All That Matters.
- Anthony Cecil, Jr.
- Oct 22, 2016
- 7 min read
I was at a restaurant, grabbing a bite to eat in between running some errands in town. My meal arrived to my table, and when the server walked away, I did what I always do—what my parents taught me to do. I bowed my head, made the Sign of the Cross, and I prayed quietly, thanking God for the gift of food and praying for those who go without. Then, I looked up.
A random woman sitting at another table was staring at me.
Yeah, it was awkward.
But, so am I—so I didn’t think much of it. I went back to eating my meal and reading the news on my phone.
Eventually, the woman and her friends got up from their table and left. On their way out she stopped, leaned in toward me, and quietly said, “Thank You.”
+ + +
I’ve always had the good fortune of having excellent pastors, at both parishes that I have been a member of. My current pastor is no exception. A while ago now, I was having a talk with him, probably about something I was worried about (I can be kind of a hot mess at times). He took me into one of the conference rooms to chat, and when I sat down, I was struck by the painting that was on the wall opposite me. He explained what it was and why he chose it, and it is something that has stuck with me for a while. It’s an image engrained in my mind, and every time I go home and go into that conference room, I’m reminded of it.
+ + +
Have you ever had one of those moments where something hits you like a piano falling on a cartoon character? Well, I did at the beginning of the month. I was sitting in Mass, having just come from sitting through two classes and was trying to focus on Mass and not let myself drift off into thinking about what was in the lectures that morning, what I needed to get done in the afternoon, my to do list before the end of the week, etc. (Wait, seminarians get distracted sometimes too?! Yup. I’m a human, folks.) Anyhow, on this day, I was fighting that urge and trying to really focus. When it came time for the Gospel, I stood along with the rest of the congregation, sang the alleluia and attempted to listen. Then I yawned, and slightly zoned out. Until a particular line. The line was the piano. I was the cartoon character. And, I guess the deacon proclaiming the Gospel was the one who cut the rope—or maybe the Spirit—I don’t know, I’m not good at analogies this time of the night.
+ + +
This may seem like a stream of random thoughts, and in some ways, it is. But in other ways, they have connected to help me come to a realization—but not a realization of something new. It’s something I’ve always known, but probably haven’t paid much attention to.
Back to the restaurant.
When the lady leaned in and quietly thanked me, I really didn’t know what she was thanking me for, and probably revealed that I was slightly creeped out by the expression on my face. I can sometimes—okay a lot of times—be straightforward, so I just asked her. I didn’t expect the answer she gave. “Thank you for not being afraid to pray in public the way you did. I mean, you didn’t draw attention to yourself but it still caught my eye since you were right in front of me. It just made me realize that with how much Jesus loves us, we shouldn’t be afraid to show we love him too, right?”
Thank you, random restaurant lady. She was right. It made me realize that, although I do pray and am active in my faith, that’s such a simple truth that I forget—or maybe I’m afraid it sounds cliché. Jesus loves us, more than our minds could ever begin to comprehend, enough to die for us. But how often do we show him love in return, or even tell him that we love him, too?
My pastor showed me to a conference room that had recently been revamped in the parish office. Across from me when I sat was an intriguing painting. When I asked him about it, he told me that it was a painting of Martha and Mary with Jesus in their home. I don’t remember his exact words, because it was a while ago now, but he said something to the effect of it’s purpose being to remind the people that meet in that room what they should be about: being attentive to Christ. It served as a reminder that as a parish, we should be centered on Christ, seeking to follow His will, and bringing people closer to Him. It reminded me of his installation as pastor. At the end of the Mass with the Archbishop, my pastor was able to say a few words, and what he said has stuck with me and serves as something I hope I can carry into my own priesthood (insert me saying “God willing” because seminarians say that about everything). When he was talking about his main task as our pastor, he said that his job was to get us to heaven. It sounds simple, but in reality, its daunting—and it requires a recognition of the love that Christ has for us, and an attentiveness to His will that aides us in leading others closer to him.
At the beginning of the month, our seminary, along with the rest of the Archdiocese of Indianapolis, celebrated the feast of one of their patrons, Saint Theodora Guerin, the foundress of the Sisters of Providence of Saint-Mary-of-the-Woods in Indiana. Mother Theodore, as the sisters still call her, was a woman of tremendous faith. At the order of her superiors, she left everything she had ever known in France to come to Indiana and start a new community. When she arrived, it was nothing like what she expected, but she persevered. She knew it was God’s will that she start this community. The community she began has seen thousands of women take on its charism throughout the years, and today, they share their motherhouse campus with a college. Mother Theodore probably had no idea what was to come of her small community in the woods of rural Indiana, but she stands to show that when we place all of our trust in the Lord, remarkable things result.
Then there was the piano.

At Mass that day, I stood along with the rest of the congregation singing the Lord’s praises in the alleluia. The Gospel was a story that most of us probably know well; the account of Martha and Mary from Luke’s Gospel—the painting in my pastor’s office. Since it was a story I knew so well, without realizing it, I kind of drifted off a little bit—I was still listening, but I wasn’t completely there. Then at the end of the Gospel was the line that hit me. Jesus said to Martha, “you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing.”
So, what’s the point of it all?
It’s a message that the lady at the restaurant, my pastor, and the Gospel all helped me to rediscover. It’s something that deep inside of me, I’ve always known, but it’s important to rediscover those lessons that we sometimes grow too familiar with when we don’t put them to use.
All that matters is Jesus.
Does it sound cliché? Probably. Yet, is it really that, or is it just something that we are too scared to believe? Is it an idea that we—a people who believe that we have to exteriorly present the best version of ourselves, to appear that we have it all together, and to accept the lie that the only way we will succeed in life is by doing everything ourselves, and if necessary, walk all over people along the way—don’t want to accept? Are we scared to admit that we need a Savior? I know that sometimes, I can be.
Life can be difficult—people face unimaginable obstacles each and every day—others have a schedule that seems nearly impossible to fulfill and expectations placed on them that seem like they could never actually be met by any normal human being. I’m not very old, I know—but in my short life I’ve found that in my fears, my worries, my struggles, my anxieties, and my faults that life sucks a lot more when we try to overcome our challenges ourselves—we need someone else, and not just anyone. We need someone who loved us enough that he was willing to prove it by letting himself be nailed to a cross. We need a Savior. We need Jesus. He’s the only adequate answer, and no matter what, I need to remember that he is all that matters.

Now, does this mean that no one else matters? Of course not. God created us to be with other people—he made us in his image and likeness—we believe that when people gather in the Lord’s name he is there. So the fact that Jesus is all that matters doesn’t mean that no one else matters, it means that everyone matters. It means that each and every single person, even—and probably especially—the ones that we cannot stand, have a dignity so profound we couldn’t even begin to describe it. Hopefully, when we realize that Jesus is all that matters, we realize that we need to strive to not only recognize, but to honor, his presence in those around us.
Something I’m going to try and start doing is reminding myself of this—when I’m worried, overwhelmed, or start to lose hope. In the end, all that matters is Jesus.
Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing.
Tony, Tony, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing.
You, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing.
Come, find rest in my mercy.
Saint John Paul II, pray for us!
In all things, may God be glorified.
Amen.
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