Deacon Peter

Salmon Run

(Jer.20:10-13; Rom.5:12-15; Mt.10:26-33)

Every spring, countless salmon swim huge distances upstream to return to their birthplace.

It’s not an easy journey; it’s a gruelling pilgrimage as they swim against powerful currents, leaping up waterfalls, slipping past predators and climbing over any obstacles that block their way.

What drives them onward is an inner summons to go home. And it’s from this inward call that their courage emerges, as they risk everything for the next generation.

The salmon run is rather like the Christian life, for we’re all journeying towards a home that’s not finally of this world. There is a difference, though, in that our quest isn’t just for others. It’s for ourselves, too.

Our call is to swim against the current of worldly culture and comfort, facing obstacles, frustrations, and sometimes even threats, from powerful forces.

Yet the Christian’s courage is based on purpose, for our vocation is to love, our mission is to bear fruit, and our hope is for an eternal home. Our small faithful acts, like an encouraging word, a forgiven insult, and a visit to the lonely, are the steps that take us ever closer to the life that God has planned for us.

And because we’re answering a divine call, our risk-taking is not foolishness but faithful obedience.

This is what Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel. Like ‘sheep among wolves’, he sends his disciples out into a world that can be hostile. He doesn’t deny the possibility of rejection, slander or even bodily harm, but he does tell us not to fear those who can only harm the body but not the soul. Rather, he says, stand in awe of the One who created both body and soul and who still holds them in his power.

And he comforts us: just as the Father knows the sparrows, he has counted every hair on our heads. In other words, the God who calls us upstream is not distant; he knows us intimately. Understanding this frees us to do what we must, because we know we are loved, and that he’s always with us.

Through the ages, many saints have not only faithfully travelled this challenging path; they have also encouraged others in their own journey.

In Rome, St Philip Neri was a popular confessor. One day a young man came to him, feeling crushed by shame and convinced he could never change.

Philip listened, and then, smiling, he simply said, ‘Begin again’.

For months this man stumbled and failed, but each time he returned to Philip’s door he found the same warm welcome and patient counsel. Slowly the man changed; eventually he became a generous servant of the poor.

Philip’s repeated invitations to ‘begin again’ are like a person on a riverbank scooping up a weary salmon in their hands and setting it beyond the rocks. Saints don’t scold a tired swimmer out of the stream. They steady, they encourage, and help them try again.

In New York and Quebec, St. Kateri Tekakwitha lived a quiet life of faith at a time of great cultural dislocation and suffering. Every day she practised small acts of devotion, gentle care for her people, and courageous refusal when pressured to abandon her faith.

Like the salmon edging its way upstream, Kateri approached holiness in patient, ordinary steps. Her life teaches us that holiness is often the accumulation of small, faithful choices rather than one grand leap.

And in the Mediterranean, St Paul’s missionary journeys were full of storms, shipwrecks, beatings, and betrayal. He describes his life as being in perilous waters, and yet he never abandoned his mission to spread the Gospel.

St Paul’s willingness to endure hardships for the sake of future generations of disciples is like the salmon that dies after spawning. He reminds us that our sacrifices can bear life beyond our sight and even our lifetime.

Like St. Philip who encouraged sinners to ‘Begin again,’ like St. Kateri refusing to abandon her faith, and like St Paul enduring great hardships for the sake of the Gospel, we are all summoned to keep swimming upstream.

And when the current is too strong, Jesus often sends a saintly hand to carry us past the rocks.

In his book The Everlasting Man, G. K. Chesterton writes that any old dead thing can drift with the stream, but only a living thing can swim against it.

This is why we admire the salmon so much. It fights its way against the current for only one reason: to bring life. 

That, ultimately, is what we are all called to do, too.

As Jesus himself tells us: ‘I came that they may have life, and have it to the full’ (Jn.10:10).

An Open Door

(Ex.19:2-6; Rom.5:6-11; Mt.9:36-10:8)

Dorothy Day was a feisty, plain‑spoken woman, a journalist and Catholic convert.

In 1933, with her partner Peter Maurin, she opened a small kitchen in New York as a radical experiment in Christian care. People came for soup and left with changed lives.

One day, a reporter visited one of her first houses of hospitality. He expected to find quiet and orderly charity, but instead found an open door with people coming and going, food cooking, children laughing, others arguing, and a man dozing at the table.

At one point a bedraggled woman arrived, soaked and shivering. Someone gave her a blanket; another ladled soup. No-one passed judgment, for all were welcome, whatever their story. The door was always open.

Dorothy Day’s Catholic Worker Movement grew to include a newspaper and 75 houses of hospitality, where anyone in need was offered a meal, a bed, and human dignity. Today there are over 240 such communities around the world.

Dorothy lived simply, loved fiercely, and always insisted on welcoming the poor before anyone else. She strongly believed that you love God just as much as the one you love least.

