Category Archives: Sunday Morning

At the crossroad

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The Church’s choice of the Samaritan Woman at the Well (John 4) for the 3rd Sunday of Lent (Year A) gospel is a great choice for a gospel to follow the readings from the 1st and 2nd Sundays of Lent. Together they form a clear movement of Lenten themes: temptation → revelation → conversion. 

The First Sunday of Lent can be described as a battle that begins in the wilderness where Jesus confronts the fundamental human struggle: temptation (Matthew 4:1–11) using the human tendency to place trust on the ability to obtain items of human desire: bread, spectacle and power. The wilderness is the testing ground where Jesus encounters the fullness of human temptation. It is easy to think of the encounter as jousting using Scripture as the weapon of choice, but we need to note that Jesus responds to Satan using verses with one common theme: trust in God. The lesson for us is clear: the first step of conversion is recognizing that trust in God is the only path from the wilderness of temptations.

After the desert encounter with temptation comes a moment of revelation. The Second Sunday of Lent is the story of the Transfiguration that reveals Jesus as the beloved Son (Matthew 17:1–9). On the mountain, the disciples see the glory of Christ, but the center of the reading is the voice of God that proclaims: “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.” In order to listen with need to walk the Lenten road with eyes fixed on Christ, with hearts strengthened by hope, with ears open to the Father’s voice, and with courage to follow Jesus off the safety of the mountain top to the hill top scene of Jesus’ crucifixion. In the horror of that moment we entrust ourselves to God that glory lies on the other side.

This brings us to this Sunday when Jesus encounters the Samaritan woman at the well. If the preceding gospels taught us to trust in God and how to walk the Lenten road of life, this gospel teaches us where the road leads. The Samaritan woman represents the human heart searching for fulfillment. It is her story of a journey of conversion and is held up to us for our consideration. 

St. John tells us that Jesus arrived at the well “about noon.” At first this sounds like an unimportant detail, but in the ancient Near East people did not go to the well at noon. Water was drawn in the cool morning or evening, and it was usually a communal activity where women gathered together. For a woman to come alone at the hottest and brightest hour of the day suggests something about her situation: she was socially isolated or marginalized. But there is also a symbolic dimension. 

In John’s Gospel, light exposes truth. Noon is the hour when nothing can hide in shadow. Spiritually, it becomes the moment when this woman’s life is brought into the light, not to shame her but to set her out on the path. This small detail reminds us that Christ meets us precisely at those places in life where we feel most exposed, isolated or vulnerable.

This is a story of the gift of Living Water (John 4:5–42). We all recognize that water is absolutely needed for continued life. It is one reason we are drawn to the well. But to first-century listeners, Jesus’ offer of “living water” would have echoed a whole network of biblical images where water represents life, salvation, and God’s sustaining presence.  

During the Exodus at God’s command, Moses strikes the rock to bring flowing, life giving water to a people dying of thirst. This moment becomes a defining symbol in Israel’s memory: God gives life to His people when they cannot provide it themselves. When Jesus tells the Samaritan woman: “Whoever drinks the water I shall give will never thirst ” He is presenting Himself as the new source of water in the wilderness; the one through whom God sustains His people.

The prophets often described Israel’s spiritual problem as abandoning the true source of life. In the Book of Jeremiah 2:13: “My people have committed two evils: they have forsaken me, the fountain of living waters, and dug for themselves broken cisterns that hold no water.” When Jesus offers “living water,” He is telling the Samaritan woman (and us) that He is the divine source Israel has been seeking.

Another prophetic image appears in Book of Ezekiel 47:1–12. Ezekiel sees a vision of water flowing out from the Temple in Jerusalem. The water becomes a great river that brings life wherever it flows, trees grow, deserts bloom, and even the Dead Sea becomes fresh. It is a vision that looks to the time when God’s presence would one day renew the entire world. In John’s Gospel, Jesus replaces the Temple as the true source of life; the source of  “living water.” He is telling the Samaritan woman (and us) He fulfills Ezekiel’s vision.

The choice of this gospel during Lent asks a challenging question: where do we go to quench our thirst? Like Israel in the desert or the people in Jeremiah’s prophecy, we often dig “broken cisterns”; things we hope will satisfy us but never fully do. Christ alone offers the living water, the true wellspring of life. Will we take the offer? Does the Samaritan woman take the offer?

“The woman left her water jar and went into the town.” The detail appears small, but it carries tells that by listening to Jesus she has chosen to follow Him. She came to the well because she was thirsty. The jar represents her original purpose. Yet once she encounters Christ, the jar is forgotten. In other words, she came seeking ordinary water but discovered something far greater. Her priorities change immediately. Instead of continuing her errand, she runs to tell others about Jesus. The abandoned jar symbolizes leaving behind the old life: the habits, identities, and pursuits that once seemed necessary but lose their importance after encountering Christ. This is precisely what Lent invites believers to do: leave the jar behind.

The Samaritan woman comes to the encounter, alone, seeking dignity, belonging and peace. Her faith deepens through honest encounter, not instant certainty. Did you notice the slow unfolding of Jesus’ identity: a Jewish man, a prophet, the Messiah, and finally, “I am he.” This mirrors how faith grows during Lent. Conversion rarely happens all at once. It unfolds through dialogue, resistance, misunderstanding, and trust. The Church places this Gospel here to reassure us that on this Lenten road, faith deepens through honest encounter, not instant certainty.

