Deacon Peter

St Titus Brandsma

(Acts 2:14a, 36-41; 1Pet.2:20b-25; Jn.10:1-10)

Our world is full of voices – some loud and compelling, others angry or threatening – on TV, social media, the news and advertising.

Some promise answers or belonging or success, while others tell us who to fear and who to blame. They all want our attention.

The danger isn’t hearing all these voices. The danger is following the wrong one.

That’s why today’s story of the Good Shepherd is so important. Jesus doesn’t say, ‘My sheep understand my teaching,’ or ‘My sheep agree with me.’ He says something much more profound: ‘My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me.’

As the Good Shepherd, Jesus does not argue, force, or manipulate anyone. He simply offers a steady voice that can be recognised, trusted, and loved.

Do you remember the story of the Pied Piper? It’s apparently based on truth, but he’s a colourful character with a fine voice and a magical flute that draws in the crowds. However, when true leadership is needed, he disappears and all who follow him are lost.

The Pied Piper is like the patron saint of manipulators. By contrast, the Good Shepherd never abandons his flock.

We can see this reflected in the life of St Titus Brandsma.

Titus was born in the Netherlands in 1881. His parents were devout Catholic farmers who had six children, five of whom entered religious life. Titus became a Carmelite priest, a university professor, and a journalist.

When the Nazis occupied the Netherlands in 1940, they tried to control public opinion by forcing Catholic newspapers to publish their propaganda. But through his writing and teaching, Titus actively resisted. He strongly believed that truth matters, and that constant lies damage the soul.

As a spiritual advisor to the Dutch Catholic journalists’ association, he urged journalists to ignore the Nazis’ demands, but in 1942 he was arrested. The Nazis offered to let him live quietly in a monastery if he urged Catholic newspapers to publish their propaganda. He refused, and was sent to Dachau concentration camp.

In Dachau, the voices heard were cruel commands, and names were replaced by numbers. But Titus continued to live by a different voice. He urged the other prisoners to have hope and he prayed with them.

In July 1942, the camp nurse gave him a lethal injection of carbolic acid. As she did so, he gave her a hand-made rosary he’d received from another prisoner who’d been executed. ‘I’ll pray for you,’ he said.

His gentleness moved her heart profoundly and brought her back to the faith. She was present at his beatification 43 years later, in 1985.

Titus died, but in mourning his loss we remember the Good Shepherd’s words: ‘No one takes them out of my hand’ (Jn.10:11).

Titus Brandsma understood something that is so important today: not every confident voice tells the truth, and not every repeated message deserves our trust. Some voices stir fear, some divide and some dehumanise.

It may seem easier to follow than resist, but these voices don’t lead to life.

Jesus calls himself the Good Shepherd because he does the opposite. He doesn’t manipulate, he doesn’t abandon, and he doesn’t trade truth for safety. Instead, Jesus knows his sheep, he stays and he gives life.

Witnesses who survived Dachau said that Titus kept telling others about God’s commitment to his people. Indeed, we must always trust God.

Today’s Gospel is not just for saints or heroes. It’s for anyone who’s struggling to navigate our noisy world. And it asks a simple question: whose voice do you trust when it really matters?

That question brings us, finally, to St Mary Magdalene. On Easter morning, she’s standing outside the tomb, grieving and confused. She sees Jesus, but doesn’t recognise him. It’s only when he says her name: ‘Mary,’ that everything changes.

Our Risen Lord isn’t recognised by argument or force, but by a voice that speaks personally, gently, and truthfully. For those who feel confident in faith, that voice calls us to courage: to resist the lies, to speak the truth with love, and to refuse the easy tune of the Pied Piper.

But for those on the margins of faith, those wary of any religion, or unsure of what to believe anymore, this Gospel is reassuring.

Jesus, the Good Shepherd, does not shout or compete for attention. And he doesn’t disappear when things get messy. He simply calls his own by name.

And today, he’s still speaking: through our conscience, through quiet truth, and through love that will never abandon us.

Even in our noisy world, his voice can still be heard.

If we’re willing to listen.

Spiritual Hindsight

(Acts 2:14, 22-33; 1Pet.1:17-21; Lk.24:13-35)

In today’s Gospel, two disciples are utterly devastated. They simply cannot believe that Jesus is dead.

They’re walking to Emmaus, and a mysterious stranger joins them. It’s Jesus himself, but they don’t recognise him. And as they walk and talk together, Jesus explains how the Scriptures point to him as the Messiah, but still they don’t recognise him.

It’s only after they break bread together and Jesus disappears that they finally realise it’s him. ‘Did not our hearts burn within us as he talked…?’ they ask.

This is an important aspect of our relationship with God.

As Christians, we know in our hearts and heads that God is always with us, and yet we rarely recognise his presence in any given moment. It’s usually only later, looking back, that we can see where he has been and what he might have been doing in our lives (Ex.33:20-23).

