3rd Sunday Year C

3rd Sunday of Advent 2024

Zephaniah 3:14-18; Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:10-18

Did you know that there are two “Rejoice Sundays” in the year? This, the Third Sunday of Advent is one of them, the other is Mid-Lent Sunday. Today is Gaudete Sunday: Mid-Lent is Laetare Sunday. Well done, Latin, having two words for “Rejoice”, encouraging us to have plenty of joy.

(Incidentally, if you Google “Gaudete” it may refer you to Steeleye Span’s version of the hymn “Gaudete” which Maddy Prior sings entirely in Latin—well worth checking up on. Also incidentally, if you are in a parish which is totally lacking in taste, you may be faced with “rose coloured” vestments—essentially pink—on Gaudete and Laetare Sundays: not a pretty sight, as Eric Morecambe used to say.)

Today, then, we are called to rejoice, and not only to rejoice but to exult. Why? Because, according to the prophet Zephaniah, “The Lord has taken away the judgement against you; He has cleared away your enemies”. This is fascinating because, earlier in his prophecies, Zephaniah fiercely rebukes the people, for turning away from God: now he is looking forward to a time when they will turn back to God.

Has that time arrived? Have people turned back to God? Looking around us, we may find it hard to think that it is so. This is where hope comes in, the most neglected of the trio of cardinal virtues—faith, hope, and charity. We are called to be “Pilgrims of Hope”, the title given to the Holy Year of 2025. We, with the whole people of God, are called to make our pilgrim way towards the fullness of the Kingdom, and we do so with hope, trusting that God will accomplish what we cannot. He WILL clear away our enemies: He WILL call people back to Him; and so we rejoice and we exult in anticipation.

Yet it is not only in anticipation that we do this, because the Kingdom is already here, though its glory is not yet. Whenever someone obeys the instructions of John the Baptist, the Kingdom is present and at work. Whenever people share with those in need, whenever they take no more than their due, whenever they refrain from extortion, from threats, from bullying, and from false accusations—and how many of those there are at the present time—the Kingdom is present, and we have cause to rejoice and exult.

The Christ has come, and He is always coming, because He is an Advent God, and we live in the time of His coming. Like the people who followed John the Baptist, we are “filled with expectation”: and expectation is another word for hope. For us, as for them, our expectation is already partly fulfilled because Christ has come, and He is here, in the gathering of His people, in word and sacrament, in people and events, and so we have reason to rejoice and exult, so long as we are open to His coming.

We rejoice too because, as Zephaniah tells us, the Lord rejoices over us. He is pleased with His creation; He rejoices over the people whom He has created, and whom His Son has redeemed. “Great in our midst is the Holy One of Israel,” as we proclaim in the psalm: “the Lord is at hand,” as we are informed in the Letter to the Philippians. He has come in the person of His Son, and He is here, and He rejoices to be in us and among us.

Because God and His Christ rejoice in us, we can, should, must rejoice in Him. “Rejoice in the Lord always” we are told, and then, in case we have missed the point, we are told again. Incidentally (again) this is one passage where the new translation scores over the Jerusalem Bible, which had a reading from Ken Dodd to the Philippians: “I want you to be happy, always happy in the Lord, (Missus)”—no, no, no, no! We are then given useful advice: listen to it again, then ask yourself “Do I heed it?”

“Do not be anxious about anything.” Do you heed that? Do you worry and fret about things which you cannot resolve, or do you trust in God? “In everything, by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God.” Do you pray for your needs, and are you thankful? And do you realise and recognise the closeness of God to you? Are you aware that Christ is here?

If you are doing these things, you have plenty of cause to rejoice.

2nd Sunday of Advent Year C

2nd Sunday of Advent 2024

Baruch 5:1-9; Psalm 125 (126); Philippians 1:3-6, 8-11; Luke 3:1-6

I am going to tell you a story. I have probably told it to you before, but so what? I watch lots of repeats on iplayer, so it is unlikely to do you too much harm if you listen to something which you have already heard. As a priest once said to me when I apologised for re-using material which I had used previously: “The same sun rises every morning and we don’t complain about that”.

This story dates back to the equivalent Sunday to this one in 1986. I was based at the time at the Diocesan Residential Youth Centre at Castlerigg Manor in Keswick, and I had been asked, on this Sunday, to celebrate Mass at Windermere, where the parish priest was ill.

The priest in question was the late Fr. Joseph Haydon, known to the brethren as Smokin’ Joe, not because of any resemblance, real or imagined, to the original Smokin’ Joe, the heavyweight boxing champion Joe Frasier, but simply because, except when he was on the sanctuary, he never had a ciggy absent from between his fingers. Now, Smokin’ Joe was ill—perhaps not surprisingly with pneumonia—and I had been asked to “supply” for him on this particular Sunday morning.

It was a glorious morning, as close to perfection as ever a morning can be. It was frosty, but the sun was beating down from a cloudless sky, creating those shadows and effects on the fellsides which only a winter sun can provide. On the Lakes which I passed—Thirlmere in particular, to which the road runs parallel—a slight breeze made the wavelets dance as they reflected the sun’s sparkle, and as I headed down Dunmail Raise, the sheer tranquility was breathtaking.

As I drove, I was rehearsing in my head the homily which I was to base on the readings of the day. “For God has commanded that every mountain and the everlasting hills be made low.” “Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough places shall become level ways,” and all I could think was “Oh no, Lord! Not these hills, please! They are far too beautiful.”

It is all a matter of context. Baruch is writing of the return of the Jewish exiles from their seventy years’ enforced absence in Babylon. For the individuals involved, it would not actually have been a return. The original exiles would have died, and it would have been chiefly their grandchildren and great-grandchildren who were making what was, for them, a trek into the unknown. Baruch promises that their journey will be made easy, all obstacles removed, everything done to make this a genuine homecoming.

We find similar comfort and rejoicing in the psalm: “When the Lord delivered Sion from bondage, it seemed like a dream”. You are familiar with the exiles’ psalms of lament—“By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept, remembering Sion”—now their tears are replaced by songs.

Luke picks up this theme in the Gospel. After providing precise dates—clearly a man after my own heart—he applies the prophecy to the work of John the Baptist, who is preparing a way for the adult Jesus. Notice that this all relates to the proclamation of the Kingdom: we are still not thinking about the Christmas event. It is too early in Advent for us to focus on that.

So the way for Jesus is to be made more straightforward by the Baptist’s teaching, as the way for the exiles had been smoothed more than five centuries earlier. What about us, as we make our own pilgrim journey towards the Kingdom? Is our way to be smoothed? Are the obstacles to be removed from our path?

I would like to pose a rather different question: would we want them to be? In some respects, we might answer “Yes”. If, as the pilgrim people of God, we were to have an easier journey, that might sometimes be desirable. Yet, if life and, in particular, the Christian life, were to have suffering removed, if the struggles which we face in following Christ—and for some people in merely existing—no longer afflicted us, would we walk more rapidly, achieve the Kingdom more securely?

Think again of those Lakeland hills and valleys. If somehow the Keswick to Windermere road were to be flattened, would we feel that we had gained, or lost? The struggles and difficulties, the obstacles and hardships, provided that they do not destroy or severely damage us, are part of the journey, whether in the Lake District or in life. If our way was to be totally smooth, it would not be a pilgrim road; it would not be taken in the footsteps of, and in company with, Christ. It is because Christ has walked, and does walk, this route, and not because it is flat and straightforward, that we are truly enabled to be pilgrims of hope.

1st Sunday of Advent Year C

1st Sunday of Advent 2024

Jeremiah 33:14-16; 1 Thessalonians 3:12-4:2; Luke 21:25-28, 34-36

Pope St. John Paul II was fond of reminding us that we are the Easter People: an important concept because we live always in the light of the Risen Christ. At the same time, we are the Lenten People, journeying through the wilderness with God’s Chosen People, and with Jesus, who faced and overcame the temptations which afflict all of us in our different ways.

We are also the Pentecost People, called into life by the Holy Spirit, who has been and is poured out upon us. And we are the Advent People, to whom and in whom Christ is always coming: Christ who came, veiled in flesh; Christ who will come, throned in glory; Christ who does come, quietly, secretly, unnoticed, to those who have eyes to see, ears to hear.

What are we doing, when we keep the season of Advent? We are waiting, preparing, being alert. Waiting, preparing, being alert for what? For whom? For the coming of Christ, yes, but how, when, where? The thoughtless will answer “at Christmas”, but what does that mean?

Christ CAME at the first Christmas, of course, to be the Messiah, the righteous branch promised by Jeremiah; and we do indeed prepare to recall, to celebrate, that First Coming: the advent of God in our human flesh, the breaking through of eternity into time, of the divine into the human. This indeed was awesome, earth-shattering, world-changing, deserving to be recalled and celebrated year after year after year, as long as time lasts.

