Month: April 2026

Today’s verse has been a rich well for modern Catholic spirituality, especially among voices like Henri Nouwen, Ronald Rolheiser, and Richard Rohr. Each, in his own way, sees this teaching as a radical reorientation of human desire—away from anxiety-driven striving for what is temporary, and toward a deeper hunger that only God can satisfy.

In Life of the Beloved, Nouwen writes that much of our “work” in life is spent chasing emotional and spiritual substitutes—approval, success, productivity—that ultimately perish because they cannot ground our identity. For Nouwen, the “food that endures” is the experience of being loved by God, a love revealed and given in Christ, not earned. The shift Jesus calls for is not laziness but trust: to live and act from belovedness rather than for it.

Rolheiser, in works like The Holy Longing, notes that we are “aching bundles of infinite desire,” often misdirecting that desire into finite things—pleasure, achievement, control. In this sense, “working for food that perishes” is not just about materialism but about trying to make anything less than God carry the weight of ultimate meaning. The invitation of Christ is to allow our hunger to deepen rather than prematurely satisfy it, because that deeper hunger is itself the pathway to God. The Eucharist, for Rolheiser, becomes the concrete expression of this enduring food—where ordinary bread and wine become participation in divine life.

Rohr broadens the reflection by placing it within the pattern of transformation. In Everything Belongs, he frames “perishable food” as the ego’s projects—our attempts to construct a secure identity through accumulation, status, or even religious performance. These cannot last because they are rooted in a false self. The “food that endures,” by contrast, is participation in the life of God, which comes through surrender, contemplation, and union rather than acquisition. Rohr would say that Jesus is not merely offering better nourishment but inviting us into an entirely different way of being—one grounded in grace rather than grasping.

Taken together, these theologians and spirituality writers suggest that Jesus’ command is less about rejecting the material world and more about seeing it rightly. Work, success, and daily bread all have their place, but they cannot bear the weight of our deepest longing. The enduring food is ultimately Christ himself—received in faith, deepened in prayer, and, in Catholic life, encountered sacramentally. To live this teaching is to gradually shift the center of gravity in one’s life: from striving to receiving, from consumption to communion, and from the temporary to the eternal.

The words of King David echo across the centuries into the proclamation of the early Church in the Acts of the Apostles, where the mystery of Christ’s resurrection is revealed as the fulfillment of David’s deepest hope. David, who knew both the heights of intimacy with God and the depths of human frailty, spoke prophetically of one whose body would not see corruption, one who would not be abandoned to the realm of the dead. In him, the longing of Israel takes poetic form—a trust that God’s fidelity is stronger than death itself.

When the apostles declare that “God raised him up, releasing him from the throes of death, because it was impossible for him to be held by it,” they are not merely describing an event, but unveiling a divine necessity rooted in God’s own nature. Death, which holds all humanity in its grip, could not contain the Author of life.

In Jesus Christ, the promises glimpsed by David are brought to completion: the grave is not denied, but it is defeated from within. What David intuited in faith becomes, in Christ, a reality that reshapes the destiny of all creation. The resurrection is thus not only a victory over death, but a revelation that life—God’s life—is ultimately unconquerable, and that those who are united to Christ share in a hope that cannot be sealed in any tomb.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser often reflects on King David not simply as a historical king, but as a deeply human voice through whom God plants seeds of hope that only later come to full clarity. When David speaks in the Psalms of one who will not be abandoned to the grave, Rolheiser suggests that David himself did not grasp the full theological weight of his words. Rather, like much of Scripture, these lines are inspired longings—prayers that stretch beyond the consciousness of the one who utters them. They express a trust in God’s fidelity so radical that it dares to hope that death itself cannot have the final word.

In this light, when the early Church, as recorded in the Acts of the Apostles, proclaims that God raised Jesus Christ because it was “impossible” for death to hold him, Rolheiser sees a profound continuity. What David prayed in hope becomes, in Christ, a fulfilled reality. The “impossibility” is not about physical limits, but about the nature of God. A God who is pure love, communion, and life cannot ultimately be overcome by death.

Thus, the resurrection is not a reversal of Good Friday so much as the inevitable flowering of who God is. For Rolheiser, David’s ancient words become a kind of unconscious prophecy—an echo of divine life already at work in human longing—pointing toward a future in which death would be entered into but not allowed to reign.

