Not a question of if, but where and how

When we think about our Lenten journey, the miracle in today’s Gospel is really interesting. You have this man who has been there for 38 years, and people are being healed all around him, but it doesn’t really look like he’s getting healed. It’s such a striking situation.

And if we apply what we were talking about—what Father was talking about yesterday, and what we were reflecting on—it connects with this idea that, for a long time, the Jewish people had been living with very specific rules. And with those rules, they were getting at least some results, right? It was better than what was happening with everyone else. But it was also like: if you managed to get into the water at the right time, then you might get lucky, and it might happen.

It was a difficult process, and it wasn’t a total guarantee of success.

Then, all of a sudden, with Jesus, it’s completely different. The man doesn’t even have to make an effort. He’s not even trying to get to the water anymore—it’s like he’s given up. Jesus comes to him, and it’s taken care of. It’s a totally different way of confronting the problem.

And then the Jews get kind of mad: “Wait a second. You’re not supposed to do it like that. You’re supposed to make the effort. You’re supposed to try.” They can’t fit this into their mental structures. “What? How does that work? How in the world are you being healed in that way?” (John 5:1–9)

But what if we apply that to our own Lenten observance?

When my effort doesn’t seem to “work”

Honestly, that gives me hope, because I think about all the resolutions I’ve made—and haven’t fulfilled. “I was going to do that. I was going to do that.” Or even the ones I’ve done, but they don’t seem to be making the difference I expected.

I was really hoping this would be the Lent: “I’m going to have this great relationship with the Lord. Things are going to change.” And then I find myself constantly trying, like I’m getting halfway down to the water, but it never moves. Someone else is always there ahead of me. Or I never make it to adoration. Whatever it is.

And it raises a question for me: how many times am I still going at things in the same way?

Not that resolutions aren’t important—they are. But instead of staying stuck in my ideas of what I’m supposed to do, there’s a deeper question: Lord, what are you doing? Where are you? How are you encountering me?

Because maybe I do have to be “sitting at the pool” for him to meet me there. But the most important thing is not just what I’m doing—it’s where he is and what he is doing.

When God shows up “the wrong way”

And sometimes I notice something else: Jesus actually does something, and I react like, “Wait—you weren’t supposed to do that. I was supposed to be doing sacrifices, and you weren’t supposed to show up in this other way.”

It’s almost like the Pharisees. It doesn’t fit into my structures. But that’s exactly the challenge: it confronts the way we think God wants to heal us, redeem us, transform us in these days of Lent.

Maybe the Lord is encountering us in the talks we’re hearing that we didn’t expect. Maybe he’s encountering us in spontaneous moments of prayer. Maybe he’s encountering us in a difficult situation we’re facing—and suddenly I realize, “Oh Lord, you’re right there. What are you doing?”

And I don’t want to explain it away just because it doesn’t fit how I thought it would work.

The grace of noticing him in the ordinary

At least for me, I’m noticing a lot that even things that seem “the same” are becoming places of grace. Even community life—on the surface it’s the same, but all of a sudden I’m realizing the Lord is really there. There’s a deep grace in simply experiencing what we’re already doing.

Or in daily life: resting, getting into a healthy rhythm, paying attention throughout the day, finding him in the middle of things. We’re not in the middle of nowhere—most of this is kind of big—but with the people we are with, the Lord is encountering us on a regular basis.

I’ve even really enjoyed being able to dig deeper into Scripture, and I wasn’t necessarily expecting that. But these are specific ways the Lord is encountering us, whether we did or didn’t expect them.

So rather than explaining them away or just going back to what I had planned (which isn’t necessarily bad), I want to ask: Lord, how are you encountering me? How are you changing me, redeeming me, bringing me closer?

A prayer for these last weeks of Lent

That’s the grace I’m asking for, especially in these last couple weeks of Lent.

Because he does come to redeem us. He comes to redeem us.

And even if, for none of you, it hasn’t been 38 years—Father and I, it’s been a little longer—you can name the number of years you’ve been waiting on the redemption of the Lord.

Know that he’s there. And he does encounter us every Lent. And that’s the beautiful part.

Notice: it’s not a question of if. It’s a question of where and how.

I was continuing to look in the Gospels—like we talked about yesterday in the afternoon huddle—at that time between Jesus’ resurrection and when he ascends to heaven, and then Pentecost. Those 50 days are fascinating to me.

Yesterday we were talking, in a sense, about the reactions of the people. And I was thinking: why is that important for us? Because now we’re in Lent, so we probably “shouldn’t” be talking about the resurrection yet. But the whole point is this: if we lived the resurrection perfectly, we wouldn’t even have to live Lent. Since we can’t live the resurrection—or we don’t understand what Jesus has done for us, or we can’t fully live into it—we have to repeat it over and over. It’s like pressing play again: “Okay… do we get it now?” No. So what actually happens in those days after the resurrection?

When you look at the whole series of events—who Jesus appears to, the people who try to leave and it doesn’t work, all the different things going on—it’s striking. Obviously, there are common reactions: confusion, doubt, fear—so many negative sentiments.

And then it’s interesting what Jesus does. He asks questions. He reveals. He encourages. He even gives them food to eat. He does very human things.

Why Are They Afraid When Jesus Shows Up?

But the funny thing—and I don’t mean this in a bad way—is that sometimes you’d think they get really scared because the authorities are about to kill them all, or because they don’t know what to do. But that’s actually not the case. Normally they get scared when Jesus shows up.

