Deacon Peter

Three Faces

(Ezek.33:7-9; Rom.13:8-10; Mt.18:15-20)

The Japanese, I am told, have a saying: that we all have three faces. The first is the face we show the world. This is our respectable, public face, the one we carefully manage.

The second is for those closest to us: our family and friends. It’s the face we reveal when we are tired, frustrated, or unguarded.

And the third is the hidden face we sometimes hide even from ourselves. This is the truest picture of who we are, for it reflects our deepest heart where our wounds, sins, fears and desires are only fully known by God.

As Christians, our challenge is not to maintain our outward veneer, but to draw God’s grace into our hearts so that we might live lives of holy integrity – consistently presenting only one genuine face to the world.

St Francis de Sales can teach us something here. He is widely known as a meek and gentle saint, but that gentleness did not come easily to him. For years he wrestled with his fiery temper, but he managed to overcome it using several techniques he records in his spiritual classic, Introduction to the Devout Life.

One thing he learnt is to never let even the smallest annoyance enter his mind. Once it gets inside the door, he said, it acts like a tiny spark that can quickly burn the house down. At such moments, he tried distracting himself by focussing on a person’s good qualities, not their failings.

He also prayed solidly for God’s help because he knew he couldn’t do it alone. Some of his prayers were very short, including: ‘Jesus, meek and humble of heart, make my heart like yours.’

By allowing God’s grace to transform the hidden parts of his heart, St Francis de Sales discovered a life of peace which reflected in his face.

In today’s first reading, Ezekiel becomes a watchman for the house of Israel. What is a watchman? It’s someone who must speak up when danger arrives. If a watchman sees danger and says nothing, he shares responsibility for what follows.

The point here is that genuine love always takes responsibility, for real love is never passive. We cannot say we love someone, but refuse to get involved. True love does not hide behind an empty smile.

A fine example of this is St Monica. Outwardly, she was an ordinary mother, but she also had other faces which she kept private. This includes her constant worry, her tears, her years of prayer, and her refusal to give up on her son, Augustine.

She knew that love does not save others by force, but neither does it stand back and say, ‘It’s not my business.’ Her love was patient and suffering, and her faith in God never wavered.

Through God’s grace, St Monica is now recognised for who she became: a devoted mother with the holiest of hearts.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us what to do when something goes wrong in a relationship. ‘If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone,’ he says.

In other words, don’t write someone off as a lost cause; instead, speak to him. Try to win him back. Christian correction is about love, healing and reconciliation, not humiliation and punishment.

In our second reading, St Paul tells us that the key to all this is love. If we are serious about love, it will stop us from being too harsh or too cowardly towards others, for Christian love avoids both cruelty and indifference. It speaks the truth, but it does so in order to save.

This is where that Japanese saying becomes important. The Christian life is not about maintaining appearances; it’s about letting God’s grace reach our hidden face, the one only God can see. If God can heal our hearts, then our public and private faces will gradually become more truthful, integrated and holy, allowing us to reach out to others in meaningful love.

So, let me ask you: is the kindness you show in public real, or is it just a mask? When you avoid difficult conversations, is it because you are prudent, or because you’re afraid?

And when you come before God in prayer, do you present only your polished face, or do you reveal the real you?

The truth, of course, is that God already sees it all. Our third face is never hidden from him. But here we can take heart, because God does not see us in order to shame us. He sees us in order to heal us. He sees the real person so that his grace may reach into our deepest hearts.

But for this to happen, we must first turn to Jesus. Tell him you want your face to reflect holiness, integrity and love.

And ask for his help.

The Vagabond of God

(Jer.20:7-9; Rom.12:1-2; Mt.16:21-27)

John Bradburne was an unusual Englishman. Born into an Anglican family in 1921, he served in the British Army in Burma in WWII.

After the fall of Singapore, he fled into the Malayan jungle where he caught malaria. But there he also had a powerful vision of Jesus Christ, and when he returned home, he became a Catholic.

For years he roamed Europe and the Holy Land, looking for purpose. He stayed in monasteries and worked odd jobs, and as his love for God grew, he joined the Franciscan Third Order and started wearing the Franciscan habit. He also called himself the ‘Vagabond of God.’

In 1962, he went to Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) to work on the missions. One day, he revealed to a priest that he had three wishes: to serve lepers, to die a martyr, and to be buried in the habit of St Francis.

In 1969 he arrived at a leper colony in Mutemwa (which means ‘You are cut off’). It was a squalid, miserable place, but within weeks it became an oasis of peace, faith, and joy.

John lived with these people, treated them as equals, sang and played his flute for them, and taught them Gregorian chant. He bathed the patients, dressed their wounds, fed them, cut their hair, repaired their huts, composed hymns and poems, and spent hours praying before the Blessed Sacrament.