How often have we struggled with some difficulty in life and perhaps even felt abandoned, only to realise later that we weren’t alone at all? Somehow, we found ourselves sustained by someone or something that appeared at the right moment, and we were surprised by our strength and resilience.

We didn’t see it at the time, but God had been with us all along, quietly caring for us and shaping us for the future.

We can see this in history. During the turbulent civil rights movement of the 1960s, many frightened and fragile protesters wondered if they were doing the right thing in challenging the system. They knew they were risking imprisonment or even death.

It was only later that they understood that God had been with them all along, assisting them with his divine grace. They could see this in the way they had demonstrated courage without hatred, discipline without violence, hope without triumphalism, and a willingness to suffer, rather than to inflict suffering on others.

And despite the inevitable fear, they still had love in their hearts.

These aren’t natural instincts when you’re in great danger. These behaviours are recognisable fruits of grace, and they helped the protesters realise that they weren’t alone, for God had been helping them to achieve noble goals (cf. Mt.7:16).

Like Emmaus, the meaning of their journey only became clear after it was over.

St John Henry Newman understood this. He knew that God rarely gives anyone a full picture of their life, and so we can only move forward one step at a time. That’s why in his prayer Lead, Kindly Light, he says, ‘I do not ask to see the distant scene; one step enough for me.’

Newman lived much of his life in uncertainty. He was widely misunderstood and fiercely criticised, and often found himself alone, and yet he accepted that faith comes before clarity. Only later did the meaning of his path in life become clear: that Jesus had been patiently leading him through darkness into truth.

Like the disciples walking to Emmaus, John Henry Newman walked in uncertainty and only in hindsight understood how God had been guiding him all along.

The Church has long recognised that God is often known more clearly in memory than in the present moment, and this is a lesson we can all take from the Emmaus story today.

It’s called Spiritual Hindsight, and St Augustine talks about it in his book Confessions. He realises that God had been present throughout his restless years, even when he was unaware of him: ‘You were within me, but I was outside,’ he writes.

For Augustine, memory is a theological place and the space where God’s hidden action is recognised. And he learns that conversion does not bring God into his life; rather, it reveals that God had been there all along.

Augustine simply hadn’t been ready to acknowledge God’s divine presence in his life.

And finally, St Ignatius of Loyola. While he was recovering from his wartime wounds, he found himself with plenty of time to reflect on his past. In the process, he discovered that hindsight is a rich source of spiritual insight. He developed a tool, a set of structured Spiritual Exercises, that are still widely used today.

These Spiritual Exercises are a wonderful way to prayerfully review our day after we have lived it. Many people find them helpful in meditating on the subtle movements of God in their lives, in overcoming their own internal obstacles, and in discerning their own way forward in life.

The Danish philosopher Soren Kierkegaard often said that life must be lived forward, but can only be understood backward.

This is Emmaus.

Sometimes we need a mirror to understand what God is doing in our lives.

Window of Life

(Acts 2:42-47; 1Pet.1:3-9; Jn.20:19-31)

In today’s Gospel, Jesus’ disciples have locked themselves in the Upper Room. Knowing what happened to Jesus on the Cross, they’re fearful of the world outside and of what might happen to them.

We all know about locked doors. We lock them when we feel vulnerable or want to hide, and also when we don’t know what to do next.

But note how Jesus enters that locked room. He doesn’t break down the door, nor does he scold them or accuse them of anything. He simply walks in and says ‘Peace be with you.’

Today, on Divine Mercy Sunday, we are all reminded of the story of St Faustina Kowalska, the humble Polish nun who met Jesus Christ in 1931.

At the time she lived in a convent in the city of Płock (pronounced ‘Pwotsk’), north of Warsaw. She worked in the bakery and kitchen, and helped the sisters who supported poor and troubled girls.

Sr Faustina was in her room when Jesus first appeared to her. He arrived quietly, dressed in white with one hand raised in a blessing and the other hand touching his heart, from which shone two bright rays – one red, one white.

Jesus asked her to paint that image of him, along with the words Jesus, I trust in You. This is the picture of Divine Mercy that has since spread all over the world.

Today, in Sr Faustina’s old convent a special window has been built into a wall near her former room. It’s a baby hatch, called a Window of Life, through which an unwanted child can be left by a desperate parent.

When the hatch closes, a bell rings inside and trained staff come quickly, giving the child lots of love, protection, and hope for a future. No questions are asked; only care is given.

This window helps us to see today’s Gospel more clearly.

The disciples locked their doors, because doors are about control and about who belongs and who doesn’t. But Jesus doesn’t break these doors down. Instead, he mercifully opens a window – creating a space inside for peace, forgiveness and new beginnings, and their lives are transformed.

For windows, ultimately, are about trust, vulnerability and letting the light in.

