A man recently told me he was losing patience with the Church. "It's supposed to be God's Kingdom on earth," he said, "but it's full of contradictions and hypocrisy. Why can't the Church just be better?" That last word landed with a judgmental thud. It hurt. Because at times the Church can look painfully ordinary, even disappointing.

Sometimes I feel capable of absorbing almost anything except God's Word. My mind soaks up song lyrics, sports trivia, and endless online content. But what was the reading at Mass this morning? I struggle to recall. That realization discourages me, and it leads to an uncomfortable question. What is my heart really for?

This weekend, our nation celebrates the 250th anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Unlike most nations, the United States was not founded primarily on a shared ethnicity, language, or culture. Instead, our founders built a political community out of diverse peoples united by a shared vision of liberty. That vision echoes something deep in the Christian mystery revealed in today's Gospel.

I still remember the first homily I ever preached as a new deacon. It was at the seminary, and the Gospel was this one: "Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me." (Matthew 10:37-38) Standing before more than 200 classmates and professors, I stumbled awkwardly through my words and realized how strange - almost insane - this teaching sounded. If anyone else said it, we would call it narcissistic or cultish.

Jean Améry, a Holocaust survivor tortured by the Nazis, later wrote about the abyss of human evil. He described his reaction as an "indignant despair." Haven't we all, to some degree, felt that abyss opened beneath us? A sudden loss, a violent headline, a moment of loneliness or panic, when the world feels fragile and meaning seems to collapse?

A few years ago, I met a woman in my parish who was a successful lawyer. Yet in her free time, she poured her energy into a nonprofit she founded to advocate for children with special needs. When I asked what inspired her, she spoke of her niece, who was born with disabilities. Her niece was both a glorious gift and a constant challenge.

When I was a young altar server, I once overheard two very different comments about the Eucharist. One person asked, "Is Father distributing the bread or the wine?" Later, another asked, "Can you go get Jesus from the tabernacle?" Same parish, same Mass, but two very different ways of speaking. I pondered: So, is it bread that we pretend is Jesus? Or is Jesus a tiny white thing in a box? I was utterly confused.