Peter and Paul

SS Peter and Paul 2020

Acts 12:1-11; 2Tim 4:6-8, 17-18; Matt 16:13-19

If you were founding the Church, whom would you choose to lead it? Would you choose a rather bombastic character, who tended to speak and to act without thinking, who was quick to promise and slow to deliver, and who, when push came to shove, would let you down completely?

Or would you choose a man who was something of a fanatic, who would persecute his enemies before he met you, and who would then have a massive change of heart? This would be a man who was sensitive to the point of paranoia, who would fall out with everyone, who would sneer at the authority of others, who would brag about disobeying your instructions, and who would display a Uriah Heep-like tendency to boast of his humility?

Did you say that you wouldn’t choose either? Nor would I, which shows how much we know, for these are Peter and Paul respectively, whom the Lord chose as the foundation stones of His Church.

Obviously, I have exaggerated their faults and declined to mention their good qualities, but I don’t think that I have actually told any untruths. Peter did have a tendency to leap before he looked, to fall short of what he had undertaken. Thus he invited Jesus to call him across the water, until his nerve failed him and he began to sink.

On being named the rock on which the Church was to be built, he was quick to take responsibility, but in completely the wrong way, as he tried to use his new authority to turn Our Lord away from his appointed path of suffering. He showed his impetuosity by first refusing to let Jesus wash his feet, and then demanding a full cleansing, and later by cutting off the ear of the High Priest’s servant. Most seriously, his promise to die for the Lord was followed by a three-fold denial, after which he became upset when the risen Christ demanded a three-fold declaration of love, failing to see that this must wipe out that triple negation.

Paul, on the other hand, was the prickliest of characters, a converted persecutor who could have picked a fight in an empty room. He had no patience with Mark, or with others who left his company, even falling out with his mentor Barnabas. He needed love and affirmation from the churches which he founded, and to which he wrote letters, but he spent much of his time scolding them. He was dismissive of the other apostles, claiming that a person’s rank meant nothing to him, yet he was desperate to claim the title of apostle for himself whilst, with the faux humility of the insecure, asserting that he “hardly” deserved it. Finally, his bragging to the Galatians of his humiliation of Peter flew in the face of Jesus’ clear instruction that such matters must be dealt with in private.

Why then did Our Lord, both before and after His resurrection, choose such an unlikely pair? Firstly, along with their faults, both men had immense virtues. The very zeal which made Paul both a successful persecutor of the Church, and a difficult person to live with, made him also the greatest preacher and spreader of the Gospel in history. He had deep insights into, and could write sublimely about, love, about the Body of Christ both as the Eucharist and as the Church, about the relationship of the Church to Christ, about faith and grace, about our ability to rely totally on Christ, and about the value of weakness.

Peter was the first to articulate the Church’s faith in the true identity of Jesus, he was straightforward in both his faults and his virtues, and he was a living example of that repentance which was Our Lord’s first demand, responding to the Master’s gaze by going out and weeping bitterly. Finally, he, like Paul, showed the deepest expression of love by accepting a martyr’s death.

Perhaps though, Our Lord’s principal reason for His choice of these two was less a recognition of their good qualities than a demonstration of the power of grace. “My power is at its best in weakness”, He told Paul. The Church, built on flawed people, will always consist of flawed people—people like you and me. Thank God for that, because it means that the Church, and you and I as members of it, will always be driven back to our reliance on the power and the grace of God, poured out upon us by Christ Jesus Our Lord through the Holy Spirit.

12th Sunday of the Year

12th Sunday 2020

Jeremiah 20:10-13; Romans 5:12-15; Matt 10:26-33

“Do not be afraid, for everything that is now covered will be uncovered, and everything now hidden will be made clear.”

“I beg your pardon Lord, but that is precisely what makes me afraid. I really would prefer to keep some things undercover: I definitely don’t want them revealed to all the world and his wife.

“You see, it’s all right for you, and your mother. You are without sin, but it’s different for the rest of us. And, come to think of it, it’s not just about sin. There are all the mistakes we have made throughout life, all the daft things we have said and done—things that make us cringe whenever we remember them. Are they going to be uncovered and made clear? And if so, will anyone cope?”

Leaving aside for now my conversation with the Lord, I recall that our relatively recently retired bishop, when he was new to the Episcopal purple, mentioned that, before being ordained bishop, he had been asked whether there were any skeletons in his cupboard. I didn’t ask him how he answered but I suspect that he said “No”, in which case I should then have asked him “Why not?”

Anybody who has put in a few years of life must have made a few serious errors, fallen flat on their faces at times. If anyone tells me that they haven’t, they are either the Angel Gabriel or a liar—or they haven’t properly engaged with life, haven’t committed themselves wholeheartedly to living in God’s world.

We are brought back to the account, which I mentioned a few weeks ago, given by the late Fr.Tony Pearson, of the advice given to him by his parish priest as he was about to enter the seminary to begin his studies for the priesthood. In a nutshell, the older man told him that, if he adhered very carefully to all the rules, he would end up as a bishop, before adding “and Tony, you’ll be NO BLOODY GOOD.” (Incidentally, the priest in question was Fr. John O’Connor, on whose personality, though not his appearance, Chesterton admitted to having based Fr. Brown.)

I have a sneaking suspicion that, with a few honourable exceptions, including our own present incumbent, that remains the criterion for selecting bishops. The powers-that-be want safe men, who will not rock any boats or cause any ripples, who will neither possess nor acquire any skeletons in their cupboards, and who will, in the words of Fr. O’Connor, be “no bloody good”.

Anybody who has married and raised a family, anybody who has lived a single life, anybody who has been a priest or a consecrated person for any length of time, indeed anybody who has genuinely entered adulthood, will have committed howlers along the way, and be likely to have acquired a cupboardful of skeletons.

As far as priests are concerned, the Holy Father has told us to live with the smell of the sheep, to get our hands dirty. If we have truly been involved in working for the Kingdom, we will have been up to our ears in the mess of people’s lives, and some of that mess will have rubbed off on us. To quote the aforementioned fictional Fr. Brown, any priest who has been doing his job will know more of evil than the great majority of the population.

Nor is it only priests. As the Church, we are the people of mucky feet, as Our Lord reminded us by washing the stains and the dust and the mud from His disciples in the context of His self-giving at the Last Supper. If we don’t have mucky feet, if we don’t have skeletons in our cupboard, WHY NOT?

Are these the things which Jesus says are to be made known?  Maybe. But to whom are they to be made known? To ourselves first and foremost. We mustn’t kid ourselves, we mustn’t pretend to ourselves that our cupboards are skeleton-free. Firstly then, we must open ourselves to the searing light of Christ, allowing Him to illuminate the dark recesses of our lives, showing us the skeletons lurking in the corners, that we may bring them before Him, and allow Him to crumble them into dust. If they are matters of sin, we must bring them to the sacrament of reconciliation, allowing the priest to dispose of them in the name of the whole Church.

Should they be revealed to anybody else? That, I suspect, is a matter for God to deal with, unless of course they involve criminality. Jesus says that hidden things will be revealed, but we can leave the which, when, and how to Him. And remember those words with which we began: “Do not be afraid”. That revelation will be a matter, not for fear, but for joy in His healing grace.

Corpus Christi

Body and Blood of Christ 2020

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

I wrote this on Monday in the wake of the reading at Mass about the drought and famine in Israel, allegedly brought about by the prayer of Elijah. For one thing, it reminded me that drought and famine are still a reality today for millions of people, a situation which is likely to worsen because of deforestation and environmental degradation. That in itself served as a call to prayer and to consideration of what actions we can take as individuals and as the Body of Christ.

And there comes the cat, leaping out of the bag: the Body of Christ, formed by the Holy Spirit in Our Lady’s womb, but formed anew as the Church, as you and me, by the outpouring of that same Spirit, and maintained, kept alive, as all bodies are, by food and drink.

We are what we eat, say the nutritionists. What are we, and what do we eat? We are the Body of Christ, and we eat the Body of Christ. Without food, we die, we cease to exist as corporeal beings, living and walking on the earth. Without the food which is the Body of Christ, we die as the Body of Christ, we cease to exist as that Body, living on earth and in eternity.

