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He Makes All Things New

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The Scripture readings for the Fifth Sunday of Easter this year are jam-packed with so many great things. I feel as though we should celebrate this day and these words joyfully. In fact, I plan to celebrate later with a cake, and it might just have candles on it. But I digress.

Let’s start with the First Reading, from Acts of the Apostles. It seems like a greatest hits list of Paul and Barnabas, all the places they visited, all the disciples they made, all the success they saw. Lystra, Iconium, Pisidia, Pamphylia, Perga, Attalia — so many places to give a lector fits, but they show a pattern of success for these Apostles to the Gentiles. Still, Paul and Barnabas don’t see it that way, and neither should we. When they return to Antioch and report about their missionary trip, they didn’t tell the Church what they did. No, they “reported what God had done with them and how He had opened the door of faith to the Gentiles.” They put the credit firmly where it belongs, on God alone, doing the work through them. May we, in our discipleship, let God do His work through us.

Next, there’s the beautiful words from Revelation. It’s a book so often misunderstood or misinterpreted, but today’s message is very clear. “Behold, God’s dwelling is with the human race. He will dwell with them and they will be His people and God himself will always be with them as their God.” The line echoes several Old Testament passages where God called the Hebrews into covenant with Him. But now, it has a new twist — no more death or mourning, wailing or pain — because God “make(s) all things new.” May we, in our relationship with God, always remember his promise to be with us.

Then, in the Gospel from John, Jesus gives us his new commandment: love one another. We might ask, how can this be new? God has commanded us since the Old Testament to love others as we love ourselves. Again, God makes something new, taking the old commandment and transforming it. The key is in Jesus’ next line: “As I have loved you, so you also should love one another.” Our love is not to exist because the law tells us we have to, our love must exist because Jesus has loved us first. His love stems from a personal relationship, not a law. He cares for us and about us. May our love, then, be put into action for others, just the same way Jesus demonstrated his love for us, pouring out his very self for our sake.

It is a lot to ask. Paul recognized this, telling his new disciples, “It is necessary for us to undergo many hardships to enter the kingdom of God.” Yet the reward is beyond our wildest dreams — beyond even the greatest birthday present a guy could ever hope for, unless that hope is to be with God forever. It’s definitely worth working for. Dear Jesus, help us, please.

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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Catch the Wind

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Didn’t we just celebrate Easter nine days ago? In fact, our eight-day celebration of Easter just came to a close on Divine Mercy Sunday. How is it that the daily Gospels have returned to a period long before the death and resurrection of Jesus? I think the Church, in its great wisdom, is telling us today, “We have celebrated well what God has done for us through Jesus Christ. Now it’s time to get to it.”

The story we have today isn’t just a narrative of where Jesus went, what he did, who he healed. This is not some appetizer we start into today. The third chapter of John shares with us the main course of our faith — the tenets of what we are to believe as followers of Christ. In the previous chapter, Jesus has performed his miracle at Cana and then cleansed the temple in Jerusalem of the money-changers, two very public and provocative acts. Chapter 3, in contrast, is a quiet conversation between our Lord and Nicodemus, the Pharisee who comes to Jesus at night, perhaps to avoid public scrutiny, but definitely because he wants to learn more. 

Jesus doesn’t hold back: “You must be born from above,” that is, of water and the Spirit, or as Nicodemus phrases it, born again. We know now that when we are baptized, in water and the Spirit, we take on a new life in Christ. Nicodemus at the time, however, didn’t get it.

Then Jesus does a little play on words. It might not come through in English, but spirit and wind are translated from the same word in both Greek and Hebrew. He says, “The wind blows where it will, and you can hear the sound it makes, but you do not know where it comes from or where it goes …”

This line reminds me of the 1960s hit by Donovan — a song as old as I am, to be honest — a song about unrequited love, where the singer wishes he could be with the woman of his dreams, but alas, he “may as well try and catch the wind.”

Donovan, meet Nicodemus. Of course you can’t catch the wind. That’s not the point. The point is God sends the wind — and the Spirit — to you. To us. “So it is with everyone who is born of the Spirit.” It is up to us to believe.

And what does believing get us? Jesus is matter-of-fact: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.”

