Lost Without a Compass: A Walk with God Through the Drift - Reflection August 18, 2025

 bible/readings/081825 

I’ve spoken about my father many times. He died young—much younger than I am now. His absence left a silence that shaped me. Later, my mother married a good man: a retired Air Force veteran and educator. He was a Christian, sincere and faithful, though not Catholic.

Toward the end of his life, he found a home in a non-denominational church led by a preacher who claimed both Baptist and Catholic roots. On the church’s website, it proclaimed: “Heaven and Hell are real places of eternal existence.” But in a recent livestream, that same preacher said Hell doesn’t exist—that it was a mistranslation.

I felt a quiet sorrow. Not because I wanted to argue, but because I recognized something deeper: sometimes, without guidance or direction—even the most passionate can drift from the right path and get lost. And others may follow.

Ironically, this same preacher also said that the simple path to being a Christian is to love God and love your neighbor. He’s right. It is about relationship. But without truth, even love can lose its shape. Relationship without compass becomes sentiment. Passion without anchor becomes confusion.

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Scripture Speaks to the Drift

In Judges, the people of Israel abandon the God who rescued them. They chase after idols—not just breaking rules, but breaking relationship. In Psalm 106, we hear how they “mingled with the nations,” and their idols became “a snare.” They cried out in distress, and God saved them. But once the crisis passed, they forgot again.

In Matthew’s Gospel, a young man approaches Jesus. He’s kept the commandments. He’s done the right things. But he asks, “What do I still lack?” Jesus sees his heart and says: “Go, sell what you have… then come, follow me.” The man walks away sad. He wants eternal life—but not at the cost of his comfort.

This is the danger of half-hearted faith. It leaves us restless. It trades deep relationship for shallow religion. God doesn’t want our performance. He wants our heart.

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Ignatian Truth: God in All Things

Ignatian spirituality reminds us: God is found in all things—even in our drifting. It invites us to ask: What keeps me from following? What am I afraid to lose?

The answer isn’t more rules. It’s more love. It’s the kind of love that says, “Come, follow me.” Not just once, but every day. In our choices. In our surrender.

In a world that’s constantly shifting, where truth feels negotiable and comfort is king, we need a compass. Scripture gives us one: Love God with all you are, and love your neighbor as yourself. That’s not just a command—it’s a way of life.

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The Invitation Still Stands

So if you feel like you’ve drifted, you’re not alone. But you’re not lost. The invitation still stands: Come, follow me. Let go. Walk with God. And find your way home.

Prayer: Finding Our Way Home

Lord Jesus,
In a world of shifting truths and fading certainties,
be our compass.
Teach us to love You with all we are,
and to love our neighbor with Your mercy.
When comfort tempts us to settle,
stir our hearts again.
When we feel lost, remind us:
You are the way, the truth, and the life.
Lead us home—step by step,
in surrender, in love, in You.
Amen.

Homily Reflection - Fire, Friends, & the Rooms We Enter - 20th Sunday OTC - August 17, 2025

bible/readings/081725

Praise God.
Praise be to Jesus Christ — now and forever.
Come, Holy Spirit… fill us with the joy of your presence. Amen.

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A story to begin

This week I read about a freshman running back at LSU. He was arrested because two young men wanted for a felony were found in his dorm room. He said he didn’t know they were wanted — he’d been away at fall football camp.

I’m not here to judge his heart. I’m struck by this simple truth: how quickly one room can change the direction of your life.

It took me back to my days in the athletic dorm at NLU. All the male athletes lived in two buildings. Graduate assistants were on each floor to enforce curfew and keep us in line. And yet, with all that structure, sin still found its way in. Some things might even have been criminal.

If it hadn’t been for the spark of faith from my parents’ example, and a few friends on fire for Christ, I could have gone the wrong way too. I can still hear them: “Don’t go there. Don’t go in that room. Don’t hang out with those guys — you could get in trouble.” They weren’t judging me; they were saving me. They were my Ebed-melechs — like the friend God sent to Jeremiah.

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The word of God today

Jeremiah spoke God’s truth, and it cost him. He was thrown into a cistern — no water, only mud — and he sank into the muck. But God sent an unlikely ally, Ebed-melech, to pull him out. The psalm says, “The Lord heard my cry… He drew me out of the pit, out of the mud, and set my feet on rock.” Faithfulness doesn’t mean we’ll never land in a pit. It means God will not abandon us there. And often his rescue comes through people we least expect.

Hebrews urges us: “Lay aside every burden and sin. Run with endurance. Keep your eyes on Jesus.” The race of faith isn’t about speed; it’s about steady trust. Jeremiah endured the cistern. The psalmist endured the waiting. Jesus endured the cross “for the joy set before him.” The ground may be muddy. The air may be heavy. The call is the same: keep going.

