Grassroots Liturgist

This seems an appropriate point at which to explore the Lectionary, of which we start using a new edition on the 1st Sunday of Advent later this year. The Second Vatican Council reminds us that we are fed from two tables in the Holy Mass: Word and Sacrament. “The treasures of the Bible are to be opened up more lavishly, so that richer fare may be provided for the faithful at the table of God's word.   In this way a more representative portion of the holy scriptures will be read to the people in the course of a prescribed number of years.” (Sacrosanctum Concilium 51) For too long, the Church didn’t provide its flock with a great deal of nourishment from Scripture in the Mass.   The Council Fathers sought to correct that, which led the introduction of the 1969 Lectionary – the   book which contains all the Readings that are proclaimed during the Liturgy of the Word.   On any given Sunday, at every Catholic church in every country of the world, we listen to the same Readings. Ma

I have often joked that I can kill a plant at twenty paces just by looking at it – and I wasn’t exaggerating by much.   However, I have recently taken a little more interest in houseplants.   It was a shaky start.   My plants looked great for a while, usually, but would then start to show worrying signs.   The most common problem was that leaves would begin to turn a kind of yellow, then brown, and then simply die.   And any further growth of the plant was stunted.   I thought maybe I was overwatering them, but that wasn’t the case.   Eventually, after a long time, it dawned on me; I had ignored a basic necessity of all life – nourishment.   I wasn’t replacing the nutrients in the soil, the very food that a plant needs to flourish.   I wasn’t feeding my plants. As Catholic Christians, our attendance at Mass is ‘obligatory’ not because God needs it – God needs nothing – but because we need it.   Our spiritual lives need to be nourished or they will wither and die, as surely as my

Do you remember being told, ‘Sticks and stones may break your bones, but words will never hurt you’? From my youngest days, I never really liked that aphorism.   It always seemed far too simplistic.   The central message, that we should rise above taunts, jeers and insults, is fair enough.   But words most certainly DO have power. I recall many years ago, a friend who was a dedicated and skilled primary school teacher, was sitting with one of my children – then aged 5 – as he was attempting some handwriting.   A well-judged word of encouragement, and suddenly he was trying all the harder, with noticeably improved results.   On the other hand, a careless or cruel word can cut someone down, destroy confidence or remove their sense of self-worth.   Who does not still harbour some memory of a hurtful word that someone said to you many, many years ago? On a bigger scale, words can inspire and live long in the memory: “We shall fight on the beaches…,” “Ask not what your country can d

We have already reflected on silence, and how important it can be for our spiritual life. But in our everyday life, when we are with other people, silence can be a comforting or a challenging experience.  At its worse, it can be awkward to the point of excruciatingly painful. At its best, it can be powerfully intimate, drawing us closer together – think of a well-observed minute’s silence for someone who has died.  After we have sung the Glory to God, we come to another of the small silences that we have previously mentioned; the priest says, “Let us pray,” and there follows a short period of silence before the Celebrant prays the Collect. What do you do during this silence? Are you simply waiting for the priest to pray the Collect?  The Collect is the opening prayer in the celebration of Holy Mass, it gathers together our silent prayers and is spoken on our behalf. But our own prayer actually starts during that silence. The General Instruction tells us that the silence follows so that

In the Parable of the Prodigal Son, have you ever wondered at which point the father forgave the son who had offended him in every possible way?   Was it when he threw the extravagant party?   Or when he ran out to embrace his son?   Or when he first saw his son returning to the family home? For me, it was long before that.   We are told that the father saw his son while he was still a long way from home – he was scanning the horizon, yearning for the return of his beloved, if wayward, son.   Would he be doing that had he not already forgiven his son?   But it wasn’t until his son returned and fulfilled the other necessary conditions for reconciliation (contrition, confession and penance) that the joy of the reconciliation – symbolised by the lavish celebrations – could commence.   The son was burdened by the weight of guilt at his offence.   That burden was lifted by the reconciliation with his father, and the joy of the father's love could then be celebrated.   The transi