It’s Not Easy to Be a Catholic

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Years ago, an older woman I knew used to say, “It’s so easy to be a Catholic.”

I have to disagree.

Perhaps it is easy to call yourself a Catholic. It may even be easy to practice a kind of “Catholic lite”—going through the motions, keeping the parts of the Faith that are comfortable, and quietly setting aside the things that demand too much of us.

But to be a good and faithful Catholic? To strive seriously for holiness?

That isn’t easy at all.

The Honeymoon Doesn’t Last

Anyone who has experienced a conversion knows what I mean.

Perhaps you came to the Catholic Faith for the first time. Perhaps you returned after years away. Or perhaps you were Catholic all your life but experienced a reversion—a moment when the Faith suddenly became real and you decided that you wanted to follow Jesus Christ seriously.

There can be a kind of honeymoon period.

Prayer is exciting. You want to learn everything you can about the Faith. You begin changing things in your life. You discover the saints, the Sacraments, Eucharistic Adoration, spiritual reading, perhaps devotions you never knew before.

Everything seems new.

Then, sooner or later, the honeymoon ends.

Prayer becomes difficult. Temptations return. Enthusiasm fades. Old habits begin tugging at us again. The demands of the Faith don’t always fit comfortably with what we want.

And that is when the real work begins.

Our Lord never promised us an easy road. In fact, He told us precisely the opposite:

“Make your way in by the narrow gate. It is a broad gate and a wide road that leads on to perdition, and those who go in that way are many indeed; but how small is the gate, how narrow the road that leads on to life, and how few there are that find it!”
— Matthew 7:13–14

The road to heaven is narrow because following Christ requires conversion—and conversion is not something that happens only once.

It is the work of a lifetime.

We Are in a Battle

There is another reality that we sometimes don’t like to talk about.

The moment we begin taking our relationship with Christ seriously, we discover that we are in a battle.

The devil does not simply stand aside while someone begins moving toward God.

Temptation comes. Discouragement comes. Distraction comes. Sometimes it is something obviously sinful. More often, perhaps, it is something much more subtle: comfort, laziness, pleasure, compromise, or the quiet suggestion that we don’t need to take all of this quite so seriously.

If we fail to recognize that we are in a spiritual battle, we become an easy target.

St. Augustine knew this battle extraordinarily well.

Before his conversion, he desperately wanted God, but another part of him remained attached to his former way of life. In his Confessions, he describes the struggle:

“Thus did my two wills, one old and the other new, one carnal, the other spiritual, contend within me.”
— Confessions, VIII, 5

Augustine did not literally possess two wills. He was describing the conflict taking place within himself.

And I think every serious Catholic recognizes it.

I want God—but I also want comfort.

I want to pray—but sometimes I would rather do something else.

I want to become holy—but I don’t necessarily want the sacrifices holiness requires.

I know what I should do—but sometimes I simply don’t feel like doing it.

That is the battle.

And none of us is exempt from it.

God Has Given Us Weapons

Thankfully, Our Lord has not sent us into battle defenseless.

He has given us the weapons we need.

Prayer. Penance. Sacrifice. Study. The Sacraments.

These are not merely pious extras for particularly devout Catholics. They are essential elements of the spiritual life.

We need to form our minds so that we know what is true.

We need to form our hearts so that we learn to love what God loves.

And we need to strengthen our wills so that we can choose what is good even when we don’t feel like choosing it.

Jesus tells us:

“You shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.”

The modern world has a strange understanding of freedom. It often tells us that freedom means doing whatever we want whenever we want to do it.

Christian freedom is something very different.

Real freedom is having the ability to choose what is good.

A person enslaved by his passions is not free simply because he is allowed to satisfy them.

The saint is free.

The saint has become so conformed to Christ that he can choose the good even when doing so requires sacrifice.

And that kind of freedom takes formation, discipline and grace.

We Cannot Win This Battle Alone

This brings us back to St. Augustine.

After his conversion, Augustine understood something that is absolutely essential to the Catholic spiritual life: we cannot make ourselves holy.

He writes:

“The determination of the human will is insufficient, unless the Lord grant it victory.”
— On Grace and Free Will, 9

We need grace.

We cannot save ourselves by determination. We cannot overcome sin merely by gritting our teeth and trying harder. We cannot conquer the world, the flesh and the devil through sheer willpower.

We need God.

But grace does not eliminate our freedom. Grace strengthens and perfects it. God acts, and we cooperate with His action.

That is why we pray.

That is why we do penance.

That is why we make sacrifices.

That is why we study our Faith.

That is why we receive the Sacraments.

That is why we go to Confession when we fall and begin again.

And that is why a serious Catholic never gives up.

So, is it easy to be a Catholic?

No.

The gate is small. The road is narrow. There is a battle to be fought.

But we do not fight alone.

Christ gives us the weapons. Christ gives us the Sacraments. Christ gives us His Church.

And, above all, Christ gives us the grace to win the battle.

The road may be narrow, but we know where it leads.

To eternal life.

Ministry Comes With a Cost

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During our priests’ retreats, Eileen George would often tell us:

“Everyone wants the gift of healing, or they want some kind of big ministry, but they don’t know: ministry comes with a cost.”

