There is a time and a season to go back home – to return to some kind of beginning, whether this is to rediscover the reason we set out in the first place, or to scour the memory of the place we left from our minds, or to reevaluate where we have ended up. We do it all the time in our faith, we return to the source, and ask ‘how, now, are we doing?’ We don’t go back to find the past, because it is gone and we have, we would hope and expect, moved on as well and if we returned to find everything the same, we may well question those who maintained it thus. We move on, we grow and develop, thanks be to God. But now we find ourselves putting up trees, opening boxes of baubles and getting excited about a plastic baby and moving the statues of the wise men a little closer each week. It is, frankly, a little odd, and there is an unchanging familiarity about it which is both hypnotic and concerning at the same time. We don’t have to do any of it, but we do, and we enjoy it because it’s a little like going home to the place where our faith was born and finding that we have a home there as well. Advent is, among other things, about returning. In our first reading we witnessed the return of exiles to Jerusalem, to God’s city. From east and west, at God’s command, they return, carried back like royalty. God has removed every obstacle to their return, as though he had flattened mountains and hills and filled in the valleys, so Israel can return in safety, saved by the Lord. The endless wanderings of Israel this time bring them back to the place they loved, the place where God is with them.But more important is the fact that the people are accompanied by God in their return. He is present with them, escorting them, just as they had been escorted away into exile by their enemies. So when they return home, the Lord’s special presence among his people is also returning home. This is as much about the return of God as it is about the return of Israel, although like most apocryphal literature, there is a shady historical background to Baruch, but we will overlook it, because it’s Christmas, and we do not want to spoil it.In today’s Gospel, we see how these prophecies are more deeply fulfilled in the New Covenant. John the Baptist is that voice foretold by the prophets which calls for a straight road to be prepared for God, with valleys filled in and hills laid low. That return takes place definitively in Jesus, when he comes amongst us, and the salvation of God is made plain for all. He is God returning to be present in the most special way of all among his people, when God becomes human. And all this is done so that we too can return to him and be part of the city of God, the restless wanderings are about to end, and things will be ok again. It’s neat, and untrue, but we cannot possibly dwell on bad things when all our minds are focussed on a baby, can we.Scripture teaches us how we human beings turned away from God in our first ancestors, at the very beginning of human history. Now, as soon as we come into existence, each one of us, we share in that turning away from God. This is the mystery of original sin. But in baptism that sin is taken away: we are turned back to God by grace, and our return to him is underway, the arc of our salvation is about to find its home in the womb of the Virgin and the plan so long ago formed is to be made manifest. He is coming, he is coming back to us again.We read also in the prophets how the Lord declares, ‘Return to me, and I will return to you.’ But we can only return to God because he first returns in his grace to us. But when God returns to us, he enables us to return to him. This is as much about our returning to God as God’s returning to us.This good work has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Our returning to God has a beginning, a middle and an end. It is begun by the grace of God and becomes a stable reality in us through baptism. It is completed at Christ’s Second Coming when we are raised from the dead in glory. But in the meantime, that return is an ongoing journey of faith.Of course this is part of our Christian faith all year around. Perhaps in Lent we concentrate a great deal on our returning to God, on manifesting our repentance in prayer, fasting, almsgiving and other forms of penance. Perhaps in Advent we can turn our thoughts first to God’s return to us, that he has returned to us in Christ, that he has begun our return within us, and that we wait for the return of Christ at the end of time and in the celebration of Christmas. Last week we saw how our bodies have learned to stand erect, and to hold our heads high, and this week we see the immensity of the journey we must undertake to realise that redemption. But today, just for a little while, there is a return home, and the familiar things of Christmas. We don’t live there, but we can drop in to remind ourselves of where we are going and then get on with the journey, following quite quickly through Egypt into uncertainty and hope.
