Growing up, my family moved a number of times as my father was transferred by the bank he worked for. And when these transfers took us to a new town, we would go out ahead of the move to see the house that we would be living in, the local Catholic school, the branch that Dad would be working in. I remember clearly the first of these moves to a town in the South West Slopes of New South Wales, and the house on the sloping block, with large granite boulders in the front and back yards. As we were being shown around the house we would be moving into, Mum and Dad were discussing which room would be mine and which would be my sister’s. It was a conversation that we had each time we moved, but the reason I remember it so well from this first move is that by the time we moved in a few weeks later, they had changed their minds, and I got the other room. It didn’t really matter in the slightest. But being our first move, I was apprehensive, and knowing which space would be mine meant someth...
One of the blessings of life in my home parish is that, once a month, we welcome the Ephpheta community for the deaf and hard of hearing into our liturgy. Sometimes I am lucky enough to be rostered on as the commentator at Mass, and I get to use the very few words or phrases in Auslan that I have picked up from them. The deaf community are very generous in their response when I sign Good Morning, Thank You or Peace be With You at various points in the Mass. No matter how poorly I do it. What brings the community to mind for me this week is the Gospel reading about the Good Shepherd. In it, Jesus declares that ‘when the shepherd leads out his flock, the sheep follow because they know his voice. They never follow a stranger because they do not recognise the voice of strangers’ . It is a strong sensory image, and one that makes sense when I think of calling home from overseas and hearing my wife’s voice at the end of the line. Once I can hear her voice, we no longer seem so far apart....