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Stewardship Renewal Documents
Recently, the priests of the diocese received two stewardship documents from Fr. Jarrod Lies, our new Vicar of Evangelization, Discipleship and Stewardship. We will be posting some of the documents that Fr. Jarrod wrote on our parish website. I would ask that as we begin the annual Stewardship Renewal, please take the time to read these “Considerations concerning the Stewardship Way of Life” that we post on the website. I believe they will help all of us to discern our stewardship more deeply. I thank you in advance for spending some time with these documents during our renewal.
Father H
Recently, the priests of the diocese received two stewardship documents from Fr. Jarrod Lies, our new Vicar of Evangelization, Discipleship and Stewardship. We will be posting some of the documents that Fr. Jarrod wrote on our parish website. I would ask that as we begin the annual Stewardship Renewal, please take the time to read these “Considerations concerning the Stewardship Way of Life” that we post on the website. I believe they will help all of us to discern our stewardship more deeply. I thank you in advance for spending some time with these documents during our renewal.
Father H
Stewardship and the Art of NoticingBy Fr. Jarrod Lies
Walk into a parish hall on a Sunday morning and the scene is familiar. Groups gather around tables, catching up about children, jobs, or last night’s game. A few laugh loudly near the coffee urn. Someone passes out donuts. And then, at the edges, often one person or family lingers. They move slowly along the wall, smiling faintly but not entering the circles. They seem present but not fully included. Anyone who has stood in their shoes knows the silent ache: Does anyone see me? Do I matter here?
To be noticed is no small thing. It is a reflection of God’s own gaze. Scripture says through Isaiah, “You are precious in my eyes and honored, and I love you” (Is 43:4). We are human beings before we are human doings. Before we do or contribute anything, we are seen and loved. To notice another person is to mirror that divine glance and to pass along the assurance: you are not invisible; you belong.
The Wound of IsolationWe live in a world of constant noise, yet loneliness has reached a fever pitch. How is it that in a prosperous nation, anxiety, depression, and even suicide have become so tragically common? Beneath these struggles lies a wound of isolation. And isolation is often born of two lies: “I have nothing to give,” or “no one wants what I have to give.” Both leave a person feeling unneeded, like a ghost drifting through a crowd.
Stewardship unmasks and undoes those lies. At its heart, stewardship proclaims a double dignity: I have something to offer, and you are worthy of sacrifice. In other words, I matter and you matter. My life is not useless, and neither is yours. Even more deeply, stewardship insists that every life is entrusted with gifts, and those gifts are meant for communion, not left to wither in isolation.
Here the personalism of St. John Paul II sharpens the point. Drawing on Martin Buber’s “I–Thou” philosophy, he taught that every human relationship must begin with recognition of the other’s dignity. No person is merely a means to an end; each is a “Thou,” a gift in themselves, worthy of being received. That means stewardship is never about slotting people into programs or chores. It is not fundraising or volunteer management. It is the Church’s way of resisting isolation—by slowing down, banishing busyness, and practicing the art of truly noticing one another.
Noticing and the Cycle of GiftednessTo notice another is to affirm not only that they have gifts, but that they are gift. In my grade school years if you had told my twelve-year-old self that I was gifted, I would have laughed. I didn’t think much of myself. Only later did I discover what God had planted within me—the gift He made me to be for others. For many, that discovery never comes—unless someone notices and speaks the truth aloud: You are a gift.
There is a cycle here. God gives a gift. The gift must be received, then accepted, claimed, and developed. Over time the gift transforms the one who bears it, shaping character and vocation. Finally, the gift is shared with others. If anywhere in this cycle the process breaks down, the gift can wither unseen. Noticing helps mend the break. To say, I see this in you, may be the nudge that moves someone from hesitation into acceptance, from hidden potential into fruitful service.
Jesus put it plainly: “Nothing is hidden that will not be made known” (Lk 8:17). For years I thought this was only about sin being exposed. But the verse comes right after His command not to hide one’s lamp under a bushel. It is first about gifts. Hidden gifts eventually come to light—to be noticed, blessed, and drawn into the open. That is the Church’s task: not to slot people into chores, but to call forth their gifts so they can walk a path of discipleship.
