LECTIO — I Read the Word
In today’s Gospel, Jesus looks upon the stones of the Temple—massive, admired, “costly”—and says:
He warns of deceivers, upheaval, destruction, and the unraveling of false securities.
And the Church gives me St. Catherine of Alexandria—unmoved before kings, fearless before deception, a martyr whose steadfast truth outlasted every earthly monument.
In Dilexi te §37, the Church is described as built not by the powerful, but by the humble:
“Not many were wise… not many powerful… yet they cared for those in need.”
Dilexi te §37
The readings all whisper a single word: foundation — what endures when the stones fall, and who remains when the false shepherds flee.
MEDITATIO — I Let the Word Read Me
Like Jesus warning His disciples not to be deceived, like St. Catherine standing against emperors, and like Stephen who served the poor even unto death—this song echoes the resolve to rise, speak, and be led by the Only True Shepherd.
It fits this Lectio because it names both the darkness that threatens to overwhelm us and the inner strength that comes when we refuse to let fear be our shepherd.
Today, as I cry out about the tribute raised by John Salazar and ignored by Bishop Matthiesen—and as I pray Bishop Zurek chooses to hear the flock—the song reminds me: freedom begins when we refuse to be silent and step into the light of truth.” 🌾✝️
Yesterday I drove back to Parmer County, my birthplace, to pick up round bales for my sheep from my uncle.
The grass silage I put up last spring is gone, the pastures bare.
A shepherd cannot simply admire the beauty of a field—
he must feed, protect, and stay ahead of the hunger that will surely come.
As I drove, I felt the ache of another kind of shepherding:
my repeated cries to Bishop Zurek about the tribute to Bishop Matthiesen raised by John Salazar—
a structure erected by a priest Matthiesen gave a “second chance,”
against the counsel of cardinal archbishops,
a second chance that resulted in the sexual assault of youth in our diocese.
A tribute built just before he was defrocked and sent to prison.
If I do not cry out, I am devoured by silence.
If I do cry out, I am saved—because the Good Shepherd hears.
And so I stand in that space the Gospel exposes:
when temples fall, when illusions collapse, when leaders deny facts even reported on the evening news—
what remains?
Only this:
The Good Shepherd replaces the bad.
Always.
Sometimes suddenly.
Sometimes by fire.
Sometimes by the faithful cry of a single sheep.
And perhaps—just perhaps—
the next shepherd for the Diocese of Amarillo will be one who knows what it means to be wounded and yet still stand for truth.
Perhaps Bishop Strickland himself—if God wills—
a man who, like me, has learned the hard way what happens when “stones” are trusted more than the living Christ.
ORATIO — I Pray
Lord Jesus,
tear down every stone in me
that does not rest on You.
When I am tempted to grow silent,
remind me that the sheepfold is fed
because someone goes to fetch the hay.
When deceivers arise,
give me the courage of St. Catherine.
When shepherds fail,
give me the endurance of Stephen.
And when the cries of the wounded rise,
let me answer them—
even if others say,
“Do not make waves;
the Centennial is for celebration, not remembering.”
Lord, I trust You with my diocese.
Raise up a shepherd—
or make me bold enough to keep crying
until the Good Shepherd Himself comes near.
CONTEMPLATIO — I Rest in the Word
Driving home from Parmer County with hay in the rearview mirror,
I felt the quiet truth settle in:
Stones fall.
Monuments crumble.
Only love endures—and only truth heals.
Whether Bishop Zurek listens or not,
whether the tribute is removed today or in the next century,
whether the next bishop arrives quietly or with fire—
Christ’s Kingdom is not built of stone,
but of cries heard,
wounds acknowledged,
and shepherds who feed their sheep.
ACTIO — I Live the Word
“Everything is connected.”
Laudato Si’ §91
Today I will make one concrete act of connected courage:
I will again petition—calmly, clearly, truthfully—
for the removal of the tribute built by John Salazar for Bishop Matthiesen.
Not out of vengeance, but out of the Gospel’s demand that stones built on injustice must fall,
so that the Diocese of Amarillo may build its second century on truth, not pretense.
Dear Bishop Zurek,
Peace in Christ. As we prepare to celebrate the Centennial of our Diocese of Amarillo, I find myself reflecting — in prayer, in Scripture, and through these daily Lectio Divinas — on what it truly means to honor the past while remaining faithful to the Gospel in the present.
In today’s prayer, Jesus’ words to the Sadducees and his parable of the wise and foolish virgins struck me deeply. The lamp that burns bright is the lamp filled with truth, vigilance, and courage. The lamp that burns dim is the one that avoids the very things that must be acknowledged and healed.
As you know, the Diocese continues to carry painful paw prints from an era when innocent children were harmed and the flock was scattered. Even now, the dedication to Bishop Matthiesen — installed in Kress by a priest later imprisoned for abusing our youth — stands as a silent monument to a period of deep wounds and unhealed history.
Your predecessors rode many “horses,” as it were — nuclear disarmament, pro-life advocacy, social justice — but in the midst of those efforts, victims of clergy abuse were left unfed, unheard, or unseen. And when I attempted to call attention to this history so that we could move from victims to survivors, I received your letter stating that I was “not among the faithful and loyal disciples whom the Lord Jesus desires.”
Bishop, I am writing now not to reopen old battles nor to seek vindication. I am writing because our Centennial gives us a once-in-a-century opportunity for authentic renewal — an opportunity to replace silence with truth, and to let the light of Christ shine where shadows still remain.
I humbly ask you to prayerfully consider removing the Matthiesen dedication as part of our Centennial celebration.
Not out of vengeance.
Not out of bitterness.
But as an act of truth, healing, and shepherding.
To leave this monument standing is to say, in effect, “We have no regrets.”
To remove it is to say,
“We have learned. We have repented. We will shepherd differently.”
This single act would:
• honor the victims and survivors of our diocese;
• show our people that truth is not our enemy, but our path to freedom;
• and ensure that our Centennial is not merely a festive recollection, but a true beginning of a more honest and Christ-centered century of evangelization.
I believe this action could help transform our wounds into witness — both for those harmed in the past and for those who will call this diocese home in the next hundred years.
Please receive this request in the spirit in which it is offered:
with respect, with hope, and with a sincere desire to see our diocese healed, renewed, and firmly rooted in the truth that sets us free.
With prayers for you and for our entire diocesan family,
Darrell Glenn
My Story
“In memory of the death of innocence of the victims of clergy sexual abuse. When innocence dies…a life stops. It is essential that we never forget.“
- Bishop Matthiesen, who rode the white horse of public activism even as he brought abusive priests into our diocese—wounds that still mark us today. I spoke with him often, pleading with him to reconsider his “no regrets” about bringing those priests here…
- Bishop Yanta, who sought to enforce the Dallas Charter even when Bishop Matthiesen resisted him, and who bore the personal and pastoral cost of doing so. I met with Bishop Yanta about Bishop Matthiessen’s “no regrets” stance. He listened. He believed me. He acted where he could. And when he retired, he urged me—quietly but firmly—to keep speaking out.
- Bishop Zurek, who told the Diocese of Amarillo he had “no facts” about the Philadelphia report even as Amarillo’s connection to that tragedy was headline news. When I continued to speak out, as Bishop Yanta had once urged me to do, he later wrote that I was not among the faithful and loyal disciples whom the Lord Jesus desires.
- And now Bishop Strickland, whose own fall from leadership echoes the pattern — a man whose zeal burned like a torch but often without the oil of communion, misused by others, yet still a wounded shepherd who, like me, carries pawprints of injury and longing.