Spiritual Bytes

By Deacon Richard Hay

“The Kingdom Begins in the Smallest Acts of Faith”

Have you ever given any thought to the fact that Jesus teaches His followers using parables? Last week we had one of the best-known – The Parable of the Sower.

When you think about it, as the Son of God, He could have given lectures… But instead, He tells stories. Simple stories. Everyday stories. Stories about farmers and fields, seeds and soil, women baking bread, and fishermen sorting nets. These stories might be simple in their nature, but they are always deep in their meaning.

It’s almost as if Jesus knows that the human heart is more receptive to a story than to a command. A story slips past our defenses. It invites us in. It lets us find ourselves in the characters and the images. And so Jesus, the master storyteller, uses parables — not to entertain, but to reveal the deepest truths about the Kingdom of God in the smallest, most ordinary things.

Today’s Gospel gives us three of those stories. Three parables. Three simple and familiar images. A field with weeds and wheat. A mustard seed and a bit of yeast. Nothing dramatic. Nothing spectacular. Just small beginnings. And through them, Jesus whispers a truth we often forget: the Kingdom of God starts in the smallest aspects of our lives.

Jesus begins with a field that looks like a disappointment. Wheat and weeds tangled together. It’s not neat. It’s not pure. It’s not what the farmer hoped for. And yet the farmer says, “Let them grow together.”

This is the world we live in – the church and the world living side by side. And sometimes the field isn’t just the world — it’s the Church, and even our own hearts.

The farmer doesn’t panic. He doesn’t rush to fix the field. He doesn’t try to force perfection. He simply lets the wheat grow — even in the presence of weeds — because he knows that God can bring something good out of what looks small, compromised, or imperfect.

And isn’t that how grace often begins in us? Not in perfect places, but in our shortcomings and our flaws. Many of our saints began with deep flaws. Grace is needed in those moments when we feel tangled, conflicted, or unworthy. God says, “Let it grow. Don’t pull it up too fast. I’m still working on this.”

Sometimes the Kingdom begins in the parts of our lives we’d rather hide — the habits we’re still trying to break, the wounds we’re still trying to heal, the relationships we’re still trying to mend. We look at those places and see nothing but weeds. However, God looks at them and sees a field where wheat is quietly pushing upward and growing strong. The Kingdom doesn’t begin in perfection. It begins with patience.

Then Jesus holds up the mustard seed — the tiniest thing His listeners could imagine. You could lose it between your fingers. You could drop it and never find it again. And yet He says, “This is what the Kingdom is like.”

The disciples were expecting something grand — a revolution, a dramatic intervention, a visible victory. And Jesus simply says, “Look at this speck.”

The Kingdom begins in the smallest acts of faith: 

– the prayer whispered when we don’t feel holy 

– the forgiveness offered even when it’s hard 

– the kindness no one sees 

– the quiet decision to trust God one more day 

– the moment we choose hope instead of cynicism 

– the courage to begin again after a setback 

Small things become sheltering branches. Small beginnings become places where others can rest. Small acts of faith are the tiny choices we make that over time shape a life of holiness.

If you’ve ever planted anything — even a little herb on the windowsill — you know how quietly growth happens. You don’t hear it. You don’t see it hour by hour. But one day you look, and something tiny has become something alive and strong. Jesus is telling us: That’s how grace works.

Finally, Jesus speaks of yeast — something that disappears into the dough. You can’t see it working. You only know it’s alive because the dough rises after it is added.

This is the Kingdom: God working in hidden places, unseen moments, quiet conversions and slow transformations. A small amount of grace works like yeast — silently, steadily, from the inside out.

• We want instant holiness. God gives us grace to live and grace doesn’t just help us cope; it quietly changes us.
• We want dramatic change. God gives us a steady growing faith.
• We want to see results. God invites us to trust the invisible work He is doing in our hearts and those of others.

Sometimes the most profound spiritual growth happens in seasons when nothing seems to be happening at all. When prayer feels dry. When life feels ordinary. When faith feels routine. But yeast is still working. Grace is still rising. God is still shaping us.

So maybe today Jesus is asking us to look gently at our own hearts and ask: Where is the small beginning God has planted in me? Not the dramatic change we pray for, not the perfect version of ourselves we imagine, but the quiet seed He has already placed there.

• Maybe it’s a desire to pray again — even if the prayer is simple, even if it’s been a long time. 
• Maybe it’s the courage to forgive — or at least the desire to want to forgive someday. 
• Maybe it’s a longing to fully return to the sacraments — a tug in the heart that says, “Come home.” 
• Maybe it’s a small ache for peace in a relationship — the hope that healing is possible. 
• Maybe it’s simply the quiet belief that life can be different, that God is not finished with any of us yet.

Whatever it is, it doesn’t have to be big. It doesn’t have to be dramatic. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be real. 

• And if it’s real, God can grow it. 
• If it’s real, God can bless it. 
• If it’s real, God can turn it into something far larger than we ever imagined. 

The Kingdom begins small — but it never stays small.  It does however grow in God’s time, in God’s way, with God’s grace.  And one day, often when we least expect it, we look back and realize that the tiny beginning we almost ignored has become a place of strength, of shelter, of blessing.

So today, let’s honor the small beginnings.  Let’s trust the quiet work of God.  Let’s give Him permission to grow what He has planted within us – let’s be the rich soil that welcomes His seeds.

