19th Sunday Year A

19th Sunday 2023

1Kings 19:9, 11-13; Romans 9: 1-5; Matthew 14:21-43

They’ve done it again. The Lectionary seems to vary between giving us a set of readings about which it is difficult to say anything, and a threesome, of which each would merit a homily of its own.

The latter is the case today. We begin with Elijah’s encounter with God in the cave on Mt. Horeb, the very spot in which God placed Moses before passing by him. Some background is needed. Elijah has just massacred the false prophets on Mt. Carmel, and the evil queen, Jezebel, has promised to do the same to him. Elijah has fled, making the traditional forty days’ trek through the wilderness, where he has suffered black depression and been supported by an angel.

Now he is confronted by God Himself. We hear of the wind, the earthquake, and the fire, and are told that God was not present in any of them, but revealed Himself in a gentle breeze, or a still, small voice, as another translation puts it.

Is it true that God was not in the wind, the earthquake, or the fire? Think of your own lives. I am sure that every one of you has passed through times of turmoil, when your world was battered, perhaps even turned upside down. Those times are, for us, the equivalent of the wind, the earthquake, and the fire. Was God in them? Your first reaction may be to say “no”, but think again. Did you survive them? Did you perhaps grow as a result of them—grow in understanding, in strength, in compassion? If so, then those are signs that God was, indeed, present in them. Perhaps it is only afterwards, when there is greater calm, that you are able to hear the still, small voice, and to come gradually to realise that God was always there.

It is worth adding that God, in speaking to Elijah, sent him back to confront the very situation from which he had fled, giving him a series of radical tasks. Now, though, Elijah was secure in the knowledge that God was with him.

St. Paul, meanwhile, agonises over the situation of the Jews. Are they lost? If so, Paul clams that he would be willing to be cut off from Christ, if that would help them. When you consider how devoted he was to Christ, you can see what a huge claim that was. As the Letter to the Romans progresses, we will learn that Paul came to believe that the alienation of the Jews was only temporary, and took place to enable the Gentiles to be saved.

Tragically, hostility to the Jews took firm root, and it wasn’t until the Second Vatican Council, sixty years ago, that the Church definitively declared that the Jewish people have their own way to God. More recently, Pope Benedict XVI, in his magnificent “Jesus of Nazareth” trilogy, insisted that we ae not in the business of converting Jews, who are still bound to God by the covenants.

As is often the case, today’s Gospel contains echoes of the First Reading, as Jesus comes to the disciples in the course of a storm. Like the still small voice which follows the turmoil for Elijah, Our Lord calms the storm, but it is clear that He was present in it, showing His control of the elements by walking on the water.

Not for the only time, Jesus calls to the disciples, “Courage, it is I. Do not be afraid”. That which you fear is actually me: your fear is unnecessary. As it was for the disciples, so it is for us. Our Lord, the Son of God, is present in our fear, our anguish, our distress, and He calls to us “Courage, it is I”. When He is present in a situation, as He always is, we have no need to be afraid.

Peter attempts to take Jesus at His word: “Tell me to come to you across the water!” Tell me to put complete trust in you. Tell me to step outside my comfort zone, to take the difficult, the seemingly impossible way. Again, Peter’s prayer should be ours. We should wish to approach Jesus, stepping out of the boat of comfort, of routine, of non-disturbance. We should allow Our Lord to disturb us, to call us to Him even by a difficult way; and if our courage fails, we can call out to Him, and He will hold us up. For us, God is present in the wind, earthquake, and fire; He calms the storm, and He calls us to Himself, holding us up when our own strength fails.

Transfiguration Year A

Transfiguration of the Lord 2023

Daniel 7:9-10, 13-14; 2Peter 1:16-19; Matthew 17:1-9

“This is my Son, the Beloved. He enjoys my favour. Listen to Him.” Where have we heard something like this before? Yes! Spot on! It closely resembles the Father’s endorsement of the Son at the latter’s baptism, the beginning of His earthly mission.

Why is it, effectively, repeated now? This is a new beginning, the beginning of the end which shall itself be a beginning. From this point onwards, Jesus is focused on His forthcoming passion and death, which will in turn bear fruit in His resurrection. As He, and the three who form His inner circle, are descending the mountain, Our Lord refers to His resurrection from the dead: soon, He will go on to provide the Twelve with the second prophecy of His passion.

