Gone with the wind

It was a lovely summer’s afternoon that Sunday when we sat as a family and enjoyed a sumptuous Sunday lunch. We had roast beef as well as fried chicken which had been marinated in all sorts of flavorsome spices and herbs; accompanied by an assortment of vegetables including of course the dreaded Brussels sprouts.

I have never understood why God created this particular vegetable; but create it He did. No doubts He has His reasons and one day we’ll discover how beneficial it is for us and how silly and uneducated we have been to dislike it so. However, for now at least, most people I know don’t seem to like it.

I don’t count myself amongst them, of course. I’m neutral in this respect. I would eat Brussels sprouts if offered to me but I would not go out of my way to ask for them in a gourmet restaurant.

But that Sunday, Brussels sprouts were on the menu. I believe they were mixed with walnut pieces and fried onions, if memory serves me right.

We have had Auntie Gertrude from Australia staying with us for a few days so we also invited Father Frederic to Sunday lunch. The two had never met each other so we sat them next to each other around the large dinner table.

It was a lovely meal with pleasant conversation on no particular subject and all subjects that came to mind.

After lunch, we all moved to the living room to enjoy a nice cup of coffee and continue our discussion.

Father Frederic sat on the sofa leaving a little room for someone else to sit beside him and a few minutes later, as well all made ourselves comfortable, Auntie Gertrude came in and sat beside the priest.

Sadly, and embarrassingly for her, as she lowered herself in the well upholstered settee she accidentally broke wind with a thunderous loud noise.

I should mention at this stage that Father Frederic is somewhat hard of hearing; and he therefore did not notice nor pay attention to what had just happened.

I immediately tried to cover Auntie’s embarrassment by asking him loudly some Ecumenical question that came to mind.

As I leaned towards him speaking a little louder than usual I noticed his face going a little pale as the tell-tale strong smell reached my olfactory senses.

He looked at me accusingly as Auntie got out of the room saying “By dingo cobber! I forgot the biscuits in the kitchen … they're special I brought from Adelaide ... I’ll go and get them!”

As she got out of the room, followed by the rest of the family, she added somewhat undiplomatically "they are not as bland as those English biscuits!"

I was left alone with the kind old heavenly priest and the smell from hell.

Suddenly, the Ecumenical question became totally irrelevant as my mind went blank and my hurt pride and wounded honor urged me to shout at the top of my voice “It was not me!!! It was her!!! She did it and went out leaving me sharing her stench.”

But being the stupid gentleman which I am, I said nothing. I kept quiet and protected a lady’s pride and honor by my silence.

“Would you like a biscuit?” I asked Father picking up the large serving dish which was there all the time.

“That’s a lovely piano …” replied Father Frederic getting up from his seat and moving towards the open window. “Our church organ needs mending … it doesn’t pump so much wind in the pipes as it used to.”

Somehow, the uneasy conversation which followed and the fresh air from the open window, diluted the heavy atmosphere in the room as eventually the rest of the family rejoined us accompanied by an innocent looking Auntie Gertrude.

Since that day, Father Frederic keeps his distance from me whenever we meet.

The graceful lady

For the last three Sundays Father Ignatius noticed a new member of his congregation attending Mass and always sitting in the same place on the left of the Altar.

She was an elegantly dressed lady in her mid to late fifties. She took part in silent prayer throughout Mass and never came forward for Communion. At the end of Mass she got out of church without speaking with anyone and drove away in a nice new car. Not the sort of car you see often in St Vincent Church whose parishioners are mostly either out of work or earning a pittance in a job in the poorest town in the country.

Father Ignatius liked to wait in the car park after Mass and greet his parishioners as they came out of church. Yet he never managed to speak to this mysterious lady who always left just before the final hymn ended, and so avoided contact with him or any other parishioner.

This week however the repetitive saga would have a different outturn because Father Donald was offering Mass; so our resourceful priest decided to wait in the car park a few minutes before Mass ended and so have the opportunity to greet his mysterious new visitor.

As the elegant woman came out of church early Father Ignatius greeted her with a smile.

“Hello, I’m Father Ignatius … I don’t think we’ve met …” he said.

“Yes Father … how remiss of me …” she replied in a refined English accent, “perhaps we can meet somewhere and I’ll introduce myself …”

Father Ignatius was taken aback. He certainly did not expect such a response.

“Ehm … we can go in the Parish House” he mumbled.

“Excellent … lead on and I’ll follow” she smiled.

Minutes later they were both in the large lounge room downstairs in the Parish House. She sat on the armchair near the warm fireplace; the very chair the priest often used when watching TV or listening to his beloved classical music. He sat on the settee opposite her.

“I haven’t been attending your church for long, “she started.

“You’re very welcome here …” he encouraged her.

“The truth is … I haven’t been to church for almost thirty years,” she continued, “ but my husband died a month ago and I thought I’d come back …”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear it …” the priest sympathized.

“Sorry that I’ve come back to church or that my husband died?” she asked teasingly, and before the priest had time to reply she smiled and went on “oh … don’t worry Father, actually I’m glad he’s dead … I’ve cursed him often enough …”

Father Ignatius knew to say nothing and let her continue.

“We married some thirty two years ago to be precise and he left me for another woman after two years of marriage. We had a young son aged one year at the time. My husband moved to another part of the country to start a new life with his new lover and I haven’t seen him since.

“He provided generously for the up-bringing of our son. He was fairly wealthy and made arrangements for moneys to be regularly credited to my bank, yet he never made contact nor visited our son since the day he left.

“My son is grown-up now and married with two children of his own. And my husband and I never divorced.

“He went to live with his girl friend, and had two other children with her although he never married her. And last month he died in a car accident.

“I heard from his solicitors that he left money for our son and for me.

“And I cursed him once again … I never forgave him for the pain he’s caused me and that’s why I’ve not been to church ever since the day our marriage broke down!”

“Well, as I said, you’re very welcome here …” Father Ignatius replied encouragingly once again.

“I know it’s wrong not to forgive Father …” she continued as calmly as before, “but I just can’t. And that’s why I haven’t been to church for a long while.

“I don’t even know why I’m back in church now … for the past three weeks at least. Perhaps I’m hoping that God will give me a ‘get out of jail free’ card,” she smiled. “You know what I mean … He’d forgive my hatred for my husband yet let me continue to hate him.”

“I doesn’t work like that …” Father Ignatius said gently.

“Yes I know Father. You’d have thought that after all these years I would have moved on … but I haven’t …” she continued lighting a cigarette.

“That’s because the hurt caused to you all those years ago has not healed. For various reasons the pain has not been given time to subside and fade away. Memories perhaps remained too vividly alive and so fuelled your anger and made the pain worse,” he explained as quietly and gently as before.