The Kingdom truly does begin in the smallest acts of faith — and God never stops growing what we offer Him.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“Do Not Be Afraid: You Are Seen, You Are Known, You Are Held Close”

At the inaugural mass of his pontificate in October 1978, St. John Paul II said something very powerful as he looked out at a world full of anxiety and uncertainties. It was a simple yet profound invitation: “Do not be afraid. Open wide the doors for Christ.”

He knew people were carrying worries they didn’t talk about — the quiet concerns that settle into the heart, the questions about the future that keep us awake at night. And yet he urged the world to let Christ into those very places. Not because life suddenly becomes uncomplicated when that happens, but because Christ enters the complicated places with us. John Paul II was offering a way of living — a way of trusting that God steps into the very spaces where fear tries to take hold. His words remind us that faith doesn’t erase the challenges of life, but it roots us in a Presence stronger than anything that unsettles us.

And that is exactly what Jesus reveals in today’s Gospel: the Father, who notices even the smallest sparrow, is the same Father who holds every moment of our lives. The courage Jesus calls us to doesn’t come from ourselves — it comes from knowing that the God who sees the sparrow also sees us, knows us, and walks with us. From that invitation, the readings today take us deeper, helping us notice the subtle ways fear weaves itself into our daily lives.

There are seasons in life when fear becomes a quiet companion. It doesn’t always arrive with drama or intensity; more often it slips in quietly, settling into the corners of our hearts. It shows up in subtle ways — in the hesitation before we speak, in the way we second‑guess ourselves, in the way we avoid certain conversations because we’re not sure how they’ll be received. It appears in the fear of being misunderstood, judged, or dismissed. It can be the fear of standing alone, or of speaking a truth, especially about our faith, that might cost us something. Most of us carry these fears quietly, tucked behind polite smiles and steady routines. We don’t parade them around, but they shape us more than we realize.

Today, in our first reading, Jeremiah gives voice to what so many of us feel but seldom articulate. “I hear the whisperings of many,” he says. “Terror on every side.” You can almost hear the fatigue in his voice. He feels surrounded, watched, even betrayed by people who once called him friend. He is trying to be faithful in a moment when faithfulness is costly, and he is paying the price for it. Jeremiah is not imagining danger; he is living in it. And yet, right in the middle of that fear, he remembers something deeper and truer, something that steadies him: “But the Lord is with me, like a mighty champion.” The fear doesn’t disappear. The whispering doesn’t stop. But Jeremiah remembers who stands beside him, and that changes everything – it should change everything for us as well.

The psalmist today also knows that same fear. “For your sake I bear insult,” he says. “I have become an outcast.” Many people in this church know exactly what that feels like — to feel out of place, to feel unseen, to feel as though your faith makes you a stranger in your own family, workplace and  circle of friends.

Sometimes discipleship isolates us. Sometimes it costs us relationships. Sometimes the wounds of that isolation linger far longer than we admit. Yet the psalm does not end in sorrow. It ends in trust: “Lord, in your great love, answer me.” It is the prayer of someone who believes, even in the middle of hurt and fear, they believe that God hears the cry of the poor, that He bends low to the wounded, that God never abandons us. There is a quiet dignity in that trust — a dignity that comes from knowing that God sees what others overlook.

Then Paul steps in with a sweeping vision of the human story. He reminds us that sin, brokenness and fear are real. But he also insists that these things do not have the final word. “The gift is not like the transgression,” he says. In other words, grace is stronger than sin. Mercy is stronger than fear. Christ’s love is stronger than anything that tries to diminish us or cause us fear.

Paul is reframing the entire human condition. He is telling us that the world’s story is not simply a story of decline, failure or loss. It is a story of God’s unrelenting generosity, God’s overflowing grace, God’s refusal to let darkness and fear have the last say. Although fear may shrink us, mercy expands us. Fear may close our mouths, but trust opens them. Fear isolates us from others, but grace gathers us together.

In our gospel, Jesus looks at the Twelve — ordinary, fragile and fearful men — and He says, “Fear no one.” He doesn’t say this because the world is safe or because discipleship is easy. He says it because God’s love is deeper than anything that threatens us. Then Jesus gives us a tender image in the gospel.

“Are not two sparrows sold for a small coin? Yet not one of them falls to the ground without your Father’s knowledge.” Not one sparrow. Not one small, fluttering, seemingly insignificant creature. Not one of them falls unnoticed. And then He says, “Even all the hairs of your head are counted.” This is not poetic exaggeration. It is Jesus revealing the heart of the Father. Telling us that we are intimately known and valued because we are never invisible to God – we are fully known by Him – He is always close.

Sometimes we forget that. Sometimes we imagine God as distant or distracted, too busy with the big problems of the world to notice the small tremors in our hearts. But Jesus insists otherwise. He insists that God’s attention is not divided and that God does not overlook the small things. God does not overlook you. The God who sees the sparrow fall, sees the moment when your courage falters, the moment when your voice trembles, the moment when you feel alone. And He is there — not as a distant observer, but as a Father who is close by and intimately knows us so very well.

Courage is not willpower, bravado or pretending we’re not afraid. Courage is what happens when we know — when we deep down know — that we are held by a love that will never let us go. It is the quiet strength that rises when we remember that God sees us, knows us, and walks with us. Courage grows in the soil of that relationship with God.

