In this weekend’s Gospel, three times Jesus tells his disciples the same thing: do not be afraid. He says it as he sends them out, knowing full well the opposition they will face. He is not pretending the world is safe. He is telling them that fear should not be the thing that drives them. “Do not be afraid of those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul.” And then comes the tender image that has comforted Christians for two thousand years: not even a sparrow falls without the Father knowing it, and you are worth more than many sparrows. Even the hairs of your head are counted.
We hear the same fearless trust in Jeremiah. Surrounded by people whispering against him, watching for any misstep so they could denounce him, the prophet still proclaims, “The Lord is with me, like a mighty champion.” His confidence does not come from his circumstances, which were genuinely frightening. It comes from God. Paul, in the second reading, names this same choice in different language. Adam represents the old pattern of turning from God, the root of fear and death entering the world. Christ represents a steadfast obedience to the Father, bringing grace and life in its place. Where Adam’s path leads to fear, Christ’s leads to trust.
The temptation in our own time is the same as it was for Jeremiah and the first disciples, even if the threats look different. Fear has a way of getting behind the wheel of our lives. It tells us to pull back, to stop caring about the things that trouble us, to shut out the world and accept a false safety. Fear can quietly hollow out a person until they are no longer who God made them to be. The antidote is not pretending we are brave. The antidote is staying close to Christ, trusting that our lives are held in God’s plan for us and for all humanity. When we are anchored there, we have nothing ultimately to fear.
This is exactly the spirit Pope Leo XIV calls us to in his encyclical Magnifica Humanitas, his reflection on safeguarding the human person in the age of artificial intelligence. He warns us against two opposite temptations. One is to be paralyzed by fear of this technology, frozen and passive. The other is to be swept up in uncritical excitement, equally passive in a different way. Neither response is worthy of disciples. “Do not be afraid” is not an invitation to disengage. It is a call to stay engaged, clear-eyed and faithful, helping to shape these tools so they serve human dignity rather than diminish it. Pope Leo asks each of us to build our own section of the wall, to take responsibility for the small part that is ours, and to keep the human person at the center of everything we make.
I was reminded of this last Sunday at our session, “Courage and Humility: The Church and AI,” with Gavin Corn serving as our moderator and myself. He asked thoughtful questions about artificial intelligence, the Pope’s encyclical, and my own experience working at the intersection of faith and technology. What delighted me most was the room itself. Over 400 of you came out for the evening. The questions from the floor were honest and searching, and the whole exchange had the feel of a community thinking together about something that matters. I am so grateful to everyone who came. This is precisely the kind of engagement Pope Leo is asking for, neither fearful nor naive, but faithful and awake. We will continue to hold these conversations in the months ahead, and I am genuinely encouraged by how many of you want to be part of them. Many of you asked for the link to the recorded session so you can share it or watch it again. You can watch the recording here.
This Sunday is Father’s Day, and I want to offer a particular blessing to all our fathers, grandfathers, godfathers, and the many men who have been fathers in spirit to those who needed one. So much of what today’s readings ask of us is something good fathers already know how to do. They show up in the front lines of ordinary life, often quietly, often at real cost. They hold steady in difficult times so that those they love do not have to be afraid. They model the very courage Jesus describes, a courage rooted in love rather than fearlessness. We are grateful for you. We are grateful for the faith you hand on, sometimes in words and just as often in the simple constancy of your presence. And we are grateful, above all, for the love and faith in Christ that fathers at their best reflect to us, an echo of the Father whose care reaches every sparrow and counts every hair.
To all our fathers, living and departed, we say thank you. May God hold you now as you have held us, steady even when the ground shook beneath us. And may you know, even in all the ways we forget to say it, that you are loved beyond measure.
God Bless,
Fr. Brendan