“Anyway … that’s my story,” she smiled stubbing out her just lit cigarette in the ashtray, “I may or may not continue to come to church … but it’s been nice meeting you Father. You’re a very gentle and caring person, and I appreciate your kindness.”

“Let me ask you something …” Father Ignatius asked just as she was about to get up, “if your husband was alive today, and he was here right now, full of genuine remorse for the hurt he has caused you all these years. If he asked you to forgive him, knowing full well that there’s nothing he can do to turn back the clock and put things right. If he genuinely and truly asked you for forgiveness; would you find it in your heart to forgive him?”

“What an interesting question …” she replied, “yes … on reflection I think I would forgive him.”

“It’s too late for him to ask your forgiveness,” said the priest, “but it’s not too late for you to forgive him.

“For your own peace of mind … and for your own sake and salvation, you must forgive him once and for all. The memories and hurt may well linger on, but with true forgiveness will come healing and in time reconciliation with Our Lord.”

“I’ll try …” she said showing emotion for the first time.

“That’s all God is asking of you. And I’ll be here to help you if you need me …” he replied.

And that’s how a wounded soul finally managed to find peace and healing. She continued to attend Mass on Sundays and had several discussions with Father Ignatius and Father Donald over a period of time to make her way back to God.

Yesterday, she went to Confession and had Communion for the first time in over thirty years.

When pork met Gertrude

Everyone had gone out and I was alone in peace at home. I went to my office to get on with some work which was urgently needed for a management meeting that week. I hadn’t been working for more that ten minutes when I heard the front door open and my peace was interrupted by Aunt Gertrude’s mind-numbing grating Australian accent seeking attention.

“G’day cobber …” she screeched like a constipated owl, “do you have any of them pork scratchings left?”

For those of you who don’t know, pork scratchings are small pieces of pork rind or skin which have been cooked and flavoured so they become dry and crispy. They are a favourite alternative to salted peanuts or potato chips or crisps in pubs and a good accompaniment to a pint or three of beer.

Personally, I prefer my Foster’s amber nectar or Guinness minus any food in order not to interrupt the flavor, if you see what I mean. But I understand people snacking on scratchings, nuts or crisps with their beer.

I’m not sure whether pork scratchings are available in Aunt Gertrude’s native Australia. She says she first tasted them a few days ago when we took her to the pub and since then the acquired taste of Aunt Gertrude has acquired a taste for pork scratchings.

“Did ye hear me mate?” she screeched again, “any scratchings left?”

I got up from my desk and offered to make her something more substantial like some sandwiches and tea, or a light meal such as an omelette or scrambled eggs on toast.

“Are you fair dinkum?” she said with a wry smile.

I didn’t understand what she said but for the sake of good Anglo Australian relations I went to the pantry and got her a large bag of pork scratchings. Luckily we had stocked up on the product since that trip to the pub where pork met Gertrude.

She sat in front of the TV watching Australian soaps whilst I went back to my desk to finish my report in peace.

Thank Heavens for pork scratchings!

Trinity? What Trinity?

For centuries people have been trying to comprehend the mystery of the Holy Trinity as if it is a puzzle which we are meant to resolve and when we do we get a prize.

God the Father, Jesus the Son, and the Holy Spirit ... (no title) ... three in one. What is that supposed to mean?

We accept (those of us who believe) that God exists and is up there somewhere, in Heaven , above the clouds or wherever. He has always existed and has created us as well as everything else in the Universe and beyond. OK ... we can understand and believe that.

Then there is Jesus. Born as a baby of a Virgin by the power of the Holy Spirit, and came to earth as a human. OK ... so He is the Son of God.

But wait a minute ... in the Credo it says I believe "in one Lord Jesus Christ, the only begotten Son of God, and born of the Father before all ages. God of God, light of light, true God of true God. Begotten not made, consubstantial to the Father, by whom all things were made."

Jesus was begotten, not made by God just like He made us and everything else. "Before all ages" - this means that Jesus has always existed. He did not just begin to exist when He was born on earth. When He was born on earth is when He appeared to us in human form. But before that, He has always existed with God, because He is God.

Consubstantial to the Father. From Latin consubstantialem, of one essence or substance. This word was used by the Council of Nicaea (325) when they wrote the Credo to express the Divinity of Christ. The Trinity is not a hierarchy. It isn't God at the top, then Jesus, and then the Holy Spirit. All three are equal and one; and have always been so.

Confusing? I suppose it is. But there's more.

We are then told about the Holy Spirit. He is the Spirit of God - His soul perhaps. He doesn't have a title as such. God is God, the Creator, Our Father in Heaven. Jesus is His only Son, our Saviour. But the Holy Spirit ... no title!

It was St Hilary of Poitiers, a Bishop in the 3^rd Century AD, who first described the Holy Spirit as ‘the gift’. He is the gift given to us by God after Jesus ascended into Heaven. He is the very Spirit of God Himself. His very soul come back to us on earth to dwell within us and to help us in our Christian life. That’s why He is sometimes referred to as the Helper, the Counselor, God’s own Being living within us.

And that is the Holy Trinity which we believe in and perhaps don't understand.

But let's be honest, there are many men in this world who do not understand their wives; so what hope have we really got of understanding the Holy Trinity?

When we get to meet St Peter we will not sit an exam to check how much we have learnt and what we understand.

God will instead look into our hearts ... our Faith ... and our actions.

God does not ask us to understand Him ... He asks us to trust Him and love Him.

Secrets to a Happy Marriage

I was reading a book the other day about the secrets to a successful, long-lasting and happy marriage.

It’s amazing that after centuries of people coming together in matrimony there are still, apparently, secrets that we do not know about on how to make our marriages happy and successful.

I read with some trepidation and curiosity in order to discover what else I have to learn on the subject.

It seems that the first steps in choosing a partner for life are the most important ones. Marriage is not to be entered into too lightly and one must be careful with whom we pledge to spend the rest of our lives – come sunshine, rain or snow. It is imperative at the outset to decide who will clear the path when the snow is feet deep and blocking your way out.

Love, mutual respect, patience and understanding are obviously very important in a marriage. But just as essential is the fact that one of the spouses should be slightly deaf – preferably the husband.

The choice of spouse is vital not only for reasons of compatibility, shared interests, hopes, values and aspirations. It seems that the occupation and profession of one’s partner plays a major role in the longevity and success of the union.

Statistics prove beyond doubt that archaeologists make the best marriage partners. The older you get the more interested they are in you.

It is of course inevitable that in any marriage arguments will occur sometimes out of the blue and on the most absurd and un-important subjects. The trick is not so much on how to win an argument; if this was at all possible, but to avoid getting into one in the first place.

