I used to carry one brown bag everywhere—work, church, errands. But ever since I switched to a smaller shoulder bag for work, the brown bag now only serves one purpose: keeping my laptop for church. That’s where the problem of switching bags comes in—having to transfer valuables like my keys and wallet back and forth. You can guess what happened one Sunday morning.
I left for church early, completely unaware that I had forgotten the key to the church until I arrived at St. Agnes’. That was a big problem. It would take 40 to 50 minutes for a round trip back home to get the key. But God graciously placed Bob in my life that morning. Bob happened to be there, and he had the key to let me in. Now, imagine a hypothetical scenario. What if, while driving on Route 80 near Exit 58 in Paterson, I suddenly realized I didn’t have the key? Not ideal, but manageable. What about Exit 61 in Elmwood Park? Even better. But what if I had realized the key was missing right after leaving home? That would have saved me a lot of trouble. In fact, what if I had simply decided to bring both bags from the start, ensuring I had everything I needed? You may be wondering what this silly little story has to do with today’s gospel. It’s about one key idea: we can only fix what we are aware of. Psychiatrist Carl Jung puts it well: “What is not acknowledged cannot be changed.” And James A. Garfield, the 20th president of the United States, offers a similar thought: “The truth will set you free, but first it will make you miserable.” I’d add, “And the sooner, the better.” Now let’s turn to Jesus’ four blessings, which may seem like paradoxes at first glance. How can being poor, hungry, sorrowful, or hated be considered blessings? After all, we don’t normally think of poverty, hunger, grief, or rejection as positive experiences. But Jesus isn’t saying these experiences are blessings in and of themselves. Instead, He’s pointing to what these conditions can reveal to us—what they can awaken us to. Think about it: being aware that we lack something vital is the first step toward seeking something greater. It’s like recognizing that you forgot your key—it makes you realize what’s missing. In life, the experience of lack—whether it’s poverty, hunger, sorrow, or rejection—can open our eyes to what truly matters. It helps us see that true happiness isn’t found in material wealth, constant comfort, or fleeting approval, but in the presence of God within. It seems to me there are levels of knowledge:
The four blessings call us to reach the final two levels of knowledge. By knowing what we don’t know, we become aware of the limits of our understanding. But it’s the next step — knowing that we know what we don’t know — that brings a deeper awareness. It’s a kind of second-order knowledge, a meta-awareness: awareness of our own awareness, thinking about thinking. This deeper knowledge isn’t just recognizing gaps in our understanding; it’s becoming explicitly conscious of those gaps, acknowledging the space between “knowing what we don’t know” and “knowing that we know what we don’t know.” It’s a humbling awareness — one that calls us to recognize our spiritual, emotional, and physical poverty, hunger, and sorrow. In this recognition, we begin to let go of the false promises of the world: wealth that won’t endure, comfort that won’t last, approval that will fade. This deeper knowing calls us to wise living — to a life grounded in what is skillful rather than unskillful. And yes, this process can feel like misery at times, because it involves confronting disappointment: disappointment in the things we once believed would satisfy us. But it’s through this process that we grow wise. The awareness of lack is not a curse but a blessing, urging us to turn from illusion toward what truly matters. We learn to ask, “Is this behavior or choice leading to stress and suffering, or will it produce something good?” This is the core of skillful living. In contrast, the four woes warn us about the dangers of unskillful living—chasing after short-term, shallow happiness. They point to a life focused on instant gratification, comfort, and approval, without regard for the deeper, lasting joy that comes from the Breath of God. Ultimately, the four blessings and four woes present us with a choice: Will we live skillfully, with discernment and awareness, or unskillfully, seeking only what’s easy and immediate? Skillful living leads to real joy—a joy rooted in the Breath of God, not in what the world offers. The question is, are we aware enough to seek it? David Bohm “Thought creates our world and says, ‘I didn’t do it.’” Daniel Kanheman “we can be blind to the obvious and, we are also blind to our blindness.” The lake of Gennesaret flows between Jesus, Simon, James, and John—and the crowd. One group stands on the shore, while the other is in the boat. Then the scene shifts: Jesus is in one boat, and Simon, James, and John are in another. This geographical movement is more than a narrative detail. It symbolically illustrates how we position ourselves—mentally, physically, and spiritually—in our daily lives, in our interactions with family, friends, and strangers.
