Around the time that the gold rushes ended in the nineteenth-century West, a curious phenomenon arose in New England known as money diggers. These were men who roamed the countryside with shovels, divining rods, and superstitious hope, convinced that treasure lay buried beneath their feet. Surely there must be gold under our feet. But there was not. The craze of these wild goose chases caused many to lose farms, families, and sanity.

A man recently told me he was losing patience with the Church. "It's supposed to be God's Kingdom on earth," he said, "but it's full of contradictions and hypocrisy. Why can't the Church just be better?" That last word landed with a judgmental thud. It hurt. Because at times the Church can look painfully ordinary, even disappointing.

Sometimes I feel capable of absorbing almost anything except God's Word. My mind soaks up song lyrics, sports trivia, and endless online content. But what was the reading at Mass this morning? I struggle to recall. That realization discourages me, and it leads to an uncomfortable question. What is my heart really for?

This weekend, our nation celebrates the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Unlike most nations, the United States was not founded primarily on a shared ethnicity, language, or culture. Instead, our founders built a political community out of diverse peoples united by a shared vision of liberty. That vision echoes something deep in the Christian mystery revealed in today's Gospel.

I still remember the first homily I ever preached as a new deacon. It was at the seminary, and the Gospel was this one: "Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." (Matthew 10:37-38) Standing before more than 200 classmates and professors, I stumbled awkwardly through my words and realized how strange - almost insane - this teaching sounded. If anyone else said it, we would call it narcissistic or cultish.

Jean Améry, a Holocaust survivor tortured by the Nazis, later wrote about the abyss of human evil. He described his reaction as an "indignant despair." Haven't we all, to some degree, felt that abyss opened beneath us? A sudden loss, a violent headline, a moment of loneliness or panic, when the world feels fragile and meaning seems to collapse?

A few years ago, I met a woman in my parish who was a successful lawyer. Yet in her free time, she poured her energy into a nonprofit she founded to advocate for children with special needs. When I asked what inspired her, she spoke of her niece, who was born with disabilities. Her niece was both a glorious gift and a constant challenge.

When I was a young altar server, I once overheard two very different comments about the Eucharist. One person asked, "Is Father distributing the bread or the wine?" Later, another asked, "Can you go get Jesus from the tabernacle?" Same parish, same Mass, but two very different ways of speaking. I pondered: So, is it bread that we pretend is Jesus? Or is Jesus a tiny white thing in a box? I was utterly confused.

I was 16 years old on a youth group retreat in the mountains. One night, I opened my heart to the message being proclaimed: that God so loved the world that He sent His Son for us. Later, I lay under the pine trees and looked up at the countless stars. They seemed different.

“He breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. Whose sins you forgive are forgiven them, and whose sins you retain are retained.’” (John 20:22–23)

For those of us who go to confession regularly, there is often a familiar frustration: “Why do I keep confessing the same sins?” It can feel like a loop, cleansed but unchanged.

Not long after my brother’s first child was born, a beautiful little girl named Mary Elise, I asked him what it was like. Was he nervous? Overwhelmed? He said, “When I first held her, I was in such shock. I think I just said, ‘I am your dad. I am your dad.’” That moment marked a deep transformation for him. He was not just holding a baby; he was stepping into a new identity.

In my family, we can hardly speak about orphans without tears. My father was adopted as a baby. He frequently told us stories of how his parents welcomed him not just into their home but into their hearts. It was never merely a relocation or a legal transaction. It was the joy of being chosen, of receiving a family, a name, and a place where he belonged forever. Even in his later years, recalling that gift still moves him to tears of tender gratitude.

We generally approach life with the question, “What can this do for me?” We try a new workout, a low-carb diet, intermittent fasting, or a new career path, hoping it will make us healthier, stronger, happier. The assumption is that if I invest in this, I’ll eventually reap some benefit, or I won’t do it.