Many people thought he was wasting his life, for he had no salary, no security, no career, and no real possessions. Yet he said, ‘I have never been happier.’

How could this have been true? The answer is in today’s Gospel, where Jesus tells his disciples, ‘If anyone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.’

Many people misunderstand these words. They think Jesus is telling us to look for suffering, but Christianity has never glorified pain for its own sake. We don’t carry our cross because suffering is good; we carry it because it represents the fullest expression of love, and we know that genuine love is costly.

Anyone with children, anyone who has been married, and anyone who has ever loved someone else knows how real love always involves sacrifice. This includes surrendering our selfishness, our personal time and our pride.

John Bradburne discovered that it was only when he came to live among these outcasts that he found the joy he’d been looking for. He did not love disease; he loved those who suffered from it.

Indeed, he saw in every resident of Mutemwa the face of Christ. Like Mother Teresa, he described these people as ‘Christ in distressing disguise.’ His attitude transformed the place, because those who had been rejected were instead treated as sons and daughters of God. He believed they all deserved dignity, beauty, music, prayer, friendship, and love.

That’s why John Bradburne could say, ‘I have never been happier.’

His happiness came not from possessing more, but from giving himself away. This is what St Paul is urging us to do in today’s second reading, where he says: ‘Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice. Don’t be conformed to this world, but be transformed.’

Our world tells us to get rich and comfortable, to put ourselves first. But today Jesus is saying something very different: he says that life is discovered not by clinging to it but by giving it away.

One day, John Bradburne was expelled from that village. He had strongly objected to the residents being forced to wear I.D. tags around their necks and bags over their heads to hide their disfigurement. They weren’t animals; they were his beloved brothers and sisters.

He didn’t go far away, though. Every night he returned to help his people, and he was eventually reinstated. But in 1979, he was abducted by armed guerrillas and murdered. Like a good shepherd, he had refused to abandon his flock.

By every worldly measure, John Bradburne was a failure. He died poor, unknown, and far from home. Yet the people of Mutemwa remember him very differently. They remember a man who revealed the love of Christ by treating the forgotten as precious, by singing, praying and laughing with them, and helping them to discover their own dignity. Today he is being considered for canonisation as Zimbabwe’s first saint. [i] [ii]

Jesus says, ‘Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’ John Bradburne discovered the truth of these words.

The more you give yourself away, the more fully alive you will become.

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[i] www.johnbradburne.com

[ii] Today, John Bradburne is recognised by the Guinness Book of Records as the most prolific poet in the English language, with over 5,000 poems.

It Takes Courage

(Isa.22:19-23; Rom.11:33-36; Mt.16:13-19)

Late one night in 1948, in Esztergom Hungary, Cardinal József Mindszenty heard heavy footsteps outside his home. The Soviet secret police had come to arrest him.

Hungary’s communist regime hated him because he led the local Catholic Church with vigour. They were determined to shut him down.

Cardinal Mindszenty knew how dangerous they could be. They wouldn’t just imprison him; they would torture and drug him to extract a false confession. They wanted to destroy the Church.

So, before opening his door, he wrote a note for his priests: ‘If you hear that I’ve confessed or resigned, don’t believe it. It will be the result of human frailty.’ And into his pocket he slipped a picture of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns, with the words Devictus Vincit (Defeated, he is victorious). Then he walked out to face years of solitary confinement.

Weeks later, after severe beatings, torture and sleep deprivation, he signed a confession admitting to treason, espionage, and foreign currency abuses. But to his signature he added the letters ‘C.F.’ for the Latin Coactus Feci: ‘I did this under duress.’ In other words, You forced my hand, but you cannot force my conscience. He was sentenced to life in prison.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is in Caesarea Philippi with his disciples. He looks them in the eye and asks, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ Simon steps forward and answers, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.’ 

This is a pivotal moment in the New Testament.

Jesus tells Simon that his answer did not come from human insight but from the Father himself. Then he gives him a new name and a unique mission: ‘You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church… I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Now, notice what Jesus does not promise. He does not promise Peter an easy life. He does not promise popularity, comfort, or success. He promises only that the gates of hell will not prevail against his Church. And history shows how costly that promise can be.

Cardinal Mindszenty knew exactly what it meant to stand on that rock. He actively opposed the Nazi regime during WWII. And when the Communists took over, they thought that prison, torture, and public humiliation would silence him.

But nothing could sway his conscience.

Cardinal Mindszenty was released after the Hungarian uprising in 1956, but the Soviet army soon returned and then he sought refuge in the American Embassy in Budapest. There he lived in enforced isolation for the next fifteen years.

