6th Sunday of Easter Year B

6th Sunday of Easter 2024

Acts 10:25ff; 1 John 4:7-10; John 15:9-17

Do you get the impression that St. John is trying to tell us something? Might that be “Love one another”? If so, what does it mean?

Many moons ago—during the last week of January 1987, to be precise, which is 444 moons if my arithmetic is correct—I was leading a course for Fifth Years (Year 11 in new money) in other words 15 to 16 year olds, at the Diocesan residential Youth Centre at Castlerigg Manor. They came from Fisher/More School, Colne, who invariably sent a good gang of young people, these being no exception.

During one session, having broken up into small groups, we were discussing the topic of love, and I asked my group if anyone could define love. Needless to say there was total silence, so I said: “Right. I will give you a definition which I have thought of, and you tell me what you make of it. I would say that love is wanting what is best for the other person”.

Again there was silence for a moment; then a lad named Darren (who will now be in his fifties) commented “Well, I think you are about half right”. “Tell me more” I responded, intrigued. “I think” continued Darren, “that it is wanting what is best for the other person, and wanting what is best for yourself as well”. I have spent the last thirty seven and a quarter years trying to work out whether he was right.

What do you think? Who thinks that was a better definition of love? Ponder it. Is it perhaps a matter of emphasis? May it be the case that, if you are genuinely wanting what is best for the other person, you will, by definition, automatically be wanting what is best for yourself? Or does that lay you open to abuse? Answers on a postcard!

Throw something else into the mix! Our Lord comments “No one can have greater love than to lay down one’s life for one’s friends”. That is what He went on to do, clearly wanting what was best for us, and judging correctly what that was. Was it best for Himself as well? In human terms, clearly not, yet it may indeed have been so, as being the completion, the fulfilment, of His destiny as man.

When preaching at a wedding, I have been known to tell people about the carpet sewing room. For three summers in the 1960s, I worked in the carpet and beds department of the Co-op, at Market Square, Lancaster, where TKMaxx is now. The Co-op building stretched, on the upper floors, along much of New Street and Church Street, and was a warren of passages with rooms leading off them. Sometimes I was sent on an errand to the carpet sewing room, where Lena presided over a small corps of ladies, who would be binding the ends of newly sold and cut carpets.

An enterprising and artistic member of staff had decorated the walls of the room with a series of cartoons, all depicting Charlie Brown, and carrying a caption beginning “Love is…” One of them remains in my mind to this day. It was a night time scene, with a crescent moon in the sky. Snoopy was lying on the roof of his kennel, whilst Charlie Brown stood on the back doorstep of his house, clad in a nightshirt, and carrying a glass of water. The caption read “Love is bringing someone a glass of water in the middle of the night”.

There are more ways than one of laying down one’s life for one’s friends—or one’s spouse. Sometimes, this may involve a huge sacrifice, but more often than not it will be a small, niggly, perhaps annoying need to put yourself out for the other person. And if you are not prepared to do that, then it is unlikely that you will be willing to make that major sacrifice if it should come down to hey-lads-hey.

At the same time, I should repeat that we ae not required to lay ourselves open to abuse. If the other person shows no willingness to respond in kind, then something is amiss.

Where do we gain the strength to practise this self-sacrificing love? It comes from God, who gives us both the ability and the example. God sent His Son into the world, and that same Son gave Himself up to death for us. In the Eucharist, that self-sacrificing death, the ultimate act of love, is made present for us again. That is the effective sign of God’s love for us, and it should give us the strength to love others, whatever definition of love we prefer.

5th Sunday Easter

5th Sunday of Easter 2024

Acts 9:26-31; 1 John 3:18-24; John 15:1-8

Would you recognise a vine if you saw one? I would—provided it had bunches of grapes hanging from it: otherwise I wouldn’t have a clue. In Holy Family Church, Morecambe, now, sadly closed, there was a set of tabernacle veils with leaves embroidered on them. To me, they looked like ivy, but I was assured that they were vine leaves.

That was appropriate, because vines produce grapes, which in turn produce wine, which is transformed into the Blood of Christ, the Eucharist, which, under the appearances of bread, is contained in the tabernacle. Thus, vines have a deeply Eucharistic significance.

And we, says Jesus, are branches of the vine, parts of Him who is the true vine, the vine which ultimately bears fruit in His Blood, just as we are parts of His Body, which is both the Church and the food of the Church. Our Eucharistic union with Him is both integral and intimate, and we will never exhaust its meaning, as we reflect on the mystery of His Body and Blood.

As branches of the vine, He tells us, we are called to bear fruit. How are we to do that? Well, how do the branches of any vine bear fruit? They do that simply by being themselves. The life of the parent vine passes through them, and so the life of Jesus passes through us. It is not our doing: it all comes from the main stem, which is Jesus.

Our calling then is to be fully receptive to the life of Jesus passing through us, to be conduits of that life. How do we do that? St. John explains in our Second Reading: “We believe in the name of [God’s] Son Jesus Christ, and we love one another as He told us to”. It’s a doddle.

Or is it? What does belief in the name of Jesus entail? It is more than accepting His biography: it is recognising Him as the source of our life, and allowing Him to live in us, being open to His grace and to the indwelling of the Holy Spirit. Just as the sap from the main stem is the source of the branch’s life, so must the grace of Jesus and the power of the Holy Spirit be the source of our life. As St Paul wrote: “I live; no, not I, but Christ who lives in me”. We must be open always to the promptings of grace, seeking always to conform our lives to the presence and the leading of God who dwells in us.

As part of that response to grace, we must “love one another as He told us to”. Is that a doddle? Anybody who has been part of a family, a religious community, a parish, will roll their eyes at that suggestion. Those who are closest to us create the greatest friction with us. It can be far easier to love the people whom we do not know, whom we will never meet. People love their idols, whether these be sporting personalities, rock stars, film stars or whoever. Those who marry them have a very different experience of them, and few such marriages survive. “Love hurts” as one well known song declares.

There is still more: Our Lord tells us to love our enemies. Somehow we have to love that difficult person up the street, and Vladimir Putin, Donald Trump, the editor of the Daily Mail, the militant atheist who constantly attacks religion, and all those other people whose world view is at odds with ours. We may disagree with them profoundly, we may wish their power and influence to be broken, but we must pray for them, desire their conversion, long for them to be filled with the love of the Holy Spirit.

What, though, do we make of the demand that we bear fruit? Do you perhaps feel, particularly in these days when the Church appears to be in decline, when the name of Jesus is less known and less believed in, when your own children may have rejected the values you sought to give them, that you have failed, that your efforts, your life have been fruitless?

I remember a lady coming to confession and claiming that she had failed. Her daughter had rejected all her values, was living in a way which appalled her. “And” she added, “what makes it worse is that I am a Marriage Guidance Counsellor.”

“Right” I replied, “and when people come to you with similar stories, I bet you tell them that it’s not their fault; that they mustn’t blame themselves.”

“Yes I do,” she said. “But it’s different when it’s your own.”

But it isn’t really. You can only do your best, co-operate with God’s grace, and leave the outcome to Him. You and I will never know, this side of eternity, what fruit we have borne, often in ways that we have never imagined. I remember another lady, who used to thank me profusely for some advice that I had allegedly given her about her son. From that day to this, I cannot recall ever giving her advice about her son. Yet something had clicked, without my ever knowing or intending it: perhaps she had misinterpreted something which I had said. No matter: God had done something in spite of me.

Oh, and one other thing. God will prune us, and at times that will hurt.

3rd Sunday of Easter Year B

3rd Sunday of Easter 2024

Acts 3:13-15, 17-19; 1 John 2:1-5; Luke 24:35-48

Last week’s Gospel which, as you will recall, recounted two appearances of the Risen Christ a week apart, stressed His physicality. First, He showed the disciples His hands and side. On His return, He invited Thomas to touch His wounds. Today, He again insists on the physical reality, drawing attention to His wounds and taking food. He has solid flesh, bones, and a digestive system. There is nothing wraith-like about Him.

It is clear from the Gospel accounts that the Risen Christ is not merely spiritual: He is also corporeal. He is body as well as spirit. He is also something else: He is wounded. At least three times, He points  to His wounds. Why should that be?

His body, though real, was different from what it had been. It could pass through locked doors. It could appear and disappear, as it did for the disciples on the Emmaus road. It could apparently cover distances previously unattainable. It was still a human body, but enhanced: perhaps we might say perfected.

