FROM THE PASTOR’S DESK
My Dear Parishioners,
It is easy for the most important words of our faith to become the most familiar—and therefore the least noticed. Phrases like “Trinity” or “divine life” can drift past us without resistance, like background noise we no longer register. Yet at the very center of Christianity stands a claim so bold, so startling, that it ought to arrest our attention every time we hear it:
“God became man so that man might become God.”
This ancient expression, echoed by the early Fathers of the Church, is not a piece of theological exaggeration. It is a direct statement of the Christian vision of salvation. The Son of God entered into human life not only to forgive sins, not only to teach, but to draw humanity into the very life of God Himself.
At first hearing, this can sound misleading—if not dangerous. To “become God” might suggest power, control, or transcendence in the worldly sense: the ability to dominate, to bend reality to one’s will, to rise above others. But that is precisely the misunderstanding the Gospel corrects. If we want to know what it means to share in the life of God, we must first look at who God reveals Himself to be.
In the book of Exodus, God describes Himself to Moses in strikingly relational terms: “merciful and gracious, slow to anger, rich in kindness and fidelity.” These are not the attributes of domination, but of patient, enduring love. They reveal a God who is not in competition with His creation but deeply committed to it.
The same pattern continues throughout the New Testament. St. Paul speaks of “the God of love and peace,” urging believers to reflect that same unity in their lives. And in the Gospel of John, perhaps the most famous line in all of Scripture declares: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.” Here, the very identity of God is revealed not in self-assertion, but in self-gift.
To become like God, then, is not to acquire power—it is to enter into love, the love that is God’s essence: “God is love” (1 John 4:16). It is to become merciful and gracious, to grow slow to anger, to abound in kindness and faithfulness. It is to become a person of peace. More than that, it is to become someone capable of genuine sacrifice: willing to give not what is easy or surplus, but what is most deeply cherished, for the good of another.
This vision can feel both beautiful and demanding. It asks more than moral improvement or self-optimization. It calls for a transformation of the heart, a reorientation of one’s entire way of being. And yet, it is not something imposed from the outside. It is an invitation—an invitation to share in a life that is already being offered. It is an entrance into the life of grace.
One way to glimpse this mystery is through the experience of music, particularly in a symphony. A symphony is not a collection of isolated performers, each striving to stand out. Nor is it a rigid uniformity where individuality is erased. Instead, it is a unity composed of distinct parts, each defined by its relationship to the others. The violin, the cello, the trumpet—all retain their unique voices, but their meaning emerges only within the harmony of the whole.
No one in a symphony seeks to overpower the rest. If even one musician tries to dominate, the music collapses. The beauty of the symphony depends on a shared commitment to something greater than any individual contribution. Each player must “live the life” of the music—listening, responding, and giving of themselves in a way that sustains the unity.
This offers a helpful analogy for the life of God. The Christian understanding of the Trinity is not a puzzle to be solved, but a reality to be entered: “God himself is an eternal exchange of love, Father, Son and Holy Spirit, and he has destined us to share in that exchange” (Catechism 221). God is not solitude, but communion: a life of perfect, self-giving love shared between Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. To be drawn into that life is to be drawn into relationship—into a way of existing that is defined not by grasping, but by giving.
And this begins not at some distant point beyond death, but here and now. Every act of patience, every choice for mercy, every effort to seek peace, every quiet sacrifice made for another—these are not small or incidental. They are participations in the very life of God.
Within each person lies this extraordinary calling. Not simply to be good, or even to be the best version of oneself, but to be transformed—to share in a communion of life and love that does not end. The language may be ancient, but the invitation is immediate:
“God became man so that man might become God.”
Peace,
Fr. Monteleone
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