Hard hearts and the call to be a prophet

 Homily: 20^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          Friends, this week our scriptures give us a glimpse of both the effects and the consequences of being God’s prophet.  In the first reading from the book of the prophet Jeremiah, we enter the scene after Jeremiah has been making his prophecy.  The Babylonians had laid siege to Jerusalem (meaning, they had surrounded the city and had cut off all supplies from outside, like food, from coming in).  Jeremiah had been called by God to proclaim that the Babylonians had been sent by God as a punishment against them for having grossly sinned against his commandments.  This message had demoralized the soldiers and so none of them wanted to go and fight the Babylonians.  Then, to top it off, God prompted Jeremiah to declare to the king that it was his will that they surrender to the Babylonians without a fight: saying that, while the city would be lost, the people would be mostly saved.

          Well, neither of these things sat well with the king and his closest advisors.  The Babylonians were absolutely despised by everyone and so the thought of surrendering to them was unconscionable.  Further, they were convinced that God was still with them and so could defeat the Babylonians if they engaged them in battle.  They knew that Jeremiah was a true prophet of God.  Thus, his prophecies unnerved them, leading them to seek to silence his voice.  And so, we see that the effects of his prophecy were to disturb his hearers, creating division among them, and the consequences were that he suffered severe punishment at their hands (being thrown in a cistern and left for dead).

          In the gospel reading, we hear Jesus declare both the effects and the consequences that his own prophecies will have.  He declares that his teaching will both disturb and cause division, and that this division will not be into broad, loosely connected groups, but rather that it will cut to the very core of every family (a father against his son and a son against his father...).  And the consequences of his teaching will be that he will be baptized in a “baptism with which he must be baptized”, which we know to be an allusion to the Crucifixion.  As we know well, his teaching did disturb and cause division, leading the prominent persons of the day to seek to silence his voice.  Thus, the consequence of his teaching was the severe punishment of the cross.

          So, why is it important for us to hear these readings and, thus, to understand the effects and consequences of being a prophet?  Well, simply stated, it’s because the world is in desperate need of prophets: that is, men and women who will listen to the word of God, observe the world around them, and then be bold enough to speak God’s truth into the world, calling out those who are living contrary to God’s commandments, announcing to them the consequences if they continue, and then calling them to repentance, that is, to turn back to God so that the announced consequences might not be realized.  They are desperately needed because so many people today are turning away from God because they think that the pursuit of him will lead to a dreary and sullen life and so turn to a life of pursuing personal satisfaction, often to destructive ends.  In hearing this message today, each of us is being reminded of our call to be prophets to those around us.

          This “glimpse” of the effects and consequences of being a prophet can be used as an examination of conscience of sorts as to how well we are fulfilling our role of being prophets in the world.  Believe it or not, the first question of this examination has nothing to do with whether I’ve disturbed and caused division, but rather with whether I’ve spent time listening to the word of God.  Are we spending time praying with and studying the scriptures and the teachings of the Church (which are derived from the scriptures and the Tradition of the Apostles), or are we spending more time watching Fox News or CNN (or, worse yet, endless mindless shows on television or Netflix)?  If we are not spending time every day listening to God’s word in this way, then how can we know the message that God is calling us to announce to others?  The answer, of course, is that we can’t; and so, when we (inevitably) observe the world around us (because we’re watching too much Fox News or CNN, remember?), although we may recognize that things are off-kilter, we do not know how to respond.  At first, we may feel frustrated since we sense that we should do something.  After some time, however, that sense of frustration without action hardens our hearts until we no longer feel even the frustration.  Friends, let me tell you: This is a bad place to be.

          The hearts of those to whom God is calling us to share his prophetic message have hardened themselves against him (like King Zedekiah and his advisors and the Pharisees in Jesus’ day).  When we fail to listen to the word of God in our daily lives, we, too, allow our hearts to harden against him, thus rendering us useless as prophets of God and, quite frankly, putting us in danger of losing heaven for having failed to love him.  Letting your heart become hard is the easier way to go, however, since we all know (at least instinctually) that the effects of being a prophet are to disturb and cause division (which nobody likes) and that the consequences of being a prophet are to suffer severe punishment.  Having a hardened heart may lead to a more dispassionate and unfulfilling life, but at least it’s a quieter one.

          Friends, I’ve struggled a lot with heart hardness over these last few years.  I’ve allowed the busyness of the world to over-occupy my mind and my heart and I’ve allowed my fear of the effects and consequences of being a prophet to lead me, at times, to stop listening to God’s word.  Thus, I realize that, if I’ve been a lousy prophet for God, it’s because I’ve stopped loving him; because if I really loved him, nothing would ever stop me from speaking his truth into the world.  The prophet Jeremiah never stopped listening to God’s word and so never stopped loving him, in spite of all that he suffered because of it.  Thus, in a lament after much suffering, he could write: “I say to myself, ‘I will not mention him, I will speak in his name no more.’ But then it becomes like fire burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones; I grow weary holding it in, I cannot endure it” (Jer. 20:9).  One who has a hard heart, who has stopped loving God, does not have this experience.

          Brothers and sisters, the question that faces us today is this: am I willing to open myself to being God’s prophet in this world that so desperately needs it?  Am I willing to open myself to speaking God’s truth to the people closest to me, knowing that it will disrupt them and cause division as well as cause great suffering for me (itself the purifying fire that Jesus came to set ablaze!)?  If your answer is not “yes”, then it’s time to check your heart; perhaps you’ve allowed it to become hardened and, thus, your love for God to grow cold.  If so, don’t worry.  God’s love for you is still a burning fire and the evidence of this is soon to be made present to us on this altar: the Body and Blood of Jesus, his Son, whom he sacrificed for us.

          As you approach this altar, ask him to take from you your hardened heart and to give you a heart of flesh that will burn with love for him again: the same love that has the power to overcome every trial and suffering on earth… the same love that prepares us for the eternal life of peace which Christ, himself, has won for us.

Given in Spanish at Saint Joseph Parish: Rochester, IN – August 17^th, 2025

Corazones duros y la llamada de ser profeta

 Homilía: 20º Domingo del Tiempo Ordinario – Ciclo C

          Hermanos, esta semana las Escrituras nos dan una idea de los efectos y las consecuencias de ser profeta de Dios. En la primera lectura del libro del profeta Jeremías, entramos en escena después de que Jeremías profetizaba. Los babilonios habían sitiado Jerusalén (es decir, habían rodeado la ciudad y cortado la entrada de todos los suministros del exterior, como la comida). Jeremías había sido llamado por Dios para proclamar que los babilonios habían sido enviados por Dios como castigo por haber pecado gravemente contra sus mandamientos. Este mensaje desmoralizó a los soldados, por lo que ninguno de ellos quiso ir a luchar contra los babilonios. Para colmo, Dios impulsó a Jeremías a declarar al rey que era su voluntad que se rindieran a los babilonios sin luchar, afirmando que, aunque la ciudad se perdería, el pueblo se salvaría en gran medida.

