HOMILY – Solemnity of Christ the King 2025

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Today the Church gives us one of the most paradoxical feasts of the entire liturgical year – the celebration of a King who reigns from a cross, whose crown is made of thorns, and whose throne is an instrument of torture.

And yet, this King is the One through whom all things were created, the One in whom “all the fullness was pleased to dwell,” as St. Paul tells us in Colossians.

To understand this mystery, the Scriptures today take us on a kind of journey—a journey from the expectations of an earthly king, to the revelation of a cosmic king, to the shocking unveiling of what God’s kingship really looks like.

First we hear of The People’s King. (2 Samuel 5:1–3)

In our first reading from 2^nd Samual, all the tribes of Israel come to David and say, “You are our bone and our flesh.” They are acknowledging him as one of their own—someone who understands their struggles, someone who shares their humanity, someone who has walked the hills they walk and fought the battles they face.

And so they anoint David as king.

But David, for all his greatness, is a fragile king—a man of mistakes, sin, and limitations. The kingship Israel longed for, the kingship humanity longs for, cannot be satisfied by any earthly ruler.

Their yearning reaches forward to another King—One who is not only “bone and flesh” like His people, but the Word made flesh. Not simply a shepherd of Israel, but the Shepherd of the entire cosmos.

The second image we hear is of The Cosmic King. (Colossians 1:12–20)

St. Paul gives us one of the most soaring hymns in all his letters—a declaration of Christ’s kingship that goes far beyond politics, armies, or nations.

He says:

·        Christ is “the image of the invisible God.”

·        All things “were created through Him and for Him.”

·        He is “before all things, and in Him all things hold together.”

·        He is the One whose blood brings peace.

In other words:

Christ’s kingship is not something that began; it is something that is. It existed before creation, sustains creation, and is the destiny of creation.

But then we reach the Gospel—and the shock is that this King, the One who holds galaxies in place, hangs crucified between two criminals.

What kind of King is this?

The King on the Cross. (Luke 23:35–43)

The Gospel confronts us with the most unexpected royal scene imaginable. Instead of a golden throne, we see a wooden cross. Instead of royal attendants, we see soldiers and a crowd mocking Him. Instead of a crown adorned with jewels, we see sharp thorns pressed into His bloodied skull.

And in this humiliating scene, someone makes a request. Not a soldier. Not a disciple. Not a priest or prophet.

But a criminal.

“Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.”

He sees what nobody else sees:

Not a defeated man.
Not a failed messiah.
Not a doomed rebel.

He sees a King.

A King whose kingdom is not defended by violence but revealed through mercy.

A King whose victory is not won by shedding others’ blood but by shedding His own.

A King who reigns not by domination but by self-giving love.

And Jesus reveals the heart of His kingship in one simple promise:

“Today you will be with me in Paradise.”

This is the King we celebrate:

A King who remembers.
A King who forgives.
A King who lifts the guilty into paradise.
A King whose power is love—love stronger than sin, stronger than violence, stronger even than death.

So, what Does This Mean for Us?

To proclaim Christ as King is to ask:
Who—or what—really rules my life?

Is it:

·        fear?

·        resentment?

·        success?

·        comfort?

·        the approval of others?

·        my own plans and expectations?

Christ the King invites us to entrust our lives to a different kind of rule:

A kingship that heals instead of harms.
A kingship that remembers instead of condemns.
A kingship that leads not to power but to peace.

And like the good thief, all Christ seeks from us is the

opening of the heart that says:
“Jesus, remember me.”

Because when we give Him that small opening, the King does what only He can do:

He turns lostness into belonging.
He turns sin into mercy.
He turns despair into hope.
He turns death into life.

My sisters and brothers, today, as we end one liturgical year and prepare to begin another, the Church gives us this feast as a reminder:

Christ is King— not in the way the world understands kingship, but in the only way that truly saves.

He reigns from a cross so that He may reign in our hearts. He is the King who remembers us, who forgives us, who invites us into paradise.

Starting here, starting now, starting today.

