Mark 10:45

Tag: christianity

  • Being a “Keeper”

    Being a “Keeper”

    Monday of the 3rd Week of Lent

    2 Kings 5:1-15ab

    When I was a boy, our family car stopped running while Dad and I were visiting one of his friends. A big, powerful engine… completely frozen. Dad and his friend tore the engine apart and discovered the problem: a tiny metal piece called a “keeper” that held a piston in place. Just a little part, no bigger than your fingertip. But without it, the whole engine was useless.

    Again and again in Scripture, God works through small voices:

    • A shepherd boy defeats a giant.
    • A widow’s two coins outweigh a fortune.
    • A child’s lunch feeds a crowd.
    • And today, a little slave girl starts the miracle that heals Naaman.

    I think the lesson is clear. We should never dismiss someone because they seem insignificant. God chooses whomever He wills, not whoever makes sense to us.

    The slave girl is a perfect case in point. On the one hand, she had no power, no position, no influence. On the other, she did have the courage to speak the truth she knew: “If only my master would go to the prophet in Israel…”

    Because she spoke, a man was healed. And that healing began with something very small: one person willing to speak, and another willing to listen, even to someone he could have easily ignored.

    This raises two questions for us:

    First: Who are the little voices in my life? Who might God be speaking through that I tend to overlook? A child… a spouse… a friend… a stranger… even someone who irritates me.

    Second: To whom might I be the little voice? Maybe God wants to use one small word from me – a word of encouragement, an invitation, a reminder about prayer, a quiet act of kindness — to start something good in someone else’s life.

    Sometimes the engine of grace in someone’s life is waiting for one tiny “keeper”— one small voice willing to speak. Let us ask Almighty God for the grace to hear that voice ourselves, and to be that voice for others.

  • What Heaven Notices

    What Heaven Notices

    Wednesday of the 2nd Week of Lent

    Matthew 20:17–28

    Someone once told the famous evangelist Billy Graham that God would surely reward him for his greatness as a preacher. Graham replied that he once dreamed about that.

    In his dream, he died and went to heaven. As he entered, Peter ushered him toward the heavenly throne. Once there, the Lord said, “Everyone, the great preacher, Billy Graham, is now here with us.”

    After a long, mystified silence, an angel asked, “Who, Lord?” Smiling, God said, “Oh, I’m sorry. You know him as Ruth Graham’s husband.”

    And when they heard that, all of Heaven cheered.

    While it’s a charming story, it makes a serious point. When we think of greatness, what do we think of? Being above others? Higher up? Recognized? Applauded?

    That seems to be what James and John had in mind in today’s Gospel. They wanted the seats of honor, one at our Lord’s right, one at His left, when He comes into His kingdom. But notice the timing; they ask this just after Jesus told them for a third time He’s going to Jerusalem to suffer and die. His emphasis is the cross; theirs is thrones.

    But notice, too, that Jesus doesn’t scold their desire for greatness. Instead, he redefines it: “… the rulers of the Gentiles lord it over them… it shall not be so among you.” In other words, greatness in the Kingdom of Heaven isn’t found in being above others, but in reaching toward them. Not in climbing higher, but in bending lower. Not in being served, but in serving.

    Then we hear the decisive words: “The Son of Man did not come to be served but to serve, and to give His life as a ransom for many.” Jesus hasn’t just redefined greatness, he has embodied it.

    This is what Jesus asked of James and John, all of his Apostles, and everyone who calls themselves Christian.

    Billy Graham understood that. He didn’t want to be remembered for eloquence or influence. He wanted to be remembered for love. Because in the end, titles fade. Recognition fades. Even the memory of accomplishments fades. Only love remains.

    Of course, the desire for greatness isn’t wrong. God placed it in us. As Holy Father Benedict XVI said, we weren’t made for comfort, we were made for greatness. But Lent teaches us that greatness is found in the narrow road of self-gift and service. We are asked to fast, pray, and give alms, not to be impressive but to be free – free to serve as Christ served.

    Actually, as he still serves. For Christ serves us today, as he has every day for centuries, in the holy Eucharist. The One who is truly seated at the right hand of God the Father comes to us again; not to be admired from a distance, but to serve us with His very Body and Blood.

    Then he sends us out to do the same.