Her approach, she said, was ‘living from day to day, taking no thought for the morrow, seeing Christ in all who come to us, and trying literally to follow the Gospel.’ If the door to Jesus’ mercy is always open, she thought, then her door should remain open, too.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus sees a crowd of people looking helpless and dejected, ‘like sheep without a shepherd.’ But it’s not just pity he has for them; it’s compassion. And compassion is recognising someone else’s pain, and then doing something about it.

So, Jesus commissions his disciples to help these people. He sends them with authority, but knows they can’t do it all on their own. That’s why he tells them to ‘Pray to the Lord of the harvest.’ They will need the Holy Spirit.

Someone else who boldly answered Christ’s call was St Benedict of Nursia (d.547), the father of Western monasticism who founded the monastery of Monte Cassino in Italy. His Benedictine rule balances prayer, work and communal life, and has since guided religious communities all over the world.

St Benedict believed that the monastery door is a place of encounter with Jesus himself: ‘Let all guests who arrive be received like Christ,’ he said. For him, every open door is a sacramental threshold.

Under the discipline of ora et labora (prayer and work), he trained his monks to see ordinary tasks like washing dishes, tending fields and greeting travellers, as both acts of worship and opportunities for mercy and service.

Today, St Benedict reminds us that a consistently warm welcome delivered with genuine care is the essence of Christian mercy. It turns an ‘open door’ into a place of encounter with Jesus Christ.

St. Martin of Tours (d.397) also answered Christ’s call. One day, as a young Roman soldier in Gaul, he met a freezing beggar and gave him half of his cloak. That night, in a vision he saw Jesus wearing that half-cloak, and he realised that serving the poor means serving Christ.

He left the army, got baptised and dedicated his life to the Church, working to protect the poor and vulnerable. He established hospices and monasteries where travellers and the needy were always welcomed.

St Martin saw prayer and practical mercy as deeply intertwined, and regarded charity as ‘prayer in action’.

Dorothy Day, St. Benedict, and St. Martin understood Jesus’ concern for the helpless. Dorothy Day’s kitchen kept its door open to whoever knocked. Benedict’s Rule turned every guest‑door into an encounter with Christ. St Martin’s cloak reminds us that a single act of mercy can open a life to service. And all three show us how compassion moves from feeling to faithful action.

‘The harvest is plentiful, but the labourers are few,’ Jesus says. He’s calling us to join him in having real compassion for those who struggle.

Some years after Dorothy Day opened her first house of hospitality, a young man arrived at mealtime. He was a quiet man with rough hands and a face that knew all about shut doors. He sat down, ate quietly, and then, as the plates were cleared, stood and handed the volunteer a note. It simply said: ‘Thank you.’

He returned the next week, and the week after that, and before long he was helping in the kitchen himself – washing dishes, putting out chairs, and greeting newcomers.

What began as an open door and a single meal became a whole new life.

A Way of Life

(Deut.8:2-3,14-16; 1Cor.10:16-17; Jn.6:51-58)

In Fred Zinnemann’s film A Man for all Seasons (1966), there’s a dining room scene with a long table, polished silver and men sitting stiffly in their chairs. At the head of the table is Sir Thomas More, a quiet, well-respected man.

At first, they’re eating and talking politely, avoiding what’s really on their minds. Then a robust debate begins on loyalty and conscience: What should a man do when power demands him to compromise?

A young servant is then invited to sit down and give his opinion. The effect is instant: they all stop talking, and you can see in their faces that something has changed. In that moment, hospitality and truth meet over a simple meal.  

This scene shows how a simple meal can change people’s hearts – especially when truth is spoken with integrity, and all are treated with dignity.

In other words, meals don’t just fill us up; they form us as human beings.

Think, for a moment, of St Teresa of Calcutta and her Homes for the Dying. When someone was brought in – wretched, abandoned, and often filthy – St Teresa and her sisters received them warmly. They washed them gently, offered them a meal, and sat down with them at the table while they ate. Teresa treated each person as a cherished guest, honouring their humanity and dignity.

Those small, humble meals were never just about filling a stomach; they were acts of mercy that recognised Christ in the other. In that way, St Teresa revealed how table hospitality can itself be a kind of thanksgiving, an honouring of God present in our neighbour.

Today, on Corpus Christi Sunday, we come together to celebrate the Eucharist, which literally means ‘thanksgiving’. But we’re not here simply to remember a past meal. Rather, we’ve come to enter into a living gift, where Jesus gives us his Body and Blood so that we ourselves may be fed, forgiven, and sent.

Like the table in that film, the altar is a place where hospitality and truth meet, and the encounter changes us.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, ‘I am the living bread that came down from heaven,’ and he invites us into an encounter that’s both humble and life‑changing. We take him into our bodies, and we become what we receive.

