Being a full-time student in my current situation has definitely pushed me to be more creative both in how I share the Gospel and in my work for renewal in the Church. I am considering rebranding this Substack with the aim of exploring what true renewal looks like. Its central purpose would be to empower each of you to be leading from the pews. The Holy Spirit has recently clarified and broadened my understanding of renewal, and I feel compelled to write about it. I haven’t yet determined what form that will take, but I sense a shift is happening. I will keep posting scriptural and spiritual reflections, in addition to whatever else comes. I think my ideas have matured enough to finally start tackling the book on renewal, governance, and spirituality I’ve been wanting to write, so I’ll likely put some of those ideas here as a test balloon. The more concrete feedback you can provide on what connects and what doesn’t, the more it will help me clarify where the Lord is leading.

Ways You Can Help

While the nature of this form of communication is mostly one-directional, there are ways that, even in this venue, we can work together in service of The Great Commission:

1. Living out of the Dominican charism, study is an important way I continue to spread the Gospel and serve the Church. Beyond that, spiritual direction and writing are the other primary ways I engage the world with a missionary spirit. That’s why I’d like to connect with more people who might find something beneficial in these writings. Please encourage others to sign up for this Substack and share with them messages you think could help or inspire them. Spread the word that I’m writing here and tell people they should sign up. I know there are people in some of my former parishes who would be interested, but simply don’t know this exists. I just activated an easier domain name for the page, so you can simply send them to fathermatthew.net and they will get here.

2. I’ve added a tab on the main page labeled “Request Mass Intentions.” Most of the daily Masses I celebrate don’t have an assigned intention, and I know some people struggle to find free intentions at their parish. Additionally, as I continue my studies, Mass stipends are a helpful resource. Other methods I’ve tried for requesting intentions were too complicated, but this approach is simple and clear. Please consider making regular Mass intentions and sharing this with others who might want to request them. All the information on how to do so is located on the main page of fathermatthew.net.

3. When I’m preaching or teaching, it’s fairly easy to gauge how people are responding and adjust the message accordingly. There is much less immediate feedback when writing. So... tell me what you need to hear! What are you struggling with? What is casting a shadow on your heart? What specific things connect with you, and what things have I gotten wrong? Add a comment to any post, and I’ll see it and use that to inform future writing.

A Word of Thanks

I want to again thank each one of you for your support and prayers. Jesus has been increasingly present to me, and I am grateful for the work of renewal that He is doing within my own heart. That, of course, is where real renewal starts - the heart of a disciple.

Those who are more focused on the evils within the Church rather than the evils within their own heart will end up fixing neither. The priority of the interior life is the sine qua non of renewal in the Church. But if I’m being honest, I know I’ve too often made the mistake of pointing outward rather than inward.

In the end, maybe we should shift the focus away from renewing our church and, like the saints who were powerful agents of renewal, prioritize renewing our own hearts.

That’s my goal for myself, and I need God’s grace, and your help, to achieve it.

Subscribe now

Our first reading shows that original, persistent weakness that we humans tend to have: the desire to be something we are not, the desire to be God. The evil of refusing to embrace who we are in the face of who God is becomes the door through which every other sin and evil has entered the world. Our weakness as creatures is not the problem. Rather, sin begins when we refuse our creaturely dependence and grasp at what belongs to God, rathering than allowing ourselves to be in a posture of receiving what our loving Father offers. The second reading finds Paul reminding the Romans the power that original, persistent weakness has over each one of us. He reminds them that no one can free themselves from the slavery this weakness has bestowed on us.

But most importantly, it is in our Gospel where we find Jesus not fleeing from the disgust of human weakness, but stepping into the middle of it:

“He fasted for forty days and forty nights, and afterwards he was hungry.”

Even Satan, with his cunning intellect, failed to see the truth.

Often, the strength of God appears as human weakness.

It is clear that first Jesus fasted for forty days, turning His heart to His Father in intimate prayer. The passage is clear that it was only after that, when it was time to confront the world and what it offered, that Jesus was hungry. If His hunger was caused by the fast, it certainly would have started before forty days were over. You see, His fasting and His prayer did not make Him weak - they revealed where His strength truly was. The desert was not simply deprivation; it was communion. The hunger that comes after forty days does not place Him in a position of weakness to confront the world, the flesh, and the devil. It shows that He is fully human, and that His humanity is held, sustained, and nourished by His Father.

Adam, in a garden of abundance, reached out to grasp what was not given; Jesus, in a desert of emptiness, receives and remains faithful to what the Father gives. Adam distrusted the word of God and fell; Jesus is fed by His Father’s presence and stands. Where the first Adam treated creaturely dependence as something to escape, Jesus reveals it as the very place of communion and strength.

This is the step that Satan missed. Because the accuser’s assumption was that because He had fasted for forty days, Jesus was hungry; and because He was hungry, He was weak; and because He was weak, He could be easily overcome. From the perspective of the world and its king, Jesus looked weak. And so the tempter spoke with the same old lie: grasp, prove yourself, take what is yours. But Jesus refuses to grasp. He receives. He obeys. He remains a faithful Son.

It turns out that, many times, the strength of God appears as human weakness.

The saints remind us of that. Ones like St. Josephine Bakhita who, as an abused and beaten slave, exemplified human weakness, yet radiated love and forgiveness so powerfully that it revealed a freedom no chains could touch. St. André Bessette, who was seen even by some in his own Church as a fraud, yet became a miraculous channel of hope for the suffering. St. Hildegard of Bingen, who endured humiliation and opposition, including an interdict placed upon her community, yet remained steadfast in mercy and obedience.

I would suggest that this gives us a map for finding, in our world today, those who have become stewards of spiritual power. The ones who are weak are, many times, the agents of renewal that the church needs to cast off the cloak of mediocrity, protectionism, and navel-gazing that has infected it in so many places for far too long, including among us clergy. So look toward those who are most marginalized, most maligned by society and even by the Church, yet continue to love, to witness, to live in the truth that Jesus—and Jesus alone!—is what feeds their hunger and sustains their life. Those are the ones upon whom divine power rests, because our Father never hesitates to transform obedient weakness into spiritual power.

Brothers and sisters, these readings are a profound challenge for us if we confront them face-to-face. If we are honest with ourselves, we will begin to see how so much of our life, and a majority of our sins, are fruits of a desperate need to avoid confronting our limitations and weaknesses. So this Lent, choose one place of weakness you usually hide—one fear, one wound, one recurring sin, one limitation—and bring it deliberately into prayer, fasting, and if needed confession. Let Jesus meet you there, not where you pretend to be strong.

In the end, notice what happens when Jesus decisively triumphs over Satan’s will, when it is fully revealed that the weakness of His humanity is really the manifestation of divine power—nothing. There is no one there to see it other than His Father and the angels He sends. There is no awestruck audience marveling at the overturning of human wisdom. There are no worldly accolades or celebrating crowds.

Jesus triumphs in silence.

And usually, so do the saints.

So many—like Thérèse of Lisieux—aren’t even known until after their death, when the fruits of the power they wielded ripple throughout the Church. It is yet another reminder to us that rather than seeing the real agents of divine power, the real agents of renewal in the church, we will more likely experience the fruits of their faithful weakness.

So, this Lent, be weak!

Our Church desperately needs more weak saints. Because, in the hands of the Father, that “weakness” becomes the place where true victory is born.

Joseph’s willingness to be immediately responsive to God’s will, to step out of his life and drop everything at a moment’s notice, is heroic. There was a pattern in his life where God abruptly — at least from Joseph’s perspective — changed everything for him in an instant. Yet his faithfulness didn’t free him from fear. In fact, it led him right into it.

And it just may do the same for us.

Our Gospel tells us that, immediately after Joseph followed yet another dramatic course correction from the Lord, he was gripped by fear:

“But when he heard that Archelaus was ruling over Judea in place of his father Herod, he was afraid to go back there.”

Faithfulness to God led him into fear. That’s because the fidelity of the saints doesn’t mean foolishness in the world. Joseph, of course, notices the dangers around him. Who wouldn’t?! Yet his fear reveals a profound truth: Faithfulness requires us to step into a place of total vulnerability.

Undoubtedly, that was an uncomfortable place for Joseph. Yet his love of God motivated him to choose holy vulnerability over comfort. And because of that, prophecy was fulfilled: “He shall be called a Nazorean.” Precisely by yielding to threats, by seeming to lose in the eyes of the world, Joseph became an important cooperator with the Son of God in accomplishing the Father’s eternal design.

Fear is part of our experience. Being a disciple doesn’t change that. But the miracle of Christmas reveals that fear neither has the last word nor stands as an obstacle to Jesus’ victory, if it leads us into vulnerability before the Father.

Christmas is precisely the mystery where God enters into fear and vulnerability. He enters a world where a father can be afraid, where a mother can be displaced, where a child can be threatened. The Holy Family is not preserved in glass, untouched by the harshness of real life. They are drawn right into it — into uncertainty, into danger, into the strain of uprooting and beginning again.

Years ago, I suggested in a homily that our nativity scenes, as beautiful as they are, can accidentally soften the Gospel’s edge. The Holy Family’s life was not a polished tableau; it included uncertainty, messiness, and danger. Some of my parishioners had a visceral reaction to the possibility that the experience of the Holy Family was far more raw than the lights and creches convey.

I wasn’t surprised, because I know that tendency myself. I want to clean up the Holy Family and make them safe; to prevent them from coming too close to the messiness of my life. Because if they do, if they become involved not in the perfect version of my life that exists in my head but the rough and wavering reality that makes up my daily life, well, then that will require me to be vulnerable. And no one wants to be vulnerable.

