Today we start again to tell the story of a week which changed the world so much that we still have to almost act it out every year in order to begin to comprehend what it meant, to remind ourselves that what happened two thousand years ago was not a dream, not even a nightmare, not the beginning of the end, but the end of the end. Today we do this rather dramatic thing, even bringing a donkey along, and wearing vestments which are blood-red, because at the beginning of Holy Week we anticipate the week’s end. The One who enters Jerusalem today is already a dead man walking. There was no earthly hope for him since his enemies had made up their minds: judicial murder would be his end. And for the judicial murder the instrument at hand would not be a clean or antiseptic one like the lethal injection is at any rate supposed to be. The preference of the Roman authorities for crucifixion was even more blood thirsty than the Jewish method of stoning. And so, it’s blood we’re thinking of already. Soon blood will be flowing. You may say, so what? There’s so much blood shed in the world: in accidents, wars, gang stabbings and murders, natural disasters, political atrocities. Yes, but this blood is different, this blood do we remember after two thousand years, even to the point of wearing clothes to keep that blood fresh in our minds.This is saving, salvific, redemptive blood. It is the blood that came streaming through the firmament, and St Catherine of Siena perceived as soaking the Church in its flow. It is royal blood, the blood of the Messiah, to be shed in a self-giving whose effects are so wonderful that this coming murder is a triumph, and not a defeat. This is not just the red of blood. It is also the red of the victory of the King of Kings.The place where it all happened matters. The location is not without significance – not by any manner of means. Today the Lord sought to enter his own city, Zion, Jerusalem, the holy city. That he chose to do so with such a rag tag army of the dispossessed, the forgotten, the despised and in one extraordinary case, the recently smelly dead, should tell us as much about what kind of King he will be as we could ever wish to know. It was the city of the Most High God whose vocation was to be the dwelling-place on earth of the truth, closeness and love of God. It was a city that belonged to Jesus Christ by right – not only owing to the fact that he was Israel’s true Messiah , but because of the way in which he was so: a way unthought of even by the most far-seeing of the prophets: he was incarnate God and so in his divine-human person he is the measure of all truth, all closeness and all love. The relationship between God and the world finds its highest embodiment in his person which now walks into His own city, to the cries of ‘Hosanna’, which means, ‘save us’. Oh, but that they only could know how that salvation was to be wrought. Oh, that we could understand.But the entry into the city was an echo of the past, Scripture knew of cities that kept their gates firmly closed, to their loss. Jericho closed its doors against Joshua and ensured it would miss out on the moment of divine history sweeping up with the tribes of Israel escaping from Egypt. Despite this morning’s hosannas, later this week Jerusalem will close its doors on Jesus. It will not simply bar him, as Jericho barred Joshua. It will have him contained in the praetorium and crucified outside the gate.We know parallels to such closure in our own lives. We can close the door of our own self, of our hearts, of even our churches, snap them shut, when to open would have meant healing for ourselves and others. On Good Friday the Saviour will do the opposite to what Jericho and Jerusalem did. He will open his arms as wide as they can go, so that all the world may march in through the wound in his side, into the spacious welcome of his Sacred Heart, where all may find a home, and where pain and sorrow are no more. Now we know what kind of King He is to be, we ask ourselves what kind of disciples we are asked to become.
Today in the gospel we hear about standing together and showing solidarity, even when it might be costly to us, and that we can answer our question ‘how can we be more like Jesus’ by standing, or in this case sitting, with the most vulnerable. There is a certain solidarity in sin, as there is, we are told, honour amongst thieves, and equality among all Christian people. As sinners, we know we are in the same boat; we feel solidarity in our weakness and failure. ‘For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God’ (Rom 3:23). That’s why the raging accusers of this woman caught in adultery eventually wander off, unwilling to cast any stones, knowing themselves to be sinful too. The oldest depart first, because they see more clearly the commonality of human failure, they are wise enough to allow this dreadful, staged almost-execution to be called off because they see themselves in the fate of the woman about to be stoned.The scribes and Pharisees are trying to isolate this woman to condemn her. They ‘place her in the midst’ (probably dishevelled and indecently dressed), under the glare of all and the glare of the noonday sun, but they have failed to bring her male partner who should be equally liable to judgement as Leviticus would have informed them (Lev 20:10).Our Lord does not deny that the woman is guilty, but he refuses to go along with that diabolical logic of isolating this one woman as a test case. This is literally a ‘test case’, since he sees that the accusers are doing this ‘to test him’. So, he opposes their tactics with a show of solidarity: he gets down on the ground himself. I imagine the woman as having been thrown on the ground, not daring to raise her head from the dust. Jesus gets down to her level, to show us, also, how we can be like him.In his Incarnation, Jesus had already showed his solidarity with all humanity: ‘the Word became flesh and dwelt among us’ (Jn 1:14). We remember, especially on Ash Wednesday, that we are likewise dust, and to dust we shall return (Gen 3:19). So, Jesus gets down in the dust, the same dust of which he is made – having received his human nature from the Blessed Virgin – and he starts to write. The coming of Jesus into our sinful world was precisely to save us, not to condemn us (see Jn 3:16-17). Jesus is the New Adam, who is at the same time the Heavenly Man, and in the union of his two natures (human and divine) Jesus opens a way for us to share in the life of God: ‘Just as we have borne the image of the man of dust, we shall also bear the image of the man of heaven’ (1 Cor 15:49).The solidarity of Jesus with us goes all the way to the Cross. In his Passion, Jesus, though personally sinless, identifies with sinners: ‘God shows his love for us in that while we were still sinners, Christ died for us’ (Rom 5:8). So, the last words of Jesus to the woman caught in adultery are her lifeline: ‘Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more.’ His solidarity with her is expressed by this call to new life, where sin is left behind and her humanity is healed, and not only that, the humanity of the onlookers is brought to their attention, warts and all, and only the Pharisees are unable to learn from this, because ultimately, they would have had her killed just to prove their point. Who is the greatest sinner here? Maybe for us, these Lenten veilings show us not a lack of an image, but somewhere to project our own image, a dynamic absence for us to fill with our discipleship, rather than gazing upon the impossibility of a perfect looking saint, frozen in time.Our entire belief pivots on the joyful message – and this Gospel is clearly one of joy - that God stoops down low. He stoops so low as to take on our nature and redeem it. He stoops into suffering and death, being brought low because of our sins and is only raised high mockingly upon the cross. Despite the grace of our baptism, we stoop low in sinful ways. Perhaps we are quick to debase others, pass judgement, hold grudges, exact revenge. Perhaps we attract the scorn of others for our mistakes, or are exacting when it comes to sharing mercy. But we can always rejoice in the knowledge that, however low we stoop, that’s how low our merciful Saviour will go to write his law of mercy in the sand of our hearts. He sits with this woman and saves here in so many ways for one reason – he loves her, and maybe he is the only person in this awful scene who truly does love her, and he loves us, and wishes to save us too, so don’t ever think, even when you’re surrounded by hate, that you can’t be loved.Jesus is not swept up in their phony outrage. He does not play their game, as he will evade every attempt throughout history to use him for political and ideological purposes. He is Lord, and he stands apart from our scheming. God wishes to gather us from exile into our home. If we wish to accept his invitation, then we must dare to join the accused woman at the centre of the circle, because that is where Jesus is to be found.
Today, on the Fourth Sunday of Lent, known as Laetare Sunday, the sombre purple of Lent softens into rose. Thinking what to say today, I saw the importance of home and the theme of homecoming woven throughout the readings and mirrored in the focus of Mothering Sunday. In Joshua, the Israelites celebrate their first Passover in the Promised Land, a long-awaited homecoming after years in the wilderness. In the Gospel, the Prodigal Son returns to his father’s house, and we witness the joy of reconciliation. And in Paul’s words to the Corinthians, we are reminded of the ultimate place of belonging, as being reconciled to God in Christ, the one who makes all things new. Many of us knows the longing for home. I still remember the first time I was away from home as a child, on a school trip. The adventure and excitement couldn’t quite take away the ache of homesickness. Home is where we are known, where we are loved. Even as adults, we may feel this even on holidays. We visit wonderful places, have lovely experiences, but there’s something about returning home, stepping through the door, putting the kettle on for a brew, that fills us with comfort and peace.In my work as a chaplain, I see this longing in patients. They are deeply appreciative of the skill and care they receive in the hospital, yet many long for the familiar comfort of home. For many of us, our beautiful church here at St. Stephen’s also carries this sense of home. It is a place where we gather as a church family, where we are nurtured by Word and Sacrament, where we find connection and belonging.The Gospel’s parable of the Prodigal Son captures this longing for home at its deepest level. The son, lost and alone, comes to his senses and realises that home is where he belongs. But the most striking moment in the story is not his decision to return, it is the father, did you notice, running to meet him, even before he’d had chance to say sorry. This image of the father, filled with compassion, running to embrace his child, is one of the most tender in scripture. It reminds us that God’s love is not grudging or distant, but extravagant and eager. This story also speaks to the connection we long for with one another. Just as the father and son are reunited, so we are called to be a people of reconciliation. As St. Paul reminds us, God entrusts us with the message of reconciliation, calling us to build bridges of love and forgiveness. Mothering Sunday deepens these themes. Historically, it was a day to return to one’s mother church, the church of baptism or the cathedral at the heart of the diocese. It was a day of homecoming, both physical and spiritual. This tradition reminds us that the Church, like a mother, nurtures us in faith. Through the Sacraments, the liturgy, and the community of believers, the Church draws us into a deeper connection with Christ, who is our true home.This day also honours earthly mothers and those who show maternal care, reflecting the life-giving love of God. This nurturing love is seen in Christ’s Passion, the ultimate act of care and self-giving.But this theme of homecoming is not just about place; it is about connection. It is about being known and loved. In our daily lives, this might mean pausing to give thanks for those who have shaped our faith: the parents or grandparents who taught us to pray, the friends who encouraged us, the clergy who guided us. It also challenges us to be people of welcome, creating spaces where others can feel at home. As we reflect on home, it’s worth considering how the idea of homemaking has changed in our lifetime. Once seen as the primary domain of women, homemaking today is a shared responsibility, shaped by the diversity of modern family life. While the practical aspects of homemaking, cooking, cleaning, raising