Deacon Peter

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 liked painting 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 carry their memory of that glory into the dark times they soon experience in the valley below.

Someone else who loved 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 skied there, hiked there 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.

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.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Beyond the Bare Minimum

(Ecc.15:15-20; 1Cor.2:6-10; Mt.5:17-37)

I expect we all know someone who likes to say, ‘Well, I haven’t done anything wrong.’

It’s a familiar attitude, as if the whole point of Christian living were simply to avoid the major sins and to stay out of trouble.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus challenges this thinking. He invites us to go beyond the bare minimum, beyond a faith that is defined by ‘not hurting anyone,’ towards a life that centres on the heart.

A heart that truly loves, and not just hands that stay clean.

‘You have heard it said… but I say to you…’ Jesus says. Not just ‘don’t murder,’ but be reconciled. Not just ‘don’t commit adultery,’ but let your heart be pure. Not just ‘don’t swear false oaths,’ but let your whole life be truthful.

Jesus isn’t interested in whether we have ‘done nothing wrong.’ He wants to know whether we have truly learnt how to love.

St John Henry Newman understood this well. He spent his early adult life trying to do everything right, ensuring that every prayer was perfect, every theological idea was correct, and every line of Scripture was precisely analysed.

But then something happened. Through years of prayer and struggle, he realised that Christianity isn’t about avoiding mistakes. It’s about becoming a certain kind of person, a person whose heart has been reshaped by grace.

Newman wrote: ‘Holiness is a habit of the heart; a new way of seeing, a new way of loving.’ It’s a habit of the heart, which means that it’s not merely the things we avoid, but the person we become.

Newman came to see that doing the minimum is not enough – not enough for God or for the dignity of the human soul. So, he followed Jesus into a deeper conversion where motives, desires and intentions form part of discipleship.

Victor Hugo’s story Les Misérables illustrates this well. It contrasts two very different characters: Inspector Javert, who is obsessed with law, order and catching people out, and Jean Valjean, who has been transformed by undeserved mercy.

Inspector Javert obeys every rule meticulously. He has ‘done nothing wrong,’ and yet his heart is cold, rigid and lifeless. He doesn’t understand love at all.

Jean Valjean, however, begins his life in violence, hatred and even crime, but his heart softens after one act of mercy from a bishop. He learns to live with mercy, courage and compassion.

Javert represents the letter of the law, while Valjean embodies the spirit of the law. This is the distinction Jesus makes today.

The Christian life is not about being a moral accountant ticking boxes. It’s about allowing grace to transform our hearts.

Some people worry when they hear this part of the Sermon on the Mount. To them it feels impossible, for how can anyone have totally pure motives? And who can avoid every angry thought?

But Jesus isn’t raising the bar to make our life harder. He’s trying to raise us all to a higher level of existence. He’s calling us into a more beautiful, more human and more courageous way of living.

If you’re the sort of person who tends to say, ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ ask yourself: Have I done anything right? Have I done anything beautiful? Have I done anything courageous? Have I done anything merciful, or reconciling?

Christianity is not just about the absence of sin; it’s also about the presence of love.

This week, Jesus invites us to look not only at our own behaviour, but also at our intentions: Is there someone I need to reconcile with? Am I still feeling resentful?

Do my words reflect who I truly want to be? And do I live with integrity even when nobody is watching?

St John Henry Newman learnt that Christianity is not a matter of rules, but of growing into the mind and heart of Christ. And that growth always starts with honesty and humility.

But here’s the best part: Jesus isn’t asking us to do this alone. He’s offering us his grace, the power of his Holy Spirit, to help transform us from within.

‘Let me give you a new heart,’ Jesus says. A heart just like his own.

So, our challenge today is to stop saying ‘I’ve done nothing wrong,’ and to begin praying, ‘Lord, make my heart like yours.’

For following the rules is not enough, and the bare minimum is never sufficient.

What we need is a grace-filled heart that loves with courage and integrity.  

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

What About You?

(Is.58:7-10; 1Cor.2:1-5; Mt.5:13-16)

Today, Jesus famously says, ‘You are the salt of the earth… you are the light of the world.’

Note that he doesn’t say ‘you should be salt…’ He says you already are. He spells out our identity before saying what he expects of us.

