Category Archives: Musings

The Lure of Temptation

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St. James speaks today about temptation in a way that is both honest and disarming. He does not begin with dramatic sins or shocking failures. Instead, he speaks about desire; how temptation works from the inside out. “Each person is tempted when he is lured and enticed by his own desire.”

That is important, because many of the temptations that most affect us today are not loud or obvious. They are subtle. They do not look like rebellion. They often look like reasonableness, busyness, or even self-care.

James reminds us first of something consoling: temptation itself is not sin. To be tempted is part of being human. Even Jesus was tempted. The danger comes when we stop paying attention to where our desires are slowly pulling us.

One of the most common modern temptations is distraction. Not deliberate rejection of God, but constant noise. We fill every quiet moment—news, screens, tasks, obligations. Prayer is postponed not because we do not believe, but because there never seems to be time. Faith becomes something we admire rather than something we practice.

Another subtle temptation is comfort. The Gospel asks for sacrifice, forgiveness, patience, and generosity. Comfort whispers that we have already done enough. It encourages a faith that avoids inconvenience—one that stays safely within what feels manageable.

There is also the temptation of self-sufficiency. We trust our competence, our planning, our experience. God becomes someone we consult rather than rely upon. Prayer becomes optional because we believe we already understand how things work.

James warns us not to misunderstand God in the midst of these temptations. “God does not tempt anyone.” God is not the voice pulling us away from faithfulness. God is the one who gives “every good and perfect gift.” The quiet drift away from God never begins with God—it begins when desire is slowly redirected elsewhere.

What makes these temptations dangerous is that they rarely feel like temptation. They feel normal. Sensible. Justified. Over time, though, they shrink our spiritual lives. Faith becomes thinner, less expectant, less demanding—and less joyful.

James offers us hope by reminding us of our identity. God has chosen to give us birth by the word of truth. We are not meant to live half-awake to God. We are meant to be fully alive, fully engaged, fully rooted in the life God offers.

The question for us today is not, “What sins should I avoid?” It is, “Where is my desire being quietly shaped?” Because desire always leads somewhere.

Blessed, James says, is the one who perseveres in temptation—not the one who never struggles, but the one who remains attentive, honest, and open to grace.

In a world full of subtle distractions and gentle compromises, perseverance may look simple: returning to prayer, choosing silence, staying connected to the sacraments, resisting the slow erosion of faith.

And when we do, James assures us, we discover not a demanding God waiting to trap us, but a generous Father who delights in giving life.

Image credit: Photo by Matheus Cenali on Unsplash | CC-0 | Feb 15, 2026

Ash Wednesday and Sundays in Lent

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lent-2-heartlargeAsh Wednesday, the first day of the penitential season of Lent in the Catholic Church, is always 46 days before Easter Sunday. It is a “movable” feast that is assigned a date in the calendar only after the date of Easter Sunday is calculated. How is it calculated? I’m glad you asked.

According to the norms established by the Council of Nicaea (325 AD) and later adopted for Western Christianity at the Synod of Whitby, Easter Sunday falls each year on the first Sunday following the first full moon after the vernal equinox. This year the vernal equinox falls on March 20, 2023 and the first full moon after that occurs on Thursday, April 6th. Therefore, Easter Sunday is celebrated this year on April 9th. If you want to know the date of Ash Wednesday, just count backwards 46 days and you get February 22nd. Continue reading →

Impression or Conversion

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In the gospel Jesus tells the crowd that what truly defiles a person is not what comes from the outside, but what comes from within. What comes out is likely an indicator of the conversion happening within. Take someone’s intentions, attitudes, choices, words – what do they reveal? Holiness? Evil? Either can be rooted in one’s heart.

At the same time Jesus challenges the crowd’s comfortable assumptions about the purity and holiness rituals and laws. They are the external acts that are meant to call people to holiness, to keep them clean and acceptable. But Jesus pushes them beyond that familiarity and says: holiness is not about what goes on outside of you. It is about what is going on inside your heart and are you willing to make that journey of conversion.

