Deacon Peter

Venerable Mary Glowrey

(Is.8:23-9.3; 1Cor.1:1-13,17; Mt.4:12-23)

When Herod locks John the Baptist up in prison, Jesus grieves. Not only has he lost his cousin, but God’s kingdom has also lost its greatest champion.

Jesus also realises that the time has come for him to step up, to take the lead, but he’ll need help. So, he heads for the shore where he finds Peter, Andrew, James and John. ‘Come, follow me,’ he says, ‘and I will make you fishers of people.’

Since then, Jesus has invited countless other people to help him with his mission. One such person was Mary Glowrey, the Australian woman who was recently declared venerable by Pope Leo XIV.

Mary was born in 1887 in Birregurra, a small town in Western Victoria. She was a very bright young woman and won scholarships both at school and university. She also battled entrenched resistance to become one of the first women in Australia to study medicine, and she graduated with distinction in 1910.

She then began a promising medical practice in Melbourne, but one day she read a pamphlet about the life of the Scottish missionary doctor Agnes McLaren, who had worked with women and children in India. Mary learnt that India had an urgent need for women doctors, and her heart stirred. She knew Jesus was calling her to a new mission.

In 1920, just like Jesus’ first disciples, Mary left everything behind to become a true ‘fisher of people’. She travelled to Guntur in India, where she encountered overwhelming poverty, disease, and a serious lack of medical facilities.

There she joined the Sisters of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and adopted the name Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart. But in those days nuns were not allowed to practise medicine, so the local bishop appealed to Rome.

When approval arrived, she became the world’s first Catholic sister-doctor. She also did further medical studies and spent the next four decades caring for hundreds of thousands of patients.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.’

To repent is to realign yourself, to bring your life into harmony with God’s emerging Kingdom. This is what Mary Glowrey did in a remarkable way.

She worked in makeshift clinics, responding to overwhelming needs such as malnutrition, infectious diseases, childbirth complications and women who had never before received medical care.

Every day her clinic was filled with hundreds of poor Hindus, Muslims and Christians. But she did not discriminate, for God’s Kingdom is open to all.

Jesus was at the heart of everything Mary did, but she gave more than treatment; she offered dignity, for she saw Jesus in every patient, and most especially the poor.

And just like Jesus, Mary found herself transforming lives by teaching, preaching and healing. But she knew that it was not enough to just treat patients, and that she couldn’t solve India’s problems alone. She understood that she needed to build systems that would endure. So, in 1943 she established what is today the Catholic Health Association of India, which now represents over 5,000 Catholic health institutions, serving 21 million people every year.

She trained nurses, midwives, doctors and administrators, not only giving them essential skills, but also the Gospel values of compassion, integrity, reverence for life, and respect for the poor.

In every sense Mary Glowrey became a ‘fisher of people,’ drawing good souls into a shared mission of mercy. She died in Bangalore in 1957.

What does all this mean for us today?

In every age, Jesus needs good people to help him spread God’s healing love. Today he is asking us, what shoreline are you prepared to leave to follow him? What nets will you leave behind – nets of fear, comfort, self-doubt or routine?

And what part of God’s Kingdom needs you today, your gifts, your vocation, your courage? Jesus wants you to play an active part in his mission.

Mary Glowrey did not do everything. But she did do what Jesus asked of her, and to the best of her ability. That is true discipleship, and that’s why she’s on the way to sainthood.

May the Venerable Mary Glowrey inspire us to listen for Christ’s quiet voice, to respond with courage and serve with compassion.

St Maria Goretti

(Is.49:3,5-6; 1Cor.1:1-3; Jn.1:29-34)

In today’s Gospel, John the Baptist is standing by the River Jordan; people are all around. He sees Jesus coming and then he says something that we still hear today: ‘Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.’

It’s one of the most familiar lines in all of Scripture, and we hear it at every Mass. But what does the Lamb of God really mean? And why is Jesus called a Lamb, rather than a lion, a warrior or a king?

It’s because the Lamb reveals the deepest truth about God’s power. God’s power is love, not force. The Lamb does not conquer by killing, but by being gentle and forgiving. Jesus takes away the sins of the world not by punishment, but by mercy.

When John called out, ‘Behold the Lamb of God…’ the crowd listening would have looked up because those words meant so much to them. They all knew the story of the first Passover, when lamb’s blood was painted on the doorposts of every Hebrew home in Egypt. That blood saved them from death and it led to their freedom from slavery (Ex.12).