We can see this in Mark’s Gospel, where a paralysed man is brought to Jesus. The house is so crowded that every door is blocked, so his friends lower him down through the roof instead. In effect, they create a window of life.

Jesus doesn’t complain about the damage. Rather, he sees a strong faith, and through that opening mercy enters: ‘Your sins are forgiven… Rise, take up your mat, and walk,’ he says (Mark 2:3-12).

Whenever access to mercy is blocked, the Gospel finds a window.

This is how St Vincent de Paul understood charity. He knew that good intentions are never enough, and that mercy must be organised, reliable and discreet. It must also reach people where they are, especially when shame or fear make them invisible.

For Vincent, mercy was never showy; it was about creating quiet, dependable openings through which dignity and life can spread.

This is how the Window of Life baby hatch works. It’s not loud or judgmental. It simply insists that mercy must always make space for life.

Today, from Poland to India and the U.S., there are dozens of these special windows across more than twenty countries, giving hope to abandoned children.

On this Divine Mercy Sunday, Jesus is asking us: what doors have we locked in our lives, and where should we be opening a window instead?

Most of us will never build a physical Window of Life. But every Christian life is meant to become one. A window of patience for someone who is struggling. A window of welcome for someone who feels excluded. A window of mercy where judgement would be much easier.

The image of Divine Mercy itself helps us here. It’s not meant to trap God inside a frame. It’s more like a window, opening our hearts to who God really is. As the risen Christ steps forward with his wounds, his mercy flows towards us. And beneath the image are the words that say it all: Jesus, I trust in You.

That’s the posture of someone standing at an open window: vulnerable, hopeful and willing to receive mercy rather than hide behind locked doors.

In today’s Gospel, as Jesus enters that locked room, he shows his wounds, and says, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he sends his disciples out.

For having received mercy, they – and we – must now go and share it with others.

When fear locks the doors, God always opens a window – offering us peace and forgiveness, and the courage to live as people of mercy in a wounded world.

Resurrection

(Acts 10:34, 37-43; Col.3:1-4; Jn.20:1-9)

When life is hard, we can find ourselves dragging our feet, doing things only out of a sense of duty or love. And deep down we might carry a sadness, an emptiness, and a feeling that nothing will change.

That’s how Mary Magdalene walks to Jesus’ tomb early on Easter morning. She saw Jesus die on the cross, and accepts that he’s gone. And now, with tears in her eyes, she’s off to anoint his body with funeral spices, to complete a ritual that was cut short by the Sabbath two days earlier.

It’s duty and love that keep her going, but she’s not expecting any miracles.

Now, notice that this is where Easter starts.

We tend to think that Easter begins with celebration and joy, but it actually starts with sadness, confusion, and a tomb. Mary is crying so much that she can’t recognise Jesus, even when he’s standing right there in front of her.

New life has arrived, but she can’t yet see it.

In the movie The Shawshank Redemption, Red (played by Morgan Freeman) leaves prison after decades behind bars. This new freedom frightens him, but he wants to honour a promise he made to a friend. So, he goes to an old oak tree in a field and starts digging. He’s not expecting any miracles; he’s just keeping a promise. And there, hope finds him.

Soon afterwards he’s living a brand-new life on a Mexican shore.

This is how Easter works. Things seem hopeless, and then God surprises us with the most extraordinary blessings. But note that God doesn’t wait for us to sort ourselves out first. He meets us wherever we are, even when life seems empty. Especially when life seems empty.

Mary Magdalene doesn’t discover resurrection because of her faith. She discovers it because God calls her by name: ‘Mary.’ And suddenly the tomb is no longer the end; it’s the beginning, for Jesus and for her.

She becomes the first witness of the Resurrection, and then spends the rest of her life as a messenger, telling everyone: ‘I have seen the Lord.’

Something similar happened to St Ignatius of Loyola in 1521. He was lying on his sick bed, feeling bored, restless and miserable, his right leg shattered by a cannonball. His old life had died, and he’s struggling to cope.

And yet, that’s exactly where God starts something new. Slowly, quietly, and through deep listening and reflection, Ignatius learns that resurrection is not a single moment, but a reorientation of the heart that can happen anytime.

What looked like a sad ending becomes a remarkable new beginning. And he, too, becomes a messenger, sharing the good news.

This is how Easter unfolds.

Mary Magdalene comes to the tomb expecting to grieve. Red goes to the oak tree expecting nothing but a memory. And St Ignatius lies wounded, expecting only pain and despair. In every case, new life is not forced or imagined. It is received. And they go on to share the good news with others.

So, what does all this mean for us today?

Many people come to Easter not because they are filled with faith, but because something in them draws them to it. Perhaps it’s memory or habit. Maybe it’s a sense of obligation, or love, or a quiet longing they can’t quite name.

Whatever brings you here, I’d like you to note three things.

Firstly, resurrection doesn’t require you to have a neat and tidy life. Whoever and wherever you are, God loves you. Just be open to him.

