Deacon Peter

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.

The Flower of Lucca

(Wis.9:13-18; Phlm.9-10, 12-17; Lk.14:25-33)

Jesus says it himself: it’s not always easy being his disciple.

Talking to a crowd in today’s Gospel, Jesus says that if you want to follow him, be prepared to give up everything. Not just your possessions or relationships, but perhaps even your lives.

You cannot be my disciple without carrying a Cross, Jesus says.

Some people are alarmed by this and walk away. But not all, because others go on to become saints. Like St. Gemma Galgani, a young Italian woman who shows us what Christian discipleship can be like.

Gemma was born in Tuscany, in 1878, the fifth of eight children. She was a clever girl, and her mother, who she adored, taught her all about the faith and the value of the Cross.

At her Confirmation, Jesus spoke to Gemma’s heart, asking if she would give him her mother. Gemma said yes, as long as he took her as well. But Jesus said she would have to wait. Soon afterwards her mother died. Gemma was only 7.

Two of her siblings also died young, and her beloved brother Gino died from tuberculosis while studying for the priesthood. At 16, Gemma herself caught spinal meningitis and had to leave school. Then her father died, leaving her to care for her siblings.

All this suffering brought Gemma very close to Jesus. She knew how Jesus had suffered and died for her, and secretly she decided to link any suffering she might have with his.

During her illness Gemma disliked being a burden to others and prayed to the Venerable Passionist, Gabriel Possenti, for help. Through his intercession, she was cured. This miracle contributed to Gabriel’s own canonisation in 1920.

When Gemma started receiving marriage proposals, she refused them because she only wanted Jesus. In May 1899 she tried to join the Visitation Convent in Lucca, but they declined because of her poor health.

The next month, on the eve of the Feast of the Sacred Heart, she received the stigmata, the five wounds of Jesus, on her hands, feet and side. For the rest of her short life they appeared every week from 8.00pm Thursday until about 3.00pm Friday. She tried to hide these wounds and offered the intense pain for the salvation of souls, saying: ‘If only I could make everyone love Jesus as I do!’

Several people, including some relatives, accused Gemma of attention-seeking by faking her piety, stigmata and other mystical experiences. She found this unpleasant, but she was not discouraged.

‘An interior voice is telling me that we must stay at the foot of the Cross,’ she once said. ‘If Jesus is nailed to the Cross, we must not complain if we have to stay at his feet.’ 

Early in 1903, she was diagnosed with tuberculosis and shortly afterwards, on Holy Saturday, she died. She was only 25. Her parish priest said she had died smiling.

Gemma was beatified in 1933 and canonized in 1940.

Through our baptism we are all called to follow Christ. Jesus says this means we must carry our Cross, but it doesn’t mean we have to look for suffering. We simply have to accept whatever might come from loving him.

St. Gemma Galgani didn’t seek suffering, but she accepted it when it came. When she was forced to leave school, she offered it to Jesus. When people disbelieved her, she offered it to Jesus. And when pain wracked her body, she kissed the crucifix and said, ‘Jesus, I trust in you.’

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says that anyone planning something new must know the cost beforehand. In other words, feelings aren’t enough. We need to understand what discipleship means.

St Gemma Galgani understood the cost, but still said yes to Jesus. She also understood that love makes even the Cross beautiful. She once said: ‘It’s true, Jesus, that I am suffering, but I’m not afraid. Because I am suffering for you, I am happy.’

St Gemma saw her trials not as punishments, but as invitations to love.

In 1921, St Maximilian Kolbe wrote: ‘I read the Life of Gemma Galgani. It did me more good than a whole series of spiritual exercises.’

She is often called the Flower of Lucca.

Today Jesus wants us to choose him above all else, and to stay faithful to him, even when the going gets tough.

So, let St Gemma accompany you in your journey. Let her remind you that no price is too great for the love of Jesus, who sacrificed everything for us.

That’s why she was willing to give everything in return.

Lesson from Lourdes

(Sir.3:17-20, 28-29; Heb.12:18-19, 22-24; Lk.14:1, 7-14)

Have you ever explored the psychology of seating?

When you walk into a café or a meeting, where do you like to sit? On an aeroplane, do you choose the aisle, middle or window seat?

Where we choose to sit says a lot about us. It reveals something of our outlook on life, our relationship with others and our desire to influence any given situation.

Many of us like such control. We want a good seat, not too far back, but not too close to the front. We want to be seen, but not awkwardly. And we want to be valued, without seeming too proud.

Today, Jesus says: ‘When you are invited, go and sit at the lowest place.’

