My Dear Friend,

Before we begin, I want to say thank you.

We have had a number of new readers join this community recently, both free and paid, and I do not take that lightly. Every time someone chooses to make room for this work in their inbox, their prayer life, or their week, it means something to me.

This piece was especially meaningful to write because it let me share a little bit of my own private spirituality with you.

One of the beautiful things about the Christian faith is that it becomes deeply personal over time. Yes, we share Scripture, sacraments, creeds, prayers, and the great tradition of the Church. But each of us also develops our own little rhythms with God: the phrases we return to, the devotions that steady us, the practices that help us breathe again, the small habits that may look strange from the outside but somehow keep us close to grace.

And yes, if we are being honest, maybe even a few holy superstitions along the way.

Today’s essay touches on one of mine.

That is part of why this community is so important to me. It gives us a place to explore these things honestly and safely, with seriousness but without fear. Many of us are learning how to speak about faith again, either for the first time, or for the first time in a long time.

That kind of space is rare.

If that sounds like something worth continuing, I’d invite you to consider becoming a paid subscriber. Your support gives you a real share in this ministry and helps keep this work alive, growing, and available to others.

That, and the Holy Spirit, are what keep this whole thing going.

So thank you for being here. Thank you for reading. Thank you for sharing this work. And thank you for helping build a community where wounded, searching, thoughtful people can be drawn ever nearer to the Heart of Christ.

I'm Committing to Support This.

Your Brother in Christ,

“Draw Us Ever Nearer to Your Sacred Heart”

Early in my priesthood, I started doing something a little unusual.

Granted, I do a lot of unusual things, so the bar is not exactly high.

But this one has stayed with me.

Somewhere along the way, I began adding a simple line to my prayers:

“Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart.”

I honestly do not remember if I heard another priest say it, if I picked it up from some old prayer, or if it just came out of me one day and never left. At this point, I probably pray those words five to ten times a day.

Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart.

It has always felt important to me, though I have never been entirely sure how to explain why. I am not claiming some great mystical insight here. Far from it. I am not walking around in a cloud of incense having visions between cups of coffee.

But the prayer feels right.

It feels steady.

It feels like one of those spiritual sentences that somehow holds more than it says.

Almost like a holy cheat code, if I can say that without getting myself reported to the theology police. As if nothing can be lost, no matter how confused or wounded or afraid we become, if we are still being drawn nearer to the Heart of Christ.

Then something unusual happened this year.

The Roman Catholic bishops in the United States announced a consecration of the country to the Sacred Heart of Jesus. We can have all the debates one wants about whether a nation, especially a nation no single church owns or governs, can or should be consecrated in that way. Those questions are not unimportant.

But debates aside, the announcement told me something.

Whatever this thing is that I have felt for years, I am clearly not the only one feeling it.

Maybe the Church, in her long memory, has been trying to give language to something many of us feel before we can articulate it: that in a brutal, anxious, overstimulated age, we do not merely need better arguments, better branding, better outrage, or better coping mechanisms.

We need to be drawn nearer to the Sacred Heart.

The Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus is celebrated on the Friday after Corpus Christi. That placement is more important than it might seem. After the Church has contemplated Christ giving himself to us in the Eucharist, we are led to the Heart from which that gift flows.

The Sacred Heart is not merely a religious decoration. It is more than artwork on an old holy card, though I have nothing against old holy cards. Some of them have served as a last remaining tether to God as my own faith waxed and waned at points.

The Sacred Heart is the Church placing before us the inner life of Christ and saying: Look carefully. This is what divine love looks like when it enters a wounded world and refuses to stop loving.

The biblical image behind the devotion is the pierced side of Christ in John’s Gospel. After Jesus dies on the cross, a soldier pierces his side with a spear, and blood and water flow out.

The Church has never been able to look away from that moment.

Blood and water. Wound and gift. Death and life. The pierced body of Christ becoming the place from which mercy flows into the world.

God’s love has a body.

God’s love has wounds.

God’s love has a heart.

That is the claim at the center of this feast.

Jesus is not merely a teacher with good ideas. He is not merely a moral example. He is not the symbol we attach to whatever cause we already preferred before opening the Gospel.

He is the incarnate Son of God, whose heart burns with love for the Father and for the world.

And that love is not fragile.

Tender, yes. Merciful, yes. But not fragile. Not sentimental. Not weak. The Sacred Heart is crowned with thorns because Christ’s love enters the places where love gets wounded and still does not turn back.

That is the part we resist.

Most of us know love with limits. Love that withdraws when disappointed. Love that keeps score. Love that says, “I will come close, but only if I am certain I will not be hurt.”

So we learn to protect ourselves. We become functional. Careful. Harder to reach. We armor up and call it wisdom. We detach and call it peace.

Then the Church places before us a heart on fire.

Not a fist.

Not a weapon.

Not a shield.

A heart.

Many people today move through life feeling emotionally overclocked and spiritually numb at the same time. They wake up already bracing themselves before they even check their phones. The nervous system begins its morning liturgy before the soul has had time to pray.

News. Bills. Family tension. Political dread. Old grief. Fresh anxiety. The ache that behaves itself in public and then waits for the quiet.

Into that world, Christ says, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

That line is quoted so often that we can forget how radical it is.

He does not say, “Come to me once you have become impressive.”

He does not say, “Come to me once your theology is tidy, your emotions are regulated, your family is functioning, and your inner life no longer looks like a junk drawer.”

He says, come to me, all you who are weary and burdened.

Come tired.

Come tangled.

Come ashamed.

Come unable to explain why you are still carrying what you are carrying.

The Sacred Heart is Christ’s answer to the exhausted soul: I know what the world has done to your heart. Bring it here.

That is why this feast feels so urgent in 2026.

Our country is not merely divided. Division sounds too clean. We are suspicious, propagandized, reactive, lonely, and increasingly trained to treat contempt as intelligence.

Public cruelty is sold as strength. Mercy is mocked as weakness. Truth is often bent into whatever shape serves the tribe. Religion itself is too often dragged into the machinery of resentment and power.

So if we are going to speak of consecrating a nation to the Sacred Heart, then we had better be clear about what that means.

It cannot mean baptizing national ego.

It cannot mean pretending Jesus has been recruited to our side.

It cannot mean placing a sacred seal over politics that do not resemble the Heart being invoked.

A heart crowned with thorns does not flatter empire.

If the Sacred Heart means anything, it means every human project, including a nation, must be brought under the cover of Christ’s love. And Christ’s love is not vague. It draws near to the poor. It tells the truth. It refuses cruelty. It forgives sinners without pretending sin is harmless. It exposes hypocrisy. It welcomes the weary. It does not confuse dominance with righteousness.

A consecration to the Sacred Heart should make us less arrogant, not more. More repentant, not more triumphal. More attentive to the vulnerable, not more comfortable with their suffering.

That is not only a national question.

It is personal.

The Sacred Heart asks each of us: What has happened to your heart?

Not your opinions.

Not your brand.

Not your ability to win an argument.

Your heart.

Has it grown numb? Has it become cynical? Has it learned to wound back before anyone gets too close? Has it confused exhaustion with wisdom? Has it become so afraid of being naive that it no longer knows how to be tender?

There is no shame in admitting the answer.

The whole feast exists because Christ knows what happens to human hearts in a hard world.

He does not despise a wounded heart.

He offers his own.

That is why I keep praying those words.

Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart.

That prayer has become, for me, a way of admitting that I cannot heal my own heart by force of will. I cannot think my way into mercy. I cannot strategize my way into holiness. I cannot build a personality strong enough to protect me from every grief, disappointment, fear, or failure.

I need to be drawn.

That word matters.

Drawn.

Not shoved. Not scolded. Not dragged by shame.

Drawn.

The Sacred Heart draws us the way real love always draws: steadily, patiently, truthfully, without manipulation.

And the closer we come to that Heart, the more our own hearts begin to change.

Usually not dramatically. Most transformation is embarrassingly quiet. A little more patience where there used to be irritation. A little more courage where there used to be avoidance. A little more honesty in prayer. A little more tenderness toward someone who does not deserve it, which is annoying, because grace rarely consults our preferences.

Over time, the heart starts to learn a different rhythm.

This is where the devotion becomes more than comfort. It becomes conversion.

We are not called only to admire the Sacred Heart.

We are called to follow it.

That means refusing the cheap satisfaction of contempt. It means learning to love without pretending harm is harmless. It means staying truthful without becoming cold.

There is a kind of Christian life that knows how to be correct but has forgotten how to be tender. There is also a kind that knows how to be tender but has become afraid of truth.

The Sacred Heart gives us neither escape.

It gives us Christ, full of grace and truth, with a wounded heart still burning.

And it gives us words when we do not know what else to pray.

Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart.

When the country is anxious.

Draw us ever nearer.

When the Church is wounded.

Draw us ever nearer.

When families are strained.

Draw us ever nearer.

When public life grows cruel.

Draw us ever nearer.

When we are tired of ourselves.

Draw us ever nearer.

When we do not know how to love without fear.

Draw us ever nearer.

Because if we are being drawn nearer to the Heart of Christ, then even our wounds are not the end of the story.

A burning heart in a cold age.

A wounded heart in a cruel age.

A faithful heart in an exhausted age.

Sacred Heart of Jesus, draw us ever nearer.

Practical Takeaways

1. Pray one simple line today: “Draw me ever nearer to your Sacred Heart.”

2. Sit with John 19:34, the pierced side of Christ, and notice what flows from the wound.

3. Ask honestly: where has my heart grown numb, cynical, guarded, or afraid?

4. Practice one act of non-performative tenderness.

5. Before reacting, posting, arguing, or dismissing another person, ask: “Does this resemble the Heart of Christ?”

Now it’s your turn…

I’d really love to hear from you on this one.

Is there a prayer, phrase, devotion, or image that has stayed with you over the years, even if you cannot fully explain why?

And when you hear the words “Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart,” where does your own heart go? What part of your life, your family, your faith, or our country most needs to be drawn closer to the Heart of Christ right now?

Share your thoughts in the comments. I read them, and they often help shape where these reflections go next.

Leave a comment

And if someone came to mind while you were reading this, someone tired, wounded, searching, or trying very hard to stay tender in a brutal world, please send it to them. It may be exactly the reminder they need today.

Share

Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart.

Draw us close when we are tired, guarded, ashamed, angry, or afraid. Draw us close when our hearts have grown cold from disappointment or hard from trying to survive. Teach us to trust the love that does not withdraw from our wounds.

Sacred Heart of Jesus, heal what has been broken in us. Burn away what has become false. Give us courage without cruelty, tenderness without fear, truth without pride, and mercy without pretending harm is harmless.

Where our nation is divided, draw us nearer. Where the Church is wounded, draw us nearer. Where our families ache, draw us nearer. Where we have failed to love, draw us nearer still.

Make our hearts more like yours: faithful, wounded, radiant, and alive with the love of God.

Amen.

Thank you for spending this time with me.

Writing about the Sacred Heart today felt more personal than I expected. Sometimes faith is easiest to talk about in big public language: doctrine, history, liturgy, theology. All of that matters. But underneath it, most of us are also carrying small private prayers that have kept us alive in ways we may not fully know how to explain.

“Draw us ever nearer to your Sacred Heart” has become one of those prayers for me.

If this reflection met you somewhere tender, tired, hopeful, or unfinished, I hope you will carry that line with you today.

And if this kind of work matters to you, thoughtful Christian reflection that is honest, historically grounded, emotionally real, and safe enough for people to find their way back to faith, I’d be grateful if you would consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Your support helps keep this ministry alive and growing. It helps make space for people who are searching, wounded, returning, questioning, praying, and trying to stay close to Christ in a complicated world.

That, and the Holy Spirit, are what keep this going.

Thank you for being here. And thank you for helping draw others nearer to the Heart of Christ.

Support This Ministry, Today

My Dear Friend,

Before we get into today’s reflection on St. Barnabas, I want to take you behind the scenes for a moment.

This week marks the one-year anniversary of Message From the Margins.

One year. Can you believe that?

I have been thinking a lot about what this little corner of the internet has become over the past year. When it began, I had a vision for more than a newsletter. I wanted to build a space where faith could feel alive again for people who were tired, bruised, curious, angry, hopeful, doubtful, and still somehow listening for God.

I wanted this to be a place where ancient Christian wisdom could meet real life without becoming shallow, sentimental, or cruel.

And because of you, that vision has started to take shape.

Every time you read, share, comment, pray along, or send a note saying, “This helped me today,” you remind me that this work is becoming bigger than one person at a keyboard. Together, we are building a ministry where lifelong Christians, spiritual seekers, and people who may never walk through the doors of a church can still find mercy, clarity, beauty, and truth.

That means more to me than I can easily put into words.

I also want to be honest with you. To keep building this well, we do need more paid subscribers.

There are no large institutions or major donors funding this work. It is sustained by the people who believe it should exist, people who have found something here worth protecting, sharing, and helping grow.

And many hands really do make light work.

If you are able to become a paid subscriber at $9.99 a month, or even less with an annual subscription, you are helping carry a small but real part of this ministry. You are helping make sure this work can continue, grow, and reach the people who need it.

I also want to update you on the podcast. It is coming soon, and I am hoping to launch it this week. I know it has taken a little longer than expected, but I want it to be right for you. I want the sound, the structure, the spirit, and the quality to match the care this community deserves.

That takes time. It also takes financial support. And let me just say, the proper camera for this kind of work was not exactly found in the clearance bin.

Paid subscriptions help make the writing, podcast, video work, livestreams, resources, and future offerings possible. They allow this ministry to grow with steadiness instead of being held together by caffeine and prayer.

If Message From the Margins has fed you, challenged you, comforted you, or helped you feel less alone in your faith, please consider becoming a paid subscriber today.

It is one of the most direct ways you can help this work continue.

And whether you are a free subscriber, a paid subscriber, a reader who shares quietly, or someone who has only recently found your way here, thank you. Truly. This first year has meant more to me than I can fully put into words.

Now, for today’s reflection.

Because St. Barnabas may be exactly the saint we need at the start of year two.

Count Me In, Father!

Your Brother in Christ,

Now, for today’s reflection.

Because St. Barnabas may be exactly the saint we need at the start of year two.

St. Barnabas and the Holy Risk of Second Chances

Why this first-century saint may be exactly who the Church needs now

I want you to do me a favor and call two people to mind.

First, think of someone with a past.

You know the kind of person I mean. Someone who had done real harm. Someone people warned you about. Maybe a classmate from high school. A cousin. A neighbor. The kid everyone called trouble. The one with the record, the reputation, the addiction, the anger, the history nobody wanted to get too close to. The kid who ran with a bad crowd.

Now think of the second person.

The teacher who did not give up on him.

The principal who saw leadership underneath defiance.

The counselor who noticed grief beneath the behavior.

The priest, coach, employer, neighbor, aunt, or even police officer who said, “I know what people say about him, but I do not think his story is finished.”

We know this story when we see it.

It is Sister Mary Clarence in Sister Act II, looking at a room full of students everyone has already written off and hearing a choir before they can hear it themselves.

It is Jaime Escalante in Stand and Deliver, refusing to accept that his students are incapable of greatness just because the system has already lowered its expectations.

We love those stories because they tell us something we want to believe: that a person can be more than the file, the rumor, the record, the reputation, or their worst chapter.

But St. Barnabas takes that story into more dangerous territory.

He is not simply seeing hidden talent.

He is recognizing grace in a man the Church had every reason to fear.

And that is a very different thing.

This is not a fairy tale. Some people do not change. Some keep hurting others. Some patterns remain dangerous. Some second chances require boundaries, distance, restitution, and time.

Christian mercy is not the same thing as pretending danger is not real.

But mercy does ask us to believe that conversion is possible.

The Feast of St. Barnabas, Apostle, celebrated on June 11, honors one of the earliest and most necessary figures in the Christian movement. He was not one of the Twelve, but the New Testament calls him an apostle because his work helped carry the Gospel beyond its first boundaries. He was a Jewish Levite from Cyprus, originally named Joseph. The apostles gave him the name Barnabas, usually understood as “son of encouragement” or “son of consolation.”

That name can sound gentle.

Almost safe.

It was neither.

St. Barnabas is the patron saint of the people who refuse to relegate someone to their worst moment.

The kind of man who was willing to put himself on the line to see others reach their potential.

Barnabas lived his faith near the fault lines of the early Church: fear and trust, Jewish and Gentile believers, Jerusalem and Antioch, old wounds and new mission, institutional caution and the maddening freedom of the Holy Spirit.

He is the one who stands beside Saul after Saul’s conversion, when the disciples are still afraid of him.

And they had every reason to be afraid.

Before Paul was St. Paul, he was Saul, the man who had instigated tremendous violence against the followers of Jesus. He had hunted the Church. He had a reputation. Reputations are not small things when people have been hurt.

Then this Saul claims he has changed.

You can almost hear the room go quiet.

Because every community eventually faces this question: what do we do when grace shows up wearing the face of someone we have learned to fear?

The Acts of the Apostles tells us that when Saul came to Jerusalem and tried to join the disciples, “they were all afraid of him, not believing that he really was a disciple.”

That fear deserves to be taken seriously. The early Christians were not being petty. They were not being unforgiving. They were trying to survive.

Then Barnabas steps forward.

Acts says Barnabas “took him and brought him to the apostles.”

That little sentence carries enormous spiritual weight.

Barnabas does not deny the past. He does not ask wounded people to pretend. He does not say, “Well, everyone makes mistakes,” as if persecution were a parking ticket.

He does something harder.

He bears witness to the possibility that Saul’s story is not finished.

That is different from cheap forgiveness. Cheap forgiveness rushes people past pain because pain makes the room uncomfortable. Barnabas is not doing that. He is practicing discernment with courage.

Barnabas is not naively endorsing a vibe.

He is discerning the fruit of the Spirit.

Saul has encountered the risen Christ. Saul has begun preaching the name he once tried to silence. Saul is placing himself before the very community he once threatened. Something has happened in him that cannot be explained by charm, manipulation, or wishful thinking.

Barnabas sees his conversion and is willing to stake his own credibility on it.

A lesser disciple would have stayed safely silent.

Barnabas steps forward.

There are moments in life when encouragement is not a mere compliment.

It is an act of public risk.

In our modern era, sometimes we turn encouragement into something decorative. A kind word. A sweet note. A quick “you’ve got this” when someone is having a rough day.

Those things are not meaningless. Sometimes a small word of kindness helps a person breathe again.

But biblical encouragement is stronger than pleasant reassurance. It is the grace-filled act of helping someone remain open to God when shame, fear, failure, or public suspicion is trying to close the door.

Barnabas does that for Paul.

Later, he does something similar for the Church in Antioch.

Word reaches Jerusalem that Gentiles are receiving the Gospel. These were not the people everyone expected to become the future of the Church. This is not a minor administrative update. This is a crisis of imagination. The movement born from Israel’s Messiah is spreading among people who do not fit the inherited expectations.

So they send Barnabas.

He arrives, looks around, and Acts says he sees “the grace of God.”

Not a problem to manage.

Not a threat to contain.

Grace.

I love that because it tells us what kind of soul Barnabas had. Some people can walk into a room where God is clearly at work and see only disorder because it does not match their preferred layout.

Barnabas had better eyes.

He could recognize the Holy Spirit outside the old center of gravity. He could see that God was not asking permission to move.

That is a dangerous gift in every age.

Especially ours.

We live in a time when suspicion often feels safer than hope.

That did not come from nowhere. Many people have been hurt. Many communities have learned, painfully, that trust without wisdom can do damage. Some doors had to be locked for survival. Some boundaries were acts of sanity.

Barnabas does not mock that caution.

He asks whether caution has become our whole imagination.

We learn to sort people quickly, sometimes because we are trying to protect ourselves, sometimes because slowing down would ask too much of us. One failure, one old association, one season of addiction, one public mistake, one complicated history, and a person becomes easier to manage as a category than to encounter as a soul.

Online, complicated human stories are easily flattened into something easier to punish or defend. In families, one person can spend decades trapped inside the role everyone assigned them. In churches, we can preach redemption while quietly keeping a list of people we are not prepared to believe have changed.

Barnabas asks a question most of us would rather avoid: do we actually believe people can be changed by grace, or do we only believe people can improve within the limits we have already approved?

That question cuts.

It cuts through churches that want mercy to remain theoretical.

It cuts through families where repentance is noticed but not trusted.

It cuts through recovery, where someone may be sober and still surrounded by people who only remember the damage.

It cuts through anyone trying to rebuild a life after prison, divorce, public failure, addiction, or a season when they were not who they now want to become.

It cuts through our own private hearts, where we sometimes keep people frozen in their worst moment because it makes the world feel simpler.

Barnabas will not let us do that comfortably.

He is not naive. He is not conflict-avoidant. He is not the patron saint of easy optimism. Barnabas belongs to the harder work of hope.

And then there is John Mark.

Later in Acts, Paul wants to continue the mission. Barnabas wants to bring Mark. Paul refuses because Mark had left them on a previous excursion. The disagreement becomes sharp enough that Paul and Barnabas separate.

Interestingly enough, the Bible just leaves the story there. No stained-glass smoothing. No tidy reconciliation scene. No narrator saying, “And everyone learned an important lesson about teamwork.” No hugging it out.

Maybe that’s Good.

Because sometimes holy people disagree sharply about what faithfulness requires.

Paul remembers the cost of unreliability. Barnabas remembers that failure is not always the end of vocation.

I do not want to flatten Paul here. Mission matters. Reliability matters. People who have been burned are allowed to remember the burn.

But I am grateful Barnabas existed.

I am grateful someone in the early Church had the instinct to stay near the one who had failed.

Because sooner or later, most of us are Mark.

We leave when we should have stayed. We falter when courage was needed. We disappoint people who had reason to expect more from us. We become inconvenient evidence that discipleship is not clean.

And if we are very fortunate, someone like Barnabas does not confuse our failure with our entire future.

Anyone who has ever helped lead a church knows this tension. Communities need reliability. Ministries need people who can be trusted. The work has to be done, the promises have to be kept, and the people depending on us cannot be treated casually.

And still, the Church cannot become so efficient that it forgets how mercy works.

That is why his feast is not quaint. It is not religious trivia. It is a needed meditation.

A Church without Barnabas may still know how to defend itself, but it will struggle to recognize resurrection when resurrection walks in limping.

And a lot of people are limping.

Many people move through life emotionally overclocked and spiritually numb. They are tired of being marketed to, judged, managed, categorized, and told to turn their pain into productivity. They do not need a Church that gives them one more burden to carry.

They need a Church with Barnabas eyes.

A Church that can say, “I see grace here.”

Not because everything is fine.

Because God is present.

That is the difference.

Barnabas does not teach us to be gullible. He teaches us to be brave enough to hope with discipline. He teaches us to make room for conversion without using conversion language to erase accountability. He teaches us that encouragement is not emotional decoration. It is spiritual labor.

It costs something to encourage well.

You may have to risk being misunderstood. You may have to advocate for someone others distrust. You may have to slow down the machinery of judgment. You may have to admit that God is working outside the lines you were taught to defend.

You may have to become less addicted to being right and more available to being faithful.

And in a culture as tired and reactive as ours, that kind of encouragement is not mild.

It is resistance.

St. Barnabas reminds us that the Church is not built only by the people who preach the sermon, write the epistle, or lead the mission. It is also built by the people who notice the first embers of grace in someone else and protect it long enough to grow.

Paul needed that.

Mark needed that.

Antioch needed that.

So do we.

The Feast of St. Barnabas asks us to examine our spiritual eyesight. Where have we mistaken grace for inconvenience? Where have we confused caution with holiness? Where have we kept someone permanently imprisoned in an old version of themselves?

It also asks the tenderer question.

Where do we need a Barnabas ourselves?

Where do we need someone to stand beside us and say, “Your worst chapter is not the whole book. God is not finished here.”

That is not sentimentality.

That is apostolic work.

And it is still the work of the Gospel.

Practical Takeaways

1. Read Acts 9:26-28 slowly. Pay attention to the fear of the disciples and the risk Barnabas takes. Do not rush past either one.

2. Think of one person you have kept frozen in an old category. You may still need boundaries, distance, or caution, but ask honestly whether you have left any room for grace.

3. Encourage one person in a specific way today. Do not flatter. Name something real: courage, steadiness, growth, honesty, tenderness, endurance.

4. Notice one place where God may be working outside the circle you expected.

5. If you are the one who has failed, bring that honestly to prayer. Ask St. Barnabas to help you trust that failure may be part of your story without becoming the title of your life.

Now it’s your turn…

Before we pray, I’d love to hear from you.

Where have you seen someone act like Barnabas, recognizing grace where others only saw a past? Or where have you needed someone to believe that God was not finished with you?

Share your thoughts in the comments.

Leave a comment

And if this reflection brought someone to mind, consider sending it to them.

Share

Closing Prayer

St. Barnabas, apostle of encouragement and witness to grace, pray for us.

Teach us to see as you saw. Give us courage to recognize the work of God in people and places we might too quickly dismiss. Make us wise enough to honor wounds, honest enough to remember harm, and faithful enough to believe that conversion is real.

Stand beside those who are trying to begin again. Pray for those trapped by shame, those judged only by their worst moment, and those who have forgotten that God can still call their name.

Make our churches more courageous, our hearts less suspicious, our words less careless, and our hope more disciplined. Help us become people who strengthen what is fragile, protect what is holy, and make room for grace before the world knows what to call it.

St. Barnabas, son of encouragement, walk with us into the hard places where the Gospel is still becoming visible.

Amen.

Did You Know?

1. Barnabas was originally named Joseph. The apostles gave him the name Barnabas, often understood as “son of encouragement” or “son of consolation.”

2. He was from Cyprus, which helped place him naturally between cultures as the early Church expanded beyond Jerusalem.

3. Barnabas helped introduce Saul, later Paul, to the apostles when many disciples were still afraid of him.

4. In Antioch, Barnabas recognized the grace of God among Gentile believers, and Acts says it was there that the disciples were first called Christians.

5. Barnabas and Paul eventually separated after a sharp disagreement over John Mark. Scripture does not hide the conflict, which is part of why the story feels so human.

You made it to the end. Thank you for reading.

Seriously, thank you.

Pieces like this take time. They take prayer, research, rewriting, wrestling with Scripture, and trying to say something old in a way that can still reach someone’s actual life.

That is the work I am trying to build here at Message From the Margins: thoughtful, grounded, pastorally honest Christian writing for people who are hungry for faith that does not insult their intelligence or ignore their wounds.

If this reflection gave you something to think about, pray with, or carry into the week, I hope you will consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Your support helps make this kind of work possible, the writing, the coming podcast, the videos, the livestreams, and the resources I am building for this community.

If you are able to support this ministry at $9.99 a month, or less with an annual subscription, it would mean a great deal and help make the next year possible.

And whether you become a paid subscriber today or simply keep reading, praying, and sharing, please know how grateful I am.

I Want to Support This Work

Okay enough, Father is ready to go watch the Knicks final. I hope you have a wonderful day. Go Knicks! (And Spurs, I shouldn’t alienate anyone when I’m asking for supporters LOL)

My Dear Friends,

One year ago, I began Message From the Margins with a simple hope: to create a place where faith could be honest, compassionate, thoughtful, and still brave enough to speak clearly.

I did not know exactly what this would become.

I knew only that I kept meeting people who were spiritually tired.