But can we actually say, as is sometimes said, that we are preparing “for the coming of Christ at Christmas”? In what way will Christ come at Christmas differently from the way that He comes every other day of the year, every day of our lives? His coming is always fresh, always new, always incomprehensible, and on Christmas Day He will come in word and sacrament, in the gathering of His people, in the events which unfold for us—AS HE COMES EVERY DAY.

Rightly, we prepare to recall that God-filled event, and to pray that Christ may be born in us anew, but Advent, if it is to be true to itself, must be more than that. What more must it be?

As well as a making present again of a past event, it must be a longing for, and an openness to, the future. Our Gospel today calls us to be alert to the coming of Christ, but not as a baby in a manger. Its whole emphasis is on the return of Christ in glory, and on our need to be prepared and awake to face that; indeed, to welcome it as our redemption, for it will mark the fulfilment of God’s purpose for the world.

Will that Second or Final Coming of Christ happen in our lifetime? When we hear the Lord’s account of the signs which will accompany it, we may think that it is just around the corner. Are there not plenty of signs in these days? Natural disasters, conflicts without end, breakdowns of civilisation? Aren’t there many nations in distress and perplexity, so many of them grasping at extreme and extremist political solutions?

We do not, and cannot, know if these are signs of an imminent end. We can and should see them as reminders that there will be an end, for us as individuals and for the world. We should take them as pointers to our own mortality, recalling that we were created, not for this life only, but for eternity, an eternity which is being built in our living out of every day.

So in Advent we are preparing to recall the beginning of the work of our redemption in the First Coming of Christ, and we are sharpening our alertness to the prospect of His Second Coming, both at the end of our own lives and at the end of time. Is there anything else?

Certainly there is, for as St. Bernard, father of the Cistercian renaissance, reminded us, there is a Third Coming of Christ, between the other two, and one which affects us every day. For Christ is always coming into our lives, day by day, moment by moment. He comes, not only in the specifically religious events, but in the people who cross our path, each of them Christ for us; in the painful and joyful events, which give us a share in His Cross and Resurrection; in all that we do or fail to do; in all the gifts and opportunities of His grace. The Advent season reminds us of something which is true day in and day out: Christ is coming to us, here and now, today. Are we awake to recognise Him?

Christ the King Year B

Christ the King 2024

Daniel 7:13-14; Apocalypse 1:5-8; John 18:33-37

I am sorry, but try as I might, I cannot become enthused by the Feast of Christ the King. Perhaps I should. After all, the world desperately needs the Lordship of Christ, the reign of God, as said world appears to be careering to hell on a handcart: but I can’t. It is an anachronism, something out of time, which is slotted uncomfortably into the Church’s calendar. It was established at a particular time to meet a particular challenge: the threat posed by the rising tides of communism and fascism during the inter-war years in Europe.

Even then, there was something strange about it. Kings were already a busted flush in the 1920s and ‘30s. Today, they have practically no significance at all. I remember a Zimbabwean priest preaching on this day, and explaining how alien a concept he found it, coming as he did from a socialist republic, where the only kings of whom he had heard were Old King Cole and Elvis. (I should point out that this was before Mugabe and his successor Mnangagwa had turned Zimbabwe into a dictatorship.)

Here in Britain—now referred to officially as the United Kingdom—another anachronism, as its constituent nations have never been more disunited—our constitutional monarchy wields no genuine power, and impinges less and less on the public consciousness. Admittedly, a glance at the so called Great Power across the Atlantic shows us that there are worse systems—perhaps if the United States had remained loyal to the Crown as Canada did, they might by now have been almost civilised—but since the death of Queen Elizabeth II, who was almost universally admired for her diplomatic skills, royalty has moved further to the margins.

What then can we usefully say about Christ the King? Oddly, the irrelevance of kings may be the one thing which gives meaning to the feast, for Christ Himself was effectively irrelevant in relation to the power structures of His day.

“Are you the King of the Jews?” asks Pilate. This pagan Roman governor may have been unaware of the hostility of devout Jews to the very notion of kingship. They had not been ruled by a king since the time of the Babylonian exile, centuries before. Admittedly, Herod the Great is sometimes referred to as King Herod, but the Jews themselves would have rejected the term, and upon his death, his so called kingdom had been split three ways among his sons by the Romans.

Rome was not averse to having petty kings among its subject peoples. They were known as “client kings” and were well aware that they occupied their thrones by permission of the Romans, their usefulness limited to their ability to prevent any rebellion by their people against Roman power and Roman rule.

Hence, when Pilate put his question, he may genuinely have wondered whether Our Lord might be of use to him as a minor and ultimately impotent keeper of order among the unruly populace. If so, he was quickly disabused of the notion. “My kingdom is not of this kind” says Jesus. In other words, I am neither of use to you, nor a threat to you. My kingship takes the form of bearing witness to the truth, a concept which Pilate found incomprehensible. “What is truth?” he asked, and closed the conversation.

In human terms, Jesus was and is the most unkingly king, and if this feast is to be celebrated at all, it cannot be in the triumphalist manner familiar to some of us from our youth, when it entailed a procession of the Blessed Sacrament, with white gloved attendants carrying the poles of a canopy, before the monstrance was enthroned above the high altar. Jesus’ kingship is obscure, hidden, exercised in service among the poor and lowly.

Does this day, then, say anything to us? It does, in an upside down way. We are told in the Apocalypse that Jesus has made us a line of kings and priests. The First Letter of St. Peter calls us a royal priesthood. That royalty, though, must be expressed in the way in which Jesus expressed it; in apparent irrelevance, in seeming insignificance, in service of the poor. As kings, we must be “unkings”. Whether this feast really brings that home to us is another matter.

33rd Sunday of the Year

33rd Sunday 2024

Daniel 12: 1-3; Hebrews 10: 11-14, 18; Mark 13: 24-32

Do you remember the early days of microwaves? There were dark rumours, whether justified or not I do not know, that they emitted radiation which could cause brain damage, and that they might interfere with other electrical equipment.

My father was in no doubt. Whenever their aged TV set spluttered and crackled, he would pronounce, ex cathedra, “Someone is using one of those microwaves”. In vain would my mother point out that the telly in question was past its sell-by date: any interference was caused by a microwave somewhere in the vicinity.

I should perhaps add that Dad’s increasing hearing problems had nothing to do with age, but resulted from people’s muttering, and, admittedly with tongue firmly in cheek, that the holes in his jumper were attributable to moths, and were totally unrelated to the sparks dropping from his pipe. He was NOT growing older.

All of us, I suspect, are reluctant to admit to the effects of advancing years. Our physical and mental powers develop and strengthen throughout our childhood, youth, and early adulthood, and we carry a sort of inner conviction, in the face of all the evidence, that they will continue to do so. When I was transferred, in my mid-30s, from parish and school chaplaincy to the Diocesan Youth Centre, I confidently quoted the Beatles’ song “When I’m 64”.

“When I get older, losing my hair, MANY years from now…” These eventualities lay so far in the future that I could cheerfully scoff at them. I would never lose my hair, and I could laugh at the question “If I came home at quarter to three, would you lock the door?” When did the age of 64 change from being an unimaginably distant event, and become a piece of ancient history? When did quarter to three move from 2-45am to 2-45pm?

At a certain point, the signs of physical and, sadly, mental decline begin to materialise, however much we may deny them. If you are slow to see them in yourself, look around your house. Are your furniture, your kitchen fittings, your paint or wallpaper, the same as thirty years ago? And, if so, are they still in the same condition? “Change and decay in all around I see”, however reluctant we may be to admit it.

Year by year, the readings for this Sunday, the penultimate weekend of the Church’s calendar, remind us of mortality, of the unwelcome truth that nothing in this world, even the world itself, is built to last. We, and all created things, have built in obsolescence. The Day of the Son of Man will come, and that will be closing time.

“Before this generation has passed away, all these things will have taken place.” They have not yet happened in time, but their course is determined in eternity; they are already a present reality. When that reality will occur for us as individuals or for creation as a whole, we do not know—nor, apparently, did the Son of God in His human form—but occur it will. Nothing is more certain.

How are we to react? Do we whistle a happy tune and carry on as if nothing has changed, or will change? Do we take fright, and lapse into pessimism? Neither of these courses really fits the bill. We DO continue with life as normal, because what will happen is normal. We remind ourselves, though, that we live each day in the light of eternity, that our eternity is actually being constructed daily from what we do each day.

What does this mean in practice? It certainly does not mean that we live in a state of constant fear, terrified of the Day of Judgement. Remember that God has created us for eternal life with Him: that, as St. John’s Gospel reminds us (3:16-17) “God loved the world so much that He sent His only Son….not to condemn the world, but so that through Him the world might be saved”, that God has “destined us, not for wrath, but to obtain salvation” (1Thess5:9-10). God is on our side.

It means rather that we are conscious of God’s presence in our lives, and of His purpose for us: that we seek to live each day in accordance with that purpose. It is interesting that, in today’s Gospel, Jesus illustrates His words about His return via a parable, not of decay, but of new life, the fig tree which blooms in the summer. However our bodies and minds may be faring, let us be spiritually alert, living fully each day in the light of God’s love, His call, and His eternal plan for each one of us.

