Trinity Sunday Year A

Trinity Sunday 2023

Exodus 34: 4-6, 8-9; 2Cor 13:11-13; John 3:16-18

I have been reading back through some of my Trinity Sunday homilies, in search of inspiration for today. In doing so, I have been struck by the number of people, both probable and improbable, whom I have quoted over the years.

There is St. Patrick, with his use of the trefoil, to illustrate the concept of three-in-one. By way of contrast, I have considered Plato, and his “Form of the Good”, a sort of abstract version of God; and Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover, a remote god, if we can use the term, with no concern for anything outside itself.

Returning to attempts to express our Christian understanding of God, I have looked at the mediaeval wheel, its three points on the rim labelled Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, each linked to the others by the words “non est”—“is not”. The Father, Son, and Spirit are not each other, but are all linked to the hub, labelled God, by the word “est” meaning “is”. Each, whilst distinct from the others, IS God.

Seeking light relief, I have quoted Kipling—not the cake man but Rudyard of that ilk—who has one of his characters complain of “your tangled trinities”, and even the old joke about the Jewish tailor, lying severely injured in the road after an accident. A passing priest takes him by the hand and asks “Do you believe in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit?” to which he replies, with a roll of his eyes “Here I am dying already, and he asks me riddles”.

Furthermore, I have lifted from the homily of a priest at a church in the Ormeau Road, Belfast, a quotation from one of the Nicaraguan Cardenal brothers: “God is community, and God is communion, and God is communism”. I think that both brothers are now deceased, and I am not sure if they would have continued to insist on that third element, given that one of them was imprisoned by the President, Daniel Ortega, as the latter began his oppression of the people and his persecution of the Church. Perhaps they would argue that God is the only true expression of communism, being a totally unified whole made up of equal parts.

What struck me most forcibly, however, was a homily in which I expressed the view that the Trinity is a reality to be lived, rather than a mystery, in any case unfathomable, to be inadequately defined. We see that in the simple but profound words of today’s Gospel “God loved the world so much that He gave His only-begotten Son, a begetting and a giving accomplished by the Holy Spirit: we experience it in every Mass as the Son offers Himself to the Father through the working of the Holy Spirit.

Perhaps, then we need to speak less, and to listen more. Rather than attempt to fathom the Trinity, we should allow the Trinity to fathom us, as we open our hearts and minds to receive the Trinity, who desire to enter into us, to dwell within us. Silent openness, love, and welcome, are more valuable than intellectual speculation. Maybe I need to add one more quotation to my list, focussing on the God who is three in one by reflecting on the words about love, sung by Ronan Keating: “You say it best when you say nothing at all”.

Funeral Homily for Sr. Mary Joseph

Funeral Mass for Sr. Mary Joseph 29/5/23

Philippians 2:1-11; Matthew 5:1-12

You are probably familiar with the words attributed by Shakespeare to Mark Antony “I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him”. We might truthfully say “We come to bury Sr. Mary Joseph, not to praise her”, yet I feel that it is impossible to bury Sister Mary Joseph without praising her.

A faithful child of God through ninety years, a professed religious through almost 68 years; a dedicated teacher, particularly of those less naturally gifted mathematically; a beloved friend to her community, to her wide-ranging family; to her former pupils, indeed to everyone whom she met: how could we fail to praise her? She would, I am sure, object strongly to being praised, which is one of the most praiseworthy attributes of all.

All of you will have your own memories of Sister Mary Joseph, which you will be able to share as you mingle afterwards: I shall simply throw in two penn’orth of my own. (For the benefit of the post-decimalisation generation, I should perhaps point out that two penn’orth, or pennyworth, was a small measure which could comprise a scoop of Cali and a penny Spanish, a tube of Polo mints, or four Mojo chews—not something to be sneezed at.)

On one occasion, I encountered Sr. Mary Joseph bustling towards the library, a book protruding from the basket on her walking frame. “I have to be there quickly,” she explained. “I borrowed this book, and it is due back at noon.” Despite my suggestion that the community was hardly likely to impose sanctions if she were to hold onto it for a little longer, Sister’s sense of duty and propriety, along with her concern not to inconvenience anybody, ensured that she would beat the deadline.