Why then did it still have wounds? If our bodies suffer injuries such as cuts or gashes, we expect those injuries to heal: to leave nothing but a faint scar. Why then does the risen body of Jesus so clearly display His wounds? Wouldn’t we expect them to have cleared from this enhanced and perfected body? Why do they remain so evident?

Seemingly, it is important (crucial, if you will pardon the pun) that the risen Christ should continue to be the wounded Christ. Why? Partly, I assume, because those wounds retain their healing power. “By His wounds we are healed” the First Letter of St. Peter tells us, and that is an ongoing process. These wounds continue to heal us. This was not something which ended when the body of Jesus was removed from the Cross. The gashes in His hands, feet, and side remain forever, to heal forever, and to remind us whence our healing comes. The risen Christ is not the ubermensch, the superman. He is still Jesus of Nazareth, fully human, and His perfected body is a wounded body.

There are further implications for us. Our physical wounds may heal and fade, but they are still part of us, and our psychological wounds run still deeper. They form part of who we are, and as such are part of our call to be perfect, to be complete, to be thoroughly made. If, as the author of the Letter to the Hebrews tells us, the Son of God was made perfect by suffering, the same must be true of us who are His body.

Suffering may do lasting damage, but it may also bring lasting benefits, because it gives us compassion, the ability to suffer with others, without which we are, at best do-gooders, at worst cold and uncaring. As Christ is the wounded healer, and continues to be so after His resurrection, so must we be, as members of His risen but still wounded body.

None of us can know or share the full extent of another’s suffering, but because we have been wounded we know what suffering is, and we can bring a degree of healing, if only by the silent accompaniment of the other in their pain. Our healing of others will not be clinical, in either the best or the worst senses of that word; it may be clumsy and stumbling, but in emerging from a wounded heart it will be genuine, it will be fruitful.

This is one reason why Pope Francis is so critical of aloofness on the part of priests. If we, as pastors, do not display the compassion arising from our own woundedness, what we offer will be superficial. The risen Christ shows us the wounds that heal us, and they transform our own wounds into means of healing, whether we be priests, religious, or lay people because they draw their strength from His wounds.

2nd Sunday of Easter Year B

2nd Sunday of Easter 2024

Acts 4:32-35; 1 John 5:1-6; John 20:19-31

You don’t need me to tell you that a honeymoon doesn’t last forever. After the initial ecstasy, it is necessary, inevitable, that people come down to earth, and start living the daily reality of the relationship to which they have committed themselves. There is a saying “The glances over cocktails which seemed so sweet, don’t look so amorous over shredded wheat”. Yet life contains far more shredded wheat, or corn flakes, or whatever, than it does cocktails.

The same is true of our relationship with God, where there is a similar saying: “After the ecstasy, go and do the laundry”. We may be emotionally and spiritually exalted by a new encounter with God, but soon we have to settle to developing that relationship amid the ups and downs of daily life.

People sometimes ask, in a tone of complaint, “Why isn’t the Church today like the early Church?” as described in today’s First Reading, when there was dignity, mutual respect, and everything, we are told, was held in common. A brutal, and perhaps not very helpful answer would be “Why aren’t you?”

It might be more helpful to point out that the Church, at this stage, was on honeymoon, living in the first ecstasy of the Resurrection and Pentecost, and that, very soon, it would have to settle to the reality of daily existence. It might also be fair to point out that, even at this stage, there were serious problems. Chapter 5 of the Acts of the Apostles chronicles the attempted fraud on the part of Ananias and Sapphira, followed by the attempt of Simon Magus to buy spiritual powers.

Soon, there would be major disagreements about policy. We need to pray for the Church, that she may be constantly purified and renewed, but we should not be so naïve as to suppose that if only THEY (those other people) would reform, the Church would become the perfect society. Two expressions may be useful here: “ecclesia semper reformanda”—the Church always in need of reform—and “Lord, reform your Church, beginning with me”.

Our Second Reading, from the First Letter of St. John, underlines that this reform depends on our faith, and on our love for God and for one another, before John’s Gospel recounts two appearances of the Risen Christ, a week apart.

There shouldn’t be any need to append a health warning to the description of the first appearance, but unfortunately there is. Because of Jesus’ gentle breathing of the Holy Spirit into the apostles, this episode is used as the Gospel for the Feast of Pentecost, and people who don’t have their wits about them fail to realise that this incident took place on Easter Sunday, and not at Pentecost. Thus you will find preachers and spiritual writers, who should know better, asserting that the disciples were cowering in fear until Pentecost, whereas they were liberated from that fear by the appearances of the Risen Christ and by His Ascension.

In a previous parish, I explained this very carefully during Eastertide. After Mass on Pentecost Sunday, a lady approached me and asked triumphantly “Well, who is right then, you or St. John?” Resisting the urge to strangle her, I began again, explaining how I was in full agreement with St. John: I am still not sure that she was convinced. She was a retired Deputy Head from a Catholic Primary School, and had clearly spent her career teaching that the disciples were frightened until Pentecost, a belief which she was not going to surrender easily.

Jesus’ appearance on the Second Sunday—today—deepens our understanding. Firstly, the physical nature of the Risen Christ is underlined. He may be able to pass through locked doors, but He is flesh and blood, and can be touched. Secondly, He still carries His wounds. The Risen Christ is still the wounded Christ. “By His wounds we are healed,” states the First Letter of St. Peter, and those wounds are the sign of His ongoing compassion with us. We too carry the wounds which Christ has dealt us, and which enable us to have that compassion, and therefore that love, which our Second Reading demands.

Thomas is characteristically down to earth. “None of your airy fairy theories” he demands. “Show me!” And Jesus does. What is the result? The first profession of faith in the divinity of Christ. In exclaiming “My Lord and my God”, Thomas gives us not only a prayer to offer at the elevation of the Host and the Chalice, but a fundamental statement of faith, a faith which is ours, and which undergirds our love.

Easter Sunday

Easter Sunday 2024

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

The Easter of 1972 was my first as a seminarian, a student for the priesthood. More than half a century on, I still remember the homily, which was preached by Mgr. Philip Loftus, the President of the College. Mgr. Loftus was, in many ways, a great man, but he suffered from two handicaps, one of which was his voice, and the other his face, which resembled nothing so much as a particularly doleful bloodhound. His voice, meanwhile, had earned him the nickname Clank, sounding as it did like a rusty chain being dragged across rough ground.

Consequently, it seemed somewhat incongruous when Mgr. Loftus began his homily “TODAY---IS---A -DAY-----OF---UNRESTRAIN-ED JOY!”

But was he correct? For a long time I believed that he was. The resurrection of Jesus the Christ, true God and true man, marked the ultimate defeat of evil. Jesus took all the evil of the world, and carried it with Himself into death. In doing so, He brought about its defeat, ensuring that evil can never have the last word. Whatever may attack us, whatever may afflict us, whatever may defeat us, cannot defeat humanity, because it has all been conquered by the risen Christ. In the end, evil cannot survive: surely this is a reason for glorious, thrilling, immense joy.

Indeed it is. The early Christians used to greet each other in the streets with the words “Christ is risen” to which the response was “He is risen indeed, Alleluia!” Sheer joy filled them, and it should fill us: it should be the driving force of our lives.

And yet, can it really be unrestrained? Can it be unrestrained when so much of the world’s population still goes hungry? When hundreds of thousands of people die by violence every year; tens of thousands of them in the land where Jesus died and rose victorious over death, tens of thousands more in Ukraine, and in Syria, Yemen, Sudan, Haiti, and in countless forgotten conflicts? Can it be unrestrained when human rights are denied to so many in China, North Korea, Iran, Afghanistan, among other nations? when the Soviet Gulags are flourishing again in Putin’s Russia? when our own lawmakers hold life cheap? when obscene wealth and even more obscene deprivation stalk the towns and cities of the developed world?

The philosopher Pascal claimed that Christ is in agony until the end of time. He is in agony because His body on earth is racked by suffering. Christ suffers with and in a suffering world, and we suffer with and in Him. Pope St. John Paul II was right to declare that “We are the Easter people, and Alleluia is our song”, but we are also, and at the same time, the Holy Thursday night people whose cry is “Let this cup pass me by”, and the Good Friday people, and “My God, my God” is our prayer.

So joy definitely is ours today, and throughout the Easter season, and indeed our whole life long, but it cannot truly be unrestrained, because of the suffering of suffering humanity, and the groaning of creation. Christ is risen: evil is defeated. Let us rejoice and be glad, but let us never be unmindful of those who suffer.

