Author: Peter McCulloch

The Better Part

(Gen.18:1-10a; Col.1:24-28; Lk.10:38-42)

What are we to make of Martha and Mary? People have argued over these two sisters for centuries.

Martha is bustling about in the kitchen preparing a meal, while Mary sits quietly at Jesus’ feet, revelling in his wisdom and love.

Martha is annoyed, and asks Jesus to get Mary to help her. But Jesus gently replies, ‘Martha, Martha, you fret about so many things, but only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the better part, and it’s not to be taken from her.’

Many people think that Jesus is scolding Martha, and perhaps even criticising her work. But he’s not. Rather, he’s saying that she needs to refocus. Martha feels so burdened by her chores that she’s missing the most important thing of all – her visitor. And Jesus, as we know, is the source of all life and love.

Jesus wants Martha to see that life isn’t about ceaseless activity. It would be much better for her to spend quality time with her guest, soaking up his wisdom and love, before doing what she had to do.

I remember having guests over for lunch one day, but I spent so much time in the kitchen that I started to realise that I was missing the point. Hospitality isn’t being with the dishes; it’s being with the visitors.

In his book The Naked Now, Richard Rohr talks about the importance of living in the moment. He says that Martha is a good woman, but she’s not present. She is not present to herself, to her own feelings of resentment, and to her own need to be needed. Rohr says this is the kind of goodness that does no good.

If Martha is not present to herself, then she really cannot be present to her guests and spiritually she cannot even be present to God. Presence is of one piece, Rohr says. How you are present to anything is how you can be present to God, loved ones, strangers and those who suffer. How you live in the moment matters.

This is why Jesus affirms Mary. She knows how to live in the moment. She knows how to be present to Jesus, and presumably, to herself. She understands the one thing that makes all other things happen at a deeper and healing level. If you are truly present, Rohr says, you’ll be able to know what you need to know. [i]

Sadly, our noisy and anxious world has little patience for contemplatives like Mary. We can see this in Jane Campion’s hauntingly lyrical movie The Piano.[ii]

Set in the 1800s, it tells the story of Ada, a mute Scottish woman who is sent into an arranged marriage in New Zealand. Ada is a withdrawn, reflective figure with a deep and silent connection to mystery and beauty, rather like Mary. Her inner life centres on one thing: her piano. It’s her sanctuary, her prayer, and how she expresses what she cannot say.

The colonial society she has joined, however, including her husband and the other settlers, are all busy like Martha, doing, expecting and controlling. For them, life is all about work, practicality and obedience.

They don’t understand Ada at all.

There’s one confronting scene where her husband is infuriated by her refusal to conform, and he destroys part of the piano and even chops off one of her fingers. It’s a brutal moment, but it symbolises what can happen when the world tries to silence the inner voice and quiet spirit of the Mary within us.

Many of us are programmed to live like Martha. We are so busy, so distracted and so wedded to our results-driven world that we often miss what really counts.

Today’s Gospel reminds us that there is a better way: a way of life that’s not measured by efficiency and sweat, but by heart-filled presence. Mary teaches us that the truest hospitality is not in the food or the cleaning, but in welcoming Jesus into the silence of our hearts.

And in The Piano, Ada teaches us that the contemplative life is not passive or weak. It’s resilient and even revolutionary because it resists the world’s demands and it treasures what is sacred.

Of course, we must honour the work of the world’s Marthas. But Mary reminds us that we are more than what we do, and perhaps it’s time for us to sit quietly with Jesus for a while.

Today, if your inner life has been silenced, God is inviting you to find your voice again. Not through noise, but through stillness, beauty and prayer – just like Mary.

Mary is well grounded. She knows who she is. She knows what she has to do.

This is the better part.

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[i] Richard Rohr, The Naked Now: Learning to See as the Mystics See, Crossroad Publishing, NY. 2009:58-59.

[ii] Jane Campion, The Piano (1993). https://youtu.be/61ooIf1QDZo

Three Good Samaritans

(Deut.30:10-14; Col.1:15-20; Lk.10:25-37)

The question ‘Who is my neighbour?’ has long been controversial.

Many people define their neighbour quite narrowly, while others say that this not only includes those around them, but also the animals and the land as well.

So, who do you think is your neighbour?

In today’s Gospel, a lawyer asks Jesus this question and he replies not with a definition, but a story. A man is beaten up and left for dead by robbers on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho. A Jewish priest and a Levite see him there, but don’t stop to help.

Then a Samaritan appears. He binds the man’s wounds, he takes him to an inn and pays for his care, and he promises to return.

The significance of this story rests on the fact that the Jewish people despised the Samaritans. They considered them impure, inferior and incapable of doing anything worthwhile. And yet only the Samaritan helps this poor injured man.

Richard Rohr says that the two Jewish men aren’t necessarily bad people; they just have other priorities. It was against their law for them to touch a bleeding man, and they wanted to be sure that nothing stopped them from doing their priestly duties in the Temple.[i]

For the Good Samaritan, however, compassion is much more important than any cultural or legal expectations.

