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Pope Francis has insisted that the urgent need to care for the natural world of which we are part is not a disputed question but a Christian duty. He has appealed to the legacy of St Francis of Assisi, whose name he took when he became Pope; that saint of the 13th century who is popularly known best for his love of nature.
There was a love that manifested in my house that needed no naming. It transcended adjectives or nouns. We were so playful to the extent we tried our mother's dresses, skirts, blouses. In days when I felt the fullness of my mischievousness, I dressed like my mother or sister and ran out of the house to make people laugh. There was no fuss about it.
All right, Chongqing, let my dry skin fall in love with your moisture, my eyes used to the desolation and wind and sand ... Your sudden flashes of lightning and thunder, commotion of dripping water, and the heaving quietness, the fate of history.
A motley crue of people standing as one is very romantic in such a divide-and-conquer age. That they are standing up to Macron, ex-investment banker and now President, and the austerity tactics of a failing economic system is cause for celebration if you happen to love the idea of a fair society and people fighting for its return.
'John was Catholic to his bootstraps: Catholic, Irish Australian, a Labor man and a Carlton supporter. He'd have loved the inaugural speech delivered in the Victorian Parliament last month by the new Labor member for Hawthorn.' — Frank Brennan, Great Hall University House, Australian National University, 1 March 2019.
Valentine's Day is built on some fairly shaky historical ground. Rather than honouring a prelate offering bridal trysts, or hoping for a good harvest, I'm inclined to spare a thought for the Greek philosophers and poets who set up shop well before Romulus and Remus; I like to muse over their various efforts to pin down love.
Kenneth Hayne's royal commission into the financial sector has named, shamed and excoriated banks, regulators, insurance companies and other financial services businesses to the extent that you would think they are now extremely vulnerable and universally unloved. That would be a mistake.
Distant she said. Superficial was his word. Words to describe all that they cared, after the years gone by, long gone, and two children now almost reared. Twenty they were, those changing years. Love replaced by void, even fears. A house, a high hill, ambitious pride. A façade, an emptiness.
The sound of the didgeridoo would be heard throughout the land. On each street corners buskers would mark out their patch, playing violins, oud, piano accordion, berimbau, nyatiti, cello, mouth organ, zither, anklung or daduk singing the love songs and epic poems from the many civilisations that have enriched Australia.
As I sit in the Paris end of Collins street, I touch a poor woman's shoulder, and she looks up, her head wrapped in a veil, and I hand her some money. She clasps my hand, says thank you. Fingers count the rosary of coins. How will she know she is loved?
'A year on, Paul would be well pleased. On seeing this full church, he would think, "I can still draw a crowd." On seeing the sanctuary, he would think, "They need one Jesuit and two diocesan priests to replace me."' Homily on the first anniversary of the death of Fr Paul Coleman SJ.
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