You may have heard the phrase, “real men don’t cry.” For many years, particularly in this country, emotional restraint was worn almost as a badge of honour. Strength was measured by composure, grief was something to be mastered, hidden away, or carried silently. The so-called British stiff upper lip shaped generations. Thankfully, those assumptions are beginning to soften. Nowadays we understand that the ability to express emotion is not weakness, but honesty. That tears are not a failure of character or faith, but a truthful response to love and loss.In my pastoral encounters, especially in a hospital setting, I have often found that when people finally allow themselves to weep, it can be a profoundly healthy and healing release. Tears are not the problem, unexpressed sorrow often is. Weeping can come when words are no longer enough. It is perhaps no coincidence, then, that one of the most powerful verses in all of Scripture is also the shortest: “Jesus wept.” In these closing days of Lent, as the Church enters Passiontide, the tone subtly changes, we are invited to look more steadily at the cost of love, the sorrow, vulnerability, and self-giving of Christ.There are moments when just a few words hold a lifetime of meaning. Those two words of Jesus have spoken powerfully into my own personal experience of grief. Again and again, at bedsides, in quiet moments with the dying and the bereaved, I have returned to them... ‘Jesus wept’... not as an explanation, not as an answer, but as a presence. As a reassurance that God does not stand at a distance from human sorrow, but enters it, fully, vulnerably, and without reserve. I think Jesus wept, not because he lacked faith, but because love cannot remain untouched by loss.On this Fifth Sunday of Lent, as the Church stands on the threshold of Holy Week, we are invited to linger here. Not to rush ahead to resurrection, not to tidy away grief too quickly, but to stay for a moment with sorrow, with waiting, and with love that aches. In today’s Gospel, we meet Jesus as he is deeply moved, stirred to the depths, this is not a serene or detached encounter. This is Jesus standing at the grave of his friend, feeling the full weight of what death steals from us… presence, voice, touch. Jesus weeps because death matters, love matters, grief matters.I think this is why today’s Gospel passage is so profoundly consoling. It gives us permission to grieve and it shows us that grief itself is held within the heart of God. And into that space of loss comes one of the most powerful declarations “I am the resurrection and the life.” Yet even knowing this, Jesus still weeps. Our faith does not ask us to choose between hope and sorrow, I think it holds them together. We believe in resurrection, and we still stand at gravesides, we proclaim eternal life, and we still weep. Tears are not a failure of faith, they are the cost of love. Ezekiel’s vision speaks into this same mystery. The prophet is brought to a valley of dry bones, whatever life they once held is long gone. And yet God speaks into that place, “I will open your graves… I will put my Spirit within you, and you shall live.” God breathes life into what seems beyond recovery.For those who wait in hospital wards, those who live at home with chronic illness, those who sit with grief that has no clear end, todays scripture, speaks powerfully of God who enters the places we believe are beyond hope. Saint Paul, writing to the Romans, speaks of the Spirit of God dwelling within us, this is a deeply incarnational vision of faith. God’s life does not hover at a safe distance, in Jesus weeping, we learn that he understands our fragile bodies, tired minds, and wounded hearts. Lent, especially in these later weeks, teaches us to live with these tensions.In my hospital ministry, I often meet people whose world has narrowed to a single room, a single bed, a bedside table, a place of uncertainty. Yet, again and again, I witness how alive love remains present, in the quiet squeeze of a hand, in a whispered prayer, in someone keeping vigil through the long hours of the night. These moments are holy. Jesus wept and in doing so, he revealed that God’s power is not opposed to vulnerability, indeed, it is revealed through it. God who calls Lazarus from the tomb is the same Lord who stands beside Mary and Martha in their grief.Here, at the Eucharist, this mystery is gathered and offered. Bread is broken, wine is poured out, loss and gift are held together. And we hear those astonishing, familiar words… “This is my body, given for you.” God takes what is broken and transforms it. The Eucharist does not deny suffering, it transfigures it. It gathers our grief, our longing, our fragile hope, and places them within Christ’s own self-offering. This is why the Mass matters so deeply, it is where tears and hope coexist. Where waiting becomes prayer, where the Spirit breathes life into those parts of our lives that feels dry and worn.So today, if you are grieving, grieving a person, a season of life, a body that no longer behaves as it once did, we can remind ourselves that our tears are known to God. They are not wasted, they are held. If you are waiting, or fearful of what lies ahead, hear again the voice of Christ, steady, compassionate, and close… “I am the resurrection and the life.” Not distant, not abstract, but present, standing beside us, weeping with us, and gently calling us toward new life.As we continue our journey through Lent, this week, may we trust that God is breathing new life where we least expect it. May we discover, that in the Passion of Christ, God himself has stood in our place's of grief and wept. Amen
