Deacon Peter

Ladder of Love

(Ex.22:20-26; 1Thess.1:5c-10; Mt.22:34-40)

In today’s Gospel, Jesus says our Christian faith has two sides, like a coin. On one side we must love God; and on the other, we must love our neighbour.

How must we love God? Totally, with all our hearts, souls, and minds. But this can be hard for those who are new to the faith, or those who struggle to connect with an invisible, spiritual God. How might they bridge that gap?

One way is to learn from the story of the little Jewish boy who said to his rabbi, ‘I know I’m meant to love God, but I don’t know how to. How can I love God when I’ve never seen him? I think I know how to love my family, and even my neighbours, but I don’t know how to love God.’

The rabbi looked at him and replied, ‘Try to love a stone. Try to be present to the most basic thing in reality so you can see its goodness and beauty. Then let that goodness and beauty come into you. Let it speak to you. Start with a stone.’ The boy nodded.

‘Then when you can love a stone,’ he said, ‘try a flower. See if you can love a flower. See if you can be present to it, and let its beauty come into you. See if you can let its life come into you and you can give yourself to it. You don’t have to pluck, possess or destroy it. You can just love it there in the garden.’ The boy nodded again.

‘I’m not saying it’s wrong to pick flowers,’ the rabbi added. ‘Just try learning something from the flower without putting it in a vase.’ The boy smiled, which meant he understood; or maybe he didn’t. But just in case, the rabbi chose the boy’s pet dog as the next thing to be loved and listened to.

‘Then,’ the rabbi said, ‘try to love the sky and the mountains, the beauty of all creation. Try to be present to it in its many forms. Let it speak to you and come into you.’ The boy nodded again.

‘Then,’ the rabbi said, ‘try to love a woman. Try to be faithful to her and sacrifice yourself for her. And after you have loved a stone, a flower, your little dog, the mountains, the sky, and a woman, then you’ll be ready to love God. [i]

What the rabbi was doing here was teaching the boy to recognise the building blocks of love, starting with something very simple, like a stone. You cannot build a masterpiece of divine love without understanding its component parts.

You also cannot encounter God in a vacuum, for God uses the world around us to touch us and shape our hearts.

After the stone, the rabbi talks about the flower. Some people struggle to love anything without possessing, controlling, or consuming it. But here the boy is asked to love a flower from a distance. True love requires a quiet, listening presence. It asks us to look at the world to discover the goodness God has embedded within it.

After the flower, the rabbi turns to the boy’s pet dog, and teaches him about affection and companionship. Then he tells him to love the mountains and sky, filling the boy’s heart with wonder, transcendence and awe.

Then the rabbi says, ‘Try to love a woman… and after you’ve loved a stone, a flower, your little dog, the mountains, the sky, and a human being, you’ll be ready to love God.’

This is the ladder of love, designed to help us reach our invisible God. It’s reflected in today’s readings, for Jesus says that if you’re serious about loving God, then you need to think about how you treat those around you, for you cannot love God without loving your neighbour. Our first reading says this, too: Anyone who hurts the vulnerable hurts God, because he cares about them (Mt.25:40; 1Jn.4:20).

So, if you are struggling to feel close to God; if your prayer life feels empty, then remember the ladder of love.

Take time to discover the goodness and beauty of God’s creation. Learn to appreciate people as gifted individuals, and not as flowers to be forced into a vase. And think about making genuine sacrifices for your family, your friends and your lonely neighbour, for there is no love without sacrifice.

The way to start loving God is by learning to love the world he created for us.

Every act of patience and kindness, and every moment spent admiring the beauty of God’s creation, is a step forward on the ladder of love.

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[i] Richard Rohr, What the Mystics Know, Crossroad Publications, NY. 2015, 85-87.

What Belongs to God

(Isa.45:1,4-6; 1Thess.1:1-5b; Mt.22:15-21)

In 258AD, a terrifying wave of Christian persecution was unleashed across Rome. Pope Sixtus II was executed, and Lawrence, his young archdeacon, was left to run the Church.

The Roman Prefect had heard of vast Christian treasure and demanded that Lawrence hand it over. Lawrence agreed, but needed three days to arrange it. In that time, he quietly gave whatever the Church had to the poor, and when the prefect returned, Lawrence presented all the poor and broken people he had gathered from around the city. ‘These are the true treasures of the Church,’ he said. The prefect was livid, and had him executed on a fiery gridiron.

St Lawrence’s courage all those years ago helps us understand what Jesus is saying in Matthew’s Gospel today.

Some Jewish leaders try to trap Jesus by asking him a loaded question about the Roman census tax: ‘Is it lawful to pay taxes to Caesar or not?’ they ask. They think that whatever answer Jesus gives will be wrong. If he supports the tax, it will anger the Jews, and if he opposes the tax, it will anger the Romans. But Jesus knows what’s going on.

