Category Archives: Daily Reflection

Waiting with Quiet Conviction

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There are seasons in life when faith feels less like certainty and more like waiting. We pray for healing, but the illness remains. We pray for reconciliation, but the relationship is still broken. We pray for guidance, but the way forward remains unclear. We pray for a child or grandchild who has wandered from the faith, but nothing seems to change. In those moments, we may know what God has promised. We may believe that he is faithful. But we have not yet seen the fulfillment. That is where both Jeremiah and Martha stand in today’s readings.

Jeremiah is exhausted by his vocation. He has spoken God’s word faithfully, but instead of success he has experienced conflict, isolation, and rejection. He cries out: “Woe to me, mother, that you gave me birth!” This is not the voice of someone who has lost all faith. It is the voice of someone who has tried to remain faithful and is tired of the cost. Yet in the middle of his lament, Jeremiah says:  “When I found your words, I devoured them;  your words were my joy and the happiness of my heart.”

Jeremiah still remembers what first sustained him. God’s word had become part of him. He had not merely heard it. He had consumed it. It had nourished his heart and given meaning to his life. But now he is struggling because the word he embraced has not yet produced the outcome he hoped for. He has God’s promise, but he is still waiting for deliverance.

Martha is in a similar place. Her brother Lazarus has died. Jesus is late on the scene. She says to him: “Lord, if you had been here, my brother would not have died.” There is both faith and pain in that sentence. Martha believes Jesus could have helped. She trusts his power. But she is also grieving what did not happen. Her prayer was not answered in the way she expected. And yet she does not walk away. She remains in conversation with Jesus. “But even now I know that whatever you ask of God, God will give you.” Martha does not understand what Jesus is about to do. She has no clear picture of how this story will end. She is still standing in grief. But she holds on.

Then Jesus says: “I am the resurrection and the life.” He does not explain what He is about to do, rather the first action is the gift of Himself to Martha.  That may be the deepest lesson in these readings.

While we are waiting for God’s promise to be fulfilled, God often gives us his presence before he gives us an answer. We want to know when things will change. God says, “I am with you.” We want to know how the story will end. God says, “Trust me.” We want a solution. God gives us his Word.

This does not mean that our questions are wrong or that faithful people never become discouraged. Jeremiah complains openly. Martha tells Jesus exactly how she feels. Faith is not pretending that everything is fine. Faith is bringing our disappointment to God and refusing to stop speaking with him. It is possible to grieve and still believe. It is possible to be confused and still trust. It is possible to feel tired and still hold on to God’s word.

God responds to Jeremiah with a promise: “They will fight against you, but not prevail over you, for I am with you, to deliver and rescue you.” God does not promise that Jeremiah’s struggle will disappear immediately.He promises that the struggle will not have the final word.

Jesus makes the same promise to Martha, only in an even greater way: “Whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live.” Death itself will not have the final word.  This is the faith Christians are called to live.

We hold on to God’s word while waiting for God’s promise. We do not always know when healing will come. We do not always know how reconciliation will happen. We do not know when grief will become lighter or when a prayer will be answered. But we know the One who has spoken.

And in the end, Christian hope rests not in our ability to predict what God will do, but in the character of the God who has promised to remain with us. Most of the Christian life is lived somewhere between Jeremiah’s words: “Your words were my joy” and Martha’s confession: I have come to believe.”

We remember what God has said. We continue to believe.  And we wait with the quiet conviction that the Lord who has begun the story has not abandoned it.

Image credit: The Raising of Lazarus, Duccio di Buoninsegna (c.1310), Kimberly Museum of Art, Public Domain

Sacred Things, Sacred Hearts

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There is one verse in today’s first reading that almost takes us by surprise. The prophet Jeremiah says: “They will in those days no longer say, ‘The ark of the covenant of the LORD!’ They will no longer think of it, or remember it, or miss it, or make another.” (Jer 3:16) If you were an Israelite hearing those words for the first time, they would have been shocking.

The Ark of the Covenant was the holiest object in Israel. It held the tablets of the Law given to Moses. It was the sign of God’s covenant and the symbol of his presence among his people. It accompanied Israel through the wilderness, stood in the Holy of Holies in the Temple, and reminded the people that God dwelt in their midst. So why would Jeremiah say that one day people would no longer even speak about it? Certainly not because the Ark was unimportant. It was profoundly important.

But it was never the destination. It was always a sign pointing to something greater. 

