Monday of the Fourth Week of Lent, March 31, 2025

Today’s Readings, from the USCCB:

Reading I

Isaiah 65:17-21

Thus says the LORD: Lo, I am about to create new heavens and a new earth; The things of the past shall not be remembered or come to mind. Instead, there shall always be rejoicing and happiness     in what I create; For I create Jerusalem to be a joy and its people to be a delight; I will rejoice in Jerusalem and exult in my people. No longer shall the sound of weeping be heard there, or the sound of crying; No longer shall there be in it an infant who lives but a few days, or an old man who does not round out his full lifetime; He dies a mere youth who reaches but a hundred years, and he who fails of a hundred shall be thought accursed. They shall live in the houses they build, and eat the fruit of the vineyards they plant.

Responsorial Psalm

Psalm 30:2 and 4, 5-6, 11-12a and 13b

R.    I will praise you, Lord, for you have rescued me.

I will extol you, O LORD, for you drew me clear and did not let my enemies rejoice over me. O LORD, you brought me up from the nether world; you preserved me from among those going down into the pit.

R.    I will praise you, Lord, for you have rescued me.

Sing praise to the LORD, you his faithful ones, and give thanks to his holy name. For his anger lasts but a moment; a lifetime, his good will. At nightfall, weeping enters in, but with the dawn, rejoicing.

R.    I will praise you, Lord, for you have rescued me.

“Hear, O LORD, and have pity on me; O LORD, be my helper.” You changed my mourning into dancing; O LORD, my God, forever will I give you thanks.

R.    I will praise you, Lord, for you have rescued me.

Verse before the Gospel

Amos 5:14

Seek good and not evil so that you may live, and the LORD will be with you.

Gospel

John 4:43-54

At that time Jesus left [Samaria] for Galilee. For Jesus himself testified that a prophet has no honor in his native place. When he came into Galilee, the Galileans welcomed him, since they had seen all he had done in Jerusalem at the feast; for they themselves had gone to the feast.

Then he returned to Cana in Galilee, where he had made the water wine. Now there was a royal official whose son was ill in Capernaum. When he heard that Jesus had arrived in Galilee from Judea, he went to him and asked him to come down and heal his son, who was near death. Jesus said to him, “Unless you people see signs and wonders, you will not believe.” The royal official said to him, “Sir, come down before my child dies.” Jesus said to him, “You may go; your son will live.” The man believed what Jesus said to him and left. While the man was on his way back, his slaves met him and told him that his boy would live. He asked them when he began to recover. They told him, “The fever left him yesterday, about one in the afternoon.” The father realized that just at that time Jesus had said to him, “Your son will live,” and he and his whole household came to believe. Now this was the second sign Jesus did when he came to Galilee from Judea.

 

A Healing Word in the Waiting

“You may go; your son will live.” And the man believed the word Jesus spoke to him and left. – John 4:50

There are days I ache for that kind of clarity.

One sentence. One divine moment. One unmistakable word from Jesus that confirms: your child will be okay. Your grief was not in vain. Your prayers have not gone unanswered.

I don’t always get that kind of word.

Instead, I get silence. I get the ache of watching my sons struggle in ways I can't fix. I get the crushing guilt of wondering whether a burden I placed on my family – even unintentionally – may have quickened my father’s death. I live with the consequences of choices I made, and ones others made in retaliation. I live with absence – of parents, of certainty, of control.

And still, I’m asked to believe. Still, I’m asked to walk like the royal official in today’s Gospel – not with the miracle already in hand, but with faith alone.

The Walk Between the Word and the Proof

That space – the walk between Jesus’ word and its fulfillment – is where I live most days.

I ask, and I hope. I plead, and I write. I go to church, look at the Eucharist, and wonder if I’ll ever feel truly invited again. I try to pray for people who’ve hurt me. I try to be present for my kids, even when I feel like I’ve failed them spiritually. I try to let go of the bitterness – but some days, I carry it like armor.

This Lent, more than ever, I find myself asking: What does it mean to believe when the healing hasn’t arrived yet?

Because I’ve prayed for my sons.

For my mom, during those final days that felt like a slow goodbye with no final embrace.

For my dad, who went too soon – and in part, I still believe, because of what I brought into his life.

I asked God to take the burden from him. Instead, God took him.

How do you trust a Savior who says, “Your son will live,” when your father did not?

“Behold, I Make All Things New”

The first reading promises a new heaven and a new earth. That the old sorrows – the weight of guilt, the sharp edges of memory – will one day not even come to mind.

But I still remember. I still walk with the shadows.

And yet, Isaiah also says this: “There shall always be rejoicing and happiness in what I create.”

Maybe that’s the invitation today. Not to forget the pain. Not to dismiss the grief. But to step into something new, even while carrying the old.

Maybe I’m not asked to bury the guilt or the questions – but to walk with them in faith.

To believe that even if my prayers didn’t stop the pain, they were heard.

To believe that even in what I lost, there is something God can still create.

Something that looks like redemption.

I’m Still Walking

I’ve never been the easy son. I was the youngest, the wildcard, the black sheep. I stressed my parents more than I’d like to admit. And when things went south, I was the one people pointed to.

But what if I told you I’m still walking?

What if I told you that despite all of it – the guilt, the loss, the unanswered prayers – I still believe there’s something in me God isn’t finished with?

That I still want to be someone my sons are proud of.

That I still want to be someone my parents would see and smile at, even from heaven.

That I still want to trust God with what’s next, even if I’m scared of what that means.

Not All Healings Are Loud

The Gospel today reminds me that Jesus didn’t go with the official.

He didn’t touch the boy. He didn’t show up dramatically.

He simply spoke.

A quiet sentence.

And somewhere in the distance, healing began.

I want that kind of faith – the kind that can take Him at His word and keep walking.

Even when I’m still grieving.

Even when I still carry shame.

Even when the silence hasn’t lifted.

Because maybe, somewhere down the road, the answer will come. Not how I expected – but in a way that changes everything.

So I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep showing up. I’ll keep praying for my sons. I’ll keep asking God to make me new.

Even if I don’t hear the answer right away.

Because maybe that’s what faith is.

The walk between the word and the proof.

And I’m still walking.