Opening the Doors for Others

               Bedford Falls Newberry Vocanic Monument, Oregon by Fr. Matt
  

A friend of mine recently told me about the morning he couldn't find his car keys. He tore the house apart, checked the cushions, and looked in the driveway. He even blamed his wife! Eventually, he walked into the kitchen, opened the freezer to grab an ice cube, and there they were—sitting right on top of the frozen peas. He had frozen his assets! We laugh, but we all know that sinking feeling of misplacing our keys. When we lose them, we are completely stuck, stranded, and locked out.

 

In our Gospel today, Jesus passes out a set of keys. He’s pretty pleased that Peter passed His little oral quiz by declaring Him the Messiah. So, Jesus tells His disciples He’s giving them the "keys to the Kingdom of Heaven." In ancient tradition, this meant the authority to allow or prohibit—to bind or to loose.

 

But here’s the catch: we’re just trustees. We might think we’re only turning keys here on earth, but we’re actually turning them in the Kingdom of God. What we do here echoes in eternity.

 

The main key on our ring is the one that unlocks our personal relationship with Jesus. Look at Peter. He wasn’t a super-educated scholar. He probably didn't understand global politics, complicated science, or why his religious laws wouldn't let him enjoy a good cheesesteak. But Peter had seen Jesus do some pretty wild things. He watched Him cure the sick, feed crowds with a few fish, walk on water, and calm a raging storm. Peter knew one thing for dead sure: his friend Jesus was the most incredible human being he had ever met. This realization is our first key. It’s our personal answer to the question Jesus asks each of us: “But who do you say that I am?”

 

When we keep our spiritual keys firmly in hand, they change how we live our daily lives.

 

Think about the Key of Forgiveness. Over a long lifetime, we all accumulate some hurts. Holding a grudge is like locking yourself in a dark room and throwing away the key. But when we use the key of forgiveness—the same grace Jesus constantly pours out on us—we unlock that door. We set ourselves free from bitterness, and we open the path for healing.

 

Consider the Key of Radical Hospitality. This doesn't mean hosting a giant party. It means keeping your heart unlocked. It’s making time for a lonely neighbor, or offering a genuine smile and a listening ear to the grocery store cashier. When we open our lives to others, we open the door to meet Jesus in them.

 

Then there’s the Key of Peace. The modern world can feel overwhelmingly fast and chaotic. It's easy to lock ourselves in a cage of worry about our health, our finances, or our kids. But relationship with Jesus gives us a key that unlocks that cage through daily prayer and trust, handing us a deep peace that keeps us steady.

 

The keys of the kingdom are a wonderful gift, but they come with a beautiful responsibility. They aren't a security system meant to lock us safely inside our comfortable routines, keeping us hidden away from the world. They are meant to be used. They are designed to open up our hearts so that others can step into the warm, welcoming presence of Christ through us.

 

As you go about your week, check your spiritual keychain. Are your keys safely in hand, or have they slipped between the cushions of daily distraction?

 

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends may your spiritual keys always be ready in your hand, never lost to the distractions of the world. May you boldly use the key of forgiveness to set your heart free, the key of hospitality to welcome the lonely, and the key of peace to unlock every cage of worry.

 

Finding the Courage to Care

                                 Cathedral of Our Lady of Gaudeloupe in Mexico City

If we are being completely honest with ourselves, today’s Gospel from Matthew leaves us feeling a little uncomfortable. We see Jesus and the disciples physically crossing a border into foreign territory. And almost immediately, they are confronted by an outsider—a Canaanite woman crying out for help because her daughter is suffering so deeply.

It is incredibly easy to identify with the disciples here. They are exhausted. They are stressed. The world around them is chaotic, and they just want this loud, persistent foreigner to go away so they can catch their breath. Don't we do the exact same thing when we face compassion fatigue? When our own lives are stressed, or when we look at overwhelming societal problems, our immediate human instinct is to triage our concern. We tell ourselves, "We have to take care of our own people first. We just don't have the time or resources for anyone else."

Even Jesus' initial response to her feels jarring at first, reminding her of his immediate mission. But this woman possesses what can only be called a blessed, holy courage. She doesn't back down. When Jesus gently tests her, she fires back with a brilliant, humble wit: "Yes, Lord, but even the dogs eat the scraps that fall from the master’s table." She humbles herself, acknowledging she is on the outside, but she knows with absolute certainty that even a tiny crumb of God’s grace is more than enough to heal her child. Jesus marvels at her faith and heals her daughter instantly. 