    So today the question isn’t: “How can I be recognized,” but “whom can I serve in a way that no one will notice?”

    That is greatness in the Kingdom. And that’s what Heaven notices.

  • Sowers and Seeds

    Sowers and Seeds

    2 Samuel 7:4–17; Mark 4:1–20

    When I’ve reflected on the Parable of the Sower, I’ve stuck with the explanation Jesus Himself gives: He is the sower, the seed is his word, and we are the soil. I’ve seen the truth of it in my own life, and I suspect you have, too. There have been times when my heart was like the hard-packed path, other times rocky or choked with thorns—and, by God’s grace, moments when it was good soil that bore fruit.

    Recently, I learned that Vincent van Gogh also spent a lot of time thinking about this parable. He painted and sketched it repeatedly. But van Gogh saw it a little differently. For him, his art was the seed, and he was the sower.

    We see something of both perspectives in the reading from 2Samuel. David has clearly been good soil: chosen, formed, and blessed by God. From that abundance, he now sees himself as a kind of sower, offering to do what he believes a faithful king should do: build a house for the Lord.

    But God gently reminds him through the prophet Nathan exactly who has built whom. It was God who first chose David, God who established his kingdom, and God who built David’s “house” — not of stone, but a lineage that would lead to the Messiah.

    The lesson is unmistakable. No one, no matter how great, gifted, or faithful, is the architect of God’s plan. We are its recipients. God first plants the seed. Only then does He invite us to share in the sowing. David becomes a sower of the Kingdom not by his own initiative, but because of what God has already done in him.

    The same is true for us. Discipleship is never our initiative; it is always God’s. We are chosen first, claimed in baptism, and only then entrusted with a share in His work.

    That’s how van Gogh understood his own vocation. Painting was his seed, his “holy task.” He cast it broadly, often into rocky, unreceptive soil, painting not with certainty of success, but with hope. In much the same way, our words, choices, and acts of love or mercy are the seeds we sow. We do not control where they land, what takes root, or how long they take to grow.

    No, God has assigned us a task that is simpler — and harder — than that: to sow generously, love without counting the cost, give without guarantees, and trust that God always controls the growth.

    In the end, the Kingdom of God grows not because we manage it well, but because God, who first planted His word in us, is faithful and always brings it to harvest.

  • Take the Underdog

    Take the Underdog

    Memorial of St. Agnes, Virgin and Martyr

    1 Samuel 17:32-33, 37, 40-51

    I’m not a gambler, and in my case, I shouldn’t be. Why? Because I love to root for the underdog. I can’t help it. That little one out there with virtually no chance—I’ll take them every time.

    That puts me in good stead not only for David against Goliath but also St. Agnes against the power of Rome. I mean, what chance does either one really have? Here is David – young, untrained, no armor, no sword – up against a mighty, giant Philistine warrior. And there is Agnes – young, no power, no status, no protection – up against a brutal Roman world. By any human measure, neither one stands a chance.

    But we’re not dealing with human measures, and we’re not dealing with chance; we’re dealing with God, who empowers those who place their trust in Him. Yes, David is brave, and that goes a long way, but true strength is a lot more than that; it’s knowing whose battle this really is. As David says, “The battle is the LORD’s.” And yes, Agnes is also brave, but her true strength is knowing that she belongs to Christ, that He is her only refuge.

    Both could have chosen a kind of protection the world offered, but neither one did. David refused Saul’s armor because it wasn’t his strength. Agnes refused the false armor of social status, safety, or compromise, because those would cost her fidelity to Christ. For David, Agnes, and all who trust in Him, God is their champion, their hope, and their protection.

    Trust in God remains a challenge to this day. We may not face the warriors or empires these two did, but our battles are no less deadly. We try to pass on the faith to our children and grandchildren in a culture that finds Christianity irrelevant; we face illnesses, or the loneliness or fatigue of age; we are tempted to believe that anything we do for God is too small to matter.

    Let the examples of David and Agnes remind us today of three things:

    1. God never waits for us to be strong or confident enough. He reveals His strength precisely where we are weak.

    2. The holiness He has called us to is not about having power. It’s about refusing to give our heart to anything or anyone other than God.

