Mention Rome and all things Catholic, and most of us immediately think of St Peter’s Basilica — the great dome of Michelangelo, the Sistine Chapel, or Bernini’s colonnade. The Lateran Basilica, on the other hand, is often overlooked — if it’s known at all. Yet the Lateran, built in 324 by the Emperor Constantine on the Lateran Hill, is the mother and head of all the churches of the city and the world. The popes lived there for nearly a thousand years, and it remains to this day the parish church of the Bishop of Rome — the Pope himself.

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Why such importance to this particular church, or indeed to any church building?
Because churches remind us that not every space on earth is the same. There are places that hold special significance as meeting points between heaven and earth.

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In the Middle Ages, cathedrals were raised to proclaim the greatness of God — towers pointing to heaven, vast spaces flooded with light, and stained glass windows telling the story of salvation for the many who could not read. Those who entered them could feel both their smallness and a sense of being overawed as they stood within something far greater than themselves.

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Today we may not feel that same awe before sacred buildings, yet when Notre Dame Cathedral burned in 2019, the world grieved. It wasn’t only a beautiful landmark that was lost — something deeper was felt. For eight centuries, people prayed within those walls. It was a sacred place, speaking silently of another world.

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There are humbler places of worship too. I think of the Mass Rocks of Ireland — those hidden altars scattered through hills and valleys where our ancestors gathered in secret during Penal times. There, beneath open skies, the same Eucharist was celebrated with quiet devotion and great courage. No grandeur, no organ or stained glass — only faith, wind, and whispered prayer. Those rocks became lifelines for a people determined to remain in touch with their God.

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In today’s first reading, Ezekiel has a hopeful vision of a new temple for a people in exile. He describes water flowing from its side — water that brings life and fertility to the barren land. In a desert landscape, water means life itself; for Ezekiel, it becomes a symbol of the life-giving presence of God flowing from the temple to renew the world.

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Jesus would have understood this deeply, but that’s not what he found in the temple of his day. “You have turned my Father’s house into a market,” he cried. He was deeply disturbed that this sacred place — meant to bring people close to God — had become a place of profit. Yet when he said, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up,” he pointed to something extraordinary: he himself is the new temple, the true dwelling of God among us.

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This insight adds a whole new dimension to the meaning of temple yet, St Paul takes this insight even further in the second reading. Writing to the Corinthians, he reminds them — and us — that we too share in that same mystery: “Do you not know that you are the temple of God, and that the Spirit of God dwells in you?” For Paul, who was once a committed Jew to say this is truly astonishing. But he knew it and lived it. “I live now, not I but Christ lives in me.”

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This raises the question of how aware we are of Christ living in us — that we are now temples of the Holy Spirit, who is alive and active in each one of us.

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In our busy, distracted world, so much competes for our attention. And there is the constant danger that we begin to live by our own lights rather than by the light of God. That is why we need places like the Lateran Basilica — holy spaces that lift our gaze beyond ourselves and remind us of God’s presence and primacy.

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These sacred buildings are signs pointing to the deeper temple within: the temple of our own hearts, where God himself chooses to dwell. When we allow these visible temples to draw us inward, we rediscover that the truest sanctuary is the heart attentive to God — listening for his voice and letting his light guide our steps.

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How amazing, and how beautiful, that is!

There is something deeply religious about the patterns that unfold at gravesides across Ireland. Even as fewer people may attend Mass regularly, the instinct to gather and pray for the dead remains strong. In August, when cemetery Masses usually take place, people come from far and near. Old friends and schoolmates meet again. Connections are renewed — not only with one another, but with those who have gone before us. It’s as if the bonds of friendship are not broken by death. We still feel close to those who shaped and blessed our lives, and our presence there — tidying graves, offering prayers, standing in silence — becomes a gesture of gratitude and remembrance.

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There is a quiet mystique about it all. Beneath the chatter and greetings, something sacred stirs. Standing among the graves, surrounded by generations of the faithful, we are drawn into a deeper awareness of mystery — of life and death, of the Giver of Life, of our own passing from this world. The setting itself invites prayer. In that moment, everyday busyness gives way to awe.

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Today, the 2nd of November, the Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed, gives us another opportunity to pray for those who have gone before us. Coming as it does after the Feast of All Saints, this day has a different focus. Yesterday we celebrated those officially recognised as saints — the shining examples of holiness who have gone before us in faith. Today we remember “the rest of us”: the uncanonised, the ordinary faithful, and indeed all those who, in life’s struggles and imperfections, sought God in their own way. We pray for them — for the souls in purgatory.

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But what is purgatory? Why must there be such a state at all?
As a child, I imagined purgatory as a lonely, painful place — a kind of spiritual jail term endured before entry into heaven. But St John Henry Newman helped me see it differently. He wrote that purgatory is not a punishment inflicted by God, but rather a merciful process by which the soul, on encountering even a ray of God’s holiness, feels overwhelmed by divine love and therefore feels the need to prepare better before entering the presence of God. Therefore purgatory is freely chosen, a time of blessed purification so that the soul might enter God’s presence in peace. In this light, purgatory becomes not a place of despair but of hope, where divine mercy completes what our frail human efforts left unfinished.

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The Book of Wisdom reminds us that “the souls of the virtuous are in the hands of God,” and that his love is stronger than death. To remember the dead, then, is an act of both faith and love. Yet it is never easy. Grief brings pain, tears, and sometimes even anger. Jesus himself knew this sorrow — He wept at the tomb of His friend Lazarus. Those standing nearby said, “See how he loved him.” In that moment, the Son of God sanctified our mourning. He showed that love and loss belong together.

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St Paul, in our second reading, assures us that “hope does not disappoint.” Even when death leaves us desolate, God’s love has already been “poured into our hearts.” Christ’s death and resurrection reveal a love that searches for us even when we are lost, that redeems even what seems beyond saving. So why should we fear for our loved ones — or for ourselves?

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This feast is called The Commemoration of the Faithful Departed — but in truth, Christ’s mercy reaches even the unfaithful. He longs to gather all into His embrace. As Jesus promises in John’s Gospel, “I will not reject anyone who comes to me.” The Father’s will is that all should be raised up, all should share in the fullness of His life. That is the hope we celebrate today: that love is stronger than death, that mercy is wider than sin, and that, in Christ, every longing heart finds its rest.

