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23/04/2026

Solemnity of Saint George

There’s something striking about Saint George that has captured imaginations for centuries — the image of a knight facing a dragon. Now, whether we picture that dragon as literal or symbolic, the truth behind it is very real, because every age has its dragons. To some it is the dragon of fear, or having to endure persecution. To others it could be injustice. To many, it is the dragon of compromise. Often, the greatest dragon is not out there, but within, the temptation to stay silent when we should speak or to step back when we should stand firm. There are too many to mention.

Saint George was not famous because he was fearless. He is remembered because he chose faith over fear. As a Roman soldier, he could have taken the easy path, deny Christ, keep his position, protect his life. No drama. No danger. However, George understood something deeply: a life without truth is not really life at all. So, he stood firm. Not with a sword in his hand, but with faith in his heart and that is where the real battle is fought. There are too many stories surrounding George, but he more than likely died at the hands of the Emperor Diocletian who was most certainly a dragon to the Christian People.

In our society today, we might not be asked to face martyrdom but we are certainly asked to witness. As Christians we are called to stand for what is right even when it’s unpopular, to live our faith when it’s inconvenient, and to choose integrity especially when compromise is easier. Sometimes that feels like facing a dragon. Saint George did not defeat the dragon because he was strong. He overcame because Christ was stronger. It is good to remember this when facing our own dragons.

The question today is not whether dragons exist. They do, but in many forms. The question is whether we will run from them, or face them with the courage of faith? Every time we choose truth over comfort, courage over fear, every time we choose Jesus—the dragon loses and the victory of Christ becomes visible once again in our world.

Fr. Simon Broughton

22/04/2026

Gospel: John 6:35-40

Jesus said to the crowd, ‘I am the bread of life; whoever comes to me shall not hunger, and whoever believes in me shall never thirst. But I said to you that you have seen me and yet do not believe. All that the Father gives me will come to me, and whoever comes to me I will never cast out. For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me. And this is the will of him who sent me, that I should lose nothing of all that he has given me, but raise it up on the last day. For this is the will of my Father, that everyone who looks on the Son and believes in him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day.’
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There is a deep hunger in every human heart. Not just for food, but for meaning, for peace, for something that truly satisfies. We try to fill it with success, relationships, and our many distractions, but it never quite lasts. Jesus knows our needs and the struggles we go through. He understands our search to fill the longings of our human hearts. That is why He proclaims, “I am the bread of life.” He doesn’t say ‘I will give you bread’ or even ‘I will show you bread’, but, ‘I am the bread.’

This changes everything because Jesus is not offering us something that does not satisfy, He offers Himself, knowing that is what we need. To “come to Him” and to “believe in Him” is the way we are fed, sustained, and made whole.

Jesus promises, “Whoever comes to me will never hunger, and whoever believes in me will never thirst.” That doesn’t mean that our life will become easier or even free from every day struggles, but it does mean that underneath everything, we will have a deep satisfaction, a quiet certainty, that we are held, known, and loved by God.

In a world where people are often excluded, judged, or turned away, Jesus says, “I will not reject anyone who comes to me.” This is extraordinary because no matter our past, or our doubts, or even our many failures, if we come to Christ, we are welcomed.
We are also not just being fed for today as we are being prepared for an eternity with Him because Jesus said, “I shall lose none of those he has given me. I will raise them up on the last day.” Jesus is our hope!

So, the question becomes very simple, and very personal to each person. Where do I try to satisfy my hunger? Is it in passing things, that do not satisfy, or is it in Jesus, the bread of life? Only Jesus can fill what nothing else can.

Fr. Simon Broughton

21/04/2026

Take time to pray this week.

Heavenly Father, in a world shaken by conflict, disaster, and uncertainty, we turn to you with trust.

We pray for all places where violence and war continue to wound communities. Protect the innocent, guide leaders toward peace, and strengthen all who work for reconciliation.

We remember those affected by natural disasters and sudden tragedy. Bring comfort to the grieving, courage to rescuers, and healing to the injured.

