Martin How - Funeral Homily

Homily preached at the funeral of Martin John Richard How MBE (1931-2022), Croydon Minster, 23^rd August 2022

 

Isaiah 12 Sing praises to the Lord for he has done gloriously

1 Peter 1.3-9 You are receiving the outcome of your faith; the salvation of your souls

 

Sing praises to the Lord, for he has done gloriously;

let this be known in all the earth.

Shout aloud and sing for joy, O royal Zion,

for great in your midst is the Holy One of Israel.

 

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Last night the body of our dear friend, mentor, inspiration, Organist Laureate and brother in Christ, Martin, was brought into this church where it has rested overnight.

 

Martin was received into the church with confidence in God, the giver of life, who raised the Lord Jesus Christ from the dead.

 

The coffin was sprinkled with water recalling Martin’s baptism and we prayed that, as Christ went through the deep waters of death for us, so might he bring us, with Martin and all the redeemed, to the fullness of resurrection life.

 

It is hard to believe that we are here today, saying goodbye to Martin and commending him to God, because - despite his long years - life, vigour and creativity shone out of him to the very end, rooted in his faith and hope and love.

 

Receiving Martin’s body last night, and offering the Eucharist for him, mirrored for us on earth what we believe to be the reality of heaven, that Martin will be received body and spirit into the courts of heaven to be welcomed into the kingdom of his Lord and ours and find his place at the Heavenly Banquet.

 

There he will await the Resurrection of the dead and the promise of the First Letter of Peter, of the outcome of his faith, the salvation of his soul.

 

Martin was one of those people of whom it is easy to speak warmly, to idolise and wax lyrical.

 

And thanks be to God, we spoke of him like that while he was alive; for he was kind, warm hearted, encouraging and a sheer joy to be with, utterly self-deprecating and humble; none of which was an affectation.

 

Martin’s character was forged in experiences that tested him - his mother’s death, his father’s high profile as a Bishop, his experience of boarding at Repton, his time in National Service – but he endured because of his faith formed in the loving heart of his family and sustained by being part of church communities, latterly this one here at Croydon Minster and amongst colleagues not least at the Royal School of Church Music.

 

Martin held his undoubted and celebrated talents – be that his musicianship, his athleticism or gifts of character - on trust from the Giver of all good things: God.

 

In the spirit of the great parable Martin multiplied the talents he was given, and he did so to the glory of God and in service of God’s people: the Lord is surely saying to him, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things, I will make thee ruler over many things: enter thou into the joy of thy lord.’ (Matthew 25.23 AV).

 

Those talents changed lives.

 

Think of countless organists, directors of music in parish churches, of choristers – boys and girls – of congregations, who through Martin’s direction, harmonies and music have sung God’s praises and grown in ‘wonder, love and praise’.[1]

 

I have seen, through Facebook, Twitter, emails - media that Martin studiously dodged - as well as letters, just how much Martin meant to so many people.

 

Those messages conveyed Martin’s humour, his playfulness with words, the nicknames that might be applied to some people or places.

 

Each of us brings today, and cherishes, memories and anecdotes that we offer in thankfulness to God.

 

Figuratively speaking we can place upon Martin’s coffin tokens that represented the essence of Martin.

 

What would you place upon his coffin to represent him?

 

It may be a pair of shoes: whether you think of his organ playing shoes or his running shoes, that is up to you!

 

It may be a glass of red wine and a ham sandwich; the regular lunchtime fare given to friends, and flagging Vicars, to encourage and uplift us.

 

It may be a handwritten note, in his, oh so distinctive, writing, perhaps placed inside a recycled envelope with the previous addressee’s name crossed out.

 

It may be a manuscript of his music, perhaps ‘Martin How at 90’ or a copy of ‘Day by Day’.

 

No doubt there are many more items that capture who Martin was to each one of us.

 

All we say of Martin today is not to eulogise him unrealistically, but to celebrate and be inspired, knowing that our lives are enriched by having known him and made music with him.

 

We continue to love him and rejoice in who he was for us.

 

The reality is that Martin and his memory is not our possession, indeed he never was, but today we entrust him in the power of the Spirit, in the name of the Lord into the hands of our loving heavenly Father, to whom he has always belonged.