He asks them to show him the coin used to pay the tax. They hand him a denarius. One side bears an image of the emperor, with the inscription ‘Tiberius Caesar Augustus, son of the divine Augustus’. The other side says ‘Pontifex Maximus’, or supreme priest. In other words, this coin claims that Caesar is a god.

The Jewish leaders have embarrassed themselves because they have broken the first commandment. Here they are in the Temple, the holiest of all Jewish places, holding a coin that bears a graven image. ‘Whose image is this and whose inscription?’ Jesus asks.

They sheepishly reply, ‘Caesar’s.’ Then Jesus says, ‘Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s, and give to God what is God’s.’

Because Caesar’s image is stamped on that coin, Jesus is saying that it ultimately belongs to him. And by saying ‘give to Caesar what is Caesar’s,’ he is telling them to be good, responsible citizens. They must play their part and pay their dues.

But he is also subtly reminding them that God’s image is stamped on their hearts and lives, for we have all been made in God’s image and likeness (Gen.1:27). So, by telling them to ‘give to God what is God’s,’ Jesus is reminding us that we all belong to him.

Caesar, therefore, can claim your taxes and your civil obedience, but he cannot claim your soul because we all belong to God.

St Lawrence understood this. To the Roman Prefect, those poor and broken citizens were worthless. But to Lawrence, they were precious because they bore the indelible watermark of the King of Kings.

Today, the modern ‘Caesars’ of our world are still trying to stamp their image on us. They’d love to own and control us. They measure our value by our economic worth, our political choices, and our social status. That’s why we’re all being pressured to keep accumulating the coins of comfort, security, and prestige.

But right now, Jesus is reminding us that at our Baptism, the sign of the Cross was traced upon our foreheads, sealing us as God’s sons and daughters. So, we belong to him. But how do we give to God what belongs to God?

In her autobiography, St Thérèse of Lisieux says that when she was small, her older sister Léonie decided she was too old to play with dolls. So, she filled a basket with doll clothes, colourful ribbons, and materials and offered them to Thérèse and her sister Céline. ‘Choose whatever you want,’ Léonie said.

Céline took a ball of silk braid, but little Thérèse declared, ‘I choose everything!’ and took the whole basket.

Reflecting on this later, Thérèse realised that this action characterised her whole life. She wrote that God does not want us to pick and choose small pieces of ourselves to give him. That’s why she decided, ‘I don’t want to be a saint by halves. I choose everything God gives me!’

When Jesus tells us to give to God what belongs to God, he’s not asking us to give little bits of our time here, or a few leftover coins there. He’s not asking us to be a saint ‘by halves.’ [i]

Because we are made in God’s image, our entire selves belong to him. Like young St Thérèse, God looks at our hearts, our worries, and our hopes and says, ‘I want the lot.’

This week, let’s live as responsible citizens, playing our part and paying our dues. But let’s also remember that God wants our all.

Let’s offer the whole basket of our lives to Jesus.

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[i] Therese of Lisieux, The Story of a Soul, Source Books, Trubaco Canyon, CA, 2002, 28.

Clothed in Christ

(Isa.25:6-10a; Phil.4:12-14; Mt.22:1-14)

In medieval Poland, Prince Casimir had it all. He lived in a castle, ate at royal banquets, and was promised a life of prestige and power.

He also wore the finest clothes, made of velvet, silk, and fur.

Then he caught tuberculosis and died, aged only 26. When his body was prepared for burial, they were surprised to find him wearing a hairshirt under his royal robes. What is a hairshirt? It’s a rough, scratchy garment made of animal hair that’s worn against the skin. It causes constant itching and discomfort.

Prince Casimir understood something that many people never learn. He knew that the beautiful clothes expected in an earthly court mean nothing in the court of the King of Kings. He simply treated his royal robes as costumes for a temporary world. His true garment was the hidden, interior fabric of humility and penance that he wore for God.

Casimir knew that God had invited him to his eternal banquet, and he wanted to make sure he was always prepared for it.

In our first reading today, the prophet Isaiah has a vision of this heavenly banquet. He describes a fabulous feast prepared by God on his holy mountain, Mount Zion. It’s a banquet of rich food, succulent meats, and choice wines, and the guest list includes everyone, including you and me. And making this event even more special, God also promises to remove the veil of suffering, death, and disgrace that covers the earth.

This heavenly banquet represents the ultimate fulfillment of all human desire, and it’s what Casimir deeply yearned for. Although he often ate at royal banquets, he knew his earthly life was only temporary. He also knew that we cannot rely on worldly comforts to satisfy our deepest hunger. Only God can do that.

This is essentially what St Paul is saying in our second reading today. Writing from prison in Rome, Paul says he has found the secret to spiritual endurance. Despite his chains and a possible death sentence, he can now face any situation with a deep sense of peace. Why? Because he has learnt that his security does not come from his wardrobe, possessions or physical comfort.

