Lectio Divina
Wednesday of the Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time
“Secret”
1. Lectio
Gospel: Matthew 6:1-6, 16-18
«”But when you give alms, do not let your left hand know what your right is doing, so that your almsgiving may be secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.»
«But when you pray, go to your inner room, close the door, and pray to your Father in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.”»
At first glance, secrecy appears to be something sinister. Secret societies, secret plots, and secret sins all rightly make us suspicious. Yet Our Lord speaks of another kind of secret—not the secrecy of darkness, but the secrecy of love. He warns His disciples against performing righteousness merely to be seen. The Father sees what the crowd cannot see, and He rewards what no applause can measure.
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2. Meditatio
Just how secretive is my Catholicism?
Ordinarily, being secretive carries a negative connotation. The secretive man is thought to be hiding something shameful. Yet in today’s Gospel, Jesus seems to suggest that secrecy is one of the roads to heaven. The paradox delights me in a thoroughly Chestertonian manner. For Christianity is forever hiding its greatest treasures in the most unlikely places.
Traveling here in the United Kingdom, I have become much more discreet about outward signs of my faith. Even making the Sign of the Cross in public can carry unexpected meanings because of the long and tragic history of these islands. Symbols which for me speak of salvation have, at various times and places, been interpreted as signs of political allegiance or even terrorism. Thus I find myself practicing a kind of secret Catholicism.
And perhaps that is not altogether a bad thing.
The Second Vatican Council reminds me that the Church does not exist to dominate the world but to listen to the many voices of our age and interpret them in the light of God’s Word. Listening to those voices is not a merely sociological exercise. It is spiritual discernment.
History itself becomes one of the classrooms in which the Holy Spirit teaches the Church.
The Gospel remains unchanged, yet its depths are continually disclosed in new circumstances. The essential truth remains fixed, but its living application unfolds through time. Thus the Church learns—not because truth changes—but because love is inexhaustible.
There is something wonderfully secret about this process.
The Kingdom of God advances much as seeds grow beneath the soil. The roots deepen before the flowers bloom. Structural reforms, personal conversions, and new forms of evangelical witness rarely announce themselves with trumpets. They arise quietly, often unnoticed, because the Spirit prefers miracles to advertisements.
I confess that I am tempted to measure the value of my faith by its visibility. Living in the age of social media, I can easily mistake publicity for evangelization and attention for holiness. I am tempted to believe that if others do not see my prayers, my opinions, my sufferings, or my good works, then perhaps they do not count.
Yet Our Lord seems singularly unimpressed by audiences.
The Father who sees in secret knows the prayers I never post, the alms I never announce, the tears no one notices, and the hidden sacrifices which receive no earthly reward.
Perhaps heaven itself is built largely out of things that remained secret on earth.
And perhaps the saints are simply those who became content with having God as their audience.
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3. Oratio
Lord Jesus,
You who withdrew to lonely places to pray, teach me the holy secret of belonging to the Father.
Deliver me from the desire to perform my goodness before others. Save me from the vanity that seeks applause and the pride that hungers for recognition.
Teach me to love hiddenness.
May my prayers be sincere rather than impressive.
May my charity be generous rather than conspicuous.
May my sacrifices be offered to You and not to my own reputation.
In a world that constantly invites me to display myself, grant me the freedom to be unseen.
For the Father who sees in secret is enough.
And when I am tempted to seek the praise of others, remind me that the applause of heaven is infinitely greater than the approval of the crowd.
Amen.
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4. Contemplatio (Chestertonian Synthesis)
Chesterton once remarked that the most extraordinary things are often hidden beneath ordinary appearances. Indeed, God Himself has something of a taste for secrecy.
He hides eternity inside time.
He hides glory inside humility.
He hides omnipotence inside a Child.
He hides Himself beneath bread and wine.
And He hides saints beneath ordinary faces.
Modern man longs to be noticed. He fears obscurity more than sin. Yet Christianity proposes the outrageous possibility that the most important things happen when no one is watching.
The seed grows underground.
The child develops in the womb.
The monk prays behind monastery walls.
The mother sacrifices in silence.
The old man suffers quietly.
The saint disappears.
And God sees all of it.
There is something deliciously paradoxical about a religion whose greatest victories are hidden. Caesar built monuments. Christ built consciences.
The world keeps score by headlines, followers, and applause. Heaven appears to keep score by entirely different arithmetic.
Indeed, if the devil’s favorite word is “Look at me,” perhaps God’s favorite phrase is “Come away and rest awhile.”
And so I find myself strangely comforted by the thought that the Father sees in secret.
For if He sees in secret, then nothing is lost.
Not the unnoticed prayer.
Not the hidden sacrifice.
Not the quiet kindness.
Not the lonely tears.
Not even the faith that crosses itself discreetly in a foreign land.
For the God who hides Himself knows how to find His own.
And the greatest secret of all is that the One who sees in secret has loved me openly from all eternity.
Wednesday of the Eleventh Week in Ordinary Time
