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Reflections of Family and Faith
"The family that prays together stays together." - Venerable Patrick Peyton
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Once in a workshop for principals of schools in which I was part of, I heard A retired school principal share a story that has stayed with me for long. After forty years in education, he said the most difficult meeting he ever attended was not with troubled students, it was with teachers discussing their former students. Whenever someone famous appeared in the news, a scientist, an artist, a politician, teachers who had taught them years earlier would say things like, “Really? That boy? He sat in the back of my class.” Or, “That girl? she barely spoke when she was in class.” They remembered the old version of the person and struggled to reconcile it with who that person had become. The principal said something interesting: “We often freeze people in the version of them we first knew.”
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In 1980, a retired NYPD detective, Frank Bolz pioneered something that transformed law enforcement forever, especially hostage negotiation. His radical, counterintuitive insight was breathtakingly simple: he said, don't storm the building. Talk first. Because the moment genuine conversation begins, something irreversible happens. When you talk, a relationship is established. The standoff becomes a relationship. And relationships, real ones, change people. God, it turns out, invented this long before Frank. What Isaiah records in the first reading is a divine hostage negotiation situation. And here's the twist; we are simultaneously the hostage and the hostage-taker. We have taken ourselves captive, barricaded inside our own comfortable habits, our carefully curated religion, our elaborate self-justifications. And God, rather than sending in the SWAT team, simply picks up the phone. "Come now. Let us talk this over." He doesn't kick the door in. He calls. He begins a conversation and that distinction is everything.
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Brief and contemporary inspiration focused on hope and family prayer will be delivered to your inbox! Articles include live video, written word, and links to resources that will lead you and your family deeper into faith.
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In the marketplaces of Galilee, grain was not sold in tidy, sealed bags or neat plastic packages, like what we have in the supermarkets, but they were scooped from large baskets into whatever container you brought from home. A standard measure, usually, smaller household bowl was used to fill your bags before your eyes. But how it was filled made all the difference. A stingy merchant would pour the grain in loosely and stop when it looked full. Air pockets remained. Space was wasted. It appeared full and generous, but it was not. An honest seller, however, would press the grain down firmly with his hands. He would lift and shake the container so the kernels settled into every hidden gap. Then he would pour more on top until it formed a small mound above the rim, threatening to spill into your cloak. You went home knowing you had received more than expected.
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I want to share a story that has been circulating lately, a story of an Uber driver named Marcus and a passenger named Mr. Patterson. One evening Marcus picked up an elderly man at 11 PM who handed him five addresses and said, "Drive me to these places. Don't ask why until we're done." First stop: a house in the suburbs. The old man sat in the car, staring at it, crying silently. "This is where I grew up. Okay. Let us go to the Next stop." Second stop: an empty elementary school. He got out, walked to the playground, and sat on a swing for twenty minutes. "I taught here. 43 years. Best job I ever had." Third stop: a diner. He went in, ordered coffee, but he didn't drink it. Just sat. Looking around. "My wife and I had our first date here. 1967."
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Let me begin with a scene many of us know too well. You finally decide to clean the house not because you are convinced it needs a cleaning but because guests are coming. You clean the drawing room and the dining anyway, Floors shine, kitchen sink is empty, cushions are aligned, tables are clean, everything looks perfect. Then, five minutes before the doorbell rings, you realize the mess hasn’t disappeared; it’s just been pushed into one room. The door is shut. Problem solved, or so we think.
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Today, we celebrate the feast of Saint Blaise, the fourth-century physician-bishop martyr famous for saving a boy choking on a fishbone. We will get our throats blessed with crossed candles later at the end of the mass, but the intersection of Blaise’s medical background and today’s Gospel from Mark offers us a radical perspective on what it means to be truly well. In the gospel today we meet two people at opposite ends of the social spectrum: Jairus, the "VIP", a synagogue leader, and an unnamed woman who has been hemorrhaging for twelve years. Usually, we focus on their faith. But today let’s look at their desperation through the eyes of a doctor like Blaise.
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