But why salt and light? Because they are both ordinary, and that’s exactly how God’s kingdom spreads: through the small, steady and faithful action of certain things we all consider very ordinary.

So, what can we learn from salt and light?

Firstly, note that salt doesn’t change food ingredients; it simply enhances what’s already there. In the same way, Christians are meant to be a subtle presence, awakening the goodness that already exists in the people and world around them.

Think of someone you know at work, at home or in your community, who just by their presence makes things better. They don’t have to give speeches or force any change; they simply and quietly bring out the best in others.

This is what Jesus wants us to do: to be the pinch of salt that makes things better.

Secondly, salt has long been used to preserve food from decay. Today, there are many places where conversations, attitudes or relationships can begin to spoil; where negativity, cynicism, or injustice can start to spread.

And sometimes, even without realising it, we become the ones who hold things together. We stop things from decaying. We preserve the truth. We keep things on track. This is what salt does, and what Jesus calls us to do.

Then Jesus talks about light, and light has one essential task: to be visible.

Light is a remarkable thing. It doesn’t panic when darkness approaches. It doesn’t argue with the darkness or resent it. It simply shines, and by shining, it changes the whole room. This is what Christians are called to do.

In a world that often seems dark, confused or unhappy, Christians are meant to shine with a quiet, steady goodness that points people to God. Not showy or loud, but quietly radiant, so that others see something in you that points beyond you.

A good example of this was St Katharine Drexel. She was born in 1858 into one of the richest families in Philadelphia, USA. Her parents believed that their wealth was a blessing from God, and that the poor must always be treated as Christ himself. This wisdom shaped her life.

Katharine felt a deep call to serve people who were overlooked or mistreated, especially Native American and African American families who suffered from poverty, discrimination and poor education.

She could have sent cheques from her mansion, but the Gospel stirred her heart.

In 1887 she visited Pope Leo XIII in Rome, and asked him to send missionaries to help these poor people. He replied by asking, ‘What about you? Why not be a missionary yourself?’ That question changed her life. It reminded her that every person, by virtue of their baptism, is called to help build God’s kingdom.

Katharine then shocked high society by joining a convent, and later founding the Sisters of the Blessed Sacrament. She spent her entire inheritance establishing 145 missions and over 60 schools across the country, building facilities, employing staff, empowering local leaders and pouring out her life in love.

St Katharine Drexel didn’t seek to draw attention to herself. She simply allowed the light of Christ to shine through her, especially into the dark corners of the world.

She was light: visible love in action. And she was salt, preserving human dignity where society let it decay. And she showed that holiness is never about escaping the world; it’s about illuminating it.

Today Jesus tells us that our light must shine in the sight of others, so that, seeing our good works, they may give praise to our Father in heaven.

This is holiness. The goal isn’t to let people think we are wonderful, but to help them see that God is wonderful. Katharine Drexel didn’t shine so that people would admire her. She shone so that people would discover the love of God.

That’s our task, too.

So, this week: let’s try to be salt for someone. Let’s try to bring out the goodness in them by offering a word of praise, a moment of patience or a sincere thank you.

And let’s be light where light is needed, by being kind, calm or forgiving.

We do it not to be noticed, but because light is meant to shine and salt is meant to season.

For we are already the salt of the earth, and light of the world.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Medicine for the World

(Is.8:23-9.3; 1Cor.1:1-13,17; Mt.4:12-23)

Today, Jesus sits down on the mountain and delivers his eight Beatitudes. They are at the heart of all his teachings.

The Beatitudes aren’t just a list of virtues – they are a portrait of a heart that’s ready for God’s Kingdom. They also describe who God is and who God calls us to be.

In 2002, Pope St John Paul II called the Beatitudes the Magna Carta of Christianity. What he meant is that they are a pivotal guide for how we might live our best lives as followers of Jesus Christ.

One good way to understand these eight blessings is to hear them alongside another passage from Scripture, which describes the very opposite of God’s Kingdom.

The Book of Proverbs (6:16-19) lists seven things that the Lord hates: haughty eyes, a lying tongue, hands that shed innocent blood, a heart that plots wicked schemes, feet that to rush into evil, a false witness, and one who stirs up conflict.