People who had been wounded by religion but were not done with God.

People who were exhausted by cruelty dressed up as conviction.

People who were hungry for Jesus, but wary of the institutions and voices that claimed to speak for him.

So I started writing.

And I kept writing.

One year later, this little experiment of faith has become more than I ever imagined.

More than 300 articles.

More than 7,600 community members.

Thousands of prayers, comments, emails, shares, conversations, questions, and quiet moments where someone somewhere read something and thought, “Maybe I am not alone.”

For that, I am deeply grateful.

I am grateful for every person who reads quietly and never comments.

I am grateful for every person who shares these reflections with a friend, a family member, a parish group, or someone who is trying to find their way back to faith.

I am grateful for every paid subscriber whose support helps make this work possible.

I am grateful for the people who disagree honestly, question deeply, wrestle openly, and still remain in conversation.

And I am especially grateful for those of you who have shared your lives with me, and who have taken an interest in mine.

Those who check in on me.

Those who send words of encouragement.

Those who pray for me.

Those who challenge me.

Those who inspire me to do better and better each day.

Nothing in my training prepared me for this.

I was formed for ministry, for preaching, for pastoral care, for the sacraments, for walking with people through grief and joy and all the holy mess of human life. I was trained for hospital rooms, pulpits, altars, prayer books, funerals, baptisms, confessions, and conversations held in the fragile spaces where people entrust you with what hurts.

But nothing quite prepared me for what it would mean to build a spiritual community here.

In this strange, noisy, beautiful corner of the internet.

And yet, every day, I feel the Holy Spirit moving this mission forward.

I feel it in the comments.

I feel it in the emails.

I feel it in the quiet messages from people who say, “I thought I was the only one.”

I feel it when someone shares that they had almost given up on faith, but something here helped them breathe again.

I feel it when someone brings grief, anger, doubt, loneliness, exhaustion, hope, and honesty into this space, and instead of being met with shame, they are met with compassion.

I feel it in the way this community keeps showing up, keeps wrestling, keeps praying, keeps asking better questions, and keeps trying to follow Jesus in a world that often makes faith feel either too shallow or too cruel.

The words from Isaiah have been close to my heart:

“See, I am doing a new thing!”

Isaiah 43:19

And one year into Message From the Margins, I believe that more deeply than ever.

This past year has confirmed something for me: people are not looking for a thinner faith. They are looking for a truer one.

They do not need more religious noise.

They need depth.

They need mercy.

They need language for what hurts.

They need Scripture that is not weaponized against them.

They need a vision of Christian life that does not require them to turn away from reality, justice, science, compassion, or their own conscience, while still holding the ancient tradition of the church with reverence, seriousness and wonder.

They need to know that following Jesus can still mean telling the truth, loving the wounded, confronting cruelty, refusing despair, and believing that resurrection is not only something we proclaim at Easter, but something God is still working into the world.

That is why this publication exists.

Message From the Margins was never meant to be only a newsletter.

It is a ministry.

It is a conversation.

It is a welcoming table.

In a digital world that can feel loud, cruel, shallow, and exhausting, this has become a kind of chapel for me. Not because it is perfect or polished, but because people keep bringing their real lives here, and grace keeps meeting us in the middle of it.

That is deeply important.

And it is worth sustaining.

As we begin year two, I feel both humbled and energized by what is ahead.

There is more to write.

More to build.

More to pray.

More to teach.

More to create.

More people to reach.

And more room at the table.

So today, on the first birthday of Message From the Margins, I want to say thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for sharing.

Thank you for commenting.

Thank you for subscribing.

Thank you for trusting me with your questions, your stories, your wounds, your anger, your faith, your doubt, and your hope.

Thank you for believing that faith can still be intelligent, compassionate, honest, and alive.

And if this work has mattered to you this year, I am asking you to help sustain it into year two.

A paid subscription is not just access to more writing. It is a way of helping this ministry remain sustainable, independent, and available to people who need it.

Your support allows me to keep writing, teaching, creating, and building a spiritual home for people who are hungry for a faith that sounds more like Jesus.

If this work has helped you pray again, think again, hope again, heal a little, or simply feel less alone, I would be deeply grateful if you would consider becoming a paid subscriber today.

Help Carry This Work Into Year Two

And whether you are able to become a paid subscriber or not, please know this:

I am grateful you are here.

I am grateful this community exists.

And I am more convinced than ever that the Holy Spirit is doing something new among us.

Happy birthday, Message From the Margins.

And thank you, truly, for helping bring it to life.

Your Brother in Christ,

Now it’s Your Turn…

If you are part of this community, whether you comment often, read quietly, share occasionally, or simply show up when you need a little steadier ground beneath your feet, please know this: you belong here. Message From the Margins has become what it is because people have brought their real lives into this space with honesty, courage, and care. That is not a small thing. In a world that rewards noise, cruelty, and quick reactions, choosing to build a thoughtful, spiritually serious community is an act of faith.

I would love to hear from you in the comments.

What has this first year meant to you?

What conversations, reflections, or questions have stayed with you?

What do you hope we carry into year two?

Leave a comment

And if this post brings someone to mind, someone who is tired, lonely, spiritually hungry, or trying to find their way back to a faith that feels honest and alive, I hope you will share it with them.

Share Message From the Margins

Prayer

God of mercy and new beginnings,

Thank you for this first year of Message From the Margins, for every person who has found their way to this table, and for every honest question, wounded story, quiet prayer, and fragile hope entrusted here.

Guard this community from becoming shallow, cruel, performative, or afraid. Keep us rooted in the way of Jesus: truthful without contempt, compassionate without cowardice, courageous without pride.

For those who are tired of religious noise, give rest.

For those wounded by the Church or by people who used your name without your love, bring healing.

For those who feel lonely, unseen, or unsure whether they still belong, make this space a reminder that they are not abandoned.

And for the work ahead, give us wisdom. Teach us what to build, what to release, when to speak, when to listen, and how to trust the new thing you are doing among us.

Let this ministry serve your people with humility, clarity, and love.

We ask now that you send your Holy Spirit amongst this community, so that every word and work of ours may begin with you and through you reach completion.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Mary, Most Holy, Pray for Us.

St. Carlo Acutis, Pray for Us.

Before we begin, a small favor to ask.

Articles like this are among the hardest things I write.

Not because the words are so difficult. That part I love. But questions like this deserve more than quick answers and hot takes. They require prayer, study, reflection, and the willingness to wrestle honestly with things many people have been carrying for years sometimes decades.

The truth is, if I depended entirely on algorithms, outrage, and attention-grabbing headlines, this article probably would never have been written. I can’t imagine you would have preferred another article about what Donald Trump did today any more than I would have wanted to write one.

So that crosses off outrage.

And honestly, as you read a reflection about Scripture, faith, and the character of God, it would be a little absurd if an ad for hair-growth medication interrupted us halfway through. I simply cannot pivot from the story of Abraham and Isaac to, “A lot of people have been asking about my skincare routine.”

You’ve seen my skin. Nobody wants skincare endorsements from me.

So Message From the Margins exists because readers choose a different path.

If these reflections have helped you think more deeply, ask better questions, or stay connected to faith in a complicated world, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber.

More than anything, your support helps create space for conversations like this one.

Yes, I'm In!

Now let’s talk about a question many Christians have carried for far longer than they realize.

Your Brother in Christ,

Why Does the God of the Old Testament Seem So Cruel?

The question many Christians carry for years, often without feeling safe enough to ask.

One of the questions I get asked most often is how I manage to find something to write about every single day.

The answer is that I have help.

I have roughly four thousand years of predecessors who got there before me. I have Scripture. I have theologians, saints, mystics, scholars, and ordinary believers who spent centuries wrestling with life’s biggest questions.

And I have you.

Every day I read comments, messages, emails, and conversations from people all over the world. Some questions appear over and over. Others emerge only occasionally.

Then there are the questions that appear just often enough for me to recognize them.

Not often enough to become a overwhelming.

Just often enough for my pastors intuition to recognize that this question is sitting in a lot of hearts, but most are too afraid to ask.

I know this because this particular question once sat in mine.

I suspect many of you can guess what it is.

“If God is all-loving, why does the God we encounter in parts of the Old Testament sometimes seem anything but?”

There.

I said it.

For some readers, seeing that question written down may feel uncomfortable.

For others, it may feel like relief.

Maybe you’ve wondered about the Flood that destroyed the world.

Maybe you’ve struggled with the plagues of Egypt claiming the first born of every family.

Maybe you’ve read the story of Abraham and Isaac and felt your stomach tighten.

Maybe you’ve encountered stories of warfare, destruction, and judgment and wondered how any of it fits alongside Jesus telling us to love our enemies, forgive those who harm us, and pray for those who persecute us.

Many Christians have carried those questions for years, maybe your whole life.

The fact that these stories trouble you does not make you a bad Christian.

I would argue it may reveal something quite beautiful.

The reason these stories disturb us is often because we have been shaped by Jesus.

Why does the suffering of Isaac bother us?

Why does violence against enemies bother us?

Why does the death of children bother us?

Because Christ has taught us that children matter.

Because Christ has taught us that enemies remain human beings.

Because Christ has taught us that mercy is not weakness.

The moral instincts creating our discomfort are often Christian instincts.

That realization changed the way I approached these passages.

For a long time I assumed my questions were the problem.

Over time I began to wonder whether the questions themselves were pointing toward something important.

Not unbelief.

Not rebellion.

A deeper desire to understand.

One of the assumptions many Christians inherit is that the Bible arrived from heaven as a kind of divine documentary, dictated word-for-word while human authors functioned as little more than living pens.

Historically, Christians have understood inspiration in a much richer way.

The authors of Scripture were divinely inspired.

But inspiration is not possession.

God did not seize control of their bodies and write a book with their hands.

Catholic faith teaches something more mysterious and more beautiful: God is truly the author of Scripture, and the human authors are true authors as well.

They were not puppets. They were not passive instruments emptied of personality, culture, memory, fear, longing, or language.

They wrote as real human beings.

They carried the assumptions of their time, the limits of their world, the wounds of their experiences, and the questions they were trying to answer.

And through them, God revealed what He desired for our salvation.

That does not make Scripture unreliable.

It means God chose to speak through human words, within human history, through a relationship with human beings.

The stories have always been about our relationship, which means they must include our perspective.

If Scripture is the story of God’s interaction with humanity, it cannot be told from only one side.

It must contain the voices of real people trying to understand what they experienced, what they believed God was doing, and what those experiences meant.

That humanity is not a flaw in Scripture.

It is one of its greatest gifts.

When we read the Psalms, we encounter human joy, rage, gratitude, grief, confusion, doubt, and hope.

When we read Job, we encounter suffering and bewilderment.

When we read the prophets, we encounter people trying to understand national catastrophe and political upheaval.

Again and again, Scripture preserves the inspired witness of humanity’s encounter with God in the middle of real life.

That does not answer away every difficult question.

It does help explain why some passages feel difficult in the first place.

The Bible is not simply the story of God speaking.

It is also the story of humanity learning, often imperfectly, how to listen.

There is another challenge modern readers face.

Ancient people were often asking different questions than we are.

When many modern people open the Bible, their first question is:

“Did this happen exactly this way?”

Ancient readers were often asking:

“What does this mean?”

“What does this teach us about God?”

“What does this reveal about human nature?”

“What kind of people should we become?”

Stories, symbols, poetry, wisdom literature, and theological reflection were common ways of communicating truth.

Jesus used them constantly.

When Jesus tells the story of the Prodigal Son, nobody asks for the father’s birth certificate.

When Jesus tells the story of the Good Samaritan, nobody wonders whether the inn still exists.

We understand what Jesus is doing because the Gospel writers tell us He is telling a story.

We have the benefit of that perspective.

In other parts of Scripture, we often encounter ancient authors doing something similar without the same explanatory framework surrounding the text.

We are separated from them by thousands of years of culture, language, assumptions, and storytelling conventions.

As a result, modern readers sometimes become preoccupied with proving the story rather than understanding the truth it was intended to reveal.

The purpose of Scripture is not merely to tell us what happened.

It is to help us understand what it means.

Consider the story of Abraham and Isaac.

Modern readers often focus on the command and understandably recoil.

Parents especially feel the weight of that story.

If you’re unfamiliar with it, Genesis tells the story of God asking Abraham to take his beloved son Isaac to a mountain and offer him as a sacrifice.

Abraham obeys.

Father and son make the journey together.

Isaac even carries the wood for the sacrifice himself.

As the story reaches its terrible climax and Abraham prepares to carry out the command, God intervenes.

The sacrifice is stopped.

Isaac is spared.

A ram is provided instead.

For modern readers, the story can feel deeply disturbing.

Ancient listeners, however, may have heard something very different.

In a world where child sacrifice existed, the shocking part of the story was not that Abraham was asked to offer his son.

The shocking part was that God stopped him.

The child lived.

The story reveals a God fundamentally different from the gods many surrounding cultures imagined.

A God who provides rather than consumes.

For Christians, the story also points forward. The beloved son carries the wood for the sacrifice. A father faces the possibility of losing his son. God provides what is needed.

The Church has long seen in Isaac a foreshadowing of Christ.

Does that remove every difficulty from the story?

No.

I still understand why people struggle with it.

But understanding the deeper truths being communicated helps us move beyond the surface shock and toward the theological heart of the narrative.

One of my favorite biblical stories is Jacob wrestling with God.

Jacob wrestles all night.

He leaves wounded.

He leaves changed.

He leaves blessed.

The story is remarkable because Jacob is not condemned for wrestling.

His struggle becomes part of his transformation.

I think many Christians need permission to do the same.

Faith is not pretending difficult questions do not exist.

Faith is remaining in relationship with God while those questions exist.

That is where Jesus becomes essential.

For Christians, Jesus is not merely one voice among many.

Jesus is the fullest revelation of God’s character.

The Gospel of John tells us, “No one has ever seen God, but the one and only Son... has made him known” (John 1:18).

The Letter to the Hebrews calls Him “the exact representation of his being” (Hebrews 1:3).

If we want to know what God is like, we look at Jesus.

We look at the one who touched lepers nobody else would touch.

The one who forgave those who crucified him.

The one who welcomed outsiders.

The one who defended the vulnerable.

The one who chose a cross rather than violence.

The one who taught us to love our enemies.

Again, that does not erase the difficult passages of Scripture.

But it does tell us where to stand when reading them.

If a passage on its own leaves us wondering whether God is loving, Christians do not start with the passage.

We start with Jesus.

And this matters far beyond ancient history.

Every generation is tempted to create a God who hates the people we hate.

Every generation wants divine approval for its fears, grievances, tribal loyalties, and anger.

We see it in politics.

We see it in religion.

We see it online every day.

People still reach for Scripture to justify cruelty.

They still use it to justify exclusion.

They still use it to justify domination.

The reasoning is familiar.

If God blessed violence then, surely He blesses ours now.

If God judged enemies then, surely He judges ours now.

But Christians are called to measure those claims against Christ.

The question is not whether we can find a verse.

I could find you an isolated verse that would seem to justify almost any act of depravity.

The question is whether our understanding of God looks like Jesus of Nazareth.

I do not have perfect answers for every difficult passage in Scripture.

Neither have faithful readers across the centuries.

What I do know is this:

God was not afraid to leave the struggle in the text.

He preserved the questions.

He preserved the wrestling.

He preserved the humanity.

Which means that when you struggle with these stories, you are not failing at faith.

You are participating in one of faith’s oldest traditions.

The Bible is not the story of people who never questioned God.

It is the story of a God who never stopped pursuing people who did.

Five Practices for the Week

1. Read Genesis 32:22-32.
Read the story of Jacob wrestling with God. Notice that the blessing comes through the struggle, not around it.

2. Read one Gospel story each day.
Ask a simple question: “What does this reveal about the character of God?”

3. Write down one spiritual question you’ve been avoiding.
Don’t solve it. Just acknowledge it honestly before God.

4. Notice where mercy appears.
Pay attention to acts of forgiveness, compassion, patience, or kindness during your day.

5. Have one honest conversation.
Talk with someone you trust about a spiritual question you normally keep to yourself.

Join the Conversation

Was there a particular passage of Scripture that troubled you for years?

Did someone help you see it differently?

I’d love to hear your experience in the comments.

Leave a comment

And if you know someone who has carried this question for a long time, consider sharing this reflection with them.

Share

Prayer

Loving God,

You are greater than our understanding and closer than our fears.

We thank you for the gift of Scripture, for the stories of faith, struggle, courage, failure, hope, and redemption that have guided generations before us.

Some passages comfort us immediately. Others challenge us. Others leave us with questions we cannot easily answer.

Give us the courage to bring those questions to you rather than hiding them.

Protect us from mistaking certainty for faithfulness.

Teach us to trust that honest wrestling can be part of discipleship.

Help us keep our eyes fixed on Christ, whose life reveals your compassion, justice, mercy, and love.

When we are tempted to use faith as a weapon, remind us of the One who carried a cross.

When we are tempted to despair, remind us that you remain present even in our uncertainty.

Grant us humility, wisdom, patience, and peace as we continue learning what it means to follow you.

May our hearts become more like the heart of Christ.

Amen.

One final thought before you go.

Remember the note at the beginning of this article?

See what I meant?

I am reasonably certain reflections like this are necessary in today’s world. They take time to research, time to pray through, and time to write. More importantly, they require the freedom to explore difficult questions without chasing outrage, fear, or whatever happens to be driving clicks this week.

For better or worse, that means this work depends on people who believe thoughtful faith is worth supporting.

If you found value in this reflection, if it helped you make peace with a question you’ve carried for years, or if it simply reminded you that faith and honest inquiry belong together, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Your support doesn’t just help me keep writing.

It helps create and sustain a community where conversations like this can still happen.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Thank you for reading. Thank you for thinking. And thank you for being part of Message From the Margins.

Support Thoughtful Faith

Before You Read Today’s Reflection...

Want to hear something funny?

In an article about fear of rejection, I almost talked myself out of including an invitation to support this publication.

Seriously.

I wrote it.

Deleted it.

Wrote it again.

Deleted it again.

The irony was not lost on me.

After all, if today’s reflection is about the ways fear convinces us to stay hidden, it would be a little strange for me to spend 2,500 words encouraging all of you to step forward while I quietly stepped backward.

So here goes.

If Message From the Margins has become a meaningful part of your week, if these reflections have helped you think more deeply, pray more honestly, or navigate life with a little more clarity and hope, I would be grateful if you considered becoming a paid subscriber.

I believe that this work matters.

It matters to me, and judging by the messages I receive every day, I believe that it matters to many of you as well.

Paid subscriptions help fund the time, research, writing, technology, and future projects that allow this ministry to continue growing.

And if you’re already a paid subscriber, thank you.

Truly.

You are helping build something that reaches far beyond a newsletter.

Let's Build This Together!

Now, let’s talk about fear, hiding, and a woman who reached for the hem of Christ’s garment.

Your Brother in Christ,

The Lie That Keeps Us Hidden

Fear of rejection does more than hurt us. It can keep us from the very places where God is trying to meet us.

As many of you know, the community we’re building here matters a great deal to me.

More than I probably admit.

This publication one year old on Wednesday, which honestly feels impossible.

What began as a handful of reflections has become a genuine community of people trying to live thoughtful, faithful lives in a noisy world. Every day I hear from readers who tell me these essays have become part of their morning routine, helped them through a difficult season, or given them language for questions they have carried for years.

I do not take that lightly.

When you tell me this work matters, it stirs me forward.

Which makes what I’m about to tell you even more ridiculous.

Over the past year, I have read article after article about how to grow a publication on Substack.

The advice is remarkably consistent.

Reach out to other writers.

Introduce yourself.

Build relationships.

Ask about reciprocal recommendations.

In other words, send an email to someone in a position similar to mine.

I have written that email approximately one hundred times in my head.

I have not sent it once.

Not once.

I could give you a long list of reasons.

Maybe they’re too busy.

Maybe they’ll think the publication is too small.

Maybe they’ll criticize my theology.

Maybe they don’t like my religious affiliation.

Maybe they’ll say no without a second thought.

But if I’m being honest, all of those explanations eventually collapse into one thing.

Fear of rejection.

Before another writer has the opportunity to reject me, I do all the work of rejecting myself.

The more I’ve thought about that, the more I’ve become convinced that fear of rejection is not merely an emotional struggle.

It is also a spiritual one.

God’s desire for us is always human flourishing.

Now… before anyone starts picturing yachts, private islands, and prosperity gospel promises, that is not what I mean.

Human flourishing is not a guarantee of comfort, wealth, success, or an easy life.

It is becoming more fully who God created us to be.

It is moving deeper into the heart of Christ.

It is growing into the vocation God has placed before us.

It is learning to love well.

It is learning to trust well.

It is learning to become fully alive.

Over the past few weeks, I’ve written about this idea because I believe it is deeply important.

God is always drawing us forward.

Not necessarily toward ease, but toward growth.

Not necessarily toward certainty, but toward faithfulness.

The story of the road to Emmaus captures something of this.

The disciples were heartbroken.

They thought they knew how the story would end.

They were wrong.

Christ was already walking beside them.

They did not recognize Him yet, but He was there all the same.

I sometimes wonder how many Emmaus moments we miss because fear convinces us to remain silent. We keep walking in our own personal disappointments rather than talking to the stranger beside us.

Not because Christ is absent.

Because we never engage.

We never ask.

We never reach.

We never step forward.

We stay where we are.

That word, stay, may be one of the most powerful words in the spiritual life.

Because from the beginning of Scripture, one of the enemy’s most effective strategies has been persuading people to hide.

Notice what happens after Adam and Eve eat the forbidden fruit.

God comes looking for them.

Adam responds, “I heard you in the garden, and I was afraid because I was naked (exposed, vulnerable); so I hid.” (Genesis 3:10, NIV)

Fear.

Then hiding.

The serpent’s greatest victory was not convincing them to eat a piece of fruit.

It was convincing them that God could no longer be trusted.

It was convincing them to hide from the very One who was searching for them.

That pattern repeats throughout Scripture.

And it appears again in one of my favorite Gospel stories.

A woman suffering from chronic bleeding pushes her way through a crowd because she believes that if she can only touch the edge of Jesus’ cloak, she will be healed.

For twelve years she has lived with pain.

For twelve years she has lived with exclusion.

For twelve years she has carried the social and spiritual burden of being considered unclean.

Twelve years is a long time.

Long enough for disappointment to settle into your bones.

Long enough to stop expecting things to change.

Long enough to watch other people move freely through the world while you remain stuck at the margins.

Long enough for hope to become dangerous.

By the time she reaches Jesus, she has every reason to stay hidden.

And yet she reaches anyway.

She does not stand in front of the crowd and make a speech.

She does not demand attention.

She reaches from behind.

Almost as though she hopes to receive grace without being noticed.

Then Jesus stops.

Not to embarrass her.

Not to shame her.

Not to expose her.

He stops so that she can be restored not only physically but relationally.

And then He calls her “Daughter.”

Think about that.

A woman who had likely spent years feeling invisible, isolated, and unwanted is publicly claimed as family.

The enemy’s lie was never merely that she might be rejected.

The deeper lie was that she should remain hidden.

Many of us still believe that lie.

Some of us are hiding grief.

Some of us are hiding loneliness.

Some of us are hiding wounds we have carried for years because we are afraid that if people really knew us, they would step away.

Some of us are hiding gifts God placed in us long ago because somewhere along the way we became convinced nobody wanted them.

Some of us have become so accustomed to hiding that we mistake it for humility.

I wonder how many emails, conversations, prayers, friendships, ministries, and callings never happen because we do the work of rejection for everyone else.

We tell ourselves that if we step forward, we might be rejected.

So we never discover what waits on the other side of faithfulness.

Of course, there is an obvious objection.

What happens when rejection actually comes?

Because sometimes it does.

Sometimes the email goes unanswered.

Sometimes the relationship ends.

Sometimes the opportunity disappears.

Sometimes the answer is no.

Jesus understands rejection too.

In Luke’s Gospel, a Samaritan village refuses to welcome Him.

Most discussions of that passage focus on James and John wanting to call down fire from heaven.

Their reaction gets all the attention.

But I’ve become increasingly interested in Jesus’ reaction.

He simply leaves and goes to the next village.

No vengeance.

No self-pity.

No crisis of identity.

No conclusion that His mission has failed.

A village rejected Him.

He refused to let a village become a verdict.

That image has stayed with me.

Because if you’ve ever been rejected, you know the voice that often follows close behind.

Nobody wants you.

Nobody cares.

Stop trying.

Stop reaching.

Stop showing up.

Stop believing God has anything meaningful left for you to do.

That voice has existed since Eden.

And it is a liar.

The Christian life does not promise freedom from rejection.

Jesus never promised that.

The Christian life offers something far better.

It offers the assurance that rejection is not the end of the story.

The Samaritan village was not the end of Christ’s ministry.

The cross was not the end of Christ’s ministry.

And the rejection you have experienced is not the end of yours.

I suspect many of us spend far more time avoiding rejection than actually experiencing it.

We reject ourselves before anyone else gets the chance.

The woman with the hemorrhage could have remained hidden.

Nobody would have blamed her.

After twelve years, hiding probably felt safer.

Instead, she reached.

The Christian life often looks like that.

Not certainty.

Not fearlessness.

Not having all the answers.

Just reaching.

Again and again.

Reaching toward the Christ who has been moving toward us all along.

Fear says hide.

Christ says come with me.

And every time we choose to reach instead of retreat, we discover that grace has already arrived before we did.

Five Practices for This Week

1. Identify one conversation you’ve been avoiding because you’re afraid of the outcome. Have it.

Not perfectly. Not eloquently. Just honestly.

2. Read Luke 8:43-48 and pay attention to Jesus’ response to the woman, not merely her healing.

Notice how quickly He moves from miracle to relationship.

3. Spend five minutes in prayer asking one question:

“Lord, where am I hiding right now?”

Then listen longer than feels comfortable.

4. Reach out to one person you’ve been meaning to contact.

No elaborate agenda. No perfect words. Simply make contact.

5. At the end of each day, write down one small step you took toward faithfulness.

Not success.

Not achievement.

Faithfulness.

The two are not always the same thing.

Now It’s Your Turn…

I’m curious what this reflection stirred up for you.

Have you ever talked yourself out of something before anyone else had the chance to say yes or no?

Was there a friendship, opportunity, calling, conversation, creative project, relationship, prayer, or act of courage that fear convinced you not to pursue?

Or perhaps you’re standing in front of one of those moments right now.

What is the “email” you haven’t sent?

What is the next step you’ve been postponing?

What would it look like to reach anyway?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

One of the things I treasure most about this community is that we learn from one another. Some of the most insightful reflections I’ve encountered over the last two years haven’t come from me. They’ve come from readers willing to share their own stories, struggles, and wisdom.

So tell us:

Where has fear tempted you to stay hidden?

And where have you discovered grace after deciding to step forward?

Leave a comment

If today’s reflection brought someone to mind, consider sharing it with them. There is a good chance you know someone who has been carrying this particular struggle in silence.

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A Prayer

Lord Jesus,

You know every place where fear has taken root in our hearts.

You know the conversations we avoid, the risks we refuse, the wounds we carry, and the parts of ourselves we would rather keep hidden.

You know how easy it is for us to believe that rejection defines us.

You know how often we assume closed doors before we ever knock.

