Category Archives: Musings

Being Prepared

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It is striking how sincere David’s plan is in the first reading. He looks around, sees that he lives in a house of cedar while the Ark of God dwells in a tent, and he decides to do something generous for God. His intention is good. His desire is faithful. And yet God says, in effect, not this — not now.

Instead of accepting David’s plan, God offers David a promise. “The Lord will make you a house.” What David wanted to build with his hands, God intends to build through history. David’s vision is immediate and visible; God’s promise is long, patient, and enduring.

The shift from our plans to God’s promise can be unsettling. We often approach God with concepts of what faithfulness should look like. It is that part of us that wants to be useful, productive, successful. When God redirects us, it can feel like rejection, even when it is actually an invitation — an invitation to trust that God is at work beyond what we can see or control. A moment to let our inner-Martha become Mary.

The Gospel helps us understand why this redirection matters. In the parable of the sower, the seed is good every time, all the time. What changes is the soil. When Jesus describes the soil, He is describing hearts that are distracted, hardened, shallow, or soil/heart that are prepared and open. Fruitfulness depends not just on the good seed, but also on how prepared the soil is to receive it.

This is where the two readings meet. David is asked not to build, but to listen, to receive, and to let God work in God’s own way. His faithfulness at that moment is not action, but openness. It is the root understanding of “obedience” from the Latin “obe audire” – “to listen through.” In other words, David becomes good soil in listening to what God asks of him rather than what David expects of himself.

That is often the challenge of preparing the soil of the heart. It means letting go of control. It means allowing God’s word to challenge our expectations and reshape our desires. It requires patience, because God’s promises unfold slowly. The kingdom grows beneath the surface long before anything is visible.

For us, the question is not simply, “What am I doing for God?” but “What is God trying to do in me?” The temptation is to measure faith by activity. Jesus invites us to measure it by receptivity.

When the soil is ready, fruit comes; sometimes thirty, sixty, or a hundredfold. But that fruit is God’s work, not ours. Our task is quieter and harder: to listen, to trust, and to allow God’s promise to take root in us.

We have our own plans and expectations, but are we listening and trying to discern what God is trying to do within each of us? When we can discern that we might just discover that God is building something far greater than we ever imagined with, through and in our lives.

Image credit: Detail of “Sower Went Out to Sow” | Irish Dominican Photography | Brasov, Romania | CC-BY

Being Family

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In the first reading, great care is taken to describe the moment when the Ark of the Covenant is brought into Jerusalem. This is not simply a religious procession; it is a profound statement of faith. The Ark represents the dwelling place of God among the people. Where the Ark is, God is near. David dances, sacrifices are offered, and blessings are shared because God who has journeyed with the people since the time of the Exodus, continues to dwell with Israel and now in the holy city of Jerusalem.

Yet even here, something important is already beginning to shift. The Ark is not a talisman, charm, or amulet with magical powers. It does not guarantee blessing by its mere presence. What matters is how the people respond. Will they respond like King David with reverence, joy, obedience, and trust? David’s relationship with God is revealed not by possession of the Ark, but by his willingness to place God at the center of Israel’s life.

In the Gospel, Jesus completes this movement in a startling way. When told that his mother and relatives are waiting outside Jesus takes the moment and redefines what it means to a member of his family. “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.” He is not rejecting his biological relationships, but pointing to something that is intentional and will endure beyond this lifetime.

With these words, Jesus moves us from a sacred object to a sacred community. God’s dwelling place is no longer an ark carried on poles, nor a tent or a temple. God now dwells in a people shaped by obedience to his will. The presence of God is revealed wherever lives are aligned with the Father’s purpose.

This is also where Jesus reshapes kinship. Belonging to God is not determined by bloodline, religious proximity, or external markers. True kinship is formed by obedience. It is formed by listening, trusting, and living according to God’s word. Mary herself is not excluded by this definition; she is its first and finest example. She belongs to Jesus not only because she bore him, but because she said, “Let it be done to me according to your word.”

These readings quietly challenge us. It asks us to examine our own religious thinking and practice. The Catholic Church has an amazing treasure of rituals, traditions and things sacred. Have we let our focus fall on those things in such a way that we remain distant from the heart of God? It is possible to honor holy places, rituals, and symbols — all good and necessary — without allowing them to shape how we live.

