Exile, lament, and a hard word from Jesus—today’s readings trace a sober arc from confession, to plea, to responsibility. The exiles in Babylon tell the truth about themselves (Baruch 1:15-22). The Psalm cries for mercy when disgrace feels public and unrelenting (Psalm 79:1-5, 8-9). And Jesus warns towns that witnessed wonders but stayed unchanged (Luke 10:13-16). Threaded through it all is a single invitation: listen—and let listening become repentance (Psalm 95:8).
Confession That Tells the Truth
Baruch gives language to a difficult grace: the grace of owning our story without excuse. “We have sinned in the Lord’s sight and disobeyed him… each one of us went off after the devices of his own wicked heart” (Baruch 1:17, 22). This is not the self-condemnation of shame spirals; it is clarity. The exiles refuse to mythologize the past or minimize their choices. They do not blame their enemies, their era, or their leaders—even as all those forces were real. They name what is theirs to name.
In the modern world, it is easier to curate narratives than to confess reality. We are adept at diagnosing others’ faults while narrating our own as necessity or nuance. Baruch calls for a different posture: relinquishing rationalizations, receiving God’s judgments as true, and letting that truth open the pathway to mercy.
St. Polycarp, a bishop formed by the apostles’ teaching, urged Christians to do exactly this: do not innovate the faith to suit the winds of the age; hold fast to what was handed down and live it. Faithfulness to the apostolic word is not nostalgia—it is security against the “devices” of our own hearts that so effortlessly baptize self-interest. Confession, then, is not merely an emotional catharsis. It is a return to what is true: about God, about sin, and about us.
Lament Is Not Despair
Psalm 79 is unsparing: desecrated holy places, public humiliation, blood poured “like water” (Psalm 79:1-3). The psalmist does not flee the pain of history; he prays it. “Remember not against us the iniquities of the past; may your compassion quickly come to us, for we are brought very low” (Psalm 79:8).
There is a way to read the news, observe scandal, or endure personal loss that becomes corrosive—cynicism disguised as realism. Biblical lament is different. It is an act of hope precisely because it is an act of address. God is still God; his name still has glory; therefore, “for the glory of your name, O Lord, deliver us” (Psalm 79:9). Lament dares to believe that God’s honor is bound up with his mercy toward his people.
Lament in daily life can look like refusing denial when the family is fractured, or when a parish is hurting, or when one’s inner life feels like ruins. It sounds like praying the psalms when words fail, fasting when explanations feel cheap, or making restitution where harm has been done. It trusts that God hears, and in hearing, heals.
The Peril of Familiarity with the Holy
Jesus’ words to Chorazin, Bethsaida, and Capernaum disturb: places that saw mighty deeds—and yet did not repent (Luke 10:13-15). The shock is not judgment falling on notorious cities like Tyre and Sidon, but the verdict on communities close to Jesus’ work. Put differently, proximity to grace increases responsibility. To be given much is to be answerable for much.
This is uncomfortably relevant in a culture saturated with Christian content. One can consume homilies, podcasts, and devotions daily, yet remain fundamentally unconverted in the places where the Gospel demands change. It is sobering to imagine that outsiders—those presumed far from God—might respond more readily than the “insiders” who have seen so much. Jesus is not scorning the covenant; he is exposing presumption. The call is to be moved by grace, not merely surrounded by it.
“Whoever listens to you listens to me,” Jesus adds, linking himself to those he sends (Luke 10:16). This apostolic mediation is not a loophole; it is a mercy. Christ continues to speak through Scripture proclaimed, sacraments celebrated, and the witness of holy lives. The issue is not whether God speaks; it is whether hearts are soft enough to receive the word.
Prayer That Softens the Heart
The Alleluia today pleads: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts” (Psalm 95:8). St. Teresa of Ávila insisted that prayer is the school in which the heart learns this softness. For her, mental prayer is “friendly conversation” with the One who loves us—a conversation that steadily unmasks illusions, dismantles attachments, and strengthens desire for God. Real prayer does not merely soothe; it clarifies. It makes evasions harder to maintain and obedience easier to choose.
Teresa also warned against a spirituality that delights in experiences but stalls before conversion. The test of prayer, she said, is love—concrete, sacrificial, and obedient. In today’s terms: the soft heart shows up not as vague inspiration but as reconciled relationships, reordered habits, renewed honesty, and practical care for the poor. Prayer that listens will always become prayer that lives differently.
Listening That Becomes Obedience
If listening is the key, how does it take root?
- Receive the Church’s voice with humility. Jesus binds himself to his messengers (Luke 10:16). That includes Scripture, the ordinary teaching of the Church, and the wisdom of those whose character bears fruit. Docility is not credulity; it is teachability.
- Practice examen. Each evening, review the day: Where did I resist the light? Where did I say yes? Where is Baruch’s confession needed? Where is Psalm 79’s cry for mercy fitting? This trains the heart in truth-telling and hope.
- Return and repair. Repentance is not only interior. Make apologies. Undo lies. Seek reconciliation. Rework a habit that repeatedly serves self rather than love. Choose a concrete act that embodies “sackcloth and ashes”—fasting, almsgiving, or time with the overlooked (Luke 10:13).
- Keep the heart soft through prayer. Even ten honest minutes a day in Teresa’s “friendly conversation” changes the texture of the soul. Bring the difficult person, the habitual sin, the social wound before the Lord and stay there—without spin.
A Simple Pattern of Return
The readings offer a clear pattern:
- Tell the truth without varnish (Baruch 1:15-22).
- Ask for mercy for God’s glory, not merely for relief (Psalm 79:9).
- Let grace move you to change, not just to feeling (Luke 10:13-16).
- Guard against hardening by daily listening (Psalm 95:8).
In an age of quick takes and thin loyalties, this pattern feels almost countercultural. Yet it aligns us with reality: God is faithful; sin is ruinous; mercy is available; and grace is meant to bear fruit. St. Polycarp’s steady fidelity and St. Teresa’s interior candor both witness to the same truth: God’s voice is not distant, and holiness is possible wherever we are.
“For the glory of your name, O Lord, deliver us” (Psalm 79:9). Those words assume more than rescue. They assume transformation—so that the people who have received much might finally live as those who have listened.