When God Seems Silent

 29 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Even when God appears silent, faith and prayer invite us into a living relationship with Jesus Christ—a relationship that transforms us even when our prayers go unanswered. Like waves that slowly carve stone, persevering prayer reshapes our hearts and deepens our trust in God’s love. And just as Aaron and Hur held up Moses’ arms, we too rely on one another in our community of faith to keep praying, believing, and hoping together.

Listen to homily here:

Some years ago, I read a book called Silence by Shusaku Endo, a Japanese author. I found it quite challenging, a difficult read. Some of you might be familiar with it or have seen Martin Scorsese’s recent film adaptation. The story traces the lives of Jesuit missionaries in 17th-century Japan, a time of severe persecution against Christians. Two young missionaries set out for Japan after hearing that their mentor, a priest who had gone there years before, had renounced his faith. Deeply troubled, they travel in search of him, hoping to learn what became of him and why.

Without revealing too much, the story raises the very tension that echoes in today’s Gospel—the struggle of prayer and faith when God seems silent. The heart of Silence lies in that haunting question: how can one continue to believe in a loving God who does not intervene? How can one pray when heaven appears mute?

Even centuries later, faith and prayer remain difficult for many. Faith, especially today, can be misunderstood or even misused. Some see faith as a tool for power or wealth. We think of figures who exploit belief for personal gain or of moments in history when religion was manipulated for political ends. To illustrate, imagine a leader in a powerful nation publicly aligning with influential Christians. Some citizens might celebrate, others might question the sincerity of that leader’s motives, especially if their actions seem inconsistent with the Gospel. I’m not speaking of a modern leader, but of Emperor Constantine in the fourth century.

Constantine’s mother was a devout Christian, yet his own life remained marked by violence and ambition. Near the end of his life, he was baptized, but his faith journey left many uneasy. Some Christians rejoiced that persecution had ended; others feared the faith was being diluted. It was in this moment that men and women fled to the desert to live radical lives of prayer and simplicity—the beginnings of monastic life. They longed to recover the heart of faith. Their question is still ours: how do we believe in a loving God who sometimes feels absent?

Prayer, too, is a struggle. In Silence, when the missionaries finally meet their mentor, he confesses, “I prayed so much for the people I served, but God did not answer. God was silent.” Many of us have felt the same. We pray for healing, for peace, for change—and nothing seems to happen. Others dismiss prayer as a substitute for action. We hear phrases like “thoughts and prayers” after tragedy and wish that words were joined with deeds. Yet even amid these tensions, the Gospel today reminds us that faith and prayer are not mere practices but relationships.

Faith is rooted in a person—Jesus Christ. To believe is to trust that in Jesus, God became human and revealed both who God is and who we are meant to be. Faith means choosing to live in relationship with Christ, to become more like him here and now. Prayer is the living conversation that flows from that relationship. In prayer, we speak and listen, we share silence, we let his Word shape us.

The Curé of Ars once told of an elderly man who prayed for long hours in church. When asked how he did it, the man replied simply, “I look at him, and he looks at me.” That quiet exchange captures what prayer truly is—love meeting love. Prayer may not always change our circumstances, but it always changes us.

In today’s parable, Jesus tells of a judge who yields only because a widow’s persistence wears him down. If even an unjust judge listens, how much more will our loving Father hear us? God answers every prayer, though often in ways that surprise us. Sometimes prayer must first enlarge our hearts before they can receive what God wants to give. I once noticed waves breaking again and again against a rock wall. Over years, those waves had carved out a hollow, even a cave. Persevering prayer works the same way: over time it shapes and softens our hearts until grace can enter.

And we are not alone in that work. In the first reading, Moses grows weary as he prays for victory over the Amalekites. When his arms begin to fall, Aaron and Hur stand beside him and hold them up until the battle is won. That image beautifully captures the gift of community. Our faith is sustained not just by our own effort but by those who pray with us and for us.

