Immersed. Incarnate. Baptism of the Lord (2026-01-11)

[v.8]   Feast of the Baptism of the Lord – January 11, 2026 Matthew 3:13–17

At His own Baptism in the Jordan River, Jesus does something that looks simple—but is actually risky.
He goes underwater.

Anyone who has ever gone underwater knows the feeling.
In a pool… in the ocean…
You lose your bearings.
Your ears change.
Your breath is limited.
You are vulnerable.

Going underwater is never neutral.
It requires trust.
That is the heart of today’s feast.

 

[Section 1] Incarnation as Immersion

We often describe the Incarnation as God coming down to earth.
But the Baptism of Jesus shows us how far down He is willing to go.

Jesus doesn’t stay on the riverbank.
He doesn’t point to the water.
He steps into it.

Do you know someone—
or maybe sometimes are the person—
who points to the water
without ever going in?

The Son of God enters fully into the human condition—not from a distance, not symbolically, but bodily, socially, and spiritually.
He goes under.

This is not about washing away sin—He has none.
It is about solidarity.

God does not save us by giving instructions from heaven.
He saves us by immersion.

[Section 2] Geography Matters: How Low God Goes

The Jordan River flows into the Dead Sea, the lowest point geographically on earth—about 1,400 feet below sea level.

Just for comparison, here in West Orange we are about 500 feet above sea level.
That means Jesus goes almost 2,000 feet lower than where we are now.

That detail matters.

Jesus does not simply come to earth.
He goes to the lowest place.

Geographically.
Spiritually.
Morally.

There is no place too low for Him to enter.

[Section 3] Immersion Is Risky

Immersion always is.

Anyone who has learned a new language or entered a new culture knows that feeling.

Back in the 1990s, my parents hosted a high school student from Japan.
I had lived in Japan myself as an English teacher, so I tried to get there quickly to help translate—though my Japanese was very rusty by then.

By the time I arrived, the young person was already settled in.

I could only imagine how difficult those first hours had been—trying to communicate, trying to be understood, not knowing the right words.

On the floor I noticed a handwritten note.  It said:  “Can I go and unpack my suitcase now?”

Writing it out was easier than saying it.

Immersion is hard.
You don’t have the words.
You don’t know the customs.
You feel exposed and unsure.

That is the kind of world Jesus enters.

[Section 3.1] Everyday Immersions: Trust Without Guarantees

And there are many kinds of immersion that don’t require a plane or a passport.

Recovering from an illness or injury.
Moving to a new home.
Spending time with people we don’t yet know well.
Moving from middle school to high school.

In all of these immersions, there are no guaranteed results.
We enter vulnerable and uncertain.

Jesus enters an immersion of a different kind.
In the Incarnation—and again at the Jordan—He knows suffering and death await Him.
And still, He enters willingly, trusting that God the Father is in charge of the outcome.

Coming to church, to Mass, to prayer, or to the confession of our sins is also an immersion experience.
We place ourselves into God’s hands.

As Proverbs teaches us:

“Trust in the LORD with all your heart;
on your own intelligence do not rely.
In all your ways be mindful of Him,
and He will make straight your paths.”

Discipleship is like learning a new language—the language of mercy—especially when our first instinct is to blame ourselves or others when things go wrong.

God calls us to virtue and responsibility,
but never to vengeance or vindictiveness.

That is why the Church calls us to silence, to listening, and to small sacrifices along the way: giving up meat on Fridays, fasting from media or sweets at times.

We do these things not to control our lives,
but to remember that we are not in control of the results.

Like Jesus in the waters of the Jordan,
we are called to listen rather than to speak.

[Section 4] “Listen to Him” — A Very Human Struggle

At the Jordan, the Father says:  “This is my beloved Son… listen to him.”

That sounds simple.  But listening is harder than we think.

Just this past Thursday, a friend called me about plans we had to meet on Friday.
Something changed, and suddenly I wasn’t sure if our meeting was still happening.

All day Thursday I checked my phone.
Texts. Emails. Notifications.

Late in the day, I finally called him.  He said,

“I left you a voicemail earlier. Everything was explained.”

And I realized something about myself.

I don’t really like voicemail anymore.