 

Two particular things were placed on Martin’s coffin last night, and they take us to the heart of his faith and hope and love: a Bible and a crucifix.

 

The Bible - God’s word, that Martin proclaimed so unforgettably and lyrically in public worship, read intelligently and wisely in his personal devotion and set to music richly and sensitively– holds the promise of life in all its abundance.

 

The cross –through which Martin was ‘ransomed, healed, restored, forgiven’[2]  - is the sign of Christ’s sacrificial love, love to the very end, ‘ Love so amazing, so divine | Demands my soul, my life, my all’.[3]

 

In the days before he died, Martin was, in that powerful phrase, ‘strengthened by the Rites of the Church’. In other words, he was anointed with oil, made his peace with God through confession of his sins and received Holy Communion as heavenly food for his journey, the Body and Blood of Christ which had sustained him through being an almost daily communicant here at the Minster.

 

In that spirit he was ready to go to his maker and redeemer as a believer in God, our companion in faith, a Christian pilgrim, ‘singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in [his] heart’ (Colossians 3.16; cf Ephesians 5.19).

 

May Martin, and all the faithful departed, rest in peace. Amen.

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[1] ‘Love Divine, all loves excelling’ – Charles Wesley (1707-88)

[2] ‘Praise, my soul, the king of heaven’ - Henry Francis Lyte (1793-1847)

[3] ‘When I survey the wondrous cross’ - Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

Martin How - Reception of the Body & Requiem Mass

Homily preached at the Requiem Mass for Martin John How MBE (1931-2022), Croydon Minster, 22^nd August 2022, after the reception of his body on the eve of his funeral.

 

Romans 6.3-9 If we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him.

John 11.17-21 Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.

 

‘But if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him. We know that Christ, being raised from the dead, will never die again; death no longer has dominion over him.’

 

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In our gospel reading Martha says to Jesus, ‘Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died’.

 

But, because Jesus was now present, her brother Lazarus, who had died, was called out of the tomb and raised to new life.

 

In his ministry the Lord sets a pattern of bringing light into darkness and life out of death.

 

In his resurrection he seals the triumph of life over death and invites all humanity to receive that life: ‘life in all its abundance’ (John 10.10).

 

In the words of an Elizabethan poet, a text set to music by William Byrd, ‘O lively life, that deathless shall persever’ (‘An earthly tree, an heavenly fruit’ : A Carol for Christmas Day, Son of sundrie natures, 1589, nos 40 and 25))

 

This is what St Paul is distilling in his letter to the Romans, saying that ‘if we have died with Christ, we believe that we will also live with him’.

 

By his baptism our friend and brother in Christ, Martin, like us all, died with Christ that he might be raised with Christ.

 

By his baptism Martin was part of Christ’s pilgrim people, the Church, and was fed by the Bread of Life, Jesus Christ, in the Eucharist.

 

Martin died just as the feast of St James, the apostle and patron saint of pilgrims, drew to its close.

 

What a day for him to die; the feast of a saint who intercedes for us on our pilgrimage, our journey of faith on this earth, which finds its destination and home in heaven.

 

Martin walked in that path, indeed, as a runner well into his 80s, he positively ran eagerly the path of Christian faith.

 

A text that leapt to my mind is a verse from St Paul’s letter to the Philippians:

 

“But I am still running, trying to capture that by which I have been captured” (Philippians 3.12)

 

The text continues (albeit in a different translation),

 

Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on towards the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 3.13-14)

 

Martin’s earthly pilgrimage is now complete.

 

Martin had been captured, captivated, by Jesus Christ, the source and object of his many gifts and talents.

 

Tomorrow at his funeral we will, of course, remember what ‘lies behind’ because that is what we know of Martin: his music, his gracious, kind, generous character; the signs of the tremendous grace and power of God that shone out of him.

 

Curiously Martin sat very light to what he had achieved in his life.

 

He was never one to wallow in what ‘lies behind’, to dine off his reputation or sit back and say ‘do you know who I am?’

 

Martin had cracked a wonderful gift, that he lived his life as one who could savour the day and look forward in hope and confidence to tomorrow; what lay behind was lovely, but it was not what shaped who Martin was when he met another person.

 

As Martin ran the race that was set before him, he gathered friends and companions: a companion is literally ‘one with whom we break bread’.

