2nd Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

A Glimpse of the Summit: The Grace of the Ascent

The Chaplain’s Ascent: Croagh Patrick, August 2018

In August of 2018, I found myself in County Mayo, Ireland, standing at the base of Croagh Patrick—the "Holy Mountain" where Saint Patrick is said to have fasted for forty days in the year 441. I was there as the chaplain for a group of young adult pilgrims. As we looked up at the daunting, mist-shrouded peak, I think we all felt a bit of that ancient Lenten trepidation. The mountain stands as a silent, stony sentinel over the Atlantic, and its history of penance is etched into every jagged rock.

At 56 years old, I was acutely aware that I wasn’t the youngest or the most athletic member of our group. I watched the twenty-somethings stretching their hamstrings and checking their high-tech gear, feeling every bit of my five-and-a-half decades. As we began the ascent, the grueling reality of the mountain set in. If you have ever climbed "The Reek," you know that the final stretch—the infamous "cone" near the summit—is a punishing wall of loose, shifting grey scree. This is not a stable path; it is a river of vertical stones. For every two steps forward, the sliding rocks seemed to pull you one step back. My lungs were burning, my knees were protesting, and a thick, damp Irish mist had swallowed the trail, making the summit feel like a distant, invisible myth.

There was a moment, leaning heavily on my walking stick and blinking back the mist, where I seriously considered calling it a day. Why am I doing this? I thought. The young people are probably miles ahead of me by now; I should just wait here for them to come back down. The temptation to settle for "good enough" is the greatest enemy of the spiritual life.

But a strange thing happens when you find your rhythm in prayer and persistence. Mustering a final reserve of strength, I pushed through that last vertical scramble. Suddenly, the terrain leveled out, the grey fog thinned, and I realized with a shock that I was standing next to the small, white summit chapel. I looked around, expecting to see my group of young adults already resting—but the summit was quiet. Somehow, at 56, the chaplain had made it to the top first.

In that moment, the heavy mist broke completely. Standing there on the ridge, I was gifted with a breathtaking, sunlit panorama of Clew Bay, with its legendary "365 islands" gleaming like emeralds in the deep blue water. The silence was absolute, broken only by the wind. In that single moment of transcendent beauty, every ounce of the preceding struggle suddenly made perfect sense. I needed that glimpse of glory to understand why I had made the climb.

As a "spiritual scout" for that group, I realized that my role wasn't just to keep up, but to prove that the summit was possible—that the view was worth the grit. This is exactly what the Liturgy of the Word does for us today. It reminds us that no matter our age or our fatigue, the climb toward God is never a fool’s errand.

From the Unknown to the Unveiled Glory

The readings for this Second Sunday of Lent (Cycle A) weave together a profound tapestry of divine calling, the necessity of endurance, and the promise of future glory. They remind us that the journey of faith is rarely easy, but the destination is more glorious than we can imagine.

The Call into the Unknown: Genesis 12:1-4a

Our journey begins with the Call of Abram. God says to him, “Go forth from the land of your kinsfolk... to a land that I will show you.” Notice the profound vulnerability God asks of him. He does not provide a map, a GPS coordinate, or a guaranteed timeline. He simply says, Go. Crucially, the verse immediately following our reading tells us that Abram was seventy-five years old when he departed Haran. If I felt the weight of a mere half-century on the slopes of Croagh Patrick, imagine Abram at 75, being asked to leave his security and his past to become a wanderer for God. At an age when most people are looking for stability, Abram is asked for mobility. His story reminds us that "retirement" is not a biblical concept in the spiritual life. God’s call is always "now." Whether we are 20 or 75, the "mountains" God calls us to climb require us to leave our comfort zones behind, trusting that the Lord who calls us will also sustain us.

Enduring the Valley: 2 Timothy 1:8b-10
Because the journey of faith involves leaving comfort behind, it inevitably involves suffering. St. Paul makes this clear to Timothy. Writing from a cold, damp prison cell, Paul does not sugarcoat the Christian life. He says, 

Bear your share of hardship for the gospel with the strength that comes from God.

