Opinion
By Valentine Obienyem
I love the way Fr. Maximus Okonkwo began his sermon by explaining the liturgical seasons of the Church. The major thrust of his homily was discipleship, drawing deeply from the day’s readings. As he spoke, I found myself content to simply absorb his words, resolving not to write anything today but to carry the lessons quietly within me. However, an unexpected incident during the Mass shattered my quiet contemplation, compelling me to reflect and put pen to paper.
The catalyst for this shift began with the Responsorial Psalm: “We are His people, the sheep of His flock.”
At first hearing, the imagery of sheep can feel uncomfortable. In our cultural context, calling someone a sheep (atụrụ) is often a mild insult, implying a lack of reasoning, a deficiency of independence, or a blind tendency to follow others without thinking. It is easy to wonder why Scripture would use an image that feels so diminishing to describe God’s people.
Yet, in the biblical context, the meaning is entirely transformed. Sheep were precious, vulnerable assets that depended completely on the shepherd for sustenance, direction, and defense. Christ’s description of us as sheep is not an indictment of human intellect, but a compassionate recognition of the human condition: we are inherently limited, easily distracted, and prone to losing our way without proper direction. When Christ looks out at the crowd and sees them as “sheep without a shepherd,” He is moved by deep empathy. The metaphor is a reminder that we belong to a God who calls us to trust His overarching guidance rather than rely solely on our own fragile understanding.
As if to provide a living commentary on this very need for guidance, a human drama unfolded directly in front of me.
I was seated in the same pew as our emeritus catechist. In the second pew ahead of us sat a mother with her daughter, a little girl of about three years old. In the cheerful, carefree manner of childhood, the girl quickly turned the pew into her private playground, moving about with boundless energy. Such vivacity is naturally a delight to behold. Yet, there are moments when a discerning parent must gently teach a child that certain behaviors are unsuited to particular settings – especially a place of worship, where reverence and quietness form the atmosphere of prayer.
I must confess to a growing discomfort as I watched the child climb and sat upon the pew while her mother remained largely unconcerned, treating the sacred space with a passive indifference.
Sensing the disruption, the emeritus catechist quietly intervened. With deliberate move, he lifted the child down and settled her into the seat, communicating without a single word that she ought to remain calm and composed in the house of God. The child, remarkably, seemed to understand the silent correction immediately.
What followed, however, was a missed opportunity for discipline. I expected the mother to reinforce the catechist’s lesson with a gentle, firm reminder that church is a place for attentiveness. Instead, she began comforting and petting the child defensively, as though the catechist had committed a grave wrong. To further pacify her, she handed the child a smartphone to play with. This indulgence only created a sense of resentment; from time to time, the child pointed back toward the catechist, her young mind tracking the grievance her mother’s reaction had validated.
What happened next was a beautiful display of fraternal wisdom. During the Sign of Peace, the catechist approached the child warmly, greeting her with a reassuring smile. Through that simple gesture of kindness, he signaled to her that his earlier intervention sprang from goodwill, not annoyance. It was a brief, masterful stroke of affection that dissolved the tension.
This entire episode serves as a vivid reminder of an essential truth: self-discipline does not emerge suddenly in adulthood. Its foundations are laid in infancy and early childhood through patient guidance, consistent boundaries, and loving correction. Children are born with raw impulses and desires that seek immediate gratification. Left entirely unchecked, these wild instincts harden into habits that make later discipline painful, if not impossible. It is through the quiet, often uncelebrated work of parents and elders that children learn the art of restraint, respect, and consideration for others.
Love and discipline are not opposing forces; they are partners in the architecture of character. Genuine love does not merely seek to comfort a child in the present moment; it looks ahead, seeking to prepare that child for a responsible, virtuous life in the future. The profound lessons of human life are often mastered in these small, seemingly insignificant moments – like learning to sit quietly during Mass. These are the humble building blocks upon which greater virtues are eventually raised.
A.I
June 15, 2026
Tags: Fr. Maximus Okonkwo Valentine Obienyem