When Sanctity is Slow: Finding Peace in Waiting

When my family entered the Catholic Church, one lesson surprised me more than most: everything takes time.

Our parish OCIA (Order of Christian Initiation for Adults) stretched over eighteen months before we were able to be received. The patience required was real, and at times exhausting. But as I’ve continued to walk in the life of the Church, I’ve discovered that this slow pace is not an accident. Formation programs often begin with a year of discernment. Parish initiatives unfold at a measured rhythm. Even reforms within the universal Church move at what feels like a glacial pace.

Why? Why is sanctity slow?

The answer, I’ve come to believe, is not simply “bureaucracy.” Rather, there is hidden wisdom in the Church’s unhurried way: wisdom rooted in Scripture, expressed in the Catechism, and embodied by the saints. Waiting is not wasted. It is formative. And it mirrors the patterns of our own souls.

The Pattern of Waiting in Scripture

The story of salvation is written in waiting.

• Abraham and Sarah waited decades for the fulfillment of God’s promise in Isaac (Genesis 21:1–2).

• Israel waited four hundred years in Egypt before deliverance came through Moses (Exodus 12:40–41).

• The prophets cried out generation after generation for the coming Messiah.

• And even after Christ’s Resurrection, the Apostles were told to wait in Jerusalem for the coming of the Holy Spirit (Acts 1:4).

Waiting, in Scripture, is rarely passive. It is the soil where trust, obedience, and perseverance take root. As St. Paul reminds us: “We rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope” (Romans 5:3–4).

The Catechism captures this beautifully: “Hope is the confident expectation of divine blessing… it responds to the aspiration to happiness which God has placed in the heart of every man” (CCC 1818). Waiting trains the heart in hope.

The Church’s Slow Pace

The Catholic Church has lived for two thousand years. For an institution that thinks in centuries, slowness is a form of fidelity.

The Catechism notes that growth in holiness is gradual: “The way of perfection passes by way of the Cross. There is no holiness without renunciation and spiritual battle” (CCC 2015). This doesn’t happen in a weekend retreat or a six-week course. It unfolds over years, often hidden and quiet.

Consider how the Church handles discernment:

• The Rite of Christian Initiation asks for months, sometimes years, of catechesis and apprenticeship in faith.

• Marriage preparation includes intentional conversations, assessments, and spiritual formation.

• Vocations to priesthood or consecrated life require years of seminary, novitiate, and ongoing discernment.

This rhythm can frustrate those of us raised in a culture of instant answers and quick solutions. Yet the Church insists: deep roots take time to grow.

The Hidden Wisdom of Delay

So what is the hidden wisdom in all this waiting?

1. Formation, not just information

Faith is not simply about learning doctrines. It is about becoming a disciple. To “put on Christ” (Romans 13:14) requires more than study. It takes lived experience, prayer, and gradual transformation. The slowness allows truths to seep from the head to the heart.

2. Discernment over impulse

In a fast-moving world, many choices are made hastily. The Church teaches us to pause, reflect, and seek the Spirit’s guidance. As St. Ignatius of Loyola insisted, discernment requires noticing interior movements, testing spirits, and confirming choices in peace. That cannot be rushed.

3. Communal rhythm

The Church’s calendar itself is slow. Advent is four weeks. Lent is forty days. The liturgy unfolds with deliberate gestures and silences. In all this, the Church reminds us that we are not individuals sprinting alone, but a people learning to move together.

4. Imitation of God’s patience

St. Peter tells us: “The Lord is not slow about His promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you” (2 Peter 3:9). God’s patience is mercy. The Church mirrors that patience, allowing time for repentance, healing, and growth.

Witness of the Saints

The saints confirm this wisdom.

• St. Monica prayed for her son Augustine for over 17 years before he returned to God. Her perseverance bore fruit that changed the world.

• St. Francis de Sales counseled: “Have patience with all things, but chiefly with yourself. Do not lose courage in considering your own imperfections but instantly set about remedying them—every day begin the task anew.”

• St. Teresa of Ávila endured years of interior dryness before receiving the visions that would shape her reform.

Their lives testify: holiness is not instant. Sanctity is slow, but sure.

The Peace That Comes in Waiting

For those of us who want sanctity now, this lesson is hard. We want our families healed, our habits changed, our parishes renewed—quickly. But Christ calls us to trust.

The Catechism again reminds us: “Patience is not passive endurance but the power to sustain faith, hope, and charity despite trials” (paraphrasing CCC 1832 on the fruits of the Spirit). To live patiently is to live in freedom, knowing God’s timing is perfect even when ours is not.

In my own journey, I’ve begun to see waiting as a sacrament of trust. Each delay, each season of apparent slowness, is an invitation to lean on Christ more fully.

Conclusion: Embracing Slow Sanctity

So yes, things in the Catholic Church take time. OCIA feels long. Discernment is extended. Reforms are deliberate. But hidden in that slowness is the wisdom of God:

• A God who trains His people in patience.

• A God who forms disciples through time, not just instruction.

• A God whose saints teach us that holiness is never hurried.

Sanctity is slow, but it is also steady, sure, and lasting.

If you find yourself waiting, take courage. This is not wasted time. This is sacred time, where Christ shapes you in His image. And when the day of fulfillment comes, you will find that the waiting itself was part of the gift.

Forgiveness at the Foot of the Altar

 

Forgiveness at the Foot of the Altar

The blood of children spilled before the altar. There are no words that can soften such a horror, no easy answers for the shock that gripped me when I first heard about the Michigan Catholic School Mass shooting. The church, meant to be a sanctuary of peace, of innocence, of Eucharistic presence, became a place of terror. Nothing feels more heinous than violence desecrating the very space where Christ offers His body for the life of the world. My first thoughts spiraled into grief and anger. How could this be? How could God allow this? And beneath that anguish came the sharper edge: How could I ever forgive the one who did it?

It was precisely in that spiral that God interrupted me. The thought came unbidden: I love him too. It startled me. Not the victims. Of course God loves them, of course His heart breaks with theirs. But the shooter? The one whose hands shed innocent blood? To hear God’s voice remind me that He loved this young man shook me. And so began a battle in my own heart: could I allow myself to see him not only as a murderer, but also as a lost son, still beloved by the Father? Could I separate the sick, sinful actions from the soul Christ died for?

Scripture does not make this easy, but it makes it unavoidable. The Lord tells Moses, “I will be gracious to whom I will be gracious, and will show mercy on whom I will show mercy” (Exodus 33:19). Jesus echoes this radical freedom in the Sermon on the Mount: “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you” (Matthew 5:44). And the Catechism teaches us plainly: “It is not in our power not to feel or to forget an offense; but the heart that offers itself to the Holy Spirit turns injury into compassion and purifies the memory in transforming the hurt into intercession” (CCC 2843). Forgiveness, then, is not excusing evil. It is obedience: Obedience to a God who dares to pour mercy even where we would rather withhold it.

So I found myself before the Blessed Sacrament, wrestling, rosary in hand. Anger still rose in my chest, but I chose to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet for him. For his soul, for his family, for the unfathomable wounds behind such a crime. Not because I felt like it, but because God asked me to. Each bead became an act of surrender: For the sake of His sorrowful Passion, have mercy on us and on the whole world. Forgiveness, I am learning, is not sentiment but obedience. It is trusting that God’s justice and God’s mercy are not in competition but in union. And in that act of prayer, trembling though it was, I realized: even here, even for him, Christ’s mercy is big enough.

The Bible Isn’t a Puzzle. It’s a Portrait

Some people approach Scripture like it’s a riddle to decode. They pore over word counts, cross-references, secret numerologies. They read the prophets like stock forecasts and Revelation like a cosmic escape room.

But the Bible was never meant to be a logic puzzle.
It was meant to reveal a Person.

The Word Was Made Flesh, Not Flashcards

When St. Jerome said, "Ignorance of Scripture is ignorance of Christ," he didn’t mean that failing to solve the Book of Numbers made you a bad Christian.
He meant that the Scriptures reveal who Jesus is.

From Genesis to Revelation, the Bible is a portrait of God's heart. A mosaic of covenants. A series of encounters. Not a spreadsheet of rules or a theological labyrinth.

Yes, the Bible contains law. And poetry. And apocalyptic visions. But each page is grounded in something deeper: a God who reveals Himself not in riddles, but in relationship.

The Catechism reminds us that "In Sacred Scripture, the Church constantly finds her nourishment and her strength" (CCC 131). Scripture doesn’t just inform us. It feeds us.

What Changes When You Read It Like a Portrait?

You stop asking, "What does this verse mean in isolation?" and start asking, "What does this reveal about God’s nature?"

