Month: December 2025

School of Holiness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Kinds of People

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frank Sinatra’s My Way

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Finding Joy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Songbird

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not pointing to ourselves, but only to Jesus Christ.