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.

5th Sunday in Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare Parish, Birch Run

5th Sunday in Ordinary Time

The Identity Crisis of the Believer

There is a profound difference between a flashlight that is turned off and one that is turned on. Externally, they look exactly the same. They have the same casing, the same bulb, the same weight in your hand, and the same batteries inside. But one is fulfilling its purpose, and the other is merely potential. One is useful; the other, in the dark, is indistinguishable from a paperweight.

We often think of our Christian faith as something we have—like a possession, a membership card to a club, or a set of beliefs we keep tucked away in our back pockets. We treat it as something private, something we can turn on or off depending on the company we are in or the situation we face. When the culture is hostile, we switch it off to blend in. When we are safe in church, we switch it on.

But in today’s Gospel, Jesus does not speak about what we have. He speaks about what we are. He does not say, "You have the salt of wisdom." He does not say, "You hold the light of truth." He says, "You are the salt of the earth. You are the light of the world."

This is a statement of ontology—a statement of being. It is an identity. Salt that doesn't taste like salt isn't just "lesser" salt; Jesus says it is "good for nothing." A light that is hidden under a bushel basket is a contradiction in terms—light is meant to be seen. If it isn't seen, it isn't functioning as light. If we are not flavoring the world with the Gospel, and if we are not illuminating the darkness with our deeds, we are facing a spiritual identity crisis. We are the flashlight turned off, wondering why the world remains so dark.

The Definition of Light: True Fasting

To understand what Jesus means by "light," we must look back to the First Reading from the Prophet Isaiah. It is easy to sentimentalize "light" as a warm, fuzzy feeling, a halo, or a vague sense of spiritual superiority. But Isaiah is jarringly practical. He gives us the definition of the light that breaks forth like the dawn.

Context is vital here. In the verses immediately preceding this reading, the people of Israel are complaining. They are fasting and praying, yet God isn't answering. They ask, "Why do we fast, and you do not see it?" Isaiah answers by telling them their religion is bifurcated; they act pious in the temple but exploit their workers and ignore the poor in the street.

Isaiah writes the prescription for true light: "Share your bread with the hungry, shelter the oppressed and the homeless; clothe the naked when you see them, and do not turn your back on your own" (Isaiah 58:7).

The prophet connects spiritual illumination directly to social action. He tells the people of Israel that their religious observances are empty—mere darkness—if they are disconnected from mercy. When we engage in these corporal works of mercy—when we step out of our comfort zones to care for the marginalized—that is when "light shall rise for you in the darkness, and the gloom shall become for you like midday" (Isaiah 58:10). The light Jesus speaks of in the Gospel is fueled by the oil of charity described in Isaiah. It is not an intellectual light; it is a behavioral one.

The Flavor of the Cross: Strength in Weakness

If Isaiah defines the light, Saint Paul in the Second Reading defines the salt. Paul is writing to the Corinthians, a community enamored with status, philosophy, and eloquence. They wanted a faith that was impressive, sophisticated, and culturally dominant. They wanted a "celebrity" Christianity.

Paul corrects them gently but firmly. He reminds them that he did not come with "sublimity of words or of wisdom" (1 Cor 2:1). He wasn't trying to out-debate the Greek philosophers or impress the wealthy merchants. He admits he came to them "in weakness and fear and much trembling" (1 Cor 2:3). This is startling! The great Apostle Paul, trembling?

But this is exactly where the "salt" is found. He says, "I resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ, and him crucified" (1 Cor 2:2).

The distinctive flavor of the Christian life is the Cross. It is the willingness to embrace weakness, to serve without seeking recognition, and to rely on the "power of God" rather than human cleverness. Salt stings when applied to a wound, just as the truth of the Gospel can sting a world comfortable in its sin. But salt also preserves. In the ancient world, salt was the only way to stop meat from rotting. When we live out the paradox of the Cross—finding strength in weakness and life in self-sacrifice—we become the preserving agent in a decaying culture. We stop the rot of selfishness.

A City Set on a Mountain

In the Gospel of Matthew, Jesus combines these images. He is speaking these words immediately after the Beatitudes. He looks at his disciples—poor, uneducated fishermen, reviled tax collectors, and former zealots—and hands them the responsibility for the entire cosmos.

"A city set on a mountain cannot be hidden," He declares (Matthew 5:14).

This destroys the notion of "private religion." In the ancient Near East, cities on hills were built of white limestone. In the midday sun, they gleamed; at night, their oil lamps created a glow visible for miles across the desert. There was no way to hide such a city. It was a navigational point for everyone around.