Paul’s secret is simple: ‘I can do all things through him who strengthens me,’ he says. In other words, he has ‘clothed himself in Christ’ (Rom.13:14), and Jesus now gives him the strength he needs to endure any hardship or trial.

Casimir knew this, too. He knew his strength and identity came from Jesus, not from a life of privilege. That’s why he chose to wear those hidden clothes.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells the story of a king who throws a huge wedding feast for his son, but the original guests refuse to come. So, he extends the invitation to everyone else, and the hall is filled. But then, the king spots a guest who is not wearing a wedding garment, and he banishes him.

This seems harsh, but in the ancient world the host always provided clean, festive clothing at the door, especially for the poor. To enter without it was insulting, because it meant that the person had consciously refused to wear it.

The wedding garment in Jesus’ parable symbolises the life we’re all meant to live. It is made from the fabric of repentance, faith, and love, and it marks the start of a new life. It’s just like the white robe we all wear at baptism, when we ‘put on Christ’ (Gal.3:27). It shows that we have been cleansed of sin and made ready to join God’s family.

But it’s not something to ignore or quickly discard. We must keep wearing this symbolic robe if we want God’s grace to keep transforming us, and preparing us for his heavenly banquet. To refuse to wear it is to want free food without respecting the host; it’s wanting the kingdom without the king.

St Francis of Assisi also did something radical with his clothing. When he decided to follow Jesus, his father was furious. He dragged Francis before the local bishop and demanded that he return every cent spent on his upbringing. Francis not only paid the money; he also stripped off his expensive clothes and gave them to his father. Standing there naked, he declared that he no longer had a father on earth, but only his Father in heaven.

Francis had cast off the garments of worldly pride, security, and ambition to be clothed purely in the grace of God.

Today, what are you wearing?

Have you cast off the rags of your old ways, like St Casimir of Poland and St Francis of Assisi?

And are you now clothed in Christ, making sure you’re ready for his eternal feast?

Mary’s Donkey

(Isa.5:1-7; Phil.4:6-9; Mt.21:33-43)

Blessed Fulton Sheen is deservedly getting plenty of press coverage these days. But it’s worthwhile remembering that there was another person who also became a huge international media sensation in the 20th Century. He was an Irish-born man named Patrick Peyton.

In 1938, while he was a seminarian in Washington DC, Patrick caught incurable tuberculosis. His only hope, his doctor said, was prayer. In response, he poured his heart into praying the Rosary, and promised Mary that he would dedicate his life to her if he survived. Months later, he was miraculously healed.

He was ordained in 1941, and then spent the next 50 years telling the world about the power of prayer. 

Starting with no money or connections, and poor health, he managed to conquer Hollywood and the global media for Jesus Christ. He recruited thousands of people, even stars like Bing Crosby, Grace Kelly and Frank Sinatra, into organising mass prayer gatherings in stadiums all over the world. In Manila, for example, in 1985, two million people came to pray the Rosary.

The actress Jane Wyman once said, ‘Somehow, when Fr Peyton asked you for something, there was no way to say no.’

He became one of the most famous religious figures of the last century, but he never lost his humility, despite his connection with celebrities. One of his friends said, ‘He didn’t change. They did.’

When asked how a humble priest could attract so many people to his Family Rosary Crusades, he replied, ‘I’m just Mary’s donkey. A simple pack animal. My only job is to carry Jesus and his mother to the world, and then get out of the way.’[i]

Patrick Peyton had many blessings, but he didn’t just sit back and enjoy them. He actively used them to help spread the love of God.

Now, contrast that story with Jesus’ Parable of the Wicked Tenants in today’s Gospel. A landowner sets up a fine vineyard and leases it to tenants before going away. At harvest time, he sends his servants to collect the rent, which is a share of the produce.

These tenants have been given a fine home and a good livelihood, but they forget their obligations. Instead of welcoming the servants and sharing their crop, they beat one, kill another, and stone a third. Finally, the landowner sends his own son, thinking they will surely respect him. But they kill him, too.

What is their sin? It’s not just violence; it’s also twisted pride. They want all the benefits of the vineyard without any accountability. They mistake stewardship for possession, and forget that all they have belongs to the Master.

Today, this is a temptation many people have fallen into. They see their lives, talents, and successes as their own achievements, rather than gifts from God.

They even become defensive and resentful at the thought of sharing some of their fruits with God. Like the wicked tenants, their pride makes them treat God like an intruder rather than the Lord of their lives.

There is no pride, however, in Patrick Peyton’s image of ‘Mary’s donkey.’

Pack animals like donkeys don’t claim to own the cargo they haul. They don’t boast about the vineyard’s beauty or the harvest’s value. They simply plod onward, faithfully doing whatever the Master asks them to do. This is stewardship.

God is not looking for proud tenants who want to build their own kingdoms. He’s looking for humble servants who are willing to carry Jesus into the world. He’s looking for people who understand that everything they have is a gift to be shared, and not just a prize to be hoarded.