Nor is it only the nutritionists who tell us this: it is our own experience as we see the television pictures of people with skeletal forms and swollen bellies, dying of hunger before our eyes. In the case of the Body of Christ, we also have the authority of Christ Himself, of Him whose Body we are, who describes the reality baldly, almost brutally: “If you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you will not have life in you.”

Pardon? Exactly! The Lord Himself tells us that if we do not eat and drink His Body and Blood, we are dead as far as being His Body is concerned.

This is a breathtaking statement. Many of those who heard it at first hand refused to take it. “This is intolerable language,” they said. “Who can accept it?” These were not only hoi Ioudaeoi, shorthand for the Jews who refused to accept Jesus, and who had already been questioning His words: they were, says John, hoi mathetai, His disciples.

What was Jesus’ reaction to this grumbling? Did He explain more fully? Did He water down the starkness of His words? No; He was prepared to allow “many of His disciples” to leave Him rather than have His words compromised. Indeed so fundamental was His declaration that He would have allowed all His followers to leave, asking the Twelve “You don’t want to go too, do you?” the Greek negative meh denoting a question which expects, but does not insist on, the answer “No”.

So Jesus will not water down those shocking words “The bread which I shall give is my flesh for the life of the world.....if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink His blood, you will not have life in you”. Even some Christians have attempted to compromise, insisting that He was speaking about a metaphorical “eating” of His word, about the Bible, but this will not do. He has spoken about the necessity of His word quite clearly many times. If He was speaking about it again, why would He not have said so? Why would He have allowed His disciples to leave Him over a misunderstanding?

No, it is undeniable that Jesus is saying “If you do not receive the Eucharist, you are dead as parts of my Body.” There are no maybes, no buts, no compromise. And these last few months have shown how vital the Eucharist is. People are starving for want of the Bread of Life, the Body of Christ which is their food. They are suffering from a spiritual drought and famine.

They can follow Mass on line, they can pray, and hold services of the word, they can make spiritual communions, but they know that none of this is enough. Without food we die: without the food of the Eucharist, we are at best half alive, maintaining that degree of life only because the desire to receive is still there—people would if they could: they will when they are able.

“When your people were starving you gave them new life” says the psalmist. Let us pray that the day may be near when all God’s people may once again receive that food without which they cannot be fully what they are, that food which is the Body of Christ and which makes us the Body of Christ.

Trinity Sunday

Trinity Sunday 2020

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

I suspect that I am correct in saying that every priest dreads having to preach on Trinity Sunday. The thought of having to find something new and inspiring to say about something which is, by definition, beyond our comprehension, fills most, if not all, of us with deep foreboding.

Perhaps, rather than attempting to explain the inexplicable, to analyse the deepest of all mysteries, we should simply sit or kneel in awe before the God who is three in one, opening our hearts and minds so that the Father and Son may pour into us their own personalized love which is the Holy Spirit.

At its heart, the Trinity is not a numbers game, a sort of celestial one two three O’Leary, but a relationship; the Father eternally generating the Son with a love which is itself a person—the Holy Spirit—and the Son returning that love in the same personalised manner. Having said that, I am aware of having said nothing, and I am becoming increasingly conscious that this is the point. What can we honestly say about the nature of God? We have our doctrinal definitions, but they, while true, are liable to strike us as dry and meaningless—what Rudyard Kipling makes one of his characters call “your cold Christs and tangled Trinities”.

All that we can do, in reality, is to allow the Trinity to live in us, and to inspire in us that same interpersonal love which is God’s nature. “God loved the world so much,” says Jesus to Nicodemus, “that He gave His only Son”, a giving accomplished by the Holy Spirit. We enter into that love in the Eucharist, where the elements are transformed by the Spirit into the person of the Son, who offers Himself to the Father, drawing us into His self-offering.

That Eucharistic self-offering, brought about by the love which is the life of the Trinity, should epitomise the way we live from day to day and from moment to moment. I think that it is time to stop woffling, and to do it.

Pentecost

Pentecost 2020

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

How did you receive the Spirit? Indeed, how do you receive the Spirit? Did/does the Holy Spirit come to you as the Pentecost Spirit, in wind and flame and spectacular gifts, or does that same Holy Spirit come as the Easter Sunday evening Spirit, in a gentle inbreathing?

Either way, make no mistake about it: you have received the Spirit, and you do receive the Spirit. You received the Holy Spirit when you were baptised, you received the Holy Spirit when you were confirmed; and be very clear that these two sacraments (if indeed they are two separate sacraments rather than two parts of the same sacrament) are manifestations of God’s love for you and of God’s gifts to you.

The sort of catechesis which sees confirmation as the action of the candidate, making some sort of commitment to God as if it were some sort of Christian bar mitzvah is downright heretical, for sacraments are always a gift from God, and the coming of the Holy Spirit is a gift OF God, for the one who comes is indeed God.

Are these though the only occasions on which you have received the Holy Spirit? Surely not. As St. Paul states, there is nothing good or godly which we can do without the intervention of the Holy Spirit. Unfortunately, the Lectionary omits verses 8-11 from that passage in 1 Corinthians, verses in which Paul lists some of the gifts which the Spirit gives, and the verbs of giving are all in the present tense. In other words, the Holy Spirit is still giving us gifts here and now. The Spirit came to dwell in us at our baptism/confirmation, but that Spirit is still active in enabling us through His/Her/Its gifts.

“No one” declares St. Paul, “can say Jesus is Lord unless under the influence of the Holy Spirit.” So every time we proclaim our faith in Jesus, every time we perform a work of service, the Holy Spirit is, at that moment, active in us.

Which brings me back to my original question: how did, and how do you receive the Holy Spirit? There may be people who are conscious of the action of the Holy Spirit, who are driven by a wind of change, moved by fire in their bellies: perhaps more of us than we may have thought enjoy that experience from time to time. I distinctly remember one afternoon in my teens being struck by the thought, completely out of the blue, “You must become much more aware of the needs of other people, and especially much more grateful to your Mum and Dad.” There was no spectacular appearance or sound of wind or fire, but it was a very clear moment of inspiration to which I knew I had to respond, and which remains with me to this day.

Similarly, I can point to the exact spot in St. Peter’s Cathedral, Lancaster, where I was kneeling during my dinner hour from work at Whiteside’s Laundry when I knew that I must consider seriously the possibility of a vocation to the priesthood, and I have read the account by Lancaster lass Edwina Gateley, founder of the Volunteer Missionary Movement and social justice prophet, of her similar experience, likewise in the Cathedral.

Such moments tend to be few and far between. They are the Pentecost moments of the gift of the Holy Spirit. Much more frequent are the Easter Sunday evening moments, as described in today’s Gospel, when the risen Christ breathes the Spirit into us, and thus empowers us to be agents of forgiveness and healing. Whenever we perform some positive action, we are being guided by the Holy Spirit to help build the Kingdom of God. Every such moment is, in reality, a Pentecost moment, though the Spirit’s action may be closer to that of Easter Sunday evening.

7th Sunday of Easter

7th Sunday of Easter 2020

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

After the Ascension, the apostles return to Jerusalem and establish themselves once more in the Upper Room. To do what? To cower in fear? No no no no no no no......NO! To do what they were told by Jesus, which was to await the coming of the Holy Spirit. While they are waiting, they pray proskarterountes homothumadon, says St. Luke, literally “persevering unanimously”: in other words, they stick at it—all of them.

Who are they? Luke tells us that they were the eleven apostles, whom he lists by name, women, Mary the mother of Jesus, and His relations (“brothers” in the extended sense in which the word is still used in many parts of the world today).

That is an interesting combination. Tell me, when you have seen representations of the descent of the Holy Spirit at Pentecost, who has been shown? I will lay you threepence (well, twopence halfpenny) that you will have seen the apostles, Our Lady, and no one else. That is naughty: it implies that these were the only people to receive the Spirit.

“Ah,” you will say, “but next Sunday, for the Feast of Pentecost, my missal says that the APOSTLES had all met in one room.” Your missal may say that, but St. Luke doesn’t. He simply says “they all”. Doesn’t it make more sense to assume that this means all those who had been there already? After the miracle of tongues, he tells us that “Peter stood up with the Eleven” which seems to imply that this was the first time that the apostles had acted on their own: prior to this, the women and the “brothers” had been with them, along with Our Lady.

So it seems to me that those who prayed for the coming of the Spirit, “persevering unanimously”, as we have been told, AND WHO RECEIVED THE SPIRIT, were a cross section of the Church—the apostles as the leaders, as what we would now call the magisterium, but also the women and the relations, representing the laity.