Our reflection verse on Jesus walking on water has long been understood as not simply a display of miraculous power, but as a profound revelation of God’s presence amid the chaos of human life. 

Fr. Ron Rolheiser emphasizes that the sea represents the turbulence, fear, and uncertainty we all face, while the disciples’ struggle mirrors our own experience of feeling overwhelmed and alone; yet Christ comes not after the storm has passed, but directly into it, revealing that faith does not eliminate life’s difficulties but enables us to encounter God within them.

In this light, Peter’s attempt to walk on the water becomes a vivid image of the spiritual life: when his gaze is fixed on Jesus, he transcends fear, but when he focuses on the wind and waves, he begins to sink—illustrating the fragile yet relational nature of faith, which depends not on our strength but on trust in Christ. 

St. Augustine deepens this understanding by describing the boat as the Church, the sea as the world, and the storm as the trials and persecutions believers endure, reminding us that even when Christ seems absent, he remains near and sovereign over all things. Thomas Aquinas highlights that this event also reveals Jesus’ divine authority, especially in his words, “It is I,” echoing the very name of God, and serving to strengthen the disciples’ faith for what lies ahead. 

Taken together, these reflections reveal a consistent theme: the story is not about escaping the storms of life, but about recognizing that Christ is already present within them, inviting us to trust him, to call out in our need, and to discover that his saving hand is always near.

When reflecting on Jesus’ command after the feeding of the five thousand—“Gather the fragments left over, so that nothing will be wasted”—we see far more than a lesson in avoiding physical waste.

At one level, the instruction reveals something essential about God’s nature: divine generosity is never careless. God gives in abundance—far beyond immediate need—but that abundance is not meant to be ignored or discarded. Grace is extravagant, yet purposeful. Nothing given by God is meaningless or expendable.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser extends this to the spiritual and psychological dimensions of our lives, writing that the “fragments” symbolize the pieces of our own experience—moments, relationships, wounds, joys, failures, and even the parts of ourselves we are tempted to overlook or dismiss. We tend to discard what feels insignificant, broken, or incomplete. Yet Jesus’ command suggests that in the economy of God, nothing is wasted. Every fragment carries meaning and can be gathered into wholeness.

This has particular force in how we view our past. Regrets, missed opportunities, and suffering can feel like leftovers—unwanted remnants of a life we wish had gone differently. But Rolheiser’s insight points toward redemption: God gathers even these fragments and transforms them into something life-giving. What seems like excess or failure can become Eucharistic—taken, blessed, broken, and given again.

There is also a communal dimension. After the miracle, the disciples are instructed to gather what remains, not individually but together. This reflects the Church’s mission: to gather the scattered, to hold the pieces of human experience reverently, and to ensure that no person, no story, no suffering is lost or dismissed. The fragments are not just personal—they belong to the whole body.

Ultimately, the command speaks against a throwaway culture—not only materially, but spiritually and relationally. People are not disposable. Moments are not meaningless. Even the smallest acts of love, the faintest movements toward God, are worth gathering. In this light, Jesus’ words become a quiet but radical invitation: pay attention to what remains, honor what seems small or broken, and trust that in God’s hands, nothing—absolutely nothing—is wasted.

Our reflection verse from John’s Gospel tells us that when Jesus speaks, he speaks the words of the Father. If these are truly the words of God, and they are, how should we live differently today?

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes that when Jesus speaks the words of God the Father, he is drawing us into the profound mystery at the heart of Christianity: that in Jesus Christ, God is not distant or abstract, but personally revealed. Jesus does not merely offer teachings about God; he embodies and communicates the very voice, will, and heart of the Father. As echoed in the Gospel of John—“Whoever has seen me has seen the Father”—Jesus becomes the living Word, not just a messenger but the message itself.

This insight should reshape how we listen to Jesus. His words are not simply moral guidance or spiritual poetry; they carry divine authority and intimacy. When he speaks of love, forgiveness, mercy, and sacrifice, he is unveiling the inner life of God. The command to “love one another as I have loved you” is not an abstract ethic but a direct participation in the love that flows eternally between Father and Son. To hear Jesus, then, is to hear God addressing us personally—calling, correcting, consoling, and inviting.

Rolheiser’s writing also challenges the tendency to domesticate or selectively interpret Jesus’ words. If Jesus speaks the Father’s words, then his teachings carry a weight that resists our preferences. His call to forgive enemies, embrace humility, and surrender self-interest is not optional spirituality but the very pattern of divine life. This can be unsettling, even demanding, because it confronts our instincts for control, comfort, and self-protection.