The Eucharist shapes us, not just by ceremony but also by shared dependence and gratitude. And on this, two points can be made:

Firstly, thanksgiving names our dependence. In that film’s table scene, the invitation to the servant acknowledges that everyone at the table needs to be heard and that no-one is self‑sufficient. Eucharistic thanksgiving therefore is the Church’s way of saying, ‘we need this.’

In the same way, we admit that we don’t live by our own strength alone, for we need God’s mercy and nourishment. That honesty breaks our pride and it opens us up to God’s gift. Indeed, saying ‘Amen’ at Holy Communion is not just a formula; it’s publicly declaring: ‘Yes, I accept this gift; and I belong to this body.’

Secondly, thanksgiving sends us out into the world. The table in A Man for All Seasons shapes conscience. Thomas More’s faithful presence at table and his refusal to be bought or silenced, witnesses to others and calls them to integrity.

The Eucharist, too, does more than comfort; it shapes and commissions us.

In our second reading, Paul reminds us that the cup we bless is the blood of Christ, and the bread we break is the body of Christ. If we truly receive Christ’s Body and Blood, that reception must show itself in concrete acts, like feeding the hungry, healing the sick, and helping the lost.

Receiving grace without letting it form our choices is like taking nourishment and never moving – something that’s impossible for a healthy body.

So, here are three simple ways to let Eucharistic thanksgiving shape your life this week:

Firstly, turn your ordinary meals into small sacraments. Before you eat, name a gift you received that day. Such practices help make us thankful.

Secondly, let gratitude become generosity. If Jesus has fed you here, then pass it on. Find someone to serve this week: someone overlooked, lonely, or in need. Let your thanks be active.

And finally, prepare well for Communion by confessing what separates you from God and your neighbour, and come to the sacrament with a contrite and thankful heart. And when you say ‘Amen,’ mean it: ‘Yes, I receive’ and ‘Yes, I believe.’

St. Augustine reminds us that God is nearer to us than we are to ourselves. When we receive the Body of Christ, we are drawn into that nearness and sent to reflect it to others.

The Eucharist therefore is the school of gratitude.

And thanksgiving is not just a feeling, but a way of life.

The Trinitarian Life

(Ex.34:4-6, 8-9; 2Cor.13:11-13; Jn.3:16-18)

We often bless ourselves with the Sign of the Cross, saying, ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’

This small Trinitarian ritual is something we learnt early in life, and hopefully it will be the last gesture made over us at the end of our days. It reaffirms our creation in God’s image and likeness (Gen.1:27), and it reminds us that God is not a distant and solitary figure, but a communion of love that touches every human life (1Jn.4:16).

The Holy Trinity is quite a mystery. Sr Lucia, who met Our Lady at Fatima, said that we will only really understand it when we get to heaven. However, there are some things we can learn from the Trinity if we want to live better lives today.

Firstly, have you noticed how the Trinity is a model for family life? Just as the Holy Spirit is the fruit of the mutual love between Father and Son, so children are the fruit of the mutual love between husband and wife. And just as the Father, Son and Holy Spirit are constantly united in love, so we are all meant to come together in love, in our families and communities.

We see this in the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Jesus spent 90% of his life living quietly with his family. Similarly, when Mary visited her cousin Elizabeth, they stayed together for months, talking, laughing and supporting each other. And when the disciples started following Jesus, they sacrificed everything else to live in close communion.

We, too, have been created for relationship, not isolation, and we need to build good, healthy connections with others, and most especially with our families.

Secondly, the Father, Son, and Spirit are distinct persons with different roles, and yet they are perfectly united. In the same way, each member of our families and communities has a role to play and unique talents to share as we all come together in holy relationship.

St Vincent de Paul understood this. He gathered an eclectic mix of volunteers, wealthy patrons, priests, and religious women with a wide range of skills in fundraising, administration, nursing and pastoral care, and got them working together to serve the poor rather than competing against each other.

So, our next challenge is to value and harness our diverse gifts for the benefit of everyone.

Thirdly, notice that in the Holy Trinity, all three persons are equal. Their love is built on mutual respect, with no-one being junior to another. 

Just before his arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane, Jesus prays ‘that they may all be one. Just as you, Father, are in me, and I am in you, so they may also be one in us…’ (Jn.17.21–23). He’s praying not only for shared purpose among his followers, but also for a unity that mirrors the close bond between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

Again, we see this reflected in St Vincent de Paul. In 1633, with St Louise de Marillac, he founded the Daughters of Charity to serve the poor and the sick in Paris. They shared the leadership, with no-one dominating the other. It was a partnership of equals.

We, too, must strive for such equal partnership in our families and communities.

