Mark 10:45

  • Power and Paradox

    Power and Paradox

    Wednesday of the 25th Week in Ordinary Time (Memorial of St. Pio of Pietrelcina, Priest)

    Proverbs 30:5-9; Luke 9:1-6

    In the book of Proverbs, we read, “Give me neither poverty nor riches; provide me only with the food I need.”

    The man we remember today, St. Pio of Pietrelcina, tried his best to live that out. He owned practically nothing, slept on a straw mattress, wore habits until they fell apart, and turned over all gifts and donations he received to his Franciscan superiors.

    It wasn’t that Father Pio loved poverty for its own sake. Rather, it reminded him, and he wanted it to remind the world, that all we really need is God.

    It worked. It was clear to all who knew him that Father Pio lived in profound union with God. His life struck that balance the author of Proverbs spoke of: not to have so much that he might forget God, or so little that he might be consumed by anxiety. All he asked of God was to have everything he needed to serve Him.

    And that prayer was certainly answered. Like the disciples in the gospel story, Christ gave him all the power and authority he needed to proclaim the Kingdom of God. Unlike them, however, Father Pio was not sent out to the world; rather, the world was sent to him.

    As word of his ministry spread, people began to come from all over to the little Italian village where he lived. They came to confess to him, seek his counsel, attend his Masses, and ask his prayers. 

    And, as they came, Father saw so great a need for medical care that he became the driving force behind the “Home for the Relief of Suffering,” a Catholic treatment center dedicated to providing medical and spiritual care, particularly for people who could not afford it.

    And this is the paradox: That a man who possessed almost nothing became the man to whom people could bring everything, from their worst sins and sickness to their greatest hopes and fears.

    That is the paradox of the Christian life. Especially in our society, we are tempted to want more: more power, more control, more money, more of whatever makes us feel secure.

    But the example of Christ teaches us something different: The less we cling to what we have, the more freely we allow God to work within us.

    Christ is not asking us to found care centers, sleep on straw mats, or spend hours forgiving sins. But he does ask us to become free enough to receive the gifts he gives us, and generous enough to use them for the benefit of others.

    So, let’s remember that prayer from Proverbs: “Give me neither poverty nor riches; provide me only with the food I need…”

    And pray for the grace to want only what God is pleased to give us, the eyes to recognize what those gifts are, and the generosity to use them for the building up of His Kingdom.

    St. Pio of Pietrelcina, pray for us.

    —

  • Christ is Passing By

    Christ is Passing By

    Feast of St. Matthew, Apostle and Evangelist

    Ephesians 4:1-7, 11-13; Matthew 9:9-13

    The gospel story for the Feast of St. Matthew is a valuable lesson in discipleship.

    We know it well. Jesus passes by the customs post, looks at Matthew, and says: “Follow me.” Matthew gets up and follows him.

    The response is so sudden, so unreflective, it might look like he had no choice. What explains it? After working with many people coming to faith over the years, I think I know. Matthew was filled with that same restlessness Augustine spoke of later; he had everything the world could give, but not what his heart wanted most.

    That came when Christ passed by; the moment he realized he hadn’t been searching for something but someone, and that One was now standing right in front of him.

    In the joy of that discovery, what else would Matthew do but open himself to Christ? This he did: he opened his home, his table, his friends… his whole world.

    And that’s not all. Matthew also opened his mind to that creative energy of the Spirit – logging events of the ministry, ordering and arranging them as only someone used to keeping records could, ultimately painting such an eloquent, unforgettable portrait of Christ that it became the first book of the New Testament.

    In all this, we learn from Matthew that true discipleship doesn’t mean leaving our old life behind when Jesus calls, but bringing him into the life we already have.

    That may be difficult. Like Matthew, our corner of the world might be a place where others never read Scripture, step into a church, or even think about looking for God.

    So, how do we do it? Do we preach to people? Tell them about Christ?

    In a way, yes. We bring him, as St. Paul reminds us, according to the measure of Christ’s gifts to us. How is that? By the way we live our lives: with humility, gentleness, patience, forgiveness, striving to preserve the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.