This parable reminds us of another story in the Old Testament, in 2 Chronicles 28, where the Israelites of the Northern Kingdom defeat the Judeans in the south. The victors then take 200,000 men, women and children captive from their homes around Jerusalem and Jericho.

But then the prophet Oded confronts the Israelite army on their way back to Samaria. And he asks, ‘Have you not also sinned? Will you now make your fellow Israelites your slaves?’ This makes the victors think, and they not only decide to free the captives, but they also feed the hungry, bind up the wounded, and return them all safely home.

For Oded, compassion is far more important than any military triumph.

Someone who was greatly influenced by the courage and compassion of the Good Samaritan was the French priest, St Vincent de Paul (1581–1660).

He was ordained at the age of 19 and for the next 60 years he dedicated himself to serving the sick and destitute in the villages and towns of France, visiting them and giving them food, clothing, shelter and spiritual care.

Like Mother Teresa, he recognised Jesus in the poor and he liked to say that ‘The poor are our masters… they are the suffering members of Christ.’

Along with St Louise de Marillac he founded a community of nuns, the Daughters of Charity. They lived among the poor, running hospitals, orphanages, and soup kitchens. He trained them to be practical, loving and joyful, and said, ‘Their convent is the streets; their chapel, the parish church; their cloister, the hospital wards.’

In effect, they were the ‘innkeepers,’ continuing the Good Samaritan’s work of ongoing care.

At the time, France suffered from terrible famines and civil war, and Vincent responded by organising donations and support networks to send food, clothing and medical supplies to those affected.

In 1619, King Louis XIII appointed him chaplain of the galley slaves in Paris and Marseilles. These were prisoners who were chained to benches and forced to row large warships, often for hours or days without rest. They were often beaten, starved and forced to sleep in filth. Not surprisingly, many died from exhaustion or disease.

Vincent didn’t just send help; he boarded the ships himself and entered the filthy lower decks; he spoke with the prisoners, treated their wounds and organised fresh food, clothing and volunteers to help them.

Like the Good Samaritan lifting the wounded man onto his own donkey, Vincent lifted up these men up with dignity and hope. He listened to their stories, heard their confessions and shared his wisdom. And he lobbied the authorities, urging better treatment of these men.

St Vincent de Paul was a Good Samaritan not just once, but throughout his life. Like Jesus, he crossed every social, moral and physical barrier to serve people no one else would touch. And he established communities that continued this work long after he was gone.

St Vincent knew that compassion isn’t just feeling sorry or praying for someone who is suffering. Compassion is actively doing something to help them.

Here, then, is your question for today: who is your neighbour?

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[i] Richard Rohr, The Naked Now: Learning to See as the Mystics See, Crossroad, NY, 2009: 122–123. 

Unready Adventurers

(Is.66:10-14; Gal.6:14-18; Lk.10:1-12; 17-20)

Have you ever begun a journey before you felt you were ready?

In JRR Tolkein’s book The Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins is at home reading, drinking tea and enjoying his safe and tidy life. Then Gandalf the wizard knocks on his door. He’s come to invite him on an adventure.

‘We don’t want any adventures here, thank you!’ Bilbo replies. But by the next morning something stirs inside him – something stronger than fear, something deeper than comfort. And then, without any preparation, without any supplies, without any real idea of what he’s doing, he runs to catch up with the others.

Bilbo is clearly unprepared for what lies ahead. He has no weapon, no map, no survival skills. But what he does have – and this gradually reveals itself – is courage, faith, and a sense of purpose beyond himself.

That unready hobbit goes on to face goblins, trolls, spiders and the great dragon Smaug – not because he knows how, but because he learns to trust, to endure and to grow. Bilbo discovers that his strength lies not in what he carries, but in what he learns to let go: his pride, his fear, and the illusion of control.

He learns that smallness and simplicity are not weaknesses. They are strengths in the hands of a greater purpose.

But this isn’t just the story of a hobbit. It’s also the story of a disciple.

In Luke’s Gospel today, Jesus sends out seventy-two disciples into the villages of Galilee. Like Bilbo, they’re not warriors or scholars or elite religious figures. They’re ordinary, humble people and he sends them out in pairs into unknown lands. Travel light, Jesus says. Take no money, no extra gear, no backup plan.

But they do carry one thing – a message: ‘The kingdom of God is near.’

The disciples leave feeling nervous, but after their journey they return amazed, not at their own strength, but that God has worked through them.

There’s a simple connection between Bilbo Baggins and Jesus’ disciples: they all said yes when it would have been much easier to stay home. But here’s the point: God does not send the best-equipped. He sends the willing.

Like Bilbo, Jesus’ disciples must learn as they go. They must learn how to trust, how to face rejection, and how to carry peace and love into uncertain places.

And just like Bilbo, the disciples discover that what at first seems like a small act of courage opens the door to a remarkable transformation – not just for those they meet, but also for themselves.