There is always praise for those who do well in exams, with the top one or two singled out for special attention. In Africa, where the gap between rich and poor is often vast, the successful students tend to come from privileged backgrounds. They attended good schools, had a quiet room to study in, and plenty of support along the way. But what about those from disadvantaged areas, where schools struggle, homes are crowded, and there’s no quiet corner to read or write? Shouldn’t there be high praise too for those who manage to pass despite all the obstacles stacked against them?

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Success, whether in studies or in life, often depends not only on effort but on the circumstances we inherit. The same can be true of virtue. It’s easier to be “good” when one’s environment is stable, supportive, and secure. But what about those who struggle through life’s chaos and still manage to cling to some standard of virtue and decency?

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The Book of Job reminds us of this tension. Satan challenges God, saying that Job’s goodness is due only to his prosperity: “Does Job fear God for nothing?” When everything is taken away — family, fortune, and health — Job wrestles mightily with despair, even cursing the day he was born. Yet, through his suffering, Job comes to a deeper understanding of God’s mystery and mercy. He learns humility in the face of divine greatness.

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I have no doubt that the Pharisee in today’s Gospel was a good and upright man. He likely spoke the truth when he claimed he was not grasping, unjust, or adulterous like the rest of humanity. He had his morals right. But sadly, he was full of himself — even praying to himself — thinking that all the good he did was his own doing. He failed to see that everything he had, even his capacity to do good, came from God. His goodness had become self-contained; he saw no need for mercy. As Jesus said, “He prided himself on being righteous and despised others.”

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The tax collector, on the other hand, stands at a distance. He knows his failures; he knows the compromises he’s made. We might ask: why is he a tax collector at all? Perhaps it was the only path open to him in a harsh and unjust system. Maybe he had a family to feed, and this was the only work available. Jesus, who mingled with the poor and the broken, would have understood his predicament.

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It’s a bit like the young woman who told her story of being thrown out by her partner when she became pregnant. In desperation, she sought an abortion — until a kind stranger offered her a room in her flat for as long as she needed. “Now I have a beautiful baby,” she said, “and I’ve never felt so loved in all my life.” Mercy changed everything.

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Back to Job: when God finally speaks from the whirlwind, He asks, “Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth?” Job is humbled and silenced before divine majesty. He realises how small humanity is and how vast God’s compassion must be. The tax collector, too, from his place of weakness and need, had glimpsed that same truth. He knew that God’s mercy was greater than his sin. And so he prayed, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner!” Jesus tells us that he, not the Pharisee, went home justified — at peace with his God.

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As for the Pharisee, he points to something that seems to be in us, perhaps especially in our competitive culture, that thinks we can and should earn God's love. We somehow find it difficult to accept the gracious love of God. In the end the Pharisee got his morals right but his God wrong. The tax collector perhaps got his morals wrong but his God right. His weakness became his window into grace.

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And perhaps that’s what we see today in so many people who, like the tax collector, live under crushing circumstances yet refuse to give up. Think, for example, of Sham Ammar, a young student in Gaza. “I have to walk quite a bit to find an internet connection that allows me to download the videos I need,” he says. “At night, I use my phone’s flashlight to study because there’s no electricity. The bombs and fear distract me a lot. Hunger also prevents me from concentrating.” Only 38% of school-aged Gazans have had access to any form of learning in the past two years — and yet Sham perseveres.

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But what enables him to persevere? The only satisfying answer is that, in his wretchedness, he encountered an awesome and compassionate God who set his heart ablaze—just as He did for Job, and indeed for the tax collector. This is the message of Jesus for us today: it is not the proud, but the humble; not the self-assured, but the trusting—who go home at peace with their God.

There is a lovely story told of a bishop in Germany in the nineteenth century. On the night before his ordination as a priest, he had a dream that he would accomplish many things in his life because of the prayers of a certain nun. He didn’t know who she was.

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Some forty years later, as a bishop, he was celebrating Mass in a convent. When he came to distribute communion, he suddenly recognised one of the sisters as the nun in his dream. After Mass he asked about her, but she wasn’t at breakfast. One of the sisters remembered: “Oh, she’s the one who looks after and feeds the pigs.”

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The bishop went to the piggery, and when he met her, she shyly admitted that she had indeed been praying for him ever since his ordination day.

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What is striking is that the bishop recognised her after forty years, though he had never met her before. It says something about how prayer connects us all at a deep and mysterious level — how the grace of God weaves unseen threads between human hearts.

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Today’s Gospel reminds us of the need to pray continually and never lose heart. Moses, too, in the first reading, teaches us the same truth. With arms outstretched on the mountain, he prays while the people battle below. His raised arms are a timeless symbol of intercession — a gesture later fulfilled in the outstretched arms of Christ on the cross.

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Moses’ prayer, however, is not solitary. When his arms grow weary, Aaron and Hur stand beside him, supporting him until sunset. There is a beautiful image here of shared prayer — how we uphold one another before God when faith or strength begins to waver.

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Perhaps this is what inspired Pope John Paul II in 1986 to invite religious leaders from all over the world to gather in Assisi to pray for peace. In a world where religion has so often been a source of division and even violence, that meeting sent a powerful message: that praying together, no matter what domination, can unite, reconcile, and heal.

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The God to whom we pray is a God who sees, who hears, and who cares. Remember what the Lord said to Moses at the burning bush:

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“I have seen the affliction of my people, I have heard their cry, and I have come down to deliver them.”

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Jesus echoes this same truth in the Gospel — that God longs to give us the Kingdom, to pour out His love upon His children. Such confidence in a caring God is what keeps us praying when answers seem delayed or silence lingers.

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Today we also celebrate World Mission Sunday. The theme for this year is “Missionaries of Hope Among All Peoples.” We are reminded that prayer itself is a form of mission — a way of carrying the world in our hearts.

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St. Thérèse of Lisieux longed from childhood to be a missionary, but illness and enclosure kept her within the walls of Carmel. Yet through her prayer, her sacrifices, and her loving concern for those working in faraway lands, she became a missionary of hope to the whole world. Two years after her canonisation she was declared Patroness of the Missions. She shows us that to pray always is also to share in the mission of Christ — bringing light and love to others, even from a hidden place.

