Deacon Peter

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.

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.