Through the centuries, many people have set out like this, unready, uncertain and seemingly unqualified to do something special for God. But in the end they found themselves transformed by accepting God’s surprising call.

One such person was St Josephine Bakhita. She was a Sudanese woman who was kidnapped as a child, sold into slavery and passed from master to master. She ended up in a strange foreign land, Italy, where she encountered something that awakened her true identity.

She was rescued in Venice by the Canossian Sisters (a religious order founded in 1808). They gave her a home and treated her with great kindness. It was here that she discovered the love of God. She was baptised, took religious vows and lived the rest of her life as a sister, doing humble tasks like cooking and welcoming guests.

She also did what she could for the poor and broken, especially young girls who had been trafficked or abused.

To those she met, Josephine Bakhita radiated holiness, like a lamp burning quietly in a darkened room.

Much like Bilbo Baggins, Josephine began her journey as someone who was timid and quickly disregarded, for she was just a slave. But through her trials she developed a courage and an interior strength built on gentleness, patience and profound forgiveness.

She once said: ‘If I were to meet those who kidnapped me… I would kneel and kiss their hands, for if these things had not happened, I would not have found Christ.’

In the end, Bilbo returns home with much more than gold – he comes back knowing himself. And St Josephine discovers treasure, too. Not worldly riches, but the joy of knowing that she belongs to the heart of God.

So, what about you? Do you hesitate because you feel unprepared? The point of today’s stories is you don’t have to be ready, especially if God is calling.

You just have to say yes.

God doesn’t send us because we’re ready. He sends us because he believes in us. He has all we need.

So, if you’re feeling small and unsure, just remember that’s an excellent place to start.

Just like Bilbo, St Josephine Bakhita and Jesus’ disciples.

Two Good Men

(Acts 12:1-11; 2Tim.4:6-8, 17-18; Mt.16:13-19)

Most saints have their own separate feast day, but occasionally two or more share the one celebration. Today it’s the turn of Saints Peter and Paul, the two giants of our Christian faith.

Why do we celebrate them together? It’s because they were the two principal pillars of the early Church. Certainly, Jesus has always been the foundation stone, but Peter and Paul were instrumental in establishing the early Church.

St Peter was Jesus’ first disciple, our first Pope and the Apostle to the Jews. He knew Jesus personally.

St Paul however didn’t physically meet Jesus, and as a Pharisee he initially hated and even persecuted the Christians, but after his miraculous conversion he became the Apostle to the Gentiles. He played a major role in reaching out to non-Jews, and 13 of the 27 letters in the New Testament have been attributed to him.

Peter and Paul were very different in upbringing and in temperament. Peter was born in Bethsaida, a fishing town near the Sea of Galilee. He came from a very modest background and was described as ‘uneducated and ordinary’ (Acts 4:13). He was a fisherman by trade. He was impetuous and often spoke from his heart rather than his head.

Paul, on the other hand, was born into a wealthy merchant family in Tarsus, in today’s Turkey. He was a Roman citizen and well educated (Acts 22:3). He was a tentmaker by trade and very good with words, but his personality was fiery and he could be argumentative.

There are many statues and paintings of these two saints today. We usually see Peter holding a key, symbolising his role as head of the Church, while Paul holds a Bible, symbolising his powerful preaching.

Many icons also portray them embracing each other in brotherly love, however this doesn’t mean they didn’t clash.

One clash occurred in the mid-1^st Century in Antioch. Peter was eating with Gentile Christians, demonstrating his acceptance of non-Jewish Church members. But when some men arrived from the Jerusalem Church, Peter quickly left the table. He feared what these visitors might think, because the Jerusalem Church expected all Christians to observe Jewish Laws.

Paul accused Peter of hypocrisy for this and rebuked him. It was wrong, Paul said, to expect everyone to live by Jewish rules, because we know that man is not saved by the works of the law, but by faith in Christ alone (Gal.2:11-16).

These two men must have later reconciled because at a Jerusalem Council meeting Peter admitted that Paul was right (Acts 15:7-11). And in his second letter, Peter acknowledges Paul’s wisdom and he warmly refers to him as ‘our beloved brother Paul’ (2Pet.3:15-16).

So, what happened to these two men? History tells us that they were both imprisoned in Rome, and martyred only a few days apart in 64AD, just after the great fire of Rome. It was Nero who had them executed.

Peter felt unworthy to die in the same way as Jesus, so he was crucified upside down. The location was in the courtyard just to the left of St Peter’s Basilica today. Paul was beheaded just outside Rome, at a place now known as Tre Fontane, or ‘Three Fountains.’

Peter and Paul were very different people, but they had one thing in common: their great love for Jesus. They were so committed to Jesus and his work that they were prepared to die for him.

So, what can we learn from these two good men?

They teach us that our weaknesses and past mistakes don’t disqualify us from doing great things for God. Both men had done stupid things, and yet God still chose them to do his work. Clearly, no-one is beyond redemption.

Peter and Paul also teach us that what unites us in the Church isn’t our sameness. Rather, it’s our shared faith in Jesus that brings us together. Indeed, it is much better to have a mix of backgrounds and talents in the Church because it makes us stronger, not weaker.

