The Original Novena

Two of the strangest things the Lord ever said have dominated my prayer this week: “ Do not touch me ” (Jn 20:17) “ It is to your advantage that I should go away ” (Jn 16:7) Both come from John’s Gospel. One belongs to the ‘Farewell Discourse’ on the night of the Last Supper; the Gospel we hear today forms part of that discourse. The other is the Lord’s surprising retort to Mary Magdalene when she recognizes him after his Resurrection. Looming over our Paschal joy this week is the upcoming Feast of the Ascension, when the Lord will be taken from our sight and from our touch. After forty days of Resurrection appearances to the apostles in Jerusalem and Galilee, he leaves them with a final promise: “ You will receive power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you .” Those are the very last words he speaks on earth, until he comes again in glory. But all these things only make sense when we fix our hearts on the truth that he will come again in glory. We profess it each week in the Creed - but do we really live it? Are we watching for the signs of his coming? Would we welcome it? In Acts we see the Lord lifted up, and a cloud covering him, so that he could no longer be seen. The two angels who appear to the witnesses instruct them to remember how he left, because it’s important: “ This Jesus, who was taken up from you into heaven, will come in the same way as you saw him go into heaven. ” Acts 1:11 Brothers and sisters: angels don’t mess around. They don’t titillate our idle curiosity. We are told (1.) that Jesus is coming back, and (2.) how he is coming back: “ in the same way as you saw him go into heaven ,” that is to say the clouds will unveil him, and he will descend upon the earth, in glory, in the flesh, where every human eye will see his full deity revealed. Just to put that into context, we are now thirty minutes closer to that event happening, than we were when Mass began - and when it happens, spare a thought for the priest who first told you. Only in the light of his return do these enigmatic sayings finally make sense. “ Do not touch me ” (or “ cling/adhere to me ”) is not a repudiation of Mary Magdalene’s love, but rather an invitation to a deeper relationship. She may not hold on to the risen Lord the way she held the earthly Jesus. He must ascend. The relationship must change. Similarly, “ It is to your advantage that I go away ” only sounds like abandonment until you hear the rest of the promise: “ I go to prepare a place for you …” “ I will not leave you orphans …” “ I will come to you …” “ I will bring you to myself …” “ Where I am, you also may be .” He is not going away from us, he is going ahead of us. Preparing a place for us in heaven is not the celestial equivalent of home renovation. Preparing a place for us in heaven happens because the Holy Spirit is sent upon the Church. The Spirit of Truth, the Advocate, the Comforter is sent to make us ready to share God’s own life in eternity. Everything we need to know about the Lord’s plan has already been revealed, but it is not always revealed plainly. The words must simmer in the soul, so that what he is saying can be gently unveiled. It’s too much all in one go. And yet in this gap, the Lord has not left us comfortless. When he says to Mary, “ Do not cling to me, for I have not yet ascended to the Father ,” that little Greek word oupo (“ not yet ”) is doing a lot of heavy lifting, because it carries a hidden promise. If she cannot cling to him now because He has not yet ascended, then when he ascends, she will, bu the manner of clinging will be different, and it will be better. She clung to Him while He walked the earth, and rightly so. But His power then was localized in time. When He ascends and sends the Holy Spirit, the Advocate, Christ’s power is ‘atomized’ throughout the his whole Body, beyond time and space, because it’s now made up of believers. This interior union, made possible by the Holy Spirit, is far more intimate than anything possible before the Ascension. This new clinging happens in the Sacred Liturgy. It's what we're doing right now. The Liturgy of the Church is the principal work of the Holy Spirit in this world, because it is where the Sacraments take place. The Liturgy is not optional, not something nice to have. It is not the icing on the cake—it is the cake. Here we may cling to him, because all his power has passed into the Sacraments. When you receive the Holy Eucharist, you cling to him in a way far more profound than if you were able to tug at his garment. There, you might touch his body; here his body touches you. This participation in the work of Redemption is more intimate, more immediate, than physically standing at the foot of the Cross, or peering into the empty Tomb. Such participation prepares us for that day when the clouds will part and we will see him once more. No one has expressed that mystery better than the Oratorian priest and poet, Edward Caswall, in a hymn that captures the paradox of the Ascension: Christ’s ‘blessed departure’: O Jesus Christ, remember, When Thou shalt come again, Upon the clouds of heaven, With all Thy shining train; When ev’ry eye shall see Thee, In Deity revealed, Who now upon this altar In silence art concealed.