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The psalmist prayed, “Bend my heart to your will, O God.” That line captures the essence of all true prayer. Like Jesus, we too are God’s beloved children, and the deepest prayer we can make is not that God will do our will, but that we may come to desire His — trusting that His will is love, and that God knows what is best for us.

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So today, as we hear of Moses’ steadfast prayer and the widow’s perseverance, let us remember that to pray is something beautiful in God’s eyes. It reminds us of our total dependence on Him, and, as Isaiah 66 tells us, that God, though maker of heaven and earth, is drawn “to the humble and contrite in spirit who trembles at my word.” Prayer becomes even more beautiful when quiet hearts join together, upholding one another before God. And perhaps, somewhere unseen, there is a “nun feeding pigs,” or a hidden missionary like Thérèse, praying for you and for me — sustaining the world by her quiet fidelity.

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May we, too, become such faithful intercessors — missionaries of hope, praying continually and never losing heart.

The first reading gives us the end of a marvellous story — the healing of Naaman. Naaman was commander-in-chief of the Syrian army, the sworn enemy of little Israel: powerful, admired, and feared. Then came the crushing blow — he contracted leprosy, the most dreaded disease of his time. For Naaman, it seemed like the end of the road.

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Bishop Robert Barron once said: “I don’t care who you are, how high you’ve climbed, or how important you may be — we’ve all got leprosy.” Maybe not on our skin, but in the form of a wound, an addiction, an obsession, or a hurt that won’t let go. Every life has some weakness that humbles us.

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St Paul knew this well. He speaks of his thorn in the flesh that never left him, despite his pleading with God. The answer he heard: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” That is the thread tying today’s readings together: in our weakness, God’s strength is revealed. Naaman and the Samaritan leper both came to faith through weakness and healing.

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Naaman had a lot of climbing down to do. He first had to listen to the advice of a little Israelite slave girl. Then he was snubbed by Israel’s king and dismissed by Elisha, who wouldn’t even meet him — just sent word to wash in the Jordan. Enraged, Naaman protested: “Surely he’ll come out, call on the Lord, and wave his hand over the place!” And yet, urged by his servants, he swallowed his pride, stepped into the Jordan, and was healed.

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But more than his skin was renewed. The deeper miracle was his new insight: “Now I know there is no God in all the earth except in Israel.” His healing led to faith — that was the true gift.

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And that prepares us for today’s Gospel. Jesus, on his way to Jerusalem, meets ten lepers. He sees them — he does not pass them by. He tells them to go and show themselves to the priests, and as they go, they are cleansed. Nine do exactly as told, fulfilling the Law and returning joyfully to their families.

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But one — a Samaritan — comes back. Why? Was Jesus looking for thanks when he asked, “Where are the other nine?” No, he sought something deeper. The Samaritan saw in Jesus not a mere miracle worker, but the very presence of God. He returned, not just to say “thank you,” but to worship. He recognized, even without words, that Jesus was the true source of life, the true High Priest, the mercy of God made flesh.

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Paul teaches that Christ is the fulfilment of the Law. The nine could not see beyond the Law to the new life Jesus offered. But the Samaritan, already an outsider, was open to that newness. His gratitude was the surface of a deeper faith — the recognition that God was standing before him in Christ.

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And Paul himself knew this transformation. Struck down on the road to Damascus, healed in his blindness, he found the greatest treasure of all: “I count everything as loss compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.”

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That is the invitation of today’s readings. We come before God with our wounds, our leprosies, our thorns in the flesh. And yes, God hears and heals — but He offers more than relief. He offers Himself. Like Naaman, the Samaritan, and Paul, we are called to go deeper — to discover the joy of knowing Christ, a joy that surpasses everything else and is constantly born anew.

The prophet Habakkuk is not in a happy space. He feels helpless in the face of violence and fear. His prayer is full of frustration. He cries out: “How long, Lord, am I to cry for help while you will not listen? While I cry to you of oppression and you will not save? Outrage and violence—this is all I see.”

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That prayer could be prayed today by untold millions across the world who live with war, poverty, abuse, starvation and anxiety. Like Habakkuk, they wonder where God is when life seems dark. And like him, we too can grow weary, wondering why God doesn’t intervene to fix the mess of our lives or of the world.

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God does not answer Habakkuk with quick solutions. Instead, God calls for patience and perseverance. “The upright person lives by faith.” In other words: stay faithful. Keep doing what is right, even when you do not see results. Don’t lose hope.

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The apostles in today’s Gospel are in a similar place. In the early days of following Jesus, they were full of enthusiasm. They saw his miracles, they heard his wisdom, they were captivated. But by the time we reach chapter 17 of Luke, things have changed. Jesus is on the road to Jerusalem. He is speaking of suffering and death. The apostles are unsettled, fearful, perhaps even disillusioned. What will life be like without their teacher, their friend, their Lord?

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So they cry out with their own desperate prayer: “Lord, increase our faith!”

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Jesus answers with a startling image: “If your faith were the size of a mustard seed, you could say to this mulberry tree, ‘Be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” What does he mean?

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The mustard seed is tiny—barely visible in the palm of your hand. Yet it carries a vast potential for growth. Once it falls into soil and is watered, it bursts forth with a strength and energy beyond expectation. That potential comes not from the seed itself but from the life-giving power of God sown into all creation.

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So faith, says Jesus, is not about size or quantity. It is about trust—trust that God is at work, hidden though it may be. Even the smallest spark of faith, when entrusted to God, can unleash surprising life.

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We hear the same encouragement in Paul’s letter to Timothy. Timothy had once been full of zeal for the Gospel, but now, facing difficulties, it seems he was losing heart. Paul reminds him: “Stir into flame the gift of God you have through the imposition of my hands.” Like embers on the verge of going cold, Timothy’s faith needed the breath of God’s Spirit to flare into fire again.

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Faith is not merely an intellectual acceptance of some creed or dogma. It is deeply relational. It is trust in a person—Jesus Christ. To live by faith is to entrust ourselves to him, letting go of our need to control, to always be right, to feel secure on our own terms. Faith is the decision, day after day, to follow him wherever he leads, even when the path is uncertain.

