Fifth Sunday in Lent

Today we enter Passiontide - the name given to these final days of Lent as we begin, once more, the journey with Christ through His Passion.

Each of us arrives here by a different road. For some, Lent may feel as though it has slipped by too quickly, opportunities missed - prayer left unattended, repentance half-hearted, the desire to draw closer to God still unrealised. Yet even now, there is time. Time to turn again, to begin anew, and allow these final days to bring a real sense of renewal before Easter dawns.

For others, this season may have been one of deeper discovery - where faith has taken on new intensity, and God has revealed Himself in unexpected ways: through the scriptures proclaimed at Mass, the quiet devotion of the Stations of the Cross, or simply through the sober tone of a season that invites us to see the world through a more spiritual lens, drawing us back into the loving embrace of God.

The stories of this Lent have guided us along the way: Christ’s temptation in the desert, the call of Abraham, the Transfiguration, the encounter with the woman at the well, the anointing of David, and the healing of the man born blind. Each of them speaks not just of distant events, but of a living God who is to be encountered rather than merely explained. They remind us that while reason may bring us to the threshold of faith, it is surrender that carries us across it. As Blaise Pascal observed, “The heart has its reasons which reason does not know.”

Knowing about God is not the same as knowing God.

And these stories from scripture do more than instruct - they reflect us back to ourselves. In their characters and the turn of events we recognise our own unbelief and longing, our sinfulness and our hope, our struggles in relationships, our griefs, our call to renewal.

The gradual awakening of faith in the woman at the well, or the unlikely rise of David from shepherd boy to king, mirrors something of our own journey: hesitant, faltering, even regressing at times, but always held within the quiet assurance that God’s gentle hand is guiding us forward.

The art of storytelling lies at the very heart of faith. Long before books existed, people gathered around the fire to share their lives in words, passing on wisdom shaped by experience. Over time, these stories became the threads that bound generations together - threads woven through struggle, marked by suffering, and carrying the full weight and wonder of human life.

Storytelling was the main medium used by the Son of God to convey the mysteries of the Kingdom - truths too deep for simple instruction. Through parables drawn from seeds and soil, lost coins and wandering sons, he invited His listeners not just to understand, but to see themselves within the story, and so be changed by it.

In the wider story of today’s first reading, the prophet Ezekiel is led in a vision into a valley of dry bones - a stark image of desolation and loss, echoing those moments in our own lives when all seems lifeless and without hope. It is not unlike the stillness of Good Friday, when the empty tabernacle will speak of absence, of Christ laid in the tomb.

And yet, at God’s command, those bones of Ezekiel’s story were drawn together, clothed with flesh, and filled with breath - they rise to live again. It’s a dramatic vision, one filled with quiet, unshakeable hope that, even when all seems lost, God can bring new life.

Reading Ezekiel this week took me back fifteen years to a warm afternoon in South Carolina. When I wasn’t engaged in military duties I used to work in St Peter’s - a parish in downtown Columbia.

And on this particular day there was a fundraising event and I was seated in someone’s garden surrounded by the chatter of southern accents. There was the ever present scent of jasmine in the air, a jug of sweet tea on the table.

The Deep South has been described as a place where tea is sweet and accents are sweeter, summer starts in April, front porches are wide and long, chicken is fried and comes with biscuits and gravy, and someone's heart is always being blessed. It’s a lovely description of a place and where life is lived slowly and with great purpose and, often, great faith.

A familiar song began to play - Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Dry Bones, and voices softly joined in led by a group of African American ladies. It was one of those moments that lingers in the memory.

The words are inspired by Ezekiel’s vision, and carry an old story - one born in the cotton fields and prayer gatherings of enslaved people. Its melody is simple, but its meaning profound: it’s a song of hope and liberation in the midst of suffering.

That day, in that sweet smelling garden, it was sung as a living memory - by those whose ancestors had known suffering, injustice and humiliation first hand, it’s legacy lasting well into the twentieth century.

One African American lady told me that, when she went to church as a girl with her mother, they had to stand in the balcony, one not unlike ours, excluded from the main body of the church. And yet, her faith endured. Even in circumstances which are unjust, hope can take root and that hope was expressed in a powerful way in that song on that day.

It is into that same space - where suffering and hope meet - that Passiontide now takes us. With Ezekiel’s vision and the raising of Lazarus, the Church gently shifts our focus: from the general call to repentance, to a more personal encounter with the suffering of Christ Himself. It’s often here - at the foot of the cross - that faith becomes most real. It’s one thing to think about God; it is another to see how deeply He has loved us. It’s that realisation of His suffering which is often the beginning of a person coming to faith.

Many will remember how, at this time of year, crosses and statues would be veiled in purple cloth - a symbolic dimming of sight, inviting us to look more deeply with the heart. And there is a story of a man who, finding the crucifix covered, turned to leave, saying, “There’s no point - I can’t see Him.” But a quiet voice said, “When you can’t see Him, that’s when prayer matters most.” And so he stayed.

That is the invitation of these days. For on Good Friday, we too will not see Him - the tabernacle will be empty, the silence in this church will be heavy, the sense of absence real. And in that absence, we may recognise something of our own lives: those moments when God seems hidden by grief, fear, illness, or uncertainty. Times when the world itself feels overshadowed by darkness.

Yet Passiontide reminds us: hidden is not the same as absent. Silent is not the same as gone.

And so we are asked to remain. To stay when we cannot see. To stay when we do not feel. To stay when God seems distant. Because it is there - precisely there - that faith is purified, and love becomes real.



And if we do stay, if we walk with Christ through these days, through the silence of the tomb and into the mystery of the Triduum - then the veil will be lifted. The silence will be broken. And like the dry bones in Ezekiel’s vision, what seemed lifeless will rise again. What seemed lost will be restored. Even death itself will be transformed.

So let us not turn away. Let us enter these days with courage and trust, allowing the hidden Christ to lead us - through whatever darkness we may know - into the light and glory of Easter.