He’s not just telling us to be humble; he’s asking us to trust. To trust that our worth doesn’t just come from pushing ourselves forward, but from letting God lift us up in his time.

Today’s Gospel finds a living echo in the story of St. Bernadette Soubirous, the 14-year-old girl who saw Our Lady at Lourdes, in southern France in 1858.

Bernadette was young, sickly and could barely read. Her family was so poor that they lived in a former jail cell. If anyone in town was allocating ‘important seats,’ Bernadette would surely have been left at the back, if invited at all.

And yet, the Blessed Virgin Mary chose to visit her. Not the mayor or the rich or the educated, but a girl who was so poor that she was practically invisible. And she visited her not just once, but eighteen times over six months.

Bernadette didn’t seek attention. In fact, she avoided it. But when people learnt of her Marian visions, she suffered ridicule and brutal interrogation.

And later, when people realised that her story was true, she was offered praise and prestige. But this did not move her. ‘The Blessed Virgin used me like a broom,’ Bernadette humbly said, ‘she’s put me back in my corner.’

Bernadette always chose the lowest place, and was lifted up by God’s grace.

Lourdes today is a remarkable place. People from all nations gather there, especially the sick, the disabled and the forgotten. They are looking for healing and hope. And there something surprising happens: those who are weak and wan are welcomed as honoured guests.

Volunteers gently push wheelchairs into positions of prominence. Nurses bathe the sick with reverence. Pilgrims bow before those who suffer, not because they’re pitiful, but because they are holy.

At Lourdes, the first become last, and the last are made first.

Pride and prestige have no place there. Only people longing for grace. And amidst all that humility, miracles do happen – not always in the body, but very often in the heart.

Many pilgrims step into the cold baths of Lourdes, not for comfort, but for surrender. It’s humbling. You let go of control. You let others help you. It’s not dramatic. But when you step out, something inside you shifts.

It’s like entering Jesus’ narrow door, like taking the lowest place at the table.
And from that low place, grace flows.

Today we’ve come to this altar to celebrate the heavenly banquet, and Jesus is our host. But the guest list looks upside-down. It’s not the proud, the successful or the self-righteous we have here, but the broken, the humble and the hungry.

We come to this table not by climbing, but by kneeling. Not by proving ourselves, but by letting ourselves be loved.

So, let me ask you: where in your life are you being asked to take the lower seat?

Is it in a family relationship where you need to listen more than speak? Is it in your workplace, letting others shine without you being resentful? Is it in your faith, returning to prayer like a child, with no fancy titles or defences?

The world teaches us to rise and push ourselves forward. Jesus teaches us to stay back and kneel, so that he can raise us in his time.

At Lourdes, grace pours out in the lowest places: in muddy grottoes, hidden hearts and quiet prayers.

Let it pour into your heart, too.

For ‘everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but whoever humbles himself will be exalted.’

The Secret Garden

(Isa.66:18-21; Heb.12:5-7; 11-13; Lk.13:22-30)

In the late 1800s, when the author Frances Hodgson Burnett (1849-1924) lived at Maytham Hall in England, a red robin led her to a hidden walled garden.

It inspired her to write her famous children’s novel, The Secret Garden. Set in 1901, it’s the story of a spoiled, lonely and recently orphaned young girl named Mary Lennox. Mary is sent to live at her uncle’s mysterious estate in Yorkshire.

There she hears whispers of a secret garden that’s locked, hidden and long forgotten. Mary becomes very curious, and starts looking for it. First she finds the key, and then she finds a door hidden behind a wall of ivy.

She enters that garden to find it choked by weeds, but it’s not dead. It’s waiting to be reborn. And as she starts caring for it, something else starts to blossom: her heart. Mary reaches out to her unhappy cousin Colin, who is crippled by fear and self-pity. She invites him to join her and he, too, starts to heal.

What was once hidden becomes a place of friendship, laughter and new life.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks of a ‘narrow door’ that leads to life. He says we must ‘try our best’ to enter it, not because God wants to make it hard for us, but because this doorway requires something small and simple: our humility.

You cannot fit through that door carrying any sense of pride, ego or entitlement.

We often think of salvation as a wide, comfortable path. But Jesus is making it clear: if we want to follow him, we must change. It’s not enough to say, ‘I knew about you, Lord.’ We must truly know Jesus through our hearts, through our life choices and through our daily acts of love and mercy.

In The Secret Garden, both Mary and Colin are initially inward-looking, angry and resistant to change. They avoid the ‘narrow door’ of vulnerability, responsibility and love. But once they enter and engage with that secret garden, everything changes. Why?