 

We break bread tonight with the body Martin – our companion in the faith - in our midst and we offer this Eucharist of Requiem asking that Martin’s sins will be forgiven, that he may indeed receive ‘the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus’ (Philippians 3.14) and eternal rest.

 

The pilgrim has now come to the end of his earthly journey.

 

All that remains for us now is to pray for him, to watch with him for the signs of the coming kingdom.

 

This evening, after the words, ‘Go in the peace of Christ’ we have the tough task of walking away.

 

But we walk away confident that Martin is embraced in the love of his Lord, that he is surrounded by the angelic host, who are represented in the quire of the church as holding musical instruments and in full song - what better place for Martin’s mortal remains to rest on the night before his funeral?

 

And then our faith and hope is that he will be wakened into the new life of heaven in the splendour of light perpetual: the Lord is here: our brother lives!

 

As verses from psalm 30 put it:

 

Sing praises unto the Lord, O ye saints of his : and give thanks unto him for a remembrance of his holiness.

For his wrath endureth but the twinkling of an eye, and in his pleasure is life : heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.

(Psalm 30.4,5)

The 'Inn of Mercy'

Deuteronomy 30.10-14 The Law is not beyond your strength or beyond your reach

Colossians 1.15-20 All things were created through Christ and for Christ

Luke 10.25-37 The one who showed mercy

 

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Our son, Charles, is currently on pilgrimage in the Holy Land.

 

I would commend every Christian who can, to go to the Holy Land as a pilgrim.

 

I realise not everyone can, but it is my hope that in the next couple of years that we could look at a Minster pilgrimage there.

 

That sounds a long way off, but it is one to ponder and then, sadly, to save up for.

 

There are many good reasons to go, but one of the things about the Holy Land is that you are taken to places traditionally associated with, or believed to be, the place where certain things in Sacred Scripture happened.

 

At some of them you can say, ‘yes, this is where it was’ for example the Sea of Galilee this is where Jesus called the fishermen, this is where he stilled the storm.

 

Other places are less certain.

 

Is the Church of the Beatitudes really on the site of the Sermon on the Mount? Well, it may be, and if not then it was somewhere very nearby.

 

But there is one place that is certainly not the location of what is claimed.

 

I was once on pilgrimage in the Holy Land when we were shown on the Jerusalem to Jericho road a café that is reputedly the site of the inn to which the Good Samaritan took the wounded man.

 

Now, the road from Jerusalem to Jericho exists, and Charles will be travelling down it today – albeit in an air conditioned coach.

 

But café on the roadside is set up by an entrepreneur with an eye for the main chance.

 

The Good Samaritan is a parable and not claiming to be an historic account, so the café there today is not the inn where the wounded man was taken.

 

The point of a parable is to convey meaning in narrative form, i.e. telling a good story. Parables take us further and open up deeper themes.

 

And this parable illustrates who is a neighbour and how we are a neighbour, and it takes us deep into who we are and the merciful nature of God.

 

The participants in our online Lectio Divina group last Tuesday, where we spend extended time pondering in silence the meaning of Sacred Scripture, drew out some wonderful insights into this parable.

 

Take the young man who prompts the parable. He observes the commandments.

 

So what is it about him that he wants to justify himself? Do you, do I, seek to justify our spiritual status before God or before other people?

 

The priest and the scribes. They are meant to be ‘good people’ and clearly fulfil their cultic functions, but they are lacking: what is it in them, or what they see in the wounded man, that makes them walk on by?

 

The parable invites us to ask: what do I walk by today?

 

Who are the people, what are the situations that are broken and wounded and need our attention and mercy?

 

Who is the Christlike figure in the Parable? Orthodox Christians read this parable as prefiguring the Passion of Christ, the one beaten, scourged and ultimately left for dead as he is mocked by passers-by.

 

Or is Christ to be seen in the Samaritan? The Samaritan shares our humanity but is radically different in nationality; just as Christ shares our humanity but is divine too.

 

The Parable of the Good Samaritan opens up these questions for us.

 

Even the shortest of parables endlessly generates questions and insights with the aim of making us grow spiritually.

 

Remember the Sacred Scriptures are reading you, as much you are reading them. Reading sacred scripture is not like looking at a picture but looking at a mirror in which you see yourself, warts and all, and also what you can become.