There will be signs in the sun, the moon and the stars and on the earth distress among the nations confused by the roaring of the sea and the waves.’ In the last couple of weeks many people’s lives in England have been disturbed by floods, bringing chaos to their lives. In the time of Jesus ‘the roaring of the sea and the waves’ symbolized the collapse of our ordered world, the unleashing of destruction, an allegory of the darkness and seas unregulated by days or time during the wild, savage creation narrative in Genesis when nobody but an omnipotent God could have brought order out of chaos. Our worlds may collapse for many reasons as well, and we can seem as impotent to stop that happening as we would be faced with the immensity of a half-created universe. Our marriage may break down; we may lose our jobs, discover that we have cancer, become estranged from our children. In all of these situations, we may feel overwhelmed by disaster, and that our lives have no meaning and the waters of the flood threaten to overwhelm us, as we contemplate being for some time alone in a nation which maybe does not appear to have a social security net anymore. Then, Jesus says, ‘Stand up and raise your heads, because your redemption is drawing near.’ When we feel bowed down, Jesus tells us to stand up erect, with our heads raised, because salvation is at hand and salvation comes from the Word first spoken once the Father had laid out the foundations of the universe – once the world had been made for us to live in, He spoke the Logos, the Word of the Son, who commands us sternly to stand up, and pay attention, because the dis-order of the world is once more to be turned to the order first ordained for us. We start a new year, this is Advent, and it is a time to put our own houses in order, because we are not waiting for a turkey or baubles, but we are waiting for our salvation, and our redemption – that’s why we hear the Johannine Prologue at the end of every Mass this month, it’s our reminder of the object of our preparations.There was a moment in the evolution of humanity when our ancestors stopped scuttling around on all fours and stood up on two feet. Homo erectus could look into the distance, and our hands were free to make tools, we were able to look further than our next meal and our own personal survival, we became able to care for that which we could not then perceive. Standing upright belongs to human dignity and human dignity is about care for all humanity, not just the bits in front of our nose, dignity is part of the Christian life. When life is hard, then we may let ourselves be bent down again, ‘weighed down with dissipation and drunkenness and the worries of this life’, as Jesus says. And whenever tyrants have wished to destroy human dignity, they try to bring us down to the ground again, by imprisonment, forced labour, starvation and other methods of subjugation which bring us physically to exhaustion and collapse.So when our lives collapse and lose their meanings, when we feel flattened and bowed down, Jesus invites us to stand upright, and we can do this because, the Gospel says, we will see the Son of Man coming with power and glory. This refers to the end, God’s final triumph over chaos and all that destroys human life. But more than a triumph over chaos, it’s the last battle when the creation which came out of chaos once again becomes perfect, an allegorical and real return to the garden, wet with the dew of the morning of creation once again, but with no snake to contort our minds. And it also refers to Jesus enthroned on the cross in glory. Everything was done to crush Jesus, to humiliate and bring him low, but it became a moment of glory. He was lifted up high on the cross, upright on the cross. The most ancient representations of the cross do not show a broken man, but Jesus as a king in glory, the wood of the crib of Bethlehem held Him no more effectively than did the wood of the Cross, and the end will come when both woods are but a distant memory, for the final triumph of the Cross is the new heaven and the new earth.We can stand upright too, because in his death Christ embraced all that could crush us. He was overwhelmed by chaos; the sun was darkened, the world collapsed. But he stood upright for all of us. He brought humanity to its feet. The Lord has suffered every humiliation that flattens us, and he stands erect, lifted up by his and our Father. ‘Stand up and raise your heads’ sounds very like ‘Stand up on your own two feet’. But the English expression implies that being upright is an act of individual will-power, something we must do alone. But the Gospel invites to help each other to our feet. Peter heals the lame man outside the Temple: ‘”In the name of Jesus walk.” And he took him by the right hand and raised him up. And immediately his feet and ankles were made strong.’ Let us prepare for the coming of Christ this Advent by helping each other to our feet. The test of a true Christian love is that it makes those whom we love strong and we may share together once again, not the excuse for a party that Christmas has become, but the joy of the human dignity of standing erect, holding our heads high because once again, we have four weeks to remember that our liberation is near at hand. And that is the message the world needs to hear, and it will only hear it from you.
