Mark 10:45

  • To Bloom Once Again

    To Bloom Once Again

    1 Samuel 3:1-10, 19-20

    Some of the most beautiful flowers in the world grow in the most inhospitable places — deserts, rocky ground, even near ice. They don’t bloom there because conditions are easy, but because they’ve learned how to live with very little.

    That is the world Samuel was born into.

    Scripture tells us that “revelation of the LORD was uncommon and vision infrequent.” Israel had become spiritually barren. The priesthood was weary, and faith had become routine. God hadn’t stopped speaking, but Israel had largely stopped listening.

    And into that thin soil, God planted a child.

    Samuel grew up in the quiet and dark of a sanctuary where the lamp of God still burned, but the vision was dim. It’s not surprising that he didn’t recognize God calling him; no one had taught him to recognize God’s voice.

    Eli had his problems, and our Lord would soon be dealing with him, but his advice to Samuel was good: ‘Speak, LORD, for your servant is listening.’ And because Samuel took that advice, God’s word began to flower once again in Israel.

    That’s good news for us. Maybe we feel spiritually dry sometimes, or think God isn’t answering, which makes prayers hard to do. Maybe many things are going on in our lives and we feel stressed or overwhelmed. Maybe we’re tired and think we can’t give any more. Whatever place we’re in, no matter how inhospitable, the story of Samuel’s calling is there to reassure us that God never waits for ideal conditions. He speaks into every heart no matter how weary, to even the thinnest faith, and is at work in every life, no matter how dry. And He is persistent; no matter what, He keeps calling, keeps inviting us into a deeper relationship.

    So today, don’t force an answer or a feeling. Just make room. Repeat Samuel’s prayer — slowly, honestly: “Speak, Lord, your servant is listening.” That simple openness is all God needs to make something beautiful bloom once again.

  • No Trumpets

    No Trumpets

    Monday of the 1st Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Samuel 1:1-8; Mark 1:14-20

    Dancer and author Agnes de Mille once said, “No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently.”

    That line captures the quiet power of today’s Scriptures.

    In the first reading, there are no trumpets for Hannah—nothing dramatic at all. No angels, no voices from heaven, no sudden change in her circumstances. She must have wished there were! We can sense her anguish, her misunderstood suffering, and the frustration of a pain that returns year after year. The real question is whether she will remain faithful in her suffering, despite the seeming silence of God.

    The Gospel is just as understated. Jesus simply walks along the shore and says to four fishermen, “Come after me.” No fanfare. No crowds. No explanation of where this will lead or what it will cost. Like Hannah, their decision rests on whether they will trust God and act without understanding what lies ahead.

    Of course, we know how these stories unfold. Because of Hannah’s faithfulness, God blesses her with a son—Samuel—who becomes prophet, judge, and king-maker. The Apostles, despite their repeated confusion and fear, ultimately remain faithful to Christ and become the first pillars of the Church.

    But that’s hindsight. What about now? What about us?

    For most of us, God’s call sounds far more ordinary. It may be when someone asks us to serve in the parish in a way we don’t feel qualified for, when a neighbor needs help at an inconvenient time, or when prayer begins to feel dry but we know we should keep going anyway. Nothing dramatic happens. No one applauds. And we may wonder whether any of it makes a difference.

    The point of the readings is that the so-called “ordinariness” of life is precisely where faith is lived. And it’s actually far from ordinary.

    Like Hannah and the Apostles, there are no trumpets or clear signs. Even when we do sense God’s call, we can’t see clearly down the road. All we know is that God comes quietly into our lives, asking us to follow Him without recognition, without certainty, and without any guarantee that our suffering will be quickly resolved. But Scripture also teaches us that God is always with us, and if we remain faithful, He will work through us in extraordinary ways.

    Some years ago, Thomas Merton summarized this in a beautiful prayer which I ask you to pray with me:

    “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, And the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, And you will never leave me to face my perils alone.” 1

    1From Thoughts In Solitude by Thomas Merton, first published in 1956.

  • Immersion

    Immersion

    The Baptism of the Lord (A)

    Matthew 3:13-17

    A German immigrant living in Italy asked how best to learn Italian. The advice he got was simple: Go down to the marketplace and spend time there. Listen. Speak. Make mistakes. Do this enough times and the language will become yours.

    That was it: No textbook, no computer program. Immersion, pure and simple. And it worked. In time, he spoke Italian fluently.

    Immersion is really what we celebrate as we remember the Baptism of the Lord. In ancient times, it wasn’t the custom to stand at a baptismal font and be sprinkled with a few drops of water. No, people were plunged into it, going under as the old, sinful self, and coming back up as the new, redeemed self.

