Last weekend, I had the great privilege of presiding over a wedding at St. Joseph’s, my old parish. The groom had once been one of my altar servers: a shy, quiet, somewhat awkward eleven-year-old boy. Now, more than a decade later, he stood before me as a young man in his mid-twenties, a competitive bodybuilder, and a bridegroom. And he had asked me to be the priest who would witness his wedding. How could I possibly say no?

I said yes gladly. For this is one of the great and hidden joys of being a priest: to watch a human soul grow. We meet people at one chapter of their lives and, if God is kind enough to let us remain, we sometimes get to see the next. We baptize children who later kneel at the altar. We teach young men and women who eventually stand before us as husbands and wives. We plant seeds whose flowering we may never see.

And sometimes, God allows us to see the flower. But there was another familiar face at the wedding. The groom’s older brother was there—a man I had not seen since I left St. Joseph’s in 2016. Both brothers had once served Mass with me on Sundays. They had stood beside me at the altar, close to the Holy of Holies, in the presence of that great Mystery where Jesus Christ gives Himself to us in the Eucharist—Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. But somewhere along the way, his older brother began to drift. It did not happen all at once. Perhaps it rarely does.

He had questions. The same questions that have troubled generations of young people: Does God really exist? Why do I have to go to Mass on Sunday? Why does any of this matter? What if the Church is wrong?

Questions are not the enemy of faith. But questions can become doors, and every door may open either toward God or away from Him. Eventually, the questions became too heavy. The boy who had once served Christ at His altar walked away. He left the practice of the Catholic faith and followed the current of the world, where so many bright things glitter upon the surface of the water. And yet the human heart is a strange thing. It can possess much and still hunger.

It can taste pleasure and still thirst. It can win applause, accumulate success, pursue power, seek romance, entertain itself endlessly and still, when the noise finally ceases, hear the same ancient question whispering from somewhere deep within: Is this all?

The wedding was the first time my old altar server had stepped inside a church in years. I was, of course, delighted to see him.During the homily, I made fun of his long hippie hair. Afterwards, he returned the favor by making fun of my male-pattern baldness. But then he said something that I have not been able to forget. Referring to the homily, he said: “Now that’s how you get people back into church!” I do not know precisely what struck him. I do not know which word, which idea, or which buried memory stirred within him.

Perhaps it was something I said about marriage: that it is not merely a human arrangement but part of a divine design. That God created us male and female for a reason, and that the mystery of our bodies points beyond itself toward something greater. That we were made for a love which is not merely emotional or pleasurable, but total, faithful, fruitful, and sacrificial. And that the deepest form of love does not culminate in the possession of another, but in the gift of oneself. Which is precisely where marriage finally points us—to Jesus Christ. For the Cross is the place where Love reveals its true face.

There, the One who could have demanded everything instead gives everything. There, the Bridegroom gives Himself for His Bride. There, we discover that the strange hunger within the human heart is not an accident or an evolutionary inconvenience. It is a clue. Perhaps something in my old altar server's heart was pierced that day. What was it? I can only speculate.

But I am certain of this: the human heart was made for more than this world can give. There is a thirst in us that no earthly cup can finally satisfy. We spend our lives reaching for things which promise happiness. We pursue success, admiration, wealth, pleasure, romance, influence, beauty, experiences, and every glittering thing the world places before our eyes. And for a little while, they satisfy us. Then the satisfaction fades. So we reach again. And again. And again. Why? Because finite things cannot fill an infinite longing. There is a hollow place within us that creation itself cannot occupy. There is an ache for meaning, a homesickness for something we cannot quite name. But perhaps the ache is not the disease. Perhaps it is the invitation.

And this is the astonishing truth of the Gospel: we are not the only ones who thirst. God thirsts for us first. The One whom we have spent our lives seeking has been seeking us all along.

The Father waits for His children. Christ calls to the wandering heart. And the Holy Spirit continues to stir within us that ancient desire for something greater than the passing treasures of this world. So, my friends, I want to invite you on October 1st to the Well. Come with your questions. Come with your doubts. Come if you have been away for years. Come if you no longer know what you believe. Come if you have tried everything the world has offered and have discovered, perhaps quietly and painfully, that you are still thirsty. For the answer to our deepest questions is not ultimately a proposition, an argument, or an idea. It is a Person. The God who thirsts for us first. COME TO THE WELL.