Mark 10:45

  • I Saw You

    I Saw You

    Feast of St. Bartholomew (August 24)

    Revelation 21:9b-14; John 1:45-51

    There are many things to love about today’s Gospel, but let me mention three that caught my attention.

    First is the image of Nathanael under the fig tree. I can’t help but wonder what he was doing there. Guesses abound and we can’t know for sure, but as I see it, he was doing what I think we’ve all done and still do: sitting alone in a quiet place, thinking. And not just thinking, but asking questions, wrestling with God, and waiting for an answer – a clue, a light in the darkness, some revelation telling him that God is listening and will respond.

    Then come those great, consoling words of Jesus: “I saw you under the fig tree.” No wonder Nathanael was amazed! I wonder if we think about that enough. Even in our fig tree moments, we are never alone, never unseen. God is always there; watching, listening, and planning. We talk to Him, perhaps look at Him in the tabernacle or monstrance, but do we realize how close He is, and that as we are looking at Him, so He is looking at us? We may hear nothing, but silence doesn’t mean abandonment. “I saw you” is Christ’s great assurance that our waiting is never wasted if we remain grounded in faith.

    And that faith can be tested, for as the story shows, God’s answers can come in quite unexpected ways. I doubt that when Philip spoke of the one who Moses wrote about, Nathanael thought, “Ah, the answer to my prayers under the fig tree!” His reply shows it: “Can anything good come from Nazareth?”

    What makes this so intriguing is Nathanael’s response. When Philip said, “Come and see,” he could have easily replied, “No, thanks. I have other things to do.” He didn’t; instead, he opened himself to the possibility. He went and saw.

    This is a good time to stop and thank God for the “Philips” of the world. Ask yourself: Who has been Philip to me? Who ever invited me to “come and see” – maybe a parent, friend, priest, or teacher? And to whom am I Philip? Who do I invite? Do I live in such a way that people will want to know the source of my peace, joy, and hope?

    Finally, consider our Lord’s response to Nathanael’s amazement at being seen: “You will see greater things than these…”

    Of course, he did. And while he probably had many more “fig tree moments” in the days and years to come – times he wondered, was challenged, questioned, or suffered – these were nothing compared to what God had in store for him. Especially in the life to come, for as we heard in Revelation, “the holy city Jerusalem coming down out of heaven” has 12 foundation stones. One of them bears his name.

    St. Nathanael, or Bartholomew as today’s Feast calls him, is a wonderful model for us. He teaches us that our fig tree moments, and even our encounters with Jesus, aren’t the destination. They’re just the beginning of what God has ready for us, things far beyond our imagination. Like Nathanael, we may question, wonder, and not understand, but that’s not what ultimately matters. What matters is that we do what he did – keep asking, stay open to finding the answers, go where our Lord leads us, and keep faith that we, too, will see “greater things than these.”

    St. Bartholomew, pray for us.

    —

  • The “Yes” Hidden Inside “No”

    The “Yes” Hidden Inside “No”

    The 20th Sunday in Ordinary Time

    Matthew 15:21-28

    In child psychology, we learn that children get very good at figuring out what parents mean when they say “No.” They do it by testing.

    For example, a child asks, “Mom, can I go in the pool?” Mom says, “No.”

    A minute later: “Now can I go in the pool?” Mom says nothing.

    A few minutes later: “Mom, can I go in the pool now?”

    Mom finally says, “Not now. After lunch.”

    The child has just learned that sometimes, “yes” is hidden in “no.”

    The Canaanite woman in today’s Gospel certainly understood that.

    She asks Jesus to heal her daughter. He says nothing. She asks again. This time, he says his mission is to others. After she asks again, Jesus speaks a short parable about food and dogs. Not only does she not stop, she gets creative, adding her own happy ending to his parable.

    Is our Lord annoyed by this? Not at all. He’s delighted at her faith.

    Her faith in what? In his mercy. It was her faith, no doubt born of love for her daughter, that told her there must be a “yes” hidden somewhere inside that “no.” She was right, as Jesus said, “O woman, great is your faith!”

    This is a good lesson for us. Keeping faith in prayer can be a battle; there are obstacles to overcome.

    One is humility. We can catch ourselves thinking, “Why doesn’t God grant me this one request? What’s the big deal?” Or, “I’m a sinner, so God must want nothing to do with me.”

