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In the classic 1970s film Harold and Maude, the young Harold asks his elderly friend, “Maude, do you pray?” She smiles and replies, “No... I commune.” That simple exchange has stayed with me because it captures something essential about prayer. We use the word prayer all the time, but it can mean different things to different people. For some, prayer means reciting memorized prayers. For others, it is asking God for help, reading Scripture, spending time in silence, meditating, or simply sitting quietly in God's presence. All of those are genuine forms of prayer. But underneath every method or practice lies something deeper. Prayer is, at its heart, about communion with God—growing in a relationship with the One who created us, knows us completely, and loves us unconditionally. That sounds beautiful, but most of us also know that prayer can feel difficult. St. Paul certainly understood that reality. In this Sunday's second reading, he writes, "We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes with inexpressible groanings." Those words are surprisingly reassuring. Even the great apostle acknowledges that prayer is something we all struggle to learn. In that sense, we're all amateurs. There are many things in life we don't know how to do at first. We learn a new job through experience. We become better parents one day at a time. We develop friendships by spending time together. We don't wait until we've mastered these things before beginning; we simply begin and grow along the way. Prayer works much the same way. We become people of prayer by praying. There's an old story about a spiritual master whose disciple asked him, "Master, is it okay if I smoke while I pray?" The master immediately answered, "Absolutely not!" Later, the disciple was shocked to see another student smoking during prayer. "How can you do that?" he asked. The second disciple smiled and replied, "I asked the master if it was okay to pray while I smoke, and he said, 'Absolutely!'" The story reminds us that prayer is less about creating perfect conditions and more about allowing our hearts to turn toward God in the midst of ordinary life. God is always inviting us into communion. This summer, about twenty parishioners have been participating in our Personal Training in Prayer program. Each Tuesday evening we gather for some practical instruction and quiet prayer. Participants also meet individually a couple of times with Peter or me to reflect on their prayer lives. It has been a wonderful reminder that prayer is both a challenge and an adventure. No one ever "graduates" from prayer. There is always more to discover because there is always more of God to know. One of the most common concerns people share is about distractions: "My mind keeps wandering." "I can't stay focused." "I spend more time thinking about work, worrying about my family, or making tomorrow's to-do list than I do thinking about God." If you've ever experienced that, you're certainly not alone. Nearly everyone who tries to pray encounters distractions. We often assume that wandering thoughts mean we're failing. But that's not how the spiritual masters have understood prayer. In today's Gospel, Jesus tells the parable of the wheat and the weeds. The servants want to rush into the field and pull up every weed they can find. But the master tells them to wait because they might accidentally uproot the wheat as well. "Let both grow together until the harvest." That is wise advice not only for farming but also for prayer. Our distractions are like the weeds. We don't have to panic every time they appear. We don't need to become frustrated or spend all our energy trying to eliminate them. Instead, we simply notice that our attention has wandered and gently return to the Lord. Then, if our minds wander again- as they almost certainly will- we quietly return once more. The distractions may still be present, but that doesn't mean the wheat isn't growing. God is often doing His deepest work beneath the surface, in ways we cannot see. The same principle extends beyond prayer to the whole spiritual life. It is easy to become preoccupied with our weaknesses, failures, bad habits, and imperfections. We notice every weed. Meanwhile, we overlook the quiet ways God is transforming us—making us more patient, more generous, more forgiving, more trusting. We often measure ourselves by our shortcomings, while God sees the slow but steady growth of grace. He sees the wheat, even when we notice only the weeds. That is good news for all of us. Prayer is not about getting everything right. It is not about finding perfect words or maintaining perfect concentration. It is not a performance that God grades. Prayer is about showing up. It is about placing ourselves before God, honestly and humbly. Some days we come with gratitude. Other days we come with questions, tears, silence, or nothing more than a weary sigh. St. Paul reminds us that even those wordless groanings become prayer because the Holy Spirit is already praying within us. We are never praying alone. As you begin a new week, I encourage you to make time to be with the Lord. Put it on your calendar if you need to. Even ten or fifteen quiet minutes can make a difference. If distractions sprout, let them come and let them go. If all you have to offer is a heavy heart or a silent longing, offer that to God without embarrassment. Little by little, day after day, prayer becomes less about saying the right words and more about learning to commune with the One who has always known your heart—and who delights simply in your presence. – Rev. James F. Hurlbert 