I have thought about those words many times over the years. There is a great deal of wisdom in them.

It is easy to admire a vocation from the outside. We see the priest at the altar, the missionary preaching the Gospel, the religious giving his or her life to prayer and service, or the layperson carrying out some important apostolate. We see what God accomplishes through them.

What we do not always see is the cost.

The prophet Jeremiah knew that cost very well.

When God called Jeremiah to be a prophet, he could not have understood everything that vocation would entail. A prophet is not someone who decides what he wants to say. He is called by God to speak the Word of God clearly and without compromise.

That means speaking what God gives you—not what you would prefer to say, not what will make you popular, and not necessarily what people want to hear.

And sometimes there is a price to be paid for that fidelity.

Jeremiah experienced rejection, persecution, isolation, and imprisonment. He reached a point where he wanted to stop. He had endured enough. He resolved that he would no longer speak in the name of the Lord.

But he could not remain silent.

The Word of God had become, as Jeremiah described it, like a fire burning within his heart and imprisoned in his bones. He tried to contain it, but he could not.

That fire was his vocation.

God Calls; We Respond

Jeremiah teaches us something essential about every vocation: vocation begins with God, not with us.

We do not initiate the call. God does.

God chooses whom He wills. He calls whom He wills. He sends whom He wills.

That can be difficult for us to understand because we tend to think in terms of qualifications. We look at ourselves and ask: Am I capable? Am I talented enough? Am I strong enough? Do I have what it takes?

But those are not always the most important questions.

When God calls, He supplies what is lacking.

I sometimes think of us as empty vessels standing before an immense reservoir. The vessel does not produce the water. It simply receives it and carries it where it is needed.

So it is with vocation.

We do not produce grace. We receive it.

We do not save souls. God saves souls.

We do not possess within ourselves everything necessary to accomplish the mission entrusted to us. We depend upon God to provide what we lack.

Our task is to remain open—to be available, prayerful, obedient, and faithful.

The Fire of the Priesthood

Jeremiah’s experience resonates particularly with the vocation of the priest.

A priest may sometimes look at himself and wonder, Why did God call me?

Ultimately, that is God’s business.

Priests are ordinary human beings. We come from ordinary families and communities. We have strengths and weaknesses, hopes and fears, gifts and limitations. We become tired. We can become discouraged. We can be misunderstood. We can experience loneliness and rejection.

And sometimes we can be tempted to avoid difficult truths because speaking the truth faithfully can come with a cost.

But the fire must never be allowed to go out.

Through prayer, sacrifice, dedication, and fidelity, the fire God placed within the soul at the moment of vocation can be rekindled again and again.

Sometimes it may seem to have dwindled to a few glowing embers.

But God can breathe upon those embers.

And suddenly the fire comes roaring back.

That fire becomes zeal—zeal for Christ, zeal for His Church, and above all, zeal for souls.

Pray That the Fire Never Goes Out

Eileen George was right.

Ministry comes with a cost.

So does every vocation worth living.

But God never calls us merely to burden us. He calls us because He intends to accomplish something through us. And when He calls, He also gives the grace necessary to persevere.

Pray for your priests.

Pray for religious.

Pray for seminarians and those discerning their vocations.

Pray for every man and woman whom God has called to some ministry or apostolate within His Church.

Pray especially that the fire of the Holy Spirit will continue to burn within them, giving them an ever deeper desire for the salvation of souls.

For ultimately, that is why the Church exists: to bring souls to Jesus Christ and, through Him, to eternal life.

And that is the purpose of every vocation God gives to His Church.

May the fire never go out.

Jesus, the Divine Good Samaritan -12th Sunday After Pentecost — 2026

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We often think of the Good Samaritan as an example of caring for the poor, the homeless, and those in need—and certainly he is. Our Lord concludes the parable by telling us, “Go, and do thou in like manner.”

But there is another, deeper way of looking at this parable. The wounded man lying along the road is not simply someone else whom we are called to help. That wounded man is us. He is all of humanity.

Humanity was wounded through Original Sin. Sin robbed man of sanctifying grace and broke the harmony that God intended between Himself and His creation. And since the fall of Adam, the wounds of sin have continued to spread throughout the human family.

We experience those wounds in our own lives. Every time we sin, and especially through mortal sin, we wound our relationship with God. Sin leaves us spiritually weakened and, in the case of mortal sin, separated from the life of grace.

But sin never affects only the person who commits it.

Our personal sins affect our families, our communities, the Church, and the world around us. Just as every act of virtue sends ripples outward, so does every act of sin. A hidden act of charity makes the world a little better. A hidden sin contributes to its brokenness.

This is why St. Paul tells us that “the whole creation groaneth and travaileth in pain” (Romans 8:22). Creation itself bears the wounds of mankind’s rebellion against God.

We are like that man in the Gospel—wounded, stripped, and lying helpless along the road.

And then comes the Good Samaritan.

Jesus does not pass us by.

He sees fallen humanity lying wounded along the road and bends down to save us. Through His Passion, Death, and Resurrection—the Paschal Mystery—He enters into our brokenness, lifts us up, and carries us to safety.

