Proclaimer. Prisoner. Precursor (2025-12-14, Advent 3rd)

 [__v.6_]     2025-12-14  “Advent 3^rd Sunday homily”

Matthew 3:1–12 Proclaimers, Prisoners, and Precursors of Christ

Homily — Gaudete Sunday

Every so often, a letter arrives in the mail in a plain white envelope with an official seal. It invites us to perform an important civic duty at the county courthouse: jury service. I remember receiving one years ago. I opened it with that familiar mix of curiosity and dread. I knew instantly that my time was no longer entirely my own. My schedule would be interrupted. Someone else’s crisis — someone else’s need for justice — was now entering my life uninvited.

There’s something humbling about that. You don’t explicitly volunteer for jury duty. You’re summoned. And once summoned, you must reorder your time. You show up when told. You wait. You listen. You stay.

This experience has stayed with me, and during Advent it reminds me of the voice of John the Baptist crying out in the wilderness. His message interrupts ordinary life: Prepare. Repent. The Lord is near. God is claiming your time — your calendar, your priorities.

When I reported to the courthouse, I was led into the jury deliberation room. If you’ve ever seen one, you know the feeling: no windows, phones gone, quiet and closed. The door clicks shut. The outside world recedes. You are not free to come and go. You are there for a purpose.

That room taught me something important: sometimes we must be stopped in order to see clearly. Time itself becomes a kind of enclosure — not a punishment, but a protection — so that truth can be faced honestly.

Advent places us in such a space. And today, Gaudete Sunday, reminds us that even this pause is ordered toward joy.

 

1. Proclaimers — Making Time to Listen

First, we are proclaimers. John appears suddenly in today’s Gospel proclaiming God’s justice without hesitation. He refuses to flatter or presume readiness. Last Sunday, the Pharisees and Sadducees assumed their position exempted them from conversion. Advent corrects that temptation.

To proclaim God’s Word, we must first make time to listen. In the jury room, you don’t invent the law — you receive it. And as disciples, we do not invent the Gospel; we receive it.

The Church helps us by claiming time for God in concrete ways: Sunday Mass, seasons like Advent and Lent, and at least once a year, confession. Advent is a wonderful time to go to confession. Proclamation begins not with speaking, but with listening — and listening costs time. Silence costs time. Prayer costs time. Mass costs time. It is an investment.

St. James tells us today: Be patient. Strengthen your hearts, for the coming of the Lord is near. This patience is disciplined time, reclaimed from distraction and offered back to God.

I struggle with this too. It’s easy to be drawn into endless scrolling or videos that quietly claim our time. But when we set aside even fifteen deliberate minutes — without the phone, without noise — we allow the Word to judge us before we judge anything else. Only then can we proclaim truth with integrity.

 

2. Prisoners — Allowing God to Restrain and Purify

Second, we are prisoners — willing prisoners. John’s proclamation eventually lands him in an actual prison. He loses his freedom because he refuses to bend the truth to convenience or power. His imprisonment reminds us that fidelity has a cost, and often that cost is time.

Most of us will never be jailed for the Gospel. But every disciple is asked to enter a temporary captivity: allowing God to restrain us, interrupt us, and purify us according to His timetable rather than our own.

This is why the Church gives us seasons of penance and preparation. Lent. Advent. Every Friday. These are not arbitrary rules. They are structured pauses — moments when the door closes and we remain with God long enough for something real to happen.

I want to say a word especially to younger people. It’s easy to assume you’ll always know what day it is. But there will be times — illness, grief, exhaustion, even seasons like the pandemic — when days blur together. The Church’s rhythms help us remember what day it is. Friday penance. Sunday worship. These patterns form us when life disorients us.

Fasting and abstinence are time-based acts. They teach us to wait, to endure hunger without immediately satisfying it, to sit with desire without obeying it. In doing so, they free us from the illusion that every impulse must be indulged at once.

How often do we respond with both promptness and completeness to what God is asking of us? And I don’t mean simply showing up for Mass or attending a funeral, or doing our homework in school. These “obligations” do claim our time — but they are meant to reorder the rest of our lives, placing us on God’s time, not our own.

We postpone conversion. We delay forgiveness. We avoid admitting we are wrong. Avoidance feels like freedom — for a while. But true freedom comes after the verdict, after we submit ourselves to the truth.

