Lectio Divina – Sixteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Theme: “Weeds”
1. Lectio
Gospel: Matthew 13:24–43
> “…if you pull up the weeds you might uproot the wheat along with them.”
The weeds in this parable are traditionally understood to be darnel, a poisonous plant that closely resembles wheat during its early growth. The master’s refusal to separate the wheat from the weeds is not indifference to evil but a lesson in patience. The Kingdom of God, in this age, contains saints and sinners alike. The final separation belongs to God alone. Until then, I am called to repentance, mercy, and hope rather than presumption.
Reflection:
Do I recognize that God created the world, writing into it an order and a dynamism that I have no right to ignore?
—
2. Meditatio
Due to a recent substantial rain I have a lot of weeds to contend with at The Glenn.
No-till regenerative agriculture is a farming system that improves the land by not disturbing the soil. It uses livestock grazing and targeted mowing instead of plowing and chemicals. This builds healthy, sponge-like soil that naturally stores carbon, prevents erosion, and holds water better. When grazing isn’t enough or possible, mowing helps manage plant growth in both pastures and crop fields. Mowing tall weeds before they drop seeds prevents them from taking over the field.
Beyond The Glenn I also see many weeds in the Diocese of Amarillo’s Centennial celebration, seeded by what our Diocese itself has called the “serious mistake” of assigning John Salazar, a convicted child molester, to active ministry. According to Catholic theology, a serious sin destroys charity in the heart much as weeds can overwhelm a healthy field when they are allowed to reseed unchecked.
For years I have tried to pull those weeds. In doing so, I also realize that I have sometimes uprooted good wheat. Friendships have been strained. Doors have closed. Opportunities for ministry have disappeared. The Lord’s words today make me stop and ask whether I have confused my role with His.
Jesus never tells me to pretend the weeds are wheat. Neither does He tell me to abandon the field. Instead, He teaches me to work within God’s order. A regenerative farmer does not surrender to weeds. He manages them wisely. Sheep graze some of them. Mowing prevents others from spreading. Over time the soil itself becomes healthier and the desirable plants become stronger.
Perhaps that is how I am called to live this Diocesan Centennial. Rather than spending all my energy trying to pull every weed, perhaps I should devote more of my energy to cultivating healthy wheat—to strengthening faith, hope, mission, and communion. The weeds remain visible. They should not be forgotten or excused. Yet the field belongs to Christ, not to me, and He alone knows the perfect moment of harvest.
This week I want my Lectio Divinas to explore that possibility: allowing the wheat of our Diocesan Centennial to grow while honestly acknowledging the weeds of our serious mistake. Perhaps regenerative agriculture has been teaching me the Gospel all along.
—
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
You are the true Lord of the harvest. Give me the wisdom to recognize weeds without becoming consumed by them. Deliver me from the pride of believing that I alone must purify Your field.
Teach me to cultivate what is good, to protect the vulnerable, to speak the truth with charity, and to trust Your perfect justice when my own judgment reaches its limits.
May Your Blessed Mother help me nurture the wheat of faith, hope, mission, and communion, even while I continue to grieve the weeds that wound Your Church.
Amen.
—
4. Contemplatio
Human rights are inviolable because they flow from the inherent dignity God gives every human person—not from achievements, reputation, usefulness, or power.
As I contemplate the field before me, I realize that both wheat and weeds grow among human beings who possess an equal dignity before God. The weed is not the person; the weed is the sin, the injustice, the wound, the falsehood that obscures the image of God within us. If I forget that distinction, I risk treating people as problems to be removed rather than persons to be redeemed.
Regenerative farming has taught me that healthy soil gradually weakens weeds by strengthening what is good. Perhaps the Holy Spirit works much the same way. Instead of allowing bitterness to define my mission, I can devote myself to enriching the soil of the Church through prayer, truth, repentance, forgiveness, and patient witness. Justice still matters. Accountability still matters. Protecting the vulnerable still matters. Yet all of these must serve the restoration of God’s field rather than my desire to control it.
Today I ask for the grace to become more concerned with growing healthy wheat than with counting weeds, trusting that when the harvest finally comes, the Lord of the field will judge with perfect justice and gather every stalk of faithful wheat into His barn.
Saturday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Lectio Divina – Saturday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Memorial of Saint Camillus de Lellis
Theme: “Place”
1. Lectio
Gospel – Matthew 12:14–21
“When Jesus realized this, he withdrew from that place.” (Mt 12:15)
The Pharisees had made that place one of hostility rather than healing. Jesus did not withdraw out of fear, but because the Father’s timing and mission were guiding Him. He left one place so that the Kingdom could flourish in another.
Reflection:
When Jesus calls me to leave one place, am I willing to trust that He is already preparing another place where His will can be accomplished?
2. Meditatio
For today’s Lectio Divina I will withdraw from The Glenn and move, at least in my heart, to another place: Clarendon, Texas.
Today, for only the second time in its 134-year history, a new church building is being dedicated for the parishioners of St. Mary’s Church. His Eminence, Daniel Cardinal DiNardo, Apostolic Administrator sede vacante, will preside at the Mass of Blessing and Dedication, joined by Bishop Emeritus Patrick J. Zurek and the priests of the Diocese of Amarillo.