It would have been understandable if he’d compromised for the sake of peace or comfort. Even the Vatican expected him to make concessions, but he refused. Nothing could shake his fidelity to Jesus Christ and the Church. [i]

Why? Because he understood Peter’s answer to Jesus’ question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’

If Jesus was simply a wise teacher, or one religious figure among many, it would have been reasonable to compromise. But if Jesus truly is ‘the Christ, the Son of the living God,’ then nothing else is more important. That was true for Peter, it was true for Mindszenty, and it’s true for us.

In today’s first reading from Isaiah, God gives the key of the House of David to Eliakim, the palace manager. This is a symbol of stewardship, for the key belongs to the master, but it’s entrusted to the servant. Jesus consciously alludes to this when he gives Peter the keys to the Kingdom.

Ever since the days of Peter, the Church has been the steward of the Gospel. Her task is not to reshape the truth to suit every age but to guard it faithfully, to proclaim it courageously, and to hand it on intact to the next generation.

This is why the witness of people like József Mindszenty is so important, and why he’s being considered for sainthood. He reminds us that fidelity to Jesus may be costly, but the cost of surrendering the truth is even greater.

Most of us will never face prison or torture for our faith, and we’re unlikely to have to sign any false confessions. However, our secular world does subtly expect us to compromise. It’s constantly pressuring us to place our comfort, social status, and political choices above our loyalty to Jesus.

When we’re silent in the face of poverty and injustice, we deny Jesus. When we base our morals on the culture of the day, we abandon Jesus. And when we do nothing while the Church struggles, we are effectively answering Jesus’ question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’

József Mindszenty teaches us that it takes real courage to be a true Christian.

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[i] Cardinal József Mindszenty, Memoirs, Ignatius Press, San Francisco, 2023.

Growing Hearts

(Isa.56:1, 6-7; Rom.11:13-15, 29-32; Mt.15:21-28)

When Jesus is healing and teaching crowds of people, we often forget that he’s also quietly forming his disciples’ hearts.

And one lesson he teaches them is that God’s Kingdom is always larger than they think.

In today’s Gospel Jesus meets the Canaanite woman whose faith is so strong that he agrees to heal her daughter. But at the same time there’s another miracle quietly taking place, and that’s the expansion of his disciples’ hearts.

For nearly two years, Jesus’ disciples have been following him, listening to him, and witnessing his miracles. Yet when this desperate woman arrives, their first instinct is to push her away. Why? Because she’s a foreigner. She comes from outside Israel, and they think she doesn’t belong.

At first Jesus is silent, and his words ‘I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel,’ seem to mirror the disciples’ thinking. But this story doesn’t end there. The Canaanite woman refuses to give up, and with deep humility she kneels before Jesus, pleading, ‘Lord, help me!’

Jesus is amazed by her faith, and grants her wish: he heals her daughter. But the disciples are amazed, too, because they see Jesus crossing a boundary they had always thought was fixed. They discover that God’s mercy is deeper and more generous than they had ever imagined, and their hearts grow.

Christian life is like that. Most of us tend to start by thinking small, naturally dividing the world into those who belong and those who don’t; those who deserve our attention and those we can ignore. And all the while Jesus keeps trying to stretch our boundaries and enlarge our hearts so that they might reflect God’s boundless mercy.

We can see this in C.S. Lewis’ Chronicles of Narnia. As the children journey into Aslan’s country, they find that it’s somehow bigger on the inside than it seemed from the outside. Every time they think they have reached its limits, they hear the invitation: ‘Come further up, come further in,’ and they discover that it gets larger, more beautiful, and more meaningful the deeper they go. [i]

This is the invitation Jesus gives his disciples today.

Do you think God’s mercy extends only this far? Come further in. Do you think these people are beyond God’s love? Come further in. And do you think you know the limits of my Kingdom? Then come further in.

Every encounter with Jesus Christ expands our vision. This is why the Church’s history is filled with men and women who found their hearts being enlarged.

St Frances Xavier Cabrini, for example, originally planned to be a missionary in China. But Pope Leo XIII asked her to go west instead, to serve Italian immigrants in the United States. What began as a mission to one community became a life devoted to orphans, prisoners, the sick and the poor, somewhere else. Her mission kept enlarging because her heart kept growing.

When St Damien of Molokai first volunteered to serve people with leprosy in Hawaii, he was terrified of catching the disease. But in time he came to see them not as outcasts, but as his brothers and sisters. He built a community where people found their dignity and knew they were loved. And years later, after catching the disease himself, he always began preaching with the words, ‘We lepers.’

Jesus had so enlarged his heart that there was no longer any ‘us’ and ‘them’. Damien had truly joined the people he came to serve.