There used to be a blog called ‘Kim Jong-Il Looking at Things’, I was a great fan. It showed the leader of North Korea being taken to see things, and he would look at them with a degree of interest, depending on the Thing he was presented with. Sometimes, one of his (rather obvious) body doubles would take his place, and their look of sheer incomprehension of what they were being shown could be telling, a little like when a mechanic shows me what is wrong with my car, I simply don’t know what these parts do, I do not wish to know, all I require is that they work and that is his job, not mine. I do not catch my own fish because there are fishermen, I do not start my own wars because there are people who enjoy that sort of thing as well. There are ways and ways of seeing, and ways and ways of looking. In today’s Gospel, a man born blind is given sight in a doubly extraordinary way. He is given by Jesus ordinary sight, except that this gift came to him in an extraordinary way. It was by way of a miracle. Receiving sight was also for the man a sign of something else, in fact, a sign about someone else. The man who had been blind is given by way of faith to see who cured him, in all his depth. Once he has the eyes of faith he believes in Jesus and worships him. As a man born blind, not as one who went blind, I suspect that he looked at things with a degree of intensity and incomprehension even great than that of Kim Jong-Il’s body doubles. And interestingly, we should focus on one element of the story – surrounded by that which is new and incomprehensible to him, He looks at the one who cured him and sees who he is, before he even so much as looks at himself. As the season of Lent unfolds, we are sharply aware of the clouds that gather around Jesus, how the darkness of his suffering and death increases. This man who brought light to the bling man is himself being enveloped in darkness. The increasing darkness is ominous of very dark deeds to come. ‘As soon as Judas had taken the piece of bread he went out. It was night’. In the Gospel we have just heard, Jesus says that the night will soon be here, yet while he is in the world he is the light of the world. Later in the same Gospel, Jesus will say that he has come into the world as light, to prevent anyone who believes in him from staying in the dark anymore. Nobody who walks in the dark knows where he is going. The effects of the light, we are told by today’s second reading, are seen in complete goodness, right living and truth, a truth recognised by the blind man in the Gospel.‘What has come into being in him was lifelife that was the light of men;and light shines in darkness,and darkness could not overpower it’.The One who is light is also truth. We cannot deny that there is a darkness even after Christ’s resurrection. It is a residual and lingering darkness which can dim the light for us though not extinguish it. Till Christ’s total radiance is definitively revealed, we live in a time when drifting clouds can obscure the sun. The sun is there unfailingly every day, but at times we go forward with less than clarity and with stumbling steps. More and more now, we are even misled by those who claim to know the light – the Gospel of Wealth, of Success, or becoming better people through Gnosticism rather than scripture alone, of Christian Nationalism. All these things are blinding humanity to the simple truth revealed in Christ. He is the light of the world, and there can be no other. The blind man knew this, we also should learn it.Not everyone rejoiced at what had happened to the blind man. Once healed, he was not believed by everyone and was driven away. For some, the man who had come from the margin of disability and poverty was still to be kept at bay, like Samaritans or other challenging people. When Jesus heard that they had driven away the formerly blind man, he went and found him. There was more light to be given to the man, the light of faith of which the giving of natural sight was a sign. The One who is light is also love.We often speak about coming to understand something we had not understood before as a ‘coming to see’: ‘now I see’ can mean now I understand. The cured man was brought by love to see not just the natural world, but also to see and share in the world being transformed in Jesus Christ. That transformation is offered to us this Lent and all the days of our lives, in Holy Mother Church, in the love we are called to by Him who alone can bring light to the whole world. And He does not just illuminate the mind and heart and eyes of this man born blind, He offers light and truth to every person in the world, though the church, through scripture and through the love we have for Him and each other. We do not seek the light, the light seeks us, and what He seeks, He will find. He has found you, He has found us, Laetare, Rejoice!
