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.

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.

Virtue rarely grows through heroic leaps; it is formed in quiet choices made with Christ. Beginning with Jesus’ call to invite those who cannot repay us, this night of recollection explores charity as a selfless love freed from the need for recognition. It offers a practical path: start small, practice in hidden moments, and let grace strengthen you step by step—like a muscle trained over time. The goal is not anxious perfectionism, but the joy and freedom of a heart steadily united to God.

Christian life can’t be stitched together from separate compartments. Given on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, this night of recollection explores St. Josemaría’s image of the “wedding garment”: prayer, work, and penitence as threads that must be woven into one seamless interior life. It offers concrete practices—arrow prayers, sanctifying ordinary labor, and hidden mortifications—to repair the places we’ve grown selective or comfortable. The invitation is simple and demanding: let Christ touch every part of the day, until faith becomes integrity.

Hypocrisy isn’t only the loud scandal we recognize from afar; it’s often the quieter habit of criticizing the world while neglecting our own conversion. This night of recollection traces both forms: the public denunciation that can hide private weakness, and the constant talk of “reform” that never begins with the heart. Drawing on St. Josemaría, it calls us back to the real instruments of change—prayer, fasting, penance, and mortification—because holiness, not outrage, is what truly converts and renews the world.