A Treasure Given

 

Readings 081026

Yesterday at St. Lawrence, 

we blessed our newly remodeled hall — 

a humble space, 

renewed for fellowship and simple joy. 

Then we shared a parish meal 

for the Feast of St. Lawrence, 

BBQ pulled‑pork sandwiches, 

warm conversation, 

the kind of gathering that feels like home.

And I smiled at the irony.

Because Lawrence, 

commanded by Rome 

to surrender the Church’s wealth, 

gathered instead the poor, 

the sick, 

the suffering — 

and said, “These are the true treasures.” 

His witness was sealed 

on a hot iron gridiron, 

his final words: 

“Turn me over… 

I’m done on this side.”

I carried some of those parish meals

to our shut‑ins.

I brought them Communion — 

the Body of Christ, 

and a small taste of the parish table. 

Scripture whispers this steady truth:

“He scatters abroad, 

he gives to the poor; 

his righteousness endures forever.”

So here I stand — 

a deacon, 

eighteen hundred years after Lawrence — 

finally seeing what he meant 

about the treasure of the Church. 

It isn’t stored. 

It isn’t counted. 

It isn’t guarded.

It is given.

Because Jesus said: 

“Unless a grain of wheat 

falls to the earth and dies, 

it remains alone; 

but if it dies, 

it produces much fruit.”

That is the quiet dying we offer — 

the gentle letting‑go, 

the daily surrender, 

the fruit that grows in others 

because Christ first grew in us.

Prayer

Lord, 

Make my heart

a place of giving,

where Your treasures 

are the poor and the broken.

Teach me to surrender

like the grain‑of‑wheat,

that my small dying 

may bear Your great fruit.

Amen

The Whisper of God

Readings 080926

 

As a spiritual director,

 I often ask people, 

“When you pray… 

do you hear God’s voice?”

Most answer with honest longing: 

“Deacon, I pray all the time, 

but I get nothing out of it. 

I never hear God. 

I don’t know His will.”

That is the cry of the Psalm:

“Lord, let us see your kindness, 

and grant us your salvation.”

The cry of someone 

who wants more than noise—

someone who wants God Himself.

And so I ask the question 

that opens the door:

“Are you still enough to listen?”

Because many of us treat prayer 

like a drive‑through window.

We place our order, 

pull away, 

and hope 

something good shows up.

But prayer is not fast food.

Prayer is relationship.

And relationships 

require stillness.

St Paul tells us, that is where, 

our conscience 

joins with the Holy Spirit, 

bearing witness inside us.

God’s voice is not always thunder—

sometimes it is the 

gentle stirring of the soul, 

the whisper that says,

 “I am here.”

Elijah learns this on the mountain.

Not in the wind.

Not in the earthquake.

Not in the fire.

But in a tiny whispering sound—

so small he almost misses it—

yet carrying the weight of heaven.

And in the Gospel, 

the disciples learn the same truth 

in their storm.

The waves are loud.

Their fear is louder.

But Jesus comes quietly, 

walking toward them, 

speaking the same whisper 

He used on Elijah:

“Take courage… it is I.”

The moment He steps into the boat, 

the wind dies down.

Not because the storm wasn’t real—

but because His presence

 changes the storm.

God is trying to tell us something:

“I am closer than the wind.

I am quieter than the waves.

I am speaking—if you will listen.”

When you pray… 

do you give God 

enough silence to speak?

Do you stay long enough 

for the whisper?

Prayer

Lord, 

quiet my soul 

so I may hear Your whisper.

Steady my heart 

when storms rise around me.

Let Your presence be the peace

 that calms my fear.

Teach me to listen 

with faith, trust, and love.

Amen