The Fathers of the Church saw a beautiful image of this in the parable. The wounded traveler represents fallen humanity. Christ is the Good Samaritan. And the inn to which the Samaritan carries the wounded man is an image of the Church.

The Church is the hospital for sinners.

Christ brings wounded souls into His Church so that He can heal them through grace and the Sacraments.

In Baptism, the wound of Original Sin is washed away and we are restored to the life of grace.

When we fall again, Christ does not abandon us along the road. In the Sacrament of Confession, He continues to cleanse our wounds, forgive our sins, and restore us to friendship with God.

And in the Holy Eucharist, He gives us the medicine of immortality. He gives us His own Body and Blood to nourish us, strengthen us, and preserve us against the spiritual diseases that constantly threaten the soul.

And just as the Samaritan in the Gospel paid for the wounded man’s care, Jesus has paid the price for ours.

Not with silver.

Not with gold.

He paid with His own Most Precious Blood.

On the Cross, Christ paid the debt of our sins and opened for us the road back to the Father. He has treated us not according to what our sins deserve, but according to the abundance of His mercy.

But the Gospel cannot end there.

After telling the parable, Jesus says, “Go, and do thou in like manner.”

Once we have experienced the mercy of the Divine Good Samaritan ourselves, we are called to become instruments of that same mercy for others.

There are wounded souls all around us.

Some have never truly known Jesus Christ. Some have wandered far from Him. Some have been wounded by their own sins. Others have been terribly wounded by the sins of those around them. Some may not even realize how badly they need healing.

We cannot simply pass them by.

Our task is not to condemn them. Nor is it to pretend that their wounds do not exist. We are called to meet them with patience, charity, and truth—to help lift them up and gently lead them to the One who alone can truly heal them.

We lead them to Christ.

We lead them to His grace.

We lead them to His Sacraments.

We lead them to His Holy Church.

The world around us is wounded and broken. We see the effects of sin everywhere—in families, in society, in the Church, and in our own hearts. But Christ has not abandoned the wounded traveler along the road.

The Divine Good Samaritan is still passing by.

He still bends down to lift up sinners.

He still cleanses wounds in Confession.

He still feeds souls with His own Body and Blood.

He still brings wounded humanity into the healing care of His Church.

May Jesus, the Divine Good Samaritan, pour out His grace upon all those who are wounded and far from Him. May He bring them into the healing care of His Holy Church.

And may He give each of us the grace to become His hands in a wounded and broken world, helping to carry souls home to Him.

Great Is Your Faith – 12th Sun in Ordinary Time – A

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At first hearing, today’s Gospel can sound troubling. Jesus seems unusually harsh toward a suffering woman who comes begging Him to heal her daughter. He initially remains silent. He tells her that He was sent to the lost sheep of Israel. Finally, He says:

“It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.”

But what appears to be a rebuke of a pagan woman may, in reality, become a rebuke of the weak faith of those who should already believe.

A Mother Who Is Suffering

The Gospel begins with Jesus withdrawing into the region of Tyre and Sidon—Gentile territory. There He encounters a Canaanite woman whose daughter is tormented by a demon.

This woman is suffering because her daughter is suffering.

Every parent understands something of this. Parents suffer when their children suffer. Sometimes their deepest suffering comes when their children abandon the Faith, live in ways contrary to the Gospel, or even reject their parents because their parents remain faithful to Christ and the teachings of His Church.

This woman comes to Jesus carrying not only her daughter’s suffering, but also her own.

She cries out:

“Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David!”

Notice what she calls Him: Son of David.

This is a Jewish messianic title. This Gentile woman, living outside the Chosen People, somehow recognizes in Jesus the promised Messiah. She sees something that many of those who witnessed His miracles and heard His teaching failed to recognize.

Yet Jesus does not immediately answer her.

“Lord, Help Me”

Even the disciples become impatient and ask Jesus to send her away. Jesus then says:

“I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”

There is an order to God’s plan of salvation. Jesus came first to Israel. The Messiah arose from the Chosen People, and from Israel the Gospel would eventually go forth to the entire world.

But this woman does not give up.

She approaches Jesus, does Him homage, and offers one of the simplest prayers imaginable:

“Lord, help me.”

There is something profoundly beautiful in those three words.

She does not even say, “Help my daughter.” Her daughter’s suffering has become her own. She has so completely identified herself with her child that she cries, “Lord, help me.”

That is a prayer every one of us can pray.

When we do not know what else to say, when our problems appear impossible, when someone we love is suffering, when a child has wandered away from the Faith, or when God seems silent, we can pray:

Lord, help me.

What About the Dogs?

Then comes the difficult sentence:

“It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs.”

To modern ears, this sounds terribly insulting. But we must understand the language and culture of Our Lord’s time.

The Greek word used here, kynaria, refers to little or household dogs rather than the wild scavenging dogs commonly despised in the ancient world. The image is of a family gathered around its table.

The children are fed first.

That is the point.

Jesus came first to Israel, the Chosen People. But God’s plan was always that salvation would ultimately extend to every nation. After His Resurrection, Jesus would command His Apostles:

“Go, therefore, and make disciples of all nations.”