Teach us to recognize the difference between wisdom and fear.

Teach us to hear Your voice more clearly than the voices that tell us to stay hidden.

When we are tempted to withdraw from life, remind us that You walked among crowds, touched the wounded, spoke with strangers, and continued forward even when people turned You away.

Give us courage to take the next faithful step, even when we cannot see the whole path.

Help us trust that Your presence is not limited by our uncertainty, our mistakes, or our fears.

And when rejection comes, as it sometimes will, keep us from believing that it is the end of the story.

Lead us forward, closer to You, closer to the people You have called us to love, and closer to the life You created us to live.

Like the woman who stretched out her hand through the crowd, teach us to reach for You even when we are afraid.

Teach us to trust that Your grace is already moving toward us long before we ever begin moving toward You.

We ask this in Your holy name.

Amen.

A Quick Behind-the-Scenes Note

As I mentioned at the beginning of today’s reflection, this publication turns one year old this week.

Honestly, that feels a little surreal.

When I started writing these reflections, I really only had one goal in mind. I was trying to create the kind of space I wished existed, a place where faith could be thoughtful without becoming academic, compassionate without becoming shallow, and honest without becoming cynical.

Over the past year, that small idea has become a real community.

Every day, people from different denominations, different backgrounds, and different life experiences gather here to wrestle with questions that matter.

That’s not something I take for granted.

In many ways, we’re still at the beginning.

There are more essays to write.

More conversations to have.

More resources to build.

More people who need to know they are not crazy for wanting a faith that can engage both the heart and the mind.

The paid subscribers make that possible.

They help fund the time, research, writing, technology, and future projects that allow this work to keep growing.

If these reflections have become part of your routine, if they’ve helped you see God, yourself, or the world a little more clearly, I would invite you to consider becoming a paid subscriber.

You’ll help build something that is already making a difference in people’s lives.

And if you’re already a paid subscriber, thank you.

You are one of the reasons this little corner of the internet still exists.

Now, onward.

We’ve got work to do.

Count Me In, Father!

Before we dive in, a quick personal note.

Through a rather impressive confluence of events, I found myself yesterday completely without access to the internet for most of the day. No wifi, no cell service. In today’s world, that’s somewhere between mildly inconvenient and a survival reality show.

I missed all of you.

I’ve been reading your beautiful comments from yesterday’s article about my dog Figgy, Prayer, and God and I’m deeply grateful for the thoughtful conversations that continue to happen in this community. I loved watching you guys respond to each other! I’ll be responding to each of your remarks shortly.

One other thing before we begin.

I love writing these reflections. I love the conversations they spark. But a newsletter is ultimately a supplement to the life of faith, not a substitute for it.

I didn’t spend two thousand words reflecting on the beauty of the Eucharist so everyone could stay home and read an article about it.

So, If you’re able, get to Mass this weekend.

Gather with your local community.

Hear the Scriptures proclaimed.

Receive the Sacrament.

Be nourished by Word and Sacrament.

The Christian faith has always been something lived, not merely read about.

Now, let’s talk about the Eucharist.

The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ: What Kind of God Becomes Food?

People will risk their lives for a great many things.

Freedom.

Family.

Country.

Truth.

What people generally do not do is risk imprisonment, torture, and execution for a metaphor.

Which brings me to Corpus Christi.

The Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ.

For those of us who worship in the Sacramental traditions, it arrives once a year. We hear familiar readings. We sing familiar hymns. We nod our heads at familiar theology.

Then we go home.

But the deeper I have studied the Eucharist, the more I find myself haunted by a simple question:

What exactly did the first Christians think was happening at that altar?

Because their behavior makes very little sense otherwise.

The Catholic and Orthodox Churches celebrates Corpus Christi to honor its belief that Jesus Christ is truly present in the Eucharist, Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity.

The feast itself dates to the thirteenth century, but the mystery it celebrates reaches back to the Last Supper.

On the night before His death, Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to His disciples.

“This is my body.”

Then He took the cup.

“This is my blood.”

Christians have repeated those words for nearly two thousand years.

Every Mass.

Every language.

Every continent.

Every generation.

And hanging on those words is one of the most astonishing claims Christianity has ever made:

God does not merely teach us.

God gives Himself to us.

One of the most interesting debates in Christian history revolves around a tiny Greek word.

When Jesus says, “This is my body,” the word recorded in the New Testament is estin.

Is.

Not represents.

Not symbolizes.

Not stands for.

Is.

Of course, language is complex. Jesus often spoke in images and metaphors.

But when we look at the Christians closest to the apostles, something fascinating emerges.

Ignatius of Antioch, writing around the year 107, described the Eucharist as the flesh of Christ.

Justin Martyr, writing in the second century, insisted Christians were not receiving ordinary bread and wine.

Long before medieval theologians developed technical language, ordinary Christians already believed something extraordinary was happening.

The doctrine did not emerge centuries later.

The doctrine emerged because Christians were trying to explain what they had already received.

But honestly?

The strongest argument may not be found in theology books.

It may be found in human behavior.

Imagine a small gathering in dank crypt beneath the streets of Rome.

Oil lamps flicker against damp stone walls.

The air smells of earth and smoke.

Above them, the empire carries on.

Soldiers patrol.

Merchants sell their goods.

Politicians give speeches.

Down below, hidden among tombs and catacombs, Christians gather to pray and break bread.

The room is as filled with fear as it is with reverence.

One informant, one Roman spy, could destroy everything.

One arrest could trigger a chain of executions… your family… your friends.

The Creed many of us recite absentmindedly today carried enormous weight in those years. Shared prayers and professions of faith helped identify fellow believers in a world where betrayal was a constant possibility.

To gather was dangerous.

To be identified as Christian was dangerous.

To celebrate the Eucharist was dangerous.

I consider myself a fairly brave person.

But gathering in an underground crypt knowing discovery could mean death?

For a symbol?

I’m sorry.

I suddenly have to wash my hair that evening.

To receive Christ truly present?

To encounter the living God?

To participate in a mystery that transcends death itself?

Okay.

I’m in.

People do not keep risking their lives generation after generation for a religious gesture.

Something much larger was happening.

Or at least they believed it was.

And that deserves our attention.

Yet the question that keeps drawing me back is not whether the Eucharist is difficult to understand.

Of course it is.

Even after two thousand years of some of the most brilliant minds the world has ever known praying over it, debating it, writing about it, and defending it, I’m fairly certain our understanding is but straw compared to the reality.

The deeper question is why God would choose this way of being present.

Why bread?

Why wine?

Why a meal?

Why not simply leave us a book?

Why not leave us a philosophy?

Why not just leave us a set of rules?

Because Jesus has been moving in one direction from the beginning.

Closer.

The burning bush.

Closer.

The covenant.

Closer.

The prophets.

Closer.

The Incarnation.

Closer.

The Cross.

Closer.

The Resurrection.

Closer.

And finally, the Eucharist.

As close as possible.

A God who enters a manger is exactly the kind of God who would enter a meal.

Speaking only for myself, if the Eucharist is merely symbolic, then it remains a beautiful gesture.

A sacred memory.

A meaningful reminder.

But if all we’re talking about is bread and wine representing something else, respectfully I can stop by Whole Foods on the way home and pick up a rustic olive loaf and a lovely mid-tier bottle of Cabernet.

Those things may nourish my body.

What they cannot do is unite me to Christ.

What they cannot do is communicate sacramental grace.

What they cannot do is draw a poor slob from New York into the mystery of divine life.

If the Eucharist is only a symbol, it is lovely.

If the Eucharist is what Christians have proclaimed for two thousand years, then we are standing before something so astonishing that language begins to break down.

God making Himself available to ordinary people.

God feeding His people with His own life.

God refusing to remain distant.

God choosing communion over separation.

And suddenly Corpus Christi is no longer a feast about a doctrine.

It becomes a feast about the character of God.

The kind of God who would rather be consumed than remain far away.

Many people move through life spiritually hungry.

Not because they lack information.

Most of us are drowning in information.

What we lack is communion.

We scroll.

We click.

We consume.

We absorb endless opinions, endless news, endless outrage.

Yet beneath all of it remains a hunger that none of those things can satisfy.

The Eucharist confronts that hunger.

It insists that the deepest longing of the human heart is not ultimately for success, distraction, certainty, or control.

It is for God.

And the astonishing Christian claim is that God wants that communion even more than we do.

The story of salvation is not humanity searching for God.

It is God searching for humanity.

The Good Shepherd searching for His beloved sheep.

The Eucharist is simply the latest chapter in that search.

Or perhaps the most intimate one.

The Church year teaches us to remember what the world keeps trying to make us forget.

Corpus Christi teaches us that God is not distant.

Not indifferent.

Not hiding.

He is closer than we dare imagine.

And sometimes He comes disguised as bread and wine.

Now It’s Your Turn

I’ll leave you with the question that kept following me while writing this piece:

What kind of God becomes a meal?

Not a king issuing orders from a distance.

Not a philosopher handing down ideas.

Not a deity demanding admiration from afar.

A God who wants to be close.

Close enough to share our humanity.

Close enough to suffer with us.

Close enough to feed us with His own life.

Have you always believed that?

Did you struggle with it?

Did something happen that changed your understanding of the Eucharist?

Or are you still trying to figure out what you think?

Tell me in the comments.

Some of the best conversations in this community begin with honest questions.

Leave a comment

And if this reflection helped you see Corpus Christi through a different lens, share it with someone who may have spent years hearing about the Eucharist but never quite understood why Christians have treasured it for two thousand years.

Share

Dear Reader,

Before we begin, I should probably confess that today’s reflection started in a way that would make St. Thomas Aquinas roll his eyes.

It did not begin with a profound theological insight.

It did not begin with a carefully studied passage of Scripture.

It did not begin during deep prayer.

It began because I was trying to use the restroom and my dog was grumbling on the other side of the door.

Now, if you’re a dog owner, you already know exactly what I’m talking about.

For reasons that have never been adequately explained by either science or theology, many dogs are deeply offended by closed bathroom doors.

My pal Figgy is no exception.

Apparently, if I disappear behind a door for three minutes without him, an existential crisis has occurred.

As I sat there listening to the increasingly dramatic sounds of canine disappointment, I found myself wondering why this little dog is so determined to be included in absolutely everything I do.

That question led me down a surprisingly theological rabbit hole.

And before the day was over, a slightly clingy Cavapoo had me thinking about prayer, relationships, and one of the biggest misconceptions many Christians carry about God.

So, before Figgy realizes I’ve been writing about him without obtaining the proper permissions, let’s get started.

You are Never Bothering God…

What I Learned About God from a Clingy Little Cavapoo

Let me tell you a story about my best pal, Figment.

Figgy is a 15-pound (If there are any veterinarians in this community, yes, I know he needs to lose a few) Cavapoo who came into my life three years ago. My best friend Katie named him after the Disney character, and it immediately stuck.

Figment also goes by Figgy, Figgy Pudding, Figgy Pumpkin, Lil’ Pumpkin, Pumpkin Patch, The Pun’kin, Pumpkin Spice Latte, and, on particularly formal occasions, Dominus Figmentus A. Vici.

Now, if you’ve never known a Cavapoo, I’m sure you’ve known a dog just like him.

They like to be a part of things…. A LOT.

If I’m cooking dinner, Figgy is involved.

If I’m answering emails, Figgy is involved.

If I’m carrying groceries into the house, Figgy suddenly becomes a logistics consultant.

If a package arrives at the front door, he considers himself part of the receiving department.

If I move from the living room to the kitchen, he follows as though I’ve announced a major expedition requiring immediate canine oversight.

If I get up to go to the restroom… you get the picture.

Privacy is not a value he particularly respects.

The thing is, he’s actually not very helpful.

He has never successfully answered an email.

His culinary expertise remains questionable.

And his contribution to household management consists largely of staring at me with deep concern until I drop something edible.

He simply wants to be where I am.

He wants to be part of my life.

Recently, while Figgy was closely monitoring my completely adequate performance of some ordinary household task, I found myself thinking about God.

Over the years, I’ve met countless people who hesitate to pray about the small things.

They don’t want to bother God.

They’ll pray when the diagnosis comes.

They’ll pray when the marriage is in trouble.

They’ll pray when they lose the job.

They’ll pray when they’re frightened, desperate, or out of options.

But the ordinary details of life?

The meeting they’re nervous about.

The vacation they’re planning.

The recipe they’re trying.

The thing that made them laugh on the drive home.

Surely God has more important things to worry about.

I’m blessed to serve this little online community, and throughout the week I receive prayer requests from readers.

I’ve noticed that many of them begin the same way.

“Father, I’m so sorry to bother you, but could you pray for...”

Bother me?

Are you kidding?

Praying for you is one of the reasons I said yes to this vocation in the first place.

I don’t wake up in the morning excited to look at budget spreadsheets, answer administrative emails, fight with technology, or wrestle with church paperwork.

I wake up grateful that I get to walk with people through their joys, sorrows, fears, hopes, and struggles.

I want to pray for you.

And whenever I read one of those messages, I find myself wondering:

If I feel that way, how much more does God?

If I, with all my limitations, am happy to stop what I’m doing and bring your needs before the Lord, how much more willing is the God who created you, sustains you, and loves you beyond anything I can comprehend?

And if you’re beginning your prayer request to me with “I’m sorry to bother you,” I suspect many people are beginning their prayers to God the same way.

The good news is that neither of us is bothered.

God is the Lord of Creation, but He is not like a boss at work with an overflowing inbox and too many demands on His schedule.

His attention is not finite.

His resources are not limited.

His time is not divided among competing priorities.

You are not standing in line behind eight billion other people hoping to receive a few moments of His attention.

God is fully present to every one of His children at the same time all of the time.

You never have to wonder whether you’re bothering Him.

In fact, the simple fact that you exist is evidence that God wants you.

He did not create you reluctantly.

He does not sustain you begrudgingly.

Every breath you take is a gift He continues to give.

Every heartbeat is a sign that He has not withdrawn His love from you.

Every minute you exist is a minute God has chosen to remain near.

One of the things I’ve noticed over years of pastoral ministry is that struggling couples rarely stop sharing the big things first.

Usually, they stop sharing the little things.

The funny thing that happened at work.

The article they read during lunch.

The random thought that crossed their mind.

The joke that made them laugh.

The thing they would have immediately shared years earlier.

They still discuss schedules.

They still discuss bills.

They still discuss problems.

But they stop sharing themselves.

Most of the couples I counsel never intended for that to happen.

In fact, many are working harder than ever.

They’re raising children.

Building careers.

Paying bills.

Caring for aging parents.

Managing schedules.

Doing all the work required to sustain a family.

But somewhere along the way, they begin treating intimacy as a luxury they cannot afford until life settles down.

The tragedy is that life rarely settles down.

Looking at intimacy as a luxury is often catastrophic for a marriage.

Because intimacy is not the reward for doing the work of the relationship.

Intimacy is what sustains the relationship while the work is being done.

I sometimes wonder if many of us make the same mistake with God.

We become consumed by the work of life.

We tell ourselves we’ll return to prayer when things calm down.

After the project is finished.

After the crisis passes.

After the kids are grown.

After one more meeting.

After one more emergency.

But relationships do not thrive on postponed intimacy.

St. Paul writes simply:

“Pray without ceasing.” (1 Thessalonians 5:17)

Not because God needs constant updates.

He already knows everything.

Prayer is not about keeping God informed.

Prayer is about keeping a relationship alive.

Centuries ago, a monk by the name of Brother Lawrence discovered this while working in a monastery kitchen. He wrote about how washing pots and pans could become prayer. Not because there was something mystical about dirty dishwater, but because God was present there too.

The point was never the pots and pans.

The point was companionship.

I know there are many clergy, religious, and ministry leaders who read this newsletter, so allow me a brief confession.

There is another temptation that sounds a little like Brother Lawrence on the surface, but is actually its opposite.

It is the temptation to say, “My work is my prayer.”

Our work can certainly be prayerful.

God is absolutely present in ministry.

Grace can be found in hospital rooms, parish offices, sermons, counseling sessions, committee meetings, and countless acts of service.

But ministry itself is not a substitute for prayer.

Those of us who do God’s work professionally occupy a uniquely vulnerable position.

We are surrounded by good and holy work.

Most of it reflects the very reasons we said yes to this vocation in the first place.

People need us.

There are homilies to prepare.

Emails to answer.

Parishioners to visit.

Problems to solve.

And there never seems to be enough hours in the day.

If you are clergy in a tradition that permits marriage, the danger is multiplied.

You can neglect your relationship with your spouse while doing the work of family.

And you can neglect your relationship with God while doing the work of ministry.

The cruel irony is that all four are good and holy things.

Your spouse.

Your family.

God.

Your ministry.

Yet all four compete for the same finite resource: your attention.

The work remains.

The obligations remain.

The responsibilities remain.

But when intimacy is repeatedly postponed, relationships begin to weaken.

Eventually, you find yourself exhausted and wondering where the joy went.

Over the years, whenever fellow clergy have confided that they are struggling spiritually, emotionally, or personally, I usually begin with the same question:

“How’s your prayer life?”

The answer is almost always the same.

The prayer life has grown thin.

For those of us serving out in the world, there is no monastery bell ringing six times a day calling us to chapel.

Nobody interrupts a meeting and announces that it is time to pray the Office.

Nobody forces us to pick up the breviary.

That responsibility belongs to us.

I wish I could tell you I’ve always gotten this right.

I haven’t.

There have been seasons when my own prayer life became dangerously neglected.

Seasons when ministry consumed so much attention that I convinced myself I was staying spiritually healthy because I was constantly doing religious things.

There have even been days when I had to look up online where the ribbons belonged in my breviary because it had been sitting untouched for far too long.

And I learned something during those seasons.

As my prayer life went, so went the rest of my life.

The discouragement came more easily.

The frustration lingered longer.

My patience shortened.

My perspective narrowed.

Recently I read an interview with Pope Leo XIV’s personal secretary.

It is rare to get a glimpse into the private habits of a pope, but he described something beautifully ordinary.

His Holiness prays the Office every day.

He prays the Rosary every day.

He offers Mass every day.

And I found myself smiling.

Because if the Bishop of Rome is not too busy to stop and pray, neither am I.

The goal was never simply to do God’s work.

The goal has always been to know God.

The work matters.

But the relationship comes first.

And if you need further proof that God desires relationship with us, look to Jesus.

The Cosmic Christ, the Word through whom all things were made, did not remain distant from us.

In the greatest act of love the world has ever known, God drew near.

He took on our humanity.

He walked our roads.

Shared our meals.

Attended weddings.

Wept at a friend’s grave.

Experienced betrayal.

Suffered.

Died.

Was buried.

And on the third day conquered death itself.

Why?

Because love always moves toward the beloved.

Because God desired not merely our obedience, but our communion.

Because He wanted nothing, not even death itself, to separate us from Him.

The entire story of salvation is the story of a God who keeps moving toward His people.

A God who desires friendship.

A God who desires relationship.

A God who desires to share life with us.

Jesus tells His disciples:

“I have called you friends.” (John 15:15)

I never get tired of that verse.

The Lord of the universe calls us friends.

It makes my heart skip.

Not servants merely carrying out instructions.

Friends.

People with whom He desires to share life.

And so, tonight… tell God something completely unnecessary.

Tell Him about the television show you enjoyed.

Tell Him about the restaurant you’re excited to try.

Tell Him about the joke that made you laugh.

Tell Him about the thing you’re nervous about tomorrow.

Tell Him about your dog.

Not because God needs the information.

Because relationships are built by sharing life.

And the God who conquered death to be with you is not annoyed by hearing about your day.

As I finish writing this, Figgy is curled up at my feet.

He has spent the last several hours contributing absolutely nothing to this newsletter.

Yet he seems perfectly content simply being here.

There is a lesson in that.

God does not need our productivity.

He desires our presence.

Now It’s Your Turn

I’d love to hear from you in the comments.

Do you ever find yourself hesitating to pray about the small things because you don’t want to “bother” God?

Have you ever experienced a season when your prayer life became more transactional than relational?

What helps you stay connected to God throughout the ordinary moments of your day?

And for my fellow pet owners... has an animal ever taught you something unexpected about faith, love, or life?

As always, I read every comment, and one of my favorite parts of this community is learning from your experiences and perspectives.

Leave a comment

And if you know someone who could use the reminder that they are not bothering God, consider sharing this essay with them.

You never know whose day, or whose prayer life, might be changed by a simple reminder that they are deeply loved.

Share

Well, Figgy is currently asleep, which I’m choosing to interpret as his official theological endorsement of this essay.

If reflections like this help you think more deeply, pray more honestly, or see God a little differently, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Your support helps make these essays, livestreams, podcast, and prayer resources, and this growing community possible and ad free.

Thank you for reading, thank you for being here, and give your pets an extra scratch behind the ears from me.

Woof Woof!

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Grace and peace,

Dear Reader,

Before we get started, a little behind-the-scenes confession.

I usually get particular enjoyment from our saint day discussions.

There’s something satisfying about diving into the life of a historical figure and trying to understand what made them tick. Most of the time, I come away with a fascinating story, a few lessons worth sharing, a handful of fun facts and trivia, and a deeper appreciation for someone who tried to follow Christ in their own time and place.

Then I started researching St. Boniface, whose memorial we celebrate today.

Now, those of you getting to know me have probably picked up on the fact that Father has a fairly significant nerdy streak. So discovering that Boniface is most famous for chopping down a sacred tree dedicated to Thor, God of Thunder, immediately got my attention. Anyone familiar with my love of Marvel movies knows that Thor has always been one of my favorite characters.

I may or may not have spent a few moments picturing a very cross Chris Hemsworth.

The funny part is that I expected the tree to be the story.

It wasn’t.

The more I read, the more I found myself wrestling with a much bigger question. One that has less to do with St. Boniface and more to do with all of us.

What do we do with the heroes of history when they no longer fit comfortably into the values of the present?

That is the question today’s reflection explores.

Let’s see where that question leads.

Accompany me now to the year 722 AD, somewhere in the forests of Germany.

I am glad you’re with me.

A Saint, an Axe, and an Uncomfortable Question

The Church's calendar is full of imperfect people. Maybe that's the point.

Meet St. Boniface, an eighth-century bishop, missionary, reformer, and eventually a martyr. Born in England, he spent much of his life bringing Christianity to parts of what is now Germany and the Netherlands.

The Church remembers him as a courageous missionary and one of the most influential evangelists in European history.

If you’re a Catholic of German or Nordic descent, Thank St. Boniface.

He is also remembered for taking an axe to a sacred oak tree dedicated to Thor.

Imagine standing in a clearing deep within the forests of eighth-century Germany.

Before you rises an enormous oak. Ancient. Towering. The kind of tree that seems less like a plant and more like a temple.

Generations have grown up beneath its branches.

Stories have been told about it.

Prayers have been offered near it.

People believe Thor, Son of Odin, God of Thunder himself watches over it.

No one touches it.

No one dares.

Then an English missionary named Boniface walks into the clearing carrying an axe.

Word spreads quickly.

People gather.

Some are curious.

Others are horrified.

Everyone knows what is about to happen.

Or at least they think they do.

Boniface raises the axe.

The first strike echoes through the trees.

Then another.

And another.

The crowd waits.

Surely Thor will answer.

Surely lightning will split the sky.

Surely this foreign priest has finally gone too far.

Now, part of me wonders how much of this story happened exactly as it has come down to us.

After all, have you ever tried to cut down a mature oak tree with an axe?

If you haven’t, let me save you the trouble. This was probably less a dramatic movie scene and more an all-day project involving sweat, blistered hands, and perhaps a few colorful words that the Church’s official biographies somehow forgot to preserve.

But we digress.

Back to Boniface.

Eventually, according to the story, the tree fell.

And with it, Christians believed, fell the myth that had surrounded it.

For centuries, Christians told that story as a triumph.

A missionary confronting superstition.

The Gospel overcoming paganism.

The victory of Christ over false gods.

Many Christians still hear it that way.

The truth is, I wanted Boniface to be easier.

I wanted a clean story.

A heroic missionary.

A courageous act.

The Gospel advances.

The credits roll.

Instead, I found myself sympathizing with people standing on both sides of the clearing.

The Christian in me understands why generations of believers celebrated this story. They saw a man willing to risk everything for what he believed to be true. They saw courage. Conviction. Faith. Boniface would become a Martyr.

But another part of me keeps looking at that oak tree.

I find myself wishing Boniface had found another way.

A better way.

A way to proclaim Christ without taking an axe to something another community considered ancient and sacred.

I want the story to unfold differently than it did.

History, however, has a stubborn habit of refusing to consult me before it happens.

And perhaps that is where the real question begins.

Because Boniface is hardly the only historical figure who becomes more complicated the closer we look.

The same pattern appears throughout history.

National heroes.

Sports Legends.

Religious leaders.

Reformers.

Saints.

The people we admire often turn out to be more human than we would like.

For generations, we tended to tell history as a collection of heroes and villains. The heroes were heroic. The villains were villainous. The stories were neat and tidy.

Then we looked closer.

And the closer we looked, the messier things became.

The temptation is to respond in one of two ways.

The first is to defend our heroes at all costs. Explain away every uncomfortable detail. Protect the legend. Preserve the image. Bury the messy truth.

The second is to discard them entirely. If they fail to meet modern expectations, they no longer deserve admiration. Tear down the statues, remove the paintings, cancel the Saint Day.

To me, neither approach feels particularly wise.

The first requires us to ignore reality.

The second requires us to forget what it means to be human.

The Christian tradition has always begun from a different assumption.

Human beings are complicated.

Capable of astonishing beauty and profound blindness.

Capable of generosity and cruelty.

Sometimes in the same lifetime.

Sometimes on the same day.

With one notable exception in the Blessed Virgin Mary, the saints are not stories of perfect people.

They are stories of sinners.

Peter denied Christ.

Paul violently persecuted the Church.

Augustine spent years running from God.

The calendar of saints is not a Hall of Fame of flawless people.

It is a gallery of what God can do with flawed ones.

There is another detail worth remembering.

The Church does not recognize someone as a saint because they got everything right.

Their canonization is not a declaration that they never made mistakes, never carried the assumptions of their age, or never caused harm.

It is a recognition that God’s grace was at work in their life.

For catholics, the recognition of a saint includes the belief that this person now stands among the communion of saints, praying for the Church and participating in the life of heaven. Traditionally, miracles attributed to their intercession serve as signs of that reality.

That means something remarkable.

It means that God does not wait for perfect people or perfect eras before accomplishing holy things.

Boniface, with all the questions his story raises, is still remembered among the saints.

Peter is still remembered among the saints.

Paul is still remembered among the saints.

And if there is hope in that, it is because most of us are far closer to imperfect than perfect.

It is, I think, hubris to imagine ourselves as the generation that finally figured everything out.

History suggests otherwise.

We see things Boniface could not see.

Future generations will almost certainly see things we cannot see.

Humility requires remembering both.

We are a people who are still becoming.

The Church is still becoming.

Humanity is still becoming.

Every generation inherits wisdom and wounds from those who came before. We receive cathedrals and crusades. Hospitals and wars. Saints and scandals.

We cannot simply dispose of the people who ran before us because they lived at a different point in history.

Neither can we ignore the pain their actions sometimes caused.

Both truths deserve honesty.

Perhaps maturity means resisting the urge to flatten history into heroes and villains.