Although I will not be there physically, I want to unite myself spiritually with that celebration by dedicating today’s Lectio Divina to that place, because it is a place that ultimately led to the place I now call home.
Kim’s paternal grandparents came to Clarendon and worshiped in the first Catholic church built in the Texas Panhandle in June of 1892. The original St. Mary’s Academy, operated by the Sisters of Charity of the Incarnate Word, later moved to Amarillo in 1913. That same school became the place where Kim’s parents studied, where I was educated, and where our children and grandchildren would also receive their Catholic education.
I realize that salvation history is always rooted in places. Abraham was called from one land to another. Moses encountered God on a mountain. Elijah heard the still, small voice in a cave. Jesus taught from boats, hillsides, synagogues, homes, and ultimately from the Cross.
Pope Francis wrote that “The history of our friendship with God is always linked to particular places which take on an intensely personal meaning.” I understand that now more deeply. Certain places become sacramental memories where grace quietly changed the direction of my life.
The Glenn is one of those places.
Clarendon is another.
St. Mary’s Cathedral is another.
As I attend the 7:00 a.m. Mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral this morning, while another congregation gathers two hours away to dedicate a new church, I realize we are all being gathered into the same dwelling place—the Body of Christ. Buildings matter because they become places where ordinary people repeatedly encounter an extraordinary God.
3. Oratio
Blessed Mother, who made your home wherever your Son called you, teach me to treasure the holy places where God has formed my faith without ever clinging to them more than I cling to Christ.
Saint Camillus de Lellis, who transformed hospitals into places of compassion and dignity, pray that every place I enter may become a place where Christ is recognized in those who suffer.
Lord Jesus, whether You call me to remain where I am or to withdraw to another place, let me always follow You. Consecrate my heart as Your dwelling place so that wherever I go, others may encounter Your peace. Amen.
4. Contemplatio
Jesus withdrew from one place because His mission was never confined to geography. The Kingdom is carried wherever hearts are open to receive it.
As I reflect on the dedication of a new church in Clarendon, I recognize that sacred buildings are not holy because of stone, brick, or stained glass. They are holy because they proclaim something deeper: every human person possesses an inviolable dignity that deserves a place where it can encounter God.
Magnifica Humanitas reminds me that human rights are not granted from the outside but arise from the intrinsic dignity placed within every person by God. If that is true, then every parish, every farm, every home, every classroom, every hospital, and every field can become holy ground whenever that dignity is protected and honored.
The places that have shaped my life are gifts, but they are not my destination. They have always existed to point me toward the One who prepares an eternal place for me.
Today I pray not only for the dedication of a church building in Clarendon, but for the continual dedication of my own heart, so that wherever Christ leads me—even when He asks me to withdraw from one place into another—I may always become a living stone in the house He is building.
Friday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Lectio Divina
Friday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Theme: “Law”
1. Lectio
Gospel – Matthew 12:1–8
“Or have you not read in the law that on the sabbath the priests serving in the temple violate the sabbath and are innocent?”
The argument is that the law itself requires work that breaks the sabbath rest because of the higher duty of temple service. If temple duties outweigh the sabbath law, how much more does the presence of Jesus, with his proclamation of the Kingdom—something greater than the temple—justify the conduct of his disciples.
Reflection
Given the real potential for a misuse of human abilities, how do I avoid ignoring my responsibility for planning, coordination, oversight, and enforcement of the law within my respective borders of The Glenn?
2. Meditatio
I have to admit that much of what I do here at The Glenn involves grazing in the gray areas of the law. Texas is historically an open-range state, which means I am generally not legally required to fence in my sheep to prevent them from roaming. Instead, neighboring landowners who wish to keep livestock out are expected to fence them out. Since I have limited acreage, I use No Fence virtual fencing technology so my sheep can graze neighboring pastures with permission.
The gray area comes with my Livestock Guardian Dogs. They must remain with the sheep to fulfill the purpose for which they were bred. Yet Texas law generally requires dogs to be securely confined to their owner’s property or restrained when off that property. Allowing dogs to roam freely can violate both state and local ordinances.
That tension has forced me to think carefully about law—not as an obstacle, but as an act of stewardship. The law is one of the means by which society exercises planning, coordination, oversight, and protection for the common good. Ignoring it because it inconveniences me would not be Christian freedom; it would simply be selfishness.
So the law at The Glenn is this: during the day my LGDs remain securely within The Glenn. At night, when coyotes become active and the sheep require greater protection, the dogs accompany the flock wearing SpotOn virtual fence collars. Those collars discourage wandering while immediately alerting me if a dog strays too far from the sheep. My goal is not to find loopholes but to balance my responsibility to protect both my flock and my neighbors.
Jesus did not abolish the law. He revealed its deepest purpose. Laws exist to serve life, not to suffocate it. The Sabbath itself was ordered toward communion with God, just as my own rules at The Glenn must ultimately serve the flourishing of both people and creation rather than my own convenience.
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
You fulfilled the law by revealing its heart. Teach me to obey not merely from fear or habit, but from love. Give me the wisdom to exercise authority with humility, to protect those entrusted to my care, and never to use freedom as an excuse for irresponsibility. Help me remember that every decision I make at The Glenn should reflect Your justice, mercy, and concern for the common good. Amen.
