Mark 10:45

  • 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?

    —

  • Crossing the Jordan

    Crossing the Jordan

    Wednesday of the 11th Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Kings 2:1, 6-14; Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18

    Places in the Bible are often so much more than locations on a map. Bethlehem isn’t just another small town in the Holy Land; it’s the birth place of Jesus. Jerusalem isn’t just a city in the Judean Hills; it’s the City of David, where Jesus died and rose again. 

    In the same way, the Jordan isn’t just a river flowing into the Dead Sea. It’s where Israel crosses into the Promised Land. As we saw today, it’s where Elijah crosses and is taken up, and Elisha crosses as he begins his own prophetic mission. Of course, it’s also where John baptizes and, most of all, where Jesus is baptized and formally begins his public ministry.

    The Jordan is a boundary, a threshold, a place of decision; where people leave one identity behind and accept another.

    That’s exactly what Jesus describes in Matthew 6:1-6. Hypocrites pray, fast, and give alms so they can be seen doing it. Their identity is built on being noticed rather than being loved by God. Jesus invites them to cross over to something deeper: a relationship with “your Father who sees in secret.”

    The readings pose a couple of hard questions. First, what is the “Jordan” in our own lives that God is asking us to cross? Maybe it’s crossing over from fear to trust, from resentment to forgiveness, from self-reliance to dependence on God, or from public performance to authentic discipleship.

    Second, how do we make that crossing? We certainly can’t do it on our own. Fortunately, Jesus gives us a way through the ordinary practices of prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. As we do those humbly, quietly, and from a grateful heart, God provides us with every grace needed to part the water before us, just as He did for Israel, Elijah, and Elisha.

    We can think of God’s grace like the mantle in the first reading. Notice that Elisha didn’t cross back alone; rather, he carried Elijah’s mantle, a sign that God will provide what he needs for the mission ahead.

    And God will do the same for us. He always has. In the American South generations ago, enslaved Christians knew this. When they wrote spirituals about crossing the Jordan, they sang from bitter experience what Scripture teaches us today – that the deepest desire of every true disciple is to leave bondage behind and cross over into freedom, and the only mantle we need is the glorious gift of God’s grace.

  • Everything

    Everything

    Wednesday of the 10th Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Kings 18:20-39; Matthew 5:17-19

    Today, the Church gives us two powerful images:

    • In 1 Kings, Elijah prays “Answer me, LORD,” and everything is consumed. Not just the burnt offering, but the wood, the stones, the dust… even the water in the surrounding trench.
    • In the gospel, Jesus speaks of the Law and the prophets, saying that in him “not the smallest letter” or even “part of a letter” would go unfulfilled.

    What do these images have in common? They reveal the love of God, who gives completely and fulfills completely.

    First, we see how God gives completely. Elijah asked only for an answer. Just send fire; accept the sacrificial offering. But the Lord didn’t stop there; He answered with such abundance that everything was consumed. Being infinite Love, God can only give everything. We ask for acceptance at Baptism, He makes us His children; for forgiveness of sins in Confession, He removes them entirely; to satisfy our hunger at Communion, He gives us His only Son – Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

    And God fulfills completely. Imagine receiving a note from someone you love most in the world. You’d save it for years, read it over and over, maybe even remember the exact words. You certainly wouldn’t ignore even the smallest part of it. Why? Because every stroke represents the person and the love behind it. The Scriptures are God’s love letter to us. Every book, every story, every word points to the Eternal Word – Jesus Christ – who in his perfect love for the Father and for us is the fulfillment of the Law and the prophets.

    Of course, these images of love are given to us not just to reflect on but to imitate. We know from experience how hard this is. Do I allow God’s love to totally consume me, or do I keep part of myself for myself? Elijah placed everything on the altar, and God’s fire consumed everything. We’re called to do the same; to hold nothing back. The question is whether we’re willing to place our whole lives on the altar – not just the convenient parts or what costs us little, but everything. Because the God who gives everything asks us, in return, to love with everything we are, and to teach that love to the world in everything we do.

  • God in a Box

    God in a Box

    Wednesday of the 9th Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Timothy 1:1-3, 6-12; Mark 12:18-27

    Some years ago, a burglar tried to break into a school by climbing through a window. To avoid leaving fingerprints, he used a special adhesive on his gloves. What he didn’t realize until too late was that the glue was also effective on window frames. Police found him literally stuck to the scene of the crime.

    As we just heard, the Sadducees were also stuck in a trap of their own making. Surely, their hypothetical example was foolproof, right? A woman married to seven brothers – they could see no way for Jesus to explain his way out of that one.

