Category Archives: Musings

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.

Image credit: Pexels, CC-0

The Fear of Herod Versus the Faith of Mary

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Reflections on Matthew 2:13-23
Alyce M. McKenzie

In her book Amazing Grace: a Vocabulary of Faith, contemporary Christian author Kathleen Norris contrasts the fear of Herod with the faith of Mary and Joseph.

Everything Herod does, he does out of fear. Fear can be a useful defense mechanism, but when a person is always on the defensive, like Herod, it becomes debilitating and self-defeating. To me, Herod symbolizes the terrible destruction that fearful people can leave in their wake if their fear is unacknowledged, if they have power but can only use it in furtive, pathetic, and futile attempts at self-preservation (Norris, 225).

The tradition of Herod’s “slaughter of the innocents” (Mt. 2:16-18), offers an account of the tragic consequences of such defensive, self-preserving, paranoid fear. This brand of insecurity never leads to anything good. Ironically it most often backfires, shrinking rather than enhancing the one who fears. Herod is a case study that proves the truth of the first half of Proverbs 29:25: “The fear of others lays a snare, but the one who trusts in God rests secure.”

In the process of fearing others, sadly, the one who fears seeks to douse the light of other lives and often appears to succeed. We could make a long list of the sufferings inflicted on others by those who in the past and today are both powerful and paranoid. We hold to the faith that such fear cannot douse the light of the world we celebrate at Christmas. This passage forces us to stay real—paranoid insecurity is a persistent force.

Norris points out that Herod’s fear is the epitome of what Jung calls “the shadow.” Herod demonstrates where such fear can lead when it does not come to light but remains in the dark depths of the unconscious. Ironically, Herod appears in the Christian liturgical year when the gospel is read on the Epiphany, a feast of light (Norris, 226).

Norris tells of preaching about Herod on Epiphany Sunday in a small country church in a poor area of the Hawaiian Island of Oahu. It was an area of the island that tourists were warned to stay away from, an area where those who served the tourist industry as maids and tour bus drivers could afford to live. The church had much to fear: alcoholism, drug addiction, rising property costs, and crime. The residents came to church for hope.

In her sermon Norris pointed out that the sages who traveled so far to find Jesus were drawn to him as a sign of hope. This church, Norris told her congregation, is a sign of hope for the community. Its programs, its thrift store have become important community centers, signs of hope. The church represented, said Norris, “a lessening of fear’s shadowy power, an increase in the available light.” She continued to say that that’s what Christ’s coming celebrates: his light shed abroad into our lives. She ended her sermon by encouraging the congregation, like the ancient wise men, not return to Herod but find another way. She encouraged them to “leave Herod in his palace, surrounded by flatterers, all alone with his fear” (Norris, 226).

There is the fear of Herod and there is the fear of the Lord exemplified by Mary and Joseph which, we are promised, is the beginning of knowledge and wisdom (Pr. 1:7). When we open our doors, even just a crack, to allow the fear of the Lord to enter in, we have taken the first step in a lifelong process of exchanging the fear of Herod for the faith of Mary and Joseph.

The fear of the Lord is the Bible’s code word for a full-bodied faith that includes trembling before the mystery of a Transcendent God and trusting in the tenderness and faithfulness of an imminent God. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of our being able to say, with Mary, “Here am I, a servant of the Lord. Let it be to me according to your word” (Lk. 1:38). It is the source of Joseph’s wordless obedience (Mt. 1:24) and Jesus’ words from the cross in Luke: “Into thy hands I commit my spirit” (Lk. 23:46). The fear of the Lord opens us to the comfort and stamina God offers even in times of undeserved and profound suffering. The fear of the Lord is the impulse that shuts our self-righteous lips when we look upon the suffering or mistakes of others. It impels us, rather than to retreat in cold judgment, to reach out with comforting, capable hearts and hands.

When we put aside our paranoid, self-centered fears and embrace the fear of the Lord, we face the reality of an unknown future with the good news that we are accompanied by a God who never abandons us. The shadows of fear are illuminated by the light—Immanuel, God with us!

Image credit: Stained glass window, Sts. Joseph & Paul Catholic Church, Owensboro KY | PD

The Costs of Christmas

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Yesterday the Church sang of angels, shepherds, light, and joy. Quite jarringly, today we are shown stones, hatred, and death. On the very day after Christmas, the Church places before us St. Stephen, the first martyr. This is not accidental. It is profoundly intentional. Because Christmas is not only about a child in a manger; it is about a life that will be given, and about what happens when that life truly takes root in human hearts.

