Month: April 2026

St Titus Brandsma

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If we’re willing to listen.

Spiritual Hindsight

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

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

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

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

This is an important aspect of our relationship with God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is Emmaus.

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

Window of Life

(Acts 2:42-47; 1Pet.1:3-9; Jn.20:19-31)

In today’s Gospel, Jesus’ disciples have locked themselves in the Upper Room. Knowing what happened to Jesus on the Cross, they’re fearful of the world outside and of what might happen to them.

We all know about locked doors. We lock them when we feel vulnerable or want to hide, and also when we don’t know what to do next.

But note how Jesus enters that locked room. He doesn’t break down the door, nor does he scold them or accuse them of anything. He simply walks in and says ‘Peace be with you.’

Today, on Divine Mercy Sunday, we are all reminded of the story of St Faustina Kowalska, the humble Polish nun who met Jesus Christ in 1931.

At the time she lived in a convent in the city of Płock (pronounced ‘Pwotsk’), north of Warsaw. She worked in the bakery and kitchen, and helped the sisters who supported poor and troubled girls.

Sr Faustina was in her room when Jesus first appeared to her. He arrived quietly, dressed in white with one hand raised in a blessing and the other hand touching his heart, from which shone two bright rays – one red, one white.

Jesus asked her to paint that image of him, along with the words Jesus, I trust in You. This is the picture of Divine Mercy that has since spread all over the world.

Today, in Sr Faustina’s old convent a special window has been built into a wall near her former room. It’s a baby hatch, called a Window of Life, through which an unwanted child can be left by a desperate parent.

When the hatch closes, a bell rings inside and trained staff come quickly, giving the child lots of love, protection, and hope for a future. No questions are asked; only care is given.

This window helps us to see today’s Gospel more clearly.

The disciples locked their doors, because doors are about control and about who belongs and who doesn’t. But Jesus doesn’t break these doors down. Instead, he mercifully opens a window – creating a space inside for peace, forgiveness and new beginnings, and their lives are transformed.

For windows, ultimately, are about trust, vulnerability and letting the light in.

We can see this in Mark’s Gospel, where a paralysed man is brought to Jesus. The house is so crowded that every door is blocked, so his friends lower him down through the roof instead. In effect, they create a window of life.

Jesus doesn’t complain about the damage. Rather, he sees a strong faith, and through that opening mercy enters: ‘Your sins are forgiven… Rise, take up your mat, and walk,’ he says (Mark 2:3-12).

Whenever access to mercy is blocked, the Gospel finds a window.

This is how St Vincent de Paul understood charity. He knew that good intentions are never enough, and that mercy must be organised, reliable and discreet. It must also reach people where they are, especially when shame or fear make them invisible.

For Vincent, mercy was never showy; it was about creating quiet, dependable openings through which dignity and life can spread.

This is how the Window of Life baby hatch works. It’s not loud or judgmental. It simply insists that mercy must always make space for life.

Today, from Poland to India and the U.S., there are dozens of these special windows across more than twenty countries, giving hope to abandoned children.

On this Divine Mercy Sunday, Jesus is asking us: what doors have we locked in our lives, and where should we be opening a window instead?

Most of us will never build a physical Window of Life. But every Christian life is meant to become one. A window of patience for someone who is struggling. A window of welcome for someone who feels excluded. A window of mercy where judgement would be much easier.

The image of Divine Mercy itself helps us here. It’s not meant to trap God inside a frame. It’s more like a window, opening our hearts to who God really is. As the risen Christ steps forward with his wounds, his mercy flows towards us. And beneath the image are the words that say it all: Jesus, I trust in You.

That’s the posture of someone standing at an open window: vulnerable, hopeful and willing to receive mercy rather than hide behind locked doors.

In today’s Gospel, as Jesus enters that locked room, he shows his wounds, and says, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he sends his disciples out.

For having received mercy, they – and we – must now go and share it with others.

When fear locks the doors, God always opens a window – offering us peace and forgiveness, and the courage to live as people of mercy in a wounded world.