The following is reprinted with author permission. Fr. Diego Puricelli is a professor of moral theology and a priest of the Diocese of Belluno-Feltre.

“Now, the very experience of the first witnesses reminds us that the joy of the resurrection is not accessed in a straightforward, linear way. In fact, from the accounts of the appearances, we can glimpse a kind of common thread that links all these narratives: the rejection of spectacle. The Risen Lord, in fact, does not choose to manifest himself to everyone in a clamorous and convincing way. His presence is not imposed. On the contrary, he reveals himself with extreme discretion, almost with modesty, and only to a few. He lets himself be recognized through simple, almost negligible signs: the bandages left in the tomb, the heart that burns along the way, the net full of fish, the testimony of the women. In short, the presence of the Risen One is extremely discreet.

What's more, when the Risen One manifests himself, he does so without any spirit of revenge, but rather offers—as in John's account—the signs of a freely lived love: "the hands and the side." No reproach, no preaching, no petty remarks. The gestures of the Risen One are so essential that they cannot be misunderstood: “Peace be with you! Receive the Holy Spirit.”

Thus, the resurrection manifests itself in the community of believers: as a relief from one's own sin and a liberation from one's own fears. The Risen One, in fact, knows well the poverty of his church, but he also knows that in this weak and fragile humanity lies the mysterious strength of authentic witness. After all, it is true: only those who have known their own limits, only those who have experienced their own sin, can become authentic guardians of God's forgiveness, without falling into idealism and without fleeing the truth of life (how many times, instead, do we think the opposite, that God wants us to be perfect... and we don't accept our failings, we don't forgive ourselves...).

From this first expansion of life and joy, Thomas, the disciple who best of all embodies our struggle to immediately commit to a renewal of life, is initially excluded.

How many times do we, like Thomas, not believe the announcements of hope and new life that the Lord gives us, ending up remaining isolated, on our own, licking our wounds. It's true. As the then-Cardinal Bergoglio wrote back in 2005, in a wonderful little book titled "Healing from Corruption," "a painful journey always demoralizes, having experienced defeats leads the human heart to get used to them, so as not to be surprised or suffer again if others come."

Yet, in Thomas, there is something that betrays his desire to access a new relationship with his Lord. In fact, eight days later, Thomas is still there, with the group of disciples. He hasn't gone away, disappointed and upset. Thomas had the courage to disobey the protests of his wounded heart, choosing to bring his own pain closer to the hope of his brothers.

Only then does the Lord finally appear to him, to introduce him as well into the mystery of his pierced and risen love: "Put your finger here and see my hands; stretch out your hand and put it into my side; and do not be unbelieving, but believing!” Indeed, one never enters the joy of the resurrection alone, set apart, but always and only together with others, together with our brothers and sisters in faith.

Today, we too are called to live our journey of faith like Thomas. I think there is no more beautiful icon! Men and women of doubt, uncertain, wounded, but at the same time capable of confident surrender, of remaining despite everything, even when things around us often say the opposite.

In this journey, we are not alone: the Risen One walks beside us, draws near precisely where our hands tremble and our hearts close. It is He who, with the gentle strength of his wounds, gathers our questions, sustains our weariness, and transfigures our pain.

And so, truly blessed are we if we have the courage to remain: because he who remains, even in the darkness, will see the light; and he who trusts, even without seeing, will enter into endless joy!”

End post! This post has been freely shared with written permission of the author.

In my past life, working in foreign affairs and politics, I learned a simple but profound rule: people are rarely fighting about what they tell you they are fighting about. This is excellent advice for any aspiring diplomat but also for spiritual advisors.

We tend to tell other people what we want them to hear. And in defending ourselves against accusations of doing something unjust we especially cling to appealing reasons that conveniently help us cover up our own shortcomings.

The Church will have an ever-growing number of individuals who have broken Church law (like a couple using IVF to conceive) or who have made the difficult life decisions to get remarried after a divorce.  And for those who have found positivity and stability in their choices, we are increasingly having difficulty explaining why the Church cannot walk the journey with them.

I’m writing this from the bayous of Cajun country in Louisiana. As a former French colony, there are still some small rural areas where upward of 20% speak Cajun at home. Having religion and being Catholic are the same thing here. They even call the county government a “parish” owing back to the time when the Church was the main organizer of society and culture.  

