Month: September 2026

As we celebrate today the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, our reflection turns to two verses from today’s readings, one from Philippians and the other from John’s Gospel, as they bring into focus the very nature of his mission.

St. Paul proclaims that Christ existed “in the form of God,” yet did not treat his divine equality as something to be exploited for his own advantage. Instead, he emptied himself, assumed the condition of a servant, entered fully into human life, and became obedient even to death on a cross.

Jesus did not cease to be God. Rather, he revealed what God is truly like. The self-emptying of Christ is not the temporary abandonment of divinity; it is the visible expression of divine love. In Jesus, we discover that God’s power is not the power to dominate, possess, or condemn. It is the power to give himself completely so that others may live.

Philippians 2:6 explains how God fulfills the saving purpose proclaimed in John 3:17. God did not send his Son to stand above the world in judgmental separation. The Son entered the world, took upon himself our humanity, and descended into the depths of human sin, suffering, rejection, and death.

The cross is sometimes understood only as something done to Jesus by sinful humanity. Philippians shows us that it is also the freely chosen culmination of his self-giving mission. Jesus does not grasp power; he gives himself. He does not answer violence with greater violence. He enters into the violence of the world and absorbs it without allowing it to extinguish his love.

God saves the world through the Son’s refusal to use divine power for self-preservation. The crucified Christ reveals that God would rather bear the wounds of the world than abandon the world to its wounds.

When divine light enters the world, it reveals what is hidden. We may receive that light and allow ourselves to be transformed, or we may retreat into the darkness of selfishness and fear. Christ does not come seeking our destruction; he comes offering the life we were created to receive.

Jesus does not merely tell us that God wishes to save the world. Through his Incarnation, service, suffering, death, and resurrection, he shows us what saving love looks like. It is love that descends, love that serves, love that bears wounds, and love that never ceases to seek the lost.

Sirach places before us a searching spiritual question. It does not merely ask whether we sometimes feel anger. Anger is a natural human response to injury, injustice, betrayal, or loss. Even Jesus experienced righteous anger when human dignity and the holiness of God were violated.

The danger appears in the word “nourish.” To nourish something is to feed it, protect it, return to it, and allow it to grow. Sirach is therefore describing more than a passing emotion. He is speaking of anger that has been welcomed into the heart and given a permanent home.

We nourish anger when we repeatedly rehearse the injury, imagine revenge, assume the worst about the offender, or allow what another person did to define how we see them. The original wound may have been inflicted upon us, but the anger we continue to feed gradually becomes an additional wound within us.

The healing in Sirach is not a “quid pro quo” –  If I forgive, God must cure my illness or remove all my suffering. Scripture does not promise that every act of forgiveness will produce immediate physical healing.

The healing envisioned here is deeper and more comprehensive. It includes the restoration of the person’s relationship with God, the liberation of the heart from resentment, and the gradual recovery of the capacity to love.

Jesus makes the connection between receiving mercy and extending mercy especially clear in the parable of the unforgiving servant. The servant received mercy externally, but mercy never entered deeply enough to transform his heart. He wanted to be released from his own debt while continuing to hold another person captive.

Yet in refusing mercy, he also remained captive.

This is the spiritual paradox identified by Sirach: we cannot fully receive healing while continually feeding the very resentment that resists healing. The mercy of God must not merely reach us; it must also begin to pass through us.

When we release hatred, surrender vengeance, and begin to desire another’s true good, the hold of the injury begins to weaken, and the pathway to forgiveness and reconciliation becomes clearer.

It is possible to speak the language of faith without allowing faith to transform us. We may call Jesus “Lord,” attend Mass, receive the sacraments, pray regularly, and affirm the teachings of the Church—yet continue to be ruled by resentment, pride, fear, selfishness, or indifference. Our lips may confess Christ while our choices reveal that something else governs our lives.