The Gospel goes forth from Israel to the entire world.

Jesus is not ignorant of this woman’s faith, nor is He unwilling to show her mercy. He knows her heart. Through His silence and challenging words, He draws out a faith that will become an example for His disciples and for the entire Church.

“Even the Dogs Eat the Scraps”

The woman could have become angry.

She could have walked away offended.

She could have demanded that Jesus speak differently to her.

Instead, she gives one of the most beautiful and humble responses in all of Scripture:

“Please, Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters.”

What extraordinary humility!

She does not argue against the order of God’s plan. She demands nothing and claims nothing as her right. She simply trusts that even a crumb from the Lord’s table will be enough.

She believes that the smallest portion of Christ’s power is greater than the demon tormenting her daughter.

Then Jesus reveals what He has been drawing out of her all along:

“O woman, great is your faith!”

Think about that.

She is a Canaanite. She stands outside the Chosen People. Yet Jesus publicly praises the greatness of her faith.

Throughout the Gospels, many of those who should have recognized Jesus doubt Him, question Him, resist Him, and demand signs from Him.

But this pagan woman trusts.

Perhaps, then, the real rebuke in this Gospel is not ultimately directed toward her. Perhaps it is directed toward those who have received so much from God and yet believe so little.

More Than Scraps

Through Baptism, we have become members of the Chosen People of the New Covenant.

And we have received far more than scraps from the Master’s table.

We have received the Word of God. We have received sanctifying grace. We have received the Sacraments. Above all, from the altar of the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, we receive not merely crumbs from His table, but Jesus Christ Himself—His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

How great, then, should our faith be?

This Canaanite woman teaches us how to approach Jesus: with humility, perseverance, and complete trust.

Sometimes God may seem silent.

Sometimes His answer may not come when we expect it.

Sometimes He may permit our faith to be tested.

But when that happens, remember this woman.

Do not walk away.

Do not give up.

Keep coming back to Him.

When you cannot find any other words, simply pray:

“Lord, help me.”

St. Lawrence and the Chalice of Our Lord

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St. Lawrence and the Chalice of Our Lord

Today the Church celebrates the Feast of St. Lawrence, Deacon and Martyr.

As a deacon of the Church of Rome, Lawrence was entrusted with the material treasures of the Church. According to the well-documented research presented by Janice Bennett in St. Laurence and the Holy Grail, among those treasures was the chalice believed to have been used by Our Lord at the Last Supper—the First Mass in the Upper Room.

Before his martyrdom in the year 258, Lawrence entrusted the chalice to a fellow Spaniard, who took it to Spain for safekeeping. After a remarkable journey through history, it eventually came to Valencia, where it remains today.

The chalice had been preserved by the Church of Rome and, according to this tradition, used by the early Popes until the time of Pope St. Sixtus II. In our own time, both Pope St. John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI celebrated Mass using this ancient chalice.

But there is another fascinating connection.

Listen to the words of the ancient Roman Canon at the consecration of the Precious Blood:

“In like manner, after He had supped, taking also this glorious chalice into His holy and venerable hands…”

The Latin says:

Accipiens et hunc praeclarum calicem…

Hunc calicem — “this chalice.”

Not simply a chalice.

THIS chalice.

The Roman Canon comes to us from the ancient Church of Rome—the very Church in which this chalice was preserved and used. Could those words preserve the memory of the very chalice possessed by the early Roman Church—the chalice that Our Lord Himself held in His hands in the Upper Room?

What a remarkable connection:

From Our Lord in the Upper Room, to St. Peter and his successors, to Pope St. Sixtus II, to St. Lawrence, and through him to Spain and eventually Valencia.

Nearly two thousand years later, the chalice remains a remarkable and tangible witness to the continuity of the Catholic Faith: the same Eucharistic Sacrifice, the same Apostolic succession, and the same Church stretching back to Jesus Christ and the Upper Room.

Thank you, St. Lawrence, for preserving this sacred treasure and handing it on to future generations.

St. Lawrence, Deacon and Martyr, pray for us.

Jesus opens ears and releases tongues – 11th Sunday of Pentecost – 2026

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Ephpheta — Be Opened

11th Sunday After Pentecost — 2026

Today the Church presents us with an extraordinary account of our Lord healing a man who was deaf and had difficulty speaking. It is a story that, for obvious reasons, I can identify with in a particular way.

Jesus Enters Gentile Territory

Our Lord has traveled beyond the predominantly Jewish regions and into Gentile territory. He had gone through the region of Tyre and Sidon and came to the Sea of Galilee through the district of the Decapolis. This was largely a Gentile, Greek-speaking region, strongly influenced by Roman culture.

That detail is important.

Although the Messiah came first to Israel, already we see the Gospel beginning to reach beyond the boundaries of Israel. Christ has come not only for one people, but for the salvation of the whole world.

As St. Paul would later write:

“This is good and pleasing to God our Savior, who wills everyone to be saved and to come to knowledge of the truth.”
— 1 Timothy 2:3–4

The salvation Christ brings is meant for everyone.

They Bring the Man to Jesus

Then they bring a man to Jesus.