4. Contemplatio
Magnifica Humanitas reminds me that “The fundamental dignity of each person, therefore, is neither acquired nor earned, nor does it need to be justified.” That truth changes the way I understand law. Law is not ultimately about proving who deserves protection or who has earned respect. It exists to safeguard the dignity that God has already bestowed upon every person.
The same principle quietly shapes life at The Glenn. My fences, grazing plans, and guardian dogs are not ends in themselves. They are ordered toward protecting lives entrusted to my care. Likewise, God’s law is not a fence built to imprison me but a shepherd’s staff guiding me toward life.
When I remember that every person bears an inalienable dignity given by God, I stop asking, “How little must I do to satisfy the law?” Instead I begin asking, “How can I use the law to better love God and my neighbor?”
The law reaches its fulfillment not in mere compliance, but in charity. And when love governs the law, both justice and mercy find their proper home.
Thursday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Lectio Divina
Thursday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Theme: “Labor”
1. Lectio
Gospel: Matthew 11:28
“Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest.”
The people listening to Jesus were not simply exhausted from physical work. They were burdened by a law that had become so layered with human regulations that it obscured the God who gave it. Instead of leading them to freedom, it weighed them down.
Is my labor burdened by an inward-looking, status-seeking attitude that reduces my mission into a quest for power, social influence, and personal glory?
Jesus does not condemn labor. He sanctifies it. What He invites me to surrender is every burden I place upon myself that He never asked me to carry.
2. Meditatio
Yesterday evening, after a day of labor here at The Glenn, I gathered eggs, eggplant, peppers, Swiss chard, and tomatoes. Looking at the basket, I thought it would be satisfying to prepare an omelet using only what my own labor had produced.
The result was… disappointing.
My limited cooking skills were evident. Instead of a beautiful omelet, I produced something closer to scrambled eggs pretending to be an omelet. But appearance wasn’t the real problem. It simply lacked flavor.
Then it dawned on me why.
I had not grown onions, so, burdened by my own self-imposed rule, I refused to use any. The same was true of cheese, salt, and pepper. Ironically, I realized only afterward that I had already broken my own rule by cooking it in olive oil.
The whole exercise became rather humorous.
I had created a law that no one had given me, then burdened myself trying to keep it.
The omelet taught me something deeper than cooking.
It is much better when combined with the labor of others.
The onion grower.
The dairy farmer.
The salt miner.
The spice merchant.
Even the olive grower whose oil quietly found its way into my skillet.
My little experiment made me question one of the assumptions that sometimes surrounds homesteading. Is my goal really self-reliance, or is it faithful stewardship within a community of people whose different gifts enrich one another?
The Church teaches that labor is never merely about producing things. Every kind of work—whether farming, teaching, engineering, writing, or caring for a child—expresses my relationship with creation and with my neighbor. Work becomes holy not when it isolates me but when it joins my labor to the labor of others for the common good.
Perhaps that is why Jesus offers rest to those who labor.
The burden is not the work itself.
The burden is believing I must do everything myself.
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
You worked with the hands of a carpenter and welcomed the weary to find rest in You. Free me from the burdens I create for myself and teach me to receive both the fruits of my labor and the gifts of others with gratitude.
Through the intercession of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, help me to labor with humility, generosity, and trust, always seeking Your Kingdom rather than my own accomplishments.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio
Magnifica Humanitas reminds me that no sin, failure, humiliation, or exclusion can diminish the profound value of a human life that God has willed and called into being.
My failed omelet becomes a small parable.
Its value was never found in its perfection. Neither is mine.
Modern life tempts me to believe that my worth depends upon what I can produce, how self-sufficient I can become, or how impressive my accomplishments appear. Yet Jesus never says, “Come to me, all you who have succeeded.” He says, “Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened.”
That invitation changes everything.
My labor is not what gives me dignity. My labor is one way I respond to the dignity God has already given me.
The labor of farming teaches me that no harvest comes from one pair of hands alone. The rain, the soil, the bees, the microbes beneath the earth, my neighbors, and ultimately God Himself all participate in every meal I eat. Likewise, my journey toward holiness is never a solitary achievement. It is always sustained by grace and enriched by the labor of the Church.
When I finally lay down the burdens of proving myself, my labor becomes what God intended from the beginning—not a quest for self-sufficiency or recognition, but a joyful participation in His ongoing work of creation and redemption.
Memorial of Saint Bonaventure, Bishop and Doctor of the Church
Lectio Divina
Memorial of Saint Bonaventure, Bishop and Doctor of the Church
Theme: “Hidden”
1. Lectio
Gospel: Matthew 11:25
“I give praise to you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, for although you have hidden these things from the wise and the learned you have revealed them to the childlike.”
Saint Bonaventure was one of the greatest minds in the Church’s history. His writings shaped theology for centuries, yet he insisted that the deepest knowledge of God belongs not to the most learned, but to those who approach God with the humility of a child. The intellect can illuminate the path, but only love walks it.
What knowledge of God is being hidden from me because I choose to be wise and learned instead of childlike?
Perhaps the Kingdom is hidden not because God conceals it, but because I search for Him in complicated ways while He quietly waits in the simple ones.