32nd Sunday Year B

32nd Sunday 2024

I Kings 17:10-16; Hebrews 9:24-28; Mark 12:38-44

What do the two widows of today’s First Reading and Gospel have in common? Extreme generosity, certainly: the one shares the last of her food with Elijah, a complete stranger, while the other dedicates the last of her money to God. Is there anything else involved? Faith, I would say. Essentially, both of them are entrusting their very survival to God, since they have no natural resources remaining.

It is possible, I suppose, to suggest that both are acting in desperation or resignation; to assume that they are both at their wits’ end and are being reckless. I am not convinced by that argument: isn’t it natural to cling onto our resources until the bitter end, rather than share them with a foreigner or effectively throw them away?

There was a similar episode in the life of St. Francis of Assisi. On a visit to Rome, he was apparently shocked at what he saw as the meanness of pilgrims in St. Peter’s Basilica, who were donating very little, and so he emptied his own purse into the collection, and went away impoverished but happy.

This gesture was indicative of St. Francis’ whole attitude. He neither kept, nor allowed his followers to keep, anything by way of savings, but relied entirely on the providence of God and the generosity of wealthier people.

Perhaps earlier than usual, I am going to pose the weekly question: what about us? I don’t think that we are required to give away everything: to rely entirely on the goodness of God and the open-handedness of others. We have responsibilities which we must fulfil. We have an obligation to provide for our own welfare and that of our families. There are demands which society rightly makes of us to contribute to the common good by way of taxation. Like everyone else, I shudder when the envelope arrives marked HMRC, to inform me how much the taxman intends to liberate from my clutches, but I know that taxes are a necessary evil: that without them, society would be unable to function. There is some truth in Benjamin Franklin’s comment that the two certainties in life are death and taxes.

Once these obligations are met, what else is required of us? Is it for us, as for the two widows, a matter of generosity and faith? How much do you and I possess of those two qualities?

Both are demanded of every Christian—can we say “of every human being”? Bear in mind that the widow who looks after Elijah is not a Jew, not a member of God’s chosen people. Indeed, Our Lord Himself, preaching in the synagogue, singles her out as an example of how God’s choice may fall on anyone. “There were any widows in Israel,”, He points out, “but Elijah was not sent to any one of these”.

This remark, illustrating the breadth of God’s mercy, aroused the wrath of the congregation, who preferred to see themselves as especially close to God. How generous were they, in reality? How much faith did they place in God? Generosity to outsiders is still resented today. You can find on Facebook, people complaining bitterly about money being spent, whether by a Conservative or a Labour government, on overseas aid.

Such people will shout loudly “We should look after our own!” I suspect that they themselves do nothing to “look after our own”: they are simply demonstrating their own meanness of spirit.

Do you or I possess a mean spirit, or do we have the generosity to which Christ calls us? Faith definitely should come into it. Explicitly or implicitly, the two widows relied on God to respond with His boundless generosity to that generosity which they themselves displayed.

This isn’t simply a matter of being generous with material things. The real question for us is “To what extent do I entrust myself, my life, my whole being to God?” Do I seek to conform my whole life to His call, His Commandments—expounded in last Sunday’s readings—to love Him with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength, and to love my neighbour as myself? If I am genuinely seeking to fulfil those two Commandments daily, then generosity and faith will arise in me as a natural consequence.

31st Sunday Year B

31st Sunday 2024

Deuteronomy 6:2-6; Hebrews 7:23-28; Mark 12:28-34

“Shema Yisrael—Listen Israel!”: with those words devout Jews fix their attention on God in their daily prayer, both morning and evening. They continue with the rest of Moses’ command, declaring the oneness of God, and committing themselves to loving God with all their heart, soul, mind, and strength.

It is no surprise that Jesus, Himself a devout Jew, doesn’t hesitate before reciting the Shema in reply to the scribe’s question. That must have relieved the scribe’s mind, as he tries to establish what Jesus is about. At least this new prophet keeps the basic faith of the ancestors.

Would Jesus’ declaration that the Second Commandment entails loving one’s neighbour as oneself have surprised His listeners? It isn’t the Second Commandment of the Decalogue (the Ten Commandments) though it occurs elsewhere in the Pentateuch, the first five books of the Bible. In Luke’s account of this episode, which leads into the parable of the Good Samaritan, the Lawyer, a rather more hostile character than Mark’s scribe, is already familiar with the linking of the two Commandments, but Luke may have done this to help his narrative along.

The scribe of today’s Gospel seems surprised as well as delighted when Our Lord links the two. Enthusiastically, he endorses Jesus’ words, and even adds his own postscript, to the effect that these Commandments are far more important than religious observances, a viewpoint which would have put him at odds with many of his contemporaries, as well as with the modern day Pharisees who want the Church to focus on rules and regulations above all other considerations.

What though do these two Commandments mean, which form the basis of all Jesus’ teaching? Modern day society would claim, by and large, to endorse the Second of them whilst jettisoning the First, but Jesus is insistent on the correct order. Love of God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength comes before all else.

In what does the love of God consist? I remember a Sixth Former at Our Lady’s, Lancaster, many years ago suggesting “Loving God is different from loving people, isn’t it?” Is it? I would say so. There isn’t the physical element for one thing: what about the emotional aspect?

There are people who do become emotional when they reflect on God, on His glory, His love, His generosity, but especially on His self-sacrifice in the person of Jesus, as God took on our human flesh. Perhaps all of us may become emotional at times, as we kneel before the tabernacle, or contemplate the crucified Jesus, or welcome Him into ourselves in Holy Communion. Like the Emmaus disciples, our hearts may “burn within us” as He opens the Scriptures for us.

I would suggest, however, that these emotional uplifts are rare; for most of us, most of the time, our religious experience may verge on non-experience, on the humdrum, even on a struggle against tedium, on routine and even boredom rather than on emotional highs. There is a saying “After the ecstasy, go and do the laundry”; in other words, if you do have such an experience, remember that it cannot last, that it isn’t the heart or the essence of our life in God.

What then is that essence? What do we mean by loving God with all our heart and soul and mind and strength? The basis, I think, is faithfulness. It is trying to understand what God wants of us, and attempting to live that to the full. St. Francis de Sales urges us to “seek the God of consolations, rather than the consolations of God”, while St. Alphonsus prays “all that I ask and desire is thy holy love, final perseverance, and the perfect fulfilment of thy will”.

It demands prayer, and openness in our prayer: not a monologue on our part, but a willingness to listen. In that listening, we won’t hear a voice, but gradually we may become more aware of God’s presence, of what He is asking of us in the here and now.

There is another question: “How do we love our neighbour as ourselves?” That is usually interpreted as “loving other people as much as we love ourselves”. There may be something shaky in that: many of us, if we are honest, don’t love ourselves very much. To me it seems rather to suggest “loving others AS BEING OURSELVES”, to see them as us, to identify with them. We are brought back, as so often, to that word “compassion—suffering with”, living in the other person’s skin.

Right then! Those are my thoughts on the two greatest Commandments. If anyone has any better ideas, let me know.

30th Sunday Year B

30th Sunday 2024

Jeremiah 31:7-9; Hebrews 5:1-6; Mark 10:46-52

Do you remember the Kray twins? Along with the Richardson gang, Reggie and Ronnie Kray and their henchmen controlled much of the East End of London in the 1950s and 60s by a combination of extortion, torture, and murder, until the Law caught up with them, more than slightly belatedly.

The Krays frequented a pub named the Blind Beggar, invariably referred to on news bulletins, in those more formal days, as “The Blind Beggar Public House” where one of their murders was committed. That pub still exists today, refurbished and newly respectable, but I suspect that many of its customers are attracted by its former notoriety.

According to Google, it owes its name to a legendary 13th century nobleman who fell on hard times and was reduced to begging for his daily crust, but I am sceptical of that. I prefer to think that, like many traditional pub names, such as the Cross Keys, the George and Dragon, and the Red Cross, its name has a religious origin, recalling the blind beggar of today’s Gospel.

Whether that is the case or not, I wonder why the concept of a blind beggar should take such a hold on the popular imagination that it is recalled in a pub name today. We are all familiar with beggars—walk through any town centre of any size and you will see people huddled in doorways with a begging bowl, and often a sleeping bag—but it may be that blindness adds a particular poignancy to their plight.

In biblical times, “the blind and the lame” were often invoked, as today by Jeremiah, as people who would receive God’s special favour. In those days too, begging might be their only resource, as neither employment nor state aid would be available to them.

Hence, Our Lord’s cure of a blind beggar was both an act of mercy to someone in particular need, and the fulfilment of biblical prophecy. In addition, the behaviour of the beggar himself makes his story stand out among Jesus’ other works of healing.

Firstly, we know his name, as he became a follower, a disciple of Jesus. He wasn’t simply one blind beggar among others: he was Bartimaeus, the son of Timaeus. Secondly, he knows the name of the one who can cure him: not only that, but he recognises Jesus’ Messianic identity. Not one, but twice, he addresses Him, not by His patronymic “Son of Joseph”, but by the royal and sacred title “Son of David” thus acknowledging His particular role.

