“When the people in the synagogue heard this, they were all filled with fury. They rose up, drove him out of the town, and led him to the brow of the hill… to hurl him down headlong.”
And yet Christ, quite calmly, “passed through the midst of them and went away.”
Inaccuracy only exacerbates this problem. Systems that present statistical probability as knowledge are, at best, offering us approximations of the truth, which are sometimes outright delusions. Failure to verify sources, coupled with the crisis in field reporting, which involves constantly gathering and verifying information in the places where events occur, can further fuel disinformation, causing a growing sense of mistrust, confusion, and insecurity.
If Communion calls me to listen patiently and seek truth with others, how often does my unverified certainty—especially in a digital world of half-truths and probabilities—stir up fury rather than communion within the Body of Christ?
2. Meditatio
There is a curious thing about righteous indignation: it always feels remarkably like righteousness and very little like indignation.
In my case, it once left a crater in the center console of my car.
The padded armrest bears the unmistakable imprint of a clenched fist—my fist—delivered during what might be politely called an Operation Epic Fury.
The occasion was liturgical. Which is to say, I had just come from Mass.
The priest had announced the Mass intention, which I had personally requested and financially contributed the princely sum of five dollars to secure. Unfortunately, he did not read the intention precisely as I had written it in the bulletin.
This, I concluded instantly, was a deliberate provocation.
Naturally, I responded with a theological reflection—delivered directly to my center console.
The dent remains as a permanent monument to the spiritual peril of believing one’s anger to be holy.
The remarkable thing about fury is how easily it disguises itself as virtue. One can feel not merely angry but prophetic. Not merely irritated but righteously offended.
Indeed, I suspect that the people in Nazareth believed their fury to be entirely justified. After all, they were defending their hometown dignity against a young man who had grown up down the street and was now suggesting that God’s grace had inconveniently favored foreigners.
This sort of thing can provoke even the most respectable congregation into homicide.
My own fury was less dramatic. I merely assaulted upholstery rather than attempting to throw Jesus off a cliff.
Yet the difference may be smaller than I prefer to admit.
For fury, when baptized in self-righteousness, can convince a man that he is defending God—when in fact he is attempting to silence Him.
The dent in my console has therefore become something of a spiritual relic.
Each time I rest my arm there, I am reminded how easily I can leave Mass with the intention of defending Christ…
Today the Church remembers Saint Frances of Rome, a woman who lived in a city that provided endless opportunities for fury.
Rome in her day was full of political intrigue, warfare, corruption, and social upheaval—conditions that might easily justify righteous outrage.
Yet Frances chose a different response.
She lived as a wife, a mother, and eventually a religious woman whose holiness was not loud but luminous. She served the poor, cared for the sick, and practiced patience in circumstances that would have driven most saints into vigorous protest.
The Christian life often appears uneventful from the outside. A man reads Scripture, prays quietly, attends Mass, returns to the same routines.
Her life suggests something Chesterton might have admired:
Holiness does not require less passion. It requires the transformation of passion.
We cannot fail to praise the commitment of international agencies and civil society organizations which draw public attention to these issues and offer critical cooperation, employing legitimate means of pressure, to ensure that each government carries out its proper and inalienable responsibility to preserve its country’s environment and natural resources, without capitulating to spurious local or international interests.
Fury and polarization often dominate public discourse, making genuine dialogue nearly impossible. Synodality calls the Church to listen patiently and walk together rather than reacting in hostility.
War films remind us that fury may win battles, but it never restores peace. The Christian struggle is learning when to lay down the weapons of anger.
The Introverted Apostle: Small Group vs. Large Group Engagement Doosterhaus. Doisterhaus. Dusterhaus. However you pronounce it, Davlyn brought wisdom. 😄 Less noise and more depth in this week’s episode, Davlyn Duesterhaus unpacks introvert survival tips: start small, know your boundaries, make eye contact (occasionally), and why wholeness takes both introverts and extroverts. It’s not either/or…it’s both/and. Take a deep breath and say, “Okay, God, here we go!” ⛪😌 BONUS: We attempt to pronounce her name correctly.
Takeaways: • Think about the people in your life who have lovingly called you out on sin and encouraged you to grow closer to Jesus. They’ve acted like prophets for you. • Through Baptism, you are called to be a priest, king, and prophet — meaning you are sent to share the Gospel as a missionary disciple. • Live out that calling by praying more, going to Mass, and receiving the Sacraments. When you live with real joy and hope, others will notice…and it opens the door to share God’s love.
Move over, celebrity sightings…this is a Sacred Heart sighting! ❤️ Duane and Theresa are popping up in parishes everywhere, helping families put Christ at the heart of their homes and spreading devotion that’s anything but half-hearted. But wherever they go, they’re on fire for the Sacred Heart of Jesus. 🔥 In this episode, Duane and Theresa talk First Fridays, 12 powerful promises, and why enthroning your home might be the best “heart upgrade” you’ll ever make. Warning: Sacred Heart enthusiasm may be contagious. ❤️🔥
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.
A tribute to Bishop Matthiesen—now a complex symbol in our diocesan history, erected by former priest John Salazar, whose later abuse conviction reminds us how painful chapters of the Church’s past must be faced honestly as we seek healing and communion.
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.
While we recognize your thoughtful suggestion for a renewed dialogue on Bishop Matthiesen, the present circumstances do not present an opportunity for it. I think it would foster division not dialogue. We remain confident in God’s providence and hopeful for what the future may bring.