    It must have looked to them like a great trap, and would have been if the assumption behind it was true. What assumption? That the afterlife is exactly like this life; people are married now, so they are married in eternity.

    But, as our Lord implies when he opens their eyes to the meaning behind “the God of the living,” their vision of God is too small. Assuming they understand God’s revelation prevents them from seeing what God actually reveals and how things really are.

    In other words, they put God in a box.

    The real question is, do we ever do the same? In other words, do I ever catch myself saying things like: “I’ve always been impatient. I’ll never change,” or “That person will never come back to the Church,” or “I’ve committed this sin for years. Nothing will ever be different.”

    Putting God in a box is convincing ourselves that tomorrow must look exactly like yesterday. That people never change. That we never change. That grace can only do so much. The problem is, it becomes self-fulfilling prophecy; nothing changes because I’ve accepted my own premise and adjusted my expectations and my behavior accordingly.

    This drastically shortchanges God and leads us to think too little of what He can do in us.

    Fortunately, St. Paul points Timothy – and us – in another direction. “Stir into flame the gift of God.” In other words, let’s be open to the power and action of grace of such gifts as those given to us by the Holy Spirit. The gospel suggests several gifts we desperately need, but I’d like to focus our attention on one in particular – the gift of understanding.

    What a tremendous gift. Through it, the Holy Spirit helps us see more deeply into the truths of our faith. We begin to connect the dots. Things we may have heard for years suddenly begin to make sense in ways we never thought of before.

    Opening ourselves up to the power and use of these gifts leads us to a life transformed by the power of God. The Sadducees couldn’t imagine resurrection because they underestimated God. We do the same whenever we look at our weaknesses, our sins, our disappointments, and conclude that nothing can change. The readings tell us otherwise. The God who raises the dead can certainly transform a human heart.

    Let’s let Him out of the box.

    —

  • When Words Fail

    When Words Fail

    The Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity, Cycle A

    Exodus 34:4b–6, 8–9; 2 Corinthians 13:11-13; John 3:16-18

    When in your life have you ever been left speechless – when words just wouldn’t come? I don’t mean sports teams letting you down or movies that were so bad you couldn’t find words. I mean profoundly important moments when words were simply inadequate.

    In my own life, words have escaped me most often at times centered around love: As a child, feeling my mother’s embrace; as a husband, my wife sitting by my hospital bed; as a father, seeing our newborn children; as a son, burying my parents. I think it’s true for all of us that there are times when love renders words useless.

    That is exactly where the Trinity is encountered, and the readings help us see it.

    In the first reading, God descends in a cloud and stands with Moses. To understand the real power of the moment, remember when this occurs. Moses has already seen the burning bush, led Israel out of Egypt, crossed the sea, and received the Law. After all those mighty acts, God finally reveals His Name — and Moses falls silent before love.

    From this we learn that while God’s relationship with His people includes powerful deeds, rituals, laws, and covenants – and those are important – that is what God does. Far more important than that is who God is: faithful, merciful love. All encapsulated in one Name: Lord.

    That reminds me of something St. John of the Cross once said: “In giving us his Son… [God] spoke everything to us at once… and he has no more to say.” Jesus isn’t one of God’s communications to the world, he is the communication; the highest revelation of Almighty God to the world.

    And once again, it’s all about love. “God so loved the world that He gave His only Son.” Jesus, the Father’s one Word, handed over. Not spoken into the air, like “Lord,” but placed into history; made flesh, laid in a manger, nailed to a cross. Jesus – the Father’s love made visible – is the name made speakable whose love still defies all speech.

    The Holy Spirit is a little more difficult to understand, but Church Tradition helps. From it, we learn that the Holy Spirit is the living love between the Father and the Son — a love so real, so perfect, that He is not merely a feeling or force, but a Divine Person.

    If you don’t understand that, you’re in good company. The relationship of the Trinity is a supernatural mystery. But we don’t have to understand it. St. Paul didn’t. Notice, though, what he did do: pray it: “the grace of the Son, the love of the Father, and the fellowship of the Spirit.”

    Grace. Love. Fellowship. Those we can understand. And those are the essentials of the Trinity, the very pattern of divine love into which we are baptized and called to live.

    And I do understand this much: the love we feel in those speechless moments — the embrace, the newborn, the grave — is an icon, a symbol, of the love that has been happening within God from all eternity.

    If we take nothing else away on Trinity Sunday, let’s take these two things:

    First, the Trinity isn’t some abstract, theological formula. It is the original and greatest love story, of which every true human love is a participation and a reflection.

    Second, every time we trace the Sign of the Cross on our body, we are doing what Moses did on Sinai — falling prostrate before the greatest Love of all time. Not explaining it. Not debating it. Just receiving it.