The first reading presents a striking image: the Queen of Sheba traveling a great distance to see Solomon. She is drawn by what she has heard: reports of wisdom, order, and blessing. When she arrives, she is overwhelmed. The splendor of the court, the clarity of Solomon’s answers, the abundance of his kingdom and more. Scripture tells us it quite literally takes her breath away. She is impressed. 

But at the core of these readings is the challenge we face to understand the difference between what impresses us vs. what converts us.

What matters most is not that the Queen is impressed, but that she is willing to leave what is familiar in order to seek what is true. She risks the journey. She asks hard questions. And in the end, her admiration leads her beyond Solomon himself to praise the Lord who is at work through him. What begins as amazement becomes recognition of God.

That movement from being impressed to being converted is exactly where Jesus leads us in the Gospel. Our encounter with this life is meant to be transformative.

Let’s be honest, we are easily impressed. We are impressed by appearances, by success, eloquence, beauty, efficiency, even by religious performance. We can be impressed by the look of faith without allowing faith to change our hearts.

Conversion, however, works quietly. It does not always look dramatic. It happens when pride gives way to humility, when resentment gives way to mercy, when self-protection gives way to trust. Conversion shows itself not in what we display, but in what flows out of us. Especially when no one is watching.

External practices are easier to manage. They can be seen, measured, and admired. Interior conversion is harder. It requires honesty. It asks us to confront our intentions, our resentments, our fears, and the ways we protect ourselves.

The danger Jesus points to is subtle but real: we can remain impressed by faith without ever allowing it to change us. We can admire holiness from a safe distance while avoiding the inner work of conversion.

The Queen of Sheba models something different. She does not stay where she is comfortable. She does not rely on secondhand knowledge. She seeks God beyond what is familiar, and because she does, her encounter leads to praise and transformation, not just admiration.

Faith always asks us to move, to travel beyond ease, beyond routine, beyond the exterior practice of religion.   What impresses us may catch our attention. But only what converts us reshapes the heart. 

Image credit: Salomon recevant la reine de Saba |  Jacques Stella, 1650 | Museum of Fine Arts of Lyon, France | PD

Tension as old as Faith

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The readings today place us inside a tension that is as old as faith itself: the tension between tradition and obedience, between familiar worship and a living relationship with God.

In the first reading, Solomon stands before the newly built Temple and prays with remarkable humility. He acknowledges something important: “The heavens cannot contain you; how much less this house I have built.” The Temple is sacred. It is a mark of permanence. Where God once traveled with the Exodus people and was present in the Tent of Meeting. Now God is present to them in Jerusalem Temple. Solomon knows it is not a way to contain God, but it is meant to be a place that draws the people’s hearts back to the covenant. A place where they can listen and then find repentance and mercy.

The Temple is sacred. The danger comes when sacred things become substitutes for conscious and active fidelity.

That danger is exactly what Jesus addresses in the Gospel. The Pharisees are not villains who dislike God. They are deeply religious people, devoted to tradition that they consider sacred in some sense.. But Jesus says something unsettling: it is possible to honor God with the lips while the heart remains far away. When tradition is treated as an end in itself, it can quietly replace the command of God rather than serve it.

The danger comes when traditions are assigned the aura of “sacred.” The Catholics only have one “Sacred Tradition.” The Catechism describes Sacred Tradition as the transmission of the Word of God, which has been entrusted to the Church (CCC 80). Catholics have lots of traditions (with a small “t”). Jesus is not rejecting tradition. He is rescuing the properly understood role of traditions. Traditions are meant to guide us to holiness, remind us of ways to right and true worship.  We might find comfort in tradition, but that is not their purpose. They should lead us into deeper love of God and neighbor, not give us ways to avoid that love.

And this is where the risk of familiar worship enters. When prayer, ritual, and religious language become routine, they can lose their power to challenge us. We know the words. We know the gestures. We know what is expected. But familiarity can dull the sharp edge of the Gospel.