We hold before you families struggling with rising costs and economic strain. May those in need find support, and may those with responsibility for public life act with wisdom and compassion.

Bless all who labour for justice, truth, and the protection of creation. Inspire us to be people of hope, kindness, and integrity in our own community.

Lord, in these troubled days, remind us that your love is constant and your light is never overcome by darkness. Make us instruments of your peace. We ask all these prayers through ChristJesus, our risen Lord. Amen.

20/04/2026

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Gospel: John 6:22-29 After Jesus had fed the five thousand, the disciples saw him walking on the lake. On the next day the crowd that remained on the other side of the lake saw that there had been only one boat there, and that Jesus had not entered the boat with his disciples, but that his disciples had gone away alone. Other boats from Tiberias came near the place where they had eaten the bread after the Lord had given thanks. So when the crowd saw that Jesus was not there, nor his disciples, they themselves got into the boats and went to Capernaum, seeking Jesus.

When they found him on the other side of the lake, they said to him, ‘Rabbi, when did you come here?’ Jesus answered them, ‘Truly, truly, I say to you, you are seeking me, not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves. Do not work for the food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life, which the Son of Man will give to you. For on him God the Father has set his seal.’ Then they said to him, ‘What must we do, to be doing the works of God?’ Jesus answered them, ‘This is the work of God, that you believe in him whom he has sent.’
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Food for the Journey.

There’s something very human about today’s Gospel. The crowd goes looking for Jesus not because they fully understand Him, but because they were fed. Their hunger brought them back hoping for more food. Jesus, with surprising directness, challenges them: “You are looking for me not because you saw signs, but because you ate your fill of the loaves.” In other words, they are seeking the gift, but not yet Jesus, the Son of God who is the Giver.

Like those early followers we too have to ask ourselves why are we seeking the company of Jesus? Why do we seek God? Do we seek Him out only when we need something, help, comfort, or a solution to a time sensitive crisis in our life? Or do we seek Him simply because He is God?

Jesus doesn’t reject them instead He redirects them. He lifts their vision higher, “Do not work for food that perishes, but for the food that endures to eternal life.” Jesus is telling them (and us) that there is a deeper hunger in our human heart. Not just for bread, not just for security, but for meaning, for truth, for love that lasts. That hunger can only be satisfied by Jesus.

It is then that they ask Him the right question, “What must we do?” Jesus gives a beautifully simple answer, “This is the work of God: that you believe in the one He has sent.” Jesus doesn’t reel off a list of achievements or a complicated program that they must do. Jesus points them towards having trust, faith and a deep relationship with Him.

This is where today’s Gospel becomes very real for us. It’s easy to turn faith into a list of things we must do, duties, routines, or obligations, but the heart of Christianity is actually believing in, trusting, and even leaning into Jesus Christ. All of the things to do will flow from our love for Jesus and our desire to be charitable afterwards. The question, therefore, for us today is simple but searching, ‘Am I just looking for what God can give me or am I truly seeking Him?’

Perhaps an easy way to keep on track is to take a moment not to ask for anything, but simply just to be with the Lord. This could be in prayer or in silence and then say, “Lord, I seek You, not just Your gifts, but You.” When we find Jesus, we find everything begins to fall into place in our lives. God takes His rightful place in our lives, our relationships with our family are healed in time and we are where we are meant to be in this world. Surely that is the food that truly endures.

Fr Simon Broughton

18/04/2026

“Stay With Us”

There’s a particular kind of tiredness that sleep doesn’t fix. It’s not physical—it’s deeper than that. It’s the tiredness of disappointment. The exhaustion that comes when something you believed in… doesn’t turn out the way you hoped.

You see it in people who have tried to hold a family together and feel like they’ve failed. Or in someone who has prayed for years—and nothing seems to change. You see it also in those quiet moments when a person sits alone and wonders: What was the point of it all? Often, when that kind of tiredness sets in, people don’t make a dramatic exit. They just drift, step back. They disengage and walk away quietly. That’s exactly where we meet the two disciples in today’s Gospel not at the moment of crisis—but after it when they are walking away.

