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.

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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?

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

Temple 3.0 (2025-11-16, 33rd Sunday)

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 [Nov. 16, 2025]    ●Malachi 3:19-20a  ● ● Psalm 98 ● ● 2 Thessalonians 3:7-12 ● ●  + Luke 21:5-19 ● ●     33^rd Sunday (Year C) , v. 6 

Temple 3.0 

Over the past few weeks, many of us have been thinking and praying about the We Are His Witnesses initiative taking shape across our archdiocese. And for many of you—especially those who have called Our Lady of Lourdes home for years or even decades—these conversations about parish partnerships, restructuring, or possible mergers can feel unsettling. That reaction is understandable. More than that, it is a sign of love. It shows how deeply this parish has shaped your faith, your families, your sacramental life, and your sense of belonging.

So before anything else, I want you to hear this clearly:  Your concerns and questions are legitimate. Your words and ideas are not complaints; they are expressions of commitment. I care about this parish too. My role is to walk with you, to bring your concerns forward honestly, and to help us navigate whatever comes with faith and hope.

It is precisely in moments like this—when something familiar feels uncertain—that the Gospel today speaks with particular power. Jesus stands before the magnificent stones of the Temple, stones that had weathered centuries, stones that anchored a people’s sense of God’s nearness. And it is in that very place that Jesus speaks of dramatic change. He does not dismiss the reverence people felt for that sacred building. Instead, He reveals something deeper: that God is not confined to a structure, and that God continues His work in ways that may surprise us, challenge us, and ultimately renew us.

With this in mind, let us turn to the Gospel.

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Jesus and the Temple: What Is Really Being “Destroyed”?

The Temple in Jerusalem was not an ordinary building. It was the sacred center of Israel’s life—where sacrifices were offered, where heaven and earth touched, and where God’s glory was said to dwell. So when Jesus predicts its destruction, it is not simply a bleak warning about stones collapsing. He is announcing a transformation in how God will dwell with His people.

God’s dwelling will no longer be tied to one place. It will be found in Jesus Christ Himself—the true Temple—not made of stone but of flesh. Through His death and Resurrection, Christ becomes the meeting place of heaven and earth. And through Baptism, the Holy Spirit comes to dwell in us. You become a temple. Your home becomes a place where God’s presence can take root. The Church becomes the living Temple—what we might call Temple 3.0.

The people listening to Jesus must have felt the same shock many of us feel when we hear about parish changes. “How can something so sacred fall?” But Jesus is not predicting God’s absence. He is revealing God’s renewal.

History confirms what Jesus foretold. The Temple standing in His day—Temple 2.0—was destroyed by the Romans about forty years after He spoke these words. But God was not defeated. The new Temple—Christ and His Body, the Church—rose in its place.

Would there be a Temple 3.0?
Yes. And it is the Church. And it is you.

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Why the Temple Mattered—And Why Jesus Rebuilds It in Us

To understand the depth of what Jesus promises, it helps to remember what the Temple meant to ancient Israel.

1. The Temple was the one place of sacrifice.

Only there could the priest offer atoning sacrifices for sin. But Christ fulfills this perfectly in the Eucharist. At every Mass, the sacrifice of Jesus becomes present again for us. The heart of the Temple lives in the heart of the Church.

2. The Temple was a microcosm of heaven and earth.

Its design mirrored creation. The Holy of Holies represented heaven; the larger courts represented earth. A miniature universe. And in every Mass, heaven touches earth again.

3. The Temple was where God dwelt.

“God with us”—Immanuel—took on a new meaning in Jesus. And through Baptism, the Holy Spirit makes His dwelling in us. You become a place where God desires to live.

Jesus rebuilds all this—not in one building, but in each of us.

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How the Temple/Church = Blueprint for Your Home

What takes place in this church building is not meant to stay in this building. The architecture here teaches us how to build a Christian home. And each part of the Temple helps us with one essential task of discipleship: to clarify, specify, and sanctify the way we live our faith.

The pew and the kneeler – silence and reverence (CLARIFY).

The pew and the kneeler help us clarify our relationship with God. They remind us that before we speak, before we act, before we decide—we listen. Silence clarifies what truly matters.

You might not have pews or kneelers at home, but you can cultivate what they represent:
Turn off the radio. Silence the phone. Create small pockets of quiet where God can speak.
Clarify your life with moments of silence.

The confessional – humility and mercy (SPECIFY).

The confessional teaches us to specify our faults—to name them honestly, without excuses—and to receive mercy with humility.

You might not have a confessional booth at home, but you can build a confessional spirit:
Can we admit our mistakes without defensiveness?
Can we name where we were wrong?
Can we forgive with precision and intention?

When we specify our faults, grace can enter. When families learn to speak mercy clearly, healing begins.

The altar – daily sacrifice (SANCTIFY).

The altar shows us how to sanctify our daily lives—how to make them holy through sacrifice.
Your kitchen table, your desk, your commute—they become places where you sanctify your day with acts of love.

