When I was a young boy in Burlington, Vermont, my dad had a good friend named Phil who owned a sporting goods store. I loved sports, so meandering the treasure-filled aisles was an unmitigated joy. One afternoon, we were shopping for a baseball glove. Dad said to me, “Hey Johnny, see that man who just walked into the store?

Once at an evening Mass as a poor college student, the collection basket was fast approaching, and I only had a ten-dollar bill. I was planning on using that to buy my favorite Chipotle burrito that night for dinner. Should I keep the money? Who would know if I did? If I gave it away, what would I eat? Would I be okay? I kissed my future burrito goodbye, dropped the money in the basket, and winced. But strangely, the rest of the Mass I felt more engaged than usual. I had skin in the game. I left the Mass excited to see how God would take care of me. And he did, in amazing ways.

Americans have long been fascinated with public debates. Farmers stood in muddy fields for hours to hear Lincoln and Douglas dispute each other in the 1860 presidential run-up. The televised debate between Kennedy and Nixon in 1960 fascinated the nation. These days, cable news outlets and social media parse every word spoken by candidates. We still love seeing public, rational disputes in the service of our nation.

Near my house there is a school for the blind. Often, I see blind people learning how to navigate the world with only a walking stick, even on a busy street with roaring traffic. I’m amazed to see how adept and carefully they get around without sight. Nevertheless, often a sadness arises in me that he or she cannot see all the beautiful colors, images, and persons filling the world around them. Those days, I find myself deeply grateful for the basic privilege of sight.

From a young age, I loved winning at sports. I confess that winning was a bit of an addiction. It was probably coming from a deep desire for attention and affirmation from others. Nevertheless, it was a driving motivation for me. Baseball, soccer, track, table tennis, and whatever else I could find was a chance to win. Competition was my obsession.

This week we hear of the man who inquires of Jesus how to obtain eternal life. He rejects Jesus’ invitation to sell his goods, give to the poor, and follow Jesus. Mark tells us this devastatingly sad line, “At this saying, his countenance fell and he went away sorrowful; for he had great possessions” (Mark 10:22). The man’s heart wasn’t centered on Jesus, but on his possessions. Perhaps Jesus intuited this. Now, we don’t know if Jesus intended to actually make him go through with it, like God’s call to test Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac. But sadly, in this case the willingness was not there to entrust everything to Jesus. And this made the man deeply sad.

As a young pastor years ago, I met with a middle-aged couple who had been divorced and civilly remarried. They were frustrated that an annulment had to precede a Church marriage. Sympathizing with their plight, I promised to walk with them along their journey. Once as we sat in my office, the man said to me, “Why is the Church so difficult on marriage?” I replied, “Actually, Jesus’ teaching is what’s difficult.” He furrowed his brow and asked what I meant.

Maggots, grubs, worms. When I imagine one or many of these nasty slimy buggers living inside my body — unseen, feeding off my flesh, slowly rotting me out — I feel deeply disgusted. If I knew I had a worm, I would do anything to remove the alien invader, and fast. But what if I couldn’t ever get it out?

When I was a wet-behind-the-ears seminarian, I was sent for an immersion with the poor. For one month, I lived in a home for adults with developmental disabilities. It was a challenge for me because the residents had significant communication issues. A 30-year-old man there named Robin was totally deaf and mute. He had Down’s Syndrome. He looked like a Viking, with a shock of red hair and a fine beard. But I felt awkward and disconnected from him. All my normal ways of interacting failed. I resigned myself to the fact that we’d never connect.

This morning I received a text message that a member of my extended family will likely die of cancer within the next few hours. His name is Luke. He is a 45-yearold husband and father of six. Though I am not as close to him as my sister (she is his sister-in-law and knows him well), I wonder: how can we, including Luke himself, manage such a terribly awful and unfair situation?

One of the most touching YouTube videos I’ve ever seen is one in which a deaf woman receives new technology to heal her hearing. She hears her husband's voice for the first time — and her own, too — and bursts into tears of overwhelming joy. It must have been like an immovable wall between her and her loved ones came tumbling down.

Purity isn’t popular at the moment. Or is it? Look at a rack of health magazines or at popular podcasts. You’ll see an infinite ocean of regulations and rituals of diets, intermittent fasting, morning sun rituals, intense juice detox practices, lists of dangerous foods, mental practices, as well as long lists of dos and don’ts for the proper cleaning of clothes, dishes, cars, houses, pets, and children. Like it or not, we long to be pure, clean, and without blemish.