If the preceding gospels taught us to trust in God and to walk the Lenten road of life, this gospel teaches us how to walk the road: sustained by the living water of Christ.

This is the movement of Lent. The woman comes alone, she leaves her jar behind, and she returns to the town as a witness. This is the shape of Christian conversion: encounter, repentance, and mission. On this Third Sunday of Lent, the Church wants us to see that repentance is about being sent back into life but sent differently.

We all come to this moment in time with our ordinary human experience: broken relationships, unmet desires, spiritual fatigue, and longing for something more. So too, the Samaritan woman. In her encounter with Jesus, she listens, she trusts, and discovers her deepest desire if fulfilled. That is the Lenten promise to all of us. Listen, trust, name our deepest thirst, and decide if we are willing to let Christ satisfy it. 

At this crossroad of the Lenten season,  will you hope that the “broken cisterns” of human desires satisfy or will you drink deeply of the living waters of Christ?”

Christ and the Woman of Samaria | Pierre Mignard, 1681 | The North Carolina Museum of Art, Raleigh | PD

Why this reading?

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Note: apparently I did not post my homily for the 2nd Sunday of Lent. Here it is…

Did you ever wonder why the Church the story of the Transfiguration is always the reading for the 2nd Sunday of Lent? I mean, the Feast of the Transfiguration already has its own day – August 6th every year. It is not a paucity of readings or a lack of imagination. It is a well chosen reading that deepens meaning and understanding of the Lenten journey. Let me give you five reasons.

First, Lent is a journey toward the cross not away from it. The first Sunday of Lent was a story of Jesus in the wilderness, tempted by the devil. But the direction of the story is not clear at least as far as Lent is concerned. By the Second Sunday of Lent, the Church wants us to be very clear about where this road leads. The Transfiguration occurs after Jesus has spoken about his suffering, rejection, and death. The disciples have just heard words they do not want to hear. Confusion and fear have entered the picture. Into that void comes speculation, rumor, and conversations among the disciples of what Jesus meant – all fueling the uncertainty. If that was all we proclaimed in the gospel then Lent becomes a grim endurance until we can finally get to the Resurrection.

The Transfiguration does not cancel the Cross. It reveals who Jesus is as he goes toward it. It is about learning to walk with Christ through suffering, trusting that God’s presence and glory is not absent from it.

We are not unlike the disciples. We have uncertainties, things that keep us up at night, and events that are unfolding in ways not our liking. We are left apprehensive, perhaps even fearful – but do we feel the presence of Christ in and around us during all this or are we just grimly enduring?

The second reason: God strengthens us before the hard part. For Jesus the hard part is that He is heading to Jerusalem, there to be betrayed, scourged, and crucified – and He has told his disciples all that is coming. But Jesus does not wait until after the Resurrection to show them his glory. He gives Peter, James, and John a glimpse before the events unfold. Why? You know why. We want assurance things will turn out well. Jesus knows the disciples are having a difficult time taking this all in and discipleship is about to overwhelm them. They need the strengthening the experience of the Transfiguration will give them.

And so, the Transfiguration functions as consolation given in advance. It is a memory meant to sustain faith when everything later seems to contradict it. Lent works the same way. Prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are not ends in themselves. They train the heart to trust God when stress increases, things slip out of control, and when obedience becomes costly. The Church places this Gospel here to remind us that God never asks us to walk into darkness without first giving us light.

Lent is a journey towards the cross and God strengthens us before the hard part. Third, “Listen to Him” is a Lenten command. At the center of the Transfiguration is not the light, but the voice: “This is my beloved Son… listen to him.” Lent is fundamentally about learning to listen again – stripping away distractions, quieting false voices, and letting Christ’s word reorient our lives. Notice that Moses and Elijah, the Law and the Prophets, testify to Jesus, point to him and then fade away.  What remains is Jesus alone. This is not accidental. Lent is a season of re-centering, where all religious practices are meant to lead us back to one thing: attentive listening, reflection and obedience to Christ.

Lent is a journey towards the cross and God strengthens us before the hard part, “Listen to Him” is a Lenten command and fourth: Glory is revealed through obedience. “Obedience” from the Latin, obe dire, to listen through. The Transfiguration shows Jesus radiant but not because he avoids suffering. His glory flows from his total alignment with the Father’s will. That matters for Lent, because it reframes holiness. Glory does not come from success or visibility – it comes from faithful obedience, even when misunderstood. Just as Peter misunderstands. But he hangs in there and eventually figures it out.

The Church offers this Gospel early in Lent to prevent a distortion: Lent is not self-improvement.
It is a gift of memory and hope that we can be assured even if we don’t yet understand, Jesus is present and we’ll eventually figure it out.

Fifth and finally, Hope is essential to conversion. The Church knows something about being human: no one perseveres without hope. The Transfiguration is hope made visible. It tells us repentance and change is worth it, obedience is not meaningless in a world amiss, and suffering does not have the final word. It didn’t for Jesus or the Apostles nor with us. Hope reminds us that suffering does not have the final word. Lent with the Transfiguration leads us to trustful surrender.

