Dem bones, dem dry bones

Posted on August 21, 2026 by Friar Musings

Today’s first reading is from the Prophet Ezekiel chapter 37, the famous “dry bones vision.” Ezekiel has been the source of all the first readings for this week. It has been a week in which the Word of God came to the prophet and directed him to preach a word of destruction against Jerusalem, the kingdom of Tyre and the shepherds (kings) of Judah and Israel. Then the Word of God changes.

In Wednesday’s first reading, after condemning the shepherds (kings), we have the wonderful passage from Ezekiel 34:11 “For thus says the Lord GOD: I myself will look after and tend my sheep.” And indeed, God sent his only son to be the King of kings and the Good Shepherd.

Thursday, the Word got even better

“I will sprinkle clean water upon you to cleanse you from all your impurities, and from all your idols I will cleanse you. I will give you a new heart and place a new spirit within you, taking from your bodies your stony hearts and giving you natural hearts. I will put my spirit within you and make you live by my statutes, careful to observe my decrees…you shall be my people, and I will be your God.” (Ez 36:25-28)

That is what God plans to do and in today’s reading Ezekiel is given the vision of result of the promise

“Thus says the Lord GOD: From the four winds come, O spirit, and breathe into these slain that they may come to life. I prophesied as he told me, and the spirit came into them; they came alive and stood upright” (Ez 37:9-10)

It is always good to pay attention when God breathes into the world. The ruah (breath/spirit) hovered over the void of chaos at Creation and there was life. God sent the Good Shepherd at whose baptism the Holy Spirit hovered. The ruah of God hovered over the disciples at Pentecost and their was new life for the Church – all this just as God promised.

The ruah, breath, Spirit of God is present in the world, fulfilling the promises of the Covenant, fulfilled in Jesus Christ. “…you shall be my people, and I will be your God.” God is fulfilling the divine side of the deal. We are called to let the Spirit heal our dry bones and be the people of God in the world.

Figure out the part of your life, the hard part of your heart, or whatever burdens you. Ask the breath of God to instill new life in you.

Image credit: “Vision of Ezekiel” by Paul Falconer Poole, c.1875; Tate Museum Creative Commons CC-BY-NC-ND (3.0)

Not without skills

Posted on August 20, 2026 by Friar Musings

The first reading is from the Prophet Ezekiel from a larger section known as the “Oracles Against the Nations.” In our reading the charge leveled against the prince of Tyre is simple and direct: you have become arrogant, or as we read “haughty of heart”. The prophet outlines three dimensions of his hubris: the king claims to be divine, possessing divine authority and divine intelligence/wisdom. It is not hard to think about animating the prophet’s words with a strong measure of sarcasm.

The prophet seems to acknowledge that the prince of Tyre has some skills and savvy, but notes it is only for the accumulation of earthly riches and power – nothing that will last beyond the end. An end that is coming soon at the hand of “the most barbarous of nations. They shall draw their swords against your beauteous wisdom, they shall run them through your splendid apparel…Will you then say, “I am a god!” In the end it will all come to another bonfire of the vanities.

Apart from the novel by Tom Wolfe, “bonfire of the vanities” refers to the evangelical call of the Dominican Girolamo Savonarola who in 1497 called the city of Florence to burn any objects that might tempt one to sin, including vanity items such as mirrors, cosmetics, fine dresses, playing cards, and musical instruments. Savonarola campaigned against what he considered to be the artistic and social excesses of Renaissance Italy, preaching with great vigor against any luxury.

None of us would suffer the delusion of thinking ourselves to be divine as did the Prince of Tyre, but then again none of us would say we are without skills or savvy. The question then, in Florence, and now, is to what end do we direct those God-given skills? Do we seek security for our families? Maybe security and comfort? Perhaps security, comfort, and luxury? Or are we on the verge of becoming like the Tom Wolfe character Sherman McCoy, a successful NYC financial whiz, who has given himself the moniker, “Master of the Universe.” Somewhat like the Prince of Tyre, yes?

