Deacon Peter

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.

The Miracle Man of Montreal

(Ex.17:8-13; 2Tim.3:14-4:2; Lk.18:1-8)

It might seem unlikely, but there’s a connection between the movie Finding Nemo and the Canadian St André Bessette. Let’s explore it.

Finding Nemo is the story of a clownfish named Nemo who is caught off Australia and placed in an aquarium. His father, Marlin, is horrified, and knows he must look for him, despite being scared of the open sea. Then he meets Dory, a happy blue tang-fish with a poor memory.

Together, they search the ocean, meeting sharks, turtles and hungry seagulls, but they can’t find Nemo. Marlin is tempted to give up, but Dory says, ‘Just keep swimming, just keep swimming…’

In other words, keep going, even if it all seems hopeless.

There’s a similar message in today’s Gospel, in Jesus’ parable of the widow who demands justice. An unjust judge is ignoring her pleas, but she refuses to give up and in the end the judge surrenders to keep her quiet.  

Jesus tells this story not to say that God is reluctant or unfair, but to remind us to pray always and to never lose heart.

Like Marlin and this widow, we all face times when we are tempted to give up – in our prayer, work, relationships or faith. We ask God for help or for healing and he doesn’t seem to answer. But these two stories tell us to persist.

Why does Marlin keep going? Because of love. This is the key to persistence. It’s not about knowing the outcome; it’s about refusing to give up on the one we love.

It’s the stubborn endurance of love that refuses to give up on God, even when the road is dark.

As St Paul says, ‘Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer’ (Rom.12:12). This is what Jesus is trying to teach us today.

The Canadian Saint André Bessette is a fine example of this persistence.

Born in Quebec in 1845, he was the eighth of twelve children. He was always sickly, had little education and was orphaned at 12. He tried working as a farmhand, and as a shoemaker, baker and blacksmith, but failed at them all. Then, at 25 he tried to join a novitiate in Montreal.

André always had a strong faith and a lively devotion to St Joseph, but he was rejected because of his poor health. However, after the bishop’s intervention he was accepted as a doorkeeper, a lowly position he held for 40 years.

There André warmly greeted visitors and helped in the sacristy and laundry. His real work, however, was prayer. Countless sick, poor and troubled people came to his door seeking help, and he responded by asking St Joseph to intercede for them. 

Many miracles followed and his reputation spread. But André wouldn’t accept any praise. He always insisted that St Joseph had arranged these cures.

He was very keen to increase devotion to St Joseph and he hoped his college would build a shrine across the road. But the property owners wouldn’t sell, so he planted medals of St Joseph around the land and prayed some more.

Suddenly, the owners agreed, and by offering to cut people’s hair André managed to raise the money to build a small chapel which opened in 1904. He welcomed the visitors and miracles followed – a great pile of crutches, canes and braces grew there.

But the chapel was soon too small, so André prayed even more. Today, there’s a magnificent Oratory on Mount Royal that receives two million visitors a year. It’s the largest church in Canada, and its chapels are filled with the testimonies and crutches of people healed through his prayers.

André once said: ‘It’s with the smallest brushes that the artist paints the most beautiful pictures.’ His life was proof of Jesus’ promise that the prayer of the righteous is powerful and effective (Jas.5:16).

When he died in 1937, aged 91, a million people came to pay their respects, despite the freezing winter. He was canonised by Pope Benedict in 2010, and today he’s known as the Miracle Man of Montreal.

Marlin, the widow in Jesus’ parable and St André Bessette all teach us that persistence isn’t nagging God into giving us what we want. It’s love refusing to give up.

In the end, Marlin found Nemo, the widow received justice, and André’s prayers were answered.

So, let me ask: where in your life do you need this kind of endurance? Is it in your prayer for someone who is struggling?

Is it in your trust during a time of illness, grief or loss?

Or is it in the slow work of forgiveness, when reconciliation seems impossible?

Jesus assures us: if even an unjust judge eventually relents, how much more will our loving Father listen to his children who cry to him day and night?

When it all seems too hard, remember Dory’s words: ‘Just keep swimming.’

The Sunflower

(Kgs.5:14-17; 2Tim.2:8-13; Lk.17:11-19)

All over the world, people love flowers. So much, in fact, that there’s now a language of flowers – floriography – in which different blooms mean different things.

Flowers are like God’s poetry, written in colour, shape and fragrance. They express sentiments our hearts sometimes cannot, like love, joy, forgiveness and gratitude.

That’s why we adorn our altars with gorgeous blooms, and why in May each year we crown statues of Our Lady with lilies and roses. They symbolise her heavenly queenship and maternal care.

