Wednesday in the Fourth Week of Ordinary Time, February 4, 2026

Mark 6, 1-6

Jesus departed from there and came to his native place, accompanied by his disciples. When the sabbath came he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astonished. They said, “Where did this man get all this? What kind of wisdom has been given him? What mighty deeds are wrought by his hands! Is he not the carpenter, the son of Mary, and the brother of James and Joseph and Judas and Simon? And are not his sisters here with us?” And they took offense at him. Jesus said to them, “A prophet is not without honor except in his native place and among his own kin and in his own house.” So he was not able to perform any mighty deed there, apart from curing a few sick people by laying his hands on them. He was amazed at their lack of faith.

 Of all the places where Jesus might be rejected, Nazareth is the most painful — and the most revealing. This is not a city of enemies or skeptics. It is home. These are the people who watched him grow, who knew his hands before they healed the sick, who heard his voice before it spoke with authority in the synagogue. They are not scandalized by ignorance, but by familiarity.

At first, everything seems promising. They are astonished. They recognize wisdom. They even acknowledge mighty deeds. And yet astonishment curdles into resistance. Their questions slide from wonder into dismissal: Where did this man get all this? Not, Who has given it to him? but, How dare it come from him? The problem is not what Jesus says or does, but who he is to them. Or rather, who they think he is.

“Is he not the carpenter?” The word is meant to anchor him firmly in place, to pin him to a workbench and a family line. A carpenter does not speak like this. A neighbor’s son does not bear divine authority. Nazareth is willing to be impressed — but not converted. They want amazement without surrender, admiration without obedience.

There is something profoundly human here. We are often most resistant to God when he comes to us through what is ordinary, familiar, or close. We expect revelation to arrive with spectacle, distance, or novelty. But God delights in choosing the known, the local, the unremarkable. Nazareth’s tragedy is not that it lacks evidence, but that it cannot see past its own categories. They know Jesus too well — or think they do.

Mark tells us that “they took offense at him.” Literally, they were scandalized. Jesus becomes a stumbling stone not because he contradicts Scripture, but because he fulfills it too near to home. A Messiah from elsewhere might have been acceptable. A prophet who grew up down the street is intolerable.

Jesus’ response is sober, not angry. He names the pattern: a prophet is without honor among his own. There is no bitterness here — only clarity. And yet the most startling line follows: “He was not able to perform any mighty deed there.” This is not a limitation of power, but a revelation of how God chooses to work. Grace does not force itself. Faith is not a mere prerequisite; it is a place of welcome. Where hearts close, even divine generosity refrains.

Still, the mercy remains. He lays his hands on a few sick people and heals them. Even in rejection, Jesus does not withdraw entirely. He gives what can be received. But the abundance that might have been — the transformation of a town, the flowering of faith — never comes to pass. Nazareth is left not with nothing, but with less than it was offered.

The final note is haunting: He was amazed at their lack of faith. In the Gospels, Jesus is amazed only twice — once by extraordinary faith, and once by its absence. That absence is not ignorance; it is refusal. It is the quiet decision to remain unchanged.

This passage invites us to ask uncomfortable questions. Have we grown too familiar with Jesus? Do we reduce him to what we already know, to what fits neatly within our experience? Do we prefer a Christ who inspires but does not unsettle, who teaches but does not demand?

Nazareth reminds us that proximity to holiness is no guarantee of openness to grace. The carpenter still speaks with divine authority. The hands that once shaped wood still shape souls. The question is not whether Jesus is capable of mighty deeds—but whether we are willing to let them happen in us.