You can’t skim it.
You can’t scroll it.
You have to listen.

Relationships work this way.
So does faith.

God does not hand us a document at the Jordan.
He gives us a Son.

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[Section 5] Priest: Compassion From the Inside

Jesus stands in line—with sinners—not because He needs cleansing, but because we do.

As Priest, He enters our vulnerability.
He prays with us.
He suffers with us.
He offers Himself for us.

Compassion is not distant sympathy.
It is presence.

At our own Baptism—most of us as infants—we were spoken to, even though we could not yet understand:

God the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ has freed you from sin
and given you a new birth by water and the Holy Spirit.
He now anoints you with the chrism of salvation.
As Christ was anointed Priest, Prophet, and King,
so may you live always as a member of His body,
sharing everlasting life.

Those words gave us a new identity—before we earned it, before we understood it.

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[Section 6] King: Love That Goes Lower Than the Curse

Jesus is also revealed as King.

But His kingship is not about control.
It is about love that goes lower than the curse.

Sin often feels inherited—
like thorns already in the ground,
like a burden we did not choose.

That is why Joy to the World names the problem honestly:

“Thorns infest the ground…
far as the curse is found.”

But the hymn does not stop there.

It proclaims a King who goes farther.
A King who enters cursed waters.
A King who goes lower than the thorns.

This is how our King reigns.

Not from above.
But from within.

Conclusion

Today we celebrate a God who does not stay dry.
A God who goes under.
A God who listens.
A God who enters the lowest places of our lives.

And the Father still says:
“This is my beloved Son… listen to him.”

Listen to the One who entered our waters
so that we might rise with Him.

Joy to the world—the Savior reigns.

Lighting Trouble? A Solution! (2026-01-04, Epiphany)

Epiphany: Living by a Light We Do Not Own

[0] Trouble and the Instinct to Control

The Gospel begins today with trouble.

And when we are in trouble, most of us want to fix it quickly—fast, efficiently, without delay. In our technological world, we click “HELP,” we look for the troubleshooting section, we search for the fix.

Herod is also trying to troubleshoot—but without restraint. He is disturbed, irritated, unsettled. And his anxiety spreads. Matthew tells us that all Jerusalem is troubled with him.

And doesn’t that happen in our own lives? When we don’t feel grounded in God’s grace—when we forget that we are loved—our troubles can spill over and become everyone else’s troubles too. And sometimes the reverse is true: other people’s anxieties spill over onto us.

Epiphany begins in that uncomfortable place: a troubled heart, a threatened ruler, a city that feels off-balance.

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[1] The Gospel: A Light That Disturbs

Wise men arrive in Jerusalem asking a simple question:

“Where is the newborn king of the Jews? We saw his star at its rising and have come to do him homage.”

Herod is deeply troubled—and not only him, but all of Jerusalem with him. A new light has appeared, and it does not answer to him.

Herod understands power. He understands governance. What he cannot tolerate is authority beyond his control. The star announces not merely a birth, but a rival claim—a Savior whose authority does not come from political office, military force, or human succession.

Herod does not object to light itself. He objects to light he cannot manage.

A star shines without his permission.
A child is named Savior without his consent.

This is why Epiphany unsettles us. It reveals not only that Christ is born, but who governs the light by which the world is ordered.

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[2] The Magi: Sign and Source

The Magi respond very differently.

They do not try to suppress the light or interrogate it. They follow it. The star—part of the created order—guides them. But when they arrive in Bethlehem, they do not bow to the star. They bow to the child.

This distinction matters.

The star is a sign.
Christ is the source.

Epiphany teaches us that the lights of this world—political authority, knowledge, wealth, technology—can guide us. They can help us navigate. But they cannot save us. They govern within limits. They do not originate meaning.

So the question Epiphany asks is not whether we will live by light—we will—but whether we will confuse signs with the source.

And it’s not just “out there.” It happens in here. Sometimes the truth is spoken to us by someone who loves us, someone trying to help us—and we want to switch that light off, because it challenges our control.

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[3] Gift Before Governance

Scripture makes this distinction very early.