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The Celtic spiritual tradition speaks of thin places—moments where the veil between the material and spiritual worlds is porous, where we sense the presence of God surrounding and upholding us. Thin places remind us that the world is not only what we can measure or control, but that a deeper reality is always at hand.

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Our challenge today is that we live in a culture mesmerised by science, technology, and endless busyness. These can be good, but they can also seduce us into believing that only what we see and measure is real. Faith asks us to cultivate a different space—a place of prayer, stillness, silence—so that the mustard seed planted in our hearts can take root. Prayer and time with God are the soil and water that allow faith to grow.

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When we give faith that space, it does what seeds naturally do: it grows, it multiplies, it bears fruit. That fruit is not power or security, but love. Beatrice of Nazareth, a Flemish Cistercian of the 13th century, put it beautifully:​

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“There is another manner of loving which is when the soul seeks to serve our Lord for nothing in return, for love alone, without demanding to know the reason why, and without any reward of grace or glory.”

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Like Habakkuk, we may lament. Like the apostles, we may cry out for more faith. Like Timothy, we may feel weary and uncertain. But the good news is this: God has already planted the seed. What matters now is to nurture it—to water it with prayer, to fan it with trust, to live it in love.

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Today, let us fan into flame the seed of faith already planted in our hearts, so that, like Beatrice of Nazareth, we may rejoice with abandon in God’s word and entrust ourselves wholly to his care. May we do it for love alone!

In August 2016, a picture of a little boy from Aleppo went around the world. He was just five years old — Omran Daqneesh — sitting in the back of an ambulance after his home was bombed. His face and clothes were covered in dust and blood. His feet dangled off the edge of a chair far too big for him. Surrounded by shouting and chaos, he just sat there silently, with a blank stare that broke the world’s heart.

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One heart it touched in a very special way was that of another child — six-year-old Alex from New York. So moved was he that he wrote a letter to President Obama. He asked the President to bring Omran to America so that Alex’s family could take him in. He wrote: “We will give him a family, and he will be our brother. Catherine, my little sister, will be collecting butterflies and fireflies for him. In my school I have a friend from Syria, Omar, and I will introduce him to Omar. We can all play together.”

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When President Obama read the letter at the United Nations, he said: “Those are the words of a six-year-old boy — a young child who has not learned to be cynical or suspicious or fearful of other people because of where they come from, how they look, or how they pray. We should all be more like Alex. Imagine what the world would look like if we were. Imagine the suffering we could ease and the lives we could save.”

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That story sheds light on Jesus’ words: “Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” Children instinctively see with compassion. But as we grow older, that instinct can be dulled. Comfort, money, consumerism, the fear of not having enough — all of these can cloud our vision.

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That’s what today’s readings warn us about. Amos cries out: “Woe to those who lie on beds of ivory, stretched comfortably on their couches… but are not grieved at the ruin of Joseph.” They live in luxury, blind to the collapse and suffering around them.

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And Jesus gives us the haunting parable of the rich man and Lazarus. The rich man has everything — feasts, clothes, security. Lazarus is at his very gate, hungry, covered in sores. Yet Lazarus is given a name, while the rich man remains nameless — defined only by his self-indulgence.

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The rich man isn’t condemned for being wealthy, nor does Jesus mention his observance of the Law. His failure was that he had no compassion. He never saw Lazarus as a brother. Abraham speaks of a gulf between them. But notice: that gulf was not created after death. It began already in this life — built steadily by every act of indifference. And the same gulf exists today in the ever-widening gap between rich and poor.

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We see it between nations, where the wealth of some is built on the exploitation of others. But we also see it close to home: homeless men and women at our gates, families struggling to make ends meet, elderly people living alone, young people who feel excluded. Do we notice them? Or do we, like the rich man, walk past with eyes closed?

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Why do we look away? Often it is fear. If life is about money and possessions, then there will never be enough to go around. Fear makes us clutch what we have instead of opening our hands. But scripture points us to another way.

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Paul urges Timothy: “Take hold of the eternal life to which you were called.” Paul believes that eternal life has already begun for those who live in Christ. When we do so, when we care for one another, when we see with His eyes, the reign of God breaks in already.

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And perhaps our best teacher is that little boy Alex, who wanted nothing more than to welcome a stranger as a brother. He was proactive, ready to act. Compassion grows and is contagious by every care for another. It brings about the reign of God so that it is no longer distant destiny, but a way of living here and now — with and for others.

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May we choose to open our eyes, to bridge the gulfs that divide us, to see one another as brothers and sisters, and to put our trust in the God who provides for all. For when we dare to live this way, the reign of God is already at hand.

Amos was a herdsman and a dresser of sycamores when the Lord called him to prophesy in Israel. He had no wealth, no power, no influence. By human standards, he was a “nobody.” And yet, he was the one who heard the voice of God. This shows us something important: God often chooses the lowly and the overlooked to be His messengers, because they are free enough to listen.

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In today’s reading, Amos denounces the rich for trampling on the poor, for cheating with false balances, and for putting profit above people. He tells them bluntly that God sees, God hears, and God will not forget. Amos was fearless. He had no position in society, yet he stood before the powerful and exposed their injustice. That courage came from knowing that God’s voice, however quiet, is stronger than all the noise of the world.

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That same warning reaches us now. The gap between rich and poor keeps widening. Many labour long hours and still struggle to survive, while others live in abundance. Reflecting on this widening gap, Pope Leo has warned recently that ‘we are in big trouble’. And, as Pope Francis reminds us, it is not only the poor who cry out—it is also the earth itself. Our greed, our worship of Mammon, has scarred creation. Forests are stripped, seas polluted, the climate unsettled. The cry of the poor and the cry of the earth are one.

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Mammon is loud. It shouts through advertising, social media, and the endless chase for money, power, and status. It promises happiness if only we have more, but it never satisfies. Greed is a bottomless pit.

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In the midst of all this, there is another voice. Not loud, not pushy, but gentle and persistent: the voice of God. The prophet Elijah discovered this on Mount Horeb—not in the storm, the earthquake, or the fire, but in the sound of a gentle breeze. God speaks in whispers, and to hear Him, we need silence—silence of heart, silence of mind, silence in prayer.