So the question becomes: where is Jesus inviting us to be courageous this week? Perhaps it is the courage to speak truth with charity in a world that prefers shouting. Perhaps it is the courage to stand with someone who is hurting or marginalized. Or maybe the courage to authentically acknowledge our faith or the courage to choose integrity when it costs something. Perhaps it is the courage to trust God in a season of uncertainty. Every one of us has a place where fear whispers but every one of us has a place where Jesus is also saying “Do not be afraid.”

Jesus ends the Gospel with an invitation – a prompting: “What I say to you in the darkness, speak in the light.” God often speaks in whispers — gentle nudges, quiet convictions, moments of clarity in prayer. But He asks us to carry those whispers into the light: into our families, workplaces, community, and our world with the steady courage of someone who knows they are seen and loved by God. Someone who knows they are worth more than many sparrows.

So today, I invite us to hold to that one simple question: Lord, where are You calling me to be courageous? And then trust — as Jeremiah trusted, as the psalmist trusted, as the apostles learned to trust — that the One who counts every hair on your head will walk with you into whatever light He asks you to proclaim. As St. John Paul II said – “Do not be afraid. Open wide the doors for Christ”.

In doing so, we will always be held close to His sacred heart and never ever be alone.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“The Heartbeat of the Trinity”

OK, are you ready for a simple math problem.

• What is 1 + 1 +1 = 1
• One Father; One Son; One Spirit = One God
• We call that Catholic Math of the Trinity!

In the ranking of liturgical days on our church calendar, a Solemnity is of the highest order. These days are celebrated as such because they are related to an important event in the life of Jesus, Mary, or a saint important to the whole church.

These are very special days in the life of our church because they are about those things most holy to us – including today – The Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity – a core of our belief as Catholics.

The Blessed Trinity fulfills the promise made by Jesus to the apostles that he would always be with them – always be with us.

You know, there’s a moment many of us know — a moment when someone we love or even ourselves stands at the edge of a conversation, or a doorway, or a relationship, and quietly says, “I’m trying… but I don’t know how to come back.”

• Maybe it’s a family member who’s drifted.
• Maybe it’s a friend carrying an old hurt.
• Maybe it’s someone who feels they’ve disappointed God, or the Church, or themselves.

There’s a particular ache in that moment — the ache of distance. It feels like standing outside a warm house on a cold night, seeing light through the window but not knowing if we’re welcome inside.

The question beneath it all is simple and human:

• “Is there still a place for me?”

On the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity, the Scriptures answer that question not with a formula, not with a math problem, but with a story — a story of a God who heals us, gathers us, and stays with us.

In the first reading, Moses climbs the mountain again.

• The air is thin.
• The stones in his hands are heavy — not just physically, but spiritually.
• They are the tablets he broke.

He’s carrying the evidence of failure — his own and the people’s.

And what does God do?

God descends in a cloud — not a storm cloud, not a cloud of judgment, but a cloud that wraps the mountain like a soft veil. And from within that cloud, God speaks His name.

This is the first movement of the Trinity – the Father moves towards us.

• Not with clenched fists, but with open hands.
• Not with a list of grievances, but with a heart full of compassion.
• Not with distance, but with nearness.

Moses, standing in that gentle presence, offers an invitation and says, “Come along in our company… receive us as your own.”

It’s the human heart learning to trust again — like a child reaching for a parent after a long misunderstanding. It’s the realization that God’s first instinct is always mercy.

Then we hear Paul’s final words to the Corinthians — a community that knew tension, disagreement, and frayed relationships. With most of Paul’s letters to them, you can almost imagine the room where they were read: people shifting in their seats, avoiding eye contact, remembering old arguments. This time Paul isn’t sending them a reprimand.

He sends them a blessing — a blessing that feels like a gentle hand on the shoulder:

“The grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with all of you.”

Sound familiar? It is the same trinitarian blessing we hear at the beginning of Mass.

• The Spirit is the One who takes the Father’s mercy and makes it communal.
• The Spirit is the quiet breath that softens hardened hearts.
• The Spirit is the warmth that melts the ice between us.

The Spirit turns isolated individuals into a people who can:

• mend their ways,
• encourage one another,
• agree with one another,
• and live in peace.

Unity is not something we force. It’s something the Spirit grows — like a seed planted in soil we didn’t even realize was fertile.

The Spirit is the whisper that says,

• “You don’t have to do this alone. You belong to one another.”

Then we arrive at the Gospel — the verse printed on posters, bracelets, bumper stickers, and stadium signs:

• “God so loved the world…”

But today, don’t hear it as a slogan, but as a steady heartbeat.

• God so loved the world:
• the messy world,
• the wounded world,
• the world that gets it wrong,
• the world that breaks its own tablets and doesn’t know how to come back.

How does God show that love? By sending the Son:

• not as a judge standing above us,
• but as a healer who steps into the very places we hide.

Jesus walks into our fears, our failures, our loneliness, and our shame. He doesn’t shout instructions from a distance. He comes close and stays close.

• He heals from the inside out.

If the Father moves towards us in mercy, and the Spirit gathers us into communion, then the Son is the One who walks right into the middle of our lives and says,

• “You are worth saving.”

We often think of the Trinity as a mystery to solve — three Persons, one God, diagrams, triangles, and analogies that never quite work.

But today, the Scriptures show us something different: The Trinity is a pattern — it is the shape of God’s love and His  heartbeat.