Jeremiah goes on to say: “At that time they shall call Jerusalem the LORD’s throne.” Notice the movement. God’s presence is no longer focused on a single sacred object. It begins to embrace an entire people. That promise prepares us for the Gospel where Jesus tells the parable of the sower and explains that the seed is the word of God. The question is no longer, “Where is the Ark?” but, “Where will the Word take root?”

Some hearts are like the path. The Word never enters. Some are rocky. The Word begins to grow but has no roots. Some are crowded with thorns. The cares of life choke it. But some hearts are good soil. There the Word takes root where it grows and bears fruit thirtyfold, sixtyfold, and a hundredfold.

The Ark represented God’s presence. Jesus wants God’s presence to dwell in the human heart. The New Covenant is not centered on an object but on lives transformed by the living Word. That is why Jeremiah can say there will be no need to make another Ark. The sign points to a greater reality which when it arrives, the sign has fulfilled its purpose.

Most of us have things that help us draw close to God: a favorite Bible with worn pages, a rosary that has accompanied us through years of prayer, a crucifix hanging in our home, a church where we have celebrated baptisms, weddings, funerals, and countless Masses. These are precious gifts. They shape our memory and nourish our faith. The Church treasures sacred objects because they point us toward the sacred mysteries they represent.

But Jeremiah gently reminds us that even the holiest objects are never the goal. Their purpose is to lead us into a living relationship with God. Jesus tells us where that relationship finally takes root: not in wood overlaid with gold, not in stone buildings, not even in beautiful religious objects but in the human heart.

The true question is not whether we possess holy things. The true question is whether God’s Word has found good soil within us. Has it made us more patient? More forgiving? More generous? More faithful? More like Christ? Because in the end, the most sacred place on earth is not simply a beautiful church or a treasured religious object. The most sacred place on earth is a heart where Christ is welcomed, cherished, and allowed to bear fruit.

Today, as we receive the Lord in the Eucharist, let us ask for the grace to become that good soil, to allow his Word to sink deeply into our lives, so that God’s presence may not only dwell among us, but truly dwell within us.

Image credit: Christ’s Appearance to Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection | Alexander Ivanon | Russian Museum | PD-US

Forgotten Love

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There is something deeply moving in the way God speaks at the beginning of today’s first reading: “I remember the devotion of your youth, your love as a bride, how you followed me in the desert.” God remembers the beginning. He remembers when Israel trusted him, when the relationship was fresh, when the people followed him into the wilderness with little more than his promise to sustain them.

The image is almost like that of a bridegroom remembering the first love of his bride. And then comes one of the saddest questions in all of Scripture: “What fault did your ancestors find in me that they withdrew from me?”  God is not really asking; He knows what happened. This is a lament, the sorrowful question of someone whose love has been taken for granted.

God had brought his people out of slavery. He had led them through the desert. He had given them a fertile land. Yet once they entered that land and began to prosper.. And they began to forget. They had the priestly rituals, the sacrifices, the Law and even the great symbols of God’s presence: the Tent of Meeting and the Ark of the Covenant. But somewhere along the way, they stopped looking for God – or worse yet just assumed He would be there… there when needed. In the between times….meh.

In the Gospel, the disciples ask Jesus why he speaks to the crowds in parables. Jesus responds by quoting the prophet Isaiah: “They look but do not see and hear but do not listen or understand.” The problem is not that God has stopped speaking. The problem is that hearts are paying attention. The people have stopped listening.

Today was not the first time you’ve heard these readings. Were you paying attention to more than the words or were you waiting for the homily to tell you what it all means? At that point you’re listening to the homilist. A heart that is open hears the voice of God within the story, the reading and within the homily. An inattentive heart grows dull and hears only words.

Jeremiah describes how that dullness begins. It begins when people abandon “the source of living waters” and dig for themselves “broken cisterns that hold no water.” A cistern was meant to collect and preserve water. But a cracked cistern slowly loses everything placed within it. That is Jeremiah’s picture of all the things we expect to satisfy us apart from God.

Success can become a broken cistern. Possessions can become a broken cistern. Approval, comfort, entertainment, control, even constant busyness can become broken cisterns. They may hold our attention for a time, but they cannot satisfy the deepest thirst of the human heart. And the tragedy is that the more we depend upon those substitutes, the less able we become to recognize the living water when it is offered to us.

This can happen even in the spiritual life. We may still come to Mass, still say familiar prayers, receive the Sacraments and more. Yet familiarity can slowly replace attentiveness. We may know when to stand, sit, and kneel, but stop expecting God to speak. We may hear the readings, but no longer ask, “Lord, what are you saying to me today?” We may receive the Eucharist, but forget the wonder that the Lord himself has drawn near. The greatest danger is not always that we abandon the faith dramatically.Sometimes it is that we remain outwardly close while inwardly losing our sense of wonder. 

