The love open to all

Readings: Exodus 22:20-26; Psalm 18:2-4.47.51; 1 Thessalonians 1:5c-10; Matthew 22:34-40

With my graciously granted discretion, after a long day working, I simply attended the Sunday Vigil Mass at the Cathedral last night. Once again, it was beautiful just to worship. How I love the Mass! Like last week, I heard a good homily. I walked away grateful and a little tired.

In considering our readings for this Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time and Year A of the Sunday lectionary, I couldn't help but think about the the scholar of the Law who, in Saint Luke's Gospel, poses the question to Jesus about what is required for eternal life. Replying in true rabbinical fashion, the Lord asks this man what he thinks. This scholar of the Law goes on to give the correct answer: one "inherits eternal life" by loving God with one's whole self and by loving one's neighbor as oneself.

"Because he wished to justify himself," the inspired author of Luke tells us, this scholar posed a further question, the answer to which is less obvious and is still a matter of contention: "And who is my neighbor?" In response, Jesus tells the Parable of the Good Samaritan (See Luke 10:25-37).

Whether we are reading Saint Matthew's version of this teaching of our Lord's or Saint Luke's, it is important to note that loving God with your entire being and loving your neighbor as you love yourself are commanded in the Law (See Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18b). This is why, in Saint Luke's version, the scholar of the Law answers his own question so effortlessly. As noted, his follow-up question, which, according to Luke, is asked from a less than pure motive, remains the question.

Jesus, as he does more than once in Luke's Gospel, uses a Samaritan as the protagonist of his story. A Samaritan? Can you believe it? Not only a Samaritan, but a Samaritan who ministers to a Jew, one whose plight is actively ignored by his fellow, obviously observant, Jews!

We usually miss the provocation of Jesus using a Samaritan as a good example for his fellow Jews. Maybe it would be useful to re-imagine it as something like the "Parable of the Good Muslim" or the "Parable of the Good None," or, where I live, the "Parable of the Good Mormon" to show what it means to love your neighbor, even as we go about what we imagine to be our love of God.

I know this is drawing from another Gospel to reflect on a passage from our Gospel for today. This is typically frowned on because each of the four Evangelists sets forth his own theological program, which should be respected. But, since I am not currently preaching, I'm allowing myself this liberty because I think it is very useful in our present moment.

Early in 2025, there was an attempt to distort and misapply the ordo amoris (the "order of love") for some less than laubable political ends. Essentially, the distorted version of the ordo amoris was an attempt, not to pose the question anew, but answer the question, "Who is my neighbor?" in a way that perhaps the scholar of the Law in Luke's Gospel would've answered it had Jesus also turned that question back to him.

Highlighting the silence of U.S. episcopate in the aftermath of this public distortion of the ordo amoris, Pope Francis wrote a letter addressed to the bishops of the United States concerning this matter. Lest there be any confusion about what the Gospel demands, the Holy Father insisted,

The true ordo amoris that must be promoted is that which we discover by meditating constantly on the parable of the “Good Samaritan,” that is, by meditating on the love that builds a fraternity open to all, without exception (see "Letter of the Holy Father Francis to the Bishops of the United States of America")

Like Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18b, our reading from Exodus can be taken as the locus in the Law where the answer the question "Who is my neighbor?" is found.

Your neighbor is the alien, that is, the immigrant, the refugee. Your neighbor is the widow, the orphan, the poor and dispossessed person whom you encounter. God says in Exodus, "I am compassionate." Getting back to Saint Matthew's Gospel, as his followers, Jesus himself commands us to "be perfect, just as your heavenly Father is perfect" (Matthew 5:48).

Being like the Father is to be like Christ, which is a work of the Holy Spirit. This certainly means perfecting my compassion by materially and spiritually caring for those who are vulnerable. While it certainly includes those who are like you, your neighbor isn't limited to members of your own race, sex, class, nation, profession, sports nation, or, as Jesus shows in his parable, even your religion. To cite an oft-used quote, the Catholic Church doesn't care for those in need because they're Catholic. We do it because we are.

Our reading from 1 Thessalonians continues without a break from last week's "epistle" reading. Paul commends the members of this Church for imitating him and those who accompanied him to ancient Thessaloniki. By doing so, they imitated Christ, thus serving as an example for others. Among other things, following Christ, now as then, means ceasing to worship idols.

