Deacon Peter

Coffin Academy

(Ezek.12-14; Rom.8:8-11; Jn.11:1-45)

In South Korea there’s an unusual place called ‘Coffin Academy,’ where people go to experience a ‘living funeral.’

It’s not a school as such, but somewhere people go to learn to appreciate life. They write their own epitaphs and lie down in a wooden coffin while the lid is closed over them for several minutes.

It’s only symbolic, but the purpose is serious: to confront the fear of death so that they might relearn how to live.

Participants say that when the lid closes, everything becomes clearer: what matters, what doesn’t, who they love, what they regret, and what they need to change. And when the lid lifts, they step out thinking differently. One young man emerged saying that everything he had previously been chasing was simply worthless ‘dust.’

In today’s Gospel, Jesus leads Martha and Mary to a similarly confronting moment at Lazarus’ tomb. However, this experience is not symbolic; it’s real. The stone is heavy and the grief is painful. But when Jesus says, ‘Lazarus, come out,’ the dead man begins a new life.

Now, this isn’t just a miracle story. It’s Jesus inviting us to leave the dark tombs of our own lives. And his words are significant: ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’

New life for anyone, whether Lazarus or ourselves, comes not only from leaving the dark tomb, but also from allowing Jesus to unbind us from whatever ties us to the past.

This is where many of us struggle. We may hear Christ’s call, but we remain bound by fear, resentment or habits that keep pulling us back into the darkness.

St Teresa of Ávila experienced this herself. Outwardly, she was a successful nun: intelligent, capable and admired. And yet she later admitted that for nearly twenty years her spiritual life was ‘half alive, half dead.’

In her autobiography she wrote, ‘I did not abandon prayer, but I did not give myself wholly to God.’ [i] What held her back were her ties to her sinful past.

But everything changed for her one day when she was thirty-nine and kneeling before an image of the scourged and wounded Christ. ‘When I looked at him,’ she said, ‘I felt my heart break.’ This was the moment when she stopped avoiding the truth about herself, and started allowing Jesus to meet her in her darkness.

Teresa admits that what held her back was fear: ‘I was afraid of the surrender that would be required of me,’ she said.

Fear, like Lazarus’ burial cloths, can bind us tightly even after Jesus has called us to life.

When Teresa finally entrusted herself completely to Jesus, she discovered what Lazarus had learnt: that being called out of the tomb is not frightening, but freeing. She allowed herself to pass through a kind of inner death, the death of her fear, and she emerged with new life.

Something similar happens in Roland Joffé’s movie, The Mission.[ii] Rodrigo Mendoza is a former soldier and slave trader who seeks redemption after killing his brother in a jealous rage. However, he carries his past like a dead weight.

He drags a bundle of armour and swords, symbols of his worst sins, up the mountain in an agonising penance. It’s his personal tomb tied to his back.

When he reaches the mission village, one of the indigenous men he had persecuted approaches with a knife and cuts the rope. His burden falls. And Mendoza, the hardened soldier, weeps – he has never before known such freedom.

‘Unbind him, and let him go.’

This is what Jesus does. He doesn’t just call us out of the tomb; he also cuts away the ropes of shame, fear and self-hatred that keep us tied to the past.

Like the Coffin Academy, Jesus helps us face the reality we fear. But unlike that academy, he enters that darkness with us, and he speaks into it a word that only God can speak: life.

So, today – what ‘tomb’ is holding you back? Is it grief? Is it guilt? Resentment? Disappointment? A habit you can’t break? Or fear of the future?

Whatever your tomb, Jesus is standing before it today. He’s weeping with you and asking you to roll away the stone. He’s here to unbind you.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead to demonstrate what he can do for us. Not only at the end of our lives, but right now.

As Holy Week approaches, Jesus wants us to trust him, to invite him into our darkness. He wants to do for us what he did for Lazarus, for Teresa of Avila, and for Rodrigo Mendoza – to lead us out of death into life.

To set us free.

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[i] St Teresa of Avila, The Life of Saint Teresa, Penguin Books, London, 1958.

[ii] Roland Joffé, The Mission https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxybk12n9DI

El Greco’s Christ Healing the Blind

(1Sam.16:1b,6-7,10-13a; Eph.5:8-14; Jn.9:1-41)

El Greco was a 16^th Century Greek artist who studied under Titian in Venice and eventually settled in Spain.