          Bueno, ninguna de estas cosas les sentó bien al rey ni a sus consejeros más cercanos. Los babilonios eran absolutamente despreciados por todos, por lo que la idea de rendirse ante ellos era inadmisible. Además, estaban convencidos de que Dios seguía con ellos y, por lo tanto, podrían derrotarlos si se enfrentaban a ellos en batalla. Sabían que Jeremías era un verdadero profeta de Dios. Por lo tanto, sus profecías los inquietaron, lo que los llevó a intentar silenciar su voz. Así, vemos que los efectos de su profecía perturbaron a sus oyentes, creando división entre ellos, y las consecuencias fueron que sufrió un severo castigo a manos de ellos (ser arrojado a una cisterna y dado por muerto). ///

          En la lectura del Evangelio, escuchamos a Jesús declarar tanto los efectos como las consecuencias de sus propias profecías. Declara que su enseñanza perturbará y causará división, y que esta división no se dará en grupos amplios y poco conectados, sino que llegará hasta el corazón mismo de cada familia (un padre contra su hijo y un hijo contra su padre...). Y las consecuencias de su enseñanza serán que será bautizado en un bautismo que “[tenia] que recibir”; lo que sabemos es una alusión a la Crucifixión. Como bien sabemos, su enseñanza perturbó y causó división, lo que llevó a las personas prominentes de la época a intentar silenciar su voz. Por lo tanto, la consecuencia de su enseñanza fue el severo castigo de la cruz. ///

          Entonces, ¿por qué es importante escuchar estas lecturas y, por lo tanto, comprender los efectos y las consecuencias de ser profeta? En pocas palabras, es porque el mundo necesita profetas desesperadamente: es decir, hombres y mujeres que escuchen la palabra de Dios, observen el mundo que los rodea y tengan la valentía de proclamar la verdad de Dios al mundo, llamando a quienes viven en contra de los mandamientos de Dios, anunciándoles las consecuencias si persisten y llamándolos al arrepentimiento, es decir, a volver a Dios para que las consecuencias anunciadas no se cumplan. Son desesperadamente necesarios porque muchas personas hoy en día se alejan de Dios porque creen que buscarlo los llevará a una vida deprimente y sombría, y así se vuelcan a una vida de búsqueda de satisfacción personal, a menudo con fines destructivos. Al escuchar este mensaje hoy, cada uno de nosotros recuerda nuestro llamado a ser profetas para quienes nos rodean.

          Este "vistazo" de los efectos y consecuencias de ser profeta puede usarse como una especie de examen de conciencia sobre qué tan bien estamos cumpliendo nuestro papel de profetas en el mundo. Créalo o no, la primera pregunta de este examen no tiene nada que ver con si he perturbado y causado división, sino con si he pasado tiempo escuchando la palabra de Dios. ¿Pasamos tiempo orando y estudiando las Escrituras y las enseñanzas de la Iglesia (que se derivan de las Escrituras y la Tradición de los Apóstoles), o pasamos más tiempo viendo las noticias (o, peor aún, un sinfín de programas sin sentido en la televisión o Netflix)? Si no pasamos tiempo todos los días escuchando la palabra de Dios de esta manera, entonces ¿cómo podemos conocer el mensaje que Dios nos está llamando a anunciar a los demás? La respuesta, por supuesto, es que no podemos; Y así, cuando (inevitablemente) observamos el mundo que nos rodea (porque vemos demasiado las noticias, ¿recuerdan?), aunque reconozcamos que las cosas no están bien, no sabemos cómo reaccionar. Al principio, podemos sentirnos frustrados porque sentimos que deberíamos hacer algo. Sin embargo, después de un tiempo, esa frustración sin acción nos endurece el corazón hasta que ya ni siquiera sentimos frustración. Mis hermanos y hermanas, les digo: este es un mal lugar para estar.

          Hermanos, los corazones de aquellos a quienes Dios nos llama a compartir su mensaje profético se han endurecido contra él (como el rey Sedequías y sus consejeros, y los fariseos en tiempos de Jesús). Cuando no escuchamos la palabra de Dios en nuestra vida diaria, también permitimos que nuestros corazones se endurezcan contra él, volviéndonos así inútiles como profetas de Dios y, francamente, poniéndonos en peligro de perder el cielo por no haberlo amado. Sin embargo, endurecer el corazón es el camino más fácil, ya que todos sabemos (al menos instintivamente) que ser profeta tiene como efectos perturbar y causar división (algo que a nadie le gusta) y que las consecuencias de ser profeta son sufrir un severo castigo. Tener un corazón endurecido puede llevar a una vida más desapasionada e insatisfactoria, pero al menos es más tranquila.

          Hermanos, yo mismo he luchado mucho con la dureza de mi corazón estos últimos años. He permitido que el ajetreo del mundo ocupe demasiado mi mente y mi corazón, y he permitido que el miedo a los efectos y las consecuencias de ser profeta me lleve, a veces, a dejar de escuchar la palabra de Dios. Por eso, me doy cuenta de que, si he sido un pésimo profeta para Dios, es porque he dejado de amarlo; porque si realmente lo amara, nada me impediría proclamar su verdad al mundo. El profeta Jeremías nunca dejó de escuchar la palabra de Dios y, por lo tanto, nunca dejó de amarlo, a pesar de todo lo que sufrió por ella. Así, en un lamento tras mucho sufrimiento, pudo escribir: “Me digo a mí mismo: 'No lo recordaré, no hablaré más en su nombre'. Pero entonces se convierte en un fuego ardiente en mi corazón, aprisionado en mis huesos; me canso de contenerlo, no puedo soportarlo” (Jeremías 20:9). Quien tiene el corazón duro, quien ha dejado de amar a Dios, no tiene esta experiencia.

          Hermanos y hermanas, la pregunta que nos planteamos hoy es esta: ¿Estoy dispuesto a abrirme a ser profeta de Dios en este mundo que tanto lo necesita? ¿Estoy dispuesto a compartir la verdad de Dios con mis seres queridos, sabiendo que esto los perturbará y causará división, además de causarme un gran sufrimiento (¡el fuego purificador que Jesús vino a encender!)? Si su respuesta no es "sí", entonces es hora de examinar su corazón; quizás ha permitido que se endurezca y, por lo tanto, que su amor por Dios se enfríe. Si es así, no se preocupen. El amor de Dios por ustedes sigue siendo un fuego ardiente y la evidencia de esto pronto se hará presente en este altar: el Cuerpo y la Sangre de Jesús, su Hijo, a quien sacrificó por nosotros.

