In a world that prizes appearance, speed, and measurable outcomes, today’s Scriptures invite a return to what is real: the presence of the living God who delights in his people, who knows them by name, and who shapes a community that is simple, holy, and free. Paul writes of a Gospel that comes “not in word alone, but also in power and in the Holy Spirit and with much conviction” (1 Thess 1:5). Jesus warns against religious performance that barricades others from grace (Mt 23:13-22). And the psalm keeps repeating the astonishing truth we forget in the noise: “The Lord takes delight in his people” (Ps 149:4).
The Work of Faith, the Labor of Love, the Endurance of Hope
Paul remembers the Thessalonians for three things: “your work of faith and labor of love and endurance in hope of our Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Thess 1:3). Faith works. Love labors. Hope endures. These are not abstractions; they are the shape of a life turned “from idols to serve the living and true God” (1 Thess 1:9).
Idols today rarely wear names like Zeus or Athena. They come dressed as productivity, image management, financial security at any cost, political tribalism, or the anxious pursuit of wellness that never quite lets us rest. They promise control; they deliver emptiness. Paul’s claim is bold: the Gospel doesn’t merely talk us out of idols; it breaks their spell with the power of the Holy Spirit (1 Thess 1:5). The result is a new pattern: prayer woven into work, sacrifice braided with joy, a stubborn hope that keeps showing up—especially when life is ordinary, or hard.
Tertullian, the fiery North African teacher, described the heart of Christian conviction as the “rule of faith”—a living summary of the apostolic proclamation centered on the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and on Jesus Christ who died and rose (cf. 1 Thess 1:10). He was suspicious of clever systems that overshadow the simple, saving truth: “What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?” he famously asked—not to scorn reason, but to insist that the Church’s life flows from revelation, not fashion. His point lands today: faith is not a brand or a technique; it is a surrendered adherence to the living God who acts in history and in us. Under this rule, faith must work, love must labor, hope must endure.
A practical word: choose one idol to renounce today. Name it. Then enact the renunciation concretely. If it is the idol of productivity, keep the phone face down in your next conversation. If it is the idol of image, allow a quiet act of service to remain unseen and unposted. If it is the idol of control, pray slowly, “Jesus, I trust in you,” and accept a small inconvenience without complaint.
When Gold Outshines the Temple
Jesus’ “woe” sayings are not outbursts of anger; they are love’s protest against anything that blocks the way to God. “You lock the Kingdom of heaven,” he says, when obsession with religious minutiae eclipses the God who sanctifies (Mt 23:13-22). The Lord exposes a tragic inversion: swearing by the gold seems binding; swearing by the temple that makes the gold holy seems optional (Mt 23:16-17). Likewise, a gift on the altar seems weighty; the altar that makes the gift sacred gets sidelined (Mt 23:18-20). It is the ancient temptation to prize outcomes over presence, appearance over substance.
We do this, too. We can measure budgets, attendance, likes, and even “impact,” while neglecting the altar—God’s presence—who makes any of it holy. We can craft impressive ministries and still fail to open the door for the weary soul standing outside. Tertullian—rigorous and blunt—would call this a failure of Christian discipline, a drift into duplicity. Christians, he insisted, are made by conversion—“Christians are made, not born”—and that making shows itself in coherence: what we swear by and what we do must be one.
St. Clement of Rome, writing near the end of the first century, approached the same problem from another angle. In his Letter to the Corinthians, he pleaded for humility, harmony, and obedience to the order Christ entrusted to the apostles and their successors. He argued from the pattern of creation: God’s house has an order that protects communion and makes room for charity to flourish. Leaders are not gatekeepers who hoard access; they are stewards who ensure that grace reaches the lowly. Clement’s pastoral wisdom fits Jesus’ warning: the point is never the gold. The point is the God who makes everything holy, and the people he longs to draw near.
A practical word: ask today, “What has become ‘gold’ for me—what I track and defend—while the ‘temple’ of God’s presence is neglected?” Then make a small reversal: prioritize a person over a project, prayer over a platform, reconciliation over being right.
Hearing the Shepherd in the Noise
“My sheep hear my voice; I know them, and they follow me” (Jn 10:27). Listening is not passive; it is the posture of discipleship. The psalm imagines praise not only at the sanctuary but “upon their couches” (Ps 149:5)—on ordinary furniture, in ordinary time. There, God’s delight meets us. Listening to the Shepherd’s voice means attending to the Word, yes, but also to the Holy Spirit’s promptings in the day’s small invitations: a nudge to apologize, a pause before speaking, a generous yes where convenience says no.
Three helps for hearing:
- Scripture before screens: read the Gospel of the day slowly and aloud; repeat the line that stirs you (Jn 10:27; Mt 23:19).
- A daily examen: review the day with God, notice where you followed and where you drifted, and ask for the grace to take the next faithful step.
- A simple promise: let your yes be yes. Refuse manipulative speech. Let integrity be the quiet music by which others recognize the Shepherd’s voice in you.
Saints Who Open Doors: Louis of France and Joseph Calasanz
Today also offers two optional memorials that portray love’s labor and hope’s endurance.
St. Louis IX of France (1214–1270) wore a crown but loved Christ’s poor. He fed beggars at his table, pursued just governance, and prayed the Liturgy of the Hours. Whatever we make of medieval crusading, his sanctity shines in penitence and works of mercy. He refused to let gold outshine the temple; power became service, and policy became an altar for justice.
St. Joseph Calasanz (1557–1648), founder of the Piarists, opened free schools for the poor—“piety and letters”—believing that education is an open door to the Kingdom. He endured opposition and slander, but his hope did not quit. In him we see the Gospel arriving “in power and in the Holy Spirit and with much conviction” (1 Thess 1:5), not as a slogan but as a classroom where Christ welcomed the little ones.
A Rule for Today
Borrowing from Tertullian’s language, make a simple “rule of faith” for this day:
- I will turn from one idol concretely (1 Thess 1:9).
- I will do one hidden act of love that costs me something (1 Thess 1:3).
- I will listen for the Shepherd’s voice and follow at least one nudge promptly (Jn 10:27).
And from St. Clement, add a rule of order:
- I will seek harmony, not victory—restoring one small relationship through humility (cf. 1 Clement).
“The Lord loves his people; he adorns the lowly with victory” (Ps 149:4). That is the final word. Not the gold. Not the metrics. The Lord. His delight. His people. Turn again to him who “was raised from the dead, Jesus, who delivers us from the coming wrath” (1 Thess 1:10). Step through the open door. And, in the ordinary places of today, let praise rise—even upon your couch.