    That practice was done in imitation of Christ’s own baptism in the Jordan by John. Of course, Jesus didn’t need repentance. Still, he chose to plunge fully into the waters – with sinners. With us. Knowing our weakness, our confusion, our need for mercy, God didn’t just stand and watch from a distance. He entered the water. And not only entered, but completely immersed himself in the human condition.

    Thus he teaches us that belonging – that taking up our mission – is revealed in immersion, not observation. For the baptized Christian, life isn’t a spectator sport, something to merely observe, but something to totally immerse ourselves in. Just as that man didn’t master Italian by reading a book or using a computer program, we don’t learn to live like Christ by occasional exposure to him or his Church.

    That brings up the difficult questions Christ wants us to ask ourselves: Do I live a “Christmas and Easter” type faith, or do I live it every day? Do I look at others in need and hope someone will help them, or do I “take the plunge” and do it myself?

    No matter how we answer such questions, let us remember that we learn the language of Christ by immersion: Prayer, reception of the sacraments, being an active part of the community, and by practicing mercy, especially to those who we may think least deserve it.

    If we aren’t where we know we need to be in these things, that’s OK. God has given us time. To learn the language of love, forgiveness, and self-gift, we must go down to the marketplace and spend time where those things are spoken. Where is that? Not the clean, clear water of a baptismal font or an easy chair, but the muddy and unclear water of humanity – of the cross. But as Jesus showed, that’s the place to do as he did, to immerse ourselves fully.

    That is what our Lord, Jesus Christ showed us, not just at his baptism, but by his life, death, and resurrection. And that’s what the Father showed when He said,”This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

    In the same way, we don’t learn how to live “fluently” as God’s beloved sons and daughters by watching from the shore. We learn it by immersion.

  • Love and Fear

    Love and Fear

    Wednesday after Epiphany

    1 John 4:11-18; Mark 6:45-52

    Many things John says get my attention, but today, one thing in particular stands out: perfect love drives out fear (1 John 4:18). He doesn’t say that love reduces or manages fear; it drives it out. When love becomes primary, it takes over. There is no room for fear.

    It sounds wonderful, but how does that happen? Let me give you an example.

    Laying by a pool one day, I noticed a commotion in the water. It was my son. Not only was he in trouble, he was drowning! Immediately, I jumped in. I saved him, but in doing so almost drowned myself. While I was then and still am terrified of drowning, in that moment love completely dominated. There was no time, no room, for fear. All that mattered was love.

    That’s what John means. Perfect love doesn’t wait for fear to calm down or try to reason or compromise with it. No, it totally overrides it.

    But then Mark adds an important dimension. Sometimes, fear becomes crippling or disabling. For example, the disciples in the boat were terrified, not just because of the storm, but also because of the “ghost” on the water. Fear blinded them; looking right at Jesus, they do not recognize him. And it’s not only them. Recently, while suffering with cancer, I was afraid many times. Despite my own prayers, the fear was so bad that I was tempted to give up.

    But that’s where St. Mark’s story proves so helpful. It reminds us that love isn’t only what we give, it’s what we receive when we can no longer carry ourselves. For the disciples in the boat, it was the presence and the voice of Jesus saying, Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid. At that moment, fear lost hold; Christ, Love Himself, had arrived. For me, it was Christ working in ways known only to him and in one way he allowed me to feel: The prayers, the concern, the quiet fidelity of others. Their love was like a “shared” courage that cast out my fear. Together, the love of Christ and the love shared by others in imitation of him are more than enough to stand watch when our own strength falters.

    Whether it’s the barque of the Church or the small, fragile boats of our own lives, there will always be dark nights and sudden storms, times when fear threatens to take over. At those moments — at every moment — we must remember that Christ is always here, always personally present to us in Word and Sacrament. He speaks into the storms of every human life, “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.” And he empowers us to stand watch for one another, to lend strength when strength is failing, and to share the courage that only the grace of God can give.

    Fear is real. But as Christ has shown so perfectly, love — his love — is sovereign.

    —

  • Holy Families, Not Perfect Ones

    Holy Families, Not Perfect Ones

    Sirach 3:2-6, 12-14; Colossians 3:12-21; Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23

    The Scriptures for the Feast of the Holy Family speak honestly about family life; not as perfect, but as a place where faith is tested and love is learned.

    Sirach tells us, “Take care of your father when he is old… even if his mind fails, be considerate of him.” He does not limit this call to ideal relationships. It is a summons to faithful love, even when family bonds are complicated or strained.