So, the question I raise this morning is this: where do we find ourselves? Where do we stand—spiritually and emotionally—each day? I’ll give you the answer upfront: we want to be in the boat with Jesus. But to understand what that means, let’s take a journey: from the crowd on the shore, to the boat with Simon, James, and John, and finally to the boat with Jesus himself. (A note: my interpretation today is explicitly allegorical, intended to offer practical guidance for our spiritual practice.) Step 1: The Crowd on the Shore We begin where most of us find ourselves: among the crowd. We listen to the teachings of Jesus, perhaps nodding in agreement. His words sound moral, even inspiring—but they don’t seem to take hold. They wash over us without transforming our hearts. Why? Perhaps we don’t fully understand his message. Or perhaps we lack the desire to be changed by it. And so, we remain on the shore—watching from a distance, disconnected from the deeper, transformative call of discipleship. Step 2: The Boat of Simon, James, and John When life doesn’t feel satisfying on the shore, we step into the boat of Simon, James, and John. Here, life is familiar. It’s a mix of moments—dissatisfaction, sadness, and disappointment—interspersed with bits of joy, happiness, and surprise. But in this particular moment, there are no fish. Their nets come up empty. It’s a total letdown. We’ve been here before, haven’t we? This boat represents our own repetitive story—the same cycle of striving, failing, and hoping for something more. From this boat, we notice Jesus. He’s in the other boat. At first glance, he seems distant, even detached. Is he indifferent to the harsh unpredictability of life? We might think, with a tinge of sarcasm, “Is everything so heavenly to him?” But little do we realize that his life is as earthly as ours—marked by suffering, even death. He is no stranger to life’s burdens. Yet there he sits, calm and steady, distanced from the restless crowd and from the weary hearts of Simon, James, and John. Step 3: The Boat of Jesus And then Jesus speaks. Gently, he tells Simon: “Put out into the deep water and let down your nets for a catch.” Friends in Christ, this invitation is for us as well. But don’t get caught up in the image of overflowing nets and abundant fish. Instead, hear his call to put out into the deep waters of your own heart. Let down your nets—not for fish, but for breath. The Deep Waters of Silence As we sit in silence, breathing deeply, we find ourselves moving into the boat of Jesus. We begin to notice a quiet transformation within. The restless striving of the other boat falls away. In the stillness, we come to see life with clarity. And this is the transformation Jesus speaks of when he says: “From now on, you will be catching people.” This isn’t a command to change careers or take on a dramatic new mission. Rather, it’s about a change of perspective. As we go deeper into silence with Jesus, we see what matters most. Fish are for life. Materials are for people. Our culture worships material gain—fishing for the sake of fishing, acquiring for the sake of acquiring. But in the boat with Jesus, we see that these things are never an end in themselves. We fish for the sake of others. We live for the sake of others. This transformation doesn’t happen in our heads. It happens slowly, quietly, as we sit in Jesus’ boat—letting our hearts be shaped by his presence. So today, I invite you: put out into the deep waters of your own heart. Let down your nets of breath. Sit with Jesus in the quietude of his boat. Here and now, in this stillness, you are being changed. Let’s get in the boat with Jesus. Come, sit with Jesus. The feast of the Presentation is not a familiar tradition that all Christians follow. The Presentation of the Lord in the Temple, as practiced in Judaism during the time of Jesus, refers to the observance of two key rituals prescribed in the Torah.