“Yesterday I asked him whether Our Lord had more than one nature. He said: ‘Just as many as you say, Father.’ Then again I asked him: ‘Supposing the Pope looked up and saw a cloud and said “It’s going to rain,” would that be bound to happen?’ ‘Oh, yes, Father.’ ‘But supposing it didn’t?’ He thought a moment and said, ‘I suppose it would be sort of raining spiritually, only we were too sinful to see it.’” Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh (1:7) This week’s sermon is challenging for a different reason. I’m not preaching to the choir this week, I’m preaching to the lukewarm, to the half-outs, the pessimists, and the frustrated. ‘Oh that’s not me, Father!’ Oh but it is. There’s a little pessimist in all of us. When preaching, we usually presume full adherence to all the propositions of the Faith - a perfect scorecard of straight-As. But what about when that doesn’t describe our Faith life? What if I have questions about the Faith? What if I don’t fully accept what the Church teaches on X, Y or Z issue? It can sometimes feel like being (or remaining) a Catholic is about checking a whole heap of boxes. If I’m Catholic I believe this, this, and this - but what if I don’t? And what if I say I believe it, but secretly, in my heart of hearts, I struggle? It can feel a bit keeping up with the Joneses at times. It’s that secret, silent gap I want to help you with this week. What to do when you feel obliged to toe the party line, but in reality, you don’t - or at least, you struggle with it. You can feel like a phony - a fraud - that everyone else ‘gets’ it, and agrees with it, but I just don’t. This feeling of being a secret phony, or even living a double life, is really dangerous to the practice of the Faith, because it’s precisely here - at our weakest point - that we succumb to temptation. Let’s take any of the third rail issues. What if...I’ve heard the Church’s teaching, I understand what I’ve heard, but it still doesn’t sit right with me? I carry on, I put it to one side and try not to think about it. But what happens when you get that new job, you have to move to another city, maybe another part of the country, and you look for a new church. You can’t seem to find one that feels right - they’re either too liberal, too old, too snooty, too 'ghetto'…whatever it may be. Exasperated, you just quietly, and slowly, give up. Ah well, I don’t really miss it. I can worship in my own way. I’m still ‘Catholic’ but I don’t really go any more - or, as the Italians put it, ‘sono cattolico, ma non fanatico’ - I’m Catholic but not a fanatic. The reason you no longer go is not because you couldn’t find the right church, it’s actually because you didn’t have the tools to deal with your difficulty over that 'third rail' issue. Everybody who wants to practice the Faith has a difficulty with something or another. But far from undermining the practice of the Faith, it’s a feature of it. Someone who actively engages with the Faith will stumble across something or other that triggers them. Let me tell you mine - when I was a new Catholic, someone told me that the Blessed Mother was ‘Coredemptrix’ - horror of horrors for this former Anglican. It sounded like a blasphemy! It sounded like Catholics were trying to say Our Lady redeems us in the same way her Son does. It took me years to understand what this title meant. [ 60 second teaching moment - the title is apt to be misunderstood, but the Theology is perfect - that humanity is called to cooperate with the Lord’s work of saving the human race: by our Baptism, and participation in the Eucharist, we make present Christ’s saving work in our time and space - we’re all called to coredemption, but Our Lady was first, and best at it. The title is still unhelpful for many. ] Back to the point - even though I had a difficulty with this corner of Marian Theology, I didn’t give up. I prayed through it, over time - I did my homework, and I came to understand it in a new way. The worst thing I could have done at this moment would have been to conclude, like Rex Mottram, the Church was teaching spiritual rain , because that would have been inauthentic and inhuman. What I was experiencing then, and what perhaps some of you are experiencing even today is a crisis of conscience . Conscience is not your feelings or emotions, it is the inner sanctuary of every soul, where God’s voice can be heard - but also where there can be interference on the wires if we don’t do the job of forming our conscience. We’re not Rex Mottrams. We are not automatons called merely to obey with blind Faith, we’re meant to see with the eyes of Faith instead: “ come now, let us work it out together says the Lord ” (Is. 1:18) St John Henry Newman called conscience the aboriginal Vicar of Christ - but it needs to be tuned, and played with skill - just like a violin in a symphony. Anyone can pick up a fiddle and make noise - how do you make music? So how do we form our conscience? First - trust. The Church has two thousand years of human history, and has outlasted all empires, kingdoms and dictatorships. She knows a thing or two about life, so if she teaches something clearly, even if we find it difficult to accept, there must be something in it. Secondly - invite the Lord in. He wishes to sent the Spirit to lead you into all truth. Ask him: “I believe, help thou my unbelief”. Screen everyone and everything else out - seek him where he can be found - in Word and Sacrament. Thirdly - study. We live in an age where almost all human learning is available in the blink of an eye - but go to trusted sources. If in doubt - ask someone who has the Church’s authority to teach: that could be a priest, but it could also be a lay person trained in Theology - there’s a reason we call their degrees ‘licenses’ - like a driving license. Finally - persevere. The Church is of course made up of sinners, but she is not corrupt or trying to hurt you. She is the Body of Christ, and enjoys the protection of God the Holy Spirit unto the ages of ages. Many great saints also struggled through with serious difficulties, and, as Msgr. Ronald Knox once said: “The true business of faith is not to produce emotional conviction in us, but to teach us to do without it.” Your goal is not to become a mastermind, understanding every nuance, but knowing enough of the Lord to desire him, and to desire to walk with him even when the path is foggy. Some of you may be carrying a heavy difficulty right now. Maybe it’s women’s ordination. Maybe it’s divorce and remarriage, or gender ideology, or the Church’s sexual teaching, or simply the scandalous behavior of some clergy. Don’t bury it and become a secret phony. Don’t drift into “Catholic but not fanatic.” Bring it into the light. The Church is big enough to handle your honest struggle. Christ is patient with you; be patient with his Church. And if, like me with the title Coredemptrix, it takes years, then let it take years. The saints didn’t become saints by never having difficulties. They became saints by never quitting.