You start to see:

• The mercy behind the miracles

• The tenderness behind the commandments

• The patience behind the prophets

You read Exodus and see rescue. You read the Psalms and hear longing. You read Isaiah and feel a God who refuses to abandon His people.

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter if you’ve memorized the genealogies. You’re meeting Someone. Not analyzing something.

Scripture Is Meant to Be Prayed

The Catechism tells us that "the Church forcefully and specifically exhorts all the Christian faithful... to learn the surpassing knowledge of Jesus Christ by frequent reading of the divine Scriptures. 'Ignorance of the Scriptures is ignorance of Christ.'" (CCC 133)

This is not a call to intellectual decoding.
It’s a call to intimacy.

When you read Scripture relationally, it becomes a place of encounter. Not performance.

You don’t have to understand everything you read.
You don’t have to parse every verb in Greek.
You just have to show up with your heart open.

That’s how love works.

What Kind of Portrait Is It?

It’s layered. Sometimes abstract. Sometimes hyper-detailed. Sometimes haunting. But always alive.

The Bible isn’t trying to be tidy. It’s trying to be true.

It reflects human longing, divine pursuit, cosmic tension, and real-world mess.
It tells of God speaking through donkeys, dreams, burning bushes, and broken people.

And at the center of this sacred portrait is a face: Jesus.

The Word made flesh.
The One the whole library points to.
The image of the invisible God (Colossians 1:15).

You can’t reduce Him to a diagram.
But you can fall in love.

Why Scripture Gets Misread

One reason people struggle with the Bible is because they expect it to behave like a textbook. But the Bible isn’t arranged by subject headings or step-by-step instructions.

Instead, it tells the story of a relationship over time. A story filled with beauty, betrayal, renewal, and promise.

When people isolate verses without understanding the broader narrative, they often misunderstand the tone or the purpose. Context isn’t a footnote—it’s part of the sacred meaning.

In Luke 24, Jesus walks with two disciples on the road to Emmaus. They don’t recognize Him at first. But He opens the Scriptures to them—and later, in the breaking of the bread, their eyes are opened. (Luke 24:13–35)

This isn’t just a charming post-Resurrection moment. It’s a model for how Scripture works:

• We walk with Christ.

• He explains what we didn’t understand.

• And through that encounter, we begin to see.

The Role of the Church in Reading Scripture

Reading the Bible doesn’t have to be a solo effort. In fact, it isn’t meant to be.

The Church, guided by the Holy Spirit, helps us read with clarity, continuity, and reverence.

As the Catechism teaches: “The task of interpreting the Word of God authentically has been entrusted solely to the Magisterium of the Church, that is, to the Pope and to the bishops in communion with him” (CCC 100).

This doesn’t mean you need a theology degree to pray the Bible. It means you have a trustworthy compass. The Church helps us stay within the frame of the portrait.

Let Scripture Form You

Too often, we approach the Bible asking, “How can I use this?”
But a better question is: “How can this form me?”

Hebrews 4:12 reminds us: “The word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword… discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.”

Scripture isn’t static. It’s alive.

If you let it, it will:

• Comfort you in seasons of grief

• Challenge you when you’re stuck

• Remind you who God is when the world forgets

• Recenter you when life gets noisy

You Don’t Have to Be an Expert to Be Transformed

The Gospel was first proclaimed to fishermen, tax collectors, widows, and wanderers. The Spirit didn’t wait for seminary credentials.

So don’t be afraid to open your Bible just as you are.

Let the Word wash over you.
Let it read you.
Let it bring you into the ongoing story of salvation.

Want to encounter God more personally through Scripture? Follow the full Face of God series or support its development at ko-fi.com/convertingtohope.

The Difference Between Faith That Starts and Faith That Stays

 

There’s a kind of beauty to beginning.
The spark of conversion. The moment grace breaks in. The first time the Gospel feels personal and electrifying.

But beginnings aren’t everything.

In fact, some of the most powerful, fruitful Catholics I know had very quiet beginnings—or none at all. Their faith wasn’t marked by a grand gesture. It was shaped by what they chose to keep doing, day after day, year after year.

The difference between faith that starts and faith that stays isn’t intensity.
It’s rootedness.

Sparks Fade. Roots Hold.

The early passion is good. It’s real. But it’s also designed to shift.
You aren’t meant to feel the same kind of spiritual rush forever.
God matures us through rhythms, not fireworks.

That’s why the Church doesn’t just celebrate feasts—she teaches us how to fast. She doesn’t just preach big emotions; she teaches us to pray the Liturgy of the Hours when we’re tired. She hands us seasons, sacraments, and silence.

Faith that stays is sacramental, not sentimental.
It doesn’t depend on a mood. It depends on a Person.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church affirms this deeply: “Faith is a personal act—the free response of the human person to the initiative of God who reveals himself” (CCC 166). It is not a one-time burst. It is a lifetime response.

What Staying Faith Looks Like

• It shows up at Mass even when the homily is dry.

• It prays a short psalm instead of nothing at all.

• It goes to Confession after one bad week—or ten.

• It starts again. And again. And again.

Staying faith is ordinary.
And that’s what makes it extraordinary.

Because while everyone loves a mountaintop moment, it’s the habit of returning that forms the soul.

Jesus Himself modeled this. Luke 5:16 tells us, “He would withdraw to deserted places and pray.” Not once. Not dramatically. But often. Quietly. Faithfully.

We are invited into that same rhythm.

Faith That Stays Is Relational

Staying faith doesn’t mean blind obedience.
It means trusting the One you’ve come to know.

Not as a concept. Not as a checklist. But as a Person.

When you really know someone, you don’t need constant fireworks to stay close. You share life. You listen. You wait. You walk.

God wants that kind of relationship with you.
The Church, in her rhythms and sacraments, is how He sustains it.

The Eucharist is the perfect example. Not a once-in-a-lifetime miracle, but a daily invitation. A steady presence. A place to return and receive.

The Catechism puts it plainly: “The Eucharist is the source and summit of the Christian life” (CCC 1324). Not just its high point, but its center of gravity.

So if you don’t feel the spark? If you feel like your faith has settled into something quieter?
That’s not failure.
That’s fidelity.

Why Emotional Experience Isn’t the Goal

There’s nothing wrong with feeling close to God. In fact, those consolations can be a gift. But emotional depth isn’t the measure of your holiness.

St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa of Avila, and even Mother Teresa went through seasons of dryness, sometimes for years. Their faith didn’t fade because their feelings did. Their faith endured because they stayed.

The saints weren’t sustained by enthusiasm. They were sustained by trust.

Faith isn’t about chasing the next spiritual high. It’s about building a life that keeps showing up for God, even when your heart feels quiet.

Faith and Formation Go Hand in Hand

One of the most important things we can do for staying faith is pursue formation. That means understanding not only what the Church teaches, but why.

When we study the Catechism, sacred scripture, the lives of the saints, and the writings of the Church Fathers, we’re giving our faith deep roots. Jesus told us in Matthew 7:24 that “Everyone who hears these words of mine and acts on them will be like a wise man who built his house on rock.”

Faith that stays is built on rock, not sand.
And that rock is truth.

Final Thought: You Are Not Alone in This

If your faith has gotten quieter lately, you are not less holy.
If you’ve grown less emotional but more committed, you are not drifting, you are deepening.
If you don’t know what to pray, but you still show up, that’s a kind of worship too.

St. Paul reminds us in 2 Timothy 4:7, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” Not because he always felt great. But because he endured.

Faith that starts is a grace.
Faith that stays is a witness.

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The Slow Bloom of the Sacred: Transcendence and the Journey of Faith

Many people come to the Catholic Church seeking something they can’t quite name. A sense of mystery. A sacred hush. The presence of God that breaks through the noise of everyday life. In a word: transcendence.

And so they go to Mass—maybe for the first time in years, or for the first time ever—hoping for awe, longing for God to feel near. But instead, they find something else: ritual. Repetition. Unfamiliar words and gestures. Standing, kneeling, sitting. A crowd that seems to know what they’re doing. A feeling of being out of sync.

And they wonder, quietly and painfully: Did I miss it? Is something wrong with me? Where was the sacred I came looking for?

The answer is: You didn’t miss it. But you’re not alone in feeling that way.

The Early Journey: Head Before Heart

In the early stages of faith—especially as a convert, seeker, or someone returning after a long absence—it’s common to feel more confusion than clarity at Mass. The words are strange. The prayers are rapid. The meaning behind the gestures and responses isn’t obvious.

And here’s the truth many cradle Catholics may forget: transcendence often doesn’t come in the ritual until the ritual becomes yours.

Until you’ve walked with the symbols—until you know why the priest lifts the host, why we strike our chests, why the liturgy echoes Scripture—it can feel like a foreign language. And awe rarely comes through something that feels foreign. Awe grows in familiarity. In fluency. In slow unfolding.