John shows us that even a prison cell, when accepted in faith, can become a place of clarity and hope. Isaiah promises that God strengthens weak hands and steadies fearful hearts. Time spent in prayer is never wasted. It prepares us for joy.

 

3. Precursors — Learning to Mark Time with Hope

Finally, John is the precursor — the one who goes before the Lord. Even from prison, his life points beyond himself. To be a precursor today is to learn how to mark time. We fast so that we may feast. We wait so that joy may deepen. We accept restraint now so that hope may grow.

Advent teaches us this rhythm week by week, candle by candle. We guard time, and God’s time guards us. John’s life proclaims the truth about time: He must increase; I must decrease.

This Sunday is called Gaudete Sunday — a word that doesn’t translate easily. It doesn’t mean superficial brightness. True rejoicing is deeper. It is the joy that comes from trusting that God is already at work, even now.

We are called to be proclaimers — giving God our time so His Word may dwell in us richly. We are called to be willing prisoners — allowing seasons of restraint to renew us. And we are called to be precursors — living with patience and hope that point others toward Christ.

May John the Baptist teach us that time surrendered to God becomes the path by which joy arrives.

Immaculate Conception: Who's in charge? (2025-12-08)

 HOMILY – IMMACULATE CONCEPTION 2025

Theme: Who Is in Charge?

[00] Forgetting Who Is in Charge — Adam and Eve

In our first reading from Genesis, Adam and Eve hide in the Garden because they are afraid. But they are not just afraid of punishment—they suddenly remember who is really in charge. They realize that life is not meant to be lived on their terms but on God’s terms.

Recently, during our religious education classes downstairs, a small child recognized me and said, “You’re the man from church!” I smiled and said, “Well, you do see me in church… but I’m not the man upstairs.” God is in charge.

Adam and Eve forgot this.
Mary remembered it.
And today’s feast celebrates that difference.

[01] The Police Chief at the Door — A Sign of Authority Changing Hands

A little while ago, I attended a retirement celebration for the outgoing police chief in West Orange. It was a big event—well over 200 people, a packed banquet hall, a full program, dignitaries, speeches, applause.

What struck me most was something simple: the guest of honor – the retiring police chief was working the front door.
He greeted people as they arrived, shook hands as they departed, and made sure everyone felt welcomed. I actually never spoke to him inside the larger crowd—there were too many people—but I did see him faithfully holding that door.

It was a powerful image:
The man who once carried authority… now serving the guests.
The leader… now standing aside.
The one in charge… now handing over the reins.

Leadership changes.
Human authority passes from one person to another.
But God’s authority—God’s role in salvation—never shifts, never retires, never diminishes.

And today’s feast tells us something even more profound: our salvation began not with human initiative but with God’s initiative.

[02] Why the Immaculate Conception Matters

The doctrine of the Immaculate Conception is sometimes misunderstood as a complicated theological ornament. But at its heart, it is very simple:
God is in charge of salvation from the first moment.

That is why doctrine matters—not to elevate Mary above Jesus or to turn her into some kind of goddess, but to remind us that salvation is God’s project, God’s design, God’s grace.

Mary is the sign that God acts first. God prepares first. God loves first.
As Ineffabilis Deus says, Mary was preserved from original sin “in the first instance of her conception” by a singular grace—a grace that came from Christ, the Savior, ahead of time.

Her Immaculate Conception shows us who directs the story of salvation.
And it isn’t us.

[03] The Incarnation and Mary’s Immaculate Beginning

Could God have saved us some other way?
Of course—God is not limited.

But God chose the Incarnation.
He chose to reveal Himself in the flesh.
He chose a real human mother for His Son.

And if Jesus is fully divine and fully human—if He takes His human nature from Mary—then Mary must give Him human nature untouched by sin, a humanity capable of carrying divinity itself.

Just as Adam and Eve were created without original sin before the fall, Mary is created anew—redeemed in advance—to be the mother of the Redeemer.

So Mary’s immaculate beginning is not a decoration.
It is a foundation stone.
It is God saying:
“I am in charge of this story, from the first moment.”

[04] Mary’s Perfect Obedience and Trust

Now, does being immaculately conceived mean Mary’s life was free of difficulty or confusion? Far from it.

At the Annunciation, Gabriel’s greeting “Hail, full of grace” was followed by a mission that she did not fully grasp. Her immaculate heart was completely aligned with God’s will—yet she still walked through uncertainty, suffering, and sorrow.

