Mark 10:45

  • 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.

    —

  • Masterpiece

    Masterpiece

    Friday of the 25th Week in Ordinary Time

    Ecclesiastes 3:1-11; Luke 9:18-22

    What is it that makes a work of art, music, or literature a masterpiece?

    I’m sure there are many definitions, but let me choose one: a masterpiece isn’t just something old or popular. It’s something that continues to reveal a depth that time cannot exhaust.

    Think of Michelangelo’s Pietà in St. Peter’s. It’s over 500 years old; yet, to this day, people still stand before it, awed by something that goes beyond artistry. Something that touches the human heart.

    I’ll call that something timelessness.

    And that reminds me of those beautiful words from Ecclesiastes: “God has put the timeless into their hearts.”

    Maybe that’s why there’s something inside us that is never completely satisfied by the passing things of this world. St. Augustine described it well. Our hearts are restless; we long for beauty that doesn’t fade, love that never ends, unchanging truth, eternal life.

    But, as we’ve seen, what we long for can be right in front of us, and still we remain restless. Luke told us about Herod who was perplexed by Christ and “kept trying to see” him (Luke 9:9). Now we hear that the crowds have been looking at him, but don’t know what to make of him. Is he one of the prophets? They don’t know.

    Then comes the real question, the one he asked the disciples, that’s aimed at us, too: “Who do you say that I am?”

    Somehow, Peter sees what the others cannot. Jesus isn’t merely a sign pointing beyond himself to eternity. He is eternity’s personal presence among us.

    But Jesus doesn’t leave it there. He tells them that he “must suffer greatly, be rejected, and be killed, and on the third day be raised.”

    In other words, although Peter may have glimpsed the Eternal One, no one can properly see Jesus apart from the Paschal Mystery.

    Why not?

    Because the God who put the timeless into our hearts wants to make our hearts His dwelling place. The only way that can happen is to see Christ in light of the Paschal Mystery. The Cross isn’t an unfortunate interruption of his identity; it reveals the very manner of his divine love. It is the gateway to what our hearts want most: Eternity.

    Only when we see him in that light can we, as Augustine said, truly rest.

    So let us remember to thank God for a couple of things today: First, although we spend our lives searching for glimpses of eternity, in Christ, eternity himself has found us. Second, at every Mass, every time we come forward disposed to receive the Holy Eucharist, we receive Christ himself, the Eternal Word made flesh, into our heart and soul.

    That moment is the true masterpiece.

    —

  • 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.

    —