As the Catechism says, “The spiritual tradition of the Church... proposes the humble and trusting heart that enables us to turn and become like children: for it is to 'little children' that the Father is revealed” (CCC 2603). It takes humility to stay present in ritual that has not yet become meaningful. But God reveals Himself gently to those who wait.

So where does transcendence begin for many seekers? In the quiet.

God in the Quiet Corners

If you didn’t feel transported at Mass, don’t panic. That doesn’t mean your soul is closed or broken. It might just mean that, like many before you, you’re in the part of the journey where God meets you in quiet corners:

• In personal study of Scripture that suddenly glows with meaning

• In a late-night conversation that turns gently toward God

• In a question that won’t let go, and leads you deeper

• In the tear that comes while praying alone, not knowing why

These are not lesser forms of transcendence. They are the whispers before the thunder. The stirrings before the song.

The Catechism says, “God calls man first. Man may forget his Creator... yet the living and true God tirelessly calls each person to that mysterious encounter known as prayer” (CCC 2567). That encounter doesn’t always happen in the pew. Sometimes it happens while doing dishes. Sometimes while journaling. Sometimes while staring at the ceiling wondering what any of this means.

St. John Henry Newman once wrote, “We are not called to great deeds but to little acts of great love.” Sometimes, it is in the littlest acts—done with openness—that we encounter the transcendent. Not in thunderbolts, but in embers.

Liturgy as Deep Language

Over time, as you begin to understand the Mass—not just its movements but its meaning—you may begin to experience transcendence there too. When the readings begin to echo your private prayers. When the Eucharist feels like a returning home. When you find yourself weeping at a line you once overlooked.

The liturgy is like poetry: at first, it’s opaque. With time, it opens. And then it opens you.

But that takes time. It takes presence. And it takes a heart that’s willing to be changed slowly, from the inside out.

St. Augustine wrote, "Late have I loved you, Beauty so ancient and so new." The beauty of the liturgy is ancient. It can feel distant at first. But it waits patiently for your heart to arrive.

Final Thought: Sacredness Is Not on a Timer

If you came to Mass seeking transcendence and left with silence, trust this: God wastes nothing. He may be building your capacity to recognize Him, not in the obvious places, but in the ones that no one else can see.

And when you’re ready—when the symbols have become home and the rhythm has become prayer, the Mass may bloom for you in ways you never expected.

Until then, let Him meet you in your own life.

In the quiet. In the hunger. In the search.

That, too, is holy ground.

Praying with Your Hands: Sacredness in Cooking, Craft, and Care

In a world that often treats spirituality as something abstract—reserved for church pews or silent meditation—many of us forget that prayer can be tactile. It can be textured. It can smell like garlic and rosemary or feel like yarn slipping through fingers. It can happen while chopping onions, shaping dough, planting basil, or kneeling over a sewing project with aching shoulders and quiet breath.

This is not a lesser prayer. It is a liturgy of movement. It is holy.

The Theology of the Tactile

Catholicism has always honored the body. We mark ourselves with ashes. We kneel. We touch holy water. We taste bread and wine that becomes Body and Blood. In this Incarnational faith, God does not bypass matter—He enters it.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church reminds us that “the human body shares in the dignity of 'the image of God': it is a human body precisely because it is animated by a spiritual soul” (CCC 364). This unity of body and soul means that the work of the hands is not separate from the work of the heart.

In Laudato Si’, Pope Francis writes, “Our bodies are made of his elements, we breathe his air and we receive life and refreshment from his waters” (LS 2). God meets us in the physical. This truth doesn’t vanish when we enter the kitchen or garden—it deepens.

That means your hands can become instruments of prayer, not just when folded, but when engaged in creative, life-giving work.

Cooking for loved ones. Mending clothes. Arranging flowers. Cleaning your home with intention. These aren’t distractions from the spiritual life. They are the spiritual life. When offered with humility and presence, they become part of the “living sacrifice, holy and acceptable to God,” described in Romans 12:1.

Making Ordinary Work Sacred

This isn’t about productivity hacks or performative perfection. It’s about spiritual posture—a way of leaning inward and Godward while you move through the rhythms of daily life.

Here are a few ways to invite prayer into your work with your hands:

1. Begin with a blessing
Before you begin a task, offer it up: “Lord, let this work be fruitful and gentle. May it serve those I love.”

2. Use a repeated motion as a prayer anchor
Stirring, kneading, brushing, folding—these can be matched to breath prayers or the Jesus Prayer. Let your body guide you into rhythm.

3. Offer the work for someone
As you scrub dishes or knit a scarf, offer the action for a friend in need, a soul in purgatory, or someone you find difficult to love.

4. Invite silence
Not every moment needs to be filled with input. Let your hands move in quiet. In the hush, your soul might whisper its truest prayer.

5. Receive grace without needing to earn it
Let your work be an offering, not a transaction. Let it be grace made visible.

A Place in the Monastery

In the Monastery (our sub-brand here at Converting to Hope), we embrace this kind of embodied spiritual life. It’s not about hustle or perfection. It’s about rhythm, beauty, and attention—about sanctifying the ordinary through presence.

A loaf of bread can be a litany.
A batch of soup can be intercession.
A swept floor can be an act of love.

This is not sentimentality. It’s sacramental vision. God is not somewhere else waiting for you to be holier. He is here, woven into the grain of the everyday, waiting to be noticed.

As Gaudium et Spes affirms, “Nothing genuinely human fails to raise an echo in their hearts” (GS 1). Your domestic life—your labor of love—echoes back to the heart of God.

If you’d like more tools for building a rhythm of sacred work, we invite you to explore our spiritual journals and printable tools in the Monastery section of our Ko-fi shop.

Final Thought: Your Hands Remember

Even when your mind is tired or scattered, your hands remember. They know how to stir, fold, scrub, chop. They know how to serve and to shape. Let that be enough. Let it be prayer.

In the kitchen, at the sink, in the stillness of craft or care—this is where heaven and earth can meet.

God is not waiting for you to be still before He shows up. Sometimes, He is already beside you at the stove.

And that counts too.

The Burnout Gospel: How We Mistake Busyness for Faithfulness

Somewhere along the way, we started believing that God’s love had to be earned.

We know, theologically, that salvation is by grace. But emotionally? Spiritually? In practice? We keep score. We overextend. We serve until there’s nothing left. And we call it holy.

We call it faithfulness.

But what if it isn’t?

What if the Gospel we’re living isn’t the Gospel Jesus gave us, but a burnout gospel dressed up in Christian language?

The Burnout Gospel Speaks in Shoulds

You should volunteer more.
You should be doing something productive.
You should be able to push through.
You should feel grateful. Shouldn’t you?

This voice doesn’t sound like Christ. It sounds like pressure. It sounds like performance. And it’s the sound of a soul being hollowed out.

Real faith doesn’t demand exhaustion. It invites surrender.

When Devotion Becomes Self-Erasure

Some of us were taught that being “poured out” for others meant becoming invisible to ourselves. That true obedience looked like disappearing. We believed God was most pleased when we said yes to everything—even if it cost us our peace, our health, or our joy.

But there’s a difference between holy sacrifice and chronic self-abandonment.

Jesus does call us to lay down our lives, but never to despise them. The Gospel isn’t a story of burnout. It’s a story of belovedness.

The burnout gospel whispers: You are only as holy as you are helpful.
The true Gospel says: You are already loved.

Martha Wasn’t Rejected—But She Was Redirected

In Luke 10, Martha is busy preparing. She’s doing the expected thing—the culturally correct, socially responsible, sacrificial thing. And Jesus doesn’t shame her. But He does correct her:

“Martha, Martha, you are anxious and troubled about many things, but only one thing is necessary. Mary has chosen the better part.”

He’s not asking Martha to do more.
He’s asking her to come closer.

The burnout gospel tells you to hustle harder.
Jesus tells you to sit down.

More Than Martha: Burnout in Scripture

Martha isn’t the only one. Consider Elijah in 1 Kings 19. He calls down fire from heaven, defeats the prophets of Baal, then collapses under a broom tree and prays to die. Even after “winning,” he’s completely undone.

God doesn’t rebuke him. He feeds him. He lets him sleep.

Then there’s Psalm 127:

“In vain you rise early and stay up late, toiling for food to eat—
for He grants sleep to His beloved.”

Even Paul, the apostle of tireless missions, reminds the church in Corinth:

“I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.”

The story of Scripture is not about over-functioning disciples. It’s about the God who sustains, invites, and rests.

Faithfulness Is Not the Same as Being Frantic

Real faithfulness may look like:

• Doing less

• Resting more

• Saying no

• Trusting God with what you can’t finish

• Letting someone else serve this time

• Honoring the limits of your body and mind

This doesn’t make you weak.
It makes you honest.