In the Gospel Jesus says, “I have come to set the earth on fire.” Not a cozy campfire, but a purifying blaze that burns away what’s false and forces a choice. A false peace says, “Just go along. Keep the room comfortable.” Jesus’ fire says, “Choose the truth. Let it refine you — even when it costs you.”

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Three rooms we all enter

• The company we keep: Every dorm, kitchen table, and group chat is a place of formation. People either pull us toward the mud or lift us to the rock. It takes humility to leave a room that’s wrong — and courage to be the one who says, “Come on… let’s go.”

• The voice that leads: Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice… and they follow me.” There’s a difference between what is loud and what is true. Keep close the voices — your “cloud of witnesses” — that steady you and help you hear the Shepherd.

• The fire that shapes you: If the “fire” in your heart only comforts but never challenges, it might not be Jesus’ fire. His fire makes love real by burning away what enslaves us.

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A path for this week

• Name your rooms: Which places — physical, digital, and interior — lead you closer to Christ? Which pull you away?
• Find your Ebed-melech: Identify one friend who can pull you up when you’re stuck — and be that friend to someone else.
• Build your cloud of witnesses: Keep close the people and saints who point you to Jesus. Let their stories steady your steps.
• Pray Psalm 40: Inhale — “Lord…” Exhale — “…come to my aid.” Use it at the doorway of any room you enter.
• Fix your gaze on Jesus:  Even two minutes of stillness a day can re-center your heart.

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Bringing it home

Every day — in classrooms, job sites, locker rooms, and living rooms — we step into rooms that will shape us. Some are muddy pits disguised as freedom. Some are solid rock hidden in small, quiet choices.

The Good Shepherd is speaking. He is sending allies. And his fire is already burning — not to destroy you, but to refine you into who you truly are in him.

Lord, come to our aid. Draw us out of every pit. Set our feet on the rock. Put a new song in our mouths. Give us holy friends, and the courage to be holy friends. Fix our eyes on Jesus, and let your fire burn away everything that is not love. Amen.

Go now and live with a clean heart and a generous spirit. Let your life speak of Jesus — in every word you speak, every step you take, and every act of love you offer.

Praise God. Praise be to Jesus Christ — now and forever. Amen.

Our Journey of Faith: You Are My Inheritance, O Lord - August 16, 2025

bible/readings/081625

This weekend, I have the joy of baptizing a new Christian. And while the moment is beautiful—the white garment, the photos, the celebration—what moves me most is something quieter. Something deeper.

It’s this:

God is moving first.  We simply respond.

Since that child was born, the parents have been coming to Mass. The godparents too. I convalidated the marriage of the godmother and her husband. I’ve watched this family grow—not just in name, but in presence. That’s grace. That’s what happens when baptism isn’t treated like a one-time event, but a doorway into belonging.

Because baptism isn’t the finish line.
It’s the beginning of a walk.
A walk with God.

And at the heart of that walk is a truth we often forget:
“You are my inheritance, O Lord.”

Not land.
Not success.
Not approval.
But relationship.

The psalmist says, “I keep the Lord always before me.”
Even in the night.
Even in the ache.
Even when the promises made at the font feel forgotten.

That’s what baptism invites us into.
Not just a ritual.
But a covenant.
A life where God is our portion.
Our path.
Our companion.

Every time I stand at the font, I feel it.
The water flows.
The words are spoken.
And heaven leans in.

“I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”
It’s not just a ceremony.
It’s a moment where grace breaks in.
Where God acts.
And we are changed.

But here’s the ache.
Sometimes parents say the right words, make the promises—but their hearts aren’t in it.
The baptism is still real—because God is always faithful.
But the home doesn’t reflect the covenant.
The font is full, but the household feels empty.

Joshua’s words speak into that:
“As for me and my household, we will serve the Lord.”
That’s not just a nice phrase.
It’s a decision.
A commitment.

Joshua tells the people to choose—today.
Not someday.
Not when it’s convenient.

And he’s honest:
“You may not be able to serve the Lord, for He is a holy God.”

God isn’t something we add to our lives when it suits us.
He’s holy.
He’s jealous for our hearts.

Serving Him means letting go of our idols—our distractions, our attachments—and giving Him everything.

Because He is our inheritance.
Not a reward we earn.
But a gift we receive.
A presence we walk with.

When parents bring their children to be baptized, they promise to raise them in the faith.
To teach them to pray.
To bring them to Mass.
To help them know Jesus.

These promises matter.
They’re not just part of the ceremony.
They’re the beginning of a covenant.
A walk.
A daily surrender.