To the prince, Sherman McCoy and to us, the gospel simply says: “Amen, I say to you, it will be hard for one who is rich to enter the Kingdom of heaven. Again I say to you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for one who is rich to enter the Kingdom of God.“

It is not the wealth, the security, the comfort or the luxury – it is the lure of those things, the lure to sin against the most basic of commands: “what the LORD requires of you: Only to do justice and to love goodness, and to walk humbly with your God.”

From time to time, we all need to consider what parts of our life, our possessions, that are candidates for the bonfire of the vanities. Consider what weighs us down on our journey to the Kingdom of God.

A painting by an unknown Florentine master depicting the execution of Fra Girolamo Savonarola, on May 22 1498. Photo: Wikimedia commons.

The Harder Deal?

Posted on August 19, 2026 by Friar Musings

How many times have you heard today’s Gospel of the landowner who went out to hire laborers for his vineyard? Most often we hear it as a contrast between God’s generosity and our sense of fairness. Sometimes it’s the ‘it’s never too late’ homily. Both are good ways into the parable. Then there is the “Five O’Clock Christian” homily with the message to the ones who have labored all day and are thinking, “After everything I’ve done all these years, these johnny-come-latelies get to scoot in at the last minute” The message to the “there from the beginning” folks is all those years of fidelity had meaning. It can be a warning you are turning faith into a scorecard or a timesheet for the accounting department.

Each of Jesus’ parables is meant to draw us into the scene, to associate with one of the characters. You’re here at daily Mass. You take your faith life seriously and have been for some time so I doubt you are “five o’clock” believers. Yet we are more prone to those passing whispers: I’ve been doing this all my life. I’ve sacrificed. I’ve followed the rules. I’ve served the parish. In those moments we are right there with St. Peter when he asked Jesus, “We have given up everything and followed you. What will there be for us?” (Mt 19:27) We are like the early workers who say they have borne “the day’s burden and the heat.”

But underneath their complaint is a question we rarely ask: was being in the vineyard all day really a disadvantage?” Do we believe that spending a lifetime knowing Christ, receiving the Eucharist, experiencing forgiveness, belonging to his people, and having the hope of eternal life was somehow the harder deal? That’s when we need to remind ourselves that it has all been a grace and a privilege to receive: unearned, undeserved, but freely given.

Maybe then we begin to understand what it means to work in the vineyard. The years we have spent following Christ were never wages we earned. They were themselves a gift. The Eucharists we have received, the sins forgiven, the prayers answered, and even the prayers we are still waiting to have answered, the people who have accompanied us in faith, the hope that has carried us through difficult days: all of that, that was the vineyard.

So when the five-o’clock worker finally arrives, perhaps our response should not be, “Why does he get what I get?” Perhaps it should be, “Thank God he finally made it into the vineyard. And thank God I have been here all along.”

And maybe then we will fully embrace an attitude of gratitude for the work and the destiny to which we have been called.

Image credit: Red Vineyards at Arles | Vincent Van Gogh, 1888 | PD from wikiart.org

A metaphor, right?

Posted on August 18, 2026 by Friar Musings

In today’s gospel we have the famous expression: “Amen, I say to you, it will be hard for one who is rich to enter the Kingdom of heaven. Again I say to you, it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for one who is rich to enter the Kingdom of God” It is a continuation of the encounter with the rich young man of yesterday’s gospel. In other form, the expression also appears in the Jewish Talmud and in Qur’an 7:40: “Indeed, those who deny Our verses and are arrogant toward them – the gates of Heaven will not be opened for them, nor will they enter Paradise until a camel enters into the eye of a needle.”

In the Christian context it seems to bluntly say that it is flat-out impossible for rich people to enter the Kingdom of God. Lots of commentaries say that The “Eye of the Needle” was a gate in Jerusalem, which opened after the main gate was closed at night. It was intentionally narrow and low so that travelers could only enter one-by-one and any beast of burden (e.g. the camel) would have to be either lightly loaded or completely unloaded. Hence: “If you wish to be perfect, go, sell what you have and give to the poor.” So – there was a chance for rich people after all!