At the same time, there is deep consolation in this truth. If Jesus speaks the Father’s words, then every word he speaks is trustworthy. His promises—of rest for the weary, of mercy for sinners, of life beyond death—are not wishful thinking but grounded in God’s own fidelity. In moments of doubt or suffering, we are not left guessing what God is like; we can return to the words of Jesus and know we are hearing the voice of the Father who loves us.

To read the Gospels is not simply to study a text but to enter into a living encounter. It calls for a posture of listening—slow, prayerful, and open—where we allow Jesus’ words to shape not only our beliefs but our actions. If we take seriously that Jesus speaks the Father’s words, then our response cannot remain intellectual alone; it must become incarnational, lived out in love, just as his was.

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, S.J. was a French Jesuit, Catholic priest, scientist, paleontologist, philosopher, mystic, and teacher. His evolutionary theology proposed that the universe is moving toward an ultimate point of unity in Christ, often called the “Omega Point.” Teilhard understood Christ as the center and goal of cosmic evolution.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser, OMI, takes Teilhard’s theological point and emphasizes salvation as an unfolding, universal process rather than a one-time event. Scriptural theology (especially Pauline cosmology), patristic insights about divinization, and sacramental spirituality all affirm that God works through the material and historical rather than apart from it.

The Incarnation of God, enfleshed in Jesus, the Christ, inaugurates a process in which all creation is being gradually transformed. This ongoing process is described as the “Christification” of the world, whereby grace is at work in history, culture, and even suffering, slowly drawing all things toward their fulfillment in God.

In practical terms, this means that ordinary human life—relationships, work, struggle, and even failure—becomes the arena of grace, since nothing lies outside the scope of God’s redemptive presence. Ultimately, the world is not something to escape but something being transformed, as the entire cosmos is drawn, slowly but surely, into communion with God through Christ.

The classic Augustinian insight said that the New Testament is hidden in the Old Testament and the Old Testament is revealed in the New Testament. Our reflection verse today symbolizes that statement.

Fr. Rolheiser writes that our scripture verse is a call to embrace vulnerability, open oneself to God, and move away from defensiveness. He links this “lifting” to the cross—an ultimate act of letting go—which contrasts with human tendencies toward control and self-protection.

Just as the Israelites were healed by looking at the lifted-up serpent—a symbol of the very thing (the snake/poison) that was killing them—we are healed by looking at Jesus, who takes on the “poison” of human hatred and sin. This “lifting” allows us to see our vulnerability and be saved through vulnerability.

The lifting up is a public, visible event. It is a moment of revelation, where Jesus is not just dying, but being exalted by God (a double meaning in John’s gospel), allowing all to see the nature of God’s love and believe.

These words in our scripture reflection today are all about a change of heart, a “lifting” of our own minds and hearts, similar to how we must bring our real selves to God in prayer.  Salvation comes not from winning or controlling, but by looking to the lifted-up, crucified Christ and adopting that same open, defenseless, and loving stance toward the world.

One of the things that characterizes mature friendship is a familiarity and intimacy that makes for a robust relationship rather than a fearful one. In a mature relationship, there is no place for fearful piety or false reverence. Rather, with a close friend, we are bold because we know the other’s mind, fully trust the other, and are at a level of relationship where we are unafraid to ask for things, can be shamelessly self-disclosing, are given to playfulness and teasing, and are able to responsibly interpret the other’s mind.  When we are in a mature relationship with someone, we are comfortable and at ease with that person.

That is also one of the qualities of a mature faith and a mature relationship with God. According to John of the Cross, the deeper we move into a relationship with God and the more mature our faith becomes, the bolder we will become with God. And this will not be the kind of familiarity that breeds contempt; that takes the other for granted. Rather, it will be the kind of familiarity that is grounded in intimacy, which, while remaining respectful and never taking the other for granted, is more at ease and playful than fearful and pious in that other’s presence.

But, if that is true, then what are we to make of the fact that scripture tells us “the fear of God is the beginning of wisdom” and the fact that religious tradition has always deemed piety a virtue? Do fear and piety militate against “boldness” with God?