It’s because that garden is hard work. It demands attention and it doesn’t flatter them. But in returning every day to dig, prune and tend it, they discover a joy that gives them new life.

And so it is with us. Jesus’ ‘narrow door’ is not a trap; it’s the threshold to our new life, but we have to work at it.

In Luke’s Gospel, someone asks Jesus, ‘Will many be saved?’ But Jesus doesn’t answer. Why? Because it’s essentially irrelevant.

There are better questions to ask, like: Am I willing to change to fit through that narrow door?

Am I willing to forgive, to let go of the resentment that poisons my soul?

Will I drop the distractions that block me from truly loving God and my family?

Am I humble enough to accept help and to apologise when I’m wrong?

And like Mary in The Secret Garden, will I reach out to those who are forgotten and unloved?

This secret garden is a fine metaphor for the Kingdom of God. It’s a very special place where the sick are healed, dead things bloom again, and joy returns.

Unfortunately, it’s hidden and forgotten by too many people today. They’ve forgotten it because they believe it’s no longer important. ‘We’re going to heaven anyway,’ they think, ‘so why should we bother?’

Or they might think ‘we’re good people, so heaven must surely be ours.’

Jesus is trying to shake us out of this complacency. In John 10:9, Jesus tells us that he is the door, and today he says this door is narrow and not everyone will enter it.

People will come from east and west, from north and south, Jesus says. In other words, people will come from everywhere and even some of the most unlikely souls will be welcomed into God’s Kingdom.

But note this: many others who assume they are safe may be left out, especially if they refuse to change. As Jesus says: ‘the last will be first, and the first will be last.’

This, then, is our message for today: If you want to enter God’s secret garden through that narrow door, then you must approach it honestly, humbly and be prepared to change.

And the key to this door can be found in our bold ‘yes’ to God’s call.

Beyond that threshold lies our personal transformation and unimaginable beauty and joy.

But first we must do our very best to enter that narrow doorway. [i]

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[i] The Secret Garden Movie – https://archive.org/details/the-secret-garden-1993-dv-drip-720x-576-ac-3-2ch-eng-rhoo-d

Dead Man Walking

(Jer.38:4-6; 8-10; Heb.12:1-4; 8-19; Lk.12:49-53)

It seems hard to believe that Jesus would ever say he’s come to set fire to our world, let alone cause division rather than peace. Yet that’s exactly what he does in today’s Gospel.

It’s tempting to try to soften these words. After all, isn’t Jesus the Prince of Peace? Didn’t the angels sing ‘Peace on Earth’ at his birth?

Yes, but not peace at any price. Jesus didn’t come to promote a false peace, one that avoids conflict by quietly hiding the truth or overlooking evil.

The fire Jesus came to bring is the fire of love, the fire of truth, and the fire that can divide but also purify and heal when it addresses an injustice.

There’s a good example of this fire at work in Tim Robbins’ movie Dead Man Walking. It’s based on the true story of Sister Helen Prejean.

Sr Helen is a sister of the Congregation of St Joseph and a tireless advocate for the abolition of the death penalty in the United States. In 1993 she wrote a powerful book detailing her experience as a spiritual advisor to two men on Louisiana’s death row.

In 1995, her book became a movie starring Susan Sarandon and Sean Penn. It tells the story of how Sr Helen accompanies one convicted murderer to his execution. She chooses to walk with him, not to excuse his crimes, but to help him face the truth, and to encounter the possibility of mercy.

This causes great division. The victims’ families and even some Church members are outraged that she gave him any support at all. ‘How can you comfort someone like him?’ they ask. ‘Aren’t you on the wrong side?’

But Sr Helen isn’t choosing sides. She’s choosing Christ. And sometimes Jesus divides us, not to destroy, but to save. Sr Helen brings the fire of truth and mercy into a place of hatred and shame. That fire hurts, but it also saves.

Jesus’ words today are not about violence or vengeance. They’re about the division that can happen when we stand for truth and love in a world that too often prefers comfort and convenience.

This division can occur when we choose to forgive rather than seek revenge, or when we refuse to gossip or participate in an injustice.

It can also happen when someone stands for life and the dignity of the poor, or when someone speaks out against cruelty, racism or violence.

They may lose friendships, and even family bonds may be tested. But that division isn’t meant to destroy relationships. It’s meant to expose the false peace for which we too often settle, and it opens the way for real reconciliation, grounded in truth.

Jesus says, ‘I’ve come to bring fire to the earth, and how I wish it were blazing already!’ But what is this fire?

