Mary Marrocco

During a shared reflection on a scriptural text one evening, a young man asked about joy. Was something wrong with him because he rarely experienced joy? Was he being punished for his mental suffering? What is joy, and do we even have any right to feel it when there is so much suffering?

Sometimes I imagine what it might have been like for people at the foot of the cross as Jesus’ body was taken down, wrapped in linens and spices, and taken away to the tomb.

Bicycles are a popular means of transportation, with a long history — my grandfather’s bicycle, the only vehicle he ever owned, got him to and from work at the Quaker Oats factory 364 days per year.

A woman I knew became Christian as an adult. Unlike some of us lifelong Christians who can be oblivious of the strangeness of our faith, she was appalled by one of the Beatitudes. 

Who could forget the look on Ingrid Bergman’s face, playing Paula in the movie Gaslight, as she apprehends the possibility that she might be slowly going insane?

Remember the old fairy tales?  They are told, or re-told, by great story-tellers like the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen and my favourite, Andrew Lang — who, back in the 19th century, gathered stories from around the world into the Red Fairy Book, Green Fairy Book and plenty of other colours. 

A spiritual director once surprised me by asking: “What does your little voice have to say?” 

How difficult it is to get out of the centre of the universe. And how painful to find our way there.

Increasingly, I’ve been observing incidents of white-hot anger flaring out on quiet streets or on public transit. To name but one, a pedestrian accidentally crossed in front of a cyclist, the two immediately started swearing at each other and almost came to blows. These strangers were dry tinder, ready to burst into flames of rage.

A contemporary government official, in a high-profile speech, once enthused about the benefits and powers of science.