And finally, notice how the members of the Trinity speak of each other. At his baptism, Jesus hears, ‘This is my beloved son in whom I am well pleased’ (Mt.3:17). On Mount Tabor, the disciples hear, ‘This is my beloved son. Listen to him.’ In his Farewell Discourse, Jesus praises the Holy Spirit, calling him ‘The Spirit of Truth’ (John 17), and he’s always respectful to his Father.

This is how the Holy Trinity works: each person speaks lovingly of the other. Their unity is complete.

And so it must be with us. When you always praise the good you see in others, just watch how your relationships grow.

In today’s Gospel, John says that God loved the world so much that he gave us his only Son. What he’s saying is that the love between Father, Son and Holy Spirit is so complete that it’s constantly overflowing into us.

Our first task is to humbly accept this love.

And then, every time we make the Sign of the Cross, to remember that we’ve all been made in the shape of the Cross.

This tells us that we’re all called to live the same Trinitarian life.

How? By building healthy relationships with others, by valuing their individual gifts and talents, by always treating them as equals, and by always speaking well of them.

There’s a word for all this. It’s ‘love’.

Divine love.

The Magnificent Seven

(Acts 2:1-11; 1Cor.12:3b-7, 12-13; Jn.20:19-23)

I’ve long loved stories of unlikely people who get together for a purpose, and end up discovering something larger than themselves.

One example is John Sturges’ film The Magnificent Seven (1960). It’s the story of seven different men who are hired to protect a Mexican village from bandits. [i]

They begin as mutual strangers, bound only by a common task. But they find that combining their talents is much more effective than working alone. Through shared risk and sacrifice they become a team and their courage uplifts and protects a vulnerable community. 

We see this, too, in Tolkien’s Fellowship of the Ring, where nine assorted characters share the burden of destroying the insidious Ring. Their diversity, mutual dependence and sacrificial mission model how a community can be forged under pressure and for the salvation of others.

Such stories offer us insights into today’s feast of Pentecost. In our first reading, Jesus’ disciples gather in fear and confusion in the Upper Room, when a great noise like a mighty wind suddenly arrives. And as tongues of fire appear above them, they find themselves speaking new languages.

This is when the Church is born. The Holy Spirit gathers these unlikely souls together, equips them with his divine graces and then sends them with the Gospel to the far reaches of the earth.

Something like this happened to St Paul Miki and his 25 companions in Japan in 1597. As these humble priests, laymen and children – the Martyrs of Nagasaki – were led to their deaths, they prayed, proclaimed Jesus Christ, and forgave their executioners.

Their shared witness formed a testimony that has sustained Christian identity in Japan for generations. And it reveals how the Holy Spirit forms communities not only in comfort and safety, but also in suffering and cost.

All these examples show how a new community is born whenever people gather for a purpose greater than themselves, pooling their gifts for the common good, and being prepared to risk, and even to suffer, for others.

From this, we can draw three lessons for any parish community:

Firstly, no-one has to be perfect. The Magnificent Seven aren’t perfect – their courage coexists with fear and moral complexity. The first Christians and the Nagasaki martyrs weren’t perfect either. The Holy Spirit does not demand perfection; he simply requires an open and willing heart.

If you hesitate because you feel weak or unskilled, know that God does not call the qualified. Rather, God qualifies the called. So, come as you are; the Spirit will make of us a people.

Secondly, the Spirit doesn’t turn disciples into solitary heroes. He forms them into a body willing to bear one another’s burdens. The Magnificent Seven only become a force when they agree to stand together, sharing danger and dividing responsibility.

If we want the Spirit to form us as a living community, we must be willing to risk our comfort – to show up, to serve, and to be vulnerable with one another. Community is not built by passive attendance but by shared effort and sacrifice.

Thirdly, a healthy community is built not on sameness but on gifted difference. Each character in The Magnificent Seven brings something different – some fight, some plan, while others encourage. Their diversity is their strength.

The same is true at Pentecost. People from many nations hear the Good News in their own tongues, and the Spirit gives varied gifts so that the whole body can flourish (1Cor.12).

The Martyrs of Nagasaki, too, were all different – some were priests, others lay catechists or children, and yet their diversity deepened the Church’s witness rather than diminished it.

A healthy parish community grows not when we recruit clones of ourselves but when we welcome varied gifts, ages, backgrounds, and temperaments into a common mission.

So, whose gifts is God inviting us to recognise today? Who might we have been excluding by our unhelpful habits or assumptions?

A true community is born for mission, and sometimes for costly witness. The Magnificent Seven come together to help a village. Jesus’ disciples, filled with the Spirit, are sent out to proclaim, to heal, and to baptise. And the Martyrs of Nagasaki embody the ultimate cost of that mission: witnessing unto death.

