When “born from above,” a transformation occurs. We don’t crave the things we used to crave. Sin doesn’t have the same taste, we don’t want what we knew before. Love for God becomes natural, not forced, because you realize life without Him is unnatural. This is what it means to let Christ reign. When we surrender our need to be in control and let Christ be Lord, then we experience transformation.

Tuesday of the Second Week of Easter
Acts 4:32-37
John 3:7-15

The readings for this week were taken from the Acts of the Apostles, Psalm 93, and John’s Gospel. Apparently, the unifying theme through all three readings is that God’s reign brings about new birth in a new community.

As I was meditating on these scripture passages, I thought about how who we are right now is not our ultimate expression. When our God grants new birth through his son, Jesus, we become new, transformed people who display characteristics of his kingdom here on Earth.

The reading from Acts shows us what a Christian community should look like. They are united, giving, led by the Spirit, and concerned with serving others. There is a man named Barnabas who is selling a piece of property he owns. His name means “son of encouragement.” Instead of keeping his profit, he gives the entire amount to the community. Barnabas becomes an example of encouragement through generosity and selflessness.

We see more than friendship here; we see unity in the Spirit, where people truly care for one another. Moreover, this carries over into how faith impacts our daily interactions with others. People become one in heart and mind. They no longer cling to their possessions; instead, they live lives of radical generosity and community. They don’t force this kind of behavior on one another because their hearts have changed.

Psalm 93 states that the Lord reigns; he is mighty, he is forever, and he will prevail over the chaos — a strong, direct statement that serves as our baseline, clearly affirming that God is in control. Our fears and circumstances do not reign over us.

The gospel reading from John’s third chapter reveals the heart of our message for today. Imagine the situation, if you will. Nicodemus was a Pharisee, which is like a hard-line religious teacher. He was also a member of the Jewish ruling council, the Sanhedrin. He was educated, esteemed, and religious, and looked “right” on the outside.  Nicodemus had heard about this man, Jesus, and wanted to know more about him. He decided to visit Jesus at night so he would not shame himself before the other members of the Sanhedrin.

Nicodemus begins by telling Jesus that he knows He is from God, and it seems like he is eager to hear what Jesus has to say. Jesus tells Nicodemus, “You must be born from above.”

Nicodemus was confused by this because he was thinking in physical terms. Jesus then explains that we need to be born of the Spirit, not of the flesh. In other words, Jesus is telling Nicodemus that religion isn’t enough; you need to have a new life. Nicodemus had a position but needed purpose; he had knowledge but needed wisdom; he had religion, but needed a relationship. Basically, you can be good, educated, and religious but still spiritually dead inside!

So, where does this leave us today? We need life. Something that doesn’t just make us do better but makes us desire to be better. Jesus brings a spiritual birth that changes us from the inside out. When we are born  “from above” or born again, God does in us what we could never do for ourselves, and we live evidence of a life we didn’t create.

I love a good metaphor, so here is one for you. Imagine a caterpillar crawling along on a branch. It spends its life eating leaves on this branch, living to satisfy its appetite. It can’t get off the branch; it’s bound to it. Many times, this is life before we are born again. We are alive, but spiritually we may be stagnated. We are driven by our appetites. Money, success, approval, comfort, control. We usually can’t live above it.

Nicodemus wasn’t sinful by our standards. He was, however, bound to living a natural life in his profession. While the caterpillar is busy crawling along, eating whatever it can find, it begins wrapping itself in a cocoon. When it’s in that cocoon, it doesn’t just improve its life; It transforms into something totally different.

We try to better ourselves daily by trying harder, white-knuckling it, changing habits and behaviors. We try to be better caterpillars. But Jesus never said, “Try harder.” He said, “You must be born from above.” God doesn’t teach a caterpillar how to live on a branch; He transforms them into something new. You can’t crawl on a branch and fly at the same time. When the caterpillar enters that cocoon, it stops trying to survive by itself. That, my friends, is surrender.

On the outside, the caterpillar seems lifeless, but on the inside, God is making radical changes that will alter its existence from now on. In an analogous way, we too undergo “radical changes” when we are “born from above.” That will alter our lives forever. When this transformation occurs, we don’t crave the things we used to crave. Sin doesn’t have the same taste, we don’t want what we knew before. Love for God becomes natural, not forced, because you realize life without Him is unnatural. This is what it means to let Christ reign. When we surrender our need to be in control and let Christ be Lord, then we experience transformation.

I researched how other denominations defined “born again” and I found that whether you attend church in a majestic cathedral, in a humble country chapel, or at home in your seat cushioned living room alone, what we believe at the heart of Christianity doesn’t change — to be born again is to allow God to make you new, starting on the inside.

It’s not about how you worship but how you have been worshiped over by God. It is not confined to a singular moment, method, or formula either. Some are born again in a sudden realization, like a lightbulb flipping on. Others slowly mature like the rising sun peeking over the horizon. But in every case, something authentic shifts.

Though different Christian traditions express it in various ways, they all point to the same fundamental transformation. Being born again is the difference between knowing about Jesus and knowing Jesus. Regardless of our denomination, we know it by its fruit.

Just like a caterpillar does not just grow wings and become a butterfly, our lives are changed on the inside out, not from the outside in. And just as no two butterflies come out of their cocoon in the same way or at the same time, no two Christians work out their faith identically. But we can all agree where it starts: With God changing our hearts.

To be born again is not about trying harder to be religious. It’s about wanting more of life. Life comes only when we stop trying to bootstrap ourselves and receive it from the One who gave it all for us. And maybe that is the invitation extended to each of us, regardless of where we were born or what church we stand under.

Maybe growing into who we were meant to be has less to do with trying. Maybe it has more to do with learning to let God be God, day by day. Stop trying harder. Allow ourselves to be made new.

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Their real problem was not a lack of bread in Tuesday’s reading on the Apostles in the boat, but spiritual amnesia: forgetting what Jesus had already done. But he doesn’t rebuke them for lacking bread; he rebukes them for lacking memory. Today’s passages confront what seems like a common human struggle: forgetting God’s faithfulness when pressure mounts and mistaking hardship for abandonment rather than for formation. But when you think about it, this is not just their story, it’s ours.

Tuesday of the Sixth Week in Ordinary Time
James 1:12-18
Mark 8:14-21

This week’s readings come from the first book of James, Psalm 94, and a passage from Mark’s gospel, chapter 8. They all share a unifying theme: How God uses trials in moments of apparent lack to expose our hearts, mature our faith, and teach us to trust his faithful provision rather than our own understanding.

Each of today’s passages approaches this theme from a different angle. In James’s epistle, he teaches that trials are not temptations from God but opportunities for perseverance that lead to spiritual maturity. God is consistently good. He gives, not deceives.

In Psalm 94, he reflects on suffering as discipline, not punishment, but rather, loving instruction that steadies the soul and assures us that God will not abandon his people.

In Mark’s Gospel, Jesus is sitting alongside his disciples in a boat. They seem to be bickering among themselves and exhibiting anxiety; however, their worry is not about storms, not about persecution, not even about death. They forgot the bread! One loaf for 12 men, a long journey ahead, what else is there to think of?!