    That passage reminds me of a time when, as a teenager, I traveled with my father to New York to be with his own father, who was alone and dying of cancer. I didn’t know the details, but I knew there had been difficulties between them. Yet during those few days, I didn’t see that. All I saw was a patient, gentle, attentive son. No speeches, no attempts to fix the past… just the silence of Dad’s presence, care, and compassion.

    Those images have never left me. More importantly, they helped me see Dad in a new and illuminating light. Just like he had struggles with his father, I had struggles with him. Despite all that, watching him live out that kind of reverent love went a long way toward healing our relationship. That mattered, because Dad died young. Had I waited, that healing might never have come.

    St. Paul urges us to “put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.” In the Gospel, Joseph does just that: he silently rises, protects those entrusted to him, and trusts God with his family’s future. Watching Dad live that way has challenged me to do the same.

    And it’s about challenge, after all. While the Feast of the Holy Family rightly draws our eyes to Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s not about comparing the Holy Family’s perfection to ours. Rather, the Feast invites us to challenge ourselves; that the love in our family be stronger than our resentment, our presence stronger than our history, and our faith strong enough to act — quietly, faithfully, and one day at a time— so that God’s love and peace may work through us to bring healing and wholeness.

    —

  • Open the Door

    Open the Door

    Isaiah 7:10-14; Psalm 24:7c, 10b; Matthew 1:18-24

    You’ve probably seen the famous painting of Jesus standing on a porch, holding a lantern, and knocking on the door. The painting is called “The Light of the World,” and its artist, William Holman Hunt, embedded a few symbols into it, two of which are very appropriate for Advent.

    First is the door itself; it has no handle on the outside. Second is the bottom of the door; weeds are growing everywhere. What did Hunt intend with these symbols?

    The answer lies in the Psalm response chosen by the Church today: Let the Lord enter; he is the king of glory. The door opening only from the inside means that we have to let Jesus enter. He will not force his way in. The weeds symbolize a life where prayer has been crowded out. Again, if we don’t take the time to speak to Jesus, to ask him in, he will not enter.

    So, is there anything keeping me from opening the door and letting God more fully into my life? There are probably many things, but I can think of two.

    First, fear. Despite his outward appearance of piety (“I will not tempt God!”), King Ahaz was afraid. What did this arrogant young man have to fear? Loss of control. He couldn’t allow anyone, even God, to take control from him. But notice in the gospel how Joseph is just the opposite: He allowed God full control, to the point of listening to Him in dreams.

    Second, distraction. That was another problem with Ahaz. He was too occupied with himself and his kingdom to make time for God. Again, Joseph was the opposite; even in his dreams, he discerned and listened to God’s voice. In return, God made him the guardian of Jesus and his Most Blessed Mother.

    That brings us to ourselves. We might ask who we’re more like – Ahaz or Joseph – but perhaps we’re a little of both. Our “inner Ahaz” may fear giving God control. He might ask a lot of us, or lead us where we don’t want to go. Or we too may be distracted, our hearts so cluttered with other things that we aren’t really listening for God or speaking much with Him.

    Let us use these last days of Advent, when things can get so busy, to remind ourselves that God doesn’t need to take control. As Emmanuel, “God With Us,” He is already in control. Fear is useless; what is needed is faith. We need only be still, ask Him for the faith we need, then “open the door”: Pray, listen, and trust that He who is already near may truly be “with us” – in our homes and hearts, now and for all the days to come.

    —

  • The Shoot and the Fruit

    The Shoot and the Fruit

    The 2ndSunday of Advent, Cycle A

    Isaiah 11:1-10; Matthew 3:1-12

    It may not seem like it, but today Isaiah presents one of the most striking images in all of Scripture: A shoot shall sprout from the stump of Jesse. To us it sounds poetic, and is, but for the prophet’s audience, it was also practical, and its symbolism powerful. Why? Because the Hebrews knew that a shoot growing from the stump of an old olive tree, when properly cared for, grows into a new olive tree. Then and now, the olive tree was a symbol of resurrection: What looked dried up and dead is alive again; a whole new tree, fresh and full of fruit.

    To this, the prophet adds two things: First, he gives the stump a family name – Jesse, King David’s father – in effect prophesying a son from that family endowed with spiritual gifts. Second, this son would usher into the world a kingdom of peace beyond our imagination. On this side of the resurrection, it’s easy to see this son of David as our Lord, Jesus Christ, and creation at the end state God planned from all eternity: healed and restored, with its people living in justice and peace. What a perfect picture.