There’s a story told of Pope Francis during one of his prison visits. After washing the prisoners’ feet one Holy Thursday, a journalist asked him why he spent so much time with people on the margins. Francis replied that every time he met someone who society had forgotten, he found that it was not only they who needed Christ; he needed them as well. They revealed something about the face of Jesus that he might otherwise have missed.

This is one way our faith can be surprising. We think we’re bringing Jesus Christ to others, only to find that Jesus is already waiting for us in them.

The Canaanite woman did not simply receive a miracle from Jesus. Through her courageous faith, she helped the disciples to better understand God’s mercy.

So, today, who is God using to grow your heart? It may be someone who is very different to you; someone you find very challenging.

If you are willing to see them with the eyes of Christ, you may find that they are not a negative presence at all, but an important instrument of your own conversion.

God’s kingdom is always larger than we think, and Jesus is always inviting us to come further in.

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[i] CS Lewis, The Last Battle, The Chronicles of Narnia, HarperCollins, NY, 2008:200-210.

Surviving the Storm

(1Kgs.19:9a,11-13a; Rom.9:1-5; Mt.14:22-33)

Most people hate storms, especially when there’s no warning. Everything might be calm, then suddenly there’s a crisis like a family emergency, a financial disaster, or a bad diagnosis.

If you’ve ever struggled with such storms, today’s readings are for you.

In our first reading, the prophet Elijah is terrified because Queen Jezebel aims to kill him. He’s hiding in a cave on the sacred mountain of Horeb, hoping that God will tell him what to do next. He thinks, as so many people do, that signs from God only come with great drama. So, he’s alert to the strong wind, the earthquake, and the fire that follow. But God is not in any of these things.

Then in the silence Elijah hears a whisper, and he realises it’s God telling him to go to Syria. From this, he learns that the essence of God is love, because love speaks in whispers.

In Matthew’s Gospel today, it’s night-time and the disciples are in a boat, battling another kind of storm. Despite being experienced fishermen, the huge waves scare them. Then Jesus arrives, walking across the water. They don’t recognise him at first; they think he’s a ghost.

Fear can do this; it can distort our vision. Fear makes it harder to see clearly, much harder to trust, and even harder to recognise God when he’s near.

Most of us will never have to battle storms at sea; we’re more likely to face the common storms of life, like illness, grief, and anxiety, or perhaps loneliness and conflict. And when these things do arrive, many people think it means that God must be absent, because with God surely there would be no storms at all.

Today’s Gospel tells us that this thinking is wrong. Storms do not prove Christ’s absence. In fact, storms may be exactly where Jesus comes closest to us. Jesus doesn’t wait for the sea to calm down before approaching his disciples. He arrives while the storm is still raging and their fear is real. And the first thing he says is: ‘Take courage. It’s me; don’t be afraid.’

God often works like that in our lives. He doesn’t always calm the storm quickly, and he doesn’t always respond in the way we’d like. But he does come to us in the middle of it. He comes in prayer. He comes in Scripture. He comes in the Holy Eucharist, and he comes in the quiet support of others.

God also gives us the strength to endure one more day, and the graces we need to take the next step.

When Peter steps out of that boat onto the water, he shows remarkable trust in Jesus. But as soon as he takes his eyes off Jesus, he starts to sink. ‘Lord, save me!’ he cries out. (This is surely one of the shortest and best prayers of all.) In that moment, Jesus stretches out his hand and catches him.

This act is the heart of this story. Despite his fears, doubts, and imperfect faith, Peter reaches out to Jesus, and Jesus immediately responds by saving him.

Through the ages, countless saints have learnt this lesson. St. John Chrysostom, one of the Early Church Fathers, endured great opposition, suffering, and exile because of his faith. And yet, despite all this he taught that when a soul is deeply rooted in God – when we genuinely trust God – even slander, injury, and hardship need not destroy our peace.

This point is critical, because Christian courage doesn’t come from facing storms alone, but from being anchored in God who is always greater than any storm.

Sometimes our faith is strong and steady. But sometimes, like St Peter, it’s trembling and weak, and all we can manage is a simple prayer: ‘Lord, help me. Lord, save me. Lord, stay with me.’

The message for today is that even such small prayers are heard. Fear and doubt do not separate us from God’s mercy. They are exactly where his hand reaches out to us.

And remember Elijah’s lesson: that God is not only present in the overwhelming moments of life. God is also there in the gentle whisper and the quiet nearness that we too often miss when we only expect him to arrive in spectacle.

So, keep your eyes open for Jesus, both in the storm and in the silence, for he’s closer than you think. Pray to him; reach out to him.

Jesus is always present in every crisis and every prayer.

He is present whether we’re full of confidence or doubt, and the message is always the same: ‘Do not be afraid, I am with you’ (Is.41:10).