Jesus invites us deeper. He invites us to become a community where God truly dwells, not because we gather around holy objects, but because we choose obedience, day by day. When we forgive, when we act justly, when we place God’s will above our own preferences, we become the living dwelling place of God.

Like David, we are called to rejoice in God’s nearness. Like the disciples, we are called to hear Jesus say that we belong, not because of who we are connected to, but because we choose to do the will of the Father.

In that obedience, we discover something astonishing: we are not just servants of God. We are family.

Image credit: Pexels | Arina Krasnikova | CC-0 

The Unforgivable Sin

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Appearing in today’s gospel is a passage that is sure to lead to questions: “Amen, I say to you, all sins and all blasphemies that people utter will be forgiven them. But whoever blasphemes against the holy Spirit will never have forgiveness, but is guilty of an everlasting sin.” (Mark 3: 28-29)  It is a question I am regularly asked. Sometimes out of curiosity; sometimes out of concern for their souls. Perhaps beneath the question is seeking assurance they are not somehow guilty of a sin that is unforgivable. My first response to the question is the very fact that they are worried and essentially asking“Have I done this?” is itself a strong sign that they have not. But let’s explore the question.

First of all one has to discern the context of the words. In Mark 3, Jesus speaks of “blaspheming the Holy Spirit” in response to a very specific situation. The scribes are witnesses of undeniable acts of healing and liberation, they recognize that something extraordinary is happening, and yet deliberately claim that this work of God comes from Satan. It is one thing to wonder about who is this person able to do the works of God. That would be the spirit of inquiry even if accompanied with a measure of confusion or doubt. But that’s not what they do. They willfully misname God’s saving work. They have closed their hearts to the Spirit of God – for what? To protect power, status, and control? Jesus’ warning arises from this hardened posture.

It is important to clear away common fears, misconceptions, and poor catechesis. Blaspheming the Holy Spirit is not a sudden angry thought, a careless word spoken in frustration, a season of doubt or questioning, falling into serious sin, feeling distant from God, or even rejecting God for a time and later returning. Think about it. Peter denied Jesus, Paul persecuted the Church, David committed grave sin and all were forgiven.

Across Scripture, the Fathers, and the Catechism, there is remarkable consistency. Blaspheming the Holy Spirit is a settled, persistent refusal to accept God’s mercy by rejecting the Spirit who offers it. St. Augustine put it this way: “The sin is unforgivable because it refuses forgiveness.” The Catechism (CCC 1864) says: “There are no limits to the mercy of God, but anyone who deliberately refuses to accept his mercy by repentance rejects the forgiveness of sins.”

In other words, the Holy Spirit’s role is to convict the heart, reveal truth, move us toward repentance, and open us to grace. To blaspheme the Spirit is to shut the door from the inside.

The heart of the issue is why is it called “unforgivable?” It is not that God refuses to forgive. It is that the person refuses to be forgiven. Forgiveness requires recognition of sin, openness to grace, and willingness to be changed. Blaspheming the Holy Spirit is the deliberate choice to say: “I do not need mercy,” “I will decide what is good and evil,” “God is wrong; I am right.” As long as that stance remains, forgiveness cannot take root not because grace is absent, but because it is rejected.

One thing that always needs to be said pastorally and clearly in order to give the person reassurance is that anyone who is worried about having committed this sin has not committed it. Why? Because fear, sorrow, regret, and concern for reconciliation are movements of the Holy Spirit, not signs of blasphemy. The unforgivable sin is marked by certainty, not anxiety; self-justification, not repentance; hardness, not fear; and indifference, not longing. A closed heart does not ask for reassurance.

Jesus is not trying to terrify fragile consciences. He is warning hardened ones. He is saying be careful not to explain away grace, to label God’s work as threatening or to protect yourself so fiercely that you refuse to be converted. This warning is itself an act of mercy. It is a final attempt to shake open a heart that is closing.

The last word is always this. As long as a person can still say, “Lord, have mercy,” then mercy is already at work. God’s forgiveness is inexhaustible. The only real danger is refusing or denying it.

And so when parishioners ask, “Have I done this?” My answer is “No. The very fact that you’re asking means the Spirit is still speaking, and your heart is still open. But tell me more.” That last part of the response very often leads to the grace of the Sacrament of Reconciliation.

