Mark 10:45

  • In God’s Hands

    In God’s Hands

    The Commemoration of All the Faithful Departed (All Souls)

    Wisdom 3:1-9; Romans 5:5-11; John 6:37-40

    My mother outlived my father by over 20 years. She and I talked many times over those decades, and I can honestly say that the vast majority of our conversations included Dad at some point.

    Although Mom didn’t say it, I knew that while she trusted his soul to God, she never stopped grieving his loss, and she never gave up hope that one day she’d see him again.

    On All Souls Day, we gather to do the same thing: To grieve the loss of those we love who have died, to entrust their souls to God, and to rejoice in the hope that one day, we will see them again.

    A couple of things stand out to me about this Commemoration.

    First, the Church acknowledges that our pain is real. No one asks us to pretend that death is painless. Far from it; as the book of Wisdom says, “their passing away was thought an affliction and their going forth from us, utter destruction.” What’s more, some of those who die in God’s grace still need to be purified before they can enter fully into the holiness of heaven. We call this purification “purgatory.” We may not understand all that this entails, but we know it takes place within the merciful love of God, who desires to bring His children to the fullness of life with Him.

    God doesn’t merely stand beside us in our grief. In Christ, he enters into it and, in doing so, saves us from the power of sin and death. St. Paul reminded us of this when he said that “while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” Our hope isn’t that death somehow becomes less real, but that the love of God revealed in Christ is stronger than death.

    That brings us to the second point: God also reveals that grief isn’t the end. Just as Christ raised Lazarus from the dead, so we believe, as Wisdom goes on to say, “the faithful shall abide with him in love.”

    This brings us to the most important aspect of this day: Hope. For Christian hope is grief transformed by trust.

    Trust in what? In the promise of Christ, who said in the gospel, “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and I will not reject anyone who comes to me.”

    Note that Jesus didn’t say, “I will preserve only those who never failed.” No, Jesus said that he will lose nothing of what the Father has given him, but will raise it up on the last day. He is faithful.

    The steadfast faithfulness of Christ is the heart of the gospel message today. Ultimately, our loved ones who have died cannot be held by the power of death. They are held by the promise of Christ, who never fails.

    And that promise includes both present and future hope: Those who believe in Christ possess eternal life even now. Their bodies will be raised on the last day.

    So, my friends, while we do acknowledge our grief, let us look forward in hope. Let us remember those we love, pray for them, and entrust them to the mercy of God. And let us do so because we know that Christ, in his mercy, will raise the dead and bring his faithful people to eternal life with him.

    My mom never stopped hoping that she’d see my dad again. And the promise of Christ gives us reason to hope for that reunion; not because we can see what lies beyond death, but because we trust the One who promises to bring us there.

    Our loved ones may no longer be within the reach of our hands, but they’re never beyond the reach of God’s. Indeed, they are in God’s hands.

    There’s no better place to be.

    —

  • The Story My Life Will Tell

    The Story My Life Will Tell

    The Solemnity of All Saints

    Revelation 7:2-4, 9-14; Psalm 24:1bc-2, 3-4ab, 5-6; 1 John 3:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12a

    A little girl, born with physical deformities and plagued by painful illnesses, was physically abused by her stepmother, forced to live in a barn, and fed only table scraps. She died at the age of 22, but never turned bitter; instead, she tended sheep, went to Mass, taught children about Christ, and shared what food she had with the hungry.

    Blessed are the clean of heart, for they shall see God.

    A former slave – a giant of a man – fell in with a gang of thieves and murderers, and eventually became their leader. While fleeing the law, he sought refuge in a desert monastery. The peace, humility, and mercy of the monks there captivated him. He renounced violence, repented completely, and spent the rest of his life with them. Even when a band of robbers attacked his cell, he spared their lives. His peaceful demeanor is said to have contributed to their own conversion to follow Christ.

    Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.

    A hot-tempered young soldier, unable to control his gambling, eventually gambled away everything. After being helped by some kind Franciscan friars, he devoted himself to caring for the sick, became a priest, and founded a religious order dedicated to serving the physically and spiritually afflicted. Despite his own chronic illnesses, he cared for others with great mercy and kindness until his own death forty years later.

    Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

    Every saint’s life tells a unique story. Some, like the little girl St. Germaine, are heart-rending. Others, like the reformed outlaw St. Moses the Black, are astonishing. Still others, like St. Camillus, show us holiness in the midst of suffering. Yet all of them, each in their own way, show us one thing above all: the transforming power of God’s grace. And their stories remind us of the old saying that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.

    The question for all of us is, what story will my life tell? We might think, “Well, my story is nothing like the saints you spoke of. No great events, no drama. What is there to make me a saint?”

    Don’t mistake drama for sanctity. Look at the first reading. The author tells of a great multitude in heaven which no one could count. We don’t know their stories. Some of them probably lived lives much like ours. Yet we hear that they survived “great distress.” What could that be? While for some it might be a dramatic martyrdom or great suffering, St. Thérèse of Lisieux reminds us of the “Little Way” – taking up the daily cross of choosing integrity when dishonesty is rewarded, choosing to forgive when resentment is easier, or enduring chronic illnesses, loneliness, or grief while holding onto hope.

    John tells us that they have washed their robes and made them white in the Blood of the Lamb. Made white in blood? Yes. The blood of the Lamb cleanses us from sin and makes us holy. The saints did not achieve holiness by their own efforts alone. They were made holy through the saving sacrifice of Christ, and they responded to his grace with lives of faithfulness.

    And that cleansing grace is at work even in an “uneventful” life, lived in quiet, consistent reliance on God.

    That sounds like us. For we are the people who just sang in the Psalm that we long to see His face; who heard that one day, those called the “children of God” will see Him as He is, and that we who have this hope make ourselves pure as he is pure.

    That is what the saints have done. We might imagine, because their stories are so different, that each saint found his or her own path to heaven. But that isn’t so; no one invents their own path to holiness. Rather, they follow the path Christ set before them — the beatitudes he teaches in the Gospel today.

    Those beatitudes may seem like a mystery. How can we be happy or “blessed” to be poor in spirit, meek, mourning, or persecuted? Sounds like there’s pain involved. In answer to this, a Dominican theologian compared the Beatitudes to a plow in the fields. A plow turns over the soil, uprooting weeds and preparing the earth for new growth. The Beatitudes do something similar in our hearts. The Holy Spirit overturns our assumptions, challenges our desires, and makes room for the seed of the Gospel.

    There’s no getting around it; living out the Beatitudes is difficult. We can’t do it alone. Fortunately, we don’t have to. Through the Holy Spirit, Christ gives us the grace to follow his path. And when we stumble, he calls us back, forgives us, and gives us the grace to begin again.

    This is especially important to remember on All Saints Day. The saints aren’t simply people who admired Jesus and tried hard on their own to copy him. They are people who allowed their lives to be transformed by his grace.

    So, what story will my life tell? We can’t know now. As John reminded us, what we shall be has not yet been revealed. But we can rejoice in what has been revealed: We are God’s children now; the path to blessedness has been shown to us by Christ; and we’ve been given every gift and grace we need to follow it.

    This is our hope: We keep searching for Him, and He will find us and bring us home. Forever.

    —

  • The Fragrance of Christ

    The Fragrance of Christ

    Monday of the 30th Week in Ordinary Time

    Ephesians 4:32–5:8; Luke 13:10-17

    I didn’t realize the power of smells to trigger memories until I walked past a bakery one day and caught the aroma of freshly baked bread. Suddenly, in my mind I was transported decades back to our kitchen where Gramma was making bread. It was very emotional and quite unexpected.

    I’ve noticed the same thing at church. Just the smell of burning incense is enough to take me years back to Funeral Masses for my parents and other loved ones.

    St. Paul knew this power. Notice how he said, “live in love, as Christ loved us and handed himself over for us as a sacrificial offering to God for a fragrant aroma.” Clearly he’s thinking of the burnt offerings or sacrifices described in Exodus and Leviticus whose smoke makes a “pleasing aroma” to God (Exodus 29:41; Leviticus 1:9).

    And just as clearly, this analogy would’ve been lost on the synagogue leader in the gospel passage. Had his faith grown stale? It’s hard to explain how he could witness that miraculous healing and still see a rule as being more important than the relief of suffering.

