Mark 10:45

Tag: Gospel

  • Coming to the Well

    Coming to the Well

    3rd Sunday of Lent

    John 4:5-42

    During Lent, the Church quietly leads us through the great needs of the human heart. In the first three Sundays, we encounter three of them: Faith, hope, and love.

    On the first Sunday of Lent, we saw how faith is tested in hunger and isolation. Physically, Jesus was alone and weakened by a long fast; spiritually, though, he was as strong as ever and never alone. Why not? Because his union with the Father remained intact. The same is true for us; faith strengthens and sustains us. Without it, we are weak and alone.

    Then on the second Sunday of Lent, we saw how hope is strengthened despite the trials we face. At the Transfiguration, the disciples were given a glimpse of who Jesus really is. This was the sign that says, “Suffering is not the end. Glory is real.” Hope in Christ prevents discouragement; without it, suffering becomes meaningless.

    Now, on this third Sunday of Lent, we come to the well, as does the Samaritan woman. No hunger, no glory, just thirst. But not for water. No, something much deeper. In her case, I think it’s for dignity and belonging. She comes to the well alone during the heat of the day, when it’s deserted. Why? It’s hard to believe it’s by her choice. Perhaps she has been shunned by the townspeople on account of her several marriages. If so, that would be worst of all. As someone once observed, the worst loneliness isn’t being alone; it’s being with people who make you feel alone.

    Although it’s hard to be fully in touch with her circumstances, I think we can all understand isolation and loneliness. A recent survey has found that, despite all the connections we make on our cellphones and computers, loneliness in our society is widespread, especially among young people.

    How can this be? There may be many reasons, but one thing is clear: when God is removed from the center of life, something essential is lost. As the Church reminds us these first three weeks of Lent, without faith in God, we mistrust; without hope in Him, we despair; and without the love of God, we remain alone, no matter how many people are around us. As a culture, we thirst like the Samaritan woman does: for communion, for belonging, and above all for grace – the only thing that can make us whole – for grace is participation in the life of God.

    Our Lord’s response is instructive for us. Aware of her circumstances, what does he do? Well, first look at what he doesn’t do: He doesn’t give her rules or command her to repent. No; he gives her himself. And that encounter restores what is lacking in her life – dignity, truth, and belonging.

    That is charity. That is the love of God.

    And look at the effect! In these brief few minutes under that hot Mediterranean sun, a woman who arrived at the well alone leaves her water jar behind and runs back to the town. A moment ago, it was as if she was hidden; now, she is not only making herself seen, but also heard – by bringing people to Christ.

    That kind of transformation is waiting for each of us, and shows us the importance of Baptism. The virtues of faith, hope, and love infused in us by God at our baptism aren’t simply things that are “nice to have.” Without them, we live surrounded by people, yet untouched at the center. With them, communion with God and each other is not only possible, but is ours for the asking.

    But that means we have to ask. How? Well, as with the Samaritan woman, Jesus waits at the well. Where’s that? Right here, in the tabernacle. As St. Josemaria Escriva once said, “When you approach the tabernacle, remember that Jesus has been waiting for you for centuries.”

    Knowing that, I invite you this week – today if you like – to come and make one deliberate visit to the Lord. Sit right here in the church. Stay five extra minutes after Mass today or during the week. Or, visit him in the Adoration Chapel. Whichever you do, tell him honestly where you thirst. If you don’t know, tell him that, too. Ask him to show you those places in your life, and help you with them.

    Then listen. He will speak.

  • 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.

  • No Trumpets

    No Trumpets

    Monday of the 1st Week in Ordinary Time

    1 Samuel 1:1-8; Mark 1:14-20

    Dancer and author Agnes de Mille once said, “No trumpets sound when the important decisions of our life are made. Destiny is made known silently.”

    That line captures the quiet power of today’s Scriptures.

    In the first reading, there are no trumpets for Hannah—nothing dramatic at all. No angels, no voices from heaven, no sudden change in her circumstances. She must have wished there were! We can sense her anguish, her misunderstood suffering, and the frustration of a pain that returns year after year. The real question is whether she will remain faithful in her suffering, despite the seeming silence of God.

    The Gospel is just as understated. Jesus simply walks along the shore and says to four fishermen, “Come after me.” No fanfare. No crowds. No explanation of where this will lead or what it will cost. Like Hannah, their decision rests on whether they will trust God and act without understanding what lies ahead.

    Of course, we know how these stories unfold. Because of Hannah’s faithfulness, God blesses her with a son—Samuel—who becomes prophet, judge, and king-maker. The Apostles, despite their repeated confusion and fear, ultimately remain faithful to Christ and become the first pillars of the Church.

    But that’s hindsight. What about now? What about us?

