The readings today are about a collision.

A collision between Christ and a human life.

In the first reading, Saul is breathing threats and murder.
He is not searching for Christ.
He is not open.
He is not questioning.

He is convinced.

Certain.
Zealous.
Active.

And completely wrong.

That matters.

Because Saul is not indifferent.
He is not lazy.
He is not half-hearted.

He is passionately opposed to Christ.

And then — everything changes.

“Saul, Saul, why are you persecuting me?”

That is one of the most dramatic moments in all Scripture.

Christ does not say: Why are you persecuting my followers?

He says: Why are you persecuting me?

That is profoundly Catholic.

The Church is not separate from Christ.

To strike the Church is to strike Christ.

To oppose the Body is to oppose the Head.

And Saul is confronted with that truth. Not as an idea.

As a Person. “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.”

Christ interrupts him.
Christ stops him.
Christ overturns him.

And Saul is blinded.

That is not punishment alone.

It is revelation.

He thought he could see.

Now he learns he was blind.

And only when he is led, humbled, dependent, does he begin to see truly.

That is always the pattern of conversion.

A fall.
A loss of control.
A humbling.
And then a new sight given by grace.

Then Ananias is sent.

And again something very Catholic happens.

Christ does not simply restore Saul privately.

He sends him to the Church. “Brother Saul…” The persecutor becomes a brother.

Hands are laid on him.
He receives his sight.
He is baptised.

Grace is not vague.

It is mediated.

It is given through the Church.

That is the conversion of Paul.

Now place that beside the Gospel.

And we meet another moment of collision.

But this time it is not dramatic light from heaven.

It is something quieter.

And in some ways, more difficult.

Jesus says: “My flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink.”

That is not symbolic language.

That is not softened.

That is not explained away.

It is intensified.

“Whoever eats my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him.”

That is the centre of Catholic faith.

The Eucharist.

Not an idea.
Not a memory.
Not a sign only.

Christ Himself.

Given.
Received.
Abiding in us.

And the reaction is the same kind of collision.

“How can this man give us his flesh to eat?”

They struggle.

They resist.

And Jesus does not pull back.

He presses further.

Because the truth must be received as it is,
not reduced to what we find comfortable.

Now bring the two readings together.

Saul resists Christ — until Christ breaks in.

The crowd resists the Eucharist — and many will walk away.

That is the same drama.

Grace offered.
Resistance rising.
A decision required.

Will I accept what Christ says? Or will I reshape it?

Will I surrender? Or will I step back?

Because both readings show this clearly: Christ does not adjust Himself to us.

He calls us to be changed.

Saul must fall.

The crowd must accept a teaching beyond reason alone.

And so must we.

That is the point.

Where do I resist Christ?

Not violently like Saul perhaps.

But quietly.

Subtly.

Where do I say: This is too much?

Too demanding.
Too difficult.
Too mysterious.

Where do I hold back?

Because conversion is not only for great saints.

It is for every soul.

And the Eucharist stands at the centre of that conversion.

Because here is the truth: We do not simply follow Christ from a distance.

We receive Him. We are fed by Him. We live because of Him.

“As the living Father sent me, and I live because of the Father,
so he who eats me will live because of me.”

That is an astonishing claim.

Our life comes from Christ. Not from ourselves. Not from the world. From Him.

Given in the Eucharist.

So the call today is clear.

Do not resist. Do not reduce. Do not stand at a distance.

Let Christ interrupt you.
Let Him challenge you.
Let Him change you.

And come to Him. Not only to admire. But to receive.

Because the same Christ who stopped Saul on the road
still gives Himself at the altar.

And those who receive Him do not remain as they are.

They are changed.

They begin to see.

They begin to live.

And they begin, like Paul, to belong entirely
to the One who first stopped them and called them by name.