Lectio — Owe
Friday of the Thirty-first Week in Ordinary Time
November 6, 2026
Word of the Day: Owe
Theme of the Week: Blessed
“How much do you owe my master?” — Luke 16:5
Today Jesus introduces me to a steward whose accounts are in disorder, whose employment is threatened, and whose future depends upon what he does next. The question he puts to his master’s debtors is deceptively simple: “How much do you owe my master?”
I hear that question as though it were addressed to me here at The Glenn. How much do I owe? To my creditors, certainly. To my family, undoubtedly. To the soil, the sheep, the dogs, and the creatures whose lives are entrusted to my care? More than I can calculate. And how much do I owe to the Church, whose sacraments have blessed me even when my relationship with her ministers has been strained?
Jesus does not invite me to admire dishonesty. Rather, he confronts me with the unsettling possibility that those who pursue worldly security sometimes exercise greater ingenuity than those of us who claim to live by the light. Perhaps the most important account I must settle is not the one in my farm ledger, but the one in my conscience.
Meditatio — What Do I Owe?
At the end of each month, I usually owe more to the creditors of the Farm of The Glenn than the farm itself brings in. The arithmetic is not especially encouraging. My sheep have never shown much interest in balancing a checkbook, and my livestock guardian dogs appear convinced that their compensation should be calculated entirely in meals, shelter, and freedom to do their work.
I would like to be a full-time farmer, but I am not giving up my day job of teaching at the present time. Teaching helps pay the bills that farming creates. Yet I wonder whether the failure of The Glenn to produce a conventional profit necessarily means that it has failed to produce anything of value. Is a farm blessed only when its financial accounts are in the black?
Laudato Si’ challenges me to think more deeply about what I owe creation. Pope Francis reminds me that faith owes genuine respect to reason and that responsible decisions about living things must attend carefully to scientific knowledge, rather than allowing economic interests to determine what I am willing to believe. Legitimate intervention in nature should favor its development according to the purposes of creation, not merely my immediate financial advantage.
Consequently, when I consider a new practice that might make The Glenn more profitable, I owe the land and its creatures more than an optimistic calculation of increased revenue. I owe them observation, research, patience, and the humility to admit that what is technologically possible is not necessarily what is morally wise.
But my debts do not end at the pasture gate.
Paragraph 10 of A Reflection on Christian Life raises a question that I cannot dismiss: Why do people so readily believe what appears on social media and then pass it along as truth? Have we forgotten the Gospel? Has friendship become more important than truth, even while we claim to be ambassadors for Christ?
Those questions reach uncomfortably close to home. For years I have struggled with what I understand to be the consequences of a “serious mistake” within the life of my diocese. When my efforts to obtain acknowledgment and accountability did not produce the results I hoped for, I turned increasingly to the technologies that allowed me to speak publicly. Today I am even using artificial intelligence as I develop a podcast to accompany these Lectio Divina reflections.
Yet technology does not make me truthful. Nor does the sincerity of my grievance guarantee the accuracy of everything I say about it. If I owe the Church an honest account of my experiences, I also owe her the discipline of distinguishing what I know from what I suspect, what I can demonstrate from what I merely fear, and what I remember from what another person might reasonably remember differently.
I am striving to imitate the saints and to observe those who conduct themselves according to the model of Christ. That is one reason I return each morning to Lectio Divina. I do not want Scripture to become a convenient instrument for proving that I am right. I want it to become the instrument by which God reveals where I may be wrong.
And so I owe my bishop a listening heart, even when I find listening difficult. I owe him truthfulness, respect for his office, and a willingness to consider correction. I also believe that genuine listening must allow difficult questions to be heard rather than simply dismissed.
If I have communicated falsehoods or acted unjustly toward others on social media, then I owe those affected correction, reparation, and repentance. Serious misconduct may warrant restrictions on ministry through a fair and proportionate process. I cannot demand accountability of others while claiming immunity from it myself.
