Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday 2026

Acts 10: 37-43; Colossians 3: 1-4; John 20: 1-9

There is a trio at the Tomb: not Peter, Paul, and Mary singing sad folk songs, but Peter, John, and Mary, running, wondering, searching. Mary Magdalene arrives first, while it is still dark, says the Fourth Evangelist, not merely the darkness of night, but the darkness of lack of understanding, the darkness of incomprehension.

We need to give the Magdalene more attention than she has often received. She is the first to see the empty tomb; the first to take the news to the apostles. Later, she will be the first, with the possible exception of Our Lady, to meet the Risen Christ, and to carry that news to the apostles. Mary Magdalene is the apostle to the apostles, and the Church still has work to do in unravelling the implications of that.

Who are the other two? They are Peter, the flawed leader, the one who has wept bitterly after thrice denying his Lord. His successors, the Popes, have been and will always be flawed leaders in their turn, infallible when defining, ex cathedra, doctrines concerning faith or morals, but, like the rest of humankind, earthen vessels carrying the treasure of the faith. We have seen great Popes in our lifetime, and his pronouncements, especially concerning war and peace, indicate that we have a great Pope now, but he still stands in need of our prayers, because of the enormous responsibility which he carries, a responsibility for all of humankind and for all of creation.

The third is the Beloved Disciple whom, for the sake of argument, we identify with John the son of Zebedee. He is the contemplative, the loving follower, and, whilst always deferential to Peter, the leader, he provides the depth of insight which, like sound leadership, is also essential to the life of the Church.

What does this trio see? So far, nothing but signs and pointers. The body, of which they have come in search, is not there. Grave cloths and the face covering, are there: the latter carefully folded, at one side—have theologians pondered why that should be? They find a mystery worthy of any detective, fictional or real.

Yet something more than detective skill is required of our questing trio, and that something is faith combined with insight. The first for whom the shekel drops is John, the contemplative, the beloved, who presumably passes on that insight to Peter the leader. John, joining the clues to his faith, realises that this is the fulfilment of the promises: not only the promises given by Jesus, but also the promises of the prophets and of the entire Scriptures, the completion of the vision which he, Peter, and James had received on Mt. Tabor, but which had failed to sustain them in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Here, the trio are blessed: they have not seen yet, but they are beginning to believe. Soon, that faith  will be rewarded, first for Mary Magdalene, subsequently for the apostles, who will hear, see, and touch the Risen Christ.

What about us? That daily, crucial question, if you will pardon the pun. Still, for us, there are only the clues, the pointers—and the insights of faith. Only in eternity will we see, hear, and touch the Risen Christ. Or will we? Do we not already see Him? Do we not already see Him in His Body—that Body which is the Eucharist? that Body which is the Church? Do we not touch Him in the Eucharist and in the Church? Do we not hear Him in the Scriptures proclaimed to us?

“Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe” the Risen Christ will say to Thomas. We have not seen the fulfilment, but we have seen enough to know and to proclaim “Christ is risen”: He is risen indeed, ALLELUIA!

Easter Vigil 2026

Easter Vigil 2026

The rubrics tell us that, however short it may be, the homily must not be omitted tonight. We have traced salvation history from creation right through to the Resurrection; we have rejoiced in the gifts of warmth and light; and, via St. Paul, we have seen the link between the suffering, death, and resurrection of the Lord, and our own baptism. Soon, we shall renew our baptismal promises, and make present Christ’s sacrifice in the mystery of the Eucharist. This is the greatest night of the year: it even knocks Christmas into a cocked hat.

In 2017, I celebrated the Easter Triduum at St. Joseph’s, Ansdell, and shortly before the Vigil, I nipped up the pulpit steps for a final look at the Gospel, having already composed mentally a short homily. My re-reading of the Gospel caused me to scrap that homily, and instantly formulate another, because I was struck forcibly by one statement which I hadn’t really noticed before: “and behold, Jesus met them”.

These women had been given the Good News by the angel, but initially they had only the angel’s word for it all. Then, suddenly, BANG! There is Jesus Himself meeting them. Any remaining doubts are scattered. Christ is risen, and is meeting them in the flesh.

What about us? We too have received the Good News, but Jesus hasn’t come to meet us—or has He? We do not yet see Him in His risen body, and to that extent we are dependent on faith, but is it true that He hasn’t met us?

Surely we have met Him in the gathering of His people—our fellow members of His body. Did not our hearts, like those of the Emmaus disciples, “burn within us” as we encountered Him in the Sacred Scriptures? And will He not meet us in His Body and Blood as we receive Him in the context of His paschal sacrifice? “Behold, Jesus met them.” Does He not come to meet us? By heck, He does!

Holy Thursday

Holy Thursday 2026

Exodus 12:1-8, 11-14; 1 Cor 11:23-26; John 13:1-15

You may recall that Pope Francis, instead of washing the feet of cardinals, as was customary on Holy Thursday, went into a prison, and washed the feet of inmates, including a young Muslim woman. This gave rise to shock and horror among liturgical rigorists, who raised a cry that he wasn’t allowed to do this, as the rubrics—the instructions printed in red in the Missal—specified that it was VIRI who were to be washed, in other words MEN in the literal sense of that word, namely adult males.

I suspect that they were offended also that prisoners, and especially a Muslim woman, should be chosen to represent the apostles. I must confess to having been blissfully unaware that the rubrics specified VIRI, and in various parishes had been happily washing the feet of both sexes, as I suspect had most priests. Apart from other considerations, it tends to be far easier to find female than male volunteers.

Needless to say, Pope Francis was not deterred by the complaints, and to satisfy the rigorists he simply changed the rubrics, replacing VIRI with HOMINES, “human beings” regardless of gender.

It probably goes without saying that there was more than a disregard for rubrics behind the Pope’s choice of venue and “washees” if such a word exists, as there was behind the complaints. He was making a point about the nature and role of the Church. Throughout his papacy, Francis was fond of repeating “TODOS TODOS” –“All, All!” insisting that the Church is a field hospital, another of his favourite expressions, for everyone.

I have described many times my experience at the Holy Thursday evening Mass in 1988, when I was based at the Diocesan Residential Youth Centre, and was confronted by a Peter with the dirtiest foot I have ever seen in my life; and how my attempts to keep a straight face while pronouncing “though not all of you are clean” ended in a collapse into a Brian Johnston-like falsetto scream. On reflection, I was later able to use that event as material for a homily, suggesting that, as the Church, we should be “the people of mucky feet”, mucky from treading in the less salubrious places, walking where the less respectable people are to be found.

Several years later, I was well chuffed to find Pope Francis saying the same thing in different terms, and practising what he preached. Another of his favourite sayings was that “pastors should live with the smell of the sheep”, something which he himself had carried out by abandoning the Archbishop’s Palace in Buenos Aires, and travelling to work on the bus.

Incidentally, the use of public transport is something which I would recommend to the parish clergy. It was forced on me by financial considerations and by an awareness of a reduced spatial awareness when driving, but apart from environmental considerations, it has increased my contacts with people at large, outside the confines of a car.

There is another consideration. The reduction in the number of priests means that, inevitably, they are less familiar with the people of their two or three parishes than in the days when they had a “District” within a parish which they would visit regularly, even if only to distribute tickets for the Christmas draw, a mission which drew our parish priest annually to our door. (The late and holy Bishop Foley had two definitions of a practising Catholic—the stern one being “Someone who goes to church on Good Friday”; the lax one being “Someone who buys a ticket for the Christmas draw”.)

What are some of the implications of the changed situation? Does it not mean that the laity need to be more involved in pastoral “foot-washing”, whether it be by visiting the housebound, taking an interest in the needs of strugglers, or whatever.

I recall a gentleman in a previous parish who was strongly opposed to the concept of lay extraordinary ministers of Holy Communion. One summer, on holiday with his wife, he suffered a heart attack, and spent some time in hospital somewhere in the Deep South—Brighton, or Bournemouth, or another of those faraway places with strange-sounding names.

On his eventual return home, he spoke to me. “Father, I want to become an extraordinary minister, so that I can take Our Lord to people the way people brought Him to me, when I was ill.” A small miracle, if you like.

Not everyone is called to become a Eucharistic Minister, but everyone is called to wash their brothers’ and sisters’ feet in some way. That is the best preparation for receiving the Eucharist ourselves.

5th Sunday of Lent Year A

5th Sunday of Lent 2026

A fortnight ago, in Jesus’ encounter with the Samaritan woman, the emphasis was on living water; last week, when the blind man was cured, we were led to consider sight and insight; today we are faced with the question of life, death, and resurrection. Lazarus dies, his relations and friends are distressed, and Jesus weeps.