Secondly, when resurrection does come, it doesn’t remove your wounds or rewrite history. Mary still knows grief. Red still remembers prison. Ignatius still walks with a limp. Jesus still bears his scars. But none of them are defined by those things anymore.

For death of any kind, including failure, no longer gets the final word.

And finally, both Mary Magdalene and St Ignatius are sent to tell others what they have seen. This doesn’t mean they fully understand (Jn.20:9). Indeed, they don’t have to, because the important thing is that they encounter the living Christ who gives them new life.

As St Ignatius once said, ‘It’s not knowing much, but relishing things inside that satisfies the soul.’

This is the beauty of Easter. But don’t expect to fully understand it, for God’s grace is always a miracle.

Simply be open to encountering the living Christ – who calls us by name and then sends us to carry new life into a struggling world.

From Celebration to Silence

(Is.50:4-7; Phil.2:6-11; Mt.26:14-27:66)

Palm Sunday is designed to challenge us.

We begin Mass by walking, singing, waving palm leaves and chanting: ‘Hosanna to the Son of David!’ Then we find ourselves standing still, reliving the tragic story of Jesus’ Passion, his betrayal, suffering and death.

The Church deliberately links these two experiences because Palm Sunday is not about how well we celebrate, but how deeply we are prepared to respond.

There’s an old story that captures this tension well.

One day, three young men wandered into Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, seeking mischievous fun. One of them made a bet that he could pretend to worship and no-one would ever know he was faking it.

He watched and copied what everyone else did. He crossed himself, knelt, mouthed the prayers and went to communion. He looked just like a Catholic.

Then he went to confession. In those days that’s what people did after Mass.

He overheard someone else’s confession and made up his own list of sins. Then he ‘confessed’ them to the priest. For penance, the priest told him to return alone that night, to stand before the large crucifix and say three times, ‘You did all this for me, but I don’t care.’

This young man was determined to win his bet. That night he returned to the darkened church and stood before the crucifix. Looking up at Jesus hanging on the Cross, he said, ‘Jesus, you did all this for me, but I don’t care.’

He said this twice, and then the reality of Jesus’ sacrifice hit him with full force. He was never the same again. He lost his bet. That day that young man became a disciple of Jesus, and later he became the Archbishop of Paris.

Is this story historically true? I don’t know, however it’s certainly spiritually true. And it’s a truth we all encounter every time we enter Holy Week.

When Jesus enters Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the crowd does everything right, externally. They say the right words and they honour Jesus as their king. But when they realise that he’s a humble and gentle king, rather than a mighty warrior, they fall silent and many turn away.

Palm Sunday asks us: Are we disciples of the celebration, or disciples of the Cross? This question has unsettled some of the world’s greatest minds.

Blaise Pascal, the French mathematician and one of the world’s greatest scientists, spent much of his life wrestling with faith. But it wasn’t an argument or an equation that brought him to Jesus, but contemplating Christ on the Cross. Seeing Jesus on the Cross profoundly moved his heart.

He had a note sewn into the lining of his coat: ‘Jesus in agony until the end of the world.’ He came to realise that there’s a huge distance between knowing and loving God, for love ultimately cannot be analysed, but only received.

Blaise Pascal reminds us that faith does not begin where reason ends, but where the heart recognises what reason alone cannot grasp.

André Frossard was a French journalist and an avowed atheist. His father was a founder of the French Communist Party. In 1935, aged twenty, he entered a Paris chapel looking for a friend. Two minutes later, he was a changed man. Standing before the crucified Jesus present in Eucharist Adoration, he later wrote, ‘I entered an atheist. I left a believer.’

In his book, God Exists: I Have Met Him, Frossard writes, ‘I have learned that all converts have this in common: they have met Somebody, not an idea or a system… They have with wonder, and sometimes with astonishment, discovered a person … the Second Person of the Trinity, Jesus.’ [i]

Like that young man at Notre Dame, he didn’t go looking for conversion. He simply stood before the Crucified Jesus and could not stay unchanged.

Palm Sunday is designed to bring us to that same threshold.

The Church does not let us linger with palms in our hands. She deliberately leads us to the Passion, placing us before the Cross, and quietly asks: is Jesus an idea you admire, or the Lord you will follow?

Holy Week is not about observing Christ’s suffering from a distance. It’s about allowing his self-giving love to seep deeply, profoundly into our hearts, and then to set us free.

As we enter this most solemn week of the Church’s year, let us pray:

‘Lord, do not let my faith remain an imitation.
Take me beyond words and gestures,
to the silence of the Cross,
And teach me how to stay there. Amen.'

---

[i] André Frossard, God Exists: I Have Met Him, 1970. https://www.basicincome.com/bp/godexistsbook1970.htm

Coffin Academy

(Ezek.12-14; Rom.8:8-11; Jn.11:1-45)

In South Korea there’s an unusual place called ‘Coffin Academy,’ where people go to experience a ‘living funeral.’