Life with an Open Heart

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One of the most subtle spiritual dangers is not outright rejection of God, but the slow closing of the heart, intentionally or not, in what amounts to some form of self-protection.

In his letter to Timothy, Paul writes with urgency and tenderness. He knows how easily fear can cause a believer to retreat from the fullness of gospel living. Perhaps we pull back on ministry or sharing our faith in parts of our lives where we might be judged or dismissed. That is why he reminds Timothy that God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and self-control. We know the experience of being in love, how it opens our hearts. We know the experience of fear when we close in and begin to shield or protect some part of ourselves. Perhaps it is to protect our reputation, our safety, our comfort, or our standing in the community. Faith quietly loses its courage.

The Gospel shows what happens when self-protection hardens into resistance. The scribes are confronted with undeniable evidence of God’s power at work in Jesus. Rather than allowing the truth to challenge them, they reinterpret it in a way that preserves their authority. They choose explanation over conversion. In doing so, they close themselves off from the very grace meant to heal them.

Jesus’ warning about blaspheming the Holy Spirit is not about a single careless word. Let me suggest it is about a settled refusal to recognize God’s work when it stands plainly before us. A closed heart no longer seeks truth; it seeks justification. Once that happens, repentance becomes impossible not because God withholds mercy, but because the heart will no longer receive it. Paul tells us “and hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out into our hearts through the holy Spirit that has been given to us.” (Romans 5:5) We have closed off our hearts and refused entry to the Holy Spirit.

Paul offers a different path. From prison, stripped of security and status, he refuses self-protection. He entrusts himself to God and encourages Timothy to do the same. His confidence does not come from being safe, but from being faithful. The truth of the Gospel is worth the cost, even when it leads to suffering.

You might think, “I don’t think I have a closed heart.” A closed heart often begins as a cautious heart, a heart that wants to avoid risk. Where are we cautious? Where might we be choosing comfort over truth, silence over witness, control over trust?

The Gospel does not grow in protected spaces.  It grows where people are willing to be changed.

Today we are invited to pray for hearts that remain open; open enough to be challenged, open enough to repent, open enough to trust that God’s Spirit is at work even when it unsettles us. Because truth received brings life, but truth resisted for the sake of self-protection slowly shuts the door to grace.

May the Lord keep our hearts open, courageous, and free. May our hearts not be governed by fear, but shaped by the Spirit who leads us into all truth. The Spirit that is poured into our hearts.

Image credit: Canva, St. Francis Parish, CC-0

Faith and Fear

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In its history the Church has known fear. The empire wide persecutions during the first 300 years. There have been persecutions in Japan, Mexico, France, China and more. In our history, the faithful have had reasons to fear. These are the obvious and loud dangers. But there are also quiet dangers in the life of faith: fear that keeps us from acting.

In the first reading, Israel’s army has been paralyzed for forty days. They are armed, trained, numerous, and yet they do nothing. Goliath’s size and strength dominate their imagination. Fear has convinced them that the situation is impossible.

David sees the same giant, but he sees him differently. David remembers something the others have forgotten: what God has already done for Israel throughout history and what God has done for David. He recalls how the Lord saved him from the lion and the bear. His confidence does not come from denying danger, but from trusting God’s faithfulness in the past and trusting that same faithfulness in the days to come.

David refuses Saul’s armor. Some suggest that it would restrict the throwing notion needed for use of the sling. But David knows that the armor represents a false security; protection without trust. David steps forward with only what he knows, a sling and five stones, and with a conviction: “The Lord who saved me… will save me again.” There is still risk. Goliath is a formidable opponent. Faith does not eliminate risk; it chooses trust over paralysis.

In the Gospel, we encounter a different kind of fear. The Pharisees watch Jesus closely. Israel and Jerusalem have a history of rallying behind one “messiah” after another. In the end the Roman armies quell the commotion, people die, and it is up to the religious leadership to calm things down and assure the Romans they have it under control. They also know the dangers of laxity and corruption of the worship demanded of Israel. They know the privileges and take comfort in control, authority and certainty.

The Pharisees are afraid of what might happen if Jesus acts. So instead of rejoicing in the possibility of healing, they remain silent.

