In this Sunday’s Gospel, Jesus tells the story of a rich man who dies—along with a poor man called Lazarus who he knew, but never helped.

Many will naturally focus on his refusal to help someone so obviously in need. (And rightfully so.) But I’d like to jump to the end and have a conversation about his last recorded request from the netherworld

“I beg you, send Lazarus (who was in heaven) to my father’s house, for I have five brothers, so that he may warn them, lest they too come to this place of torment.”

“Hey Father! Stop talking about money during Mass! It has no place in the Church!”

Once in a great while, a Catholic priest will hear something like this. Of course, more often, people with this mindset don’t have the courage to actually voice their complaint. No, they just spread poison to their friends or family.

“The Church just says it’s a sin to miss Sunday Mass because they just want a bigger collection.”

I’ve said it before—free will is great, when it belongs to you. But it becomes a problem when other people are allowed to use it.

Mercy works in much the same way. We love it when God has mercy on us. We hope others forgive our driving if we are having an emergency. We are grateful when folks give us a little latitude in the aftermath of personal tragedy.

But when God forgives someone who has hurt a loved one? When someone cuts us off in traffic? When someone doesn’t give us the high level of customer service we expect?

Wait a minute. Hold the phone. Stop the bus.

What is the blue sky is all this about Jesus instructing us to hate everyone (including our own lives) in this week’s Gospel reading?

I mean 90% of celebrities seem to suggest that Jesus was all about loving every person and supporting everything every person does or says.

I’ve often thought a good measure of a person’s character is how they treat the free sample people at Costco. People just walk up, grab their toothpicked gouda, and walk on without even looking at the person who prepared it. If it’s a good sample, they send in family members to get seconds or thirds. I can’t even fathom asking them to take a moment and say, “thank you.”

This weekend’s Responsorial Psalm (117) says, “Go out to all the world and tell the Good News.”

And I know.

It is difficult to go out to all the world and tell the Good News. You might make some one uncomfortable. It might be your husband, wife, or children. It will probably be you. You might have someone tell you to “get lost!” You might have to quit your job. You might lose some Facebook friends or followers on Twitter or Instagram. (God forbid!)

What if you lived in eastern Ukraine right now? War, bullets, and violence all around you? You’ve been told to lock yourself and your loved ones in your home. Ignore what you hear on the other side of those four walls. Resist the urge to despair. You will be alright if you wait. Just wait. Someone will be coming to evacuate you. When that moment comes, don’t hesitate. Just follow.

You can make great choices—like reading this message or my new novel, A Life of No Coincidence (available online wherever books are sold!). And you can make poor choices—like driving on the wrong side of the road for a week or eating kale. The point is… you have free will.

Did you know other members of your family have free will, as well? And they can use that free will to make great choices or catastrophic decisions.

This Sunday’s readings are not subtle.

The first reading begins, “Vanity of vanities, all things are vanity!” If you are familiar with the proper translation—this isn’t talking about self-obsession. This is actually saying everything is fleeting. Beauty, status, wealth. This life goes by incredibly fast and you can’t take any of it with you. As Rose Totino once said, “You never see a U-Haul hitched to the back of a Hearse.”

often think one of the most difficult aspects of my back injury is that no one else can see it. It isn’t like my eyes turn red when the pain reaches a certain level. My lumbar doesn’t emit a low-level hum. And I try not to just yell when I’m hurting.

But I have come to realize that I’m not alone. Most people’s worst pains are hidden from the wider world. It might be physical pain that is so bad you understand why the lead character in the television show “House” became addicted to pain killers and was always cranky. It might be psychological pain caused by conflict, struggles, or the aftermath of tragedy. Well, the list could go on and on. The point is that most of the people we interact with on a daily basis are carrying invisible pain to one degree or another.

This weekend, we hear the story of Martha and Mary. You know the one. Martha is getting things done while Mary (NOT his mom, different Mary) just sits at Jesus’ feet and listens to him.

Martha finally gets sick of it (like most people who get things done when they see someone “just sitting there!”) and asks Jesus to say something to Mary.

We sometimes forget that both politicians and media conglomerates hire professional writers to craft their messaging. These people are truly gifted at what they do and can quickly make arguments so persuasively that those who oppose their viewpoints are often quick to question themselves.

And a small army of these persuasion ninjas have been unleashed on the abortion issue. Stand strong in the facts, my friends. I am currently working on a series of videos that help explain the Church’s position to help remind you and share with others.

I was in my mid-twenties. I was a youth minister at my second parish and I’d built the largest Catholic youth ministry program in California north of Los Angeles. And I was in Modesto, not a big city like San Francisco, San Jose, or Sacramento.

On a day like any other, I was summoned into a meeting with the pastor and the head of HR. I was informed that my services were no longer needed. (I confirmed later that the pastor’s friend—also a youth minister—was moving back to the smaller town.) I was shocked. I was hurt. I seriously considered walking away from ministry for good.

Then, something crazy happened. I went to one last Mass at that particular parish and I heard a line from this weekend’s Gospel. An amazing line.