It’s not a question of capitulating and giving way in the first instance, but choosing which argument is important enough to defend as a matter of principle and which is not worth losing privileges for.

The question of principles is worth dwelling on for a moment or two. Don’t just have one unbreakable principle which you will uphold at the cost of your marriage, happiness, and future livelihood. Be generous. Have plenty of principles; and if one doesn’t work out for you choose another one. No one who is anyone has ever succeeded by having just one principle.

The book also has a chapter about mutual interests and doing things together as a couple which both marriage partners can enjoy.

Now, doing heavy work together like changing the engine oil in the car, tuning the engine, changing the tires and other mechanical tasks may be ideal for certain couples; but personally I’d rather sit back and admire her handiwork and praise her every now and then. Besides, I hate it when the engine oil and dirt gets under my fingernails. It’s a devil of a job to clean when I’m at the manicurist.

In a chapter specifically for men, the book states that women like to be re-assured frequently that they are loved and cherished. Frequently the words “I love you” are not heard as often after the honeymoon, or are used as a pretext to wanting something, like watching the football on TV.

The book suggests that the husband writes down the words “I love you” on a piece of paper which the wife can refer to as often as needed in future. Laminating the piece of paper will ensure its durability, especially if it is the size of a credit card so it can be easily carried in one’s purse or handbag. Drawing a heart, or a flower, (before laminating), will also ensure a successful purpose.

So there you have it … a few secrets to a long, happy and successful marriage. Now where’s my dinner?

Aunt Gertrude's Bloomers

My Australian Aunt Gertrude who has been staying with us for a while is a really peculiar person; and it has nothing to do with her age or the fact that some elderly people can be eccentric or odd.

Ever since I have known her she has been that way, apparently. I remember as a child hearing my parents saying that she is very tight-fisted when it comes to spending money; and if she were ever mugged she’d convince the mugger to give her his wallet.

This attitude, and others, have manifested themselves since we’ve renewed her acquaintance after so many years of living apart since she emigrated to Australia all those years ago.

For example, not that we’re expecting any gifts from her, let me explain and emphasize … but her choice of welcoming gifts has been “economically eccentric” not to put too fine a point.

She brought the children bags of Australian boiled sweets … and one packet was open because she needed something for a dry throat whilst on the plane.

When I met her at the airport she came towards me holding a can of Foster’s amber nectar; one of the best things to come out of Australia. I was delighted at the prospect of such a generous gift … turned out it was her lunch.

What she actually gave me was a book on how to make your own boomerang. Well, I exaggerate; it’s not a book but in fact a ten-page pamphlet.

Every time I threw the book away it came back.

The first time I left it semi-deliberately on the sofa so that the dog would pick it up to play and destroy it. It was retrieved and put on my bedside table for safety.

The second time I left it outside in the garden in the hope that it would just fly away. Again it found its way to the bedside table.

I finally put it in the waste paper basket and was told this is insensitive and that I should keep it in case some day, when I’m old and retired, I might want to make a boomerang for the grand-children. What an unlikely prospect!

Another example of her meanness was portrayed in church last Sunday. During collection she put in £1 and took out some change from the collection plate. She complained afterwards that she only managed to retrieve 85 pence whereas she wanted to collect 90.

Anyway, Aunt Gertrude’s peculiarities are not confined to the not spending-money variety.

Our house faces a beautiful park leading to pleasant country walks amongst the valleys and hills beyond. When Aunt Gertrude arrived we gave her a front facing bedroom so she could see the beautiful views from her window.

I got home the other day to find the largest pair of white bloomers hanging out to dry from a makeshift rope out of her window. The underwear was so big that it would have been used by Captain Cook as a sail for his ship on its way to Australia. Next to her pants was the largest bra I could ever imagine.

I was speechless … I mean … is this what they do in Australia? Hang their under-washings out of the window for the whole world to see?

What would the neighbours think or say? It is bad enough the way they look at me when I’m wearing my red tartan shirt, green trousers and cowboy hat with a feather in it. Now they have the huge white under-garments as an additional subject of conversation.

Fortunately, as I am not renowned for my diplomacy, I was forbidden to mention the objectionable items, and a quiet word in her ears quickly removed the clothing to the washing line in our back garden.

“Will the birds poo all over it in the back garden?” enquired Auntie Gertrude.

“No … they only poo at the front,” I replied … diplomatically of course.

Rescue Drive

For a few days Father Ignatius had been thinking over his conversation with Father Donald about the dream he had.

In the dream, St Peter asked Father Ignatius directly, ‘Have you done a good job of looking after Our Lord’s lambs and sheep?’

“What a challenge!” thought Father Ignatius, “St Peter himself asking me if I was a good priest!”

Jack lived a few yards down the road from St Vincent Church, just the other side of the Convent.

One Friday evening he was waiting outside the Fish and Chips Shop just opposite the church when Father Ignatius joined the queue.

“How are you keeping Jack?” he asked, “you look really miserable right now … just like a mile of bad road, I should say!”

“Hello Father …” mumbled Jack under his breath, “it’s a long story!”

“You’d better tell me about it … let’s move away from this queue …”

The two men left the queue and walked a few paces away from the shop.

“It’s this friend of mine …” Jack said hesitantly, “he’s over seventy years old, lives in Brintown, and he’s not too well. I think he’s dying. I spoke to the lady friend he lives with and she said the doctor is not holding much hope. I’ll go and see him tomorrow as I’m not working this weekend … I hope I get there in time …”

“I’ll pray for him Jack. I notice you said lady friend … is he not married then?”

“Oh … that’s another long story Father.” said Jack, “Many years ago, when he was thirty or so, he met this lady and fell in love with her. She was divorced and his priest would not marry them. In fact he argued the matter with the priest and the priest excommunicated him.

“I think he probably excommunicated her as well … I don’t know.

“Anyway, they’ve lived together ever since … that’s about forty years. I don’t know if they ever got married in the Civil Court.

“But the man kept faithful to the ban imposed on him. He didn’t move to another church and take Communion there, even though they moved town several times. In fact I believe he never set foot in another church ever since that day!”

“We’d better go and see them then …” said the priest.

“What now … it’s five o’clock. It will take us two hours to get to Brintown!”

“The sooner we start the better,” replied Father Ignatius, “you go to my office and phone them from there. I’ll get the car ready!”

Moments later Father Ignatius was driving up the highway as fast as the speed limit allowed.

They arrived just after 7:30 that evening. Father Ignatius went to see the old man in his bedroom whilst Jack stayed with the old lady in the front room.

They could hear talk, and sometimes laughter from the bedroom. The priest stayed there for a while. He heard the old man’s Confession and gave him Holy Communion. Then they chatted away about the past … the old man had spent some time in Italy, not far from where Father Ignatius studied for the priesthood, so they talked about Italy and all the places they visited whilst there.