As well, they teach us that disagreement can be healthy, especially when it’s handled with humility and honesty. As long as we keep Christ central in our lives, it’s always possible for us to meet in the middle.

And finally, St Peter and St Paul teach us that it takes courage to live a life of faith, for our world has never liked Jesus and his message.

However, if our faith is genuine, Jesus promises to always support, strengthen and guide us on the way (Mt.6:31-33;11:28-30; Jn.16:13).

A Taste of Heaven

 (Gen.14:18-20; 1Cor.11:23-26; Lk.9:11b-17)

Cooking shows have long been popular, but their focus tends to be much too narrow. They usually emphasise things like taste, presentation, ingredients and technique.

The dynamics of eating, however, are far more complex than that. Where you eat, with whom you eat and who prepares and serves the food are often just as important as what we consume, if not more so.

We can see this in the Bible. It’s full of meals, from Eve’s Forbidden Fruit in Genesis, through to the Wedding Feast of the Lamb in the Book of Revelation. And in between are the manna in the desert, Elijah’s hearth cake, Jesus’ eating with tax collectors and sinners, his feeding of the multitudes, and of course the Last Supper.

Each of these says something very important about God and ourselves.

‘The Son of Man has come eating and drinking,’ Jesus says, and his critics are outraged. But Jesus knows what he is doing. He knows that a shared meal can heal wounds, nourish hope, build trust and foster connection.

And he knows that food preparation is itself an act of love, for as St Teresa of Avila liked to say, ‘God is in the pots and pans.’

We can see this in Gabriel Axel’s 1987 movie, Babette’s Feast, which is based on a short story by Karen Blixen. It tells the story of two elderly sisters who live together in a remote coastal village in Denmark in the 1800s.

Their father, a Protestant pastor, had established a strict and joyless religious community there many years before. And after his death, his daughters take responsibility for them.

One stormy evening, a stranger arrives at their door. It’s Babette, carrying a letter from someone they know, asking them to take her in as a housekeeper. ‘She can cook,’ the letter says.

Babette is traumatised. She has just fled Paris, where her husband and son had just been killed in the French Revolution.

The two sisters don’t need a housekeeper, and they can’t afford one. However, they let Babette stay and she humbly serves them without pay for the next fourteen years. The sisters show her how to cook bread and fish the way they like it – dry and bland.

But what they don’t know is that Babette is an outstanding chef. She had been the head chef at one of Paris’ most famous cafés.

One day, Babette surprisingly wins 10,000 francs in a lottery. The whole village expects her to return to Paris, but she doesn’t. Instead, she offers to organise a ‘real French dinner’ for the sisters to celebrate what would have been their father’s 100^th birthday.

At first they refuse this offer because they only eat bland food. But Babette persuades them to accept, and she sends her nephew off to Paris to buy lots of expensive ingredients including turtle and quail. The villagers are shocked by this and the sisters fear this meal might be sinful. But they really can’t refuse, so they decide to eat the food without talking about it.

As Babette’s feast begins there are twelve guests, mirroring the Last Supper. One is a visiting general who has often dined in Paris. As Babette’s dishes arrive, he is astonished by their taste and quality, and he savours every bite. He knows this meal is outstanding.

One specific dish reminds him of the chef at the Café Anglais in Paris. Here, he is like the disciple on the road to Emmaus who recognises Jesus in the breaking of the bread (Lk.24:35). But that dish, cailles en sarcophagi (‘quail in a coffin’), also evokes the burial of her husband and son – and of Jesus Christ.

And when the general asks for some more wine, Babette gives him a whole bottle, reflecting Jesus’ extraordinary generosity at the Wedding at Cana.

Babette’s Feast is the story of a meal that is deeply Eucharistic. It involves real food and real wine, and it conveys an invisible grace that changes each person.

They begin to giggle and smile. Wounds heal, bitterness and fear disappear, and joy takes hold. Silently, mysteriously, the meal transforms their hearts.  

Babette is like Jesus. She is misunderstood, but still freely sacrifices all she has for these villagers, so that they might come together in love. And she asks for nothing in return.

Like so many of us at Mass, Babette’s guests don’t really understand what’s happening. At first they eat suspiciously, but then something inside them changes.

They used to think that pleasure and holiness cannot mix, but now they know that grace is never stingy. It’s always extravagant and joy-filled.

Sometimes, when we sit at the table of grace, we find ourselves receiving something far more than a meal:

A taste of heaven.

Andrei Rublev’s Trinity

(Prov.8:22-31; Rom.5:1-5; Jn.16:12-15)

Today let’s explore God’s Holy Trinity through Andrei Rublev’s famous icon, Trinity, which he painted in 1410. It’s owned by Moscow’s Tretyakov Gallery. [i]

Rublev painted it for the Cathedral of the Holy Trinity which holds the tomb of St. Sergius of Radonezh, who famously believed that ‘The contemplation of the Holy Trinity destroys all enmity.’