The Economy of SalvationThe very word stewardship carries this weight. In Greek, oikonomos means the steward of a household—the one entrusted with the master’s resources, charged to manage affairs, multiply what has been given, and ensure the household flourishes. The steward is not the owner but the caretaker. His work belongs to a larger oikonomia—the master’s plan for the whole household.
St. Paul takes that same word, oikonomia, and uses it to describe God’s plan for the salvation of souls in Christ Jesus. In other words, stewardship is not a side project of the Church; it is participation in God’s saving design. God entrusts us with gifts not because He lacks power, but because He delights to work through His people. Humanity is called to manage His household together, with everything directed toward salvation.
That is why noticing is part of the steward’s task. A steward who overlooks certain servants, or fails to call forth the gifts of each member, betrays the master’s trust. The faithful steward notices. He names gifts—both in himself and in others—and makes room for them to flourish. Parish councils, ministry leaders, and families alike share in this same work: to notice, to invite, to entrust, so that the whole household may thrive in God’s plan.
Communion versus AutonomyBut here we must confront a cultural obstacle. Americans prize autonomy. We drive our own cars, keep our own schedules, guard our own time. At a recent talk I half-joked about the sea of vehicles outside the parish hall. Everyone drove separately, though they could have ridden together. Why? Because we prefer independence. Yet every time we choose autonomy over communion, we reinforce isolation.
Noticing requires communion. It requires putting aside some convenience to say, Your presence matters to me.
Scripture makes the point plain. God said of Adam, “It is not good for the man to be alone” (Gen 2:18). Autonomy left Adam restless. Only when he encountered Eve did he finally exclaim, “At last!” Communion gave him rest.
To notice another person is to resist the idol of autonomy and to confess a simple truth: the joy of Christianity is actually other people.
Gratitude as AccountabilityThe art of noticing is the soul of accountability. But accountability in parish life too often defaults to confrontation: Who is absent from Mass? Who has failed to volunteer? Who has not given? This kind of accountability notices only what is lacking.
There is a more fruitful way: gratitude accountability. Instead of spotlighting absence, it names presence. No one lives the Christian life perfectly. Yet everyone has something that can be praised. To say, I saw you there—thank you, plants a seed of belonging. It tells them, you are not invisible.
Both confrontation and gratitude are forms of noticing, but they bear different fruit. Confrontational accountability scolds: Why aren’t you always at Mass? Gratitude accountability blesses: I saw the good you gave, and it matters. The first breeds shame; the second fosters invitation.
Gratitude multiplies engagement far more effectively than confrontation. As the old saying goes, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. In stewardship, the same holds true: you get what you celebrate. Celebrate presence, and you encourage presence. But you cannot encourage what you refuse to notice.
Renewal as a School of NoticingEvery autumn, parishes conduct stewardship renewal. Too easily it becomes mechanical: distribute forms, collect pledges, file them away. But renewal is not paperwork—it is a school of noticing. When it is reduced to “just paperwork,” stewardship begins to lose its savor. Forms treated as empty tasks are like a campfire left untended—smoldering, but close to going out.
Renewal Forms as DiscernmentThe form is not mere paperwork; each line is a question: Do I have this gift? Am I willing to share it? The form is an instrument of discernment. For the parishioner, completing it is a moment to notice their own God-given giftedness. Who am I before God? What have I received? How am I called to share? The very act of writing down commitments participates in the art of noticing—one’s own gifts, the needs of others, and the way the parish flourishes when each member offers what they can.
No gift written down is too small. Stewardship is never about giving from surplus, but from substance. Out of what we feel we lack—time, skill, treasure—we still choose to give, and that choice itself becomes an act of self-gift. Even what seems little, like a widow’s mite, makes a difference.
Even if a packet is thrown away, it has still posed a question, still created a pause: “I give, I just don’t want to fill out the paperwork.” Even rejection can be a form of encounter, a way of noticing that stirs reflection. No one escapes the gaze. Every form, whether completed or declined, reminds the parishioner of this truth: you are gifted, and your gifts are needed for the Body.
Follow-up as NoticingFor the parish, receiving a form is never the end of the process but the beginning. It is an opportunity to notice a parishioner’s offering and to respond—with a thank-you, a word of encouragement, an invitation to serve. Noticing is what completes the renewal. Without it, the process risks becoming dead ritual; with it, the process becomes encounter.
