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.

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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.

Week 33 Year C

33rd Sunday 2025

Malachi 4:1-2a; 2Thess 3:7-12; Luke 21:5-19

The year is dying, and so are we. A fortnight from now, the Church will begin a new year with the First Sunday of Advent: you and I may not pop our clogs so soon, but then again we may. None of us is guaranteed to see tomorrow, let alone a new year, whether in the calendar of the Church or of the world.

Do you remember the Beatles’ song “When I’m 64”? More to the point, do you recall when you first heard it, when it seemed to you, and no doubt to the Beatles, to refer to some unimaginably distant date in the future? How does it strike you now, when for many of us, 64 is rapidly disappearing in the rear-view mirror.

At this time of year, the Church always reminds us, in the liturgy, that we are not built to last: we have built in obsolescence. Far from frightening us, though, this should encourage us. The prophet Malachi speaks of the Day of the Lord, which will bring the destruction of evil, but he then goes on to say “But for you who fear my name, the Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in its wings”. There will be an end to our lives in this world—indeed to the world itself—but we were created not for this world only, but for eternity. The Day of the Lord will be for us a new beginning, the fulfilment of what we were created and called to be.

St. Paul too reminds us of this, but reminds us too that we must prepare for that fulfilment by the way in which we live our lives in this world. The new translation neatly captures a pun which Paul makes: meden ergazomenous alla periergazomenous—“not busy at work but busybodies”. Nice one! Even if we are not as young as we were in the days of the Beatles, we still have our responsibilities as others have theirs. God’s call is still new for us every morning: it may be different in degree from the call which He gave us in the 1960s, but it is still a call to live and move and have our being in Him as it was then.

Our Lord too reminds us that nothing lasts. Today’s Gospel may strike us as confusing, because it is warning of two different endings. There will be the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple, and the end of the order of things with which the Jewish people have been familiar; but this will be a preparation for the end of all things, which will happen who-knows-when?

Although the Temple was the focal point of the faith of the Jewish people, and seemed indestructible, it would be destroyed by the Romans in the course of the Jewish Revolt in AD 70, yet the people and the faith would survive. There would be, there is, and there will be, persecution of Christians, in which many will die, as so many Jews have died in persecutions through the ages, but the faith will survive.

What remains of the Jerusalem Temple today? Nothing but the Western, or Wailing, Wall. How much of our Christian heritage has been destroyed? Yet both Jews and Christians survive. As Jesus told His hearers, “The end will not be at once”.

Yet there will be an end. We hear of wars and tumults every day: earthquakes, famines, and pestilences are regular occurrences. Tsunamis, bush fires, destructive storms and floods, many of them the result of careless or selfish human activities, may be seen as “terrors and great signs from heaven”. They bring death and destruction to many, and they are reminders of our frailty and of the frailty of our world.

Amidst all of this, says Jesus, “not a hair of your head will perish. By your endurance, you will gain your lives.” How can that be when, as He has already declared, “some of you will be put to death”?

Are there not two lives and two deaths? Our lives on earth will be ended by death, but we were created for eternal life. And as there is death of the body—temporal death—there is a possibility of death of the soul—eternal death. Our earthly lives must be lived in such a way, in faith, hope, and love, that we are spared the second death, and taken up into the second life. The signs of mortality among which we live—not least the death of the year—should remind us to live each day in the light of eternity, committed to the love of God and of our neighbour.

Dedication of the Lateran Basilica 2025 (Replacing 32nd Sunday)

Dedication of the Lateran Basilica 2025 (Replacing 32nd Sunday)

Ezekiel 47: 1-2, 8-12; 1 Cor 3: 9-11, 16-17; John 2:13-22

Who was St. John Lateran? That was a question which troubled me as a child, and I was probably an adult before I discovered the answer: he was no one; he didn’t exist. The Basilica of St. John Lateran is actually the church—indeed the Cathedral—of St. John on the Lateran Hill, one of the seven hills of Rome. It is regarded as the mother of all churches because it is the Cathedral of the Pope as Bishop of Rome, and hence the focus of unity for the whole Church.

Just as the whole month of November can be regarded as one great Feast of the Communion of Saints, beginning, as it does, with the Feasts of All Saints and All Souls, and thus encompassing all who have gone before us, so today’s Feast celebrates our communion with the whole Church on earth, in communion with the Pope, the successor of St. Peter, the visible head of the Church on earth. Jesus is the actual head of the Church, the true Temple, replacing the Jerusalem Temple, but He has left us visible signs: the Pope as a human sign of unity and communion; and church buildings, especially the Lateran, as reminders of His, and our own, role as Temples of the Holy Spirit.