It may seem harsh to speak of ‘what the Lord hates,’ but Proverbs isn’t describing people for us to condemn. Rather, it’s revealing the attitudes and behaviours that block God’s grace, the things that close our hearts and deform our communities.

Proverbs spells out what destroys the human family, while the Beatitudes show us what heals it. Let’s look at the contrasts:

• Where pride raises its ugly head, Jesus blesses the poor in spirit, those who know their need for God.
• Where deceit and dishonesty poison relationships, Jesus blesses the pure in heart, whose yes means yes and whose no means no.
• Where violence and hardness of heart can shed innocent blood, Jesus blesses the meek, who do not need to dominate or control.
• Where unjust schemes grind the poor into the dust, Jesus blesses those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.
• Where feet rush to evil, Jesus blesses the merciful, who slow things down with compassion.
• Where false witness twists the truth, Jesus blesses the peacemakers who bring people together.
• And where conflict tears people apart, Jesus blesses those who endure persecution for the sake of the Gospel, standing firm in truth and love.

Proverbs shows us the heart that pushes God away. The Beatitudes describe the heart where God lives.

Someone who came to live the Beatitudes is St Oscar Romero, the archbishop of San Salvador who was martyred in 1980. In him, these blessings became flesh.

Oscar began as a cautious, bookish priest who avoided making waves. But when he witnessed his people being cruelly abused by the Salvadoran government: the innocent killed, the truth manipulated, and communities torn apart, his heart woke up. He realised that the wounds described in Proverbs were all around him: pride, deceit, violence, injustice, false witness and discord.

He started taking Jesus’ words to heart.

He embraced poverty of spirit, by standing with the poor without seeking praise or power.

He hungered and thirsted for righteousness, speaking truth when it was costly.

He showed mercy, even to those who threatened him.

And ultimately he was persecuted, killed at the altar while celebrating Mass.

Oscar Romero’s life makes the Beatitudes real. He shows us that these are not gentle, sentimental words, but a call to courageous, self-giving love. And they are possible in every age when hearts are open to God.

He became a peacemaker, pleading for an end to all violence.

Today, our world still reflects everything Our Lord hates: pride, lies, violence, injustice, discord. Sadly, these are daily news.

The Beatitudes, however, are Jesus’ roadmap for a different way of life. They tell us that holiness is not about dramatic gestures but about a heart that welcomes God: Humility instead of pride. Truth instead of deceit. Gentleness instead of violence. Justice instead of scheming. Mercy instead of vengeance. Peacemaking instead of conflict. Perseverance instead of despair.

While Proverbs spells out the wounds of the world, in the Beatitudes, Jesus gives us the medicine we all need.

This week, I encourage you to adopt one Beatitude and pray: ‘Lord, make this true in me. Give me this heart.’

This is how saints are made: one step at a time, one virtue at a time, one conversion at a time.

It’s also how God’s Kingdom grows.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Venerable Mary Glowrey

(Is.8:23-9.3; 1Cor.1:1-13,17; Mt.4:12-23)

When Herod locks John the Baptist up in prison, Jesus grieves. Not only has he lost his cousin, but God’s kingdom has also lost its greatest champion.

Jesus also realises that the time has come for him to step up, to take the lead, but he’ll need help. So, he heads for the shore where he finds Peter, Andrew, James and John. ‘Come, follow me,’ he says, ‘and I will make you fishers of people.’

Since then, Jesus has invited countless people to help him with his mission. One such person was Mary Glowrey, the Australian woman who was declared venerable by Pope Leo XIV in November 2025.

Mary was born in 1887 in Birregurra, a small town in Western Victoria. She was a very bright young woman and won scholarships both at school and university. She also battled entrenched resistance to become one of the first women in Australia to study medicine, and she graduated with distinction in 1910.

She then began a promising medical practice in Melbourne, but one day she read a pamphlet about the life of the Scottish missionary doctor Agnes McLaren, who had worked with women and children in India. Mary learnt that India had an urgent need for women doctors, and her heart stirred. She knew Jesus was calling her to a new mission.

In 1920, just like Jesus’ first disciples, Mary left everything behind to become a true ‘fisher of people’. She travelled to Guntur in Southern India, where she encountered overwhelming poverty, disease, and a serious lack of medical facilities.