We may still be worshiping, but are we listening?

Solomon’s prayer reminds us that God cannot be contained by buildings, customs, or habits. God desires hearts that are open, teachable, and responsive. Jesus reminds us that faith becomes dangerous when it is used to protect ourselves rather than to convert us.

The question these readings place before us is not whether we are faithful to tradition, but whether tradition is keeping us faithful to God’s command—to love, to forgive, to act justly, to remain humble.

Familiar worship becomes holy again when it leads us back to obedience of the heart.

Image credit: G. Corrigan | Canva | CC-0

Life and Legacy

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Today’s readings invite us to consider what remains of a life once the moment has passed. What kind of legacy is left behind? We are also asked how that legacy is shaped by the way a person listens to their conscience.

Sirach remembers King David with generosity. He does not ignore his sins, but it recalls what ultimately defined him: gratitude, praise, and repentance. David’s life was far from flawless, yet he allowed the Word of God to correct him. When confronted, he did not defend himself endlessly or shift blame. He turned back to God. Because he repented, his story became a source of life for generations: a legacy shaped not by perfection, but by mercy received.

In the Gospel, we see a very different path. Herod’s conscience is not silent; it is restless. He knows John the Baptist is righteous. He listens to him gladly at times. And yet, when truth threatens his image, Herod begins to rationalize. He tells himself that his oath must be kept, that he has no choice. In that moment of misplaced commitment he steps on the path where each explanation protects his reputation but erodes his freedom.

The result is tragic: a prophet is silenced and Herod is left haunted rather than healed. His legacy is not remembered for courage or repentance, but for a moment when fear and pride overruled truth.

The contrast is stark. A conscience that repents remains alive. A conscience that rationalizes slowly hardens. David’s repentance opened the door to mercy; Herod’s explanations closed it. One legacy gives life because it allows God to have the final word. The other is marked by tragedy because it refuses to surrender.

What about us? Any of these moments echo an experience? These readings speak directly to the human experience of daily choices. We may not face dramatic decisions, but we do face moments when conscience speaks quietly. We can listen or we can explain it away with rationalization that sounds reasonable, even religious. Repentance is simpler: “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Today, the Lord invites us to choose the path that leads to life. Not the legacy of being flawless, but the legacy of humility. Not the false security of self-justification, but the freedom of repentance. Because in the end, it is not power or image that shapes a life worth remembering. It is a heart willing to turn back to God.

Image credit: St. John the Baptist Rebuking King Herod | Giovanni Fattori, 1856 | Galleria dell’Accademia, Florence | PD-US

Two Loves

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Today’s readings place before us two parents, two children, and two very different outcomes of love.

In the first reading, we hear David’s cry — raw, unfiltered, and devastating: “O my son Absalom! My son, my son!” This is love stripped of dignity and defense. David’s grief is not only for a dead son, but for a relationship that was broken beyond repair when his son led a revolt against his father and king. Absalom’s life ends in violence and rebellion, and David is left with the agony of knowing that love alone could not save him.

This is the risk and tragedy of love; real, sincere, and yet powerless in the face of human freedom. David loved Absalom deeply, but Absalom chose a path that led to death. Scripture does not soften this moment. It allows grief to be heard in all its weight. It gives us pause to remember the risk and tragedy of the loves in our life, sometimes powerless before freedom.

The Gospel holds up another parent, another child, and another expression of love. Jairus comes to Jesus not as a ruler, but as a father who kneels. His day job is one punctuated by control and force, but his love leads him to surrender and trust. Even when he is told that his daughter has died, Jesus speaks words that change everything: “Do not be afraid; just have faith.”

The story of Jairus and his daughter is a love story that does not end in lament, but in life restored. Jesus takes the child by the hand and gives her back to her family. What King David could not do, bring his child back, Jesus does with the gentle authority of the Good Shepherd.

The contrast is not meant to judge David or glorify Jairus. It reveals something deeper: love alone is not enough unless it is entrusted to God. Love that clings, controls, or acts apart from God can break our hearts. Love that kneels, trusts, and places itself in God’s hands becomes a channel of life.