          Al acercaros a este altar, pídale que le quite su corazón endurecido y le dé un corazón de carne que arda de nuevo de amor por Él: el mismo amor que tiene el poder de superar toda prueba y sufrimiento en la tierra… el mismo amor que nos prepara para la vida eterna de paz que Cristo mismo ha ganado para nosotros.

Dado en la Parroquia San José: Rochester, IN – 17 de agosto, 2025

La fe es vivir como si lo que esperamos ya estuviera aquí

 Homilía: 19º Domingo en el Tiempo Ordinario – Ciclo C

          Edith Stein, también conocida como Santa Teresa Benedicta de la Cruz, nació en una familia judía practicante el 12 de octubre de 1891. Sin embargo, en su adolescencia, abandonó la fe de su infancia y se declaró atea. Conmovida por las tragedias de la Primera Guerra Mundial, tomó clases para convertirse en auxiliar de enfermería y trabajó en un hospital para la prevención de brotes de enfermedades. Un año después, tras completar su tesis doctoral en la Universidad de Gotinga, obtuvo una beca de lectorado en la Universidad de Friburgo.

          Tras leer las obras de Santa Teresa de Ávila, reformadora de la orden carmelita, Edith se sintió atraída por la fe católica y fue bautizada en la Iglesia Católica Romana el 1 de enero de 1922. En ese momento, quiso convertirse en monja carmelita descalza, pero sus mentores espirituales la disuadieron. Posteriormente, impartió clases en una escuela católica en Espira. En 1933, el gobierno nazi comenzó a prohibir a cualquier persona de ascendencia judía ocupar cualquier puesto de autoridad en la sociedad alemana, incluyendo a los docentes. Como resultado, Edith tuvo que dejar su puesto de maestra.

          Como sus mentores espirituales ya no pudieron disuadirla, Edith fue admitida en el monasterio de las Carmelitas Descalzas de Colonia en octubre del año siguiente. Recibió el hábito religioso de la Orden como novicia en abril de 1934 y adoptó el nombre religioso de Teresa Benedicta de la Cruz. En 1938, ella y su hermana Rosa, para entonces también conversa y hermana del monasterio, fueron enviadas al monasterio carmelita de Echt, Países Bajos, para protegerlas de la ocupación nazi. A pesar de la invasión nazi de ese estado en 1940, permanecieron tranquilas hasta que fueron arrestadas por los nazis el 2 de agosto de 1942 y enviadas al campo de concentración de Auschwitz, donde murieron en la cámara de gas pocos días después, el 9 de agosto.

          Menciono a Santa Teresa Benedicta porque ella es solo una de una larga lista de santas que demuestran la verdad de lo que la Carta a los Hebreos nos dice hoy: que “La fe es la forma de poseer, ya desde ahora, lo que se espera y de conocer las realidades que no se ven”. A principios de la década de 1920, en Alemania, Edith Stein tenía muchas cosas a su favor; pero en una fatídica noche de 1921, mientras pasaba la noche en casa de unos amigos, eligió al azar la autobiografía de Santa Teresa de Ávila para leer. Quedó cautivada por su historia y pasó toda la noche leyéndola. Cuando la terminó, ella misma relató que cerró el libro y se dijo a sí misma: “Esta es la verdad”. A partir de ese momento, puso su mirada en la conversión a la fe católica y en hacerse monja carmelita.

          Edith Stein recibió el don de la fe. Gracias a él, pudo ver que existía una realidad más allá del mundo material, tan real como cualquier realidad que pudiera medirse con métodos científicos, y que, para ella, representaba la realización de una promesa de felicidad mucho mayor que la que el mundo material podía ofrecer. Por ello, de inmediato deseó comenzar a vivir conforme a esa realidad. Y esto es lo que hacen los santos: una vez que reciben el don de la fe, comienzan a vivir de manera diferente: viven en este mundo, pero no son de este mundo, mientras esperan la plena realización de la vida venidera, la vida que la fe les hace presente ahora. ///

          En el Evangelio, cuando Jesús anima a sus discípulos a “vender sus bienes y dar limosna” y a “estar preparados, porque a la hora en que menos lo piensen vendrá el Hijo del hombre”, los anima a vivir por fe: es decir, como si la realidad prometida del reino de Dios ya estuviera presente; porque, en realidad, ya lo estaba. Utiliza la parábola del siervo cuyo amo tarda mucho en regresar para ilustrar el peligro de la tentación de vivir una vida mundana en lugar de la realidad que la fe ha revelado: en este caso, que Jesús regresará en un momento inesperado y que espera encontrar a sus discípulos viviendo como si nunca se hubiera ido.

          Esto es muy apropiado durante este Año Jubilar de la Esperanza, porque al vivir según las obras de la esperanza—también conocidas como las obras de misericordia—vivimos verdaderamente por fe: es decir, como si la vida feliz que todos hemos anhelado ya fuera real y, por lo tanto, no tuviéramos que atarnos a este mundo material. Las obras de la esperanza expresan nuestra fe en que nuestro consuelo no viene en este mundo, sino en el mundo que esperamos y que la fe nos dice que ya está aquí. ///

          Hermanos y hermanas, si aún no viven así—es decir, según la realidad que la fe nos revela—quizás aún no hayan recibido plenamente el don de la fe. Pero no se preocupen, porque no es difícil de obtener. De hecho, solo tienen que empezar a buscarla y a menudo los encontrará, como encontró a Edith Stein—es decir, a Santa Teresa Benedicta de la Cruz—y a innumerables santos más. Una vez que hayan recibido el don de la fe (o incluso mientras la buscan), es hora de vivir según la realidad que la fe revela: que Jesús, en efecto, regresará; y que recompensará a quienes sean fieles—tanto en la oración como en las obras—sentándolos en el gran banquete eterno preparado para ellos en el cielo.

          Hermanos y hermanas, mientras disfrutamos de un anticipo de este banquete celestial aquí, en esta mesa eucarística, oremos para que el don de la fe crezca en nosotros y así tengamos el coraje de vivir según la realidad que la fe nos revela y aun así construir el reino celestial de Dios entre nosotros.

Dado en la parroquia de San Jose: Rochester, IN – 10 de agosto, 2025

Faith is living as if what we hoped for is already here

 Homily: 19^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          Edith Stein, also known as Saint Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, was born into an observant Jewish family on October 12^th, 1891.  By her teenage years, however, she had abandoned the faith of her childhood and was an avowed atheist. Moved by the tragedies of World War I, she took lessons to become a nursing assistant and worked in a hospital for the prevention of disease outbreaks. A year later, after completing her doctoral thesis from the University of Göttingen, she obtained an assistantship at the University of Freiburg.

