So it is with the ten lepers (Lk 17:11-19). He does not heal them outright. He requires something of them: “Go show yourselves to the priests” (Lk 17:14). Now, this seems an unreasonable command. Lepers were banished from the public and liturgical life of Israel. They were forbidden contact with anyone. More to the point, lepers could approach priests only if they were already healed — so that the priests could confirm the cleansing. But our Lord does not heal them first and then send them off. Rather, He tells them to go before there is evidence of healing — the very thing that human wisdom would advise against.

And yet the lepers set out on this seemingly ridiculous errand. They trust in His command — as absurd as it sounds — and they obey. Trusting that they will be healed, they go to show themselves to the priest. And because of their faith, they receive the miracle: “As they were going they were cleansed” (Lk 11:14). Our Lord Himself points out the relationship between their faith and His miracle. When the one leper returns to give thanks, Jesus says, “your faith has saved you” (Lk 11:19). What worked the miracle was not just our Lord’s healing power, but also the leper’s faith in action.

In this miracle and others our Lord manifests the pattern of salvation. God’s grace does not work without our trust. He will not force reconciliation, healing or holiness upon us. We must participate in the healing He desires to give. Imagine the lepers had refused our Lord’s command. Imagine they said, “No. Heal us now before we go.” Or, going further, imagine if the man born blind resisted and obstinately refused to go and wash. Imagine when our Lord commanded him to get up and walk, the paralytic responded, “Make me.”

Such refusals would be absurd. But no more so than when we, willfully or by neglect, refuse to cooperate with our Lord’s grace. That is, when we ask Him for something but do not act in trust. When we receive the Eucharist and expect it to produce effects in us without our cooperation. When we attend Mass and expect to “get something out of it” although interiorly we are far away from the Sacrifice of the altar. When we pray for help in marriage but do not avail ourselves of the natural and supernatural aids available. If we ask our Lord for things, we should do so in trust — and act on those prayers in trust. Like the lepers, if we believe we have already received it — it will be ours (cf. Mk 11:24).

It should not surprise us, then, that when Our Lord speaks about the cost of discipleship He does so in terms of building and battling (cf. Lk 14:25-33). To be a disciple of Christ means, first, to build something: “Which of you wishing to construct a tower does not first sit down and calculate the cost to see if there is enough for its completion?” (Lk 14:28) Scripture commentaries indicate that the tower in this case would have been for a vineyard, to help keep watch over the property. So there is a defensive purpose already for the tower. But the ultimate purpose is not defense. It is, rather, the cultivation and growth of something beautiful and pleasing.

Our attention should be first to the growth of Christ in our own souls. That life, first planted or established within us at baptism, requires our constant attention and care. We should be cultivating and building up that initial grace. We have a construction project also outside of us — to build up the Church and others. We should use our prayers, words and actions as construction materials and tools for this building project. Thus St. Paul exhorts us to edify our neighbor (cf. Rom 15:2), to speak only what builds up (cf. Eph 4:29), to “Let all things be done for edification” (1 Cor 14:26).

And yet … we must be willing to do battle as well. Our Lord also describes discipleship in terms of a “king marching into battle” (Lk 14:31). We have enemies who threaten our construction project. Some enemies come at us from the outside — that is, the threats and temptations of the world. The forces of the world do not take kindly to our construction. We should have a healthy awareness of the constant battle between what St. Augustine termed the City of God and the City of Man. But the more dangerous enemies come from the inside — namely, our own vices. If we do not do battle with them, they can bring down the whole house. Indeed, these enemies pose the greater danger because they are the most immediate threat and require more courage to oppose.

To build and to battle — that is the Christian life. Not two separate tasks as much as one task with two dimensions. We must unite both efforts. Those who try to build without battling will soon find their work undone. Those who battle without building leave no lasting legacy and indeed do the Faith a disservice with a belligerent attitude.

And there is a hierarchy to these efforts. Building, ultimately, is the greater thing. We battle only because we need to — because sin has entered the world, has disturbed God’s creation and threatens our work. We build because the Lord has created us for that purpose. And our ultimate hope is to have rest from the battle, to dwell in that temple not made with human hands, eternal in heaven.