  • Lent is a journey toward the cross not away from it
  • God strengthens us before the hard part
  • “Listen to Him” is a Lenten command
  • Glory is revealed through obedience
  • Hope is essential to conversion

Lent begins in the desert. But this Sunday, the Church teaches us how to walk the Lenten road:

  • with eyes fixed on Christ,
  • with hearts strengthened by hope,
  • with ears open to the Father’s voice,
  • and with courage to follow Jesus through the Cross, trusting that glory lies on the other side.

Amen

Image credit: Photo by Free Nature Stock on Pexels.com

Never Forget

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And sin entered the world. In the second reading, St. Paul is pretty clear that sin entered the world through Adam and Eve. Did you ever stop to think about what exactly was the first sin? Maybe it is as simple as disobedience. “The LORD God gave the man this order: You are free to eat from any of the trees of the garden except the tree of knowledge of good and evil. From that tree you shall not eat; when you eat from it you shall die.” (Gen 2:6-7) That seems awfully clear… lots of trees, lots of fruit, help yourself, but not from that one tree. Awfully clear and awfully tempting. We get to listen to Eve’s thoughts as Satan tempts her: “The woman saw that the tree was good for food, pleasing to the eyes, and desirable for gaining wisdom” (Gen 3:6) I suspect I had many the same thoughts when as a child, I stood before the open refrigerator door staring longingly at the last piece of key lime pie – so good, so pleasing to the eye… and there was mom talking from the next room, “Have a piece of fruit. It’s good for you.” You can guess how that story ends. In my case, it was clearly disobedience, but I am not so sure about Adam and Eve.

Satan is not holding up the most awesome piece of fruit ever known to humankind. Satan is holding up the possibility that Adam and Eve can be something other than what they are – that they are not exactly adequate or secure in their present state. Satan is tempting them to not trust God and long for something they are not. “God knows well that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened and you will be like gods” (Gen 3:5) And there it is “be like gods.” There is the temptation. Maybe the sin is forgetting who they were, who they were created to be – stop trusting God. And sin entered the world through the first Adam.

The Gospel opens with the second Adam (as St. Paul often refers to Jesus.)  Immediately following Jesus’ baptism in the River Jordan, the Spirit leads Jesus into the desert. This is no Garden of Eden, there is no abundance of fish, fowl, and fruit – there is hunger. And there is Satan. Sa’tan, the ancient word for “tempter” – and Satan is doing what Satan does. He is not here to get Jesus to be disobedient to his heavenly Father, Satan wants Jesus to be something other than what his Father has sent him to be. Satan wants Jesus to trust a new plan, not the one his Father has established to bring new life to the world.

“If you are the Son of God…”  Interestingly, an equally good translation is “Since you are the Son of God…” There’s no doubt Satan knows who he is dealing with. “Since you are the Son of God and you are hungry, turn these stones into bread. In fact, turn all these stones into bread, because it is not just you who are hungry, the whole world is hungry. They are hungry for food, hungry for leadership, hungry to follow the One who will lead them to the kingdom. Think about it.  As bread, wouldn’t these stones be good for food and pleasing to the eye?”  

At this point this Satan dialogue should sound oddly familiar to a conversation in the Garden of Eden.

“OK, how about this… let’s go to Jerusalem, to the highest tower on the Temple, where everyone can see you, and since you are the Son of God, let the people know. Throw yourself off. Make it spectacular and when the angels come to catch you, then everyone will know and follow you. Isn’t that what your Father wants? For everyone to follow you?  Come on… work with me! I can make you great!” It is the same old tactic, forget who you are – trust your own plans rather than God’s plan.

But Jesus remembers who he is. Jesus is the one baptized in the Jordan, who arising from the water hears God say, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” (Mt 3:17) This is Jesus who is like us in all things but sin. This is Jesus who shows us how to navigate these temptations – by remembering who we are and whose we are. Because once we don’t remember who we are and whose we are, we’ll do all kinds of things to dispel the insecurity that attends this life and to find that sense of security and acceptance that is essential to being happy. We’ll begin to trust our own plans. We will begin to trust ourselves more than we trust in God.

At every temptation Jesus resists, not simply by quoting Scripture in general but by quoting Scripture that reminds him of God’s trustworthiness, the need to depend on God for all good things, and consequently of God’s promise to care for him and all God’s children. This is what Adam and Eve forgot.

Here at the beginning of Lent, these readings ask us to remember who we are. So, let me remind you. You are the beloved children of God. You are beloved sisters and brothers to Jesus. You are the ones who at your baptism were claimed for Christ by the sign of the Cross. You are the ones, in your baptism, anointed to be priest, prophets and kings in this world. You are the ones who this past Wednesday, again claimed your inheritance, your family legacy, your baptismal right as you again wore the sign of the Cross on your forehead. And you remembered to whom you belong. You are the beloved of God.

There are lots of temptations in the world – some bright and shiny as that original apple – but the real danger are the subtle messages and whispers that seek to invite you to forget you are and to whom you belong. 

You belong to Christ.

You are beloved.

Never forget that.

Amen.