In the first reading from the Acts of the Apostles, Stephen stands before the Sanhedrin, accused, threatened, misunderstood. Yet we are told: “Stephen, filled with the Holy Spirit, looked up intently to heaven and saw the glory of God and Jesus standing at the right hand of God” (Acts 7:55).

Stephen does not defend himself. He does not bargain. He does not save his life by silence. Instead, he remains faithful to what God has revealed, even when that fidelity leads directly to his death. This is obedience of faith in its most costly form: trusting God not only when obedience brings blessing, but when it brings suffering.

The story of Stephen’s martyrdom is a lesson in seeing what others cannot see. While his accusers see a blasphemer, Stephen sees heaven opened. While stones are raised against him, Stephen entrusts his spirit to Christ: “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.” (Acts 7:59) And like his Master, he prays: “Lord, do not hold this sin against them.” (Acts 7:60)

Stephen’s death mirrors Christ’s death, because the obedience of faith always conforms us to Jesus.

But why the day after Christmas? I think the Church places the Feast of St. Stephen immediately after Christmas teaches us a hard but necessary truth: if Christmas is real, it will change how we live and it may cost us something. Christmas proclaims that God has entered the world. St. Stephen shows us what happens when that truth is lived without compromise:

Love becomes dangerous.
Truth becomes costly.
Faith becomes visible.

The Gospel becomes a warning as Jesus tells His disciples: “You will be hated by all because of my name, but whoever endures to the end will be saved.” (Mt 10:22) Stephen is the first to prove that these words are not symbolic. The obedience of faith does not promise safety. It promises Christ’s presence.

I suspect most of us are challenged by Stephen’s obedience of faith and our own. Most of us will not face stones or martyrdom. But this feast day celebration invites us to examine the quieter ways we resist obedience to the faith:

When faith costs social approval
When truth creates tension
When forgiveness feels unjust
When fidelity requires sacrifice

Stephen teaches us that obedience of faith is not about heroic gestures but rather it is about faithfulness to Christ, even when the outcome is uncertain or painful.

The world sees Stephen’s death as a failure. The Church sees it as a birth. Stephen dies while heaven stands open. The child born yesterday is already reigning. And one of those who watches Stephen die will one day become St. Paul, apostle to the nations. The obedience of faith may look like loss in the moment, but God never wastes it.

On this day after Christmas, the Church reminds us that the manger leads to the cross. The cross leads to glory. And no matter the cost, obedience of faith leads to life.

Image credit: The Stoning of Stephen | Rembrandt, 1625 | Musée des Beaux-Arts de Lyon | PD-US

Joy in the days after

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 “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice! The Lord is near.”  Such were the words on the Third Sunday of Advent, Gaudete Sunday.  Perhaps we should rephrase the words: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice! The Lord is here.”  All of Advent we have been waiting and praying for the coming joy of Christmas. On this night the angels proclaim the message of “good news of great joy;” for unto us has born a child, Emmanuel, who is Christ, Lord and Savior. This good news of great joy is for all the people of God. 

The Church’s liturgical seasons of Advent, Christmas and Ordinary Time are shaped to lead us to the experience of joy. In a way it matches a pattern of life of which we are intuitively aware because we are people that live among patterns shaping our lives. It might be simply described simply as three “seasons” similar to the Church’s liturgical seasons. The first season is “Preparation” for an event. It is a season which carries along with it a sense of anticipation. Next comes the “day” itself, when anticipation is realized in an occasion of great joy. And then comes the time after the event and that season where we move on into life but we want to hold on to the joy of the day. Like Christmas: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice! The Lord is [here].” 

The joy of Christmas is here; all around us, before, behind us, surrounding us.  How do we appropriate it? How do we grab some and put it in our pocket for later? How can we bottle it? How can we capture the joy which pervades this night. And once we have it, keep it safe, and share the joy?

There are lots of events in our life that have that same pattern of anticipation, preparation, and finally the day comes:

  • Your first day of high school
  • Moving into the dorm at college
  • Your first job after college
  • Getting married
  • Your first home
  • Your first child (…second child and more until you have at least four and then you can have your own swimming relay team!)
  • Your children’s first day of school, high school, college… and so the cycle continues.

