fourth SUNDAY OF EASTER
The Voice We Follow 05-11-2025
There’s a story about a woman named Della. She worked the counter of a small-town diner. No children of her own. But every afternoon at 4 p.m., she’d serve grilled cheese sandwiches to a boy named Samuel—an orphan who sat quietly at the end of the counter. She wiped his tears when he cried. Taught him how to speak with respect. Showed up at his school plays and paid for his field trips.
Years later, Samuel—now a teacher—would say: “The most important lessons I ever learned weren’t in school. They were at a Formica counter, from a woman who never called herself my mother, but was one in every way that mattered.”
Because not all mothers rock cradles. But every act of Christlike love rocks the world.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and no one will snatch them out of my hand.” That kind of knowing isn’t distant or generic. It’s not the knowing of a database—it’s the knowing of a shepherd who’s walked long roads with you. It’s the knowing of Mary, who stood beneath the Cross when others fled. It’s the knowing of every person who mothers quietly—without titles, without applause—who carries others in prayer, in patience, and in persistence.
We see this in the Book of Acts. Paul and Barnabas face rejection by some, but they don’t shut down. Instead, they widen the circle. “We are turning to the Gentiles,” they say, “that you may be a light to the nations.” That’s the voice of the Shepherd—always expanding, always gathering. And isn’t that what mothers do? They widen the table. They make room. They gather the lost.
In the Book of Revelation, we’re given a vision of the heavenly multitude—every race, every language, standing before the throne, sheltered by God. And what does God do? “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” That image isn’t just poetic. It’s maternal. God’s own hand reaching for your cheek when life gets too hard.
And today, we need that gentle voice more than ever. In a world full of shouting—political noise, online outrage, spiritual confusion—we need the Shepherd’s voice to cut through the static. Not the loudest voice, but the truest. Not the one that demands attention, but the one that gives peace.
This week, the Church heard that voice in a new way: the election of Pope Leo XIV—the first American-born pope. That in itself is a powerful reminder. The voice of Christ speaks through surprising places. The Gospel crosses borders. The Spirit isn’t bound by nationality, language, or expectation. Just like in the early Church, the Good Shepherd keeps calling people to follow—from every continent, every culture, every corner of the world.
And still, even as we celebrate, we name the ache. Because for some, Mother’s Day is not only joyful—it’s also painful.
For the woman who miscarried in silence.For the child estranged from the mother they long to love.For the son who buried his mom just last spring.
To you, the Church says: God’s flock is wider than your wounds. You are still known. Still seen. Still held in the hand of the Shepherd.
So today, let’s remember Della—and all those like her. The ones who never made the headlines, but made life holy by making space for someone else. The ones who taught not with lectures, but with lunches faithfully served at 4 p.m. Who loved not because they had to, but because they chose to.
That’s the voice we follow. That’s the Shepherd we trust. The One who calls us not just to believe, but to belong—not just to be saved, but to be gathered, fed, and sent.
And maybe, like Samuel, we’ll realize one day that the holiest lessons weren’t learned in churches or classrooms, but across diner counters and hospital beds, in whispered prayers and quiet persistence. That the kingdom of God is not built by grand gestures, but by small, fierce acts of love.
So whether you’re rocking a cradle, wiping a tear, or simply showing up when it matters—know this: you are part of the Shepherd’s voice in the world.
And someone—perhaps years from now—will look back and say:“That was the moment I learned what love really looks like.”
Years later, Samuel—now a teacher—would say: “The most important lessons I ever learned weren’t in school. They were at a Formica counter, from a woman who never called herself my mother, but was one in every way that mattered.”
Because not all mothers rock cradles. But every act of Christlike love rocks the world.
In today’s Gospel, Jesus says, “My sheep hear my voice. I know them, and they follow me. I give them eternal life, and no one will snatch them out of my hand.” That kind of knowing isn’t distant or generic. It’s not the knowing of a database—it’s the knowing of a shepherd who’s walked long roads with you. It’s the knowing of Mary, who stood beneath the Cross when others fled. It’s the knowing of every person who mothers quietly—without titles, without applause—who carries others in prayer, in patience, and in persistence.
We see this in the Book of Acts. Paul and Barnabas face rejection by some, but they don’t shut down. Instead, they widen the circle. “We are turning to the Gentiles,” they say, “that you may be a light to the nations.” That’s the voice of the Shepherd—always expanding, always gathering. And isn’t that what mothers do? They widen the table. They make room. They gather the lost.
In the Book of Revelation, we’re given a vision of the heavenly multitude—every race, every language, standing before the throne, sheltered by God. And what does God do? “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.” That image isn’t just poetic. It’s maternal. God’s own hand reaching for your cheek when life gets too hard.
And today, we need that gentle voice more than ever. In a world full of shouting—political noise, online outrage, spiritual confusion—we need the Shepherd’s voice to cut through the static. Not the loudest voice, but the truest. Not the one that demands attention, but the one that gives peace.
This week, the Church heard that voice in a new way: the election of Pope Leo XIV—the first American-born pope. That in itself is a powerful reminder. The voice of Christ speaks through surprising places. The Gospel crosses borders. The Spirit isn’t bound by nationality, language, or expectation. Just like in the early Church, the Good Shepherd keeps calling people to follow—from every continent, every culture, every corner of the world.
And still, even as we celebrate, we name the ache. Because for some, Mother’s Day is not only joyful—it’s also painful.
For the woman who miscarried in silence.For the child estranged from the mother they long to love.For the son who buried his mom just last spring.
To you, the Church says: God’s flock is wider than your wounds. You are still known. Still seen. Still held in the hand of the Shepherd.
So today, let’s remember Della—and all those like her. The ones who never made the headlines, but made life holy by making space for someone else. The ones who taught not with lectures, but with lunches faithfully served at 4 p.m. Who loved not because they had to, but because they chose to.
That’s the voice we follow. That’s the Shepherd we trust. The One who calls us not just to believe, but to belong—not just to be saved, but to be gathered, fed, and sent.
And maybe, like Samuel, we’ll realize one day that the holiest lessons weren’t learned in churches or classrooms, but across diner counters and hospital beds, in whispered prayers and quiet persistence. That the kingdom of God is not built by grand gestures, but by small, fierce acts of love.
So whether you’re rocking a cradle, wiping a tear, or simply showing up when it matters—know this: you are part of the Shepherd’s voice in the world.
And someone—perhaps years from now—will look back and say:“That was the moment I learned what love really looks like.”
THIRD SUNDAY OF EASTER
WHEN FAILURE MEETS FIRELIGHT 05-04-2025
A man got fired three times. First, for incompetence (he figured mashing buttons would eventually fix expensive equipment). Second, for snapping at a coworker after a terrible morning—no coffee, bad traffic, and stepping in something mysterious outside his front door. And third—for plain apathy. He stopped showing up: late arrivals, missed deadlines, excuse after excuse.
At first, he blamed politics. Or “corporate culture.” Or Mercury in retrograde. But eventually—after enough silence and humble pie—he admitted the truth: “I stopped showing up. Not just to work, but to who I’m meant to be.”
That didn’t fix everything. But it started something. He made amends. Years later, as a manager, he told his team: “The best leaders aren’t the ones who never fail. They’re the ones who’ve knelt in their own ashes—and still said yes.”
Peter knows that story.
In today’s Gospel, Peter is back at the Sea of Galilee—not to relax, but because when you’ve failed hard and don’t know what else to do, you go fishing. Or alphabetize your spice rack. Or deep-clean the garage at 2 a.m.
Peter had denied Jesus three times. Brave, loud, “I’ll die with You” Peter collapsed in front of a charcoal fire and a servant girl. And now, the risen Jesus has appeared—twice—but Peter still hasn’t had that one-on-one. So he goes back to something familiar.
Then, in the early morning light, a voice from the shore: “Children, have you caught anything?” Translation: “How’s doing it your way working out?” The nets are empty. Again.
Jesus tells them to try the other side. They do—and suddenly, fish everywhere. John squints and says, “It is the Lord.” Peter—never one to underreact—throws on his outer garment (why he was underdressed is a mystery) and cannonballs into the sea. He swims to shore, heart pounding.
What does he find? A fire. With fish. And bread. And Jesus—not lecturing, not pacing, not holding a clipboard—just cooking breakfast.
And right there, next to another charcoal fire, Jesus begins the conversation that will change Peter forever.
He doesn’t say: • “Peter, I told you so.” • “Let’s talk about your recent performance.” • “I’m not mad… just disappointed.”
He asks one question: “Do you love me?”
Three times. One for each denial. And with each yes, Peter gets a mission: “Feed my sheep.”Not “Fix yourself first.” Not “Earn your spot back.” Just “Love Me—and take care of My people.”
This is Easter mercy.
Not just forgiveness—but trust. Jesus doesn’t hand Peter a mop and say, “Clean up your mess.” He hands him a shepherd’s staff.
That’s why, in Acts, we find Peter standing before the same leaders who condemned Jesus. This time, he isn’t hiding—he’s defying them: “We must obey God rather than men.” And after being flogged (yes, flogged), what does he do? Throw a pity party? No. He rejoices. Because when you’ve been loved back into life, nothing can shut you up.
And the story doesn’t end there.
In Revelation, John gives us the wide-angle view. He sees the Lamb who was slain—and all of heaven breaks into worship. Thousands of angels and elders cry out. But look again: Jesus isn’t holding a sword. He’s holding scars.
He still looks wounded. Why? Because heaven doesn’t erase sacrifice. In the Kingdom of God, scars don’t disqualify you—they glorify Him.
So what do we do with this?
Maybe you’re like Peter—carrying the weight of something said or unsaid, done or undone. Maybe you’re like the disciples—fishing in empty waters, wondering if Jesus still wants you. Or maybe you’re like that guy who got fired three times—finally ready to stop blaming and start kneeling.
If so, hear this: Jesus isn’t done with you. He’s on the shore. He’s calling your name. And He’s already got the fire going.
Let Him bring you back to the place of your failure—not to shame you, but to restore you. Let Him ask the question that matters most: “Do you love Me?” And when you whisper yes—even if it’s shaky—He’ll hand you a mission.
Because in the Kingdom of God, grace outruns guilt. And mercy turns wreckage into resurrection.
At first, he blamed politics. Or “corporate culture.” Or Mercury in retrograde. But eventually—after enough silence and humble pie—he admitted the truth: “I stopped showing up. Not just to work, but to who I’m meant to be.”
That didn’t fix everything. But it started something. He made amends. Years later, as a manager, he told his team: “The best leaders aren’t the ones who never fail. They’re the ones who’ve knelt in their own ashes—and still said yes.”
Peter knows that story.
In today’s Gospel, Peter is back at the Sea of Galilee—not to relax, but because when you’ve failed hard and don’t know what else to do, you go fishing. Or alphabetize your spice rack. Or deep-clean the garage at 2 a.m.
Peter had denied Jesus three times. Brave, loud, “I’ll die with You” Peter collapsed in front of a charcoal fire and a servant girl. And now, the risen Jesus has appeared—twice—but Peter still hasn’t had that one-on-one. So he goes back to something familiar.
Then, in the early morning light, a voice from the shore: “Children, have you caught anything?” Translation: “How’s doing it your way working out?” The nets are empty. Again.
Jesus tells them to try the other side. They do—and suddenly, fish everywhere. John squints and says, “It is the Lord.” Peter—never one to underreact—throws on his outer garment (why he was underdressed is a mystery) and cannonballs into the sea. He swims to shore, heart pounding.
What does he find? A fire. With fish. And bread. And Jesus—not lecturing, not pacing, not holding a clipboard—just cooking breakfast.
And right there, next to another charcoal fire, Jesus begins the conversation that will change Peter forever.
He doesn’t say: • “Peter, I told you so.” • “Let’s talk about your recent performance.” • “I’m not mad… just disappointed.”
He asks one question: “Do you love me?”
Three times. One for each denial. And with each yes, Peter gets a mission: “Feed my sheep.”Not “Fix yourself first.” Not “Earn your spot back.” Just “Love Me—and take care of My people.”
This is Easter mercy.
Not just forgiveness—but trust. Jesus doesn’t hand Peter a mop and say, “Clean up your mess.” He hands him a shepherd’s staff.
That’s why, in Acts, we find Peter standing before the same leaders who condemned Jesus. This time, he isn’t hiding—he’s defying them: “We must obey God rather than men.” And after being flogged (yes, flogged), what does he do? Throw a pity party? No. He rejoices. Because when you’ve been loved back into life, nothing can shut you up.
And the story doesn’t end there.
In Revelation, John gives us the wide-angle view. He sees the Lamb who was slain—and all of heaven breaks into worship. Thousands of angels and elders cry out. But look again: Jesus isn’t holding a sword. He’s holding scars.
He still looks wounded. Why? Because heaven doesn’t erase sacrifice. In the Kingdom of God, scars don’t disqualify you—they glorify Him.
So what do we do with this?
Maybe you’re like Peter—carrying the weight of something said or unsaid, done or undone. Maybe you’re like the disciples—fishing in empty waters, wondering if Jesus still wants you. Or maybe you’re like that guy who got fired three times—finally ready to stop blaming and start kneeling.
If so, hear this: Jesus isn’t done with you. He’s on the shore. He’s calling your name. And He’s already got the fire going.
Let Him bring you back to the place of your failure—not to shame you, but to restore you. Let Him ask the question that matters most: “Do you love Me?” And when you whisper yes—even if it’s shaky—He’ll hand you a mission.
Because in the Kingdom of God, grace outruns guilt. And mercy turns wreckage into resurrection.
Divine mercy Sunday The Mercy That Walks Through Walls 04-27-2025
There’s a story about a king who visited his royal prison. Cell by cell, inmates proclaimed their innocence: “I was framed!” “The judge was corrupt!” “I’m here because of a witch-hunt!” Then the king came to a cell where a man sat silently. “And you?” the king asked. “I’m guilty,” the man said. “I stole. I lied. I hurt people. I deserve to be here.” The king’s eyes widened. Then he laughed: “Release this man immediately—before he corrupts all these ‘innocent’ prisoners!” Turning to his guards, he added, “Remember this: Mercy flows where pretense stops.” The chains fell. The man walked free—not because he was sinless, but because he was honest. Years later, when he heard of another King—one who didn’t just visit prisons but let Himself be crucified between thieves—he was the first to believe. He recognized: This is mercy perfected.