Well, for one thing, Jesus, the person who had just miraculously fed 4000 and 5000 in 2 recent extraordinary episodes, is sitting right there next to them. seeming oblivious to the disciples. Their real problem was not lack of bread, but spiritual amnesia: forgetting what Jesus had already done. But he doesn’t rebuke them for lacking bread; he rebukes them for lacking memory. Together, the passages confront what seems like a common human struggle: forgetting God’s faithfulness when pressure mounts and mistaking hardship for abandonment rather than for formation. But when you think about it, this is not just their story, it’s ours.

In his Epistle, James tells us that “Blessed is the one who perseveres under trial.” Not the one who escapes it. Not the one who avoids it. But the one who remains faithful in it. Trials are like spiritual X-rays. They don’t create; they bring them to the forefront and expose them. When resources and sunny skies disappear, do we trust God or panic? When answers are delayed, do we pray to God or accuse Him of spiritual deafness? When life hurts, do we lean in or drift away? James makes it clear: God does not tempt us with evil. He is not the author of our downfall; the struggle exposes desires already at work in us, especially the desire for control.

Let me share a personal story that, looking back, I now recognize as a moment when I, too, forgot the bread.

My family came to this country from Italy in 1909, eventually settling in Pennsylvania and New Jersey. I was an only child, raised with love and care, and I never lacked what I truly needed. Like many immigrant families, we believed deeply in hard work, sacrifice, and gratitude. Becoming a physician was not just my dream; it was something my family instilled in me as a calling.

By the time I reached my sophomore year in college, finances were tight. All three of us were working to make it possible for me to stay in school. Still, I believed I was on the path God had set before me.

Then everything changed.

My father fell from a high ladder while working. He was knocked unconscious, suffered a fractured skull, and a brain bleed that left him deaf in his right ear and in a coma. In that single moment, the future I had carefully imagined for myself. seemed to collapse. It looked as though my father’s life and my dream of becoming a physician were both slipping away.

I remember going into the campus chapel at Seton Hall University and praying desperately for my father’s life. Still, I also questioned God about why and how this could happen. In that moment, like the disciples in the boat, I was focused on what was missing, on fear, uncertainty, and loss, rather than on the many blessings God had already given me.

Psalm 94 says, “When cares increase within me, your consolation brought me joy.” But at the time, all I could see was the storm.

In my grief, I made a promise to God. I prayed that if my father’s life were spared, I would become a physician and dedicate my work to caring for God’s children as a pediatrician. My father lingered between life and death for a week. Hope slowly faded. I felt tested, shaken, and worn down, much as James writes that perseverance is born through trial. Then, just when I had nearly given up, my father woke from his coma and spoke. His recovery was long and complex, but he survived. And he lived to see my promise fulfilled.

Only later did I understand what that season had taught me. God had not tempted me with evil, as James reminds us; He had strengthened my faith through trial. When my heart was troubled and anxious, God’s consolation sustained me. And when I thought there was no” bread” left, no future, no way out of the situation, Jesus was still next to me “in the boat.”

Like the disciples, I remembered the fruits of my faith, but in that moment, I forgot their meaning. And yet God remained faithful, patient, and present.

That experience taught me this: blessing often comes through testing, and remembrance restores trust. When we stop fixating on what we lack and remember who walks with us, we begin to understand. And sometimes, the most extraordinary grace is realizing, after the storm, that God never left us, even when we forgot the bread.

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This was more than a shift; it was a cultural wave, a large wave swelling far offshore, unseen and underestimated, that would eventually crash with unsuspected force against the rocky coastline of centuries-old expectations. Wisdom prepared Israel to imagine a Messiah who saves not by the sword, but by wisdom, justice, suffering, and self-giving love. This wave rolls right into today’s readings.

Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Advent
Malachi 3:1-4, 23-24
Luke 1:57-66

Today’s readings from Malachi, Psalm 24, and a passage from Luke’s Gospel, take us deep into the workshop of God, the place where he shapes history and, even more mysteriously, the human heart.

We often imagine God’s interventions as sudden flashes of the miraculous, with burning bushes, parted seas, and angelic voices. But today’s Scripture reveals a subtler, more unsettling truth: before God changes the world, he changes the human imagination. He prepares people who can recognize what he is doing. This preparation did not begin with Malachi or even with John the Baptist. It began centuries earlier in the Books of Wisdom in the Old Testament, a quiet revolution operating beneath the surface of Jewish thought.

For generations, Israel expected a Messiah who would be a warrior, conqueror, and throne restorer. But then, almost imperceptibly at first, the Wisdom Books introduced a new and destabilizing truth: the true ruler is not always the political king, but the one who embodies the justice and mind of God. The victory God desires is not military, but the triumph of righteousness. Malachi then makes this very profound statement: Suffering is not proof of divine absence; it may be the furnace that refines the just (Wisdom 3:6).

This was more than a shift; it was a cultural wave, a large wave swelling far offshore, unseen and underestimated, that would eventually crash with unsuspected force against the rocky coastline of centuries-old expectations. Wisdom prepared Israel to imagine a Messiah who saves not by the sword, but by wisdom, justice, suffering, and self-giving love. This wave rolls right into today’s readings.

Malachi stands where that wave begins to rise. He proclaims not a military general, but a refiner, a craftsman purifying his people like precious metal. Israel expected liberation from Rome or from foreign powers, but Malachi warns that the first liberation must be from the impurities within.

“Who can endure the day of his coming?”

Not because he is violent, but because his nearness exposes what we prefer to hide. Malachi’s wave keeps building: the Messiah will restore hearts, parent to child, child to parent. The kingdom begins in relationships before it manifests in politics.

If Malachi is the refiner, Psalm 25 is the metal that cries out, “teach me your ways.” The psalmist is not passive. He doesn’t ask for rescue alone; he asks for formation. “Make known to me your paths… Guide me… Teach me.”

This is a striking spiritual insight—the unprepared heart cannot recognize God even when he arrives. It must be taught to see rightly, taught humility, taught patience, and taught wisdom. We tend to pray for outcomes; the psalmist prays for clarity. We ask God to reform difficulties; the psalmist asked God to reveal direction. And then a promise, “the friendship of the Lord is with those who fear him.” Friendship: the rarest and most intimate of biblical metaphors. God doesn’t merely refine us; he befriends us.

Then, Luke shows us preparation at its most dramatic: the birth of John the Baptist, the human embodiment of Malachi’s prophecy. John arrives in a world unprepared for mercy, unprepared for a Messiah who will not resemble earlier expectations. His mission is not simply moral exhortation; it is recalibration. To teach people how to look for a different kind of king, a Lamb, not a warrior.

In the middle of the story, Zechariah, previously muted by God for doubting His proclamation, suddenly has his voice returned when he finally aligns his will with God’s promise. His transformation is the micro story of Israel’s macro story: a people long muted by doubt begins to speak hope again. The neighbors are stunned: “What then, will this child be?” A question asked in awe but also in fear, for when God prepares something new, we lose control of the old.

So, what does this mean for us today? These readings challenge an assumption we often hold without noticing. We think that God should prepare circumstances. Scripture shows God preparing hearts. We pray: fix my family, fix the world, fix the church, fix our politics. And God replies I am beginning with you.

What if the transformation we long for, in our homes, our nation, our culture, cannot begin until God has first refined the stubborn metal within us? What if the most radical preparation God could make is not to change them, but to change me?

Malachi warns that purification is uncomfortable. Psalm 25 insists that guidance requires humility. Luke shows that God’s preparation often confounds our expectations. So, the question for us remains: are we willing to be prepared? Prepared to listen rather than react? Prepared to be taught rather than remain certain? Prepared to have parts of us “melted down” so the actual image of God can emerge?