At every Passover since then, the Jewish people have celebrated this escape from slavery, and those sacrificed lambs have always meant new life. [i]

Now John is pointing to Jesus as the true Lamb: the one whose love will save the entire world. But how will he do this? By taking on our guilt, our shame and our brokenness, and replacing it with divine forgiveness.

That’s the power of the Lamb; it’s the power of a love that absorbs evil and transforms it.

Over the years, many saints have shown us what this Lamb-like love looks like. One very good example is a young girl named Maria Goretti.

She was born a poor peasant girl in Italy, in 1890, the third of seven children. Her father died when she was nine. She had no chance to go to school and never learned to read or write.

One day in 1902, not long after her First Communion, she was at home mending a shirt when a cart stopped outside. A neighbour, 18-year-old Alessandro, ran up the stairs, grabbed her and tried to assault her.

Maria struggled to resist him and tried calling for help, but this made him angry and he stabbed her repeatedly with a dagger.

She was taken to hospital, and as she lay dying, a priest asked if she forgave him. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘for the love of Jesus I forgive him, and I want him to be with me in heaven.’

Those words reflect not only the most remarkable innocence and compassion, but also the heart of the Lamb. She died the next day, not even twelve years of age.

Alessandro was sentenced to thirty years in prison. He was bitter and surly for a long time until one night Maria appeared to him in a dream, offering him fourteen flowers, one for each of her wounds. He woke up weeping and with a changed heart.

After 27 years, he was released and his first act was to ask Maria’s mother for forgiveness. She hugged him and said, ‘If my daughter has forgiven you, how could I not?’

Maria’s forgiveness didn’t excuse evil; it overcame it. And she didn’t destroy her enemy; rather, she helped him find peace with God.

This is the power of the Lamb of God: it turns violence into conversion, and hatred into holiness.

In 1950, Maria Goretti was canonised a saint before half a million people, including her mother and 66-year-old Alessandro Serenelli.

At every Mass, we hear the Baptist’s words: ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’ And when we look upon the consecrated Host, we see what John saw – the innocent One who carries our guilt and offers us mercy instead of judgment.

To receive Jesus in the Eucharist is to say: ‘I want to live as the Lamb lived.’ I want to forgive, to heal, to meet hatred with gentleness, and to let his love change the world through me.

When we forgive someone who has hurt us, when we choose peace instead of revenge, we become living reflections of the Lamb of God.

St Maria Goretti’s story reminds us that the Lamb of God is not just a title; it’s a way of life.

For the Lamb’s power is the power of mercy. And the Lamb’s victory is the triumph of forgiveness.

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[i] https://www.chabad.org/holidays/passover/pesach_cdo/aid/1827/jewish/The-Passover-Story-in-a-Nutshell.htm

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Our Deepest Identity

(Is.42:1-4, 6-7; Acts 10:34-38; Mt.3:13-17)

Today, our readings take us to the River Jordan, where Jesus is standing with St John the Baptist. The water is flowing, there’s a crowd nearby and Jesus steps forward to be baptised.  

What happens next changes everything. As Jesus emerges from the water, heaven opens up, the Holy Spirit descends on him like a dove, and a voice is heard saying, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’

This is a profound moment in Jesus’ life, for it reveals his deepest identity: he is no longer just the carpenter’s son; he is now the Beloved son of God.

But this moment also does something else: it marks the beginning of his life mission.

Jesus knows that something remarkable has happened, so he withdraws into the desert to reflect on what it all means. Then he goes out into the villages and towns of Galilee, teaching, healing and bringing God’s mercy to the world.

Jesus’ Baptism, then, isn’t just about who he is; it’s also about what he is sent to do. And the same is true for us.

Those of us who have been baptised have all had our own Jordan moment. Many of us were too young to remember it, however God spoke the same words to us that he spoke to Jesus: ‘You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased.’

This was the day we received our truest identity. It’s not something we had to earn or achieve; it’s a gift that’s freely poured into us in love. And from that moment we belonged to Jesus Christ and his Spirit began to live in us.

This is who we are, and that identity never fades even if we forget it.

At the same time, baptism also gives us our mission in life. Just as Jesus was sent out from the Jordan to bring God’s love to others, so we are all called to do the same, each in our own place and time.

Our baptismal mission is to make the love of Christ visible in the ordinary moments of our lives.

Pope St John Paul II understood all this deeply. Towards the end of his life, a journalist asked him, ‘Holy Father, who are you?’