Our scripture readings were clearly chosen with Sr. Mary Joseph very personally in mind. In fact, they were chosen by her for her Diamond Jubilee, and I am tempted simply to re-read them, while inviting you to apply them to the SMJ whom you knew.

“Everybody is to be self-effacing”, we are instructed in the Letter to the Philippians, “so that nobody thinks of their own interests first, but everybody thinks of other people’s interests instead”. Does that ring any bells?

St. Paul links all of this to the self-emptying of Christ, who humbled Himself to “assume the condition of a slave” and who died a slave’s death. All of us are called to an imitation of Christ the Son of God. I leave it to you to consider how well Sr. Mary Joseph succeeded in that imitation, and in her acclamation of Christ as Lord, an acclamation to which we are also called.

Turning to the Gospel, I think that it is fair to say that imitation, or perhaps fulfilment, is required of us again by the Beatitudes. “Blessed are the poor in spirit” says Our Lord. He is calling us, not to be poor-spirited, but to have a genuine humility. The sisters here groan and start to throw things when I remind them for the umpteenth time that the word “humility” comes from the Latin humus meaning “soil” or “ground”, so to be humble, to be poor in spirit, is to have your feet on the ground, not to have an exalted opinion of yourself.

To be gentle, to mourn with those who mourn, to desire and work for justice, to be merciful, pure in heart, a peacemaker—would you agree that Sr. Mary Joseph was all of those? I hope that she wasn’t persecuted, though having a Jewish father she would have been aware of the reality of persecution. And our prayer today is that she is now rejoicing and being glad, in anticipation or enjoyment of her heavenly reward.

Which brings us to the main point of today. We are here for many things—to remember; to give thanks; to mourn, though not too much—but above all, to pray. I stand open to correction, but I imagine that if Sr. Mary Joseph ever needed to rebuke a pupil, she would have done so more in sorrow and disappointment than in anger. If we were to neglect to pray for her, that she may be cleansed of any sins she may have committed, and may be brought to share fully in the glory of the resurrection, then she would feel that we deserved a mild rebuke, again more in sorrow than in anger.

So let us not neglect that duty, which we owe to Sr. Mary Joseph both today and in the future. Eternal rest….

Pentecost Year A

PENTECOST 2023

Acts 2:1-11; 1Cor 12:3-7, 12-13; John 20:19-23

How did you receive the Spirit? How DO you receive the Spirit? Please don’t say, rather like those believers whom St. Paul encountered at Ephesus, that you didn’t even know that you had received the Holy Spirit. You have been baptised, haven’t you? And confirmed? Right then, you have received the Holy Spirit. (Whether the celebration of Confirmation as a separate sacrament is justified is another matter which we can’t go into here. Suffice it to say that some of the Church’s attitudes to, and practice of, Confirmation appear to veer dangerously close to the Pelagian heresy, but that is another story for another day.)

You have, then, received the Holy Spirit. Of course you have, or you wouldn’t be here. As St. Paul points out, you wouldn’t even be able to say that Jesus is Lord, to worship Him, to form part of His body which is the Church, to receive His body in the Eucharist, unless you were “in” the Holy Spirit.

We agree that you received the Holy Spirit in Baptism and Confirmation, but that wasn’t a “one-off”, or even a “two-off”, which is why I asked “How DO you receive the Spirit?” The giving of the Holy Spirit, the descent of the Holy Spirit, the entry into us of the Holy Spirit, and the Holy Spirit’s indwelling within us is an ongoing process. How then does the Spirit come to you?

In today’s readings, we hear of two very different ways in which the Spirit enters into us. The Acts of the Apostles describes the Pentecost event, all bells and whistles: wind and flame, hearing and seeing, and spectacular gifts. The Gospel, however, takes us back to Easter Sunday evening, when the disciples earlier received the Holy Spirit in a different way, for a different purpose, as the risen Christ gently breathed the Holy Spirit into them, empowering them to forgive sins.

And so I ask again “How do YOU receive the Holy Spirit?” For some people, the Holy Spirit may come spectacularly. Personally, I have to confess that I have never been attracted to, or influenced by, the Charismatic Renewal Movement, or Catholic Pentecostalism as it is also known, but it appears to work for some people.