• The Father heals us with mercy.
• The Spirit gathers us into unity.
• The Son stays with us in saving love.

This is not abstract theology. This is the rhythm of God’s heart. It’s the rhythm we are invited to live.

So maybe today there’s a place in your life that feels distant.

• A relationship that needs mending.
• A wound that needs healing.
• A part of your heart that wonders, “Is there still a place for me?”

The Trinity has the answers we are seeking:

• Yes. There is. 
• There has always been.
• There always will be.

Let the Father’s mercy reach you. Let the Son’s love heal you. Let the Spirit draw you into communion.

Then — become what you receive.

• Be a sign of mercy to the one who believes their failures have the final word.
• Be a gentle presence where hearts have been bruised.
• Be a bridge where distance and division have grown.
• Be a reminder to the forgotten, the drifting, and the weary that there is still a place at the table.

Because this is what the Trinity does: the Father draws near, the Son remains with us, and the Spirit gathers us into one.
And if that love has touched us here, then it must flow through us from here.

For the world is still longing for mercy, still hungry for communion, still listening for the heartbeat of God.

And perhaps, through us, it may hear that heartbeat again.

Given during Sacred Heart’s Poland Pilgrimage mass at Jasna Góra Monastery where the icon of the Black Madonna of Częstochowa is venerated.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“Evangelizing and Advertising Your Pilgrimage”

Today in our readings, both Saint Paul and Jesus are concluding their ministries and as we can hear – they know difficulties lie ahead for those they leave behind.

However, despite knowing this, their first step is to entrust the faithful they serve to God’s care – that God will protect them and help them bear fruit moving forward – even though they will no longer be with them. They are encouraging those faithful through prayer and asking for God’s mercy on them so they can continue the mission started by Christ and carried out by disciples such as Paul.

We who are gathered here as we continue this pilgrimage – are also called to that same mission – to carry on the work begun by God through Jesus and his believers.

We received that call at our baptism as it states in the Catechism of the Catholic Church:

“By Baptism we share in the priesthood of Christ, in his prophetic and royal mission. We are “a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, that we may declare the wonderful deeds of him who called us out of darkness into his marvelous light.”

So how do we tie this mission to this pilgrimage we have been on for the past week and continue these next few days?

Well, to help us along the path we only must remember some of the things we have seen and heard this past week on our pilgrimage.

 The sister who talked to us at the Shrine of Divine Mercy talked about how each of us have a light in us that is to be shared.

She also reminded us that there is a thread of mercy throughout scripture where we can see the graces poured upon so many.

She also told us that we need to renew our love for God on this pilgrimage because love is mercy. That love transforms into mercy but the transition from the flower to the fruit can be difficult and challenging. Despite that – we need to persevere in working to bear fruit.

Over this past week we have also received numerous graces through our encounters with the saints and the places we have seen and experienced.

• Seeing the faith of the miners from the salt mine, they not only carved out these deep and vast caverns in the salt, but also made sure there were chapels and other religious carvings to encourage the faith of the miners as they worked in the darkness of the earth. These items brought light to them – the Light of Christ.
  
• Praying the Divine Mercy Chaplet in the Sanctuary of Divine Mercy. To hear it in different languages to understand that our Church is truly universal. How about seeing the light of Christ in all those young people who recently received their First Holy Communion and were visiting the Shrine to affirm their faith and communion with the Lord. Although they may not fully understand it today – one day it will impact their lives in a special and blessed way.
  
• Praying the Consecration to Our Lady of Fatima in her sanctuary in Zakopane. In earnestly and faithfully participating in this devotional act of entrusting ourselves, our families, and all our material possessions to the Immaculate Heart of Mary, we are seeking intercession, guidance and grace.
  
• Or how about attending mass in the Basilica of Wadowice where Saint Pope John Paul II was baptized, received first communion, confirmation and celebrated his first masses as priest, bishop, archbishop and cardinal and grew up right next door. Such a holy place which was literally scattered with so many saints we were  unable to keep track.
  
• Even the sorrows of Auschwitz are lit by the Light of Christ through the witness of St. Maximilian Kolbe.

Each and every one of these encounters with God’s grace and those we will experience over these final days of our pilgrimage, must be carried from here and that light shown and shared with others.

If we are called by our baptism to share in the priesthood of Christ, then it means we must evangelize.

In a sense, our witness to what we experience on this trip could feel to some as if we are advertising the next pilgrimage being led by Fr. Marek or Fr. Adam but sometimes evangelizing and advertising are one in the same.

Why did the early Christians flock together in the early church? Because they saw or heard something they desired in the other followers of Christ.

Think about the richness and grace you have each received on this pilgrimage – it needs to be shared because others should hear of the encounters you have had with the saints in all these holy places.

If it means they are enriched through your sharing – than your mission in the priesthood of Christ is bearing fruit from the flowers that were planted on this pilgrimage. The bonus is if they decide later on to make their own pilgrimage – then they will then have the opportunity to share those graces with others in a very special and personal way from their own encounters.

Legend has it that the image of the Black Madonna was painted by St. Luke on a cedar table in the home of the Holy Family. That legend continues that the icon was found in Jerusalem in the 4^th century by St Helena who brought it back to Constantinople along with many other relics of the early church.

No matter how this icon arrived in this place, it has inspired generations of the faithful in its connection to the Blessed Mother and probably inspired a few of us. Just like all the other places we have visited or those we will visit in these next few days.