Were not our hearts burning within us while he spoke to us on the way and opened the Scriptures to us? I never used to believe in ‘acid reflux’ when I was younger. I was a heartburn skeptic. I’d listen to adults complaining about it, and quickly conclude they were moaning, or simply weak. Then (well over a decade ago now) I turned 30…and the story of the Road to Emmaus, never quite sounded the same to me again. Fascinating then: the onset of middle-aged ailments gave me a totally new perspective on the story. When I first heard it, I assumed Cleopas and his companion were describing the fire of unbridled joy igniting within them - the thrill of discovering something for the first time. Perhaps that is what they meant—it could be—but it could also be a different kind of fire: the kind that consumes the chaff and stubble; the refiner’s fire, that strips away what is earthly, and leaves behind what is divine. That kind of refining is never comfortable. But let’s take a moment to locate ourselves in the Easter story - this week, we are back on Easter Day in the evening. The Lord is risen and has appeared to some of the women, and “to Simon” - but Cleopas and his companion have not accepted their testimony. They are on their way out, to the spa town of Emmaus: the destination mentioned so we know they’re going nowhere good. Note some crucial details - first and most obviously, Jesus does not introduce himself, he simply draws near and asks questions. Neither do they ask him who he is, but they are quite happy to share their woes with him. Quite a dangerous move, when you think of it - the death of Jesus was viewed by the authorities as a failed insurrection - who’s to say this inquisitive stranger wasn’t a spy? They have identified themselves as part of his group. It’s a remarkably foolhardy thing to do. Secondly, Jesus walks with them in the wrong direction. He is prepared to head into that ‘nowhere good’ - in fact, he’s prepared to go beyond it. He doesn’t stop until they ask him to. Only then does he reveal himself in the breaking of the bread, and as soon as this happens, he vanishes. Recognizing Jesus means they turn back on their planned itinerary - but Jesus never commands them to do it - they come to that realization themselves. Thirdly, even though they had rejected the testimony of the women, and of the Apostles, they were still open to hearing the Word. They didn’t try and silence the stranger, but when he opened the Scriptures to them, their hearts burned within them. St. Ambrose already noted the ambiguity of this burning I alluded to in the opener. He tells us this is the fire of divine love, which has a dual effect - it strengthens and purifies what is heavenly within us, but consumes and destroys what is earthly. Isn’t this often how we hear the Scriptures? Sometimes the fire of God’s Word comforts us, and sometimes it sears what needs to die in us. But even more - do you think there have been times in your life when the Lord has accompanied you when you were traveling in the wrong direction? Did you feel your heart burn within you as the Spirit of Jesus reminded you of all that he has said and done? You know it’s right, but you don’t want to hear it. It’s uncomfortable - it challenges you to change. I like to call these ‘2:20 AM moments’ because they often happen in the quiet of the night - but maybe I should call them spiritual reflux instead. Sometimes spiritual reflux, and the Pepto-Bismol kind even coincide these days. But what does this accompaniment sound like? It’s the ‘still small voice’ gently questioning your assumptions - is that really right? Are you really in the right there? Could there be a better way? It’s those moments where we desperately need to pray our eyes be opened, so we can recognize who it is doing the questioning. These are the ‘Emmaus moments’ that all of us experience in our pilgrimage along the way. Emmaus is where our disappointments and frustrations take us. Emmaus is being let down when we thought we could rely upon someone. Emmaus is when God’s plans do not align with our plans, but we stubbornly cling to old ideas, anyway. To return from Emmaus is hard work. It requires the humility of coming to terms with that fact I’m on the wrong path. But I have some good news for you. The ‘breaking of the bread’ the two travelers mention is, unambiguously, the Eucharist. Breaking bread is a euphemism for the Mass from the earliest days of Christianity and cannot reasonably be understood any other way. The stranger who walks with you in the dead of night on your road to Emmaus is the very same who offers to break bread for you. He has called you to that table right here, right now. And in the breaking of the bread, even if you are not only on the road to Emmaus, but a fully paid-up, registered citizen of Emmaus - in the breaking of the bread you will recognize the Lord if you believe in his name. When you see him in the breaking of the bread he will vanish from your sight, not because he wants to hide, but because he wants you to carry him on the way back from Emmaus. As St. John Henry Newman put it: “ He vanished from sight that He might be present in a sacrament… He removed his visible presence and left but a memorial of Himself ”. On the way back from Emmaus, Jesus doesn’t walk alongside you, but within you, instead. When we recognize the Lord in the breaking of the bread, we also recognize the call he makes of us: to become living Tabernacles of his presence in the world. If we accept that call, we should not be surprised if he also asks our hearts to burn - sometimes with joy, other times with correction. That burning is the Spirit of Jesus stripping away our delusions and false hopes so that truth can take root instead. Because of the breaking of the bread (which is of course the Passion, Death and Resurrection of Christ) the stranger who walked beside them in their wrong direction now lives within them. He breaks himself and gives himself to them. The fire that had burned from the outside, in on the road now blazes from the inside, out - illuminating the path back to Jerusalem in the dead of night, making the travelers into torches guided by the inner light of Christ’s presence. My dear friends, wherever your Emmaus is; whatever disappointment with God, the Church, or life has led you down the wrong path, hear this: the same Lord who met them brings you here. He still walks with us when we’re headed in the wrong direction. He still opens the Scriptures until our hearts burn. And he still makes himself known in the breaking of the bread.