There she joined the Sisters of Jesus, Mary and Joseph, and adopted the name Sister Mary of the Sacred Heart. But in those days nuns were not allowed to practise medicine, so the local bishop appealed to Rome.

When approval arrived, she became the world’s first Catholic sister-doctor. She also did further medical studies and spent the next four decades caring for hundreds of thousands of patients.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, ‘Repent, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.’

To repent is to realign yourself, to bring your life into harmony with God’s emerging Kingdom. This is what Mary Glowrey did in a remarkable way.

She worked in makeshift clinics, responding to overwhelming needs such as malnutrition, infectious diseases, childbirth complications and women who had never before received medical care.

Every day her clinic was filled with hundreds of poor Hindus, Muslims and Christians. But she did not discriminate, for God’s Kingdom is open to all.

Jesus was at the heart of everything Mary did, but she gave more than treatment; she offered dignity, for she saw Jesus in every patient, and most especially the poor.

And just like Jesus, Mary found herself transforming lives by teaching, preaching and healing. But she knew that it was not enough to just treat patients, and that she couldn’t solve India’s problems alone. She understood that she needed to build systems that would endure. So, in 1943 she established what is today the Catholic Health Association of India, which now represents over 5,000 Catholic health institutions, serving 21 million people every year.

She trained nurses, midwives, doctors and administrators, not only giving them essential skills, but also the Gospel values of compassion, integrity, reverence for life, and respect for the poor.

In every sense Mary Glowrey became a ‘fisher of people,’ drawing good souls into a shared mission of mercy. She died in Bangalore in 1957.

What does all this mean for us today?

In every age, Jesus needs good people to help him spread God’s healing love. Today he is asking us, what shoreline are you prepared to leave to follow him? What nets will you leave behind – nets of fear, comfort, self-doubt or routine?

And what part of God’s Kingdom needs you today, your gifts, your vocation, your courage? Jesus wants you to play an active part in his mission.

Mary Glowrey did not do everything. But she did do what Jesus asked of her, and to the best of her ability. That is true discipleship, and that’s why she’s on the way to sainthood.

May the Venerable Mary Glowrey inspire us to listen for Christ’s quiet voice, to respond with courage and serve with compassion.

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

St Maria Goretti

(Is.49:3,5-6; 1Cor.1:1-3; Jn.1:29-34)

In today’s Gospel, John the Baptist is standing by the River Jordan; people are all around. He sees Jesus coming and then he says something that we still hear today: ‘Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.’

It’s one of the most familiar lines in all of Scripture, and we hear it at every Mass. But what does the Lamb of God really mean? And why is Jesus called a Lamb, rather than a lion, a warrior or a king?

It’s because the Lamb reveals the deepest truth about God’s power. God’s power is love, not force. The Lamb does not conquer by killing, but by being gentle and forgiving. Jesus takes away the sins of the world not by punishment, but by mercy.

When John called out, ‘Behold the Lamb of God…’ the crowd listening would have looked up because those words meant so much to them. They all knew the story of the first Passover, when lamb’s blood was painted on the doorposts of every Hebrew home in Egypt. That blood saved them from death and it led to their freedom from slavery (Ex.12).

At every Passover since then, the Jewish people have celebrated this escape from slavery, and those sacrificed lambs have always meant new life. [i]

Now John is pointing to Jesus as the true Lamb: the one whose love will save the entire world. But how will he do this? By taking on our guilt, our shame and our brokenness, and replacing it with divine forgiveness.

That’s the power of the Lamb; it’s the power of a love that absorbs evil and transforms it.

Over the years, many saints have shown us what this Lamb-like love looks like. One very good example is a young girl named Maria Goretti.

She was born a poor peasant girl in Italy, in 1890, the third of seven children. Her father died when she was nine. She had no chance to go to school and never learned to read or write.

One day in 1902, not long after her First Communion, she was at home mending a shirt when a cart stopped outside. A neighbour, 18-year-old Alessandro, ran up the stairs, grabbed her and tried to assault her.

Maria struggled to resist him and tried calling for help, but this made him angry and he stabbed her repeatedly with a dagger.

