The Road That Reveals Who I Am

 

Readings 030926 

Psalm 39 reminds me that God already knows who I am.
The same God who says ‘I AM’ sees every step of my becoming.
He knows my limits.
He knows my longings.
He knows the road that shapes me into who I truly am.

In today’s scripture, Naaman walks that same road .
A strong man with a hidden wound.
A respected leader carrying something he cannot fix.
He wants a miracle that matches his power,
but God meets him in something small,
something humble,
something he almost walks away from.

And that becomes the turning point—
the place where pride loosens,
where obedience softens the heart,
where healing finally flows.
Naaman steps into the Jordan,
and God reveals who he really is—
not a man defined by his sickness,
but a man touched by mercy.

The psalm says, ‘My soul thirsts for the living God.’
That thirst is the road.
It leads us through ordinary waters,
through unexpected voices,
through moments that seem too simple to be holy.

And Jesus reminds us that God often works outside our expectations.
So my whole life—its victories, its wounds, its detours—
becomes the road God uses to reveal who I am in Him.
Not that I am God…
but that I am His—
seen, known, loved,
and slowly being made new.”**

Prayer

Lord, 

You know the road that shapes who I am.
You see the wounds I hide beneath my strength.
Loosen my pride the way You softened Naaman’s heart.
Lead me to the waters where Your mercy heals.
Let my thirst for You become my daily path.
Let ordinary moments become holy ground.
Reveal who I am in Your gentle light.
Make me Yours—seen, known, and made new. 

Amen

.

Will You Trust Me with Your Thirst - Reflection 3rd Sunday of Lent

 

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Blessed be God.
Praise be to Jesus Christ forever and ever. Amen.
Come, Holy Spirit. Fill us with joy.
Set our hearts ablaze with Your presence.

I’ve been fighting my weight for years—
always trying to diet,
always trying to lose a few pounds.

And every doctor, every nutritionist
says the same thing:
stay hydrated.
Drink water.
Keep drinking water.

But here’s the strange thing—
sometimes I don’t feel thirsty.
I don’t notice it.
I don’t think about it.

And yet my body is thirsty.
It needs water to live,
to move,
to function.

Whether I feel it or not,
the thirst is real.

And that is exactly where today’s readings take us:
to the place of thirst.

Israel is thirsty in the desert.
The Samaritan woman is thirsty at the well.
And if we’re honest…
we are thirsty too.

Not just for water,
but for peace…
for belonging…
for forgiveness…
for direction…
for love that lasts.

And Scripture reveals something we’d rather not admit:
our thirst exposes our hearts.

When Israel thirsts, fear rises up.
They grumble,
they blame,
they question God’s presence:
“Is the Lord in our midst or not?”

When the Samaritan woman thirsts, 

her wounds rise up.
Her shame, her history, her loneliness—
everything she tries to hide—
sits right there beside the well.

And when we thirst,
whatever is unsettled in us
comes to the surface too.

The empty places.
The hidden places.
The places we don’t want God to see.

But here is the good news—
God enters the place of thirst to reveal Himself.

In Exodus,
He stands on the rock
and lets life flow from it.

In the Gospel,
Jesus sits on the edge of a well—
the edge of a woman’s pain—
and offers living water.

In Romans,
Paul tells us
God pours His love into our hearts
through the Holy Spirit.

God does not wait for us to be strong.
He does not wait for us to be perfect.
He comes right into the place
where we are most thirsty.

And He asks one question—
the same question in every reading:

“Will you trust Me with your thirst—
the real one?”

Not the polite thirst.
Not the manageable thirst.
The deep one.
The one we keep returning
to the same old wells
to satisfy.

Jesus looks at the Samaritan woman—
and at us—
and says:
“Will you let Me meet you there?”

Because when we finally let Him into that place…
when we stop hiding…
when we stop pretending we’re fine…
that is where the living water begins to flow.

The woman leaves her water jar behind—
the symbol of all the ways
she tried to fill herself—
because she has finally met
the One who can satisfy her.

And so today, in this Eucharist,
Jesus comes again
to the well of your heart.

He knows your thirst.
He knows what rises up
when you feel empty.
And He is not afraid of it.

He simply asks:

“Will you trust Me with your thirst?
Will you let Me meet you there?”

May we have the courage to say yes.

Be good.
Be holy.
Bring the good news of Christ
to those who thirst—
by the way you live your life
and the way you love one another.

Praise be to Jesus Christ forever and ever. Amen.

Prayer

Lord Jesus, 

Meet me in the place where I thirst.
Let Your living water flow through what is dry in me.
Wash away my fear and quiet every hidden wound.
Stand beside the well of my heart 

 and speak Your peace.

Pour Your Spirit into the emptiness I try to fill alone.
Teach me to trust You

 with the thirst I cannot name.
Satisfy me with the love that never runs dry.
Make my life a witness to Your mercy 

for all who thirst.

Amen

The Long Walk Home

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There are moments in life
when the Gospel stops being a story
and starts becoming a mirror.
And the parable of the Prodigal Son—
it has a way of finding us
no matter where we stand.

Because truth is,
I’ve lived every part of that story.
Maybe you have too.

Some days I’m the younger son—
standing in a far country,
surprised at how empty life feels
when I wander from the Father’s heart.
Other days I’m the older brother—
arms crossed,
counting the cost,
wondering why mercy seems
so easy for everyone but me.

But Scripture whispers something deeper—
something Micah knew well:
that God does not simply forgive…
He delights in mercy.
He casts our sins into the sea.
He treads our guilt underfoot
as if to say,
“This will not follow you home.”

So if today you feel lost in a woodland,
or tangled in your pride,
or weighed down by your past—
remember this:

The Father is already on the road.
Already watching.
Already running.
Not for your perfect speech,
but for your returning heart.

Because compassion is His first move.
And forgiveness is His joy.

And maybe that’s our invitation too—
to stop living like servants of our guilt
and start living like children of the Father.
Children who know the feast is ready.
Children who know the door is open.
Children who know the Father’s joy
is bigger than our failures
and stronger than our shame.

Bless the Lord, O my soul—
for the long walk home
is never walked alone.

Pray

Father of mercy,
run toward us again with Your healing compassion.
Lift the weight of our guilt,
and teach our hearts to trust Your joy.
Make us children who return without fear,
and servants who welcome without judgment.
Let Your grace be the road beneath our feet,

and Your love the feast that brings us home. Amen