Today’s Gospel shows us that greater King. The disciples aren’t just hiding from the Jews—they’re hiding from their own failure. Peter’s denial. Thomas’ absence. All of them running from Gethsemane. Their last memory of Jesus wasn’t triumph, but betrayal. Then—through locked doors—He comes. Not as an accuser, but as a wounded healer. His first word? “Peace.” Not “How could you?” or “You’ll pay for this,” but simply “Peace.” Then He breathes on them—the same breath that once hovered over creation’s waters now recreating broken men: “Receive the Holy Spirit. Forgive sins.” This is where Confession begins: not as God’s courtroom, but as His emergency room. Where He says: “Show Me your wounds. I’ll show you Mine.”
Then there’s Thomas—the patron saint of honest doubters. He says what we all feel: “Unless I touch the scars, I won’t believe.” And Jesus’ response? He comes back. Not to shame, but to invite: “Put your finger here. Thrust your hand into My side.” The Risen Lord kept His wounds—not as trophies, but as bridges for our faith. And speaking of mercy embodied, this week the Church buried a man who lived that spirit for the world—Pope Francis. He often called the Church a “field hospital,” insisting, “God never tires of forgiving. We tire of asking.” (Some of us tire just walking to Confession!) He joked that holiness isn’t about looking “like you just came from a funeral”—that’s just indigestion. It’s about letting mercy unlock you—whether you’re a lifelong sinner, a chronic worrier, or the person who thinks their pew is “reserved by divine right.”
In the Book of Revelation, John sees Jesus in His risen glory—eyes like fire, voice like rushing water. But notice: He isn’t holding a sword. He’s holding keys. Mercy still holds the keys today—keys to every shame, every regret, every door we’ve nailed shut. So this holy season of Easter—do the daring thing. Go to Confession. Not because you’re a good Catholic—but because you’re a loved one. Kneel before the wounds like Thomas. Hear the words “I absolve you,” and let every chain fall. Because mercy doesn’t finish your story—it starts it.
And if fear still lingers, remember the wisdom of Francis: “God isn’t afraid of your mess. Why are you?” Let Him walk through your walls today. Let the King set you free. And when He does—fall to your knees and whisper the only words that truly matter: “My Lord and my God.”
Today’s Gospel shows us that greater King. The disciples aren’t just hiding from the Jews—they’re hiding from their own failure. Peter’s denial. Thomas’ absence. All of them running from Gethsemane. Their last memory of Jesus wasn’t triumph, but betrayal. Then—through locked doors—He comes. Not as an accuser, but as a wounded healer. His first word? “Peace.” Not “How could you?” or “You’ll pay for this,” but simply “Peace.” Then He breathes on them—the same breath that once hovered over creation’s waters now recreating broken men: “Receive the Holy Spirit. Forgive sins.” This is where Confession begins: not as God’s courtroom, but as His emergency room. Where He says: “Show Me your wounds. I’ll show you Mine.”
Then there’s Thomas—the patron saint of honest doubters. He says what we all feel: “Unless I touch the scars, I won’t believe.” And Jesus’ response? He comes back. Not to shame, but to invite: “Put your finger here. Thrust your hand into My side.” The Risen Lord kept His wounds—not as trophies, but as bridges for our faith. And speaking of mercy embodied, this week the Church buried a man who lived that spirit for the world—Pope Francis. He often called the Church a “field hospital,” insisting, “God never tires of forgiving. We tire of asking.” (Some of us tire just walking to Confession!) He joked that holiness isn’t about looking “like you just came from a funeral”—that’s just indigestion. It’s about letting mercy unlock you—whether you’re a lifelong sinner, a chronic worrier, or the person who thinks their pew is “reserved by divine right.”
In the Book of Revelation, John sees Jesus in His risen glory—eyes like fire, voice like rushing water. But notice: He isn’t holding a sword. He’s holding keys. Mercy still holds the keys today—keys to every shame, every regret, every door we’ve nailed shut. So this holy season of Easter—do the daring thing. Go to Confession. Not because you’re a good Catholic—but because you’re a loved one. Kneel before the wounds like Thomas. Hear the words “I absolve you,” and let every chain fall. Because mercy doesn’t finish your story—it starts it.
And if fear still lingers, remember the wisdom of Francis: “God isn’t afraid of your mess. Why are you?” Let Him walk through your walls today. Let the King set you free. And when He does—fall to your knees and whisper the only words that truly matter: “My Lord and my God.”
easter Sunday The Tomb Was Empty… So We Could Be Full 04-20-2025
There’s an old folk tale told in Eastern Europe about a master potter who created vessels so beautiful they were sought after across the land. One day, a curious traveler visited his workshop and asked, “Why do you spend so much time shaping the inside of the jar? Isn’t it the outside that people see?”
The potter lifted a finished vessel to the light.“The outside,” he said, “is what catches the eye. But the inside—the emptiness—is what makes it useful. No hollow, no water. The beauty is in what’s unseen.”
The traveler fell silent. For the first time, he understood: what we often dismiss as empty—the spaces between words, the pauses in music, the silence after loss—is often where meaning begins.
Easter is God’s answer to our fear of emptiness.
Mary Magdalene went to the tomb braced for sorrow.The One who had healed her, loved her, changed her life—was gone.She came to anoint a body.Instead, she found absence: the stone rolled away, the linen cloths folded, the tomb… empty.And she panicked.
Peter and John came running.They saw the same emptiness.But John looked deeper.He saw—and believed.Not because he understood, but because in that hollowed-out space,he recognized the first stirrings of something holy and new.
The world teaches us to fear emptiness:An empty bank account.An empty chair at the table.An empty future after dreams collapse.
But Easter flips the script.The empty tomb isn’t a tragedy.It’s the first sign of victory.
God doesn’t always rush to fill the silence or erase every scar.He steps into the emptiness—and transforms it from within.
That’s why the Resurrection doesn’t begin with trumpets or thunder.No earthquake. No angelic chorus.Just linen cloths. A quiet dawn. An open door.And in that space—life erupts.
Peter proclaims in Acts:“They killed Him by hanging Him on a tree. But God raised Him—on the third day!”The story doesn’t end in the grave.It explodes out of it.
Paul writes to the Colossians:“If you were raised with Christ, seek what is above… for your life is hidden with Christ in God.”Hidden. Not always obvious. Not always loud.But real. Alive. Unstoppable.
And the Psalmist sings:“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.”What the world cast aside—God used to rebuild everything.
So we return to the potter—shaping not just the clay, but the space within.
Because the jar’s purpose isn’t in its shell,but in its capacity to hold.
And the tomb’s purpose was never to imprison—but to release.
The emptiness wasn’t the absence of Christ—it was the proof of His promise.“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”
The hollowed-out tomb has become a vessel of resurrection,poured out for you. For me. For the world.
So if you came today carrying emptiness—A grief that lingers.A hope deferred.A prayer that still feels unanswered—take heart.
God’s masterpiece isn’t the vessel that’s already full.It’s the one He’s filling now.
So leave this place not fearing the hollow places—but trusting the Potter who shapes them.And when the world whispers, “How can you still believe?”Point to the empty tomb and say:
“This is how my God works.He turns emptiness into altar,death into doorway…and today—He’s just begun.”
The potter lifted a finished vessel to the light.“The outside,” he said, “is what catches the eye. But the inside—the emptiness—is what makes it useful. No hollow, no water. The beauty is in what’s unseen.”
The traveler fell silent. For the first time, he understood: what we often dismiss as empty—the spaces between words, the pauses in music, the silence after loss—is often where meaning begins.
Easter is God’s answer to our fear of emptiness.
Mary Magdalene went to the tomb braced for sorrow.The One who had healed her, loved her, changed her life—was gone.She came to anoint a body.Instead, she found absence: the stone rolled away, the linen cloths folded, the tomb… empty.And she panicked.
Peter and John came running.They saw the same emptiness.But John looked deeper.He saw—and believed.Not because he understood, but because in that hollowed-out space,he recognized the first stirrings of something holy and new.
The world teaches us to fear emptiness:An empty bank account.An empty chair at the table.An empty future after dreams collapse.
But Easter flips the script.The empty tomb isn’t a tragedy.It’s the first sign of victory.
God doesn’t always rush to fill the silence or erase every scar.He steps into the emptiness—and transforms it from within.
That’s why the Resurrection doesn’t begin with trumpets or thunder.No earthquake. No angelic chorus.Just linen cloths. A quiet dawn. An open door.And in that space—life erupts.
Peter proclaims in Acts:“They killed Him by hanging Him on a tree. But God raised Him—on the third day!”The story doesn’t end in the grave.It explodes out of it.
Paul writes to the Colossians:“If you were raised with Christ, seek what is above… for your life is hidden with Christ in God.”Hidden. Not always obvious. Not always loud.But real. Alive. Unstoppable.
And the Psalmist sings:“The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone.”What the world cast aside—God used to rebuild everything.
So we return to the potter—shaping not just the clay, but the space within.
Because the jar’s purpose isn’t in its shell,but in its capacity to hold.
And the tomb’s purpose was never to imprison—but to release.
The emptiness wasn’t the absence of Christ—it was the proof of His promise.“Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.”
The hollowed-out tomb has become a vessel of resurrection,poured out for you. For me. For the world.
So if you came today carrying emptiness—A grief that lingers.A hope deferred.A prayer that still feels unanswered—take heart.
God’s masterpiece isn’t the vessel that’s already full.It’s the one He’s filling now.
So leave this place not fearing the hollow places—but trusting the Potter who shapes them.And when the world whispers, “How can you still believe?”Point to the empty tomb and say:
“This is how my God works.He turns emptiness into altar,death into doorway…and today—He’s just begun.”
easter vigil Jesus walked out of the tomb. And now? So can you. 04-19-2025
In the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, Dutch cyclist Annemiek van Vleuten suffered a horrific crash.One moment, she was racing for gold—the next, she was on the pavement with a concussion, unable to finish.
But here’s the astonishing part: just days later, she got back on her bike—bruised, battered, and still healing—and competed in the individual time trial.
This time, she didn’t just finish.She won silver.
When asked how she did it, she said:
“I rode through pain because I came here with a purpose. You don’t stop when it hurts—you keep going when it matters.”
Why That Matters Tonight
If you’re here at the Easter Vigil… you’re that cyclist.
You didn’t have to come.You could’ve stayed home.You could’ve said, “It’s too long,” or “I’m tired,” or “I’ll catch the short Mass tomorrow.”But you didn’t.
You showed up—bruised, battered, or just weary—because something in you knows:this night matters.
And when this Mass is over, you’ll have completed the Super Bowl of Liturgies—the longest, most beautiful Mass of the year.We started in darkness, lit a fire, heard half the Bible, and we’re still standing.That’s not just endurance—that’s holy stamina.
But here’s the difference between you and that cyclist:She won silver. You’ve already won gold.
Because tonight isn’t about finishing a race—it’s about stepping into the victory that’s already been won for you.
The Story That Changes Everything
Those readings we just heard? They’re not just a “Bible’s Greatest Hits” playlist.They’re the arc of salvation—the story of a God who refuses to leave us in chaos, slavery, or death.
• In Genesis, He takes a formless void and says, “Let there be light.” • In Exodus, He takes a trapped, terrified people and parts the sea—because no one is beyond His freedom. • Through the prophets, He calls to the weary, the guilty, the broken: “Come to the water!” • And in Luke’s Gospel, the women come to the tomb expecting a corpse… and instead hear the words that shatter death forever: “He is not here. He is risen!”
This isn’t just history.This is your story.
For Those Entering the Church Tonight
To our catechumens and candidates: What a night to say “yes.”
You’re not just joining a club.You’re walking through parted waters.You’re stepping out of the tomb.You’re saying to the world:
“The old me is buried. I belong to Christ now. I rise with Him.”
And to those receiving sacraments tonight—thank you.You’re not just new members.You’re new life for all of us.You remind us this faith isn’t a museum—it’s a living, breathing family, still growing. Still rising.
For the Rest of Us: A Question
Whether this is your first Vigil or your 50th, the Resurrection changes everything.But let’s get real:
Are you living like Jesus is still in the tomb—or like He actually got out?
Because if we really believe He rose, then:
• Fear doesn’t get the final word. • Shame doesn’t get the final word. • Regret, sin, death—none of them get the final word.
Some of us came tonight carrying graves—a broken relationship,a past we can’t shake,a heart that’s gone quiet,a world that feels like it’s unraveling.
But the Resurrection isn’t a metaphor.It’s not a pep talk.It’s a divine explosion that says:
“Whatever you’ve done, wherever you’ve been—there is more. There is mercy. There is life.”
Just as this liturgy began in darkness and moved toward light,so too does the Christian life begin in surrender and rise into joy.
The Invitation: Walk Out
So tonight, step out of the grave.
• If you’ve been playing it safe in your faith—step into the light. • If you’ve buried hope under cynicism—let God roll away the stone. • If you think you’re too far gone—hear it again:
“Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here. He is risen.”
And if by tomorrow you forget everything else (hey, we’re human), just remember this:
Jesus walked out of the tomb.And now?So can you.
But here’s the astonishing part: just days later, she got back on her bike—bruised, battered, and still healing—and competed in the individual time trial.
This time, she didn’t just finish.She won silver.
When asked how she did it, she said:
“I rode through pain because I came here with a purpose. You don’t stop when it hurts—you keep going when it matters.”
Why That Matters Tonight
If you’re here at the Easter Vigil… you’re that cyclist.
You didn’t have to come.You could’ve stayed home.You could’ve said, “It’s too long,” or “I’m tired,” or “I’ll catch the short Mass tomorrow.”But you didn’t.
You showed up—bruised, battered, or just weary—because something in you knows:this night matters.
And when this Mass is over, you’ll have completed the Super Bowl of Liturgies—the longest, most beautiful Mass of the year.We started in darkness, lit a fire, heard half the Bible, and we’re still standing.That’s not just endurance—that’s holy stamina.
But here’s the difference between you and that cyclist:She won silver. You’ve already won gold.
Because tonight isn’t about finishing a race—it’s about stepping into the victory that’s already been won for you.
The Story That Changes Everything
Those readings we just heard? They’re not just a “Bible’s Greatest Hits” playlist.They’re the arc of salvation—the story of a God who refuses to leave us in chaos, slavery, or death.