But today’s readings also contain hope.

God begins by saying: “I remember.” Israel forgets, but God remembers. The people wander, but God remembers the covenant. Their love grows cold, but God remembers their first love and calls them back. That is how God deals with us as well.

He does not remember our failures in order to hold them against us. He remembers the person we were created to become. He remembers every sincere beginning, every act of trust, every moment when we allowed him to lead us. And he continues to invite us back. Not merely back to religious routine. Back to relationship, to attentiveness, to the living water. 

Today, perhaps our prayer can be very simple:

  • “Lord, restore in me a listening heart.”
  • Help me not merely to hear your Word, but to receive it.
  • Help me not merely to look, but to see.
  • Help me not merely to practice the faith, but to love you again with freshness, gratitude, and wonder.

For the tragedy of forgotten love is not that God stops loving us. It is that we forget how deeply we have always been loved.

Image credit: Christ’s Appearance to Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection | Alexander Ivanon | Russian Museum | PD-US

Already Seeking Us

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Most of us think of the spiritual life as our search for God. We pray because we are looking for him. We come to Mass because we want to draw closer to him. We read Scripture because we hope to hear his voice. We struggle through doubt, grief, and confusion, trying to find some sign of his presence. Today’s readings gently turn that idea around. They remind us that before we ever began searching for God, God was already searching for us.

The first reading from the Song of Songs begins with longing: “On my bed at night I sought him whom my heart loves.” The woman rises and goes out into the city. She searches the streets and squares. She asks the watchmen whether they have seen the one she loves. Her search is persistent because it is driven by love. That same longing appears in Mary Magdalene.

She comes to the tomb early in the morning, while it is still dark. She discovers that the stone has been removed. Later she stands outside the tomb weeping. Twice she is asked: “Woman, why are you weeping?” Her answer reveals the depth of her sorrow: “They have taken my Lord, and I don’t know where they laid him.”

Mary is searching. She searches the tomb. She questions the angels. She looks at Jesus himself but does not recognize him. She assumes he is the gardener and asks whether he has carried the body away. Mary is looking for the Lord, but she is looking for someone who is dead. Her love is real, but her expectations are still shaped by the tomb.

Then everything changes. Jesus speaks one word: “Mary.” That is the turning point of the entire Gospel. Mary does not recognize Jesus when she sees him. She recognizes him when he calls her by name. In that moment, the seeker realizes that she has been found. 

Mary thought she was searching for Jesus. But Jesus was already there. He knew her grief. He had seen her tears. He knew exactly whom she was seeking. And before she could fully understand what had happened, he called her by name. This is one of the deepest truths of our faith.

Our desire for God begins in God’s desire for us. Our search for God is always a response to the God who first comes looking for us. Whenever we feel the desire to pray, God is already at work within us. Whenever we feel the need to return after drifting away, God is already drawing us home. Whenever we come to Mass burdened, distracted, grieving, or uncertain, we may imagine that we have come looking for God. But the deeper truth is that he has already come looking for us.

Like Mary Magdalene, we do not always recognize him. Grief can cloud our vision. Fear can keep us staring at the tomb. Disappointment can convince us that what has been lost can never be restored. Sometimes Christ stands very near, and we still mistake him for someone else.

Yet he continues to call us. Not merely as members of a crowd. Not anonymously. He calls us by name. The Good Shepherd knows his sheep, and his sheep recognize his voice. When Jesus says, “Mary,” her sorrow is transformed into recognition. But the encounter does not end there.

Jesus tells her: “Go to my brothers and tell them…” Mary moves from searching to encountering, and then from encountering to being sent. That is the pattern of discipleship: We seek. We are found. And then we are sent. Mary becomes the first witness of the Resurrection. She goes to the disciples with the simple proclamation: “I have seen the Lord.”

That is why the Church has long honored her as the Apostle to the Apostles. She is sent not because she understood everything immediately. She is sent because she remained. She remained near the cross. She came to the tomb while it was still dark. She continued searching even through tears. And when the Lord called her name, she responded. Mary Magdalene’s story is the story of every disciple.