The Spirit, when we believe and accept such a great gift into our lives, changes us. Look at those early disciples in Acts. They sold their possessions, they held everything in common, they listened to the Apostles bear witness to the resurrection, and “great favor was accorded them all.” Great favor is accorded to us, too, when we believe in the resurrection, the great favor of eternal life. God has given us his Son; he gives us his Spirit. Catch it — believe — and look forward to life with our loving God.

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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All About Us

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It is fairly common for us to hear in popular culture and public conservations someone being told, “It’s not all about you” when they are perceived as being selfish, self-centered or self-serving. It’s a very public and definite rebuke, a complete put-down. Get over yourself, it says. Think about someone else for once, it implies.

And then we come to Holy Week and Easter. Jesus Christ is risen today! Alleluia! He is risen indeed! Praise be to God the Father and our Lord Jesus Christ! A reflection on all the drama, all the emotion, all the theology of the past few days, and one thing that arises – a little bit unexpected, quite honestly – is that all of it, Christ’s passion, death and resurrection, are, in fact, all about us.

We are sinners. We fail God and others. God in his infinite power and majesty could do anything at all about it – forget us, leave us to flounder, even destroy us and start over. Yet God decides in his infinite love and mercy instead to save us. The incarnation, the loving act of sending his only Son into this world to be a ransom for our sins, would never have to happen if not for our sinfulness. 

And Jesus submits to the will of the Father, emptying himself and becoming human. He is born as we are born, grows as we grow, lives like us in all ways, yet he does not sin. His commitment is completely to the Father, giving us the example of how we should live. He teaches us, he heals us, he gives us his very self in the Eucharist at the Last Supper on Holy Thursday. He does it all for us.

And we reject him. He is betrayed, arrested, tried, falsely accused, falsely convicted. He is tortured and ridiculed, crucified and killed. And he humbly accepts it all. He who never had sin takes on our sins and is killed for them. His death is all about his love for us.

But it’s not the end. Two thousand years later, we repeat it almost as a matter of fact, that Jesus rose from the dead. But think about that! He was dead, but then he was no longer dead! No wonder his disciples couldn’t comprehend what that meant when he told them it would occur. And it happened for us, that we, too, might have everlasting life with God in heaven. Because God loves us so much that he willed this all for our salvation. 

Let us latch onto that this Easter and always with rejoicing and praise. Jesus became man, suffered, died and rose again, all for us. And it happened because God, the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, loves us in spite of us. God, who does not need us in the slightest, has chosen to make it all about us with His infinite love. Let us live on in that love, taking it and spreading it and making it all about someone else, just as God has done with us. Happy Easter! Alleluia!

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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Have Mercy on Me, a Sinner

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The tax collector in today’s Gospel prays a prayer very similar to the Jesus Prayer held so close to the hearts of our Orthodox brothers and sisters.  As Luke tells us Jesus’ parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, the interesting thing is both men know their true selves, and they both speak it in their prayers. The Pharisee says he is not greedy, dishonest or adulterous. He fasts and pays his tithes. His examination of conscience determines he does what he is supposed to do. More power to him, right? Not so fast.

The tax collector, on the other hand, prays simply that he is a sinner and begs for God’s mercy. He does not list any sins; he does not speak them. He knows them too well. He keeps his distance and cannot look up to heaven, whether through shame or sorrow. He beats his breast, not from pride but from remorse, repentance. He prays, “O God, be merciful to me a sinner.”

The contrast with the Pharisee is obvious. This man takes his position. There is a place that is his in the temple area, and he goes there. But then Jesus says something that I do not believe is just the turn of a phrase, I see it as very deliberate: The Pharisee “spoke this prayer to himself.” Jesus did not say he prayed to God. The Pharisee spoke the prayer to himself. And suddenly we know that Jesus is speaking across the two millennia since, directly to us. Do we pray? Or do we pray to God?

Close to our Catholic hearts is the Our Father, the prayer that Jesus taught us. We learn it at a young age, we pray it often, multiple times a day if we take part in the Liturgy of the Hours. But all too often I ask myself — or, probably more accurately, the Holy Spirit gives me a poke — am I praying these beautiful, meaningful words from our Lord, or am I just reciting it because I know the words by heart? God have mercy on me!

In our First Reading, Hosea might be talking to Ephraim and Judah, but he’s speaking to me: Your piety is like a morning cloud. I have every intention of being holy, but as the day wears on, that holiness burns off, not because of what happens during the day, but because of my reaction to it. When there is conflict or criticism or distress, I can choose the holy path, we all can. But do we? Do I? O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.