But again, Joseph comes to our aid. Notice what God does in Joseph’s life. He does not shame him for fear. He does not tell him to pretend it isn’t there. He doesn’t take advantage of Joseph’s vulnerability. He guides him through it. Joseph’s fear becomes part of the path of obedience. His prudence becomes part of the providence. The very thing that could have paralyzed him becomes, in the hands of God, a means of fulfilling the Scriptures.

Faithfulness is not the absence of fear; faithfulness is allowing fear to make us vulnerable before our Heavenly Father.

Too many times, there are fears we carry that feel like failures: fear for our children, fear for our marriage, fear for our health, fear for our aging parents, fear for the future, fear about the Church, fear of what we cannot control. Sometimes we imagine that if we were “really faithful,” we would be beyond such things. But Joseph shows us something different - the power of vulnerability.

Vulnerability is the courage to live without the illusion of control. It is the willingness to stand in the truth that I cannot protect what I love by my own strength. I cannot guarantee outcomes. I cannot force tomorrow to be kind. Yet it is the decision that, in the face of all of that, I will still love. I will still obey. I will still take the next step the Lord gives me.

Joseph’s strength is real, but it is a strength that admits dependence.

Share

There is a kind of toughness our world admires that is, in reality, just armor. It keeps us from being hurt, but it also keeps us from being reached. It keeps God at a safe distance. We prefer the polished, stable “Hallmark” version of the Holy Family because it lets us admire them without having to meet them. But the Gospel refuses to let that happen. God places His Son not only in a manger, but in a family that must flee in the night. He places Him into the hands of a father who is afraid. That is not an accident. It is a revelation.

Because the Lord does not save us by bypassing vulnerability. He saves us through it.

As we celebrate this great octave of the nativity of our Lord, a birth that was permeated with vulnerability and risk, Jospeh obedient fear prompts us to ask ourselves: Where am I avoinding being vunerable? Notice, friends, I say where, not if. Because we all do it. Because all of us, somewhere in our life, allow the fear to paralyze us rather than push us into a posture of vulnerability before our Heavenly Father.

Yet in a real way the key to holiness is to become more vulnerable, not less.

To become more dependent, not less.

To recognize our insufficiency, not to be blinded by presumed self-sufficiency.

In this great season of Christmas, we worship a vulnerable God born into a vunerable family who found fear and danger at every turn. That is the key to experiencing the lasting power and peace of our Father; that is the roadmap to transforming fear into freedom; that, beyond anything else, is the secret to allowing our family to become a holy family.

Subscribe now

Think of the situation Joseph is in. He unknowingly stands on the cusp of the Lord doing something incomprehensibly new, fulfilling the words of comfort and joy proclaimed through Isaiah, “See, I am doing something new! Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it? In the wilderness I make a way, in the wasteland, rivers” (Is 43:19). Yet that is of little comfort to Joseph. He doesn’t have the vision that God has; he doesn’t have the understanding that God has. From Joseph’s perspective, the “new thing” that the Lord is doing seems like God contradicting Himself. On one hand, Joseph had been given the law, a gift from the Lord to His people, to which he is obedient. The law was clear about the gravity of pregnancy outside the marriage covenant. Yet Joseph also knew, likely from Mary’s self-disclosure, that God was doing something incomprehensibly miraculous in the situation.

This child was of God.

Yet, the law was also of God.

Joseph was caught between two things that he knew were the will of God, yet seemed incompatible with one another. In my experience, that is a common situation for a disciple to find themselves in.

We know Our Father desires to free us, yet at times something in our lives keeps us enslaved.

We know that the Holy Spirit empowers us with Divine Love, yet for some mediocrity and suffering seem to be constant companions.

We know in our bones that Jesus longs to draw us close to His Heart, yet too often He feels so distant as if He were absent.

If we surrender the shield we too often use to protect God from our own doubts and difficulties, we quickly realize that, like Joseph, there are times in our lives when God seems to contradict Himself.

That is certainly not an easy situation to be in.

In the Sunday Gospel, we hear that Joseph “decided to divorce her quietly. Such was his intention when the angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream…” Yet the original Greek of this passage communicates far more uncertainty. The text emphasizes that Joseph experienced a lengthy, intense time of confusion while trying to reconcile this apparent contradiction. He didn’t just decide; he wrestled and agonized over how to be faithful to the Lord who was acting in unpredictable ways.

Notice what Joseph didn’t do – ignore it. He didn’t ignore the apparent contradiction. He plunged headfirst into the mystery of a God whose ways are always new, always defying the simple if-then logic that we humans like to use. Joseph allowed himself to be consumed by a mystery that outstripped his categories, knowing it was only in that place of uncontrollable mystery that he would encounter God.

Only God Himself can reveal that what we see as contradictions are, in reality, the fulfillment of promises in ways we couldn’t begin to understand and would never dare to hope for. Joseph’s fidelity to the Lord’s will and the darkness that sometimes accompanies that will placed him in a posture of openness, allowing Him to encounter God in a way that transformed a contradiction into a paradox of love. Biblical scholar Erasmo Leiva-Merikakis says it this way:

“Joseph’s dark puzzlement, in piety before God, unwittingly invites illuminations to come to his soul. Sadness and confusion, presented to God, invite his coming. Persevere in darkness without rebelling and without lighting some trembling candle, and God’s healing light will invade you.”

Friends, do you see? When we flee from the place of confusion and darkness to avoid questioning God, we become foreigners in the land where God walks alongside His people. I think we can dare to say that by being faithful in darkness we force God – insofar as He is compelled by love – yes, His unimaginable love for you compels Him to come to your side when you faithfully dwell in the darkness, for light cannot act in any other way than to dispel the dark.

Notice, though, the light that Joseph receives is not an explanation. It is an affirmation that, yes, this is God’s doing, and here is the next step. Joseph doesn’t receive a blueprint of God’s plan; he isn’t given a neat resolution about how to reconcile the seeming contradiction, and he certainly isn’t made privy to the cosmic implications of his faithfulness.

Joseph doesn’t merely understand differently; he accepts a vocation he did not design.

The answer to our questioning is not a plan, it is not even a path. It is – maybe - a next step. But beyond everything, it is not an explanation at all. It is a person.

Emmanuel. God-with-us. Jesus.

Not God-with-us-after-we-figure-it-out.

God-with-us. God-with-you.

Jesus doesn’t explain away the suffering, the darkness, the confusion and uncertainty. No, He knows that those answers would be fragile and fleeting while we still are on pilgrimage through a world wounded by sin. So He offers us something far greater, far more lasting.

He gives us His very self.

He takes from us the simplest of answers and, in return, gives us His life. In Him contradictions transform into paradoxes of love and darkness flees from never wavering light. In Him and in Him alone, the deepest, most persistent longings of our hearts encounter Love Incarnate.

Joseph teaches us that we must avoid the temptation to flee from the darkness, thinking our confusion and difficulties are somehow offensive to God.

When confusion reigns in your life, when darkness and doubt try to lay claim to your heart, don’t chase explanations first. Seek Jesus. In the Eucharist, in the Scriptures, in silent prayer—sit with Him in the dark.

Jesus gives something far greater than answers.

He gives us Himself.

Subscribe now

What we tend to miss is that John the Baptist’s humility is most perfectly expressed through his posture of waiting.

Give the Gift of a Mass Intention

In the Gospel, an imprisoned John sends his disciples to ask Jesus if he is “the one who is to come,” biblical code for the Messiah. Understandably, John is trying to grasp Jesus' mission in the world. Remember, he had previously identified Jesus as the Messiah at the Jordan River. Can you imagine that moment of relief when John, under the weight of generation upon generation of believers who had waited for God’s promise to be fulfilled, could finally say, “The waiting is over.”

But just as John was experiencing the joyful gratitude of promises fulfilled, he was confronted with a difficulty. John, like many in his time, may have expected the Messiah’s kingdom to show itself more visibly and powerfully in the world. Yet Jesus was clear that establishing a purely political kingdom was not His mission. It is not difficult for us to be able to enter into John’s confusion – “Is this what the Messianic kingdom looks like, or have I misunderstood?” This is why the way John phrased his question is so important: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?”

Notice what he didn’t ask: Why aren’t you establishing a kingdom? If you’re here to free the imprisoned, why am I still behind bars? If you are the promised one, why do things seem as horrible as ever?

His question wasn’t accusatory; it didn’t challenge why Jesus wasn’t conforming to his expectations. The Baptist just wanted to know, “Am I right, or should I keep waiting?”

John’s question reveals a willingness to wait.

John was ready to return to a posture of waiting, if needed. And that, beyond anything else, is a fruit of his profound humility.

John knows the promises that God has made to His people and that Israel has waited for the Messiah for what felt like forever. St. Augustine spoke about the dramatic scope of God’s promises when he said,

“God, who is faithful, put himself into our debt, not by receiving anything {from us}, but by promising so much. A promise was not sufficient for him; he chose to commit himself in writing as well, as it were, making a contract of his promises.”

Yes, John deeply felt the weight of how long God’s people had waited and longed for the promises that God had bound Himself to. And with John’s extreme personality, we wouldn’t be surprised if he were impatient in wondering when, finally, the Lord would make good on His promises.