We should not let ourselves be fooled by fear and piety. Fear easily masks itself as religious reverence. Piety can easily pass itself off as religious depth. But genuine intimacy unmasks both. A healthy relationship is robust, bold, and is characterized by lack of fear, ease, playfulness, and humor. And that is particularly true of our relationship with God. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Boldness with God,” May 2013]

Shortly after ordination, doing replacement work in a parish, I found myself in a rectory with a saintly old priest. He was over eighty, nearly blind, but widely sought out and respected, especially as a confessor. One night, alone with him, I asked him this question: “If you had your priesthood to live over again, would you do anything differently?” From a man so full of integrity, I had fully expected that there would be no regrets. So his answer surprised me.

Yes, he did have a regret, a major one, he said: “If I had my priesthood to do over again, I would be easier on people the next time. I wouldn’t be so stingy with God’s mercy, with the sacraments, with forgiveness. You see what was drilled into me was the phrase: `The truth will set you free,’ and I believed that it was my responsibility to challenge people so as to protect something inside of them. That’s good. But I fear that I’ve been too hard on people. They have pain enough without me and the church laying further burdens on them. I should have risked God’s mercy more!”

I was struck by this because, less than a year before, as I took my final exams in the seminary, one of the priests who examined me, gave me this warning: “Be careful,” he said, “never let your feelings get in the way. Don’t be soft, that’s wrong. Remember, hard as it is, only the truth sets people free!” Sound advice, it would seem, for a young priest.

However, as the years of my ministry move towards middle-age, I feel more inclined to the old priest’s advice: We need to risk God’s mercy more. The place of justice and truth should never be ignored, but we must risk letting the infinite, unbounded, unconditional, undeserved mercy of God flow free. The mercy of God is as accessible as the nearest water tap, and so we. like Isaiah, must proclaim a mercy that has no price tag: “Come, come without money and without virtue, come everyone, drink freely of God’s mercy!”

Divine Mercy is an unconditional, universal, and undeserved gift that embraces everyone, regardless of merit, religion, or personal weakness. This prodigal mercy challenges legalism, urging believers to move from a “stingy” or judgmental mindset to a generous, forgiving, and compassionate life.

It is interesting to note in the gospels how the apostles, well-meaning of course, often tried to keep certain people away from Jesus as if they weren’t worthy, as if they were an affront to his holiness or would somehow stain his purity. So they tried to shoe away children, prostitutes, tax-collectors, known sinners, and the uninitiated of all kinds. Always Jesus over-ruled their attempts with words to this effect: “Let them come! I want them to come.”

Things haven’t changed. Always in the church, we, well-intentioned persons, for the same reasons as the apostles, keep trying to keep certain individuals and groups away from God’s mercy as this is expressed in word, sacrament, and community. Jesus handled things then; I suspect that he can handle them now. God doesn’t want our protection. What God does want is for everyone, regardless of morality, orthodoxy, lack of preparation, age, or culture, to come to the unlimited waters of divine mercy.[Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Risking God’s Mercy,” Ocotber 2000]

Because the apostles were not renowned for scholarship, oratory, or theological education, their transformation speaks to the power of God rather than their own abilities. Jesus used “crooked lines” (the “uneducated,” fishermen, sinners) to start the church; God continues to work through imperfect, ordinary, and even dysfunctional people today.

When we are “learned and the clever,” we can more easily forget that we need others and consequently don’t as naturally reach for another’s hand as does a child. It’s easier for us to isolate ourselves. When we are less aware of our contingency, we more easily lose sight of the things to which God and life are inviting us.

The very strength that intelligence and learning bring into our lives can instill in us a false sense of self-sufficiency that can make us want to separate ourselves in unhealthy ways from others and understand ourselves as superior In some way.  And superiority never enters a room alone, but always brings along a number of her children: arrogance, disdain, boredom, cynicism. All of these are occupational hazards for the “learned and the clever” and none of these helps unlock any of life’s deep secrets.

But we must be careful not to misread the lesson. Faith does not ask us to not stretch our minds. Neither ignorance nor naiveté serve faith. Faith not only doesn’t fear the hard questions it invites us to ask them. The depths of infinity are never threatened by finite intelligence. And so it’s never a bad thing to become learned and sophisticated; it’s only a bad thing is we remain there. The task is to become post-sophisticated, that is, to remain full of intelligence and learning even as we put on again to the mindset of a child. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Things Hidden from the Learned and the Clever,” July 2011]