Image credit:The Temptation in the Wilderness, Briton Rivière (1898) | Public Domain

What Anger Reveals

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“You have heard that it was said to your ancestors, You shall not kill; and whoever kills will be liable to judgment. “But I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.”

It is one thing to murder someone, to wantonly and mercilessly take a life. We instinctively know that is wrong. But anger? I’m not saying it’s good, but what are we to make of Jesus’ statement? Many people struggle with anger in their lives. Is it the occasional flareup? Rage? Has it become a habit? Or maybe one day you look in the mirror and silently wonder, “When did I become an angry person?”

We wonder “Is it ever okay to feel this way?” Is this anger righteous or a sign of failure or sin? When we ask such questions, the next step might be to ask “what would Jesus do?” What comes to mind is Jesus who heals, forgives, and welcomes – not someone who has a meltdown and loses control or someone who stews over something said or done. But Scripture is clear. There are occasions when Jesus gets angry.

Let me give you some examples of Jesus’ anger and see if there something to be learned

  • Jesus heals a man with a withered hand on the Sabbath while religious leaders watch, hoping to accuse him. “He looked around at them with anger, grieved at their hardness of heart…” (Mark 3:1-6).
  • The oft cited overturning of the merchants’ tables in the Temple area 
  • The disciples try to prevent children from approaching Jesus. “When Jesus saw this he became indignant…” (Mark 10:13-16).
  • In the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, Jesus pronounced “woes” upon the scribes and Pharisees when they corrupted true worship or misrepresented what God desires.
  • In those same Gospels anger expressed as sorrow as Jesus weeps over Jerusalem and her fate.
  • …and other examples. 

Of course, there are lots of instances when things are done to Jesus that if they happened to me, I’d be angry. Just because you don’t like what I said does not mean you can throw me off the edge of a steep hill. That’s what the people of Nazareth tried. Jesus did not get angry. He just walked away. 

All this should lead us to ask the question: how is Jesus’ anger different from our anger? And, how are we to reconcile all this with Jesus’ teaching into today’s gospel: “But I say to you, whoever is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.”

Anger is a common emotion that everyone experiences at some point or another in life. Certain situations can trigger different types of anger and leave you experiencing anything from a minor annoyance to full-blown rage. At one level anger is physiological. There is a flood of stress hormones causing the heart to beat faster, increasing blood flow to the muscles and organs. There is a rise in blood pressure and other effects. Anger emerges in stressful situations, when you’re frustrated, feel you’ve been attacked or disrespected or when you are being treated unfairly. At the root of many angry feelings is a sense of powerlessness like when we are unable to correct or improve a situation: a traffic jam, a job loss, a relationship breakup, a chronic illness. It is in those moments that our frustration, sadness, letdown, and other negative emotions often converge into anger.  Sound familiar?

Anger that lashes outward is generally sinful and usually begins with the self: I have been insulted, I don’t have control, I feel threatened. Are any of those the beginning points of Jesus’ anger? No. Jesus’ anger is never about himself. Jesus is not angered by insult, rejection, or misunderstanding. He absorbs those without retaliation. Instead, his anger begins in righteousness: this situation is wrong, someone is being diminished, or love is being denied. He is angry when mercy is blocked, when the vulnerable are excluded, when people are being misled in the name of God, when people are burdened rather than freed. His anger rises not because he has been offended, but because someone else is being harmed.

The spiritual question, then, is not “Do I feel anger?”  It is “What does my anger serve?” Is your anger redemptive in nature? Does it move you toward truth, mercy, and courage?  Can you express it in love? Does it lead you outward to protect, to speak, to act, to intercede? Can you remain steadfast when the cause of your anger remains unmoved and unchanged? Will you persevere? This is not an anger subject to judgment.

Or does anger move you toward resentment, control, and withdrawal? Anger that turns inward feeding pride, fear, bitterness, self-justification, disappointment is liable to judgment.

The question the Gospel places before us is not, “Do we ever feel anger?” It is, “What does our anger reveal about our love?” 

Anger that leads us toward hardness of heart, exclusion, or self-protection – as the Chinese proverb predicts: a moment of anger leads to a 1,000 days of sorrow.

Jesus teaches us that anger, purified by love, can become a force for good. It can name what must change. It can defend the vulnerable. It can clear space for healing to occur. But righteous anger must always remain connected to humility and prayer. Once anger detaches from love, once it begins to justify harm, it ceases to be holy.

In the first reading, Sirach tells us: “Before man are life and death, good and evil, whichever he chooses shall be given him.” So it is with anger. It is always a choice. Will you allow anger to lead you to judgments? Or will anger lead us toward mercy, justice, and deeper faithfulness – a sign that love is alive within us.  

When anger arises within you, breathe deeply and choose well.

Light in the Darkness

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On a clear, moonless night without haze or the shine from cities, with an unobstructed view – how far away can a 100 watt light bulb be seen by the human eye? You might be surprised to know it is 5-10 miles! Of course, given the curvature of the earth, the distance to the horizon for a 6 foot tall person, standing at sea level, is only 3 miles. But then it depends on the light’s height above sea level. Lots of factors to consider, but underlying it all is the power of light.