Now the time is nearing for us to carry that light and inspiration back home to our families, friends, and parish.

Amen.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“Joy walking right alongside of us…”

Many of you know this story but I don’t think I have ever shared it in a homily. I felt called to do so this week as I prepared because it is an example of joy that is present even when we do not see it ourselves in that moment, which is the theme of this homily.

Back in May of 2022, about a month before my ordination to the diaconate, my wife Margo was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and she died just a few weeks after I was ordained.

In the days and months after her death, as I reflected on those seven weeks and the three years before that while I was in final formation for the diaconate, I was able to see how we were prepared for that chapter of our lives.

We grew closer in the joy of the Lord by praying the Liturgy of the Hours together. We had more heartfelt discussions about the scriptures we heard at mass. We also had wonderfully deep conversations while I was being taught homiletics. Practicing them with Margo, she would listen and give me feedback – and those of you who knew Margo – sometimes that was very frank feedback but always given with love – which I cherished.

Each and every one of those moments and many others are sources of great joy and mercy even though it was not always obvious in the moment. It was only when I took time to reflect that I was able to discern exactly what God was doing for us in those days – preparing us for what would be an unexpected moment in our lives – but also giving us the grace and joy to experience it with Him alongside of us. When I hear the Emmaus story in the Gospel, I recognize the same pattern – the slow dawning of joy that was present all along.

The two disciples on the road to Emmaus are experiencing something similar. By walking away from Jerusalem, they are not abandoning their faith. They are not rejecting Jesus. They are doing what many of us do when life becomes confusing or painful: they are trying to make sense of it. They are righteous men — faithful, committed, but deeply wounded. Their hopes had been high and their love for Jesus real. And now they are walking away from Jerusalem with heavy hearts.

They had hoped Jesus was the one to redeem Israel. They had hoped the story would unfold differently. They had hoped that their faithfulness would be met with clarity rather than chaos. And so, they walk, and they talk, and they sift through their memories, trying to understand how everything they believed could have unraveled so quickly. Joy, for them, is not even a distant dream. It feels absent.

And then, in one of the many powerful moments in Scripture, Jesus draws near. He does not arrive with fanfare. He does not interrupt their grief with a miracle. He simply walks up beside them, matching His pace to theirs, entering their conversation and listening.

He does not wait for them to pray the right prayer, reach the right conclusion or recognize Him. He meets them exactly where they are — in their confusion, in their disappointment, in their grief. Joy is already present to them, but it is hidden from their view – just like the Lord is.

Isn’t that how the risen Christ so often moves in our lives? Quietly. Patiently. Without demanding attention. We imagine joy as something we must earn, something that comes only after we have achieved spiritual righteousness or moral perfection. But the Gospel reveals something far more merciful: Joy is not the prize at the end of righteousness. Joy is the gift Christ gives us along the way. Even when we don’t see Him. Even when our hearts feel heavy. Even when we are walking in the wrong direction.

He lets them speak their truth — their disappointment, their confusion, their grief. He honors their experience. He receives their sorrow without correcting them or rushing them toward resolution. Only when they are done does He open the Scriptures, gently reweaving the story they thought they understood, helping them see that God had been at work even in the moments that felt most like failure.

Then something begins to happen slowly and quietly. Their hearts begin to burn with a renewed sense of faith. With the faint warmth of hope returning to a place that had grown cold. This is the work of joy.

Trying to be righteous is not about having everything figured out. It is about staying on the road, staying in conversation with God, staying open to the possibility that Christ is nearer than we think.

When they reach the village, Jesus acts as though He is going farther but they say “Stay with us.” and He does.

Then, in the breaking of the bread — in that simple, familiar, sacramental gesture — their eyes are opened. The truth shines through and joy becomes visible. What had been true all along is suddenly revealed: Christ was with them the whole time. Not just at the table. Not just in the sacrament. But on the road. In the confusion. In the questions. In the heartbreak. Joy had been walking beside them long before they recognized it.

What do they do once they recognize Him? They rise. They run. They return to Jerusalem — the very place they had been fleeing. Joy does not make them passive, it sends them into action. When you finally realize that Christ has been with you all along, you want to share that truth. You want to bring that joy to others. You want to witness to the presence of the risen Lord.

Many of us are walking our own Emmaus roads right now. Some of us are carrying grief. Some of us are confused. Some of us are tired. Some of us are doing everything we can just to put one foot in front of the other. And maybe joy feels far away. However, let me offer this as a word of hope:  If you are walking faithfully — even slowly, even imperfectly — Christ is already beside you – even if you don’t yet recognize Him.

Righteousness leads to joy not because we earn it, but because Jesus never leaves us. He listens to us. He teaches us. He walks with us. And in the breaking of the bread — in this Eucharistic celebration and every mass we participate in — He reveals Himself again and again.

So perhaps this week, we can all take a moment to look back over our days with a quiet, prayerful curiosity and ask ourselves: Where might Christ have been walking with me, unnoticed? Where might joy have been quietly keeping pace with me? Where might my heart have been burning without my realizing why?

The Emmaus story is not something that just occurred once – it keeps happening. Christ keeps drawing near. Joy keeps walking beside us. And sooner or later, our eyes are opened.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“Do You Realize What I Have Done for You?”