    The Canaanite woman may well have thought that way. After all, in our Lord’s parable, she was the dog. But, where some might be humiliated by that term, she accepted the image and used it as an opening, a chance to go deeper, to find the “yes” hidden there.

    That’s our call, too. God loves each of us with an infinite love. Everything we say to Him matters. And He knows our intent; He understands the suffering and frustration that have brought us to His table. 

    Which brings us to the second obstacle – trust. How does the seeming silence of God affect our trust in Him? Do we doubt God’s ability to do what we want, or do we bargain with Him… “If you grant me this one request, I’ll do anything, even go to daily Mass for a year.”

    Again, look at the Canaanite woman. She was so confident in our Lord’s power that she saw the healing of her daughter as simple for Christ as a crumb falling from his table.

    Don’t let fear or doubt shake your confidence. The God who has been with you all this way will continue to make a way. We just have to keep asking, keep close to Him.

    And that’s the third obstacle: perseverance. We pray for a long time, and nothing happens. St. Augustine’s mother prayed for decades for her son’s conversion. How easy it would have been to give up after a few years of waiting.

    She didn’t. Neither did the Canaanite woman. Neither should we.

    It’s so hard. We don’t always know what God’s “no” means. Sometimes it means “Yes, but not yet.” Sometimes it means “No, it must be another way.” As parents know, sometimes the most loving thing a child can hear is “no,” whether they understand it or not.

    The story of the Canaanite woman teaches us not to mistake God’s silence for His absence, His “no” for a lack of love. And sometimes, the “yes” we’re looking for is hidden inside the “no.”

    —

  • Labors of Love

    Labors of Love

    Feast of St. Lawrence, Deacon and Martyr

    2 Corinthians 9:6-10; John 12:24-26

    Recently, I was looking back on all the things I did as a young man — raising three kids, working two jobs, studying, going to school — and I wondered where I found the energy. Sure I was young, and that matters, but what also matters is that these things were a labor of love. I wasn’t doing them for myself; I was doing them to provide for my family.

    They weren’t small things, and they required sacrifice. But love made them seem small, and if they were a sacrifice, they were joyfully done. Looking at what came from them— especially my kids, and seeing how they have grown and are making their way in life — I can say that those labors of love were very much worth it.

    I couldn’t help but think of that as I read today’s passage from St. Paul. If our self-giving becomes a labor of love for Christ, then his grace becomes our strength. And as St. Paul says, the fruits of our labor will be multiplied.

    And that multiplication isn’t simply a reward. It’s a participation in divine generosity. God doesn’t merely return to us what we give; He multiplies it.

    Think about a parent raising their children. We pour love into them, and then, if all goes well, they learn to love others in the same way. We benefit, they benefit, and everyone they love benefits. The harvest of love expands.

    That’s the mystery Jesus describes in the Gospel: “Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a grain of wheat. But if it dies, it produces much fruit.”

    Certainly, love requires dying to self. But when all is said and done, is that what we remember most? Probably not. Why? Because the love we imitate — the love of God — gives by its very nature without counting the cost. The grain of wheat doesn’t stop to calculate what it is giving up. It does what is in its nature to do: it falls, it dies, and eventually it bears fruit.

    Often, we don’t see the fruit in that moment; we don’t see what our sacrifices are accomplishing. We can’t “see” the child being formed, the marriage being made stronger, the family being held together, or the faith being passed on. It might be years until we see the fruit, but when we do we realize that God’s grace multiplied what our love made possible. And we rejoice.

    The example of St. Lawrence shows us that this is true even when the giving is literally unto death. Most of us know the famous tradition about his martyrdom: that as he was being burned on the gridiron, he joked about being done on that side. That image endures for a reason; Lawrence wasn’t just a man enduring suffering, he was a man facing death with joy.

    That’s not stoicism. That’s love.

    St. Lawrence had already poured himself out for Christ and for the poor. The fire was simply the final act of a life that had already become a gift.

    While none of us are facing Lawrence’s gridiron, we all know what it means to feel exhausted or overwhelmed, to wonder where we’re going to find the energy to keep giving.

    Christ gives us the answer today. It isn’t simply more discipline or willpower. It’s love; love oriented toward Christ, animated by his grace, and willing to trust him to bear fruit in ways we may not see for a long time.