But John was resolute in surrendering His will to the Lord’s. That is what real humility is – recognizing that only Our Heavenly Father knows the best way to bring His promises to fulfillment. John knew that God is faithful to His promises and that, when they are fulfilled, they are fulfilled in ways far greater, far more amazing than even the wisest of prophets could have ever foreseen.

John’s patient waiting was an exercise of his humility, his wholehearted surrender to the will of God.

Yet it was that very patient waiting that expanded his vision so that, when he saw Jesus, he recognized Him. St. Cyprian said it this way:

“Patient waiting is necessary if we are to be perfected in what we have begun to be, and if we are to receive from God what we hope for and believe.”

Patience isn’t simply about God waiting for the right time. It is a process where something is already happening: God is working on us, transforming us, making us capable of receiving what He plans to give. Think about Israel and its expectations of the Messiah. Generation after generation passionately prayed for the Messiah. God, through the prophets, even told them what to look for and the signs that would accompany him. And yet many still missed Him when He came! They couldn’t receive the gift that Jesus is because their expectations of a Messiah were too small.

It was precisely this patient waiting that allowed John to say ‘yes’ when Jesus finally came.

This isn’t just important for John. It’s essential for us.

How many times do we cry out in frustration, “What are you waiting for, Lord,” or “Why aren’t you doing anything Jesus,” or, if we’re honest, “Lord why have you broken your promise to me?” I’m sure that happens to you; I know it does to me. But that’s because I don’t have the humility of the Baptist. That’s because I’d rather be actively controlling rather than patiently waiting. That’s most definitely because my expectations of God are too small.

We need to cultivate a willingness to wait.

So, how do we wait like John … although without losing our heads in the process?

John is actively waiting. He is vigilant in seeking out the fulfillment of God’s promise. He is expecting it, seeking out the signs of its coming. He is preparing himself to recognize and receive the Messiah when He comes. Patiently waiting for God to fulfill His promises doesn’t mean sitting around and doing nothing! Far, far from it. We must 1) Know what God has promised, 2) Prepare ourselves to receive His promises, and 3) Keep vigilant for the signs of their unfolding. We know what God has promised by immersing ourselves in, as Augustine said, the contract with us He Himself wrote – the Scriptures. We prepare ourselves to receive His promises by shedding the things from our lives that we use to avoid experiencing the great grace of feeling incomplete. And finally, we keep vigilant by the constant expectation that we will see God’s grace every day, and the intentional naming of those graces at the end of our day.

John is contagiously waiting. Just because John is waiting doesn’t mean he is keeping to himself! As he waits, he stands by the Jordan and baptizes, helping others to enter into a posture of waiting. Even from prison, his waiting is not closed in on itself. He sends his disciples to Jesus. His questions, his searching, actually bring other people closer to Christ. Our waiting can do the same. When we keep trusting God in the long illness, in the stubborn sin we keep confessing, in the broken relationship that isn’t healed yet, the people around us see a different way to live. They know that it is possible to wait without despair, to hope without having all the answers. When we witness to the world by patiently wait because we know God is faithful to us and promises nothing shy of making us God-like, well, then that longing for Infinite Love is awakened in more and more hearts.

We say Advent is a season of waiting, but in truth, our whole life is a season of waiting.

The question is not if we will have to wait for the fulfillment of all of God’s promises, but how we will wait.

Will it be like John, actively, contagiously, ready to be surprised when Jesus fulfills His promises in ways far greater than we would dare to imagine?

There are few biblical figures I am as captivated by as John the Baptist, so much so that I’ve claimed him as my confirmation saint (my saint name was ‘John’ with no distinguishing information, so I’ve taken the liberty of claiming the camel hair-wearing prophet). His eccentricity should repel rational people. Yet, as our Gospel reading for Sunday says, “at that time Jerusalem, all Judea, and the whole region around the Jordan were going out to him…” I call passersby a brood of vipers while eating insects and people cross the street to avoid me; John does the same and is called a prophet! But that uniqueness demands our attention because when people in scripture act contrary to expectations, the Holy Spirit is trying to communicate something important to us.

John’s demeanor and, well, let’s call them “lifestyle choices,” are not details that just add color to the story. Scripture is short on details, so if it gives us one, it is an important clue to the deeper meaning being communicated. The Holy Spirit is telling us something fundamental to John’s mission when we are told that he “wore clothing made of camel’s hair and had a leather belt around his waist. His food was locusts and wild honey.” To understand why, we need to approach our Gospel with a biblical worldview.

Remember that, for those who saw John, the experience of the desert was charged with meaning. Think of Moses and the burning bush, think of Israel’s encounter with God at Sinai and their 40 years with his presence in the wilderness, consider God passing by Elijah on the mountain in the desert, just to name a few. To speak of the desert was to speak of being in a place of encounter with the Lord.

To be sure, the experience was usually one of trials and temptations. In the desert, you only have what God provides to you. All illusions of being self-sufficient fall away as the true poverty of who we are becomes our most dependable resource. It is not despite the barrenness of the desert environment that we are able to encounter the God who has been pursuing us – it is because of it!

Subscribe now

With that in mind, let’s turn back to the Baptist. His dress, his diet, his demeanor are all a type of barrenness, a surrender of self-sufficiency, a voluntary emptiness. John isn’t just in the desert; he has become a desert. All of those “lifestyle choices” are symbols that point to the truth that the locus of encounter with God has shifted. Now, we can encounter our God in and through others.

Through the Baptist, we encounter God, we encounter Jesus.

But here is the fun part – it’s not just John!

Every disciple must become a desert.

Every disciple must become a place where others encounter Jesus.

We no longer need to go out to a sand-filled desert to find ourselves face-to-face with the One who is pursuing us. No, He is now present and active in so many ways, in so many places. And an important one is within the heart of every baptized disciple.

So do we have enough love within us to become a desert where others can encounter Jesus?

Do we have enough courage to become a desert?

I say courage because that’s what it takes for us who, too many times, are addicted to comfort. Because you can be sure that becoming a desert so others can encounter Jesus through you is uncomfortable. So what, then, does it take for us to be a desert? What, then, does it take for us to become a place where others encounter Jesus? Well, we only need to look at the two main characteristics of the Judean Desert to find out:

Empty. The Judean Desert has miles and miles of … nothing. Some deserts have different forms of life or dramatic landscape features. But much of the Judean Desert is barren and empty. To become a desert, we must allow ourselves to become empty. But gosh, let me tell you, that is much easier said than done. We humans, we are just so afraid. It’s a consequence of original sin. Remember that, when God was looking for our original parents after they had eaten the forbidden fruit, Adam revealed they were hiding from God because they were afraid. And when we are afraid, we unconsciously grasp for things to bring us comfort, or to numb us. Yet the more we fill ourselves with “stuff,” the harder it will be for people to encounter Jesus through us. Ask yourself: What might you be distracting yourself with to avoid the beautiful emptiness that brings us face-to-face with Love Incarnate?

Extremes. It is a unique environment indeed where, within the same 24-hour period, you could be at risk for heat stroke and hypothermia - but that is the Judean Desert! There is nothing moderate in the desert, and so neither should there be in our relationship with Jesus. Yet, sadly, there is an epidemic among churchy folk of pusillanimity. The pusillanimous person avoids seeking the greatness that is their inheritance as a beloved child of our Heavenly Father. They avoid being too extreme in their vision and desires. They are, literally, “small-souled.” The magnanimous person, on the other hand, seeks after great things in a way suited to their real gifts. They are not satisfied with mediocrity; they are not satisfied with getting by. They know that our call is a divine one, and we are thereby empowered to carry out amazing, truly miraculous things. Ask yourself: Do I settle for “good enough” in my relationship with Jesus? Do I have a holy ambition to use my charisms and gifts in the service of the Kingdom?

Being emptied of ourselves and refusing a mediocre, “small-souled” discipleship—that is how we become a desert where others can truly encounter Jesus.

And that is exactly what Advent is for. John stands in the wilderness and cries out, “Prepare the way of the Lord, make straight his paths.” Oh sure, the desert around him is barren, but the most important thing is that his heart is emptied and on fire, ready to receive and share the One who is coming.

The good news is you don’t have to wear camel hair or eat locusts.

But you do have to let the Holy Spirit make your life into a desert where Jesus can be known.

If we let Him do that in us, then this Advent will not just be about getting ready for Christmas. It will be about preparing a way so that, through us, others can not only know but also experience the living and active presence of our infant God in their lives.

Request a Mass Intention

“{Jesus} opened the book and found the place where it was written,

‘The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed. to proclaim the acceptable year of the Lord.’

And he closed the book, and gave it back to the attendant, and sat down; and the eyes of all in the synagogue were fixed on him. And he began to say to them, ‘Today this Scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing.’” (Luke 4:16-21)

It is the proclamation of a Jubilee Year, and it is why hope is a central theme of any Jubilee, but especially this one. It is a time of forgiveness, of freedom and healing, a time where injustice is rectified and a new start is offered to all.

Does that describe your experience of the past year?

If not, don’t worry – I’m with you!

Maybe you too have experienced fetters rather than freedom, confusion rather than clarity, bad news upon bad news. Maybe it seems like the only thing you’ve found fulfilled in your hearing is oppression and obstacles.

Does that mean it’s been a bad Jubilee Year? Does that mean your portion of hope has been reallocated to someone “more deserving”?

It’s okay if you’re wrestling with those questions; I sure have been. At the urging of the Holy Spirit, I returned to the wisdom of Pope Benedict XVI’s encyclical Saved in Hope (Spe Salvi), searching for answers for the seemingly elusiveness of hope.