Many years ago, I was called to a deathbed. When I arrived at the house, where it was the wife and mother who had died, I found her husband and adult children grouped around the bed. I prayed the liturgy for the dead, and read a shortened version of today’s Gospel. This included Our Lord’s declaration that He is the Resurrection and the Life, and His promise of Resurrection. I then read His question to Martha “Do you believe this?”, at which the whole family suddenly shouted “YES!” Martha couldn’t get her answer in!

I hadn’t been expecting that response, though perhaps I should have. Despite all the talk about a post-Christian society, belief in life after death is deeply embedded in human nature. A long time after that incident, I attended a Humanist funeral. At one point, the deceased person’s grandchildren were invited to pay tribute. All of them spoke TO their grandad, who, they asserted, was watching over them, and would continue to look after them. So much for our allegedly atheist country. It was more a question of “Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings, you have ordained praise”.

As the Second Vatican Council asserted, human nature rightly revolts against the idea of total extinction. This whole passage from St. John’s Gospel is a proclamation by Jesus of the reality of Resurrection, first in words, and subsequently in deeds, as He raises the dead Lazarus to life. Lazarus will die again, but this initial raising to life contains a promise that final Resurrection awaits both him and us.

The roles of Lazarus’ sisters, Martha and Mary, are interesting. They display the same characteristics as in St. Luke’s account of their hospitality towards Jesus. Then, as you recall, Martha revealed herself as the active one, bustling about preparing the meal, and rebuking her sister for sitting at the Lord’s feet rather than helping her. She, in her turn, is mildly criticised by the Lord who tells her that “it is Mary who has chosen the better part”.

Now once more it is Martha who is active, coming out to meet Jesus, whilst Mary, the contemplative, remains sitting in the house. This time, though, it is Martha who has “chosen the better part” as she elicits Our Lord’s words about Resurrection, and expresses the faith of the Church. Martha then has to call Mary from the house to meet Jesus and to witness her brother’s being raised from the dead.

Jesus’ tears, and His being “deeply moved”, involve a number of factors. There is His compassion with the grief of the mourners, His recognition of the awesomeness of death, and perhaps a renewed consciousness of what awaits Him. “Why does He weep?” you may ask, when He knows what He is about to do. True, but death is always a solemn reality, and His own death is to place Him in the hands of evil.

As for Lazarus, it is easy enough to imagine the voice of the Lord penetrating the muffling presence of his bandages, and also his nature, sunk in death. We can imagine that voice penetrating too the layers of our own sinfulness, and calling us to come to Christ to be set free, and to be led into a new life while still on this earth. One other thing: Lazarus still needs other people to unbind him and set him free. We too need the help of others, not least in the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

4th Sunday of Lent Year A

4th Sunday of Lent 2026

“There are none so blind as those who will not see.” Last week, our focus was on water, which gives us life, and the living water of the Holy Spirit given to us in Baptism. Today, our emphasis is on sight, which gives us light.

True sight entails insight. That is what God has, and that is what He gives to us, if we have the gumption to receive it. This is illustrated in our First Reading, in which Samuel is sent to anoint Israel’s future King. Samuel looks, but he does not see. Eliab appears to him to be the ideal candidate, but Samuel lacks the insight to recognise Eliab’s lack of suitability. Left to himself, Samuel might have chosen any of Jesse’s first six sons but God sees beneath the surface, and rejects all of them, instead choosing David, the youngest.

How many times are we fooled by appearances? I remember a Board of Governors, who had the task of choosing a new Head for a large Secondary School. They appointed a smooth talker, rejecting a candidate whose credentials should have carried far more weight. The result was a disaster, as the smooth talker, having been appointed, succeeded only in dragging the school down, whilst the rejected candidate continued to win more accolades for the smaller school at which he remained. Sight may be a superficial thing, if it is not supported by insight. The former is a great gift from God: the latter is even greater.

The Letter to the Ephesians makes a similar point, bringing in a clear moral dimension by contrasting light with darkness. Sight without insight may be moral darkness: its works are described as “unfruitful” and as needing to be exposed. Someone may have 20/20 vision, but if they cannot discern “what is pleasing to the Lord”, then they are in darkness. Someone who is physically blind may have light through having the insight to discern good from evil.

In our Gospel, we hear of the cure of a man who has been physically blind from birth. John goes into detail about the method of the cure, and about the conversations between the man and his neighbours, and between the man and the Pharisees. (In the full length version of the story, there is some real knockabout stuff, as the Pharisees question the man’s parents who reply that he is an adult, who can speak for himself, and as the man cheekily parries the Pharisees’ questions by asking them “Why are you asking? Do you want to become His disciples?” a question which flusters them more than a little.)

Once again, we find the distinction between sight and insight. The blind man has received his physical sight, but he still lacks insight, which he receives through his final conversation with Our Lord. “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” Jesus asks. When He identifies Himself as the Son of Man, He gives the man the gift of insight, and the man worships Him.

What are the implications for us, in addition to the invitation to pray for those who struggle with their eyesight? Are we grateful for the gift of sight which we ourselves enjoy? Do we judge too readily on the basis of appearances, and are we thus led astray by sight without insight? We need to pray for the ability to see as God sees, but not to convince ourselves too readily that we have that ability. Above all, we need to pray that we may live, not in darkness, but in the light of Jesus, who is Himself the light, and may always recognise, worship, and serve Him as Our Lord and Our God.

3rd Sunday Lent Year A

3rd Sunday of Lent 2026

Exodus 17:3-7; Romans 5:1-2, 5-8: John 4:5-42

From the early years of photography, it is easy to find—probably from any town or city—pictures of narrow alleys where families lived, one above another on several floors, all having to descend to street level to draw their water from a single pump. Much more recently, I remember a water shortage in 1959, when my Primary School withdrew our allowance of water with our school dinners, and also the long hot summer of 1976, when people in some parts of England had to collect their water from bowsers in the streets.

Those were difficult times, now long forgotten, as our water supplies have, by and large, returned to normal, yet in many parts of the world, the provision of water remains precarious. Bishop Swarbrick’s pastoral letter a fortnight ago described the scene, drawn from the experience of his many years in Zambia, of women and girls letting down their buckets into the well, to bring up water which might be far from clean.

Presumably there will be times when there is no water at all in the well, not least because of global warming. You may have read predictions that future wars will be fought over access to water, a situation which already occurs in parts of Nigeria.

You and I will have been thirsty at times, yet few, I suspect, have been DESPERATELY thirsty, with the sort of dehydration which leads to delirium and, finally, death. This is the situation in which the children of Israel find themselves in our Exodus reading as they trek through the wilderness with their flocks and herds, all needing water.

I don’t know about you, but I can sympathise, to an extent, with the people’s grumbling. On the other hand, it is worth bearing in mind that they were serial grumblers, even claiming that they had been better off as slaves in Egypt. It shows that human nature never changes: there will always be people who will tell you that the past was better in the “good old days” which, of course, never existed. For instance, if “then and now” photos were displayed on Facebook of the alleys which I mentioned at the beginning, you can guarantee that a majority of comments would claim “it looked better then”.

Water is essential for life. “No water” equals “no life”. Thus when Jesus speaks of the Holy Spirit, the giver of eternal life, it is not surprising that He uses the analogy of “living water”—water welling up from a spring, fresh and clear. Nor is it surprising that we receive the beginnings of eternal life through baptism, water poured over us. Let us never take water for granted; let us always remember how precious it is; let us support efforts to provide clean water for those who lack it; and let water, when we use it, remind us of our baptism, and of the Holy Spirit who dwells within us, and who gives us life.

One other thought: have you noticed that Our Lord seems to have a soft spot for naughty ladies? He is generous to the woman caught in adultery, His only rebuke being “Go, and sin no more”. He grants the request of the pagan woman who has answered Him back, and He reveals His Messiahship to this woman of Samaria, a “heretic” who has gone through five husbands and is now “living over the brush”. So if any of you are naughty ladies, you may be all right: naughty blokes, not so much, because that often involves domination and control.

2nd Sunday Lent Year A

2nd Sunday of Lent 2026

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

Did you know that the Gospel of the Transfiguration crops up twice in every year? The Feast of the Transfiguration occurs in August, and we hear of it also every Second Sunday of Lent. On the Third, Fourth, and Fifth Sundays, the Gospel varies according to the three year cycle, but on the First Sunday it is always the Temptations in the Wilderness, and on the Second Sunday always the Transfiguration.

Why should this be? The Wilderness is fairly obvious, because Lent is the time for us to enter the wilderness with Jesus and, along with Him, to resist temptation to the best of our ability, but why should we always hear about the Transfiguration?