Tuesday in the 4th week of Ordinary Time, February 3, 2026

Mark 5:21-43

When Jesus had crossed again in the boat to the other side, a large crowd gathered around him, and he stayed close to the sea. One of the synagogue officials, named Jairus, came forward. Seeing him he fell at his feet and pleaded earnestly with him, saying, “My daughter is at the point of death. Please, come lay your hands on her that she may get well and live.” He went off with him and a large crowd followed him. There was a woman afflicted with hemorrhages for twelve years. She had suffered greatly at the hands of many doctors and had spent all that she had. Yet she was not helped but only grew worse. She had heard about Jesus and came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak. She said, “If I but touch his clothes, I shall be cured.” Immediately her flow of blood dried up. She felt in her body that she was healed of her affliction. Jesus, aware at once that power had gone out from him, turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who has touched my clothes?” But his disciples said to him, “You see how the crowd is pressing upon you, and yet you ask, Who touched me?” And he looked around to see who had done it. The woman, realizing what had happened to her, approached in fear and trembling. She fell down before Jesus and told him the whole truth. He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has saved you. Go in peace and be cured of your affliction.” While he was still speaking, people from the synagogue official’s house arrived and said, “Your daughter has died; why trouble the teacher any longer?” Disregarding the message that was reported, Jesus said to the synagogue official, “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” He did not allow anyone to accompany him inside except Peter, James, and John, the brother of James. When they arrived at the house of the synagogue official, he caught sight of a commotion, people weeping and wailing loudly. So he went in and said to them, “Why this commotion and weeping? The child is not dead but asleep.” And they ridiculed him. Then he put them all out. He took along the child’s father and mother and those who were with him and entered the room where the child was. He took the child by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum,” which means, “Little girl, I say to you, arise!” The girl, a child of twelve, arose immediately and walked around. At that they were utterly astounded. He gave strict orders that no one should know this and said that she should be given something to eat.

This Gospel places us on the shoreline, where faith and desperation meet. Jesus has barely stepped out of the boat when he is met by need pressing in from every side. A synagogue official, Jairus — respected, public, responsible — falls at Jesus’ feet and begs for his daughter’s life. Almost immediately, another story interrupts his plea: a woman who has been suffering, silently and invisibly, for twelve long years.

Mark deliberately weaves these two stories together. They mirror one another, and they interpret each other.

Jairus’ daughter is twelve years old. The woman has been hemorrhaging for twelve years. One life is just beginning; the other has been quietly draining away. One crisis is public and urgent; the other has been private and prolonged. Yet both meet Jesus in the same way: through faith that reaches beyond fear.

The woman’s faith is especially striking. She does not ask to be noticed. She does not even speak aloud. She believes that contact with Jesus is enough that holiness flows outward from him, not inward toward him. And she is right. The moment she touches his garment, she is healed.

But Jesus does not let her disappear back into the crowd. He stops. He insists on meeting her. Not because he needs information — he already knows what has happened — but because he wants relationship, not anonymity. When she comes forward trembling, he does not rebuke her. He calls her “Daughter.” In a single word, he restores not only her body, but her place in the human family and before God.

Meanwhile, Jairus’ world seems to collapse. The delay has cost him everything—or so it appears. The message comes: Your daughter has died. Why trouble the teacher any longer? How often that voice speaks to us: It’s too late now. Don’t bother God anymore.

Jesus’ response is as simple as it is profound: “Do not be afraid; just have faith.” He asks Jairus to believe not only when healing seems possible, but when hope appears extinguished.

Inside the house, Jesus encounters noise, grief, and ridicule. Death is treated as final; Jesus treats it as temporary. He takes the child by the hand and speaks words of astonishing intimacy: “Little girl, arise.” The God who spoke creation into being now speaks quietly, personally, to a single child — and life returns.

Both healings tell us the same truth from different angles: faith is not a technique; it is trust placed in the person of Jesus. Whether that trust is bold and public, like Jairus’, or trembling and hidden, like the woman’s, it is enough — because the power lies not in the strength of faith, but in the one in whom faith is placed.

And notice the final detail: Jesus tells them to give the girl something to eat. Resurrection does not abolish ordinary life; it restores it. Grace does not fly above human need — it comes down and meets it.