Burnout and the Body

We are not souls trapped in flesh. We are embodied creations. The pressure to keep going, despite illness, exhaustion, or emotional depletion, is not faith. It’s disembodiment.

Jesus didn’t bypass the body. He became one.

If your faith walk is destroying your physical health, it’s time to ask: Is this truly the yoke of Christ? Or am I dragging something He never asked me to carry?

Is This the Gospel I’m Living?

Some reflection questions to pray with:

• Am I serving because I love God—or because I’m afraid He won’t love me if I stop?

• Do I believe rest is resistance, or weakness?

• Would I extend the same grace to myself that I give to others?

• Is my worth wrapped up in being needed?

• When did I last feel truly seen by Jesus, without performing?

Each question invites a return, not to passivity, but to presence.

“Be still, and know that I am God.”

A Better Yoke

Jesus never promised ease. But He did promise lightness.

“Come to me, all who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you... for my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

What does an “easy yoke” look like in a culture of hustle?

It looks like trusting God to carry what you can’t.
It looks like letting your being come before your doing.
It looks like love that doesn’t have to be earned.

Final Thought: You Don’t Have to Burn to Shine

You don’t have to break yourself to prove your devotion. Christ already offered His body. You don’t have to be the sacrifice. You’re the beloved.

If you’re tired of confusing service with worth, you’re not alone. Rest is a testimony, too.

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The Face of God Series: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 14

 

Isaiah 14 is a chapter of reversals—one that peels back the illusion of human power and pride to reveal a God who is both just and deeply committed to the restoration of His people. While some passages are sharp in their poetic judgment, the through-line is unmistakable: God is not indifferent to injustice. He does not overlook oppression, nor is He threatened by earthly power. He is the Restorer, the Ruler, and the Just Judge—and this chapter invites us to behold Him as He truly is, in power, mercy, and clarity. As we read, we will see not only what God tears down, but what He rebuilds—and what that means for our own lives of faith today.

Isaiah 14:1–2

"The LORD will have compassion on Jacob and will again choose Israel, and settle them on their own soil. Strangers will join them and be added to the house of Jacob. The nations will take them and bring them to their place..."

God as the Faithful Restorer

This chapter opens with a promise—not a warning. Before Isaiah speaks judgment over the arrogant nations, he speaks mercy over God's people. We meet a God who remembers His covenant, even after seasons of rebellion and exile. Israel may have strayed, but God has not let go.

The phrase “again choose Israel” is striking. It reminds us that God's choosing is not a one-time act but a continuous, renewing commitment. His compassion is not a reluctant pity—it is a movement toward restoration. He does not just bring them back; He brings them home.

This passage also hints at something radical: the inclusion of “strangers” into the family of God. The God of Israel has always had a heart for the nations. Even here, before the full revelation of Christ, we glimpse the wideness of God’s mercy.

Isaiah 14:3–8

"When the LORD has given you rest from your pain and turmoil… you will take up this taunt against the king of Babylon..."

God as the Giver of Rest

Before the judgment falls on Babylon, God offers rest to His people. This is the first mention of rest in the chapter, and it is not merely physical—it’s relief from fear, oppression, and inner torment.

God does not want His people to live in survival mode. His desire is not only to rescue them but to restore them. Here we see that divine justice is not just about punishing the wicked; it’s about giving peace to the weary.

In our own lives, we can forget that rest is a promise of God. Many of us carry burdens far longer than we need to, mistaking weariness for holiness. But God is not glorified by exhaustion—He is glorified when His people walk in the freedom He offers.

Isaiah 14:9–11

"Sheol below is all astir preparing for your arrival… Your pomp is brought down to Sheol, and the sound of your harps; maggots are your bed beneath you, and worms your blanket."

God as the Just Judge

Now the scene shifts. The king of Babylon, who once terrified nations, is humbled. This isn’t just political commentary—it’s a theological statement. Human pride, no matter how mighty it seems, will be brought low. God alone reigns eternal.

Isaiah’s language here is vivid and jarring. Why? Because arrogance blinds us to reality, and poetic force is often the only way to break the illusion. The king who saw himself as invincible is laid bare. His fate is not cushioned by wealth or power.

We are reminded that God is not mocked—and His justice is not delayed forever. For the oppressed, this is not a threat—it is a comfort. It means tyrants do not win forever. God sees. God acts.

Isaiah 14:12–15

"How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of the morning!... You said in your heart, 'I will ascend to the heavens… I will make myself like the Most High.' But you are brought down to Sheol."

God as the Only Most High

This is one of the most famous prophetic poems in Scripture. Often linked symbolically to both the fall of Babylon and the fall of Lucifer, it reflects the heart of rebellion: the desire to ascend, to exalt oneself, to dethrone God.

But there is only one Most High. There is no second throne. God shares His glory with no one—not because He is insecure, but because to place anyone else there is to exchange truth for a lie.

What does this show us about God? It reveals His holiness, yes—but also His clarity. He is not ambiguous about His place in creation. He is not one option among many. He is the center, the source, the unshakable foundation. To place ourselves above others—or above God—is to fall into the same lie that undid Babylon.

Isaiah 14:16–20

"Those who see you will stare at you and ponder over you: ‘Is this the man who made the earth tremble…?’"

God as the Reverser of Earthly Glory

The theme of reversal runs through this chapter. The mighty fall. The weak are lifted. Those once feared are now pitied. God does not evaluate greatness as we do.

This section exposes the illusion of earthly power. The king of Babylon inspired dread, but in the end, he is just a man. Stripped of title and strength, he is left with only the legacy of destruction.

This is a sobering reminder to evaluate our lives not by acclaim or ambition, but by whether we are aligned with the purposes of God. Power built on pride will fall. But a life yielded to the Lord endures.

Isaiah 14:21–23

"I will rise up against them, says the LORD of hosts… I will sweep it with the broom of destruction."

God as the One Who Ends Oppression

God does not forget the victims of injustice. He rises—not randomly, not in wrathful impulse—but in righteous response. His judgment against Babylon is not spiteful—it is cleansing.

The imagery of a broom may seem harsh, but it speaks to a deeper truth: God’s justice is thorough. He does not leave behind hidden corruption. He does not allow injustice to thrive under a thin veil of respectability. He sweeps clean what has been defiled.

This is good news. For everyone who has lived under tyranny, for every hidden evil that seemed untouchable, God is a righteous sweeper. He clears the path for righteousness to flourish.

Isaiah 14:24–27

"The LORD of hosts has sworn: As I have planned, so shall it be, and as I have purposed, so shall it stand… For the LORD of hosts has purposed, and who will annul it? His hand is stretched out, and who will turn it back?"

God as the Sovereign Planner

In a world where plans change, rulers fall, and chaos often feels like the norm, this declaration cuts through the noise: God’s purposes stand. His plans are not reactionary. They are intentional, unshakable, and beyond interference.

God does not simply observe history—He authors it. And when He chooses to act, no power in heaven or earth can stop Him. This is not just theology—it’s hope. It means that even when we are caught in the middle of systems that seem immovable, God is not limited by them.

This part of the chapter centers on Assyria, another dominant empire, but the principle is universal: human strength has limits. Divine purpose does not. When God says “so shall it stand,” He means it. For the weary, the forgotten, or the oppressed, this is a source of strength—we are not at the mercy of chaos. We are held by the purpose of God.

Isaiah 14:28–32

"Do not rejoice, all you Philistia, that the rod which struck you is broken… From the north comes a cloud of smoke, and there is no straggler in its ranks."

God as the Guardian of Perspective

This closing oracle to Philistia is a warning against false celebration. Just because one threat is removed doesn’t mean safety has arrived. God’s message here is about perspective: don’t gloat, don’t assume, don’t place your hope in temporary political change. Real safety comes not from the rise or fall of nations, but from the hand of the Lord.

We often fall into the same trap as Philistia—mistaking relief for victory, or assuming that one favorable turn means we’re secure forever. But God’s wisdom is wider. His warning here is not just to the Philistines, but to anyone tempted to put confidence in momentary circumstances.

And yet—even in this passage—there is a whisper of comfort: “The LORD has founded Zion, and in her the afflicted of his people find refuge.” (v. 32)

God always makes a place for the afflicted. That is His heart. He may shake the nations, but He always shelters the lowly. He never forgets the ones who seek Him in their pain. His justice brings disruption, but His mercy brings refuge.

Final Reflection: The Face of God in Isaiah 14

Isaiah 14 gives us a complex, beautiful portrait of God. We see a God who restores His people, humbles the proud, gives rest to the weary, and overturns unjust systems. But most of all, we see a God who reigns—not just in heaven, but over history.

