4th Sunday of Lent : Homily / Sermon

While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was moved with pity. He ran to the boy, clasped him in his arms and kissed him tenderly. (Luke 15:20)

On Mothering Sunday it may seem odd to us that we have a Gospel reading which so clearly speaks of family life, yet which mentions only the men, the Father and his two sons.

The situation is very familiar in one way or another to many families. It speaks of faithfulness and impetuosity, of indulgence and jealousy, of affection for the wayward one, and the anger of the one who feels taken for granted. What family has not known some of these feelings and situations?

Yet as we look at the story - especially today - we might just wonder about the mother. How did she feel about the son who took his money and wasted it all? Did she long for his return, or sympathise with her older son in his bitterness? Or did she just dutifully toil in the kitchen, cooking the fatted calf?

We shouldn’t ask too many of these kind of questions, because if we do, we are in danger of missing the point. This all-too-human family is far more. For we are the sons, both wayward like the younger son and bitter like the elder, sinful and self-righteous. And the Father ... is of course the Father. God himself. Loving, forgiving, yearning to welcome us back to him, when we are ready.

And the great painter Rembrandt had a deep insight when he painted the tender scene of the welcome of the prodigal,  for the Father’s hands which embrace the returning son are one large muscular and rough, the other lighter, nimbler and smooth, a male hand and then a female hand, in a loving and welcome embrace.

God is both Mother and Father, indulgent, loving and longing, ready and yearning, for our sorrow, and for our repentance. Waiting to welcome us to the celebration, the feast of our forgiveness.

3rd Sunday of Lent : Homily / Sermon

Do you suppose that they were more guilty than all the other people living in Jerusalem? They were not, I tell you. (Luke 13:4)

Why? Why? 

This is the question which Jesus considers in today’s Gospel. What about the people who were massacred while they worshipped? Why did that happen? And the people who died when the tower fell on them? Why did they have to die? And the victims of the car accident or those afflicted by cancer: why? why? 

These are questions just as important to us today as they were to Jesus’ listeners.

Yet Jesus’ answer may at first appear a little puzzling. He doesn’t seem to be responding to the question we would like to ask. 

But look again - it is filled with hope.

Firstly, he rebukes those who think these terrible events occurred because these were bad or wicked people. This might not seem the most obvious question for us to ask. Yet we do ask ourselves, “Why”, which surely includes “Why them?” “Why me?”
It might be expressed in a different way, but it is obvious that people of Jesus’ time clearly struggled with occasions of innocent suffering as we do.

Those who suffer so terribly, they ask, what have they done wrong?
And the answer - is Nothing. Of course nothing. They have done nothing wrong. No, Jesus says. This is not punishment. It is not God who is striking them down through the wickedness of men or the whim of natural disaster. They are no worse than any of us you. (They might even be much better)

And secondly, Jesus makes another point. And this is our great hope.
He says this: We must all must recognise our need of God; we all need to repent. We must turn again to Him. And if we do - there is mercy, and hope, and more. Comfort often clouds our judgment - but disaster and affliction and persecution make us think again. Consider your lives, he says, live according to God’s will. If you do, you will see the light at the end of the dark tunnel; if you do, there is a very real hope.

When people are on their backs, and sometimes only then, they look up.
When we are in difficulty in despair, we concern ourselves not with theological questions, but with the reality and mercy of God himself. And in times of crisis, those who have a sense or perhaps only an inkling of a greater power and a transcendent love, are together at prayer, united across boundaries, gathering at cracked and wounded places of worship, to share a determination, and a hope, and a belief in Mercy.

Second Sunday of Lent (Transfiguration and St Patrick) : Homily / Sermon

“A cloud came and covered them with shadow; and when they went into the cloud the disciples were afraid.” (Luke 9:35)

As well as being the Second Sunday of Lent and a commemoration of the transfiguration, this weekend it is also St Patrick’s day, the commemoration of the 5th Century Apostle of Ireland