Pentecost’s gift is not private consolation; rather, it’s public power for witness, even in hostile places. And our unity is not an end in itself but a means by which God’s merciful love reaches the hungry, the lonely, and the marginalized.

What, then, is God asking of you – and us – today?

If our gatherings do not lead us outward, we have missed the point of coming together for Jesus.

---

[i] The Magnificent Seven – film clip

Jesus’ Ascension to Heaven

(Acts 1:1-11; Eph.1:17-23; Mt.28:16-20)

Most of us are aware of helicopter parents – those who like to micromanage their children’s lives by controlling their actions and solving all their problems for them.

Their children might be kept safe, but they gradually lose their confidence and initiative, and they never quite learn to trust themselves.

At some point, every child must be allowed to take responsibility and grow up.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus sees his disciples for the last time before ascending to heaven. He’s been something of a father to them and knows their flaws only too well. But he doesn’t stay on to keep them out of trouble.

Instead, Jesus blesses and commissions them, and then he leaves.

Matthew is honest about this moment: ‘They worshipped him; but some doubted,’ he says. These disciples aren’t confident leaders. They are fragile, uncertain and have much to learn, but Jesus still entrusts his mission to them.

This tells us a lot about how Jesus views leadership – and discipleship.

In Kazuo Ishiguro’s novel The Remains of the Day, James Stevens is the butler at Darlington Hall. He is an ideal butler because he’s so obedient, but as a man he is a tragic figure because he is never trusted to be more than a servant. He never learns to act freely or take moral responsibility for himself, and in the end, he realises that he has wasted his life.

Jesus doesn’t want his disciples to be like that. If God insisted on controlling everything in our lives, it would make us safe, but small. We’d never really grow up or take responsibility, and we’d never reach our potential.

God loves us too much to let that happen. He knows we need freedom to truly love, and that’s why Jesus ascends to heaven.

In Tom Hooper’s film The King’s Speech (2010), the future King George VI has a terrible stammer and a speech therapist, Lionel Logue, is brought in to help. When he ascends the throne, George relies on this therapist to help him make his first radio broadcast.

Lionel can’t speak for the king, and he can’t rescue him at the microphone. But he does train him, encourage him and challenge him, and then he withdraws. The king must find his own voice.

This is what Jesus does at his Ascension. He has given the disciples his words, his way of life and his Spirit. Now he entrusts them with his voice in the world.

Jesus steps back so that others may step forward.

This is also what Florence Nightingale did during the Crimean War (1854-6). As a nurse, she faced chaos: terrible disease, overcrowded hospitals and untrained staff.

She could easily have tried to control every decision herself. Instead, she focused on sound formation rather than interference. She trained her nurses rigorously, insisting on discipline and careful observation, and then she deliberately stepped back.

In her writings, she warned against what she called ‘petty management,’ believing that it produced fear and dependence rather than competence.

If care was to be truly humane, she said, nurses had to learn to judge situations for themselves. And by taking responsibility, they could quickly attend to emergencies and correct mistakes.

Florence Nightingale transformed nursing from mere obedience into a profession grounded in judgment and compassion.

This is basically what Jesus is doing at his Ascension. He knows that authority that clings to control and refuses to trust will ultimately weaken those it leads.

But he’s not abandoning his disciples, for he promises to be with them always (Jn.14:18). How? By sending his Holy Spirit to be with them, empowering them to fulfill their mission, which is to love.

Today, many people expect God to step in and manage the world for us, to prevent every disaster and solve every problem, and they wonder why he doesn’t. But the Ascension reminds us that God has not withdrawn from the world. His Spirit is always with us. What has changed is not God’s care, but his way of acting.

Through the Ascension, responsibility is now shared. God works in the world through human hearts and human hands, and we are entrusted with the work of loving our neighbour. And if things get challenging, God’s Spirit is always there to help us with his graces.

In all this, Jesus trusts us to play our part. He has to, because where there’s no trust there’s no real love.

And God is love itself.

I’ll Not Leave You Orphans

(Acts 8:5-8, 14-17; 1Pet.3:15-18; Jn.14:15-21)

One of the deepest human fears isn’t pain, or even death. It’s the fear of being left alone. Of being forgotten. Of having no one to lean on when things get difficult.

That’s why so many people take great interest when Jesus says ‘I’ll not leave you orphans’ in today’s Gospel. It strikes a deep chord.

But note when Jesus says it: just before leaving his disciples. He knows they are worried. And he knows what it’s like when someone you love goes away, leaving you wondering how to live without them.

Jesus doesn’t promise that they’ll never feel alone. He promises something much deeper: that they’ll never be alone.

In Charlotte Brontë’s novel Jane Eyre, Jane knows what it’s like to feel alone. She is an orphan, a poor and hungry one, living with her heartless aunt.

One day, Jane is falsely accused and publicly humiliated. And she finds herself standing alone before her entire school, with no-one to defend her.