At its core, this story is a mirror for our own hearts because it forces us to look closely at why this woman is crying out. She is a desperate caregiver and mother. Her child is suffering, and she is carrying an exhausting emotional burden all by herself, facing a world that tells her to shut up and get out of the way.

I see this exact same fierce, self-sacrificing love—and this same heartbreaking fear—reflected in our wider community today. Just recently, I received a phone call from my brother Hispanic priest serving in Las Vegas. He shared with me a heavy sorrow: his Hispanic parishioners, many from Mexico, are fearful of coming to church, terrified that they will be targeted and deported. Sadly, a few of his parishioners have already been arrested by ICE, leaving their families in agonizing uncertainty—unknown if they are locked away in detention camps or already sent back to their home countries. 

My brother feels terrible for them. And as a retired parish priest, I can deeply empathize with their fears. We must share with them that they are not alone in their struggles, and we must do whatever we can to support the ministries walking alongside these Hispanic families.

But our support cannot just be empty words or distant sympathy. We are called to be Christ's hands and feet for these families right now. First, we must ensure our churches remain true places of sanctuary and safety, where everyone can worship without fear. Second, we need to actively connect these families with trustworthy local legal resources, immigrant advocacy groups, and know-your-rights education to protect their households. Finally, we must provide tangible aid—helping families who have lost a breadwinner to detention by providing groceries, assisting with rent, and offering spiritual counseling to children traumatized by separation. When the system isolates them, the Church must envelope them.

How many families in our own neighborhoods feel that same paralyzing anxiety today? How many parents are quietly drowning in fear, crying out for safety and dignity? How many are exhausted, wondering if anyone hears their cries, or if they are being judged or ignored by the people around them?

We cannot be the disciples who tell the vulnerable to pack up and leave because we are too uncomfortable or too tired to listen. Jesus reminds us that God has given an unbreakable dignity to every single human life, and we don’t get to decide who is worthy of grace or safety. True Christian compassion means building a community where no one has to beg for crumbs of support or live in the shadows of isolation.

My friends, what if we stepped out of our comfort zone together? Why not launch a new outreach and support ministry right here in your parish to stand with immigrant families and weary caregivers alike? Let’s create a sacred, safe space where people can bring their exhaustion, share their burdens without an ounce of judgment, find local resources, and lift one another up in prayer.

When we support the terrified and the exhausted in our neighborhood, we are refusing to send the crowd away. We are bringing Christ's healing touch directly to families who need it most.

This week, let’s ask ourselves: Who are we trying to ignore because we feel too tired to care?

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends, that we may find the courage of the Canaanite woman, and the open heart of Christ, to see and support the divine dignity in every weary soul we meet. Amen.

 

Calm the Storms of Anxiety

                                Sunset at Coos Bay, Oregon by Fr. Matt
       

This is a true story about my sister-in-law Patti whose husband Jim was recently diagnosed with dementia.

 

A dementia diagnosis changes the landscape of a marriage overnight. The familiar shore vanishes. Suddenly, you are standing on a stormy, unpredictable sea, wondering how you will survive.

 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus heals the sick, provides food for the masses, and then immediately packs off his twelve buddies in the boat. He asks the well-fed crowd to give him space so he can pray and get refueled by the Father. Meanwhile, the disciples are pushed off from the shore, physically drained and emotionally overstimulated.

 

As a caregiver spouse, you know this exact brand of exhaustion. Your days are filled with constant output—managing medications, answering repeated questions, and protecting his dignity. Like the disciples, you don’t get a victory lap. The exhausting day shift simply transitions into the night. You lie down in the dark with your muscles aching and your spirit entirely spent.

 

Hours into the night, the disciples found themselves trapped on the Sea of Galilee. For the ancients, water was the ultimate symbol of chaos, cosmic danger, and the unknown. We need it to live, but too much will kill us.

 

The disciples rowed for hours against a "contrary" wind that fought every stroke of their oars. In caregiving, this disease is that contrary wind. It fights against your routine, your patience, and your plans. By the "fourth watch" (between 3:00 AM and 6:00 AM), you often find yourself awake, dealing with his restlessness or sundowning, feeling the grueling physical weight of a job that never pauses.

 

In the pitch black, the waves look bigger and hope shrinks. If you constantly look ahead to the final stages of dementia, you will drown in anxiety. The unpredictability feels like an ocean that could swallow your marriage, your finances, and your health whole. You feel completely isolated in the dark. Your strength is found only in the present moment. Do not look at the lifetime of the disease; look only at the step right in front of you today.