Easter Vigil 24

Easter Vigil 2024

What a remarkable Gospel we have tonight. Did you notice how it ended? “And the women came out and ran away from the tomb, because they were frightened out of their wits; and they said nothing to a soul, for they were afraid.”

That is how St. Mark’s Gospel originally ended: the remaining twelve verses, telling of the appearances of the risen Christ, His commission to the disciples, and His Ascension, are generally believed to have been added later.

Contrast that with Matthew’s account: “Filled with awe and great joy, the women came quickly away from the tomb, and ran to tell the disciples”. Which version do you imagine is the more accurate?

Well, when studying classical languages in Sixth Form and at university, we were given a dictum to be applied, not universally, but generally: “Difficilior lectio melior”—“the more difficult reading is the better one”. In other words, a difficult reading is more likely to have been altered to make it easier than the other way round.

Can we suppose then that Mark’s terrified women are more original than Matthew’s joyful women? It makes sense. Arriving in semi-darkness to find an empty tomb and a strange young man—a scene which turned upside down all their expectations—wouldn’t you expect them to be terrified? Joy would come eventually when the denarius dropped, but aren’t mystical experiences which confound our suppositions likely to be frightening rather than re-assuring?

To encounter God is alarming, because He turns our world upside down. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom” the scriptures tell us. If we are not, to an extent, afraid of, in awe of, God then we do not truly know Him: we know rather a god of our own construction. When they hear that the Lord is risen, these women suddenly discover that their previous understanding of Jesus, and of God, has been woefully inadequate, and in the disturbing of their comfort they can begin to know the true Jesus, the true God.

As we rejoice tonight in the resurrection of Jesus the Christ, let us realise that, however well we believe that we know Him, our knowledge, this side of the grave, will always be inadequate; and if there isn’t an element of fear, then our understanding is probably still superficial. He is risen, a cause for joy, but also for deep reverence and a healthy dose of holy fear.

Holy Thursday 2024

Holy Thursday 2024

Exodus 12:1-8, 11-14; Psalm 115 (116); 1Cor 11:23-26; John 13:1-15

We have begun. We have set sail. We have launched into the Sacred Triduum, the most important three days of the year, when we follow closely in the footsteps of the Lord: entering the supper room; emerging into the bleakness of Gethsemane; watching in the High Priest’s palace and the Governor’s headquarters; carrying the Cross; standing at its foot; keeping vigil as we trace the history of salvation—OUR salvation through water and the Holy Spirit; and finally erupting in joy as we proclaim the triumph which gives meaning to existence: Christos aneste CHRIST IS RISEN.

For now, that triumph lies a long way in the future, for we are at the beginning. Where do we begin? We begin in Egypt, among the enslaved Israelites, as they prepare to sacrifice the lambs of Passover, and to eat, for the first time, the Paschal meal. The Israelites are to be saved by blood, the blood of the innocent lamb to be smeared on the doorposts, as a sign to the Lord to pass over their houses, liberating His people from slavery and from death.

Why does that matter to us? It matters because we are the new people of God, inheriting the same promises which He made to Israel, recalling that He sent His only Son to become an Israelite, a Jew, who performed the same rituals as His ancestors, who ate the same Passover meal with it bread, its roasted lamb, its bitter herbs, its series of wine cups.

All that the Jewish people had done throughout their history, and which they continue to do today, Jesus did. It is in the context of that meal that we begin our Triduum, our three days’ journey, seeing in it the roots of our own faith and of our own redemption.

It is St. Paul who, in his First Letter to the Corinthians, gives us the earliest written account of the Passover meal which Jesus celebrated with His disciples on the eve of His death, as He prepared to become the true Paschal Lamb who would redeem, not merely a single nation from slavery, but the whole world from unending death. As if that were not enough, Paul informs us that the Lord Jesus gave thanks—literally “made Eucharist”—over the bread and wine, transforming them into His Body and Blood, instructing us to make present that one sacrifice of His Death and Resurrection throughout the ages by “making Eucharist” in our turn. Thus in every celebration of Mass, Jesus gives Himself to us in the Body and Blood offered to the Father, and draws us into that same self-offering.

All of this is proclaimed to us in our Readings tonight, but there is more. The Gospel passage which we read on this night is always from St. John, who has set out his explanation of the Eucharist in chapter six of his Gospel, and who leaves to Matthew, Mark, and Luke, as well as Paul, the task of recounting how the Eucharist came about.

What John does is to link inextricably with the Eucharist the duty of serving with love. It was the responsibility of the slave to wash the travel-stained feet of guests, yet it is Jesus, the Lord and Saviour, who assumes this task at the Last Supper. Thus, the Eucharistic sacrifice and the sacrifice of loving service cannot be broken apart. If we take part in the one, we must undertake the other, or our Eucharistic celebration will be falsified. Sacrifice, salvation, service all form part of our Eucharist, our Mass: over the next three days, we shall be drawn more deeply into all of them.

5th Sunday in Lent Year B

5th Sunday of Lent 2024

Jeremiah 31:31-34; Hebrews 5:7-9; John 12:20-33

Our Lenten journey with Christ is far advanced. Next Sunday, we shall be entering Holy Week, travelling no longer through the wilderness but along the road to Calvary, and finally to the Resurrection. We catch hints of that journey today.

Jeremiah sets us on the way by speaking of the New Covenant. This draws us towards Holy Thursday, when Jesus first gave us the blood of that Covenant, when He consecrated the wine of the Passover meal, which was thus transformed into His Blood, the Blood which was to be shed next day, and was to be available to us through the rest of time as a sign of our union with and in Him. Our first questions therefore are “How reverently do I approach the Body and Blood of the Lord?” and “How deeply do I appreciate the Covenant which is thus sealed between God and me and the whole of God’s people?”

The anonymous author of the Letter to the Hebrews, from which our Second Reading is taken, also points us toward the events of Holy Week. He writes that “during His life on earth, Christ offered up prayer and entreaty, aloud and in silent tears, to the one who had the power to save Him out of death”. Does that put you in mind, as it does me, of the Agony in the Garden, when Jesus’ mental struggle caused His sweat to fall like drops of blood, and He prayed “If it be possible, let this cup pass me by, but let it be as you, not I, would have it”?

I am often critical of the Jerusalem Bible’s translation of the New Testament, but here its compilers deserve praise.  The Greek text states that the Father had the power to save Jesus ek thanatou which can mean “from death” or “out of death”. Here, the JB opts for the latter which, I think, is the more helpful of the two. Our Lord was not saved FROM death: He died, and “descended into hell” a statement which deserves closer analysis, though that is another task for another day. He was dead, and He had to be lifted OUT OF death; otherwise, the Resurrection would have been nothing more than resuscitation.

There is another statement in the Letter which is mind boggling. We are told that Jesus “learned to obey “from what He suffered, and HAVING BEEN MADE PERFECT…..”. If that doesn’t boggle your mind, nothing will. The Son of God had to be made perfect.

At this point, the sisters are searching desperately for missiles to throw, as they know what is coming next: they have heard it so often. Perfection is a process, rather than a state: it comes from the Latin “perfectus” meaning “thoroughly made”, “complete”. The Greek equivalent, which is what we have here, is teleiotheis, from telos meaning “the end”. So Jesus was completed, fulfilled, made the end product, by suffering. Until He suffered, He lacked something in His humanity. It was suffering which made Him complete—perfect in that sense. As with Him, so with us: we mustn’t worry that we are not yet perfect.

Turning to the Gospel, we find another reference to the Agony in the Garden. “Now my soul is troubled. What shall I say: Father, save me from this hour? Yet it is for this very reason that I have come to this hour. Father, glorify your name.”

This is the nearest that John comes to describing the Gethsemane experience of Our Lord. If we didn’t have the other three Gospels, we would make little of it, but in the light of Matthew, Mark, and Luke we can grasp the reference.

There is a reason why John doesn’t enter into the physical details, but allows the other three to describe them. His intention is to describe the Passion and death of Jesus as a triumph. For John, Our Lord’s victory came, not only in His resurrection, but in the whole process of accepting Passion-Death-Resurrection. Jesus is to be “lifted up from the earth” not only in His Resurrection or Ascension, but in the lifting of His body on the Cross. This is the Fourth Gospel’s particular contribution to our understanding of the Passion.