This Gospel assures us that no suffering is too small to notice, no delay too dangerous for God, and no death too final for Christ. Whether we come forward loudly or reach out in silence, the same Lord meets us, stops for us, and says: Do not be afraid. Have faith.

The Feast of the Presentation of the Lord, Monday, February 2, 2026

Luke 2, 22–40

When the days were completed for their purification according to the law of Moses, Mary and Joseph took Jesus up to Jerusalem to present him to the Lord, just as it is written in the law of the Lord, Every male that opens the womb shall be consecrated to the Lord, and to offer the sacrifice of a pair of turtledoves or two young pigeons, in accordance with the dictate in the law of the Lord. Now there was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon. This man was righteous and devout, awaiting the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit was upon him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he should not see death before he had seen the Christ of the Lord. He came in the Spirit into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus to perform the custom of the law in regard to him, he took him into his arms and blessed God, saying: “Now, Master, you may let your servant go in peace, according to your word, for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you prepared in sight of all the peoples: a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.” The child’s father and mother were amazed at what was said about him; and Simeon blessed them and said to Mary his mother, “Behold, this child is destined for the fall and rise of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be contradicted —and you yourself a sword will pierce— so that the thoughts of many hearts may be revealed.” There was also a prophetess, Anna, the daughter of Phanuel, of the tribe of Asher. She was advanced in years, having lived seven years with her husband after her marriage, and then as a widow until she was eighty-four. She never left the temple, but worshiped night and day with fasting and prayer. And coming forward at that very time, she gave thanks to God and spoke about the child to all who were awaiting the redemption of Jerusalem. When they had fulfilled all the prescriptions of the law of the Lord, they returned to Galilee, to their own town of Nazareth. The child grew and became strong, filled with wisdom; and the favor of God was upon him. 

This feast is quiet, almost deceptively so. There are no angels singing, no shepherds running, no magi bearing gifts. Instead, we are given an old man, an old woman, a young mother, a working father, and a forty-day-old child carried into the Temple. Yet the Church calls this moment a manifestation — a showing forth of who Christ is. The drama here is interior, not theatrical, and that is precisely its power.

Mary and Joseph come to Jerusalem not to display the Child, but to submit — to the Law of Moses, to the rhythm of Israel’s worship, to the ordinary obedience of the people of God. This is already a revelation. The One through whom all things were made is brought as an infant to be “presented” to the Lord. He does not grasp; he is given. The first public act of Jesus’ life is not preaching or miracle, but being offered—and offered in poverty. The sacrifice of two turtledoves or pigeons tells us quietly that this family lives at the margins, not the center. God enters his Temple poor.

Into this scene steps Simeon, a man whose entire life has been shaped by waiting. He is described not by achievements but by dispositions: righteous, devout, attentive to the Spirit. He has not forced history forward; he has received it. And because of that, he recognizes what others miss. When Simeon takes the child into his arms, the long tension of Israel’s hope is released. The words he speaks are not merely personal relief—“now you may let your servant go in peace”—but cosmic proclamation. This child is salvation made visible, prepared “in the sight of all peoples.” Simeon names what Israel has scarcely dared to imagine: this Messiah is not only Israel’s glory but a light for the Gentiles. The Temple, built to mark God’s dwelling with one people, becomes the place where God announces his intention to gather all peoples.

Yet Simeon’s prophecy immediately darkens. Light always reveals, and revelation always divides. This child will be “a sign that will be contradicted.” He will not simply console; he will provoke. He will expose. And Mary, who has carried him in her body, will carry him in another way as well — through suffering. “A sword will pierce your own soul.” The Presentation is therefore not only a joyful offering; it is the first explicit prophecy of the Cross. The child is held in Simeon’s arms even as the shadow of contradiction already falls across his life.