• In Genesis, He takes a formless void and says, “Let there be light.” • In Exodus, He takes a trapped, terrified people and parts the sea—because no one is beyond His freedom. • Through the prophets, He calls to the weary, the guilty, the broken: “Come to the water!” • And in Luke’s Gospel, the women come to the tomb expecting a corpse… and instead hear the words that shatter death forever: “He is not here. He is risen!”
This isn’t just history.This is your story.
For Those Entering the Church Tonight
To our catechumens and candidates: What a night to say “yes.”
You’re not just joining a club.You’re walking through parted waters.You’re stepping out of the tomb.You’re saying to the world:
“The old me is buried. I belong to Christ now. I rise with Him.”
And to those receiving sacraments tonight—thank you.You’re not just new members.You’re new life for all of us.You remind us this faith isn’t a museum—it’s a living, breathing family, still growing. Still rising.
For the Rest of Us: A Question
Whether this is your first Vigil or your 50th, the Resurrection changes everything.But let’s get real:
Are you living like Jesus is still in the tomb—or like He actually got out?
Because if we really believe He rose, then:
• Fear doesn’t get the final word. • Shame doesn’t get the final word. • Regret, sin, death—none of them get the final word.
Some of us came tonight carrying graves—a broken relationship,a past we can’t shake,a heart that’s gone quiet,a world that feels like it’s unraveling.
But the Resurrection isn’t a metaphor.It’s not a pep talk.It’s a divine explosion that says:
“Whatever you’ve done, wherever you’ve been—there is more. There is mercy. There is life.”
Just as this liturgy began in darkness and moved toward light,so too does the Christian life begin in surrender and rise into joy.
The Invitation: Walk Out
So tonight, step out of the grave.
• If you’ve been playing it safe in your faith—step into the light. • If you’ve buried hope under cynicism—let God roll away the stone. • If you think you’re too far gone—hear it again:
“Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here. He is risen.”
And if by tomorrow you forget everything else (hey, we’re human), just remember this:
Jesus walked out of the tomb.And now?So can you.
Palm Sunday Homily
The Wisdom of the Vineyard 04-13-2025
Every spring in wine country — whether in California or Italy or even in the hills of Judea — there’s a scene that surprises visitors.
Rows and rows of vineyards — not green and bursting with life — but bare. Silent. Cut back almost to nothing.
The vines look wounded. The branches lie in piles on the ground.
One tourist once asked an old winemaker, “Why do you cut them so harshly? Don’t you want them to grow?”
And the winemaker — with hands stained from years of harvest — said quietly:
“The branches that look the fullest are often the ones that bear the least fruit. They feed themselves, not the vine. If I don’t cut them back, they’ll look alive — but inside, they’re hollow.”
And then he added something only a lifetime of tending vines could teach:
“The best grapes grow closest to the wood — closest to the vine that gave them life.”
Palm Sunday is a vineyard moment.
At first glance, everything looks full and alive. The crowd cheers. The branches wave. The people shout Hosanna!
But Jesus — the True Vine — knows what’s coming.
He knows how quickly admiration can turn into abandonment.He knows how praise can wither when the road turns hard.
He rides into Jerusalem, not to win their approval — but to offer His life.
Not to dazzle the crowd — but to draw all people to Himself.
And the only way to bear the fruit of eternal life… is to stay close to the wood.
The wood of the Cross.
Isaiah’s Servant listens — even when listening brings suffering.
Psalm 22 begins with abandonment — “My God, why have You forsaken me?” — but ends in trust: “I will proclaim Your name.”
Paul tells us Jesus emptied Himself — pouring Himself out — and because of that God highly exalted Him.
And in Luke’s Passion, we see it:
Jesus stays close to the wood.Close to the will of the Father.Close to the people He loves — even when they turn away.
There’s a hard truth buried in this beautiful week.
Love — real love — always costs something.
The world says: Avoid sacrifice. Look alive. Keep all your branches.
But God — like the wise winemaker — knows better.
Sometimes the things we cling to most — our pride, our control, our comfort — are the very things that keep us from bearing real fruit.
And so the Father, in His mercy, prunes us.
He cuts back what’s hollow.
Not to harm us —But to draw us closer to the Vine.
Closer to Christ.Closer to the Cross.Closer to the love that gave us life in the first place.
This week will not be easy.
It never was meant to be.
But it will be holy.
If you stay close to the wood —Close to the suffering of Jesus —Close to His heart poured out —
You will bear fruit that will last.
Not the easy fruit of applause.Not the shallow fruit of admiration.But the deep fruit of love.
Love that forgives.Love that stays.Love that rises.
Because the best grapes grow closest to the wood.
And the empty branches of Calvary —Are already beginning to bloom with Easter hope.
Amen.
Rows and rows of vineyards — not green and bursting with life — but bare. Silent. Cut back almost to nothing.
The vines look wounded. The branches lie in piles on the ground.
One tourist once asked an old winemaker, “Why do you cut them so harshly? Don’t you want them to grow?”
And the winemaker — with hands stained from years of harvest — said quietly:
“The branches that look the fullest are often the ones that bear the least fruit. They feed themselves, not the vine. If I don’t cut them back, they’ll look alive — but inside, they’re hollow.”
And then he added something only a lifetime of tending vines could teach:
“The best grapes grow closest to the wood — closest to the vine that gave them life.”
Palm Sunday is a vineyard moment.
At first glance, everything looks full and alive. The crowd cheers. The branches wave. The people shout Hosanna!
But Jesus — the True Vine — knows what’s coming.
He knows how quickly admiration can turn into abandonment.He knows how praise can wither when the road turns hard.
He rides into Jerusalem, not to win their approval — but to offer His life.
Not to dazzle the crowd — but to draw all people to Himself.
And the only way to bear the fruit of eternal life… is to stay close to the wood.
The wood of the Cross.
Isaiah’s Servant listens — even when listening brings suffering.
Psalm 22 begins with abandonment — “My God, why have You forsaken me?” — but ends in trust: “I will proclaim Your name.”
Paul tells us Jesus emptied Himself — pouring Himself out — and because of that God highly exalted Him.
And in Luke’s Passion, we see it:
Jesus stays close to the wood.Close to the will of the Father.Close to the people He loves — even when they turn away.
There’s a hard truth buried in this beautiful week.
Love — real love — always costs something.
The world says: Avoid sacrifice. Look alive. Keep all your branches.
But God — like the wise winemaker — knows better.
Sometimes the things we cling to most — our pride, our control, our comfort — are the very things that keep us from bearing real fruit.
And so the Father, in His mercy, prunes us.
He cuts back what’s hollow.
Not to harm us —But to draw us closer to the Vine.
Closer to Christ.Closer to the Cross.Closer to the love that gave us life in the first place.
This week will not be easy.
It never was meant to be.
But it will be holy.
If you stay close to the wood —Close to the suffering of Jesus —Close to His heart poured out —
You will bear fruit that will last.
Not the easy fruit of applause.Not the shallow fruit of admiration.But the deep fruit of love.
Love that forgives.Love that stays.Love that rises.
Because the best grapes grow closest to the wood.
And the empty branches of Calvary —Are already beginning to bloom with Easter hope.
Amen.
fifth sunday of lent C Drop the Stone: What Grace Requires of Our Hands 04-06-2025
Introduction
Welcome to this celebration of the Eucharist.Today, we are reminded that God’s mercy is greater than our mistakes.Like the woman in the Gospel, we come not to be condemned, but to be set free.As we begin this Mass, let us open our hands and hearts—letting go of what weighs us down—so we can receive the grace God is eager to give.
Homily
A monk once offered a bit of wisdom to a visitor who came looking for peace.The man sat down, exasperated, and said, “I’ve been praying, I’ve been trying, I’ve read all the right books, but nothing’s changing. Why isn’t God doing more?”
The monk looked at him kindly and said, “You can’t receive what God wants to give you if your hands are already full.”
The man held up his palms and said, “But I’m not holding anything.”
And the monk just smiled. “Oh, you’re holding plenty. Things I can’t see. The need to be right. The fear of not being enough. The guilt you refuse to drop. The need to control things that were never yours to control in the first place.”
The man blinked and said nothing—which, to be honest, is the correct response when a monk hits you with spiritual truth like a ninja.
That’s the paradox, isn’t it?We ask God to fill us with peace, healing, or grace—while still clenching everything we won’t let go of.Like trying to open a gift with oven mitts on.
And this is exactly where today’s Gospel drops us.
A woman is dragged into the public square, caught in adultery. She’s thrown down in front of Jesus, while a crowd gathers with stones in their hands. Not metaphorical stones—actual, ready-to-hurl rocks.
And here’s the thing: they want to throw them.They’re quoting Scripture, puffing up their moral outrage, and possibly thinking this will look really good in their next synagogue newsletter.
But Jesus doesn’t argue.He doesn’t match their energy.He just… stoops down and starts writing in the dirt.(Scholars have debated what He wrote. I like to think it was, “Seriously?”)
Then He stands and says,“Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.”
Suddenly it gets very quiet.
Because deep down, they know the truth: they’re not so innocent either.One by one, they walk away—probably pretending they just remembered they left something on the stove.
But this story isn’t just about them.It’s about us.
We all carry stones—just usually in less obvious ways.
Some carry the stone of resentment, sharpened over time, carefully preserved.Some lug around the stone of perfectionism—because if everything isn’t just right, the world might collapse. (Or at least the kitchen.)Some cradle the stone of judgment, always ready to correct or critique—preferably in a group text.Others carry the stone of fear—of the future, of being found out, of checking the news… or their 401(k) after last week’s tariff drama.
And then there are the stones we turn inward—Shame over the past.Regret over missed chances.The slow, exhausting weight of believing you’re never quite enough.
But Jesus?He doesn’t throw stones.He doesn’t shame the crowd. And He doesn’t shame the woman.
He says simply: “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”
No lecture.No scarlet letter.Just mercy—and a way forward.
That’s the scandal of grace.Not that sin doesn’t matter—He tells her to leave that life behind.But that grace matters more.
Jesus never pretends the sin didn’t happen.He just refuses to let it define her.
The stones we carry come in all shapes: resentment, regret, pride, fear.Some we aim at others in the form of criticism, blame, or silence.Others we hold against ourselves, punishing the past again and again.
But we don’t have to throw them.And we don’t have to carry them.
In the Gospel, the crowd drops their stones and walks away. Their hands are finally empty.The woman stays—and finds not condemnation, but mercy.
That’s how grace works.It begins when we stop gripping what weighs us down and start making room for what God wants to give.
The monk’s words still echo:“You can’t receive what God wants to give you if your hands are already full.”
Drop the stone.Grace is waiting.And your hands—like your heart—were made for better things. Final Blessing May the God of mercy free your heart from the weight of guilt, regret, or judgment. AmenMay Christ, who stooped to lift up the sinner, raise you with compassion and peace. AmenMay the Holy Spirit open your hands to drop what no longer serves your soul—so you may walk in freedom, with joy, and with grace. Amen And may almighty God bless you,the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
The monk looked at him kindly and said, “You can’t receive what God wants to give you if your hands are already full.”
The man held up his palms and said, “But I’m not holding anything.”
And the monk just smiled. “Oh, you’re holding plenty. Things I can’t see. The need to be right. The fear of not being enough. The guilt you refuse to drop. The need to control things that were never yours to control in the first place.”
The man blinked and said nothing—which, to be honest, is the correct response when a monk hits you with spiritual truth like a ninja.
That’s the paradox, isn’t it?We ask God to fill us with peace, healing, or grace—while still clenching everything we won’t let go of.Like trying to open a gift with oven mitts on.
And this is exactly where today’s Gospel drops us.
A woman is dragged into the public square, caught in adultery. She’s thrown down in front of Jesus, while a crowd gathers with stones in their hands. Not metaphorical stones—actual, ready-to-hurl rocks.
And here’s the thing: they want to throw them.They’re quoting Scripture, puffing up their moral outrage, and possibly thinking this will look really good in their next synagogue newsletter.
But Jesus doesn’t argue.He doesn’t match their energy.He just… stoops down and starts writing in the dirt.(Scholars have debated what He wrote. I like to think it was, “Seriously?”)
Then He stands and says,“Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.”
Suddenly it gets very quiet.
Because deep down, they know the truth: they’re not so innocent either.One by one, they walk away—probably pretending they just remembered they left something on the stove.
But this story isn’t just about them.It’s about us.
We all carry stones—just usually in less obvious ways.
Some carry the stone of resentment, sharpened over time, carefully preserved.Some lug around the stone of perfectionism—because if everything isn’t just right, the world might collapse. (Or at least the kitchen.)Some cradle the stone of judgment, always ready to correct or critique—preferably in a group text.Others carry the stone of fear—of the future, of being found out, of checking the news… or their 401(k) after last week’s tariff drama.
And then there are the stones we turn inward—Shame over the past.Regret over missed chances.The slow, exhausting weight of believing you’re never quite enough.
But Jesus?He doesn’t throw stones.He doesn’t shame the crowd. And He doesn’t shame the woman.
He says simply: “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more.”
No lecture.No scarlet letter.Just mercy—and a way forward.
That’s the scandal of grace.Not that sin doesn’t matter—He tells her to leave that life behind.But that grace matters more.
Jesus never pretends the sin didn’t happen.He just refuses to let it define her.
The stones we carry come in all shapes: resentment, regret, pride, fear.Some we aim at others in the form of criticism, blame, or silence.Others we hold against ourselves, punishing the past again and again.
But we don’t have to throw them.And we don’t have to carry them.
In the Gospel, the crowd drops their stones and walks away. Their hands are finally empty.The woman stays—and finds not condemnation, but mercy.
That’s how grace works.It begins when we stop gripping what weighs us down and start making room for what God wants to give.
The monk’s words still echo:“You can’t receive what God wants to give you if your hands are already full.”
Drop the stone.Grace is waiting.And your hands—like your heart—were made for better things. Final Blessing May the God of mercy free your heart from the weight of guilt, regret, or judgment. AmenMay Christ, who stooped to lift up the sinner, raise you with compassion and peace. AmenMay the Holy Spirit open your hands to drop what no longer serves your soul—so you may walk in freedom, with joy, and with grace. Amen And may almighty God bless you,the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
fourth sunday of lent C Arguing Over Rakes, Longing for Home 03-30-2025
Introduction to Mass
Today’s readings speak to a longing that lives deep in every human heart— the longing to be reconciled. Reconciled with others, with our past, and with God. Whether we’ve wandered far like the prodigal son, or remained dutiful yet distant like the older brother, the Gospel reading today will remind us of a breathtaking truth: God is always watching the road, and His desire is not to punish—but to welcome us home.