Let me start today with a provocative statement: I have not yet met a true atheist. The reason for this is because I have not yet met someone who doesn’t rely on faith for their everyday existence. Don’t get me wrong - I’m all too well aware of people who say they don’t believe in God, and reject the truth claims of Christianity out of hand. But that doesn’t mean they don’t have a prior commitment to faith as their mode of being - we all do. It is the underpinning of all science - that we trust the empirical results of people we admire and respect. No-one, for example, walks out their front door disbelieving the laws of gravity - not even being skeptical about them - we go about our day assuming that gravity is true, without testing it. This, my dear brothers and sisters, is precisely what “faith” is - maybe with a small ‘F’. We simply don’t have the time or means to test everything, so all of us operate by faith in unprovable assumptions every single day —whether in our relationships, science, history, or moral reasoning. We live by faith in the reliability of our senses, memory, and often the testimony of others. We trust reports of history; we trust bridges won't collapse under us, we trust our loved ones, friends, and colleagues, which is why it’s so painful when they do. So faith, then, isn’t the exclusive realm of religious people on Sundays - it’s actually how almost all humans operate, every single day. But there’s more: reliance upon things being as they were yesterday is faith in the idea that things don’t arbitrarily change, and that is actually a form of belief in God, too - albeit a very small god, whose only role is to guarantee the laws of physics. But even that everyday trust in a stable, orderly universe quietly points toward a Creator who sustains all things out of love. Faith is not the opposite to doubt, either. Doubting is the name we give to the process of assessing truth claims - and even if we struggle from time to time, all of us are here today because, on balance, we find the truth claims of Christ’s Resurrection to be compelling. So in today’s Gospel, when we meet the so-called ‘doubting’ Thomas, whom we all like to denigrate for his apparent lack of Faith, it is important we define our terms. In demanding empirical data he was not, in fact, denying Faith outright. Before we judge him, it’s important to observe two things: first, he was at a disadvantage in comparison with the other Apostles, because he wasn’t physically present when Jesus appeared that first Sunday; and secondly, the mode of proof Jesus voluntarily offered to the other ten (showing his hands and his side) was the very same condition Thomas required before he would give his assent to the data of the Resurrection. This means that Thomas wasn’t so different from the others, after all. This forms a neat parallel with Cleopas and the other disciple walking away from Jerusalem on the road to Emmaus. They had heard testimony from the women, and (presumably) the Apostles that the Lord had risen and appeared to Simon but they didn’t believe, either. They had literally turned their backs on the evidence, and walked away. Only after encountering the Lord in person, and recognizing him in the breaking of bread, was their Faith restored. When we hear Biblical testimony of the Resurrection like this, we must bear in mind that these stories are not provided as a chronicle, (that we might learn the whys and wherefores of our Faith) but instead they build up a picture. But in the process of weaving those threads together we meet the first ‘crisis’ in the Church - how do we pass on the Faith without a personal encounter with the Risen Lord, without seeing his hands and his side? Without pressing our digits into his wounds? How do I know it was a crisis? Well, because John deals with it explicitly in direct terms: Now, Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples that are not written in this book. But these are written that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and that through this belief you may have life in his name. Put aside for a moment clear evidence against Luther’s doctrine of sola scriptura in this passage (I will leave that for another day), this commentary from the Evangelist gives us insight into why the rather embarrassing story of Thomas was recorded and passed down - indeed, why all the stories that show the Apostles in a negative light - Peter’s denials, James and John having their mother ask for thrones at the Lord’s left and right - they are not there for us to think ‘oh, well I wouldn’t have done that’ - they are there so that we might be consoled when, like Thomas, we question our Faith, like Peter, we deny the Lord outright, and like James and John we expect him to do favors for us as a reward for belief. John’s account of the Lord’s encounter with Thomas points to a different kind of proof. You and I hear the Gospel announced to us each week, and each week, the Lord invites us, like Thomas to thrust our fingers into his side, and draw out from him the living water of the Sacraments. To be a doubting Christian is thus revealed to be normal - or perhaps I should perfect this observation using St. John Henry Newman’s famous aphorism: “ Ten thousand difficulties do not make one doubt, as I understand the subject; difficulty and doubt are incommensurate. ” Christians who take time to assess the truth claims are not suffering a lack of Faith, because they silently recognize their dependance upon grace for the constant affirmation that the story is true. Indeed, honest ‘doubters’ who bring their questions to Christ often become the most steadfast believers in the end. But there was another kind of testimony that the Apostles, who saw the Risen Lord, would later be asked to give. It is, of course, the testimony of martyrdom - of shedding their blood because they refused to deny what they had seen and heard on the Road to Emmaus, in the Upper Room, and by the lakeside of Galilee. The Lord also knew that his followers would be asked to bear witness to him, to the end - and for this, he consoled them with the personal proof of his power over death itself. And this testimony, written in their blood, is the final piece of evidence for you and me that we can rely upon their words: put bluntly - no-one goes to their death for a lie they know to be untrue. No-one. The same men who ran away into the night when the Lord was arrested, tortured and killed - the same ones who betrayed him, and denied him - are those upon whose testimony you and I have confidence to believe, and with Thomas to acclaim: My Lord, and my God when he reveals himself to us in the breaking of the bread.