Perhaps it is a matter of temperament. I am not naturally inclined to exuberance, unless I am watching football or cricket, though I am slightly less averse to it than the English priest who travelled to New York in the early days of Catholic Pentecostalism. He survived through most of the prayer meeting—it may even have been Mass, for all I know—but his nerve broke at the moment that a large lady bore down on him, arms extended in preparation for enfolding him in a bear hug. “Oh no! Please don’t! I’m British!” was his anguished response.

Be that as it may, we need to keep in mind St. Paul’s explanation that “the particular way the Holy Spirit is given to each person is for a good purpose”. I don’t know about you, but I have never been enthralled by the list of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit. Can you remember them all? I can’t, but that doesn’t bother me, as a list seems to be a limitation, and you cannot limit the Holy Spirit. Those abstract nouns, “wisdom”, fortitude” and so on, also sound very dry and dull.

Yet the Spirit is far from dry and dull. The Spirit is alive and life-giving; the Spirit is inspiring, in the literal sense of “breathing into”. And the Spirit is constantly breathing into—inspiring—you.

“I didn’t know that” you may say. Yet you are here today: that is the work of the Holy Spirit. When you pray, the Holy Spirit prays in you. When you carry out a good or generous action, that comes as an inspiration, a breathing in, of the Holy Spirit.

That is why I find that Easter Sunday evening breathing of the Holy Spirit so encouraging. A spectacular, overpowering Pentecost event may come upon you from time to time: the gentle inbreathing is a constant reality. Today let us ask the Holy Spirit to make us more aware of, and more responsive to, that constant presence.

7th Sunday Easter Year A

7th Sunday of Easter 2023

Acts 1:12-14; 1 Peter 4:13-16; John 17:1-11

The days between Ascension Thursday and Pentecost are a betwixt and between time. What are we to do with them? Presumably, we should do what the apostles and disciples did during that time. What was that?

St. Luke tells us, both in his Gospel and in the Acts of the Apostles. In the Gospel, which is read on Ascension Thursday in Year C (so not this year) he says that they “worshipped Him, and went back to Jerusalem full of joy; and they were continually in the Temple praising God”. In the Acts, he adds that they went back to the upper room, and joined in prayer “with one heart and mind”, as the Lectionary fails to translate it, with the women, and with Our Lady, and with others of Jesus’ relations.

“Hang on a minute,” you may say, “we have heard preachers say that the apostles were in fear until the Holy Spirit came”. Naughty preachers! Careless preachers! Preachers who haven’t read the scriptures properly! The scriptures tell us that they were “full of joy” and that they “prayed together with one heart and mind”.

Where, then, does this idea come from that they were cowering in fear? It comes from a misreading of the Gospel which we hear at Pentecost and which, if these preachers had half an eye and three quarters of a brain cell, they would realise relates to events on Easter Sunday evening, and is read at Pentecost because it mentions the Risen Christ breathing the Holy Spirit into them.

So we should be full of joy; we should be continually praising God, and we should be praying “with one heart and mind”. With whom should we be praying? We should be praying with one another, and with the whole Church throughout the world and throughout the ages.

We should be praying with the infant Church, as it gathered in the upper room, and as it continues to pray with us today. Of whom did it consist? Again, St. Luke tells us in the Acts of the Apostles. There were the eleven (in other words, the twelve minus Judas) there were women, there was Our Lady, and there were others of Jesus’ relations.

Have you seen depictions of that scene? Who were pictured in it? I would bet you ten bob that you saw Our Lady and the apostles. Did you see any women apart from Our Lady? Did you see Our Lord’s other relations?

I would lay odds that you didn’t. Here, the translators of the Jerusalem Bible are among those at fault.  Firstly, in today’s reading, they lump “Mary, the mother of Jesus” in with the other women, whereas the biblical text sets her apart, as she was already filled with the Holy Spirit. Secondly, in the reading used at Pentecost, the Lectionary states that “the apostles” had met together, whereas the text says that they had “ALL” met together; presumably, all those mentioned today.

Who then received the Holy Spirit? It seems fair to assume that it was the whole Church—not only the apostles, but the women and the relations as well: Uncle Tom Cobbley, Auntie Thomasina Cobbley, and all.