A Mathematical Miracle

(Isa.55:1-3; Rom.8:35, 37-39; Mt.14:13-21)

In the world of numbers, things should add up. They’re supposed to make sense.

How, then, can five loaves and two fish possibly feed 5,000 people? Especially when that count doesn’t include women and children. The arithmetic looks impossible.

Some people suggest that some families must have quietly smuggled food in. But that doesn’t explain how so many were fed or the twelve baskets of leftovers. It’s such a remarkable event that it features in all four Gospels.

Let’s look again at the story. Jesus goes somewhere quiet to grieve the murder of his cousin John, but a huge crowd follows him. He doesn’t turn them away, though; he heals and cares for them, and then, in the evening, he asks his disciples to feed them. They think it can’t be done with just five loaves and two fish, but Jesus blesses the food anyway and tells them to distribute it.

Now, note how Jesus doesn’t set out to solve the food problem by himself. He first asks his followers to contribute whatever they can, and then he makes up the difference. The result is extraordinary abundance.

For us, the raw mathematics don’t make sense. But God is not bound by our earthly limitations; he has a formula all of his own.

God’s formula works like this: Our best contribution plus God’s grace equals more than enough.

But notice how this formula begins with us. Those five barley loaves and two fish aren’t much; but Jesus takes them anyway; he blesses the contribution and multiplies it.

In other words, we don’t need to have everything to start something for God. It’s enough to have ready hands and a willing heart, and God will make up any shortfall.

But it does begin with us.

Many years ago, when St. John Chrysostom was the Archbishop of Constantinople, he was annoyed to see grand homes with full pantries, while people starved in the streets. Through his fiery preaching he confronted the wealthy and told them that blessings are meant to be shared, not hoarded.  

He argued that the rich do not own their wealth; they are merely stewards of God’s funds, and hoarding excess wealth is simply theft.

He organised the Church to get food to the hungry, and if any rich households were reluctant to help, he had sacks taken to their doors, to make it easier for them to share.

St John Chrysostom strongly believed that it’s only when we live generously, sharing what we have, that God’s graces begin to flow.

St. Elizabeth of Hungary understood this. She was a wealthy princess who devoted her life and fortune to the poor, despite the objections of the royal court. Every day she went out into the streets in ordinary clothes and hiding bread in her apron. And just as Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes, Elizabeth fed thousands of people and always found a way to care for the poor, even after she had spent all she had and was banished from the castle.

Mother Teresa did something similar in the slums of Calcutta, although she began with nothing more than a pair of loving hands, a willing heart and a few coins.

One day she found a thin, feverish woman lying abandoned in the street. She scooped her up, carried her back to her small hospice, cleaned her, fed her, and sat with her until she fell asleep. She did that a thousand times.

Mother Teresa and her sisters often had only a few rupees and a modest pot of food. But they didn’t wait until they had everything. They simply began with whatever they had, and over the years their steady, ordinary acts of mercy drew a steady stream of volunteers, donations, and buildings.

Their simple meals and constant presence changed whole neighbourhoods by showing people that they were seen and loved.

Like Mother Teresa, we don’t need a big budget to feed the hungry or help the poor. Just ready hands and a willing heart. God will bless whatever we give.

St John Chrysostom, St Elizabeth of Hungary and Mother Teresa teach us that grace is not just an inward consolation. It’s divine assistance that flows when we open our hearts and hands.

These saints prove that even when things seem impossible, God’s formula works: Your best contribution plus God’s grace equals more than enough.

But it begins with you.

Grace multiplies when we cooperate. Your ‘five loaves and two fish’ – your time, your small donation, a loaf from your pantry, an hour of listening to someone lonely – may seem insignificant.

But offered in faith, these gifts can add up to a mathematical miracle.

Real Treasure

(1Kgs.3:5, 7-12; Rom.8:28-30; Mt.13:44-52)

The TV program Antiques Roadshow has long been popular.

Its format is predictable: someone presents an item, perhaps an old vase, a faded painting, or a little box, and an expert inspects it closely. A small crowd looks on; they want to know its worth. Not just the price tag, but the story, the rarity, and the thing that makes it precious.

This search for value is a common human instinct, and Jesus taps into it in today’s Gospel, in three short parables.

The first is of treasure buried in a field. The finder is delighted and sells everything he has to buy that field. The second is the pearl of great price: a merchant searching for fine pearls finds a fabulous one and sells all he has to buy it. And the third is the dragnet: fishermen haul in a net full of fish; they sort the good fish into baskets and throw away the bad.

All three parables are about wealth, and each emphasises a different aspect of how we recognise, acquire, and live with it.