Think of Cana: Mary notices the couple’s embarrassment and quietly brings it to Jesus. This is not disagreement—it is intercession. It is a mother confident in her Son’s divine authority. She knows who is in charge and trusts Him with the problem.

At the Cross, her heart is pierced—not because she doubts God’s plan, but because love suffers with the beloved. Mary always knew her Son was Lord of creation. She never forgot.

Where Eve hesitated, Mary said “yes.”
Where Adam hid, Mary stood at the foot of the Cross.
Where humanity failed, grace triumphed.

[05] Our Destiny Beyond Our Origins

And what about us?
Can our destination—our destiny—move beyond the limits of our origins, our struggles, our family history, our past?

Yes. Because Mary’s Immaculate Conception reminds us that God’s initiative precedes our effort.
We are not defined by our weakness.
We are not imprisoned by our mistakes.
We are not destined only for this world.

We crave material comforts. I certainly do—especially the “ideal temperature” everywhere I go! But the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception is not meant to make us comfortable; it is meant to point us upward.

God gives us the sacraments—Baptism, Confirmation, the Eucharist, Penance, Anointing, Matrimony, Holy Orders—not just to mark moments here on earth but to prepare us for heaven.

A wise seminary mentor once told future priests:
“Your priesthood is given not simply so you can serve on earth—but so you can get to heaven.”

The same is true for all of us.
Our vocation—our discipleship—is ultimately a path toward God.

---

[06] Mary, First Disciple and Model of Grace

Mary cooperated with God as the first disciple of her Son.
She is our model of openness, humility, grace-filled freedom, and trust.

She is the first parishioner of the Church, the first to hear and believe the Word, the first to intercede—not only at Cana but now, and at the hour of our death.

Today we honor her Immaculate Conception not as a distant doctrine but as a living reminder:
God is in charge—of our salvation, our destiny, and our future.

May Mary, full of grace, help us say “yes” with the same trust that she did.
[end]

 

Finding What's Missing (2025-12-07, Advent)

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 [v_202]       2025-12-07  “Advent 2^nd Sunday homily”

“Finding What’s Missing… and the Courage to Let John Speak”  Matthew 3:1–12

[1] The Rhythm of Advent

On these 4 Sundays of Advent, the readings at Mass and liturgy follow a consistent pattern, year after year.
1^st Sunday—last week—looks to the 2^nd Coming of Jesus at the end of time, reminding us to stay awake because the Lord will return.
2^nd Sunday—today—is always about John the Baptist appearing in the desert, calling us to prepare the way.
3^rd Sunday - next Sunday, on Gaudete Sunday, John steps aside so Christ can take center stage.
4^th Sunday - Advent brings us to the Annunciation and Mary’s “yes.”

So today we meet John as he calls people to repentance. The Gospel also mentions two groups—the Pharisees and Sadducees—often spoken of together even though they were quite different.

[2] Pharisees, Sadducees, and What Was Missing

The Pharisees were the “separated ones,” dedicated to holiness. Their danger was that zeal for holiness could slip into appearances rather than conversion of heart.
The Sadducees were the priestly, aristocratic class, deeply tied to the Temple. They denied the resurrection, angels, and much of the supernatural. Their danger was becoming so rational that they lost the hope God had promised.

John calls out both groups—not to shame them, but to reveal that something is missing.
He sends the same message to us: look honestly and courageously at the gaps in your spiritual life.

John is blunt, yes. But he is not raging. He is courageous. And courage comes from the Latin cor—the heart. True courage is not anger; it is clarity spoken from the heart.

If someone shouts “Fire!” we do not blame them for being harsh. Their urgency is compassion. Their clarity is mercy.
John shouts because Christ is near, and he wants us to see what we may have misplaced—repentance, prayer, forgiveness, or even simple awareness of God’s presence.

[3] Rediscovering What We Didn’t Know Was Missing

Recently I found a book in my house that I was convinced I had lost. It’s an autobiography by Pat Conroy called My Losing Season. My cousin had been urging me to read it for years. I finally bought it, put it aside, and then forgot entirely where I had placed it.

When I found it again—buried under a stack of other books—it had the same honesty and clarity as his others. And the theme is right in the title: loss, defeat, sorrow, and the surprising wisdom that can come from them.

