OT XX [A]:Is 56:1, 6-7; Rom 11:13-15, 29-32; Mt 15:21-28 

In today’s Gospel, we witness one of the most surprising, intense, and tension-filled encounters in all of Sacred Scripture. Jesus travels outside the traditional borders of Israel into the foreign, Gentile territory of Tyre and Sidon. It is a long journey away from His familiar ministry in Galilee. Perhaps Jesus went there seeking a brief period of rest, space, and solitude with His disciples away from the growing opposition of the religious leaders. Yet, as so often happens in our own lives, a journey does not turn out as expected. If Jesus sought quiet, it was not to be. Out of nowhere, a pagan, Canaanite woman approaches Him with a piercing cry: "Have pity on me, Lord, Son of David! My daughter is tormented by a demon."

She faces every possible social barrier to stay back. She is a woman in a culture that rarely permitted women a public voice. She is a Gentile, an outsider traditionally viewed with deep suspicion by the Jewish people. Above all, she is a mother in profound anguish, carrying the crushing weight of a child's intense suffering.

When we read the Gospels, Jesus almost always responds immediately to those who cry out to Him. Yet, on this occasion, His initial response is deeply unsettling: He remains completely silent. When we are met with silence from others, that silence can be agonizingly difficult to interpret. Silence is a form of communication, but a deeply ambiguous one. It can be far harder to deal with someone’s silence than with an open declaration of where they stand.

When the disciples urge Jesus to send her away because her disruptive shouting is disturbing them, Jesus speaks not to the woman, but to His followers: "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." Jesus understood His earthly mission as directed primarily toward gathering, healing, and restoring the lost and broken of Israel. Only after His Resurrection would He commission the Church to go out to all nations and peoples.

Yet, Jesus’ silence does not silence this desperate mother. She steps forward, moves past the disciples, and kneels directly at His feet with a simple, heartbreaking prayer: "Lord, help me." Notice how she prays. Although it is her daughter who needs healing, this mother identifies so completely with her child's suffering that her prayer for her daughter becomes a prayer for herself. When we truly love someone, their pain becomes our pain, their affliction becomes our affliction, and their plea for help becomes our own.

Her unwavering love and persistent faith compel Jesus to speak directly to her. Yet, when He does, His words feel harsh to modern ears: "It is not right to take the food of the children and throw it to the dogs."

Why does Jesus respond this way? He is not insulting or rejecting her. Rather, He uses a common imagery of the home to state a priority: the children of Israel must be fed first. More importantly, Jesus is drawing out her faith, inviting her into a dialogue that will reveal to the disciples—and to us—what true, enduring devotion looks like.

Notice how the woman responds. She does not take offense, react with anger, or walk away disheartened. Instead, with extraordinary humility, quick wit, and steadfast hope, she accepts His premise and turns it into a plea of grace: "Please, Lord, for even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the table of their masters." She wisely notes that children and household pets often share the same space—when children eat, scraps inevitably fall. She asks: Can the sheep of Israel and the seeking Gentiles not both benefit from the bread of God's mercy?

She recognizes that even a single "scrap" of divine grace contains infinite power to heal her daughter. Seeing her profound trust, Jesus marvels at her: "O woman, great is your faith! Let it be done for you as you wish." Throughout Matthew’s Gospel, Jesus frequently chides His disciples as people of "little faith." This is the only instance where He commends someone for having "great faith"—and it comes from a Gentile outsider. In that very hour, her daughter is healed.

This dramatic encounter does not stand in isolation; it fulfills the radical vision proclaimed centuries earlier in our first reading from the Prophet Isaiah. Speaking to an Israelite community tempted to turn inward after the Exile, Isaiah declares on behalf of God: "My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples." God’s covenant was never meant to be an exclusive club, but a light to gather every seeking heart.

Saint Paul echoes this truth in his letter to the Romans, reminding a divided church that human failure cannot void divine love: "The gifts and the call of God are irrevocable." Everyone stands in total need of mercy—and God's mercy is wide enough to encompass all.