 

In that spirit we can ask: where is the inn that the Samaritan took the wounded, robbed man?

 

Clearly it is not, and never was, a physical inn, now a café, on the side of the main Jerusalem to Jericho road in the Holy Land.

 

But the Inn of the Good Samaritan does exist.

 

The inn of the Good Samaritan is any place where mercy is shown.

 

The inn is located too in the inner recesses of the human heart.

 

Is your heart, like the sacred heart of Jesus, a place where mercy is found?

 

Is your life a place in which mercy is seen?

 

How do you show mercy to your neighbour?

 

The parable reveals that the neighbour to the man who fell into the hands of robbers is the one who showed him mercy. And what is Jesus’ conclusion? It’s a challenge and a commission.

 

‘Go and do likewise’.

Sacrifice, intercession, reconciliation: the priestly life

Preached at Croydon Minster on the 60^th anniversary of priesting of the Revd Canon Arthur Quinn and the 25^th of the Revd Canon Dr Andrew Bishop.

 

Isaiah 6.1-4,8 ‘Here I am: send me’

Psalm 23.1-3a, 5-6

John 17:1-2, 9, 14-26 Father the hour has come: glorify your Son

 

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60 years ago, in Fr Arthur’s case, 25 years ago in mine, and one day ago, in this church, for three people: priests have been ordained, in service of Christ and his Church, from the time of the Apostles.

 

Priesthood in the Church has a deep provenance going back to the time of Abraham and the mystical priest-king Melchizedek, on to Aaron the priest and on to the Temple in Jerusalem.

 

The essential task of the priest is to offer sacrifice and intercession in pursuit of reconciling human lives to God.

 

Priesthood - in the Old Testament and New and into the Apostolic Age and therefore in the life of the Church - is all focused on Jesus Christ, Eternal High Priest.

 

Jesus Christ both expands and intensifies all notions of what priesthood is.

 

In Jesus Christ the priestly task of the offering of sacrifice is no longer about the blood of bulls and goats and lambs; but is found in his offering of himself, once for all, upon the cross: he is the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.

 

Blood and water flowed from the heart of Jesus when the centurion’s lance pierced his side and he gave up his life.

 

That is the fulfilment of all sacrifice.

 

Nothing can perfect or improve the self-offering of Christ who is, as the hymn puts it, both priest and victim.

 

And today, through Christ our great High Priest, we receive the benefits of his sacrifice in the Eucharist, that’s why often it is known as the Sacrifice of the Mass.

 

The Eucharist is not a blood sacrifice but the re-presentation of the sacrifice of Christ in which we share, in the way he promised at the Last Supper, saying ‘this is my body, this is my blood’.

 

The sweet incense that masked the stench of slaughtered animals in the Temple, is now the fragrance of the Gospel of Jesus Christ, a fragrance that fills lives that will receive him, and accompanies the offering of ourselves, our souls and bodies to be a holy and lively sacrifice to him.

 

Incense too represents another dimension of priesthood, that of intercession, of prayer rising before the Lord, ‘let my prayer rise before you as incense’, says the psalm, ‘the lifting up of my hands as the evening sacrifice’ (Psalm 144).

 

Jesus Christ is the exemplar of prayer, that union with the Father. The intimacy of that relationship flowed through our gospel reading:

 

‘Righteous Father, the world does not know you, but I know you; and these know that you have sent me. I made your name known to them, and I will make it known, so that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them.’ (John 17.25,26)

 

This intimacy of prayer and communion of Father and Son, woven in the love of the Holy Spirit, is the fountain of reconciliation.

 

Drinking from that fountain brings us to life in its abundance and a clearer vision of life means we can be clear sighted about our sin.

 

That is why the sacrament we call Confession is also known as the Sacrament of Reconciliation, in which the penitent repents and the priest declares, at Christ’s word, the forgiveness of sins.

 

When we know the glory we can attain; we see the sin that impedes it.

 

Essentially, the Christian priest is to be the mirror of Jesus Christ, the Eternal High Priest.

 

At its heart that’s what my ministry is meant to be about, and Arthur’s too: as a song of the 1980s put it: ‘here comes the mirror man’!

 

A mirror, in itself, hasn’t got anything to show.

