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.

All Souls. Intercession (2025-11-02)

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 [November 2, 2025 ]  All Souls 2025: The Communion of Interceding Hearts

Gospel: John 6:37–40  “This is the will of my Father, that I should lose nothing of what He has given me, but that I should raise it up on the last day.”

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1. What It Means to Intercede

To intercede is to stand in the gap for another—to lift up someone’s need before God, just as the saints do for us.

The Catechism says, “Intercession is a prayer of petition which leads us to pray as Jesus did” (CCC 2634).
In today’s Gospel, Jesus speaks of the Father’s will that none be lost. He reveals Himself as the great intercessor, the one who stands before the Father for us, offering His own life.

This moment in John’s Gospel—often called the Bread of Life discourse—is not just about receiving Communion; it is about being in communion. Jesus prepares Himself and us to give and receive love through His Body and Blood. He intercedes for us by making Himself VULNERALBE –  through the sacrifice we receive, so that we might be united with Him and with one another.

This act of divine intercession continues a long tradition reaching back through salvation history. Think of Joseph, the son of Jacob: betrayed and sold by his brothers – also VULNERABLE - yet later raised to power in Egypt so that he could save the very family that had abandoned him. Joseph, the rejected one, becomes the rescuer.

So it is with Christ—the VULNERABLE intercessor par excellence—who feeds and redeems those who once rejected Him.

And in Christ, the Church herself becomes an interceding Body: praying, waiting, and standing in love for the living andlthe dead.

 

2. Christ the Great Intercessor and His Body, the Church

Jesus says, “Everything that the Father gives me will come to me, and I will not reject anyone who comes to me.”  This is the heart of divine intercession: the Son standing before the Father for the sake of humanity.

The Catechism teaches, “In the age of the Church, Christian intercession participates in Christ’s, as an expression of the communion of saints” (CCC 2635).
Through baptism we become members of His Body—the living, the departed, and the saints in glory—joined in one unbroken communion.

When we pray for the faithful departed, we exercise that bond of charity that death cannot destroy. The Church commends the dead to God’s mercy, offering prayers—especially the Eucharistic sacrifice—on their behalf (CCC 1055).

At the altar, heaven and earth meet. The saints intercede for us; we intercede for the dead; and Christ offers Himself for all.

One image that often captures this communion for me is the wedding. Here at Our Lady of Lourdes, it my hope and plan that the groom arrives at the church before the bride—standing at the altar rail, smiling, waiting. The bride, too, is waiting in her own place. Both are longing for the same moment of union.

That is what love looks like: waiting, watching, interceding for the other. Marriage becomes a living parable of the Church’s communion—a reminder that we are always waiting for one another, both in time and in eternity.

On this All Souls Day, we remember that same kind of waiting: the living praying for the dead, and the saints praying for us, all joined in Christ who bridges every distance.

 

3. Everyday Intercession and the Saving Name

Intercession does not belong only to saints and priests—it unfolds in the ordinary spaces of life:

·        a parent praying for a struggling child,

·        a caregiver offering the exhaustion of the day,

·        a friend lighting a candle for someone sick or gone.

Years ago, I was driving with my father across the George Washington Bridge on our way to City Island in the Bronx. This was long before GPS—no cell phones, no digital maps. My father had E-ZPass; I didn’t. He drove through his usual lane—toll number 64—and went ahead of me while I waited to pay cash.

By the time I crossed, he was far ahead. But I knew he was thinking of me, checking his mirrors, worrying whether I’d make it. When I finally arrived, there he was—standing at the gate, waiting. He had gotten there first, but he hadn’t forgotten me.

That is what intercession looks like: getting there first, but waiting for others to arrive; remembering those who are still on the way.

And that is what we do today. We pray for those who have died—not because they are forgotten, but because they are remembered in the mercy of God.

Pope Francis reminds us, “Praying for the dead is an act of mercy and hope. It entrusts our loved ones to God’s mercy and opens us to eternity.” (General Audience, Feb 2, 2022)
Each prayer, fast, or act of charity participates in that same redemptive love.

Our intercession is not anxious pleading; it is confident trust in Christ’s promise:

“This is the will of my Father, that I shall lose nothing of what He has given me.”

4. Saying the Name, Praying the Name

When I was ten years old, my family spent a week at the Jersey Shore. One morning, my little brother Michael—just four years old—got lost on the beach.

Panic broke out. Lifeguards were called, police notified, people fanned out along the shoreline. In those days there were no cell phones or photos to share—only a name. So we shouted it over and over: “Michael! Michael!”