In other words, the whole Church, men and women, clergy and laity (insofar as it is reasonable to use such terminology at this stage) received the Holy Spirit, something which the hierarchy has sometimes forgotten. It is interesting that Our Lord’s relations are included, as they had tended to be somewhat reluctant followers. Is this implying that the Spirit is given to everyone, those on the margins as well as the fervent, provided they are willing to pray and to ask?

Where does Our Lady fit in? Again we are faced with a mistranslation. The Lectionary states that the apostles were all “persevering unanimously in prayer”, though it actually translates it as “joined in continuous prayer” which is not quite the same thing, “together with several women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, and with His brothers.”

So the Lectionary includes Mary among the women, which is not accurate. St. Luke actually puts Mary in a category of her own, saying “with women AND Mary the mother of Jesus AND with His relations”. Mary is NOT included by Luke among the women, but is separated from them by kai (“and”), with the relations separated again by kai sun (“and with”).

This may appear to be playing with words, but it isn’t. Mary had already received the Holy Spirit. As Catholics, we believe that she was filled with the Holy Spirit from the moment she was conceived, thus preserving her from sin: our separated brethren would agree that she was filled with the Holy Spirit when her Son was conceived. Thus she is in a category of her own—she, the woman filled with the Spirit praying with the Church that it may become the woman filled with the Spirit, the Bride of Christ. As we pray for a new outpouring of the Spirit, may we ask her, the mother and model of the Church, to continue to pray with us—and to guide the compilers of the new Lectionary to be more accurate with their translations.

Sixth Sunday of Easter

6th Sunday of Easter 2020

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

I don’t think that the late Bishop Brewer of this diocese would have objected too strongly if he had been described as a Jack-in-a-box, bouncing from one enthusiasm to another. Some of his ideas caught hold, but the majority were abandoned almost as soon as they had been seized, as another notion caught his attention.

One idea which he floated, but which sank immediately, deserved, I believe, much fuller consideration. At Christmas dinner one year in Cathedral House, he expounded his plan for combining the sacraments of baptism and confirmation for infants, as is already done for adults, and as has always been the practice in the Orthodox Church.

Present at the table was Bishop Emeritus Bernard Foley who, with that touch of mischief of which most people were probably unaware, interjected “Ah, shouldn’t the laity be consulted about that?”, which caused his successor to subside, rather like a punctured balloon. 

Of course, Bishop Foley was correct, and more aware of the mind of the Church than most bishops before or since, but I can’t help feeling that Bishop Brewer too was on the right lines. What a pity it was that he didn’t flesh out his idea more fully, and press ahead with consulting the laity about it.

In so doing, he would have closed the artificial gap between baptism and confirmation which was brought into being many centuries ago by historical accident, he would have emphasised more fully the centrality of the Holy Spirit, and he would have struck a blow at the heretical theology which drives some current interpretations of confirmation, which see the sacrament, not as God’s gift to us in the outpouring of the Holy Spirit, but as the young person’s act of commitment, something which they do for God, an interpretation which reeks of the Pelagian heresy.

(Actually, Bishop Brewer himself could have been accused of Pelagianism, when he explained the sacrament as the young person saying for him/herself the “Amen” which was said on their behalf at baptism—dodgy ground, Fiery Jack!)

The intimate relationship between baptism and confirmation is underlined by today’s reading from the Acts of the Apostles. As soon as the Jerusalem Church hears that the Samaritans have been baptised in the name of Jesus, they send Peter and John hotfoot to complete the process of initiation by calling down the Holy Spirit on the new converts. There is no “act of commitment”  here: it is pure gift from God, and it is delayed for as short a time as possible.

In today’s Church, baptism is administered in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, rather than in the name of Jesus alone, so that the baptised person, whether infant, child, or adult, receives the Holy Spirit. It is difficult to avoid the feeling that confirmation is retained as a separate sacrament purely to retain the link between the bishop and the rite of initiation which existed in the early Church.

From now until Pentecost, the Holy Spirit will feature prominently in the Mass readings. The Spirit has been described as the “forgotten member of the Holy Trinity” and the charismatic movement arose in the Church partly in response to the perceived imbalance. (The story is told of a disgruntled organist in a parish which had made her redundant in favour of a more charismatic mode of singing, and who complained “Them there charismatics seem to think the Holy Spirit is God Almighty!” Er.....) In today’s passage from St. John, Jesus underlines the centrality of the Spirit who is with and in the Christian, and whose presence and role are inextricably bound up with those of the Father and the Son.

Let us be ever more conscious of the presence of the Holy Spirit in our lives, of the Spirit’s self-gift in baptism and confirmation, and of the Spirit’s role, together with Father and Son, in all that the Church is and does.

Fifth Sunday of Easter

5th Sunday of Easter 2020

Acts 6:1-7; 1 Peter 2:4-9; John 14:1-12

Over the years, I must have driven the people of Claughton daft by the number of times I reminded them of the prayer said over them when they were anointed with chrism during the rite of baptism. In the previous translation, the one which I (and by now, probably they) know by heart it runs: “As Christ was anointed priest, prophet, and king, so may you live always as a member of His body, sharing in everlasting life.” The current translation has altered the wording slightly, but the essence is the same.

That prayer is rooted largely in the words from the First Letter of St. Peter, which appear in today’s Second Reading: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a consecrated nation, a people set apart.”In his turn, the author of that letter, whether it be St. Peter himself, or one of his disciples invoking his authority, is drawing on words applied by God through Moses to the people of Israel in the Book of Exodus, and on certain sayings in the prophecies of Isaiah.

So both St. Peter and the Church’s present day liturgy tell you that, through Christ and in Christ, you are priests, prophets and kings. What does that mean? A priest is someone who offers sacrifice, and you and I, as the Church, are a priestly people, a people who offer sacrifice. Both you and I offer the sacrifice of our lives to God—and bear in mind that the root of “sacrifice” is sacra facere , “to make holy”. Potentially, because you are a priestly people, everything that you do is holy, everything is done in Christ and through Christ.

Then, you bring your holy lives to the altar, and I, the ordained priest, chosen from among this priestly people, present those lives, along with the Body and Blood of Jesus, as He makes His once-and-for-all-sacrifice present for us, uniting our sacrifice with His in His self-offering to the Father.

In the Sacrament of Reconciliation, the ordained priest pronounces the words of absolution on behalf of the priestly people: in the Sacrament of the Sick, he brings healing and forgiveness on behalf of that same priestly people. These sacraments will have their full effect, will be lived out in the world, if the people of God are a forgiving and healing people. The priest’s words and actions bring about the effects of the sacraments, but something of the sign will be lost if the healed and forgiven person doesn’t experience that same healing and forgiveness among the whole people of God.

Furthermore, says St. Peter, you are a ROYAL priesthood—you are both priests and kings, as Jesus is both priest and king, “like Melchizedek of old” as Psalm 109 (110) expresses it. How did Jesus exercise His kingship? He did it by serving, and by giving His life “as a ransom for many”. As kings in Christ, as a royal priesthood, we too must be people who serve, who are prepared to suffer, who are willing to give our lives in love for Him and for the world.

As a prophetic people, our words, and more particularly, our actions, should be signs of the presence of Christ. It is the presence of Christ, dwelling in us through our baptism, which is all important.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life” He said to Thomas. “No one can come to the Father except through me.” Only by uniting our lives to Christ can we live out our calling to be “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a consecrated nation.” Only by uniting his life to Christ can the ordained priest live out his particular vocation in and for the people of God.

Where does that union with Christ lead us? It leads us to the vision of, and union with, the Father, who is in Jesus, as Jesus is in Him. Thus is the purpose of our lives fulfilled. “The glory of God is human beings fully alive,” wrote St. Irenaeus in the second century, “and full life for human beings is the vision of God.” Through prayer rooted in God’s word, through the sacraments, and through service, we are led to that union with Christ and vision of God which makes us fully alive.

5th Sunday of Easter 2020

Acts 6:1-7; 1 Peter 2:4-9; John 14:1-12

Over the years, I must have driven the people of Claughton daft by the number of times I reminded them of the prayer said over them when they were anointed with chrism during the rite of baptism. In the previous translation, the one which I (and by now, probably they) know by heart it runs: “As Christ was anointed priest, prophet, and king, so may you live always as a member of His body, sharing in everlasting life.” The current translation has altered the wording slightly, but the essence is the same.

