“Amen, amen, I say to you, no slave is greater than his master nor any messenger greater than the one who sent him.”
The word slips in almost quietly—messenger— and yet it carries the full weight of mission.
Not originator. Not authority. But one who is sent.
2. Meditatio
There is a certain ritual at The Glenn involving a ladder, a tree, and a great deal of hesitation.
It is called the Zip Line.
The grandkids approach it as one might approach a theological dilemma— with curiosity, fear, and a deep suspicion that something important is about to happen.
They climb slowly, gripping each rung as though it were a moral decision. They reach the top, pause—often for a very long time— and then, with a mixture of courage and desperation, they launch themselves into the air.
And then comes the verdict:
“Actually… that was kinda fun.”
Which, I suspect, is one of the most honest theological statements ever made.
For this is precisely how I approach being a messenger.
Each morning, I climb— through prayer, through routine, through the quiet insistence of showing up.
I reach the high point at Mass— that strange and sacred place where heaven meets earth and I am reminded, quite firmly, that I am not the master of anything.
And then I am sent.
Which is to say, I am pushed—gently but unmistakably—off the platform.
Into work. Into conversation. Into responsibilities I did not design and often do not control.
And I spend much of the day holding on for dear life, hoping I do not fall, and wondering whether I have understood the instructions correctly.
And yet, at the end of the day, if I have remained even somewhat faithful, I find myself saying something rather surprising:
“Actually… that was kinda fun.”
Not because it was easy. But because it was real.
And because, somewhere along the line, I remembered:
One is both important and unimportant at the same time.
Pope Pius V understood this well.
He held one of the highest offices in the Church— and yet he lived as though he were still a simple friar.
He reformed, he clarified, he strengthened the Church— not by inventing a new message, but by faithfully delivering the one he had received.
Chesterton would delight in this paradox:
The greatest authority is the one who knows he is under authority.
The truest messenger does not dilute the message nor decorate it excessively— he carries it intact.
And here lies the great relief:
If I am only the messenger, then I am freed from the burden of originality and entrusted with the joy of fidelity.
For the message is not mine to improve— only mine to deliver.
5. Actio — In Light of Laudato Si’ and Synodality
He addressed his message Pacem in Terris to the entire “Catholic world” and indeed “to all men and women of good will”. Now, faced as we are with global environmental deterioration, I wish to address every person living on this planet.
Laudato si’ reminds me that we are entrusted with a message written not only in words, but in creation itself—one that calls for care, humility, and responsibility.
Action:
Today, in one conversation or task, I will consciously act as a messenger—speaking or acting not to impress, but to faithfully convey truth, goodness, or encouragement.
For Synodality is not inventing the path— it is walking the path that has been given.
“The Messenger” is the closing track on A Thousand Suns, the fourth studio album by American rock band Linkin Park, released in 2010. The song stands out as a stripped-down acoustic piece that concludes an otherwise electronic and experimental record, emphasizing hope and resilience amid chaos.
A raw and urgent plea to carry truth forward—reminding me that the message matters more than the messenger.
The Messenger is a 2009 American war drama film directed by Oren Moverman. It follows two U.S. Army officers tasked with notifying families of soldiers killed in action, exploring themes of duty, grief, and human connection. The film received critical acclaim for its performances and sensitive handling of military loss.
A sobering portrayal of delivering difficult truths—showing that being a messenger often requires courage more than comfort.
8. Poetic Verse
I climbed the height with trembling hand, and feared the open air— for being sent is never safe, nor simple, nor quite fair.
Yet once I loosed my cautious grip and trusted what was given, I found the fall was not a fall but something nearer heaven.
So let me bear what’s not my own, nor claim what I don’t see— for joy is found not in the word, but in the One who sends me.