As he unpacks the understanding and experience of hope, Benedict emphasizes that true Christian hope isn’t just a theological concept. It isn’t an idea. It isn’t a naïve optimism that things will get better. Hope is lived. It is, in his words, “the expectation of things to come from the perspective of a present that is already given.” Did you catch that? Hope is the experience of a future good in the here and now that strengthens our desire for that very good. Put simply: Hope comes from encountering Jesus now.

From a Christian perspective, our hope is not in something; it is in someone. Hope, as the Catechism says, is the way we “desire the kingdom of heaven and eternal life as our happiness.” To hope for anything less is a “hope” not worthy of the name. In my own life, I recognize that I struggle with hope only when I begin to hope for too little! The real crosses of the present moment can, too often, cause mediocrity to infect my desires. I hope to feel better or to be understood; I hope to have an easier time at this or better luck at that. And, to be sure, those can be good things to desire. But I can be so numbed by the sufferings of the present that I forget my identity is as a beloved son of the Father who has been promised a divine inheritance, settling instead on being a slave begging for scraps from the table. If my hope is directed towards anything less than Jesus, then it is a poor, poor hope indeed.

But again, as Benedict noted, the wellspring of hope is an encounter with Jesus now, not at some unknown point in the future. Therefore, for hope to move from the realm of abstract ideas to enter the reality of our lives, a bridge must exist that makes Jesus’ victorious power present to us, even in a small way, here and now.

I remember when, in seminary, my understanding of hope shifted. There was a single passage in Paul McPartlan’s book Sacrament of Salvation that unveiled to me the gift that was placed in my soul at baptism. I quote it here in its entirety because I think it provides rich material for reflection:

“In everyday life, some of what we call our hopes materialize, many do not. This seems reasonable because, from the firm ground of the reality of the present, hope makes a projection into the uncertain future and so … is bound to be disappointed often by the way things actually work out.

In sharp contrast … the future is not uncertain for the Christian, and so the Christian’s hope does not disappoint. By the work of the Holy Spirit, it is the future that becomes firm ground for the Christian as he or she faces an uncertain present. When the Holy Spirit is active, time ceases to obey everyday rules … {and} we must expect strange things to happen.

{Through the Eucharist} each of us samples an identity that we shall not fully possess until the last day. Because of our regular celebration of the Eucharist, the future is no stranger to us. Through the Eucharist, it becomes the foundation upon which we build our daily Christian lives.”

“Because of our regular celebration of the Eucharist, the future is no stranger to us.”

At Mass, we experience the eternal victory that has already defeated the powers that harm us. Through the Eucharist, we become united to He whose love for us – for you! – is so unconditional that, if necessary, He would again allow Himself to be nailed to the cross just for you. Through the liturgy, we are drawn into the everlasting victory that is so reality transforming that our eyes are too weak to perceive its unfathomable presence.

The Eucharist is our hope, and our hope is only found through the Eucharist!

Request Mass Intention

It is natural for hope to struggle when it seems like God’s promises are delayed. A healing that fails to manifest before the cancer is victorious; a betrayal that remains hidden yet changes the course of our life; the suffering of an innocent that no human effort can relieve – these experiences can shatter our hope.

In fact, in our Sunday Gospel, we find Jesus warning His disciples of that very danger. Yet it is no coincidence that, almost immediately after this dialogue of warning and exhortation to vigilant hope, Jesus and his disciples celebrate the Last Supper. He knows that it is no more effective just to tell them to keep hoping than it is when someone says to us, “You just have to have a some hope.” Wrong. It is not something we can just “do” ourselves, and we needlessly beat ourselves up when we struggle with hope if we think otherwise.

Jesus both exhorts them to vigilant hope and gives them the power to do that by giving them Himself in the Eucharist.

Hope and the Eucharist go hand-in-hand.

Can I suggest that this Advent, as we end the year of hope, we examine the presence of supernatural hope in our lives? Maybe the following questions can help guide our reflections:

• What do I honestly expect will make me happy: Jesus and the loving embrace of the Father, or comfort, success, approval, or control?

• Do I speak more often about my fears and complaints than about God’s promises and providence?

• Do I nourish my hope with Scripture (especially the promises of Jesus), or do I feed on news, social media, and human opinions?

• Do I allow discouragement to paralyze me, instead of asking the Holy Spirit for the virtue of hope and drawing close to Jesus in the Eucharist?

• When I feel empty, do I look for escape in distractions (screen time, entertainment, pleasure, busyness) instead of letting my thirst lead me to Jesus?

• Do I come to Mass with the expectation of a real encounter with the risen Christ?

• When I leave Mass, do I act as someone who has been entrusted with a “pledge of future glory” and sent to bring hope into the world?

• This Advent, what concrete practice will I take up (daily Scripture, more attentive Mass, regular adoration, a good Confession, specific works of mercy) so that my hope is more deeply rooted in Jesus’ presence in the Eucharist?

Subscribe now

You know, on second thought, maybe my Jubilee Year hasn’t been a failure. Oh sure, there have certainly been times when my hopes were too small. But I can say Jesus is as present - dare I say even more present - to me now than He was at the beginning of the year. And I have learned that no person or circumstance, no matter how unjust, can steal my hope because Jesus is always, always available in every tabernacle and at every Mass.

So maybe there is a little hope for me.

And you.

And everyone.

Because of my current schedule and commitments, I have Mass intentions available almost every day. Inspired by my previous parish, I now offer the option to schedule a Mass intention online. If you or someone you know wishes to arrange a Mass and your parish is unavailable, please click here to do so. I am happy to offer Mass for the intention you choose. While you won’t receive a direct response from me, please be assured I will see your request, and it will be automatically added to my schedule. Both on the main scheduling page and after confirming your request, you’ll find electronic options to offer a Mass stipend. Feel free to request intentions for as many days as you like, though you’ll need to make each request separately due to system limitations. Currently, my calendar is open through the end of January, and I will add more dates month by month.

Admittedly, some might quibble with the descriptor "a bit." The Mickey ears embroidered "Father Pastor," Mickey Mouse topiary, and mechanical nutcracker playing "It's a Small World" near my desk aren't signs of a problem. They're just why my staff heroically avoids my office.

So when, last Fall, an unbelievable deal arrived in my inbox and my fellow priests generously offered to cover some Masses, I seized the opportunity for a quick pilgrimage to the House of Mouse.

I planned three days of working vacation, preparing material for an upcoming preaching series and crafting a new class for the diaconate program.

Within eight hours of arrival, I encountered someone unexpected.

Jesus.

Mercy in the World

One of the draws of visiting Disney World during fall is the annual food and wine festival. During this celebration, there are several dozen food booths throughout the park that offer taste-size portions of some amazing food. As part of that festival, there is an “Eat to the Beats” concert where different bands play free concerts throughout the several-month festival. It was never much of an interest to me, but as I was strolling through the park, internally debating how to distinguish between celebrating and gluttony, an advertisement for that evening's concert caught my attention. It seems that MercyMe was playing in the World.

For those who don’t know, MercyMe is a well-known Christian band. Some of their greatest hits include Almost Home, Shake, I Can Only Imagine, Greater.

A Christian rock band planning in the middle of Disney World?

I immediately put down (into my stomach) my kaluha pork slider from the Hawaii booth and made my way over to the concert. What I found there shocked me - three one-hour concerts were played over the evening, each with a full theater of over 1000 people joining their hearts and minds to praise and worship music. In the middle of Epcot, one of the four parks of Disney World, the name of Jesus echoed out from massive speakers, permeating the park.

Jesus, it seems, was also spending some time at Disney.

One would be forgiven if the term Christian praise and worship didn’t evoke images of unnaturally large mice and pirates in the Caribbean. But there I was, singing along with 1000 others as many raised their hands in prayer while wearing Mickey ears and their “Grumpy for Life” t-shirt (don’t judge me).

The contrast of what was happening struck me. It’s hard to deny that the company, created to be family-friendly over 100 years ago, has recently evolved into an organization that advocates for many things contrary to the well-being of the family and human flourishing. With that reality, one would forgive a Christian who thought a Christian shouldn’t be found in that world.

But there, in that hub of consumerism, consumption, and questionable values, the name of Jesus was being said louder and prouder than most Sundays at your average Catholic parish.

Battle Lines

A former colleague often reminded our parish: you can't evangelize a culture you're at war with.

To evangelize means recognizing that nothing is beyond Christ's redemptive power. We must act with love-driven urgency, trusting that bringing Jesus into a seemingly hostile world is the greatest gift we can offer.

In essence, we can't view culture as an irredeemable enemy. Fr. John Riccardo of Acts XXIX Ministries rightly points out that our true enemy is Satan and his demons. Losing sight of this wastes precious resources on the wrong battle.

If Jesus can appear in Disney World, He can manifest in families, workplaces, neighborhoods, and stores. The Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us:

“Since, like all the faithful, lay Christians are entrusted by God with the apostolate by virtue of their Baptism and Confirmation, they have the right and duty, individually or grouped in associations, to work so that the divine message of salvation may be known and accepted by all men throughout the earth. This duty is the more pressing when it is only through them that men can hear the Gospel and know Christ. Their activity in ecclesial communities is so necessary that, for the most part, the apostolate of the pastors cannot be fully effective without it.”CCC 900

A Surprise Visit

Post-Disney, I'm more attuned to Jesus in unexpected places. He was already easily spotted in the church Tabernacle, in our Leadership Team's prayerful decisions, and in those I spiritually direct.