2. Meditatio
One hidden character of The Glenn is Eleanor the cat.
Whenever someone asks about the animals on the farm, I immediately mention the sheep, the livestock guardian dogs, and—usually with a little hesitation—the pigs. Eleanor almost never enters the conversation. In fact, I usually forget she is here at all.
Yet rarely does a day pass that I don’t look up from whatever project occupies me and discover Eleanor quietly sitting nearby, observing everything in her catlike way.
The more I think about it, the more remarkable she becomes.
She may be the only creature with unrestricted access to the entire Glenn. She patrols every pasture, every barn, every fence line. She quietly keeps mice out of the feed, discourages rats from settling into the grain, and even keeps the bird population in balance. She serves the farm faithfully without ever asking to be noticed.
I have never bought her a food bowl.
I rarely feed her.
She finds water where she can.
She hunts what she needs.
During the winter she often curls up among the pigs in the warmth of the barn.
She simply receives the gifts creation provides.
Her hidden life reminds me that, from the beginning of the world—and especially through the Incarnation—the mystery of Christ has been quietly at work throughout creation without destroying its own integrity. Creation is not merely a collection of useful things; it is a quiet witness to its Creator.
Perhaps Eleanor has been teaching me something all along.
I spend much of my time noticing what is large, impressive, or demanding. Yet Christ often works through what is unnoticed, ordinary, and faithful. The hidden life is not an empty life; it is often the place where grace does its deepest work.
Saint Bonaventure saw all creation as a pathway to God. Every creature, however small, bears some trace of its Creator. The problem is not that God hides Himself. The problem is that I become too occupied with my own projects to notice the signs He has quietly placed before me.
If I become childlike enough to stop, look, and wonder, perhaps I will discover that Christ has been walking beside me all along—in the silence of the pasture, in the sheep, in the zinnias, and even in an overlooked barn cat named Eleanor.
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
Give me the humility to seek You with the heart of a child. Through the prayers of Saint Bonaventure, help me to love You more than I love appearing wise. Open my eyes to Your hidden presence in Scripture, in creation, and in every person I meet.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio
Magnifica Humanitas warns against the subtle ideology that measures people by efficiency, achievement, or usefulness, as though each person must earn the right to possess dignity.
The Gospel reveals the opposite.
The Father delights in revealing His Kingdom to the childlike because they receive life as gift rather than as accomplishment. Eleanor contributes quietly to The Glenn without ever proving her worth. She is valuable not because she demands attention, but because she faithfully lives according to the nature God has given her.
How often do I measure myself by what I produce? How often do I assume my value depends upon how much I accomplish or how many people notice?
Saint Bonaventure reminds me that wisdom begins with humility, not achievement. My dignity, like every person’s, was given before I accomplished anything at all. I do not have to earn God’s love; I am called simply to receive it and then quietly reflect it.
Perhaps the most hidden truth of all is that the people—and even the creatures—least noticed by the world often reveal the heart of God most clearly. The childlike are able to see this because they have not yet learned to confuse greatness with visibility.
Memorial of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, Virgin
Lectio Divina for the Memorial of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, Virgin
Theme: “Tolerable” (Written in the first person)
1. Lectio
Gospel – Matthew 11:20–24
“But I tell you, it will be more tolerable for…”
Jesus speaks unsettling words today.
He compares cities that witnessed His miracles with cities that never had the privilege. The greater the gift received, the greater the responsibility.
His words pierce me:
How tolerable will the Lord be with me at the final judgment if, after all the miracles He has worked in my life, I only strive for a tolerable life and justify that tolerable life by comparing it to the lives of those I find less tolerable than me?
The Gospel is not a call merely to avoid evil.
It is a call to become holy.
2. Meditatio
While flitting around The Glenn looking for something tolerable to do, I noticed a single scout bee moving from zinnia to zinnia.
It was not wandering aimlessly.
Neither was it satisfied with the first flower it encountered.
It was searching.
Scout bees are among the oldest workers in the hive. They are entrusted with discovering the richest patches of nectar and pollen or even an entirely new home for the colony. They represent only a small percentage of the hive, yet their work determines the future of every bee that follows.
I found myself wondering whether old age is supposed to make me comfortable—or make me a scout.
As one of the older members of society, I should not be content living a merely tolerable Christian life. Rather, I should spend these years seeking dense patches of grace through daily Mass, prayer, Lectio Divina, Eucharistic adoration, frequent confession, and works of mercy so that those who follow me may discover where Christ is already flowering.
Saint Kateri Tekakwitha understood this long before she grew old.
She was born into privilege. As the daughter of a Mohawk chief, she could have accepted a respected place in her village and enjoyed what most would have called a tolerable life. Instead, she chose Christ. She embraced virginity, endured ridicule, rejection, and exile rather than settle for a life that was merely acceptable by worldly standards.
Her life asks uncomfortable questions of mine.
Where have I become satisfied with “good enough”?
Where have I tolerated comforts that quietly weaken my zeal?
Laudato si’ reminds me that one of the great scandals of our age is not merely poverty itself but my growing tolerance for it. I become accustomed to enormous inequalities. Some possess more than they know what to do with, while others struggle simply to survive. I grow used to waste while others lack necessities. I tolerate structures that quietly suggest some people matter more than others.