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Recently, Pope Leo canonized Blessed Carlo Acutis and Blessed Pier Giorgio Frassati. Both came from privileged backgrounds, yet they did not let the noise of wealth and status drown out the whisper of God. What’s more, neither of them came from religious backgrounds yet they were close to God.

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Pier Giorgio, from an early age, was generous to the poor—giving away his own shoes and clothes, visiting the sick, and dedicating his time to those in need. His friends described him as joyful, adventurous, and selfless. Carlo Acutis, a young man of our own century, loved computers and technology. But instead of being absorbed by them, he used his gifts to spread devotion to the Eucharist. He enjoyed games and friends, but he set limits, never letting distractions take God’s place in his heart.

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What unites them is that they tuned their ears to God’s quiet whisper. They resisted the loud seductions of the world and chose instead the deeper desire: to know God, to be loved by Him, and to serve others. They remind us that holiness is not about doing extraordinary things, but about living ordinary life with extraordinary love.

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Today’s Gospel gives us a stark contrast. The unjust steward is clever, but only for himself. His future depends on shady deals and self-interest. By contrast, Carlo Acutis and Pier Giorgio Frassati lived with a lightness and freedom that comes from forgetting self. Their joy came not from grasping but from giving.

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John Main, the teacher of prayer, once said that egoism leads us into backwaters of isolation, but prayer carries us into the great stream of divine love. In silence and stillness, we begin to hear God’s whisper.

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And so, in the midst of all the noise of our modern world, God is not silent. But to hear Him, we must quiet our hearts. May we, like Amos, like Carlo, like Pier Giorgio, have the courage to listen to that small voice and to serve with generous hearts. For Jesus leaves us in no doubt: “You cannot serve both God and money.”

In 1962, at the opening of the Second Vatican Council, Pope John XXIII called Jesus “the sign of contradiction.” Years later, Pope John Paul II used the same phrase to describe Christ and his Church. Nowhere is this contradiction clearer than in the cross. That brutal Roman instrument of torture has become, for us, the tree of life. In death, Christ conquered death.

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But how can this be? How can such cruelty become the doorway to salvation? And yet, deep down, we know it is true. On Good Friday—even in an age of declining Mass attendance—churches are filled. Something in the human heart recognises that this cross holds together both death and resurrection, despair and hope.

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The cross of Jesus is a wake-up call, showing us how lethal sin is with all its consequences. On Good Friday the powers of darkness sought out goodness itself and nailed it to a tree. Making it worse was the sight of his mother and a few loyal friends standing by while everyone else fled. This is a crime that cries out to heaven, but it also shows how helpless humanity is before evil.

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And yet—there was one who saw differently. The centurion, whose task was to oversee the execution, made a remarkable confession: “Truly, this is the Son of God.” How did he arrive at this? On that long road to Calvary he must have noticed something unusual about Jesus. Here was no criminal raging or cursing. Instead, Jesus endured without retaliation, with a peace and dignity that must have unsettled a hardened soldier. In that moment at the cross, the centurion glimpsed a love stronger than death, and he confessed the truth: this man could only be the Son of God.

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St. Francis once said, “Where there is hatred, let me sow love.” Later St. Paul would write, “Where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more.” That is what the centurion saw: a love that refused hatred, a love stronger than violence or revenge, a love that could only come from God.

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This is the paradox of the cross. God is not revealed as a distant ruler demanding sacrifice, but as the self-emptying one who comes close to us in weakness. Unlike earthly kings, God does not frighten us into submission. His way is self-giving love. Jesus clung only to his Father and poured himself out for the life of the world.

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Ron Rolheiser gives us a vivid image: Jesus as a water filter. A filter takes in dirty water, holds the impurities, and gives back only what is clean. So it is with Christ: he takes in hatred and returns love; he takes in fear and returns courage; he takes in violence and returns forgiveness. On the cross, he absorbs the poison of sin and gives back only mercy.

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And still today, Christ is crucified in the suffering of our world—in war, famine, displacement, and injustice. We too can be tempted to look away, like the disciples who fled. But the feast of the Exaltation of the Cross invites us to stand with Mary, to let the world’s pain touch our hearts, and to allow God’s Spirit to turn that pain into compassion and hope.

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The cross is not the end. It is the gateway to resurrection. The crucified and risen Christ is the light of the world, the astonishing revelation of an all-merciful love that embraces us at our darkest hour. The scandal of his death has become the mystery of God’s transforming love.

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Like the centurion, we are invited to stand before the cross and make our own confession: Truly, this is the Son of God.

There is no such thing as easy discipleship. To follow Christ costs not less than everything.

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Nowhere is this clearer than in today’s Gospel, when Jesus says we must “hate” father, mother, spouse, children—even our very selves. We know he does not mean to despise those we love. Rather, he is using sharp, shocking language to make an urgent point: every earthly bond, every natural affection, even self-interest itself, must take second place to God’s call.

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The first reading from Wisdom sheds light on this. It contrasts human wisdom—fragile, limited, often misguided—with God’s wisdom, which alone shows us the path of life. Left to ourselves, our plans are uncertain, our judgments flawed. We have only to look at how we are damaging the planet that sustains us to realise how true this is. But God’s wisdom opens a way forward. Only in God do we learn to walk rightly, to live freely, to love without limit.

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That is why Jesus insists that discipleship is not a comfortable addition to life but a radical reordering of life. It is not an ego trip but a loosening of our grip on ego, ambition, and possession. It means setting aside even the good things—family ties, wealth, or pride—if they block our response to love’s call.

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But notice: this is not about deprivation. What Christ offers is not a life diminished but a life enlarged. What looks like loss becomes the doorway to something greater. By surrendering narrow desires, we make room for God’s abundance. By denying self in the sense of ego, we discover our true self—the one God dreamed into being—a self fully alive, flourishing, free.

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St Paul prayed for this when he asked that his community might be “strengthened in the inner self,” that Christ might dwell in their hearts, and that they might come to know “the breadth and length and height and depth” of God’s love—a love beyond knowledge, filling us with God’s own fullness.

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The theologian Bernard Loomer described such largeness of life in these words:
“By size I mean the stature of a person’s soul, the range and depth of their love, their capacity for relationships. I mean the volume of life you can take into your being and still maintain your integrity. I mean the strength of spirit to encourage others to become freer. I mean the magnanimity of concern to help others increase in stature.”