This Gospel offers three powerful invitations for our spiritual lives:

1. Pray with Persistent Humility

When God seems silent or when our prayers seem unanswered, the Canaanite woman shows us what to do: keep coming back. She moves from shouting at a distance to kneeling directly at Jesus' feet. True prayer is not demanding; it is humble, relentless, and grounded in trust.

2. Rest in the Abundance of Grace

The woman understood that God’s grace is not a scarce commodity. We often worry whether we are holy or worthy enough to receive His help. But even the smallest encounter with Christ has infinite power. We do not need to earn a seat of honor; we only need to come to Him as we are.

3. Build Doors, Not Walls

The disciples wanted to dismiss the woman because she was inconvenient. Jesus used this moment to break down human boundaries. As a community of faith, we are called to dismantle our subtle barriers—whether based on background, status, or difference—and ensure our hearts remain a home of prayer for all people.

When burdens weigh heavy this week, may we bring them directly to Christ with simple trust: "Lord, help me." His mercy is infinite, His gifts are irrevocable, and His table is wide enough for all.

Amen.

 

 XIX: A: 1 Kings 19:9a, 11–13a; Romans 9:1–5; Matthew 14:22–33

 

Life is full of storms. Some rage around us—illness, financial burdens, family conflicts, uncertainty about the future. Others rage within us—fear, loneliness, disappointment, grief, or anxiety. In moments like these, we naturally ask: Where is God? Is He still with me?

 

Today's readings answer that question with remarkable clarity. God is present, but not always in the way we expect. He comes quietly to strengthen our faith and remind us that His presence is greater than every storm.

The first reading introduces us to the prophet Elijah at one of the lowest points of his life. After courageously defending the worship of the true God, he has become a fugitive. Queen Jezebel wants him dead. Exhausted in body, mind, and spirit, Elijah flees into the wilderness and finally reaches Mount Horeb, the mountain where Moses once encountered God.

 

There he hides in a cave. It is a fitting image of his inner condition. He feels defeated, discouraged, and alone. Yet it is precisely there that God comes looking for him and says, "Go outside and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord will be passing by."

 

Then comes one of the most memorable scenes in the Bible. A mighty wind tears through the mountains, shattering rocks—but the Lord is not in the wind. An earthquake shakes the ground—but the Lord is not in the earthquake. A fire blazes—but the Lord is not in the fire.

Finally, Elijah hears a tiny whispering sound—a still, small voice. Immediately he recognizes God's presence, covers his face, and steps out to meet the Lord.

Why does God reveal Himself this way?

Because Elijah expected dramatic displays of divine power. Instead, God teaches him that His greatest work often happens quietly. God is found not only in extraordinary miracles but also in silent prayer, a word of encouragement, a gentle prompting of conscience, the kindness of a friend, or the peace that comes after sincere prayer. The whisper is easy to miss, but it is often where God speaks most personally.

 

God also meets Elijah in his weakness. Elijah is not courageous at this moment. He is tired, afraid, and overwhelmed. Yet God does not criticize him or demand an explanation. Instead, He draws near with compassion. This reminds us that God does not wait until we are strong before He comes to us. He meets us precisely when we feel weak and discouraged.

 

The Gospel continues this same lesson.

After feeding the five thousand, Jesus sends His disciples ahead by boat while He goes up the mountain alone to pray. Even after a day of intense ministry, Jesus makes time for communion with His Father. His ministry flows from prayer, and His prayer renews His ministry.

 

Meanwhile, the disciples are caught in a violent storm. The wind is against them, and the waves batter their boat. It is important to notice that they are in this storm because they obeyed Jesus. Faithfulness does not guarantee an easy life. Even those who follow Christ experience storms.

 

Then, during the fourth watch of the night—the darkest hours before dawn—Jesus comes walking toward them across the sea.

The disciples panic.

"It is a ghost!"

Fear often distorts our vision. It causes us to mistake God's presence for another threat. How often do we do the same? When difficulties come, we may wonder whether God has abandoned us, when in fact He is closer than ever.

Then Jesus speaks the words every anxious heart longs to hear:

"Take courage; it is I. Do not be afraid."

Notice that Jesus does not calm the storm immediately. Before changing their circumstances, He strengthens their hearts. His first gift is not a miracle but His reassuring presence.