It’s the fire of the Holy Spirit, which is the flame of conversion, justice, and mercy. This is the fire that burns away our selfishness, refines our intentions and warms the cold parts of our hearts. This isn’t the fire of destruction. It’s the fire of transforming love.

So, what does all this mean for us today?

Most of us hate conflict and try to avoid anything that might cause division. But some divisions are necessary and some are holy.

Ask yourself: do I try to ‘keep the peace’ by avoiding something that deep down I know I should be doing?

Am I hiding an important truth for the sake of comfort?

Is Jesus calling me to take a stand, even if it makes me unpopular or uncomfortable?

Jesus doesn’t divide for the sake of destruction. He divides to make us whole.

Sr Helen Prejean has long argued that the death penalty is not only morally flawed, but incompatible with the Christian call to mercy, reconciliation, and human dignity.

She chose to enter a place that most people would run from – a prison cell. But by doing that, she brought a soul closer to salvation.

This is precisely what Jesus did. He walked into our broken world, full of fire and mercy. He, too, caused division as many people objected to his presence. But Jesus didn’t come to affirm our false peace. He came to save us, to give us hope.

Today, let’s pray that we will have the courage to welcome Jesus’ spiritual fire into our lives, burning away all that is empty and false.

May we be filled with the fire of God’s love.

May we accept the truth that sets us free.

To the Heights!

(Wis.18:6-9; Heb.11:1-2; 8-19; Lk.12:32-48)

Mountain climbing is more than just trying to reach the summit. It’s also a test of your planning and perseverance.

Fitness and practice are important, too, as is carrying only what you need. It’s also critical to stay focussed on the goal, especially when the going gets tough.

Mountain climbing is a good metaphor for life because we’re all ascending towards something. But here’s the question: what are we climbing towards?

Next month, on September 7, Pope Leo XIV will be canonising Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati, who was a mountaineer, both literally and spiritually. He was born in Turin, Italy, in 1901.

Pier Giorgio’s father was a wealthy businessman and the Italian ambassador to Germany, and his mother was an artist. Neither had much connection with religion, but Pier Giorgio discovered Jesus at an early age and his faith grew quickly.

As a child he started giving away things like his food and his shoes to poor people. At other times he gave away his bus money. One cold winter he gave his shoes to a homeless man and walked home barefoot.

Pier Giorgio was very sociable and loved parties, but he worried about the rise of fascism, communism and anti-Catholic persecution in Italy. So, he got actively involved in Catholic youth groups and joined the St Vincent de Paul Society when he was 17.

He loved sports, hiking and climbing, and said that mountains lifted his soul towards God. But he also climbed to the spiritual heights of holiness, by living simply, going regularly to Mass and sometimes spending all night in Eucharistic adoration. In 1922 he joined the Lay Dominicans.

Pier Giorgio once wrote: ‘The higher we go, the better we shall hear the voice of Christ.’

He regularly visited the poor in the slums of Turin, often in secret, carrying groceries or medicine on his way to his university classes. He gave away so many things – his clothes, his money, and his time – but never his joy.

Then suddenly he got sick with polio. He had caught it from the slums where he’d helped so many people. But even on his deathbed he still worried about others. Just before he died, he scribbled a note reminding a friend not to forget the medicine for someone he had been helping. He died in 1925, aged only 24.

His parents expected a quiet funeral, but when thousands arrived they were stunned. They had no idea how much their son had been doing for others.

Pier Giorgio Frassati’s life reminds us that the way to God’s Kingdom is an upward path – one that demands readiness, simplicity and plenty of love.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says to his disciples, ‘Don’t be afraid, little flock, for it has pleased the Father to give you the Kingdom.’

Now this is significant. Jesus doesn’t say sell everything first, and then God’s Kingdom will be yours. Rather, God is already giving you his Kingdom because he loves you. Now, all you have to do is trust and love him – and then ‘Sell your possessions and give alms.’

Why? It’s because you need to let go of whatever weighs you down. Like mountain climbing, it’s much easier when you carry very little.

Then Jesus utters his famous line: ‘Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.’ This is like a spiritual compass. If you want to know where your heart is, just look at your treasure. What are you clinging to? Where do you spend most of your time, energy and love? And what do you most fear losing?

Pier Giorgio found his treasure in the faces of the poor, in friendship, in the Eucharist and in the joy of the Gospel. He happily gave away his privileges to climb towards a higher goal.

Today, Jesus is telling us to be ready, like servants waiting for their master. Not because of fear, but because we love God and long to see his face.

How might we be ready? By living with humility and deep purpose, doing whatever we can for others. As Jesus says, ‘To whom much is given, much is expected.’