In 1570, he painted a scene from today’s Gospel in his classic work, Christ Healing the Blind.[i] Set outside the Jerusalem Temple, this artwork depicts the man born blind kneeling and begging for help, while Jesus reaches out to touch and heal his eyes.

In the Mannerist style, El Greco has subtly elongated the figures, giving them a surreal appearance. Here, he’s showing how faith stretches us, how grace takes us beyond ourselves. Indeed, the blind man is being drawn upward into a new existence.

That’s what happens to us when we encounter Jesus. His grace helps us reach and do things that were not previously possible.

Now, note how calm and radiant Jesus looks; he exudes divine authority by being the only figure facing forward. Note also the contrast between his stillness and poise, and the sense of movement and uncertainty across all the other figures. The blind man is drawing towards Jesus, while the crowds shift, lean, question and judge.

In a world full of distractions and conflicting voices, Jesus offers us a fixed point of reference, a steady place where sight is restored and truth is revealed.

But if Jesus is the focus point, then why is he not at the centre of this painting? It’s because so many of us don’t hold him front and centre in our lives. We prefer him kept on the margins. And yet, we know that Jesus is drawn to the margins of society, for that’s where the poor, the weak, the homeless – and the blind – are to be found.

Now, on the right is a group of Jesus’ disciples, keenly observing his actions. Peter is the older bearded man on their left, while John is the fresh-faced young fellow towering above them. [ii]

In the foreground are the blind man’s parents, fearful they’ll be expelled from the synagogue if they’re seen to be too close to Jesus. Their presence highlights the tension between physical sight and spiritual blindness.

And on the left is a group of Pharisees and other passers-by, so distracted that they completely miss this miracle.

El Greco produced three versions of this painting. This one, from New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, is the only one with the dark, almost ghostly, figure looming just to the left of the blind man.

One interpretation of this brooding figure is that he reflects the turmoil of the Reformation and the temptation to abandon the Church for popular culture, rather than accepting Christ for who he truly is.

However, in his book Pilgrimage to the Museum, Stephen Auth says this shadowy figure could be an evil spirit, being exorcised from the blind man. The healing Jesus offers is primarily spiritual, and that’s what’s happening here. The blind man is being lifted up and restored to the perfect human being God created him to be.

Each of the figures in this picture in some way mirrors the reactions to Jesus in today’s Gospel. But they also reflect us today, for we are all busy doing things while God is in our midst. And El Greco is asking: which figure is you?

Are you the blind man, desperate to see? Are you too distracted to even notice Jesus? Or are you holding back, sceptical, cautious or afraid?

Notice how Jesus has been placed close to the foreground, so that we are within reach of his hand. El Greco wants us to step into the scene, to become part of it, for Jesus is waiting for us.

And finally, notice how simple the foreground is, with Jesus encountering the blind man, while the background is crowded with people and detail. This background reflects our noisy and confused world today, while the foreground represents the essential moment of grace.

The point is that healing happens not in noise and confusion, but in the quiet space of encounter.

So, this week, take a moment to imagine yourself inside El Greco’s painting. Where are you standing? Are you the blind man, ready to let Jesus touch the darkness? Are you a cautious onlooker? A distracted bystander? Or a loyal disciple?

Let Jesus draw you closer to him. Let him touch you.

And pray the simple prayer of the man born blind: ‘Lord, help me to see.’

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[i] El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos) Christ Healing the Blind, 1569-1570, oil on canvas, 119.4 x 146.1 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

[ii] Stephen F Auth, Pilgrimage to the Museum, Sophia Institute Press, Manchester NH, 2022:98-103.

Exhaustion

(Ex.17:3-7; Rom.5:1-2,5-8; Jn.4:5-42)

We all suffer from exhaustion from time to time. It can happen suddenly, perhaps through a crisis. And sometimes it arrives slowly, like a grinding weariness that grows over time.

We have all, at some point, thought: ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

In today’s first reading, the Israelites are exhausted. After wandering through the desert, they’re thirsty, they’re tired and their faith is fraying. ‘Is the Lord with us or not?’ they ask.

Moses is struggling, too. ‘Lord, what am I to do with this people?’ he asks. Like so many people today, he is worn out and has nothing left to give.

But note how God responds. He doesn’t wait until they’ve all calmed down, or until their problems are sorted. He meets them where they are and sends fresh water pouring from a rock.