Peter responds with remarkable courage.

"Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water."

Jesus answers with one simple word:

"Come."

 

Peter steps out of the boat and begins walking toward Jesus. As long as his eyes remain fixed on the Lord, he does the impossible.

But then Peter notices the strength of the wind. His attention shifts from Christ to the storm. Fear replaces trust, and he begins to sink.

His response is one of the shortest and most beautiful prayers in the Bible:

"Lord, save me!"

 

Matthew tells us that immediately Jesus stretched out His hand and caught him.

Jesus saves Peter before correcting him.

Only afterward does He gently ask, "Why did you doubt?"

 

That is how Christ deals with us. He does not stand at a distance waiting for us to become stronger. He reaches out immediately whenever we cry to Him.

When Jesus enters the boat, the wind ceases, and the disciples fall down in worship, saying, "Truly, you are the Son of God."

 

The storm becomes the moment of deeper faith.

These readings offer three practical lessons for our lives.

First, make room for silence. Our world is filled with constant noise—phones, television, social media, endless activity. If we never slow down, we may never hear God's quiet voice. A few moments of prayer each day, reading Scripture, Eucharistic Adoration, or simply sitting quietly before the Lord can open our hearts to His gentle presence.

 

Second, keep your eyes on Christ rather than on the storm. Problems are real, but they need not define us. Like Peter, we begin to sink when fear becomes greater than faith. The more we focus on Christ, the more courage we receive to face whatever lies ahead.

Third, never hesitate to pray Peter's simple prayer: "Lord, save me." We do not need long or eloquent prayers. God hears the cry of every sincere heart and reaches out with mercy.

 

As we celebrate this Eucharist, we bring before the Lord our own storms, our own caves of fear, disappointment, and uncertainty. We ask Him to speak to us in the quiet of our hearts, to strengthen our faith, and to extend His saving hand whenever we begin to sink.

 

May we discover, like Elijah, that God speaks in the gentle whisper. May we discover, like Peter, that Jesus is stronger than every storm. And may we leave this Eucharist with renewed confidence that nothing is more powerful than the presence of Christ, who continually says to each of us:

 

"Take courage. It is I. Do not be afraid."

Amen.

 

 

 

LENT III [A]: Ex 17:3-7; Rom 5:1-2, 5-8; Jn 4:5-42

In the spiritual journey of Lent, we often speak of the "desert experience." It is a landscape of stripping away, of silence, and—most acutely—of thirst. In today’s first reading from the Book of Exodus, we find the Israelites in exactly such a place. They are parched, weary, and afraid. But their physical thirst quickly evolves into a much more dangerous spiritual crisis. They begin to grumble against Moses and, by extension, against God, asking the haunting question: "Is the Lord among us or not?"

We often find ourselves in that same desert. We live in a world that is paradoxically "connected" yet deeply lonely, "filled" with information yet starving for wisdom. When we face our own droughts—be they financial stress, health crises, or the quiet ache of a life that feels purposeless—we too begin to wonder if God has abandoned us. To soothe that parched feeling, we often turn to what the prophet Jeremiah called "broken cisterns"—success, possessions, status, or temporary pleasures. We drink deeply from these wells, only to find ourselves thirsty again moments later. Today, the Liturgy of the Word invites us to stop digging broken cisterns and instead approach the only Fountain that never runs dry.

The Gospel presents us with one of the most profound and intimate encounters in all of Scripture: Jesus and the Samaritan woman at Jacob’s Well. To understand the weight of this moment, we must see the layers of isolation surrounding this woman. She comes to the well at noon, the hottest part of the day, specifically to avoid the other women of the town who would have gathered at the cooler hours of dawn or dusk. She is a social pariah, a woman whose life story is written in the ink of "accusations, blame, and complaints."

Jesus meets her there, not by accident, but by divine necessity. The text says he "had to" pass through Samaria. He violates every social taboo of his time: he speaks to a woman in public, he speaks to a Samaritan (an enemy of the Jews), and he speaks to someone of "questionable" moral standing.

It is vital to notice that Jesus did not come to the well to ask something of her, but to give something to her. While he begins by asking for a drink to bridge the human gap between them, he is actually the one seeking to quench her thirst. He is the fountain of living water that has come to quench the thirst of the world—our collective thirst for God.