We’ve all been blessed in so many ways, but what are we doing with it all? Pier Giorgio was born into a wealthy family, but he poured it all out for others.

He once said: ‘Charity is not enough; we must also bring them the truth.’

At his beatification ceremony in 1990, Pope John Paul II described Pier Giorgio as a ‘man of the eight beatitudes.’ His friends called him ‘an explosion of joy.’

Today, as we continue climbing that mountain towards the heart of God, let’s lighten our packs, trim our lamps and lift up our hearts.

And let’s consider adopting Pier Giorgio’s motto: Verso l’alto! – ‘To the heights!’ [i]

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[i] https://frassatiusa.org/frassati-biography

Lagom Living

(Ecc.1:2; 2:21-23; Col.3:1-5, 9-11; Lk.12:13-21)

There’s always something interesting to learn from other cultures. The Swedes, for example, have a very sensible concept they call Lagom.

Lagom basically means ‘just the right amount.’ It means knowing when enough is enough, and aiming for balance and moderation rather than constantly seeking more.

It’s the contented feeling you get when you have everything you need to be comfortable, including somewhere to live, something to eat, enough money and friends to get by, and being happy with that (Prov.30:8-9).

The idea of Lagom apparently comes from the Vikings, and from the expression ‘Lagom är bäst’, which means ‘The right amount is best.’ The Vikings used to pass mead around in a bowl or horn and each person had a sip, making sure everyone got their fair share.

Now, contrast that with the way many people live today. Many people have far more than they will ever need, and yet they’re still not satisfied.

There’s a word for this. It’s greed. Greed is craving something you like, when you really don’t need it. It’s about trying to get more of what you want, in a world where there’s never enough for everyone.

This worries Jesus. In fact, 16 of his parables mention money, wealth or material possessions. Why? It’s because our relationship with wealth says a lot about our priorities and our trust in God (Mt.6:21).

In Luke’s Gospel today, Jesus is teaching a crowd of people when a man calls out to him, ‘Master, tell my brother to give me a share of our inheritance.’ He has been fighting over this money and wants Jesus to adjudicate.

In those days rabbis gave legal judgements on a whole range of civil, criminal and religious questions. But this time Jesus doesn’t want to get involved. Instead, he tells the parable of a rich man who’s had a great harvest and plans to build bigger barns to store his new wealth. He wants to spend it all on a life of pleasure.

Today, many people would admire this man’s success, and yet Jesus calls him a fool. Why? It’s because the only thing he cares about is his wealth and the pleasure it gives him.

He doesn’t realise that everything comes from God, and that God expects us all to use what we have for the benefit others as well as ourselves (Eph.4:28).

And importantly, this man has forgotten about time. He dies soon afterwards and has to account for himself before God (Dt.16:16-17).

When we think about it, this story really isn’t about money. It’s about how we choose to live our lives. It’s not wrong to be wealthy, but it is wrong to be selfish with what we have, especially when it means that others go without.

In his book Balaam’s Donkey, Michael Casey writes, ‘What I want for myself involves my denying it to others, since there is not enough for everyone. But there is irony here. As the Irving Berlin song reminds us, “After you got what you want, you don’t want it.” We move on to the next thing.’

He continues: ‘You might recall that Ethan in John Steinbeck’s The Winter of our Discontent concludes that you can never have enough money; you either have no money or not enough. And wasn’t it the Beatles who sang, “Money can’t buy me love?” Greed remains hungry even when the monster is fed. Meanwhile, having acquired what we wanted, we worry about losing it, and if that should happen, we grieve over its loss. The moment of bliss is brief indeed.’ [i]

There is something very sensible about Lagom living, and striking the right balance in all aspects of our lives. At the end of the day, we only need enough. If we have too much, it means that someone else may be suffering.

Let’s close with a story.

A pastor was invited to the home of a wealthy man in Texas. After the meal, the host took him to a spot where they could get a good view of his land.

Pointing to the oil wells, he boasted, ‘I used to have nothing. Now, all you can see here is mine.’ Then looking in the opposite direction at his sprawling fields of grain, he said, ‘That’s all mine.’ Turning east toward his cattle, he bragged, ‘They’re also mine.’ Then pointing to a huge forest in the west he beamed, ‘That’s all mine, too.’

He paused, expecting to be congratulated on his success. But the pastor simply placed his hand on the man’s shoulder, pointed towards heaven and asked ‘How much do you have in that direction?’

The man thought for a while and then confessed, ‘I’ve never thought of that.’

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[i] Michael Casey, Balaam’s Donkey, Liturgical Press, Collegeville MN, 2018:188.