Go Fish

With two parts of it now done, I've been receiving overwhelmingly positive feedback on this homily series...with one glaring exception today. Someone (not sure if it was a parishioner or a visitor) came up to Fr. Scott after Mass this morning and said, "We should be hearing preaching on ISIS beheadings or the way Planned Parenthood sells baby parts. I didn't come to church to hear about fish and chips!" The woman's point is well taken...but the subjects are not nearly as far apart as she thinks. Fasting (like so many other traditional spiritual practices) is actually a very powerful weapon in the fight against the powers of evil at work in the world. For decades, the U.S. Catholic Bishops have advocated abstaining from meat on Fridays for the intention of peace in the world. Why not also consider a voluntary day of fasting in reparation for the sins our country's abortion industry has perpetrated against unborn children and their mothers? If more Catholics took seriously the Church's Precept on fast and abstinence, just imagine how many of Satan's wiles could be defeated, if not outright foiled from the start!

   Eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

The Precepts of the Church

Part II

Lost on a rainy Friday night,

a priest stumbled upon a monastery and requested shelter there.

Fortunately, he was just in time for dinner

and was treated to the best fish and chips he’d ever tasted.

After dinner, he went to the kitchen to thank the cooks.

There he met two brothers.

 “Hi,” said one, “I’m Br. Michael.”

“And I’m Br. Francis,” said the other. 

“Did you enjoy your dinner?”

“To be perfectly honest,” answered the priest,

“it was the best fish and chips I’ve ever tasted.

Just out of curiosity, who cooked what?”

“Well,” Br. Michael replied, “I’m…the fish friar.”

So the priest turned to Br. Francis and said, “Then you must be…”

“Yes, I’m afraid, I’m…the chip monk.”

Most every spiritual tradition on the planet

has an established pattern of feasting and fasting.

It’s even something we see spilling over into our secular vocabulary:

our English word, “holiday,” meaning a general day for recreation,

comes from the word, “holyday,” indicating a religious festival.

This pattern of feast and fast should come as no surprise,

since it seems built right into our human nature.

If you know you’re soon going to be enjoying a big, delicious meal,

then you start eating less ahead of time in order to save some room.

Catholicism is no exception to this pattern.

Last Sunday, we examined the Precept of the Church

that speaks of feasting:

1. To attend Mass and rest from servile work

    on Sundays and holy days of obligation

This Sunday, I want to talk about the Precept that addresses fasting:

2. To observe the days of fasting and abstinence from meat

    established by the Church

The greatest feast on the Church’s calendar is…Easter.

(That’s why—as mentioned last Sunday—

it’s specifically during the Easter season

that all Catholics are to receive Holy Communion.)

But what comes before Easter? 

The Church’s greatest fast: Lent.

Likewise, before the great feast of Christmas

we observe the season of Advent.

Once upon a time, other seasons of fasting, too,

were part of the Church’s annual cycle.

Also once upon a time,

the Church’s disciplines of fasting and abstinence

were much more rigorous than they are now.

Today, we’re required to fast just two days of Lent—

on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday;

previously, Catholics fasted for all 40 days.

Today, we’re expected to abstain from meat

only on Ash Wednesday and the Fridays of Lent;

in an earlier time,

Catholics went without meat both every day of Lent

and every Friday of the whole year.

Catholics, of course, were once known far and wide

for their distinctive habit of eating fish on Fridays.

Have you ever noticed how many restaurants

still advertize a seafood special on Friday nights?

In fact, the McDonald’s chain

started serving its Filet-O-Fish sandwich in 1962

after the owner of the Cincinnati franchises

noticed his sales dropped sharply each and every Friday.

Abstaining from meat on Fridays

was an instance of fasting before feasting in miniature:

a weekly preparation to feast on the bread of life at Sunday Mass.

We see that, too, in the Eucharistic fast.

Many Catholics today only vaguely know that,

before receiving Holy Communion,

they are supposed to fast completely from all food and drink

(except water and medicine, and unless you’re sick)

for at least one full hour.

Did you ever wonder why Catholic churches

traditionally had Mass so very early in the morning?

That’s because the Eucharistic fast used to be much longer:

all the way from midnight the night before.

That’s enough about the mechanics

of the Precept of fast and abstinence;

now let’s address why the Church commands us to do such things…

One reason is as penance.