The man is deaf. He cannot hear the voice of our Lord. And because he cannot come to Christ through hearing, other people bring him to Jesus.

There is something beautiful in that alone.

Sometimes we have to bring others to Christ because, spiritually speaking, they cannot yet hear His voice for themselves. We bring them through our prayers, our example, our sacrifices, and, when the opportunity presents itself, through our words.

The Gospel also tells us that the man had difficulty speaking. St. Mark uses the Greek word mogilalos—meaning one who speaks only with difficulty.

Here is a man whose ears are closed and whose tongue cannot freely express itself. Those around him beg Jesus to lay His hand upon him.

Jesus Touches Him

What Jesus does next is very physical—so physical, in fact, that it might make our modern, hygiene-conscious culture a little uncomfortable.

Jesus takes the man aside from the crowd. He puts His fingers into the man’s ears. He spits and touches the man’s tongue.

Then, looking up to heaven, He groans and says:

“Ephpheta” — “Be opened.”

Immediately, the man’s ears are opened and his tongue is loosed.

Jesus could have healed this man simply by speaking a word. He had done so on other occasions. But here He chooses to touch him.

God uses the physical to communicate His grace.

For Catholics, that should sound very familiar.

Our Lord continues to use visible, tangible things as instruments of His grace: water in Baptism, oil in Confirmation and the Anointing of the Sick, the laying on of hands in Holy Orders, and bread and wine which, at the words of consecration, become His Body and Blood.

Christianity is not merely a religion of ideas. God took flesh and entered the material world. Through the sacraments, He continues to meet us there.

He Opens Our Ears

Jesus continues to do something very similar for each of us.

He reaches our ears through Sacred Scripture and through the words of the Holy Mass.

The Word made flesh speaks His Word into our ears and says, in effect:

“Be opened.”

Open your ears.

Hear My Word.

Listen to Me.

Follow Me.

But then Jesus does something even more remarkable.

He touches our tongues.

At Holy Communion, the same Jesus who touched the tongue of the man in today’s Gospel places His own Sacred Body upon our tongues.

Think about that.

The fingers of Christ touched the ears of that man. The spittle of Christ touched his tongue.

But in the Holy Eucharist, Christ gives us something infinitely greater:

He gives us Himself.

His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

This is the pattern of spiritual transformation.

First, our ears must be opened so that we can hear Him.

Then we receive Him.

And then our tongues must be loosed so that we can proclaim Him.

Be Opened

The more time we spend with Jesus in prayer—especially before Him in Eucharistic Adoration—and the more deeply we enter into the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, the more He opens our ears and loosens our tongues.

First, we hear.

Then, we receive.

Finally, we proclaim.

And then we go out to those whose hearts and ears may still be closed, just as others brought the deaf man to Jesus.

We bring them to Christ through our prayers, through our words, through our sacrifices, and through the witness of our lives.

And we pray that Jesus will reach out and touch them as He has touched us.

That He will speak again that powerful word:

“Ephpheta.”

“Be opened.”

When the Storm Comes, See Your Eyes on Jesus – 19th Sunday in Ordinary Time – A 2026

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When the Storm Comes, Keep Your Eyes on Jesus

Nineteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time — Year A

We often think of the prophets as strong, fearless men—men who stood boldly before kings and nations and never seemed afraid. But that is far from the truth.

The prophets were men of flesh and blood, just like us. They had their weaknesses, struggles, and fears. The difference was that their struggles often took place in the spotlight. God called them to speak the truth, sometimes to people who did not want to hear it. And speaking the truth often came at a price.

Elijah was certainly no timid man.

Not long before the scene we hear about in today’s first reading, Elijah had confronted the prophets of the false god Baal on Mount Carmel. After God answered Elijah’s prayer by sending fire from heaven, Elijah had the 450 prophets of Baal seized and put to death.

This was a man of tremendous courage. I would really like to meet Elijah and spend some time in conversation with him!

And yet, shortly afterward, Elijah was afraid.

The wicked Queen Jezebel heard what had happened and sent a message to Elijah threatening his life. By the next day, she vowed, Elijah would suffer the same fate as the prophets of Baal.

Elijah had stood against 450 false prophets. He had confronted a king. He had witnessed fire come down from heaven.

But now Jezebel wanted him dead—and Elijah fled for his life.

Even a prophet can become afraid.

The Fear of Proclaiming the Truth

Perhaps that helps us understand something about our own times.

There can be a real temptation among clergy to fear the consequences of proclaiming the truth. Some fear retaliation. Some fear damaging their chances for advancement. Some fear a telephone call from the chancery. Others fear losing parishioners or financial support.

I once preached the closing Mass at a priest friend’s parish feast. By coincidence—or perhaps Providence—the first reading was the account of Elijah confronting the prophets of Baal.

I preached on the reading.

Two people walked out.

At the end, there was a standing ovation.

But afterward, my poor priest friend had to face the wrath of Jezebel!

That is one of the difficulties of proclaiming the truth. There will always be people who welcome it and others who become angry because of it.

Our first obligation, however, must always be to Jesus Christ and to the truth He has revealed, regardless of the repercussions.