“Blessed are those servants whom the master finds vigilant on his arrival” (Lk 12:37). What Ignatius did that night, we must do throughout our entire lives. Vigilance is essential to the Christian life. Indeed, the great enemy of faith is not persecution but slumber. The Church thrives under persecution. At those moments she sees her purpose more clearly and more perfectly resembles her Spouse. Ease, comfort and complacency — these threaten the Christian life far more than persecution because they breed a spiritual stupor, a dullness of soul and a forgetfulness of the Lord’s return.

We might speak of someone “losing his faith.” But people do not lose their faith as they lose glasses or car keys. Rather, they grow complacent and comfortable, tired and sleepy. They fall into a slumber and fail to form their lives by the Faith. Even as they sleep, their faith is taken from them. “I was so full of sleep,” Dante explains, “when I first left the way of truth behind.”

Against this spiritual stupor we should cultivate a vigilance of mind and heart. We must remain, first, “mentally awake” (as the Boy Scouts pledge). Many fail to guard their minds against the world’s skepticism, cynicism and doubt. They allow the world’s pernicious theories to infiltrate their thoughts. Even as they might continue to practice the Faith, they become intellectually sleepy. Their thinking becomes more and more formed by the world. Before they know it they judge their faith in terms of the world, rather than the reverse.

Intellectual vigilance requires us to monitor closely what we listen to, read and watch. All media communicates ideas. If we want our faith to remain intact, we must learn to filter out those ideas. Even better, we ought to seek out that media that places in our minds good thoughts and trains our thinking in keeping with the mind of the Church.

Second, we must maintain a vigilance of the heart. In the end, vigilance is a function of love. Because we love Christ, we remain wide-awake — “waiting in joyful hope” — for His return. Consider the vigilance needed in marriage. If the spouses do not guard their hearts, their mutual affection will soon be lost. Divorce and infidelity do not just “happen.” They occur when one or both of the spouses fail to keep the heart vigilant for the other. Something or someone slowly comes in between them. They find that their love has been defeated through a lack of vigilance.

In the same way, Christ’s Bride must guard her heart and daily renew her devotion to Him. Just as spouses must remain vigilant, so also we must guard our hearts so that nothing and no one damages or robs our love for Christ. We do this most of all through a healthy prayer life — through vigilance of prayer. We cannot pray only when it comes easily and makes us feel good. As Ignatius’s vigil reminds us, our prayer must continue when difficult and challenging. Christ calls us to remain wide awake at midnight or before sunrise — that is, to pray even when it becomes difficult, inconvenient or boring.

In the world’s view, Ignatius would have been much better off praying during the day. And according to the world, we should relax and make ourselves at home. But we choose vigilance instead of comfort, so that at Christ’s return we may find ourselves seated at His table and Him waiting on us.

His two questions touch on the two poles of revelation. There is first the objective content of God’s truth: “What is written in the law?” Then there is the subjective reception by the individual: “How do you read it?” These two poles must go together. It is not enough to read the truth. We must read it with the proper disposition.

The scholar answers the first question correctly. He knows the content of the law. But he fumbles the second question because he does not read in the proper manner. He reads Scripture with a view to justifying himself. He uses the content of the law — God’s revealed Word — not to grow in holiness or advance in virtue or know God … but to show off, to prove himself before God.

The whole episode alerts us to the importance of being properly disposed to receive the truth, and in particular to read Scripture. For the content of God’s word (“What is written in the law?”) to benefit us, we must receive it with the proper disposition (“How do you read it?”). So, what characterizes this proper disposition? How do we read?

First, we should read Scripture with a view to being instructed, not just to master the material. The Bible is not a textbook. We do not simply study it, get the stories, facts, and figures and then close it up. We read Scripture so that we will discern the truth to which we should conform our lives. If we do not have a prior willingness to change and be changed, then many of Scripture’s truths will remain inaccessible to us. The scholar in the Gospel erred in that he had mastered the material — but he had not allowed the material to master him.

Second, we should read Scripture to encounter God’s proofs, not to prove ourselves. The scholar wanted to prove — to justify — himself by rattling off memorized verses. He was showing off and using Scripture to do so. As a result he missed the meaning of Scripture: It is a record of God’s faithfulness and saving deeds, a proof of His fidelity to sinful man. If our purpose is self-promotion, we will never penetrate this meaning of Scripture.