Tonight, the Church invites us to slow down. To resist the temptation to rush past what is familiar. To stay with a mystery that is so rich that it can only be approached patiently.

Holy Thursday is not a night for efficiency. It is a night for lingering. Lingering with the scriptures, lingering with the gestures, lingering with the love of Christ as it reveals itself before us.

Tonight is not only about what Jesus did then, in an upper room, on the night before he died. Tonight is about what Christ is still doing — here, now, whenever he gathers his people together.

The liturgy this evening places before us three great gifts — three moments that belong together: the Passover, the Eucharist including the institution of the priesthood, and the washing of feet.

They are not three lessons placed side by side. They are one single movement of God’s heart — a movement that shows us what divine love looks like when it takes flesh.

– A love that saves.

– A love that feeds.

– A love that teaches us how to live.

The story begins, as so many stories of salvation do, in a place of fear and powerlessness.

In Egypt, the people of Israel are enslaved. They are worn down by years of oppression, unable to free themselves, with no clear path forward. God intervenes — but not in the way we might expect.

– There is no army.

– No dramatic uprising.

– No display of overwhelming force.

Instead, God asks for trust.   Trust expressed through a lamb. Through blood quietly placed on wooden doorposts. Through a meal eaten in the dark, in hope. That blood becomes a sign — not of threat, not of fear, but of belonging.

It marks the homes of those who trust the Lord’s promise. Where that blood is seen, death passes over. Life is spared. Hope is born. Then there is a detail that matters more than we sometimes realize.

The people are told to eat the meal ready to move — sandals on their feet, staff in hand. Salvation, in the Scriptures, is never an endpoint. It is never a moment where everything simply stops. Salvation is always a beginning — the opening of a road, the first step into a future not yet fully understood.

Then, our psalm tonight gives voice to the human heart – a heart that realizes it has been saved. “How shall I make a return to the Lord for all the good he has done for me?”

It is a deeply honest question — the question we ask when grace has caught us off guard, when mercy has been freely given, when we know we have received far more than we deserve.

The answer is beautifully simple: “The cup of salvation I will take up.”

– Not achievement.

– Not self‑justification.

– Not proving anything.

– Just gratitude.

What was once a cup of rescue has become a cup of communion. The God who saves does not remain distant. He draws near.

Saint Paul then brings us into the Upper Room, into a moment heavy with tension and uncertainty. Jesus knows what is coming. He knows betrayal is near. He knows suffering and death lie ahead.

Yet, on that very night — the night when most of us would be tempted to pull back, to protect ourselves, to conserve what little strength we have left — Jesus gives himself more fully. He says words that will change everything.

– He takes bread – “This is my body, given for you.”

– He takes a cup – “This cup is the new covenant in my blood.”

With these words, Jesus institutes both the Eucharist and the Priesthood. He gathers up the entire history of the Passover and brings it to fulfillment by becoming the lamb. His blood becomes the sign of a new deliverance — a new covenant. Freedom from slavery to sin, from despair, from death itself.

When he says, “Do this in remembrance of me,” he is not asking us to merely think about him.  In the Scriptures, remembrance makes the saving act

present and effective now. Every time the Church gathers around the altar, time bends. Heaven touches earth. Christ gives himself again — not symbolically, not partially, but truly and completely. The Lamb is no longer only remembered – the Lamb is received.

Then in John’s Gospel – we are gently but unmistakably reminded of something essential. The Eucharist is never meant to stop at the altar. John does not record the words spoken over the bread and wine. Instead, he shows us what those words look like when they take flesh.

– Jesus rises from the table.

– He lays aside his outer garment.

– He kneels.

The one they call Teacher and Lord takes the posture of a servant. He washes their feet — dusty, tired, imperfect feet. This is not a symbolic action. It is intimate, personal and for the disciples, and likely many of us when it happens here – uncomfortable.

Peter speaks for all of us in that moment: “Master, you will never wash my feet.” However, Jesus answers with words that still confront us tonight: “Unless I wash you, you have no inheritance with me.”

– Before we can follow Christ, we must allow ourselves to be served by him.

– Before we can love as he loves, we must accept that we are loved not because we are worthy, but because he chooses us.

Then he gives the command that defines the Christian life: “As I have done for you, you should also do.”

This is the unity of Holy Thursday.

– The Passover teaches us that we are saved by sacrificial love.

– The Eucharist teaches us that we are nourished by that love.

– The washing of feet teaches us that we are sent to live that love in the world.

The altar and the basin belong together. What we receive here must shape how we live beyond these walls. To say “Amen” tonight is not only an act of belief. It is an act of surrender.

– A surrender to a love that kneels.

– A love that serves quietly.

– A love that asks us to see Christ in one another.

So tonight, Jesus asks each of us — not with judgment, but with tenderness:

“Do you realize what I have done for you?”

– Do we realize that we are marked not by fear, but by his saving grace?

– Do we realize that we are not fed with ordinary bread, but with divine life?   

– Do we realize that we are not called to greatness as the world defines it, but to faithfulness expressed in humble love?

Holy Thursday does not end when this liturgy ends. It continues wherever love stoops low, where mercy is practiced patiently, where Christ is recognized in the ordinary and the overlooked.

