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I n last Sunday’s Gospel, Jesus asked his disciples a question that sounds simple but is actually one of the most important questions in the entire Gospel: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” The disciples give him the answers they have heard: John the Baptist, Elijah, Jeremiah, or one of the prophets. Then Jesus makes the question personal: “But who do you say that I am?” Peter gets the gold star: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” That is an extraordinary claim. Peter is not simply saying that Jesus is a great teacher or an important prophet. He is recognizing something about Jesus that no human being could have figured out on his own. And Jesus tells him so: “Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah. For flesh and blood has not revealed this to you, but my heavenly Father.” Peter has received an insight that could only come from God. In fact, this confession of faith is remarkable because of how difficult—and dangerous—it was to make. Throughout the Gospels, people call Jesus “Lord,” “Son of David,” and even “Messiah.” The demons recognize who Jesus is. But Peter is the first human being in Matthew’s Gospel to explicitly confess Jesus as the “Son of God.” And this was not a harmless title. The religious authorities would eventually accuse Jesus of blasphemy and seek his death. Peter’s declaration was bold indeed. But there is something else happening in this conversation. Peter is discovering not only who Jesus is; he is beginning to discover who he himself is. That is because human beings are constantly trying to figure things out. If we had an emoji for the process, we might choose the “scratching your head” emoji, the hand-on-the-chin “thinking” emoji, or the light bulb over someone’s head. We are always asking questions: What happened? Why did it happen? What should I do? How does this work? What does this mean? The ancient Greeks understood the importance of this process. One of the most famous inscriptions associated with the Temple of Apollo at Delphi was the command: “Know thyself.” Of all God’s creatures, human beings have this remarkable capacity for self-reflection. We don’t simply experience life; we can step back and think about our experience. We can examine our thoughts, motives, desires, fears and habits. We can ask ourselves why we do what we do and what we really want. And the journey of coming to know ourselves lasts our entire lives. There are many things we can figure out on our own. But there are also aspects of our personality—and especially the deepest core of who we are—that we cannot fully understand without God’s help. We need the Holy Spirit to show us who we really are. That is why it can be fruitful, every once in a while, to make this part of our prayer. We can simply ask the Holy Spirit: “Show me who I really am.” Ask the Spirit to reveal the deepest desires of your heart. We may think we know what we want, but sometimes the desires we recognize on the surface are pointing toward something deeper. Ask the Spirit to reveal your strengths and the gifts God has given you. Ask the Spirit to reveal your sins and weaknesses, so that you can make a more honest examination of conscience. Ask God to show you your wounds, fears and attachments. “Holy Spirit, show me who I really am.” For Christians, however, there is an even deeper reason why knowing ourselves requires knowing Jesus. Our identity is rooted in our relationships. A husband’s or wife’s identity is shaped in part by the relationship with his or her spouse. A child’s identity is shaped by the relationship with his or her parents. Parents discover something about themselves through their relationship with their children. And for those of us who are baptized, our deepest identity is rooted in our relationship with Jesus Christ. The world will give us all kinds of answers about who we are. Our job may tell us one thing. Our accomplishments may tell us another. Our failures, mistakes, sins, or the opinions of other people may tell us something else. But none of those things gives us the whole truth. The Holy Spirit reveals something much deeper: you are a child of God. You belong to Jesus Christ. You are loved by him. That identity was given to you before you accomplished a single thing, before you succeeded at anything, before you proved yourself to anyone. And that identity remains true even when you fail, sin, or fall short. Perhaps that is why Jesus asks Peter—and each of us—the question: “Who do you say that I am?” Once we begin to get the answer to that question right, we can begin to answer the next question: “Who do you say that you are?” The answer to the first question makes possible the answer to the second. So perhaps this week, take a few moments in prayer and ask the Holy Spirit for the grace Peter received: “Holy Spirit, help me to know Jesus more deeply. And as I come to know him, help me to know myself more truly—my desires, my sins, my wounds, my strengths, and above all, the identity you have given me through my union with Christ as a beloved child of God.” The more clearly and accurately we see who Jesus is, the more clearly and accurately we come to understand who we are. And that is something none of us can figure out entirely on our own. We need the Holy Spirit to show us the truth. — Rev. James F. Hurlbert 