Jesus is exposing the distance that can develop between profession and practice. His question is not directed only toward obvious hypocrisy; it confronts the quiet contradictions present in every disciple. We call him Lord, yet withhold forgiveness. We praise his mercy, yet judge another person harshly. We ask him to provide for us, yet refuse to share with those in need. We pray for his will to be done, yet cling tightly to our own.

To call Jesus “Lord” is more than using a religious title. It is to acknowledge that he has authority over our desires, relationships, possessions, decisions, and manner of life. In the biblical sense, obedience is not blind submission to an arbitrary ruler. It is the trusting response of someone who believes that the Lord’s commands lead to freedom, communion, and life.

Jesus’ question is not meant to drive us into shame but to awaken us from spiritual complacency. He invites us to examine honestly where our confession and our conduct have become separated:

Where do I call Jesus “Lord” while still insisting upon having my own way? Whom has he commanded me to forgive, love, welcome, or serve? What teaching of Christ do I admire in principle but resist in practice?

The credibility of Christian faith depends not simply upon how clearly we proclaim Jesus as Lord, but upon whether others can encounter his mercy, humility, justice, and love through us. The world has heard Christians say, “Lord, Lord.” What it longs to see is a people whose lives demonstrate what those words mean.

When Paul says that an obligation has been imposed upon him, he is not describing Christianity as a burdensome set of religious duties. His obligation comes from grace. Because he has encountered Christ’s mercy, he can no longer live as though that encounter never happened.

Paul’s “obligation,” therefore, is the responsibility created by love. When we have received something capable of giving life to others, remaining silent or refusing to live differently becomes a denial of the gift itself.

Through Baptism, each Christian is joined to Christ and incorporated into his Body. Through Confirmation, the baptized are strengthened by the Holy Spirit to bear witness to Christ. Every disciple therefore participates in the Church’s mission.

Not every Christian is called to preach publicly as Paul did. Not everyone will become a missionary, theologian, catechist, or ordained minister. But every Christian is called to make the Gospel visible.

We preach the Gospel whenever:

– we forgive rather than seek revenge;
– we protect the dignity of another person;
– we remain honest when dishonesty would benefit us;
– we care for the poor, forgotten, lonely, or suffering;
– we speak about our faith with humility and courage;
– we bring reconciliation into divided relationships;
– we allow Christ’s mercy to shape our judgments;
– we place love of God and neighbor above personal convenience.

here is a difference between knowing the teachings of Jesus and allowing those teachings to govern our lives. We may know that Christ commands forgiveness while continuing to nurture resentment. We may profess concern for the poor while protecting ourselves from their suffering. We may receive the Eucharist while refusing communion with people whom God has placed in our lives.

To “live out the Gospel” means allowing the life of Christ to take visible form within us. It means that our choices, relationships, use of money, treatment of others, exercise of authority, and response to suffering gradually reveal whom we belong to.

Our reflection verse today comes from Luke’s Gospel and Jesus’ teaching on loving our enemies. He gives this teaching within his command to bless those who curse us, and pray for those who mistreat us. Therefore, the “other” is not limited to our family, friends, fellow Christians, or people who treat us well.

The other is every person placed before us: the stranger, the poor, the forgotten, the irritating coworker, the person who disagrees with us, and even the one who has wounded us. Jesus removes the boundaries we often place around love.

This command is sometimes called the Golden Rule, but Jesus means more than simple fairness or reciprocity. He does not say, “Treat people well because they may treat you well in return.” Christian love does not wait to see what another person deserves. It takes the initiative because God has already loved us with mercy. We are asked to give others the patience, forgiveness, dignity, understanding, and compassion that we ourselves hope to receive.

Recognizing this call in everyday life requires us to pause and look beyond our first reaction. Before speaking, deciding, judging, posting, purchasing, leading, or correcting, we might ask: If I were in this person’s situation, how would I hope to be treated? Am I protecting this person’s dignity? Does my response reveal the mercy of Christ? The “other” often appears disguised as an interruption, an inconvenience, a disagreement, or someone whose story we do not yet understand.