The same temptation exists within my own heart.
I compare myself with those who seem less faithful and congratulate myself for being “better.”
Christ never compares me with another sinner.
He compares me with the grace He has already given me.
The scout bee does not search for flowers worse than yesterday’s.
It searches for the richest blossoms it can find.
Perhaps holiness is simply refusing to settle for a tolerable amount of grace.
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
You have given me more blessings than I can count.
You have fed me with Your Body and Blood, forgiven my sins, taught me through Your Church, surrounded me with the beauty of creation, and patiently led me through every season of my life.
Forgive me for the times I have settled for a merely tolerable discipleship.
Teach me to hunger for holiness as eagerly as the scout bee searches for nectar.
Through the intercession of Saint Kateri Tekakwitha, Lily of the Mohawks, obtain for me the courage to seek You above comfort, popularity, security, or worldly success.
Help me never to measure my life against those who have received less, but always against the abundance of grace You continually pour into my soul.
Lead me into ever richer fields of Your mercy until every part of my life gives glory to You.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
Chesterton once delighted in observing that the saints are the only people who are never ordinary because they refuse to be satisfied with ordinary love.
The modern world often mistakes tolerance for charity. It imagines that if we simply lower expectations enough, everyone can comfortably coexist. Christ proposes something altogether different. He does not lower the mountain; He lifts humanity toward its summit.
Pope Leo XIV reminds me that every human person bears the image and likeness of the Triune God. Human dignity does not depend upon achievement, wealth, usefulness, or even moral success. It is God’s gift before it is my accomplishment. That truth changes everything. If every person bears God’s image, then I cannot tolerate systems that diminish human dignity, nor can I tolerate diminishing the image of God within myself through spiritual complacency.
Saint Kateri’s witness is luminous precisely because she understood that communion with God was worth every earthly sacrifice. She did not despise the good things she could have possessed; she simply loved Christ more.
Perhaps that is the difference between a tolerable Christian and a saint.
The tolerable Christian asks, “How little can I give and still remain faithful?”
The saint asks, “How much more of Christ can I receive?”
Like the scout bee crossing the meadow, the Holy Spirit is always leading me toward richer blossoms of grace. The only real danger is not that I fail to find them.
It is that I decide the flowers already beneath my feet are good enough.
Monday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Lectio Divina for Monday of the Fifteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Theme: “Think” (Written in the first person)
1. Lectio
Gospel – Matthew 10:34
“Do not think that I have come to bring peace upon the earth.”
Jesus is not inviting me to become contentious. Rather, He is warning me that truth has consequences. The peace He offers is not the false peace that comes from avoiding difficult questions, but the peace that comes from fidelity to the Father, even when fidelity exposes wounds that others would rather leave covered.
So today’s question unsettles me:
Do I think I’m no longer banned from being a catechist simply because the bishop who removed me is no longer bishop?
Perhaps I am asking the wrong question.
The better question is: What does Christ desire of me today?
2. Meditatio
I think yesterday was quite an unexpected day at The Glenn.
I had just settled into my customary Sunday afternoon nap when a clap of thunder startled me awake. Soon rain poured from the sky, blessing us with more than two inches of desperately needed moisture. The fields drank deeply while I simply listened to the storm.
Yet even that surprise was overshadowed by what happened earlier that morning at St. Mary’s Cathedral.
The greatest miracle had already occurred—as it always does. Bread and wine became the Body and Blood of Christ. That miracle is infinitely astonishing, and yet, because it is expected, I can too easily take it for granted.
Then came the unexpected.
After Communion, our Deacon, who now serves as Director of Religious Education, announced that St. Mary’s was restoring the traditional CCD program. The parish would need catechists.
As Kim and I were leaving, he motioned me over.
“Didn’t you used to be a catechist here?”
“I was,” I replied, “until I was removed from that position by the bishop.”
He answered almost casually,
“I don’t think that would be the case now.”
That single sentence has echoed in my mind ever since.
Why wouldn’t it be the case now?
The circumstances that led to my removal have not changed. Seven years ago I publicly questioned the dedication of a religious education building to Bishop Matthiesen after learning that the monument had been erected in gratitude by a priest who had already abused children, been given a second chance by Bishop Matthiesen, and later abused minors again before finally being convicted and laicized.
The bishop who removed me acknowledged that granting that second chance had been, in his own words, a “serious mistake.” Yet the dedication remains.
Recently I asked Cardinal DiNardo whether it should be removed. His answer was thoughtful but painful: he believed removing it would cause too much division.
So I ask myself today: Has anything truly changed?
If I returned as a catechist simply because hierarchy changed, while the underlying issue remained untouched, would I merely be accepting a superficial peace?
Jesus tells me today, “Do not think that I have come to bring peace.”
Perhaps He is warning me not to confuse institutional quiet with Gospel peace.
Yet there is another temptation.
I can become so attached to yesterday’s wound that I refuse tomorrow’s invitation.
Christ never tells me to abandon truth. But neither does He ask me to define myself forever by the conflict that surrounded it.
Pope Leo XIV reminds me in Magnifica Humanitas that Christ entered history not simply to correct errors but to renew humanity itself. The Incarnate Word reveals what it means to become fully human through self-giving love. The Kingdom grows not merely by exposing what is wrong but by building what is right.
