Christ the King / 34th Sunday (A) : Homily / Sermon

I was hungry and you gave me food; I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink ... (Matthew 25:35)

One of the features of living in a Presbytery in a city centre is that we have a steady stream of “callers" at the door. I wouldn't wish to exaggerate. We don't have a caller every day, and perhaps not even once a week, but nevertheless from time to time there are those who turn up at the door and ask for help or assistance in some way.
It is usually money they want - but we have a general policy not to give them money. (I've been told often enough that this is the worst help we could give). Often callers have a drink or drugs problem, and money is not going to make that any better.
So, we always offer them a cup of tea, and if possible something to eat - usually a sandwich, or a pie or something similar. One winter we tried giving out pot noodles, but were told more than once that they didn’t like them.
Sometimes the situation is shocking. I recall a caller at the door, now sleeping rough, who turned out to have been, just a few years before, a school friend of one of our sons. One another occasion, a caller turned up on the doorstep with a child - his grandchild, he said - who he threatened to put into care if I did not give him the money he needed.
Frequently callers have tried in other ways to turn a conversation around to their need for financial assistance. Sometimes we are asked for help with bus or a train fare or help in paying for accommodation. The story is often quite complicated, relating to a seriously ill or recently departed relative - But an offer to buy a ticket is generally unwelcome - there is always a reason why money is needed in the hand, now. I had a caller recently who claimed to have been sleeping rough for days, who I subsequently discovered has a flat in Hanley. On another occasion the caller claimed to know such an such a priest in another town, who would vouch for them, and this proved to be entirely false. In all these cases I was sure they had a real need for cash, though the story they give is intended to impress or persuade, rather than give the truth.
Sometimes the stories though are quite true - a man who had been caught in a fatal house fire and who turned up on the doorstep with just the clothes and slippers provided for him while in custody with the police, and on another occasion, a man sleeping rough who arrived at our door during a downpour, to whom we gave a coat and a sleeping bag. These callers are not always men, though they usually are, and if they often give me an untruth, it probably doesn't diminish their desparation and need.

And we have a saying in our house, which recalls the story of today's Gospel, "just remember, it could be Jesus".

It is a reminder which is important, because I will confess that even if they provide me with a number of eye-raising and even amusing stories like the ones I can tell to you, I do not embrace this particular part of my priesthood with unbounded joy.
The doorbell may ring early in the morning and late at night. It is certainly not according to appointment. Callers might interrupt a film or a meal, or disturb me from a particularly important task. I am always mindful of the two or three priests I know who have been attacked on their doorstep, in one case stabbed and killed. We try to be consistent, fair and helpful in our limited way, but we also set limits. We generally do not answer the door when it is dark, and we warn the grandchildren never to answer the door themselves.
I'll be entirely honest, it is the one thing, perhaps the only thing, about being priest living in Hanley, which does not bring me joy. I often feel torn - guilty that I do not help enough, and also frustrated that I have been exploited and used.
But the Gospel, today's Gospel is and should be to all of us an encouragement and a challenge. You see the point isn't that it might indeed be Jesus himself, disguised in the form of a beggar, but that these people - whatever story they tell, whatever ruse they concoct, whatever misery they have fallen into - are human beings made in the image of God, with a dignity and a value which they themselves, and I myself, (I am ashamed to admit), find it difficult to recognise. My small act of assistance, however insignificant and inadequate, is perhaps the presence of Christ in me, despite my reluctance and irritation, and it recognises Christ in those who perhaps have lost much sense of their own self-worth.
It is small support, makes meagre difference, yet it is, I hope, a tiny light in the darkness, a small sign of hope, and an act undertaken by Christ himself to those in whom (despite their appearance and our blindness) he also dwells.
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Homily for Lent 4 (Year A)

He spat on the ground, made a paste with the spittle, [and] put this over the eyes of the blind man. (John 9:6)

We are well aware of many miracles in the Gospels, and amongst them many stories of healing. There is the story of the paralysed man who is lowered down through the roof of the house in Capernaum. There is the healing of Peter’s Mother in law who is sick in bed. There is the healing also of the elderly woman who for 12 years had been suffering from a haemorrhage. The servant of the Centurion is healed without Jesus even needing to enter under his roof. We are told also of those who had what may sound to us like epileptic fits, who had the demons cast out of them. There are stories too of those who appear to be revived from death - the 12 year old daughter of Jairus, the son of the Widow from Nain, and of course, his dear friend, Lazarus.