Today, there are many idols. One idol that seems to have gained a following is nationalism. Nationalism is often accompanied by implicit or, increasingly explicit, racism and exclusion of other kinds as well. Sadly, this can bleed over into the Church. At root, this is a manifestation, an unhealthy contraction, of one's understanding of who my neighbor is.

Don't get me wrong, patriotism, which is a properly ordered love for one's country, is a virtue, one that is ordered toward pursuing the common good. Nationalism, by contrast, is a disordered attachment. Nationalism is to patriotism what lust is to love or what gluttony is to hunger.

A recent showing of this unhealthy tendency is the distored and hopelessly simplistic (i.e., race-baiting) political explanations for the rioting in France (for an on-the-ground take by an American in Paris listen to The Bulletin from Friday, 23 October, this discussion runs from 17:24 to 32:57).

In the end, Jesus is quite clear that "The whole law and the prophets depend on these two commandments"- "love the Lord, your God, with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind" and "love your neighbor as yourself." In Exodus, God speaks quite clearly, not about the importance, but of the necessity to love your neighbor. And so, the question remains for each of us, And who is my neighbor?

While love of God is, in some ways, distinct from love of neigbor, the two cannot be separated. In reality, they are so inextricably bound together that you can't have one without the other.

Rendering what is rendered

Readings: Is 45:1.4-6; Ps 96:1/3.4-5.7-8.9-10; 1 Thess 1:1-5a; Matt 22:15-21

This week's Gospel reading is another one of those that I imagine makes some people groan at the thought of what they are in for homily-wise. Add to this the reading about Cyrus from deutero-Isaiah, and, well, good luck! Without a doubt, there will be many predictable takes on rendering the proper whatever to the appropriate whomever.

In a lot of instances, these rendering duties will be carefully parsed and broken down with no ambiguity, moral or otherwise, left over. I say, "Ho hum." I don't say this because it doesn't matter. I say because it's often teed up to achieve a particular effect and that effect, as we have seen, can sometimes be very misguided, even when well-intentioned.

Perhaps the best insight is our responsorial: "Give the Lord glory and honor."

In our reading from Saint Paul's First Letter to the Thessalonians, which consists of the letter's opening verses, we hear about what it means to give honor and glory to the Lord. Dating to around AD 50, it may well be that 1 Thessalonians is first "book" of New Testament to be written. The other possibility for this distinction is 1 Corinthians. Paul starts his epistle by praising the Church in Thessaloniki.

Paul begins by recalling this local church's "work of faith and labor of love and endurance in hope of our Lord Jesus Christ" (1 Thess 1:3). He praises them for living out the Gospel that was not only preached to them but made imminent for and, more importantly, in them "in power and in the Holy Spirit" (1 Thess 1:5). Indeed, it is the Holy Spirit who also empowers the Gospel to go forth through them. Guess what? This same dynamic still operates today! If we let it.

Taking a cue from the Prologue to the Rule of Saint Benedict, it seems the ancient Christians of Thessaloniki inclined the ear of their hearts toward the Gospel, that is, toward Christ. Christ is the Gospel. He is the Good News in person. It is the Holy Spirit who brings about "conviction" first in a person, thus allowing it to go forth through her/him. This is made manifest in the following verses in which Paul uses himself and his companions during their time in Thessaloniki as examples.

The Greek word translated in the NABRE as "conviction" is plérophoria (transliterated). Historically, plérophoria is most often translated into English as "assurance" or "full assurance." It is, indeed, the Holy Spirit who gives us full assurance of the Gospel.

Before writing that the Gospel did not come to them by words alone, Saint Paul went on to to assert something that is easily missed. Nonetheless, this phrase that is so easy to miss is fundamental, even vital. Paul refers to the Christians of ancient Thessaloniki as "brothers and sisters loved by God" (1 Thess 1:4-italics added).

So, what the apostle is commending them for is living lives fully assured of God's love given in Christ Jesus. Their life is rooted in God's love for them. Hence, their life together and their personal lives are lived as thanksgiving, as a loving response to the love of God, who is love (1 John 4:8.16). In a word, their lives are Eucharist.

God is love. Like the coin that bears Caesar's image in our Gospel reading, each of us ineradicably bears God's image. This means we are made from love in order to love.

Later in the same chapter of Matthew from which our Gospel for this Sunday is taken, Jesus teaches that "The whole law and the prophets depend on" loving God and loving your neighbor (see Matthew 22:34-40). Rendered more accurately, you love God by loving your neighbor (see 1 John 4:19-20). In this way, we render by rendering what we've been rendered.