Half an hour later he was found—frightened but safe.

Even decades later, that memory reminds me of intercession—people calling out, searching, refusing to rest until the lost is found.
All Souls Day is like that: we call out the names of our beloved dead before God—parents, children, friends, the forgotten and the cherished—trusting that love does not end with death.

Each name becomes a prayer.
Each prayer becomes an act of communion between heaven and earth.
We may not know where each soul stands on the journey, but we know this: God knows their name, and Christ will not lose them.

It is, as Scripture says, “a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from their sins” (2 Maccabees 12:46).

And this is where the Church’s teaching on Purgatory gives hope.
One of my seminary professors once said:

“In a world that believes everything is a gray area, we Catholics believe in one great gray area—Purgatory.”

Purgatory is not despair or punishment. It is the mercy of God—the place where His fire purifies, where His love prepares the soul to see Him face to face. Saint Thomas Aquinas called it “a fire that purifies, so that the soul may be made worthy of heaven.”

Pope John Paul II reminded us that the souls there “are helped by the acceptable sacrifice of the altar.”
Every Mass offered, every prayer spoken for the departed, every act of charity done in their memory participates in that cleansing mercy.

Even as we call out their names, God calls theirs in return. The chasm between life and death is crossed not by our power, but by His grace.

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5. Conclusion: A Communion of Hope

Every name we speak today is a story still unfolding in God’s mercy.
We pray for them, and they, in turn, will one day pray for us.

This is the mystery of the Communion of Saints—the circulation of love that never ends.
We do not stand alone at the altar; we stand with those who have gone before us and those who will come after us.

At every Mass, heaven and earth join in one great act of intercession. The saints are present. The souls in Purgatory are remembered. Christ, the great Intercessor, offers Himself once more.

We are not just at the 11:30 Mass here on earth—we are also at the heavenly liturgy, joined to the saints at God’s throne.

So as we read the names of our beloved dead today, let it be an act of faith and love.
Let us entrust them to the Lord who promises:

“Of those You have given Me, I have lost none.”

And may our prayer echo across heaven and earth:
Lord, remember them. Lord, remember us. Bring us all to the joy of resurrection.

All Saints (2025-11-01)

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 [__ver-05_]   Homily –  Nov 1, 2025  /  All Saints Day

● Revelation 7:2-24, 9-14 ●   Psalm 24 ● 1 John 3:1-3 ●  Matthew 5:1-12 a ●

 Ordinary People with Heavenly Aspirations

1. The Three Days of Faith and Communion

Today we celebrate the Solemnity of All Saints, the great festival of heaven. It is part of a beautiful three-day devotion that unites heaven and earth:

·        All Hallows Eve (or All Saints’ Eve) on October 31,

·        All Saints’ Day today, November 1,

·        and All Souls’ Day tomorrow, November 2.

These days remind us that our faith unites the Church in heaven, on earth, and in purgatory—the living and the dead. We pray for those who have gone before us, those still being purified, and those already in glory. At our 5:30 p.m. Mass for All Souls, we’ll read the names of our beloved deceased. But today is about the saints—the countless holy men and women, known and unknown, who reflect the radiance of Christ’s glory.

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2. Who Makes the List?

If I asked, “Who are the top five basketball players of all time?” you might say LeBron James, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Karl Malone, Kobe Bryant, Michael Jordan.
Or, “Who are the top five singers?” Rolling Stone once listed Aretha Franklin, Whitney Houston, Sam Cooke, Billie Holiday, Mariah Carey.

But those lists never capture the full story. There are thousands of athletes, thousands of singers who have given joy and inspiration without fame. Their names may not appear in any Hall of Fame—but their contributions matter deeply.

All Saints Day reminds us of something similar.
The Church has her “famous names”—St. Joseph, St. Patrick, St. Joan of Arc, Mother Teresa, St. John Paul II, Mary Magdalene. But the holiness of God runs far deeper than a list. There are countless saints without feast days, statues, or songs—ordinary people who lived extraordinary love.

Even in our own parish, Our Lady of Lourdes, many have prayed, served, and given what they could—some we remember by name, many we do not. They sat in these same pews. They became saints quietly, faithfully.

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3. The Diversity of Holiness

Fr. Ronald Knox once asked, “Why do we have this feast of All Saints?”
He answered: to remind us of the diversity of holiness.

Not all saints are monks or martyrs. Some are parents, teachers, carpenters, accountants, students, scientists, even lawyers.
Some practiced heroic virtue by forgiving enemies, others by caring for the sick, others by giving the little they had—like the widow who offered two coins.