The first is the purification ritual of a mother who has recently given birth (Leviticus 12). If the child is male, the purification process lasts 40 days. If the child is female, it lasts 80 days. This idea of purification is based on their conception of blood as life (Leviticus 17:11). The process of childbirth, while life-giving, involves blood loss, which may symbolize a crossing of boundaries between life and death. The second ritual refers to the Exodus story, particularly Exodus 12:12-13; 13:2, 12-15, regarding the redemption of the firstborn male child and animal: “I will pass through the land of Egypt that night, and I will strike down every firstborn in the land of Egypt, from human to animal, and on all the gods of Egypt I will execute judgments: I am the Lord. The blood shall be a sign for you on the houses where you live: when I see the blood, I will pass over you, and no plague shall destroy you when I strike the land of Egypt.” The firstborn male child (as well as animal) is then considered holy and belongs to God and requires redemption through an offering. Both rituals have two things in common. The symbol of blood is used to represent life: life given to the newborn child and lost in the purification ritual, and life to be redeemed from God’s judgment. The other commonality is that both the mother and the firstborn male child are “presented” in the temple, which is a physical symbol of God’s presence. In the temple, Mary and Jesus are presented as both pure and holy. We may be tempted to interpret today’s Gospel lesson merely as a story that confirms Jesus’ messiahship. In doing so, we may find comfort and assurance that we are on the right side. This interpretation is acceptable as long as it helps one act and live skillfully, benefiting others without causing harm. But what if we turn this lesson into something personally relevant to our lives? What if this isn’t really about Jesus and Mary but about you in the place of Jesus and you in the place of Mary? What if this lesson calls upon us to examine whether we ourselves are presentable to God’s presence? What if we ask ourselves, “What is one way that I can be presentable and present to God’s presence in my daily life?” Reflecting on the lesson from the prophetic words of Malachi in the Hebrew Bible, we look no further for the presence of God or the external form of the temple. We already have the temple within, in which the Lord whom we seek will suddenly come as we become aware of God’s breath entering us and endure God’s coming. The act of breathing in and out is like the work of a refiner or a fuller. Breath is like fire or soap. That which is to be presentable to the holy must also be holy, and the way to refine it is to purify it with what is already holy. For us, that’s the Breath of God enfleshed in our very own breath to which we are present. The incarnation is bodily and real, happening right here and right now as Christ is breathed in you. Through the rhythm of our breath, we become present and presentable to God. How should we interpret the following saying of Jesus from this morning’s lesson: “Today this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing”? What is this scripture? It comes from the Book of Isaiah, which Jesus reads from the scroll in the synagogue. Is he referring to himself when he reads, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me…has anointed me…has sent me”? Certainly, he applies the “me” in the text to himself.
But that is not the whole story. His proclamation that “this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing” can also mean that the prophetic words of Isaiah are meant to be applied to you. I invite you to read the Isaiah passage that Jesus reads and apply it to yourself, allowing the “me” to refer not to Jesus, but to you. See how it feels to read, recite, and reflect in this way. Nevertheless, this is not the end of the practice. Embody it through your breathing. The Spirit of the Lord is upon you. The Breath of YHWH, breathing in and out, is literally, physiologically, and spiritually both upon and within you. Today, this scripture has been fulfilled in your hearing of breathing! About five years ago, I shared a line from Alexander Pope’s poem that has stayed with me: “The conscious water saw its lover and blushed.” Every time I hear the gospel passage of Jesus turning water into wine, these words return to me. They capture something essential about the story—not so much the mechanics of how the miracle occurred, but the profound transformation it symbolizes. Pope’s line suggests that the water recognized something extraordinary, something that stirred it to change. In a way, the verse speaks to a truth about spiritual transformation: that encountering love can evoke a response as natural and mysterious as a blush. Yet for many Christians today, perhaps we have lost that ability to “blush” at encountering the divine within.