And this is one reason the Church encourages us to say Grace Before Meals. When we pray, “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts…”, we are not just offering a moment of silence before the entree. We are inviting God to sanctify everything connected to that meal: the food, the hands that prepared it, and the time we spend together. We are asking God to bless us, too—that our home, our conversations, and our relationships may become holy. It is one of the simplest, clearest ways to bring the grace of the altar into the heart of the home.

The Eucharist you receive here fuels the sacrifices you make there:
patience with a coworker,
care for an aging parent,
time spent listening,
kindness offered when you are tired.

When united to Christ, these ordinary moments become holy. They sanctify your home.

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Returning to Our Local Situation

This brings us back to where we began. When we hear about the We Are His Witnesses initiative, it can feel like something is being torn down. Emotionally, that is real. But the invitation of the Gospel is to see beyond the surface.

Just as the Temple was rebuilt—not in stone but in the Body of Christ—so too the Church continues in us. The goal of this initiative is not destruction. It is revitalization. It is to strengthen our mission, sustain our sacramental life, and help our parishes flourish in a new moment.

There are many things at Our Lady of Lourdes that we hope will continue—and I share those hopes deeply. But the most important thing is that our faith lives on, and that our discipleship grows stronger. We do not only come to Mass at 5:30, 7:30, 9:30, or 11:30. We bring the Mass home with us.

Whether our parish structure changes or remains the same, the mission continues because the Church lives in you.

Conclusion: Building Temple 3.0

Jesus told us the Temple made of stone would fall. But the living Temple—Christ and His Church—cannot be destroyed.

So let us rebuild with Him:
Let us clarify our days with silence.
Let us specify our faults and forgive with mercy.
Let us sanctify our homes with daily sacrifices of love.

I pray the architecture of the Temple and Church —dwelling, sacrifice, heaven and earth—become the architecture of our homes and our hearts.

Jesus is the true Temple.
And in Him, you are living stones.
You are God’s building.

Our Lady of Lourdes, Pray for Us..

Reunion. Cleansing of Temple (2025-11-09, St. John Lateran Basilica)

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[November 9, 2025 (St. John Lateran) ●● Ezekiel 47:1-2, 8-9, 12 ●●  Psalm 46 ●●  1 Corinthians 3: 9c, 11, 16-17 ●● John 2:13-25 ●● ]  Homily on John 2:13–25 — Parish Anniversary, 2025

Zero.Introduction. Significance of the Lateran Basilica and Parish Anniversary

The date of “November 9” is our parish’s founding anniversary.   The same day is also the Catholic feast of the Dedication of the Basilica of St. John Lateran in Rome (November 9). It marks the dedication of this cathedral church of Rome by Pope Sylvester I in 324.  Last year, as we celebrated our 110^th Anniversary, this Basilica had its 1,700^th Anniversary.

The Basilica of St. John Lateran in Rome carries profound historical importance as it is situated on land granted to the Christian community in the fourth century by Emperor Constantine. This event marked a significant turning point when Christianity shifted from being an illicit faith to becoming the official religion of the Roman Empire. While St. John Lateran might not have been the very first place of Christian worship in Rome, it is recognized as the city's inaugural major place of worship.  (The name “Lateran” is not a surname for St. John but rather the family by whom the property of the church was originally owned.  The patron of the church is St. John the Evangelist).

It's noteworthy that the Basilica of St. John Lateran (324) predates St. Peter's Basilica, the construction of which spanned two centuries: 1506 to 1626.  St. Peter’s Basilica actually fulfills both criteria of late antiquity churches in that it was built over a martyr’s tomb (St. Peter) and it follows the plan of a Roman basilica.  St. John Lateran is different.

As the Catholic Encyclopedia reports: “[St. John Lateran] has no saint buried beneath it, since it was not, as were almost all the other great churches of Rome, erected over the tomb of a martyr. It stands alone among all the altars of the Catholic world in being of wood and not of stone, and enclosing no relics of any kind. The reason for this peculiarity is that it is itself a relic of a most interesting kind, being the actual wooden altar upon which St. Peter is believed to have celebrated Mass during his residence in Rome”

 We are at Lourdes, having built also upon the sacrifices of our fathers and mothers and predecessors in faith. We give thanks for what they have left us. The practice of our faith today also calls us not simply to solve every problem we encounter but also to leave a legacy for the children and young people and our brothers and sisters to follow.

1. A Familiar Reunion and an Unfamiliar Challenge

On Friday night, I attended a reunion with classmates, some whom, I hadn’t seen in over 40 plus years. We needed name tags to recognize each other, but before long we were acting exactly the same way – and had the familiar mannerisms and word as we had in 8^th grade — it was a time of familiar stories and also familiar personalities, almost as if no time had passed. We became the people we were….

Driving home, I wondered: Is it always good to resume our old ways?

In today’s Gospel, Jesus walks into the Temple of Jerusalem and finds people who have also resumed their “old ways.” The holy place meant for prayer has become a marketplace. He fashions a whip of cords, drives out the merchants, and overturns the tables. To the startled onlookers He declares, “Zeal for your house will consume me.”  Zeal means dedication or devotion.