ܗܳܕ݂ܶܐ ܗܘܰܝܬ݁ܽܘܢ ܥܳܒ݂ܕ݁ܺܝܢ ܠܕ݂ܽܘܟ݂ܪܳܢܝ [Hade hawytun ‘abdin l’dukrani] When Christ says ‘do this in memory of me’ (and, assuming he spoke in Aramaic, the passage above is what it sounded like) he does something rather curious. He does not specify how often this dukrana (active memorial; in Greek, anámnesis ) should be - and this was perhaps one of the first things the early Church had to come to a consensus about. Should it be once a year, like the Passover? Or should it be once a week, because the Resurrection happened on the first day of the week? Well, in classic Catholic fashion, the answer is ‘both’ - we celebrate the Lord’s Day - Dies Domini - every week on the day of the Sun, but we also celebrate the dukrana of the Lord’s Paschal Mystery in a special way once a year. And today, we’ve arrived at the gates. We call the special celebration of the Paschal Mystery Passiontide because it focuses to the exclusion of all else on the events of Calvary. But there’s something you really need to understand at this point. If it’s the first time anyone has ever told you, I apologize - but in the Sacred Liturgy, our remembrance, or memorial of the Lord’s Passion is not simply calling those historical events to mind. It’s not re-enactment either, in the sense of a play or pageant. Instead, liturgical remembrance (which is what we do every Sunday - indeed every time we celebrate the Eucharist) is a participation in those events that happened in history, as if we were there - and not just as spectators either, as if we were Christ. This is what the Liturgy is. Gathered together, we are Christ’s body, and collectively we undergo what happened to Christ’s body, together. As St. Paul puts it: The blessing cup that we bless is it not a communion with the blood of Christ? St. Paul isn’t making the rather obvious point that there’s some kind of link between what we do, and what Christ did the night before he died. He’s saying something else - when we bless the blessing cup, we are in communion with the blood of Christ - that is, just as Christ’s blood was poured out on the Cross, in the Sacred Liturgy Christ’s blood (the exact same substance) is also poured out for the remission of sins. Dukrana is the way God remembers. When we ask him to remember his covenant, it’s dukrana . It’s not because the idea goes out of God’s mind - he never forgets - but when he remembers, the covenant is actualized in the here and now. In the Liturgy God teaches us his way of remembering - he teaches us dukrana - dissolving the barriers of time and place, in order to allow us to be crucified with Christ, and rise with Him, too. I’m telling you all this because we have clearly changed gears liturgically this week. The veils on the crosses and images are a signal to you. They insist that you focus on the liturgical rites, and not on any devotions, or imaginations of your own, except the Stations of the Cross. It’s by no means that devotions are wrong, it’s just that now the Church requires your full, conscious, and active participation in the Mysteries. The statues are veiled because for two weeks we come out of the world - what the world is doing right now doesn’t matter, it has dissolved away, it is irrelevant; what matters now is the Passion of Christ, and our taking part in it. We are two weeks out, and the Church has a preference that we call to mind the resurrection of Lazarus. It’s the Gospel for Year A, but also permissible in the other years as well, because it locates the liturgical action in realtime historical sequence. You see, the events of next week, Holy Week, are historical facts. We know when Passover was celebrated, because it relates to the phase of the Moon; and we know that Jesus was crucified before Passover - indeed, in something of a hurry, so the bodies would not remain on the crosses during the holy day. We know too, because John tells us that Jesus entered Jerusalem to jubilant crowds waving palms six days before the Passover, and we also know that the crowds had very recently been stirred up because many had witnessed the resurrection of Lazarus. The raising of Lazarus was a crisis in Israel. A full-on crisis. Many people - many Jews - came to believe in Jesus because of the power of this sign. They saw a stinking corpse rise out of the tomb, still wrapped in the ceremonial grave clothes. Can you imagine the scene? It would have been terrifying - not least for Lazarus himself, who woke up after four days swaddled in bands. This was no peaceful party trick, it would have been dramatic - and noisy. Can you picture Lazarus’s panic? He wakes up, but he can’t see, or breathe, properly because of the tight cloths: “unbind him” the Lord commands, “and let him go.” It’s the same command the Lord gives when you and I were baptized. And I suppose that’s the point. To place ourselves outside the stinking tomb, to witness a corpse come to life is designed to wake us up! But why did it upset the Jewish elite so much? Well, remember that Roman rule over the Jews was a really rather manipulative play off between three power bases: the Prefect (Pontius Pilate) the Herodian puppet kings (like Herod Antipas), and the religious authorities, most chiefly the Sanhedrin. When the Pharisees heard about the raising of Lazarus, and the conversions of the people, they realized the threat to the delicate balance of power such an uprising would represent, and so they ask the High Priest, Caiphas, to convoke the Sanhedrin - a Greek word a bit like ‘Synod’ that means seated assembly. In Jesus, the Sanhedrin finds a rare point of unity. Remember, of the 71 members, the majority were conservative Priests or Elders, who quarreled (sometimes violently) with the upstart, but populist, Pharisees, about key points of doctrine. But they found unity in their rejection of Jesus, a man whose face just didn’t fit the image of a Messiah they were looking for. And so Caiphas utters the prophetic line: “it is better…that one man should die for the people, not that the whole nation should perish.” These words uttered, it was only a matter of time before the plot to kill Jesus (and Lazarus) would unfold. Out of grief, then, we recognize that the Lord has been condemned. Despite the palms and the acclamations of next week, from now on, he is a dead man walking. But you and I are here because we know how the story ends…

Do you remember I said a few weeks back together we are going to look again at the Faith we think we know? It’s important we take on board this attitude as a normal way of keeping our Faith alive. It’s not saying we have got it all wrong, but it is saying that God does not want us to get to a certain point and stop. He wants us to continue growing in Faith every day of our lives until that day he calls us to himself. That growth is truly the meaning of life. Some of you might be gardeners - ‘green-thumbed’ in American parlance, ‘green-fingered’ in mine. If you work the land you know that for the yard to stay the same requires constant change. If you leave it alone, in just a matter of weeks the weeds will begin to spring up, then the vines will invade the beds, the crabgrass will take over the lawn, and the briars will choke the shrubs. Good gardening is about constant adjustment, feeding the soil, giving the plants light, moisture, and air, and being on the lookout for anything which upsets the delicate balance that order requires. It’s exactly the same with the spiritual life. If you conclude: ‘well, I went to CCD until 8th Grade’, or (my favorite) ‘I went to Catholic school’ but you haven’t re-examined the fundamentals of who Jesus is, who you are, and why it all matters, then maybe now is the time to get the pruning shears out. So, our Gospel of the Man Born Blind this week invites one of those big questions. I’ll pose it to you: what are the stories of Jesus’s miracles for? Why does the Bible include them? What do they reveal to us of God’s plan of salvation? It’s possible to receive this story (and all the other miracles) as an example of how extraordinarily nice Jesus is - how compassionate in comparison with the mean and nasty pharisees who criticize him for healing on the Sabbath, or an example how powerful he is - he must be God because he can do these supernatural things. After all: Never since the world began has it been heard that anyone opened the eyes of a man born blind Those first two observations are not wrong. Jesus is extraordinarily nice, and powerful too. But we must be careful not to stop at this point. You see, Jesus healed many other people - thousands, probably - and those healings, and the events surrounding them are not recorded. Is that a problem? No. Would we like to hear more about what Jesus did? Perhaps. But the Gospels are not chronicles of Jesus’s actions. They are not a biography. They are a curated collection of sayings, teachings, and actions, presented