We search for Christ in prayer, in Scripture, in the Eucharist, in the lives of others, and sometimes through long seasons of darkness. But the great surprise of the Gospel is that our search is always preceded by his. Before we called upon him, he knew our name. Before we found him, he had already found us. Before we reached for him, he was already standing near. Perhaps that is the grace we should ask for today. Not simply the grace to search more earnestly, but the grace to recognize that Christ is already searching for us.

And when we hear him call our name, may we respond as Mary did—not by remaining at the tomb, but by going forth to say with our lives: “I have seen the Lord.”

Image credit: Christ’s Appearance to Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection | Alexander Ivanon | Russian Museum | PD-US

What we ask of the Shepherd

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The prophet Micah closes his book with a prayer that is both simple and deeply moving: “Shepherd your people with your staff, the flock of your inheritance, that dwells apart in a woodland, in the midst of Carmel. Let them feed in Bashan and Gilead, as in the days of old.”(Micah 7:14)

At first glance, these ancient place names Carmel, Bashan, and Gilead may seem like little more than points on a map. But to the people of Israel they stirred the imagination. Carmel was known for its beauty and fertile slopes. Bashan was famous for its rich pasturelands where flocks could graze in abundance. Gilead was remembered for its healing balm and its lush countryside. Together they formed a picture of life as God intended it: a flock that was safe, well-fed, and flourishing under the care of its shepherd.

What is remarkable is that Micah prays these words after a long book filled with warnings, injustice, and the consequences of Israel’s unfaithfulness. After exposing the people’s failures, the prophet does not end with condemnation. He ends with hope. His prayer is not, “Lord, punish your people.” It is, “Lord, shepherd your people.” That difference tells us something profound about the heart of God.

Throughout Scripture, the image of the shepherd is one of God’s favorite ways of revealing himself. The shepherd does not simply own the sheep; he knows them, protects them, searches for them when they wander, and leads them to places where they can flourish. God’s deepest desire has never been merely to correct his people, but to guide them into the fullness of life.

As Christians, we cannot hear Micah’s words without thinking of Jesus, who called himself the Good Shepherd. He came not only to rescue the lost sheep but also to lead them into abundant life. He knows the paths that lead to peace, even when we insist on wandering into places that leave us weary and hungry.

Perhaps that is why this ancient prayer still speaks so powerfully today. Many people feel as though they are wandering through a woodland—surrounded by uncertainty, noise, loneliness, or fear. We long for solid ground, for green pastures, for a place where our souls can rest.

Micah reminds us that God’s answer is not first a place but a person. The answer is the Shepherd.

The Christian life is not simply about finding our own way through the forest. It is about learning to recognize the Shepherd’s voice and trusting him to lead us. When we do, he brings us to places of nourishment we could never have found on our own. Not only the rich pastures of Bashan or the beauty of Carmel, but the deeper pastures of faith, hope, mercy, and peace.

In the end, Micah’s prayer becomes our own: “Shepherd your people.” It is a prayer our world still needs. It is a prayer our families need. It is a prayer each of us can whisper every morning. And it is a prayer the Good Shepherd delights to answer.

Image credit: iStock | BogdanV | photo ID:1651309580 | downloaded July 20-2026

Walking in the World

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There are times when I think groups within the Church offer us a false choice: opposition between liturgy and justice, or between ritual and discipleship. The Church has always taught that both are essential. Today’s readings for Mass pair Micah and Matthew which together have some food for thought about all this so that as the faithful we never mistake external expressions of faith for the whole of faith.

Micah imagines someone sincerely asking: “With what shall I come before the LORD?” (Mi 6:6) The answers become progressively more extravagant. Should I bring burnt offerings? year-old calves? thousands of rams? torrents of oil? Or even my firstborn? Micah is not dismissing sacrifice. Afterall, God himself commanded sacrifice through Moses. Rather, Micah asks: Can external acts of religion substitute for an interior life that reflects God’s own heart? His answer is unforgettable: “You have been told, O man, what is good, and what the LORD requires of you: Only to do the right and to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.” (Mi 6:8)

Notice that Micah does not replace worship; he reorders it. The sacrificial system only has meaning when it flows from justice, mercy, and humility.

Jesus faces a similar problem. The scribes and Pharisees ask: “Teacher, we wish to see a sign from you.” (Mt 12:38) At first, this seems reasonable. But Matthew has already recorded numerous miracles: lepers that were healed, storms calmed, sight restored and demons cast out. The issue is not lack of evidence. It is a lack of receptivity. They want another sign because they have not allowed the earlier signs to change them. So Jesus points not to another miracle but to the repentance of Nineveh and the wisdom sought by the Queen of the South. Both responded to far less than what now stands before Israel.