    3. God doesn’t ask us to be fearless in our struggles. What He asks is that we push beyond our fear to faith, for that alone is the assurance that, no matter what the world thinks of our chances, with Him and in Him, we are never defeated.
  • I Cannot See What I’m Looking At

    I Cannot See What I’m Looking At

    The 2nd Sunday in Ordinary Time, B

    Isaiah 49:3, 5-6; Psalm 40:2, 4, 7-8, 8-9, 10; 1 Corinthians 1:1-3; John 1:29-34

    As we look across the Bible, certain themes tend to keep showing up. One example shows itself today; it’s something I call, “I cannot see what I am looking at.” What is that? Well, in story after story, book after book, we find that a person’s significance or calling is completely unrecognized until someone discerns and names it. Think of King David. No one – not his family, his friends, not even the great Samuel himself – realized that this unassuming little shepherd had been chosen by God to lead Israel.

    There are many others – Gideon, Samuel himself, Queen Esther, Moses – showing this same pattern. God’s work is right there, people are looking right at it, but nobody sees it until someone points it out. And that someone is usually God Himself.

    What got me thinking about that was the mysterious line in the gospel spoken by John the Baptist: “I did not know him.” He says it twice! But weren’t they cousins? Did the two kids never hang out? Didn’t John leap in his mother’s womb when Jesus’s pregnant mother walked in? What’s going on?

    It’s that theme. John couldn’t see what he was looking at. Yes, he saw Jesus, perhaps many times, but not until the Spirit revealed it to him did he come to recognize who Jesus was. That’s why, after the Spirit descends, John says, “Now I have seen and testified…” In other words, “Now God has shown me.”

    It isn’t that we’re spiritually blind or refusing to see. Rather, as St. Paul said, we see, but through a glass, darkly. Samuel saw David, God saw a king. Gideon looked at himself and saw a weak man, God saw a warrior. Esther saw a crown, God saw a champion. In every case, human eyes were open, but understanding was closed. Recognition of God’s work requires revelation, not mere human insight.

    The lesson for us is simple, and very fitting for these weeks we call “Ordinary Time.” We hear the word ‘ordinary’ and think ‘plain, unremarkable.’ But ‘ordinary’ in Church time means ‘counted’ – the first week of Ordinary Time, the second, etc. In fact, Ordinary Time is far from plain or unremarkable; it’s the challenge of learning to see, with God’s help, what is already right in front of us.

    What’s the challenge? Familiarity. We actually see too well. We hear the start of a familiar reading or Eucharistic prayer and are tempted to think, “Oh, I know this one,” and tune out. Or we get so used to looking at one another that we don’t see the treasure each of us really is. Perhaps worst or all, we’re so used to seeing ourselves that we look in the mirror and think, “What’s the big deal? There’s nothing extraordinary about me.”

    That certainly isn’t what God thinks. Each time Scripture is read is a new time; we are different than last time, the situation is different, God is speaking to us right now, where we are. Each Eucharistic prayer brings us spiritually to the eternal moment of the crucifixion of Christ; he is dying that we might have life. Each person, ourselves and those around us are, in his eyes, infinitely precious; well worth dying for. And he loves each of us so much that he wouldn’t make the world without us.

    So, we fall victim to the same trap that many do in the Bible: we cannot see what we’re looking at. And we won’t see it unless the Spirit reveals it and we are attuned to it.

    Attuning to it means starting with some hard questions. What am I looking at every day but not recognizing? Where is God present around me but unnamed? Whose dignity or vocation am I overlooking — including my own?

    Just as John needed the Spirit to recognize Jesus, we need the Spirit to recognize grace in even the most “ordinary” places. But we also need humility. As John said, “I did not know him,” so we might say, “Lord, I don’t always know you. Please, help me see.” That says the plain truth: Faith isn’t about figuring God out or discovering something new, but realizing how God is already here. What’s missing isn’t information, but recognition.

    Perhaps the Baptist helps us out here, too. In a little while, we’ll hear words so familiar that they almost pass right through us: “Behold the Lamb of God.” John said that because he recognized (at last!) who was standing in front of him. Every time we hear them at Mass, the Church helps us do what John did — name what we would otherwise miss. What Father is holding is no longer bread, and this is no mere ritual. This is the Lamb who takes away the sins of the world. He is here, right in our midst.