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 Jesus' Parable of the Sower usually leads us to think about the different kinds of soil on which the seed falls: rocky ground, thorny ground, hardened paths, and rich, fertile earth. We naturally ask ourselves, "What kind of soil is my heart?" That's an important question. But perhaps there's another one worth asking before we even get to the soil: What kind of seeds are being planted? In Jesus' day, farming was a rather simple process. A farmer scattered seed broadly and waited to see what would grow. Today, we're a bit more sophisticated. During gardening season, most of us don't simply toss seeds into the yard and hope for the best. We choose quality seeds, prepare the soil, water regularly, provide fertilizer, make sure plants have enough sunlight, protect them from insects, and give them room to grow. We know that healthy plants require ongoing care. Our faith is much the same. The seed of faith planted in us at Baptism is meant to grow into something strong, healthy, and fruitful. Like any living thing, it needs nourishment. We might ask ourselves: Is my faith receiving what it needs to flourish? Am I making time for prayer? Am I faithful to Sunday Mass? Do I serve others? Am I connected to a community of believers? Are there weeds or pests in my spiritual life—habits, sins, or unhealthy ideas—that are slowly choking my relationship with God? Perhaps we can think of it this way: prayer is like fertilizer, helping faith grow deeper roots. The Eucharist is like water, sustaining spiritual life week after week. Serving others tills the soil, while Christian community provides the warmth and encouragement that helps faith thrive. But here's the key point: healthy plants eventually produce seeds. The same is true of our spiritual lives. A mature, healthy faith naturally bears fruit and produces "seeds of faith" that are passed on to others—especially to our children and grandchildren, but also to friends, coworkers, neighbors, and anyone whose life we touch. We sometimes joke that making a Christian is easy: "Just add (holy) water!" Baptism is, of course, the beginning of the Christian life. But Baptism alone does not guarantee that faith will flourish. Seeds must be nourished if they are to become healthy plants. Gardeners know that after a seed germinates, it becomes a seedling. At first, that tiny plant survives on the nutrients stored within the seed itself. Only later does it become strong enough to draw nourishment from the soil and sunlight on its own. Children often grow in faith in much the same way. Their faith initially depends upon the "stored reserves" they receive from parents, grandparents, and other faithful adults. Long before they can make mature decisions for themselves, they absorb what they see and experience. They learn whether prayer matters, whether Sunday Mass is important, whether forgiveness is real, and whether following Christ brings joy. This helps explain something we've learned over the past several decades. Catholic schools and parish religious education programs are invaluable, but they cannot replace the witness of a living faith at home. Programs can teach the faith, but the strongest seeds are produced by people whose own faith is alive and growing. Healthy plants produce healthy seeds. That is why today's Gospel is not simply asking about the “soil” of our souls. It also invites us to consider the condition of the plant of faith already growing within us. Most of us would not be in church today if there weren't at least something growing. The more important question is: What kind of condition is it in? Is it flourishing, or merely surviving? Is it producing fruit that others can receive? The encouraging news is that cultivating faith is not rocket science. Like gardening, it begins with the basics: consistency, dedication, follow-through. This is seen in consistent prayer, regular participation in the sacraments, service to others, learning our faith, and persevering day after day. We certainly do our part, but ultimately it is God who provides the grace, just as the sun and the soil provide what no gardener can manufacture. Our role is to cooperate with Him. The seeds of faith we sow—in our families, our neighborhoods, our workplaces, and our parish—will have the greatest chance of taking root when they come from lives that are deeply rooted in Christ. So as we reflect on the Parable of the Sower, let's remember: it's not just about the soil; it's also about the seeds. And healthy plants produce healthy seeds. The best way to pass on the faith is to let God continue growing it within us first. – Rev. James F. Hurlbert  This year marks the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, one of the most influential documents in our nation's history. Its principal author, Thomas Jefferson, remains one of the most fascinating figures among our Founding Fathers. Yet one of the lesser-known projects of his later years reveals something just as significant about his personal beliefs. Near the end of his life, Jefferson assembled what has come to be known as the Jefferson Bible, though its formal title was The Life and Morals of Jesus of Nazareth. It was, quite literally, "Scripture by subtraction." Jefferson took a razor to the pages of the Gospels, cutting and pasting together only those passages that he considered reasonable, moral, or inspiring, while leaving behind anything he regarded as miraculous or theologically extravagant. Interestingly, one of the passages he preserved is part of this Sunday's Gospel: "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves. For my yoke is easy, and my burden light." Who wouldn't want to keep those beautiful words? They have comforted generations of believers and continue to bring peace to weary hearts. But Jefferson omitted the verses that immediately precede them: "No one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son wishes to reveal him." That omission tells us something important. Jefferson was a deist. He believed in God as Creator—an intelligent designer who set the universe in motion—but not in a personal God who intervenes in history, speaks to humanity, or enters into a living relationship with us. It made sense, then, that Jefferson would preserve Jesus' moral teachings while removing His claims about His own identity. For Jefferson, Jesus was an inspiring teacher. But a living relationship with the risen Son of God was simply not part of his worldview. This highlights the central claim of Christianity: Our faith is not merely that Jesus teaches us about God. Our faith is that Jesus reveals God to us. That claim can make people uncomfortable, especially in an age that rightly values respectful dialogue among religions. We gladly acknowledge the goodness and truth found in many religious traditions. Yet Christians also profess something unique and extraordinary: Jesus is not simply another wise teacher or one more voice among many. His teachings are profound, though many of His moral insights had already been anticipated in various ways. What is truly revolutionary is not simply what Jesus teaches but who He claims to be: "I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me." That is an astonishing claim. Christianity has always been centered not primarily on a philosophy or an ethical system but on a Person. The heart of our faith is relationship. That is why Jesus does not simply say, "Come to my teachings," or "Come to my values," or even, "Come to my example." He says, "Come to me." At first glance, His invitation seems surprising because He immediately speaks of