Mary, Holy Mother of God @ Ss Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Great Identity Theft: Reclaiming the Divine Surname

The Modern Crisis of the Hijacked Identity

The contemporary world is characterized by intense anxiety over identity protection. Where digital footprints are permanent, the warning against identity theft is ubiquitous. Individuals are taught to guard Social Security numbers and employ complex encryption. If a name is hijacked, the victim loses access to resources and standing. To have an identity stolen is to become a ghost in one’s own life—estranged from the power and rights that were once guaranteed. It is a state of being legally alive but functionally disinherited. 

However, as the calendar marks the beginning of the year 2026, it is necessary to recognize a far more ancient and insidious form of identity theft. This theft does not occur on servers; it occurs within the human soul. It is the systematic hijacking of the divine identity. The world constantly attempts to replace the true identity of the human person with false labels. Society suggests that a person’s worth is a variable based on productivity, net worth, or past mistakes. This spiritual identity theft seeks to convince the individual that they are a nameless orphan, a slave to their history, or a stranger to the Creator. 

On this Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God, the Church provides a definitive status report. The liturgy serves as a legal and theological restoration of the true name and standing of every believer.

The Mark of Ownership: The Priestly Blessing

The restoration of identity begins with the First Reading from the Book of Numbers. This text provides the ancient formula for establishing a relationship with the Divine. It is the Aaronic Blessing: 

"The LORD bless you and keep you! The LORD let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you! The LORD look upon you kindly and give you peace!" 

While these words are often heard as a poetic sentiment, they carry a profound legal weight in the context of the Covenant. This liturgy served as the primary means of maintaining the national identity of Israel. The conclusion of the passage reveals the true functional purpose: 

"So shall they invoke my name upon the Israelites, and I will bless them." 

In the ancient world, to have a name invoked or placed upon a person was a formal act of claiming property. If a monarch placed his seal upon a territory, that territory was under his protection. By placing His Name upon the people through the priests, God was asserting a claim of ownership. He was declaring that the Israelites were not a nameless mass; they were a people with a specific legal standing before the King of Kings. 

This is the primary defense against spiritual identity theft: knowing whose Name is carried. Before a person attempts to re-brand themselves with New Year's resolutions, they must first acknowledge the Name that has already been placed upon them. 

The believer does not enter the year as a self-made entity, but as a person who carries the seal of the Most High. The blessing of the Lord is not a reward for behavior; it is the consequence of belonging to His household.

The Fullness of Time: The Decree of Adoption

The mechanism by which this Name was fused to humanity is explained by Saint Paul in the Second Reading. Paul outlines the monumental shift in human status that occurred through the Incarnation. He writes: 

"When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to ransom those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons." 

This legal transaction was the fulfillment of centuries of preparation. This is the theological necessity behind the title Mother of God. If the Son of God were not truly born of a woman, He would lack the human nature required to represent humanity. By taking His flesh and blood from Mary, the Son of God entered into the human contract. He stepped under the Law to pay a debt He did not owe, because humanity owed a debt it could never pay. 

The consequence of this intervention is a total transformation of status: Adoption. In the Roman legal traditions, adoption resulted in the legal extinction of the old name and all previous debts. When a person was adopted into a new family, their past liabilities ceased to exist. The adopted person gained an irrevocable right to the father’s estate. 

Paul asserts that because of this born of a woman moment, the believer no longer operates as a slave, but as a fully legitimate heir. The indwelling of the Spirit allows the believer to cry out, "Abba, Father!" This is the ultimate protection against identity theft. The world may claim that a person is defined by their past or failures. But the legal reality in the Kingdom of God is that the believer has received a new surname. They are an Heir to the very life of God.

Reflection as Spiritual Defense

How is this identity preserved against the noise of a new year? The model is found in the Mother of God in the Gospel of Saint Luke. After the local shepherds visit the manger, the crowd is described as being "amazed." However, amazement is a fleeting reaction; it is an insufficient foundation for a permanent identity. In contrast, Luke observes: 

"Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart." 

The Greek term for "reflecting" is symballousa, which means to "bring together." Mary acted as the custodian of the divine evidence. She took the poverty of the stable, the shepherds, and the face of her Son, and she held them together. She did not allow the chaos of the journey to steal the truth of what God had declared. At the end of the octave of Christmas, the child was formally brought into the covenant: 

"He was named Jesus, the name given by the angel before conception." 