He is not passive in the face of evil. He is not distant from suffering. He is the God who acts, who speaks, who remembers, and who restores.

And He invites us to live aligned with His heart: to seek rest in Him rather than status, to walk humbly rather than exalt ourselves, and to remember that power without righteousness is an illusion.

Where have you seen God act like this in your life? Where is He sweeping, restoring, or calling you to rest?

You can follow the rest of the “Face of God in Isaiah” series here on the blog. When complete, this series will be available in print form through our Ko-fi store. For deep study, I recommend the Ignatius Catholic Study Bible, which has helped shape my understanding of God’s heart throughout Scripture.*

Scrupulosity Isn’t Holiness: Learning to Trust the Mercy of God

Scrupulosity can feel like devotion turned inside out.

You want to love God. You want to do right. You want to avoid sin. But somewhere along the way, your heart starts whispering that nothing is ever enough. You second-guess every word, every action, every thought. And confession becomes less of a homecoming and more of a courtroom you keep re-entering, afraid the sentence wasn’t fully served.

Let’s say it clearly: scrupulosity isn’t holiness. And God’s mercy is not as fragile as your fear would suggest.

What Is Scrupulosity?

Scrupulosity is a form of spiritual anxiety that causes people to obsess over sin, confession, and moral perfection. While it often shows up in devout Catholics, it may be connected to certain anxiety disorders. It attaches to your desire to be good—and turns it against you.

You might be struggling with scrupulosity if you:

• Fear you’re in a state of mortal sin constantly

• Repeat confessions or worry they “didn’t count”

• Avoid the Eucharist even when you’re not aware of serious sin

• Ruminate on intrusive thoughts and assume they reflect your soul

• Feel like God is distant unless you’ve been morally perfect

These patterns can wear you down spiritually, emotionally, and physically. And they don’t reflect the heart of the Gospel.

God’s Mercy Isn’t Earned—It’s Given

At the core of scrupulosity is a fear that God’s mercy must be earned through precision, perfection, or punishment. But Scripture tells us something radically different:

"But God proves his love for us in that while we were still sinners Christ died for us." —Romans 5:8

Jesus didn’t wait for you to be clean before He drew near. And He doesn’t demand exactness—He desires trust.

Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, who struggled with scrupulosity herself, said it best:

"What pleases God is to see me love my littleness and poverty; it is the blind hope I have in His mercy."

Confession Is a Sacrament, Not a Trap

If you find yourself dreading confession or constantly replaying past sins, it may help to remember what the Sacrament is—and what it isn’t:

• It is a channel of grace and healing

• It is not a legalistic audit where grace is withheld for clerical errors

• It is a homecoming to the Father

• It is not a test you can fail by forgetting a detail in perfect sequence

The Catechism is clear: if you’ve made a sincere confession, and didn’t intentionally withhold mortal sin, the absolution stands. Even if you forgot something. Even if you didn’t cry. Even if you felt numb.

Rest in that truth. Trust the sacrament more than you trust your anxiety.

Gentle Strategies for Scrupulous Souls

1. Stick to one confessor, if possible.
   A regular priest can help you spot patterns and avoid overconfessing.

2. Set boundaries around confession.
   Choose a frequency (weekly, biweekly, monthly) and stick to it unless there’s a serious reason.

3. Practice acts of trust.
   When fear rises, pray: “Jesus, I trust in You more than I trust my fear.”

4. Limit post-confession rumination.
   Write down your sins, confess them, then destroy the list and do not reread or analyze.

5. Seek therapy if needed.
   Scrupulosity may overlap with certain anxiety disorders and can benefit from professional care, especially when fear becomes chronic or intrusive. Therapy and grace are not enemies.

Holiness Isn’t Anxiety. It’s Union.

God does not need you to be afraid in order to love you. In fact, Scripture tells us repeatedly: “Do not be afraid.”

Fear is not the fruit of the Spirit. Love is. Peace is. Gentleness is. These are the markers of holiness—not constant self-doubt.

And when you fall? Go to confession with the humility of a child—not the panic of a defendant. God wants your heart, not your perfection.

Final Words for the Weary

If you’re reading this through tears, or guilt, or exhaustion—please know this:

You are not alone. You are not broken. And you are not failing God.

You are a soul in formation, learning to trust a mercy that cannot be earned. And that journey? That trembling, stumbling walk toward trust? That is sanctity.

Let grace in.

Let yourself breathe.

And remember: scrupulosity may whisper, but mercy speaks louder.

Helpful Tool: A beautiful, professional journal can help anchor your prayer life and build a gentler rhythm of reflection. This leather-bound journal comes in multiple colors and gives you space to externalize fears, track grace, and build trust in God’s mercy—without judgment.

Support this work on Ko-fi if it helps you feel seen, strengthened, or spiritually nourished. Your generosity sustains this ministry of hope.

Saint Josephine Bakhita: Forgiveness, Freedom, and the God Who Never Forgets You

When we think of saints, it’s tempting to picture people who had easy access to holiness: born into faith, surrounded by support, and raised in a world where prayer came naturally. But some saints come to us from the margins—those whose lives were shaped by violence, displacement, and loss. St. Josephine Bakhita is one of those saints.

Born in Sudan in the late 1800s, Bakhita was kidnapped as a child and sold into slavery. She endured years of abuse and terror, her name and identity stripped from her by those who considered her property. In fact, "Bakhita" wasn’t her birth name—it was a name given to her by slavers, meaning "lucky." The irony is sharp. And yet, it was under this name that she would eventually be baptized, enter religious life, and become a radiant witness to the unshakable dignity of every human person.

What St. Josephine Bakhita Teaches Us About God

1. God sees and stays—even in the worst chapters.

Bakhita’s early life was filled with suffering that could have broken her spirit permanently. And yet, when she eventually encountered the Catholic faith in Italy, she said something astonishing: that even during her captivity, she had a mysterious sense of a presence with her. She didn’t yet know who He was, but she sensed Someone was there.

That “Someone” was the God who never forgets us—not in pain, not in displacement, not in abuse. Her story reminds us that God’s gaze is not limited to the pews or the polished moments. He is with the wounded child, the trafficked woman, the survivor who has no words left.

2. Forgiveness doesn’t mean forgetting. It means freedom.

St. Josephine forgave those who enslaved and abused her—but that forgiveness wasn’t a denial of what happened. It was a refusal to let those events define her future. Through Christ, she found a deeper identity: not a slave, but a daughter. Not forgotten, but chosen.

Forgiveness in her life wasn’t about weakness. It was a holy defiance—the choice to be free, even when her past tried to chain her to bitterness.

3. Holiness is not tidy. It’s healing.

When Bakhita entered religious life, she was not trying to escape her past—she brought her story with her. She became a Canossian Sister and lived in humble service for the rest of her life. She was known for her serenity and radiant joy, even as she bore the scars of slavery.

This teaches us something vital: holiness is not about hiding your trauma. It’s about letting God redeem it. St. Josephine’s sainthood didn’t erase her past. It transfigured it.

What Bakhita Taught Us About Identity

When you’ve been renamed by trauma, reclaiming your identity isn’t easy. Bakhita’s name was taken from her—but her dignity never was. When she was baptized, she received a new name: Josephine Margaret. It wasn’t just symbolic. It was sacramental. Her identity was no longer based on what others called her, but on who God said she was.

So many of us live under false names we’ve internalized: Too Much. Not Enough. Damaged. Forgotten. But Bakhita’s story reminds us that baptism gives us new names: Beloved. Free. Daughter. Son. Heir.

Your wounds may be part of your story—but they are not your name.

“I have called you by name,” God says in Isaiah 43:1, “you are mine.” That truth was lived fully by a woman once known only as a slave. Now, we call her Saint.

When You Feel Forgotten by God

One of the most profound elements of Bakhita’s testimony is that she felt God’s presence long before she knew His name. Even in her captivity, she said, there was Someone with her.

This is a balm for anyone walking through silence, grief, or spiritual desolation. Maybe you’ve asked, “Where was God when that happened to me?” Bakhita doesn’t answer that with theology. She answers it with presence.

God doesn’t always explain—but He does not abandon.

Even in the worst chapters, Bakhita bore witness to a mysterious companionship. That’s not sentimentality. That’s grace in the dark.

How Her Story Speaks to Us Today

If you’ve ever felt invisible, unheard, or defined by something someone else did to you, St. Josephine Bakhita is a powerful companion. Her life is a declaration that:

• You are more than your wounds.

• You are seen by God even when the world tries to erase you.

• Forgiveness is not erasure—it’s the reclamation of your freedom.

• There is no trauma so deep that God cannot walk into it with you.

She reminds us that healing is possible—not because pain never happened, but because God is still writing the ending.