In thinking about the water’s transformation into wine, there’s an analogy to be drawn between the process of winemaking and the journey of spiritual growth. Winemaking is, in many ways, a dance with oxygen—a process that involves carefully balancing oxygen exposure depending on the desired complexity, freshness, and character of the wine. This interplay is crucial, as too much oxygen can ruin the wine, while just the right amount at the right time enhances its flavors and depth. The careful control of oxygen, therefore, determines whether the wine matures into something balanced and remarkable or spoils before reaching its full potential. Similarly, our own spiritual and existential transformation requires a delicate balance of “oxygen”—the life-giving breath we draw. Just as oxygen affects the wine, our breath connects us to the present moment, to ourselves, to the world around us, and to the presence of God. Controlling our breath, much like winemakers control oxygen, can guide us through different states, helping us remain aware and adaptive as we respond to our mental and physical needs. When we feel anxious and nervous, for example, taking slow, deliberate breaths can ground us, calming the nervous system. Within that slowing down, we create a space to observe our inner state, connecting to ourselves more deeply. Other times, when we’re tired and in need of energy, short, invigorating breaths can awaken our senses and revitalize us, much like a quick splash of oxygen can open up a wine’s aromas and flavors. These varied breathing practices are, in a sense, acts of “self-fermentation”—moments when we engage with our inner self, assessing what we need to grow skillfully, to age gracefully, to gain discernment and depth. In this practice of breathing, we can begin to imagine ourselves as water being transformed, as wine maturing to perfection. By staying connected to the breath and present to each moment, we are, like the water in the gospel story, able to respond to the “lover”—to the divine presence—within and around us. This attentiveness helps us gradually shed old layers, habits, and identities, aging and refining our character. We become a unique vintage, shaped by our encounters, our spiritual practices, and our willingness to change. Just as winemaking is a delicate process, so is the transformation of the mind and body. It requires patience, intention, and the right conditions—solitude, community, prayer, and moments of breath-centered reflection. Each breath, when taken with awareness, becomes a small step in our fermentation, a part of the process that leads us closer to becoming our truest, most skillful selves. Through this slow, attentive journey, we become capable of truly blushing again at the sight of our divine lover, responding with awe and gratitude to the transformation taking place within us. John the Baptist does something profoundly similar to Joseph in his relationship to Jesus. Just as Joseph breaks away from the conventions of tribal loyalty by accepting the divine call to protect Jesus and Mary, John distances himself from familial familiarity, recognizing a divine purpose within his cousin. While Joseph steps into his role as protector by embracing an unconventional obedience, John reorients his relationship to Jesus by transcending the ordinary bonds of family, seeing Jesus not merely as his relative, but as the one through whom the kingdom of God is to be revealed.
In declaring Jesus “the one who is more powerful than I,” John sets aside any temptation to reduce Jesus to the identity of “just a cousin” or an ordinary family member. He willingly embraces the countercultural view that Jesus’ identity surpasses biological ties, recognizing a sacredness in his cousin that he feels called to honor and serve, not to limit or claim ownership over. John’s profound act of humility and recognition contrasts with the common human tendency to define our family members based on our familiarity with them. How often do we truly consider our loved ones as bearers of divine purpose, or as those worthy of reverence and respect? In our own lives, we may struggle to acknowledge the potential or greatness within those closest to us, often because we convince ourselves we know who they are—flaws and all—and dismiss the possibility that they might hold a unique calling or role beyond what we see. John’s recognition of Jesus calls us to transcend our own familiarity and biases, inviting us to look upon those we know best with fresh eyes, open to the mystery and potential within them that we may have overlooked. How do we view our family members and friends, those we know so well and are so accustomed to? We may think we know exactly who they are, and that belief might give us a sense of comfort. But do we ever anticipate their change, growth, maturity, and transformation? This lack of expectation for others’ transformation might mirror our own lack of anticipation for change within ourselves. Do we ever expect ourselves to be transformed? If not, it’s likely we don’t expect it of others either. To shift this mindset, to break open our resistance to spiritual maturity, we must change the way we see ourselves. We must see ourselves as capable of growth and always becoming a more skillful, authentic version of who we are. This journey requires solitude. In solitude—stripped of the masks we wear, the images we create, and the labels others place on us—we learn to see ourselves anew. This is the sacred space where we can hear the voice from heaven at Jesus’s baptism: “You are my beloved. With you, I am well pleased.” To hear this quiet, inner voice of grace, we confront and go beyond our inner critic, that judgmental self-talk of perfectionism. We face ourselves not as fixed and unchanging but as beings in constant growth. We also reflect on what we’re feeding into our self-image. What thoughts, feelings, and images are we taking in that shape our sense of self? Before becoming anything or anyone, we first become the breath itself—grounded, present, open. Whenever we hear the loving voice of grace, our baptismal nature is renewed. As we are rejuvenated, so too are others continually renewed. No matter how well we think we know someone, we must recognize that they, too, are constantly transforming. Likewise, no matter how well we think we know ourselves, we may not—and perhaps should not—hold too tightly to that certainty. Our baptismal nature calls us to be in a constant state of becoming, growing ever more skillful as we discern from the depths of contemplation, patterned by the breath of God moving through our own breath. We know little about Joseph personally, but we do see how he changes his heart in the nativity story of Jesus. His actions throughout the Gospel consistently reveal a radical path that challenges traditional notions of family and belonging. How does he do this? By choosing to protect and care for Jesus and Mary despite his lack of biological connection to them, Joseph goes against the grain of familialism and family collectivism. In a culture where identity was deeply rooted in bloodlines—a notion still prevalent today—Joseph breaks away from the norm, prioritizing his calling over genetic ties. His choice broadens our understanding of family as one grounded in commitment and purpose rather than in biological inheritance or familiarity. The Church has historically recognized and honored this unique family, calling them the Holy Family.