As we enter into this sacred celebration, let us call to mind the ways we have wandered—from love, from trust, from each other, and from God.Whether we’ve spoken harshly or stayed silent,whether we’ve carried old hurts or caused them,God sees us completely—and still, He runs to meet us.
With humility and hope,let us ask for His mercy and the grace to come home again.
Lord Jesus,you reveal the mercy of the Father to all who return to Him.Lord, have mercy.R: Lord, have mercy.
Christ Jesus,you heal what is wounded and restore what is broken.Christ, have mercy.R: Christ, have mercy.
Lord Jesus,you invite us into relationship—not perfection.You call us to remember what truly matters.Lord, have mercy.R: Lord, have mercy.
Presider:May almighty God have mercy on us,forgive us our sins,and bring us to everlasting life.R: Amen. Homily A husband and wife were having a little disagreement in the garage—Not over money, politics, or in-laws… but over a rake.
She said, “You never put it back in the right place.”He fired back, “That was the right place—you’re the one who keeps moving it!”
They weren’t yelling—this was seasoned marriage banter.The kind where both know they’re not really arguing about the rake.
After 40 years of marriage, raising kids, fixing toilets, and surviving the great thermostat wars of summer and winter without a single divorce lawyer, a misplaced rake is just the tip of the iceberg.
No, the rake was just the excuse.What it was really about was one of them being tired. Or feeling unappreciated. Or both of them carrying years of tiny annoyances like invisible merit badges.
Marriage, after all, is less about candlelit dinners and more about negotiating the dishwasher loading strategy, the remote control, and apparently, the location of garden tools.
And yet—ten minutes later?There they were: sitting on the lanai, sipping tea, splitting a cookie like nothing had happened.
That’s what real love looks like.Not perfect or polished—but faithful, forgiving, and just stubborn enough to keep showing up.
That kind of love—that quiet longing to stay connected even through tension—is exactly what Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel.
The story of the Prodigal Son isn’t just about youthful rebellion. It’s about the deep ache in every heart—for home, for mercy, for a relationship that can survive mistakes, distance, and even rake fights.
The younger son, we know well.Impatient, impulsive, he demands his inheritance early—essentially saying, “I want your stuff, but not you.”He leaves, squanders everything, and ends up in the mud—broke, humiliated, feeding pigs.And in that low place, he remembers where love once lived. He remembers home.
He returns, rehearsing a speech, expecting rejection.But his father, who had clearly been watching the road, sees him from afar and runs to him.No lectures. No guilt. Just joy.He clothes him, feeds him, celebrates him: “This son of mine was dead, and has come back to life.”
But then comes the older son.The responsible one. The steady one. The one who stayed.And he’s angry—not just at the celebration, but at the silence of years where his loyalty went unnoticed.
“All these years I served you,” he says, “and you never even gave me a young goat.”
The words sting because they’re familiar.How many faithful people—spouses, parents, caregivers—have felt exactly that way?Not because they regret doing what’s right, but because they sometimes feel forgotten.
The father responds with gentle clarity:“You are always with me. Everything I have is yours.”
He isn’t picking favorites. He’s inviting both sons—one who wandered, and one who drifted emotionally—back into relationship.Because sometimes the longest distance between two people isn’t geography.It’s resentment.
This parable speaks not only to young people who stray, but to older hearts who quietly ache.To those who have waited, worried, prayed for someone to come back.To those who stayed, but feel the weight of being the strong one for too long.
This Gospel is for all of us.For the ones who left, and the ones who felt left behind.For the ones who shouted over a rake, and the ones who quietly carry too much.And most of all—for the ones still hoping that love can find its way home.
So much of life, especially in its later years, is about reconciliation.Not just with others—but with our own story: our failures, our silence, our scars.
And like that long-married couple in the garage, love survives—not because the conflicts go away,but because the commitment runs deeper than the frustration.Because grace still shows up,and God keeps reminding you what really matters. Final Blessing May the God of mercy, who runs to meet the broken and the weary, grant you the grace of reconciliation and peace. Amen. May Christ, who restores the lost and lifts the burdened, renew your heart with compassion and steadfast love. Amen. May the Holy Spirit, who binds what is wounded and unites what is scattered, keep you faithful in hope until all are gathered home. Amen.
Today’s readings speak to a longing that lives deep in every human heart— the longing to be reconciled. Reconciled with others, with our past, and with God. Whether we’ve wandered far like the prodigal son, or remained dutiful yet distant like the older brother, the Gospel reading today will remind us of a breathtaking truth: God is always watching the road, and His desire is not to punish—but to welcome us home.
As we enter into this sacred celebration, let us call to mind the ways we have wandered—from love, from trust, from each other, and from God.Whether we’ve spoken harshly or stayed silent,whether we’ve carried old hurts or caused them,God sees us completely—and still, He runs to meet us.
With humility and hope,let us ask for His mercy and the grace to come home again.
Lord Jesus,you reveal the mercy of the Father to all who return to Him.Lord, have mercy.R: Lord, have mercy.
Christ Jesus,you heal what is wounded and restore what is broken.Christ, have mercy.R: Christ, have mercy.
Lord Jesus,you invite us into relationship—not perfection.You call us to remember what truly matters.Lord, have mercy.R: Lord, have mercy.
Presider:May almighty God have mercy on us,forgive us our sins,and bring us to everlasting life.R: Amen. Homily A husband and wife were having a little disagreement in the garage—Not over money, politics, or in-laws… but over a rake.
She said, “You never put it back in the right place.”He fired back, “That was the right place—you’re the one who keeps moving it!”
They weren’t yelling—this was seasoned marriage banter.The kind where both know they’re not really arguing about the rake.
After 40 years of marriage, raising kids, fixing toilets, and surviving the great thermostat wars of summer and winter without a single divorce lawyer, a misplaced rake is just the tip of the iceberg.
No, the rake was just the excuse.What it was really about was one of them being tired. Or feeling unappreciated. Or both of them carrying years of tiny annoyances like invisible merit badges.
Marriage, after all, is less about candlelit dinners and more about negotiating the dishwasher loading strategy, the remote control, and apparently, the location of garden tools.
And yet—ten minutes later?There they were: sitting on the lanai, sipping tea, splitting a cookie like nothing had happened.
That’s what real love looks like.Not perfect or polished—but faithful, forgiving, and just stubborn enough to keep showing up.
That kind of love—that quiet longing to stay connected even through tension—is exactly what Jesus is talking about in today’s Gospel.
The story of the Prodigal Son isn’t just about youthful rebellion. It’s about the deep ache in every heart—for home, for mercy, for a relationship that can survive mistakes, distance, and even rake fights.
The younger son, we know well.Impatient, impulsive, he demands his inheritance early—essentially saying, “I want your stuff, but not you.”He leaves, squanders everything, and ends up in the mud—broke, humiliated, feeding pigs.And in that low place, he remembers where love once lived. He remembers home.
He returns, rehearsing a speech, expecting rejection.But his father, who had clearly been watching the road, sees him from afar and runs to him.No lectures. No guilt. Just joy.He clothes him, feeds him, celebrates him: “This son of mine was dead, and has come back to life.”
But then comes the older son.The responsible one. The steady one. The one who stayed.And he’s angry—not just at the celebration, but at the silence of years where his loyalty went unnoticed.
“All these years I served you,” he says, “and you never even gave me a young goat.”
The words sting because they’re familiar.How many faithful people—spouses, parents, caregivers—have felt exactly that way?Not because they regret doing what’s right, but because they sometimes feel forgotten.
The father responds with gentle clarity:“You are always with me. Everything I have is yours.”
He isn’t picking favorites. He’s inviting both sons—one who wandered, and one who drifted emotionally—back into relationship.Because sometimes the longest distance between two people isn’t geography.It’s resentment.
This parable speaks not only to young people who stray, but to older hearts who quietly ache.To those who have waited, worried, prayed for someone to come back.To those who stayed, but feel the weight of being the strong one for too long.
This Gospel is for all of us.For the ones who left, and the ones who felt left behind.For the ones who shouted over a rake, and the ones who quietly carry too much.And most of all—for the ones still hoping that love can find its way home.
So much of life, especially in its later years, is about reconciliation.Not just with others—but with our own story: our failures, our silence, our scars.
And like that long-married couple in the garage, love survives—not because the conflicts go away,but because the commitment runs deeper than the frustration.Because grace still shows up,and God keeps reminding you what really matters. Final Blessing May the God of mercy, who runs to meet the broken and the weary, grant you the grace of reconciliation and peace. Amen. May Christ, who restores the lost and lifts the burdened, renew your heart with compassion and steadfast love. Amen. May the Holy Spirit, who binds what is wounded and unites what is scattered, keep you faithful in hope until all are gathered home. Amen.
third sunday of lent C Second Chances and Slow-Growing Figs 03-16-2025
Introduction to Mass
Today’s readings remind us that God does not give up on us, even when we fall short or grow slowly. Like the patient gardener, He continues to tend to our hearts with mercy and grace, always offering us another chance to bear fruit. As we begin this Mass, let us open ourselves to His love and allow Him to renew us from within.
Homily
After seeing an unflattering photo of himself on social media, a middle-aged man declared to his family: “That’s it. Tomorrow I begin a new life.”
And he meant it.
He signed up for a gym membership, bought a juicer, and downloaded a meditation app. Day one went well—he drank a kale smoothie that tasted like lawn clippings. Day two, he lifted weights and walked around the block twice. Day three… he pulled a muscle, got a migraine, and ordered a pizza.
Soon enough, he was back on the couch, watching a documentary about exercise, eating chips, and telling himself, “At least I’m learning.”
His wife, trying not to laugh, said, “Well, at least you’ve started.”
He nodded and replied, “Yes, and now I just need a second chance… and maybe a donut.”
We laugh because we understand. We’ve all made bold declarations—resolutions to do better, be better—only to stumble, stall, or fall flat. Whether it’s our health, habits, relationships, or spiritual life, we long for change… but often forget that real transformation is rarely instant, rarely easy, and always requires grace, persistence, and patience.
When God Shows Up in the Ordinary
In Exodus 3, we encounter Moses having a very ordinary day. He’s tending sheep in the wilderness—nothing heroic about that. But suddenly, God shows up in a burning bush. Moses is startled, not just by the flame, but by what he hears: “I have seen the misery of my people… and I am sending you.”
Now let’s pause and appreciate this moment. Moses is 80 years old, has a questionable resume (remember that whole fleeing-Egypt-for-murder thing?), and he’s probably convinced his best days are behind him. But God doesn’t just see his past—He sees potential.
That’s how God works. He meets us in the ordinary. In the middle of failure, regret, or even spiritual laziness, He calls us. He reminds us: “You’re not done yet.”
The Danger of Taking Grace for Granted
Then we jump to 1 Corinthians, where Paul warns the early Christians not to get too comfortable. He reminds them that their ancestors had all the right religious experiences—baptism-like moments, spiritual food, divine guidance—and yet they still turned away from God.
It’s a sobering reminder: grace is a gift, but it’s not a guarantee. Just because we were baptized, confirmed, or raised Catholic doesn’t mean we’re off the hook. Paul’s warning is gentle but firm: Don’t become overconfident. Don’t presume. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel.
In other words: Don’t be like the man on the couch, watching the workout video with a donut in your hand.
The Fig Tree and the Gardener of Grace
And then we come to Luke 13, where Jesus tells a short but powerful parable. A fig tree has been fruitless for three years, and the landowner is ready to cut it down. But the gardener steps in and pleads: “Give it one more year. Let me dig around it, fertilize it. It may yet bear fruit.”
This is one of the most beautiful images of God in all of Scripture. God is the patient gardener. He sees our barrenness, our slow growth, our endless excuses—and He doesn’t give up. Instead, He rolls up His sleeves and says, “Let me work with this one a little longer.”
And isn’t that also what the Church is called to be? In a world that rushes to cancel, condemn, or label people as hopeless, the Church is meant to reflect the heart of the Gardener—compassionate, patient, forgiving. Christ-like. Every sacrament, every homily, every act of mercy and every moment of prayer is another shovel in the soil, another drop of water, another expression of God’s ongoing care.
The gardener doesn’t promise instant results. There’s digging. There’s manure. There’s time. Growth isn’t glamorous. But it is sacred.
The Call—and the Comfort
So what do these readings say to us?
They tell us that God sees more in us than we see in ourselves.They remind us that repentance isn’t about perfection—it’s about turning around.They warn us not to coast on grace, but to respond to it.And they comfort us with this truth: God is not in the business of giving up on people.
If you feel like a barren fig tree—like your faith is dry, your prayer is stuck, or your life is just “meh”—take heart. God is not ready to cut you down. He’s still digging. Still tending. Still hoping.
But He’s also inviting you to participate. To say yes. To let Him dig into the hardened soil of your heart. Because change is possible—but only when we let the Gardener do His work.
Final Thoughts
At some point, all of us are like that man—full of good intentions, easily discouraged, and tempted to give up before we see results. But God doesn’t mock our failures. He joins us in them. He stands beside the burning bush, the fruitless tree, the wandering heart, and says: “I’m not done with you.”
So let’s not be done with Him.
Let’s turn back.Let’s start again.And let’s trust that even slow-growing figs can become sweet in time. Final Blessing May the God who never gives up on us bless you with the grace to begin again—no matter how many times you’ve fallen, no matter how slow the growth may seem. May Jesus, the patient Gardener of your soul, walk with you this week—digging gently, nourishing quietly, and never letting go, even when you feel fruitless. And may the Holy Spirit fill you with hope, courage, and the quiet joy of knowing that even small steps, taken with love, are enough. And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
And he meant it.
He signed up for a gym membership, bought a juicer, and downloaded a meditation app. Day one went well—he drank a kale smoothie that tasted like lawn clippings. Day two, he lifted weights and walked around the block twice. Day three… he pulled a muscle, got a migraine, and ordered a pizza.
Soon enough, he was back on the couch, watching a documentary about exercise, eating chips, and telling himself, “At least I’m learning.”