Universally across time and cultures, light has been a symbol of hope. The light of a star leading the Maji. The beacon of a lighthouse guiding the mariner to safe harbor. The front porch lights on, waiting for your return.

By June 1944, the United States had been embroiled in a world war for some 2.5 years. From the earliest and darkest days of the war, the tide was beginning to turn. In the Pacific the might of the US Navy and Marine Corp had been assembled to capture and liberate the Marianas Islands of Guam, Tinian and Saipan – a vital and strategic step in the Pacific War.  The US 5th Fleet’s role was to guard the massive troop and supply ships mounting the amphibious landings. Meanwhile the Japanese Mobile Fleet was assembling its Plan Z/A-go for an all out naval engagement to cripple the invasion force and stem the tide of the war.

What is known as the Battle of Philippine Sea was a disaster for the Japanese naval air fleet. Their loss of aircraft and skilled aviators was tremendous. The US admirals realized they had a chance to strike a decisive and final blow against the Japanese Fleet, especially its aircraft carriers. The dive bombers and torpedo planes of Task Force 58 were dispatched to strike late in the afternoon. The Japanese fleet was located steaming west at a distance of 275 miles. It was at the very extreme range of the US aircraft to launch, strike and return, but the decision and so began what is known as the Raid into Darkness. The 226 naval aircraft arrived over the Japanese fleet just at sunset. The raid was devastating and lethal, accomplishing its mission. It ended Japanese carrier operations for the remainder of the war.

But now it was night and 226 US aircraft had to find their way home.

In 1944 there was no airborne radar, GPS, or any of the advanced air navigation tools we have today. Pilots used a method called dead reckoning recording direction, air speed, and other factors to estimate their position. Now the strike force had to fly 275 miles back, in the pitch darkness of a moonless night to find one of the 7 aircraft carriers. Positions were uncertain, fuel supply was low, and the fleet was operating under blackout conditions because of the threat of nearby Japanese submarines.

Imagine that you are one of the returning naval or marine aviators. You are running on as lean a fuel mixture as possible trying to stretch the flying range to give yourself a chance to find the fleet and land. You have a flashlight to check your dead reckoning calculations, air speed and heading. Ahead of you is nothing except a very large and very dark ocean. Alone with your thoughts you think of your loved ones at home. You wonder if you will ever see them again. It is a long flight home with only the sound of your engine to keep you company. As time passes your uncertainty grows. It is becoming the dark night of the soul as hope begins to fade.

Then comes the light. The light of your world. The beacon guiding you home to safety.

Despite the threat to the fleet, Admiral Mitscher ordered Task Force 58 to light up the night.  The aircraft carrier illuminated the land decks. All ships elevated their search lights. The destroyers and other ships on the picket line did the same, also firing star shell bursts into the night sky. They did not hide their light; they put it on display for all the world to see.

Imagine you are the returning aviator. Imagine the power of that moment. Such is the power of the light.

We live in a world of darkness in which there are plenty of folks navigating in that darkness searching for the way home, hoping to see a light to guide them. When Christians live a closed life, keeping their faith under one of the many bushel baskets of modern life, we are like the fleet running under blackout conditions. We are safe and secure, but we are not a safe harbor for those traveling in the dark.

When Christians turn on the light of faith and star shell the night, perhaps we place ourselves at risk, but we become the light for the world. When we witness to the faith, when the love of God pours from us into the night sky, we reflect the light of salvation beckoning people, come home.

“Just so, your light must shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father.”

That’s the risk, but that’s the job. Let the light of your faith be a beacon welcoming the dark night traveler to the home they have long searched for.

Amen.

Image credit: generated by CANVA AI | Feb 7, 2026 

The Remnant

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Note: this weekend the pastor is launching the Annual Lenten Appeal and so again I have a “homily holiday.” This is my homily from the 4th Sunday of Ordinary Time, 2023

Today’s first reading is from the Prophet Zephaniah. It is only three chapters long and it is filled with darkness, distress, destruction, death, doom, and despair. Yet, in the midst of all that – there is a message of hope, for a remnant of the people; people described as humble and lowly. People who take refuge in the Lord. People who remain faithful to God even as all around them crumbles and falls apart. A remnant who has already seen the Assyrian empire conquer most of the promise in the promised land. A remnant that can already see the Babylonian threat on the horizon. A remnant that even as they wonder how this all plays out in God’s plan, they are the faithful …. and hanging on. They recognize that they are blessed by God. It might be hard for us to see it, but they see it. And that challenges us just as the more famous beatitudes of today’s gospel also challenges us.

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Word of God Sunday

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Note: winter’s wicked winds are headed this way. The milk and bread shelves are empty in the local stores. Our church is located on a hill with a steep entrance and exist. The projected sleet and ice make the prospect of transiting the hill potentially perilous. And in an abundance of caution, our Sunday Masses have been cancelled. .. I have a homily holiday … so I posted this from the trove of homilies past

I remember when I was a kid, I was fascinated with a place of mystery called Timbuktu. I loved the sound of the name and the possibility of being as far away from home as Timbuktu. No doubt it was a place of mystery, intrigue, and stories. There were tales of gold, riches, and the place where East Africa and Saharan Africa met. The stories abound so much that in 1855, the French Geographic Society offered a major prize to the first European to go there and report back. What amazing, fantastic stories could be in Timbuktu! 

