition can severely limit free speech, however courageous and well-intentioned it might be.

The alternative route involves a silent disregard for critical opinions. The regime continues to act in a pre-determined manner, regardless of comment.

The Listening Church offers an open door, a place of familiar security where differing views may be expressed and a common understanding reached.

That, after all, was the reason for calling the Council of Jerusalem where agreement was reached after discussion.

The Church's is to influence the times that we are presently experiencing

In the world of physics, the words 'critical mass' speak of the point where nuclear reaction is about to begin. It has to be handled extremely cautiously.

Carefully controlled, in a nuclear power station it provides the source of electricity; allowed to continue without control, then we have the obscenity of nuclear weapons.

Within the Church, critical conversations must be allowed to continue, with understanding and appreciation of differing points of view. Without criticism, there can be no improvement. Critical comment can be constructive if the intention of making it is sincere.

Likewise, the one who is on the receiving end must also have an open attitude. Conversations conducted with a high-pitched voice rarely produce an equitable agreement.

We would do well to remember this need to be sensitive when, week by week, we are deluged with controversy, for we live in difficult and rapidly changing times. The Church is not a secluded space, unaffected by the secular society.

In fact, the mission of the Church is to influence the times that we are presently experiencing.

That time-honoured phrase responding to the stranger asking for directions, of 'if I was going there I wouldn't start from here', begs the question.

We are here, we have come from where our people started and where we are heading depends on our skills as explorers.

The poet T S Eliot wrote these memorable words in East Coker, the second of the Four Quartets.

'We shall not cease from exploration,

and the end of all our exploring

will be to arrive where we started

and know the place for the first time.'

That, in a few pointed words, sums up our Christian journey.

Our exploration, our critical listening to the prophets of our own time, as well as those of the Scriptures, enables us to live each present step, finally knowing where we have come from for the first time.

• Chris McDonnell is a retired headteacher from England and a regular contributor to La Croix International.
• First published in La Croix International, republished with permission.