Put plainly: we’re sinners.

We’ve failed in our love of God and neighbor.

Our souls need healing

and—as best we’re able—we need to set things right.

And so we occasionally deny ourselves a basic human need

for all those times we’ve indulged our illegitimate desires—

freely choosing to go without some good thing

because we often choose all the wrong things.

Fasting and abstinence from meat are merely external observances,

but they help us to make a much needed internal change:

in the words of St. Paul, to put away our former, deceitful desires,

to be renewed in the spirit of our minds, to put on a new self.

A second reason is to tame our passions.

We have natural human appetites not only for food and drink,

but for sleep and for companionship and intimacy.

These are—in and of themselves—all good things.

But we can, in fact, have too much of a good thing,

or turn it to selfish purposes,

or harm others in our pursuit of it.

As did those whom Jesus fed with the loaves and fish,

we can get so focused on obtaining the bread of earth

that we neglect the true bread from heaven.

To exercise mastery over any one of our appetites—

including that for food—

helps us to exercise authentic freedom in other areas of life,

and not be driven by our base desires.

A third reason is solidarity with the poor.

When it comes to food here in the U.S.,

many of us eat far too much of it and waste it far too often.

We approach it purely as consumers,

becoming forgetful that it’s God who provides.

And we take our abundance for granted.

We have enough, but—like the Israelites grumbling in the desert—

we’re still not satisfied, because it isn’t exactly what we wanted.

My friends, there are millions and millions of people—

in this country, and around the globe—

who’d be more than satisfied with the scraps from our tables.

When we fast, the money we’ve saved

can be used to help feed the hungry,

and the food we’ve gone without can help us

to enter with compassion into their everyday experience.

A fourth reason—the most important of all—

is to increase our union with Christ:

to unite our small sacrifices with his perfect one

for the salvation of the world.

The reason Catholics refrain

from eating the flesh of warm-blooded animals on Fridays

is to commemorate that Friday on which the incarnate Son of God

offered up his own flesh and blood for our sake.

Most American Catholics do not realize

that it’s still the universal law of the Church

to go meatless on Fridays—

not just during Lent, but all Fridays throughout the year.

National Bishops conferences can adapt this law,

and our Bishops have said that we can eat meat

on Fridays outside of Lent…

…as long as we substitute some other penance

or act of self-denial in its place.

We’ve tried to go back to meatless Fridays in the rectory
over the past few years—

and, I must say, it changes the whole day for me
(and not just because I don't really like fish).

I’m certainly more conscious throughout the day

of Christ’s Passion and Cross—

the immense sacrifice he willingly made for me—

and it provides me repeated opportunities—

whether grocery shopping or out for dinner—

to give quiet witness to my Catholic faith.

Do not work for the food that perishes, Jesus says,

but the food that endures for eternal life.

Let us willingly go hungry from time to time,

that we might the more worthily eat the Bread of Life,

and so never hunger or thirst again. 

  

Offer It Up

So, you'll see that this one is a sermon and a half...but that's because it includes the introduction to a five-part homily series that it's been on my heart to do for quite awhile.  The happy coincidence of Fr. Scott's upcoming trip and five Sunday's of gospel readings taken from chapter 6 of the Gospel of John told me now was the time to do it.

You can find all six of the Precepts of the Church listed in our parish's Sunday bulletin.

   Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

The Precepts of the Church

Part I

When Fr. Justin arrived a little over a year ago,

he marveled at the way we Americans drive.

Every time we were in the car,

he asked all kinds of questions—

about the lines on the road, the signs, the traffic lights.

What amazed him most

was the way drivers actually obeyed them.

It sounded to me like they have many of the same things in India,

it’s just that nobody pays much attention to them.

It sounds—frankly—like total chaos!

Now, most of us have imagined

being able to drive as fast as we want

without any fear of getting a ticket,

but deep down we know that we need traffic laws

to make driving safe.

In fact, the laws are even more essential:

I dare say that they make driving possible.

The same is true in sports.

We might chafe against the rules when things don’t go our way,

but without those rules,

you wouldn’t even have a game to play.

The Ten Commandments also work much like that.

Given by God to the Jewish people,

and later taken up by Christians,

we recognize them as basic rules for living

that are shared by most people of good will—

with a few variations—

whatever their religion.

But what about distinctly Catholic rules?