 

As the conversation unfolds, Jesus gently peels back the layers of her life. He addresses her five previous marriages and her current domestic situation not to condemn her, but to diagnose her. This woman’s thirst for love and salvation was far more profound than her physical need for water. For years, she had sought fulfillment and meaning in the arms of a mate. She drank from the "well of relationships"—a well that continued to run dry because, when void of Christ and a sense of inherent self-worth, human relationships cannot bear the weight of our eternal longings.

We often do the same. We expect our spouses, our children, or our careers to be our "everything." We ask finite, fallible human beings to provide the infinite validation that only God can give. When they inevitably fail to satisfy our deepest souls, we move on to the next person, the next job, or the next distraction, wondering why we are still parched at high noon.

 

Initially, Jesus’ efforts to befriend this stranger met with strong resistance. She was guarded, reminding him of the racial and religious walls between them: "You are a Jew and you ask me, a Samaritan, for a drink?" Yet, once she recognizes who he is, she does something highly symbolic: she leaves her water jar behind. That jar represented her old way of seeking satisfaction; it represented her labor, her shame, and her daily cycle of thirst. By leaving it, she signals that she has found a new source.

She runs back to the very townspeople she had been hiding from and becomes the first evangelist to the Samaritans. Her message isn't a complex theological treatise; it is a simple invitation: "Come see a man who told me everything I ever did." When we allow the Lord to meet us where we are and to grace us, we cannot help but respond. Our "doing" for Him—our service, our ministry, our kindness—is no longer a heavy obligation or a way to "earn" heaven. It becomes a loving response to being graced. This is the only kind of response the Lord truly desires: a heart that overflows because it has been filled.

 

St. Augustine famously wrote, "Our hearts are restless until they rest in You, O Lord." That restlessness is simply another word for thirst. Sometimes that spiritual thirst can send us off in all kinds of different directions—into addictions, into workaholism, or into a frantic search for "the next big thing."

Today’s Gospel invites us to stop running and instead go in the direction of Jesus. Later in John’s Gospel, Jesus cries out, “Let anyone who is thirsty come to me… out of his heart shall flow rivers of living water.” These rivers flow from the pierced heart of Christ on the Cross to quench our deepest existential dread and our fear of being unloved.

Lent is the designated season to get back in touch with these deep longings. It is so easy to lose touch with our spiritual side as we get immersed in the "daily grind" of bills, chores, and digital noise. We need to find our own "well"—a place of prayer, a moment of silence, or the reception of the Sacraments—where we can put ourselves in the path of the Lord who is always walking toward us.

Conclusion:

As we continue our Lenten journey, Jesus asks of us only what the Samaritan woman finally displayed: openness. He knows our "five husbands"; He knows our secrets and our shames; and He is sitting there anyway, offering us a drink.

This week, listen for His voice in the quiet. He is asking us: What are you really thirsty for? And are you ready to leave your water jar behind?

 All Souls Day:

Each of us, at some point in our lives, has known the pain of losing someone we love. This universal truth cuts across every culture and every time. In her wisdom, the Church brings us back to this place each November—setting aside an entire month for remembrance of our beloved faithful departed, and especially drawing our hearts together on All Souls’ Day. On this day, we’re called not simply to mourn, but to remember in hope and to pray for those who have gone before us.

Praying for the dead is a profound act that connects us across the boundaries of this world. It is a tradition rooted in both love and faith. It keeps us linked with family and friends who, in a mysterious but real sense, are even closer to us now in Christ than they were in life. More than just a feeling or ritual, praying for the dead is also one of the spiritual works of mercy. Our prayers become channels of grace, offered so that those who have died may enter fully into the light and joy of Christ.

Today, we take comfort from the words of the Book of Wisdom: “The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them.” These words touch the deepest place in our hearts. They affirm that those we cherish, though separated from us physically, are not lost but held securely in God’s loving embrace. Their lives do not end in the darkness of oblivion but continue in God—safe from any harm, beyond the reach of suffering or decay.

