Wednesday of the 11th Week in Ordinary Time

There’s something quietly Eucharistic about an open hand. It gives. It receives. It doesn’t cling. It doesn’t grasp. “God loves a cheerful giver,” St Paul tells us—not the calculating giver, not the reluctant one, but the one whose giving flows from joy. The one whose life has been shaped by grace.

As Jesuits, we recognise this rhythm. It’s the same movement we echo in the Suscipe: Take, Lord, receive… all I have and possess. Our lives are already consecrated to the open-handedness of Christ. But the Word today calls us to refresh that offering—not just in intention, but in practice. Not just in liturgy, but in life.

Paul’s letter to the Corinthians speaks of sowing generously—not only to bless others, but to be enriched in every way for great generosity. It’s a line worth praying with. We give not because we have plenty, but because we trust the One who provides. Our giving is not a transaction. It’s participation in God’s own generosity—a generosity poured out most completely in the Eucharist.

For it is here, at this altar, that Christ gives Himself entirely. Hidden in bread, He holds nothing back. No recognition. No reward. No defence. Only the gift of Himself, given “for you” and “for many.” Every time we receive Him, we are receiving a call to live in that same shape—to become gift, poured out, quietly, faithfully.

The Psalm today reflects this Eucharistic life in action: “Blessed the one who is gracious and lends to those in need… his justice shall stand forever.” The one who fears the Lord is not only prayerful—but practical. His light rises in the darkness for others.

And in our context here in Zimbabwe, that light must shine not only in the chapels and churches, but in the small concrete needs that surround us. When a young graduate can’t find work, or a lecturer must choose between bus fare and food, it’s not just a social concern—it’s a call to compassion. An open hand may not change the whole landscape, but it can lift one life. And that, too, is justice.

What might that look like? It might mean mentoring someone quietly, without fanfare. Passing on a contact. Paying for a set of copies. Listening with full attention to someone who feels invisible. These acts may never be seen. But they are not unseen.

Jesus makes this clear in the Gospel: “Do not perform your righteous deeds to be seen.” It’s not that visible acts are wrong—they’re sometimes necessary. Advocacy, teaching, preaching—these must be visible to have impact. But what Jesus asks is deeper: that even when our works are visible, our motives are hidden. That we seek not the praise of others, but the joy of the Father’s gaze.

There’s a story of a religious brother who used to sweep the parish floor early every Saturday. He’d leave before anyone saw him. He said nothing. But the parishioners always found the sanctuary clean. No one ever thanked him. He never expected it. “God sees in secret,” Jesus says. And that is enough.

So perhaps this week we each choose one small thing—something no one will notice. A favour done quietly. A conversation where we let another speak. A gesture of dignity, given freely, without return.

Let us reflect, then:

• Where is Christ inviting me to unclench my hands—of control, approval, or security?
• What small, hidden act might I offer this week that reflects the quiet generosity of God?
• And how might I let the Eucharist I receive shape the way I give?

As we come to this altar, we do not just receive the Body of Christ—we are formed by it. Broken for others. Given in love. Quiet. Faithful. Free.

Loving God, form us in the pattern of your Son—who gave without reserve, served without applause, and trusted You in secret. May our hands, like His, be open. Amen.

In preparing this homily, I consulted various resources to deepen my understanding of today’s readings, including using Magisterium AI for assistance. The final content remains the responsibility of the author.