Thursday of the Second Week of Lent

1. Lectio

“There was a rich man who dressed in purple garments and fine linen and dined sumptuously each day…
And lying at his door was a poor man named Lazarus…

…remember that you received what was good during your lifetime while Lazarus likewise received what was bad;
but now he is comforted here, whereas you are tormented.”

Luke 16: 19-31

As we scroll through our feeds, it becomes increasingly difficult to determine whether we are interacting with other human beings or with “bots” or “virtual influencers.” The less-than-transparent interventions of these automated agents influence public debates and people’s choices. Chatbots based on large language models (LLMs) are proving to be surprisingly effective at covert persuasion through continuous optimization of personalized interaction. The dialogic, adaptive, mimetic structure of these language models is capable of imitating human feelings and thus simulating a relationship. While this anthropomorphization can be entertaining, it is also deceptive, particularly for the most vulnerable. Because chatbots are excessively “affectionate,” as well as always present and accessible, they can become hidden architects of our emotional states and so invade and occupy our sphere of intimacy.

To be or to pretend to be: simulating relationships and reality

As I reflect on Communion — the Centennial pillar for March, am I seeking to be truly comforted in relationships with real persons—faces, voices, and hearts within the Body of Christ—or am I allowing simulated conversations and persuasive technologies to quietly shape my emotions and choices about our “serious mistake“, mistaking artificial affection for the genuine communion that only human encounter and grace can provide?

2. Meditatio

The difficulty with this Gospel is that I do not easily recognize myself in the rich man. After all, I own no purple garments, and my dining is seldom sumptuous unless pizza has suddenly been reclassified as luxury cuisine.

Yet I cannot claim to be Lazarus either. I am not lying at anyone’s gate covered in sores.

No, the truly dangerous place is the middle—the place of comfort.

Comfort is a most agreeable cushion for the conscience. It allows a man to say, with great sincerity, “I am not the villain of this story.”

There are no bombs falling on my pasture. My refrigerator contains enough food to survive a few days of poor weather. My worries consist largely of fuel prices, rainfall, and the occasional rebellious sheep.

In short, I am comfortable.

But then the Gospel introduces that terrible word: comforted.

For Lazarus is not comforted during his life. He is comforted afterward. And the rich man—who was very comfortable indeed—discovers too late that comfort can be a prelude to catastrophe.

The tragedy of the rich man was not cruelty. Scripture never says he kicked Lazarus or shouted at him.

He simply lived comfortably while Lazarus existed at his gate.

The gate is the detail that unsettles me most. Lazarus was not in another country, another century, or another civilization. He was right there, inconveniently close.

Close enough to see.
Close enough to ignore.

The world today has made Lazarus strangely visible. I hear of wars, bombed schools, displaced families, and children buried beneath rubble. And because I do not know what to do about such horrors, I am tempted to classify them under the convenient label of “necessary evils.”

That phrase is perhaps the most luxurious garment the rich man ever wore.

It allows me to remain comfortable.

But the Gospel does not ask whether I can solve the world’s problems. It asks whether my comfort has dulled my compassion.

The rich man’s tragedy was not wealth.
It was insulation.

And insulation, when thick enough, can prevent even mercy from getting through.

3. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)

The great paradox of Christianity is that the saints are not those who avoided suffering but those who refused to be comfortable in the presence of suffering.

The saints had an almost inconvenient sympathy. They felt things too deeply. They allowed the misery of others to disturb their peace.

In a curious way, Heaven belongs to the uncomfortable.

For the man who insists on comfort must build walls to preserve it. And once those walls are built high enough, he cannot hear Lazarus knocking at the gate.

But the Christian life is not meant to be insulated. It is meant to be porous.

Christ Himself lived without insulation.

He had no place to lay His head, yet He had a remarkable talent for comforting others. The poor, the sick, the forgotten—these found themselves mysteriously comforted simply by His presence.

Perhaps the difference between the rich man and Christ is very simple:

The rich man lived comfortably.
Christ made others comforted.

And the Gospel quietly invites me to decide which life I prefer.

4. Oratio

5. Actio — In Light of Laudato Si’ and Synodality

Indeed, when all is said and done, they frequently remain at the bottom of the pile. This is due partly to the fact that many professionals, opinion makers, communications media and centres of power, being located in affluent urban areas, are far removed from the poor, with little direct contact with their problems. They live and reason from the comfortable position of a high level of development and a quality of life well beyond the reach of the majority of the world’s population.

Laudato si’ §49

Indifference to the suffering of others and to the cry of the earth stems from a culture of comfort and consumerism. Synodality invites us to listen—to the poor, the marginalized, and those whose suffering we might otherwise ignore.

Today I will intentionally read or listen to one story from someone suffering injustice or poverty, not to argue with it or dismiss it, but simply to listen.

Communion begins when comfort yields to compassion.

6. Song Pairing 🎵

🎶 “Baby, You’re a Rich Man” – The Beatles🎵

7. Movie Pairing 🎬

🎬Movie: Frankenstein (2025)

My Story

• 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 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.
• Bishop Daniel Cardinal DiNardo…