His persistence too causes Bartimaeus to stand out. The crowd tries to hush him, but Bartimaeus will not be hushed. Indeed, the harder they try, the louder he shouts. Bear in mind that, unlike the leper whom Jesus cured, the recovery of his sight will not be an unmixed blessing. He will lose his occupation as a beggar, and be obliged to find a new source of income, but this does not deter him. He continues to pester, to shout, to make a nuisance of himself.

This persistence of his is rewarded, and we are given a beautiful picture of his eagerness. “Throwing off his cloak” we are told, “he jumped up”, and in this instance we cannot fault the Jerusalem Bible’s translation. Was he so familiar with his blindness that he was able to make his own way to Jesus, or did he need to be helped? We are not told, but make his way he did.

Once there, he was in no doubt as to what he wanted: “Master, let me see again”, and we are brought to realise that this was a double request. He wanted his physical sight restored, but also his understanding. The latter is already strong, as he has shown by addressing Jesus as Son of David, but now it is completed. “Immediately his sight returned and he followed Him along the road.”

Unlike another blind man cured by Jesus, whose sight returned only by degrees, for Bartimaeus the restoration of his sight, both physical and inward, was immediate. Straightaway he sees, and straightaway he becomes a disciple, following Jesus along the road.

As always, the question now arises “What about us?” Does anything prevent our seeing Jesus clearly, seeing what we are to do, how we are to follow Him? And how eager are we to have that blindness removed? Do we persist in praying, in shouting at the Lord, or are we too comfortable, too set in our ways, too afraid of what Jesus may ask of us? Are we willing to jump up, throwing off whatever may hinder us? Are we willing and eager to follow Him along the road.

29th Sunday Year B

29th Sunday 2024

Isaiah 53:10-11; Hebrews 4:14-16; Mark 10:35-45

You and I might be forgiven for thinking we had come to Mass at the wrong time of year as we listen to those readings. They seem to belong to Lent, or even to Holy Week, rather than to the closing weeks of the Church’s calendar. Let’s take another look at them.

We begin with part of one of the Songs of the Suffering Servant, from the prophet whom we know as Deutero-Isaiah, or Second Isaiah. These songs regularly crop up in Holy Week, when they remind us of the sufferings of Jesus the Christ, the true servant of the Father.

“The Lord has been pleased to crush him with suffering” we hear. That fits neatly with the Passion of the Christ. Was the Lord really pleased to make His Son suffer? No, but it was part of the divine plan that a human being should reverse the disobedience rooted in human beings from the beginning, and so restore the equilibrium and the purpose of creation. It was a matter of fairness and balance, not of pleasure.

“If he offers his life in atonement, he shall see his heirs.” I remember being told in Primary School, in Miss Hayward’s class, that “atonement” means “at-one-ment”, being made one with God. That, I think, is a more helpful understanding of the word in this context than its more usual meaning of “making up for a fault”, though in reality, the two meanings go together: it was Jesus’ sufferings, making up by His obedience for the disobedience of the world, which made the human race at one again with God.

“His soul’s anguish over, he shall see the light and be content:” we can interpret that as the Resurrection and Ascension of the Lord. Meanwhile, the final two verses express what Jesus has done for us: “By his sufferings shall my servant justify many, taking their faults on himself”.

In the Letter to the Hebrews, the story is taken further, as Jesus is described as the “supreme High Priest, who has gone through to the highest heaven”. As other parts of this letter make clear, this is a reference to the annual entry of the High Priest into the Holy of Holies in the Temple, taking the blood of sacrificed animals. Jesus, the writer tells us, has entered the true Holy of Holies, in heaven, of which the earthly one is only a model, taking His own blood, the blood of the supreme sacrifice.

Not only that, but because of what He has suffered, and because He has been tempted as we are, Jesus the High Priest is ideally placed to understand our human weaknesses, and to intercede with the Father on our behalf. This is particularly so in the Mass, when His role as High Priest becomes a reality for us, as He makes present on our altar today His once-and-for-all offering of His Body and Blood.

Turning to the Gospel, we recall that the request of the Zebedee boys comes during the final journey to Jerusalem which Jesus is making with the apostles. He knows that it is a journey to the Cross, a journey which will culminate in all the events foretold by Deutero-Isaiah, and interpreted by the writer of the Letter to the Hebrews. Hence, He speaks to the pushy pair in terms of drinking the cup and receiving the baptism which were to be His.

Despite the prophecies of the Passion which Jesus has already give them, James and John cannot grasp that He is speaking of the cup of suffering and the baptism of blood. Neither they, nor the other ten, can fathom what He is revealing, what He is demanding of them.

We do not have the excuse of ignorance to which they, effectively, cling. We have heard the words of Deutero-Isaiah and of the other prophets. We have received the explanation delivered in the Letter to the Hebrews. We know from the Gospels read to us year by year exactly how events played out. We hear now the Lord’s own words “The Son of Man came, not to be served but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many”.

What are the practical implications for us? We are to follow in the Master’s footsteps, but what does that mean in terms of our everyday behaviour? That beautiful word “compassion” surely comes into it. We must put ourselves in the other person’s shoes, seeking to see every situation from their point of view. If we set ourselves to do that, we should avoid the apostles’ mistakes. There should be no question of seeking to lord it over others, no room for jealousy. Instead, there should be a recognition of the face of Jesus in every face that we see, whether it be Lent, Holy Week, or October.

28th Sunday Year B

28th Sunday 2024

Wisdom 7:7-11; Hebrews 4:12-13; Mark 10:17-30

“Jesus looked steadily at him and loved him.” OUCH! It is a very dangerous thing to have Jesus look steadily at you, because then there is no hiding place. It is difficult enough to face the gaze of anyone, because that gaze seems to make us transparent, but the steady gaze of the Son of God leaves us no room for manoeuvre. It must be bad enough when it is a look of censure, but when it is a look of love, it is so much worse because it calls for love in return, and genuine love is always painful, always demanding.

The gaze of Jesus reveals us, not only to Him, but also to ourselves. It shows us our unworthiness, but also our potential. If we respond to that look of love, what may we achieve? On the other hand, what will it cost? We know the answer to that, don’t we? Love of another human being draws us out of ourselves; calls us to sacrifice. Love of Jesus draws everything from us, turns us inside out. As Peter points out, later in this same passage, it is painfully costly: “We have left everything and followed you.”

TS Eliot wrote of “a condition of complete simplicity, costing not less than everything”. John Dalrymple Snr., the Scottish priest and spiritual writer, took that phrase “Costing not less than everything” as the title of a book about loving the Lord. A modern songwriter created a very simple, two word title: “Love hurts”.

This is the demand and the dilemma which face the man—the other evangelists refer to him as a young man—in today’s incident. He is a good young man: he has kept the prescriptions of the Law all his life. He has been obedient: now he is being invited to move beyond obedience to love, a love “costing not less than everything”—and he turns away.

Was that the end of the story? It is all that the Gospels tell us, but I wonder if there was a sequel. What happened to that young man subsequently?

I have already mentioned Peter, and I wonder if Peter’s experience offers us a clue. Remember how Peter too was subjected to that searching, penetrating gaze of Jesus. Recall that courtyard scene of Holy Thursday night. Peter has just uttered his third denial of Jesus, and, as prophesied, a cock crows. Then, we are told, “Jesus turned and looked straight at Peter”, and the word here translated “looked straight at” is the same Greek verb (emblepo) which described Jesus’ gaze at the rich young man.

Like that man, Peter is revealed to Jesus in his innermost being, and is revealed also to himself. He has no hiding place. He goes away and weeps bitterly.

What about the young man? He, we are told, went away sad, a word which might also be translated as “grieving”. Peter’s grief led to his conversion: he returned to the Lord determined to make amends, though he wasn’t immune to future backsliding. Might the young man’s grief have achieved a similar result, as he pondered what might have been, and what might still be? Or was his grief of that sort which St. Paul describes as an “earthly sadness”, which produces no good outcome? We are not told.

Inexorably, though, we are led to the weekly question “What about us?” What is this Gospel encounter telling you and me? To look at the question more broadly, it seems to me that Jesus must be calling people today to give up everything and follow Him in the priesthood or consecrated life. He must be gazing at young men and women, and loving them, and inviting them, yet somehow they are not responding to that call. Are they not hearing it? Have they never been encouraged to spend time with the Lord, to allow Him to gaze at them? Or do they have too many equivalents of the rich man’s wealth, attachments which they are afraid or unwilling to surrender? I do not know, but it is a question which calls for much prayer on our part.

Is there anything else? Yes. You and I, each one of us, must allow Jesus to look steadily at us, and to love us. We must give Him time and space to pierce us with His gaze, to reveal our deepest self to Him, and to us. And then we must respond to whatever He is asking of us today, in our present situation, and in the present moment.