When we come to Mass, we come as that community. We lift one another’s arms in prayer. We help one another to stay faithful. In this holy place, we are surrounded by others who support us, encourage us, and remind us that we are never alone. So let us renew our dedication to faith and to prayer, grounding our hearts once more in Jesus Christ. May we persevere in trust, knowing that even in silence, God listens, and even in struggle, God is near.

Seeing the Good: The Choice of Gratitude

 28 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” reminds us that gratitude isn’t naïve. It is  a choice to see the good even amid struggle. The grateful Samaritan in the Gospel shows that thanksgiving brings not only healing of the body but also of the heart. When we choose gratitude and become people others are grateful for, we don’t just see a wonderful world, we help create one.

Listen to homily here:

 

We are all probably familiar with the famous song “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong. Louis Armstrong released this song in 1967, a time of chaos and unrest, political unrest in the United States, civil unrest, and the Vietnam War. As a counterpoint to all this darkness and difficulty, Armstrong released a song that invited people to consciously search for the good that still exists in the world: “I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

This song is not naïve optimism. It’s not ignoring the struggles of the world. It’s a choice—a deliberate decision to look for goodness, to see our blessings. And that theme of gratitude is something we are called to reflect on during this Thanksgiving long weekend. Gratitude matters. It’s what helps us to live differently, to see differently, to be people of hope.

We see the importance of gratitude also in the Gospel, where Jesus heals ten lepers, but only one returns to give thanks. That simple act of returning makes all the difference for that one man. Thanksgiving, even outside a religious context, is widely recognized as important. People say that gratitude is like a “life hack.” If you want to live more positively, more joyfully, you need to count your blessings, to show gratitude.

This idea isn’t new. The Roman writer Seneca once said, “Nothing is more noble than a grateful heart.” He saw that being thankful and recognizing the good in our lives was an act of nobility. In more recent times, the psychologist Brené Brown has written beautifully about the importance of gratitude. She says, “I don’t have to chase extraordinary moments to find happiness—it’s right in front of me if I’m paying attention and practising gratitude.” Gratitude helps us experience joy even in the midst of difficulties.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus shows us the spiritual importance of gratitude. Whenever I hear the story of the ten lepers, it strikes me that there are two healings happening. The first is the physical healing, which all ten experience—they are cleansed of their leprosy. But Jesus highlights something deeper. He praises the one who returns, who gives thanks. And significantly, it’s a Samaritan, someone looked down upon by others, whom Jesus holds up as the example.

That Samaritan was healed not just physically, but spiritually. He recognized that what he had received from Christ was pure gift. Gratitude begins with that recognition—that everything we have is grace. What we have in life is not simply earned or deserved; it’s given. When we live with that awareness, we live with more joy, optimism, and peace. Gratitude opens our eyes to grace. It helps us see that God truly is loving, that He cares for us personally.

So I’d like to invite us to take a moment of silence, just one minute, to think of two things we are grateful for. One might be something in your life right now—a person, an experience, something you’ve received. The other could be something connected to your faith—something in your spiritual life or in our parish community that you are thankful for. Let’s take that moment together now. 

(pause for one minute)

Taking that time to be grateful is a spiritual practice. As Louis Armstrong reminds us in his song, it’s not easy—it’s a choice. It’s much easier to notice what’s wrong, what’s missing, or what frustrates us. But when we make the decision to search for what is good, our hearts begin to change. When we see goodness and live in gratitude, we come to believe more deeply that Jesus is with us and cares for us.

As Christians, though, we are not called only to be grateful; we are also called to become people others are grateful for. It’s not enough to see the good—we are invited to be the good. To be the kind of people who bring gratitude into others’ lives. To be the ones who reach out to a friend who’s struggling, who call someone who’s lonely, who show kindness and generosity in the small moments of every day.

When we live that way, we don’t just sing “What a Wonderful World.” We help make it one.