    St. Lawrence didn’t count the cost before he walked into the fire. He simply loved. More importantly, he knew that long before he ever loved Christ, Christ loved him. Long before he gave himself to Christ, Christ gave himself for him. And he knew his own labors of love were a response to the love Christ had already poured into his life.

    So today, let’s remember that the same is true for us. Each of us is Christ’s unique and precious labor of love. In every moment of our own labors – in the sacrifice, in the exhaustion, in those moments we wonder if what we’re doing will bear any fruit – Jesus is there; loving, consoling, and rejoicing in the harvest. Just as he did with St. Lawrence.

    St. Lawrence, pray for us.

  • I Can’t Unsee That

    I Can’t Unsee That

    Monday of the 17th Week in Ordinary Time 

    Jeremiah 13:1-11; Deuteronomy 32:18; Matthew 13:31-35

    One thing that shocked many American people of the Civil War era was seeing photographs of slavery – people scarred, whipped, and in chains. You couldn’t unsee those images. They were disturbing and moved people to seek change.

    Parables are like that. They, too, are supposed to challenge or even unsettle us, to give us a mental image we can’t unsee and want to do something about.

    The parable in Jeremiah is a good example. I think it’s safe to say that none of us want to hear the Lord comparing us to rotting underwear.

    We may be tempted to ask why we can’t just unsee that, but that’s the wrong question. The question our Lord wants me to ask is how it applies to me, and what can I do about it?

    Through the prophet, God names pride as a problem, so I should ask myself how my pride is getting in the way of my relationships with other people. Have I put off or ignored opportunities God has given me to serve others? Have I refused to forgive anyone, or to apologize when I hurt someone?

    And then there’s the deeper problem of my relationship with God, hinted at in the verse from Deuteronomy: “You have forgotten the God who gave you birth.” The loincloth in the parable wasn’t valuable in and of itself; its value came from what it symbolized. God says, “as close as the loincloth clings to a man’s loins, so had I made the whole house of Israel… cling to me.”

    So pride doesn’t just separate us from others. It also separates us from God, the source of life. Left to ourselves, we don’t become freer or stronger. We begin to unravel.

    The good news is that God doesn’t show us that disturbing image to shame us. He does it to call us back. Every time we pray, come to Mass, confess our sins, or choose humility instead of pride, we’re drawing close to Him again. Each may seem like a little thing, but you remember the parables of the mustard seed and the leaven in the dough. God’s grace makes the little things large.

    So let’s allow that image to stay with us today. Not the rotting cloth, but the reality that we were made to cling to God. Everything else eventually falls apart. Only by doing the things that keep us close to Him can we see ourselves becoming the saints He created us to be.

    And that’s an image we never want to unsee.

  • Saying Sorry and Being Sorry

    Saying Sorry and Being Sorry

    Monday of the 16th Week in Ordinary Time

    Micah 6:1-4, 6-8

    Heather, a woman who worked a couple of desks away, was on the phone with her husband, who had apparently bought her flowers as a way of apologizing for something.

    It didn’t work. She said, “I don’t want flowers, Harry. And I don’t want you to just SAY you’re sorry. I want you to BE sorry.”

    Today’s selection from Micah reminded me of that. In a way, Harry was on trial, just like Israel is in this reading. 

    The defendant? Israel.

    The plaintiff? God.

    The prosecutor? Micah.

    The witnesses? The mountains and hills. 

    The evidence? Everything God had done for Israel over the centuries.

    The people know they have failed. They’ve strayed from God time and again. They want to make good, but here they make their worst mistake: “What do you want, Lord – more animals, more oil, our first-born children?”

    They completely misunderstand. God certainly doesn’t want child sacrifice, and He doesn’t want more empty ritual. He wants a change in their behavior, as He says through the prophet to close this reading: Do justice, love goodness, and walk humbly with the Lord your God.

    Those beautiful words echo down the centuries to our own day.

    Do justice. Give to God and to others what you owe them. What do we owe God? Everything! Without God, where would we be? What do we owe others? The dignity that belongs to them, for they too are made in the image and likeness of God.

    Love goodness. There is no single word in our language for what is meant here. Imagine the person you love the most: How do you treat them, and what are you willing to do for them? This is that level of merciful, loving kindness; the kind of faithful love that keeps showing up, no matter how costly.

    Walk humbly. We do this by recognizing our own God-given dignity while at the same time acknowledging our weaknesses. Without doing so, we can neither do justice nor love goodness.