He could have said, ‘I am the Pope,’ or ‘I am a priest,’ or he could have listed his many other titles and achievements. But instead, he replied, ‘In the deepest sense, I am a baptised man.’

He explained that everything he did, including his priesthood, his leadership and his courage, flowed from that single identity. And with that identity came a mission: to bear witness to Jesus Christ in the world.

He once said, ‘Every Christian is a missionary to the extent that he or she has encountered the love of God in Christ.’

This is what baptism does. It fills us with the love of God and it sends us out to share it.

At every baptism this mission is reflected in a small but powerful sign. That’s when the baptismal candle is lit from the Paschal candle – the great Easter candle – and we hear the celebrant say, ‘Receive the light of Christ.’

That light is not meant to be hidden away. It’s meant to be carried out into the world, into homes, workplaces, schools and communities, bringing warmth and hope to anywhere there is fear or darkness. And when we forgive, comfort or help others, that light continues to burn even brighter.

This is how we fulfil our baptismal mission.

Florence Nightingale once said that she felt God had called her by name to serve the suffering. After her baptism, her faith had grown and she came to see her nursing not as a career, but as a mission that flowed from her baptismal call to love and heal.

How are you called to make a difference in the lives of others?

Today as we celebrate the Baptism of the Lord, we are reminded that our baptism is so much more than an ancient family tradition. It’s the defining moment of our lives, the source of both our identity and our mission, just as it was for Jesus all those years ago.

So, when you ask yourself, ‘Who am I?’ you can answer with St John Paul II: ‘I am a baptised person, a beloved child of God.’

And when you ask yourself, ‘What should I be doing, what is my mission in life?’ the answer is the same:

‘To live out my baptism, to bring the light and love of Jesus into our world.’

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

The Fourth Wise Man

(Is.60:1-6; Eph.3:2-3, 5-6; Mt.2:1-12)

On Epiphany Sunday every year, we hear the story of the Wise Men of the East who go looking for the newborn King.

These Magi are scholars and searchers who see a heavenly sign and follow it all the way to Bethlehem. There they kneel before the Christ-child and give him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

They discover God’s presence in that little child, and that’s why we call it the Epiphany.

Now, have you heard of Artaban, the fourth Wise Man? His legend is less well-known, but it comes from Henry van Dyke’s The Story of the Other Wise Man, first published in 1895. [i]

Like the other three, Artaban is a priest of the Magi in Persia and he sees a heavenly sign that a new King will soon be born. He plans to join the others in their journey and he leaves home with three precious gifts – a sapphire, a ruby and a pearl.

On the way, Artaban sees a man dying by the roadside. He stops to help, but this means he misses his meeting and the other Wise Men travel without him.

Artaban knows he cannot cross the desert alone on a horse, so he sells one of his treasures to buy camels and supplies. And when he gets to Bethlehem, he’s again too late. Jesus, Mary and Joseph have already gone to Egypt. But in the meantime, Artaban saves a child’s life by selling another of his treasures.

He continues searching for Jesus in Egypt and elsewhere, and along the way he helps more people. When he finally arrives in Jerusalem 33 years later, he’s just in time to see a man being led to his crucifixion. And he spends his last treasure, the pearl, rescuing a young woman from slavery.

Then Artaban is struck on the head by a falling roof tile and he lies dying. He thinks he’s failed because he hasn’t found Jesus. But a voice says to him, ‘Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me’ (Mt.25:40).

Artaban then realises that he has found his King, not in a manger or a palace, but in every act of compassion on his journey.

The word Epiphany means a sudden revelation, a profound moment when God reveals his presence. For the Magi, that revelation came in a star and a child. For Artaban, it came in the faces of those who suffered.

The Magi offered gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Artaban’s gifts were mercy, compassion, and love, and in God’s eyes those gifts were even more precious.

Today, the Epiphany reminds us that God is still revealing himself, not only in our prayers and in the Holy Eucharist here in church, but also in our selfless acts out on the streets.

Our every act of compassion serves as a kind of Bethlehem, a place where Jesus Christ is made visible.

Many of us set out on our own journey of faith with the best of intentions. We want to become better people, getting closer to God and doing more for others. But life often gets in the way. We get held up by illness, delayed by our responsibilities, and distracted by the needs of others. And sometimes we wonder: have I missed my chance to find Jesus?

Artaban’s story says: no. Jesus is not only found at the end of the road, but also along the way, especially where love calls us to stop, help and care for others.