Hence, today’s Feast continues that November theme of communion, union, and unity, with special emphasis on the role of Peter and his successors. Like the whole of God’s people, Popes come in different shapes and sizes, and vary in quality. Some have been great saints; some have been great sinners, bringing the Church into disrepute and so contributing to schisms in the Church, great wounds in the Body of Christ, rents in what should be the seamless garment of the Church. Probably, most have been similar to the rest of us, a mixture of the good and the bad, and occasionally the ugly, men subject to weakness, yet burdened with the task of carrying on their shoulders not only the whole Church, but even the whole world.

Stalin is alleged to have asked contemptuously “How many divisions has the Pope?”. The answer would have shocked him. The Pope’s physical army may consist only of the ceremonial Swiss Guard, but his followers are counted in billions, and his influence permeates the globe, outlasting the power of “Uncle Joe” and all his battalions. Spiritually and morally, nobody has the potential to reach and to affect so much of the world as does the wearer of the Shoes of the Fisherman.

It is remarkable that in recent years two blockbuster films involving famous actors have had the Papacy as their focus. Apparently the future Pope Leo XIV watched the film “Conclave” in order to gain some idea of the role he would have to undertake as a cardinal-elector, while “The Two Popes” imagined the sort of relationship which may, or may not, have existed between his two immediate predecessors, Benedict and Francis.

Like many of you, I have lived in the Church under the leadership of eight Popes: Pius XII, John XXIII, Paul VI, John Paul I, John Paul II, Bendict XVI, Francis, and Leo XIV, four of them Italians, two from other European countries, and one each from South and North America. That sentence contains a number of elements which would have been unthinkable to most Catholics until they happened, reminding us that God’s ways are not our ways; that the Holy Spirit blows where it will.

Who would have expected the smiling Pope John Paul I to die a little over a month after taking office? Who, after 450 years (I think) of an unbroken run of Italians, would have expected four successive non-Italians? The author Morris West, in his 60s novel “The Shoes of the Fisherman”, may have envisaged a Pope from behind the Iron Curtain, but did anyone expect it to happen in reality? A Pole followed by a German within 60 years of the end of the Second World War would also have seemed improbable. No one would have expected the abdication of Benedict XVI, or the election of a Pope from a different continent. I am sure, also, that I was far from being the only person to rule out mentally a Pope from the United States because of that country’s role on the world stage. Candidates from Asia and sub-Saharan Africa are now routinely mentioned as likely Popes: surely that is only a matter of time.

What has all this to do with today’s Feast? Whatever the shape, size, colour or temperament of a future Pope, he will be the Bishop of Rome, with St. John Lateran as his Cathedral. He—will it always be “he” or might the Holy Spirit spring another seemingly impossible surprise?—will be called by God to build the Temple which is the Body of Christ on earth, while carrying the Cross and leading God’s people on their pilgrim journey. Pray for him, for Pope Leo XIV today, for his successors in time to come, and for his predecessors—the good, the bad, and even the ugly.

All Saints

All Saints 2025

Apocalypse 7:2-4, 9-14; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12

The Feast of All Saints 1971 gave me my first taste of seminary liturgy at its almost best. Not quite all the stops were pulled out—that was reserved for the Easter Vigil—but it was highly impressive nonetheless. Actually, I had been impressed by my first experience of Mass in Ushaw, when I had made a sort of exploratory visit during the previous Lent. At quarter past seven on a weekday morning, the college clock had chimed, the organ had struck up, and a hundred and twenty-something male voices had belted out an opening hymn. It struck me that a place where people sang enthusiastically at that time of the morning had something going for it.

Since then, I had become familiar with Solemn High Mass each Sunday morning, with its dignified entry procession, antiphonal singing between schola and church, and enough smells and bells ((though more of the former than the latter) to set the cherubim and seraphim jigging in the heavenly choir. A Feast Day though, was something else.

During the 1980s, “celebration” was to become a buzz word. Every Mass was announced as a “celebration”, usually by priests who would then produce the most mind-numbingly dull liturgy imaginable. On that long-ago First of November, however, I discovered something of what the word really meant.