Patrick’s story, and the heritage of faith which has come down from him, is one which is embedded deeply in the past, and in the cultural heritage of these islands, and yet which one which also has tremendous resonance with this diverse, complex, and multicultural world in which we live.
Patrick, this apostle of Ireland, the one who represents everything Irish, wasn’t Irish at all. He was a migrant to Ireland. Twice. Firstly as the victim of what people now call people trafficking, or in other words as a slave, and then later by his own choice, in order to preach the Gospel.
His first migration was, of course, no good thing. He was forcibly taken away from home and family. We tend to think of this kind of migration an extinct feature of ancient history, abolished in the 19th Century. Yet it still exists, terribly in the world today. And there are other, arguably less extreme forms of migration, where people flee wars and conflicts, persecutions or poverty to seek a better life, or often just any sort of life which is bearable and free from fear.
Migration may also be difficult in the receiving communities, especially when they feel vulnerable. Influxes of people, new and unfamiliar customs and religious practices, the pressure on local services and resources, all these can create anxiety and hostility. In many places and at many times, migrants are attacked, insulted and derided.
Much of the political turmoil in the world today has migration as either a cause or as an outcome. Whether it is the “wall” in Mexico, the war in Syria, or political turmoil in Europe - in all these migration is a feature.
And tragically in the past few days we have seen the terrible events in New Zealand, where Muslims, migrants into the country, were slaughtered while they were at prayer.
Some, not only the perpetrator and his supporters, have seen migration to be a root cause of such terrible events.
Migration may be seen to be entirely bad: both disruptive and destructive. And indeed, Patrick eventually ended this first migration, when he escaped from slavery and returned to the land of his birth.
But this is not all.
Patrick of course made a second migration, this time of his own free will, to bring the Gospel to the people who had included his slave master - and it is for the results of this that he is remembered today.
And this more positive migration, we find, is a constant feature of human history.
Not only Patrick, but also the Irish people, are a migrant people. Their migrations have led Patrick to be celebrated today all over the world. He is not only the patron saint of Ireland, but also of New York, and Nigeria, of Puerto Rico and Melbourne (Australia).
We live in a a world which is shaped by migration.
Businesses and public services frequently promote migration as essential to the growth of their economies. Many people see migration as a great cultural and commercial asset, leading to great creativity as cultures learn develop and grow alongside one another.
The evidence is all around us, from the barista in the coffee shop, the taxi or bus driver, the nurse or the doctor in the hospital or the family who run the corner shop. It features in what we eat too: the most popular English dish is now Chicken Tikka Masala, and we also frequently consume Pizzas and Lasagnas, Egg Fried Rice and Prawn Crackers: all foods unknown in my childhood.
We ourselves are the results of migration. There will be few people who cannot count a close relative of friend who has moved to this country or who lives abroad. And if you think you have no family connections outside this land - just get your DNA tested and be prepared for a surprise.
Our faith too, is built on migration.

The Old Testament charts the migration of the pilgrim people of God, on their journey out of Egypt, into the promised land, and their several exiles and returns.
The New Testament begins with a similar exile and return, of the holy family, from Bethlehem into Egypt and eventual their return to Nazareth.

Jesus chooses for himself 12 apostles: Apostle means one who is “sent out”, and from St Paul onwards the Church has sent out missionaries across the world.
And as we move through the history of the Church, of its missions into foreign lands and new territories, we read again and again of pilgrimage, of journey and of migration. So it should be no surprise that St Augustine of Canterbury, the Apostle of England, was Italian, as too, centuries later, was Blessed Dominic Barberi, the priest who received Newman into the Church.
Even the patron saints of the British Isles come from all over the world. St David was not Welsh. St Andrew was not Scottish. And St George … was Turkish.
Migration which looms so large, can be good or bad, chosen or forced, beneficial or damaging. These terrible events really had little to do with migration itself. Almost everyone in Australia and New Zealand are migrants or descended from migrants.
No, what is at the root of this atrocity is not migration itself, which might be good or bad, but fear.
Fear of what is different. Fear of what is new or strange. Fear of change. Fears can be real, and must be addressed carefully and sensitively. But Fear also drives anxiety. It clouds reason. Fear fuels fury. It paralyses the good, and motivates the wicked. Caution is wise, but fear can be destructive. In the face of fear we should not flee, but be resolute in hope, and trust what we know to be right.
And here we can return to the Gospel for today the second Sunday of Lent.
The disciples were approaching Jerusalem with anticipation, but there was also a cause for fear. The story is laced with danger and forboding. When the cloud enveloped the disciples we are told that they were afraid.
And Jesus prepares them in two ways: first by pulling no punches. He has already made clear to them that his work in Jerusalem will be hard and painful and may seem disastrous. This is not going to be easy. There is reason to fear.
But he also provides them with a vision of his glory, and the reason for the suffering which is to come. A reason to face that fear, not with heads bowed in despair, but held high with hope.
The Transfiguration makes real the hope of heaven, and that is where our earthly journey, pilgrimage, migration ends. Our true home is in heaven, St Paul tells us (Philippians 3:20).
Fear, however understandable, is debilitating. But the bright light of mercy, compassion, truth, hope and love is transfiguring, or - as St John says (1 John 4:18), perfect love casts out fear.