In other words, every detour we take for the sake of love brings us closer to the heart of God.

In 1985, a movie was made of Artaban’s tale, starring Martin Sheen and called The Fourth Wise Man. The story is fictional of course, but its message is still important.

At the end of his life Artaban was empty-handed, with his treasures spent and his plans unfulfilled. Yet he heard Jesus say, ‘Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.’

Artaban had given everything, and in the process, he had found everything.

Today, as we remember the star that led the Magi to Jesus, may we also follow the quieter light that led Artaban – the light of love that reveals Christ in every person we meet.

For this is our Epiphany.

Every moment of compassion reveals Christ in our world today.

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[i] https://christmasstories.org/the-other-wise-man/

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

School of Holiness

(Sir.3:2-6, 12-14; Col.3:12-21; Mt.2:13-15, 19-23)

When Pope Paul VI visited Israel in 1964, he was the first pope to walk the Holy Land since St Peter.

Arriving in Jesus’ home town, he described Nazareth as ‘a kind of school where we (can) discover what Christ’s life was like and even to begin to understand his Gospel.’ And he encouraged the faithful to learn from the life of the Holy Family, where ‘everything speaks to us (and) everything has meaning.’

So, what might we learn from Jesus, Mary and Joseph?

It’s tempting to think that they lived a charmed life, untouched by hardship or fear. But in today’s Gospel they are refugees, forced to flee their homeland. Their son is in danger and they are exhausted, yet they remain faithful to God and to each other.

This is what holiness looks like. It’s not about finding perfect order or peace, but staying loving and faithful even in the hardest of times.

Today I’d like to talk about two families who did just that.  

The first were Louis and Zélie Martin, who lived in 19th-century France. Louis was a watchmaker, Zélie was a lacemaker, and together they raised nine children, five of whom survived to adulthood, including St Thérèse of Lisieux.

Their home was not grand, but it was graced as they faced the challenges typical in every other family. The prayed together, went to Mass daily and faced illness and grief with courage. Louis and Zélie also taught their children honesty, kindness and generosity, and the habit of trusting God in small things.

Their youngest daughter, St Thérèse of Lisieux, said her parents’ love was her ‘first school of holiness.’ She described their faith as being like ‘a gentle light that never went out.’

And she said it was from them that she learnt her ‘little way’ – doing small things with very great love.

In 2015, Louis and Zélie Martin were the first married couple to be canonised together. What made them saints was not their extraordinary deeds, but the extraordinary love they shared from day to day.

They remind us that a holy family doesn’t have to be perfect, nor does it have to be heroic. Rather, sanctity is about living ordinary life with great faith, love and trust in God – just like Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

A century later, in Italy, Luigi and Maria Beltrame Quattrocchi also lived a holy life, but in very different circumstances. Luigi was a lawyer, Maria was a teacher and they were married for 50 years.

They raised four children through two world wars, and like so many of us, their days were filled with hard work, noise and worry, yet their home was alive with laughter and prayer. They cared for each other, they forgave, they helped the poor, and during the Second World War they even hid Jews in their home.

The secret to their sanctity was simple: they always kept Jesus at the centre of everything they did. And their holiness bore fruit: two of their sons became priests, one daughter became a Benedictine nun, and another married.

In 2001, Luigi and Maria were the first married couple to be beatified together. On that day, St John Paul II said their marriage showed that ‘the path to holiness can be walked together, hand in hand.’

The Beltrame Quattrocchi family remind us that holiness is not reserved for monasteries or martyrs, for it can be lived in every kitchen, school run and act of patience at home. Their example is particularly relevant today, when family life is so often fragile or fragmented.

Both of these families reflect something of the wonder of Nazareth.

In the Martin family, we see holiness in the gentle simplicity and love of ordinary life. And in the Beltrame Quattrocchi family, we see holiness in their constant faith and generosity during turbulent times.

In our second reading today, St Paul urges us to ‘clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.’ Here, he’s describing the true garment of family holiness. It’s woven not of grand gestures but of countless small ones: a listening ear, a word of encouragement, a hand held in suffering.

That’s what made the Holy Family’s home in Nazareth so holy; and it can make our homes holy, too.

This holiness is not unreachable. It begins wherever we are, and whenever we choose to forgive, to serve and to pray together.

As Mother Teresa often liked to say, ‘Love begins at home … and it’s not how much we do, but how much love we put into doing it.’

