Blessed be God.
Praise be to Jesus Christ—now and forever. Amen.
And as always, we pray:
Come, Holy Spirit. Fill us with joy, and set our hearts ablaze with the fire of your presence.
Friends,
There are many ways to see the world.
And many voices that try to explain it.
Scientists have given names to these lenses—
positivist, post-positivist, constructionist, critical theory.
Each one asks:
How do we know what we know?
How do we decide what is true, what is good, what is ideal?
They offer models—
of the perfect person,
the perfect marriage,
the perfect family.
But here’s the thing:
We don’t choose these worldviews.
We inherit them—
from our culture,
from our upbringing,
from our education.
And we often assume—without even realizing it—
that others see the world the same way we do.
But we can be wrong.
We don’t know what we don’t know.
And we don’t know what others don’t know.
I remember serving with an Indian priest.
He needed to speak with an elder from the Vietnamese community.
He turned to one of the altar servers and asked,
“Can you translate for us?”
The young person looked at him, puzzled, and said,
“Father, I don’t speak that language.”
It was a moment of humility.
A reminder: even our best assumptions can miss the mark.
Even with good intentions, we can misunderstand one another.
And if we struggle to understand each other—
how much more do we struggle to understand God?
The Book of Wisdom asks:
“Who can know God’s counsel?
Or who can conceive what the Lord intends?”
Our minds are weighed down—
by the burdens of the body,
by the distractions of the world,
by the noise of our own concerns.
We guess at earthly things.
We barely grasp what’s in front of us.
So how can we presume to grasp what is divine?
Unless—
Unless God gives us wisdom.
Unless the Holy Spirit descends
and makes straight our path.
That’s what Paul leans into in his letter to Philemon.
He writes not as an apostle with authority,
but as an old man, a prisoner—pleading for Onesimus.
Not as a slave, but as a brother.
Paul doesn’t demand.
He invites.
He doesn’t force.
He hopes for voluntary love.
Paul sees with spiritual eyes.
He discerns not just the social role of Onesimus,
but his identity in Christ.
That’s the kind of wisdom the Spirit gives—
not just knowledge, but transformation.
And then we hear Jesus speak.
And his words are hard to hear.
“If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother…
even his own life…
he cannot be my disciple.”
This isn’t a call to despise our families.
It’s a call to radical reordering.
To place Christ above every other loyalty.
To carry our cross—not just admire it.
To calculate the cost—not just dream of the reward.
Jesus is asking us to renounce—
the worldview we inherited,
the assumptions we cling to,
the possessions we hoard—
So that we can receive something deeper.
A new way of seeing.
A new way of living.
So today, we ask:
What worldview have I inherited?
Where have I made assumptions that need to be surrendered?
What cross am I being asked to carry?
And what wisdom is God offering me—if I dare to ask?
Let your face shine upon your servant, Lord.
Teach us your laws.
Make our paths straight.
And give us the courage to follow you—
not with borrowed assumptions,
but with hearts made new.
Amen.
Let your goodness be your witness.
Let your holiness be your song.
Preach Christ—not just with words,
but with the way you walk,
the way you forgive,
the way you love.
Let your life become a living homily.
Let your mercy speak loud.
Let your kindness proclaim the Kingdom.
And let your love—quiet, steady, sacrificial—
be the good news someone’s heart has been waiting to hear.
Blessed be God.
Praise be to Jesus Christ, now and forever. Amen.
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