This morning’s daily reading from the Catholic lectionary—Jeremiah 1:4–10—hit me hard. It’s one I’ve read before, maybe even skimmed. But today, I slowed down and took it in. Jeremiah was afraid. He thought he was too young to be used by God. Too inexperienced. Too small.
And in response, God didn’t entertain the excuse. He said to him, “Do not say, ‘I am too young.’ To whomever I send you, you shall go; whatever I command you, you shall speak. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you to deliver you”(Jeremiah 1:7–8).
That struck a chord in me.
Later, I saw an Instagram post from a local church. In the photo, a little girl—my former friend’s daughter—was sitting in Children’s Church with her Bible and highlighter on her lap. She looked like she was studying. I don’t know if she was just following instructions or if something deeper was happening in her heart. But either way, I found myself praying for her.
In that moment, I understood something: God isn't interested in how qualified we feel—He’s interested in how open we are to Him.
Today’s faith climate often encourages comfort. Surface-level commitment. Lukewarm spirituality. We know the prayers, we attend the classes, but do we let the Word of God take root and stretch us? Do we allow it to disrupt our lives?
Pope Benedict XVI once said, “The world offers you comfort. But you were not made for comfort. You were made for greatness.”
That greatness comes through depth, not convenience.
On Sunday, after our Eucharistic Procession, I spoke with my RCIA sponsor about how shallow RCIA felt. One of the instructors keeps walking up to me, saying, “We’ve got to figure out what’s stopping you from becoming Catholic.”
But the truth is, nothing is “stopping” me—except that the Holy Spirit hasn’t yet given the green light. I’ve tried to explain this, but she doesn’t understand. Her conversion story was simple: “I didn’t believe Mary was the Mother of God, and then I did. So I became Catholic in 1982.”
That was the start of her journey—but for many of us, faith doesn’t arrive wrapped in a bow. It grows slowly, in the dark, sometimes in pain.
St. John Henry Newman wrote, “Growth is the only evidence of life.” And I believe our churches need to stop confusing entry into the Church with maturity in Christ.
Jeremiah didn’t want to say yes to God, but he did—reluctantly. And yet God still anointed him: “See, I place my words in your mouth” (Jeremiah 1:9).
John the Baptist was set apart from birth, but his road wasn’t smooth either. At the end of his life, from prison, he asked his disciples to go to Jesus and ask, “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?” (Matthew 11:3). Even he doubted. Even he wrestled.
And speaking of wrestling—so did Jacob. He literally wrestled with God all night (Genesis 32:24–30), refusing to let go until he received a blessing. Jacob limped away with a dislocated hip, but he also walked away with a new name: Israel, which means “he who struggles with God.” That struggle wasn't a mark of weakness; it was the very proof of his relationship. Wrestling with God means you are engaged. It means you are questioning, and if you are questioning, then you are growing.
The same is true of the apostles. They walked with Jesus daily, yet still scattered in fear at His crucifixion.
Real faith is not easy. It’s not clean. It doesn’t always make sense.
C.S. Lewis said it plainly: “I didn’t go to religion to make me ‘happy.’ I always knew a bottle of port would do that. If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don’t recommend Christianity.”
That little girl with her highlighter reminded me that we can start young—but we must never stop growing. We need to raise disciples who go beyond memory verses and coloring pages, and churches who go beyond filling pews.
Because if our roots aren’t deep, our faith won’t hold in the storm. Jesus warned of this in the parable of the sower: “Some seed fell on rocky ground... it sprang up at once... but it had no root and withered” (Matthew 13:5–6).
St. Teresa of Ávila once said, “Mental prayer is nothing else than an intimate sharing between friends... It means taking time frequently to be alone with Him who we know loves us.” And in that sharing, God refines and deepens us.
We don’t need a shallow church. We need one that’s willing to wade into the deep.
We need to stop fearing hard questions.
We need to stop rushing people into conversions they’re not ready for.
We need to stop settling for polite religiosity.
We need to trust the Spirit.
We need to wrestle with God like Jacob did.
We need to answer the call like Jeremiah—even when we feel unqualified.
Because that’s where real faith begins.
Not at the surface, but in the depths.
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