But if my exclusion from ministry arose simply because I used modern technology to raise sincere questions while seeking to keep the word of Christ and go rejoicing to the house of the Lord, then I must ask whether the Church has adequately distinguished between disobedience and conscientious speech, between scandal and the discomfort of being questioned.
Perhaps that is the unsettling challenge of today’s Gospel. Am I being more prudent in dealing with my own generation than the children of light? Or have I mistaken technological ingenuity for evangelical wisdom?
I am blessed to possess tools that can carry my voice beyond the fences of The Glenn. But the greater blessing would be to use those tools so faithfully that they help truth and charity meet, rather than merely making an old disagreement louder.
Oratio — A Prayer for What I Owe
Lord Jesus Christ,
You know the accounts I keep and the accounts I avoid. You know the bills awaiting payment, the labor that remains unfinished, the relationships that have become strained, and the words I wish I had chosen more carefully.
Teach me to distinguish what I owe Caesar from what I owe God, what I owe my creditors from what I owe creation, and what I owe my own conscience from what I owe my neighbor.
When I am tempted to measure my worth by profit, remind me that I am blessed before I have earned a penny. When I am tempted to justify every word I publish, remind me that truth is not my possession but Your gift.
Give me the courage to acknowledge my mistakes, the patience to hear my bishop, and the charity to speak about those with whom I disagree without diminishing their dignity.
May my work as a farmer, teacher, writer, and podcaster become not a monument to my own cleverness but an offering of gratitude for everything I have received.
And when the final accounting comes, may I discover that mercy has accomplished what my careful calculations never could.
Amen.
Contemplatio — An Economy That Values Dignity
Magnifica humanitas — Chapter Four: Safeguarding Humanity at a Time of Transformation: Truth, Work, Freedom
The Dignity of Work at a Time of Digital Transition — An Economy That Values Dignity, Paragraph 157
As I contemplate the teaching presented in paragraph 157 of Magnifica humanitas, I am struck by its insistence that economic freedom is not absolute. Entrepreneurial initiative may be a genuine vocation, but its moral worth cannot be measured by profit alone. It must serve the common good and the dignity of human beings, particularly through the creation of valuable and dignified work.
That gives me a rather different way of examining the books at The Glenn.
I have been inclined to divide my occupations into two categories: teaching, which earns money, and farming, which spends it. But perhaps this division is itself a symptom of the very economy the Church asks me to reconsider. Both occupations involve work. Both can serve others. Both can cultivate virtues. Both can also become occasions of vanity, waste, or exploitation if I forget the dignity of those affected by my decisions.
The digital transition complicates the accounting still further. Artificial intelligence can help me organize a reflection, prepare a publication, or develop a podcast. It can make the work of one aging farmer and teacher reach an audience that would once have been unimaginable. Yet its usefulness does not relieve me of responsibility for the accuracy of what I publish, the originality of my judgment, or the dignity of the people whose lives my words may touch.
Indeed, the steward in today’s Gospel offers an uncomfortable comparison. He recognizes that the circumstances of his employment have changed, and he acts decisively. Jesus draws attention to his prudence, not as permission for dishonesty, but as a challenge to those who possess greater light and sometimes show less imagination.
Perhaps the Church, too, must exercise prudence in an age when digital technology has changed how the faithful communicate. A podcast is not automatically an act of rebellion, any more than a bishop’s exercise of authority is automatically an act of oppression. Both must be judged by their fidelity to truth, charity, justice, and the common good.
And here I find the paradox of being blessed: the more I recognize what has been given to me, the more clearly I see what I owe.
I owe my creditors honest stewardship. I owe my students conscientious teaching. I owe the creatures at The Glenn responsible care. I owe my readers and listeners truthfulness. I owe my bishop respect and an openness to dialogue. And I owe Christ the surrender of my conviction that I alone can settle every account.