Perhaps the real question is not, “Do I have the right to return?”
Perhaps the question is,
“Can I teach Christ without allowing my unresolved hurt to become the center of my teaching?”
Like the soaked fields at The Glenn, perhaps my heart first needs to receive the rain before it can bear fruit again.
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
You know every thought before I think it.
You know my desire to defend the truth, and You also know how easily that desire can become tangled with my own wounded pride.
Grant me the wisdom to distinguish between the division caused by fidelity to the Gospel and the division caused by my own need to be vindicated.
If You are calling me again to teach Your faith, let it be because I love Your people more than I love winning an argument.
If You are calling me elsewhere, let me go there without resentment.
Through the intercession of Saint Henry, ruler who exercised authority with humility and sought first the Kingdom of God, obtain for me the grace to seek not honor, position, or recognition, but only faithful service.
May every decision I make begin not with what I think, but with what You desire.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
Chesterton delighted in pointing out that the greatest obstacle to truth is often not ignorance but the curious certainty that we have already finished thinking.
The modern man imagines himself broad-minded because he refuses to reach conclusions. The Pharisee imagines himself righteous because he reached his conclusions years ago and refuses to revisit them. Both are imprisoned by their own thoughts.
Christ liberates both.
The Incarnation, as Pope Leo reminds us, reveals the perfect image of humanity because Jesus is utterly free—free enough to forgive, free enough to challenge, free enough to give Himself away entirely. His life demonstrates that truth and charity are never rivals. Truth without love hardens into ideology; love without truth dissolves into sentimentality. Only in Christ do they become one.
Perhaps I have spent seven years asking whether the Diocese should change before I could return.
Today Christ quietly asks whether I have changed.
That question does not diminish the seriousness of past failures or erase the need for justice. It asks something even more demanding: whether the Passion, Death, and Resurrection have renewed not only my opinions but my heart.
The Kingdom of God is built by men and women who have learned to think with the mind of Christ rather than merely defending the conclusions of their own minds.
Perhaps the greatest miracle is not that I finally find the right answer.
Perhaps it is that, through grace, I become the kind of person who can receive whatever answer Christ gives.
Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Lectio Divina
Fifteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Theme: “Hear”
1. Lectio (Reading)
“Hear then the parable of the sower.”
(Matthew 13:18)
The parable does not begin with sowing. It begins with hearing.
The seed is the same for everyone. The difference lies not in the Sower but in the soil that receives what it hears.
What happens to the Word that I hear?
Does it remain a pleasant sound that quickly fades, or does it sink deeply enough to bear fruit?
2. Meditatio (Meditation)
Yesterday morning, while working in the garden, I began to hear something. It was faint enough that I continued pulling weeds without giving it much thought. A few moments later, I heard it again, but I remained intent on finishing my project. Finally, it dawned on me what I was hearing.
A rooster was crowing.
For over a year that sound had been absent from The Glenn. Our Dorking rooster, Cogburn, had disappeared during those chaotic months when I was raising six adolescent livestock guardian dogs all at once. Before then, his crow announced every dawn. Without realizing it, I had grown accustomed to his silence.
Now, because I had brought home several young replacement roosters, one had finally reached maturity and was proclaiming the morning.
The sound had always been there. The question was whether I was paying enough attention to hear it.
I wonder if the Gospel is like that.
Christ constantly sows His Word throughout my day. Creation proclaims His glory. The sheep, the soil, the crowing rooster, the heat of a Texas morning, the quiet before sunrise—all become voices announcing His Kingdom. Yet I become so absorbed in my own projects that I fail to hear what has already been spoken.
Pope Francis reminds me in Laudato Si’ that “everything is connected.” When I fail to acknowledge the dignity of a poor person, a human embryo, or a person living with disabilities, I also lose the ability to hear the cry of creation itself. My deafness is never selective. Once I close my ears to one part of God’s creation, the rest gradually grows silent as well.
Perhaps this explains why regenerative agriculture has become such an important teacher for me. Healthy soil is not merely dirt; it listens. It receives rain, roots, microbes, and seeds into a living communion. Likewise, a faithful disciple does not merely hear Christ’s Word as information. He receives it into the soil of his life where it can transform everything around it.
The rooster’s crow reminded Peter of his denial. This rooster reminds me of something different: every morning Christ gives me another opportunity to hear Him before the noise of the day drowns out His voice.
3. Oratio (Prayer)
Lord Jesus,
Open my ears before You ask anything of my hands.
Too often I rush into work before I have listened for Your voice. Too often I hear only the noise of my own ambitions while overlooking the quiet invitations of Your grace.
Let me hear You in Sacred Scripture.
Let me hear You in the cries of the poor.
Let me hear You in the unborn child whose voice cannot yet be heard.
Let me hear You in those living with disabilities, whose dignity reflects Your own image.
Let me hear You in the groaning of creation that longs for healing.
And let me hear You in the ordinary sounds of The Glenn—the sheep grazing, the wind through the grass, and the crowing rooster that announces another day of Your mercy.
May my heart become good soil where every word You sow bears fruit for the life of the world.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
Chesterton delighted in saying that the world is not merely full of wonders; it is full of familiar wonders that we have ceased to notice. The greatest tragedy is not that God has stopped speaking. It is that I have become accustomed to His voice.