    And we will have done well if people ask themselves, “What is it that makes that person different?”

    We know what it is. It’s Christ doing with us what he did with St. Matthew – walking with us, teaching us, transforming us, making our lives living examples of what it means to be the disciple he calls us to be. 

    Our life is our customs post. Every day Christ is passing by, asking us to follow.

    And every day the question is, where and to whom will we take him?

    St. Matthew, pray for us.

    —

  • What Do They Say?

    What Do They Say?

    Thursday of the 24th Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Corinthians 15:1-11; Luke 7:36-50

    In the first reading, St. Paul tells the Corinthians to hold fast to the gospel he has preached to them. But he isn’t talking about just remembering it. He’s saying that the gospel must shape their lives, especially their relationships with others.

    Their words will teach people about Christ, but so will their actions.

    The Gospel gives us two striking examples of how our actions reveal the unspoken thoughts of our heart.

    First, consider Simon the Pharisee. Clearly a man of learning, no doubt well-spoken, and in a respectable religious position. But his actions on bringing Christ into his home… what do they say? He doesn’t give Jesus even the ordinary courtesies, things easy for him to provide; no water for his feet, no kiss of greeting, no oil.

    The woman, on the other hand, says nothing. No words about how sorry she is, or how much she loves Jesus. But her actions pour out the thoughts of her heart; washing his feet with her tears, drying them with her hair, kissing them repeatedly, and finally anointing them.

    And we know our Lord’s reaction to that. And to Simon.

    The question is, what will his reaction will be to us? 

    We use words to speak our love for God. We say our prayers, give all the proper responses at Mass. We might even use them to teach the faith to others. 

    But my actions – what do they say?

    • When someone hurts me, what do they say about whether I believe in forgiveness?
    • When someone needs my time, what do they say about whether I believe in charity?
    • When I’m inconvenienced, what do they say about whether I believe that my life belongs to God?
    • When no one is watching, what do they say about my character?

    The readings today are clear: Holding on to God’s word doesn’t mean merely remembering it, or even repeating it. Holding onto it means allowing it to become visible in our lives – despite the cost.

    As St. Anthony of Padua once said, “Let your words teach and your actions speak.”

    When all is said and done, people may well forget what we said. But let’s make sure they always remember what our lives told them about Christ.

  • The Green Lab

    The Green Lab

    Sunday of the 24th Week in Ordinary Time, Cycle A

    Sirach 27:30—28:7; Matthew 18:21-35

    Years ago, a teenage girl lived across the street. I don’t know why, but she really disliked us and found several ways to let us know. We tried to make peace. No luck. The final straw came when she began letting her yellow Labrador, Rocky, outside unleashed to “visit” the bushes and plants on the side and back of our house. He ruined them and their replacements, and kept coming back for more.

    We asked her to stop him. She wouldn’t, and we couldn’t prove it was Rocky. So, I hatched “Operation: Stop Rocky.” Just three things: A bucket of water, a generous helping of food coloring, and the element of surprise.

    I wasn’t home when the operation was launched; my wife was. But I can tell you that Rocky was on a leash from then on, and that young lady spent a few days walking around the block with her happy, green Labrador.

    I thought I’d feel better afterwards, but my anger at that kid lingered. It’s like Sirach said, “Wrath and anger are hateful things, yet the sinner hugs them tight.” That was me… vengeful, unwilling to forgive. Yet, at the same time, there I was at church every week, praying that my own sins would be forgiven.

    The more I thought about it, the more times I recalled when I had refused to let go of some injury or insult. Maybe you’ve been there; maybe you’re there now.

    If so, learn from me, who has had to implement another simple, 3 point program, this one inspired by today’s readings.

    First, we have been forgiven a debt we can never repay.

    The servant in our Lord’s parable owes ten thousand talents. Whether the talents were gold, silver, or copper, it’s such a huge sum that he could never repay it.

    Our Lord’s point is clear… that’s us. We have received a mercy from Him that we could never earn and can never repay.