Rublev painted this icon to encourage this contemplation.

It depicts a scene from Genesis, in which three angels visit Abraham at the Oak of Mamre to tell him about the birth of Isaac (Gen.18:1-8). They’re sitting around Abraham’s table, enjoying his hospitality.

These visitors aren’t just angels, however. They’re the three persons of the Trinity. From left to right, they are God the Father, God the Son and God the Holy Spirit. They’re sitting in a balanced triangle, none more important than the other. Each holds a staff pointing towards both heaven and earth, indicating their shared authority, and their wings and haloes indicate their holiness.

Now, see their faces: they’re neither male nor female, and look like triplets. And notice their similar garments. Blue is the colour of heaven and mystery, while gold represents their royalty. But each also wears something different. The Holy Spirit has a green cloak. Green is the colour of springtime, and the Nicene Creed describes the Holy Spirit as the ‘Lord, the Giver of Life’.

Jesus is wearing a dark red robe, which points to his incarnation as an ordinary man. It also points to his crucifixion.

On the left, God the Father’s cloak is translucent. This symbolises his eternal glory, but also the fact that we can’t see him in this life.

Abraham’s table represents our world of time and space. But it’s also an altar bearing a golden chalice. Jesus is pointing to it with two fingers, representing his two natures – human and divine. He’s also pointing to the Holy Spirit who fills Jesus’ disciples with love.

Now look at the way they’re sitting, all inclined towards each other in a silent dialogue of love.

Behind Jesus is a tree which represents the Oak of Mamre, where this story takes place. It reminds us of the Tree of Life in Revelation 22:2, which produces twelve different kinds of fruit and has leaves which are perfect for healing. 

It also points to the wood of the Cross on which Jesus died for us.

Behind the Father is a doorless church, symbolising God’s hospitality. In John 14:2, Jesus says his Father’s house has many rooms which he will prepare for us when our time comes.

And behind the Holy Spirit is a mountain – the Mount of the Beatitudes.

Now, look carefully. The inner line of the body and legs of the Father and the Spirit forms the shape of a Eucharistic cup, and Jesus is inside it.

You can also see that the outline of their bodies makes a circle, which represents the Eucharistic host which we receive at Mass (Mt.26:26-28). It also represents their holy communion, their perfect union as one Trinitarian God, united in love.   

But why does God include three persons? Richard Rohr says that for God to be good, God can be one. For God to be loving, God has to be two because love is a relationship. But for God to be supreme joy and happiness, God has to be three. That’s because lovers do not know full happiness until they both delight in the same thing. [ii]

Put another way, the Father is the lover, the Son is the beloved, and the Holy Spirit is the fruit of that love. And they want us to join them. Look at the Holy Spirit’s hand. He’s pointing to the space at the front, and inviting us to join their divine communion. 

At the front of the table, do you see that little rectangle? There was once a mirror there, which served as an invitation to us to enter into this divine circle.  Whoever saw this icon could see themselves reflected in it. [iii]

In Byzantine art, the viewer always forms part of the icon, so there are at least four figures in this picture. And we directly face Jesus, because he’s the only person of the Trinity we can really know in this life. 

Indeed, whenever we come forward for the Holy Eucharist, we’re received into the divine communion of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

In our increasingly fragmented and troubled world, it’s important to remember that we’ve all been created in God’s image and likeness.

God lives in loving communion, and right now he’s calling us to join him in his circle of perfect, selfless love. [iv]

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[i] I took this photo myself when I visited the gallery in Moscow some years ago. The icon is considerably larger than I expected, at 142 cm × 114 cm (56 × 45 inches).

[ii] Richard Rohr, Yes, And … Franciscan Media, Cincinatti OH. 2013:100.

[iii] Richard Rohr, The Divine Dance. Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, London. 2016:30-31.

[iv] For further insights, go to https://catholic-link.org/andrei-rublevs-icon-of-the-holy-trinity-explained/

The Breath of God

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

We have so many locks in our lives – on our doors, our cars, our windows and our phones…

Why? Because of fear. We worry about these things, so we shut them away.

But it’s not just possessions we lock up. Sometimes we padlock our hearts and minds, too, especially when we feel fearful, anxious, depressed or empty, or when we suffer from guilt or resentment. That’s when our brains and hearts can freeze and we feel trapped, unable to go forward.

This is what happens to Jesus’ disciples after his crucifixion. They fear they might suffer the same fate, so they lock themselves inside the Upper Room.

Then on Easter Sunday, Jesus walks through that door, surprising them and greeting them with the words, ‘Peace be with you.’ Shortly afterwards, Jesus breathes on them, saying, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit’ (Jn.20:22).

Why does he breathe on them? It’s because Jesus is God, and his breath is life itself.

As you might recall, in the story of Creation when all was dark, God breathed over the waters of chaos and this led to light and life (Gen.1:1-5). Later, in the Garden of Eden, God picks up a lump of clay and breathes on it to create Adam, the first man (Gen.2:7). And in Ezekiel 37, God’s breath revives what was once dead in the valley of dry bones.