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The Gospel story of Jesus and the Canaanite woman can be unsettling. We like to think of Jesus as the epitome of the “nice guy,” especially when he encounters people who are suffering or in need. Yet in this encounter, Jesus seems unusually distant, even resistant, to the desperate plea of a mother asking him to heal her daughter. Rather than getting stuck on the difficulty of the dialogue, however, I think it is important to focus on what ultimately happens: a mother comes to Jesus in faith, pleading for help, and her petition is granted. She trusted in the goodness of Jesus. She persisted when the answer did not come easily. And her persistence paid off. That may be the heart of this Gospel: persistent prayer changes us. Think about what happens when a child first learns to read. At first, a child can manage only short, simple books. If we place a long and complicated novel in front of that child, it can be overwhelming. The problem is not that the book is uninteresting or beautiful. The child simply does not yet have the capacity to receive it. So the child practices. Vocabulary grows. Attention span increases. The child becomes comfortable reading for longer periods of time. And something fascinating happens along the way: as the child’s capacity to read grows, so does the child’s desire to read. If the child persists—sitting down again and again with the written word—something that once seemed intimidating begins to make sense. A big, thick book that once looked impossible can eventually become a source of fascination and joy. The same thing can happen spiritually. Persistence in prayer can increase our desire for what we are praying about, while at the same time enlarging our capacity to receive whatever God wishes to give us. The spiritual masters have long recognized that prayer does not always change the situation for which we are praying. Sometimes, through persistent prayer, God changes the person who is praying. God may be preparing our hearts to receive something he has been trying to give us all along. This is especially important when the answer to our prayer is “no.” The more persistently we pray, the greater our capacity can become to accept God’s answer—even when it is not the answer we hoped for. Persistent prayer can deepen our trust that God sees what we cannot see and knows what we cannot know. But persistence in prayer also increases our capacity to receive God’s “yes.” Even when God grants our prayer in the way we originally presented it, something may have happened within us while we were waiting. The waiting itself may have changed us. It may help us experience the answer more deeply—to recognize it, appreciate it, and understand it as a gift rather than simply as an outcome we managed to obtain. That is why perseverance in prayer is so important. We trust that our perseverance leads us toward God’s response, and we trust that God’s response will ultimately be the response we need, even when it is not the response we expected. This theme of trust continues from last week’s Gospel. Last Sunday, Peter had to trust Jesus enough to step out of the boat and walk upon the water. Today, the Canaanite woman demonstrates a similar kind of trust. She steps into the conversation with Jesus even when the conversation becomes turbulent. She does not walk away. She continues to place her trust in him. There is something of Peter’s experience in our own prayer. When we place a petition in Jesus’ hands, we are stepping out of the boat. We are putting our foot onto the water. We are saying, in effect, “I trust you with this.” And sometimes that requires tremendous faith. We keep asking, even when we do not understand what God is doing. We keep praying, even when it seems as though nothing is happening. We persist—not necessarily because we expect to change God’s mind, but because we trust that God is doing something in us while we wait. Perhaps God is enlarging our hearts. Perhaps he is deepening our desire. Perhaps he is increasing our capacity to receive whatever gift he is trying to give us. At the end of the day, then, this Gospel is not a story about Jesus toying with a desperate mother. It is a story about a loving God accompanying someone whose persistence is growing her faith, deepening her desire, and enlarging her capacity to receive the gift God wishes to give. And perhaps that is what God is doing in our prayer as well. So we persist. We keep asking. We keep trusting. We keep praying. Because sometimes our persistence is not about changing God’s will, but about allowing God to align our will with his. Sometimes it is not about changing God’s heart, but about allowing God to enlarge our hearts. And sometimes our persistence in prayer opens our minds and hearts to recognize that God has already answered us—we simply were not yet ready to see the answer. The Canaanite woman trusted enough to keep coming to Jesus. May we have that same trust: the courage to ask, the patience to persist, and the faith to believe that whatever God gives us, he gives as a loving Father who knows what we truly need. - Rev. James F. Hurlbert  A bout fifteen years ago, I jumped out of a perfectly good airplane. It was part of a school fundraising auction, and at the time, it seemed like a good idea. I was willing to give it a try- until the plane took off. Suddenly, we were all huddled together on the floor, with the side hatch open to the elements, and I