Want to go deeper? The book Bakhita: From Slave to Saint offers a moving, detailed account of her life and legacy. It's a powerful companion for those walking through questions of identity, suffering, and redemption. Find it here.

You might also find beauty in wearing a reminder of her presence: this St. Josephine Bakhita medallion with a rose is a quiet tribute to a woman who bloomed in the harshest soil.

A Prayer to Walk With St. Josephine

Litany of Identity Reclaimed:

When I feel like a burden—remind me I am beloved.
When I feel unseen—remind me I am known.
When I carry shame—remind me I am redeemed.
When I feel like property—remind me I am Yours.

St. Josephine Bakhita, walk with me when the past tries to steal my name. Help me claim the name God has written on my heart.

St. Josephine Bakhita, you knew what it meant to be stripped of your name and dignity. And yet, you found your true identity in the gaze of the God who loved you. Teach us to walk in that same truth. When we feel forgotten, be our witness. When we struggle to forgive, be our strength. And when we carry pain too heavy to name, remind us that we are never carrying it alone. Amen.

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The Sacred Heart: What It Reveals About God, and What That Means for You

I. Introduction: Why the Sacred Heart Still Matters

It’s easy to think of Catholic imagery as distant or symbolic—but some images refuse to stay on the page. The Sacred Heart of Jesus is one of them. It pulses with life. It bleeds. It burns. And it still speaks.

In an age of numbness and isolation, this old devotion offers something radical: a God who doesn’t love from afar. A God whose heart beats for you—wounded, exposed, and blazing with desire for your good.

June is the month of the Sacred Heart. Let’s enter it not just as a tradition, but as a revelation of who God is, who you are, and what love really looks like.

II. What Is the Sacred Heart?

The Sacred Heart is one of the most enduring images in Catholic devotion. It depicts the physical heart of Jesus Christ, surrounded by flames, crowned with thorns, pierced and radiant. It’s not a poetic symbol—it’s theological reality.

This image draws from Scripture: from the piercing of Jesus’ side in John 19:34, to the suffering servant of Isaiah 53, to the aching love poured out in Psalm 22. It reveals not only the depth of God’s mercy but the shape it takes—willing vulnerability.

The heart is both literal and mystical. It is the seat of Christ’s human emotion and divine charity, visibly offered for the salvation of the world. When we look at the Sacred Heart, we’re not asked to imagine a gentle idea—we’re asked to receive a love that has suffered for us and continues to pour itself out.

III. A Brief History of Devotion

Though devotion to the wounds of Christ goes back to the early Church, the formal devotion to the Sacred Heart took root in the 17th century. Jesus appeared to St. Margaret Mary Alacoque, a French Visitation nun, revealing His heart “burning with love for humanity” and asking for acts of reparation.

The devotion spread through Jesuit missions and was eventually recognized throughout the Catholic world. Pope Pius IX extended the Feast of the Sacred Heart to the universal Church in 1856, and Pope Leo XIII consecrated the entire world to the Sacred Heart in 1899.

June became the month of the Sacred Heart—a time set aside to contemplate and honor the inner life of Christ as revealed in His pierced, passionate, radiant heart.

IV. What the Sacred Heart Reveals About God

The Sacred Heart tells us that God is not distant, cold, or abstract. His love is not theoretical. It’s personal, physical, wounded, and fully alive.

• God’s love is tender. The image of the heart makes clear: God’s mercy is not mechanical. It’s emotional. Christ is moved by compassion—He weeps, longs, aches, and rejoices.

• God chooses vulnerability. The crown of thorns, the open wound, the fire—none of these are gentle. They show us that God’s love is not safe or soft. It is fierce and exposed. He does not protect Himself from us.

• God wants relationship. The Sacred Heart isn’t about fear or shame. It’s about invitation. Jesus says, “Behold this Heart which has loved so much.” His heart is open. The question is: will we respond?

This is not a God who hides. This is a God who hands you His whole self—and asks for yours.

V. What This Means About You

When you look at the Sacred Heart, you’re not just seeing who God is—you’re seeing how He sees you.

• You are not loved in theory. You are loved personally, completely, and sacrificially.

• You are not too much or not enough. Your whole story is already known—and already embraced.

• Your pain matters to Him. He does not recoil from your wounds; He shows you His own.

The Sacred Heart invites you to stop posturing. To stop performing. To stop trying to earn what’s already been given.

Let yourself be seen. Let yourself be loved.

VI. How to Live Sacred Heart Devotion This Month

If you want a physical reminder of this devotion, consider wearing a Sacred Heart scapular as a reminder of your daily entrustment. This one is simple and beautiful—an easy way to keep His Heart close to yours. You might also consider a small home altar or travel-sized image, like this Sacred Heart & Immaculate Heart diptych, which invites reflection on both Christ's love and Mary's.

This devotion isn’t just for prayer cards. It’s for your life. Here are a few ways to enter into Sacred Heart month with intention:

• Reflect daily with an image of the Sacred Heart. Gaze at it and let it gaze back.

• Pray the Litany of the Sacred Heart. Focus on a few lines that stir your heart.

• Make acts of reparation. Offer a small sacrifice or act of love for those who feel unloved.

• Live with tenderness. Every act of mercy you show to another is participation in His heart.

• Journal honestly. Ask yourself: “Where am I afraid to let God love me?” Write from that place.

Sacred Heart devotion isn’t about sentiment. It’s about courage—the courage to be loved deeply and to love in return.

VII. Final Reflection

The Sacred Heart is not just a private comfort. It is the center of the universe. It beats for you. It bleeds for the world. And it invites you to live from a place of intimacy, not performance.

Let this month be more than a reminder. Let it be a return—to the Heart that has never stopped pursuing you.

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For more reflections rooted in the heart of God, follow Converting to Hope and explore our growing library of faith-rich resources. And if this touched you, consider supporting our work on Ko-Fi. 

How to Discern Without Losing Your Mind: A Catholic Guide to Finding Peace in Big Decisions

 

Discernment can feel like spiritual whiplash.
You want to make the right choice. You want to follow God's will. But every option feels layered with fear, uncertainty, or silence from heaven.

Here’s the good news:
God isn’t trying to trick you. He’s not hiding the map.

He wants you to know His will more than you want to guess it.

Let’s reclaim discernment—not as a source of spiritual anxiety, but as an invitation into peace.

Step 1: Begin With Who God Is

Discernment doesn’t start with decisions. It starts with trust in God’s character.

• He is not manipulative

• He is not cryptic

• He is not impatient

• He is not waiting for you to mess up

“If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God… and it will be given.” — James 1:5

God’s will isn’t a riddle. It’s a relationship.
He doesn’t drop clues and hide. He walks with us, gently guiding, correcting, and inviting. The voice of the Father is not a trickster—it is steady, wise, and faithful.

When you begin with who He is, you stop fearing what He’ll say. Because even if His answer is challenging, it will never be cruel.

Step 2: Clarity Follows Conversion

Sometimes we want answers without surrender.
But God’s will becomes clearest in the heart that says, “Whatever You ask, I’ll do it.”

That kind of interior freedom opens doors.

Ask yourself:

• Am I really open to either path?

• Am I clinging to one answer for fear-based reasons?

• Have I let God into the emotions beneath my questions?

Sometimes, before God speaks to your situation, He wants to speak to your attachment.
Discernment is less about unlocking secret knowledge and more about receiving wisdom with open hands.

Step 3: Don’t Confuse Silence with Absence

If God is quiet, it doesn’t always mean you’re on the wrong path.
It may mean you already have what you need.

He has given you:

• Scripture

• The Holy Spirit

• Your conscience

• The Church

• Your reason

• Your community

If you’re not hearing a trumpet blast, try asking:
What decision, made in peace, would I be able to live out in love?

And if you're feeling overwhelmed, pause. Take a walk. Step into silence. The Lord often speaks best in stillness.

Step 4: Peace Is the Path, Not Just the Prize

God’s will is often marked by a deep, durable peace—even if it comes with fear or sacrifice.
It won’t always be easy. But it will be rooted.

If anxiety is driving your discernment, pause. Wait until peace returns.

“Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts…” — Colossians 3:15

Peace doesn’t always feel like emotional comfort. Sometimes, it’s simply the absence of that interior twist. A stillness. A rightness. A steadiness under the nerves.

Step 5: Take the Next Right Step

Discernment is rarely about seeing the whole road.
It’s usually about taking the next faithful step.

Make the call. Fill out the form. Start the novena. Open the door.
Small obedience invites bigger clarity.

Sometimes we stall because we’re afraid of choosing wrong. But God is bigger than our mistakes. A wrong turn taken in faith is still under His care. What He asks is that we move in trust.

Discernment doesn’t mean waiting until every light is green. It means choosing with love, praying for wisdom, and stepping forward in peace.

