Mark 10:45

Category: Roman Catholic

  • 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.

    —

  • 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.

    —

  • 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.

    —

  • 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.