The name "Jesus" means "God Saves." This is the Name invoked upon every Christian at Baptism. It is the identity Mary protected in her heart, and it is the identity she assists the faithful in guarding today.

Reclaiming the Divine Surname: A Call to Action

As 2026 begins, the world will attempt to re-institute the theft of identity. To prevent this, three specific actions are proposed: 

First, assert the status of heir. Every morning, recite the words of Saint Paul: "Abba, Father." The day should not begin until this legal standing is recognized. 

Second, audit the heart’s narrative. Identify one lie the world told last year about who you are. Bring that lie before the Mother of God and ask for the grace to replace it with Truth. 

Third, invoke the Name as a shield. Use the Name of Jesus as a defensive seal. When the pressure to prove worth arises, invoke the Name: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me." 

Mary is the Mother of God, and she is the Mother of the faithful. She guards the inheritance of her children. May the Lord bless and keep every soul in 2026. May His face shine upon this congregation and give every single person peace. Amen.

Holy Family @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Ultimate Road Trip: Finding Holiness in the Detours

The Myth of the Perfect Christmas

If there is one movie that captures the absolute, unbridled chaos of trying to create the "perfect family memory," it has to be National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. You know the scene. Clark Griswold has worked for months to create the ideal, old-fashioned family Christmas. He wants the lights to work, the tree to be magnificent, and the family dinner to be a moment of pure harmony.

But what happens? The tree catches fire. The turkey is so dry it implodes when carved. And, of course, Cousin Eddie shows up uninvited in an RV that he is emptying into the storm drain. Clark’s breakdown at the end of the movie is legendary because it’s relatable. He screams about how he wanted everything to be "perfect," but the reality of family life—with all its eccentricities and messy relationships—got in the way.

We laugh because we see ourselves. We have this image in our heads of what our family should look like. We want the Instagram photo where everyone is smiling and matching. We want the "Hallmark Movie" Christmas. And when the baby screams during Mass, or the teenager rolls their eyes at Grandma, or the car breaks down on the way to the in-laws, we feel like we’ve failed. We feel like our family is "broken" compared to the ideal.

Refugees in the Night: The Reality of the Holy Family

Then, we come to church on this Sunday, and we look at the statues of the Holy Family. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. They look so peaceful. So perfect. So… porcelain. The plaster statue of St. Joseph never looks stressed. The statue of Mary never looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.

But today’s Gospel from St. Matthew (Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23) shatters that porcelain image. If you think your Christmas travel plans were stressful, look at the first "family road trip" of the Holy Family. They didn’t travel in a minivan with heated seats. They didn’t have a reservation at the Holiday Inn. They were running for their lives.

"Rise, take the child and his mother, flee to Egypt."

Imagine the adrenaline in that moment. Joseph wakes up from a dream in a cold sweat. It’s the middle of the night. He has to wake Mary, who has a newborn infant. They have to pack whatever they can carry and disappear into the dark. They are fleeing a government that wants to kill their child. They are becoming refugees in a foreign land—Egypt—a place where they don’t speak the language and have no support system. This is not "Silent Night." This is a survival thriller.

The Uniform of Holiness: Patience and Forgiveness

If Clark Griswold lost his mind because the turkey was dry, imagine the stress Joseph was under. The "Holy" Family was not holy because their life was easy. They weren't holy because everything went according to plan. They were holy because of how they responded to the chaos.

This is where our Second Reading from St. Paul to the Colossians (Col 3:12-21) becomes our roadmap. St. Paul gives us the "uniform" for a holy family. Notice, he doesn’t say, "Put on a perfect smile." He says: 

"Put on then, as God’s chosen ones… heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another."

Why do you need patience? Because family life is difficult! You don't need patience when everything is perfect; you need patience when the toddler paints the wall with spaghetti sauce. Why do you need forgiveness? Because family members hurt each other. "Bearing with one another" implies that there is a burden to be borne—that your spouse, your parents, and your children will have quirks and faults that weigh on you.

St. Joseph didn't have a script. He had to trust God in the dark. He had to practice patience when the donkey was slow and humility when he couldn't provide a warm nursery. The holiness of the Holy Family wasn't found in the absence of problems; it was found in the presence of Love amidst the problems.

Honoring the Fragility of Life

We also see this dynamic in our First Reading from Sirach (Sirach 3:2-6, 12-14). It speaks about honoring our father and mother. It says, "My son, take care of your father when he is old... even if his mind fail, be considerate of him."