Saints are not specialized professionals in holiness. They are ordinary people who loved God with all their heart and neighbor as themselves—sometimes even loving those who persecuted them.

That means we should never imagine saints as superstars above us. They were people of flesh and blood—ordinary in appearance, extraordinary in love. Their greatness was not in their achievements but in their aspiration toward heaven.

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4. A Modern Role Model: Blessed Carlo Acutis

One of the most radiant examples of recent times is Blessed Carlo Acutis, a fifteen-year-old from Lombardy, Italy.
He loved soccer, video games, computers, and pizza—just like many young people. But from an early age he said, “I want to be close to Jesus.”

He went to daily Mass, spent long hours in adoration, and said, “The Eucharist is my highway to heaven.”
Carlo used his gift for technology to serve the faith. He built a website cataloging Eucharistic miracles from around the world, using the internet as a tool of evangelization. Pope Francis later called him a model for young people who seek to bring light into the digital world.

Though his family was comfortable, Carlo lived simply. He shared with the poor, befriended the lonely, and kept his eyes fixed on heaven. His motto was: “Not I, but God.”

Carlo reminds us that sanctity is not out of reach. Holiness is the possible response of anyone who gives God a generous “yes” in daily life.

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5. Practicing Holiness Like a Sport

Think of how we imitate great athletes. You can wear Michael Jordan’s jersey or buy his shoes—but that doesn’t make you Jordan. You must practice as he did.

Likewise, holiness is not achieved by memorizing saints’ biographies. It is learned by practice: prayer, charity, perseverance, forgiveness.

Blessed Carlo practiced holiness like a sport—training his heart in the gym of grace: Mass, Adoration, and service. He was ordinary, but he let God make him extraordinary.

And this is where the Magisterial truth meets our experience: salvation is God’s initiative. Grace comes first.
We do not “earn” heaven by effort alone; we receive God’s life through baptism, the Eucharist, reconciliation, and prayer.
Our “practice” is our cooperation with the grace already offered.
As the Catechism teaches, “The initiative belongs to God in the order of grace; no one can merit the initial grace of forgiveness and justification” (CCC 2022).

So holiness is not self-improvement—it is self-surrender to grace. The saints simply allowed grace to bear fruit in them.

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6. The Psychology of Role Models

On a practical, everyday level, we learn holiness much the same way we learn goodness or excellence in life—by encountering role models.

Think of two common experiences:

1.     Someone you know receives a promotion or honor.
Our natural instinct may be envy—“Why not me?” Yet when we overcome that jealousy, when we allow the goodness of another’s achievement to inspire rather than threaten us, we are already being reshaped by grace.
Such goodness is not entirely our own doing—it’s God shaking us out of self-centeredness.

2.     Someone forgives us.
When another person extends mercy, we encounter holiness firsthand. Do we dismiss it as unattainable, or do we let it challenge us to imitate it?

In both cases, grace is at work psychologically as well as spiritually. The saints are not abstract models; they show us that moral and spiritual growth is relational—we are changed by those who love, forgive, and inspire us.

Jesus Himself is the model par excellence—the one whose example is both humanly imitable and divinely transformative. Through His grace, He makes possible what would otherwise seem beyond reach.

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7. Ordinary People, Extraordinary Grace

All Saints Day teaches us that sanctity is not about being famous but being faithful. Heaven is not a Hall of Fame where people are voted in; it is a communion where Christ invites us to belong forever.

Every baptized person has the same calling: to become holy right where we are.
Many of us will never be known beyond our families or parish—but every act of love, every quiet prayer, every hidden sacrifice is a seed of eternal glory.

 “Carlo reminded us that we are called to be originals, not copies”

The saints are the originals—they lived their unique mission with love. And so can we, by receiving and responding to the grace God continually offers.

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8. Walking the Highway Together

Let us then walk this highway to heaven together.
Like Blessed Carlo, let us make the Eucharist the center of our lives, use technology to spread goodness, and share what we have with those in need.

Let us also remember: the saints are not distant heroes—they are our brothers and sisters, cheering us on.
They remind us that God’s grace meets us in ordinary life—in our workplaces, families, and friendships—and transforms our efforts into something eternal.

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9. Prayer

Lord Jesus, you are the Bread of Life.
As Blessed Carlo taught us, may the Eucharist be our highway to heaven.
Help us to use our gifts—our minds, our hands, even our screens—to bring your love to others.
Through the intercession of Blessed Carlo and all the saints,
make us ordinary people with heavenly aspirations,
and let your grace perfect what our efforts begin. Amen.