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? 

My friend came home one day with a dog whistle.

He stood in the living room, right over the family dog who was passed out on the rug, and he blew it. Hard.

I didn't hear a thing. He didn't hear a thing. But that dog? He bolted upright like he’d just been struck by lightning.

See, my friend used that whistle for everything. Training, calling him from across the neighborhood—no matter how loud he blew it, it stayed "silent" to us. But to the dog? It was the only sound that mattered.

The voice of Jesus is kind of like that.

It’s not a scream. It’s not a megaphone. It’s the frequency of Love. It’s this specific, resonant call to move through the world with care and obsession for the person standing right in front of you.

And here’s the kicker: You’re pre-wired for it.

There is a Divine spark inside of you that recognizes that frequency. It’s built into your DNA. Everyone can hear it, but not everyone listens.

We’re experts at static. We tune into the noise of ego, or fear, or the hundred other "calls" telling us who to be. But following Jesus? That’s just the practice of tuning your ears back to that one distinct frequency of Love.

It’s not about being a "good boy" for the Master. It’s about realizing the Master is actually for you.

When you stop ignoring the whistle and start moving toward Love, your life finally starts to make sense. And the world around you? It actually gets a little better.