Winston Churchill described the Battle of El Alamein as “the end of the beginning” of the Second World War. We might say the same of the Transfiguration in the context of Our Lord’s life and mission. It is a powerful and positive event, closing one stage in His life, and carrying the seeds of what lies ahead.

The Transfiguration unfolds in a manner which must have bewildered Peter, James and John. Firstly, they see Jesus in His glory, as something of His divinity is revealed to them. Then, two seminal figures from Israel’s past appear: Moses, representing the Law, and Elijah who represents the Prophets. Thus they find themselves in the presence of the great ones of their history and their destiny: no wonder Peter wants them to capture the moment, to enable them to remain in it. Have there been wonderful experiences in your life, which you wanted to capture and retain?

This awe-inspiring incident is to become more wonderful yet, as they are enwrapped in the Shekinah, the bright cloud which is the presence of God’s glory, and they hear the very voice of God. Now terror seizes them, as terror seized Abraham as he encountered the God of the covenant. Another question arises for you and me to ponder: have you known times of fear and awe, when you sensed that you were in a special moment; in the presence of something or someone beyond the humdrum experiences of every day? One of the gifts of the Holy Spirit is “wonder and awe” also described as “fear of the Lord”, so it is far from impossible that you should have experienced those times of dread which are also times of joy.

They pass, these moments, for us, as they passed for the apostles. What do they leave behind? Anticlimax, puzzlement, or a lasting and recurring joy because we have known them? Do they sustain us in darker times, or do we forget them, fail to trust in their return? What part do faith and hope play when our Transfiguration moments pass?

For Peter, James and John there has to be a re-assessment of all that they have known so far, of all that they have understood of their faith. Moses and Elijah are gone: in their place, the voice of God calls them to listen to Jesus. Could they grasp the significance of this, namely that the Law and the Prophets are fulfilled in and by Jesus, that it is on Him that they must now focus, in Him that they must now trust?

As they seek to understand, they must head back down the mountain into the valley of every day, before they will see Jesus in a very different light. These three who have witnessed the Transfiguration will also witness the Agony in the Garden, when the transfigured Jesus will be seen as the anguished Jesus, the Jesus who cries out to the Father who has spoken to them, the Jesus whose sweat will fall like drops of blood.

At that time, the strength, the confidence, the comfort which they might have drawn from the Transfiguration will fail them, and they will take refuge in sleep, later to take to their heels. Did something linger though, enabling Peter and John to follow their captive Lord into the High Priest’s palace? If so, Peter’s nerve would soon fail him again.

All of which brings us to the weekly question: what about us? Do we have our own Transfiguration moments when joy fills us, when God seems very close? Do they sustain us when we return to the valley of every day, and when we are led into the Garden of the Agony? If they fail us, then let us remember something else, that Gethsemane and Calvary led ultimately to the empty tomb, and to the glory which the Transfiguration, and our Transfiguration moments, prefigure.

17th Sunday Year A

17th Sunday 2023

1 Kings 3:5,7-12; Romans 8:28-30; Matthew 13:44-52.

What price the Kingdom? The late Fr. John Dalrymple gave his 1975 book, subtitled “Notes on holiness today” the title “Costing not less than everything”, a phrase borrowed from the Anglo-American poet TS Eliot.

Our search for the Kingdom, which might equally be labelled our desire to fulfil God’s will, demands our whole self, our whole being. The treasure hunter and the pearl seeker of today’s two parables sell everything they own in order to acquire the object of their desire, and that, implies Jesus, should be our attitude to following Him. It should cost us not less than everything.

What does that mean in practice? Are we to give away all our possessions like St. Anthony of Egypt, the greatest of the Desert Fathers, who divested himself of all his belongings, to live the life of a hermit? Some people may be called to such a way of life, but if all of us did the same, society would collapse.

Are we then to practise great austerities, abandoning all luxuries, treating our bodies harshly? St. Francis of Assisi took that approach, calling his body “Brother Ass” and subjecting it to all manner of hardship. That risks damaging our God-given health, and despising the body which is itself a gift from God, and which should therefore be treated with respect. We should not regard our body as the be all and end all, seeking the perfect body or, on the other hand, giving in to every bodily desire, but a degree of reverence is demanded towards something which is a gift from God.

Perhaps, then, we are to subdue our bodily appetites, saying “no” to every pleasure? We need to be in control of our appetites, certainly, recognising that to give in to every desire will prove destructive both to ourselves and to others, but we know that absolute self-denial creates curmudgeonly, miserable, harsh and cruel people, lacking in affection and empathy, the sort of people who chain up children’s swings on the Sabbath, or who tear babies away from unmarried mothers.

