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Harmonious Homage

14/10/2026

A Reflection on the Psalm for October 18th, 2026:
Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Psalm 96

R. Ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

O sing to the Lord a new song; sing to the Lord, all the earth. Declare his glory among the nations, his marvellous works among all the peoples.

R. Ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

For great is the Lord, and greatly to be praised; he is to be revered above all gods. For all the gods of the peoples are idols, but the Lord made the heavens.

R. Ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

Ascribe to the Lord, O families of the peoples, ascribe to the Lord glory and strength. Ascribe to the Lord the glory due his name; bring an offering, and come into his courts.

R. Ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

Worship the Lord in holy splendour; tremble before him, all the earth. Say among the nations, “The Lord is king! He will judge the peoples with equity.”

R. Ascribe to the Lord glory and strength.

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

I am a skim reader. I have conditioned myself to read for the purpose of “getting to the point” rather than for enjoyment or, as it should be when reading God’s Word, to really let it flow into me. Partway through my second read through this Psalm, I noticed myself doing it: trying to find a rhythm in the words to spark some interest, inattentively grazing on the syntax yet floating over the surface of the meaning. I didn’t really notice I was doing it until I perceived God saying, “Slow down.”

As I obeyed this command, my eyes settled on the opening line, “O sing to the Lord a new song.” This provoked the thought, “What is the song I have been singing to the Lord? Have I been singing to Him at all?”

As it turns out, there is always a song in my heart, and my song of late has been a lyrical lament. A song of fatigue. A song of mourning. A song of confusion. Paradoxically, my song is a monotonic recitation of the sensation of stuckness I feel as I am traversing multiple transitions. Transition implies movement. However, I am feeling immobilized as transitions proceed without my consent, as though I am tucked up in a ball of resistance while the dissonance of change marches past me. I am a needle skipping on a record, unable to advance the melody. How do I know what to do now? How do I know who I am in these changes? What’s the next verse waiting to be written?

I took these questions into guided adoration where I sat in this holding pattern until the worship leader began to sing, “Nothing on earth could ever take Your place” (Behold the Lamb of God, by Matt Maher). My heart flickered. What have I been expecting to come from the earth that can only come from You? It is the connection to Your spirit that restores the rhythm of life. But “all the gods of the peoples are idols,” and they cannot provide the fulfillment I seek.

Idolatry means giving a creature or earthly object the kind of reverence that should be reserved for God alone. I have been making idols of the people in my life who have moved on, though it was necessary that they do so. I have been making them responsible for the continuation of my song, when it is God alone who composes each word. I have been making an idol of my younger body that danced effortlessly, had predictable moods, and didn’t suffer the inner turmoil of mid-life. Yet, what goes up must come down, and what is a song without the complementarity of vigorosos and languidos. Both sing of the gifts of life — the ups and downs and in-betweens, every note coming from and returning to its Orchestrator.

And so I offer You, beloved Composer, my homage. I thank You for the love in my heart responsible for the ache of loss. I praise You for the gift of a body that continues to move, though its fluidity is interrupted by more frequent stops. I return to You the sheets of music I have been writing monotonously so that You might enrich them harmoniously.

Lori MacDonald

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For the Sake of My Servant

13/10/2026

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A Reflection on the First Reading for October 18th, 2026:
Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Isaiah
45.1, 4-6

Thus says the Lord to his anointed, to Cyrus, whose right hand I have grasped to subdue nations before him and strip kings of their robes, to open doors before him — and the gates shall not be closed:

“For the sake of my servant Jacob, and Israel my chosen, I call you by your name, I surname you, though you do not know me. I am the Lord, and there is no other; besides me there is no god. I arm you, though you do not know me, so that all may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is no one besides me; I am the Lord, and there is no other.”

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

I once saw one of those “streeter” interviews, from an Alpha video or something like it, where respondents were asked what question they would put to God if they ever had the chance. One young woman’s answer was something like, “Why are you so obsessed with making people praise you?”

I had never heard anyone express this particular sentiment, but it truly cut me to the quick. What a devastatingly sad perception to have of God! And, of course, such a sense of God would keep you from Him. Who could feel any affection for someone obsessed with making you praise them?