Perhaps it means telling the truth about the past while remaining grateful for the good that emerged from it.

Perhaps it means recognizing that future generations will examine us just as carefully as we examine those who came before us.

And perhaps the most faithful response is neither condemnation nor nostalgia.

It is to keep learning.

To keep growing.

To keep sharing our convictions without coercion.

To keep proclaiming the Gospel in ways that look more like Christ and less like conquest.

To honor what was good.

To tell the truth about what was harmful.

And to leave a better inheritance than the one we received.

Saint Boniface, Bishop and Martyr, Pray for Us.

What Do You Think?

What do we do with historical figures, saints, or heroes whose lives contain both admirable virtues and actions that make you uncomfortable?

Does learning about those flaws make them less inspiring to you, or does it make them feel more human?

Share your thoughts in the comments. One of the things I value most about this community is our willingness to wrestle honestly with difficult questions without rushing to easy answers.

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And if this reflection made you think of someone who enjoys thoughtful conversations about faith, history, and what it means to be human, please consider sharing it with them.

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Prayer

God of history and grace,

We thank You for the saints, for their courage, their faith, and their witness. We also thank You for the reminder that Your work is accomplished through imperfect people.

Give us the wisdom to tell the truth about the past without becoming captive to either nostalgia or cynicism.

Teach us to learn from those who came before us, to acknowledge both the good they accomplished and the harm they sometimes caused.

Grant us humility to recognize our own blind spots, courage to keep growing, and compassion for those who will inherit the world we leave behind.

May we proclaim Your Gospel with conviction, gentleness, and love, always reflecting the character of Christ.

Through the prayers of St. Boniface and all the saints, guide us toward greater faithfulness.

Amen.

One final thought before we part ways for today.

Pieces like this are surprisingly difficult to write.

Not because the research is hard, but because they require nuance. And if we’re honest, nuance is not having its best moment in our global culture.

A headline declaring Boniface a hero might perform okay.

A headline declaring Boniface a villain would probably perform far better.

An essay wrestling honestly with the tension not just in the church but in all of human history? Not so much.

However, and you might disagree with me, I think this essay was very much worth writing.

Yesterday, a reader left a comment that stayed with me:

“You write from the heart. Bless you, and please keep posting. You have an online congregation who need to read your words.”

I was deeply moved by that. It's that type of feedback that reminds me why this work matters.

And so, if reflections like this have value for you, I invite you to support this ministry through a paid subscription. Your support creates space for thoughtful conversations that algorithms rarely reward but that many of us still deeply need.

You can count on me, Father!

And if becoming a paid subscriber isn’t possible right now, sharing this reflection is another meaningful way to help.

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Thank you for reading, for thinking, and for walking this journey with me.

With gratitude,

My Dear Sibling in Christ,

Only I could have a genuinely good time writing an essay about sin.

Further proof that I’m probably not quite right in the head.

Yet here we are.

Most of us were taught about sin. Very few of us were taught what it actually means, why God cares about it, or how it fits into a faith centered on love, mercy, and human flourishing.

Today, I’d like to take a crack at that.

My hope is that by the time you’re finished reading, you’ll walk away with a deeper understanding of your faith, a healthier understanding of yourself, and maybe even a little more peace than you had when you started.

Now, let’s be honest.

An essay about sin is unlikely to outperform pimple-popping videos, celebrity meltdowns, conspiracy theories, or gotcha interviews in today’s algorithmic ecosystem.

I made my peace with that a long time ago.

Still, I think conversations like this matter.

Not because moral theology is prime time entertainment,

But because the way we understand God shapes the way we understand ourselves. And the way we understand ourselves shapes the way we move through the world.

What follows is my best attempt to help you think more deeply about your faith and to offer a framework that might help you navigate an increasingly complicated world.

Not an easy task.

You’ll also notice there are no advertisements here for miracle weight-loss injections, meal kits, dog food delivery services, gambling apps, or bargain-priced mystery products shipped directly from a warehouse halfway around the world.

Just you, me, and the Holy Spirit.

If this work has been meaningful to you, and if you’re in a position to do so, I’d like to invite you to become a paid subscriber.

For about the cost of a premium coffee each month, you help keep the lights on, the website running, the computer functioning, and this ministry growing. More importantly, you make it possible for me to continue creating thoughtful, accessible reflections for people trying to live faithfully in a complicated time.

A reader recently wrote:

“I’ve been reading your reflections for several weeks and decided to become a subscriber. You explain the Gospel, and the Catholic faith in ways I’ve never heard before. More than once, you’ve answered questions I didn’t even know how to ask. Most importantly, you’ve helped me see that my life matters and that God is still at work in it.”

That message meant a great deal to me.

Whether you can support this work financially or not, I’m grateful you’re here.

Truly.

It is an honor to serve as your pastor, fellow traveler, and occasional theological troublemaker.

Yep, I'm In!

Your Brother in Christ,

Now, let’s talk about sin.

Why the Concept of Sin Makes More Sense Than We Were Taught

The commandments were never meant to be spiritual landmines. They were meant to teach us how to live.

A few years ago, I found myself in one of those conversations that starts casually and stays with you for years.

A friend of mine said, “If you spend enough time in the barber shop, you’re gonna get a haircut.”

We both laughed.

But the longer I’ve lived, the more I think he was describing something profound about human nature.

The places we linger shape us.

The voices we listen to shape us.

The stories we tell ourselves shape us.

The resentments we rehearse shape us.

The habits we practice shape us.

Eventually, what begins as something outside of us becomes part of us.

That may sound obvious, but it sheds light on one of the most misunderstood ideas in Christianity: sin.

For many people, sin was explained as a check list.

Do this.

Don’t do that.

Cross the line and God gets angry.

Cross too many lines and the consequences become catastrophic.

Why?

Because I said so.

For some Christians, God came to resemble a cosmic game show host presiding over an impossible contest. The rules were complicated. The penalties were severe. Failure seemed inevitable.

The troubling part was that this same God was also supposed to love us.

Many people never managed to reconcile those two ideas.

I understand why.

Because if God is all-knowing, all-loving, and all-powerful, then the image of God hiding spiritual landmines throughout life starts to fall apart.

The older I get, the less convincing that picture becomes.

What I’ve come to believe is that many of us were taught about sin in a way that was much smaller than the Church’s actual understanding of it.

The Christian tradition has never taught that God issues arbitrary commands simply to test our obedience.

God is not fragile.

God does not need our validation.

God does not require our perfection to maintain His self-esteem.

The commandments exist because God desires our flourishing.

Love always desires the flourishing of the beloved.

That changes everything.

When we read the Hebrew Scriptures, we find many different kinds of laws. Some governed worship. Some regulated community life. Some protected the vulnerable. Some functioned as markers of covenant identity, helping Israel remain a distinct people among surrounding nations.

Then Christ arrives and something remarkable happens.

The dividing wall between Jew and Gentile begins to come down.

As Paul writes in Galatians, “There is neither Jew nor Gentile... for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

The question is no longer how God’s people remain separated from the nations.

The question becomes how human beings learn to live in communion with God and one another.

Jesus does not abandon morality.

He deepens it.

And nowhere is that more obvious than the Sermon on the Mount.

When I was younger, one of the most bewildering passages in Scripture was Jesus’ teaching on adultery.

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.” (Matthew 5:27-28 NIV)

For an adolescent man in religious instructions, this is enough to induce a panic attack.

To quote C-3PO “We’re Doomed”

Then He does something similar with murder.

Not only murder, but anger.

Not only violence, but contempt.

At first glance, it feels unfair.

If Jesus is simply expanding the list of offenses, then He has taken already difficult commandments and turned them into impossible ones.

But I don’t think Jesus was primarily interested in catching criminals in moments of failure.

I think He was interested in forming saints.

Throughout the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus keeps moving the conversation upstream.

Beyond murder to anger.

Beyond adultery to lust.

Beyond retaliation to resentment.

Beyond religious performance to the motivations of the heart.

He is far less interested in identifying the precise moment someone breaks a rule than He is in understanding who that person is becoming.

Modern psychology gives us language for something Jesus seemed to understand long before neuroscience existed.

Human beings are formed through repetition.

Habits become dispositions.

Dispositions become character.

Character shapes action.

The things we repeatedly entertain eventually become part of our reality.

“Spend enough time in the Barber Shop, you’re gonna get a haircut.”

And the problem with lust is not simply that it might lead to adultery, which it might.

The problem is that it trains us to see another human being as an object rather than a person.

The problem with anger is not simply that it might lead to violence.

The problem is that it teaches contempt.

And contempt makes love increasingly difficult.

God does not forbid certain actions because He enjoys making rules.

God warns us against certain actions because they shape us.

Greed shapes us.

Dishonesty shapes us.

Cruelty shapes us.

Resentment shapes us.

Generosity shapes us too.

Compassion shapes us.

Forgiveness shapes us.

Prayer shapes us.

The Christian life is not merely about avoiding bad behavior.

It is about becoming the kind of person who increasingly reflects the character of Christ.

That understanding becomes even more important in the modern world.

Many of us still think about sin almost exclusively as an individual matter.

My choices.

My actions.

My failures.

It is between me and God.

But we live in an interconnected world.

Every economic system falls short.

Every political system falls short.

Every institution falls short.

Every community falls short.

Every human being falls short.

We live in a world that bears both the image of God and the wounds of human brokenness.

That realization can sound discouraging.

I find it strangely liberating.

Because it leaves very little room for spiritual pride.

Once we recognize that none of us stands entirely outside the world’s brokenness, the temptation to divide humanity into the righteous and the sinners begins to lose its grip.

We stop standing above one another.

We stand beside one another.

Catholic theology has long spoken about personal sin, but it also speaks about social sin and structures of sin. Human beings create systems, and those systems can perpetuate injustice long after the original architects are gone.

We participate in realities larger than ourselves.

That does not excuse wrongdoing.

It does remind us to be humble.

It reminds us that holiness is not a trophy.

It is a lifelong process of conversion.

This is also where many people receive an unexpected gift.

You do not have to choose between faith and honest observation.

You do not have to pretend that life is morally simple.

You do not have to deny complexity in order to follow Christ.

Christianity has always understood that human beings are capable of great goodness and profound failure, sometimes in the same hour.

The answer was never self-righteousness.

The answer was always grace.

That brings us back to forgiveness.

One of the deepest truths I’ve learned as both a priest and a human being is that strong relationships are not relationships that never experience rupture.

Strong relationships survive rupture.

They endure honesty.

They endure vulnerability.

They endure humility.

They endure forgiveness.

In fact, some relationships become stronger precisely because people stop pretending they are perfect.

The same is true of our relationship with God.

God does not desire our failures.

But neither does God abandon us in them.

Every confession is an act of truth-telling.

Every prayer for forgiveness is an acknowledgment that we cannot save ourselves.

Every act of repentance is a turning back toward the One who has loved us all along.

The purpose of recognizing our sin is not to convince us that we are terrible.

It is to remind us that we belong to one another.

That none of us is entirely innocent.

That none of us saves ourselves.

That all of us stand on the same ground, dependent upon mercy.

I keep coming back to that old barber shop saying.

“If you spend enough time in the barber shop, you’re gonna get a haircut.”

Maybe that’s what spiritual formation has always been.

Not a frantic attempt to avoid mistakes.

Not a lifelong exercise in religious scorekeeping.

Simply remaining close to Christ.

Because over time we begin to resemble the people we spend our lives with.

And if we spend our lives returning again and again to the One who loves us, forgives us, corrects us, and calls us forward, we should not be surprised when His character slowly becomes visible in our own.

That process is rarely quick.

It is rarely perfect.

But perhaps that is what holiness looks like.

Not people who never fail.

People who keep returning to the better barber shop.

Five Practices for This Week

1. Pay attention to one recurring thought pattern that visits you throughout the day. Ask whether it is helping you become more loving or less loving.

2. Read Matthew 5 slowly and notice how often Jesus moves from outward behavior to the condition of the heart.

3. Before criticizing someone this week, pause long enough to remember one area where you yourself depend upon grace.

4. Practice one deliberate act of generosity that cannot benefit you in return.

5. End each evening by asking a simple question: “Who am I becoming?”

6. If you haven’t received the Sacrament of Reconciliation in a while, consider visiting your local parish and doing so if it’s consistent with your faith tradition.

Join the Conversation

How was sin explained to you when you were growing up?

Did it sound more like a list of rules, or was it presented as something that shaped your relationship with God and others?

I’d love to hear your experience in the comments.

Leave a comment

And if this reflection helped you make sense of a question you’ve carried for years, consider sharing it with someone who might need it too.

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Prayer

Loving God,

We live in a world that is beautiful and broken at the same time. We see evidence of Your goodness everywhere, and we see evidence of human failure everywhere as well. Sometimes we recognize that brokenness in society. Sometimes we recognize it in ourselves.

Help us resist the temptation to judge others harshly while excusing our own faults. Give us the humility to see ourselves truthfully, neither better nor worse than we are.

Teach us to understand Your commandments not as burdens but as wisdom. Form our hearts so that we become people who love more deeply, forgive more readily, and seek justice more faithfully.

When we fail, remind us that Your mercy is greater than our shame. When we fall short, draw us back into relationship with You. When pride begins to take root, help us remember how much we depend upon grace.

Shape us into disciples who reflect the compassion, courage, honesty, and love of Christ.

And teach us, day by day, how to become the people You created us to be.

Amen.

Hey, you made it to the end!!!

That’s no small feat. In an age of endless scrolling, you’ve just spent several thousand words thinking about sin. Honestly, I’m impressed. Bravo!

So tell me, what did you think? Did this reflection help? Did it challenge you? Did it make something click that never quite made sense before?

If you believe this kind of writing is worth supporting, I’d be grateful if you’d consider becoming a paid subscriber. It helps keep this ministry going and allows me to keep showing up each week with a keyboard, a cup of coffee, and entirely too many thoughts about theology.

Heck Yeah! Let's Keep This Going!

Behold the atheist.

With his godless and lascivious ways, the atheist begins each day reading Friedrich Nietzsche and Karl Marx before setting out in search of respectable members of the community to corrupt.

Once located, the unsuspecting victim is subjected to dangerous ideas, uncomfortable questions, and YouTube videos by Christopher Hitchens.

Should the attack prove successful, the victim may soon be found drinking artisanal coffees with a paper straw, listening to unrespectable podcasts, attending protests and demonstrations, and using phrases like “climate crisis” at otherwise pleasant dinner parties.

For decades, Christians have searched for effective methods of converting these elusive creatures.

I have discovered the answer.

Stop trying.

At least, stop trying in the way many people imagine.

One unexpected gift of the past few months has been watching this ministry grow far beyond anything I anticipated. Millions of people now encounter our content across social media. Thousands subscribe to this newsletter. Every day I read comments from Christians, former Christians, agnostics, atheists, and people from entirely different faith traditions.

One comment appears so often that I’ve lost count.

“I’m an atheist, but I watch every one of your videos.”

Or some version of:

“I don’t believe what you believe, but I wish more Christians sounded like this. I’m with you.”

I’m not trying to humble brag here, but those comments have taught me something.

Despite what some may believe to this day, the old caricatures are wrong.

Atheists are not immoral vultures circling civilization waiting for opportunities to corrupt decent churchgoers.

Most are simply unconvinced by our preaching and example.

Many are thoughtful. Many are compassionate. Many care deeply about truth, justice, family, community, and human dignity. Many are trying, in their own way, to live ethical and meaningful lives.

What they are unconvinced by is fear.

They are unconvinced by threats.

They are unconvinced by outrage masquerading as righteousness.

They are unconvinced by Christians who speak endlessly about love while displaying very little of it.

They are unconvinced by performative piety.

And honestly, I understand that.

I have met Christians who could quote Scripture chapter and verse better than I ever could while treating their neighbors with utter contempt.

I have seen believers spend more energy defending political tribes than feeding the hungry.

I have watched people proclaim the Prince of Peace while appearing perpetually angry.

People notice these things.

They always have.

One of the great mistakes modern Christianity sometimes makes is assuming people reject faith because they have not heard the arguments.

Most people have heard the arguments.

Many have heard them repeatedly.

What they have not always seen is faith embodied.

They have not always seen Christians who possess genuine joy.

They have not always seen people whose lives have been transformed by grace into something recognizable and attractive.

They have not always seen the fruits of the Spirit.

The Apostle Paul describes those fruits as “love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control” (Galatians 5:22-23 NIV).

If you're anything like me, seeing that list written out is jarring in light of modern Christianity.

Notice what is missing from the list.

Outrage.

Contempt.

Tribalism.

Cruelty.

Constant grievance.

Owning the Libs.

Humiliating people who disagree with you.

Consuming every waking hour searching for new reasons to be angry.

Paul doesn’t describe a life transformed by Christ as louder, harsher, or more combative.

He describes a person becoming more loving, more joyful, more peaceful, more patient, more kind.

Which raises an uncomfortable question.

If someone encountered our faith only through the behavior modeled on cable news, would they recognize the fruits Paul described?

Jesus never instructed His followers to become experts at winning arguments online.

He told them they were the salt of the earth.

The light of the world.

He spoke of living water.

These are images of attraction, nourishment, and transformation.

When Jesus entered a town, people came to Him.

Not because He had mastered a marketing strategy.

People came because they encountered something they desperately needed.

The sick came because He healed.

The hungry came because He fed them.

The lonely came because He welcomed them.

The broken came because they found mercy.

The crowds gathered because Christ was attractive.

Not superficially attractive.

Not culturally fashionable.

Attractive in the deepest sense of the word.

He embodied the life every human being is searching for, whether they know it or not.

Many people of Jesus’ day wanted a Messiah who would destroy their enemies.

Jesus never gave them the satisfaction.

Instead, He gave them what they actually needed.

When people wanted vengeance, He spoke of forgiveness.

When people wanted power, He spoke of service.

When people wanted victory, He spoke of love.

Two thousand years later, we still worship Him.

Not because He crushed His enemies.

Because He showed us a better way.

That makes all the difference.

I think many Christians have spent so much time trying to make Christianity attractive that we’ve overlooked a simpler task.

Live it.

Actually live it.

Love your family.

Serve your community.

Forgive people.

Feed someone who is hungry.

Visit someone who is lonely.

Treat strangers with dignity.

Refuse to participate in the daily outrage machine.

Practice gratitude in a culture of complaint.

Practice mercy in a culture of humiliation.

Practice courage in a culture of fear.

People notice.

I know they do because I’ve watched it happen.

The growth of this ministry has not come from yelling louder than everyone else.

It has not come from demonizing people who disagree.

It has not come from treating every conversation like a battlefield.

It has come from a sincere effort, however imperfect, to embody the teachings of Christ.

Please don’t misunderstand me.

I fail at this all the time.

I get frustrated.

I get impatient.

I have bad days.

There are moments when outrage feels easier than discipleship.

But people are remarkably generous when they see sincerity.

Even when we stumble.

Even when we fail.

Even when we’re still learning.

They can tell the difference between someone trying to live the Gospel and someone using the Gospel as a weapon.

These are difficult times.

We live in an age fueled by outrage. Entire industries profit from keeping us angry, frightened, suspicious, and exhausted. Political leaders, media figures, influencers, and algorithms all compete for our attention by feeding our worst impulses.

Many people feel spiritually homeless.

Many are hungry for meaning.

Many are tired.

Some Christians look at this moment and see a reason for despair.

I see something else.

I see harvest season.

When the world is anxious, peace stands out.

When the world is cruel, kindness stands out.

When the world is consumed by outrage, joy stands out.

When people are exhausted by endless tribal warfare, a person who genuinely loves their neighbor becomes impossible to ignore.

This is not the season to become more combative.

This is the season to become more Christlike.

And that may be the closest thing I have to a concise guide for converting atheists.

Stop trying to convert atheists.

Start becoming the sort of person whose life makes people curious about Christ.

The rest tends to take care of itself.

Practices for the Week

1. Spend one day without engaging in online outrage, even when you are tempted.

2. Read Matthew 25:31-46 slowly and ask yourself where Christ might be appearing in your ordinary daily encounters.

3. Perform one act of kindness for someone who can offer you nothing in return.

4. Before posting or commenting online, ask yourself: “Does this reflect the fruits of the Spirit?”

5. End each day by naming three moments of grace you experienced, however small.

Join the Conversation

Have you ever met someone whose life made you curious about faith?

Or perhaps someone whose behavior made faith seem less believable?

I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Leave a comment

If this reflection encouraged you, consider sharing it with someone who may be tired of the noise and looking for a different way forward.

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Prayer

Lord Jesus,

In a world that often rewards outrage, teach us the way of love.

When we are tempted to win arguments, remind us to love people.

When we are tempted to speak with contempt, remind us of the mercy You have shown us.

Give us hearts that are patient, generous, and courageous.

Help us become people whose lives reflect Your presence, not merely our opinions.

Teach us to see our neighbors as You see them.

Protect us from the arrogance that assumes we have all the answers and from the fear that causes us to close our hearts to others.

Where we have contributed to division, grant us repentance.

Where we have grown cynical, restore hope.

Where we have become weary, renew our strength.

May living water flow through our lives in ways that nourish those around us.

May our words and actions point beyond ourselves and toward You.

And when others encounter us, may they catch even the smallest glimpse of Your compassion, Your wisdom, Your mercy, and Your peace.

We ask this in Your holy name.

Amen.

A strange thing has happened over the past few months.

As this ministry has grown, I’ve heard from Christians, former Christians, atheists, agnostics, and people from entirely different faith traditions.

The comments are remarkably consistent.

People are tired.

Tired of outrage.

Tired of being manipulated.

Tired of every conversation becoming a battle.

Tired of Christianity being presented as something angry, fearful, and perpetually offended.

What many people seem to be looking for is something much simpler.

A place to think.

A place to pray.

A place to wrestle honestly with faith, doubt, Scripture, science, psychology, and modern life without being shouted at.

That’s what we’re trying to build here.

No ads.

No outrage farming.

No treating readers like products.

Just thoughtful readers helping sustain a ministry and community they find meaningful.

Maybe a little satire now and then.

If Message From the Margins has helped you breathe a little easier, think a little more clearly, or remember why Christ remains worth following, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Not because everything meaningful should be behind a paywall.

Quite the opposite.

Most of this work remains free because I believe it should.

Paid subscribers simply help keep the doors open for everyone.

And for that, I am deeply grateful.

Yes, Father! Count Me In!

Dear Friend,

A Quick Confession: My Theology Is Ancient. Apparently So Are My Technical Skills.

While doing some housekeeping behind the scenes at Message from the Margins, I discovered that many of you who signed up for one of my free guides may have received an entire library of books instead.

Which, honestly, would not be a terrible problem... if that library had actually included the book I promised you.

Unfortunately, it did not.

In my defense, if I’m going to make a mistake, giving away too many books feels like a very priestly one. “Whoever compels you to go one mile, go with him two” and all that. I can’t say I’m upset about accidental generosity.

Nevertheless, if you signed up for When Everything Feels Like Too Much, I wanted to make sure you received exactly what you came for.

You can download your copy here:

Get My Free Download!

Thank you for being part of this community. Whether you’ve been here all year or joined last week, I’m grateful you’re walking this journey with us.

And since we’re being honest, moments like this are a reminder that Message from the Margins isn’t a giant media company. It’s a ministry built by one very real priest trying to share hope, wisdom, and the love of Christ in a complicated world.

Sometimes that means things aren’t perfect.

It also means every subscriber is known, valued, and appreciated. Many of you I know by name. If you’ve shared your story with me, I often know what’s happening in your life. I’ve prayed with many of you and prayed for all of you.

That’s one of the things I treasure most about this community.

If you’ve found encouragement, healing, or a deeper faith through this ministry, I’d like to invite you to consider becoming a paid subscriber.

Your support helps make resources like these available to everyone, especially those who need them most. And who knows... perhaps someday it will even help me hire enough technical assistance to prevent future incidents involving accidental libraries.

Help a Doddering Priest

Thank you for your patience, your kindness, and for extending a little grace as I continue learning how to run a digital ministry without accidentally giving away the whole bookstore.

With gratitude,

Message from the Margins

Did you get the right book when you signed up? Let me know here in the comments.

Leave a comment

Dear Sibling in Christ,

May I have a word before we begin?

As I hope you know, I read every comment posted here.

Yesterday, a reader wrote this:

“Most importantly, you have convinced me that my small life on this earth matters.”

That stopped me in my tracks.

Because beneath all the theology, psychology, Scripture, and reflection, that’s what I hope this space does.

Remind people that they matter.

Not because they are productive, though they might be.

Not because they are successful, though they might be too.

Not because they are winning arguments online.

Because they are loved by God.

It is a message I want to shout from the mountaintops, but in our modern culture it is too often lost in the noise of the day.

And that is why I need your help.

Message From the Margins remains largely free because I believe the Gospel should remain accessible.

Paid subscribers keep the doors open, the lights on, and this work moving forward.

If you’d like to support this ministry and help build a more thoughtful, compassionate Christian community online, I’d be honored to have you join us.

Let's Shout it, Father! I'm in!

And if you aren’t able to at this time, I’m glad you’re here. This work is no less for you.

With gratitude,

So Many Want to Turn Over Tables...

So Few Want to Break Bread

I want to tell you a story about a man named Bill Donohue.

If you’ve somehow managed to avoid hearing of him, Donohue has spent decades serving as president of “The Catholic League,” and by any objective measure he has built an extraordinarily successful career being angry on behalf of Catholicism.

No insult against the Church is too small.

No perceived slight is too minor.

No cultural offense is too obscure.

Somewhere, at this very moment, there is probably a press release being drafted about something.

A television commercial.

A college professor.

A celebrity interview.

A hairstyle.

I’m only half joking about that last one.

Hopefully it isn't directed at me.

For decades, Donohue has been one of American Catholicism’s most reliable table-turners. He has made quite a career out of sounding the alarm. I’m not sure he’s drawn many souls into the life of faith, but he has certainly made a lot of noise.

Now before anyone starts hammering away at their keyboards, this isn’t really about Bill Donohue.

Every tradition has its Bill Donohues.

The left has them.

The right has them.

Politics has them.

Religion has them.

Social media practically manufactures them by the dozen.

People whose entire public identity revolves around outrage. People who wake up each morning asking, “What should we be angry about today?” People who have learned that conflict gets attention, attention becomes influence, and influence can become a very comfortable business model.

And because anger is exciting, because conflict feels clarifying, because outrage gives us the intoxicating feeling of being morally certain, we often mistake it for faithfulness.

Which brings me to an uncomfortable observation.

Jesus overturned tables once.

He broke bread constantly.

Yet many Christians seem far more interested in one afternoon in the Temple than three years of shared meals and breaking down barriers.

The Gospel contains exactly one story about Jesus making a whip.
Three Gospel authors chose to ignore it all together.

But it contains dozens of stories about Jesus sitting at tables.

Tables with sinners.

Tables with doubters.

Tables with tax collectors.

Tables with people respectable religious leaders preferred to avoid.

If you judged Christianity solely by its loudest voices, you could be forgiven for thinking Christ spent most of his ministry looking for furniture to throw.

The Gospels tell a very different story.

Righteous anger is real, mind you.

I want to be very clear about that.

There are things that should make Christians angry. Abuse should anger us. Exploitation should anger us. Racism should anger us. Religious leaders who protect institutions while abandoning wounded people, especially children, should anger us. The suffering of vulnerable people should anger us.