with necessary context, so that, when made present in the Liturgy, the believer would develop an accurate picture of who Jesus is over a lifetime of repetition. Most of that happens supernaturally: it’s not because you hear the words in your own language that you come to an accurate picture of who Jesus is - it’s because He himself is objectively made present in the Liturgy for us to discover him. When we proclaim his mission in the Gospels, it is He himself who is acting. Don’t believe me? Well think back to the days before the printing press. How would anyone have known what the Bible said? They could not read, but they did have Faith. If they didn’t - you and I would not be here. Their Faith did not depend upon understanding the words proclaimed in the Liturgy. It depended upon encountering the Author of Salvation Himself, and having that encounter explained to them. The story of the Man born Blind is not chosen for today’s Gospel by accident. It is associated with the Scrutinies of Catechumens preparing for Baptism at Easter - and the whole Gospel is really a theological exposition of the Sacrament of Baptism. The Blind Man has a disability from birth, which he is not able to solve by his own efforts. He requires intervention and healing. Meeting Jesus, he undergoes two ritual actions - anointing, with mud and spittle, and washing - in the Pool of Siloam. Catechumens would immediately think of the pre-baptismal anointing with oil (that used to be an anointing of the whole body in earlier Christian practice) and the immersion in the font of Baptism at the hands of the priest (again, that used to be a full immersion of the whole body under the water.) But the focus on blindness is because Baptism was also called ‘Illumination’ in many early sources, because through it the eyes of the soul are opened to sanctifying grace. This Gospel then, explains the Christian understanding of how grace makes us righteous by Christ’s merit converting the heart and renewing us interiorly, and contrasts it with the Pharisees’ understanding of righteousness by human merit in the external observance of the Law, regardless of what’s going on in the heart. So the Gospel is proclaimed in the Liturgy, but it also needs to be explained. In the Liturgy, Christ himself acts; in catechesis we learn to recognize his action. We need both - the Gospels do indeed record the amazing charity and power the Lord has to inspire us, but in choosing these stories to recall, liturgical catechesis allows us to understand how God has worked in our lives. This Gospel is much more than information about a miracle that occurred to an anonymous man long ago. It’s about us. The man born blind is you and me, unable to see without God’s touch in the anointing and washing in the font of Baptism. But once our eyes are opened, there’s still work for us to do - notice under interrogation he who was born blind moves from describing Jesus as ‘the man’ to ‘a prophet’ then, finally, ‘Lord.’ The identity of Jesus still needs to be received, even if the eyes of Faith are opened. Thus we recognize our own journey in the story - our need for enlightenment, and a commitment to ongoing spiritual growth, lest we become like the Pharisees who remain in their sins because of their refusal to accept their need for grace. We must instead ask ourselves honestly: Where am I still blind? Do I trust in my own righteousness because I grew up Catholic, or because of my external compliance with the precepts of the Church? Or instead, am I truly open to the continual pruning that a life of grace entails? Perhaps we could even say, a life of amazing grace: I once was lost, but now am found; was blind, but now I see.

Almost every commentary dealing with John 4 draws an inference from the dialogue about the morals of the woman Jesus meets at the well. They observe that the Lord makes a leading request: “Go, call your husband and come here” - knowing that she has had five husbands, and apparently she is now cohabitating with a man who is not her husband. They then note John’s comment about it being the sixth hour - Noon - with a cultural observation, which goes something along the lines of: ‘nice girls don’t go to the well at Noon’. It’s tempting to do this. But whilst the Bible does provide us with information about the woman’s marital status, we are, in fact, not privy to the reasons why she had five husbands. Could it be that she had been divorced, or set aside, five times? Yes, it could be. Why might that be? Well it certainly wouldn’t be because she was cavorting with another, because if that were the case, she would be dead. Remember, she herself had no power to divorce any of her husbands, but each one of them had the power to put her away. But there could also be a quite different explanation. Samaritans, like Jews, considered themselves bound by Deuteronomy 25 which commands a brother to marry his brother’s widow if he predeceases her; a ‘levirate’ marriage, although the Samaritan gloss was that it was only possible if the prior marriage was unconsummated. The picture is much more complicated - and what emerges is that we rush to conclusions about her morality. We assume that she was to blame, when the reality is - we don’t know. Similarly, with coming out to the well at Noon. It is, of course, a practical observation that the onerous work of drawing water is customarily done in the early morning or later evening, when it is cooler, and that during the hottest part of the day people would not, typically, be going to the well. So John invites us to ask why she might be going there at that time. But it is not true that no-one would ever go to the well at Noon; the text also tells us that the disciples were not with Jesus because they had gone to get food. Sychar is clearly a town that does not fully shut down at Noon. Contrast that with towns even today in the South of Italy: try getting food during siesta time there - the shutters come down - and nothing is open. So at the very same time as noting the unusual timing of her visit to the well, Scripture also cautions us about rushing to conclusions about that fact. But, even if she were coming to the well at Noon to avoid her fellow townspeople - why must we rush to assume she is in the wrong? Maybe they are in the wrong - maybe she is innocent - simply the complicated circumstances of her domestic life have left her on the outside, a pariah, because of the prejudice of others. We have all been there. Furthermore, if we assume her reputation is trash, it doesn’t really make sense of the latter part of the store, where she runs into the town and evangelizes the whole place in a matter of hours. If she were the scarlet woman, it’s not so likely this would be possible. So again, the Biblical data tells a more nuanced story than our own prejudices would urge us to conclude. It is essential we are on the guard for this kind of reading-in to the Scriptures of our own baggage and justments, lest we fall into the temptation to join the baying crowd in condemning a woman whose identity the Bible assiduously protects, by refusing to give us her name. But at a much deeper level, if we have already made up our minds about the woman at the well, the Scriptures condemn us, by contrasting our fascination with gossip and intrigue to the Lord’s gentle encouragement of her. This is a really compelling literary device - we are given just enough rope to hang ourselves - because the contrast between our assumptions, and Christ’s forgiveness is precisely the message we need to hear. Speculation about the woman’s morals (a story as old as the hills - why is it always the woman who is to blame for loose morals?) clouds a much deeper meaning of this passage. What is it really about? It’s about discipleship and