Other Reflections

One of the most profound passages in the Gospel is the Parable of the Prodigal Son. In that story we encounter not only two sons, but the heart of the Father.

Most of us recognize something of ourselves in those sons. The younger son walks away from the father’s house, chasing freedom and fulfillment, only to discover that life apart from the Father leads to hunger and restlessness. The elder son never leaves home, yet he remains distant in another way. He obeys, but his heart is closed. He serves, but he does not rejoice.

Both sons are lost. One through rebellion, the other through resentment. Yet the father goes out to meet them both.

This parable reveals something essential about God. His love is not earned. It is given. As St. Paul writes in Romans, “You did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but a spirit of adoption through which we cry, ‘Abba, Father.’” We are not servants trying to earn wages. We are sons who have received an inheritance.

Many of us spend years discovering this truth. I know I did.

In my twenties and early thirties, I rarely darkened the door of a church. My mother prayed for me constantly, but faith was not a central part of my life. I was busy building a career and pursuing the things I thought would bring fulfillment. Looking back, I can see that God was calling me, but I did not recognize the call.

For a time, my professional life seemed to be thriving. At Microsoft, I had the opportunity to lead some challenging accounts and help turn them around. My work was recognized, my responsibilities grew, and it seemed as though everything was moving upward.

But seasons change. With new leadership came unexpected shifts. My previous success was quickly set aside, and I found myself in a position where my work felt invisible. What had once felt secure suddenly felt uncertain.

It was during that difficult season that something began to change within me. I started praying more. I began reading spiritual books during long stretches of travel. Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, God began reshaping my heart. I began to understand something that had eluded me before: the life I had built on my own was not enough.

Marriage and fatherhood deepened that realization. On my wedding day, standing beside my wife Kim at the altar, I sensed something stirring in my heart. It felt like a kind of homecoming. Yet even then, I was still learning how to respond to God’s invitation.

Then our daughter Sophie was born. Holding her in my arms awakened a kind of love I had never experienced before. With that love came responsibility. Not only to provide materially, but to lead spiritually.

Fatherhood has a way of clarifying priorities. It forces you to confront the question: Who am I becoming?

As our children began attending Catholic school, I found myself returning to Mass more regularly. At first I told myself I was doing it for them, but the truth is that something deeper was happening. God was drawing me back.

My formal return to the Church came through adult Confirmation. During those months of formation, I encountered the Gospel in a new way. And during Lent, the Gospel reading that struck me most deeply was the very story of the Prodigal Son. I remember thinking, “This is my story.” Yet that story does not end with the return of the son. It moves toward something deeper.

Henri Nouwen wrote something that has stayed with me for years:
“Though I am the son, I am called to become the father.”

That is the heart of spiritual fatherhood. God does not simply forgive us and restore us. He invites us to become like Him. Spiritual fatherhood is not merely about having children. It is a deeper identity that every man is called to grow into. It means becoming someone who nurtures life, protects others, offers mercy, and creates space for healing.

The father in the parable runs toward his wounded son. He restores his dignity. He throws a banquet.

That is the kind of heart we are invited to cultivate. This transformation rarely happens all at once. It unfolds slowly through grace, prayer, and the ordinary experiences of life.

For me, the path toward spiritual fatherhood has often been revealed in moments that seemed small at the time. I have learned that leadership in the family and in the Church does not begin with authority or expertise. It begins with presence.

Pope John XXIII embodied this kind of presence beautifully. Shortly after becoming pope, he visited the Regina Coeli prison in Rome. Standing before a room full of incarcerated men, he did not lecture them or correct them. Instead, he spoke with the tenderness of a father. “You could not come to me,” he told them, “so I came to you. I have put my eyes in your eyes, and my heart near your heart.” Those words reveal the essence of spiritual fatherhood.

To be a father is to be present.

Over the years I have discovered that the most meaningful moments of ministry rarely involve grand words or impressive solutions. They happen when we simply show up for another person.

One moment that remains vivid for me occurred when one of my employees received a phone call that her son had died unexpectedly. I was one of the first people to reach her. At first I felt completely unprepared. What could I possibly say in such a moment? But very quickly I realized that words were not what she needed. I simply stayed with her. I held her gently and prayed silently until her family arrived. That experience taught me something important. Presence is often the most powerful form of love we can offer.

The same is true within our homes. Our spouses and children do not always need us to fix every problem. More often, they simply need us to be there, to listen, to share their burdens, and to remind them through our presence that they are not alone.

Presence, however, flows from something deeper. It flows from prayer. St. Augustine once wrote, “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.” That restlessness is something many men know well. We feel it in our desire to control our circumstances, to achieve more, or to secure our future through our own strength.

I have experienced that struggle personally. There have been seasons in my life when my prayer felt dry and distant. During one such time, I realized that I was still carrying unresolved grief from leaving a previous job years earlier. Beneath that grief was a deeper temptation: the desire to control my own future rather than entrust it to God. Through prayer and spiritual discernment, the Lord slowly helped me surrender that need for control. In its place came a renewed sense of peace and freedom.

Prayer, I have learned, is less about saying the right words and more about learning to listen. It is in the quiet moments of the morning, in the pause before responding to conflict, and in the silent gratitude we feel when witnessing goodness in our children that God often speaks most clearly.

If presence and prayer shape spiritual fatherhood, humility sustains it.

St. Francis of Assisi offers a powerful example of this. His leadership did not come from status or authority but from his willingness to serve. He embraced poverty and lowered himself to care for the wounded and the forgotten. Family life requires this same humility.

There are moments when I have had to sit quietly with one of my children after a difficult day rather than offering a lecture. There are times when I have needed to ask forgiveness in front of my family for impatience or frustration. These moments may seem small, but they build something essential in the home: trust.

Humility also means accepting our limitations. We cannot be perfect fathers, husbands, or leaders. But we can be faithful. And faithfulness, lived day by day, shapes the culture of a home.

The Church often describes the family as the “domestic church.” This is not simply poetic language. It reflects a profound truth. Our homes are the first place where faith is encountered, practiced, and passed on.

In the domestic church, leadership takes on very practical forms. Presence means putting down the phone and listening attentively to our spouse or children. Prayer means blessing our children before bed, praying together at meals, and allowing our own relationship with God to be visible within the family. Humility means apologizing when we fail, forgiving quickly, and making decisions guided by love rather than pride.

Our families do not need us to be heroes. They need us to be faithful. They need to see that we turn to God when life is uncertain, that we seek Him in prayer, and that we strive to love even when it is difficult.

 The Eucharist reminds us of this reality every time we come to Mass. 

In the parable of the prodigal son, the father prepares a banquet to celebrate the return of his child. At every Mass, God offers us something even greater. The prodigal son had the fatted calf. We have the Lamb of God. The Eucharist is the feast of the Father, where sons and daughters are nourished and restored. It is there that we receive the grace to become what God calls us to be.

Spiritual fatherhood is not about perfection. It is about transformation. We begin as sons who receive mercy.  Over time, through grace, we are invited to become fathers who extend that same mercy to others.

The world needs men who are willing to live this calling. Men who are present. Men who pray. Men who lead with humility. Through these simple but powerful virtues, our homes can become places of peace, healing, and faith. And in those homes, the heart of the Father becomes visible again.