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.”
“A poor Church for the poor begins by reaching out to the flesh of Christ. If we reach out to the flesh of Christ, we begin to understand something, to understand what this poverty, the Lord’s poverty, actually is; and this is far from easy.” [122]
Question to myself (Hope – Centennial Pillar for February):
As we live the Centennial pillar of Hope this February, have I truly been touched by the flesh of Christ in the poor from our “serious mistake“, allowing that encounter to reshape my understanding of the Lord’s poverty and to kindle a hope that goes beyond comfort, theory, or sentiment?
2. Meditatio – Meditation
I am struck—no, touched—by how little was required. Not a speech. Not an explanation. Not even a miracle announced in advance.
Just a tassel.
The people of Gennesaret did not ask Jesus to reorganize their lives, clarify doctrine, or solve the political crisis of the day. They did not demand certainty. They asked for contact.
And I recognize myself here, uncomfortably so. For I often prefer ideas to encounters, positions to proximity, and clarity to compassion.
But healing does not come from standing at a distance and agreeing with Christ. Healing comes from being touched by Him, or daring—desperately—to touch Him back.
The sick were not healed because they understood Jesus correctly, but because they trusted Him closely. They did not analyze the hem of His garment; they reached for it.
And I wonder how often my faith remains untouched— intact, respectable, hygienic— because I insist on keeping Christ at a safe theological arm’s length.
There is something wonderfully scandalous about this Gospel: God allows Himself to be brushed, grabbed, clung to, almost accidentally encountered in a crowded street.
If holiness were fragile, Jesus would have avoided the marketplace. Instead, He entered it.
And I must ask myself: Have I allowed Christ to touch the places in me that are inconvenient, embarrassing, or still laid out on a mat in public view?
3. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
The modern world believes that truth must be proven before it is trusted. The Gospel suggests the opposite: truth is often touched before it is understood.
A tassel is a ridiculous thing on which to hang one’s hope— and therefore a perfectly Christian one.
For God, in His infinite humility, does not insist on being grasped by the intellect first, but by the heart, the wound, the need.
The Kingdom advances not by arguments alone, but by contact— by sleeves brushed, hands reached out, and faith that risks closeness.
4. Oratio — Prayer
Lord Jesus, I ask not first for answers, but for courage— the courage to draw near, to risk being changed, to be touched where I am weakest.
Let my faith be less about distance and more about desire. Heal me not only of illness, but of fear— the fear of closeness, the fear of surrender, the fear that Your nearness will cost me something.
Touch me, Lord, even if it means I cannot remain the same. Amen.
5. Actio — Action (Laudato Si’ & Synodality)
For this reason, Francis asked that part of the friary garden always be left untouched, so that wild flowers and herbs could grow there, and those who saw them could raise their minds to God, the Creator of such beauty.[21]
Today I will practice nearness instead of commentary. I will choose one concrete act of closeness— listening without correcting, serving without fixing, remaining present without retreating into abstraction.
Synodality begins not with statements, but with shared ground— with walking close enough for faith to pass from sleeve to skin.
6. Song Pairing 🎵
🎶 “When I Need You” — Leo Sayer🎵
Because faith is not strongest when I feel certain, but when I admit need—and discover that Christ is already close enough to be touched.
A story that reminds us that healing often begins not with cures, but with human presence—when someone is finally seen, known, and gently touched back into life.
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.