    Our perfect model for all of this is Christ. Who did justice more than he, who gave God the total gift of himself, and us the way to eternal life? Who loved more than he, who gave his life even for those who despised him? And who walked more humbly than he, who, though King of kings, lived and died as servant of all?

    Like Heather, God isn’t looking for ‘flowers.’ He isn’t looking for bigger sacrifices or more impressive religious gestures but for converted hearts. And He doesn’t want us to just SAY we’re sorry. He wants a change of heart that leads to a change in behavior.

    That’s exactly what Jesus came to make possible.

    —

  • The Strength of Patient Mercy

    The Strength of Patient Mercy

    The 16th Sunday in Ordinary Time (Cycle A) 

    Wisdom 12:13, 16-19; Psalm 86:5; Romans 8:26-27; Matthew 13:24-30

    If the readings today seem a little unconnected, let me try and connect them up for you.

    In high school, I knew a kid who wasn’t an easy student. He was, in terms of the first reading, full of “temerity”… brash, arrogant, disrespectful. In other words, he treated teachers the way Israel treated the Lord. 

    And, like Israel, he was rebuked. Often harshly, as we might expect. However, one teacher, Sister Shaun Marie, was different. She treated him much more like God treated Israel: with strength cloaked in mercy.

    At break times, like during lunch, Sister would “find” him in a hallway and strike up a conversation. Sooner or later, she’d look him in the eye and tell him she knew he could do better. She reminded him of the good she saw in him – good he couldn’t see in himself. She never excused his behavior, but she also never let it define him.

    Today’s Psalm reminds us that God is good and forgiving, abounding in kindness to all who call. That’s the kind of mercy Sister showed that boy. And it awakened in him what no teacher had – his own sense of self-worth and longing to be healed. He began to see that he couldn’t fix himself by sheer willpower. But he didn’t need to; as St. Paul said, the Spirit “comes to the aid of our weakness.”

    And I can tell you, because I was that kid, that thanks to Sister Shaun, I came to see that the true strength of God lies not in the threat of punishment but in the patience of His abundant mercy.

    That’s what Jesus is teaching us in the parable of the wheat and the weeds. While we can certainly think of the world as the field, we can also think of ourselves that way.

    I think it’s safe to say that most of us have a negativity bias. That is, we look at ourselves and focus on the weeds. That can lead to impatience: “I’ve been trying to stop sinning for so long. What’s wrong with me? I want to be better right now!”

    Sounds like the servants in the parable: “Do you want us to go and pull them up?”

    Of course, God sees the weeds, too. But His patience protects the growth of the wheat within us. And in His mercy He will wait, meet us where we are as Sister met me, and urge us to see what He sees – not who we’ve been, but who we’re capable of becoming if we let His grace work within us. 

    Most of us have known someone like that. A parent. A teacher. A coach. A grandparent. Someone who saw more in us than we saw in ourselves – who refused to let our issues become our identity. If you’ve ever been loved like that, then you’ve experienced a glimpse of the patience of God.

    So now, the question is this: Who in your life needs someone to believe in them before they believe in themselves? Who is God asking you to be that person for? Because that’s what patient mercy looks like.

    —

  • Am I Ready?

    Am I Ready?

    Monday of the 15th Week in Ordinary Time

    Isaiah 1:10-17; Matthew 10:34-11:1

    A few years ago, a young married couple out for a Sunday morning drive happened to pass our parish. On a whim, they decided to stop in. The Mass intrigued them, so they kept coming back. Eventually, they enrolled in RCIA and seemed to really enjoy it. It looked like the Holy Spirit was drawing them home.

    Then, in RCIA class, we got to the part where we talk about the Christian life; not as a list of rules, but as the natural consequence of belonging to Christ. They realized that becoming Catholic would require changes in the way they were living.

    They thanked me sincerely, said they had learned a great deal, but added, “We’re just not ready to make that kind of change.”

    With that, they walked away, and I’ve never seen them again. I pray they tried again at a parish closer to their home.

    I admit it – my first temptation was to get a little “judgy.” How could they just walk out like that? But as I gained some perspective over time, I think they were simply being honest with themselves and with me.

    They were intrigued by Jesus, and it’s easy to see why. There’s something about him, his teaching and his life that always has and always will draw people.

    But Jesus doesn’t want to intrigue us. He wants to be our Lord. And if he is Lord, then every other loyalty — even the best — is measured against our loyalty to him.