What does it take to make the Church’s life possible?

What do I need to do to be a good Catholic?

The Catholic Church 

has an entire, lengthy code of law—Canon Law—

that governs its operations.

(It’d be hard to manage a worldwide organization

with 1.2 billion members without one.)

But over the centuries,

the Church has prioritized her rules,

developing a list of six that represent the bare minimum

of what’s expected to stay in “good standing” with the Church.

They’re called the “Precepts” or “Commandments of the Church.”

There are no real surprises on that list.

Nothing all that exotic is required to be Catholic.

But the Precepts of the Church are little discussed these days—

making them increasingly less known,

less understood, and less observed.

But living by these Precepts—

like the rules of the road or the rules of the game—

are absolutely essential for keeping the Church together.

The precepts of the Church remind us

that being Catholic isn’t an inherited status

you can take for granted;

no—it’s a profound commitment to an entire way of life.

Fr. Scott is soon going to be away traveling for a few weeks,

so I’ve decided to seize the opportunity

and take five Sundays in a row to teach and preach

on the six Precepts of the Church.

This Sunday, I want to address two of these Precepts:

1. To attend Mass and rest from servile work

    on Sundays and holy days of obligation

4. To receive Holy Communion at least once a year,

    during the Easter season

Those precepts can sound a bit old fashioned

when we consider the way many Catholics today

actually practice their faith.

Once upon a time—and not all that long ago—

most Catholics went weekly to Sunday Mass,

but not all of them received Holy Communion.

Nowadays, fewer and fewer Catholics

regularly get to Mass every Sunday

(and even fewer still on holydays),

but when they do, nearly all of them receive—

whether they’re prepared to do so worthily or not.

It’s a sad thing to say, but when parishioners come asking

for a baptism or first Holy Communion,

a wedding or funeral these days,

I can safely assume more often than not

that they don’t usually go to Mass.

“But we’re Catholic!” they always assure me.

But what does that name “Catholic” even mean

if you don’t do the most basic things that Catholics do?

The Catholic Church is not a club

with lifetime membership status;

the Church is a family.

Which means that you are not so much invited

as you’re simply expected to take your place at the supper table.

All of you parents know how hard it is to keep a family together

if you don’t ever sit down to eat together.

Our obligation to attend Mass is a serious one.

Now, the Church’s laws are eminently reasonable,

and never require the impossible.

There of course is no obligation for those

who must care for the sick, or are sick themselves,

who live an unreasonable distance from a Catholic church,

or who must give immediate attention

to some urgent and unavoidable task—

the same sort of things that would honestly keep you home

from your job or a social obligation.

But to miss Mass through one’s own fault

on a Sunday or holy day is a mortal sin—

a sin with the power to cause death to the soul.

Yet notice that our obligation as Catholics

is to attend Mass every Sunday (and more),

but to receive Holy Communion only once a year.

That makes a certain priority clear—

one that’s lost on many of us.

Allow me to explain…

The most common reason Catholics give

for not going to church is,

“I don’t get anything out of it.”

And if you ask many Catholics what makes for a “good” Mass,

they’ll talk about the quality of the preaching,

the music, and the coffee and donuts served afterwards.

There are two problems with this list.

For one thing, there’s no mention of the main attraction:

the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist—

God come again from heaven to earth

in the Sacrament of his Body and Blood.

How can we overlook that?

It’s at the very heart of our Catholic faith!

Is something else besides needed to hold our attention?

Everything else is just window dressing, really.

The second problem with this list flows from the first:

it’s all rather self-centered;

it’s focused completely on what’s in it for us.

Why do we come to church?

Am I here more to get…or to give?

To feel welcome…or to worship?

True—there should be both.

But one is God’s intention in coming to us;

the other must be our intention in coming before God.

Our priority—as these two Precepts point out—

must not be what we come to get out of Mass,

but what we come to put in.

In this Sunday’s gospel,

Jesus shows his clear desire to feed mankind.

But he doesn’t do so out of nothing

(although he certainly could—

that’s how God created the world, after all).

Rather, Jesus makes use of the humble offering of a little boy.

His five loaves and two fish seem insignificant to the Apostles,

but the Lord welcomes them all the same.

Jesus knows how to put to good use

whatever we offer him.

Yes, we come to Mass to receive.