This is the other side of family life. It’s not just raising children; it’s caring for aging parents. It’s the "Sandwich Generation," caught between the chaos of teenagers and the frailty of grandparents. Sirach reminds us that "kindness to a father will not be forgotten." When we care for the difficult members of our family—a parent with dementia or a child with struggles—we are doing something profoundly sacred. We are atoning for sins and storing up treasure in heaven.

Call to Action: Loving in the Mess

My challenge to you this week is to stop comparing your family to the "airbrushed" version of the Holy Family. Instead, look at the grit of the Holy Family. Look at the dust on Joseph’s sandals and the worry in Mary’s eyes that turns into trust.

• Fathers and Husbands: Be the protectors. Not just of physical safety, but of the emotional peace of your home. Like Joseph, you might not have all the answers. Lead your family anyway, even if it means making hard sacrifices.
• Mothers and Wives: You are the heart of the home. As Colossians says, let the "peace of Christ control your hearts." When the chaos swirls, you have the power to set the temperature of the room. Your patience is the glue.
• Children and Teens: Sirach is talking to you. Your parents are imperfect people trying to navigate a "Flight to Egypt" world. Cut them some slack. Honor their sacrifice, even when they annoy you.

The Holy Family teaches us that holiness is a contact sport. It happens in the minivan, the waiting room, and the moments when you forgive your brother for the third time today. Don't wait for your family to be perfect to love them. Love them in the mess. Protect the Christ Child in your home, even if you’re living in a temporary "Egypt." Because if you have Love, you have God. And if you have God, you have everything.

Christmas @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Open Door: Finding Grace in the No Vacancy Sign 

The Dark Night of Expectation (Isaiah)
We are gathered tonight in the deepest hour of the year. The long nights of Advent have led us to this moment of profound expectation—a moment described by the Prophet Isaiah with stark beauty: 

"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light."

What is this darkness Isaiah speaks of? It is not merely the absence of the sun. It is the darkness of human history: the darkness of war, the darkness of injustice, the perpetual shadow of the human condition where hope often seems a fragile commodity. It is the darkness of the "heavy yoke" and the "rod of the oppressor," the burdens we carry in our own souls—anxiety, fear, guilt, and the pervasive sense that we are ultimately alone. We have all walked in this darkness, looking for a break in the cloud.

The Promise of the Prince of Peace
But Isaiah assures us that the darkness is not final. He promises a light that is not flickering, but great. He promises a divine child, a counselor, a mighty God, a Prince of Peace. This promise is not just for ancient Israel; it is the fundamental reason we are here tonight, seeking the fulfillment of this prophecy in the tiny town of Bethlehem.

The Tragedy of the Innkeeper (Luke)
The Gospel of Luke delivers the historical fulfillment, yet it opens with what appears to be a mundane tragedy: 

"...because there was no room for them in the inn."

The Heart that is Too Full
The unnamed innkeeper of Bethlehem is the silent antagonist of the Christmas story. He was a man with a mandate—to provide shelter—but he was limited by the practicalities of business, overcrowding, and, perhaps, a lack of imaginative charity. He saw an exhausted man, a woman about to give birth, and he calculated the cost versus the convenience. He simply could not see the grace standing on his doorstep.

The Closed Door of the Soul
The innkeeper represents the part of all of us that is too busy, too preoccupied, and too closed off to the unexpected arrival of God. Our hearts, our schedules, our priorities—these often display the ‘no vacancy’ sign. The irony is excruciating: The one place in the world God needed to be sheltered was a human dwelling, and the human dwelling turned Him away. Because the front door was closed, God arrived at the back door, among the animals, in the poverty of the stable.

The Porter of Grace: Blessed Solanus Casey
This profound truth—that God arrives where we least expect Him—brings us to the life of a modern saint, Blessed Father Solanus Casey.

Christmas Eve: The Start of a Vocation
The significance of Christmas to Father Solanus is deep, for Christmas Eve was the very start of his journey into religious life. Exhausted from his travels, the young Bernard Casey knocked on the door of the Capuchin monastery in Detroit in 1896. He was received, found rest, and awoke to the sounds of Midnight Mass. 

For Solanus, Christmas was literally the door through which his life’s work began.

The Simplicity of the Doorkeeper
Despite his limitations as a "simplex priest," the monastery assigned him the humble, essential task of porter—the doorkeeper. This restriction became his greatest grace. He spent decades answering the bell at St. Bonaventure’s, seeing thousands of people.