I suspect, though I stand open to correction, that there are at least two reasons. Firstly, we receive the first hint of Jesus’ forthcoming death. Matthew’s account ends with the Lord’s command “Tell no one about the vision until the Son of Man is raised from the dead.” Secondly, that command prepares us also for the Resurrection, and indeed, the Transfiguration is a foretaste of the Resurrection, encouraging not only us, but Jesus Himself, with the promise of glory to come.

There are three more people whom that vision is intended to encourage. When will we encounter the trio of Peter, James, and John again? Give yourself two gold stars if you remember that these three are to accompany Jesus into the inner part of the Garden of Gethsemane, to be the closest witnesses of His Agony. Their role as witnesses of the Transfiguration might have nerved them to face the horror of Holy Thursday night, but it didn’t. Instead, in the garden, they were overwhelmed by  dismay, and took refuge in sleep.

What else may the Transfiguration offer us? Well, what about your own Transfiguration experiences? “What do you mean?” you may ask. Have there been times in your own life when you realised that you were happy, that you were filled with joy? Perhaps it happened when you fell in love, or when you looked into the eyes of your newborn child. Suddenly, everything made sense, and you wanted to stay in that moment for ever.

For me, summer Wednesday afternoons or evenings in childhood brought those experiences. Wednesday was half day closing in our shop, and in the summer holidays Mum, Dad and I, my sister having left home by this point, would often go for long local walks, as my Dad knew Lancaster and District like the back of his hand.

I remember particularly one afternoon, when we joined the canal towpath at Deep Cutting, Scotforth; followed it to Aldcliffe, where we walked up the hill, then down to Stodday, alongside the Glasson Dock railway line to Freeman’s Wood, then through the wood to the Marsh, where we caught the bus home. Many years later, during my running days, I would follow that same route, but extend it up Abraham Heights, then down to Fairfield, through the Pad Fields, back to the canal and to Deep Cutting.

That always brought sheer joy, and I would have loved to stay in the moment for ever. We can’t though, can we? We have to allow the moment to fade, just as the three apostles had to let their Transfiguration experience fade. Peter tries to hold onto it—that is why he wants to build three tents in order that they can stay there for ever, but it cannot be.

Like Abraham before him, and like us today, he has to move on, because we are always a pilgrim people, journeying further and deeper along the way that the Lord calls us, returning from the mountain to the valley of everyday life, and perhaps to the Garden of the Agony.

When they emerge from the bright cloud, Peer, James, and john discover that Moses and Elijah have disappeared. Why should this be, and why had they been there in the first place? It is because they represent respectively the Law and the Prophets—the Old Covenant—and they are now, as it were, absorbed into Jesus, who is the fulfilment of both Law and Prophets, indicated by the Father’s voice as the One to whom we must now listen.

You and I have had and will have our Transfiguration moments. Enjoy them, rejoice in them while they last, but do not attempt to hold onto them. They must pass, but the memory of them should encourage us as we continue our journey, both our Lenten journey and our life’s journey with the Lord, sometimes to Gethsemane and Calvary, but ultimately to the Resurrection.

1st Sunday Lent Year A

1st Sunday of Lent 2026

Genesis 2:7-9, 3:1-7; Psalm 50 (51); Romans 5: 12-19; Matthew 4:1-11

Last week, I quoted Oscar Wilde. Today, oddly enough, I am going to quote him again, because it was he who wrote “I can resist everything except temptation”.

That isn’t as facile as it sounds. There are many things which I can resist, because they simply don’t tempt me. For instance, I have never been tempted to gorge myself on parsnips, or on binge-watching soap operas, because I don’t like either of them. I daresay parsnips are delightful vegetables, but I have had a horror of them ever since I bit into one in my school dinner, under the impression that it was a chip.

As far as the temptations which assailed Our Lord are concerned, all of them would have been non-starters for me. I would never be tempted to try to turn stones into bread, because I would know that I couldn’t do it; nor would I be tempted to throw myself down from the base of the spire of Lancaster Cathedral.

I am utterly terrified of heights. A friend of mine once took me onto the roof of the tower of Durham Cathedral. While he wandered merrily around the edge of the roof, cheerfully pointing out the sights, I was clinging, eyes tightly closed, to the flagpole in the middle, praying that the world would stop whirling around, and dreading the moment when I would have to let go, in order to stagger towards the steps leading back down.

As for ruling the kingdoms of the world, I couldn’t lead a cub pack, or even organise myself. The thought of being responsible for millions of people would reduce me to a gibbering wreck.

Am I, then, safe from temptation? Am I heck as like! I suffer from any number of temptations, about which I intend to say nothing. Our reading from the Book of Genesis makes the point that temptation is as old as the human race, while St. Paul tells us that it, and its consequence, sin, have spread through the whole of this race of ours. If anyone were to be foolish enough to think that they were immune to temptation, they would be one step from disaster.

However you envisage the devil, there is no doubt that evil exists, and is capable of exploiting our weaknesses. The woman is attracted, not only by the sweetness of the fruit, but by the prospect of becoming wise. Both sweetness and wisdom are good things, yet she should have recalled that God did not wish her to attain them in this way at this time.

Likewise, the man is attracted in the same way; in addition, he is too lazy or too careless to resist his wife’s enthusiasm. This is the first instance of peer pressure, to which we have been prone ever since: a particular problem for young people, but not only for them.

Would it be better if we were never tempted? Apparently not, because we are told that Our Lord was “led by the Spirit into the wilderness, to be tempted by the devil”. In other words, Jesus’ temptations were ultimately the responsibility of the Holy Spirit. Why should this be?

Well, the Son of God was to suffer all that afflicts human beings, and that includes temptation. He had to be tempted in order to overcome temptation, to undo the damage caused by our first parents, en route to giving us the gift of eternal life, by Himself suffering death. How do we receive this gift? By ourselves resisting temptation. How can we manage that? By entering into the wilderness with Jesus.

Our Lenten exercises of extra prayer, giving, and self-denial help us to share in Our Lord’s wilderness journey. One extra temptation may be that of giving up, of losing hope. Do try to resist that temptation, because our wilderness journey is ultimately a journey to life.

6th Sunday Year A

6th Sunday in Ordinary Time 2026

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

Here’s a tramstopper of a question for you: what do you think about the fundamental option? “What is the fundamental option when it’s at home?” you may ask—or you may not. It is our basic life choice: am I for good or for evil? For God or against Him?

“Oh, that’s easy”, you may reply. “I am for God and for good. Is that all there is to it?”

Well, up to a point, but it has massive implications for the way we live.

“Oh, I know that!” you may respond. “I have to love God with all my heart and soul and mind and strength, and my neighbour as myself, then I don’t need to worry about all the rules and regulations. It’s a doddle.”

“Mmm….” I will say, with a questioning frown on my forehead. “I don’t think it’s as easy as all that. In fact, I would say that it is much harder than just keeping the rules. They can be just a tick box: ‘I haven’t killed anyone, I haven’t coveted my neighbour’s donkey’—have you, by the way?—'so Bob’s your uncle, t’job’s a good ‘un’ or whatever clincher you wish to use.” In fact, if you think clearly about love, you may decide that it is VERY demanding.

More than fifty years ago, I did my summer placement as a deacon in St. Augustine’s, Preston, a parish which, sadly, no longer exists. On the parish register, in the area which was my District for the duration, and which consisted mainly of high rise flats, were two elderly ladies who lived together. These ladies were Russian Jews. How Russian Jews came to appear on the visiting list of a Catholic parish, I have no idea, but I am glad that they did.

In the course of my visit, one of these ladies said to me: “Religion is the Lord, and religion is love, and love means sacrifice”. I thought at the time, and I have thought many times afterwards, that this is a pretty succinct expression of truth. I do not know what sacrifices these ladies had made in their service of the Lord, but I suspect that they had been considerable.

Similarly, our service of the Lord, our choice of good, will demand sacrifices, because it demands love, and love is actually far harder than simply keeping the rules. As the old song puts it “Love hurts, love scars, love wounds and marks any heart not tough or strong enough to take a lot of pain”. Perhaps it is no coincidence that this song was recorded by a group named Nazareth, as we consider the total self-sacrifice of Jesus of Nazareth.

Think of how much pain the love of another human being may involve, whether it be romantic love, or love of a parent, a child, a friend. Is there anyone here who can say that they haven’t had their heart broken at least once, if not many times? Then think of that self-sacrificing love of Jesus, and realise that we are called to reproduce that in relation to God, and to other human beings.