And there are several accounts of the giving of sight to the blind. There is, for example, Bartimaeus, who calls to Jesus from the side of the road, and after whose sight is healed, gets up to join Jesus and his disciples on the road to Jerusalem, where he will see things he could never have imagined.

And here in John’s Gospel, is the story of the man born blind. Again, we read just the shorter version - and again, the full account, in John 9, is well worth reading at home. It deals with many issues, not least the nature of suffering and redemption, the person of Christ, and the opposition which he faced.

It is clear that in all the Gospels, the stories of the healing of blindness are seen as themselves a kind of commentary upon the contrast between light and darkness, between good and evil, between understanding and ignorance. The blind man sees, yet the Pharisees remain blind to the truth.

But this doesn’t mean that this story is just a myth or a legend. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. It certainly doesn’t mean that Jesus didn’t perform miracles.

But miracles can be a problem for believers and non-believers alike. Non-believers like to point out to us that miracles just don’t happen - the stories are lies, or hallucinations, magic tricks or just plain coincidences. People don’t just suddenly get better, still less rise from the dead. And so we might say - “Yes, you are right normally that is the case - but this is different. Jesus is the Son of God, God himself, he can work miracles.” It seems an answer, but the trouble is that the non-believer might easily reply that if this is so, why doesn’t Jesus heal everyone who is blind, every person who is paralysed, and cast out the so-called demons from every poor epileptic. And come to that, why do people get sick in the first place? If this is a loving God, then why on earth do people need healing at all?

These aren’t easy questions to answer, and they may trouble us. We feel uncomfortable, inadequate if we can’t find a response. Yet in reality, these are questions for the philosopher and the student of theology. They are interesting and important questions, which need proper consideration, but - to use a phrase - they won’t butter any parsnips. They are interesting, and serious, yet however much we discuss them, they won’t heal any one who is sick, comfort anyone who is bereaved, give sight to the blind or mobility to the lame.

So, let’s get back to the Gospel. And let’s consider not only what Jesus says, but what he does.

‘He spat on the ground, made a paste with the spittle, [and] put this over the eyes of the blind man’

Why did Jesus do this? It sounds a bit like a medical procedure, yet of course it isn’t. Surely couldn’t Jesus just have healed him? Said the word? Screwed up his eyes and made it happen? Perhaps he could have done, but he didn’t. Jesus decided to act. Vividly. In a very physical manner. He gets his hands dirty. And surely this is the point.

It’s the way the sacraments work too. We can pray for God’s healing for the sick - and he does - but we also anoint them with oil. We ask God to free us from original sin - and he can - but we also immerse new Christians in holy water. We ask God to be close to us - and he is - but we also share in his body and blood through the transformed gifts of bread and wine. And what Jesus did with spit and soil, and we do with oil and water, bread and wine, we should do also with our hearts and our hands and our feet. We can easily express compassion for the poor, sympathy for the sick, concern for the incarcerated - but it doesn’t amount to much unless we feed the hungry and thirsty and visit the sick and those in prison.

Pope Francis wrote to the Bishops of the Church, in his letter “Gospel of Joy” and said that the Shepherds should get their boots dirty with the smell of the sheep. It’s a message for the Bishops of course … and the priests … and all of us.

Jesus gets his hands dirty … we should too.

15th Sunday of the Year: Homily / Sermon

Some seed fell into rich soil and produced its crop. (Matthew 13:8)

Jesus often uses illustrations from nature in his teaching. We call them ‘parables’ because they draw a comparison, or a parallel from life itself.

In fact, Jesus seems to prefer parables to what we would think of as more direct teaching. We do occasionally read of him explaining his words, but most of the time he expects his listeners to work out the meaning for themselves: Listen, anyone who has ears! He shouts at the crowd - almost as if to say “Isn’t it obvious?”.

Of course, we are likely to say that Jesus draws his parables from nature because that is what his hearers were familiar with. They had seen the sower sow. They had watched the wheat grow with the tares. They had spied the shepherd search for the lost sheep.