Anna appears next, and her presence completes the picture. Where Simeon represents patient expectation, Anna embodies persevering fidelity. She remains in the Temple, not out of habit, but out of love — fasting, praying, waiting. When she sees the child, she does not withdraw into private satisfaction. She speaks. She becomes a witness. Hope, once fulfilled, demands proclamation. What was awaited in silence must now be spoken aloud.

And then, just as quietly as it began, the scene ends. Mary and Joseph return to Nazareth. No crowds follow them. No institution changes overnight. The child grows—in strength, in wisdom, in favor. God’s great turning point in history folds itself back into ordinary life. This is one of the most important lessons of the feast: salvation does not abolish normal time; it sanctifies it.

The Presentation teaches us how to recognize God’s action in our own lives. Not in noise, but in obedience. Not in spectacle, but in fidelity. Not in grasping, but in offering. Simeon and Anna see what others overlook because they have trained their hearts to wait. Mary accepts joy and sorrow together because she knows that God’s promises unfold through the Cross, not around it.

On this feast, the Church traditionally blesses candles. It is a fitting sign. A candle does not argue or compel; it simply burns. It gives light by consuming itself. Christ is that light—and to carry him, as Simeon did, is to accept both illumination and cost. The question this Gospel quietly places before us is simple and demanding: are we waiting in such a way that, when salvation comes close enough to be held, we will recognize it?

The Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time, February 1, 2026

Matthew 5, 1-12

When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain, and after he had sat down, his disciples came to him. He began to teach them, saying: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven. Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land. Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied. Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy. Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the Kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you.”

We call these the “Beatitudes”, a word which comes from the Latin beatitudo, which means “happiness”, because the one who lives out these words attains eternal happiness.  

If we take the Beatitudes together we find that the “blessed” are those who espouse what the world considers weakness and lay themselves open to harm.  The “merciful”, for instance, refuse to take vengeance on those who injure them.  The “meek” are those who go about their lives, minding their own business, and so are not setting out traps for others or seeking to climb over them at work or in politics.  The “pure of heart” single-mindedly serve their Master: “Jesus said to him: No man putting his hand to the plow and looking back is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9, 62).  Nor do they look to the side at improper things, or the sorts of things worldly people delight in.  These innocent folks do not conform to the world in order to gain safety at all costs, or position themselves in authority in service to their pride,  nor do they act out of fear or lack of confidence but rather out of strength, out of solidity in their purpose, and out of love for Jesus.  

It is significant that the Beatitudes  come at the head of the Lord’s Sermon on the Mount because all that follows over the next three chapters derives from them.  They are an epitome of the Lord’s teaching.  We can see them acted out in each of his parables, his deeds, and his other teachings.  And it is necessary, if we are to know what they mean, to define their terms as the Lord does.  If we want to see how the Lord defines “mercy”, we can look at the parable of the Good Samaritan, and then at the Lord’s Death on the Cross.  If we want to understand what he means by a “peacemaker”, we look at the father in the parable of the Prodigal Son, and then recollect that our Lord came among us not with lightning bolts and fire, but as an infant lying in a trough.  We follow the definitions of the Lord, not those that the world would impose.

At the end of the Beatitudes we find two that call “blessed” those who are persecuted for justice and for the Lord himself.  The living-out of the Beatitudes puts us at odds with a world that cannot bear criticism or opposition, even something as simple as the word “no”.  The world is a willful two-year old child, ever on the verge of a tantrum.  And so those who pursue the Beatitudes are bound to suffer persecution of one kind or another, either intermittently or continually, all their lives.  The Christian does not shy away from persecution but stands humbly and confidently with Jesus Christ, who came as “a sign that will be contradicted” (Luke 2, 34).  We are “signs” in the “Sign”: signs to the world that there is a different way to live, a way that does not involve the darkness of lies and delusion, a way that is bright with Truth and freedom.  In this way we fulfill our Lord’s commandment to preach the Gospel to all nations.

Let us live out the virtues upheld by the Beatitudes so that we may imitate the One who gives them to us.