Joseph’s example points to a vision of community that transcends kinship, modeling what the early Church would come to embody: a “community of the Other.” Just as Joseph was called to care for a child who was not of his bloodline, the Church is envisioned as a gathering of strangers—individuals biologically unrelated yet united by a shared purpose. It is a community not defined by ethnicity, culture, or race, but by an openness to the “Other.” We are called to care for one another, not out of natural familiarity, but from intentional compassion and commitment—a willingness to “care deeply” about those who may be entirely different from ourselves. (Ask yourself, “Where is your kindness coming from towards people like me and my family, who are culturally and ethnically so different from you?”) This vision of community is radical in its nature, but it should not be confused with political movements like Communism or socialism. Unlike these ideologies, which may prioritize collective ownership or enforced unity, the community Joseph models and that the Church envisions is built on the conscious choice and decision-makingof each individual. It is a voluntary gathering, a “new society” formed not by forced equality but by genuine acceptance and commitment to those who are different. Each person is free to come and contribute, not out of coercion but out of a conscious choice to care for others as a calling rather than a requirement. This new kind of society also challenges our human tendency toward tribalism—the comfort we often find with those who share our background, culture, or race. Joseph’s choice shows us that genuine community can be formed even among those who are “total others,” united not by superficial similarities but by an understanding of shared purpose and love. It is an invitation to embrace and care for strangers, not because they mirror our identities but because they share in our humanity. In choosing the unfamiliar path, Joseph exemplifies a community built on commitment and radical inclusivity, reminding us that true family and community go beyond the familiar boundaries of blood and culture. In this way, Joseph’s life calls us to embrace a higher calling of unity—one rooted in acceptance, compassion, and a willingness to care for others, not because we are alike, but because we are so different and are thus equally valued and equally loved by God. This radical acceptance is not simply an intellectual exercise. If it is, it’s to fail and should fail right away. We’re wasting our time here. It must be based on a spiritual discipline. Through contemplative practice, specifically focusing on the Breath of God, we can begin to un-familiarize ourselves with our own identities, transcending the labels and default associations we often cling to. When we sit in quietude, allowing the Breath of God to breathe in and out, we encounter the mystery of our own being and become “Other” to ourselves. This inner distance from our familiar identities creates space for self-compassion, as we regard ourselves with the respect and dignity we often reserve for strangers. In this way, we become both stranger and beloved to ourselves, treating the self with the same gentleness we would extend to an unfamiliar friend. This contemplative experience shifts our understanding of something as simple as breathing. What we often perceive as a mechanical act—air moving into our lungs—transforms into an experience of the Breath of God, enlivening and sustaining life itself. Each breath becomes sacred, a moment of connection to the divine presence within and around us. As we deepen our awareness through this embodied practice, our capacity to see and accept others as they are—without using them to reinforce our sense of comfort or feed our puffed ego—expands. We are invited to encounter others as true “Others,” not extensions of our own identity or sources of familiar security, but as beings worthy of care and compassion in their own right. Joseph’s story, then, is not only about his courageous choices but also an invitation for us to expand our understanding of family, community, and self. His example shows us that genuine community is built through an intentional, spiritual commitment to the unfamiliar and the unknown, founded on one’s conscious choice and willingness and grounded in the contemplative act of breathing with God. It is in this sacred, inner space that we can dismantle our ego-driven boundaries and embrace a vision of family and community based on radical love, self-compassion, and reverence for the Other as a reflection of the divine breath that animates us all. |
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
January 2025
|