Jesus brings the contrast into sharp focus with a simple question: “Is it lawful to do good on the sabbath or to do evil, to save life or to destroy it?” Their silence reveals how fear can disguise itself as caution, even as fidelity. Jesus chooses to act and heals the man with the withered hand, knowing it will provoke hostility. Faith, for Jesus, means trusting the Father enough to do good even when the consequences are costly.

Both readings confront us with the same choice.

Fear tells us to wait, to protect ourselves, to avoid risk. Faith tells us to remember who God is and to act accordingly. Fear focuses on what might go wrong; faith trusts that God will be present no matter the outcome.

In our own lives, fear often sounds reasonable. It urges delay, silence, and caution. But faith asks a different question: What does love require right now?

Trust in God does not mean being reckless. It means refusing to let fear have the final word. It means stepping forward sometimes with nothing more than what we already have and believing that God will do the rest.

Today’s readings invite us to examine where fear has frozen us and where God may be calling us to act. Not because we are strong, but because God is faithful.

Like David, we are asked to trust not in armor, but in the Lord. Like Jesus, we are asked to choose life, even when we are being watched.

Because faith that acts, even imperfectly, is far more powerful than fear that never moves.

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Intersections

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Old garments and old wineskins represent the established religious practices, traditions, and structures of Judaism at the time, particularly those associated with the Pharisees and their legalistic interpretations of the Law. New cloth and new wine symbolize Jesus’ ministry, His teachings, and the Kingdom of God. This new way of life emphasized grace, faith, and a renewed covenant relationship with God rather than strict adherence to rituals and traditions.

Just as an unshrunk cloth will tear an old garment and new wine will burst old wineskins, the message and life Jesus brings require a transformation. Trying to merge the old and the new will lead to conflict and possibly destruction given the inherent nature of the old and new.

Jesus is inviting people into a renewed relationship with God that goes beyond the limitations of the old covenant. The “new wineskins” symbolize the need for hearts and lives to be transformed and made ready to receive the dynamic, expanding reality of God’s Kingdom.

What will the next three years bring with our president, Senate and Congress, mid-year elections, tariffs, armed conflict, wars, rumors of war… and the list goes on. Is this new wine trying to be poured into old wineskins? Old wine into new wineskins? Will things come apart at the seams? Who knows? Time will tell if the next four years are transformative.

On this day I wonder about the old and the new as I recall Dr. Martin Luther King’s Letter from the Birmingham Jail where he writes: “…. In the midst of a mighty struggle to rid our nation of racial and economic injustice, I have heard many ministers say: “Those are social issues, with which the gospel has no real concern.” And I have watched many churches commit themselves to a completely other worldly religion which makes a strange, un-Biblical distinction between body and soul, between the sacred and the secular.” These words were written 62 years ago. Are they “old” or “new” wine? Do they have transformative power?

Dr. King went on to wonder with deep disappointment at the laxity of the churches to respond to the injustices in the world. He wrote:

“There was a time when the church was very powerful – in the time when the early Christians rejoiced at being deemed worthy to suffer for what they believed. In those days the church was not merely a thermometer that recorded the ideas and principles of popular opinion; it was a thermostat that transformed the mores of society. Whenever the early Christians entered a town, the people in power became disturbed and immediately sought to convict the Christians for being “disturbers of the peace” and “outside agitators.”’ But the Christians pressed on, in the conviction that they were “a colony of heaven,” called to obey God rather than man. Small in number, they were big in commitment. They were too God-intoxicated to be “astronomically intimidated.” By their effort and example, they brought an end to such ancient evils as infanticide and gladiatorial contests. Things are different now. So often the contemporary church is a weak, ineffectual voice with an uncertain sound. So often it is an arch defender of the status quo. Far from being disturbed by the presence of the church, the power structure of the average community is consoled by the church’s silent–and often even vocal–sanction of things as they are.”

These are some who proclaim that as a nation we are at an intersection of rights, freedom, rule of law, and even the foundation of the Constitution.  But you know….as Church and as believers we are always at that intersection, year in and year out. We are not called to be thermometers that simply reflect the temperature of civil society. We are always called to be the thermostat that transforms the mores of society to model the teaching of Jesus and the Kingdom of God. Democrats and Republicans come and go. Opinions rise and fall. Dr. King knew that even 2000 years later, the words of Jesus are ever “new wine” – everlasting words.