I have always been drawn to stories of people and places, adventures and mystery, where fates and fortunes were found, lost, and again pursued. In time, my appreciation of stories broadened to include narratives of all kinds. Stories told of love and love lost; stories of wisdom and tomfoolery; never-ending stories and stories with no end; stories that entertained and ones that pressed the mind to an inner exploration of meaning.

In my homily of last Sunday, I shared my experience of growing up in the Baptist South and attending tent revivals. In its own way, the tent revivals were as far from my Catholic experience as Timbuktu was from my front door. I described the experience as one in the well of stories, “Where men stood up and testified, words honed by years of practice. There were epic tales of sin and redemption wherein Jesus pulled them from the devil’s grasp and washed them in His blood.  Women spoke of love betrayed, and of loss and pain and joy so fierce that it almost seems to slice apart the humid summer air. Everyone praised the times Jesus saved them from despair, raised them up, wiped away their tears, and set them on the road to righteousness.” This was a very specialized form of storytelling: giving witness, giving testimony – but storytelling, nonetheless.

Today we celebrate “Word of God” Sunday. There are so many things that could be said about the Word of God, but I would say this: it is a collection of God’s stories as God reveals Himself to his people and the world. It is the greatest stories ever told and our most basic job is to be people who tell these stories to our family, our loved ones, our friends, our neighbors, and folks on the highways and byways of life.  When historians consider simple letters and other written items from the first and second centuries, they have described the spread of Christianity – not as simply the evangelical efforts of the big-name people like St. Paul and others – but as people telling stories over the backyard fence.

To know, tell, and share the stories in our own voices is to weave the stories into the fabric of our lives. So much so that in the shared knowledge of the stories, they can be shared with simple phrases: “O say can you see…”  Simple, short and brings to mind the story of Ft. McHenry, the War of 1812 and Francis Scott Key’s composition of our nation’s anthem. Our connection to the Bible, the Word of God, is the same way.  Think of the stories of Scripture you know and are brought to mind with simple words or expressions:  the Good Samaritan, the Good Shepherd, the Prodigal Son, Garden of Gethsemane, Calvary, River Jordan, and so much more. The stories are already there in the fabric of your life. Share them!

…and then the hesitation begins… “Do I really know the story?”  My experience is that people are really asking themselves, “Can I quote the story?”  Over the backyard fence, “quotologists” are not needed. Story tellers are needed.

Isaiah was the one who told a story in the first reading when he spoke of “the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali.”  For folks in Isaiah’s time, the reference was as clear as “oh say can you see.” They heard the phrase and instantly knew of that these were two of the tribes of Israel that were conquered by the Assyrians – but in the gloom of their fate, they were given the promise of a Savior and a new light to cover their lands, rescuing them from the darkness of their enslavement. This is a story of our shared history and the promise given.

In the second reading, St. Paul reminds us all that between here and the final there, the final land of light where joy and great rejoicing reside, there will be suffering. Christ suffered and so we should not be surprised if we too suffer at points in our life. St Paul’s story reminds us that the promise endures, but only in the name of Christ. This is the life: sent to live the Gospel. 

The Gospel? Today’s story is about the Call and Mission. Today we hear of the account of Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John –  it is but a reminder that the promise is carried to ends of the earth by people just like you and me. The Word is carried from the lake region of Galilee to the end of the earth – even to Timbuktu! 

We are called to people who carry the Word of God in our lives. Maybe you are called to carry it only so far as the end of the driveway – then do that. It is in reading children’s bible stories; it is reminding yourself to be a good Samaritan; it is receiving and accepting the prodigal son or daughter – it is reading, listening to our family stories. From the land of Naphtali, to Galilee, to your house, to Timbuktu.

And then telling them in your words, as your stories, over the backyard fences of your life.

Then just as we have enthroned the Word of God in a special way this weekend, you will enthrone the Word of God in your life.

Amen.

Plans

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Have you got some plans for the rest of the day? It’s playoff time for the NFL. Maybe you’re going to gather with friends and watch the game? Have plans for the week? A summer vacation? We all have plans of one sort or another. God has plans. He had them for you. Had them for John the Baptist and Isaiah, too. And the thing is that God’s plans turn out to be larger than anyone first imagined. That is true for Isaiah, for John the Baptist, for the Apostles, and if we are paying attention, even for us.

In the first reading, Isaiah, the servant, seems pretty clear about his sense of vocation. He knows he has been called by God, formed from the womb, named and claimed. And yet his initial understanding of what God is calling him to do, seems huge. “Isaiah, I need you to gather back all the people and restore Israel to be my Covenant People.” These are people that are scattered from Jerusalem to Baghdad and points East. This is no small task; noble and necessary, but huge. But that is not even the full scope of God’s plan. “It is too little… I will make you a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the ends of the earth.” Did you catch that: to the ends of the earth. What Isaiah thought was the whole mission turns out to be only the beginning. God’s plan is vastly larger.