Three Kinds of People

(Isa.52:7-10; Heb.1:1-6; Jn.1:1-18)

Every year at Christmas we are surrounded by gifts – so many wonderful parcels trimmed with colourful ribbons and cards.

But not everyone welcomes gifts in the same way. Why? Probably because there are three kinds of people.

The first kind are those who consider gifts an annoying chore. They only give because they have to, but there’s little joy because their hearts are closed.

There were people like that when Jesus was born. Although baby Jesus was a tremendous gift to the world, Herod saw him as a threat, and the innkeeper had no room for him (Jn.1:11). Their hearts were shut tight.

I once heard of a father like that. He thought that Christmas gifts were a waste of money because children have too much already.

Then one year his little daughter gave him a tiny, badly-wrapped package with a card inside. On it she had drawn two stick-figures: a father and a daughter holding hands under a big star. Below it she wrote: ‘This is my favourite gift – you.’

That moment melted his heart, and he began to realise that gifts aren’t about things; they’re about love.

It’s so easy to forget that. We, too, can be like that father or the innkeeper, missing the deeper meaning because our hearts are too full, too proud, or too distracted.

The second kind of person are those who really love Christmas gifts. They love the wrapping, the sparkle, the surprise. Presents delight them, but the feeling doesn’t last. As soon as the wrapping paper is gone, so is the joy.

Many people are like this. They love the feeling of Christmas, the meals, the lights and the laughter. But the experience doesn’t go any deeper than that, for their minds soon move on to the next thing.

If only they knew that even the simplest joy can open the door to something much more significant. If only they realised that deep gratitude can lead us to the source of all joy (Mt.6:21)

And then there’s the third kind of person. Such people know that every gift points beyond itself to something profound. They recognise that genuine giving always reveals something of God’s love.

For them, a gift is not just an exchange of some thing, but a sign of relationship, of presence and grace.

A little boy once gave his teacher a small Christmas gift. It was a small, almost empty perfume bottle, and it was chipped.

Shyly, he explained to her: ‘It’s my mum’s perfume… it’s all I have left of her since she died.’ The teacher dabbed a little on her wrist and smiled. She said, ‘It’s the nicest gift I’ve ever received.’

Later that day, the boy said, ‘You smell just like my mum now… thank you.’

That gift was more than a physical thing – it was a presence, a memory, and a love made real again. And isn’t that what God does at Christmas? He gives us not some thing, but Someone.

The invisible God takes flesh – Emmanuel, ‘God with us’ (Jn.1:14).

In Jesus, the Giver becomes the Gift. The One who owns everything becomes poor for our sake. He enters our world naked, vulnerable and with empty hands – to show that love itself is enough.

So, this Christmas, which kind of person are you?

• Are you someone with a closed heart who thinks gifts are just a chore?
• Are you like those who love the sparkle and surprise, but miss the depth of the giving experience?
• Or are you ready to see, in every act of love, the reflection of an even greater gift, the love of God himself?

At the heart of every Christmas is the simplest of all truths: that we are the ones being given a gift – and we are also the gift that God longs to receive.

A child once asked, ‘What did Jesus get for his birthday?’ And his mother said, ‘He’s hoping for you.’

So, let’s give Jesus what he wants most – not gold or incense or myrrh – but our loving hearts.

Frank Sinatra’s My Way

(Isa.7:10-14; Rom.1:1-7; Mt.1.18-24)

Many people love Frank Sinatra’s song ‘My Way.’ It has been called one of the greatest anthems of the 20^th Century.

It tells the story of a man who is strong and determined, and proud to have carved his own way through life: ‘I did what I had to do, and saw it through without exemption… I faced it all and I stood tall, and did it my way.’

Our society prizes such independence and control. But if you listen carefully, you might find a trace of sadness and maybe even loneliness in it. The last line says, ‘The record shows I took the blows, and did it my way.’

He’s alone at the end. There’s no sense of communion or grace, or of belonging to something greater than himself. Just doing my own thing my way.

Today’s Gospel shows us a very different kind of strength. St Joseph is planning to live a quiet and steady life with his new wife, Mary. But his world is shattered when he discovers that Mary is expecting a child not his own. He is devastated. To save his dignity and avoid scandal, he decides to divorce her quietly. That’s his way.

Then in a dream the angel Gabriel comes to him, saying: ‘… don’t be afraid to take Mary as your wife… what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.’

When Joseph wakes up, he does something remarkable: he abandons his way and accepts God’s way, without any conditions or complaints. Just simple obedience, trust, and love. He agrees to take Mary into his home and to love her and her son.