Again, the issue is not external. It is the disposition of the heart.

These readings speak with surprising clarity to the Church where there is a renewed appreciation for reverent liturgy, Gregorian chant, Eucharistic devotion, sacred silence, traditional vestments, kneeling, Latin, beautiful churches, and careful observance of rubrics. Much of this renewal is genuinely good. The Church has always taught that beauty leads us toward God. The danger is not these practices themselves. The danger is thinking that they are sufficient.

Micah would ask: does your reverence at Mass make you more just? Does it make you kinder? More patient? More generous? More truthful? More humble?  Jesus might ask if the beautiful liturgies and devotions have led you to repentance? Have they made you more like Christ?

It is a challenge that cuts both ways as the readings speak the faithful no matter where they exist on the spectrum. These same questions can be those who emphasize: social justice, outreach, and inclusion while being less attentive to the beauty of more traditional practices.  Are these members rooted and grounded in liturgy, prayer, the Sacraments, adoration, or these more?

I think the readings caution us against confusing signs of holiness with Holiness itself. Someone may kneel beautifully, know every rubric, sing every chant, receive Communion on the tongue, pray in Latin, and still be impatient, unkind, self-righteous, unforgiving, or indifferent to the poor. Conversely, someone whose external devotional life is simpler may quietly embody Micah’s words every day. That is not an argument against reverence. It is an argument for ensuring reverence reaches the heart.

James 2:18, “I will demonstrate my faith to you from my works,” is often cited as a grounding for social justice action and activity. Repurposing James’ comments: “You do well, but even non-believers do these things.” Are they signs of holiness that point to an interior Holiness? Can one authentically emphasize social justice, outreach, and inclusion while neglecting prayer, the sacraments, adoration, or reverent worship?

The Catechism speaks to all this when it says that the liturgy is the “summit toward which the activity of the Church is directed” and the “font from which all her power flows” (CCC 1074). Notice the image. A fountain exists to send water outward. The Eucharist is meant to become Christian life. The Mass should form us into people who “do right, love goodness, and walk humbly with God.”

Micah is not replacing worship with ethics. Nor is Jesus replacing signs with moral effort. Rather, both insist that worship and life belong together. The Mass without charity becomes a hollow ritual. Charity without worship loses its deepest source.

Micah and Jesus are calling the fullness of religion to fulfill its purpose. Beautiful liturgy is a gift. Reverence is a gift. Tradition is a gift. But the measure of every Mass is not only how beautifully it is celebrated. The deeper question is: What kind of people does it send back into the world? If the Eucharist truly forms us, then we should become more just, more merciful, more humble, more forgiving, and more like Christ. For in the end, God is looking not only at how we worship, but at what our worship is making of us.

Image credit: created with Dalle-3 | downloaded Jul-18-2026 | prompt: “Based on Micah 6:8, please prepare a 1200 by 675 px image of walking in the world with Micah”

What God Sees

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Today’s readings for Mass again pair Hosea and Matthew. Both are rich with themes and topics, but one that came to mind was the way in which God views the world. When we view the world and all it contains we easily see what is on the surface and perhaps, from time to time, look more deeply into what we see.  God sees all the way to the heart of it.

The prophet Hosea is speaking to the northern kingdom of Israel during a time when, outwardly, things looked quite successful. The nation enjoyed prosperity. It had kings, armies, places of worship, and a thriving economy. If you judged only by appearances, you might conclude that everything was going well. But God saw something very different. 

The people saw prosperity; God saw spiritual poverty. The people saw impressive altars; God saw hearts that had wandered from him. The people thought they were secure; God saw a nation drifting farther and farther from the covenant. The people were sowing the seeds of their own destruction. 

A farmer who scatters seed into a field may not notice anything happening for a while. The field looks the same the next day and even the next week. But eventually the harvest comes. God sees that Israel has been planting seeds of idolatry, injustice, self-reliance, and empty religion. Through Hosea, the Lord says: “They sow the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind.” (Hos 8:7)  The harvest they have sown has not yet arrived, but it surely will. God sees what we cannot.

In the Gospel, Matthew tells us that Jesus healed a man who had been unable to speak because he was possessed by a demon. The crowds are amazed even as the Pharisees dismiss the miracle. But Matthew invites us to notice something even more important than the miracle itself. “At the sight of the crowds, his heart was moved with pity for them because they were troubled and abandoned, like sheep without a shepherd.” (Mt 9:36) Again, Jesus sees what others do not.