One other thing should be said of John. His use of the term “the Jews” has contributed, tragically, to two millennia of anti-Semitism, to the extent that some have argued that we shouldn’t use His Gospel on Good Friday. Anti-Semitism is totally abhorrent and to be condemned, but what is needed is an explanation of what John means by “the Jews”. It is his shorthand way of referring to the authorities, to those who rejected Jesus. We must never forget that Jesus, Mary, John himself, and the early disciples were Jews, and his use of what was for him a technical term should not lead us into misunderstanding, or cause us to lose his unique insight into the Passion.

4th Sunday of Lent Year B

4th Sunday of Lent 2024

2 Chronicles 36:14-16, 19-23; Psalm 136 (137); Ephesians 2:4-10; John 3:14-21

I think I must be slightly gormless. (“What do you mean SLIGHTLY?” I hear you cry.) For the life of me, I cannot see any connection between the First Reading and Psalm on the one hand, and the Second Reading and Gospel on the other.

As you are no doubt aware, the Old Testament Reading is normally chosen to link with the Gospel, whilst, in Ordinary Time, the Second Reading follows a New Testament Epistle week by week. During Advent, Lent, and Eastertide, all three readings tend to be connected. So where is the connection here?

Clearly, the Reading from the Second Book of Chronicles is complemented by the Psalm. Both refer to the Exile of the Jewish people to Babylon, an Exile which lasted seventy years until Cyrus of Persia conquered Babylon in 538BC, and allowed the exiled people to return home.

Actually, it wouldn’t have been a return. After seventy years, most if not all of the original exiles would have been dead, and this would have been a journey to a homeland which the people involved knew only by hearsay. Nevertheless, the longing for home was etched deeply into them, and the liberation from the Exile was celebrated as enthusiastically as the original Exodus from Egypt.

The Psalm is a lament by the exiles before the prospect of return had been opened up to them. It is a beautiful piece of poetry, the only psalm to have reached the top of the popular music charts (Boney M’s version from 1978) but it has an unsavoury ending. The final two verses read “O Babylon, destroyer, blessed is he who repays you the ills you brought on us. He shall seize and shall dash your children on the rock.” Needless to say, those verses are not used in the liturgy.

We can see that this reading and psalm record an extremely important episode in the history of God’s chosen people, and they should rouse us to prayer today. Babylon is situated in modern day Iraq, still in turmoil, a turmoil which has persisted largely since the country was carved out by the Western powers in the wake of the First World War. Persia is now Iran, another country desperately in need of prayers, while the whole Israel/Palestine dilemma cries to heaven for a just and humane solution, a solution which, in human terms seems as unattainable as a return from exile seemed to the author of the psalm. We could spend the whole day praying for that area of the world, taking in also Syria and Yemen; as well as the rising tide of anti-Semitism, which has still not been expunged from the human psyche.

Israel’s  538 BC  release from exile was a sign of God’s love for His people, which is the only, fairly tenuous, link which I can find to the Second Reading and Gospel. The passage from the Letter to the Ephesians celebrates the freely given love of God for the world, through the gift of Jesus Christ the Son of God, a theme developed in the Gospel.

More accurately translated, the extract from Ephesians begins “God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love of His with which He loved us…….brought us to life with Christ”. St. John meanwhile declares that “God so loved the world that He gave us His only begotten Son”. He goes on to insist “For God sent His Son into the world not to condemn (or “judge”) the world, but in order that the world might be saved through Him”.

“God so loved the world……God sent His Son….not to condemn the world.” Do you believe that—I mean really believe it, in the depth of your being? Attending a death bed, I was reading Jesus’ words to Martha following the death of Lazarus. When I reached Jesus’ question “Do you believe this?” the whole family, gathered around the bed, shouted “Yes!” Could you shout “Yes!” in answer to the question “Do you believe what John says about God’s reason for sending His Son?”

If so, what do you, what do I, have to be afraid of? Yes we have to put our faith in Christ, we have to respond to Him, but the dice are loaded in our favour. Notice something else: it is “the world” (ho kosmos) which Jesus was sent to save. He has saved it, which surely includes “Those who seek God with a sincere heart” as the Fourth Eucharistic prayer puts it, even if their knowledge of Christ is lacking. As St. Paul wrote in a letter which we read a few weeks ago “With God on our side, who can be against us?” And He IS on our side.

3rd Sunday Lent

3rd Sunday of Lent 2024

Exodus 20: 1-17; 1Cor 1:22-25; John 2:13-25

“Jesus knew them all, and did not trust Himself to them.” Jesus knows us. Do you think He would trust Himself to us, to you or to me? That is something worth pondering. Are you someone to whom the Son of God could safely entrust Himself?

He is not impressed by the belief shown by many of those who have seen the signs: He knows what that belief is worth. It will pass, like any sudden enthusiasm, replaced by the next sensation to come along.

How many fads have come and gone in our lifetime? It used to be said, before the practice was banned by Health and Safety, that today’s headlines are tomorrow’s chip paper. In 1969, when Prince Charles was invested as Prince of Wales, he was the darling of the hour: when he was crowned King, hardly anybody noticed. Che Guevara, John F Kennedy, Tony Blair, what do your legacy, your reputation, amount to now?

Enthusiasms fade, and the greater they are, the more quickly they disappear. When I was based at the Diocesan Youth Centre, groups would leave us on a Friday morning filled with fervour. It might survive the journey home: it rarely lasted the weekend. A weekend course, bringing together young adults from Lancaster and Preston, filled the participants with deep concern about the dangers associated with drugs and alcohol. We later learned that, on the homeward bound coach, before going their separate ways, the two groups had arranged to meet up in one of the cities for a pub crawl.

There is nothing wrong with enthusiasm in itself, despite the dire warning addressed to John Wesley by an Anglican bishop, that enthusiasm is a dangerous and wicked thing. We need enthusiasm, but it must be allied with reason: the more unreasoning it is, and the more fervent, the more quickly is it likely to burn out.

A balanced steady response, which will stand the test of time, is of far greater value. For the Jewish people, the framework of this balance and this steadiness was provided by the Law, and especially by the Decalogue, the Ten Commandments, which we have heard today.

Even this, however, could turn into an obstacle, if it became an end, rather than the means to an end, the end being closer union with God. Throughout Christian history there have been waves of iconoclasts, carried away by enthusiasm for the prohibition of graven images, who have gone around smashing statues and stained glass windows, failing completely to understand the purpose behind the Commandment, which was intended simply to prevent the worship of false gods.

Jesus Himself, followed by St. Paul, encapsulated the Commandments within two precepts: you must love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength; and your neighbour as yourself. These are the essentials, rather than anything concerned with images or your neighbour’s donkey.

Today’s Gospel shows that, even when lip service, or even total adherence, is given to the Decalogue, things can go horribly wrong. Supposedly devout, religious people saw nothing wrong with carrying on commerce within the precincts of the Temple, selling there the animals which were to be offered in sacrifice, and changing the imperial coinage for the money which was considered fit to be offered in the Temple.

There is enthusiasm, indeed zeal, in Our Lord’s cleansing of the Temple. Zeal is enthusiasm carried to extreme, and zealots should usually be discouraged. Jesus, however, knew exactly what He was doing: His zeal was for God’s house, as foretold in the psalms, and He was the only person who could safely be a zealot.

One more thing needs to be added. Although the Temple is God’s house, it is, like all our sacred buildings, a means to an end. Its time is drawing to a close, as it is to be replaced by the true and everlasting Temple which is the Body of Jesus, a Body which will be destroyed in death, but raised in glory. We are the members of that Body, nourished by that Body in the Eucharist, the reason for a calm and reasoned enthusiasm, and a deep and enduring joy.

2nd Sunday in Lent

2nd Sunday of Lent 2024

Genesis 22:1-2, 9-13, 15-18; Romans 8:31-34; Mark 9:2-10

We have three very powerful readings today. I want to begin by considering the second of them, from St. Paul’s letter to the Christians at Rome, because this links the other two together.

Paul starts with a remarkable question: “With God on our side, who can be against us?” Do you believe that God is on your side? It is easy to envisage God as stern, if not hostile, yet Paul kicks such a notion firmly into touch. Notice something else: God is on our side, not against anyone else, but in a totally positive way.

Too often in history, and still today, various groups have claimed to have God on their side as a justification for war, aggression, terrorism, violence of every kind. The Crusades, the Wars of Religion in Europe, the anti-Jewish pogroms, have all seen one side pitted against another, with at least one side carrying out atrocities in the name of God. The folk singer Bob Dylan commented wryly on this outlook in the 1960s, with his song “(With) God on our side”, concluding with the lines “I can’t think for you, you’ve got to decide, if Judas Iscariot had God on his side”.