This is the spiritual work of Advent, of discipleship, of life. God asks us to enter the “furnace of purification,” not as victims but as precious metal in the hands of the master.

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Psalm 19 tells us that creation itself declares the glory of God; every sunrise, every starlit night, speaks of Him. The message is universal, beyond words. The apostles lived this out. Tradition tells us Simon and Jude carried the Gospel to distant, difficult places—Persia, Mesopotamia, Armenia. Their mission embodied what Psalm 19 says: God’s glory is not limited to one nation or one people. It’s a message of universal love.

Feast of Saints Simon and Jude, Apostles
Ephesians 2:19-22
Luke 6:12-16

Have you ever felt ordinary or maybe even overlooked? Perhaps you weren’t a star athlete, nor the class valedictorian, nor the most polished speaker at work. Perhaps you wonder, can God really use me?

As a pediatrician for 50 years, I witnessed this truth in action every day in my practice. I remember several instances when a quiet, unassuming child had a significant impact. It wasn’t the strongest or loudest child who made the difference, but the quiet one, the overlooked one. God delights in using ordinary people for extraordinary purposes. In this feast of Saints Simon and Jude, apostles, we celebrate two men who weren’t household names but became the foundations of the church itself.

Luke tells us that Jesus spent the night in prayer before choosing his apostles. He chose fishermen, a tax collector, and Simon the zealot, among others. Zealots were fiery revolutionaries who sought to change the world through force. Yet Jesus took that zeal and gave it a new purpose.

That reminded me of a young boy I once knew who was constantly in trouble, always running around, knocking things over, and arguing with other kids. He probably had ADHD. His parents were exhausted, but when he joined a sports team, that same boundless energy became a gift. He learned discipline, teamwork, and the importance of encouragement. His “troublemaking zeal” became a strength. That’s what Christ did with Simon, turning restless energy into holy mission.

You know, working with children has a way of teaching you what really matters. It’s not always the medicine or the charts—it’s the moments of quiet compassion that stay with you. Like the time … I once had a mother walk into the examining room, trailing three little kids behind her. I recognized one of the little patients who was always shy and quiet; she never answered any questions out loud. But on this day, when her sibling was crying loudly, this little one quietly walked over and held the other child’s hand. No words, just presence, and the tears stopped. That moment reminded me that God doesn’t need the loudest voices; he calls those who will show up with love. Simon and Jude were precisely that, ordinary men who showed up when Jesus called.

Psalm 19 tells us that creation itself declares the glory of God; every sunrise, every starlit night, speaks of Him. The message is universal, beyond words. The apostles lived this out. Tradition tells us Simon and Jude carried the Gospel to distant, difficult places—Persia, Mesopotamia, Armenia. Their mission embodied what Psalm 19 says: God’s glory is not limited to one nation or one people. It’s a message of universal love.

You know, a newborn doesn’t understand language yet, but when you smile or hum softly, the baby knows love. Communication goes beyond words. In the same way, God’s presence is sensed even where his name is not yet known. That’s what Simon and Jude did: they carried the gospel so that what creation whispers, the apostles declared clearly. Just as children, we love a smile; people read God’s message in the way we live. Your life may be the only “Bible” someone ever reads.

Paul reminds us we are no longer strangers but members of God’s household, built on the apostles with Christ as the cornerstone. Simon and Jude were not the most famous apostles, but without them the household of God would be incomplete. Likewise, each of us, big or small, is a vital stone in God’s temple. You may feel like a “small stone,” and your name may never be remembered in history books. But in God’s temple, every stone matters.

As a grandfather of 11 grandchildren, I often watch them building with blocks. Some blocks were big and flashy, others small and plain. I often wondered how they develop a sense of balance to make the tower so high. Whenever I tried to do it, I didn’t get up very far before the towers would topple. One of my grandkids told me, “Grandpa, the little blocks are more important than the big blocks, they hold up the rest!” Hmm, wisdom from the experts!

A little girl once asked me, “Doctor, why do you smile even when kids are crying?” I told her, “Because tears aren’t the end of the story.” That’s the Gospel message of Simon and Jude: zeal doesn’t end in anger, despair doesn’t end in hopelessness. In Christ, the story always leads to hope.

 The cross itself seemed like the end, the final, brutal punctuation mark in a story of betrayal and loss. Yet it was only Friday. Resurrection morning was already on God’s calendar. The same is true in our own lives: the broken relationship, the diagnosis, the loss, the unanswered prayer; all can feel final. But in Christ, endings are never truly endings. God writes resurrection into every chapter of faith. When we see only tears, He is already preparing joy. When we see only pain, He is already beginning to heal. Hope, not sorrow, is always the last word in God’s story. He is truly never done with us!

So, do you still feel ordinary? So did Simon and Jude. You may feel like a small stone. But remember, even the smallest stones are crucial in building God’s house. You may feel hopeless. Jude reminds us: in Christ, there is always hope. And in Christ, you have a significant role to play in His plan.

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Paul calls us children of light. Our identity shapes our behavior. If you know who you are, you know how to live. Alertness here isn't paranoia; it's hopeful awareness. You're watching for God's hand at work, not for threats in every shadow. Pope Francis said, "Spiritual wakefulness is living intentionally, with our eyes open, not drifting through life on autopilot."

Tuesday of the Twenty-Second Week in Ordinary Time
1 Thessalonians 5:1-6, 9-11
Luke 4:31-37

When the world feels unstable, what keeps you steady? Is it your knowledge? Your preparation? Or is it something or someone bigger than yourself that you trust? I've noticed in life, the most unshakable people aren't the ones who have all the answers; instead, they're the ones who know who they belong to. Today's readings come from three different settings: a king under pressure, a young church learning how to live faithfully in a village, and a synagogue in Capernaum witnessing a miracle. Yet, they all carry the same message: confidence in God's presence gives us calm, clarity, and courage whether we're waiting, watching, or walking into the unknown.

Psalm 27 is David's declaration in the middle of life's battles: "The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear?" First Thessalonians 5 is Paul urging a young, sometimes anxious church: "let us stay alert and sober, encourage one another and build each other up". And in Luke four, Jesus shows exactly why our trust is well-placed, teaching with authority and freeing someone from the grip of evil right there in the synagogue. Together, they reveal a movement: trust in God's presence, readiness in daily life, and confidence in Christ's authority.

Let's look at each of these readings closely. Let's start by talking about 1 Thessalonians. Paul calls us children of light. Our identity shapes our behavior. If you know who you are, you know how to live. Alertness here isn't paranoia; it's hopeful awareness. You're watching for God's hand at work, not for threats in every shadow. Pope Francis said, "Spiritual wakefulness is living intentionally, with our eyes open, not drifting through life on autopilot."

A retired firefighter once told me during a preventive office visit with his granddaughter that their station had a rule: you didn't just keep your gear near your bed; you slept with your boots right there, ready to slip on. The idea was that when the call came, you wouldn't waste time searching for your belongings. Paul's message here is the same spiritually: keep your boots by your bed. Live in a way that if God opens a door, you can walk through it right away.

In Psalm 27, David doesn't say there's nothing scary out there; he's not in denial. But he does say, "The Lord is my light.” Light means clarity. I can see where I'm going. Light means safety; darkness can't trip me up. Light means warmth. God's presence is near. Pope Benedict the 16th once said this Psalm teaches fearless serenity, not because life is calm, but because God's presence is constant.

