Category Archives: Musings

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

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.

Image credit: Pexels, CC-0