At the end of his parable, Jesus warns that the kingdom of God will be taken away from wicked tenants and given to those who will produce its fruit.

So, how might we become fruitful today? How might we become faithful pack animals for Christ rather than wicked tenants?

It all begins with prayer. Patrick Peyton’s life was all about prayer. His healing came from prayer, his life mission came from prayer, and he spent his whole life promoting the power of prayer. It was he who famously said, ‘The family that prays together stays together.’ [ii]

When a family gathers to pray, especially the Rosary, they are in effect saying, ‘We don’t own this home. We don’t own this family. God is the Master of our lives; we are simply his servants.’

Daily prayer resets our perspective. It strips away our pride and reminds us of our dependence on God. It allows us to give God the fruit he is owed by dedicating our time, our relationships, and our hearts back to him.

So, this week, let’s stop thinking like those uncooperative tenants. Let’s stop trying to control our own destiny. Let’s no longer pretend we can do it all alone.

Instead, let’s pray for the grace to be like Patrick Peyton – and Blessed Fulton Sheen – simple and joyful ‘donkeys’ for Jesus, carrying his love, his mercy, and his joy into our world.

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[i] https://fatherpeyton.org/

[ii] Fr Peyton died in 1992 in the US, aged eighty-three. His work continues today through the Family Rosary Foundation. In 2017, Pope Francis declared him Venerable.

The Bucket List

(Ezek.18:25-28; Phil.2:1-11; Mt.21:28-32)

Rob Reiner’s film The Bucket List (2007) tells the story of two terminally ill men – a tycoon played by Jack Nicholson, and a mechanic played by Morgan Freeman. [i]

They share a hospital room with only months left to live, and decide to write a list of all they want to see, do, and experience before they ‘kick the bucket.’ They then go skydiving, driving fast cars, and flying around the world.

It’s an entertaining film, but its basic message is profound: nothing focuses the mind quite like a deadline. When we realise that our time is short, our priorities soon change. The trivia we used to worry about fade, and the things we’ve avoided, like faith, family, and forgiveness, suddenly become urgent.

The spiritual reality, however, is that we all have a terminal diagnosis. It’s called our mortality, for no earthly life lasts forever. As St James reminds us, our life is ‘a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.’ (Jas.4:14)

Because life is so short, the choices we make today carry eternal weight. We cannot rely on past merits, and we cannot blame our forebears. This is the warning the prophet Ezekiel gives us in our first reading today.

The Israelites have been complaining that God is unfair, and God replies that it’s time for them to take responsibility, for things are getting urgent. He says that if good people turn away from virtue to commit sin, they will die in that state. But if a wicked person turns away from sin to do what’s right, he will surely live.

In other words, our spiritual life is not static; it’s a daily choice. But too many of us have become complacent, perhaps thinking, ‘I’ve been a good person for years; I can coast for a while.’ But such coasting is a trap. We cannot afford to delay our ongoing conversion, because we just don’t know when our final hour will be.

This message is reinforced in today’s Gospel, in Jesus’ Parable of the Two Sons. A father asks his two sons to go and work in his vineyard – not tomorrow, but today.

The second son says, ‘Yes,’ but doesn’t show up. Given that life is so short, his choice is tragic. He thinks he has plenty of time and treats his Father’s vineyard like a chore he can return to later.

How often do we do the same thing? How often do we procrastinate? How often do we say, ‘I’ll work on that relationship later,’ or ‘I’ll return to my faith when I have time?’

We too often act as though tomorrow is guaranteed, but the vineyard owner demands action today, because today is the only time we actually possess.

The first son initially refuses to work in his father’s vineyard, but then realises his mistake. He repents, and does the right thing. This is the kind of person Ezekiel praises. He has made mistakes and has wasted time, but as Ezekiel says, ‘he has renounced sin and become law-abiding and honest,’ so ‘he deserves to live.’

Jesus then shocks his listeners. He says that tax collectors and prostitutes will enter God’s kingdom before they do. Why will they? Because when they heard God’s call, they didn’t argue about it. They understood that life is short and moved quickly to clean up their lives.

In The Bucket List, the two men come to realise that staying in luxury resorts doesn’t bring them peace. True peace comes from reconciling with estranged family, and practising selfless love.

At the end, the dying mechanic asks two key questions: ‘Have you found joy in your life?’ and ‘Has your life brought joy to others?’ These are questions we all need to answer, because they get to the heart of things.

Jesus asks the same question: Have you entered God’s vineyard, and are you doing the Father’s will?

Very helpfully, Jesus has prepared a spiritual bucket list for you. Here it is: Repent while you can. Forgive while you can. Return to God while you can. And love while there is still time.

For the only life that will stand before God on Judgment Day is not the life we planned to live someday, but the life we choose to live today.

Let’s no longer live with the empty politeness of the second son. Let’s get real like his brother.

However often we might have said ‘no’ in the past, today we can still enter God’s vineyard. Today we can still say ‘yes,’ by turning to Jesus Christ.

