Category: Homilies

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.

Time to Wake Up

(Isa.2:1-5; Rom.13:11-14; Mt.24:37-44)

Today marks the start of a brand-new Liturgical Year A, and a fresh season of Advent.

For many people, Advent is simply about preparing for Christmas. It’s about buying gifts, putting up pretty lights and organising a Christmas tree.

Today’s Gospel, however, gives us something very different to consider: an alarm clock. Jesus is saying, ‘Stay awake, for you don’t know the hour when your Lord is coming.’

This isn’t a threat; Jesus is being merciful. He’s gently shaking our arm, saying: ‘Don’t sleepwalk through life. Don’t drift along, unaware that I am near.’

Advent is not just about preparing for Christmas; it’s also about waking up to God’s presence, right here and right now.

Charles Dickens understood this. His classic story A Christmas Carol isn’t only about greed and suffering; it’s also about waking up. At the beginning, Ebenezer Scrooge is spiritually asleep. He has plenty of money, but no mercy; loads of comfort, but no compassion. He lives closed in on himself, oblivious to the plight of people around him.

Then one night, heaven steps in. He’s visited by three spirits who show him his past, present, and future. This shakes him up. He gets to see the truth of his life – the harm he’s done, the love he’s lost, and the future that awaits him if he does not change.

And when he wakes up on Christmas morning, the first thing he says is, ‘I’m as light as a feather! I’m as happy as an angel! I’m as merry as a schoolboy!’
Scrooge’s joy isn’t about gifts; it’s the joy of a man who has finally woken up to what’s really going on in the world.

This is the Advent invitation for us all: to let the Holy Spirit wake us up from our sleep of selfishness, distraction and routine – to see life anew in the light of Jesus Christ.

There’s a similar message in a very different story – The Matrix. At the start of this movie, Neo lives in a comfortable illusion. Everything seems normal, but it’s all a lie. Everyone is living in a simulated reality created by intelligent machines. Then a message arrives on his computer screen: ‘Wake up, Neo.’ He’s intrigued and starts following the clues to find out what’s really going on.

When Neo does finally wake up, he discovers that the world he thought was real was just an elaborate dream. And he’s forced to choose between comfort and truth, between staying asleep or waking up to reality.

Advent poses the same question for us: will we stay comfortable in illusion, or will we wake up to the real world of God’s grace?

The real world is not what we see in the fashion ads or typical Hollywood films. Rather, the real world is where God comes quietly in love; where hope, repentance, and mercy are far more real and much more important than any possessions.

Centuries before Neo and Ebenezer Scrooge, another man experienced this same awakening: St Augustine. He too, had drifted through life, chasing pleasure, comfort, and ambition. In his book, Confessions, he describes the moment he woke up: ‘You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness. You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness.’

And then he utters that famous line: ‘Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient, ever new.’

St Augustine discovered that God’s love had been there all along, but his heart was too sleepy to notice. And when he woke up, he found not guilt or condemnation, but delicious joy.

This is what Jesus means by ‘Stay awake.’ To be awake is to live in a constant readiness for wonder, to be alert to the movement of God’s grace in our lives.

So how might we live wakefully this Advent?

Firstly, by opening our eyes. Look around with wonder. Take the time to notice the small signs of God’s presence in beauty, kindness and forgiveness.

Secondly, keep things simple and slow down. Don’t let the noise of this busy season numb you to its meaning.

And thirdly, prepare your heart. Make space for prayer, confession and silence. Make space for Jesus.

This is how we ‘stay awake.’

Advent wakefulness isn’t about fear. It’s about awareness. When Scrooge, Neo and St Augustine woke up, they found that everything was the same, and yet everything was different, because they had changed. The world had become brighter, not darker, and everything started to make sense.

Right now, Jesus is waiting for us. He’s quietly waiting for us to notice him.

(Many thanks to Fr Don of thewordthisweek.net for this infographic)

One More Move

(2Sam.5:1-3; Col.1:12-20; Lk.23:35-43)

In the game of chess, the goal is to trap your opponent’s king. When he cannot move, you declare ‘checkmate’ and the game is over.

In 1822, the German artist Friedrich Moritz Retzsch (1779 – 1857) captured this moment in a famous artwork he called Die Schachspieler (The Chess Players). Today, it’s more commonly called Checkmate, but this picture depicts two chess players – a sneering devil and a worried young man, often said to be Goethe’s Faust.

If the devil wins, the prize is the young man’s soul.

