Easter Vigil

The Easter Vigil 2023

Six years ago, I celebrated the Easter Triduum at St. Joseph’s, Ansdell, near to Lytham and St. Anne’s. The rubrics state that, at the Vigil, the homily, however brief, is not to be omitted, and so I gathered some thoughts in my head.

A few minutes before the beginning of the ceremonies, however, I went to the pulpit for a last look at the Gospel, at which point one sentence leapt out at me which caused me to revise my planned homily completely. It was the sentence “And there, coming to meet them, was Jesus.”

In that moment, that sentence struck me powerfully. These women have already had their world turned upside down more than once. They have witnessed the death and burial of their friend and Lord. Subsequently, their deadly grief has been transformed into overwhelming joy by the angel’s appearance and message. They do not know whether they are on their heads or their heels. “And there, coming to meet them, was Jesus.”

All their doubts, all their confusion, are resolved. They have proof positive: He is there to be seen and touched.

HERE, coming to meet US, is Jesus. He will be here to be seen and touched in the sacrament of His Body and Blood. Yet, not only here: in all the times of trouble and confusion in our lives, He is coming to meet us. In turmoil, grief, and pain, but also in joy and celebration, He comes to us, because He can. He is risen; He has conquered everything, even death, and He is present in everything, even death. And so He says to us, as He said to the women, “Do not be afraid”. And we can take Him at His word.

Good Friday 2023

A reflection for Good Friday 2023 (source unknown)

Many years ago, a young man went on a journey, which kept him from home for a number of years. When he returned, his father questioned him about his travels.

“To be honest, Dad,” the young man replied, “It was a bit rough. Yes there were some good times—in fact there were some great times—but over all it was pretty tough.”

“Tell me about it” said his father.

“Well, there was a night when I thought that my heart would break completely, and that I would die of sheer grief. Then there was the beating: I wouldn’t have believed that the human body was capable of so much pain.”

His father interrupted. “What was the worst part?” he asked.

The son was silent for a few minutes. Then he answered. “It wasn’t the blows, or the thorns, or even the nails, and as for the spear, I never felt that at all. No, the worst thing of all—was the kiss.”

Holy Thursday 2023

Holy Thursday 2023

Exodus 12:1-8,11-14; Psalm 115 (116); 1 Cor 11:23-26; John 13:1-15

I don’t imagine that many of you were, in your time, subscribers to the News of the World. Even if you didn’t read it, though, you may remember its motto: “All human life is there”. The same can be said of Holy Week and, indeed, of today, Holy or Maundy Thursday.

Tonight we hear of slavery, escape, sacrifice, death, love, and service, all undergirded by the Eucharist, which makes all of them present. We begin with the Passover, the great event of Jewish history, and one of the greatest in salvation history.

The Jewish people are instructed how to celebrate Passover (or Pesach) which makes present to them every year their liberation from slavery, as they escape, with their ancestors, from the land of captivity. Every item in the Seder, the Passover meal, from the bitter herbs and the unleavened bread to the lamb has a particular significance.

For a number of years, it was customary in many Catholic parishes to celebrate a version of the Seder, in which the importance of every aspect of the ritual was explained, and the Mass was set in context by pointing out at which stage Jesus would have blessed the unleavened bread which became His body, and which of the cups He consecrated to become His blood. This has now been banned by the Church on the perfectly reasonable ground that it could cause offence to Jewish people by appearing to be a parody of their most sacred activity. Nonetheless, it may be worth pointing out that one such event which I attended, in a Catholic setting, was led by a Rabbi, who provided all these explanations.

For the Israelites in Egypt, the sacrifice of the lamb, and the smearing of its blood on the doorposts and lintel of their houses were central, as they caused the Angel of Death to pass over them. We believe that these lambs foreshadowed the true Paschal Lamb, Jesus the Christ, whose blood was shed upon the Cross, and is now smeared on our lips as we receive in every Mass the fruits of His sacrifice.

Vital too is the Jewish concept of “memorial”. This is more than simply a reminder of a past event: it is the making present of that event, here and now. Thus, at each celebration of Pesach, the Jewish people today are liberated, along with their ancestors: at each Mass, the sacrifice of Jesus the Christ becomes present for us. Consequently, it is a great shame that Jesus’ words ”Do this as a memorial of me” are clumsily rendered, in our current translation of the Mass, as “Do this in memory of me”, which lacks the force of the original: the death and Resurrection of Jesus are not merely remembered, they are made present.

St. Paul’s account, which we read tonight, is the earliest written description of the Last Supper, and of the institution of the Eucharist. Can the Last Supper, the re-imagining of the Passover, be described as the first Mass? It is probably more accurate to describe it as the beginning of the first Mass, because Jesus, the Paschal Lamb, had not yet been slain. The first Mass continues through the killing of Jesus the Lamb on Good Friday, and is completed by His Resurrection, all of which become present for us in every celebration of Mass, an awesome, indeed an overwhelming thought and realisation.

There is one more vital element to be considered, as John’s account of this night makes clear. John has already recounted his eucharistic theology in chapter 6, in which Jesus speaks of the necessity of eating and drinking His Body and Blood, and the 4th Gospel’s account of the Last Supper focuses on what is generally called Jesus’ High Priestly Prayer, and on His washing of the disciples’ feet.

What is the significance of this? It states both boldly and indeed baldly that our celebration of Mass is not complete until we have loved and served our brothers and sisters with the same self-sacrificing love which Jesus showed, a love which took Him to the Cross.

When Pope Francis took this command of service into a juvenile detention centre, and washed the feet of inmates including a young Muslim woman, the liturgical purists were up in arms but the Holy Father was making the point that this should be, not merely a ritual gesture, but one which plays out in practice.

Finally, we leave the supper room, and accompany Jesus to Gethsemane, there to watch with Him in His Agony.

5th Sunday in Lent Year A

Ezekiel 37:12-14; Romans 8:8-11; John 11:1-45

Another Sunday with a long Gospel which needs to be read in full, and on which I will offer just a few thoughts.

“Jesus loved Martha, and her sister, and Lazarus.” Note the deep human feelings of which the Son of God was capable. This was no bloodless God playing at being human, but a God who was fully human, with the whole range of human emotions. Friendship and love are necessary for us as well.

“Then Thomas said to the other disciples ‘Let us go too and die with Him.’” This is typical of Thomas, always sceptical, always matter-of-fact, but also courageous.

“Martha…went to meet Him. Mary remained sitting in the house.” The sisters display the same characteristics as in St. Luke’s Gospel: Martha the active one, Mary the contemplative. In this instance, it is Martha who chooses the better part, since she elicits from Jesus His great proclamation “I am the resurrection and the life”. We need both an active and a contemplative dimension in our lives.

“Do you believe this?” I was reading this passage at a death bed. When I reached this question “Do you believe this?” the whole family shouted “YES!”

“I believe that you are the Christ…” Martha trusts Jesus, so she accepts the truth of what He says. Do we have that same trust in the person of Jesus the Christ?

“Jesus wept.” Again we see His deep humanity.

“Lazarus, here! Come out!” What dead areas are there in our lives? We need to hear Jesus call us by name: “…… here! Come out!”

“Unbind him. Let him go free.” Many things bind us—obsessions, compulsions, bad habits. We too need the help of others to let us go free.