          After reading the works of St. Teresa of Avila, the reformer of the Carmelite order, Edith was drawn to the Catholic Faith and was baptized on January 1^st, 1922 into the Roman Catholic Church. At that point she wanted to become a Discalced Carmelite nun, but was dissuaded by her spiritual mentors. She then taught at a Catholic school of education in Speyer. In 1933, the Nazi government began forbidding anyone of Jewish heritage from holding any position of authority in German society, including teachers.  As a result, Edith had to quit her teaching position.

          Her spiritual mentors being unable to dissuade her any longer, Edith was admitted to the Discalced Carmelite monastery in Cologne the following October. She received the religious habit of the Order as a novice in April 1934 and took the religious name Teresa Benedicta of the Cross. In 1938 she and her sister Rosa, by then also a convert and a sister of the monastery, were sent to the Carmelite monastery in Echt, Netherlands to keep them safe from the Nazi occupation. Despite the Nazi invasion of that state in 1940, they remained undisturbed until they were arrested by the Nazis on August 2^nd, 1942 and sent to the Auschwitz concentration camp, where they died in the gas chamber just a few days later on August 9^th.

          I mention St. Teresa Benedicta because she is just one in a long line of saints who demonstrate the truth of what the Letter to the Hebrews speaks to us today: that “faith is the realization of things hoped for and evidence of things unseen.”  In early 1920’s Germany Edith Stein had many things going for her; but on a fateful evening in 1921, while spending the night in the home of some friends, she randomly chose St. Teresa of Avila’s autobiography to read.  She was captivated by her story and spent the whole night reading it.  When she finished it, she herself reported that she closed the book and told herself, “This is truth.”  From that point on she set her sights on conversion to the Catholic faith and on becoming a Carmelite nun.

          Edith Stein was given the gift of Faith.  Because of this she could see that there existed a reality beyond the material world which was just as real as any reality that could be measured using scientific methods, and which, for her, was the realization of a far greater promise for happiness than the material world could provide.  Thus she immediately desired to begin living according to that reality.  And this is what the saints do: once they’ve been given the gift of Faith, they begin to live differently: they live in this world, but not of this world as they await the full realization of the life to come—the life that Faith makes present to them now.

          In the Gospel reading, when Jesus encourages his disciples to “sell [their] belongings and give alms” and that they “must be prepared, for at an hour [they] do not expect, the Son of Man will come”, he is encouraging them to live by Faith: that is, as if the promised reality of the kingdom of God was already present; because, in reality, it already was.  He uses the parables of the servant whose master is long delayed in returning to illustrate the danger of the temptation to live a worldly life instead of according to the reality that Faith has revealed: in this case, that Jesus will return at an unexpected time and that he expects to find his disciples living as if he had never left.

          This is very appropriate during this Jubilee Year of Hope, because it is by living our lives according to the works of hope—also known as the works of mercy—that we truly live by Faith: that is, as if the blissful life that we all have hoped for is already real and so there is no need to tie ourselves to this one.  The works of hope express our faith that our comfort does not come in this world, but rather in the world for which we hope and which Faith tells us is already here.

          My brothers and sisters, if you are not yet living like this—that is, according to the reality that Faith reveals to us—then perhaps you have not yet fully received the gift of Faith.  Don’t worry, however, because it is not something hard to obtain.  In fact, you only have to begin to pursue it and oftentimes it will find you: just like it found Edith Stein—that is, Saint Teresa Benedicta of the Cross—and countless other saints.  Once you have received the gift of Faith (or even as you are pursuing it), then it is time to live according to the reality that Faith reveals: that Jesus will, indeed, return; and that he will reward those whom he finds faithful—both in prayer and in works—by seating them at the great, eternal banquet prepared for them in heaven.

          My brothers and sisters, as we enjoy a foretaste of this heavenly banquet here, at this Eucharistic table, let us pray that the gift of Faith will grow within us and thus that we will have the courage to live according to the reality that Faith reveals to us and so build up God’s heavenly kingdom among us.

Given in Spanish at St. Joseph Parish: Rochester, IN – August 10^th, 2025

The relationship of prayer

 Homily: 17^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

“Should not the judge of all the world act with justice?”

          Friends, the readings for our Mass this Lord’s Day point us to reflect on the relationship of prayer.  In the first reading, we see Abraham acting out this relationship of prayer with God.  We see him exploring the limits of God’s justice with each repeated question: lowering his number each time in search of the true answer to his first question, “Will you sweep away the innocent with the guilty?”  Abraham has a true sense of justice and so he is convinced of the truth that the innocent should not be condemned with the guilty.  He acknowledges God as the all-powerful judge of the world, but he does not yet know whether God will act with justice, and so he explores this with God.  Abraham also knows that God could strike him dead in an instant and so he approaches the question humbly, not presuming to know God’s will, but rather exploring the limits through his repeated questions, hoping to discover that the “judge of all the world” will act with justice and thus demonstrate himself honorable.  Besides revealing to us that God is just and that he will act with justice, Abraham also demonstrates for us the relationship of prayer: that is, that prayer is not only transactional, but relational.

          In a transactional style of prayer, something is asked of another and that other responds either positively or negatively: either “Yes, I will give you that” or “No, I will not give you that”.  If positively, perhaps there’s a cost for receiving the thing requested: “Yes, I will give you that and this is how much it will cost.”  Think of it as going to McDonald’s: You ask, “May I have a Happy Meal?” and the clerk responds, “Yes. That will cost five dollars”.  You hand over the five dollars, the clerk hands you the Happy Meal and the transaction worked as designed. 

          Because our lives are filled with these kinds of transactions, it becomes very easy to take this approach when we pray.  We believe that God is all-powerful and so can provide us with whatever we need.  We also believe that he is good and that he wants to give us what we need.  And so, we approach him like we would a benefactor: pleading with him for the thing that we need and hoping that he will respond generously to our request, always ready to offer something of ourselves as “payment” for what we’ve received.  This “transactional style” of prayer is a very natural and honest way to pray.  Prayer that is a relationship, however, is much deeper; and it is the prayer that God desires for us.