    For most of us, God’s call sounds far more ordinary. It may be when someone asks us to serve in the parish in a way we don’t feel qualified for, when a neighbor needs help at an inconvenient time, or when prayer begins to feel dry but we know we should keep going anyway. Nothing dramatic happens. No one applauds. And we may wonder whether any of it makes a difference.

    The point of the readings is that the so-called “ordinariness” of life is precisely where faith is lived. And it’s actually far from ordinary.

    Like Hannah and the Apostles, there are no trumpets or clear signs. Even when we do sense God’s call, we can’t see clearly down the road. All we know is that God comes quietly into our lives, asking us to follow Him without recognition, without certainty, and without any guarantee that our suffering will be quickly resolved. But Scripture also teaches us that God is always with us, and if we remain faithful, He will work through us in extraordinary ways.

    Some years ago, Thomas Merton summarized this in a beautiful prayer which I ask you to pray with me:

    “My Lord God, I have no idea where I am going. I do not see the road ahead of me. I cannot know for certain where it will end. Nor do I really know myself, And the fact that I think I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so. But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you. And I hope I have that desire in all that I am doing. I hope that I will never do anything apart from that desire. And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it. Therefore I will trust you always though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death. I will not fear, for you are ever with me, And you will never leave me to face my perils alone.” 1

    1From Thoughts In Solitude by Thomas Merton, first published in 1956.

  • The Story of Us All

    The Story of Us All

    Solemnity of Christ the King (C)

    Luke 23:35-43

    The author and theologian Frederick Buechner once said that the story of one of us is in some measure the story of us all. As we’ve seen throughout this past year, if any storyteller shows the truth of this, it is the evangelist, St. Luke.

    Today is no exception. In fact, it may well be Luke’s master stroke. Only he gives us a story so compelling, so poignant, so reflective of the human condition that it has come to be called, “the Gospel within the Gospel.” It is, of course, the story of the “Good Thief.”

    But again, like so many great stories, it’s about much more than one thief. It’s also about the other thief, the soldiers, the rulers, and everyone gathered around or even passing by the cross. It is, as Buechner said, the story of us all.

    Although the action involves each character in the story to some degree, and we can see ourselves in each of them, Luke focuses our attention on the two thieves. It’s easy to see why: like Jesus, they suffer on crosses of their own, and they, too, will die that day. Above all, and without their understanding it, both men will come face to face with their King.

    The difference between them lies not in their suffering, but in their hearts. The heart of the first man is intent on escape. While this is natural, people who want something so badly can end up bullying others – even God – desperate to get what they want.

    I might ask, ‘How is that like me?’ – but I already know. Many times, I have approached the Lord with a similar attitude. “What kind of God allows bad things to happen? You can do it, so get me out of this!” That isn’t a prayer, it’s a demand, and it betrays a heart looking for God to fix the outer situation, not the inner person.

    Note that Jesus does not reply to this man. It’s natural to want relief from our cross, and to ask for help with it, but it’s arrogant to make demands of God or measure His Kingship by how well He makes us content and comfortable.

    By contrast, the second thief accepts the truth about himself (we are getting what we deserve) and Jesus (he is innocent and is entering his kingdom). In that humility, all he asks is that Jesus remember him.

    This is our ideal. We are like the good thief every time we approach the Lord not in arrogance but in humility and truth. Our best, most effective prayers are said in trust — acknowledging our sin, our need for mercy, and our faith that even in the worst of our suffering, Christ the King is Lord of all and has our good in mind.

    Of course, our hope is that Jesus replies as mercifully to our prayer as he did to the good thief. Luke is clear that our Lord is not outdone in generosity! Where the thief said, Remember me, Christ replied, You will be with me, and where he said, when you come into your Kingdom, Christ said, Today.

    Today and every day, Christ the King stands between those who approach him with pride and resentment on the one side, or humility and repentance on the other.

    So the question is, which side of the King do I tend to stand on?

    —

  • Faith That Keeps Going

    Faith That Keeps Going

    The 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

    Exodus 17:8-13; 2 Timothy 3:14-4:2; Luke 18:1-8

    If you’ve been following the Gospels these past few weeks, you might have noticed that Jesus has talked a lot about what it means to live by faith.

    First, he told us that faith means trusting in God, not in our possessions or our comfort. Then, in the story of the rich man and Lazarus, he showed us that faith is lived with a merciful heart, not a selfish one. Next came the mustard seed: even a tiny bit of faith can do great things if we live it with humility. Finally, last week, in the story of the leper who came back to say thank you, Jesus showed us that faith, to be real, must be founded on deep, lasting gratitude.