It’s like they’re doing okay: “We’ll go back fishing,” and kind of forget about things. Or, “We’ll just hang out and do our everyday life.” As long as things are calm, they’re fine. And then Jesus shows up again, and they’re like: “Ah! What’s going on? I don’t understand.”

That’s kind of weird, because isn’t Jesus supposed to be the one comforting us? For us it should be: “Wonderful—he’s back. We’re happy.”

But if we look at the Gospel today, the people can’t put Jesus in their box, and they get really worried. He’s showing up—wait a second—he’s going to the feast, he’s not going to the feast. They don’t understand what he’s trying to do. Are they going to kill him? Are they not going to kill him? They get confused. Jesus just doesn’t fit in their boxes (John 7:1–14).

And if we look at the first reading, it’s kind of the same. You have this idea of the just man—wisdom, whatever it is—coming, and people get very annoyed (Wisdom 2:1, 12–22).

Lent: Not Just What We Decide to Do

So if we’re in Lent, it’s because we’ve encountered God—otherwise we wouldn’t be here. But the God we’ve encountered, we don’t totally recognize yet. We’re not totally comfortable with him as he is. That’s kind of the point.

A lot of times in Lent—and don’t get me wrong—we think the hard part is going to be: “I decided I’m going to get up half an hour early every day,” and that’s going to be really hard. And maybe it is hard. I’m not denying that.

But I think, in reality, what normally happens is: we come up with the things we’re going to do, and what actually ends up being hard is when Jesus encounters us in specific circumstances.

So yes: “I’m going to do this, I’m going to do that.” Great. That’s not bad. But the hard things are what Jesus brings into it—what doesn’t match the image we created for him.

So as we continue our Mass, as we continue our weekend, or next week as we move into Holy Week, it’s worth paying attention to where Jesus is showing up and I’m getting uncomfortable—rather than only focusing on the “wonderful things” like, “we want to pray more,” or “we want to do this or that.” Great—100%—nothing wrong with that.

But where is Jesus showing up? Because often it goes beyond what we planned.

After all, these people had really good intentions too. They had 613 rules they were all following. And they weren’t bad rules—but obviously the rules weren’t working. Jesus shows up and breaks their boxes.

So we’re asking for the grace to see what he’s doing with us: how he’s working with us, what he wants for us—how he’s encountering us in this Lenten season, in this Mass.

The Cross Is Not the End

And we do that knowing the resurrection is coming. That’s the whole point. It’s not just about, “I don’t know… sometimes I think what we get is: it’s going to be 40 years of cross.” Well, no.

The cross is definitely the present—thanks be to God. Thirty-three years, whatever it was; three days—no, I mean: it was intense, it was difficult. But it’s not never-ending.

Heaven is, thanks be to God. And the resurrection comes after the cross.

So we’re asking God for the grace to encounter him in our lives, to let him purify us—so that what we’re aiming at, what we’re hoping to experience, is him: his resurrection, and his Holy Spirit.

I think this is an interesting Gospel, and it’s also an opportunity to reflect on what Joseph has to teach us—both as a Church and individually.

Recently I’ve had a couple of conversations with people I really respect, and they definitely have a point. But I also find it interesting how quickly we shift into talking about vocation, because obviously God has a plan for our lives. And that plan includes different dimensions: we can talk about professional vocation—what am I going to do? We can talk about mission vocation—who am I called to serve? We can talk about state-of-life vocation—am I called to celibacy, to marriage, to something else? There are a lot of ways of looking at this.

But sometimes, in the way we talk about vocation in the Church, we act like we have to “piece everything together.” It’s like: you have to balance it out. You don’t want to make your profession too important so you can’t take care of your family, and you don’t want to make your family too important either. And yes—there’s truth in that. But if we start from the point of “I have to figure it out,” then we’re starting wrong.

Because if Joseph had approached it like that—“Okay, how is this going to work?”—it would have gone badly right away. A lot of times we assume Mary was already planning on living in virginity, and then it’s like: why in the world was he getting married then anyway? But just look at the situation Joseph is in. He’s marrying Mary, and all of a sudden she’s pregnant. He has this really wacky dream (Matthew 1:20–21). They don’t even know where they’re going to take care of the baby. There’s no way he could have pieced the whole thing together, because there’s no way you can “humanly balance” that.

It’s not like he could say, “Well, I think it’s okay—she’s having this miraculous child, we’ll probably work it out with the neighbors, and I’ll make a little extra money.” No. If he was talking to anybody, they’d say, “You should not do this.” And I’m not saying everything has to look imprudent—but I am saying that the way Joseph solves it is the way all of us have to solve it.

“Lord, what are you doing here?”

So I think it’s important to notice the difference between asking, “How do I fit this together?” and asking, “Lord, what are you doing?”

Because we can get into this mindset where we treat vocation like a math equation: “I’ll give 20% to mission, 30% to my job, 50% to my wife or husband.” People—it’s not going to work.

The real question is: Lord, what are you doing here? Where are you calling me in my state of life? What is the specific mission you’re giving me? And then actually believing that he’s got it figured out, instead of me trying to force everything into a human plan.

The spiritual reality is more important than the human

This Gospel also shows us something deeper: the spiritual reality is more important than the human one.

We talk about the ancestry of Jesus, and in one sense it would make more sense to trace his lineage through Mary—because Jesus took his entire human nature from Mary. Joseph wasn’t involved biologically. You could trace the lineage through Mary (and I could get into that debate), but in this Gospel it doesn’t happen. It goes through Joseph (Matthew 1:1–16).