For years, people thought the devil had won this game and was about to claim his prize. However, when a chess master saw this picture, he was intrigued. He carefully analysed the chess game in this image and declared that the game isn’t over. The young man’s king still has one more move which can lead to victory.

Today, this picture serves as an enduring icon of hope for people in seemingly impossible situations.

In Scripture there are many examples of people being rescued by God in the most desperate circumstances. Each time, God reveals that he always has one more move up his sleeve.

Think of Daniel, doomed to perish in a den of hungry lions. But God makes a surprising move and Daniel survives (Dan.6:16-23).

Or the 5,000 hungry people there in Galilee. No-one expects five loaves and two fish to feed them all, but when Jesus makes his miraculous move there are 12 baskets of leftovers (Lk.9:12–17).

In the Temple, too, a terrified woman is about to be stoned to death by angry men. Again, Jesus makes a surprising move and she begins a new life (Jn.8:1-11).

And in today’s Gospel, Jesus is hanging on the Cross, looking powerless and defeated. A thief taunts him: ‘If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself!’ It looks like evil has won this time.

But one man, the good thief, sees something more. He turns to Jesus and says: ‘Remember me when you come into your kingdom.’ He sees what others don’t – that even on the Cross, Christ is still the King.

And Jesus replies with royal authority: ‘Today you will be with me in Paradise.’

It had looked like checkmate, but once again Jesus has more surprising moves to make. This time it’s mercy, forgiveness and resurrection.

All through the ages, countless people have discovered this truth for themselves. When St Teresa of Avila was a young woman, she joined a convent but soon fell gravely ill. She had a seizure, became paralysed and at one point it looked like she was dead. The other sisters prepared a grave for her, but just before her burial God intervened. She regained consciousness and eventually recovered.

Teresa lived at a time of deep division in the Church, and when she tried to reform the Carmelite order, she met fierce resistance. She was criticised, mocked, and even formally investigated.

Many times, it looked like she was beaten. And yet she never gave in to despair. She kept trusting Jesus, who lived in the ‘interior castle’ of her soul. She taught her sisters to do the same, and left us her famous prayer of confidence:

‘Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you. All things are passing; God never changes. Patience obtains all things. Whoever has God lacks nothing. God alone suffices.’

St Teresa of Avila learned that whenever it seems like all is lost, Jesus Christ always has another move to make. Indeed, her confidence in Jesus made her a reformer, a mystic and a Doctor of the Church.

And what about us today? We too know what it’s like to be cornered – when sin or failure weighs on us, when grief or illness closes in, and when the world seems lost in darkness.

Today, on the Feast of Christ the King, faithful followers of Jesus are reminded that it is never truly checkmate in this game of life. Jesus, our King, always has one more move to help us (Ps.121:7-8; Dt:31:6; Heb.13:5).

Like St Teresa of Avila and the Good Thief, we must trust him.

On Calvary, a sign was nailed above Jesus’ head: ‘This is the King of the Jews.’ It was meant to mock him, but instead it spoke the truth, because Jesus reigns from the Cross – not by crushing enemies, but by saving souls.

Whenever it feels like you’re losing, remember that Jesus, our King, always has one more move to help us.

Trust him.

Calm Endurance

(Mal.3:19-20a; 2Thess.3:7-12; Lk.21:5-19)

Our world seems to be falling apart.

We hear so much today about political and economic turmoil, violence and war. And many of the global systems we’ve long trusted seem to be unravelling. How should we respond?

Jesus talks about this in today’s Gospel. He’s with his disciples, looking at the great Temple of Jerusalem – an immense building at the very heart of Jewish life. It looks indestructible, and yet Jesus warns them: ‘The time will come when not a single stone will be left on another – everything will be destroyed.’

He’s right, of course. The Romans do destroy the mighty Temple in 70AD.

Then Jesus adds: there will be wars, earthquakes, famine, persecution and betrayal – all the signs of collapse.

His disciples must have looked shocked, for then he says, ‘Don’t be frightened. Your endurance will win you your lives.’

There’s a similar sense of desperation in Ridley Scott’s film The Martian (2015). Astronaut Mark Watney (played by Matt Damon) is abandoned on Mars after an accident. His crew think he’s dead and they return to Earth without him.

On the red planet, the air is poisonous, there’s no food and no-one to help. You’d expect this man to panic and despair, and yet he doesn’t. With a cool head he says, ‘If you solve enough problems, you get to come home.’

Using his great technical skills and lots of duct tape, he starts planting potatoes, rationing his supplies and fixing his equipment.