Sometimes we learn more from losing than from winning.

John the Baptist appears in the Gospel almost like rediscovering that book.
He gathers together “all the books” of the Law and Prophets.
He is both the last Old Testament prophet and the first New Testament voice.
He holds together sorrow and hope, loss and promise.
John helps us rediscover something in our faith that we may not even know is missing.

[4] The Other Readings: A Single Message

The other Advent readings today echo John with a unified theme.
Isaiah promises a Messiah whose justice will restore peace.
The Psalm prays for justice to flourish and peace to abound.
Saint Paul reminds us that Scripture strengthens our hope so that we may live in harmony.

All three point toward the same truth John proclaims in the desert: God is doing something new, so prepare your heart.

[5] Honest Signs of What’s Missing

Most of us don’t go through the day thinking, “I know exactly what’s missing in my spiritual life.”
What we notice instead is irritation, impatience, anxiety. We say, “That’s just me,” and we move on. But those are often signs of a deeper absence.

I once prayed every day for someone who was very difficult for me. At the end of the month, that person hadn’t changed at all. But I had changed. I noticed peace where there had been resentment.
John’s mission is to help us name those missing pieces and create room for Christ to fill them.

[6] How We Prepare: Small Acts of Courage

So how do we prepare? Not with dramatic gestures, but with simple acts of discipline, small acts of cor, of the heart.

• Smile when you don’t feel like smiling.
That is not deception; it is discipline, a little way of laying down your life.

• Pray for the person who frustrates you.
Often the first change is the change inside of you.

• Choose silence instead of the quick comeback.
(And yes, I love the quick comeback!)
But sometimes the path that needs straightening is the path inside our own hearts.

These are small acts, but they make real space for Christ.
They prepare the road for Him just as surely as John prepared the road in the desert.

[7] John’s Voice and Our Response

John’s voice is not meant to frighten us; it is meant to clarify us.
He does not bring shame; he brings courage.
He does not ask us to wait passively for God to “find us.”
He calls us to act, to prepare, to repent, to notice what we have misplaced or forgotten.

John is the friend who tells you the hard truth because he loves you.
His shout is mercy. His urgency is compassion.
And his message is simple: “There is more to your story. Something is missing. Let’s find it together.”

[8] Conclusion: Making Room for Christ

The good news of Advent is not only that Jesus is coming, but that He desires to enter the places in our lives where something is missing—perhaps something we forgot, misplaced, or thought was lost completely.

John calls us to prepare—not by waiting, but by acting.
By small disciplines. By honest courage. By opening a little more room in the heart.

This week, let us allow John the Baptist to help us find what is missing and prepare the way for the One who desires to enter the very center of our lives, if we make room for Him.

Wake-Up (2025-11-30, Advent 1st Sunday)

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 [__v_07_]      2025-11-30  “Advent 1^st Sunday” ● + Matthew 24:37-44●●

Advent’s Wake-Up Call

St. Paul tells us, “Wake up” — and to do so “at an hour you do not expect.”
And Advent begins exactly there: often in the dark, and with themes we might not expect, especially when the world around us is already celebrating Christmas.

Outside, the days grow short. Inside, we strike a match and light a single candle. It doesn’t seem like much, but a tiny flame can change everything.

Advent is not the pre-game warm-up to the actual playing at Christmas; rather, Advent begins in overtime, reminding us how important every choice is, how much every moment matters.

And Jesus’ message is not meant to frighten us. It is meant to wake us — to help us notice what we may have been sleeping through and to open our hearts to His quiet light.

A small example brought this home to me. One evening I parked my car and assumed everything was off. The next morning the battery was dead. One tiny interior light had been left on — almost unnoticeable — yet it drained the entire battery.

Isn’t that how our inner life works?
A small worry, a quiet resentment, or a hidden habit can keep burning in the background, draining the heart little by little.

Even here at church, with all our candles, we can spend so much time managing the lights around us that we forget the One who wants to bring light within us — the light of faith, hope, and charity that only God can kindle.

And so Advent gently asks us:
What lights am I leaving on that are draining me? And what light of Christ do I need to let Him turn on within me?

This brings us directly to today’s Gospel.

---

1. Ordinary Life, Hidden Choice

Jesus says, “As it was in the days of Noah, so it will be at the coming of the Son of Man.”