So all of a sudden you’re like: wait a second—biologically, is Joseph even related to Jesus?

And the point is: that’s not the most important part. The most important part is the God-given mission. I’m not saying biology isn’t important. I’m saying Joseph didn’t need biology to be the father of Jesus. God’s plan was bigger than what human categories could neatly explain.

And I think we can do this too—even as Christians. We look at our human reality and assume that God’s promises have to look a certain way. But they don’t have to “look like anything,” as long as it’s not immoral. God can do what he wants.

When good plans become idols

So yes: we stand before the Lord not making things up, not going outside of his tradition, not going outside of reason. But the way he fulfills a promise, the way he provides what we need, is not necessarily going to be “the human way.”

It’s not always going to make sense like: “I’ll get my nice stable job, I’ll make 30k or 40k a year, I’ll have my little house, I’ll have a nice car.” And again, not that those things are bad. But Jesus is showing us something in Joseph: the promise was fulfilled. You go all the way back to Abraham and the rest—100%. But it wasn’t because they were planning it. Joseph wasn’t planning it. God had a plan; no one else did.

And that matters, because when we’re talking about the Church, that’s the point: the Church is not about human plans.

Sometimes that’s what idols are. We put our human plans—even good ones—in the place of God.

So it’s worth asking: where might there be idols I’m putting in front of God? Not because I have a bad intention, but because I want to balance it humanly.

Maybe it’s the idol of having my finances under control. Maybe it’s the idol of my human vocation—marriage, or “I have to figure out what God wants for me.” These are important things, but they can become idols. Maybe it’s my human reason: “I need to understand everything.” Maybe it’s another person and what they think.

Those things can all become idols.

God has a plan. And obviously he’s not going to go outside of his tradition or outside of reason—but it’s definitely going to stretch it. He’s not going to go outside. He’s going to go beyond.

Asking Joseph for grace

That kind of discernment is really important. So let’s ask for that grace from Joseph as we move forward. Joseph was “healthfully crazy,” but also very faithful. He wasn’t doing anything God wasn’t asking. And he wasn’t coming up with his own plans either. It was simply: “God, what do you want me to do here?” And he waited on the word, and he did it.

And especially today—in our specific circumstances, humanly, but also as a community—as we pray for Call to Mission, as we talk about MPD, as we continue to pray, Joseph is a great example.

He’s a great example of full-time mission. Maybe he had to get up, go back to the carpentry, start asking friends for help. But in a real sense, he’s a great example for all of us: God provides.

God brings things together in ways we don’t expect, but he already has a plan. And the most important thing is that spiritual reality—that plan God has—that he is our Father, that he provides, and that he has a good plan for us, his children.

If we say yes, and if we wait on his word.

This is at least the third time I’ve heard a homily on this Gospel, but it’s an interesting passage. It’s long, and it gives us a lot to look at: the man born blind, the Pharisees, the man’s parents, and Jesus Himself. And underneath it all is a simple question: are they able to see?

Because it connects back to the other readings too—what does it even mean to see? There’s physical sight, and there’s spiritual sight. We’ve got this guy who’s blind. We have the Pharisees. We have his parents. We have Jesus. So who’s actually seeing? What does it mean?

At first it seems obvious. The blind guy is the one who ends up seeing, and everyone else is the one who doesn’t. But in reality, the passage shows a whole range of blindness—what it looks like, how it hides, and how it can even grow in people who think they see just fine.

“Those Without Sight May See”

The last part is especially striking. Jesus says: “I have come into this world so that those who do not see might see, and those who do see might become blind” (John 9:39). And it’s like, whoa—Jesus is turning people blind? I thought it was supposed to be the other way around.

But Jesus says it, so He’s revealing something. And the problem is: there are people who aren’t seeing what He’s revealing, or who aren’t able to see it.

Even with the parables, Jesus reveals things to those around Him, and for others it remains a mystery—they never understand. That’s interesting. There are things that, if we’re able to see, we will see. And there are other things that, if we think we’re seeing, maybe we’re not.

So we go back to the man born blind. He ends up seeing—but what does it really mean to see?

Jesus puts mud on his face. He washes it off. He can see. But then all of a sudden, he still doesn’t recognize that Christ is the Messiah. Jesus asks him a question, and it’s almost like: now you see, but you don’t really see.

And then Jesus opens his spiritual eyes.

At the same time, Jesus makes something very clear: there are others who are blind. That’s critical. But then the question becomes: what does that mean for me? Where is my blindness? Where do I think I see? What am I even asking the Lord for?

I think that’s an important exercise for all of us.

The Blindness We Don’t Notice

I don’t know about you, but there are a lot of times in the spiritual life when we get to a certain point—whatever, we’re praying, we’re going to church—and then all of a sudden we realize something we didn’t notice before. And it makes a big difference. It’s like my eyes open.

Maybe I notice I’m treating someone in a specific way. Or I realize I’ve been thinking in a very human way about everything: my biggest concern is what we’re going to eat, or do I have enough money, or whatever. And then all of a sudden my mind changes. The way I think changes—and then everything changes.

Or there are times when I think I’ve got everything under control, and then someone says something and it completely changes the way I see what’s going on.

Even something simple: you’re going on vacation, and your flight gets canceled. Nothing really changed, but reality changes. And then the way you look at everything changes.

Or you wake up and you didn’t sleep well. The day before you were thinking, “This is going to be a great day.” Then you sleep badly and wake up and it’s like, “Why do I even exist?” I don’t know—that happens to me, at least.