The hidden treasure and the pearl represent two sides of the same coin. One is what you simply stumble upon, and the other is the result of a long search for what is fine and true. But both demand a decision: the man and the merchant sell all they have to keep what they find.

But what is this great Pearl? It’s the love of God, and to truly discover it is to re-evaluate our hearts, for we all live in a society that’s obsessed with worth.

We invest so much time, energy and money into our homes, careers, image, and pleasure. When we’re young, these things seem like gems to us because they promise security, identity, or meaning. But they don’t last, and eventually we realise they are not enough.

St. Paul thought he understood what was precious in life, especially honour, status and religious privilege. But after encountering Jesus he realises they are worthless. ‘I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord,’ he says (Phil.3:8).

Like the merchant, Paul invests everything he has into Jesus and his identity is reshaped. ‘I’ve been crucified with Christ’ he says, ‘and it’s no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me’ (Gal.2:20).

What he gains, apart from heaven, is a life of purpose that’s still shaping the world today.

St. Augustine is another classic pearl-story. He was a restless seeker who, when he finally met Jesus, gave up everything to devote himself to him. ‘Late have I loved you,’ he wrote. ‘Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you.’

Augustine’s life shows both the joy of finding divine treasure and the transformation that follows.

In all this the third parable, the dragnet, adds a sense of urgency. The fishermen haul in a net full of fish; they sort them and discard the bad ones.

We, too, need to constantly discern what God wants of us. What is the good we need to keep and the bad that must go? And we’re reminded that one day we’ll all be held to account, for God will be doing his own sorting (Ps.96:13).

The Antiques Roadshow is a fine program about earthly value, but Jesus’ three parables today call us to a deeper wisdom about eternal worth.

Through the ages, countless saints have modelled the merchant who, having found Christ, sold everything to own and to share that treasure. One such person was St Francis of Assisi.

As a young man, Francis loved fine clothes, partying, and the privileges of wealth. He dreamt of becoming a knight and enjoying the praise of his peers. But after witnessing poverty and suffering, and hearing Jesus say ‘Rebuild my Church’ in the ruined chapel of San Damiano, Francis’ heart began to change.

One day, standing before his father in the middle of town, he stripped off his fine clothes and returned them, renouncing his inheritance and every claim to status. He chose instead a life of radical poverty, simplicity, and service.

He gave up all his worldly goods and honours to purchase a treasure greater than any wealth.

Francis then spent his life helping lepers, feeding the poor, preaching the Gospel, and praising God in every creature. He shared his newfound treasure freely, and established a movement that drew countless others to a simpler, deeper life in Christ.

Like St. Francis, St Augustine, and St Paul, may we have the courage to sell what must be sold, so that we might truly possess real treasure.

And then give it away in loving service.

The Farmer’s Wisdom

(Wis.12:13, 16-19; Rom.8:26-27; Mt.13:24-43)

In ancient times, it was illegal under Roman law to sabotage someone else’s wheatfield with darnel.

Why? Because no-one wanted poisoned flour.

Darnel (also known as ‘tares’) is a toxic rye-grass that looks like wheat. You can’t tell them apart early on, but you can when they are mature. But by then their roots are too entangled to separate without damaging the wheat.

This helps explain Jesus’ parable of the wheat and tares in today’s Gospel. A farmer has sown good quality wheat, but then the weeds start appearing. His workers ask if they should pull them out, but the farmer says no. It’s better to wait for the harvest, when the wheat and weeds can be carefully separated.

This parable unsettles some people, especially those who tend to act quickly when they see something they dislike or that looks wrong. But Jesus’ point is that sometimes it’s better to wait, because many things we think are weeds are not, and waiting can lead to better outcomes.

Consider the story of a volunteer at a soup kitchen who once banned a patron because she’d seen him pocket something small. Later, she learned that he’d been collecting extra napkins for his children. Her quick judgment had cost him dignity and trust.

Consider also the gardener who planted a neat row of baby tulips. She felt proud afterwards, but got annoyed when she later saw little green weeds sprouting. She quickly got her trowel and dug them out, but her bulbs didn’t bloom that spring. In her haste, she had damaged the tulips’ shallow roots.

St Thomas More understood the wisdom of waiting. When Henry VIII tried to force him to agree to his takeover of the Church in England, he refused to be rushed. He spent months in prayer, study, and patient resistance, and even chose to go to prison rather than prematurely agreeing to anything.

In the end, Thomas More did not agree. But his long, prayerful discernment gave him the conviction he needed to face his execution.

And in North Africa, the 4^th century bishop Donatus Magnus insisted that only saints could belong to the Church. He set up a parallel church and decreed that anyone who had ever sinned was permanently excluded.