It’s not a school as such, but somewhere people go to learn to appreciate life. They write their own epitaphs and lie down in a wooden coffin while the lid is closed over them for several minutes.

It’s only symbolic, but the purpose is serious: to confront the fear of death so that they might relearn how to live.

Participants say that when the lid closes, everything becomes clearer: what matters, what doesn’t, who they love, what they regret, and what they need to change. And when the lid lifts, they step out thinking differently. One young man emerged saying that everything he had previously been chasing was simply worthless ‘dust.’

In today’s Gospel, Jesus leads Martha and Mary to a similarly confronting moment at Lazarus’ tomb. However, this experience is not symbolic; it’s real. The stone is heavy and the grief is painful. But when Jesus says, ‘Lazarus, come out,’ the dead man begins a new life.

Now, this isn’t just a miracle story. It’s Jesus inviting us to leave the dark tombs of our own lives. And his words are significant: ‘Unbind him, and let him go.’

New life for anyone, whether Lazarus or ourselves, comes not only from leaving the dark tomb, but also from allowing Jesus to unbind us from whatever ties us to the past.

This is where many of us struggle. We may hear Christ’s call, but we remain bound by fear, resentment or habits that keep pulling us back into the darkness.

St Teresa of Ávila experienced this herself. Outwardly, she was a successful nun: intelligent, capable and admired. And yet she later admitted that for nearly twenty years her spiritual life was ‘half alive, half dead.’

In her autobiography she wrote, ‘I did not abandon prayer, but I did not give myself wholly to God.’ [i] What held her back were her ties to her sinful past.

But everything changed for her one day when she was thirty-nine and kneeling before an image of the scourged and wounded Christ. ‘When I looked at him,’ she said, ‘I felt my heart break.’ This was the moment when she stopped avoiding the truth about herself, and started allowing Jesus to meet her in her darkness.

Teresa admits that what held her back was fear: ‘I was afraid of the surrender that would be required of me,’ she said.

Fear, like Lazarus’ burial cloths, can bind us tightly even after Jesus has called us to life.

When Teresa finally entrusted herself completely to Jesus, she discovered what Lazarus had learnt: that being called out of the tomb is not frightening, but freeing. She allowed herself to pass through a kind of inner death, the death of her fear, and she emerged with new life.

Something similar happens in Roland Joffé’s movie, The Mission.[ii] Rodrigo Mendoza is a former soldier and slave trader who seeks redemption after killing his brother in a jealous rage. However, he carries his past like a dead weight.

He drags a bundle of armour and swords, symbols of his worst sins, up the mountain in an agonising penance. It’s his personal tomb tied to his back.

When he reaches the mission village, one of the indigenous men he had persecuted approaches with a knife and cuts the rope. His burden falls. And Mendoza, the hardened soldier, weeps – he has never before known such freedom.

‘Unbind him, and let him go.’

This is what Jesus does. He doesn’t just call us out of the tomb; he also cuts away the ropes of shame, fear and self-hatred that keep us tied to the past.

Like the Coffin Academy, Jesus helps us face the reality we fear. But unlike that academy, he enters that darkness with us, and he speaks into it a word that only God can speak: life.

So, today – what ‘tomb’ is holding you back? Is it grief? Is it guilt? Resentment? Disappointment? A habit you can’t break? Or fear of the future?

Whatever your tomb, Jesus is standing before it today. He’s weeping with you and asking you to roll away the stone. He’s here to unbind you.

Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead to demonstrate what he can do for us. Not only at the end of our lives, but right now.

As Holy Week approaches, Jesus wants us to trust him, to invite him into our darkness. He wants to do for us what he did for Lazarus, for Teresa of Avila, and for Rodrigo Mendoza – to lead us out of death into life.

To set us free.

---

[i] St Teresa of Avila, The Life of Saint Teresa, Penguin Books, London, 1958.

[ii] Roland Joffé, The Mission https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxybk12n9DI

El Greco’s Christ Healing the Blind

(1Sam.16:1b,6-7,10-13a; Eph.5:8-14; Jn.9:1-41)

El Greco was a 16^th Century Greek artist who studied under Titian in Venice and eventually settled in Spain.

In 1570, he painted a scene from today’s Gospel in his classic work, Christ Healing the Blind.[i] Set outside the Jerusalem Temple, this artwork depicts the man born blind kneeling and begging for help, while Jesus reaches out to touch and heal his eyes.

In the Mannerist style, El Greco has subtly elongated the figures, giving them a surreal appearance. Here, he’s showing how faith stretches us, how grace takes us beyond ourselves. Indeed, the blind man is being drawn upward into a new existence.

That’s what happens to us when we encounter Jesus. His grace helps us reach and do things that were not previously possible.