And, yes, the Lord wants to give.

But the Lord first needs to receive from us;

we need to give him something to work with.

And that something is worship:

our sacrifice—our offering—of thanks and praise.

What God wants you to give him Sunday after Sunday

isn’t so much something as somebody—it’s you!

It’s about putting God and his ways first in our lives—

ahead of all else, even ourselves.

 

One bad winter in the Arctic,

an Algonquin woman and her baby were left alone

after everyone else in their camp starved to death.

The woman walked away from that camp,

and, near a lake, found a single fishhook.

She could easily rig a line, but she had no bait.

Her baby cried and cried from hunger.

So she took a knife,

and cut a strip of flesh from her thigh.

She used her own flesh as bait, and caught a fish—

feeding her child and herself.

Of course, she saved the fish guts for bait

and was able to live at the lake, on fish, till spring,

when she walked out with her baby to find others.

That’s a true story;

those who tell it have seen her scar.  (cf. A. Dillard)

Her story of self-giving is really Jesus’ story…

…and it needs to be our story, too.

Jesus performed a miracle on the mountain

in line with those of Elisha and the prophets of old.

But at Passover another year,

he will do something even more wondrous:

God who became man, the Word that became flesh,

will give his flesh to be our bread—

to feed our souls unto eternal life.

That most blessed of miracles is renewed at every Mass.

And what we witness Jesus doing in every Mass—

making an offering of himself to the Father and to us—

we are likewise called to do ourselves.

If we are truly one body and one spirit,

if we are united by one Lord, one faith, one baptism,

then we need to come together regularly

to worship and adore the one God and Father of all.

We may not need our food to be multiplied.

But most of us could stand a multiplication

of our time and energy, our strength and our faith.

Make of them an offering to God.

Put yourself completely into the Lord’s hands.

Dedicate your whole being to his service.

And what once seemed rather poor and inadequate

will prove to be more than enough—

as much as you wanted, with some even left over.

Before Jesus feeds the crowd,

he stops to give thanks.

Before we’re fed by Jesus,

it's our sacred duty to give thanks, too.

  

Across the Pond

Even though we're both now assigned to the same parish, Fr. Scott and I (with help from Fr. Stitt) were able to get away for an overnight in the woods Wednesday-Thursday.  We'd originally been planning a more intense excursion (with a few High Peaks involved), but pastoral responsibilities and my lingering cold forced us to be prudent and scale things back a bit.  So we headed off to Taylor Pond (where I'd camped back at the end of March).  We rented a canoe there at the DEC primitive campground and set out across the 4-mile pond...

...along the flank of Catamount Mountain to a beautiful lean to at it's far western end.

Besides it's great views of the water...

...we also enjoyed watching (and listening to) the wildlife: bunches of laughing loons, a fawn sipping at the shore, a graceful great blue heron, a swooping osprey and a soaring eagle, along with a beaver (or maybe a muskrat) gliding across the bay.  (We won't put the abundant mosquitos and other buzzing bugs on that list).
  

Rest A While

   Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

No homily for you this Sunday, my friends.  I came home from summer camp with happy memories, a few mosquito bites, ...and a severe cold.  I'll be back on track next Sunday.

Slip'n Slide

A very quick post before heading off to summer camp...

Last Thursday, I climbed up and over Mount Colden (4715 ft), #11 among the 46 High Peaks of the Adirondacks.  Passing Marcy Dam (or, I should say, what's left of it), I got my first glimpses of the peak.

I took the trail past Lake Arnold...

...to the lower, northern summit, from which there were views (despite the low clouds) of my approaching destination...

...and the surrounding High Peaks.

The views only got better from the top.

I decided to take a different route for my return trip.  Not the best idea I've ever had!  While the scenery was stunning (as you'll see), the trail also left me a bit stunned.  There was basically a rather steep, mile-long Slip'n Slide, as the trail is exposed rock face and was running with water from all the recent rain.  Needless to say, I picked up a few scrapes and bruises before arriving at Mount Colden's base, taking me around Lake Colden...

...and then around Avalanche Lake and through Avalanche Pass..

...and completing my nearly 14 mile loop.

I was a bit sore that night and the next day...but, yes, it was worth it!
  

Unequipped

   Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

“My parents are sending me to summer camp,” said one boy to another.

“Why?” asked the second.  “Do you need a vacation?”