worship. Jesus tells her the meaning of discipleship is to receive from him the living water that turns us into wellsprings for others to drink from. So far, so good. That’s an interesting, but relatively simple, concept - if we have correct knowledge about God, we will be able to share that knowledge with others. But this lady doesn’t stop there. She recognizes that discipleship is linked to worship - so she asks a burning question. In fact, the burning question that divides Samaritans from Jews: where, and how, God commands to be worshiped. Samaritans followed the practice of their ancestors and built a temple on Mount Gerizim, whereas for Jews it was of fundamental importance that God be worshiped in the Temple in Jerusalem. In posing this question, she draws something out of Jesus we only know about because she asked. She truly is present at a well, but in a more profound sense - she takes her jar and plunges it into the depths of God; she gets her answer, and so do we. Jesus uses this encounter to set an entirely new paradigm here. I can’t stress that highly enough. It’s worth repeating in full: “Woman, believe me, the hour is coming when neither on this mountain nor in Jerusalem will you worship the Father. You worship what you do not know; we worship what we know, for salvation is from the Jews. But the hour is coming, and is now here, when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for the Father is seeking such people to worship him. God is spirit, and those who worship him must worship in spirit and truth.” Jn 4:21-24 But since this was a private conversation, it is handed down to us because either the Lord, or the woman, chose to repeat it. To cap it off, Jesus also reveals to her (and her first, and her alone) what authority he has to make this change: “I know that Messiah is coming (he who is called Christ). When he comes, he will tell us all things.” Jesus said to her, “I who speak to you am he.” Jn 4:25-26 This is perhaps the most direct statement of Jesus’s messianic authority ever recorded, and was given to the woman of Samaria at the well of Sychar. She realized that she needed to ask the question about worship, but Jesus chose her as the first to hear the words “I who speak to you, am he.” What does she do with that information? She doesn’t store it away, she leaves her water jar and runs back to the same community that shuns her in order to tell them the good news. In a matter of hours her testimony ignites the Faith of the town - many believe because of her testimony, but even more because she brings them to Jesus. Jesus didn’t choose to speak to someone with a perfect life. He chose an outsider. He meets us when we’re at the well in the heat of the day with our burdens and questions. But when we truly grasp who he is, we stop trying to fill our jar with the water that will leave us thirsty again, instead we bring others to worship - a worship that is not a burdensome duty imposed from above, but a natural outflow of springs welling up to eternal life. Do you hear him say this to you? What are you coming to the well in the Noonday sun to fill your jar with? How about you put it down, and quench your thirst with living water instead? Leave whatever fills the jar - your commitments, schedules, work, comforts or assumptions - and instead become a wellspring rooted in worship. The Father still seeks such to worship him. He is still seeking you.

I’m going to make a general observation, which doesn’t fit everyone’s circumstances. It’s just a feeling, or a vibe: people are less happy now than they were, say 25 years ago. Most people are bumping along, doing alright, but it doesn’t take very much for them to lose their cool. When they do lose their cool, it also seems to be wildly out of proportion to the issue or concern that’s irksome. It’s almost as if we want to get mad, like we are choosing to be miserable. And please note, I’m saying ‘we’ - I’m in this with you. I feel the same. In the process of writing this sermon, ‘Pages’ froze, and I lost the whole of a completed draft. All of this is in the face of hard data that tells a different story. Yes, wealth inequality has risen, but inflation-adjusted household income is 10% higher, real GDP per capita is 40% higher, and household net worth is double or higher than it was in the Year 2000. Productivity has increased, and technology continues to make our lives vastly simpler, and cheaper. When it works. So why are we so frustrated? In December 2025, an article on Buzzfeed did the rounds. It commented on the ‘Death of Monoculture’ - if you’re not sure what monoculture is, it’s shorthand for describing something we all share in common, as a society, even as a nation. A shared experience, fashion or trend. I can only think of the Superbowl as a remnant of a much wider shared culture, where people watched the same shows, read the same articles, and chatted about them over the watercooler the next day. The thesis of the article points the finger at algorithms, which rather than inviting us into shared experiences with our friends, neighbors, and colleagues, rather ‘rabbitholes’ us as individuals all by ourselves, pushing content that reinforces the prejudices and triggers we already had, not opening our minds, but closing them in by convincing us that we are always right, and that anyone else who doesn’t agree with us must be a mortal enemy. The article also made the striking claim that it is simply not possible to be famous any more. Not really, really famous. If you are a fan of Taylor Swift, algorithms convince you that she is the most important person in the world, and that everyone else thinks so too. But I can guarantee you that half of this Church at least has no idea who Ms. Swift is. But all of us have heard of the Beatles. Thankfully for us, I have the antidote to this restless emptiness we feel - and it is, of course, the person of Jesus. Today’s Gospel we are given a pledge made by the Lord to just a few, select witnesses. The Transfiguration is no cheap party trick. More than a mere vision, it was an encounter with the future of redeemed humanity; what it looks like when someone is fully alive, when someone is a saint. You see, in the Incarnation, Christ’s divinity remains for the most part hidden. This is deliberate, because we must choose to love him freely and without coercion, but risky, because we can equally well choose to be indifferent. Peter, James, and John will all undergo the crisis of the Passion. The Transfiguration is an exceptional grace bestowed upon them to match the sufferings they will all undergo in their discipleship, but for us, it also serves as a source of hope, that Christ is who he says he is. They say ‘when your culture is gone it’s not coming back’ but for us Christians, this is too pessimistic. We have the image of the transfigured Christ seared into our collective memory, so whether Rome stands or falls, whether we’re in the Dark Ages, or the Black Death, the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, or whatever else challenges us as human beings, we have the ultimate reset button: “this is my beloved Son; listen to him.” Rather than sink into depression, let’s consider the atomization of monoculture as the opportunity to remake Christian culture, where the worship of God is the center of our being and our lives revolve not around the whims and fancies of viral videos, but the true icon of joy, peace, and truth, Christ our Lord. You and I have the opportunity to become this city on a hill - this beacon of hope. Let it radiate from here, through the power of the Sacraments, to everyone you encounter in your daily lives. May they be transformed because you are touched by the presence of Christ, and maybe, more than a little bit transfigured by him.