And that yes, lived now, is the beginning of eternal life.

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[i] The Bucket List. Directed by Rob Reiner, performances by Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, Warner Bros. Pictures, 2007.

Amadeus

(Is.55:6-9; Phil.1:20-24, 27; Mt.20:1-16)

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was one of classical music’s most remarkable composers. He was born in Salzburg, Austria, and starting from the age of only five, he composed over 600 masterworks in only thirty years.

When he was 25, he moved to Vienna, the home of another composer, an ambitious man named Antonio Salieri. Their relationship became turbulent and is the subject of Miloš Forman’s extraordinary movie, Amadeus, which won eight Academy Awards in 1985. [i]

This film depicts Salieri as a deeply religious and hard-working man who promises God that he will live a chaste, disciplined, and industrious life if God will make of him a great composer.

For years he works slavishly, climbing Vienna’s musical ladder. He’s convinced that his strict obedience has earnt God’s favour. But then Mozart arrives as someone vulgar, childish and arrogant; everything Salieri is not. Yet, at the piano, Mozart is simply a genius and Salieri is filled with jealous rage.

Salieri looks up at the crucifix on his wall and accuses God of being unfair. He cannot understand why a just God would pour such talent into a frivolous character like Mozart, while letting him wallow in mediocrity.

There’s similar resentment in today’s Gospel, in Jesus’ Parable of the Labourers in the Vineyard. Several workers are hired at dawn. They follow the rules and slave all day under the hot sun. But when evening comes, the landowner outrages them. He gives those who have worked for barely an hour the same wage: a full day’s pay.

The first-hired workers aren’t upset about being underpaid; they got what was promised. They are complaining because the latecomers are treated equally. They cannot accept the landowner’s generosity.

They are suffering from Salieri’s syndrome: spiritual envy.

How often do we fall into this same trap? How often do we resent newcomers getting the same rewards as those who have been doing the right thing for years?

Some people even get uncomfortable thinking about the saints who were once terrible sinners. But God’s kingdom isn’t based on merit. It’s founded on grace.

St Dismas, for example, was the Good Thief who was crucified next to Jesus. He had spent his life breaking the law, and yet at the last minute he turns to Jesus, asking to be remembered. But Jesus doesn’t say, ‘It’s too late.’ He rewards him by saying, ‘Today you’ll be with me in paradise.’ 

Dismas is the ultimate eleventh-hour worker in God’s vineyard. He wins heaven at the very last moment.

St Angela of Foligno was a wealthy Italian woman who spent her life indulging herself. Then, at the age of forty, she lost her family and had a vision of St Francis. She sold everything she had, gave it all to the poor and became a Franciscan and a great teacher of prayer.

She shows us how God can take a shallow heart and set it ablaze in an instant.

And then there’s St Mark Ji Tianxiang, the Chinese doctor who was an opium addict. His parish priest refused him the sacraments for thirty years because of his chronic addiction. But he never stopped going to Mass, praying, and begging God for mercy. Then in 1900, during the Boxer Rebellion, he was arrested for being a Christian. He went to his execution singing hymns, and died a martyr’s death.

By the strict rules of the day, Mark was a failed Christian standing idle at the edge of God’s vineyard. Yet Jesus gave him the highest crown of heaven: sainthood.

In our society, we tend to take a transactional view of things: if I do this, then I expect to get that. Our laws reinforce this thinking, and many of us expect even God to comply. But as Isaiah says in our first reading, God’s ways are not our ways. God does not think like we do.

Human fairness demands that you get exactly what you earn. But divine mercy provides exactly what you need to be saved. The landowner in today’s parable gave the latecomers a full day’s pay because he knew their families needed it.

God acts out of our need, not our merit.

At the end of the movie Amadeus, Salieri is a broken old man being wheeled through an asylum. He calls himself the ‘patron saint of mediocrity’ and shouts, ‘I absolve you all!’ It’s a tragic, hollow mockery of the priesthood, reflecting a lifetime of keeping score and resenting God’s gifts.

Our challenge is to rise above such bitterness. When we see God pouring his blessings onto those who don’t seem to deserve them, we should rejoice rather than grumble. The truth is, none of us really deserves God’s mercy. We are all sinners.

So, let’s be grateful that God is so generous with his blessings. He gives his mercy to all who open their hearts to him.

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[i] Amadeus. Directed by Miloš Forman, performance by F. Murray Abraham and Tom Hulce, Orion Pictures, 1984.

The Holy Hanged Men

(Ecc.27:30-28:7; Rom.14:7-9; Mt.18:21-35)

In the 1800s, Turin was a tough and unforgiving place. As huge factories rose up during the industrial revolution, people came flooding in, looking for work. Most ended up in overcrowded slums, where food was short, crime and disease were rife, and children worked up to 14 hours a day.

A local priest, St John Bosco, famously responded by rescuing and educating abandoned children. He established the Salesian Order to help him, and by the time he died in 1888, 1400 Salesians were doing this work in Europe and South America.