During one of the many hurricanes passing through Gulfport, a friend of mine once told me about losing power in his house during the storm. He said he didn't panic, not because it wasn't dark and scary, but because he knew exactly where the flashlight was. The darkness didn't change; what changed was knowing where to turn for light. That's David's message here: I know exactly where my light is, and I know exactly who my light is. When we remember that, the darkness loses some of its power over us.

In Luke's gospel, try to imagine what it was like to be sitting in that synagogue. Jesus is teaching with a clarity that surprises everyone, and then suddenly, he confronts evil head-on in a possessed man. It is not a drawn-out battle. One command: "Be silent, come out of him, and it's done." The people are amazed not just at the miracle but at his authority. He doesn't just speak about God's power; he embodies it. John Paul II called this moment a manifesto of the kingdom, announcing that in Christ, oppression of every kind meets its match.

I once read a story about a police officer who, while off duty in a grocery store, witnessed a potentially dangerous situation unfolding. He didn't wait for backup; he calmly stepped in, identified himself, and took control. He didn’t have his uniform on, but still carried the authority of his position. That's Jesus in Luke four, authority doesn't depend on the setting, the crowd, or the approval of others. And the amazing part? He invites us to walk in that same confidence when we're acting in his name.

So our three-step Christian survival guide is:

1. See Clearly: let God's light define your reality (Psalm 27). When you know where the light is, you're less afraid of the shadows.

2. Stand Ready: live alert and steady, encouraging others (1 Thessalonians 5). When called to walk alone, keep each other awake to God's presence.

3. Step Forward: act in the authority and peace of Christ (Luke 4). Jesus doesn't just calm storms; he teaches us to walk through them with Him.

To rephrase the questions which I posed at the beginning of this talk:

1. Where in your life right now do you most need God's clarity?

2. What helps you stay spiritually awake?

3. Where may God be inviting you to step forward in faith this week?

I paraphrase a quote by Vietnamese Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh, made when refugee boats encountered storms or pirates. I thought it was apropos for this talk: "The calmest person in the storm is the one who knows who holds the boat."

These readings remind us that we are people of light, called to stand ready, and we walk under the authority of Christ himself. That's where peace, the real kind, comes from.

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The unifying theme in today’s passages is desperate dependence on God that leads to transformation, blessing, and a call to compassionate action. Each text features individuals or communities in crises wrestling with their limitations and needs and encountering God's presence, often through struggle, prayer, or compassion. These encounters lead to a deeper reliance on God and a changed life, which overflows into mission and service to others.

Tuesday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Genesis 32:23-33
Matthew 9:32-38

Today's readings are taken from Genesis, Psalm 17, and (since we are back in cycle A of the liturgical calendar) Matthew. The unifying theme in these passages is desperate dependence on God that leads to transformation, blessing, and a call to compassionate action. Each text features individuals or communities in crises wrestling with their limitations and needs and encountering God's presence, often through struggle, prayer, or compassion. These encounters lead to a deeper reliance on God and a changed life, which overflows into mission and service to others. A harbinger of what God expects from all of us.

These passages (Tuesday, July 9, 2025) have caught the eyes of past popes. Specifically, Pope St. John Paul II referenced Jacob's struggles in his Theology of the Body and other writings, interpreting it as a metaphor for humanity's spiritual struggle and encounter with God's grace. Pope Francis explicitly discussed Genesis 32 in a 2020 general audience, calling Jacob's wrestling a metaphor for prayer and emphasizing the importance of surrendering to God's will.

The relationship between Jacob and Esau, as depicted in today's readings, is one of the most turbulent sibling rivalries in the Bible, rooted in deception, competition, and unresolved anger. Even before their birth, the twins struggled in their mother Rebecca's womb, foreshadowing a lifetime of conflict.

Jacob first manipulated Esau into selling his birthright for a meal when Esau was famished, exchanging a monetary need for a lifelong privilege. Later, with the help of their mother, Jacob deceived their blind father, Isaac, to receive the blessing intended for Esau, the firstborn. This act of betrayal deeply wounded Esau, who then vowed to kill Jacob after their father's death. Fearing for his life, Jacob fled to his uncle Laban, who lived in Haran, and then spent about 20 years there. During this period, Jacob himself was deceived and humbled through hard labor and family strife. Eventually, Jacob grew tired of Laban’s taking advantage of him, prompting God to instruct Jacob to return home, which meant facing Esau and the unresolved past. Jacob, aware of Esau's last threat and the depth of his wrongdoing, was filled with deserved fear and anxiety as he approached the land of his birth.

On the eve of meeting Esau, Jacob was desperate and terrified, having learned that Esau was approaching with 400 men, a sign that could portend war or vengeance. Jacob divided his family and possessions into two camps to maximize the chance of survival, and he sent generous gifts to the head of Esau's camp to appease him. That night, Jacob had a mysterious and transformative encounter, which is the subject of today's readings. He wrestled with a man, later revealed to be God or an angel, until daybreak. The struggle was both physical and spiritual, symbolizing Jacob's lifelong pattern of striving, manipulating, and wrestling with others and with God.

Jacob refused to let go until he received a blessing, even though the angel, having struck him in his hip, was causing him extreme pain. In response, God changed his name from Jacob, which meant "supplanter" or "deceiver," to Israel, meaning "one who struggles with God" or "God fights." Jacob emerged from this encounter, physically marked with a limp and spiritually transformed, now dependent on God's grace rather than his cunning. ( As an aside, Jewish people today commemorate Jacob's struggle with the divine being who touched his hip by abstaining from eating the sinew of the thigh, also known as the gid hanasheh of kosher animals.)   

The next day, Jacob met Esau, bowing humbly before him. Contrary to Jacob's fears, Esau ran to embrace him, weeping, and accepted the gifts only after Jacob insisted. This act of forgiveness and reconciliation was unexpected, considering the history of betrayal and anger perpetrated by Jacob.

God's choice to wrestle with Jacob rather than comfort him in his fear reveals a profound truth about how God fosters growth through challenge. The wrestling match was not about defeating Jacob but about transforming him — moving him from self-reliance to dependence on God, from manipulation to surrender, and from fear to faith.

In Psalm 17, the psalmist cries out for God's attention and vindication, trusting that God tests hearts and hears prayers. He seeks refuge in God's presence, expressing confidence that true satisfaction comes from seeing God's face and being transformed into his likeness. Again, the idea of transformation and the invitation to honest, persistent prayer, trusting God with our hearts and futures.

The miracles depicted in Matthew's gospel are to highlight Jesus as the Messiah and the new Moses. Since Matthew was writing for a Jewish audience, he emphasized miracles to fulfill the expectations of the Messiah found in the Old Testament.     

Consequently, Matthew 9 presents a comprehensive portrait of Jesus, demonstrating his divine authority and compassionate mission through word and deed, as he possesses power over sin, sickness, death, and spiritual forces. Jesus exorcised a demon that had rendered a man mute and restored his speech instantly. The crowd reacted with awe: "Nothing like this has ever been seen in Israel." The Pharisees, on the other hand, said, "He drives out demons by the prince of demons." By attributing Jesus' miracles to demonic power, the Pharisees sought to protect their religious authority and traditions, which Jesus' teachings and actions were challenging.

