Author: DV Dan

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.

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.

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]

“There is a crack in everything; that’s how the light gets in. ” Whatever else Leonard Cohen had in mind when he coined that phrase, it says something about how wisdom, compassion, and morality seep into our lives.

In our culture there are some whose lives, for whatever reason, are considered inferior and deemed not worthwhile. Moreover we are convinced that we may on occasion even snuff out the heartbeat of these persons. Euthanasia, abortion, and various kinds of mercy killing are being promoted precisely in the name of compassion, open-mindedness, and human dignity.

Imagine how soulless would be a world within which only the strong, the young, the healthy, the physically attractive, the intellectually bright, and the achievers have a place! Imagine how soulless would be a world that views the handicapped, the unborn fetus, the physically paralyzed, and the dying as having nothing to offer! Such a world would be able to recognize neither the birth nor the death of Jesus because, in both of these, compassion, morality, and wisdom seep in precisely through what is helpless and marginalized. Our present culture is drawing ever nearer this soullessness.

A world that sincerely believes that killing someone, anyone – be it Tracy Latimer, an unborn fetus, or a criminal on death row – can be an act that enhances human dignity has let its compassion be coopted and commandeered by vested interests. We will never admit this of course, but it is true.  The reason we do not see value in the lives of the severely handicapped, the terminally ill, those plagued by Alzheimer’s disease, and many of the other poor in the world is that these people precisely stand in the way of someone’s comfort, someone’s efficiency, someone’s rationality, someone’s supposed enlightenment, and someone’s limited compassion.

Better they should die than that this should be disturbed! In both the world and the church today we are becoming blind to one of the deepest truths that Jesus taught us in the crucifixion, namely, that what looks useless and meaningless has the deeper value. Inferiority builds soul.

Those who fall through the cracks of the culture are indeed the crack where the light gets in. If our world has any real soul left, if indeed we still even understand the words wisdom, compassion, and morality, then it is because someone who has no power in the culture, someone who has been marginalized and rejected, has shared a gift with us. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “The Rejected One As Cornerstone,” November 1998]

Today, it is rare that we hear someone simply and humbly say, beyond any reference to circumstances or excuses: “I’ve sinned.” There aren’t any excuses…outside of being human. We are poorer for not being able to say that.

When we refuse to admit that we sin, we are forced to be dishonest because, in the end, no one can, honestly, stand before God and others and not have to say: “I am weak, I do things I shouldn’t. The good I want to do, I cannot. The evil I want to avoid, I end up doing. I need forgiveness.” Not to say this, is to lie. Not to admit sin forces us to rationalize, to give excuses, to project blame, and to over-emphasize psychological and sociological influences on our behavior.

Forgiveness doesn’t wash away neuroses or immaturities. It washes away sin. It is when we humbly and simply own our sin that we take our place among God’s broken, the ones Jesus came to save, and are given the chance to start again, new, fresh, loved.

A man I know is fond of expressing his displeasure with his own moral failures by saying: “That was incredibly stupid…but it seemed like a good idea at the time!” That’s a contemporary form of the publican’s prayer. There’s an honesty in that which allows him to accept forgiveness.

Another person I know, a lady who has been coming to me for the sacrament of reconciliation for some time, always begins her confession with the beautiful phrase: “I am a loved sinner.” In that expression, she keeps in correct balance the most important truths of humanity: We are sinners, and we are loved in spite of it. To admit sin sets us free to receive love under the only condition it can be truly offered. To acknowledge that we are loved, in spite of sin, sets us free from false guilt and self-hatred.[Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Be Brave, Admit Your Sinfulness,” July 1988]

What do we do when we’re depressed? What’s our temptation when a dream is shattered, when we feel betrayed, and when it seems like the trust we’ve shown someone was childish naivety? Generally, the temptation is to gather what pride we have left and walk away, away from that person, away from that place of rejection, away from the humiliation, and away from our former dream, all the while saying to ourselves: “I’ll never trust in this way again! I’ve been burned, taken in, I now know the lesson!”

In Luke’s Gospel, we see this in the story of two dispirited disciples walking away from Jerusalem towards Emmaus on Easter Sunday morning, unaware that Jesus had risen from the dead. Luke writes that on the morning of the Resurrection, “two disciples were walking away from Jerusalem toward Emmaus, a village some seven miles away, their faces downcast.”

What they were doing was out of depression; their dream had been crucified when Jesus died. Indeed, when they describe their faith in Jesus, they use the past perfect tense: “We had hoped.” Their dream is over, dead. So is their faith.

