Living your Faith

You won’t find mustard seeds in most kitchens anymore.

A mustard seed is tiny, but it produces something useful–and grand

The Gospel uses this image as a metaphor about faith.

Like the quiet prayer you say in traffic.

Like keeping your voice calm with a child who is upset.

Like showing up for work when you’d rather stay home.

These moments don’t feel big, but they build strength.

This week’s Gospel speaks to two things we don’t like to admit: we want proof that our faith is working, and we want some credit for holding things together. But most of what holds the world up happens behind the scenes. Barely visible and often not appreciated.

Like when parents keep their children safe. Nurses working night shifts. Volunteers helping clean up after a fundraiser while others head home.

Nobody claps. But the work still needs doing.

I invite you this week to practice this kind of faith, and start small. Choose one ordinary action today and do it with intention. It could be a prayer before starting a task, a word of patience, or a quiet act of service.

This is how faith grows and how a life of service takes shape.

God bless,
FF

The last spot in the parking lot usually isn’t anyone’s first choice. 

It’s far from the door and usually ignored until everything else is taken.

But it still gets you inside. 

You still have a place to park your car so you can get where you need to be.

Life works the same way. 

Society tells us to go for the better seat, the closer spot, the bigger stage. 

This shows up in small ways: wanting credit at work, hoping the family notices all you do, comparing vacations or kids’ achievements with neighbors. None of those are bad in themselves, but when they become the scoreboard, they drain us. 

There will always be someone closer, faster, shinier.

The saints didn’t bother playing that game. They didn’t get to heaven by pushing into the front row. They learned to be content in the unnoticed places. Some of the holiest lives were lived almost entirely offstage: washing dishes in a convent, sitting quietly in prayer, helping a neighbor without thanks. They trusted that God sees what the world misses.

I invite you to practice this week: the next time you find yourself in the back of the parking  lot,  remember: you still got there, you still belong, and God was with you the whole walk to the door.

The other day I caught myself Googling new headphones.

Mine still work. They’re not broken or bad, just not the best anymore. And for some reason, that made them feel like not good enough.

I caught myself. I think this happens a lot, and not just with headphones, but with all sorts of things. We’re constantly looking a little further down the road: the next job, the next trip, the next step up.

It’s easy to look at what we have and still feel like we’re missing something.

This weekend’s Gospel tells the story of a man who had more than enough. He had a great harvest, more than he could store, so he planned to build bigger barns. In and of itself, bigger barns aren’t selfish or cruel. He was simply focused on what was his and how to make it last.

And then, just like that, his time ran out. Everything he’d been saving, planning, holding onto—all of it went to someone else.

I’m not suggesting ambition is the issue. Planning ahead isn’t wrong. The tension isn’t between doing well and doing good, but rather looking forward so hard we don’t see what’s already here.

Sometimes, hitting pause brings more clarity, calm, even creativity, because notes of gratitude, presence, and a clear mind tend to make everything that follows feel more intentional and alive. Mindfulness (just noticing) can sharpen focus, reduce stress, calm the heart, and invite a little more kindness and productivity into whatever comes next.

Some philosophers and psychologists talk about this as the foundation of intentional living. Not checking out of ambition, but making choices that echo our values instead of defaulting to autopilot. 

And it’s this attention that matters.  What am I paying attention to? What do I think I need more of before I can exhale, enjoy, or share?

Most of us don’t need more stuff.

We need more pauses.

More moments where we notice how much we already have: the cup of coffee in our hand, a roof overhead, someone we can call, a God who sees it all and stays close, whether we’ve noticed or not.

There’s no shame in success. My invitation this week is simply notice what’s already here. The people, the grace, the enough-ness of now, and maybe let that awareness spill over a little, into a conversation, a small kindness, or even just a moment of stillness you might’ve otherwise missed.

God bless,
Fr. Francisco

You know that moment when you type out a text to someone, then backspace through the whole thing?

This happens in prayer too.

You want to say something to God, but maybe it feels awkward, or too small, or you think “He already knows anyway.”

But this week’s gospel has Jesus’ disciples asking Him, “Teach us to pray.” What is notable is that they weren’t new to prayer—they grew up with it, but something about the way Jesus prayed made them want to start fresh.

And He didn’t give them a lecture, but rather He gave them a simple prayer: “Father, who art in Heaven…”

It’s not really about getting it perfect. It’s really about staying connected.