His wife, trying not to laugh, said, “Well, at least you’ve started.”
He nodded and replied, “Yes, and now I just need a second chance… and maybe a donut.”
We laugh because we understand. We’ve all made bold declarations—resolutions to do better, be better—only to stumble, stall, or fall flat. Whether it’s our health, habits, relationships, or spiritual life, we long for change… but often forget that real transformation is rarely instant, rarely easy, and always requires grace, persistence, and patience.
When God Shows Up in the Ordinary
In Exodus 3, we encounter Moses having a very ordinary day. He’s tending sheep in the wilderness—nothing heroic about that. But suddenly, God shows up in a burning bush. Moses is startled, not just by the flame, but by what he hears: “I have seen the misery of my people… and I am sending you.”
Now let’s pause and appreciate this moment. Moses is 80 years old, has a questionable resume (remember that whole fleeing-Egypt-for-murder thing?), and he’s probably convinced his best days are behind him. But God doesn’t just see his past—He sees potential.
That’s how God works. He meets us in the ordinary. In the middle of failure, regret, or even spiritual laziness, He calls us. He reminds us: “You’re not done yet.”
The Danger of Taking Grace for Granted
Then we jump to 1 Corinthians, where Paul warns the early Christians not to get too comfortable. He reminds them that their ancestors had all the right religious experiences—baptism-like moments, spiritual food, divine guidance—and yet they still turned away from God.
It’s a sobering reminder: grace is a gift, but it’s not a guarantee. Just because we were baptized, confirmed, or raised Catholic doesn’t mean we’re off the hook. Paul’s warning is gentle but firm: Don’t become overconfident. Don’t presume. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel.
In other words: Don’t be like the man on the couch, watching the workout video with a donut in your hand.
The Fig Tree and the Gardener of Grace
And then we come to Luke 13, where Jesus tells a short but powerful parable. A fig tree has been fruitless for three years, and the landowner is ready to cut it down. But the gardener steps in and pleads: “Give it one more year. Let me dig around it, fertilize it. It may yet bear fruit.”
This is one of the most beautiful images of God in all of Scripture. God is the patient gardener. He sees our barrenness, our slow growth, our endless excuses—and He doesn’t give up. Instead, He rolls up His sleeves and says, “Let me work with this one a little longer.”
And isn’t that also what the Church is called to be? In a world that rushes to cancel, condemn, or label people as hopeless, the Church is meant to reflect the heart of the Gardener—compassionate, patient, forgiving. Christ-like. Every sacrament, every homily, every act of mercy and every moment of prayer is another shovel in the soil, another drop of water, another expression of God’s ongoing care.
The gardener doesn’t promise instant results. There’s digging. There’s manure. There’s time. Growth isn’t glamorous. But it is sacred.
The Call—and the Comfort
So what do these readings say to us?
They tell us that God sees more in us than we see in ourselves.They remind us that repentance isn’t about perfection—it’s about turning around.They warn us not to coast on grace, but to respond to it.And they comfort us with this truth: God is not in the business of giving up on people.
If you feel like a barren fig tree—like your faith is dry, your prayer is stuck, or your life is just “meh”—take heart. God is not ready to cut you down. He’s still digging. Still tending. Still hoping.
But He’s also inviting you to participate. To say yes. To let Him dig into the hardened soil of your heart. Because change is possible—but only when we let the Gardener do His work.
Final Thoughts
At some point, all of us are like that man—full of good intentions, easily discouraged, and tempted to give up before we see results. But God doesn’t mock our failures. He joins us in them. He stands beside the burning bush, the fruitless tree, the wandering heart, and says: “I’m not done with you.”
So let’s not be done with Him.
Let’s turn back.Let’s start again.And let’s trust that even slow-growing figs can become sweet in time. Final Blessing May the God who never gives up on us bless you with the grace to begin again—no matter how many times you’ve fallen, no matter how slow the growth may seem. May Jesus, the patient Gardener of your soul, walk with you this week—digging gently, nourishing quietly, and never letting go, even when you feel fruitless. And may the Holy Spirit fill you with hope, courage, and the quiet joy of knowing that even small steps, taken with love, are enough. And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
second sunday of lent C The Treasure Already in Our Midst 03-16-2025
Introduction to Mass:
Good morning and welcome! Today’s readings remind us that we often search for happiness, purpose, or answers in distant places, forgetting that God is already at work in our lives. Like Abraham or Peter, we can become so focused on what we lack that we fail to see the blessings right in front of us. As we begin this celebration, let us open our hearts to God’s presence here and now, trusting that His plan is unfolding exactly as it should. Homily A poor but wise merchant longed for treasure. One night, he dreamed of a chest of gold buried under a distant bridge. Convinced it would change his life, he set off on a long journey. When he arrived, a soldier stood guard. Hesitant but hopeful, he asked, “Have you heard of treasure buried here?”
The soldier laughed. “You traveled all this way for a dream? I once dreamed of treasure buried under the floor of a poor merchant’s house in a distant village.” The merchant’s heart pounded—the soldier had just described his own home. Rushing back, he dug beneath his floor and found the treasure—right where it had been all along.
Sometimes, what we’re searching for is already within our grasp—if only we have the eyes to see it. Abraham’s journey was similar. In today’s first reading, God tells him, “Look up at the stars—so shall your descendants be.” But Abraham was old, and Sarah wasn’t exactly picking out baby names. He might have thought, “Lord, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m collecting Social Security at this point.” The promise seemed impossible, yet God’s plan was already in motion. The treasure of His blessing wasn’t somewhere far off; it was right where Abraham stood. He just needed to trust.
Then we get to Peter, James, and John on the mountain. They see Jesus transfigured—His face shining, His clothes dazzling white. Suddenly, Moses and Elijah appear. Overwhelmed, Peter blurts out: “Master, it is good that we are here! Let’s build three tents and stay!” You have to love Peter—he sees one incredible moment and starts planning a long-term retreat. “Let’s settle in, Jesus. We can Airbnb this place when we’re not here.” But the Transfiguration wasn’t the destination—it was a preview of something greater. Peter wanted to stay, but Jesus led them back down the mountain—to the cross, the resurrection, and the true fulfillment of God’s plan.
How often do we, like Abraham, Peter, or the merchant, believe we have to be somewhere else or have different circumstances to be truly happy? We dream of a time when life will be just right—when all our aches and pains will disappear. Lord, just let me retire to a quiet beach with perfect weather… oh wait! I’m already here. Okay then, how about no traffic and a waiter who knows my coffee order by heart?
We reminisce about the good old days, conveniently forgetting they also came with strange haircuts, questionable fashion choices, and a few regrettable decisions. Or we think, if just one thing changed—our health, our family situation, or our finances—then we’d finally have peace. Lord, if I could just win the lottery—just once—I swear I’d be generous… right after a short vacation, a new car, and a little shopping spree. You know, for the necessities.
But what if God is already at work in your life—right here, right now? Look around at the friendships and community you’ve built. In the kindness of a neighbor, the support of a friend, the laughter shared around the table—do you not see God’s presence? Think of the ways you’ve touched others—the wisdom you’ve shared, the encouragement you’ve given, the quiet sacrifices no one sees. Isn’t that God working through you? Even in struggles—health scares, loss, disappointments—haven’t there been moments of grace? A phone call at just the right time, a stranger’s kindness, the strength you found when you thought you had none.
We don’t need a miraculous vision or a mountaintop experience to find God. Sometimes, He is already right in front of us—waiting for us to open our eyes and recognize that He has been there all along. The merchant spent so much time searching that he nearly missed the treasure beneath his feet. Maybe that’s what God is telling us today. We don’t have to wait for a perfect moment, a miraculous sign, or for “everything to be just right” to know His presence. The treasure—His grace, His plan, His love—has been with us all along. Even when the path is unclear, we can trust that God’s plan is unfolding exactly as it should. And that, my friends, is worth more than any treasure we could ever seek. Final Blessing:
May the Lord open your eyes to the blessings already in your life and fill your heart with gratitude. Amen.
May He give you the faith of Abraham, the wonder of Peter, and the trust to follow His plan, even when the path is unclear. Amen.
And may His grace, His love, and His presence guide you always, for He has been with you all along. Amen.
Good morning and welcome! Today’s readings remind us that we often search for happiness, purpose, or answers in distant places, forgetting that God is already at work in our lives. Like Abraham or Peter, we can become so focused on what we lack that we fail to see the blessings right in front of us. As we begin this celebration, let us open our hearts to God’s presence here and now, trusting that His plan is unfolding exactly as it should. Homily A poor but wise merchant longed for treasure. One night, he dreamed of a chest of gold buried under a distant bridge. Convinced it would change his life, he set off on a long journey. When he arrived, a soldier stood guard. Hesitant but hopeful, he asked, “Have you heard of treasure buried here?”
The soldier laughed. “You traveled all this way for a dream? I once dreamed of treasure buried under the floor of a poor merchant’s house in a distant village.” The merchant’s heart pounded—the soldier had just described his own home. Rushing back, he dug beneath his floor and found the treasure—right where it had been all along.
Sometimes, what we’re searching for is already within our grasp—if only we have the eyes to see it. Abraham’s journey was similar. In today’s first reading, God tells him, “Look up at the stars—so shall your descendants be.” But Abraham was old, and Sarah wasn’t exactly picking out baby names. He might have thought, “Lord, I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m collecting Social Security at this point.” The promise seemed impossible, yet God’s plan was already in motion. The treasure of His blessing wasn’t somewhere far off; it was right where Abraham stood. He just needed to trust.
Then we get to Peter, James, and John on the mountain. They see Jesus transfigured—His face shining, His clothes dazzling white. Suddenly, Moses and Elijah appear. Overwhelmed, Peter blurts out: “Master, it is good that we are here! Let’s build three tents and stay!” You have to love Peter—he sees one incredible moment and starts planning a long-term retreat. “Let’s settle in, Jesus. We can Airbnb this place when we’re not here.” But the Transfiguration wasn’t the destination—it was a preview of something greater. Peter wanted to stay, but Jesus led them back down the mountain—to the cross, the resurrection, and the true fulfillment of God’s plan.
How often do we, like Abraham, Peter, or the merchant, believe we have to be somewhere else or have different circumstances to be truly happy? We dream of a time when life will be just right—when all our aches and pains will disappear. Lord, just let me retire to a quiet beach with perfect weather… oh wait! I’m already here. Okay then, how about no traffic and a waiter who knows my coffee order by heart?
We reminisce about the good old days, conveniently forgetting they also came with strange haircuts, questionable fashion choices, and a few regrettable decisions. Or we think, if just one thing changed—our health, our family situation, or our finances—then we’d finally have peace. Lord, if I could just win the lottery—just once—I swear I’d be generous… right after a short vacation, a new car, and a little shopping spree. You know, for the necessities.
But what if God is already at work in your life—right here, right now? Look around at the friendships and community you’ve built. In the kindness of a neighbor, the support of a friend, the laughter shared around the table—do you not see God’s presence? Think of the ways you’ve touched others—the wisdom you’ve shared, the encouragement you’ve given, the quiet sacrifices no one sees. Isn’t that God working through you? Even in struggles—health scares, loss, disappointments—haven’t there been moments of grace? A phone call at just the right time, a stranger’s kindness, the strength you found when you thought you had none.
We don’t need a miraculous vision or a mountaintop experience to find God. Sometimes, He is already right in front of us—waiting for us to open our eyes and recognize that He has been there all along. The merchant spent so much time searching that he nearly missed the treasure beneath his feet. Maybe that’s what God is telling us today. We don’t have to wait for a perfect moment, a miraculous sign, or for “everything to be just right” to know His presence. The treasure—His grace, His plan, His love—has been with us all along. Even when the path is unclear, we can trust that God’s plan is unfolding exactly as it should. And that, my friends, is worth more than any treasure we could ever seek. Final Blessing:
May the Lord open your eyes to the blessings already in your life and fill your heart with gratitude. Amen.
May He give you the faith of Abraham, the wonder of Peter, and the trust to follow His plan, even when the path is unclear. Amen.
And may His grace, His love, and His presence guide you always, for He has been with you all along. Amen.
first sunday of lent C The Bridge of Faith 03-09-2025
Introduction to Mass:
As we begin this sacred celebration, we come before God at a crossroads, much like Jesus in the desert. The world offers us many paths—some easy, some difficult—but today, through His Word and the Eucharist, Christ strengthens us to choose the way that leads to life. Let us open our hearts to His grace, trusting that He will guide our steps and give us the courage to follow Him.
Homily
A young man set out on a journey, searching for a better life. After many miles, he arrived at a deep canyon with an old wooden bridge stretching across it. The bridge was weathered, swaying slightly in the wind. He hesitated. The drop was steep, and the whole thing looked like a setup for one of those adventure movies where the bridge collapses just as the hero runs across. As he stood there debating, an elderly man appeared beside him. “That bridge will hold you,” the old man said. “I’ve crossed it many times before.”
Still skeptical, the young man noticed another path—a wide, smooth road leading into the valley. It looked safer and easier. Seeing his hesitation, the old man smiled knowingly and said, “Ah, that path. Many have taken it, and few have found their way back. Some are still out there, wandering, trying to get a WiFi signal.” The traveler stood at a crossroads—one way looked difficult but was proven and secure; the other seemed easy but led to uncertainty.
This is the very choice Jesus faces in today’s Gospel. After forty days of fasting in the wilderness, He is weak and vulnerable. The devil appears, offering Him shortcuts—turn stones into bread, seize power over the world, or throw Himself from the temple and let God prove His protection. Each temptation is an easier path, a way to avoid struggle. But Jesus refuses. He chooses the harder path—the path of obedience, sacrifice, and faith. He knows the easy way is not always the right way.
And isn’t that how temptation works? It never kicks down the door and announces itself—“Hello! I’m here to ruin your life!” No, temptation is sneaky. It whispers. It flatters. It disguises itself as something convenient, something that makes sense in the moment. Think about it: When have you been tempted to take the easier road?
• Maybe the temptation to complain—because venting feels good, and besides, people should know just how inconvenient your day has been. • Or losing patience—because you’ve resolved to be more patient, but then every bad driver in town seems to be in front of you. • Or getting distracted from Scripture—because you sit down to read, but somehow end up watching a youtube video about whether dogs dream instead. (For the record, they do.)