Right then, let’s return to what we should be doing. We should be full of joy, we should be continually praising God, we should be praying with one heart and mind with the whole Church, and we should be opening our hearts and minds in preparation for a new outpouring of the Holy Spirit. Let’s get on with it!

6th Sunday of Easter Year A

6th Sunday of Easter 2023

Acts 8: 5-8, 14-17; 1Peter 3: 15-18; John 14: 15-21

I don’t know about you, but today’s Gospel leaves my head in a bit of a spin. “The world will no longer see me but you will see me.” “I live and you will live,” “I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.”

Hang on a minute, Lord. Just slow down: let us take this in. The world no longer sees Jesus, but we do. How? I can understand that the world no longer sees Jesus: it has almost forgotten His name, except as an expletive, and I notice that any written mention of God tends to avoid a capital letter, as if to reduce God to a concept not to be taken seriously. How though do we see Him?

We see Him, do we not, in the experiences of life? In the painful experiences, which show us the suffering, the wounded Christ; but also in the joyful experiences which speak to us of His resurrection. We understand that these are not random events, but that He is present within them, granting us a share, however small, in His Passion, death and resurrection.

He is there to be seen in beauty, and especially in the beauty of creation; whilst His wounds may be recognised again in the suffering and groaning of the earth, as St. Paul points out in his letter to the Christians at Rome. Perhaps most clearly, though, He is to be found in human beings, created in the image and likeness of God, who show us the face of Christ, sometimes joyful, often suffering, occasionally transfigured in glory. Only the eyes of faith can see Jesus, but He is there to be seen.

“I live, and you will live” He adds. Jesus lives in the gathering of His people, in His word proclaimed, in the sacraments, and particularly the sacrament of His Body and Blood. In all of these, we encounter Him, and they are life-giving for us—yes, even those people who form, with us, His body, and in whom His face may be as difficult to recognise as the lines, faded by time, would have been in that beautiful and truth-expressing legend of Veronica’s towel, carrying the imprint of His face.  

“You will understand that I am in my Father, and you in me, and I in you.” That can sound almost like a country dance, where people are constantly advancing and retreating, intermingling and moving on. Again, we need to pause a little and reflect on it.

Elsewhere in St. John’s Gospel, Our Lord is quoted as saying “If you make my word your home, you will indeed be my disciples” (8:31), and in His farewell discourse at the Last Supper, from which today’s Gospel is taken, He goes on almost immediately to say “My Father will love them, and we shall come to them, and make our home with them” (14:23). Later He adds (15:1-8) “Make your home in me, as I make mine in you”.

As I mentioned when the first of these statements was read on Monday, we have an echo of the Greek concept of the “guest-friend”, the xenos (the same word means both “host” and “guest”) the intimate friend with whom HIS guest-friend practises mutual hospitality, the two coming and going to each other’s houses without prior warning. We live in God through living in Jesus’ word, and God lives in us as we, so to speak, return His hospitality. It is a relationship of complete friendship, complete ease.

And, says Jesus, it comes about through the action of the Holy Spirit. Once again, as with Jesus Himself, the world is ignorant of the Holy Spirit, but the Spirit “is with you, is in you”. The indwelling Holy Spirit brings about the indwelling of the Father and the Son.

As always, we are brought to what I may call “the Pink question”, the question posed by the singer Pink in her 2018 recording “What about us?” How do we fit into all of this?

 We must make Jesus’ word our home. We must reflect on His word, allowing it to soak into us, so that it becomes part of us. We must, somehow, give God time and space to enter into us; to create opportunities to be still and silent in His presence, inviting Him in, welcoming Him into His home within us.

Also, we should consider a third meaning of that Greek word xenos . As well as “host” and “guest” it also means “stranger” as in the English word “xenophobia”. The stranger may Himself be Christ, not to be feared but to be welcomed, in the person of the one whom we do not know—yet—but whom we can, and should, serve.

5th Sunday Easter Year A

5th Sunday of Easter 2023

“Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God still, and trust in me…” If I had a fiver for every Requiem Mass and every funeral service in which I have known John 14:1-6, the first part of today’s Gospel, to be chosen as a reading, I would be rich.