To seek to do God’s will in every aspect of life—how demanding, how painful, may that be? Then to put ourselves in other people’s shoes, other people’s skin—to have compassion, cum passio, suffering with, not one human being but all human beings—how much will that tear our hearts, make demands of our strength? As Oscar Wilde, that strangest of converts, wrote “He who lives more lives than one, more deaths than one must die”. Wouldn’t it be far easier just to keep the rules?

Yet if we do settle for just keeping the rules, says Jesus, we will “never enter the Kingdom of Heaven”. Oh heck! He then goes on to give some examples. It is not enough to avoid committing murder: we must avoid anger, and genuinely love each person whom we encounter. Not satisfied with staying away from adultery, we must respect every other person, not regarding them as a sex-object, or damaging our own minds and hearts with lustful thoughts. Not content with keeping our oaths and promises, we must refrain from swearing at all, from being over-emphatic, from promising what we cannot deliver.

There is much more in similar vein. What do we think now of the fundamental option, of preferring God and good? Do you still wish to undertake it? Of course you do. Can you achieve it? Yes, with the help of God, and only with that help, and for that, prayer is indispensable.

5th Sunday Year A

5th Sunday in Ordinary Time 2026

Isaiah 58: 6-10; Psalm 11(112); 1 Corinthians 2:1-5; Matthew 5:13-16

We can’t get away from justice, can we? Last Sunday’s readings were full of it, and it hits us again today. The prophet sets us off, insisting that we “loose the bonds of wickedness, undo the straps of the yoke and let the oppressed go free”. The Psalm takes up the same theme, declaring that, for the upright, “their justice stands firm for ever”.

What are the implications for us? Firstly, it seems, we must act justly in all that we do, treating people fairly, not bad-mouthing them, not lording it over them. Almost forty years ago, I attended a conference on education. One of the sessions was led by a young man, a Primary School Headmaster, who conducted it tongue-in-cheek, picking on people, jeering at them, calling them out.

All the young people present, and all the women, were left scratching their heads and asking “What was that about? School was never like that.” On the other hand all the men of my age and older, who had attended school, usually single sex, in the 60s or earlier, were sitting ashen-faced, recalling the horrors of our own school days, when bullying and “dark sarcasm in the classroom” were the stock-in-trade of the so-called “masters”.

Worse than the sneering and the subtle violence, though, had been the injustice, the arbitrary punishments, the imposition of sanctions on whole classes, regardless of how many, or how few, had been involved in misbehaviour. Human beings appear to have an inbuilt sense of justice: to breach the code of justice is seen as the greatest sin of all.

Is it sufficient then, that we behave justly ourselves? Apparently not, for the prophet calls us to “loose the bonds of wickedness, undo the straps of the yoke, and let the oppressed go free”. In other words, we should oppose injustice on the part of others, and there is plenty of that in the world. We gaze in horror across the Atlantic, where storm-troopers are seizing people from their homes, and even from churches, and in two cases gunning them down, while the Government pours forth a stream of invective, attempting to destroy the characters of victims of violence.

We look eastwards, where Russia’s relentless assault on a neighbouring country is entering its fifth year. We ponder our own country, and ask what our future may be. Our Scripture Readings today forbid us to be passive in the face of injustice, to shrug our shoulders and ignore it. We have MPs whom we can lobby: if your email inbox is like mine, you will be badgered daily by any number of organisations campaigning against this evil or that. Do you press “delete” as a matter of course, or do you ever consider whether some petitions are worth signing, some campaigns worth joining? Fifty years ago, it was a “given” that Catholics should be in the forefront of working for social justice. I wonder whether that is still the case.

There is more, however. The prophet goes on to speak about sharing our bread with the hungry, clothing the naked, sheltering the homeless poor. Does that ring any bells? To me, it recalls Our Lord’s description of the Last Judgement, when God, the King, will say to us “I was hungry and you fed me, naked and you clothed me, a stranger and you welcomed me—or you didn’t”.

I have a cousin and friend who, impelled by his faith, volunteers as a prison visitor, helps at a Salvation Army hostel, and gives people lifts to Mass. Not everyone has the time or temperament to do all those things, but all of us can do something.

Sometimes, when knocking on the doors in a parish, I would come across nominal Catholics who were on the parish register, but never darkened the doors of the church. Their stock defence was “I never do anybody any harm”. I was always tempted to reply, but never did, “Neither does the streetlamp on the corner. It actually does people some good. Do you?”

Speaking of lamps, we find the prophet speaking of those who act justly as having their light “break forth like the dawn”, whilst the psalmist declares that “a light rises in the darkness for the upright”. Our Lord Jesus Christ goes further, telling us that we are the light of the world, and that our light must shine before others. If not, we shall become like spoilt salt, fit only to be thrown out and trampled.

None of us can do everything, but all of us can and must do something.

4th Sunday Year A

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time 2026

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

Three words from today’s Readings strike me powerfully: they are “humble”, “blessed”, and “justice”. How many times do we encounter each of them?

In the passage from the prophet Zephaniah, we encounter “humble” twice, and “humility” once. “Justice” appears in its opposite, as we are told “they shall do no injustice” and also as “righteousness”.

Psalm 146 (145) provides two mentions of “justice” or “the just”, but also gives us “those who are bowed down” who could equally be described as “humble”, while St. Paul tells us that God chose the weak, the foolish, the low and despised. They too might be defined as “the humble”.

Finally, in the Gospel, we are given the Beatitudes, as Our Lord introduces those who are Blessed. Nine times we meet the word “Blessed” and twice we encounter dikaiosune, here translated as righteousness, but equally capable of being rendered as “justice”.

That amounts to eight references directly to humility or its equivalents, including the weak, the low, the foolish and despised; and six to justice. Add to that the categories of those who are named as blessed, all of whom might be classed as “humble”, and we have an impressive array. Are we entitled to claim that what God wants of us is humility, allied to justice, which together lead to blessedness?

I think that we are, but we need to tease out what these words mean. I have often pointed out that the word “humble”, drawn from the Latin “humilis”, has at its root another Latin word “humus”, meaning “soil” or “ground”. To be humble is to be grounded, to have one’s feet on the ground, to have a down to earth grasp of our own worth. There is no room in God’s Kingdom for arrogance, for big headedness, for an exalted notion about ourselves.

Yet both St. Paul, and Our Lord in the Beatitudes demand still more. To be truly humble, according to Paul, is to be at odds with the values of the world, to have very different standards. If we are to have the humility which brings blessedness, we must have values which lead to our being judged as foolish, weak, low and despised. We do not go looking for wealth, fame, accolades, domination or power. We model ourselves on someone who was humiliated and crucified.

Ruled out are the callousness and self-seeking which pursue profit at the expense of the well-being of others, personal enrichment rather than the common good, economic growth which exploits the planet, self-advancement which entails trampling on others. The so-called “gospel of prosperity” which claims that faithfulness to God will make us rich is a blasphemy.

One of the best things that the Bishops of England and Wales have ever done was to produce a document in preparation for the 1997 General Election entitled “The Common Good”, a title which speaks for itself. As I have mentioned before, it was immediately denounced by the then editor of The Times, a certain William Rees-Mogg, as “economically illiterate”. The bishops were judged to be foolish and weak, precisely how leaders of the Church should be perceived if St. Paul is to be believed, which I assume that he is.

Finally, what about justice? How much justice is there in our world? Or rather, how much injustice? The latter seems to increase week by week. Over the last few days, we have seen the Israeli government bulldoze a building belonging to the United Nations Refugee Agency, which has stood on the West Bank for decades, another killing of a civilian by what have been referred to as “storm troopers” in Minneapolis, followed by the immediate character assassination of the victim by government officials, and here at home a small but significant incident, of which I heard on Sunday.

A lady who was in receipt of Disability Benefit received a phone call from the DWP. “You have been reported as having been seen walking normally.”

“Yes, I had a really good day. I actually risked going out without my walking aid.”

Immediately, her benefit was cancelled. She was unable to pay her rent, so she was evicted, ending up in a YWCA hostel. This is far from being an uncommon story. I remember a similar incident years ago involving Tommy Smith, the former Liverpool footballer. He too was in receipt of Disability Benefit. He accepted an invitation to “kick off” a charity match. He hobbled onto the pitch, gave a fairly feeble kick to the ball, and hobbled off again. He too had his benefit cancelled. What price justice?

Do you, do I, have a hunger and thirst for justice? What are we doing about it? If the answer is “Nothing”, can we really expect the Lord to call us “Blessed”?

3rd Sunday Year A

3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time 2026

Isaiah 9: 1-4; Psalm 26 (27); 1Cor 10-13, 17; Matthew 4:12-17

In July 2008, I became the parish priest of the ancient rural parish of St. Thomas the Apostle, Claughton-on-Brock (pronounced “Clyton”) where the earliest record of the celebration of Mass dates from the 13th century, where adherence to the “Old Faith” was maintained throughout the centuries of persecution, and in which I have roots via my paternal grandmother, who grew up in a farmhouse built in 1680, a listed building with a second listed building in the garden in the form of a two seater privy (believe it or not). How many listed toilets are there in this country, I wonder?

