A reflection on Luke 10:1–12 for Thursday of the 26th Week in Ordinary Time.
My grown son no longer practices the faith. I pray for him, and I would be overjoyed to see him come back to Mass. But I also know that if I brought it up every time we talked, he would start dreading my calls. I I can’t say I would blame him.
However, I am his mother. Keeping quiet feels like I am not caring for him as I should. Sometimes after a visit, I wonder whether I missed the perfect chance to say something. If only I had come up with a gentle sentence that would make all the difference. But I never seem to find it.
I think Jesus knew that His disciples would also face that kind of frustration. He sent seventy-two of them ahead to the places He planned to visit. They were supposed to offer peace, care for the sick, and tell people that the Kingdom of God was near. He also told them what to do when a town refuses to welcome them: shake its dust from their feet and leave.
Bold! I picture myself standing outside the town wondering if I should give it one more try. Maybe if I hung around, I could catch somebody in a better mood after supper.
Jesus did not ask the disciples to talk until they wore people down. They had a message to bring. The people they met were free to listen to it or turn them out.
So I need to remember that with my son. He knows what I believe. When he asks a question, I can give an honest answer. I can invite him to Mass occasionally. I pray for him every day. But I can’t make my anxiety for him sound like another question he has to answer.
So we talk about the future, too. I ask about his work and the friends he hangs out with. I tell him that I am glad he called. And it is all genuine, not a trick to get him talking about church. I love my son, and I love him as he is right now.
Sometimes I am at peace with that. Other times I want to send him an article I saw, ask whether he has thought about going to confession, and keep nudging before he has had time to answer.
When that urge comes on, I try to pray first. Sometimes I just need to say to God, “I’m scared for him.” God can bear hearing that. My son does not need to carry the burden of my own fear every time we speak.
So I don’t read Jesus’ words about shaking off the dust as command to stop caring. The disciples might leave a town that has refused them, but Jesus is still on His way. That is hopeful. I might have reached the end of what I can say for now. But that doesn’t mean the Lord has reached the end of His work.
Before I call my son, I say a short prayer to ask God to help me listen well. If there is something I should say, I ask for the right moment and the nerve to say it in the right tone of voice. Then I try to let the conversation be a conversation. Afterward, I may still wonder whether I got it right. That often stays with me. I can bring that to prayer, too.
So I’ll keep the door open. I’ll keep praying. And I’ll ask Jesus to help me leave behind the dust I tend to carry from one encounter into the next.
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