But neither Elijah nor today’s Gospel teaches us to rely upon our own strength.

Go to the Mountain

Elijah goes to Horeb, the mountain of God.

There comes a strong and violent wind—but the Lord is not in the wind.

Then an earthquake—but the Lord is not in the earthquake.

Then fire—but the Lord is not in the fire.

Finally comes the tiny, whispering sound.

Elijah covers his face because he knows that he is standing in the presence of God.

There is a lesson here for all of us.

When the noise becomes overwhelming, when opposition comes, when we become frightened or discouraged, we need to return to God.

Find your mountain.

Enter your cave.

Seek silence and solitude.

And listen for the quiet voice of God.

Peter in the Storm

Peter learns much the same lesson in today’s Gospel.

The disciples are in a boat being battered by the waves when Jesus comes toward them, walking upon the sea. Peter says, “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.”

Jesus says simply, “Come.”

And Peter does the impossible.

He steps out of the boat and walks upon the water toward Jesus.

But then something changes.

Peter notices the strength of the wind. He becomes frightened. He begins to sink.

“Lord, save me!”

Immediately, Jesus reaches out His hand and catches him.

Peter’s problem began when the storm became greater in his eyes than the Lord standing before him.

That can happen to us as well.

Keep Your Eyes on Jesus

Storms will come when we stand with Christ.

The winds will blow. The waves will rise. There will always be another Jezebel somewhere threatening those who refuse to compromise the truth.

But our strength does not come from pretending that we are never afraid.

Our strength comes from knowing where to turn when fear comes.

Elijah went to the mountain and listened for the quiet voice of God.

Peter cried out, “Lord, save me!” and reached for the hand of Christ.

And that is where we must turn as well.

When the storm comes, keep your eyes fixed on Jesus. When you begin to sink, reach for His hand. And when the world becomes too noisy to hear Him, go to the mountain, enter the cave, and listen for His voice.

The Miracle That Points to the Eucharist – 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Year A

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The Miracle That Points to the Eucharist

Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time — Year A

Today’s Gospel recounts one of the best-known miracles of Jesus: the multiplication of the loaves and fishes. More than five thousand people are fed with only five loaves and two fish. Yet this miracle is about far more than satisfying the physical hunger of a large crowd. Every detail points ahead to an even greater gift—the Holy Eucharist.

Jesus Withdraws to a Deserted Place

The Gospel begins during a sorrowful moment in the life of Jesus. After learning of the death of St. John the Baptist, Our Lord withdraws by boat to a deserted place.

John had prepared the way for the Messiah. He had called the people to repentance, baptized Jesus in the Jordan, and fearlessly proclaimed the truth. Because of his faithfulness, he was imprisoned and ultimately beheaded by King Herod.

When Jesus hears the news, He seeks a place of solitude. Yet the crowds discover where He has gone and follow Him on foot. When Jesus comes ashore and sees them, He does not send them away. Although He had withdrawn in sorrow, His Sacred Heart is moved with pity for the people.

He heals their sick and attends to their needs.

This tells us something important about the heart of Christ. Even in His own sorrow, Jesus sees the suffering of others. He never turns away those who seek Him. His compassion is not merely an emotion; it becomes action. He heals, teaches, nourishes, and saves.

The Traditional Site of the Miracle

Tradition locates the multiplication of the loaves near Tabgha, along the northwestern shore of the Sea of Galilee. Tabgha is only a short distance from Capernaum and the Mount of Beatitudes.

It is a beautiful and peaceful setting. The rolling hills and broad grassy areas help us imagine how such a great crowd could have gathered there to hear Jesus.

A church now stands at the traditional location of the miracle. It was built upon the remains of churches dating to the fourth and fifth centuries, showing that Christians have venerated this place since the early centuries of the Church.

Near the altar is an ancient mosaic depicting two fish and a basket containing four loaves. The Gospel, however, tells us that there were five loaves. The traditional explanation is that the fifth loaf is represented by the bread placed upon the altar—the bread that becomes the Body of Christ in the celebration of the Eucharist.

Whether or not the ancient artist intended that precise interpretation, the mosaic beautifully draws our attention from the multiplication of the loaves to the altar and the Bread of Life.

“Give Them Some Food Yourselves”

As evening approaches, the disciples become concerned about the crowd. They ask Jesus to dismiss the people so that they can go into the surrounding villages and buy something to eat.

Jesus responds with a surprising command:

“Give them some food yourselves.”

The disciples see only what they lack. There are thousands of people, and they possess only five loaves and two fish. From a human perspective, what they have is completely inadequate.

But Jesus tells them:

“Bring them here to me.”

That is the turning point. What seems insufficient in human hands becomes abundant when it is placed in the hands of Christ.

This is also a lesson for us. We sometimes look at our abilities, resources, time, or strength and conclude that we have too little to offer. Yet Jesus does not ask us to accomplish everything by ourselves. He asks us to bring Him what we have. When we place our small gifts into His hands, He can use them in ways we could never accomplish alone.

The Eucharistic Pattern

The details of the miracle are especially important. St. Matthew tells us that Jesus took the five loaves and the two fish, looked up to heaven, said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to His disciples. The disciples then distributed them to the crowds.