In this gospel reading, we see how Jesus is moved with compassion for the harassed and helpless crowds, likening them to sheep without a shepherd. This is the theme we followed throughout Eastertide: Jesus is the shepherd, looking after us, his sheep. This gospel reading is situated within a pivotal chapter that serves as a bridge between Jesus' teaching ministry in the Sermon on the Mount and his commissioning of the disciples in chapter 10, establishing the theological and practical foundation for Christian discipleship and mission. It blends Jesus' healing miracles with His broader mission of compassion, spiritual authority, and the call to discipleship. It encapsulates key themes that thread through Matthew's narrative, revealing Jesus' identity as the Messiah and the escalating tension with religious leaders.

God's approach to Jacob demonstrates that spiritual growth is often forged in the fires of struggle rather than in comfort. By wrestling with Jacob, God invited him—and us—to a deeper, more authentic relationship where transformation comes through surrender and perseverance in the face of challenges. Growth and God's design are not about avoiding pain but about being changed by it, emerging with a new identity and a deeper faith.

Every Christian will face moments of wrestling—times when God brings us to the end of ourselves so that we might cling to him. Like Jacob, we may walk away with a limp but also with a new identity and a deeper dependence on God. Like the psalmist, we are invited to honest, persistent prayer, trusting God with our hearts and futures. Like Jesus's disciples, we are called to see the world through the eyes of compassion and to respond to God's call to serve.

Jacob's transformation wasn't just for himself; it was for his family and the generations that followed. Likewise, the lessons and empathy gained through our struggles can equip us to encourage, comfort, and serve others who are hurting.

Supplication: Where am I wrestling with God right now? What am I afraid to let go of? How has God used past wounds to shape my character or faith? Let us pray: Lord, use my struggle to draw me closer to you. Transform my wounds into reminders of your grace.

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Jesus uses the shepherd and sheep metaphor in His teachings for several profound reasons, deeply rooted in the cultural context of His audience and the theological traditions of the Old Testament. Sheep are known for being vulnerable, lacking direction, and needing constant guidance and protection. Jesus uses this idea to illustrate our spiritual condition: like sheep, people are prone to wander, are defenseless against many dangers, and need someone to guide, protect, and provide for them.

Tuesday of the Fourth Week of Easter
Acts 11:19-26
John 10:22-30

Eastertide is a festal period in the Christian liturgical year that celebrates the resurrection of Jesus Christ. It begins on Easter Sunday and lasts 50 days, concluding with Pentecost Sunday. Having been celebrated since the earliest centuries of Christianity, the 50-day period mirrors the Jewish counting of the Omer, the span between Passover and Shavuot. The number 50 is significant as it represents completeness and fulfillment. The 50 days of Easter are traditionally celebrated as a single unbroken "great Lord's day," emphasizing the joy in the victory of Christ's resurrection.

The readings of our presentation today are from Acts, chapter 11, Psalm 87, and John's gospel chapter 10, and come during the fourth week of Eastertide. They have as their unifying theme the expansive, unifying, and secure nature of God's people called and gathered by the voice of the Shepherd, Jesus Christ.

In our first reading of Acts, we see how the word of the Lord is rapidly spreading through the surrounding areas following the martyrdom of St. Stephen. They traveled as far as Phoenicia, Cyprus, and Antioch, initially sharing the message of Jesus only with Jews. Some believers from Cyprus and Cyrene began preaching to Greeks (Gentiles) in Antioch, proclaiming the good news about Jesus. This marked a significant step in the outreach of the gospel to non-Jews. When the church in Jerusalem heard about the new believers in Antioch, they sent Barnabas to encourage and support them.

His presence led to even more people joining the faith. Recognizing the need for more leadership, Barnabas went to Tarsus to find Saul and brought him to Antioch. Together, they taught the new believers for a whole year. It was in Antioch that the disciples were first called Christians. The term likely originated as a label given by outsiders combining the word in Greek for Christ with a Latin suffix indicating that followers of Christ. Initially, it may have carried a tone of mockery or derision, but eventually, it became a badge of identity for believers.

This passage marks the beginning of Antioch's role as a central base for missionary activity in the early church. Many future missionary journeys will be launched from here, especially those led by Paul. The outreach to Greeks and Antioch represents a significant shift in the early church's mission, embracing the Gentile world and fulfilling Jesus's command to take the gospel to all nations. This passage underscores the church's adaptability, inclusiveness, and the pivotal role of leaders like Barnabas and Saul in nurturing new believers and expanding the faith.

Our gospel reading, John 10:22-30, takes place during the festival of Dedication, known today as Hanukkah. Jesus is walking in Solomon's Colonnade, a place in the temple rich with history and meaning. This is not just any location; it was associated with judgment and justice, where God’s people gathered with expectation and longing. Imagine the scene, the air crisp, hearts full of questions, and Jesus standing in their midst, ready to reveal the heart of God. The people pressed in, desperate for clarity: How long will you keep us in suspense? If you are the Messiah, tell us plainly!

Jesus’s answer cuts through the confusion: “I did tell you, but you do not believe. The works I do in My father’s name testify about Me, but you do not believe because you are not my sheep. My sheep listen to my voice so; I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life and they will never perish.”

In this reading, Jesus continues the metaphor from earlier in the chapter, describing himself as the Shepherd and his followers as sheep.  The passage culminates with Jesus's declaration: “I and the Father are one.” The statement asserts a unity of purpose and, as understood by his hearers, a claim to divine identity, leading to further controversy and an attempt to stone him in the following verses. Jesus's claim to be one with the Father directly asserts his divinity, not just a statement of agreement or cooperation. The crowd's reaction (in the following verses) shows they understood this is a claim to equality with God. Thus, today's gospel is a pivotal passage where Jesus, amidst growing opposition, affirms his divine identity and the unbreakable security of his followers. Through the imagery of the Shepherd and the sheep, he emphasizes the personal relationship he has with his disciples. He assures them of eternal life, grounded in the Son and Father's unity and power.

The fourth Sunday of Easter is particularly significant because it is traditionally known as "Good Shepherd Sunday." Today, the church focuses on the image of Jesus as the good Shepherd, drawing from the Gospel readings in John 10. This theme is consistent across all three liturgical cycles, with the gospel always centering on Jesus's role as the good Shepherd. The image of God as the Shepherd of Israel appears throughout the Old Testament (e.g., Psalm 23, Ezekiel 34, Isaiah 40:11). By calling Himself the "Good Shepherd," Jesus was identifying Himself with God's promised care and leadership, fulfilling prophecies that God Himself would shepherd His people. 

Jesus uses the shepherd and sheep metaphor in His teachings for several profound reasons, deeply rooted in the cultural context of His audience and the theological traditions of the Old Testament. Shepherding was a common occupation in ancient Palestine, and Jesus' listeners were intimately familiar with the daily realities of sheep and their dependence on a shepherd. This made the metaphor instantly relatable and vivid for His audience. Sheep are known for being vulnerable, lacking direction, and needing constant guidance and protection. Jesus uses this idea to illustrate our spiritual condition: like sheep, people are prone to wander, are defenseless against many dangers, and need someone to guide, protect, and provide for them. 

In ancient times, sheepfolds had a single entry point, often guarded by the shepherd, who would sometimes lie across the opening at night. The gate was both the means of protection and the only legitimate way for sheep to enter and find safety, nourishment, and rest. So when Jesus says I am the gate: whoever enters through me will be saved, he means that salvation, reconciliation with God, and entry into the community of God’s people are possible only by faith in Jesus himself — his person, his teachings, and his sacrificial work.