Today’s readings are a perfect wakeup call for the middle of Lent. We try to deny things from our lives in a spirit of repentance, but that can’t be the whole story. God desires love, not sacrifice. So if we’re giving things up to free our hearts of them, we need to fill our hearts with something else, and that obviously is love. Then, the sacrifice has meaning and worth, because a heart has changed.

The Orthodox will tell you that the Jesus Prayer is very simple, but also that it is a long and difficult path. Its statement of faith and plea for help are easily said, but to commit to those simple words can take a lifetime. Faith is a journey. Communion with God is a process. What better time and place to start than here and now? Jesus Christ, son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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Two Become One

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This summer, God willing, my wife and I will celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary. Reflecting on that makes me feel totally inadequate to discuss the topic of today’s Gospel, divorce. And yet, at the same time, reflecting honestly on 35 years of marriage makes me feel totally inadequate to discuss marriage. What do I really know, and what can I tell anyone else that would help them based on the life I have lived? Can I even find the words? 

I do know this: Marriage is the easiest thing in the world, if you do it correctly. Moses permitted divorce because he saw people weren’t doing it correctly. “Because of the hardness of your hearts” he allowed it. Now, this brings to mind something I heard a priest say once that has always stuck with me: “If you’re going to bring people to Jesus, you have to meet them where they are.” Of course, he didn’t mean in a physical or geographical sense; he was talking about where people are in their faith, their spiritual journey. You have to assess and accept where they are, not where you expect they should be. I see this concept in Moses’ bill of divorce, that the people weren’t in a place to see the underlying truth in marriage. When the Pharisees bring it up with Jesus, he sees they are ready to hear the truth and he gives it to them straight: Married people “are no longer two but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, no human being must separate.” But even before that, Jesus gets to the bedrock basics of the situation: “From the beginning of creation, God made them male and female.”

“God made them” and “God has joined.” And God does all of this out of His infinite love. That’s marriage, folks. Our marriage is not about my wife and me. It’s about her and me and God. His love created us, joins us, sustains us, forgives us. And only by loving God completely, putting Him at the center of our lives, can we properly love each other, can we become one flesh. No longer is the self the focus, it’s that precious gift of God’s love, including in the person of our spouse. And this is not just a marriage thing. We can’t do single life or celibacy or consecrated life properly, either, without surrendering our path to the loving will of God.

I once asked my wife a trick question: Who do you think is more important, you or me? Knowing me as well as she does, she knew I was up to something, so I had to explain, yes, it’s all in the choice of words. Not “who is” more important but “who do you think?” Because when it comes to any relationship based on mutual love, our main focus cannot be ourselves. And nearly 35 years of togetherness has taught us that I left the most important member of this relationship — God — out of that trick question. 

Marriage is the easiest thing in the world, if you do it correctly. But all of us being humans, we don’t do it correctly all of the time. Love is easy to talk about but not always easy to do in our sinful human condition. Luckily, we have a marriage partner more than willing to help us, if we remember to keep Him at the center of it.

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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Kings and Commoners

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Today’s readings offer us something that we in this current age of television, movies and mystery novels are pretty familiar with — the flashback. In the First Reading, Sirach flashes back to the glory of King David hundreds of years before the writer of Sirach picked up his pen. In the Gospel of Mark, King Herod flashes back to his own killing of John the Baptist as he tries to figure out who this Jesus is that he is hearing about. Two kings — David and Herod — two flashbacks, at least two very interesting lessons for us today.

Not that many days ago, our daily readings told us about David’s big sins, the taking of Uriah’s wife and the sending of Uriah to die in battle, and the prophet Nathan confronting him with the truth. Adultery and murder, of course, are Ten Commandment-level bad, yet Sirach hails him as Israel’s greatest, “like the choice fat of the sacred offerings.” Numerous great things are attributed to David, things previously chronicled in the books of Samuel. Perhaps the most important for our purposes is that “With his every deed he offered thanks to God Most High, in words of praise” and “With his whole being he loved his Maker and daily had his praises sung.” Sirach admits David was not perfect, because “The Lord forgave him his sins.” 