It wasn’t just the Mass: the whole day was kept joyously. There were no lectures, there was a special meal, and the afternoon was free to do whatever one wished. On that day, I discovered how our forefathers and foremothers in the faith had celebrated Feasts.

Growing up in the 50s and 60s, I--and I suspect, many of you—had experienced Feasts as rather grim affairs, especially if they were Holy Days (or Holidays) of Obligation. The clue should have lain in that word “holiday”. A “holiday” was originally a Holy Day, on which people were free from work to attend Mass and to enjoy themselves in honour of some religious occasion, or some favourite saint; and such days were frequent in Catholic Europe.

Much of this came to an end with the Reformation. Saints’ days were abolished, and all that remained, especially on the island of Great Britain, was a dour Sabbath, a day not for recreation or enjoyment, but for reading the Bible, all punctuated by frequent visits to church to hear long sermons largely devoted to the topics of sin and damnation.

Those parts of the continent which resisted the Reformation fared better. Hilaire Belloc, whose view of European Catholicism was admittedly somewhat romanticised, expressed it in various ditties. The one which sticks in my mind runs “Wherever a Catholic sun doth shine, there’s always laughter and good red wine. At least I’ve always found it so: Benedicamus Domino”.

On this island, those Catholics who survived, and who gradually were enabled to emerge from hiding, kept the saints’ days, but without the freedom from labour which had previously marked them. Now, as victims of the “Protestant work ethic”, Catholics found that the emphasis was no longer on “holiday” but on “obligation”. It became a matter of “fitting Mass in” wherever one could, before or (later) after work, or during the dinner hour, with the priest tending to hurry Mass through, conscious that the majority of the congregation had to be away quickly, to begin or to return to work.

So, through no fault of people’s own, Holy Days became a matter of duty, not celebration, with the laity forced to clockwatch through Mass, whilst the priest had to celebrate Mass shorn of all the “trimmings”, probably more frequently even than on a Sunday, in an attempt to meet people’s needs. What we have now is practically the reversal of the original concept of a Feast Day.

What is the answer? I do not know. Many years ago, a priest whom I used to help out on a Sunday, and who was far from being a radical or a revolutionary, used to maintain that, if there was no holiday, there could be no obligation. I can understand the logic of that.

This year, and today, however, for most people, with this Feast falling on a Sunday, there is an opportunity to celebrate as we should. And it is a Feast worth celebrating, as we rejoice in all those fellow-members of the Body of Christ who have gone before us and who dwell eternally in the presence of Christ, and as we prepare for a day and a month in which we devote ourselves to supporting those for whom the process of perfection is still a work in progress. Today, follow the injunction of the prophet Ezra: “Eat the fat, and drink the sweet wine”. A joyous Feast to one and all.

30th Sunday Year C

30th Sunday 2025

Sirach 35:15-17, 20-22; 2Tim 4;6-8, 16-18; Luke 18:9-14

I am going to confuse you even more than usual this week, as I am going to focus less on the Gospel than on the First Reading. The latter is taken from the Book of Sirach, also known as Ecclesiasticus, a title with which you may be more familiar. My reason is that Sirach is writing primarily about justice which, incidentally, features also in Our Lord’s explanation of the Gospel parable.

Bishop Swarbrick’s (the Bishop of Lancaster) motto is borrowed from St. John Henry Newman, and reads in English “Holiness before peace:” in other words, “Let me be concerned with doing God’s will, rather than with being comfortable”. I would propose an appendix to the Bishop’s motto, which would read “Justice before peace”.

Peace is a weasel word, covering a multitude of sins. When people talk about or pray for peace, they are sometimes asking simply to be left alone, not to be disturbed. We do not like to be disturbed, but sometimes it is necessary. From time to time, the status quo needs to be challenged, in our own lives, in the Church, in the world.

I suspect that not many of you will have read Tacitus’s “Agricola” recently, though, for all I know, it may be discussed endlessly in Warton, the Yealands, Carnforth, and Silverdale. I have never read it from choice, but it was a set book for Latin A-level in 1967, so I had to study it avidly at that time. You may be aware that “agricola” is the Latin word for farmer, but in this case it is a man’s name. Cnaeus Julius Agricola was the Roman Governor of Britain for six years during the First Century AD, and his career was described by Tacitus, his son-in-law.

One quotation from the book sticks in my mind: “They make a desert and call it peace”—“solitudinem faciunt et pacem appellant”. It is put by the author into the mouth of a British chieftain, who is denouncing the Pax Romana, the “Roman peace” which the conquering Romans claim to have established throughout their Empire. This chieftain claims that what the Romans call peace is actually subjugation.