Think about how we communicate now: we don’t save everything for one big, polished conversation. We send short check-ins, reminders, questions, and random thoughts throughout the day.

Prayer can be like that.

So here’s something practical: treat prayer like a daily text.

Quick. Honest. Real.

Something like:

“God, I could use a little peace today.”
“Thanks for that quiet moment.”
“Please help me not lose it in this meeting.”

You don’t have to feel holy to pray. You just have to be willing to stay in touch.

God bless,
-FF

Moment of honesty…

We don’t mind the idea of loving our neighbor–until that neighbor is someone who annoys us, disagrees with us, or rubs us the wrong way.

That’s what makes this Gospel tough.

Jesus tells the story of a man who’s beaten, robbed, and left for dead. A priest walks by. Then a Levite. And neither stops. When a Samaritan shows up—someone from a group the Jews generally avoided and looked down upon—he’s the one who helps.

It’s easy to admire the Samaritan.

It’s harder to admit how often we play the role of the other two.

We all have our versions: the family member we’ve written off. The person at work we avoid. The homeless guy at the train station that we pretend not to see. And if we’re honest, we ask ourselves “Do I really have to help?”

This week in the homily, we were reminded that the answer is simple: yes.

Because that’s what love requires.

Loving God and loving your neighbor aren’t two separate things. One shows up in the other.

It might look like giving someone your full attention.

Not rolling your eyes in the grocery line.

Checking in on someone you’ve avoided.

Forgiving someone who never said sorry.

Small things, but they matter.

The Gospel doesn’t say the Samaritan fixed everything. He just stopped and did what he could.

That’s the invitation this week: don’t walk past. Look up. Help where you can. That’s where eternal life starts—right in the middle of “regular life.”

God bless,
-FF

A woman came to confession recently, and after a long pause, she said, “Father, I haven’t prayed in years. I don’t even know where to begin.” She sounded tired. A little embarrassed. Disconnected.

I told her what I often tell people: “You just did begin.”

That’s really the heart of today’s Gospel and something we can put into practice today.

Jesus sends out seventy disciples with a simple mission: go out, offer peace, and bring people back. Back to healing, back to hope, back to God. He doesn’t wait until they have all the answers. He sends them as they are: people willing to take the next step.

God created this world with purpose. He made us to grow, to move outward, to build. But He also made us to come back—back to Him and one another, and He wants our help in making that happen.

Each one of us has a role. 

Some of the work is obvious: teaching, leading, building. 

More of it is quiet: a kind word. A phone call. A moment of real forgiveness. Being present when someone needs to know they still matter.

You don’t need a title to be part of this. 

If you’re open to it, you can do it today. 

This week’s invitation is that if there’s someone in your life who’s drifted, take a step toward them this week. If you’ve drifted, take a step back. It doesn’t need to be grand gestures or dramatic–you don’t even need to feel ready.

Just begin. God’s already walking toward you.

God Bless.
-FF

You ask someone how they’re doing, and they say “fine.”

But you can tell they’re not. 

Their eyes are tired. Their voice is tight. 

And for a split second, you think about asking again, but you don’t. 

You’ve got your own weight to carry. Your own list of things that feel too big,  tender, and/or unfinished.

So you both move on. 

And the moment passes.

We live in a world full of unspoken things: grief, worry, self-doubt, unanswered prayers, and yet somehow in the middle of all that, people are still trying to lead, to help, and show up.

Jesus asked His disciples a question: “Who do you say that I am?” And they respond with what they’ve heard others say. Safe answers. Detached answers. 

When Peter speaks from something deeper, “You are the Christ,” he says what he sees but not just with his eyes, with his heart.

Jesus realizes he didn’t come to this on his own, but rather God showed it to him because he was open. And that openness is exactly what made him trustworthy—so much so that Jesus hands him the keys.

Peter earned this trust because he was ready to receive that info.

The lesson here is that we don’t have to be perfect to be part of something meaningful, but we do have to be open. Open to what God is already showing us. Open to what others are carrying. Open to the possibility that our assumptions might be wrong.

Open.

This week’s invitation: when you notice someone’s “I’m fine” doesn’t feel legit, don’t rush past it. Stay open, ask again, or offer quiet presence. You don’t have to offer a solution–just being willing to see them is often enough.