Today, Islamic fundamentalists in many parts of the world carry out massacres and inhuman punishments in the name of God; fundamentalist Christians use God’s name to justify the death penalty and the persecution of marginalised groups. Here in Europe, Putin has the backing of the Patriarch of Moscow in claiming that his invasion and attempted takeover of Ukraine constitute a sacred mission.

None of this is compatible with St. Paul’s question. God is for us, and not against anybody. His sacrifice of His Son was, as far as humanity is concerned, a totally positive action, securing redemption for the whole human race.

It is noticeable that God has done what, ultimately, He did not require Abraham to do. I recall a priest complaining forcefully that we should not use the story of Abraham’s surrender of Isaac in the liturgy, because it accepts the concept of human sacrifice. Admittedly, it was written in a setting in which human sacrifice was accepted. We would have to say that God never calls us to do evil, and would not ask anyone to kill another person, let alone their own child. We might add that God’s sacrifice of His own Son is the sacrifice to put an end to all sacrifices, other than the making present of that one ultimate sacrifice in the Mass.

There are two things to notice. Firstly, Abraham is, in the end, prevented from carrying out the planned sacrifice: secondly, what is actually demanded of him is total trust in God, the faith which justifies, and a willingness to let go, not to cling even to God’s greatest gifts: a son, and, apparently, the promise of an inheritance.

Abraham had been led to believe that his son Isaac was to be the guarantee of that inheritance. Now he is seemingly being asked to surrender that hope, and to trust that God will fulfil His promise in a previously unseen way. Finally, the fulfilment did come through Isaac, but only after Abraham had demonstrated his willingness to let go.

Letting go is an important feature of the Christian life. Peter did not want to let go of the vision on the mountain of Transfiguration. That was hardly surprising: it was an experience far surpassing anything that he could have imagined. To see his Lord transfigured, shining with divine glory, and to see as well Moses, the giver of the Law, and Elijah, the greatest of the prophets: why would he not wish to hold onto this? Hence his perfectly reasonable suggestion: “It is wonderful for us to be here, so let us make three tents”…and then we can stay here forever.

It cannot and must not happen. He must allow the vison to fade, and must make his way back down the mountain of Transfiguration to the valley of mediocrity, and eventually to the Garden of the Agony and the courtyard of panic and denial, if the vision is to be fulfilled in the Resurrection.

What about us? How ready are we to let go of everything in order to receive God’s greatest gift, that of eternal life? Our Lenten self-denial prepares us, and we should not be afraid or unwilling to give up everything, including eventually our earthly existence because, as St. Paul has reminded us, God IS on our side. What is there of which you need to let go?

1st Sunday in Lent Year B

1st Sunday of Lent 2024

Genesis 9:8-15; 1Peter 3:18-22; Mark 1:12-15

I have no wish to teach my collective grandmothers to suck eggs, so I won’t insult you by mentioning that, on the First Sunday of Lent, we always hear about the temptations of Jesus in the wilderness. What you may not have noticed however is that we rely on Matthew and Luke for details of the temptations: Mark’s account is much starker.

You probably recall the three temptations. There was the call to turn stones into bread: to make bodily appetites paramount. The order of the other two varies between Matthew and Luke but the essence is the same: throw yourself down from the Temple parapet to test God’s love and power, and worship Satan for the sake of earthly domination.

None of these details appears in Mark’s much briefer account, but there is still much that is important. First, there is the violence which is expressed in Jesus’ entry into the wilderness. Our present translation says that the Spirit DROVE Jesus OUT into the wilderness: the original Greek verb actually means “threw [Him] out”. Our Lord is forced into the wilderness whether He wants to go there or not, and it is the Holy Spirit which forces Him.

Let us consider our own situation for a moment. In Lent, we enter voluntarily into the wilderness with Jesus, associating ourselves with Him by our extra prayer, our self-denial, and our generosity to those in need—prayer, almsgiving and fasting as the Ash Wednesday Gospel puts it. Thus Lent is an important time as we allow the Holy Spirit to draw us closer to Jesus as we share in our own way in His experiences.

Yet there are other times when we find ourselves in the wilderness against our will. These are the times of suffering, whether physical or mental (or both); the times when we are literally beWILDERed. In those times, we need to draw comfort from the realisation that it is the Holy Spirit who has driven us there, has “thrown us out” as the same Spirit threw Jesus out. Jesus is there waiting for us, accompanying us through, and bringing us out at the other side if we have united our sufferings with His.

Mark continues with the bald statement that “He remained there for forty days and was tempted by Satan”. As you know, forty days, like forty years, is Biblespeak for a long time. We may find ourselves in our involuntary wilderness for a long time, and we may be tempted to despair, but Jesus will support us in our temptations.

We should bear in mind also Mark’s comment that “the angels looked after Him”. The angels will look after us too. We are never alone, and we shall not be alone in our wilderness, whether voluntary or involuntary: the Lord Himself will be with us, and His angels will keep us from harm.

There is one other statement by Mark, which is not included in either of the other accounts: “He was with the wild beasts”. What does that mean? Were the wild beasts hostile, or friendly? Was He in danger from them, or did they recognise Him as their Lord, and help to look after Him? Another possibility occurs to me: is Mark intimating that Our Lord was confronting the wild beasts which were part of His nature, as they are part of ours; the appetites and drives which are within us, which give us our energy, but which need to be tamed and controlled lest they run amok and cause havoc and not good?

Perhaps Mark is suggesting that this was a time for Jesus to confront Himself, to come to terms with His own human nature, to recognise those internal forces which He shared with very human being, and which can either benefit or harm us. Satan’s temptations would have formed part of this struggle to attain greater self-awareness, as they form part both of our Lenten journey and of the journey of life, as we strive to understand and to develop our humanity.

There is one word which our translation omits. It is the characteristically Markan word euthus , “at once” or “immediately”, and it comes at the beginning of Mark’s account. Jesus has just been baptised, and has received affirmation from the Father—“You are my Son, the Beloved, on whom my favour rests”—and IMMEDIATELY He is driven into the wilderness. Like Jesus, we too have no time for delay.

Our other Mass readings today point towards Baptism, the culmination of Lent for new Christians. God saves Noah by means of the Ark, which will subsequently be identified with the Church, the Ark of salvation; and the First Letter of St Peter sees the flood as representing Baptism, through which we are saved. All in all, we can say, using a nautical metaphor, that Lent is well under weigh.*

*A term derived from the concept of “weighing anchor”.

6th Sunday in Ordinary Time

6th Sunday in Ordinary Time 2024

Leviticus 13:1-2; Psalm 31(32); 1 Cor 10:31-11:1; Mark 1:40-45

“If you want to, you can cure me.” That is a prayer to keep in mind, not only today, but throughout our lives. It is something which you might usefully incorporate into your daily prayer.

(By the way, is anyone else reminded, by the beginning of the Second Reading, of Status Quo’s song “Whatever you want”? I can imagine St. Paul not writing but singing “Whatever you eat, whatever you drink, whatever you do, whatever you……”)

That prayer of the leper raises two questions for you and me. What is there of which I need to be cured? Do I really want to be cured?

There is every reason why the leper would want to be cured. His disease made him literally an outcast. The instructions are clearly given there in the Book of Leviticus: “As long as the disease lasts, he must be unclean; and therefore must live apart; he must live outside the camp.”

A leper was shunned: s/he became an outsider, and could have no place in the life of the community, social or religious. You no doubt recall the distress caused by the restrictions imposed during the pandemic, when infected people were isolated even within hospital. They were treated by masked doctors and nurses, and were prevented from being visited by their loved ones. Even in death, that isolation continued, as not only they, but anyone who died, was denied a proper funeral. Even those of us who remained well shared the sense of isolation, being unable to travel, to socialise, to take part in any of the normal events of life. This lasted on and off for a couple of years: for a leper, it was a life sentence unless, by some miracle, there was a cure.

Bear in mind that this was the case not only in biblical times. I remember watching, on children’s television in the late 1950s, a serialisation of RL Stevenson’s “The Black Arrow”, in which a hooded “leper” chases the young hero and heroine at a time during the Wars of the Roses. I was terrified, a terror relieved only when the apparent leper was revealed to be Sir Daniel Brackley in disguise. So contagious was the disease that any contact with a leper was likely to create a new victim. Small wonder then that the leper of today’s Gospel was desperate for a cure, or that, having been cured, he wanted to tell his story everywhere and to everyone.