She was taken to hospital, and as she lay dying, a priest asked if she forgave him. ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘for the love of Jesus I forgive him, and I want him to be with me in heaven.’

Those words reflect not only the most remarkable innocence and compassion, but also the heart of the Lamb. She died the next day, not even twelve years of age.

Alessandro was sentenced to thirty years in prison. He was bitter and surly for a long time until one night Maria appeared to him in a dream, offering him fourteen flowers, one for each of her wounds. He woke up weeping and with a changed heart.

After 27 years, he was released and his first act was to ask Maria’s mother for forgiveness. She hugged him and said, ‘If my daughter has forgiven you, how could I not?’

Maria’s forgiveness didn’t excuse evil; it overcame it. And she didn’t destroy her enemy; rather, she helped him find peace with God.

This is the power of the Lamb of God: it turns violence into conversion, and hatred into holiness.

In 1950, Maria Goretti was canonised a saint before half a million people, including her mother and 66-year-old Alessandro Serenelli.

At every Mass, we hear the Baptist’s words: ‘Behold the Lamb of God.’ And when we look upon the consecrated Host, we see what John saw – the innocent One who carries our guilt and offers us mercy instead of judgment.

To receive Jesus in the Eucharist is to say: ‘I want to live as the Lamb lived.’ I want to forgive, to heal, to meet hatred with gentleness, and to let his love change the world through me.

When we forgive someone who has hurt us, when we choose peace instead of revenge, we become living reflections of the Lamb of God.

St Maria Goretti’s story reminds us that the Lamb of God is not just a title; it’s a way of life.

For the Lamb’s power is the power of mercy. And the Lamb’s victory is the triumph of forgiveness.

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[i] https://www.chabad.org/holidays/passover/pesach_cdo/aid/1827/jewish/The-Passover-Story-in-a-Nutshell.htm

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

Our Deepest Identity

(Is.42:1-4, 6-7; Acts 10:34-38; Mt.3:13-17)

Today, our readings take us to the River Jordan, where Jesus is standing with St John the Baptist. The water is flowing, there’s a crowd nearby and Jesus steps forward to be baptised.  

What happens next changes everything. As Jesus emerges from the water, heaven opens up, the Holy Spirit descends on him like a dove, and a voice is heard saying, ‘This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.’

This is a profound moment in Jesus’ life, for it reveals his deepest identity: he is no longer just the carpenter’s son; he is now the Beloved son of God.

But this moment also does something else: it marks the beginning of his life mission.

Jesus knows that something remarkable has happened, so he withdraws into the desert to reflect on what it all means. Then he goes out into the villages and towns of Galilee, teaching, healing and bringing God’s mercy to the world.

Jesus’ Baptism, then, isn’t just about who he is; it’s also about what he is sent to do. And the same is true for us.

Those of us who have been baptised have all had our own Jordan moment. Many of us were too young to remember it, however God spoke the same words to us that he spoke to Jesus: ‘You are my beloved child; with you I am well pleased.’

This was the day we received our truest identity. It’s not something we had to earn or achieve; it’s a gift that’s freely poured into us in love. And from that moment we belonged to Jesus Christ and his Spirit began to live in us.

This is who we are, and that identity never fades even if we forget it.

At the same time, baptism also gives us our mission in life. Just as Jesus was sent out from the Jordan to bring God’s love to others, so we are all called to do the same, each in our own place and time.

Our baptismal mission is to make the love of Christ visible in the ordinary moments of our lives.

Pope St John Paul II understood all this deeply. Towards the end of his life, a journalist asked him, ‘Holy Father, who are you?’

He could have said, ‘I am the Pope,’ or ‘I am a priest,’ or he could have listed his many other titles and achievements. But instead, he replied, ‘In the deepest sense, I am a baptised man.’

He explained that everything he did, including his priesthood, his leadership and his courage, flowed from that single identity. And with that identity came a mission: to bear witness to Jesus Christ in the world.

He once said, ‘Every Christian is a missionary to the extent that he or she has encountered the love of God in Christ.’

This is what baptism does. It fills us with the love of God and it sends us out to share it.