4th Sunday in Lent Year A

4th Sunday of Lent 2023

1 Sam 16: 1, 6-7, 10-13; Ephesians 5: 8-14; John 9: 1-41.

For the second of three Sundays, we have a long reading from St. John’s Gospel, which deserves to be considered in full. Please read the whole passage, not the abbreviated version, paying close attention to it.

“Right seeing” is at the heart of all today’s readings. God sees the hearts of Jesse’s sons as He chooses David to be king; the Letter to the Ephesians tells Christians that we are “light in the Lord”, while the cure of the man born blind exposes the blindness, or rather the “false seeing”, of the Pharisees.

From the Gospel:

“I am the light of the world”. Remember that, elsewhere, Jesus tells the disciples that they are the light of the world. We must focus on the light which is Jesus, in order to reflect His light, and in order that we can see aright.

The man born blind is a gloriously down to earth character, an Israelite without guile, who answers all questions on the basis of his experience. Thus he tells the Pharisees “He is a prophet”.

“His parents spoke like this out of fear of the Jews.” In John’s Gospel, “the Jews” is shorthand for Jesus’ opponents. Remember that everyone, including Jesus, on both sides of the argument, is a Jew. Tragically, John’s use of this shorthand has encouraged anti-Semitism, which has no place in Christian belief or practice.

“I don’t know if He is a sinner. I only know that I was blind, and now I can see.” This matter-of-fact response shows that the man is on his way to seeing the truth.

“Do you want to become His disciples too?” This response strikes me as beautifully cheeky.

“Now here is an astonishing thing.” The man, who is beginning to see aright, begins to instruct the Pharisees, but they remain wilfully obtuse.

“The man said ‘Lord, I believe,’ and worshipped Him. He has now been led to full sight.

“Since you say ‘we see’, your guilt remains.” There are more ways than one of being blind. Are we ever guilty of wilful blindness?

3rd Sunday in Lent Year A

3rd Sunday of Lent 2023

Exodus 17:3-7; Psalm 94 (95); Romans 5:1-2, 5-8; John 4:5-42

Today, and for the following two Sundays, we have long readings from the Fourth Gospel. Whilst you are no doubt carrying out Lenten penances very enthusiastically, I suspect that these don’t run to missing your Sunday dinner, so instead of delivering a conventional homily, I shall invite you to follow the Gospel very closely, after which I will highlight some salient passages.

READ THE GOSPEL

“It was about the sixth hour”. This was noon, the hottest part of the day. People wouldn’t normally come to the well at that time of day. Presumably the woman was something of an outcast, probably shunned for her enthusiasm in gathering husbands.

“Jews do not associate with Samaritans.” Nor did men speak to women who were strangers.

“Living water” is one of the great themes of John’s Gospel (and of the Apocalypse). Water, essential to life, is especially precious in hot countries, as we learned from the Exodus passage, when the people were “tormented by thirst”. The spring of living (as distinct from still or even stagnant) water within a person is an analogy for the life-giving Holy Spirit. In Lent, it is also a reminder of baptism, to be received by catechumens at Easter.

“Go and call your husband.” This part of the conversation has a real knockabout flavour. Our Lord seemed to enjoy this sort of banter—see also His conversation with the Canaanite woman. Interestingly, there is no condemnation in His words or attitude, and He reveals an important truth to, in effect, an adulterous heretic.

“Salvation comes from the Jews”—something we should never forget!

“Those who worship must worship in spirit and truth”. Formal worship is important, but it must not be a formality.

“I am He.” One of the “I am” sayings (ego eimi) by which Jesus identifies Himself with the God of the burning bush—“I am who am”.

Despite shunning the woman, the townspeople follow her now. Curiosity gets the better of disapproval.

“The fields are white for the harvest.” Is that true today, or are we a generation which must labour, that others may come into the rewards of our trouble?

Many Samaritans came to believe. The heretics and schismatics believed in Jesus, whilst the orthodox by and large rejected Him. What are the implications of that today?

2nd Sunday of Lent Year A

Genesis 12:1-4a; 2 Timothy 1:8-10; Matthew 17:1-9

Just as the Temptations of Our Lord are always to be found on the First Sunday of Lent, so the Transfiguration invariably forms the centrepiece of the Second, before the Gospels go their separate ways in the three year cycle of readings from the Third Sunday of Lent onwards. Why should this be? Why is the Transfiguration considered to be so significant in Lent as to be set before us year after year?

A simple answer is that each of the Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke) covers the Transfiguration, but that does not explain why it is always regarded as an aspect of Lent. Why does that happen?

Thinking about it, we can see that the Transfiguration looks forward both to Jesus’ Passion and Death, and to His Resurrection. Luke’s Gospel, which we read in Year C, specifically states that Moses and Elijah were speaking with Jesus about His “passing”. Significantly too, the three disciples Peter, James, and John, who witness the Transfiguration are the same three whom Our Lord will take forward with Him to be the closest witnesses of His Agony in Gethsemane. Having witnessed the glory, they must also witness the anguish.

Indeed, we can surmise that those three were chosen to see the Transfiguration in order to prepare them for the Agony. If that is the case, it wasn’t entirely successful. Just as they were overcome by fear at the sight of the transfigured Lord, so also they were overcome by fear at the sight of that same Lord in agony: they couldn’t cope, and took refuge in sleep. Both on the mountain of glory and in the garden of anguish, Jesus must come to them and encourage (put fresh heart into) them, the difference being that in Gethsemane, He has to do it three times.

There, then, is the link between the Transfiguration and the Passion, but where is the connection with the Resurrection? Generally, the Transfiguration is regarded as a foretaste of the Resurrection. At Cana, at the instigation of His mother, Jesus had anticipated His “hour” (ho Kairos) by letting His glory be seen, “glory” being a word which indicates divinity, the presence of God. Now, on Mt. Tabor, the hour is anticipated again, as the cloud covers them with shadow, that cloud from which God spoke to the Israelites in the wilderness, the cloud which both concealed and manifested the glory, and which now does so again: that glory which will be completed by the Resurrection.

“That’s all very well,” you may say, “but how does it concern us?” Perhaps it is a matter of the Transfiguration moments in our own lives, about which I have spoken before. These are the moments of sheer joy, the moments when we realise, perhaps for a fleeting interval, that life is worth living, that—just for now—I am deeply happy.

They may fill us with a consciousness of God’s presence, or they may be, to the outward observer, completely mundane. They may not occur often, but I hope and trust that everyone experiences them at some point. Among the more obvious “God moments” I can recall nipping into Lancaster Cathedral on my way back to work during my dinner hour in 1968. I became overwhelmed by an awareness of Jesus’ presence in the tabernacle. I had always believed in this: now I was conscious of it beyond any possible doubt, and this proved to be one of the key moments in my sense of vocation to the priesthood.

Less obviously God-related, but clearly God-given, were the childhood walks with Mum and Dad on a Wednesday afternoon or evening (Wednesday being half day closing in the shop); times of sheer bliss. Or, perhaps, the most seemingly mundane of all, leaning on a railing close to the River Lune while acting as a marker during a cross country race in my first stint as chaplain to Our Lady’s HS, Lancaster, in 1985, when I found myself reflecting on the sheer joy of my dual role, in the school and in St. Mary’s parish Morecambe, a situation which I knew would not last, but which, at least for the time, I could savour to the full.