    That’s exactly what Isaiah is saying in the first reading. God isn’t impressed by worship that never reaches our hearts. He wants lives that have been changed by the One we worship.

    So that gives us the direction we need. Let us ask ourselves:

    If Jesus asked me today to change one part of my life — not someone else’s, but mine — which part would it be? And would I say yes? Or would I politely thank him for everything he’s taught me and say, ‘Lord… I’m just not ready to make that kind of change’?

    Allow that question to sit with you a while. It may cause a bit of discomfort, but if so, rejoice! That is, as our Lord said in the gospel, not peace but the sword, striking us right where we need it most — between the comfort we cling to and the faith Christ calls us to live.

  • Most Likely To Succeed

    Most Likely To Succeed

    Solemnity of Sts. Peter and Paul, Apostles

    Acts 12:1-11; 2 Timothy 4:6-8, 17-18; Matthew 16:13-19

    When I was young, high school yearbooks had a page dedicated to students who other students called, “Most Likely to Succeed.”

    I did not appear there, and given what I know of them from Scripture, if ancient Palestine had yearbooks, Peter and Paul probably wouldn’t have, either.

    Peter, while certainly hardworking and full of heart, is also impulsive; in Scripture, he speaks before he thinks and frankly isn’t a very good judge of what he will do in any given situation… like when it comes to walking on water or speaking about Jesus around campfires.

    Paul I would probably describe as fiery and intense. On the plus side, that can lead to very deep convictions. On the negative side, there could be some anger issues and pretty heated confrontations. Again, all borne out in the New Testament.

    Yet, Christ wasn’t looking for the polished, popular, or predictable. He was looking for men who were broken but willing to be remade by grace. 

    So he chose them. He saw not simply who they were, but who they could become if they trusted his grace and allowed it to perfect their nature.

    And you could say they succeeded. Together, these two imperfect men established Christ’s Church and spread the Gospel throughout the known world.

    Sts. Peter and Paul are perfect examples of how God makes people “most likely to succeed.” How is that – by simply “fixing” their brokenness for them? No; as St. Augustine once said, “God made us without us, but will not save us without us.” God gave them every grace they needed so that their failures would never have the final word. But they still had to cooperate with that grace. In Acts, God saw to the release of Peter, but he had to follow and do what needed doing. Paul was given the education and the energy, but had to “compete well,” to “finish the race.”

    Even then he knew he didn’t “deserve” salvation. Rather, it would be “awarded” by the only “just Judge.” That is true for all of us. None of us are chosen because we deserve it. We’re chosen because God loves us. Only then is it clearest to everyone that God and God alone brings about every good result.

    So let us remember St. Peter the next time we feel bold in church but fearful and timid in the world, and St. Paul when we speak our love for Christ one minute and our anger with other people the next. But most of all, let us do what they did: confess our failings, turn from them, and continue to have faith that God’s grace is enough.

    That’s how ordinary people like us — people who fail, repent, and begin again — become, by the grace of God, the ones most likely to succeed.

    —

  • Clearer Vision

    Clearer Vision

    Monday of the 12th Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Kings 17:5-8, 13-15a, 18; Matthew 7:1-5

    As a teenager, my parents let me go cruising with my friends. The first few times went well, so I started asking regularly. Surprisingly they let me, though I could tell they weren’t too happy. When the inevitable happened and I got into trouble, I asked them why they let me keep going. Mom said something like, “We gave you just enough freedom to show us some responsibility,” to which Dad said, “Turns out it was just enough rope to hang yourself.”

    Gulp.

    I thought about that when I read Jesus say in the Gospel, ‘Why do you notice the splinter in your brother’s eye, but do not perceive the wooden beam in your own eye?’

    I thought I could be responsible; the trouble revealed otherwise. Israel thought it could ignore the prophets; exile revealed otherwise. The man with the beam thought he could see clearly; Jesus reveals that he cannot.

    So, back to our Lord’s question. Why do we notice little faults in others and ignore the ones in ourselves? Pride. I can feel better about myself by finding out that other people are “worse” than I am.

    Right?

    Wrong.

    The real problem is my standard of comparison. The standard isn’t other people. It’s Christ.

    What happens when Christ is the measure? Suddenly, the “splinters” in others become much less interesting. Why? Because the beam in my own eye had turned my spiritual gaze outward when all along it should be looking upward – at Jesus.

