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Most of us remember what it is like to be in a dark room when the lights suddenly come on. For a moment we squint, unsure of where to look—but almost instantly, we know where we are.
Light has that power. It reveals, it
orients, and it invites us to move forward.
Today’s Scriptures are about that moment
when God turns on the light—not only in the world, but in the human heart.
The prophet Isaiah speaks to a people
who knew darkness well. They lived under oppression, uncertainty, and fear.
Yet Isaiah dares to proclaim something
astonishing: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”
Not will see, but have seen. God’s light does not wait for
perfect conditions.
It enters precisely where hope feels
thin, where the road seems unclear. And this light does more than illuminate—it
multiplies joy, lifts burdens, and breaks the yoke of oppression.
That promise begins to take flesh in
today’s Gospel. Matthew tells us that Jesus deliberately goes to Galilee, to
the margins, to a place known for tension and spiritual neglect. It was also a place
with a melting pot of cultures.
This is no accident. Jesus begins His
ministry not in a center of power, but in a place hungry for light. And His
first words echo Isaiah: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.”
Repentance here is not about fear or shame; it is about turning—turning toward
the light that has already arrived.
As Jesus walks along the sea, He calls
ordinary people—fishermen with calloused hands and simple lives. “Come after
me,” He says, “and I will make you fishers of men.” They are not
given a detailed plan. They are given a Person. And remarkably, they respond
immediately. Light has entered their world, and it changes everything.
Can you imagine encountering someone who
causes you to drop everything and
completely change the direction of your life?
In March of 2023, during my sabbatical
from serving as a deacon in the Church, I traveled to the Holy Land for a
pilgrimage with a group of deacons and others.
I walked the shores of the Sea of
Galilee. I rode in a fishing boat on its waters. I watched nets being cast into
the sea in hopes of catching fish. I basked in the sun-drenched light of the
place where Jesus began his earthly ministry.
There, the Gospel came to life for me and all on our journey. It was as
if a light came on, illuminating something I had been looking for.
Truthfully, this journey came at a time
of pain and sadness for me. For three years, I served as pastoral leader of
Christ Our Hope and St. Patrick in downtown Seattle.
I know, a deacon serving as pastoral
leader. What Catholic wants that?
This assignment started just before the
Covid pandemic hit and ended with an Archbishop’s decree to close one parish,
St. Patrick, after 105 years serving the people at its scenic Capitol Hill
location.
The closure decree was most difficult
because St. Pat’s was where my wife and I were married 40 years ago. And where
our youngest son and his wife were married five years ago.
My heart was still heavy as I made this
journey. I was still grieving for the 230 families who experienced the death of
their parish.
In some ways the light had gone out for
me.
Saint Paul reminds us that light can be pushed
aside or resisted, even by believers. Writing to the Corinthians, he addresses
a community fractured by division, pride, and misplaced loyalties.
St. Paul asks,“Is Christ divided?”
It is a piercing question.
When the light of Christ shines, it
reveals not only where we should go, but what must be healed. Paul is not
interested in winning arguments; he is pleading for unity rooted in Christ
alone.
This reading confronts us gently but
honestly.
How often do we cling to labels,
preferences, or personalities—I belong to this group, I follow this voice, I
see things this way—and forget that we belong first to Christ?
Division thrives in partial light. Unity
grows when we allow the full light of the Gospel to shine.
The Gospel tells us that Jesus did not
only preach—He healed. He touched bodies, minds, and spirits. He restored
people to community.
My journey to the Holy Land allowed for
light of Christ to shine again in my heart. Jesus healed my wounds. He reminded
me about why I was called and what I am to do: serve Him in joy and hope.
The light of Christ is never abstract.
It enters real lives, real struggles, real wounds. And He continues that work
today through His Church, imperfect though it may be, when we allow ourselves
to be united in Him.
But this light demands a response.
We can squint, turn away, or argue about
the source of the light—or we can step into it and be changed.
Isaiah announces it. Matthew shows it
breaking into history. St. Paul warns us what happens when we forget its
source.
Today, Christ walks once again along the
shores of our lives. He sees us in our routines, our divisions, our half-lit
places. And He speaks the same words: “Come after me.”
If we do, the darkness does not stand a
chance. Because where Christ is present, light is no longer a promise—it is a
reality.
