Liturgical Reception of the Archbishop of Hobart
May the words of my mouth and the meditation of all our hearts be pleasing in your sight, O Lord.
Cardinal Bychok, Archbishop Balvo, Governor Baker and civic leaders, brother bishops, priests, deacons, religious, beloved faithful of the Archdiocese of Hobart, ecumenical friends, and cherished guests who have travelled far, those viewing the video: welcome.
A special word of gratitude to those who have come vast distances — from the west of our continent, members of the Order of Malta from Melbourne, Sydney, and Brisbane, Bishop Michael Morrissey from Geraldton, and my dear friend Fr Bang from Longreach parish in the centre of Queensland.
When we were seminarians, we often heard the Tasmanians, including Fr Mark, speak — with affection and with patience — of Archbishop Young’s legendary homilies: their length, yes, but also their depth. I cannot match his legacy, but I hope today, with some warranted length, to honour this occasion with something of his spirit.
What we witness this morning is no mere ceremony. The presence of so many bishops is a radiant sign of the Church’s deep and ancient communion — a communion in Christ branching across the centuries.
St Irenaeus, in the second century, urged the bishops of Asia to “consider things of peace, of neighbourly unity, and love.” That exhortation is honoured here today.
This visible communion assures us that the Church in Tasmania is not peripheral or forgotten. We are joined to the one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church — and in living fellowship with the particular Churches across Australia and beyond.
In his Jubilee address to bishops, Pope Leo XIV reminded us that a bishop must “give an example of fraternal love… to his Coadjutor or Auxiliary, to the Bishop Emeritus and to the Bishops of neighbouring dioceses, to the priests, his closest collaborators.”
I have no auxiliary here — but I do have two bishops emeriti: Archbishop Julian, most recently, and Archbishop Adrian — the beloved native son of this island. I pledge to you both my fraternal love and gratitude.
To my brother bishops — especially our immediate neighbours across Bass Strait — I commit to walking with you. To the priests of this Archdiocese, I offer not only leadership but genuine friendship. As Pope Leo says, you are my closest collaborators in Christ’s mission.
This moment is not new — it is ancient and richly graced.
Alongside Adelaide, the Archdiocese of Hobart was established in 1842, carved out from Sydney’s early Church. (Memo to Archbishop Fisher and Bishop Meagher: Sydney became a Metropolitan See because of Hobart and Adelaide).
From convict chaplaincies to schools and parishes scattered across this island, Tasmania’s Catholic story has been one of quiet fidelity, courageous perseverance, and grace upon grace.
To stand here is to stand in the footprints of missionaries, religious, laity and families — often poor, often struggling, but always faithful. We honour this history today with sacred objects that span our story — the chalice of Bishop Willson, the first bishop of Hobart, the pectoral cross of Archbishop Hayden, and the silver jubilee crozier of Archbishop Young.
And while we cherish our past, we must also lean into the question: How will we be faithful in our own God-given time?
The Word of God that we have just heard offers us an answer. In the Book of Wisdom, we hear of those who admire the cosmos, yet fail to know its Creator:
“If they were capable of acquiring enough knowledge to investigate the world, how have they been so slow to find its Master?” (Wis 13:9)
On the Mornington Peninsula, where I served until recently, a plaque reads: “If you enjoy the view, praise the God who made it.” How desperately our world needs that message!
We live in an age of AI and unprecedented brilliance —yet one tarnished by spiritual famine. Even here at the ends of the earth, faith is often misunderstood, misrepresented, or forgotten. Ours is the task of reawakening awe, rekindling wonder, and restoring the sacred.
This is the mission.
Pope Francis, quoting Pope St John Paul II’s Ecclesia in Oceania, insisted:
“All renewal in the Church must have mission as its goal if it is not to fall prey to a kind of ecclesial introversion.” (Evangelii Gaudium, 27)
That is the Church for which we must strive — outward-facing, radiant with joy, walking with those at the margins: the unbaptised, the searching, the hurt, and the forgotten.