    Finally, we are meant to take that revelation with us as we go, and make it make a difference in the world. Where is Christ? He’s in the people next to us, the people at the store, on the street, at school, at work, or wherever we are. We look at them, but do we see them? And as for ourselves, when you look in the mirror, see Christ, who desires to work in you and through you.

    John said, “I did not know him.” Let us say, “Lord, I don’t always recognize you, especially when you come quietly, in those deceptive, ordinary ways. Please send me the Holy Spirit again. Help me see what I’m looking at.”

    —

  • If You Will, You Can Make Me Clean

    If You Will, You Can Make Me Clean

    As I lie on these hospital tables, beds, and gurneys – shuffled from one test or procedure to another – one Scripture verse keeps echoing through my mind: If you will, you can make me clean (Mark 1:40).

    A leper, suffering and solitary, kneels before Jesus and makes this plea. How he came to believe in Jesus, we don’t know. But I do know the desperation behind those words. I feel it.

    I have excellent, highly trained specialists working on my case. I trust them completely. But as each one would admit, they can’t simply will away the disease that is slowly trying to kill me.

    These men and women give me hope. But none of them are Hope. Only the man standing before the leper is that.

    And of course, Christ is willing. The leper is healed.

    That’s where I want to be, too. Everyone facing illness or trauma wants that healing. It’s easy to get frustrated and cry out:“He can do it! Why hasn’t He healed me? So many are praying! Lord, please will that I be healed! Please…”

    Silence.

    But not inaction.

    What do I mean? Well, look at what Mark says happened next: After Jesus cured the man, the leper went out and told everyone what had happened, while Jesus remained outside, in deserted places (Mark 1:45).

    In other words, Jesus traded places with him.

    So what am I saying – that Jesus has traded places with me? In a very real way, yes.

    In His divine nature, Jesus can only love infinitely. And that love was most fully expressed in His suffering and death on the cross. As He said, “There is no greater love than to lay down one’s life for a friend” (John 15:13). And by His wounds, says Isaiah, we are healed (Isaiah 53:5).

    Love is healing, and there is no love without suffering.

    As I have lain here, I’ve realized something: I’m glad I have this cancer instead of my wife, my children, my siblings, or anyone else. I don’t mean that in a self-congratulatory way, I just mean that this suffering is shaping me. It’s making me a better man, in the sense of showing me even more clearly the vital importance of love in action. Love has to drive everything I do: every conversation, every act, every moment… joyful or painful.

    That’s how Christ lived, and how he calls me to live, too; not just in the good times, but also in the worst – to the cross and beyond.

    And that’s why Christ is my true Hope. Not because I expect him to will away my disease with a word (though of course he could), but because, out of love, he already healed the deeper, spiritual disease: sin and eternal separation from him.

    He asks me to unite myself to the Father’s will just as he did, and to trust that I’m not forgotten any more than he was. He took upon himself the leprosy of sin and went into the wilderness of suffering in my place so that I can proclaim, even where I am now, the love that is stronger than death (Song of Songs 8:6).

    Will my cancer be healed? I don’t know. Maybe God will heal me through the people at this hospital. Maybe He’ll heal it directly. Maybe He won’t heal it at all.

    But, no matter what, He loves me. He has taken my place. And in doing so, He has already made me clean in the only way that truly matters.

    —

  • Let Your “Yes” Mean Yes

    Let Your “Yes” Mean Yes

    Saturday of the 10th Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Corinthians 5:14-21; Psalm 103:1-4, 9-12; Matthew 5:33-37

    Psychologists and those who study social media behavior have found that people tend to form groups and make friends with others who share their interests or beliefs. On platforms like Facebook or Instagram, these “echo chambers” reinforce shared views—people like and share what “fits,” and ignore what doesn’t.

    Dig a little deeper, and something more emerges. When posting within these like-minded groups, people tend to tailor their words to what they think the group will approve of. That is, they don’t always say what they really believe—they say what they think will be popular.

    Why? Because we all want to belong, we all want to be liked. Unfortunately, some people want it so badly they will sacrifice their honesty to get it.

    But imagine Jesus with a social media account. Do you think for one second that he would trade honesty for popularity?

    Of course not. He says so plainly in today’s Gospel: “Let your ‘Yes’ mean ‘Yes,’ and your ‘No’ mean ‘No.’ Anything more is from the Evil One” (Matthew 5:37).