The Gospel does not promise that my farm will become profitable, my podcast successful, or my relationship with diocesan leadership easily reconciled. It asks whether I can make faithful use of what has been entrusted to me.
Perhaps a truly blessed economy is one in which no person, no creature, and no truth is reduced to a mere entry on somebody else’s balance sheet.
Actio — What I Owe the Synodal Church
Today I will practice synodality not merely by asking the Church to listen to me, but by examining whether I am prepared to listen to the Church.
Synodality requires more than an invitation to speak. It requires a willingness to hear, discern, correct, and sometimes change course. If I demand that my experiences be taken seriously, I must extend that same seriousness to the experiences and responsibilities of others, including those whose conclusions differ from mine.
My practical act today will be to examine one public statement I have made about my experiences with the diocese. I will ask whether I have presented verifiable facts accurately, distinguished interpretation from evidence, and left room for another person’s account. Where correction is warranted, I will make it. Where a legitimate question remains unanswered, I will seek a respectful and appropriate way to raise it.
I will also carry this practice into the development of Lectio Divina at The Glenn. Before publishing an episode, I will ask whether it serves genuine dialogue, respects the dignity of those mentioned, and invites listeners closer to Christ rather than merely closer to my side of an argument.
The synodal question I carry into this Friday is simple: What do I owe those who disagree with me, especially when I believe I have been wronged?
I suspect the answer begins with the very things I hope to receive: truth, justice, patience, mercy, and the willingness to listen.
Song Pairing — “Busted” by Ray Charles
Song: Busted — Ray Charles
Ray Charles gives voice to a predicament that requires no explanation from a farmer whose monthly expenses regularly exceed his agricultural income. The song’s mixture of financial desperation, weariness, and wry humor makes it an appropriate companion to today’s Gospel.
There is something almost Chestertonian about the absurdity of working harder at the occupation that loses money while keeping another occupation to pay for it. Yet beneath the humor lies a serious question: What happens to human dignity when every relationship is translated into debt?
As I listen, I remember that being financially busted does not mean being spiritually bankrupt. I may owe more than I possess, but I have also been blessed with more than I could ever purchase.
Movie Pairing — Emily the Criminal (2022)
Film: Emily the Criminal (2022), directed by John Patton Ford.
In Emily the Criminal, a young woman burdened by debt and constrained employment opportunities becomes involved in criminal activity as she struggles to secure her future. The film explores the moral pressure created when economic survival appears to demand increasingly questionable choices.
Her predicament brings me back to the steward in Luke’s Gospel. Both stories raise questions about money, work, ingenuity, and the temptation to justify wrongdoing as a practical necessity.
The film also illuminates the concern expressed in Magnifica humanitas: an economy that neglects human dignity may reward cleverness while leaving people increasingly vulnerable to exploitation.
At The Glenn, my debts may be modest compared with the moral desperation portrayed in the film, but the temptation to measure every choice by financial advantage is familiar. I am reminded that prudence without justice becomes manipulation, while justice without mercy can become another form of imprisonment.
I am blessed not because I have escaped every financial obligation, but because the Gospel gives me a reason to honor obligations that money cannot measure.
Poetic Reflection — The Blessed Debt
How much do I owe? The steward said,
As figures marched through his troubled head.
I count my sheep, my bills, my bread,
And wonder where my profits fled.
I owe the soil its patient care,
The flock a watchful shepherd's prayer;
The wind its freedom, skies their blue,
And every creature what is due.
I owe the truth a faithful tongue,
And ears to hear both old and young;
I owe the Church a heart sincere,
That speaks with courage, listens clear.
I owe no lie to save my pride,
No bitter word for wounds inside;
For blessed are those who dare to see
That grace is never earned by fee.
My ledger closes at the end of day,
But mercy has another way;
And when my final debts are read,
May love be counted in their stead.
For all I own, for all I give,
For every blessed day I live,
The greatest debt I cannot pay
Is grace that meets me on the way.
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