In other words, God’s breath is always life-giving, creative and renewing. It’s his Holy Spirit, of course, bringing not only biological life, but also spiritual transformation.

That’s why Jesus breathes on his disciples there in the Upper Room. He gives them the peace of his Holy Spirit.

Fifty days later, at Pentecost, the disciples are in the same place, but still don’t know what to do with themselves. Then suddenly a noise like a mighty wind arrives from heaven.

What is this wind? It’s the breath of God, once again. It’s God’s dynamic Spirit transforming them with meaning and purpose, passion and conviction. They then go out into the world to tell everyone the good news about Jesus.

Today, on this feast of Pentecost, we celebrate the wind of God’s gentle but powerful Spirit that never ceases to blow. And we remember that the fire of God’s love continues to burn brightly in the hearts of the faithful.

But what about you? Are you filled with the Spirit and living a meaningful life?

Or do you feel trapped in your own Upper Room, stuck with empty thoughts and going nowhere?

One person who managed to break out of her own Upper Room was St Edith Stein. She was born into a devout Jewish family in 1891, in Breslau, Germany (now Poland). As a teenager she turned to atheism, and as an adult she became a brilliant philosopher and one of the first women in Germany to earn a doctorate.

Edith’s ‘Upper Room’ wasn’t a physical room, however. She felt trapped in an intellectual prison, stuck in a silent space between unbelief and grace where she felt spiritually restless.

What really confronted her was the suffering she witnessed as a nurse during World War I. Her work in philosophy raised deep human questions about truth, love and the soul, but she couldn’t find any good answers. And when some of her friends started becoming Christians, something stirred deep inside her.

One day in 1922, while visiting friends, she picked up the autobiography of the Spanish mystic, St Teresa of Avila. She read it in one night, and when she finished, she simply said, ‘This is the truth.’ That was her Pentecost moment, when her locked door opened.

Soon afterwards she became a Catholic, shocking her family and her academic peers. But for Edith, it was the fulfillment of a long inner journey. For the next ten years she lived a quiet life, teaching, writing and translating the works of St. Thomas Aquinas and John Henry Newman. But she also felt a deeper call, to give her whole self to God.

In 1933, when the Nazis took power, she joined the Carmelites in Cologne, taking the name Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. There, in the prayerful silence of her convent, she watched Europe descend into war.

Sadly, in their search for Jews the Gestapo arrested her and sent her to Auschwitz, where she was murdered in 1942. But even in that darkness, she remained serene, reportedly saying: ‘Come, let us go for our people.’

Her final act was accepting the Cross of Christ. She willingly embraced death in solidarity with her Jewish brothers and sisters.

Today, St. Edith Stein is offered to us as a model for anyone who feels trapped in darkness.

To set yourself free, welcome the life-giving Breath of God.

Abandonment to Divine Providence

(Acts.1:1-11; Heb.9:24-28, 10:19-23; Lk.24:46-53)

Shortly before he died, my father asked me to read three paragraphs from Jean-Pierre de Caussade’s classic book Abandonment to Divine Providence.

De Caussade (1675-1751) was a French Jesuit priest and writer. Briefly, this is what I read: ‘If you’re looking for God, know that he’s already with you. And if you want to be a saint, then do what the saints did: surrender yourself to God. Let him inspire you.’

He continues: ‘Many people think that God is no longer active in our world, and the best you can do is remember what he said and did long ago. However, they don’t realise that God is still busy inspiring saints today. So, don’t bother copying the lives and writings of others; simply abandon yourself to God.

‘God is constantly working to sanctify and redeem our world, and we can still open ourselves up to him, just as the saints did. And just as they let God transform their hearts and lives, so we can do the same. If we give ourselves to God, he will never stop pouring his graces into us.’

De Caussade concludes: ‘This is the road our ancient fathers took, and this is the way I will go, so that I can speak as they spoke and live as they lived.’ [i]

Over the years, many good people have understood the wisdom of these words. One such person was the French Trappist monk Dom Jean-Baptiste Chautard (1858–1935). In the late 1800s, he was elected abbot of the ancient Abbey of Our Lady of Seven Fountains (Sept-Fons), which was then in bad shape.

The community was spiritually weak, and the monastery itself was crumbling.

At first, Chautard tried to recruit new monks and fix the buildings, but then he realised that human effort alone wasn’t enough. He knew that before any physical work could bear fruit, the monks had to deepen their interior life with God.

Some of the monks and donors had been urging him to modernise quickly, but Chautard insisted on trusting in God’s providence. He began emphasising prayer, contemplation and keeping to the monastic rule.

And he taught his monks to regard every duty, including prayer, manual labour, and silence, as a way of surrendering to God’s will.

Spiritual depth, he knew, must come before material success.

In time, the abbey flourished. Through God’s grace, more men joined, the monastery was restored and the Cistercian tradition was revitalised.