They are leaving Jerusalem; leaving behind the place where everything collapsed. They had followed Jesus. They had believed in Him. They had built their hopes around Him and now He is dead. Listen carefully to their words, “We had hoped…” That’s the language of a broken heart. “We had hoped He would be the one…” Not we hope; not we trust, but we had hoped. Hope, for them, is in the past tense. So, they walk seven miles to Emmaus—away from the other apostles, away from the community, away from the place where resurrection is about to be proclaimed and as they walk, they talk. They replay everything. They analyse. They try to make sense of it all. Isn’t that what we do? When life doesn’t make sense, we go over it again and again, trying to figure it out. Notice this: all their talking doesn’t bring them peace because you cannot reason your way out of a broken heart.

Then something happens. Jesus Himself draws near and walks with them. That line should stop us. Jesus comes looking for them. They are not searching for Him. They are not praying. They are not expecting Him. They are walking away and still He comes. This is the heart of the Gospel. God does not wait for us to have perfect faith; He meets us in our confusion and in our doubt. He meets us even when we are walking in the wrong direction but here is the mystery: they do not recognise Him. They see Him, but they don’t recognise Him. Again, if we’re honest, that feels familiar to us also. How often is God present in our lives, but unrecognised? In a conversation perhaps or in a moment of unexpected peace. In someone reaching out to us or in the quiet strength to keep going; He is there, but we don’t always see.

Jesus listens to them. He lets them speak their confusion, their disappointment, their shattered hopes. Then He speaks not with condemnation, but with clarity. He opens the Scriptures. He shows them that suffering was not a failure, but part of God’s plan. That the Cross was not the end, but the way. Slowly, something begins to change inside them. They later say, “Did not our hearts burn within us as He spoke to us on the road?” That’s how God often works. Not always through dramatic miracles, but through a quiet, steady fire in the heart. There’s a sense that something is stirring, something is shifting, even if we don’t fully understand it yet.

As they reach Emmaus, Jesus appears to walk on and this is a crucial moment. He does not force Himself on them, He waits. They say those beautiful words, “Stay with us.” It is a simple invitation, but everything changes because of it. Faith begins there. Not in certainty—but in invitation. “Lord, I don’t fully understand—but stay with me.” “Lord, I don’t see clearly—but don’t leave me.” “Lord, I’m struggling—but remain.” And He does.

They sit at table and then it happens, He takes the bread, He blesses it, He breaks it, He gives it. The same actions as the Last Supper. The same actions we see at every Mass. Suddenly, their eyes are opened they recognise Him. It is Jesus. Alive. Risen. Present. In that very moment—He vanishes. Why? Because now they know. They know where to find Him not just in appearances, but in the Eucharist. In the breaking of the bread.

This Gospel is not just a story; it is a mirror because we are those disciples. We know what it is to walk away in disappointment. We know what it is to struggle with faith. We know what it is to say, even quietly: “I had hoped…” But this Gospel tells us something powerful. You are never walking alone. Even when you feel distant from God, He is close. Even when you don’t recognise Him, He is present. Even when hope seems gone, He is already at work. Where do we meet Him most clearly? Here. At the altar. In the Eucharist. Every Mass is Emmaus. We gather. We listen to the Word. Our hearts are stirred. We come to the table. The bread is broken and Christ is made known.

So what does this mean for us, concretely? First: Don’t walk away—bring your struggle with you. God is not afraid of your questions or your disappointment. Speak them. Bring them into prayer. Second: Stay close to the Word. Even when it feels dry, God is speaking. The fire may be slow, but it is real. Third: Make your invitation. “Stay with me, Lord.” It’s a simple prayer, but a powerful one. Say it often. Fourth: Come to the Eucharist expecting an encounter. Not just routine. Not just obligation. But a real meeting with the Risen Christ.