Why is that passage so popular at a time of bereavement? It is because it offers hope and comfort beyond many other readings, beginning by speaking to the heart.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled.” Inevitably, hearts are troubled by a death, especially the death of a loved one. Part of you has been torn away, creating a deep wound which will ease with the passage of time, but of which you will aways bear the scar. Hearts are hurt, minds are distressed: what healing can there be? How can Jesus’ instruction not to be troubled become in any sense real?

A clue can be found in that very word “heart”. The Latin word for heart is “cor” from which we derive the English word “courage”. To encourage someone is literally “to put heart into” them, and this is what Jesus sets out to do.

Firstly, He encourages us to trust. That isn’t easy for the bereaved: the foundations of their trust may have been shaken by their loss. Yet Jesus invites us to trust, and sets out the reasons for that trust. “There are many rooms in my Father’s house” He tells us. I suspect, and the teaching of the Church reinforces this, not merely that there is plenty of room for everybody, but that there is room for all sorts of people: the good, the bad, and even the ugly.

All of Our Lord’s teaching and ministry point to that conclusion. He was always the friend of the poor, of children—who, he said, have first claim on the Kingdom of Heaven—and of sinners. Indeed, I imagine that the pokiest rooms, at the back of the house, are reserved for those self-righteous people who are most confident of their claim, and who have gone around bashing us lesser mortals over the head with the Bible.

Jesus then insists that He is going to prepare a place, “so that, where I am, you may be too”. His resurrection validated that promise: He did indeed return to take His disciples with Him.

At this point, Thomas butts in—good old practical, rational Thomas, who always wants things fully explained, who demands demonstrations, but who, once they are given, is content. “Hang on!” he interrupts. “Where are you going? How do we get there? What are you talking about?”

“That’s easy,” replies Jesus. “Look at me. I am how you get there. My whole life gives you a pattern, and my blood will open the way. And no one can come to the Father except through me.”

What does Jesus mean by that? Some would argue that only by a specific knowledge of and commitment to Jesus can people come to the Father, but that is not borne out by His words elsewhere. The parable of the sheep and the goats reported in Matthew’s Gospel implies that many people will be pleasantly surprised to discover that they have been serving Jesus without ever recognising Him, and that they will have a place with Him, whilst others who have claimed to know Him, but who have failed to serve Him in the poor, will receive a very unpleasant shock. Everyone who comes to the Father does so through Jesus, because the shedding of His blood has opened the way for them, whether they realise it or not.

There is, then, immense comfort in Jesus’ words, and Thomas is, apparently, happy. Not so Philip: he still wants more. “Lord, let us see the Father, and then we shall be satisfied.” No you won’t, Philip. You are human, and humans are never satisfied: that is both our strength and our weakness. We always want to know more, and so, through the centuries, we have pushed back the frontiers of knowledge. That is a good thing, and yet it leaves us permanently frustrated: there is always more to know.

You may be familiar with St. Augustine’s dictum “Thou hast made us for Thyself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless till they rest in Thee”. In this life, we shall always be dissatisfied, always questioning; and so, as Jesus goes on to promise, we shall do the works that He has done; but only when we enter those many rooms, and dwell with the Father, shall we be truly content.

4th Sunday Easter Year A

4th Sunday of Easter 2023

Acts 2:14, 36-41; 1 Peter 2:20-25; John 10:1-10

On Easter Sunday 2009, I discovered my total incompetence as a shepherd. It was my first Easter in the parish of St. Thomas the Apostle, Claughton-on-Brock, where the church, a magnificent example of a so-called barn church, built in 1794, stands on a narrow country road. Across the road is a field which, on that Easter Sunday, as on the day a little over a week ago when I returned to conduct a funeral, was filled by ewes and their lambs.

As I was speaking to the people outside church after the Easter Sunday morning Mass, I noticed that one of the lambs had gone astray. It was wandering forlornly along the grass verge, whilst its mother, still in the field, was bleating plaintively. As soon as I had shed my vestments, I sprang into action. One of the parishioners took up a position behind the lamb; I in front of it. Between us was also the gap in the fence through which the lamb had made its now regretted escape.

