Charity. Rich Man, Lazarus (2025-09-28, 26th Sun)

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 Homily on Luke 16:19–31

[01, 02] A few years ago, I was traveling with my parents from Newark Airport to Florida. We were originally scheduled to be on the same flight, seated together, but—24 hours ahead of time—weather delays and rescheduling separated us. My mother and father were moved to an earlier flight, while I was left with a later departure.

I tried to convince my dad that it would be better to stay together, but he was determined to keep his earlier ticket. He asked me, “Why would I fly later when I have an earlier flight?” To me, this was a mystery greater than the Trinity at the time!

At the airport, we arrived all together but still had separate tickets. I was waiting and hoping to get on standby when I recognized someone—an old acquaintance named Richard, who also happened to know my father. Richard was on the same flight as my parents, and when I explained the situation, he agreed to keep an eye on them. In the end, through a series of changes, all of us—Richard and his wife, my parents, and I—ended up on the same flight after all.

What touched me most was the relief of being recognized in a crowded place, and how much comfort it brought to know someone generous who was looking out for us.

[03] Gospel Connection

In today’s Gospel, Lazarus is the one who longs for generosity, to be seen, to be recognized. The rich man walks by him every day, but never really sees him. The poor man is invisible—until after death, when the angels finally carry him to Abraham’s side.

Jesus tells this story to remind us that there is a great chasm between rich and poor, between self-absorption and true charity—on earth as it is in heaven, in this life and the next. And there is also a chasm between being connected with God and being cut off from Him.

[04] Prayer for the Dead and Purgatory

Tradition often interprets the rich man as being in hell, cut off by the great fixed chasm or abyss. Yet the parable also invites us to reflect more deeply on judgment, mercy, and purification. The Church does not define the exact fate of every soul. What we can say with confidence is that prayer for the dead is always a legitimate work of mercy (Catechism 1479).

 

One of my seminary professors used to say: in a world that believes everything is a gray area, we Catholics believe in one great gray area—Purgatory. Purgatory is that hopeful place of purification, the “gray area” that prepares us to see God face to face.

 

Thomas Aquinas describes it as “a fire that purifies… so that the soul may be made worthy of heaven.” Pope John Paul II reminds us that “the souls… are helped by the acceptable sacrifice of the altar.” Purgatory is not hopeless punishment—it is the mercy of God cleansing and making us ready for His presence.

[05.new – polished] Prayer for the Living

But prayer is not only for those who have gone before us—it is also for the living, who still walk in struggle and conversion.

The Catechism tells us that the faithful are called to pray for the conversion of sinners (CCC 1032).

Think of the many “jailhouse conversions” throughout history—even Saint Paul himself, who once persecuted the Church but was transformed by Christ. Paul later said,  “By the grace of God I am what I am, and his grace toward me was not in vain.”  Even in weakness, Christ’s grace is enough.

We pray for those imprisoned, hardened, or far from God’s mercy—because no one is beyond the reach of grace. We also recognize our own “purifying fires”—the trials and setbacks that can make us more humble, compassionate, and holy.

Do we see the beauty hidden in the struggles of family life and in the small acts of charity toward our neighbor? The rich man missed this. Though comfortable, he was already imprisoned—blind to the love right in front of him.

[06] The Contrast in the Parable

The contrast in the parable is stark. The rich man has status, name, and recognition—he would fly first class. Lazarus has nothing—he could not even get through airport security or get scraps from the table. Yet it is Lazarus who receives the eternal welcome, while the rich man faces eternal isolation.

The danger is not wealth itself, but the blindness that wealth—or comfort, or self-sufficiency—can bring.

The Catechism teaches us that God allows differences among us so that we may practice generosity and mutual enrichment (CCC 1937). Those with more are not meant to look away, but to share. Those with less are not forgotten, but are part of God’s plan to remind us of our need for one another.

 

[07] A Personal Confession

I’ll confess that I sometimes fail at this. I rush through stores or errands without really seeing the person in front of me. That habit has consequences—it reflects the same blindness as the rich man.

Jesus warns us, “You cannot serve both God and mammon.” Mammon isn’t just money—it’s whatever we cling to and serve as if it were ultimate. Wealth, comfort, even productivity—if these become idols, they blind us to God and neighbor.