This brings us to our first question: what is there of which I need to be cured? It may be a physical or mental illness, but the Responsorial Psalm points us in another direction. The psalmist rejoices, not in a medical cure, but in the forgiveness of his sins, something for which we pray daily in the Our Father.

You may be familiar with the sense of liberation which can come from a really good confession: the relief of laying our sins before the priest, the representative of both God and the community, and of hearing the words “I absolve you from your sins”. GK Chesterton, the creator of Fr. Brown among other things, wrote “When people ask me….’Why did you join the Church of Rome?’ the first essential answer ….is ‘to get rid of my sins’….When a Catholic comes from Confession, he does truly….step out again into that dawn of his own beginning….He may be grey and gouty, but he is only five minutes old”.

In the light of this I ask again “What is there of which I need to be cured?” Consider the answer carefully. In terms both of illness and of sin, what appears on the surface may be a symptom, rather than the real problem which may lie deeper. If the same sins are cropping up time after time, it may be helpful to ask “What is there deeper inside me which causes me to lose my temper so often, to lie repeatedly, to sin against purity?” Spend a little time simply opening yourself to God in silence and stillness, in order that He may penetrate with His grace your deepest being.

There is, though, for us, a deeper question: do I want to be cured? The leper was in no doubt, but it may be more difficult for us. We may be very much attached to these habitual sins: we may even feel that, without that habitual fault, there would be nothing left of us. Is it so much part of me that, without it, I shall be hollowed out, empty? Will I no longer be myself? That is a question which may cause me to wonder whether I want to be cured.

That is a question which I must face with faith. If I truly believe in God’s love for me, then I can bring before God whatever may be less than good, confident that anything which God takes from me will make me richer, more completely the person that God has created me to be. Then, like GK Chesterton, I may step out into the new dawn, five minutes old.

5th Week in Ordinary Time

5th Sunday in OT 2024

Job 7:1-4,6-7; 1 Cor 9:16-19; Mark 1:29-39

One Sunday, in the parish of St. Thomas the Apostle, Claughton-on-Brock, I began my homily by asking “Sixteen tons, and what do you get?”, and the whole congregation chorused back “………………”

Yes, you are right. These are the opening lines of “Sixteen Tons” recorded by Tennessee Ernie Ford (I kid you not) c1960, and subsequently by Tom Jones and all the world and his pet canary. My favourite version is a recent one by a group called Southern Raised, who have a bass singer whose voice comes right up from his boots. (It is well worth googling and watching/listening.)

For the benefit of anyone unfortunate enough not to know it, the chorus runs “Sixteen tons and what do you get? Another day older and deeper in debt. St. Peter, don’t call me, coz I can’t go. I owe my soul to the company store.”

It could be Job’s theme song. “Whelmed in miseries so deep” as the Stabat Mater puts it, Job laments his very existence. There is a lot for us to ponder there.

Firstly, there is the matter of depression. You may be in a position to empathise with Job, or you may know someone who is. Anyone who has suffered from genuine depression knows that feeling exactly. Day, night, waking, sleeping bring no relief: you simply long not to exist. You cannot fight it: you need to seek medical help, and then wait grimly for it to pass. It WILL pass eventually, however impossible that may seem at the time. A common feeling is: “I know it has passed previously, but this time it won’t”. Yes it will. It passed even for Job. While it lasts, all you can do is take the treatment, pray, and unite your agony with that of Jesus in Gethsemane and on the Cross, through which it will play a part in His work of redemption.

There are also many issues concerning work. Slavery still exists in the world, even in this country. Are you aware of it? Do you campaign against it, and pray for its victims? Many other people are crushed by work or, conversely, crushed by unemployment. There is a great deal to pray for there.

St. Paul’s work is to preach the Gospel which, he implies, entails compassion—cum passio, suffering with—living in other people’s skin. Paul expresses it in terms of making himself all things to all people. The virtue of compassion is one of God’s greatest gifts to humanity: He expressed it by becoming one of us, literally living in human skin. It is a gift for which all of us should pray and strive.

In the Gospel, Jesus demonstrates four aspects of His work: He heals the sick, He casts out devils, He prays, and He preaches. At this point, the Sisters, and anyone who comes here regularly to weekday Mass, will utter a groan of anguish, because I am going to repeat something which I have said more often than you have had hot dinners. This is, in fact, your time to load sixteen tons.

What I have said repeatedly is that we, as members of Christ’s Body, are called, as He Himself stated on one occasion, to perform the same works as He does. We too are called to heal, to cast out devils, to pray, and to preach.

“Rubbish!” I hear you cry. “Not so!” I reply. Let’s take them one by one.

We are called to heal. There are more ways than one of killing a cat, and there are more ways than one of healing. You may not be able to heal as a doctor or nurse does, but you can offer healing words, a healing presence in the form of a listening ear, a shoulder to lean on, a kettle to boil. There is a great deal that you can do to heal.

You are called to cast out devils. What does that mean? It means that you must oppose evil wherever you find it. You should stand up for people who are bullied or unfairly treated: you should support them in their fight for justice. You should be prepared to sign petitions, to lobby MPs or councillors, to refuse to vote for candidates or parties who advocate unjust policies, keeping an eye on the common good and not simply your own advantage. Above all, you should pray.

That brings me to the third of Jesus’ works, namely prayer. Ten days or so ago, we kept the feast of St. Francis de Sales who, in Reformation times, wrote “An Introduction to the Devout Life” making the point that everyone is called to, and is capable of, a prayer life in keeping with their own situation. He argues that it would be ridiculous to expect a labourer to devote as much time to prayer as a monk, or a Capuchin friar to have the same pastoral demands as a bishop, but that all of us can and must pray in accordance with our own way of life.

Finally, Jesus preaches. It is probably not true that St Francis of Assisi told his followers “Preach by every means possible: if necessary, even use words” but there is nevertheless wisdom in the adage. Certainly, Pope St Paul VI wrote, in his 1975 document Evangelii nuntiandi—“On preaching the Gospel”—that “people today listen more to witnesses than to teachers, and if they do listen to teachers it is because they are also witnesses”. Practise what you preach: in fact, practise more than you preach.

Healing, casting out devils, praying, preaching, in appropriate ways: those are your sixteen tons. You may become a day older, but you won’t be deeper in debt, and you should be ready whenever St. Peter calls you.

3rd Week in Ordinary Time Year B

3rd Sunday in Ordinary time. 2024 Jonah 3: 1-5, 10; Cor 7:29-31; Mark 1: 14-20

We are going Greek today, not in the sense of retsina, uzo, or moussaka, but kerygma, metanoia, Kairos and euthus. What do these words mean? Kerygma is “Proclamation,” the work of keryx, or herald; metanoia is a change of heart, outlook or focus, and is often translated “repentance;” euthus means “immediately,” or “at once.” These three words, along with Kairos, about which more later, are at the heart of today’s Gospel.

Mark describes Jesus going into Galilee, “kerusson (proclaiming) the Good News, or Gospel, of God.” What he proclaimed is referred to as the kerygma, or proclamation, our Lord’s fundamental message. Of what does it consist? “The time has been fulfilled and Kingdom of God has come near. Have a change of heart/outlook/focus and believe in the Good News.”

In referring to this as the kerygma, scripture scholars are identifying it as the heart of Our Lord’s teaching. “The time has been fulfilled” or, as our present translation puts it, “the time has come.” What is Jesus saying here?

We have another Greek word to consider. The usual Greek word for time is “chronos,” as in “chronometer,” chronological,” chronicle.” The word used here is different: it is “Kairos.” This means “the critical time,” “the time we have been waiting for.” In English, we might say, “It is time (for action).” This doesn’t simply refer to chronological time: it is saying “This is the moment: NOW we must act.” Jesus is saying that His mission marks the critical time.

If the time was critical then, so it must be now, in our own age. Jesus has not left us despite His Ascension: He has sent us the Holy Spirit who, dwelling in us, gives us the power to act. Why should we act, and what should we do?

We should act because “the Kingdom (or reign) of God is close at hand (literally “has drawn near”).  What does that mean? The Kingdom or reign of God is the subject of all Jesus’ preaching: He proclaimed, not Himself, but the Kingdom. What is this reign or Kingdom? It is, and will be, when it is fully realised, the acknowledgement of God and the fulfillment of God’s purposes. It entails justice, and peace that derives from justice. It involves the breaking of every yoke that oppresses people, and the full flourishing of creation, universal goodness and harmony.