He never put up a 'no vacancy' sign. Where the innkeeper saw a bother, Solanus saw a brother. Where the innkeeper saw a liability, Solanus saw an opportunity for grace. Through him, countless miracles of healing and conversion took place, not because of his sermons, but because of what he received at the door. He was God's open door.

The Appearance of Saving Grace (Titus)
The second reading tonight, from the letter to Titus, explains this dynamic perfectly: 

"For the grace of God has appeared, saving all."

Grace for the Simple Shepherds
Grace is not something earned; it is something that appears. It is an unexpected, unmerited gift, and it appeared in the most unassuming of ways: a baby, born in a feeding trough.

This is the theology of the shepherds. They were the absolute antithesis of the innkeeper: poor, marginalized, and without status. Yet, when the Angel of the Lord appeared, shining the glory of God around them, they ran to the stable. They had room in their hearts for the unexpected.

God's Preference for Humility
This is the great parallel to Solanus Casey. Just as God revealed His majesty to the simple shepherds, He chose the simple porter to demonstrate His miraculous power. God works powerfully through what the world deems simple and lowly.

The Challenge: "Thank God Ahead of Time"
The entire spirituality of Father Solanus can be summed up in his signature phrase: "Thank God ahead of time."

Radical Trust and Vulnerability
This is not simple optimism; it is radical theological trust. It means having the faith of the shepherds, who followed an Angel's word without seeing the final result. It means standing in the darkness Isaiah speaks of and thanking God for the light that is coming.

We must remember why God chose this manner of arrival. He does not come as a thunderous king or a formidable judge. He comes as a child, utterly vulnerable and dependent. God comes to us as a child because a child requires us to bend down, to draw close, and to lay aside our weapons and pride. We cannot meet a baby at a distance; we must approach with gentleness. This act of drawing close to the Infant of Bethlehem is our first act of radical trust.

The innkeeper looked at his crowded situation and saw a dead end. The shepherds and Solanus Casey looked at the situation—poverty, cold, limited resources—and saw Providence. They responded with gratitude before the gift was fully unwrapped.

Your Inner Innkeeper
Tonight, we must examine our own inner innkeeper. Where have we hung the 'no vacancy' sign? Is it on our schedule, refusing to make time for silent prayer? Is it on our wounded pride, refusing to forgive a family member? Is it on our fear, refusing to trust God with our financial burdens or our future?

Opening the Door to the Eucharist and to Others
Christ is not only knocking at the door of our hearts; tonight, He is here, on our altar. We are invited, just like the shepherds and Solanus, to approach the simple, humble reality of the Eucharist.

This altar is our stable. 

We come here to receive the very Body of Christ that was once wrapped in swaddling clothes and laid in a manger.

The Call to Action
As we leave this sacred night, let us resolve this Christmas season to imitate the Porter of Grace, Father Solanus Casey. Do not just open the door of your heart to Christ; open the door of your home, your pantry, or your time to someone in need.

Go and find the person who has the "no vacancy" sign hung on their own spirit—the lonely, the grieving, or the forgotten—and be the light of Bethlehem for them.

Thank God ahead of time for the grace He will pour out through your simple act of welcome.
Let us resolve to be porters of grace, not innkeepers of scarcity. Let us embrace the beautiful simplicity of the stable. 

Merry Christmas.

Fourth Sunday of Advent @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish, Birch Run

Fourth Sunday of Advent: The Man on the Bridge

The George Bailey Moment

There is a scene in the holiday classic It’s a Wonderful Life that captures the depths of human despair. George Bailey, a man who has spent his entire life sacrificing his own dreams for the sake of others, faces financial ruin and public scandal. He stands on a bridge in the middle of a snowstorm, staring into the dark, freezing water below. He believes his life has been a waste. He believes the world would be better off without him.

But then, Clarence the Angel intervenes. He doesn't give George money. He doesn't solve the legal problems. He simply shows George what the world would look like if he had never been born. He shows him the gaping hole his absence would leave in the lives of his brother, his wife, and his town.

When George returns to reality at the end of the film, his circumstances haven't changed. The debt is still there. The sheriff is still coming. But George runs through the streets shouting, "Merry Christmas!" with pure, unadulterated joy. Why? Because his perception changed. He received the ultimate reward: the knowledge that his life mattered, that he was loved, and that his sacrifices had purpose. That deep satisfaction transformed his suffering into joy.