    Second, every wrong done to us is an opportunity to forgive as we have been forgiven.

    That doesn’t mean the wrongs done to us aren’t real, or we’re supposed to pretend they never happened, or somehow they don’t matter.

    It means that the mercy we have received from Almighty God becomes the mercy that we’re called to show someone else. And, in so doing, mercy grows; we don’t lose what we have, and we’ve empowered others to show mercy, too.

    Then comes the third and hardest part: Forgiveness is a work of the heart.

    Let’s be clear… Forgiving people doesn’t mean forgetting what happened, acting as if everything is now OK, or going out of our way to hang around with them.

    What it means is letting go. Letting go of the anger, the resentment, or the desire to make the other person pay.

    Because until we do that, until we let go, we remain tied to the people who hurt us. And the longer we do that, the more we feel like it will always be this way – there’s nothing we can do.

    But there is. It comes in a wonderful piece of advice attributed to St. Philip Neri: “If you find it difficult to forgive, look at a crucifix.”

    Try that. If or when you find it hard to forgive someone for something, take a moment and look at a crucifix. Gaze on Christ hanging there. Imagine the pain, the desolation, the suffering. Then remember what he said from that place: “Father, forgive them.”

    If he can forgive us for that, how can we refuse to forgive one another for anything?

    That is our call from Christ today, as difficult as it is simple:

    Forgive.

    From the heart.

    Every time.

    —

  • Stretch Out Your Hand

    Stretch Out Your Hand

    Monday of the 23rd Week in Ordinary Time

    Labor Day (United States)

    Luke 6:6-11

    I remember when I started my first job, finding myself sitting in an office called ‘Personnel.’ A few years later, on my last day at that job, I sat in that same office. Only now it was called ‘Human Resources.’

    Later, a friend cynically remarked, “Yeah, we stopped being personnel a while ago. Now we’re ‘resources.’ At least they still call us human.”

    I thought of that when I pictured the scene in today’s Gospel.

    Every person in that synagogue could look at the man with the withered hand and see a person. But some chose to see a “resource” — someone who could be used to accomplish their own purposes.

    Of course, those who made that choice didn’t realize that Jesus saw them, too. He knew their motives. And he wouldn’t allow it or overlook it.

    Standing before them was not a hand to be examined or a man to be used. He was a person to be loved. And so Jesus said to him, “Stretch out your hand.”

    It seems especially appropriate on Labor Day to remember that phrase, and all the ways Christ says it to us.

    “Stretch out your hands to work.” Whatever work we do, at a job or at home, let us pray that we begin with God’s inspiration and, through Him, reach happy completion. As the psalmist says, “Give success to the work of our hands; give success to the work of our hands” (Psalm 90:17).

    “Stretch out your hands to serve.” May we remember that every person we serve is someone loved by God; and, in a very real sense, is Christ himself.

    “Stretch out your hands to heal.” Sometimes that means reaching out to make peace, forgive, comfort, mend a broken relationship, or simply set aside time for someone who needs us.

    “Stretch out your hands to pray.” May Almighty God give us the humility to receive, perhaps not what we want, but what we truly need.

    “Stretch out your hands and be healed.” Let us have the humility to approach our Lord in Confession. He waits for us with open arms.

    And above all, here at holy Mass, let us remember Christ, who stretched out his hands in the greatest and most loving work of all.

    And, in return, let us stretch out our hands — and our hearts — to receive Jesus as he is most pleased to give himself to us:

    in the most holy Eucharist.

    —

  • The Truly Wise

    The Truly Wise

    Memorial of St. Gregory the Great, Pope and Doctor of the Church

    1 Corinthians 3:18-23; Luke 5:1-11

    In the first reading, St. Paul said, “Let no one deceive himself. If anyone among you considers himself wise in this age, let him become a fool, so as to become wise.”

    Imagine a wealthy, well-educated young Roman from a prominent family, living quietly in an expensive mansion in an exclusive part of town.

    Now imagine this young man sees the world around him falling apart. What should he do?

    He could sell his property and leave town with a huge fortune.

