Only Connect.


The Readings for the Solemnity of the Most Sacred Heart of Jesus

What man among you having a hundred sheep and losing one of them would not leave the ninety-nine in the desert and go after the lost one until he finds it?

Would anyone go? The ROI is really wrong. Data sets say that one sheep is not part of the majority and irrelevant. Polling shows the other sheep don’t like it. It’s just a lump of cells. If you wait overnight it’ll not be something to carry on your shoulders, it’ll just be carrion. Stand here and chat a bit, it’ll solve the problem.

We get so hung up on “social justice” that we forget the person. (A collection of Anecdotes is NOT DATA.)

God loves us collectively only because he loves us each individually.

We find ourselves increasingly pressed to get by with what we can get by with. They’re just Mexicans, not Americans. They’re just flyover states, no one cares. They’re just uneducated, toothless Christians. They’re just urban hipsters. They’re just tech workers. They’re just homeless druggies.

None of this is a political manifesto.

Christianity is not a political manifesto.

It’s a command to love.

That person. Right There.

Every job I’ve ever had has brought me into contact with thousands upon thousands of people. What would it have been like if I could love each and every one of them for the moments they were with me? What would have changed?

Love is not directed to abstract lumps of cells mobbing endlessly around the globe. Love is between me and the next person I see.

What does that change?

The heart of God is beating in them. In me.

What does that change?

Science is not the answer. Love is.

Author: Huw Richardson

I'm no Benedictine, but I'm too old for the Franciscans. I'm in the process of moving servers... so trying to keep both of my "linked sites" in sync until there's only one. There can be only one. Huw Richardson was born in Atlanta under a different name about 55 years ago. I never knew my father nor any of his kin. I’ve lived all over: I was never in the same house for 3 Christmases until I was over 40. I’ve not yet made it to 4. Rootlessness seems to be a way of life and every time I think I’m about to root, it ends up not happening. Yet I’ve made some amazing friends online. I’ve met some awesome people all over the world. I’ve met religious leaders and heads of state and famous movie stars. I’ve also managed to be debt-free. I’ve stood on the Hill of Tara and touched the Lia Fail. It did not cry out. I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone as well, if you can’t guess. I have illicitly touched ancient, holy statues to see if anything would happen and I have never used flash photography when I should not have. I’ve been a bookseller, a call center drone, a trainer, a convert, a preacher, a monk, a planter, a secretary, a writer, and an activist. My patron is Blessed Stanley Rother. When I’m in trouble, he’s got my back. He prays for me, along with St Rose of Lima, St. Catherine of Siena, St John Henry Newman, Bl Fulton J Sheen, and Bl. William Richardson. I’m a Dominican Tertiary and a member of Courage International. This is home: I’ve found my roots by using my wings. What’s next? I don’t know. Part of me wants to just pick out a camper and gig my way around the world. Part of me wants to own a pub in Ireland and feed my soul with good music until forever. Part of me has always taught. Some part of me dances whenever the moon is full. Another part of me kneels in awe in the darkness as all the stars spin but the cross stands still.