At the end of the Gospel, something remarkable happens the two disciples who were walking away turn around and they run back seven miles back to Jerusalem. Back to the place of confusion, fear, and failure, but now everything is different because hope has returned. Christ is risen. And they know this: He was with them all along. So today, perhaps the Lord is asking you just one thing; not to have all the answers; not to feel perfect faith. Just this: “Will you let me walk with you?” Maybe your prayer today is just a simple, “Stay with me, Lord.” Because when He stays hearts begin to burn, eyes are opened, and even the longest road leads back to hope.

Fr. Simon Broughton

11/04/2026

Imagine for a moment that your life was written in a ledger; every word spoken; every choice made; every failure, every hidden sin—nothing erased. Now imagine having to stand before God with that book open. That image unsettles us because deep down, we know what’s in the pages and yet Divine Mercy Sunday proclaims something astonishing: God does not relate to us through a ledger. He relates to us through mercy.

The Gospel we just heard takes us to the evening of Easter Day. It should be a moment of joy—but it isn’t. The disciples are still living as if nothing has changed. The Resurrection has happened but fear still dominates. The doors are locked and then, suddenly, Jesus stands among them, “Peace be with you.” This is more than a greeting. It is the beginning of a new creation. Just as God once breathed life into Adam, now Jesus breathes on the disciples saying, “Receive the Holy Spirit.” A broken humanity begins again and at the very centre of that new beginning is this gift: the forgiveness of sins.

We might expect Jesus to address their failures. To say, “Where were you?” To remind Peter of his denial. To question their loyalty but He does none of that. Why? Because mercy is not a reward for good behaviour. It is a gift given precisely where it is needed most.
This truth was revealed so clearly in the life of Saint Faustina Kowalska, who heard Christ say that the greater the sinner, the greater the right they have to His mercy. That turns our logic upside down. We think we must improve first—then come to God. God says: “Come to Me first—and I will change you.”

Then we meet Thomas. Saint Thomas the Apostle carries something very real—disappointment. He had hoped. He had believed and then everything collapsed at the Cross. So now, he protects himself. “Unless I see I will not believe.” When Jesus appears again, He does something extraordinary. He doesn’t remove Thomas’s doubt instantly. He invites him into the very place of struggle: “Put your finger here.” In other words- bring your doubt. Bring your wounds. Bring your questions. It is there—in that honest encounter—that Thomas makes his great confession: “My Lord and my God.” Faith is born not from perfection but from an encounter with mercy.

Now bring this into our world. We live in a time of incredible achievement—and yet deep unrest. People strive for perfection, yet feel constantly inadequate. Mistakes are recorded, shared, and remembered. Forgiveness can seem rare; judgement is quick. Many carry a quiet sense of guilt, but don’t know where to bring it. So, what do they do? They manage their image. They hide their weaknesses. They pretend they’re in control but inside, the ledger still feels heavy. God’s Divine Mercy speaks directly into this reality. It tells us: you do not have to carry that weight forever. You do not have to pretend. You do not have to be trapped by your past.

This is why Divine Mercy Sunday, established by Pope John Paul II, is not just a devotion—it is a lens through which we understand the entire Gospel because without mercy: the Cross becomes a tragedy: the Resurrection becomes a distant event: faith becomes a burden. However, with mercy: the Cross becomes redemption: the Resurrection becomes hope: faith becomes relationship. Mercy is not one aspect of God’s love, it is the way that love reaches us in our weakness. The Church gives us a real, tangible place to receive this through the Sacrament of Confession. Not as a courtroom, but as an encounter. Not as condemnation, but as healing.

So how do we live this? Let go of the ledger. Stop defining yourself by your past, God doesn’t. Approach mercy personally. Don’t keep it as an idea. Encounter it. Go to Confession. Hear the words of absolution spoken over you. Believe them. Then extend mercy deliberately. Share it especially in a world that keeps score, choose to forgive. Choose patience. Choose compassion. This is not weakness. It is participation in the very heart of God.

