May 4, 2025: I Hate Cats!

I hate cats!

Now, I consider myself to be a nice guy. I think that I’m pretty level-headed, and there are not many things that get me riled. BUT... I have to show you something. [Cat is brought in] I HATE these things. Yuck! I mean—what good are they? [Put cat on floor... begin mock “training session”] Here boy—fetch! Roll over! Heel! Shake! Play dead!

...Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Why can’t this thing just do what I want it to do? It’s frustrating! And it certainly can’t be my fault. Must be the cat’s fault. So I don’t like them. Now—you might consider me irrational. Maybe even a little unfair. But, friends, that’s exactly what we do to each other sometimes. We place expectations on people—how they should act, what they should say, how they should think—and when they don’t live up to that mold, we write them off. “They don’t get it.” “They’re impossible.” “They’re just not worth the time.”

I see this a lot—in families, in friendships, in workplaces, in relationships. We stop seeing the person and we only see the problem. And then it gets worse. We let our opinion of them color everything they say or do. Even when they try, we think, “Oh, they’re just doing that to look good,” or “They must have some angle.” We filter their every action through our own judgment. And soon enough, we don’t just dislike what they do—we start to believe there’s nothing good in them at all.

And that attitude? It spreads. It’s a virus. We tell others our version of events, our opinions, our frustrations—and sometimes it turns into gossip. Sometimes it turns into division. And soon enough, a person made in the image of God becomes just... a problem to be talked about, judged, or avoided.

But then we get to today's Gospel. Let me remind you of what’s going on there. The disciples have gone back to fishing—back to the ordinary. They’re still carrying the weight of the Passion. Peter especially is carrying something heavy—shame. Because he had denied Jesus. Not once. Not twice. Three times.

And then Jesus appears on the shore. He calls out to them, just like He did the very first time He met them. “Children, have you caught anything?” Then—another miracle. A huge catch of fish. They recognize Him. And Peter jumps into the water to get to Him. Maybe he’s desperate for another chance. Maybe he’s just hoping to be near Him again. And after they eat, Jesus turns to Peter. “Simon, son of John, do you love me?” Not once. Not twice. Three times.

And with each answer—“Yes, Lord, you know that I love you”—Jesus doesn’t say, “Good. Now remember what you did wrong.” No. He says: “Feed my lambs. Tend my sheep. Feed my sheep.” He’s not rubbing Peter’s face in his failure. He’s restoring him. He’s giving him back his dignity. He’s trusting him again. He’s seeing the best in him—even after all that went wrong.

Imagine if Jesus had looked at Peter and thought, “You failed. I can't trust you. You blew it.” But He didn’t. He looked deeper. He saw the heart. He saw who Peter could still become. It’s like the story of the elementary school teacher who was told that her class was filled with gifted students. So she treated them like they were brilliant. She pushed them, she believed in them, and they rose to the occasion. At the end of the year, the truth came out—they were just ordinary kids, like every other class. But they excelled because someone saw the best in them.

Do you see the best in others? Do you see people as God sees them? Because I believe God looks at each of us and sees not just our worst day, our biggest mistake, our failure—but our dignity. He sees a beloved son. A beloved daughter. He sees someone still worthy of love. Still capable of good. 

What if we chose to look at each other like that? What if, instead of demanding everyone act the way we want—like that cat—I learned to love even when I don’t understand? To forgive even when I’ve been disappointed? To speak kindly even when others speak poorly?