The Spiritual Plot Twist: Bishop Barron’s ‘Capernac Revolution’ Explained

If you’ve ever thought religion was about rules, rituals, and respectability, Bishop Robert Barron would like a word. In his sermon for the Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time, he dives into one of the most deceptively simple Gospel stories–The Parable of the Pharisee and the Tax Collector–and flips it into something cosmic. He calls it a “Capernac revolution.” Think of it as a spiritual version of the Copernican Revolution, but instead of the Earth being moved out of the center of the universe, it’s your ego that gets displaced.

The idea’s simple but devastating: the soul’s true center isn’t you–it’s God. Most of us, if we’re honest, live as if God revolves around us. We pray when convenient, get annoyed when He doesn’t fix our mess, and quietly assume the universe should cooperate with our plans. Bishop Barron says the real spiritual revolution begins when we finally reverse that orbit. The ego must revolve around God, not the other way around. And that reversal, while freeing, can feel like an earthquake–because it means admitting we’re not the protagonists of our own salvation story.

That’s where Luke’s parable cuts deep. The Pharisee walks into the Temple in Jerusalem with all the poise of a man who believes he’s earned the right to be there. His “prayer” is really a résumé–“I fast, I tithe, I’m not like that guy.” He’s talking to God, sure, but mostly to himself. The tax collector, meanwhile, barely steps inside. He can’t lift his eyes, just beats his chest and mutters, “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” And right there, Bishop Barron says, is the moment the revolution starts–the moment the soul steps out of self-reference and into the orbit of divine mercy.

Drawing from Bernard of Clairvaux, Barron calls this posture the “kiss of the feet.” It’s the first stage of love: not the rapturous union of saints, but the humble beginning where pride dies and grace finally breathes. You don’t reach for God’s face first; you fall at His feet. It’s not self-hatred. It’s clarity. The tax collector doesn’t wallow in guilt–he just sees the truth. That clarity, Barron says, is where holiness begins.

He also brings it home to the liturgy. All the gestures–kneeling, genuflecting, the repeated cry of “Lord have mercy”–are supposed to cultivate that same humility. But for many of us, they’ve become routine. Barron poses a haunting question: When was the last time you walked into church and actually felt unworthy to be there? The tax collector did. The Pharisee didn’t. Guess which one went home justified.

Even the Jesus Prayer–“Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner”–becomes, in Barron’s framing, a kind of spiritual gravity. It keeps the soul from drifting into self-importance. Whisper it throughout the day, he says, and you start to feel that slow, steady pull back toward God’s center. It’s not about punishment or guilt. It’s about reorientation–learning, again and again, that the story of salvation is about Him, not us.

The sermon ends on a challenge that feels less like a question and more like a mirror: Is your life revolving around God, or is God revolving around you? If He’s just an accessory to your ambitions–a cosmic consultant–you’re still in the wrong orbit. But if you can stand like the tax collector, aware of your need and hungry for mercy, you’ve begun your own Capernac revolution.

That revolution doesn’t happen once. It’s lifelong. Every time you pray, confess, kneel, or whisper “Lord have mercy,” you’re pulling your soul back into right alignment. You’re undoing the illusion of self-centered faith and returning to the reality that everything–every act, every breath–exists for Him.