But there is more to this teaching. Jesus does not teach from nature simply because he and his listeners lived in an agricultural society. Nature provides more than a convenient example. Nature itself bears the imprint of God, its creator - and salvation is not just our salvation, but the completion of all of God’s wonderful work.

And so the glory of nature is a reflection, a glimpse, of the eternal glory of heaven. As the psalms make so clear: The hills are girded with joy, the valleys sing God’s praise. As St Paul says, the whole creation is waiting - groaning - for its salvation.

The parables are much more than an example, they are a window into the greatness of God. We are his seed, nurtured by the living water which he gives us. We grow surrounded by thorns and threats and dangers, scorched by ridicule or complacency, choked by a society which understands little and lives even less of the faith we foster and struggle to spread.

But he who created the seed, and the soil, and the sower is also the One who keeps us safe, and leads us to salvation.

Trinity Sunday: Homily / Sermon

 

The Lord, a God of tenderness and compassion, slow to anger rich in kindness and faithfulness. (Exodus 34:6)

This weekend, as the world keeps Father’s Day, It seems odd, perhaps that the Church, which many has many feasts of Our Lord - most obviously his resurrection at Easter - and a feast of the Holy Spirit - Pentecost, which we celebrated last weekend, yet has no feast of God the Father.

And yet, to understand the Father, is to understand the Trinity, which we celebrate today.

There are people today who say it is unhelpful to refer to God as “Father”. For one thing, they argue, it is sexist, too focussed on the male gender.

And for another, it is said that many people have a negative understanding of Fatherhood - fathers are sometimes abusive, violent or just absent.

And again, sometimes people think of God being like a Victorian Father, a Dickensian Step-Father: Strict, fierce  and quick to punish. This idea is also described as the ‘God of the Old Testament’ - setting the laws and justly, but harshly punishing the offenders. It seems to be hard and mechanical view of God.

In these circumstances, how can fatherhood be a good image of God?

But the Father who presents himself to us today is none of these things. He is - in the words of the Old Testament itself: The Lord, a God of tenderness and compassion, slow to anger rich in kindness and faithfulness.

He is also - in the words of today’s Gospel

The one who -  ‘loved the world so much that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not be lost but may have eternal life.’ (John 3:16)

And as the second reading also makes clear:

Be united; live in peace, and the God of love and peace will be with you. (1 Co 13:12)

Notice the word and the idea which is common to all three, not law, not judgment, not anger, not punishment, not even justice - but Love.

We can be misled in our ideas of Fatherhood, if we think it is just a matter of ancestry, descent, and family ties. True fatherhood is not about the bloodline, it about a bond of love.

It is not that our image of fatherhood is inadequate for understanding God - no, it is rather the opposite: that our experience of human Fatherhood will always be challenged by the perfect, glorious benevolent Fatherhood of God.

Jesus taught us to call God our Father, because God is love - love that wraps us round as his children - love that makes a family what it is truly meant to be - love that defines what a true Father is, and which challenges us to be his true children.

 

 

Pentecost: Homily / Sermon

The disciples were filled with joy when they saw the Lord, and he said to them again, ‘Peace be with you'. (John 20:20-21)

Religion is the cause of conflict in the world. Well, so people often say.

After all wasn’t Northern Ireland about Protestant v Catholic? And Bosnia was Orthodox Christians v Muslims? And the conflict in Israel is about Jews v Muslims? And Cyprus is about Muslims v Orthodox again? And isn’t terrorism often driven by religion - in Ireland in the past, in the Middle East in the present?

Of course, this is all too simple. People sometimes use religion as their badge of identity in a conflict. It doesn’t make them a good catholic or protestant or jew or whatever if they use that banner in their fight. Al-Qaeda don’t represent Muslims any more than the Provisional IRA represented catholics.

And today there is something more that we can say. On that first Christian Pentecost people of all races, all backgrounds and all languages were gathered in the city. Huge crowds with different cultures and customs. It may have felt threatening and uncomfortable for the local people. It is a recipe for misunderstanding and conflict. An opportunity for crime and division.

And the Gift of the Holy Spirit did not divide, but unite. He did not make everyone the same, but he celebrated their differences. He did not make people pretend they were all the same, but he helped them praise God for the colour and variety of the crowd. He did not set one against another, but brought them together in truth.