HOMILY – 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time – Prayer that Reaches Heaven

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           I cannot tell you how many times our MercyWatch team encounters people on the streets seeking our prayers when serving our unhoused sisters and brothers. The other things that may surprise you about those experiencing homelessness are how many say, “God Bless, you” as we hand out food, socks, blankets and other survival items. And how many ask for Rosaries of our outreach team.

Today’s readings invite us to look deeply at the heart of prayer — not the words we say, but the attitude with which we stand before God.

Sirach speaks of a God who hears the cry of the poor. Saint Paul testifies to the faithfulness of God even when others abandon him. And Jesus, in the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector, shows us whose prayer truly reaches heaven.

At first glance, these readings seem to come from very different worlds — the temple of Jerusalem, a Roman prison cell, and the dusty road where Jesus told stories. Yet, they converge on one profound truth: God listens to the humble heart.

1. God Does Not Play Favorites

Sirach reminds us: “The Lord is a God of justice, who knows no favorites.” The cry of the poor, the orphan, and the widow pierces the clouds. In a world where voices are often silenced by wealth, power, or pride, God’s ear is tuned to those who are overlooked.

This means our worth before God is not based on status, eloquence, or religious reputation. God is not impressed by appearances or credentials. What moves the heart of God is sincerity — the prayer that rises from honesty, from need, from love.

We might ask ourselves: when I pray, do I come before God as someone who thinks they deserve to be heard, or as someone who trusts in mercy? The answer changes everything.

2. Faithfulness in the Race

Saint Paul, writing near the end of his life, says: “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” These are not the words of a man boasting in his achievements — they are the quiet confidence of someone who knows the Lord has been faithful to him.

Paul admits that at his first trial, “no one stood by me.” He was abandoned and betrayed, yet he says, “The Lord stood by me and gave me strength.” This is humility in action — not self-pity, but surrender; not pride, but gratitude.

Like the tax collector in the Gospel, Paul knew his strength came not from himself, but from grace. He had learned that every crown of glory is first shaped by the cross of endurance.

3. The Prayer That God Hears

In Jesus’ parable, two men go to the Temple to pray: one, a Pharisee — righteous, religious, respected; the other, a tax collector — despised, sinful, broken.

The Pharisee’s prayer is filled with “I”: “I thank you, I fast, I tithe.” It sounds like prayer, but it is really a self-congratulation. He does not pray to God; he prays about himself with an abundance of pride.

The tax collector, on the other hand, stands far off, cannot even lift his eyes, and whispers: “O God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Just seven words — but those seven words open heaven. He prays in total humility. Jesus says that man went home justified, not the other.

Why? Because humility draws mercy. The Pharisee offered God his virtues; the tax collector offered God his need. And God prefers the second gift.

In our own lives, we can be tempted to measure our holiness by comparison — like the Pharisee who looked down on others. But God is not interested in comparison; He is interested in conversion.

When we come before the Lord — whether at Mass, in the confessional, or in quiet prayer — the most powerful words we can say are often the simplest: “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.” This prayer makes room for God to be God — the God who saves, heals, and transforms.

As Pope Francis often reminded us, “The Lord never tires of forgiving us; it is we who tire of seeking His mercy.”

The readings today remind us that the prayer that reaches heaven is the prayer of the humble heart.

Like Sirach’s poor man, let us cry out with trust.
Like Paul, let us finish our race with faith.
Like the tax collector, let us stand before God in truth and in humility.

And when we do, we will find that the Lord — who shows no favorites — will lift us up, forgive us, and fill us with His peace.

HOMILY – 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time – The Chasm Between Us

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           Our MercyWatch medical team met Lazarus recently, a poor man living on the streets of Everett. Though his name was not Lazarus, it is Danny.

Danny was living on a grassy area near the I-5 freeway, out of the sight of most, but not out of the minds of our doctors and nurses.

We knew Danny from serving this elderly man in failing health at one of the temporary housing facilities we serve. But after two strokes and limited mobility, Danny found himself back on the streets struggling just to live.

The strokes impacted his right side, making it difficult to walk and limiting his ability to even feed himself with hands that weren’t working well enough to open the food our outreach teams delivered to him several times a week.

