Heart Speaks to Heart: Shining Christ’s Light in the Darkness

Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Gospel of Matthew 5:13-16

Dear friends in Christ,

In the gray shadows of Auschwitz, where hope seemed all but extinguished, Father Maximilian Kolbe moved quietly among the prisoners. He had been there only a few weeks, yet already, men whispered his name with something close to reverence.

Kolbe’s kindness was simple: a crust of bread slipped to a starving neighbor, a whispered blessing in the night, a scrap of fabric shared to ward off the chill. He never spoke of fear, even as the guards barked orders and men vanished from their bunks. Instead, he spoke of Mary – “Our Mother, our confidence”, Her example that through Jesus we have a love stronger than death, a peace that could survive even in the worst of conditions.

Saint Maximilian Kolbe

One morning, the camp was thrown into chaos when a prisoner escaped. In retaliation, the commandant ordered ten men to die. As the condemned were pulled from the line, one man broke down, sobbing for his wife and children. Kolbe stepped forward. “Let me take his place,” he said, his voice steady. The guards, taken aback, agreed. Kolbe and the other chosen men were locked in a starvation cell. In that darkness, Kolbe led prayers, sang hymns, and comforted the dying. When the guards checked the cell, they found not despair, but a strange calm. Kolbe’s presence seemed to push back the gloom, his integrity shining in a place built to destroy it.

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Finding the Silver Lining: Trusting God’s Promises in the Beatitudes

Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

Dear friends in Christ,

Simon hadn’t thought about his fifth-grade teacher, Mrs. Marples, in years. She was always cheerful and often said, “Every cloud has a silver lining, Simon—especially when we trust in God. You just have to look for it.” At the time, Simon dismissed her words as just another cliché. But sitting outside the hospital, anxious about his father’s illness and his own job troubles, he remembered her kindness as a child—how she shared her struggles and her faith that God would provide, even if help came in unexpected ways.

That night, Simon prayed not for a miracle, but for trust—to see the silver lining, whatever it might be. The next day brought no sudden solutions, but he felt a new peace in his heart: his father was awake and smiling, and his boss offered support instead of criticism. Simon realized that God’s promise isn’t always to fix things instantly, but to love us through them—and that grace, even in hardship, is the true blessing. Mrs. Marples’ lesson echoed in his heart: with faith in God’s love, blessings can be found even in the hardest moments, just as Jesus teaches us in today’s Gospel through the Beatitudes.

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Saint John Bosco: Teacher of the Two Pillars

In the autumn of 1873, Saint John Bosco shared a vision with his spiritual director that would crystallize the spiritual wisdom of his entire life’s work. In this dream, he beheld the Church as a mighty ship besieged by enemy vessels bent on her destruction. Yet amid the chaos and bombardment, two towering columns rose from the sea, steadfast and unshakeable. One was crowned with a statue of the Immaculate Virgin, bearing the inscription “Help of Christians.” The other, taller and more enduring still, supported a Eucharistic Host and proclaimed, “Salvation of believers.” The Pope, steering the flagship through the storm, safely moored the Church to these two columns. At that moment, all enmity dissolved.

For Bosco, this vision was no mere spiritual fantasy. It was the culmination of decades spent educating poor and neglected youth. It revealed the deepest conviction of his pedagogical mission: that the salvation and flourishing of souls rests entirely upon devotion to Mary and frequent reception of the Eucharist. To understand Saint John Bosco as a teacher is to understand him as a herald of these two pillars, and to grasp their central importance for Catholic life today.

The Foundation: Reason, Religion, and Love

Don Bosco’s approach to education, which he termed the “Preventive System,” stands in sharp contrast to the harsh disciplinary methods of his era. Where other educators relied on fear, punishment, and distance, Bosco built his entire method on a trinomial foundation: reason, religion, and love. This was not mere sentimentality. It was a profound theological conviction about the nature of the human person and the work of formation.

The Preventive System sought to prevent faults rather than punish them after the fact. Bosco believed that young people, prone to fickleness and distraction, often stumbled not from malice but from momentary forgetfulness or weakness. A strict system of repression might stop disorder, but it could never transform hearts. It would breed resentment, bitterness, and revenge—scars that lasted into adulthood. Instead, Bosco positioned educators as loving fathers who would walk alongside their charges, offering counsel, warning them of dangers ahead, and drawing them toward goodness through affection and trust.

The genius of Bosco’s method lay in its recognition that education is fundamentally a work of the heart. An educator must first be loved before he can be respected. He must be present, not as a distant authority, but as a benefactor invested in each student’s welfare. This way, the educator becomes a cherished guide, whose words and counsel stay with the student long after school ends.

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From Darkness to Light: Embracing and Sharing the Healing Light of Christ

Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Gospel of Mark 4:12-17

Dear friends in Christ,

Today’s Gospel from Mark (4:12-17) invites us to reflect deeply on the powerful theme of light breaking into darkness. We see this vividly in the life of St. Francis of Assisi—a 13th-century saint who left behind a life of wealth to follow Christ with radical love and humility. He founded the Franciscan Order, embracing poverty and dedicating himself to serving the poor and marginalized. Francis is especially remembered for his compassion toward lepers, those society feared and shunned, seeing them not as outcasts but as brothers and sisters in need of kindness and dignity.