An early Christian writer, Victorinus of Poetovio, noticed something easily overlooked in Genesis. On the first day, God creates light: “Let there be light.” Only later, on the fourth day, are the sun, moon, and stars created—the governors of light.

First comes the gift.
Then come the governors.

Light itself does not belong to what regulates it. It belongs to God.

And that helps us understand Herod’s fear. He is not dealing with a new governor. He is confronted with a source—a light he cannot turn on and off.

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[4] A Familiar Human Instinct

We see this instinct in ordinary life.

Years ago at a small family gathering, we joked about winter mornings growing up. My brother and I teased our father that the house felt so cold when we woke up—like living in a cave. We all laughed.

There was heat in the house. The question was not whether heat existed, but how much of it there should be.

And we recognize that debate. How high should the heat be set? Should it stay on all night? The same is true of lights: how bright, how dim, when to turn them on, when to turn them off.

These decisions are normal. But they reveal something deeper. Heat and light are gifts we depend on—yet almost immediately we start to regulate them, measure them, argue over their use.

The instinct isn’t completely wrong. We do have to govern things. But Scripture reminds us: what we govern is always something we first receive.

And Herod forgets that. He wants to govern the light as if he owns it.

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[5] The Gifts of the Magi: Human Powers Reordered

This is why the Magi bring gifts.

Pope Benedict XVI observed that the Magi represent not only distant lands, but different spheres of human life. Their gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—symbolize the whole of human existence offered back to God.

[Click Here for 2007 Epiphany Homily, Benedict XVI]

(https://www.vatican.va/content/benedict-xvi/en/homilies/2007/documents/hf_ben-xvi_hom_20070106_epifania.html)

Gold represents human skill, wealth, and ingenuity: science, technology, economic power. These are real goods. They save lives and shape the world. But they do not generate their own authority. Gold shines, but it reflects light it does not produce.

And this is where we have to be honest: sometimes our “gold” isn’t pristine. Sometimes it’s tarnished. Sometimes our gifts have been used poorly, or our hearts have become divided, or our priorities have become disordered.

Frankincense represents worship and authority. Leadership matters. Governance is necessary. But no leader is a savior. No office-holder is divine. What leaders need from us is not worship, but prayer—for wisdom, humility, and the courage to protect the vulnerable. Even kings kneel.

And even our prayer can feel imperfect. People sometimes say, “I’m not holy enough to come back to church,” or “I’m not good enough to pray.” But if you are here today, you are already doing what the Magi did: you came. Keep coming. Keep praying. Even imperfect prayer, offered sincerely, rises to God.

Myrrh points to human finitude (limitation). Our lives are limited. Our worth does not come from productivity, health, or strength, but from belonging to God. In Christ, we discover that no life is disposable—not in weakness, not in suffering, not even in death.

Each gift is good. Each becomes disordered when treated as a source rather than a gift.

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[6] Reconciliation: When the Gift Is Restored

And here is the mercy at the heart of all of this:

If our gifts can be tarnished, they can also be restored.

This is not just a nice thought. This is why Christ gives his Church the sacrament of penance and reconciliation.

Because sin does not merely break rules. Sin disorders love. It makes us clutch, control, hide, manipulate—like Herod. It makes us treat gifts as possessions, and people as instruments, and God as a rival.

But in confession, Christ does not discard us. He restores us.

We come bringing what is not pristine: what is cracked, what is heavy, what we regret, what we fear to name. And the Lord does not say, “You are no longer a gift.” He says, “Let me restore you as gift.”

That is why the sacrament is not humiliation—it is healing. It is a kind of spiritual resurrection. It is how we learn to die to sin, and live again in mercy.

And if Epiphany is about finding the source, then reconciliation is one of the ways we return to the source—so that the light is not only seen, but received.

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[7] Conclusion: Living by a Light We Do Not Own

Epiphany does not ask whether we will have light in our lives. We will.

It asks whether we will receive light as gift—or attempt to control it as though it originated with us.

Herod chooses control.
The Magi choose trust.

They return home by another way, because once the source is recognized, the path necessarily changes.

The Church does not produce light of her own. She receives it and keeps it visible.

Christ does not compete with the lights of this world. He orders them. He governs without diminishing what is truly good.

