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Anyone who's spent time in an emergency room knows about triage—the medical practice of assessing urgent needs and addressing them in order of priority. You may have waited hours while sicker patients went first. Though frustrating personally, triage saves lives by ensuring the most critical cases receive immediate attention.
In today's gospel, Jesus introduces us to spiritual triage. When Martha busies herself with hospitality while Mary sits listening, Jesus declares that Mary has "chosen the better part." The priority isn't how well Jesus is being served, but whether both sisters are positioned to receive what he offers. We cannot literally sit with Jesus today, but his teaching remains: our first priority must be sitting in silence, listening for the voice of the resurrection. This call to quietude takes precedence over our anxious activity. When unexpected difficulties strike, our instinct is to resolve them immediately. We cannot—will not—sit with discomfort. Why? Because we lack the skills to do so. Our minds automatically spiral into "what if" scenarios. This is natural—we imagine worst-case outcomes hoping to protect ourselves from being blindsided. To escape this anxiety, we busy our bodies and minds. We research. We plan. We distract ourselves with action. But consider this: worrying changes nothing. It only drains our mental resources and clouds our judgment. What if we practiced spiritual triage instead? What if we sat in silence first, grounding ourselves in God's presence before deciding how to act? In this place of stillness, we develop the crucial skill of mental clarity. We learn to distinguish between what we can control and what we cannot. We separate realistic concerns from anxious delusions. Most importantly, we discover whether we have the inner strength to handle what lies ahead. About three years ago, I faced a perfect storm: my job security was threatened while I was searching for a new home. I did what most people do—I Googled frantically, worried obsessively, and worked myself into a frenzy imagining various scenarios. Thankfully, I recognized the need to sit in silence. For three hours, I simply listened. What emerged was transformative. My real issue wasn't about solving every problem—some were beyond my control, others I could manage. Learning to distinguish between them brought immediate clarity. But the deeper revelation was this: my greatest fear wasn't the external circumstances but whether I possessed enough inner strength to handle them. Acknowledging this fear in God's presence is in and of itself the source of resilience that had been available to me all along. Naming our deepest fears in the divine presence doesn't just point us toward strength, but becomes the strength itself. While everyone's struggles are unique and complex, I've found that spiritual triage can be a helpful practice when we feel overwhelmed. Learning to clear the mind in God's presence doesn't solve every problem, but it can help us see more clearly what truly matters most and discover sources of strength we didn't know were available to us. If you're facing hardship today, remember Mary's choice. Sit first. Listen first. Let spiritual triage guide your next steps. And know this: all of us at St. Agnes are here to sit with you and listen together. You don't have to practice this silence alone. Every Christian knows Jesus' greatest commandment: love God and love your neighbor. Yet knowing this command and practicing it skillfully are two different things entirely. What does it actually mean to love as Jesus commands? What spiritual skills must we cultivate to love effectively?
Today's gospel reveals two essential prerequisites for authentic Christian love—insights that transform how we understand both divine devotion and neighborly care. 1. First: Anchor Yourself in God's Presence "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, strength, and mind." This isn't merely intellectual assent or Sunday worship—it's the cultivation of God's living presence within us. To love God means learning to recognize, welcome, and rest in the divine presence that dwells within. This requires intentional spiritual practice: making space for God in our thoughts, allowing our very breath to become prayer, grounding ourselves so deeply in this presence that it becomes the foundation from which all our words and actions flow. Without this inner cultivation, love becomes mere human effort—well-intentioned but lacking the transformative power that flows from divine union. When we anchor ourselves in God's presence, our love for others springs from an inexhaustible source. 