The crowds simply see people. Jesus sees hearts. He sees burdens that no one else notices. He sees grief hidden behind smiles. He sees fears that are never spoken aloud. He sees loneliness. He sees confusion. He sees people searching for meaning. And what is remarkable is not only what he sees, but how he responds: his heart is moved with compassion. Not irritation. Not condemnation. Compassion.

We spend much of our lives making judgments and assessments based on appearances. We don’t mean to but we do. We assume someone is happy because they are successful. We assume someone is at peace because they smile. We assume someone has no struggles because they appear confident. But we rarely know the whole story.

Only God sees the heart. That realization should make us both humble and compassionate. Humble, because we recognize how limited our own vision is. Compassionate, because we begin to treat people with the same patience that Christ shows us. 

There is another comforting truth hidden in these readings. Sometimes we ourselves cannot even see our own hearts clearly. We may not recognize the habits that are slowly pulling us away from God. Or we may fail to see the quiet growth of grace within us. We may think our prayers accomplish nothing. Our small acts of kindness make no difference. Our daily faithfulness goes unnoticed. But God sees all of it.

He sees the seed before it becomes the harvest. He sees the struggle before it becomes holiness. He sees the quiet fidelity that no one else notices. That is why Jesus can say that the harvest is abundant. He already sees what is growing.

In today’s intercessions perhaps we should each ask for one simple grace: “Lord, help me to see as you see.” Help me to look beyond appearances. Help me to recognize the burdens others carry. Help me to notice the quiet work of your grace. And when I cannot clearly see my own path, help me to trust that you do. 

In today’s gospel, the people saw a mute man. The Pharisees saw another reason to criticize Jesus. But Jesus saw a human being who was suffering. That is still how Christ looks upon us. He sees beyond our failures, our fears, our confusion, and even our sins. He sees hearts that need a shepherd. And because he sees so deeply, he also loves so completely.

Image credit: Jesus Heals a Mute Possessed Man | James Tissot, c. 1890 | Brooklyn Museum | PD-US

Speaking to the Heart

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Today’s readings for Mass pair Hosea and Matthew.  At first glance, they seem unrelated. The Book of Hosea speaks of God courting Israel like a faithful bridegroom. The Gospel of Matthew recounts two healing miracles: the raising of a synagogue official’s daughter and the healing of the woman with the hemorrhage. But when read together they reveal something wonderful about God – He never stops pursuing the human heart.

The prophet Hosea lived during one of the darkest periods in Israel’s history. The people had turned away from God. They had become unfaithful to the covenant. If anyone had reason to give up on a relationship, it was God. Yet listen to what he says: “I will allure her; I will lead her into the desert and speak to her heart.” (Hos 2:16) God does not say, “I’ll wait until she deserves my love.” Or, “When she finally gets her life together, I’ll take her back.”

Instead, God takes the initiative. He pursues. He invites. He speaks to the heart. God makes one of the most beautiful promises in all of Scripture: “I will espouse you to me forever: I will espouse you in right and in justice, in love and in mercy.” (v.21)

That same divine love appears in the Gospel; not in words this time, but in the actions of Jesus.A synagogue official comes to Jesus carrying every parent’s worst nightmare. His daughter has died. At the same time, a woman who has suffered for twelve years quietly reaches out to touch Jesus’ cloak. According to the Law, her condition made her ritually unclean. For years she had likely lived not only with physical suffering but also with isolation.

Two very different people. One is respected. The other lives on the margins. One approaches Jesus openly. The other comes quietly from behind. Yet Jesus welcomes both. He allows the woman to touch him, and then he says: “Courage, daughter! Your faith has saved you.” (Mt 9:22)  Think about the word “Daughter.”

Jesus does not define her by her illness. He does not call her “the sick woman.” He calls her by a relationship: daughter. Then Jesus goes to the house of the official, takes the little girl by the hand, and gives her back to life. What do these two miracles have in common? They reveal the heart of God.

Jesus is always moving toward those who are suffering, those who are grieving, those who feel forgotten, those who have reached the end of their own strength. That is exactly what Hosea proclaimed centuries earlier. That remains true today. God never stops pursuing the human heart; He always makes the first move. 

We might think: “I’ll get back to consistent prayer when my life is less busy.” or “I’ll go to confession once I’ve worked things out.” or “I need to be a better person if I want God in my life.” Today’s readings tell a different story. God has already made the first move.