He becomes an icon of calm endurance in the face of catastrophe.[i]

In his book A Non-Anxious Presence, the author Mark Sayers says this kind of calm presence is essential for our time. Why? Because our world is becoming increasingly complex, chaotic and even overwhelming.

We all live in a ‘grey zone,’ he says, ‘a world between two eras, where the old certainties of the past are crumbling but the new order has not yet arrived.’

In such times, anxiety spreads like wildfire. But Christians, he adds, are called to resist this contagion. Rooted in Christ, we can be calm, prayerful and resilient. A non-anxious presence in an anxious world.

The root of our anxiety, he says, is our disconnection from God. Without a deep-rooted faith and trust in God, we’ll never have the stability we need to navigate the storms of life. [ii]

His ideas aren’t new. The saints have long urged us to find peace in God in troubled times.

St Teresa of Ávila prayed: ‘Let nothing disturb you, let nothing frighten you; all things are passing, God never changes.’

These words were born out of her own struggles and reforms in a time of great upheaval. She teaches us that when we anchor our hearts in God, no disaster can rob us of peace.

St Francis de Sales, known for his gentle wisdom, said something similar: ‘Don’t lose your inner peace for anything whatsoever, not even if your whole world seems upset.’ He reminds us that calm trust in God is itself a form of witness – people notice when a Christian stays serene while others panic.

All these voices echo Jesus’ words: Don’t be scared. Endure, hold steady, trust God.

If you look closely at the history of God’s people, you can see that God consistently brings good out of disastrous situations. Joseph, for example, is betrayed by his brothers and sold into slavery, but God raises him up to become the governor of Egypt (Gen.37-50).

St Paul is locked up in Rome. But while there, God inspires him to write letters that are still guiding the Church today.

And of course, Jesus suffers the ultimate evil in his crucifixion. And yet God transforms it into the greatest good – the salvation of us all.

In the world of faith, crisis always precedes renewal.

At the end of The Martian, Mark Watney is back at home and says, ‘I guarantee you that at some point, everything is going to go south on you. And you’re going to say this is it – this is how I end. Now you can either accept that, or you can get to work.’

Today, Jesus is telling us to stay calm, prayerful and resilient. For our stability comes not from human powers or global institutions, but from our unshakable faith in God’s love.

Trust Jesus. The world may shake and stones may fall, but Jesus is our firm foundation.

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[i] Ridley Scott, The Martian, 20^th Century Fox, 2015. https://www.imdb.com/video/vi4112625689/?ref_=tt_vids_vi_2

[ii] Mark Sayers, A Non-Anxious Presence: How a Changing and Complex World Will Create a Remnant of Renewed Christian Leaders, Moody Publishers, Chicago, 2022.

Built on Love

 (Is.25:6-9; Rom.5:5-11; Lk.7:11-17)

Every year on November 9 the Church celebrates the Dedication of the Basilica of St John Lateran.

Why remember a place that most of us will never visit? It’s because this feast is about so much more than a building.

Officially, its name is the Archbasilica of the Most Holy Saviour and Saints John the Baptist and John the Evangelist at the Lateran, and it’s one of the four highest-ranking churches in the world. The other three are St Peter’s, St Paul Outside the Walls, and St Mary Major. All are in Rome.

St John Lateran is the only archbasilica in the world, and this means that it ranks higher than any other church. Why? Because it’s the Pope’s cathedral. Many people think he’s based at St Peter’s Basilica, but he’s not.

The Lateran Basilica is the official ecclesiastical seat of the Bishop of Rome, for that’s where his cathedra (throne) is located. So, it holds a special place as the mother church of the Diocese of Rome and indeed the entire Catholic world.

This feast, therefore, is firstly a celebration of unity. By honouring the Lateran Basilica, we’re honouring our connection to the Pope, the successor of St Peter. And we’re reminded that we are not isolated in our own parishes or dioceses, for we all belong to the one universal family of faith.

This unity is reinforced at every Mass when the priest always drops a fragment of consecrated Host into the chalice of precious Blood, and prays quietly that Holy Communion will bring eternal life to all who receive it.

This ancient ritual, known as the commingling, represents the reunion of Christ’s Body and Blood, previously separate at the consecration, but now combined to symbolise the living, risen Christ.

But this gesture also signals the unity of all the faithful. For just as all local churches are united to the one universal Church through the Lateran Basilica, so too are all who receive Jesus in the Eucharist.

Now, we also celebrate this ancient building today because of history. During its first 300 years, the Church was severely persecuted, and Christians could only meet secretly, in private homes or the catacombs. After Constantine became the Roman emperor, his mother Helena converted to Christianity and in 313AD he legalised the faith.