Our world often wants to measure life with what can be seen, touched, or counted. Death, through these eyes, looks like defeat or destruction. The Scripture tells us, “They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead.” But faith always sees further. Faith reveals that what appears as an end is, in fact, the threshold of eternal life—a transformation, not an annihilation. The souls of the just are not lost; they are found, cherished, and living in God.

The reading goes on to speak of life’s trials: “God tried them and found them worthy of himself. As gold in the furnace, he proved them.” This is an enormous comfort. The struggles, pain, sorrow, or doubt endured by our loved ones were not wasted or meaningless. In the fire of life’s challenges, their souls were purified, their love for God was deepened, and their hope was molded into something everlasting. When we saw only struggle or frailty, God saw fidelity and loving offering. Now, God calls them to Himself, finishing what He began in them.

This vision is not only beautiful for the dead, but strengthening for the living. We, too, face our own tests of faith and courage. Each patient endurance, every act of love, every quiet prayer, is drawing us closer to that same peace and to the likeness of Christ. We are all in the process of being refined—like gold in the furnace—so that, in the end, we too may be found worthy of the promise God makes to us in Christ.

In the gospel Jesus tells us that God’s great desire is that no one entrusted to His Son be lost, but that all are raised up on the last day. The words of Jesus assure us, “I shall not lose anything of what he gave me.” This tells us that our loved ones are not lost in darkness. The bonds God formed in love cannot be broken by death. They remain in the watchful care of the Good Shepherd.

All Souls’ Day is not only about those who have gone before us—it is also about hope for us who remain. Christ’s promise—“I shall raise him on the last day”—belongs to us, too. The pain of separation does not have the final word. The final word belongs to the One who conquered death and invites us to trust in His promise of eternal life for all who believe.

What we do today—praying for the faithful departed—is truly an act of love and faith. Love, because love always seeks the very best for those it treasures; faith, because faith confidently entrusts everything and everyone to the Lord’s infinite mercy. The Holy Mass, above all, is the greatest prayer for the dead. Recall the story of St. Malachy, who had lost contact with his sister before she died. After her death, he heard a mysterious voice say she was still hungry, not having “eaten for thirty days.” He realized it had been thirty days since he had offered Mass for her. He began again, and in a vision saw her at the church door, first in darkness, then each time in lighter garments, until finally she was radiant in white, surrounded by blessed spirits. This vision of St. Malachy beautifully shows the power of prayer—especially the Mass—for our loved ones who have died.

Therefore, as we remember our parents, grandparents, siblings, children, friends, and all the faithful departed, let us return to the words of Jesus: “Everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life.” This is the bedrock of our Christian hope. Even in our grief, we give thanks for the promise that Christ will raise us up and reunite us in His eternal peace, one unbroken embrace of the living and the dead in the heart of God.

As we remember our deceased family members, friends, and the whole communion of souls, let us do so not only with sadness but also gratitude and hope. Mourning remains part of our journey—our tears are real—but our faith is greater still. Scripture assures us: “The souls of the just are safe, loved, and at peace in the hands of God.” Let this knowledge comfort us and give us strength until the promised day when we, too, will be gathered into His unending light.

 

 

 

OT XXI [C] Is 66:18-21, Heb 12:5-7, 11-13; Lk 13:22-30

In Bethlehem, there is a wonderful Basilica called the Basilica of the Nativity. It is the oldest church in use in the Holy Land, dating from the 6th century. Most of the churches in the Holy Land were destroyed by the Muslims in the year 636, but this one was spared. The entrance into this ancient Basilica is not very imposing. It is a very small and low door, which only admits one at a time. Over the centuries, the entrance got gradually smaller to prevent people from taking away large amounts of booty. Nowadays, the door is called the door of humility and all but children have to lower their heads to get through it. Just as a small, narrow door leads into the wonderful Basilica of the Nativity, so in the gospel reading the narrow door Jesus speaks about leads into a great feast at which people from east and west, from north and south have gathered.

