讀經一（納敖米帶著摩阿布人盧德到白冷去了。） 恭讀盧德傳 1:1,3-6,14B-16,22 民長時期，有一次，那地方發生了饑荒；於是，有一個人帶著自己的妻子和兩個兒子，從猶大的白冷離開，在摩阿布高原（plateau of Moab）定居。納敖米（Naomi）的丈夫厄裡默肋客（Elimelech）死了，留下了她和她的兩個兒子。她們都娶了摩阿布女子為妻：一個名叫敖爾帕（Orpah），另一個名叫盧德（Ruth）。他們在那裡大概住了十年，瑪赫隆（Mahlon）和基肋雍（Chilion）也死了，留下了那婦人，沒有兒子，也沒有丈夫。她準備從摩阿布高原（plateau of Moab）回去，因為在那裡，有上主的話傳給她：上主眷顧了自己的百姓，賜給他們食物。 敖爾帕（Orpah）吻別了自己的婆母，盧德卻留在那裡。納敖米（Naomi）說：“妳看！妳的嫂子回到她的民族和她的神那裡去了。和妳嫂子一起回去吧！”盧德卻說：“不要讓我丟棄妳，或把妳拋棄！因為不論妳去哪裡，我就去那裡；妳寄住在哪裡，我也寄住在哪裡，妳的民族，就是我的民族，妳的天主，就是我的天主。”就這樣，納敖米和她的兒媳，摩阿布女子盧德，從摩阿布高原（plateau of Moab）回來了。他們來到白冷的時候，正是開始收大麥的時候。—— 天主的聖言。
读经一（纳敖米带着摩阿布人卢德到白冷去了。） 恭读卢德传 1:1,3-6,14B-16,22 民长时期，有一次，那地方发生了饥荒；于是，有一个人带着自己的妻子和两个儿子，从犹大的白冷离开，在摩阿布高原（plateau of Moab）定居。纳敖米（Naomi）的丈夫厄里默肋客（Elimelech）死了，留下了她和她的两个儿子。她们都娶了摩阿布女子为妻：一个名叫敖尔帕（Orpah），另一个名叫卢德（Ruth）。他们在那里大概住了十年，玛赫隆（Mahlon）和基肋雍（Chilion）也死了，留下了那妇人，没有儿子，也没有丈夫。她准备从摩阿布高原（plateau of Moab）回去，因为在那里，有上主的话传给她：上主眷顾了自己的百姓，赐给他们食物。 敖尔帕（Orpah）吻别了自己的婆母，卢德却留在那里。纳敖米（Naomi）说：“妳看！妳的嫂子回到她的民族和她的神那里去了。和妳嫂子一起回去吧！”卢德却说：“不要让我丢弃妳，或把妳抛弃！因为不论妳去哪里，我就去那里；妳寄住在哪里，我也寄住在哪里，妳的民族，就是我的民族，妳的天主，就是我的天主。”就这样，纳敖米和她的儿媳，摩阿布女子卢德，从摩阿布高原（plateau of Moab）回来了。他们来到白冷的时候，正是开始收大麦的时候。—— 天主的圣言。
Memorial of Saint Monica Matthew 23: 27-32 Whitewashed, or Washed Clean?
In the springtime roads of Palestine, the tombs lining the way would gleam white in the sun. As William Barclay explains, before Passover, the Jews would whitewash these graves so pilgrims would not touch them and be made unclean. From a distance, they looked almost beautiful—yet inside, they held only bones and decay.
Jesus uses this image to confront the Pharisees: outwardly, they look holy and devout, but inwardly they are full of corruption. Their piety is a mask; their humility a performance. The danger is subtle—pride disguised as virtue, contempt hidden beneath a bowed head. As Barclay warns, “Once a man thinks he is good, his goodness is gone.”
On this feast of St. Monica, we see the opposite of the Pharisees’ hypocrisy. Monica’s holiness was not for display; it was forged in hidden prayer, tears, and patient love for her son Augustine. She did not seek to appear righteous, but to be righteous before God. Her life was white, not from a coat of paint, but because her heart was continually washed clean by grace.
This Gospel warns us not to settle for an outward appearance of religion—perfect attendance at Mass, polite prayer postures, carefully chosen words—while neglecting the deeper work of the Spirit in our hearts. True holiness begins within. When the inside is cleansed by humility, repentance, and love, the outside will naturally shine—not with artificial whiteness, but with the radiance of Christ Himself.
St. Monica teaches us that the most beautiful faith is not the one people notice most, but the one God sees in the secret place. Let us pray for the grace to be washed clean, not whitewashed, so that our lives may draw others not to ourselves, but to the living God.