I trust that these have indeed been glimpses of the promise of sharing in the Resurrection. Have they helped me to cope with the times in the Garden of the Agony? I trust that they have. Perhaps today you might recall and reflect on your own Transfiguration moments and the effect they have had, and will have, on you. I trust that you have had such moment, and that you will have more.

1st Sunday of Lent Year A

Genesis 2:7-9, 3:1-7; Psalm 50 (51); Romans 5: 12-14; Matthew 4:1-11

What do we make of Jesus’ time in the wilderness and of His temptations? First of all, notice how He comes to be in the wilderness. He is led by the Spirit: Mark actually says that the Spirit “drove Him into the wilderness”. So He was meant to be there, and Matthew specifically states that He was led there in order “to be tempted by the devil”. It was the Father’s will, and the work of the Spirit both that the Son should be in the wilderness, and that He should be tempted.

What are the implications for us? We too will find ourselves in the wilderness, and we too will be tempted, but we mustn’t be anxious, because it is God’s will, and because God will be with us. Is it fair to suggest that we undergo two types of wilderness experience? Firstly, there is Lent, when we go voluntarily into the wilderness, accompanying Jesus, sharing with Him our prayer, our giving, our fasting or self-denial.

There has been a tendency in recent years to play down the self-denial aspect of Lent; to say that we should focus on doing positive things. Yes, of course we should, but we shouldn’t omit the fasting, the self-denial. Jesus fasted, and so should we. Indeed, He takes it for granted that we shall. Remember the Ash Wednesday Gospel, when Our Lord says “WHEN you pray, WHEN you give alms, WHEN you fast—“when”,and not “if”. Fasting in some shape or form should be part of our Lent.

There is, though, a second form of wilderness time, which may coincide with Lent, but which may strike us at any time of year. What is a wilderness? It is a place where we are not at home, where we are uncomfortable, where we wander. It need not be a physical place: we may be in a wilderness in our own living room, when we are distressed about something, struggling, uncertain.

For me, such times have, on occasions, coincided with Lent. In 1995, Ash Wednesday fell on 1st March. I remember it well, because I had just sunk into the depth of depression. On Ash Wednesday, I gave a blood donation, and I remember thinking “By heck! The old doctors were right. Blood letting is good for you. I feel lighter in my head.”

Alas, I was fooling myself. A fortnight later, I had to go into a nursing home. The Sunday after that was the third of Lent, and the chaplain there chose to focus his homily on the text “Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did”. “Thanks a bunch,” I thought. That was just what I needed to hear when I was already feeling like death—I don’t think.

Yet in those wildernesses too, Jesus is with us. His presence may be difficult to detect, but He will gradually make Himself known, and lead us through, and out of, the wilderness. Similarly, though it may seem unbelievable at the time, we will be enriched by, and benefit from, the experience.

What, though, of the temptations? To be tempted to turn stones into bread may involve, for us, feeling an urge to give in, too much, to our appetites. Our appetites are good and holy, but we have to be in control of them, not the other way round. We ae turning stones into bread when our appetite for food, alcohol, sex, or self-indulgence of any kind, runs away with us, takes us under its control.

To throw oneself down from the Temple pinnacle which, from childhood, I have aways identified in my mind’s eye with the balcony at the base of Lancaster Cathedral’s steeple, would be to take unacceptable risks with health, with relationships, or perhaps when driving; trusting, or pretending to trust in God to sort everything out. It may well be a sin of presumption. During the pandemic, there were some extreme evangelical groups in North America which carried on meeting as usual, claiming that God would keep them safe. This was the equivalent of throwing themselves from the Temple, expecting God to work miracles for them. Unsurprisingly, they suffered high casualty rates.

To desire the kingdoms of the earth: what is this but to lord it over people, to belittle or humiliate them? Do you or I give in to any of these temptations? Let us remember that God is with us in the wilderness, calling us to resist, with the aid of our voluntary penances, and that He will lead us through.

7th Sunday of Ordinary Time Year A

Leviticus 19:1-2,17-18; 1Cor 3:16-23; Matthew 5: 38-48

After hearing last Sunday’s Gospel, which recounted Jesus’ demand for a deeper morality than can be expressed by the mere keeping of rules, someone commented to me “That was a very difficult Gospel”. If that was difficult, what do we make of today’s, the call to non-resistance, which strikes me as the most difficult passage in any of the Gospels?

From the outset, I think that it is important for us to recall that Our Lord practised what He preached. He lived to the letter the prophecy of the Suffering Servant proclaimed by Deutero-Isaiah: “For my part I made no resistance. I gave my back to the smiters, my cheeks to those who tore at my beard. I did not cover my face against insult and spittle”.

“Pray for those who persecute you,” He said. He fulfilled that through His prayer at His crucifixion “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do”. I should perhaps say that I may be just about able to manage that, in terms of what I might class as a very feeble form of persecution. When I read or hear unjust criticism of the Church, or the sillier comments of self-styled atheists, or remarks which generally condone unjust behaviour by governments or others, I can usually force myself to pray for them, though generally only after an initial burst of rage. It is hardly the sort of spontaneous forgiveness which Jesus showed under infinitely greater provocation.

There have been others, in addition to Our Lord, who have lived the Gospel of non-resistance. It is over fifty years since I read “Strength to love” by Martin Luther King, but I still recall how staggered I was by his total refusal to hate, in spite of the brutality which had already been inflicted upon him. Throughout all his calls for racial justice, there was not a single word of condemnation of white people, even the most vicious and murderous of them. Dr. King’s non-violent campaign succeeded, at least in terms of legislation, but, as with Our Lord, it cost him his life.

Nelson Mandela’s autobiography “Long walk to freedom”, and his efforts, as President of South Africa, to create a Rainbow Nation, were also amazingly free of rancour. He survived, to be honoured throughout the world, though he must have grieved to see the inequality which endured, and the corruption which had begun to plague the government in his retirement.

Non-resistance, then, is achievable by individuals: what are we to make of nations? Is it, should it be, practised by nation states? Were Britain and her allies required by Jesus to allow Hitler to complete his conquest of Europe, if not of the world; to succeed in his aim of exterminating the entire Jewish race? Should a present day Hitler, in the form of Vladimir Putin, be permitted to seize control of, and impose a brutal regime on, a neighbouring country?

Noticeably, Jesus directs all of His remarks in this context to individuals. What then are we to make of nations? Recently, there has been much reflection on, and much criticism of, the Just War theory, by which the Church has traditionally given conditional approval to defensive wars. Many people argue that, given modern weaponry, no war can be justified, and Pope Francis has been particularly vocal in his condemnation of the arms trade.

And yet, in the present instance, can we maintain that Putin should not be resisted, or that countries were wrong to overthrow the brutal Caliphate which ISIS sought to establish? Even the Pope has declared that Ukraine is justified in defending itself, and has also stated that non-combatant nations are right to supply Ukraine with weapons for that defence. If Putin should succeed in imposing his will on Ukraine, the Pax Russica would be the equivalent of Tacitus’ description of the Pax Romana: “They make a desert and call it peace”.

We must all not only long for, but also strive for, that state of universal harmony envisaged by the prophet Isaiah, but we must also accept that it will be achieved only when, as Jesus points out, we and the world have been perfected, thoroughly made, completed. In the meantime, we must recall the words of Pope St. Paul VI, “If you want peace, work for justice”. May justice sometimes demand armed resistance, and is this compatible with Jesus’ words? You tell me!