Now, note how calm and radiant Jesus looks; he exudes divine authority by being the only figure facing forward. Note also the contrast between his stillness and poise, and the sense of movement and uncertainty across all the other figures. The blind man is drawing towards Jesus, while the crowds shift, lean, question and judge.

In a world full of distractions and conflicting voices, Jesus offers us a fixed point of reference, a steady place where sight is restored and truth is revealed.

But if Jesus is the focus point, then why is he not at the centre of this painting? It’s because so many of us don’t hold him front and centre in our lives. We prefer him kept on the margins. And yet, we know that Jesus is drawn to the margins of society, for that’s where the poor, the weak, the homeless – and the blind – are to be found.

Now, on the right is a group of Jesus’ disciples, keenly observing his actions. Peter is the older bearded man on their left, while John is the fresh-faced young fellow towering above them. [ii]

In the foreground are the blind man’s parents, fearful they’ll be expelled from the synagogue if they’re seen to be too close to Jesus. Their presence highlights the tension between physical sight and spiritual blindness.

And on the left is a group of Pharisees and other passers-by, so distracted that they completely miss this miracle.

El Greco produced three versions of this painting. This one, from New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art, is the only one with the dark, almost ghostly, figure looming just to the left of the blind man.

One interpretation of this brooding figure is that he reflects the turmoil of the Reformation and the temptation to abandon the Church for popular culture, rather than accepting Christ for who he truly is.

However, in his book Pilgrimage to the Museum, Stephen Auth says this shadowy figure could be an evil spirit, being exorcised from the blind man. The healing Jesus offers is primarily spiritual, and that’s what’s happening here. The blind man is being lifted up and restored to the perfect human being God created him to be.

Each of the figures in this picture in some way mirrors the reactions to Jesus in today’s Gospel. But they also reflect us today, for we are all busy doing things while God is in our midst. And El Greco is asking: which figure is you?

Are you the blind man, desperate to see? Are you too distracted to even notice Jesus? Or are you holding back, sceptical, cautious or afraid?

Notice how Jesus has been placed close to the foreground, so that we are within reach of his hand. El Greco wants us to step into the scene, to become part of it, for Jesus is waiting for us.

And finally, notice how simple the foreground is, with Jesus encountering the blind man, while the background is crowded with people and detail. This background reflects our noisy and confused world today, while the foreground represents the essential moment of grace.

The point is that healing happens not in noise and confusion, but in the quiet space of encounter.

So, this week, take a moment to imagine yourself inside El Greco’s painting. Where are you standing? Are you the blind man, ready to let Jesus touch the darkness? Are you a cautious onlooker? A distracted bystander? Or a loyal disciple?

Let Jesus draw you closer to him. Let him touch you.

And pray the simple prayer of the man born blind: ‘Lord, help me to see.’

---

[i] El Greco (Domenikos Theotokopoulos) Christ Healing the Blind, 1569-1570, oil on canvas, 119.4 x 146.1 cm, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York.

[ii] Stephen F Auth, Pilgrimage to the Museum, Sophia Institute Press, Manchester NH, 2022:98-103.

Exhaustion

(Ex.17:3-7; Rom.5:1-2,5-8; Jn.4:5-42)

We all suffer from exhaustion from time to time. It can happen suddenly, perhaps through a crisis. And sometimes it arrives slowly, like a grinding weariness that grows over time.

We have all, at some point, thought: ‘I can’t take much more of this.’

In today’s first reading, the Israelites are exhausted. After wandering through the desert, they’re thirsty, they’re tired and their faith is fraying. ‘Is the Lord with us or not?’ they ask.

Moses is struggling, too. ‘Lord, what am I to do with this people?’ he asks. Like so many people today, he is worn out and has nothing left to give.

But note how God responds. He doesn’t wait until they’ve all calmed down, or until their problems are sorted. He meets them where they are and sends fresh water pouring from a rock.

New hope flows from the most unlikely place.

In today’s Gospel, the Samaritan woman is also exhausted. She goes to the well at noon, when she’s unlikely to see anyone else. She’s deliberately avoiding people because she’s socially exhausted. But after five husbands, she’s morally exhausted, too. And she’s spiritually exhausted – confused about God and her own identity.

And sitting there at the well is Jesus, who is tired from his own travels.

This is a powerful scene, for it tells us that God understands human suffering. Even Jesus gets tired and thirsty.

But why is he sitting at this well? Because that’s where the woman is. God is always there when we need him; he always has graces to share.

The Samaritan woman’s exhaustion becomes the crack through which God enters her life. But note that she doesn’t hide her story from Jesus. She simply tells the truth about herself, and Jesus responds by offering her living water – the joy, the hope and the fresh start she didn’t think was possible.

According to Eastern tradition, this woman was St Photina, the first evangelist in John’s Gospel. If you go to Nablus in the Holy Land today, you’ll find Jacob’s Well inside the Orthodox Church of St Photina. This is where she found Jesus’ living water.