    The woman experienced something of the love Paul describes. Jesus knew that her infirmity carried the added burden of indignity; she was a daughter of Abraham who had been bound for eighteen years. His mercy lifted a burden that no rule, properly understood, should have required her to carry. If I were her, the whole synagogue would have been filled with the fragrance of Christ.

    To this day, every tabernacle is filled with the fragrance of Christ. It surrounds us at every Eucharist, and should become recognizable in us. The question for each of us is: Am I bringing that fragrance with me out into the world?

    Have I been keeping others bound in my mind by holding onto old slights or past definitions of who they are? If so, let me think of one specific person today and choose to forgive them — even replacing a bitter thought about them with a prayer for them.

    Do I sometimes become impatient with family members who don’t share my faith or practice it as I think they should? Do I sometimes resent that? Perhaps I can offer them gratitude, encouragement, and words of peace instead of making them think that they must meet my expectations before I can love them.

    So, as we go out in the world today and encounter those bent over by grief, poverty, or sin, let us never leave them with the stale odor of indifference. Rather, let our kindness — our willingness to unbind them — leave them with the lingering fragrance of the Risen Christ.

    This is how we walk in love, how we carry the fragrance of Christ wherever we go. And as we do, may those who encounter us today catch a glimpse of the love and mercy of God.

    —

  • The Right Barns, Full

    The Right Barns, Full

    Memorial of Sts. John de Brébeuf and Isaac Jogues, Priests, and Companions, Martyrs

    Ephesians 2:1-10; Luke 12:13-21

    Suppose for a moment that we were in 17th century France, meeting with Fr. Isaac Jogues. He stands before us, emaciated and worn out, with the fingers he used to consecrate the Eucharist mutilated. He tells us of his mission among the Mohawk people of North America – how they misunderstood, abused, and tortured him and his companions – and then of his escape and safe return to France.

    How would we react to hear him say next that he couldn’t wait to get back to America and be with the Mohawks once again?

    My guess is, at the very least, we’d be sad and a little surprised.

    Those close to him certainly were. His family begged him to stay. His superiors offered him a comfortable teaching position. The French people saw him as a hero, a living martyr, and wanted to honor him. The queen of Austria even came to see him, and wept as she kissed his mutilated hands.

    In terms of today’s Gospel, we might think that Fr. Jogues had every reason to consider his barn “full.” He had served God faithfully and suffered terribly. Now he had safety, respect, and a measure of physical comfort. Naturally, those who loved him wanted him to stay in France, safe and sound. Why risk everything by returning to the very people who had tortured him?

    But there are barns and there are barns. Father knew that the earthly treasures his friends and family wanted him to enjoy — health, respect, and safety — were temporary and easily lost. He had discovered something far more valuable: the riches of Christ, which he longed to share with others.

    St. Paul reminds us today that we are saved by grace, created in Christ Jesus for good works. Father Jogues wasn’t trying to earn God’s love through suffering. He had received that love, and he was willing to spend his life sharing it with others.

    In fact, he was eager to. People noted that Father was restless to continue evangelizing the people who tortured him. Once Pope Urban VIII gave him a special dispensation to use the other fingers of his hands for consecrations, his joy was complete and he set sail for America.

    Although suffering and death did lay ahead, Father remained joyful and resolute. As he knew, true joy isn’t the absence of suffering but the presence of a transcendent purpose. His life shows us clearly that only when we stop living for self-preservation and begin living for what matters to God can we most truly be at peace.

    So, on this memorial of the martyrs St. Isaac Jogues and his companions, let us ask ourselves: What is my barn filled with? Is it concern about financial security, fitting in with others, control, or comfort? Do I let those concerns determine whether I am at peace or joyful?

    And let us ask Almighty God for the wisdom to recognize that our lives, too, belong to him, and that none of us knows how much time we have. May we learn to see the daily trials of our own lives – from the frustration of traffic tie-ups to the profound suffering that can accompany serious illness – not merely as obstacles to our peace, but as opportunities to surrender our pride, practice patience, and draw nearer to the heart of Christ.

    St. Isaac Jogues, pray for us.

    —

  • Whose Image Is This?

    Whose Image Is This?