Now, I glimpse Him in sweltering theme parks, in scowling parishioners, and in forgotten urban corners.

On my best days, at least.

And perhaps, just perhaps, I'll see Him in myself.

For He certainly appears in the most unexpected places.

To be more accurate, I’ve been thinking about what it doesn’t mean to be a leader.

I realize there is no shortage of individuals today talking about that reality. But I’m less interested in experts (as important as they are) and far more interested in what it means to be a leader in my small suburban Chicago parish.

Two things have come together to push me to wrestle with this: my desire to grow as a priest-leader and my search for ways to invest in my parish's leadership.

Priestly Leadership

I have the blessing of people who cultivate my desire to grow as a leader. Without that, I suspect that any of the success I’ve had in leadership would have been nonexistent or far more costly.

I have advanced training and education in two different disciplines. Both lacked leadership training. The only course at the seminary that even referred to leadership focused on how to run meetings (poorly, if you ask my staff) and that you can’t fire volunteers (spoiler alert: Not only can you, but under certain circumstances, failing to do so is abdicating your leadership responsibility). The course conflated leadership, management, and authority, and failed to provide guidance on any of them.

Stepping into the world of parish renewal, I’ve wondered why leadership training was not integrated into my formation for the priesthood. There are probably many reasons, and admittedly, a lot of formation needs to happen in a limited time, so things will inevitably be left out. I wonder, though, if it wasn’t addressed because the unspoken understanding is that being ordained a priest makes you a de facto leader. While there is truth in that, there is far more wrong with it than right.

Being a leader and being in charge are different things.

Being a leader and being highly visible are different things.

Being a leader and being a decision-maker are very different things.

While there is increasing discussion in the seminaries about servant leadership, from what I can see from the seminarians I interact with, the focus is on what it means to serve, leaving the leadership part unaddressed.

Borrowing words from a former colleague of mine, a servant without leadership gives rise to a pastor who is the personal chaplain of the most engaged few, not the spiritual father of a community of missionary disciples.

I suspect part of the unending waves of scandals tumbling out of the church’s hierarchy is the confusion of positional and supernatural leadership. These days, there is a resumé that one can assume a bishop will have. The details of that resumé change depending on the current Pope, but nonetheless, there are discernible patterns. By no means does that mean that those resumé items are bad. However, that approach to selecting men for the fullness of orders has an impact, especially when we fail to distinguish between positional and supernatural leadership.

In short, I’ve been thinking a lot about leadership because I don’t feel like my seminary or diocese has equipped me to be one.

Parish Leadership

The second reason I’ve been thinking a lot about leadership is that as my parish continues developing and refining its Leadership Summit model, we are still discussing who should be invited. That conversation is, in essence, about how we define a parish leader.

The goals of our Leadership Summits are to:

1. Continue to cast a vision for our community while keeping us focused on the mission that will get us there;

2. Make the gospel model of a disproportionate investment in leadership a lived reality;

3. Equip and empower the baptized to step into their rightful role of being co-responsible for the Great Commission;

4. Provide formation and receive feedback on how we can become more fruitful disciples.

With these goals, it is imperative that our true leaders are present. That may mean some individuals attend whose leadership is powerfully hidden and humble - sometimes even hidden from themselves!

Between my awareness of the lacuna in my pre- and post-ordination formation and my on-the-ground experience in the parish, I’ve grown in my appreciation of what it means to be an authentic church leader.

Forms of Leadership

There are far more books and lectures on leadership than anyone could hope to experience. That is a good thing and a sign of the hunger for exemplary leadership in the church and beyond. The following reflections on different forms of leadership are simply what I’ve seen in my church and what our team is using to guide us in our goal of disproportionately investing in leadership. I suspect these observations may hold true for other parishes.

• POSITIONAL LEADERS These are individuals who, by their position, are leaders. As a pastor, I definitely belong to that category. Staff and council members are also included. This is the weakest form of leadership because it can give the appearance of leadership without making the necessary demands. In fact, someone possessing solely positional leadership exhibits more authority than leadership. This doesn’t mean positional leadership is bad. It is, however, insufficient to be a leader. Those in my parish who fall in this category are strong leaders because they are in one (or more) of the other leader categories.

• INSPIRED LEADERS These leaders exhibit a docility to the Holy Spirit that opens their ears to the voice of the One True Leader. In communion with the Will of the King of Kings, they lead not out of their own person but out of the Persons of the Trinity and, thereby, are the only ones who can bring about authentic, lasting renewal in the church. These individuals speak truth because they speak from hearing the voice of God, meaning their words have an objective and supernatural power. Give me a person of humble and contemplative prayer over the experienced CEO with a worldly worldview any day. At the core of church leadership is hearing the prompting of the Holy Spirit and acting accordingly; any other form of leadership makes the initiative ours rather than God’s.

• THOUGHT LEADERS These individuals lead in a way that opens up possibilities and pathways, seeing what can be, what should be, and how to build a bridge between the “here” and “there.” Their leadership goes beyond the “well you should do….” to the “let’s together do…” because they work towards incarnating their ideas. These are no backseat drivers: they write the map, build the engine, and help others drive.

• INFLUENCE LEADERS These parish leaders are especially effective in swaying the hearts of their neighbors and galvanizing others around the Lord’s vision for His people. In ways mostly simple and small, influence leaders are the catalysts that shift a parish's culture and are thereby irreplaceable in leading renewal. Influence leaders make excellent evangelists.

• INVESTMENT LEADERS These individuals lead by making the Lord’s Will for His Church possible even within the limitations of human society. They don’t volunteer; they serve. They don’t donate; they give like God gives. They don’t approach their community with a transactional posture; they selflessly use their gifts and charisms for the Great Commission to “Go, make disciples of all nations…” Even more so, investment leaders don’t simply invest in institutions; they invest in hearts. They step into the brokenness of human life and the confines of our society, investing in (read: accompanying) individuals to bring the freedom needed for the Gospel to take root and transform.

While these different categories capture my experience of parish leadership, it is important to note that many leaders fall into more than one of these categories. In fact, I’ve noticed that as disciples intentionally surrender themselves to one form of leadership, others tend to manifest in their lives.

A Little Crazy is What We Need

As my parish continues to develop and refine our Leadership Summit model, we cast a wide net regarding who should be invited. In fact, most of the people in the room are not in positional leadership roles. I also suspect many in that room would not see themselves as leaders because, for most people in the church, positional leadership is the alpha and omega of their experience of church leadership.

Church leadership can - it must! - look like many different things. If you want to know authentic leadership, look towards the saints of our church who have led renewal:

We need leaders like Catherine of Siena; a little crazy, full of holy boldness, and passionately in love with Jesus.

We need leaders like Ignatius of Loyola; experiencing what it means to be forgiven of much, practical about how grace works in our humanness, and unapologetic in the work of renewal.

And we absolutely need leaders like Francis of Assisi; one who sells everything for the pearl of great price, seeks out that which is hidden, and knows that nothing is too radical when souls hang in the balance.

The late, great Archbishop of Chicago, Cardinal Francis George, said it this way: “But finally, the reform of the Church will not come from management theory. It will come from holiness. St. Francis of Assisi, Blessed Mother Teresa, St. Catherine of Siena are the reformers we look for, even we bishops.”

These are the leaders we need. These saints are genuine agents of renewal, and right now, many more renewal leaders act like sleeper cells waiting to be activated in my parish and yours. I know this is true because the Lord does not leave His church without what She needs. So, since the church desperately needs supernatural leadership, there must already be leaders out there waiting to be unleashed.

If you are baptized, you are called to be a leader in the church. Do you think that’s crazy? Well, you are baptized into the triple office of Christ as priest, prophet, and … king.

We desperately need more leaders in the church. So, how about dusting off your baptism and stepping into that role?

The Holy Spirit is not lacking in the gifts He provides His church.

Be that gift for the church.

Be a leader.

We need you.

As Catholics, we often seek the extraordinary, the miraculous, and the divine in our lives. We yearn for those moments when God's presence is unmistakable, and we can feel His touch upon our hearts. However, as I reflect on the story of the wedding at Cana, I am reminded that sometimes the most extraordinary theophanies occur in the most ordinary of situations. And it is a lesson that those seeking renewal in the Church must hold close to their hearts.

Consider two unmentioned guests at the wedding feast where Jesus performed His first miracle. The first guest attended the wedding with a sense of familiarity and routine. He knew what to expect and went through the motions of the celebration without much thought or reflection. The only thing that stood out to him was the exceptionally good wine served later in the festivities. He was not observant, did not expect much, and went home with all of his expectations fulfilled.

In contrast, the second guest was more attentive. He noticed when the wine ran out, saw a man briefly speaking with the servants, and watched as the jars were filled with water. He witnessed the steward's joyful reaction upon tasting the water-turned-wine and marveled at the quality of the wine he was served. By being attentive, he noticed something mysterious and extraordinary amid an ordinary situation. This guest left the wedding not just satisfied, but transformed by the experience of witnessing divine intervention.

If we think that our parish lives are ordinary, if we go from one moment to the next knowing what to expect, our expectations will be met, and we might miss Christ's extraordinary presence. We risk becoming like the first guest, going through the motions of our faith without truly experiencing its transformative power.

Looking for Renewal

It is rare that God brings about renewal through waves of conversions and dramatic overnight turnarounds.

It is not, however, rare for God to bring about renewal.

In fact, He is constantly at work, refreshing and reinvigorating His Church through countless miracles that often go unnoticed by the casual observer.