At every baptism this mission is reflected in a small but powerful sign. That’s when the baptismal candle is lit from the Paschal candle – the great Easter candle – and we hear the celebrant say, ‘Receive the light of Christ.’

That light is not meant to be hidden away. It’s meant to be carried out into the world, into homes, workplaces, schools and communities, bringing warmth and hope to anywhere there is fear or darkness. And when we forgive, comfort or help others, that light continues to burn even brighter.

This is how we fulfil our baptismal mission.

Florence Nightingale once said that she felt God had called her by name to serve the suffering. After her baptism, her faith had grown and she came to see her nursing not as a career, but as a mission that flowed from her baptismal call to love and heal.

How are you called to make a difference in the lives of others?

Today as we celebrate the Baptism of the Lord, we are reminded that our baptism is so much more than an ancient family tradition. It’s the defining moment of our lives, the source of both our identity and our mission, just as it was for Jesus all those years ago.

So, when you ask yourself, ‘Who am I?’ you can answer with St John Paul II: ‘I am a baptised person, a beloved child of God.’

And when you ask yourself, ‘What should I be doing, what is my mission in life?’ the answer is the same:

‘To live out my baptism, to bring the light and love of Jesus into our world.’

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

The Fourth Wise Man

(Is.60:1-6; Eph.3:2-3, 5-6; Mt.2:1-12)

On Epiphany Sunday every year, we hear the story of the Wise Men of the East who go looking for the newborn King.

These Magi are scholars and searchers who see a heavenly sign and follow it all the way to Bethlehem. There they kneel before the Christ-child and give him gifts of gold, frankincense and myrrh.

They discover God’s presence in that little child, and that’s why we call it the Epiphany.

Now, have you heard of Artaban, the fourth Wise Man? His legend is less well-known, but it comes from Henry van Dyke’s The Story of the Other Wise Man, first published in 1895. [i]

Like the other three, Artaban is a priest of the Magi in Persia and he sees a heavenly sign that a new King will soon be born. He plans to join the others in their journey and he leaves home with three precious gifts – a sapphire, a ruby and a pearl.

On the way, Artaban sees a man dying by the roadside. He stops to help, but this means he misses his meeting and the other Wise Men travel without him.

Artaban knows he cannot cross the desert alone on a horse, so he sells one of his treasures to buy camels and supplies. And when he gets to Bethlehem, he’s again too late. Jesus, Mary and Joseph have already gone to Egypt. But in the meantime, Artaban saves a child’s life by selling another of his treasures.

He continues searching for Jesus in Egypt and elsewhere, and along the way he helps more people. When he finally arrives in Jerusalem 33 years later, he’s just in time to see a man being led to his crucifixion. And he spends his last treasure, the pearl, rescuing a young woman from slavery.

Then Artaban is struck on the head by a falling roof tile and he lies dying. He thinks he’s failed because he hasn’t found Jesus. But a voice says to him, ‘Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me’ (Mt.25:40).

Artaban then realises that he has found his King, not in a manger or a palace, but in every act of compassion on his journey.

The word Epiphany means a sudden revelation, a profound moment when God reveals his presence. For the Magi, that revelation came in a star and a child. For Artaban, it came in the faces of those who suffered.

The Magi offered gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Artaban’s gifts were mercy, compassion, and love, and in God’s eyes those gifts were even more precious.

Today, the Epiphany reminds us that God is still revealing himself, not only in our prayers and in the Holy Eucharist here in church, but also in our selfless acts out on the streets.

Our every act of compassion serves as a kind of Bethlehem, a place where Jesus Christ is made visible.

Many of us set out on our own journey of faith with the best of intentions. We want to become better people, getting closer to God and doing more for others. But life often gets in the way. We get held up by illness, delayed by our responsibilities, and distracted by the needs of others. And sometimes we wonder: have I missed my chance to find Jesus?

Artaban’s story says: no. Jesus is not only found at the end of the road, but also along the way, especially where love calls us to stop, help and care for others.

In other words, every detour we take for the sake of love brings us closer to the heart of God.

In 1985, a movie was made of Artaban’s tale, starring Martin Sheen and called The Fourth Wise Man. The story is fictional of course, but its message is still important.