          What Abraham demonstrates for us in the first reading is how prayer is a vehicle for coming to know God more deeply.  At this point in his life, Abraham has had a long relationship with God.  God called Abraham out from his homeland to settle in a new land and the book of Genesis documents that there were many twists and turns along the way.  Thus, Abraham learned to trust in God and came to know himself and God more deeply.  Nevertheless, when God expressed his intention to destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, Abraham was confronted with a question: “Is God truly just? Will he sweep away the innocent with the guilty?”  Abraham’s prayer, then, was about exploring this question with God.  He did so, I believe, for two reasons: 1) so that he may know God more deeply, and 2) so that he might test whether what he had come to know about God (that is, that he is just) was really true.  In doing so, his deeper question, “Should not the judge of all the world act with justice?”—a question that addresses Abraham’s understanding of how the world works—would also be answered. ///

          When Jesus’ disciples observe Jesus in prayer and ask him to teach them how to pray, Jesus teaches them: giving them a form for and an attitude to take toward prayer.  In doing so, he teaches them something important about God and about prayer: God is our Father who wants only good things for us, and prayer is our way of engaging in and deepening our relationship with him.  In the examples he gives, Jesus is encouraging his disciples to be bold in exploring the limits of God’s generosity: saying that, “If you sinful human beings can be generous even when you are resistant to doing so, how much more is God, who is without sin and thus never resistant in his generosity?”  Thus, Jesus is teaching us: When we explore the limits of God’s generosity in prayer (or his justice, in the case of Abraham), we come to know him more deeply and intimately, and thus our relationship with him grows.  When our relationship with him grows, we grow our trust in his providential care, and thus become more resilient to the struggles and challenges that we face every day.  And we also grow more capable of facing the bigger questions that the world and the way it operates often presents to us. ///

          “Should not the judge of all the world act with justice?”  This was the “bigger question” that the world and God’s actions presented to Abraham that day.  Abraham knew the answer to this question: “Yes! The judge of all the world should act with justice.”  What he needed to know, however, was whether the judge of all the world would act with justice.  Engaging his prayer as a relationship, Abraham explored this question with God, and he found his answer: God, the judge of all the world, would not sweep the innocent away with the guilty, and thus would act with justice. ///

          Friends, what are the “bigger questions” that you are facing in your life today?  I invite you… urge you… challenge you, even… to take some time to pause today and to try to name them.  Then write them down on a piece of paper and focus on it in prayer.  Instead of simply asking God to give you an answer (in a “transactional” style: "God, answer this question… fix this problem… do this thing… and I will offer you x, y, or z), see if you can engage God in prayer relationally, exploring the limits of his generosity (or his justice, or his mercy… whatever your bigger question demands).  In doing so, you will deepen your relationship with God and, presumably, your trust in him.  This trust, this faith, will strengthen you to face the struggles and challenges that each day brings and will make you a more joyful witness of the call to relationship that God makes to each person, perhaps leading some around you to respond to that same call.

          The Mass is the preeminent place where we collectively exercise our relationship with God in prayer.  As we approach this altar today, let us give thanks for this gift, and let us commit ourselves to growing our relationship with God in prayer so that we might respond more joyfully to the struggles and challenges of our daily lives and thus be greater witnesses to God and his love in the world.

Given at St. Louis de Montfort Parish: Fishers, IN – July 27^th, 2025

The duty of hospitality points towards communion

 Homily: 16^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          Imagine for a moment that you are out driving on a country road at night… maybe it’s winter… and your car suddenly breaks down.  As luck would have it, your phone charger broke and your phone battery is dead, and so you have no way to call someone to come and help.  Nobody is on the road at this hour of night, so you decide to start walking to try to find the nearest house.  It’s cold and it starts to rain.  As you approach a house in the middle of the night, wet, cold, and desperate for help, perhaps you pause for a moment and think to yourself, “Are these people welcoming? Or will they just see me as a threat and try to run me off? If they do, what am I going to do? I can’t stay out here all night by myself!”.  If you can imagine yourself in a situation like this, then you can imagine why hospitality to strangers was such an important cultural principle in ancient cultures.  It was often a matter of life and death.  You gave it, therefore, because one day you may need it.

          In our readings today, we see examples of this importance.  Of course, there’s no mention of life-threating circumstances in the reading from Genesis, for example, but nonetheless when these three “strangers” appear before Abraham, he immediately offers them hospitality.  In fact, he begs them to let him serve them.  They, of course, accede and he does.  But this is a foreign concept for us today, isn’t it?  We here in the United States (and even more specifically here in Hamilton County) live in a “single-family-home” culture: where everyone has their “four walls” and strangers who come have motels/hotels in which they can stay (if they don’t already know someone in the area with whom they can stay).  The idea that someone would just walk into our town, unknown to all, and find people ready to give him/her a fresh-cooked meal and a place to freshen up before continuing on the journey is just foreign to our sensibilities, I think.  (In fact, I myself grew up in the “stranger-danger” generation, so I get it.)

          Although this particular idea may seem quite foreign to us, I think it should challenge us to consider the question, “are we truly open to receiving the stranger in our midst?”  I’ll admit right away that the practicalities of doing this without perennially exposing ourselves to bad actors is no easy question to answer.  But the principle of the matter is one we can address: “do I wish to be open to receiving the stranger in my midst and offering him hospitality, as if it was Christ himself presenting himself to me?”  As Christians, this is important for us to answer because, as Abraham has shown us, openness to receiving the stranger and showing him hospitality opens us to the possibility of serving he Lord himself.  Surely the author of the Letter to the Hebrews had Abraham in mind when he wrote, “Do not neglect hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it” (Heb 13:2).

          Let’s presume, however, that we are all open to receiving the stranger in our midst and providing hospitality.  In fact, let’s presume that we all consider hospitality an important duty for us, as Christians.  Starting from this point, we can then engage the story from our Gospel reading and begin to glean some important lessons.

          The story begins with the same principle as the story of Abraham from the first reading: the Lord shows up to a certain place and he is offered hospitality.  What we see in the story of Martha, however, is how the duty can sometimes become an obstacle to deeper communion. [REPEAT] Here we see Martha with a great openness to receive the “stranger” in her midst and to provide hospitality (though we know that Jesus is not a stranger to her; even though he did probably show up unexpectedly).  What we then see is that, for Martha, the duty became the “end” that she was seeking, not the communion that fulfilling the duty promoted.  Thus, when she observes her sister neglecting the duty, she becomes resentful and asks Jesus to intervene in order to shame her sister into joining her in fulfilling the duty.

          Here we should hear echoes of the story of the Prodigal Son.  There, the older son was resentful of his brother who “got away” with spending years in dissolute living while he sacrificed his own desires and remained faithful to his duty to his father.  Here, Martha is diligently fulfilling the duty of hospitality while Mary “indulges” in listening to Jesus (seemingly doing “nothing”).  For Martha, the duty became the most important thing.  She forgot the communion with the guest that the duty was intended to foster.  Martha wanted Jesus to acknowledge the injustice: that one was bearing the burden of duty that both were expected to bear.  In his response, Jesus reminds Martha that, in him, “mercy tempers justice”.  “Mercy”, in this sense, is the “better part” that Jesus acknowledges that Mary has chosen.