The Jews looked down on the Samaritans as religious and racial half-breed heretics. It’s hard for us to understand the animosity that existed between these two groups. If you think of the Bosnians and the Serbs or if you think of the Palestinians and the Israelis, you’ve got the right idea.So why did Jesus “have to” go through Samaria when the Jews either didn’t go there at all or passed through as quickly as possible? The answer is simple and profound: Jesus went because he intended to meet this woman. He knew she would be coming to the well at precisely the moment he was sitting there weary from his journey. Nothing happens by chance in this story. Every detail is part of the outworking of God’s will. The woman isn’t looking for Jesus. All she wants is water. But Jesus is looking for her.It wasn’t the normal time, and it was unusual for a woman to come to a well alone. But this woman was different. The Bible says she came from the tiny village of Sychar. We know basically where Sychar was. It was in Samaritan territory, nestled between Mount Ebal and Mount Gerizim. Sychar was built at the confluence of two trade routes, one that came up from Jerusalem on its way to Capernaum, and one that came west from the Jericho region toward the Mediterranean Sea. Sychar was thus located at a very strategic point in central Palestine.The well was about one-half mile outside the village near the point where the two trade routes came together. It was called Jacob’s Well, after the patriarch who had first dug it some 2000 years earlier. In every way, it is part of the story of Jesus. Weary travellers from throughout Israel knew it as a place where they might drink from the spring flowing some 150 feet below the surface.As the woman looks at Jesus and he at her, four invisible walls stand between them. There is a religious wall, a gender wall, a racial wall, and a moral wall. Yet our Lord found a way through all of them. He found her … and then she found him!The desire for God is written in the human heart. We are created by him, but also for him. As the psalmist writes, like a deer that yearns for running streams, so my soul is yearning for you, my God. The search for God is universal. Every human heart seeks God, but God is not outdone — he also seeks us. He draws us to himself like a thirsty woman going to fetch water from a well. She is going about the sixth hour when the sun is high in the sky noon. She is a woman of Samaria — a pagan place.She is surprised to find a Jew there, already waiting by the well, without a bucket. He says to her, “Give me a drink.” She is startled by this gesture. “How is it that you, a Jew, ask a drink of me, a woman of Samaria? The romance begins.The woman is a world of her own — a universe of the heart, thirsting for love, looking for it in all the wrong places! She has had five husbands, and the one she has now is not her husband. Somewhere love has died — along the way, her bucket is empty. Love comes to meet her at the well — the thirst of the Father coming to meet us in Jesus Christ! If you knew the gift of God and who it was saying to you, “Give me a drink,” you would have asked him, and he would have given you living water. It is an eternal love; it never ends! As Isaiah prophesied:Oh, come to the water all you who are thirsty; though you have no money, come! Buy corn without money, and eat, and, at no cost, wine and milk! (Is 55:1)The waters of God’s thirst flow through the heart of Jesus Christ! The woman at the well has met the heart of love! She will never be thirsty again: She has entered the bridal chamber. She has found what she was looking for all her life. He thirsts for our love. The woman has met love — love who would hang upon a cross that she would never thirst again, that she might have eternal life with him in the Father’s house. It is a wonderful love — a love the world has never known and it is yours in Jesus Christ! Come to the waters and never be thirsty again.The world is a wedding. Christ has come to bring us to the wedding banquet. Are we willing to give him one drop of our love, to enter into relationship with him, to begin to draw water from the well who is Christ, to continue the dance that this woman joins, this outcast of the outcasts who He searches for and finds? To search for more people to love and to be loved by them as well?