Our theory was that we should slowly close in on the lamb, ushering it back to and through the gap. So much for theories: the lamb immediately dashed between my legs and bolted along the verge, before finding, of its own accord, another gap through which it trotted serenely, and returned to its mother. We didn’t receive as much as a bleat of thanks.

Thus, my one and only attempt at shepherding ended in failure, though with a happy outcome. I can only hope and pray that I have a little more ability at the metaphorical form of shepherding to which I am called. It will not be a good thing if that Easter Sunday experience should prove to represent my priestly life.

Or will it? After all, the affair ended well, though not through my efforts. May that convey a message for the priesthood, and indeed for the Christian life? Our life in Christ is not a matter of achievement, but a call to strive, and to trust. Those results which we achieve through our own efforts may, for a time, look impressive, but they are unlikely to last: as St. Paul points out in his First Letter to the Corinthians, it is God who gives the growth. In our shepherding, whether as priests, as religious, or as lay people, we should perhaps concern ourselves less with apparent success or failure, and more with ensuring that we are following Christ, the one true shepherd.

That does not mean that we should be satisfied with incompetence. The shepherd of today’s parables knows his job, and carries it out to the best of his ability. This involves giving himself entirely to and for his sheep. When Jesus says “I am the gate of the sheepfold”, He is referring to the practice whereby, at night, the shepherd would close the sheepfold by lying down across the entrance. Wild animals would be deterred by their scenting of the shepherd or, if they were particularly aggressive, would be compelled to attack the shepherd if they still wished to reach the sheep.

Notice something else: the sheep “will go freely in and out”, happily jumping over the shepherd’s body because they know him, just as they will follow his voice for the same reason. This raises two questions for us. Firstly, do I know the voice of Christ, in order safely to follow him? If I am to do so, I will have to spend time with Him, listening to His voice, encountering Him in the scriptures, and in the depth of my prayer.

The second question is: do I know the people for whom I have responsibility, whether I have an official role in the Church or not? Pope Francis has spoken of the need for pastors to live with the smell of the sheep. This has become more difficult for priests, who will probably have responsibility for two or three parishes; but we must compensate by ensuring that we are known to be available, that we are not constrained by “office hours”. It also means that lay people must take on more of a pastoral role, playing their part as shepherds within their own communities. Above all, however, we must remember that it is Christ who is the true shepherd: we can play our part only in and through Him.

3rd Sunday of Easter Year A

3rd Sunday of Easter 2023

Acts 2:14, 22-28; 1 Peter 1:17-21; Luke 24: 13-35

Some people believe that today’s Reading from the Acts of the Apostles contains the earliest written reference to the sport of cricket, as one translation states that “Peter stood up with the Eleven and was bold (bowled?)”. Having said that, I probably shouldn’t mention that, on encountering a stranger on the road to Emmaus, the disciples decided “Emmaus well (He may as well?) come with us”.

In fact, that encounter on the Emmaus road has immense significance. If, as is the case, the archetypal celebration of Mass took place over the whole Last Supper/Crucifixion/Resurrection event, its first re-presentation occurred on the road to, and in the house at, Emmaus.

You may recall that the General Instruction of the Roman Missal states that Jesus the Christ is present in the Mass in four ways. Firstly, He is present in the gathering of His people, He who said “Wherever two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them”. Secondly, He is present in the person of the priest, offering for and with the priestly people the one sacrifice made present again in our time. Thirdly, He is present in His word, proclaimed for us; fourthly in the sacrament and sacrifice of His Body and Blood.

How is this to be found in the Emmaus event? Jesus is plainly there in this gathering of His two disciples, not least because they welcome a stranger and allow Him to walk with them.

Jesus Himself is the Eternal High Priest who celebrates this Mass on the road and in the house. He it is who breaks both the word and the bread, presiding over both.

If we consider the sequence of events, we see clearly the two main parts of the Mass, as they were re-established in the wake of the Second Vatican Council: namely the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist. The former takes place on the road, as Jesus explains the Scriptures: the latter in the house, as He breaks the bread and disappears from their sight, as He is now present in the bread of the Eucharist, which has become His Body.