found myself wondering what I had gotten myself into. My heart was racing. I had to force myself to go through with it. Then came the moment when there was no turning back. I jumped. Exhilarating! That experience came back to me recently while reflecting on the Gospel story of Peter getting out of a perfectly good boat to walk toward Jesus on the water. The disciples are frightened when they see Jesus walking across the water. They assume they are seeing a ghost until Jesus reassures them: “Take courage, it is I; do not be afraid.” Then Peter says something remarkable: “Lord, if it is you, command me to come to you on the water.” What strikes me is that Peter initiates the whole thing. Jesus doesn’t dare him to get out of the boat. He doesn’t challenge Peter to prove his faith by walking on water. Peter himself is so captivated by Jesus that he wants to be part of what Jesus is doing. “Command me to come to you,” he says. And Jesus says, “Come.” So Peter steps over the side of the boat and walks. We sometimes talk about situations in terms of “sink or swim.” Peter’s situation was more like “sink or walk.” There is something exhilarating about that kind of trust. It happens whenever we stop holding back and take a significant step into the unknown. It happens in relationships when we finally allow ourselves to become vulnerable and commit ourselves to another person. It happens when we make a major decision about a job, a family situation, or the future of our children. It happens whenever we recognize that a decision has consequences and yet decide that it is worth taking the risk. There comes a moment when we realize, “I am really doing this.” It can be frightening. It can also be exhilarating. Our life of faith has many moments like that. Faith is not simply about believing certain things or fulfilling a list of religious obligations. Faith is fundamentally about trusting God enough to respond when he calls us to take a step. Sometimes that step is very ordinary. We decide to make prayer a more regular part of our lives. We begin attending Mass more consistently. We make a serious effort to become more patient with the people around us. We reach out to someone who needs our help. We finally decide to let go of an old resentment or bad habit. Sometimes the step is much bigger. We forgive someone who has hurt us. We ask for forgiveness ourselves. We make a difficult decision because we believe it is the right thing to do. We accept a new responsibility even though we are not sure we are ready for it. And sometimes we look back and realize that something has changed in us. There can be an exhilarating sense of freedom when we recognize that we have overcome something that once seemed impossible. There can be joy in discovering that prayer has become something we genuinely desire rather than something we simply feel obligated to do. There can be a profound sense of gratitude when we recognize the grace of God working through our efforts to become more compassionate, patient and generous. Even the sacraments contain this kind of mystery and exhilaration. There is something extraordinary about receiving Christ in the Eucharist. There is freedom in experiencing God's mercy in the Sacrament of Reconciliation. And there is something almost impossible to comprehend about what happens in Baptism: we start as creatures made by God; we become His adopted sons and daughters. These are not tame realities. Perhaps that is why Peter's story is so compelling. He reminds us that faith sometimes means getting out of the boat. Of course, Peter does not walk very far. His courage gives way to fear, and he begins to sink. We all know something about that. We have second thoughts. We wonder whether we made the right decision. We sometimes ask ourselves what we have gotten into. But Peter's failure to keep walking does not erase the significance of his first step. He was willing to trust Jesus enough to leave the security of the boat. That may be the invitation for us as well. It is easy to settle into a comfortable version of faith. We can attend Mass, say our prayers, fulfill our obligations and remain safely inside the boat. But discipleship asks for more. At certain moments, Jesus calls us to take a risk, to trust him more deeply, and to discover what happens when we respond. Living as a disciple of Jesus is not meant to be boring or predictable. That does not mean we should become reckless or irresponsible. Rather, it means being willing to recognize the opportunities God places before us each day. Every day offers another chance to deepen our relationship with the Lord. Every day gives us another opportunity to love someone, forgive someone, serve someone, pray more deeply or step beyond our comfort zone. We may never experience the thrill of jumping out of an airplane. We may never literally walk on water. But there is no reason our life of faith cannot be exhilarating. The exhilaration comes from trust—from discovering that when Jesus says, “Come,” we can actually take that step. Sink or swim is an old way of looking at life. For the person who trusts in Christ, perhaps there is another possibility: . Sink… or walk. — Rev. James F. Hurlbert  A few years ago, I bought an electric bike, mostly to travel back and forth between our two parish campuses. Before owning one, I assumed an e-bike did all the work. In reality, there are different kinds. Some are almost like electric