Sirach reminds us that kings can be just like the rest of us, sinful and in need of forgiveness. And David reminds us of what we need to do: to love God with our whole being, to thank and praise Him always, to repent of our sins and turn to God’s mercy.

And then there’s Herod. Mark reminds us that kings can be just like the rest of us, refusing to see the wrongs we have done, committed to our own pride instead of the will of God. Herod had John arrested because he didn’t like the truth John told him; he killed John to impress others. And when he heard of Jesus, he couldn’t comprehend that there would be one ever greater, one whom John wasn’t fit to untie His sandal straps. Instead of trying to hear the Lord’s message, he dismissed it as some sort of supernatural hocus-pocus.

Sirach’s flashback shows us that God can forgive our sins and exalt us when we repent and love, serve and praise Him. Mark’s flashback shows us that it is up to us to want God’s forgiveness and love. If we only focus on ourselves and reject our Lord’s most loving gift, we waste that most precious love of our own accord. 

Today’s Responsorial Psalm wraps it all up very nicely. The psalmist tells us “God’s way is unerring” and “He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him.” Once again, it comes down to this: God, who doesn’t need us in the slightest, wants a relationship with us. He wants to be our God if we will be his people. And I know God knows it’s hard for us to overcome ourselves, but His love and grace are freely given to all who sincerely call on His name. He is more than willing to transform us commoners into kings after His own heart.

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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The Soil of Our Souls

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If you’re like me, you probably can’t even count the number of times you’ve heard or read today’s Gospel, Mark’s version of the sower and the seed. That familiarity with the parable puts us in a polar opposite situation with the Twelve Apostles. “We get it, we get it. Good soil — fruit; bad soil — withered,” our minds might be saying, not understanding how or why Jesus’ closest followers had to ask him what the story meant.

Yet, Jesus’ response to us, I think, would be exactly the same as it was to his disciples. To paraphrase: “Don’t you get it? If you don’t get it here, how will you get any of my teaching?” Because responding out of familiarity, “We get it” seems to be just what he’s warning against. We think we know, so we let the teaching get snatched away, or let it wither, or let it get choked by other worldly concerns, including our own arrogance that “We get it.”

Looking at it like that made me realize, while the four types of soil can be seen as four types of people, four types of hearts our Lord is looking to penetrate, they also can be seen as four varying stages in our own hearts and our own faith journeys. Anyone who has ever been to a retreat, Cursillo, spiritual conference or other faith-filled event can’t help but leave it thanking God for how much they have been moved and changed and enlivened. God forbid on the drive home we see a broken-down car on the side of the road or a homeless person panhandling on the corner and we give them no thought at all. Or someone cuts us off and we’re quick to scream loudly. Fertile ground and a rocky path, right there in the same heart.

The key, Jesus tells us, is hearing the word and accepting it. In the context of the parable, the seed is sown in the soil of our souls. Accepting it, then, is the tending of that seed and that soil, becoming our own gardeners to make sure that seed bears fruit that is thirty or sixty or a hundredfold. We have to have an active role in the process, the accepting, the nurturing, the cultivating, developing and sharing of that which has been given to us.

Paul reminds us in his salutations to Timothy and Titus how the seed sown by Jesus is planted in us today, 2,000 years later. “Timothy, my dear child,” he says, and “Titus, my true child in our common faith.” Faith is handed down to us in close, personal relationship. Our parents, priests, teachers, catechists, spiritual directors; the writings of saints baring their souls; the epistles and Gospels and prophets and psalms. With the Holy Spirit’s help, these personal connections transmit the love of God through our Lord Jesus Christ down through time and space to our very souls. Now it is up to us to tend the soil of our souls, to accept the seed planted there and make it bear much fruit. And what do you do when you have fruit, abundant and overflowing? You give it to others.

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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The Wisdom of God

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O Wisdom of our God Most High,
guiding creation with power and love:
come to teach us the path of knowledge!

I never knew my maternal grandfather; he died a year and a half before I was born. But I have learned the stories about him: how he lied about his age so he could join a brother in coming to America; how he drove an ambulance in France for the U.S. Army during World War I; how he, just like the usual Greek stereotype, owned a “greasy spoon” restaurant; how he was an older man when he married the feisty Sicilian woman who was my grandmother. It’s a little funny how, my whole life, I’ve been asked, “So, you’re Greek?” and I’ve always said, “Why, yes, on my mother’s side.”