That zeal is not anger —it is love on fire. It is the burning passion of One who cannot bear to see what is holy corrupted. Jesus doesn’t destroy the Temple; He restores it. Every divine cleansing — whether of a sanctuary or a soul — is love refusing to settle for half-hearted worship.

2. The Parish: A Living Temple

Today we celebrate 111 years of faith at Our Lady of Lourdes Parish, founded in 1914 under Monsignor Nicholas Marnell. From Cherry and Chestnut Streets to this church built in 1964, the Lord has continued to build not just walls but hearts.

The Psalmist reminds us: “Unless the Lord builds the house, in vain do the builders labor.” (Ps 127)
We are those builders. Every prayer whispered, every candle lit, every meal shared, every confession made — each is a beam in a spiritual cathedral that time cannot erode.

Saint Augustine taught that zeal for God’s house means letting our hearts be purified so that we ourselves become His dwelling. And as the Catechism (CCC 593) tells us, the true Temple is Christ’s Body — and through Baptism, we are joined to that living Temple.

3. Before Beauty, Demolition

If you’ve ever watched a home-makeover show, you know that before the beauty comes the dust: walls torn down, floors ripped up, debris everywhere. The crew doesn’t destroy for destruction’s sake; they clear space for something stronger and new.

That’s what Jesus does in the Temple — and what He wants to do in us. His zeal overturns not furniture but false attachments, not tables but tired routines of faith. He clears space in our hearts so grace can rebuild.

 

The other day I spent about half an hour cleaning “the temple” of my car before driving my parents to New York for a routine doctor’s appointment.

I made space for a wheelchair and walker, checked the seatbelts, got everything just right or so I thought.

Before we even left, my father was loading the car, bumped his head on the door frame, and said, “This car is too small—too low to the ground!”
I was displeased. I couldn’t make the “building of the car” or temple fit his desire.
And I’ve bumped my own head on that same door frame more than once.
Sometimes I wish the car—and even the Church—were built more to my own liking!
At times I’ve wished the Gospel were a bit more adapted to me, rather than me having to adapt to it.

Still, off we went. ****

On the highway, a car came speeding up behind us, so I moved to the right lane.

My dad asked, “Why’d you move? Let him go around.”
We started to argue. And in that moment I realized: I had cleaned the car, but not my heart. I was impatient, resuming my old ways.

So I took a breath, stopped responding, and just focused on driving.
To be honest, peace didn’t come right away.

I actually didn't feel good right away about restraining myself. It took a day for me to feel good about what I had done. Sometimes it takes time to realize that we've done something right or done something wrong. Conversion, like a true remodel, takes more than a single afternoon, and every sacrament in the church is

This also why we are called to confess our sins, to cleanse our hearts, to make room for something more, someone more, a love greater than we can create on our own.

4. The Pattern of Christ’s Renovation

When Jesus says, “Destroy this temple and in three days I will raise it up,” He reveals Himself as the new and everlasting Temple. His cleansing of the Temple foreshadows His Passion and Resurrection — before the glory comes the demolition, before Easter comes the Cross.

In every sacrament, that same rhythm continues:

·        Baptism, the old life is buried so new life can rise.

·        Confession, sin is put to death, so we can live!.

·        Marriage, 2 people die to independence so a new union can be built.

·        Eucharist, we are united to the Body of Christ — the living Temple not made by human hands (cf. CCC 1329).

The Lord is the true Builder who never stops renovating us. And each act of divine cleansing is not punishment, but preparation for resurrection.

5. What We Are Building — The Zeal That Lives in Ordinary Service

A parish anniversary is a time to look around and ask, What have we been building all these years?
We know it’s more than bricks and mortar. Yes, we repair roofs, patch plaster, change lights, and someday, God willing, we’ll even find heavenly parking! But what really lasts are the hands and hearts that keep this parish alive.

I see your zeal – your devotion so many ways. Those who come early to prepare the altar, arrange the plants, make sure everything is in order for Mass. In our volunteers and catechists who teach our children the faith, sometimes after a full day’s or week’s work, week after week. In the volunteers who count the collection, clean the church, decorate for Advent and Easter,  in lectors who proclaim the Word, in choir members and musicians, ushers, those visit the sick, take in food donations. and keep the parish running behind the scenes.

Each act — large or small — is a beam in the house God continues to build here.
Every contribution, every sacrifice, every humble task adds another stone to the living temple that is Our Lady of Lourdes. The parish is not only what we see around us; it is what we do together, in love.

Our faith is not a static monument —it’s a living renovation. The Church endures because love endures. And the zeal that consumed Jesus in the Temple must continue to burn here, in us, every time we serve, forgive, and begin again.

6. Conclusion — Every Renovation Becomes a Resurrection

When Jesus overturned the tables, He was already preparing the altar.
When He spoke of the Temple’s destruction, He was already promising Resurrection.

His zeal —the fire of divine love — tears down what is false so that He may build what is true.

As we mark 111 years of worship at Our Lady of Lourdes, may that same zeal consume us —not with anger, but with love. May our hearts, our homes, and our parish be continually renewed until every renovation becomes a resurrection.

Ad Multos Annos!
Our Lady of Lourdes, pray for us.