But the point is: we should be asking the Lord what we really want.

Because one thing is what happens. Another thing is what this man is asking for.

What Are You Actually Asking the Lord For?

For me, the interesting question is: what are you actually asking the Lord?

There’s a part in this Gospel where it seems like a lot of people are asking questions, but not necessarily because they want to see. They just don’t want to be considered blind. And I think there’s a difference.

It’s like: I don’t want to suffer. I don’t want to have a sickness. But I’m not really interested in health.

Or: I don’t want to sin. I don’t want to have problems. But I’m not really interested in eternal life, or happiness. It’s just: “I don’t want to have problems.”

And that’s an interesting way of going about it.

Is my life about uprooting problems—fixing, taking care of everything—or is it, “Lord, what are you doing?” There’s a difference.

And it doesn’t seem like there are a lot of people in the Gospel actually looking for true sight. But true sight is exactly what Jesus is granting.

So let’s ask honestly: what am I looking for in this Lenten season?

This morning, Father Stefan was saying that the whole point of Lent is to deepen our vision of what Christ is doing and what He wants to do. So we can ask:

“Lord, I want to see what You’re doing in my life.”

“Lord, I want to see what You’ve done in my life.”

“Lord, I want to see what You have for me.”

Or we can ask: “I just don’t want to have problems this time.”

I’m not saying that’s a bad desire. But what am I really asking for this Lent?

Because if you ask, “Lord, what are You really doing?” you’ll probably have problems—meaning, you’ll probably be led into things that stretch you: “Where do You want me to go?” “How are You loving me?” There will be moments where you’re walking the way of the cross, where you don’t understand, where you suffer.

But that doesn’t mean your eyes aren’t being opened.

The Mud, the Resistance, and the Cost of Healing

Even in a very practical way, this guy suffers to get his sight back—physically and spiritually.

Mud on your eyes? I don’t know about you, but that’s kind of disgusting. We have this “nice” Jesus who heals people, and here He is rubbing this nasty stuff on the guy’s face. I mean, Jesus, You can find a better way.

And then everyone gets upset with him. He’s just like, “What is up with this? I can see. Can you relax? I’m happy. Can you be happy with me?” He gets a really hard time for the good thing that’s happening.

So again: if we live Lent correctly, or if we live the Christian life in a broader sense, yeah—people probably won’t be happy. It will probably be difficult.

I live in a country where there’s about 50% of the sunlight that I’m used to. I live in a country where they don’t speak my language. I have less money and fewer resources. That’s a fact. We’re not changing it.

But that doesn’t mean the Lord isn’t opening something new.

It doesn’t make the hard parts good or comfortable. It just means the Lord is asking us to go somewhere—and along the way there are steps: people understand what I’m doing, they don’t understand what I’m doing. They like it, they don’t like it.

A lot of people might ask, “Why are you in Vienna? What are you doing there? You’re a missionary—what does that even mean?” But when the Lord is opening our eyes, that kind of reaction is normal.

A Prayer for This Lent

So as we move forward in Lent, let’s ask ourselves the question—concretely: what am I asking the Lord?

And hopefully we can get to the point where we can say:

“Lord, I would like to see as You see.”

“I would like to know where You are.”

“I would like to live as You live.”

That’s answerable. If we want Him to love us, that’s doable.

What I’m trying to say is: if we ask Him to take away all our problems, He might—but He might not. It’s like going into prayer and saying, “Lord, I want an answer to this question.” You might get an answer, and you can definitely encounter Him in prayer no matter what. But whether you get a specific answer is up to Him.

But if our question is, “Lord, I want to encounter You—and I hope You give me the answer,” then encountering Him is a guarantee.

So let’s try to shift: “Lord, what are You doing?” If we ask Him that, He will answer. “Where are You?” And maybe He’s in silence. Maybe He’s in simplicity.

And by identifying where He is, we begin to see better.

Because the point isn’t that you saw Him once and never see Him again. The point is that you learn to see, and you keep learning to see. The man begins to see, and he learns to identify where Christ is.

And Christ isn’t only in the chapel. He isn’t only at a conference. He isn’t only when I’m fully funded. He isn’t only when my parents totally understand this wacky thing I’m doing on the other side of the world.

He’s present in the specifics of our lives.

So, Lord, we ask You in this Mass, in this Lenten season, and in our lives: open our eyes to what You’re doing. You are active right now. We don’t have to wait for tomorrow. Even in a simple way, even in something we weren’t expecting, even in something we can’t quite see—we thank You for that.

And Lord, help us to see more. Help us to focus above all on You—not even necessarily what You’re doing, but the fact that You are present, and that You are here.

In the Gospel, Jesus tells the parable of the two debtors: a servant who owes an enormous debt is forgiven everything by his master, but then that same servant goes out and refuses to forgive a fellow servant who owes him a much smaller amount (Matthew 18:23–35). The point is striking: someone who has received mercy refuses to pass mercy on.

It’s interesting to think about these two people and how they were forgiven. Why didn’t the guy—who had just been forgiven so much—naturally want to forgive another person?

In theory, it seems like it would be obvious: if you’ve been forgiven, you forgive. And yet I don’t know about you, but at least for me, it often doesn’t work that way. Something happens, and theoretically we think, “Of course I can forgive.” But inside it’s more like: “How is that person like that?” Or, “They did it again.” Or, “They’re not paying attention.” Or, “They don’t care.”