Chautard recorded this story in his famous book, The Soul of the Apostolate.[ii]

Like de Caussade, he understood that for any ministry to flourish, it must be underpinned by a strong interior life, where we surrender ourselves to God and his providence in every present moment. This is what my father wanted me to know.

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Ascension, the moment when Jesus farewells his disciples and returns to heaven because his earthly mission is over. He has taught his disciples what they need to know, and now it’s their turn to continue his work.

Jesus knows they will struggle on their own, so he promises to send his Holy Spirit to help them (Jn.14:16). That’s what happens at Pentecost, and we know the Apostles go on to do remarkable things.

Today, Jean-Pierre De Caussade reminds us that Jesus is still sending down his Holy Spirit – through the sacraments and every time we open ourselves up to God and pray.

With God, we are never alone. When we abandon ourselves to God’s divine providence, when we truly trust him, he will fill us with his graces. He will help us.

The Australian Cistercian monk, Michael Casey, says that abandonment isn’t the same as giving up. Genuine abandonment means humbly accepting that I don’t always know what’s good for me, and it means being willing to express our pain to God in prayer.

For abandonment is not stoic indifference. It’s active, not passive. It drives us to use our hardship as a springboard to leap into God’s ambit.

Casey says that we will often find that things are better between us and God if we learn to let go and to confidently place our lives in his hands. [iii]

So, if you want to be holy, become a saint or simply become more fruitful, then it’s time to develop your interior life.

Learn to trust God. He will fill you with his graces.

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[i] Jean-Pierre De Caussade, Abandonment to Divine Providence, Cosimo Classics, New York, 2007:27-28

[ii] https://www.mountsaintbernard.org/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/Dom-Chautard-The-Soul-of-the-Apostolate.pdf

[iii] Michael Casey, Balaam’s Donkey, Liturgical Press, Collegeville, MN., 2018, 2-3.

The Peace Crane

 (Acts 15:1-2, 22-29; Rev.21:10-14, 22-23; Jn.14:23-29)

The world has many symbols for peace. They include the olive branch and white dove, the white poppy, the broken rifle, the classic V sign – and the origami Peace Crane.

The story of the peace crane begins with a little girl, Sadako Sasaki, who was born in Hiroshima, Japan, in 1943. [i]

She was only two years old in 1945 when an atomic bomb fell on Hiroshima. It destroyed their home and killed her grandmother and most of her neighbours. But Sadako seemed unhurt and she grew into a happy girl.

Ten years later, when she was 12, she collapsed at school. Sadako was taken to hospital and diagnosed with leukemia.

A friend visited her there, bringing some colourful origami paper. She told Sadako the legendary story of the Japanese crane which lives for a long time. If you fold 1,000 origami paper cranes, she said, your wish will come true.

Sadako really wanted to go home, so she began folding 1,000 paper cranes. As she made each one, she prayed she would get better and said, ‘I will write peace on your wings, and you will fly all over the world.’ Her younger brother hung these birds from the ceiling of her room.

In her book, Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, the author Eleanor Coerr says that Sadako only made 644 cranes before she died, and her family and friends made the rest for her.

But in real life, Sadako actually folded over 1400 paper cranes. Although she didn’t get better, she kept making them, not for herself, but for her family. She died saying, ‘I want to be cured, I want to go home, I want to be with my family.’ [ii]

After her death in 1955, Sadako’s classmates raised funds to build a memorial for her and all other children hurt in war. In 1958, the Children’s Peace Monument was opened in Hiroshima’s Peace Park, with a statue of Sadako holding a golden peace crane. It has a plaque which reads: ‘This is our cry. This is our prayer: peace on Earth.’ [iii]

Every year on August 6, the anniversary of the atomic bomb, paper cranes from all over are placed at her memorial – over 10 million each year.

Sadako Sasaki’s colourful paper cranes have become a powerful symbol for peace, which we all need so badly in our world today. But what is peace?

Most people think it’s the absence of noise, trouble and hard work. They think it’s feeling calm and relaxed, and free from stress and danger. But that’s not true peace. That’s worldly peace.

Worldly peace is typically fragile, temporary and conditional, because it depends on what’s happening around you, and that’s hard to control.

True peace, however, comes from God.

In John’s Gospel today, Jesus is talking with his disciples just after the Last Supper. He knows he will die soon; he knows his disciples are frightened. So, he says to them, ‘Don’t be troubled or afraid… my peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you. A peace the world cannot give, this is my gift to you.’

The kind of peace Jesus is talking about is very different to what we normally expect. Firstly, it doesn’t come from any human effort, for it only comes from God. Secondly, it’s internal, rather than external, so it doesn’t depend on what’s happening around us.

Jesus’ peace is a free, spiritual gift. It’s like the calm at the bottom of the ocean. Storms may be raging above, but there’s a wonderful calm deep below the surface.

It means being at peace with God, with ourselves and with our neighbour.

So how can we get some of this peace? 

The only way is by having a close, loving relationship with God, and that means getting to know him and learning to love him.

