You know the hush that falls when a sunset sets the sky on fire. For a breath, everything stops and you simply receive. Then the colors dim, and the shoreline returns to ordinary. Beauty lets us glimpse God, and then it slips from our grasp. The moment was real, but it was never meant to be owned.
Our families, our plans, even our very lives are like that—astonishing gifts that point beyond themselves. Then comes the sentence that jolts us awake: “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.” These words sting because love for family runs deep. Yet the Lord is not commanding contempt; he is unmasking a temptation—to clutch a gift so tightly that we stop seeing the Giver.
In the words of Jesus, to “hate” means to place second what is second. It is a strong way of saying: hold every good at a holy distance so it can serve its purpose. A spouse, a child, a parent is never an idol; each is a sign. To love them rightly is to lead them—and let them lead you—toward God. That is why he speaks of carrying the cross and of sitting down like a builder or a king to reckon the cost. Discipleship is not improvisation; it is a deliberate ordering of life to the One who is first.
This month in our parish I invite you to that ordering. Ask: What has God entrusted to my care—time, relationships, abilities, resources—and how are these marshaled for his Kingdom? Calendars preach our priorities. Budgets teach the heart what to value. Habits form souls. When Christ is first, our schedule bends to prayer and Sunday worship, our table makes room for the lonely, our resources are deployed for mercy, and our home becomes a little workshop of patience and forgiveness.
Parents, give your children the one certainty no disappointment can erase: God loves them. Say it, show it, and root your house in it. Let homework, sports, and screens take their proper place—good, but not ultimate. Teach them that success is not getting ahead but giving themselves away in love. If you are not parents, the call is the same: let your friendships, your work, and your ambitions be arranged so that someone else meets Christ through you.
Some carry tender memories of family joy; receive them gratefully, and still remember they are only a foretaste. Others carry scars—betrayals, absences, losses. The Lord never intended those wounds. He meets them with his cross, and from that wood he gives back what sin has taken, often in unexpected ways: a community that stands with you, a mission that heals, a hope that does not disappoint.
In a few moments, bread and wine will be placed on the altar. Place there as well the people you love, the plans you guard, the possessions you manage, the fears you hide. Offer them, not because they are small, but because they are precious. Christ will return them to you in a new order—with freer hands, a truer love, and a heart set on the One they were always meant to reveal.