At the end of his life Artaban was empty-handed, with his treasures spent and his plans unfulfilled. Yet he heard Jesus say, ‘Whatever you did for the least of these, you did for me.’

Artaban had given everything, and in the process, he had found everything.

Today, as we remember the star that led the Magi to Jesus, may we also follow the quieter light that led Artaban – the light of love that reveals Christ in every person we meet.

For this is our Epiphany.

Every moment of compassion reveals Christ in our world today.

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[i] https://christmasstories.org/the-other-wise-man/

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Infographic courtesy of Fr Don at thewordthisweek.net:

School of Holiness

(Sir.3:2-6, 12-14; Col.3:12-21; Mt.2:13-15, 19-23)

When Pope Paul VI visited Israel in 1964, he was the first pope to walk the Holy Land since St Peter.

Arriving in Jesus’ home town, he described Nazareth as ‘a kind of school where we (can) discover what Christ’s life was like and even to begin to understand his Gospel.’ And he encouraged the faithful to learn from the life of the Holy Family, where ‘everything speaks to us (and) everything has meaning.’

So, what might we learn from Jesus, Mary and Joseph?

It’s tempting to think that they lived a charmed life, untouched by hardship or fear. But in today’s Gospel they are refugees, forced to flee their homeland. Their son is in danger and they are exhausted, yet they remain faithful to God and to each other.

This is what holiness looks like. It’s not about finding perfect order or peace, but staying loving and faithful even in the hardest of times.

Today I’d like to talk about two families who did just that.  

The first were Louis and Zélie Martin, who lived in 19th-century France. Louis was a watchmaker, Zélie was a lacemaker, and together they raised nine children, five of whom survived to adulthood, including St Thérèse of Lisieux.

Their home was not grand, but it was graced as they faced the challenges typical in every other family. The prayed together, went to Mass daily and faced illness and grief with courage. Louis and Zélie also taught their children honesty, kindness and generosity, and the habit of trusting God in small things.

Their youngest daughter, St Thérèse of Lisieux, said her parents’ love was her ‘first school of holiness.’ She described their faith as being like ‘a gentle light that never went out.’

And she said it was from them that she learnt her ‘little way’ – doing small things with very great love.

In 2015, Louis and Zélie Martin were the first married couple to be canonised together. What made them saints was not their extraordinary deeds, but the extraordinary love they shared from day to day.

They remind us that a holy family doesn’t have to be perfect, nor does it have to be heroic. Rather, sanctity is about living ordinary life with great faith, love and trust in God – just like Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

A century later, in Italy, Luigi and Maria Beltrame Quattrocchi also lived a holy life, but in very different circumstances. Luigi was a lawyer, Maria was a teacher and they were married for 50 years.

They raised four children through two world wars, and like so many of us, their days were filled with hard work, noise and worry, yet their home was alive with laughter and prayer. They cared for each other, they forgave, they helped the poor, and during the Second World War they even hid Jews in their home.

The secret to their sanctity was simple: they always kept Jesus at the centre of everything they did. And their holiness bore fruit: two of their sons became priests, one daughter became a Benedictine nun, and another married.

In 2001, Luigi and Maria were the first married couple to be beatified together. On that day, St John Paul II said their marriage showed that ‘the path to holiness can be walked together, hand in hand.’

The Beltrame Quattrocchi family remind us that holiness is not reserved for monasteries or martyrs, for it can be lived in every kitchen, school run and act of patience at home. Their example is particularly relevant today, when family life is so often fragile or fragmented.

Both of these families reflect something of the wonder of Nazareth.

In the Martin family, we see holiness in the gentle simplicity and love of ordinary life. And in the Beltrame Quattrocchi family, we see holiness in their constant faith and generosity during turbulent times.

In our second reading today, St Paul urges us to ‘clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience.’ Here, he’s describing the true garment of family holiness. It’s woven not of grand gestures but of countless small ones: a listening ear, a word of encouragement, a hand held in suffering.

That’s what made the Holy Family’s home in Nazareth so holy; and it can make our homes holy, too.

This holiness is not unreachable. It begins wherever we are, and whenever we choose to forgive, to serve and to pray together.

As Mother Teresa often liked to say, ‘Love begins at home … and it’s not how much we do, but how much love we put into doing it.’