 

In the wee small hours of the morning, Jesus calmly strolled out onto the volatile water to be with them. But his arrival didn't initially bring comfort; it brought terror. In their panic, the disciples assumed the figure was a ghost—a specter of death.

 

Fear blinds us. When you are drowning in caregiving stress, it is incredibly hard to see God in the room. You might look at your changing husband and feel like a ghost has replaced the man you married. The grief of losing pieces of him while he is still here can make the future look like an omen of death.

 

The disciples forgot the miracles they had seen just hours before. In the darkest moments of caregiving, it is normal to experience that same spiritual amnesia. Sinking is a normal part of the storm. When you hit your limit, do what Peter did when he panicked on the water: cry out for help.

 

Jesus did not wait for them to calm down before he spoke. His voice cut through the howling wind: "Take heart; it is I. Do not be afraid." He brought peace because he had been in conversation with the Father. He had his eyes on the bigger picture. He wasn't afraid of human things—not of failure, embarrassment, poverty, or even death.

 

Jesus did what he came to do—he saved poor old Peter, just as he has come to save the rest of us from ourselves. He did not leave Peter to swim alone, and he does not leave you. Today, Christ reaches out to you through the hands of others—through a friend who brings a meal, a support group that listens, or a professional who offers respite care. Accepting help is not weakness; it is how you let Christ pull you back above the waves.

 

In your caregiving journey, those moments of stillness come in small, beautiful packages. It is the sudden quiet after a period of confusion. It is a moment where your husband looks at you with absolute recognition and smiles. In those quiet spaces, Christ sits in the boat with you, anchoring you in a love that dementia cannot change.

 

It’s easy for us to be like Peter in this story. Our challenge is to be like Jesus—to have such a strong core of love and faith that we can walk through the dark weirdness and confusion and still be able to reach a hand out to others.

 

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends who are caring for a dementia family member, neighbor, or friend. When the storm of this diagnosis feels too heavy, hold our eyes on You. Give us the courage to take this journey one single day at a time, and the humility to reach for Your hand when we begin to sink.

 

Move the Fences

  

                 Rocky Mountain National Park, Tundra Overlook by Fr Matt

Jesus wasn’t in the jolliest of places when the necessity to feed five thousand people and heal their sick was dumped in his lap. His great mentor, John the Baptist, had just been decapitated by Herod. Think about it, if your great friend and mentor just had his head lopped off by a cruel dictator, how do you think you’d feel?

Jesus just wants to be alone. He gets into a boat and goes away by himself. He doesn’t even take Peter and James and John with him. Sometimes you just have to shut off the noise of the world. The trouble is, the noise doesn’t want to be shut off. Need and sickness and hunger follow Jesus and don’t even allow him time to be sad and process.

So what does he do? He summons up his compassion, and he meets their needs. Even while grieving—and we have to believe that Jesus grieved—it turns out he had enough love in him to get the job done.

The disciples' reaction to the crowd was one of anxiety. There a saying that "Every tomorrow has two handles. We can take hold of it with the handle of anxiety or the handle of faith." Jesus approached the problem with the handle of faith. Once Jesus started to act confidently, telling the apostles to start handing out the five loaves and two fishes, the apostles, and it seems everyone else, caught the spirit and started

Feeding the crowds that Jesus found his grief fading away. We always feel better, whether we are grief-stricken or in whatever way focusing on ourselves, when we go out to others.

A man's wife had died. He was beside himself. He took flowers to her grave every day. He consulted a priest-therapist who counseled him for three months. One day the priest saw the flowers the man had brought to his session and the priest said, "Today, I don't want you to go to place those flowers on your wife's grave. I want you to go to St. John's Hospital down the block and go into each room and give a flower to the patient you find there." The next week the man came to his session in an elated state. "I had a wonderful time giving those flowers away. Those people appreciated them so much and I made so many friends. I can't stay today for my session since I'm going back to visit the new friends I met."

I'm sure Jesus didn't refuse anyone in that crowd from eating, he didn't exclude anyone.

Many years ago, there was a woman who lived in a small village in France. Trained as a nurse, she devoted her life to caring for the sick and needy. After many years of kind and selfless service to the village's families, the woman died. She had no family of her own, so the townsfolk planned a beautiful funeral for her, a fitting tribute to the woman to whom so many owed their lives. The parish priest, however, pointed out that, because she was a Protestant, she could not be buried in the town's Catholic cemetery. The villagers protested, but the priest held firm. It was not easy for the priest either, because he too had been cared for by the woman during a serious illness. But the canons of the Church were very clear; she would have to buried outside the fence of the cemetery. The day of the funeral arrived, and the whole village accompanied the woman's casket to the cemetery, where she was buried--outside the fence. But that night, a group of villagers, armed with shovels, sneaked into the cemetery. They then quietly set to work--moving the fence. 