New hope flows from the most unlikely place.

In today’s Gospel, the Samaritan woman is also exhausted. She goes to the well at noon, when she’s unlikely to see anyone else. She’s deliberately avoiding people because she’s socially exhausted. But after five husbands, she’s morally exhausted, too. And she’s spiritually exhausted – confused about God and her own identity.

And sitting there at the well is Jesus, who is tired from his own travels.

This is a powerful scene, for it tells us that God understands human suffering. Even Jesus gets tired and thirsty.

But why is he sitting at this well? Because that’s where the woman is. God is always there when we need him; he always has graces to share.

The Samaritan woman’s exhaustion becomes the crack through which God enters her life. But note that she doesn’t hide her story from Jesus. She simply tells the truth about herself, and Jesus responds by offering her living water – the joy, the hope and the fresh start she didn’t think was possible.

According to Eastern tradition, this woman was St Photina, the first evangelist in John’s Gospel. If you go to Nablus in the Holy Land today, you’ll find Jacob’s Well inside the Orthodox Church of St Photina. This is where she found Jesus’ living water.

Through the ages, countless people have found that God’s grace flows when their hearts are really struggling.

As St Paul says in today’s second reading, ‘Hope is not deceptive, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.’

Mother Teresa experienced this herself. She suffered almost five decades of spiritual dryness, a deep interior exhaustion she called ‘the dark night of the poor.’ And yet, even when she felt empty, she kept on serving.

She once prayed, ‘Jesus, I have no words. Please speak through me. I have no strength. Please act through me.’ And that’s just what happened. God met her in her dryness, and gave her the living water she needed to keep going.

Towards the end of his life, St John Paul II was also exhausted. His Parkinson’s disease left him shaking and weak. Yet he continued working, saying, ‘I continue because that is my cross. And Christ did not come down from his.’

His exhaustion became a sacrament of perseverance. Just as the woman at the well drew strength from Jesus, so did John Paul II. When his strength was gone, Christ became his strength.

St Elizabeth Ann Seton, too, was a New York mother of five children. She was widowed at 29, ostracised by her community and exhausted from poverty and grief. She prayed, ‘My God, I am yours. Only show me the path, even if I can only take one step today.’

Jesus met her in her exhaustion and gave her new hope and direction. She went on to establish the first Catholic schools and first Catholic orphanage in the USA, as well as the first American congregation of religious sisters. 

Today, then, is a day for the exhausted, for the parent running on fumes, for the struggling carer and for anyone else who feels they have nothing left to give.

The good news is that with Jesus, the end of the rope is not the end; it’s the beginning. The moment when our strength gives way is precisely the place where God waits for us with his graces.

As we learnt from today’s readings, the Israelites’ exhaustion becomes the place where water gushes forth. The woman’s exhaustion becomes the moment she discovers her dignity. Moses’ exhaustion becomes a moment of divine action. And Jesus’ own exhaustion becomes a moment of encounter.

Sometimes the best prayer you can pray is simply: ‘Jesus, please come to me. I can’t do it without you.’

If you’re struggling and need living water, Jesus is waiting for you.

Mountain Light

(Gen.12:1-4a; 2Tim.1:8b-10; Mt.17:1-9)

One of the delights of Italy is the Dominican convent of San Marco in Florence.

To inspire quiet reflection, in the 1400s Fra Angelico painted simple, prayerful frescos on the walls of the monks’ cells.

Cell 6 depicts Jesus’ Transfiguration. It shows him standing tall, wearing white and lifting his hands in a blessing. Moses and Elijah flank him, while Peter, James and John have fallen to the ground, overwhelmed by Jesus’ radiant light.

Fra Angelico loved painting inspiring and peaceful images, and this one shows Jesus on Mount Tabor, quietly revealing his true identity as the Son of God. His disciples are stunned to witness his divine glory, and they take this memory with them as they descend the mountain and start facing the challenges of the valley below.

Someone else who was inspired by mountains was St John Paul II. As a young man in Poland, he escaped the grip of Nazi and Communist rule by heading for the hills around Kraków. He often skied, hiked and prayed there.

Later in his life, John Paul II said: ‘The mountains are a place of encounter, where a person is lifted above himself.’

On the mountaintop he got a clear view of his vocation. There, he also discovered the wonder of being called beyond fear. And he learnt how God was shaping him for a mission greater than anything he’d ever imagined.