May what we receive tonight take root within us, shape our lives, and bear fruit.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“Learning to see as God sees…”

This Sunday the Catholic Church offers a quiet but beautiful surprise. During Mass, priests and deacons are wearing rose-colored vestments, the rarest liturgical color used in the entire Church year. Rose appears only twice—on Gaudete Sunday in Advent and Laetare Sunday in Lent—and it signals a moment of joy in the middle of seasons that are normally marked by preparation and penance. The color is a gentle reminder that even while we wait, repent, and reflect, the light of Christ is coming, and the hope of Easter is already breaking through.

This weekend we also continue the scrutiny’s for the catechumens and candidates who are preparing to receive the sacraments at Easter.

Like Fr. Marek last week, I chose to proclaim the longer version of today’s gospel for this weekend because St. John once again weaves such a beautiful story about the man born blind and how his faith grows after encountering the Lord. This directly translates to the sacraments and our own lives of faith.

Today’s readings are about learning to see as God sees.

In our first reading, when Samuel arrives at Jesse’s house to anoint the next king, he is ready to be impressed. He sees the oldest son — tall, strong, the kind of man who looks like he belongs in charge. Samuel thinks, “This must be the one.”

But God interrupts Samuel’s assumptions with a powerful response – “Not as man sees does God see, the Lord looks into the heart.”

David, the youngest, the overlooked one, the one who was still out in the fields caring for the sheep, he is the one God chooses.

This is God’s way. God sees potential where we see limitations. God sees dignity where we see flaws. God sees belovedness where we see brokenness. And if that’s how God sees others… it’s how God sees each and every one of us.

Then in our Psalm, one that we are all familiar with, we are reminded of the tenderness of God’s love and accompaniment – “The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.”

Did you know that shepherds in ancient times used oil on the faces of their sheep to keep insects away and to heal small wounds. That image is not far from what we receive in the sacraments — anointing with oil to strengthen, to heal, to protect.

And notice something – the psalm never says we will avoid the dark valley. It simply says we won’t walk it alone. God’s presence doesn’t always remove the difficulty, but it transforms the journey.

In St. Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, he tells us – “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.”

St. Paul doesn’t say we were *in* darkness — he says we *were* darkness. And now, through baptism, we *are* light. That is not a small shift – that is a complete transformation of identity.

Baptism wipes away original sin and gives us our first sacramental encounter with the Holy Spirit. In Baptism we are anointed with the Oil of Salvation and Sacred Chrism. It changes the way God sees us — and the way we are called to see ourselves.

However, the reality is that stepping into the light can be uncomfortable. Light reveals things. It shows us what needs healing, forgiveness, and what needs to be surrendered. It shows us parts of ourselves that we try to hide and ignore. Yet – it also reveals our goodness, our belovedness, our calling. Lent is the season when God gently says, “Let me shine my light there. Let me help you see.”

St. John gives us another full chapter in the Gospel this week — just like last week with the Woman at the Well. And again, the theme is relationship, recognition, and revelation.

There are two kinds of blindness in this Gospel. There is the physical blindness of the man who cannot see. And there is the spiritual blindness of those who refuse to see — the Pharisees, the neighbors, even the disciples at first.

The disciples begin with a question – “Whose fault is this?” they ask the Lord. They want to assign blame, but Jesus refuses that approach. He instead says the man’s blindness is not punishment — but it is an opportunity where “God’s works can be revealed.”

Then Jesus kneels down, makes clay, and gently places it on the man’s eyes. There is something so very tender and intimate at that moment — God’s hands touching the very place of pain for this man. Just like God touches and heals those parts of our lives through the sacraments, that cause us pain.

Then Jesus sends him to wash in the Pool of Siloam. The man returns able to see, but the deeper miracle is what happens next.

His physical sight becomes spiritual sight. He begins by calling Jesus “the man.” Then “a prophet.” Then, he stands up to the Pharisees with courage he didn’t know he had. And finally, when Jesus finds him again, he says the words that are at the heart of discipleship – “I do believe, Lord.”

Meanwhile, the Pharisees — who have perfect physical eyesight — become more and more spiritually blind.

These readings are chosen every year for the scrutiny’s because they speak directly to the journey we are all on – the catechumens and candidates preparing for the sacraments and our own sacramental journey’s. The scrutiny’s uncover what is dark in each of us and invites the Light of Christ into our souls.

The blind man’s story is a baptism story. He begins in darkness. He encounters Christ. He is anointed. He washes in water. He receives sight. He grows in faith and then proclaims Jesus as Lord.

Are we the same person after our baptism? We shouldn’t be because we are no longer spiritually blind; we are no longer defined by sin; and we are no longer wandering without a Shepherd.

We truly begin to exist when we enter relationship with God. The blind man, in asking Jesus for sight, is really asking for relationship. And over the course of the Gospel, we watch that relationship deepen before our eyes.

This is what the sacraments do. They open our eyes, hearts, and lives to God’s grace.

All the readings today point to one truth – God wants to help us see.

• To see ourselves with mercy. 

• To see others with compassion. 

• To see God’s presence in unexpected places. 

• To see the world not through fear or cynicism, but through the eyes of Christ – the eyes of love.

As we continue this liturgy, I invite us to consider – where do we need God’s light right now? Is it in a relationship, a decision, how we see ourselves or maybe how we see someone who has hurt us?

Let that be our prayer this week as we continue our Lenten journey to the Easter Sacraments.

By Deacon Richard Hay

“No shortcuts…”

Well, it has been around four days since this season of Lent has begun – how is everyone doing so far??