The interpretation has been put forth since at least the 15th century and possibly as far back as the 9th century. However, there is no archeological or historically reliable evidence for the existence of such a gate. One has to be suspect of the later rising of the explanation – somehow tamping down and tempering Jesus’ words.

Cyril of Alexandria claimed that “camel” is a Greek misspelling and that kamêlos (camel) was written in place of kamilos, meaning “rope” or “cable”. More recently, George Lamsa, in his 1933 translation of the Bible into English from the Syriac, claimed the same based on the Syriac.

Camel, rope, cable – still pretty impossible. But then it is a metaphor. Right? I would suggest we are right back to yesterday’s point: do you possess wisdom about riches and their place in your journey to God? Jesus identified for the rich young man the one possession he could not imagine himself without and he walked away sad. Not angry, not thinking Jesus was unreasonable. For perhaps the first time, the young man knows exactly what stands between him and the freedom he is seeking. And he discovers that, at least for now, he is unwilling to let it go. The young man knows God’s will for him. He just decides that the price is too high.

But no worries. It’s just a metaphor, right?

Image credit: iStock, std license.

The grace of restlessness

Posted on August 17, 2026 by Friar Musings

A young man approached Jesus and said, “Teacher, what good must I do to gain eternal life?” (Mt 19:16) Jesus answered the young man. “When the young man heard [Jesus’] statement, he went away sad…” (v.22) In the online notes , the US Catholic Bishops note that Matthew is not proposing a two-tier Christianity, with ordinary Christians merely keeping the commandments and unusually holy Christians pursuing perfection. Matthew has already commanded all disciples to “be perfect” (5:48). There is a lot more to this gospel than “possessions can get in the way of following Jesus.”

After Jesus recounts the Commandments, after which: “The young man said to him, ‘All of these I have observed. What do I still lack?’” (v.20) That might be the most important sentence of the whole text: “What do I still lack?”

This isn’t the story of a sinner refusing conversion. It is the story of a religious, morally serious person who realizes that being good and being completely free for God are not necessarily the same thing. He senses that something is missing. There is an itch he can’t quite scratch. You’re here at daily Mass. I’d say that puts you in the category of a religious, morally serious person. But is there something nagging at the edge of your consciousness? Perhaps “what do I still lack” is a question for all of us.

Perhaps we are like the young man. We keep the commandments. We know that our spiritual life has not achieved “fullness.” There’s something more. Maybe like the young man we keep asking.

What I love about this gospel is that Jesus takes the young man’s restlessness seriously. The answer to that young man is to dispossess his material wealth. That’s the answer to him. That is what holds him back. But that might not be the source of your restlessness.

Instead, Christ might answer our restlessness differently. Need to surrender some resentment? Still looking for everyone’s approval and recognition? Need to be in control? Need to be more trusting with that part of your life you hold back?

Jesus identified for the rich young man the one possession he could not imagine himself without and he walked away sad. Not angry, not thinking Jesus was unreasonable. For perhaps the first time, the young man knows exactly what stands between him and the freedom he is seeking. And he discovers that, at least for now, he is unwilling to let it go. The young man knows God’s will for him. He just decides that the price is too high.

Sometimes sadness reveals where our deepest attachment lies.

The young man’s question was, “What do I still lack?” Today, I think my question would be: “Lord, what is this restlessness within me trying to tell me? What am I still afraid to place in your hands?”

Be attentive to the grace of restlessness in your life.

Image credit: Heinrich Hofmann | 1888 | Christ and the Rich Young Ruler | Brigham Young University Museum of Art | PD-US

Taking up the cross

Posted on August 7, 2026 by Friar Musings

In today’s gospel when Jesus says: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me. For whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” (Mt 16:24-25) – what did you hear? Because of the way we use the expression in everyday language, I think a tendency to think of “our cross” is to focus on nagging health concerns, local traffic, or difficult coworkers or relatives, and similar events in our lives. Bit of a metaphor.