Long before we began searching for him, he was searching for us. Long before we reached out to touch his cloak, he had already stretched out his hand toward us. The spiritual life is not primarily about our search for God. It begins with God’s search for us. Every desire to pray, every stirring of conscience, every longing for peace, every moment we feel drawn back to the Lord is already evidence that he is pursuing our hearts.

Perhaps the best response we can make today is simply to stop running and allow God to speak to our hearts. To trust, like the woman in the Gospel, that even the smallest act of faith is enough for Christ to begin his healing work. 

God does not keep his distance. He is the Bridegroom who comes looking for his beloved. He is the Savior who walks toward the sick and the grieving. He is the Lord who never grows tired of seeking those he loves.

So stop running and listen to the God who is already speaking to your heart.

Image credit: The Woman with an Issue of Blood | James Tissot, c.1890 | Brooklyn Museum of Art | PD-US

Blessed are those…

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Today is the Feast of St. Thomas the Apostles. The readings include the well known account from John 20:24-29 when Thomas, in response to the testimony of the other apostles, says: “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands and put my finger into the nailmarks and put my hand into his side, I will not believe.”  And from that episode these days he is “Doubting Thomas.”  The story of Thomas’ initial refusal to believe is, of course, as old as the Gospel of John itself from the late first century. But the nickname “Doubting Thomas” and the idiomatic expression developed much later.

The Church Fathers were much more interested in what Thomas became than in his moment of hesitation. For example, John Chrysostom emphasizes Thomas’s confession, “My Lord and my God.”  Augustine says that Thomas “saw one thing and believed another” i.e, he saw Christ’s humanity but confessed his divinity. Gregory the Great wrote: “The disbelief of Thomas has done more for our faith than the faith of the believing disciples” because Thomas’s careful examination became stronger evidence for later believers. None of them reduce Thomas to a permanent label. For them, the climax of the story is not doubt. It is faith.

In the Middle Ages the episode became enormously popular in art, drama, and preaching. It was usually called “The Incredulity of Thomas” (Incredulitas Thomae). This remained the standard title for centuries. The expression “a doubting Thomas” as a common English idiom appeared in the late nineteenth century, with the earliest documented English usage around 1883. 

Ironically, the nickname misses John’s point; he is not primarily interested in Thomas’s doubt. The story ends with one of the highest Christological confessions in the New Testament: “My Lord and my God!” (Jn 20:28).  Thomas’s story occupies only six verses (20:24–29), while Christian tradition remembers him for a single week of unbelief rather than, according to ancient tradition, decades of faithful missionary work culminating in martyrdom in India.

So, is there a more appropriate moniker?  When the apostles tell Thomas that they have seen the Lord (v.25) the Greek is: Heōrakamen ton Kyrion. The verb heōrakamen is in the perfect tense and so does not simply mean “we saw him.” The perfect tense is an ongoing, continuing experience which is best understood as “We have seen him, and that experience continues to shape us.” The apostles are giving testimony.

Thomas’ reply is equally important: “Unless I see… unless I put my finger… unless I put my hand… I will not believe.” The last phrase is literally, “I certainly will not believe.” He does not say: “Jesus cannot have risen.” Nor does he argue that resurrection is impossible. Rather, he is saying: “I will not believe your testimony unless I myself experience what you experienced.”

This becomes even more interesting in the broader context of John’s Gospel. One of John’s major themes is witness (martyria). John the Baptist bears witness. The Scriptures bear witness. The works of Jesus bear witness. The Father bears witness. The Beloved Disciple bears witness. Eventually, the apostles bear witness. Thomas represents the first Christian who is asked to believe through the testimony of others. That sounds remarkably familiar. Because that is precisely the position every Christian after the apostolic generation occupies.

Is Thomas doubting the Resurrection?  In one sense, yes. He has not yet come to believe Jesus has risen. But in another sense, the immediate object of his doubt is: Can I trust the testimony of these men? Remember the circumstances. Only a few days earlier these same Apostles had all fled, they were hiding behind locked doors, they were frightened, confused, and emotionally devastated. Now they suddenly claim: “We have seen the Lord.”

Thomas has to wonder if this is wishful thinking, group delusion or something else. What Thomas essentially says is “That is an extraordinary claim. I need more than your word.”

In the gospel account from this point the structure of the story provides that Jesus appears and invites Thomas to touch his wounds, but without touching Jesus, Thomas responds: “My Lord and my God!”

Then Jesus says “Blessed are those who have touched.” … wait, no He does not say that. He says: “Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed.” Jesus is contrasting those who have seen with those who believe without seeing. That final beatitude is addressed directly to later Christians who must rely upon apostolic testimony.