God bless.
-FF

You and I live by faith more than we realize.

Think about how you spend your time. You pour in effort, care, attention, whether it’s in your work, relationships, home, community, or simply to keep the days full and life moving.

You can’t hold trust. You can’t show patience. You can’t bottle the love or encouragement you offer to others.

But you trust it matters.

You believe your time and effort add up to something real, even though the most important parts of it can’t be displayed or proven on command.

Or think about love. You can’t see love under a microscope. You can’t weigh it on a scale. But you know when it’s present and you know when it’s missing.

Or even your own spirit. You can’t point to it on an X-ray. But it animates everything about your life: your thoughts, your relationships, your hopes, and when that spark is gone, everything is different.

Believing in the Trinity is like that.

We’re invited to trust in something we can’t fully see or explain, but which shapes everything. The life of God—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—moves in us and through us, calling us to live with greater love, courage, and hope.

And I’m here to remind you of the good news: you’re already practicing this kind of trust, every single day.

My invitation to you is as you move through this week, notice the ways you’re already living by trust: in your relationships, in the choices you make, in simply how you show up each day.

Then take a quiet moment to pray: God, help me lean into that same trust with You. Give me courage, patience, and openness, especially when life feels uncertain or unclear.

God bless,
FF

Remember that scene in Bruce Almighty where Bruce gets swamped by millions of prayers?

“Please let me win the lottery.”
“Please get me that promotion.”
“Please make my ex call me back.”

So what does he do? He panics and hits “YES to all” just to make the requests go away. Chaos ensues.

It’s funny… and a little familiar.

Most of us—myself included—tend to pray for outcomes.

“Please let this conversation go well.”
“Please don’t let me mess this up.”
“Please let them forgive me.”

And hey, there’s nothing wrong with wanting good outcomes. Of course we do. But here’s something I’ve learned (and re-learned, even as a priest): it’s usually more helpful to pray for what I can actually receive: clarity, courage, grace, patience.

A friend of mine was wrestling with this not long ago. She had a friendship that had gone sideways. She wanted to reach out, but every time she sat down to write the message or attempt a phone call, she froze.

Her first instinct was to pray: “Please let this go well. Please let her respond kindly.”

When we talked, I gently suggested: “What if, instead of trying to steer the outcome, you asked the Holy Spirit to help you with how you show up in the conversation?”

She paused, nodded, and prayed: “Holy Spirit, help me be clear. Help me be kind. Help me listen well. Help me stay steady even if it’s awkward.”

When I spoke with her again, she recounted that the conversation wasn’t flawless, but it was honest and moved things forward. And she left it feeling lighter because she’d shown up with grace.
That’s one of the beautiful things about Pentecost–it reminds us the Holy Spirit is still with us, helping us in the middle of real life, everyday stuff.

So here’s my invitation for the week: Think of one situation you’ve been worrying about or overthinking. A conversation, a decision, whatever it is but something you’ve been putting off.

Before you take the next step, pause. Pray: “Holy Spirit, help me show up with grace, courage, and clarity—whatever happens.”

Then go forward.

You don’t have to do it alone.

God Bless.
FF

There’s a moment when you’re teaching a kid to ride a bike when you stop holding the seat.You’re still running behind them, just in case, but you’re not steering anymore.
They don’t always notice right away. And when they do, there’s usually a second of panic… followed by joy–because now they know they can do it.
That’s a little what this Sunday feels like.
Jesus has spent years walking with the disciples, patiently teaching them, even when they didn’t quite get it. And now, He’s leaving, but before He does, He gives them one last direction: go, preach repentance, tell people they’re forgiven. Then He blesses them and is gone.
They walk back to Jerusalem full of joy.
Because now it all makes sense. They understand Him and they understand themselves. They’re not just students anymore. They’re part of the mission.
It’s not always that clear for us. Most of us are somewhere between feeling like we should be doing something, and not knowing exactly what that is. We show up at Mass, we pray, we try to be decent human beings. But we’re not always sure if we’re really living the mission—or just circling the block with training wheels still on.
For today, that’s ok.
But this week I invite you to look at what Jesus has already told you to do and actually do it. Like making that phone call, breaking that bad habit, forgive that difficult neighbor.
God is already running behind you.
And just let go of the seat.
You’re more ready than you think.

God Bless.
FF