6th Sunday of Ordinary time Year A

6th Sunday in Ordinary time 2023

Sirach 15:15-20; 1 Cor 2:6-10; Matthew 5:17-37

Well, that’s a relief: the chapel hasn’t emptied. When I read Jesus’ words “If you are bringing your offering to the altar, and there remember that your brother or sister has something against you, leave your offering there before the altar, and go and be reconciled with them first,” I half expected a clattering of feet as everyone rushed through the door.

Jesus is using a very emphatic illustration of the duty of mutual reconciliation, declaring that it must come before the duty of worship: indeed, we are not fit to worship if we are at odds with our brother or sister, meaning, presumably, those who, like us, belong to the one body; but then those outside the body. If the Church is truly the body of Christ, then we cannot truly receive that body in the Eucharist if we are responsible for a wound in the body which is the Church.

There is a tremendous need for reconciliation within the Church. Critics of the Holy Father accuse him of creating division, but this is a distortion of the truth. What Pope Francis is doing is, like Jesus Himself, to call the Church to a more radical following, a deeper faithfulness to God. In the resistance to him, we see that same adherence to rules, whilst neglecting their deeper purpose, of which Jesus accused the Pharisees.

The Pope has been accused of being lax, which was precisely the complaint which the Pharisees levelled against Our Lord. Today’s Gospel shows that Jesus was actually demanding something more difficult than the mere keeping of rules: in other words, a complete conversion of heart. Very few of us, I suspect, are tempted to break the commandment “Thou shalt not kill”: how many of us can say, hand on heart, that we never become angry with those whom we call our brothers and sisters, that we never say harsh things to or about them?

Jesus’ command to love is not, as it might appear at first sight, an easier option than the simple avoidance of rule breaking but, as those examples show which he gives us today, something far more demanding. If love is indeed a soft option, why do so many songs lament the pain and heartache which love brings? Admittedly, they are speaking of erotic love, but the same holds true of every kind of love. The song “Love hurts” has, according to Google, been recorded more than a hundred times.

I am reminded of the two elderly Jewish ladies who were on the visiting list of the parish where I did my diaconate placement. One of them said to me “Religion is the Lord, and religion is love, and love means sacrifice”. Forty eight years on, I still haven’t found a better definition.

The need for, and the demands of, reconciliation, were demonstrated both by the Pope’s gesture of kissing the feet of the warring President and Vice President of South Sudan, and by his joint pilgrimage to that country with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Moderator of the Church of Scotland, something which would have been unthinkable not many years ago. How many other parts of the world show that same need, when a self-professed Orthodox Christian President of Russia is killing thousands of his fellow Orthodox Christians in invading another country, when Muslims are the most numerous victims of Muslim jihadists, and when religious differences provide the excuse for persecutions, invasions, and massacres?

What, though, of Jesus’ call to rid ourselves of erring hands or eyes? This is an instance of Semitic hyperbole—if we took it literally, the world would be full of one handed, one eyed Christians, but what else? Surely few, if any, of us would possess a tongue, because that would be the first part of our body to be surrendered. As St. James points out in his epistle, the tongue is a whole wicked world in itself.

Which brings us back to our starting point. Whilst it is a relief that the chapel is not deserted, it is worth considering whether we have ground to make up in terms of sins of the tongue. But, what about sins of the mind???

5th Sunday of Ordinary Time Year A

Isaiah 58:7-10; 1Cor 2:1-5; Matt 5:13-16

In Canada there is a Catholic radio station named Salt and Light. It seems a strange title, but today’s Gospel shows why it was chosen. Christians are called to be the salt of the earth, and the light of the world. What does that mean?

Salt has had a bad press in recent years, as studies have shown that it is harmful if used in quantities too great. Yet it is, in the correct amount, essential to life. If you have undergone an operation, you will probably have been connected subsequently to a saline drip, infusing a salt solution into your vein. Without a sufficient amount of salt in your system, you die.

It is also seen as a savour, adding flavour to food which would otherwise be bland and tasteless. Again, there is an argument now about how much salt should be used, but that wouldn’t have been an issue in Our Lord’s time. He is making the point that we should be giving both life and flavour to our world.

When He calls us the light of the world, Jesus is applying to us a title which He claimed for Himself. To be the light of the world, we must somehow be a presence of Jesus.

So the usual question arises: am I being salt and light for the world? It strikes me that the two things operate in different, though complementary, ways. Salt works from within: light from outside. Salt is inserted into food, exerting its influence within the dish, whilst light guides the way for someone carrying or following it.

Do I work within the situations in which I find myself, improving their condition from the inside? I grew up behind, above, and in a shop, my father being a “retail confectioner and tobacconist” meaning that he sold sweets and cigarettes. In fact, he did much more. Simply by being himself, he made our shop what would now be called a community hub for people in our part of Scotforth. People would naturally gravitate there. One of the local hooligans, on being released from his latest spell of detention, commented to his mates “I’m going to Mr. Keefe’s tonight for a chat”. On a bus, I overheard a small boy, who had forgotten the name of the stop, ask the conductress for a ticket to Mr. Keefe’s.

That, I think, was being salt to the earth, giving life and flavour from within. I would claim that he was also a light to that little corner of the world. Everyone knew that we were Catholics—“big RCs” as one customer expressed it—and without ever uttering a word of preaching, Dad exhibited Catholicism at its best. Interestingly, when he was rushed into RLI with a burst ulcer one Saturday night in the pre-ecumenical 1950s, his first visitors next day were first the Baptist minister, second his Congregational counterpart, both customers in the shop.

We can be salt and light by being ourselves at our best. Sadly, we know that the institutional Church hasn’t always been either; and that has been obvious to the world. As Our Lord comments, a city built on a hilltop cannot be hidden, and the sins of the Church have been blatantly clear. Most fair minded people have been favourably impressed by outstanding representatives of the Church, such as Pope St. John XXIII and St. Teresa of Kalkota. The more knowledgeable admire also St. Oscar Romero, and the world hangs on the words of Pope Francis, but there is no doubt that the image of the Church, and its ability to be salt and light for the earth, have been grievously damaged by recent revelations of monstrosities.

The Church has lost all credibility and all moral authority in matters of sexuality. There was a deafening silence from Church leaders over the recent legal decision endorsing the abortion of children with Downs Syndrome right up to birth. This is clearly infanticide, with more than a hint of genocide, but our leaders are effectively silenced because the Church is regarded as a force for harm, not good.

Perhaps there was never a greater need for you and me to be salt and light. We have to be a presence within the Church, imparting, by our own lives, both life and flavour. Similarly, we need, by those same lives, to demonstrate that Christ is the way, truth, and life; and that the Church, despite its failings, remains His body, to belong to which is well worthwhile.

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

Zephaniah 2:3, 12-13; 1 Cor 1:26-31; Matthew 5:1-12

On 31st January 1987, I was at the top of one of the smaller hills around Derwentwater. Scattered around were members of the 5th Year (Year 11 in new money) from Fisher-More High School, Colne, who were taking part in a School Leaver Course at Castlerigg Manor, the Lancaster Diocesan Youth Centre.