27th Sunday Year B

27th Sunday 2024

Genesis 2:18-24; Hebrews 2:9-11; Mark 10:2-16

That is a wonderful First Reading, and a powerful Second Reading and Gospel. I can imagine the more dopey among the atheists decrying the Genesis reading on the grounds that “That wasn’t how it happened”. Of course it wasn’t. It was never intended to be taken literally. It is not an attempt at writing history: it is a beautifully poetic expression of God’s love for humankind, of the interdependence of the sexes, and of human responsibility for, and stewardship of, creation and especially the animals.

Some feminists may regard it as patriarchal, considering it to assert a dependence of woman upon man. Again, that strikes me as over literal. Admittedly there is a masculine bias, but the real emphasis is on mutuality, the two becoming one. And whilst we are more aware now than then of the complexity of human sexuality, the Genesis passage gives us a starting point for an understanding of sexuality and sexual attraction.

How does it play out? God brings all the animals and birds to the man, demonstrating the interrelationship of all creation. The man is interested, to the extent of naming all the creatures, bringing them into relationship with him. There is nothing, though, to set his pulses racing.

This changes when he sees the woman, whom he recognises as deeply related to him. You can imagine him leaping up and down with excitement as he shouts “this at last….”. I think we can safely add “Yabadabadoo!” I hope that we can assume that the woman was equally excited, and our imaginations can fill in the rest.

We mustn’t overlook the footnote: “This is why a man leaves father and mother, and joins himself to his wife, and they become one body.” This is the antidote to casual sex. Sexual intercourse is a holy and precious thing: it brings about complete union, making the two into one, and so it needs to be wrapped around with care, treated with devotion. If, as happens frequently in our society, it becomes something which happens on a first date, or a one night stand, it loses its meaning, its beauty, its God-given excitement, and becomes simply one more bodily function.

This is also why rape is one of the vilest of sins, because it seizes by force something which must only be given freely; it destroys mutuality; it violates by aggression and brutality that which is integral to the very humanity of the victim. It is practically a form of murder.

It is this aspect of mutual self-giving and union which Jesus takes as the basis of His teaching on marriage. He quotes the Genesis text asserting that the two become one body, and then amplifies it, leaving no room for doubt: “They are no longer two, therefore, but one body”. This, He adds, is a God-given union, a sacrament, a concept which St. Paul would develop by declaring that it symbolises the union of Christ with His Church.

One question for the married people here, to ponder rather than answer: “Do you still have those ‘Yabadabadoo!’ moments in your marriage? Do you need them?” Actually, that is two questions, but perhaps the two will become one—see what I did there? (Incidentally, my own belief is that marriage is too precious, too much of a self-giving, to be combined with that other self-giving which is involved in priesthood, and that it would be a tragedy for both sacraments, and for the Church as a whole, if the Church were to abandon the concept of compulsory celibacy, an abandonment which has been described as a “middle class cause”.)

There is something remarkable, almost staggering, in the Second Reading, from the Letter to the Hebrews. “It was appropriate,” we are told, “that God….should make perfect through suffering the leader who would take them to their salvation”. Jesus had to be “made perfect”. Was He imperfect? Not in the way in which we commonly use the word.

“Perfect” here means “thoroughly made” “complete”, the literal meaning of the Latin word on which it is based. Until He suffered, there was something lacking in the humanity of the Son of God. Suffering is part of the human experience, and without it Jesus would not have been complete as a human being. This has a bearing on His own injunction “You must be perfect”.

Like Jesus, we must become thoroughly made, complete. It is not something which will happen to us all at once. It is a process which will take a lifetime, and for most of us be finished only by Purgatory. If you feel that you are not perfect, don’t worry—you are on the way. If you feel that you ARE perfect, worry—because you have something seriously wrong.

26th Sunday Year B

26th Sunday 2024

Numbers 11:25-29; James 5:1-6; Mark 9:38-43, 45, 47-48

I love those two characters who stay in the camp and prophesy there. Their names are Eldad and Medad, but they could be read as Eldad and me Dad (my Dad). I never thought of me Dad as a prophet, but so he was, and so was me Mum, and so am I, and so are you.

“If only the whole people of the Lord were prophets” says Moses “and the Lord gave His Spirit to them all”. You know what is coming now, don’t you? The whole people of the Lord ARE prophets, and the Lord HAS Given His Spirit to us all. It is there in the rite of Baptism, which I have quoted many times. It accompanies the anointing with the oil of chrism, the effective sign of the giving of the Holy Spirit: “As Christ was anointed priest, prophet, and king, so may you live always as a member of His Body, sharing everlasting life”.

You then are a prophet—and also a priest and a king—simply through having been baptised, when the Holy Spirit was given to you; a giving reinforced, if you like, in the sacrament of Confirmation. What does that imply?

A prophet is someone who speaks for another—particularly for God—from the Greek prophemi “I speak for (or before)”. So we have been anointed to speak for God, to proclaim His word, to interpret what that word means in our lives and in the lives of others. In particular, it involves speaking up for what is right, speaking for justice, opposing evil, speaking the truth to power.

St. James gives us a classic example of prophetic speaking in today’s Second Reading, where he denounces the excesses of the rich, whose concern is to make themselves richer, and who do so at the expense of the poor, exploiting their workers, reducing their wages, denying them the just rewards of their labours. This is an issue as old as humankind itself: we find similar denunciations in the Hebrew prophets, especially Amos, who calls out those who, he says “trample on the needy and try to suppress the poor people of the land”.

It is still a problem today, and one in which Catholic Social Teaching has long provided a prophetic voice. In 1891, Pope Leo XIII issued the encyclical “Rerum Novarum” (“of new things”, though it could also be translated “of Revolution”) in which he quoted this passage from St. James in demanding just treatment for employees, and asserting their right to form Trade Unions, and to strike if necessary.

Ever since, successive Popes have issued encyclicals on social justice, thus building a large and systematic body of teaching. If governments and employers were to follow Catholic Social Teaching, the world would be a far juster place.

We cannot be complacent, though, for we live in the developed world which has long benefited from exploiting the poor and degrading the earth. Many of the genuine problems arising from immigration are the result of centuries of unjust treatment of the developing world, which has played a large part in creating situations leading to famine, drought, and unimaginable poverty. Every country in Europe, as well as the Americas, is now struggling with immigration on a massive scale, to which they must seek solutions which are not to be found in demonising the immigrants.

Tragically, the Church’s prophetic voice has been compromised by its role in the abuse crisis, becoming far too frequently, as Jesus says, an obstacle (scandalon) to bring down one of these little ones. The reaction of a number of bishops, in this country at least, has added to the damage; for a sizeable proportion of them, the priority is to “cover [their] own backs”, as one of them expressed it, with the result that, in addition to the offenders, innocent priests have been suspended and fraudsters have been encouraged to make false allegations. As well as seeking to root out abuse, we must also be prepared at times, to oppose scallywaggery on the part of bishops, another prophetic task.

Our prophetic role is not an easy one but we must not despair. God has given us His Spirit, as Moses prayed, and that same Spirit, dwelling and working within us, will guide us.

25th Sunday Year B

25th Sunday 2024

Wisdom 2:12, 17-20; James 3:16-4:3; Mark 9:30-37

If you were here last week, you may recall, though you probably won’t, that I asked whether the readings offered anything for our comfort. They comprised what might be seen as a prophecy of the Lord’s Passion, a warning from St. James, and a prediction from Jesus’ own lips of His suffering and death, and of its implications for us.

Today we have an apparent prophecy of the Lord’s Passion, a warning from St. James, and a prediction from Jesus’ own lips: déjà vu or what? Is it déjà vu in another sense in that I ended by suggesting that there was a great deal for our comfort? Will we be able to say the same this week?

The prophecy of the Passion seems fairly clear: Jesus WAS very critical, especially of the supposedly good people, in their way of life; He WAS TO BE tested with cruelty and torture and condemned to a shameful death. As last week, the suffering and death of the Son of God appear to fit a blueprint.

Similarly, St. James follows up last week’s warning that our faith must be “fruitful in good works”, otherwise it will be dead. Today, he pushes the point further, demanding that we be peacemakers, that we be compassionate, that we be free from hypocrisy, a hypocrisy which would be manifested in professions of faith with no good works arising from them. He has stern words of criticism for our self-centredness and ambition. As last week, his words provide a sound basis for a good and thorough examination of conscience. Am I a peacemaker? Am I compassionate? Am I free from hypocrisy?

Finally, the Gospel illustrates that self-centredness and hypocrisy in the behaviour of the apostles, juxtaposed with a further prophecy on Jesus’ part, as He attempts to convey to them that He will suffer, die, and rise from the dead. The Twelve are no more capable than was Peter to take these prophecies on board. At least Peter had his Lord’s interests at heart: now they are concerned only with themselves.

What are our concerns? Are we focused on the suffering, death and resurrection of Jesus, and on how these play out in, and influence our own lives, both now and in eternity? Do we have faith in Jesus, and are we concerned to exercise that faith by meeting the needs of others? Or are we essentially selfish and self-centred, pre-occupied with the things which appear to enhance our own comfort and status; even our own salvation without reference to the salvation of others?

