Although they rarely get the respect they deserve, our tongues really should be numbered among our most prized bodily members. With them we sing of love, we broker peace, we passionately preach, and we attempt to express our very selves. They are nothing less than the tools that build up humanity and the kingdom of God. The psalmist sees the tongue as the instrument of God’s praise: “my tongue shall tell of thy righteousness and of thy praise all day long” (Ps 35:28). Our tongues, as a part of our human bodies, are destined for eternal glory, for union with God. At the Resurrection of the body, the whole of the human person will be united with God, and our tongues will perform their part in the eternal worship of God.

Mercy is for the weak!

As a kid, I always found this line from Karate Kid to be hilarious. Maybe it was the delivery or the context, but it always had me roaring. Years later, the scene is still funny, but now I find the general attitude it embodies to be laughable as well. One can find many people who echo this sentiment, “Mercy is for the weak,” but I doubt they have ever thought about what mercy really is.

The tragedy of the world is that so many are unloved. Roses always look beautiful and smell sweet, and hence they are a prize to be possessed. Sweetbriar, however, has fragrant leaves, and they are never so fragrant as when it rains. The common people of the world are like these leaves; they have something fragrant about them, particularly when the days are dark and clouded and rain falls in their lives. Anyone can love a rose; but it takes a great heart to love a leaf.

—Archbishop Fulton Sheen

Gardens are boring if they are made up of only one kind of flower, even the most beautiful. A garden is striking only if it has a harmony between all its components: the drabber elements bring out the brightness of color, the different heights complement each other, and the arrangement of smells don’t overpower. Truly great gardens take into account the different seasons of the year and even the phases of the moon. As lovely as the individual plants are in their own right, a garden is made wonderful by the planning and forethought of its gardener.

We will have a king over us, that we also may be like all the nations.
—1 Samuel 8:19–20

Throughout the Scriptures, no impulse is more deadly than the urge to be like someone else. Whether it’s the desire to be like God in the Garden of Eden, to be like the Egyptians and worship a golden calf, or to be like other nations and have an earthly king, it never seems to end well. In wanting to be like someone else, we set ourselves against who we are and, more fundamentally, who God has chosen us to be. In choosing us for Himself, God sets us apart, and this is not always a comfortable position. We sometimes wish that God had not chosen us, or that being chosen were an easier task.

“Sorry, but I don’t feel like doing that anymore.” Flakiness is a vice that everyone can agree is a problem. We want people to be reliable, to be there when they say they will. But all too often, people just don’t follow through. Someone tells you they will be at a meeting, and they never show. A friend offers to help you move, and at the last second, you receive a text saying they won’t be there. I have friends who have had four jobs in the past two years—nothing seems to keep their attention. Couple this with the fact that divorce rates are higher than ever—between forty and fifty percent—and it seems we have a real problem. We can’t seem to sit still for more than fifteen minutes.

Obedience: few words are more likely to make an American shudder. It’s practically a swear word, like “truth,” “humility,” or “hierarchy.” We are a nation that was built upon liberation from a monarchical government, which our forefathers resented for imposing taxes on their tea and playing cards. Yet, as tempting as it might be to focus on the problem of obedience as something peculiar to the United States or even to modernity, we know that it’s nothing new:

Consciously or unconsciously, many of us say to ourselves, “I don’t want to be a saint. I just want to sneak into Heaven.” But asking “Do I have to do this to get to heaven?” is like the student who asks, “Is this going to be on the test?” Sometimes we just want to put in the minimum amount of effort so that we don’t fail, which in this case means going to hell. We say that we don’t presume to think that we could be saints because we think sanctity is extremely difficult, if not impossible, to achieve, and we are afraid of the demands that sanctity would make on us. So instead of striving for excellence, for perfection, we are willing to settle for mediocrity.

The problem with this attitude is that God wants us to be saints: ”You, therefore, must be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” (Mt. 5:48).

“All human wisdom is contained in these two words—Wait and Hope.” Alexandre Dumas’ masterpiece, The Count of Monte Cristo, concludes with this startling truth. But a question immediately presents itself: what are we waiting and hoping for? In his Letter to the Romans, St. Paul provides an answer: “Creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God” (8:19). Humanity, along with the whole created order, is waiting for the saving and illuminating action of God Himself. Now, waiting implies an awareness of our own insufficiency, and an awareness of our own insufficiency is the first step toward humility and patience. Thus, even on a purely human level, there is a kind of wisdom or virtue in being open to the intervention of that which is beyond nature: the supernatural, or divine.

Today, many Catholic countries, and some not-so-Catholic countries, are celebrating the last day before the beginning of Lent. Whether it is called Carnivale or Mardi Gras, some features are universal: lots of food and drink, lavish parties in the streets, and, interestingly, masks.

“What do you seek?” These are the first words Jesus speaks in the Gospel of John (1:37). They are also the words He continuously speaks to us; and only those who continuously answer can rightly be called his disciples. For many of us, the first time we truly let this question pierce our hearts is when we are in the depths of our sins. We finally hit a wall; we get a glimpse of who we are, and the image is not pleasant. We discover, perhaps, that what we thought would make us happy has done no such thing. We see the shallowness of our lives, and in a new way we hear the question, “What are you seeking?”