Author: Simon Sleeman

Fr. Christopher Dillon OSB: The Church is celebrating today the dedication of the mother of all the Christian churches in the world, the Lateran Basilica, which was built by the Emperor Constantine in about 324. And we mark the feast, particularly, because it celebrates the extraordinary teaching about the presence of God among us and the several ways in which God is among us and even within us.

In the early days of Israel, God was believed to be present in some way with the Hebrew people in the tent they kept for Him which they carried with them in the desert; and then, subsequently, in the Temple which Solomon built in Jerusalem.

But then Jesus Christ came on the scene and declared that in some strange way, he was the real temple which God occupies. Indeed, the Gospel text which we have just heard has Jesus state specifically that his resurrected body is the true sanctuary of God’s presence. And, so it is that we, by virtue of our Baptism, we are each counted as stones making up that building, that temple, with Jesus Christ as its cornerstone, holding it all together.

What does all this mean? God is Spirit, so how can God be said to live in any particular place? God is everywhere. God is in you and in me, we are told.

Jesus tells us that where two or three of us believers are gathered together in his name, he is there with us. So, in that sense, God is here among us as we are gathered here and now. So it is that we dare to call even this building a House of God. But as we do so, we acknowledge that that church in Rome, the Lateran Basilica, built in 324, is more especially the House God, because Rome became special with Ss. Peter and Paul and its many Christian martyrs and that is where the Pope is properly bishop of Rome.

After all that, I want to say something about the notion of each of us, individually, as stones built into God’s House. You will have noticed the work being carried out on the castle, over the past months and years, and the care and the skill with which individual stones have been repaired or replaced. Something of the same has to be done with you and me, as we make our way through life. We are being chiselled, shaped and polished by the events of our lives, sometimes painfully, in order to make us fit into our place in the building which is God’s House. That is why, as St Paul has just reminded us, we must have due regard for one another; for together, we make up God’s house. Indeed, I might add, we should be similarly respectful of God’s presence here, so that, when the liturgy is finished, we maintain a respectful silence until we are outside, rather than chatting to one another as though we were just anywhere.

In our ordinary, everyday lives, we may have little or no awareness of God’s presence, but this building and thousands of others like it, beginning with that church in Rome, are designed to remind us of the great reality of God’s presence among us and of our place in that reality. Let us reflect with gratitude on what that means and how it should affect the way we live.    

Abbot Columba McCann: I remember, thirty years ago, taking the train for about half an hour from Rome to the ancient, ruined port of Ostia Antiqua.  Silted up for centuries, much of the ancient buildings were by a curious twist of history preserved until, in the twentieth century, the marshland in which they were submerged was drained.  Among the ruins I spotted a plaque on the wall of a half ruined house.  It told the story of St Augustine, the man from Africa, and his last conversation with his mother as he prepared to return home.  She was facing into the journey towards her eternal home.  When the question of her burial came up, she basically said, ‘Bury my body wherever you like, it doesn’t matter.  But do remember me when offering Mass.’

Today we remember, at Mass, all our loved ones who have died and more again, all the faithful departed.

When someone close to us has died it is good to remember the different ways in which they gifted us.  We can remember, re-live, what we received.  We benefit all over again.  We can thank them and thank God.

There may have been some ways in which we were able to help them in return on their life’s journey.  When someone close to us has died it can help to give thanks to God for the ways in which we were able to give them a gift or two along the way.

There may have been ways in which they fell short in their dealings with us.  When someone close to us has died it is good to seek forgiveness for them:  forgiveness in my own heart (not always so easy) and God’s forgiveness, which is greater than we can imagine.

There may have been ways in which we ourselves fell short in our dealings with them.  When someone close to us has died it’s good to say sorry to them and sorry to God.

Remembering those who have died is a good thing.  Remembering them with God brings it further – remembering them while God holds our hand, so to speak. Then as we speak our story we can hand it over to the source of all life. Remembering them as we give thanks for gifts given and received, remembering them as we forgive and ask for forgiveness, all within God’s hands.

When we look at today’s gospel we see what happens when that kind of encounter happens.  There is the sad procession out of the town:  a widow and her neighbours heading out to bury her only son.  He was all she had, her last protector and insurance for the future.  But coming from the opposite direction is Jesus and his disciples.  And they meet.  Death meets life, and everything changes.

Remembering the dead can bring with it a bittersweet mixture of gratitude and sorrow, acceptance and regret.  But if we meet Christ in the process, everything there can become a bearer of life.