For individuals who are striving for renewal in the Church, it is easy to get discouraged because we see the gap between what the Church should be and what She is. We look at declining Mass attendance, the scandals that have rocked our faith, and the seeming indifference of many to the Gospel message, and we can feel overwhelmed by the task before us.

In my own parish, I fear that too many parishioners miss the extraordinary things going on because they, like the first wedding guest, don't expect to be surprised and amazed. They don't see the young family recommitting to their faith after years away, or the elderly widow finding new purpose in our outreach ministry. They overlook the quiet conversion of a skeptic through patient dialogue, or the healing of old wounds in a reconciliation between estranged parishioners.

I fear that's the case with them because I know it can sometimes be the case with me! I can see something far greater, I can feel our Heavenly Father's passion for the people of my parish, the more that He wants for them, and because I can see how far we have yet to go, I can miss the extraordinary revelations of God's presence happening around me. There must be a deep intentionality in how I look at my parish, an expectation of being surprised and amazed, because only then are my eyes open enough to, like that second guest at Cana, see the extraordinary things happening in a very ordinary place.

As shepherds and members of Christ's flock, we are called to cultivate this attentiveness, this openness to God's work in the everyday moments of our parish life. We must approach each Mass, each encounter with a fellow parishioner, each act of service with the expectation that God is present and active. We must train our eyes to see the water being transformed into wine all around us.

This perspective shift is not just about appreciating what God is doing; it's about participating in it. When we recognize the divine at work in our midst, we are inspired to join in, to actively live out our co-responsibilty for living out the Great Commission.

Over time, we can go beyond that second guest who, while observant, is still a passive participant. We become more like Mary at the wedding feast, noticing a need and bringing it to Jesus, trusting in His power to transform the ordinary into the extraordinary.

For it is in a posture of attentive wonder that we will not only witness, but also participate in the ongoing miracle of Church renewal.

Then I went to Rome.

It isn’t easy to describe if you’ve never been to Italy. Suffice it to say it is a cacophony of cars, motorcycles, and mopeds, zooming in and around one another with minimal consideration for mundane things like lane markers and curbs. In short, if you’re a pedestrian in Rome, get ready for a real-life game of Frogger with you as the frog!

As a public service (you’re welcome), I’d like to present “4 Rules to Being a Pedestrian in Rome”:

1. If you see a nun crossing the street, cross with her! As a Roman told me, Italians might not be religious anymore, but they are superstitious and won’t hit a nun. Your percentages are not as good when crossing with a priest, but he’s better than nothing.

2. When a stoplight with a signal is nearby, even if it is outside your path, cross there. Romans will (usually) respect a red light... by slowing down ... a little.

3. If there is no light, look for a crosswalk rather than crossing in the middle of the road. I’m told that walking outside a crosswalk throws chaos into the system - which I suspect is a feature, not a defect, for Rome - but it’s still a good rule to follow.

4. When you begin to cross, DON’T STOP, and don’t change your speed. You will have cars and cycles zooming behind and before you, making split-second calculations on how to get around you rather than having to do something as ridiculous as stopping for a pedestrian. Hesitating or changing your speed dramatically increases the chance of your Frogger game ending with “Game Over.”

In short, crossing the street in Rome depends on specific rules and patterns, but in the end, you must accept that you can’t anticipate everything and just commit to crossing.

During my last week in Rome, when I could finally cross the street with a boldness similar to that of a group of nuns waving the Vatican flag, I was impacted by a realization - learning to cross the street in Rome taught me about parish renewal.

Roaming About in Renewal

Like crossing the street in Rome, renewal is a dangerous business and yet necessary to get anywhere. The uncertainties are far more significant than the most well-developed and tested strategy. Every person I know who recognizes the need for renewal in the Church wrestles with questions like:

How do we free ourselves from the poison of “this is how we've always done it” without separating ourselves from the inspired Tradition of the holy ones who have gone before us?

When our collective Western consciousness has forgotten what a fully lived-out Catholic life looks like, how do we progress in an environment of apathy and downright hostility from those more comfortable with the certainty of the status quo?

When priests and bishops dedicate more time to being managers rather than mystics, how can the lay faithful provide an antidote to this widespread disease in the hierarchy and, with charity and care, call their clergy to holiness?

I certainly don’t have answers and have been wrestling with these questions for the past decade. Frankly, the answers will vary depending on the local Church. What is needed in my diocese is not the same as what is necessary in our neighboring dioceses, let alone in the Holy See itself.

Yet while a specific path cannot be prescribed, to avoid the excesses that can occur around renewal like apathy or schism (I’m looking at you, German Bishops), there are specific rules, conventions, and guidelines that one must follow:

1. Cross with the nuns - The work of renewal must be done alongside the religious and clergy. The laity cannot do this alone, nor can the clergy and religious. The Second Vatican Council speaks powerfully about the relationship between the two dimensions of the Church, the hierarchical and the charismatic. Clericalism is when we place those at odds with one another, either ascribing a self-referential superiority to the clergy and religious, or (and dare I say more common in the Church in the U.S.) a diminishment of the “otherness” of those vocations. If one gets frustrated with the worldliness that some clergy and religious struggle with and so tries to move forward without them, odds are you’re going to cause an accident.

2. Cross at a light - One of the greatest gifts Jesus has given is His Church. Sadly these days, that can be a controversial statement. With an epidemic of weak leadership and the bloat and dysfunction of the institution at all levels, one would be forgiven if they were so fed up with the Church as to consider leaving. Yet our God knows human nature better than we do (being its author and all). He knows that the extraordinary capacity of humans for self-deception must be balanced with a reality that, by supernatural means, is guaranteed from teaching error. Oh sure, its leaders, and maybe even entire dioceses, may enslave themselves to the zeitgeist, but in the end, the messiness of human life will never outweigh God’s desire for us to have a sure and certain path to Him. To listen to the Church when it tells us to go, stop, or proceed with caution is to fully use the gifts Jesus has left the world.

3. Cross at the crosswalk - We can learn from the path trod by others seeking renewal. I am increasingly convinced that those striving to become agents of renewal in the Catholic Church must come together in small Christian communities, having regular (read: weekly) times of shared prayer, study, and conversation. While never a guaranteed success, the path walked by others can provide ideas, support, and, most importantly, communion with other agents of renewal.

4. Commit to the path - When striving to be an agent of renewal, there is a lot that you will get wrong. But the most dangerous thing you can do is hesitate even after discovering the Lord’s will. In the seminary, it was called paralysis of discernment. It happened when a guy was frozen between the moral certainty of being called to the priesthood or the decision to leave the seminary to pursue God’s will elsewhere. Many factors can cause it, but their trust in God is ultimately overwhelmed by a desire to “get it right.” There have been more than a few times when I haven’t got it right; I committed myself to a path with zeal and certainty, only to discover that I was heading in the wrong direction and needed a severe course correction. But the Holy Spirit can do far more with our mistaken beliefs about God’s will for us than He can do with apathy in discernment or hesitation in carrying it out.

The Dangers of Roman Streets (and Renewal)

I recently returned to the well-worn copy of a homily I keep in my bible, that which my bishop preached to us on the day of our ordination. His words are even more impactful on me now than they were on that blessed day:

“You enter into history and into eternity as ordained priests of the Catholic Church. The world doesn't know it depends on you, but it does; the Church does know she depends on you, but she will often take you for granted. Still, hear each day what you have heard here: the Holy Spirit has appointed you overseers and therefore you are to set an example, in your live and in your teachings. And each day tell the Lord with St. Peter: You know all things, you know that I love you. Then you will have the courage, even in difficult times, to speak of Christ to everyone.”

I want to speak to my brother priests now: The road to renewal is more dangerous than even the busiest Roman street. As the lives of the saints attest, someone who is genuinely a Spirit-driven agent of renewal will experience pushback, misunderstanding, and anger from those above and those below. Many times throughout the Gospels, Jesus makes this clear to his would-be-disciples, of particular note in Luke’s Gospel when He said:

“Woe to you when all speak well of you, for that is what their ancestors did to the false prophets.” (6:26)

We don’t measure our ministerial success by how many parishioners would recommend us, by collections and Mass attendance, or by what people say about us. We measure it by faithfulness to the Spirit of God with which we have been anointed.

That is why it is essential to enter into vulnerability-based collaboration with certain laypeople in our community, especially those that we sense the Lord has anointed for the work of renewal. With trust, they can offer us the support and confidence we need while also honestly challenging and correcting when our broken humanity gets in the way of our supernatural vocation.

Like crossing the streets of Rome, you’ll know if you’re doing it right if there is a certain amount of danger (and a few people yelling out of their car windows).

But I can guarantee you, brothers, that the hatred and false judgment of those unsettled by the path of renewal will be nothing compared to accompanying people as they have a transformative encounter with Jesus and recognize Him as not just an idea, but as a person in their life.

Crossing the Street of Renewal

When a person or parish seeks the path of renewal outside of the guidelines we have - departing from the Deposit of Faith; working separately from the hierarchy, especially Bishops; striving to do the work of renewal rather than actively yield to God’s renewing will - even the appearance of renewal will be sand under a crumbling foundation. Yet at the same time, we sometimes just need to begin the renewal process with determination and confidence. To step out in confidence and trust that Jesus desires the renewal of the Church far more than we do.

Sometimes, you must cross the street and trust you won’t get hit.

Especially if there’s a nun nearby.