The Silence of St. Joseph

Today, on the final Sunday of Advent, the Gospel (Matthew 1:18-24) presents us with St. Joseph, standing on his own metaphorical bridge.

We must appreciate the crisis Joseph was in. He is described as a "righteous man." This means he was a man who loved the Law of God. He had a plan for his life: a quiet marriage to Mary, a simple life as a carpenter in Nazareth. Then, the interruption. Mary is pregnant. And he knows, with absolute certainty, that it is not his child.

Under the Law he loved, Mary could be subjected to a public trial and potentially stoned to death. But Joseph also loved Mary. He is torn between the Law and Love. He decides on a course of quiet mercy: he will divorce her quietly, taking the confusion and potential shame upon himself to spare her. He is ready to walk away from his dreams, heartbroken.

And then, the dream. The angel of the Lord appears. “Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home.”

The angel gives him a command, but crucially, the angel gives him the Reward. The angel gives him the "Why." “For it is through the Holy Spirit that this child has been conceived in her. She will bear a son and you are to name him Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”

And to seal this promise, the Gospel invokes the prophecy of Isaiah from our First Reading (7:10-14): “Behold, the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and they shall name him Emmanuel, which means ‘God is with us.’”

Atomic Satisfaction: The Reward

This brings us to the fourth and final law of Atomic Habits: Make it Satisfying.

James Clear explains that while the first three laws (Obvious, Attractive, Easy) increase the odds that a behavior will be performed this time, the fourth law increases the odds that it will be repeated next time. We stick with habits when the result satisfies a deep need. The human brain prioritizes immediate satisfaction.

Joseph is being asked to do something incredibly difficult. He is being asked to accept a child that isn't his, to face the whispers of the town, to upend his life. Why does he do it? Why does he wake up and immediately obey? Because the reward was satisfying on a soul-level.

1. The Satisfaction of Identity:

The angel calls him “Joseph, son of David.” In his confusion, Joseph probably felt like a nobody. The angel reminds him: You are of the line of Kings. You have a role in the greatest story ever told. There is a deep satisfaction in knowing who you are in God’s eyes.

2. The Satisfaction of Presence (Emmanuel):

The ultimate reward is Emmanuel—God is with us. Joseph’s quiet life was gone, but in exchange, he received God Himself. He would get to hold the Creator of the universe in his arms. He would teach the Messiah how to use a hammer. The reward of his obedience was the physical presence of Jesus.

Application: Finding the Joy in the Duty

St. Paul, in the Second Reading (Romans 1:1-7), introduces himself as a “slave of Christ Jesus.” To the modern world, "slave" is a repulsive word. But for Paul, it was a title of honor. He found his satisfaction in belonging to Christ. He speaks of the “obedience of faith.”

As we enter the final frantic days before Christmas, we are all tired. The to-do lists are long. The stress is high. We might feel like George Bailey on the bridge—overwhelmed. How do we make the final push satisfying?

1. Reframe the Burden:

When you are wrapping the twentieth gift at midnight, or cleaning the house for guests, don't focus on the chore. Focus on the Emmanuel. You are preparing a place for love to dwell. Joseph didn't focus on the scandal; he focused on the Child. Find the satisfaction in serving others, knowing that in serving them, you are serving Christ.

2. The Reward of Peace:

Joseph woke up and "did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him." There is a specific, deep peace that comes from doing the right thing when it is hard. It is the peace of a clear conscience. If you have a difficult decision to make—a family member to forgive, a political argument to avoid—choose the path of peace. The immediate gratification of winning an argument fades instantly. The satisfaction of keeping the peace lasts.

3. Look for the Sign:

Ahaz in the First Reading refused to ask for a sign, but God gave him one anyway. Look for the signs of Emmanuel in your life this week. Where is God with you? Is He in the laughter of your children? Is He in the quiet of the church? When you acknowledge His presence, the habit of faith becomes deeply satisfying.

Joseph never speaks a word in the Gospels. He simply acts. He trusts. And his reward was to be the guardian of the Light of the World. This week, be like Joseph. Don't be afraid. Take Jesus into your home. The reward is Him. And He is everything.