How then are we to seek the Kingdom after the manner of those single-minded searchers in the parables? How are we to interpret the words “Costing not less than everything”?

Is it, perhaps, much simpler, much more straightforward than we realise? Does it, in reality, come down to attempting to live out as fully as possible those two commandments which Our Lord defined as the greatest, the most fundamental of all; namely, to love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength, and to love our neighbour as ourselves? (And bear in mind that, if we do regard ourselves with contempt, our love of neighbour will amount to very little.)

If we practise it genuinely, there is nothing more costly than love. Ask anyone who has lost a loved one: ask yourself about your own bereavements. To love God entails wanting to do His will in everything: to love our neighbour is to live compassionately, in the literal sense of cum passio—suffering with—walking in our neighbour’s shoes, wearing his or her skin. If we are doing our best in both of those interrelated areas, we will soon discover the cost. To quote another poet Oscar Wilde: “He who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die”. Genuine love brings us to death many, many times.

What though of today’s third parable, the fish caught in the dragnet? That complements last week’s account of the wheat and the weeds. If we are not willing to attempt to fulfil the two great commandments, then we shall be the weeds, we shall be the sprats. There is, however, one major difference: whereas darnel cannot become wheat, or sprats turn into mackerel, we can, by the grace of God, be changed from negative into positive, from uncaring to compassionate, from outsiders to children of the Kingdom—but it will cost.

16th Sunday Year A

16th Sunday 2023

Wisdom 12:13, 16-19; Romans 8:26-27; Matthew 13:24-43

They’ve done it again! Once again the compilers of the Lectionary have provided us with three readings and a psalm, each of which could produce a whole homily’s worth of reflection.

I would like to begin with the Second Reading, Paul’s consideration of prayer. “The Spirit comes to help us in our weakness,” he begins, “for when we cannot choose words in order to pray properly, the Spirit itself expresses our plea”. How important are words in prayer? Clearly, they are not unimportant, especially in communal prayer. We need words in order to pray together, as the Body of Christ. In particular, we need those words which have been hallowed by centuries, indeed millennia, of usage; which have expressed the needs, the joys, the praise, the thanksgiving of the Body of Christ through the ages.

But what about our private prayer? Once again, there is a need for words at times, both the words given to us by Christ and by the Church, and those words which are our own, springing up spontaneously within us. We need to remember, though, that, in the last analysis, our prayer isn’t really OURS at all: it is God’s gift, as the Holy Spirit speaking in us, and it is crucial that we allow the Holy Spirit to get a word in edgeways.

Forty years ago, I heard a talk by the Jesuit Fr. Damian Jackson, in which he suggested a simple framework for prayer. It appealed to me, and I have used it ever since. It consists of three simple stages: be still, be grateful, be generous.

We begin with that injunction: be still. Take time and space to settle yourself, to become calm, to let the world drift away. Become comfortable but, at the same time, alert. Don’t slouch. Some people prefer to sit, with a straight back, their feet firmly planted on the floor, their hands open, palms upward in an attitude of receptivity. There are some who like to close their eyes, but in my case that is liable to lead to sleep: perhaps instead focus on a crucifix, or an icon, or, if you are in church, the tabernacle.

Personally, being of a somewhat quirky disposition, I prefer to lie full length, face downward. That does require a carpet, or some form of soft basis, if you are not to end up with rheumatism.

Then begin by simply being still. Know that you are in the presence of God. Don’t worry about wandering thoughts: when you become conscious of them, draw your mind gently back. Simply BE, knowing that God is there with you in the stillness and the silence. Fr. Jackson’s comment was “Waiting is the greatest form of adoration”.

In that stillness and silence, the Holy Spirit can operate, expressing your prayers “with unutterable groanings” as the Greek text actually puts it. It may be useful to have a passage of scripture to hand—perhaps one of the Mass readings of the day—but leave the work to the Holy Spirit.

This stillness, this openness to the Spirit, provides the context for the second and third stages—be grateful, be generous. Recall, in the stillness, some of the myriad things for which you have cause to be grateful: life, health, family, friends, fresh air, food, and football. Don’t forget the deeper things: the coming of God in our human flesh, His suffering and death for us, His Resurrection, His gift of the Spirit; your membership of His Body and your nourishment with His Body and Blood: His work of forgiveness.

