Jesus Christ

“Take Up Your Cross”: The Shared Burden and the Strength That Comes from It

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By: Mauro Russo

Editor’s Note: Articles originally published on Pane Vivo.

A Reflection on Matthew 16:21-27

Taking up one’s cross and following Christ: this phrase from Matthew 16:24 is one we all know. But there is something that comes before it in the text that we often skip past too quickly. Something that struck me differently this time.

“From that time on Jesus began to explain to his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and suffer many things, be killed and on the third day be raised to life” (Mt 16:21).

Jesus admits his burden. Openly. In front of his own. He says it, does not hide it, does not pretend. He, the Messiah, the one on whom everyone has placed the hopes of a revolution, says: I will suffer. I will be arrested. I will die.

How hard it is to do something like that.

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“Jesus Left the House”: When God Feeds in Abundance

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By: Mauro Russo

Editor’s Note: Articles originally published on Pane Vivo.

A Reflection on Matthew 14:13-21

Jesus left the house, crossed the sea and withdrew to a deserted place. But the crowd followed him. And seeing them, he had compassion on them and healed the sick. This is the heart of Matthew 14:13-21, and every time I read it I stop on one word alone: compassion.

It is not the same as duty. It is not the same as giving alms. I can give alms without feeling anything for that person, for their poverty, for their pain. The gesture is concrete but remains cold, antiseptic. Compassion is something else: it is entering into another person’s pain, taking it on, feeling it as your own.

Jesus did not heal to build an audience. He had no need of recognition. He was the Almighty. Jesus healed because he loved. And those he healed felt it: they felt understood, not merely assisted.

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Mary of Magdala: A Reflection on the Apostle to the Apostles

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By: Jackie Kierulf

Of all the beloved saints my maternal grandmother introduced us to, she didn’t have much to say about Mary Magdalene. Historically, this particular Mary is believed to be from Magdala, an ancient fishing village located on the Sea of Galilee in Northeastern Israel.1 Perhaps Mary Magdalene seemed too much of an outcast to acquaint us with. After all, how do you explain to a young child that Jesus had expelled several demons from a woman who then experienced tremendous healing and became a follower of Jesus? But Mary is no different from you or me, someone striving for holiness in a world that so desperately needs to know and live the message of God’s love and mercy.

Christ’s Appearance to Mary Magdalene after the Resurrection (1835) by Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov – Public Domain Catholic Painting.

A model of faith and true witness

Mary Magdalene, originally possessed by demons and healed by Jesus, was truly devoted to the Lord, financially supporting his ministry, and even remaining with him at the foot of the cross while most of the apostles fled and hid.

Mary had no doubt that the man who addressed her at the empty tomb on that Sunday morning was her Rabbi. She became an “apostle’s apostle,” tasked by Jesus to tell the others of his rising from the dead.2 Regardless of whether her fleeing by boat to the south of France, preaching and evangelizing, and living in a mountain cave, is true, Mary’s mission as the messenger of salvation began.

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The Forgotten Miracle Worker of the Catholic Church

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“Amen, amen, I say to you, whoever believes in me will do the works that I do, and will do greater ones than these, because I am going to the Father.” (John 14:12)

Those words can feel startling, almost too great to be true. For a long time, John 14:12 raises a simple question in the mind: did Jesus mean this as literal reality, or as a symbol? I wrestled with that question before. While researching St. Vincent Ferrer, I found myself returning to John 14:12 with new clarity. What I found in his life helped make Jesus’ promise feel less distant.

The Impact of a Name

For years, St. Vincent Ferrer was mostly a familiar name. My father is named Vincent, so the Dominican preacher naturally came up as one of his patron saints. Still, if we’re honest, “Vincent” often triggers a more common association, St. Vincent de Paul, and the mind doesn’t always go further.

That changed after an unexpected conversation with a Catholic bookstore owner. While helping him with an order for Voyage Comics (another matter entirely), we drifted into saints. At some point he said something that pulled me up short: “St. Vincent Ferrer was one of the greatest miracle workers in Church history.” I was skeptical. Stories like that can grow larger over time, and every generation seems to add to the glow.