Final Reflection

Discernment doesn’t have to feel like walking a tightrope.
It can feel like walking with your Father.

God isn’t holding a secret scorecard.
He’s holding your hand.

“Your word is a lamp for my feet, a light for my path.” — Psalm 119:105

Walk with Him. Listen. Rest.
And trust that even if you take a wrong turn, He knows how to get you home.

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What Does Holiness Feel Like? And Why We’re Usually Wrong About It

 

For many of us, holiness has been portrayed as something... otherworldly. A glowing saint in a fresco. A nun in deep silence. A mystic floating in ecstasy. And while those images reflect truth, they don’t capture the whole story.

Holiness isn’t just for those who seem spiritually elite. It isn’t reserved for monks, mystics, or martyrs. Holiness is for you. And chances are, it feels a lot more normal than you think.

Let’s reframe how we imagine sanctity—not just by theology, but by experience.

Myth: Holiness Always Feels Intense

Some people assume holiness will come with strong emotional or mystical sensations. And yes, sometimes God does meet us with tears, awe, or unexplainable peace.

But often, holiness feels… quiet. Unspectacular. Like doing what is right when no one sees. Like saying no to temptation with no applause. Like staying faithful in prayer even when it’s dry and boring.

“You will know them by their fruits…” — Matthew 7:16
Not their feelings. Not their vibes. Their fruits.

The idea that holiness must feel emotionally intense can become a spiritual trap. If we chase emotional highs instead of virtue, we risk confusing consolation with transformation. God may grant sweetness in prayer at times, but that is not the measure of our sanctity.

Truth: Holiness Feels Like Peaceful Surrender

Holiness is not about constant triumph—it’s about constant return.
It’s the soul that says, “Here I am, Lord,” again and again, in every season.

It often feels like:

• A subtle peace even in the middle of uncertainty

• A desire to love when it would be easier to detach

• A quiet conscience after a hard conversation

• A willingness to ask for forgiveness—or give it—when pride wants to win

• A gentle resolve to pray, even when the heart feels empty

Holiness feels like a life slowly, steadily aligned with the will of God.
Not always dramatic. But always true.

It’s the cumulative effect of small decisions made with love. And sometimes, it feels like exhaustion... with purpose.

What It Doesn’t Feel Like (and Why That’s Okay)

It may not feel like:

• Constant happiness

• Being “on fire” for God every day

• Perpetual confidence

• An absence of doubt, fatigue, or dryness

Some of the holiest people in history (like St. Thérèse of Lisieux or Mother Teresa) endured long periods of spiritual dryness. Their holiness wasn’t in their feelings—it was in their fidelity.

“Faith is not a feeling. It is a choice to trust God even when the road is dark.”

If you’ve ever kept praying when your soul felt flat—that was holiness. If you’ve ever served someone with love while feeling tired and unseen—that was holiness. If you’ve ever refused to give up hope when the world felt empty—that was holiness too.

Holiness is Often Hidden

Just like Jesus’ hidden life in Nazareth, much of our sanctity is grown in the unseen places:

• How we treat those who annoy us

• How we speak about others when they’re not in the room

• How we hold space for grief, pain, or mystery without rushing to fix it

This is the soil of holiness. Not shiny. Not loud. Just faithful.

Our culture often equates goodness with visibility. But God delights in what is hidden, offered in secret, and formed in silence. Your small "yes" echoes louder in Heaven than you know.

The Surprise of Joy

While holiness isn’t always emotionally intense, it often leads to a kind of quiet joy—not because everything is easy, but because everything is surrendered.

That joy might feel like:

• Gratitude for a moment of beauty

• Peace after telling the truth

• Relief from bitterness after forgiveness

• The warmth of giving without expectation

This is the joy the world can’t give—and cannot take away. A joy that doesn’t depend on outcomes, but on nearness to the heart of God.

Final Reflection

Holiness doesn’t always feel like glory.
Sometimes it feels like doing the dishes. Sometimes it feels like starting over. Sometimes it feels like a tired but honest “yes.”

And that is enough.
God isn’t asking for your performance. He’s asking for your presence.

“Be holy, for I am holy.” — 1 Peter 1:16
He’s not asking you to feel holy. He’s asking you to live in love.

You are not disqualified by your dryness, your ordinariness, or your struggle.
You are right where holiness can begin.

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God of the Small Things: Finding Holiness in Ordinary Life

Holiness doesn’t always look like candlelight and soaring cathedral music. It doesn’t always feel like mystical visions, spiritual highs, or tear-filled prayer. Sometimes, holiness looks like folding the same laundry again, offering a smile when you’re tired, or choosing patience for the hundredth time in a single day.

God is not only found in the dramatic. He is found in the deeply ordinary. In fact, some of the holiest ground we’ll ever walk is the same floor we sweep every morning.

The Lie of the “Big” Spiritual Life

In our achievement-obsessed culture, it’s easy to believe that a “good” spiritual life must be visible, measurable, impressive. We chase emotional intensity, long hours of prayer, dramatic conversions, or outward markers of sainthood. But Scripture—and the lives of the saints—paint a different picture.

Jesus never told us to impress Him. He told us to follow Him. And He often pointed to the smallest things as the place where holiness hides:

"Whoever is faithful in small matters will also be faithful in large ones." — Luke 16:10

We forget that Jesus spent thirty years in obscurity before His public ministry—working, praying, eating, sleeping, loving His family. Thirty years of small things. Thirty years that were not wasted, but sanctified by His presence.

We live in a world that rewards spectacle. God blesses faithfulness.

Heaven Sees What the World Overlooks

God does not measure greatness the way the world does. He doesn’t rank your life by visible outcomes or spiritual aesthetics. He sees the hidden choices:

• The single mom making it through bedtime routines with grace

• The caregiver offering quiet dignity to a loved one

• The employee choosing integrity when no one’s watching

• The chronically ill person offering up another hard day without fanfare

• The teenager resisting peer pressure in silence

• The lonely elder offering prayers for a world that barely remembers them

These moments might feel invisible. But they echo in eternity.

"Whatever you do, in word or in deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus." — Colossians 3:17

There are no wasted prayers. No wasted acts of kindness. No wasted struggles offered quietly to God. Heaven celebrates what earth often ignores.

The Domestic Monastery

Catholic tradition often speaks of cloisters and monasteries as places of sanctification. But your home can be a monastery too. Your kitchen can be an altar. Your mundane routines can become sacramental if you let God inhabit them.

The mother wiping a child’s nose, the tired soul making dinner again, the spouse offering forgiveness before sleep—these are liturgies of love.

In every generation, God has called ordinary people to extraordinary holiness through their simple faithfulness. Brother Lawrence found union with God while scrubbing kitchen pots. St. Zelie Martin found sanctity in weaving lace and raising children. St. Joseph, silent and steadfast, found his calling in carpentry and fatherhood.

If God could meet them in their daily lives, He can meet you in yours.

Sanctity doesn’t always require silence and candles. Sometimes it just asks you to be present, gentle, and willing—to make your life a living prayer.

Becoming a Saint in the Life You Already Have

You don’t need to wait for your life to get quieter, simpler, or more “spiritual.” The path to holiness is not somewhere out there. It’s already under your feet.

Ask yourself:

• How can I offer today’s work to God?

• What small sacrifice can I make out of love?

• Where can I bring beauty, order, or kindness?

These are not small questions. They are the building blocks of sainthood.

The saints were not superhuman. They were simply faithful. They said "yes" in the small things, often long before anyone ever noticed their "greatness."

Your yes matters.

Every load of laundry, every act of patience, every whispered prayer—these are the stones God uses to build the cathedral of your soul.

Final Reflection

The God of the universe stepped into time not with a fanfare, but through the hidden life of a carpenter’s son. He dignified the ordinary. He sanctified the unnoticed. And He still meets us there, in the kitchen, the classroom, the waiting room, the laundry line.

Holiness doesn’t always look like the mountaintop. Sometimes, it looks like washing feet.

Sometimes, it looks like you.

"Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me." — Matthew 25:40

You are seen. You are loved. Your faithfulness matters.

Lift up your small offerings. In the hands of God, nothing given in love is ever wasted.

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Fathering Like the Lion of Judah

 

Strength, Playfulness, and the Power of Gentle Authority

When we think of the Lion of Judah—a title for Christ rooted deep in Scripture—we picture power: fierce, majestic, unstoppable. But if we watch carefully, the Lion's strength isn’t unleashed recklessly. It’s controlled. Directed. Tender where it chooses to be tender.

And if human fatherhood reflects divine fatherhood even in small glimpses, then perhaps one of the most beautiful pictures of true fatherhood is this:
a lion playing with its cub.