The person who encouraged Don Bosco into this work was his seminary professor, St Joseph Cafasso. Few today have heard of him, but he prepared new priests for service among the poor.

Cafasso also did something else: he personally supported condemned men in Turin’s squalid prisons. He spent hours listening to their confessions, giving hope and dignity to miserable inmates before their execution. He stayed with them all night, accompanied them to the scaffold, and held a crucifix up high until their final breath. He called these executed men his ‘little saints.’

At the time, Jansenism was rife, with too many people thinking that God was severe and unforgiving. Cafasso, however, taught that God is a loving, compassionate father who never rejects anyone, even at the gallows. For no sinner is beyond God’s mercy.

Indeed, some of these prisoners died so reconciled to God that they came to be called his ‘holy hanged men.’

Today, we must ask ourselves: Do we really believe in God’s mercy? And do we accept that God’s grace can reach even the worst sinner?

Today’s readings assure us that God truly is merciful. But they also remind us to share that mercy with others.

In our first reading, the Jewish scholar Ben Sirach is blunt. Resentment and anger are foul things, he says, yet both can be found in the sinner. We like to think of ourselves as good people, but too often we remain resentful when others hurt us.

Let go, Sirach says. Forgive them, and when you pray your own sins will be forgiven. For how can you expect healing from God when you show no mercy towards others? So, remember the commandments, and be forgiving.

In Matthew’s Gospel, Peter asks Jesus how often we should forgive others. Seven times? Jesus replies, not seven, but seventy-seven times. In other words, always. We are obliged to forgive anyone who has offended us, and we must seek forgiveness from anyone we might have offended. 

Why? Because God is love, and we too must be loving if we want his divine life working inside us. We must let go of the past and learn to live in peace. 

Jesus then shares his parable of a servant who owes his king an enormous sum. He begs for patience, but the king does something even better: he forgives the entire debt. However, that servant then goes chasing someone else who owes him a smaller amount, and demands repayment.

He has received mercy, but does not pass it on. That is a tragedy.

St Joseph Cafasso spent his life with men who had committed terrible crimes. He understood the need for justice, but he also believed that even in the darkest places repentance can happen, Christ can enter and mercy can flow.

If such mercy can reach condemned men at the gallows, how then can I not forgive others in my own life?

Most of us have suffered family wounds, broken friendships, harsh words, tensions and betrayals that still fester inside us. We tend to hold on to them.

Yet the psalmist tells us, ‘Merciful and gracious is the Lord, slow to anger and abounding in kindness.’ This is the mercy by which we should live. We all stand before God as debtors who have been shown the deepest compassion.

As St Paul says in our second reading, whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord. This is why St Joseph Cafasso’s ministry was so powerful. He stood by the gallows declaring that even the condemned belong to God. Even at the last moment it’s not too late to seek the loving grace of Jesus Christ.

This should give us all hope, because no-one is beyond repentance. No-one is beyond God’s grace.

But then we must share that mercy with others. We must forgive those who hurt us.

This does not mean pretending that evil did not happen. But it does mean refusing to let hatred rule our heart, and opening our hearts to God’s peace.

So, let’s pray this little prayer: Lord, do not let your mercy stop with me. Teach me to love and forgive, just as you do.

Three Faces

(Ezek.33:7-9; Rom.13:8-10; Mt.18:15-20)

The Japanese, I am told, have a saying: that we all have three faces. The first is the face we show the world. This is our respectable, public face, the one we carefully manage.

The second is for those closest to us: our family and friends. It’s the face we reveal when we are tired, frustrated, or unguarded.

And the third is the hidden face we sometimes hide even from ourselves. This is the truest picture of who we are, for it reflects our deepest heart where our wounds, sins, fears and desires are only fully known by God.

As Christians, our challenge is not to maintain our outward veneer, but to draw God’s grace into our hearts so that we might live lives of holy integrity – consistently presenting only one genuine face to the world.

St Francis de Sales can teach us something here. He is widely known as a meek and gentle saint, but that gentleness did not come easily to him. For years he wrestled with his fiery temper, but he managed to overcome it using several techniques he records in his spiritual classic, Introduction to the Devout Life.

One thing he learnt is to never let even the smallest annoyance enter his mind. Once it gets inside the door, he said, it acts like a tiny spark that can quickly burn the house down. At such moments, he tried distracting himself by focussing on a person’s good qualities, not their failings.

He also prayed solidly for God’s help because he knew he couldn’t do it alone. Some of his prayers were very short, including: ‘Jesus, meek and humble of heart, make my heart like yours.’

As he allowed God’s grace to transform the hidden parts of his heart, St Francis de Sales was drawn into a life of peace and love that came to be reflected in his face.

In today’s first reading, Ezekiel becomes a watchman for the house of Israel. What is a watchman? It’s someone who must speak up when danger arrives. If a watchman sees danger and says nothing, he shares responsibility for what follows.