motorcycles: you turn the throttle and off you go. You hardly have to do anything except steer. Mine isn't like that. With my bike, I still have to pedal. If I simply sit there, nothing happens. In fact, because it's heavier than a regular bicycle, it's actually harder to ride if the motor isn't turned on. But once I switch on the motor and begin pedaling—even if all I can offer is my own limited effort—the electric assist kicks in. Suddenly I'm moving much faster and farther than I ever could on my own. I've often thought about that while reflecting on the Gospel story of the feeding of the five thousand. The disciples notice what everyone else notices: the crowd is hungry. They come to Jesus with what seems like a practical solution. "Send them away so they can buy themselves something to eat." Jesus answers with a surprising command: "You give them something to eat." The disciples immediately begin calculating. Five loaves. Two fish. Thousands of people. They are absolutely right about one thing: what they have is not enough. But they do have something. And that "something" is enough for Jesus to work with. That's what reminds me of my electric bike. I still have to pedal. The motor doesn't replace my effort; it empowers it. If I refuse to pedal because I can't possibly make the whole trip on my own strength, I go nowhere. But if I begin with what I have, the power that's already there comes alongside me and carries me much farther than I could ever go by myself. The disciples offered Jesus their five loaves and two fish. They couldn't perform the miracle. But they were willing to place what little they had into his hands. There is an important lesson here for every disciple. We face a challenge and immediately think about everything we lack. We don't have enough time. Enough energy. Enough knowledge. Enough confidence. Enough faith. And because we believe we don't have enough, we end up doing nothing at all. Jesus gently interrupts that way of thinking with a simple command: "You give them something." Perhaps this happens most often in our spiritual lives. Sometimes we wait for God to do everything for us. We hope for some overwhelming spiritual experience- a dramatic conversion, a lightning bolt of insight, an unmistakable feeling of peace, or a sudden burst of faith. When those extraordinary moments don't come, we become discouraged and conclude that God isn't doing anything. But perhaps God is waiting for us to begin. We want to pray, but we haven't actually set aside time to pray. We want to become more patient, but we haven't practiced patience in the ordinary irritations of daily life. We want to become generous, but we haven't given anything away. We want to feel close to God, but we haven't opened our hearts to him. Sometimes we are waiting for God to move while God is waiting for us to take the first step. This seems to be part of what Jesus is teaching his disciples in the miracle of the loaves and fishes. He is training them not to be bystanders but collaborators. Disciples are not spectators; disciples are doers. Of course, God is the one who performs the miracle. The disciples do not multiply the bread. They cannot feed thousands by their own power. But Jesus deliberately chooses to accomplish the miracle through them. That reveals something profound about the Christian life. God does not ask for our participation because he is incapable of acting without us. He certainly could. Rather, he invites us into his work because he wants us to share in it. He wants us to grow. He wants us to become people whose faith is active rather than passive. Most parents understand this instinctively. You encourage your child to do something independently, even though you know you'll step in if help is truly needed. Good teachers don't immediately give students every answer. They let them wrestle with the problem first because the struggle itself is part of the learning. Anyone who has lifted weights with a spotter knows the same principle. The spotter stands ready with hands near the bar, but doesn't lift the weight for you unless it becomes necessary. God often works with us in much the same way. People sometimes quote the saying, "God helps those who help themselves." Strictly speaking, that's not a Christian teaching. Christianity has never been about saving ourselves through our own efforts. Everything begins with God's grace. But perhaps we could say it this way instead: God helps those who are willing to help. Grace is not a substitute for our effort. Grace empowers our effort. The disciples had only five loaves and two fish. They could have looked at the crowd, shrugged their shoulders, and said, "It's hopeless." Instead, they gave Jesus what they had. And that was enough. Whatever challenge you are facing today, perhaps the first question isn't, "Do I have enough?" Perhaps the better question is, "What do I have?" What little bit of time can I offer? What small act of kindness can I perform? What conversation needs to begin? What first step can I take? Compared to the need in front of you, your contribution may seem as insignificant as five loaves and two fish. But place it into Jesus' hands anyway. The miracle does not begin when we finally have everything we think we need. The miracle begins when we are willing to give Jesus everything we already have. Like riding an electric bike, the Christian life still requires us to pedal. But once we do, Christ supplies