[08.new – polished] Practical Steps

So if blindness is our danger, how do we begin to see differently? Let me suggest four simple steps—for me as well:

1.  Notice  the “Lazarus” at the checkout, the office desk, or the parking lot.

2.  Listen —offer a word, a smile, an attentive ear, a word of thanks.

3.  Share —time, talent, or resources, however small.

4.  Pray —for the dead, trusting in God’s mercy, and for the living, that hearts may be converted.

The rich man learned too late, but it doesn’t have to be too late for us. The “Lazarus” who needs our love may not be lying at a gate, but sitting on the bus, working in the cubicle next to us, or behind the counter at the store.

And here’s the challenge: we often fear that we’ll run out—of time, of money, of energy. So we conserve. But do we also conserve on love—holding back until we’re loved first? The truth is, all generosity comes from God. His love never runs out, and the more we give it away, the more we receive.

 [09] Conclusion

That is our calling: to recognize one another, to depend on God, and to live the kind of love that crosses every chasm.

As Thomas Merton put it so beautifully:  “Love can only be kept by being given away.” 

Sts Cosmas, Damian (2025-09-26)

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Homily for the Feast of Saints Cosmas and Damian

Gospel: Luke 9:18–22

Today’s Gospel gives us one of those moments when Jesus predicts his Passion. Notice how, throughout the Gospels, he reveals this little by little. At first he calls himself the “Son of Man.” Later, he speaks more plainly in the first person. It is as though the disciples could only take the truth in stages: first a glimpse, then a fuller picture, until they could finally face the reality of the cross.

Here in Luke, he asks his disciples two questions:  “Who do the crowds say that I am?”  and  “Who do you say that I am?”  Peter responds:  “You are the Christ of God.”  Immediately, Jesus explains what that means—not earthly triumph, but rejection, suffering, death, and resurrection. To confess Christ is to accept the mystery of the cross.

 

The Healing Witness of Cosmas and Damian

Today we celebrate Saints Cosmas and Damian, twin brothers who lived in the early Church. They were physicians, and they became known as the anargyroi —“the silverless”—because they refused payment for their medical care. They saw their work as a vocation of service, healing both body and soul. And they sealed their witness with their martyrdom under the Roman Emperor Diocletian’s persecution.

 Their example is striking. They did not measure their service in terms of money, time, or earthly success. They simply gave what they had, freely, as Christ gave himself freely for us.

 What Do We Expect of Doctors?

 What do we expect of doctors and nurses today? Patients often carry into the hospital not only their sickness, but also their deepest fears. They may even speak of God when they speak of their doctors. Why? Partly because when we are afraid, we naturally turn to God. But also because we look to physicians with an almost sacred trust.

 Of course, doctors are not God. But they are called to reflect something of God’s mercy. Their vocation asks them to go beyond the usual measures:

___Beyond time, because the patient before them deserves more than the clock allows.

__ Beyond money, because care of the sick is never just a business.

___And even beyond earthly results, because the outcome is finally in God’s hands.

 Isn’t that what Christ himself shows us? He gives us his love without limit, without cost, and without conditions. In the Eucharist, he feeds us with his very Body, asking nothing in return but our faith.

 Lessons for All of Us

 Now, you and I may not be doctors or nurses. But every Christian is called to serve as Cosmas and Damian served, and to love as Christ loved: without asking,  “What do I get back?”

 So let me ask you and MYSELF:

What lessons can you and I take from Cosmas and Damian’s selfless service?

How can you and I reflect God’s love in our own vocations—whether as parents, teachers, caregivers, or neighbors?

And when people look at you and me, will they see someone united to Christ’s Passion and Resurrection?

 Jesus’ question still echoes today:  “Who do you say that I am?”  But there is another question too:  “Who do others say that you are?”  Do they see in me (you) only someone worried about time, money, and results? Or do they see someone who serves with Christlike generosity?

 Conclusion

Saints Cosmas and Damian remind us that our faith is not just words; it is a vocation to love without cost. Their lives mirrored the Passion they proclaimed: they gave healing freely, and in the end, they gave their very lives for Christ.

May we, too, answer Jesus’ question with our lips and with our lives:  “You are the Christ of God.”  And may our own lives bear witness that we belong to him—through the way we serve, the way we love, and the way we place even the results in God’s hands.

Saints Cosmas and Damian, pray for us.

Dishonest Steward (2025-09-21, Sunday-25th)

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[homily Sept.21]   

Homily on Luke 16:1–8: The Dishonest Steward. (September 21)

The parable Jesus gives us today is one of the most puzzling in the Gospels. A steward, caught mismanaging his master’s property, quickly reduces people’s debts in order to gain their friendship. And yet, the master praises him—not for his dishonesty, but for his cleverness, his shrewdness.