    Today, Jesus adds one more piece: endurance. Through the parable of the persistent widow, he teaches that faith isn’t just a feeling or a moment of inspiration; rather, it’s “staying power.” It keeps going, even when life is hard, when prayers seem unanswered, or when it feels like God isn’t listening.

    Honestly, endurance might be the most difficult one of all, yet it’s vital. Why? Well, it’s not so hard to trust, forgive, or be grateful once in a while. But to keep doing it year after year, through disappointment, silence, or loss? Without endurance, where would our faith be?

    Today’s other readings make that point. Consider Moses: at first he could hold his arms up in prayer all by himself. But, eventually, he wore out and needed help. That’s us, too. None of us can “hold up” our faith alone forever. We need others beside us; people who pray with us, encourage us, and perhaps above all, pray for us.

    And St. Paul adds something more: endurance in faith comes from feeding on God’s Word. We can survive for a while without opening our Bibles, but not for long. As St. Jerome once said, “When we pray, we speak to God; when we read, God speaks to us.” To endure in faith, we must listen. In every passage of Scripture, Christ is there, speaking to our confusion, fear, and fatigue.

    So this week, let’s take this lesson to heart. Endurance builds our faith in at least two ways, through humility and resilience. First, like sticks in a bundle, faith is stronger when we don’t go it alone but keep at it together, allowing others to help us, and helping others in turn. Second, faith is more resilient as we put aside our temptations to be frustrated and allow the grace of God to fill us with the confidence that He is always faithful, hears us, and will answer – in His time, not ours.

    This is the faith Christ hopes to find when he returns: a faith that binds and holds us together; that keeps praying, keeps hoping, keeps believing that God is still who He has always said He is: The Love that never leaves.

    —

  • Holding On to What Matters

    Holding On to What Matters

    23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

    Wisdom 9:13-18b; Philemon 9-10, 12-17; Luke 14:25-33

    Recently, archaeologists uncovered the remains of a woman in Pompeii, the ancient city buried by the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 AD. The scientists found two things: First, the woman was early middle age and well-to-do; second, having come back home, she was clutching several gold coins and some jewelry. Imagine the moment: With ash and pumice raining down, she had a choice to make about what was most important. She made it, and it cost her literally everything.

    As Jesus says in the gospel today, being his disciple also demands a choice and comes at a cost. On one side are all the things the world has to offer – wealth, comfort, convenience, relationships – and it hurts to let those go. On the other side stands the cross, and it hurts to take that up.

    Still, my guess is that we like to see ourselves as always choosing the cross. I know I do. But this is the time to take a good, hard look at our actual behavior. So let’s ask – What happened the last time I was invited to put aside my own comfort or convenience and do something for someone else that required my time, money, and/or effort?

    The plain, unvarnished truth is that too often I’ve resembled the woman in Pompeii, choosing what I want rather than what I should do. It’s true of all of us, and, as the book of Wisdom hints, we’ve had the problem for a long time. Since Adam, we’ve been tempted to decide what is good on our own. That hasn’t worked out well because we have no understanding of the eternal things of God. We need the Holy Spirit; without His gift of Wisdom, history shows that we’ll keep holding on to what cannot save us.

    What does that Wisdom look like? In his letter to Philemon, Paul tells us: True Christian wisdom looks like the love that transforms relationships. When Paul asks Philemon to receive Onesimus not as a slave but as a brother, he shows that the cost of discipleship is seeing one another not through the lens of status or usefulness, but with the eyes of Christ.

    There’s no evidence that Christ was known in Pompeii when Vesuvius erupted; in her ignorance, the wealthy woman held onto what she thought was important. But we have no such excuse. We know, as the Psalm says, that only the Lord is our refuge. His urging us to put him first isn’t a call to despise our families or abandon our lives, but to remember that only in him do we find the treasure worth holding on to. So today, let us ask ourselves: What am I holding on to like the woman in Pompeii, and what cross is Christ asking me to take up, so that I can follow him to where my true treasure lies – the life that never ends?

    —

  • Here in 10 Minutes

    Here in 10 Minutes

    Genesis 18:1-10a; Colossians 1:24-28; Luke 10:38-42

    Years ago, my wife and I heard the plea of a missionary to sponsor seminarians in his country, so we decided to pay for a young man to do so. One Sunday afternoon long after, that missionary called me. “You know,” he said, “I’m not far away. I’d love to stop by and see you.” “Where are you, Father?” “About 10 minutes away. See you soon!”

    I didn’t panic… until I looked around the house. Even by my standards, it needed help. When my wife heard, the scramble really began. My job was to straighten up myself and the house, while she put together snacks, coffee, and tea. Just as we finished, there he was. It turned into a nice visit, but in no way was I really prepared for it.