          The lesson for us is a warning not to allow our Christianity to be reduced to a duty towards service, but rather to allow our service to draw us into a deeper intimacy with Christ, whom we have the opportunity to encounter in those we serve.  Pope Francis often reminded us not to be “checkbook Christians”.  He meant that we can’t just be people who write checks to support the poor and their needs, as if the transaction (important as it is) is enough to satisfy our duty.  Rather, he was challenging us also to meet those whom we serve with our support (wherever possible and within reason, of course), so that the fulfillment of our duty ALSO supports our communion with the “stranger in our midst”, thus further building the kingdom of God.

          This balance between Martha and Mary is modeled well for us in the Mass.  Each Lord’s Day, we gather to sit at the feet of Jesus and listen to him in the Liturgy of the Word.  Then we share a meal (that is, communion) with him in the Liturgy of the Eucharist.  It is a meal that he has provided for us (and which is prepared for us by the work of some in our community), which also serves as our offering of thanksgiving for all that we have received from him.  Then, at the end of Mass, we are sent to go and engage our duty to serve: that is, to be the instruments of hospitality that invite everyone to come and sit at the feet of Jesus and to receive the hospitality that he has provided.  Whether that be here at the Mass (the ultimate good for anyone), or in your food pantry, or in your youth group, or in whatever service you do individually or as a family in your community… All of it should be in a service of selfless hospitality to those around us (that is, not a begrudging duty).  When we go forth to serve in this way, we too "are filling up what is lacking in the afflictions of Christ on behalf of his body…" as Saint Paul described himself as doing in the second reading, and thus helping to build the kingdom in our midst.

          And so, my friends, as you sit here today at the feet of the Master, perhaps you find yourself noticing some resentment about your duty to serve (perhaps a lot of resentment, even), or perhaps you find that you have a lack of sense of the duty to serve (or an unwillingness to serve).  If so, then you are called to place all of that at the feet of our Lord here at this table—this altar—and to ask for the grace to receive the good he is pouring out to you; regardless of whether that grace be 1) to strengthen you in your service (in spite of the seeming disparity in service between you and those around you) or 2) to inspire you to take up the mantle of service (and so discover the joy of the greater communion with Christ that service is meant to foster while further building the kingdom of God).

          Above all, my brothers and sisters, let us give thanks in this Mass that God has invited us to this place in order for us to receive from him: for in it, we give him thanks and he gives us the Bread of Life.  What a merciful exchange, no?!  We give him our imperfect offerings and he gives us life!  In response, may our lives become living signs of this goodness for all to see.

Given at St. Louis de Montfort Parish: Fishers, IN – July 20^th, 2025

A mythological-level story, wrapped in a moral lesson

 Homily: 15^th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          Sisters and friends, in this Gospel passage our Lord Jesus gives us this incredible allegory that is both practical and theological.  Practical, because it is a shrewd answer to the scholar’s question, right?  This “scholar of the law” was trying to bait Jesus into a debate about the law in an attempt either to show himself the better teacher or to discredit Jesus as a teacher (probably both).  After Jesus deflects his first salvo by first inviting him to answer the question that he himself posed and then agreeing with his answer, Jesus doesn’t directly answer his follow-up question about who one’s neighbor should be.  If Jesus would have responded directly (saying something like, “Your fellow Jews” or “Jews and God-fearing Gentiles, but not the Samaritans”), the scholar could have entered into a debate with him about it.  Instead, Jesus tells a parable that answers the question beyond the question, which is: “What does it mean that we are all sons and daughters of the same Father?” and “Doesn’t it mean that we are called to be ‘neighbor’ to everyone?”  On a very practical level, it was a shrewd answer that defeats the scholar’s prideful intentions while at the same time providing an abiding lesson for everyone, including us here today.

          Theologically, this parable is an amazing allegory about the story of humanity, the fall, and salvation.  Let’s walk through it and see how.  Jesus starts by saying “A man…”  Who is this man?  A Jew?  A Gentile?  We aren’t told.  Therefore, we can presume he is a representative of all mankind.  This man was on the road heading down from Jerusalem to Jericho.  Now Jerusalem is the most sacred place for the Jews and so to be walking away from Jerusalem is analogous to walking away from Eden.  He was heading to Jericho, which is one of the lowest cities of the region (and also, historically, a place of crime and depravity) and so to be heading to Jericho is analogous to walking towards hell.  Presumably, this man is making this trip willfully, which is a symbolic of sin: that is, willfully turning away from God.

          On his way, he’s attacked by robbers.  Again, are these Jews?  Gentiles?  We aren’t told.  Thus, we can imagine them to be symbolic of Satan, who attacks man, strips him of all of the goods with which God endowed him, and brutally beats him so that he can no longer return to Jerusalem on his own (that is, to God and the Garden of Eden).  (Are you all with me so far?  Are you seeing this?  Okay.  Let’s keep going.)  As the man lies helpless and dying on the side of the road, the priest and Levite pass by without helping.  This is a sign indicating that religion alone cannot save a man.  He needs something more.  He needs a personal savior.  Enter the Samaritan.

          Why a Samaritan?  Because it is the most extraordinary and unexpected source of help for the Jew.  The Jews thought they knew where and how and from whom their savior would come, but this parable reveals a different idea.  Although you could conclude that this indicates that the savior wouldn’t be a Jew, it’s more likely that the intention was to show that the savior would come in the most unlikely way.  What does this savior do?  First, he has pity on the man.  In other words, he shows personal care for the dire situation he is in.  Is not this the attitude of the Savior (an attitude we’d want anyone helping us to have)?  Then, he draws close and begins to treat the man’s wounds with oil and wine.  Does that ring bells for anyone here?  Aren’t oil and wine central elements in a number of our sacraments: the very instruments that God has given us to heal us of our spiritual woundedness?  The savior then brings the man to an inn where he pays for his stay and ongoing care.  It shouldn’t take much effort to recognize that the inn represents the Church and the two silver coins represent the ransom that our Savior paid for our salvation.  Finally, the savior promises to return and to restore everything in total.

          This is way more than just a simple moral story about being charitable to everyone, even those you consider your enemies, right?  It’s a mythological-level story, wrapped in a moral lesson, originally meant to defeat a prideful debate.  Incredible, right?

          Sisters and friends, I believe that we should be spending time weekly reflecting on this parable: for it is our lives in a nutshell.  In the beginning, we dwelt in communion with God in the holy place (Eden, Jerusalem, etc.).  Foolishly, we leave that place, pursuing our own way (which only ever leads to Jericho).  Pridefully, we think that we’ll be fine along the way and can turn back if we want to.  We don’t anticipate the attack, however, and we’re disabled: both to continue on our way (and, thus, to achieve what we set out to do) and to return to the holy place.  We are dismayed to find out that mere religion won’t save us.  In other words, praying the right prayers and doing prescribed penances alone won’t resolve the situation.  Only the extraordinary intervention by one from outside of us can save us.  This “one”, of course, is Jesus—the Son of God who took on our humanity so that he could come close to us and save us—literally, the a savior in the most unexpected way and from the most unexpected place.  He has dressed our wounds in the sacraments and has brought us to the inn, the Church, so that we might be safe and cared for until he returns in glory to take us back to the holy place.