These readings speak honestly to our own experiences. We know both kinds of love. We have loved and lost, prayed and wept, trusted and waited. Sometimes, like David, we carry grief that will not be undone in this life. And Scripture does not rush us past that pain. But the Gospel insists on this hope: God’s final word is not tragedy, but life. Even when restoration does not come as we expect, Christ enters every loss, every death, and every broken relationship.

From tragic loss to restored life is the path Jesus walks. And he invites us to walk it too, loving deeply, trusting humbly, and believing that no love given to God is ever wasted. We are invited to place before the Lord both our laments and our hopes, trusting that the God who weeps with us is also the God of Life.

Image credit: The Daughter of Jairus (La fille de Zäire) | James Tissot, 1894 | Brooklyn Museum of Art | PD

Into the Quiet

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The Feast of the Presentation is, at first glance, a quiet scene. There is no miracle, no crowd, no proclamation from heaven. Like faithful, observant parents, another young couple brings a child to the Temple, offers the sacrifice of the poor, and blends into the ordinary rhythm of religious life. And yet, in the quiet of this setting, today’s readings tell us that everything depends on what kind of hearts are present in that moment.

In the first reading Malachi asked a piercing question: “Who will endure the day of his coming?” Who will be steadfast? Who will persevere waiting for what has been promised and hoped for, the coming of the Lord? And then the Lord comes to his Temple. Not with spectacle, but with the power to open and purify: “not [to] help angels but rather the descendants of Abraham.” The promised coming of the Lord was always a gift, but it is also a test: not of strength or knowledge, but of openness.

Simeon and Anna show us what open hearts look like. They have waited a lifetime. Simeon has lived with a promise that remained unfulfilled year after year. Anna has spent decades in prayer and fasting, largely unnoticed. Their faithfulness is quiet, patient, and unspectacular. They do not demand that God act on their timetable. They simply remain available with open hearts. And because they wait with open hearts, they recognize what others miss. That the long awaited Messiah arrived not as king or conqueror, but as a child. In that child, no doubt one of many that day, Simeon sees the salvation he has longed for. Waiting has sharpened his vision, not dulled it.

The king or conqueror works and lives at a distance. The Letter to the Hebrews reminds us God does not save from a distance. His only Son shares fully in our flesh and blood, entering weakness, suffering, and time itself. But such divine humility can only be received by hearts that are open and willing to be changed by what God has revealed. A closed heart demands certainty, control, and familiarity. An open heart allows God to arrive in unexpected ways.

The danger, of course, is that waiting can go wrong. It can harden into resignation or indifference as people go through the motions – slowly the heart closes. The Temple was full of people that day yet only a few truly saw. This feast gently asks us: What kind of waiting shapes our faith? Do we wait with expectation, or with guarded hearts? Have we allowed disappointment or fatigue to seal us off from surprise? Is God already present to us but unrecognized?

Simeon’s long faithfulness has taught him trust. He does not cling. He does not demand more signs. He receives, blesses, and lets go. Today we ask for that same grace: hearts that remain open, patient, and receptive; hearts refined in hope not by control. So those who wait with love will recognize the Lord when He arrives into the quiet of our lives.

Image credit: Giotto di Bondone, Presentation of Christ in the Temple | Lower Church in the Basilica of San Francesco, Assisi | PD-US

Short shrift

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It is good to be a life-long learner in all parts of your life. I continue to read theology, scripture and areas that are part of my life as a Franciscan and priest. I keep up on technology because… well there is a part of me that remains a nerd. The same part that reads science blogs and what’s going on in mathematics. I read publications from the US Naval Institute because it is part of my story and my brother friars’ turn to me for expert commentary on all things navy and commercial shipping. And the life long learner in me receives an email each day from the good folks at Merriam Webster.

