The Covenant That Holds Us Together

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Family is God’s first school of love—

the place where faith is learned not by lecture,

but by witness,

by sacrifice,

by the quiet fidelity that holds a home together.

In these days of marriage prep,

and with a wedding on Saturday evening,

I’ve seen the same beautiful spark

in both young couples—

excitement, tenderness,

the thrill of a new beginning.

But Christ wants more for them

than excitement alone.

He wants integrity,

He wants fidelity,

He wants accompaniment—

the very heart of His covenant.

Jesus reminds us:

A man shall leave father and mother,

and be joined to his wife,

and the two shall become one flesh…

What God has joined,

no one must divide.

This is God’s pledge—

His truth,

His loyalty,

His promise to walk with us always.

But Ezekiel warns us:

even with God’s steadfast love,

our hearts can wander.

We can become unfaithful,

forgetful,

distracted by lesser loves.

So Christ calls us back—

again and again—

to the covenant that makes us whole.

Today we honor Saint Maximilian Kolbe,

patron of families, prisoners, and all who suffer.

A man who gave his life

so another, a husband and father could live.

Saint John Paul II called him

“the patron of our difficult century,”

because Kolbe shows us

what love looks like

when it is poured out completely.

Families shaped 

by sacrificial love.

Marriages rooted

in Christ’s integrity, 

fidelity, 

accompaniment.

The longing to love as Christ loves.

Is a covenant that holds us together

Prayer

Lord Jesus, 

Bless our families

with Your steadfast love.

Keep our marriages rooted in 

Your truth and fidelity.

Guard our hearts from wandering 

and strengthen our covenant.

Make us faithful and free.

Amen

St Maximilian Kolbe - pray for us

Fidelity in a Loud World

 

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There are days

when the world feels loud.

Untruths swirl through our media,

unsettling our families,

our children,

our peace.

Scripture names this reality:

“They have eyes to see but do not see,

ears to hear but do not hear.”

The world may rebel—

but the disciple remains faithful.

And sometimes,

the Holy Spirit turns our gaze inward.

Not toward the noise,

but toward the heart.

How faithful am I to the Father?

How steady is my love for Christ?

How open is my soul

to the Spirit’s whisper?

How true am I

to His commands,

His sacraments,

His way?

This is how we withstand

the assaults of the enemy—

not by fear,

not by anger,

but by fidelity.

Christ teaches the rhythm of that fidelity:

Forgive seventy‑seven times.

Forgive until mercy

becomes the very shape

of your heart.

Fidelity is loving God

with all we are,

and loving our neighbor

as ourselves.

Today,

let your contemplation

become courage.

Let your loyalty

become light.

And let your love—

steady,

humble,

obedient—

become the truth

that withstands

every untruth.

Prayer

Lord, 

quiet the noise around us, 

and steady Your truth within our hearts.

Open our eyes to see Your way, 

and our ears to hear Your voice.

Strengthen our fidelity 

when the world pulls us 

toward distraction.

Shape our hearts in mercy, 

forgiveness, and steadfast love.

Amen.

Finding the Mark of Christ

 

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Many people today fear the mark of the Beast.

They speculate… 

they worry… 

they imagine shadows around every corner.

But John’s vision was not vague.

It was concrete—

rooted in a world where Rome 

pressed its full weight on every Christian.

The Empire demanded taxes.

It demanded worship.

It demanded loyalty.

It demanded that your heart bow to its power.

And that same spirit of worldly pressure—

that demand for allegiance—

still grows in our own time.

So the question becomes simple and searching:

What mark am I seeking?

For me, I want to be marked with Christ—

to belong to the Kingdom of God,

to carry His seal, not the world’s.

And that longing leads me straight to Jesus’ own words.

He speaks first to Peter, 

placing the keys of the Kingdom in his hands.

Later, He speaks to all the apostles, 

sharing authority to bind and loose,

to guide the community of believers,

to discern what leads toward Him

and what leads away.

There was no command for sola scriptura,

no invitation to self‑interpretation.

Jesus entrusted His authority

to a living, breathing Church—

a community shaped by His Spirit,

marked by His presence,

and sealed with His cross.

Marked by his presence brings us to Ezekiel’s vision:

“Pass through the city…

and mark a Thau on the foreheads

of those who mourn over its abominations.”

The Thau—the last letter of ancient Hebrew—

was drawn as a simple cross.

A sign of protection.

A sign of belonging.

That is the mark I seek.

Not the mark of fear.

Not the mark of speculation.

But the mark shaped like a cross—

the quiet, steady seal of Christ

resting on my mind,

guiding my choices,

claiming my life.

Marked not by the world’s demands,

but by the Savior’s love.

Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

Place Your mark upon my heart—

the quiet seal of Your mercy

and Your truth.

Guard me from the world’s demands

for allegiance.

Shape my mind with the sign of Your cross.

Let my whole life bear the imprint

of Christ alone.

Amen

Guarding the Little Ones

 

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Memorial of St. Clare of Assisi.

St. Clare,

patron saint of television,

pray for us.

Because in these days —

with so much that comes at us

through screens,

through television,

through the endless hum of social media —

we truly need her intercession.

