St Ignatius of Antioch, bishop and martyr, is one of the great figures of the early Church.
He lived only a few decades after Christ and was a disciple of the Apostle John.
When he was condemned to die in Rome, he wrote letters to the young churches along the way — letters still burning with faith, joy, and courage.

He wrote, “I am God’s wheat, and I am to be ground by the teeth of beasts, that I may be found pure bread for Christ.”
That is martyrdom: love carried to its full conclusion.

In the first reading, St Paul reminds us that Abraham was justified not by his own strength but by faith: “If Abraham was justified by works, he has something to boast about — but not before God.”

Paul isn’t rejecting good works; he’s rejecting pride.
He’s saying that salvation begins in grace, not in self-achievement.
Abraham trusted God, and that trust became righteousness.

Ignatius lived that same faith.
He did not earn holiness by endurance; he received grace to endure because he had already surrendered everything to Christ.
The faith that justifies is the faith that obeys, even when obedience leads to the Cross.

In the Gospel, Jesus warns His disciples: “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body and can do no more. Fear Him who has power to cast into hell.”

Strong words — and they could have been written across Ignatius’s life.
He knew the lions were waiting, but he feared only losing Christ.
That’s the true meaning of holy fear: not terror of punishment, but awe before love.
It’s the soul that says, “Nothing matters more than staying close to my Lord.”

Then Jesus adds something tender: “Even the hairs of your head are all numbered. You are worth more than many sparrows.”

Martyrs don’t die because they despise life;
they die because they’ve discovered a greater one.
Ignatius could face death calmly because he knew he was known — numbered, loved, chosen.
He belonged to Christ completely.

And that’s the same truth Paul proclaims: we are not saved by performance, but by belonging — by being in Christ, grafted into His Body, the Church.

Ignatius’s letters breathe the same conviction:
where the Eucharist is, there is the Church.
He was the first to call the Eucharist “the medicine of immortality.”

For him, unity with the bishop, communion in the Body of Christ, and faith in the real presence were inseparable.
That’s why his martyrdom wasn’t an isolated act of heroism; it was the natural flowering of Eucharistic faith.
He had fed on the Bread of Life, and now he longed to become what he had received.

Paul’s word to the Romans and Ignatius’s example agree perfectly.
Faith is not an abstract belief; it’s trust that produces action.
If Abraham believed and obeyed, Ignatius believed and offered his life.
The fruit of faith is always fidelity.

And that same faith is given to us — not necessarily for martyrdom by lions,
but for martyrdom by perseverance:
the quiet, daily dying to self, the faithfulness in small sacrifices,
the courage to witness when the world mocks belief.

So today’s readings call us to two things: humility and courage.

• Humility like Abraham — remembering that everything begins in grace, not in our achievement.
• Courage like Ignatius — fearing nothing except being separated from Christ.

Faith begins at the altar, where Christ gives Himself to us.
And it is proved in life, when we give ourselves back to Him.

If we live that exchange — grace received, love returned —
then even the smallest act of faith in Wigston or Aylestone
is joined to the blood of martyrs and the faith of the Apostles.

Ignatius once wrote from his chains: “Now I begin to be a disciple.”
Holiness, for him, wasn’t about success but surrender.

May that same Spirit be in us: faith that trusts like Abraham,
fears nothing like Ignatius, and finds its strength here, in the Eucharist —
the true medicine of immortality.