Praise the Lord Who Lifts Up the Poor

‍

There are many times in my life when I’ve felt—when I feel—conflicted about remaining a Christian.

More than anything, I believe this conflict arises from the way in which Christianity is framed by many in the U.S. today—not as a radical call to love, humility, and service, but as a political identity under siege. Over the past few years, I’ve reflected on this, asking myself: Is this… worth it?

Now, you may be thinking, “Well, this is a peculiar way to begin a homily.” However, I trust that many of you, if you’re anything like me, have felt, at least once in your life, the same way.

By remaining a Christian, am I complicit in a church that, in both past and present, too often fails to cherish and uplift the vulnerable—women, the poor, queer folks, and all who are “othered”? Why do I sometimes feel more kinship with my non-Catholic neighbor than with those who sit beside me in Mass every week?

Is this worth it? I have asked myself, again and again. Is it worth believing so deeply that, because I love the church, I want it to be better, and that I should keep working toward that betterment?

In moments like these, a story comes to mind.

Years ago, my undergraduate alma mater, Wheaton College, dismissed Dr. Larycia Hawkins, a political science professor, after she publicly stated that Christians and Muslims worship the same God. In December 2015, during Advent, she posted a photo of herself wearing a hijab as an expression of “embodied solidarity” with Muslims. Her idea drew from Catholic social teaching, the labor movement, and the Eucharist, centered around the idea that true solidarity with the poor, suffering, and marginalized requires not just empathy, but a willingness to engage in sustained material risk. Growing in faithfulness to the Gospel, she suggested, demands that we also grow in discomfort.

Her post sparked a national media firestorm, becoming one of the most- if not the most- significant controversies in the college’s history. At Wheaton, all faculty and students are required to affirm the college’s Statement of faith, and although Dr. Hawkins did not contradict any explicit doctrinal tenet, the administration ultimately dismissed her for supposedly failing to accept and model the Statement.

After her dismissal, a cartoonist drew an illustration of Hawkins speaking with Jesus. Jesus tells her:

“Don’t worry, Larycia, I wouldn’t have been able to sign their statement of faith either.”

This line is wry, biting, and poignant. It is also a prophetic challenge—not just to Wheaton College as a Christian university, but to the institutional church as a whole. Powerfully, it invites us to examine in what ways we become more concerned with protecting institutional boundaries than with embodying the radical solidarity and compassion of Christ.

I feel this deep within my bones- these moments in which the Church fails to courageously represent Christ, instead drawing boundaries so tight that they no longer reflect His universal welcome.

The cartoon doesn’t mock faith—it asks a hard question:

Have we built churches and institutions that Jesus himself wouldn’t be welcome in?

This tension—between institutional comfort and faithful compassion—is reflected in the readings for today, the Twenty-Fifth Sunday of Ordinary Time. Amos speaks to a society where religion has become hollow, a series of rituals that mask the ongoing exploitation of the poor. The wealthy long for the Sabbath to end, not so they can return to prayer, but so they can continue cheating the poor and manipulating the marketplace. They are, essentially, taking the Lord’s name in vain through their actions. Their worship is a hollow performance, and their hearts are far from God.

After this reading from Amos comes the psalm in which we, the congregation, repeatedly proclaim:

“Praise the Lord who lifts up the poor.”

I have prayed over these readings for weeks, and each time I am reminded where the Kingdom of God truly resides: with the lowly, the poor, the marginalized, and the suffering—the very ones oppressed in the name of God. In reality, God is not moved by religious performance, especially not when it is disconnected from the kind of embodied solidarity that cost Dr. Hawkins her job at Wheaton ten years ago. Our faith demands more than ritual; it calls us into a concrete, often uncomfortable, posture of solidarity.

Hans Urs von Balthasar, the Swiss theologian and priest—who was also, perhaps most profoundly, a poet—once said that “theology proper can only be done on one’s knees.” Of course, he meant prayer. But not just the quiet kind we whisper in adoration. He meant the guttural kind—the prayers we offer through tears, through clenched fists, through silence when words won’t come. That, too, is sacred.

As a Catholic, and as a theologian, my faith is instrumental in both my life and my career. In studying God and beauty, goodness and the sacraments, I am provided with the imagination to see what is sacred in everything.

Of course, still, I question. I question because I love this faith—because I believe it carries something worth wrestling for. And ultimately, I remain Catholic not because the institution is perfect, but because it’s here that I have encountered a God who is endlessly more compassionate than the confines of our imagination. I remain because the Eucharist teaches me that grace is not abstract, or intellectual—it’s embodied. I remain because Catholicism, at its best, is a call to solidarity, to mystery, to justice, and to hope. And I remain because I believe that transformation is possible—not only in the confines of my own heart, but in the Church I still dare to hope for, the Church that I work towards every day.

I don’t pretend to have all the answers. All that I know to be true is this: A genuine faith is one willing to wrestle with hard questions and to struggle thoughtfully with both Christian belief and practice. Engage with the hard questions of others, even when they make you uncomfortable. Read widely—fiction, poetry, the writings of the church fathers and mothers—and remember that throughout the centuries, countless others have asked these same questions that you are courageously asking now. Pray alone and pray in community. Have honest conversations about the world. Trust in God. This, I believe, is our most sacred work. It is the work of a lifetime, but it is worth doing.

We often speak about having faith in God, but we tend to forget, I think, that God also has faith in us.

Amen.