Honestly, I don’t mean to criticize that young woman. As a first impression, her perception of God seems kind of reasonable. If I’d had no exposure to God or teaching about Him and I walked into a Mass, I can imagine myself coming away thinking that exact thing, “Really? This is what church is all about? An all-powerful being who gives us a specific script of nice things to say about him?”

I immediately thought of that young woman when I read the First Reading. Surely this passage would only strengthen her perception of God: “that all may know, from the rising of the sun and from the west, that there is no one besides me; I am the Lord, and there is no other.” That sure sounds like a guy who is heavily invested in getting people to praise him.

But, do you know the part of the Reading that’s all too easy to gloss over? It’s the opening part: “For the sake of my servant Jacob, and Israel my chosen ….” If we choose to pay attention, God is being pretty clear: Not for My sake. For your sake. Everything God does in my life is for my sake, not His – if I choose to pay attention.

Isaiah’s words are spoken to Cyrus, a pagan king who reigned over Persia between 539 and 530 BC, more than a hundred years before Cyrus’s birth. Isaiah refers to him by name, speaking of his role as the one who will free the Jews. He calls Cyrus the Lord’s “anointed” – a word that can also be translated as “messiah.” So all this is to say, Cyrus was kind of a big deal.

God anointed Cyrus, giving him “all the kingdoms of the earth” (2 Chronicles 36:23), and Cyrus praised the Lord and proclaimed His name and His goodness. But God did all this “for the sake of [His] servant Jacob, and Israel [His] chosen.” He did this in pursuit of His people – in pursuit of me. This is God’s foolish, wasteful, prodigal love for His people, despite their (our / my) stubbornness and faithlessness and general humanity. This is God’s inexhaustible mercy and devotion and patience. This is God holding a divine boombox over His head outside their (my) window. This was not – is not – someone obsessed with making us praise Him.

God, help me to live out what I know: that You are good and deserving of all my love. Help me to trust that You have me and my best interests in mind. Help me to truly know that Your actions and Your plans are for my sake, not Yours. Amen.

Elizabeth Craig

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While I See Dimly

9/10/2026

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A Reflection on the Gospel for Sunday, October 11th, 2026:
Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Matthew
22.1-14

(The shorter version ends at the asterisks.)

Once more Jesus spoke to the chief priests and Pharisees in parables: "The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a king who gave a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his slaves to call those who had been invited to the wedding banquet, but they would not come.

"Again he sent other slaves, saying, 'Tell those who have been invited: "Look, I have prepared my dinner, my oxen and my fat calves have been slaughtered, and everything is ready; come to the wedding banquet."' But they made light of it and went away, one to his farm, another to his business, while the rest seized his slaves, mistreated them, and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his troops, destroyed those murderers, and burned their city.

"Then he said to his slaves, 'The wedding is ready, but those invited were not worthy. Go therefore into the main streets, and invite everyone you find to the wedding banquet.' Those slaves went out into the streets and gathered all whom they found, both good and bad; so the wedding hall was filled with guests.

* * *

"But when the king came in to see the guests, he noticed a man there who was not wearing a wedding robe, and he said to him, 'Friend, how did you get in here without a wedding robe?' And he was speechless. Then the king said to the attendants, 'Bind him hand and foot, and throw him into the outer darkness, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth.' For many are called, but few are chosen.'"

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

A friend recently told me that she used to think of God primarily as “a man in the sky who gets to dictate who goes to heaven and who goes to hell.”

The image resonated immediately. For most of my life, I held it too. Sometimes, I think I still do.
Yes, Jesus was a man, but God isn’t really possible for me to conceive of in His entirety. He sustains all of existence while dwelling within me. He is a tremendous mystery, yet closer to me than I am to myself. Faced with all of that, and depending on how I’m feeling at the time, my brain sometimes gives up and returns to something simpler: God as the cosmic judge, primarily concerned with whether I am behaving correctly.

At first glance, this parable does not exactly help.

There is a king, an invitation, a dress code, judgment, and outer darkness. My anxious brain naturally skips over the enormous wedding feast and becomes extremely interested in the one guy’s wardrobe.

But then I look at how badly the king wants people at the feast. He sends his servants repeatedly. When those invited refuse to come, he sends them out again, this time into the streets. They gather everyone they can find, “bad and good alike,” until the hall is filled.