Paul knew the valleys of life intimately. He knew what it was like to feel the "scree" of rejection and physical pain. Yet, he is not writing a letter of despair. He reminds Timothy that Christ Jesus "destroyed death and brought life and immortality to light." Paul is telling us that the hardships we face—whether they are the voluntary penances of Lent or the involuntary crosses of illness and grief—are not the end of the story. We can bear the "hardship" because the light of the Resurrection is already burning in the distance.

The Glimpse of Glory: Matthew 17:1-9

This brings us to the Transfiguration. Just prior to this moment, Jesus had revealed that He must go to Jerusalem to suffer and be killed. The disciples were devastated. They were entering a dark forest of doubt, and they wanted to turn back. They wanted a Messiah of immediate victory, not a Messiah of the Cross.

Knowing their faith was shaken, Jesus takes Peter, James, and John up a high mountain. There, He is transfigured. His face shines like the sun; His clothes become white as light. Moses and Elijah appear, representing the Law and the Prophets, all pointing to Jesus as the fulfillment of history.

Why does Jesus do this? He does it to give them a "Tabor moment"—a brief, dazzling revelation of His divine glory. He is essentially saying, When you see me on the cross, remember me on the mountain. When the mist of Good Friday swallows the world, remember this light. Peter is so overwhelmed he wants to stay—he wants the summit without the descent. But the Father’s voice interrupts: "This is my beloved Son... listen to him." When they fall in fear, Jesus touches them and says, "Rise, and do not be afraid." They cannot stay on the mountain; they must carry that light back down into the valley of the shadow of death.

Carrying the Light into the Valley

The scriptures today are a direct blueprint for our own spiritual lives. As we continue this Lenten hike, how do we respond?

1. Reclaim Your "Tabor Moments" 

In the spiritual life, we all experience "desolation"—when God feels distant and the climb feels pointless. In those moments, you must be like a hiker who keeps a photo of the summit in his pocket. Look back at your life. Recall the moments when God's presence was undeniable—a retreat, a moment of deep peace in prayer, or a time when grace carried you through a crisis. Hold onto those memories. God gives us those glimpses of glory precisely to sustain us when the trail gets dark and the rocks shift under our feet.

2. Be a Scout for Others 

Just as I found myself at the top of Croagh Patrick ahead of my group, some of you are "spiritual scouts" for your families, your children, or your coworkers. Your persistence in faith, despite your age or your struggles, serves as a beacon. When others see you continuing to "climb"—continuing to pray, to serve, and to hope despite the "scree" of life—it gives them the courage to keep going. Your grey hair or your years of experience are not barriers; they are your credentials as a witness that the mountain can be conquered.

3. Listen and Rise 

Finally, we must heed the command of the Father: "Listen to Him." To listen to Jesus is to align our pace with His. Lent is our time to tune out the noise of the world and listen to the voice of the Master. And then, we must heed the words of Jesus: "Rise, and do not be afraid." We cannot build tents on the mountain. We are called to take the grace we receive at this altar and carry it down into our homes and workplaces.

The hike of Lent continues. The trail may be steep, and the "cone" of our personal struggles may feel insurmountable. But do not turn back. Lift up your eyes, remember the radiant face of Christ on Tabor and the sun over Clew Bay, and keep climbing. The glory of Easter is waiting just beyond the ridge.

First Sunday of Lent @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish, Birch Run, MI

The Master of the Cosmic Scam

The Modern Phishing Scam 

Imagine, for a moment, that you receive an email from a wealthy overseas prince. He has millions of dollars trapped in a frozen bank account, and for some inexplicable reason, he has chosen you—yes, you—to help him get it out. All he needs is your bank account routing number and a small wire transfer of a thousand dollars to cover his administrative fees. In return, he promises to split the fortune with you.

Today, we recognize this immediately as a classic phishing scam. It is almost comical in its predictability, and most of us simply hit "delete" and move on.