Jesus is not telling us that cheating is good. Augustine and other Church Fathers are very clear: deceit is never holy, never justified. The steward is praised for his worldly cleverness, but in the eyes of God his actions fall short.

What, then, is Jesus teaching us? That if people go to such lengths to secure material well-being and self-preservation, shouldn’t we, with even more energy, zeal, and creativity, strive for what really matters—our eternal salvation and treasure in heaven?

A Modern Story

To bring this home, imagine this:

There was once a master carpenter, known far and wide for the quality of his work. After many years, he was ready to retire and spend his days quietly with his family. His employer, a long-time friend, asked him for one last favor: “Build me one more house.”

The carpenter agreed, but his heart wasn’t in it. He cut corners, used cheaper materials, and rushed the work. When he finished, he handed over the keys, not proud of what he had done.

Then came the surprise. His boss smiled and said, “This house is my gift to you.” The carpenter was stunned. He realized that the house he would now live in every day was the one he had built carelessly.

Isn’t that a parable for our lives? We are each building the “house” of our eternal destiny. If we live carelessly, cutting corners spiritually—neglecting prayer, skimping on love, living for ourselves—we may find that what we have built is not what we hoped for.

 

 

Doing Well and Doing Good

Jesus is not against doing well in life. He knows we need food, shelter, health, and security. But He insists that our greatest energy should be spent not on feathering our own nest but on doing good that lasts into eternity.

Worldly shrewdness may win short-term approval, but it cannot buy eternal reward. True Christian prudence is not about clever self-preservation but about transparent honesty and generous love. As Augustine put it, love means willing the good of the other. The dishonest steward’s actions barely reach that standard—he is still thinking mainly of himself.

 

Stewardship in Daily Life

This wisdom applies not only to business dealings but to every corner of our lives, especially marriage and family. A husband and wife are called to serve each other, not just to compromise but to seek together God’s will. That is why we say marriage is not 50/50 but 100/100—each giving fully, each stewarding not only material needs but the spiritual path of the family.

 

Family life, like the carpenter’s house, is something we build day by day. If we cut corners—neglecting prayer, taking each other for granted, living only for ourselves—the “house” may stand, but it will not be what God intended. If, instead, we pour ourselves into it with generosity and love, then we will discover, in the end, that Christ Himself has been building with us, preparing us for our eternal home.

Conclusion

So today’s parable challenges us. If people can be so determined to secure a temporary future, how much more determined should we be to secure an eternal one?

Let us not be careless stewards, but wise ones. Let us invest our time, our love, our resources in what lasts forever. Let us make Christ Himself our steward, our mediator, the one who guides our every choice. For He alone can lead us to the home where no dishonesty, no corner-cutting, no short-term gain remains—only the joy of eternal friendship with Him. Amen.

Triumph of the Cross (2025-09-14)

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 [v.11]  Homily for the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross

 1. The Cross: From Shame to Glory

September 14 is the Feast of the Exaltation—or the Triumph—of the Cross.

Pope John Paul II once explained that the Cross, where Jesus was crucified, was once a sign of torture and shame. But through Christ it has become the sign of eternal life, of resurrection and new life. We hear this echoed in today’s Gospel Acclamation, which borrows from the Stations of the Cross: “We adore you, O Christ, and we praise you, because by your Holy Cross you have redeemed the world.”

St. Paul proclaims the same truth in our 2^nd reading from Philippians, chapter 2: “Though he was in the form of God, Jesus did not regard equality with God something to be grasped. Rather, he emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross. Because of this, God greatly exalted him.”

The Cross, then, predicts the Resurrection. Yet at first even Jesus’s closest followers could not see it. On the original Good Friday, they saw only loss, not victory.

Take James and John, for example. When Jesus spoke of his coming passion, they were not thinking about sharing in the Cross. They wanted seats of honor—one at his right and one at his left. I recognize myself there too. Often I want to know, “What do I get in return for this trial?” I want the reward guaranteed before I am willing to carry the burden. In that sense, I too can be fragile and weak.

Even Nicodemus, the Pharisee who sought Jesus at night, hesitated to go public with his faith. He was afraid of being outnumbered. Yet Nicodemus, still searching, reminds us of many teachers and mentors today who struggle to understand what they must also pass on to others. In that sense, he can be called a kind of patron saint of teachers.