Fr. Jarek Kurek: I hope you still remember that last Sunday we were encouraged to pray continually, guided by Jesus’ powerful parable about the persistent woman who kept asking for justice from the unjust judge.

Those who follow us on the webcam in the early mornings could hear more about that need afterwards. St Augustine — the spiritual father of our Pope Leo — accompanied us in the readings, teaching us about the art of prayer in his Letter to Proba. At the beginning of that letter, he referred again to this burning need, quoting St Paul: “Pray without ceasing.”

How did Augustine elaborate on this? He suggested: “To spend much time in prayer is to knock with a persistent and holy fervour at the door of the One whom we beseech. This task is generally accomplished more through sighs than words, more through weeping than speech.” That already brings us close to the heart of today’s Gospel.

Still, all this may seem a distant reality — figures of the past, perhaps. So let me take you to more modern times, somewhere in Eastern Europe (and it is not Poland), to follow the moving story of a man who tried to understand what it means to “pray without ceasing.”

Here he is — a pilgrim, as he calls himself. On one hand, an unassuming, ordinary man; on the other, like that persistent woman. Yet, fair play to him — he is a true seeker.

He travels through his region, searching for wisdom about how to pray at all times, which, technically speaking, seems impossible. He visits one church after another; he meets this man and that. But all in vain — no one can meet his need, satisfy his spiritual longing, or answer his question.

Still, he remains persistent, and at last, after a year of searching, he meets an old monk. And with that monk, he finds his answers. The old man is able to put his soul at peace.

What does he hear from the monk? First, the monk connects him with the living tradition of the past, introducing him to a most illuminating book called Philokalia — a collection of the fruits of centuries of experience in prayer from the Greek-speaking Christian world. Within that spiritual context, the monk shows him that unceasing prayer is rooted in the poverty of one’s spirit. Doesn’t that sound like the humble tax collector from today’s Gospel — hidden at the back, not daring to raise his eyes?

But there is more. The old monk says: “Listen, and I will read [from Philokalia] how unceasing prayer is to be learned. Sit in silence and alone. Bend your head. Close your eyes. Breathe ever more quietly. With your imagination, look inside your heart. Carry your thought into your heart. As you breathe, say quietly with your lips or in your mind alone: ‘Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.’”

The tax collector, beating his breast, kept saying, “God, have mercy on me.” Jesus assures us that he went home justified — and, because of his humble prayer, he was exalted.The pilgrim  left the old monk transformed — a new chapter of his spiritual life had begun.

Why not follow them in unceasingly repeating: “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me”?

Fr. John O’Callaghan: If you had skin cancer and some Shaman told you to take a shower, seven times, to be cured, how would you respond? You might feel grossly insulted and forever refuse contact with that person. Well, according to our first reading, that is the kind of suggestion the commander of the Syrian army got from the Elisha, the prophet of Israel. Naaman was insulted but, strange thing is, the mighty man did accede to the suggestion when his servants tactfully explained that if he had been asked to do something difficult he would have made sure to achieve it. Instead he humbly obeyed an instruction from a foreign prophet. By so doing he opened an opportunity for the word of the prophet, the word of God, to prove true. He was cured and we’re told that he went on to recognise that it is the God of Israel who is the one and only true God. This story tells of a movement not only from sickness to health, but ultimately from ignorance and misconception of God to knowledge and genuine faith. One could call it education; after all that word’s Latin etymology, ‘ex duxere’, means ‘to lead out of’ ignorance to knowledge.

And this Old Testament scene is set before us to prepare us for today’s gospel. As usual Jesus fulfills the Old Testament and goes beyond it. We learn of ten lepers, like cancer patients, who, recognising their need, solicit Jesus for a cure, which he gives. They have enough faith to call him ‘Master’ and follow the law of Moses, and go to show themselves to the priests. However one of them, seeing himself healed also understands that in fact Jesus has been God’s agent, that the cure was ultimately the work of God; so he acknowledges and thanks God profusely at the feet of Jesus. To recognise Christ, to acknowledge God and to thank him, that is what we are shown today, as a model for us all. 

The first stage of faith is humility, accepting the reality that we are not self-sufficient, invulnerable and so superior that we don’t need other people. As St Paul reminds us ‘what have you that you have not received?’ Suffering can help us become humble. 