Then, be generous. “Lord, what do you want me to do? What do you want me to do with the time and the talents that you have given to me? What do you want me to do for others? What do you want me to do for you? What do you want me to do today?”

Of course, this is merely one form of prayer among many. I have dwelt on it today because it chimes in with St. Paul’s words. And I haven’t mentioned the other readings. Ah well, they will come around again in three years’ time.

15th Sunday Year A

15th Sunday 2023

Isaiah 55:10-11; Romans 8:18-23; Matthew 13:1-23

Doesn’t it make you want to spit? as a friend of mine used to exclaim in our teenage years. Some weeks, it is a struggle to find anything to say about any of the readings; then you have a day like today, when you could devote a whole homily to each of them.

Soil, creation, growth, feature in all of them: fruitfulness and new life are the aim of each. I can never hear that reading from the prophet Deutero-Isaiah without recalling a day on the Lake District hills, with a perfect blue sky, a golden sun, and a blanket of pure white snow enwrapping the fields. It was very easy to envisage the snow sinking slowly into the earth, enriching it, preparing the grass to spring up more lush, more abundant than ever.

It is this sinking in which is crucial. When earth is baked hard from prolonged drought, or when grass has been replaced by concrete, rain bounces off, runs to collect in one place, and creates havoc in the form of floods. So with us, claims the prophet: we must allow God’s word to seep into us, to enrich us, to make us fruitful.

What does that mean in practice? It means that we have to spend time with the scriptures, to ponder them, as Mary our Mother pondered the things of God, the words of her Son and of the aged Simeon. Meditation on scripture has been likened to a cow chewing the cud, turning it over and over, constantly calling it back. To give time to such an activity may appear difficult in our busy lives, but, as we were told in seminary, to say that you haven’t time for something means that you don’t really value it highly. Is it important to you that God’s word should bear fruit in your life? Only you know the answer to that.

Our Lord’s parable of the sower is, in effect, a continuation of the prophecy, and it raises the question “What kind of soil am I?” Am I stony ground at the edge of the path, not truly interested in God’s call to me, not worried if His call is carried away? On the other hand, am I too worried, choked by the thorns of anxiety, which smother the consolation, the encouragement which the word of God can bring, if I give it the openness, the time, the space to do so? Or are those the thorns of ambition, which leave no room for the word?

The thin soil, which gives rise to short-lived enthusiasm, is a regular feature of everyday life. How many fads and fashions seem to dominate our world for a time before vanishing as if they had never been? Do you remember Citizen Band radio, a craze of the seventies, which was everywhere for a while, but is now almost totally forgotten? Line dancing: that was another. Would anyone admit to being a line dancer today? I hope that I won’t offend anybody if I express the hope that tattoos will literally fade away.

Enthusiasm can be a feature of religion too. In my days at the Diocesan Youth Centre at Castlerigg Manor, it was invariably the case that, by the end of a week’s course, young people would be bursting with fervour, but how long would that fervour last? I recall leaving the chapel as a group of 15/16 year olds sang their hearts out at the close of the final Mass of the week, and being struck by the words of today’s Gospel coming unbidden into my mind: “They have no root in them”. How do we enrich the soil, that faith and the love of God may take deeper root? How do we cultivate fruitful soil in ourselves and others?

Meanwhile St. Paul, in a remarkable passage, declares that creation, like ourselves, longs to bear fruit, to attain the purpose which God has in mind for it and for us. Concern for the environment should not be, primarily, an obsession with keeping ourselves safe: rather, it is a sacred purpose. Benedict XVI was known as the first green Pope, a mantle assumed by Pope Francis, and set out by him theologically in his document “Laudato Si”. It seems to me, though I stand open to correction, that well meaning campaigners who cause inconvenience and distress to others by blocking roads, interrupting sporting events, or whatever, are shooting themselves in the foot. They are turning people against an important cause, and are ensuring that nothing will be done in the short term, as no government can afford to give in to blackmail.

They would do far better to read St. Paul and “Laudato Si”, and to recognise the deep sanctity which underlies this issue; to see it as a holy purpose; and to recognise, as the early Church Fathers pointed out, that people are attracted more by honey than by vinegar.

Soil, literal or metaphorical, fills all our readings today. How do we ensure that, in both forms, it bears fruit?