In the Bible, too, flowers aren’t just decorative; they are living symbols of God’s fatherly love. The Lilies of the Field in Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount invite us to entrust our fragile selves to God’s eternal care (Mt.6:28-29). And the Rose of Sharon in the Song of Songs symbolises God’s watchful love (2:1).

Flowers speak in silence, and many artists like Vincent van Gogh have used them to convey hidden messages. Van Gogh loved to paint sunflowers. Not just as still-lifes, but as portraits of hope, friendship, and resilience. ‘The sunflower is mine,’ he liked to say.

Van Gogh was born in a vicarage, the son of a prominent pastor. His Christian upbringing shaped his heart and soul, and had a major influence on his growth as an artist. He studied theology and dreamed of preaching with words, but later found himself speaking through his paintings.

Van Gogh was particularly fascinated by sunflowers and the way they always follow the sun’s light across the sky. Without the sun, he knew, sunflowers cannot grow or flourish, and cannot share their seeds. That’s why these golden blooms are never half-hearted about their orientation. They’re always turning towards the sun because it’s the source of their life and strength.

In today’s Gospel, Luke tells the story of ten lepers who ask Jesus for help. He heals all ten, but nine of them simply walk away. They enjoy being healed, but quickly forget the source of their gift.

One man is different, however. Like the sunflower, he turns back towards Jesus, the true Sun of Justice (Mal.4:2) and source of all light and life. And in his gratitude, this man not only receives healing for his body, but also salvation for his soul, for Jesus praises him, saying, ‘Your faith has saved you.’

Perhaps reflecting on the wisdom of this man’s action, the English poet Francis Quarles once wrote of a sunflower turning ‘to her God when he sets, the same look which she turned when he rose.’

Here, he captures the constant turning of a devoted heart towards God. For this is what true love is all about: not a passing glance when it’s convenient, but a steady day-long gaze, in both joy and trial. To love is to keep turning back, just like the healed leper who returned to the feet of Jesus.

The American poet Mary Oliver wrote that everything in creation – the trees, the rivers, the flowers – all belong to ‘the family of things.’ And that’s just what the healed leper discovers. By turning back, he rejoins the family: not just his village family, but the family of God. [i]

For gratitude opens the door to belonging.

Van Gogh painted sunflowers eleven times, each work a prayer without words. If you look, you’ll see that every bloom is different, just like us. Some are fresh and perky, while others are battered or drooping, but all are straining towards the light. The point is that holiness isn’t about perfection, but orientation.

At the same time, Vincent van Gogh reminds us that mature sunflowers produce countless seeds that feed both wildlife and people. In the same way, gratitude produces in us an abundant harvest of joy, peace, and the ability to bless others.

Our faith, then, is not just about receiving blessings, but a constant turning towards their source. For gratitude is not an occasional feeling, but a daily posture – like the sunflower’s turning, like the Samaritan’s return (Lk.10:25–37), and like that thankful man in today’s Gospel.

So, are you like the sunflower, always turning your heart to Jesus?

Do you remember to say thank you to him, not only when life shines, but also when shadows fall?

And do you let gratitude draw you closer to Jesus, healing not just your wounds but also your whole life?

For gratitude is a form of humility – may we humbly admit that we are not the sun.

And like van Gogh’s Sunflowers, may we always turn towards Jesus Christ, the Son and source of all life.

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[i] Mary Oliver, Wild Geese https://livelovesimple.com/wild-geese-mary-oliver/

Small Gestures

(Hab.1:2-3; 2:2-4; 2Tim.1:6-8, 13-14; Lk.17:5-10)

Many people dream of making a difference in our world, and wonder how they might achieve that.

Sadly, though, some get discouraged. They think this requires a bold, heroic act or a grand gesture of some kind, so they don’t even try.

Well, today Jesus is telling us to not be discouraged, for we can all make a positive difference – and it’s really not that hard.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus’ disciples are realising how much he expects of them, and they’re starting to worry. So, they ask him to increase their faith.

But Jesus doesn’t offer them more. Instead, he says that faith the size of a mustard seed is enough if it’s placed in him. With such faith, he says, you can work miracles and wonders. You can even transplant a tree into the sea.

He’s exaggerating, of course. Jewish rabbis liked to colour their words to make a point, but his message still stands. Jesus is saying that with genuine faith anything becomes possible, even what might seem impossible. For it’s the quality of your faith that’s important, not the quantity.

And the quality of your faith depends on the way you choose to live.