In that moment, Joseph shows us what Advent faith looks like. It’s not loud or self-promoting. It doesn’t say, ‘I’ll do it my way.’ It says, ‘Lord, let it be done to me according to your word’ (Lk.1:38).

Here, Joseph joins Mary in a song that’s far more meaningful than any anthem of pride. This is the quiet harmony of those who truly trust God, and it’s sung by every disciple who learns that God’s way is always the road to peace and fulfilment.

Of course, the struggle between my way and God’s way isn’t just Joseph’s story; it’s the story of every human heart. We all love to follow our own agenda.

St Paul was no different. He was passionate about his version of right and wrong. But when he meets Jesus on the road to Damascus, he completely surrenders and becomes one of Jesus’ greatest apostles (Acts 9).

St Francis of Assisi, too, was a proud young man with dreams of knighthood and glory. But after encountering the crucified Christ, he renounces his wealth and chooses a life of poverty and simplicity.

St Thomas More faced enormous pressure from Henry VIII to ignore his conscience and do the king’s bidding. He could have taken the easy path, but instead he remained true to God’s way of truth. Just before his execution, St Thomas More said, ‘I die the King’s good servant, but God’s first.’

And then there’s the ultimate ‘my way’ story – the Parable of the Prodigal Son (Lk.15). The younger son takes his share of his father’s estate, and loses it all. He admits his mistake and expects to be punished, but his Father embraces him instead. In the end, we see the victory of God’s way of mercy over the human way of pride.

If we’re honest, we’ll all admit that we like to do things ‘my way.’ But life, and faith, often lead us into situations we never planned, like sickness, disappointment, challenge and change.

And in those moments, we discover that ‘my way’ cannot save us. Only God’s way can. That’s what Advent invites us to learn: to stop grasping, and to trust. To make space for God to make a difference in our lives.

To say, like Joseph, ‘Not my way, Lord, but yours.’

According to his daughter Tina, Frank Sinatra came to hate singing ‘My Way’. Although it was a popular song, he thought it was too boastful and self-indulgent, and did not reflect his loving heart or essential humility.

As Advent draws to a close, this is a good time to ask yourself: Where am I still clinging to my way? Is it holding me back?

And where do I need to make room for God’s way?

When we truly let go and trust God as St Joseph did, we make space for Jesus’ birth not only in Bethlehem, but also in ourselves.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Finding Joy

(Isa.35:1-6, 10; Jas.5:7-10; Mt.11:2-11)

Today as we light the rose candle in our Advent wreath, we recall that the name Gaudete Sunday comes from St Paul who says, ‘Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. The Lord is near’ (Phil.4:4-5).

The joy he speaks of isn’t shallow cheerfulness, or pretending that everything is fine. It’s a joy that glows like a hidden flame, even in times of struggle. And it comes from understanding that God is always working and always close by.

Few people understood this better than Anne Frank. She was the Jewish teenager who spent two years hiding from the Nazis in a secret attic in Amsterdam during the Second World War.

Her world was filled with anxiety and fear, and yet in her diary she wrote: ‘In spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.’

Her words aren’t just naïve optimism. They are hope grounded in something greater than the visible world. Anne Frank’s light shone because her heart was full. She could see goodness and beauty even in the midst of terror and cruelty.

This is the essence of Christian joy. It’s not a denial of suffering, but recognising that love and goodness will always endure because God is close to us.

In today’s Gospel, John the Baptist is in Herod’s prison. He’s feeling anxious, so he sends someone to ask Jesus: ‘Are you the one who is to come, or must we wait for another?’

In his answer, Jesus describes signs of joy: ‘The blind see, the lame walk and the poor have good news preached to them.’ In other words, he reassures John that the world is changing because the kingdom of God is coming and bringing with it mercy, healing and new life.

Joy is the quiet evidence that God is behind all this work.

There’s a similar message in Jean-Pierre Jeunet’s film Amélie (2001). It’s the story of a shy young woman in Paris who learns that selfish living does not make her happy. Instead, she finds that her deepest joy comes from the small, secret acts of love she performs for others.

She starts noticing the people around her, and then does kind things for them. She returns a lost treasure, she helps a blind man and she brightens lonely lives. And along the way she finds that joy isn’t something you need to chase, but something that simply flows when you lighten someone else’s darkness.

This is Advent joy. It’s the joy of those who prepare the way of the Lord through small acts of love.