That prayer is rooted largely in the words from the First Letter of St. Peter, which appear in today’s Second Reading: “You are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a consecrated nation, a people set apart.”In his turn, the author of that letter, whether it be St. Peter himself, or one of his disciples invoking his authority, is drawing on words applied by God through Moses to the people of Israel in the Book of Exodus, and on certain sayings in the prophecies of Isaiah.

So both St. Peter and the Church’s present day liturgy tell you that, through Christ and in Christ, you are priests, prophets and kings. What does that mean? A priest is someone who offers sacrifice, and you and I, as the Church, are a priestly people, a people who offer sacrifice. Both you and I offer the sacrifice of our lives to God—and bear in mind that the root of “sacrifice” is sacra facere , “to make holy”. Potentially, because you are a priestly people, everything that you do is holy, everything is done in Christ and through Christ.

Then, you bring your holy lives to the altar, and I, the ordained priest, chosen from among this priestly people, present those lives, along with the Body and Blood of Jesus, as He makes His once-and-for-all-sacrifice present for us, uniting our sacrifice with His in His self-offering to the Father.

In the Sacrament of Reconciliation, the ordained priest pronounces the words of absolution on behalf of the priestly people: in the Sacrament of the Sick, he brings healing and forgiveness on behalf of that same priestly people. These sacraments will have their full effect, will be lived out in the world, if the people of God are a forgiving and healing people. The priest’s words and actions bring about the effects of the sacraments, but something of the sign will be lost if the healed and forgiven person doesn’t experience that same healing and forgiveness among the whole people of God.

Furthermore, says St. Peter, you are a ROYAL priesthood—you are both priests and kings, as Jesus is both priest and king, “like Melchizedek of old” as Psalm 109 (110) expresses it. How did Jesus exercise His kingship? He did it by serving, and by giving His life “as a ransom for many”. As kings in Christ, as a royal priesthood, we too must be people who serve, who are prepared to suffer, who are willing to give our lives in love for Him and for the world.

As a prophetic people, our words, and more particularly, our actions, should be signs of the presence of Christ. It is the presence of Christ, dwelling in us through our baptism, which is all important.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life” He said to Thomas. “No one can come to the Father except through me.” Only by uniting our lives to Christ can we live out our calling to be “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a consecrated nation.” Only by uniting his life to Christ can the ordained priest live out his particular vocation in and for the people of God.

Where does that union with Christ lead us? It leads us to the vision of, and union with, the Father, who is in Jesus, as Jesus is in Him. Thus is the purpose of our lives fulfilled. “The glory of God is human beings fully alive,” wrote St. Irenaeus in the second century, “and full life for human beings is the vision of God.” Through prayer rooted in God’s word, through the sacraments, and through service, we are led to that union with Christ and vision of God which makes us fully alive.

Fourth Sunday Of Easter

4th Sunday of Easter 2020

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

It is generally considered that sheep are daft. “Talking is cheap, people follow like sheep” sang the Tremeloes, turning a Four Seasons’ B side into a massive hit. The stupidity of sheep is legendary.

But is this justified? In both the Lake and Peak districts I have seen sheep trampling over picnickers in order to rummage in open bags where they suspected, usually correctly, that food was concealed. Bad mannered they may be, but stupid? I am not so sure.

Indeed, if Our Lord’s claim about sheep is correct—and He knew far more about them than a townie like me—His claim that “they never follow a stranger but run away from him; they do not recognise the voice of strangers”, then sheep are considerably less stupid than human beings.

Abraham Lincoln may have been correct when he claimed that “you can’t fool all of the people all of the time”, but remember that he prefaced that conclusion with the build up: “You can fool all of the people some of the time, and some of the people all of the time...”. How applicable his words may be to the present situation in his own country, I leave you to decide.

To move from politics to the less contentious world of advertising, it is worth mentioning that I grew up behind, and over, my parents’ sweets and tobacco shop. My father used to dread a new bar of chocolate or a new brand of cigarette being advertised on TV, because he could guarantee that, next day, he would be swamped by requests for the novelty in question, from people who had been persuaded by the slick marketing techniques of the advertisers that this was a “must have”; that their lives would be unbearably impoverished without it. As often as not, within a fortnight they would have returned to their old brand, and the newcomer would languish unsold on the shelf.

Not so with sheep, says Jesus. Why not? Because they know their shepherd, and the shepherd knows them. They are not fooled by outsiders, no matter what is on offer. Transfer that assertion to the human context: how well do you and I know Jesus? How well do the people of God in general know Him? Do you and I spend time with Jesus, learning to recognise His voice in our inmost being, in the scriptures, in the sacraments, in the events of our lives? Do the priests among us encourage God’s people to do the same?

Do the people, the sheep of God’s flock, hear the voice of Jesus in our words, recognise His presence in our attitude towards them? These questions are addressed not only to priests, but to all God’s people, because each of you, in your own sphere of influence, has a shepherding role.

To what extent do we know the flock of the Lord? Leaving aside the present problem of social distancing, that question is becoming more problematic for priests because of numbers, and because of changing social patterns. It is no longer feasible to trot around the parish, armed with our census book, expecting doors to be opened to us. Increasingly, though, the question must be asked of the laity: do you know the other members of God’s people, and how many of them meet Christ in you? Do people recognise Christ in us, both priests and laity, sufficiently clearly to discourage them from chasing off after every daft idea, whether religious or anti-religious, which comes along?

Jesus takes the analogy still further. The Palestinian shepherd does not only know His sheep: he loves them enough to sacrifice his life for them. At night, he lies down across the entrance to the pen, so as to form a gate, which will deter wild animals or, at worst, will provide a possible victim for them, so that they may leave the sheep unmolested.

Furthermore, the sheep are so familiar with the shepherd that, like their rummaging brethren with the picnickers, they will hop over his body, wandering in and out, knowing that, even if they stray along devious paths, they will be sure of a welcome on their return. Are our people, our fellow Catholics, our fellow Christians, at ease to that extent with us? Do they know, do we know, that we would make any sacrifice for them?

Sometimes, God’s people, including us, may be considerably dafter than sheep, but can they nonetheless rely on us for love and care, and are they, and we, being constantly drawn to a deeper knowledge of, and a stronger love for, Jesus the Good Shepherd?

Third Sunday of Easter

3rd Sunday of Easter 2020

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

I loved the previous missal’s translation of the opening prayer of today’s Mass. It ran “God our Father, may we look forward with hope to our resurrection, for you have made us your sons and daughters and restored the joy of our youth”.

“You have restored the joy of our youth.” In other words, you have made us young again. It reminds me of a verse in the Latin translation of Psalm 42, the psalm which used to open the Tridentine rite of Mass: “Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.” “I will go in to the altar of God. To God who gives joy to my youth.”

The resurrection makes us young again, and gives us joy. Indeed, it makes us neonates, as Our Lord told Nicodemus in last Monday’s Gospel, informing him of the need to be born again, whilst the 1st Letter of St. Peter tells us that we are, indeed, new born.

We are new born, we are infants, we are young lads and lasses, with the world as our oyster, able to run and jump and, especially, laugh again, at least mentally and spiritually. I find that concept especially attractive, having just celebrated one of those birthdays with a nought in it. I really fancy having the joy of my youth restored.

And remember, that youth isn’t a matter of years: it is a matter of attitude. I have met youngsters in their 80s and 90s, still young because still interested, still enthusiastic. On the other hand I have met little old men and little old women in their teens, grown old before their time, because they knew everything, or because they found everything BORING! Please God they may have grown younger as they grew older; which brings to mind an old advertisement for a Scottish brewery, which featured an old man with a long beard and a twinkling eye, supping his pint under the slogan “Get YOUNGER every day”.

One youngster whom I particularly recall was Kate, who, I would estimate, was in her late 70s or early 80s when I was at St. Mary’s, Morecambe. Every day, Kate would bounce into church for 12-15pm Mass. She would genuflect to the Blessed Sacrament, bow to the altar, and then turn and stick her tongue out at her fellow worshippers.

At one stage, Kate went into Nazareth House for respite care. “How are you Kate?” I asked. “Well, compared to some of these in here I feel like Zola Budd,” was the reply, referring to the current teenaged prodigy of the athletics world. Kate also recounted two conversations she’d had with a girl on the staff.