But here lies the heart of the Gospel: the Cross is not about status, comfort, or safety. It is about God’s merciful love. As John 3:16 tells us:
“For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life.”

2. A World in Need of Rescue

The Cross also shows us that suffering and death were never part of God’s original plan. They entered the world through sin, disrupting the harmony of creation. Death is not natural—it is the rupture of body and soul. We grieve because we feel this loss so deeply.

But the Cross shows us something greater: while sin divides, God restores. Christ takes on our suffering to save us.

An image of this comes from Jon Krakauer’s book Into Thin Air, about the 1996 Mount Everest disaster. Over time, even Everest had been commercialized. Teams sold “trips to the top,” even to climbers with little preparation. It was as if the world’s highest mountain itself had been put up for sale. One promoter even said, “We built a yellow brick road to the summit.”

But Everest was no theme park. When a violent storm struck, the mountain was unforgiving, and many perished. Yet in the midst of crisis, some climbers risked their own lives to save others, choosing self-sacrifice over self-preservation. At one point, a helicopter flew higher to a very high altitude to pick up an injured climber —a rescue both costly and dangerous. That daring moment gives us a glimpse of the Cross.

Just as climbers must prepare to be lifted up the mountain, we too must prepare our hearts to be lifted up by Christ. And Christ’s rescue goes far deeper than a mountain storm. It is God’s answer to sin, to suffering, to death itself.

The Church’s teaching on suffering affirms this truth: “The Cross shows us that God’s love is stronger than death, and by uniting ourselves to Jesus, our suffering does not have to defeat us in the end.”

 

3. Living the Triumph of the Cross

If we look at the news or our world today, it can often feel as though evil outnumbers the good. Violence, hatred, division—it can seem overwhelming. But the Cross proclaims otherwise.

Jesus teaches us that hatred cannot drive out hatred; only love and mercy can. This is why we are called to witness the Cross not merely by wearing it, but by living it:

·        love not only our neighbors, but even our enemies,

·        pray for our leaders, our mentors, and our teachers—as Nicodemus himself once struggled to do,

·        proclaim Christ not by power or prestige, but by mercy and truth and humility

St. John Henry Newman once asked why the Risen Lord revealed himself only to a few chosen witnesses. (Sermon: “Witnesses of the Resurrection”)

Why not to the whole city of Jerusalem, or to all of the capital city Rome? His answer was that God works through the faithful few. Great disasters may be caused by the wrongdoing of many, but true and lasting change usually begins with a small group of people, trained and faithful, who carry the Cross together.

And so we, too, are called to be those witnesses. Every time we make the sign of the Cross—on our minds, our lips, our hearts—we proclaim that salvation is not our work alone, but God working through us. We proclaim that our sins were nailed to that Cross, and that we are raised up with Christ.

 Closing 

May the sign of the Cross remind us daily that Christ has transformed death into life, despair into hope, and hatred into mercy. May the words of the Gospel and the mystery of the Cross be always on our minds, on our lips, and in our hearts.

Surrender. (2025-09-07, Sunday - 22)

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[v.04]  2025-09-07, 23^rd Sunday  ●● Wisdom 9:13-18b ●● Psalm ●● Philemon 9-10, 12-17 ●● Luke 14:25-33

Homily on Luke 14:25–33

Surrender for True Productivity

Intro: The Living Catch

Jesus’ makes a startling statement that “whoever does not hate father and mother, wife and children … cannot be my disciple” is a purposeful hyperbole.

          By using the harsh term hate—a word we even forbid our children to utter—He does not demand genuine animosity, but a radical re‑ordering of our loves, placing God’s love above all earthly ties. This radical love calls us to renounce our possessions and to carry the cross, counting the true cost of discipleship as one would plan a tower or a war, lest we begin a journey we cannot finish1. In doing so we accept the risk and danger that accompany a wholehearted commitment to the Kingdom.

 

Here's just an example of everyday danger that people will undertake which I would like to connect to the Gospel.

Some of you may recall the reality TV / television show  The Deadliest Catch. It followed Alaskan fishing boats out into treacherous waters, where fishermen risked their lives for very valuable and profitable king crab.

Years ago, I watched a documentary like this and, to my surprise, saw two of my college classmates appear on screen. They weren’t out on the boats themselves—they didn’t have the experience, or maybe they were more prudent. Instead, they worked in a fish processing plant on shore. They still earned a wage, but they didn’t face the storms of the sea.