So, what do you render to God? Yourself, whole and entire. When it comes to politics or anything else, we need to put first things first. Love received and given comes first. Sounds simple and, in reality, it is, or at least ought to be.

I don't about you, but I find living from God's great love for me quite challenging. The witness of the Thessalonians gives me hope. I was struck by today's Collect, by means of which we pray:

Almighty ever-living God,
grant that we may always conform our will to yours
and serve your majesty in sincerity of heart.

And now, the "more in due course"

Yesterday I received a reassignment letter from my bishop. It is dated 1 October 2026, the Memorial of Saint Thérèse of the Child Jesus. I've been serving in my current parish assignment for the past eleven and a half years.

I had forgotten that when I was given my current assignment by my previous bishop that it was only for a little more than a year. Likely due to my former bishop being moved to a new diocese a month after issuing that letter, an updated assignment letter was never sent. For all practical purposes, that has been my assignment for more than a decade. On the whole, it's been a good and, I hope, fruitful time of ministry. As with all things, there have been ups and downs. Thankfully, more of the former than the latter.

Prior to my current parish assignment, I had served for eleven years at our cathedral. As of 1 June 2027, the cathedral will once again be my assigned parish. Additionally, "with immediate effect," I am assigned to assist my bishop "in liturgical and pastoral duties" across the diocese. Of course, this takes precedence over any parish commitments.

When I went to work "part-time" for the diocese in 2020 while still working my "secular" job full-time, I was given the option of not having a parish assignment. But for the ensuing 6+ years, I've chosen to continue in parish ministry, albeit in a scaled back way. Between now and the end of May next year, I've been given discretion concerning this aspect of ministry as to how much I do. I am grateful that my bishop recognized my desire to take a break from parish ministry between now and next June. I am grateful to my current pastor for being understanding and supportive as well.

Apart from knowing that I need to take some significant time away from parish duties, I have yet to really determine what this interim period will look like. But I am grateful it was granted. This is especially needed given than I am only six months into my full-time work for the diocese, which consists of responsibilities across a number of areas. When I write about this year not only being a year of transitions but of quite challenging ones, this I what I mean. I have still a lot to figure out.

For family and personal reasons, I also need consistent time off. Being busy seven days a week most of the time is something I will no longer do. While I've felt this more acutely the past six months, I believe what I am experiencing is the cumulative effect of living out of balance for a long time.

With this, I am moving forward. Too much handwringing on here on Καθολικός διάκονος as of late. As the song "Closing Time" put it: "every beginning comes from some other beginning's end." As we are at about peak autumn here along the Wasatch Front of the Rocky Mountains, nature reveals this to us quite profoundly and beautifully.

And no, "Closing Time" is not our traditio. Instead, in honor of my "going back," our traditio for this Friday in mid-October is a track from my favorite U2 album, The Unforgettable Fire: "A Sort of Homecoming." Yes, two weeks in a row. Moving forward means starting where you're at.

On God's mountain

I am on a self-imposed preaching hiatus. As a result, it was a bit of conundrum whether to compose a reflection on this week's Sunday readings. I decided to wait and see how I felt today. And I feel like doing one. Good thing reading blog posts is a voluntary activity! At times, I focus on the second reading, sometimes called "the epistle reading." Today, I am taking our first reading from Isaiah as my text.

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Isaiah 26:6-10a

"On this mountain," our reading from Isaiah tells us, God will establish his kingdom. From this prophetic description, God's kingdom sounds like a glorious place. Like Terry Jones longed for Finland, God's mountain is where I long to be.

One feature of God's mountain is that there is enough, more than enough, for everyone. This bounty, provided by God, is not earned. It is given freely (see Isaiah 55:1-2). Our Gospel serves as something of a photographic negative to Isaiah's broad and even breathtaking vision.

Each time we gather for worship, we say together the Lord's Prayer. This is the prayer Jesus taught. It differs from the vain pagan murmurings to which he opposes these petitions. It is the prayer the Lord has placed on lips of his Church. But he did not teach us this prayer for it to remain on our lips. It needs to sink down into our hearts.