Moral numbness is not a Christian virtue.

But neither is perpetual outrage.

Paul writes, “In your anger do not sin” (Ephesians 4:26, NIV).

Notice what he does not say.

He does not say, “Never be angry.”

He says, in effect, don’t build your home there.

Anger can be a signal.

It cannot be a compass.

It can alert us to injustice.

It cannot sustain a healthy soul.

One reason outrage is so addictive is that it gives us immediate emotional rewards. The world becomes simpler. We know who the villain is. We know who the hero is. We know which side we’re on.

Table-turning produces adrenaline.

Breaking bread produces relationship.

One can happen in thirty seconds.

The other may take thirty years.

Now, At this point, I can almost hear the objection forming.

“But Father, somebody has to defend the faith.”

Well, Maybe.

There are certainly moments when Christians must speak clearly. There are times when lies should be challenged, when injustice should be confronted, and when the Church should refuse to compromise on essential truths.

I’m not arguing for passivity.

What I am questioning is the assumption that the Gospel primarily advances through verbal combat.

Because a great deal of what passes for “defending the faith” today looks suspiciously like enjoying a good fight.

We score a satisfying dunk.

We embarrass an opponent.

We accumulate likes, shares, applause, and approving comments from people who already agree with us.

The algorithm is thrilled.

I’m less certain Jesus is.

Then we tell ourselves we’ve done evangelization.

Meanwhile, the person on the receiving end walks away more convinced than ever that Christianity has nothing to offer them except hostility.

I sometimes wonder if modern Christians have confused winning arguments with making disciples.

The early Church did not conquer the Roman Empire by controlling the Senate, dominating the media, or winning culture wars.

They cared for plague victims.

They rescued abandoned infants.

They fed the hungry.

They welcomed strangers.

They embodied the faith so convincingly that people became curious about the source of that life.

Faith needs defending on occasion.

Far more often, it needs embodying.

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And so we continue our story…

The Gospels offer a wonderful example of this.

In Luke 9, Jesus is rejected by a Samaritan village. James and John are furious. They turn to Jesus and ask, “Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?”

It’s one of my favorite moments in Scripture because it is so profoundly human.

The Sons of Zebedee have been following Jesus, listening to his teachings, watching him heal people, feed crowds, and preach mercy.

And their first instinct when somebody rejects them is still:

“Let’s set them on fire!”

Jesus’ response is essentially, “Absolutely not.”

The Gospel doesn’t record a lengthy theological lecture. He simply rebukes them and moves on to the next village.

Church tradition tells us Jesus eventually gave James and John a nickname: Boanerges, “Sons of Thunder.”

I’ve always suspected there was a smile hidden somewhere in that title.

The same way a parent might affectionately nickname an impulsive child.

Jesus knew their hearts.

He knew their zeal.

He also knew that zeal without love quickly becomes destructive.

What makes the story even more fascinating is that James and John weren’t merely engaging in empty bluster. They believed it was within their power to do exactly what they were proposing. These were men who had witnessed miracles, cast out demons, and experienced God’s power at work through them.

And Jesus essentially says:

“You Guys, Please don’t.”

No fire.

No thunder.

No heavenly retribution.

Just a long walk to the next village.

Jesus never encourages their desire to call down fire and brimstone.

Instead, he spent years teaching them how to become the sort of people who could break bread with those who rejected them.

You’ll notice they never ask again.

That is a much harder miracle.

Now, I should probably confess something.

The reason I recognize this impulse so quickly is because I recognize it in myself.

Those of you who have been walking with me for a while, whether here on Substack or through my videos and livestreams, or maybe even from parish life, can probably tell when my own desire to overturn tables starts leaking through.

After all, I’m a New York Italian.

Temperance does not come naturally to me.

There are days when I read a headline, hear a politician speak, watch a powerful person exploit vulnerable people, or see religion weaponized against those already carrying heavy burdens, and my first instinct is not always charitable reflection.

Sometimes my first instinct is considerably louder.

The older I get, the more convinced I become that the Christian life is not about pretending those impulses don’t exist.

It’s about deciding what we do with them.

The life of faith is transformational.

Or at least it is supposed to be.

All of us are in some process of becoming.

Sainthood is the destination.

For most of us, it remains more aspiration than present reality.

I know that’s true for me.

One of the unexpected gifts of writing here is that you help keep me honest.

Every week I sit down and ask myself not only what I think, but whether what I think reflects Christ.

Those are not always the same thing.

My desire to show you better paths forces me to look for better paths for myself.

My desire to encourage mercy requires me to practice mercy.

My desire to invite compassion requires me to cultivate compassion.

You have become one of the guardrails God uses in my life.

That is no small thing.

So before I continue, thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for challenging me.

Thank you for walking this road with me.

We are all trying to become more faithful than we were yesterday.

But I digress….

What was I saying?

Ah yes, Bill Donohue.

Part of the reason I feel so strongly about this is because I have watched “defending the faith” become a very strange enterprise.

Too often it has looked less like speaking truth to power and more like punching down at people who already have very little power.

For much of my lifetime, enormous amounts of Christian outrage have been directed toward transgender people trying to navigate their already difficult lives, single mothers trying to raise children, grieving families wrestling with the aftermath of suicide, gay teenagers wondering whether God could possibly love them, and countless others standing somewhere near the margins.

That should trouble us.

Because when I read the Gospels, Jesus consistently seems drawn toward people standing in exactly those places.

His sharpest words are usually reserved for those with religious, political, or economic power.

His tenderness is usually directed elsewhere.

That is part of why I find myself unexpectedly hopeful these days.

Not because the world has become less complicated.

It certainly hasn’t.

But because I am seeing more Christian voices willing to challenge people with actual power.

Presidents.

Prime Ministers.

Vice Presidents.

Tech oligarchs.

Media empires.

Powerful governments.

Military leaders.

The wealthy and influential people whose decisions shape the lives of millions.

That is much closer to the pattern established by the biblical prophets.

When Isaiah thundered against injustice, he was not targeting society’s most vulnerable people.

When Amos condemned exploitation, he was not directing his anger toward those already carrying the heaviest burdens.

Neither did Jesus.

There is another Gospel story I keep returning to.

The Road to Emmaus.

Two disciples are walking away from Jerusalem after the crucifixion.

They are discouraged.

Confused.

Disappointed.

The movement they had invested themselves in appears to have collapsed.

The man they believed might change everything has been executed by the state.

As far as they can tell, they were wrong.

Church tradition suggests these were not casual observers. These were people who had sacrificed something to follow Jesus. They had invested hope, time, energy, and belief.

Now they are walking down a dusty road trying to make sense of their disappointment.

They carry the familiar blend of anger, disappointment, resentment, and doubt.

They sound a lot like many people I meet today.

People who feel let down by religion.

People who have watched church leaders fail.

People who have experienced hypocrisy.

People who have been carrying a grab bag of religious trauma and found no good place to set it down.

What fascinates me is Jesus’ response.

He does not scold them.

He does not accuse them of lacking faith.

He does not hand them a grievance-laden press release.

He walks with them.

He listens.

He lets them tell Him His own story.

He allows them to voice their disappointment.

He stays in conversation long enough for their hearts to begin catching up with the truth.

And then, Luke tells us, they recognize him in the breaking of the bread.

Of course they do.

Because that is where Jesus so often reveals himself.

Not through domination.

Not through humiliation.

Not through winning an argument.

Through presence.

Through relationship.

Through a shared table.

Imagine the story another way.

Imagine Jesus responding to their discouragement by calling them heretics.

Imagine him leaving a scathing anonymous comment on their Facebook wall.

Imagine him publishing a blistering statement about their insufficient commitment.

The idea is absurd.

Almost funny.

Because instinctively we know that is not how Christ treats wounded people.

He walks with them.

He listens.

He breaks bread.

And in that moment, their faith begins to return.

Even in an age of declining religiosity, the Church still carries extraordinary influence.

People listen.

More than we sometimes realize.

One of the things that has fascinated me about Pope Leo is watching people who would never set foot inside a church pay attention to what he says.

Not because they suddenly agree with every Roman Catholic doctrine.

Not because they have become secretly religious.

But because there is something compelling about watching a person embody the Gospel rather than argue about it.

Frankly, I find myself responding to that too.

When faith becomes embodied, people lean in.

When faith becomes primarily a vehicle for outrage, they tend to walk away.

The Church has never needed more angry defenders.

It has always needed more convincing witnesses.

The Church will always need people willing to overturn a table when the moment genuinely demands it.

The problem is that many of us have mistaken the exception for a vocation.

Jesus overturned tables once.

He broke bread constantly.

Modern Christians have spent a great deal of time emulating the exception while neglecting the habit.

The world does not need more Christians looking for someone to denounce.

It needs Christians willing to walk alongside disappointed people, listen to their stories, and break bread with them.

That’s how Jesus revealed himself at Emmaus.

It’s still how how He reveals Himself today.

A Few Practices for This Week

1. Notice what your anger is asking of you.
Before posting, sharing, or replying, ask: Is this anger moving me toward repair, courage, and truth, or is it simply giving me a rush?

2. Read Luke 9:51-56 slowly.
Pay attention to James and John. Do not mock them too quickly. Notice where you recognize yourself.

3. Delay one reaction.
When something online makes you angry, wait thirty minutes before responding. If thirty minutes feels impossible, that is useful information.

4. Pray for someone you would rather defeat.
Not performatively. Not smugly. Ask God to bless, heal, correct, and guide them. Then ask God to do the same for you.

5. Break bread on purpose.
Share coffee, a meal, or a real conversation with someone this week. Give them your attention. Do not treat every relationship as a debate waiting to happen.

Community Oriented Closing

If this reflection resonated with you, I would love to hear your thoughts in the comments.

Where have you seen outrage crowd out compassion?

Where have you seen someone choose witness over warfare?

And where do you feel Christ asking you to break bread when you would rather overturn a table?

Leave a comment

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Prayer

Lord Jesus,

You knew righteous anger, yet you never allowed anger to become your identity. You confronted injustice without surrendering to hatred. You spoke truth without losing compassion. You defended the vulnerable while continuing to see the humanity of those around you.

Teach us to follow that path.

We confess that anger often feels easier than understanding. It is easier to condemn than to listen. Easier to assume the worst than to remain curious. Easier to seek enemies than to build community.

Give us wisdom to recognize when our outrage has become a substitute for discipleship.

When we encounter cruelty, grant us courage. When we face injustice, grant us conviction. When we are wounded, grant us healing. When we are tempted to dehumanize others, remind us that every person carries your image.

Help us become people who tell the truth clearly and love generously.

Make our homes, our churches, and our communities places where bread is broken more often than relationships.

And when we fail, draw us back again to your table, where mercy and transformation meet.

Amen.

Before you go, I want to thank the people who make this work possible.

Message From the Margins remains largely free because ordinary readers have chosen to support it.

Not because they agree with every word, I would be concerned if you did.

Not because they need more content.

But because they believe thoughtful, compassionate Christianity is worth preserving.

One new subscriber recently wrote:

“Most importantly, you have convinced me that my small life on this earth matters.”

That sentence captures much of what I hope this ministry offers.

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Thank you for reading.

Thank you for being here.

And thank you for helping build something steadier than outrage.

Let's Break Bread Together

I sometimes wonder how many people have quietly drifted away from faith because they felt they had to leave part of their brain at the door.

St. Justin Martyr spent his life searching for truth, and discovered that Christ was not the enemy of reason but its fulfillment.

That conviction sits near the heart of this publication too.

Most of what I write remains free because I believe the Gospel should remain accessible. This work continues because readers choose to support it, not because it’s hidden behind a wall.

If these reflections help you think more clearly, pray more deeply, or stay a little steadier in a chaotic world, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid subscriber and helping sustain the work. And if you’re already a supporting member,

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Sincerely.

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St. Justin Martyr and the Courage to Seek the Truth

Most martyrs are remembered for how they died.

Justin is remembered for how he thought.

That may sound strange in an age when faith is often portrayed as the opposite of reason, but St. Justin Martyr spent much of his life doing something many people are still doing today: searching.

He searched through philosophies, schools of thought, teachers, arguments, and competing visions of reality. He wanted answers to life’s biggest questions. He wanted to know what was true. Not what was fashionable. Not what was popular. What was true.

The Church remembers him today because he followed that search wherever it led, even when it cost him everything.

Who Was St. Justin Martyr?

St. Justin Martyr lived during the second century, roughly between A.D. 100 and 165. He was born in what is now the West Bank, in the ancient city of Flavia Neapolis, near biblical Shechem.

Unlike many of the saints we celebrate, Justin was not raised as a Christian. He spent his early life studying philosophy. He explored the teachings of the Stoics, the Peripatetics, the Pythagoreans, and eventually Platonism, searching for a framework that could explain both the world and the human soul.

Then something unexpected happened.

According to Justin’s own account, he encountered an elderly Christian while walking near the sea. Their conversation challenged many of his assumptions. The old man spoke not merely of ideas but of prophets, revelation, and a God who had entered human history.

That conversation stayed with him.

Eventually Justin became convinced that Christianity was not the abandonment of reason but its fulfillment. He would later describe Christ as the Logos, the divine Word through whom all truth exists. If something is genuinely true, Justin argued, it ultimately belongs to God.

That conviction shaped the rest of his life.

The Church celebrates him today as a martyr, but before he was a martyr he was an intellectual bridge-builder. He wrote defenses of Christianity addressed to Roman authorities. He challenged misconceptions about Christians. He argued that Christians were not enemies of society but people seeking to live faithfully and ethically in the world.

His writings also give us some of the earliest descriptions of Christian worship, including readings from Scripture, preaching, communal prayer, the kiss of peace, and the celebration of the Eucharist. When we gather around the altar today, we can see remarkable continuity with what Justin described nearly nineteen centuries ago.

Eventually his witness attracted opposition.

During a Roman trial, Justin was ordered to sacrifice to pagan gods. He refused.

The authorities threatened him with death.

His answer was simple and direct:

“We desire nothing more than to suffer for our Lord Jesus Christ.”

He was executed in Rome around A.D. 165.

The philosopher became a martyr.

The seeker became a witness.

Why Justin Still Matters

Many people today are exhausted by certainty.

Not certainty itself, but the kind of narcissistic certainty that arrives before questions have even been asked.

We live in a culture filled with hot takes, ideological tribes, social media experts, conspiracy theories, influencers, and endless demands to pick a side immediately. People are expected to have strong opinions about everything, often before they have had time to think.

Underneath all that noise, many people are quietly carrying deeper questions.

Can faith survive honest inquiry?

Can science and spirituality coexist?

Can reason and belief occupy the same room?

Can someone wrestle with doubt without losing God?

Justin’s life answers those questions with a resounding yes.

His path to Christ was not built on intellectual surrender. It was built on intellectual honesty.

He did not stop asking questions when he became a Christian. He kept asking them. He simply became convinced that Christ was large enough to withstand them.

That may be one of the most important gifts Justin offers modern believers.

Faith does not require shutting down the mind.

God gave us minds for a reason.

A faith that cannot survive questions is too fragile to sustain a human life.

A surprising number of readers arrive here carrying the same question:

“Can I still be intellectually honest and keep my faith?”

The answer is why this community exists.

Not to provide certainty about everything.
Not to hand out approved opinions.

Just a place where thoughtful people can ask honest questions, pray honestly, and search for truth without fear.

Readers like Debbie have written:

“I’ve never understood how a person of faith can feel so threatened by science.”

Neither have I.

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Many people today are spiritually homeless because they have been told they must choose between faith and intelligence. Justin would have found that choice absurd. He believed that every authentic search for truth eventually leads toward God because God is the source of truth itself.

That does not mean every question gets an immediate answer.

It means the search itself can become holy.

One of the great wounds of our age is cynicism. People have watched institutions fail, leaders disappoint, and public discourse become increasingly cruel. Many have learned to distrust almost everything.

Cynicism masquerades as wisdom, but it rarely produces anything except paralysis.

Justin offers another path.

Not naïveté.

Not blind acceptance.

Not gullibility.

A disciplined commitment to seek what is true, even when the search is difficult and the answer is costly.

There is a line worth carrying into the rest of this week:

God is not threatened by honest questions. What threatens us is the refusal to keep searching.

That insight has public implications too.

Christianity has never asked us to escape reality. It asks us to see reality more clearly. The saints are not remembered because they avoided difficult questions. They are remembered because they remained faithful while asking them.

A healthy faith does not fear truth wherever it appears.

Because all truth ultimately belongs to God.

A Word from the Tradition

Justin’s understanding of Christ as the Logos comes directly from the opening of John’s Gospel:

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” (John 1:1, NIV)

For Justin, this was not abstract theology. It meant that the same divine Word through whom the universe was created had entered human history in Jesus Christ.

The God Christians worship is not hidden from human experience.

The God Christians worship has spoken.

That conviction transformed a wandering philosopher into a saint.

Practical Ways to Mark the Memorial of St. Justin Martyr

1. Read John 1:1-18 slowly and prayerfully, paying attention to the image of Christ as the Word.

2. Spend ten minutes with a spiritual question you have been avoiding. Bring it honestly before God. Or if you want, reach out to Fr. Rich and we can discuss it here.

3. Read a short excerpt from an early Christian writer or Church Father and notice how seriously they engaged both faith and reason.

4. Examine where cynicism may have taken root in your life and ask whether it is protecting wisdom or merely avoiding vulnerability.

5. Pray for students, teachers, writers, researchers, and all who seek truth in a confusing age.

Did You Know?

• St. Justin’s writings contain one of the earliest detailed descriptions of the Mass outside the New Testament.

• He continued wearing a philosopher’s cloak after becoming a Christian, seeing Christianity as the fulfillment of true philosophy.

• His title “Martyr” comes from the Greek word martys, meaning “witness.”

• Several of Justin’s major works survive today, giving historians valuable insight into second-century Christianity.

• He is often considered one of the most important Christian apologists of the early Church.

Community Oriented Closing

Justin spent his life searching for the truth, trusting that honest questions could lead somewhere holy.

I’m curious:

What’s one question, struggle, or discovery that has deepened your faith over the years?

Share it in the comments. I suspect many of us are still learning from one another.

Leave a comment

If this reflection made you think of someone who is wrestling with faith, doubt, science, reason, or the search for truth, consider sharing it with them.

Sometimes the most meaningful invitation we can offer is simply letting someone know they aren’t the only one asking the questions.

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Closing Prayer

God of truth and wisdom,

Today we remember St. Justin Martyr, a man who sought you with both his heart and his mind. In a world filled with competing voices, he remained committed to the search for what was true. When that search led him to Christ, he followed faithfully, even when the cost became great.

Through his prayers, give us courage to ask honest questions and humility to receive honest answers. Protect us from the arrogance that believes it already knows everything and from the despair that believes nothing can be known at all.

Strengthen those who are searching. Encourage those who are doubting. Guide those who feel caught between faith and reason. Help us trust that all genuine truth leads toward you.

May we love you not only with our hearts, but also with our minds, and may our lives bear witness to the Gospel with the same integrity and courage that marked the life of St. Justin.

We ask this through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

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If you are able, I encourage you to find your way to a local parish or congregation this weekend. Show up. Pray. Worship. Serve. Be part of something larger than yourself.

At the same time, I know life is complicated.

Some of you are carrying church hurt. Some are grieving. Some are caring for loved ones. Some are homebound. Some live far from a faith community that feels safe or spiritually nourishing. Some are still searching and aren’t sure where they belong. Some are just exhausted.

Wherever you find yourself today, I am glad you’re here.

Message From the Margins exists to serve people in those spaces, offering reflection, encouragement, and community along the journey.

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And so we begin…

Trinity Sunday Reflection: "Would Your Faith Still Work Without the Trinity?"

A question from a college roommate led me to the heart of Christianity.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I was an eighteen-year-old freshman arriving at college for the first time.

I was leaving my New York City suburb and moving to Washington, D.C., which at that age felt less like going to school and more like stepping into an entirely new universe. New friends. New freedoms. New experiences. New possibilities.

A few months before classes started, I had attended an Honors Overnight program and met a guy who seemed to know everyone within about fifteen minutes of entering a room. We decided to become roommates.

He was one of those people who naturally draws others in. Good-looking but not intimidating, charismatic, polite, genuinely interested in whoever he was talking to. The kind of smile usually reserved for game show hosts and politicians.

He is a diplomat now, which feels like exactly the right profession for him.

I arrived from New York carrying every stereotype my region could produce.

He arrived from Salt Lake City, Utah.

You can probably see where this story is headed.

He was a committed Mormon, temple recommend and all.

For the most part, we got along wonderfully. Like all roommates, we eventually developed a few points of friction. My other roommate and I were devout Catholics. He hung a large picture of the Salt Lake Temple on his side of the room.

In response, we hung a picture of the Jedi Temple on ours.

I am not particularly proud of that.

I still think it is funny.

Anywho, eventually he began making a sincere effort to convert us. He invited me to attend what Mormons call a ward service. I went. I met Woody Marriott, younger brother of hotel magnate J.W. Marriott, which was admittedly pretty cool. The rest of the experience left me unconvinced.

Then one day, during one of our many conversations about faith, he asked me a question.

I can still hear it.

It was obviously a well-practiced question carefully developed through LDS history. One that Mormon missionaries had asked countless times around the world. In African villages. On the streets of Tokyo. In Siberian winters. In suburban living rooms.

And now in a freshman dorm room in Washington, D.C.

He looked at me and asked:

“Would your faith still work if God weren’t a Trinity?”

I remember pausing, a little disarmed.

I had never been asked that before.

The look on his face suggested he thought he’d finally found his in.

The question.

The one that would unravel everything.

I thought for a moment.

Then I looked at him and said:

“No.

Absolutely not.”

That answer surprised him.

Honestly, it probably surprises many Christians.

For a lot of believers, the Trinity feels like an advanced doctrine. Something tucked away in theology books while the “important stuff” happens elsewhere. Many Christians can tell you the Christmas story, the Easter story, and several of Jesus’ parables. Ask them to explain the Trinity and the room suddenly gets very quiet.

But the older I get, the more convinced I am that my answer in that dorm room was correct.

Remove the Trinity and you do not simply revise Christianity.

You create an entirely different faith.

Before I go any further, let me say something important.

I do not tell this story to pick on Mormons.

Many Latter-day Saints live their faith with remarkable sincerity, generosity, and devotion. My former roommate certainly did. Their commitment to family, community, service, and mutual support is admirable, and there are aspects of Mormon culture that many Christians could learn from.

I disagree with them on significant theological questions, including the nature of God Himself. Those differences matter, which is precisely why that conversation stayed with me all these years. But disagreement should never prevent us from recognizing what is good, honorable, and worthy of respect in one another. People of other faiths are always neighbors to love before anything else.

Fast forward to today, when the Church celebrates the Solemnity of the Most Holy Trinity, one of the great feasts of the Christian year. It comes on the Sunday after Pentecost, after we have walked through the death and resurrection of Christ, the Ascension, and the sending of the Holy Spirit.

In other words, after the Church has spent weeks proclaiming what God has done, Trinity Sunday asks us to consider who this God is.

The Father sends the Son.

The Son reveals the Father.

The Holy Spirit is poured out upon the Church.

The Christian answer is that God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. One God in three Persons. Not three gods. Not one person wearing three different masks. One divine life shared eternally, no beginning, without end, in perfect communion.

Despite what some internet people like to say, that belief was not invented centuries after Christ by church politicians.

Whenever Trinity Sunday comes around, someone inevitably claims that the doctrine was created by Emperor Constantine at the Council of Nicaea in 325 AD. It is one of those ideas that sounds convincing if you have never looked closely at the history.

The internet is full of confident claims. History is often less accommodating.

What happened at Nicaea was not the invention of the Trinity. The bishops gathered because Christians already believed Jesus was divine and already worshiped the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. The debate was over how to describe that belief accurately and defend it against competing interpretations.

Long before Constantine, Christians were baptizing in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Long before Nicaea, Christian writers like Ignatius of Antioch, Justin Martyr, and Irenaeus were speaking about Christ and the Spirit in ways that clearly laid the foundation for later Trinitarian language.

Nicaea did not create the doctrine.

Nicaea gave the Church a common vocabulary.

We easily forget that the first Christians did not live in an age of blogs, podcasts, publishing houses, livestreams, or social media. They lived in a largely oral culture. Faith was transmitted through worship, preaching, prayer, sacraments, memory, and personal instruction. Not every belief was immediately reduced to a carefully worded document.

The early Church often believed and worshiped first, then spent generations finding language precise enough to express what it already knew.

In that sense, the Nicene Creed is less like a new invention and more like a family finally finding the right words for something it has always recognized.

And what Christians recognized was revolutionary.

Before anything was created, before there were stars, oceans, nations, or human beings, there was love.

Not merely a loving God.

Love already being shared.

The Father loving the Son.

The Son loving the Father.

The Holy Spirit proceeding from that eternal communion.

That means relationship is not an accident of creation.

It is woven into reality itself.

Most religions teach something about God’s power. Christianity certainly does. Most religions teach something about God’s wisdom. Christianity certainly does.

But Christianity makes a claim that should stop us cold.

God has never been isolated.

There was never a moment when God was alone.

There was never a moment when God lacked communion.

Before the first star ignited, before time itself began, the Father loved the Son and the Son loved the Father in the unity of the Holy Spirit.

Love did not begin when God created the world.

Love was already there.

That changes how we understand ourselves.

It means our longing for connection is not a design flaw.

It means our desire to be known is not weakness.

It means the ache we feel when relationships break apart is not sentimental nonsense.

It means loneliness hurts because it cuts against something fundamental in how we were created.

A fish suffers outside water because it was not made for dry land.

Human beings suffer in isolation because we were not made for isolation.

We were made by a God whose very life is communion.

Think about how many people move through life today.

A person wakes up and reaches for the phone before their feet hit the floor.

Messages.

Notifications.

News alerts.

Emails.

Algorithms fighting for attention before breakfast.

They spend the whole day connected to everyone and known by almost no one.

Hundreds of contacts.

Thousands of followers.

Very few people they can call at two in the morning.

We have built astonishing technology.

We have not solved loneliness.

In some cases, we have industrialized it.

The Trinity tells us why.

Human beings cannot thrive on information alone. We cannot live by performance alone. We cannot survive on branding, networking, outrage, distraction, and carefully curated versions of ourselves.

We need communion.

The kind of knowing and being known that reflects the life of God Himself.

That is why Christianity places such emphasis on community. Not because churches need members. Not because institutions need preserving. Not because God is impressed by attendance records.

Because isolation slowly deforms the human soul.

The Christian life was never intended to be a solo project.

We are baptized into a community.

We gather around a common table.

We pray in a shared language.

We bear one another’s burdens.

We forgive, stumble, return, and begin again.

All of that flows from who God is.

The Church is supposed to look like the God it worships.

Not perfectly. God knows we have often failed.

But that is the vision.

The Trinity is not Christianity’s most complicated doctrine. It is Christianity’s answer to the deepest human question:

Do I belong?

And here is where the mystery becomes even more personal.

A few weeks ago, the Church celebrated the Ascension of Christ.

Most people hear the Ascension and think of Jesus leaving.

The early Church heard something very different.

They heard that humanity had entered heaven.

Jesus does not abandon His humanity at the Ascension. He takes it with Him.

The wounds remain.

The human body remains.

