Years ago, when we remodeled our bathroom, my three-year-old daughter asked if she could help me paint.

So I handed her the paintbrush.

She did exactly what you’d expect. 

Paint dripped everywhere. Random brushstrokes. X’s and O’s on the wall that you can still see today.

Then she asked if she could finish the job.

I took the paintbrush back.

I thought about that when I read Sunday’s Gospel.

Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do you say that I am?”

Peter nails it: “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.”

And then Jesus says something strange:

Don’t tell anybody.

Jesus takes the paintbrush back.

Because Peter has the right answer, but he doesn’t yet understand what the answer means.

Peter thinks “Messiah” means power, victory, liberation.

But Jesus is about to teach him that Messiah means a cross. Sacrifice. Suffering. Love.

Peter knows the word.

He just doesn’t know how to paint with it yet.

And, truthfully, I find something comforting in that.

Because I’ve been following Jesus for a long time, and I’m still discovering places where the Jesus I thought I knew isn’t quite the Jesus I meet in the Gospels.

This is part of following him.

We stay close. We keep listening. We keep learning. And little by little, Jesus fills in the picture.

Maybe faith isn’t about finally getting Jesus all figured out.

Maybe it’s about staying close enough to keep discovering who he is. And trusting that, along the way, he’ll keep teaching us how to paint.

I know it sounds blasphemous to say that Jesus screwed up...

But part of being human is being imperfect.

So what did Jesus do when he messed up?

One time he was lecturing on talking, explaining that our words flow directly from our intentions, so that we are held morally accountable for what we say.

Then comes this non-jewish person asking Jesus for healing. He coldly dismisses her, says that his mission is only for his people, and calls her a dog. 

But the woman won't let go and throws a counter punch, saying even the dogs get to eat crumbs from the table, waking Jesus up to the fact that his mission isn't just for Jews, but for everybody.

I imagine everybody in the room clammed up, and stared at Jesus.

Because Woke Jesus now had a decision.

Will he double down on his superiority, continue to insult the woman and blow her off?

Or will he back down, admit his mistake, and make right? 

As we know, Jesus chooses door number two.

He commends the woman for standing up to him, and gives her the healing she wanted. 

In these days of deflect and deny, ignore and move on, when faced with a mistake, Jesus gives us that timeless lesson of humility. 

Whatever mistake you're facing today, own up to it, admit you were wrong, and make it right. 

We all screw up, we're all human, but truth is the way of Jesus, and if God can back down and say he's sorry, we can too. 

I am as mad as anyone when I see malevolent governments, movements, and people, who oppress, persecute, and kill in order to hoard, dominate, or selfishly enrich.

And I want to fight - but I have to be wise - and faithful.

The idea that we can eradicate "evil" by destroying a specific person or a nation using violence is a deeply ingrained human impulse, but it relies on a fundamental misunderstanding of what evil actually is. 

History and psychology show us that treating evil as if it were a physical object, person, or a localized disease that can be excised with a scalpel consistently fails.

The primary flaw in trying to "kill" evil is a category mistake. We treat evil as an entity—a physical thing that resides in certain "bad" people. But evil is not a substance; it is a set of behaviors, choices, and systems - and one way or another it gets into us all.

What to do? This is one lesson from Sunday's gospel about an enemy who sews weeds alongside a gardener's good crop. 

The interesting advice from the gardener is not to pull out the bad weeds, because in doing so, the good plants will be gone too. Instead we're told to wait. 

The gardener understands that the good and the bad make up one crop - and the answer is patience. Patience to do the things that have historically been successful at combatting evil:

Build robust institutions: Building legal systems, human rights frameworks, and democratic checks that prevent power from being concentrated and abused.

Practice empathy and truth: Facing historical harms honestly (like truth and reconciliation commissions) rather than burying them under fresh violence.

Address material scarcity: Reducing the desperation, poverty, and isolation that make communities vulnerable to demagogues and radicalization.

Stopping an active perpetrator of violence is sometimes a necessary act of immediate defense. But confusing containment with eradication is the tragic error of human history. To permanently weaken evil, we have to change the soil so its seeds can no longer take root. Something us gardeners can do.

Feeling a little disconnected from our nation’s 250th birthday this year? Even a bit... nonchalant?

Do yourself a favor: Talk to an immigrant.

New Americans see things many of us take for granted. And it’s not just the landscapes or the prosperity. They see the true greatness of this country.

They see how we welcome the tired and the weary. How we show up for the sick, the elderly, and the vulnerable. They see a nation that shares its wealth with communities facing war, famine, and natural disasters.

That’s exactly why we hold our weekly prayer vigils. To remind ourselves how to be welcoming. Because real greatness isn’t built on pride, wealth, or luck.

Greatness lives in humility. It’s a willingness to serve others as much as we serve ourselves. It echoes that timeless call: "Come to me, all who are weary, and I will give you rest."

New Americans don't just need us. We need them. They remind us of the beauty of our last 250 years, and they give us hope for the next 250.

The spiritual life isn't so much about ability as it is availability. 

This Sunday we hear the famous story of Abraham's sacrifice of Isaac, and a camping trip, they'll never forget...

In that passage we will hear Abraham utter a Hebrew word, hineni, not once, or twice, but three times. It means, here I am. 

Abraham, the spiritual founder of three great world religions, did not make a name for himself as an academic theologian or ruler of vast armies, but by simply showing up.

When God called him, when his son called him, when the angel called him, Abraham said here I am. 

The spiritual life, then, begins and ends with presence. Listening. Obeying. Getting up. Moving out. It starts as we get started.

How am I present? And how might I say, here I am?

God gives ability that begins with availability.

Why should you care? 

Guilt? Coercion? 

How about gratitude. 

When I'm really thankful for what I've been given, when I see the gifts and skills that I have, it's out of that thankfulness that I can reach out to help those in need. 

And this is at the heart of this feast called Pentecost. 

Jesus has died, disciples are praying, and the room gets noisy and people start singing in languages they don't know, they are singing songs of gratitude - 

And out of this gratitude, they get power, amazing power, and it's the power to suddenly care. 

They care about the hungry, the needy, the hurting. 

They care about fairness, they care about Justice. 

And they go out to the four directions of the world and use this power.

Out of this overwhelming sense of thankfulness they have found the well of courage and boldness That our world still so desperately needs. 

Find your power in gratitude 

Remember the poor. 

I know, I know, it’s hard!

But it's one of Jesus main messages; he was born poor, lived among the poor, and constantly advocated for them. 

And so I found myself at yet another Wednesday prayer vigil outside the ICE office in Southfield asking the landlord and immigration enforcement to do the same thing: Remember the poor.

Let's face it, these ICE arrests and raids are not being made in the leafy suburbs, but in the poor areas of town; we are antagonizing the very people Jesus told us to advocate for. 

Meanwhile, the wealthy - we're quick to grant them tax breaks, they get pricey lawyers, are friends with the judges, and enjoy favored societal status, look who's on celebrity magazine covers?

In this Sunday's gospel, Jesus will say, “ If you love me, you'll do what I say, and time and time again,” from The Sermon on the Mount in Matthew 5, to the vision of the great judgment in chapter 25, Jesus made it clear that advocating for the poor is what's being commanded. 

I know it's not popular, convenient, comfortable, and sometimes even safe, but it's what Jesus did: remember the poor. 

How can I do the same?