But consider the underlying psychology of a scam. A successful con artist never approaches you wielding a weapon. They don’t force your hand. Instead, they approach you with a friendly smile, armed with exactly what you secretly desire. They study human nature. They identify a vulnerability—be it greed, pride, loneliness, or insecurity—and they exploit it by offering a shortcut. The con artist pitches a reality that looks incredibly appealing on the outside but is completely hollow on the inside. The trap only springs shut when the victim, blinded by the shiny promise, willingly hands over the keys.

The Original Deception 

This morning, as we step into the barren landscape of the First Sunday of Lent, the Church introduces us to the original con artist, the master of the cosmic scam, and shows us exactly how to defeat him.

The Garden: Where the Lie Began

In our first reading from the Book of Genesis, we are taken back to the world's very first phishing scam. The setting is the Garden of Eden, a place of total perfection, innocence, and abundance. Notice how the serpent, described as the most cunning of all animals, approaches the woman. He doesn't arrive as a terrifying monster; he arrives as a curious conversationalist. And his strategy is brilliant in its subtlety.

First, he plants a seed of doubt about God’s goodness: “Did God really tell you not to eat from any of the trees in the garden?” It is a twisted exaggeration. God had given them the entire garden to enjoy, save for one single tree. But the serpent shifts the focus from God's overwhelming generosity to the one minor restriction, painting God as a tyrant who is holding out on them.

Then comes the pitch, the false promise: “You certainly will not die! ... you will be like gods.” The serpent sells them a shortcut to greatness. Eve looks at the fruit. It is pleasing to the eye; it looks like exactly what she needs. She takes the bait. She eats, and she shares it with Adam. But the moment the transaction is complete, the illusion shatters. They don't become gods. Instead, their eyes are opened to their own spiritual poverty. They realize they are naked. They are left with profound shame, fear, and a pathetic attempt to cover themselves up by sewing itchy fig leaves together. The con was successful.

The Fallout: Inheritance of Vulnerability

In our second reading from his letter to the Romans, Saint Paul explains the devastating, lingering fallout of this ancient deception. “Through one man sin entered the world, and through sin, death.” Adam and Eve’s susceptibility to the con broke human nature. We inherited their vulnerability. Left to our own devices, we are incredibly gullible to the whispers of the enemy. We are constantly tempted to believe that God is keeping us from true happiness, and that we can find power and identity apart from Him.

But Paul doesn't leave us in despair. He introduces the turning point of human history: "how much more will those who receive the abundance of grace... come to reign in life through the one Jesus Christ."

The Desert: The New Adam Stands Firm

This brings us to the breathtaking drama of today’s Gospel. If Adam was the man who had everything and still fell for the scam, Jesus is the New Adam—the man who has voluntarily surrendered everything, yet absolutely refuses to take the bait.

Jesus is led by the Spirit into the desert. He has fasted for forty days and forty nights. He is physically exhausted, isolated, and incredibly hungry. He is, humanly speaking, in the most vulnerable state possible. The stage is set for the tempter to return, employing the exact same playbook he used in Eden.

The devil approaches and again, starts with doubt: “If you are the Son of God…” He demands proof. Then come the pitches, the shiny shortcuts:

• The Physical: Turn these stones into bread and satisfy your hunger right now.
• The Spectacular: Throw yourself off the temple and claim instant fame.
• The Political: Bow down to me, and I will hand you the magnificent power of all the kingdoms of the world.

The Strategy of Victory: "It is Written"

Notice the profound contrast between the first Adam and the New Adam. In the Garden, Eve engaged the devil in a debate. She relied on her own reasoning to outsmart the master of lies, and she lost. Jesus, however, refuses to entertain the tempter’s logic. He doesn't rely on His own human hunger or feelings. In response to every single temptation, Jesus deflects the attack with the objective truth of Scripture: “It is written.”

Jesus defeats the original con artist not with a display of terrifying divine lightning, but with radical, unwavering obedience to the Father. Where the first Adam grasped at divinity and fell, the New Adam humbles Himself and stands firm, reversing the curse of Eden and forging a path of victory for all of us.