In the days, weeks, months and years to come lots of words will come from our civic leaders. Surely, they will be different words, but test these words against the Word of God lest we and the Church become thermometers that only reflect the ebb and flow of secular power.

Image credit: Pexels | Photo by Tom Fisk | CC-0 | https://www.pexels.com/photo/bird-s-eye-view-of-roadway-during-evening-1692694/

Control vs. Trust

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One of the enduring tensions in the life of faith is the tension between control and trust.

In the first reading, the elders of Israel come to Samuel with what sounds like a reasonable request: “Appoint a king for us to govern us, like all the nations to judge us.” They want stability, predictability, and protection. Their request is not irrational. Samuel himself is aging, and his sons have failed. The future is not looking so good. But God’s response reveals what lies beneath the request: “They have rejected me as their king.”

Israel is not simply asking for leadership; they are asking for control. I think that is something we can all relate to. We want something visible, centralized, and predictable. They want a system they can manage, even if it comes at a cost. Samuel patiently warns them of that cost: a king will take their sons, their daughters, their land, their labor. Control always demands payment. And still, the people insist.

Be careful what you wish for.

In the Gospel, we encounter a very different posture. The paralytic’s friends bring him to Jesus, but they cannot control the situation. The house is crowded. The path is blocked. There is no obvious solution. Yet instead of forcing outcomes, they trust. But notice it is not passively waiting in trust. They take some creative action as they continue to trust. They open the roof (Luke’s description is a little more vivid: they dig up the roof). With the passage cleared, they lower their friend into Jesus’ presence. At that point, they relinquish control, but not hope.

Jesus responds first not with a command to walk, but with words of forgiveness. This unsettles the scribes, who are deeply invested in controlling how forgiveness is mediated and who is authorized to offer it. Their objection sounds theological, but it is rooted in fear of losing control of their religious authority and status. Jesus exposes the contrast by asking: “Which is easier?” The real issue is do they trust that God is acting freely among them, or must everything remain contained within familiar structures?

The irony is striking. Israel asks for a king who will take from them, and God reluctantly allows it. A paralyzed man is brought to Jesus who gives everything: forgiveness, healing, restoration. Jesus asks nothing in return.

And what about us? These readings invite us to look honestly at our own lives. We, too, are tempted to trade trust for control. We want certainty before commitment, guarantees before obedience, clarity before faith. We prefer plans we can manage over dependence that leaves us vulnerable. It is a very human and natural inclination.

But the trust we are speaking about is very divine and supernatural. We know from our own experience that control offers only the illusion of safety and leaves us closed.  The harder thing is trust but the upside is that trust opens us up to God’s grace.

The friends of the paralytic do not control the outcome.  Heck they don’t even speak. But their trust speaks volumes and creates an opening where healing can happen. Israel, on the other hand, insists on control and receives exactly what they asked for, along with its burden.

The question these readings pose to us is simple and searching: where are we clinging to control when God is inviting us to trust?

God’s reign is never imposed through force or fear. It is proposed and received through faith. The kind of faith willing to open roofs, let go of certainty, and place what we cannot fix into God’s hands.

And when we do, we often discover that what God gives is far more freeing than anything we tried to control.

Jesus heals a paralytic | mosaic from Sant’Apollinare Nuovo – Ravenna | photo by José Luiz Bernardes Ribeiro | CC BY-SA 4.0

Something New

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One of the quiet truths of Scripture is that God often begins something new not at moments of obvious strength, but at moments that feel empty, unproductive, or closed off.

Today’s first reading places us with Hannah, a woman living with a deep and painful barrenness. Her suffering is not only physical; it touches her identity, her place in the family, and her sense of blessing. Even her husband’s sincere affection cannot heal the wound. His question “Am I not more to you than ten sons?” reveals love, but also a misunderstanding of how deep her sorrow runs.

Hannah’s barrenness is more than a private tragedy. It mirrors the state of Israel at the end of the time of the Judges. The people are struggling to produce faithful leadership, uncertain of their future. Nothing seems to be coming forth.

And yet, it is precisely here that God is at work.

In the Gospel, Mark tells us that Jesus begins his proclamation after John has been arrested. What looks like a failure, even a silencing of God’s voice, becomes the moment when something new begins. Jesus steps forward and announces, “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand.”

Both readings remind us that God does not wait for ideal conditions.