I think St. John intended a gentle irony. At the beginning of the story, Thomas refuses to trust the testimony of the apostles. By the end of the Gospel, the Church will ask every generation to trust the testimony of Thomas himself. Thomas becomes the witness he initially hesitated to trust.

Doubting Thomas? He was struggling to trust the witness of the very people who claimed to have encountered the risen Lord. In that sense, Thomas is the first person asked to believe because of apostolic testimony. And that is exactly where we stand. None of us has physically seen the risen Christ. We believe because the apostles saw him, were transformed by him, and handed on their witness through the Church.

That leads naturally into the first reading from Letter to the Ephesians: “You are… built upon the foundation of the Apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the capstone.” (Eph 2:20)

The pairing of the readings is elegant. Thomas is not only the apostle who comes to faith; he is one of the apostles upon whose witness the Church is built. The Gospel traces his journey from demanding proof to becoming a trustworthy witness himself, while Ephesians reminds us that our own faith rests upon that apostolic foundation. That is a fitting message for the Feast of St. Thomas: we honor not merely a man who overcame doubt, but an apostle whose testimony continues to support the faith of the Church.

Image credit: The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio (Michelangelo Merisi), c. 1602 | Public Domain

Comfort, Confirm or Change

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Today’s readings for Mass continue the odd pairing: Amos and Matthew. Amos the fiery prophet to the Northern Kingdom of Israel during a time of prosperity for the elite, but not so much for the poor who did not participate in the prosperity and at the same time faced corrupt courts and dishonest business practices. At same time Amos is also critical of the empty religious observance: “I hate, I spurn your feasts… Let justice surge like water, and righteousness like an unfailing stream.” Meanwhile, Matthew continues his mission account: Jesus casting demons out of two possessed men, with the demons entering a herd of swine. One is about worship and justice; the other is an exorcism. Yet both readings ask the same penetrating question: What happens when the living God actually comes among us? Not surprisingly, the answer is that God’s presence always demands a decision.

Amos is preaching to people who are quite religious. They attend festivals, offer sacrifices, sing hymns, and keep the festivals as required by the Law. The problem is not that they have abandoned worship. The problem is that worship has become disconnected from life. Through the prophet Amos God says: “I hate, I spurn your feasts… I will not accept them.” God is rejecting worship that is externally correct but internally false because the same people who praise God in the Temple exploit the poor in the marketplace. That is why Amos concludes with perhaps his most famous words: “Let justice surge like water, and righteousness like an unfailing stream.” (Am 5:24). God desires worship that transforms the worshiper.

In the Gospel, Jesus arrives in Gentile territory. Immediately, the demons recognize him. The people are not so quick on the uptake. The demons cry out: “What have you to do with us, Son of God? Have you come here to torment us before the appointed time?” (Mt 8:29) Notice the contrast. The demons cannot pretend Jesus is simply another traveling rabbi. His presence forces a confrontation. Something has to change.

After witnessing an extraordinary liberation, the restoration of two men who had been living among the tombs, the townspeople do not rejoice. As Matthew tells us: “The whole town came out to meet Jesus, and when they saw him they begged him to leave their district.” (v.34) Why? Matthew does not explicitly tell us. Perhaps they feared Jesus’ power. Perhaps they were upset over the economic loss of the swine. Perhaps they simply preferred the familiar to the disruptive presence of God. Whatever the reason, they choose comfort over conversion.

That is precisely Amos’ accusation. Israel wanted religion without transformation. The townspeople wanted life restored to normal without the unsettling presence of Jesus. In both readings, God’s presence exposes what people truly value. Amos asks: Do you love justice more than ritual? Matthew asks: Do you desire Christ more than comfort?

Both readings reject a faith that remains comfortable and unchanged: God is not satisfied with shallow religion. You cannot worship God while ignoring justice. You cannot encounter Jesus without making a choice. Neither reading presents God as simply making people feel comfortable. Instead, God disrupts, reveals, challenges and calls. This is often how grace works.

Which is more frightening? Two violent demoniacs living among the tombs or the possibility that Jesus might actually change my life? The townspeople apparently preferred the first. At least they knew how to live with it. The presence of Jesus meant everything might change.

Sometimes we are not so different.

The living God does not come merely to comfort us or to confirm us in our present way of life. He comes to reclaim us. And every encounter with him asks us to decide whether we will welcome that transformation or ask him, politely, to leave us alone.

Image credit: cropped image of Baie 102 of Église de la Madeleine (Verneuil-sur-Avre) | PD-US