Learning that this lass was a Catholic, Kate had asked her if she went to Mass. “No,” had been the reply, “but I believe in God.”

“That’s all very well” rejoined Kate. “You believe in your granny, but if she lived in the next street, you would go to visit her, not just believe in her.”

A week or so later, Kate encountered this same staff member again. “Have you been to Mass yet?” “No,” was the quick response, “but I’ve been to see my granny.”  Kate felt that this was a reasonable start.

Kate’s greatest joy was to receive Our Lord in Holy Communion, and one of her happiest moments came when the Church permitted the laity to receive  communion at every Mass they attended, instead of limiting them to once per day. This meant for Kate that, on her regular visits to Boarbank, she could receive Jesus three times a day: she would say to Him “I’ve got you now!” and indulge in deep conversation with Him.

Which brings us to today’s Gospel, and the encounter between the Risen Christ and the Emmaus disciples. What does Jesus do? He celebrates Mass with them. The first part of the Mass, the Liturgy of the Word, takes place on the journey, as He explains the scriptures to them, “breaking the word” as we say: the second part, the Liturgy of the Eucharist, in the house, where He breaks the bread which has become His Body, before disappearing, since He is now present in the broken bread.

Thus, from its very beginnings, the Church has been rooted in the Eucharist, “the source and summit of the Christian life” as the Second Vatican Council expressed it. That is why Catholics are grieving their current inability to attend Mass, but rejoicing that they can follow Mass online, and so make a spiritual communion. Without the sacramental encounter with Christ, part of ourselves is lacking: without the Eucharistic Christ, we struggle to stay young.

Second Sunday of Easter

2nd Sunday of Easter 2020

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

Something to note today, and to remember right through to Pentecost: on what day are the events of the first part of today’s Gospel taking place?

“Don’t be daft!” you will say. “That’s obvious. It’s Easter Sunday evening.”

Exactly! So when you hear this Gospel again at Pentecost, remember what you have just said; don’t go thinking tht it refers to Pentecost, or making it the basis for re-hashing that old nonsense about the disciples being scared until Pentecost. They weren’t. Between the Ascension and Pentecost, they were doing what the Risen Lord told them to do, which was to wait prayerfully for the gift of the Holy Spirit; and if anyone tries to tell you otherwise, knock them down and sit on their heads.

To be honest, it doesn’t say a great deal for the disciples that they were so scared on Easter Sunday. They already had the evidence of the empty tomb, and John, assuming that he is the Beloved Disciple, had told us earlier that he had seen and had believed. There was also the evidence of the women: Mary Magdalene had seen the Risen Lord, and so, according to Matthew, had the other women. Meanwhile, we have the testimony of St. Luke, who tells us that the Lord had appeared to Peter, so what business had they really to be afraid?

That is an easy question to ask, isn’t it? Fear is a strange emotion, which isn’t always susceptible to logic. Think for a moment of your own fears: how many of them are really justified? And what about your fears in relation to faith, to the presence of God, to salvation? Admittedly, neither you nor I have physically seen the Lord, but I suspect that all of us have experienced his presence in many ways; through being led into and through darkness, through our own experience of Gethsemane and Calvary—and of the Resurrection, through otherwise inexplicable events in life, through encounters with people, through the emptiness and the fullness of our times of prayer.

As the Eleven had the witness of the women, we have the witness of saints who have gone before us through two thousand years: of visionaries and of martyrs, and of ordinary common or garden folk who have radiated the presence of Christ, many of them again being women.

We have too those words from the First Letter of St. Peter, about our being plagued by trials which test, refine , and purify our faith, and about the joy which fills us and sustains us through dark times, and which is the product of loving the Lord even without seeing Him.

Those words from this letter echo those of the Risen Christ to Thomas: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet believe”. Thomas is a belting reinforcer of our faith, because here and elsewhere he asks the questions which we ourselves would like to ask, raises the objections which we would like to raise, and demands the demonstrations which we would like to demand.

Thomas is the down to earth, no nonsense realist. “You have seen the Lord? Prove it!” And the Risen Christ does exactly that. But then Thomas is prepared to make a leap of faith, being the first to proclaim explicitly the divinity of Christ. Seeing and touching demonstrate the Resurrection: faith takes Him further, to recognise that this Risen Lord is actually God.

In our case too, faith enables us to take the ultimate step. The witness of others, our own experiences, lead us so far, enabling us to go further, accepting for ourselves the divinity of the Risen Christ, and His Eucharistic presence. Perhaps like me you were taught in childhood to pray silently Thomas’s words “My Lord and my God” at the elevation of the consecrated host and the chalice. If not, why not begin the practice now? If so, continue it. If you learnt it but lost it, resume it. And every now and then thank St. Thomas for it.

Holy Thursday - old sermon

HOLY THURSDAY 2015

The biggest mistake of the new Mass translation wasn’t something which the translators did, but something which they failed to do. They failed to clarify, in the words of consecration, the meaning of eis ten emen anamnesin.

Now you and I know, do we not, that this means “as a memorial of me” or “as my recalling to the present”. Unfortunately, the translators decided to stick with “in memory of me” which doesn’t make the meaning anything like as clear.

It wasn’t our fault, was it? I wrote to Bishop O’Donoghue before the translation was approved, and he passed my letter on to the powers-that-be. They sent me a very nice letter back, patting me on the head, and saying “There, there. That’s very nice. Now go out and play.” Dozy puddings!

“In memory of me” suggests simply an act of thought—something happened in the past, and we bring it to mind. That is not what Our Lord meant: it is not what He said and did: it is not consistent with the Jewish concept of “memorial”. When the Jews keep Passover, as they still do year after year, they are not simply calling to mind something which happened centuries and indeed millennia ago. They are making the past present. They are travelling with their ancestors from slavery into freedom. They are keeping the same feast which their ancestors kept, and with the same purpose: that the blood of the slain lamb may liberate them as it liberated the Israelites of Moses’ day through the power of God.

As with the Jewish people, so with us. Jesus was a Jew, as we cannot state often enough, thoroughly steeped in the faith of His people. When He spoke those words, recalled for us tonight by St. Paul, “Do this as a memorial of me” He knew the significance of them. He was saying to the disciples “Make this event present. Do over and over again in the present what I am doing now.”

What was He doing? He was inserting Himself into the Passover narrative. He was stating, though the disciples wouldn’t have known this at the time, that He was the true Paschal Lamb who would be slain, and whose blood would liberate believers every time they celebrated the true Passover, which is the Eucharist, or Mass, eating His Body and drinking His Blood as His memorial, as the making present of the whole sequence of Supper—Death—Resurrection.

So that is what we do, year in, year out; week in, week out; day in, day out; as the Risen Christ makes the past into the present. But tonight we do something else as well. We recall the action of loving service which the Lord attached to His sacrifice, and about which John has told us.

To wash the feet of guests, those sandalled but otherwise bare feet which would have been coated with the dust of the roads, was the duty of the slave. Jesus whilst claiming the title of Lord and Master, takes on the slave’s role and insists that we must do the same; and He does it in the context of the Supper, of the Eucharist, as a sign that our Eucharist is complete only when we too humble ourselves in loving service.

Pope Francis underlined the starkness of this demand when he took this loving service out of the Vatican into a Young Offenders’ Institution where, instead of the traditional washing of the feet of priests, he instead washed the feet of a group of prisoners, including a young Muslim woman. In doing so, he ruffled some feathers among the liturgical purists who pointed out that the rubrics speak about “men” having their feet washed, but as the Son of Man is Master of the Sabbath, I daresay the Holy Father can claim to be master of the mandatum, as we call the foot-washing, particularly as he was bringing out, perhaps more clearly than ever before, the breadth of the implications of Jesus’ actions.

So tonight, as you watch me washing (presumably) clean feet, bear in mind what it means. If we are to enter fully into the saving sacrifice of Christ, instituted on this night by His remaking of Passover, we must take with us, at the end of every Mass, the willingness of the Saviour to assume the condition, and perform in  love the service, of a slave. If we are truly to proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes, we must take, eat, drink, and SERVE.