Eventually the priest came out and asked Jack to go and stay with the old man.

He heard the old lady’s Confession and gave her Holy Communion.

Father Ignatius and Jack set off back home at about 10:45 that evening. In the car, on the way to St Vincent, Jack said, “Thank you Father … being with you is like being with Jesus!”

“Don’t ever say that,” replied the priest, “no one can possibly be like Jesus!”

The old man died three days later.

The old lady also died a few months after that.

(Based on a true story).

Aunt Gertrude

For days on end the house was full of excitement because “Aunt Gertrude is coming! Aunt Gertrude is coming!”

I can’t understand all the fuss myself; since no one has met Aunt Gertrude and the last time I saw her was millions of years ago in the Jurassic era I believe.

Sure, the old fossil does keep in touch, once a year, when she sends a re-cycled Christmas card which someone else has sent her. Yes, I mean it … a re-cycled Christmas card! She sticks a piece of paper on the card where previous well-wishers have written and then she writes her Yuletide Greetings. We often peel off the paper carefully and guess who originally sent her the card!

She has always been very tightfisted as I remember. So miserly that she looks at you from on top of her spectacles so as not to wear out the lenses!

Anyway … this distant relative, (she lives in Australia), whom no one has ever met except me has decided to visit us. Apparently her husband, a successful business man, had planned a business trip to the UK before he died suddenly, and she did not want to waste the airline ticket!

As soon as he was underground she was over ground and flying.

And I was tasked to go and meet her in the airport. I took the day off work and left early to get there on time. I waited endlessly in the reception area and eventually my eyes set upon the much awaited relative from down under.

She walked very slowly and carried a small case in her hand. I offered to carry it for her and she refused holding it tightly to her chest. We waited for the rest of her luggage which I loaded onto a trolley and then into my car.

No sooner had we left the airport that she started complaining. “Why do you drive so slow?” she asked, “where I come from we walk faster than that!”

I smiled politely, looked at her from the rear view mirror and said: “There’s a speed restriction area up front. Road works I believe!”

“Why do they have to fix the roads at inconvenient times and near a busy airport? Why can’t they fix them elsewhere?”

I must admit I had no good answer to this one. Why indeed do they fix the roads near the airport and not the ones in a desert somewhere, in the middle of a jungle or up a mountain? How inconsiderate of these road mending people!

“Do you live far?” was her next question.

“It’s about an hour away, I’m afraid!” I replied hesitantly.

“You should consider moving nearer the airport.” she retorted quickly, “it would be more considerate when you have visitors from abroad.”

Once again, she was right of course. We should all leave our place of employment locally, and where the schools are close to hand, and move near the busy airport on the off-chance that our distant relative, (not distant enough right now), might one day in a lifetime get hold of a spare airline ticket and choose to use it rather than attempt to get a reduced refund.

I remained silent and then started to panic as I saw the traffic build up right ahead. There had been an accident and we soon came to a stop on the highway.

“Are we there yet?” she asked.

“No!”

“Why have we stopped then?”

“There’s been an accident. The police is re-directing us another way.”

“Not many accidents in Australia.” she claimed, “My husband drove for fifty years and never had an accident. Except once! When he reversed on Aristotle, the cat! Didn’t like him anyway … the cat. Didn’t like my husband much either …”

I said nothing and left the highway slowly as directed by the police.

A few minutes later my cell-phone rang. I stopped the car to answer it.

“Where are you? Why have you not picked up Aunt Gertrude from the airport?”

It took a few seconds for my slow brain to realize what I had done. I’d picked the wrong aunt from the airport!

How was I to know? She wore spectacles. She walked slowly. She looked old … she WAS old! She looked Australian, she spoke in an Australian accent and came off an Australian plane!

Was I to check her identity in her passport double-locked in her hand bag held tightly against her chest?

Why is it always my fault when everything goes wrong?

That evening I opened my Bible and read: “Do not be afraid, for I have redeemed you. I have called you by your name; you are mine.” Isaiah 43: 1-5.

I bet He knows the right Aunt Gertrude better than me!

Angry Vengeful God?

Imagine you've died and gone to Heaven.

Joy of joys !!! At last, you've made it. God has seen it fit for you to deserve Heaven. An eternity with Him. You are so glad, more than you've ever been your entire life.

You look around and meet old friends and relatives who have made it here too. You greet them with a tear in your eye - a tear of joy as well as a little sadness when you remember how you missed them and cried when they were gone!

You renew old acquaintances as well as make new ones as you meet the Saints you've read so much about but had never met.

Then you realise someone is missing. 

A relative, or friend, whom you'd expected to see here is missing. You ask St Peter and he confirms your suspicion. That person is not here.

Is he in transit? In the Purification Center we call Purgatory, perhaps?

No ... he is ... in the other place.

Your joy turns to sadness, confusion, despair even. How can it be? You so expected to be with that person in Heaven for eternity.

What do you do?

Seek an explanation from God? Perhaps there's been a mistake! Ask Him to re-consider. Plead with Him even? Beg that this person is brought up to Heaven?

Has that person's absence tarnished your joy of being in Heaven? Changed your view of God's justice and mercy?

How can you possibly be here in Heaven for ever, knowing full well that a dear loved one is in the other place and will never join you?

On the Cross Jesus forgave those who dared to inflict so much suffering and death to the Son of God. What more heinous sin could your relative or friend have committed to deserve an eternity in hell?

Your human sense of justice; and your understanding and perspective of forgiveness and mercy would like things to be different and, no matter what that person has done in life, you wish him here with you in Heaven.

But God does not work like that. His perspective is not a human perspective. He decided otherwise.

In Luke 16:19-31 we read that the rich man in "the other place" pleaded that his brothers may not join him there. But his pleadings were met with the response that each person makes his or her own decisions in life, and by their actions they choose whether to go to Heaven or not.

No one goes to hell by mistake. We choose to go there. And many, by their actions, are sleep-walking their way to hell.

The time for action and prayers is now.

And yet ... what if we're one day in Heaven and our loved one is not there? What then?

Father Francis Maple - 50th Anniversary

Father Francis Maple

Father Francis Maple is an occasional guest writer on this Blog. He lives in England and has recently celebrated his 50th Anniversary as a priest. He re-visited the Church where he was ordained and this is his homily which will hopefully inspire someone somewhere to consider joining the priesthood.

   

Welcome everyone!  I would like to welcome particularly Bishop George of Kerala in India who just happens to be passing through Bedford and has asked to concelebrate Mass with us this morning.  I would like to thank my family and parishioners for coming today to celebrate and help me thank God for being His priest for 50 years.

