The couple came in to see me in preparation for their upcoming wedding. I knew the bride-to-be and her family, lifelong parishioners. I was privileged to baptize her as a baby and watch her grow in her faith.

I once was fired from a job as a parish minister. The reason that the new pastor gave for my termination was that, after five years of ministry in the parish community, there was not enough office space for me.

I schlepped a lot of guilt with me up the hill as we climbed the Mount of Beatitudes. I was part of a pilgrimage to the Holy Land and had gladly agreed to lead music for our daily Masses. 

I stood atop a mesa in New Mexico from where I could see for miles. I was struck by the contrast between the vast stretches of barren desert and the narrow band of abundant life skirting the bank of a dry river bed.

When a young intern was asked by a Catholic publisher how to improve a website promoting religious vocations, his main suggestion was to highlight the average salary a priest or nun receives.

A popular television show several years ago featured ordinary people who decided that their physical appearance was so lacking, it was negatively affecting their entire life.

Most people have endured what feels like interminable waiting. Maybe it’s for a desperately needed job or a serious health test result.

After the last Sunday Mass, she would stay in church. She kept herself busy gathering the discarded bulletins, spilled Cheerios, and dropped tissues from the pews.

It was my sixth or seventh surgical treatment, I lost count, one every three or four months. It always ends with an ultrasound assuring everything is working before being sent home.

In this passage describing Jesus’ return to Galilee, Jesus is in a take-charge, electric mood.