More astounding than Jesus' feeding of the crowds with a few pieces of bread and fish is Jesus' transforming the crowd into a community, a community united in their need for one another, in the bread they share, in the love of Christ who has brought them together. Christ empowers each one of us to perform our own miracles of creating community when we "move the fences" to include outsiders.

 

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends that we pick up our shovels and move the fences of prejudice and judgement and welcome the rejected and forgotten to our tables, when we give of what little we have, joyfully and gratefully, for the sake of others, when we welcome one another as we would welcome Jesus.

 

The Pearl of Wisdom

                                Multnomah Falls, Oregon by Fr. Matt
  

Jesus describes a merchant on a lifelong search for fine pearls. He isn't looking for ordinary trinkets. He seeks something of absolute, undeniable excellence. When he finally locks eyes on the one, matchless pearl, his world stands still. Words fail to capture his sudden, overwhelming joy. He instantly sells everything he owns to possess it. This merchant represents each of us searching for purpose, truth, and the wisdom of the Gospel. Just as a physical jewel adds elegance to the one who wears it, the pearl of divine wisdom beautifies the human soul.

 

Look at how this spiritual search mirrors our everyday experiences. My hobby is landscape photography and I enjoy traveling to national parks searching for that stunning image. In the Fall of 2024, I researched waterfalls and flew to Portland, Oregon to capture the iconic Multnomah Falls. It is a towering 620 feet of rushing water, split by the historic Benson Bridge. Most people rush up the steep, exhausting 1.2-mile switchback trail to the very top. But the true seeker slows down, waiting and searching for a completely unique perspective. Suddenly, from a quiet vantage point below, everything aligns perfectly. The upper falls, the lower falls, and the bridge appear perfectly framed by the delicate pink blossoms of springtime cherry trees. In that breathless, unrepeatable second, time stops. It feels entirely holy. You didn't build the canyon, sculpt the water, or force the trees to bloom. They simply exist in effortless, unearned perfection. This is the precise feeling Jesus describes—the sudden realization that you are standing in the presence of something completely priceless.

 

Apply this truth to the simple routines of your week. The profound wisdom of the Gospel is rarely found in loud, dramatic spectacles. Instead, it hides in our ordinary, everyday lives.

• It is found when you pause to fully listen to a friend who is hurting.
• It is found when you choose patience and offer a genuine smile to the cashier or fellow shoppers in a stressful grocery line.
• It is found when you look at your family or a sunset and feel a sudden wave of unprompted gratitude.

·       It is found when you start your day by having your morning coffee or tea in silence before looking at your IPhone, reflecting on the beauty of the morning. 

 

 

A pearl forms quietly in the deep, dark ocean, completely independent of human effort. It does not need to be cut, polished, or altered by human hands—it is beautiful just as it is. In the exact same way, God’s grace is a free, flawless gift that requires no human striving.

Jesus tells this story to remind us that absolutely nothing in this world surpasses the gift of being a part of God’s kingdom. No career accomplishment, no material possession, and no human relationship can ever compare to being woven into God’s eternal plan. When we actively tune our hearts to the promptings of the Holy Spirit, we begin to notice these priceless treasures scattered throughout our ordinary days.

 

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends to quiet thier mind so we can truly listen. Let your love and comfort flow through our words and our silence. Creator, thank you for this breath, this view, and this life. Keep our hearts awake to your goodness in the ordinary.

 

 

Wheat & Weeds

  

So this guy sowed his wheat. His enemies come, sow the weeds. It’s messing with him. I think that at different times in our lives, we all have people messing with us, and so what’s this Sunday’s gospel story  about?

We think of the wheat as the good people, and we think of the weeds as the bad people. However, another way of looking at this parable is that the wheat is the good actions of our lives. The weeds, when we are not at our best are our actions that are suspect. The weeds are the careless, selfish behaviors in our lives, of which we all have that.

One of the great humbling challenges of our lives is to see the good and not-so-good in ourselves and to recognize that it exists in us. Yes, it exists in other people but we all struggle with these weeds.