    Ironically, and as Jesus implies, the best thing about fixing our gaze upward is that it enables us to see more clearly outward. The man with the beam in his eye was trying to help someone else. Clearly, that’s a good thing. The thing is, though, that we can’t really help others heal until we’ve made real progress healing ourselves.

    Father Henri Nouwen once wrote, “The great illusion of leadership is to think that man can be led out of the desert by someone who has never been there.”

    That’s true of Christian discipleship as well. The people who help us most aren’t usually those who have never struggled, but those who have. They’re the ones who have faced their own sins, seen their own weaknesses, recognized their need for God’s mercy, and emerged with a vision of God, themselves, and others that they never had before.

    So today, instead of looking for splinters in someone else’s eye, let’s ask our Lord to show us the beam in our own. Because when our eyes are fixed on Christ and our hearts are humbled by His mercy, then — and only then — can we become the “wounded healers” who truly help others find healing.

    PS. As for the “trouble” I spoke of at the top, it was over 50 years ago. As I recall, it involved several teenage boys, a garden hose, eggs, firecrackers, a convent, and, in the end, some really unhappy nuns. 😉

  • The One Fear

    The One Fear

    Sunday of the 12th Week in Ordinary Time

    Jeremiah 20:10-13; Romans 5:12-15; Matthew 10:26-33

    While we know that Jesus never lies to us, today’s gospel is one of those times when his words seem to contradict human experience. It happens when he says, “Do not be afraid.”

    But isn’t there good reason to be afraid sometimes? Consider Jeremiah; his enemies were watching, waiting, hoping to destroy him. That’s a real, legitimate concern. Or take our own experience; don’t we all naturally fear things like illness, financial loss, rejection, loneliness, or losing someone we love?

    Something deeper is going on. Jesus knows we have many fears, some very real and legitimate. He’s going beyond that, challenging us to not let fear have the final word.

    He is, I believe, urging us to look particularly at those fears that are hardest for us to face. What are those? In my experience, the fears that go right to our moral center; the ones we try to excuse away. “I can’t go to Confession. That priest knows me. What will he think?”… “I can’t say grace at the restaurant. People are watching.”… “I can’t go to the March for Life. What will my pro-choice friends say? They won’t like me anymore.”

    The fear of what people think of us is powerful. Jesus knows that. That’s why he says, “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.” People can damage our reputation, reject us, ridicule us, exclude us, even hurt us physically. But they can’t touch what matters most. In framing it this way, Jesus urges us to move our attention from lesser fears to the one fear that leads to wisdom: The fear of the Lord – what Scripture calls “the beginning of wisdom.”

    What is fear of the Lord? Let me explain it by example. Imagine you’re talking with a group of friends. Someone mentions a person you love deeply — your spouse, your child, your best friend. Trying to be funny, you make a cutting remark at their expense. Everyone laughs. But then, you turn around and discover that person you love so much standing right behind you. They heard every word.

    At that moment, what do you feel? Probably something much deeper than fear of physical punishment. No, it’s that feeling that says you’ve badly hurt someone you love, and you’d give anything to take those words back.

    In the same way, fear of the Lord isn’t cowering before an angry God. It’s loving God so much that the thought of offending Him breaks our heart. And it’s that feeling of deep regret or remorse for our sins that should drive us to seek forgiveness. Do we still fear the pain of hell, or eternal separation from Him? Sure, and that is the first stirrings of the virtue of fear of the Lord. But the mature understanding is the fear that by our sins we have rejected the love of God, who infinitely loves us.

    Getting to this stage of the virtue is a process; it doesn’t happen overnight, and it’s definitely made more difficult by our struggle against worldly fears. Still, remember what Jesus said just after he spoke about fear: “Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge.” In other words, the answer to our facing down our worldly fears isn’t courage alone; it is courage and trust. Jeremiah was no doubt brave, but he survived because he trusted. So with us; we confess our sins, pray publicly, and witness our faith not because we’re naturally brave, but because we love the Father and trust that He – who knows every sparrow – also knows and loves us, just as we are.

    In this world of instant and overflowing mass media, there are so many voices clamoring for our attention. Many are very good at stoking our fears and anxieties. Today in the gospel, Jesus challenges us: Which voice knows you best? Which loves you most? And above all, which will you listen to when fear arrives?

    —