Recall that earlier in John’s Gospel, John the Baptist identifies Jesus as the “Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world.” Jesus does not use this title for himself in the Gospels, but it is used by John the Baptist to identify him. John's dual depiction of Jesus as the Lamb of God and the good Shepherd reveals the profound unity of Jesus’s mission: sacrificial atonement and compassionate leadership. Though seemingly paradoxical, these titles are complementary and deeply rooted in biblical theology. As the Lamb, Jesus's death atones for sin, removing the barrier between God and humanity. As a resurrected Shepherd, he guides, intercedes, and sustains his flock. As the early church father St. Augustine wrote, “he is both the sacrifice and the priest, the Lamb and the shepherd.”

We live in a world filled with countless voices clamoring for our attention, each promising meaning, security, and direction. Yet, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice, I know them, and they follow me.” This is not a distant theological concept: it is a living reality. The good Shepherd speaks, and those who belong to him recognize his voice above the din of the world. He calls us by name, inviting us into a relationship of trust and obedience. But let’s be honest — sometimes, in the chaos of life, it is hard to tune our hearts to his voice. Still, the promise stands: he knows and leads us, even when we struggle to listen. Jesus doesn’t just call us — he holds us.

“I give them eternal life and they shall never perish; no one will snatch them out of my hand.” This is the unwavering assurance that, once you are his, nothing, no real hardship, no temptation, no power of hell, can pry you from his loving grip. We are safe, not because of our own strength, but because of the strength and faithfulness of the shepherd. Even when the world rages and the enemy tries to steal our peace, Jesus declares that we are eternally secure in him.

Jesus’s words are not just for the crowds in Solomon’s colonnade. He is the shepherd who knows your name, sees your struggles, and promises to hold you fast. The invitation is deeply personal. Will you trust him to lead, protect, and give you a life that never ends? Lord Jesus, tune our hearts to hear your voice above all others, give us faith to trust your promise, encourage us to follow wherever you lead. Hold as fast in your love and make us bold to invite others into the safety and joy of your fold.   

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INTRO: If God’s mercy is always available, does that mean that human choices are less significant? Closer introspection will show that God’s mercy respects human free will by offering the possibility of both forgiveness and redemption. Therefore, human choices are significant because they determine whether one accepts or rejects God’s mercy.

Saturday of the Second Week of Lent
Micah 7:14-15, 18-20
Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

The ideas of mercy and forgiveness are deeply woven into biblical teachings, as highlighted in passages like Micah 7:14-15, 18, and 20; Psalm 103:1-12; and Luke 15:1-3 and 11-32. These values are not just central to religious beliefs; they also play a vital role in our relationships and the harmony of society. Take the story of Adam and Eve, for instance. Despite God's warning, they chose to eat from the Tree of Knowledge of good and evil. This suggests that understanding good and evil, including mercy and forgiveness, was part of humanity from the start.

After tasting the fruit,  perhaps the concepts of mercy and forgiveness became tainted by human pride. This could explain why something that was originally embedded in us—having been created in the image and likeness of God—has become so distorted, leading to a somewhat inconsistent record of how these virtues are expressed by humankind throughout history. Are mercy and forgiveness hardwired into our nature? If they are, then why aren't they universally practiced? And how have these virtues changed over time?

In the biblical story, Adam and Eve's disobedience resulted in their banishment from the Garden of Eden. Yet, this moment also marked the start of humanity's journey with the knowledge of good and evil. The fact that they were made in God's image suggests they naturally had the potential for virtues like mercy and forgiveness. God's merciful actions towards Adam and Eve—like providing them with clothing and sparing humanity from extinction through Noah—show a divine example of mercy that we can strive to follow.

In Micah’s reading, God’s uniqueness and pardoning of sin is manifested: “who is a God like you who pardons sin and forgives transgressions?” and, “his anger does not last forever because he delights to show mercy and cast sins into the depths of the sea.” Micah’s passages highlight God’s mercy and forgiveness towards Israel despite their transgressions. The passage also emphasizes God’s power over nations and his mercy on his people showcasing forgiveness as a fundamental aspect of His divine nature. This biblical perspective encourages humans to reflect on their own capacity for mercy and forgiveness.

Psalm 103 praises God for healing, beginning, and crowning his people with love, even in mid human frailty: “he forgives all your sins and heals all your diseases.” It reminds believers of God steadfast love and compassion, encouraging them to emulate these virtues in the relationship with others.

The parable of the prodigal son vividly illustrates this restoration. The father runs to embrace his wayward son, restoring him fully despite his failures: “bring the best robe… Let’s celebrate!” Luke’s gospel sets the context: Jesus defends his association with sinners prompting the parable to show God’s heart for the lost. The Pharisees criticism contrasts with the father’s joy over repentance. The parables older son mirrors the Pharisees self-righteousness, while the father’s response — “you are always with me” — emphasizes God’s grace over merit.

One might say that the readings from Micah, Psalms, and Luke converge on a radical version of mercy that defies common human logic — a grace so vast it unsettles our sense of “ fairness.” Luke 15:20 dramatizes this: the father runs to the prodigal son interrupting his rehearsed apology. Mercy here is unearned — it interrupts shame with unasked-for grace.

All of these texts which we have read today reveal a God who absorbs the cost of sin and invites us to live as forgiven for givers. In a culture obsessed with canceling and vengeance the church’s  radical mercy could be its most disruptive witness. Remember mercy doesn’t negate justice but redefines it. While vengeance seeks punitive balance, mercy seeks restorative justice — healing for both victim and offender.

Throughout history, various civilizations and religions have embodied Christ’s ideals of mercy and forgiveness to different extents. In ancient Greece and Rome, while not directly aligned with Christ’s teachings, these civilizations laid foundational concepts of mercy and pity. The Epicureans for instance saw mercy as a sign of human progress. All of the major religions Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Judaism, Sikhism at their core they teach the importance of mercy as a central attribute as well as emphasizing compassion as a key virtue.

While no civilization or religion perfectly embodies Christ’s ideals of mercy and forgiveness these examples highlight significant efforts towards these virtues. Mercy and forgiveness have been practiced in various forms across cultures and religions since recorded time. Despite their importance these virtues are still not universally practiced due to several factors:

1.   Human nature and conflict: humans have an innate capacity for both cooperation and conflict. While mercy and forgiveness can resolve conflicts, they often require significant emotional and cognitive effort.

2.   Cultural and social influences: societal norms and cultural values can either promote or hinder the practice of mercy and forgiveness. In some cultures forgiveness is seen as a sign of weakness while in others it is revered as a strength.

3.   Historical contexts: historical events such as wars and injustices can make forgiveness challenging. The scale of harm and complexity of conflicts can complicate the forgiveness process.

From an agnostic standpoint, the concept of God’s mercy not being “fair” raises questions about the nature of fairness itself. They may feel that God’s mercy challenges human notions of fairness which is often based on a merit system. But this begs the question. Fairness might not be the appropriate lens through which to evaluate God’s mercy. God’s mercy is not seen as contradicting fairness but rather as complementing it. It is an expression of God’s love which is not bound by human concepts of merit. And the idea that God’s love might make a mockery of our merit-based system is not seen as a problem but as a blessing because it underscores the gratuitous nature of God’s grace and the idea that salvation is not earned but given freely.