Through the ages, countless people have found that God’s grace flows when their hearts are really struggling.

As St Paul says in today’s second reading, ‘Hope is not deceptive, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts.’

Mother Teresa experienced this herself. She suffered almost five decades of spiritual dryness, a deep interior exhaustion she called ‘the dark night of the poor.’ And yet, even when she felt empty, she kept on serving.

She once prayed, ‘Jesus, I have no words. Please speak through me. I have no strength. Please act through me.’ And that’s just what happened. God met her in her dryness, and gave her the living water she needed to keep going.

Towards the end of his life, St John Paul II was also exhausted. His Parkinson’s disease left him shaking and weak. Yet he continued working, saying, ‘I continue because that is my cross. And Christ did not come down from his.’

His exhaustion became a sacrament of perseverance. Just as the woman at the well drew strength from Jesus, so did John Paul II. When his strength was gone, Christ became his strength.

St Elizabeth Ann Seton, too, was a New York mother of five children. She was widowed at 29, ostracised by her community and exhausted from poverty and grief. She prayed, ‘My God, I am yours. Only show me the path, even if I can only take one step today.’

Jesus met her in her exhaustion and gave her new hope and direction. She went on to establish the first Catholic schools and first Catholic orphanage in the USA, as well as the first American congregation of religious sisters. 

Today, then, is a day for the exhausted, for the parent running on fumes, for the struggling carer and for anyone else who feels they have nothing left to give.

The good news is that with Jesus, the end of the rope is not the end; it’s the beginning. The moment when our strength gives way is precisely the place where God waits for us with his graces.

As we learnt from today’s readings, the Israelites’ exhaustion becomes the place where water gushes forth. The woman’s exhaustion becomes the moment she discovers her dignity. Moses’ exhaustion becomes a moment of divine action. And Jesus’ own exhaustion becomes a moment of encounter.

Sometimes the best prayer you can pray is simply: ‘Jesus, please come to me. I can’t do it without you.’

If you’re struggling and need living water, Jesus is waiting for you.

Mountain Light

(Gen.12:1-4a; 2Tim.1:8b-10; Mt.17:1-9)

One of the delights of Italy is the Dominican convent of San Marco in Florence.

To inspire quiet reflection, in the 1400s Fra Angelico painted simple, prayerful frescos on the walls of the monks’ cells.

Cell 6 depicts Jesus’ Transfiguration. It shows him standing tall, wearing white and lifting his hands in a blessing. Moses and Elijah flank him, while Peter, James and John have fallen to the ground, overwhelmed by Jesus’ radiant light.

Fra Angelico loved painting inspiring and peaceful images, and this one shows Jesus on Mount Tabor, quietly revealing his true identity as the Son of God. His disciples are stunned to witness his divine glory, and they take this memory with them as they descend the mountain and start facing the challenges of the valley below.

Someone else who was inspired by mountains was St John Paul II. As a young man in Poland, he escaped the grip of Nazi and Communist rule by heading for the hills around Kraków. He often skied, hiked and prayed there.

Later in his life, John Paul II said: ‘The mountains are a place of encounter, where a person is lifted above himself.’

On the mountaintop he got a clear view of his vocation. There, he also discovered the wonder of being called beyond fear. And he learnt how God was shaping him for a mission greater than anything he’d ever imagined.

But he never stayed long in the mountains.

His whole life was a cycle of going up to receive wisdom and strength, and then coming down to serve. He became a living example of the Transfiguration. Filled with light through prayer, he kept descending into the valleys of human suffering, into countries torn by war, into crowds suffering grief, and into hearts where faith had grown thin.

The light he received on his ‘mountains’ became the light he shared with others.

Something similar happened in the early life of St Teresa of Calcutta. Before beginning her ministry in Calcutta, she experienced intense moments of closeness to Jesus Christ.

In 1946, on a train from Calcutta to Darjeeling, she had what she later called ‘a call within a call,’ a profound interior experience of Jesus’ love and his hopes for the poorest of the poor.

Her early years were full of light, as Jesus spoke directly to her heart and gave her a clear sense of purpose.

But then, for decades, she found herself in a deep spiritual darkness and God seemed both silent and far away. And yet, just like the disciples leaving Mount Tabor, her memories of Christ’s light were enough to sustain her through the later valleys.

Her Transfiguration moments didn’t stop her suffering. Rather, they equipped her to walk faithfully through it, carrying the light of Christ into the darkest places on earth.

Every year, on the second Sunday of Lent, the Church always takes us to Mount Tabor for Jesus’ Transfiguration. Why? Because we, too, need clarity for the next part of our journey. We see more clearly from a mountaintop.

