Reflections

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.

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.

Two images of the Resurrection—one traditional, one contemporary—reveal more than artistic taste. A Renaissance anachronism quietly proclaims the Incarnation: Christ rose for every age, not only first-century Jerusalem. But when modern soldiers and concrete appear around the empty tomb, many of us flinch. Why? This reflection explores that discomfort, exposing how easily we confine faith to the past, and invites us to see the risen Lord as present here and now—judging, redeeming, and remaking our world.

By candlelight, these four Advent reflections trace a path from wakefulness to repentance, from fragile faith to renewed trust. Beginning with Jesus’ warning to stay awake, they move through John’s call to bear fruit, Christ’s assurance that grace is truly at work, and the quiet courage of Joseph. Together they invite us to let God enter ordinary life, weakness, and uncertainty, so the light of Emmanuel can be born anew.

When we hear the word sloth, we may think simply of laziness. But Scripture and the Christian tradition speak of something deeper. They speak of acedia: a heaviness of soul that resists the demands of love.

When Love Grows Heavy

The Catechism describes spiritual sloth as refusing the joy that comes from God and being repelled by divine goodness. CCC 2094. Catechism citations refer to the Catechism of the Catholic Church, 2nd ed. In prayer, acedia can arise from lax ascetical practice, decreased vigilance, and carelessness of heart. CCC 2733. It may appear as procrastination, distraction, or chronic inconstancy: a recurring paralysis before the “next faithful step.”

The Lord warns us plainly: “Take care to guard against all greed, for though one may be rich, one’s life does not consist of possessions.” Lk 12:15, NABRE. Scripture quotations are from the New American Bible, Revised Edition (NABRE). This is a spiritual battle for every disciple, not only for the wealthy. For Franciscans, the answer is not contempt for the world. It is joyful dependence on God and an open-handed love for our neighbor.

Envy disrupts fraternity; kindness builds it. Envy turns another person’s gift into a threat. Kindness allows us to recognize that gift and rejoice because the Lord is at work. St. Paul therefore names kindness as one of the fruits of the Spirit. Gal 5:22. Scripture citations are taken from the Revised Standard Version, Second Catholic Edition (San Francisco: Ignatius Press, 2006), unless otherwise noted.

This is especially important in Franciscan fraternity. Francis taught the brothers to recognize every good in another as the Lord’s own work. Francis of Assisi, Admonition VIII.3, in Francis of Assisi: Early Documents, vol. 1, 132; A Mirror of Perfection 85, in Francis of Assisi: Early Documents, vol. 3, The Prophet, ed. Regis J. Armstrong, J. A. Wayne Hellmann, and William J. Short (Hyde Park, NY: New City Press, 2001), 333. If envy makes us want to silence another person’s song, kindness helps us hear how that voice belongs within the larger harmony God is creating. Christ can free us from the need to compare ourselves and teach us to receive one another as gifts.

Pride and humility stand in sharp opposition. Pride has long been considered the root of all sin, while humility is the cornerstone of holiness. For those who walk in the footsteps of St. Francis of Assisi, humility is not an optional virtue but the very ground on which the Franciscan life is built. Francis himself called his followers the fratres minores, the “lesser brothers,” and referred to himself as “the least of the brothers,” echoing Christ’s own humility in the Incarnation. To understand this tension, we must first consider how pride manifests in human life, then reflect on the Franciscan witness of humility, and finally turn to the cultivation of humility in daily practice.

Solomon seems untouchable: wisdom like water, a temple rising in glory, a kingdom at peace. Yet his story turns tragic as multiplied loves divide his heart and altars to lesser gods eclipse devotion—until the kingdom itself begins to tear. This reflection looks at why gifted people still fall, how private drift becomes communal ruin, and why Solomon’s legacy is finally not achievement but mercy: the God who remains faithful when we do not—and invites us to return, undivided, to the One who loves us still.

Advent is not only a countdown—it is a school of hope, and Mary is its best teacher. This night of recollection invites you to pray the season “through Our Lady’s eyes,” entering her waiting with trust rather than restlessness. Drawing on St. Josemaría, it introduces Lectio Divina as a concrete way to slow down, listen to Scripture, and let the Word reshape daily life. Learn to read, ponder, pray, and rest with Mary, so Christmas arrives not as noise, but as grace.

N.B. This reflection is on Luke 3:1-6 from the Second Sunday of Advent, Year C.

In stillness we gather by candlelight to prepare our hearts for the coming of Christ. This Gospel reading from Luke, though seemingly unusual in its detailed account of rulers and regions, invites us into something profound: the historical reality of God’s intervention in the world. Luke begins with a litany of names and titles, grounding the story of salvation in a particular time and place. This is no accident, for it reminds us, as we affirm in the Nicene Creed, that Jesus “suffered under Pontius Pilate.” Christianity is not a myth, not a collection of poetic fables disconnected from reality. It is history—God stepping into time, taking on human flesh, and transforming the course of humanity forever.

At the gates of Nain, Jesus meets a widow carrying the weight of grief and vulnerability—and he steps in without being asked. This reflection lingers over Christ’s compassion, his touch that stops the funeral procession, and the startling command: “Young man, rise.” More than a miracle, it is restoration: a son returned, dignity renewed, hope reborn. It also becomes a call to the Church to share that same mercy, especially with the overlooked and sorrowful, trusting that death never has the final word.