Yes, people make assumptions (for example, “Can anything good come from Nazareth?”), and seeing that my last name is a Greek word — which means “fruit,” by the way — they assume. And so I have to explain that I’m Polish on my father’s side, but I have no idea how a Polish family took a Greek word for their surname. I did know my grandfather on that side, perhaps the kindest and most generous man I’ve ever known. But he was also opinionated, opportunistic, and an alcoholic.

We can’t choose our ancestry, and yet it is very important in our lives because we are the culmination of it; it is the foundation of who we fundamentally are. Both Matthew and Luke use a genealogy of Jesus to show the importance of ancestry, especially how Jesus was the culmination of Old Testament prophecies and covenants, putting him in direct line with Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Judah and King David. No, we can’t choose our ancestors, but today’s Gospel shows that God can and does do that choosing. And for Jesus, as well as for us, that ancestry chosen by God contains both the faithful and the sinner. Judah, as the First Reading tells us, may have been destined for greatness, with kings as descendants; and he may have saved his brother Joseph from their other brothers’ wrath, but he also sold Joseph into slavery. Jesus is considered a descendant of David, but he’s also a descendant of Ahaz, the guy who wouldn’t listen to Isaiah about asking the Lord for a sign. And God, in his infinite wisdom, used them all to fulfill his plan. His promises to Abraham, to Jacob, to David, even to Ahaz, are fulfilled in the birth of Jesus, the Messiah.

I began this reflection with today’s “O antiphon,” the ancient exhortations the Church has used since the eighth century to accompany the Magnificat canticle of Evening Prayer from December 17-23. As the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops says on its website, the antiphons are “a magnificent theology that uses ancient biblical imagery drawn from the messianic hopes of the Old Testament to proclaim the coming Christ as the fulfillment not only of Old Testament hopes, but present ones as well.” And today, when we say Come, O Wisdom, we know that that Wisdom is Jesus Christ, our very Lord and Savior. Christmas is just a week away: Come, Lord Jesus, Come!

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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The Apple of God’s Eye

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I was born to a Catholic couple and raised in a Catholic family. I lived in a Catholic house on the same block as a Catholic school, a half a block away from a Catholic church. I was baptized in that church, graduated from that school. The sisters from the convent would come over on Saturday mornings and have coffee with my mother. Nuns have seen me in my pajamas! 

My mother was — and, at 83, still is! — organist at that church. I made my First Communion and First Reconciliation there, and I was confirmed and married before that altar. I served as an altar boy and lector and, living just a half a block away, answered many a call to fill in at the last minute when some other server failed to show up. Bottom line, I was nurtured in the faith, as Catholic as those seven brothers were Jewish.

And yet, I specifically remember our priest teaching us one day during a visit to religion class that we had to choose for ourselves: are we going to believe, or not? I don’t know if it had the effect he intended, because for me, it sounded like, “hey, you have an out.”

Clearly, I was not a Maccabean son, ready to give up my very life for my God and beliefs. And yet, I, too, had a parent who exhorted me to keep the faith they taught me, and that made all the difference. I learned by example that our God is a God of love who is deserving of all our love, praise and worship, however imperfect. 

In the Gospel, Jesus teaches us where we go from there. One might think the parable of the talents is sort of a faith economics lesson — God gives you gifts and expects you to be productive with them. But it’s so much more, and it all starts with that Maccabean concept of loving God above all. When our focus is on the Lord, then the using of our gifts to the best of our ability for him is the natural course of action. Because God loves us, we love him, and we serve others out of love for God and them, for his glory alone. 

It’s a big call, and the servant who did nothing with the talent shows the consequences. But note that the servant who returns fivefold is not chastised for failing to gain 10, he is rewarded for doing his best. The one who did not try is the one who must answer for it.

But then Luke throws in that unexpected twist: the people who didn’t want this nobleman to be king in the first place. Suddenly, “you have an out” comes into much clearer focus. If we’re going to believe, we need to love God above all and use our talents to further his kingdom in love and service. And if we aren’t, if we opt out, God will oblige by opting out on us. The king had his enemies slain before him, cutting them off completely. How could we possibly want that? Our prayer indeed must be, as the psalmist says, keep us “as the apple of your eye.”

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Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the 3-year-old who teaches him what the colors of Father’s chasubles mean. He has served on a Catholic School board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.

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