Too often people say, “I filled out the form, but no one contacted me.” Sometimes this is a deflection; often it is another way of saying, “my gift was not noticed.” Renewal without follow-up can feel like a closed door. Renewal with follow-up turns paperwork into relationship.
Follow-up is where noticing takes flesh. A phone call of thanks, a conversation about a newly offered talent, an invitation to serve—these small gestures affirm what the form began. To follow up is to say: I saw what you offered, and it matters. You matter.
In this way, parish follow-up is not administrative cleanup but a pastoral act of compassion, a concrete practice of the art of noticing. It affirms the double dignity at the heart of stewardship: I have something to give, and you are worthy of sacrifice.
Stories of NoticingAnd when parishes practice this kind of follow-up, the fruits are unmistakable. Examples of noticing abound: A priest learns the names of students in a Catholic grade school, and years later those students remember the moment they were recognized, seen, and called by name. A laywoman, herself homebound, organizes weekly phone calls among shut-ins, making sure no one disappears into invisibility. Grade school children color Christmas cards and send them to seminarians and women in formation, reminding them they are not forgotten. A ministry leader receives not just a polite thank-you, but a specific word: I saw what you did, and it matters.
Even a quick handshake at the church doors, or a pastor showing up at a child’s ballgame, can echo longer than a dozen homilies. These small acts become holy moments of attention. They whisper to the overlooked: you belong here.
The Challenge of ConversionThe art of noticing requires patience. It is like bamboo: for years it remains hidden underground, only to shoot up suddenly with surprising speed. For some, life feels instead like a boulder pressing down—burdens of debt, addiction, fractured families, or grief. From the outside, they may not look like “good stewards.” They seem hidden, and that may be true.
Yet conversion has no fixed timeline. Ten years of being noticed may prepare the ground for one unexpected moment of return. I have seen it more than once. Words in a homily or pastoral talk seemed to fall on deaf ears—until a life event cracked the soil, grace broke through, and someone finally said: “I haven’t been doing what I know I needed to do. But I am going to start now.” If we cut people off too quickly, we risk cutting short the slow work of grace. Gratitude, invitation, and patient noticing can hold them until the Lord chooses the hour of their freedom.
And if stewardship cannot carry those whose lives are heavy, then it is no true way of life. Who among us has not faced hard times? Who has not walked through seasons of weak or wavering faith? Stewardship is the promise of a community to “carry one another’s burdens” while still inviting those who struggle to remain connected.
Sometimes the best medicine for a weary soul is the act of giving—time, talent, treasure even—in the very midst of struggle. Such giving can disrupt the pull of darkness and draw a person back into the circle of grace. This is precisely the wisdom of stewardship: we give from our substance, not from our surplus. In other words, when in dark times we offer out of our felt poverty, we break out of ourselves and make room for the surprising work of God, even in the simple act of loving our neighbor.
Charisms and Surprising GiftsThe art of noticing must also leave room for surprise. Some gifts are natural—aptitudes, talents, strengths. Others are supernatural—charisms given by the Spirit for the building up of the Church. Administration, teaching, healing, tongues—these may appear suddenly, without prior aptitude. A parishioner may look back and say, “I don’t know how I did that; it just came out of me.” That may well be the Spirit’s charism.
The dictum is true: grace builds on nature. Natural gifts provide the soil, but the Spirit plants charisms that grow beyond what nature alone could bear. To notice such gifts is to help people trust that God works through them in ways greater than their own strength. A parish that notices charisms becomes a school of grace—where the Spirit’s unexpected gifts are welcomed, called forth, and set to work for the good of the Body.
Rest as StewardshipFinally, noticing includes helping people rest. A culture of manic busyness can choke out the good seed. Jesus Himself told His disciples, “Come away and rest awhile.” Every day needs its own “Sunday”—a pause for worship. Every week needs its Sabbath—the Sunday Mass and freedom from work. Every year needs retreat—extended time in quiet with the Lord.