On the day of my ordination I gave my mother my memorial card.  She read it.  I also gave her the memorial card of another priest who was ordained with me the same day.  Very gently my Mum said, “Son, I wish you had written on your card what he had written.”  He wrote, “I thank the Lord for choosing me to be His priest.  I wrote on mine, “I thank the Lord for the gift of the priesthood.”  Mum was right, his was more personal.

I am standing here today because I owe my vocation to my saintly parents.  I think of them today and thank God for the parents He gave me.

HOMILY

I invited Canon Seamus Keenan, the parish priest, to say these words.  He declined saying, “I am sure your family would like to hear you speak.  So if you don’t like what I have to say, you know whom to blame!”

Every priest, like St. Matthias whose feast we keep today, is chosen by Christ.  No priest can say, “I chose to be a priest.”  Rather it is Jesus who says, “I chose you.”  It is Jesus who leads us to the priesthood in different ways.

The majority of priests come from good Catholic homes.  I was blessed with saintly parents.  I was one of twelve children, eight girls and four boys.  If God had called all of us to be priests and nuns I am sure my Dad and Mum would have been extremely happy.  That says something about the holiness of my parents.  One girl became a nun and one boy a priest.  The rest married and I can proudly say that not one lapsed and all happily married.  We owe this to the strong faith of our parents and the good example they gave us.

We owe so much to our ancestors.  One day when I was a deacon, well on the way to the priesthood, my grandmother said to me, “Do you know Marcy God is calling you to be a priest.  It will be you who will lead us all to Heaven.”  I said, “Mamma, please don’t place that responsibility on my shoulders.

What inspired me to be a priest?  It was hearing my father say, “If one of my sons becomes a priest it will be the happiest day of my life.”  I think I was about six at the time, but those words made a deep impression on me that I, who loved my Dad so much, was going to be the one who would bring about the happiest day of his life.  Someone could make the case that my motive wasn’t the right one, but it was God who eventually channelled that motive to please Him first before pleasing my father.

Now what sort of priest was I going to be?  A strange circumstance in life brought this about.  I was now eight years old, an altar server in a Corpus Christi procession in New Delhi.  There I was a young lad of eight, with a huge quiff of hair like Elvis Presley, carrying a lighted candle.  I could hear a burning noise.  Suddenly from nowhere a Capuchin priest rushed over to me and started patting my head.  The candle I carried had set my hair on fire.  There was a bald patch there for a few weeks.  That priest was Fr. Luke.  I got to like him and decided when I grew up I would become a priest like him, wearing a brown habit, a black beard and a pair of sandals. 

It was now my ninth birthday, and on our birthdays, our father used to tell us to go the priest and get his blessing.  I was shy at that time and I didn’t want to do it, but you could not say no to Dad.  It was to Fr. Luke I went.  When I told him my Dad had sent me to get his blessing as it was my birthday, he said, “Fancy that!  It’s my birthday too!”  So he was the one who inspired me to be a Capuchin friar and priest.

Fifty years ago on 31 March 1963 I said my first Mass in this Church.  Sadly my father had died two years before I was ordained a priest.  He did not see me a priest, but knew I was well on the road to becoming one.  My mother and all my family were present at my ordination and first Mass.  Canon Anthony Hulme was the parish priest at that time; also present were Fr. Tom McConville from Northern Ireland, who served for many years as a curate here and for whom I had great respect and Fr. Tony Philpot a fellow altar server of mine in this church.  I remember that day so well.

I can’t believe that 50 years has gone by since that day.  A man wrote to me the other day congratulating me on being a priest for 50 years.  He said, “How many people’s lives as a priest have you touched in those 50 years?”  It made me wonder and start to think.  At all stages of people’s lives a priest is there to administer to all their needs.  I would love to know how many babies I have baptised and set on the road leading to Heaven.  Several times as a hospital chaplain I was called out in the early hours of a morning to baptise babies weighing just over 2 lbs.  One of these babies lives in Chester.  He is now 14 and comes regularly to me for Confession. 

Then there is the Sacrament of the Holy Eucharist.  In 50 years every priest would give as much a million Holy Communions.  What an honour that is.

A bishop is the ordinary minister of the Sacrament of Confirmation, but one Pentecost day I was privileged to administer this Sacrament to 62 children.  The week before the parish priest was due to confirm these children he broke his leg and he asked me if I would confirm them.

On average every year I hear 900 confessions.  That means in 50 years I have heard 45.000 confessions.  I can recall the happiness I have brought to many people by hearing their confessions.  Only recently I heard the confession of a lady whose marriage had broken down, she remarried outside the church.  Her husband died and after being away from confession for nearly forty years she made her confession to me.  She told me, “I can’t describe the joy and peace you have given me by going to confession.  I shed tears of joy throughout the whole of Mass and when you placed the consecrated host on my hand I just wanted to gaze at It forever.”

Here is another story about a confession I heard as a young priest.  The doorbell of the confessional rang.  I entered the confessional.  By the sounds on the other side of the confessional I knew it was an old person who was the penitent.  She began, “Father, I don’t know where to begin.  The last time I went to confession was the day before my wedding when I was 18 and now I am 82.”  All I could say to her was, “Congratulations!  It must have been very hard for you to come here.”  She replied, “If only you knew how many years I have just wanted to do this!”  After her confession her daughter who had brought her to church rang our doorbell and told me, “Father, you will never know how happy you have made my mother.  May I bring my mother, who is house bound, along again to confession to you outside the appointed hours of hearing confession.”  I told her, “Bring her along any time.  That’s what we are here for.”  I could tell you dozen of stories of this nature where through this sacrament people have experienced the peace of Christ.  No doubt those people have now died and I feel sure are in heaven.  They are there because it was that moment of their turning back to the Lord and hearing from my lips those wonderful words, “And I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

Countless times I have administered the Sacrament of the Sick.  I remember the occasion I was visiting the sick in hospital.  I don’t know what made me to be drawn to this particular man lying in a bed.  I never even knew he was a Catholic.  We chatted.  It turned out he was a Catholic, married outside the Church and had left the church for years.  He told me he had just days to live.  I encouraged him to make his peace with God.  He accepted my invitation.  The result was that I heard his confession, regularised his marriage and administered the Sacrament of the dying and in two weeks’ time gave him a Catholic burial.  I wish I could convey to you the happiness I brought to him, his wife and his family.  What a wonderful way God has in using His priests to bring the lost sheep back into His fold.  How can I ever thank God for that honour?

A priest doesn’t administer the Sacrament of Matrimony.  It is the husband and wife who do so.  The priest is the chief witness of the church.  I like doing marriages.  They are happy family occasions.  I like to make it personal by singing two songs, one for the bride on behalf of the bridegroom and the other for the bridegroom on behalf of the bride.  I know how much these songs are appreciated.  I wonder how many children those marriages have produced because you were the priest who helped to tie the knot.  I shall never forget the first wedding at which I ever officiated.  It was that of my younger sister Francesca.  She told her husband Gordon of happy memory, “We are not going to get married until my brother is a priest and he will marry us.”  And they were married in this church.