Saturday in the Third Week of Ordinary Time, January 30, 2026

Mark 4, 35-41

On that day, as evening drew on, Jesus said to his disciples: “Let us cross to the other side.” Leaving the crowd, they took Jesus with them in the boat just as he was. And other boats were with him. A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up. Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion. They woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Quiet! Be still!” The wind ceased and there was great calm. Then he asked them, “Why are you terrified? Do you not yet have faith?” They were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this whom even wind and sea obey?”

If we go back to the beginning of St. Mark’s Gospel and read straight through it to the end of chapter four, from which part the Gospel reading for today’s Mass comes, we see how the Lord employs his authority.  He is certain, deliberate, and direct.  His teaching is unlike that of the Pharisees, which confined itself seemingly to matters of ritual.  He quotes from the Law and the Prophets but in order to show the truth of his teaching rather than merely to comment on them.  And his miracles are of the same character.  When he heals a person, the person is healed immediately.  Demons object to their exorcism but they do not fail to depart when he orders them to do so. 

We see this impression of him exemplified in the present account. The impression is actually that of St. Peter as relayed by his secretary Mark.  Reading carefully, we can catch something of Peter’s deep emotions on this occasion as he watched and heard our Lord.  It is evident that this event profoundly affected him, and reading further in the Gospel we can see how this led to his confession of faith in Jesus.

“Let us cross to the other side.”  Peter, looking back on this event, must have wondered if the Lord had meant all along to confront the approaching storm.  Certainly, Jesus knew of it but rather than order his disciples to take shelter somewhere, he told them to set out for where they would meet it.  By this means he could teach the Apostles, shortly after they have been chosen by him, to trust him implicitly.  The storm that does blow up, seemingly out of nowhere, signifies both personal suffering and persecution for the sake of the Lord.  Peter, in giving the Lord’s order here reveals the misgivings he felt at the time, for a trip across the sea is risky after dark.  There was also no advantage in making it at that time, for whatever town they landed at would have been locked up for the night.  “They took Jesus with them in the boat just as he was.”  This is a pregnant little phrase, and it’s meaning is not clear.  It does imply that in some way the Lord was ill-equipped for the trip.  This in turn implies urgency on his part.  “A violent squall came up and waves were breaking over the boat, so that it was already filling up.”  The next line tells us that Jesus was already asleep so a little time has passed from when they set out, so they must have been out a ways from the shore when the storm struck.  “Jesus was in the stern, asleep on a cushion.”  This terse sentence, passed from Peter to Mark to us, is all Peter thinks we need to know.  Its very plainness reveals the shock Peter felt, seeing Jesus calmly asleep as the Apostles bale for their lives even as the boat capsizes.  “They woke him and said to him, ‘Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?’ ”  They were appealing to him to help bale.  

“He woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, ‘Quiet! Be still!’ ”  There is no panic, no desperation.  He wakes up and speaks to the wind and the sea.  “The wind ceased and there was great calm.”  As in his cures, the result is immediate.  All at once, the storm is gone.  It does not subside.  It disappears.  Perhaps later the Apostles remembered God’s words from Job, speaking of his creation of the oceans: “And I said, Hitherto shall you come, but no further: And here shall your proud waves be stayed” (Job 38, 11).  Or from Psalm 46:10: “Be still, and know that I am God. I am exalted among the nations, I am exalted in the earth!”  

“They were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this whom even wind and sea obey?”  We can hear the wonder that still sounds in Peter’s voice as he recalls this.  He asks the question here.  He gives the only possible answer later when he confesses: “You are the Son of the living God.”

