Why I Want to Check Out (And Why the Gospel Won’t Let Me)

Today’s post is from Wesley Cocozello, a staff member of New Ways Ministry. The readings for the Seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time can be found here.

When I first read St. Paul’s words from today’s liturgical reading from Romans—“We know that all things work for good for those who love God”—I sighed an exhausted sigh and asked: Do they work out like that, though?

At first glance, that is not how the world seems to operate. People who fight for real change are usually sidelined or targeted, while big institutions and compliant personalities find it easy to play nice with the status quo. In the Catholic Church, I have heard popes, bishops, and other leaders talk about listening to the margins or to young people for years, but they change their behavior at a glacial pace, if at all. In my own ways, I know what it feels like to speak up, only to be uninvited, silenced, and worn down.

So when I read this week’s scriptures, I felt a deep weariness. When Jesus talks about selling everything, or when Solomon gives up long life, wealth, and his enemies’ comeuppance, a painful question welled up inside me: Haven’t I given up enough?

Yet by all measures, I live in great comfort and safety. I can only imagine how these readings could sound to an LGBTQ+ person who has actually lost their family, their parish community, or their physical safety. I know plenty of people who have suffered professional setbacks and ministerial outcasting for trying to live truthfully. Why should they be asked to give up even more while the people holding all the cards keep taking?

When you’ve been navigating a hostile environment for years, the natural response isn’t always a desire to keep bleeding for the cause. For me, the temptation is much quieter: to check out. Because I have managed to build a comfortable life for myself (living alone without the daily friction of family or roommates, with a stable job where I don’t have to toe any party lines) my greatest temptation isn’t anger. It’s comfortable dissociation. Let me explain.

The “therapy-speak” that soaks our online culture offers a very convincing vocabulary for this kind of retreat. When community living gets tense or working for justice gets exhausting, we tell ourselves that we’re “protecting our peace” or “guarding our energy.”

While those boundaries can be necessary to survive acute abuse, some of us frequently weaponize them to avoid the messiness of other people. We start treating relationships like transactions, judging people by their “vibe,” and retreating behind closed doors. For me, that means pulling back to my quiet apartment, rebranding my fear of getting hurt as emotional maturity, and pretending that self-preservation will save me.

This is where today’s readings shake me out of my comfort. As I read them again and again, I realized they aren’t trying to guilt me into suffering more; they are offering a rescue from the lonely walls I’ve built around myself.

Catholics could be forgiven for thinking of sacrifice as a grim, teeth-gritting chore. That’s how we often hear people talk about going to Mass, living celibacy, or serving in the community. We have internalized an understanding of renunciation that is synonymous with self-negation, an understanding that many LGBTQ+ Catholics are especially familiar with. But today’s gospel passage shows that letting go of our protective armor is part of what we need to do so that we may find something truly valuable.

In today’s parable, the man who finds the treasure in the field doesn’t sell everything out of a heavy sense of duty. Matthew says he does it “out of joy.” He is glad to clear out the clutter because he finally found something that actually matters.

Yet, we often try to find security in the very clutter that cannot sustain us: keeping our heads down, staying comfortable, and keeping others at a defensive distance. These actions mirror the three things Solomon bypasses when God tells him to ask for whatever he wants. Solomon doesn’t ask for a long life, the ultimate self-preservation of trying to survive. He doesn’t ask for riches, the wealth that cocoons us from the struggles of others. And he doesn’t ask for the lives of his enemies, the habit of seeing others as potential threats instead of potential neighbors.

Solomon had every royal prerogative to stay safe inside his palace walls, treating the world outside as a danger. Instead, he asks for an “understanding heart” so he can show up for his people in their messy, everyday lives. He rejects defensive isolation. He realizes that true peace doesn’t come from keeping everyone at arm’s length but from having an open and merciful relationship with everyone around him.

When Paul talks about “all things work for good,” I no longer hear it as a platitudinous promise that everything is going to be all right. The “good” here isn’t comfort or institutional approval; it’s becoming more like Christ, who stepped directly into the mess of humanity, got crushed by the big institutions and compliant personalities of his day, but then proved that this defeat is not the end of the story. Paul’s assurance makes me wonder if I can truly say I believe in the power of the resurrection if I am merely trying to protect myself?

If I really believe that defeat is not the final word, then I have to stop hiding behind my comfortable, independent life. I can’t experience the real power of the Gospel if I am too afraid of the discomfort of showing up. The treasure is hidden in the very community I am tempted to run away from, and I have to be willing to drop my guard to find it. Because at the end of the day, salvation isn’t something I can achieve alone. It is something we will all experience together.

–Wesley Cocozello, July 26, 2026