Jesus’ refusal to answer the question, ‘Will there be only a few saved?’ directly suggests that it is a wrong question. It is not for us to speculate as to who is in and who is out. Strive to enter through the narrow door. Jesus’ reference to a ‘narrow door’ is clearly an image. He is not talking about an actual narrow door that can be found somewhere. To enter by a narrow door requires a certain amount of concentration, whereas we can sail through a wide door or gate without even noticing it. The word ‘strive’ suggests struggle and exertion. To get through a narrow door, you need to be focused and attentive. You need a clear vision of where you are going and a certain commitment to get there.

This narrow door is, in a sense, Jesus himself. On one occasion, in the gospel of John, Jesus spoke of himself as the gate or the door. ‘I am the gate’, he says, ‘whoever enters through me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture… I came that they may have life and have it to the full’. Taking Jesus as our gate, our door, entering through him, requires a certain effort and focus on our part. Walking in his way, living by his values, does not happen automatically for us. There are plenty of other doors and ways that compete for our attention; there are other sets of values that try to engage us. We have to consciously choose the Lord’s door before other doors that open up for us that are easier to get through and make fewer demands on us. Much of the culture in which we live today pulls us in very different directions from the direction that the gospel calls us to take. The world in which we live is not always supportive of the values of the gospel. There can be a lot of pressure on people, some of it subtle, to act in ways that are contrary to the message of Jesus. Choosing the narrow door, choosing the Lord, involves coming to know him with our heart and mind, growing in our relationship with him, so that he becomes a significant presence in our lives.

In the gospel reading, some of Jesus’ contemporaries declared, ‘We once ate and drank in your company; you taught in our streets’. However, Jesus suggests that that kind of superficial relationship with him is not enough. We are to take the Lord to heart, just as he has taken us to heart. The key question is not whether we know about Jesus, but whether He knows us. Salvation is a living relationship. In John 10:14, Jesus says, “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me.” On the last day, the difference between those inside and those outside will not be whether we have heard His teaching, but whether He can say, “I know you.”

The evangelical Christians are so obsessed with the notion of salvation by Faith that they totally ignore an entire body of Jesus’ teachings that call for commitment and sacrifice. They believe that merely by receiving baptism, one goes to heaven whether one lives a true Christian life or not. This gospel passage clearly refutes that theory. Enter through the narrow gate. It is true that when you receive baptism, you are saved and are offered heaven. But you can also lose it by renouncing it by yourself, rejecting the offer of God. You can reject your faith and become a Muslim, the follower of the worst religion in the world. But when you come back, you don’t need to be rebaptized because God did not revoke his promise of giving you heaven. God will still keep his promise; we are the ones denying it for ourselves, not God. God will not drag anyone to heaven against one’s choice.

 

Our going through that narrow door is not all down to our own efforts and striving. Our efforts are contained within the Lord’s effort on our behalf. Jesus said of himself: ‘When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself’. The Lord is always drawing us through that narrow door that leads to life. He is not standing on the far side of the door looking at our efforts in some kind of detached way. Rather, he is continually engaged and involved with us. In the first reading, the Lord, speaking through the prophet Isaiah, states: ‘I am going to gather the nations of every language’. The door may be narrow, but the Lord is going to pull through that door large numbers from every language and culture. In the gospel reading, Jesus speaks of people from east and west, from north and south who take their place at the feast on the far side of the narrow door in the kingdom of God. There is an implicit answer here to the question that was put to Jesus in the gospel reading, ‘Will only a few be saved?’ The answer to that question is ‘no’. People from the four corners of the earth will get through that door, and some of those who get through may surprise us, ‘those now last will be first’.

Let’s pray today for the grace to live out our baptismal promises and prepare ourselves to enter through the narrow gate by prayer, supplication and constant renunciation of our sinful desires and by following Jesus who said: “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow Me” ( Lk 9:23).  

