Tuesday of the 22nd Week in Ordinary Time

The readings today quietly call us to attention. Not the tense, alert posture of someone expecting danger—but the gentle readiness of a heart that expects Christ to appear in real places, real people, real time. Paul tells the Thessalonians not to waste energy predicting “the day of the Lord.” Instead, live as children of the light. Stay awake—not by knowing more, but by loving more. Wakefulness, in this sense, is attentiveness to Christ in the present.

The Psalm gives this a voice: “I believe I shall see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.” That belief is not theory. It’s a decision to see differently. And seeing like that requires practice: to notice where goodness flickers even in difficulty, to trust that God is not absent even in our nation’s struggles, and to believe that something holy is always near if we choose to pay attention.

Then in the Gospel, Jesus walks into the synagogue in Capernaum—a familiar space. He teaches, not with borrowed words, but with His own. And a man cries out, disturbed by this presence that sees right through him. Jesus speaks, simply, clearly: “Be silent. Come out of him.” A word that frees. A voice that heals. That’s what divine authority sounds like—not loud, but clear.

And still today, Christ comes—not usually through dramatic exorcisms, but through quiet acts of mercy, quiet truths spoken in hard places, quiet courage in the face of fear. And this is where the saints help us see more clearly.

Today we remember a company of Jesuit martyrs: Blessed James Bonnaud, Joseph Imbert, John Nicolas Cordier, Thomas Sitjar, John Fausti, and their companions. They lived in times of great disturbance—Revolutionary France, the Spanish Civil War, fascist Europe. Times when darkness did not hide in the shadows, but strutted through the streets in broad daylight. These men did not survive by shouting back. They stayed awake by staying rooted in Christ. Attentive to the people entrusted to them. Attentive to the suffering, the searching, the silence. Even when facing death, they did not look away.

What made them strong was not certainty, but faith. Not foresight, but fidelity. They show us what it means to live as children of the light: to remain deeply, stubbornly attentive to Christ—in friend and stranger, in bread and blood, in life and even in dying.

St Ignatius would ask us not just to admire these men, but to follow their gaze. What did they see, even in prison, even before the firing squad? They saw Christ. And they responded not with fear, but with peace.

So perhaps the real question is not when the Lord will come, but whether we will be paying attention when He does.

Today in prayer, consider:

• Where is Christ already present in your day, waiting to be noticed?
• Whose suffering or silence is calling for your attention?
• What would it mean, practically and prayerfully, to live this week as a child of the light?