St Peter speaks tenderly in our second reading:
“Bow down, then, before the power of God… unload all your worries onto him, since he is looking after you.” (1 Pet 5:6–7)
None of us — bishop, priest, or lay faithful — bears the weight alone. God is our caretaker. Our task is humble service, secured in trust.
“The God of all grace… will confirm, strengthen and support you/us.” (1 Pet 5:10)
This is the steadying truth beneath all trials. It strengthens ministry, diocesan life and personal witness.
Less than two months ago, Pope Leo addressed the world’s bishops with disarming simplicity, “Each of you, like myself, before being a shepherd, is a sheep, a member of the Lord’s flock.” Before I lead, I must follow. Before I speak, I must listen. Before I am bishop, I am disciple.
Today’s Gospel (John 20:19–31) whisks us back — as if by a TARDIS — into the Upper Room.
There the disciples were afraid. The doors were locked. But Christ entered and said: “Peace be with you.” He showed his wounds — not erased, but glorified — and breathed His Spirit upon them.
This is the beginning of mission. Not with flashy display or a loud trumpet blast, but with the quietness of breath.
Thomas’s doubt was not scorned, rather by the Lord he was healed. And then Jesus proclaimed:
“Happy are those who have not seen and yet believe.” (John 20:29)
St John concluded:
“There were many other signs that Jesus worked… but these are recorded so that you may believe that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God, and believing this, you may have life through his name.” (John 20:30–31, Jerusalem Bible)
The Gospel’s purpose is not information — it is ignition. Faith that gives life. That is my dream for this Archdiocese: that together we will witness in such a way that others may believe — and live.
Yes, there may be fear — of change, of the unknown. But fear never has the last word. The last word belongs to life, to breath, to peace.
For the last six years, I travelled west to Perth for meetings of St John of God Australia. Upon arrival, Bishop Gerry Holohan would quip: “The wise men came from the East, but Jesus was found in the West.”
Well, today I come from the North. And, I know, Jesus is already here.
The Spirit is already at work in Tasmania. This particular Church already has treasures: spiritual, historical, and human. I come not with a blueprint, but with open ears and a listening heart.
Sixty years ago, Pope St Paul VI wrote: “Receptivity to the wealth of the particular Church corresponds to a special sensitivity.” (Evangelii Nuntiandi, 62)
I want to learn of the wealth of this particular church: in parishes and schools, from elders and children, migrants and First Nations people, the estranged and the faithful. This land has a spiritual geography of its own, and I want to walk it with you.
As Pope Francis reminds us:
“Evangelization consists mostly of patience and disregard for constraints of time. Faithful to the Lord’s gift, it also bears fruit.” (Evangelii Gaudium, 154)
People over programs. Accompaniment over instruction. Presence over efficiency. Joy over anxiety.
And joy, dear friends, is magnetic. “It is not by proselytizing that the Church grows, but by attraction.” (Evangelii Gaudium, 114)
Let our tone be praise — not lament. Let it be Laudate Dominum — a song of radiant joy.
Pope Francis called this year a Jubilee of Hope. That is not a slogan. It is a summons.
We are to be pilgrims of hope — people on the move, not stuck in fear or nostalgia.
But hope is not naïve. It is forged in the fire of divine love. There is no Easter without Gethsemane. No resurrection without the wounds and bruises of Good Friday. Hope carries the perfume of the Last Supper, the sting of betrayal, and the glory of an empty tomb.
Hope dares to believe that locked doors can open. That wounds can become wonders. That faith in Tasmania can be reborn with vigour.
So let us walk together — bishop, clergy, religious, and lay faithful. Let us be a Church of the Upper Room: Spirit-filled, alive with joy, and bearing peace.
As we turn the page and write a new chapter in Tasmania’s Catholic story, may we walk as pilgrims of hope — and with our lives, sing the praise of God from whom all blessings flow.