Parents and grandparents look back and remember the joy.

As a community of faith we have anticipated and prepared for this evening – and here we are at Christmas. Not just us and not just now – but every year. And it has been this way since before the time of Jesus. The Prophet Isaiah, more than 2,500 years ago, looked forward to this day of “abundant joy and great rejoicing” when he prophesied:“For a child is born to us, a son is given us; upon his shoulder dominion rests. They name him Wonder-Counselor, God-Hero, Father-Forever, Prince of Peace.”  And the people of God waited and anticipated – through the days and nights, joys and sorrows, and all that makes up the cauldron of this life. They had faith that the day would come.

And then, out of the dark night sky, there shown above shepherds in the fields, the glory of the Lord and angels who proclaimed good news of great joy: “For today in the city of David a savior has been born for you who is Christ and Lord.”  And then the heaven exploded in an angelic chorus.

Think of the anticipation those shepherds felt as they hurried into Bethlehem to witness what the angels proclaimed. Think of the anticipation of Mary and Joseph. The joy of the world focused on a manger is a backwater town of Bethlehem.

Be it on the grand scale of the history of Redemption, the celebration of one year’s Christmas, or so many events of our life – there is the pattern of anticipation all pointing towards “the day”- be it Christmas, the first day of college, your wedding day, and so much more.

And comes the day after Christmas, the second day of college, the end of the honeymoon and the start of building a life together.

Here at Christmas we are again asked to recall the words of St. Paul to Titus: “The grace of God has appeared, saving all and training us to reject godless ways and worldly desires and to live temperately, justly, and devoutly in this age.” And to carry those words and these memories into the cauldron of life, to face the next day. Likewise, to recall: 

  • Your first day of college – to remember what you hoped to achieve and to renew your efforts toward that goal. 
  • Your wedding day – to remember the covenant vows you exchanged and go back to the work of building a life together in love.  
  • The moment you child your child in your arms – all the promises you made – and to again strive to make those promises come true.

And Christmas – to remember the warm glow of this evening, the close comfort of friends and family, the good cheer, and to recall a Savior has been born to us, saving all, and asking us to be Christ for others. To renew our covenant with God in this Eucharist with our “Amen”, and then to go into the world to strive to make the promises of Christ come true for yourself, your loved ones, for friends, and for those you will meet in the days and years to come. 

With all the anticipation comes the day, and with the day, comes the day after. We are people of the day after but recall this day in memory and rejoicing, for to us a Savior has been born!

Merry Christmas.

The Days of Promise

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I hope you have been following the readings here during the final week of Advent. These have been the gospel readings:

  • Friday: the “annunciation” of the birth of Zechariah, the father of John the Baptist
  • Saturday: the Annunciation to the Blessed Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus
  • Sunday: the story of Joseph and the Word of God that came to him in a dream telling him to take Mary into his house and become the guardian of Jesus
  • Monday: as part of the Visitation of Mary to Elizabeth, the gospel is Mary’s exultant song of Hope: the Magnificat
  • Tuesday: the birth and naming of John the Baptist – “All who heard these things took them to heart, saying, “What, then, will this child be? For surely the hand of the Lord was with him.”
  • Today, Wednesday December 24th, we hear Zechariah’s song of praise known as the Benedictus.

God is doing what he promised. His word will come to pass. These events are “as he promised through the mouth of his holy prophets from of old.” The promise involves rescue: God will save his people from their enemies and from all who hate them. Such salvation reflects the mercy of God and the recollection of the covenant made with Abraham. In this way the hymn actually combines two sets of divine promises – those about David’s son and those made to Abraham. What God will do for his people he does through Messiah. The fresh fulfillment of both covenants begins with Jesus’ arrival.

But what is the goal of this salvation? Here is perhaps the most insightful part of the hymn. Zechariah is not retreating from life or looking only to a future reward in heaven. His heart’s desire is to serve God “without fear … in holiness and righteousness before him all our days.” This is the expression of an exemplary soul. The meaning of life comes in faithful service to a holy God. 

Such was the goal and purpose of Advent that we too might serve God without fear and in holiness all the days of our life. And to be reminded these are the days of promises fulfilled.

Image credit: Stained glass window, Sts. Joseph & Paul Catholic Church, Owensboro KY | PD