    Sunday of the 29th Week in Ordinary Time

    Isaiah 45:1, 4-6; 1 Thessalonians 1:1-5b; Philippians 2:15d, 16a; Matthew 22:15-21

    One of my kids, about 7 at the time, came with me to the grocery store. While we were checking out, he found a penny on the floor. He picked it up and handed it to the cashier, who said, “That’s OK, you can keep it.” “No, you have it,” my son said. She smiled, took the coin, and said, “How sweet! Thank you!” In the car, I asked him why he didn’t keep it like she said. He replied, “Dad, the penny was tails. That’s bad luck. She can have it.”

    Mr. Generosity.

    My son looked at the image on a coin and saw luck. The Pharisees looked at the image on a coin and saw an opportunity to entrap Jesus.

    But the real question today is, what image does God see when He looks at us?

    We want Him to see His image and likeness, of course, for that’s how He created us.

    But how do we know what God sees when He looks at us? While we can’t know for sure, God does give us clues. One comes from St. Paul, who saw the Thessalonians putting their faith into practice through their work, their love, and their perseverance in hope. Another clue comes from Christ. Throughout the Gospels, he isn’t nearly as interested in what people say about faith as he is in how they put faith into practice.

    So then we have to ask ourselves, if God looks at how I practice my faith, how am I practicing it? Is faith something I pick up on Sunday morning and put down on Sunday afternoon, or is it with me every hour of every day?

    I think most of us would like to say that our faith is with us all the time, but then the question becomes, how are we showing it? Does it show in our prayer life? In how we treat people? In how involved we are in doing things to make the lives of those around us better? Do we, as today’s Gospel Acclamation urges, shine like lights in the world?

    I think we probably do, to some degree. But that only intensifies the question: What keeps us from shining more brightly?

    Of course, we know the answer: Sin. If our souls were coins, sin would be the impurities that keep the metal from reflecting light as brightly as it could. Sin doesn’t erase God’s image in us, but it does obscure that image, making it harder for others to see Christ in the way we live.

    In the ancient world, like today, bronze, silver, and gold had to be purified before it could be made or re-made into jewelry or coins. Picture a silversmith standing by the fire, watching as the silver melts in the cauldron. As impurities rise to the surface, he carefully skims them off. The purer the silver gets, the more it reflects like a mirror. Once the silversmith can clearly see his own reflection, the silver is ready.

    That’s a good metaphor for the spiritual life.

    God is at work in us, too. Through His grace, God helps us recognize the impurities in our lives: pride, selfishness, impatience, unwillingness to forgive. Through prayer, Scripture, and the ordinary circumstances of daily life, He invites us to let those things go. Ultimately, through the grace of the Sacraments, especially Confession, He forgives our sins, purifies our hearts, and strengthens us to resist temptation in the future.

    Of course, that takes a great deal of humility and perseverance. We have to admit to God and ourselves that there are things in our lives that need to change. And we have to remember that it doesn’t happen overnight; conversion is the gradual work of a lifetime.

    And although it may feel at times like we’re the silver in the cauldron, the result is far more than worth it. As we receive the grace God offers us, we become more and more conformed to the image of His Son.

    So, perhaps the question to ask today is just this simple: When people look at the way I live, can they see something of Christ?

    Can they see him in the way I treat the members of my family and my neighbors? In my patience with someone who frustrates me, my willingness to forgive someone who has hurt me, or my concern for someone who has nothing to offer me in return?

    We don’t have to be perfect to reflect Christ. But we do have to be willing to let God work on us.

    Remember the coin my son found at the store? He saw the image on it and thought about luck. The Pharisees saw the image on a coin and thought about how they could use it against Jesus.

    Jesus asks us to look beyond the coin itself. Give Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and give God what belongs to God.

    What belongs to God? We do. We bear His image.

    May we let His grace purify our hearts, so that when God looks at us, He sees the image of His Son — and when the world looks at us, it sees something of Christ, too.

    —

  • The Invitation I Wasn’t Looking For

    The Invitation I Wasn’t Looking For

    Monday of the 28th Week in Ordinary Time

    Luke 11:29-32

    When I was in my thirties, my pastor asked me if I’d ever considered the permanent diaconate. I said no. In my forties, another priest asked me the same question. I looked into it a little but didn’t take it seriously. Then, in my fifties, I began to feel unsettled. I’d gotten a lot of education, including a degree in theology, but didn’t know how to use it to serve the Church. After a Mass at the Cathedral in downtown Chicago, I met with a priest and told him my struggle. He listened, then asked me if I’d ever considered the diaconate.

