Mercy in Motion - Homily Reflection 02/08/2026

 Readings 020826 

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.

Friends, there are certain things you hear from me every week,
because the Gospel keeps saying them to us.

First, I give praise and thanks to the Blessed Trinity—
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit—
and I ask them to be present with us and in this message.

Second, I always end with the same call:
Be good.
Be holy.
And preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ
by the way you live your life
and love one another.

And that matters, because look around us.
We live in a world of “personal truths,”
a world that treats spirituality like a mood,
that thinks light is just a feeling
or some inner glow you manufacture on your own.

But the Word of God cuts through all of that.
It tells us something far more real,
far more demanding,
and far more beautiful:

God’s light enters the world
through the concrete, humble, self‑giving love
of His people.

Not ideas.
Not eloquence.
Not spiritual vibes.
Mercy lived.
Justice practiced.
Wounds tended.
Bread shared.

Isaiah doesn’t say,
“Go be spiritual and then you’ll shine.”
He says:
Share your bread.
Shelter the homeless.
Clothe the naked.
Stop accusing.
Stop the malicious talk.
Satisfy the afflicted.
Then your light will break forth like the dawn.

In other words, private spirituality alone never touches the world.
But love that rolls up its sleeves—
love that reaches out and actually touches the world—
that is where God’s light breaks through.

Light is not a feeling.
Light is mercy in motion.
Holiness is not an escape from the world.
Holiness is love poured into the world.

The Psalmist echoes it:
the just person, the generous person,
the one who trusts in the Lord—
that person doesn’t have to try to shine.
Goodness simply glows.
A merciful life becomes luminous.

And Paul reminds us why.
He says, “I didn’t come with brilliance or polished words.
I came in weakness and fear and trembling,
so your faith would rest not on me,
but on the power of God.”

Christians do not shine in their own strength.
It is Christ’s light passing through our brokenness.
The light we carry is never our own.
It is always, always His.

And Jesus brings it all together:
“You are the salt of the earth.
You are the light of the world.”
Not “Try to be.”
Not “Work your way up to it.”
You are—because He is in you.

And why does He want your light to shine?
Not for admiration.
Not for praise.
Not so people follow you.
But so they may see your good deeds
and glorify your Father in heaven.

Our good works are meant to be sacraments of God’s presence—
visible signs of His invisible love.

Remember:
The world doesn’t need more arguments.
It needs more bread shared.
The world doesn’t need more “spiritual talk.”
It needs more wounds tended.
The world doesn’t need more people trying to shine on their own.
It needs people who let Christ shine through them.

And when you live that way—
when mercy becomes your motion—
God’s own light begins to break forth through you.
And through that light,
the world finally gets a glimpse of Him.

Let Christ’s light shine through you—one act of mercy at a time. A personal truth found in Christ.

Be good.
Be holy.
Reach out—
and go preach the Gospel.

Praise be to Jesus Christ, forever and ever. Amen.

Prayer 

Lord,
Let Your light move through our hands today.
Make mercy our rhythm and compassion our way.
Turn our hearts toward the wounded and the weary.
Let justice rise where we step,
and kindness shine where we speak.
Break open our fear with Your strength,
and break open the world with Your grace.
Let Your light pass through us,
so all may see You.
Amen.

The Quiet Yes

Readings 020726 

 

When I walked into my first diaconate formation class, I’ll admit—I felt small.
The room was filled with doctors, pharmacists, magazine editors, teachers, engineers, church administrators… men with impressive résumés and deep faith.

My background was manufacturing plants, farms, and construction sites.
Good, honest work—but I wondered if it measured up.
I wondered if I measured up.

Then I noticed one other man who looked just as unsure.
We connected quickly.
And at the end of that first year, when everyone else spent an hour in their discernment interviews, he and I were each in and out in five minutes.
Had we not said enough? Were our answers too simple?

The next year they interviewed our wives.
Same thing—five minutes.
Other wives stayed for hours.

Every year we braced ourselves, waiting for the moment they would say,
“You are not worthy. You are not called.”
And every year, fewer men remained.
By the end, only half of the original group was still there.

But somehow, my friend and I kept getting waved through.
Quick interviews.
Simple conversations.
No drama.
Just a quiet, steady yes.

And maybe that’s the lesson.
God doesn’t always choose the impressive.
Sometimes He chooses the ordinary.
Sometimes He gives a “wise and understanding heart” not because we earned it, but because He delights in giving gifts.

And then Jesus says to the apostles,
“Come away and rest a while.”
Yet when He sees the crowd, His heart moves with pity,
and He teaches them anyway.

That’s the call.
Not to be the smartest in the room.
Not to be the most polished or accomplished.
But to let our hearts be moved.
To show up.
To serve.
To trust that if He keeps calling,
then by grace—quietly, steadily—we belong.

Prayer

Lord, You call the small and the unsure.
Make my heart steady in Your grace.
Teach me to listen,
to follow,
to serve with quiet courage.
Move me with Your mercy,
and let my life whisper back,
“I am Yours.”

Amen