“No,” answered the first.  “They do.”

Fr. Scott and I were in the car the other day

when we heard part of a radio program

discussing the American tradition

of sending kids off to summer camp.

Even if you never went to camp yourself,

I’m sure you have some notion of the annual routine

of youngsters heading into the woods for a week (or two or three)

of swimming and campfires and fast friendships.

I myself am heading to Camp Guggenheim later today

to spend the week there as chaplain.

But where did this idea come from?  How did it start?

The radio show began with a brief discussion

of the history of summer camping here in the U.S..

It seems it goes back to the late 19^th century.

Even long before there were telephones, televisions, or the Internet,

people had great anxieties about the modern age

and where the world was going.

As cities grew rapidly,

there was also a growing sense

that urban life was not as healthy as life in the country—

and that men, therefore, were getting soft.

And so boys were taken camping,

to get away from their mothers and modern entertainments.

If they were going to develop into good leaders,

they would need some toughening up.

Eventually, summer camp was extended to girls, too,

and not reserved for children of the upper classes.

Many of the rituals still found at summer camp today

go all the way back to those early days.

That radio show got me thinking—

not only of my coming week at Guggenheim,

but about the gospel passage we hear this Sunday.

Maybe Jesus is doing for his Apostles

what summer camp was first intended to do:

maybe he’s trying to toughen them up.

And, in this modern age,

a bit anxious about where the world is going,

maybe that’s just what we need, too.

They’re odd instructions Jesus gives the Twelve, are they not?

To head out on a critical mission,

but take none of the usual gear required for the journey?

It can sound like he’s setting them up to fail…

…but Jesus is actually giving them the recipe for success.

I think Jesus sends out his Apostles—and likewise, sends us out—

essentially empty-handed for two very good reasons.

The first is so that we won’t have any crutches to lean on.

The tools we use to spread the Gospel

may have gotten more high-tech these days,

but the effect is still the same:

we can get so distracted by the instruments

that we forget our real purpose in using them
and depend too heavily on them to prop us up.

I’ve seen many articles and books

on how to use the Internet most effectively as a Christian…

…but I have yet to meet anyone who’s actually been converted

by a posting on Facebook.

We can easily hide behind our technology.

We can even more easily take our faith for granted.

Staying in shape—spiritually, just as it does physically—

requires regular exercise.

Take the health of your soul for granted

and, soon enough, it starts to get soft.

Jesus demands that we rely, not on gimmicks or gadgets,

but on him alone.

Purposefully going without,
withdrawing from our usual occupations,

can toughen us up and do us some good.

We must trust that God will provide everything we need.

Besides, what will really grab people’s attention

is not a person’s fancy provisions,

but when somebody practices what they preach,
when they love not only in word but in fact,

when they’re willing to put themselves on the line for what they believe.

A second reason Jesus sends us empty-handed
to announce his Gospel of repentance and salvation

is to strip away our excuses.

Jesus can dispatch the Twelve without the obvious equipment

because he’s already equipped them with everything they need.

And so, too, has Jesus done for you and me.

When people—decent-living, church-going people—

are challenged to step up and step out for their faith in Jesus,

a million excuses begin to pile up:

“Well, I don’t have a degree in theology.”

“You know, I’m not a very good public speaker.”

“Hey, everybody knows my past.  I’ll just look like a big hypocrite!”

In claiming such things, we actually deny our faith,

showing that we do not believe—as repeated by St. Paul—

that God “has blessed us in Christ with every spiritual blessing,”

chosen us for his purpose, given us a place in his plan,

destined us to exist “for the praise of his glory.”

An old saying puts it well:

“God does not call the qualified; he qualifies those he has called.”

Like the Twelve, we have been given a mission,

but not a guarantee of accomplishment.

God’s word is always effective—

but it’s not always the effect we’d hoped for.

Rejection is to be expected and, when it comes,

we are to shake it off as so much dust from our feet.

Yet what we have been promised is a share in the final victory:

the ultimate triumph of good over evil, of life over death.

Are you ready to set aside your crutches, your props?

Ready to drop your excuses?
Let’s empty our bags, and head with the Apostles to summer camp.

   

Amazing Grace

   Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time   B 

Readings

A funeral director called in a bagpiper

to play at the graveside service for a homeless man.