St Augustine of Hippo objected to this, and he based his arguments on this parable. He argued that the Church on earth will always include both the holy and the hypocrite, the saint and the sinner, for we are all either one or the other, and sometimes we are both.

Augustine said that if we try to root out every imperfect person from our pews, we will end up destroying the very body of Christ. And he explained that God tolerates the presence of weeds because he wants to give them time to be transformed, through his grace, into wheat.

And just as the farmer separates the wheat from the tares, and the fisherman separates the good fish from the bad (Mt.13:47-50), so God will separate the sheep from the goats on judgment day (Mt.25:31-46).

So, what does all this mean for us today?

It means that we must not to be too hasty in branding and banning people, for it’s better to encourage than to judge.

Today’s Psalm 86 reminds us that God is always good, always forgiving and always kind. This must be our aim: to let God’s constant love and mercy shape the way we treat others.

And we must give people the space they need to grow, trusting that God’s love and kindness can reach even the most tangled roots.

Notice how this psalm moves from praise to petition. First, it acclaims God’s greatness and then it asks him for his help. That must be the rule for our own lives: firstly, to humbly praise God’s goodness, and then to ask for his help in living with others.

‘You are a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger…’ the psalmist says. This too, must be our challenge: to be slow-to-anger just like Jesus.

Before we dig with our trowels, we must first ask questions. Before we exclude, we must extend an invitation. Before we declare someone a weed, we must offer an encouraging pathway back to the field.

And when we’re tempted to act hastily, remember the tulips and the soup kitchen. Remember St Thomas More’s patient conscience and Augustine’s warning about a Church of the perfect.

And remember, too, the testimony of today’s Psalm: that our God is merciful, slow to anger, and overflowing in steadfast love.

Let God’s mercy form you. Then help him turn weeds into wheat.

How Deep is Your Love?

(Is.55:10-11; Rom.8:18-23; Mt.13:1-23)

Most people seem to like the romantic Bee Gees ballad ‘How Deep Is Your Love?’ (1977).

It’s the story of a man who has fallen in love, and wants to know if his beloved loves him equally in return. This song isn’t just about romance, though. It’s about depth, trust, and whether love can survive the challenges of ordinary life.

In today’s Gospel that question, ‘How deep is your love?’ is exactly what Jesus is asking us in his Parable of the Sower. This is the story of a farmer who scatters his seeds everywhere, and it lands on pathways, on rocky ground, among thorns, and on rich, fertile soil.

This parable isn’t really about seeds and soil, however. It’s about how deeply God’s love can penetrate the soil of our hearts.

One of the Early Church Fathers, St John Chrysostom, was struck by the Sower’s generosity in scattering his seed so lavishly, even on hopeless ground. Why is he so lavish? It’s because that’s how God loves. God’s love has no limits.

This seed, Jesus explains, is the Word of God, and behind his every word is God’s loving heart. So, the question is not whether God’s love is deep enough; it’s whether our hearts are deep enough to receive it.

Consider the first soil, the pathway, where the seed simply sits until the birds steal it. This path represents the cynical or superficial hearts who hear God’s Word but either don’t understand or just don’t care, for they are shut tight.

How deep then is your love, if you won’t even let God’s Word in?

Then there’s the rocky ground where the seed starts sprouting. But there’s no depth to receive any roots, and when the sun arrives the plant withers and dies.

St Augustine warned of this kind of faith. He called it a love that’s loud but shallow, eager in good times but absent in suffering.

How many of us love God when life is sweet but question him when life turns bitter? How deep is your love when the cross appears?

The third soil is perhaps most like our world today: the thorns. The seed grows, but it’s choked by what Jesus calls ‘the worries of the world and the lure of riches.’ Pope Francis often spoke of the noise of modern life and the endless anxiety about money and success which slowly suffocate the life of God in us.

These thorns don’t actually attack the seed; they simply crowd it out. And so our prayer life starts shrinking, our generosity dries up, and our love grows cold.

How deep is your love when you allow the world to distract you like this?

And finally, there’s the rich soil, where the seed takes root, grows, and bears loads of fruit. This is the heart that has been well ploughed and prepared. It’s the heart that has made space for God.

Now, notice the difference between all these soils. The difference isn’t the seed, for it’s always the same. God’s love never changes, regardless of where it falls.

The difference is the depth of the ground that receives it.

St Teresa of Ávila often said that the soul is like a garden and we are the gardeners. We cannot make the seed grow, for only God can do that (1Cor.3:6-7). But we can prepare the soil. We can pull up the thorns. We can break up the rocks. We can fence off the path so that the birds cannot steal what God has planted.

So how do we deepen the soil of our hearts? Here are three ways:

Firstly, silence. Noise hardens the pathway, so spend ten minutes each day sitting quietly with our Lord. Pray, and read the Gospel slowly. Let it sink in.