All through his life Jesus showed that he was no pushover, he was his own man, if you like. No one controlled him. No one manipulated him or used him. He moves through the landscapes of Galilee and Samaria with a sovereign freedom and a more-than-royal vigour, breaking every custom with a fresh ease which must have been exhilarating to watch – in many people, it would come across as arrogance, but he does not even pause to explain himself. Time is limited, he is the king and there is work to be done. He acts with power. He speaks with authority. He is a source of awe and amazement in encounter after encounter. He commands obedience even in those who have hitherto never seen or heard of him. He demands discipleship — no one can serve two masters, he said. With an absolute self-assurance, he cuts across all parties and programmes and treats the rulers of the world with disdain:‘Tell that fox Herod.’ he says of the Tetrarch of Galilee’ . ‘Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s, and to God?’ ‘the earth and all its fullness, the world and all its peoples’ He forgives sins by divine right, even on the cross — especially on the cross: ‘Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom,’ says the thief on the cross and the king replies, ‘Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.’ He is sure of his Kingdom and his kingship, and his certainty never slips.It is with Pontius Pilate, agent of the Emperor, that Jesus has that strange debate about kingship and truth. It is you who say that I am a king. For this I was born and for this I came into the world, to bear witness to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice. (Jn 18:37)The rich, the powerful, do not snatch his life from him. He lays down his life at the time and place He chooses, having walked into the great city and prophesised its fall, effectively closing down the temple and then, in the other great imperial building, the praetorium, refusing to bow to their assumed authority. It is, frankly, staggering and awesome to see His earthly ministry through the lens of divine right. He never gives anyone an inch unless he wishes to, and he is unbending in his actions. King Trump and King Putin have to keep their people happy, to one degree or another, but the King of a Kingdom greater than the whole world has no such need, no such temptation.I lay down my life for my friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you. Love one another as I have loved you. (Jn 10, 15) This is his teaching, and it is as awesome, difficult and apparently simple as all His statements, yet it also binds us in the light and binds us in the darkness, where we can drop other allegiances, other loyalties.It is this kingdom of truth and love which triumphs on Calvary. We do not live under the shadow of the cross but in its light as the power and the glory of the kingdom. The kingdom now coming on earth as it is in heaven is no mere restoration of a fallen world, no mere repair job on damaged humanity. It is a new creation. Jesus has seized power on earth. It is a coup d’état. A bloody, violent revolution, though His is the cup of the blood of the new commonwealth, and we are washed in his blood, as a royal people, a holy nation, a collective set apart from this world to declare His mighty acts, and bear witness to His Kingship, His reign and His power alone, amidst all the noise and clamour and filth of this world.And the manifesto and agenda of this new fellowship is not that we should endure the evils of the world like Stoics, or that we should be indifferent to politics, society, trade, education, injustice and poverty. There is a transformative agenda in this kingdom. All things — family, society, culture and community — are to be stamped with his image like coins bearing the images of Caesars. All that we do should bear the hallmark of the King, who has incorporated us into His body, not like an earthy King in his castle, but as the one true King, whose body we share.Jesus is the ‘Yes’ of God to the promises of heaven and the cries of the earth. And we who share in his kingship are to be like those early Christians we read about in the Acts of the Apostles who terrified the powers-that-be in northern Greece as they willingly went to suffer and die and found in their discipleship an iron resolve that made anything else – torture, imprisonment, death, hatred, of no importance at all.And what of us who call Lord, Lord? Will we enter the kingdom? We often accuse ourselves of the sin of pride but perhaps we are not being proud enough. Proud and courageous in the royal dignity he has given us, in sharing his kingship, his power and his glory. Instead of sovereignty in doing good we are tyrannised by caution, meekness and mildness. Sluggishness and slothfulness, apathy and indifference undermine the dynamism of grace at work within us, we have lost dominion over ourselves because we have lost the freedom and the joy of our King.But here, at the Mass, at this one sacrifice of Calvary, there is healing medicine for feeble souls, nourishing food and drink for the daily journey of taking up the cross. Here is the wine of the kingdom and the bread of heaven to put fire in our bellies, the Pentecostal fire of the kingdom.Do not be afraid, little flock. It has pleased your Father to give you the kingdom. (Lk 12:32)In the world you will have trouble. But take courage, I have conquered the world. (Jn 16:33)
