Monday, 9 February 2026

Plank? What Plank?

Sometimes the Gospel reaches me not through what is spoken aloud, but through what rises quietly within me when I am interrupted and exposed.

It happened recently at Mass, in a moment so ordinary that it might easily have been forgotten, and yet so revealing that it has stayed with me.

At the very beginning of Mass, before I had properly settled, before my heart had slowed to the pace of prayer, several telephones went off. 

One sound followed another, brief intrusions into the silence that is meant to help me cross the threshold from ordinary life into something sacred.

Almost immediately, irritation stirred within me. It rose quickly and confidently, as though it needed very little encouragement. My attention drifted away from prayer and toward judgment. I told myself I was simply reacting to the disruption, but beneath that explanation lay something more uncomfortable.

I was judging.

I made a short-lived attempt to restrain myself. I reminded myself to be patient, to be charitable, to assume good intentions. But the effort was thin, and it did not last. I failed rather easily.

My thoughts sharpened. People should know better. Surely this is not too much to ask. Why don't they just switch their phones off or even just set their phones to silent?

What unsettled me later was how natural these thoughts felt. They did not feel harsh. They felt reasonable. Even righteous. I was convinced I was right, and that quiet certainty wrapped itself comfortably in the language of reverence and respect. It did not feel like judgment. It felt justified.

And then the Mass continued.

The prayers were spoken. The readings proclaimed. I stood and sat at the expected moments. The rhythm of the liturgy carried me forward, and I allowed myself to believe that the irritation had passed, absorbed into the familiar flow.

Yet something remained restless beneath the surface.

Then, at a crucial moment, it happened again.

A phone went off.

This time, the sound came from my own phone.

It was my phone. 

I had forgotten to silence any voice reminders and they were still active... and one of the reminders chose that precise moment to announce itself.

The sound cut through the silence with uncomfortable clarity.

All the irritation I had directed outward only a short while earlier now turned back toward me, undeniable and immediate. I had no distance from the disruption. I was the disruption.

As I sat there, my mind moved instinctively to words I knew well.

Words from the Gospel that have followed me for years.

From Matthew: "Why do you notice the speck in your brother's eye, but do not perceive the plank in your own eye?" (Matthew 7:3)

And from Luke: "How can you say to your brother, 'Brother, let me remove the speck that is in your eye,' when you yourself do not see the plank that is in your own eye?" (Luke 6:42)

These verses were not proclaimed aloud in that moment, but they rose unbidden within me, as though they had been waiting just beneath the surface. The situation did not remind me of them; it revealed them.

What I had moments earlier treated as a general teaching suddenly felt painfully specific. I had noticed the specks. I had been attentive to them. I had quietly identified the failings of others – their distraction, their lack of awareness, their perceived irreverence. And all the while, I had remained largely blind to my own plank.

In that moment, I did not feel condemned. What I felt was recognition.

A steady, clarifying recognition of myself as I am, rather than as I prefer to imagine myself to be.

Grace did not arrive with accusation. It arrived with truth. 

The words from Matthew and Luke did not shame me. They simply named what was already present.

I saw how easily I judge, how quickly I position myself as observer rather than participant.

I saw how ready I am to excuse my own failings as understandable, while quietly holding others to a higher standard. 

I saw how often I mistake judgment for discernment, and irritation for righteousness.

This recognition was uncomfortable, but it was also freeing.

Because it did not ask me to defend myself or soften the truth. It did not ask me to explain my intentions. It simply asked me to see.

The plank in my own eye was not revealed to blind me. It was revealed so that my vision might be healed.

As the Mass continued, I found myself unusually still. 

The embarrassment slowly faded, but the awareness remained. 

My attention no longer drifted toward the behaviour of others. It turned inward, not in self-criticism, but in quiet honesty.

I began to notice how much noise I carry within me, even in moments of outward silence. How many judgments run quietly beneath the surface of my prayer. How quickly I reach for certainty rather than compassion.

I also noticed something else.

The Mass did not stop because of my interruption. No one corrected me. No one drew attention to what had happened. The liturgy continued, steady and faithful, holding both my irritation and my embarrassment without rupture.

Mercy did not withdraw.

That, perhaps, was the deepest lesson of all.

Jesus speaks of specks and planks not to encourage scrutiny, but to invite humility. Not to deny discernment, but to reorder it. He asks that I begin with myself, that I allow my own vision to be healed before I attempt to correct another.

The ringing phone became, for me, a small parable. An awkward, grace-filled interruption that revealed something essential about the spiritual life. That judgment is often quick and loud, while self-awareness requires time and silence. That God's invitations frequently arrive disguised as inconvenience.

As I left the church that day, I carried with me a quiet resolve – not to be flawless, but to be more truthful. To notice my reactions before I justify them. To pause when irritation arises. To remember how easily I, too, forget.

I know I will judge again.

I know I will be distracted again. 

I know I will continue to notice specks more quickly than planks.

But I hope I will remember that moment.

I hope I will remember how the Gospel met me not despite my failure, but through it. How Scripture rose within me at the exact moment I needed it. How mercy remained when my certainty fell away.

May I continue to be taught by these interruptions. May I learn to welcome them as invitations rather than obstacles. And may I grow, slowly and quietly, into a gentler, clearer way of seeing.


A prayer for all who read this blog post and for all who never will.

May I be given the grace to recognise the plank in my own eye before I point out the speck in the eyes of others. May my vision be healed by humility rather than clouded by judgment. May I learn to see others with mercy, and myself with honesty. And when I am interrupted – in prayer, in worship, in life – may I listen for Your quiet invitation to see more clearly.

Amen.
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