Recognizing the Modern Whisper 

My brothers and sisters, today we step into the forty days of Lent. We are walking into the desert with Jesus. Make no mistake: the con artist is still active in our world, and his tactics have not changed. He still whispers that God's commandments are meant to restrict your joy. He still pitches shiny shortcuts to happiness—be it through material wealth, illicit relationships, numbing addictions, or prideful ambition. He still tries to convince you that you can be your own god.

Our Lenten Battle Plan 

This Lent, we are called to stop taking the bait. How do we do this? We must follow the exact model of the New Adam:

1. Fast with Intention:
   Just as the empty calories of a worldly scam leave us spiritually starving, we must intentionally strip away the comforts that dull our spiritual senses. Choose a penance that actually challenges you. Let your physical hunger point you toward your much deeper hunger for God.
2. Immerse in the Word:
   You cannot say "It is written" if you do not know what is written! Commit to reading the Scriptures for ten minutes every day this season. Let the truth of God's Word be your armor against the subtle lies of the enemy.
3. Drop the Fig Leaves:
   Adam and Eve tried to hide their shame from God. This Lent, bring your shame to Him. Go to the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Expose the dark areas where you have fallen for the enemy's scams, and let the sheer, overflowing grace of Jesus Christ wash you clean.

Conclusion 

The desert is harsh, but we do not walk it alone. We walk it with the Savior who has already conquered the tempter. Do not listen to the lies. Trust in the obedience of the One who loves you, and let this Lenten journey lead you, purified and victorious, to the glory of Easter.

Ash Wednesday @ Ss. Francis and Clare Birch Run

The Return of the Prodigal Heart

Before and After

In our modern world, we are obsessed with the "aesthetic" of transformation. We love the "before and after" photos on social media—the house renovation, the fitness journey, the organized closet. We like the visible proof that work has been done. But today, as we receive a smudge of black soot on our foreheads, we are reminded of a different kind of transformation. The ashes are not a trophy of how holy we are; they are a public confession of how much we have turned to dust.

They are the "before" picture.

The paradox of Ash Wednesday is that while we wear a visible mark on our skin, the Gospel warns us: "Take care not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them." We stand at a crossroads where the external sign must meet an internal reality. We are here because we recognize a tear in the fabric of our relationship with God, and today is the day we begin the repair. This isn't just a day of religious obligation; it is an "acceptable time." It is the moment when the eternal God says to the temporal creature, "Come home."

“Even now . . .”

The readings for this liturgy provide a roadmap for this journey home, beginning with the searing urgency of the Prophet Joel. Joel speaks to a people in crisis, yet his message is not one of despair, but of intense invitation. "Even now, says the Lord, return to me with your whole heart."

Notice the phrase "Even now." It doesn't matter how far the drift has been. It doesn't matter if you haven't prayed since last Lent or if your heart feels as cold as the winter ground. "Even now" is God’s refusal to give up on us. Joel calls for a "fasting, weeping, and mourning," but then he gives the most crucial instruction of the day: "Rend your hearts, not your garments." In the ancient Near East, tearing one’s clothes was a sign of extreme grief. Joel argues that it is easy to tear cloth; it is much harder to let your heart be broken open. A broken heart is an open heart, and only an open heart can be filled with the "gracious and merciful" spirit of a God who is "slow to anger and rich in kindness."

Create a clean heart

This theme of internal brokenness is echoed in Psalm 51, the great Miserere. David, recognizing his own profound failure, does not ask for a better reputation or a way to hide his sin. He asks for a "clean heart." He acknowledges that "a heart contrite and humbled, O God, you will not spurn." The ashes we wear are a physical manifestation of this Psalm—a recognition that without God’s breath, we are merely soil.

The acceptable time

In the second reading, St. Paul takes this personal call and elevates it to a cosmic necessity. He calls us "ambassadors for Christ." An ambassador does not represent themselves; they represent a Kingdom. Paul’s plea is haunting: "We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God." He reminds the Corinthians—and us—that holiness is not something we manufacture. It is something we receive because "for our sake he made him to be sin who did not know sin." Our transformation is paid for by Christ’s sacrifice. Paul creates a sense of holy "Now." "Now is a very acceptable time; behold, now is the day of salvation." There is no "someday" in the spiritual life. There is only today.