Fra Angelico painted Jesus on Mount Tabor for two reasons:

Firstly, to remind us who Jesus truly is – glorious, radiant and divine. Jesus isn’t just a wise teacher; he’s also the Lord of all heaven and earth.

And secondly, to remind us who we are called to become. Lent isn’t just about giving things up. It’s also about being transformed, by letting grace strip away what is false in us so that we can become more like Jesus Christ.

That’s why the disciples become fearful, for transformation can be challenging. And that’s why Peter offers to build tents, because it’s easier to stay on the mountain than face the valley below.

But a voice from the cloud says: ‘This is my beloved Son… listen to Him.’ So, they all follow Jesus off the mountain.

John Paul II left the mountain to confront totalitarianism with hope. Mother Teresa left the mountain to touch Christ in the poorest of the poor. And you and I come down from the mountain each week after receiving the Eucharist. For every Mass is our Tabor. Every Communion is a flash of divine light. And every prayerful encounter with Jesus strengthens us for mission.

But we’re not meant to stay on the mountain. Our task is to carry that light back down into the valley, into our world of sadness and confusion, of conflict and fear.

Fra Angelico’s painting is beautiful.

It reminds us who Jesus truly is, who we are meant to be, and what grace wants to achieve through us.

.

.

Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

The Desert Experience

(Gen.7-9, 3:1-7; Rom.5:12-19; Mt.4:1-11)

Every Lent begins with a journey into the desert.

Before Jesus even preaches a word or works any miracles, the Spirit calls him into the wilderness, and there he spends forty lonely days in silence, heat and hunger.

Why does he do that? It’s because the desert is God’s classroom. It’s where God forms the heart, sharpens the soul and prepares his disciples for mission.

Most people avoid the desert; they think it has nothing for them. But they don’t realise that a good desert experience can be the springboard to new life, for three reasons.

Firstly, it offers clarity. This is a point Antoine de Saint-Exupéry makes in his book The Little Prince. Saint-Exupéry was a French author and pilot who knew the deserts of North Africa well.

In The Little Prince, he tells the tale of a pilot who crashes into the Sahara, and there he finds a world of solitude and silence, with none of life’s normal distractions. He also learns what truly matters: love, friendship and seeing beyond the superficial. And the story ends with a powerful statement: that what is essential in life is invisible to the eye.

This insight captures the essence of Lent, because what is truly essential in life can only be understood by the heart. And clarity of heart requires solitude. This is why Jesus goes into the wilderness.

It’s only when the noise stops that we can hear God’s quiet voice.

Another thing the desert offers us is discipline. It teaches us to be strong.

Consider the story of Odysseus in Homer’s classic work, The Odyssey. Odysseus is the legendary king of Ithaca, on his way home from the Trojan Wars. At one point he faces one of his greatest challenges: resisting the temptations of the Sirens.

The Sirens were half-woman, half-bird creatures who lured sailors to their deaths with their irresistible songs. Odysseus orders his crew to plug their ears with beeswax, and he has himself tied to the ship’s mast to restrain him when the temptation starts.

This is a good metaphor for the spiritual life, for we cannot rely on willpower alone. Even holiness needs support.

That’s why Lent gives us the three traditions of prayer, fasting and almsgiving. They are virtual ropes that anchor us firmly to Jesus and keep us safe. Fasting leads to discipline in the body. Prayer leads to discipline in the mind, and generosity leads to discipline in the heart.

These ancient practices aren’t for earning God’s favour. Rather, they help us stay faithful when the Siren song of temptation tries to lure us into the darkness.

And finally, the desert teaches us our mission in life.

St Charles de Foucauld provides a good example here. He was a wealthy young Frenchman who chased adventure, pleasure and fame, but none of that satisfied him. Eventually, God led him to the Tuareg people in the Algerian desert, where he lived in silence, poverty and prayer.

It was there, in that harsh landscape, that he discovered his mission: to imitate the life of Christ in humility and love. And he spent the rest of his life quietly radiating that love among the Muslim people.

The desert had revealed who he was and what God wanted him to be.

The same is true of St Teresa of Calcutta. For decades she found herself caught in a spiritual desert. One might have expected her to give up, but it was there that she discovered her mission: to serve Jesus in the poorest of the poor. And not because she felt his presence, but because she believed in him.

The desert did not break Mother Teresa; it clarified her mission, and her mission changed the world.

So, what can we take from all this today?

The point is that Lent is not about proving our holiness or testing our spiritual toughness. Rather, Lent is our opportunity to learn from the desert. For a good desert experience helps us clarify our identity: who we are, and what God wants of us.

It also helps us acquire some spiritual discipline, by taking on the ancient practices of prayer, fasting and almsgiving.

And finally, the desert helps us discover what really matters in life. Who today needs your attention, your forgiveness, your time, your compassion? Where is God calling you to love more deeply?

A good desert experience will not make you barren. As Jesus found, it will actually make you more fruitful.

.

.

Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net: