Salt. Light. Mercy (2026-02-08, 5th Sunday / Lourdes Feast)

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[v.6]  2026-February-8, 5^th Sunday of Year A, ●● Isaiah 58:7-10 ●● Psalm 112 ●● 1 Corinthians 2:1-5 ●● Matthew 5:13-16 ●●

Salt, Light, and Mercy

1. A Parish Feast and the Way God Works

This Sunday, as the parish of Our Lady of Lourdes, we observe our patronal feast at Mass. The official feast day is this Wednesday, February 11, but we celebrate it together today as a parish family.

Because Lourdes is not just a place on a map in France. It is a place where God shows us how He works:
quietly, patiently, and through those the world might overlook or ignore.

And this is spirit of today’s Gospel.

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2. “You Are the Salt… You Are the Light”

Jesus says to His disciples:

“You are the salt of the earth.
You are the light of the world.”

He does not say, Try to become salt.
He does not say, Work hard so that one day you might be light.

He says: You are.

Jesus is giving us our identity before He gives us any tasks.

Salt, in the ancient world — and even today — preserves food. It protects what is good. And salt disappears into what it touches. Light does not exist for itself. Light exists so that others can see.

Salt and light do not draw attention to themselves.
They point beyond themselves.

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3. The Beatitudes and True Happiness

This Gospel comes immediately after last Sunday’s Beatitudes.

“Blessed” can also be translated as happy.

Happy are the poor.
Happy are the merciful.
Happy are the humble.
Happy are those who seek peace.

God is not placing a burden on us. He is showing us a path to a life with meaning and direction.

This is how God changes hearts —
not through noise,
not through self-promotion,
but through faithful commitment lived day after day.

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4. Lourdes and the Humility of Bernadette

In 1858, God did not choose a scholar, a priest, or a person of influence. He chose Bernadette — poor, often sick, and uneducated.

When Bernadette spoke of her visions, she did not say, I saw the Blessed Virgin Mary.
She did not say, I saw Our Lady of Lourdes.

She said simply, in her own language, “I saw a beautiful lady.” (petito damiselo)

Bernadette did not speak polished theological language. She repeated what she was given. She obeyed. She stayed faithful — even when she was doubted, dismissed, and misunderstood, even by those closest to her.

That is how God works.

Not through spectacle.
Not through self-promotion.
But through humility.

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5. Quiet Fidelity and the Christian Measure of Greatness

Pope Benedict XVI once wrote that what truly counts in Christianity is not greatness imposed from the outside, but obedience and humility before God’s word. That is what lasts.

And the clearest example of that quiet fidelity in the Christian life is Baptism.

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6. Baptism: Identity Before Achievement

Baptism is not dramatic.
It does not draw attention to itself.
It usually happens quietly — often when the person being baptized cannot speak for themselves.

Yet in Baptism, something decisive happens.

A person is claimed by Christ.
An identity is given before anything is achieved.
A light is entrusted before it is ever fully understood.

In Baptism, God says to us:

You are … this.
You are salt.
You are light.
You are Mine.

Baptism — and all the sacraments — give us direction, even when we lose our way.

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7. Losing Direction and the Call to Re-Direction

** connection to Milano Cortina winter Olympics where athletes from all over the world need instruction where to go

There is a real-life story from the 2021 Tokyo Olympics that illustrates this.

A Jamaican runner realized on the day of his race that he had taken the wrong bus and was heading in the wrong direction. He could not fix the situation himself. So he stopped and asked for help.

A volunteer helped him get to the stadium on time. He warmed up. He raced. He won.

That volunteer helped him with no expectation of medals, recognition, or media attention.
She did not know he would win.
She did not know the story would ever be told.
It did not start out as a headline.

And that is often how faith — and mercy — work:  quietly, faithfully, without guarantees.

Faith often begins with the courage to stop, listen, and choose a new direction — and with someone willing to help without needing credit.

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8. Mercy and the Possibility of Conversion

If we are honest, every one of us has been on the wrong bus at some point — spiritually, morally, relationally.

Sin (sinfulness), at its simplest, is being off target — going in the wrong direction.

And mercy does not pretend the mistake did not happen. Mercy does not deny the wrong that was done. Mercy makes turning around possible.