(Incidentally, I always wince at the term “the traditional Latin Mass”, as the present structure of the Mass, with the clear division into Liturgy of the Word and Liturgy of the Eucharist, the use of the vernacular, and the making of the hands into a throne to receive the Body of Christ, is far closer to the original than is the Tridentine rite.)

As always, the question arises “What about us?”. Do we recognise and follow the structure of the Mass? In particular, are we aware of the movement from the Liturgy of the Word into the Liturgy of the Eucharist?

And are we conscious of the four ways in which Christ is present in the Mass? Do we recognise Him in the gathering of His people? Our fellow Mass-goers bring Christ to us: do we recognise Him in them? Every person in church with us is a presence of Christ. Do we ever criticise them mentally? If so, we are criticising Christ. If you look around and think “Well, if that’s the face of Christ, He is a funny looking so and so, and I am not sure that I want to know Him”, remember that others may be thinking the same about you.

Perhaps the most difficult identification concerns the priest as the presence of Christ. Here we have to—you have to—look beyond the deficiencies of the individual to see only the office which he holds, and which, in the Mass, he is exercising.

As for the Liturgy of the Word, do our hearts burn within us, as did the hears of the Emmaus disciples? If not, why not? Is it because of poor delivery, inadequate homily, lack of attention? However poorly the Scriptures may be read or explained, they should carry enough force through the presence of Christ within them to set our hearts on fire.

Finally there is the Eucharistic presence of Christ, bringing before us His one eternal sacrifice, feeding us with His Body and Blood. “Gift greater than Himself, God cannot give: gift greater than our God humankind cannot receive” wrote one of the Church Fathers. If anyone knows which one, please tell me. Whoever it was, I can reply only with a huge “Amen”.

2nd Sunday in Easter Year A

2nd Sunday of Easter 2023

Acts 2:42-47; 1 Peter 1:3-9; John 20: 19-31.

Today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles describes a honeymoon period for the Church in the immediate aftermath of Pentecost, when everything was sweetness and light. Sadly, as everyone knows, honeymoons must end, and the nitty gritty of everyday life must be faced. It would be unrealistic to think that the Church could return to that honeymoon time, nor would it be desirable—the challenges of ongoing life are a constant reality—but the ideals of mutual charity, regular prayer, and selfless generosity are things which we must strive to maintain, or to recover if and when they are lost.

Yet even the honeymoon took a while to develop, as our Gospel passage shows. Scholars suggest that this was the original end of St. John’s Gospel, with chapter 21 added later, and it reveals early fears and doubts on the part of the apostles.

“Fear”, “peace”, and “joy” are the emotions which leap out at us. After all that Jesus had promised, and particularly after what Mary Magdalene and the other women had told them, we might have expected the disciples to be confident, but human nature tends to pessimism. “It’s too good to be true” we say: have you ever heard anyone say “It’s too bad to be true”? We are experts at believing bad news: mere novices when it comes to believing the good. Humanity hasn’t changed in two thousand years, or indeed more.

Another saying is “Seeing is believing”. Despite the risen Christ wishing them peace, His assembled followers achieve the third word, “joy”, only when He shows them His hands and His side. Is it, or is it not, remarkable that Jesus still carries His wounds? Might we not have expected them to vanish without trace when the Lord was raised to new life? Why does this not happen? There is that first point that they serve as evidence of what they are seeing: this is not a ghost, or even some heavenly apparition, but the flesh and blood Jesus whom they have known and followed.

I think, though, that there is a deeper reality. The risen Christ is still the wounded Christ. The First Letter of St Peter declares “By His wounds, we are healed”, and what is true for Christ is true for us. In so far as we are able to bring healing to others, it is largely because of our own woundedness. We have “compassion”, “suffering with” others, largely because we have had “passion”, in its original sense of “suffering”. We need to hold onto that knowledge that the risen Christ is the wounded Christ, and that wounds are the source of healing.

Thomas knows this. Here, as so often, Thomas is Everyman, speaking for all of rational, sceptical, pessimistic, down to earth humankind. “Show me His wounds” he demands. “No, don’t show me. Let me feel.” On this second Sunday, his demand is granted, and he is led to an even more powerful faith than the others, as he makes the first proclamation of the divinity of Christ, as he exclaims “My Lord and my God”.

