You know what? I hate to say this, but Father Cantalamessa's sermon about "Who do you say that I am?" is the same old stuff that you hear in the Catholic Church all the time. It all comes from the left, logical lobe and frankly, is beginning to annoy me.
I never thought that I would catch myself saying that, but it is true. When I saw this on the front page of the magazine to which I am related, I was plugged in and rattled.
We Catholics never hear a true testimony of personal faith from the pulpit. This part of the Gospel should have been the trigger for personal witness to the relationship between the spiritual leader of the flock and Jesus. Instead what we got, and not just from Father Cantalamessa, but from the rest of the clergy, was a bunch of direction from what appears to be the intellectual leader of the Sunday School Assembly. I am not so sure that any of these preachers know Jesus.
I am quite convinced that they can talk about Jesus all day. After all, that's what they studied in school for all those years of seminary.
But it's getting more and more evident to me that none of them ever shook His hand, looked Him in the eye, and said what Peter said, "You are the Messiah, the Son of the Living God" and I am very glad to know you.
The pulpit leaders of the Catholic Church rarely reach into their own hearts to throw spiritual love out over the congregation. Catholics themselves imitate this and never talk about their personal relationship with Jesus. We know that if we do, we will be ridiculed by our hearers and more than likely be accused of boasting about our intimate relationship with "the Lord."
Why are we ashamed of being emotional about our relationship with Jesus? We hold hands with our children. We hold hands with our wives. We are not even shy about wrapping our arms around one another and even slipping a hand into our loved one's back pocket in public. I want to know what is so shameful about patting Jesus on the back(side!) in public?
I think that after I finish with this diatribe, I'm going to polish off my rusty Italian and give a piece of the right side of my brain to Father Cantalamessa. When I get done with him, he won't cry at my funeral.
As they say in Italy, "Finalmente, non c'è più!"
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