But he never stayed long in the mountains.

His whole life was a cycle of going up to receive wisdom and strength, and then coming down to serve. He became a living example of the Transfiguration. Filled with light through prayer, he kept descending into the valleys of human suffering, into countries torn by war, into crowds suffering grief, and into hearts where faith had grown thin.

The light he received on his ‘mountains’ became the light he shared with others.

Something similar happened in the early life of St Teresa of Calcutta. Before beginning her ministry in Calcutta, she experienced intense moments of closeness to Jesus Christ.

In 1946, on a train from Calcutta to Darjeeling, she had what she later called ‘a call within a call,’ a profound interior experience of Jesus’ love and his hopes for the poorest of the poor.

Her early years were full of light, as Jesus spoke directly to her heart and gave her a clear sense of purpose.

But then, for decades, she found herself in a deep spiritual darkness and God seemed both silent and far away. And yet, just like the disciples leaving Mount Tabor, her memories of Christ’s light were enough to sustain her through the later valleys.

Her Transfiguration moments didn’t stop her suffering. Rather, they equipped her to walk faithfully through it, carrying the light of Christ into the darkest places on earth.

Every year, on the second Sunday of Lent, the Church always takes us to Mount Tabor for Jesus’ Transfiguration. Why? Because we, too, need clarity for the next part of our journey. We see more clearly from a mountaintop.

Fra Angelico painted Jesus on Mount Tabor for two reasons:

Firstly, to remind us who Jesus truly is – glorious, radiant and divine. Jesus isn’t just a wise teacher; he’s also the Lord of all heaven and earth.

And secondly, to remind us who we are called to become. Lent isn’t just about giving things up. It’s also about being transformed, by letting grace strip away what is false in us so that we can become more like Jesus Christ.

That’s why the disciples become fearful, for transformation can be challenging. And that’s why Peter offers to build tents, because it’s easier to stay on the mountain than face the valley below.

But a voice from the cloud says: ‘This is my beloved Son… listen to Him.’ So, they all follow Jesus off the mountain.

John Paul II left the mountain to confront totalitarianism with hope. Mother Teresa left the mountain to touch Christ in the poorest of the poor. And you and I come down from the mountain each week after receiving the Eucharist. For every Mass is our Tabor. Every Communion is a flash of divine light. And every prayerful encounter with Jesus strengthens us for mission.

But we’re not meant to stay on the mountain. Our task is to carry that light back down into the valley, into our world of sadness and confusion, of conflict and fear.

Fra Angelico’s painting is beautiful.

It reminds us who Jesus truly is, who we are meant to be, and what grace wants to achieve through us.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

The Desert Experience

(Gen.7-9, 3:1-7; Rom.5:12-19; Mt.4:1-11)

Every Lent begins with a journey into the desert.

Before Jesus even preaches a word or works any miracles, the Spirit calls him into the wilderness, and there he spends forty lonely days in silence, heat and hunger.

Why does he do that? It’s because the desert is God’s classroom. It’s where God forms the heart, sharpens the soul and prepares his disciples for mission.

Most people avoid the desert; they think it has nothing for them. But they don’t realise that a good desert experience can be the springboard to new life, for three reasons.

Firstly, it offers clarity. This is a point Antoine de Saint-Exupéry makes in his book The Little Prince. Saint-Exupéry was a French author and pilot who knew the deserts of North Africa well.

In The Little Prince, he tells the tale of a pilot who crashes into the Sahara, and there he finds a world of solitude and silence, with none of life’s normal distractions. He also learns what truly matters: love, friendship and seeing beyond the superficial. And the story ends with a powerful statement: that what is essential in life is invisible to the eye.

This insight captures the essence of Lent, because what is truly essential in life can only be understood by the heart. And clarity of heart requires solitude. This is why Jesus goes into the wilderness.

It’s only when the noise stops that we can hear God’s quiet voice.

Another thing the desert offers us is discipline. It teaches us to be strong.

Consider the story of Odysseus in Homer’s classic work, The Odyssey. Odysseus is the legendary king of Ithaca, on his way home from the Trojan Wars. At one point he faces one of his greatest challenges: resisting the temptations of the Sirens.