    Truth matters. Integrity matters. It’s not just about the words—it’s about being consistent, undivided, and unafraid.

    It’s also about how those words are said, and to whom. In 2 Corinthians, St. Paul reminded us that we are a new creation, entrusted with the message of reconciliation. That doesn’t mean shouting or condemning, but being honest, courageous, and above all, merciful – in imitation of our Lord, who, as the psalmist said, is kind and merciful.

    At the same time, neither kindness nor mercy mean compromise. The same God who is kind and merciful is also true. So are we called to be – clear, compassionate, and rooted in something much deeper than popularity.

    God doesn’t need people trying to fit in. He needs ambassadors; people who live with integrity, speak truthfully, and reflect His mercy with courage and love. So let us resolve to do that, keeping in mind that, long after social media and all its groups, politics, and ephemera are gone, the only ‘like’ that will matter is the one that comes from Christ—on the post of our life.

    —

  • The Swing of Things

    The Swing of Things

    Thursday of the 7th Week of Easter

    Acts 22:30; 23:6-11; John 17:20-26

    In mid-August of 1936 at the Berlin Olympic Games, the rowing crew from the United States, a team of 8 working-class boys, raced against the best teams from around the world – including the highly favored Nazi team – and took home the gold medal. But even beyond that, the American team at times experienced something rarer still, something very hard to achieve. It’s called, “swing.”

    In rowing, the boat itself can work against its crew. If even one oarsman is slightly out of sync with the others, the boat pulls to one side and resists moving straight ahead. Only when the team work as one does that resistance ease – or, if their unison is perfect, vanish – in which case it feels as if the boat is gliding on its own. That’s swing, and every now and then, that team of American rowers felt it. Rowing in perfect unity, it would seem as if the boat was sailing through the water all on its own.

    That’s the unity Christ wants to see in his Church, the spiritual unity where every member of the Body moves in time with the Holy Spirit. Of course, he didn’t pray and work for that so we could win medals, but that we might be brought to perfection as one (John 17:23).

    Like swing, that’s hard to achieve. Why? Because pride is like the boat when the crew is out of sync – resisting, dragging, veering us off course. We’re all given gifts of the Spirit, and we want to use them to their fullest. The problem is that pride tempts us to use them in ways that glorify ourselves. Too often, that ends badly. That’s what we see with the Sanhedrin in this story from Acts. The issue really wasn’t that they were in conflict with each other; creative, spirit-filled people will disagree. No, the real issue was division. God had given them gifts more than sufficient to achieve unity – if their pride would allow them. Unfortunately, it didn’t. The result? A war of words, perpetual division, and no peace.

    I think that’s why Holy Father Leo recently said something that strongly echoes a theme in our gospel: ‘Peace is possible when disagreements and the conflicts they entail are not set aside, but acknowledged, understood, and surmounted.’ Like a great rowing crew, each of whom has their own strengths, every person in the Church is gifted by God but also called by Him to subordinate our desire to dominate and use our gifts not for dominance but for the common good.

    What the Sanhedrin failed to achieve is still possible for us – if we will it; if we, like that champion rowing team, choose to surrender to a shared rhythm, trust one another, and keep our eyes fixed on the same goal. Remember that Jesus prayed “that they may all be one.” That unity will come only when we surrender our pride, fear, and agenda, so that the Church may glide, not by her own strength, but by the grace of God.

    —

  • Together

    Together

    Wednesday of the 5th Week of Easter

    Acts 15:1-6; John 15:1-8

    Talking once to a friend about the Church and his willingness to come into it, I remember him replying, “I don’t need a ‘Church.’ All I need is Jesus and a bible.”

    On one level, I understand what he meant. He was looking for a personal relationship with Christ, and we all want that. However, on another level, and especially in light of today’s readings, I have to ask myself, “Is that really what Jesus had in mind?”

    As I look at the bible, I don’t think so.

    While he did call the Apostles individually, Jesus formed them as a group. They were taught together, rebuked together, and sent out together. This wasn’t just Jesus’ method — it reflected a deeper, communal vision embedded in their Jewish heritage. As Jews, God called them to be His people (Genesis 17:7-8). Even their religious leaders worked as a group.

