Grace Overflows, Lamps Lit

Some days the Scriptures feel like two clocks ticking at once. One clock stretches back to the garden—where a single “no” to God bent the human story toward death. The other clock is set in the deep of night—when servants keep a quiet vigil, lamps trimmed, waiting for their master’s knock. Today’s readings hold both. They tell the truth about the weight we inherit—and the greater truth about the grace that overruns it; they invite not panic but a loving attentiveness that learns to say, again and again, “Here I am.”

The Weight We Inherit, the Grace We Receive

Paul names the solidarity we all know in our bones: one person’s sin ripples, and the world feels it. We inherit more than eye color and recipes; we inherit anxieties, addictions, family patterns, social wounds. The modern words are “systems” and “trauma,” but the ancient word is “sin,” and its wages are still isolation and death.

Then Paul says something more daring: grace overflows all the more. The obedience of one Man—Jesus Christ—undoes the long chain of disobedience. This is not balance-sheet grace that merely cancels debt; it is overflowing grace that creates a new life. Where resignation says, “This is just how I am,” the Gospel says, “This is how Christ is for you.” Justification is not self-justification; it is God’s own verdict spoken over the contrite: acquitted, reconciled, restored.

For anyone who feels named by their worst moment, or trapped by a story they did not choose, this is oxygen. St. Teresa of Ávila, who knew both failure and fierce reform, insists that prayer is a friendship with the One who loves us. In that friendship, old labels fall away; grace does not pretend the past didn’t happen, it re-threads the future. Teresa’s quiet counsel—let nothing disturb you; God alone suffices—is not denial. It is a hard-won posture learned in the school of mercy.

“Here I Am”: Obedience from the Heart

Psalm 40 puts words in a ready mouth: “Here I am, Lord; I come to do your will.” God is not impressed by our burnt offerings of busyness—by calendars crammed with good things yet hollow of consent. He wants ears open to obedience, a will that listens.

In a distracted culture, obedience looks like undramatic fidelity. It is the parent who wakes at 2 a.m., the nurse who stays an extra half-hour, the student who turns off notifications to give full attention, the worker who refuses to pad the report. It is the quiet yes, given daily, that trains the heart to recognize the Master’s knock. St. Teresa describes this training as the slow engraving of God’s law within the heart; the delight of doing God’s will grows as we practice it.

Lamps Lit in the Long Night

Jesus’ image is homely and bracing: belts fastened, lamps burning, servants alert in the second or third watch. This is not a summons to anxious hypervigilance. Love’s attentiveness is different from fear’s compulsive scanning. Love waits with light ready. It keeps oil in the lamp: prayer that is honest, Scripture that is chewed, confession that names and releases, small works of mercy that keep the wick trimmed.

The late watches of life are real. Exhaustion, cynicism, and doom-scrolling are modern thieves of oil. The remedy is not willpower alone but habits of nearness to Christ. Three brief practices can keep a flame:

• A morning offering as simple as Psalm 40’s line: “Here I am.” Say it before touching a device.
• A midday pause to breathe the name of Jesus and re-choose your current duty.
• A brief nightly examen: Where did grace overflow? Where did I dim the lamp? Ask for fresh oil.

The Master Who Serves

The surprise in Jesus’ parable is not only the blessing for the vigilant; it is the Master’s response: he girds himself, seats the servants, and waits on them. This is the upside-down heart of the Gospel, fulfilled at the Last Supper and renewed at every Eucharist. Christ does not return to inspect before he serves; he serves to strengthen us for his coming.

St. Ignatius of Antioch called the Eucharist the medicine of immortality. Medicine is not a trophy for the fit; it is healing for the ailing. In Holy Communion the vigilant receive what they could never self-supply: the very life of the One who conquered death. From that table we rise less afraid of the night and more ready to love. Strength to “stand before the Son of Man” (the Alleluia) is not manufactured; it is given, and given abundantly.

Vigilance without Fear

Christian vigilance resists three subtle temptations:

• Distraction: the scattered heart that can no longer attend to what matters.
• Despair: the heavy heart that believes sin gets the final word.
• Delay: the wary heart that keeps postponing conversion to a tomorrow that never comes.

Against distraction, choose attention: one task, one person, one prayer at a time. Against despair, choose hope: grace overflows all the more, even where sin once reigned. Against delay, choose promptness: a small yes now is worth more than a grand plan never lived. Teresa’s wisdom steadies the will; Ignatius’s realism about sacrifice makes clear that love will cost us something—and that it is worth the cost.

A Way to Walk This Week

• Begin the day with Psalm 40: “Here I am,” and name one concrete act of obedience you intend to offer.
• Carry a pocket verse: “Where sin increased, grace overflowed all the more.” Repeat it when shame or fatigue rises.
• Keep a lamp lit for someone: a hidden act of service for a co-worker or neighbor who cannot repay you.
• Let the Master serve you: make time for the Eucharist if possible, or a visit before the tabernacle; if not, a 10-minute, undistracted time of friendship with Christ.
• End the day with gratitude and contrition. Ask for fresh oil for tomorrow’s watch.

We inherit a world where many things are broken. We also inherit a Savior whose obedience has opened a path through death into life. The night is real, but it is not ultimate. Belt fastened, lamp burning, heart listening—this is how grace reigns in ordinary hours, until the knock we have hoped for sounds and the One who loves us seats us at his table.