the power. - Rev. James F. Hurlbert  There are certain phrases we use almost without thinking, like: "I'd give anything..." I'd give anything to have my health back. I'd give anything to find the right husband or wife. I'd give anything for one more conversation with someone I love. I'd give anything to undo one terrible decision from my past. We've all said something like that. It is a natural way of expressing how deeply we desire something or how profoundly we regret a loss. But there is an important difference between saying, "I'd give anything," and saying, "I'd give everything." That is the question Jesus places before us in this Sunday's Gospel. His two parables are remarkably simple. A man discovers a treasure hidden in a field. Filled with joy, he sells everything he owns to buy that field. A merchant searching for fine pearls finds one of extraordinary value. He, too, sells everything in order to possess it. Notice what Jesus does not say. He doesn't tell us that either man carefully calculated the financial risk. He doesn't say they bargained for a lower price or kept a little something in reserve "just in case." They recognized something of incomparable value, and everything else suddenly became secondary. They gave everything because they had found something worth more than everything they already possessed. The treasure is the Kingdom of God. The pearl is life with Christ. Jesus isn't asking whether the Kingdom is valuable. He assumes we already know that it is. Instead, He asks a much more personal question: What would you give to obtain it? Would you give anything? Would you give everything? Before asking us to answer that question, however, Jesus answered it Himself. Whenever we look at the crucifix, we are not simply looking at a symbol of suffering. We are looking at God's own answer. Jesus says to us, in effect, "Look at Me. I gave everything." He left the glory that was His from all eternity and entered our world. He embraced our humanity with all of its weakness and vulnerability. He accepted poverty, misunderstanding, rejection, betrayal, humiliation, suffering, and finally death upon the Cross. He held nothing back. He did all of this—not for an idea, not merely for a cause, but for you and for me. He gave everything so that we might possess the treasure of eternal life and become citizens of His Kingdom. That changes the way we hear today's Gospel. Jesus never asks us to do something He Himself was unwilling to do first. Every invitation He gives us has already been lived perfectly in His own life. Imagine loving Christ so deeply that the Gospel became the organizing principle of your entire life. Imagine measuring every decision, every relationship, every possession, every ambition by one simple question: "Will this help me belong more completely to Christ?" That is the vision Jesus places before us. If we are honest, though, we know that most of us are still learning how to love like that. We believe in Him. We love Him. We sincerely want to follow Him. But we often hold something back. Perhaps it is in the confessional. We are willing to confess most of our sins, but there remains one wound or one habit we would rather keep hidden. Perhaps it is in stewardship. We gladly give some of our time and talent, but our treasure remains something we tightly control. Perhaps it is forgiveness. We forgive—but only to a point. There is still someone whose name stirs resentment in our hearts. Or perhaps it is trust. We trust God with many parts of our lives, but not with our future, our finances, our children, our health, or our deepest fears. There always seems to be one room in the house of our heart where we prefer to keep the key ourselves. That is why today's Gospel can seem almost intimidating. If the Kingdom costs everything, what happens when I know I am not ready to give everything? The answer is both comforting and encouraging. Discipleship is a journey. The Lord knows that our capacity to surrender grows over time. He is patient. He does not stop loving us because we are still learning to trust Him. Day by day, He invites us to take another step, to loosen our grip just a little more, and to discover that whatever we place in His hands is never truly lost. Perhaps the honest prayer for many of us today is not: "Lord, I already give You everything." Perhaps it is simply: "Lord, I'd like to. I want to become that kind of disciple. I know there are things I am still holding onto. Help me trust You enough to let them go." That is a beautiful prayer because it is sincere, and God delights in honest hearts. The goal of the Christian life is not simply to obey more rules or become a little more religious. The goal is to fall so deeply in love with Jesus Christ that giving Him everything no longer feels like a sacrifice. It feels like discovering the greatest treasure imaginable. This week, spend a few quiet moments in prayer and ask yourself a simple question: What am I still holding back from the Lord? Don't be discouraged by the answer. Simply place it before Him. Then pray: "Lord, I'd like to think that one day I would give You everything. Help me love You enough that, little by little, I actually can." Because in the end, the treasure is worth it. The pearl is worth it. And the One who gave everything for us is worthy of everything we can give in return. – Rev. James F. Hurlbert  |
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