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Reflections of Family and Faith
"The family that prays together stays together." - Venerable Patrick Peyton
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There’s an old story about a group of single men in a Bible study. After listening the gospel of the day, they got into a debate over which sister, Mary or Martha, would make the better wife. One insisted on Martha: “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and she sure knew how to cook!” Another voted for Mary: “She was thoughtful, quiet and loving, I’d be happy with a woman like that.” Finally, another guy ended the debate: “I’d like Martha before dinner and Mary and her quiet after dinner.”
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We all draw lines. Sometimes with a pen. Sometimes with our eyes. Sometimes just in our heads, where we don’t say it out loud, but we know, who belongs and who doesn’t. Who’s one of “us,” and who’s one of “them.” Who’s good and who’s just off. Who deserves help, and who brought it on themselves. Let’s talk about one of the most universal lines we all draw, the kind that shows up not in theology books, but in traffic. If I’m driving slowly, I’m responsible. I’m aware. Maybe even holy. But if someone else is driving slowly? They are an idiot, holding everyone back. Probably texting. Or sightseeing on the highway.
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Learn more about our faith | Strengthening family unity | Why pray?
In 1968, Apollo 8 astronauts became the first humans to orbit the moon. As they swung around the far side, completely cut off from all radio contact with Earth, alone in the cosmic dark, astronaut Jim Lovell looked out into the void and said something unexpected: “I feel like there were more than three of us up there.” He couldn’t explain it. No religious vision, no sudden apparition, just an unmistakable sense of presence. Years later, he still maintained: “We were not alone.” Today, on the feast of the Guardian Angels, we hear a curious reading from Nehemiah. The people of Israel gathered to hear words they had forgotten, and when they remembered, they wept. But Ezra told them to stop crying and start celebrating. Because they discovered again what it means to be accompanied, what it means to not be forgotten.
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Holy lives of inspiration | Why pray?
Some years ago, I read a story about a little boy named Eamon, who was gravely ill and being treated in a children’s hospital. His parents kept vigil by his bedside day and night. One nurse recalled walking past his room in the small hours of the morning and finding his mother singing softly to him, holding his frail hand. She said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever witnessed: in that dimly lit hospital room, it felt like she had stepped into holy ground. The boy Eamon eventually passed away, but his parents said they felt surrounded, carried even, by a strength beyond their own, the kind you can’t explain but only receive. That, I believe, is the quiet work of angels. Not always with trumpets and fire, but with presence, with consolation, with a reminder that God is near. When we hear Daniel’s vision in the Bible—thrones set in place, rivers of fire, the “Ancient of Days” clothed in glory, it feels like something out of a movie. You almost expect special effects and a booming soundtrack. Daniel wasn’t writing a screenplay. He was trying to put into words an experience of God’s majesty that words can hardly hold.
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Jerusalem lay in ruins. For seventy years the songs of worship had fallen silent, the temple reduced to rubble. And then, of all people, a Persian king, the ruler of their former captors, signed the checks to rebuild the house of God. There’s something deliciously ironic about King Darius funding the rebuilding of a temple to a God he didn’t even worship. Yet this is precisely what unfolds in our reading today. The Persian emperor, and his successors, rulers of the known world, becomes heaven’s unlikely contractors. The temple project wasn’t just approved, it came with a blank check and royal protection.
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Holy lives of inspiration | Learn more about our faith
Speaking of concealing light under a bed or a vessel, I think of a true story from World War II. In the blackout nights of London, families were ordered to cover every window so not a single candle or match lit could be seen by enemy bombers. But one evening, a single crack of light escaped from a house, and the entire neighborhood panicked; it could be a target signal for the enemy. One sliver of light in the dark sky could make all the difference. Isn’t that astonishing? Even the faintest light carries immense weight in the darkest night. Consider the curious case of Moses after his mountain-top encounter with God. When he descended Sinai, his face shone so brilliantly that the Israelites couldn't bear to look at him directly. What did Moses do? He covered his face with a veil. The veil wasn't permanent; it came off when he spoke with God and when he taught the people, but at other times the veil remained covering his face. Moses learned the delicate art of being a lighthouse, knowing when to beam at full intensity and when to provide gentle guidance.
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