I was missing my parishioners. Names and faces came to mind, bringing anxiety over how they were doing, hoping that so-and-so found a job and such-and-such’s health was better. Since I spend more time with my staff than anyone else, their absence was also strongly felt. The people at my parish are my family, so to be away from them is to be separated from family.

I was missing my culture. The language barrier in Italy has been much higher than I expected, and, combined with traveling by myself, it is easy to experience the isolation of having no one else to depend on. Plus, when you are in an unfamiliar place and culture, anything you do requires more effort and attention and can, therefore, sometimes be exhausting.

Heck, a weird and unexpected part of me was even missing conveniences like Chick-fil-A (less than my parishioners, just so we’re clear).

A wave of emotion washed over me as I longed to be home with the people I love, the places I’m comfortable with, and my familiar way of life.

At that time when my longing for home was at its greatest, I had a powerful moment where I experienced Jesus asking me, “Do you have that same longing for heaven?”

Yikes!

I was convicted.

It was less of a question and more of a revelation of something amiss in my heart.

Brutal honesty forced me to confess that I longed more for the comforts of home than my Eternal Heavenly Homeland.

Home vs. Heaven?

As Catholics, we tend to talk about heaven only in passing. Yes, we hope to eventually find ourselves there, but mainly because the other option is unappealing. Or we don’t talk about it much because we assume we and most everyone else will get there (even though Jesus says quite the opposite, but that’s a topic for another article). Regardless, we see heaven as less of an issue here and now and more of a topic for some later time.

Yet our entire life is meant to be lived as a pilgrim, not a resident. We weren’t created to be comfortable in this world; we can’t find fulfillment here. If God is our Father then heaven is our home, and we should be unrelentingly dissatisfied with everything this world offers.

We cause many problems for ourselves when we try to find fulfillment in the things of this world - usually power, pleasure, wealth, or honor. Once we taste them, we eventually find ourselves unsatisfied and needing more. That’s what addiction is - we become addicted to the world. Finally, at the end of our lives, we find ourselves empty, broken, and hopeless.

When we are addicted to this world, our eyes will never be fixed on heaven.

After the initial joy of returning home wears off, I will sit in the rectory, feeling like there is something more.

There is.

That feeling, that dissatisfaction with what sits before me, is a gift from God to remind me where my home really is.

With the holy season of Easter having just concluded, I am deciding to intentionally lean into the grace of longing for heaven by doing a couple of things; maybe you’d like to join me:

1) Ask for the grace: Our Father wants us to see heaven as our home while deeply desiring it. We will give Him great joy by asking for the grace to be dissatisfied with this world and to desire only heaven.

2) Make acts of voluntary self-denial: If we seek comfort in the world, we will be increasingly attached to the world. Detachment is a defining quality of the saints. Fasting, of course, is the practice par excellence in this regard. But our self-denial can take additional forms: Parking further away than we have to; skipping dessert (or 2nd dessert); having your coffee black instead of with cream or sugar. The critical part is whatever we do is 1) Intentional, 2) Motivated by a love for God, 3) With a desire to grow in detachment.

While I’m still looking forward to seeing my parishioners and having a Chick-fil-A sandwich (not necessarily in that order), even when I’m home, I won’t be home. And for that, I am grateful.

Whenever that happens (and I can overcome my misguided frustration), it helps me understand how the disciples felt.

Because they were frequently confused.

To be confused in reading the Gospels is simply to experience Jesus the same way His disciples did.

That truth became even more apparent as I spent time praying at the Sea of Galilee and centered my thoughts upon the miraculous catch of fish. For many years my prayers with that passage focused on Simon’s acknowledgment of his sinfulness, the subsequent call of Jesus, and how all of that relates to my personal vocational journey.

Yet as I sat beside the Sea of Galilee and the sounds of the waves drew me deeper into that important event, a different aspect of the passage revealed itself.

Getting Fishing Wrong

We read in the Gospel of Luke 5:1-11:

It was years of praying with this passage before I discovered a holy confusion as to why they would be fishing at night.

As I learned by talking to modern-day fishermen at the Sea of Galilee, nighttime fishing is a common practice that continues to this day. During the day, the fish descend deeper into the waters to avoid U.V. light that can be particularly intense in this part of the world. Once the sun sets, those same fish rise to the surface to find their daily food. While it is not unheard of to discover fish during the day, the most abundant and valuable catches only occur while the rest of us are asleep. On the Sea of Galilee, a smart fisherman fishes at night.

The cause of Simon’s exasperation - "Master, we toiled all night and took nothing!” - doesn’t reside solely in the frustration of hours of work producing no success. Instead, it is as if Simon is saying, “We already tried to catch fish when we know it’s possible, during the night. Now you want us to try during the day when we know it never works?!”

We would excuse Simon if he thought, “Who is this son of a carpenter trying to tell me how to fish? I know how to do it, he doesn't!”

Simon tried to do the work of a fisherman and he was unsuccessful. He knew the theory; he knew the tricks; he knew what worked for him in the past. Yet, in the end, all of his expert knowledge failed him.

When he shifted his focus from his understanding of how it should work to obedience to the will of Jesus, Simon found success far beyond human ability.

That is why, if we are to learn a lesson from that fisherman turned fisher of men, we must - right now! - stop trying to do the work of renewal.

Getting Renewal Wrong

During my priesthood, I’ve experienced the call to renewal in various ways. To the best of my abilities, I’ve tried to be faithful to that call.

Yet the further along I get, the more strongly I realize that Catholics need to stop trying to do the work of renewal and instead focus on doing the will of the Father.

Until we are uncompromising in pursuing God’s will alone, the work of renewal risks becoming a human endeavor rather than a divine one. In that case, what has the appearance of renewal will remain an illusion, and nobody’s life is transformed by an illusion.

Shifting our focus away from doing the work of renewal doesn’t mean we ignore the leadership and organization principles that have taken up a central space in renewal conversations. Yet those must remain tools at our disposal to only take out if and when the Holy Spirit prompts us.

The question isn’t: Is this what God wants?

The question is: What does God want us to do?

For those like myself who look at the state of our beloved Catholic Church and have a painful, zealous longing for renewal, we need not fear stopping the work of renewal if we singleheartedly commit ourselves to obedience to God’s will - God’s will is always renewing! Not only is He the only One who can bring about renewal, but He longs for it so much that He was willing to pay for it with His very life!

If anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; the old has passed away, behold, the new has come. - 2 Cor 5:17

The passing foolishness of human renewal in contrast to the renewing will of the Father is the difference between Simon’s way of fishing and Jesus’ seemingly illogical method. Yes, sometimes it may force us into doing something futile like fishing during the day. But I suspect Simon didn’t object to the abundance of fish just because it didn’t make sense.

It is an examination of conscience for myself - and I daresay all who focus on parish renewal - to ask whether we are doing the work of renewal, or being obedient to the renewing will of God.

It is a striking image: People line up and easily wait an hour or more to enter a place where there is, frankly, nothing to see.

Because He is not there.

He is Risen.

I chuckled as the irony washed over me. We were anxiously waiting to get into a tomb that is famous because Someone got out of it!

Of course, there is a natural desire to venerate the place of that history-changing, life-transforming moment of the Resurrection. Yet as I waited in that chaotic line, I wondered if we pilgrims had gotten our priorities slightly inverted.

At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter what’s in that tomb. What matters is the One who walked out of it alive; the one who cannot be contained by a tomb but chooses to be the prisoner of every tabernacle in the world.

Standing there, dwarfed by the towering dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, I found myself convicted by a question: If Jesus is present in the tabernacle at my parish, isn’t that a much holier site, a more venerated place, than even this most sacred of Churches in Christendom? Isn’t my parish tabernacle a site due far more reverence than the Holy Tomb because while Jesus left that tomb, He is waiting in that tabernacle?

Sixty-two days into my sabbatical and I realize that all of this - while a tremendous blessing - doesn’t matter. From the experience of the holy sites, the beauty of the art, and the insights found within history, all of it is unimportant compared to the One who stands at its center. To dwell in the presence of the Risen One I don’t need to be in the Holy Land, Rome, or any other place of "significance."

I simply need to be in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament.

I first accepted the call to discipleship in my late 20s. Soon after, I stumbled across something at my parish called “Eucharistic Adoration.” At the time, I had no idea what that meant. But I wanted to try all the “Catholic things,” so I went without understanding or preparation. At first, sitting silently before the Eucharist Lord was a little odd. I kept wondering if there was something I should be doing. Was it okay if I read? Should I pray a rosary? But rather quickly, it became the most life-giving aspect of my weekly schedule, the time I could simply rest with the Lord and let His Presence transform me. In Eucharistic Adoration, that young disciple first recognized the call to the priesthood.

While it has been a great grace to celebrate Mass at the holy sites here in Israel, the greatest consolations and experiences of God’s presence have been those times I’ve prayed before the Blessed Sacrament in the simple chapel at my hotel.

A pilgrimage is not an end in itself. The goal isn’t to experience certain things or have some great pictures to look back on. The pilgrimage must always stay an outward journey that fosters an interior journey of repentance, conversation, and renewal. Suppose my time on sabbatical pilgrimage does nothing but deepen my love of the Eucharistic Jesus present in the tabernacle of my parish back.

In that case, this will have been the most valuable time of my life.

In reflecting on it, I suspect that is a much better way to approach Palm Sunday.

While we read the passion narrative at Mass, Palm Sunday is, first and foremost, a commemoration of Jesus’ triumphant entry into Jerusalem. While even at that moment, He had His eyes firmly fixed on the horrifying events to come, it didn’t diminish joy over the Messiah’s arrival. The Messiah - God Himself - was claiming kingship and victory, fulfilling the promises that generations of humanity had longed to see fulfilled. If that’s not a good reason to party, I don’t know what is!

