Just prior to this week’s Passion narrative in St. Matthew’s Gospel, there is a small, striking story describing a woman’s scandalous action toward Jesus: “A woman came up to him with an alabaster jar of costly perfumed oil, and poured it on his head” (Matthew 26:7). The ointment was pure nard, worth more than 300 denarii. A year’s wages. Maybe a dowry, maybe a family inheritance. In any case, she breaks it. She does not measure or ration. She pours it all out, irreversibly, over Jesus. Why does this image begin Holy Week?

A friend of mine wrote an imaginative reflection on the raising of Lazarus that caught me off guard. She proposed that when Jesus called Lazarus from the tomb, the man was not joyful but angry and annoyed. After so much suffering, maybe death felt like a release. He had finally escaped the pain. And then, suddenly, Jesus' voice cuts through the silence: "Lazarus, come out!" (John 11:43) The light stings his eyes. The pain returns. And now he is dragged back into a world that had broken him.

If you are like me, it’s easy to fixate on our shadows: failures, guilt, shame. Especially when we suffer, it is easy to want to blame ourselves or others. In this week’s Gospel, Jesus’ disciples ask about the blind man, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents?” (John 9:2) They, like us, focus on blame. But Jesus sees the entire situation differently: “Neither he nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.”

Recently I received a note from a teenager I met years ago. He wrote, “Dear Father Muir, you probably do not remember me, but I wanted to thank you for your inspiring and humorous homilies at the parish. They helped me appreciate the beauty of Catholicism, which I have now embraced in a personal way.” That small note moved me more than he probably imagined. I had no idea my words had taken root in him. I was simply sowing seeds — week by week, Mass by Mass. Someone else — his parents, a youth minister, or God Himself — was doing the deeper work. Now this young man is joyfully reaping a harvest of faith.

When I sit down to answer emails or write a Gospel reflection or return a phone call, I sometimes wonder: Does any of this humdrum work matter? Maybe you ask the same thing about your daily labor. Today’s Gospel, the Transfiguration, offers a surprising answer.

Jesus leads Peter, James, and John up a mountain. There, “his face shone like the sun face and his clothes become white as light” (Matthew 17:2). That detail regarding his clothes is worth considering.

In my second-to-last year of seminary, I woke up one September morning to devastating news: two beloved classmates had died in a car crash. I was overwhelmed with grief and anger like I had never known. I entered therapy for the first time and had intense conversations with my spiritual director. For months I felt lost in a spiritual wilderness. But something unexpected happened: I encountered Christ there. The fear and sorrow didn't destroy me. In fact, that spiritual desert was a time of intense growth in faith.

A few years into my priesthood, I hit a wall. I had taken on too many commitments: Masses, meetings, ministries, projects. I couldn't keep up. I was double-booking, forgetting things, running late, and letting people down. My boss at the time, a wise priest, and our shared secretary, noticed. For my birthday, the two gave me a stack of 100 flashcards, each with one word printed in a different language: "NO." It was funny, but also painfully true. If I couldn't say no, my yes was in danger.

I recently learned why zebras have stripes. Scientists used to think it was for camouflage, but new research suggests something more interesting: the stripes help zebras blend in with one another. When a predator looks at a herd, the overlapping stripes make it hard to single out one animal. But if a researcher spraypaints a dot on just one zebra, predators lock on it and eventually attack. The lesson? In the wild, blending in is protection. Standing out can be dangerous.

A priest I know was once falsely accused of a terrible crime. The claim was wild and easily disproved, but for a while, it didn't matter. In the atmosphere shaped by the abuse crisis of the early 2000s, the public assumption was guilty until proven innocent. His name was dragged through the mud, and his ministry placed on hold. I had the privilege - and the burden - of walking closely with him during that time.

He was angry. He was confused. He felt abandoned and deeply disoriented. The last thing on his mind was the words of Jesus in today's Gospel: "Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you falsely because of me ... Rejoice and be glad" (Matthew 5:11-12). Rejoice? He felt anything but.

I was 22 years old, lying in bed one night while on a pilgrimage, when I suddenly sensed an idea in my mind: "Go to the seminary." There was no voice, no vision, but a gentle and unmistakable clarity. I simply prayed, "Lord, if that's from you, let me find great joy in it." Three days later, my heart was bursting with joy. I dropped everything and entered the seminary.

It's common to hear belief in Jesus and the Church mocked as blind faith and credulity. But in reality, it is deeply human and rational. Think about it: we rely on the testimony of others constantly. I trust chemists who certify the safety of toothpaste and cleaning products. I trust engineers when I use a microwave or drive over a bridge. Why? Because they have studied and seen what I have not, and their testimony proves itself in daily life. That kind of trust is not irrational; it is how human knowledge works.

Apple ran a commercial not long ago called "Behind the Mac - Greatness." It shows artists and creators, such as Kendrick Lamar, Billie Eilish, and Lady Gaga, working behind their MacBooks. The narration says, "There's a certain kind of person who doesn't wait for greatness. They make it." It's a compelling message. There's beauty in using our gifts with passion and purpose. But there lies a hidden weight in that idea: If you are what you make, what happens when you can't anymore? When the project fails, the passion fades, or the spotlight moves on, where is greatness then?

When I was 22, I went on a pilgrimage to Rome for the Jubilee Year of 2000. I was traveling light with just a backpack, one blue shirt and black pants, little money, and no Italian. I had a few close friends and one goal: to reach the Eternal City. Despite the challenges and deprivations, I felt alive in a way I had never known before.