A genuine approach to peace was spelt out by Pope St Paul VI in his 1975 exhortation “Evangelii nuntiandi”. The Pope wrote “If you want peace, work for justice,” insisting, like that Briton long ago, that peace without justice is no peace at all.

Let us look around our contemporary world. Politicians are speaking about peace in Israel/Palestine. What we have is a temporary ceasefire, which has already been violated. Even if it holds, can we really speak in terms of peace when Hamas, whose murderous raid two years ago was evil beyond words, seeks the destruction of Israel? When Israel, having reduced Gaza to ruins, reserves the right to bomb and shell indiscriminately what remains? When ethnic cleansing continues unchecked on the West Bank of the River Jordan?

What about Ukraine? (Not THE Ukraine, by the way, which Ukrainians themselves reject as being a description of their former status as a puppet state under Russian control.) If the guns fall silent now, if the drones and missiles stop wreaking havoc, will that be peace, while Russia holds swathes of Ukrainian territory, where it is imposing Russian language and culture, and delivering a Russian version of recent history? “They make a desert, and call it peace.” “If you want peace, work for justice.”

In our own country, does justice hold sway in all aspects of society? If not, can we truly speak of peace? What can you and I do? Let us pray always for “peace founded on justice”, or for “a just and lasting peace”, for without justice, there can be no peace. Let us pester politicians to seek justice for all people at home and abroad; let us not be selfish when we vote, but rather seek to establish just government; though it isn’t easy, at present, to establish which party, if any, will achieve or even desire that; let us make sure that we ourselves always act justly, and that we put holiness before the comfort of an illusory peace.

29th Sunday Year C

29th Sunday 2025

Exodus 17: 8-13; 2Tim 3:14-4:2; Luke 18: 1-8

Perseverance—are you good at it? Do you have stickability? I ask because perseverance seems to lie at the heart of all our readings today. Moses perseveres in keeping his arms raised, with the help of Aaron and Hur, throughout the day, to enable the Israelites to defeat the Amalekites. Timothy is urged to persevere in studying the scriptures, in preaching and in teaching. Jesus tells the parable of the importunate widow and the unjust judge to encourage us to persevere in prayer, and ends by asking “Nevertheless, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”

I have a feeling that perseverance is in short supply today. That isn’t entirely people’s fault: it has much to do with the pace of change in our world. There are few, if any, jobs for life in our society. At one time, well within living memory, young people would begin a job or an apprenticeship upon leaving school, and remain in that same job until the end of their working life.

Generations would work in the same mill or factory, go down the same pit, sit in the same office. Around here, if your grandfather had worked at Storey’s or Williamson’s, so might your father, and so, in your turn, might you. Now Storey’s, Williamson’s, Lansil, Nelson’s Silk, Nelson’s Acetate, Gillow’s, have all vanished without trace, though some of their buildings have remained, either to be converted into small units, or to moulder away.

When I was in Sixth Form, I accompanied my father on a day trip to York arranged by the Lancaster and Morecambe Retail Confectioners, for a tour of the huge Rowntree’s factory, in the course of which we also met representatives of Rowntrees’ rivals, Terry’s of York. Rowntree’s and Terry’s are now names from the past, their factories, which once employed thousands, largely demolished. Their workers would, no doubt, have happily persevered in their jobs, as would steelworkers, dockers, carmakers, all manner of people in manufacturing, but those jobs no longer exist. Now even university staff face an uncertain future.

What about relationships? Do we find perseverance there? I would readily admit that, in the past, people—especially women—persevered in abusive marriages when it would have been better to leave in spite of financial difficulties or social stigma. Even taking such cases into account, it is difficult to avoid the conclusion that there is sometimes an unwillingness to persevere in the face of difficulties which may be surmountable.

There is a similar situation in the priesthood and religious life. Here, I have to admit that I am hardly  a shining example of perseverance. Four times I have had to resign appointments because of mental breakdown, though, by the grace of God, I have managed to cling on to priesthood itself.

Similarly, in matters of faith and the practice of faith, we see a reluctance to persevere. You who are here are something of a faithful remnant: so many of your contemporaries are nowhere to be seen. Forty years ago, my then parish priest commented “When people left the Church, they used to storm out in anger because of something which had happened (which may still be the case) but now they just tend to drift away”.