    So, in times of crisis, it shouldn’t be surprising that, as we see in Acts today, the Apostles didn’t go off alone to pray and decide individually. Rather, they met in Jerusalem. They listened. They discerned. They argued. But they did it together.

    The same is true for us. Christ calls each of us individually, but he forms and guides us through his Mystical Body, the Church. The Holy Spirit comes to us individually, too, but as we see in the Apostles at Pentecost, He also works powerfully in and through the community.

    Thus, being a Christian isn’t simply a matter of striking out on our own. We are called to marriage, vocation, and prayer, but each of these is nourished like branches within a community of faith, where Christ is the Vine. And as branches, we do not grow in isolation. Like the Apostles, we are meant to stay connected – to Christ and to one another. That’s how we bear fruit.

    That’s also how we make big decisions. Since the Apostles, there have been hundreds of local councils and twenty-one ecumenical (world-wide) councils — including the Second Vatican Council in our own time. Molded by Christ, we never go it alone; we bring issues before the Body, before the Lord. We listen, discern, and even argue, but we do it together.

    So, yes, a Bible and prayer life are essential. But they aren’t enough. Why? Because Christ didn’t leave us a bible. He left us the Church. And it’s in that Body, guided by the Holy Spirit, that we always have – and will always continue to – find truth, strength, and fruitfulness.

    —

  • Who’s Writing the Script?

    Who’s Writing the Script?

    Monday of the 4th Week of Easter

    Acts 11:1–18, Psalm 42/43; John 10:1–10.

    If you’ve ever seen the late Robin Williams in an interview or movie, you know how good he was at taking a simple “Yes” or “No” and exploding it into a five-minute burst of voices, stories, and laughter. For him, it was as if there was no script; he followed the spark, and suddenly there was life and possibilities that no one had seen before.

    This is especially true in his role as the Genie in Aladdin. The writers didn’t bother to give Williams a script. Instead, they gave him the framework and allowed him to improvise. The result? Where about an hour of dialog might’ve been expected, he gave them sixteen! Overjoyed and inspired, the writers and animators built the movie around it. What might have seemed like chaos was pure creativity, full of life.

    That’s exactly what today’s readings reveal about God.

    In Acts, Peter has seemingly failed to “stick with the script” by going to Gentiles. But, in his role as shepherd, Peter allows God to write the script, and God is making it clear that the Holy Spirit will come down on Gentiles just like He did the Apostles. Wisely, Peter then speaks the line we all need to hear: “Who was I to hinder God?”

    Behind Peter’s challenge is the voice of Christ in the Gospel, who refers to himself as “the gate.” That is all the framework we need; He is not a wall, checkpoint, or entrance for a select few. He is the way in for all, and all who enter through him receive not just life, but abundant life.

    Thus, the readings remind us that God isn’t bound by our scripts. Rather, he is completely free; He pours mercy where we don’t expect it and calls people we might never choose. Like the wind that blows where it wills (John 3:8), the Holy Spirit moves in ways we don’t always understand, but always with purpose. And, just like with Robin Williams in Aladdin, when God starts moving, our best response is to listen and try our hardest to do His will. No matter how difficult, no matter how unexpected.

    Of course, that’s challenging. Think of the three martyrs we remember today. The first two, Achilleus and Nereus, understood their role as soldiers very well. However, when they encountered Christ, it became clear to them that although Caesar had cast them in one role, God had chosen another. They listened, laid down their swords, and eventually, their lives. The third was just a boy, 14 years old. Called before the Roman authorities, young Pancras was pressured to deny Christ. At an age when most people expect the script to be a happy, full life, Pancras allowed God to give him his lines, even if that meant death, which it did. He was martyred alongside Nereus and Achilleus.

    Together, these and all the saints remind us of two things. First, God calls whom He wills. Age doesn’t matter. Status doesn’t matter. What matters is willingness. Second, they allowed God to re-write the story of their lives, even if it cost everything.

    So, what about us? Today, let’s ask ourselves: Do I try to keep God inside my comfort zone? Do I write the part I want Him to play? Or am I ready to be surprised by mercy, and willing to do whatever He asks?

    Peter’s question is our question. Who are we to hinder God? Let’s let Him speak, even if we think it’s off-script. Because His script is written to bring us exactly what Christ said in the gospel: Life – life to the full.

    —