The Sirens were half-woman, half-bird creatures who lured sailors to their deaths with their irresistible songs. Odysseus orders his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, and he has himself tied to the ship’s mast to restrain him when the temptation starts.

This is a good metaphor for the spiritual life, for we cannot rely on willpower alone. Even holiness needs support.

That’s why Lent gives us the three traditions of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. They are virtual ropes that anchor us firmly to Jesus and keep us safe. Fasting leads to discipline in the body. Prayer leads to discipline in the mind, and generosity leads to discipline in the heart.

These ancient practices aren’t for earning God’s favour. Rather, they help us stay faithful when the Siren song of temptation tries to lure us into the darkness.

And finally, the desert teaches us our mission in life.

St Charles de Foucauld provides a good example here. He was a wealthy young Frenchman who chased adventure, pleasure and fame, but none of that satisfied him. Eventually, God led him to the Tuareg people in the Algerian desert, where he lived in silence, poverty and prayer.

It was there, in that harsh landscape, that he discovered his mission: to imitate the life of Christ in humility and love. And he spent the rest of his life quietly radiating that love among the Muslim people.

The desert had revealed who he was and what God wanted him to be.

The same is true of St Teresa of Calcutta. For decades she found herself caught in a spiritual desert. One might have expected her to give up, but it was there that she discovered her mission: to serve Jesus in the poorest of the poor. And not because she felt his presence, but because she believed in him.

The desert did not break Mother Teresa; it clarified her mission, and her mission changed the world.

So, what can we take from all this today?

The point is that Lent is not about proving our holiness or testing our spiritual toughness. Rather, Lent is our opportunity to learn from the desert. For a good desert experience helps us clarify our identity: who we are, and what God wants of us.

It also helps us acquire some spiritual discipline, by taking on the ancient practices of prayer, fasting and almsgiving.

And finally, the desert helps us discover what really matters in life. Who today needs your attention, your forgiveness, your time, your compassion? Where is God calling you to love more deeply?

A good desert experience will not make you barren. As Jesus found, it will actually make you more fruitful.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Beyond the Bare Minimum

(Ecc.15:15-20; 1Cor.2:6-10; Mt.5:17-37)

I expect we all know someone who likes to say, ‘Well, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

It’s a familiar attitude, as if the whole point of Christian living were simply to avoid the major sins and to stay out of trouble.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus challenges this thinking. He invites us to go beyond the bare minimum, beyond a faith that is defined by ‘not hurting anyone,’ towards a life that centres on the heart.

A heart that truly loves, and not just hands that stay clean.

‘You have heard it said… but I say to you…’ Jesus says. Not just ‘don’t murder,’ but be reconciled. Not just ‘don’t commit adultery,’ but let your heart be pure. Not just ‘don’t swear false oaths,’ but let your whole life be truthful.

Jesus isn’t interested in whether we have ‘done nothing wrong.’ He wants to know whether we have truly learnt how to love.

St John Henry Newman understood this well. He spent his early adult life trying to do everything right, ensuring that every prayer was perfect, every theological idea was correct, and every line of Scripture was precisely analysed.

But then something happened. Through years of prayer and struggle, he realised that Christianity isn’t about avoiding mistakes. It’s about becoming a certain kind of person, a person whose heart has been reshaped by grace.

Newman wrote: ‘Holiness is a habit of the heart; a new way of seeing, a new way of loving.’ It’s a habit of the heart, which means that it’s not merely the things we avoid, but the person we become.

Newman came to see that doing the minimum is not enough – not enough for God or for the dignity of the human soul. So, he followed Jesus into a deeper conversion where motives, desires and intentions form part of discipleship.

Victor Hugo’s story Les Misérables illustrates this well. It contrasts two very different characters: Inspector Javert, who is obsessed with law, order and catching people out, and Jean Valjean, who has been transformed by undeserved mercy.

Inspector Javert obeys every rule meticulously. He has ‘done nothing wrong,’ and yet his heart is cold, rigid and lifeless. He doesn’t understand love at all.

Jean Valjean, however, begins his life in violence, hatred and even crime, but his heart softens after one act of mercy from a bishop. He learns to live with mercy, courage and compassion.

Javert represents the letter of the law, while Valjean embodies the spirit of the law. This is the distinction Jesus makes today.

The Christian life is not about being a moral accountant ticking boxes. It’s about allowing grace to transform our hearts.