Life was normal then: people eating, drinking, marrying — living their routines, doing what everyone does.
Nothing seemed unusual… until suddenly everything changed.

Then Jesus gives us two brief scenes:

·        two people in a field — one taken, one left

·        two women grinding at the mill — one taken, one left

From the outside, they are doing the same work.
But inside, something is different:

One heart is awake to God.
The other is drifting through the motions.

Advent puts this question before each of us:
Am I becoming spiritually awake or spiritually inattentive?

Jesus does not ask us to abandon ordinary life.
He asks us to live it in Him — alert to His presence in the very routines where we assume nothing spiritual is happening.

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2. When Our Lights Don’t Work

Our own attempts to “light ourselves up” don’t always cooperate.
We adjust holiday decorations, screens, and glowing devices.
Even in church, we think about candles — whether they’re lit at the right times, burning too quickly, or needing to be replaced.

All of that is fine.
But these things can fool us into thinking we control the light.

The deeper light — the light we truly need — is God’s work in us.
It cannot be manufactured; only received.

And that brings us back to the car interior light.

One tiny bulb, left on all night, quietly drained all the energy the car had.

In the same way:

·        a quiet resentment glowing inside,

·        a worry running constantly in the background,

·        a habit we allow because it seems “small,”

can slowly drain the soul.

Advent invites us to notice these small interior lights — not to shame us, but to free us.

What little lights are draining me?
What lights of God have I left switched off?

---

3. Artificial Light and True Light

Some lights glitter brightly but do not satisfy:

·        constant notifications,

·        scrolling and comparing,

·        entertainment that fills silence but not the heart.

They aren’t evil; they are diversions.
But St. Francis de Sales warns: distractions refresh us only when they are brief.
When they dominate our time, they begin to consume us —
just like that tiny car light that kept burning until the battery was gone.

Then there are the lights that do not glitter but endure:

·        time truly listening to family,

·        time spent with someone who is sick or lonely,

·        a moment of prayer that re-centers the heart,

·        the honest work of our vocation,

·        reading the Gospel quietly, letting it speak.

These are the lights God uses to prepare us for His coming.
These are the lights that never fail, even when life grows dark.

---

4. Choosing to Stay Awake

Recently we reflected on two figures who made the right choice in life’s “overtime”:

·        the Good Thief looking at Jesus, saying, “Remember me,”

·        the Samaritan leper turning back to give thanks.

Neither could undo the past.
Neither lived a perfect life.
But in the moment that mattered, they chose Christ.

Today’s Gospel gives us no named character.
Instead, Jesus gives us two people going about their daily tasks — one ready, one not.

Readiness is not dramatic.
It is formed quietly, in hidden choices, in the interior life where God alone sees.

Advent whispers to us:
Let the Lord find you among those who are awake — not perfect, not finished, just awake.

Awake to His voice.
Awake to His mercy.
Awake to His presence in the daily, unnoticed moments of life.

---

5. A Simple Advent Plan

What might this waking-up look like?

1. A daily “check of the lights.”

Each evening ask:
“Lord, what drained me today? What did You try to light within me?”
Then entrust both to Him.

2. One small act of watchfulness.

A short prayer.
A decade of the Rosary.
A few minutes of silence in the car without the radio.
A quiet visit to the Blessed Sacrament.
Small lamps — but connected to the right power source.

3. A step toward Reconciliation.

If it has been some time, Advent is a gentle season to return.
Like the Good Thief, we simply say, “I have sinned,”
and Jesus answers with mercy.

---

Conclusion: Let God Turn On the Light

As we begin this new liturgical year, Jesus does not ask us to predict the future.
He asks us to stay awake to His presence now.

He does not ask us to be anxious — only attentive.
He does not ask us to generate our own light — only to receive His.

So when you look at the Advent wreath, notice how early the evening comes —
but also remember that the dawn of the true King is approaching.
His light is already breaking through the night.

And so we pray with Paul’s words from Romans 13:

“You know the time.
It is the hour now for you to wake from sleep.
For our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed.
The night is far gone; the day is at hand.
Let us cast off the works of darkness
and put on the armor of light.”

May this Advent find us awake, expectant, and walking in His light.