          It is of paramount importance that we remember this and call it to mind frequently.  This, for two reasons: 1) so that we never fail to give thanks for what God has done for us, and 2) because of Jesus’ admonition at the end of this Gospel passage—“Go and do likewise". 

          Sisters and friends, what God wants from us is not “high in the sky” and hard for us to discern (as Moses taught the ancient Israelites in the passage from the first reading).  Rather, what he wants is simple and right in front of us: “Have you been rescued?  Then go and do likewise.”  “Who around you needs this extraordinary mercy?  Pay attention and you’ll see him/her right there in your path.”  “Do this, and you will live”.  (Sisters, I dare say that this is even more blatantly obvious for you.  You can’t escape your neighbor!)

          This is the Kingdom of God, here and now: this rescue project that is ongoing until our Savior returns.  Therefore, as recipients of God’s extraordinarily generous mercy, let us give thanks today with our whole hearts in this Mass; and then let us renew our commitment to “go and do likewise” in our lives.

Given at the Monastery of the Poor Clares: Kokomo, IN – July 13^th, 2025

Our Nourishing Mother who supports our mission

 Homily: 14^th Sunday of Ordinary Time – Cycle C

          One of the promises that priests make at their ordination is to pray daily for the Church.  We fulfill this obligation by praying what is called the Liturgy of the Hours.  The Liturgy of the Hours are prayers structured around the Book of Psalms from the Bible.  Over a four-week period, at five different “hours” each day, every priest and religious prays through the Book of Psalms.  These hours also include various “canticles” – which are songs from the both the Old and New Testaments.  One of these canticles is the one that we heard in our first reading today and appears in Morning Prayer of Thursday in the first week of the four-week cycle.

          I began to pray the Liturgy of the Hours as a seminarian.  We would pray Morning Prayer and Evening Prayer together in the chapel; and I can admit that, the first few times that we encountered this canticle in the cycle, I found myself feeling a little embarrassed to proclaim (or even just to hear) the words “Oh, that you may suck fully of the milk of her comfort, that you may nurse with delight at her abundant breasts” out loud in the chapel.

          While it was certainly a sign that there was a level of maturity that I needed to obtain in order to overcome my embarrassment at speaking these words, I think that there was another part of this that we can ascribe to how our oversexualized culture has distorted the way that we look at women: because the image of a woman that we are given in the first reading today is that of a “nourshing mother”, which contradicts the way our culture invites us to think of women and their bodies.  If you think that this image is strange, however, let me just ask: Have any of you have ever called the college or high school from which you graduated your “alma mater”?  If you have, then you are already invoking this image.  That’s because alma mater is actually a Latin phrase meaning “nourishing mother”.  And why do we call our schools alma maters?  Well, because they are places where we find nourishment: not only intellectually, but also emotionally, as we form friendships that will last well into the future and are cared for by teachers and staff who help form us to be good persons once we are “sent out” into the world.

          For the Israelites, Jerusalem was this “nourishing mother”.  The canticle from the first reading today was written during their exile in Babylon and it is a song of hope proclaiming that the Lord will return prosperity to Jerusalem and that all of the Israelites will return to enjoy the nourishment and comfort that will be found in her: the milk that will flow from her abundant breasts and the arms that will comfort them like a mother comforts her little child.  In the minds and hearts of the Israelites it would also be the place where they would find strength as a nation to stand strong and faithful to the commandments of God, no matter where life’s journey would take them or what challenges they might face.  Thus, the Israelites longed for this while they were in exile and through Isaiah the prophet they heard this hopeful proclamation that God would indeed restore Jerusalem so they could again enjoy it.

          For us Christians, God has given us the Church to be our “alma mater”, that is, our “nourishing mother”.  She is the “New Jerusalem” that God has established through Jesus to be our place to find nourishment and comfort and, thus, the strength to go out into the world.  It is here that we come when we are weary from the difficulties that we suffer in the world and it is here that we find the strength to go back out into the world and to be faithful to all that God has commanded us and to be witnesses to his love for all of mankind.  Thus, if we consider our schools “alma maters” because they have been places of nourishment and strengthening so that we can go out to successfully complete some work in the world, then so, too, must we recognize how the Church is our alma mater par excellance, in whom we find nourishment and strength to go out and complete our mission from God. /// And the Church, my brothers and sisters, is nothing less than Jesus himself. ///

          In our Gospel reading today, Jesus sends his disciples out to reap the Lord’s harvest.  Up to this point, Jesus had been nourishing his disciples with his word and his fellowship and he strengthened them by giving them his power and authority to work mighty deeds.  Then he sent them out to bring the Good News to all of the cities and towns that he wished to enter.  The disciples went out and did, indeed, do mighty works in Jesus’ name and, thus, brought many to believe in Jesus.  Then they returned to him to celebrate what had been done and to be nourished and strengthened once again so as to continue this work in Jesus’ name.

          But just as Jesus was, in a sense, that “nourishing mother” for his disciples, who strengthened them with his word and gave them his power and authority to go out and do mighty deeds in his name so that the nations would come to know that he had come to save us, so, too, did Jesus establish the Church to be our “nourishing mother” to do the same for us.  And so, just like those first disciples who went out to the towns and villages that Jesus wanted to enter, so we, too, must go out to the towns and villages that surround us – to the people who have not yet received the “light of faith” – to show them the mighty power of God: that is, the faith that has the power to transform their lives in positive ways.  Then we must return, like the first disciples did, to share and celebrate our successes and to be nourished to go out and do it all again.

          And this is radical, isn’t it?  Radical because it requires us to give up some of the things that we want to do in our lives, so as to be about the work of bringing forth God’s Kingdom.  But this, nonetheless, is what we are being called to do and, quite frankly, if we wish to call ourselves Christians, we must do it.

          “The harvest is abundant, but the laborers are few,” Jesus told his disciples.  My brothers and sisters, the same is still true for us.  One of the shocking statistics of our diocese is that it is only about 8-9% Catholic.  That means that less than 10% of the people who live in the 24 counties that make up our diocese are Catholic.  Perhaps an even more shocking statistic is that nearly half of our dioceses’ population is completely unchurched!  Thus, the harvest is, indeed, abundant and it appears that the workers have been far too few. ///

          First, however, we must be nourished: we must bask in the “light of faith” ourselves.  In other words, we must first find nourishment in our alma mater, the Church, by dwelling in the Word, which she safeguards, and by being fed from this Eucharistic table, which she never fails to prepare for us.  And this is exactly what we do in the Mass each and every week.  We come together to give thanks to God for all of the blessings that he has bestowed on us throughout the past week.  In the Mass we are nourished with God’s Word and receive spiritual strength when we receive Christ’s Body and Blood from this table.  Then we are sent out to do it all again when, at the end of Mass, the priest (or deacon) says “Go and announce the Gospel of the Lord.”