Some people worry when they hear this part of the Sermon on the Mount. To them it feels impossible, for how can anyone have totally pure motives? And who can avoid every angry thought?

But Jesus isn’t raising the bar to make our life harder. He’s trying to raise us all to a higher level of existence. He’s calling us into a more beautiful, more human and more courageous way of living.

If you’re the sort of person who tends to say, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ ask yourself: Have I done anything right? Have I done anything beautiful? Have I done anything courageous? Have I done anything merciful, or reconciling?

Christianity is not just about the absence of sin; it’s also about the presence of love.

This week, Jesus invites us to look not only at our own behaviour, but also at our intentions: Is there someone I need to reconcile with? Am I still feeling resentful?

Do my words reflect who I truly want to be? And do I live with integrity even when nobody is watching?

St John Henry Newman learnt that Christianity is not a matter of rules, but of growing into the mind and heart of Christ. And that growth always starts with honesty and humility.

But here’s the best part: Jesus isn’t asking us to do this alone. He’s offering us his grace, the power of his Holy Spirit, to help transform us from within.

‘Let me give you a new heart,’ Jesus says. A heart just like his own.

So, our challenge today is to stop saying ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ and to begin praying, ‘Lord, make my heart like yours.’

For following the rules is not enough, and the bare minimum is never sufficient.

What we need is a grace-filled heart that loves with courage and integrity.  

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

What About You?

(Is.58:7-10; 1Cor.2:1-5; Mt.5:13-16)

Today, Jesus famously says, ‘You are the salt of the earth… you are the light of the world.’

Note that he doesn’t say ‘you should be salt…’ He says you already are. He spells out our identity before saying what he expects of us.

But why salt and light? Because they are both ordinary, and that’s exactly how God’s kingdom spreads: through the small, steady and faithful action of certain things we all consider very ordinary.

So, what can we learn from salt and light?

Firstly, note that salt doesn’t change food ingredients; it simply enhances what’s already there. In the same way, Christians are meant to be a subtle presence, awakening the goodness that already exists in the people and world around them.

Think of someone you know at work, at home or in your community, who just by their presence makes things better. They don’t have to give speeches or force any change; they simply and quietly bring out the best in others.

This is what Jesus wants us to do: to be the pinch of salt that makes things better.

Secondly, salt has long been used to preserve food from decay. Today, there are many places where conversations, attitudes or relationships can begin to spoil; where negativity, cynicism, or injustice can start to spread.

And sometimes, even without realising it, we become the ones who hold things together. We stop things from decaying. We preserve the truth. We keep things on track. This is what salt does, and what Jesus calls us to do.

Then Jesus talks about light, and light has one essential task: to be visible.

Light is a remarkable thing. It doesn’t panic when darkness approaches. It doesn’t argue with the darkness or resent it. It simply shines, and by shining, it changes the whole room. This is what Christians are called to do.

In a world that often seems dark, confused or unhappy, Christians are meant to shine with a quiet, steady goodness that points people to God. Not showy or loud, but quietly radiant, so that others see something in you that points beyond you.

A good example of this was St Katharine Drexel. She was born in 1858 into one of the richest families in Philadelphia, USA. Her parents believed that their wealth was a blessing from God, and that the poor must always be treated as Christ himself. This wisdom shaped her life.

Katharine felt a deep call to serve people who were overlooked or mistreated, especially Native American and African American families who suffered from poverty, discrimination and poor education.

She could have sent cheques from her mansion, but the Gospel stirred her heart.

In 1887 she visited Pope Leo XIII in Rome, and asked him to send missionaries to help these poor people. He replied by asking, ‘What about you? Why not be a missionary yourself?’ That question changed her life. It reminded her that every person, by virtue of their baptism, is called to help build God’s kingdom.

Katharine then shocked high society by joining a convent, and later founding the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. She spent her entire inheritance establishing 145 missions and over 60 schools across the country, building facilities, employing staff, empowering local leaders and pouring out her life in love.

St Katharine Drexel didn’t seek to draw attention to herself. She simply allowed the light of Christ to shine through her, especially into the dark corners of the world.

She was light: visible love in action. And she was salt, preserving human dignity where society let it decay. And she showed that holiness is never about escaping the world; it’s about illuminating it.

Today Jesus tells us that our light must shine in the sight of others, so that, seeing our good works, they may give praise to our Father in heaven.