We see the same pattern in the Gospel.  John the Baptist is at the Jordan River, likely at the same spot where the people first entered the Holy Land after the wilderness years of the Exodus. It was a sign that they were a Covenant People as they accepted what God had promised Abraham, Issac, Jacob and Moses – a land of their own; the Promised Land. And now John the Baptist has his mission: call the people to repent and recommit themselves to be that Covenant People. John has no idea that he is at the start of something much longer. He knows his role, but not the full scope of what God is about to reveal.

And then he sees Jesus coming toward him and says something no one could have predicted: “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” Not the sin of a few. Not the sin of Israel alone. But the sin of the world. It is the parallel to Isaiah’s “ends of the earth.” It is becoming clear that Jesus’ mission will cross over national, religious, and cultural boundaries. The scope of God’s plan is way fuller than what we could imagine.  But maybe now we can look into the “rear view mirror” and see the pattern.

With Adam and Eve, God began with a family. With Moses, God formed for Himself a clan. In Abraham and Sara, this grows to become a tribe. It becomes a confederation of tribes with Moses and then a nation under David and the kings of Israel and Judah. But now with Jesus Christ, it is all the people of the world.  This is the full scope of God’s plan.

This is how God works. God’s call begins in something familiar: a people, a place, a responsibility and then widens. And this pattern does not end with Jesus. If we are paying attention, we who follow Christ are always being drawn beyond what feels comfortable or sufficient. The Church herself is born from a mission that is always bigger than expected. Bigger than one culture, one language, one generation.

Even in our personal lives, God’s work often begins with a simple yes, only to reveal later that he was asking for much more than we first realized and offering much more than we might imagine. 41 years ago I said, “Sure, I can help with the Youth Ministry.”

Realizing we are being asked for more can be unsettling. Such moments require deeper trust. They demand that we loosen our grip on control and allow God to expand our vision.

We are Isaiah in our own time and place. We are the countless known and unknown ancestors in the faith. We are baptized, we are chosen – not because we are perfect, but because God desires us and wants to reveal ourselves to ourself and to others. Slowly, sometimes awkwardly through prayer, experience, ministry, and the movement of the Spirit. We are sent. Go, the Mass has ended. We are sent on missions,  not necessarily far away, but into the places where our lives already touch others.

The challenge is that each stage requires trust. Trust with a capital “T.” To trust the movement of the Spirit – even if it is only an inkling, a rumination, a passing thought. To trust that we are chosen even as we feel totally ordinary. To begin even when clarity is incomplete.  To accept being sent when the mission feels larger than our ability. 

And to trust that God always supplies grace for the mission. That was Isaiah’s experience. That was the experience of the Apostles. It has been the experience of the faith in the millenia since. When John the Baptist pointed to Jesus, he did not explain everything. He simply bore witness to what he had seen. And sometimes that is all faith asks of us: to stand where we are, to recognize what God is doing, and to allow ourselves to be drawn into a mission that is always bigger than we can imagine

This is the Way. It has always been the Way.

Here at the beginning of the year, at the start of Ordinary Time after the Christmas Season, in what way are you being called? Maybe it’s involved in ministry? Maybe being the one who animates family prayer? Perhaps you’ll start listening to the Bible-in-a-Year podcast during your commute to work. Volunteer to prepare meals for the homeless. It’s all there: pay attention to that inkling, rumination, or passing thought. Trust it is the movement of the Spirit. Don’t worry about the full scope. Take the next step.

It is the grace Nike moment of your walk in Christ. Just do it.

You are loved

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We live in a world of performance. If you are a sports fan you have access to an amazing array of real-time statistics on a football receiver’s speed, distance the pass traveled, and so much more. In swimming, it used to be that you watched the race and at the end the final times were posted. Now, mid-race there are on-screen statistics of speed in ft/sec and measures of the distance between swimmers. We live in a world of performance. Work has productivity measures, school has grades, … maybe homilies need a real time scoring system like diving or gymnastics.

We live in a world where our worth is often measured by productivity, recognition, credentials, and visibility. From an early age we learn, often without being explicitly taught, that approval follows achievement which signals that you are valued because of what you do, what you produce, how you compare. As a priest, listening to folks, it is evident that similar logic carries over into our relationship with God.

Subtly, almost unconsciously, we can begin to believe that God’s pleasure is lost or gained through activity, sacrifice, or visible success. When things go well, we feel affirmed – “I am blessed” we might think. When things are not going so well, we feel something is off kilter. Faith can become another arena of performance. “I need to pray more.” “Read more scripture.” “Go on retreat.” “Then things will be OK.”  There can be a performative intention behind all those things as a means to seek God’s pleasure.

You might be thinking, “Jesus’ life is pretty performative!” And indeed, as we move from the Christmas Season into Ordinary Time, we will see the public and very active ministry of Jesus unfold as He performs miracles, healings, casting out demons, forgiving sins, controlling nature and so much more. All very performative and with a purpose: to affirm that the Kingdom of God is indeed upon the people.

But not today. 

There are two things that stand out for me in the gospel reading as Jesus is first stepping into public view, when his ministry formally begins, how does He begin? Not with preaching, not with healing, not with miracles but by waiting. Not only that, before any performance, achievement, before any measurable success in ministry and mission, the Father names him Beloved. Let’s explore these two things.