    That makes good financial sense.

    Or… he could give away his property, use his fortune to feed the hungry and protect Rome, serve as mayor, become pope, and dedicate the rest of his life to bringing as many people as possible to Christ.

    That makes a saint. 

    In fact, it makes Pope St. Gregory I, otherwise known as Gregory the Great.

    Gregory could have played it safe; in the gospel’s terms, stayed in shallow water. That’s what the world would call, “wise.” He was a good, holy man and could have done many good things. But Gregory knew that true wisdom was putting out into the deep water; letting go of what he wanted and allowing Christ to lead. In choosing that, he became a great man who did many great things.

    That’s the difference between the wisdom of the world and the wisdom of God.

    The wisdom of the world says, “Be careful. Protect what you have. Don’t take unnecessary risks. Look out for yourself.”

    The wisdom of God says, “Put out into the deep.”

    Gregory put out into the deep as Peter did long before him. Sooner or later, Christ asks each of us to do the same.

    And it’s not always a big conversion moment or a drastic change in our lives. Those happen, but more often come those smaller, still difficult, challenges: Forgive someone I’d rather forget, give up something I’d rather keep, or serve when I’d rather be served. Whatever it is, the challenge remains the same: “Christ is calling me to put out into the deep. Will I do it?”

    Of course it’s easier not to, but life in Christ is never about what’s easy. It’s about trusting him even when things look uncertain and difficult. His grace is always more than enough to see us through.

    The readings and life of Pope St. Gregory the Great remind us that when we do as he did – place our lives in Christ’s hands – we find that what the world calls foolishness is actually true wisdom.

    Pope St. Gregory the Great, pray for us.

    —

  • Christ and His Cross

    Christ and His Cross

    Monday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Corinthians 2:1-5

    The Corinth of St. Paul’s time was a bustling, wealthy trade center. It attracted men called “orators,” who were highly skilled at public speaking. The custom was that they wear extravagant clothes, be entertaining, flatter the city, and improvise brilliant speeches to make their case. To the Greek mind, the validity of an orator’s argument was tied to his prestige, social status, and theatrical skill.

    Imagine then what the Corinthians would have made of Paul, an itinerant tentmaker-turned-orator who did none of those things. Yet, that is exactly what happened, as we just heard: “When I came to you, brothers and sisters, proclaiming the mystery of God, I did not come with sublimity of words or of wisdom.”

    Paul knew the customs. He knew what the Corinthians expected.

    He didn’t give it to them. Why not?

    Because he didn’t need to. Paul knew the truth didn’t depend on him. It depended on Christ.

    That’s not to say he wasn’t needed. Someone had to go. As he said elsewhere, “how can they believe in him of whom they have not heard? And how can they hear without someone to preach? And how can people preach unless they are sent?” (Romans 10:13-14)

    But didn’t he need to meet the peoples’ expectations – be brilliant, entertaining, and polished? How else would they believe?

    Paul thought of that. How would they believe? Faith. As he said next, “faith comes from what is heard, and what is heard comes through the word of Christ” (Romans 10:17).

    So that’s what he did. Simply, accurately, he spoke the heart of the Gospel to them: “I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified.”

    Christ and his Cross. You can’t get less than that, and you can’t get more.

    And history shows that it worked. Apart from his two letters to the Corinthians, archaeologists have unearthed remains of ancient Christian basilicas and inscriptions in Corinth.

    In spite of his success, doubts seem to linger. We’re tempted to think that the success of evangelization depends on us; we have to say exactly the right thing, have the right personality, or use sophisticated arguments.

    If so, remember St. Paul. He had none of that. What he had was all he needed: Faith that if he went out and did his part, Christ would take care of the rest. And he did.

    So let us do the same. Let’s give Christ to others as best we can, using whatever gifts God has given us. We don’t have to be someone we’re not. We just have to let Christ work through who we are.

    We do our part. He does the rest.

    And if we keep returning to the center — Jesus Christ and him crucified — we can trust that God will use even our small efforts to accomplish things we never thought possible.

