Why ��Dz�’t we see more miracles these days? In particular, why ��Dz�’t we see more miraculous physical healings these days? Some friends of mine and I have been asking ourselves this question lately. If you’re like us, you pray constantly for miracles: miracles of healing, conversions, reconciliations, finances, etc. And we hardly ever seem to get presto chango results. Why ��Dz�’t we instantly get what we’re asking for? Didn’t Jesus say: “If two of you agree about anything to pray for…it shall be granted”? I feel like I already have the necessary “faith to move mountains,” because I really believe God can do anything. In fact, I’m actually shocked each time my prayers ��Dz�’t manifest miracles for myself or others. So why ��Dz�’t my (and my friends’) prayers “work”?

One of my favourite Christmas cards is of the infant Christ reaching up from His cradle to cradle the face of a donkey.  The look of mutual wonder and delight is suffused with light and love.  It sounds kitsch, I know, but in truth it cuts to the heart of the Incarnation, and expresses a profound theological reality.  

“God sent his Son, born of a woman” (Galatians 4:4).

When you think of Mary, the Mother of Jesus Christ, how do you picture her? The Bible gives us several beautiful pictures of Mary as a mother: there is Mary with newborn baby Jesus and Joseph (Luke 2:16); there is Mary at the presentation of Jesus in the temple (Luke 2:22-38); there is Mary is at the wedding feast at Cana (John 2:1-11). The pictures describe Mary as a mother of love. Each year, during the Christmas Season, on January 1, we celebrate the Motherhood of Mary. By accepting to be the Mother of Jesus, Mary played a special role in God������Ƶapp plan for his people. In Jesus we have become children of God. As God������Ƶapp children, we are empowered by the Spirit to call God “Abba! Father!” (Galatians 4:7).

In a gesture of outright cheek, Canada Post sent the Register an e-mail invoice last week even as the month-long postal strike dragged on. 

An edited transcript of Dec. 2 remarks by Shimon Fogel, chief executive officer of the Centre for Israel and Jewish Affairs, to the Senate standing committee on human rights.

What should we do when faced with a crisis too big to handle? How do we get ourselves out of the depths of despair, a worst case scenario, an unexpected downturn, a sudden tragedy, a seemingly unsolvable dilemma, a grief that never seems to end? Often, there������Ƶapp no way out but through, and as in all things, we must turn to God. “But I have turned to God! I’ve been praying and making sacrifices. I’ve been begging and pleading with God, but nothing seems to change. In fact, things are getting worse.” 

Bishop Frederick Bernard Henry fulsomely lived out his episcopal motto, Dabo Vobis Pastores, a quote from the prophet Jeremiah which translates, “I will give you pastors.”

Long ago, I learned that when I wrote letters, newspaper articles and any other form of writing by hand, they were more personal, quirky and self-revelatory than when I hammered them out on a typewriter. I also discovered that my writing was less precise, concise and grammatically correct when I took pen in hand. So, before I dared to submit my writing to a prof or an editor, I did a significant amount of editing to make my handiwork acceptable. 

In the early days of Advent, the ‘Prayer after Communion’ included the words, “for even now, as we walk amid passing things, you teach us by them to love the things of Heaven and hold fast to what endures.”  Having experienced many Advent seasons, I know the truth of the words, “We walk amid passing things.” Still, I prefer to contemplate the words, “Love the things of Heaven and hold fast to what endures”.  

Whoever aspires to the office of bishop desires a noble task.

1 Timothy 3: 1

Driving to work one cold January day in 2016, I heard an announcement on the radio that the Bishop of the Diocese of Calgary, Frederick B. Henry, was officially announcing his retirement after 19 years as a bishop. I can’t say I was surprised, but I certainly felt a tug of sadness.