The world is filled with people whose basic needs aren’t met, whether for clean water, nutrition, safety, education, meaningful work, stable family life, basic medical resources, religious freedom, and the right to life. So how can we possibly believe what Psalm 145 says to us this week, “The hand of the Lord feeds us, he answers all our needs”? Does he? What about the countless poor? Can’t we identify at least a few unmet needs in our own lives right now? Is the Bible promoting wishful thinking and laziness in helping others?

Burnout. Recent studies suggest that roughly two-thirds of doctors and nurses have signs of it. You probably know what burnout is: long-term stress leading to emotional exhaustion and a lack of a sense of personal accomplishment. Burnout can threaten anyone who tries to seriously serve and love others. How does our faith inform this challenging experience, and how do we find refreshment?

Once I asked a fallen-away Catholic friend of mine what he remembered about the parish priest from his youth. He said, “He was a gentle, nice guy. Kind of vanilla. Kept to himself.” It struck me that he, perhaps like many, perceive Catholic priests as the following: lonely, harmless, and self-sufficient. As a challenge both to this perception (accurate or not) and to us priests who perhaps feel a pull in that uninspiring direction, stands the mighty image of what we see in the Gospel this Sunday.

Recently I watched a bunch of YouTube videos on how to optimize willpower in the face of weakness. The message was: do not accept your weakness. Crush it. Dominate it. In one video, however, at the end of a rant by a willpower coach, the muscular stoic admitted, “You’ll never actually get what you want, no matter how hard you try.” Amazingly, he admitted that willpower alone is not sufficient for us weak-willed humans.

Sin isn’t given its due these days. Downplaying sin is dangerous. But there is also another spiritual misstep in which we make way too big a deal out of sin. It happens, for example, when we persistently wonder if our confessed sins are “really” forgiven, or suspiciously ponder what God “really” thinks about us, behind His merciful face. Or when someone returns to Church, and we question whether his or her conversion was genuine. Or when we commit some sin and put on a sad face for days, thinking, “Maybe my sins are too great for God to deal with.” God save us from that attitude!

Right now, you and I are only worried about one of only two things: wind or water. Bear with me. This week we hear the account of the terrified disciples waking Jesus in a sea-storm. He chastises them for their lack of faith, and then, “rebuking the wind, he said to the sea, ‘Quiet, be still!’” He rebukes the wind and stills the water. In the Bible wind and water represent the two most fundamental poles of our experience of creation. Wind means heaven, spirit, that which gives identity, unity, order, light. Water stands for earth, variation, potential, that which can be drawn into identity, darkness, chaos.

My mother and father fell in love with each other rather quickly. It was only a span of two months between their first meeting and quiet betrothal. They waited for a significant period of time before going public with the happy news. It simply wasn’t time. Love’s strength and speed can sprout scandal in public. Until the big reveal, they gave the outside world only little hints, gestures, and riddles.

Jesus asks us a stunning question this week: “How can Satan cast out Satan?” To enter into this question opens up the often-hidden dynamics of what Jesus has done and is constantly doing. If we’re honest, our response to some degree is: “How else can we cast him out? Satan is precisely how we cast out Satan!” But Jesus wants us to see this finally does not work. Here’s what I mean.

The best way to understand the Eucharist is to recall God’s long, careful teaching process beginning in the Old Testament. This week in Exodus 24, we learn the basic pattern. Moses reads the dictates of God’s law to the people, who profess their allegiance to it. Then Moses takes representatives of Israel’s twelve tribes and splashes the sacrificed blood of animals in two directions: on the altar and on the people. It’s clear and serious business: clear, because the participants are entering a blood-bond with God Himself; serious, because the dead animals symbolize the life-and death stakes at play.

Once I was at a meeting with representatives of various religions. On a coffee break, a man from another religion mused to me: “You know, with all our differences, all religions are really about being good people.” I lowered my cappuccino and said as warmly as I could, “That’s not what mine’s about.” His quizzical look begged for clarification. “Mine is about plunging into the life of God,” I said.

When I was twenty-two years of age in August of 2000, I experienced World Youth Day in Rome. As for many of my generation, the event was life-changing for me. Surrounded by joyful, hope-filled young people from seemingly every nation and tongue, we were gathered around the Pope, sharing a common Faith and love. The Pope spoke to us of our shared family bond in the Church and invited us to give our lives in service to others. Now twenty-four years later, my life as a priest, like that of so many others from those special days, continues on that same path of love and unity — despite my many weaknesses. What makes that continuation possible?

A few months ago, I had the singular privilege of a private meeting with Pope Francis. We were a small group of pastors, composed largely of non-Catholics. The Holy Father wished to discuss our work for Christian unity. The phrase I remember him saying with greatest frequency was: Tutti dentro. It means, “Everyone in.” He clearly wanted us to emphasize that the Church is made for the whole human race, not a select few. At the center of his concern was unity. We are all brothers and sisters, he said multiple times. The Church’s primary longing is for everyone to join Her.

Once a man came to the Vatican and asked to see Pope John Paul II, claiming that they had been friends in Poland. When told of the man, the Pope said, “He is mistaken about our friendship. I don’t recall ever having suffered with him.” As it turned out, the man had never known the Pope. Now, I’m not sure if the story is totally factual. But doesn’t the juxtaposition of suffering with friendship sound exactly like JPII? He understood that the deepest and most lasting friendships are forged in the fires of shared suffering. No suffering, no friendship. Amazing.