Yes, the Latin Mass is beautiful. But can it be replicated in the modern day and still capture all of the essential Eucharistic theology it once had?

It’s incredible how such a core concept of Catholic theology can still be a serious subject of division. How can one know Jesus Christ without first knowing what mercy means? Maybe we think we do mean it. But do we make it too personal, too much about the self and a place of righteousness? Cardinal Walter Kasper noted in his 2014 book Mercy that this topic is almost criminally neglected in theological textbooks. It leaves our seminaries and our parishes with a void, one that is frequently filled by opposing and painful interpretations of what it means to GIVE mercy.

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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.

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).