Homilies & Thoughts

The Lord’s parable and his stated reason for speaking in parables are mutually illuminating. Which is to say, the parable draws us into the logic of parables and reveals their purpose. A parable is not a mere story or a moral lesson. It is an invitation to step inside a symbolic world and meditate. Every object within the symbolic cosmos is polyvalent and saturated with meaning. Understanding, then, is not reducible to “figuring out the message,” as if one were solving a puzzle. Understanding is discovered through participation in the parable.

A person who tells a lie must carry the weight of both the truth and the lie. First comes the story. Then comes the detail that has to match the story. Then more details. The mind has to work faster than the conversation constructing a more and more elaborate façade.

Jesus knows that hidden labor. He uses the word “burdened,” a verb. We are actively being weighed down and carrying something. He is speaking about the work of carrying the weight that stays with a person after a choice has been made. It is what stays with us after the moment has passed.

The first reading places us in the home of a woman in Shunem who recognizes Elisha as a holy man of God. She urges him to dine with her, and then, seeing his frequent travels, she and her husband prepare and furnish a small room for him on the roof. In this simple but deliberate act, she makes space in her home for the servant of God, and in doing so, she makes room for God himself.

The Lord’s words first sound like a message of comfort to the disciples: “Nothing is concealed that will not be revealed, nor secret that will not be known.” The Twelve needed that reassurance. Jesus had sent them out to preach the Good News, but their mission had not been easy. They encountered rejection. People spoke against them, mocked them, and even accused them of being in league with evil spirits. In the face of those attacks, Jesus tells them not to be afraid. The truth will not remain hidden forever. The lies spoken against them will be exposed, and God’s justice will prevail.

“Without cost you have received.” The words of the Lord seem so clear. The Gospel is free. Salvation is free. Yet we have slowly allowed ourselves to believe something else. The world and its ideas have taken root in many hearts. Many people have come to think that we somehow purchase the faith.

I saw this in a parish not long ago. It was not our parish. Difficult but important changes were introduced, and some people were unhappy. Tensions rose enough that the diocese had to send in others to listen and help bring healing. In the aftermath of those meetings, I saw some of the feedback on social media. One comment struck me: “Why don’t we let the market decide? Each parish can do what it wants, and the money will pick the winner.”

A grain of wheat looks almost weightless in the hand. It is small enough to be overlooked and dismissed. Yet inside that small thing, God has hidden a path from from human hunger to eternal life.

One of the great tragedies of modern life is that we have learned to see creation as flat. A tree is wood and leaves. Water is a chemical substance. Useful things, perhaps beautiful things, but sealed off from any deeper purpose or meaning. The world becomes a collection of facts, and we become people who know how to use things without knowing how to see them truly and experience them.

N.B. I will not ordinarilly post my letters to the parish I serve because they are focused on local matters. However, I think this letter addresses an issue of broader importance.

This week our parish was shaken. ICE came into our community and people were taken away. Fear was left behind. Many of our parishioners are now afraid to go to work, to go to the store, and even to come to mass. Attendance at mass in Spanish dropped. Our trained liturgical ministers were absent. When civil enforcement creates fear that keeps the faithful from the Eucharist and prevents ministers from serving at the altar, it injures the worship owed to God. We must face this as Christians before anything else.

To forget a face is to lose more than a memory. The face mediates relationship. It puts flesh on the spirit. To forget a face is to lose a relationship. It is to lose love.

When sin entered the human story, the face of God grew dim in us. We had been made in his image, made to reflect the living communion of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The image remained, because God does not abandon his own work, but the likeness became blurred. Choosing our own will over the will of God, we lost sight of the One we were made to resemble. Once God’s face became harder to see, humanity itself became harder to understand.

A locked door seems like wisdom when fear has taken hold. The disciples know danger. The crucifixion is still fresh in their minds. Every noise outside could mean discovery. So they stay behind the door, and for a little while the room feels safe. But the longer they remain there, the more that safety will consume and claim them.

Then the risen Christ appears. He stands in the middle of the room, among men who know they are weak. They had scattered when courage was needed. Out of anxiety that it would come for them, they could not watch while evil did its work. Now the Lord stands before them, with the marks of the cross still on his body. He does not speak to their fear.

“Manifesting” has become one of the favored words of our age, wrapped in glossy promises of a better life. The idea is simple enough: concentrate desire until the universe somehow bends toward it. It treats longing almost like a tool. Aim it hard enough, and it may deliver what the heart has chosen.

At Pentecost, the Church places before us a different kind of longing. Jesus stands at the height of the feast and cries out, “Let anyone who thirsts come to me and drink.” He begins with the kind of need everyone understands. Thirst is desire at its strongest. When a person is truly thirsty, the whole body is focused on a simple fact: without water, life vanishes.

St. Matthew lets the number stand in the open. The disciples climb the mountain in Galilee, and there are only eleven of them. Eleven. A wounded number.

For most of the Gospel, Jesus has walked with the twelve. They were the visible sign of a new Israel, the first stones of a renewed people, the beginning of a Church meant to gather the whole human family into the love of God. Now one place is empty. Judas is gone, and Matthew does not hide that absence. Before the risen Lord sends the Church to the nations, the Church stands before him incomplete.

Absence can reveal the truth. While someone stands near us, the meaning of that life often remains scattered through ordinary days. We remember a gesture without grasping the love behind it. We hear a sentence and only later feel its full weight. After departure, the pieces begin to gather. Death, and even the approach of death, can become a revealing light.

In the quiet of the upper room, Jesus begins to shine that light. The meal is over. The feet of the disciples are still clean from his hands. Judas has slipped into the dark. Jesus remains with his friends, and the hour closing around him will soon make sense of everything he has said and done.