Prayer, fasting, almsgiving

Finally, the Gospel from Matthew provides the "how" of this season. Jesus addresses the three pillars of Lenten discipline: almsgiving, prayer, and fasting. But He adds a sharp warning about the "hypocrites." In the original Greek, hypokrites referred to an actor wearing a mask. Jesus is telling us: "Do not act out your faith for an audience."

If you give to the poor to be called generous, you have your reward—the applause of men. If you pray loudly to be called holy, you have your reward. If you look miserable while fasting so people pity your sacrifice, you have your reward. But if you do these things in "secret," where only your Father sees, you are engaging in a private love affair with the Divine. Lent is not a season for spiritual vanity; it is a season for spiritual intimacy. The "secret" place Jesus mentions is the inner chamber of the soul where no one else can enter. That is where the real work of Lent happens.

40 days to make it real

So, what are we to do with these forty days? How do we move from the "before" to the "after"?

First, we must embrace the silence of the "Secret." This week, find a way to perform an act of charity that no one—not even your closest friend or spouse—knows about. Feed someone, help someone, or give of your resources in total anonymity. By doing so, you kill the ego that craves recognition, and you allow God to be your only witness.

Second, we must practice the "Rending of the Heart." This requires a fearless moral inventory. What is the one thing you are holding onto that keeps you from God? Is it a grudge? An addiction to distraction? A habit of gossip? Don't just "give up chocolate" as a ritual of habit. Instead, fast from the behaviors that tear down your dignity and the dignity of others. Let the hunger you feel in your stomach remind you of the hunger you should feel for righteousness.

Third, we must live the "Now." Paul warns us not to receive the grace of God in vain. Do not let this Ash Wednesday be just another day on the calendar. Make a concrete plan for prayer. If you don't pray, start with ten minutes of silence. If you do pray, dive deeper into the Scriptures. Use this "acceptable time" to reconcile with someone you have cast aside.

As you leave today, you will carry a mark on your forehead. It is a sign of death—"Remember you are dust." But in the economy of God, death is always the precursor to resurrection. We wear these ashes not as a finish line, but as a starting blocks. We are embarking on a journey through the desert, stripping away the noise and the masks, so that when the sun rises on Easter morning, it doesn't just shine on our faces, but radiates from within our newly "rended" and resurrected hearts.

Be reconciled to God. The time is now.

6th Sunday of Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish

The Illusion of the Minimum

We live in a world obsessed with the "minimum viable product." We want the fastest results for the least amount of effort. In our legal systems, we ask, "What is the bare minimum I must do to stay out of trouble?" In our health, we ask, "What is the least amount of exercise I can do to stay fit?" Even in our spiritual lives, we are often tempted to treat God like a cosmic accountant, asking, "What is the minimum requirement to get into heaven? Which rules do I absolutely have to follow?"

But today, Jesus stands on the mountainside and shatters the "minimum requirement" mentality. He looks at us and says something radical: "Unless your righteousness surpasses that of the scribes and Pharisees, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven." To his listeners, this was shocking. The Pharisees were the Olympic athletes of rule-following. How could anyone do more than them?

Jesus isn't asking for more rules; He is asking for more of our hearts. He is moving us from a religion of external compliance to a relationship of internal transformation.

From the Letter to the Spirit

The readings today present us with the profound gift of human freedom and the weight of moral responsibility. In the first reading from Sirach, we are reminded that God has set before us "fire and water," "life and death." The choice is ours. God does not force us to love Him, for forced love is not love at all. However, Sirach makes it clear: to choose the commandments is to choose life.

This theme of choosing life reaches its crescendo in the Gospel of Matthew. Jesus begins by clarifying His mission: "I have come not to abolish the law... but to fulfill it." In the ancient world, to "fulfill" something meant to bring it to its intended completion, to reveal its deepest meaning. Jesus takes the Ten Commandments—the foundation of the moral life—and peels back the layers to reveal the heart of the Father.