    So let it be a moment of silence. Let words fail. That is exactly where the Trinity is.

    —

  • Up is Down

    Up is Down

    Wednesday of the 8th Week in Ordinary Time (Memorial of St. Augustine of Canterbury)

    1 Peter 1:18-25; Mark 10:32-45

    When I worked at the University, I quickly learned who you go to when you really needed something done. The people with the impressive titles, big offices, and walls full of diplomas? Not usually. Everybody knew: You go to the secretaries.

    James and John hadn’t learned that yet. There was something they wanted: places of honor beside Jesus. They saw the impressive miracles and knew he had the power to give them what they wanted. Why not go to him?

    They weren’t wrong to do that. Jesus does have the power. Their mistake was misunderstanding what his power was for.

    James and John were thinking in earthly terms. In our world, power flows down. The people at the top are served by everyone else.

    But Christ deals in heavenly terms. In his world, if you want to be first, you go to the bottom. True greatness isn’t measured by how many serve you, but by how much you serve.

    Of course, Peter was there to hear our Lord’s response to James and John, and it’s clear that he learned the lesson. The greatest act in all of history — our redemption — came not through armies, wealth, or earthly power, but, as he says in his letter, through the precious blood of Christ.

    At school, the secretaries mattered not because of a title, but because they carried everyone else. They kept things moving and helped people every day. Without them, the school’s mission might well fail.

    It’s fitting to remember that today, as we celebrate the great missionary to England, St. Augustine of Canterbury. When we remember such saints, we often focus on them alone. But they weren’t alone. The Kingdom of Heaven is built by an army of servants. The great are certainly needed, but so are those who encourage, prepare the soil, keep the faith alive, open the door. In Augustine’s mission to England, this includes:

    • Bishop Liudhard, who helped keep the flame of faith alive in England, paving the way for Augustine’s mission;
    • Queen Bertha, a Catholic married to the pagan King of Kent. Her hospitality and faith made Augustine and his monks welcome;
    • The monks who came with Augustine, who evangelized despite their fear, and without whom Augustine could not have achieved success.

    These and countless others — like us — may never have statues or feast days. But the faith survives because of their (and our) hidden acts of service: parents teaching children and grandchildren to pray, parishioners quietly serving others, faithful disciples encouraging one another not to give up.

    James and John wanted what we and every saint who has ever lived wants – to be close to Christ. Let us never forget where all of them have found him: in humble service.

    St. Augustine of Canterbury, pray for us.

    —

  • Appreciating the Moment

    Appreciating the Moment

    Wednesday of the 7th Week of Easter

    Acts 20:28-38; John 17:11b-19

    Yesterday, we heard St. Paul tell the Ephesians of his imminent departure. Today we hear their reaction, and it’s one of the most emotional moments in the entire book.

    There’s a kind of parallel movement in John’s Gospel. Our Lord has finished his public ministry and is now ending his time among the Apostles. We haven’t heard their reaction, but we know; Jesus said earlier they would weep and mourn (John 16:20).

    We’ve had a taste of those emotions ourselves as a Church. Remember when parishes were closed during the COVID pandemic? Even though Mass was televised, it wasn’t the same. People missed the Sacraments, especially Holy Communion, and gathering together. Some missed them so much they’d come to the church windows just to look inside and watch Mass being televised. Others drove to the parking lot to gaze at the monstrance in the second floor window. Many got out and knelt on the ground, despite the weather.

    And remember when Church doors finally reopened? When we could once again receive Christ in the Blessed Sacrament and be together? What joy! Wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel that every day, or every time we walk into church?

    I think we can. How? One way is to appreciate the moments we’re given. For example, when you walk into church, before you do anything else, ask yourself, “What if this was the last time I could receive the Eucharist? What if it was the last time I could gather with these people? What would I do differently? Would I say something to someone that I should have said a long time ago?”

    The readings remind us of two precious gifts we’ve been given: the gift of Christ in our tabernacle and the gift of ourselves to each other. Too often, we realize the value of these gifts only when they’ve been threatened or taken away. That was true for St. Paul’s disciples, true for the Apostles, and it’s true for us. But it doesn’t have to be that way; we don’t have to allow absence to teach us gratitude. Instead, let’s remember how St. Paul quoted the words of Christ that do not appear anywhere else, “It is more blessed to give than to receive.” As blessed as we are to receive the gifts of Christ and each other, we are even more blessed when we give ourselves in return: to God through full participation in the Mass, and to one another by listening more carefully, forgiving more readily, lingering together a little longer, and taking no one – neither God nor each other – for granted.

    —