Both Anne Frank and Amélie demonstrate what Isaiah talks about in our first reading today: ‘The desert shall rejoice and blossom… the eyes of the blind shall be opened, the ears of the deaf unstopped.’

Joy doesn’t wait for perfection. It blooms right there in the desert, in the hidden attic, in the lonely streets of the city, and in the ordinary corners of life where love quietly labours.

St Elizabeth of the Trinity (1880-1906) was a French Carmelite nun who lived a hidden, simple and very short life. Her wisdom, however, was profound. She once wrote, ‘My joy is so deep because it is in God, and God is joy within me.’

Like Amélie, Elizabeth discovered that joy was not something to achieve, but something to receive. She came to realise that God is never far away, and once wrote: ‘It seems to me that I have found my Heaven on earth, since Heaven is God, and God is in my soul.’

At another time she wrote: ‘I can’t find words to express my happiness. Here there is no longer anything but God. He is All; he suffices and we live by him alone.’

When she was 23, Elizabeth contracted Addison’s Disease, a painful and incurable illness. But she never stopped radiating interior peace and joy. She was convinced that when you truly trust in God’s constant presence, nothing external can ever steal your inner harmony – your sense of peace and joy.

Today, St Elizabeth of the Trinity reminds us that joy doesn’t depend on our circumstances or our outward success. True joy comes from our inward nearness to Jesus – Emmanuel, God-with-us – who is already here, quietly transforming the world from within.

As St Paul tells us, ‘The Lord is near.’

This is why Anne Frank could believe in goodness, despite our messy world.

This is why Amélie could make joy visible through her small acts of kindness.

And this is why, like John the Baptist, we can always point to Jesus and confidently say ‘He is coming.’

The Songbird

(Is.11:1-10; Rom.15:4-9; Mt.3:1-12)

Every year in the season of Advent, a powerful voice calls out to us. It’s the voice of St John the Baptist.

It’s not a gentle whisper, but an insistent cry from the desert wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths!’

John’s message is sharp and urgent, but not meant to frighten us. It’s meant to wake us up, to stir hearts that have become too sleepy or distracted.

Advent is God’s wake-up call to our weary world, and John’s voice is the alarm that sounds just before the dawn.

Think of the early morning darkness, when the first bird begins to sing. It sings not because it can see the sun, but because it knows the sun is on its way. While the world is still half asleep, that little bird dares to sing into the silence.

John’s voice is that birdsong, expressing faith and joy into the shadows. He teaches us that even when the world is dark or silent, we can still raise our voices in hope because Jesus Christ is near.

Think, too, of the first light of every morning, that faint brightness that emerges before sunrise. It doesn’t light up the whole world, but it does signal that night is fading and a new day is on its way.

John the Baptist is that dawn. He is not the Sun, for Jesus is the true Light. But John’s life shines just enough to awaken hope in people’s hearts. ‘The darkness won’t last forever!’ he declares. ‘The Light of the world is coming!’ And he urges those who listen to turn towards the coming day.

And then there’s the wide brown land. In the morning, before any field can bear fruit, the soil must be broken to reveal its fertile promise. It is hard, challenging work, for ploughing tears up the ground. But without it, no seed can take root.

John’s preaching is that plough. It breaks open the hard soil of the human heart so that the seed of God’s Word might take root.

His message is repent, change your heart, turn back to God.

This sounds demanding, but it’s really an invitation to growth, for without repentance, there can be no renewal. Without turning back, we cannot go forward.

John’s voice tills the field so that Christ may plant his love.

This, then, is St John the Baptist. His voice is the first birdsong, singing of faith and joy in the darkness. He is the first light of the morning, signalling the dawn of a new day.

And his preaching is a plough, breaking up the hard soil of our hearts – for that’s where Jesus wants to plant his love.

Now, every night, just before the dawn and while the sky is still dark, the bright planet Venus makes its appearance. This is the morning star, the last light of night and the first sign of day. It shines brightly when most other stars have faded, and then it disappears just as the sun rises.

This, too, is John the Baptist. For just a short while he shines brilliantly – calling, baptising, preparing, and then, just as Jesus steps into the River Jordan, he quietly steps away. ‘Behold the Lamb of God,’ he says. And then: ‘He must increase, and I must decrease.’

These words guide us into the very heart of Advent, for true faith does not draw attention to itself; it only points towards Christ. John teaches us that holiness is not about shining for our own sake, but about helping others find the direction of the dawn. And when his work is done, he is content to fade into the distance.