One of the first things I was told upon arrival was “Nobody rushes in Claughton” a very sensible attitude which the rest of the world would do well to adopt, and all went without a hitch until a certain autumn afternoon. That was the occasion of my trekking up the lane to visit a couple whom I knew from a previous existence.

As I was leaving at the end of my visit, the lady of the house asked me “Have you a torch with you?” I was puzzled: why should I have a torch?

I discovered the answer as soon as I stepped outside. I had never lived in the country before. Our shop, where I grew up, was situated on the A6 in the Scotforth district of Lancaster, and my various parish appointments had been, thus far, in urban settings. I had never encountered the total blackness of a rural environment. The only street lamp is outside the entrance of the graveyard. Why the people there are in greater need of a light than the rest of us, I have no idea. Without the torch which was kindly lent to me, I should have fallen into the ditch within the first ten yards.

Came the following Candlemas, and I was delivering an Assembly in the Primary School. “What do you think was the hardest thing for me, coming to live in the country?” I asked. One or two tentative suggestions were made, but it was clear that the children couldn’t imagine anything difficult in rural living. Eventually, one lad, with an embarrassed giggle, proposed “the smell of the cow muck”. No. It was definitely the darkness, and only the darkness. Everything else was pure joy.

Light is something which we don’t miss until it is not there, and that is something which rarely happens to us townies. Hence, we may struggle to capture the full force of today’s First Reading, Psalm, and Gospel.

“The people which walked in darkness has seen a great light” says Isaiah. “Those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shone.” His hearers would have understood the importance, the power, of light. But what sort of light did he have in mind?

We find an answer to that in the Psalm, where we pray “The Lord is my light and my salvation”. Our Gospel passage takes that explanation further, as Matthew repeats Isaiah’s prophecy of dawning light, and then quotes the beginning of Jesus’ preaching, in the terms of the kerygma, the basic proclamation: “Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand”.

So the light takes the form of a spiritual enlightenment. The Kingdom, or Reign, of God is at hand, if only we have the will, the determination, and the gumption to look for it and to recognise it. To grasp it we need repentance, metanoia, a change of our basic outlook and orientation—a change of heart.

Fair enough, but it is still the case that we may need darkness if we are fully to appreciate light. This may be a darkness of personality, a bewilderment, a loss of direction, for some of us even a depression. On the other hand, or in addition, it may be a spiritual darkness.

One of the greatest exponents of spiritual enlightenment was St. John of the Cross, the mediaeval reformer of the Carmelite Order. He coined the phrases “the Night of the Senses” and “the Dark Night of the Soul”. The latter suggests that we may have to lose our sense of God’s presence in order to be given a new insight, new enlightenment. Our understanding of God is always inadequate, and we may have to be deprived of what we thought we knew of Him, that the light may burst upon us more fully. St, Therese of Lisieux and St. Teresa of Kolkota passed through these periods of intense darkness, as did, we may say, Our Lord Himself, when He cried out from the Cross “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” and, according to St. Mark, yielded up His spirit with a cry.

This was the Dark Night of the Soul which even God’s Son had to endure in order for the light of the Father’s countenance to shine fully upon Him. We too may go through the darkness, but we can be sure that a clearer, more dazzling light will shine.

2nd Sunday Year A

2nd Sunday in OT 2026

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

Right, can we settle this? Is this the final stage of the Epiphany, or not?

“Certainly not!” I hear you cry. “As we know, the first stage of the Epiphany is the showing forth of Jesus to the Gentiles, represented by the Wise Men. The second stage is His showing forth as the Beloved Son of the Father at His Baptism, while the third stage, as is made clear in the ancient and recent hymns, antiphons, and prayers, is His showing forth as God, by allowing His ‘Glory’ (an attribute of God) to be seen at the marriage feast at Cana.

“We don’t hear the account of the marriage feast this year. Furthermore, in the one year out of three that we do hear it, it is on the Second Sunday of Ordinary Time, celebrated in green vestments, with no mention of Epiphany.”

You are, of course, correct. Is it fair to say that the liturgists have made a pig’s breakfast of the calendar at this time of year? That sort of thing is not unknown. Fifteen years or so ago, ICEL came up with a perfectly adequate English translation of the prayers (including the Eucharistic Prayers) of the Mass, which came as close to the vernacular as possible, given that it was intended for the whole English-speaking world. This was duly submitted to Rome, which appointed another commission, under the leadership of the late Cardinal Pell, which rejected it, on the grounds that it wasn’t literal enough, and imposed instead the current translation, which does not resemble any vernacular anywhere. It strikes me as no coincidence that Cardinal Pell later became a bitter critic of Pope Francis.

We do not, then, have the third stage of Epiphany presented as such. AND YET, there appears to be a hankering after Epiphany in the widest sense. In the two years in which we don’t hear the account of Cana, we nevertheless have a form of “showing forth”. This year, it is the showing forth of Jesus as the Lamb of God. What is the significance of this?

It is a term used at every Mass, every day of every year, all over the world. We are so familiar with it that we hardly give it a thought. Yet it is earth-shattering in its implications.

The whole Bible is awash with lambs, sheep, and shepherds. “Oh Shepherd of Israel, hear us, you who lead Joseph’s flock” pleads one psalm, while another states that “we are His people, the sheep of His flock”. The prophets take the concept of lambs and sheep deeper and further, especially Deutero-Isaiah, who describes the Suffering Servant of the Lord as being “brought as a lamb to the slaughter” and adds that “as a sheep before its shearers is dumb, so He opens not His mouth”.

Sheep were slaughtered then, as now, as a matter of course, to provide food, but in Judaism, the killing and eating of lambs had, and has, a deeper significance, at the heart of the Jewish faith. You remember, of course, the instructions given to the Israelites in Egypt, for each household to kill a yearling lamb, and to sprinkle the blood on lintel and doorposts as a sign for the destroying angel to PASS OVER those houses, thus liberating the Chosen People both from death, and from slavery in Egypt.

Furthermore, the people were commanded to keep the Passover throughout their generations, a command which they continue to fulfil today, but which in Jesus’ time entailed a mass slaughter of lambs in the Temple courts. Consequently, in pointing out Jesus as the Lamb of God, John the Baptist is identifying Him not only as the Suffering Servant who is to be led to the slaughter, but also as the Paschal Lamb whose blood redeems the people throughout the ages from death and slavery. John makes this identification still more explicit by declaring that this Lamb “takes away the sin of the world”.

This brings us to the weekly question: “What are the implications for us?” They are mind boggling. Whenever the elements which have been consecrated at Mass are shown to the people, with the words “Behold the Lamb of God! Behold Him who takes away the sins of the world!”, we are, as a people, declaring that these elements, formerly and still physically bread and wine, are Jesus Himself, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity as the formula puts it. They are the Lamb who was slain, given to us as our food and drink, as He Himself promised in chapter 6 of St. John’s Gospel. Whenever the Sacred Host is displayed in the monstrance, or simply present in the tabernacle, we can say “Behold the Lamb of God” and genuflect in worship. You can’t beat it!

Baptism of the Lord

Baptism of the Lord  2026

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

“This is my Beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” Who is? “Don’t ask daft questions,” I hear you cry. “It’s obvious. It is Jesus Christ Our Lord, and this is the central part of the Epiphany, as He is SHOWN FORTH as the Beloved Son of the Father.”

“100% correct” I respond, “Or rather, 99%. Is there anyone else?” “Yes, of course”, you reply. “There are thee and me, because we have been baptised into Jesus, and therefore we too are beloved sons and daughters of the Father”.

“Spot on!” say I. “But what are the implications of that, apart from knowing that we are loved with the greatest love of all, which is huge in itself?”

“That is easy to answer”, comes your return of serve. “As St. Peter said in his sermon which we have just heard, because we have been baptised into Jesus, and anointed like Him ‘with the Holy Spirit and with power’ we too have to go about doing good ‘and healing all who are oppressed by the devil, because God [is with us]’”.

Right, so that is our gift, our privilege, and our task. We have been anointed as beloved children of God, and so we have the responsibility of loving and serving others, building the Kingdom to the best of our ability. Does that cover everything?

Well, essentially it does, but we still need to listen to the prophet known as Deutero-Isaiah (Second Isaiah) in order to fill in some of the details. There are words and phrases which occur and recur, which we must take to heart.

