Thursday 6 November 2025

St Paul says today, “None of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself.
Whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.”

In one line, he destroys two of the great illusions of the modern world:
that we are independent, and that death is final.

The world says, “You belong to yourself.”
The Gospel says, “You belong to Christ.”

To belong to Christ is the difference between chaos and meaning.
It means our life isn’t a random series of accidents.
It means our suffering isn’t wasted, and our death isn’t the end.

It also means that every moment of our life is spoken for.
Our bodies are not our own, our talents are not our own,
our time, our breath, our energy — all of it belongs to Him.

That’s not slavery; that’s freedom.
Because when we know whose we are,
we finally know who we are.

The human heart only finds peace when it rests where it belongs —
in the heart of Christ.

Paul goes on: “Each of us shall give an account of himself to God.”

That isn’t meant to terrify the believer,
but to restore reverence.

We will give an account — not because God enjoys audits,
but because He respects our freedom.
Our choices matter.
They shape eternity.

The saints understood this:
that judgment is not the opposite of mercy, but its completion.
Mercy makes sense because justice is real.
The confessional only heals what the conscience still recognises as wounded.

That’s why the Church keeps calling us back to repentance —
not as humiliation, but as realism.
We are sinners, yes, but sinners who belong.
That’s what makes confession not a duty, but a homecoming.

In the Gospel, Our Lord gives two parables that explain the inner life of God:
the shepherd and the coin.

They are familiar stories, but their depth is inexhaustible.

The shepherd leaves the ninety-nine to search for the one.
From a human standpoint, that’s absurd — reckless even.
But that’s the point. Divine love is not efficient; it’s personal.

He doesn’t calculate loss; He feels it.
He doesn’t settle for “almost everyone.”
He goes out, because each soul has infinite value.

And when He finds it, He rejoices.
Not because it increases His flock’s statistics,
but because love has triumphed.
The shepherd’s joy is the Father’s joy:
“Rejoice with me; I have found what was lost.”

Then Jesus gives the second image: a woman searching for a lost coin.
She lights a lamp, sweeps the floor, and searches until she finds it.
The lamp is the light of grace; the sweeping is the movement of the Church.

That’s what evangelisation is — the Church lighting lamps in a dark world,
searching house by house, heart by heart,
because one lost soul is never acceptable to God.

This is divine restlessness.
God is not indifferent to His creation.
He cannot forget even one person made in His image.

In these parables we see the heart of Christ,
but also the mission of His Church.

The search continues through her —
through preaching, through the sacraments, through you and me.

When you pray for a soul,
when you forgive someone who wronged you,
when you bear suffering patiently,
you participate in that divine search.

The Church never exists for herself;
she exists to bring the lost home.

That’s why holiness is never private property.
Your fidelity strengthens the weak.
Your conversion lifts someone else’s burden.
Your prayer may be the unseen rope pulling a soul back to God.

This is what St Paul means when he says,
“Whether we live or die, we belong to the Lord.”
Our belonging makes our whole life contagious with grace.

Finally, Our Lord says, “There is more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who do not need repentance.”

That line isn’t an insult to the righteous;
it’s an invitation to the honest.

The joy of heaven is not polite applause — it’s divine exultation.
Every conversion, every confession, every Mass attended with faith
is heaven breaking into earth again.

The saints rejoice not because they are sentimental,
but because they recognise the cost of every soul:
the price paid on the Cross.

So this is not a story about being “spiritual” or “inspired.”
It’s about reality:

• We belong to Christ.
• We are accountable to Christ.
• We are sought by Christ.
• And, by grace, we can rejoice with Christ.

If we understand that,
then repentance becomes a relief,
not a chore.
The Eucharist becomes the celebration of the found,
not the duty of the fearful.

And death — even death — becomes a passage,
not a disaster.
Because to the one who belongs,
dying is only being carried home on the Shepherd’s shoulders.

So, whether we live or die,
in strength or weakness,
in success or failure —
we are the Lord’s.

That truth can carry a soul through anything.
And when we finally see Him face to face,
we will understand the joy of heaven’s words:

“Rejoice with me — I have found what was lost.”