 

All that I, or Arthur, or any priest can bring is our own humanity, and the honest endeavour to reflect the sacrifice, reconciliation and love of Christ to the world.

 

The priest’s vocation starts with the holiness of God, as Isaiah found in the Temple.

 

Before being commissioned to be sent by the LORD, Isaiah, in the midst of the sacrifice and incense of the Temple cries out:

 

‘Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the Lord of hosts!’ (Isaiah 6.5)

 

The priest is first a human being, a sinner, falling short of God’s glory, yet by God’s grace we can be sent by the Lord. One of the Articles of Religion is entitled ‘of the unworthiness of the ministers, which hinders not the effect of the sacrament’. (Article 26).

 

Even human unworthiness cannot dim the divine light.

 

The Church Fathers often speak of the Blessed Virgin Mary – who said ‘how can this be?’ - as the moon reflecting the light of the sun: s-u-n and S-o-n.

 

That’s one reason why Mary is known as ‘Mother of Priests’.

 

I have used the phrase ‘mirror men’, but the ancient way of putting it is that, in the Liturgy, the priest is an icon of Christ who acts in persona Christi, in the person of Christ.

 

So I trust that we have been ‘mirror men’ in the parishes and chaplaincies in which we have served, reflecting the sacrifice of Jesus Christ, interceding and reconciling in his name not our own.

 

St Augustine of Hippo remarked to the people of his diocese, ‘I am a Christian with you and a Bishop for you’.

 

A priest is both a Christian with you and a priest for you.

 

To be a priest in the Church of God is the most overwhelming privilege when we pause to consider it.

 

No doubt like me, Arthur will be mindful tonight - on this jubilee, this lovely (but ultimately artificial) landmark - of those people who we have baptised, prepared for confirmation, married and buried; those whose vocations we have spotted and nurtured, those whose confessions we have heard and to whom we have pronounced Christ’s forgiveness; those dying in the hope of the resurrection to eternal life and those who lacked that hope; the students, and others who we have endeavoured to guide through the world’s machinations and the valley of the shadow of death; those people to whom we have had to speak firmly, for the sake of truth, and those who have needed a kind or encouraging word; those who have gathered at the altar as we have proclaimed Christ in word and sacrament supremely in the breaking of bread.

 

No doubt too, Arthur will be mindful, like me, of those priests who in their time were sources of inspiration to us, and thankful to our families, friends and congregations who have made our ministries possible and sustainable.

 

Ultimately the task of each priest, and each Christian, is to turn to Christ and walk with him the path of life.

 

With fellow priests, not least in this season of life here, I trust that Arthur and I mirror and show to you the sacrificial love of Christ that reconciles us to the Blessed Trinity.

 

Please pray for your priests, and all priests, mindful of the words the priest says at the end of a Confession to the person forgiven.

 

The Lord has put away your sins.

When you pray, please pray for me, a sinner too.

What kind of God? A Trinity Sunday sermon

 

Proverbs 8.1-4, 22-31 Before the earth came into being, Wisdom was born

Romans 5.1-5 The love of God has been poured into our hearts

John 16.12-15 The Spirit of truth will lead you to the complete truth

 

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How often, I wonder, do we ever really think about God.

 

It seems an odd question to ask in a church.

 

After all, isn’t part of coming to church about believing in God?

 

We refer to God a lot in prayers and hymns, we claim insights into God’s will and say that God is interested in our world and in us.

 

Do we ever really ponder God? Is the worship and adoration of God front and centre of our hearts and minds when we come to church?

 

Jesus Christ, as shown in today’s gospel reading is all about setting us aright with God, and all that flows from that in how we think and speak and act.

 

He notes that the sheer weight of the mystery of God is unbearable without him, and without the Holy Spirit of God to continue to lead us into all truth.

 

It’s easy, and convenient, to dodge talking about God even in church.

 

Perhaps we are like footballers who talk endlessly about 4-4-2 formations, passing, heading, crossing and the offside rule, but never consider the nature of the ball they kick.

 

It’s a trivial example perhaps, but do we really consider the mystery at the heart of faith: God?

 

Ironically atheists seem to think more about the existence and nature of God than many people of faith.

 

Atheism, an emphatic belief that there is no God to be understood or worshipped, challenges us to consider who God is, and who God isn’t.