2. Second: Let Your Neighbors Choose You The lawyer's question seems reasonable: "Who is my neighbor?" But Jesus' response through the Good Samaritan parable completely reverses our assumptions. Notice how Jesus reframes the question: "Which of these three was a neighbor to the man who fell among robbers?" The shift is profound. We don't get to choose our neighbors—they choose us. Those in need determine whether we have truly become neighbors to them. This transforms everything. Instead of asking "Who deserves my love?" we must ask "Am I being received as a neighbor by those who need care?" Our love isn't measured by our intentions but by whether those in need experience us as truly present, truly caring, truly neighboring. The vulnerable, the suffering, the marginalized—they hold the power to validate our love. Until someone in need can honestly say "Yes, you are my neighbor," we haven't yet learned to love as Jesus commands. The Challenge of Divine Love This teaching confronts us with uncomfortable truth: loving as Jesus loves requires both deep spiritual grounding and humble receptivity to judgment from those we claim to serve. We must prepare our hearts through contemplative practice, allowing God's presence to reshape our thoughts and motivations. Simultaneously, we must approach those in need not as benefactors but as potential neighbors, ready to be evaluated by their experience of our care. This dual requirement—inner transformation anchored in God and outer validation from those we serve—sets Christian love apart. It demands both mystical depth and practical accountability, both divine communion and human vulnerability. The question before us isn't whether we know the commandment to love, but whether we're willing to develop the spiritual skills necessary to love as Jesus did—with hearts rooted in God's presence and arms open to serve whoever chooses us as neighbor. In sending out the seventy, Jesus instructs them to go with no purse, no bag, and no sandals—utterly unequipped by the world’s standards, and seemingly defenseless, like lambs in the midst of wolves. On the surface, this is a perilous commission. Lambs, after all, stand no chance against wolves. They are vulnerable, unequipped for battle, and easy prey. One would expect Jesus to arm his disciples with something—resources, protection, or at least strategy. But instead, he offers them none of these. This is because the protection they need is of a different kind. The true weapon Jesus gives them is not external but internal: it is peace.
This peace is not mere passivity or a polite gesture. It is a cultivated strength, a spiritual force that arises from a life centered in God. It begins in the greeting—“Peace to this house”—but it is not confined to words. It is the fruit of prayer, the embodied presence of the kingdom of God within the disciple. This peace is not a shield that deflects the blows of the world, but a kind of rootedness that cannot be moved by them. It is not a withdrawal from danger, but a way of standing firm within it. The lamb’s strength is paradoxical: it comes from surrender, from trust, from the inner reality of God's presence. It is precisely because the disciples are stripped of every other means of defense that they become bearers of this power. Jesus names this inner resource clearly: “The kingdom of God has come near.” This message is not just proclaimed; it is carried in the bodies, prayers, and lives of the disciples. Wherever they go, the nearness of the kingdom travels with them—not as an idea, but as a lived reality. Without that cultivated presence, without prayer and trust in God, the disciples would indeed be as vulnerable as they appear. But with it, they carry the one thing that cannot be taken from them, and the one thing that can change the hearts of those they meet. Jesus then speaks of dust, a seemingly mundane detail with profound symbolic weight: “Even the dust of your town that clings to our feet, we wipe off in protest.” But perhaps this gesture can be reimagined: “Even the dust of your town knows what to cling to.” It is not merely the physical dust that is being shaken off; it is a sign of the stubbornness of those who refuse to recognize the presence of God. And yet, that same dust, in clinging to the feet of the messengers, has been touched by the presence of God. In returning it to the town, the disciples are not cursing, but entrusting it—leaving a trace of divine presence behind, a final gesture of hope that even those who resist might one day awaken to the God who was already near, already within them. Thus, the true weapon Jesus gives his disciples is the presence of the kingdom itself—alive in them, sustained by prayer, expressed in peace. It is not a weapon that wounds, but one that disarms. It is not meant to defeat enemies, but to transform them. This peace, this inner kingdom, is not something we carry in our hands, but in our hearts—and because of that, it cannot be lost or taken away. It goes not just somewhere, but everywhere we go, because it is already within. The gospel lesson from Luke 9:51-62 presents Jesus in a particularly directive moment, establishing three essential conditions for authentic discipleship. As Christ sets his face toward Jerusalem, his encounters with potential followers reveal the radical nature of what it means to walk in his footsteps. These three exchanges illuminate fundamental aspects of Christian spirituality that challenge conventional understandings of security, loyalty, and independence.
