Deacon Peter

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 a better outcome.

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.

Singing Among the Thorns

(2Kgs.4:8-11, 14-16; Rom.6:3-4, 8-11; Mt.10:37-42)

In Raphael’s painting The Madonna of the Goldfinch (1505), the Blessed Virgin Mary is sitting calmly with two little boys. John the Baptist is on the left and he’s showing Jesus a small goldfinch.

The colourful European goldfinch often features in Renaissance art.[i] Why? Because it symbolises the Passion of Christ and it teaches us about the life of the Christian disciple.

The goldfinch’s black, red and white colours reflect Christ’s suffering; the way it feeds on thorny thistles points to the crown of thorns; its gold stripes remind us that the ancients always associated gold with healing, and this bird sings.

In the Middle Ages, the goldfinch inspired the legend of a bird that watched Jesus carrying his cross to Calvary. Jesus’ crown of thorns distressed that bird, and as it tried to pluck the thorns out, a drop of Christ’s blood stained its face red.

This songbird, then, reminds us that beauty and suffering, innocence and cost, are natural companions.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, ‘Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me… Whoever does not take up his cross and follow me is not worthy of me.’

Jesus’ words sound harsh, but the goldfinch helps us understand what he’s saying. Jesus is essentially talking about costly love. He’s saying that just as the deepest love always involves some pain, so following him means letting the cross shape our lives. It means reordering our interests and affections so that our whole life centres on God.

This is what St Ignatius of Loyola did. After his leg was shattered in war, he spent his long recovery reading the lives of the saints and the Gospels. This taught him that his quest for honour and adventure was misguided.

He abandoned his worldly ambitions, sold his sword and fine clothes, and started living a simple life of prayer, penance, and priestly service. He was willing to sacrifice everything for Jesus Christ.

Discipleship isn’t about choosing suffering, though. It’s about choosing truth and faith over comfort and convenience, and accepting what follows. That’s why Jesus goes on to say: ‘Whoever finds his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’

Like the goldfinch that lives among the thorns and still sings happily, so a faithful disciple will find beauty and joy even in the toughest situations.

That’s what St. Maximilian Kolbe found when he voluntarily entered the brutal thorn‑scape of Auschwitz.  

After a prisoner escaped, the Nazi guards decided to punish ten men with death. When one condemned man cried out for his family, Maximilian stepped forward and offered to take his place. For weeks he and the other nine men were locked in a small, dark cell with no food or drink.

Other prisoners later reported that instead of the usual cries and shrieks, they heard songs and prayers. They heard the Rosary and hymns to Our Lady.

Maximilian had turned that horrid death cell into a prayer cell, and it became an oasis of love. [ii] Like the goldfinch, he did not avoid the thorns; he accepted them and his faith and love made that place a window of grace. And he shows us how beauty and song can persist even in the most awful situations.

Christian life isn’t lived in a thorn-free world. Families are complicated, faith can be demanding, and doing the right thing often costs more than we expect. Jesus understands this. But he also insists that a life lived honestly, even with pain, is fuller, richer and far more worthwhile than a life lived superficially.

That’s why he starts talking about hospitality: ‘Whoever welcomes you welcomes me,’ he says, ‘whoever gives even a cup of cold water… will not lose their reward.’

In other words, the Christian life isn’t just about heroic sacrifice. It’s also about small, faithful acts done with great love, such as sharing a drink, offering encouragement and staying present when it’s easier to leave.

These are all signs of a life centred on Jesus.                

Today, our challenge is not that we love too little, but that our love is scattered, unfocussed and may be taking us nowhere.

Jesus is inviting us to place our lives in his hands; to boldly reach out and accept the fulfilment and joy that only he can give.

To live like the goldfinch.

That little bird reminds us that Christian hope is not naïve optimism.

It’s life that has learned how to sing among the thorns.

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[i] https://www.birdspot.co.uk/culture/the-goldfinch-in-art

[ii] https://newsletter.companionsofstanthony.org/newsletters/2018-fall/st-maximilian-kolbe-a-reflection/

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 also for ourselves.

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 abandons 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.

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[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.