For instance, the prophet three times uses the word “justice”. Is there justice in our world, our country and our society, in our own actions, words and thoughts?

Certainly not in our world, we would have to admit. The gap between rich and poor is increasing, both in the world at large, and in our own country. Pope Leo recently denounced a situation in which billionaires, and even a trillionaire, are encouraged to thrive, whilst many go hungry.

Our government has slashed overseas aid, and the Leader of the Opposition is committed to slashing it still further, while the Reform Party wishes to abolish it altogether. Where is justice there? At home, the gap between rich and poor is increasing by leaps and bounds. When the Chancellor made a half-hearted effort in the recent budget to reduce it, she was denounced by opposition parties, and by the right-wing press. It seems that justice is not a priority for our politicians, who are responding to what they believe is the mood of the people. As sons and daughters baptised in the Lord, we have an obligation to demonstrate that our mood is very different.

Around the world, we see injustice prevailing in Europe, where Putin continues to seek control of Ukraine and other countries, and in the western hemisphere where tyranny is pursued by an American administration, many of whose members claim to be Catholic, whilst having no regard for the Scriptures, or for Catholic Social Teaching. Further afield, the Israeli government, along with Islamist groups such as Hamas, reject the entire concept of just and peaceful co-existence.

Within the Church, despite Deutero-Isaiah’s description of the Messiah, and therefore of His Church, as not breaking the bruised reed, or quenching the faintly burning wick, there is a mood of intolerance, frequently, it seems, among younger members of the clergy, who seek to lay heavy burdens on the anawim, the “poor of the Lord”. Jesus was baptised as the Beloved Son of the Father, and we have been baptised in Him. How well are we living our Baptism by working for justice and right?

2nd Sunday of Christmas

2nd Sunday of Christmas 2026

Sirach 24: 1-2, 8-12; Ephesians 1: 3-6, 15-18; John 1: 1-5, 9-14

Do you remember “the Last Gospel”? In the Tridentine Rite of Mass, with which some of us grew up, at the end of Mass the priest would turn to the people and proclaim “Ite, missa est”, from which (the word “Missa”) the Mass takes its name. Literally, it means “Go, she (presumably the Church—ecclesia) has been sent”.

However, we didn’t go. Instead, the priest moved to the “Gospel side” of the altar, and proclaimed the prologue to St. John’s Gospel, a shortened version of which we have just heard. Clearly, this had been tacked onto the Mass at some point in history—the liturgists could tell us when—presumably in response to some heresy which denied the divinity of Christ, or His two natures (divine and human) or something similar. It also serves as a reminder that what is sometimes described as “the traditional Latin Mass” was itself subject to change, and in its form was actually much further from the tradition of the early Church than the rite of Mass which we have today.

What is John doing when he gives us this, at first sight, somewhat abstract introduction to his Gospel? He is doing theology—literally, the study of God—which is one of his hallmarks. Specifically, he is putting flesh on the bones of the Christmas narratives of Matthew, and especially Luke, drawing out the inner meaning of the events which they describe.

From Matthew, we learn of a child descended from Abraham, via King David, who is conceived virginally by the Holy Spirit, born at Bethlehem, visited and worshipped by Gentile Wise Men who speak of him as “the King of the Jews”. Herod implies that He is the Messiah, the Christ, yet seeks to kill Him.

Luke gives us a fuller account. His genealogy, delayed until the beginning of the public ministry, traces Jesus’ family tree right back to Adam. He also describes events leading up to the birth of John the Baptist, whom he identifies as a blood relation of Jesus, and pictures for us the Annunciation and the other events which form the Joyful mysteries of the Rosary.

We find that Jesus is given His name through the angel Gabriel, and is proclaimed by the same angel as everlasting ruler of the House of Jacob, though He is also to be called “Son of God”. It is also through Luke that so many details of the birth and infancy of the child are presented to us.

So far, so powerful, but John’s prologue takes us further and deeper. Famously, he begins “in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God”. Thus, we have a being known as the Word, who is God and is co-eternal with God. Everything which exists is made through the Word, who is light and life.

We are then told that the Word has come into the world, and to a people, described as His own, who have rejected Him, though some have accepted Him, thus becoming children of God. How, though, has the Word come into the world? This is the theological climax of the whole Christmas story: Ho logos sarx egeneto—verbum caro factum est—THE WORD BECAME FLESH.

In those few words, the underlying meaning and significance of Matthew’s and Luke’s accounts are revealed, clarified, and set in context. The whole narrative of the angelic visits, the work of the Holy Spirit, the virginal conception, the birth of the child Jesus, the visits of shepherds and Wise Men amount to this one simple, yet earth-shattering reality, that God has become one of us, taking our human flesh in the person of His Word, becoming the man Jesus the Christ. Thus, the last, and vital piece of the jigsaw is provided by John.

Christmas Masses 2025

Christmas Night and Dawn 2025

Night Mass

Isaiah 9:2-7; Titus 2:11-14; Luke 2:1-14

In October 1959, my home parish welcomed a new parish priest. I was nine years old at the time, and five months into my long career as an altar server. By the time our new priest retired and left the parish, I had myself been a priest for thirteen years.

The priest in question had many good qualities, but patience was not among them. This lack showed up particularly during the great Feasts of the Church. I think that nerves were to blame: he was anxious to get things right, and consequently would work himself up into something of a cold fury. Holy Week was the worst time for us altar servers: no Holy Week was complete until Father had blown his top.

Christmas was a slightly different proposition. It wasn’t we servers who experienced his wrath, but the world in general. His homilies at Midnight Mass were notorious. I still have vivid memories of Christmas 1969, the year of the first moon landing, when US President Richard Nixon became the target of his rage.

Apparently, Tricky Dickie, as he was known to his fellow countrymen and women, had described the arrival of man on the moon as the greatest event since Creation. Admittedly, it was a fairly daft thing to say, but does anyone seriously expect politicians of any shape, size, or nation to talk sense? Apparently, Father had, and hurled darts of fire at the unwitting head of Mr. Nixon.

His real tour de force, though, came a few years later, when I was enjoying my Christmas break from the seminary. Rocking on his heels, a sure sign of an impending explosion, our priest announced, in a voice rising to a falsetto, “Christmas is NOT A TIME for eating until you are SICK, or DRINKING UNTIL YOU ARE STUPID !!” Oh, right! I am glad you told me that.

So we know what Christmas is not a time for. We might be tempted to add that it is not really a time for bellowing at the flock, but we will let that pass. Perhaps it would have been more helpful to explain what it IS a time for.

Both Isaiah and the angel tell us that it is a time for JOY. The prophet states this, then repeats it, then repeats it again. “You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its JOY; they REJOICE before you as with JOY at the harvest, as they are glad…”

The angel calls to the shepherds: “I bring you good news of great JOY, that will be for all the people”. His fellow angels reinforce the message with their chorus of praise: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom He is pleased”.

Have you got the message? Christmas is a time for joy. What is joy? It is not the same as happiness, which is a passing thing, something which HAPPens: happiness may depend on the weather, on the state of our digestion, on the form of our local team. Joy goes far deeper.

We may be UNhappy, we may be grieving, we may be depressed, but we may still have joy, because joy goes to the root of our being. Joy tells us that, despite everything, life is worth living, because ultimately God is in charge, and that He has come into our world, has taken on our human nature, with all its laughter and tears, all its triumphs and disasters, and because He has taken that nature in the child of Bethlehem, He will never be absent from the world.

Closely allied with joy is hope, as in the letter to Titus; hope, confident hope, that this God who is one of us, thanks to His Nativity in Bethlehem, will return in glory when all is made new. Life may be tough, but deep down we know that, as Mother Julian of Norwich, the great mediaeval English mystic wrote, “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”. Christ is born, God is with us—Emmanuel, and we have every reason for joy.

           Christmas Dawn Mass

Isaiah 62:11-12; Titus 3:4-7; Luke 2:15-20

Why shepherds? Why is the Good News of the human birth of Jesus, the Son of God, made known first to shepherds? After all, they weren’t considered to be particularly devout. Why were they chosen to be the first to hear the tidings of great joy? the first to encounter God in our human flesh?

I suppose that you could point out that they, at least, were awake and available to receive the message. That is more important than it may seem, because it raises a question for us. How awake am I to the presence of Christ? How open am I to receiving Him? This takes us back to the beginning of Advent, and that repeated refrain “Wake up! Stay awake!” Perhaps that is the first insight which the choice of the shepherds gives us.

Is there more to it than that? Well, the shepherds, despite carrying out an important job, were not highly regarded. We have heard, in the last few days, the Magnificat, Our Lady’s hymn of praise, which the Church prays every day at Evening Prayer (Vespers). This hymn tells us that God raises the lowly, and casts down the mighty. The adult Jesus, in His preaching and His prayers, would hammer home the same message. Are you and I humble of heart? Do we give special attention and care to the poor and the lowly?