Easter 5: Homily / Sermon

 

Do not let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God still, and trust in me. (John 14:1)

In a recent talk, the famous physicist Stephen Hawking said that heaven ‘is just a fairy story for people afraid of the dark’.

It’s just one statement of course, which is part of a much bigger talk about a wide range of things. And it’s not a new idea or point of view - non-believers have being saying similar things for centuries.

But it has always struck me as an odd idea, and one strange for a scientist to hold, as it seems to fly in the face of evidence.

You see it is simply not true that people of faith are those who are afraid of death (that’s what he is really talking about) and that people who have no faith are not. You don’t have to be a believer to see that just isn’t the case.

Look at the lives of the martyrs, who in courage and faith are willing to surrender their lives, praying for their persecutors and submitting to death. Look at the lives of other saints, good and faithful servants of God, who give themselves in service of others and approach death not with fear but with hope and joy. And look at the words of Christ, who invites us to cast fear and doubt aside and embrace the love of God: “Do not let your hearts be troubled”, he says. “Trust in God still, and trust in me”.

And I am reminded that this Gospel reading is read so often at Funeral Masses and Funeral Services. It is a time when, as a priest, I see most clearly how people deal with grief, loss, and the reality of death. And I can tell you this, the greater the faith of the one who has died and of the people who mourn him, the more serene, the more positive, the more realistic the experience of grieving - and the weaker the grasp of faith which the bereaved have, the harder the whole experience of loss is, the greater the pain, the more acute the suffering. It is those who have faith who do not shirk from words like death - and those who struggle with faith who avoid the word, with talk about ‘passing away’ ‘moving over’ ‘going to his rest’.

And I can truly say that some of the most inspiring acts of worship I have ever been part of, have been the funerals of faithful Christians. Now none of this is to say, of course, that believers do not grieve. Of course we do. Or that we are not aware of the reality of death. Of course we are. We can face the pain of loss and the reality of death because we have a hope.

If Stephen Hawking, and those who agree with him, think it is praiseworthy and honest to remain in the dark, then that is their choice.

 

But its much better to come out into the light.

 

Homily for the 3rd Sunday of Lent Year A

You worship what you do not know. (John 4:22)

If there is one God, we may ask, why are there so many religions? Or, to put the question another way: are other religions false or wicked or wrong – or do all these different ways lead to the same God?

We would love there to be a clear question and answer in the words of Scripture, but it does not seem to be there. However there is a very clear teaching of the Church, even if it is not well known, and that is based very firmly on Scripture, including today's Gospel.

Firstly, there is good is almost all faiths, and those who believe in conscience, even following another faith, manifest much good. Jesus does not condemn the Samaritan women for the faith of her people. He does not condemn her faith. He does not refuse to sit and talk with her. He sees into her heart and touches her with his grace. He knows that she too worships the Father. The same God who is worshipped by the Jewish people. The One God. And indeed, Jesus says, Salvation comes from the Jews. Other faiths, Jewish, Muslim, Sikh, Hindu and also ways in which God is worshipped. They deserve our respect, and on occasions their followers deserve our admiration.

But this is not all. You worship what you do not know, he says to the woman. There is much good in other faiths, but they are not equal ways to God. There is only one true path, only one Messiah, one Christ. There is one person who comes as the Saviour of the World, and to truly believe is to turn to him. Other faiths may show much good. They may be preparations for the Gospel, but there is only one Gospel, one Church, one Faith, one Baptism, one Lord, who calls us all to worship him in Spirit and in Truth.

 

Homily / Sermon for Ash Wednesday

When you pray, do not imitate the hypocrites (Matthew 6:16)

The message of Jesus in this Gospel is a very clear one: let your giving, your fasting and your praying be done not for show, in public, but in private for love of God. Those who practice their faith in the public eye - Jesus says - already have their reward.

How times have changed! At the time of Jesus - and up to perhaps only 30 or 40 years ago - to practice the faith in public, to be seen at prayer, going to Mass, to be observed giving large amounts to the Church, to be seen to be thoroughly observant - a ‘big catholic’ as they used to say - well that counted for something. And not just for catholics, either. The ladies in the parish churches with their big hats and disapproving looks, the insistence on the Sunday best, attendance at chapel or Sunday School were expected practices in society. Not so any more.

