I’ve always found it amazing that Jesus never says to his disciples the straightforward and bumper stickery words “I love you” or “I will always love you” (a la Dolly Parton’s song). Why doesn’t Jesus say, “I love you”?

Well, actually he does, but in particular ways. He says, “As the Father loves me, so I love you” (John 15:9) thereby rooting his love for us in the space of the Holy Trinity. This week he commands, “Love another as I have loved you” (John 13:34). He presents his love for us as a completed action which continues into the present moment. How has he loved us? By becoming one of us, one with us, and finally giving his life for us in his suffering on the cross. We weren’t there when he did that, but neither were his Apostles (except one). Still, that action is his great “I love you” to us.

A few years back, I felt as if I couldn’t hear God’s voice the way I used to. The words in the Bible seemed like cold ink on a page. Prayer felt like sitting anxiously in a lonely room. I was worried — how could I, a priest, preach or help others if I couldn’t hear God’s voice? It went on for months.

I eat breakfast. If I don’t have something substantial, I’m fading by midmorning. Breakfast is my key meal because it sets up my physical wellbeing for the rest of the day.

Spiritually speaking, we need sustenance to get us going. This is true for the Apostles in this Sunday’s remarkable Gospel reading. The risen Jesus makes his third appearance to them in the early morning light and calls, “Come, have breakfast” (John 21:12). The exhausted and cold fishermen sit, and he feeds them bread and fish as the dawn breaks.

It’s common for Catholics to hear the question, “Why do I have to go to a priest to have my sins forgiven?” I’ve never liked that question because not only is it clunky (confession is the ordinary way for the pardoning of serious sins, not lesser ones). But it misses the larger context: the wonderful origins of the sacrament itself. And this context is deeply Jewish.

When I was a young boy, my parents told me about their wedding. Then a few years later, they showed me my mother’s wedding dress and my dad’s suit. It was astonishing to see and touch garments that connected me to the event that led to my existence. Of course, I already believed they were married based on their word. But these holy garments made the event real and tangible for me.

Consider how useless it is to spread your clothes on the ground for a donkey to walk on. The clothes get smeared with hooves, and who knows the grimy places where they’ve been? The animal may leave some unsavory presents on them. They may get stolen by a thief looking to make a buck. The thorns, thistles, rocks and muck of the road will leave stains. The clothes may never be useful again, and you’ll probably walk home shivering without your normal covering. Yet this is precisely the gesture the people employ to welcome Jesus and his donkey. Why does this detail matter?

“The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery and made her stand in the middle” (John 8:3). Why do they make her stand in the middle? Why not expose her on the periphery? The reason is something that affects us practically every day.

The center is what stabilizes a community’s identity. We humans tend to center ourselves around an accused and condemned victim — though we rarely admit it. This renews our fragile communities and our power as those who weaponize the accusation. This is effective because it is often a victim who represents something truly dangerous for the group.