Ten years later he built a cathedral on land once owned by the Laterani family, and this is now the Lateran Basilica. It was consecrated by Pope Sylvester I, and for a thousand years it served as the Church’s administrative heart, papal home, and the venue for five major ecumenical council gatherings.

But today’s feast also points to something much deeper. In our second reading, St Paul says to the Corinthians, ‘Don’t you know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you? …God’s temple is holy and you are that temple.’

In other words, by celebrating this Basilica the Church is reminding us that individually and together, we all serve as living temples of God. And just like the original Temple, we all have a duty to serve God through worship, sacrifice and prayer.  

This is the heart of today’s celebration.

However, as Luke reports in today’s Gospel, some temples are misused. When Jesus finds that the Jerusalem Temple has become a noisy bazaar, he is furious. The Temple is sacred, for that’s where God lives, and yet it has been overrun by greedy merchants.

Jesus cracks a whip and tells them to get out. The tables are turned, the moneychangers leave and order is restored.

So, in celebrating the Lateran Basilica we remember that churches are holy, not because of their statues or stones, but because they are living signs of God’s presence. They are sacred temples where God’s people gather, where the sacraments are celebrated, and where Christ is truly present.

At the same time, this Basilica reminds us that individually, we are all called to serve as living temples, because God resides in us, too.

This is why we celebrate the Basilica of St John Lateran. It is an edifice and a community built on love.

But let me ask you: Does your life truly reflect the holiness of the God who dwells within you? And are you a beacon of love in our world today?

As St Caesarius of Arles, a bishop in the early Church, once said: ‘Celebrate the feast of the Church, for you yourselves are the temple of God.’

The Widow of Nain

 (Is.25:6-9; Rom.5:5-11; Lk.7:11-17)

According to Scripture, Jesus brought three dead people back to physical life. There was his friend Lazarus and the daughter of Jairus, and in today’s Gospel there’s the son of the Widow of Nain.

The town of Nain is not far from Nazareth, about a day’s walk from Capernaum. Its name means ‘pleasant,’ perhaps because of the scenic mountains nearby.

However, it wasn’t so pleasant for this widow. She’s already lost her husband, and now her only son is dead. This means she’s lost her only means of support.

It was tough for women in those days, for they had few rights. In that patriarchal society, widows could not inherit anything significant. So, she was going to lose her land and her capacity to earn a living, and she was also unlikely to marry again. Her life was effectively over.

The best she could hope for was charity from neighbours and distant relatives.

It’s no wonder, then, that she’s crying as she leads the funeral procession to the burial ground. Behind her, pallbearers carry her son’s body while the townspeople follow with mourners wailing loudly.

Along the way they meet Jesus coming the other way from Capernaum, followed by his own large crowd. When Jesus sees her tears, he understands her suffering and says ‘do not cry.’ Then, without being asked, he touches her son’s funeral bier and brings him back to life.

Everyone there is stunned. No-one doubts that this is the work of God.

Today’s version of Luke’s story tells us that Jesus ‘felt sorry for her.’  However, a better translation of the original Greek would say he ‘had compassion.’ In the New Testament, the word compassion is only used in connection with Jesus and the Good Samaritan, and every time it’s used, it doesn’t just mean kind words or a general concern. It means positive action.

For compassion isn’t the same as pity or sympathy. Pity and sympathy are things you feel, but compassion is something you do. Compassion is linked with mercy and it describes the motivation behind great acts of love. It’s the desire to do something to alleviate suffering. It’s the outward expression of charity.

Jesus’ compassion, therefore, isn’t about feeling sorry for anyone. It’s much deeper than that.

Jesus fully understands pain, suffering, and tears; he understands grief and abandonment. He understands agonising sorrow, and it’s because he understands all this that he has devoted his life to doing something about them, even to the point of dying on the Cross.

Now that’s real compassion.

When you see someone in pain or trouble, how do you respond? With pity or sympathy? Or do you have real compassion for them, like Jesus?

When Jesus performs a miracle, he doesn’t do it to show he’s the Messiah. Jesus doesn’t need to prove himself to anyone. Rather, he performs miracles because he cares. As he says in John 10:10, ‘I came that they may have life, and have it to the full.’

Jesus wanted this Widow to have life; he wanted Martha and Mary, the sisters of Lazarus, to have life. And he wanted Jairus and his wife to have life. That’s why he brought their loved ones back from the dead.

So, we know that Jesus has power over physical death. But he also has power over spiritual death, and that’s what he demonstrates with the Widow of Nain. He has given her new life and fresh hope.