Without family or friends,

the deceased was to be buried

in a pauper’s field in the backcountry.

The bagpiper wasn’t familiar with the area,

but refused to stop for directions,

and so finally arrived a whole hour late.

There was no hearse, no clergy, no funeral director,

just the men with shovels,

apparently taking a break from their solemn duty.

Feeling bad enough already,

the bagpiper went immediately over to the hole, looked in,

and saw the vault lid already in place.

No knowing what else to do, he started to play—

and played like never before,

pouring out his heart and soul for this homeless man.

As the notes of “Amazing Grace”

floated out over the field and into the woods,

the workers gathered around, and tears began to form

in more than few of these strong men’s eyes.

When the song was over,

the bagpiper—himself moved, and so not saying a word—

packed up his pipes and headed for his car.

But as he opened the car door,

he heard one of the workmen saying,

“In all my 20 years of puttin’ in septic tanks,

I ain’t seen nothin’ like it before…”

We sing, “Amazing Grace.”

We repeat the words of the angel

and address the Virgin Mary as “full of grace.”

This Sunday, we hear the Lord say to Saint Paul,

“My grace is enough for you.”

It comes up all the time…

…but what is grace?

The roots of our English word “grace”

denote goodwill, taking joy or delight in something or somebody,

bestowing a generous, undeserved kindness.

From the beginning, Christians have defined grace

as God’s free gift—given not because of our merits,

but because of God’s favor toward us.

Grace is not a “thing”—it’s more a “who” than a “what.”

Grace is God’s presence, friendship with God,

a share in God’s own life within us.

Grace is God’s gift of himself,

drawing us into the inner life of the Trinity,

that we might be capable of living a new life—now and forever.

Grace makes us children of God.

Grace is God’s help, God’s goodness—

a spiritual shot in the arm.
Grace strengthens us to know, will, and do everything

that leads to goodness and to God and to heaven.

Grace is especially extended to us in the sacraments,

and manifest in particular gifts and powers granted by God,

but is available to us always and everywhere.

As St. Thérèse of Lisieux, a Doctor of the Church,

dramatically said shortly before dying: “Everything is grace!”

Now, I know that grace can sound mighty theoretical,

but it’s actually the most practical thing under the sun.

What do you need when facing the tough stuff of life—

whether everyday struggles or extraordinary trials?

What do you need when trying to do the right thing,

despite your temptations and tendencies to do otherwise?

What do you need when it’s hard to believe,

hard to trust God completely?

The world would tell us that what we need is guts.

But if guts were enough,

that would mean we were able to save or sustain ourselves.

Experience tells us again and again: guts aren’t enough.

No, what we need is God’s grace.

Grace is required to be truly Christian,

to be authentically Catholic—disciples not just in name, but in fact—

in a world that’s increasingly hostile to the Gospel message,

even here in the “land of the free and the home of the brave.”

How could we expect it to be otherwise when even Jesus

has a rather rough time with the hometown crowd?

This Sunday, we’re told that the sabbath assembly—

filled with his old friends and neighbors—

is “astonished,” “amazed,” at this teaching;
like the man with the shovel, they say, 
"We ain't seen nothin' like it before..."

Of course, there are several ways to be amazed.

They could be overwhelmed with joy:

“I didn’t realize God cared so much!”

They could find it all too good to be true:

“God could never love me like that.”

Or they could be—and they were—scandalized:

“Just who does he think he is?

There’s no way I’m putting my faith in anyone

who’d tell me to do this, to stop doing that!”

There are many who still find it astonishing that the Church teaches
not what’s currently popular or “politically correct,”

but with the sacred authority entrusted to her by Christ.

Through his Church,

Christ himself is still prophetically speaking 
the truth about life and death, about heaven and hell,

the truth about Communion and confession,

about care for the poor and the environment, 
about sex, marriage, and family.

Yes, Christ is still speaking…
and not a few people are still taking offence at him.

People are still astonished

because Christ’s teaching is still amazing—in every way!

Prophets today, just as prophets of old,

are called by God to declare,
not, "Here's what I think," 
but, “Thus says the Lord!”

knowing that some will heed, 
but many will resist and rebel.

When your Catholic faith requires you 
to stand up and speak up,

to break from the crowd and go against the grain,

guts are required—for sure.

But they are not sufficient; only grace is enough.

How truly amazing!