Saint Francis of Assisi

In a time when lepers were cast aside and left to suffer in isolation, Francis did something remarkable. He looked beyond their disease and loneliness and chose to live among them, tending to their wounds and offering friendship when most turned away. His courage and compassion shocked society, but it revealed something profound: the heart of Jesus’ message that light breaks into the darkest places through love and mercy.

This is not just a story from the past. It echoes the Gospel we hear today. Jesus came to a world sitting in darkness—a world marked by fear, despair, and oppression. The people “sitting in darkness” and “dwelling in a land overshadowed by death” were those living without hope, trapped in spiritual emptiness. Into this darkness, Jesus brings a great light—the light of hope, truth, and salvation.

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From Knowing About to Knowing: The Humble Journey to Encounter Christ

Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Gospel of John 1:29-34

Dear friends in Christ,

I want to begin this morning with a story that might sound familiar. Erin had always heard about Jesus. Growing up, she sat through Sunday school, recited prayers, and watched her grandmother light candles at church. It was all familiar, like the hum of a refrigerator—always there, easily ignored. Faith, for Erin, was something for the old or the desperate, not for someone with a job, friends, and plans for the weekend.

But life has a way of shaking our assumptions. In Erin’s last year of college, her parents split up. Her best friend drifted away. She felt like she was watching her life from the outside, unable to get back in. One night, overwhelmed and sleepless, she wandered outside, the air sharp with the promise of rain. She stared at the sky and, with nothing left to lose, whispered, “If you’re real, I need to know you.”

Nothing dramatic happened. No lightning, no voice from the clouds. But the very next day, a classmate she barely knew stopped her after class. “I know this is random, but would you want to come to my church group tonight?” Erin almost laughed. It felt too coincidental, but she said yes.

That evening, she sat in a circle of strangers as they read from the Gospel of John. When someone read, “I did not know Him, but the reason why I came… was that He might be made known,” something shifted inside her. Erin realized she’d never truly known Jesus—she’d only known about Him.

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With You I Am Well Pleased: Living God’s Call Through Humble Service and Love

Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Gospel of Matthew 3:13-17 – The Baptism of the Lord

Dear friends in Christ,

Today, I want to share with you the story of Daniel, a man from our own parish—a story that quietly echoes inside each of us as we wonder how we might help build the Kingdom of heaven around us. And the truth is, it’s often easier than our doubts let us believe.

Since he was young, Daniel sensed God calling him to something more at every Sunday Mass, but he always kept his faith private, convinced he wasn’t holy or knowledgeable enough. Years passed until his parish’s faith formation director retired and Daniel’s pastor asked if he’d consider taking on the role. Daniel almost laughed it off, doubting his worthiness. But the priest smiled and told him, “Sometimes that’s exactly what we need.”

Daniel wrestled with the invitation, thinking of the Gospel story we hear today—Jesus’ baptism by John in the Jordan. Even John felt unworthy, but Jesus stepped forward, not for His own sake, but to do the Father’s will. Daniel saw that he, too, could spend his life waiting to feel ready, or he could trust that God’s grace would meet him if he stepped forward in faith. He said yes.

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Guided by the Light: From Stormy Seas to the Star of Bethlehem

Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Epiphany of the Lord. The Gospel of Matthew 2:1-12

Dear friends in Christ,

They say the sea has a mind of its own, but on the night of February 18, 1952, it was a monster. The wind howled over Cape Cod, Massachusetts, turning the Atlantic into a black, heaving wilderness. Two tankers, the Pendleton and the Fort Mercer, broke in half, scattering sailors across the freezing waves. The radio called it a “dual disaster,” and for a while, it looked like nobody would come back alive.

Bernie Webber was a young Coast Guardsman, steady but quiet, not the sort who chased glory. He took the helm of the CG-36500, a wooden lifeboat barely 36 feet long—just big enough for a handful of men and a prayer. The Coast Guard didn’t expect much. The storm was too fierce, the water too cold, the Pendleton mostly gone. But Bernie and his crew set out anyway, following the flickering beam of the Chatham light into the wild unknown.

They found the Pendleton’s stern battered but afloat, thirty-two men huddled on deck, faces lit by the ship’s emergency lamps and the jagged blue of lightning. Every wave threatened to smash the little boat to pieces. But the men jumped, one by one, and Bernie caught them all. When he’d taken on the last man, the boat was so loaded it barely cleared the waves. The compass was gone, swallowed by the storm. The radio was dead. There was no way to steer home except by faith.

That’s when the miracle happened. As the rescue boat neared the shore, the men saw a strange glow on the horizon—dozens of car headlights, shining out from the parking lot at Chatham. Families, friends, strangers and townsfolk all lined the coastline, their cars pointed toward the sea, their lights blazing to guide the lost men home. It was hope writ large, a signal fire made of headlights, a promise that someone was waiting, that the darkness would not win. The CG-36500 followed those lights all the way to safety. Every man survived.

The story of that night is retold in books and movies—The Finest Hours—because it’s more than just a rescue. It’s about what happens when people risk everything to follow the faintest hint of light, refusing to let fear or darkness have the last word.

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