The Unfolding Me

As I kneel before the altar on this solemn Feast of Corpus Christi, I gaze intently at the consecrated host held high by the priest. The silence of the church is sacred, yet within me there stirs a sacred conversation—a silent but powerful exchange between my soul and my Savior. “Do you believe this is Me?” I hear Him ask, not with accusation but with love. Yes, Lord, I believe. I have not seen with my eyes, but what my faith tells me is true: that the bread and wine become your Body and Blood. The substance is changed, even if the appearance remains the same. When I receive You in the Eucharist, I am not just remembering a past event—I am encountering the living Christ, truly present. I believe... help my unbelief. Each time the priest lifts the host, my heart should leap in adoration. But sometimes I’m distracted. I wonder: Where is my focus during this moment, the very pinnacle of our faith? Is it on You, Lord, or on my devotions, my duties, my fatigue?   When I con...

If I were a salesman—let’s say, selling luxury car or the latest phone—I’d be all in. Smiling wide, shaking hands, wearing that irritatingly bright blazer, I’d pitch the product like my life depended on it. Why? Because there’s commission, perks, and prestige. A sale is a step up. Every “yes” is a personal triumph. And if I get to the top of the leaderboard? Champagne and applause! Now switch scenes. Baptism. I was signed up—commissioned, even—to proclaim the Kingdom of God. But here’s the funny part: No blazer. No mic. No crowd. No “Employee of the Month” board at church. Just… silence. And yet, the reward? Eternal life, joy that doesn’t expire, peace that politicians can’t trademark, and love that doesn’t need a subscription. And still, I hesitate. In John 16:12–15, Jesus says something radical: “When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth.” It's like getting a top-notch marketing strategist thrown in—free. But we ignore Him. Because let’...

The room is dim, quiet, and heavy with breathless anticipation. I am there—hidden among the disciples, tucked behind John, near the window that barely lets in the morning light. My heart beats fast, echoing like a drum in my chest. Fear? Maybe. Or perhaps, a holy kind of longing. The air is still, but charged. Every face carries the wear of grief and confusion, yet strangely, an ember of hope. “He told us to wait,” Peter whispers, more to himself than anyone. And so, we wait. And then… it happens. A sound roars through the room— not of this world —a wind without warning. It’s not cold, not warm, just… alive. My hair lifts. My lungs gasp. The walls tremble, but no one runs. We are too stunned, too caught in the awe of it. And then—flames. Not flames that consume, but flames that choose. One by one, they rest on each head, as if kissing us awake. I feel something stir above me, and then… it touches me too. Fire. But it doesn’t burn. It ignites . Something ancient yet utte...

Rerum Novarum Reimagined If Pope Leo XIII were to walk the bustling streets of our 21st-century world—past silent skyscrapers towering above slums, past digital stock tickers racing beside empty hands—his heart would throb with the same fire that inspired Rerum Novarum in 1891. Yet he would not merely echo the past; he would reimagine his encyclical to speak prophetically into our fractured present. In Rerum Novarum, Leo XIII gave birth to Catholic social teaching by daring to challenge both unbridled capitalism and the rising tide of socialism. He stood with the worker, the family, and the common good. Today, with artificial intelligence replacing labor, gig economies devouring stability, and billionaires sailing in space while the poor drown in floods, Leo would not be silent. He would ask: Who is the human being in a world that measures worth by productivity, followers, and profit?   Leo would notice that our global village has grown, but our neighborliness has shrunk. The worke...