1. The Houseless Heart: Finding Home in the Present Moment When Jesus declares that "the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head," he reveals a profound spiritual principle that extends beyond physical houselessness. This statement points to a deeper truth about the nature of Christian existence: those who follow Christ do not seek their ultimate security or identity in any earthly dwelling place or circumstance. The phrase "nowhere to lay your head" suggests a radical reorientation of where we locate our sense of home and belonging. Rather than seeking refuge in external securities—whether material possessions, social status, or even religious institutions—the follower of Christ learns to dwell in what might be called "the breath of unforgetfulness." This is the practice of remaining present to the sacred reality that is always available in the here and now, accessible through the simple act of conscious breathing and mindful awareness. This houselessness is not a deprivation but a liberation. It frees us from the anxiety of constantly seeking the perfect circumstances in which to finally be at peace. Instead, we discover that peace is nowhere else but always "now here"—a play on words that reveals how presence itself becomes our dwelling place. The Christian learns to be at home in the present moment, in the breath that connects us to the divine life that sustains all existence. 2. The Priority of the Breath of Unforgetfulness Over Natural Obligations The second encounter may present Jesus' most challenging and confusing teaching: apparent conflict between following Christ and honoring family obligations, specifically burying one's father. This troubles many who struggle to reconcile Jesus' response with honoring parents. However, Jesus emphasizes putting the breath of unforgetfulness first. Cultivating God's presence and developing discernment creates the foundation for truly helping anyone. Jesus' saying is almost comical: "Let the dead bury their own dead." How can the dead bury the dead? Only the living can bury the dead. To be among the living, one must be resurrected through God's living spirit and breath. This is why Jesus prioritizes the kingdom: "but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God." Divine presence must be cultivated first to do anything genuinely helpful for others. 3. The Solitary Soul: Standing Alone Before God The third encounter—with the one who wishes to bid farewell to his family—reveals another crucial dimension of Christian discipleship: the necessity of spiritual independence or maturity. Jesus' response, "No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the kingdom of God," points to the need for decisive commitment and individual responsibility in the spiritual life. This aspect of discipleship involves what might be called "holy individuation"—the process by which one becomes a mature spiritual being capable of standing alone before God. This doesn't mean severing family ties or becoming antisocial, but rather developing the inner strength and clarity to make one's own authentic response to God's call, independent of family pressures, social expectations, or group dynamics. The Christian tradition has long recognized this paradoxical aspect of spiritual maturity: to truly love and serve others, one must first learn to stand alone before God, not hiding behind others or using relationships as a shield from direct encounter with the divine. This solitary facing of God is what transforms us into authentic individuals capable of genuine relationship with both God and neighbor. Dietrich Bonhoeffer captured this paradox beautifully in his observation that "with God, we live without God." This cryptic phrase suggests that mature faith involves a kind of spiritual independence where one's relationship with God becomes so internalized and authentic that it no longer depends on external religious supports or mediating structures. The believer learns to live out of direct communion with God rather than second-hand religious experience. The Integration of These Three Foundations These three conditions of discipleship—spiritual houselessness, priority and primacy of the presence of God, and holy individuation—work together to form a picture of what it means to follow Christ authentically. They present a movement away from conventional securities toward a more radical trust in God and a more authentic way of being in the world. Together, they point toward a Christianity that is both deeply personal and utterly committed to the transformative work of God's kingdom. They challenge us to examine where we locate our security, how we order our priorities, and whether we have developed the spiritual maturity to stand alone before God while serving others in love. Peace is the word that every single religion, without a doubt, teaches and promotes. It wouldn’t be too much of a generalization to say that peace is also what every single person strives for. This morning, I’d like us to ponder two questions: 1) What is peace for us Christians? and 2) how can we access this spiritual and mental state of peace?
