Today’s Scriptures draw us into the tension between God’s persistent grace and our perilous freedom. In Exodus, God begins to raise up Moses, the one who will liberate His people from slavery. In Matthew, Jesus rebukes the towns of Galilee that refuse to repent—even after witnessing His miracles. One story shows us the dawn of salvation; the other shows us the tragedy of rejecting it. This contrast speaks volumes—not just to ancient Israel or Galilean villages, but to the Church today. And especially to us Catholics, who have received more grace than any generation before us.

The story of Moses’ birth is soaked in danger. Pharaoh is exterminating the Hebrew boys, driven by fear and tyranny. But quietly, unseen by the world, God is at work.

Moses is saved by a mother’s ingenuity, a sister’s vigilance, and even Pharaoh’s own daughter. The child who floats in a basket will one day part the Red Sea. The one drawn from water will one day draw Israel out of Egypt.

God prepares deliverance long before we see it. He moves through small people, unnoticed gestures, and even the hearts of pagans. This is not merely an inspiring story — it is a window into divine providence.  This passage affirms that God is not a distant watchmaker, as some claim. Nor is He a passive force, The God of Israel is personal, intervening, and relational. He sees, hears, remembers, and acts.

As Catholics, we proclaim this same God continues to act in our world—especially through the sacraments, which are not mere symbols but divine actions in time. Like the waters that bore Moses, the waters of Baptism save us. Like the mountain where Moses met God, the altar is where He comes down to feed and teach us.

If Exodus shows us God’s hidden work, the Gospel shows us humanity’s tragic response. “Woe to you, Chorazin! Woe to you, Bethsaida! … If the mighty works done in you had been done in Tyre and Sidon, they would have repented.”These are not pagan cities. These are the towns that saw Jesus, heard His voice, and witnessed His miracles. And yet—they did not repent. This is the sin not of ignorance, but of indifference.

Jesus is warning us of something deeply uncomfortable: proximity to holiness is not the same as conversion. You can live in a Catholic home, attend Mass weekly, even serve in ministry—and still resist grace.

Many accuse the Catholic Church of being “ritualistic,” or say that the sacraments are empty because some Catholics live in contradiction to them. But Christ foresaw this! He did not say that access to miracles guaranteed repentance. Rather, He grieved that those closest to His light could still choose darkness.

This is not a condemnation of the Church—it’s a call to authentic faith. The sacraments are not magic; they require our cooperation. Baptism saves, but only if we live its promises. The Eucharist gives life, but only if we consume it with faith and humility.

Tyre and Sidon were Gentile cities. Sodom, infamous for its sin, would have repented if it had seen what Capernaum saw. This is not hyperbole—it’s Jesus pointing to how much responsibility comes with revelation.

We Catholics have received more than anyone else in history:

We have the full canon of Scripture.

We have the Magisterium preserving doctrine with clarity.

We have the Eucharist, Christ Himself in the flesh.

We have the lives of the saints, showing us the way.

We have the Catechism, laying out the whole faith with coherence and beauty. So the question becomes: What will we do with all this grace? Will we be like Moses’ mother—trusting, courageous, ready to act for God’s people? Or like Chorazin and Capernaum—comfortable, complacent, and unrepentant?

The God of Moses is still at work. The Christ who lamented Chorazin still weeps over souls who grow cold. Let us not waste the grace we’ve been given.

Let’s confess our sins, deepen our prayer, honour the sacraments, and live the faith with fire.

For to whom much has been given, much will be expected (Luke 12:48). And we have been given everything.