What about the idea of reconciling God’s mercy with human suffering? If God exists and is merciful, one might expect less suffering. But suffering can be redemptive,  it’s not about eliminating all pain but about transforming it into something meaningful. The cross of Christ is seen as the ultimate expression of God’s mercy, where suffering is transformed into salvation. Therefore, human suffering is not a contradiction to God’s mercy but an opportunity for spiritual growth and deeper understanding of divine love.

An even more thorny issue revolves around the question of how God’s mercy relates to human free will. If God’s mercy is always available, does that mean that human choices are less significant? Closer introspection will show that God’s mercy respects human free will by offering the possibility of both forgiveness and redemption. Therefore, human choices are significant because they determine whether one accepts or rejects God’s mercy. Thus God’s mercy is always available but requires human cooperation and repentance to be effective.                                         

Mercy and forgiveness are fundamental virtues that have been part of human nature since the beginning. While they are not universally practiced, they are essential for building harmonious relationships in societies. As humanity continues to evolve, promoting cultural shifts towards empathy and understanding can help make mercy and forgiveness more prevalent. Ultimately fostering these virtues requires a combination of personal reflection, community engagement, and technological innovation.

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INTRO: Paul's letters reflect his mastery of Greek rhetorical techniques, which enhances his ability to persuade and teach. He employed logical arguments (e.g., Romans), emotional appeals (e.g., Philippians), and practical advice (e.g., Corinthians) tailored to his audience's needs. So, as you can see, God wisely chose Paul for this job.

Feast of the Conversion of Saint Paul, Apostle
Acts 22:3-16
Mark16:15-18

Today's readings happen to fall on the feast of the conversion of St. Paul, the apostle. They include readings from Acts chapter 22, Psalm 117, and Mark's gospel chapter 16. These passages' common theme shows God's inclusive plan for salvation, encouraging believers to proclaim His love and truth to all nations and peoples. These passages emphasize that God's mercy, faithfulness, and redemption are meant for everyone, getting past any cultural or ethnic boundaries.

The first reading details St. Paul's conversion and the steps this conversion took to convert him from the major persecutor of Christians to the most significant cause for Christianity's expansion beyond Judaism. Most of us are familiar with the narration of his conversion and the beginning of his evangelization, so I will only discuss why Paul may have been specifically chosen by God to be the significant spreader of the teachings across the known world.

Paul acknowledges that God chose him for this mission before his birth (Galatians 1:15-16). Paul's dramatic conversion on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:1-19) demonstrates that his calling was a direct act of divine intervention. Jesus explicitly referred to Paul as "my chosen instrument to carry my name before the Gentiles and their kings and before the people of Israel."

Paul's upbringing, education, and status uniquely equipped him for his role. As a Jew from Tarsus, Paul was well-versed in Jewish traditions and scripture, having been trained as a Pharisee under Gamaliel. Thus, Paul had an extensive knowledge of Jewish Law, which he used to argue persuasively for Jesus as the fulfillment of the Law. Paul was also fluent in Greek, which was crucial in spreading Christianity worldwide, particularly among gentile (non-Jewish) audiences. Greek was the common language of the eastern Mediterranean during the first century, making it the primary language for communication, trade, and all cultural exchange. Paul could write, speak, and think in Greek, thus allowing him to communicate the gospel message effectively to diverse audiences. Using Greek, Paul could address a broader audience than relying solely on Aramaic or Hebrew. He was also profoundly familiar with Greek culture, language, and literature, thus allowing him to engage effectively with both Jewish and Gentile audiences (Acts 21:39; Acts 17:28). Even his letters were written in koine (common) Greek, making them accessible to early Christian communities and becoming the foundational texts for the New Testament. 

Paul's knowledge of Greek culture and literature allowed him to engage with Gentiles on their terms. For example, in Athens (acts chapter 17:22 through 31), Paul quoted Greek poets such as Epimenedes and Aratus to connect with his audience and allow them to appreciate and comprehend the gospel message. He adapted his language to resonate with his audience. In Athens, he accomplished this by avoiding direct references to Jewish scriptures (which would have been unfamiliar to his audience). Instead, he spoke about God as "the divine being," a term familiar to Stoic philosophers. This cultural sensitivity made his message more relatable.

Paul's fluency in Greek enabled him to engage with influential philosophical traditions in the Greco-Roman world. For instance, he debated Stoic and Epicurean philosophers on Mars Hill (acts chapter 17:18 – 34), presenting the gospel in terms they could understand while being able to parry their challenges effectively. His ability to incorporate elements of Stoic thought into his arguments demonstrates his intellectual versatility and helps bridge the gap between Jewish Christian theology and Greek philosophical traditions.

Paul frequently quoted from the Septuagint, the Greek translation of the Hebrew Scriptures, rather than directly from Hebrew texts. This choice made his arguments more understanding to Hellenized Jews and Gentiles familiar with the Septuagint but not Hebrew.

Paul's letters reflect his mastery of Greek rhetorical techniques, which enhances his ability to persuade and teach. He employed logical arguments (e.g., Romans), emotional appeals (e.g., Philippians), and practical advice (e.g., Corinthians) tailored to his audience's needs. So, as you can see, God wisely chose Paul for this job.

His fluency in Greek was instrumental in spreading Christianity beyond its Jewish roots into a global faith. It allowed him to communicate effectively with diverse audiences, engage Greco-Roman philosophical traditions, contextualize the gospel for Gentiles, and write foundational Christian texts that remain influential today.

As if that was not enough, Paul was a tent maker by trade. It was customary for Jewish boys to learn a trade and he took up tent making. This was something he learned during his early years in Tarsus, a city in Celicia known for its production of goats’ hair cloth used in tents. Paul used this skill to support himself financially during his missionary journeys, particularly in situations where he wanted to avoid being a financial burden on the communities he was serving or to maintain his credibility as a preacher of the Gospel.

The moment Jesus appeared to his apostles after his resurrection and commanded them to "go into all the world and proclaim the gospel to all creations" must've been an overwhelming and transformative experience. Reflecting on their likely emotions and thoughts in that instant reveals a complex mixture of fear and resolve.

The apostles had just witnessed the resurrected Christ, a reality confirming everything Jesus foretold. This encounter would've filled them with profound knowledge of the power of God over death and the fulfillment of divine promises. Seeing Jesus alive after his crucifixion must've deepened their understanding of his divinity and mission, leaving them in reverence and wonder.

Initially, the apostles struggled with unbelief and fear. Mark 16:14 notes that Jesus rebuked them for their "unbelief and hardness of heart" because they doubted his resurrection reports. The earlier fear — hiding behind locked doors (John 20:19) — likely lingered as they grappled with the enormity of what they were asked to do. The command to preach to "all creation" was logistically daunting and dangerous in a world hostile to their message. Yet this fear was tempered by the undeniable truth of Christ's resurrection, which emboldened them to move forward despite the risks. They may have felt unworthy of such a monumental task. Peter, for instance, had denied Jesus three times before his crucifixion (Mark 14:66 – 72), and others had fled in fear (Mark 14:50). Yet, Jesus' appearance was a powerful act of forgiveness and restoration, reminding them that their mission was not based on their merit but on God's grace and empowerment through the Holy Spirit (John chapter 20:21 – 22). The apostles must've felt the weight of this task as they realized they were entrusted with spreading the message that would define human salvation. Despite these challenges,  they began to steel themselves to the task. The resurrection was proof that God's power could overcome any obstacle. Jesus's promise that he would be with them always and the coming gift of the Holy Spirit assured them they would not be alone in their mission. This hope transforms their fear and courage and their doubts into faith.