That image can help us hear today’s Gospel. Following Christ cannot mean staying safely on the shore. At some point discipleship calls us into deep waters where we are not in control. Think of Peter casting his nets at Jesus’ command—hauling in not the “deadliest catch” but the **living catch**. Peter surrendered his own plans and trusted the word of Christ.

And that is what Jesus is telling us today. If you want to follow me, you cannot cling to your own control—whether that’s possessions, family ties, or even your own life. You must surrender to my call, trusting that I will give you the living catch you need.

 

Section 1 – Work, Rest, and Love as Surrender

Father Mike Schmitz, a popular Catholic podcaster from Minnesota, once summed up our human vocation in three words: labor, leisure, and love.

·       We are made for labor—for meaningful work, as in the Garden of Eden where Adam was placed “to till and keep.”

·       leisure—not just relaxation, but holy rest, Sabbath, time with God and others.

·       And above all, we are made for love—the reason we work and the reason we rest.

The problem is that we often separate these things. We work for the paycheck, then collapse into leisure as escape. But in the Gospel, work and rest are both surrendered to love. Carrying the cross is real work—but it is fruitful work, because it is rooted in love. Even our rest is fruitful, when it opens us to God and to one another.

 

Section 2 – Amateurs for Christ

Here a little lesson in language that helped me – a reminder of what the word “amateur” means. The word amateur comes from the Latin *amor*, meaning “love.” Today it usually means “not professional,” maybe even substandard. But originally an amateur was someone who did something simply out of love.

 

In the early Olympics, athletes competed not for contracts or endorsements, but for the sheer love of the sport. They were amateurs.

That is discipleship. We are not “professional Christians,” clocking in hours of prayer or piling up good works like a résumé. We are amateurs in the deepest sense: followers of Christ because we love Him.

So when Jesus says, “Whoever does not carry his cross and follow me cannot be my disciple,” He is not inviting us to drudgery, but to love. To live as amateurs of the Gospel—willing to give everything because love compels us.

 

Section 3 – Counting the Cost

Jesus gives a parables to underline the seriousness of this call. A builder estimates the cost before laying a foundation. The builder counts the cost before committing.

 

In other words, discipleship is not a hobby or a side job. It is an all-in commitment. Like casting the net in deep water, we cannot control the outcome, but we must surrender to the process.

 

Even in our closest relationships, this is true. A marriage cannot be 50/50—it has to be 100/100. Friendship, parenthood, family life—these are not places of effortless rest, but arenas of love that demand investment. When we surrender to that call, when we keep giving even when it costs, love deepens. That is Gospel productivity: not efficiency, but fruitfulness.

 

Section 3A – Conversion Inside and Out

Recently, I had an experience that made this point for me. I took my car to the car wash. After the outside had been washed and scrubbed, I eagerly got out so the workers could vacuum and clean the inside. At the same time, I noticed another driver. He stayed put, letting only the outside of his car be cleaned.

 

In that moment, I felt a little proud of myself for surrendering to the “work” of having my car cleaned inside and out. But then it struck me: this was only a car. What about my own life? Am I willing to do the harder work of letting Christ clean me inside and out? Am I willing to undergo the examination of conscience, the renunciation of pride, of comforts, of the desire for popularity or esteem?

 

True conversion is not cosmetic. It is surrender—allowing Christ to reach the hidden corners of the heart.

 

Section 4 – Seasons of Work and Rest

We feel this truth in the rhythm of the seasons. Summer is a time of rest, refreshment, leisure. Autumn brings harvest, planning, labor. Spiritually, we need both.

 

There is a danger if we regard our relationships, our faith, even our prayer, only as places to rest and relax. True prayer sometimes feels like work. True work sometimes opens into rest. Both are meant to flow together.

 

When we sanctify our labor, we see our work not just as wages but as participation in God’s creation. When we sanctify our leisure, we rest not just to escape, but to reconnect with God and loved ones. And when we sanctify our love, everything—work, rest, even sacrifice—becomes an offering to Christ.

 Conclusion – The Surrender that Makes Us Fruitful

 Jesus is not looking for professionals. He is looking for lovers—for amateurs willing to surrender everything.

 The paradox of the Gospel is that surrender is what makes us truly productive. Not productive in the world’s sense of efficiency and output, but in the Kingdom’s sense of fruitfulness and eternal life.  As we move from summer into autumn, let us recommit not just to working harder, but to surrendering more deeply. To labor, to rest, and to love as amateurs of Christ—trusting that when we cast our nets at His word, He will always give us the living catch we need.