    —

  • Finally Found It

    Finally Found It

    Sunday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

    Jeremiah 20:7-9; Romans 12:1-2; Matthew 16:21-27

    One ice-cold Michigan morning, my elderly mother realized she left her cellphone in her car. Not waking my little brother to help, Mom ran out in her pajamas to get it. The car doors were frozen shut. She ran back inside, got a cup of hot water, went out, and poured it on the door lock. It opened. When she finally found the phone and tried to get out, the door had frozen shut again. Irritated and freezing, Mom threw herself against the door, which did nothing but hurt her shoulder. “I know,” she thought. Lying down on the front seat, Mom kicked her legs as hard as she could against the door. Hurt her ankle. Car door 2, Mom zero. Only then realizing, “Oh, I have a phone,” she tried calling my brother. Dead battery. By the grace of God, some college kids on their way to school saw Mom in her car, and helped her out.

    This adventure of my mother and her cellphone is true, but also a parable about the spiritual life. We can focus so much on what we want that everything else fades into the background.

    For Mom, it was a cellphone she absolutely had to have. But there are many other things people think they must have: more money, more power, more possessions, more recognition. And it works the other way, too; there are many things people think they absolutely must avoid. For Jeremiah in the first reading, it was the ridicule and reproach that came with being a prophet.

    In either case, the more we focus on what we want, the more we lose sight of what really matters, and we need to be reminded.

    In Jeremiah’s case, his heart reminded him. Notice how the reading ends; speaking of the drive to prophesy, he says, “… it becomes like fire burning in my heart… I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it.” God’s word has taken hold of him. It consumes him. His mind may say, “Walk away,” but this is a matter of the heart, and in the end, his love of God is far more important than any discomfort. 

    Peter has yet to learn that. He, who just called Jesus the Messiah moments before this, wants something, too – he wants Christ without the cross. If going to Jerusalem means suffering and dying, then DON’T GO. But then comes the reply, “You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.”

    This is a reminder for all of us who want to be disciples of Christ: True discipleship means focusing not on what I want, but on what God wants of me. And what is that? Jesus is pretty clear: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” So there will be a cost: self-denial, bearing hardships, and going where I may not want to go.

    In other words, sacrifice.

    I hear the word “sacrifice” and might think “give up something,” but remember, a sacrifice is fundamentally a self-giving. A matter of the heart. For example, when a parent sacrifices for their child, is the parents’ focus on what they’ve lost or what the child has gained? The gain, of course. Why? Because it’s all about love.

    That’s the point we can so easily miss when we hear Jesus speak about denying ourselves and taking up our cross. Our faith isn’t about suffering for the sake of suffering, or God asking us to give things up because He wants to make our lives miserable.

    It’s all about love.

    Jesus gave himself for us out of love. And when he asks us to take up our cross and follow him, he’s inviting us to love in the same way: not making ourselves the center of everything, not asking only, “What do I want?” or “What can I avoid?” but asking, “What does love require of me?”

    It will require something. There’s always a cost. But there is a promise hidden in our Lord’s words: “Whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.”

    The readings today urge us to keep a proper perspective in life. If our primary focus is where it should be – on Christ, who gave everything for us – then the only question that matters is, “What is God asking me to give, and am I willing to give it for love of Him?”

    Those who are, are those who discover that in so doing, they haven’t lost their life at all.

    They have finally found it.

    —

  • Trapped Between Two Worlds

    Trapped Between Two Worlds

    The Passion of John the Baptist

    Jeremiah 1:17-19; Mark 6:17-29

    There’s something about someone like John the Baptist who speaks the truth to your heart. It’s as if their words grab you and won’t let you go. If you’ve been living the truth, their words are affirming. But if not, they leave you, like Herod, perplexed.

    And the original Greek word is even stronger. Herod wasn’t simply confused; he was trapped, at a loss, caught in a kind of gridlock – mental and emotional.

    Herod knew John was telling the truth. And he liked listening to him. He liked it so much that he protected John.

    But still, he didn’t change.