During my visit to New Mexico last month, I had the wonderful privilege of once again hearing my former bishop, now-Archbishop John Wester, preach. He preached on forgiveness. He said that in a lot of instances it really makes no sense to forgive, at least not from a logical point of view. He then stated that perhaps the longest distance imaginable is the space between our heads to our hearts. In our Gospel reading from several weeks ago, in which the inspired author of Saint Matthew's Gospel sets forth the Lord's teaching on forgiveness, Jesus says clearly that you must forgive "from your heart" (Matthew 18:21-35).

Try as some might to alter this, Christanity is always more of a matter of the heart than it is of the head. This is true as long we keep Jesus' teaching at the center. I was reading last night about one of Frederich Nietzsche's best friends, the theologian Franz Overbeck. Overbeck was the one who went to Nietzsche after the latter's breakdown in Turin. There can be little doubt that Overbeck's theology influenced, at least to a small degree, Nietzsche's philosopy.

Published in 1873, Overbeck's most influential work was Über die Christlichkeit unserer heutigen Theologie (How Christian is Our Present-Day Theology?). His conclusion was theology in his day was not very Christian. I doubt his assessment of Christian theology over the ensuing one hundred fifty years would change. But then, Overbeck's main assertion was that constructing a Christian theology, by which I take him to mean a systematic one, is impossible, at least if one takes the Gospels and early Church seriously.

In the second (of seven) petition of the Lord's Prayer, we ask for God's kingdom to come. In the following petition, we ask that God's will be done on earth as it is heaven. It's glaringly obvious that these two petitions are related. What else and where else is God's kingdom except the time and place where God's will is done? When God's will is done on earth as it is in heaven, doesn't the kingdom become a present reality? Who, if not the followers of Jesus, are to do God's will on earth?

Letting the Lord's Prayer move from our lips to our hearts is the only way to answer the Marxist critique of Christianity. What is that critique? In a nutshell, the critique is that oppression and injustice are to be endured in this life without complaint and certainly without revolt to earn one's eternal reward. Christian charity then aids unjust social conditions by treating symptoms while ignoring causes. This is why Marx called religion "the opium of the people."

We have the witness of holy women and men who have let the Lord's Prayer move from their lips to their hearts. There is the oft-quoted observation made by Dom Hélder Câmara, who, as Archbishop of Olinde and Recife in Brazil, along with Saint Oscar Romero, was an episcopal champion of the Gospel: "When I feed the hungry, they call me a saint. When ask why they're hungry, they call me a communist." This is the only way to refute the Marxist critique of Christianity, a critique with a great deal of merit. In section twenty-six of his first encylical, which remains a document well worth reading, Deus caritas est, Pope Benedict takes on this critique.

In an essay entitled, "The Kingdom of God and Theological Dimension of the Poor," theologian Jon Sobrino observed: “Forgetting the poor has gone hand in hand with forgetting the Kingdom of God.” Then, since the essay was written for a conference on Christology, in reference to the Church’s early conciliar history (like that of Chalcedon), which age marked the time the Church began to be entwined with the empire, Sobrino asserted: “By the time of the fourth-century conciliar debates it is clear that the Kingdom of God plays no role whatsoever in Christology." Maybe seeking to recover the central role of the Kingdom of God in the teaching of Jesus is the way to challenge Overbeck's thesis.

God's kingdom is present now only in the form of a mustard seed, that is, in small, often very discreet, even hidden ways. But it is made truly present whenever and wherever God's will is done. Because it derives from the same source, namely the Gospel According to Saint Matthew, we can be sure that the pathway from our lips to our hearts is paved by the Beatitudes.

Establishing a new normal

Okay, it's the second Friday in October. A lot is happening. Too much, in fact. Today, I am not inclined to go into detail.

Once again, it's a year of transitions for me. Now that I've made the big changes, it's time to tweak some things. The need for tweaking arises from my desire to live more fully. This requires having fewer responsibilities and commitments. I've written in detail about what doing less means for me.

At this point in my life, I'm not looking twenty years into the future. Right now, I am focused on the next 4-5 years. This prompts me to consider how best to live these years. One thing I know, I can no longer sustain what I've been doing for the last 20+ years.

In July, when I took some time away from weekend duties, I realize how much I need an actual weekend. I need two days a week off. Looking back, it's amazing to me how adapated I'd become to effectively working seven days a week most weeks. Honestly, for much of that time I was fine doing that. But this year it's hit me pretty hard.

I have some health issues to which I need to attend. While I am blessed that I don't suffer from anything serious, nothing that can't be dealt with by making lifestyle changes, taking care of myself needs to be more of a priority. Spiritually, I need more time and space. I'm excited about and looking forward to having Sunday and Monday off.