First Sunday of Lent : Homily / Sermon

‘Having exhausted all these ways of tempting him, the devil left him, to return at the appointed time.’ (Luke 4:13)

These are menacing words, don’t you think? Defeated now, the devil slinks away, but not for long. He’s off to bide his time, wait for a while, lurk in the shadows, never too far away, just looking for his opportunity.
But we live in an age where people struggle with the idea of the devil. A man in a red suit with a long curly tail? Really!

And sure enough, even religious people, especially religious people, do not believe the devil exists. We surround ourselves with such a comfortable notion of faith, a God of love, the Good Shepherd, the forgiving Father. Wickedness and evil seem so far from what our faith and our idea of God is all about, that is it just so difficult to understand how he could allow there even to be a Devil.

And this is dangerous stuff. Fighting an enemy who you don’t believe exists, is wrestling with shadows.
It was the writer CS Lewis, I think, who said that the devil’s greatest achievement was convincing people that he doesn’t exist. We must not fall into that trap.

It’s not that we need to believe that he’s red and has horns and the tail, that he lives under the earth in fire and brimstone. But if we stop believing that evil can be a power, and even have a mind and a will, if we don’t recognise that the life of faith is a struggle and that obstacles often fall in our way, if we don’t accept that when bad things happen it may not be God’s will but might in fact be ill will, if we don’t accept these - then there is no battle to be fought, no struggle to be won. We are like those without hope.
He skulks in the shadows, waits in the darkness - and we may not even realise he is there.
Lent is our time in the wilderness - our time when we confront temptation and remember that there is a power of evil. Our time for recognising Satan, and all his works, and all his empty promises. And defeating him.

8th Sunday in Ordinary Time : Homily / Sermon

A man’s words flow out of what fills his heart. (Luke 6:45)

We tend to think that the Christian life is all about keeping the rules, and after all we do have plenty of them: the rules of fasting and abstinence, the prayers chosen for the liturgy, the colours of the vestments, the directions for the celebration of mass, not to mention the 10 commandments, the six precepts of the Church, 1,752 Canons of the Code of Canon Law and the 2,865 paragraphs of the Catechism of the Catholic Church.

Rules, rules, rules.
And During Lent, no doubt, many of us will take a look at our lives and ask ourselves which rules we have broken … and consult more lists of rules:
Have I missed mass on Sundays and holy days of obligation?
Have I eaten meat on Fridays?
Have I neglected to say my prayers?
Have I used bad language?
… And so on and so forth.

Rules have their place. They are guides to what describes a good life, and looking at ourselves in the light of the rules can never be a bad place to start.

But that is all it is - it is only a start.

But in today’s Gospel, Jesus presents us with a greater challenge.
A good man draws what is good from the store of goodness in his heart.
A man’s words flow out of what fills his heart.
It is a sound tree which bears good fruit.

Jesus is not using the language of Rules, which we might keep or break, but instead the language of Growth, which we develop into, step by step, day by day.

This is not the Thou shalt and thou shalt not, the black and white, the heaven and hell, the sin and failure, but of progression, of pruning and flourishing, of evolving and maturing, advancing and prospering.

And Jesus teaches us that to grow, we need a teacher.
The blind can’t lead the blind, Jesus says. The teacher leads the way, corrects and encourages.

And he teaches us that we need vision: not only to know the rules, to know what is right and wrong, but also to see the plank in our own eyes, to know our own failings, and to progress in spite of them.

And he tells us that to bear sound fruit, we need not only to follow the precepts, but also live the faith in our hearts - not simply to obey, coldly and methodically, but to love, with warmth and generosity.

Growing has its pains. There are setbacks and failures, sins and selfishness. But in growth there is also forgiveness, and mercy, and hope.

It is conversion of the heart which is necessary, Jesus says. The sound fruit which the disciple bears, comes from the sound tree:
From a heart which, like the heart of the true Teacher, makes sacrifices, gives its whole self, and holds nothing back.