Let’s be honest though, this is not easy because mercy requires trust and trust is hardest precisely where we have been hurt the most. That is why the simple prayer, “Jesus, I trust in You” is so powerful. It is not a feeling. It is a decision. A decision to believe that God’s love is greater than your worst mistake; your deepest regret; your most persistent struggle.

Finally, let’s return to that image of the ledger. Imagine now that instead of every sin recorded, something else appears across every page: “Forgiven.” Not because the past didn’t matter but because mercy has transformed it. That is what Christ offers. Not denial of our sins but redemption of them. Not a life without wounds but a life where wounds no longer define us. So today, as Christ stands among us and says, “Peace be with you,” hear those words personally. Let them reach the places you keep hidden and with quiet confidence, not because of who you are, but because of who He is and then say, “Jesus, I trust in You.”

Fr. Simon Broughton.

21/03/2026

5th Sunday of Lent

Imagine getting a message you’ve been dreading. “Come quickly… it’s serious.” But help doesn’t arrive. The hours pass and the worst happens - and then, only then, someone important finally shows up. That’s exactly how this Gospel begins.

Lazarus is dying. His sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany, send word to Jesus. They believe, they trust, they hope, but Jesus delays. By the time He arrives, Lazarus has been dead four days. Four days. No hope. No ambiguity. No “maybe.” When Jesus arrives, Martha says what many of us have said in our hearts, “Lord, if you had been here… this wouldn’t have happened.”

This is one of the most powerful moments in the whole today’s Gospel. Jesus does not rush past their grief. He does not give a quick explanation. He doesn’t say, “Don’t worry.” Instead, He weeps. God weeps. The shortest verse in Scripture—and one of the deepest: “Jesus wept.” Before He raises Lazarus, He stands at the tomb… and shares in their pain. This matters because it tells us something extraordinary. God is not distant from your suffering. He is not cold, neither is He late in the way we think. He enters our grief and stands at the tomb with us. Then everything changes, Jesus cries out, “Lazarus, come out!” This dead man walks out of the tomb.

We all Have Tombs! This Gospel is not just about a man who died long ago. It is about us because we all have tombs, not just physical death but the places in our lives that feel sealed, dark, and beyond every sense of hope.

That could be a relationship that seems beyond repair or a habit we cannot break. Perhaps its grief we carry quietly or a faith that has grown cold. It might be a part of ourselves we have given up on. Whatever it may be, we know what it is to feel “buried.” Here is the uncomfortable truth- ‘Sometimes we have rolled the stone there ourselves.’ Let’s hear that once again, ‘Sometimes we have rolled the stone there ourselves.’ Perhaps sometimes, like Martha, we say, “Lord… it’s too late now.”

Thankfully, Jesus stands before our tombs too and He says something remarkable before the miracle, “Take away the stone.” He involves others. He involves us. There is always something we must do; move the stone; open the door; let Him in. Then and only then comes the command that changes everything, “Come out.” Not, ‘stay where you are, or ‘try harder inside the tomb’ but, ‘come out.’ This is the voice of Christ in Lent. Calling us out of sin or fear, even despair, most of all out of spiritual death.

So, the question becomes deeply personal. What tomb is Jesus calling you out of today?

Is it a sin you’ve hidden too long? Then go to Confession. Is it a wound you won’t forgive? Then let God’s grace begin our healing. Perhaps it’s our prayer life that has stopped? Start again knowing that God listens. Could it be a hope you buried long ago? Dare to believe again because this Gospel is not just about resurrection later. It is about resurrection now.

There’s one last detail we often miss. When Lazarus comes out, he is alive—but still wrapped in burial cloths. Jesus says, “Unbind him. Let him go.” Even after we come out of the tomb, we can still be bound. Bound by habits. Bound by our fears. Bound by the past. Christ wants not just to raise us but to free us completely.