    But, as we all know from times we’ve pictured ourselves having reached some new personal milestone, there has to be a path to get us there. We don’t just become a new self; real effort is involved. Sometimes, I think I need a drill sergeant to push me where I want to go. Once I find out how hard the path to a better me is, the less I’m motivated to get there on my own.

    Enter John the Baptist, the first century’s spiritual drill sergeant.

    His words – Repent… prepare the way… make straight the paths… produce good fruit as evidence of your repentance – may sound harsh, but they’re true. They remind us that the kingdom Isaiah pictured takes a lot more than good intentions or warm feelings. It takes real effort; a deliberate, disciplined turning back to God.

    As John none-too-gently reminded his audience when he said, the ax lies at the root of the tree, some pain may be involved. We know the discomfort, the humility of Confession. But we also know that God meets us there, and gives us the grace to cut away the behaviors and attitudes that lead us away from Him.

    It may feel as though all that remains of our old life is a stump, but remember the olive tree – from the stump that remains, new shoots can grow. What are those? Imagine the possibilities: A moment of honesty; a bad habit given up; a virtue practiced on purpose; a relationship tended with patience; less screen time replaced by more and deeper prayer; reconciliation with someone we have avoided. And many more.

    The best news of all? Any of these small shoots will become, if tended, a new tree — a new self — rooted in Christ. And from that tree, the good fruit will begin to appear: gentleness rather than impatience, mercy rather than judgment, courage rather than fear.

    So, this Advent – right now – let’s choose just one concrete act of repentance, one “spiritual muscle” to train, or one place where we invite the Lord to straighten the path. God is eager to do it; He, who raised a shoot from Jesse’s stump will raise a new heart in us as well. And, through that heart, we will bear the fruit that shows we are really doing what God wants most – turning back to Him.

    —

  • The Story of Us All

    The Story of Us All

    Solemnity of Christ the King (C)

    Luke 23:35-43

    The author and theologian Frederick Buechner once said that the story of one of us is in some measure the story of us all. As we’ve seen throughout this past year, if any storyteller shows the truth of this, it is the evangelist, St. Luke.

    Today is no exception. In fact, it may well be Luke’s master stroke. Only he gives us a story so compelling, so poignant, so reflective of the human condition that it has come to be called, “the Gospel within the Gospel.” It is, of course, the story of the “Good Thief.”

    But again, like so many great stories, it’s about much more than one thief. It’s also about the other thief, the soldiers, the rulers, and everyone gathered around or even passing by the cross. It is, as Buechner said, the story of us all.

    Although the action involves each character in the story to some degree, and we can see ourselves in each of them, Luke focuses our attention on the two thieves. It’s easy to see why: like Jesus, they suffer on crosses of their own, and they, too, will die that day. Above all, and without their understanding it, both men will come face to face with their King.

    The difference between them lies not in their suffering, but in their hearts. The heart of the first man is intent on escape. While this is natural, people who want something so badly can end up bullying others – even God – desperate to get what they want.

    I might ask, ‘How is that like me?’ – but I already know. Many times, I have approached the Lord with a similar attitude. “What kind of God allows bad things to happen? You can do it, so get me out of this!” That isn’t a prayer, it’s a demand, and it betrays a heart looking for God to fix the outer situation, not the inner person.

    Note that Jesus does not reply to this man. It’s natural to want relief from our cross, and to ask for help with it, but it’s arrogant to make demands of God or measure His Kingship by how well He makes us content and comfortable.

    By contrast, the second thief accepts the truth about himself (we are getting what we deserve) and Jesus (he is innocent and is entering his kingdom). In that humility, all he asks is that Jesus remember him.

    This is our ideal. We are like the good thief every time we approach the Lord not in arrogance but in humility and truth. Our best, most effective prayers are said in trust — acknowledging our sin, our need for mercy, and our faith that even in the worst of our suffering, Christ the King is Lord of all and has our good in mind.

    Of course, our hope is that Jesus replies as mercifully to our prayer as he did to the good thief. Luke is clear that our Lord is not outdone in generosity! Where the thief said, Remember me, Christ replied, You will be with me, and where he said, when you come into your Kingdom, Christ said, Today.

    Today and every day, Christ the King stands between those who approach him with pride and resentment on the one side, or humility and repentance on the other.

    So the question is, which side of the King do I tend to stand on?