But she’s resilient. She refuses to believe that she’s worthless, and she holds tightly onto the truth, even though no-one else understands it. Then later she discovers that she wasn’t as alone as she thought. The headmistress listens to her, believes her and restores her dignity.

This is what Jesus means in today’s Gospel. He’s not saying, ‘I’ll stay exactly as you want me to,’ or ‘you’ll always feel close to me.’ Rather, he’s saying ‘I’ll not leave you orphans,’ which means that you’ll never be alone, even when you think you are.

St John of the Cross understood this well. He knew what it’s like to feel abandoned, not just by friends or institutions, but by God.

In 1577, when he was 35, he was abducted by his fellow Carmelites who strongly resisted his attempts to reform their order. They cruelly locked him up in a tiny stone cell in Toledo, Spain, a putrid former toilet, where he was forced to live for nine months in darkness, heat, and hunger. He was also beaten and mocked and had no idea how long it would last.

He called this misery his ‘dark night.’ But what tormented him most was not the physical suffering but the silence. He had no sense of God, he got no comfort from prayer, and he couldn’t see how his pain served any purpose at all.

St John of the Cross felt utterly abandoned, as though God himself had left him. And yet, in the darkness of his cell he came to write some of the world’s most beautiful Christian poetry – about trust, love, and union with God. His wisdom has since guided the Church for centuries.

John came to believe the simple truth that ‘Where there is no love, put love – and you will find love.’ And he realised that God had not left him at all. Rather, God had been teaching him to trust without needing to feel held.

He wrote that God’s love is sometimes so deep that it strips away any emotional consolation, not to punish us, but to free us from needing constant reassurance. So that God becomes present in a quieter and purer way, no longer felt, but trusted, knowing that he is never absent.

In today’s Gospel, this is exactly what Jesus is preparing his disciples for.

He knows that if his disciples keep clinging to the comfort of his physical presence, their faith will forever be fragile. So, he promises them something more enduring: the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, who will always stand with them.

Jane Eyre survives not because her life becomes easy, but because she refuses to believe that abandonment has the final word.

St John of the Cross endures not because God feels close, but because he trusts that God is always there and is always faithful.

And Jesus stands between them both and says: ‘I will not leave you orphans.’

Today, these words are meant for us.

If you’re feeling spiritually dry, if you’ve lost someone you depended on, or if God seems far away, then this message is for you:

Jesus is not denying your loneliness. Rather, he’s asking you to trust in his presence, without expecting constant proof.

The Spirit that Jesus promises us doesn’t always make his presence known, for he works silently. But you can be sure that he’s always with you.

So, let’s no longer wonder why God feels so far away. Instead, let’s remind ourselves that, wherever we are and whatever our circumstances, ‘I am not an orphan.’

We cannot see him, but Jesus is always with us. Always. That is his promise.

The love that raised Jesus from the dead is always quietly holding us, even when the night seems very dark.

Anchored Beyond Fear

(Acts 6:1-7; 1Pet.2:4-9; Jn.14:1-12)

On the night before he’s crucified, Jesus says something that seems almost impossible: ‘Don’t let your hearts be troubled.’

Notice when he says it: not after his Resurrection, and not when everything is fine. He says it, knowing that he’s going to die the next day.

The disciples are worried; they sense that something terrible is coming, but Jesus doesn’t give them any explanations or solutions. He simply offers them himself: ‘Trust in God, and trust in me.’

He’s not telling them to stop feeling anxious. He’s inviting them to choose where to rest their hearts when anxiety arrives.

We live in anxious times, too. Many people today worry about their health, their family, the world, and their future. Most of us manage to hide our feelings, but deep down our hearts are often troubled.

Jesus knows this, and he’s trying to help. But what is he really saying?

Someone who understood this well was Julian of Norwich (1343-1417). She was an English mystic who lived in tough times: during the black plague and terrible social upheaval, and through great personal illness. And yet she said: ‘All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well.’

She wasn’t naïve, for she knew all about suffering. But she did discover that beneath life’s turmoil there’s a deeper steadiness that only comes from God.

Julian realised that ‘All shall be well’ after having one of her remarkable visions. In it, she saw the whole world as something small and fragile, like a hazelnut, resting in the palm of God’s hand. And she understood that the only reason it exists at all is because God loves it.

This is what Jesus is saying to us. Yes, our world is fragile, and the future may seem frightening, but you are safe in the hands of God because he truly loves you.

Whatever happens, you won’t be alone, for there’s a place for you, a future held by God. This means that fear is no longer at the centre of things. God is.

C.S. Lewis learned this the hard way. After his wife Joy died, he wrote a very honest book called A Grief Observed. In it he admits that his prayer felt empty, his faith felt fragile, and God seemed quite distant.