The next is that God has power in the world and he showed it in Jesus Christ and his multiple miracles. We recognise that after creation, God did not retire, he did not say ‘Now the machine can go on running in the way it’s been set up’. No, God remains the Creator and is able to intervene one way or another. He is active in the world today through his Holy Spirit. That is why we pray for his help. Anyone who does not recognise this has a different idea of God. 

Isaac Newton, a founder of modern science, wrote that ‘the wonderful arrangement and harmony of the universe can only have come into being through an omniscient and all-powerful Being’, adding: ‘that is, and remains, my most important finding’. Newton’s perception went deeper, behind the marvels of the universe to recognise the overarching reality of God. 

The great artists also write of this. Oscar Wilde, towards the end of his imprisonment in Reading Gaol, expressed it thus: ‘ I tremble with pleasure when I think that on my leaving prison the laburnum and the lilac will be blooming in the gardens…..there is not a single colour hidden away in the chalice of a flower to which my nature does not answer. ….behind all this beauty, there is a spirit hidden …. And it is with this spirit that I desire to come into harmony’.

One can sleep-walk through life; staying on the surface of things. But the person of faith remains open to the reality of God, humbly acknowledges  Him in Christ and is grateful for His gifts. That is what it is to be “e-ducated”.
Christ told the leper ‘Your faith has saved you’. Our faith in Christ must bring us the whole way so as ‘to receive what no eye has seen and no ear has heard, what the mind of man cannot visualise; all that God has prepared for those that love him’.

Fr. Lino Moreira: Jesus was surely very pleased with what was being asked of him: “Increase our faith” (Lk 17:5). Such a request showed that the apostles understood that faith is a gift, and that it didn’t lie within their power to make it grow. That is why Jesus compares faith to a seed. Whoever receives a seed has neither created it nor endowed it with the potential to sprout and grow – that is the work of God alone. And Jesus goes on to explain that even a small amount of faith has the power to achieve the unimaginable: “If you had faith 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” (Lk 17:6).

When does anyone receive the gift of faith? Thomas Aquinas answers this question by saying: “The theological virtues [faith, hope and charity] are infused into the soul by the grace of God, and this infusion takes place primarily in Baptism (Summa Theologiae, Part III, Question 63, Article 1).” So, when we were baptised, God planted the seed of faith in our hearts. But faith, like any other seed, needs to be nurtured to grow – first the shoot, then the stalk, then the full grain.

The task of cultivating faith requires, first of all, constant and earnest prayer. We must make our own the plea once voiced by the apostles: “Increase our faith” (Lk 17:5). Indeed, at the conclusion of Morning Prayer, the Church makes this very petition every time she prays: “Increase in us, Lord, your gift of faith, so that the praise we offer you may ever yield its fruit from heaven” (Tuesday, Week IV). 

Yet simply uttering these or similar words is not enough unless they come from a humble heart. Therefore, Jesus speaks about humility in today’s gospel (cf. Lk 17:6-10). He typically illustrates his teaching with an example drawn from everyday life in his own time: a servant, he explains, after spending the day ploughing the field or tending the sheep, is told to prepare his master’s dinner and wait on him before attending to his own needs. The servant does all this without expecting any gratitude from his master, to whom he owes total availability and obedience.

In relation to God, we are in a similar situation. As God’s servants, we can never stand before him with a spirit of entitlement, as though he owed us something for whatever good works we believe we have performed in his name. God owes us nothing, but we owe him everything – for he is the source of all we have and all we are.

We live in a world that constantly urges us to seek rewards, claim our rights and demand recognition. But the gospel challenges such expectations and calls us to a radically different way of thinking. In speaking of our service to God, Jesus tells us that after we have done all that is commanded of us, we should say: “We are unworthy servants; we have only done what was our duty” (Lk 17:10). It is in this humility – this realisation that we can never fully repay the debt of love we owe to God – that faith begins to grow.

Paradoxically, we are called to serve God without seeking recompense, so that he may be generous to us. God wants to lavish his many gifts upon us, and above all, he wishes to dwell within us. As Jesus said: ‘If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him’ (Jn 14:23). This intimacy with the Father and the Son, through the work of the Holy Spirit, is not merely a promise for the future. It is a living reality in the present for those who faithfully seek to do God’s will without expecting anything in return.