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday 2020

Acts 10:34, 37-43; Colossians 3:1-4; John 20:1-9

Unless the old brain cells let me down, I will remember to my dying day my first Easter in the seminary. The Vigil was spectacular, all bells and whistles—well, maybe not whistles, but tubular bells, kettledrums, lights flashing on, purple drapes falling, music to die for, and a brief and succinct homily from the legendary Mgr. Laurence McReavy.

Easter Sunday morning Mass was memorable in a different way. The principal celebrant was Mgr. Philip Loftus, another iconic figure, who laboured under two handicaps, his voice and his face. The latter was that of a lugubrious bloodhound, whilst the former was the source of his nickname, Clank. With mournful face and beautifully imitable voice, he began his homily with the words “TO-DAY—IS A DAY—OF UNRESTRAIN-ED JOY.”

Despite the delivery, I agreed at the time with the sentiment. There was, and is, no doubt that Christ is risen, that He has conquered sin and death, that ultimately we have no more evil to fear. That was true then, and it is true today.

As the years have passed, however, I have become less sure about the exact terms which Mgr. Loftus used. Certainly it is a day of joy; indeed it marks a lifetime of joy, because the Resurrection has changed the world irrevocably and for ever.

Can, and should, however, our joy be unrestrained? Suffering, death, and evil still exist. Can our joy be unrestrained when millions of people lack basic necessities? when bombs are still falling in Syria? when Iraq still teeters on the brink? when the Holy Land continues to be a powder keg, with much of its population deprived of land and freedom? when refugees are pouring across the Mediterranean, facing misery and death, and causing grave difficulties for the countries in which the survivors land? when churches are being bombed and worshippers blown to pieces as happened last Easter in Sri Lanka? Can our joy be unrestrained when a pandemic is ravaging the world, killing people in their hundreds of thousands and bringing associated problems of financial hardship, and mental and social stress?

Even for the Easter disciples, joy was not unrestrained. The reaction of the first women at the tomb, as described by St. Mark, was terror: for Mary Magdalene, Peter, and John, as it appears from today’s Gospel, there was initial bewilderment.

The penny may have dropped for the Beloved Disciple, but that did not prevent the Eleven, later that day, from cowering in fear, or the Emmaus disciples from being whelmed in misery. Even when the risen Lord had appeared, there was still a degree of ambivalence, as we notice in the episode on the shore, around the charcoal fire of Peter’s denials and repentance.

So joy—yes: immense joy which cannot be destroyed even by suffering, and which will sustain us through our most difficult times, those times when we are called to return to the Garden of the Agony or the road to Calvary; joy which will remind us, in the darkest of days, that Gethsemane and Calvary are stages on the route to resurrection.

But unrestrained joy—I suspect not. That would be an insult to our own suffering, and to the suffering of the world. Let us indeed rejoice today, and let that joy take deep root within us, so that nothing can destroy it, but let it be inextricably linked with compassion. The Lord is risen indeed but, as we shall be reminded next week, He still bears the marks of His wounds.

Palm Sunday

The Longest Lent: some thoughts for Palm Sunday 2020

“The Longest Day” was the title given by Cornelius Ryan to his documentary book on the Normandy Landings of 1944. It was later used for a film based on the same events. In the early eighties, Bob Hoskins starred in a gangster film entitled “The Long Good Friday”. I would suggest that the present situation deserves the title of “The Longest Lent”.

At the beginning of Lent, pondering on Our Lord’s call to take up the Cross, I suggested that, whatever penances we undertake as our way of sharing in the Cross, we will find that we have to carry a Cross not of our choosing, and that it is in the bearing of this Cross that we shall come closest to Jesus the Christ. Neither I nor, I suspect, anyone else, had any inkling at the time that this Lent would bring a Cross for the whole world; one which will almost certainly outlast the current Lenten season.

In terms of the liturgy, Lent will soon draw to a close. Easter will come, perhaps the strangest Easter in history. All over the world, priests will carry out some form of the Holy Week ceremonies without the presence of a congregation. Even the Pope will celebrate in an empty St. Peter’s Basilica and Square. This situation is unprecedented. Even in wartime, public worship continued: it is as if the entire world finds itself in the position of an underground Church.

Easter will arrive, but it will not interrupt the Lent, indeed the Passiontide, which the world is suffering. Or will it? Perhaps that is up to us. Even in this time of pain and darkness, we need to recall that Christ is risen, that suffering is temporary, that life has conquered, and will conquer, death. Our celebration of Easter will be more sombre than usual, but it will be genuine nonetheless as we are reminded once more that Christ has overcome all that is evil; that, whilst it is true that, “in the midst of life, we are in death”, it is even more true that, “in the midst of death, we are in life”. The Paschal Candle may be a solitary light this year, but it will burn, piercing the darkness, signalling to the world that the last word is not “death” but “victory”.

As the world continues its longest Lent, the light of Easter will burn in the hearts and lives of Christians, shining out for that world, and for all who suffer. Yet we must not be blasé: we must be conscious of the deep suffering all around us. It is all very well to speak of the opportunities for reflection and spiritual renewal, provided we do not forget the plight of families cooped up with children, wondering how they are to put food on the table. It is fine to consider the healing of the planet, less troubled for a time by the ravages of human industry and travel, but it would be unbearably smug to ignore the plight of those for whom this fallow time brings unemployment and loss of livelihood. Whilst the north of Italy is ravaged by the virus, in the south of that country the greater fear is of starvation, as money can neither be earned nor withdrawn from the closed banks, and the purchase of food becomes increasingly difficult.

All of us must take our share by prayer, by giving, by compassion, and by any practical means available, in the Passiontide of the world, but we must do so in the context of the suffering and death of the Lord—and of His resurrection!

5th Sunday Lent

5th Sunday of Lent 2020

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

I recall being summoned some years ago to a death bed. Shortly after my arrival and my administering of the Sacrament of the Sick, the lady died peacefully, surrounded by her family, and I began the prayers for the dead, which included part of today’s Gospel. When I read Jesus’ words to Martha, “I am the resurrection and the life. If anyone believes in me, even though they die, they shall live, and whoever lives and believes in me shall never die—do you believe this?”, the whole family shouted “YES!”

Faith in the resurrection, faith in Jesus as the resurrection; this is the heart of today’s readings. During the exile of the Jewish people to Babylon, God’s promise to Ezekiel entailed a metaphorical raising of the dead from their graves. The exile was a form of living death: it was from this that the Lord promised to raise them, restoring them to the land of Israel. In and through Jesus, the metaphor became reality as He literally raised Lazarus from the dead, as the foretaste, sign, and promise of His own resurrection, in which we shall share in the fullness of time.

For the author of the Fourth Gospel, all the miracles are signs, and the raising of Lazarus is no exception. It was not the equivalent of Jesus’ resurrection—Lazarus would die again—but it was a sign that Our Lord’s resurrection would happen, not for Himself only, but for us.

Notice who it is who provokes Jesus’s words about resurrection. It is Martha, the bustling, hustling sister who, along with her sister Mary, displays the same characteristics as on the occasion of Our Lord’s visit to their house, as described by St. Luke. On that occasion, Martha was gently rebuked for her excessive busyness: it is Mary who has chosen the better part by listening to the Lord. This time it seems fair to say that the more active sister has chosen the better part. She is the one who engages with Jesus, who draws out His prophetic words about resurrection, and who professes her faith: both reflection and action have their appropriate time and place.

Something else emerges from this account: namely, the humanity of Jesus. Edakrusen ho Iesous—Jesus wept—is said to be the shortest sentence in the New Testament. I do not know whether that is so, but certainly those words, and those which surround them and which speak of His distress and heartfelt sighs, demonstrate the depth of His compassion and His capacity for grief.

Why was He so distressed? He has already indicated what He plans to do. If He knows that He is about to raise Lazarus to life, why is He now so moved by the grief of the sisters?

As Pascal wrote, “The heart has its reasons which reason does not know” and he goes on to say “God felt by the heart, not by the reason.” Again, it is the deep humanity of Jesus which is displayed here: even the Son of God could be overwhelmed by emotions which defied strict logic.

Once He has spoken to both sisters, Jesus proceeds to the tomb, and after a prayer to His Father he calls to the dead man: “Lazarus, come out!” It is striking that when Lazarus emerges from the tomb, he is still bound by the grave cloths; he still needs to hear Jesus’ command “Unbind him. Let him go free.” He needs the help of others to liberate him completely.