Another thing: how often are shepherds mentioned in the Scriptures? More often than I could count, I would say. And how often is “Shepherd” used as a term for God? “The Lord is my shepherd” declares the most famous of all the Psalms: “O Shepherd of Israel, hear us” pleads another. And how much space does Jesus Himself devote to speaking of Himself as the Good Shepherd, who lays down His life for His sheep, who knows His own, and they know Him?

How conscious are we of the Good Shepherd’s care and sacrifice for us? How open are we to His desire to know us intimately and deeply? How eager are we to know Him? How much time and attention do we devote to him?

Taken together then, there is a whole raft of reasons why it was appropriate for shepherds to be the first recipients of the Good News. Having received that News, those tidings of great joy, what do they do? They hurry to look for Jesus. Having found Him, they spread the Good News which they have heard—“they made known the saying which had been told them concerning this child” says St. Luke. After that, they go back to work “glorifying and praising God”.

Does that present us with three tasks? Firstly, to look for Jesus: secondly, to make Him known: thirdly to glorify and praise God. In the evening Mass at Yealand, I hid the crib figure of the Lord, then sent the children to look for Him. I next put the question “Where do we find Jesus today?” and teased out the answer. [That is the plan. I am writing this in advance.] We find Him, don’t we, in His word proclaimed in the Scriptures, in the Sacrament and Sacrifice of His Body and Blood, in His abiding presence in the tabernacle, in other people, in the daily round.

How well do we make Him known, by the manner of our lives, by our words—not hitting people over the head with the Bible, but witnessing to Him when opportunity arises—by not hiding our identity as Catholic Christians? And do we glorify and praise God by joining with others, our fellow members of the Body of Christ, in prayer and worship, especially at Mass; and by giving time to Him in private prayer, going into our room and closing the door as He told us to? If we imitate the shepherds in these ways, our Christmas will bear fruit.

4th Sunday Advent

4th Sunday of Advent 2025

Isaiah 7:10-14; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-24

I am in “Do you remember?”  mode again today. Do you remember Flanders and Swann, a somewhat aristocratic duo who regaled us with comic songs through the 1950s and 60s, and into the 70s?

Always formally dressed in dinner suits, they would sit, the bespectacled Donald Swann at the piano, the large and heavily bearded Michael Flanders in a wheelchair as a result of adult polio, interspersing their songs with light comic patter. Their most famous ditty is probably the “Hippopotamus Song”, with its refrain “Mud, mud, glorious mud: nothing quite like it for cooling the blood”.

About ten years ago, I was given a double CD of their programmes, the collections bearing the titles “At the Drop of a Hat” and “At the Drop of Another Hat”. I received them with glee, anticipating a feast of entertainment; but having listened to them, I found myself thinking “Oh! Is that it?” Their humour hadn’t aged well, but I was mostly irritated by the concert hall audience who would laugh uproariously at every remark, however banal.

I mention them because one of their songs concerned “The Unsung Heroes of the World”. This had stuck in my mind when I first heard it around 1970, because one of these heroes was “The Football Referee” in whose number I counted myself, then at the lowest level. To me, however, the greatest unsung hero of all time is St. Joseph, who features prominently in today’s Gospel.

Do you know how many of St. Joseph’s words are quoted in the Gospels? Not a single one, yet he played such an important role in the Incarnation, the coming in flesh of the Son of God, as the protector and spouse of the Blessed Virgin, and the foster father of God-the-Son-become-man.

Joseph is the archetype of the strong, silent man, seen but not heard, yet exercising considerable influence by his mere presence. He is harried from pillar to post by angels, who are constantly invading his dreams with their commands: “Do this. Do that. Take Mary as your wife. Go here. Go there. Take the Child and His mother.” I can almost imagine that he would be afraid to go to sleep, frightened of what he might be told to do next. In his dreaming, he is the New Testament fulfilment of another Joseph, his ancestor the patriarch, the son of Jacob, “the man of dreams”, who by his obedience rescued his tribe from famine, and drew them into Egypt, thus furthering God’s plan for His people.

This latter-day Joseph, another man of dreams, plays a not insignificant role in the rescue of the whole human race, as he fosters, protects, and brings up the Saviour of the world. He is enabled to do this by his faith, which justifies him, as it justified another ancestor, the patriarch Abraham.

The new translation, not for the only time, corrects a mistranslation from the Jerusalem Bible. In recounting Joseph’s initial resolution to renounce his claim to Mary, but to do it quietly, the Jerusalem Bible describes him as “a man of honour”. This completely misses the point. The Greek original has dikaios, which means “just”. What makes someone just? “Faith” says St. Paul. Thus, this singe word dikaios carries a weight of meaning: Joseph is just, because he has faith, and the phrase “of honour” fails to convey the significance of the word.

Joseph demonstrates his faith by his acceptance of the angel’s message, and his subsequent obedience to every demand which the heavenly visitors make. Imagine his feelings at this time: his hopes of a happy marriage appear to have been dashed; his fiancée is seemingly not the good and responsible girl of his imagination. Delight and relief, no doubt, upon learning that his faith in her was, after all both justified and justifying, but a need to come to terms with the reality that this is not to be a normal, consummated marriage, and that he must undertake the responsibility of bringing up a child who owns fatherhood in God alone.

Perhaps the most poignant moment for Joseph was the finding of the twelve year old Jesus in the Temple. Flooded with relief and joy at the successful outcome of the three day search, and standing helplessly by during the exchange between the lad and his mother, Joseph receives a harsh reminder of his status when the former speaks of being busy with “the things of my Father” by which he effectively states “Sorry, Dad, you are not my Father and can never have first place among my responsibilities”.

On the other hand, we are told that Jesus was obedient to both Mary and Joseph, and the bond between the growing youth and his foster father was underlined when Jesus was spoken of as “the carpenter’s son”. Indeed, in all of this, Joseph showed himself to be the greatest unsung hero of them all. During your Christmas celebrations, when the feast arrives, don’t forget to reserve a special “thank you” for him.

.

2nd Sunday Advent Year A

2nd Sunday of Advent 2025

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

Where is the Kingdom (the Reign) of God? Isaiah prophesies it, but where is it? Bells ring when we hear the first half of today’s prophecy. Jesus is the shoot from the stump of Jesse, on whom the Spirit of the Lord rests: thus, we know that God’s reign has begun.

John the Baptist bears witness to that in the Gospel. Jesus is the one about whom John preaches, the one who comes after John, the one who will “baptise with the Holy Spirit and fire”.

To that extent, John’s assertion is the fulfilment of Isaiah’s prophecy, which is why the Gospel writers are so keen to stress Jesus’ membership of David’s line, as David was the son of Jesse. Both Matthew and Luke include a genealogy, which differ from each other, but which agree in insisting upon that descent from David, however questionable it may appear.

We can say then that the testimonies of Isaiah and the Baptist agree, and that the Kingdom is here, at least in embryo, but that it is far from being fully realised. Where is that universal harmony described in the second half of the Isaiah passage? Do we see lions opting for a vegetarian diet? Are lambs and wolves the best of pals? Not as far as I am aware: animals continue to prey on one another, and the most violent predator of all is man, the summit of God’s creation, whose prey is so often his fellow human beings.

Look around the world as it is, a quarter of the way through the twenty first century since the First Coming of Jesus inaugurated the Reign of God, and more than a century after the “War to end war”. Increasingly, the world is soaked in blood, the land of Jesus providing one of the most brutal examples.

In his journey from Turkey to Lebanon, Pope Leo insisted on a two-state solution as the only possible way forward for Israel/Palestine. Will Netanyahu and the extremists in his cabinet agree to that? They may, if Trump bullies them into it, but what is the likelihood of that? Jews, Christians, and Muslims continue to bicker over the Holy Places, and ethnic cleansing looms large. The Kingdom cannot be fully realised without genuine harmony in that most holy place of the earth.

Meanwhile, war rages in Sudan, and threatens to break out again in South Sudan, while other parts of Africa are involved in spasmodic conflicts and the Northern Hemisphere looks the other way, with governments, including our own, slashing Overseas Aid and opposition parties threatening to go further because, according to the Leader of the Opposition, “it is not a priority for voters”. Shame on the Government, shame on the Opposition, shame on voters. No sign of the Kingdom there!