Don’t worry. It’s early and I suspect many of us are still getting things going and figuring out what it is we will work on – whether that means giving up some habit or maybe introducing something new in our spiritual and prayer life.

Here at the parish, we have some ready-made options for you like Stations of the Cross each Friday evening at 7 PM here in the main church, daily mass that can be added to your schedule during the week, our upcoming parish mission in March and our parish reconciliation service. Details are in your bulletins, so be sure to mark your calendars to take advantage of those opportunities.

You have often heard me talk about how our daily scripture readings lead us into the readings we hear at mass on Sunday. Well, I am here to share that once again in these four days since we received our ashes on Wednesday that continues.

The gospel on Ash Wednesday cautioned us against performing righteous deeds just so others could see them. Whether it is prayer, fasting or almsgiving, Jesus cautions that when that happens, we will have already received our reward – the adoration and recognition of others.

On Thursday, Jesus reminded us that He must suffer and be rejected which would result in his death but would be followed by his being raised up.  He also reminded us that we must deny ourselves and take up our cross to follow him.

Then, on Friday, Jesus reminded us that the day is coming when the bridegroom – Jesus himself – will be taken away from us.

In Saturday’s gospel, Jesus calls Matthew to be his disciple and that evening Matthew hosts a dinner for Jesus with tax collectors and sinners as guests. When challenged, Jesus tells them that the healthy do not need a physician but the sick do. Jesus did not come to call the righteous to repentance but sinners.

Each one of these gospels over these last four days are reminders to us of why we have this season of Lent in the church – to help draw us closer to Jesus through prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. They are also a reminder that Jesus is there for all of us no matter what – even though we are sinners.

Every year on this First Sunday of Lent, the church brings us into the desert with Jesus. Not because God wants us to feel bad about ourselves, but because He wants us to discover the joy that comes from being made clean and ready for all the good things he has in store for us.

Lent is a time for discipline, for confession, for honesty so that we can reach that refreshed state in our souls.

In today’s gospel, Jesus faces three temptations – each one is a shortcut. A shortcut away from the Father’s will. A shortcut away from the mission. A shortcut away from love. If we are honest, most of our temptations work the same way.

During the first temptation, Satan tells Jesus to turn stones into bread. In other words, to use His power to make life easier. To avoid discomfort – to take the shortcut. However, Jesus knew it was not the Father’s will to use His divine powers to spare himself the suffering of His human condition. Jesus refuses to take the easy way out.

We face this temptation too – the temptation to comfort, to instant gratification of whatever numbs or distracts us.

Lent gives us a response to this – fasting. Fasting trains our desires. It teaches us that we do not live by bread alone, and that our bodies don’t get the final say.

For the second temptation, Satan takes Jesus to the top of the temple in Jerusalem – not a random cliff or other high place – but the very spot where prayers rise up to God from the Jews praying in the temple. He challenges Jesus to prove himself and jump off the temple parapet so that the angels of God can catch Him.

However, that would have resulted in fame and celebrity for the sign, but Jesus’s mission was about humility and not sensation.

For us, this temptation is the desire to be noticed, to be admired, to be validated. It’s the temptation of social media – “Look at me. Approve of me. Tell me I matter.”

Jesus refuses to test God. He refuses to make his identity something that he must perform for.

Our Lenten discipline here is prayer. Not the kind that tries to impress God, but the kind that admits we need Him. Prayer acknowledges our need for God and submits to His will admitting that we can’t do any of this without Him.

The final temptation Jesus faces in today’s gospel is lust of the eyes. Satan, who has failed at his previous efforts to tempt Christ, shows Jesus every kingdom and power across the entire earth and gives a simple requirement – “Bow before me and it is all yours.”

Think about it, so much to gain through a small act of worship and wouldn’t Jesus be able to do great things for everyone in these earthly kingdoms?

The difference – this was not the Father’s will. Jesus understood that the Kingdom of God would only come through the cross – not through compromise.

For us – this is the temptation to possess, to accumulate, to control. Lent gives us a remedy for this as well – almsgiving. Almsgiving breaks the grip of greed. It frees our eyes from wanting everything we see.

Ultimately – Jesus’s victory over the devil is our victory. It helps us remain faithful when we are tested.

We don’t go into Lent to prove ourselves – we go into Lent to cling to Him who has already won. Our Lenten efforts are not effective on their own. They are only effective when we unite our small, token efforts with the work of Jesus. Without Jesus, nothing we do in Lent or at any other time of the year matters – that is the key.  

Prayer, fasting, and almsgiving don’t save us – Jesus saves us. Observing these disciplines, simply opens the door.

As I conclude – a short story.

A little girl told her mother, “For Lent, I’m giving up broccoli.” Her Mom replied and said, “But you don’t even like broccoli.” The girl grinned and said, “Exactly – this way it’s easy!”

We smile and laugh at this because we recognize ourselves. We all want a Lent that’s easy – but Jesus shows us a Lent that’s honest, courageous, and rooted in love.

Jesus didn’t take shortcuts – nor should we.

So here’s the invitation for the remainder of Lent:

• Fast to discipline the desires of the flesh
• Give alms to free your eyes from greed
• Pray to humble your heart before God

Above all – unite every effort – big or small – to Jesus. When we do, Lent becomes more than a season…

• It becomes a transformation
• It becomes a share in His victory
• It becomes the path that leads us to Easter joy.

Amen