Now, the practice of religion might attract curiosity or ridicule. At work or school - even a catholic school - it may be very unfashionable, uncool, to practice religion.

So what does the Gospel say to us?

Well of course, Jesus isn’t saying that it is the open practice of the faith that is wrong, but the practice of the faith for the wrong reasons. The practice of our faith must never be to attract attention to ourself, to gain approval from others, to make ourselves important or respected.

We live our faith not for ourselves, but for God. We help others because it is right to help others. We pray because we need to pray. We fast, or say the rosary or go to Mass or whatever it might be because in that we draw closer to Christ so that he may grow within us.

And so if we are known for our faith, or looked upon as unusual or strange or odd: to God be the glory!

Homily / Sermon for the 8th Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A)

‘No one can be the slave of two masters: he will either hate the first and love the second, or treat the first with respect and the second with scorn. You cannot be the slave both of God and of money.’ (Matthew 6:25)

We are very familiar with the question posed to Jesus by the Pharisee: “So Lord, who is my neighbour?”. It is in answering that question that Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan. We are perhaps not so obviously aware of the question which Jesus poses to us, though he does it on many occasions: “So, Man - who is your Master?”

Yet the relationship between Master and Servant (or Slave) comes up time and again in his teaching. The servants who care for the vineyard while the master is away. The servants who are disturbed in the night when the Master returns. The servants who toil in the vineyard. The servants whose debts are cancelled.

It is interesting perhaps, that in a country and at a time when their would have been much religious diversity, and the worshipping of strange gods, Roman Gods, Greek Gods, we never hear Jesus warn again that kind of idolatry, so clearly condemned by the first commandment.

It seems Jesus was little concerned with Zeus, Apollo, Diana or Jupiter. When he speaks of idolatry, of the worship of false Gods, of the following of a false master, he does so not to rail against those who are culturally or ethnically different, but instead to shake everyone’s foundations.

Who is your Master? He challenges us. It is personal comfort? Is it pleasure and leisure? Is it our own piece of mind, or security in the false knowledge that we are better than others? What do we really treasure?

Are we at ease being dishonest, if we get some benefit from it (and are unlikely to get caught)? Do we put respect for others above our own concerns? Is choice for ourselves, our own opinions and wishes, more important to us than what we have been taught is right and good?

Jesus challenges us to trust not in our own choices, but in our commitment to a Generous and Loving Master, who is our teacher and our guide. You see, it is not really money which is the problem. Money just makes more choices possible. It can be used for good or ill. No, if we make Money our Master, it is really Ourselves we have made Master.

Homily / Sermon for the 7th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect. (Matthew 5:38)




Phew! This is a tall order!

Jesus does not say "TRY to be perfect". He does not say "Do your very best" or "Try your hardest". No, he says, "Be perfect".

They seem hard words, and we shrink from them. But there is no mistake here.

Think of the act of contrition which follows confession. The words which nowadays we usually teach to school children and have printed on cards for penitents run like this:

"O my God, because you are so good, I am very sorry that I have sinned against you, and by the help of your grace I will not sin again."

Again and again I hear people say "by the help of your grace, I will TRY not to sin again". Of course, we think. We can only do our best! But that is not what the prayer says. What is going on here?

It is very simple, and very important.

Perfection is not about trying - it is about being. Living in Christ is not about our own efforts, but about God's love. Entering into heaven is not something we achieve, but something which he achieves. Goodness is not what happens through my hard work, but through the work of the Holy Spirit in us.

It might seem strange to begin with, but then we realise that this is really what Christian life is all about. If heaven is for those who have done best, achieved the most, worked the hardest, then it will be a place for those who are spiritually the strongest, a place of arrogance and superiority, a place for human pride. It cannot be so.

No. In fact it is those who believe they have no sin, who should be pitied the most.

Christ has told us, blessed are the poor in spirit, for they shall see God. Blessed are those who know their need of God, who know their own sin, who are aware of their need for God's grace, who know that Heaven is a Gift not a prize. Blessed are those who say "Have mercy on me a sinner". Blessed are those who live in humility not in pride. Blessed are those who realise that their greatest achievements are always not their achievements, but the work of Christ within them.