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What Jesus asks of us, then, is to step out of our small worlds into the grand design God has in store. If we cling too tightly to where we are, we will never move. The call of the first disciples is a shining example. Peter, Andrew, James, and John were at their nets when Jesus said simply, “Follow me.” And they left everything—their trade, their families, their villages—and set out on a road with very little idea of where they were going or what they were taking on.

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Sometimes this call even causes conflict. Francis of Assisi clashed so deeply with his father that he walked away from him altogether. St John of the Cross put it starkly:
“It doesn’t matter if a bird is tied by a thin thread or a thick one; if it is not broken, the bird will never fly. So it is with the soul that clings to something—however virtuous it may seem—it will never reach the freedom of divine union.”

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This is the very freedom Jesus himself lived—the freedom to love without limit, to reach out in compassion. The key to his whole ministry was to do the will of his Father in all things. “I always do what pleases him.” That “always” meant leaving behind home and family in Nazareth to join the Baptist; it meant turning from the acclaim of Galilee to set his face toward Jerusalem, knowing what awaited him there. In Gethsemane, trembling at the thought of what lay ahead, he nevertheless prayed: “Not my will, but yours be done.”

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To follow Jesus is demanding. It asks not less than everything. But in giving everything, we receive more than we could ever imagine: the wisdom of God, the freedom of love, and the fullness of life. This is what Bernard Loomer called the true stature of the soul:
“the range and depth of our love, the strength to encourage others to become freer, the magnanimity to help others increase in stature.”

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That is the largeness of life Christ offers us—life expanded by love, life filled with God’s own fullness.

“Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble when you’re perfect in every way.”
That old song always makes me smile—and maybe you too. We chuckle because, deep down, we recognise ourselves in it. There is something in all of us that likes the best seats, as Jesus mentions in today’s Gospel.

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Fr. Richard Rohr, the acclaimed spiritual writer, once admitted to something he called “success guilt.” Fame and attention came easily to him, and he confessed:

“I was afraid I was becoming too well-known, that my ego was getting too big. It’s dangerous when you are always the person being listened to.”

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To his credit, he recognised the danger and kept it in check. But many aren’t so fortunate. Our culture idolises its heroes—athletes, singers, actors—and puts them on pedestals. They receive money, fame, adoration. Some thrive, but others collapse under the weight of it all. Their egos take over, and tragically, many burn out or die far too young.

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The Book of Ecclesiasticus gives us a very different measure of greatness:

“The greater you are, the more you should behave humbly.”

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True greatness, then, isn’t about standing out—it’s about stooping low. The humble heart is closer to God than the proud one. The person who remembers that all is gift becomes a channel of God’s blessing.  St. Francis of Assisi comes to mind.  He was forever conscious that everything is gift and that made him a blessing to us all. 

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When Jesus goes to dine at the Pharisee’s house, he is struck by the scramble for the best seats. For him, this “pyramid” culture—where some are deemed more important than others—is all wrong. In his vision, there is no pyramid, only a circle. Each person—rich or poor, strong or weak—is equally valuable in the eyes of God. All are sons and daughters of a loving Father. In that vision, nobody outranks anyone else.

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We caught a glimpse of this during the pandemic. Scores of people came out on their balconies at 6pm to applaud the doctors and nurses. Suddenly, the “invisible” people—the carers, cleaners, delivery workers—were seen for who they truly are: essential. They always had been, but it took a crisis for us to notice. Humility opens our eyes to such truths. It helps us to see ourselves as we are before God: dependent, limited, in need of mercy. But it also helps us see others as they are: bearers of dignity, worthy of respect.

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This is why Jesus pushes us further: “When you give a banquet, don’t invite those who can repay you, but the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind.” In other words: give without expecting anything in return. This is a big ask but that’s where true greatness shines. That is divine humility at work.

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We see it lived out in many small but real ways: soup kitchens, Meals on Wheels, parties for the poor, care for those with special needs. Pope Francis offered us a striking example on his 77th birthday when he invited three homeless men for breakfast. One of them even brought his dog! Clearly, they could never repay him—but that was the point.

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And isn’t that what happens at every Eucharist? We come with empty hands, unable to repay. It is not our banquet. The Lord is the host. We are guests at a feast of pure grace—one glorious free meal. 

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Perhaps the homeless man who dined with Pope Francis said it best afterwards:

“That’s the good thing about being homeless—you get to have breakfast with the Pope.”

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And maybe that’s the good thing about being Christian: we are humble enough to know our poverty, and blessed enough to be invited to the Lord’s table.

The Camino de Santiago, the ancient pilgrimage to the tomb of St. James, began in the 9th century. For over a thousand years, people have walked its winding paths. By the mid-1980s, it seemed almost forgotten — fewer than 2,000 pilgrims completed it in a year. Today, it has come back to life: last year nearly half a million received the Compostela certificate, and this year’s numbers may rise to 570,000.

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Why such extraordinary growth? Why, in a world often indifferent to religion, are people drawn to a journey with such deeply Christian roots? For some, it is still a profound act of faith. For many others, it begins simply as a long walk, a break from routine. And yet, the Camino has a way of working on the heart. Freed from the rush and the noise of daily life, pilgrims begin to search — for clarity, for healing, for a new direction.

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The prophet Hosea gives us an image of God’s love: “I will lead her into the wilderness and there speak to her heart.” The Camino becomes that wilderness. Step by step, burdens lighten, silence deepens, and pilgrims discover that they are not walking alone. Many who set out without religious intent find themselves surprised by an awakening within — drawn toward God, often without knowing it.  It seems like God is still luring people into strange places so as to speak to one’s heart.

This brings us to Isaiah’s vision in today’s first reading. He sees a great gathering of all nations, speaking different languages, yet climbing together the mountain of the Lord. That vision is echoed in the Camino: people from every corner of the earth, strangers at first, discover a common bond of humanity — sharing bread, stories, and care for one another along the road. What looks like a walk becomes a living parable of God’s dream: a family of nations united in praise and thanksgiving.

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In the Gospel, Jesus himself is on a pilgrimage — walking toward Jerusalem, where he will give his life. Along the way he is still busy passing through various cities and villages because there is something he needs to communicate to the people: God is a good Father who offers salvation to everyone. All are invited to receive God’s forgiveness.