taking on His "yoke." We usually think of a yoke as something burdensome. Even in everyday speech, relationships can sometimes be described that way—the "old ball and chain," strained friendships, or responsibilities that weigh heavily upon us. Yet, despite the challenges they sometimes bring, relationships are also what give life its deepest meaning. Our greatest joys are found in loving and being loved. We discover strength in family, friendship, and community. We find consolation when others walk beside us in times of suffering. The greatest consolation of all is found in the relationship in which we are loved to our very core by the Source of all love. Jesus reveals the Father not merely by speaking about God's love but by loving us Himself. His love is revelatory. In encountering Jesus, we encounter the very heart of God. As we celebrate the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence, it is worth remembering that the Declaration was about severing a political relationship that had become oppressive. It proclaimed freedom from an earthly power. Jesus offers another kind of declaration of independence: He offers
This freedom does not come through a list of principles or a carefully crafted document. It comes through a relationship. "Come to me..." Those words have an extraordinary power. I have prayed them at hospital bedsides as someone approached the end of life. I have seen the peace they bring to the dying and the comfort they offer to grieving families after long suffering. But they are not only for life's final moments. They are for every one of us, here and now. For those carrying burdens that no one else can see. For those who are weary. For those searching for peace. Jesus does not simply point us toward God. He is the One through whom we have access to the Father. To come to Jesus is to come into the very presence of God. And in Him, at last, we find the rest our hearts have been searching for. – Rev. James F. Hurlbert   Have you ever been asked to rank a list of priorities? Maybe it was a practical exercise: a list of chores that all needed to be done, but there wasn't enough time for everything. Or a stack of bills when money was tight, forcing you to decide what had to be paid first. Perhaps it was part of a job application, where you were given a list of values and asked to arrange them in order of importance. Exercises like these can be surprisingly revealing. They force us to answer a simple but difficult question: What matters most?
Sometimes we make those priorities visible. A friend of mine has a tattoo that reads: God. Family. Friends. Others might choose a different order or different words: God. Family. Country. Or God. Family. Work. At the Basilica of the Sacred Heart at Notre Dame, the words "God, Country, Notre Dame" are famously displayed above one of the side entrances. If we narrow the question to the people in our lives, it becomes even more personal. Who do you love? And then the harder question: Who do you love the most? That is precisely the question Jesus confronts in the Gospel. "Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me." Those words can sound jarring. In a culture that rightly treasures family, Jesus appears to be demanding the impossible. Notice what He is actually saying. Jesus does not merely ask us to place His teachings first. He does not simply tell us to prioritize His values or His commandments. He insists that He Himself must occupy first place. Coming from anyone else, such a demand would sound arrogant, even offensive. But Jesus is not simply another moral teacher asking for loyalty. He is the Son of God, the One through whom all things were made and for whom all things exist. He alone has the authority to ask for our absolute devotion. Yet His command is not rooted merely in His authority. It is also rooted in our flourishing. When our priorities are properly ordered, that very order enables every other priority to find its proper place. A beautiful example of this truth is found in the life of Venerable Patrick Peyton. Born in Ireland in 1909, Patrick Peyton grew up on a small, rocky farm in a deeply faithful family. He was one of nine children raised by parents whose Catholic faith shaped everyday life. Like many young people, Patrick had periods of rebellion. He challenged authority, left school early, and struggled to discern his future. When his father's health declined, Patrick put aside thoughts of the priesthood to help support the family. Eventually, he and his brother immigrated to the United States, joining older siblings who had already settled there. Once there, Patrick again sensed God's call to the priesthood. He and his brother entered the Congregation of Holy Cross at Notre Dame, Indiana. The rest is history. Father Peyton became known around the world as "The Rosary Priest." Through what became the Family Rosary Crusade, he organized enormous public rosary rallies across the globe. Hollywood celebrities lent their voices to his efforts, and modern media carried his message into millions of homes. His famous slogan became known everywhere: "The family that prays together stays together." He also reminded the world, "A world at prayer is a world at peace." Those sayings have endured because they express a profound truth. Father Peyton did not strengthen families by telling parents to love their children more than ever before. He strengthened families by encouraging them to place Jesus at the center of family life through prayer. He understood that when Christ occupies first place, everyone else benefits. There is an old piece of financial wisdom: "Take care of your pennies, and your dollars will take care of themselves." The point is simple. Attend faithfully to the small things, and the larger things often fall into place. The same principle applies spiritually. Get your priorities straight, and the highest priority helps order everything beneath it. Jesus is not asking us to love our parents or anyone else less. He is asking us to love Him first so that we can love everyone else as they deserve to be loved. It is not a competition. There is no need to apologize to Mom and Dad, to our spouse, to our children, to our friends, our country, or even to our beloved Notre Dame. Putting Jesus first does not diminish those loves. It purifies them. It strengthens them. It orders them rightly. And that is why Jesus insists on first place. Not because He wishes to take anyone's place in our hearts. But because only when He is first do all the other people we love find their proper place as well. – Rev. James F. Hurlbert |
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