This is in sharp contrast to Jesus’ own resurrection, when Jesus freed Himself from both grave cloths and tomb, something which Lazarus was unable to accomplish. (Incidentally, Our Lord even left the grave cloths folded—clearly His mother had brought Him up well.) As an exercise in imaginative prayer, you might like to put yourself in the place of Lazarus, entombed in the dark, hearing the Lord’s voice calling you “-------- come out!”

As you emerge, you hear His second command “Unbind him/her. Let him/her go free” and as you feel helping hands stripping away those things which still hold you captive, you might reflect on what those things may be. Let them be taken from you, as you progress further along the road to sharing in the resurrection and the life which is Jesus, the risen Lord.

Laetare Sunday

4th Sunday of Lent 2020

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

“There are none so blind as those who will not see.” I am sure that you are familiar with that saying. You may even have used it about those who seem to be wilfully blind. But have you ever applied it to yourself?

Are there things that you or I are unwilling to see? When you or I are criticising other people, do we ever ask ourselves whether we have the same faults? And if we do ask ourselves, do we truly look into our hearts to see if those faults are there? And if we don’t see them, is that because they are genuinely not there, or because we are blind to them?

Even if we really don’t have those faults, shouldn’t we see that we are breaking Our Lord’s command “Do not judge”? If we saw clearly the meaning of that commandment, would it not rule out all but the most constructive criticism? And, hand on heart, how much of our criticism can we honestly say is constructive?

There is another issue. We claim to be clear-sighted about all that is wrong with the world, with the Church, and with other people. Does that blind us to what is good? If you are familiar with the Chronicles of Narnia by CS Lewis, you may remember the dwarves. They are constantly negative in their outlook, criticising everything, until they literally create Hell for themselves, because they make themselves incapable of seeing anything good.

Thus, they are treated to a lavish banquet, but so negative have they become that all they can taste is straw. They are standing on a sunlit expanse of grass and trees, yet they are convinced that they are trapped in a gloomy prison. If we constantly see the bad in everything, then eventually we shall lose the ability to see the good, and everything will indeed become bad for us.

Do we see the presence of God in our lives, or are we blind to it? Do we recognise the generosity of God in the daily sunrise? Do we see His presence in the people whom we encounter in the daily round? Do we understand that our difficult times are a sharing in the redemptive sufferings of His Son? that our moments of joy are a foretaste of the resurrection? Does it occur to us that , when we set aside times for prayer, God is there before us, already present in the moment, however much we may become distracted, however difficult we may consider prayer to be?

Our First Reading tells us that “the Spirit of the Lord seized upon David and stayed with him from that day on.” Can we see, do we consider, that the Spirit of the Lord has seized on us through our baptism and confirmation? that this Spirit stays constantly with us? Like David, we may act in a way contrary to the Spirit, as he did when he committed adultery with Bathsheba and caused the death of Uriah: even then, the Spirit did not abandon him, but gave him the means and the gift of contrition and repentance. We too need, in every circumstance, to be alert, with the eyes of our mind open to the presence of the Holy Spirit, calling us to repentance.

The blind man of the Gospel not only recovers his physical sight: by degrees he also develops an increasing understanding of Jesus, the source and giver of life and light. Hence he is able to give his gloriously cheeky responses to the Pharisees: “Why do you want to hear it all again? Do you want to become His disciples too?” and “Now here is an astonishing thing! He has opened my eyes and you do not know where He comes from” after which he proceeds to give them a lecture in theology. Finally, he comes to worship Jesus.

What about us? Do we ask and allow Jesus to reveal to us our blindness and to cure it? Do we open ourselves to recognise His goodness, His presence, and the beauty of all His gifts? Do we open our eyes, so that He can bring us to an ever deeper, ever fuller understanding of Him, and of His call to us?

3rd Sunday Lent

3rd Sunday of Lent 2020

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

Living water, light and vision, resurrection; these are the themes of the next three Sundays. It isn’t easy for us in the Western world to grasp the literally vital significance of water. Indeed, at the moment, we are likely to be slightly cynical about water. We have seen too much of it in recent weeks. It has inundated the fields, made the roads impassable and, in some parts of the country, flooded people’s houses. Consequently, we may struggle to enter the mindset of people for whom, even today, water is a rare and precious commodity sometimes obtained only through a back-breaking trek to and from a well perhaps miles away.

The Israelites in the wilderness were, we are told, “tormented by thirst”. You and I will have been thirsty at times, but can we honestly claim to have been tormented by thirst? To such people as the tongue-cracked, gaspingly thirsty, the promise which Jesus makes, of springs of living water, must have seemed like paradise.

Notice to whom He makes this promise. It is to a woman, a Samaritan woman, a Samaritan woman of ill-repute. There are three grounds there for excluding Jesus from speaking to this person at all, let alone entrusting her with one of His most significant promises.

Firstly, she was a woman. In first century Palestine, as in the Muslim world today, men did not speak to unknown women. Secondly, she was a Samaritan, a heretic, someone who had broken away from the true faith, who actively repudiated aspects of it. It is as if the Lord was speaking to one of the followers of Archbishop Lefebvre, who, you may recall, rejected many of the Church’s teachings embodied in the Second Vatican Council, and effectively set up a rival Church whilst claiming it to be the true Church.

Thirdly, the woman was a public sinner. It is conceivable, I suppose, that she was particularly unfortunate in her choice of husbands, and that all five of them died, leaving her free to marry again; in fact, though, she hasn’t married again, but is living with someone who is not her husband. Presumably that is why she is compelled to come to the well alone, at the hottest time of the day, the sixth hour being noon: the other women have ostracised her, probably suspicious of someone who may have designs on THEIR husbands.

So there is every reason, social, religious, and moral, why Jesus should steer clear of this woman, a  sort of schismatic Christine Keeler or Mandy Rice-Davies, God rest both of them. Yet not only does He engage her in slightly racy conversation, He reveals to her His identity, with one of the “I am” sayings which express His self-identification with the God of the burning bush, as He declares Himself to be the Messiah; and He expounds to her one of the most important themes of His teaching, namely the presence of the Holy Spirit as a spring of living and life-giving water, welling up in the heart of the believer.

Why does Jesus do this? Is He expressing His frustration at the hard-heartedness or, at best, indifference of the chosen, Jewish people? Is He reminding us, in a very practical way, not only of His concern for outsiders and sinners, but of the startling truth that such people may be closer to the Kingdom of God than we are, though we are members of the new chosen people? There is much to ponder there, along with the richness of the promise of living water, the Holy Spirit who has come to dwell within us and who, if we are responsive, will quench our spiritual thirst as we make our own way through the desert of Lent and of life.

2nd Sunday Lent

2nd Sunday of Lent 2020

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

Have you ever experienced a moment of sheer joy, a moment which you wanted to last for ever? Have you felt in that moment that it was good to be alive, that you were truly happy, that you could accomplish anything, that everything had been transformed? I hope that you have. Indeed I hope that you have experienced many such moments.

They do not happen every day. They may not occur every month, or even every year. There is no way of predicting them: indeed, their unexpectedness, their suddenness, is part of the joy. I can remember such days from childhood, usually on a Wednesday afternoon or early evening, when our shop was shut, and we would go for a long walk along the riverbank or the canal, before returning home by bus. I can remember them from student days and from adult life. Take a moment now to remember some of your own such days, to wallow in the memory, to thank God for them.

You know the problem with such moments, don’t you? They don’t last. However much we may wish to cling onto them, to pitch our tent in them, they will fade. Please God they will leave an afterglow which will sustain us during the times when life feels less rosy, when we experience the wilderness, rather than the mountain of Transfiguration.

Because that is what we are really thinking of, isn’t it? We are experiencing God-given Transfiguration moments, sharing some of the joy, and the ecstasy, and the awe of Peter, James, and John, as they saw Jesus transformed before their eyes, and realised, however dimly, that they were receiving a precious gift from God; that God was indeed very close to them.

They too want to seize the moment, to “pluck the day” as the Roman poet Horace expressed it with his famous aphorism carpe diem. They wish to fix that moment forever, to make their present experience permanent.