Lewis doesn’t offer neat answers, but he does explain that faith is not a feeling of security. Rather, it’s a choice of who to trust when your security is gone.

He discovered that belief is not the absence of doubt or fear. Rather, it’s the decision to keep placing your life in God’s hands even when your heart feels shaken. This is what Jesus is asking of his disciples – and that includes us today.

‘Don’t let your hearts be troubled’ doesn’t mean that you won’t be troubled. It means ‘don’t let trouble rule your heart.’

We can see this in the life of St John XXIII. He became pope in 1958, at a time of enormous anxiety: the Cold War, the threat of nuclear destruction, and deep tensions within the Church itself. Yet those who met him were struck by his calm, his warmth, and his humour.

There’s a story told of him going to bed at night, burdened by the problems of the Church. Before sleeping, he prayed: ‘Lord, it’s your Church. I’m going to bed.’

He wasn’t being irresponsible. He was simply placing his trust in God. John XXIII understood that peace does not come from being in control, but from knowing who truly is.

That’s the peace Jesus offers us today: a heart anchored beyond fear.

And then Jesus adds something really important: ‘I am the way, and the truth, and the life,’ he says.

Jesus doesn’t give his disciples a formula or a map; instead, he gives them himself.

The Christian life is not about having everything worked out; it’s about staying close to the Good Shepherd who leads us through to the green pastures.

At every Eucharist, we come with our troubled hearts. But we don’t leave them at the door; we place them on the altar. For that’s where Jesus meets us and gives us himself.

When we reverently take Jesus into our hands at communion, remember that we are already safely in his hands.

So perhaps the most honest prayer we can make this Easter season is not ‘Lord, take away my fear,’ but: ‘Lord, please help me to trust you more than my fear.’

Because our Christian faith is not the promise of a trouble-free life. It’s the promise of a trustworthy companion.

And that, Jesus tells us, is enough.

St Titus Brandsma

(Acts 2:14a, 36-41; 1Pet.2:20b-25; Jn.10:1-10)

Our world is full of voices – some loud and compelling, others angry or threatening – on TV, social media, the news and advertising.

Some promise answers or belonging or success, while others tell us who to fear and who to blame. They all want our attention.

The danger isn’t in hearing all these voices. The danger is following the wrong one.

That’s why today’s story of the Good Shepherd is so important. Jesus doesn’t say, ‘My sheep understand my teaching,’ or ‘My sheep agree with me.’ He says something much more profound: ‘My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.’

As the Good Shepherd, Jesus does not argue, force, or manipulate anyone. He simply offers a steady voice that can be recognised, trusted, and loved.

Do you remember the story of the Pied Piper? It’s apparently based on truth, but he’s a colourful character with a fine voice and a magical flute that draws in the crowds. However, when true leadership is required, he disappears and all who follow him are lost.

The Pied Piper is like the patron saint of manipulators. He’s only there when it suits him. By contrast, the Good Shepherd never abandons his flock.

We can see this reflected in the life of St Titus Brandsma.

Titus was born in the Netherlands in 1881. His parents were devout Catholic farmers who had six children, five of whom entered religious life. Titus became a Carmelite priest, a university professor, and a journalist.

When the Nazis occupied the Netherlands in 1940, they tried to control public opinion by forcing Catholic newspapers to publish their propaganda. But through his writing and his teaching, Titus actively resisted this. He strongly believed that truth matters, and that constant lies damage the soul.

As a spiritual advisor to the Dutch Catholic journalists’ association, he urged journalists to ignore the Nazis’ demands, but in 1942 they arrested him. The Nazis offered to let him live quietly in a monastery if he urged Catholic newspapers to publish their propaganda. But he refused, so they sent him to Dachau concentration camp.

In Dachau, the voices the prisoners heard were cruel commands, and their names were replaced by numbers. But Titus continued to live by a different voice. He urged the other prisoners to have hope and he prayed with them.

In July 1942, the camp nurse was commanded to give Titus a lethal injection of carbolic acid. As she did so, he gave her a hand-made rosary he’d received from another prisoner who’d been executed. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he said.

His gentleness moved her heart profoundly and this ultimately brought her back to the faith. She was present at his beatification 43 years later, in 1985.

Titus died, but in mourning his loss we should remember the Good Shepherd’s words: ‘No one takes them out of my hand’ (Jn.10:11).

Titus Brandsma understood something that is so important today: that not every confident voice tells the truth, and not every repeated message deserves our trust. Some voices stir fear, some divide and some dehumanise.

It may seem easier to follow than resist, but these voices don’t lead to life.

Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd because he does the opposite. He doesn’t manipulate, he doesn’t abandon, and he doesn’t trade truth for safety. Instead, Jesus knows his sheep, he stays and he gives life.