And when Christ is recognized not as a rival but as the source—when gift replaces fear—trouble gives way to worship.

And like the Magi, we return by another way.

Resolution (2026-01-01, Mary Mother of God)

__  Click here for Audio of Homily__ 

__  Click here for Mass on You Tube channel _

 [v_02]  January 1, 2026 – Solemnity of Mary, the Holy Mother of God

New Year’s Day: Resolution, Not Just Change

Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God

Many years ago, while planning a parish event with our beloved pastor, Monsignor Joe Petrillo, a group of us were trying to figure out which Fridays he might be available. We were focused on Fridays. So we asked him to look at his calendar and tell us which ones worked.

He looked up and said, with a smile,
“Well, I’m free on my birthday.”

Now, his birthday was a Friday that year—but that wasn’t really our question. Still, his answer made perfect sense. Because birthdays stand on their own. If someone asks you your birthday, you don’t tell them the day of the week you were born. You tell them the date. The date matters.

So do days like Christmas Day.
And New Year’s Day.

These days don’t need explanation. They invite us—almost insist—that we pause, look back, and look ahead.

And whenever we do that, we inevitably start thinking about change.

But not all change is the same.

This morning, I want to reflect on 3 ways we talk about change:
evolution, revolution, and resolution—
and why resolution, especially, describes the Christian life.

1. Evolution: Change Over Time

In science and biology, evolution describes gradual change over generations. The Church has never rejected this insight. She teaches that creation is dynamic—unfolding under God’s providence and guidance. And even as we speak about development, we are clear: the human soul is a direct gift from God.

Still, evolution is slow.
It happens whether we choose it or not.

Spiritually, many of us change this way. We age. We accumulate experience. We learn lessons—sometimes the hard way. Over time, some habits soften; others harden.

But time passing by itself does not make us disciples.
Evolution alone does not make us holy.

2. Revolution: Change Through Crisis

Then there is revolution—sudden, disruptive change, often born of crisis, injustice, or suffering.

The Church takes suffering seriously and always calls for justice. At the same time, she is cautious about revolutions, because one injustice can easily replace another. Even in society, resistance is justified only in extreme circumstances, and violence is never celebrated spiritually.

In our own lives, revolutions happen when trouble forces us to change: illness, loss, failure, fear.

Sometimes these moments wake us up.
Sometimes they leave us shaken—amazed, confused, even frozen.

In today’s Gospel, the shepherds experience something like this. They go in haste to Bethlehem. They see something extraordinary. And we are told that they are amazed.

But amazement alone does not last.

3. Mary and Resolution: Cooperation with God

Mary shows us something deeper.

While others are amazed, we are told that Mary treasures these things and ponders them in her heart.

Her amazement is not shallow or frightened.
It is patient.
It is receptive.
It cooperates with God’s action rather than trying to control it.

And this brings us to the third—and deepest—kind of change: resolution.

Resolution is not simply a New Year’s resolution that fades by February. In the spiritual life, resolution means a firm decision, sustained by grace, lived through cooperation with God’s will.

Saint Alphonsus Liguori reminds us that holiness does not come from mastering every circumstance, but from accepting God’s will—especially what God permits to happen.

So the real questions are these:
Do I resolve to accept what I cannot control?
My own frailty?
My limits?
The things in life that do not go according to plan?

Mary did not control the mystery entrusted to her.
She cooperated with it.

Resolution Lived: A Human Analogy

Every relationship teaches us something about this.

Relationships evolve over time.
They sometimes experience revolutionary moments.
But most of all, relationships are sustained by resolution.

Marriage is a good example.

Before a wedding, a relationship evolves. The wedding day itself can feel revolutionary—everything changes at once. But a marriage is not sustained by a single dramatic day. A marriage is sustained by resolution: a commitment renewed daily.

I remember being involved in my sister’s wedding. At the rehearsal, I was directing things the way I always did—“the bride stands here, the groom stands there.” And my sister gently corrected me and said, “Why can’t you just call us by our names?”

It was a small moment, but an important one. Marriage isn’t about an event. It’s about a relationship lived day after day.

That’s what Christian discipleship looks like too.
Every day can be a new beginning.
Every day can be a kind of New Year’s Day.