Third, we should read Scripture with confidence in its truth. Those who approach Scripture with a critical or suspicious eye will never benefit from it. They have set themselves up as the Bible’s judges (“Well, we know that in fact that miracle could not have happened … Jesus could not have said that … What St. Paul really means is … , etc.”). When we run across a difficult passage — perhaps hard to understand, more likely hard to accept — we should presume that the problem is not with God’s word but with our reading or understanding of it. The problem is not the content of what we read but how we read it.

God’s word seeks the proper recipient. It does not desire the mere intellectual who wants to conquer a challenging text, or the boastful reader who wants to exalt himself or the critic who reads with a jaundiced eye. Scripture seeks those who, as they open the pages, also open themselves to the word.

Now, such a suggestion would strike us as impious. We immediately sense that the resources and manpower expended on such ceremonies are not “wasted” at all. Granted, they bring no material or financial benefit to us and do nothing for the fallen soldiers. But they are necessary for us on a deeper level than money and possessions can gauge. We lose something essential to our humanity if we fail to honor the fallen. It is not an extravagance but a necessary expression of who we are as a nation. Fallen soldiers do not need to receive the honors as much as we need to give them. By such “waste” we become better people — the kind of people who expend resources, time and energy to honor those who sacrifice for us. Without such a “waste” we would be diminished.

This secular example helps explain the extravagance of the “sinful woman” — who bathes Jesus’ feet with her tears, dries them with her hair and anoints them with costly oil (Lk 7:37-38). All to express her sorrow for sin and her faith in Christ. “What a waste,” we might be tempted to say (as Judas says at a similar event: cf. Jn 12:1-8). Could she not have just spoken to Him plainly? Other people in the Gospel appeal to Our Lord with simple words. Why could not she? Why such an elaborate display? Did Jesus really need all that?

Like a full military honors funeral, her extravagance is necessary not so much for the recipient but for the giver. She “wasted” her tears and oil not because Our Lord needed to receive it but because she needed to give it. She had a deeper need to do this than money or possessions can gauge. The human heart seeks to express itself in precisely such “wasteful” gestures — which in effect say that our love exceeds worldly calculations. A husband might “waste” money on roses for his wife. She probably does not complain.

This helps us to understand one of the most wasteful events: the liturgy. By the world’s standards, there is a great deal wasted in the Mass. Our churches are well lit, so why the need for candles? Our Lord was content with a manger, so why the fancy vessels? Why the vestments, the incense, the music? Strictly speaking, the Mass requires only bread, wine and a priest.

True, Our Lord does not need all this adornment in the liturgy. But we need to give it. Without such a “waste” we would be diminished. We have a natural tendency to adorn what we love. If we fail to adorn it, we will soon stop loving it. This is precisely what has happened to the Mass in many places: Robbed of its adornment, it appears ordinary, unimportant. If it is not worth adorning, how could it be worth attending? But no one will mistake the importance of Our Lord to this sinful woman — precisely because she was willing to “waste” on Him.

Most of all should the woman in this Gospel passage point us to the importance of “wasting” time in personal prayer. In the world’s estimation, time in prayer is a poor investment. It is an escape from the “real world.” In fact, the devout heart should seek to “waste” such time in prayer. It is yet another pouring out of tears and oil to give praise to Our Lord. It is an extravagance that we cannot do without — another way of expressing a love that exceeds material and financial calculations. If wasted, it is time well wasted.

The value of a witness comes from the personal nature of the testimony. The world constantly demands, “Says who?” A witness provides the answer: “I say so … I was there … I saw it … with my own eyes.” The more important the event, the deeper the impression and change wrought in the witness. “I will never forget what I saw,” he may say. And he must be credible. Otherwise he will be destroyed in cross-examination or in the court of public opinion. Being a witness demands integrity between word and action, between what one claims and how one lives.