The invitation is astonishingly generous. You do not have to already be good to receive it, but you do need a wedding garment.

Saint Augustine saw this garment as charity. In one of his sermons on this passage, he writes that even faith itself must be joined to love. That interpretation makes sense to me in the context of the wider Gospel. Christ repeatedly returns us to love of God and neighbour, to mercy, and to what we do for the least among us.

This challenges something in me.

When I imagine God as primarily concerned with my moral compliance, I begin relating to Him accordingly. When I fail, I want to hide. I become resentful and nervous. Prayer starts feeling less like communion and more like approaching a supervisor when I know my performance has been lacking.

Even good religious practices can become distorted this way. I can pray, fast, attend Mass, or follow the rules partly because I want to be the kind of person who does those things, but these practices are not ends in themselves. They are meant to draw me into communion with God, and communion with God should make me more capable of love.

Perhaps I do not need a simpler God. I need a simpler way of remembering how to respond to the God I cannot comprehend.

While I see dimly, I have been given faith, hope, and love. And the greatest of these is love.

Madison Gorham

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In Christ, I Find My Strength

8/10/2026

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A Reflection on the Second Reading for Sunday, October 11th, 2026:
Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Philippians
4.12-14, 19-20

Brothers and sisters: I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me. In any case, it was kind of you to share my distress.

My God will fully satisfy every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus. To our God and Father be glory forever and ever. Amen.

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

Philippians 4:19 has been one of my all-time favourite Scriptures since my Sunday school days. So when I saw this passage as the Second Reading, I could not help but feel that it spoke personally to me. As I reflect on it now, I see how God has been teaching me, little by little, what it means to find my strength in Him.

Growing up, life taught me to be content with whatever my parents could provide. As a child, however, I did not really understand what contentment meant. I often wondered why some of my classmates had far more than I did. My parents did their best to send me to the same private school and provide the things I needed. Yet while I sometimes had to wait until Christmas for a new pair of shoes, a bag, water bottle, or lunch box, some of my classmates seemed to have more than enough. At the time, I did not understand why my situation was different. Today, I realize that those experiences quietly taught me an important lesson: Contentment is not about having everything. It is about being grateful for what I have and trusting God with what I do not have. There is a peace that comes when I stop comparing my life with others and allow God to take care of the rest.

As I have grown, I have also learned that life will bring storms. There may be difficult bosses, colleagues, church members, or professors, or unexpected situations that test my patience and faith. Yet Saint Paul reminds me that Christ gives me the strength to face every circumstance. I may not always like what I am going through, but I do not have to give up. Like the saying "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade," I can choose moving forward, knowing that God will give me the grace and strength for each step.

I am also grateful for the people God has placed along my journey. I am thankful for my parents who did their best to raise me and for the church leaders, members, and friends who have stood by me when life became difficult. Their kindness reminds me that, while God is my ultimate source, He often uses people to bless and support us. For this reason, I pray not only for my own needs but also for those who have helped me and for the grace to recognize the kindness of others.

Today, whether I have much or little, whether I am accepted or rejected, employed or unemployed, happy or sad, I choose to trust God. He has brought me this far, and I believe He will continue to sustain me. In Christ, I find my strength.

Prayer: Heavenly Father, I give You all glory, honor, and praise. Please help me to remain content in every circumstance, trust Your provision, appreciate those You place in my life, and always find my strength in Christ, Amen.

Michaelina Dawson-Otoo

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Harmonious Homage

​A Reflection on the Psalm for October 18th, 2026:Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

For the Sake of My Servant

A Reflection on the First Reading for October 18th, 2026:Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

While I See Dimly

A Reflection on the Gospel for Sunday, October 11th, 2026:Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

In Christ, I Find My Strength

A Reflection on the Second Reading for Sunday, October 11th, 2026:Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

Archives

A Reflection on the Psalm for October 18th, 2026:
Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

A Reflection on the First Reading for October 18th, 2026:
Twenty-Ninth Sunday in Ordinary Time

A Reflection on the Gospel for Sunday, October 11th, 2026:
Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

A Reflection on the Second Reading for Sunday, October 11th, 2026:
Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time