Peter Kreeft says the goal of love is always intimacy, and God becomes more and more intimate with us as he reveals himself in three stages: first, the Father reveals himself in the Old Testament; then, the Son, in the New Testament; and then, the Holy Spirit, in the Church.

First God is above us, and then he is with us, and then he is in us.

First he is outside us, then he is beside us, and finally he is in us. [iv]

Symbols like Sadako’s peace crane are wonderful for reminding us of what is possible in this world.

But it’s only when you genuinely invite God into your heart and life that his peace will come flooding into your soul.

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[i] To make your own Origami Peace Crane, go to: https://www.origami-fun.com/origami-crane.html

[ii] https://sadakosasaki.com/

[iii] https://theelders.org/news/masahiro-sasaki-surviving-atomic-bombing-hiroshima-his-sister-sadako-and-his-mission-advance

[iv] Peter Kreeft, Food for the Soul, Cycle C, Word on Fire, Park Ridge, IL. 2021:314.

Love in Any Language

(Acts 14:21-27; Rev.21:1-5; Jn.13:31-33a, 34-35)

In his novel Smilla’s Sense of Snow, Peter Hoeg says that the Inuit people of Greenland have a hundred words for snow. [i]

They have words for light, wind-blown snow; drifted snow; powdery snow, crusted snow, wet snow, slushy snow and many more.

A hundred words is an exaggeration, I’m told; however, they do have dozens. Why so many? It’s because these hardy people have long relied on clear communication for their survival. The subtleties of ice and snow can mean the difference between life and death.

If such clarity is so important in Greenland, then why do we have so few words for Love in English? Surely love and human relationships with all their complexities are just as important in our society.

In English, we do have a few words for some aspects of love, like affection, fondness and tenderness, but we usually use only one word – Love – to express almost everything, like ‘I love my wife, ‘I love my dog,’ ‘I love food,’ ‘I love my father,’ and ‘I love music.’ They all mean very different things.

When there’s no word for something, it becomes quite easy to ignore it. And when our vocabulary is limited, it can be hard to clearly communicate, or even recognise, our own feelings and intentions.

Slogans like ‘Love is love’ are largely meaningless without clarification. It’s like saying that ‘food is food,’ when we know that there are important differences between various foods.

Sanskrit has 96 words for love, including Anurakti (passionate love), Anuraga (intense love for God), and Sneha (maternal love). The Sami people of Scandinavia have over 200 such words. And Greek famously has four key words: eros, philia, storgé and agape, which we sometimes borrow in English.[ii]

Eros is passionate, romantic love (Song 1:2-4). Philia is friendship or brotherly love (Heb.13:1). Storgé (Stor-jay) is family love (Rom.12:9-10). And Agape is the most profound kind of love. It’s the selfless and unconditional love that Jesus demonstrates when he feeds the hungry and heals the sick, and especially when he sacrifices himself on the Cross.

This is the love Jesus speaks of in today’s Gospel, when he tells us to love one another. It’s what St John means when he says that God is love (1Jn.4:8).

In the early 1920s, Jesus regularly appeared to a Spanish mystic, Sr Josefa Menéndez, in France. With the authorisation of Pope Pius XII, Jesus’ messages have since been published in her book, The Way of Divine Love. [iii]

On 28 November 1922, Jesus told Josefa what he means by Love:

‘I am all love!’ he said. ‘My heart is an abyss of Love.

‘It is Love that created man and all that exists in the world to serve him. It is Love that impelled the Father to give his Son for the salvation of man lost through sin.

‘It was Love that made a very pure virgin, almost a child, renounce the charms of her life in the Temple, consent to become the Mother of God, and accept all the sufferings that divine motherhood was to impose on her.

‘It was Love that compelled me to be born in the harsh, cold winter, poor and deprived of everything.

‘It was Love who hid me for thirty years in the poorest and most total obscurity and the most humble work.

It was Love that made me choose solitude and silence, to live an obscure existence and voluntarily submit to the orders of my Mother and my adoptive father. For Love could see a future vision of many souls who would follow me and take delight in conforming their lives to mine.

‘It was Love that made me embrace all the miseries of human nature. For the Love of my heart saw even further. It knew how many souls in great danger, helped by the actions and sacrifices of many others, would find life again.

‘It was Love that made me suffer the most shameful mockeries and the most horrible torments… to shed all my Blood and to die on the cross to save man and redeem the human race.

‘And Love also saw in the future, all the souls who would unite their sufferings and actions, even the most ordinary ones, to my sufferings and blood, to give me a great number of souls!’

Just as every snowflake is different, so there’s a world of difference between one kind of love and another. God’s extraordinary self-sacrificial love simply cannot be equated with anyone’s love for ice-cream.

So, when you say you love someone, what does that mean?

And if you say that you love God, what do you really mean?

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[i] Peter Hoeg, Smilla’s Sense of Snow, Picador Modern Classics, New York, 2011

[ii] C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves. HarperCollins Religious, London, 2012.

[iii] Sr Josefa Menendez, The Way of Divine Love, Must Have Books, 2023.