 

Often an atheist asks, ‘what kind of God would allow such and such?’ It’s as if they want to believe in a god, but it’s a question that Trinity Sunday demands too: what kind of God do we believe in?

 

It matters what we believe about God; it matters that we believe in God.

 

The object of our worship is where we locate our heart, our desires, our purpose.

 

Human beings have the capacity to make all sorts of things their gods.

 

Many ancient religions and contemporary ‘spiritualities’ regard elements of creation, on earth or in the skies, as things to be worshipped: for the ancient Egyptians it was Ra, the sun god.

 

Those heading off to Stonehenge at the end of the month for the summer solstice will also reverence the sun.

 

After all, the sun was, and is, a source of life, with power and energy, light and warmth.

 

But neither the sun – s-u-n – nor moon, nor rivers, nor springs nor anything else in all creation brings us to life, has the capacity help us see beyond ourselves.

 

The sun cannot save us from the mirk and mire of human existence. As Genesis notes, in creation God put the sun in its place (cf Genesis 1.17-18) and saw that it is good.

 

Nature is compelling and beautiful, but it is a gift to us to be cherished and tended, but it is not our god.

 

Psalm 8, sung this morning, is a beautiful meditation on just that theme.

 

This idolising continues in contemporary culture when parents make gods of their children; advertising makes a god of the toned and lithe human body; food (cf Philippians 3.19), drink, even fun, are seen as the highest Good.

 

If those are the forms of devotion that we see today this is because the kind of god that is ultimately believed in is the autonomy of the individual: I am the beginning and ending of my own reality; creator, producer and star of my own drama.

 

And if I am my own god, then everything is on my terms.

 

That is the secular creed: I believe in me.

 

A Christian cannot ultimately say ‘I believe in me; I believe in my own power to sort out and save my life’.

 

What we do profess, we say at the beginning of the Creed: ‘Credo in unum Deum’ - I believe in one God.

 

The Creed is the distilled account of our witness to who God reveals Godself to be  and our response to the atheist question: what kind of God?

 

In the Creeds we describe the God who is ‘above all things and through all things and in all things’ (Epistle I to Serapion, 28-30, St Athanasius Office of Readings, The Most Holy Trinity).

 

St Athanasius echoes this: ‘Yes, certainly “above all things”’ as the Father, the first principle and origin; and truly “through all things” that is through the Word, and finally “in all things” in the Holy Spirit’.

 

In making that profession of faith we are claiming something deeply true about God – the oneness of God – and about ourselves.

 

Since when we say ‘I believe in God’ we are saying that the source of all that is, seen and unseen, is not generated by our own imaginations, not a projection of our fantasies about ourselves, but we are rooted in the invisible God who is made visible in Jesus Christ and continues to be known to us in the Holy Spirit.

 

This God, our God, is known intimately in his face, the face of Jesus Christ. And we seek his face in the sacraments, in prayer, in scripture.

 

To see Christ is to see the Father, that is, to see the God who is both beyond ourselves, and ‘Emmanuel: God with us’ (Matthew 1.18), who diverts us from our self-destructive ways and the idols we would so merrily create for ourselves.

 

‘What kind of God?’ asks the atheist.

 

Trinity Sunday is the annual invitation card to the day by day placing of God at the very heart and centre of our lives.

 

God, the Holy Trinity, is not a mystery to be explained but an invitation to be accepted.

 

Responding to the invitation we fix our gaze on the face of Christ and are drawn into the love of God that is both perfect within the Godhead and spills out into human existence.

 

We can say, with any atheist, that we do not believe in a god who is capricious, grumpy, ill-willed or takes pleasure from natural disaster or devastating illness.

 

Rather the God in whom we believe condescends to share our humanity, comes to renew creation and shape us into the people he created us to be in the first place.

 

Only in God’s power, and not our own, can we overcome the tendency to be possessive, controlling, manipulative and self-destructive.

 

All that is God’s is declared to us by Jesus Christ and, in the power of the Holy Spirit, we are led by the hand into all truth, that is the truth of God.

 

At the heart of Catholic Christian faith is this deep yet ever generating mystery: God the maker of all things wills to save us from our self-destruction in the person of Jesus Christ and in the power of the Holy Spirit: three persons, yet always One God, to whom be power and glory, majesty and dominion now and in all eternity. Amen.