The story of the prodigal son is one of my favorite parables. I love how Jesus provides the example of the father’s immense generosity, compassion and mercy to teach us about who God really is.
When the chief priests and officers cried out, “Crucify him, crucify him” (Jn 19:6), they called for Jesus to die the most abhorrent type of death known to the world at that time. Over the years, Romans crucified thousands of men. Each “miserable procedure,” as Josephus called it, was as terrifying and brutal as the next.
Because of her abortion, she had given up—on lots of things. On heaven, on living the Catholic life, on the pursuit of holiness, on the fact that God truly loves her.
Epiphany refers to the manifestation of Christ to the Gentiles represented by the magi. In the gospel we are presented with a contrast between three figures: Jesus, Herod the Great, and the magi who journey into the night in search of not merely a sign from God, but rather the Christ Child himself, the “newborn king of the Jews” (Mt 2:2).
As I celebrate Thanksgiving, I notice there’s something missing. My heart longs for a different kind of celebration in a different kind of place. And until I am there, there will always be something missing.