1) One of the most effective ways to learn something is by exploring its opposite. The man Jesus encounters in the country of the Gerasenes in today’s gospel lesson is a powerful example of a spiritual and mental state far from peace. “Legion” symbolizes his condition. In his mind, a war is raging—fighting day and night. He is clearly losing this war, stripped of his defenses, naked, bound in chains and shackles, under constant guard. He is a prisoner of an inner war, in which many selves argue endlessly. The legion wins over his mind, and he is left half-dead, wandering among the tombs. No peace is found here. The closest semblance might be death itself, which may explain why the man finds rest only in isolation among the tombs. The only peace he can imagine lies behind the gate of the tomb. Yet it is this very tomb that the risen Christ empties—filling it not with decay, but with the peace of resurrection. To this man, Christ essentially says, “Peace be with you.” And yet, the presence of resurrection peace feels to him like torment. It brings order to his chaos, and that order feels like chaos. In this sense, peace is like antiseptic on an open wound. Christ’s presence—full of peace—is divine medicine. 2) The path to resurrection peace isn’t always peaceful, but it’s not always bumpy either. Every road trip has its ups and downs, and so does our peace trip. The difference is this: on a road trip, the bumps are on the road. On a peace trip, the bumps come from too many hands on the wheel. When not well managed, peace is delayed, and a legion is formed within. It’s crucial on this peace trip that only two hands hold the wheel. Think of our mind as a committee, filled with members who each carry different traits. (How many thoughts and feelings are already arising in our minds—even now?) Running a committee well requires the ability to facilitate—to stay focused on a central task. We must discern what’s important and learn to traffic-control the many side opinions. These thoughts may be valuable in their own way, but not all serve the goal of peace. A key facilitation skill is active listening—paying close attention to what each committee member is saying in the mind. But there’s also another skill: paying attention to the movement of the mind. One way to do this is by checking in with the breath. Notice how you breathe when a thought or feeling arises. For instance, a committee member like “Sadness” might speak in slow, heavy breaths. Another, like “Anger,” may come with rapid, forceful breathing. We listen to each member—not just for what they say, but how they breathe. As we concentrate on breath itself and regulate it according to the body’s need (does the body need energy, or rest?), the committee falls into order. And where there is order, there is no legion. This work of the breath is the work of God’s breath—the breath that resurrects the dead and winds through the tomb. With this skill of inner facilitation, the risen Christ sends us back—back into the places of chaos. There, in the midst of it, we become the presence of order. The presence of Christ’s peace. "The mind is a theater of many voices, not all of them our own." — William James "You are not one, but many—and which one you are depends on who is looking." — Fernando Pessoa (The Book of Disquiet) "We wear many masks, and beneath them lies not one true face, but many." — Hermann Hesse "The 'I' is a crowd, a parliament, a marketplace of voices." — Julian Barnes "Inside you, there are a thousand versions of yourself waiting to be lived." — Atticus "I am large, I contain multitudes." — Walt Whitman (Song of Myself) Philip makes a request to Jesus that should give us hope: "Show us the Father, and we will be satisfied." Notice he says "us"—Philip isn't the only unsatisfied follower. There are others who feel the same way.
This is strangely hopeful for us because we're not so different from Philip and his friends. Think about it: they've traveled with Jesus from town to town, witnessed his work, experienced him up close, and yet they're still not satisfied. If they couldn't fully see the Father in Jesus despite all that firsthand experience, then we—who have never encountered Jesus in person—might actually have a good reason for our own struggle to be satisfied. But here's where it gets complicated. Philip and his friends could at least express their dissatisfaction directly to Jesus. We can't. So while their request keeps us from being blamed for not seeing the Father in Jesus, it also seems to leave us with no chance to actually see the Father in him. Are we stuck? The answer, of course, is no—but let's dig deeper first. What Does It Mean to Be Satisfied? When Philip says "we will be satisfied," he's revealing that they're not satisfied now. They're betting on Jesus because they believe he can show them the Father—that's their reason for following him. But what exactly are they unsatisfied with? Political oppression? Economic hardship? Something spiritual and religious? It's something fundamental about life itself. Remember the Samaritan woman at Jacob's well ten chapters earlier? Jesus offered her living water that would satisfy her thirst forever. Clearly not H2O—this is a metaphor for God, in whom we find complete satisfaction. The Heart of the Problem So we have two issues here. First, Philip and his friends are following Jesus to see the Father, but they're not satisfied with what they're seeing. Second, Jesus has been showing them