Third Sunday of Advent @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish, Birch Run

Third Sunday of Advent: The Long Game of Belief

The Crooked Sign

In the hit series Ted Lasso, an upbeat American football coach is hired to manage a British soccer team, a sport he knows nothing about. He enters a locker room filled with cynicism. The players are defeated; the ownership is hostile; the fans are angry. Ted doesn't give a grand speech about winning the championship. He walks into his office, takes a piece of yellow paper, writes the word 

BELIEVE 

on it in black marker, and tapes it—crookedly—above the door.

Ted’s method of transformation is not the "quantum leap." He doesn't fix the team overnight. He fixes the team through relentless, small, easy interactions. He brings the owner a small box of biscuits every morning. He learns the name of the towel boy. He acknowledges the players' feelings. He makes the act of being a team easy by removing the friction of ego and unkindness. Slowly, through these tiny atomic actions, the culture shifts.

The Doubt in the Darkness

Today is Gaudete Sunday—Joy Sunday. We light the rose candle. But the Gospel reading (Matthew 11:2-11) begins in a place that feels very far from joy.

John the Baptist, the fiery prophet we met last week, is now in prison. The wide-open sky of the Jordan River has been replaced by the damp stone of a cell. And in that darkness, John begins to doubt. He sends his disciples to Jesus with a heartbreaking question: 

“Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?”

John expected the Messiah to be a revolutionary. He expected the axe to fall now. He expected the Romans to be driven out and the Kingdom established in power. Instead, he hears reports of a carpenter from Nazareth who is wandering around preaching about lilies and sparrows. Jesus isn't fixing the world the way John thought He would. It’s too slow. It’s too small.

Jesus sends a message back to John. But He doesn't send a theological thesis. He points to the data: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed... and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them.”

Jesus is validating the "long game." He is saying, "John, look at the fruit. The Kingdom isn't coming with an explosion; it is coming like a sunrise. It is coming through individual acts of healing and mercy. The desert is blooming, one flower at a time."

Atomic Action: Make it Easy

This brings us to the third law of Atomic Habits: 

Make it Easy.

We live in a culture that is obsessed with the "big win." We want to lose 30 pounds in a month. We want to become a saint in a weekend. When we set these massive, difficult goals, we almost always fail. Why? Because the "friction" is too high. It requires too much willpower to sustain.

James Clear argues that to build a lasting habit, you must reduce the friction. You must make the good behavior so easy that you can’t say no. He calls it the Two-Minute Rule: "When you start a new habit, it should take less than two minutes to do."

If you want to read the Bible, don't commit to an hour. Commit to one verse. If you want to pray, don't commit to the whole Rosary. Commit to one Hail Mary while you brush your teeth.

Application: The Farmer's Patience

The Church gives us St. James in the Second Reading (5:7-10) to reinforce this truth. James writes: 

“See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth,
being patient with it until it receives the early and late rains.”

A farmer cannot force a seed to grow. He cannot scream at the crop to make it faster. He can only do the small, repetitive, easy things: Water. Weed. Wait. The "early and late rains" refer to the specific climate of Palestine—the farmer is dependent on God’s timing. James tells us: 

“You too must be patient. Make your hearts firm.”

Isaiah, in the First Reading (35:1-6a, 10), uses similar imagery. He speaks of the desert bursting into bloom. But notice his advice to the people: 

“Strengthen the hands that are feeble, make firm the knees that are weak.” 

He doesn't say "run a marathon." He says "stand up." Strengthen the knees. Do the basic, easy thing.

This Gaudete Sunday, our joy comes from realizing we don't have to fix the whole world, or even our whole lives, by Christmas. 

We just have to take the next small step.

1. Lower the Bar for Prayer:
We often feel guilty because our prayer life isn't "monastic" enough. Make it easy. Put a prayer card on your dashboard. When you hit a red light, read it. That’s it. You have turned a frustration into a prayer. You removed the friction.

2. The Highway of Holiness:
Isaiah speaks of a “highway... called the holy way.” A highway is designed to make travel easy and direct. Look at your life: what makes charity hard? Is it that you never have cash? Put a $10 bill in your pocket specifically to give away this week. Make the act of generosity frictionless.

3. The "Believe" Sign:
Like Ted Lasso, we need to believe that these small actions matter. When you smile at a cashier, when you hold your tongue in an argument, when you say one "Our Father"—these are the raindrops that water the crop.

Jesus comforted John by showing him the small miracles. We comfort ourselves by doing the small acts of love. Don't look for the thunderbolt. Look for the bloom in the desert. Make it easy to love, and the joy will follow.