Make Room for God's Presence

There is a doorway running through today’s Scriptures. David ushers the Ark into Jerusalem; the psalm summons ancient gates to rise; and Jesus points to a circle of listeners and names them family. The invitation is simple and searching: make room for the living God. When that happens, joy takes up space in our bodies, mercy takes shape in our habits, and belonging widens beyond bloodlines to the bonds of obedience.

The Ark Comes Home: Joy That Moves the Body

David brings the Ark; the sign of God’s presence; into the City of David with sacrifices, trumpets, and a king dancing without self-consciousness. This is not performance but humility. Clothed in a simple linen apron, David puts God’s honor above his reputation. In a world obsessed with curating a brand, David’s abandon challenges the fear of looking foolish for love of God.

Notice how worship spills outward. After the offerings, David blesses the people and gives every person bread, meat, and raisin cake. Praise becomes provision. True celebration of God’s presence cannot end as a private feeling; it must become shared sustenance. The Eucharist teaches the same pattern: adoration that becomes mission, thanksgiving that becomes mercy. If our songs do not lead to someone else’s nourishment, something essential is missing.

Opening the Gates: The Architecture of the Heart

“Lift up your heads, O gates; be lifted, you ancient doors, that the King of glory may come in.” The psalm imagines a city welcoming its true King. But the most fortified gates are often interior: the lintels of cynicism, the doors of hurry, the ancient hinges of resentment or shame. Many live guarded by necessity; past betrayals, relentless demands, the fatigue of bad news. The psalm is not naïve about strength; it names God “mighty in battle.” The Lord does not enter to scold but to defend, to reorder, to restore.

In 2 Samuel the bearers pause after six steps to sacrifice. It is a curious detail; a liturgy of slowness. In our digitized tempo, letting the King of glory in may begin with deliberately unhurried acts: a quiet commute without earbuds, a five-minute examen at day’s end, an honest confession, the patient work of reconciliation we’ve postponed. Gates lift by practiced hinges.

Redefining Family: The Will of God as Kinship

When told that his mother and relatives are outside, Jesus looks at the circle around him and declares, “Whoever does God’s will is my brother and sister and mother.” He is not dismissing Mary; he is revealing why Mary belongs at the heart of the Gospel; because she first said, “Let it be done to me.” The family Jesus gathers is not built on genetics but on obedience. This is astonishing good news for the lonely, the estranged, the single, the widowed, and all who feel “outside.” God’s household is open through the door of surrender to His will.

But obedience is concrete. It looks like truth over convenience, fidelity over impulse, forgiveness over payback, generosity over accumulation, chastity over self-use, and integrity over shortcuts. Doing the will of God may place someone at odds with prevailing scripts; yet in that very tension, Jesus draws us closer as kin. Belonging deepens not by flattery but by faithfulness.

Saint Angela Merici and the Power of Spiritual Motherhood

On this optional memorial, the Church remembers Saint Angela Merici (1474–1540), a woman who saw the wounds of her time and opened a door for grace to enter. In an age when girls’ education was often neglected, Angela founded the Company of St. Ursula; women consecrated to Christ who lived in the world, dedicating themselves to the formation of young women in faith and virtue. She practiced a form of spiritual motherhood that echoes today’s Gospel: “Whoever does the will of God is my mother.” Motherhood, in the Christian vision, is not only biological; it is generative love that begets faith, hope, and wisdom in others.

Angela counseled gentleness over control and friendship over fear. Her mission suggests a way forward for our era: accompany the young, educate the heart and mind, honor the dignity of women, and let holiness permeate ordinary streets rather than hide behind walls. To mentor, teach, encourage, and safeguard the vulnerable is to lift ancient doors in the next generation so the King of glory may enter their lives.

Practices for This Week: Let the King of Glory In

• Make room for joyful praise: sing at Mass, or offer a simple morning doxology aloud. Let gratitude be embodied; hands open, posture attentive.
• Turn worship into provision: schedule one concrete act of mercy; prepare a meal, stock a pantry, or set a monthly budget line for alms.
• Lift the inner gates: choose a daily quiet window (even ten minutes) without screens for Scripture, examen, or silent trust.
• Find family in obedience: join or rekindle a small group, Bible study, or service team. Reach out to someone on the margins of your community and make space for their story.
• Learn and mentor: in Saint Angela’s spirit, tutor a student, read with a child, support girls’ education locally or globally, or accompany a young adult discerning vocation.

When the King of glory enters, joy stops being an idea and starts feeding people. Hearts become homes. Circles widen. And in the steady practice of God’s will, we discover that the One we welcome has already been welcoming us; naming us brother, sister, and, astonishingly, mother; so that through us His life can be born again into the world.