Fr. Senan Furlong: In 1893, a young man destined to become a celebrated composer, heard a folk song that would leave a lasting impression on him. Something about its haunting melody captivated him and years later, he would compose five variations on its theme. The man was Ralph Vaughan Williams, and the folk song was Dives and Lazarus. In his later years, Vaughan Williams recalled that when he first encountered the song, he felt a deep sense of recognition: “Here is something, which I have known all my life, only I didn’t know it! …something entirely new, yet absolutely familiar.”

When we encounter the parables of Jesus, we often experience something similar but the other way around: absolutely familiar, yet entirely new. Today’s gospel parable, traditionally known as Dives and Lazarus, is no exception. It a story ever ancient and ever new, a vivid portrait of the divide between wealth and want. A rich man, traditionally called Dives (which mean “rich” in Latin), lives in luxury, dressed in fine clothes, dining lavishly, secured behind walls of privilege. But those walls do more than protect, they blind. They seal him off from the world’s pain and, over time, make him indifferent to it. Just beyond his gate lies Lazarus, a poor man, covered in sores, longing for scraps from the rich man’s table—someone the rich man must have spotted every day, and yet never truly saw.

Then both men die and the tables are turned. Lazarus is carried by angels to the bosom of Abraham, a place of comfort and eternal peace. The rich man, however, finds himself in a place of torment, pleading for relief, for even a drop of water. God turns the world upside down: 

He casts down the might from their thrones and lifts up the lowly; He fills the hungry with good things and sends the rich away empty. 

Today’s Gospel parable leaves us with many questions. But, let us listen for just five, like the five variations of that haunting folk melody, Dives and Lazarus.

The first: What’s in a name? In all of Jesus’ parables, only one character is ever given a name, and it is Lazarus. Not the sower, not the good Samaritan, not even the father of the prodigal son. Only Lazarus. His name means: God has helped. He is named; he is not forgotten by God. The rich man remains nameless, defined, not by who he is, but by what he has. In the end, he has become no one, because he built his identity on things that do not last. Today’s Gospel reminds us that our identity does not come from possessions, status or success but from the One who knows us by name. “I have called you by your name,” declares the Lord, “and you are mine.”

The second: Who is at my gate?
There are “Lazaruses” at our gates every day—people we see, yet choose not to see. The ones we walk past, avoid or quietly ignore. Lazarus might be a stranger or maybe a member of my own family or my own community; he may sit next to me in class. Sometimes Lazarus isn’t even someone else but rather a part of myself that is wounded, neglected, waiting to be healed. To ask, “Who is at my gate?” is to begin to open our eyes. And when we see, we may open our hearts too and begin to love.

The third: What creates the chasm?
The great chasm between Lazarus and the rich man in the next life was carved out, day by day, in this life, through countless small acts of indifference and neglect. The rich man is not condemned for being rich. He is condemned because he didn’t care. And that, Jesus warns, is the true danger: not so much cruelty, but complacency; not so much hatred, but indifference. When we build chasms, we cut ourselves off—not just from others, but from God.

The fourth: What is the good news? The good news is: it is not too late. The Gospel always leaves room for repentance, for return, for mercy. God’s heart is never closed, but the call is urgent. This parable is no mere story: it is a warning. We are responsible not only for what we do, but for what we fail to do. Every time we ignore the Lazarus at our gate, we add another brick to the wall between ourselves and the kingdom of God. And yet, even then, God can still break through.

The fifth: What must we do?
At the end of the parable, we are invited to identify not just with the rich man, but with his five brothers. The rich man pleads with Abraham to send someone to warn them. “They have Moses and the prophets,” Abraham replies, “let them listen to them.” We too have Moses and the prophets, the word of God. And more than that, we have the One who has risen from the dead. We already have all we need. So let us pray for the grace to fight the good fight, and learn to see—to recognise the Lazarus at our gate not as a burden or a problem to fix, but as a person: someone with a name and a story and a place in God’s heart. 

Ralph Vaughan Williams took a simple folk tune and transformed it into his lyrical Five Variants of Dives and Lazarus. May we take this parable, and let it transform us: to open our eyes, soften our hearts, and change the way we live. And when we do, we may discover that the one waiting on the other side of the gate is Christ himself.

Fr. Henry O’Shea:

There sits a man

computer in hand

Counting the stars that shine.

Do not disturb,

he’s quite absurd,

His heart-strings on the bottom line.

He sits and he counts

then totals amounts;

He’s rich ‘cause he owns all those stars.

Oh, look! Now all the sky is blank

for the lights he did yank.

He put all his stars in the bank.