We become holy, not through our works, but through His sacraments.
We are made perfect, not by our efforts, but because He is Perfect.



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Homily for the 4th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Blessed are those who mourn (Matthew 5 )

At the beginning of last week I went to a most wonderful celebration. One of the most inspiring and uplifting masses I had ever attended. It was a moment of great joy and celebration. The Church was full - over 200 people perhaps more than 300 gathered on a cold and wet Monday morning. There were two bishops and about 60 priests. The singing lifted the roof. The homily raised our hearts (one of the best homilies I have ever heard). And I do not think I exaggerate at all when I say no one left that Church who was not encouraged and heartened by that celebration.

So what was it - an ordination? a wedding? the consecration of a new Church? the celebration of an anniversary of some kind?

No. It was a funeral. And a funeral with a particularly tragic dimension. Of a young priest - in his early 40s - a priest whose best friend at seminary had died of cancer - a priest who contracted a degenerative brain condition just a couple of years after his ordination and who had gradually over four years declined and withdrawn much to the distress of his parents and his friends.

But despite this cruel tragedy, and this wasted potential, this funeral mass was uplifting and filled with hope. Oh yes, of course there were tears. And moments of great poignancy. No one supposed that this was not a tragic and sad loss.

But we all knew that this was not all. That this pain that was felt - real pain, real sorrow, real loss - was taken up in hope, in a certainty that the life that Fr John Bentley had lived, in the offering of his own life he had made, was indeed a preparation for this day - as surely all our lives are a preparation for our day of departure.

It is not that all those at the funeral were suffering from some mass delusion that John had not in fact died. Oh yes, we knew that only too well. And we knew what death is - and more importantly, we understand what Life is - because that, after all, is the very point.

If we do not understand what it means to live, we will never comprehend what it means to die.

Homily for the Baptism of the Lord

(This homily is even shorter that usual! This is because we have a Mission Appeal this weekend)

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‘It is I who need baptism from you’ John said (Matthew 3:14)

We need to be baptised. It is the wiping away of our original sin, and - if we need it - our actual sins too. It restores us to our lost innocence. It is our union with him in the Church. Baptism is our entry into eternal life.

Christ needs none of this. He is free from sin. He is fully at one with God. So why does he do it?

Not for himself - but for us. Not because he needs it, but because we need it. He is born for us, lives for us, dies and rises for us. And he is baptised, so that through baptism we may become one with him.

Homily / Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Advent

The Virgin will conceive and give birth to a son and they will call him Emmanuel

People often say to me "I suppose this is your busy time of year". Could be. Though I'd rather be a priest than a postman.

Now the postman really is busy. And most of us are sending many cards and receiving many. Some of them come from people barely remembered - who were "Don and Julia"? We might need to look at the postmark to remember. And sometimes our own cards go astray, because we addresses or names wrong. And if we receive cards with slight inaccuracies in our names, then we feel as if it were meant for someone else. There's a lot in a name.

In todays Gospel two of the names of Jesus are explained to us. The first of course is the most familiar - the name Jesus itself, which is the Greek version of the name Joshua, which means "God saves" or "God will saves us". The second is perhaps less familiar but heard often in Advent - Emmanuel - "God is with us".

Putting these two names together, tells us what this time of year, and what our belief in Christ is all about. He saves us by being with us.

We might reasonably ask the question, why did God come and live amongst us as Jesus. Why did he take flesh? Why did Jesus have to suffer and die for us? Could not God have just acted, just waved his hands like a magic wand and put all sins and sufferings right.

Perhaps. But that would be rather like sending the card to the distant friend or relative who we care about a little, but, well, are not really close to. Its a simple act of courtesy, but it requires little effort.
But God does more than send a card. He comes to visit. And God does more than visit. He comes to dwell amongst us. He becomes one of us, and shares our joys and sorrows, our cares and our concerns. He takes our sins upon himself. And that is how he saves us.

And today the blessed virgin stands before us. Chosen by him to carry him and bear him into the world. She is not some postman who carries a card. She is humanity, she is us - the ones who receive this great gift, this wonderful visitor.

He is Emmanuel, God-with-us. He has come to meet us. He knocks at the door. And we must open and let him in.