“Not in Thunder, But in Tenderness”- Feast of St. Vincent de Paul

Readings 092725

This past week, there was a quiet buzz in the Bible Belt.
Evangelical Christians were waiting for “the Rapture.”
Three days of darkness, they said. Then, on September 23rd and 24th, the faithful would be swept away.

I’m not exactly sure who believed it.
I live among Evangelicals. They are my neighbors, my friends, my community.
But there were no mass absences from work.
No children kept home from school.
No empty pews or panicked prayers.

I did get stuck in a traffic jam on the interstate—an accident, not ascension.
The drivers weren’t called up into heaven.
They were just late, like the rest of us.

And I wonder…
If there were a rapture,
how many who expect to be lifted
might find themselves still standing on the ground?

But Scripture doesn’t point us to fear.
It points us to presence.

“Sing and rejoice, O daughter Zion!
See, I am coming to dwell among you,” says the Lord.
Zechariah’s words are not a warning.
They are a wedding invitation.

God does not save from afar.
He surrounds us like a wall of fire.
He enters our world through the Incarnation.
He stays.

In Christ, God dwells among us—
not in spectacle,
but in mercy.
Not in vanishing,
but in abiding.

We are not called to count down dates.
We are called to prepare our hearts.
To live the Gospel.
To remain watchful—not for a sudden escape,
but for Christ Himself.

He comes quietly—
in the face of the suffering,
in the cry of the hungry,
in the silence of prayer.

Jesus says, “Pay attention to what I am telling you.”
And Zechariah echoes, “Sing and rejoice!”

To follow Christ is to be attentive and joyful—
even in mystery.

St. Vincent reminds us:
God dwells among us.
Not in thunder, but in tenderness.
Not in escape, but in embrace.

Our Savior destroyed death and brought life to light—
not through fear,
but through love.

So today, let us rejoice.
Let us serve.
Let us be the glory in the midst of others,
as Christ is in ours.

Amen.

Prayer: “God of Presence”

Lord Jesus,
You do not come in thunder,
but in tenderness.
Not to vanish us from this world,
but to dwell within it.

Teach us to see You,
to serve You,
to rejoice in You.

Make our lives a dwelling place,
where mercy is known,
and love is lived.

Amen.

“This House Shall Be Filled”

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“Take courage, all you people of the land,” says the Lord, “and work!”
Not just any work—but the work of love, of service, of building something holy.
And the promise? “I will fill this house with glory… and in this place I will give you peace.”

That’s not just about a building. That’s about us.
Our homes, our parishes, our families.
God fills our house with glory when we fill it with prayer, with praise, with the quiet courage of showing up—again and again—to love.

A friend and I were talking recently about our vocations, our families, and faith.
We both agreed: one of the greatest joys is seeing our children and grandchildren at Mass.
To see those we love, loving God.
To hear little voices sing praise.
To watch young hearts bow in prayer.
It’s a glimpse of glory. A whisper of peace.

And in that moment, I hear Jesus ask again:
“But who do you say that I am?”

I say: You are the One who serves.
The One who gives.
The One who fills our ordinary lives with extraordinary grace.

So we take courage.
We work.
We pray.
We sing.
We pass on the faith—not just in words, but in witness.
And the house is filled with glory.

Prayer: “Fill This House”

Lord,
You call us to take courage and to work.
Fill this house—our hearts, our homes—with your glory.
Let peace dwell where love is lived.
Teach us to serve,
to give,
to pass on the faith with joy.
You are our peace.
You are our joy.
Amen.

The Field and the Way

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One summer, my family went on vacation. 

As we traveled, we used an app on my phone—early tech, nothing fancy.
You typed in the address, and it gave you turn-by-turn directions.
No Google Maps. No Waze. Just a voice telling us where to go.

We saw the hotel we’d reserved as we drove into town.
But the phone said, “Not yet.”
Curious where it would lead, we kept going.
We followed the instructions.
And we ended up in an empty field.

No hotel. No lights. No road.
Just silence. Just nowhere.

Thank God—we knew where we were supposed to be.
We turned around.
We went back to the place we had seen.
We found what was real.

“Consider your ways,” says the prophet.
You’ve sown much—but harvested little.
You’ve eaten—but you’re still hungry.
You’ve earned wages—but the bag has holes.

We follow many voices.
We trust many maps.
We chase many promises.
But how often do we end up in a field of nothing?

Jesus says, “I am the way, the truth, and the life.”
Not one way—the way.
Not one truth—the truth.
Not one life—the life.

Herod kept trying to see Jesus.
He heard the stories.
He saw the signs.
But he didn’t know the way.

So maybe we should ask ourselves:
What voice are we following?
What map are we trusting?
What field are we standing in?

If your soul feels empty,
If your heart feels lost,
If your spirit is hungry—
Turn around.
Go back to what you knew.
Go back to the One who is the way.

Because the truth isn’t just a direction.
It’s a person.
And He is waiting.

Pray: “Lead Me Back”

Lord Jesus,
When I follow voices that lead me astray,
When I trust maps that end in empty fields,
Call me back.

When my soul feels hollow,
When my heart is restless,
When my spirit is hungry—
Be the light on the horizon.

You are the way.
You are the truth.
You are the life.

Turn me around, Lord.
Lead me back to what is real.
Lead me back to You.

Amen.