Thousands of people were present for yesterday’s procession - countless pilgrims, local Christian communities, and even Muslim women joyfully throwing rice upon the participants as they entered Jerusalem. People with guitars, trumpets, violins, and stereos led their groups in songs of every language while shouting Hosanna. Many more lined the procession route, waving palm and olive branches, taking pictures, and singing with the pilgrims.

Not realizing that it was B.Y.O.P. (bring your own palm), I found some local kids who were happy to charge this American an exceptionally high price for some leaves they probably pulled off the tree in their backyard. So with these valuable palm branches, I joined the crowds (and the seminarians of the Latin patriarchate, who were especially festive) and made the two-hour procession from Bethphage, down the Mount of Olives, past the Garden of Gethsemane, and into Jerusalem.

There are few times that I have experienced such a joyful crowd. I can’t help but think about the challenges involved in being a Christian in the Holy Land; it costs them something to publically proclaim their faith in a contentious land where they are the minority. Their most significant worries aren’t the church’s temperature or the sound system’s quality. At best, they are a tolerated minority and, at worst, a radical group to be driven from the land. Their worries transcend comfort and rest solely on freedom, life, and death. These Christians have experienced that the cross and Christianity go hand-in-hand, and so they have also experienced the joy of the love of Jesus in a way I’m not sure many in the west have - I’m not sure if I have!

Thinking the celebration was over, I returned to my residence only to find the street alive with a three-hour parade of marching bands celebrating Palm Sunday through a seemingly never-ending show. Enjoying it from the rooftop of my building, I decided to call it an early night to rest for the coming solemnities.

Experiencing Palm Sunday as a day of triumphant celebration is new to me and, I think, tremendously formative. While I must have a constant eye on the cross as the only path to resurrection, this Palm Sunday challenged me to ask myself: Am I joyfully celebrating those moments that Jesus enters my life? Have I fully surrendered myself to His kingly entry into my heart? Do I experience His promise that "I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and your joy may be complete" (John 15:11)?

There is a never-ending flood of people of every language and nationality, some in prayer postures, others experiencing everything through their camera screens, and all shoulder to shoulder in a chaotic “line.”

Add to that mix the less than hospitable orthodox priests who stand watch over Calvary and the tomb (spend a second too long in the tomb, and you’re likely to hear shouted at you, “No praying, no praying. Leave.”)

To be able to pray at the site of the crucifixion and Resurrection - the holiest place in all of space and time - requires a strong act of the will, an early morning wake-up, and a bit of good luck.

Many factors have contributed to this, but at their root is the subconscious decision by many to be a tourist rather than a pilgrim.

In seminary, my mentor and spiritual director taught us to approach our time in the Holy Land as pilgrims, not tourists. He said it was easy to default into tourist mode: jump off the bus, listen to the tour guide, take pictures, and return to the bus to continue to the following location. He wanted more for us. He wanted us to go as pilgrims so that our experience would be transformational instead of just informational.

A tourist consumes, captures, and tries to ensure everything gets done. The approach of a pilgrim is radically different. In fact, for a pilgrim, while the location of the journey isn’t unimportant, it is far from the motivating factor. A pilgrim enters into an outward journey to stimulate an interior one. They are not looking to capture or consume but instead to surrender themselves more fully to the God who ransomed their life with His Life.

Tourists are frustrated when things don’t go as planned, schedules unexpectedly change, or they miss something they want to do.

Pilgrims discover that the uncertainty of a journey is a gift inviting them to depend solely on the Unchanging One.

Tourists snap pictures and buy souvenirs to bring their experiences home.

Pilgrims embrace a spirit of renunciation to pursue a deepened intimacy with Jesus, the pearl of great price.

Tourists seek to consume what they can as they layer experience upon experience.

Pilgrims seek to be consumed by the One who is only satisfied when we surrender to Him our entire self.

There were pilgrims there during my visit today, but many people were tourists. I know that, sadly, tour guides who weren’t Christian had little interest in helping their groups to pray. And given this is a once-in-a-lifetime trip for most people, it is understandable that they want to get the most out of it. Rarely does a tourist’s journey come from a place of ill will.

But what I experienced at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre is the fruit of the distorted way that most of us - even we Catholics - approach our lives.

Too often, we live in this world as tourists rather than as pilgrims.

The difference between being a tourist or a pilgrim isn’t limited to when we’re in Israel, Rome, or walking the Camino. The ultimate determination if we are living the life of a Christian involves the daily, conscious decision between approaching life as a tourist or a pilgrim.

Fasting shouldn’t be a punishment or a denial of pleasure but rather a way to free ourselves from attachments to lesser things, things that ultimately prevent us from receiving the supernatural abundance offered to us. Put another way, without the emptiness that results from fasting, we lack room in our hearts for divine life.

Yet the Christian life is not meant to be a dismal self-scourging. A priest I know tells how a well-known Archbishop of the United States was visiting his rectory. Upon seeing him, the Archbishop said, “M., how are you doing?” To which the melancholic priest responded, “Oh, I’m surviving.” With a bit of shock, the Archbishop responded. “Surviving? M., Jesus is Risen! We win!” Dying to self should always be balanced by the joyful truth that if even death itself can not stand in the way of God’s love for us, then the ultimate posture of a Christian should be one of rejoicing.

A life of feasting without fasting makes us no better than animals and enslaves us to our fickle desires.

A life of fasting without feasting rejects the spirituality of our bodies and closes us off from legitimate pleasures.

To open ourselves to the fullness of joy that is a gift of the Holy Spirit requires us to live in the freedom that fasting provides. And yet fasting as an end in itself leads to a cheerless Christianity, which is foreign to the Gospel.

Then Jesus told his disciples, 'If any man would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. '
- Matthew 16:24

The successful renewal of the Catholic Church depends on increased prominence and practice of self-denial.

Jesus makes clear in Matthew's Gospel (and elsewhere) that the sine qua non of authentic discipleship is a posture of self-denial. While it is probably the characteristic of discipleship that is the least appealing to our world, it is only through a life of self-denial that we experience the freedom needed to grow in discipleship. Throughout the Christian spiritual tradition, this posture of self-denial has been called ascetical spirituality.

The word "asceticism” was brought into the Christian tradition by Clement of Alexandria. Originating from ancient Greek sports, its secular meaning was a practice or exercise. Ascetical practices help us exercise authentic human freedom; they strengthen us to die to our false self so that our true self has the freedom to grow. It is in asceticism that the command of Jesus to deny ourselves meets the reality of our everyday lives.

Influenced by media, most of us have a warped sense of asceticism, fixating on hair shirts and other dramatic practices (Dan Brown’s The Divinci Code being notably guilty). Some forms of exterior asceticism can, under certain circumstances, have value. But before you visit Hair-Shirts-R-Us, the spiritual tradition is clear about the priority of the interior over the exterior. Interior asceticism shifts focus from our bodies to our intellect and, most importantly, our will.

Even the lukewarm heart can muster up the courage to take a cold shower, but obedience to rightful authority when you know they are wrong requires tremendous interior freedom (just ask my staff). While a cold shower can help us gain control over our desire for sensory pleasures, obedience to rightful authority and other interior ascetical practices can free us from the source of so many of our sinful tendencies - a prideful will.

The asceticism of the saints offers two tangible fruits that are non-negotiables for disciples:

1) Asceticism fosters inner healing

There is a deep wound in our humanity. It distorts our feelings, desires, and how we see and understand the world. There is a disorder inside of us; to ignore it is to succumb to this treatable disease. The Divine Physician longs to heal those wounds, even those hidden from us. Think about the Sermon on the Mount: "'You have heard that it was said, 'You shall not commit adultery.' But I say to you that everyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.'” Christ's interest in our transformation doesn't end at helping us avoid sinful actions; he seeks to heal the disorder within us that causes us to desire sin. Jesus isn’t satisfied with our avoiding sinful actions; He wants to make us good and holy by curing our sin-sickness. Asceticism is our response to His offer of a cure.

2) Asceticism fosters self-possession and freedom

Each human exists for one reason: To enter a communion of mutual, self-giving love. Yet we can only give ourselves in love to another if we are free from obstacles that cause us to lack self-control. Addictions, unhealthy attachments, a false understanding of what it means to be human, all of these (and more) prevent us from having the freedom to give ourselves away in love. Some have said it this way: If you aren’t free to say no, then what does your yes really mean? Asceticism is a crucial way to exercise our freedom, gain control of feelings and desires, and become more capable of love.

The great St. Francis of Assisi unsurprisingly realized the centrality of self-denial: “Above all the grace and the gifts that Christ gives to his beloved is that of overcoming self.”

Asceticism is how we yield to those graces and experience healing, freedom, and love. It is an essential step on the road of discipleship.

Jesus is clear that authentic discipleship can only be present with a spirit of self-denial. That’s why, for discipleship-centered parish renewal to become a reality, those who strive to be agents of change must embrace the asceticism of the saints.

Personal conversion precedes parish renewal. We must not simply acknowledge that but focus our efforts on that fundamental truth. Without the men and women who long for Church transformation entering into a continuing conversion enlightened and empowered by a contemplative posture, any changes - even needed ones - will never genuinely affect the renewal sought.

When we rediscover this right place to start, we will stop doing the work of renewal and begin experiencing the One whose very presence brings about newness.