All In. (2026-01-18, 2nd Sunday)

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 [v.5]  2026-January-18, 2nd Sunday of Year A   ●● Isaiah 49:3-5-6 ●● Psalm 40 ●● 1 Corinthians 1:1-3 ●● John 1:29-34 ●●

 “Behold the Lamb of God” — Going All In

2nd Sunday of the Year – January 18, 2026

1. John Points, Not to Himself, but to Christ

In today’s Gospel, John the Baptist is preparing the way of the Lord. He does it in a very simple and very powerful way. He sees Jesus coming toward him, and he points. And he says,
“Behold, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.”

John does not draw attention to himself.
He does not explain his résumé or list his achievements.
He simply points beyond himself.

And those words don’t stay in the Gospel.
They become part of the Mass.
Right before we receive Holy Communion, we hear them again:
“Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.”

John teaches us how to stand before Jesus.

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2. Going All In: “He Must Increase, I Must Decrease”

John goes all in—one hundred percent.
Or as they say in sports, one hundred and ten percent.
I’m not exactly sure how you do the extra ten percent—but that’s the expression.

John goes all in.
He gives his whole life to preparing the way for Jesus.
And he famously says, “He must increase, and I must decrease.”

In other words, Jesus must become more important in my life, and I must stop putting myself at the center.

Or to put it more simply:
take God seriously—and don’t take yourself too seriously.

I’ll admit, I’m guilty of taking myself too seriously at times.  Do you ever do this?

Pope Francis once said that God loves humility, because God Himself is humble—He becomes humble in Jesus. And those who humble themselves will be exalted.

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3. Learning to Let Go: Samuel, Saul, and David

In our recent daily readings during the week, we’ve been hearing about the prophet Samuel. Samuel is the one who anoints the first two kings of Israel.

First, he anoints Saul.
Why Saul? Because Saul looks like a king.
He’s tall. Impressive. Handsome. He stands out.

It’s easy for Samuel to throw his support behind Saul and go all in on him. But then Saul begins to fail. He stops listening to God. And Samuel struggles to let go. He keeps hanging on.

Eventually, God says to him, Why are you holding on to Saul? There will be a new king—and it won’t even be Saul’s son.

So Samuel goes to the house of Jesse. One son after another passes before him—each one looking like a better first-round draft pick than the last. And Samuel keeps thinking, Surely this must be the one.

Finally, God says, No. Not this one.
Because human beings look at appearances—but God looks into the heart.

And then David is brought forward—the youngest, the least likely, the one no one expected.

That moment matters, because Samuel has to learn how to decrease so that God’s choice can increase.

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4. “Thy Will Be Done” vs. “My Will Be Done”

And don’t we need to do the same?  To let God’s choice become our choice?

We pray it every day: Thy will be done.
Now, “thy will be done” and “my will be done” do rhyme—but they are not the same thing.

That’s exactly what John the Baptist does in today’s Gospel.
He doesn’t cling to his following.
He doesn’t compete with Jesus.
He simply says, “Behold the Lamb of God.”

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5. The Lamb Who Takes Away Sin

And Jesus is not just another king.
Not another political ruler.
He is the Lamb—the one who takes away sin.

Notice what John does not say.
He doesn’t say Jesus explains sin.
He doesn’t say Jesus negotiates with sin.
He says Jesus takes it away.

The Lamb of God does not come to shame us.
He comes to free us.

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6. Humility, Justice, and the Dignity of Human Life

This Sunday also falls close to Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Dr. King understood something the prophets understood—and something John the Baptist lived—that resistance to injustice must never become hatred of persons.

We must resist unjust actions, but never lose sight of the dignity of the human person.

As Dr. King said, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that.”

That kind of witness takes humility.
It takes restraint.
It takes the willingness to suffer rather than to hate.

In that way, Dr. King stood in a wilderness of division and pointed beyond himself.

And that witness connects to our own respect for human life. This week we remember the anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision. We remember—and we affirm—that every human life is sacred: the unborn, the preborn, the marginalized, the sick, the elderly, the dying.

This is our path to justice.
This is our witness to dignity.

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7. God Is Greater Than Your Past

And it reminds us of this truth:
God is greater than your past.
Greater than your present struggles.
Greater than whatever you fear about the future.

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8. A Lived Example: Going All In for Love

Some years ago, during my first summer after entering the seminary, I learned something about what this kind of commitment looks like in real life.