the Father all along—the writing is on the wall, but to them it doesn't seem particularly significant. Here's what's encouraging: both Philip and Jesus take this longing for satisfaction seriously. They both understand that only God can truly fulfill this deep human need. Their disagreement is actually minor—it's about how to see what's already there. Jesus needs to teach them a skill: how to see the Father in him. This is a skill that requires practice and effort. There's no instant magic that suddenly makes God visible in Jesus. Even after the resurrection, the gospel stories are filled with Jesus' friends who don't recognize the risen Christ. To see the risen Christ, you must develop skill and become skillful. The Skill We Need What skill is this? For those of us who never experienced Jesus in person, the Advocate is sent. Jesus calls this the Spirit of truth (πνεῦμα τῆς ἀληθείας), which can be translated as the Breath of unforgetfulness. This Breath of unforgetfulness isn't just a poetic nickname for the Holy Spirit. This expression is the skill itself. We take the Breath of unforgetfulness. We unforget this Breath in our own breath. I have to repeat this because it's so crucial: this simple skill is always available to us. Yet again and again, we discover that simple is not easy. Just because it's always available doesn't mean we always know how to access it or remember to practice it. Pentecost Today On this Day of Pentecost, I leave you with one skill and one phrase: the Breath of unforgetfulness. When we unforget this Breath in us, the risen Christ shows us the Father. Oneness or unity is the focus of Jesus’ prayer in the gospel lesson today. Jesus’ understanding of this oneness begins with being one with the Father. He then invites his disciples, friends, and future followers like us to join in the oneness he shares with the Father. So he says, “you in me, I in you, and they in us,” or “as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one.” In this oneness, love is always present.
While Jesus’ prayer for oneness sounds like a poem, let’s bring it down to earth from its heavenly realm. What is this oneness? How do you understand it? To sharpen our questions: What does this oneness entail in our daily lives? How do we actually become one with the triune God? I want us to imagine a choreographed dance movement to get a sense of what this oneness might look like. When I was a teenager, breakdancing was quite popular. I tried and wasn’t very good. I wasn’t stiff—but the opposite. I was too loose. It was quite challenging for me to make my movements more controlled. No robot dance for me! But there’s one dance move I still remember and can actually demonstrate. It’s the Macarena dance I learned in the 90s. Can you believe even Theodore, who is now eight years old, knows how to do it? While Theo and I were trying to dance together, we had to make sure we got the order right: which hand goes first, which direction to move, and so on. When we both agreed on the steps, we were able to dance as a team—as one. There was a sense of harmony in us. What makes this one movement in two individuals so satisfying and even joyful is that we’re not the same people, but two different agents, synchronizing in one action. There’s beauty in that. This dance analogy isn’t something new to our Christian tradition. The Church Fathers used the term perichoresis. Peri-, the prefix, means “around” as in perimeter, and chōreō means “to go” or “to come.” So together, perichoresis is “to come around”—as though choreographed, like dancing around together. The movement of the Father, the Son, and the Spirit is the divine dance in oneness. Now, let’s return to the first two questions I raised before. What does this oneness entail in our daily lives? And how do we actually become one with the triune God? One simple answer to both of these questions is: let’s do some Macarena with God. But not just the version of the Macarena we know so well—a divine version, patterned by God’s very own breath. Just as it’s important to choreograph which hand or leg moves first with my dance partner, breathing together is just as important. My dance partner and I need to communicate that we’ll also breathe in harmony—inhaling and exhaling together. We pattern our breath with the Breath of God to be one. Get used to how you’re breathing. Increase your awareness of breath. How are you breathing when you’re at peace? When you’re upset, angry, annoyed, happy, relaxed, or excited? Notice how you breathe—and go for an even keel. The more aware you are of your own breath, the more you become aware of God’s breath in you. These are the skills to master so that we can dance together in God’s presence. One thing to note: this oneness doesn’t erase your sense of self. It doesn’t negate you. You become a more skillful—or a better—version of yourself out of the many selves in you. The kind of oneness where you no longer exist is uniformity—or to put it more explicitly, spiritual fascism, in which you do not matter. The divine oneness is beautiful because it dances in harmony. Only in that mutual indwelling—only through the act of love, amor fati—do we become fully who we are meant to be in the eyes of God. So, shall we dance? |
Paul"...life up your love to that cloud [of unknowing]...let God draw your love up to that cloud...through the help of his grace, to forget every other thing." Archives
April 2025
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