Doing to others what we would want done to us does not mean approving harmful behavior, abandoning healthy boundaries, or allowing ourselves to be abused. We may need to confront wrongdoing, say no, or step away from a dangerous situation. Yet even correction can be offered without hatred, humiliation, or revenge. Christian love seeks both truth and the genuine good of the person.

Jesus asks us to see every human encounter as an opportunity to make God’s love visible. The other is not merely someone standing outside of us; the other is our neighbor, bearing the image of God and sharing our need for mercy. Each day Christ asks us to become for someone else what we ourselves most need: a patient listener, a forgiving heart, a truthful companion, a defender of dignity, and a living sign that no person is beyond the reach of God’s love.

Luke introduces Jesus teaching on the “Sermon on the Plain” with an easily overlooked detail: the Lord “came down” from the mountain and stood on “a stretch of level ground.” Jesus had spent the night on the mountain in prayer and had chosen the Twelve. But he did not remain above the people. He descended to where they were gathered—among the sick, the poor, the troubled, and those tormented by unclean spirits.

This movement reveals something fundamental about the Incarnation. God does not remain distant from the suffering of humanity. In Jesus Christ, God comes down and stands on our level ground. He enters the ordinary places of hunger, rejection, conflict, grief, and human need. Before Jesus teaches the crowd, he allows them to approach him, touch him, and receive healing.

Jesus then announces that the poor, hungry, grieving, and rejected are blessed—not because suffering is good, but because suffering will not have the final word. God sees those whom the world overlooks. The corresponding woes warn those who are comfortable not to build their lives upon possessions, satisfaction, amusement, or human approval.

At the center of the sermon is Jesus’ command to love our enemies. This does not require us to approve of wrongdoing or abandon justice. It means refusing to allow hatred to shape our hearts. Jesus will fulfill this teaching upon the Cross when he prays for those who crucify him. His Resurrection reveals that merciful love is stronger than hatred and death.

Jesus calls us to examine ourselves before condemning others, to recognize a tree by its fruit, and to build our lives upon his words. Hearing the Gospel is not enough. The teaching of Christ must become visible in the way we forgive, speak, serve, give, and love. The person who hears his words and lives them builds upon rock. The storms may still come, but the foundation will remain.

When the angel calls Joseph “son of David,” he is doing more than identifying Joseph’s ancestry. He is reminding Joseph that he belongs to the covenantal family through which God promised to bring the Messiah. Joseph may appear to be an ordinary craftsman, but God sees him as an essential participant in salvation history.

Joseph is asked to take Mary into his home and to name her child Jesus. By naming him, Joseph accepts the child as his own and gives him legal standing within the house of David. Joseph is not Jesus’ biological father, but his faithful fatherhood enables Jesus to be publicly recognized as the promised Davidic Messiah.

The angel’s command, “Do not be afraid,” does not remove every mystery from Joseph’s life. Instead, it invites him to trust God beyond what he can understand. Joseph responds without recorded words: he awakens and does what God commands. His faith becomes obedience, protection, responsibility, and loving presence.

“Joseph, son of David” reminds us that God knows who we are even when we have forgotten the deeper meaning of our lives. Like Joseph, we belong to a story larger than ourselves. God may ask us to welcome what we did not plan, protect what is vulnerable, and take the next faithful step without seeing the entire road.

Joseph teaches us that when we make room for Christ in faithful obedience, even the quietest life can become part of God’s saving work.

When Jesus asks whether it is lawful “to do good on the sabbath rather than to do evil, to save life rather than to destroy it,” he is not abolishing the commandment to honor the Sabbath. He is revealing its deepest meaning. The Sabbath was given as a celebration of creation, freedom, rest, and communion with God. Because God is the giver and restorer of life, healing a suffering person fulfills the Sabbath rather than violating it.

By placing the man with the withered hand in the center of the synagogue, Jesus also places human suffering at the center of religious discernment. The question is no longer merely, “What am I forbidden to do?” It becomes, “What good is God asking me to do?” When mercy is possible, refusing to act is not always morally neutral. The good left undone can permit suffering to continue.

