Herod feared John, knowing him to be a righteous and holy man, and kept him in custody. When he heard him speak he was very much perplexed, yet he liked to listen to him.
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.”
The many forms of indifference we see all around us are in fact “signs of an approach to life that is spreading in various and subtle ways.”
Question to myself (Hope – Centennial Pillar for February):
How am I perplexed, as we move into hope — the Centennial pillar for February, by the subtle forms of indifference spreading around me in regards to our “serious mistake“—and is Christ inviting me to let that very perplexity become the place where hope resists indifference and learns to love again?
Two events stand before me this evening, both demanding attention, neither willing to step politely aside. One is the Central Deanery Centennial Mass, solemn, official, ecclesial. The other is the opening ceremony of the Winter Olympics—grand, human, imperfect, and strangely hopeful.
On paper, there should be no contest. The Mass is greater. It always is. And yet, the soul does not live on paper alone.
I have already been to Mass today—early, quiet, faithful. The Eucharist has already been placed into my hands like daily bread. And yet I find myself oddly torn, as though the question were not whether I have received Christ, but whether I still need to be seen receiving Him.
There was a time when I believed that showing up to diocesan events might prove something—that my presence might earn me a place among the “faithful and loyal disciples” whom the Church desires. That perhaps visibility might substitute for truth, and attendance for communion.
But experience has taught me otherwise.
I attended a Centennial Mass once when it was the only Mass available, and rather than peace, I received anger—because silence reigned where repentance should have spoken. A celebration unfolded that carefully avoided our serious mistake, and the absence of truth was louder than any hymn.
So tonight, I am perplexed—not because I do not love the Mass, but because I love it too much to use it as a badge.
Herod, too, was perplexed. He liked listening to John. He admired holiness from a safe distance. But when truth demanded a cost—when it threatened comfort, reputation, and applause—he chose spectacle over repentance.
Perhaps my perplexity tonight is not about choosing between Mass and Olympics, but about learning when presence is obedience and when absence is honesty. The Mass feeds my soul. But truth demands more than attendance; it demands integrity.
And so, perplexed though I am, I choose peace over performance, nourishment over noise, and a quiet faith over a public confusion.
3. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
The modern world believes perplexity to be a sign of weakness. Chesterton knew better: perplexity is often the first proof that a man still has a conscience.
Herod was perplexed because he stood between truth and comfort—and chose comfort. Paul Miki was not perplexed at all. He stood on a cross and spoke plainly, forgiving his executioners and proclaiming the only way he knew to be true.
There are two kinds of perplexity: One delays obedience until it is too late. The other refines obedience until it is honest.
I pray mine is the second.
The Church does not need fewer perplexed souls; it needs fewer men who silence their perplexity with banquets, applause, and half-kingdom promises. The martyrs did not resolve their doubts by compromise, but by clarity.
And clarity, paradoxically, often arrives only after perplexity has done its work.
4. Oratio — Prayer
Lord Jesus, When I am perplexed, keep me from confusing comfort with peace. Save me from the temptation to please the crowd when truth asks for courage. Grant me the humility to listen deeply, the wisdom to choose rightly, and the freedom to forgive even those who confuse me.
When my heart wavers between spectacle and sacrifice, teach me to recognize Your voice—quiet, demanding, and true. Amen.
5. Actio — Action (Laudato Si’ & Synodality)
A constant flood of new consumer goods can baffle the heart and prevent us from cherishing each thing and each moment.
Today I will practice honest synodality: not by multiplying appearances, but by listening attentively—to conscience, to the wounded, to the poor, and to the truth that unsettles me.
Inspired by Laudato Si’, I will resist systems that prioritize image over substance and will stand with those whose voices are inconvenient but necessary. Synodality begins not with unanimity, but with the courage to stay perplexed long enough for truth to emerge.
6. Song Pairing 🎵
🎶 “100%” — Mariah Carey🎵
Holiness is not a half-kingdom promise whispered at a banquet; it is the quiet decision to give oneself completely, even when applause fades and perplexity remains.
7. Movie Pairing 🎬
🎬Movie: Ice Castles (2010)
Sometimes the greatest victories come not under bright lights, but in learning how to stand again—perplexed, wounded, and still willing to believe.
I’ve been happily—and rather unexpectedly—surprised by how much Episode 3 of The Introverted Apostle is helping me make sense of my own faith journey. John Reeves (yes, the same John I’ve exchanged the sign of peace with more than once at St. Mary’s Cathedral) adds another layer to understanding introversion—not as a flaw to overcome, but as something God actually works through. Even the idea of “putting on a mask” socially can, in the right spirit, be an act of charity rather than phoniness. That one hit home. It’s thoughtful, human, and quietly freeing. Worth your time.
I’m sharing the newest episode of CAPN: The West Texas Catholic—and it turns out the future has gears, wires, and a Catholic high school uniform. The robotics team at Holy Cross Catholic Academy is building machines, yes—but more importantly, they’re building minds that know technology is a tool, not a master. Chesterton would remind us that the devil does not invent things—he only misuses them. Fire can warm a home or burn it down; the answer is not to outlaw fire but to teach children how to tend it. The same goes for robotics and AI. To call every circuit “satanic” is to forget that human creativity itself reflects the Creator. These students aren’t bowing to machines—they’re learning to rule them rightly, to harness what is good, true, and useful in service of something higher. And that, my friends, sounds suspiciously like evangelization in the modern world. Give the episode a listen. Then decide: fear the tool… or form the soul that uses it.
Email to Bishop Zurek
Dear Bishop Zurek,
Peace in Christ.
As our Diocese continues its Centennial celebration, I have been praying daily with the Scriptures and reflecting deeply on the four pillars: Faith, Hope, Communion, and Mission. In that spirit of prayer, I am writing once more not in protest, but in hope — hope for true synodality, which the Church continues to call us toward: listening, walking together, and discerning in the light of the Holy Spirit.
In recent prayer with the Gospel where the apostles are sent out and told to “shake the dust from their feet” where they are not received, I was struck not by the gesture of rejection, but by its meaning: testimony. Testimony that something unfinished remains. Testimony that repentance and healing are still invitations, not accusations.
For me, the Tribute to Bishop Matthiesen remains such a testimony. You yourself once referred to that period of our diocesan history as involving a “serious mistake.” Yet the tribute stands publicly, while conversation about the wound it represents feels absent. This creates, at least in my conscience, a tension between remembrance and healing, between honoring history and honestly confronting it.
I am not asking for condemnation of the past, nor for erasing history. I am asking for synodality — a visible, pastoral process of listening and discernment regarding what this tribute means today, especially for those who carry pain connected to that era. Pope Leo has reminded the Church that one of the deepest scandals is when doors are closed and people are not listened to. My hope is simply that, as your son in the Church, my voice might be received in that spirit of listening.
Our Centennial banners proclaim Faith, Hope, Communion, and Mission. I believe engaging this issue synodally would embody all four: • Faith, by trusting truth has nothing to fear • Hope, by believing healing is possible • Communion, by listening even when it is difficult • Mission, by witnessing that the Church confronts wounds with light, not silence
I remain in communion with you as my bishop and pray for you daily. I also continue to seek purification of my own heart, that my words be guided not by frustration but by charity and truth.
If you would ever be willing to allow a listening conversation — formal or informal — I would receive that as a great grace.
Respectfully in Christ,
Darrell Glenn
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.