I don’t know if you are familiar with the Screwtape Letters. If you’re not - you should be! They are the genius of Charles Staples Lewis, more famous for the Chronicles of Narnia. The Screwtape Letters are a satirical imagining of the bureaucray of Hell called the ‘Lowerarchy’ where the demons, like Screwtape, for that’s its name, gather ‘dossiers’ on us humans they call ‘patients’ in order to plan their strategy for our downfall, lest we adhere to the plan of salvation of their opponent ‘the Enemy’ - who is, of course, God. Now I know what you’re thinking, your new pastor had the audacity to preach hellfire in his very first sermon, but you see, I really have no choice because the evil one features as the main protagonist in the Gospel - and my boss is here, who will be making sure I preach the Gospel to you. But Lewis’s vision of infernal bureaucracy is really rather apt, because sin is very boring indeed - and demons, endowed with the same intellectual powers as angels, are sticklers for detail — but they also cannot think outside the box, like God can (and we can). We see this in Satan’s temptations of Christ in the desert. Satan uses the classic trifecta of temptations, helpfully listed in 1 John 2:16: For all that is in the world—the desires of the flesh and the desires of the eyes and pride of life—is not from the Father but is from the world. This means the temptations Jesus undergoes in the desert are the same ones that you and I undergo every day: lust of the flesh (in this case, urging the Lord to satisfy his body with bread), lust of the eyes (here, becoming a celebrity, performing a death-defying leap from the Temple parapet), and pride of life (here, Satan offers what is truly his: political power over all the earth). There are two points of consolation to observe at this point: we know the Devil’s tricks - he does nothing new, or interesting - and, more importantly, in Christ we can overcome them, because Christ overcame them. But you might be asking - surely Satan knows who Christ is? Why does he have the audacity to tempt him? Not so. It is a noble tradition of Biblical exegesis that Satan does not fully know the identity of Christ at this point. God’s plan is outside of the box - the Incarnation breaks the rules - God becoming man in order to save us was something the Devil did not anticipate, because unlike God, the Devil rigidly insists on the rules. At this point Satan knows that the Lord is a good man, a very, very good man. He knows all that has been publicly prophesied about him. He knows what Gabriel said to Our Lady about him (and he knows angels do not lie, nor make theological mistakes); he knows too what John the Baptist said about him at his Baptism in the Jordan (but prophets are human, so John could be mistaken); however he does not know what the Angel said to Joseph in a dream about the Lord, and the reason for that is whilst demons know all about us, unlike God they cannot read our minds. This is fascinating, because the key piece of data, that unambiguously shows that Jesus is both Christ and God was revealed in a dream, and not in speech. The Angel revealed to Joseph, and Joseph alone, that he was to be called Jesus because he will save his people from their sins. If you don’t believe me, check it out: Luke 1:31 versus Matthew 1:21. The Angel tells Mary out loud that he should be named Jesus, but he does not tell her why, only Joseph has that piece of information. When you realize that the Holy Name, Jesus, means ‘God saves’ - you see the beautiful, intricate plan in all its glory. John the Baptist proclaimed the Lord as the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world - so you can see why Satan is worried. Demons don’t make theological mistakes, either. So he tests him, and comes away disappointed. And if there’s nothing else you take home today, let it be the hope that comes from the knowledge that in Christ humanity can pass the test.  Only God knew that his plan would succeed - and it is a plan that opens up a whole new way of life for you and for me. A way of life based upon the New Covenant in the blood of the Lamb; a way of life where the high standards God insists upon are rendered achievable, because at the very same time God offers his grace to meet them. And my dear brothers and sisters, the way that God chooses to offer his grace is most clearly shown in the Sacramental life of the Church. For that to be alive and at work in you, you need a Pastor! You need a Man of the Eucharist! You have a Bishop, and he is our local successor of the Apostles. There is a golden thread that links him to one of the Twelve men called by Christ to shepherd the Church. But there’s also a golden thread that links me to him - and that is the communion we share in the priesthood of Jesus Christ, which makes the Sacraments accessible to you, here in this place. A Pastor is not a dictator, but a servant leader. He is not a celebrity who rules by his charm or his looks (I would clearly fail on both.) Instead, his leadership derives from his obedience first to Christ, and secondly to the Bishop. If your Pastor is obedient to Christ and the Bishop, then you can have confidence that his decisions will be blessed by God, who chooses to govern his Church through frail and flawed men. And as we know, God writes straight with crooked lines, so he will bring your good even out of my mistakes, as long as I am faithful. But finally a Pastor is nothing without a flock - and you, my dear friends, are my flock, and I cherish each and every one of you. You call me ‘Father’ - and rightly so, but know that I too am a son, and a brother as well. [How fortunate I am that my own parents are here today to witness this important day.] But this means I know the real struggles of family life, and I am deeply moved by your perseverance amid unimaginable challenges to the peaceful practice of our Faith. In loving you, I share your joys and your trials, and you have come to know that I always tell you the truth. For it is the truth that sets you free.