Our natural tendency can be to judge, or to demand justice from the other person. And justice isn’t a bad thing. What I’m trying to say is: this person isn’t necessarily being evil. He’s definitely not being merciful, but he’s not evil. He’s demanding justice.

So what changes when we go beyond justice and ask for mercy? Why was this guy not able to do that?

There could be a lot of reasons. But at least in my life, I’ve noticed that when we’re truly thankful—when we have a concrete experience present in us—then it becomes easy to transmit it, to give it, to share it. And when we don’t, it becomes harder.

Why Is It Hard to Live What We Believe?

This is obvious on one level: yes, we need to be merciful. Of course. But then the real question is: why is it hard for me to be merciful? We need to be patient—why is it hard for me to be patient? We need to be… you name it. And probably because our experience of that grace isn’t always as present or as strong as we think.

So especially in the Lenten season, yes—we need to repent. We need to convert. We need to be merciful. But what is our own experience of God’s mercy, God’s love, and all these different things that we’re being called to share?

Maybe in Lent it’s worth asking the Lord: how have you already forgiven me, and what does that feel like?

How Do I Imagine God Treating Me?

It’s a little like what Father Klaus talked about—the different ways we relate to God. Sometimes we picture God as the one “up there” going, “I can’t believe you did that… but just this time,” or, “You need to do better next time.” We carry all these assumptions about what mercy actually looks like.

And I think sometimes we imagine God as the one who says: “As soon as you pay your debt, then you’re fine.” So we end up seeing God’s mercy as something more like this guy who sends you to jail.

It’s like: “Well, you can go to confession when you finally have all your stuff in order.” Or: “You can feel good about yourself and your situation when you finally stop sinning.”

But in reality it’s more like: wait a second—where is God in the middle of our sin? Where is God in the middle of our mess? Because the truth is, there’s no way we can get into heaven on our own anyway. So the question becomes: where is God in all of this, and how is he loving us?

And if he does love us—and we experience it—then we can share that with others.

Where Do I Need God to Love Me?

So let’s be specific: where do I need God to love me in my own life?

Is it in not being satisfied with myself? Is it in actually forgiving myself for past sins? Is it in being okay with a situation I don’t really like?

Where are those moments when I’m not satisfied—with myself, with the situation, or even with God—and where God is actually more merciful than I am?

Because I don’t know about you, but when I think about my situation, God is probably pretty happy. So why am I so stressed? Often, we’re very demanding—not usually in bad ways. We have expectations, and those expectations have reasons, but they’re not necessarily God’s expectations.

So let’s ask the Lord: what are your expectations for me right now—for me at this Mass, for my MPD, for my schedule, for my community, for whatever it is?

Mercy That Actually Cares

You can experience God’s mercy. And God’s mercy isn’t that he doesn’t care. It’s not that if you have a problem, he doesn’t care. He does care—it’s just the way he cares. It’s much more loving than we are.

So let’s ask God how he cares about our difficulties and our situations: how he wants to improve them, how he loves us. And let’s ask him for the grace to love ourselves—and others—in the same way.

It’s not a new Gospel. We’ve all heard this before. And yet John’s Gospel is one I can read over and over and still receive something new every time. John can be a little circular—sometimes even confusing. It’s almost like, “Wait, what? He just said that five times in different ways.” But somehow it keeps opening deeper layers.

With the Samaritan woman, there are a lot of details that can stand out (John 4:5–42). One of the most obvious is this: she didn’t want to be encountered.

“Jesus, Just Leave Me Alone”

I think there are moments in our lives when we’re basically saying, “Jesus, just leave me alone. I’m good. Thanks. I’m having a tough time. I don’t need anyone to help me.”

Sometimes we retreat into our own little world—not because we’re actually happy there, but because it’s difficult to talk about things, or to confront them, or even to understand what’s going on inside of us. It can be small things or big things.

Even in community, it can look like: “This is wonderful, but please—no more pushing my buttons. I’ve been pushed enough.” And so we choose the safer option: “Let’s leave that alone. Let’s not go there.” We don’t want to be encountered.

I know there are times when I’m in my room and I think, “I’m not going out. I just don’t want to see anyone.” And honestly—not even Jesus. Not because I’m rejecting him in some dramatic way, but because I feel like if I let myself be encountered, something will get touched, something will get stirred up.

Now, with this woman, it’s probably not the exact same thing. She’s been through a lot. You can imagine her thinking, “I’ll go to the well when no one’s there. No one will see me. I’ll go home, break some bread, and I won’t have to deal with anyone.” And that’s exactly not what happens.

“He Told Me Everything I Ever Did”

The second thing I find interesting is this: if she goes to the well in the middle of the day, it’s probably not because no one knows her story. If no one knew her story, she could go at any time.

So when Jesus speaks into her life, why is that so striking? Why is she so surprised—“He told me everything about me” (John 4:29)—if the people around her likely already knew plenty?

Sometimes we imagine Jesus as a mind-reader—and maybe he is. I’m not saying he can’t read our minds. But I don’t think the power of this moment is just that Jesus knows facts about her.

The difference is the way he knows them. And the way he says them.

A lot of times in prayer we think: “Jesus already knows everything. I don’t need to tell him anything new.” We already know our stories. We know our needs. We know that Jesus knows them. So prayer can feel “extra,” like something optional.

But then there are these moments—at least for me—when it’s like someone looks at your story, at your situation, at your history, at what you’ve been through, at what you’ve done, even at your sin… and suddenly it’s spoken in a different way. Something shifts.

That’s what redemption looks like.