In the valley below, a dog could be seen chasing sheep across a field, which gave rise to the following conversation between two of the lads on the course:

“Is that a dog running after those sheep, or a rabbit?”

“Don’t be daft. Rabbits don’t run after sheep.”

“Well it would, if a dog was running after IT”.

At this point I decided that the conversation was becoming too deep for me, and I moved on.

I can’t help thinking, though, that this rather odd exchange is relevant to the Sermon on the Mount, and especially to the Beatitudes, which you have just heard. Jesus went up a hill to proclaim the Beatitudes, and from a hill top the world can turn upside down: everything looks different, proportions change, and rabbits run after sheep.

In taking the disciples up the hill, Jesus was planning to turn their world upside down. He was going to change their perspective by speaking of a Kingdom, the true Kingdom, in which it is not the powerful who are blessed, but the humble, the downtrodden, the persecuted, the simple, gentle folk.

As St. Paul writes to the Corinthians, he points out that this world, this Kingdom, is already coming to pass among them. God, he points out, has chosen them, and they are, by and large, not outstanding, powerful, or influential people. Indeed, they are the very people identified by the Beatitudes.

Think of the really good people whom you have known. Haven’t they tended to be the ordinary, workaday folk; the everyday saints who often pass through life unnoticed; the small people who actually make the world go round?

I am thinking of Winnie. Winnie was a housewife married to Harry, a retired window cleaner, who lived in that part of St. Gregory’s parish, Preston, known as the Canary Islands, where all the streets are named after birds. I don’t remember where theirs was Plover St., Kingfisher St., Dove St., or one of the other members of that grouping of terrace houses built for the millworkers of a now departed era.

Winnie was a daily Massgoer until she developed cancer, and became housebound, whereupon I would visit every Friday with Holy Communion, invariably finding Winnie seated behind her altar, a table covered by an immaculately laundered white cloth, on which stood a crucifix and two lighted candles.

One Saturday morning, the presbytery doorbell rang, and I opened the door to a rather agitated middle aged man, who introduced himself as Winnie’s and Harry’s son.

“Me Dad’s had a stroke,” he began, “and me Mum wanted you to know. They’re taking him to hospital. She doesn’t want you to come, because she knows how busy you are, but she thought you should know.”

Now, when someone says “She doesn’t want you to come,” my initial reaction is not to go, and I returned to the tasks of the day. A moment later, I was struck by a thought. “I am not really that busy, and even if I was, which is more important? At the very least, if I anoint Harry, it will save the hospital chaplain a job.”

I got my car out, and drove to the Canary Islands. An ambulance was at the door, the paramedics were working on Harry, and Winnie was sitting patiently, her altar set up, the crucifix in place, and the two candles already lit. I was overwhelmed by the realisation that here was someone far closer to God than I was, and with far more influence over Him.

As time went on, Winnie’s cancer worsened, and she went into a nursing home in a different parish. Nonetheless, I felt that I should visit her. As I entered her room, Winnie’s response was “Oh, Father, you shouldn’t have come; you’re not well” (which was actually true). “Thank you, Jesus, for sending Fr. Keefe.” Oh heck: once more I realised that I was completely out of my depth.

Eventually, Winnie died, and I conducted her funeral. Some time later, her daughter-in-law described Winnie’s death. She had been lying quietly when she suddenly said “Thank you Jesus. I’m ready now. I am sorry for all my sins”, and died. Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A

Isaiah 8:23-9:3; 1Cor 1:10-13,17; Matthew 4:12-23

Although this is the Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, there is a sense in which it is the First. Until now, we have been dealing with the second and third parts of Epiphany: today, there is a feeling that we are embarking on a new chapter as Our Lord begins His mission, a mission of which we are called to be part.

It starts, the Gospel tells us, with the arrest of John the Baptist, which seems to spur Jesus into action, into the living out of His baptism, just as we are called to live out our baptism. Why should this be? Did it close the door on any hope that John’s mission might succeed in converting the people, and cause Jesus to accept fully that the task of proclaiming the Kingdom devolved on Him? We tend to think, I suspect, that Jesus had the whole of His earthly life mapped out fully from the beginning, but that interpretation rules out the uncertainty which is part of the human condition, and in which the fully human Redeemer must have shared to some extent, as part of His humanity.

Now, it seems, the arrest of the Baptist rules out any hesitation, and the public life and ministry of Jesus begin in earnest. This beginning is marked by what is commonly known as the kerygma.

“Ah yes,” you may say, “the kerygma. They speak of little else in Yealand.” Or you may not. It means the proclamation, the basic message of Jesus, and it is expressed in these terms: “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is close at hand.” What does it mean and, in particular, what are its implications for us?

“Repent” first of all: we are well used by now to being told that this has its roots in the Greek word “metanoia”, meaning a change in our basic attitude and outlook, often described as a change of heart. It is more than simply being sorry for our sins; it entails a refocussing of our whole outlook, our whole identity, what makes us tick. In the far off days of my youth, Jodrell Bank, with its radio telescope, was often in the news, as it tracked the stars and planets and, after the launch of the first Sputnik in 1957, man made satellites as well. As it did so, it had to be frequently turned to follow movement in the skies. Similarly, our focus has to be constantly adjusted, as we seek to recognise what God is asking of us at any given time: thus, repentance is an ongoing process.

Why should we repent? We should repent because “the Kingdom of Heaven is close at hand”, reminding us that the Kingdom or reign of God was always the focus of Jesus’ preaching. Yet, if it is close at hand, where is it? We appear to see little sign of it in today’s world. Everywhere there are wars and rumours of wars. Sometimes it appears that our very civilisation is reaching its end, along with the inhabited world. What signs are there of the proximity of the Kingdom?

Where two or three still gather in the name of Jesus, despite difficulties, opposition, cynicism and apathy, the Kingdom is present. Wherever the mystery of Calvary is re-enacted in the Eucharistic sacrifice and meal—in other words, wherever Mass is celebrated—the Kingdom is present. Wherever people receive the Body of Christ in order to become the Body of Christ, the Kingdom is present. Wherever the word of God is proclaimed, reflected upon, and taken to heart, the Kingdom is present.

Yet the Kingdom is not restricted to its more obviously religious manifestations. Wherever kindness is shown to those who need it, the Kingdom is present. When people put their talents and time at the service of others, the Kingdom is present. When parents seek baptism and the other sacraments for their children, however faltering their own faith may be; when they feel the need to ask for a priest or other minister to conduct funeral rites for their loved one, however distant they may be from regular religious practice, the Kingdom is present. It may be in the form of a very faintly flickering flame: it is our task to keep that flame alive, however dimly it may burn.

When are we to do this? One phrase in English, translated from a single word in the original Greek, gives us the answer. It is a phrase used twice in describing the calling of the first apostles and their response: it is the phrase “at once”.

2nd Sunday ordinary Time A

Isaiah 49:3, 5-6; Psalm 39; I Cor 1:1-3; John 1:29-34

If you were here last week, and if, which is rather more unlikely, you were awake during the homily, you will have heard me mention the three parts of Epiphany: the first part, the showing forth of Jesus to both Jews and Gentiles in His birth and in the visit of the Wise Men; the second part, His showing forth as the Beloved Son of the Father at His Baptism; the third, the showing forth of His glory at the marriage feast at Cana.