Strength That Protects, Not Threatens

True fatherhood begins with strength—not the strength to dominate, but the strength to protect. A healthy father figure embodies an authority that says:

“I could harm—but I never will.
I could overpower—but instead I lift you up.”

This strength makes room for play, for laughter, for challenge. It is a safe strength—a sanctuary strength. It mirrors the Father in Heaven, who disciplines those He loves (Hebrews 12:6) yet never forgets compassion. The hands that can shape mountains are also the hands that wipe away every tear.

Play as Training for Courage

Watch a lion cub wrestle with its father: pouncing, biting, tumbling.
The father doesn’t crush the cub.
He absorbs the little bites. He responds with measured force, just enough to teach but never to wound.

In human terms, this looks like:

• Fathers teasing their sons in ways that build resilience, not shame

• Inviting daughters into boldness and competence, not fearfulness

• Allowing failure in safe spaces, and turning it into learning, not condemnation

Play isn’t frivolous.
It’s practice for life. It’s a way to test strength safely, to learn what it means to stand strong without losing tenderness.

The Power of Gentle Authority

The Lion of Judah doesn’t need to roar constantly to prove He is King.
Similarly, a father anchored in Christ-like strength doesn’t need to control every moment. His authority is felt — not through fear, but through consistent, reliable presence.

In homes like these, a child can grow up knowing:

• Boundaries are real, but love is bigger

• Discipline is firm, but never abusive

• Strength exists to serve the weak, not crush them

Gentle authority teaches a child that power can be safe, that leadership can be trustworthy, and that submission—to what is good and just—can be a joy rather than a fear.

Toxic Strength vs. Holy Strength

The world offers many counterfeits of strength. Toxic strength demands submission through fear, thrives on dominance, and crushes vulnerability. It teaches children to cower, to mask their needs, and to see authority as a threat.

Holy strength, by contrast, protects vulnerability. It channels power into service. It draws near rather than pushes away. It does not excuse weakness or sin, but it also does not shame those who are still growing. Holy strength knows when to roar and when to lower its voice to a whisper.

The Lion of Judah shows us the difference: He is fierce against injustice, but tender with the repentant. He breaks chains, not hearts.

Healing the Image of the Father

Many people carry wounds from father figures who roared too loudly—or disappeared when strength was needed. But God offers a better vision.

He is the Lion who holds the universe in His paws, yet stoops low to lift His children gently.
He is not ashamed to call us sons and daughters.
He is not soft, but He is safe.
He is not tame, but He is good.

And through men willing to reflect His heart—imperfectly, humbly, but truly—the world catches a glimpse of the way fatherhood was always meant to be:
Strong.
Joyful.
Tender.
Wild in love.

God does not only relate to His daughters. He calls His sons, too. He welcomes every heart, male and female, into the safety of His fierce and faithful embrace.

Final Reflection

To father like the Lion of Judah is not to be perfect.
It is to be present.
It is to bear strength rightly, in ways that teach the next generation not just survival—but courage, tenderness, and the audacity to hope.

Whether you are a father, a mentor, a spiritual guide, or a wounded heart seeking healing, remember:

The Lion plays with His cubs.
And His love is never lessened by His strength.

God is not only for women.
He is for all who long for safety and glory in the same breath—for affection that doesn’t undermine, and strength that doesn’t leave.

He is the Father we need.
And He is still in the business of restoring that image in the hearts of His children.

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The Face of God in Isaiah: The Face of God in Isaiah Chapter 13

(NABRE - New American Bible, Revised Edition)
Read the full chapter on Bible Gateway

God's Sovereign Justice

Isaiah 13 marks a transition into a series of "oracles against the nations," beginning with Babylon. It is a chapter filled with the language of judgment, devastation, and cosmic upheaval. Yet even here—especially here—the heart of God is not absent. Behind the stark imagery lies a God whose holiness demands justice, whose sovereignty orders history, and whose fierce love refuses to allow evil to endure forever. As we journey through this chapter, we will reflect not only on God's rightful judgment but also on what it reveals about His nature—holy, mighty, and unwilling to let oppression have the final word.

Isaiah 13:1-3

"An oracle concerning Babylon, seen by Isaiah, son of Amoz. Upon the bare mountains set up a signal; cry out to them, beckon for them to enter the gates of the nobles. I have commanded my consecrated ones, I have summoned my warriors, eager and bold to carry out my anger."

God as Commander of History

Isaiah opens with a vision not simply of human armies gathering, but of God summoning His own. Even the tumult of nations moves under His sovereign hand. He is not a passive observer of history—He is its Lord. He raises up, He brings down, and He directs even mighty Babylon toward its appointed end. His holiness is not passive; it moves decisively against evil.

Life Application

In a world where chaos often seems to reign, remember that God is not absent. He is at work even through the movements of history, bending all things toward justice and redemption. Trust in His unseen sovereignty today.

Isaiah 13:6-8

"Wail, for the day of the LORD is near; as destruction from the Almighty it comes. Therefore all hands fall helpless, every human heart melts, and they are terrified; pangs and sorrows take hold of them, like a woman in labor they writhe; they look aghast at each other, their faces aflame."

God as the Righteous Judge

The "day of the LORD" is a recurring theme throughout Scripture—a time when God's justice breaks into human history with undeniable force. Here, it is portrayed as overwhelming, terrifying, inescapable. God's judgment is not petty vengeance; it is the righteous response to human pride, cruelty, and rebellion. In His holiness, He cannot leave evil unaddressed.

Life Application

Rather than fear God's judgment as capricious, we are invited to see it as the ultimate proof that injustice will not be allowed to endure forever. Align your heart today with God's justice—pray for a heart that sorrows over sin and rejoices in righteousness.

Isaiah 13:9-11

"See, the day of the LORD is coming, cruel, with wrath and burning anger; to lay the land waste and destroy the sinners within it. The stars of the heavens and their constellations will not shine; the sun will be dark at its rising, and the moon will not give its light. Thus I will punish the world for its evil and the wicked for their guilt. I will put an end to the pride of the arrogant, the insolence of tyrants I will humble."

God as Light in Darkness

Even the cosmic imagery—darkened sun, hidden stars—points to the profound spiritual reality: when evil reigns, it casts the world into darkness. God's intervention, though severe, is ultimately a restoration of light. He will not allow pride and tyranny to darken His creation indefinitely. The Holy One of Israel shines forth to purify what human hands have corrupted.

Life Application

When you feel overwhelmed by the darkness in the world—violence, injustice, pride—remember: God will have the final word. Stay faithful, even when the night seems long. His light will break through.

Isaiah 13:17-19

"I am stirring up against them the Medes, who think nothing of silver and are not pleased with gold. Their bows will shatter the young; they will show no mercy to infants, nor compassion for children. And Babylon, ornament of kingdoms, glory and pride of the Chaldeans, will be overthrown by God like Sodom and Gomorrah."

God as Avenger of the Oppressed

Babylon, the glittering empire, will fall—not by accident, but by divine decree. Babylon, whose pride reached to the heavens, whose cruelty crushed the weak, whose arrogance defied the Holy One—will face justice. God sees every act of oppression. He does not forget the cries of the powerless.

Life Application

God’s justice may seem slow, but it is certain. If you feel unseen, unheard, or forgotten in your suffering, take heart. The Holy One who brought down Babylon sees you. Rest in His perfect timing.

Isaiah 13:20-22

"It shall never be inhabited, nor dwelt in, from age to age; Arabians shall not pitch tents there, shepherds shall not rest there. But wildcats shall lie there, and its houses shall be filled with owls; there ostriches shall dwell, and goat-demons shall dance. Wildcats shall howl in its castles, and jackals in its luxurious palaces. Her time is near at hand; her days shall not be prolonged."

God as Restorer of Balance

The final image is haunting—a once-mighty city reduced to wilderness, a playground for wild creatures. Yet even here, a deeper truth emerges: when human pride is dethroned, creation itself breathes easier. God's judgment purges corruption and restores a broken world. His holiness does not simply destroy—it clears the way for something new.

Life Application

Is there a place in your life where pride or stubbornness has led to desolation? Invite God to clear away what cannot stand before Him. Trust that He tears down only to rebuild what is stronger, purer, and more aligned with His heart.

Final Reflection: God’s Heart in Isaiah 13

Isaiah 13 confronts us with the fierce holiness of God. He is not content to let evil fester. He is not indifferent to oppression. His judgment is not an abandonment of love but its fulfillment—the love that refuses to coexist with injustice.

In a world where Babylon still seems to glitter and tyrants still rise, Isaiah 13 reminds us: God reigns. His justice will come. His holiness will prevail. And those who cling to Him—those who hunger for righteousness—will find in Him not terror, but safety, belonging, and peace.

The Holy One of Israel is both fearsome and tender, transcendent yet near. Trust Him.

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