14th Sunday Year A

14th Sunday 2023

Zechariah 9:9-10; Romans 8:9,11-13; Matthew 11:25-30

Beautiful readings, powerful readings, positive readings, with only one problem attached: are they true? are they realistic? (You may see those as two problems, but they strike me as two expressions of the same underlying question.)

“Rejoice heart and soul!” exclaims Zechariah, “Shout with gladness!” He was prophesying after the liberation of the people of Israel from their seventy year exile in Babylon, so he had every reason to rejoice, to shout with gladness. Pondering his words in our own day, we can consider that we have been liberated by the Passion, Death, and Resurrection of Jesus the Christ from the far more bitter exile from friendship with God. That gives us a still greater reason to rejoice and to shout with gladness. Let us then be people of rejoicing, people of gladness, and let us be happy to say that, so far, Zechariah’s prophecy IS true and realistic. 

Zechariah goes on to point to the arrival of the King, “victorious, triumphant, humble, and riding on a donkey”. That must set bells ringing, taking us to Palm Sunday, and to the arrival of that same Jesus Christ, the true King, in Jerusalem and in His Temple.

The donkey is a despised beast, with none of the trappings of the war horse, a concept which Zechariah develops by proclaiming the banishment of that same war horse, and of all the accoutrements of war. Once again, we can rejoice in recognising Christ as the Prince of Peace; once again we can say “Yes, this is true”.

Or can we? Indeed Jesus fulfilled the symbolism of peace, of humility, of the rejection of war, but what happened to Him? He was rejected, overwhelmed, slain by the men of war. Yes, of course He was raised from the dead, so that ultimately our vindication is assured--another cause for rejoicing—but do we have to accept that Zechariah’s promise of the banishing of war has been delayed?

“He will proclaim peace for the nations” declares Zechariah. True, but apparently not yet. Take a look around the world: Ukraine, Syria, Yemen, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Sudan, much of West Africa, to say nothing of injustice, repression, and violence in every country of the world, from China to South Africa, from Europe to the Americas. The King has proclaimed peace, but it is in short supply.

Do we have to say, then, that in this respect Zechariah’s words are untrue, unrealistic? No: the Kingdom of God, the Kingdom of Peace, has been inaugurated by Christ, but its fullness is not yet. The onus is on us, the people of the Kingdom, to work for that fulfilment. We must pray untiringly for peace; we must work for peace and especially we must respond to the call made by Pope St. Paul VI: “If you want peace, work for justice.” We must reject the sort of phoney peace which is built on  injustice; a “peace” which may silence the guns but which leaves innocent people dispossessed or imprisoned, which favours the strong at the expense of the weak, the rich at the expense of the poor, the invader at the expense of the invaded. We must be prepared to pester governments and others in authority, and to accept personal inconvenience, rejoicing in the ultimate triumph of the Prince of Peace.

We must also take to heart Our Lord’s encouragement of us in today’s Gospel. Jesus praises the Father “for hiding [the mysteries of the Kingdom] from the learned and the clever, and revealing them to mere children”. These are words which the Church often appears to forget. In this country at least, the working class Church, which was the backbone of the Church for generations, has largely vanished, and we are in danger of becoming “the chattering Church of the chattering classes”. At both a national and a Diocesan level, we have had more talking shops than you can shake the proverbial stick at, producing enough hot air to heat a mediaeval cathedral, but nothing of any real value or substance. Pope Francis’ synodal approach to Church life holds immense potential, but only if the voices of the little people are heeded.

Jesus also invites us to come to Him when we labour or are overburdened, a situation in which, I suspect, we all find ourselves at times. Do we find rest for our souls? Do we experience His yoke as easy, and His burden as light—always? sometimes? never? Only you can answer that, and you can answer it only when you have tried it—and persisted.

13th Sunday Year A

13th Sunday 2023

2 Kings 4:8-11, 14-16; Romans 6:3-4, 8-11; Matthew 10:37-42

Hospitality features prominently in today’s First Reading and Gospel. The “woman of rank” is hospitable to Elisha, and is rewarded for it, whilst Our Lord, in His instructions to the Apostles, points to the rewards which will be given to those people who are hospitable to them in their missionary journeys.

Through the ages, monasteries have been oases of hospitality, though I must confess to raising an eyebrow when I took up residence at Hyning. It was shortly before Christmas in 2018, and I read on the cover of the handbook a quotation from St. Benedict: “Let all guests who arrive be received like Christ”. As it was so close to Christmas, all I could think of was the Bethlehem innkeepers: “NO ROOM! NO ROOM!” I presume that this was not what Benedict, or the Sisters, had in mind.