    —

  • Front and Center

    Front and Center

    Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica in Rome

    Ezekiel 47:1-2, 8-9, 12; 1 Corinthians 3:9c-11, 16-17; John 2:13-22

    Today, we celebrate the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica. My guess is that several of you have been to Rome and seen it firsthand. If so, you know how strikingly beautiful it is, how ancient, how rich in history. The first Catholic basilica and the cathedral of the Holy Father, we call it St. John Lateran, but its dedication 1700 years ago was neither to St. John the Baptist nor St. John the Evangelist; those came centuries later. The first dedication was to Christ the Savior, whose image stands front and center at the top of the basilica.

    That statue is much more than a mere adornment; it is a symbol that Christ is to be front and center of our worship. We see in the gospel that some in the Temple allowed themselves to focus on earthly concerns rather than the spiritual. Jesus knew that with that mindset, both the beauty of the Temple and, most importantly, what it pointed to – the presence of God – was lost to them.

    It’s no different for us. We have lives, and with them earthly concerns, but if we allow ourselves to be distracted by them, then we too have lost our focus.

    Keeping Christ front and center means giving him our total self. At Mass, we do that by placing everything – our prayers, works, joys, and sufferings – on the altar at the Offertory, and making them our sacrifice to the Father, united with the perfect sacrifice of His Son.

    Outside of Mass, keeping Christ central means remembering, as St. Paul said, that we are the Church to the outside world. What matters to them isn’t our buildings, statues, or rituals (important as they are), but whether our actions as Christ’s Body make the world a better place. And that’s why St. Paul next speaks of our call to be holy. We must continually strive to grow in holiness, every day and in every part of our life.

    Of course, that can only be done with God’s grace, symbolized in Ezekiel’s image of water flowing from the temple. While water has never flowed directly from the Temple Mount, the Gihon Spring (Jerusalem’s ancient source of fresh water) did flow near there and emptied into the Dead Sea. Using this imagery, God assures us that, if His grace was a little stream of water, it’s powerful enough to transform even the saltiest lake on Earth into fresh water! How consoling, especially when we feel powerless over our troubles. With God’s grace at work, we can face anything!

    The dedication of the Lateran basilica is a wonderful feast, but must start with the dedication of our own interior temple. Let zeal for the Father’s House move us to purify and re-dedicate ourselves as temples pleasing to the Lord, with Christ Jesus – our one and only foundation – front and center wherever we are and whatever we’re doing.

    —

  • Faith That Keeps Going

    Faith That Keeps Going

    The 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

    Exodus 17:8-13; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:2; Luke 18:1-8

    If you’ve been following the Gospels these past few weeks, you might have noticed that Jesus has talked a lot about what it means to live by faith.

    First, he told us that faith means trusting in God, not in our possessions or our comfort. Then, in the story of the rich man and Lazarus, he showed us that faith is lived with a merciful heart, not a selfish one. Next came the mustard seed: even a tiny bit of faith can do great things if we live it with humility. Finally, last week, in the story of the leper who came back to say thank you, Jesus showed us that faith, to be real, must be founded on deep, lasting gratitude.

    Today, Jesus adds one more piece: endurance. Through the parable of the persistent widow, he teaches that faith isn’t just a feeling or a moment of inspiration; rather, it’s “staying power.” It keeps going, even when life is hard, when prayers seem unanswered, or when it feels like God isn’t listening.

    Honestly, endurance might be the most difficult one of all, yet it’s vital. Why? Well, it’s not so hard to trust, forgive, or be grateful once in a while. But to keep doing it year after year, through disappointment, silence, or loss? Without endurance, where would our faith be?

    Today’s other readings make that point. Consider Moses: at first he could hold his arms up in prayer all by himself. But, eventually, he wore out and needed help. That’s us, too. None of us can “hold up” our faith alone forever. We need others beside us; people who pray with us, encourage us, and perhaps above all, pray for us.

    And St. Paul adds something more: endurance in faith comes from feeding on God’s Word. We can survive for a while without opening our Bibles, but not for long. As St. Jerome once said, “When we pray, we speak to God; when we read, God speaks to us.” To endure in faith, we must listen. In every passage of Scripture, Christ is there, speaking to our confusion, fear, and fatigue.

    So this week, let’s take this lesson to heart. Endurance builds our faith in at least two ways, through humility and resilience. First, like sticks in a bundle, faith is stronger when we don’t go it alone but keep at it together, allowing others to help us, and helping others in turn. Second, faith is more resilient as we put aside our temptations to be frustrated and allow the grace of God to fill us with the confidence that He is always faithful, hears us, and will answer – in His time, not ours.

    This is the faith Christ hopes to find when he returns: a faith that binds and holds us together; that keeps praying, keeps hoping, keeps believing that God is still who He has always said He is: The Love that never leaves.

    —