 

 

 OT XXV [C] Readings:  Am 8:4-7; I Tm 2:1-8; Lk 16:1-1

 A few years ago, a priest was giving a retreat to inmates in a federal prison in the South. One of the talks dealt with Jesus’ teaching on revenge. Jesus said: “You have heard that it was said, ‘An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. When someone strikes you on [your] right cheek, turn the other one to him as well.” To illustrate Jesus’ point, the priest told the story of Jackie Robinson, the first black athlete to play in the major leagues. When Branch Rickey signed Jackie to a Dodger contract in 1945, he told him, “You will have to take everything they dish out to you and never strike back.” Rickey was right. On the field, pitchers brushed Jackie back with blazing fastballs, and opposing fans and teams taunted him. Off the field, he was thrown out of hotels and restaurants where the rest of the team stayed and ate. Through it all, Jackie kept his cool. He turned the other cheek. And so did Dodgers’ General Manager Rickey, who was abused by people for signing Jackie. The priest ended the story by asking the prisoners this question: “Where do you think black athletes would be today had Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey not turned the other cheek?” After the talk, a prisoner said to the priest: “That’s a nice story, Father. But why didn’t you tell the whole story? Why didn’t you tell why Rickey and Robinson turned the other cheek? It wasn’t for love of God. It was for love of money. Rickey turned the other cheek because if he succeeded, he would make a fortune too.” The priest thought to himself for a minute: “If the prisoner’s right, then he’s just shot my nice little story right out of the water.” — But then the priest thought: “Hey! Wait a minute! If the prisoner’s right, then my story makes an even more important point!” It’s the same point Jesus makes in today’s Gospel. Jesus says: “The children of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.” 

‘The children of this world’ are the children of darkness who see and value only the things of this world.  They live for this world, concentrate their attention on it, invest everything in it, give the energies of mind and body fully to it, and find in it their entire purpose for living. 

 Christian believers, however, are ‘the children of light’ who see real, eternal, spiritual values as primary and regard temporal values as secondary. The children of this world regard themselves as owners, while true Christians regard themselves as mere stewards of God who view their resources as simply loaned to them by God. 

It sounds strange to hear Jesus praising the steward of this parable for being so sly. In saving our souls and spreading the Good News, our Lord wants us to apply the same ingenuity and effort that other people put into their worldly affairs or into their attempts to attain some human ideal.

Many of the great men and women of the world - the CEOs, the athletes, the movie stars, the political leaders - are exemplary in their tenacity, their determination, and their astuteness.  They set a goal and let nothing stop them from achieving it. They turn everything into an opportunity to advance their cause. Imagine how different the Church (and the world) would be if every Catholic pursued holiness that energetically.

The steward knew that his time of employment was coming to an end. Before his last day arrives, he uses his connections and position to prepare for the future. Jesus reprimands his followers for not applying that same astuteness to the more important project of preparing for eternity.

We are all like that steward. We know that our lives will come to an end, sooner or later. We know it for a fact. And yet, are we effectively utilizing our resources and opportunities to prepare for what will come next? This is the question he wants us to ask ourselves. Are we energetically building Christ's Kingdom now, so as to be able to enjoy it forever later?

Sometimes we are irresponsible stewards because we forget what's really at stake. We become seduced by day-to-day problems and pleasures and forget that this life is passing. It is only a warm-up for eternal life.

In the parable, the steward was in charge of his master's account books, so he exercised his smartness by rearranging the debts people owed. We don't have control over Christ's account books.  Instead, we have three commodities to be managed astutely.

The three commodities are time, talent, and treasure.

How much time do we give to Christ and his Kingdom?  We all give him some time - that's why we're here. But can we give more? Should we? It may be a matter of dedicating larger chunks of time to serving Christ and the Church, or it may be a matter of simply adding some prayers to our drive to work. We are called to be wise stewards of our time.

Second, talent. 

Our talents too are resources given by God. We are called to invest them in loving God and loving our neighbor. Maybe this area is where we can be better stewards.

Finally, treasure. 

It is a law of the Church that every Catholic should give financial support to the works of the Church, each one in accordance with their means. There is a longstanding tradition in Christianity of tithing. If we don't do that, we should ask ourselves why not.

The manager in Jesus’ story used all his resources to secure his future. We must be no less resourceful. We have the Holy Mass and the Seven Sacraments as sources of Divine grace, the Holy Bible as the word of God for daily meditation and practice, and the Spirit-guided Church to direct us. These are the best possible resources; we need to use them in such a way that it will be said of us, “And the master commended them because they acted so wisely.”