I can think of moments in my own life when mercy was shown to me — moments when I was clearly in the wrong. That mercy did not turn my wrong into a right, but it gave me the space to take responsibility and to change.

And so we might quietly pray:

Blessed are those who were merciful to me, a sinner.
Blessed are those who were merciful to you, a sinner.
And blessed are you when you are merciful to those who trespass against you.

Mercy does not deny the injury or misdirection.
Mercy does not dismiss the wrong.
But mercy believes that no one is finished — and that with God, hearts can be changed.

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9. “Are You Lost? Come Inside.”

I once saw a church sign that said simply:

“Are you lost?  Do you need directions?
Come inside.”

That is not a judgment.
It is not a condemnation.
It is an invitation.

And it sounds very much like Lourdes.

Lourdes heals not because people are impressive, but because people are honest about their need.

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10. What It Means to Be the Parish of Our Lady of Lourdes

And that is what we are called to be as the parish of Our Lady of Lourdes:

A place where people do not have to pretend they have it all together.
A place where mercy preserves what is good.
A place where light is lifted up — not to glorify ourselves, but to give glory to God.

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11. Living as Salt and Light This Week

I pray we can ask ourselves:

Where am I being asked to be faithful?
Where might I need direction?
Who needs patience from me?
Who needs forgiveness?
Where do I need to ask for help?

Because salt works quietly.
Light works faithfully.
And God works through humble fidelity — beginning at the baptismal font, sustained by mercy, and guided always by His grace.

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12. Closing Prayer

Let us ask Our Lady of Lourdes to teach us this way.

Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God,
that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ.

Our Lady of Lourdes, Pray for Us!

Peace Sign. Beatitudes (2026-02-01, 4th Sunday)

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[v.7]  2026-February-1,  4^th Sunday of Year A,  ●● Zephaniah 2:3; 3:12-13 ●● Psalm 146 ●● 1 Corinthians 1:26-31 ●● Matthew 5:1-12a ●●

Mended Nets Before Mission

Last Sunday: Mended Nets Before Mission

Last Sunday, in the Gospel and in Saint Paul’s letter, we heard a hopeful image.
Saint Paul urged the community to be of the same mind—a word that suggests repair, like mending torn garments or fishing nets.

Before nets can be cast, they must be mended.

Not long ago, I realized my car needed new tires. I hadn’t changed them in years. When I brought the car in, the mechanic didn’t even have to bend down. He could see it immediately:
“You have no tread left.”

He told me the only reason the tires lasted so long was because they were originally good quality. But even good tires wear down. And when the tread is gone, you lose traction—especially when the road gets rough.

Our lives of faith can be like that.

We may be sincere.
We may be strong.
We may start out and still have good "quality" or qualities.
But no one is independently self-sustaining.

Over time, stress, conflict, and division thin our spiritual traction.

That is why Jesus does not simply send us out—He heals us first.

The fishermen He calls are not perfect. They will misunderstand, argue, fail, and even run away. Yet by staying close to Christ, they are healed, forgiven, and drawn into unity.

That is true for us as well.

We do not evangelize because we have everything together.
We evangelize because God heals what is torn—and draws us together.

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The Beatitudes Spoken into a Wounded World

This Sunday, Jesus goes up the mountain and begins the Sermon on the Mount with the Beatitudes.

These familiar words are spoken not into a calm society, but into a wounded one.

We know something about that. We live in a time of deep division—nationally, locally, even within families. Many of us have been watching events unfold in Minnesota, especially in Minneapolis—a city close to our hearts.

It is close to our hearts not only because of the pain and tension being experienced there, but also because of a personal connection we share. Archbishop Bernard Hebda, now the Archbishop of Minneapolis–Saint Paul, once served as an auxiliary bishop of Newark. During that time, he worshiped here, celebrated Mass here, and was present with us—most memorably at the funeral Mass of Monsignor Petrillo.

So when we pray for peace in Minneapolis, we are not praying for strangers.
We are praying for people and a shepherd we know.

The Beatitudes are not an escape from reality.
They are God’s response to it.

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Three Beatitudes That Mend What Is Torn

Three Beatitudes stand out today:

·        Blessed are the merciful.

·        Blessed are the clean of heart.

·        Blessed are the peacemakers.

These are not abstract ideals.
They are God’s way of mending what is torn.

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Blessed Are the Merciful — Healing Memory

Mercy is difficult when tensions are high—especially when we feel justified.

Mercy does not deny that harm was done.
But mercy refuses to let the harm define the future.

Sometimes we say we have forgiven, yet we keep replaying the injury. Slowly, the wound becomes part of our identity.

Mercy breaks that cycle.

Mercy does not erase memory—but it heals memory.

That is why mercy is essential for unity, and why the Sacrament of Reconciliation is not simply about guilt, but about repair.
God mends the net from the inside.

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Blessed Are the Clean of Heart — Healing Vision

To be clean of heart does not mean naïve or uninformed.
It means undivided.

When our hearts are ruled by resentment or constant outrage, we lose clarity and charity. We stop seeing people as persons and begin seeing them as opponents.

Purity of heart restores vision.
It allows us to see God at work—even where we disagree.

Saint Paul’s call to be of the same mind does not mean identical opinions.
It means a shared center: Jesus Christ.

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Blessed Are the Peacemakers — Healing Relationships

Peacemakers are not peacekeepers.  Peacekeeping avoids conflict. Peacemaking enters tension with truth and love.

This is especially true in families. In marriage, parenting, or caregiving, words are sometimes spoken not to wound, but because someone is overwhelmed.

Peacemaking does not mean pretending words did not hurt.
It means resisting the urge to return hurt for hurt.

Presence over accusation.  Patience over escalation.

This is how unity is preserved—not by winning arguments, but by refusing to tear the net further.

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Peacemaking as Prayer for the World

Peacemaking also becomes prayer.

So today we pray for peace in our country and in our world.
For peace in Minneapolis.
For leaders entrusted with difficult decisions.
For those who serve at personal risk.
For immigrants and families seeking safety and dignity.

This is not about choosing sides.  It is about choosing the way of Christ.

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Sent Forth With Mended Nets

Last Sunday and this Sunday come together.

Before nets can be cast, they must be mended.

Jesus does not wait for perfect nets.
He heals—and then He sends.

So this week, let us pray we might...

·        Mercy: let one old grievance go unspoken.

·        Purity of heart: fast from one source of constant outrage.

·        Peacemaking: choose presence instead of persuasion in one strained relationship.

We do not evangelize because we are whole.
We evangelize because Christ is healing us—together.

And I invite you this coming Saturday, the first Saturday of the month, after the 5:30 Mass—or on your own during this week as we anticipate the Feast of Our Lady of Lourdes—to pray the Rosary at least once for peace in our world.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called children of God.
Our Lady, Queen of Peace, pray for us.

Forecast. Broadcast. Good News (2026-01-25, 3rd Sunday)

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[v.5]  2026-January-25,  3^rd  Sunday of Year A,  ●● Isaiah 8:23-9:3 ●● Psalm 27 ●● 1 Corinthians 1:10-13,17 ●● Matthew 4:12-23 ●●

Section 01. Good News at the Shoreline

The word evangelization simply means good news.
Before it is anything we do, it is something we receive and “tune in to hear.”

And in today’s Gospel, the good news begins very simply. Jesus does not start with speeches or strategies. He walks along the shoreline and calls fishermen—ordinary people, still holding their nets. “Follow me,” He says, “and I will make you fishers of men.”

He does not choose them because they are eloquent or confident. He chooses them because they are willing.

What Jesus asks of them—and of us—is not polish or perfection, but openness: a readiness to let His Word enter our lives and begin to shape how we live.

 

Section 02. A Light That Does Not Stay Still

Matthew tells us this moment comes in a time of darkness. John the Baptist has been arrested. Galilee is a place long accustomed to uncertainty and shadow. And it is precisely there that a great light appears.

Jesus does not keep that light to Himself. He teaches, heals, and preaches. The Word He receives from the Father becomes visible in the way He moves among people.

That pattern matters for us. Disciples are not meant only to contemplate God’s Word privately, but to let it take flesh in how we live, pray, and act—sometimes in what we say, and sometimes in what we choose not to say.

Section 03. Water, Chaos, and Faithful Presence

There is something else happening along that shoreline. Biblical authors have often used water to describe what is unsettled and dangerous.

Before God speaks in Genesis, there is water everywhere—dark, restless, unformed. Throughout the Bible, water often represents chaos: floods, storms, seas that must be crossed or calmed.

We know this from experience. A flash flood, a hurricane, even a weekend snowstorm can disrupt a home or a family in a matter of hours. Routines collapse. Tempers rise. Everything can feel unstable.

That is why Jesus calls fishermen. Fishermen do not control the water or the weather. They endure it. They rely on patience, one another, and God’s grace.

Christ does not remove the chaos immediately. He sends disciples into it. Through prayer, fasting, and quiet acts of charity—shoveling a walk, checking on a neighbor—God’s grace begins to calm the waters. This is evangelization: letting God bring order where the local forecast of life feels most unstable.

 

This, too, is evangelization: letting God bring order where the local forecast of life feels most unstable.

Section 04. Evangelization, Reconsidered

For many Catholics, evangelization feels uncomfortable because we imagine it as something imposed. But the Church has long reminded us that communication is not optional to faith. Long before the digital age, the Church recognized that what we receive must be shared responsibly.

Evangelization, at its core, is not about broadcasting ourselves. It is about allowing God’s Word to shape us so clearly that others recognize its truth.

Section 05. Noticing the Vulnerable

One of the clearest examples of this kind of lived evangelization today is found in the pro-life witness—not at its loudest moments, but at its most human.

At its heart, this witness is about noticing vulnerability and responding with care. It is about prayer and fasting for people we may never meet. It is about refusing to reduce human beings to mistakes or problems.

It is also important to say what it is not about.

It is not about punishing sin—whether in others or in ourselves. Scripture reminds us that God does not desire the death of the sinner, but that the sinner turn back and live. Where there is guilt or shame, there is still hope. There is mercy. There is healing.

And there are many paths toward that healing. Some involve confession with a priest. Others involve trusted lay Catholics, diocesan ministries, or support programs, such as Rachel’s Vineyard. God works patiently and personally.

You are welcome to speak with me but also know you can Google / internet search for Archdiocese of Newark Respect Life Office and I know you will be led to Cheryl Riley or someone on Cheryl’s team who can help you.  Just call the rectory or email us and we’ll give you the number. No questions asked!  Cheryl-dot-riley-AT-RCAN-DOT-ORG = Cheryl.Riley@RCAN.ORG  phone (201) 912-3272

This, too, is evangelization: making God’s mercy accessible.

Section 06. The Instinct to Protect

Most of us do not need instructions to know how to respond when a child is in danger.

Recently, during a family gathering here at the parish, a young child wandered away and began heading toward the street. Without panic and without hesitation, adults followed—gently, attentively—until the child was safely reunited with family.

Nothing dramatic happened. And yet something deeply important did.

We noticed. We acted.

That instinct is not accidental. It is God’s law written on the human heart.

And it raises a necessary question: if we would never ignore a child walking into danger before our eyes, how do we respond when vulnerability is less visible—when it is hidden behind silence, fear, or complicated circumstances?

Evangelization often begins there: with noticing.

Section 07. Being Healed and Made One

In today’s second reading, Saint Paul urges the community to be “of the same mind.” The word he uses suggests repair—like mending torn garments or fishing nets.

Before nets can be cast, they must be mended.

The disciples Jesus calls are not perfect. They will fail and misunderstand. Yet they are healed, forgiven, and gradually united by staying close to Christ.

The same is true for us. We do not evangelize because we have everything together. We evangelize because God heals what is torn and draws us into unity. Confession does this. Prayer does this. Mercy does this. And once the nets are mended, they can be cast again.

Section 08. A Closing Image

Jesus still walks the shoreline of ordinary life. He sees our routines, our hesitations, our fears. He knows where the nets are frayed.

He does not ask us to shout. He asks us to follow.

To let Him heal what is broken.
To let Him draw us into unity.
And then, together, to carry His Word into the water.

Not fearfully.
Not forcefully.
But confidently—trusting that even those who seem most resistant still need to know this truth:

God does not desire the death of the sinner, but that all turn back and live.

Mended by mercy, united in prayer, and sent together, may we not only contemplate God’s Word—but communicate it to those with ears to hear.

[END]

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.