In more recent years, the child abuse scandals have contributed, but there are at least a couple of other factors. The Sunday Trading Laws and the tendency for children’s and youth football leagues to hold their fixtures on a Sunday morning have played their part. Even among practising Catholics, there may be a lack of perseverance in daily prayer, which can lead to a disconnect between what happens in church on a Sunday, and their life during the rest of the week.

So to Our Lord’s question “When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” Neither you nor I know the answer to that question, but we are aware that there is a widespread loss of even the notion of God. Only last week, I came across a Youtube post of Stevie Winwood singing that beautiful Easter hymn, translated from the French, “Now the green blade riseth”. Many of you will remember Stevie Winwood as the lead singer of the Spencer Davis Group, and will recall him belting out “Keep on Running” a song which has stood the test of time, as a teenager in early 1966. He is now 77 years old, and gives to “Now the Green Blade” a reverent and gentle treatment.

Before, in dismay, I stopped reading them, I found that all the comments on Mr. Winwood’s performance missed the point completely. People saw the hymn as praise of the environment, as an ode to nature, as reproducing the myth of John Barleycorn. Although the reference to the Resurrection of the Christ is as specific as can be, people simply failed to notice or to understand it.

“When the Son of Man comes, will He find faith on earth?” I do not know. Let us at least ensure that we play our part by our perseverance in prayer, in reception of the sacraments, in proclaiming the Gospel by word and example, whatever difficulties we may face.

28th Sunday Year C

28th Sunday 2025

2Kings 5:14-17; 2Tim 2:8-13; Luke 17:11-19

Do children still read “The Black Arrow” by Robert Louis Stevenson? I suspect not, as there is so much recent children’s literature available. I recall reading “The Black Arrow” at the very time that a serialisation of it appeared on children’s television, and I can still feel the horror which gripped me as the supposed leper, hooded and cloaked and ringing his bell to keep people away, suddenly turned to chase the young hero and heroine. I suspect that the episode ended there, leaving us on tenterhooks until the following week.

In the end, this turned out to be no leper, but Sir Daniel Brackley, later to be revealed as the villain, in disguise, but it showed the deep fear of leprosy which persisted until recent times. That fear was justified: leprosy is highly contagious, and you may remember that St. Damian of Molokai, whose story I also learned in Primary School, and whom RL Stevenson greatly admired, himself contracted leprosy from those whom he was nursing.

One of the great curses of leprosy was the isolation to which it gave rise. Lepers had to live apart, avoiding all contact with society. For Jewish lepers in biblical times there was the added handicap of being ritually unclean, barred from the religious life of the community.

People would therefore go to great lengths in search of a cure. Naaman, whose leprosy must have been less severe at this stage, as he was an army commander and travelled with a retinue, came to Samaria to seek a cure from the prophet Elisha. Why, having been cured, did he ask for two mule-loads of earth?

This was a result of the belief in tribal gods. People were expected to worship the gods of the land in which they were: hence Naaman, who has been converted to faith in the God of Israel, wants a quantity of the soil of Israel, in order that he may stand on it when he prays, and so technically be in Israel. As a footnote, it is worth considering that he, a foreigner and until then, a pagan, returned from his cure to thank Elisha and to worship God.

Why then do the nine Jewish lepers fail to return to praise God and to thank Jesus? Is it ingratitude on their part? That may be a factor, reminding us of the importance of gratitude—gratitude to God and gratitude to other people.

How much do we take for granted, especially where God is concerned? How much of our prayer is prayer of thanksgiving? Our central act of worship is the Eucharist, which the Second Vatican Council described as “the source and summit of the Christian life”, and “Eucharist” means “thanksgiving”; to this day, the Greek word for “thank you” is efcharisto. As Christians, and especially as Catholics, we are a Eucharistic people: an ungrateful Catholic is a contradiction in terms.

There may, though, be another factor involved, and that, ironically, is the religion of the Jewish lepers. The very thing which should make them grateful gets in the way of their gratitude. You remember the parable of the Good Samaritan, in which the priest and the Levite pass by the injured man. The reason was probably fear of ritual contamination, which would have disqualified them from carrying out their religious duties.

Here, another religious element is involved. Jesus has told the cured lepers to show themselves to the priests. This was to obtain an official declaration that they were free of the disease: without it, they could not return to the life of the community. Hence, they were so focused on being ritually declared clean, that every other consideration was left aside. Again, religious duty stood in the way of what should have been a higher priority.