Circuitous. Ceremonious. Curious (2025-11-27, USA Thanksgiving)

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2025-11-27  Homily for Thanksgiving Day – Luke 17:11–19

Homily for Thanksgiving Day – Luke 17:11–19

Circuitous, Ceremonious, Curious: The Path of Gratitude and the Advent That Begins at the End

Each year on this national day of Thanksgiving, we gather with hearts full—full of memories, full of blessings, full of prayers, full of plans for those we love, and yes, sometimes full of emotions we don’t quite know how to name. But as we listen to today’s Gospel, we discover something important: Thanksgiving is not just a national holiday. It is a Gospel category, the very heart of the Eucharist. The word Eucharist means thanksgiving.

And this Gospel of the ten lepers gives us a pattern for how God often works:
circuitous, ceremonious, and finally curious, opening us to the surprising paths of His grace.

1. A Circuitous Path

When I first came to Our Lady of Lourdes, I remember Monsignor Joseph Petrillo giving me driving directions—all the possible routes I could take from here to St. Barnabas Medical Center if I were visiting someone.

I could go up Eagle Rock Avenue and make a left on Prospect.
Or I could go down Main Street to Mount Pleasant, take that up to Gregory, and over to Northfield Avenue.
Or I could go all the way down Main Street and pick up Northfield directly.

This was all before GPS and navigation in the car. I didn’t need GPS—I had Monsignor Petrillo.

And sometimes Thanksgiving Day feels like that—a circuitous route just to get here. Maybe you misplaced your keys and had to take a detour through your apartment. Maybe the traffic was all over the place. But there are also deeper circuitous routes we take in life.

And Jesus takes such a route today.
Luke tells us that Jesus was “on the way to Jerusalem,” but then adds something surprising:
He goes north through Samaria and Galilee.

Imagine you’re at the Thanksgiving Day Parade in Manhattan this morning, and you need to get back to West Orange… and then you decide to go north toward the George Washington Bridge and come back on the other side of the river. That’s what Jesus does. Ultimately, He’s headed south on the parkway—toward Jerusalem—but first He goes north.

God does not draw straight lines.
Our lives resemble this.

We go “the long way around,” through unexpected changes in family, friendships, health, or responsibilities. Some detours we choose; others are thrust upon us. But these detours are not empty. They are often the very places where God meets us, precisely because we realize—we are not in control.

I experienced such a detour long before I was thinking about the priesthood. I was traveling home from Washington, D.C. after a work assignment. This was the era before smartphones and mobile boarding passes. I got on the plane at Reagan National Airport with a paper ticket, sat down, and simply wanted to get home, have dinner with friends, and enjoy a normal weekend. The only priest I expected to see was at Mass on Sunday—two days later.

Then, unexpectedly, a priest from my hometown parish sat down right next to me. He wasn’t on vacation; he had been in Washington for a confidential meeting regarding a major transition in his ministry. As we spoke, he entrusted me with details that his own parish did not yet know—that he would soon be leaving for a new assignment in service to the U.S. bishops.

I had not asked for that conversation. I was not discerning priesthood. I was not thinking about the Church’s internal affairs. But in that circuitous moment—an unexpected seatmate on a routine flight—God opened a small window into the priesthood and planted a seed I did not yet understand.

St. John Henry Newman once wrote that God often dispenses blessings “silently and secretly, so that we do not discern them at the moment except by faith.”
Only later did I realize the airplane seat assignment was a detour I was supposed to take—God’s invitation to me.

---

2. A Ceremonious Faith

The Gospel then moves from the circuitous to the ceremonious.
Jesus sends the ten lepers to show themselves to the priests, as the Law prescribed. This was not an empty formality; it was the ceremony that restored them to the community.

Ceremony has purpose.
Ritual situates us.
Ritual claims us.
Ritual reminds us who we are—not just as individuals, but as a people.

On this Thanksgiving Day, we give thanks for the rituals that bind us as families and as a Church—gathering around the table, breaking bread, praying together, coming to the Eucharist.

Our faith is not simply emotional. It is embodied—in gestures, words, seasons, and sacraments.
We need this ceremonious dimension—not as a substitute for faith, but as the soil where faith grows.

And yet, as Scripture shows us today, ceremony alone is not enough.

---

3. A Curious Heart

Only one leper returns to Jesus—the Samaritan, the outsider, the one furthest from Jerusalem both geographically and religiously. He alone is curious enough to return, praising God with a loud voice and falling at Jesus’ feet.

