At the city gate, the dust never settles. Merchants haggle, travelers shout, carts rattle by. Here the courts meet in the open: respected elders and judges sit from morning to evening, hearing disputes where anyone may step forward. A widow has no husband to represent her; she must speak for herself before neighbors and strangers alike. There—at the busiest spot in town—a widow appears again. She stands where everyone can see. She is not proud. She is not powerful. She simply returns, day after day, to plead for justice.
We often read this parable with God as the judge and us as the widow who keeps asking. That view urges perseverance—and yes, the Lord tells us to “pray always without becoming weary.” Yet look again at the faces. The widow wants one thing. The judge stays closed and unmoved. In light of Jesus’ words and deeds, turn the picture: the widow shows us God’s heart, pleading for our love; the judge looks a lot like us.
God has everything, yet he desires one thing he will not take by force: our love. So he comes to the gate where we live—our schedules, our screens, our noise. He does not shout us down. He does not coerce. He keeps showing up. He took flesh and learned our sorrows. He allowed himself to be mocked, scourged, and nailed to a cross. Love went lower than our indifference. Love endured our refusals. Then love rose and returned, not with accusation, but with an open hand.
That is what persistence looks like from heaven’s side. Not nagging, but a steady offering. Not humiliation for its own sake, but the humility of the One who wants to be wanted. Like the widow, he keeps coming back. Each mass, he places himself before us again—Body broken, Blood poured out—asking for a home in our hearts. In the tabernacle he abides, like a porch light left on, waiting for us to come home.
And we too often we sit as the judge sat—preoccupied, unimpressed, guarding our time, handing out little verdicts: not now, not convenient, not necessary. We delay the case of God’s love as if we could send him away until the calendar clears. But he keeps coming back into our daily life. So the question is not whether God will answer prayer; he already has, in Christ. The question is whether we will answer him. Will we open the door of attention, the door of repentance, the door of real surrender? Will we allow his petition to be granted in us—his single request that we love him with the love he has already given?
How might that look this week? Ten quiet minutes before the tabernacle, even if your mind wanders. A sincere confession, letting mercy cut through old resistance. Receiving the Eucharist with a clear yes, then carrying that yes into one concrete act of charity: a phone call to the lonely, patience in traffic, forgiveness in a conversation that could easily turn sharp. Each a small verdict handed down in favor of love.
At the city gate of our parish—on this altar—he asks again. Not because he is weak, but because he is love, and love persists. Let the judge step down from the bench. Let the heart soften. Let the case be decided today: Jesus, you are welcome here. Come in, and teach us to love you.