Mark 10:45

  • The Green Lab

    The Green Lab

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Forgive.

    From the heart.

    Every time.

    —

  • Stretch Out Your Hand

    Stretch Out Your Hand

    Monday of the 23rd Week in Ordinary Time

    Labor Day (United States)

    Luke 6:6-11

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    in the most holy Eucharist.

    —

  • The Truly Wise

    The Truly Wise

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

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

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

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

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

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

    That makes good financial sense.

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

    That makes a saint. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Pope St. Gregory the Great, pray for us.

    —

  • Christ and His Cross

    Christ and His Cross

    Monday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Corinthians 2:1-5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    We do our part. He does the rest.

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

    —

  • Finally Found It

    Finally Found It

    Sunday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    In other words, sacrifice.

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

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

    It’s all about love.

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

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

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

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

    They have finally found it.

    —

  • Trapped Between Two Worlds

    Trapped Between Two Worlds

    The Passion of John the Baptist

    Jeremiah 1:17-19; Mark 6:17-29

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

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

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

    But still, he didn’t change.

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

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

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

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

    The question is, are we ever like that?

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

    So, what am I going to do about it?

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

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

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

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

    —

  • A Whitewashed Tomb

    A Whitewashed Tomb

    Wednesday of the 21st Week in Ordinary Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    —

  • 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.