Wheeler-dealers have been with us since the human race began to exist. We can posh-up the reality by calling such people transactionalists, astute business-persons, even clever politicians, but that reality remains the same. 

Many commentators suggest that every generation re-writes history in accordance with its own needs, its biases, and indeed, its prejudices. The temptation to subject Sacred Scripture to the same kind of creative spin, is almost irresistible – and more irresistible when unconscious and even more insidious when deliberate.

Today’s gospel about the parable of the unjust steward and his cynical boss is a prime target for such creativity. Can Our Lord really be not only praising, but encouraging, canny business acumen? Can Our Lord be hijacked as an early enthusiast, even an apologist, for ruthless, calculating, head-of the-pack capitalism? Clearly not.

Most biblical scholars agree that every parable has one main point or thrust. The main point in today’s parable is contained in the final verse: ‘You cannot be the slave both of God or of money’. Jesus does indeed praise the unjust steward for his foresight and for his ability to provide for possible dismissal from his job. But, as so often in his reported speech, Jesus uses irony in this discourse. Remember, we are told that Jesus’ audience here includes Pharisees and other currently beautiful people from the power-elite. Most parables have a sting in the tail. 

In fact, Jesus is saying that while foresight and self-securing planning may be fine- or at least morally neutral – in themselves, of greater importance are the areas, or is the area, in which we, in which I, exercise this foresight and planning. In other words, Jesus asks to make up our minds and hearts, asks us to answer the question, ‘Is God your God, or is money, or some other idol, your actual God?’ To where or to what does my answer to this question lead and leave me? Where is my treasure and so, where is my heart?

The prophet, Amos, whom we heard in today’s first reading, is one of the great ranters of the Old Testament. The favourite targets of his rants were – and still are – the powerful, rich, exploitative, take-all, greed-is-good, minority in any society. And we are daily aware of the mind-blowing and ever-increasing gap between this power-minority, or these power-minorities, and the rest of humanity. It was ever so, locally, nationally and internationally, but is now increasingly the case: the bully-boys and bully-girls rule OK. The winners and winneresses still take all.

In today’s second reading, Paul writing to Timothy, seems to be saying that the Christian should pray up and shut up, ‘…so that we may be able to live religious and reverent lives in peace and quiet.’ And it is true that at different times in its history, the Church has chosen what might be termed a cosy inner emigration – what might be called an I’m-allright-Jack-and-Jill syndrome. Let’s not rock the boat. That might jeopardise what we have. Above all, our power.

But, if there is a sting in the tail of today’s parable, there is also a sting in Paul’s letter. 

Our acknowledgement and proclamation that there is only one God, one mediator and saviour, his Son Jesus Christ, exposes us to the same sacrifices that this mediator suffered and offered. The consequences of adherence to the truth and its proclamation, however loudly, however discreetly, can and does range from societal ridicule, rejection, discrimination and even to death itself. Look at our own social-media-  messed-up society. Most of us, I, most of the time, settle, consciously or unconsciously, for the fudge of a comfortable mediocrity. Many of us, I,  do not even have the generosity or courage to be really good or the temerity and courage to be really bad.     

They are after the gold…

in their face it shows…

move where the wind blows…

some play for the stealer…

WHEELER AND DEALER

Fr. William Fennelly: In today’s gospel Jesus says, “Now is the judgement of this world; now the ruler of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people unto myself”. In our society, the cross is a ubiquitous symbol. It pops us everywhere. Pious tattooed soccer players repeatedly bless themselves with the cross taking before penalties. It is even a pretty on trend fashion statement whether you are Kim Kardasian or Lady Gaga. One only has to look in the pages of trendy fashion magazines or go to any influencer site to see elaborate “cross inspired jewelry” hanging from the neck, ears, wrists and God knows where else on both male and female models.

The notion that our society is all “crossed up” may or may not be a good thing. Indeed the fact that it is a cross, and not a symbol of another religion that is popping up all over tells us that some Christian memory is still very active in the contemporary subconscious. It certainly doesn’t make us a “Christian nation,” but perhaps it makes us a “Christ haunted” nation. Not sure of what the faith is really about, not sure who Jesus really is, but nonetheless fascinated by some of the concepts of the Christian religion.