Holy Mother Church has restored the second part by giving us the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, which we kept last Sunday; and one year in every three she gives us the third part, albeit in a rather understated manner, when the marriage feast forms the Gospel of the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time. This is not one of those years.

And yet, there is an element of Epiphany about it as Jesus is shown forth by John the Baptist as the Lamb of God. The Lamb of God: that is a phrase which we take for granted. We use it at every Mass. You, the congregation, address Jesus three times as “Lamb of God”, after which the priest, holding up the Body and Blood of Christ, proclaims “Behold the Lamb of God. Behold Him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those who are called to the supper of the Lamb.”

Like most people, I suspect, I am not a great enthusiast for the “new” translation which was given to us (I am tempted to say “imposed upon us”) a decade or so ago. However, this is one instance in which it is an improvement on what we had before. The priest used to say, simply, “This is the Lamb of God”. John the Baptist says ide-- “See”, or “Look” as the Lectionary translates it; “Behold”, as the priest now says at Mass. That is an improvement because it draws attention to Jesus as John the Baptist did, helps us to focus on His sacramental presence.

But what about the phrase itself? John the Baptist is, apparently, the first person to speak of Jesus as the Lamb of God. What does he mean by it? It strikes me that there are two aspects to it. Firstly, there is the Paschal Lamb, the lamb slain at Passover, whose blood saved the Israelites from the destroying angel. Jesus was to be the true Paschal Lamb, whose blood was to save the human race from everlasting death.

Secondly, there is the Suffering Servant of the Lord, as described by the prophet Deutero-Isaiah, who was “like a lamb that is led to the slaughter”, as we read on Good Friday. The Songs of the Suffering Servant fit the events of Jesus’ life and death, whilst “the supper of the Lamb” is described in the Apocalypse: the marriage feast which celebrates the heavenly union of Christ with His bride, the Church.

Today, we have heard another of the Servant Songs, in which the Servant is described as “the light of the nations”. We are familiar with the image of Jesus as the light of the world, but we shouldn’t forget that He Himself referred to the disciples, who include us, as “the light of the world”. If, like Jesus, we are to be the light of the world, then, like Him, we must be the Servants of the Lord.

This theme is taken up in the psalm. The whole of this psalm applies to Jesus, but equally it applies to each one of us. Every one of us”.  should be able to say “I waited for the Lord, and He stooped down to me”. Each of us should pray “You do not ask for sacrifice and offering but an open ear: you do not ask for holocaust and victim; instead, here am I.” Each of us can repeat “In the scroll of the Book it stands written that I should do your will: my God, I delight in your law in the depth of my heart”.

If we seek in all things to do God’s will, to identify ourselves with Jesus the Suffering Servant, then we shall be able to proclaim His justice. Then we will recognise Him shown forth to us as the Lamb of God, present in the Body and the Blood.

Baptism of Our Lord Year A

 Baptism of the Lord

Isaiah: 42:1-4, 6-7; Acts 10:34-38; Matt 3:13-17

How does today’s feast grab you? Not very firmly, I suspect. After all, we have celebrated the great feasts of Christmas and Epiphany; even the Holy Family has been and gone. Today’s feast of the Baptism may feel like something of an afterthought, an appendix tagged on to ease us back into normality, to prepare us for the green of Ordinary Time after the heady seasons of Advent and Christmas.

And yet, it wasn’t always thus. In the early Church, the Baptism of the Lord was seen as one of the focal points of salvation history, and so as a focal point also of the Church’s year. In the first two or three centuries of Christianity, Christmas didn’t feature particularly highly. Quite rightly, Easter was seen as the great feast of Christians, whilst at this time of year, Epiphany had a prominent role.

“Ah,” you may say, “we know about Epiphany. It is the showing forth of Jesus to the Wise Men, who represented the Gentiles, the non-Jewish people, and it thus shows that Jesus is the Saviour of all, and not only of the original Chosen People.”

“Quite right!” may come the answer. “Go to the top of the class and kiss the teacher. But bear in mind that, originally, Epiphany was far more than that. It had three parts, as those who pray the Divine Office are, perhaps a little puzzlingly, aware.”

The first part involved a running together of what, since the fourth century, have been celebrated as the two separate feasts of Christmas and Epiphany: in other words, the “showing forth” of Jesus both to the Jews, in His birth as a Jew of a Jewish mother, and His revelation to the Jewish shepherds and other Jewish people in Bethlehem; and to the Gentiles, as represented by the Wise Men.

The second part was the “showing forth” of Jesus as the Beloved Son of the Father at His Baptism, when the heavens opened, the Holy Spirit descended like a dove, and the Father’s voice bore witness. This was the central, and most prominent part of Epiphany, putting even the Christmas event in the shade. Finally, the third part was His “showing forth” in the marriage feast at Cana, when He “let His glory be seen”, His glory as God Himself.

In the showing forth of Jesus, rather than in His birth, the Church of the first two or three centuries found its locus at this time of year. How then is Jesus to be shown forth today? Baptism provides the starting point for us, as it did for Jesus Himself.

“You are my Son, the Beloved. My favour rests on you” proclaimed the Father, as the Spirit descended on the Son at His Baptism. “You are my son/daughter, the beloved. My favour rests on you” proclaimed the Father as the Spirit descended on us, as you and I were baptised in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. So the task of showing Jesus forth devolves on us.

How are we to fulfil that task in an increasingly uncomprehending, uninterested world? A few nights ago, I watched on you-tube an episode of “Tales of the Unexpected” from around forty years ago. In the background of one scene, Christmas carols could be heard. If the programme were to be remade today, I suspect that the carols would be replaced by Slade, Wizzard, or Bing Crosby: I have certainly heard “Here it is, merry Christmas” far more frequently than “Silent Night” in recent days.

In Britain, Jesus is being quietly forgotten, rather than deliberately shut out. In recently Catholic Ireland, by contrast, the state, in its various forms, seems intent on eradicating all traces of its Christian past, which it seeks to depict as uniformly dark and evil. I read before Christmas that the Lord Mayor of Dublin was planning to replace the live crib in the city centre with a “winter wonderland”. There was to be no room at the inn.

So how do we fulfil the reality of this feast, these feasts? How do we show Jesus forth? You and I at least must be faithful. You and I must be open and receptive to the God who comes, the one who is always Emmanuel—God with us. If we are faithful, He Himself will do the work through us, His beloved sons and daughters. Let us remember always that He IS with us.

Christmas Day Mass

Christmas Dawn Mass 2022

If you were at Midnight Mass, you will have heard me recite one of my speeches as First Shepherd in my Primary School Nativity play, AD 1960. Explaining things to the innkeeper, I had to say “In that stable, host, in the manger, lies the Saviour of the world. A child has been born there this night who will redeem Israel.”

Actually, I suspect that the shepherd wouldn’t quite have said that. After all, shepherds were ordinary working blokes, not theologians. Historians differ as to whether they were scallywags or respectable citizens. Either way, I imagine that the shepherd’s speech would have been more on these lines:

“I haven’t got an effing clue, mate. All I know is this effing angel appeared and told us that in this effing stable there’s a baby who is going to turn the effing world upside down. In fact there was a whole effing army of them. It was like one of them effing religious festivals.

“Oh sorry, luv. I didn’t mean to swear. Ey, watch your effing language lads, there’s a lady here.”