Jesus warns us against the "bushel basket." A bushel was a measuring container for grain. Placing a lamp under it would not only hide the light but would likely extinguish the flame due to lack of oxygen—or worse, set the basket on fire. Hiding our faith usually leads to the same result: our faith suffocates for lack of air, or it causes destruction because we are living a lie.

Jesus says, "Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father" (Matthew 5:16). Note the purpose: the light is not so that others may see us and say, "How holy they are!" It is so that they see the deeds and glorify God. We are not the source of the light; we are the window. If the glass is dirty, the light cannot pass through. If the glass is painted over by our ego, our fear, or our un-repented sin, the room stays dark, no matter how bright the sun is outside.

Removing the Bushel Baskets

This week, we are called to do an inventory of the "bushel baskets" in our lives. We all have them—the deliberate ways we dampen our light to avoid making waves.

• Is it Fear? The fear of being canceled, mocked, or looked down upon for your moral stances? Do you laugh at things that aren't funny or nod along to lies because you fear the social awkwardness of truth?
• Is it Compartmentalization? The routine of going to Mass on Sunday but operating in your business dealings with the exact same ruthlessness and lack of ethics as those who have no faith?
• Is it "Politeness"? The mistaken idea that faith is too personal to share, leading us to stay silent when a coworker is grieving and needs a word of hope, or when a friend is confused and needs a word of truth?

We must kick over these baskets. The world is too dark, and the night is too cold, for us to be undercover Christians.

The Practicality of Salt

To be salt, we must be distinctive. Salt that tastes like the food it seasons is useless; it must maintain its own sharp property to affect the food. If we have the same anxieties, the same greed, the same addiction to outrage, and the same unforgiving hearts as the rest of the world, we have lost our flavor. We are just "world," not "salt of the earth."

This week, choose one situation where you usually "blend in" and choose to stand out—not with arrogance, but with the specific flavor of Christ.

• If your workplace is toxic with gossip, be the salt that stops the decay by refusing to participate, effectively killing the conversation that tears others down.
• If your family is divided by old arguments, be the salt that heals by offering forgiveness first, even if you were the one wronged.
• If you see a need in your community—a neighbor who is elderly and lonely, a family struggling to buy groceries—remember Isaiah. Do not turn your back on your own. Share your bread.

Glorifying the Father

We are not called to be the sun; we are called to be the moon, reflecting the light of the Son. We are not the meal; we are the salt that makes the meal edible.

When we leave this church today, the dismissal is not an ending; it is a deployment. We enter mission territory. The candles on the altar will remain here, burning down in the sanctuary, but the light of Christ must walk out the door within you. Let us not hide it. Let us not dilute it. Let us live with such radical charity and such humble reliance on the Cross that when people look at our lives, they cannot help but look up and give glory to our Father who is in heaven.

4th Sunday in Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Architecture of the Heart: Building on the Beatitudes

The Ladder of Success vs. The Mountain of Grace

If you scroll through the "Best Sellers" list on Amazon today, you will notice a distinct pattern. The titles scream promises of ascent and dominance: How to Win Friends and Influence People, The 48 Laws of Power, Think and Grow Rich.

We are a culture obsessed with the "upgrade." From childhood, we are conditioned to believe that life is a ladder, and the only direction that matters is up. We want the faster phone, the higher salary, and the accolades that prove we have "made it." In this worldview, to be "blessed" is to be powerful. To be "happy" is to be self-sufficient. To be "successful" is to stand at the top of the mountain, looking down on everyone else.

But in today’s Gospel, Jesus climbs a mountain, too. However, He creates a stark contrast to our cultural expectations. He sits down—the posture of a teacher—and looks at a crowd of people who, by every standard of the Roman Empire and the religious elite, were failing. They were the sick, the grieving, the poor, and the overlooked.

To this motley crew of "nobodies," Jesus drops a nuclear bomb on the world's value system. He looks at the weak and calls them "Blessed." He looks at the grieving and calls them "Happy."

If you have ever felt exhausted by the pressure to be perfect, or if you’ve wondered why God seems to prefer the small over the spectacular, then today’s readings are a homecoming for your soul. Today, the Church invites us to stop climbing the ladder of success and instead sit at the feet of the Master to learn the architecture of the Kingdom.

The Wisdom of the Weak

The readings for this Fourth Sunday of Ordinary Time (Year A) form a consistent, revolutionary argument: God’s GPS works differently than ours. The path to glory is not found in accumulation, but in emptiness.

Zephaniah and the "Anawim" We begin with the prophet Zephaniah. He speaks to a people facing imminent judgment. Their political structures are crumbling, and their armies are failing. The natural human reaction in crisis is to double down on strength—to build bigger walls and stockpile weapons.