In his book Balaam’s Donkey, Michael Casey says that there’s a close connection between faith and love. Faith, he says, makes its presence known through love because love represents the full flowering of faith – expressed in movement towards the other, in self-forgetfulness, in self-giving.

The opposite of faith, he says, is not a tangled intellectual denial of truth, but coldness, aloofness, withdrawal, self-concern, narcissism.

In other words, if you’re just not interested in life or in anyone else, then your faith won’t go anywhere and you won’t achieve anything.

But if you do care about people, if you do want to live a good life without seeking reward, then your faith will grow and you’ll find yourself making a difference.

Over the years, many people have done just that. They didn’t intend to change the world; they simply chose to do something good for someone else.

One example of this is Andy Dufresne in the film The Shawshank Redemption. In the bleak confines of that awful prison, he gives a harmonica to his friend Red, who is spiritually dead. That little gift starts to rekindle life within him.

Later on, Andy performs other small but selfless acts. He speaks gently, he offers to help others, he starts building a library, and he plays music over the prison loudspeaker.

All these gestures are expressions of mustard-seed faith, and their effect is to insert some dignity, hope and connection into a place of utter despair. The result is significant change.

St. Thérèse of Lisieux taught that the simplest of gestures, done with great love, hold deep spiritual power.

Calling this her ‘Little Way,’ she made a point of doing ordinary things with very great love, and in the process she grew in holiness and humility. When the world heard about this soon after her death, it became an international sensation and in 1997 she was declared a Doctor of the Church.

Similarly, Carlo Acutis, the Italian teenager who was canonised only last month, did a few small things that have since made a very big difference.

He loved computers and the Church. Putting the two together, he taught himself computer programming and started to help parishes by designing their websites. At the age of 14 he created a volunteering portal, and just before he died aged only 15, he launched an online catalogue of the world’s Eucharistic miracles.  

This website soon became a global resource in dozens of languages, and resulted in an exhibition that has since toured thousands of parishes and over 100 universities. Carlo didn’t expect anything like this. He simply followed his heart and did what he loved, and now we can see how a small, faithful act, even online, can make a major difference.

Today he’s the patron saint of the Internet.

Kindness doesn’t have to be grand. When you do something positive, however small, for someone else, the ripple effects can be significant.

A gentle voice, a sincere welcome, a listening ear, an encouraging word or a small act of service can make a huge difference.

It’s like planting a small mustard seed of faith that grows into a mighty tree.

You might not get to hear about it – St Therese of Lisieux didn’t, and neither did St Carlo Acutis – but even your smallest gestures, performed with purposeful love, can help change the world.

The Great Gulf

(Amos 6:1a,4-7; 1Tim.6:11-16; Lk.16:19-31)

In today’s Gospel, Jesus gives us the story of a well-dressed, well-fed rich man, and Lazarus, a poor, sick and hungry man.

It’s a confronting parable about two lives that never quite connect here on earth, and a chasm that cannot be bridged in the afterlife.

To some, it might seem like an ancient story, no longer relevant to today. But if you’ve seen anything of the poverty in places like Gaza, if you’ve seen the movie Slumdog Millionaire, you already know the world of Lazarus. You know that there’s a great gulf between those who feast and those who suffer.

In this parable, Jesus doesn’t name the rich man. He only tells us that he’s wealthy, comfortable and blind to the obvious. But we do know the poor man’s name. It’s Lazarus, which means ‘God helps.’

The rich man’s sin isn’t cruelty; it’s indifference. He simply doesn’t see Lazarus, so he does nothing to help him.

Then death follows, and a reversal. Both men die. Lazarus goes up to heaven, the rich man finds himself in hell, and a great chasm has opened up between them. Jesus says this is ‘so that no one can cross from there to us.’

 In many ways this story is mirrored in Danny Boyle’s movie Slumdog Millionaire (2008). It tells the story of Jamal, a boy from the slums of Mumbai. Orphaned, beaten, cheated, and exploited, he survives by his wit and his courage.

He is a modern Lazarus: ignored by the powerful, abused by society and left to survive as best he can.

What makes this story so powerful is that Jamal remembers. Every question he answers on the TV game show isn’t because of luck; it comes from a painful memory: his mother’s death, sleeping in a filthy toilet, escaping human traffickers.

Each answer is paid for in suffering. And when he finally wins – not just money, but also the dignity of being seen and heard – it’s not just a personal triumph. It’s a reversal, like Lazarus being lifted up.

And those who exploited him: the slumlord, the police, and even the show’s host, are like the rich man in the parable. Their comfort comes at the cost of others’ suffering. And their sin is always the same: they just did not see.

Why does Jesus give us this parable? It’s to wake us up.