A Prayer for a Resolved Heart

Recently, at a funeral Mass here, I heard a prayer from the Franciscan tradition that beautifully captures what a Christian resolution really looks like.

It goes like this:

May God bless us with discomfort
at easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships, so that we may live deep within our hearts.

May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,
so that we may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless us with tearsto shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, hunger, and war,
so that we may reach out our hands to comfort them and turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless us with enough foolishness
to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done, to bring justice and kindness to all our children and the poor.

This is not a prayer asking for an easy year.
It is a prayer asking for a resolved heart.

Discomfort—not to make us bitter, but to wake us up.
Anger—not to make us violent, but to move us toward justice.
Tears—not to paralyze us, but to soften our hearts.
And foolishness—not recklessness, but Gospel courage.

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Beginning the New Year with Mary

On this first day of the year, we are not simply turning a page on the calendar. We are placing ourselves again under the care of Mary, the Mother of God.

She teaches us:
how to be amazed without being superficial,
how to change without becoming destructive,
how to resolve without relying on ourselves alone.

And so we begin this year with the ancient blessing from the Book of Numbers—words Monsignor Petrillo loved to use whenever someone asked him for a blessing, also the text of our 1^st reading today:

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.

Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us.
Teach us to ponder.
Teach us to trust.
Teach us to resolve.

And may this new year find us not merely changed by time or crisis,
but transformed by cooperation with God’s will.

Gimme Shelter (2025-12-28, Holy Family)

[v_04]      Holy Family Sunday. "Gimme Shelter"

1. Family as Refuge

When something feels wrong—when something feels not quite right—we often run toward the people who love us.

And for most of us, that place of refuge is the family.  (Robert Frost quote from Death of the Hired Man: “home is the place where when you go there, they have to take you in.” But do they have to feed you?)

Family is where we expect to be noticed.
It is where we hope someone will listen to us, care about us, listen to the same stories again and again, and protect us.
Families are not perfect, but they are meant to be places of safety in an uncertain world.

2. Joseph Who Notices and Acts

The Gospel today shows us a family like that—a family that notices danger and responds.
Joseph is warned in a dream that the Child Jesus is in danger.
He does not argue.
He does not delay.
He gets up in the night, takes Mary and the Child, and leaves.

Joseph never speaks in the Gospels, but his actions speak clearly:
quiet holiness,
watchfulness,
protectiveness.

And Joseph is not the first man in the Bible or even the only 1 named “Joseph” to follow God’s plan of salvation this way.

3. The First Joseph: Salvation Through Family

Long before the Joseph of the Gospel, there was another Joseph—an earlier Joseph—in the Book of Genesis.

This was the Joseph many of us remember as “the amazing technicolor dreamcoat” Joseph and son of Jacob.

Sold into slavery by his brothers, sent away with no protection, he eventually rises to become a trusted official in Egypt.
When famine strikes his family, Joseph saves them.
He becomes the family member who preserves them—and in that sense explains why the Jewish people are even in Egypt at all.

In both stories, when danger comes, salvation comes through family.

4. Strangers, Circumstance, and Responsibility

Recently, I was reminded of the difference between strangers and family.
I thought my car wouldn’t start in the cold and assumed I needed a jump.

I approached another car—a pickup truck with snow blowers in the back—but I couldn’t gain his attention.
It was dark, the weather was difficult, we were in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and he seemed preoccupied—already on the phone, his truck running, clearly on the move.

Eventually, my car started on its own—I had been mistaken about needing the jump.

But the moment stayed with me, because it reminded me of something simple and true:  family creates responsibility.

Love makes us notice.

5. The Instinct to Protect

On this Feast of the Holy Family, the Church places before us a family that notices danger and responds without hesitation.
Joseph hears the warning and acts—no speeches, no delay, just faithful action.

That instinct to protect a child is still alive today—in you and in me.

Just yesterday, a priest from Seton Hall University was here with his extended family—about 50 relatives gathered downstairs.
While they were there, I was upstairs and thought I was alone.
Then a 5 -year-old child came up from downstairs, out this door and headed toward the street.