Lent: A Time to Choose the Right Path
Lent is about standing at the crossroads, just like Jesus in the desert. It’s about recognizing where we are tempted to take the easy road and instead committing to the harder but holier path.
That’s why the Church gives us fasting, prayer, and almsgiving—not as burdens, but as bridges, helping us choose the way that leads to becoming more compassionate, selfless people.
And here’s the good news: We are not alone in the struggle. Jesus shows us how to resist temptation—not through sheer willpower, but by trusting in the Word of God. Every time the devil tempts Him, Jesus responds with Scripture, with truth. Because when the road is difficult, we need something solid to stand on.
Trusting in God’s Strength
The first reading from Deuteronomy recalls how the Israelites wandered in the desert. They, too, stood at a crossroads. At times, they longed to return to Egypt, because even though it was slavery, at least it was predictable. Trusting in God’s plan felt harder. And isn’t that often how we think? The life of faith requires sacrifice and trust, and sometimes we long for the “easier way.” But through it all, God remained faithful. He led His people through the desert and into the Promised Land.
So here we stand, at our own crossroads. Lent is not just about giving up chocolate or social media; it’s about learning to trust the bridge God has placed before us. The world will always offer shortcuts—easier ways to satisfy our desires, avoid discomfort, or escape responsibility. But the easy path often leads us further from God. The bridge may look old, the wind may shake it, but Christ has walked it before us. He promises it will hold. And when we step forward in faith, we discover that what seemed fragile is firm, what seemed uncertain is secure, and what seemed like sacrifice is actually the road to true freedom. Final Blessing:
May the Lord strengthen you when the path is difficult and guide you when the way is unclear.May He give you wisdom to recognize temptation and the courage to choose what is right.May He walk beside you, steadying your steps, until you reach the fullness of His promise.And may Almighty God bless you, † the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
Still skeptical, the young man noticed another path—a wide, smooth road leading into the valley. It looked safer and easier. Seeing his hesitation, the old man smiled knowingly and said, “Ah, that path. Many have taken it, and few have found their way back. Some are still out there, wandering, trying to get a WiFi signal.” The traveler stood at a crossroads—one way looked difficult but was proven and secure; the other seemed easy but led to uncertainty.
This is the very choice Jesus faces in today’s Gospel. After forty days of fasting in the wilderness, He is weak and vulnerable. The devil appears, offering Him shortcuts—turn stones into bread, seize power over the world, or throw Himself from the temple and let God prove His protection. Each temptation is an easier path, a way to avoid struggle. But Jesus refuses. He chooses the harder path—the path of obedience, sacrifice, and faith. He knows the easy way is not always the right way.
And isn’t that how temptation works? It never kicks down the door and announces itself—“Hello! I’m here to ruin your life!” No, temptation is sneaky. It whispers. It flatters. It disguises itself as something convenient, something that makes sense in the moment. Think about it: When have you been tempted to take the easier road?
• Maybe the temptation to complain—because venting feels good, and besides, people should know just how inconvenient your day has been. • Or losing patience—because you’ve resolved to be more patient, but then every bad driver in town seems to be in front of you. • Or getting distracted from Scripture—because you sit down to read, but somehow end up watching a youtube video about whether dogs dream instead. (For the record, they do.)
Lent: A Time to Choose the Right Path
Lent is about standing at the crossroads, just like Jesus in the desert. It’s about recognizing where we are tempted to take the easy road and instead committing to the harder but holier path.
That’s why the Church gives us fasting, prayer, and almsgiving—not as burdens, but as bridges, helping us choose the way that leads to becoming more compassionate, selfless people.
And here’s the good news: We are not alone in the struggle. Jesus shows us how to resist temptation—not through sheer willpower, but by trusting in the Word of God. Every time the devil tempts Him, Jesus responds with Scripture, with truth. Because when the road is difficult, we need something solid to stand on.
Trusting in God’s Strength
The first reading from Deuteronomy recalls how the Israelites wandered in the desert. They, too, stood at a crossroads. At times, they longed to return to Egypt, because even though it was slavery, at least it was predictable. Trusting in God’s plan felt harder. And isn’t that often how we think? The life of faith requires sacrifice and trust, and sometimes we long for the “easier way.” But through it all, God remained faithful. He led His people through the desert and into the Promised Land.
So here we stand, at our own crossroads. Lent is not just about giving up chocolate or social media; it’s about learning to trust the bridge God has placed before us. The world will always offer shortcuts—easier ways to satisfy our desires, avoid discomfort, or escape responsibility. But the easy path often leads us further from God. The bridge may look old, the wind may shake it, but Christ has walked it before us. He promises it will hold. And when we step forward in faith, we discover that what seemed fragile is firm, what seemed uncertain is secure, and what seemed like sacrifice is actually the road to true freedom. Final Blessing:
May the Lord strengthen you when the path is difficult and guide you when the way is unclear.May He give you wisdom to recognize temptation and the courage to choose what is right.May He walk beside you, steadying your steps, until you reach the fullness of His promise.And may Almighty God bless you, † the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
Amen.
eighth sunday in ordinary time C Seeing Clearly 03-01-2025
Introduction to Mass:
Welcome, brothers and sisters in Christ. Today, Jesus challenges us to examine not just the faults we see in others, but the way we see them in the first place. Too often, we are quick to judge, unaware that our own perspective may be clouded. As we begin this celebration, let us ask the Lord to cleanse our hearts and open our eyes, so that we may see others—and ourselves—through His truth and His love. Homily A woman used to complain daily about her neighbor’s laundry. Every morning, she’d look out her kitchen window and shake her head. “Look at that! She doesn’t know how to wash clothes properly. Her laundry always looks dirty,” she told her husband. This went on for weeks. Then one morning, she was shocked to see the laundry spotless.
“Wow! Someone must have taught her how to do it right.” Her husband smiled and said, “Actually, I cleaned our kitchen window.”
It’s a humorous story with a profound truth—sometimes, the problem isn’t with others but with how we see them.
A Modern-Day Beam and Speck
In today’s Gospel, Jesus paints an exaggerated picture: a person with a wooden beam in their eye trying to remove a speck from someone else’s. “Hey, you’ve got something in your eye,” they say—meanwhile, they’re knocking people over with their own plank! Jesus uses humor to make a serious point: we’re quick to see others’ faults while blind to our own.
Have you ever been stuck in traffic, grumbling about bad drivers—after cutting someone off five minutes earlier? Or gotten impatient with a slow waiter, forgetting that last week you couldn’t decide what to order? Jesus warns us: “Can a blind person guide a blind person? Will not both fall into a pit?” If we don’t recognize our own flaws, how can we help others?
Judging with a Dirty Window
Sirach reminds us: just as a tree is judged by its fruit, our words reveal our hearts. If our speech is full of criticism or negativity, maybe the issue isn’t “out there” but within us.
Think of how quickly we judge. Someone at church seems unfriendly, and we assume they don’t care. But do we stop to wonder what burdens they carry? Maybe they just lost a loved one. Maybe they’re struggling. Jesus isn’t saying to ignore real problems but to pause and reflect before we judge. Trees take time to bear fruit. People take time to grow. Instead of assuming the worst, we should seek truth with honesty and love. Jesus never ignored sin, but He always led with compassion—seeking to heal, not condemn. That’s our calling too.
When Others’ Faults Seem Bigger
But what if someone’s faults are truly harmful? It’s natural to feel anger at injustice. Yet Jesus calls us to see clearly—not just to recognize wrong but to respond with wisdom and faith. He never ignored hypocrisy but confronted it with truth, not hostility.
Some people are so blinded by self-interest that reasoning won’t change them. In those cases, the best we can do is what Jesus did: speak truth boldly, refuse to enable wrongdoing, and trust that God sees all things clearly—even when justice seems delayed.
Meanwhile, we must stay rooted in faith, act with integrity, and let Christ guide us. When we ask God to open our hearts, remove our blindness, and help us see through His eyes, then we can truly help others see clearly too.
So this week, let’s take Jesus’ words to heart—before we judge, let’s pause; before we criticize, let’s reflect; before frustration takes over, let’s ask: is the real issue out there or within us?
Because sometimes, the first step to seeing clearly is cleaning our own window. Final Blessing
May the God of truth open your eyes to see with clarity, your heart to judge with mercy, and your spirit to reflect His love in all you do. Amen.
May Christ, who sees beyond our faults, grant you the humility to recognize your own need for grace and the strength to extend that same grace to others. Amen.
May the Holy Spirit be your guide, cleansing your heart of pride, filling you with wisdom and patience, and leading you to walk always in the light of God’s justice and peace. Amen.
Welcome, brothers and sisters in Christ. Today, Jesus challenges us to examine not just the faults we see in others, but the way we see them in the first place. Too often, we are quick to judge, unaware that our own perspective may be clouded. As we begin this celebration, let us ask the Lord to cleanse our hearts and open our eyes, so that we may see others—and ourselves—through His truth and His love. Homily A woman used to complain daily about her neighbor’s laundry. Every morning, she’d look out her kitchen window and shake her head. “Look at that! She doesn’t know how to wash clothes properly. Her laundry always looks dirty,” she told her husband. This went on for weeks. Then one morning, she was shocked to see the laundry spotless.
“Wow! Someone must have taught her how to do it right.” Her husband smiled and said, “Actually, I cleaned our kitchen window.”
It’s a humorous story with a profound truth—sometimes, the problem isn’t with others but with how we see them.
A Modern-Day Beam and Speck
In today’s Gospel, Jesus paints an exaggerated picture: a person with a wooden beam in their eye trying to remove a speck from someone else’s. “Hey, you’ve got something in your eye,” they say—meanwhile, they’re knocking people over with their own plank! Jesus uses humor to make a serious point: we’re quick to see others’ faults while blind to our own.
Have you ever been stuck in traffic, grumbling about bad drivers—after cutting someone off five minutes earlier? Or gotten impatient with a slow waiter, forgetting that last week you couldn’t decide what to order? Jesus warns us: “Can a blind person guide a blind person? Will not both fall into a pit?” If we don’t recognize our own flaws, how can we help others?
Judging with a Dirty Window
Sirach reminds us: just as a tree is judged by its fruit, our words reveal our hearts. If our speech is full of criticism or negativity, maybe the issue isn’t “out there” but within us.
Think of how quickly we judge. Someone at church seems unfriendly, and we assume they don’t care. But do we stop to wonder what burdens they carry? Maybe they just lost a loved one. Maybe they’re struggling. Jesus isn’t saying to ignore real problems but to pause and reflect before we judge. Trees take time to bear fruit. People take time to grow. Instead of assuming the worst, we should seek truth with honesty and love. Jesus never ignored sin, but He always led with compassion—seeking to heal, not condemn. That’s our calling too.
When Others’ Faults Seem Bigger
But what if someone’s faults are truly harmful? It’s natural to feel anger at injustice. Yet Jesus calls us to see clearly—not just to recognize wrong but to respond with wisdom and faith. He never ignored hypocrisy but confronted it with truth, not hostility.
Some people are so blinded by self-interest that reasoning won’t change them. In those cases, the best we can do is what Jesus did: speak truth boldly, refuse to enable wrongdoing, and trust that God sees all things clearly—even when justice seems delayed.
Meanwhile, we must stay rooted in faith, act with integrity, and let Christ guide us. When we ask God to open our hearts, remove our blindness, and help us see through His eyes, then we can truly help others see clearly too.
So this week, let’s take Jesus’ words to heart—before we judge, let’s pause; before we criticize, let’s reflect; before frustration takes over, let’s ask: is the real issue out there or within us?
Because sometimes, the first step to seeing clearly is cleaning our own window. Final Blessing
May the God of truth open your eyes to see with clarity, your heart to judge with mercy, and your spirit to reflect His love in all you do. Amen.
May Christ, who sees beyond our faults, grant you the humility to recognize your own need for grace and the strength to extend that same grace to others. Amen.
May the Holy Spirit be your guide, cleansing your heart of pride, filling you with wisdom and patience, and leading you to walk always in the light of God’s justice and peace. Amen.
seventh sunday in ordinary time 02-23-2025
Introduction to Mass
Today’s readings challenge us to go beyond what feels natural and embrace the heart of Christ’s teaching—mercy. In the first reading, David has the perfect chance to take revenge on Saul, yet he chooses restraint, trusting that justice belongs to God. In the Gospel, Jesus takes this even further, calling us to love our enemies, do good to those who hate us, and forgive as we have been forgiven.
This is not an easy command, but it is the way of Christ—the way that transforms hearts and leads us closer to the image of God we are meant to bear. As we enter into this Eucharist, let us ask for the grace to let go of resentment, to choose love over hate, and to follow Jesus in a life of mercy.
Homily
Which Wolf Will You Feed?
An old Cherokee chief sat by the fire with his grandson, teaching him about life. “Inside every person,” he said, “there are two wolves constantly battling. One wolf is full of anger, resentment, greed, and revenge. The other is full of love, kindness, mercy, and forgiveness.”The young boy thought for a moment and then asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?” The chief smiled and replied, “The one you feed.”
We all have those two wolves inside us. When we feel wronged—betrayed, insulted, hurt—the battle begins. The world tells us to feed the wolf of revenge: get even, strike back, make them suffer. But Jesus calls us to something radically different: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.” At first, this sounds impossible. But if we look deeper, we realize that feeding the wolf of mercy doesn’t just change the other person—it changes us.
This same battle raged in David’s heart when he had the perfect chance to take revenge. King Saul, driven by jealousy, had been hunting David down, trying to kill him. Then, one night, David found Saul completely vulnerable—asleep with his spear beside him. His men whispered, “This is your chance! God has delivered him into your hands!”
That’s exactly how the world thinks—if you have power over your enemy, take them down. But David did something remarkable. He refused. Instead of striking Saul, he took his spear as a sign that he could have acted—but chose not to. Then he declared: “The Lord will reward each man for his justice and faithfulness.” David knew what we often forget: Mercy is not weakness—it’s strength. Anyone can take revenge. It takes real courage to forgive.
Let’s be honest—loving your enemies feels unfair. When someone hurts us, we want them to feel what they put us through. Society encourages this—whether it’s political fights, family feuds, or online arguments, people are quick to strike back, to humiliate, to destroy reputations. But Jesus asks: Is this the life you want? When we hold onto anger, when we refuse to forgive, who suffers most? We do. We replay the hurt over and over, giving our enemies free rent in our heads. Meanwhile, they’re out there living their lives—probably not even thinking about us.