That's a lot about me, I know. Hopefully, one benefit of these changes is an increased ability to post more things of substance, as I am accustomedtp doing.

Part of my job now is to write. I enjoy this aspect of my work. Rather than deplete my desire to write, writing makes me want to write. My main reason for posting today is to get back to the Friday traditio.

Back in July, for some reason, I listened to the Bee Gees singing one of their big hits- "Nights On Broadway." Subsequently, I was surprised how many covers there are of this song. I was a bit torn about which version to put up as our traditio. In the end, I decided to stick with the original, selecting a video of a live performance the Brothers Gibb did more than 50 years ago in 1975.

The deaconing: a travelogue

Yesterday at about 11:00 AM, I finished a very taxing but exciting two months. Starting on Monday, 17 August, and ending yesterday, I have been busier than I have been at any time since before the pandemic. This included five trips. Four of these were for work.

I traveled to Mount Angel, Oregon (for my work with the seminary), Darien, Illinois (just outside Chicago- for Catholic Relief Services), Tampa, Florida (for the National Association of Deacon Directors), and Albuquerque, New Mexico (my second home- to lead the deacons of the Arcdiocese of Santa Fe on retreat).

In between Mount Angel and Darien, I slipped in a trip to see my eldest son, who lives just outside Fort Collins, Colorado, and his wife. Married in June, I hadn't seen them since their wedding.

Finally, this past weekend, along with my wonderful associate director of the Office of the Diaconate, I hosted the deacons of my diocese, along with their wives, on our annual retreat. Since this year we are celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of the ordination of the first men ordained to serve the Diocese of Salt Lake City permanently as deacons, we did not have an outside presenter. We only had "inside" presenters.

I gave the first Conference on Friday evening and our bishop gave the final Conference yesterday, immediately following Mass. I admit I was a little nervous. But it could not have gone better.

I also led Morning Prayer on Saturday morning. So, I gave a short reflection on the reading from the office. This is what follows below.

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Reading: Romans 12:14-16a

The essence of today's reading for Morning Prayer strikes me as rather diaconal. This includes the first sentence, which urges us to bless those who treat us poorly, even those who persecute us. As human being but particularly being deacons, we know what it is to be treated poorly.

Being a deacon means occupying a pretty strange space. As deacons, we inhabit the space between the Church and the world. In the Church, we straddle the gap between the clergy and the laity.

In his recent book on the diaconate, Empowered by the Spirit, historian, theologian, and our brother deacon, Hilmar Pabel, points out something very important. Deacons, he insists, seek to serve the marginalized. We must do so by at least pointing out their situation, even if it just means noting their absence from our assembly.

But, he goes on to point out, that this is often made possible and perhaps given some urgency by the fact that, as deacons, we ourselves are often marginalized. He calls us "marginalized ministers."¹ This gives us something to ponder, an important connection to explore and even to make in our own lives and ministries.

While Billy Joel sang, "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints," as deacons, we are called to laugh and cry, to celebrate and mourn with saints and sinners alike, even if, as Billy insisted, "the sinners are much more fun."² In imitation of Christ, who called himself "the deacon," we do this without making distinctions like "saints" and "sinners," deserving and undeserving, etc.³ We are to serve everyone. As Pope Francis often said: ¡Todos, todos, todos!

In harmony with our reading this morning, as deacons, we are called in a profound way to closely associate with those on the margins, the lowly, the lost, so we can serve them in the name of Christ and for the sake of God's kingdom. Who knows, even participate in the Kingdom through and with them?! We are the ones, unlike those the Lord rebuked in last Sunday's Gospel, who recognize that the sinners, the tax collectors and prostitutes, "are entering God's kingdom" ahead of those who think themselves righteous.⁴ A deacon needs to understand the difference between true righteousness and self-righteousness!

Ordained to serve permanently as deacons, our ministry is to show that service must both precede and proceed from sacrifice. Deacons need to grasp that worship that doesn't lead to service is not Christian worship. By putting away ambition, especially ecclesial ambition, identifying with the lowly, and taking our lumps in a spirit of Christian charity (i.e., practicing the spiritual work of mercy that bids us to bear wrongs patiently), deacons live in persona Christi servi.