It strikes me that the woman who showed hospitality to Elisha was an exception to what seems largely to be the rule: namely, that the less people have, the more likely they are to be hospitable. This lady is described as “a woman of rank” yet it is often the poor who are most willing to share. People in the developing world are renowned for their hospitality, as are the Irish, who have, at least until recent decades, been very familiar with poverty.

In a previous parish, and one hardly brimming over with wealth, people leave their doors unlocked, and I would frequently knock on a back door, before pushing it open and wandering in, shouting a greeting to the inhabitants. I have made my way through the ground floor, and shouted up the stairs, before concluding that there was no one at home. Even so, the house and its contents were open to the world.

However, the more people acquire, the more need they feel to protect it; and the further up the social scale we move, the more burglar alarms we encounter, followed by CCTV cameras, and eventually, gated compounds. We haven’t, thank God, reached the stage of two stories recently reported from the United States: in one, a black teenager knocked on the door of the wrong house, and was shot and wounded by the (white) householder firing through the locked door, whilst in the other, a woman passenger was shot dead from inside a house after her friend inadvertently drove into the wrong driveway.

Do you and I have hospitable hearts? What is your, or my, attitude to the stranger? There is a famous cartoon from decades ago, depicting two men discussing a third. “Who’s he?” “A stranger.” “Heave half a brick at him!” Are attitudes of that kind even remotely familiar?

Last Sunday, at the priestly Jubilee Mass in my old home parish, a bag man wandered into church, and sat there throughout Mass. After Mass, the Deacon took him in to the celebration buffet, and sat with him over a cup of tea and a sticky bun while the man told his life story. I know of an Irish priest based in London who, when someone comes begging at the door, puts on his coat and takes the person to a nearby café, where he buys a meal for both. For many of us, the temptation is to hand out what has been called “bugger off money” to save the trouble of giving time and attention.

Perhaps these visitors are not prophets, holy men, or disciples, as described by Our Lord. In fact, they are more important than that: they are Christ. The First Letter of St. Peter, recalling the mysterious trio who visited Abraham, comments that, in practising hospitality, many “have entertained angels unawares”. More than that, we are entertaining God, as Abraham was.

Our hospitality is a mark of our openness to Christ, of our willingness not to cling to what we have. Something similar lies behind Jesus’ call not to prefer our nearest and dearest to Him. We mustn’t cling to people, because by doing so, we take away their freedom and our own—our freedom to do and to achieve what He wants of us. By apparently preferring others to Christ, we are stifling them and handicapping ourselves. Our lives, like our goods, our time, our hospitality must be available to God, so that He may bring us to perfection.

12th Sunday Year A

12th Sunday 2023

Jeremiah 20:10-12; Psalm 68 (69); Romans 5: 12-15; Matt 10:26-33

I have two homilies to write in preparation for this Sunday. As well as words for the regular Sunday congregation, I have been asked to preach at a Silver Jubilee of priestly ordination.

If I were to be asked about that second homily, I suspect that I would reply in the words of the Irishman who was asked for directions to Dublin: “Well, I wouldn’t start from here”. Today’s readings, as you may have discerned, are not calculated to have us leaping for joy: they are not, at first sight, what you might call celebratory.

“I hear so many disparaging me, ‘Terror from every side’”, exclaims Jeremiah. “Denounce him! Let us denounce him!”, not words designed to instil confidence in the priest, especially as he has been only a few months in his present parishes. As the reading continues, Jeremiah informs us that even his friends are seeking to entrap him.

The Psalmist too is shouting “Woe!”. The entire first stanza of the psalm is a single cry of lamentation:

“It is for you that I suffer taunts, that shame covers my face,

That I have become a stranger to my brothers, an alien to my own mother’s sons.

I burn with zeal for your house, and taunts against you fall on me.”

St Paul reminds us that “death has spread through the whole human race, since everyone has sinned”. Even Our Lord feels impelled to tell us three times not to be afraid. At first hearing, there is very little in today’s Liturgy of the Word to encourage us to be positive, to put us in celebratory mood.

And yet….if we ponder the readings more closely, we can detect green shoots, rays of light amid the gloom, notes of positivity which we can take to ourselves as we seek to live the Christian life in what can seem a hostile world.