The first principle of Catholic Social Doctrine, Pope Leo XIV reminds us in Magnifica Humanitas, is that every human person is created in the image of the Triune God. The Father eternally gives Himself to the Son, the Son receives and returns that gift, and the Holy Spirit is the living communion of that love. I discover my own humanity only by entering into that same rhythm of receiving and giving.
That means hearing is already an act of communion.
When I truly hear another person, I begin to love them.
When I truly hear creation, I begin to care for it.
When I truly hear the Gospel, I begin to resemble Christ.
The rooster does not crow to admire the sound of his own voice. He simply announces that dawn has arrived.
So too the Christian.
The purpose of hearing the Word is not merely to possess it but to proclaim, by the witness of an ordinary life, that the Light has already come into the world.
May I never become so busy tending God’s garden that I fail to hear the Gardener Himself calling my name.
Memorial of Saint Benedict, Abbot
Lectio Divina
Memorial of Saint Benedict, Abbot
Theme: “Deny”
1. Lectio (Reading)
“But whoever denies me before others, I will deny before my heavenly Father.”
(Matthew 10:33)
“[In Matthew] Jesus and the Son of Man are identified, and the acknowledgment or denial will be before his heavenly Father.” (Mt 10:32–33)
Will I deny the Truth and in turn have the Truth deny me?
Jesus’ warning unsettles me because denial is rarely loud. It usually begins with silence, convenience, or delay. I need not publicly renounce Christ to deny Him. I can simply choose comfort over obedience, distraction over mission, or convenience over truth. Every time I know the good I ought to do and quietly refuse it, I begin to deny the One who is Truth itself.
2. Meditatio (Meditation)
In the heat of the afternoon, when the thermometer hovers near one hundred degrees and I am comfortably settled into my recliner, it is remarkably easy to deny the truth that my flock still needs tending. The sheep do not stop needing water because I am tired. The grass does not stop growing because I prefer air conditioning. The work of stewardship waits patiently while comfort whispers persuasive excuses.
In today’s world the word denier has become a label almost worn as a badge of honor.
One can become a climate denier by rejecting the scientific consensus on climate change.
One can become an election denier by refusing certified election results.
One can become a Holocaust denier by rejecting overwhelming historical evidence.
Yet there is another form of denial that seldom makes headlines: denying the truth that my own habits contribute to the wounds of creation while continuing to justify them because they are comfortable.
Pope Francis observed in Laudato Si’ that “whatever is fragile, like the environment, is defenseless before the interests of a deified comfort.” That sentence pierces me more deeply than any political accusation. My greatest temptation is not to deny climate science or economic statistics. My temptation is to deny that Christ is asking me to change.
I can spend hours discussing regenerative agriculture while remaining seated in a comfortable chair. I can admire creation while refusing the sacrifices necessary to care for it. Comfort slowly anesthetizes conscience until I begin believing that thinking about stewardship is the same as practicing it.
Saint Benedict proposes an entirely different rhythm of life.
His Rule divides the day into Prayer, Work, and Sacred Reading.
Prayer reminds me that God is God.
Work reminds me that I am not.
Lectio Divina teaches me how to recognize His voice.
Benedict understood that idleness is not merely the absence of labor; it is the fertile soil where denial quietly grows. When prayer, work, and contemplation remain in harmony, there is little room for self-deception. Every hour becomes an opportunity not merely to profess Christ with my lips but to acknowledge Him with my schedule.
Perhaps that is why I continue writing these Lectio Divinas before dawn rather than preparing them days in advance. Before sunrise I have fewer excuses and fewer distractions. It becomes harder to deny what the Spirit quietly reveals.
3. Oratio (Prayer)
Lord Jesus,
Save me from the subtle ways I deny You.
Keep me from believing that comfort is the highest good, productivity the greatest virtue, or convenience the measure of wisdom.
When I find myself comfortably explaining why something cannot be done, remind me that Your Cross was not comfortable.
Teach me, through the example of Saint Benedict, to sanctify the ordinary rhythm of every day.
May prayer keep my heart fixed upon You.
May work keep my hands faithful.
May Sacred Reading continually renew my mind.
Do not allow me to deny the fragile—whether it is the poor, the unborn, the elderly, the neglected land, or the sheep You have entrusted to my care.
Instead, let my entire life quietly proclaim that You alone are Lord.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
Chesterton would probably laugh at the modern obsession with denial. We imagine denial to be a dramatic courtroom scene where someone defiantly rejects an obvious truth. Yet the devil is far too subtle for such theatrics. He prefers upholstered furniture.
The great danger is not that I shall loudly deny Christ before a hostile crowd. It is that I shall politely postpone Him until tomorrow because the afternoon is hot.
Saint Benedict knew this. He did not establish monasteries because monks possessed extraordinary holiness. He established rhythms because ordinary men possess extraordinary capacities for self-deception. Bells interrupted comfort. Prayer interrupted work. Work interrupted pride. Scripture interrupted illusion.