 

Today, in Holy Communion, Christ will give himself entirely to each one of us, holding nothing back.   When he does, let's ask him to teach us to use our resources for his glory and the propagation of his kingdom.

 

 

 

 

OT XXIV [C] Ex 32:7-11, 13-14; I Tm 1:12-17; Lk 15:1-32

Everyone has lost something at one time or another.  There is even a website complete with mobile app, http://www.lostandfound.com, that acts as a global ‘lost and found’ box. Users can report items missing and users can report items found. It is a good example of how technology can help people connect in a useful way. This is a gateway site for all of the physical things that can be retrieved and returned to their rightful owners. According to their statistics, about twice as many objects have been reported lost as have been reported found in the U.S. So, the site’s users are losing things at twice the rate they are finding them. — Haven’t we all had the experience of losing things that we know deep down we will never recover? Depending on the situation, we can feel disappointed, heartbroken, hopeless, or simply discouraged by our own inability to keep up with things. Some Catholics invoke St. Antony who is the patron for the lost things. Isn’t it a wonderful relief to know that we will never fall into the ‘Lost Forever’ category? Isn’t it reassuring to know that God will never give up on us?

All the 3 parables in Luke 15 show us vividly that God cares about each one of us: he will not rest if only one sheep is missing, or one coin is lost. They show us that He cares deeply enough to go out of His way to save us when we are lost: it was certainly an inconvenience to go bushwhacking after the foolish stray sheep, and to light the lamp and sweep the dirt-floored house trying to find the lost coin.

Finding of the lost objects in the parable shows that God rejoices when we return to him, as the shepherd rejoices upon retrieving his sheep, and as the woman rejoices upon recovering her coin - every sinner who returns to God causes a joyful celebration to break out in the halls of heaven and the heart of the Father.

The self-righteous and judgmental comments of the Pharisees, provided the occasion for these parables to be told by Jesus. If the Pharisees had possessed Christ's power and authority, they would have destroyed all "sinners." But Christ uses all his power and authority to bring sinners back into communion with God.

The Pharisees can't understand this, because they have painted their image of God in their own likeness. They enjoy condemning others for being less perfect than themselves, because it feeds their vanity, making them feel superior. God’s limitless and entirely selfless desire to save sinners was revealed most fully by Christ on the cross, but it is also the main theme behind every other episode in salvation history.

We just listened to one of those episodes from the OT.  While Moses had been up on the mountain in prayer, receiving the Law from God's own hands, the Israelites down in the valley had lost hope and abandoned their faith. Instead of continuing to trust in the God who had already done so many miracles to save them from slavery and lead them to safety, they gave up on God. They rebelled against him, turned their backs on him, and built an idol out of gold. From the Pharisees' perspective, God should have simply destroyed them. That's the natural view of things, which God seems to adopt in his conversation with Moses, when he says he is going to destroy these faithless, stiff-necked people. But God doesn't mean it. He is only testing Moses. And Moses passes the test.

It is sometimes hard for our fallen human nature to see God's mercy clearly. We tend to be judgmental, so we also tend to project that - wrongly - onto God. This wrong conception can be detrimental to our maturity and peace of mind. It puts a wall around our own hearts, so that God's love can't reach in and transform us.

Let us realize the truth that our brothers and sisters deserve and expect from us the same compassion, kindness and forgiveness which we receive from our merciful God. As forgiven prodigals, we must become forgiving people, for Jesus taught us to pray, “forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us.” 

Jesus is not asking us to be like either of the two brothers in the parable, because both were far from perfect.  Let us try and be like the father in the story. “Be made perfect as your heavenly Father is perfect.” Be compassionate as the heavenly Father is.”

It is important to find out our own faults and sins and become aware of them so that we can humble ourselves before God and ask forgiveness. Before we go to bed at night, make it a habit to examine our conscience and confess to God our sins and failures of the day, asking His pardon and forgiveness. As the prodigal son came to his senses we also need to come to our senses and realize where we stand before God each day.

As we continue with the celebration of the Holy Mass, let us pray also for God’s Divine mercy on all of us who have fallen away from God’s grace.  Let us open our eyes to see and ears to hear that Jesus is welcoming us back home! And there will be a great rejoicing in heaven over our returning home.