The Word today brings together a king found while searching for lost donkeys, a tax collector summoned from his desk, and a young Egyptian who walked into the desert and became a father to monks. It is the Memorial of Saint Anthony, Abbot, and the readings sketch the unlikely routes by which God finds us, anoints us, heals us, and sends us.

Lost donkeys, a tax booth, and a desert

Saul did not set out to be a king. He set out to find his father’s animals. The errand takes him across hills and borders until, almost by accident, he arrives at the place of anointing. Samuel pours oil on his head and speaks a future he did not imagine: “The LORD anoints you commander over his heritage.”

Levi did not apply for apostleship. He did what he did every day; sat at the customs post, counted, charged, compromised. Jesus passes by and speaks two words that rewire his life: “Follow me.” He rises, leaves, and brings Jesus home to a table full of people like himself.

Anthony did not draft a monastic plan. He walked into church and heard the Gospel proclaimed as if it were meant for him. He gave away what he had, sought God in silence, wrestled with temptations, and in seeking solitude became a shelter for others.

The pattern is clear. God meets people in the unremarkable paths they are already walking. Vocation is often born on the margins of routine; at the boundary where a tedious search, a familiar desk, or a pew becomes an opening to grace.

Anointed for service, not self

Saul is described as striking; handsome, tall, noticeable; but the sacred focus is not on his stature; it is on the oil. Anointing is God’s way of saying: your life is not your own project. Authority in Israel is derivative, a trust placed for the good of God’s people. The psalm teaches the same order: “Lord, in your strength the king is glad.” Joy and victory are not generated from within; they are received.

For anyone who leads; in a family, a classroom, a company; there is a temptation to mistake appearance and competence for calling. Saul’s beginning warns us to root our work not in our adequacy but in our anointing. Christians have been anointed sacramentally. The chrism traced on the forehead in Baptism and Confirmation set us apart for priestly offering, prophetic witness, and royal service. Whatever our task, it belongs inside that oil: to govern ourselves and our responsibilities under God, to save where we can from the grasp of whatever enslaves, to be a blessing rather than a burden.

This requires living “in the Lord’s strength.” The psalm’s last line is arresting: “You gladdened him with the joy of your face.” Leaders who pray; who seek the Lord’s face; become less brittle and less theatrical. They need fewer victories to feel whole. Their work becomes lighter because it is tethered to the Giver, not to their image.

The physician who sits at our table

Mark lingers over a small phrase: “As he passed by.” Jesus is moving; grace is afoot. The summons to Levi is not a long argument but a personal address. And Levi’s response is not a resolution but a rising. The verb used; he “got up”; is the same used of rising from the dead. Following Christ is a kind of resurrection in place.

The shock comes next: “many tax collectors and sinners sat with Jesus.” Table fellowship is not peripheral to his mission; it is the form his mercy takes. He comes as physician, and doctors do not heal from across the street. Healing requires contact, attention, shared space. “I did not come to call the righteous but sinners.” The doorway into this house is not performance but admission of need.

There is a hidden freedom here. The Alleluia verse gives it voice: “The Lord sent me to bring glad tidings to the poor and to proclaim liberty to captives.” Levi is captive to money, status, the story people tell about him. Jesus grants him liberty not by shaming him but by rewriting his belonging. He is no longer defined by his booth. He belongs at Christ’s table.

Many carry their own booths into work and home: a title that props up a fragile self, a feed that dictates attention, a habit one cannot shake. The physician’s office is closer than it seems. He will sit at your table if invited. Confession is not a courtroom visit but a medical appointment; the Eucharist is not a prize but the medicine of immortality; Scripture is not a rulebook alone but a letter carried from the one who knows you and is willing to be known by you.

Saint Anthony’s narrow door

Anthony is called “the father of monks,” but his gift is not for specialists alone. He heard the Gospel and understood that Christ’s words were addressed to him personally. He discovered the desert not as an escape from the world, but as the clearest place to face himself before God. There the noise fell away, the spiritual battle sharpened, and humility became possible.

A saying preserved from Anthony’s tradition tells of seeing the enemy’s snares spread over the world and asking, “Who can pass through them?” The answer he heard was, “Humility.” Anthony’s humility looked like fierce realism about his weaknesses, persevering prayer, labor with his hands, hospitality for those who came, and a refusal to dramatize the struggle. He spent years in silence so that, when he did speak, his words could strengthen martyrs in Alexandria, encourage the fearful, and heal the afflicted.

In iconography he carries a staff and is invoked against “St. Anthony’s fire,” a sign of the healing associated with his intercession. He knew the Physician and cooperated with him. He let the Lord’s liberty reach the level of his habits. The wider Church learned from him that solitude, sobriety, and charity are not luxuries; they are medicine.

Signs for today

The readings do not merely edify; they offer practical paths.

These are not heroic feats. They are ways of standing where God already passes by.

The joy of his face

Saul’s head, wet with oil; Levi’s table, crowded with unlikely guests; Anthony’s cave, lit by prayer; each reveals the same God. He chooses, not because we are impressive, but because we are his. He heals, not by hovering, but by entering our rooms. He frees, not by spectacle, but by steady companionship.

“Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do.” The good news is twofold: we are not well, and the Physician is near. Today may our work be anointed, our need be admitted, and our hearts be gladdened with the joy of his face.