Theme: Return, Give Thanks, Be Cleansed
LECTIO — What the Word Says
Ten lepers cry out from a distance: “Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!”
Jesus sends them on their way before they see any change.
Only one — the outsider, the Samaritan — returns.
He falls at the feet of Jesus, glorifying God with a loud voice.
Jesus asks the devastating question:
The one who returned receives more than healing —
he receives salvation.
From the earliest centuries, the Church understood that
care for the poor is not optional charity but living faith itself.
The early Christians saw widows, orphans, the oppressed, and the wounded
as essential members of Christ’s own Body,
and the presbyters were commanded not to ignore them
but to seek them out, lift them up, and restore them.
The Church was to be — unmistakably —
“a mother of the poor, a place of welcome and justice.”
Dilexi te §39
MEDITATIO — What the Word Says to Me
Today’s Gospel presses a single question into my soul:
Am I among the nine… or the one who returns?
Ten lepers were cleansed —
only one came back to name the miracle.
That question cuts deeply when I hold it against
the history of the Diocese of Amarillo
and my own long journey through clerical abuse, silence, and return.
“If Boston is the fault line of the child sexual-abuse scandal that has convulsed the Roman Catholic Church, then few places have felt the aftershocks more deeply than the Diocese of Amarillo.”
New York Times
August 24, 2002
My Thanksgiving Contemplation: Nala, the Cat
As Nala, our son’s cat, wanders around the house this Thanksgiving,
she reminds me of “Church People” —
quiet, polite, seemingly harmless…
but capable of raising hell when no one is watching.
And then I must ask myself:
Am I like that?
Walking around thinking no one notices
when I avoid God’s will for my life?
Or when I’m tempted to be silent because “no one will notice” if I stop speaking out?
The Tribute That Marks Our Wound
This year, as our diocesan Centennial approaches,
the wound of our past still stands in stone:
A tribute raised by John Salazar —
a convicted pedophile priest,
brought here by Bishop Matthiesen against the counsel of cardinals,
given a “second chance” that led to more devastation,
and honored by the bishop who once said he had “no regrets.”
The tribute remains.
The wound remains.
But so does the Gospel’s question:
Will I return and give thanks — truly —
without being cleansed of the past?
Ten lepers were healed as they went,
but only one turned back to name it
— to stand in truth —
before stepping forward in thanksgiving.
Today I hear the Lord telling me:
“You are being healed as you go.
Now return.
Return to tell the truth.
Return to ask for cleansing.
Return so that your thanksgiving is not a façade.”
ORATIO — What I Say to God
Lord Jesus,
Thank You for healing wounds others could not see,
for hearing cries that others ignored,
for making me more than a victim —
making me clean.
Purify Your Church in Amarillo.
Cleanse our Centennial of all that hides the truth.
Give me the courage to return again and again
with thanksgiving that is rooted in honesty.
Let me not be among the nine who stayed silent,
but among the one who turned back
— loudly —
to glorify God.
CONTEMPLATIO — Resting With God
I sit before You, Lord,
holding the uncomfortable truth
that healing requires returning.
Returning to memory.
Returning to wounds.
Returning to the places
the Church has not yet cleansed.
And yet,
to return is also to be saved.
Today You ask:
“Where are the other nine?”
And I answer:
“Here I am, Lord.
I return.”
ACTIO — I Live It
“An ‘ecological conversion’, whereby the effects of their encounter with Jesus Christ become evident in their relationship with the world around them.
Laudato Si’ §217
Action:
yet still her way exposes what my heart wants to hide.
Today, as an act of thanksgiving, I will name one wound — personal or ecclesial —
that still needs healing,
and I will take one concrete step toward restoring that relationship:
a prayer, a conversation, a letter, or an act of truth-telling
that honors both justice and gratitude.
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.