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His message surprises everyone. Sinners are filled with joy to hear him speak of God’s unfathomable goodness: even they can hope for salvation. In the Pharisee camp, however, they criticize his message and his welcoming of tax-collectors, prostitutes and sinners: isn’t Jesus opening a road to the watering-down of religion and to unacceptable morals?

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Hence, someone asks him: “Lord, will only a few be saved?” Behind that question is fear: Who is in and who is out? Who belongs and who does not?

But Jesus does not give numbers. Instead, he gives an invitation: “Strive to enter through the narrow door.” In other words, salvation is not about privilege or belonging to a chosen group. It is about the heart — a heart willing to accept God’s mercy and live in God’s love.

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That “narrow door” leaves no room for pride, ego, or self-interest. To pass through it means letting go of resentment, judgment, or indifference, and learning instead to forgive, to be compassionate, to put others before ourselves. Jesus is clear: the way is demanding. Yet the door is always open, for he himself is that door. “I am the door,” he says in John’s Gospel. No one is shut out unless we shut ourselves off from his forgiveness.

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We are all pilgrims on this road – sometimes burdened, sometimes searching, sometimes stumbling. The Camino reminds us that the journey itself is part of God’s work in us. It strips away what is unnecessary, slows us to the pace of grace, and teaches us to see with new eyes.

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The narrow door is not meant to frighten us, but to focus us. It is the door of love – love of God and love of neighbour. Patrick Kavanagh once wrote: “Only they who fly home to God have flown at all.” Our lives, too, are a pilgrimage home to God.

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So the question for us today is not “how many will be saved?” but “am I willing to walk through the door?” The strength we need is not our own. It is the openness of heart that allows God to guide us, step by step, until at last we arrive at the great banquet – where people will come from East and West, North and South, and take their place in the Kingdom of God.

“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.” This timeless truth, often attributed to Edmund Burke, rings especially loud today. We need only look at Gaza. Night after night, we see the destruction of homes and lives, and the slow starvation of a people. And yet, until very recently, the response from many world leaders was a deafening silence. Now a number of countries are naming it for what it is — genocide — but it is all too little and far too late.

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We often think of prophecy as foretelling the future. But in Scripture, the real task of the prophet is to speak truth to power. Jeremiah was called while still a young man, and he tried to resist:
“Ah, Lord God! Truly I do not know how to speak, for I am only a boy.” (Jer 1:6)

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At the same time however, he couldn’t ignore the injustice and corruption around him. It burned within him like fire, and he had to speak. That fire cost him dearly — as we heard today, it led to him being thrown down a well.

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Another reluctant prophet was Archbishop Oscar Romero of El Salvador. In the early days of his appointment, he was cautious, conservative, and closely connected to the elite — the very people who were oppressing the poor. His close friend, Jesuit Fr Rutilio Grande, who lived and worked among the poor, often challenged him. But then came the day when Fr Grande was assassinated. Everything changed. He began to see what was really happening.

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Romero said, “If they killed him for what he did, then I too have to walk the same path.” From that moment, he refused to attend government functions, and his Sunday homilies — broadcast across the country — became a voice for the voiceless. Every week, he named those who had been killed. It became the most listened-to programme in the nation. Eventually, he too was shot — while celebrating the Eucharist.

 

This is the fire Jesus speaks of in today’s Gospel. Not a fire of destruction, but a fire of conviction, of conscience, of love that cannot stay silent in the face of injustice.

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Being a Christian is not always easy. Many ordinary men and women around the world have lost their lives in recent years because their faith led them to speak out — to challenge corruption, violence, or exploitation. It wasn’t easy for the early Church either, surrounded by Roman power and Greek culture, often misunderstood, persecuted, and even martyred.

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One of the hardest burdens we carry today is the feeling of helplessness. What can we do about the starvation in Gaza, the war in Ukraine, the suffering in Sudan? In truth, Christ is still being persecuted and crucified in countless places across the world.

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When Jesus was crucified, his mother, Mary the wife of Clopas, Mary Magdalene, and the beloved disciple could do nothing to stop it. They couldn’t take him down from the cross, they couldn’t end the cruelty. But they could be there. They could stand close, with hearts full of love. And that faithful presence — that willingness to share in his suffering — was not wasted. It was part of the mystery that led to the Resurrection.

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Fr. Tomáš Halík, a Czech Catholic priest, once said that when we ignore the wounds of the world — the wounds of Christ in today’s world — we have no right to say with Thomas, “My Lord and my God.” Faith in the Resurrection means seeking the hidden, transfigured Christ in those very wounds.

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When I see a mother in Gaza bending over her starving child, I think of Mary at the foot of the cross. That mother’s presence is holy. She is standing in God’s own compassion for the oppressed and suffering. And such compassion, in God’s time, will lead to resurrection. It is this kind of love that brings forth good out of evil. 

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The author of Hebrews reminds us:
“Since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses… let us rid ourselves of every burden and persevere in running the race.” (Hebrews 12:1)
That cloud includes not only the early martyrs but modern ones too — those who chose love, truth, and solidarity over safety. And the author of Hebrews urges us to “keep our eyes fixed on Jesus,” and “persevere in running the race.”

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Jesus came to set the earth on fire with God’s love, knowing it would consume him. To follow him means no complacency in the face of evil. It may lead to misunderstanding, even division, as the Gospel says. But Christ’s fire is also a fire that warms, comforts, and gives courage.

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Even when we cannot change events, our faith tells us that our love, our presence, our prayer — these matter more than we know. And one day, the God who raised Jesus will bring all our small acts of faith and compassion into his great work of resurrection.

“God guard me from those thoughts men think
In the mind alone;
He that sings a lasting song
Thinks in a marrow bone.”
— W. B. Yeats

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After the Second World War, in the terrible concentration camp of Ravensbrück, a simple prayer was found on a scrap of wrapping paper. It had been written by one of the prisoners, and it said:

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“O Lord, remember not only the men and women of good will, but also those of ill will. But do not remember the suffering they inflicted on us; remember instead the fruits we have borne thanks to this suffering — our friendship, our loyalty, our humility, our courage, our generosity, the greatness of heart that has grown out of all this. And when they come to judgment, let all the good we have borne be their forgiveness.”