The rich man is horrified to find himself in hell, and asks for Lazarus to warn his brothers. But Abraham replies, ‘They have Moses and the prophets; let them listen to them.’

We, too, have the Gospel, the saints and the images and voices of the poor to warn us. But are we listening to them?

We cannot say, ‘I didn’t know’ because Lazarus is all around us – people suffering in silence, at our gates, in our streets and on our screens.

We know that Lazarus is out there. We also know that that great chasm doesn’t start after death. It’s already here, when we fail to bridge the gap between poverty and wealth, indifference and love.

Someone who was deeply moved when he heard this parable was Albert Schweizer, who was born in France in 1875. He was a university professor in Vienna and one of the finest concert organists in Europe.

This parable changed his life. It reminded him of the poverty and disease of colonial Africa, and the need for urgent medical care.

Hearing that the conditions in Gabon, West Africa, were particularly dire, he famously said, ‘I no longer needed to search for my path.’

He abandoned his career and studied medicine. When he graduated, he established a hospital by the jungles in Lambaréné, in Gabon, with his wife Helene. She was a trained nurse and together they devoted their lives to offering medical care for the poor in truly awful conditions.

And through his philosophy of Reverence for Life, he made a significant contribution to ethical thought and practice.

Albert Schweizer gave people hope and joy, and won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1952. 

The movie Slumdog Millionaire ends on a note of hope and joy, too. But Jesus’ parable doesn’t. It ends with a warning: Don’t wait.

Don’t wait until it’s too late. Don’t wait until that great gulf between rich and poor, between heaven and hell, can no longer be crossed.

Who is Lazarus in your life?

And what can you do to help?

The Shrewd Fraudster

(Am.8:4-7; 1Tim.2:1-8; Lk.16:1-13)

Jesus’ Parable of the Dishonest Steward really puzzles some people.

A steward is caught squandering his employer’s wealth, and expects to lose his job. But instead of seeking forgiveness, he cunningly tries to win the favour of his boss’ clients by offering to cut their debt to him.

Surprisingly, he is commended, not for his dishonesty, but for being shrewd. Then Jesus ends the story saying, ‘You cannot serve both God and mammon.’

What are we to make of this parable? Why would Jesus praise a cheat?

Over the years, many writers have explored this question. Dostoevsky does so in The Brothers Karamazov, and Shakespeare in The Merchant of Venice.

But Steven Spielberg explores it, too, in his movie Catch Me if You Can (2002). This is the true story of a remarkable con artist, Frank Abagnale Jr, played by Leonardo di Caprio.

From 1964 to 1967, Frank Abagnale successfully impersonated a Pan Am pilot and flew over two million miles for free. During that time, he also posed as a paediatrician in Georgia, and a lawyer in Louisiana. He forged, cheated and manipulated his way across the country.

He cashed almost $4 million in fake cheques in 26 countries and in every US state, and he did all this before his 19^th birthday. Like the steward in today’s parable, he misused trust, he exploited weak systems and he evaded justice with remarkable skill.

Frank Abagnale was very clever, and became the most daring con man in US history. However, he was eventually caught and imprisoned.

But here’s the twist: instead of condemning him and letting his gifts go to waste, the FBI offered him a job. They recognised his skills and asked him to put them to better use by helping them catch other fraudsters.

So, he went from exploiting systems to protecting them, from selfish dishonesty to genuine service for others. He effectively became a faithful steward, still using his gifts, but now pointed in the right direction.

This, I think, is the point Jesus is trying to make. He isn’t praising the steward’s corruption; he’s recognising his remarkable skills.

And if we have particular skills, Jesus is inviting us to use them to help build his kingdom of love.

‘The children of this world,’ Jesus says, ‘are more astute in dealing with their own kind than are the children of light.’ In other words, lots of people today use whatever they have to pursue their own goals.

But Christians, by contrast, tend to be too timid, weak and passive. We might have many great qualities, but we’re not using them in our journey of faith.

Jesus wants us to be smarter in the way we follow him.

St Maximilian Kolbe heard Jesus’ call, and took it very seriously. He was a Polish Franciscan priest in the early 20^th Century, with a great love for the Blessed Virgin Mary.

But he didn’t simply wait for people to come to church. He knew that if you want to reach people, you have to go out into the world using all the modern tools available.

So, he founded a printing press, a magazine and even a radio station. He trained other friars not only in prayer, but in journalism, publishing and management. He built an impressive media network, not to spread his own name, but to promote Jesus’ name through Mary.