Some days, when I scroll through my feed,

I see things that feel strange…

unnatural…

things that tug at the edges of my heart

and ask me to question

what is right,

what is moral,

what honors the dignity

of a human life.

And the hardest part is this:

it is aimed at our children.

Staining the imagination,

Confusing the heart,

Bending their sense of justice and truth

before it has even learned to stand.

But the Lord speaks a different word.

He says,

“Son of man… obey Me…

open your mouth

and eat what I give you.”

Take in My truth,

not the noise of the world.

Let My word shape your voice,

your courage,

your witness.

And Jesus, with such tenderness,

places a child in the center

and says,

“Unless you become like this little one…”

humble, trusting, unguarded —

you cannot enter the Kingdom.

Then He adds,

“Whoever receives a child in My name…

receives Me.”

The call is simple:

guard the innocence of the young,

speak truth without fear,

live with a childlike humility

that keeps our hearts soft

and our eyes clear.

In protecting the little ones,

we honor Christ Himself.

And when His word becomes the food we eat,

we become light —

steady, gentle, unmistakable —

in a world

that desperately needs it.

Prayer

Lord Jesus, 

Keep our hearts steady 

when the world feels strange.

Guard the innocence of every child 

You place in our care.

Let Your truth be the food 

that strengthens our voice.

Make us humble and trusting, 

like the little ones You love.

And let Your light cleanse every shadow 

that touches our homes

Amen

St. Clare of Assisi, pray for us.

A Treasure Given

 

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Yesterday at St. Lawrence, 

we blessed our newly remodeled hall — 

a humble space, 

renewed for fellowship and simple joy. 

Then we shared a parish meal 

for the Feast of St. Lawrence, 

BBQ pulled‑pork sandwiches, 

warm conversation, 

the kind of gathering that feels like home.

And I smiled at the irony.

Because Lawrence, 

commanded by Rome 

to surrender the Church’s wealth, 

gathered instead the poor, 

the sick, 

the suffering — 

and said, “These are the true treasures.” 

His witness was sealed 

on a hot iron gridiron, 

his final words: 

“Turn me over… 

I’m done on this side.”

I carried some of those parish meals

to our shut‑ins.

I brought them Communion — 

the Body of Christ, 

and a small taste of the parish table. 

Scripture whispers this steady truth:

“He scatters abroad, 

he gives to the poor; 

his righteousness endures forever.”

So here I stand — 

a deacon, 

eighteen hundred years after Lawrence — 

finally seeing what he meant 

about the treasure of the Church. 

It isn’t stored. 

It isn’t counted. 

It isn’t guarded.

It is given.

Because Jesus said: 

“Unless a grain of wheat 

falls to the earth and dies, 

it remains alone; 

but if it dies, 

it produces much fruit.”

That is the quiet dying we offer — 

the gentle letting‑go, 

the daily surrender, 

the fruit that grows in others 

because Christ first grew in us.

Prayer

Lord, 

Make my heart

a place of giving,

where Your treasures 

are the poor and the broken.

Teach me to surrender

like the grain‑of‑wheat,

that my small dying 

may bear Your great fruit.

Amen

The Whisper of God

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As a spiritual director,

 I often ask people, 

“When you pray… 

do you hear God’s voice?”

Most answer with honest longing: 

“Deacon, I pray all the time, 

but I get nothing out of it. 

I never hear God. 

I don’t know His will.”

That is the cry of the Psalm:

“Lord, let us see your kindness, 

and grant us your salvation.”

The cry of someone 

who wants more than noise—

someone who wants God Himself.

And so I ask the question 

that opens the door:

“Are you still enough to listen?”

Because many of us treat prayer 

like a drive‑through window.

We place our order, 

pull away, 

and hope 

something good shows up.

But prayer is not fast food.

Prayer is relationship.

And relationships 

require stillness.

St Paul tells us, that is where, 

our conscience 

joins with the Holy Spirit, 

bearing witness inside us.

God’s voice is not always thunder—

sometimes it is the 

gentle stirring of the soul, 

the whisper that says,

 “I am here.”

Elijah learns this on the mountain.

Not in the wind.

Not in the earthquake.

Not in the fire.

But in a tiny whispering sound—

so small he almost misses it—

yet carrying the weight of heaven.

And in the Gospel, 

the disciples learn the same truth 

in their storm.

The waves are loud.

Their fear is louder.

But Jesus comes quietly, 

walking toward them, 

speaking the same whisper 

He used on Elijah:

“Take courage… it is I.”

The moment He steps into the boat, 

the wind dies down.

Not because the storm wasn’t real—

but because His presence

 changes the storm.

God is trying to tell us something:

“I am closer than the wind.

I am quieter than the waves.

I am speaking—if you will listen.”

When you pray… 

do you give God 

enough silence to speak?

Do you stay long enough 

for the whisper?

Prayer

Lord, 

quiet my soul 

so I may hear Your whisper.

Steady my heart 

when storms rise around me.

Let Your presence be the peace

 that calms my fear.

Teach me to listen 

with faith, trust, and love.

Amen