“And everyone who heard it was astonished at what the shepherds had to say” reports St. Luke. Aye, I bet they were. “When they saw the child, they repeated what they had been told about Him…and the shepherds went back, glorifying and praising God for all that they had heard and seen.”

Does it strike you that the shepherds are now fulfilling the role of angels: angels with dirty faces, maybe, but angels nonetheless? After all, an angel is a messenger, from the Greek word angelos.

In the parish of St.Thomas the Apostle, Claughton-on-Brock, we found ourselves a shepherd short. It was actually a king who went missing on his way back to the East: he probably fell off his camel. In any case, he ended up in pieces. Being a resourceful parish, we promoted a shepherd to kingly status, giving him a fresh dab of paint, placing a gold painted box at his feet. After all, you can get by with one shepherd: two wise men would lack a certain je ne sais quoi.

Also, we didn’t have an angel, which created a useful point for a homily. At the Mass which most of the children attended I asked “Is anything missing from the crib?”

Being largely from farming backgrounds, some of them latched onto the shortage of shepherds.

“Is there anything else?” Eventually, it dawned on some bright spark that there was no angel.

“Are you sure? I can see lots of angels. I can see a dozen angels standing here at the front, and looking around the church, I can see loads more.”

At this point, some clever mick spotted the two marble angels over the altar, and had to be slapped down. I then explained the meaning of the word “angel”—there’s nothing like a Greek lesson to put rural Lancashire children in the Christmas spirit—and gave them the task of being angels, with or without dirty faces, in the coming year.

Right then! Have WE got an angel? Not in the crib we haven’t. You know what that means, don’t you?

Midnight Mass

CHRISTMAS MIDNIGHT MASS 2022

May I ask you a question? When you were in Primary School, did you take part in a Nativity Play? If so, was it in the Infants or the Juniors, or even both?

In my Primary School over sixty years ago, the Nativity Play was a very serious business. It was very much a matter for the top forms, with weeks of rehearsal and a complex and sometimes quite witty script, parts of which have remained in our heads across the decades.

A few years ago, someone who had been a couple of classes ahead of me in Primary School, quoted some of the lines which she recalled from the Nativity Play of her final year. She had been the innkeeper’s wife, and she recited from memory her lament about the rising cost of goods, before scolding her husband, a genial lad named Wieslaw Muhler, one of the sizeable contingent of Polish pupils whose parents had come to England at the end of the Second World War, fleeing the Soviet invasion of their homeland. (Substitute Ukraine for Poland, and consider how history repeats itself.)

I was able to respond with some of my lines as First Shepherd at Christmas 1960. After commenting to the Junior Shepherd, played by the smallest lad in the class, “You’re very late, my boy”, I had the task, much later in proceedings, of explaining the situation to that year’s innkeeper, whose identity I do not recall: “In that stable, host, in the manger, lies the Saviour of the world. A child has been born there this night who will redeem Israel.” Clearly, this was a shepherd who was thoroughly theologically literate.

The Nativity Play was probably the most important event of the year bar the eleven plus, and involved only those who could learn their lines and deliver them with a due degree of decorum. It saddens me, therefore, that in many schools, if it hasn’t been abandoned altogether in favour of some sort of Winter Wonderland, it tends to be reserved to the Infants, over whom parents can drool, whilst the Juniors follow it with some supposedly more serious drama about any subject under the sun.

In other words, the birth of the Redeemer has been reduced almost to the status of a fairy story, something to be depicted by tiny tots, but not to be taken seriously by older children, and certainly not by adults.

That isn’t good enough. The Nativity is a thoroughly adult story, perhaps deserving of an 18 rating—adults only—because it concerns the destiny of the human race. It tells us that the eternal God has broken definitively into the world of humankind in the most radical way possible, by becoming Himself human, and so making humanity divine.

This event assures us that the history of the human race, and indeed of Creation, isn’t “a tale told by an idiot”, but a matter of supreme and ultimate significance. The birth of this child, and all that was to follow, is the final piece of the jigsaw, a jigsaw which began with the Big Bang, or whatever if anything preceded that, and which will remain intact even when the universe folds in on itself, or whatever it is that the scientists predict will happen.

Christmas says, or indeed shouts, that there is no such thing as futility or pointlessness; that all the mess and ugliness of the world is potentially beautiful, capable of transformation, because eternity has descended into time, and humanity has become divine. This is far too important a message to be left to the Infant classes, though it certainly begins with them. It is an adult reality, on which every one of us needs to ponder, and in which everyone is invited to rejoice.

4th Sunday of Advent

4th Sunday of Advent 2022

Isaiah 7:10-14; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25

Drat, bother, and confusticate the Jerusalem Bible and its sloppy mistranslations. Yes Joseph was a “man of honour” as he showed in his intended behaviour towards Mary, but that is not what the original text says. It tells us that he was dikaios, which means “just”. Why was he just? He was just because he had faith, which justifies us, makes us just, as St. Paul points out. It was his faith, his trust in the God who calls us to do the right thing, which enabled him to form an honourable intention, which demonstrated that he would be a worthy guardian of God’s Son. There is a whole world of meaning in that one word, which today’s translation fails to convey.

What about St. Joseph, then? You may, or more probably may not, remember Flanders and Swann, a pair of musical comedians whose popularity continued for years, even though they ceased performing in 1967. Michael Flanders, large, bearded, and confined to a wheelchair by some sort of stroke during his wartime naval service, and Donald Swann, balding and bespectacled, were always immaculately turned out as they delivered a series of witty songs, often reflecting on contemporary events. I mention them because one of their compositions concerned the Unsung Heroes of the World, and St. Joseph, though not mentioned in this ditty, is surely the greatest unsung hero of them all.

We never hear him speak—not a single word of his is recorded—yet he was always there, in the background, the original Quiet Man, supporting Our Lady, playing a father’s role for Jesus, protecting Him from harm, teaching Him his own trade so successfully that Jesus became known as “the carpenter’s son”, and indeed, as “the carpenter”.

Possessing justifying faith, Joseph was always obedient to God’s call. In Matthew’s account, this call is repeatedly conveyed to him in dreams, a conscious reflection of an earlier Joseph, the son of Jacob and “the man of dreams”. Matthew, in his genealogy, also calls St. Joseph’s father “Jacob”, thus strengthening the connection.

According to Matthew, these dreams of St. Joseph not only led to his becoming the husband of Mary and guardian of the Christ child, but also took the family to Egypt and back, and resulted in their settling in Nazareth. It has to be said that some of these events cannot be reconciled with the time frame presented by St. Luke, and it seems that Matthew was more concerned with emphasising Joseph’s faithful response to God’s call than with strict historical accuracy.

The last mention we have of St. Joseph, apart from those references to “the carpenter’s son”, is to be found in St. Luke’s account of the finding of the boy Jesus in the Temple, aged twelve. Here, Joseph appears to receive something of a put down. After Mary has spoken to her Son of “your father and I” the boy retorts “Did you not know that I must be (literally) ‘in the things of the Father?’”, a stark reminder to Joseph that God alone was his foster son’s true father. Yet young Jesus still recognised their earthly authority, and returned home with them.