For Christians, Sunday celebrates the Resurrection and the beginning of the new creation. We honor it through Eucharistic worship and rest, but also by allowing that worship to make us instruments of Christ’s healing. Care for the sick, attention to the lonely, reconciliation, and service to those in need do not interrupt the holiness of the Lord’s Day; they reveal it.

Jesus therefore does not make the Sabbath less sacred. He shows us why it is sacred: the day belongs to the God who creates life, liberates the oppressed, heals what is broken, and invites his people to do the same.

Our reflection verse today from Matthew 18:15 is part of what is often called “The Discourse on the Church” because Jesus is teaching his disciples how a community formed in his name should respond when relationships are wounded by sin.

The passage’s governing purpose is found in Jesus’ phrase, “If he listens to you, you have won over your brother.” Correction is therefore not primarily about winning an argument, proving oneself right, exposing another’s sin, or protecting one’s superiority. Its purpose is to recover a brother or sister and restore communion. In this sense, the passage teaches that Christian correction serves reconciliation, not victory.

Yet the concern of correction must first turn to where our heart and mind are coming from in relation to the perceived “sin” that has occurred. Henri Nouwen would remind us that correction is an act of spiritual hospitality: creating a safe but truthful space in which another person can face what has happened without being reduced to the offense. His teaching on forgiveness stresses precisely this movement from accusation toward shared human vulnerability and restored relationship.

Ronald Roheiser notes that Christians can become very skilled at identifying what is wrong while remaining unable to produce healing or conversion. Knowing another person’s fault does not necessarily give us the spiritual authority to correct it. That authority comes from personal integrity, humility, compassion, and the willingness to carry some of the other person’s weakness.

Jesus used his energies toward unity, patience, forgiveness, and reconciliation. Richard Rohr would caution that we must understand that we often react most strongly to faults in others that we have not recognized or reconciled within ourselves. Jesus tells us that “where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I in the midst of them.” This means that Christ must be the true center of the encounter. If the correcting group becomes a coalition against the accused, it is no longer gathering authentically in Christ’s name.

Jesus recognized real boundaries and never pretended that sin was harmless. Yet he also ate with tax collectors, called Matthew to discipleship, praised the faith of Gentiles, and continued inviting outsiders into relationship. Therefore, exclusion from the community may sometimes become necessary—particularly when someone remains abusive, destructive, or unrepentant—but it must never become permission to hate, humiliate, or abandon concern for that person’s salvation.

Christian correction is not the righteous correcting the unrighteous from above. It is one wounded and forgiven disciple approaching another in humility, truth, and hope for restored communion. Its thesis is simple: correction serves recovery, not superiority.

It is Christ’s protection against two opposite failures: ignoring destructive behavior on the one hand and condemning people without mercy on the other. Its deepest purpose is expressed in Jesus’ own words: to win back one’s brother or sister.

Today we celebrate the Memorial of Saint Teresa of Calcutta.

St. Teresa reminds us that love for God becomes visible in the way we love the person directly before us. Jesus identifies Himself with the hungry, the sick, the lonely, the rejected, and the forgotten: “Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.”

Teresa recognized Christ beneath His “distressing disguise.” She understood that poverty includes not only hunger and homelessness but also the painful experience of being unwanted or forgotten. She therefore approached each person not as a problem to be solved, but as someone possessing sacred and eternal dignity.

Her life also teaches us that faithfulness does not depend upon spiritual feelings. Even during years of interior darkness, she continued to pray, serve, and love. She remained faithful to Christ even when she could not feel His presence. Holiness, she shows us, is sometimes the quiet decision to keep loving in the darkness.

We may not be called to accomplish something dramatic, but every disciple is called to notice the suffering nearby. Our “Calcutta” may be found in our family, parish, neighborhood, workplace, or within the heart of someone who simply needs to know that they have not been forgotten.

The person before us may be Christ in disguise. We need only the faith to recognize Him and the love to respond.