But curiosity won out. I began reading, and what I found was enough to force another question: why don’t more Catholics seem to know him today?

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Rest for the Weary: Trusting Jesus to Lighten Our Burdens

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Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Gospel of Matthew 11:25-30

Dear Friends in Christ,

I want to begin today by sharing a story that might sound familiar to many of us. There was a family in our parish—a mother, a father, and three young children—who, just last year, found themselves walking a path they never expected. The youngest child, only seven, was diagnosed with a chronic illness. Suddenly, life became a series of hospital visits, sleepless nights, and endless worries. The bills stacked up. The parents, already stretched thin, began to feel the weight of the world pressing down on them. Even the simplest tasks—preparing dinner, helping with homework, taking a moment to breathe—became burdens too heavy to carry.

At first, the family tried to manage everything on their own. They told themselves they had to be strong, that they couldn’t show weakness. But as weeks turned into months, exhaustion set in. Tensions ran high, patience ran low, and the joy that once filled their home seemed lost beneath the stress and fear.

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What Is True Freedom? A Catholic Reflection

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Editor’s Note: Post originally published on July 7, 2025.

Each year on July 4th, Americans pause to celebrate a powerful ideal: freedom. Enshrined in the First Amendment of the Constitution are the freedoms of religion, speech, press, and peaceful assembly. These are no small matters; they’re essential to any flourishing civil society.

But beyond fireworks and parades, deeper questions remain. What exactly is freedom? Is it merely the right to do what we want? Or is there something more? What does freedom mean from a Christian perspective, and how do we live it in our daily lives?

Freedom To vs. Freedom From

Our culture often confuses two very different ideas of freedom. The first is freedom to do whatever we want—to chase every desire, express every opinion, follow every urge. Let’s call that negative freedom: the removal of restrictions. But there’s another kind of freedom: positive freedom, which is the ability to choose the good. Not just to act, but to act rightly.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church explains it like this:

“Freedom is the power, rooted in reason and will, to act or not to act, to do this or that, and so to perform deliberate actions on one’s own responsibility. By free will one shapes one’s own life.” (CCC 1731)

Put simply: freedom is not about license. It’s about love.

The Wound of Sin and the Hope of Redemption

Of course, we all know that our freedom is wounded. The Catechism puts it bluntly:

“Man’s freedom is limited and fallible. In fact, man failed. He freely sinned. By refusing God’s plan of love, he deceived himself and became a slave to sin.” (CCC 1739)

Sin tricks us. It whispers, You’re free when you follow your impulses. But we know where that leads: addiction, broken relationships, pride, despair. Yet even in that brokenness, God does not abandon us.

In Christ, we discover what true freedom looks like:

“In him we have communion with the ‘truth that makes us free.’” (CCC 1741)

And Jesus doesn’t mince words:

“I am the way, and the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:6)

Freedom

John Paul II: Freedom Anchored in Truth

Saint Pope John Paul II, in Redemptor Hominis and Redemptoris Missio, tackled this very issue. He reminds us that the Cross is the fullest expression of divine love. The redemption Christ won for us is the restoration of freedom—not freedom from suffering or sacrifice, but freedom for love and truth.

“He and he alone also satisfied that fatherhood of God and that love which man in a way rejected by breaking the first Covenant…” (Redemptor Hominis, 9)

Freedom is a gift, but it must be received rightly:

“Freedom is only a gift if one knows how to use it for everything that is true good.” (Redemptor Hominis, 21)

In short: Freedom finds its fulfillment not in self-expression but in self-gift.

Wrestling with Freedom in Daily Life

I don’t write these reflections as someone who’s mastered the art of holy freedom. Quite the opposite. I wrestle daily with control, pride, and anxiety. My OCD has often convinced me that peace lies in organizing my inbox or cleaning the kitchen to perfection. And for a brief moment, that illusion holds. But inevitably, my self-made “freedom” crashes against reality. Usually, it’s in the form of a diaper blowout or a child needing my attention.

When my comfort is disrupted, I’m forced to choose again. Will I insist on my version of freedom? Or will I surrender?