Spiritual curiosity is not idle speculation.
It is the willingness to ask:

“What is God doing here?
Even in this inconvenience?
Even in this detour?”

It is the openness to see blessing where others see interruption.
It is the courage to return, to reconsider, to be transformed.

All ten lepers followed the instructions.
All ten participated in the ceremony.
But only the Samaritan sought the face behind the blessing.

Only he discovers that healing becomes salvation
when gratitude becomes relationship.

So too for us: true Thanksgiving requires this curiosity, this interior movement that asks:

“Lord, where are You in this?
What grace are You giving me that I cannot yet see?”

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4. Gratitude for the Unexpected

On this Thanksgiving Day, some of us may find ourselves at tables where not every conversation will be comfortable. Some people may feel like the last ones we want to see. Yet God’s grace often works through precisely these situations.

The people who challenge us, frustrate us, or remind us of our limitations…
sometimes these are the very places where God is doing a hidden work—
just as He did on that unexpected airplane,
or through the Samaritan who shocked everyone by being the only one to return.

Thanksgiving asks us to be grateful not only for the gifts we recognize,
but also for the graces we do not yet understand.

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5. Turning Toward Advent: The Beginning at the End

And today, as we celebrate Thanksgiving, we stand on the threshold of Advent.
Advent begins, paradoxically, with the end—
the end of the liturgical year,
the end of time,
the end of life as we know it.

Before turning our gaze toward Bethlehem, the Church reminds us of the Last Things—judgment, eternity, the coming of Christ in glory.

Why does Advent begin with the end?

Because faith requires trust:
trust that God’s plan is larger than our detours,
trust that what looks like an ending can become a beginning,
trust that God will lead us through the circuitous roads of life
to the home He prepares for us.

As Jesus says in John 14:
“In my Father’s house, there are many mansions… I go to prepare a place for you.”

Advent invites us to a faith that is more than ceremonious—though ceremony blesses us—
and more than curious—though curiosity guides us.
Advent invites us to steadfast dedication:
daily prayer,
daily trust,
daily asking,
“Lord, where are You leading me?”

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6. Thanksgiving at the Altar

Finally, we return to the Eucharist—the thanksgiving of Christ Himself.
Jesus gives thanks to the Father as He gives us His Body and Blood,
offering His life so ours may be renewed.

Every Mass is our opportunity to turn back like the Samaritan—
praising God, falling at the feet of Jesus, and giving thanks.

Before we go to our Thanksgiving tables today and pray, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…,”  we first come to this table— the altar—  where Christ gives us His gifts.

And so, today we ask for three graces:

·        The grace to see God in the circuitous paths of our lives.

·        The grace to embrace the ceremonious beauty of our rituals and worship.

·        The grace to cultivate a curious heart that returns to Christ daily.

May our Thanksgiving open us to the season of Advent—
where endings give way to beginnings,
and where the God who meets us on every detour
leads us toward the fullness of His life and love.

Amen.

Christ the King. Confession (2025-11-23)

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[__v_05_]     2025-11-23  ●● 2 Samuel 5:1-3 ● ● Psalm 122 ●● Colossians 1:12-20  ● ● + Luke 22:35-43 ●●

This Sunday we celebrate the feast of Jesus Christ the King—a feast that turns one hundred years old this year. It was established in 1925 by Pope Pius XI, right after the devastation of World War I. Governments were shaking, economies were unstable, the world was full of fear and very little peace. And in the middle of all that, the Church reminded the world of something deeply steady: Christ’s kingdom does not fall, does not crumble, does not get voted out, does not get overthrown.

In a few moments, we’ll profess it together in the Creed:
“His kingdom will have no end.”

Jesus is not just one more leader in a long line of leaders.
He is the King who can satisfy the longing and the thirst of every human heart, in every age—including our own anxious, confused, and weary world.

And today’s Gospel shows us His kingship in the most surprising and paradoxical place:
on a cross, between two criminals.

I. Law and Order on Calvary

St. Luke describes the scene almost like a courtroom drama. Three men are tried, convicted, and sentenced to death. One is Jesus. Two are criminals. And one of them will say the words we repeat so often: “Jesus, remember me.”

And if this were an episode of Law & Order, you can almost hear the voiceover:

“In the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate and equally important groups:
the police who investigate crime
and the district attorneys who prosecute the offenders.
These are their stories.”