I think of a parish ministry leader who poured herself into every event, every sign-up sheet, every last-minute call. She was reliable to a fault. Then one day a fellow parishioner pulled her aside and said simply: “Rest. You are valuable even when you are not producing.” That moment of being noticed—not for what she did, but for who she was—became healing. It reminded her that her worth lay not in her output but in her being.
To notice the overworked and to grant them permission to rest is a profound act of stewardship. It says again what the Gospel teaches: we are gift, not merely producers of gifts. We are, first, human beings before we are human doings.
Evangelization Begins with a LookAll of this culminates in evangelization. The Gospels are filled with moments when Jesus noticed: Zacchaeus in the tree, the hemorrhaging woman in the crowd, the rich young man who was looked upon and loved. Evangelization begins not with a program but with a look. A parish that notices is a parish that evangelizes—drawing people from isolation into communion, from invisibility into belonging.
Hospitality is the soil where evangelization takes root. When a community opens its doors and its tables, it embodies the welcome of Christ Himself. To greet someone by name, to invite them into a conversation, to linger long enough to listen—these are not mere courtesies. They are evangelizing acts. They say: You are seen. You belong. The Father’s house has room for you. Evangelization without hospitality risks becoming a transaction; evangelization grounded in hospitality becomes an encounter.
The two belong together. To notice is to welcome, and to welcome is to make space for grace. Hospitality takes the gaze of Jesus and plants it in parish life. It prepares the heart to hear the Gospel not as an abstract truth but as a personal invitation. In this way, the simple practice of noticing—wrapped in the warmth of hospitality—becomes both the first step of discipleship and the steady rhythm of a parish that lives stewardship as a way of life.
ConclusionSo the next time you stand in a parish hall, look around. Notice who lingers at the edge of the circle. Ask quietly: Who here is unseen? Who needs to be told they matter? That simple act may be the beginning of healing in their life—the thread by which they find their way back to Christ.
Evangelization begins with a look. Stewardship begins with a look. And before either, the Father has already looked upon us with love. The heart of stewardship is not only giving—it is seeing. And in being seen, we remember the deepest truth: the Father notices us first, calls us each by name, and teaches us to see one another not as strangers but as Thou—persons with a double dignity, both gifted and worthy of our gift in return.
BibliographySacred Scripture
Stewardship and the Art of NoticingBy Fr. Jarrod Lies
Walk into a parish hall on a Sunday morning and the scene is familiar. Groups gather around tables, catching up about children, jobs, or last night’s game. A few laugh loudly near the coffee urn. Someone passes out donuts. And then, at the edges, often one person or family lingers. They move slowly along the wall, smiling faintly but not entering the circles. They seem present but not fully included. Anyone who has stood in their shoes knows the silent ache: Does anyone see me? Do I matter here?
To be noticed is no small thing. It is a reflection of God’s own gaze. Scripture says through Isaiah, “You are precious in my eyes and honored, and I love you” (Is 43:4). We are human beings before we are human doings. Before we do or contribute anything, we are seen and loved. To notice another person is to mirror that divine glance and to pass along the assurance: you are not invisible; you belong.
The Wound of IsolationWe live in a world of constant noise, yet loneliness has reached a fever pitch. How is it that in a prosperous nation, anxiety, depression, and even suicide have become so tragically common? Beneath these struggles lies a wound of isolation. And isolation is often born of two lies: “I have nothing to give,” or “no one wants what I have to give.” Both leave a person feeling unneeded, like a ghost drifting through a crowd.
Stewardship unmasks and undoes those lies. At its heart, stewardship proclaims a double dignity: I have something to offer, and you are worthy of sacrifice. In other words, I matter and you matter. My life is not useless, and neither is yours. Even more deeply, stewardship insists that every life is entrusted with gifts, and those gifts are meant for communion, not left to wither in isolation.
Here the personalism of St. John Paul II sharpens the point. Drawing on Martin Buber’s “I–Thou” philosophy, he taught that every human relationship must begin with recognition of the other’s dignity. No person is merely a means to an end; each is a “Thou,” a gift in themselves, worthy of being received. That means stewardship is never about slotting people into programs or chores. It is not fundraising or volunteer management. It is the Church’s way of resisting isolation—by slowing down, banishing busyness, and practicing the art of truly noticing one another.