As we near the close of the liturgical year, this week’s Gospel invites us to look beyond the passing world. Though stars and moons may fade, the light of Christ remains steady, He is the source of life transcending time and space. His enduring presence guides us through life’s uncertainties, drawing our gaze upward like a clear night sky. In the words of the eucharistic hymn, Tantum Ergo written by Thomas Aquinas, “Types and shadows have their ending; for the newer rite is here,” reminding us that, in a world of constant change, Christ offers us assurance. His words, His love, and His truth endure beyond all.I remember one Christmas morning eagerly tearing open a beautifully wrapped box to find a telescope. I was about ten years old, and that gift opened up a whole new world for me. Sitting in my mum and dad’s back garden, I spent countless nights gazing up at the stars, trying to comprehend the vastness of the universe. It stirred a sense of awe and wonder, a feeling that life was bigger and more mysterious than I could fully grasp. Little did I know that years later, this fascination with the heavens would connect with my journey of faith, reminding me of God’s boundless creativity and yet His intimate presence in the vastness of His creation.Today’s Gospel, sometimes known as the ‘Little Apocalypse,’ invites us to that same sense of awe, though through images of cosmic upheaval: the darkening of the sun, the moon losing its light, and stars falling from the sky. For Mark’s early Christian community, facing persecution, this Gospel passage offered hope. These signs spoke of God’s enduring presence amid chaos. This passage is not simply about the end times; it’s a call to trust that even in times of upheaval, God’s hand is at work, guiding His people. The promise was clear, Jesus, as the Son of Man, would ultimately reign victorious.In our time, we see the heavens differently, nowadays through images from satellites or the Hubble and James Webb telescopes that reveal the beauty and vast design of the universe. These glimpses into space evoke awe and wonder too, reminding us that the mystery of creation points to the mystery of God’s presence within it. Just as the universe holds mysteries beyond our comprehension, so too do our lives unfold in ways we cannot fully understand. Yet within this mystery lies a promise: the assurance of God’s faithfulness, even when the path is unclear.Theologians help us understand this tension, describing it as the ‘already’ and the ‘not yet’, the reality that Christ’s Kingdom has been inaugurated, yet we await its full realization. They emphasize that God’s Word is not merely spoken, it’s embodied in Christ, who entered our world to live, die, and rise again for us. In Jesus, God’s promise is made visible. Jesus, the Word made flesh, is not just a comforting or philosophical idea, but an unchanging reality, someone in whom we can ground our lives, especially in times of uncertaintyTwo thousand years later, we also live in a world marked by unrest and fragility. We see it in reports of conflict, environmental concerns, and the daily struggles of those around us trying to make ends meet. As a chaplain, I witness firsthand the trials faced by people dealing with illness, bereavement, loss, and uncertainty. In these moments, Christ’s promise resonates, reminding us to hold fast to hope and trust in God’s enduring presence and love.St. Augustine, reflecting on passages like today’s Gospel, invites us to look beyond the temporary to the eternal. He saw in the cosmic signs a call to humility, to trust that even when life feels disrupted, God’s love is still at work. Our reading from Hebrews 10:11-14 reminds us that in His incarnation, Christ took on human suffering. The same God who created the stars and galaxies humbled Himself to walk among us, offering hope through His life, death, and resurrection.In our daily lives, we can see this enduring presence reflected. Just as Christ’s love is steadfast, so too are the people who remain true under pressure, or relationships rooted in selfless love, glimpses of constancy that echo the strength and faithfulness we find in Christ. Imagine a nurse working a night shift in a busy hospital, tired, knowing they won’t have much sleep before the next shift. Yet, in the quiet hours, she carefully tends to each patient, sitting with an elderly man who can't sleep, listening to a young mother’s worries. These aren’t grand gestures; they’re small, consistent acts of care, rooted in a selfless love and devotion to her role. In them, we glimpse a constancy that reflects something deeper. St. Teresa of Ávila expressed this beautifully in her prayer:Christ has no body now on earth but yours,No hands but yours, no feet but yours.Yours are the eyes through which He looks with compassion on this world,Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good,Yours are the hands with which He blesses all the world.Christ has no body now on earth but yours.Her prayer reminds us that we are invited to participate in God’s unchanging love, becoming His hands, feet, and eyes in the here and now. Just as Christ’s words promise to outlast heaven and earth, St. Teresa’s prayer calls us to make those eternal words visible through our actions. She points to the tangible ways we can embody the enduring truths of the Gospel. Christ, though ascended, continues His mission of compassion, healing, and blessing through us.Her prayer is an invitation to live out the stability, hope, and love that Christ offers. By embodying His compassion and care, we become a visible reminder to others that God's love is steadfast.With all this talk of the heavens, recently, some of us were lucky enough to glimpse the Northern Lights. Although I missed seeing them myself, they serve as a reminder of the grandeur of God’s creativity and His intimate care. Psalm 8 echoes this, asking, ‘What is mankind that you are mindful of them?’ Amid the demands of work, family, maybe frailty and other responsibilities, moments of awe in creation can draw us back to the truth of God’s love and attention for each of us.As the nights grow longer, I invite you to look up at the heavens and see in them the handiwork of God. The same God who crafted the stars knows and cares for every detail of our lives.Prayer Loving God, as we stand beneath the vastness of Your creation, fill us with awe and trust in Your presence. May we be Your hands, feet, and heart in the world, reflecting Your compassion and grace in all we do. In Jesus’ name, Amen.Fr Clive