Where is it, and when will it be achieved? It will be fully achieved only when Jesus the Christ returns in glory, completing the victory over evil which has begun by his death and resurrection, establishing the new heaven and the new earth promised in the book of Revelation. Yet, He proclaims, it “has drawn near”: it is already present in embryo. As Jesus says elsewhere, The Kingdom of God is “entos humon” – among and/or within you.’

Where might we see this Kingdom, which is already among or within us? We see it where justice is done, where acts of kindness or generosity are performed, where the poor are served and raised from poverty, where God is worshipped in spirit and truth with actions which match our claims.

How is it to be brought to fulfillment? This can be achieved only by metanoia, by a change of our “nous” or most inmost spirit, that which drives us, our basic focus and direction. Metanoia is often translated as repentance, but this means more than being sorry: at its heart, it entails a re-focusing, a change of direction.

We see it in the response of the Ninevites to Jonah’s preaching. This isn’t only sorrow for past sins, as expressed by fasting, the sackcloth and ashes: it is, we are told, an effort to “renounce their evil behavior” to change their ways. Ironically, the one who fails to experience and to express metanoia is Jonah. He has originally tried to run away from his mission, and has resumed it only under compulsion. Later, when the people underwent their change of heart and behavior, he was disgusted, because he had looked forward to seeing them punished.  – no real metanoia on his part.

Thus we are called to a change of attitude and outlook, and to believe in the Good News or Gospel. This isn’t to be simply a notional assent, but a commitment to living out the Gospel, to make it the driving force of our lives, to work at the task of building the Kingdom.

 When are we to do it? This brings us to our final Greek word, which is “euthos” – “immediately.” This word occurs twice as Jesus calls the fishermen, and several times more in the early kerygma, to recognize the Kairos, and to practice metanoia, “euthus.”

4th Week in Ordinary Time Year B

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time 2024

Deuteronomy 18:15-20; 1 Cor 7:32-35; Mark 1:21-28

After going all Greek last week, I am going to even things up today by going Latin. I suspect that I may be repeating myself from a few years ago, but I am working on the assumption that if anyone was listening then, they will have forgotten by now, so I should be in the clear.

I want to draw your attention to the two Latin words for “authority”, which are imperium and auctoritas. Why, you may ask, does Latin have two words where English has only one? The problem lies with the English, which has one word with two different meanings. The English word “authority” can mean “power” as in “the judge has the authority to send you to prison”, or “moral force”: “I have it on good authority that you are all wise and holy people”.

In Latin, the former sense is conveyed by imperium, the latter by auctoritas, and ideally the two should go together, but in practice this is not always the case. Imperium gives us such words as imperial, imperious, empire, emperor; and there have been emperors in history with great power, but no moral force. Sadly, this situation can still be seen today, and is on the increase. Think of dictators, and would be dictators, whose numbers are on the rise: Putin in Russia, Lukashenko in Belarus, Xi Jing Ping in China, Kim in North Korea, potentially Trump in America; much imperium but little or no auctoritas.

The latter word has its roots in the verb augeo-ere meaning “to increase” “to cause to grow”. In this  sense, authority should cause its subjects to grow, to be enhanced. It works for the benefit, not the diminution, of others.

In which sense is the word applied to Jesus in today’s Gospel? Is it fair to say that it is both? Jesus knows what He is talking about, which the people see as a contrast with their scribes. He also has power, making the unclean spirits subject to Him.

“That is all very interesting”, you may say (or you may say the opposite) “but what has it to do with us?” How well do those two words imperium and auctoritas coincide in your life, and in the life of the Church? If you are in a position to tell others what to do, what is your moral basis when you do so? Do you know what you are talking about? Do you practise what you preach? And does your authority help others to grow?

Conversely, do those who have imperium over us also have auctoritas? Looking back to my Grammar School days in the 60s, I cannot say that the often arbitrary and unjust imperium helped us to grow and develop positively. What can we say about life today? I suspect that there are many things wrong with the way we are governed, but we are still in a healthier situation than many countries around the world.

But what about the Church? Do preaching and teaching in the Church demonstrate auctoritas, do they encourage people to grow, or could the phrase “unlike the scribes” be applied to us?

Certainly, there have been many instances in the Church in which imperium has been misused. The abuse crisis comes to mind, as does the scandal of forced adoptions. Probably all of us can recount tales of bullying parish priests, whether with regard to their curates or their parishioners, and of cruel Mothers Superior. Please God, those days are largely behind us, but can each of us say, hand on heart, that we always practise what we preach, or that our “religious talk” in whatever form is always constructive, always likely to build up those who hear us?

Perhaps, first and foremost, this applies to the attitude and behaviour of priests towards our parishioners, but every Christian has the power to influence others by words and behaviour. Maybe each of us is left with a double question today: are there areas in my life in which I have imperium, and do I always bring auctoritas  to bear? And perhaps next week, I shall revert to English.

2nd Sunday Ordinary Time Year B

2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time 2024

1 Sam 3:3-10, 19; 1Cor 6:13-15, 17-20; John 1:35-42

Some friends of mine began their family with a boy named Samuel, and then a girl whom they called Martha. I wondered if they hoped that Martha would minister to them after Samuel had woken them three times in the night.

Samuel is called by the Lord, but doesn’t know the source of the call, and so turns to Eli: “Here I am, since you called me”. (You have to feel sorry for Eli, an old man, trying to get some sleep, and being continually woken up by this pesky brat.) It takes time for Eli to understand, but at length he realises that the call is coming from God.

What has this episode to say to us? Firstly, God calls us, each one of us, perhaps more often than we realise. He nudges us in a certain direction, gives us hints, awakens our conscience, sometimes gives us signs of His love which should arouse our gratitude. Sometimes, we cannot interpret these nudges for ourselves: at such times we may need a friend, an adviser, even a spiritual director, who can help us with that interpretation. We shouldn’t treat them as a guru, hanging on every word they say, but we can often receive helpful advice from someone with an element of experience and wisdom, as Eli had experience and wisdom in recognising the things of God.

Can we, can you, sometimes fulfil that role for others? It is not a matter of being a busybody, poking our nose into other people’s lives, or believing that we have  the answer to other people’s questions: rather, it is having the ability to listen, the patience to ponder, and the gumption to recognise a need and to offer a suggestion, without attempting to foist our own opinion onto anybody.

In order to do that, we need, like Eli, to have a friendship with God developed through times of prayer and reflection. We need too some experience of life, so that we are not delivering airy platitudes. We need, as Pope Francis puts it, to live with the smell of the sheep, and this applies to lay people as well as to priests and religious. All of us, all of you, are both sheep and shepherds. We need the wisdom to let ourselves be guided, but there will also be situations in which we have the wisdom and experience to guide others.

God had a particular vocation in mind for Samuel, as He has a particular vocation for each of us. I would like to mention the specific vocation to priesthood or consecrated life, which God has, I suspect, for more people than are aware of it. From talking to a number of younger people, both men and women, I have the feeling that some are looking for something close to cast iron certainty. It is as if they won’t take the risk unless Jesus appears to them, or sends His Mother, to say “You definitely have a vocation to whatever it may be”.

It doesn’t work like that. We have to go with the balance of probabilities. Benjamin Franklin, one of the Founding Fathers of the United States, is alleged to have said that there is nothing certain in life except death and taxes, and there is some truth in that. Anyone who is waiting for absolute certainty about priesthood or consecrated life will wait for ever, and will wait in vain. You have to follow hints and nudges.

Personally, I recall three things which suggested to me that I ought to take seriously the possibility of a vocation to priesthood; three nudges which came in relatively close succession. Firstly, as I was on the point of leaving school, my headmaster, not a Catholic, asked me if I was thinking of becoming a priest. Secondly, a parishioner of my own parish told me that a priest from another parish whom I knew reasonably well, had asked him the same question about me. Thirdly, after I had left school and was working, prior to going to university, I developed a habit, out of nowhere, of dropping in to the Cathedral on my way back to work during my dinner hour to visit the Blessed Sacrament, where I began to feel strongly that this was something which I ought to consider: no certainty, just the balance of probabilities.

We see something similar in the call of the first disciples. John the Baptist points them in the direction of Jesus. They spend time with Him, as I spent time before the Blessed Sacrament. Subsequently, Andrew brings his brother along, and probably John Barzebedee brought his brother James. Thus, seeds are sown, so that when later Jesus spoke to them at the lakeside, they were ready to follow.

Finally, three prayers from today’s readings which I would commend for your use: “Here I am, since you called me”, “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening”, “Here I am. I come to do your will”.