We live in a performative world. We want to do something for God before we have truly stood before God. But Jesus begins differently. He stands in line with sinners. He listens to John preach. He receives John’s baptism. He submits himself to the Father’s will as mediated through another human being: “for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness.”

Jesus’ public ministry is born not from initiative or performance, but from surrender. Jesus chooses the place of humility. He does not separate himself from the brokenness of humanity. He enters it quietly, patiently, without exemption. He lines up and waits his turn. This is not a gesture of convenience; it is a revelation of who God is.

Isaiah had already given us the pattern: “Here is my servant… not crying out, not shouting.” God’s chosen one does not impose himself. He does not force righteousness upon the world. He enters the world gently, from within, sharing its condition. And only after this act of submission does heaven open. The Spirit descends not upon Jesus not as a wonder-worker, but upon Jesus, the obedient Son. The Father’s voice does not praise achievement, but relationship: “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.” The Father’s voice does not say, “Now I will love you because you have begun your mission.” It says, “You are my beloved.” Full stop. This is not sentimentality. It is identity; our deepest identity.

We often speak about the Sacrament of Baptism as a commissioning to act, but it is first a declaration of identity and belonging. Before we are sent, we are claimed. Before we are asked to serve, we are named beloved. We are baptized not because we are finished products, but because God chooses to stand with us where we are. His true holiness is not distance from our human weakness, but is a faithful presence within it.

Because when we begin where Jesus began — in humility, submission, and trust — then the same promise is spoken over us: You are my beloved.

Jesus’ identity as beloved does not protect him from hardship. In fact, it leads him into the wilderness, into conflict, and eventually into the Cross. But what sustains him through all of it is not success, but the unshakeable knowledge of who he is before the Father.

That same identity is given to us in baptism.

To live as the beloved does not mean disengaging from responsibility, effort or hardship. It means being mindful that performance does not define our worth. It means allowing ourselves to rest secure in God’s pleasure even when our work is incomplete, our efforts misunderstood, our plans undone, or we are at wit’s end.

In a world that constantly asks, “What have you accomplished?” The Gospel challenges us to answer a different question: “To whom do you belong?”

When we live from that place, fear loosens its grip. Comparison loses its power. And love – real, patient, self-giving love becomes possible. Because only those who know they are already loved are truly free to give themselves away.

You are loved. Remember that and let tomorrow bring what may. You are loved.

Image credit: The Baptism of Christ, Juan Fernández de Navarrete, “El Mudo” | Museo del Prado, Madrid | Wikimedia Commons | PD-US

Embracing God’s Blessing in the New Year

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On this first day of the year, the Church places on our lips one of the most ancient and beautiful prayers of blessing found in all of Scripture. When Brother Leo asked St. Francis for a blessing, it is the prayer that Francis spoke and wrote down for Leo.  It is from the Book of Numbers we hear the Lord instruct Moses:

“Thus shall you bless the Israelites…
The LORD bless you and keep you!
The LORD let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you!
The LORD look upon you kindly and give you peace!” (Num 6:23–26)

This is far more than a hope or a wish for the days to come. It is a divine act. God says, “So shall they invoke my name upon the Israelites, and I will bless them” (Num 6:27). It is a promise to all who call upon the Lord: they will receive God’s blessing. That is to live under His gaze, to be held in His protection, and to know His peace, His shalom, to know the fullness of life that comes from communion with Him.

In today’s Gospel, we see this blessing fulfilled not in words alone, but in flesh and blood, in the fullness of life. The shepherds hurry to Bethlehem and find Mary and Joseph, and the infant lying in the manger. There they encounter the face of God shining upon His people.  And now the divine face has a human name: Jesus. God no longer turns His face toward His people from heaven; He looks at us from a manger. The eternal blessing promised to Israel now lies in Mary’s arms.

Luke tells us something striking about Mary: “Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart” (Lk 2:19). Mary receives God’s blessing in a profoundly human way. She does not rush to explain or control it. She ponders, treasures, holds the mystery within her. Mary teaches us that blessing is not always immediately understood. Sometimes it must be prayed over, revisited, and allowed to mature in silence.

At the close of our Gospel, we hear that the child is formally named Jesus at the time of his circumcision (Lk 2:21). The blessing of Numbers ends with God saying, “They shall invoke my name… and I will bless them.” Now that Name has been given. The Name that blesses, saves, and brings peace has entered human history. Mary, Mother of God, is the first to carry that Name not only on her lips, but in her very body and heart.

As we begin a new year, the Church places us where Mary stands: before the mystery of God’s blessing already given, but not yet fully understood. Like her, we are invited to receive the year not with anxiety or mastery, but with trustful reflection. What will this year bring? We do not know. But we do know this: If we call upon the name of the Lord – 

The Lord blesses us and keeps us.
His face shines upon us in Christ.
His Name rests upon us.

And Mary teaches us how to carry that blessing: by pondering it in faith, and by trusting that God’s peace will unfold in His time.

May Mary, the Mother of God and our Mother, help us to recognize ad receive the Lord’s blessing deeply, reflect on it faithfully, and live it courageously throughout the year ahead.
Amen.

Image credit: ” Madonna of the Streets” painting, Roberto Ferruzzi, first introduced it at the Venice Biennale art exhibit in 1897, Public Domain