Jesus isn’t looking at her to condemn her. He isn’t looking at her like, “Oh my goodness, what an interesting soap opera.” He looks at her and says, in a sense, “No. That is your story.” And he says it with truth—without crushing her.

And the amazing thing is: she stays open. She’s still searching. She’s looking for the Messiah. She’s looking for mercy. That’s what the conversation is really about.

Truth That Becomes Fruitful

And then John does this thing he always does: these “interludes.” All of a sudden we’re talking about worship “in spirit and truth” (John 4:23–24). All of a sudden we’re talking about the harvest (John 4:35–38). And you want to say, “Wait a second—what about the woman? Why are we shifting to this?”

But maybe that’s exactly the point. Why is it important to talk about spirit and truth in the case of this woman? Why is it important to talk about the harvest in the case of this woman?

Because truth—even when it’s painful, even when it’s confronting—can become incredibly fruitful. All of a sudden there’s a “before” and “after.”

It’s not that something new is being invented. It’s not that her reality suddenly changes into something else. The truth is already her reality. But when she confronts it and God is there, it’s not merely a human truth anymore. It becomes a spiritual truth: God is present in it. And that means redemption is possible.

There is a God who goes beyond worship on this mountain or that mountain. There is a truth that is transcendent. And when that truth breaks in, everything can change (John 4:21–24).

A Bigger Work Is Happening

What I think is challenging—at least for me—is that we can know our “truth” in a very ordinary way. It’s Saturday. It’s Sunday afternoon. It’s whatever else.

But then it’s like: “Wait a second. God is doing something bigger. He’s transforming me. He’s turning me into a saint. He wants to save the world.”

And we almost laugh at ourselves: “Let me go back and preach the entire region of Valencia. Catalonia is my oyster—everyone’s going to convert.” You know what I mean?

But honestly, those kinds of thoughts reveal something real: the Lord calls us into something larger than the small story we’ve settled for. And I think he has to repeat it, because we forget. He has to say it again: “That’s the truth. Something bigger is happening.”

The Harvest That Has Been Growing

And then there’s the harvest.

The woman’s transformation didn’t begin in one day. There were seeds sown long before this moment. And now God is reaping a harvest in her life (John 4:35–38).

So where are those seeds in our own lives? Where is God reaping a harvest? Where is he bringing something to maturity?

And you can see the practical fruit immediately: this woman goes out and tells others. It’s not just what is happening in her—it’s what is happening through her. And people begin to believe (John 4:39–42).

She’s probably not preaching something “amazing.” She just met him—what is she going to say? And yet she is so convinced that God did something in her that other people take notice.

A Lenten Prayer: Let Him Encounter Us

So let’s ask the Lord for that grace in Lent.

If Lent is about anything, it’s about conversion: recognizing we aren’t perfect, that we are sinners, and God knows it. And maybe he puts his finger exactly where it hurts—exactly where we don’t want him to touch—but that’s exactly where we need him.

When his truth comes in—and when that truth is lived in a spirit of prayer, of charity and almsgiving, of fasting—then we allow him to encounter us, even in difficult ways. And then a new harvest can be reaped.

Not because we’re great. Not because we’re perfect. But because he really does make a change. He is changing us constantly. This isn’t only about the past, and it’s not only about some future version of ourselves. It’s about what he wants to do today.

So ask: today, where is he trying to bring a new truth? Where is he trying to reap a new harvest? Where is he trying to draw me closer to him?

It could be concrete, everyday things. It could be longer-term difficulties. Whatever it is, we put it in his hands.

It’s a strong line. I’m drawn to the controversial, almost offensive parts of the Gospel, because Jesus challenges us—but never in the sense of: “You’re awful. You’re so bad.” That’s not the point. The challenge is an invitation.

I was just at confession with Fr. Helmut, and it brought something home for me: there are places in us where the Lord is basically saying, “If you open up more, I can give you more. If you don’t open up, I can’t.” That’s the amazing—and serious—part of human freedom.

And that’s why this line hits. When Jesus challenges us, he’s pointing to the places in our hearts and lives that we still haven’t opened. The places where we quietly tell him: “I’ll take care of that. Don’t worry. You can help me once in a while when I need it, but I’m good.”

Then he says it: the kingdom will be given to people who produce fruit.

So what is fruit?

In ministry, that’s not a small question. If fruit is just numbers, we’re all in trouble. If fruit is that everything is easy, we’re also in trouble. If fruit is constant visible success, we have a problem—because Jesus didn’t have huge numbers, and it was tough for him, too.

But he does want fruit. He calls us to bear fruit.

So how do we discern whether we’re being fruitful?

And if we aren’t, the response isn’t to start whipping ourselves. It’s to ask: “Lord, what do you want to change? How can I respond? Where do you want in?” Because the Lord can bear more fruit in my life and in my ministry—but only if I let him into the parts I keep protected.

That makes Lent very practical.

It’s a season to ask—in a good way—Lord, where are you leading me? Where do you want more fruit?

Maybe more fruit in prayer. Maybe more fruit in rest. Maybe more fruit in relationships. Maybe more fruit in the renewal of the mind. But what does that fruit actually look like in my real life?

That’s something beautiful about Lent: God takes our freedom seriously. It’s not “everything just happens.” Yes, the Lord is in everything—but I can say yes. I can choose to give him more space. I can let him bear more fruit.

Not because everything is a disaster. Not because we’re obsessed with “more.” Simply because the Lord is inviting us to receive.