As we move toward Easter, this Gospel points forward to something even greater because one day, that same voice will call each of us by name. Not just from the tombs of our struggles—
but from death itself. The question is will we recognise His voice? Will we trust Him enough to step out? No tomb is too sealed, no life too lost—when Christ calls your name, come out!

Fr Simon Broughton

07/03/2026

07/03/2026

Third Sunday of Lent (Year A) The Woman at the Well
Gospel of John 4:5–42

It is midday, the hottest part of the day, the hour when sensible people stay indoors. Yet one woman walks alone to the well. She comes at noon for a reason. In a small village everyone knows everyone’s story, and this woman’s story has become a source of gossip and judgment. Five husbands, a complicated life and a reputation that follows her like a shadow. So, she chooses the quietest time of the day — when no one else is around. However, this day is different because someone is waiting for her. Jesus is sitting by the well and what follows is one of the most remarkable conversations in the whole of the Gospel.

Everything about this encounter breaks social boundaries. A Jewish man speaks to a Samaritan woman. A religious teacher speaks with someone whose life is messy and complicated. A stranger asks her for a drink. The woman herself is shocked, “How can you, a Jew, ask me, a Samaritan woman, for a drink?” Jesus isn’t interested in barriers. He is interested in hearts. So, He begins to speak of living water. Water that quenches a deeper thirst — the thirst of the soul.

At first the woman misunderstands. She thinks Jesus is speaking about ordinary water. “Sir, give me this water so that I may never be thirsty again.” Jesus, however, is speaking about something deeper than physical thirst. Every human being knows this thirst. We thirst for meaning. We thirst for love, for forgiveness. We thirst for a life that is more than survival. So we try to satisfy that thirst in so many ways — success, relationships, possessions, and distractions. Yet again and again we find ourselves returning to the same well, carrying the same empty bucket. The woman at the well had done the same and Jesus gently uncovers her story.

Jesus tells her, “Go and call your husband.” Suddenly the conversation becomes personal. Jesus reveals that He knows everything about her life. Not to shame her, not to condemn her, but to show that nothing about her is hidden from God and yet — He is still speaking with her. He is still offering her living water, still inviting her into new life. This is the turning point because the woman realises something extraordinary: she is fully known, and still fully welcomed. This changes everything.

At the beginning of the story she comes to the well alone, avoiding everyone but by the end she runs back to the town. She even forgets the water jar — the very reason she came — and begins telling everyone, “Come and see a man who told me everything I have ever done.” The woman who once avoided the village now becomes its first missionary. One encounter with Christ changes her identity. She came looking for water. She left carrying living water for others.

This Gospel speaks directly to us because every one of us carries a water jar. We all have places where we search for meaning, reassurance, love, and security and so many times, we return again and again to wells that cannot and do not satisfy.

Lent invites us to stop for a moment and ask a difficult question: Where am I really looking for life? Jesus is waiting for us too, not at some distant holy place, but right in the middle of our ordinary life — at the well of our daily routines, our struggles, our million and one thoughts and questions. He asks you and I the same thing He asked the Samaritan woman, “Give me a drink.” In other words: open your heart.

The most powerful moment in the story comes when Jesus finally says, “I who speak to you am he.” The Messiah; the one the world has been waiting for and the first person to hear this clearly in the Gospel is not a king, or a scholar, not a religious leader. It’s a Samaritan woman with a broken past because the grace of God does not follow human expectations.

The woman arrived at the well that day carrying shame, loneliness, and an empty jar but she left carrying faith. The village that once judged her began to believe in Jesus because of her witness. That is what happens when someone truly encounters Christ. Old labels fall away.

Past failures lose their power. A new life begins and perhaps that is the invitation of this Gospel - not simply to admire the story but to recognise that Christ is still sitting beside the well of our lives, waiting patiently, ready to offer the only water that truly satisfies. The question is the same today as it was that afternoon in Samaria: Will we keep drawing from the wells that leave us thirsty… or will we finally drink the living water He offers?

Fr Simon Broughton