children, have shifted, the heart of homemaking remains the same: creating spaces of safety, love, and connection. In many ways, homemaking is a sacred calling, mirroring Christian values, preparing a place for us where we feel truly at home. As we reclaim the value of this role in its broader sense, whether in our families, our church, or our communities, we participate in the Christian mission of love and hospitality.For some, Mothering Sunday can be a difficult day. Loss, strained relationships, or unfulfilled longing for motherhood, may make this a time of pain. Yet even here, the Church offers the comfort of God’s unchanging love. Like the Prodigal Son welcomed to the banquet, today we are invited to the table, the Altar of the Lord, where we are made whole. The rose vestments of Laetare Sunday remind us of the joy and beauty at the heart of our faith, even amid the wilderness of Lent. This sense of homecoming is ultimately fulfilled in Christ, who reconciles all things to himself. Our earthly homes and even our church home point us toward the eternal home God prepares for us. In the words of the psalmist: “In your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore” (Psalm 16:11). And as St. Augustine wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”On this Mothering Sunday, let us give thanks for those who have nurtured us, for the Church that sustains us, and for the Father who runs to meet us with open arms. As we journey through this Laetare Sunday, may we rejoice in the God who welcomes us home and challenges us to make room for others. Let us find joy in the promise of home, both now and in the life to come. Amen
So many things are done to us to make us think one way or another way. Headlines in newspapers, particularly online, often bear little relation to the content of the article. Photos of world events can be very misleading, the internet, and specifically social media, is a battleground of differing opinions and outright lies which are so confusing that some people just believe them all or at least apply a sceptical mindset only to the ones which contradict the earlier opinion they were given. News agencies, politicians and preachers constantly contradict each other and there is a general lack of faith in the skills of experts, even to the point of some groups of people believing that every politician, doctor, nurse and so on is in some kind of cahoots, to which we offer the obvious analysis that trying to get ten people to agree to something is impossible, let alone five percent of the world. It’s a wonder that anyone listens to anyone at all. And nor do we, every day at Mass I hear the Word of the Lord addressed to me, and reply ‘Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ’, but how often do I really attend to it? This may be partially distractedness but surely there is also an element of resistance. If I were to listen, my life would be turned upside down, or maybe I would not know what to believe after that. Where, like everything else, would it end? The disciples accompanying Jesus on the way to Jerusalem also do not want to hear his words. He has told them that he is on his way to suffer, die and rise again, but they simply don’t want to know. So the Lord dramatically challenges them to open their ears. He is transfigured in their sight and a voice from heaven cries out, ‘Listen to him.’ It’s a revelation that the blind man, and the paralytic and the demoniacs and the lepers do not need, for they know Him anyway, it’s a sign to the terminally confused, his disciples, and to us.God promises to us more than we could ever imagine, an infinity of joy and utter freedom. Abraham in the first reading is promised descendants as many as the stars of heaven. But God’s promises leave no one unchanged. Abraham is enveloped in darkness and his life is bound by covenant to God, the Creator of those very stars, and he loses tight control of his life. He loses his home, and his security, if indeed we find this world to be home, or security.Jesus is on his way to Jerusalem to make his ‘exodus’ into a freedom which infinitely transcends that given to Israel when she left the bondage of Egypt. He invites the disciples to accompany him freely on this journey out of the bondage of sin and death. But, like the rest of us, they are afraid. For I may long for that infinity of love which is God’s own life, but also fear its fire; I thirst for God’s unbounded freedom but freedom is frightening. Fyodor Dostoevsky tells the story of the Grand Inquisitor, who asserts that ‘nothing has ever been more insufferable for humanity and society than freedom. In the end they will lay their freedom at our feet and say to us; “Better that you enslave us, but feed us.”’- and that could be a motto for social media couldn’t it? Tell us lies, but give us something to hate. We have always been at war with Eurasia.The contemporary American author Annie Dillard claimed that listening to the gospel is the most risky thing one can do: ‘The Churches are children playing on the floor with their chemistry sets, mixing up a batch of TNT to kill a Sunday morning. It is madness to wear ladies’ straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life jackets and signal flares.’ And she is entirely right, if Jesus is how He is shown to us in the Gospels and if His disciples are like they are shown to us as well, then we should be like them and that is profoundly dangerous, and our life jackets will not work and, perversely, we should hope that they would not, because it is not this world which can harm us.The final words of this gospel are almost chilling: ‘When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.’ Jesus, who had been seen conversing with Moses and Elijah and whose Father cried out from heaven, is again found alone. We listen to the words as a community, in shared attention (or distraction). 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. Listening to the Word, each of us is ‘alone with the alone.’ Like the disciples, we need silence to digest their import and space this Lent to be alone and see the path ahead.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 and we must not submit to the tyranny of lies, judgementalism, and the devil. Our freedom is ultimately inseparable from that of the world. 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, for it is the devil that we fight, and God is on our side.