Our medical team monitored his decline over the summer with frequent visits to check-up on Danny. At the end of August, we were quite concerned that things had become acute, requiring a hospital stay. Danny was reluctant to follow the doctor’s recommendation to check-himself-in to the ER at the nearby hospital.

He had become so weak that he could barely move and a few nights more in the growing chilly nights could prove fatal.

With some gentle encouragement, Danny finally agreed.

The next day, we picked up Danny and sat with him at the ER as they checked him into the hospital. Thankfully, our Medical Director works as an ER doc at the hospital and worked to make sure Danny would be afforded the care he needed.

Sadly, this is not always the case for our unhoused friends.

Danny would spend two weeks in the hospital before being transferred to an assisted care facility nearby. Danny called it an “old folks home.”

Thanks to the care and regular meals, Danny’s health rebounded.

I wish I could say Danny was still living sheltered at the assisted care facility, but as his strength returned, so did his cantankerousness. He checked himself out (AMA – Against Medical Advice) after two weeks there. He’s now back on the streets and we are keeping an eye on his well-being.  Ready to act if needed.

Our MercyWatch team did exactly what the Gospel calls each and every one of us to do. Have eyes to see and hearts to act to care for the poorest among us.  

My brothers and sisters in Christ, today’s readings confront us with a stark and uncomfortable truth: our lives can be filled with abundant blessings, yet empty of the very love that gives our lives meaning. In other words, devoid of mercy for the Lazarus’ of the world.

The prophet Amos warns the wealthy of his time: “Woe to the complacent in Zion.” They recline on ivory couches, feast on lambs and calves, sing idle songs, drink wine from bowls—while the ruin of their people unfolds around them. They live in comfort but without compassion. And Amos says their security will not save them; they will be the first to go into exile when the conquering Assyrians invade.

Centuries later, Jesus tells a parable of another man of wealth—a man so comfortable that he doesn’t even notice the beggar Lazarus at his gate, covered in sores, longing for scraps from his table. And after death, the roles are reversed: the rich man is in torment while Lazarus rests in Abraham’s bosom. Between them, Jesus says, there is a “great chasm” no one can cross.

That chasm of indifference didn’t appear by accident. It was dug day by day in the rich man’s lifetime—every time he stepped over Lazarus, every time he ignored his suffering, every time he chose self-indulgence over mercy.

Isn’t that how the great chasms of our world are dug?

·       Between the wealthy and the poor

·       Between the comfortable and the suffering

·       Between our faith on Sunday and our choices on Monday

We don’t need to be millionaires to fall into this trap. Even in ordinary lives, it’s easy to live a life turned inward, focused on our wants, our routines, our comfort—and to become blind to the Lazarus at our own gate.

St. Paul, writing to Timothy, gives the antidote:

 

“Pursue righteousness, devotion, faith, love, patience, and gentleness. Compete well for the faith. Lay hold of eternal life.”

 

This is the opposite of complacency. It is an active faith—one that sees the needs of those around us and responds with love. It refuses to let selfishness or comfort numb our hearts.

Paul reminds us that God alone “dwells in unapproachable light,” and we are invited to share in that life. But we cannot cross the chasm to Him if we keep digging deeper ones here on earth.

So, how to bridge the chasm? The rich man begged Abraham to send someone from the dead to warn his brothers. Abraham’s reply is haunting: “They have Moses and the prophets; let them listen to them.”

We have even more—we have Christ risen from the dead. And He warns us in love: Don’t wait until it’s too late.

Every act of mercy, every choice to see the forgotten, every time we put someone else’s need before our comfort—we place a plank across that chasm. And over time, with Christ as the bridge, the gap between heaven and earth begins to close in our own hearts.

So, my sisters and brothers, let’s live with eyes open and hearts ready. Let’s notice the Lazarus at our gate—in our families, our parish, our community, even in the hidden corners of our world.

Because when we cross the chasm of indifference with love, we are already walking the bridge to eternal life.

May Christ open our eyes, strengthen our hearts, and help us to live lives full of compassion as we compete well for the faith—until the day we rest in the arms of the God who is Love itself. Amen.