He uses a series of "antitheses": “You have heard that it was said... but I say to you.” First, He speaks of murder. The Law said, "Do not kill." Most of us feel pretty good about our progress on that one. But Jesus goes deeper. He says that if you harbor anger, if you insult your brother, if you call someone a "fool," you have already violated the spirit of the commandment. Why? Because murder begins in the heart. The physical act of violence is merely the final fruit of a seed of resentment that was allowed to grow unchecked. Jesus is telling us that it is not enough to keep our hands clean if our hearts are full of malice.

Second, He speaks of adultery. Again, the Law forbade the act. But Jesus points to the "adultery of the eye"—the lustful gaze that reduces another human being, a child of God, to an object for self-gratification. He uses hyperbolic language—tearing out eyes and cutting off hands—to emphasize the radical seriousness of sin. He isn't calling for self-mutilation; He is calling for the "circumcision of the heart," the cutting away of anything that prevents us from seeing others with the dignity they deserve.

Finally, He speaks of oaths. In Jesus’ time, people used elaborate oaths to prove they were telling the truth, often using "legal loopholes" to avoid being bound by their word. Jesus calls for a radical integrity: "Let your 'Yes' mean 'Yes,' and your 'No' mean 'No.'" A follower of Christ should be so rooted in the truth that an oath is unnecessary.

This is the "wisdom" St. Paul speaks of in our second reading—a wisdom "not of this age," but a mysterious, hidden wisdom revealed by the Spirit. It is the wisdom that recognizes that the Law of God is not a fence to keep us in, but a map to lead us toward the fullness of love. The "righteousness that surpasses" is not about doing more things; it is about doing things with more love. It is the movement from "I have to" to "I want to."

The Gate of Forgiveness

So, how do we live this out? How do we move beyond the minimum?

Interestingly, this Sunday marks a unique moment in the liturgical calendar. While we in the Roman Rite are in the Sixth Sunday of Ordinary Time, our brothers and sisters in the Eastern Rites—the Byzantine Catholic and Orthodox Churches—observe today as Forgiveness Sunday (also known as Cheesefare Sunday). It is the final day before they begin the Great Lent. On this day, they participate in a beautiful "Rite of Forgiveness," where every member of the community asks for and receives forgiveness from one another.

This Eastern tradition perfectly encapsulates the "surpassing righteousness" Jesus demands in today’s Gospel. Remember what Jesus said: "If you bring your gift to the altar, and there recall that your brother has anything against you... go first and be reconciled."

Jesus is making a startling claim: Your relationship with God is inextricably linked to your relationship with your neighbor. You cannot truly offer a gift to the Father while you are strangling His other children with your resentment.

This week, I challenge you to three specific actions:

1. Examine the Root, Not Just the Fruit: Don't just look at your "big" sins. Look at the anger you’ve "managed" but haven't let go of. Look at the "small" judgments you make about people in traffic or on social media. Ask the Holy Spirit to reveal the seeds of "Raca" or "Fool" in your heart and ask for the grace to weed them out.
2. Practice the "Yes" of Integrity: In a world of "fake news" and broken promises, be a person whose word is gold. This week, be hyper-aware of your speech. Avoid the white lies that make life "easier" and the exaggerations that make you look better. Let your "Yes" mean "Yes."
3. The Forgiveness Sunday Challenge: In the spirit of our Eastern brothers and sisters, identify one person this week toward whom you are holding a grudge, or one person you have offended. Do not wait for them to come to you. Jesus says, "Go first." Whether it is a text, a phone call, or a conversation after Mass, seek reconciliation.

The wisdom of the world tells us to hold onto our rights, to nurse our grievances, and to do just enough to get by. But the wisdom of God, revealed in Christ, tells us that the way to life is the way of the Cross—the way of radical, overflowing, "surpassing" love.

As we approach the altar today, let us not bring just our "minimum requirements." Let us bring our whole hearts, purified by forgiveness, and ready to choose the "water and life" that God so generously sets before us. Amen.