Isn’t it a bit weird that Catholics call the Pope “papa,” father? This Sunday provides us with essential Scriptural background on the papacy, the petrine office. Jesus gives Peter the “keys to the kingdom of heaven,” after witnessing to the special grace Peter has to know Jesus’ true identity. Many have pointed out that the “keys” refer back to the figure of Eliakim, King David’s prime minister. True enough. But notice this is not mere authority or power. It’s a family relationship. The Lord says to Eliakim, “He shall be a father to the inhabitants of Jerusalem” (Isaiah 22:21). David’s prime minister was a spiritual father to the family of Israel. Peter, and his successors, will be spiritual fathers in the family of the Church.

The suffering of a child symbolizes uniquely terrible evil as well as despair about the future. This week’s Gospel gives a “limit” case in which Jesus encounters this evil in the form of a mother with a suffering daughter. What he does is stunning and massively helpful for us if we bravely ponder the details.

The Canaanite woman comes to Jesus and begs his mercy. “My daughter is tormented by a demon,” she declares to him. Shockingly, he responds first with silence, then with a dismissive comment, and only then finally accedes to her third request. Is this simply a lesson in perseverance in our petitions to God, who is like a genie in a bottle? Does that justify the humiliation and pain this woman suffers? Is the Lord cruel?

A man at my parish was struggling to overcome a habitual sin. He said to me, “Father, I know the chance that I will commit sin again is really high. Why should I keep confessing my sins? Isn’t that dishonest?” Anyone who has felt the tyrannical power of sin — and who hasn’t? — has pondered this kind of question.

What is Christianity finally about? These days if you ask almost anyone who doesn’t know the Bible you’ll probably hear an answer like this: “Being a good person” or “following the golden rule.” No offense to the golden rule, but our faith is simply much stronger than that. This week’s feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord is a luminous example of this. Jesus becomes radiantly and overwhelmingly beautiful. The glory of God literally shines forth from his body and even his clothes. Here we see that Christianity is not mainly a moral system, but a relationship with God in Christ, one that finally makes human beings gloriously beautiful.

Our culture seems more polarized and divided than ever. Into this wounded situation, our Catholic faith has a healing remedy to offer: the gift of wisdom. When the Lord offers to give King Solomon anything the monarch desires, he requests “an understanding heart” (1 Kings 3:9). In his polarized situation, the King doesn’t ask for power to defeat his enemies. He asks for a wise and understanding heart to judge right from wrong. This wisdom is elevated and fulfilled in Jesus who teaches us to bring forth “both the new and the old” (Matthew 13:52).

Life, like the church, is often burdened with evil, smallness, and impurities. The Lord’s parables give us a hope-filled perspective on all three.

Evil: in Jesus’ parable about the good farmer whose enemy plants weeds at night, Jesus tells us that God is not the cause of evil but permits evil to exist with good out of his patient love. He will finally deal with it, but his love lets things stay messy for a time.

It’s not uncommon to hear people complain that we Catholics often fail in communicating our faith. Fair enough. We can and should improve there. But it’s interesting to notice that Jesus himself was implicitly accused by his disciples of a similar failure. This week in Matthew’s gospel they are perplexed that he speaks to the crowds in ambiguous parables. The Lord’s riddles leave many people more confused than before. He responds by pointing out that his parables have an intentional dual purpose: to hide (for some) and to reveal (for others) his Gospel: “Because knowledge of the mysteries of the kingdom of heaven has been granted to you, but to them it has not been granted” (Matthew 13:11). Is Jesus being unnecessarily difficult, obscurantist, or, worse, elitist?

As a boy my favorite board game was “Chutes and Ladders.” The players roll dice to move from the start to the finish, from the bottom of the board to the top. If you land on a chute, you slide back and down. It was a bummer. Land on a ladder, and you jump well up the board and near the goal. It was a thrill to find a ladder and draw closer to the goal. That’s life, isn’t it? At every moment, we’re either moving closer or farther from the goal of our lives.

When I was in middle school, there were times I didn’t want my fellow students to see my parents drop me off or pick me up in the school parking lot. I was embarrassed of my parents. Why? I have no idea. Maybe it was our station wagon. Or I didn’t want to look like a little kid. But in retrospect that was a silly thing to do. I was a kid. And I had two parents who loved me and had built a wonderful family. I was afraid of the other kids’ judgment. How silly! I should have been afraid of forgetting or downplaying my family, which is where my identity had its deep roots.

In the backyard of the house where I live with other priests, there is a lemon tree which produces a huge amount of fruit. One evening in the spring I needed some lemons for a chicken dish. I glanced from the kitchen and saw the tree bursting with large, bright, gorgeous lemons, hanging thick on seemingly every branch. Turning to Fr. Bob (I’ll change his name to protect the innocent) who sat on the couch, I said, “Father, could you pick a few lemons for me?” He said sure and into the backyard he went. He returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “John, there’s no lemons. Sorry.” I said, “What are you talking about?” I looked again and saw the grapefruit tree on the other side of the yard, which had recently been picked clean of fruit. He didn’t see the abundant fruit because he was looking in the wrong place!

Years ago, a woman at daily Mass approached me in the communion procession. She had her arms crossed, indicating she wanted a blessing instead of the Sacred Host. She had tears in her eyes. I gave her a little blessing. She returned the next day. And the next. The same thing repeated. After a few weeks, I asked her why she didn’t receive Holy Communion. She said she wasn’t Catholic yet and was preparing to become so. I asked her why she wanted to be Catholic. She said, “Because I long to be in a real communion with Christ and with everyone I love.” That, I submit, is a darn good reason. A few months later, she became Catholic and received the Body and Blood of Christ with unspeakably great joy and still does to this day.

In my experience, one of the peculiarities of being a man is the somewhat unlikely ability to look into the mirror, no matter how out of shape he may be, and declare with full confidence: “Looking good, buddy!” Ask a man. He’ll probably confirm it.

Therein lies a mystery. You might think I refer to man’s ability to deceive himself or his propensity toward vainglory. But in this case, I refer to the mystery of a healthy and proper sense of selflove. We human beings (both men and women) have the utterly weird ability to look at ourselves as if we were another. Then we tend to love this “other.” Then, somehow, that love becomes a bond between the two. We are three and yet one.