But Zephaniah gives advice that sounds terrible to a military strategist: "Seek the LORD, all you humble of the earth... seek justice, seek humility." He prophesies that God will leave behind a "remnant." In Hebrew, this refers to the anawim—the "poor ones" of Yahweh. These people have no political clout or wealth to protect them. Their only defense is God.

Zephaniah tells us that a society built on arrogance will collapse, but the "humble and lowly" who take refuge in the Lord will stand firm. To the world, a humble remnant looks like the leftovers of a defeat. To God, they are the solid foundation upon which a holy nation is built.

The Foolishness of God (1 Corinthians) St. Paul takes this theme and makes it personal. He writes to the church in Corinth, a community obsessed with status and impressive wisdom. Paul holds up a mirror to them: "Consider your own calling... Not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful."

It sounds like an insult, but it is a revelation of grace. Paul explains that God intentionally chooses the "foolish" and "weak" to shame the wise and strong. He does it "so that no human being might boast before God."

When a billionaire builds a hospital, the world praises the billionaire. But when a broken person forgives their enemy, or a "weak" person endures suffering with joy, the world has no explanation for it other than God. Our weakness is the very stage upon which His power is best performed. As Paul concludes, "Whoever boasts, should boast in the Lord."

The Beatitudes: The Constitution of the Kingdom This brings us to the summit: The Gospel of Matthew and the Beatitudes. These are not just sentimental poetry; they are the "Constitution" of the Kingdom of Heaven.

• "Blessed are the poor in spirit": This is the foundation. It isn't just about money; it is the realization that "I am not God. I cannot save myself." The world says, "Fill yourself up." Jesus says, "Empty yourself out," because only empty hands can receive the Kingdom.

• "Blessed are the meek": In an age where the loudest voice wins, Jesus says the gentle—those who have power but choose not to weaponize it—will inherit the earth.

• "Blessed are they who mourn": The world tells us to drug our pain. Jesus says there is sacredness in facing the brokenness of the world and weeping over it, for that is where the Comforter is found.

Jesus is telling us that the Kingdom of Heaven belongs not to the "self-made man," but to the "God-made man."

Moving from Boasting to Blessing

It is easy to nod along in church, but how do we live this out on Monday? If the world boasts in strength and we are called to boast in the Lord, we must change our daily habits.

1. The Morning Offering of Poverty We usually start our days by reviewing our "To-Do" lists, armoring ourselves to conquer the day. Tomorrow, try a "Can't-Do" list. Before you get out of bed, practice being "poor in spirit." Pray: "Lord, I cannot be a patient parent today without You. I cannot be an honest worker today without You. I am poor, and I need Your wealth." This admission of poverty is the key that unlocks the treasury of Heaven. When we admit we are small, God has room to be big.

2. The Challenge of Meekness Identify one area this week where you usually try to "win"—perhaps a political argument or a dispute with a spouse. The world says: "Assert dominance." The Beatitude says: "Blessed are the meek." Challenge yourself to choose the "lowly" path. Bite your tongue. Listen when you want to interrupt. Choose to lose the argument to win the person. It is terrifying to drop our defenses, but that is where the "inheritance" of the earth is found.

3. Shift Your "Boasting" St. Paul reminds us that we love to boast to validate our existence. This week, try "grace-bragging." When someone compliments you, point it back to the Source. "I worked hard, but honestly, I was blessed to have the energy to do it." Or, when you feel "foolish," treat it as a reminder of your calling. Say, "This weakness reminds me I'm not God, and that's good news."

Conclusion The world screams at you to be "more"—more wealthy, more powerful. It tells you that if you are weak, you are finished. But Jesus whispers a different truth: in your "less," you find His "all."

Do not be afraid to be the remnant. Do not be afraid to be the "foolish" ones who trust in God rather than power. Today, let us stop seeking the world’s heavy crowns and start seeking the blessing that only comes to the humble—for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven.

3rd Sunday of Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Light in the Shadows: Answering the Call to Shine

The Fear of the Dark

Have you ever been in a place of total darkness? I’m not talking about the cozy dimness of a bedroom at night, but that thick, heavy darkness—perhaps in a cave or during a massive power outage—where you can’t even see your own hand in front of your face. In that kind of dark, we lose our sense of direction, our confidence, and often our peace. We become paralyzed.

Our world today often feels like it is shrouded in a different kind of darkness: the darkness of division, the "gloom" of mental health struggles, and the "shadow" of uncertainty about the future. We find ourselves groping for something solid. Today, on Word of God Sunday, the Scriptures offer us a flashlight. But more than that, they offer us a Sun. Today’s readings remind us that we don't have to live in the dark anymore, because the Word of God is the light that has dawned upon us.