Notice the pattern:

Jesus took the bread.

He blessed it.

He broke it.

He gave it to His disciples.

These actions clearly anticipate the Last Supper. In the Upper Room, Jesus would once again take bread, bless it, break it, and give it to His disciples. But there He would reveal the full meaning of these actions:

“Take and eat; this is my body.”

The miracle beside the Sea of Galilee prepares the disciples to understand that Jesus can provide food beyond all human expectation. The One who multiplied bread for thousands would soon give Himself as the true Bread from Heaven.

More Than a Symbol or Memory

The Eucharist is not simply a reminder of the Last Supper. Nor is the Mass merely a symbolic reenactment of something that happened long ago.

At every Mass, the one sacrifice of Jesus Christ upon Calvary is made sacramentally present. Christ does not suffer or die again. His sacrifice was offered once for all. Yet through the mystery of the Eucharist, that one eternal sacrifice becomes present to us upon the altar.

Under the appearances of bread and wine, Jesus gives us His true Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. The same Lord who fed the multitude beside the Sea of Galilee now feeds His people with Himself.

The multiplication of the loaves satisfied physical hunger for a time. Those who ate that day would become hungry again. The Eucharist, however, nourishes the soul and prepares us for eternal life.

Jesus gives us not merely something, but Himself.

Twelve Baskets Left Over

After everyone had eaten and was satisfied, the disciples gathered twelve baskets filled with the fragments that remained.

The number twelve calls to mind the twelve tribes of Israel and the twelve Apostles. It points toward the whole People of God, gathered and nourished by Christ.

The abundance is also important. Jesus does not provide barely enough. He gives generously. Everyone eats, everyone is satisfied, and there is still food remaining.

God’s grace is never exhausted. The Eucharist has nourished countless generations of Christians, yet Christ is never diminished. Every communicant receives the whole Christ—His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

Food for the Journey

Like the crowd in today’s Gospel, we come to Jesus carrying our needs, weaknesses, sorrows, and hunger. He does not send us away empty. He gathers us, speaks His Word to us, and feeds us at His altar.

The Eucharist has always been part of God’s plan for our salvation. It is the Bread of Life, spiritual nourishment for our earthly pilgrimage, and a foretaste of the heavenly banquet.

The same Jesus who once said to His disciples, “Give them some food yourselves,” continues to feed His Church through the ministry of His priests. The same hands that blessed and broke the loaves beside the Sea of Galilee give us the Bread of Heaven at every Mass.

May we never receive this gift casually or take it for granted. Let us approach the altar with faith, reverence, gratitude, and a deep hunger for Christ.

He alone can satisfy the deepest longing of the human heart.

He is the Bread of Life.

And whoever eats this Bread will live forever.

Why am I not more like Christ? – 10th Sunday After Pentecost – 2026

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Why Am I Not More Like Christ?

10th Sunday After Pentecost

This Sunday’s Gospel presents us with one of our Lord’s most familiar parables: two men who went up to the Temple to pray. They entered the same Temple, stood before the same God, and prayed—but they left very differently.

There was only one Temple, and it was in Jerusalem. It stood at the very center of Old Testament worship. Synagogues could be found throughout the towns and villages, and it was there that the Sacred Scriptures were read and explained. But the Temple was unique. It was the place of sacrifice, the great center of Israel’s worship, and the dwelling place of God among His people.

Our Lord tells us that two men went up to this sacred place to pray: a Pharisee and a publican.

We know very little about either man beyond what Jesus tells us. And, at first glance, the Pharisee seems to have been a devout man. He prayed. He fasted twice a week. He gave tithes. He avoided serious sins.

Those were all good and worthy things.

The problem was not that the Pharisee prayed, fasted, tithed, or tried to live a moral life. His problem was what he did with those good works.

First, he placed his confidence in what he had accomplished. His prayer became almost a résumé presented to God: Look at what I have done. Look at the kind of man I am.

Second, he compared himself with someone else.

“I am not as the rest of men…”

There is the danger.

Instead of looking toward God, the Pharisee looked toward the publican. And once he began comparing himself with another man, he found a reason to exalt himself and despise the other.

The publican did something entirely different.

He stood at a distance. He would not even raise his eyes toward heaven. He struck his breast and prayed:

“O God, be merciful to me a sinner.”

And Jesus tells us that it was this man who went home justified.

There is an important lesson here for every Christian.

We cannot save ourselves.

No amount of prayer, fasting, penance, good works, or religious observance can make us our own redeemer. Christ alone has redeemed us. Christ alone saves us. Everything begins with His grace.

That does not mean that our actions do not matter. Quite the opposite. We must cooperate with God’s grace. We must fulfill the duties of our state in life, strive to live according to the moral law, worship God as He has commanded, receive the sacraments, practice charity, do penance, and avoid sin.

Yes, there are things we must do.

But we must never confuse cooperating with God’s grace with saving ourselves.

There is also a second lesson in the Pharisee’s prayer: we must grow in charity.

One of the great dangers of the spiritual life is that we can begin doing good things and then use those very things as reasons to look down upon others.