Jesus’ command isn’t about feelings—it’s about action. Love isn’t just an emotion; it’s a decision. We choose to pray for those who hurt us, not because they deserve it, but because we deserve freedom from bitterness. We choose to resist the urge to retaliate when insulted, responding with dignity rather than anger. We set boundaries when necessary, understanding that forgiveness—like David’s mercy toward Saul—does not mean allowing harm to continue. And perhaps the hardest choice of all, we do good to those who don’t deserve it, knowing that often, it is kindness—not revenge—that transforms hearts.
We live in a world obsessed with outrage. People keep score, hold grudges, and celebrate the downfall of their enemies. But imagine if, instead of feeding the wolf of revenge, we fed the wolf of mercy. Imagine a world where people forgave freely, where mercy was stronger than hate, where love conquered bitterness. That world is possible—but it starts with us.
Jesus practiced what He preached. As He hung on the cross, surrounded by enemies, He could have called down fire from heaven. Instead, He prayed for them: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” That is our model. That is our calling. So, this week—when someone wrongs you, when you feel anger rising, when the battle between the two wolves begins—pause. Take a deep breath. And ask yourself: Which wolf will I feed? Because the answer to that question will determine the kind of person you become.
Amen.
Final Blessing
The Lord be with you.
(And with your spirit.)
May the God of mercy, who knows your struggles and your wounds, fill your heart with the strength to choose love over anger, forgiveness over resentment, and kindness over judgment.
May Christ, who forgave even from the cross, help you to let go of the burdens that weigh you down and lead you to the freedom that comes from a heart at peace.
May the Holy Spirit be your guide, giving you wisdom in difficult moments, patience when you are tested, and the courage to trust that God’s justice is always greater than our own.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
(Amen.)
Go in peace, and may the mercy you receive be the mercy you share.
(Thanks be to God.)
Today’s readings challenge us to go beyond what feels natural and embrace the heart of Christ’s teaching—mercy. In the first reading, David has the perfect chance to take revenge on Saul, yet he chooses restraint, trusting that justice belongs to God. In the Gospel, Jesus takes this even further, calling us to love our enemies, do good to those who hate us, and forgive as we have been forgiven.
This is not an easy command, but it is the way of Christ—the way that transforms hearts and leads us closer to the image of God we are meant to bear. As we enter into this Eucharist, let us ask for the grace to let go of resentment, to choose love over hate, and to follow Jesus in a life of mercy.
Homily
Which Wolf Will You Feed?
An old Cherokee chief sat by the fire with his grandson, teaching him about life. “Inside every person,” he said, “there are two wolves constantly battling. One wolf is full of anger, resentment, greed, and revenge. The other is full of love, kindness, mercy, and forgiveness.”The young boy thought for a moment and then asked, “Grandfather, which wolf wins?” The chief smiled and replied, “The one you feed.”
We all have those two wolves inside us. When we feel wronged—betrayed, insulted, hurt—the battle begins. The world tells us to feed the wolf of revenge: get even, strike back, make them suffer. But Jesus calls us to something radically different: “Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you, pray for those who mistreat you.” At first, this sounds impossible. But if we look deeper, we realize that feeding the wolf of mercy doesn’t just change the other person—it changes us.
This same battle raged in David’s heart when he had the perfect chance to take revenge. King Saul, driven by jealousy, had been hunting David down, trying to kill him. Then, one night, David found Saul completely vulnerable—asleep with his spear beside him. His men whispered, “This is your chance! God has delivered him into your hands!”
That’s exactly how the world thinks—if you have power over your enemy, take them down. But David did something remarkable. He refused. Instead of striking Saul, he took his spear as a sign that he could have acted—but chose not to. Then he declared: “The Lord will reward each man for his justice and faithfulness.” David knew what we often forget: Mercy is not weakness—it’s strength. Anyone can take revenge. It takes real courage to forgive.
Let’s be honest—loving your enemies feels unfair. When someone hurts us, we want them to feel what they put us through. Society encourages this—whether it’s political fights, family feuds, or online arguments, people are quick to strike back, to humiliate, to destroy reputations. But Jesus asks: Is this the life you want? When we hold onto anger, when we refuse to forgive, who suffers most? We do. We replay the hurt over and over, giving our enemies free rent in our heads. Meanwhile, they’re out there living their lives—probably not even thinking about us.
Jesus’ command isn’t about feelings—it’s about action. Love isn’t just an emotion; it’s a decision. We choose to pray for those who hurt us, not because they deserve it, but because we deserve freedom from bitterness. We choose to resist the urge to retaliate when insulted, responding with dignity rather than anger. We set boundaries when necessary, understanding that forgiveness—like David’s mercy toward Saul—does not mean allowing harm to continue. And perhaps the hardest choice of all, we do good to those who don’t deserve it, knowing that often, it is kindness—not revenge—that transforms hearts.
We live in a world obsessed with outrage. People keep score, hold grudges, and celebrate the downfall of their enemies. But imagine if, instead of feeding the wolf of revenge, we fed the wolf of mercy. Imagine a world where people forgave freely, where mercy was stronger than hate, where love conquered bitterness. That world is possible—but it starts with us.
Jesus practiced what He preached. As He hung on the cross, surrounded by enemies, He could have called down fire from heaven. Instead, He prayed for them: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” That is our model. That is our calling. So, this week—when someone wrongs you, when you feel anger rising, when the battle between the two wolves begins—pause. Take a deep breath. And ask yourself: Which wolf will I feed? Because the answer to that question will determine the kind of person you become.
Amen.
Final Blessing
The Lord be with you.
(And with your spirit.)
May the God of mercy, who knows your struggles and your wounds, fill your heart with the strength to choose love over anger, forgiveness over resentment, and kindness over judgment.
May Christ, who forgave even from the cross, help you to let go of the burdens that weigh you down and lead you to the freedom that comes from a heart at peace.
May the Holy Spirit be your guide, giving you wisdom in difficult moments, patience when you are tested, and the courage to trust that God’s justice is always greater than our own.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.
(Amen.)
Go in peace, and may the mercy you receive be the mercy you share.
(Thanks be to God.)
sixth sunday in ordinary time 02-16-2025
Introduction to Mass
Welcome to today’s celebration of the Holy Eucharist. Our readings remind us that God’s ways often turn our expectations upside down—what seems like loss may be grace in disguise, and true security is found not in wealth or comfort, but in trusting Him. As we enter into this sacred mystery, let us open our hearts to Christ, who alone is our firm foundation in every season of life. Homily: Trusting God in Life’s Uncertainties
An old farmer had a single horse. One day, it ran away. His neighbors lamented, “What a terrible misfortune!” He shrugged, “Maybe, maybe not.” Days later, the horse returned with several wild horses. The neighbors rejoiced, “What great luck!” Again, he said, “Maybe, maybe not.” Then his son fell while taming one of the wild horses and broke his leg. The neighbors sighed, “How unfortunate!” The farmer remained calm: “Maybe, maybe not.” Soon after, the army came to draft young men for war, but his injured son was left behind. The neighbors exclaimed, “How fortunate!” The farmer just smiled: “Maybe, maybe not.”
At first, you might think this farmer just didn’t want to commit to an opinion. Maybe he’d make a great referee—never taking sides. But in reality, he understood something most of us forget: life is unpredictable, and what looks bad today might turn out to be a blessing tomorrow.
Jesus teaches the same truth in the Beatitudes: “Blessed are you who are poor, hungry, weeping, and hated. Woe to you who are rich, well-fed, laughing, and spoken well of.” It sounds backwards. If you’re starving and someone calls you “blessed,” you might be tempted to throw your empty plate at them. But Jesus isn’t glorifying suffering—He’s challenging us to look deeper.
If our trust is in wealth, comfort, or approval, we’re standing on thin ice. It might hold for a while, but the first warm day, and—splash. Wealth can make us think we’re in control (until the stock market has other plans). Comfort can lull us into complacency (like hitting snooze one too many times). Laughter can distract us from deeper realities (like when you’re cracking jokes instead of fixing a problem). And the pursuit of approval? That’s like trying to please a cat—just when you think you’ve got it, it walks away.
But the “woes” Jesus gives aren’t punishments; they’re warnings. They’re like that friend who stops you before you buy the cheap gas station sushi—“Are you sure about this?” Life may seem stable when things are going well, but if our foundation isn’t deep, trials will reveal the truth.
Jesus Himself lived this lesson. When He was rejected, when He suffered, when He hung on the cross, it seemed like the worst possible outcome. His followers saw only disaster. But in God’s plan, what looked like failure was actually the greatest victory. The resurrection turns everything upside down. It proves that suffering isn’t meaningless, loss isn’t the end, and even death itself isn’t final.
Faith means trusting that God sees the whole picture when we can’t. It gives us a peace that doesn’t depend on circumstances. Instead of rushing to label every situation as good or bad, we learn to wait and trust. In time, what seemed like disaster might reveal itself as grace, and what seemed like security might turn out to be a trap.
So when life takes an unexpected turn, resist the urge to label it as a catastrophe—or even as good fortune. Instead, trust in God, who sees beyond the moment and wants to guide you through every twist and turn.
Because when we place our trust in Him, we no longer have to live in fear of the unknown. We may not always see the full picture, but we know the One who does. And so, like the wise old farmer, we can meet life’s surprises—not with panic, but with peace. And when someone looks at your life and says, “What great luck!” or “What terrible misfortune!”—you’ll know exactly how to respond:
“Maybe, maybe not.” Final Solemn Blessing
Priest: The Lord be with you.People: And with your spirit.
Priest:Bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing.
May the God of all wisdom strengthen your hearts to trust in His divine plan, even when the path is unclear.Amen.
May Christ, who conquered sin and death, be your firm foundation in times of trial and your lasting joy in times of peace.Amen.
And may the Holy Spirit guide you in faith, that in all things you may see the hand of God at work, now and forever.Amen.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
Priest: Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.People: Thanks be to God.
Welcome to today’s celebration of the Holy Eucharist. Our readings remind us that God’s ways often turn our expectations upside down—what seems like loss may be grace in disguise, and true security is found not in wealth or comfort, but in trusting Him. As we enter into this sacred mystery, let us open our hearts to Christ, who alone is our firm foundation in every season of life. Homily: Trusting God in Life’s Uncertainties
An old farmer had a single horse. One day, it ran away. His neighbors lamented, “What a terrible misfortune!” He shrugged, “Maybe, maybe not.” Days later, the horse returned with several wild horses. The neighbors rejoiced, “What great luck!” Again, he said, “Maybe, maybe not.” Then his son fell while taming one of the wild horses and broke his leg. The neighbors sighed, “How unfortunate!” The farmer remained calm: “Maybe, maybe not.” Soon after, the army came to draft young men for war, but his injured son was left behind. The neighbors exclaimed, “How fortunate!” The farmer just smiled: “Maybe, maybe not.”
At first, you might think this farmer just didn’t want to commit to an opinion. Maybe he’d make a great referee—never taking sides. But in reality, he understood something most of us forget: life is unpredictable, and what looks bad today might turn out to be a blessing tomorrow.
Jesus teaches the same truth in the Beatitudes: “Blessed are you who are poor, hungry, weeping, and hated. Woe to you who are rich, well-fed, laughing, and spoken well of.” It sounds backwards. If you’re starving and someone calls you “blessed,” you might be tempted to throw your empty plate at them. But Jesus isn’t glorifying suffering—He’s challenging us to look deeper.
If our trust is in wealth, comfort, or approval, we’re standing on thin ice. It might hold for a while, but the first warm day, and—splash. Wealth can make us think we’re in control (until the stock market has other plans). Comfort can lull us into complacency (like hitting snooze one too many times). Laughter can distract us from deeper realities (like when you’re cracking jokes instead of fixing a problem). And the pursuit of approval? That’s like trying to please a cat—just when you think you’ve got it, it walks away.
But the “woes” Jesus gives aren’t punishments; they’re warnings. They’re like that friend who stops you before you buy the cheap gas station sushi—“Are you sure about this?” Life may seem stable when things are going well, but if our foundation isn’t deep, trials will reveal the truth.
Jesus Himself lived this lesson. When He was rejected, when He suffered, when He hung on the cross, it seemed like the worst possible outcome. His followers saw only disaster. But in God’s plan, what looked like failure was actually the greatest victory. The resurrection turns everything upside down. It proves that suffering isn’t meaningless, loss isn’t the end, and even death itself isn’t final.
Faith means trusting that God sees the whole picture when we can’t. It gives us a peace that doesn’t depend on circumstances. Instead of rushing to label every situation as good or bad, we learn to wait and trust. In time, what seemed like disaster might reveal itself as grace, and what seemed like security might turn out to be a trap.
So when life takes an unexpected turn, resist the urge to label it as a catastrophe—or even as good fortune. Instead, trust in God, who sees beyond the moment and wants to guide you through every twist and turn.
Because when we place our trust in Him, we no longer have to live in fear of the unknown. We may not always see the full picture, but we know the One who does. And so, like the wise old farmer, we can meet life’s surprises—not with panic, but with peace. And when someone looks at your life and says, “What great luck!” or “What terrible misfortune!”—you’ll know exactly how to respond:
“Maybe, maybe not.” Final Solemn Blessing
Priest: The Lord be with you.People: And with your spirit.
Priest:Bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing.
May the God of all wisdom strengthen your hearts to trust in His divine plan, even when the path is unclear.Amen.
May Christ, who conquered sin and death, be your firm foundation in times of trial and your lasting joy in times of peace.Amen.
And may the Holy Spirit guide you in faith, that in all things you may see the hand of God at work, now and forever.Amen.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
Priest: Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.People: Thanks be to God.
Fifth sunday in ordinary time 02-09-2025
Introduction to Mass
Brothers and sisters, as we gather to celebrate the Eucharist, we bring with us not only our prayers and hopes but also our burdens and regrets. Today, the Word of God reminds us that our unworthiness or guilt—yes, even our infamous Catholic guilt—do not define us. Grace does. Let us open our hearts to God’s mercy, trusting that He calls us not because we are perfect, but because we are His.