On the other hand, the Samaritan, being outside the pale of Judaism, has no need of, and is probably not entitled to, such a declaration. Hence, he is free to give rein to his natural inclination to praise God and to thank Jesus.

What is this saying to us? That Judaism is bad? Surely not! It is the religion which Jesus Himself practised. That religion itself is bad? Again, not so! Without formal religion, without the community of the Church, we lack cohesion, and a context in which to love and serve God, and to receive His greatest gifts. Rather, it is the old truth that rules, including religious rules, are a means to an end. Once they become an end in themselves, they turn into an idol, because they betray their proper function. Let us by all means keep the rules, but always remembering their purpose. Let them lead us closer to God, and enable us to express and celebrate that gratitude which is at the heart of all worship.

27th Sunday of the Year C

27th Sunday 2025

Habakkuk 1:2-3, 2:2-4; 2 Timothy 1:6-8, 13-14; Luke 17:5-10

“We are useless servants: we have only done what was our duty.”

Three cheers for the new translation, which has corrected the carelessness of the Jerusalem Bible, which we formerly used. The JB often flowed more smoothly than the present translation, but it was sometimes slipshod.

This is a case in point. The Jerusalem Bible has “we are merely servants” which glosses over the actual text. The Greek word is achreioi meaning “useless”. In other words, not only are we “merely” servants: we are no good even as servants.

Thus, we are warned not to give ourselves airs but, perhaps more importantly, not to attribute any success to ourselves. On our own, we would achieve nothing: it is God who accomplishes the work, not us. All that we have is faith in God, and not reliance on our own efforts or our own virtue.

The prophet Habakkuk makes a similar point when he writes that the righteous shall live by their faith, something on which St. Paul insisted. When the latter speaks of “justification by faith”, he is not saying that we shouldn’t do good works: rather, he is making the point that these works come from God, so we shouldn’t claim the credit for them. Instead, we put our faith in God, who enables us to carry out the good works. Neither our own efforts, nor the keeping of the rules, can give life to ourselves or to others.

All of which leads me to a story which I have told more than once before, but for which I make no apology, as it deserves to be retold. It dates back to my first term in seminary, more than half a century ago.

When I entered the seminary in 1971, there was still a Junior Seminary on the same premises, and the priests on the staff of the latter would alternate with the Senior Seminary staff in presiding and preaching at Sunday Mass. Among the former was Fr. Tony Pearson, a priest of the Leeds Diocese who, in a Sunday homily, recalled the advice which he, as a young man about to enter the seminary, had been given by his parish priest.

It was only a few years ago that I discovered that the parish priest in question had been Fr. John O’Connor, who received GK Chesterton into the Church and on whose personality, though not his appearance, Chesterton based his priest-detective, Fr. Brown. No wonder he gave wise advice.

“Tony” he had said to the young Anthony Pearson. “When you go to Ushaw, there’ll be lots of things you’ve got to do, and lots of things you’ve not got to do, and if you do all the things you’ve got to do, and you don’t do all the things you’ve not got to do, then they’ll make you a bishop. And Tony, you’ll be no bloody good.”

It was long after Fr. Pearson’s time in Ushaw, and also after mine, that these words proved prophetic. There came a student who, apparently, kept every rule, not deviating by an iota from even the pettiest regulation. In vain, his fellow-students attempted to humanise him, even on one occasion sticking his head down the toilet and pulling the chain—not normal seminarian behaviour, I hasten to add, but a sign of desperation—but all to no avail. He remained an irredeemable model student, and in due course was made a bishop—not in this Diocese, I hasten to add.

Since then, he has fulfilled Fr. O’Connor’s prediction to the letter, being, as many believe, “no bloody good”. He has turned back the clock in his Diocese by several decades, unpicking the good work undertaken by his predecessor who, while always demonstrating deep pastoral concern, had also spent years working with priests and lay people to implement the vision of the Second Vatican Council.

I have not a shadow of doubt that this onetime model student is a very good and dedicated man, thoroughly devoted to the service of God, but he does appear to me to underline Jesus’ description of all of us as “useless” servants. If we rely on our own virtue, our own fulfilment, as we see it, of God’s will, we shall come unstuck, or perhaps we shall be too stuck for God to use us as He wishes. I am not implying that we should be anarchists, but that we must always be open to God’s leading us, because He alone knows what will bear fruit, whereas we are indeed “useless servants”.