Hannah cannot fix her situation. The fishermen are not searching for a new mission; they are tending nets, repeating familiar routines. In both cases, God’s initiative breaks into places that are part of life: grief, routine, limitation and more.

That is often where we find ourselves as well. There are seasons when our prayer feels dry, our efforts seem unfruitful, our work repetitive. We may experience forms of barrenness in relationships, in ministry, in health, or in hope itself.

Scripture does not deny those experiences. It names them. But it also insists that barrenness is not the end of the story.

God’s new chapters do not begin with control, but with availability. Hannah’s sorrow will eventually become a prayer. The fishermen’s ordinary day becomes a calling. None of them yet know the outcome; they only know the moment they are in.

And this is perhaps the word we need to hear: God does not require us to manufacture fruitfulness. He asks us to remain present, faithful, and open even when nothing seems to be happening.

When Jesus says, “Follow me,” he does not explain where the path will lead. When God begins to work in Hannah’s life, she cannot yet see how her pain will be transformed. But in both cases, something new begins precisely where human resources run out.

In these readings we are invited not to fear our barren places, but to bring them honestly before God. The places that feel like “same stuff, different day” may be the very places where God is preparing to act.

Because in the economy of grace, barrenness is often not a dead end. It is a beginning.

Image credit: Domenico Ghirlandaio | Calling the Apostles | 1481 | Sistine Chapel, Vatican | PD-US

Discerning the Light

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In today’s Gospel, Matthew deliberately situates the beginning of Jesus’ public ministry in a very particular place: “The land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali… Galilee of the Gentiles.” This is not just geography. There is a meaning: Galilee was not Jerusalem. It was distant from the Temple, religiously mixed, politically suspect, and culturally porous. It lay along trade routes on“the way to the sea” where ideas, goods, and beliefs constantly crossed paths. For many in Judea, Galilee represented religious compromise and spiritual danger. And yet, Matthew tells us, this is precisely where the light appears.

Isaiah’s prophecy is fulfilled not in the center of religious certainty, but on the margins among those who “sat in darkness,” among people accustomed to sorting truth from error, faith from superstition, hope from disappointment. Jesus does not wait for people to come to the light; he enters the shadows and shines there. And that context matters when we hear the first line of Jesus’ preaching: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”

Repentance is an invitation to reorient oneself toward the light and turn away from whatever false illuminations have been guiding one’s steps.

That brings us naturally to the First Letter of John, which offers a sober warning to precisely the kind of community living in a “Galilee of the Gentiles” world: “…do not trust every spirit, but test the spirits to see whether they belong to God.” John is writing to believers who are not persecuted from outside so much as confused from within. False teachers claim inspiration, insight, even spiritual authority. Not every voice that speaks confidently speaks from God. Not every enthusiasm is born of the Spirit. Notice John’s test is not mystical or emotional. It is profoundly Christological and practical. Does this spirit confess Jesus Christ come in the flesh? Does it lead to obedience, love, and fidelity to what has been handed on? In other words, does this spirit draw us into the light — or does it merely glitter in the dark?

This is where the two readings meet. Light clarifies, but it also exposes. The Light of Christ reveals competing claims, rival voices, and false paths. In our day we live amid many spirits coming from many directions. Think about all the self-help books, podcasts, social media and more – they are a modern form of “spirits” but are they of Christ. 

But even in the life of everyday practicing Catholics. Our faith has the same stream of advice from books, videos, social media, podcasts and more. People ask me about the sources all the time. Some are amazing and help shine the light of Christ onto the path we are walking. Others, well… It seems to me they broadcast a spirit of fear masquerading as prudence, anger disguised as righteousness, or their view presented as authenticity. Intense and loud do not equate to truth or authority. Neither does novelty offer genuine insight. Discernment is needed

John reminds us that discernment is not optional. It is a daily discipline of faith. And Matthew shows us that discernment begins by staying close to Jesus, the Light Himself, who teaches, heals, and proclaims the Kingdom not from a distance, but by walking among the people right there in the messiness of life. Jesus entered the ordinary and human in order to redeem it.

What’s the good word: remain in the light, but do not be naïve. Be open to the Spirit, but not uncritical. Follow Jesus into Galilee that is a real and complex life. Test what you hear. Does it speak with the Church? True light does not confuse or divide. It lights the way to peace in Christ.

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