I have seen and heard a great deal of criticism, probably justified, of the Government’s decision to limit the elderly persons’ heating allowance to those in receipt of pension credits. Over and over again, though, this reasonable criticism is coupled with the vilification of immigrants, claiming that the money withheld from pensioners is being spent, indeed squandered, on giving immigrants a cushy life, something which is far from the truth. It then tempts one to wonder whether the claim to be concerned about pensioners is genuine or largely a manifestation of the struggles to which James draws attention, a pre-occupation with our own well-being joined to a need to find a scapegoat, dragging in an unrelated problem to enable people to compensate for altruism with rage? I do not know.

What do we make of Our Lord’s use of a child, as a model for our behaviour? Surely, children are the most self-centred people of all? True, but that isn’t the whole story. That is their childish, as distinct from their childlike, side. The apostles have an abundance of childishness: what they and we are called to imitate is the child’s innocence, its enthusiasm, openness, positivity, willingness to learn. Is the child in you and me childish or childlike?

Finally, do these readings tell us aught for our comfort? They do, don’t they? They give us a blueprint for better, more generous behaviour, and they remind us that, in Jesus, God has done great things for us: that He is our Redeemer, and our model.

Hyning's 50th Celebration Mass Homily

Hyning 50th/Chapel 40th  19th September 2024

1 Kings 8:22-23, 27-30; 1 Peter 2:4-9; John 4:19-24

Many many moons ago, in the far off days of my youth, I served a seven year sentence, with time off for good conduct, as a day boy at the East Road Penitentiary, better known locally as the Boys’ Grammar, and in more refined circles as the Royal Grammar School, Lancaster. Oddly enough, the Bishop also did time, a little later, at the same penal establishment.

In my day, though not, I suspect, in the Bishop’s, Saturday meant school until twenty past twelve, but on one Saturday, shortly before the October break, we would be given a lesson-free morning, as we were marched down the hill, under the watchful eye of the warders (aka prefects, with tassels on their caps) to the Town Hall for Speech Day. There, the Chairman of Governors made his annual public appearance.

The Chairman in question was a certain Earl Peel, whose sobriquet indicated, not that he was a Jazz musician like Duke Ellington or Count Basie, but that he was a peer of the realm—and he lived here (not here in this chapel, but here in this house). Some of you, in past years, may have used Lady Peel’s bathroom, a magnificent chamber containing everything you could wish for—apart from hot water! You will be pleased to know that, since the recent renovations, though the magnificent accoutrements are no more, hot water is abundant.

Others may have attended Lady Peel’s Garden Parties. As a devoted Catholic, the Countess would open the grounds annually to raise money for the missions.

In 1974, the Peel family left Hyning which, with the help of Pamela, known to many of you from her years of service in reception, was purchased by the Bernardine Cistercians of Esquermes, who are now celebrating fifty years of making this place a home from home for thousands of visitors who have come here in search of peace, tranquility, and an awareness of the presence of God as they enjoyed the prayerful and cheerful hospitality of the Sisters.

My first visit took place in the summer of 1977, when as a young priest, one year ordained, I came here for a private retreat. The community then comprised four Sisters, in the persons of Sr. Mary Lawrence, Sr. Mary John, Sr. Mary Cecilia, and Sr. Mary Nivard. The chapel was a room in the main house, and the monastery wing had not yet been built.

Over the years which followed, I visited many times. On three or four occasions, I brought sixth formers from Upholland College for weekend retreats, the lads sleeping, if I remember correctly, in the undercroft beneath what has since become the chapel. In 1984, I brought a carload of what were then known as Third Year Remedial pupils—the term “Special Educational Needs” not yet having been coined, from Our Lady’s High School, Lancaster, who caused Sr. Mary Philippa more stress in an hour than the Upholland lads had given her predecessors in a series of weekends.

I should add that, by way of compensation. Our Lady’s provided the Bernardines with Sr. Michaela, and as Fr. Stephen Talbutt was also a pupil, a couple of years below Sr. Michaela, I feel that Holy Mother Church has fared reasonably well by the school. If you take into account the Burns brothers, Fathers Peter, Jim, and David, the latest score is East Road Penitentiary 2 Our Lady’s 5.

So much for the past: what of the present? We have heard Solomon ask, at the dedication of his Temple “Will God really live with human beings on the earth?” We know the answer to that question: God has lived, does live, and will live with human beings on the earth. He has lived with us as the man, Jesus Christ, the Second Person of the Blessed Trinity present in our all too human flesh, who continues and will continue to live with us. He lives with us now in His Eucharistic presence, in His word proclaimed, and in human beings, created in the image and likeness of God.

“If anyone loves me” He has told us “My Father will love them, and we shall come to them and make our home with them”. The living God is present on the altar, in the tabernacle, but also in the people who love Him and serve Him: in the community which lives and serves here, and in those who come here to seek Him and to be drawn more closely to Him, echoing constantly the prayer of Solomon: “Hear the entreaty of your people as they pray in this place. From heaven where your dwelling is, hear—and as you hear, forgive”.

God lives with us because we are, as St. Peter has told us, “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a consecrated nation, a people set apart to sing the praises of God”. We come together today to exercise our priesthood—our common priesthood as baptised believers, and the ministerial priesthood of the ordained—to sing the praises of God, to praise Him particularly for His presence in this place, and for the blessing which this place and this community have been for so many over the past half century, and which they continue, and will continue, to be.

And like the woman of Samaria, we are called to worship in spirit and truth. The story of the encounter of Jesus with this woman is a real joy, and I would encourage you to read it in full. She is no better than she ought to be—indeed, she may even be rather worse than she ought to be, as Jesus reminds her that she has had five husbands, and is now living “tally” or, as it is sometimes said “over the brush”—yet it is to her that He reveals His identity as the Messiah: “I who speak to you—I am He!”

Far be it from me to inquire into the household arrangements of anyone here, but if we are honest, we shall have to admit that WE are no better than we ought to be, whatever role the brush may have in our house. We are sinners, and if we think that we are not, that may be the greatest sin of all, yet to us also Jesus constantly reveals Himself. May this place continue to be a place in which He reveals Himself in the decades which lie ahead.

24th Sunday Year B

24th Sunday 2024

Isaiah 50:5-9; James 2:14-18; Mark 8:27-35

Ouch! There’s not much for our comfort today, is there? We begin with one of the Songs of the Suffering Servant from Deutero-Isaiah (Second Isaiah) a fairly clear prophecy of the sufferings of Jesus: “I made no resistance, nor did I turn away. I offered my back to those who struck me, my cheeks to those who tore at my beard. I did not cover my face against insult and spittle”. That prophecy was to be fulfilled in practically every detail.

Then we have St. James warning us that faith without good works is dead. If faith is not “fruitful in good works” a phrase which you may remember from the old Prayer for England, then it isn’t faith at all: it is pretence. There we have a good basis for an examination of conscience: does my faith, my worship of God, have practical consequences? Does it lead me to love and serve my brothers and sisters? If not, we shall find ourselves in the position of the “Lord Lord” people whom Jesus dismisses in the Gospels, saying “I never knew you. Get away from me, you evil people”.

Finally, we have the Gospel in which Jesus prophesies His Passion, and then proceeds to demand of us a renunciation of self, the taking up of our Cross, and the following of Him. Failure to do that will have eternal consequences.

Even St. Peter receives a brutal shock. According to St. Matthew, Peter’s declaration that Jesus is the Christ results in his being named as the rock on which the Church is to be built. He is to lead the Church, and he seizes the first opportunity to demonstrate what a good leader he will be. When the Lord and Master speaks of His Passion and Death, Peter takes Him in hand.

Notice how Peter takes Our Lord to one side. He is in charge now, and a quiet word from him will put things right. Jesus needn’t worry: His rock, Peter, will make sure that these things don’t happen. WALLOP! Instead of thanks, Peter hears “Get behind me, Satan!” So much for his outstanding leadership.

What is actually happening here? You may recall that, after the temptations in the wilderness, the devil left, “to return at the appointed time”. This is one of those appointed times. Satan is using Peter’s voice, the voice of a friend, to tempt the Lord to find an escape route. What is more seductive, when we are faced with something which we would prefer to avoid, than a trusted friend saying to us “No, you don’t have to go through with it”?

Jesus feels the force of the temptation. “Turning, and seeing His disciples” says Mark. Our Lord is turning away from the voice of the tempter, and in doing so He sees the disciples, and knows that He must go ahead, must undergo His Passion, and He rejects Satan’s temptation, recognising it for what it is. This is not Peter speaking: it is Satan speaking through him. Jesus is not calling Peter Satan: He is calling out Satan who is using Peter.