So yes, that can be through what we’re doing as a community: more prayer, making an effort for more adoration—even if Fr. Mark isn’t there yet, according to Fr. Helmut. It can be more personal prayer. A specific sacrifice. Those are real ways of opening up.

But it also comes down to the personal spaces: what does it look like for me? What does it look like for you?

Because Christ wants fruit—abundant fruit. Not a God of scarcity. Not smallness. Abundance.

And not necessarily abundance in the sense of huge numbers. But abundance in what’s real: depth, fidelity, freedom, love, and a heart that’s open.

Lord, what are you doing? What spaces can I open? How can I give you more opportunity to bear fruit in me—and with me?

We could focus on the difference between the rich man and Lazarus, or we could focus on what Christ is trying to say to each one of us. For me the question is more direct: how does this apply to me right now—to us right now—in our concrete circumstances?

I was remembering an experience in Medjugorje. I’ve probably shared it before; it’s one of my favorite anecdotes. I was there with students, and we didn’t normally go to organized talks—not because they’re bad, but because they’re long, and for young people it can be a lot.

One time some of the teachers insisted: “No, we should really go this time.” I didn’t think we should, but fine—we organized it and decided we’d go.

I showed up…and nobody else came. It was just me.

I was furious. “They make me go, I don’t want to go, and they don’t even come. This is awful.”

But I remember exactly what Ivan said that day. And honestly, it was probably because the Lord wanted me to hear it.

He was talking about prayer, and he said something I’ve never forgotten: a lot of times when we pray, it’s not that we actually need an answer. Sometimes we just don’t like the answer we already have.

Deep down, we often know what we’re supposed to do. We know the direction the Lord is pointing. The issue isn’t information. The issue is confidence. Trust. The courage to believe what he’s already saying.

Of course, that’s not always the case. But it’s true often enough to be worth naming.

And it connects to what the Father says to the rich man in the parable: we have what we need. We’ve been given what we need. But it can be hard to believe it’s enough—hard to believe we’ll actually survive with what God has already placed in front of us.

That’s especially relevant right now—whether we’re in MPD, on campus, or just living daily life. Prayer isn’t mainly, “Lord, is it going to happen?” It’s more, “Lord, what are you already doing, and how do I correspond to it?”

And that isn’t easy.

Lent can be exactly like that. It’s not always that we don’t know what we should do. Sometimes we know: more prayer. Which means less of something else. That’s simple—but it’s not easy.

Most of the time, in the depths of our hearts, we know what the Lord is asking. Discernment is possible. The question isn’t, “How is this going to work? It’s not going to work.” The question is, “Lord, what are you saying—and can I actually believe you?”

Then comes the next step: being coherent. Being firm—with myself and with others.

Because time will always feel scarce. It’s not just us; it’s the world. But there is time for what God wants.

It can feel like we’re always behind in everything. Maybe we’re not. Maybe it’s just that our expectations are different from God’s expectations.

It can feel like things never go exactly the way I want them to go. Maybe that’s because God wants them a different way.

So Lent becomes a prayer like this: Lord, change the way I think. Renew my mind.

That’s why we make time for prayer. That’s why we give up good things. That’s why we help others—so we change, and we begin to recognize what’s already true: God is speaking to us. He is with us. He is present.

And the real question is: am I present to him?

We can grow in that. We can put good things aside. We can choose him.

To be with God where he is.

The Pharisees are the ones we usually think of as proud, arrogant—hypocritical. But the real issue is simpler and deeper: they live two lives. What they say, and what they do.

And honestly, the people most exposed to that risk can be us—people in mission—because we often have a “mission world” and a “personal world.” It’s a bit like what Paul and Joe were talking about when they were here.

I love going on these weekends like the one with LifeTeen in Montserrat. They pull me out of “normal life,” and they test me. They make me ask: How is my prayer? How is my service to others? What is my attitude? Even my tiredness level—because it is different. If I had to do something like that all the time, I don’t think I have that kind of social battery.

So it becomes very concrete: Did I set boundaries so I could pray? Did I set boundaries so I could stay healthy? Did I give myself enough space to be present—to receive—so I’m not just running on adrenaline?

This time I noticed I need to be more intentional—actually setting a personal schedule. There’s so much going on constantly that if I’m not specific about what I want to do, who I want to talk to, or when I want time for Jesus, I just get swallowed up.

For me, even something like using the Monk Manual becomes more important, not less, in a weekend like that. I need to decide how I’m going to live it. Otherwise I fall into one of two extremes: I either get dragged along by whatever is happening, or I disappear into “my own thing” and don’t really engage. Neither is freedom. Freedom is intentional engagement, with real boundaries.

And then there’s the other side: I love coming back.

Because coming back is also a measure. There’s something easier, sometimes, about serving when you’re serving with other people. But when I come back and it’s the same faces in the hallway, the same people in the dining room, the same rhythms—then the question sharpens: do I serve my own community with the same heart?

For example: when I’m at a table with only missionaries, what is my attitude? Is it the same desire to serve as when I’m with everyone—when I’m with the lay people—or like today at lunch? Is it easier? Is it colder? Is it selective?

The circumstances are different. But the heart is the heart.

And it’s easy to slip into a mindset like: “I have my job, I do it. They can handle themselves. I’ll go do my own thing.” I don’t mean that cruelly. I mean it honestly. It’s what happens when service is no longer carried by the moment, and I have to choose it.

That’s why Lent matters.

Not so we can say, “I’m a Pharisee, I’m a disaster.” Lent is about integration. It forces the question: am I one person, or two?

