Whose face is inscribed on your life?

Sometimes I find myself worrying about the world my children are growing up in.

Not in any dramatic way, and not because I think everything was better when I was young. Every generation has had its troubles.

But when I look at the world around me,

listen to the conversations we have,

watch the way people treat one another,

I do wonder what sort of world we are building for our children, and for theirs after them.

There seems to be so much anger. So much division. So much energy spent on being right, getting ahead and making sure that our own voice is the one that gets heard.

We seem to have become very good at measuring success by what we achieve, what we earn and what we own, but I sometimes wonder how good we are at measuring the things that really matter.

And I have to include myself in that.

I work hard. I want to provide for my family, do a good job and make a difference to the lives of the young people I teach.

I want my children to have opportunities and to grow into happy, thoughtful people.

None of those things are wrong. In fact, they are things I care deeply about.

But every now and then, I have to ask myself a slightly uncomfortable question.

Am I so busy trying to build a good life that I am missing what makes life good?

I suspect I am not alone in that.

In Matthew's Gospel, we encounter an uncomfortable example of what happens when we become so caught up in our own agenda that we lose sight of what really matters.

The Pharisees and the Herodians were not natural allies, yet they find themselves working together to trap Jesus. Their differences are put aside, not because they have discovered some common good, but because they share a desire to bring Him down. They are so focused on catching Him out that they fail to recognise the truth standing right in front of them.

Perhaps we can use that

I mean how often do we become so concerned with winning an argument that we forget the person we are arguing with? How often do we protect our pride, reputation or position at the expense of a relationship? We can become so determined to prove ourselves right that we lose sight of what is right.

Jesus refuses to be drawn into their trap. He asks whose image is on the coin used to pay the tax. They answer that it is Caesar's, and Jesus responds:

“Give back to Caesar what belongs to Caesar — and to God what belongs to God.”

It is a familiar line, but what is it that actually bears the image of God?

Our immediate answer might be our souls. We belong to God, and nothing we achieve or acquire can change that. But that's the easy answer, the harder one, what does this mean for the way we live?

Does it mean our ambitions, possessions and desire to provide for our families are wrong?

I don't think that is what Jesus is asking.

I think He is asking us to look carefully at the things we value, the lives we are building and the reasons we are building them.

Take marriage, for example. I'm honestly whose face is inscribed in the relationship you share with your partner?

It is yours and theirs: the life you have built, the promises you have made and the memories you carry. But what is at its heart?

Can the face of Christ be seen in the ordinary moments of your marriage—in the way you listen after a difficult day, show patience when you are tired, offer encouragement or make time for one another?

These things rarely look extraordinary, yet they are often where love is most clearly expressed: in the small decisions to value another person, forgive, listen and place their well-being alongside, and sometimes before, our own.

We can work hard to provide a home, financial security and a comfortable life for our family, all good things, while becoming so absorbed in achieving them that we have little left to give the people we are doing it for.

We can build a life for our family and forget to enjoy it with them.

Equally, as parents, we want our children to be happy, secure and successful. But they are not our achievements or extensions of our ambitions.

Our children are individuals, created and loved by God, with gifts and possibilities we may not yet understand.

Our responsibility is not to inactive our own image onto them, but to help them discover who they are and who God is calling them to become.

Sometimes that means guidance and boundaries; at other times, it means watching their activities and interests, listening to their stories or taking an interest in lives different from our own.

We can be physically present but mentally elsewhere, already thinking about tomorrow's tasks. The challenge is not to get every moment right, but to recognise that these ordinary moments often matter most.

Luke us all, I work to provide for my family. Paying the bills, keeping a roof over our heads and offering security are real responsibilities. As a teacher, I also want my students to flourish and recognise their gifts. My Catholic faith shapes that responsibility:

I want Christ to be visible in my patience, fairness and willingness to care—not by forcing my beliefs on others, but by living them.

Yet work brings its own temptations. We can become absorbed in achievement and measure our worth by recognition, success or the expectations we meet.

We miss the idea that there is dignity in doing a job well, using our talents and providing for those we love. But what happens when success begins to cost us our peace, relationships or ability to care?

So maybe we need to take a beat each day, over breakfast, in the evening, in the brief chance for a cup of coffee and ask ourselves these questions:

Am I using the gifts God has given me to serve others, or primarily to build something for myself?

Am I helping people to flourish, or so concerned with proving my own worth that I have forgotten theirs?

I suspect the answer varies from day to day. There are days when I get it right, and days when I become caught up in the very things I know I should question.

That is why this Gospel matters. It is not simply a question of what we should give away or hold on to. It is a question of what sits at the centre of our lives.

We do not need to reject the world to belong to God. We need to live in it without allowing its measures of success to become our measures of worth.

Our homes, jobs, possessions and ambitions are good things. They provide security, create opportunities and help us care for others. But none should become more important than the people we love, and none should lead us to forget the God whose image we bear.

We will not keep everything we work so hard to acquire. The house will belong to somebody else. The job will pass to another person. Our achievements will eventually fade from memory.

But, that does not make them worthless; it reminds us they were never meant to be the whole point.

Perhaps what matters most is not the image we leave on the world, but the image we reflect through the way we live. The love we give, the dignity we recognise in others, the patience we show and the lives we help to shape are opportunities to make God's love visible here and now.

So I return to the question.

Whose face is inscribed on my life?

As a partner, am I helping to build a relationship in which love and the other's well-being genuinely matter?

As a parent, am I helping my children become who they are called to be?

As a worker, am I using my gifts to serve others, or becoming so caught up in achievement that I lose sight of why I work?

I ask these questions of myself as much as anyone else. I know how easy it is to get caught up in everyday demands and how difficult it can be to stop and recognise what is already in front of us.

For me, that is where we begin: not by abandoning our responsibilities or ambitions, but by asking what they are for, who they serve and whether they are helping us become the people God created us to be.

Give to Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and to God what belongs to God.

Before we rush off to achieve the next thing, we should look at the life we have already been given: the person beside us, the child asking us to watch something, the colleague who needs our patience, the family waiting for us to come home.

We can spend a lifetime trying to leave our mark on the world, only to discover that the things we thought were most important were never the things that mattered most.

Perhaps the greatest achievement is not to have our own image stamped across everything we do, but to let our actions stamp the face of Christ, quietly, on the world, and in the life we live.