    I laughed and said, “You’re the third priest in my life who’s asked me that.”

    He looked at me and said, “Let me get this straight: You’re looking for a way to serve the Church, and I’m the third priest who’s asked you about the diaconate?”

    At that moment, I thought of today’s Gospel. I was looking for a sign — imagining a moment, a feeling, something that fit my expectations. But God had already been speaking to me. Three times! I couldn’t hear it because I had decided in advance what His guidance should look like.

    Recognizing the sign didn’t mean I could skip discernment or assume that every coincidence was a command from God. I still had to pray, reflect, seek counsel, and examine whether this path would truly serve God and the Church. Nor did it mean I was wrong to hesitate or feel uncertain.

    What it meant was that signs aren’t a substitute for discernment. They’re an invitation to it.

    Of course, discernment requires a lot of prayer, but it must be done with the right frame of mind and a great deal of humility. There’s a huge difference between praying, “Lord, help me to recognize Your will,” and praying, “Lord, give me the sign I’m looking for.” Prayer is about openness to the will of Almighty God, not control over it.

    In the same way, faith includes trust and obedience, but not to the point that it’s blind or irrational. Faith involves reason, prayer, and a free response to God. He welcomes our honest questions, but asks us to remain open to His answers — even when they arrive differently than we expected.

    So that raises the question: Are we overlooking the signs God has already made present? What could those be? Where do we look? Remember that the Holy Spirit can guide us through prayer, conscience, and spiritual inspirations, but also through other people, Scripture, and the circumstances of our lives. Not every coincidence is a message, and not every desire is God’s will. But perhaps there are conversations we keep remembering, opportunities to use gifts we’ve neglected, invitations we keep dismissing, or people who see something in us that we don’t see in ourselves. These may be worth bringing to prayer. God may be inviting us to look more closely at what has been right in front of us.

    So then, let us continue to pray, ask questions, seek wise counsel, and discern with care. And let us never assume – as I once did – that God’s answer must look exactly as we’ve imagined.

    May our prayer be not only, “Lord, give me a sign,” but also, “Give me eyes to recognize the signs you have already given.”

    —

  • Finishing the Way We Started

    Finishing the Way We Started

    Thursday of the 27th Week in Ordinary Time

    Galatians 3:1-5; Luke 11:5-13

    It’s pretty easy to tell that St. Paul was angry when he wrote to the Galatians. My guess is that if he had any idea his letter would be read in the Church for thousands of years, he probably wouldn’t have lead this section with, “O stupid Galatians!”

    But what made him so angry to begin with?

    Apparently, some Jewish Christians went to Galatia after he left and informed them that Paul hadn’t told them everything. Yes, faith in Christ was necessary, but there were aspects of Jewish law – like circumcision – that still had to be observed.

    The point of Paul’s reply is simple: The Galatians became Christian because they heard the Gospel, believed it, received the Spirit, and encountered Christ. It was a work of grace. They didn’t need to include works of Mosaic Law.

    No one needs to add anything to the work of Christ. Not then, not now.

    St. Paul isn’t saying to them or us that works don’t matter. They do. Works are the fruit of grace. But they’re not a substitute for it. When we treat works as more or less than they are, we fall into the same trap the Galatians fell victim to.

    In the gospel, Jesus tells us what to do when we realize that’s happening – go to the Father in prayer. “Ask and you will receive; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened.” And, he says, we will be more than amply rewarded: “How much more will the Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him?”

    So, God isn’t merely waiting for us to become better people. He responds to our prayers by giving us Himself.

    That’s grace. And we depend on it. Our life as Catholics begins with grace, continues by grace, and reaches its fulfillment by grace. Our job isn’t to try and manufacture grace or earn holiness, but to remain open to God, who gives all the grace we need and more.

    For that reason, the prayer we need most isn’t, “Father, help me do better,” but “Father, give me Your Holy Spirit.”

