Homilies & Thoughts

Ordinarily, when we think of family, we think of a natural relationship. We are born into a family, and its members are who they are. We may not always like them. We may even sometimes wish we could get rid of them. But they remain our family.

That natural bond shapes our customs, our affections, and the way we respond to one another. When family arrives, we acknowledge them and attend to them. Somewhere deep within us, we know that this is simply what we ought to do. Hopefully we do it willingly, out of love—but even when we do not feel like it, we still sense the obligation.

Many Gospel passages challenge the way we see the world. Often, the difficulty lies in the demands of Jesus. He calls us to perfection, and we know how far short we fall. At other times, however, the challenge comes from the Gospel’s perceived harshness. It can appear to divide the world neatly into good and bad, leaving little room for ambiguity or change.

The parable of the wheat and the weeds can sound this way. The Lord seems to declare that some plants are wheat and others are weeds, with nothing anyone can do about it. When this text is preached, there is often a tendency to rescue it by making those categories more fluid.

A field choked with weeds looks like failure. We question the sower and the seed. We question the care that was shown. Then we propose the obvious solution: rip the weeds out. Jesus responds with a startling command: “Let them grow together until harvest.”

We struggle with the parable of the weeds among the wheat because we do not see the world with the mind of Christ. We tend to see the world through the lens of purity. Something in our fallen nature urges us immediately to separate the worthy from the unworthy, the good from the bad. We do this as nations, as communities, and even within our parishes. We decide who belongs at the table and who should be kept at a distance. We long to be surrounded only by wheat.

As someone who has to work on the Sabbath, I find it reassuring to hear the Lord say that those who serve him on that day are innocent.

But those words also shed light on what Jesus means when he calls himself “Lord of the Sabbath.” We can hear that title as though it meant only that Jesus is the Sabbath’s rule-giver: he is in charge, so he can decide what is or is not permitted. But Jesus means something much greater. He is not merely the one who regulates the Sabbath. He is the reason for it and the fulfillment of everything it promises.

When we hear this Gospel, which comes to us several times throughout the year, our first thought may be that, through grace, Christ lightens our burdens. And that is certainly true. His grace gives us the strength we need to accomplish what he has called us to do.

We may also think that love itself makes a burden feel lighter. That is true as well. When we do something difficult for someone we truly love, we do it much more readily than we would for someone toward whom we felt no love at all. Love changes the way we carry a burden.

“You have hidden these things from the wise and the learned and revealed them to the childlike.” In these words, Christ calls us to simplicity—not ignorance, but simplicity of heart.

I think of a letter St. Francis Xavier wrote while serving as a missionary in India. He had encountered whole communities eager to receive the faith, but there were not enough priests to teach them, administer the sacraments, and satisfy their hunger for God.

“For if the mighty deeds done in your midst had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would long ago have repented.”

When we hear these words, we might wonder: Why did the Lord not perform those mighty deeds in Tyre and Sidon, if they would have repented? And why perform them in Capernaum, where they were met with unbelief? The Lord knew how the people would respond. So what is he teaching us?

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.”