“You are witnesses” (Lk 24:48). Thus our Lord spoke to His disciples before His ascension. They — and all disciples after them — are to be witnesses to the Messiah’s suffering, death and resurrection, and to the preaching of the Gospel throughout the world. No we did not see these events with our own eyes. But we know them by something altogether more reliable: the eyes of faith. The world needs and (despite itself) demands such witnesses more than any other.

The requirements for Christian witness are the same as those in the natural order. It is the personal nature of the testimony that makes all the difference. To be effective witnesses we must bear witness personally — that is, from personal knowledge of Jesus Christ. People are not convinced if we say, “Well, that’s what I heard.” They only believe when they sense that the witness is a witness indeed — someone who has personal knowledge of the Lord.

That personal testimony comes only if we are transformed by the events. Mere theoretical knowledge of Christ does not transform us. We must allow the faith to go deeper — to get more personal. The Person and truths to which we witness must transform us so completely that our lives would be meaningless without them. “It is impossible for us not to speak about what we have seen and heard,” said the first witnesses (Acts 4:20). We should pray for a similar transformation.

Christian witness demands integrity. We give witness primarily by our lives. A life lived in union with Christ and in obedience to His command of love itself bears witness to Him. It gives silent witness. And if the witness lacks integrity — if his moral life contradicts the Gospel — then no amount of words will compensate. Indeed, words about the Gospel without a life formed by the Gospel not only do no good — they give scandal. The Church’s mission suffers greatly when her members speak of Christ but do not act like Christ.

Which is to say that being a witness to Christ involves the entirety of one’s life. In this regard, we do well to recall the Greek word for witness: “martyr.” A martyr, as we use the word now, indicates one who witnesses to Christ by giving his life — in the sense of accepting death rather than deny his personal testimony. But every witness must be a martyr — must give his life, and every part thereof, to make Christ known.

Unlike Judas, St. Peter trusted that he could be forgiven. He persevered in his sadness and contrition until such a time that he could ask forgiveness and be restored to Christ. Our Lord’s resurrection brings forgiveness for Peter. And His appearance at the Sea of Tiberias is the occasion for Peter’s rehabilitation. Once again Peter draws near a charcoal fire (Jn 21:9). This time, however, the fire promises not sin but redemption.

The very beginning of the scene already hints at something of a renewal for St. Peter. Our Lord first called Peter while he was fishing and by way of a miraculous catch of fish (cf. Lk 5:1-11). So also now, as if to signal a new beginning, Our Lord comes to him. He appears on the shore and, unrecognized by the Apostles, commands them to cast their net off the right side of the boat. With that they “were not able to pull it in because of the number of fish” (Jn 21:6). The whole event reminds Peter of that moment years before when a similar miracle prompted him to leave everything and follow Jesus. With that, he leaps from the boat and rushes to Our Lord.

When Peter reaches the shore he sees a charcoal fire, which reminds him of a less inspiring moment in his discipleship. But as Peter’s fall occurred before a fire, it is fitting that his redemption occur there as well. The rehabilitation undoes the fall. Peter approached the first fire seeking creature comfort (i.e., warmth). He approaches the second for supernatural reasons — to find Jesus. He came to the first at night, under cover of darkness. He comes to the second in the light of a new day. At that first fire he found himself among his enemies and, fearing shame, denied Jesus. At this second fire he finds himself with other disciples — and he is strengthened.

Within this context, then, Our Lord invites Peter to atone for his denial. It is as though Our Lord takes Peter back to the scene of the crime and gives him the opportunity to undo his sin. As Our Lord’s persecutor’s had asked Peter three times about his devotion Christ, so now Jesus Himself does the same: “Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?” (cf. Jn 21:15-17) By his threefold affirmation of love — “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you” (Jn 21:15-17) — Peter undoes the knot that had kept him from the Lord. He then receives anew the invitation to discipleship: “Follow me” (Jn 21:19; cf. Lk 5:10, Mt 4:19).

At that second fireside chat, Jesus provided Peter an opportunity to participate in his own redemption. He has the chance to undo some of the harm he had done. What we see in St. Peter’s rehabilitation holds true for each one of us: God desires to associate us in His work of salvation. He alone redeems, but He desires that we participate. He alone forgives sin, but He wants to associate us in His work. He enabled Peter to do so by bringing him again to the fire and asking him again about his devotion. He enables us by way of confession, by acts of penance, by mortifications, by apologizing to those we offend, praying for those we have hurt. It is a glorious work that Jesus has accomplished in His death and resurrection. More glorious still that He associates us with His work.