          My brothers and sisters, if you are struggling to find that nourishment and strength here in the Church, then please ask for help.  That is what we are all here for, to help each other and strengthen each other in faith and discipleship.  If you are apathetic about it all, then please pray to God for the light of faith.  I promise you that it will not be time wasted, because God will never fail to respond to that prayer.  Whatever you do, do something and the light of faith will be given to you, and God’s power will shine through you, like it did through those first disciples.

          Let us, then, be renewed today by our “alma mater”, the Church, and be strengthened by the food she provides, and thus go forth to reap an abundant harvest for the Lord.

Given at St. Louis de Montfort Parish: Fishers, IN – July 5^th & 6^th, 2025

Who God is for us

 Homily: Corpus Christi – Cycle C

          Last Sunday, the Church gave us the Solemnity of the Holy Trinity, where we were invited to consider the mystery of who God is in himself.  In doing so, we remembered once again that who God is in himself is inseparably linked to us, his creatures, in whom he delights.  This good news gave us joy and (hopefully) we recommitted ourselves to celebrate this joy with others.  Today we celebrate the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, another feast in which we celebrate who God is in himself, but which reveals to us another aspect of the mystery of God.

          In this feast—also known as Corpus Christi—the Church invites us to consider the mystery of who God is for us.  In this feast, we celebrate that Jesus Christ, the Son of God, left for us a memorial of his Sacrifice on the Cross: a memorial that allows us to participate in that same sacrifice—and the salvation that it won for us—by re-presenting it to the Father in the form of the bread and wine, offered from our hands and then transformed by the words of the priest into the Body and Blood of Christ, and then by partaking in those gifts when we receive from the altar what God has blessed and made abundant for us.

          We also celebrate, of course, that the Body and Blood of Christ represents for us the enduring, physical presence of Jesus among us: that in churches and chapels around the world men and women can come and be in the physical presence of God, to commune with him in silent adoration and to be strengthened in faith.  This is a rich mystery for us to consider; one we should contemplate regularly.  For our purposes here today, however, I’d like to offer three things that this feast should inspire in us in our daily lives.

          First, this feast should inspire in us awe and wonder.  The disciples in the Gospel today were amazed that the five loaves and two fish that Jesus blessed were miraculously multiplied and that they not only satisfied the five thousand men (not to mention any women and children who were there) but that there was left over enough to fill twelve wicker baskets.  Jesus performs another miraculous transformation for us when, through the hands and words of the priest who stands in his place, and through the power of the Holy Spirit, the meager gifts of bread and wine have their very substance changed and become Jesus’ Body and Blood, his real presence, right before our eyes.  That this presence endures—and that we can not only receive him into our bodies, but also remain in his presence long after the Mass has ended—is something that should amaze us as well.  For this is only possible by God’s grace and through his great love and care for us.  That God would consider us, his creatures, so… loveable that he would deign to share this with us is truly an awesome mystery.

          Thus, the second thing that this feast should inspire in us is thanksgiving.  Just like in our first reading when the priest Melchizedek made an offering of thanksgiving that God had allowed Abram to conquer all of his enemies, so we, too, come here to offer thanks that God, through the sacrifice of his Son, has conquered our greatest enemy: sin and death.  Yet we go even further and we give him thanks that he has left us the Body and Blood of his Son to be a memorial for us of this great gift of victory; a gift which is ever present and available to us to strengthen us and to inspire our daily lives.  This is a true gift: one by which daily we should be humbled.  The most appropriate response to this gift is to give thanks, which we do most perfectly when we celebrate the Holy Eucharist.

          True, authentic thanksgiving, however, always leads us to respond in kind: that is, to pay it forward.  Just as Abram responded to the thanksgiving offering of Melchizedek by offering ten percent of everything he had, so we, too, are called to respond by making a generous offering of ourselves, pouring out our lives in service of God, Our Father, who so generously fills us with his gifts.  Yet, how often do we fail, like the disciples did in the Gospel, and convince ourselves that our meager gifts, our talents, aren’t enough to make a difference?  How often do we say, “I’m not very good at anything” or “I don’t have much to give, so why bother?” when what we should be saying is “Here, Lord, it isn’t much, but it’s what I have.”  We forget, don’t we, to give what little we have to Jesus.  We think that we have to prove something to him and so we assume that our little portion won’t go too far.  But when we give it to Jesus, what happens?  He multiplies it, of course!  So much so that it spills over to become more than is needed.

          My brothers and sisters let us not lament our small gifts, but rather our small faith!  Better yet, let us bring our small faith to Jesus, even if we have doubts, and place it in his hands.  Because when we do, as he did with the loaves and the fish, Jesus will bless it and multiply it so much that it fills baskets with what is left over: even after countless others have been nourished by it.

          This, my friends, is our invitation today on this feast of Corpus Christi: an invitation to be amazed that the God who created the universe would come to us, his creatures, under the appearance of simple bread and wine—gifts that we can consume; an invitation to give thanks for this awe-inspiring gift; and an invitation to respond, offering our meager gifts to Jesus so that he can multiply them for the good of many.  It is an invitation that, for the past three years, was being extended and deepened as we celebrated the national Eucharistic Revival here in the United States.  As a reminder, the purpose of the revival has been “to renew the Church by enkindling a living relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ in the Holy Eucharist”.  For the first two years, we worked to realize this goal at both the diocesan and the parish level, culminating with the national Eucharistic Congress in Indianapolis last summer, in which we celebrated the renewal that we have experienced by giving glory to God.  This past year, we engaged the “Walk With One” initiative to bring those around us—those who have walked away from the faith as well as those who have never known the faith—to a living and loving encounter with Jesus in the Eucharist by our friendship and our witness.  And while this revival culminates this weekend as the national Eucharistic pilgrimage that left from Indianapolis in May arrives in Los Angeles, our joyful work continues to share this good news with those around us.

          My dear friends, this feast and the Eucharistic Revival that we have celebrated over these three years are signs that the Good Lord never ceases to invite us into deeper relationship with him.  Let us, then, respond anew with the same “yes” as Mary did—a “yes” filled with awe, wonder, and evangelical zeal—so that we, like her, may produce a great harvest through the grace of God working in us: the grace that we receive when we receive the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ from this altar.

Given at St. Louis de Montfort Parish: Fishers, IN – June 21^st, 2025