On this trip, I learned about Charlene Richard (pronounced REE-chard), the tragic and heroic story of a cheerful 12 year old girl who died of Leukemia in 1959. When she learned of her fate, she didn’t just endure her suffering; she joyfully accepted it and offered it for the sake of others.  They call her the “Little Cajun Saint” and Catholics here have a devotion to her.   But the context of her story is often lost in a modern world where we can sometimes tell people to embrace their suffering as a way to make THEM more holy, not us. 

For those of us who are LGBT or divorced and remarried Catholics, the phrase “take up your cross” has been both harmlessly cast upon us and occasionally weaponized by those that want to keep the parish pews pure. You can experience gay thoughts as long as you keep them secret and hidden. The modern approach to suffering for its own sake treats it like a virtue. Unfortunately, this simple reading is a profound departure from Catholic tradition. It treats the cross as a prison, not as a path to the fullness of life. 

The desire to be a “good Catholic” is one that we all know. It’s a tug from deep within reflecting an increasingly isolated world that craves a deeper connection with faith and their fellow man. But what happens when this desire transforms into a subtle and complicated ambition—the desire to be seen as a great Catholic.  Is it selfish? Or is it a misguided determination to thrive within a community that also happens to be Catholic.

If you had lived in London in 1514, a few years before Martin Luther even made it into the news, you would have been keenly aware that the Church’s structural and political powers were cracking. And in part it was accelerated by a man we would go on to proclaim a saint—Thomas More.

He remains an inspirational saint to me. Someone I think we should continue to pray to for intercession. He was a loyal, obedient son to the Church and clearly a close disciple of Jesus Christ. But if we had the opportunity to interview the saint in this day and age, I can’t help but wonder if he would rethink some of his decisions.

This Sunday, we'll hear the Gospel reading from Luke 12 where someone demands Jesus instruct his brother to share an inheritance. Imagine yourself in that situation. At the time, the firstborn was entitled to a greater proportion of inherited wealth—typically land—in line with their responsibilities to protect and preserve the family's well-being. Similarly, everything within Catholic Canon Law aims for the good of souls.

Just as many of us are accustomed to seeking a priest's advice when life gets difficult, a rabbi would have been the perfect person to help settle a family dispute during Jesus' time. So, imagine the surprise when Jesus replied, "Friend, who appointed me as your judge and arbitrator?"

In this blog post, we’ll explore two contrasting cultures presented in the Gospel, the love of winning arguments (philonikia) and the pursuit of hospitality (philoxenia).

When we imagine the Pentecost scene from the Acts of the Apostles, it often feels magical, as if the Holy Spirit implanted a divine translation device. Yet, the true "languages" of the 21st century are found in the suffering of others—poverty, pain, and exhaustion—which, when truly seen, allow us to speak the Holy Spirit's languages of consolation and un

“While the world turns, the Cross stands firm.” It’s a quote we attribute to Saint Bruno, who lived

more than 900 years ago in Europe at the peak of Christendom. It has become a popular

phrase among Catholics, who understandably want to stand proud and defiant against a culture

that has seemingly forgotten our importance in the modern world. And while Saint Bruno likely

would agree, the quote goes back to his desire to create Christian encounters that were lacking

for his day.

Aside from the fact that the people of Bruno’s day understood the world to be flat– the revolving

world does not refer to a globe– the turning refers to the problem of Christendom where

Catholics would fight against one another for their brand of Catholicism, their influence over the

Church, and their national representatives of Catholicism to sit in Peter’s throne. Saint Bruno

was reflecting on a unity and virtue problem, not a tradition problem.

First, thank you so much for your support of this project. Your subscription to the blog helps make the podcast possible and will also support the upcoming book with Paulist Press.

When I began putting this project together more than two years ago, a lot of people commented they were happy someone was working with Catholics on the margins. To a degree, they were correct, but it didn’t fully sit right with me.

Being "marginalized" is a wonky academic term. It’s almost impersonal. If someone says they are marginalized, they’re probably asking for a structural or political change. For example, if someone is handicapped, we can and should build a wheelchair ramp. But does that make them feel wanted?