In 1964, the Italian director Pasolini’s film “The Gospel according to St. Matthew” appeared on British screens, and I remember Eamon Duffy, later to be Professor of Church History in Cambridge and an acclaimed author, reminiscing that a scene in this film brought the incarnation to life for him. It depicts Jesus as a little boy, three or four years old, seeing Joseph heading home from work. The boy’s face lights up in sheer delight and he races to Joseph before leaping into his arms: Joseph a pivotal figure, along with Our Lady, in shaping the human character of the Son of God.

One more thought: this child, comments Matthew, is the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy. He is Emmanuel—God with us—which reminds us of the deepest meaning of the Christmas event. God IS with us: He came to be with us as the child of Mary, the foster child of Joseph; and through His Resurrection and Ascension, and the descent of the Holy Spirit, He continues to be with us, now and always.

3rd Sunday of Advent

3rd Sunday of Advent 2022

Isaiah 35: 1-6, 10; James 5:7-10; Matthew 11: 2-11

Many many moons ago—39 years ago to be precise, which is 468 moons if my arithmetic is correct—in the parish of St. Mary, at Morecambe, I asked an artistically gifted young man in the parish if he would consider producing posters to be attached to the church pillars for the four Sundays of Advent. I supplied him with the readings, and left him to his own devices.

The results were all excellent, but it is today’s poster which remains in my mind. The artist had focused on the opening verses of the extract from Isaiah: “Let the wilderness and the dry lands exult, let the wasteland rejoice and bloom”. He painted a bleak industrial landscape, the silhouettes of factory buildings in the background, their very greyness suggesting abandonment and decay. In the foreground was an oily, stagnant pool, beside which a single golden flower was blooming, the only spot of brightness in the entire picture.

This was indeed a wasteland, a symbol of post-industrial Britain, a context with which we are still familiar. The single flower, standing out bravely among its bleak surroundings, was a statement that the wilderness does indeed and will exult, but that its full glory is not yet. For that glory we have to wait in patience.

All of this was pointing, not towards some sort of national revival, but to the Kingdom of God, both present and future. These may seem to be dark days for the Kingdom, darker even than they were almost forty years ago. The results of last year’s census have been revealed in recent weeks, indicating than fewer than 50% of people in England and Wales now identify themselves as Christian. Those grey, abandoned factory buildings could equally well be depicted today as churches.

What price the Kingdom then? Every one of today’s readings speaks words of encouragement. “Strengthen all weary hands” says the prophet Isaiah, “and say to all faint hearts ‘Courage! Do not be afraid!’” while James urges “Do not lose heart”, and Our Lord insists “Blessed is the one who does not lose faith in me”.

Discouragement is one of the most destructive of all sensations. Those who are prone to depression realise that. We feel not only without comfort in the present, but devoid of hope for the future. At such times, I feel myself to be at the bottom of a black well, with neither the energy nor the incentive to attempt to climb out; or in a dark tunnel which appears to stretch to infinity.

It seems that John the Baptist felt much the same. He had devoted his whole life to preaching the Kingdom; he had invested all his trust in Jesus. Yet here he is, languishing in gaol, expecting at every moment to be executed. Consequently, his confidence begins to waver: have his faith and trust been in vain? Has his whole life been based on an illusion? And so he sends that anguished message: “Are you the one who is to come, or must we wait for someone else? Have I been fooling myself? Have you been fooling me?”

The answer which he receives is in effect the answer given by Isaiah, later to be given by James: “Patience”. The signs of the Kingdom are there, like the single flower blooming in the wasteland, like the tiny glimmer of light at the mouth of our well, at the end of our tunnel. There may be no instant miracle to resolve everything in a flash, but recognise the signs, see that the Kingdom is here, even if not yet in its glory.

As He spoke to John the Baptist, so Jesus speaks to us. He says “Courage”. He says “Patience”. He says “Do not be afraid! Do not give way to discouragement!” The signs of the Kingdom are all around, if only you have eyes to see, ears to hear. The wilderness is exulting; the wastelands rejoice and bloom; the rope is dropping which will haul you out of your dark well. Glory is not yet—but comfort is, and hope, and trust. Do not be afraid.

2nd Sunday of Advent

2nd Sunday of Advent 2022

Isaiah 11:1-10; Romans 15:4-9; Matthew 3: 1-12

Last Sunday, the key PHRASES were “Wake up” and “Stay awake”: today, we can claim that the key WORDS are “Repent” and “Prepare”. These words are closely related, as Matthew links the voice crying “Prepare” with John the Baptist’s call to “Repent”. To prepare a way for the Lord entails repentance. What does that mean?

I am sure that you have heard many times that the Greek word translated “repentance” is metanoia, literally a change of heart, outlook, focus, general direction, whatever term you wish to use. We are being called to prepare a way for the Lord who comes into our lives, the Church, the world by re-directing ourselves. This is not something which we have done once and for all, but something which we must do repeatedly.

Perhaps you may recall such re-focusing in your own lives. I certainly remember one incident very clearly. I was in my mid-teens, it was a Wednesday afternoon, and we had been allowed home from school early. Unbelievably, I had very little, for once, of the usually overwhelming homework, and as I settled down to some rare recreational reading, I was suddenly struck by the realisation that I was extremely self-centred and selfish, and that I needed to do far more for my mother and father. Whether I actually achieved it is another matter, but the awareness that I should, hit me like a sledgehammer.

There have been other occasions when I have been brought up short by the realisation of shortcomings, whether it be a lack of concentration in prayer, a tendency to make witty remarks which can wound, or, as often as not, a lack of awareness of other people. These have all imprinted on me the need of constant and ongoing  metanoia—repentance if you like—if I am to prepare a way for the Lord, and to prepare myself for the continuing encounter with Him.

Nor is it only as individuals that our preparation must entail repentance. There is an expression “ecclesia semper reformanda”, which is sometimes mistranslated as “the Church always reforming”. It actually means “the Church always needing to be reformed”, reformanda being gerundive, as those of you who knew the joys of schooldays Latin will be aware.

In my pre-conciliar childhood, the impression seemed to be conveyed that the Church was the perfect society, standing in no need of change, a view which was rudely shattered by the Second Vatican Council, though some people who wish to turn back the clock appear to adhere to it. The Council reminded us (as indeed had the Council of Trent, though the concept had been forgotten) that the Church, no less than its individual members, is in constant need of renewal, of refocusing, of repentance. Always she must examine herself to see that she still has the mind of Christ, to use an expression of Saint Paul’s, to consider whether certain attitudes and practices some of which may even have been suitable for their time, stand in need of adjustment.

To take a simple example, of a situation which was never appropriate, though it was taken for granted; if you visit an old presbytery, you will probably find poky little quarters at the back which were considered adequate for a resident housekeeper, or even a married couple. Such members of the people of God were not regarded as needing much space or liberty, a clear offence against justice, but one which, for decades, went unrecognised.

If the presbytery belonged to a large town centre church, there would probably also be a series of attic rooms for the maids. My own mother was, until her marriage, a maid in a presbytery, and subsequently in Bishop’s House, and could tell some hair-raising tales about a situation which went unquestioned by good and holy men.

As the Church stands constantly in need of repentance, so too does the world. The kingdom of universal harmony envisaged by Isaiah is a world away from realisation. Not only does the wolf not live with the lamb, even human beings, created in the image and likeness of God, appear incapable of living with one another, whether in families, society, or international relationships. Truly, all the world over, the need to prepare a way for the Lord is glaring, but it must begin with us.