Even If You Aren’t a Star, Shine Anyway

27 Sunday of Ordinary Time

God calls each of us to let His love and light shine through us, even when we feel ordinary or inadequate. Like Habakkuk, Timothy, and Paul, we are reminded that God works through our weakness, not in spite of it. Even if we aren’t stars, the Holy Spirit enables us to shine brightly in the world around us. 

Listen to homily here:

Soon after I was ordained a priest, I was serving in a parish where there was a family very talented in music. Every year, they would create and perform a musical in a large theatre as a fundraiser for charity.

For one of these productions, they tried to convince me to take part — just a small singing role. I apologize if I’ve told this story before; I can’t quite remember. I really didn’t want to do it, but they said, “Father, if you participate, we can sell more tickets. It’ll help raise more money for charity.”

So, they twisted my arm, and I agreed. It was very awkward for me — I don’t like getting in front of a crowd in that way — but I did it. I think it went okay.

After the performance, one of the parishioners — let’s just say she’s rather blunt — came up to me and said, “Father Day, it was so great that you participated in that musical because you showed people that you can still shine, even if you aren’t a star.”

I thought about that. “Okay,” I said, “thank you… I think.” But over time, that comment has stuck with me. You can still shine, even if you aren’t a star. That image has become meaningful for me because it captures a tension we all experience in the Christian life.

On the one hand, God calls us to an incredible mission — to assist those around us, to help, to serve, to shine the light of God’s love and peace on others. Yet, on the other hand, we know that we’re not always “stars.” We have our gifts and talents, but we also have weaknesses and shortcomings. That tension can hold us back. It can make us think we’re not enough, that maybe we shouldn’t even try.

But the truth is: we can still shine brightly, even if we aren’t stars.

This theme runs through today’s readings — people fulfilling God’s mission in spite of weakness, fear, or limitation, and God shining through them nonetheless.

In the first reading, we heard from the prophet Habakkuk — a name you don’t often hear at baptisms anymore! Maybe we should revive it: “Habakkuk, come in for dinner!” (Has a nice ring to it.)

Habakkuk lived about 600 years before Christ, in Jerusalem. His name means “the Lord speaks.” When you read his book, you realize he’s very aware of his own struggles and inadequacies — yet he still answers God’s call.

At that time, the Babylonian Empire was advancing, taking over one city after another. Habakkuk could see that Jerusalem was next. He knew the people were frightened and losing hope. His mission was to help them see that this crisis was a wake-up call — a time to focus again on what truly matters: their relationship with God and with one another.

Habakkuk proclaimed a message of trust: even if Babylon comes, the Lord will not abandon us. God will still be with us. And through that message, even in his weakness, Habakkuk let God’s light shine through him.

In the second reading, we hear St. Paul writing to Timothy — his young apprentice in ministry. You can tell, reading between the lines, that Timothy is struggling. He knows his mission, but he’s afraid. He doubts himself.

So Paul reminds him of the grace he received “through the laying on of hands” — an image of commissioning, of being given a mission. And Paul encourages him: it’s not about your strength, Timothy. It’s the Holy Spirit working in you.

Elsewhere, Paul describes this same tension beautifully: “We hold this treasure in earthen vessels.” In other words, we carry something infinitely precious — the Holy Spirit — in fragile, imperfect human containers. We are clay jars carrying divine light.

Paul’s message is simple: Go. Do your mission. Don’t be afraid. God will shine through you.

And finally, in the Gospel, Jesus picks up this same theme. He speaks of servants doing their work faithfully and tells his followers: even if your faith is as small as a mustard seed, God can still work miracles through you. Don’t hold back because you feel unworthy or inadequate. Just do the good you’ve been called to do.

So as we sit here this morning, perhaps we too can sense God’s call tugging at our hearts — a call to serve, to help, to speak, to love. But maybe we hesitate. Maybe we think we’re not good enough, too weak, too sinful, too ordinary.

Yet like Habakkuk, Timothy, and Paul, we’ve received the same Spirit. God loves us, God has chosen us, and God believes in the good within us.

And so, even if we aren’t stars, we can still shine — shining God’s love, God’s hope, and God’s peace on those around us.