“What about us?” That title of a 2018 song by the singer Pink can serve as a universal refrain. We are those whom the risen Christ calls “those who have not seen, and yet” are called on to believe. To believe what? To believe that Christ is risen, wounds and all, and that He is Our Lord and our God.

Were you brought up, as I was, to utter Thomas’s words “My Lord and my God” silently as the consecrated host and chalice are shown to us at the Elevation during Mass? We are seeing something: we are to touch something. Perhaps we might ask St. Thomas’s help in achieving his faith, which will bring us both peace and joy, banishing our pessimism and our fear.

Easter Sunday 2023

A TRIO AT THE TOMB

In the Gospel which is read every Easter Sunday morning (John 20:1-9) St. John speaks of three people who visit the tomb, and whom we may call the woman, the contemplative, and the leader.

The woman is first on the scene. She is the first to see that something has happened, the first to pass on the news, though she doesn’t yet realise that it is Good News.

Then the contemplative arrives, the one who was closest to Jesus during the Lord’s  earthly life, the one who stood by Him as He was crucified. He reaches the tomb before the leader, but he doesn’t go in. He  makes way for the leader, for Peter, that somewhat unsteady rock.

Peter, the leader of the Church, goes in. It is his prerogative to have first place—authority has its rights—but he doesn’t understand. The one who understands is the mystic, the contemplative, the friend of Jesus, who enters in his turn. He sees, and he believes. “Till this moment” we are told, “they had failed to understand the teaching of Scripture, that He must rise from the dead.” Until the moment that the friend of Jesus sees, and believes, the Church, including its leader, is without understanding. The implication is that now they do understand.

I suspect that it is no accident that it is John, the contemplative, who reaches understanding before Peter, the leader. Leadership is no guarantee of insight. Leaders need the people of insight to show them the way, just as the people of insight need the leaders to keep things steady, to make sure that they don’t go charging off down  byways.

There is an important lesson here for the Church: namely that we need both Peter and John, and that both of them need to play out their own roles. We need the contemplatives, the theologians, the people of prayer, the people of study, to gain insights into the love and the call of the Risen Christ. Indeed, in our own way, each one of us needs to be a contemplative, a person of prayer, a friend of Jesus, someone close to Him: each one of us needs to be a theologian, someone who ponders the things of God.

But we also need Peter, the leader, the one in authority, to whom John can and must refer his insights, to ensure that they are consistent with the faith of the Church. Peter has his role, and John has his, and that is as true today as it was when the two of them approached the empty tomb.

[It is difficult to shake off the feeling that there is a danger at present of Peter forgetting the importance of John. There is a great deal of emphasis today on authority, and rather less on insight. The implication seems to be that Peter has, not only the authority, but also all the insight. John is at risk of being squeezed out.]

Let us go back to that empty tomb. Let us remember that it was John who, while showing due respect to Peter, nonetheless was the first to understand, the first to believe. But let us consider something else too. Let’s not forget that there were three people at the empty tomb, not two. The first on the scene was the woman, and as St. John’s Gospel goes on to describe, it was she who was to be the first to meet the Risen Christ, and to pass on His instructions to the Church. I suspect that we haven’t even begun to think about the implications of that.

[I wrote this in 2012, and it was published in the Lancaster Catholic Voice. We know now that the possible over-emphasis on authority was less the work of Peter himself than of powerful members of the Curia, as Peter, in the person of Benedict XVI, was in failing health. Now we may, I think, feel that balance has been restored, though Mary of Magdala is still waiting for due recognition.]

We need to remember, though, that, important as the woman, the contemplative, and the leader may be, there is someone of far greater significance. Jesus the Christ must be the one focus of our attention, and He is risen. Our thoughts about the Church must never distract us from the one thought necessary: Jesus is Lord, and He is risen from the dead. We cannot repeat that too often, for it is what gives point to the Church, to our lives, and indeed to the whole of creation. If Christ were not risen, we would be, as Paul points out, the most wretched of all people. He is risen, and so we are the most blessed people of all, and the whole of life is blessed, has meaning, and is forever transformed. Christos aneste –Christ is risen. He is risen indeed, alleluia.

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???