So, in that pivotal moment, the apostles transitioned from hesitant followers to bold witnesses of Christ's resurrection. Their emotions were likely a blend of awe at Jesus's victory over death, humility at being chosen despite their failures, fear at the daunting mission ahead, and hope rooted in God's promises. This transformation set the stage for their eventual fearless proclamation of the gospel worldwide — a testament to how encountering the risen Christ can inspire even the most ordinary individuals to accomplish extraordinary things.

The apostle's experience of receiving Jesus' commands to proclaim the gospel to all nations resonates deeply with the challenges and opportunities faced by ordinary followers of Christ today. While the context has changed, the parallels between their mission and ours are similar as Modern Christians face a similar sense of responsibility to carry out this great commission in a world that often feels overwhelming. Today's world is fast, diverse, and increasingly secularized, making evangelism daunting. Yet, like the apostles, we are reminded that it is not by our strength but through God's power and guidance that this mission is accomplished.

Just as Jesus entrusted his apostles in Mark's Gospel to spread his message of salvation, today, he entrusts us with continuing that mission. We are called to be faithful witnesses in our communities. The same spirit that empowered the early church is available to us now.

Modern believers, like the Apostles, can ultimately draw upon God's grace and power to fulfill this calling. Whether through quiet acts of service or bold proclamations of faith, each follower has a role in advancing God's kingdom. Like them, we are reminded that it is not about our abilities, but about God working through us for his glory.

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Saturday of the Thirty-second Week in Ordinary Time
III John 5-8
Luke 18:1-8

The designated readings for today include a section from John's third epistle, the 112th Psalm, and a parable out of Luke's gospel18:1-8. In addition, the readings fall on the anniversaries of two saints: St. Margaret of Scotland and St. Gertrude the Great of Germany. So we are faced with a grouping of disparate readings; how do we tie them all together?

Image by Moonpieandsometea

First, a brief description of the saints: St. Margaret of Scotland, born around 1045, was known for her piety, unending prayer, and charitable works in efforts to reform the Scottish church, while St. Gertrude the Great from Germany was born in 1256, was a Benedictine nun known for her profound spiritual writings and devotion to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. While there is no known historical link between St. Margaret and St. Gertrude, their simultaneous celebrations allow the faithful to honor two influential figures in Christian history who exemplified devotion and service in different ways.

One anecdote concerning Saint Gertrude is the tradition that Jesus gave her a prayer, that if said as a devotional, 1000 souls would be released from purgatory every time the prayer was said respectfully. However, it should be noted that this promise does not appear in any of St. Gertrude's writings and is more of a popular devotion than an official church doctrine. Despite this, the prayer remains comforting for Catholics who wish to pray for their souls in purgatory.

For today's readings, the third epistle of John is a brief letter in the New Testament written by the apostle John. It's the shortest book in the Bible by word count, consisting of only 219 words in its original Greek. The letter focuses on Christian hospitality, leadership, and walking in truth. John takes the title of "the elder" in addressing Gaius, a faithful Christian leader known for his hospitality in support of traveling missionaries. John writes it to counter the leadership issues of another person involved, Diotrephes, whom John condemns for his arrogance and refusal to accept John's authority. He rejects John's messengers and excommunicates those in his church who show them hospitality. So John
warns Gaius about Diotrephese's harmful behavior and his intent to confront him when he visits. Commentators have since described this

person as someone whose desire for prominence and control within the church led him to reject the authority of John and other apostolic authorities.
Some Biblical scholars have conjectured that his name carries a significant meaning that may provide insight into his background. The name is of Greek origin and means "cherished by Zeus." This etymology suggests that he likely came from a pagan, Gentile background, as Zeus was the chief deity in Greek mythology.

Furthermore, his name may indicate that he could have been raised in a non-Christian environment before his involvement in the early Christian church. One example is that despite converting to Christianity, he retained his pagan name, which is unusual for Gentile converts, who often adopted Christian names to sign their acceptance of Christ's teachings. So perhaps Diotrephese had not entirely abandoned his former ways or values, which might explain some of his behavior in the church.

The parable of the persistent widow, also known as the parable of the unjust judge, is found in Luke 18:1 through eight. This parable is one of Jesus's teachings about the importance of persistence in prayer and faith in God's attendance to our pleadings. In this story, a widow repeatedly approaches an unjust judge to see justice against the adversary. The judge, who neither fears God nor respects people, initially refuses her requests. However, due to her persistent badgering of the judge, he eventually grants her justice to avoid being worn out by her continual pleas. The primary lesson of this parable is the importance of persistent prayer.

Jesus uses the story to teach his disciples always to pray and "not to give up”. Moreover, persistent prayer shows faith and trust in God. The unjust judge eventually grants justice due to the widow's perseverance despite his lack of moral integrity. However, the parable contrasts an unjust judge with God, highlighting that if a corrupt judge can be persuaded to act justly through persistence, a loving God will certainly respond to his people's pleas. Unlike the judge who acts out of self-interest and worries that people in society will think even less of him than they do now, God's actions are rooted in righteousness and compassion.

The common thread through our passages for today is that faithfulness to God manifests through action. Three John expresses it through hospitality and support for fellow believers. In Psalm 112 it is seen in righteous living, generosity, and steadfastness. Luke 18 demonstrates it through persistent prayer and trust in God's justice. All three passages emphasize that true faith involves active participation in God's work, whether through supporting others, living righteously, or persistently seeking justice. Thus, these passages collectively encourage believers to live out their faith through persistent action, whether by helping others, practicing generosity, or continually seeking justice through prayer.

Now, that is my official presentation of today's assigned readings; however, in doing my research for this talk, I was struck with the number of parables that are included in Luke's gospel, 29 to be exact, of which 24 are found within the section known as the Travel Narrative. In comparison, Matthew had 23 parables in his entire gospel, and Mark only had six. So why does Luke include so many parables, I asked myself and why in such a travel format? Well, part of the answer could be that Luke was a disciple of Paul and accompanied him on some of his proselytizing trips and saw the benefit of this form of spreading Jesus’s message to Gentiles, who were the ultimate target of Lukes's Gospel writings.

As it turns out, the so-called Travel Narrative is a significant and unique gospel section used only by Luke and focuses on Jesus's journey from Galilee to Jerusalem. This narrative is more than a geographical journey. Instead, most importantly, it is a theological one embedded with teachings, parables, and encounters that emphasize key themes that are very characteristic of Luke's gospel. His focus on the marginalized highlights Jesus's open-arm outreach to those on the fringes of society. His teaching about God's kingdom is portrayed as the complete opposite of what the world values. He also describes how

God rejoices over those who are lost but repent and return to him. Several of his parables show this.

The symbolism of journeying in Luke's Gospel represents more than a physical trip. It symbolizes the spiritual reawakening through God's ultimate purpose. During this trip, Luke consistently reminds us that Jesus is heading towards Jerusalem – the city where prophets are killed.

This foreshadows his passion and crucifixion. The journey prepares Jesus's disciples and readers for what awaits them in Jerusalem – the climax of Jesus's earthly ministry. By focusing on teaching during this journey, Luke presents discipleship as an ongoing process of learning that continues as one follows Jesus on the path toward Jerusalem – and ultimately toward God's kingdom.

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