Light, Unity, and an Urgent Call

The readings for Year A weave together a powerful narrative of transition—from shadow to light, and from isolation to community.

1. The Dawn of Hope (Isaiah 8:23–9:3) The Prophet Isaiah speaks to a people who were literally living in the "shadow of death." The land of Zebulun and Naphtali—the northern regions of Israel—had been the first to be invaded and crushed by the Assyrian empire. They were a defeated, humiliated, and "darkened" people.

But Isaiah makes a startling prophecy: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; upon those who dwelt in the land of gloom a light has shone." He promises that God will smash the "yoke" that burdens them. This isn't just a political promise; it is a spiritual one. It tells us that no matter how deep the shadow over our lives—grief, sin, or despair—God’s Word is the definitive end of that night.

2. A Call to Unity (1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17) How does this light stay lit in the world? Through the Church. But St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, identifies a major "short circuit" in the lamp: division. The community was arguing over whose "brand" of Christianity was better—some followed Paul, some Apollos, some Peter.

Paul’s message is blunt: "Is Christ divided?" When we allow ourselves to be fractured by petty arguments or tribalism, we dim the light of the Gospel. On this Word of God Sunday, Paul reminds us that the Word is not meant to be a weapon to use against each other, but the "mind of Christ" that unites us. The Word calls us to be "perfectly united in the same mind and in the same purpose."

3. The Proclamation and the Choice (Matthew 4:12–23) In the Gospel, we see Isaiah’s prophecy come to life. Jesus begins his ministry exactly where Isaiah said he would: in the "District of the Gentiles," the land of Zebulun and Naphtali. He begins with a clear, urgent command: "Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand."

Then, we witness the "Call of the First Disciples." As Jesus walks by the Sea of Galilee, he sees Peter and Andrew. He doesn't give them a theological lecture. He says, "Come after me, and I will make you fishers of men." What is most striking is the speed of their response. The text says, "At once they left their nets and followed him." Later, James and John leave not just their nets, but their father and their boat. Why such urgency? Because when the Light finally dawns, you don't stay in the shadows mending old nets. You follow the Light into a new world.

The Power of the Living Word

Pope Francis established this Sunday to remind us that the Bible is not a collection of "once upon a time" stories. It is a living encounter.

In Year A, the theme is clear: The Word of God is the Light that demands a response. When Jesus speaks, the "land of gloom" becomes a place of rejoicing. When Jesus calls, the "fishermen" become "apostles." This transformation happens because the Word of God is not just information; it is invitation.

The Scriptures are the primary way Jesus continues to walk along the "shoreline" of our lives—our workplaces, our kitchens, our social media feeds—and says, "Follow me." If we feel stuck in a cycle of "mending nets" (those habits and worries that keep us tied down), the Word of God is the power that cuts the rope and sets us free to walk toward the dawn.

Walking in the Light

As we celebrate this Word of God Sunday, we are called to move from being passive listeners to active followers. Here are three ways to do that this week:

• "Unpack" the Sunday Gospel: Most of us hear the Gospel on Sunday and forget it by the time we hit the parking lot. This week, I challenge you to take the Gospel of Matthew (Chapter 4) and read it again on Tuesday and Thursday. Ask yourself: "If Jesus walked into my workplace or my home today and said 'Follow me,' what is the one 'net' I would be most afraid to leave behind?" Identify that net and ask for the grace to let go of it.
• Heal a Division: St. Paul pleaded for unity. In your family, your workplace, or even within this parish, is there a shadow cast by an old grudge or a spirit of "us vs. them"? In honor of the Word that unites us, make the first move to reconcile. Send a text, make a call, or offer a prayer for someone you’ve been "divided" from. Let the Light of Christ shine through your forgiveness.
• Proclaim the Light: Jesus went about "proclaiming the gospel of the kingdom." You are called to do the same. This week, find a way to share a "Word" with someone else. It doesn't have to be a sermon. It can be sharing a favorite scripture verse on social media, or simply telling a friend who is struggling, "I was reading the Bible today, and I was reminded that God’s light is stronger than this darkness."

Conclusion

"The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light." Brothers and sisters, that prophecy is fulfilled today in our hearing. We are no longer a people of gloom; we are a people of the Word. We are no longer defined by our "nets" or our past mistakes; we are defined by the One who calls us by name.

As we approach the Eucharist today—the Word made Flesh—let us ask for the courage of Peter, Andrew, James, and John. When we hear His voice today, may we not harden our hearts, but "at once" leave behind what is passing away to follow the Light that never fades.

The kingdom of heaven is at hand. The Light is here. Let us follow Him.