    It can happen to any of us. People can hear the truth, admire it, even be deeply moved by it — and still not surrender to it.

    Herod knew what he was doing was wrong and needed to change. But still, he put John in prison. In that mental gridlock of his, he was trapped between two worlds; wanting the truth close enough to hear, but far enough away to keep it from changing him.

    Then came the tipping point. The party. The dance of the daughter. Pride, social pressure, fear of what others might think. And all of a sudden, it was time to decide: Keep the truth close, or kill it?

    We don’t have to ask; we know the answer. 

    The question is, are we ever like that?

    Every day, God’s truth speaks to us: there are relationships that need healing, resentments to let go of, habits in need of changing. We may or may not want to listen, but God keeps speaking.

    So, what am I going to do about it?

    We know God doesn’t speak the truth to make us feel guilty. He does it to set us free.

    And we know that God is near and will do the heavy lifting. He said it through Jeremiah: “Do not be crushed… I am with you to deliver you.” Not, “You’re strong enough to do this by yourself,” but “I am with you to deliver you.”

    Even so, we have to do more than just like to listen; we must want to be delivered. We must tip the scale before temptations tip it for us.

    So perhaps today, instead of simply asking, “What am I doing wrong,” we might ask, “Where has God’s truth already grabbed hold of me? What has He been saying to me again and again? And am I merely listening to Him, or am I finally ready to let Him change me?”

    —

  • A Whitewashed Tomb

    A Whitewashed Tomb

    Wednesday of the 21st Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Thessalonians 3:6-10, 16-18; Matthew 23:27-32

    A while ago, I visited a parish where I spent many years as a child. Sitting in a pew, I began reminiscing about my days as an altar boy there.

    I remembered some of the boys I went to school and served with. Good kids, pious in the best possible sense: quiet, attentive, prayerful. They seemed genuinely holy; not only at Mass, but outside it, too.

    Me? Not so much. Although we did the same things, for me it was more like “going through the motions” of holiness. Maybe I looked the part, but few would have called me quiet, attentive, or prayerful. To the contrary, too often I behaved as if I’d never gone to Mass at all.

    And it was then that this gospel hit home. I saw my face in our Lord’s dictionary, right there under the term, “whitewashed tomb.” Looks fine on the outside, but inside? “Dead men’s bones.”

    At first, my heart sank. I imagined Jesus disappointed in me. But then I realized that Jesus took the scribes and Pharisees to task, not out of hatred, but love. Yes, his words were sharp, but that was to awaken them, make them understand that the way to God’s heart wasn’t by acting holy, but by allowing God to make them holy.

    Acting holy. That’s what I’d been doing. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought the holiness of the other boys would rub off on me or that going through the motions would somehow change me inside.

    It won’t. External actions on their own won’t produce holiness. Why? Because holiness isn’t just what we do, it’s who we are becoming by the grace of God. It’s God’s grace that changes the heart, and it’s the changed heart that expresses itself in virtuous behavior like piety, patience, prayer, and love.

    That’s why St. Paul reminded the Thessalonians that faith must be visible in the way we live. Our relationship with Christ cannot be an appearance only; it must shape our responsibilities, our work, our relationships, and our daily choices.

    So the question isn’t simply, “Do I look religious,” but “Is Christ making me truthful within?” How do we know? We must look at our behavior: Do I pray only when others can see me, or because I desire communion with God? Do I serve because I want recognition, or because I love? Do I speak about holiness while remaining impatient, resentful, or unforgiving? Do my actions at Mass radiate to the rest of my life?

    Like me sitting in the pew that day, we may not like some of the answers. We may sense that, to some degree, we too are the scribe or Pharisee who Jesus is calling out.

    But that’s good. Christ loves us and never wants us hiding from him in shame. Far from it; he wants us to bring our true self to him, for that is who he created. His words may be strong, but they’re meant to call us home.

    So today and every day, let us ask God for the grace we need: one act of patience, one honest prayer, one admission of fault, and one hidden choice of love at a time.

    For Christ doesn’t want us to look holy. He wants to make us holy.

    —