What is the chief duty of a priest?  It is to offer sacrifice.  Every morning as he stands at the altar he takes bread into his hands and holds the chalice of wine and says over them those beautiful words, “This is My Body…This is My Blood”.  At that solemn moment he performs the greatest miracle that takes place in our world every day, when bread and wine are changed into the risen Lord Jesus.  On behalf of the church he offers this sacrifice of Jesus to God the Father for the salvation of the world.  Is there any greater thing a human person can do?  Is there any greater power and honour God can confer upon a man?   How can a sinful man ever thank God for bestowing such a gift upon him?  It is now that I can appreciate the words of my father, “The day one of my sons becomes a priest will be the happiest day of my life.”

Singing has a played an important and enjoyable part of my life.  How pleased I am to relate to you the fact that I sing a pro-Life song called “Cry from the heart” and as far as I know that song has influenced at least twenty two mothers who were contemplating abortion not to have one.  In fact the twenty second life it saved was a boy of ten who wrote to me.  He said, “Father Francis, I want to thank you for that song, ‘Cry from the heart’.  My mother was about to abort me when she heard it and said, ‘I can’t do it.’  And because of that I am living today.  I can’t thank you enough.”

Every priest must be very near to the heart of Our Blessed Lady, the mother of the High Priest Jesus.  I would like to thank her for all the love and care she has given to me over these fifty years and I would like to place the rest of my life in her hands.  I long for the day to be in heaven and embraced by our loving mother.

The Golden Jubilee of a priest is what we are celebrating today.  I thank all of you, but particularly my family, for coming to celebrate this occasion and helping me to thank God for the many graces he has bestowed on me the last 50 years of my life.  I thank Canon Seamus Keenan for allowing this happy event to take place in his Church.  May God reward you all.

Three Wishes

There I was face to face with St Peter. He looked at his computer monitor and said. “Yep … your credentials are OK. You’ve made it. Welcome to Heaven!”

I smiled silently.

“We like our guests to be very comfortable here” continued the Saint, “and not feel too disoriented from where they come from. So you’re allowed to go back to earth for a short period and bring with you three items from down there which will help make you more comfortable up here.

“I have to enter them on the computer … so, what will they be?”

I stopped and thought for a few moments. Three items … what could I bring from earth which will make my eternity here more pleasant … as if that were possible.

I saw him smile at that last thought.

Perhaps I could bring my MP3 player with all my music collection … that would be nice.

He frowned a little and was about to type when I added … “Oh … it’s got Latin hymns on it too …” He said nothing and I saw him type 3PM in the reflection of his spectacles.

Perhaps I could also bring my DVD collection of all those movies I never had time to see …

He interrupted my thoughts by saying, “Whilst you’re thinking about this can I also tell you that you can bring three people from down there to share Heaven with you. Who will they be?”

“Three people?” I thought, “but I know more than three people whom I’d love to see in Heaven for eternity.

“My wife … my children, my extended family, my friends, and all my Blogging friends whom I’ve ‘met’ through the Internet. There’s many more than just three people I’d like here with me.

“But … but … their lives are so inter-dependent. If I bring my wife here, who will look after the children left behind? And is it right and fair to bring young children here before they’ve had a chance to live life? How about my extended family … I can’t bring one and leave the others behind? This is so unfair!”

“Sit down,” said the Saint sternly, “you think it is unfair because you see things through human perspective. You analyze and measure things your way; often in a possessive manner.

“You say things like my wife, my children, my parents and my friends … as if these people belong to you.

“No one and nothing belongs to anybody and everything belongs to God.

“God gave life and only He decides when it ends and whether people come here or … the other place.

“You humans often complain when a young life is taken or when someone leaves dependents behind with seemingly no one to care for them.

“You forget that God is there to care for them, and He leaves plenty of opportunities for those people left behind to take on the task He has set them.

“Everyone has his allotted time on earth, and whilst there, their main job is to do God's will so that when their turn comes to leave earth they end up here! You understand?”

I nodded meekly.

“Now tell me,” he continued with a smile, “which Latin hymns do you have in your collection?”

“Not everyone who calls me 'Lord, Lord' will enter the Kingdom of Heaven, but only those who do what my Father in Heaven wants them to do.” Matthew 7:21.

Much Ado About Nothing

I have an Australian friend called Mel who told me once “We humans always over-complicate things. Life is made for Fosters and surfing! Simple as that.”

I agreed with the former sentiment as I sipped my amber nectar but I doubt you’ll ever find me out at sea standing on an old wooden board that came from a kitchen door.

I asked him on one occasion whether he was named after the Australian city of Melbourne.

“Nah mate,” he replied, “… Sydney. My name is Sydney. But there was another fella in my class at school named Sydney. There was also one called Ade … we called him Adelaide for short. Then they called me Mel.”

“After the city?” I repeated, raising an eyebrow.

“Nah … just Mel. Pure and simple. Just Mel.”

It makes sense I suppose; which by some circuitous route brings us to Shakespeare.

I had to attend a Shakespeare recital the other evening. Not a play as such, but some tedious professor of sorts standing on a stage and spouting for ages about the old bard. The audience consisted mainly of female Shakespeare enthusiasts accompanied by their bored husbands who had been dragged there under duress or some other enticement – like watching the football on TV!

Anyway, this tedious man went on explaining how and why Shakespeare started writing and became famous.

Personally, I don’t hold with the theory that Shakespeare wrote all these plays and sonnets. I think it was Francis Bacon. And I base my theory on the fact that I fancied a bacon sandwich at the time instead of listening to this tedious professor.

He went on to explain what Shakespeare meant when he said certain things in his plays, and what do various characters represent.

I mean … what does it matter? Why not just enjoy the plays instead of guessing what the author had in mind when he wrote it? He was probably just writing to earn a living, very much as authors, playwrights and film-makers do these days.

At one point the tedious professor asked his audience why Cleopatra in the play of that name put an asp to her bosoms.

I leant sideways and whispered “I didn’t know she put a donkey to her breast. Why did she do this?”

I got one of those stares that meant “I’ll sort you out later!”

The evening went on thus without even a break for a pint or three. I tried my best not to nod off and was rewarded at the end with tea and biscuits.

What a let down … not a Fosters in sight!

Which brings me back again to Mel. He was right … we humans tend to over-complicate things instead of making life pure and simple.

“Love one another. As I have loved you.” John 13:34

Stabbed Angel

Being a priest is not really a sedentary job where you work just one day a week and you have plenty of time for leisure and watching TV. Far from it. Sometimes you come face to face with real danger as Father Ignatius can testify.