This week one of the “words of the day” was the expression “short shrift.” I knew the meaning of the word: to give something little or no attention or thought – as in, “My supervisor gave short shrift to my suggestion to improve our group’s work flow and processing.” The usual implication is that something or someone is being improperly ignored or treated lightly, as in a comment that U.S. television coverage of the Olympics overemphasizes Americans and give short shrift to the athletes of other nations.

What I did not know was the origin, the etymology of the expression. “Shrift” is a very old word that originally, back in the 11th century, meant “penance.” It is a noun derivative of the verb “shrive” from Old English “scrifan,” which is from the Latin verb “scribere,” meaning “to write.” “Scrifan” was the verb of choice for use specifically in regard to writing down rules, decrees or sentences, so it took on the special meaning of to impose a sentence. Applied to church vernacular, it meant to assign penance to a penitent in the confessional and to hear confession.

There is a thought that the use of the expression became connected to confession when a prisoner received a sentence of execution. There was generally little time between sentence and the execution and so the condemned person needed to be quick about make their last confession. We see that in the earliest known use.

The earliest known use of the phrase comes from Shakespeare’s play Richard III, in which Lord Hastings, who has been condemned by King Richard to be beheaded, is told by Sir Richard Ratcliffe to “Make a short shrift” as the king “longs to see your head.” Although now archaic, the noun shrift was understood in Shakespeare’s time to refer to the confession or absolution of sins, so “make a short shrift” meant, quite literally, “keep your confession short.”

Who knew? While the good friars at the parish have no desire to “see your head”, as Confessors we are appreciative of a “short shrift.” While we always enjoy a long, involved narrative with tales of the betrayals and conspiracy of others, accounts of “and then they said to me…” and other flourishes and embellishments – those are best told in other settings. But in the celebration of the Sacrament of Reconciliation please give us “short shrift” so as not to delay the mercy and forgiveness of God in your life.

A graced insight

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Last evening in our weekly meeting with folks who want to be received into the Catholic Church (OCIA), the session was on the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Earlier in the course of meetings we had discussed human nature, original sin, grace, the redemptive nature of the Paschal Mystery and more, all leading up to our meeting topic. As part of the session the topic of concupiscence came up.

Concupiscence, as explained in the Catechism of the Catholic Church (CCC), refers to the inclination or tendency of human beings toward sin as a result of original sin – even after the sanctifying grace of the Sacrament of Baptism. It is characterized by a disordered desire for earthly goods and pleasures, which can lead individuals away from God’s will. It is a puzzling thing. Even St. Paul struggles with concupiscence: “What I do, I do not understand. For I do not do what I want, but I do what I hate.” (Romans 7:15)

The CCC explains that concupiscence is a consequence of the fall of Adam and Eve, which introduced sin into the human condition. While humans are created good, the effects of original sin have left a mark on human nature, leading to this inclination toward sin (para. 2515). It is described as strong desire or a disordered affection. In itself it is not sinful, but when it meets with external temptation, two gifts from God are important to resist: reason and grace.

I think St. Paul may be describing this nexus of temptation, concupiscence and grace when he writes: “Three times I begged the Lord about this, that it might leave me, but he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor 12:8-9) In those moments Paul reminds us to rely on the promises of what God has already done for us in the life, death and resurrection of Christ. In part to avoid sin in the moment, but also to gain experience and confidence in God’s grace and so grow in virtue.

This morning as part of the Liturgy of the Hours, there is a reading from a sermon of the 9th century Bishop of Naples, John the Serene (Giovanni d’Acquarola). The focus of his sermon is to love the Lord and always walk in his light. In it he writes: “Though the blindness of concupiscence assails us, again we say: The Lord is my light. For he is our strength; he gives himself to us and we give ourselves to him.” It is John the Serene’s way of telling us in those moment, look to the Light of Christ.

Last evening one of the Catechumens commented that one of the great challenges of the journey of faith is to practice keeping the Lord present in your day, in what you do and say, letting that be what guides you. It was a graced insight carrying the wisdom of St. Paul and John the Serene. May we all be mindful of the gift of God’s grace and allow it to enlighten our day.

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