If we look at the parable in this way, then we might ask ourselves which parts of our lives need to be bundled up and burnt, and that can be very humbling, but the reality is that if we take a good hard honest look at ourselves, we realize, “I’m better than that and need to let go of that nasty bad habit.” This can be liberating because there might be parts of our life that you wish you could bundle up and burn and disposed of, and be more like the person God created you to be.

Yes, sometimes we are the good guy, and other people are messing with us. But sometimes we are messing with ourselves. We are sowing weeds in our own field. We are sowing weeds among our own wheat. And I think the challenge of this gospel is to recognize that.

Here are examples, when we are messing with ourselves and making excuses for this poor behavior.

Stealing at self-checkout like mislabeling produce or forgetting to scan items, lying about a child’s age to get a discount, skipping out on tipping a server for good service, fabricating an illness or emergency to get out of a work commitment, or work shift or project deadline. Filing false insurance claims to pad payouts, disregarding the environment by tossing litter out of a car window, holding onto a friends’ loan item indefinitely when you know they want it back, sharing streaming service passwords with family and friends outside your household contrary to terms of service, accepting too much change from cashier or getting the wrong item in a drive-thru and not correcting the mistake, cutting in line at traffic merges or crowed event venues, taking up designated handicap space without a permit, leaving a shopping cart in the middle of an empty parking space instead of returning it, taking credit for coworker’s idea, using office supplies for personal use, padding worksheets by logging hours not worked, using AI tools or online answers to complete academic assignments, gossiping maliciously to damage a colleague’s or parishioner’s reputation.

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends that we realize the Master Gardener created us to be good, honest, and compassionate people. When the weeds of life begin to take over our garden, give us the humility to throw them in the trash and remove the hate, vengeance, arrogance that separates us from your love from our hearts. Help us to see a shared humanity as you see it. For this and for all you see we need, we ask in your holy name.

 

Meek and Humble of Heart

  

Today, as we mark the 250th anniversary of our nation, we gather to reflect on a legacy of both incredible blessings and deep, undeniable hardships. It is a time for gratitude, but also a time for a moment of pause.

 

In today’s Gospel, Jesus offers a profoundly comforting and challenging invitation: "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened, and I will give you rest."

 

As Americans, we are a people who value hard work, ambition, and progress. But often, this fast-paced culture leaves us feeling weary, exhausted, and burdened. Polarization, ideological extremes, and the strain of modern life easily fragment our relationships and our communities.

Jesus is speaking directly to our weariness today. He offers us rest, but notice how He tells us to find it: "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am meek and humble of heart; and you will find rest for yourselves."

 

Jesus does not promise to instantly remove the structural or personal crosses of our lives or our society. Instead, He promises to walk with us, to share the weight of our burdens, and to show us how to bear them.

To bear the yoke of Christ as Catholics living in the United States requires us to embrace two essential virtues mentioned in the gospel: meekness and humility.

.

In a world that shouts, "You must overpower others to be successful," Jesus models a different path. Meekness is not weakness; it is, as the Scriptures reveal, power under control. It is the ability to engage in civil discourse, seek common ground, and defend the dignity of every human life with a spirit of peace rather than hostility.

 

Humility requires us to look at the flaws, failures, and injustices in our nation's history—and in our own personal lives—and commit to doing something about them. It means realizing that we cannot heal the deeply wounded heart of our culture on our own strength. We must rely on God’s grace.

 

This humility must directly bear fruit in our service to the poor and marginalized. When Jesus says, "Come to me, all you who labor and are burdened," He is not just speaking to our spiritual tiredness. He is speaking to the literal, crushing weight borne by millions of our brothers and sisters in this country—those struggling with poverty, homelessness, systemic neglect, and despair.

 

True American greatness cannot be measured solely by GDP, technological advancement, or military strength. For the Catholic, the moral test of our nation is how we treat the most vulnerable among us. To take up Christ’s yoke means to step underneath the heavy burdens of the poor and lift them up. It means moving past mere political debate about poverty and engaging in the messy, hands-on work of charity and justice. When we feed the hungry, welcome the stranger, and stand with the forgotten, we are helping Christ carry His cross in our modern world. Ironically, it is precisely in this self-giving service that our own weary souls find the deepest rest.

 

As we celebrate this 250th anniversary, we are called to be a light to the world. We are invited to consecrate our country to the Sacred Heart of Jesus, asking Him to replace the hardness of our hearts with His own Sacred Heart.

 

Lord, I pray for all my Sonshine Friends that our leaders, our families, and our citizens are granted the grace to be meek and humble of heart. In doing so, we will truly find rest for our souls, and our great nation can continue to strive toward the ideals of liberty, justice, and charity for all.