Here, incidentally, we see the meaning and the limitations of papal infallibility. In proclaiming the Messiahship and the divine paternity of Jesus, Peter was allowing God to speak through him: “It was not flesh and blood which revealed this to you, but my Father in heaven”. When the Father speaks through Peter and his successors, they are infallible: when that divine inspiration is not at work, when they think “not in God’s way but man’s” that infallibility is absent. Allegedly, there were a couple of occasions when Cardinal Ratzinger, later Pope Benedict XVI, pointed out to St. John Paul II that he would not be able to claim infallibility for his planned pronouncements.

Jesus now re-commits Himself to Hs mission from the Father, which will entail profound suffering, death, and finally, resurrection. Then He has a mission for each one of us: a call to renounce self, to take up the Cross, to follow the Master. Is this indeed a message of doom and gloom?

There have been periods in the history of the Church when it has been interpreted in those terms. Think about it, though! What it amounts to is a call to discover our true selves. We were not created to be selfish: we were created in the image and likeness of God. In the Incarnation, God reveals the implications of this. To be created in the image and likeness of God is to be Christ-like, to be rooted in love of God and others, to grow daily closer to Christ. This will involve the Cross, but it won’t matter, because, in accepting whatever Cross God gives us, we shall become more authentic, more true to ourselves, more the people we were created and called to be.

Is it true that today’s readings tell us naught for our comfort? No, they tell us how to be our truest, fullest selves.

23rd Sunday Year B

23rd Sunday 2024

Isaiah 35:4-7; James 2:1-5; Mark 7:31-37

I am not going to talk about my first Sunday, as a newly minted priest, the oil still wet on my hands, as a member of staff at Upholland College, which occupied the equivalent Sunday to this in 1976, because I have spoken of it before, and one or two of you may even remember it. Instead, it seems a good idea to reflect on Jesus’ role as the fulfilment of the prophecies and the inaugurator of the Kingdom.

Notice first, though, the initial word of Isaiah’s prophecy, which is “Courage!”, allegedly a favourite word of Pope St. John XXIII. Courage, the root of which is the Latin word for heart, is something we all need. In everybody’s life, there will be times when courage seems in short supply. At some point, probably at several points, everybody will face obstacles, which may seem insuperable, overwhelming. At those points, we need to remember that word “courage” and to be aware of its basis.

That basis is the gift of God, for courage, like all good gifts, comes from God. Why does Isaiah call the people of Israel to have courage? It is because “God is coming….He is coming to save you”. Devotees of Doctor Who will recall the Fifth Doctor’s frequent rallying cry to his companion Tegan “Brave heart, Tegan!” recognising the relationship between the words “courage” and “heart”, though not perhaps noticing that God is the origin of that courage. All of us need courage at times: all of us can rely on that courage, since it is a gift from God, indeed the presence of God within us.

Signs of God’s coming, according to Isaiah, include the opening of the eyes of the blind, the unsealing of the ears of the deaf, the singing for joy of the tongues of the dumb. In the Gospel, Our Lord gives the people two of those signs, as He cures the man of his deafness and of his speech impediment.

Those who witness this healing recognise the power and the goodness of Jesus, but apparently fail to realise that this is the fulfilment of the prophecies. They praise Jesus, but praise is not what He wants. Jesus does not proclaim Himself: instead, He proclaims the Kingdom, and His miracles are signs of the Kingdom.

What do we mean by “the Kingdom”? Scripture scholars tell us that a better translation would be “the reign” of God, the fulfilment of God’s intention for creation, when all will be reconciled in Him, and He will be all in all.

Has that Kingdom or reign come? “Certainly not!” you may reply. “If it had, we would not still be praying for it, saying each day ‘Thy Kingdom come’. In any case, all you have to do is to look around the world to see what a mess it is—famines, droughts, global warming, the degradation of the planet, war and violence everywhere, between nations, within nations, even within families. Even the poverty, and still worse, the discrimination about which St. James writes can still be seen, even within the Church. How could we say that God’s will is being done, that He is reigning?”

There is a great deal of truth in that assessment. Evil and suffering are prevalent throughout the world: does that mean that the Kingdom or reign of God is absent, to be realised only in some unimaginable future?

Look again at what Jesus did. He cured some deaf people, some dumb people. some who were blind, some who were lame, and He proclaimed the Kingdom. The vast majority of deaf, dumb, lame or blind people were not cured. Yet Jesus declared “The Kingdom of God is entos humon—“within” or “among” you: probably both.

Clearly, God does not yet reign on earth, and yet His Kingdom is within us and among us. It is within us because the Holy Spirit has been given to us, and the Father and Son have, Jesus promised, made their home within us. It is among us because God has dwelt on earth in the person of Jesus, and remains with us in His word, and in the sacrament and sacrifice of His Body and Blood.

It is among us too wherever good is done, whether people recognise God’s hand at work or not. It is present when there are advances in medicine, in agriculture, and in knowledge generally, when people feed the hungry, serve the poor, and give them the means to develop their own gifts, to feed themselves, to build their own dignity. It is present when communities come together to repair the damage done by rioters, to guard vulnerable people and vulnerable places, to say “Stop!” in the face of violence, injustice, and discrimination.

Has the Kingdom, the reign of God, come? Not in its fullness, clearly; but in embryo it is here, because it was inaugurated by the Incarnation, by Jesus’ life and His miracles, by His death and resurrection, and by His sending of the Spirit. The Kingdom is to come, and it is here. We pray for its fulfilment, and, like Isaiah, we say to ourselves and to others “Courage!” (Brave Heart!)

22nd Sunday Year B

22nd Sunday 2024

Deuteronomy 4:1-2, 6-8; James 1:17-18, 21-22, 2; Mark 7:1-23

Many moons ago, standing with a group of Year 10s (4th Years in old money) at Castlerigg Stone Circle, I commented to one lad “The Bee-Gees had a photograph taken here for an LP cover”. His subsequent question took me by surprise, as he asked not, as I had expected, “Who are the Bee-Gees?”, but “What is an LP cover?”

You, I assume, know what an LP cover is—perhaps I should have said “album cover”—and most of you will remember the Bee-Gees. They were three of the Gibb brothers, Anglo-Australians, who burst onto the musical scene in 1967 with the song “Massachusetts” and who continued, despite the death of Maurice Gibb until a second death, that of young brother Robin, around a dozen years ago.

Today’s readings put me in mind of a song of theirs: “How deep is your love?” All three readings raise that question for us. Moses, in entrusting the Law to the people of Israel, commends it as a demonstration of God’s closeness to them. “Indeed,” he asks “what great nation is there that has its gods so near as the Lord our God is to us whenever we call to Him?”

In other words, the Law is a gift from God, intended to express God’s love for His people, and to draw that people closer to Him. It must therefore take root in their hearts. It is not to be a collection of arbitrary rules to be observed for their own sake, but an expression of mutual love between God and His people. It will show the pagan nations how close God is to Israel, but only if the people strive to be close to Him, assisted by the Law, which must always be a means to an end, not an end in itself. The question which Moses implicitly puts to the people in confiding the Law to them is “How deep is your love?”

How are the people to answer that question? St. James points the way to an answer. They must have the Law, and the subsequent words of Jesus “planted in them”: the original Greek word means implanted by nature. In other words, it must be part of their, and our, being—something as natural to us as breathing—and it must lead us to action. “You must do what the word tells you, and not just listen to it” says James.

He goes on to give an example of a response to the word, a response which we can give only if God’s word has taken root deeply within us. “Pure unspoilt religion in the sight of God our Father is this: coming to the help of orphans and widows in their need and keeping oneself uncontaminated by the world.”

What happens though, if the Law and the rules generally, instead of being a means of drawing us closer to God, and expressing the mutual love between God and ourselves, become an end in themselves? We see that in the Gospel, where the scribes and the Pharisees, instead of opening their hearts and minds to the presence of Jesus, focus on finding fault, on nitpicking. “Why do your disciples not respect the tradition of the elders?”

How often do you or I nitpick? How often do I look for an opportunity to criticise the little things that people do or say, instead of recognising the good things, and reaching out in love? I remember a teacher at Our Lady’s saying to me “If some people on the staff realised what some of these pupils have to go through in their everyday lives, they would marvel that they ever make it to school at all, rather than complain if they occasionally step out of line”.

There is another danger, namely of seeing the rules as the maximum to which we aspire, rather than as a foundation for deepening our relationship with God. I have, I suspect, told you before of an experience in a two priest parish, where I went on an errand while the parish priest was saying the evening Mass, but timed my return to be able to greet the people as they left the church at the end of Mass.

As I approached the church on my way back, I was taken aback to see people already leaving, and assumed that I had mistimed my return. Not so: they were living by the old rule that to “fulfil the Sunday obligation” we had to be present for “the offertory, the Consecration, and the priest’s communion”. The priest had received communion, so they were off, having fulfilled the obligation. How deep was their love? How deep is my love? How deep is your love?

21st Sunday Year B

21st Sunday 2024

Joshua 24:1-2,15-18; Ephesians 5:21-32; John 6:60-69

We have had a couple of fruitful weeks with the Letter to the Ephesians, with a fair amount to ponder. Today’s extract, though, is rather more contentious. “So is the husband the head of his wife, and as the Church submits to Christ, so should wives to their husbands in everything.”

