Tonight our Triduum begins. Tonight is truly special. Tonight for all the darkness gathering outside the upper room, all the mounting hostility towards the Lord, despite the inside darkness brimming in Judas’ heart, there is consolation. And consolation, this means, here and now for us. Despite the contemporary darkness and the fires of war, despite the international insecurity and the weight of sin and suffering, there is consolation. Whatever the state of my health, whatever’s happening to our economy, whatever our anxieties about the future, whatever, whatever, the Lord is consoling his people. Can we say this? Or is it irresponsible evasion, is it to put our head in the sand when so many suffer? No, actually, it’s not. Tonight, throughout the world, the Lord is consoling his people and it’s not for us to tell him not to. This isn’t something superficial, pretending everything’s fine. The Eucharist was coined in the midst of betrayal, in the foresight of violence; it contains these things, but it overcomes them. “Fear not; I have conquered the world.” And this is the consolation of God.
And so tonight, with believers throughout the world, with our catechumens, with seekers, we climb the staircase – the inner staircase of hunger and love– that leads to the large furnished room, the upper room. This room is not on the moon, it’s heaven on earth. Quite probably, it was a room where the disciples had never been before, a room of surprises, of comfort and consolation. Here is set the Supper of the Lamb. Here is the real Passover. Here is the Lord in the flesh, the Comforter of Israel. Here, having loved his own who were in the world, he is loving them to the end, giving the whole of himself at the cost of himself. Nothing cheap here. He takes bread in his holy and venerable hands. He is not filled with self-pity – he could have been – or with justifiable anger – he could have been. He is not a bitter, disappointed man, as he might have been. He is grateful, full of gratitude to his Father, full of thought for his disciples, present and to come. He thinks of each of us. And he says, “Take this all of you” and fills the bread with his Body. He says, “this cup is the new covenant – the new relationship, the new bonding – in my blood”, that is, brought about by my blood, sealed and certified in my blood. And he fills the cup with himself. Here he is, holding the whole of the cosmos and all humanity in himself, rising above every contrary circumstance, stronger than death, and comforting, consoling us, pouring out on his confused and frightened disciples, fluttering like nervous birds, the last drop of his love. Here he is father and mother to us, breadwinner, blood-giver, brother, servant king, foot-washer, lover. This is Jesus at his fullest.
When Judas steps out of this circle of light, the Evangelist remarks, “And it was night”. Without what Jesus does tonight, how vulnerable we are to the dark! Without his Supper, without the Mass. Without the Eucharist, what would Jesus’ Passion and Death actually be? A noble gesture, a heroic example, but locked in the past, just a memory, just an ancient story told in a book. Without the Eucharist, what would his Resurrection be? Again, just a historical memory, the experience of some disciples two thousand years ago. But with the Eucharist, what once was now is. His death and resurrection are here and now. He is here and now. And here and now we, our little selves, our brief lives are linked to him. We encounter him. With the Eucharist, all the love of the Upper Room, the pardon and grace of the Cross, the power of his Resurrection reaches us, protects us. We pass out of the dark into the light, out of non-entity into being, out of isolation into a body, out of self into love.
Tonight we are consoled.
“Do this in memory of me”. These words made the apostles priests. Without the Eucharist, it is night, and without priests there is no Eucharist. How crazy the Lord’s ways are! He entrusts himself to bread and wine, and bread and wine to poor human hands. So tonight, brothers and sisters, we are called to cherish our priests. They may be Prince Charming or Fr McNasty, saints or sinners or both at once, old and tired or shiny and charismatic. It doesn’t matter. They have been given the power to “do” this one thing, to co-make the Eucharist with the help of the Holy Spirit, to keep the light of the Presence burning through all the nights of life. Just yesterday, Pope Leo asked the Church to pray for priests in crisis, when loneliness weighs heavily, when doubt clouds their hearts, and when exhaustion seems stronger than hope.
He prays that they be consoled: Let them feel they are not mere functionaries or lonely heroes, but beloved sons, humble and cherished disciples, and pastors sustained by the prayer of their people. May we support those who so often support us.
Holy Spirit, he says, grant them healthy friendships, networks of fraternal support, a sense of humour when things don’t go as expected, and the grace to always rediscover the beauty of their vocation. May they never lose trust in You, nor the joy of serving your Church with a humble and generous heart. Amen.
And so to our feet. Divine consolation extends even that far. The Lord washes our feet and asks us to wash one another’s. Tonight we are consoled: given the certainty of being loved. And why? precisely so we can in turn console and love and serve. Tonight we are equipped to go out into the coming nights and days knowing we are loved and nourished and sent into our lacerated world. One by one and together, let us do what we can to bring to others something of the comfort and consolation the Lord brings us.
St Mary’s Cathedral, 2 April 2026