    How can we do that today? Think about one place in your life where you’ve been trying to handle everything on your own – maybe your marriage, your parenting, forgiveness, an addiction, anxiety, faith, a difficult person – and begin there by praying, “Father, I can’t do this alone. Give me your Holy Spirit.”

    As the Responsorial Psalm reminded us, God has “remembered His holy covenant.”

    The initiative is His; the faithful response, ours.

    So let’s never try to take over what God has started. Remember what Paul called the Galatians when they did that.

    —

  • Getting Around To It

    Getting Around To It

    The 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle A

    Isaiah 5:1-7; Philippians 4:6-9; Matthew 21:33-43

    A newspaper once asked married couples a question: “What is the one thing your spouse says that you never want to hear again?” Husbands replied that they never wanted to hear their wives say, “Look how much I saved!” For their part, the wives said that they never again wanted to hear their husbands say, “I’ll get around to it.”

    That answer – “I’ll get around to it” – got my attention. Not just because I, too, am guilty of saying it, but because it goes right to the heart of today’s readings.

    This is one of Satan’s most effective temptations – that inner voice that says, “You know, you really need to work on your spiritual life. So do it! Just not now; it’s not the right time. You’re busy. Do it later.” What makes that so deadly is that it doesn’t sound like a temptation at all. It sounds reasonable, moderate, and even religious.

    So I listen. And I tell myself, “Yes, I’ll definitely get around to it. Maybe tomorrow.”

    Only, there’s always something else. It’s never the right time. Tomorrow never comes.

    And before long, that “vineyard of the Lord” – the spiritual life He gave me to cultivate – lies in ruins. I could have done the work; I had many opportunities. But I put it off.

    Why? What’s getting in the way?

    I think beneath the surface, it’s fear of losing control. Maybe without even realizing it, we think, “Wait. If I change, I’ll have to give something up. If I go to Confession, I have to admit I’ve been wrong. If I start praying seriously, God may ask something of me. If I forgive this person, I lose the satisfaction of holding it over them.”

    In other words, putting things off becomes a way of telling God that the vineyard is actually ours, not His, and we will decide if and when He gets access to it.

    But that attempt to keep God at a distance doesn’t end any better in real life than it did in the parable. That’s because deep inside, deeper than our pride or fear, is an emptiness; a restlessness that longs for what St. Paul called “the peace of God that surpasses all understanding.” And we’re not going to find that peace until we do something.

    The question is, what?

    Again, the answer comes from St. Paul: “Keep on doing what you have learned and received and heard and seen in me.”

    He’s urging us to practice the faith we’ve received; not just to admire it, talk about it, or hear it on Sundays. How? By doing what we’ve been taught to do: putting Christ first; repairing broken relationships; serving rather than waiting to be served; praying with gratitude, enduring suffering in hope, and letting our thoughts and actions be shaped by what is true and good.

    As always, that prompts us to look at our lives and ask questions: What are the good things I should be doing but have put off? Do I overlook or fail to forgive anyone? Do I imitate Christ by taking “the form of a servant” at home, here, or in our community?

    These things are all hard to do, which is why they’re tempting to put off, but the answer isn’t avoidance. The answer begins with St. Paul’s exhortation: “by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God.”

    Prayer I understand. Only God can supply the grace I need to do what must be done. But thanksgiving? What am I thankful for?

    At least two things. First, that God has made the grace available to me at all. Second, that He reminds me to take advantage of it before it’s too late. Remember in the parable, I’m not the owner, and He is coming back to see what I’ve done. 

    The readings are clear. We all have a vineyard – things in our spiritual life that need attention. And most of us know pretty well what some of those things are.

    So the question really isn’t, “What do I need to get around to someday,” but, “What is God asking me to do today?” Maybe it’s Confession. Maybe it’s five minutes of prayer. Maybe it’s making a phone call, asking forgiveness, forgiving someone else, opening the Bible, coming to Mass regularly, or simply taking the first step toward something or someone I’ve been avoiding.

    Whatever it is, don’t wait to get around to it. We don’t do that for something we really want, do we? We just do it, whatever it takes.

    The vineyard is ours to tend today.