There are themes in Lent of course. Quieter music, a lack of flowers, greater options for prayer and reflection, and I hope, a great amount of admittedly restrained joy at the Easter season fast approaching. Each year the second Sunday of Lent story of the Transfiguration of Jesus comes as the Gospel, taken in turn from each of the Gospels. But we may, because there is only so much that we can take in, and we can be less then attentive at times, not have noticed that the first reading is always about Abraham.This year we heard how Abraham was called by God to leave his own country and travel into a strange land, which God would give to his descendants. The next year we hear of the sacrifice of Isaac, and then the promise that God makes to Abraham. This link between Abraham and the Transfiguration is no accident. The Transfiguration, like Lent, is a frozen, out of time moment in history. It takes us out of our familiar narrative of the life of Christ and then throws us back into it just as abruptly, as the slightly chilling ending has it, suddenly, they were alone. The Transfiguration is about the brief dramatic revelation of the glory of Jesus to the three Apostles on the mountain. It associates him with Moses and Elijah who represent the Law and the Prophets. In other words it is saying that Jesus is the expected One to whom Law and Prophets pointed. The story that began with Abraham finds its goal in Jesus. An ending is reached of the labour of Abraham and it points to the ending we will find on Good Friday, when the labour of God to redeem us ends the exile from the garden.The One who called Abraham and who promised that he himself would be among us, has now fulfilled his promise. The ‘Beloved Son’ is Emmanuel, ‘God with us’, and we behold His glory on the mountain, and we will do so again in a few weeks on Calvary, and this mountain should prepare us for hope in the face of death on that mountain, and for hope in the face of our own death as well, for this is what the transfiguration is about. All this takes place on a mountain because, in Biblical imagery, mountains are places of revelation, above all with the self-revealing of God at Mount Sinai. Matthew’s Gospel mentions three mountains: the Mount of the Sermon, where Jesus teaches the New Law; the Mount of Transfiguration, where he is seen as the Beloved Son; and the Mountain in Galilee, where he appears triumphant in his risen life and sends his disciples to preach the Good News to all people, which is I am with you always. I am with you in the Mass on this calvary, I am with you in heaven on this mountain and I am with you in the Sermon on the Mount when you follow my teachings, for then you build my Kingdom, and I will dwell with you as I promised Abraham, and his line forever.So by linking Abraham with the Transfiguration, our liturgy clamps together both the beginning and the crucial turning-point in the history of God’s dealings with us. Jesus came to be the focal point of human history, a history of which we are part, which gives our lives a meaning, a sense of purpose and a goal.Perhaps, too, the stories of Abraham and the Transfiguration are linked because they are both about the journey of faith. The Apostles likewise were called from their homely fishermen’s life to follow Jesus; and though it was exciting at first, it soon became scary and bewildering. Where was it all heading? Where is our pilgrimage heading? I suggest that in the three peaks challenge of the mount, of the transfiguration and of calvary, we do not need to worry, because those three peaks build the Kingdom, and if we build His Kingdom, He will dwell in it, so we are already at the destination, and our current task is to make as many people aware of that as possible by rejecting whatever is contrary to it. As we follow in the footsteps of the Beloved Son, our journey of faith will often demand of us the constancy of Abraham.Jesus touched them, saying: Get up, do not be afraid. And when they looked up, they saw no one except Jesus himself alone. Jesus, who had been seen conversing with Moses and Elijah and whose Father cried out from heaven, is again found alone, as He will be found alone in the Garden, on the cross and in the next garden. We listen to the words as a community, in shared attention but we also hear them alone, as words addressed to each of us alone, invited on a journey into personal freedom that no one else can take for us. Like the disciples, we need silence to digest their import.Yet they do not travel to Jerusalem alone. They walk with the Lord and each other. Our journey is also towards the shared freedom and joy of the Kingdom, for which we struggle now. Embracing freedom is costly. If we support the cause of freedom, even though it is but a tiny foretaste of what is promised, it will be costly for us too. Let us weigh the cost and set out.
