Hidden Presence and Watchful Hearts: St Paschal Baylon in the Silence of the Ascension
MASS Os justi
LESSON Ecclus. 31: 8-11
GOSPEL St Luke 12: 35-40
PROPER LAST GOSPEL St John 15. 26, 27; 16. 1-4
HOMILIST Mt Revd Jerome Lloyd OSJV
Beloved in Christ,
“The mouth of the just shall meditate wisdom, and his tongue shall speak judgment: the law of his God is in his heart.” With these words, the Church opens the sacred mysteries today, and in them she gives us not merely praise of a saint, but a revelation of sanctity itself. Holiness is not first what a man does—it is what he becomes when the law of God is written not upon stone, but upon the living tablet of the heart.
Such a man was St Paschal Baylon.
He was born in 1540, in Aragón in Spain, into poverty so severe that from the age of seven he was sent into the fields as a shepherd. No schooling, no advancement, no human distinction. And yet, in the silence of those fields, beneath the vast canopy of heaven, a deeper formation was taking place. For Paschal did not merely labour—he watched. And in watching, he learned to recognise the presence of God.
When the church bell rang at the moment of the Elevation, he would stop, turn, and adore. Though far from the altar, he united himself to that sacred instant when Christ becomes present upon the altar. He understood—better than many who stand near the sanctuary—that the Eucharist is not symbol, not memory, not mere sign, but reality. Distance did not diminish it. Hiddenness did not weaken it. Faith supplied what sight could not give.
And thus, even as a shepherd boy, he entered into the deepest mystery of the Church: the hidden presence of Christ.
At the age of twenty-four, in 1564, he entered the Friars Minor. He was urged to study for the priesthood, but he refused—not from reluctance, but from clarity. He chose instead the hidden life of a lay brother: porter, cook, gardener, beggar. A life without honour, without visibility, without recognition. But he did not choose less. He chose depth.
Because the centre of his life was not activity—it was the Blessed Sacrament.
He would spend long hours before the tabernacle. Not analysing, not disputing, but adoring. He understood what so many have forgotten: that the same Christ Who ascended into Heaven is here—veiled, silent, waiting. The Ascension did not remove Christ from the Church; it concealed Him. What was once visible is now sacramental. What was once seen is now believed. What was once touched is now adored.
And here the liturgy of this day deepens our understanding.
For alongside the feast of this great Eucharistic saint, the Church commemorates the Sunday within the Octave of the Ascension—Exaudi Domine: “Hear, O Lord, my voice with which I have cried to Thee.” The tone is no longer that of triumph, but of supplication. Christ has ascended. The Apostles no longer see Him. The promise of the Paraclete has been given—but not yet fulfilled.
The Church is waiting.
And in that waiting, she cries out.
This is the condition of the Christian soul in this present age: Christ is present, but hidden; near, yet unseen; given, yet veiled. And therefore the life of the Christian must be a life not of complacency, but of longing—of vigilance—of prayer.
St Paschal Baylon lived precisely this life.
He lived as one who knew that Christ is present, though hidden. And because he believed this, he ordered everything around it. Here, then, the contrast must be drawn—clearly, sharply, without compromise.
Paschal crossed fields to adore. We pass by churches without entering. Paschal trembled at the moment of consecration. We grow casual before the altar. Paschal ordered his entire life around the Eucharist. We fit the Eucharist into our lives, if it is convenient.
This is not merely a difference of devotion. It is a difference of faith.
For belief reveals itself in behaviour. And the crisis of our age is not primarily moral—it is Eucharistic. Men no longer live as though God were truly present. And because they do not believe He is present, they do not adore. And because they do not adore, they do not become holy.
Paschal became holy because he believed—and because he believed, he adored.
The Gospel today leaves no room for delay: “Let your loins be girt, and lamps burning in your hands… be ye ready.” Not tomorrow. Not eventually. Now.
The Christian life is vigilance.
But vigilance for what?
For a coming that is certain, but whose hour is unknown. For a Lord Who may come in the second watch, or the third, or when least expected. For a judgment that will not be postponed.
And here is the uncomfortable truth: most men are not ready. Not because they are openly wicked, but because they are unprepared—distracted, divided, asleep. They live as though time were endless, as though death were distant, as though God were patient indefinitely.
But the Gospel permits no such illusion.
“Be ye ready.”
St Paschal was ready because he lived already in the presence of the One Who would come. When death came to him in 1592, it did not interrupt his life—it fulfilled it. The Lord he had adored in silence came to him in glory.
And now the Church teaches us again through her sacred signs. The Station today is at St Mary ad Martyres—the Pantheon—once dedicated to all the false gods of Rome. A temple of illusion has become a temple of truth. And from its great oculus, as the Pope preached of the coming of the Holy Ghost, roses would fall upon the people—in figura ejusdem Spiritus Sancti—a sign of the Spirit soon to descend.
But the Spirit does not descend upon the unprepared.
The Apostles in the Cenacle were not idle. They were recollected, united, stripped of illusion, gathered with the Blessed Virgin Mary, waiting with intensity for what had been promised. Pentecost is not merely a feast that arrives—it is a grace that must be received.
And if we are distracted, divided, indifferent—if we live outwardly while neglecting the interior life—we may reach Pentecost and receive nothing.
This is the danger. This is the urgency.
This is why the Church places before us today St Paschal Baylon—not merely as an example, but as a judgment. A judgment upon distraction. A judgment upon irreverence. A judgment upon a Christianity that has forgotten how to adore.
After his death, the faithful flocked to his tomb, and miracles were reported at once. The Church canonised him in 1690, and later named him patron of Eucharistic congresses. In him she recognised not simply a devout man, but a living answer to a perennial crisis.
And that crisis is ours.
The world does not need more arguments about the Eucharist. It needs witnesses—men and women who believe so completely that their lives are incomprehensible without it. Souls who will kneel when others stand, who will adore when others hurry, who will remain when others leave.
For this is the final truth.
Christ has ascended—but He has not withdrawn. He reigns in Heaven—and He remains on earth. Hidden, silent, waiting. Waiting for faith. Waiting for love. Waiting for souls who will watch.
“Blessed is that servant, whom when the Lord shall come, He shall find watching.”
If He were to come tonight, would He find us watching—or sleeping? Adoring—or distracted? Ready—or unprepared?
The time for vague intention is past. The time for decision has come.
Let us then, with St Paschal Baylon, return to the altar—not as spectators, but as adorers. Let us order our lives once more around the Eucharistic Lord. Let us recover silence, recollection, reverence.
For where the Head has gone, the Body is called to follow.
Christ has ascended. The Spirit is coming. The Lord is near.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.
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