Pope Leo XIV, in Magnifica Humanitas, reminds me that the Church’s Social Doctrine exists precisely so that these truths become embodied in daily life, family relationships, work, and involvement in society. They are not ideas to admire from a distance but habits to be practiced until they shape the conscience. Even the digital revolution must be judged by whether it enlightens consciences and helps build a society that is more just and fraternal.
The monastery and The Glenn are not as different as they first appear.
Both are schools where truth must become habit.
Both remind me that love is measured not by grand declarations but by faithful repetition.
If I refuse the humble discipline of prayer, work, and contemplation, I shall almost certainly deny Christ—not by argument, but by routine.
But if, hour by hour, I acknowledge Him in the ordinary duties of tending sheep, caring for creation, studying His Word, and loving my neighbor, then perhaps when I finally stand before my heavenly Father, Christ Himself will not deny me.
Instead, He will simply smile and say,
“I know him.”
Friday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Lectio Divina for Friday of the Fourteenth Week in Ordinary Time
Theme: “Speak”
1. Lectio
Gospel: Matthew 10:19–20
“When they hand you over, do not worry about how you are to speak or what you are to say. You will be given at that moment what you are to say. For it will not be you who speak but the Spirit of your Father speaking through you.”
Jesus does not promise me prepared speeches; he promises me a present Spirit. The question is not whether I can speak eloquently, but whether I am willing to become quiet enough for Another to speak through me.
How do I know if what I speak is from me or from the Spirit of my Father?
2. Meditatio
I am often tempted to prepare these Lectio Divinas a day or two in advance. It would give me more time in the cool of the morning to work around The Glenn, leaving the heat of the afternoon for writing. By every measure of efficiency, that seems like the wiser plan. Yet for some reason my conscience refuses to let me do it.
Perhaps today’s Gospel explains why.
Jesus says that I will be given what I am to speak at that moment. If I prepare everything the day before, there is a greater chance that what I write comes from the storehouse of my own thoughts. But in the quiet hours before dawn, when the house is still, the sheep are asleep, and even the birds have not yet begun their songs, I am more inclined to let the Holy Spirit wander where He wills.
Rarely do I know beforehand what these reflections will become. More often than not, the ideas that seem brilliant the night before appear stale by sunrise. Yet when I begin with nothing but today’s Gospel, words arise that surprise me. After posting them, I often feel embarrassed and think, “Why did I write that?” Perhaps that embarrassment is itself a sign. Pride rarely blushes. The Spirit frequently leads me somewhere I would never have chosen on my own.
That realization has begun to shape not only my writing but my farming.
If I approach life at The Glenn merely as a manager seeking efficiency, then I will inevitably speak the language of control, consumption, and immediate results. But if I allow myself to stand in awe before creation, I begin to learn another language—the language of fraternity, gratitude, and beauty. Grass is no longer simply forage. Sheep become more than production units. Soil is no longer dirt but a living communion entrusted to my care.
Pope Leo reminds us in Magnifica Humanitas that the Church’s Social Doctrine is not a museum of old ideas but a living wisdom that speaks to every generation. As artificial intelligence, environmental challenges, and new economic realities reshape the world, he calls me back to enduring principles: the dignity of every human person, the common good, solidarity, subsidiarity, social justice, and the universal destination of goods. None of these principles stands alone. Like the members of a flock, each depends upon the others if the whole is to flourish.
Perhaps that is also how the Holy Spirit speaks. Not by offering isolated inspirations detached from truth, but by weaving together Scripture, creation, the Church’s wisdom, and the ordinary events of a summer morning into a single conversation with Christ.
3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
Teach me first to listen before I try to speak.
Too often I rehearse my own opinions, perfect my own arguments, and admire the sound of my own voice. Yet You promise that Your Father’s Spirit will give me the words I truly need.
Let me not fear silence, for it is often there that Your voice is heard most clearly.
As I continue this seven-year journey toward caring for Your creation, keep me from becoming merely an expert with answers. Make me instead a disciple who listens— to Your Gospel, to the wisdom of Your Church, to the cry of the earth, to the cry of the poor, and even to the quiet testimony of the fields around The Glenn.
May every word I speak, whether to one person or through a YouTube video, cost me my pride and reveal something of Your love.
For if I speak only my own words, they will soon be forgotten. But if Your Spirit speaks through me, even my weakest words may become seeds of Your Kingdom.
Amen.
4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
Chesterton delighted in paradox, and today’s Gospel contains one worthy of him: the man who prepares the least may sometimes be the one who is most prepared.
The world believes eloquence comes from polishing speeches until every sentence shines. Christ seems almost reckless. He tells His disciples to walk into impossible situations carrying little more than trust. The Spirit, He insists, is a far better speechwriter than anxiety.
That does not excuse laziness. The Spirit generally fills minds that have been faithfully furnished—with Scripture, prayer, honest work, and the wisdom of the Church. But there comes a moment when preparation must give way to surrender, just as the farmer eventually stops studying seed catalogs and finally places the seed into the earth.
I think that is why I hesitate to write tomorrow’s reflection today. Every dawn reminds me that grace has not yet happened until it has happened. Yesterday’s inspiration cannot become today’s substitute for dependence upon God.
The Christian life is not learning how to speak brilliantly.
It is learning how to become quiet enough that, every now and then, someone listening hears not me—but the Spirit of the Father speaking through me.