16 July – Wednesday 15th week Ordinary Time

God rarely speaks in the dramatic. More often, it’s through the ordinary—a bush, a silence, a name spoken gently.

But when God does speak, it unsettles. Holiness doesn’t comfort first—it calls. And it always begins with this: Take off your shoes. This ground, your life, is sacred.

We often feel unworthy of the call. Too small, too broken, too uncertain. But God doesn’t wait for our readiness. God begins with our fear and works through it.

The ache of the world is not ignored. God hears the cries, sees the suffering—and responds by sending us. Not because we are strong, but because we are willing to turn aside and listen.

Divine presence doesn’t erase our questions. It walks with them. I will be with you is not an explanation—it’s a promise.

And that’s enough for the journey ahead.

Exodus 3: 1-6, 9-12

17 July – Thursday 15th week Ordinary Time

We want names that give us control—definitions, categories, certainty. But God resists that.

I am who I am. Not a label, but a mystery. A presence too alive to be pinned down, too faithful to be absent.

Faith doesn’t begin in knowing. It begins in trust—trusting a God who reveals just enough to move forward, but never enough to remove all risk.

This name, this presence, is not abstract. It’s the God who sees suffering, who enters history, who promises to walk us out of bondage, one uncertain step at a time.

When we invoke God’s name, we’re not calling down magic. We’re aligning ourselves with memory—with the God of ancestors, of struggle, of promises whispered in dark places.

And that God still speaks. Still sends. Still says: You will not go alone. I will be with you.

That is enough to begin.

Exodus 3: 13-20

18 July – Friday 15th week Ordinary Time

Some transformations begin in the dark.

God’s work often unfolds while the world sleeps—quiet, painful, unseen. Liberation doesn’t come through noise but through surrender, through a slow dying to what once defined us.

Before freedom, there is loss. Something has to be let go—an identity, a certainty, a control we thought we needed. The cost of new life is rarely cheap.

Yet even here, God gives us something to carry—a ritual, a meal, a memory. Not just to remember the pain, but to remember who we are: a people marked by mercy, shaped by deliverance.

Faith is not just belief. It is movement. Readiness. Sandals on. Staff in hand. Bread unrisen.

The invitation isn’t to understand everything but to step into what is next, trusting that God passes through even the darkest night—not to destroy, but to deliver.

And that’s how a people begins. With faith, with fire, with blood remembered.

Exodus 11: 10 – 12: 14

19 July – Saturday 15th week Ordinary Time

Some journeys begin before we feel ready.

There’s rarely time to tie up all the loose ends when grace breaks in. Liberation comes suddenly, and it asks us to move—fast, raw, unfinished.

God doesn’t wait for perfection. The bread is still unleavened, the night still dark, the future unclear. But the call is clear: go.

We often imagine sacred moments as serene. But in Scripture, they are often messy, urgent, disruptive. God’s timing doesn’t follow our comfort. It follows the deeper rhythm of redemption.

And yet, even in haste, nothing is wasted. The details—the bones not broken, the night remembered—become the liturgy of a people. Memory is shaped not just by what we flee, but by what we carry forward.

In the end, this isn’t just a story of escape. It’s the beginning of identity. God makes a people not out of success, but out of trust in the dark.

Exodus 12: 37-42

20 July – 16th Sunday Ordinary Time

There is a kind of suffering that doesn’t seek escape, but communion.

To carry the pain of others is not heroic—it’s holy. Not because it feels noble, but because it joins us to something larger than ourselves. In Christ, even suffering becomes a language of love.

We often want clarity, purpose, reward. But the mystery Paul names is deeper: that Christ is in us, even in what feels unfinished or hidden. Especially there.

Maturity in faith isn’t perfection. It’s the willingness to remain present—to others, to pain, to mystery. To speak hope not from certainty, but from solidarity.

The gospel doesn’t remove suffering. It transforms it into a space where grace is shared and God is revealed—not in strength alone, but in vulnerability faithfully endured.

Christ is not far off. He is in the ache, the waiting, the quiet persistence of love that does not leave.

Colossians 1: 24-28

21 July – Monday 16th week Ordinary Time

Faith is rarely born in calm waters.

It often begins in panic—in the disorienting space between what we’ve left behind and what we cannot yet see. Fear makes us want to go back, even to what once enslaved us, simply because it was familiar.

But grace doesn’t lead us in circles. It leads us forward, often through what feels impossible.

There are moments when we can’t fix, fight or flee. All we can do is stand still. Not in passivity, but in trust. That stillness becomes an act of surrender, a space for God to act.

God’s strength isn’t loud. It doesn’t always come with spectacle. Sometimes it looks like quiet perseverance, like walking forward while the sea is still closed.

Deliverance isn’t the absence of fear—it’s the courage to move anyway, trusting that the path will open where there was none before.

Exodus 14: 5-18

22 July – Tuesday 16th week Ordinary Time

Sometimes grace feels like survival.

Not triumph, not clarity—just the shock of still standing after what should have drowned us. The sea parts, not with certainty, but with faith that steps forward before the way is visible.

God doesn’t always remove the struggle. Often, God meets us in the middle of it—in the winds, the chaos, the fear—and makes a path where none existed.

We rarely recognise deliverance while it’s happening. It feels too vulnerable, too slow. But on the other side, when we look back, we realise: we were carried.

And then something rises in us—song, gratitude, astonishment. Not because we were strong, but because we were not alone.

Salvation is not a clean escape. It’s a journey marked by water, by risk, by God’s fierce tenderness.

The miracle isn’t just that we get through. It’s that, somehow, we become more whole in the process.

Exodus 14: 21 – 15: 1