Time and again Our Lord shows Himself brilliant in an argument. On numerous occasions the scribes, Pharisees, and Sadducees try to ensnare Him in debate. He eludes them every time. Such is the case when they bring Him a woman caught in adultery (Jn 8:1-11). They do so to trap Him. But they fall into their own trap, and leave defeated. We who bear the likeness of Christ, but who often act like the scribes and Pharisees, can learn from this scene.

First, we learn to argue for the right reasons. The scribes and Pharisees were not pursuing truth or goodness. They picked a fight to trap Our Lord. Worse still, they used the law of God not as an instrument for good but as a snare for Jesus. This is why Our Lord’s words — “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” (Jn 8:7) — strike them so forcefully. He convicts them of the sin that they are at that very moment committing — that they themselves were abusing the Mosaic law. They did not intend these things for good but for evil.

We stray into the same behavior as the scribes and Pharisees whenever we argue not out of a desire for the truth or for the other’s good but simply to prove ourselves right. Indeed, this characterizes many marital squabbles. Spouses often fight not to win the other’s heart but merely to score a point and win the match. Worse still, even in the Church people use God’s word as the scribes and Pharisees did — again, not in genuine pursuit of truth and their neighbor’s good, but to prove another wrong and themselves right. Let us learn from the negative example of the scribes and Pharisees. When we argue, let us argue out of genuine love for the truth and for the other.

Second, Our Lord teaches us to avoid certain debates. He does not respond to the question of the scribes and Pharisees. In fact, He ignores it. Only when they press Him again does He stand and deliver His rebuke. He behaves similarly on other occasions (cf. Lk 20:1-8). And in another place He tells us why: “Do not cast your pearls before swine” (Mt 7:6).

Point is, Jesus does not allow Himself to be drawn into an argument with those who are insincere. He knows their hearts. He knows that they desire not truth or goodness but only to accuse Him and vindicate themselves. He does not engage — not because he does not care, but because His opponents lack the basic openness necessary for an argument. He will not cast His pearls of wisdom into their pigsty of insincerity.

We must bear witness to the truth always. But we do not have to debate or explain the Faith to everyone. Because not everyone asks sincerely. In such instances we will find that the truth can actually be sullied and distorted by the insincerity of others.

Most of all we must remember that words ultimately fail. In such situations, the greatest “argument” is the witness of our lives. During His trials Our Lord would not respond to the chief priests (Mt 14:61), or Herod (Lk 23:9) or Pilate (Jn 19:9). Words had failed. All that could penetrate those hardened hearts was the witness of divine love, the offering of His life to the Father. So also for us — when words fail the greatest way to “win” an argument is by acts of love.

There is, however, another way of understanding Our Lord’s temptations. Instead of seeing us in Christ’s place, we can see ourselves in the devil’s. Without denying the significance of the traditional interpretation, we can understand the devil’s temptations of Our Lord as signifying also the various ways in which we tempt God — that is, how we test Him and put Him on trial. It is not a flattering interpretation, to be sure. But we often need strong medicine for healing.

Consider the devil’s basic question to the accused: “If you are the Son of God …” (Lk 4:3, 9). This expresses an attitude, implicit if not explicit, that we assume quite often. It is a petulant, peevish response to God’s self-revelation. He reveals Himself and rather than taking Him at His word, rather than responding in faith, we demand proof. We say, in effect, “Oh, yeah? Prove it.” Zechariah copped this attitude and received a rather severe punishment. God’s messenger declared to him, “you will be speechless and unable to talk … because you did not believe my words” (Lk 1:20).

The devil also exemplifies the particular proofs we demand. There is, first of all, the proof of worldly comfort: “If you are the Son of God, command this stone to become bread” (Lk 4:3). For us to believe, we demand that He give us want we want for our worldly comfort. We may not have this exact thought process, but the attitude lurks within. For some reason we suppose that our health and wealth is proof of His divinity — and that the lack or loss of them is reason to doubt or reject Him. How many people lose their faith precisely because they lost the worldly comfort on which they had based it. If He is God, they say, He would not have allowed this.