Noticing and the Cycle of GiftednessTo notice another is to affirm not only that they have gifts, but that they are gift. In my grade school years if you had told my twelve-year-old self that I was gifted, I would have laughed. I didn’t think much of myself. Only later did I discover what God had planted within me—the gift He made me to be for others. For many, that discovery never comes—unless someone notices and speaks the truth aloud: You are a gift.
There is a cycle here. God gives a gift. The gift must be received, then accepted, claimed, and developed. Over time the gift transforms the one who bears it, shaping character and vocation. Finally, the gift is shared with others. If anywhere in this cycle the process breaks down, the gift can wither unseen. Noticing helps mend the break. To say, I see this in you, may be the nudge that moves someone from hesitation into acceptance, from hidden potential into fruitful service.
Jesus put it plainly: “Nothing is hidden that will not be made known” (Lk 8:17). For years I thought this was only about sin being exposed. But the verse comes right after His command not to hide one’s lamp under a bushel. It is first about gifts. Hidden gifts eventually come to light—to be noticed, blessed, and drawn into the open. That is the Church’s task: not to slot people into chores, but to call forth their gifts so they can walk a path of discipleship.
The Economy of SalvationThe very word stewardship carries this weight. In Greek, oikonomos means the steward of a household—the one entrusted with the master’s resources, charged to manage affairs, multiply what has been given, and ensure the household flourishes. The steward is not the owner but the caretaker. His work belongs to a larger oikonomia—the master’s plan for the whole household.
St. Paul takes that same word, oikonomia, and uses it to describe God’s plan for the salvation of souls in Christ Jesus. In other words, stewardship is not a side project of the Church; it is participation in God’s saving design. God entrusts us with gifts not because He lacks power, but because He delights to work through His people. Humanity is called to manage His household together, with everything directed toward salvation.
That is why noticing is part of the steward’s task. A steward who overlooks certain servants, or fails to call forth the gifts of each member, betrays the master’s trust. The faithful steward notices. He names gifts—both in himself and in others—and makes room for them to flourish. Parish councils, ministry leaders, and families alike share in this same work: to notice, to invite, to entrust, so that the whole household may thrive in God’s plan.
Communion versus AutonomyBut here we must confront a cultural obstacle. Americans prize autonomy. We drive our own cars, keep our own schedules, guard our own time. At a recent talk I half-joked about the sea of vehicles outside the parish hall. Everyone drove separately, though they could have ridden together. Why? Because we prefer independence. Yet every time we choose autonomy over communion, we reinforce isolation.
Noticing requires communion. It requires putting aside some convenience to say, Your presence matters to me.
Scripture makes the point plain. God said of Adam, “It is not good for the man to be alone” (Gen 2:18). Autonomy left Adam restless. Only when he encountered Eve did he finally exclaim, “At last!” Communion gave him rest.
To notice another person is to resist the idol of autonomy and to confess a simple truth: the joy of Christianity is actually other people.
Gratitude as AccountabilityThe art of noticing is the soul of accountability. But accountability in parish life too often defaults to confrontation: Who is absent from Mass? Who has failed to volunteer? Who has not given? This kind of accountability notices only what is lacking.
There is a more fruitful way: gratitude accountability. Instead of spotlighting absence, it names presence. No one lives the Christian life perfectly. Yet everyone has something that can be praised. To say, I saw you there—thank you, plants a seed of belonging. It tells them, you are not invisible.
Both confrontation and gratitude are forms of noticing, but they bear different fruit. Confrontational accountability scolds: Why aren’t you always at Mass? Gratitude accountability blesses: I saw the good you gave, and it matters. The first breeds shame; the second fosters invitation.
Gratitude multiplies engagement far more effectively than confrontation. As the old saying goes, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. In stewardship, the same holds true: you get what you celebrate. Celebrate presence, and you encourage presence. But you cannot encourage what you refuse to notice.
Renewal as a School of NoticingEvery autumn, parishes conduct stewardship renewal. Too easily it becomes mechanical: distribute forms, collect pledges, file them away. But renewal is not paperwork—it is a school of noticing. When it is reduced to “just paperwork,” stewardship begins to lose its savor. Forms treated as empty tasks are like a campfire left untended—smoldering, but close to going out.