A friend of mine, Eric, had been living quite happily in Southern California. But his uncle, who lived here in New Jersey, became very ill with Parkinson’s disease. He could no longer live safely on his own.

So Eric moved back home to fix up his uncle’s house so he could live there with dignity. Eric knew a lot about construction—power tools, sheetrock, painting, all of it.

Eric went all in.
There was no applause.
No guarantee of success.
Just the daily work of love.

Eric hired me as his part-time helper—which was actually a big risk, because I didn’t know anything about construction. Or painting. Or any of it. I made plenty of mistakes.

But I learned something important.
Not just about construction—but about commitment.

Commitment isn’t about perfection.
It’s about presence.
It’s about choosing love when it costs you something.

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9. How God Measures the Heart

Sometimes we go all in, and we may still come up short by the world’s standards. But God does not measure us the way the world does.

God looks at the heart.
God looks at whether we trusted Him.
Whether we were willing to decrease so that love could increase.

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10. Concrete Invitations to Go All In

Because the Lamb of God takes away sin, we are free to respond.

Going all in might mean returning to the Sacrament of Confession after a long time.
It might mean forgiving someone when resentment feels safer.
It might mean letting Christ increase in your home, your work, your choices.

For some, it may mean bringing parts of life back into full communion with the Church. If you’re civilly married and not married in the Church, I can help you with that. Please see me—I’ll walk with you through it.

These steps may not be easy—but they are freeing. And I promise to help make them as simple as possible. You don’t need to have everything memorized or figured out.

This allows the Lamb of God to do what He came to do:
to take away sin and restore communion.

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11. Conclusion: The Lamb Stands Before Us

In a few moments, we will hear those words again:
“Behold the Lamb of God.”

When you hear them, remember what they mean.
This is the One who increases when we let go.
The One who carries what we cannot.
The One who looks not at our résumé—but at our heart.

John points.
The Lamb stands before us.
And we are invited, once again, to go all in.

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

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

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

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

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

 

[Section 1] Incarnation as Immersion

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Section 2] Geography Matters: How Low God Goes

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

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

That detail matters.

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

Geographically.
Spiritually.
Morally.

There is no place too low for Him to enter.

[Section 3] Immersion Is Risky

Immersion always is.

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

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

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

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

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

Writing it out was easier than saying it.

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

That is the kind of world Jesus enters.

[Section 3.1] Everyday Immersions: Trust Without Guarantees

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

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

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

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

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

As Proverbs teaches us:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I realized something about myself.

I don’t really like voicemail anymore.

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

Relationships work this way.
So does faith.

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

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[Section 5] Priest: Compassion From the Inside

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

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

Compassion is not distant sympathy.
It is presence.

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

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

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

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

Jesus is also revealed as King.

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

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

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

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

But the hymn does not stop there.

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

This is how our King reigns.

Not from above.
But from within.

Conclusion

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

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

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

Joy to the world—the Savior reigns.

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

Epiphany: Living by a Light We Do Not Own

[0] Trouble and the Instinct to Control

The Gospel begins today with trouble.

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

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

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

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

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[1] The Gospel: A Light That Disturbs

Wise men arrive in Jerusalem asking a simple question:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[2] The Magi: Sign and Source

The Magi respond very differently.

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

This distinction matters.

The star is a sign.
Christ is the source.

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

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

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

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[3] Gift Before Governance

Scripture makes this distinction very early.

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

First comes the gift.
Then come the governors.

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

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

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[4] A Familiar Human Instinct

We see this instinct in ordinary life.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is why the Magi bring gifts.

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

[Click Here for 2007 Epiphany Homily, Benedict XVI]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[6] Reconciliation: When the Gift Is Restored

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Herod chooses control.
The Magi choose trust.

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

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

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

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

And like the Magi, we return by another way.

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

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

New Year’s Day: Resolution, Not Just Change

Solemnity of Mary, Mother of God

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

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

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

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

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

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

But not all change is the same.

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

1. Evolution: Change Over Time

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

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

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

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

2. Revolution: Change Through Crisis

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

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

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

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

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

But amazement alone does not last.

3. Mary and Resolution: Cooperation with God

Mary shows us something deeper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Resolution Lived: A Human Analogy

Every relationship teaches us something about this.

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

Marriage is a good example.

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

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

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

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

A Prayer for a Resolved Heart

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

It goes like this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Beginning the New Year with Mary

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

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

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

The Lord bless you and keep you.
The Lord let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you.
The Lord look upon you kindly and give you peace.

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

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