Turning again to Jeremiah, we can see that his early depression is overwhelmed by confidence in God, to the extent that he ends by inviting us to sing. Having pondered the hostility, Jeremiah dismisses it, regarding it as small potatoes in comparison with the support and the power of God.

“But the Lord is at my side, a mighty hero” he declares, and his expression of trust in God goes on to be longer and more definite than his description of his woes. You and I live in a society which is sometimes hostile to Christian faith and values, but more often indifferent to them—and indifference can be more difficult to combat than hostility; it is like trying to cut fog. “Never mind” says Jeremiah, in effect. “The Lord is at YOUR side, a mighty hero. Trust in Him and He will fettle things: indeed, He has already done so. Therefore, don’t let ‘em grind you down. You are fully entitled to sing and praise the Lord.”

Likewise the psalm, which begins as a lament, becomes by stages a confident prayer, and then a hymn of praise. It puts me in mind of Jesus’ words quoted in St. John’s Gospel: “In the world you will have trouble, but be brave—I have conquered the world”.

Even St. Paul, having commented on the ubiquity of sin and death, proceeds to assert that this is outweighed by the grace brought by and through Jesus Christ, while Our Lord Himself encourages us with the information that every hair on our head has been counted. For gentlemen of a certain age, this may be less consoling than it used to be, as hair grows less abundantly, but Jesus’ call to confidence in God is plain. There is challenge, certainly, but every assurance that this challenge has already been met, and overcome, by Jesus Himself, who will bring us through the challenges that we meet.

Are these readings positive enough for a Silver Jubilee? Perhaps I wouldn’t have started from here, but there is a fair chance of getting to Dublin.

11th Sunday Year A

11th Sunday 2023

Exodus 19:2-6; Romans 5:6-11; Matthew 9:36, 10:8

I love that second reading. St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans isn’t exactly a bag of laughs, nor is it always easy to understand—disagreements over its interpretation may be said to have triggered the Reformation—but it contains some real gems within it.

Today’s passage is one of them. Why is that so? It is because of the consolation, the encouragement, the re-assurance which it offers. All of us need to be consoled at times, to be encouraged at times—and bear in mind that the word “(en)courage” is rooted in the Latin word cor meaning “heart”, so to encourage someone is to put heart into them—and all of us need re-assurance.

St. Paul here re-assures us of God’s love for us; God’s determination not to let us fall out of His hands. He bases this re-assurance on Christ’s death for us, a redemptive death which we did not deserve, to which we were not entitled.

“What proves that God loves us” writes Paul, “is that Christ died for us while we were still sinners.” Effectively we were not on God’s side: as a species, we had let God down, fallen away from Him. Despite this, He sent His only Son to die on our behalf, a sacrifice on the Father’s part which beggars our imagination. Having made this sacrifice, Paul implies, God is not going to waste it by letting us be lost.

He then gives us a further ground for re-assurance, namely that we are filled with joyful trust in God. Are we? And what does Paul mean by it?

Are we supposed to go around wearing smiley badges saying “Smile, Jesus loves you”? I have to confess that the sight of such a badge fills me with an almost irresistible temptation to bop the wearer on the nose, and then say “Try smiling now, sunshine”.

What Paul is urging us to display is not a superficial jollity, but something which goes much deeper. It is something which lies at the very heart of us, which remains within us at difficult times, when we may be incapable of smiling, and when we cling on to trust only by our fingertips. Do you, do I, have that joyful trust? We should have it, says St. Paul, we have every reason to have it, because the Son of God died for us, and God is therefore very much on our side. That belief, that knowledge, should sustain us even in the darkest times.

Our Lord Himself knew that we would endure dark times. He knew it from His own experience: He knew it too from the people He saw around Him. These people, we are told, were harassed and dejected, like sheep without a shepherd.

What was His response? It was to choose the twelve apostles and to send them out, effectively to be healers, to be shepherds, who would console the wandering, dejected flock. Notice what the Twelve are to do. They are not to threaten the people with eternal damnation. Instead, they are to “proclaim that the Kingdom of Heaven is close at hand, (to) cure the sick, raise the dead, cleanse the lepers, cast out devils,” and to do it all without charge.

How positive is all of that? And how positively, OR NOT, have preachers throughout the ages proclaimed what is, after all, Good News? Yes, of course, Jesus elsewhere punctuates His preaching with the word “repent”, but the basic meaning of that is not “beat yourself up for being a sinner”, but have a change of outlook, of focus, of heart—be changed, if you like, from negativity to positivity. And through it all runs this thread of compassion, of concern to heal, to comfort, to renew.

