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

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

He Took the Child and His Mother Into His Home

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

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

God wants a home among us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But Christmas tells us something else.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were not impressed.

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

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

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

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

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

Christmas reveals the opposite kind of truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dew from Heaven (2025-12-21, Advent, 4th Sunday)

 [v3]   4th Sunday Advent – Jesus, the Dew from Heaven    

1. Dew, Not a Storm

There is a long tradition in the prophets and in the prayer of the Church of speaking about the coming of the Messiah using the language of nature—especially the language of climate and weather.

One of those images is dew.

Not rain. Not a storm.  Not a flood.

But dew.

Quiet.  Gentle.  Almost unnoticed.

The books of Genesis (27:27-29) and Hosea (14:5) speak of God’s saving presence using this image of dew descending from heaven—an image the Church comes to recognize fully in Christ. The ros in Latin, rocío in Spanish—the moisture that appears on the grass overnight, without noise or force. We go to sleep, and while we are not watching, the ground is touched. Something dry is refreshed.

Dew does not announce itself. It does not overwhelm. Yet with the dew, life prospers.

2. From Dew to Flood: Activity and Attentiveness

That image stayed with me last night, especially because, about 45 minutes before Mass started, we noticed something very different from dew or a bit of moisture on the ground. Ssometime yesterday during the morning or afternoon – not sure when - a pipe burst in the sacristy, and water poured across the floor. Suddenly, everything was wet. Buckets came out. Vacuums came out. Volunteers came out. (Several volunteers vacuumed up water in the sacristy so that Mass couild proceed and we started only 10 mintes after the regular time. It was a reminder to me that we work also so that we might pray!)

Thank you! We moved quickly.

We even called the West Orange Fire Department because the firefighters were able to bring a super-duper wrench to turn off a valve that we could not manage. Thank you West Orange Firefighters!.

At first, all I could see was the problem with the soaking water. I could not see any blessing in this. Later, a friend told me that something similar happened to someone he knew, and the water ran for days. They lost their house. We were fortunate. We caught it early.

But I needed help to see the reality.

That moment reminded me how often we turn immediately to activity when what we really need is attentiveness. Cleaning up the water mattered—but so did stopping long enough to see the situation truthfully, not just urgently.

Advent reminds us of this. Preparation is not only physical. It is spiritual. None of us is finished. No room is ever completely in order. All of us need God’s grace for reordering and healing.

Conversion requires effort, yes—but it also requires honesty about our limits, our vulnerability, and our need for God to come to us.

 

3. Joseph: Receiving What Cannot Be Fixed

And that is the world into which Jesus comes.

In today’s Gospel, Joseph is anxious. He is righteous—but he is also afraid and uncertain. The situation before him cannot be fixed by planning or productivity or control. It can only be received.

Joseph catches his breath not by escaping the problem, but by listening. God speaks to him in a dream—not with a long explanation, but with a simple invitation: Do not be afraid.

Joseph obeys, not because everything suddenly makes sense, but because he trusts.

Isaiah tells us that God Himself will give the sign. God does not wait for ideal conditions. God does not wait until everything is in order. God enters human vulnerability—your vulnerability, my vulnerability.

Jesus does not arrive above the mess of life. He comes within it.

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4. What Christians Mean by the Incarnation

This is what Christians mean by the Incarnation.

We are not speaking about reincarnation—a soul returning in another form. We are speaking about something far more radical and far more tender: God Himself, fully divine, freely taking on our full humanity, entering our real history, our real limits, our real flesh.

God does not send a message from a distance.
God comes close.

Jesus comes and stays “down with us”—close to ordinary life, close to uncertainty, close to the daily work of loving imperfect people. He shares our vulnerability, because love is not possible without it.

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5. Downstairs in Bethlehem: The Method of God

Biblical scholar Kenneth Bailey reminds us that when Joseph returned to Bethlehem—his own village—hospitality would have been assumed. The Holy Family was not abandoned outside. When Scripture says there was “no room at the inn,” it does not mean a hotel with a “no vacancy” sign.

It means there was no room in the usual upstairs guest space.

So Mary and Joseph stayed downstairs—close to the animals, close to work, close to survival. This was not a failure of hospitality. It was the method of the Incarnation.

Jesus does not come to lift us above vulnerability.
He comes to share it.

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6. Dew and Breath: How God Draws Near

That is why the image of dew matters.

Jesus comes not like a storm that overwhelms us, but like dew from heaven—quiet, gentle, life-giving—entering our vulnerability without force. In this regard, Jesus as Lord and Savior is the ideal guest, the perfect visitor. He does not barge in. He does not take over. He does not overwhelm what is fragile. He enters respectfully, patiently, and transforms from within.

Pope Benedict XVI once wrote that in prayer—especially at Christmas—we are trying to catch our breath. That image reaches back to Genesis, where God breathes life into humanity. The word for Spirit also means breath, wind, life.

Many of us are out of breath—emotionally, spiritually, even relationally. When that happens, where do we turn? Do we reach for distraction? Do we fill the silence with noise, screens, or constant activity?

In the Gospel, the risen Jesus breathes peace on His disciples after they have failed Him. Even betrayal does not disqualify them from closeness. Mercy itself requires vulnerability.

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7. Advent Honesty and the Prayer of the Church

This is why Advent is honest. It invites us to stop pretending we are self-sufficient. It invites us to admit where we are tired, afraid, or unsure.

Jesus comes not because everything is in order, but because it is not.

For now, our Savior chooses to remain close—in the ordinary, in the fragile, in the places where love costs something. He is not distant or demanding. He draws us by closeness. He stays where life is lived.

As these final days of Advent unfold, we are invited to interrupt our momentum, to catch our breath, and to allow God to be as close as He already desires to be.

This is how Jesus comes.
And this is how He stays among us.

And the Church gives us the words to pray for exactly this grace. We heard them at the beginning of Mass, and I pray we might return them now with deeper understanding and gratitude:

Pour forth, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thy grace into our hearts;
that we, to whom the Incarnation of Christ, Thy Son, was made known by the message of an angel,
may by His Passion and Cross be brought to the glory of His Resurrection who lives and reigns with you in the unity of the Holy Spirit, God forever and ever. Amen.

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.

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[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.