What an extraordinary thing to write! Instead of bitterness, this person found something far deeper: peace, strength, and even the grace to forgive. In the midst of horror, they touched that hidden place within — what Yeats called the “marrow bone” — what we might call the inner sanctum of the soul, that sacred space where the soul meets God.

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Not everyone reaches that deep place. But some do — like this prisoner. Or like Abraham and Moses.

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In Genesis, God asks Abraham to leave behind his home, his land, and everything familiar. This comes right after the collapse of the Tower of Babel — the moment when human pride fell apart. Abraham may have seen it all come crashing down. But in that moment of uncertainty, something stirred in him — a whisper from God deep in his soul. And so he set out on a journey he never planned. He trusted, because God was doing a new thing, and Abraham was open to it. He had found greatness of heart.

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And Moses? He had tried once to help his people — and failed. He ran into the desert, broken and ashamed. But it was there, in the silence, that he began to think in the “marrow bone.” So when the burning bush appeared, he was ready to hear God’s voice. Years of failure had softened him. He was ready to be led — and to lead.

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In the Book of Wisdom, we’re told the people of Israel waited for their freedom “in hope.” Because of Moses’ faith, they trusted that God hadn’t forgotten them. Even in slavery, they believed — not because things were easy, but because they knew they belonged to God.

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And in today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.” These aren’t gentle platitudes. Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem, knowing that suffering awaits him. But like Abraham, he walks forward with no guarantees — just deep trust.

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He urges us to be ready, like servants waiting for their master. And then — surprise! — when the master returns, he will wait on them, serve them at table.

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That’s exactly what Jesus did at the Last Supper. He knelt down and washed their feet. “I am among you,” he said, “as one who serves.”

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That same Jesus was with the prisoner in Ravensbrück — kneeling beside them, silent, serving. And because of that, the prisoner could forgive, give thanks, and hope.

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Today, we are surrounded by constant noise and distraction. Social media is always within reach. But here’s the question: How often do we listen to ourselves? How often do we stop to notice what’s going on inside?

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Each of us carries a sacred inner space, a place where God speaks — not with thunder or lightning, but with a “still small voice,” as Elijah found. In today’s world, it’s easy to miss that voice.

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So take some time. Find quiet moments. Listen deeply. Discover the treasures within your own heart — the greatness of soul that lies hidden in your own “marrow bone.”

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Abraham, Moses, Jesus — and that unknown prisoner — all met a God of love in the depths of their being. That same God is waiting for each one of us to go deeper, and to find the same love and hope within.

“Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” It’s a stark, unsettling line from Ecclesiastes—a cry from the heart that seems to speak across the centuries to our own time. The Hebrew word translated as vanity is hebel—a word that suggests a breath, a puff of wind, a fleeting wisp like a soap bubble. That, says the writer, is life.

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We know that feeling. Despite our best efforts, many of us feel stretched, disappointed, or adrift. We work hard, try to build a good life, but often wonder: “What’s the point of it all?” Things don’t last. People let us down. We grow old. We lose loved ones. The illusion of control slips through our fingers like mist.

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But does it have to be that way? Is there not something more permanent, more meaningful, more real? Today’s Gospel warns us about looking for the good life in all the wrong places. The man who comes to Jesus wants his share of an inheritance. Jesus refuses to settle the dispute and instead tells a parable—about a man who had a bumper harvest, tore down his barns to build bigger ones, and planned to relax and enjoy life. But God says to him, “You fool! This very night your life is being demanded of you.”

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The rich man in the story is a fool—not just because he trusted in his possessions, but because he cut himself off from everything that truly matters. He thought he was self-sufficient. He saw only his own plans, his own needs and comfort. He was disconnected from everything, from other people, from those he depended on. He was even disconnected from himself, ending up a stranger to his deeper self.

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Pope Francis once described this kind of life in very modern terms. At World Youth Day in Poland in 2016, he warned against “sofa happiness.” He said: “A sofa makes us feel comfortable, calm, safe. A sofa promises us hours of comfort so we can escape to the world of video games and spend all kinds of time in front of a computer screen.” For Francis this is not freedom, it is slavery.

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Francis was speaking not just to the young, but to all of us. This kind of individualism—cocooned in comfort and distraction—is soul-destroying. It cuts us off from others, from purpose, and from love.

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And so, the Gospel poses a deep question: What truly matters in your life? Jesus says, “Guard against all greed… one’s life does not consist in possessions.” Instead, he invites us to become rich in what matters to God.

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St. Paul spells this out with great clarity. Because of our baptism, he says, we are now “new selves.” We are not defined by nationality or status or gender. We are not bound by old identities or selfish ambitions. We belong to Christ, and in him, we are made new.

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But what is the new self? St. Paul gives us a beautiful clue in Romans 5:5: “The love of God has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.” This changes everything. We have been loved into life. We are created for love. And now, love becomes the driving force in our lives.

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The great example, of course, is Jesus himself. He was no couch potato. His spirituality was not confined to comfort or routine—it was an outdoor spirituality. He often withdrew into the hills to pray, allowing the mountains themselves to speak to him of God’s glory. And then he would return to the people—mixing with the poor, the outsiders, the forgotten. He shared meals with them, listened to their stories, touched their wounds. In everything he did, he saw the footprint of his Father. He found God in all things and made known, by both word and deed, God’s deep love for all people—rich or poor, saint or sinner.

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Our true vocation is the same: to love. A love that reaches out, as Jesus did. Pope Francis, in Fratelli Tutti, puts it this way:

“Human beings are so made that they cannot live, develop and find fulfilment except in the sincere gift of self to others… Life exists where there is communion… and life is stronger than death when it is built on true relationships.”

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So, how true is the line, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity”? 
If we choose to live only for ourselves, cocooned in comfort, indifferent to God and others, then yes—it becomes painfully true. Life will simply slip through our fingers. But if we allow God to enter our lives, if we learn to find God in all things and let love guide our actions, then nothing done in love is ever in vain.

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So let Pope Francis have the last word.

“Set out on new and uncharted paths… The time we are living in does not call for young couch potatoes, but for young people with shoes—or better still, boots—laced up.”

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That’s not just advice for the young. It’s an invitation for all of us: To live fully, love deeply, and become rich in what matters to God.