Secondly, perseverance. Rocky soils fail because they have no room for roots. Stay faithful to prayer when you don’t feel like praying. Come to Mass even when it’s inconvenient. Let God’s love seep in and nourish your heart, and allow for rich soil to develop in you.

And thirdly, pruning. Find the thorns and cut them back. This week, name the worries, the attachments, and the distractions that choke your spiritual life. Ask Jesus to remove them, and let your heart flourish.

Every single day, the Sower scatters seed in our lives through scripture, the Holy Spirit, and the grace of the sacraments. The seed is perfect, the Sower is generous, but the question is always the depth of our hearts.

So, today, Jesus is asking: How deep is your love?

In your answer, try to remember the words from that iconic song: ‘I believe in you. You know the door to my very soul, you’re the light in my deepest, darkest hour, you’re my saviour when I fall…’

And ask Jesus to make your heart grow strong and fruitful.

Soulful Symphony

(Zech.9:9-10; Rom.8:9, 11-13; Mt.11:25-30)

It’s wonderful to see children playing musical instruments like the piano, violin, trumpet or flute.

But it’s not quite so wonderful when they’re all rehearsing together without a conductor. There might be some nice notes here and there, but without good direction, their sounds will clash, tempos will drift, and the music, for all its potential, will never really lift anyone’s soul.

But if a good conductor arrives, sets the tempo and teaches them how to breathe and make space for each other, then things will happen. The children will start producing something quite special.

They’ll also discover that their gifts aren’t diminished when they play as one, because it will free them to make music they could never make alone.

It’s rather like this when people call themselves ‘spiritual but not religious.’

Like young musicians, spiritually independent people are drawn to transcendence and beauty. And while they might hit some good notes, without a conductor and without a shared rhythm and guiding hand, the results are likely to be fragmented and their hunger for meaning will be unmet.

In the life of the spirit, private practice usually appears as restlessness and inconsistency, and it never reaches its potential.

In today’s first reading, St Paul tells the Romans, ‘Your interests are not in the unspiritual, but in the spiritual, since the Spirit of God has made his home in you… unless you possessed the Spirit of Christ you would not belong to him…’

Paul is spelling out what makes Christian spirituality different. It’s not just a philosophy or a feeling, but a life that’s filled and shaped by the Spirit of Christ.

This life begins at baptism, for that’s when the Holy Spirit gives us his graces. And, if we allow him, he starts shaping us from within, for Christ is the great conductor. Without him, our spiritual efforts are largely misdirected.

That’s what St Augustine found. He was a clever and curious soul who for years searched desperately for truth in books, teachers and a life of pleasure and success. Yet he kept thinking his famous thought: ‘You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.’

St Augustine found his ‘spiritual but not religious’ wanderings very frustrating.

One day as he sat in a garden, weeping over his spiritual failure, he heard a child sing: ‘Pick up and read, pick up and read…’

He took it as a sign and opened a Bible at a random page to read St Paul’s words, ‘…put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh… (Rom.13:13-14).

It changed his life. He opened up his heart to the Scriptures and to the Spirit, got baptised and started a life of sacrament and prayer. After that, his gifts became instruments of peace and praise rather than sources of restlessness.

This is what Jesus is offering us in today’s Gospel. Seeing a weary crowd, he says, ‘Come to me, all you who labour and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you… for my yoke is easy and my burden light.”

Jesus isn’t promising us an easy ride, but he is promising to give us peace; a peace that flows when our lives are on track and our efforts are shaped by his gentle hand.

That yoke image is important, for two oxen yoked together can go further than one struggling alone. Like a conductor, the yoke shows you how to move with another. But the Spirit does not smother our individuality. The Spirit harmonises our hearts with the life of Christ and the life of the community.

Many who are ‘spiritual but not religious’ have good reason for their distance. If they’ve been hurt in some way, the Church sincerely apologises.

But Jesus’ invitation is a remarkable gift. He’s offering us a personal relationship with him and a life breathed by his Spirit; a life re-ordered towards God and our neighbour that can finally settle restless hearts.

This is like musicians learning to breathe together, by adopting practices that ground us: prayer, Scripture, the Sacraments, simple acts of service, and the companionship of a faith community. These aren’t rigid, suffocating rules; they are guided rhythms that transform wonder into faithful love.

So, if you’ve been practising solo, consider taking one small step toward the conductor. Let the Holy Spirit gently retune your heart.

You may find, as St Augustine did, that your restless searching becomes a rest that’s filled with deep, joyful music.

For the Spirit of Christ is our patient and gentle conductor.

He’s always keen to order our scattered gifts into a soulful symphony.