This is true humility, and it’s the hallmark of the morning Songbird, John the Baptist. He reminds us that God has not forgotten us – indeed, that God will never forget us – and new life is already on its way.

His mission, his joy, is to announce what is coming, but then to let go. ‘I am not the Messiah,’ he says, ‘I am only the voice.’

And today, he reminds us of our own mission. For we are all called to be songbirds, just like the Baptist, singing into the silence and the darkness, awakening sleepy hearts and preparing the way for Christ.

At home, at school, at work, and in our communities – wherever we might be – we’re all called to become signs of the coming Light.

Not pointing to ourselves, but only to Jesus Christ.

Time to Wake Up

(Isa.2:1-5; Rom.13:11-14; Mt.24:37-44)

Today marks the start of a brand-new Liturgical Year A, and a fresh season of Advent.

For many people, Advent is simply about preparing for Christmas. It’s about buying gifts, putting up pretty lights and organising a Christmas tree.

Today’s Gospel, however, gives us something very different to consider: an alarm clock. Jesus is saying, ‘Stay awake, for you don’t know the hour when your Lord is coming.’

This isn’t a threat; Jesus is being merciful. He’s gently shaking our arm, saying: ‘Don’t sleepwalk through life. Don’t drift along, unaware that I am near.’

Advent is not just about preparing for Christmas; it’s also about waking up to God’s presence, right here and right now.

Charles Dickens understood this. His classic story A Christmas Carol isn’t only about greed and suffering; it’s also about waking up. At the beginning, Ebenezer Scrooge is spiritually asleep. He has plenty of money, but no mercy; loads of comfort, but no compassion. He lives closed in on himself, oblivious to the plight of people around him.

Then one night, heaven steps in. He’s visited by three spirits who show him his past, present, and future. This shakes him up. He gets to see the truth of his life – the harm he’s done, the love he’s lost, and the future that awaits him if he does not change.

And when he wakes up on Christmas morning, the first thing he says is, ‘I’m as light as a feather! I’m as happy as an angel! I’m as merry as a schoolboy!’
Scrooge’s joy isn’t about gifts; it’s the joy of a man who has finally woken up to what’s really going on in the world.

This is the Advent invitation for us all: to let the Holy Spirit wake us up from our sleep of selfishness, distraction and routine – to see life anew in the light of Jesus Christ.

There’s a similar message in a very different story – The Matrix. At the start of this movie, Neo lives in a comfortable illusion. Everything seems normal, but it’s all a lie. Everyone is living in a simulated reality created by intelligent machines. Then a message arrives on his computer screen: ‘Wake up, Neo.’ He’s intrigued and starts following the clues to find out what’s really going on.

When Neo does finally wake up, he discovers that the world he thought was real was just an elaborate dream. And he’s forced to choose between comfort and truth, between staying asleep or waking up to reality.

Advent poses the same question for us: will we stay comfortable in illusion, or will we wake up to the real world of God’s grace?

The real world is not what we see in the fashion ads or typical Hollywood films. Rather, the real world is where God comes quietly in love; where hope, repentance, and mercy are far more real and much more important than any possessions.

Centuries before Neo and Ebenezer Scrooge, another man experienced this same awakening: St Augustine. He too, had drifted through life, chasing pleasure, comfort, and ambition. In his book, Confessions, he describes the moment he woke up: ‘You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness.’

And then he utters that famous line: ‘Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new.’

St Augustine discovered that God’s love had been there all along, but his heart was too sleepy to notice. And when he woke up, he found not guilt or condemnation, but delicious joy.

This is what Jesus means by ‘Stay awake.’ To be awake is to live in a constant readiness for wonder, to be alert to the movement of God’s grace in our lives.

So how might we live wakefully this Advent?

Firstly, by opening our eyes. Look around with wonder. Take the time to notice the small signs of God’s presence in beauty, kindness and forgiveness.

Secondly, keep things simple and slow down. Don’t let the noise of this busy season numb you to its meaning.

And thirdly, prepare your heart. Make space for prayer, confession and silence. Make space for Jesus.

This is how we ‘stay awake.’

Advent wakefulness isn’t about fear. It’s about awareness. When Scrooge, Neo and St Augustine woke up, they found that everything was the same, and yet everything was different, because they had changed. The world had become brighter, not darker, and everything started to make sense.

Right now, Jesus is waiting for us. He’s quietly waiting for us to notice him.

(Many thanks to Fr Don of thewordthisweek.net for this infographic)