Renewal Forms as DiscernmentThe form is not mere paperwork; each line is a question: Do I have this gift? Am I willing to share it? The form is an instrument of discernment. For the parishioner, completing it is a moment to notice their own God-given giftedness. Who am I before God? What have I received? How am I called to share? The very act of writing down commitments participates in the art of noticing—one’s own gifts, the needs of others, and the way the parish flourishes when each member offers what they can.
No gift written down is too small. Stewardship is never about giving from surplus, but from substance. Out of what we feel we lack—time, skill, treasure—we still choose to give, and that choice itself becomes an act of self-gift. Even what seems little, like a widow’s mite, makes a difference.
Even if a packet is thrown away, it has still posed a question, still created a pause: “I give, I just don’t want to fill out the paperwork.” Even rejection can be a form of encounter, a way of noticing that stirs reflection. No one escapes the gaze. Every form, whether completed or declined, reminds the parishioner of this truth: you are gifted, and your gifts are needed for the Body.
Follow-up as NoticingFor the parish, receiving a form is never the end of the process but the beginning. It is an opportunity to notice a parishioner’s offering and to respond—with a thank-you, a word of encouragement, an invitation to serve. Noticing is what completes the renewal. Without it, the process risks becoming dead ritual; with it, the process becomes encounter.
Too often people say, “I filled out the form, but no one contacted me.” Sometimes this is a deflection; often it is another way of saying, “my gift was not noticed.” Renewal without follow-up can feel like a closed door. Renewal with follow-up turns paperwork into relationship.
Follow-up is where noticing takes flesh. A phone call of thanks, a conversation about a newly offered talent, an invitation to serve—these small gestures affirm what the form began. To follow up is to say: I saw what you offered, and it matters. You matter.
In this way, parish follow-up is not administrative cleanup but a pastoral act of compassion, a concrete practice of the art of noticing. It affirms the double dignity at the heart of stewardship: I have something to give, and you are worthy of sacrifice.
Stories of NoticingAnd when parishes practice this kind of follow-up, the fruits are unmistakable. Examples of noticing abound: A priest learns the names of students in a Catholic grade school, and years later those students remember the moment they were recognized, seen, and called by name. A laywoman, herself homebound, organizes weekly phone calls among shut-ins, making sure no one disappears into invisibility. Grade school children color Christmas cards and send them to seminarians and women in formation, reminding them they are not forgotten. A ministry leader receives not just a polite thank-you, but a specific word: I saw what you did, and it matters.
Even a quick handshake at the church doors, or a pastor showing up at a child’s ballgame, can echo longer than a dozen homilies. These small acts become holy moments of attention. They whisper to the overlooked: you belong here.
The Challenge of ConversionThe art of noticing requires patience. It is like bamboo: for years it remains hidden underground, only to shoot up suddenly with surprising speed. For some, life feels instead like a boulder pressing down—burdens of debt, addiction, fractured families, or grief. From the outside, they may not look like “good stewards.” They seem hidden, and that may be true.
Yet conversion has no fixed timeline. Ten years of being noticed may prepare the ground for one unexpected moment of return. I have seen it more than once. Words in a homily or pastoral talk seemed to fall on deaf ears—until a life event cracked the soil, grace broke through, and someone finally said: “I haven’t been doing what I know I needed to do. But I am going to start now.” If we cut people off too quickly, we risk cutting short the slow work of grace. Gratitude, invitation, and patient noticing can hold them until the Lord chooses the hour of their freedom.
And if stewardship cannot carry those whose lives are heavy, then it is no true way of life. Who among us has not faced hard times? Who has not walked through seasons of weak or wavering faith? Stewardship is the promise of a community to “carry one another’s burdens” while still inviting those who struggle to remain connected.
Sometimes the best medicine for a weary soul is the act of giving—time, talent, treasure even—in the very midst of struggle. Such giving can disrupt the pull of darkness and draw a person back into the circle of grace. This is precisely the wisdom of stewardship: we give from our substance, not from our surplus. In other words, when in dark times we offer out of our felt poverty, we break out of ourselves and make room for the surprising work of God, even in the simple act of loving our neighbor.