    That experience and today’s readings got me thinking: What if my guest hadn’t been the missionary priest, but Jesus Christ himself? “Hi, I’ll be there in 10 minutes!”

    Well, one clue as to what I should do is in the first reading. What did Abraham do? He rushed to show hospitality to his guests. His focus was on them; he was ready to serve them. In turn, that readiness became the opening for God’s promise that he and Sarah would have a son. The lesson? Welcoming our Lord opens the door to a miracle.

    But then there’s an example closer to my experience that afternoon – the gospel. My typical way of looking at it is that Mary was right and Martha wrong. Martha’s focus on the “outside” – getting the house ready for Christ – turned into resentment, while Mary’s focus on the “inside” – sitting at the feet of Jesus – showed that she was ready to receive his word.

    Actually, I think the challenge Jesus gives us is to do both: to do things for him and be with him. We know, because Jesus told us, that as often as we feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, visit the sick, comfort the sorrowful, and forgive injuries, we do them to him. But we also know that many people who don’t believe in God do those things, too.

    No, Christ calls us to more. We see clues to that when St. Paul says, in my flesh I am filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ (Colossians 1:24). What could possibly be lacking in Christ’s suffering? Our participation in it. He has prepared a place for us, as he said in John 14:2, but we must do our part. How? By preparing a place for him in our hearts and showing him to the world by what we do. That can be uncomfortable, even painful, but that’s why St. Paul began, I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake. What causes anyone to rejoice in suffering? Love! What parent wouldn’t gladly suffer in place of their child? Yes, it’s painful, but we would much rather it be us than them. That is the love he is talking about – the love that finds joy even in suffering because it is done for the sake of the beloved. That is the love that proclaims Christ to the world (Colossians 1:28).

    So, that is our challenge, but we have to be ready for it. Very soon – at Holy Communion – Christ will be here. We are both Martha and Mary. Are we ready? Have we made space at the feet of Jesus in our everyday lives? Is our heart ready? Have our prayers, works, joys, and sufferings filled up what is lacking in the suffering of Christ? Are we ready to welcome Him like Abraham, and receive the miracle only He can give?

    —

  • Getting Out of Our Own Way

    Getting Out of Our Own Way

    Thursday of the 10th Week in Ordinary Time

    2 Corinthians 3:15–4:1, 3–6; Matthew 5:20–26

    The evidence of history shows pretty clearly that Alexander the Great was one of the most naturally gifted individuals of all time. Educated by Aristotle, a voracious reader, charismatic, politically astute, a brilliant general… the list goes on and on. By the age of 33, Alexander had conquered most of the known world. Yet, at that same age he died, likely of complications related to alcohol abuse. At least one historian has sadly noted that, in the end, this gifted young man was able to conquer everything except himself.

    As Alexander so perfectly (and tragically) shows, it isn’t always the most gifted who go farthest in life. Often, success goes to the ones who subordinate their will; who, rather than “doing it their way,” allow coaches, mentors, and teachers to lead and guide them. Raw ability can take us far, but probably not as far as the willingness to be transformed – or to “get out of our own way.”

    We see it in the spiritual life as well. St. Paul knew; he spoke of it when he described the “veil” that lies over the hearts of those who remain closed off from Christ. Though Paul was referring specifically to the children of Israel, his words are also meant for us. Is there a veil over our hearts? Perhaps pride – maybe I listen to Scripture or Church teaching with a selective ear, focusing on the parts I agree with and ignoring or minimizing others that don’t? Or fear; maybe I avoid speaking up when that would mean having to go against what my friends or neighbors think, and instead silently go along with the crowd.

    Whatever it is, the more we persist in doing it our way, the more real transformation will elude us. That’s why Jesus speaks so strongly in the gospel of the righteousness that shows itself not merely in outward observance but in deep, heart-level change. What does that change look like? It looks like us when we swallow our pride and put aside anger, insult, division, and anything else we allow to divide us, and reconcile our differences. Only when we face our weaknesses and allow God to help us surrender ourselves to the work of the Holy Spirit will the veil over hearts be lifted.

    Like all Christ’s teachings, that sounds wonderful – and it is – but it’s very difficult to achieve for a couple of reasons. First, it takes genuine humility to admit to ourselves and everyone else that we can’t go it alone; second, it takes letting go of our self-will and allowing Christ – who is already and perfectly the way – to lead us.

    This is what the Christian life, most successfully lived, asks us to undertake, and it is the hardest battle of all: mastery over ourselves through surrender to God. Unlike Alexander, who conquered the world but not himself, the saints show us what true greatness looks like: a heart fully surrendered to Christ. That is the real conquest. That is the truest measure of success.

    —

  • 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.

    —

  • 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.

    —