Second, we demand power. “All this will be yours, if you worship me,” says the devil (Lk 4:7). Now, we would never be so crass as to demand that He worship us. At least not in so many words. But we do demand that He conform to our way of thinking and our way of living before we will let Him into our world. In other words, He must set aside His divine claims before we allow Him in. No, we do not close Him out entirely. We just require Him to take a lower, less divine place — right there alongside our other devotions, interests and hobbies. Instead of conforming ourselves to Him, we demand that He conform Himself to us.

Third, we demand “signs and wonders” in order to believe. The devil demanded a spectacle — that Jesus throw Himself from the temple parapet and let His angels save Him. That would get their attention. Likewise, we demand something stupendous and amazing (which Our Lord warned against specifically: cf. Mt 24:24; Mk13:22; Jn 4:48). We are not content to marvel and wonder at the “small” workings of God. We have grown bored with His “regular” works. We want something big!

Chesterton succinctly condemns this spiritual boredom: “There is only one sin: to call a green leaf grey.” Sin comes from boredom with the wonder of God’s creation, with His small voice, and with His smaller presence in Mary and in the Eucharist. The irony is, those who insist on miracles typically do not believe them when they come — exactly as Our Lord warned: “If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets, neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead” (Lk 16:31).

“Prove it” is not a good attitude toward God. We should instead say, “Help me to see!” Mother Church gives us Lent as a time to correct our mindset and cultivate the proper openness to and delight in God’s self-revelation — so that as Easter comes our response to Him will be one not of doubt but of devotion: “My Lord, and my God!”

We can understand Our Lord’s address in Nazareth (Lk 4:16-21) in the same way. These words are the first of His public life as recorded by St. Luke. And they have the tone of an inaugural address. Unlike the other Gospel writers, who record Our Lord’s first public words at the Jordan, St. Luke begins with a more formal setting. Our Lord begins His preaching not at the riverside but in an official house of worship. He observes the formal Sabbath custom by accepting the invitation to read from the prophet and to address the assembly. They had already heard about His preaching and miracles from the surrounding countryside (cf. Lk 4:14, 23). Now they want to hear from the man Himself. To set the tone and chart the course for His public ministry (His administration, as it were), Our Lord does two things: He selects a text and He interprets it.

First, the text. No one chooses the passage for Him. He Himself unrolls the scroll and finds the passage (cf. Lk 4:17). He chooses a passage well known to His listeners, a prophecy about the Messiah. In this He resembles other speakers. It is a common rhetorical device to quote or appeal to a text or phrase familiar and important to the listeners. So Our Lord, in choosing this verse, puts a prophecy about the Messiah right before them: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me” (cf. Is 61:1-2). He heightens their expectation of the Messiah.

Then, having called the Anointed One to their minds, He interprets the passage authoritatively and definitively. The authority is indicated by a little detail: “Rolling up the scroll, he handed it back to the attendant and sat down” (Lk 4:20). We might think that he sat down because He had finished. On the contrary, He sat down in order to begin. To begin teaching. In that culture, teachers did not stand but sat (as Jesus would sit to preach the Sermon on the Mount [cf. Mt 5:1]).

Thus conveying His authority, He then gives a definitive interpretation of the text: “Today this scripture passage is fulfilled in your hearing” (Lk 4:21). Up until His reading of it, the passage from Isaiah was an unfulfilled prophecy. It was provisional, incomplete, pointing to something that would eventually occur, to someone who would come. Now, however, Our Lord brings the passage to completion, to fulfillment. Having heard Him say, “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me,” the people have heard the Messiah – the Anointed One – Himself.

In this regard Our Lord’s inaugural address differs from all others – and the difference reveals His greatness, His singularity. His address does not give detail about what He will do but about who He is. At an inauguration we expect to hear a lot about programs, policies, procedures, protocols, etc. But Our Lord does not discuss any such thing. Rather, He points to Himself. He has not come to create a program. He has come to create other christs. He has not come to propose some truth or way of life apart from Himself. He has come to propose Himself as “the way, and the truth, and the life” (Jn 14:6).