A priest I know was once falsely accused of a terrible crime. The claim was wild and easily disproved, but for a while, it didn't matter. In the atmosphere shaped by the abuse crisis of the early 2000s, the public assumption was guilty until proven innocent. His name was dragged through the mud, and his ministry placed on hold. I had the privilege - and the burden - of walking closely with him during that time.

He was angry. He was confused. He felt abandoned and deeply disoriented. The last thing on his mind was the words of Jesus in today's Gospel: "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" (Matthew 5:11-12). Rejoice? He felt anything but.

I was 22 years old, lying in bed one night while on a pilgrimage, when I suddenly sensed an idea in my mind: "Go to the seminary." There was no voice, no vision, but a gentle and unmistakable clarity. I simply prayed, "Lord, if that's from you, let me find great joy in it." Three days later, my heart was bursting with joy. I dropped everything and entered the seminary.

It's common to hear belief in Jesus and the Church mocked as blind faith and credulity. But in reality, it is deeply human and rational. Think about it: we rely on the testimony of others constantly. I trust chemists who certify the safety of toothpaste and cleaning products. I trust engineers when I use a microwave or drive over a bridge. Why? Because they have studied and seen what I have not, and their testimony proves itself in daily life. That kind of trust is not irrational; it is how human knowledge works.

Apple ran a commercial not long ago called "Behind the Mac - Greatness." It shows artists and creators, such as Kendrick Lamar, Billie Eilish, and Lady Gaga, working behind their MacBooks. The narration says, "There's a certain kind of person who doesn't wait for greatness. They make it." It's a compelling message. There's beauty in using our gifts with passion and purpose. But there lies a hidden weight in that idea: If you are what you make, what happens when you can't anymore? When the project fails, the passion fades, or the spotlight moves on, where is greatness then?

When I was 22, I went on a pilgrimage to Rome for the Jubilee Year of 2000. I was traveling light with just a backpack, one blue shirt and black pants, little money, and no Italian. I had a few close friends and one goal: to reach the Eternal City. Despite the challenges and deprivations, I felt alive in a way I had never known before.

When I was ten, my dad gathered our family around the table in small-town Vermont and told us we were moving to the big desert city of Phoenix, Arizona. We were leaving behind family, friends, and everything familiar. None of us knew what to expect.

But something beautiful happened. As we made the move together, our family grew closer. In retrospect, I'm amazed at my parents' courage to go on that adventure. Even as a kid I realized our family found, in that challenge, a deeper unity and mutual love.

A priest friend recently told me a remarkable story. One of his cousins reported having a vivid dream in which an angel told him the family needed to exhume their grandmother's body from a cemetery in New York and return it to her birthplace in Romania. She had been dead nearly ten years. As you might expect, the family thought it was, well, crazy. But astonishingly they exhumed her body. It was incorrupt, showing no signs of decomposition. That experience sparked healing, faith, and reconciliation throughout the family.

When I was 11, I was riding my bike on a Friday night in Scottsdale, Arizona. I saw giant spotlights swirling in the sky. Something amazing had to be happening. I pedaled after them with excitement. Sweaty and tired, I arrived, only to find a used car lot. Bright lights, flapping banners, inflatable balloon men swaying wildly in the wind. I stood there, heart sinking. All that spectacle, and all my effort … for this?

This week we hear that John the Baptist is out in the wilderness eating "locusts and wild honey" (Mark 1:6). It's not just a strange historical detail. It's a symbolic expression of a healthy spiritual diet. The path to Christ includes both the hard and the beautiful, the gritty and the sweet. We have to learn to gulp the locusts and savor the honey.

I remember working with a young couple preparing for marriage. They were sincere, but raw - barely beginning to discover faith. Part of me wanted to rush them ahead, to fill in all the gaps, to bombard them with scripture and church documents. I swallowed that instinct. It was like eating locusts.