One of the great theologians of the Second Vatican Council, Herbert Vorgrimler, noted that the deacon "makes it clear that the liturgy must have consequences in the world with all its needs." He went on to insist it is the deacon who also shows "that work in the world that is done in the spirit of charity has a spiritual dimension."⁵

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1 Hilmar M. Pabel. Empowered by the Spirit: Deacons and Ministerial Communion in a Synodal Church. Liturgical: Collegeville, 2026, Introduction.^↩
2 Billy Joel. "Only the Good Die Young" off The Stranger album from 1977.^↩
3 Luke 22:27.^↩
4 See Matthew 21:28-32.^↩
5 Herbert Vorgrimler. Sacramental Theology. Trans. Linda Maloney. Liturgical Press: Collegeville, 1992, page 270.^↩

"Then I'd turn myself to face me"

Things have been quiet around here lately. This is because I have been very busy. Between 17 August and 20 September, I was travelling every week. Only one of those trips was a personal family trip. Boy, did I enjoy being with my family!

Another couple of highlights from this time is leading the annual deacon retreat for the Archdiocese of Santa Fe. Spending time outside Chicago with the Catholic Relief Services Global Fellows was also incredible. As always, I have a lot to be grateful for. Being more grateful, as well as being more patient, even with myself, are a few of the things I've been focusing on.

Another thing that gives me joy is teaching theology to a small group of motivated high school students each week. This year, we are tackling the New Testament. Last year, my first doing this, was Old Testament.

In particular, I haven't been putting up the Friday traditio While I was very happy to have been diligent in doing that for virtually all of 2025, looking back, I realized that when I get busy, it is usually the first thing to go. And that's as it should be. Life over blogging (there's that faux verb again!). I posted fewer times during September than any month since November 2024.

As both of my readers know, 2026 has been a year of big changes and transitions in my life. While it's been difficult and taken a lot of adjusting, on the whole, these changes have been good. A little more than six months in, I feel like I have my sea legs. So, I am now making adjustments based on the big changes about which I wrote a lot early this year.

There have been some strange difficulties I've faced this year. I've also written, if vaguely, about these. All of these things have really made me seek the Lord with a renewed fervor and have sparked some personal changes. Not superficial, but deep changes, you know, those you know you need to start making but remain reluctant to do so. Why? Because not only is it work, it's work you can't accomplish on your own.

In short, interior renewal that is centering and isn't dependent on externals. Saint Ignatius of Loyola had one word for this: indiferencía. As another spiritual teacher has taught me, I am learning to practice more consistently "benevolent detatchment."

At the present moment, I am finding one book in particular very useful. Jim Finley's Merton's Palace of Nowhere. Finely's masterwork on Merton, who was Jim's spiritual director for the six years he spent at Gethsemani Abbey in Kentucky, as well as his novice master, was originally published nearly fifty years ago, in 1978.

I don't think this book would've "worked" for me until this year. But it's just what I need right now. Perhaps at some point I will share precisely how Finley's exposition of Merton's spirituality has helped me better appropriate Merton's teachings (it isn't a method). It's also been way too long since I've seriously engaged Pater Tom. Grace abounds.

One fruit of all of this is my need to not be busy seven days a week. Manning several demanding positions in my fulltime work for the diocese made me realize that, at least for the next several years, I don't have the time or the energy for parish ministry. Six and a half years ago, when I accepted a demanding part-time position with the diocese (this while still working a fulltime job), I was given the option not to be assigned to a parish.

I don't regret continuing to serve the parish to which I've been assigned between then and now, but it's past time for a change. Once this transition is complete, there will be more news to follow in terms of what's next for those who care.

While I will be transitioning out between now and Easter, I am already mostly out. My transition began in July. Pastoral necessity put me back in the thick of things for the month of September. At this point, I am pretty sure I will be around for Christmas and Holy Week.

This discernment has been six months in the making. I've done this is in collaboration with both my current pastor and my bishop. I am also blessed with a wonderful spiritual director, who's helped me immensely this year. I've been through enough iterations of back-and-forth to know it's the right thing at the right time and for the right reasons. I have that peace that Saint Ignatius insisted is the confirmation of having discerned wisely, led by the Spirit.

I am preparing to leave for the annual deacon retreat for my diocese. It starts this evening and goes through Sunday morning. Please keep us in your prayers.

It's been way too long since our Καθολικός διάκονος Friday traditio has been something by David Bowie. Fittingly, Bowie's "Changes" is our traditio for this first Friday of October.