And then we look to Jesus.
In Matthew’s Gospel, children are brought to Him.
The disciples try to push them away—maybe thinking they’re too loud or too small.
But Jesus says, “Let the children come to me… for the Kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these.”

He lays His hands on them.
He blesses them.
And then He walks away—trusting that the blessing will take root.

That’s the heart of faith.
That’s the heart of Ignatian spirituality.
Trusting that God is at work, even when we can’t see it.
Trusting that every child baptized is held by Jesus—even if their parents don’t follow through.
Trusting that grace is real.
And that God never gives up.

Joshua set a stone under an oak tree as a witness to the covenant.
Maybe baptism is like that—a quiet stone waiting to be remembered.
A sign that God was present.
That the covenant was real.
Even if the household forgot.

So we say it again:
“As for me and my household—we will serve the Lord.”
Not because it’s easy.
Not because it’s popular.
But because He is our inheritance.
And because every child deserves to know the One who welcomes them, blesses them, and never walks away.

Let’s walk with Him.
Let’s remember the stone.
Let’s keep the Lord before us—always.
Because He is our portion.
He is our path.
He is our inheritance.

🙏 A Prayer for Our Households: You Are Our Inheritance

Lord,
Draw near to every household—
especially those who feel far from You.
Walk with us in the quiet places.
Whisper grace into the corners we’ve forgotten.

Teach us to pray with honesty,
to trust with courage,
to surrender with love.

Let our homes become altars—
not perfect, but present.
Not loud, but listening.

As for me and my household,
we will walk with You.
We will serve You—faithfully,
because You are our inheritance.
Our portion.
Our path.

Amen.

Crowned in Mercy, Called to Serve - Solemnity of the Assumption (Mass during the day)

 bible/readings/081525-Mass

Praise God.

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

Let’s begin with a prayer:
Come, Holy Spirit.
Fill us with your joy and your presence.

Today we celebrate something beautiful.
Mary, the mother of Jesus, was taken into heaven—body and soul.
This feast isn’t just about Mary.
It’s a promise for us.
It tells us that love wins.
That our faith matters.
That heaven is real—and it’s where we’re meant to be.

In the Gospel of Luke, Mary visits her cousin Elizabeth.
She’s pregnant with Jesus.
And when she arrives, something amazing happens—
Elizabeth’s baby, John the Baptist, jumps for joy inside her womb.

Elizabeth says, “Why should the mother of my Lord come to me?”
She’s overwhelmed.
Mary isn’t just visiting—she’s bringing God’s love with her.

And then Mary sings her song:
“God has looked kindly on His servant… He lifts up the lowly.”

Here’s the first truth:
God loves us—especially when we feel small or forgotten.
He comes close.
He fills us with His love.
And when we carry that love, we’re meant to share it.

Like Mary, we go quickly.
We don’t hide our faith.
We bring joy. We bring hope. We serve.

In the Book of Revelation, we see a woman clothed with the sun,
Crowned with stars, giving birth to a child.
There’s danger—a dragon waiting to destroy.
But God protects.
The child is taken to heaven.

This is Mary.
This is Jesus.
This is the Church.
And this is us—caught in a battle between good and evil,
But never alone.

Jesus wins.
And we’re called to serve this victorious King.

St. Paul reminds us:
Jesus rose from the dead.
He will reign until every enemy is defeated—
Even death.

Mary’s Assumption shows us that victory.
She’s the first human to enter heaven, body and soul.
She stands beside the King, not because she’s perfect—
But because she surrendered.

Her glory comes from God.
And her Assumption is a promise:
One day, we too will be raised to eternal life.

So how do we live this promise?

Bring joy—like Mary did.
You don’t have to be perfect.
Just carry Jesus in your heart.
Others will feel that joy.

Bring hope.
Jesus defeated death.
We don’t need to live in fear.
Let your life show courage and faith.

Bring love.
Jesus came to serve.
We follow Him by loving others—
Helping the poor, lifting the forgotten,
Being light in the darkness.

At Our Lady of Fatima, this calling is alive.
Even if our parish feels small or forgotten,
We still carry Christ to the world.

If you visit the sick, feed the hungry,
Support our school, or help students at ULM—
You are living the Magnificat.
You are Mary, going in haste.
You are the Church—crowned in mercy and called to serve.

Mary reminds us:
The love we’ve received isn’t just for us.
It’s meant to be shared.
It fills us with joy.
It sends us out to serve.

So be good.
Be holy.
Share the Good News.

Let your life sing of God’s love.
Let your love for others be your witness
To the promise of eternal life.

Praise God.
Praise be to Jesus Christ, now and forever. Amen.