In terms of name recognition Jesus is up there with Taylor Swift or Travis Kelce, yet lots know of Jesus but don’t know Jesus. We need to roll up our sleeves and get to know him, to lift high the Holy Cross. The way to lift high the cross is not to rent cranes and to hoist up giant crosses in the public square. The way to lift high the cross to best effect is for each Christian to lift high up the cross in their daily life. As we seek to lift up the cross, we should try to lift it up as Jesus did. The second reading from Philippians makes it clear what lifted up truly means: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness, and being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death–even death on a cross…” (Philippians 2:5-8)

The whole ministry of Jesus, and thus the whole ministry of the church is in the shape of the cross. “Taking up the cross” is one of the most prevalent images in scripture and the tradition for walking in the way of faith and following Jesus. Jesus said that those who want to be his followers were to take up the cross and follow him. Those who seek to save their lives would lose them, but those willing to lose their lives would find them.

Forty days ago we celebrated the Feast of the Transfiguration of Jesus. That feast is strategically placed forty days distant from today’s feast, the Exaltation of the  Cross. The Transfiguration was a moment in some of the disciple’s lives to help them cope with what was coming, to help them deal with the inevitable, to help them find hope when all would seem lost. The Transfiguration was a taste of God’s glory to help them swallow the bitter pill of God’s suffering. At the end of that Transfiguration experience, where so much was going on, everything gleaming with a dazzling white, a cloud that enfolded him with Moses and Elijah, a heavenly voice  could be heard, it came down to one thing, “Jesus alone with them.” It was not just about the overwhelming experience of glory, but it was mostly about what that experience was trying to create within them, to be with Jesus alone. To cling to him more readily, more trustingly, as if everything depended on it. And everything did.

As the cross drew nearer, Jesus knew this aloneness. In the Garden of Gethsemane he felt the pangs of being alone as Apostles slept. Imprisoned, he knew the separation from family and friends, and he felt alone in the presence of Pilate and the crowds before him as they chanted, “Crucify him.” He carried the cross alone, for the most part until Simon helped for a moment. And on his cross, he hung alone. In Matthew, Mark, and Luke’s Gospels he felt alone or abandoned by his Father, abandoned even, in his last hours. In a tomb he was placed, and as a rock was rolled in front of it, he was left all alone. But was he? Was Jesus all alone? The saints throughout the ages would say, “No, he was not alone.”

For many, the church is a foreign concept. Church buildings are curious and much visited by tourists but they remain foreign territory. The central purpose of the church is to lift up the cross. To let the light of Christ’s life, death and resurrection shine into the world. The light shines as the church and each Christian walks the way of the cross in the world. The light shines as we show others that we are his disciples. The light shines as when we do not hide it under a basket but let it shine forth in lives of love and humble service. On this day dedicated to the Holy Cross, let us recall the cross that was traced upon us in baptism. The sign under which we live and move and have our being. Let us lift up the cross before others by leading Christian lives.

Fr. Luke Macnamara: In today’s Gospel, we hear that Jesus is surrounded by a great crowd—not only from Judea and Jerusalem, but even from the coastal regions of Tyre and Sidon. These were Gentile territories. In Luke’s Gospel, Jesus himself never steps outside Israel; that will only happen later in the Acts of the Apostles. But notice this: the nations are already coming to him. Their presence signals something new—something long foretold by the prophets—that the kingdom of God is breaking in, that the end times have begun.

Then Jesus turns, not to the crowd, but to his disciples. He fixes his eyes on them. The beatitudes are not general slogans; they are words spoken to those who already follow him, those who have chosen relationship with him. And what does he tell them? “Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God.” Notice the tense: not will be, but is. The kingdom is already here, present in Jesus himself.

The other beatitudes point to transformation: hunger turned to satisfaction, tears turned to joy, rejection turned to honour. But all of this begins with the presence of Christ. He himself is the kingdom among us.

St. Paul, writing to the Colossians, explains how this transformation takes root in us: by sharing in Christ’s death and resurrection. We have stripped off the old self with its ways of sin and death, and we have put on the new self, alive in the image of the Creator. In Christ, barriers of race, class, wealth, or status fall away. He brings unity and freedom wherever he is truly welcomed.

And so the challenge for us today is this: will we allow Christ to work through our poverty, our weakness, and our limitations? If we do, we will find ourselves blessed—not by escaping suffering, but by discovering his kingdom in the midst of it. And once Christ is alive in us, his presence cannot be hidden. It will shine out. It will transform others.

Let us pray, then, that Christ may so transform us that our very lives become a living homily—a proclamation of his resurrection, his kingdom, and his power to make all things new.