I followed her—not wanting to scare her, but not wanting to leave her alone.
Within a minute, relatives were everywhere, including her parents.
Everything turned out fine.
She had lost 1 shoe in the snow but even knew how to put it back on.

I know you would have done the same thing.

No one needed instructions.
We simply knew that a child should not be left alone.

That instinct is virtuous.
It is holy.
It is God’s law written on the human heart.

6. Roots, Routine, and Growth

Children need that kind of care in order to grow.
They need roots—not from wealth or perfect circumstances, but from daily fidelity:
routines,
shared meals,
bedtimes and wake-up times,
being told “yes” and “no” at the right moments.

Love does not always give us what we want.
Love helps us grow.

7. The Family as a School of Mercy

The readings today remind us that family life matters deeply to God.
Sirach tells us that honoring parents brings blessing.
The Psalm describes children flourishing like young plants.
Saint Paul reminds us that family life is where compassion, patience, forgiveness, and love are learned—slowly, imperfectly, but truly.

In family life, we often learn to forgive selflessly, without expecting anything in return except the good of the family.
Outside the family—with a boss, coworker, or neighbor—we may forgive in order to be seen as generous or humble.
That is not a bad reason to forgive, but it is incomplete when compared with Christian mercy, which mirrors God’s own forgiveness.

8. Learning Holiness Gradually

Sometimes people ask why we pray to Mary and Joseph at all.
Why not just go straight to Jesus?

And of course, we do go straight to Jesus—always.  But God gives us the Holy Family not as replacements for Christ, but as teachers—examples who show us how to live with Him.

If we knew every responsibility ahead of time, we might never accept our calling.
God works with us gradually.
Mary and Joseph show us how to bring Jesus into the world, protect Him, search for Him when He seems lost, and remain faithful when life is uncertain.

Jesus Himself chose to grow this way—quietly, obediently, in a family.
He revealed Himself gradually, and one of the first ways He showed us who He was
was by being obedient to His mother and foster father.

9. Noticing the Vulnerable Today

The Gospel also speaks honestly about danger.  Herod targeted children.
The Holy Family fled because innocent life was threatened.

Today, danger can be hidden behind careful language or legal terms, but the question remains simple:
Do we notice when children are vulnerable?
Do we respond when they are at risk—born or unborn?

If we would not ignore a child walking alone into danger, then we are called to be aware of situations where the smallest and most defenseless are left unprotected.

10. Ordinary Love, Lived Faithfully

The Holy Family shows us that holiness is not dramatic. It is lived in ordinary decisions made faithfully:  meals prepared, children watched over, difficult choices made quietly out of love.

On this Feast of the Holy Family, the Church does not give us a perfect family.
She gives us a faithful one.
And she reminds us that holiness—real holiness—is most often achieved not by extraordinary actions,
but by ordinary love, lived well.

May the Holy Family teach us, as individuals and as families, how to notice, how to protect, and how to love.

 

Not Home Alone (2025-12-25, Christmas)

 [v.6] Christmas 2025  “Not Home Alone”

He Took the Child and His Mother Into His Home

At Christmas, many of us naturally think about home—the places where we grew up, the tables where we gathered, the people who felt like family. For me, Christmas meant being close: cousins who felt like brothers and sisters, houses near enough that when one table was too small, we simply made room. Those memories remind me that home is not about perfection. It is about belonging.

And into all of that—our memories, our longing, our complicated feelings—Christmas announces something very simple and very daring:

God wants a home among us.

Not a palace.
Not a place of prestige.
But a home.

The Gospel tells us that when Joseph awoke from his dream, “he did as the angel of the Lord had commanded him and took his wife into his home.” In that quiet sentence is one of the most important acts in the history of salvation. Joseph makes room. He allows his life to be rearranged so that God can dwell with him.

Joseph does not begin by understanding everything. He does not begin by feeling worthy. Scripture suggests the opposite. Joseph is afraid—not because Mary has failed him, but because the mystery entrusted to him feels too great.

And yet, Christmas happens because Joseph does not run from that fear.
He does not close the door.
He opens his home.

That is how God enters the world—not by force, but by invitation.
And that is still how Christ comes to us.