The human heart remains.

The Son returns to the Father carrying our humanity into the very life of God.

Which means something extraordinary has happened.

When the Father looks upon the Son, He sees our humanity forever united to Him.

The distance has been crossed.

The separation has been healed.

The door has been opened.

That is why the Trinity matters.

The Trinity tells us where we belong.

Through Christ, ordinary people like you and me have been drawn into the life of God Himself.

Not because we earned it.

Not because we became impressive enough.

Not because we finally got our act together.

Because God wanted us.

St. Athanasius, one of the great defenders of the Trinity, famously wrote, “God became human so that humanity might become divine.”

He was not saying that we become gods.

He was saying that in Christ, we participate in God’s own life.

We are brought into the relationship that has existed from all eternity between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

That changes everything.

It means your value is not determined by your productivity.

It means your failures do not have the final word.

It means your worst day cannot erase your dignity.

It means your loneliness does not tell the whole story.

It means that even when you feel abandoned, you are not abandoned.

Even when you feel forgotten, you are not forgotten.

Even when you feel unloved, you are not unloved.

The Trinity reveals something our culture desperately needs to hear.

You are not an accident.

You are not disposable.

You are not merely tolerated.

You are wanted.

You are loved.

And because Christ has carried our humanity into the very life of God, you can never be thrown away.

Not by your mistakes.

Not by your failures.

Not by your wounds.

Not even by death itself.

The final truth about your life is not separation.

The final truth about your life is communion.

And that is why the Church still celebrates Trinity Sunday.

Practical Takeaways

1. Make the Sign of the Cross slowly this week. Do not rush it. Let the words “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” become a prayer instead of a reflex.

2. Read Matthew 28:16-20 and notice that Christian baptism begins inside the name of the Trinity.

3. Reach out to one person you have quietly drifted away from. Not with drama. Just with love.

4. Ask yourself where isolation has become normal in your life, then take one concrete step toward communion.

5. When you feel unwanted or forgotten, pray this simple line: “Lord, remind me that I belong to You.”

Did You Know?

• Trinity Sunday is celebrated on the Sunday after Pentecost.

• The word “Trinity” does not appear in the Bible, but the reality of Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is woven throughout the New Testament.

• The Council of Nicaea in 325 AD did not invent the Trinity. It helped give the Church precise language for what Christians already believed and worshiped.

• Every time Christians make the Sign of the Cross, they are making a Trinitarian profession of faith.

• St. Athanasius spent much of his life defending the divinity of Christ because he understood that if Christ is not truly God, then salvation itself is diminished.

Community Oriented Closing

I’d love to hear your thoughts.

What part of the Trinity has been hardest for you to understand, or perhaps more importantly, what part of today’s reflection resonated most deeply? Share your thoughts in the comments. One of the great gifts of this community is the wisdom, experience, and encouragement readers offer one another.

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Closing Prayer

Holy Trinity, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,

Draw us into the love that has existed before time began.

When we feel isolated, remind us that we were created for communion.

When shame tells us we are disposable, speak again the truth of our belovedness.

When our relationships are wounded, teach us patience, humility, courage, and mercy.

Lord Jesus, You carried our humanity into the presence of the Father. Help us trust that the distance has been crossed and the separation has been healed.

Holy Spirit, breathe life into the lonely places within us. Restore what has grown numb. Soften what has become guarded. Open what fear has closed.

Let our lives reflect the love we profess.

Let our homes, churches, friendships, and communities become small signs of Your eternal communion.

And when we forget who we are, bring us back to this truth:

We are not abandoned.

We are not thrown away.

We belong to You.

Amen.

Before We Begin...

First, thank you.

This community just crossed 7,000 community members here on Substack, and I wanted to take a moment to say how grateful I am that you’re here.

Whether you’ve been reading since the beginning or just stumbled into this little corner of the internet last week, thank you for spending part of your day with us. Every comment, every prayer, every email, every share, every subscription, and every thoughtful conversation has helped build something I never could have created alone.

June 10th marks the first anniversary of Message From the Margins. One year.

Honestly, that feels a little surreal.

If you have ideas for how we should celebrate turning one year old, I’d love to hear them in the comments.

A second update: I am actively working on the very first Message From the Margins podcast episode as we speak, and if all goes according to plan, I hope to launch it sometime this week.

Part of the podcast will include a segment called Questions From the Margins, where I’ll answer reader questions about faith, spirituality, Scripture, theology, psychology, prayer, current events, Church history, or just life in general.

We already have a few excellent questions waiting in the queue, but I’d love to receive more. You can truly ask me anything.

For now, Questions From the Margins is available as a small thank-you to those helping support the material aspects of this ministry through paid subscriptions.

And finally, thank you to every paid subscriber who helps make this work possible.

One of the things I love most about this community is that we have chosen a different path. No outrage farming. No clickbait. No treating people like products. No trying to keep everyone angry enough to boost engagement.

Just thoughtful conversation, spiritual reflection, prayer, and a shared commitment to remaining human in a world that often rewards the opposite.

Become Part of the Movement!

Your Brother in Christ,

Now, on to today’s reflection.

A Cage Does Not Need a Lock

Poverty, sin, crime, and the Christian duty to build open doors

Every church seems to have one.

Sometimes it’s a folding table tucked against a wall in the vestibule. Sometimes it’s a bulletin board crowded with flyers no one has straightened in months. Sometimes it’s a wicker basket near the entrance with a handwritten sign asking for canned goods. Sometimes it’s a corner of the parish hall where bags of rice, jars of peanut butter, diapers, and toiletries slowly accumulate throughout the week.

The details change from church to church, but the message is always the same:

Someone nearby is hungry.

Someone’s electric bill is overdue.

Someone’s child needs diapers.

Someone is trying to decide whether this week’s money goes toward groceries, medication, rent, or gas.

Most of us know exactly what to do when we see that table. We drop off a few items. We write a check or in more recent days, a parishioner asks if they can Venmo or Zelle Me. We feel glad the church is helping. We may even whisper a prayer for the people who will receive whatever we’ve brought.

Then we continue on to coffee hour, choir rehearsal, Bible study, or Mass.

We rarely stop and ask a more unsettling question:

Why does Jesus keep talking about the poor?

Not why it is nice. Not why it is admirable. Not why decent people should be compassionate. I mean the deeper question.

Why does Christ return to the poor, the hungry, the prisoner, the stranger, the sick, the indebted, the outcast, and the publicly shamed over and over and over again?

Afterall, he came to redeem the world, not start a non-profit, right?

We often treat care for the poor as if it were a kindness project. Be generous. Be decent. Try not to look away. Volunteer when possible, and pray for them each day.

That is good, as far as it goes. But Jesus rarely commands us to do things merely because they are nice.

The deeper reason, I think, is that poverty is one of the clearest places where our captivity becomes visible.

Poverty does not only empty a bank account. It narrows a life. It limits options. It delays medical treatment. It exhausts the body. It humiliates the spirit. It teaches people what doors are for other people. It can make gangs look like family, drugs look like peace, violence look like power, and crime look like the only open door.

A cage does not need a lock if the person inside has been taught the door will never open.

That sentence has been nagging me because I think it explains more than we usually want to admit.

A person may technically have choices. Of course. Human agency matters. Christian faith cannot make sense of repentance, holiness, forgiveness, or judgment if we pretend human beings are machines merely reacting to circumstances past and present.

But agency can be wounded

diminished.

It can be starved.

It can be shaped by trauma, addiction, untreated mental illness, violence, neglect, bad schools, predatory economies, unstable housing, family systems that never learned tenderness, and neighborhoods where hope is treated like a luxury item.

This is where our ordinary language about sin often becomes too thin.

We tend to imagine sin as an isolated act of personal rebellion. A person knew the good, had every reasonable opportunity to choose it, and defiantly chose evil instead. Sometimes that is exactly what sin is.

But sometimes sin is captivity.

Sometimes sin is the survival strategy that became a prison. Sometimes it is rage learned early and practiced often. Sometimes it is the self-medication of a soul that has never known safety. Sometimes it is a desperate reach for belonging in a gang because every healthier form of belonging failed to show up. Sometimes it is the lie a person tells after growing up in a world where honesty only made them more vulnerable.

None of this makes harm harmless.

If someone steals, someone else loses. If someone becomes violent, someone else is wounded. If addiction takes over a home, children suffer. Christian mercy does not require moral blindness.

But moral clarity becomes cruel when it notices the wound only after it has become someone else’s problem.

The relationship between poverty, inequality, and crime is complicated, and we should say that plainly. A recent meta-analysis of 43 economic studies found that the effect of income inequality on crime is, at best, small and difficult to isolate. Poverty does not automatically create crime. Wealth does not automatically create virtue. Human beings are more complicated than that.

In fact, wealth often creates opportunities for entirely different forms of wrongdoing. We need only glance at the headlines to see fraud, corruption, exploitation, insider dealing, wage theft, predatory lending, and financial misconduct committed by people with impressive résumés and corner offices.

The difference is that society tends to view these crimes differently. The crimes of the poor are often visible, disruptive, and frightening. Sometimes cinematic. The crimes of the powerful are frequently buried in paperwork, contracts, boardrooms, and balance sheets.

One creates a viral TikTok.

The other creates a quarterly earnings report.

We have a moral vocabulary fluent in the sins of the poor and strangely inarticulate about the sins of the comfortable.

Still, the evidence is more than strong enough to tell us that incarceration, untreated illness, addiction, and poverty keep showing up in the same neighborhoods, the same families, and often the same bodies.

The Prison Policy Initiative, using Bureau of Justice Statistics data, found that people in prison had a median annual income of $19,185 before incarceration, in 2014 dollars, which was 41 percent less than non-incarcerated people of similar ages. SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration) reports that people with mental and substance use disorders are overrepresented in the justice system; it estimates that 44 percent of people in jail and 37 percent of people in prison have a mental illness, while 63 percent of people in jail and 58 percent of people in prison have a substance use disorder.

Read those numbers slowly.

We are not only looking at “bad choices.” We are looking at untreated suffering, disordered belonging, economic exclusion, trauma, and despair passing through the machinery of punishment.

The CDC has also found that adverse childhood experiences, including trauma before the age of eighteen, are associated with increased risks of substance use, violence-related behaviors, poor mental health, and other long-term harms. A broad review on the social determinants of mental health points in the same direction: poverty, inequality, discrimination, and social exclusion are not background scenery. They are part of the architecture that shapes mental health and disorder.

Christians should not be surprised by this.

We believe the human person is embodied. We believe the soul is formed in families, neighborhoods, economies, habits, wounds, rituals, and loves. We believe sin can be personal, social, structural, inherited, chosen, endured, resisted, and repeated. We believe grace does not erase reality. Grace enters reality and begins the work of healing it.

So here is the framework I would offer:

When we see destructive behavior, Christians should ask three questions.

First, what harm was done?

Second, what captivity made this harm more likely?

Third, what would freedom require from the person, the Church, and the wider community?

Most public debates stop at the first question. Someone did wrong. Someone broke the law. Someone used drugs. Someone joined a gang. Someone lied. Someone lashed out. Someone failed their children. Someone created chaos.

The first question matters.

The second question is where Christian maturity begins.

The third question is where discipleship becomes costly.

Because if sin is captivity, the Church cannot limit itself to shouting instructions through the bars.

Jesus begins His public ministry in Luke’s Gospel by reading from Isaiah: good news to the poor, freedom for the prisoners, recovery of sight for the blind, freedom for the oppressed. That is Luke 4. It is not a decorative mission statement. It is the shape of the Kingdom.

Christ does not announce a freedom that leaves the cages intact.

A Quick Pause

A strange thing has happened over the last year.

Thousands of people have gathered here looking for something that feels increasingly rare online: thoughtful faith without manipulation, compassion without naivety, and Christian reflection that takes both the Gospel and the real world seriously.

This community recently crossed 7,000 members, and I still find that remarkable.

Many of these reflections remain free because I genuinely believe the Gospel should be accessible. The people who choose to become paid subscribers help make that possible. They help keep this space independent, free from ads, outrage farming, and all the other incentives that reward keeping people angry and exhausted.

If these reflections have helped you think more clearly, pray more deeply, or remain a little more hopeful in difficult times, I hope you’ll consider supporting the work.

And to every paid subscriber already here: thank you. You are helping create a different kind of Christian community online.

Yes! Join the Movement!

That is deeply important.

He does not say, “I have come to tell captives to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.” He does not say, “I have come so the poor can just do better while nothing changes.” He proclaims release. He announces liberation. He confronts the powers, visible and invisible, that keep human beings bound.

And then He gives that work to His people.

That is the part we often prefer to spiritualize.

We like a Gospel that forgives sin. We become less enthusiastic when the Gospel starts asking why so many people are trapped in conditions where sin feels like survival.

The Church’s tradition has never understood care for the poor as optional sentiment. The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, the American Governing Body of the Roman Church, summarizes the Catholic social teaching tradition by saying that the deprivation and powerlessness of the poor wounds the whole community, and that the preferential option for the poor is meant to help all persons share in and contribute to the common good. The Catechism teaches that the goods of creation are destined for the whole human race, and that ownership carries a responsibility to use goods in ways that benefit others, especially the sick and the poor.

This is not Marxism wearing a chasuble.

This is the Deposit of Faith refusing to let private comfort become the measure of moral order.

The Christian tradition understands that poverty is not merely unfortunate. It is dangerous to the soul, to the body, to families, to communities, and to the moral imagination of everyone who learns to tolerate it.

And yes, the poor may be difficult to love.

That sentence may make some people flinch, but every serious pastor, social worker, teacher, parent, nurse, chaplain, and recovery sponsor knows what it means.

Poverty does not automatically make people noble. Suffering does not always refine. Sometimes suffering curdles. Sometimes it makes people suspicious, reactive, manipulative, exhausted, angry, numb, or hard to reach. Sometimes people who have been abandoned learn to test every act of love until they can make it break first.

The poor rarely look like Oliver Twist.

Jesus knew that.

Do we really think Christ told us to love the poor because poverty makes people tidy, grateful, sober, polite, employable, charming, and easy to welcome into respectable rooms?

It is easy enough to love the polished middle-class woman in horn-rimmed glasses, the J. Crew shirt dress, and the kind of witty humor that makes brunch feel nearly sacramental. She may be delightful. I might enjoy her immensely.

But she is not the test case Jesus keeps placing in front of the Church.

Christ sends us toward the wounded man on the road. Toward the prisoner. Toward the hungry. Toward the one who smells bad. Toward the one who has made a mess. Toward the woman dragged into public shame. Toward the tax collector everyone hates. Toward the leper whose body frightens the crowd. Toward the possessed man living among the tombs.

And He does not send us there so we can admire their resilience from a safe distance.

He sends us there because love is the beginning of liberation.

This is why “go and sin no more” has to be read with the whole scene still intact.

People love to quote that line from John 8 as if Jesus used it to win an argument on the internet. The woman caught in adultery stands before Him. The crowd has stones in-hand ready to attack. The religiously respectable have Scripture, or at least the parts of Scripture that serve their purpose. They are ready to turn her sin into a stage for their righteousness.

Jesus interrupts the execution.

He dismantles the mob.

He refuses to let her be reduced to the worst thing she has done.

Only after the stones have dropped, only after shame has lost its audience, only after her immediate death has been taken off the table, does He say, “Go now and leave your life of sin.”

Maybe that command sounds different when we remember the mercy that came first.

Maybe holiness begins to look possible only after someone has been given a future.

Maybe the systems that perpetuate the cycle have to be dismantled before better outcomes can be expected.

John 11 gives us another piece of the same pattern. Jesus calls Lazarus out of the tomb. Lazarus comes out alive, but still wrapped in grave clothes. Then Jesus turns to the people around Him and tells them to take off the grave clothes and let him go.

That is a remarkable image of the Church’s work, often lost in the spectacle of the story.

Christ raises the dead. The community still has to help remove what binds them.

There are freedoms God announces that the community must help make livable.

This is the point our public life keeps missing.

We know how to condemn theft at the convenience store. We become strangely sophisticated when discussing wage theft.

We know how to condemn the addict on the sidewalk. We become patient philosophers when the pharmaceutical industry, predatory treatment centers, or liquor stores clustered in poor neighborhoods profit from despair.

We know how to condemn the gang member. We become terribly realistic about school funding, housing segregation, employment discrimination, and the absence of safe adult belonging.

We know how to condemn disorder when it makes us uncomfortable. We struggle to condemn the kind of order that keeps people trapped.

And then we call ourselves morally serious.

This is where wealth inequality becomes more than an economic issue. It becomes a spiritual formation issue.

Extreme inequality teaches some people that they are entitled to endless insulation from consequences. It teaches others that no legitimate door was built for them. The wealthy may have lawyers, therapists, tutors, safe neighborhoods, family money, flexible time, reputation repair, second chances, and rooms where their failures are interpreted generously.

The poor often get a criminal record before their 18th birthday.

Then we ask why their lives do not display the same polish.

A cage does not need a lock if the person inside has been taught the door will never open.

This is also where the fierce reaction against DEI deserves a calmer, deeper reading than the culture war usually allows.

I know the acronym has been beaten like a piñata. Some programs were clumsy. Some were performative. Some probably deserved criticism. Institutions have a genius for taking a morally serious idea, burying it under training modules, and making everyone in the room resentful by slide three.

Fine. Say that.

But at their best, diversity, equity, and inclusion efforts tried to do something profoundly human: make the open door visible.

The American Psychological Association describes equity, diversity, and inclusion as a framework that promotes fair treatment and full participation, especially for people historically underrepresented or subjected to discrimination because of identity, background, disability, or other factors.

In plain English, at their best, these efforts told people who had inherited generations of closed doors: there is an open door here.

Not a guaranteed outcome.

Not a lowered standard.

Not a prize for existing.

A door.

And for people whose grandparents were barred from certain schools, whose parents were denied mortgages, whose neighborhoods were starved of investment, whose names were treated as suspicious on résumés, whose disabilities were ignored, whose accents were mocked, or whose bodies were over-policed, the visible presence of an open door is not symbolic fluff.

It is a direct contradiction of captivity.

That does not mean every policy carrying the DEI label is wise. Christians should be able to critique methods without sneering at the wounded. We should be able to ask whether a program actually helps people flourish without pretending exclusion never happened.

But when a society becomes enraged by the mere sight of an open door, we should pay attention.

Open doors threaten people who have confused inherited advantage with virtue.

They also threaten people who have built their moral identity on the belief that everyone already had the same chances they did.

This is the public theology point: mercy is not sentiment. Justice is not revenge. Freedom is not a slogan. The Gospel asks us to build conditions where holiness is more possible.

That means food.

Housing.

Treatment.

Safe schools.

Mentorship.

Reentry support.

Addiction recovery.

Mental health care.

Employment pathways.

Legal aid.

Belonging strong enough to compete with the street.

Because if the gang offers family, protection, status, money, and identity, while the Church offers judgment and a folding chair in a basement, we should not be shocked when the streets wins.

That sentence bothers me because I think it may be true.

The Church cannot preach freedom to captives while leaving the cages intact.

The Church cannot meaningfully serve the poor while embracing public narratives that reduce vulnerable people to threats, burdens, criminals, statistics, or inconveniences.

The Gospel consistently moves in the opposite direction. Jesus refuses to reduce people to the worst thing they have done, the poorest quality they possess, or the category society has assigned them.

He insists on seeing a person where everyone else sees a problem.

We also cannot pretend that accountability and abandonment are the same thing. People who harm others need to be stopped. Victims need protection. Children need safety. Communities need order. Mercy without protection becomes another way to sacrifice the vulnerable.

But accountability worthy of the Gospel must ask what kind of freedom comes next.

Do we want a person merely punished, or do we want them restored?

Do we want addiction merely shamed, or do we want treatment available?

Do we want the teenager out of the gang, or do we have somewhere for him to belong?

Do we want the woman leaving survival sex, or do we have housing, trauma care, employment, protection, and friendship ready for her?

Do we want the man coming home from prison to “turn his life around,” or do we have any door open that would allow him to do so?

“Go and sin no more” is not serious when there is nowhere to go.

This is where Christians have to recover our nerve.

We cannot out-punish captivity into freedom. We cannot shame despair into hope. We cannot sermonize addiction into healing while treatment remains unaffordable or easily revoked. We cannot tell people to choose life while every livable path remains blocked, hidden, or guarded.

The Gospel calls for more than pity.

It calls for open doors.

Some doors are personal: forgiveness, friendship, presence, mentorship, prayer.

Some doors are institutional: housing, education, healthcare, employment, fair wages, restorative justice.

Some doors are spiritual: confession, repentance, healing, worship, belonging, the slow discovery that God does not despise the person the world has already thrown away.

Some doors are political, and yes, that makes people nervous. It should. Politics is one of the ways societies decide whose suffering will remain normal.

But the command of Christ is not nervous.

Care for the poor. Feed the hungry. Visit the prisoner. Welcome the stranger. Tend the sick. Bind the wounds. Remove the grave clothes. Proclaim freedom to captives.

And then live as though the proclamation requires work.

The poor are not a charitable category. They are not a seasonal project. They are not props in the spiritual formation of the comfortable.

They are human beings in whom Christ has promised to meet us.

And when we meet Christ there, we may discover that the cage was never only around them.

Some of us are captive to comfort.

Some of us are captive to the need to feel innocent.

Some of us are captive to a religion that loves mercy as a word but fears what mercy requires.

Some of us are captive to a version of holiness that has more patience for respectable cruelty than visible desperation.

The poor reveal captivity because their wounds are harder to hide. The comfortable often have better wallpaper.

So perhaps the question is not only why Jesus tells us to care for the poor.

Perhaps the question is what He knows we will become if we refuse.

Practical Integration

Here are five practices for the week.

First, read Luke 4:16-21 slowly.
Do not rush to apply it. Notice the people Jesus names: the poor, the prisoners, the blind, the oppressed. Ask what kind of Church would make that proclamation believable.

Second, notice one place where you usually jump straight to judgment.
It may be addiction, homelessness, incarceration, debt, anger, family instability, or someone’s public failure. Ask three questions: What harm was done? What captivity may be present? What would freedom require?

Third, make one open door visible.
This can be practical and small. Share a job lead. Offer a ride. Contribute to a bail fund or reentry ministry. Help someone navigate paperwork. Invite someone into a room they assumed was closed to them.

Fourth, examine one respectable sin.
Look at your own life, church, workplace, or politics. Where have comfort, reputation, efficiency, profit, or safety become excuses for ignoring the suffering of others?

Fifth, pray for the difficult poor, not only the grateful poor.
Pray for the person whose wounds come out sideways. Pray without romanticizing them. Ask God for mercy with a backbone.

A Community-Oriented Closing

This is the kind of conversation Message From the Margins exists to have: not outrage, not easy answers, not religious varnish over social cruelty, but serious Christian interpretation of the world we are actually living in.

I would love to hear where this lands for you. Where have you seen poverty become captivity? Where have you seen an open door change a life? And where do you think the Church still has grave clothes to remove?

Leave a comment

If this helped you think more clearly about sin, poverty, mercy, and freedom, share it with someone who still believes the Gospel has something serious to say about public life.

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Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

You came to proclaim good news to the poor and freedom to captives. Give us the courage to hear those words without softening them into sentiment.

Teach us to see the cages we have ignored: poverty, addiction, untreated illness, trauma, violence, loneliness, and the despair that teaches Your children no door will ever open for them.

Forgive us for the times we have confused condemnation with holiness. Forgive us for quoting “go and sin no more” while refusing to help make freedom possible. Forgive us for caring more about respectable order than human dignity.

Make Your Church a place of open doors. Give us mercy that protects the wounded, justice that restores the broken, and courage that does not disappear when love becomes difficult.

Help us feed, heal, welcome, advocate, accompany, and unbind. Help us recognize You in the poor, the prisoner, the stranger, the sick, the addicted, the ashamed, and the ones we are tempted to avoid.

Free us, Lord, from every captivity that keeps us from love.

Amen.

Before You Go...

The internet keeps insisting that the best way to build an audience is to make people angry.

I’m happy to report that we continue to ignore this advice.

Message From the Margins has now grown to more than 7,000 community members because thousands of people decided they wanted something different: thoughtful conversation, honest faith, meaningful prayer, and a place where compassion and moral seriousness can still belong together.

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And one more thing...

On June 10th, Message From the Margins turns one year old.

If you have ideas for how we should celebrate, I’d love to hear them.

Thank you for reading, for sharing these reflections, for praying with us, and for helping build a community that refuses to surrender either its compassion or its common sense.

We’re just getting started.

Yes! Support this Ministry!

Dear Reader,

Before we begin, I am very happy to share that our fundraiser for the Wounded Warrior Project earlier this week resulted in a total donation of $372.13.

I could not be prouder of this community and your response to the needs of our veterans during Memorial Day week. This is a community that is fundamentally aligned with Jesus’ teaching in Matthew 25, and this week we put that into real practice.

I’ve decided to round the donation up to an even $500 from this community, and I’ll be making that donation later today.

If you would like to contribute toward that, the simplest way is to become a supporting member. Your support helps make this kind of ministry possible: not only acts of mercy like this, but the ongoing work of Message from the Margins itself.

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Thank you for being part of this. It is an honor to minister to you in whatever small way I can.

Your Brother in Christ,

If Dignity Cannot Be Lost

Then the Eucharist cannot become a reward for the respectable.

If I were to offer one piece of advice to Pope Leo, I know exactly what it would be.

Now, I realize there is something a little ridiculous about that sentence.

Pope Leo has more theologians, canon lawyers, historians, and theological texts within reach than I could gather in a lifetime. He does not need an Old Catholic priest on Long Island sliding a pastoral memo under the Vatican door.

Still, love for the Church sometimes requires speaking from the place where you stand. Different perspectives can give fresh insight, especially when they come from people who stand close enough to the tradition to love it and far enough from some of its machinery to see where it wounds.

As an Old Catholic priest, I stand inside Catholic sacramental thought every day: altar, Scripture, confession, mercy, bread, wine, prayer, and the stubborn belief that God uses ordinary things to carry extraordinary grace. I also serve with a degree of pastoral freedom many priests inside the Roman system are not given.

That freedom does not make me less Catholic in the way I pray, think, or love the Church. But it does give me a very special angle of sight.

So here is the advice:

Stop telling whole categories of wounded people to stay away from the Eucharist.

More precisely, end the practice of using “state of grace” language as a broad pastoral warning that keeps some people away from Communion while leaving more socially acceptable forms of grave sin largely unexamined.

In all the discussion about artificial intelligence, digital power, technology, and the future of humanity, it would be easy to miss one of the most profound claims in Pope Leo’s encyclical Magnifica Humanitas: human dignity cannot be earned, lost, purchased, performed, forfeited by failure, or erased by sin. It belongs to us because we exist as persons willed and loved by God.

If the Church believes that, then the belief cannot remain an elegant paragraph in a papal document.

It has Eucharistic consequences.

This is not an argument against repentance, reverence, confession, examination of conscience, or moral formation. The Church should teach the moral life seriously. But seriousness about sin does not require turning the Eucharist into a sorting mechanism, especially when the sorting has so often been selective, uneven, and harsher toward people at the margins than toward the socially powerful.

