Blog & Pastor Letters

“This is truly the Prophet, the one who is to come into the world.” For a moment the crowd in today’s reading from the Gospel of John seem to have experienced an epiphany of faith: an insight into Jesus’ identity like Andrew and Philip in John chapter 1 (John 1:41, 45) or the Samaritan woman at the well in chapter 4 (John 4:29). But then Jesus is obliged to withdraw from them — to not entrust himself to them, just like he has before with shallow followers who believed in him only because “they saw the signs which he did” (John 2:23). Jesus “knew what was in” people like that; he knew their faith was in signs, not in Jesus himself.

Have you ever felt like a sheep without a shepherd?

Have you ever felt lost or alone in your faith? Abandoned, even? Do you know the feeling of going to Mass, perhaps at an unfamiliar parish — or perhaps not — and bracing yourself for what you might experience? Ever had a particularly bad experience with a priest, or looked at problems in the Church, or our nation, or the world, and wondered, “Why don’t the bishops do or say something?”

“A plan for the fullness of times, to sum up all things in Christ, in heaven and on earth.” This amazing sentence in the second reading, from St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, is the climax to a magnificent passage that comes up in the Sunday Mass readings just once every three years — today being that day — though this passage is prayed by priests, deacons, and religious typically every week in the Divine Office, during Monday Evening Prayer! So it’s a key passage in the heart and mind of the Church, even though we hear it so seldom at Sunday Mass.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church, in the section on the First Commandment, lists atheism as “a sin against the virtue of religion” — not just a false belief or an error, but a sin. Now, the Catechism is quick to acknowledge that culpability in particular atheists “can be significantly diminished in virtue of the intentions and the circumstances.” In praying for “those who do not acknowledge God” in the Solemn Intercessions on Good Friday, the Church asks that, in “following what is right in sincerity of heart, they may find the way to God himself.” So disbelieving in God’s existence doesn’t automatically mean that someone isn’t sincere in seeking to follow what is right and true.

Today, as we reflect on the intertwining paths of philosophy and faith, we are reminded that wisdom, the pursuit of profound understanding, takes different forms. The Ancient Greeks embarked on an autonomous quest for wisdom, seeking answers to fundamental questions about freedom, the soul, and the nature of a person. On the other hand, the Hebrew perspective illuminates that true wisdom is a gift from God, revealed and received, not merely grasped at through human endeavors.

Today, our reflections turn to the profound wisdom contained in the book of Job, a literary masterpiece that stands unique within the sacred canon of Scripture. Job’s narrative takes a dramatic approach to the fundamental questions of our existence, unraveling the mysteries of the relationship between God and humanity, good and evil, reward and punishment.

On this Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, we reflect on the profound messages of hope and resilience that scripture offers us, drawing particularly from the insights of the prophet Ezekiel and the teachings of St. Paul.

In today’s readings, we are reminded of the profound consequences of the first disobedience in the Garden of Eden. Adam and Eve, lured by the serpent’s cunning, freely chose to eat from the tree that God had forbidden. Their excuses and evasion of responsibility reveal the human tendency to shirk accountability, yet both ultimately admit, “So I ate it.”

As we gather today to celebrate the solemnity of Corpus Christi, the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, the readings offer a profound backdrop to the significance of this liturgical feast. The primitive scene from the Book of Exodus paints a vivid picture of a rough-hewn altar, twelve stone pillars, and young men from the tribes of Israel sacrificing young bulls. The sacrificial scene becomes a tangible prefiguration of the Eucharist.

On the first Sunday after Pentecost of each liturgical year, the Church bids us celebrate in a special manner “the central mystery of the Christian faith and life,” the mystery from which “all the other mysteries of the faith flow” (CCC 234). The mystery in whose name we sign ourselves with the sign of the cross and receive the Sacrament of Baptism. The mystery of God in Himself. That is, the mystery of the Most Holy Trinity. The mystery that God is one in three and three in one. One in essence and three in persons — Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. “One God in Trinity, and Trinity in Unity” as the Athanasian Creed tells us.

The Church is very wise in the planning of the liturgical calendar. It seems like we are always in preparation for the next big thing in the cycle. As you will no doubt recall, the liturgical year begins with the season of Advent, a time of preparation for the coming of Christ. However, even in Advent, this holy time can be viewed as a kind of two-part season. Beginning with about the first three weeks, the focus is on the figure of Saint John the Baptist, the forerunner of the Lord Jesus, and the coming of Christ in glory at the end of time. Following this remote preparation for the Lord, from December 17 onward, we kick into high gear with the proximate preparation for the recalling of the events of the Incarnation and Birth of the Messiah, marked with the use of the “O” antiphons in the Liturgy of the Hours.

On this Seventh Sunday of Easter, the last before the great Solemnity of Pentecost, we find ourselves with the nascent Church as she patiently and prayerfully awaits the “promise of the Father,” who is the Holy Spirit in whose power the disciples would burst forth from the upper room, like the blood and water that burst forth from the heart of Christ, to sanctify the nations, gathering them into the Kingdom of Heaven through their witness to the risen Christ.

“This is my commandment, that you love one another . . .” In our readings on this Sixth Sunday of Easter, we hear much about Our Lord’s commandment to love. Yet this seems a strange thing to modern ears: a commandment to love. For many in our society today believe that love is simply a feeling, an inclination caused in us by encountering someone or even something outside of us. And so, some may ask, “How can we be commanded to love?” More than this, though, even if we can will ourselves to love, what kind of love is Jesus commanding us to give?