Friday in the Third Week of Ordinary Time, January 30, 2026

Mark 4, 26-34

Jesus said to the crowds: “This is how it is with the Kingdom of God; it is as if a man were to scatter seed on the land and would sleep and rise night and day and the seed would sprout and grow, he knows not how. Of its own accord the land yields fruit, first the blade, then the ear, then the full grain in the ear. And when the grain is ripe, he wields the sickle at once, for the harvest has come.” He said, “To what shall we compare the Kingdom of God, or what parable can we use for it? It is like a mustard seed that, when it is sown in the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on the earth. But once it is sown, it springs up and becomes the largest of plants and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the sky can dwell in its shade.” With many such parables he spoke the word to them as they were able to understand it. Without parables he did not speak to them, but to his own disciples he explained everything in private.

There is something profoundly consoling about the way Jesus speaks of the Kingdom in this passage. He does not describe it as a project to be managed, a structure to be engineered, or a problem to be solved. Instead, he compares it to seed scattered on the land, growing while the sower sleeps, rising and resting, knowing neither the mechanism nor the timetable of its growth. The Kingdom of God, Jesus says, advances in a way that is at once hidden, patient, and utterly reliable.

The first parable cuts directly against one of our deepest modern anxieties: the need to control outcomes. The man scatters the seed and then does something almost scandalous — he goes to sleep. Night and day pass. Life unfolds beneath the surface. Growth happens “he knows not how.” The Kingdom is not stalled by the limits of human understanding. It is not dependent on constant supervision. God’s work proceeds even when we are unaware, unproductive, or resting.

This does not mean that human effort is irrelevant. The seed must be sown. There is a moment of obedience, of risk, of generosity. But once that act is done, the power that brings forth the harvest does not belong to the sower. The earth produces “of its own accord”—a phrase that quietly affirms the fidelity of creation to the will of its Creator. Grace is not frantic. It is patient. It works through time.

The progression Jesus describes — blade, ear, full grain—is also important. The Kingdom does not arrive all at once. There are stages, and each stage is incomplete in itself. We are often tempted to judge too soon: to dismiss the blade because it is not yet the harvest, or to despair because what we see seems fragile and unimpressive. But Jesus teaches us to recognize that partial growth is real growth, and that God’s purposes mature according to rhythms we do not command.

Then comes the harvest. When the grain is ripe, the sickle is put to use at once. There is no hesitation, no delay. The same Kingdom that grows patiently also comes decisively. God is neither hurried nor hesitant. He is exact. The harvest arrives not when we demand it, but when it is ready.

The second parable — the mustard seed — takes this lesson even further. Jesus chooses an image that borders on the absurd: the smallest of seeds becoming a plant large enough to shelter the birds of the sky. There is an intentional disproportion here. What begins almost invisibly ends up expansive and hospitable. The Kingdom does not simply grow; it outgrows all reasonable expectations.

This parable also redeems smallness. In a world that prizes scale, influence, and immediate results, Jesus points to beginnings that look insignificant. Faithfulness that seems unnoticed. Goodness that appears buried. Prayer that feels dry. The Kingdom often starts there—hidden in the soil, entrusted to time, misunderstood by those who expect something louder or faster.

And yet the final image is one of refuge. The birds come and dwell in its shade. The Kingdom is not merely impressive in size; it is life-giving. It creates space. It shelters others. Growth is not for display but for communion.

St. Mark closes this passage by reminding us that Jesus spoke in parables “as they were able to understand.” This is an act of mercy. God does not overwhelm us with more than we can receive. He invites us gradually, patiently, into deeper understanding. And even then, much remains hidden—not because it is withheld, but because it must be lived before it can be fully grasped.

For us, this Gospel offers both reassurance and challenge. We are called to sow—to speak the word, to act in charity, to live faithfully—but not to panic when results are unseen. We are invited to trust a Kingdom that grows quietly, steadily, and irresistibly. And we are reminded that what looks small in God’s hands may one day become a place where many find rest.

The Kingdom of God is already at work—often beneath the surface, often beyond our calculations. Our task is not to force it, but to remain faithful, patient, and awake to its signs, trusting that in God’s time, the harvest will come.