This is holiness. The goal isn’t to let people think we are wonderful, but to help them see that God is wonderful. Katharine Drexel didn’t shine so that people would admire her. She shone so that people would discover the love of God.

That’s our task, too.

So, this week: let’s try to be salt for someone. Let’s try to bring out the goodness in them by offering a word of praise, a moment of patience or a sincere thank you.

And let’s be light where light is needed, by being kind, calm or forgiving.

We do it not to be noticed, but because light is meant to shine and salt is meant to season.

For we are already the salt of the earth, and light of the world.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Medicine for the World

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

Today, Jesus sits down on the mountain and delivers his eight Beatitudes. They are at the heart of all his teachings.

The Beatitudes aren’t just a list of virtues – they are a portrait of a heart that’s ready for God’s Kingdom. They also describe who God is and who God calls us to be.

In 2002, Pope St John Paul II called the Beatitudes the Magna Carta of Christianity. What he meant is that they are a pivotal guide for how we might live our best lives as followers of Jesus Christ.

One good way to understand these eight blessings is to hear them alongside another passage from Scripture, which describes the very opposite of God’s Kingdom.

The Book of Proverbs (6:16-19) lists seven things that the Lord hates: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that plots wicked schemes, feet that to rush into evil, a false witness, and one who stirs up conflict.

It may seem harsh to speak of ‘what the Lord hates,’ but Proverbs isn’t describing people for us to condemn. Rather, it’s revealing the attitudes and behaviours that block God’s grace, the things that close our hearts and deform our communities.

Proverbs spells out what destroys the human family, while the Beatitudes show us what heals it. Let’s look at the contrasts:

• Where pride raises its ugly head, Jesus blesses the poor in spirit, those who know their need for God.
• Where deceit and dishonesty poison relationships, Jesus blesses the pure in heart, whose yes means yes and whose no means no.
• Where violence and hardness of heart can shed innocent blood, Jesus blesses the meek, who do not need to dominate or control.
• Where unjust schemes grind the poor into the dust, Jesus blesses those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
• Where feet rush to evil, Jesus blesses the merciful, who slow things down with compassion.
• Where false witness twists the truth, Jesus blesses the peacemakers who bring people together.
• And where conflict tears people apart, Jesus blesses those who endure persecution for the sake of the Gospel, standing firm in truth and love.

Proverbs shows us the heart that pushes God away. The Beatitudes describe the heart where God lives.

Someone who came to live the Beatitudes is St Oscar Romero, the archbishop of San Salvador who was martyred in 1980. In him, these blessings became flesh.

Oscar began as a cautious, bookish priest who avoided making waves. But when he witnessed his people being cruelly abused by the Salvadoran government: the innocent killed, the truth manipulated, and communities torn apart, his heart woke up. He realised that the wounds described in Proverbs were all around him: pride, deceit, violence, injustice, false witness and discord.

He started taking Jesus’ words to heart.

He embraced poverty of spirit, by standing with the poor without seeking praise or power.

He hungered and thirsted for righteousness, speaking truth when it was costly.

He showed mercy, even to those who threatened him.

And ultimately he was persecuted, killed at the altar while celebrating Mass.

Oscar Romero’s life makes the Beatitudes real. He shows us that these are not gentle, sentimental words, but a call to courageous, self-giving love. And they are possible in every age when hearts are open to God.

He became a peacemaker, pleading for an end to all violence.

Today, our world still reflects everything Our Lord hates: pride, lies, violence, injustice, discord. Sadly, these are daily news.

The Beatitudes, however, are Jesus’ roadmap for a different way of life. They tell us that holiness is not about dramatic gestures but about a heart that welcomes God: Humility instead of pride. Truth instead of deceit. Gentleness instead of violence. Justice instead of scheming. Mercy instead of vengeance. Peacemaking instead of conflict. Perseverance instead of despair.

While Proverbs spells out the wounds of the world, in the Beatitudes, Jesus gives us the medicine we all need.

This week, I encourage you to adopt one Beatitude and pray: ‘Lord, make this true in me. Give me this heart.’

This is how saints are made: one step at a time, one virtue at a time, one conversion at a time.

It’s also how God’s Kingdom grows.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

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 people to help him with his mission. One such person was Mary Glowrey, the Australian woman who was declared venerable by Pope Leo XIV in November 2025.

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 Southern 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.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

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: