“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.”
Each day, I read a paragraph from the encyclical Dilexi te and weave a quotation from it into that day’s Lectio Divina.
Memorial in the Grotto of St. Mary’s Cathedral. The inscription says: “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.”
“…social sin consolidates a ‘structure of sin’ within society, and is frequently ‘part of a dominant mindset that considers normal or reasonable what is merely selfishness and indifference. ‘”
Do I have the faith—the January pillar of our Centennial—to let myself be summoned out of a comfortable, inherited mindset that treats indifference as “normal,” and instead to confront the structures of sin that persist precisely because they ask nothing of me but silence?
2. Meditatio – Meditation
The word that arrests me today is “summoned.” Not invited. Not consulted. Not elected.
“Bishop Matthiesen — a shepherd whose legacy in our diocese still asks hard questions of us today. May truth, healing, and justice be the final word.” Photo used by permission of Douglas Kirkland/Corbis via Getty Images
Summoned.
About six months ago, Bishop Zurek summoned the Diocese to clear our calendars on January 24th so that we might gather at St. Mary’s Cathedral for the Respect Life Mass. The command was precise, orderly, and unmistakably episcopal: nothing else was to happen so that we could be present.
Above: The Tribute to Bishop Matthiesen Below: A Fallen Centennial Banner
Yet God, who has a fondness for irony and an even greater fondness for truth, issued a larger summons—one delivered by snow, wind, and ice. Suddenly, there were no diocesan Masses at all. Instead, the bishop summoned us again, this time back into our homes, instructing us to read the Gospel, pray the Rosary, dress reverently, light candles, and behave as our ancestors once did.
And there the paradox struck me full in the face.
We are summoned to remember our ancestors’ faith— but not summoned to remember all of our ancestors’ actions. We are summoned to reverence— but not to reckoning. We are summoned to holiness— but not to listening.
One of those ancestors, John Salazar, erected a tribute to Bishop Matthiesen in 2001—an act that Bishop Zurek himself later described as arising from a “serious mistake.” That tribute still stands, unmoved, unquestioned, un-discussed. And I, who keep being told I am not among the “faithful and loyal disciples,” find myself summoned again—not by chancery letters, but by conscience.
Just weeks ago, Pope Leo reminded the Church that the greatest scandal is not only abuse itself, but the closed door—the refusal to listen, the failure to welcome. He called this silence a wound that deepens suffering. When I hear that, I cannot help but believe that this weekend’s cancellations are not merely meteorological, but theological.
Perhaps this interruption is itself a summons: a call to stop marching, to stop celebrating prematurely, and to sit with the unfinished truth of our history.
For Christ summons even Judas. Not because betrayal is holy, but because grace is fearless.
3. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
A tribute, built for Bishop Matthiesen, while John Salazar—a convicted pedophile priest whom Matthiesen kept in ministry against the counsel of cardinal archbishops, giving Salazar a “second chance.” That second chance resulted in the sexual assault of youth in our own diocese. And just before he was defrocked and sent to prison, he raised this monument in Bishop Matthiesen’s honor. Its presence remains a painful reminder of “serious mistakes” that harmed the very flock Bishop Matthiesen was meant to protect.
I find great comfort in the fact that Jesus summoned men before they understood Him. He did not wait for moral clarity, institutional readiness, or unanimous agreement. He summoned them because love moves first.
That is the secret of divine authority: it is not afraid of complication.
The Church climbs mountains to receive clarity, but she must descend again into villages where memories ache and stories have not been told. If we remain on the mountain too long, admiring our banners, we risk confusing altitude with holiness.
To be summoned is not to be congratulated—it is to be sent. And sometimes the mission is not forward, but backward: back into memory, back into listening, back into humility.
If Christ can summon Peter knowing he would deny Him, then perhaps He summons this Diocese knowing we are not finished yet. And perhaps faithfulness today looks less like attendance and more like attention.
4. Oratio — Prayer
Lord Jesus Christ, You who summon whom You will, summon me again today.
Summon me away from resentment and into obedience that listens. Summon me away from the desire to win and into the courage to remain.
Teach me to hear Your voice when it comes disguised as inconvenience, interruption, or silence.
If You summon me to speak, guard my words with charity. If You summon me to wait, steady my heart with hope. If You summon me to remember, cleanse memory with mercy.
You live and reign forever and ever. Amen.
5. Actio — Action (Laudato Si’ & Synodality)
In the present condition of global society, where injustices abound and growing numbers of people are deprived of basic human rights and considered expendable, the principle of the common good immediately becomes, logically and inevitably, a summons to solidarity and a preferential option for the poorest of our brothers and sisters.
Today I will practice the discipline of listening. Inspired by Laudato si’, I will intentionally give space to a story, a memory, or a perspective that is inconvenient or uncomfortable. Synodality begins when I resist the urge to manage outcomes and choose instead to accompany reality.
6. Song Pairing
🎶 “Here I Am, Lord” – Dan Schutte
A hymn that understands summoning is not about readiness, but availability. Faith begins when I answer before I know how the story ends.
7. Movie Pairing
🎬Movie: The Day After Tomorrow (2004)
When warning signs are dismissed as exaggeration and inconvenient truths are ignored, catastrophe doesn’t arrive suddenly—it arrives after a long season of indifference. The Day After Tomorrow pairs with today’s Lectio Divina as a stark parable: faith is not merely believing the storm will pass, but allowing ourselves to be summoned out of comfort before silence hardens into disaster.
I’m sharing The Introverted Apostle, Episode 2, because it gently explodes the myth that the Church is powered only by the loudest voices in the room. I love how it frames how we are Church—together. As I move through the day wearing different shades of introversion (reserved, anxious, thinking, social), this episode helped me see each not as a defect to overcome, but as a gift to be offered—in concert with the gifts of extroverts. The Body of Christ needs both the quiet heart and the bold tongue. Give it a listen. I suspect you’ll recognize yourself somewhere in it—and find where you belong in the Body of Christ.
Here is one of those modern miracles that does not involve thunder, but does involve truth. In the latest CAPN: The WTC – The Podcast, you’ll hear the very personal story that set Karlynn Hochstein on the unlikely (and very Catholic) road to becoming our Diocese of Amarillo’s Director of Family Life. It is the sort of story that reminds us that vocations are rarely born in comfort, but almost always in conviction. And it also explains why I’ll be at St. Mary’s Cathedral next Saturday at 10:00 a.m. for the Respect Life Mass—because when faith becomes flesh in real lives, the only reasonable response is to show up. Give it a listen. Truth, like grace, works best when it’s personal.
Subject: A Request to Be Heard in the Spirit of Synodality During Our Centennial
Your Excellency Bishop Zurek,
I write to you with respect and with a sincere desire to remain in communion with the Church during this Centennial year of the Diocese of Amarillo.
As we approach the Centennial celebrations and the Respect Life Mass, I find myself holding an interior conflict that I cannot ignore in conscience. In prayer, particularly through Lectio Divina on the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, I was struck by the single word spoken by Christ to John the Baptist: “Allow it.” Those words have stayed with me.
They raise a question in my heart: what does the Church allow herself to hear, and whom does she allow herself to accompany?
I desire to celebrate our Centennial and to stand in solidarity with the Church’s witness to the dignity of life. At the same time, I struggle to do so without any space for synodality regarding the Diocese of Amarillo’s Tribute to Bishop Matthiesen, especially in light of what has been acknowledged as a “serious mistake” during that period of our history. The continued silence around this tribute weighs heavily on me, not as an accusation, but as a pastoral wound.
Recently, Pope Leo reminded the Church that “abuse itself causes a deep wound, which may last a lifetime; but often the greater scandal is that the door was closed and victims were not welcomed or accompanied with the closeness of authentic pastors.” He shared the testimony of a victim who said that the most painful part was that no bishop wanted to listen. The Holy Father emphasized that listening is profoundly important and asked the Church to deepen dialogue and implement synodality.
It is in this spirit that I write. I am not asking for condemnation, nor am I asking for erasure of history. I am asking whether there can be listening—whether synodality can be allowed—so that the Centennial truly reflects the four pillars we have named: faith, hope, communion, and mission.
I want to be present at the Respect Life Mass and to celebrate our Centennial in good conscience. But I also want to know that the Church I love is willing to listen to those for whom this tribute remains a source of pain, confusion, and exclusion.
Your Excellency, I remain obedient to your pastoral authority, but I also remain compelled by conscience and prayer to ask that this conversation be allowed to take place. I believe that such listening would not diminish our celebration, but purify it.
Thank you for taking the time to read this letter. Please know of my prayers for you and for our Diocese during this significant year.
Respectfully in Christ,
Darrell
My Story
Photo used by permission of Douglas Kirkland/Corbis via Getty Images
Memorial in the Grotto of St. Mary’s Cathedral. The inscription says: “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.“
I was one of “the few” Bishop Zurek spoke of in this letter. He first posted it in August of 2019, and in response to my, “calling out all the more“, he kept reposting it atop the diocesan news page until December 11, 2019. There it remains to this day.
Fr. Ed Graff, brought here from Philadelphia by Bishop Matthiesen, was arrested in 2002 for sexually assaulting a minor and died later that year in jail. Despite the harm linked to his ministry, he was buried in an honored section of Llano Cemetery among our pioneering clergy — a decision that continues to wound survivors and raise hard questions for our diocese.
Bishop Matthiesen, who rode the white horse of public activism even as he brought abusive priests into our diocese such as John Salazar—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 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.