We can become proud of our prayer. Proud of our knowledge of the Faith. Proud of our sacrifices. Proud of our devotions. Proud even of our fidelity to the Church.

And then the very things that should lead us closer to God become occasions of pride.

The Pharisee thanked God that he was not like the rest of men.

Perhaps the rest of men could thank God that they were not like the Pharisee.

The road to holiness is not about comparing ourselves with others. It is about comparing ourselves with Christ.

If I compare myself with other people, I can almost always find someone who makes me look good. But if Christ is my standard—if His humility, His purity, His charity, His patience, His mercy, and His obedience are my standard—then I begin to see how far I still have to go.

And that changes the way I look at everyone around me.

Instead of asking:

“Why isn’t he more like me?”

I begin asking:

“Why am I not more like Christ?”

If Jesus is truly our model, we will spend far less time noticing what others are not and far more time recognizing what we ourselves are called to become.

The Reality of Our Spiritual Battle – Reflections for the 9th Sunday After Pentecost

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The Sacred Liturgy today presents us with a message that is both sobering and filled with hope. It reminds us that while the Christian life is a tremendous gift, there are also very real dangers that confront every disciple of Jesus Christ. Modern society often prefers to ignore these realities, but Sacred Scripture and the constant teaching of the Church never do.

Called Into the Life of God

The Christian life is one of the greatest privileges imaginable.

Think about what God has done for us. The Creator of the universe did not remain distant from His creation. He loved us so deeply that He sent His only-begotten Son into the world. Jesus Christ took upon Himself our human nature, lived among us, taught us the truth, suffered, died upon the Cross, and rose from the dead—all so that we might share in His divine life.

Everything our Lord did had one purpose: to bring us back to the Father.

He did not simply come to make us better people or to teach us how to live happier lives. He came to save us from sin, to conquer death, and to open the gates of heaven. Through Baptism we are invited into communion with God Himself, becoming His adopted sons and daughters and heirs to eternal life.

What an extraordinary calling!

The Battle Is Real

Yet today’s liturgy reminds us that there are dangers along this journey.

St. Peter gives one of the clearest warnings in all of Sacred Scripture:

“Be sober and vigilant. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion seeking someone to devour.”

Those are not symbolic words meant merely to frighten us. They describe a spiritual reality.

The devil is not a fictional character or a figure from folklore. He is a fallen angel who has rebelled against God and now seeks to draw others into that same rebellion. Throughout history, the saints have consistently warned that Satan’s greatest desire is to separate souls from Christ.

He tempts us gradually. Rarely does he begin with great sins. Instead, he whispers little compromises, encourages spiritual laziness, plants seeds of pride, resentment, impurity, or discouragement, hoping that one small step away from God will eventually become many.

The good news, however, is that Satan is not all-powerful. Jesus Christ has already won the victory through His Passion, Death, and Resurrection. The devil’s power is limited, but we must freely cooperate with God’s grace if we are to remain faithful.

Why Jesus Wept

In today’s Gospel, Jesus weeps over Jerusalem.

He sees a city that has rejected the Messiah standing before it. He knows the tragedy that will follow because so many have refused God’s grace.

His tears reveal the Heart of God.

God desires that every person be saved. He wants every knee to bend at the holy Name of Jesus because there is salvation in no one else. Jesus Christ is the one and only Savior of the world. There never has been, nor will there ever be, another.

This is why the Church speaks honestly about heaven and hell.

Just before the Consecration in the Roman Canon, the priest prays that we may be “delivered from eternal damnation and numbered among the flock of Thine elect.”

Those words are not poetic exaggeration. They are a reminder that our choices have eternal consequences.

Hell is real.

It is the eternal separation from God freely chosen by those who die refusing His grace. Our Lord spoke about it often—not to terrify us, but because He loves us and desperately desires that no one be lost.

Dante Alighieri, in The Divine Comedy, imagined these chilling words over the gates of hell:

“Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

Whether or not one has read Dante, the point is unmistakable. Eternity is forever.

That is why Jesus wept over Jerusalem. That is why He continues to call every sinner back to Himself today.

Living With Vigilance and Hope

How then should we respond?

Not with fear.

Not with despair.

But with vigilance.

We remain close to Christ through daily prayer. We examine our consciences honestly. We go to Confession regularly so that sin never gains a foothold in our lives. We participate faithfully in the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, receive Our Lord worthily in Holy Communion, and unite our daily sacrifices with His perfect sacrifice on Calvary.

We pray first for our own perseverance and then for the salvation of souls.

Every sacrifice offered with love becomes a participation in Christ’s saving work.

Never Lose Hope

The Christian life is not about living in constant fear of failure. It is about living in continual confidence in God’s grace.

Our Lord has given us everything necessary for salvation. He has given us His Church, His Sacraments, His Word, His Mother, the saints, the angels, and the abiding presence of the Holy Ghost.

Our task is simple, though not always easy: remain faithful.

Live through Christ, with Christ, and in Christ.

Trust completely in His Divine Mercy.

Persevere in His grace.

God does the saving. We simply respond each day with our humble and willing “yes.”

May we always be found among the flock of His elect and one day rejoice forever in the glory of His heavenly Kingdom.