Witnesses who survived Dachau said that Titus kept telling others about God’s commitment to his people. Indeed, we must always trust God.

Today’s Gospel is not just for saints or heroes. It’s for anyone who’s struggling to navigate our noisy world. And it asks a simple question: whose voice do you trust when it really matters?

That question brings us to St Mary Magdalene. On Easter morning, she’s standing outside the tomb, grieving and confused. She sees Jesus, but doesn’t recognise him. It’s only when she hears his voice uttering her name: ‘Mary,’ that everything changes.

Our Risen Lord isn’t recognised by argument or force, but by a voice that speaks personally, gently, and truthfully. For those who feel confident in faith, that voice calls us to courage: to resist the lies, to speak the truth with love, and to refuse the easy tune of the Pied Piper.

But for those on the margins of faith, those wary of any religion, or unsure of what to believe anymore, this Gospel is reassuring.

Jesus, the Good Shepherd, does not shout or compete for attention. And he doesn’t disappear when things get messy. He simply calls his own by name.

And today, he’s still speaking: through our conscience, through the quiet truth of his Gospel, and through love that will never abandon us.

Even in our noisy world, Jesus’ voice can still be heard.

If we’re willing to listen.

Spiritual Hindsight

(Acts 2:14, 22-33; 1Pet.1:17-21; Lk.24:13-35)

In today’s Gospel, two disciples are utterly devastated. They simply cannot believe that Jesus is dead.

They’re walking to Emmaus, and a mysterious stranger joins them. It’s Jesus himself, but they don’t recognise him. And as they walk and talk together, Jesus explains how the Scriptures point to him as the Messiah, but still they don’t recognise him.

It’s only after they break bread together and Jesus disappears that they finally realise it’s him. ‘Did not our hearts burn within us as he talked…?’ they ask.

This is an important aspect of our relationship with God.

As Christians, we know in our hearts and heads that God is always with us, and yet we rarely recognise his presence in any given moment. It’s usually only later, looking back, that we can see where he has been and what he might have been doing in our lives (Ex.33:20-23).

How often have we struggled with some difficulty in life and perhaps even felt abandoned, only to realise later that we weren’t alone at all? Somehow, we found ourselves sustained by someone or something that appeared at the right moment, and we were surprised by our strength and resilience.

We didn’t see it at the time, but God had been with us all along, quietly caring for us and shaping us for the future.

We can see this in history. During the turbulent civil rights movement of the 1960s, many frightened and fragile protesters wondered if they were doing the right thing in challenging the system. They knew they were risking imprisonment or even death.

It was only later that they understood that God had been with them all along, assisting them with his divine grace. They could see this in the way they had demonstrated courage without hatred, discipline without violence, hope without triumphalism, and a willingness to suffer, rather than to inflict suffering on others.

And despite the inevitable fear, they still had love in their hearts.

These aren’t natural instincts when you’re in great danger. These behaviours are recognisable fruits of grace, and they helped the protesters realise that they weren’t alone, for God had been helping them to achieve noble goals (cf. Mt.7:16).

Like Emmaus, the meaning of their journey only became clear after it was over.

St John Henry Newman understood this. He knew that God rarely gives anyone a full picture of their life, and so we can only move forward one step at a time. That’s why in his prayer Lead, Kindly Light, he says, ‘I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me.’

Newman lived much of his life in uncertainty. He was widely misunderstood and fiercely criticised, and often found himself alone, and yet he accepted that faith comes before clarity. Only later did the meaning of his path in life become clear: that Jesus had been patiently leading him through darkness into truth.

Like the disciples walking to Emmaus, John Henry Newman walked in uncertainty and only in hindsight understood how God had been guiding him all along.

The Church has long recognised that God is often known more clearly in memory than in the present moment, and this is a lesson we can all take from the Emmaus story today.

It’s called Spiritual Hindsight, and St Augustine talks about it in his book Confessions. He realises that God had been present throughout his restless years, even when he was unaware of him: ‘You were within me, but I was outside,’ he writes.

For Augustine, memory is a theological place and the space where God’s hidden action is recognised. And he learns that conversion does not bring God into his life; rather, it reveals that God had been there all along.

Augustine simply hadn’t been ready to acknowledge God’s divine presence in his life.

And finally, St Ignatius of Loyola. While he was recovering from his wartime wounds, he found himself with plenty of time to reflect on his past. In the process, he discovered that hindsight is a rich source of spiritual insight. He developed a tool, a set of structured Spiritual Exercises, that are still widely used today.

These Spiritual Exercises are a wonderful way to prayerfully review our day after we have lived it. Many people find them helpful in meditating on the subtle movements of God in their lives, in overcoming their own internal obstacles, and in discerning their own way forward in life.

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard often said that life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backward.

This is Emmaus.

Sometimes we need a mirror to understand what God is doing in our lives.