Homily
A man once shared a childhood memory that lingered for decades. When he was ten, he ignored his mother’s warnings and hit a baseball straight through the living room window. His stomach dropped as the glass shattered. He braced for the storm—yelling, punishment, maybe even grounding for life. But his mother simply sighed and said, “I told you this would happen. Come inside.”
She still loved him. She still made him dinner. She still tucked him in that night. But he couldn’t shake the guilt. He spent weeks trying to prove he was still a good son—helping with chores, being extra polite, anything to make up for his mistake. Only years later did he realize—his mother had forgiven him instantly. The only one still holding onto it was him.
Many of us do the same. We carry guilt far longer than we should—whether it’s a failure, words we regret, or sins God has already forgiven. We replay our mistakes, convincing ourselves that if we had done things differently, we’d be holier, more faithful, more worthy of God’s love. But here’s the truth: God doesn’t love us because we get everything right—He loves us because we are His. And if that sounds hard to believe, just look at today’s readings.
Isaiah had a vision of heaven itself—God enthroned in glory, surrounded by angels calling out:“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts!” And what was Isaiah’s reaction? Joy? Praise? No—terror.“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips!” He felt unworthy, as if he had shown up to a royal banquet in rags. But God did not reject him. Instead, an angel purified his lips and God sent him on mission. Isaiah thought he was too sinful to stand in God’s presence, but God saw a prophet in the making.
In the Gospel, Peter experiences something similar. He’s an experienced fisherman, and after a long, fruitless night, Jesus tells him to lower his nets again. The result? A catch so enormous that the boats nearly sink. Peter immediately falls to his knees and says, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” But Jesus doesn’t leave. Instead, He calls Peter to follow Him. Peter thought his sinfulness made him unworthy, but Jesus saw a future shepherd of the Church.
And then we have Paul. If anyone had a reason to drown in guilt, it was him. He didn’t just ignore Christians—he persecuted them, even approving of executions. Then, on the road to Damascus, Jesus literally knocked him to the ground, asking, “Why are you persecuting Me?” Paul could have spent the rest of his life paralyzed by shame, thinking, I was an enemy of Christ. I don’t deserve to serve Him. But what does Paul say in today’s reading?“By the grace of God, I am what I am.” He didn’t let his past define him—he let grace define him.
Isaiah, Peter, and Paul could have been trapped in guilt. But instead, they let God’s grace rewrite their stories. And that is what we are called to do.
Letting go of guilt begins with facing it honestly. If our guilt is the result of sin, we need to bring it to Confession—not to feel worse, but to be set free. But even after Confession, we sometimes struggle to believe we’re truly forgiven. That’s why we must trust in God’s mercy. If He has thrown our sins into the depths of the sea, why are we still fishing for them? And just as God forgives us, we must also learn to forgive ourselves.
When we trust in His mercy, our mistakes don’t disqualify us—they become the very places where His grace shines brightest. Because grace isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about God turning even our worst chapters into a story worth telling.
Priest: Bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing.
May the God of mercy, who has called you by name, free your heart from guilt and fill you with the peace of His forgiveness.Amen.
May Christ, who did not turn away the sinful but called them to follow Him, strengthen you to walk in the freedom of His grace.Amen.
May the Holy Spirit, who transforms our weaknesses into testimonies of God’s love, guide you to live as witnesses of His mercy in the world.Amen.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.Thanks be to God.
Brothers and sisters, as we gather to celebrate the Eucharist, we bring with us not only our prayers and hopes but also our burdens and regrets. Today, the Word of God reminds us that our unworthiness or guilt—yes, even our infamous Catholic guilt—do not define us. Grace does. Let us open our hearts to God’s mercy, trusting that He calls us not because we are perfect, but because we are His.
Homily
A man once shared a childhood memory that lingered for decades. When he was ten, he ignored his mother’s warnings and hit a baseball straight through the living room window. His stomach dropped as the glass shattered. He braced for the storm—yelling, punishment, maybe even grounding for life. But his mother simply sighed and said, “I told you this would happen. Come inside.”
She still loved him. She still made him dinner. She still tucked him in that night. But he couldn’t shake the guilt. He spent weeks trying to prove he was still a good son—helping with chores, being extra polite, anything to make up for his mistake. Only years later did he realize—his mother had forgiven him instantly. The only one still holding onto it was him.
Many of us do the same. We carry guilt far longer than we should—whether it’s a failure, words we regret, or sins God has already forgiven. We replay our mistakes, convincing ourselves that if we had done things differently, we’d be holier, more faithful, more worthy of God’s love. But here’s the truth: God doesn’t love us because we get everything right—He loves us because we are His. And if that sounds hard to believe, just look at today’s readings.
Isaiah had a vision of heaven itself—God enthroned in glory, surrounded by angels calling out:“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of hosts!” And what was Isaiah’s reaction? Joy? Praise? No—terror.“Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips!” He felt unworthy, as if he had shown up to a royal banquet in rags. But God did not reject him. Instead, an angel purified his lips and God sent him on mission. Isaiah thought he was too sinful to stand in God’s presence, but God saw a prophet in the making.
In the Gospel, Peter experiences something similar. He’s an experienced fisherman, and after a long, fruitless night, Jesus tells him to lower his nets again. The result? A catch so enormous that the boats nearly sink. Peter immediately falls to his knees and says, “Depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man!” But Jesus doesn’t leave. Instead, He calls Peter to follow Him. Peter thought his sinfulness made him unworthy, but Jesus saw a future shepherd of the Church.
And then we have Paul. If anyone had a reason to drown in guilt, it was him. He didn’t just ignore Christians—he persecuted them, even approving of executions. Then, on the road to Damascus, Jesus literally knocked him to the ground, asking, “Why are you persecuting Me?” Paul could have spent the rest of his life paralyzed by shame, thinking, I was an enemy of Christ. I don’t deserve to serve Him. But what does Paul say in today’s reading?“By the grace of God, I am what I am.” He didn’t let his past define him—he let grace define him.
Isaiah, Peter, and Paul could have been trapped in guilt. But instead, they let God’s grace rewrite their stories. And that is what we are called to do.
Letting go of guilt begins with facing it honestly. If our guilt is the result of sin, we need to bring it to Confession—not to feel worse, but to be set free. But even after Confession, we sometimes struggle to believe we’re truly forgiven. That’s why we must trust in God’s mercy. If He has thrown our sins into the depths of the sea, why are we still fishing for them? And just as God forgives us, we must also learn to forgive ourselves.
When we trust in His mercy, our mistakes don’t disqualify us—they become the very places where His grace shines brightest. Because grace isn’t about erasing the past—it’s about God turning even our worst chapters into a story worth telling.
Priest: Bow your heads and pray for God’s blessing.
May the God of mercy, who has called you by name, free your heart from guilt and fill you with the peace of His forgiveness.Amen.
May Christ, who did not turn away the sinful but called them to follow Him, strengthen you to walk in the freedom of His grace.Amen.
May the Holy Spirit, who transforms our weaknesses into testimonies of God’s love, guide you to live as witnesses of His mercy in the world.Amen.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.Amen.
Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.Thanks be to God.
FEAST OF THE PRESENTATION OF THE LORD
02-02-2025
Introduction to Mass:
So often, we look for God in the grand and the miraculous, expecting dramatic signs or unmistakable answers. But today’s readings remind us that God is most often found in the quiet, in the ordinary, in the moments we might otherwise overlook. As we begin this celebration, let us ask for the grace to recognize His presence—not just in this sacred liturgy, but in the simple acts of love and kindness that reveal Him every day.
Homily
A man stuck at an airport during a long layover sat near his gate. Frustrated and tired, he silently kept asking God for patience. Nearby, a mother struggled with her crying baby while weary passengers looked away or pretended not to notice. The man had a choice: to ignore the scene or step into the moment. After a pause, he decided to act. He caught the baby’s attention and made silly faces. The tears stopped, replaced by a giggle. The relieved mother whispered, “Thank you.”
Later, as he boarded his flight, the man reflected on his layover. He had spent the entire time asking God for patience—and maybe even for a miraculous flight upgrade. Instead, God answered in an unexpected way: through a simple act of kindness, a quiet glimpse of His presence in the space between two strangers.
Isn’t that often how God works? Like the man at the airport, we sometimes expect divine intervention in bold, unmistakable ways—miraculous solutions, immediate answers. But today’s readings remind us that God’s presence often comes in quiet, unexpected moments.
In Malachi, God sends His messenger to prepare the way—not with loud proclamations, but with a refining fire that slowly transforms. In Hebrews, we are reminded that Jesus did not come in overpowering strength, but in the frailty of human flesh, sharing in our struggles to redeem us. And in Luke’s Gospel, we see the perfect example in Simeon and Anna—two faithful people who had waited their entire lives for the Messiah.
Imagine the moment: Mary and Joseph arrive at the temple, carrying their newborn Son. No grand entrance. No angelic choir. Just a young couple, poor and unremarkable, following the law and presenting their child to the Lord. And yet, Simeon and Anna see what others miss. They recognize Jesus—not because He performed a miracle or made a grand speech, but because their hearts were open. They were waiting, watching, ready to see God however He chose to appear.
Of course, many of us might still prefer the dramatic approach. Wouldn’t it be nice if God sent an angel with a PowerPoint presentation? Imagine waking up to find Gabriel at the foot of your bed, remote in hand: “Good morning! Let’s go over today’s plan.” Slide one: “When you’re at Publix today, be patient. Yes, the cashier is bagging your groceries all wrong, but it’s going to be fine—your bread will survive.” Slide two: “Stop trying to convince the world you’re right and they’re wrong—especially online. Even the Holy Spirit avoids the comment section.”
That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? But that’s not how God usually works. Instead, He often speaks through quiet moments: in a kind word from a stranger when the weight of the day feels unbearable, in a sudden sense of peace that settles our hearts in the middle of chaos, or in a friend who calls at just the right time, unaware that their voice was the reassurance we needed. These moments may not make headlines, but they speak volumes if we have the eyes to see and the ears to listen.
Simeon and Anna recognized Jesus not because He arrived with power, but because they were humble enough to see God in an infant, in an ordinary family, in a quiet revelation. If we keep waiting for God in flashing lights and breaking news, we’ll most likely miss Him. But if we live with open hearts—if we choose to see, to care, and to act with compassion—we’ll realize something remarkable: God has been here all along, waiting for us to notice. Even in a kind smile at an airport.
Solemn Blessing:
May the Lord, who reveals His presence in the quiet and the ordinary, open your hearts to recognize Him in the moments you least expect. Amen.
May Christ, who came not in power but in humility, grant you the grace to see Him in the faces of those in need and respond with love. Amen.
And may the Holy Spirit fill you with wisdom and patience, that in your daily kindness and quiet faithfulness, you may reflect God’s presence to the world. Amen.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
So often, we look for God in the grand and the miraculous, expecting dramatic signs or unmistakable answers. But today’s readings remind us that God is most often found in the quiet, in the ordinary, in the moments we might otherwise overlook. As we begin this celebration, let us ask for the grace to recognize His presence—not just in this sacred liturgy, but in the simple acts of love and kindness that reveal Him every day.
Homily
A man stuck at an airport during a long layover sat near his gate. Frustrated and tired, he silently kept asking God for patience. Nearby, a mother struggled with her crying baby while weary passengers looked away or pretended not to notice. The man had a choice: to ignore the scene or step into the moment. After a pause, he decided to act. He caught the baby’s attention and made silly faces. The tears stopped, replaced by a giggle. The relieved mother whispered, “Thank you.”
Later, as he boarded his flight, the man reflected on his layover. He had spent the entire time asking God for patience—and maybe even for a miraculous flight upgrade. Instead, God answered in an unexpected way: through a simple act of kindness, a quiet glimpse of His presence in the space between two strangers.
Isn’t that often how God works? Like the man at the airport, we sometimes expect divine intervention in bold, unmistakable ways—miraculous solutions, immediate answers. But today’s readings remind us that God’s presence often comes in quiet, unexpected moments.
In Malachi, God sends His messenger to prepare the way—not with loud proclamations, but with a refining fire that slowly transforms. In Hebrews, we are reminded that Jesus did not come in overpowering strength, but in the frailty of human flesh, sharing in our struggles to redeem us. And in Luke’s Gospel, we see the perfect example in Simeon and Anna—two faithful people who had waited their entire lives for the Messiah.
Imagine the moment: Mary and Joseph arrive at the temple, carrying their newborn Son. No grand entrance. No angelic choir. Just a young couple, poor and unremarkable, following the law and presenting their child to the Lord. And yet, Simeon and Anna see what others miss. They recognize Jesus—not because He performed a miracle or made a grand speech, but because their hearts were open. They were waiting, watching, ready to see God however He chose to appear.
Of course, many of us might still prefer the dramatic approach. Wouldn’t it be nice if God sent an angel with a PowerPoint presentation? Imagine waking up to find Gabriel at the foot of your bed, remote in hand: “Good morning! Let’s go over today’s plan.” Slide one: “When you’re at Publix today, be patient. Yes, the cashier is bagging your groceries all wrong, but it’s going to be fine—your bread will survive.” Slide two: “Stop trying to convince the world you’re right and they’re wrong—especially online. Even the Holy Spirit avoids the comment section.”
That would be convenient, wouldn’t it? But that’s not how God usually works. Instead, He often speaks through quiet moments: in a kind word from a stranger when the weight of the day feels unbearable, in a sudden sense of peace that settles our hearts in the middle of chaos, or in a friend who calls at just the right time, unaware that their voice was the reassurance we needed. These moments may not make headlines, but they speak volumes if we have the eyes to see and the ears to listen.
Simeon and Anna recognized Jesus not because He arrived with power, but because they were humble enough to see God in an infant, in an ordinary family, in a quiet revelation. If we keep waiting for God in flashing lights and breaking news, we’ll most likely miss Him. But if we live with open hearts—if we choose to see, to care, and to act with compassion—we’ll realize something remarkable: God has been here all along, waiting for us to notice. Even in a kind smile at an airport.
Solemn Blessing:
May the Lord, who reveals His presence in the quiet and the ordinary, open your hearts to recognize Him in the moments you least expect. Amen.
May Christ, who came not in power but in humility, grant you the grace to see Him in the faces of those in need and respond with love. Amen.
And may the Holy Spirit fill you with wisdom and patience, that in your daily kindness and quiet faithfulness, you may reflect God’s presence to the world. Amen.
And may Almighty God bless you, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.