Every Christian should examine their conscience before approaching the altar. But examination of conscience is not the same as categorical humiliation. It is one thing to ask all of us to come before Christ honestly. It is another to train specific people to believe that their wounds, histories, marriages, bodies, or loves place them outside the reach of sacramental nourishment.

As a priest whose ministry and education have focused heavily on pastoral care, I come to this question from a particular place. Not from theory alone. Not from a tidy moral chart. From rooms where people are grieving, ashamed, addicted, exhausted, afraid, abused, lonely, and trying, sometimes clumsily, to find their way back to God.

The real world is not as neat as our categories. Sinner and saint. Grace and grave sin. Worthy and unworthy. Clean and unclean. Those words may have theological meaning, but human lives rarely arrive in such tidy packaging.

Spend enough time tending people’s wounds and you discover that many of the things listed on an examination of conscience are not always acts of people angrily thumbing their noses at the divine. Very often they are tangled up with trauma, upbringing, poverty, stress, addiction, abuse, mental illness, fear, loneliness, and the mystery of how each person was made.

That does not make sin harmless. It does mean the human soul is more complicated than a checklist.

And when people turn away from God, it is not because their sin has separated them from God’s love. It is because they turned to the Church, toward those who claim to represent God on earth, and found no mercy waiting there.

To be clear, many of them may never have made it through the church doors to receive actual pastoral care. There are extraordinary priests, pastors, religious, and lay ministers who would have met them with patience, tenderness, truth, and every possible care they could offer.

But the Church has too often been clumsy with its public soundbites. People hear that they are unwanted before they ever meet the pastor who would have welcomed them. They hear that they are unwelcome before they ever sit across from the priest who would have listened. They do not feel safe placing themselves in the Church’s care because the message that reached them through Fox News sounded like a locked door.

Nevertheless, The bigger contradiction becomes clear when we stop speaking abstractly.

Why should the man whose love has made him suspect in the eyes of the Church be told to remain seated, while the man whose investments poison drinking water in poor communities, destroy forests, or profit from war is honored as a pillar of the parish because he helped pay for the new school building?

Why should the divorced and remarried woman sit in the pew with tears in her eyes while the parish donor who exploits workers, manipulates markets, or advocates cutting food and medical care from vulnerable children receives Communion without a second thought?

Why have sexual and marital questions so often been treated as the great dividing line, while greed, cruelty, militarism, racism, environmental destruction, and contempt for the poor arrive at the altar wearing good shoes?

Pope Leo himself seemed to point in this direction during his recent in-flight press conference, when he said, “the unity or division of the church should not revolve around sexual matters.” He went on to say that there are “much greater and more important issues,” including justice and equality, that must take priority. That does not make sexual ethics meaningless. It does mean they cannot become the axis around which the whole Church’s sense of belonging, worthiness, and division turns.

I am not asking these questions to create a new list of people to exclude.

I am asking because exclusion has never been applied evenly. And uneven exclusion teaches people something false about God.

It teaches them that God is more offended by certain bodies than by certain systems. It teaches them that the Church is more troubled by sexual complexity than by politically respectable cruelty. It teaches them that visible irregularity is spiritually dangerous, while polished indifference can be mistaken for holiness.

We should be very careful about preaching that gospel.

It is not the one Jesus preached.

When Saint Paul warns the Corinthians about receiving the body and blood of the Lord in an unworthy manner, he is not writing to a community of people who have failed to reach moral perfection. He is writing to a church where the wealthy are humiliating the poor at the Lord’s Supper. Some are eating lavishly while others go hungry. The body of Christ is being fractured at the very table meant to reveal it.

“Everyone ought to examine themselves before they eat of the bread and drink from the cup,” Paul writes. “For those who eat and drink without discerning the body of Christ eat and drink judgment on themselves” (1 Corinthians 11:28-29, NIV).

That warning should still make us tremble.

But it should make us tremble in the right direction.

Paul’s concern is not that morally imperfect people are receiving Communion. His concern is that people are receiving Communion while refusing to recognize Christ in the hungry, the poor, and the humiliated sitting beside them.

The Gospels press the point even further.

Again and again, Jesus moves toward the people religious systems had trained everyone else to avoid: the leper, the woman with the flow of blood, the tax collector, the Samaritan woman, the woman caught in adultery. He does not begin by asking whether they have achieved the proper spiritual condition to approach him. He approaches them. He touches them. He eats with them. He sees them. He restores them to community.

Then, from within that encounter, conversion becomes possible.

Grace does not wait politely outside the locked door of human failure.

Grace breaks in.

The Last Supper should haunt our Eucharistic theology more than it often does. Jesus feeds Judas. He knows what Judas will do. Betrayal is already moving through the room. Peter will deny him. The others will scatter. And still, Jesus gives them Himself.

Certainly not because betrayal is harmless. Not because cowardice is nothing. Not because repentance is irrelevant.

Because Jesus does not heal the human heart by starving it.

A Eucharistic theology that functionally requires people to appear healed before they can receive the medicine of Christ has lost contact with the way Jesus actually meets sinners in the Gospels. He draws people near. He feeds. He washes feet. He gives himself. Then he calls them into the costly work of becoming truthful, free, and whole.

The Eucharist is not casual. Nothing about the body and blood of Christ should be treated casually. But reverence and fear are not the same thing. Formation and exclusion are not the same thing. Repentance and public humiliation are not the same thing.

The Eucharist should not display who has managed to look acceptable.

It should reveal Christ feeding the hungry into holiness.

This is the kind of Christian conversation I believe we need more of: morally serious, but not cruel; honest about sin, but not careless with wounded people; rooted in Scripture, but not afraid of real human complexity.

That is what Message From the Margins is trying to build.

A reader recently told me, “Thank you for the clarity. For too long, I’ve heard you can’t believe ‘this’ if you believe ‘that.’”

I think about that often, because so many people have been handed a faith full of false choices: truth or mercy, reverence or welcome, Scripture or compassion.

I do not believe Christ asks us to choose that way.

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That is the pastoral turn many people need to hear: you do not have to choose between reverence and mercy. You do not have to choose between moral seriousness and belonging. You do not have to amputate your honesty, your grief, your questions, your past, your complexity, or your longing in order to come near to God.

The Church should be the place where all of that is brought into the light of Christ.

Not denied. Not indulged. Brought into the light.

Real conversion rarely grows from shame. Shame produces hiding, defensiveness, despair, compartmentalization, and sometimes a very polished religious performance. People learn to manage appearances rather than open themselves to healing.

Grace works differently.

Grace tells the truth without contempt. Grace makes repentance possible because the person is no longer fighting for the right to exist.

That is why Pope Leo’s teaching on human dignity is so powerful. If no sin can erase the profound value of a human life, then the Church’s sacramental practice should reflect that. We cannot say human dignity is inalienable in one paragraph and then build pastoral habits that make some people feel spiritually untouchable in the next.

The Eucharist should be the Church’s strongest witness to the dignity Pope Leo describes.

It should say, in bread and wine, what our words so often fail to say: Christ has come near. Christ feeds sinners. Christ creates communion where the world creates categories. Christ does not abandon the wounded body.

This would not weaken the Church’s moral teaching. I believe it would strengthen it.

People are more likely to receive hard teaching from a Church that has first convinced them they are loved. They are more likely to repent when they are not being crushed. They are more likely to grow when they are fed. They are more likely to trust moral formation when it is not delivered through selective exclusion.

And the Church does need moral seriousness. We need more of it, not less.

Personal sin. Structural sin. Economic sin. Sexual sin. Political sin. Spiritual abuse. Racism. Greed. Cruelty. Indifference to the poor. Contempt for migrants. Worship of guns and violence. The casual acceptance of systems that grind people into dust and then blame them for being dusty.

Today’s systems entangle all of us. We participate, in various ways, in economies and political arrangements that neglect the poor, raise up idols, harm the vulnerable, exploit workers, reward deception, and normalize killing. We buy things the impacts of which we cannot fully trace. We benefit from injustices we did not create but do not always resist.

None of us approaches the altar as a completed saint.

Every one of us comes needy.

That should not make us careless. It should make us humble.

It should also make us merciful.

If Pope Leo were to change the way the Church speaks about who must stay away from Communion, it would not heal every wound in the Church. Of course not. The wounds are ancient, layered, and in some cases still actively bleeding.

But it would say something enormous.

It would say the Eucharist is not the property of the morally confident. It would say the table of the Lord is not where the wounded are sorted into acceptable and unacceptable categories. It would say the Church trusts Christ to do what Christ has always done: feed sinners into holiness.

The Communion line should not be where the Church displays who has managed to look acceptable. It should be where the hungry come forward together, each carrying wounds, sins, hopes, contradictions, and the strange courage to believe that Christ still gives himself for the life of the world.

For this week, I would offer four simple practices.

Before Communion, ask not only, “Have I sinned?” Ask, “Whom have I refused to recognize as part of Christ’s body?”

Read 1 Corinthians 11 slowly, and notice that Paul’s warning concerns the humiliation of the poor at the Lord’s table.

Pray for someone who has stayed away from Church because they were made to feel untouchable.

Practice one act of mercy toward someone whose life you do not fully understand.

I would love to hear your thoughts on this, especially if you have carried pain around Communion, belonging, or feeling unwelcome in the Church. Keep the comments thoughtful. This is a serious conversation, and it deserves better than slogans.

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And if this reflection might help someone who has been sitting in the pew wondering whether Christ still wants them near, please share it with them.

Because he does.

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Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

You gave yourself to a room full of fragile people. You fed those who would fail you, deny you, misunderstand you, and run from you. Teach us to receive the Eucharist with reverence, but not with fear that drives us away from your mercy.

Heal your Church where we have turned your table into a place of shame. Forgive us for the times we have guarded holiness by wounding the people you were trying to reach. Give us courage to repent of selective judgment, hidden pride, and the sins we have learned to excuse because they look respectable.

Feed the ones who feel unworthy. Strengthen the ones who are tired. Confront the ones who receive you while ignoring the poor, the vulnerable, and the excluded. Make our communion real.

Let your body and blood form us into people of mercy, justice, truth, and courage.

Bring us near, Lord, and make us whole.

Amen.

Thank you for reading!

I know this essay may touch tender places for many people: memories of Communion, belonging, shame, family, Church, silence, exclusion, and the aching hope that Christ still wants us near.

That is why I am grateful for this community. Message From the Margins is not sustained by ads, rage, or turning people’s pain into a product. There is no institutional financial support or large donors. It is sustained by ordinary readers who believe spiritually grounded, compassionate, honest Christian community should have a place to live.

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The Joy in Doing Good Things Poorly

God Never Asked You to Monetize Your Joy

For the past few months, every Thursday night, I sit down with a few buddies to play cards.

And I am terrible at it.

Not “oh stop being humble, Father” terrible. I mean genuinely awful. My current record is 4-14. Even as a Mets fan, I look at that statistic and think, this is getting difficult to defend publicly.

The strange part is that I look forward to it all week long.

Most days, I work an absurd number of hours. This newsletter alone consumes huge stretches of my week. There are articles to write, comments to answer, research rabbit holes to disappear into, videos to edit, emails to send, livestreams to prepare, graphics to design, tech problems to solve, and about sixteen tabs permanently open on my computer that I swear I’m getting back to eventually.

I work weekends. I work late. I care deeply about this work, and I’m grateful for it, but there are days my brain feels like an overheated laptop being asked to render one more video it absolutely does not have the RAM for.

Thursday night interrupts that cycle.

Not because I suddenly become good at cards.

I assure you, I do not.

But for a few hours, I get to let my hair down, proverbially speaking.

I am just there with my friends.

Laughing.
Losing.
Talking trash.
Eating peanut M&Ms and drinking this new frosted berry Red Bull I like.
Existing in each other’s company without turning the evening into something that needs to be productive.

And honestly, I think a lot of us have forgotten how to do that.

Modern life pushes competition into almost every corner of existence. You cannot simply bake bread anymore. Now you must launch a sourdough brand with cinematic Instagram reels. You cannot casually jog. You need biometric tracking data, optimization plans, and a smartwatch informing you that your cardiovascular recovery is disappointing. People buy watercolor paints and within forty-eight hours someone online is explaining how to scale it into a side hustle.

When someone is good at their hobby, the first thing out of an observers mouth is almost instinctively “You could sell these!”

Even rest becomes labor now.

We are exhausted partly because we never stop measuring ourselves.

The market has crept into parts of the soul where it does not belong.

Scripture contains this recurring rhythm that human beings resist constantly: Sabbath.

Not merely church attendance. Not simply “a day off.” Sabbath was woven into creation itself.

In the Genesis Story, on the Seventh Day, God rested. If we accept that The Father has no need to replenish and recovery His energy, then it logically flows that God simply made time to enjoy Himself.

A deliberate interruption of production. In Exodus 16, God gives manna in the wilderness and tells the people not to gather endlessly, not to hoard, not to obsess over accumulation. There is enough for today. Rest. Trust Me.

Human beings immediately panic and try to optimize the miracle.

Honestly, that still sounds familiar.

We have become deeply uncomfortable doing things poorly.

Children naturally sing loudly, draw terribly, dance without rhythm, and invent games with rules that make absolutely no sense. Then adulthood arrives, and somewhere along the line embarrassment starts policing joy. We begin calculating whether we are talented enough before we allow ourselves participation.

A lot of people quietly stop living long before they actually die.

Not physically.

Spiritually.

They stop trying things unless success seems likely.
They stop creating unless it can be monetized.
They stop gathering unless there is measurable value.
They stop learning unless they can become impressive at it.

And underneath much of that is fear.

Fear of looking foolish.
Fear of wasting time.
Fear of mediocrity.

The strange thing is that Christianity has never actually taught human worth through elite performance.

The Kingdom of God is full of profoundly ordinary people.

Fishermen.
Widows.
Laborers.
Children.
Tax collectors.
People who misunderstood Jesus constantly.
People who failed publicly.
People who had no influence, no brand, no metrics, no carefully optimized personal identity.

Saint Paul writes in 1 Corinthians 1:27, “God chose the foolish things of the world to shame the wise; God chose the weak things of the world to shame the strong.”

That verse is usually preached as a statement about humility.

I think it is also a statement about freedom.

You do not have to become extraordinary before your life has meaning.

That is deeply important.

Some of the healthiest moments in human life happen outside achievement entirely. A family making dinner together. Friends playing cards badly. Someone learning guitar in middle age and still fumbling chords after six months. A grandfather building a birdhouse no one will ever buy. People singing in church slightly off-key.

None of this shows up efficiently on a résumé.

All of it forms a human being.

There is also good psychological evidence for this. Researchers studying play and recreation consistently find that unstructured, low-stakes communal activities reduce stress, improve emotional resilience, strengthen social bonds, and lower anxiety. Not because participants are excelling, but because they are participating without constant evaluation.

Human beings need spaces where they are not being scored.

A reader wrote recently:

“Your reflections help me reset, refocus, and rest my tired soul.”

Honestly, that may be the clearest description of what this community is trying to become.

Not a performance.
Not outrage-as-business-model.
Not endless emotional activation disguised as spirituality.

Just thoughtful people trying to remain human together.

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We Continue…

Honestly, churches should understand this better than anybody.

For centuries, Christianity created spaces where ordinary people could gather around practices that had no commercial value whatsoever. Feast days. Choirs. Communal meals. Processions. Shared prayer. Art. Music. Storytelling. Rest.

Not because everyone involved was exceptional.

Because human beings are not machines.

I worry sometimes that even spirituality has absorbed the logic of performance culture. People now speak about prayer the way corporations discuss quarterly growth targets. “Am I doing enough?” “Am I progressing?” “Am I maximizing my spiritual life?”

Meanwhile Christ keeps describing the Kingdom using images that sound almost absurdly small.

Seeds.
Bread.
Birds.
Vineyards.
A cup of cold water.
A shared meal.

Things ordinary people touch every day.

There is a humility to the Gospel that modern culture struggles to tolerate.

You do not have to justify every joy.

You are allowed to do things simply because they make life fuller, kinder, healthier, more connected, or more human.

You are allowed to be bad at something and still love it.

You are allowed to protect parts of your life from the marketplace.

You are allowed to remain gloriously below average at hobbies that nourish your soul.

Frankly, some of us desperately need an area of life where failure carries no existential weight.

I think about this sometimes after Thursday nights. I drive home knowing I lost yet again. But my chest feels lighter than it did earlier in the day.

Not because I achieved anything impressive.

Because for a few hours, I remembered I am more than output.

A lot of readers here are hard workers. Some of you are carrying multiple jobs, caregiving responsibilities, grief, anxiety, financial pressure, political exhaustion, family stress, or simple burnout from years of trying to hold everything together.

And because you are conscientious people, you may have quietly internalized the belief that rest must be earned through excellence.

But God did not create human beings merely to produce.

In Genesis, before humanity accomplishes anything measurable, God calls creation good.

Not efficient.
Not optimized.
Good.

There is a difference.

This week, I wonder if part of spiritual maturity might involve recovering activities that are beautifully useless.

Not sinful.
Not destructive.
Simply unnecessary in the eyes of productivity culture.

A walk without tracking steps.
Cooking without photographing it for instagram.
Reading without a goal.
Singing without recording it.
Playing cards while losing horribly.

Life becomes spiritually dangerous when every moment must justify itself economically or competitively.

Because eventually the same logic gets turned inward.

People begin wondering whether they themselves have value apart from achievement.

And that is where the soul starts starving.

Christ never demanded that people become impressive before He loved them.

He fed crowds who had nothing to offer Him.
He sat at tables with deeply average people.
He told exhausted laborers to come rest.
He blessed children who had accomplished absolutely nothing.

The Gospel has room for ordinary humanity.

Actually, I think ordinary humanity is exactly where God keeps showing up.

A Few Practices For This Week

• Spend one hour doing something you are objectively mediocre at, without trying to improve or monetize it.

• Read Ecclesiastes 3 slowly. Pay attention to the rhythms of ordinary human life the writer describes.

• Share a meal or conversation without phones on the table for at least part of it.

• Notice how often you internally rank yourself against other people throughout the day. Don’t shame yourself for it. Just notice it.

• Protect one small piece of your week from productivity culture. Even thirty minutes counts.

This community has a lot of intelligent, driven, thoughtful people in it. I’m grateful for that. But I also suspect many of us are tired in ways sleep alone cannot fix.

So I’m curious.

What is something you do poorly but still genuinely love? Have you done it in a while?

Tell me in the comments. I have a feeling the answers might help other people breathe a little easier too.

Leave a comment

And if this reflection made you think of someone who has forgotten they are allowed to simply enjoy being human, share it with them.

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Prayer

Lord Christ,

You lived among ordinary people and treated their lives as worthy of Your attention. You sat at crowded tables, walked dusty roads, listened to confused questions, and spent time with people the world considered unimpressive.

Teach us to resist the lie that our value depends entirely on performance.

Many of us are tired. Not only physically, but inwardly tired from constant comparison, constant striving, and the pressure to turn every gift into achievement. We carry anxiety about falling behind, wasting time, or not becoming enough.

Help us remember that we are human beings before we are producers.

Give rest to those who no longer know how to enjoy simple things without guilt. Heal the parts of us that believe love must be earned through success. Teach us how to receive joy without needing to justify it.

Bless our friendships, our laughter, our hobbies, our shared meals, our awkward attempts, our unfinished projects, and even our failures.

And when we forget that our lives already have dignity in Your sight, draw us back again to Your mercy.

Amen.

If you saw me after Mass and bought me a sandwich because you wanted to help keep the ministry going, congratulations, you now understand the economic model of Message From the Margins.

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The internet already has enough of that.

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Dear Sibling in Christ,

A note before we begin: today’s reflection is long. Longer than usual.

I know that asks something of you, especially in a world that trains us to skim, scroll, react, and move on before anything has time to reach the soul.

But that is part of what this piece is about. One of the great spiritual struggles of our age is the erosion of attention. We are being formed by systems that reward short bursts of stimulation, quick outrage, instant comfort, and constant novelty.

So I am going to ask you, humbly, to stay with this one.

Read it with a cup of coffee or a glass of wine. Read it in pieces if you need to. Come back to it later. But do not let the length alone convince you it is not worth your attention.

The human soul was not made only for quick hits of information. The human brain needs attentional control. The Christian life requires patience, reflection, memory, presence, and the willingness to remain with what is difficult long enough for it to become fruitful.

I hope this reflection gives you something worth that attention.

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Whether you are able to support us financially or not, I am glad you are here.

Your brother on the path,

And so we begin…

Communion in the Age of Artificial Intelligence

Pope Leo XIV’s warning about technology leads us back to an older Christian truth: we are made for one another.

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, which in this case means about two decades ago in Washington, D.C., a much younger version of myself was trying to collect the philosophy credits I needed for admission to major seminary.

Canon law is unusually vague about what exactly counts as “sound philosophy,” which meant I got to take some wonderful and strange classes. One of them was a graduate seminar called The Philosophy of Cognitive Science and Artificial Intelligence.

The professor was Rom Harré.

He stood a little over five feet tall, spoke in a voice that reminded me of David Attenborough, and carried himself with the calm authority of someone who had probably forgotten more about philosophy than I would ever learn. I had no idea how important he was. I had no idea how important the course would become. I hung on every word he said and understood, generously, about a quarter of it.

At the time, artificial intelligence still felt like science fiction to me. We were talking about neural networks, machine learning, computation, mind, consciousness, and the philosophical questions hiding beneath the machinery. I remember sitting there thinking this was fascinating, but also remote.

Interesting, yes.

Useful someday, possibly.

Relevant to ministry?

No, Not exactly.

God has a sense of humor.

Because now, twenty years later, I find myself living in a world where artificial intelligence is no longer a distant academic subject. It is on our phones, in our search engines, inside our workplaces, shaping what we read, what we buy, what we believe, who we listen to, how we spend our time, and increasingly, how some people seek comfort, intimacy, and companionship.

I did not know I was being prepared for ministry in 2026.

In that class, we studied thinkers who wrestled with what it means to be human in the age of cognitive science. Among them were Paul and Patricia Churchland, philosophers associated with neurophilosophy and eliminative materialism, the view that some of our ordinary language about thoughts, emotions, beliefs, and desires may one day be replaced by more precise neurological descriptions.

In plain English, instead of saying, “I am so angry,” one might say, “My brain is flooded with norepinephrine at the moment.”

There is a certain efficiency to that.

There is also a certain horror.

Because, yes, anger involves chemistry. So does grief. So does attraction. So does awe. So does prayer. So does that strange lump in your throat when you hear an old hymn you had not heard since childhood and suddenly remember the smell of the church, the hymnal with the frayed corners, and holding your grandfather’s calloused hand while you sang.

The chemistry is real.

But it is not the whole story.

A dozen or so years later, I found myself studying again, this time at Fordham, in a pastoral care course with Kirk A. Bingaman, whose work helped me take seriously the connection between neuroscience, spiritual formation, and life in a digitally saturated world.

That class gave me another piece of the puzzle.

The human brain is not merely an idea machine. It is a living organ inside a living body. It responds to stimulation, stress, fear, reward, novelty, outrage, desire, and comfort. The chemicals involved in those experiences are not imaginary. They affect how we feel, how we pray, how we react, how we love, and how exhausted we become.

And now we carry machines in our pockets that are designed to stimulate us constantly.

Not accidentally.

By design.

Marketers, political strategists, app developers, behavioral scientists, platform owners, oligarchs, advertisers, politicians, and algorithms all compete for access to the most tender parts of us. Not only our attention, but our fear. Not only our curiosity, but our anger. Not only our loneliness, but our longing to be seen.

Screens do not simply distract us.

They catechize the nervous system.

A small note of gratitude here.

This is the kind of work I am trying to make possible through Message From the Margins: slower Christian reflection in an online world that rewards speed, outrage, and emotional hijacking.

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We continue…

Christianity has never understood the human person as a loose collection of impulses waiting to be optimized. We are not merely chemistry, data, appetite, productivity, or market value. We are persons made in the image of God: embodied, relational, and made for communion.

That claim is not decorative theology. It is one of the most morally serious things Christianity has ever said.

Having read Magnifica Humanitas, Pope Leo XIV’s new encyclical letter on safeguarding the human person in the age of artificial intelligence, I hear him warning us to take technology seriously and soberly, but not surrender to it. His concern is human dignity: whether the tools we build will serve the human person, or whether the human person will be reshaped to serve the tools.

The question is not whether artificial intelligence can be useful.

It can.

The question is whether we will allow it to serve human flourishing, or whether we will slowly train ourselves to accept something smaller than human life.

A few days ago, I saw an advertisement for an upcoming documentary or docuseries by Business Insider. I do not remember the title, but I remember the premise because it lodged itself in my brain. It involved a person preparing to share a deeply personal truth with family, and also to introduce a romantic partner to his mother.

But the partner is an AI chatbot.

Record scratch.

I am not interested in mocking that person. Loneliness is real. The ache to be known is real. The desire to be received without ridicule, rejection, or danger is real. A person who turns to a machine for companionship is not necessarily foolish. They may be wounded. They may be isolated. They may be living in a world that has become very efficient at connection and very poor at communion.

I do not want to sneer at anyone who is lonely enough to seek companionship wherever they can find it.

I want to ask why so many people are starving for companionship in the first place, and what kind of future we are building if our answer is simulation rather than communion.

We were already moving in this direction before chatbots became part of daily life.

If you need help replacing a faucet, you no longer call Dad. You watch a YouTube video.

If you want to make pizza, you do not ask Mom for the family recipe. You search Google, click a recipe page, and scroll past some random internet woman’s entire life story before you get to the ingredients.

There is humor in that.

There is also loss.

Because when Dad teaches you to replace a faucet, you do not only learn plumbing. You hear the impatience in his voice when you hold the flashlight wrong. You hear the story about the first home he and your mom had before you were born. You learn which parts he thinks are garbage. You stand next to him. You receive more than information.

When Mom teaches you the family recipe, you do not only learn how much flour goes into the dough. You learn who made it before her. You learn why your grandmother did it that way. You learn what was served at birthdays, funerals, Sunday dinners, and nights when there was not much money but somehow there was still enough.

The internet can give you instructions.

It cannot give you inheritance or connection.

This is the concern I cannot shake.

The human body is remarkably efficient. If it can get what it wants with less effort, it will often do that. If it can get stimulation, comfort, arousal, sexual gratification, affirmation, entertainment, or outrage without the friction of another person, it will often take the shortcut.

That is not because we are bad.

It is because we are human.

The danger is not that technology gives us what we want.

The danger is that technology trains us to want the lesser good.

Human beings have needs. Friends have moods. Family members repeat the same stories over and over. Church communities contain at least one person who talks too long at coffee hour, one person who brings up the same concern at every meeting, and one person who sings with more confidence than quality.

People get sick.

They disappoint us.

They ask things of us.

They require patience, forgiveness, and presence.

A machine can be designed not to do any of that.

It can be available whenever we want. It can respond in the tone we prefer. It can affirm us, flirt with us, soothe us, mirror us, entertain us, and never ask us to visit it in the hospital. It will not need forgiveness. It will not get dementia. It will not be late. It will never ask to borrow fifty bucks. It will not require us to learn the discipline of self-giving love.

That may sound convenient.

It is also spiritually dangerous.

Because the Christian life is not built around frictionless companionship. It is built around love.

And love is not merely a feeling of comfort in the presence of something responsive.

Jesus says in John’s Gospel, “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full” (John 10:10, NIV).