Today is All Souls’ Day, when the whole Church stands with the Widow of Nain at the threshold of mystery, as we accompany our loved ones to the grave.

We know the pain of separation, just as she did. But we also recognise that our prayers for the dead are not empty rituals, for they are joined with Christ’s own compassion. We know that Jesus cares deeply for every departed soul and for every grieving heart.

At Nain, Jesus restores that young man to earthly life, but this is only a foretaste of what is to come. On All Souls’ Day, we affirm that our deceased loved ones await not just a temporary return, but eternal resurrection in Christ.

So, our prayers today are like the Widow’s silent plea. She doesn’t even speak, but her tears cry out. We, too, pray and entrust our departed loved ones to the merciful heart of Jesus, who we know has conquered death.

Thanks to his great mercy, life will always shine through.

For just as Jesus raised that young man in today’s Gospel, so too will he raise all who have died in him.

The Curé of Ars

(Sir.35:12-14, 6-18; 2Tim.4:6-8, 16-18; Lk.18:9-14)

Many people today have a presence on social media.

Whether it’s on Instagram, Facebook or some other app, they like posting images of their ‘best self’ – their holidays, successes and filtered photos. Rarely, however, are there any pictures of any failures, mistakes or struggles. This means that their profile is never complete.

In our prayer life, God doesn’t want any such filters. He wants the real us – our raw, messy, but honest selves. That’s what Jesus is saying in his Parable of the Pharisee and Tax Collector today.

Two men go to the Temple. The proud Pharisee stands where everyone can see him, he looks up to heaven and prays loudly. He thanks God that he’s not like everyone else, for he’s surely a virtuous man.

The Tax Collector, however, stands at the back. He’s ashamed of his life and bows his head (Ez.9:6). He prays quietly, asking God for his forgiveness.

Which prayer does Jesus prefer? It’s the humble person’s, of course. Jesus isn’t impressed by appearances, for he can see straight into our hearts.

Someone who lived this humility was St John Vianney, the Curé of Ars.

Born in France in 1786, he was a poor student at school, and in the seminary he failed at theology, French and Latin. His professors considered him slow and unfit for the priesthood, and told him to leave.

However, he had one quality that mattered more than intelligence: humility. He prayed like the tax collector: ‘Lord, have mercy on me; I am weak, but I want to serve you.’

John Vianney went on to receive private tuition and was ordained. Then God began to use his humility in a powerful way. He was sent to the tiny village of Ars, in eastern France, where almost no-one practised their faith.

People worked on Sundays, the taverns were full and the church was empty. It seemed like an impossible task, but John Vianney did not rely on his own strength. Instead, he prayed, fasted, and above all, he humbled himself before God.

Drawn to his humility, the villagers started returning to Mass. However, the real miracle was in the confessional. Crowds came from all over France, sometimes waiting for days, just to confess their sins to him. Why?

It wasn’t because of his eloquence or his intellect. When they looked at John Vianney, they saw a man who had first confessed his own need for God’s mercy, and this gave them the courage to seek the same.

By the end of his life, St. John Vianney was spending up to sixteen hours a day hearing confessions. He had become a living example of today’s Gospel.

He demonstrates that the person who kneels before God, empty-handed, whispering ‘Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner,’ is the one who God lifts up.

This is the lesson Jesus wants us to learn.

When we pray, God is not impressed by our status, image or list of achievements. He doesn’t need our résumé. What God wants is the honesty of our hearts.

That’s why, before receiving the Holy Eucharist at every Mass, we pray together: ‘Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.’

This is the prayer of the tax collector, and it’s the prayer of John Vianney. Because he saw himself as an unworthy priest, he let God work through him, and this dependence brought great fruit.

Humility is the prayer that opens us up to God’s grace.

Today’s parable, then, invites us to rediscover the Sacrament of Reconciliation, where, like the tax collector, we come with empty hands, aware of our sinfulness.

When we kneel and say, ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ we walk away like the tax collector did: loved, forgiven and free to start afresh. The Pharisee, however, leaves the Temple just the same as he entered it – full of pride, but empty of grace.

When we come before God, whether in prayer, at Mass or in Confession, how do we arrive? Are we like the Pharisee, congratulating ourselves? Or are we more the tax collector, humbled, ready to receive God’s mercy?

In Luke 14:11, Jesus promises that all who exalt themselves will be humbled, and all who humble themselves will be exalted.

Like St John Vianney, may we never be afraid to kneel before God with empty hands. For God always lifts up those who humble themselves.