It was a wet autumn evening with leaves covering the ground, and when they start rotting away and become slimy and slippery; a cold autumn evening with a freezing wind that blows right through you; the kind of evening when you’d much rather be at home by the fireside with a hot cup of chocolate in your hands. Yes ... not the sort of evening to be out and about.

You guessed it ... the phone rang and Father Ignatius was called out as a matter of urgency.

One of his elderly parishioners was very ill and not expected to see the night through. Father Ignatius jumped in his car and drove to one of the less salubrious parts of town where Mrs Bartholomew lived alone with a cat as a pet. As he arrived at her house in a darkly lit street the doctor was just leaving; and a kind neighbour had agreed to stay with her until Mrs Bartholomew’s son and daughter-in-law arrived from another town not so far away.

Father Ignatius stayed with the elderly lady to comfort her and to pray with her until her family arrived at about half-past eleven at night.

As he left the house he said yet another silent prayer for her and made his way, in the drizzling rain, towards his car. He was just a few feet away from the vehicle when suddenly, out of the dark, a young man jumped out from an alleyway brandishing a big knife.

The priest was startled and was fortunate enough to recover his balance on the slippery ground by leaning back on his car.

The young man, hardly visible in the semi-darkness, pointed the knife at Father Ignatius and said, “your wallet mister … and be quick about it …”

The priest could see the long blade shining in the little light that was available from a nearby shop window. Before he could say or do anything the young man lunged forward with the knife aimed at the priest’s chest. Father Ignatius moved sideways as a reflex and felt the knife slide down his side. Somehow, it got caught in his coat pocket pulling forward the youth who slipped badly hitting his head against the car door as he fell to the ground.

The youngster screamed in agony as the blade cut into him.

Father Ignatius stooped down to help him. He had the presence of mind to throw the knife a distance away and told the lad to stay still whilst he fetched some help from the “24/7” shop.

Moments later both an ambulance and the police were on the scene and the youth was taken away.

The following day Father Ignatius called at the police station as advised by the officers. He learnt that the youngster, only 15 years old, was un-employed, and living rough. This was hardly unusual in this desolate town where commerce and industry had long given up hope and departed.

He was asked to make a statement and to help press charges against his would-be assailant, but Father Ignatius had other things in mind. He knew the chief-of-police and somehow managed to get the youngster put in his care without pressing charges for the attempted mugging. It was after all a first-time offence and the police had no previous records of the lad. Three weeks later the priest found him a job with a local farmer.

But the story does not end there.

On the night of the attack Father Ignatius returned home very late into the night. Father Donald and Mrs Davenport the housekeeper were up and worried out of their minds. They did not know where the priest had been.

After getting cleaned up and nursing a nice cup of chocolate in his hands he re-told them that night’s events. Father Donald insisted that in future he’d be the one to go out late at night if necessary. In his early thirties, and half of Ignatius’ age, he thought he should be the one out there, leaving “the old man” at home.

Father Ignatius smiled and said nothing. Then after a pause he confided:

“Tonight, I’ve learnt two things I never realised before. When the situation first started and I thought I was about to die, I discovered that, in reality, I was not afraid of death. We all claim as Christians not to be afraid of death; and when it nearly happened to me, I found out I really wasn't scared at all. I seemed ready for it, but I was more concerned as to whether it would be painful.

“Secondly, I think my Guardian Angel helped me tonight. When the knife came at me at speed, I saw a white shape come between me and the young boy. It was all over in a flash. One second I saw the shape and the next the boy was on the ground in agonizing pain. I'm certain that knife was stopped into going in my chest.”

Unfortunately, in a town where nothing much of interest happens, the story of the attack found its way in the newspapers.

For days afterwards, every time Father Ignatius went to St Andrew’s Catholic School the young boys made karate movements with their hands when they saw him, and called him Father Kung-Fu.

The Air That I Breathe

As I got out of my London taxi and made my way to the big apartment block, a luxurious car drew by, and the uniformed man at the entrance of the apartment block came out on the sidewalk and opened the door.

Out came a bejeweled woman carrying a small poodle in her hands and a small man carrying her handbag. They were both in their late fifties or early sixties, I would guess. She was somewhat large and what could euphemistically be described as rotund; whilst he was somewhat diminutive in stature and obviously submissive to her demands.

I let them go through into the building first; out of politeness of course. As I followed them in, the other security type person checked my credentials before letting me in. What a cheek!!! Just because I was wearing my red tartan trousers, green jacket and cowboy hat with large feather; there’s no need to suspiciously ask why I was there.

Anyway, moments later we were waiting by the elevator doors and we were joined by a pretty young lady also obviously well to do.

“Hello Stephanie!” said the rotund woman.

“Good morning Mrs Flabbergast,” replied the young lady, “how is Bijou this morning?”

“Bijou?” I thought, that’s a stupid name for one’s husband.

“Oh he’s all well again,” replied the rotund woman, “Mr Flabbergast and I have just been to the vet for his injections!”

“Why did her husband go to the vet for his injections?” I thought, “maybe he’s caught something from the dog!”

The elevator arrived and we all got in.

“We’re going to the penthouse, young man” said the rotund woman to me looking down her nose.

I smiled and pressed the buttons as the young lady said “17^thfloor for me please!”

The elevator went up smoothly for a minute or so and then stopped with a jolt.

“Perhaps you didn’t press the buttons properly!” accused the rotund woman.

I mean … what an insult … There’s only one way to press an elevator button, and I did just that. I pressed 17, Penthouse and 21, the floor I was destined to. And now here I was stuck in an elevator with high society looking down on me.

The diminutive man said “They’ll soon let us out dear … these elevators automatically inform the engineers when something is wrong!”

“Oh do be quiet Gilbert …” she responded, “Bijou is getting upset!”

“There’s an opening in the ceiling” the young lady pointed out, “if you lift that flap there you can go through, and there’s a lever that opens the doors. I’ve seen it done in the movies!”

I looked up and said nothing.

“You don’t expect me to get up there?” said the young high society, “not in my mini skirt, I won’t!”

“Gilbert suffers from vertigo” said Mrs Flabbergast, “and I certainly will not climb up there in this new dress. So it’s down to you young man!”

“Or up to you …” said Gilbert with a smile pointing upwards.

“I am not going up there.” I said authoritatively. “I may press the wrong lever and things would get worse. I’m sure the engineers will soon let us out. Let’s be patient for a while.”

We remained patient for about five minutes or so. Silently looking at each other nervously and smiling politely. And then it happened …

Someone … (cue in dramatic music) had cowardly broken wind!