The point here is that genuine love always takes responsibility, for real love is never passive. We cannot say we love someone, but refuse to get involved. True love does not hide behind an empty smile.

A fine example of this is St Monica. Outwardly, she was an ordinary mother, but she also had other faces which she kept private. This includes her constant worry, her tears, her years of prayer, and her refusal to give up on her son, Augustine.

She knew that love does not save others by force, but neither does it stand back and say, ‘It’s not my business.’ Her love was selfless and patient, and her faith in God was unwavering.

She, too, allowed God’s grace to transform the hidden parts of her heart, and St Monica is now recognised for who she became: a devoted mother with the holiest of hearts.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells us what to do when something goes wrong in a relationship. ‘If your brother does something wrong, go and have it out with him alone,’ he says.

In other words, don’t write someone off as a lost cause; instead, speak to him. Try to win him back. Christian correction is about love, healing and reconciliation, not humiliation and punishment.

In our second reading, St Paul tells us that the key to all this is love. If we are serious about love, it will stop us from being too harsh or too cowardly towards others, for Christian love avoids both cruelty and indifference. It speaks the truth, but it does so in order to save.

This is where that Japanese saying becomes important. The Christian life is not about maintaining appearances; it’s about letting God’s grace reach our hidden face, the one only God can see. If God can heal our hearts, then our public and private faces will gradually become more truthful, integrated and holy, allowing us to reach out to others in meaningful love.

So, let me ask you: is the kindness you show in public real, or is it just a mask? When you avoid difficult conversations, is it because you are prudent, or because you’re afraid?

And when you come before God in prayer, do you present only your polished face, or do you reveal the real you?

The truth, of course, is that God already sees it all. Our third face is never hidden from him. But here we can take heart, because God does not see us in order to shame us. He sees us in order to heal us. He sees the real person so that his grace may reach into our deepest hearts.

But for this to happen, we must first turn to Jesus. Tell him you want your face to reflect holiness, integrity and love.

Ask him to transform the hidden parts of your heart.

The Vagabond of God

(Jer.20:7-9; Rom.12:1-2; Mt.16:21-27)

John Bradburne was an unusual Englishman. Born into an Anglican family in 1921, he served in the British Army in Burma in WWII.

After the fall of Singapore, he fled into the Malayan jungle where he caught malaria. But there he also had a powerful vision of Jesus Christ, and when he returned home, he became a Catholic.

For years he roamed Europe and the Holy Land, looking for purpose. He stayed in monasteries and worked odd jobs, and as his love for God grew, he joined the Franciscan Third Order and started wearing the Franciscan habit. He also called himself the ‘Vagabond of God.’

In 1962, he went to Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) to work on the missions. One day, he revealed to a priest that he had three wishes: to serve lepers, to die a martyr, and to be buried in the habit of St Francis.

In 1969 he arrived at a leper colony in Mutemwa (which means ‘You are cut off’). It was a squalid, miserable place, but within weeks it became an oasis of peace, faith, and joy.

John lived with these people, treated them as equals, sang and played his flute for them, and taught them Gregorian chant. He bathed the patients, dressed their wounds, fed them, cut their hair, repaired their huts, composed hymns and poems, and spent hours praying before the Blessed Sacrament.

Many people thought he was wasting his life, for he had no salary, no security, no career, and no real possessions. Yet he said, ‘I have never been happier.’

How could this have been true? The answer is in today’s Gospel, where Jesus tells his disciples, ‘If anyone wishes to come after me, let him deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.’

Many people misunderstand these words. They think Jesus is telling us to look for suffering, but Christianity has never glorified pain for its own sake. We don’t carry our cross because suffering is good; we carry it because it represents the fullest expression of love, and we know that genuine love is costly.

Anyone with children, anyone who has been married, and anyone who has ever loved someone else knows how real love always involves sacrifice. This includes surrendering our selfishness, our personal time and our pride.

John Bradburne discovered that it was only when he came to live among these outcasts that he found the joy he’d been looking for. He did not love disease; he loved those who suffered from it.

Indeed, he saw in every resident of Mutemwa the face of Christ. Like Mother Teresa, he described these people as ‘Christ in distressing disguise.’ His attitude transformed the place, because those who had been rejected were instead treated as sons and daughters of God. He believed they all deserved dignity, beauty, music, prayer, friendship, and love.

That’s why John Bradburne could say, ‘I have never been happier.’

His happiness came not from possessing more, but from giving himself away. This is what St Paul is urging us to do in today’s second reading, where he says: ‘Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice. Don’t be conformed to this world, but be transformed.’

Our world tells us to get rich and comfortable, to put ourselves first. But today Jesus is saying something very different: he says that life is discovered not by clinging to it but by giving it away.

One day, John Bradburne was expelled from that village. He had strongly objected to the residents being forced to wear I.D. tags around their necks and bags over their heads to hide their disfigurement. They weren’t animals; they were his beloved brothers and sisters.