    —

  • Not Larger than God’s Love

    Not Larger than God’s Love

    Wednesday of the 26th Week in Ordinary Time (Memorial of St. Jerome)

    Luke 9:57–62

    There are people we meet – or we may be a person – who others might describe as “larger than life,” or a “force to be reckoned with.” They have a presence, a way about them, that seems to always compel a response, good or bad.

    The saint we remember today, Jerome, strikes me as such a person. Like everyone, he had strengths and weaknesses. But like those who live larger than life, his good could seem very good, and his bad,very bad.

    On the good side, Jerome was brilliant; one of the greatest minds the Church has ever known. What’s more, he loved Scripture with all his heart, and spent his life studying and writing about it. Above all, Jerome loved God, and wanted more than anything to live a life pleasing to Him.

    But then there were weaknesses. First, pride. Like many intellectuals, Jerome didn’t like to be wrong and didn’t want anyone having the last word but him. Worse, he had such a fiery temper and was so hard to get along with that his most loyal supporter and patroness, Paula, and her daughter, became saints just dealing with him. On top of all that, Jerome was strongly attracted to women and was constantly tempted to impure thoughts.

    This last temptation was so bad that Jerome left Rome to live as a hermit in the Holy Land. Although that helped, the temptations persisted. In desperation, he vowed to study Hebrew – a language he found hard to learn – every time lewd thoughts came back. Thanks to that vow, Jerome became an expert in Hebrew.

    That was a stroke of the Holy Spirit. When Jerome’s friend, Pope St. Damasus I, assigned him the task of producing a new version of the Bible based on the ancient languages, he poured himself into it. Despite some disagreements with the Church in the process, Jerome sacrificed his pride, submitted himself to her authority, and gave the world the Bible we still know as Jerome’s Vulgate.

    St. Jerome’s victory in the struggle against himself gives us great insight on the gospel today. People want to follow Jesus, but they want to do so on their own terms. Can we set conditions on discipleship? The life of St. Jerome underscores our Lord’s point: Following Christ means submitting ourselves entirely – mind, body, passions, strengths, and weaknesses — to his authority and his alone.

    That doesn’t mean that we are to somehow become people without strong desires, without opinions, personalities, or weaknesses. No, God made us; He knows who we are. We may, in our own ways, be larger than life, but St. Jerome reminds us that we’re never larger than God’s love. And, like him, we may be a force to be reckoned with, but let us pray that we, too, can – by God’s grace – be a force for good, submitting ourselves to God’s authority, and praying, as all the saints have prayed, “Lord God, all of me is yours. Tell me what to do with it and help me do it. Your will be done.”

    St. Jerome, pray for us.

    —

  • Shining in the Darkness

    Shining in the Darkness

    Monday of the 26th Week in Ordinary Time

    Job 1:6-22; Luke 9:46-50

    We might look at today’s reading from the book of Job and think, “What a nice, pious story. Too bad people in the real world don’t react that way to total ruin.”

    But a while ago I spoke with a woman who might make us think twice. She told me she’d recently declared bankruptcy. And that was on top of losing her husband a few years before, and breast cancer that same year. In such a short time, everything she thought made for a stable life – her spouse, her health, her money – were gone.

    When I asked her how she was doing, she said, “You know, it was hard for a while and there were times I thought things would never get better. But the truth is, I’m at peace. And as far as the bankruptcy goes, it’s a relief. For the first time in a long time, I feel free.”

    What she discovered in that painful stripping away is exactly what Job found: Our character doesn’t shine when everything is sunshine and roses.

    It shines in the darkness.

    And it’s not just challenges from the outside that make life difficult. The inner life has challenges of its own. We hear the disciples bickering about who is greatest, and shake our heads at their pride, but what about our own? Are there times when we’ve been a bit too worried about ourselves or a little too self-righteous?

    That’s why Jesus focuses our attention on a child. In the ancient world, children had no legal status, no rights, and no wealth. They were totally dependent on others.

    That’s exactly the perspective he wants us to have about life. Greatness in the Kingdom of God isn’t about leverage, power, or influence; it’s about total dependency on the providence of God.

    The readings today are a great reminder that human worth cannot be measured by what we hold in our hands, only by Whose hands are holding us. So let’s resolve to live our lives more like Job, holding on loosely to the things that can be lost, and tightly to the One we would truly be lost without.

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