It was one of those silent wind breakers that turns the air a darker shade of grey as it slowly suffocates your every breath and presses your eardrums outwards.

I don’t know about you … but I think breaking wind in an elevator is totally wrong on so many levels.

They all looked at me accusingly. I resented that. I knew it wasn’t me but how could I prove it? If I objected it would have been taken as admission of guilt. I said nothing and looked at my watch, pretending not to notice their accusations or the distinct lack of air in this suspended cage.

“Would you like some chocolates?” said Mrs Flabbergast trying to deflect the silent conversation to another subject.

She opened her handbag and brought out a packet of chocolate drops which she handed round to the young miss and her husband. Neither took any.

I took a couple, out of politeness of course, and to show there were no hard-feelings regarding the false un-spoken accusations.

She pulled a couple of drops out of the bag and gave them to Bijou.

“Chocolates can be harmful to dogs,” said the young lady with a smile.

“Oh … they’re not chocolates!” replied Mrs Flabbergast, “They’re specially formulated chocolate substitutes for dogs. The vet just gave them to us!”

Before I could say anything the elevator smoothly moved upwards and took us to our destinations.

Lately I’ve often had this urge to scratch my ears violently with my feet. Very embarrassing … especially when on a bus!

Quote Unquote Shakespeare

 I wonder how many people know that all these sayings originate from Shakespeare.

Miracles

Father Ignatius approached the pulpit and said, “Hands up all those who have been to Lourdes!”

Quite a few hands went up.

“Keep your hands up,” he said, “now hands up those who went to Fatima, Knock or any other Holy Shrine!”

A few more hands went up.

“OK …” continued the priest, “hands down. Now hands up again anyone who has had a miracle happen to them at any of these places!”

No hands went up.

The priest waited a few seconds and then continued.

“Just as I thought! No one considers that a miracle has happened to them. Which of course begs the question; Do miracles happen these days?

“The truth is that miracles do happen these days; but people are not willing to believe in them.

“Perhaps they expect spectacular miracles to happen … Raising of the dead. Walking on water, changing water into wine … now that was a good one!

“Anything less than that and our Faith has not been stimulated enough to even consider it as a miracle, let alone believe it has happened.”

He stopped once again, as he usually did in his sermons, to allow the challenge to sink into the parishioners’ minds.

“I’d like us to consider for a while what is a miracle and who actually performs it when it happens.

“Spectacular miracles, as you would wish them to be, like healings from incurable illnesses and diseases do happen at Lourdes and elsewhere even today. There is plenty of documented evidence if you wish to research it.

“Many people have been healed suddenly with no explanation from medical or scientific sources. They remain unexplained and are accepted as miracles performed at the many Shrines visited by the sick person.

“Miracles happen elsewhere too … not just at these Shrines. Miracles can happen in churches, hospitals or even at your homes … if it is the will of God that they should happen.

“This then leads to the second question. Who performs these miracles?

“Is it Our Lady, the Mother of God at Lourdes or her other Shrines? Is it the particular Saint you happen to be praying to for help? Or is it God?

“And when we pray to individuals before they become Saints for a particular favor, or miracle even … like Padre Pio, Pere Charbel, and so on before they were made Saints by the Vatican … who performed the miracles do you think? Was it the particular person prayed to or was it God?

“Isn’t it after all the performance of miracles, or the answers to prayers, one of the tests which our Church considers as a requirement to Sainthood?”

He paused yet again.

“There are those who say that only God or Jesus can perform miracles; and to pray to Saints, or even people who have not even yet been considered as Saints, is wrong.

“Let me read you something from Acts of the Apostles … you can look it up yourselves at Acts 3.

“You’ll remember that as Peter and John went into the Temple to pray they met a man at The Beautiful Gate, as it was called, who had been lame all his life.

“The beggar expected money from the two apostles. Peter turned to him and said, ‘I don’t have silver or gold. But what I have I give you. In the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth get up and walk!’ And of course the man was healed.

“Later on in Acts 5 Verse 12 we read that many miracles were performed by the apostles. Sick people lay in the streets so that Peter’s shadow would fall upon them and heal them. And indeed many were healed.

“The important thing to note here is that Peter said ‘in the name of Jesus Christ get up and walk.’

“So yes … the apostles whilst they walked this earth, and now they are in Heaven, can and do perform miracles; they have not lost their ability to perform miracles, in the name of Jesus, just because they’re in Heaven.

“And so does Our Lady perform miracles in the name of her Son Jesus. As do Padre Pio, Pere Charbel and many other Saints. But they do so in the name of Jesus. It is very important to remember that.”

Father Ignatius stopped once again having pressed his point home.

“And now we move on to our last question,” he said, “for today at least!

“What role does our Faith has to play in the performance of miracles?

“Jesus said time and again to the sick, ‘Your Faith has healed you. Your Faith has saved you.’

“He did not say, ‘Wait … let me click my fingers and hey presto you’ll be healed … Because I’m great at miracles!’ ”

The congregation laughed. The priest continued.

“He made a point of saying that the people’s Faith played a great part in their healing and in their salvation.

“The sick did not stay at home and think ‘Oh well … if Jesus wants to heal me, He’ll do so in good time … I don’t need to go and see Him!’

“They went out to seek Him. They believed in this man who was different. A holy man, a teacher, a healer, the Son of God.

“They had heard about Him, and now He’s in their town or village they went out to find Him … in hope, in desperation perhaps, and even in Faith … as small as a mustard seed! But that little Faith, however tiny it was, is what saved and healed them.

“The blind man shouted at the top of his voice to attract Christ’s attention and to be healed.

“The old lady pushed her way through the crowds in order to get close enough to just touch His cloak and be healed.

“The Roman soldier believed in Jesus so much that he thought just one word from Him would bring healing.

“That’s what I mean by true Faith … it plays a great part in the performance of miracles.

“It need not be our Faith that saves us … the Faith of others, on our behalf can and does bring miracles and healing to us.

“The Roman soldier was asking for healing for his servant, not for himself. His Faith helped heal his servant.

“The men who broke the roof off a house and lowered the man in his sick bed down to Jesus showed Faith on behalf of their friend … and their Faith was rewarded.

“All the people who lay in the streets hoping that Peter’s shadow may fall upon them showed great Faith too.

“As indeed do all those who visit Lourdes, Fatima, Knock and all the Holy Shrines.

“Let me conclude by saying that miracles do indeed happen today. Both great and small. They are performed by Saints and those yet to be Saints through the power of Our Lord Jesus Christ

“Faith plays a great part in the performance of miracles.

“And before you ask … we do not have to go to the Holy Shrines for our prayers to be heard, or for our miracles to happen. All we need is to trust in God and be willing to accept His will in His time and in His way.

“We need a little Faith … not much, just a mustard seed’s worth!”