He didn’t go far away, though. Every night he returned to help his people, and he was eventually reinstated. But in 1979, he was abducted by armed guerrillas and murdered. Like a good shepherd, he had refused to abandon his flock.

By every worldly measure, John Bradburne was a failure. He died poor, unknown, and far from home. Yet the people of Mutemwa remember him very differently. They remember a man who revealed the love of Christ by treating the forgotten as precious, by singing, praying and laughing with them, and helping them to discover their own dignity. Today he is being considered for canonisation as Zimbabwe’s first saint. [i] [ii]

Jesus says, ‘Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.’ John Bradburne discovered the truth of these words.

The more you give yourself away, the more fully alive you will become.

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[i] www.johnbradburne.com

[ii] Today, John Bradburne is recognised by the Guinness Book of Records as the most prolific poet in the English language, with over 5,000 poems.

It Takes Courage

(Isa.22:19-23; Rom.11:33-36; Mt.16:13-19)

Late one night in 1948, in Esztergom Hungary, Cardinal József Mindszenty heard heavy footsteps outside his home. The Soviet secret police had come to arrest him.

Hungary’s communist regime hated him because he led the local Catholic Church with vigour. They were determined to shut him down.

Cardinal Mindszenty knew how dangerous they could be. They wouldn’t just imprison him; they would torture and drug him to extract a false confession. They wanted to destroy the Church.

So, before opening his door, he wrote a note for his priests: ‘If you hear that I’ve confessed or resigned, don’t believe it. It will be the result of human frailty.’ And into his pocket he slipped a picture of Jesus wearing a crown of thorns, with the words Devictus Vincit (Defeated, he is victorious). Then he walked out to face years of solitary confinement.

Weeks later, after severe beatings, torture and sleep deprivation, he signed a confession admitting to treason, espionage, and foreign currency abuses. But to his signature he added the letters ‘C.F.’ for the Latin Coactus Feci: ‘I did this under duress.’ In other words, You forced my hand, but you cannot force my conscience. He was sentenced to life in prison.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is in Caesarea Philippi with his disciples. He looks them in the eye and asks, ‘Who do you say that I am?’ Simon steps forward and answers, ‘You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.’ 

This is a pivotal moment in the New Testament.

Jesus tells Simon that his answer did not come from human insight but from the Father himself. Then he gives him a new name and a unique mission: ‘You are Peter, and on this rock I will build my Church… I will give you the keys of the Kingdom of Heaven.’

Now, notice what Jesus does not promise. He does not promise Peter an easy life. He does not promise popularity, comfort, or success. He promises only that the gates of hell will not prevail against his Church. And history shows how costly that promise can be.

Cardinal Mindszenty knew exactly what it meant to stand on that rock. He actively opposed the Nazi regime during WWII. And when the Communists took over, they thought that prison, torture, and public humiliation would silence him.

But nothing could sway his conscience.

Cardinal Mindszenty was released after the Hungarian uprising in 1956, but the Soviet army soon returned and then he sought refuge in the American Embassy in Budapest. There he lived in enforced isolation for the next fifteen years.

It would have been understandable if he’d compromised for the sake of peace or comfort. Even the Vatican expected him to make concessions, but he refused. Nothing could shake his fidelity to Jesus Christ and the Church. [i]

Why? Because he understood Peter’s answer to Jesus’ question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’

If Jesus was simply a wise teacher, or one religious figure among many, it would have been reasonable to compromise. But if Jesus truly is ‘the Christ, the Son of the living God,’ then nothing else is more important. That was true for Peter, it was true for Mindszenty, and it’s true for us.

In today’s first reading from Isaiah, God gives the key of the House of David to Eliakim, the palace manager. This is a symbol of stewardship, for the key belongs to the master, but it’s entrusted to the servant. Jesus consciously alludes to this when he gives Peter the keys to the Kingdom.

Ever since the days of Peter, the Church has been the steward of the Gospel. Her task is not to reshape the truth to suit every age but to guard it faithfully, to proclaim it courageously, and to hand it on intact to the next generation.

This is why the witness of people like József Mindszenty is so important, and why he’s being considered for sainthood. He reminds us that fidelity to Jesus may be costly, but the cost of surrendering the truth is even greater.

Most of us will never face prison or torture for our faith, and we’re unlikely to have to sign any false confessions. However, our secular world does subtly expect us to compromise. It’s constantly pressuring us to place our comfort, social status, and political choices above our loyalty to Jesus.

When we’re silent in the face of poverty and injustice, we deny Jesus. When we base our morals on the culture of the day, we abandon Jesus. And when we do nothing while the Church struggles, we are effectively answering Jesus’ question, ‘Who do you say that I am?’

József Mindszenty teaches us that it takes real courage to be a true Christian.

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[i] Cardinal József Mindszenty, Memoirs, Ignatius Press, San Francisco, 2023.