Confession has been a powerful reset for me. So has the Eucharist. Grace doesn’t magically remove my tendencies, but it does remind me that I’m not alone. And that I don’t need to save myself.

Discernment: Choosing What God Wants

Living in a culture of endless options can leave us paralyzed. Sometimes freedom feels like a burden. Too many roads. Too many doors. But Catholic spirituality gives us a compass: discernment.

Discernment, as St. Ignatius of Loyola taught, is about listening. Clarifying, not inventing, what God is already inviting us into. His Spiritual Exercises culminate in a radical prayer of surrender called the Suscipe:

Take Lord, and receive all my liberty, my memory, my understanding, and my entire will…

It’s not a sentimental gesture. It’s a battle cry against the tyranny of self-will. It’s the only sane response to the insane love of God who gave us everything, including the freedom to reject Him.

As Amy Welborn explains, Ignatius believed love is better shown in deeds than in words. True love involves a mutual exchange of gifts. The Suscipe is a prayer of detachment from anything that would keep us from living in total communion with God. And this detachment isn’t just for monks and nuns. It’s for every soul God made—parents, teachers, artists, mechanics, children.

When we pray this way, we’re not forfeiting freedom. We’re finally using it well.

Mary: Model of Free Surrender

One of the most beautiful images of holy freedom is the Virgin Mary at the Annunciation. When the angel Gabriel presented God’s plan to her, she paused, asked a clarifying question, and then said the most earth-shattering “yes” in human history:

“Be it done unto me according to thy word.” (Luke 1:38)

St. Josemaría Escrivá reflected on this moment, writing:

“This is the fruit of the best freedom of all, the freedom of deciding in favor of God.”

Mary didn’t choose ease. She chose love. She shows us that the highest use of freedom is surrender, not in defeat but in trust.

True Freedom Begins with Christ

There are two extremes we must avoid. One is the belief that we can save ourselves by sheer effort—Pelagianism. The other is presumption, the belief that Christ will save us no matter what and our choices don’t matter. Both are lies.

The truth is that we are free. And Christ, in love, respects our freedom enough to invite, not coerce. As John Paul II said:

“Faith demands a free adherence on the part of man, but at the same time faith must also be offered to him.” (Redemptoris Missio, 8)

That means each moment, each decision, each act of love or resistance to sin becomes an opportunity to use our freedom well.

It also means that freedom isn’t found in escaping our limits. It’s found in choosing the good, even when it’s hard. Even when it costs.

A Prayer for the Journey

So what do we do with our freedom? We offer it back to the One who gave it. As St. Ignatius prayed:

Take, Lord, and receive all my liberty,
 my memory, my understanding, and my entire will,
 all that I have and possess.
 You have given all to me.
 To you, O Lord, I return it.
 All is yours; dispose of it wholly according to your will.
 Give me your love and your grace, for this is sufficient for me.
 – St. Ignatius of Loyola

This is not a prayer of defeat. It is a declaration of trust, hope, and love—the freedom that only Christ can give.

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A Cup of Cold Water: Serving Christ in the Little Ones

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Guest Post by: David Tonaszuck

A reflection on the Gospel of Matthew 10:37-42

Dear Friends in Christ,

There’s a house on the edge of town, old but warm, with wide porches shaded by tall trees. In it live Mary and Joseph—an older couple, married nearly fifty years. Their children are grown, the rooms are mostly empty, but their hearts have only grown larger with the years. They’ve made a quiet promise to God: if someone is lost, hurting, or needs a place to begin again, their home will be open.

One winter, a man named Tom came knocking. He’d once worked with Joseph, years ago, when things were easier. But Tom’s world had unraveled—alcoholism, a painful divorce, and now, jobless, he was left with two small children and nowhere steady to go. He was ashamed to ask for help, but Joseph and Mary didn’t hesitate. They welcomed him and his children in. Mary cooked warm meals; Joseph sat with Tom late into the night, listening, praying, helping him plot a way forward. For months, Tom lived in that house. The children slowly smiled again. Tom found sobriety, and eventually, work. He moved out, but he never forgot the gift of shelter and hope—given not because he could repay it, but because he was in need.

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