可是，耶穌打破了這樣的幻覺。祂說：門是狹窄的。學者們告訴我們：耶穌可能指的是在耶路撒冷的“針眼”（ “Eye of the Needle”），這是城牆上的一扇低矮小門，天黑的時候，主門關上，才會開啟。駱駝從中通過前，必須卸下所有行李爬行，才能通過。看看那令人震撼的圖像！你不能帶著沉重的負擔進入天國。如果你的負擔過於沉重，就不能跪在天主面前。
可是，耶稣打破了这样的幻觉。祂说：门是狭窄的。学者们告诉我们：耶稣可能指的是在耶路撒冷的“针眼”（ “Eye of the Needle”），这是城墙上的一扇低矮小门，天黑的时候，主门关上，才会开启。骆驼从中通过前，必须卸下所有行李爬行，才能通过。看看那令人震撼的图像！你不能带着沉重的负担进入天国。如果你的负担过于沉重，就不能跪在天主面前。
The Narrow Door: Traveling Light for the Great Banquet
Fr. Jijo Kandamkulathy CMF Claretian Missionaries
Have you ever been on a long journey? I’m not just talking about a vacation, but a real journey—one where every step counts, where the destination is everything? Perhaps a pilgrimage, a hike, or even a difficult chapter in your life. If you have, you know the golden rule of travel: pack light.
I remember an old advertisement for a railway company. It showed a man, weighed down by enormous, heavy suitcases, struggling to climb onto the train, sweating and miserable. Next to him, another traveller, with a single, small bag, stepped aboard with a smile. The slogan was simple and brilliant: “Less Luggage, More Comfort.”
That slogan is not just good travel advice; it is the very heart of the Gospel today. It is the answer to the question that hangs in the air: “Lord, will only a few people be saved?”
Jesus doesn’t give a number. He doesn’t draw a line. Instead, he points to a door. Not a grand, wide, welcoming archway, but a narrow door. And he gives us a warning that should shake us from our spiritual complacency: “Strive to enter through the narrow gate, for many, I tell you, will attempt to enter but will not be strong enough.” What is this narrow door? And why is it so hard to get through?
The people following Jesus that day had their own idea. They were marching to Jerusalem, their hearts bursting with a political dream. They imagined the Kingdom of God as a restored earthly kingdom, with a triumphant Messiah throwing a grand victory banquet. They pictured themselves—the chosen ones, the insiders, the ones who walked with him—strolling right through the front gates.
But Jesus shatters that illusion. He says the door is narrow. Scholars tell us he might have been referring to the “Eye of the Needle” gate in Jerusalem—a small, low door in the city wall used after dark when the main gates were shut. A camel could only get through it if its rider first unloaded all its baggage and then had the animal kneel and crawl through on its knees. Look at that powerful, dramatic image! You cannot enter the Kingdom of God burdened. You cannot kneel before the Lord if you are carrying too much. What baggage are you trying to carry through the narrow door?
Perhaps it’s the heavy suitcase of pride and ego—the need to be right, to be recognized, to be important. “Lord, I was a lector at the 9 AM Mass for thirty years!” “We ate and drank in your company!” But at the door, that resume means nothing. It’s just dead weight. Maybe it’s the duffel bag of worldly riches and attachments—the obsession with money, status, and possessions that we cling to for security, forgetting that we brought nothing into this world and we take nothing out.
Or perhaps it’s the heaviest baggage of all: the steamer trunk of past hurts, betrayals, and failures. We drag behind us every grudge, every memory of how we were wronged, every sin we’ve committed and refused to give to God’s mercy. This baggage doesn’t just weigh us down; it chains us to the past, making it impossible to step freely into the future God has for us.
The Master of the house, once he rises and locks the door, is shockingly firm. He says to those late to the banquet, “I do not know where you are from.” It’s a terrifying sentence. These weren’t strangers; they were preachers and exorcists! They did holy things! But they were so busy managing their spiritual baggage—their reputation, their achievements—that they missed the one thing that mattered: a humble, loving, present heart.
So how do we travel light?
A story is told of a group of monks who set out on a three-day trek to a mountain top for prayer. Each had to carry his own provisions. As they packed, all the monks scrambled for the lightest, smallest bundles. All except one. A humble monk quietly shouldered the largest, heaviest sack—the one containing all the food for the journey.
The others, I’m sure, thought him a fool. But as the journey wore on, something beautiful happened. At breakfast, the humble monk opened his sack and fed everyone. His burden grew lighter. At lunch, he did the same. By dinner, his pack was almost empty, while the other monks grew weary under the unchanging weight of their personal belongings. He carried not for himself, but for others. His luggage was expendable love.
That is the only baggage worth carrying on the journey to the narrow door: what we can give away for others.
The only thing that gets lighter when you use it is the love of Christ. Acts of charity, forgiveness offered and received, patience, kindness, mercy—these are the provisions that, the more you dispense them, the lighter and freer you become.
The Kingdom of God is not a VIP club for the perfect. It is a Banquet for the merciful, the poor in spirit, the peacemakers, and the humble who have learned to kneel and crawl through the door, unburdened by everything except the love they were willing to give away.
It is good to ask ourselves: What do I need to unpack? What grudge do I need to leave at the foot of the altar? What pride do I need to unload in Confession? What attachment do I need to give away in charity? Let us strive to enter through the narrow door. Let us travel light, carrying only what we can give away, so that we may hear those most beautiful words not from outside a locked door, but from within the joy of the Feast: “Welcome! Come, you blessed of my Father! I know you.”
全属于祢 
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