Today we celebrate the Feast of St. Alphonsus Liguori—a man who lived with deep love for the Lord and a burning desire to make the faith real and reachable for everyone. He spoke plainly. He wrote beautifully. And he led with the heart of a pastor.
So today, let’s speak plainly, too.
Today’s scripture readings are not easy ones. Leviticus, with its lists of festivals and offerings, might seem distant from our modern lives. But if we listen closely, something sacred rises from the page. The people of Israel brought the best of their harvest—grain, fruit, and flocks—to God. Not because God needed it. Not to win God’s approval. But as an act of love. Of trust. Of surrender.
Imagine a farmer, holding the first sheaf of wheat from a long season of labor. Before feeding his family, before securing his future, he walks it to the priest—and gives it to God.
Why?
Because he knows everything—his land, his crops, his breath—is a gift.
That’s not just religion. That’s relationship. That’s love in action.
Now hold that image—and shift with me to the Gospel. Jesus returns to Nazareth, His hometown. He teaches. He heals. And the people… are shocked. But not in a good way.
They say, “Isn’t this the carpenter’s son? Don’t we know His mother, His family?”
They couldn’t see past their own expectations. Their familiarity blinded them to the miracle standing in front of them. And Matthew says something heartbreaking: “He did not work many mighty deeds there because of their lack of faith.”
The contrast is striking.
In Leviticus, we see people offering. In Nazareth, we see people withholding.
One gave. One resisted. One trusted. One doubted.
And what are we withholding?
Do we give God the first fruits of our time, our energy, our talents—or only what's left over?
Do we surrender our worries, our fears, our plans—or do we hold on tight, afraid to let go?
Do we offer belief—that deep trust that God is near, working even in the ordinary—or do we allow our doubts to build walls between us and grace?
St. Alphonsus once said, “He who trusts himself is lost. But he who trusts in God can do all things.”
That’s the invitation.
Not to perfection.
Not to complexity.
But to trust.
To a posture of surrender that says,
“Lord, all I have is Yours. And I trust You with it all.”
May we be like the farmer—not clinging to control, but stepping forward in faith.
And may we never let the ordinary blind us to the extraordinary grace standing right in front of us.
Amen.
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