Deacon Peter

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.

A Life of Prayer

(Gen.18:20-32; Col.2:12-14; Lk.11:1-13)

What is prayer? Essentially, it’s uniting ourselves with God. It’s raising our heart and mind to him, recognising his presence and conversing with him.

We tend to think that prayer begins with us, that somehow we must make it happen. But prayer doesn’t start with us. It starts with God. It starts with his constantly open arms and his unconditional love for us.

Prayer is about falling in love with God, who already loves us totally.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus’ disciples ask him how to pray and he teaches them the ‘Our Father.’ With its 5 petitions, Luke’s Our Father is shorter than Matthew’s version which we all use today. Matthew’s Our Father has 7 petitions (Mt.6:9-13).

Now, the Our Father isn’t just a prayer to recite, for it actually represents a way of life. We can see this in Matthew 13, where Jesus gives us seven parables.

These are often called the Kingdom Parables because each one tells us something about God’s Kingdom. At the same time, they also help us understand the seven petitions in Matthew’s Our Father, for they are closely paralleled. Let’s briefly look at each of them.

Hallowed Be Thy Name

To hallow God’s name is to make it holy in our lives. In the Parable of the Sower (Mt.13:1-23), the Word of God is scattered everywhere like seeds. Some hearts are hard and reject it, while others are only shallow. But some hearts receive it deeply and become very fruitful.

God’s name is truly hallowed when his Word grows fruitfully in our hearts. Do we reverently receive God’s Word? Do our lives honour his name?

Thy Kingdom Come

God’s Kingdom is growing, but we know there is resistance. In the Parable of the Weeds and the Wheat (Mt.13:24-30), good and evil grow side by side until the harvest.

When we pray ‘Thy Kingdom Come,’ we trust that God’s justice will prevail, even when the field looks messy. So, this is a prayer of patience and hope.

Thy Will Be Done

God’s will often begins quietly and small, like a mustard seed (Mt.13:31-32). But when it’s truly embraced, it becomes a sheltering tree.

Do we embrace God’s will when it seems small and insignificant? Do we trust his plan and allow it to grow in us? Do we nourish God’s presence in our lives?

Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread

Our daily bread is more than food; it’s God’s grace working inside us, like Yeast working in dough (Mt.13.33). God’s Kingdom rises within us when his grace is kneaded into every part of our life.

Do we feed our souls with God’s presence? Do we allow his grace to ferment and transform us? Do we make the most of the Sacraments? The Eucharist is the ultimate heavenly yeast – hidden, but life-giving.

Forgive Us Our Trespasses

The man who finds Treasure Hidden in a Field (Mt.13:44) sells everything he has to buy it. To grasp the treasure of God’s Kingdom we must let go of everything that blocks our path, including our sin and our pride. Do we value mercy more than our grudges? Are we prepared to let things go?

Lead Us Not into Temptation

The merchant who finds the Pearl of Great Price (Mt.13:45-46) is willing to sell everything to have it. We, too, must let go of any temptations that hold us back.

Every day we are tempted by the fake ‘pearls’ of pride, power, comfort and wealth. But only one thing is worth absolutely everything. Will we ask the Holy Spirit to help us find it, or will we settle for less?

Deliver Us from Evil

In Jesus’ seventh parable, the net catches both good and bad fish (Mt.13:47-50). Jesus promises that one day they will all be sorted out and separated.

This isn’t about fear. It’s about being faithful, because evil will not have the final word. God will deliver those who seek him with sincere hearts.

Every time we pray the Our Father, then, we enter into the loving heart of Jesus. But these aren’t just beautiful words; they are actually a way of life, and through his parables Jesus helps us understand what it all means.

So, whenever you recite the Our Father don’t do it mindlessly. Let Jesus’ words and his parables nourish and transform you from within.

Let’s now pray this wonderful prayer together:

Our Father, who art in heaven
Hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come,
Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread
and forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against us
and deliver us from evil. Amen.

The Better Part

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They don’t understand Ada at all.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is the better part.

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

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

Three Good Samaritans

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

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

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

So, who do you think is your neighbour?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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