Who is to do this? Firstly, the apostles, from whom we consider the bishops to be descended, with their co-workers, the priests and deacons. Anybody else? At Sinai, God tells Moses that the whole people of Israel are to be “a Kingdom of priests, a consecrated nation”, and in the First Letter of St. Peter, that designation is applied to the Church.

We are all a priestly people. Those who are ordained have a special role within that people, but each of you is called to be a source of healing and consolation, a sign of the Kingdom, to the harassed and dejected people of today. Can you do that?  Yes, you can, because, as St. Paul has told us, Christ died for you. Thus, we come back to our starting point.

Corpus Christi Year A

Body and Blood of Christ 2023

Deuteronomy 8: 2-3, 14-16; 1Cor 10: 16-17; John 6: 51-58

Many moons ago, probably in the early 70s, if I remember correctly, there was a television documentary about the Catholic Church entitled “Rome, Leeds, the Desert,” an intriguing title, you may think. It focused on the Little Brothers and little Sisters of Jesus, congregations founded by Rene Voillaume, who was inspired by the example of St. Charles de Foucauld, who lived as a hermit in the Algerian desert, and who was killed by Berber tribesmen during the First World War, as they suspected him of being an agent of the French government.

The particular group on whom the documentary concentrated lived in Leeds, where they worked in the factories of those days, but they also spent time in the desert, both the metaphorical desert of intense prayer, and the literal desert in North Africa, where they made an annual retreat. Rome featured as what one might call the HQ of the Church.

What struck me most forcibly about the programme was the presenter’s conclusion. “The most common expression used by Catholics, “he said, “is the Body of Christ: the Body of Christ in the Eucharist, and the Body of Christ which is the Church”. And I found myself thinking “By George, he’s got it!”

This presenter had hit the bullseye of what the Catholic Church is, and is about. We receive the Body of Christ, and so we become the Body of Christ. We owe this insight firstly to St. Paul, who devotes much of chapters 10-12 of his First Letter to the Corinthians to an analysis of the Church as the Body of Christ, and to the Eucharist.

Those two sentences which we have heard this morning summarise Paul’s teaching on the subject. He first reminds us of the nature of the Eucharist, as a communion with the Body and Blood of Christ, before stating that our sharing in the one bread which is the Body of Christ makes us the Body of Christ.

It is the Eucharist which makes us what we are: without it, we atrophy and die, our membership of the Body failing and withering. Hence, I was astounded by a letter which appeared in the Tablet, shortly after the restrictions imposed during the pandemic had been lifted.

One gentleman wrote that he had followed Mass on line during that pandemic, and that he intended to continue doing so, as the standard of preaching and liturgy was higher than he encountered in his own parish. WHAT? WHAT? WHAT? WAS HE SERIOUS?

He clearly had no conception of what the Mass or the Church are about. The Mass is not, first and foremost, an aesthetic experience, designed to satisfy us, or even instruct us, from a distance. It is the gathering of God’s people in the flesh to become what we are, the Body of Christ, by participating in the self-offering of Christ and receiving Christ in the Body and the Blood.

“If you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you shall not have life in you,” says Jesus the Christ in the Eucharistic Discourse of John chapter 6, part of which you have heard today. Did this gentleman think that he could receive communion through a television screen or what? He might experience excellent liturgy, at second hand; he might be edified and instructed by homilies of quality; but he would, and will, wither spiritually by absenting himself from the gathering of God’s people, and by failing to receive the Body and Blood of Christ.

Of course homilies are often poor: of course the current translation of the Mass is turgid, but that is not the point. We are called to be part of the Body of Christ, along with all the other messy, sinful, imperfect, unappealing people who form that Body: if we absent ourselves, and decline to receive the Body, we shall cease to be the Body.

One final story by way of illustration. It is the true account of an Englishman who lived for some time in India. One Sunday, he attended the local Anglican cathedral, where the liturgy was magnificent, the altar staff splendidly arrayed, and the great and the good of the expatriate community present in force. The following Sunday, he attended the Catholic church, where things were far less aesthetically pleasing, and, as he said, “the place was full of Indians”. “This” said the man, “is the Body of Christ” and he subsequently became a Catholic and, eventually, a priest.

Of course we want better liturgy and better preaching, but in the last analysis they are not what matters. The Body of Christ in the Eucharist, the Body of Christ which is the Church—that is what we are all about.

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.