Jesus didn’t have to take care of anyone—and he chose to. He didn’t stay comfortable. He intentionally served. Paul’s example of washing feet isn’t sentimental. It’s the logic of the Gospel.

So when we talk about “being” and “doing,” I don’t think the goal is to separate them. The goal is depth—being and doing with truth in every moment.

I remember a retreat I did in Spain, alone, in one of those tiny hermit huts. It felt like being locked into a box. Eight or nine full days. And the temptation was loud: I could be out preaching to the world. I could be in Cleveland, in Barcelona—anywhere but here.

But the Lord taught me something there: the place I’m in right now has enough depth to make me holy. The moment in front of me has enough weight to change everything.

Look at Jesus. Look at Mary. They didn’t need constant movement to bear fruit. We may be sent out—and I hope we are—but holiness doesn’t depend on novelty. It depends on love.

And that’s what makes community hard sometimes: the repetition, the sameness, the familiar faces. But that is exactly where the Lord can make us whole. We don’t need “more.” We need depth.

So as we go into Lent, let’s ask him for that grace: to be integrated—to meet him in a new and deeper way, and to love the people in front of us with a new and deeper heart.

Depth is available anywhere. Prayer is possible anywhere. Love is demanded anywhere.

I don’t need to search for someone far away to serve. There are enough people around me already.

Lord, give us the grace to live as one. To love with integrity. And to experience your love in that light.

As Catholics—or especially as missionaries—we can feel: I need to pray hours and hours. I need to become amazing like St. Teresa of Avila or whoever else. And I’m not saying you shouldn’t grow in prayer. But prayer is simple.

Prayer is a relationship. God doesn’t want you to pray too much or too little—because it’s not about hanging out in the chapel and saying things over and over.

Sometimes we can see this happen: prayer becomes a fleeing—from my duties, from community, from what I don’t like. No. That’s not what God is asking.

And at the same time, sometimes I’m much more comfortable getting things done than sitting in the chapel where it feels “useless.” It’s not useless. But that feeling is real. And this is where the relationship piece helps.

Think about it: if you have a friend, or you’re in community, or you have family—am I avoiding my family? Or am I hanging out with them too much because I don’t want to go to work? In other words: is it a healthy relationship? Am I loving? Am I engaging in a way that seeks their good—and at the same time doing other things, outside of “being with them,” because that’s also for their good?

I notice there are times I’m hanging out too much with someone—or too little with someone. Sometimes hanging out too much gets awkward because I’m avoiding other things. Or I’m hanging out too little because I’m avoiding something in the relationship. The same thing can happen with God.

We should treat our relationship with God like a real relationship. What does a relationship need?

Sometimes it’s more time with him. I just need to be with him. I don’t need to say anything. Maybe that’s in everyday life. Maybe that’s in the chapel. Maybe it’s simply: I need to pay more attention.

But sometimes it’s the opposite: I know what I need to do, and it’s not in the chapel—because we already had the conversation. I need to go and do this thing. Or I need to go talk to this person.

I’m obviously an active religious. And all of you are lay people. Prayer is probably not “hanging out for 20 hours.” We don’t have 20 hours. So prayer isn’t meant to be just an activity—it’s meant to be a relationship, a way of being.

Even today, there’s a lot going on. So what does my prayer look like? Sometimes I get stuck thinking, “I don’t have time to pray.” But the real question is: was my relationship with God what it was supposed to be?

Maybe it was. Maybe it was remembering him during the day and thanking him. Or maybe it was paying attention because someone else needed something and I responded—even though I personally would have rather done something else. Because that, in the deepest sense of the word, is prayer.

Again, that’s not an excuse to avoid prayer: “I have things to do, so I don’t need to sit and talk to God.” No. We need to sit and talk to God and go deeper. But we are in an active ministry, and there’s no magical “just hanging out” that fixes everything.

It’s worth thinking about rhythm. We’re allowed to build that relationship, and sometimes it’s easier, sometimes it’s harder. There’s a certain realism here—just like in any relationship.

Personally, I’m very grateful that we have an active life and a regular prayer life. We do get together. We pray. We pray in the evening. We have Mass. Obviously we can do more, and we can grow in personal prayer. We can always come back and talk to the Lord.

But there’s something to be said for this: if you’re sitting here, you’re already growing that life. And maybe for some of us, we prefer more prayer, more time in the chapel, and we can’t. And maybe others prefer less. A real relationship should pull us out of our comfort zone.

Sometimes that means spending more time: when I don’t want to, but I should. And sometimes it means being sent out: to do what I need to do, to love concretely, and not hide.

That’s why we ask the Lord for the grace of Lent: that he can draw us into deeper prayer. And for some of us, that might mean spending more time physically in prayer. And for some of us, it might mean doing more of the other things we need to do—but maintaining that contact with the Lord in those things.

Let’s ask for that grace. Because it’s really neat how Jesus is so balanced. It’s like: I’m going to have a relationship with you. I don’t want you to be weird. I want you to be a person. I want to talk to you. I want to spend time with you.

And we can live that. People in the world don’t have all the structures that we have, but they’re still called to the same depth of relationship.

What does that look like when you’re raising kids? What does that look like when you have a full-time job? What does that look like in a busy city? It probably looks like doing things in a different way than we’re used to.

But we should show that it’s possible: we can have that relationship, we can build it—maybe in easier circumstances here—and then go back out and continue to share it, live it, and make it real.

That’s what God wants for us.