Earlier that day, in the courtroom, the governor, Pontius Pilate, had a different prisoner before him:
Barabbas—a murderer and an insurrectionist.
He was the real perpetrator, the one the crowds should have feared. But Barabbas is the one who gets released. He walks away free.

Now imagine you are one of the two thieves. You watched Barabbas walk out of prison. Maybe for a moment you thought, “If Barabbas got off, maybe we will too. Maybe Pilate will release us next.”
But that doesn’t happen.
Barabbas walks away.
The thieves go to their crosses.

And the crowd looks up at all three men—Jesus included—and says, “They’re getting what they deserve. Case closed.”
No sympathy.  No mercy.
Let’s go to commercials.

Or…is the case closed?

II. Zacchaeus and the Pattern of Mercy

In Luke’s Gospel, this isn’t the first time Jesus enters the life of someone with a reputation.
Think of Zacchaeus, the tax collector—someone everyone knew had cheated and stolen. When Jesus called him, Zacchaeus admitted the truth, made things right, and changed. Jesus showed mercy long before any “sentence” was handed down.

And now, on Calvary, that same mercy is about to reach someone who has no time left to fix anything.

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III. 2 Thieves: Justice & Mercy Meet

One thief joins the crowd’s mockery:
“Are you not the Christ? Save yourself—and us!”
He wants a king like Barabbas: a king who can escape the cross, escape consequences, escape responsibility.

But the other thief—tradition calls him Dismas—sees things differently.
He says something that almost no one else that day is willing to say out loud:
“We have been condemned justly.”
In other words:
“We did this. We’re guilty.”

He doesn’t pretend.
He doesn’t make excuses.
He doesn’t try to negotiate.
He simply turns toward Jesus with nothing left but a plea:
“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

He asks not for escape, but for mercy.
And Jesus, the King on the cross, responds not with a lecture, not with a delay, but with royal authority:
“Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.”

This is the justice of Christ the King:
justice that is absolutely truthful, and mercy that is absolutely overflowing.

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IV. Mercy Is Not Permissiveness

Jesus’ mercy is never the same as pretending nothing happened.
It is not “toxic indifference.”

Let me give a simple example.

Many years ago, in one of my first jobs after college, I went out to lunch with coworkers to celebrate finishing a big project. We went somewhere pretty expensive. Trying to look important, I insisted on paying the whole bill—several hundred dollars—and then I submitted it as a business expense.

When the report reached my boss, my boss quietly denied reimbursement
My boss did not set out to embarrass me.
He didn’t call me a thief but simply said, “This is not a legitimate business expense.”

My boss could have looked the other way. In a big corporation it might never have been noticed. And honestly, I probably would been happier in the short term. But had this “gotten by” it slide, that wouldn’t have helped me grow in honesty.
That little sting of justice became a lesson in integrity.

God’s mercy works the same way.
God doesn’t pretend our sins don’t matter.  He doesn’t say, “It’s fine.”
He loves us too much for that.

Instead, like Dismas, He invites us to be honest, to thirst for something better, and to cling to Him.

V. Confession: Our “Jesus, Remember Me” Moment

So what does this all mean for us?
Where do we meet this King—this King who tells the truth and shows mercy?

We meet Him in the Sacrament of Penance.
We meet Him when we say those first humble, honest words:
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been ___ days, months, or years since my last confession.”

At that moment, you and I are doing what the good thief did:
• we acknowledge that justice is real,
• we stop making excuses,
• and we say, “Jesus, remember me.”

Confession is not about shame—it’s about freedom.

Do not settle for Barabbas’s kind of freedom—the freedom that escapes consequences and doesn’t get “charged” but also doesn’t get “changed”. Change is good!

Choose Dismas’s freedom—the freedom that comes from meeting the King on the cross, admitting the truth, and hearing the words of mercy.

VI. Conclusion: The Kingdom That Has No End

So in a world that still feels unstable—wars, confusion, moral deserts—this feast of Christ the King tells us something steady, solid, and true:

·        You are not stuck with Barabbas’s false freedom.

·        You are invited into Dismas’s freedom—the freedom of conversion.

·        You are called to bring your story, your sins, and your thirst to the King who reigns from the cross.

No matter what others remember about you—your failures, your mistakes, your past—
Jesus knows you.
Jesus loves you.
Jesus died for you.
He is your King.

And His kingdom of mercy and truth will have no end.