Sin isn’t given its due these days. Downplaying sin is dangerous. But there is also another spiritual misstep in which we make way too big a deal out of sin. It happens, for example, when we persistently wonder if our confessed sins are “really” forgiven, or suspiciously ponder what God “really” thinks about us, behind His merciful face. Or when someone returns to Church, and we question whether his or her conversion was genuine. Or when we commit some sin and put on a sad face for days, thinking, “Maybe my sins are too great for God to deal with.” God save us from that attitude!

Right now, you and I are only worried about one of only two things: wind or water. Bear with me. This week we hear the account of the terrified disciples waking Jesus in a sea-storm. He chastises them for their lack of faith, and then, “rebuking the wind, he said to the sea, ‘Quiet, be still!’” He rebukes the wind and stills the water. In the Bible wind and water represent the two most fundamental poles of our experience of creation. Wind means heaven, spirit, that which gives identity, unity, order, light. Water stands for earth, variation, potential, that which can be drawn into identity, darkness, chaos.

How does a seminarian prepare for theology classes? He could begin right away, but there are many underlying principles that need to be understood before even delving into the supernatural aspects of Divine Revelation. The Jewish people received preparation from the Law and the Prophets. The Gentiles, especially those of Greek and Roman cultures, were instead prepared by philosophy. Clement of Alexandria (c.150-215 AD), in his book The Stromata, described philosophy as The Handmaid of Theology, and its role is investigation into truth and the nature of things...[T]he preparatory training for rest in Christ exercises the mind, rouses the intelligence, and begets an inquiring shrewdness.

Propaedeutic (proh-pe-doo-tik) is a term to describe preliminary instruction. The word comes from the Greek pro, meaning “before”, and paideuein, meaning “to teach”. This stage is an introduction to the seminary community, to the surrounding diocese, and to the formation process. The Program of Priestly Formation states that this stage should lay a foundation for a new way of life by developing a life of prayer, study, fraternity, and appropriate docility to formation and should last a minimum of 1 year to a maximum of 3 years. This stage – in fact every stage – centers on intense vocational discernment being made within a community.

My mother and father fell in love with each other rather quickly. It was only a span of two months between their first meeting and quiet betrothal. They waited for a significant period of time before going public with the happy news. It simply wasn’t time. Love’s strength and speed can sprout scandal in public. Until the big reveal, they gave the outside world only little hints, gestures, and riddles.

Jesus asks us a stunning question this week: “How can Satan cast out Satan?” To enter into this question opens up the often-hidden dynamics of what Jesus has done and is constantly doing. If we’re honest, our response to some degree is: “How else can we cast him out? Satan is precisely how we cast out Satan!” But Jesus wants us to see this finally does not work. Here’s what I mean.

Every person is given a special mission by God when he is created. Sometimes, this mission is immediately recognized at some point during the person’s life, and other times it must be slowly discerned and understood over years of prayer. All seminarians, in discerning the call to the ministerial priesthood, must be prepared to accept this great task. This period of preparation in a seminary can take anywhere from 7 to 10 years and can be categorized into three specific stages: Propaedeutic, Discipleship, and Configuration. The overall goal of seminary formation is not only to prepare a man for priesthood, but to configure the man’s heart to the Sacred Heart of Christ, the true High Priest. The rector at my seminary summed up the stages well when he said, “In the propaedeutic stage, we form the man. In the discipleship stage, we form the Christian. In the configuration stage, we form the priest.”

The best way to understand the Eucharist is to recall God’s long, careful teaching process beginning in the Old Testament. This week in Exodus 24, we learn the basic pattern. Moses reads the dictates of God’s law to the people, who profess their allegiance to it. Then Moses takes representatives of Israel’s twelve tribes and splashes the sacrificed blood of animals in two directions: on the altar and on the people. It’s clear and serious business: clear, because the participants are entering a blood-bond with God Himself; serious, because the dead animals symbolize the life-and death stakes at play.

Once I was at a meeting with representatives of various religions. On a coffee break, a man from another religion mused to me: “You know, with all our differences, all religions are really about being good people.” I lowered my cappuccino and said as warmly as I could, “That’s not what mine’s about.” His quizzical look begged for clarification. “Mine is about plunging into the life of God,” I said.

When I was twenty-two years of age in August of 2000, I experienced World Youth Day in Rome. As for many of my generation, the event was life-changing for me. Surrounded by joyful, hope-filled young people from seemingly every nation and tongue, we were gathered around the Pope, sharing a common Faith and love. The Pope spoke to us of our shared family bond in the Church and invited us to give our lives in service to others. Now twenty-four years later, my life as a priest, like that of so many others from those special days, continues on that same path of love and unity — despite my many weaknesses. What makes that continuation possible?

A few months ago, I had the singular privilege of a private meeting with Pope Francis. We were a small group of pastors, composed largely of non-Catholics. The Holy Father wished to discuss our work for Christian unity. The phrase I remember him saying with greatest frequency was: Tutti dentro. It means, “Everyone in.” He clearly wanted us to emphasize that the Church is made for the whole human race, not a select few. At the center of his concern was unity. We are all brothers and sisters, he said multiple times. The Church’s primary longing is for everyone to join Her.

Once a man came to the Vatican and asked to see Pope John Paul II, claiming that they had been friends in Poland. When told of the man, the Pope said, “He is mistaken about our friendship. I don’t recall ever having suffered with him.” As it turned out, the man had never known the Pope. Now, I’m not sure if the story is totally factual. But doesn’t the juxtaposition of suffering with friendship sound exactly like JPII? He understood that the deepest and most lasting friendships are forged in the fires of shared suffering. No suffering, no friendship. Amazing.

My friend and fellow pastor, Father Paul, noticed unsightly, overgrown trees near his parish church. He asked the maintenance crew to cut back the growth, which they happily did, telling him the trees would be much healthier and even fuller after a good pruning. A few days later, Father Paul received a letter from an irate man in the neighborhood who wrote, “Jesus would never prune trees like that. He loves trees, unlike you.”

Recently I was with my little dog Libby at a retreat center in the Arizona desert. I sat in a chair near a ravine filled with shrubs. Unbeknownst to me, Libby wandered down there and disappeared. Suddenly an animal’s wild shriek erupted from the area. Without thinking, I bolted down into the ravine fully expecting to see coyotes, javelinas, or rattlesnakes. I didn’t care. I desperately wanted to get Libby out of there, without any selfregard. Before I could face whatever danger lay hidden, my dog blissfully trotted out from an entirely different area, utterly unaware that I had (quite heroically) just placed my life on the line.

When I was a kid, a friend at my home parish told me, “If you get to Mass by the Gospel reading, it counts!” As a lifelong late-arriver, it’s something I have told myself many times, especially in my earlier years as a Catholic. If the “it counts” is justifiable on a pathetically minimal scale of liturgical legalism, then the Gospel reading today shows how insanely wrong-headed it is, and how helpful it is to re-think the Mass in its light.

A protestant pastor friend of mine was invited to meet Pope Francis with a group of other pastors. He noticed the Pope’s chair was especially ornate and set at the head of the group. He somewhat playfully said, “Holy Father, why do you get that special chair?” The group chuckled nervously at my friend’s audacious chide.