In Europe, Putin plays with the notion of peace, whilst maintaining his determination to control Ukraine as a first step towards re-creating the Soviet Empire and threatening the West; and the supposed “free world” has become the plaything of a seemingly deranged would-be dictator. Even the earth itself is threatened with destruction by its inhabitants who, in their acquisitive greed, foul their own nests to say nothing of the “hole of the cobra”: so much for the “living in harmony” which St. Paul describes as a pre-requisite of the Kingdom.

What is the answer? How can the Kingdom which is, after all, what Jesus preached, be brought to fulfilment? John the Baptist offers one word: repentance. What does that mean?

You are probably fed up by now of being told that “repentance” is a translation of the Greek metanoia which is literally a fundamental re-orientation, often expressed as a “change of heart”. From where will that change of heart come? It can come only as a gift from God, from the Spirit of the Lord who rested on Jesus, and with whom Jesus baptises us.

Where will it begin? It must begin with us who have been baptised. We must live according to the Spirit—in other words, in accordance with the gifts of our baptism. If WE do not live in that change of heart, there is no hope for the world. If, on the other hand, we become attuned to that Spirit who lives within us, if we live in harmony with others, if we become people of deeper prayer, at peace with ourselves, with God, with other people, and with the whole of creation, then the Kingdom will grow, will spread, and we may begin to hope that its fullness may be brought ever closer. The Kingdom, like charity, and measles, begins at home, but does not end there.

1st Sunday Advent Year A

First Sunday of Advent 2025

Isaiah 2:1-5; Romans 13:11-14; Matthew 24: 37-44

Those of you of a certain age may remember the Billy Cotton Band Show, which was broadcast on the BBC Light Programme early on Sunday afternoons through most of the 1950s and 60s. After “Two Way Family Favourites” a request programme for members of the armed forces serving overseas, and the News, there would be a bellow of WAKEY! WAKEY! followed by the Billy Cotton theme tune.

That shouted WAKEY! WAKEY!” was Billy Cotton’s trade mark. It could also be the trademark of the beginning of Advent. Today we have St. Paul telling the Christians of Rome that “the hour has come for you to wake from sleep” and Our Lord urging us to “Stay awake!” (By the way, you also have to give up orgies and drunkenness. Sorry about that!)

Why this emphasis on wakefulness? Because “the Son of Man is coming at an hour you do not expect”. What does that mean? Isn’t Advent a time to prepare for Christmas? Well, up to a point. The emphasis on the First Coming of God the Son at the First Christmas doesn’t really begin until 17th December. Until then, there is more focus on His Second Coming at the end of time, which we await, and for which we must prepare; and still more on His present coming, which we are called to recognise, but which will elude us if we are not awake.

Today’s Gospel may strike us as somewhat confusing. Is it talking about the end of time? Apparently not, because some people will be left alive: twice we are told “One will be taken, one left”. What then is it talking about? It is preparing its immediate hearers for two comings of the Son of Man, the glorified Christ. There will be His coming in the events of 70AD, when the Jewish Revolt against their Roman rulers will be ruthlessly crushed, and the Temple destroyed. Some people will survive that. Yet there will also be His constant coming in the events, the circumstances, the people of every day. Our response to that constant coming will dictate our outcome at His final return as our judge.

This is where wakefulness comes in. If we are not awake and alert, we shall never notice the Christ who comes to us every day of our lives. This is the Christ who will say at the Last Judgement “Whatever you did to the least of mine, you did to me”. Are you alert enough to recognise Christ in every person that you encounter? The faces around you in church—each of them is the face of Christ. The people you encounter in the street—the good, the bad, and the ugly—each of them is Christ for you.

What about your experiences today? Will you be sufficiently awake to recognise Christ in each of them, to see each of them as an opportunity to grow, to be renewed, to be drawn closer to Christ? And your prayer—will you have the courage to be still in the presence of God, to avoid the temptation to fill your prayer time with endless talk, which may prevent God from speaking to your heart? Will you give ANY time to prayer today? If not, your spiritual sense will be lulled into sleep, and at the Last Judgement you or I may find ourselves asking “When was that, Lord? When did we see you and not recognise or serve you?”

These are questions for the whole of Advent—indeed for the whole of our lives. What is required of us is wakefulness, rather than activity, alertness rather than busyness, openness, not only to the God who HAS come, but to the God who WILL come at the end of time, and who DOES come, here and now, today.

And as we are alert to this God, let us also have one eye on the prophet Isaiah, the prophet par excellence of Advent, who will bring us, each weekday, in the First Reading at Mass, a prophecy of the Kingdom, which we will see, in the Gospel, fulfilled in the person of Jesus, though not yet in its fullness, for Advent is the season of the Kingdom, of the “already” and the “not yet”. The Kingdom is among us, though not yet in its glory, the ultimate sign of this being the Eucharist, the Blessed Sacrament, which IS Jesus, but not yet in the fullness of His Kingdom, His Reign.

Today Isaiah sees Mount Sion, Jerusalem, as the focus of peace for the world. Even the most cursory glance at the News will tell us that this is far from being currently the case, yet the seeds are there, which we must nourish with our prayer, and with our own justice and peacefulness. If we, and the world, are awake, there are opportunities to be seized, both in Jerusalem and in our own lives, in order that Advent may be a living reality. So WAKEY! WAKEY! and STAY AWAKE!

Christ the King Year C

Christ the King 2025

2 Samuel 5:1-3; Colossians 1:12-20; Luke 23:35-43

I have to begin with a confession: I struggle with this Feast. Perhaps that is no bad thing. Jacob wrestled with the angel, and sometimes God sets us puzzles through which we deepen our faith and understanding, so I don’t regret this particular struggle: perhaps it will prove beneficial. So, without more ado….

  Forty five years ago this weekend I took a football team from Upholland College, where I was a member of staff, to Ushaw College, where I had trained for the priesthood. The principal celebrant at Sunday Mass was a Zimbabwean priest who began his homily by explaining that he found the concept of Christ the King a difficult one to grasp, coming as he did from a socialist republic. (This was before President Mugabe in Zimbabwe “went rogue” and established a dictatorship in all but name.) Father went on to claim that the only kings with whom he was familiar were Old King Cole, and Elvis.

Most of the world is in a similar situation. Very few kings remain, and those who do tend to have little or no power, though in our own case we have to admit that at least our two most recent constitutional monarchs, as they are known, namely Elizabeth II and Charles III, have shown considerable wisdom in national and international affairs—indeed, rather more than a succession of elected politicians.

Nonetheless, this feast, established one hundred years ago this year by Pope Pius XI, is something of an anachronism. It was established in the context of a particular political situation, the claim of Soviet communism to command absolute obedience: the Pope, by instituting the Feast of Christ the King, was asserting that Christ alone can make such a demand. It isn’t even the case that it has always been seen as providing an end to the liturgical year; some of you will remember when it was celebrated on the last Sunday in October. It is a liturgical sore thumb, and a movable thumb at that.

To be fair to the liturgists, they have done their best to move away from the triumphalism which originally marked this feast, by emphasising the role of Jesus as a suffering king, a martyred king. In one year out of three, we hear Matthew’s account of Jesus’ role at the Last Judgement, separating sheep from goats, but in the other two years, the focus is on the Passion of Christ. Last year, we heard John’s account of the interrogation of Jesus by Pilate: this year, He is already hanging on the Cross, subjected to the mockery of the crowds, the soldiers, and even one of his fellow-sufferers.

Over His head is a title which is itself a form of mockery—the King of the Jews. We are used to seeing this title represented by its Latin initials, INRI--Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum. Luke presents it in Greek, while John states that it was written in Hebrew, Latin, and Greek, presumably to reach as wide a spectatorship as possible.

It is an insult to Our Lord Himself, mocking Him for His supposed claims. Still more is it an insult to the Jewish people. Firstly, it implies that a crucified vagabond is the sort of king that the Jews might produce. More seriously, it is a blasphemy. There had been no kings in Judaism since the Exile to Babylon more than half a millennium before. For the Jews, God was, and is, their only king. Admittedly, Herod the Great had used the term, but he was a puppet of the Romans, and his claim to kingship had increased the hostility of devout Jews towards him. After his death, the Romans had divided his kingdom among three of his sons, two of whom were also called Herod. They were not accorded the title of “king”.

Thus, today’s feast provides a stark reminder that the kingship of Christ confers no earthly glory, and that this is no triumphal occasion. Those who will enter His Kingdom are those who share in His crucifixion. He is a king whose earthly throne was a cross, whose crown was made of thorns, whose sceptre was a reed, whose sole courtier was a crucified criminal. Only on those terms does this feast have any meaning or relevance, and I am far from sure that this is universally grasped. Hence, I can’t help feeling that little would be lost if it were to be quietly removed from the calendar. Unless this happens, it is important that we try to penetrate its deeper meaning.