Er….no. That is definitely a notion of its time, expressing the values and social conditions of its time, and not something to which we can subscribe today. Before we risk throwing out the baby with the bathwater, though, take note of what follows. “Husbands should love their wives just as Christ loved the Church, and sacrificed Himself for her to make her holy.”

The husband is to sacrifice himself for his wife: he is not to lord it over her. Today, we would want that to be expressed more in terms of mutuality and equality. Both parties in a marriage should have a Christlike love for the other: each should sacrifice him/herself for the other. That is how both the Second Vatican Council and the current Code of Canon Law speak of marriage, describing it as a covenant of equals, echoing the covenant between Christ and His Church. The scripture passage then goes on to speak of marriage, as did Our Lord Himself, as two becoming one body.

Present day society is quick, and rightly so, to reject the idea of male superiority, but it fails to take into account the positive aspects of this letter. Sex is trivialised so as to become an element in dating, or even in a casual encounter: consequently the concept of marriage as two in one body is lost. The downgrading of sex to a mere gratification of desire, something which occurs at the beginning of a relationship rather than as its culmination, inevitably weakens the uniqueness of marriage, and therefore its durability. If sexual intercourse is something which you can have with anybody at any time, it loses its unitive and sacred power.

As with the last few weeks, though, the focal point of the Liturgy of the Word is chapter six of St. John’s Gospel, which today wraps up the Bread of Life discourse. It does so in a startling manner, with a rejection of Jesus’ words, even by many of His followers, who part company with Him.

We have encountered Scribes, Pharisees, and others who refuse to accept Jesus, but here we are told specifically that it was “many of His disciples” who grumbled, and then went away. Furthermore, Jesus is prepared to lose even His core followers, the Twelve, if they are not prepared to take His teaching on board.

This shows how fundamentally important are Jesus’ words about living bread, about eating His flesh and drinking His blood.  If people reject that, then they reject Him. There is no compromise on Our Lord’s part. He declines to elucidate His doctrine, to explain it more clearly, to appeal to His followers to stay.

It strikes me that there are two issues here. Firstly, there is the centrality of Our Lord’s eucharistic doctrine: those who do not accept it cannot be His disciples. Secondly, there is faith in the person of Jesus, brought out in Peter’s response.

Here, as so often, Peter represents the Church and speaks for the Church, as his successors have frequently been required to do, down through the ages. Remember that the Last Supper has not yet taken place: Peter, at this point, has no more understanding of Jesus’ words than do those who walk away. Yet he is prepared to put his trust in those words because he puts his trust in Jesus. If Jesus speaks those words, then they must be true, even if they are, for the present, incomprehensible.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the message of eternal life, and we know: we believe that you are the Holy One of God.” That is complete faith in Jesus, the faith of the Church, on whose behalf Peter speaks. May we always have that same faith in Jesus, the Holy One of God, and may He ever deepen our faith in, and our devotion to, His eucharistic presence as our food, and our pledge of eternal life.

21st Sunday Year B

21st Sunday 2024

Joshua 24:1-2,15-18; Ephesians 5:21-32; John 6:60-69

We have had a couple of fruitful weeks with the Letter to the Ephesians, with a fair amount to ponder. Today’s extract, though, is rather more contentious. “So is the husband the head of his wife, and as the Church submits to Christ, so should wives to their husbands in everything.”

Er….no. That is definitely a notion of its time, expressing the values and social conditions of its time, and not something to which we can subscribe today. Before we risk throwing out the baby with the bathwater, though, take note of what follows. “Husbands should love their wives just as Christ loved the Church, and sacrificed Himself for her to make her holy.”

The husband is to sacrifice himself for his wife: he is not to lord it over her. Today, we would want that to be expressed more in terms of mutuality and equality. Both parties in a marriage should have a Christlike love for the other: each should sacrifice him/herself for the other. That is how both the Second Vatican Council and the current Code of Canon Law speak of marriage, describing it as a covenant of equals, echoing the covenant between Christ and His Church. The scripture passage then goes on to speak of marriage, as did Our Lord Himself, as two becoming one body.

Present day society is quick, and rightly so, to reject the idea of male superiority, but it fails to take into account the positive aspects of this letter. Sex is trivialised so as to become an element in dating, or even in a casual encounter: consequently the concept of marriage as two in one body is lost. The downgrading of sex to a mere gratification of desire, something which occurs at the beginning of a relationship rather than as its culmination, inevitably weakens the uniqueness of marriage, and therefore its durability. If sexual intercourse is something which you can have with anybody at any time, it loses its unitive and sacred power.

As with the last few weeks, though, the focal point of the Liturgy of the Word is chapter six of St. John’s Gospel, which today wraps up the Bread of Life discourse. It does so in a startling manner, with a rejection of Jesus’ words, even by many of His followers, who part company with Him.

We have encountered Scribes, Pharisees, and others who refuse to accept Jesus, but here we are told specifically that it was “many of His disciples” who grumbled, and then went away. Furthermore, Jesus is prepared to lose even His core followers, the Twelve, if they are not prepared to take His teaching on board.

This shows how fundamentally important are Jesus’ words about living bread, about eating His flesh and drinking His blood.  If people reject that, then they reject Him. There is no compromise on Our Lord’s part. He declines to elucidate His doctrine, to explain it more clearly, to appeal to His followers to stay.

It strikes me that there are two issues here. Firstly, there is the centrality of Our Lord’s eucharistic doctrine: those who do not accept it cannot be His disciples. Secondly, there is faith in the person of Jesus, brought out in Peter’s response.

Here, as so often, Peter represents the Church and speaks for the Church, as his successors have frequently been required to do, down through the ages. Remember that the Last Supper has not yet taken place: Peter, at this point, has no more understanding of Jesus’ words than do those who walk away. Yet he is prepared to put his trust in those words because he puts his trust in Jesus. If Jesus speaks those words, then they must be true, even if they are, for the present, incomprehensible.

“Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the message of eternal life, and we know: we believe that you are the Holy One of God.” That is complete faith in Jesus, the faith of the Church, on whose behalf Peter speaks. May we always have that same faith in Jesus, the Holy One of God, and may He ever deepen our faith in, and our devotion to, His eucharistic presence as our food, and our pledge of eternal life.

20th Sunday Year B

20th Sunday 2024

Proverbs 9:1-6; Psalm 33 (34); Ephesians 5:15-20; John 6: 51-58

Once again, the Letter to the Ephesians has a message for us: “This may be a wicked age, but your lives should redeem it”. Ours may be considered a wicked age: war, violence of many kinds, abuse, persecution, extremism, demagoguery, tyranny, racism, and many other -isms and phobias abound. In these respects it probably differs very little, if at all, from every other age; the main differences being that technology has enabled the wickedness to become more sophisticated, while mass communications have spread awareness of it.

This thought set me off on a consideration of the opening of Charles Dickens’ “A Tale of two Cities”: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness. It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. It was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness. It was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair. We had everything before us, we had nothing before us. We were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way. In short, the period was so like the present period….” Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose, as they say in Yealand.

If then we agree that this age, like any other, has its share of wickedness, can our lives indeed redeem it? We would say, of course, that Christ has redeemed it, but to what extent can we play our part by co-operating with His grace? We can claim to have seen an example of this over the past week, as thousands of our fellow citizens have turned out to support, with practical help and by peaceful marches, the victims of neo-Nazi violence.

All of us need, in our daily lives, to resist any temptation to fall in with wickedness, to choose the good always, to demonstrate that a better way is invariably possible. Further than that, these recent events have shown that there may be times when we are called to be more active in support of the good, that we should be prepared to step outside our comfort zone.

As was the case last week, though, the main focus of the Liturgy of the Word is on Jesus’ claim to be the Bread of Life. Bread has long been regarded as THE staple food, “the staff of life” as it has been called. Thus when personified Wisdom, in the Book of Proverbs, calls the fool to amend his ways, she invites him to eat her bread. Consequently when Jesus speaks of Himself as the Bread of Life, and as Living Bread, He is identifying Himself as essential to life.

His reference to bread might, at first sight, appear to be a metaphor for giving life, but the statements which He adds do not allow us to remain at that level of interpretation. Jesus insists, not once but repeatedly, on our eating and drinking. What are we to eat and drink? His flesh and blood, we are told. “My flesh is real food, and my blood is real drink”, is as bald, as plain, and as categorical a statement as we could wish.

“Eat and drink…..eat and drink….my flesh and my blood….real food and real drink”: Our Lord hammers the message home and reinforces it by his comparison with the manna, a thoroughly literal form of bread. Until the Last Supper, where John left it to St. Paul and to the writers of the Synoptic Gospels to describe the transformation of bread and wine into that flesh and blood, Jesus’ words would remain mysterious and puzzling. We are privileged to be granted understanding through our knowledge of the Last Supper, in conjunction with the words reported by John. We are more privileged still to be able to eat that flesh and drink that blood, repeatedly and, indeed, frequently.