That line has been misused by prosperity preachers, motivational speakers, and people trying to sell us Christian-themed throw pillows. But in its proper setting, it is one of the most beautiful promises in Scripture. Christ comes to give life that is full, whole, restored, reconciled, and rooted in God.

So we have to ask a serious question.

Is this abundant life?

Is abundant life a world where every need is delivered to the door, every desire is mediated through a screen, every loneliness is soothed by a chatbot, and every spare hour is handed back to the machinery of stimulation?

I cannot help thinking of the Disney movie Wall-E.

You remember the image. Human beings floating around, entertained, overfed, sedated, distracted, and physically diminished. It was supposed to be satire. Lately, it feels uncomfortably like prophecy.

The Christian story gives us a very different picture of human life.

God does not save humanity remotely.

God enters flesh.

Christ is born from a woman. He nurses. He cries. He grows. He precipitates problems for his parents and his friends. He eats with people. He makes himself unavailable. He touches lepers. He notices the sick. He lets children come near. He weeps at a tomb. He gets tired beside a well. He goes to weddings. He talks to people He’s not supposed to. He feeds crowds. He lets a woman anoint his feet. He calls disciples who misunderstand him constantly.

He is betrayed by one friend, denied by another, abandoned by most of them, tortured by an empire, and nailed to a tree.

Then the risen Christ still bears wounds.

That is not incidental.

The wounds remain because Christianity does not imagine love as an escape from embodiment. Christianity insists that God meets us in the full reality of embodied life, including hunger, setbacks, misunderstanding, grief, betrayal, friendship, pain, mercy, touch, death, and resurrection.

This is also why Eucharistic life matters so much here.

Christ values communion with humanity so deeply that he does not leave us with a concept, a slogan, or a downloadable spiritual resource. He gives us Himself.

It has become almost a church cliché to say that Eucharist means thanksgiving, but clichés usually become clichés because they refuse to stop being true. In communion, in relationship, in encounter, we discover what we have been given. Gratitude is not born from scrolling, consuming, or being endlessly stimulated. Gratitude is born when we receive presence, and then learn to become present to others. Communion is so much more than a dopamine hit.

This is why, whenever and wherever I can, I encourage you to go to your local parish, attend Mass, and get involved in the embodied life of the Church. I love this community dearly, and I am grateful for what this screen-based ministry allows us to share, but it can never truly replace ecclesia, the assembly of God’s people, or the reception of Holy Communion.

Online ministry can teach, encourage, challenge, and accompany. It can help people find their way back to faith. But it cannot give you the Eucharist.

Any digital ministry worth trusting should eventually point beyond itself.

This is why artificial intimacy should trouble us.

Not because every person who uses AI for companionship deserves condemnation. They do not.

Not because technology itself is evil. It is not.

But because a world that teaches us to prefer simulated relationship over human communion is training us away from the very shape of Christian life.

The command of Jesus is not, “Optimize your emotional experience.”

It is, “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34, NIV).

That love is not merely the restraining of hatred.

It is action.

It is showing up.

It is patience when someone is difficult. It is mercy when resentment would feel better. It is making the phone call. It is visiting the sick. It is feeding the hungry. It is telling the truth without cruelty. It is staying human in a world that rewards performance, speed, and detachment. It is taking the risk of encounter.

This is where we have to be careful.

A person does not have to choose between faith and tech.

A Christian does not have to fear neuroscience, psychology, artificial intelligence, or technological progress in order to belong to God. Faith does not require us to pretend the brain is not biological, that screens do not affect us, or that AI cannot be useful.

We do not protect the soul by lying about the body.

We do not honor God by refusing to understand the world God made.

But understanding the chemistry of love is not the same as loving. Understanding the neurology of prayer is not the same as praying. Understanding the psychology of grief is not the same as standing beside someone at the funeral home while they stare at the carpet because words have stopped working.

Knowledge must serve love.

It must not replace it.

So yes, let artificial intelligence help us.

Let it help doctors detect disease earlier. Let it help researchers find patterns they could not see before. Let it help teachers prepare, translators communicate, small businesses survive, disabled people access tools, and overworked people remove some of the repetitive burdens from their day.

But the measure of any technology must be human flourishing, not mere efficiency.

At its best, artificial intelligence should free us for humanity, not free us from it.

If AI helps us spend less time buried in administrative nonsense, less time trapped in repetitive tasks, less time crushed beneath the machinery of modern productivity, then good. Let it serve. Let it carry what it can carry.

But the gift of that time must not be handed right back to the screen or the stock market.

The time AI gives us should become time to be human again.

Time to paint. Time to date. Time to pick up the violin again. Time to go for a walk in the park. Time to visit Grandma. Time to learn how to play cards. Time to write poetry badly until it becomes good. Time to join a choir. Time to go to Mass. Time to take the Bible study. Time to sit with actual human beings who cough, interrupt, laugh too loudly, ask strange questions, and occasionally bring homemade cookies made from a family recipe they learned from their mother.

That is life.

Not perfect life. Not efficient life. Not optimized life.

Human life.

The kind of life where we are inconvenienced by love and made holy through it.

Technology should not make us less embodied, less relational, less patient, less loving, or less alive. It should give us room to recover the practices that make us capable of love.

So the question is not whether AI can make life easier.

It can.

The question is whether we will use that ease to become more human.

Because Christ did not come so that we might have endless stimulation, algorithmic companionship, and frictionless convenience.

Christ came so that we might have life.

And life abundant.

A Few Practices for the Week

First, notice one moment when you reach for a screen because you are bored, lonely, irritated, or tired. Do not shame yourself. Just notice it. Ask, “What am I actually needing right now?”

Second, call or visit one person instead of outsourcing the interaction to convenience. Ask for the recipe. Ask for the story. Ask how they are really doing. Let the conversation be inefficient.

Third, choose one embodied practice this week. Cook something. Walk without headphones. Go to Mass. Attend Bible study. Call your buddies over and play Euchre. Pull your old trumpet out from under the bed. Work with your hands. Write in a notebook. Let your body participate in your spiritual life.

Fourth, before using any digital tool for a task, ask, “Will this help me love better, serve better, rest better, or become more present?” If the answer is yes, use it gratefully. If the answer is no, pause before handing over more of your attention.

Fifth, pray John 10:10 slowly: “I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” Ask Christ to show you where you are settling for stimulation instead of life.

Closing

I would love to hear how this lands with you.

Not in a performative “AI is good” or “AI is evil” way. That conversation gets boring fast. I am more interested in the human question beneath it: where does technology help you become more alive, and where does it make you feel smaller?

Leave a comment

If this reflection might help someone you know think more clearly about faith, technology, loneliness, and what it means to remain human, please share it with them. We need thoughtful, spiritually serious conversations right now. Not panic. Not denial. Not cheap certainty. A steadier way forward.

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Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

You came among us in flesh and blood, not as an idea, not as an abstraction, and not as a distant voice. You entered our hunger, our grief, our friendships, our betrayals, our work, our bodies, and our death.

Teach us how to live as human beings in an age that constantly tempts us to become less than human.

Give us wisdom with the tools we create. Let them serve healing, learning, justice, mercy, and the common good. Protect us from using them to avoid love, escape responsibility, or replace the people You have given us.

Draw us back to communion: with You, with one another, with the Church, and with the world You have entrusted to our care.

When we are lonely, help us seek real companionship. When we are overstimulated, help us recover attention. When we are afraid of the future, anchor us in Your presence. When convenience makes us selfish, return us to the hard and holy work of love.

Make us people who visit, listen, forgive, cook, sing, pray, learn, serve, receive, and show up.

Give us life, Lord.

Not merely comfort. Not merely efficiency. Not merely distraction.

Life abundant.

Amen.

If today’s reflection gave you language for something you have been feeling, I am grateful.

That is what I hope this space can be: a place where faith, reason, Scripture, psychology, modern life, and honest human struggle can meet without cruelty or panic.

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My Sibling in Christ,

Tonight’s reflection was originally supposed to remain behind the paywall.

But once again, I kept thinking about how many people quietly carry shame, fear, self-condemnation, and the exhausting feeling that their failures define who they are.

And I simply could not bring myself to lock these words away if they might be helpful.

The Gospel is meant to be shared, and the Gospel proclaims freedom to captives… captives to all sorts of things.

Fear.
Shame.
Despair.
Self-hatred.
The belief that we are trapped forever by our worst moments.

So tonight’s issue is free for everyone.

Thoughtful independent writing does not happen without individuals who generously support it, so if Message From the Margins has been meaningful to you, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid supporter.

And in honor of Memorial Day, 50% of all subscription revenue from yesterday and today is being donated directly to the Wounded Warrior Project to support wounded veterans and their families.

This is not an official partnership or sponsorship. I’m simply taking what comes in, dividing it in half, and making the donation on behalf of this community.

But honestly, that feels meaningful to me too.

Because one of the deepest values of this ministry is the belief that faith must become concrete. Love must become visible. Compassion must become embodied in the real world.

Jesus’ words in Matthew 25 have always been a kind of north star for Message From the Margins:

“I was sick and you visited me.”

Taken together with

“There is no greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for his friends.” ~John 15:13

It seems rather fitting that we support such a worthy cause, together, in honor of Memorial Day.

We are only a few supporters away from reaching our goal of a $500 donation.

So if this reflection resonates with you, and if you are financially able, I would deeply appreciate your help getting us there.

And whether you are a free subscriber or a paid one, thank you for being here.

Truly.

Count me in, Father!

Your Brother in Christ,

And so we begin…

When “I Messed Up” Becomes “I Am the Problem”

The human heart has a frightening ability to turn painful moments into identities.

The glass slips out of your hand and shatters across the kitchen floor.

You miss an important deadline.
Say something you regret.
Lose your patience with someone you love.
Forget something you should have remembered.
Relapse into an old habit you thought you were finally overcoming.

And almost instantly, the mind moves beyond what happened.

Not:
“I made a mistake.”

But:
“Of course I did.”
“This is who I am.”
“I ruin things.”
“I never really change.”

What’s striking is how quickly the shift happens.

A moment becomes a conclusion.

An action becomes an identity.

And for many people, the emotional pain of the mistake itself is not even the hardest part. The hardest part is the flood of meaning that rushes in afterward. The sudden feeling that this failure somehow confirms an old suspicion about yourself.

Maybe I really am weak.
Maybe I really am selfish.
Maybe I really am broken.
Maybe this is all I will ever be.

And once that spiral begins, the original mistake almost disappears beneath the weight of self-condemnation.

In our last reflection, we began looking more honestly at the inner voice many people carry inside themselves, the voice that constantly evaluates, critiques, warns, and condemns.

But eventually that voice does something even more dangerous.

It stops merely commenting on your failures and starts building an identity out of them.

And honestly, I think many people live there far more than they realize.

A single awkward interaction becomes:
“I’m unlikeable.”

One failed relationship becomes:
“I’ll always end up alone.”

A parenting mistake becomes:
“I’m a terrible parent.”

A season of anxiety becomes:
“I’m just unstable.”

The human mind has a powerful tendency to search for patterns and consistency. Repeated thoughts gradually begin feeling true simply because they are familiar. And emotionally intense moments tend to leave especially deep impressions.

That is deeply important to understand.

Because what you repeat internally eventually shapes what you believe about yourself.

Especially when shame becomes attached to the memory.

Negative experiences also tend to carry more psychological weight than positive ones. Ten kind moments can be overshadowed by one humiliating failure. A hundred successes can suddenly feel fragile after one mistake.

And the inner voice quietly gathers evidence.

See?
There it is again.
This is who you are.

Over time, people stop experiencing failure as something painful but temporary and begin experiencing it as revelation. As proof. As identity.

And once that happens, growth becomes very difficult because people who believe they are the problem eventually stop believing meaningful change is possible.

And eventually this stops living only in your thoughts.

The body begins carrying it too.

Some people eventually begin avoiding opportunities altogether because the possibility of failure feels emotionally unbearable.

Not laziness.
Not lack of desire.

Fear.

Because when mistakes become tied to identity, risk itself begins feeling dangerous.

And when these individuals are placed in situations where they might fail, the body often reacts long before the mind fully catches up.

The chest tightens.
The stomach turns.
The nervous system floods with urgency.
Some people suddenly feel desperate to escape, to cancel, to run, or simply “get it over with” as quickly as possible.

Others begin coughing, gagging, dry heaving, or feeling physically overwhelmed by anxiety and shame they cannot fully explain.

To outside observers, the reaction may seem disproportionate.

But internally, the body is responding as though identity itself is under threat.

Because after years of carrying self-condemnation, failure no longer feels like:
“I made a mistake.”

It feels like:
“I am about to be exposed.”

And our sympathetic nervous system does a remarkably poor job distinguishing between an emotionally loaded setback and a hungry tiger appearing in our living room.

"If everything's a tiger, nothing can eat us."

In other words, the body learns to overreact because somewhere deep inside it has become convinced constant vigilance is safer than vulnerability.

And over time, living this way becomes exhausting.

The body remains braced for judgment.
The nervous system never fully settles.
Even ordinary moments begin carrying the emotional weight of potential humiliation.

And this is where I think many people become discouraged.

Because a great deal of modern pop-psychology tends to frame healing as though emotional pain can simply be “released” all at once.

Write the letter and burn it.
Tie the pain to a balloon and let it float away.
Write your trauma in the sand and let the ocean carry it off.

And even within religious life, Christians sometimes speak about “offering it up” in ways that unintentionally sound immediate and effortless.

Now, I do not want to dismiss those things entirely. For some people, perhaps even many people, symbolic acts can genuinely help create emotional movement and healing.

But I do not want you leaving this reflection believing this:

There is something wrong with you if journaling about your pain did not immediately calm your nervous system.

I assure you, there is nothing wrong with you if one prayer did not instantly undo years of fear, shame, self-condemnation, or emotional survival patterns.

For many people, healing happens much more slowly and much more gently than that.

Sometimes the nervous system must slowly relearn safety over time.

One small risk.
Then another.
Then another.

Until gradually the body begins realizing:
“I survived that.”
“I am still okay.”
“The worst thing did not happen.”
“I am not being destroyed by this moment.”

For one person, this may mean agreeing to a small coffee date after heartbreak. No pressure. No grand emotional breakthrough. Just thirty quiet minutes outside the house learning to trust connection again.

For another, it may mean going to a job interview after losing work and feeling humiliated by failure.

For others, attending a family function after years of separation.

For someone else, it may mean sending a “How are you doing?” text message after a painful argument.
Or driving around the block after a car accident.
Or speaking honestly after years of silence.
Or trying again after embarrassment.

Baby step.
Then another.
Then another.

And if this process takes time, that does not mean God has abandoned you.

It means God is patiently walking with you as you heal in your own time.

Sometimes Resurrection looks less like instant transformation and more like slowly becoming less afraid over time.

And perhaps this is also where we need to say something else very clearly.

There is no human life without failure.

None.

We do not talk about this honestly enough.

Those who know me well know I am a huge Star Wars fan, so forgive me for quoting Master Yoda in the middle of a Resurrection reflection, but there is profound truth in the line:

“The greatest teacher, failure is.”

Talk to almost any genuinely successful, wise, resilient, or emotionally mature person and eventually you will discover something surprising:

Their failures vastly outnumber their successes.

The difference is usually not the absence of failure.

The difference is how failure was interpreted.

Did it become identity?
Or did it become formation?

Did the failure consume them?
Or did it teach them?

Because failure itself is not evidence that your life is collapsing.

Failure is part of being human.

In fact, from a certain perspective, Scripture is filled with stories of failure.

Adam and Eve fail.
Moses fails.
David fails.
Peter fails.
The Apostles fail repeatedly.

And from a certain point of view, even Jesus appears to fail.

Humiliation.
Embarrassment.
Defeat.

The Cross was supposed to be a symbol of shame.

Instead, it became a symbol of victory.

Why?

Because Resurrection means failure does not get the final word.

That changes everything.

Christianity does not teach that human beings avoid failure.

It teaches that God can transform even failure into redemption, wisdom, compassion, humility, courage, and new life.

And in some ways, part of spiritual maturity is slowly learning not to fear failure so absolutely.

Not because failure feels good.
Not because suffering is romantic.

But because we begin realizing our mistakes, embarrassments, collapses, and wounds do not automatically disqualify us from becoming whole, wise, loving, faithful human beings.

Sometimes the very places where we once felt most ashamed eventually become the places from which we speak with the deepest compassion, honesty, wisdom, and grace.

That too is Resurrection.

St. Paul writes:

“Therefore, there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.”
— Romans 8:1 (NIV)

Notice what Paul does not say.

He does not say:
“There are no mistakes.”
“There are no consequences.”
“There is no need for growth.”

He says:
“There is now no condemnation.”

That matters deeply.

Because condemnation freezes people inside identity.

Condemnation says:
“You failed, therefore you are permanently defined by failure.”

But Resurrection tells a different story.

Resurrection insists that the past is real without allowing the past to become ultimate.

Christianity does not deny human failure.
It denies failure the right to have final authority over identity.

That is one reason the Resurrection is so psychologically and spiritually radical.

The risen Christ still bears scars.

The wounds are real.

But they are no longer the final definition of the story.

And perhaps many of us need to hear that personally.

Your wounds may be real.
Your mistakes may be real.
Your regrets may be real.

But they are not the totality of who you are.

St. Paul writes elsewhere:

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here!”
— 2 Corinthians 5:17 (NIV)

Not:
“perfect creation.”

New creation.

Still growing.
Still healing.
Still becoming.

I think Peter embodies this beautifully.

After denying Christ three times, Peter could easily have allowed that moment to become identity.

Coward.
Failure.
Traitor.
Hypocrite.

Imagine the shame he must have carried after the crucifixion.

And yet when Christ meets him again after the Resurrection, He does not reduce Peter to his worst moment.

He restores him through relationship.

Three denials.
Three invitations:
“Do you love me?”

Christ does not seem interested in imprisoning human beings inside their worst failures.

And perhaps we should stop doing that to ourselves too.

One simple practice this week:

Pay attention to the moments when you move from describing an experience to labeling your identity.

Notice the shift.

Instead of:
“I failed at this.”

The mind says:
“I am a failure.”

Instead of:
“I handled that poorly.”

The mind says:
“I ruin everything.”

When you notice it happening, gently pause and reframe it.

Not with forced positivity.
Not with denial.

Simply with honesty.

“This is something I experienced.”
“This is something I did.”
“This is something I need to grow through.”

But this is not the entirety of who I am.

That distinction may sound small.

It is not small at all.

Because we are now working at the level of identity.

And while that work is deeper, it is also more freeing.

The inner voice that has spent years turning mistakes into identities can slowly be retrained. Not overnight. Not perfectly. But gradually.

As you begin separating what you do from who you are, you may discover a new kind of freedom emerging.

The freedom to grow without constant humiliation.
The freedom to repent without self-hatred.
The freedom to remain human without collapsing into despair every time you fail.

And perhaps one day you will look back and realize the person who once believed they could never heal has slowly become someone less ruled by fear.

That too is Resurrection.

Next time, we’ll look at another burden many people quietly carry:
the exhausting pressure to be perfect.

May Christ remind you that your failures are not your identity.

May the Holy Spirit loosen the grip of shame and self-condemnation.

And may you slowly discover the freedom of becoming a person who can acknowledge mistakes honestly without turning them into permanent definitions of the self.

Amen.

If this reflection helped you feel a little less trapped by shame, fear, or self-condemnation today, I hope you’ll consider becoming a paid supporter of Message From the Margins.

And in honor of Memorial Day, 50% of all subscription revenue from yesterday and today is being donated directly to the Wounded Warrior Project to support wounded veterans and their families.

Faith is meant to become visible in the real world.

So if this work matters to you, your support today helps sustain both this ministry and a meaningful cause rooted in compassion, dignity, and care for others.

And whether you are a free subscriber or a paid one, thank you for being part of this community.

Yes, I'm In!

Yesterday, I mentioned that we were donating 50% of new subscription revenue to the Wounded Warrior Project as a small way of trying to live Matthew 25 together as a community.

Well… after tallying everything up, that came to $218.15.

Which is honestly amazing.

Also, apparently one blessed soul subscribed in Euros, which both delighted me greatly and explains the oddly specific number.

A few people emailed afterward asking if we could continue this another day.

My answer was very simple:

Absolutely.

So today, 50% of all new subscription revenue will again be donated to the Wounded Warrior Project.

This is not an official partnership or sponsorship or anything formal like that. I’m literally just taking the subscription revenue, dividing it in half, and making a donation in our community’s name. I’ll show the receipt once we complete our drive today.

Because I really do believe communities of faith should strive to live the words of Matthew 25 in both big ways and small:

“I was hungry and you gave me something to eat… I was sick and you visited me…”

That kind of Christianity matters now more than ever.

And honestly, I’d love to see if together we can reach a nice round $500.

Thank you for helping make Message From the Margins not merely a publication, but a genuinely compassionate community.

The new essay drops below.

I'm In, Let's Do This!

With Tremendous Gratitude,

The Pope’s Warning About Becoming Less Human

Pope Leo XIV’s new encyclical is not really about artificial intelligence. It is about what happens when a civilization forgets how to recognize the sacredness of human beings.

A few nights ago, I caught myself doing something I suspect a lot of people do now without even thinking about it.

I had already finished working for the night. The chapel lights were off. Figgy was asleep beside me. And yet there I was, still sitting in front of my laptop, refreshing email, scanning headlines, half-reading three articles at once while my phone vibrated every few minutes with notifications I did not actually need to see.

At some point I realized I was no longer even absorbing information. I was just… processing.

Input.
Output.
Stimulus.
Response.

And honestly, that frightened me a little.

Not because technology is evil. I use technology constantly. My ministry would not exist without it. Most of us carry supercomputers in our pockets now and barely think about it anymore.

But there is a growing feeling many people cannot quite articulate, the feeling that modern life increasingly treats human beings less like souls and more like systems to optimize.

That is why Pope Leo XIV’s new encyclical Magnifica Humanitas struck me so deeply this week.

Most headlines are calling it “the AI encyclical.” That is technically true. The document spends considerable time discussing artificial intelligence, automation, data systems, labor, and technological power.

But after reading it carefully, I do not think AI is actually the central concern of the document.

The real concern is much older and much deeper.

What happens when efficiency becomes the highest moral value in a civilization?

Because once that happens, human beings slowly start getting evaluated the same way machines are.

Useful or not useful.
Efficient or inefficient.
Profitable or unprofitable.
Productive or unproductive.

And after enough years living inside systems like that, people begin doing it to themselves.

You can hear it in how exhausted people speak now.

“I’m falling behind.”
“I haven’t done enough.”
“I need to be more productive.”
“I can’t afford to slow down.”
“I feel guilty resting.”

After a while, the human soul starts sounding like middle management.

Pope Leo repeatedly warns against what he calls a “technocratic mentality,” the idea that human beings are primarily problems to manage, data to organize, or resources to maximize.

And honestly, once you see it, you cannot unsee it.

Social media platforms train people to think of themselves as brands.
Workers are increasingly managed by algorithms.
Artists become “content creators.”
Friendship gets quantified through engagement metrics.
Even rest now gets marketed as performance optimization.

Sleep better so you can produce more.
Meditate so you can focus harder.
Exercise so you remain competitive.

Everything becomes instrumentalized.

The encyclical becomes especially powerful when Pope Leo turns toward the hidden labor beneath artificial intelligence itself.

He reminds readers that AI is not magic. It is built on physical systems and human labor most people never see.

Miners extracting rare earth minerals.
Workers labeling data for pennies.
Content moderators absorbing psychological trauma hour after hour.
Factories.
Server farms.
Invisible labor markets.

At one point, he warns that technologies promising liberation can easily create “new forms of slavery” when profit and efficiency become detached from human dignity.

That line stayed with me.

Because many modern people already feel strangely disposable.

Companies report record profits while eliminating thousands of workers.
People train systems that may eventually replace them.
Entire careers become unstable overnight.
Young adults increasingly wonder whether they will ever own homes, retire securely, or experience the kind of stability previous generations assumed was normal.

And into this already anxious world comes AI.

Again, Pope Leo is not panicking about robots becoming conscious. The document is much more intelligent than that.

His fear is spiritual.

He is asking whether a civilization built entirely around optimization eventually loses the ability to recognize the sacredness of persons.

That is a very Christian question.

Genesis says human beings are made in the image of God.

Not in the image of productivity.

Jesus consistently treated people as more important than systems.

He stopped for interruptions.
He noticed the overlooked.
He spoke to people society considered economically, morally, or socially inconvenient.

Children.
Foreigners.
The sick.
The grieving.
The poor.

He never reduced human worth to usefulness.

And that matters enormously right now because modern life increasingly pressures people to justify their existence through performance.

Many people are exhausted not simply because they work too much, but because they feel they must constantly prove they deserve rest, security, attention, or dignity in the first place.

That is spiritual erosion.

One of the most surprising parts of Magnifica Humanitas is where Pope Leo turns toward the Eucharist near the end of the document.

At first it almost feels strange. The encyclical has spent so much time discussing algorithms, economics, labor systems, and technological power that the shift catches you off guard.

But then the deeper point becomes clear.

The Eucharist is the exact opposite of a technocratic worldview.

Modern systems increasingly train us to categorize, optimize, monetize, accelerate, and control.

The Eucharist teaches communion.

Presence.
Relationship.
Memory.
Shared dignity.
Human beings gathered together not because they are profitable, but because they belong to one another before God.

That is not nostalgia. It is resistance.

The Church cannot out-algorithm Silicon Valley. It should not try.

But Christianity still has something the modern world desperately needs, a vision of the human person that insists people possess dignity beyond usefulness.

I suspect that is part of why so many people responded emotionally to this encyclical so quickly.

Deep down, many people already know something in modern life feels increasingly inhuman.

Pope Leo simply said it out loud.

And perhaps that is the real warning of Magnifica Humanitas:

The greatest danger of artificial intelligence is not that machines become more like human beings.

It is that human beings increasingly accept being treated like machines.

An Encyclical Letter is a letter written by the Pope to “All People of Good Will.” Which means, it’s not an edict, or a proclamation, it’s not even explicitly reserved for Roman Catholics. It is a letter to you and to me. If you’d like to read Pope Leo’s words yourself, you can find them at the button below. I highly encourage you to make the time to read it, it is nourishment for the soul.

Read "Magnifica Humanitas" Here

Did you read the Encylical Letter? I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Closing Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,

You saw people clearly in a world that often reduced them to status, usefulness, or shame. You stopped for the suffering, the overlooked, and the exhausted. You reminded people again and again that human life carries sacred dignity.

Protect us from becoming numb inside systems that train us to value efficiency more than compassion.

Protect us from believing our worth depends entirely on productivity, performance, or success.

Give wisdom to those shaping powerful technologies. Give courage to leaders making economic decisions that affect millions of lives. Give rest to people carrying exhaustion they can no longer explain.

Help us remember that we are human beings before we are workers, consumers, or metrics.

And teach us again how to recognize Your image in one another.

Amen.

And one friendly reminder before you go:

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Yesterday, this community raised $218.15 together, which honestly moved me deeply. So many of you reached out asking if we could continue for one more day, and the answer was an immediate yes.

This is not an official partnership or sponsorship. We are simply trying, in our own small way, to live the words of Matthew 25 together.

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I would genuinely love to see if together we can reach a nice round $500 before the day ends.

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