“It is wonderful for us to be here,” exclaims Peter, before volunteering to make three tents, the underlying thought being “so that we can stay here forever”. The moment was to become more wonderful yet. Not only were they to be in the presence of their transfigured Lord, and of Moses and Elijah, the representatives of the Law and the Prophets, but they were to be enveloped by the cloud, the shekinah , in which God made Himself present to the Israelites in the wilderness, and to hear the voice of the Father witnessing to the Son. Even our most awesome moments cannot match that. No wonder they wanted to stay.

Yet even for them the moment had to pass. Like us, the three disciples had to leave the mountaintop and head back to the valley of everyday life. Their closeness to Jesus was soon to take them to a much darker place, for they were the three chosen to accompany Our Lord into the Garden of Gethsemane, where the Transfiguration was replaced by the Agony, and they were to hear, not the Father commending the Son, but the Son praying in anguish to the Father.

Did they then recall their time on Mount Tabor, which, we can say, was given to them to prepare them for this starkly different event? If they did, the contrast seems to have unnerved rather than strengthened them, for they took refuge in sleep.

What about us? We too have to leave those moments of joy, which we can regard as our Mt. Tabor moments, and return to the valley of everyday. Sometimes, we will find ourselves in the wilderness; at times, we will enter the Garden of the Agony. Will the recollection of the joyful experiences sustain us then?

We have one advantage over Peter, James, and John. We know, as they couldn’t, that the Passion of Our Lord was the prelude to His Resurrection, of which the Transfiguration was a foretaste. That realisation will not banish the confusion of the wilderness, or the anguish of Gethsemane, but it should enable us to bear them better, knowing that our own Transfiguration times are a tiny reflection of the fullness of joy to come.

1st Sunday of Lent

1st Sunday of Lent 2020

Genesis 2:7-9; 3:1-7; Romans 5:12-19; Matt 4: 1-11

Where are you? Are you in the wilderness? It is not a pleasant place to be. I suspect that everybody spends some time in the wilderness at least once in their lives. That is the time when you lose your sense of direction, when things go wrong, when fixed points no longer seem stable, when perhaps the black dog of depression is prowling, barking, biting.

That is a wilderness which we do not enter voluntarily. We are driven there, and we long for rescue. Yet sometimes it is the case that, rather than being driven there by the forces of darkness, we are actually, like Jesus, led by the Holy Spirit. If we cling on, however feebly, in faith and hope, perhaps we will realise that we are not alone; that the Spirit of Jesus is in the wilderness with us; that the times of loss and emptiness will prove to be times of growth and renewal; that, as Isaiah prophesied, the wilderness will bloom.

Lent is a slightly different aspect of the same experience. In Lent we do enter the wilderness voluntarily, as we ask the Holy Spirit to lead us in the footsteps of Jesus. We undertake penance to loosen our dependence, at least for a time, on some of the elements of everyday; to sharpen our awareness of the presence of the Holy Spirit, and of the call of the Son of God.  We pray, we practise self-denial, we give of what we have, to remind ourselves that we do not live on bread alone, but that the true giver of life is very close to us in our apparent emptiness.

Sometimes the voluntary and the involuntary wilderness times coincide. My most difficult Lent came 25 years ago, when a heavy bout of clinical depression compelled me, under medical direction, to leave my parish on the Wednesday of the second week of Lent and to spend time in a nursing home. To add to my sense of wilderness disorientation, the principal celebrant at Mass the following Sunday focused his homily on one sentence from the Gospel: “Unless you repent, you will all perish as they did.” Yippee! Just what I needed to help me feel better—or perhaps not.

That wilderness time passed, and I recall another Lent, ten years earlier, when the wilderness did indeed blossom for me. I was based at St. Mary’s Morecambe at the time, as well as being chaplain at Our Lady’s. That Lent, everything came together at once to provide a deep experience of joy in the Lord.

There was an excellent Castlerigg course with the Lower Sixth, a Caring Church Week which brought four hundred pupils voluntarily to Mass every day, and a fund raising effort for charity which raised huge sums, not least through a sponsored run along the riverside to Halton. I remember, a few days after the latter, acting as marker for the school cross country, and as I stood near Greyhound Bridge, I recall thinking how good it was to be alive.

Good times and bad come and go throughout our lives, but through them all the Lord is with us. When we make our Lenten journey with the Lord, He may share with us His suffering, or His joys, or both, but we can guarantee that, if we are faithful, He will make us better for the experience.

As we share His journey, will we also share His temptations? I shall be surprised if we don’t. The tempter who was in the garden for the first Adam, was also in the wilderness for the Second Adam, Jesus the second founder of the human race. We can be almost certain that the tempter will lie in wait in our wilderness. We too may be tempted to turn stones into bread, by giving up the journey with Christ in order to satisfy our own wishes, our own way, even our own compulsions. We may be tempted to leap from the Temple pinnacle, not so much to put God to the test, but in despair, unable to accept and to realise that God is with us and that He will bring us out of the wilderness. We may be tempted to rule the kingdoms of the world, or at least to lord it over people in our own petty kingdom, the circles in which we move.

Temptations there will be, difficulties there may be, but if we are faithful we will emerge from the wilderness ready to enter with the Lord into Holy Week and to find deep joy in the Resurrection.

7th Sunday

7th Sunday in OT 2020

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

Are you holy?

 “No!” I hear you cry. “Am I heck!” I beg your pardon, but you are. Weren’t you listening to St. Paul when he said “Didn’t you realise that you were God’s Temple, and that the Spirit of God was living...” well, where exactly?

The Jerusalem Bible says “among you”. That is a possible translation, but a more obvious one would be “in you”. The original Greek is en humin which can be translated “among you” but “in you” would be the more usual way of expressing it.

Either way, St. Paul is stating very clearly that you and I are holy. He goes on to emphasise the point: “The Temple of God is hagios”—the Jerusalem Bible says “sacred” but we could equally well say “holy”—“and you are that Temple”.

So Paul leaves us in no doubt. He tells us twice that we are God’s Temple. How can that be? Remember that Jesus is the true Temple, replacing the Jerusalem Temple: we are the Body of Jesus, as the Church. Therefore, we are the Temple. So by definition, we are holy.

What is it in particular which makes the Temple holy? It is the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. So as the Body of Christ, indwelt by the Holy Spirit, we couldn’t be much holier, not because of anything that we have done, but simply by the actions of the Holy Trinity.

Perhaps when you go home today, or to your room, you should look in the mirror, and say to yourself “That person at whom I am looking, who is looking at me, who is me, is holy: that person is the Temple of God, and the Holy Spirit lives in him/her”. Convince yourself that it is true, and then look at the people around you, and realise that they too are holy, because they are your neighbour and you are commanded to love them “as yourself”—in other words, as being you.

Right then, we have established that you are holy, but are you perfect? “No!” you say again, All right, I will grant you that one. Why are you not perfect? Because “perfect” comes from the Latin “perfectus” meaning “thoroughly made”, “complete”, and none of us will be complete this side of eternity. We are working our way towards it: in this life, perfection is a process, not a state. Remember that the Letter to the Hebrews states that Jesus was made perfect through suffering. Even the Son of God was incomplete until He had shared and surpassed human suffering.

Yet that same Son of God tells us to be perfect, so we have to work at the process of becoming complete. How do we do that? Two messages seem to stand out from the Gospel: to love our enemies, and to be constantly willing to give.

“That’s all right” you may say. “I don’t have any enemies”—or you may have. But is there anyone who really winds you up, makes you angry, so that you find yourself shouting at the telly, for instance? I tend to become furiously angry when people attack the Church, either from without, or from within. Are these the people whom I must make a special effort to love? As a first step, I make myself pray for anybody with whom I have become especially cross; but I have still a long way to go.

As for the giving and the non-resistance, I think of how priests in parishes are driven up the wall by the stream of people who come to the door with endless cock-and-bull stories as an attempt to obtain money. When I was in Morecambe, I called at the vicarage of the local Anglican church, which was about half a mile further into the notorious West End than was my own church, and the vicar’s wife burst into tears as she described how such people were driving her to the edge.

How do we respond to the habitual doorbell ringers and tale spinners? We have to muster as much patience as we can, whilst recognising our own needs and limitations. The story is told of a holy and generous parish priest who, during the Toxteth riots of 1981, was constantly on the front line, counselling people, mediating between opposing parties. One night, some rioters broke into his home and threatened him, and he was subsequently seen chasing them down the street, belabouring them with his walking stick, and shouting “Get out of here, you people of questionable parentage!” Even saints have their limits.