Charisms and Surprising GiftsThe art of noticing must also leave room for surprise. Some gifts are natural—aptitudes, talents, strengths. Others are supernatural—charisms given by the Spirit for the building up of the Church. Administration, teaching, healing, tongues—these may appear suddenly, without prior aptitude. A parishioner may look back and say, “I don’t know how I did that; it just came out of me.” That may well be the Spirit’s charism.
The dictum is true: grace builds on nature. Natural gifts provide the soil, but the Spirit plants charisms that grow beyond what nature alone could bear. To notice such gifts is to help people trust that God works through them in ways greater than their own strength. A parish that notices charisms becomes a school of grace—where the Spirit’s unexpected gifts are welcomed, called forth, and set to work for the good of the Body.
Rest as StewardshipFinally, noticing includes helping people rest. A culture of manic busyness can choke out the good seed. Jesus Himself told His disciples, “Come away and rest awhile.” Every day needs its own “Sunday”—a pause for worship. Every week needs its Sabbath—the Sunday Mass and freedom from work. Every year needs retreat—extended time in quiet with the Lord.
I think of a parish ministry leader who poured herself into every event, every sign-up sheet, every last-minute call. She was reliable to a fault. Then one day a fellow parishioner pulled her aside and said simply: “Rest. You are valuable even when you are not producing.” That moment of being noticed—not for what she did, but for who she was—became healing. It reminded her that her worth lay not in her output but in her being.
To notice the overworked and to grant them permission to rest is a profound act of stewardship. It says again what the Gospel teaches: we are gift, not merely producers of gifts. We are, first, human beings before we are human doings.
Evangelization Begins with a LookAll of this culminates in evangelization. The Gospels are filled with moments when Jesus noticed: Zacchaeus in the tree, the hemorrhaging woman in the crowd, the rich young man who was looked upon and loved. Evangelization begins not with a program but with a look. A parish that notices is a parish that evangelizes—drawing people from isolation into communion, from invisibility into belonging.
Hospitality is the soil where evangelization takes root. When a community opens its doors and its tables, it embodies the welcome of Christ Himself. To greet someone by name, to invite them into a conversation, to linger long enough to listen—these are not mere courtesies. They are evangelizing acts. They say: You are seen. You belong. The Father’s house has room for you. Evangelization without hospitality risks becoming a transaction; evangelization grounded in hospitality becomes an encounter.
The two belong together. To notice is to welcome, and to welcome is to make space for grace. Hospitality takes the gaze of Jesus and plants it in parish life. It prepares the heart to hear the Gospel not as an abstract truth but as a personal invitation. In this way, the simple practice of noticing—wrapped in the warmth of hospitality—becomes both the first step of discipleship and the steady rhythm of a parish that lives stewardship as a way of life.
ConclusionSo the next time you stand in a parish hall, look around. Notice who lingers at the edge of the circle. Ask quietly: Who here is unseen? Who needs to be told they matter? That simple act may be the beginning of healing in their life—the thread by which they find their way back to Christ.
Evangelization begins with a look. Stewardship begins with a look. And before either, the Father has already looked upon us with love. The heart of stewardship is not only giving—it is seeing. And in being seen, we remember the deepest truth: the Father notices us first, calls us each by name, and teaches us to see one another not as strangers but as Thou—persons with a double dignity, both gifted and worthy of our gift in return.
BibliographySacred Scripture
- The Bible. New American Bible, Revised Edition. United States Conference of Catholic Bishops, 2011.
- Buber, Martin. I and Thou. Translated by Walter Kaufmann, Scribner, 1970.
- John Paul II. Love and Responsibility. Translated by H.T. Willetts, Ignatius Press, 1993.
- John Paul II. Christifideles Laici. 30 Dec. 1988. (for the personalism/dignity frame)
- Gerber, Eugene J. Human Love in the Divine Plan. Diocese of Wichita, 1989.
- McGread, Thomas. “A Foundation for Stewardship.” YouTube, uploaded by Catholic Diocese of Wichita, 27 Jan. 2017. Accessed 26 Sept. 2025.
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Eucharistic Adoration
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Therefore, you shall love the Lord, your God, with your whole heart, and with your whole being, and with your whole strength.
(Deuteronomy 6:5)