For Jesus’ first hearers, the cross was not a metaphor at all. It was a horrifying public reality. It represented Roman power at its most brutal: humiliation, shame, and a death reserved primarily for slaves, rebels, and those the empire wanted to make examples of. When Jesus first spoke these words, no one in the crowd would have thought of daily travails, church steeples, or even salvation. They would have imagined a more horrific end. After the Resurrection, Christians saw the cross in an entirely new light: the place where God’s love conquered sin and death.

We are modern people, believing people and these words appear in an ongoing dialogue about discipleship. While suffering can certainly become part of discipleship, that is not what Jesus primarily means. Notice the context. Immediately before this saying, Peter has rebuked Jesus for speaking about his coming suffering and death. Jesus replies: “You are thinking not as God does, but as human beings do.” (Mt 16:23) Only then does he say: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” The cross is not simply something that happens to us. It is something we choose because we are following Christ.

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In the boat

Posted on August 4, 2026 by Friar Musings

In our gospel we find the disciples battling against the tempestuous waves and howling winds. They were caught in a storm that threatened to overwhelm them. Amidst this chaos, they spotted Jesus walking on the water towards them. Filled with awe and faith, Peter cried out, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” Jesus responded, “Come.” And Peter, guided by faith, stepped out of the boat and began walking towards his Lord… and then, perhaps, he realizes he’s not in the boat. As an experienced fisherman he knows the danger of the wind and waves. Fear seizes him and he begins to sink into the chaos. Fortunately, Jesus seizes his hand, pulls him from certain death, and gets him back into the safety of the boat.

Seems as though there was a moment when Peter “lost his faith.” Losing one’s faith. We hear that often. It is a recurring topic of discussion at our Men’s Fellowship meeting. We all know family, friends and people who “lost their faith.” Some of the men at the meeting lost their faith for a while, but came back. Perhaps in the context of today’s gospel we can say they got out of the boat, lost their way for a while, sank in the chaos of life’s storms, but made their way back. Some Jesus picked up by the hand. Some were thrown a lifeline. Some were saved by rescue swimmers and towed back to the gunnels where many hands of the crew lifted them into the boat. What was common was leaving the safety and security of the boat.

Why do people get off the boat? We might be enticed by the siren’s call of fame, fortune, and folly. Perhaps we are swayed by secular ideologies or get carried off by the tide of popular opinions. Lots of reasons people get off the boat.

The thing is when you are off the boat, your bearings are hard to find. Floating in the ocean, even if you’re near land, you might not be able to see it due to distance and wave height – and the energy you’re spending to stay afloat. In the boat you have perspective, charts, a sexton, and all the navigation gear to set a sure and steady course. In the boat, you have an experienced captain and crew with years of wisdom gained from sailing the waters of life. Off the boat there is nothing to anchor you, keep you afloat.

In the oldest Christian catacombs, artwork represents the Church as that boat. We carry that same sense in our churches. Do you know the name of the part of the church where you are sitting? It’s called the nave – from the Latin navis meaning boat. That same artwork displays all the gifts of the Church as working gear and treasures of the Church.

This gospel scene captures a vital spiritual lesson that should resonate deeply with us as it did with our ancestors in the faith. The boat / Church is the vessel that Christ established to navigate the challenges of life’s storms. Just as the disciples were secure in the boat amidst the raging sea, we too are called to find safety, guidance, and nourishment within the embrace of the Church. We need to stay in the boat where there is access to all that we need to sail through this life to life eternal.

Staying in the boat of faith, in union with the Church, signifies remaining anchored to the teachings of Christ, handed on by the Apostles and their successor, forming the teaching and wisdom of the Magisterium. We have our sailing and tidal charts in Sacred Scripture and Tradition. We possess the logs and ship’s reports of the Saints, Spiritual Masters, and the stories of everyday saints, and the Catechism.

And we have the Sacraments for every part of the journey.

Stay in the boat.

Image credit: Jesus and Peter on the water – Gustave Brion, oil, 1880 | Public Domain

Waiting with Quiet Conviction

Posted on July 29, 2026 by Friar Musings

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

Posted on July 24, 2026 by Friar Musings

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

Posted on July 23, 2026 by Friar Musings

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.