9 November 2025

If you’ve ever visited Rome, you’ll know St Peter’s Basilica — that magnificent dome rising over the Vatican.
But today’s feast isn’t about St Peter’s.
It’s about St John Lateran — the other basilica.
Less famous, but older, and in one sense, more important.

Because St John Lateran is the cathedral of Rome — the Pope’s actual church as Bishop of Rome.
Over its doors are the words:

“Mother and Head of all the Churches in the City and in the World.”

So when we celebrate this feast, we’re not celebrating a pile of stones in Italy.
We’re celebrating what that building represents:
the unity, holiness, and living presence of the Church throughout the world.

In the first reading, the prophet Ezekiel sees a strange vision —
water flowing out from the temple in Jerusalem.
At first it’s a trickle, then a stream, then a mighty river bringing life wherever it goes.

Trees grow along its banks, fruit never fails,
and everything the water touches is healed.

That’s what God’s grace does —
it begins as a small trickle and becomes a torrent of life.
The temple in Ezekiel’s vision is a sign of the Church,
and the water is the life of the Spirit flowing from Christ’s pierced side.

Wherever the Church truly flows — in the sacraments, in holiness, in mercy —
life happens.
Deserts bloom, hearts heal, hope returns.
When the Spirit moves through the Church, death itself begins to retreat.

That’s the sacramental life.
That living water flows right here,
from the altar, from baptismal fonts, from every confessional.
The Church is not a museum of saints, but a river of mercy.

St Paul takes that image and turns it inward:

“You are God’s building…
Do you not know that you are God’s temple,
and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?”

It’s a line we’ve heard before, but it should still shake us.
Because it means holiness isn’t somewhere else —
it’s meant to live inside you.

You are the temple where the Holy Spirit dwells.
Your soul is the sanctuary where God wants to be worshipped.
That’s why Paul adds:

“If anyone destroys God’s temple, God will destroy that person.”

He’s not talking about architecture — he’s talking about sin.
Sin desecrates the temple of the soul.
Grace rebuilds it.

The Church’s renewal always begins with personal conversion.
You can restore cathedrals all day long,
but if hearts stay cold, the Church remains in ruins.
True restoration starts here —
in confession, in prayer, in the daily “yes” to grace.

In the Gospel, Jesus enters the temple and finds it full of merchants and money changers.
He makes a whip, drives them out, overturns the tables.
Why? Because the place of prayer had become a marketplace.

His anger isn’t about coins and pigeons;
it’s about the loss of reverence,
the exchange of worship for convenience.

“Zeal for Your house will consume Me.”
That zeal is holy passion — the burning love that refuses to see God treated casually.
And that zeal isn’t outdated — it’s what the Church still needs.

Reverence isn’t fussiness; it’s faith made visible.
Every genuflection, every silence, every careful preparation for Mass
is a way of saying: “God is here.”
And when we lose that sense of awe, the tables need turning again — in our hearts.

Because the true temple is now Christ Himself —
the living sanctuary where heaven and earth meet.
When He says, “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up,”
He’s pointing to His body —
the new and everlasting temple,
the dwelling place of God among men.

And when we receive the Eucharist, we receive that living temple within us.
The altar becomes our Jerusalem,
the chalice becomes the river from Ezekiel,
and we become the temples carrying Him into the world.

So what does this feast mean for us here — in Wigston, Aylestone, Eyres Monsell?

It means our parish churches aren’t just buildings; they’re signs of grace.
Every time the doors open, grace flows like Ezekiel’s river.
Every baptism, every Mass, every confession —
a drop more water, a trickle more mercy, a stream more life.

But it also means something harder:
we must never let the Church become a marketplace of convenience.
We don’t come to bargain with God — we come to be changed by Him.

The Church isn’t a building we visit; it’s a body we belong to.
And that body is alive, holy, and still under construction.
Christ is the cornerstone; we are the living stones.
And holiness is the mortar that holds us together.

So today, thank God for your parish —
for this church where you were baptised, where you confess,
where you stand at the altar and say “Amen” to the living Christ.

Thank God for the Church that still flows like a river through history,
carrying mercy into deserts of sin.
And thank Him that even when the Church looks tired or cracked,
He still dwells within her —
as surely as He dwells within you.

Because when Jesus rose from the dead,
He turned every believer into a living tabernacle.
That’s why St John Lateran is called the “Mother Church” —
not because of its stones, but because of what it gave birth to:
a living, breathing, global temple made of redeemed souls.

Ezekiel saw the water.
Paul saw the temple.
Jesus revealed the fire.
All three meet right here —
in this parish church, at this altar, in your soul.

So today, as we celebrate the dedication of a basilica far away,
remember that the real dedication God desires
is the re-dedication of your heart.

Let the river flow again.
Let the zeal burn again.
Let the Church — this Church, our Church —
be holy, living, and alive with God’s presence.

Because in the end,
the true temple of the living God is not in Rome or Jerusalem —
it’s standing before this altar,
made of flesh and faith,
ready once more to say:
“Lord, make me Your dwelling place.”