So many people think that to welcome Christ, we must first get our lives in order. Once things are calmer. Once relationships are healed. Once faith feels stronger. Then Christ will feel at home with us.

But Christmas tells us something else.

Christ does not wait for us to feel at home in ourselves.
He comes precisely because we are not.

He comes into a borrowed stable.
He comes into a family on the move.
He comes into a world where there is no room at the inn.

And by doing so, He teaches us that home is not something we achieve.
It is something we receive.

In a few moments, we will profess the mystery of faith:
“We proclaim your Death, O Lord, and profess your Resurrection, until you come again.”

The Church has always taught that Christmas is not only about Christ’s coming in history, long ago in Bethlehem. Nor is it only about His coming in glory at the end of time. Christmas also celebrates Christ coming quietly, daily, into the ordinary spaces of our lives.

The question Christmas places before us is not, “Do you understand this mystery?”
The question is, “Will you make room?”

Many years ago, before I was a priest, I traveled frequently for business and occasionally received upgrades to first class. I mentioned this to friends and family, expecting to impress them.

They were not impressed.

Most of my flights were very short—Newark to Washington, D.C., or Newark to Boston. “Big deal,” they said.

They were right. But one flight stood out. On a summer trip to Washington, I saw Patrick Ewing—the longtime center for the New York Knicks—sitting in first class. We didn’t sit together. He didn’t notice me at all.

What made it feel important to me was not only being near him, but the confidence I had that I knew where he was going and why. As a basketball fan, I knew his ties to Georgetown University in D.C. and assumed he was heading there to train. Somehow, that knowledge—combined with proximity—felt like it had value. As if knowing something about a famous person, and being briefly near him, signified—or at least stated—what I thought my status was.

Looking back, it’s almost embarrassing. I placed value on a “connection” that was completely superficial—being near someone of status who was entirely indifferent to my presence.

And yet, how often do we do something similar? We attach our sense of worth not only to what we have, but to what we think we know—to access, proximity, or recognition. We confuse being near something impressive with truly belonging.

Christmas reveals the opposite kind of truth.

The Lord comes to travel with us—not to impress us, but to know us.
He does not remain indifferent to our presence.
He comes so that we might finally come home.

Scripture cautions us that wealth and abundance are not always signs of blessing. One of the clearest examples is King Solomon. When God invited him to ask for anything, Solomon asked only for wisdom. God granted that request—and also gave him great riches.

But Scripture tells us that those riches became his downfall. Deuteronomy had warned Israel’s kings not to multiply gold, wives, or horses, because excess would turn the heart away from God. Solomon ignored those warnings. His heart became divided. His kingdom fractured. And in the end, the wisest man in Israel could only describe life as “vanity”—meaningless—despite all he possessed.

Christmas reminds us that God does not come to overwhelm us with possessions.
He comes to restore our hearts.

Pope Benedict XVI once warned that Christmas can become transactional when we try to measure love or keep score. God chooses our vulnerability in order to give us His fullness. When we forget that, even generosity can become cautious or conditional.

But love—real love—does not come with a receipt.

Parents know this. Caregivers know this. Anyone who has loved deeply knows this. We give without counting the cost, not because it is efficient, but because it is human—and divine.

And this is what God does at Christmas.
God gives without guarantees.
God gives Himself.

When Joseph takes Mary and the child into his home, he shows us what it means to belong to the household of God.

The Church, at her best, is meant to be a home like that—not perfect, not free from tension, but a place where people are prayed for and slowly learn how to receive one another.

The Church is not where we go because we already belong.
It is where we learn that we belong.

That is why Christmas matters so much. So many people today feel spiritually homeless—busy, successful, connected—and yet unsettled.

Christmas does not solve every problem.
But it does tell us where home is to be found.

Home is found where Christ is welcomed.
Home is found where fear does not have the final word.
Home is found where love is given freely.

At Christmas, Christ comes again—not in majesty, not in spectacle, but in humility. He comes asking for room. Room in our hearts. Room in our families. Room in our unfinished lives.

Like Joseph, we may feel unprepared.
Like Joseph, we may feel afraid.

But like both Mary and Joseph, we can choose to open the door.

And when we do, we may discover that Christ has been preparing a home for us all along.