2nd Sunday of the year A 2026

“Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world. ( Ga 1,29-34 )

A star once traced a path through the dark,

and the wise learned how to walk by that light.

At eighty years of age, I can smile at that

— though these days I also smile,

convinced that things I am looking for enjoy hiding from me.

I have followed many paths:

some well lit, some poorly signposted,

and a few I took wondering how on earth I got there at all,

usually because I'd missed my turning!

Yet the light has never stopped shining over me.

It was a gift from the Father,

received by Jesus, embraced by him,

and, thank God, never kept for himself

— unlike my reading glasses,

which I fail to keep hold of all by myself.

John the Baptist's voice still echoes across the centuries,

"Behold the Lamb of God."

and these days I feel the need to echo it too,

sometimes a little louder

— not because the Lamb is quieter,

but because my hearing is not what it once was.

Still, the invitation remains the same:

inviting us to look again and to look slowly.

Look with the eyes of the heart,

which, happily, have not aged at all

— unlike my knees,

which creak their own commentary during the Creed.

The Lamb offers gentleness stronger than power,

and love poured out without measure.

The Lamb stands before us, carrying the weight of the world

— and doing it without complaint,

putting the rest of us to shame.

Isaiah whispers of a servant formed in the womb,

called not only to gather a people

but to be a light to the nations.

Jesus fulfils this calling completely.

He does not point towards the light

— he is the Light.

At eighty, I can say this with confidence:

Jesus has shone light into the shadows I once preferred to ignore,

into corners cluttered with regrets,

cupboards full of good intentions never used.

In Jesus, nothing human is rejected.

Everything is gathered, healed, and sent back glowing

— even the bits that creak and groan a little,

which at my age is most of me.

The psalm sings of rescue: from pits, from mud, from despair.

A new song rises on rescued lips

— sometimes in tune, sometimes not,

and sometimes in the wrong verse entirely

— but always grateful.

However, light travels from heart to heart,

and through lives that keep trusting long after thinking they knew it all.

Paul greets the Church as saints.

I rather like that.

It saves time and lengthy introductions.

Remember that before we do anything, we are claimed by Christ.

Before we are sent, we are loved.

This is the truth of our Baptism:

the light Christ has planted within us,

is not a fragile spark,

but a fire that refuses to wane

— which is fortunate,

because retirement hasn't slowed me down either,

just redirected me towards more quiet naps.

At every Mass, the Lamb of God is lifted high.

He gives himself again and again

— Bread for the journey, Light for the road.

Communion is not a polite pause; it ignites us.

We leave the altar as living tabernacles,

Christ burning within us, and we are sent

— even at eighty

— into homes and hospitals, shops and kitchens, conversations and silences.

We go not to impress, but to illuminate;

we go not to conquer, but to warm

— and occasionally to wonder why we've walked into a room,

though Christ helpfully reminds us why we're here at all.

Go now, grateful for the light you have received.

Be good news with a twinkle in your eye.

Let Christ shine through you

— and remind the world, gently and joyfully, how to walk by the light.

By Fr. Thomas O'Brien a.a.