A reflection for Australia day
Where is Home?
Today’s story begins in 1981. I am visiting England for the very first time and somehow this naive country boy had not only managed to navigate Heathrow airport, the London spaghetti of railway lines, but also the regional rail service all the way up to a place called Malvern Link.
I’m going there for two reasons.
First, I have a great uncle living there who I have only met once before. Secondly, because my Father grew up in this region. He had spoken fondly of this area, especially the Malvern Hills and I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
It had been snowing heavily on the way up and the train trip was frustrating and tedious. I arrived when it was dark and knocked on a door. The thought that I might have got it wrong had never occurred to me. The Angels and St. Christopher must have been working overtime on this journey because the door opened and Hey Presto, there was my great uncle who ushered me in with an effusive grin, a gregarious hug (well gregarious for an English gentleman), and a nice pot of tea by the fire.
The next day I set off to visit the Malvern Hills and what struck me most powerfully was not the picturesque snow, nor the exhilaration of tobogganing, nor the crisp temperature, but the almost palpable sense of connection and homecoming. Even now as I write/read this, the potency of this moving experience stirs a physical ache and a deep emotional longing.
Remember please that I had never set foot in England before. So what was it that stirred me so? And it is not just me; there are others who will tell you of a similar experience. They have gone to a place for the very first time and it is as if they have known it all their life and belonged there.
Those who dabble in understanding how our minds and emotions work can posit many theories and while I do not wish to diminish their fine work and the plausibility of their reasoning, I would layer over the top of their research that there is something extra, a spiritual dimension that cannot be explained away with the maths and science in the research laboratory. For me this ‘something extra’ is the attractive and delicious part, purely because it is mysterious, alluring and inexplicable. Give me a taunting, intoxicating, almost rational ... but not quite, experience any day.
It wasn’t until much later when I was allowing the experience of the Malvern Hills to be stirred and marinated with the ingredients of time and distance, that a confronting, uninvited question popped up.
Where is home?
I’d always assumed that home was where I laid my head at night, but that’s not entirely true. On my travels I’ve put my head down in some pretty wacky and weird places, but not all I would call home.
Perhaps a better answer might be where our loved ones are, or where collected memories have been made, or where there are pictures of loved places and people around us.
On this Australia Day there is also a sense in which we celebrate our nation as home. It’s a mighty big home with all sorts of quirks and joys and conundrums. We must never forget what an undeserved privilege it is to live here.
The quickest glimpse of our brothers and sisters overseas, their troubles, particularly their political argy-bargy, should pull us up short and make us fall to our knees in gratitude for where we live and the way we live. While we might have the odd whinge about our pollies, we vote ‘em in, and we chuck 'em out and after voting together we share a democracy sausage and just get on with it.
But of course, I haven’t completely answered the nagging question. Where is home? Even the family home, the property, or the suburban house will not be our ‘forever home’. The reality is that it is a passing shell where memories of laughter and tears, boredom and high spirits are fermented and formatted over the years.
A starting point for the answer might be from today’s gospel.
“Jesus went to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, and on the Sabbath day he went into the synagogue, as was his custom”.
The place where we are brought up will always be potent for us. For some it is the place of great misery and suffering. For others it bestirs fond memories and a sense of gratitude, but these places are also transient and fleeting. The farmhouse at Sheep-hills where I grew up, is no longer standing.
Rather, it is our spiritual home that is truly enduring through all ages. It might be a synagogue as it was for Our Lord and is now for our Jewish brothers and sisters. It might be this church where we encounter the presence of the one who still speaks to us through the scriptures and sacrament just as surely as he did all those years ago. Or maybe it is that moment where we sense we are at table with Him, with other disciples and angels. Perhaps our true home is not a geographical place, but the spiritual home where we belong which is why at funerals we do not send our loved ones away from us, but rather we send them to that place which is their true home and therefore our true home.
It is there that we truly find each other. It is there that we find home. Ultimately We find our enduring Home simply in Him.