This is a mystical image worth meditating. Like these dispirited disciples in Luke’s Gospel, we too, when faced with the kind of pain that brings us to our knees in agony and humiliation, too often are too discouraged and too disheartened to grasp the lesson that’s being taught. We “fall asleep out of sheer sorrow” and then, in our sadness and discouragement, we feel tempted to walk away from what’s hurting us and move instead towards some human consolation, towards something in the world that promises earthly compensation to replace our crucified dream of faith.

The good news is that Jesus finds us on that road and turns us around so that, like the disciples, we never actually get to Emmaus. Instead, after re-reading the scriptures and breaking the bread, we regain our vision and our idealism and find the courage to again return to our faith and to our church. [Excerpt from Ron Rolheiser’s “Walking Away Out of Sorrow,” March 2006]

The execution of Jesus had seemed final. Under the authority of Pontius Pilate, Roman soldiers had carried out the crucifixion with brutal efficiency. At the request of certain religious leaders, the tomb had even been secured, sealed, and guarded to prevent any tampering.

To them, this was necessary. Jesus had spoken of rising again, and rumors, they feared, could spread quickly during a crowded festival. So the stone was sealed. The guards were posted. The matter, it seemed, was closed. But something happened.

According to the account preserved in the Gospel of Matthew, the ground shook, and the tomb was found empty. The guards, trained, disciplined men, were shaken enough to report what they had experienced.

They did not go first to their Roman superiors, but to the chief priests. What followed, Matthew says, was a decision made in private. Money was brought out, and a story was agreed upon that the disciples stole the body of Jesus from the tomb.

Fr. Ron Rolheiser writes about the irony that the same religious and Roman authorities who sought to silence Jesus through death continued to use deception after his resurrection, specifically creating a false narrative that the disciples stole the body.

The Roman guards’ false testimony (that they slept while the body was stolen) was a desperate attempt by authorities to maintain control over the narrative and avoid the implications of Jesus rising from the dead. Despite this collusion between the soldiers and leaders to conceal the resurrection, God’s truth eventually triumphs, turning the darkness of their deception into the light of faith.

The very existence of the accusation that “the disciples stole the body” is significant. It suggests that something about the tomb required explanation. The complicity noted by Matthew is a classic human effort to hide behind “false stories” when confronted with undeniable facts that threaten their power.

The disciples were filled with their own worries as they traveled along the Emmaus road—they were filled with anxiety, and disappointment about the future. A stranger joined them on the road and they repeated the recent events—the crucifixion, the empty tomb, the testimony of the women about the angel visitation saying that Jesus had risen. But these two were not buying any of that because disappointment and anxiety hung around them. “We had hoped he was the one who would redeem Israel.”

That’s one of the most melancholy statements in Scripture—”we had hoped he would be the one…We had hoped….” We know how that feels, don’t we?  We had hoped our finances worked out differently. We had hoped our health was better.  We had hoped our kids would go to church. We had hoped there would be no more war by now. We had hoped we would stop wondering about our faith by this age.

It’s funny how worry and anxiety and disappointment can blind us from seeing what is right in front of our eyes. When the mind doesn’t believe something possible, it is hard for the senses to receive the information. Cleopas and his friend on the road to Emmaus were so anxious, and so certain that Jesus was still dead, that the risen Lord appeared to them, walked along beside them, taught them all about the Hebrew scriptures and how Jesus was the fulfillment of that—and they still did not see him. The light of the world was right beside them, but to their eyes, the risen Lord just looked like a fellow traveler on the way to Emmaus.

But Jesus met the disciples where they were at—walking away from Jerusalem, not believing the testimony of the empty tomb, and full of disappointment and anxiety. That’s exactly where Jesus shows up in our lives, too. It is so easy to believe that fears, worries, doubts, anxieties separate us from God, drive God away from us, disappoint Jesus and mean that we are somehow outside the family of God and circle of faith—but that is precisely where Jesus meets us, walks with us, engages us, loves us.

A friend of mine had a plaque in her kitchen that said, “Before you go to bed at night, give your worries to God, he’ll be up all night anyway!” Rev. Ralph Abernathy during the Civil rights movement once said, “I don’t know what the future holds, but I know Who holds the future.” Lay your worries at the altar, for the Risen One who reveals himself in the breaking of the bread, holds the night, and our future secure. (Excerpt from Linda Little’s “The Road to Emmaus: The Walk of Worry and Revelation,” May 2019]