Maximilian Kolbe was as shrewd as the steward in today’s parable, but his goal wasn’t to make money or save his job. His goal was to save souls.

Sadly, the Nazis caught him, shut his ministry down and sent him to Auschwitz. But there he did the greatest thing of all. When another prisoner, a father, was condemned to death, Maximilian stepped forward and volunteered to take his place.

He used the last ‘resource’ he had – his own life – to save someone else.

Maximilian Kolbe made many friends for eternity – people he had helped, consoled and inspired. He built the kind of treasure that moth and rust cannot destroy.

He was clever, and he used his talents for Jesus Christ.

This is what Jesus wants us to do. To use our time wisely, with eternity in mind. To use our blessings not just for comfort, but for love. And to use our relationships to pursue peace, justice, and holiness.

Jesus ends his parable with a sobering truth. He says: ‘You cannot serve both God and money.’

It’s not what we have that’s important. It’s what we do with it.

The Paradox of the Cross

(Num.21:4-9; Phil.2:6-11; Jn.3:13-17)

Life is full of paradoxes, of things that seem self-contradictory or absurd but still remain true. Like in social media, where the more connected you are, the less connected you become.

Or the truism that if you want to succeed, then expect to fail.

Today we celebrate the greatest paradox of all – the Cross of Christ. It’s the most brutal instrument of torture and death, and yet it’s also the tree of life.

It’s a symbol of utter human weakness and failure, but also the ultimate proof of God’s power and love.

On this feast day, we are all invited to reflect on the mystery of the Cross. Not with sorrow, but with a strong sense of awe and joy because God has used that Cross to transform death into life. He has given hope to our troubled world.

Why do we celebrate the Cross today? It’s because on September 14 every year the Church commemorates its discovery by St. Helena, the mother of the Roman Emperor Constantine. She became a Christian later in life and in 326 AD journeyed to Jerusalem, searching for the holy places in Jesus’ life.

Helena had heard that the pagan Temple of Aphrodite had been built on Calvary, so she had it demolished and underneath she found three crosses. Constantine then had the Basilica of the Holy Sepulchre erected on that spot.

For St Helena, the Cross wasn’t a souvenir or a relic; it was the source of all salvation and a bridge to eternal life. By making it visible to everyone, she transformed what was once a sign of shame into a symbol of victory, and people have been venerating the Cross ever since.

Someone else who was fascinated by the Cross was St Thérèse of Lisieux, who lived a mostly hidden life in a Carmelite convent in France. She suffered considerably in her short life and eventually died a painful death from tuberculosis.

Thérèse often reflected on Jesus’ Cross and what it meant, and came to realise that the Cross isn’t just to be found on Calvary, for it’s embedded in every suffering we endure, including our illness, sadness, discomforts and frustrations.

She learnt that every sacrifice, every cross, can be transformed when it’s accepted with love, for even the smallest suffering can bring us closer to Jesus.

She came to welcome every trial as a gift from God, and called this her Little Way.

In her autobiography, The Story of a Soul, Thérèse explains how every day she tried to embrace little crosses, like enduring an insult, accepting the annoying faults of others, and saying nothing when she was misunderstood. She saw all these little sacrifices as acts of love for Jesus.

She once wrote: ‘I choose all! I don’t want to be a saint by halves. I’m not afraid to suffer for you, Jesus!’

She also said, ‘To pick up a pin for love can convert a soul.’

St Thérèse teaches us that experiencing the Cross doesn’t have to be something dramatic or momentous, for the Cross is also there when we do ordinary things with great love.

In this way, she has made Jesus’ Cross accessible to us all in our daily lives.

On 19 October 1997, Pope St John Paul II declared St Thérèse of Lisieux a Doctor of the Church. This formally recognises her for making a major contribution to our understanding of the Christian faith.

John Paul II understood what St Therese was trying to say. He himself had suffered mightily, losing his family early in life and enduring the cruelty of both Nazi and Communist regimes. He was also shot and nearly died in 1981, and in his later years he suffered from Parkinson’s disease, but didn’t try to hide it.

He embraced his sufferings publicly, proclaiming that they are not meaningless when they are offered with love and united to Christ. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said, for Jesus has already conquered death.

The Cross of Christ is a true paradox. It’s an awful instrument of torture and death, but Jesus and the saints teach us not to fear it because it’s also the source of new life.

St. Helena encourages us to search for the Cross, for it’s hidden inside the rubble of our messy lives.

St. Thérèse teaches us to hold the Cross up high as we quietly accept life’s challenges in a spirit of love.

And St. John Paul II shows us that you don’t have to be strong to be holy; you just need to be faithful in your weakness.