Christmas Dawn Mass

Christmas Dawn Mass 2023

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

Why shepherds? Why are shepherds the first people to be given news of the Saviour’s birth? The theologians have probably considered this question carefully and delivered deep and convincing answers. I am simply going to put in my own three penn’orth.

My first answer, I suppose, would be “because they were there”. It is clear from the Scriptures that shepherds were very much part of the landscape. They are mentioned frequently, whether as themselves or as metaphors, and they would have featured highly in people’s consciousness. Seemingly, there were a lot of them about.

Secondly, they were there at night. It may seem trivial—indeed, it may be so—but the angel and the angel choir had a ready made audience in people who were already awake, and who were separated from the life of the city. If you were looking for a group of alert people to whom to make an announcement, who were better placed than these characters who were sitting on a hilltop, happy to look into the sky?

Is there more to it than that? Well, in the writings of the prophets, and in the psalms, shepherds were often exalted, even to the extent of being a metaphor for God. How often is God identified as a shepherd? “Oh shepherd of Israel hear us; shine forth from your cherubim throne” prays Psalm 79 (80), while Sunday by Sunday at Sext we recite Psalm 22(23): “The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want”.

The prophet Ezekiel, in chapter 34, has a lengthy diatribe against worthless shepherds, concluding with God’s promise to take on Himself the shepherding of His people, a promise fulfilled when, in the New Testament, Jesus identified Himself as the Good Shepherd, and when, in St. Matthew’s Gospel (25:31ff) He used the example of a shepherd’s work in His parable of the Last Judgement. In both Old and New Testaments we find references to God’s loving care for His people, frequently expressed as the concern of a loving shepherd for His flock.

Thus, at one level, shepherds occupied a high place in popular consciousness, as being worthy of comparison with God. It therefore seems appropriate that they should be chosen as the first witnesses of God’s ultimate descent into the world as One who would become the epitome of shepherding for all God’s people.

Yet in spite of their exalted scriptural status, shepherds were nonetheless ordinary working men (and women?) Indeed, they were shift workers, a role which we normally associate with what we might call a working class identity. Although their work was essential, it did not put them among the ranks of those to whom St. Paul refers as “influential people”.

This is, in itself, consistent with Jesus’ insistence that He has come to bring the Good News to the poor. He will thank His Father for hiding the mysteries of the Kingdom from “the learned and the clever and revealing them to mere children”. The shepherds were not children, though there may have been shepherd boys among them, nor were they likely to be ranked among “the learned and the clever”.

Both their scriptural dignity and their everyday ordinariness qualify the shepherds to be the first recipients of the Good News, the first witnesses of the Incarnation. Yet they are more even than that: they are the first proclaimers of the Good News, the first apostles. They astonish everyone, we are told, by passing on the angel’s message: then they go back, “glorifying and praising God for all that they had heard and seen”. Among the crowds thronging Bethlehem that night, they must have made a profound impression, probably triggering a rush to the stable by hoi polloi, the revellers and the gawpers, who would no doubt pass on the Good News in their turn.

Thus we arrive at the perennial question (the Pink question, as I call it)  “What about us?” What have we seen and heard? What impression has it made on us? Can we take away something from Mass this morning which we can share with others? Have you and I encountered the God who was born for us, who took upon Himself everything human except sin (which is, in any case, a distortion of humanity)? Have you allowed Him to enter deeply into you, to become part of you, so that you too can go back “glorifying and praising God” who is always newborn into the world?

Christmas Day Mass 2023

Christmas Day Mass 2023

Isaiah 52:7-10; Hebrews 1:1-6; John 1:1-18

You may remember when that Gospel was read every day at the end of Mass. The priest would dismiss the people—Ite Missa est—but nobody left. Instead, we all stood as the priest and one server made their way to the “Gospel side” of the altar, where the priest would read the Last Gospel, as it was called; this passage from the Gospel of St. John.

Historians of the liturgy could no doubt tell you when and why this was tagged onto the end of Mass, as tagged on it was. I am assuming that it happened at the time of, and in response to, some heresy which denied the divinity of Christ. At any rate, it was thought important enough to be proclaimed to the people, albeit in Latin, every day for centuries.

And today it is read as our Christmas Gospel. Why? I would say that it explains the full meaning, the full significance, of the event. From St. Luke’s Gospel, and to an extent from St. Matthew’s, we hear what happened. That s fine, as far as it goes. From Luke, we learn of the fulfilment of God’s promises to the Jewish people; whilst Matthew, by telling us of the visit of the Wise Men, reveals that this child was not only the Jewish Messiah, but was born for the Gentiles also, the non-Jewish people, you and me.

Yet without John’s account, it might still not be clear who this Messiah, this Redeemer, actually is. The angel told Mary that He would be called Son of God, but St. John takes us further and deeper, revealing that the Bethlehem event is nothing less than the Incarnation, the taking flesh, of God Himself.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God…..and the Word became flesh and dwelt amongst us.”

This is the final piece of the jigsaw. Luke shows us the Jewish Messiah, Matthew shows us that He was born for Gentiles as well as Jews. John now reveals His full identity. He is the Word made flesh, God from all eternity, sharing God’s work of creation, enlightening all humanity, and now being born as the human being named Jesus. The history is complete: salvation is brought to us by One who is both God and man. He would have to undergo death and resurrection to complete His task, but now salvation is revealed, and it is John, at the beginning of His Gospel, who reveals it.

3rd Sunday of Advent Year B

3rd Sunday of Advent 2023

Isaiah 61: 1-2, 10-11; 1Thess 5: 16-24; John 1:6-8, 19-28

Those of you who are of a certain vintage may remember Adam Faith, singer and heart-throb of the early 1960s, who moved into acting, before dying still young. He is famous for singing some of the shortest songs ever recorded, and his most familiar hit is probably “What do you want (if you don’t want money)?”.

Another, perhaps less well known, had the title “Who am I?”, a question which recurred as a refrain throughout the song. It is a question which many people ask themselves today, sometimes coming up with rather peculiar answers relating to sex and gender; but it is also a question which all of us could usefully ask ourselves from time to time.

How would you define yourself? As a husband or wife, widow or widower, single person, religious sister, priest? Would you think of yourself first in terms of your occupation, as a teacher, engineer, factory worker, secretary, retired person? Or would it be in terms of your political convictions, as a Labour supporter, Lib Dem, Tory, or Green? Then, what about your religious outlook, your membership of the Church? When it comes down to “hey lads hey”, who are you?

One vital answer is provided by the prophet Trito-Isaiah (Third Isaiah) in today’s First Reading. This prophet, writing the final part of the Book of Isaiah, when the returned exiles had settled in Judah and Jerusalem, says on his own behalf, but in words which apply also to you and me:

“The Spirit of the Lord has been given to me, for the Lord has anointed me. He has sent me to bring good news to the poor, to bind up hearts that are broken; to proclaim liberty to captives, freedom to those in prison; to proclaim a year of favour from the Lord.”

Has it occurred to you that those prophetic words apply to you, that they express at least part of who you are? The Spirit of the Lord has been given to you, and you have been anointed, at your baptism and confirmation, when you were anointed with the oil of catechumens and the oil of chrism, an effective sign that the Holy Spirit had indeed descended on you. You, then, are to bring good news to the poor, to bind broken hearts, to proclaim liberty to those who are imprisoned by suffering, poverty, addiction, loneliness, shyness or whatever. You are to proclaim a year of favour from the Lord.

How are you to do this? As I suggested last week, it is a matter of action, not words, of being truly who you are, and who you are called to be. Last week, someone responding to my homily reminded me of the words of Pope St. Paul VI: “The modern world listens to witnesses rather than to teachers, and if they listen to teachers it is because they are also witnesses”.

You are people who are called to live out your baptism by being a presence of Christ in the world. “Authenticity” is a key word. You must actually be that presence: it must be part of who you are, as indeed it is, precisely because of your baptism.

In some sense, you must also be John the Baptist, that great Advent figure, preparing a way for the Lord in the wilderness of today’s world. You will notice that John identifies himself firstly by banishing false impressions. He is not the Christ, nor Elijah, nor the Prophet, though Our Lord would indeed identify him as Elijah.

Perhaps you have to do the same. People may have wrong impressions of you. Again, it will be actions rather than words which will clear away those notions. If you are being true to yourself, if you are genuinely living out your baptismal anointing, if you are seeking to bring healing, support, strength, in small or great ways, in the context of a suffering world, you will indeed be John the Baptist, preparing a way for the Lord. Even more, you will be for people a presence of the Lord Himself, and you will be answering fully the question “Who am I?”.