HOMILY – Feast of the Holy Family 2025

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If you want to know what a family truly is, don’t look at a picture frame — look at a suitcase.

A family is revealed not when everything is neatly arranged, but when you are forced to pack quickly, leave behind all the things you love, and trust God on the road ahead.

That is where today’s Gospel places the Holy Family — not in a quiet living room with soft light, but fleeing into Egypt in the dark of night.

(Tonight/Today) we celebrate the Feast of the Holy Family — Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

And it is tempting to turn them into a stained-glass ideal: calm, perfectly ordered, untouched by fear or conflict. But the Word of God refuses to let us romanticize them.

Instead, Scripture shows us a family under pressure.

Herod wants the Child dead. Joseph has dreams not of peace but of warning. Mary carries in her arms the Savior of the world while crossing borders as a refugee. Jesus begins his life NOT in safety, but in exile.

The Holy Family is holy NOT because life was easy, but because love endured.

First, Sirach reminds us that Holiness Begins at Home.

The first reading from Sirach grounds holiness in ordinary family relationships — especially honoring parents:

“Whoever honors his father atones for sins… Whoever reveres his mother stores up riches.”

This is not sentimental advice. Sirach speaks honestly about aging, weakness, and patience:

“Even if his mind fails, be considerate of him; revile him not in the fullness of your strength.”

In other words, love is proven when it costs something.

Family life is where we learn our first language of love — or our first language of wounds.

And Sirach reminds us that reverence within the family is not optional; it is sacred work. How we treat one another at home shapes how we understand God Himself.

The Holy Family lived this reverence daily. Jesus, though Son of the Most High, obeyed Mary and Joseph. God placed Himself under human authority. That alone should stop us in our tracks.

Second, Colossians introduces us to The Clothing of Christian Families.

St. Paul, in Colossians, tells us what the Christian household should wear:

“Put on compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience.”

Notice: these are not feelings. They are choices. Clothing is something you deliberately put on each day.

Paul knows that family life can strip us bare — expose our selfishness, our tempers, our impatience. So, he tells us to dress differently:

“Bear with one another and forgive one another… and over all these put on love.”

The Holy Family did not survive fear, displacement, and uncertainty by perfect communication or flawless planning. They survived because love governed their decisions — and because the peace of Christ ruled their hearts.

And Paul gives us the key to unity:

“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly.”

Not scrolling endlessly. Not noise without rest. But the Word — spoken, prayed, sung, lived.

Lastly, the Gospel shows us Holiness on the Run.

Matthew’s Gospel today is striking for what it doesn’t include. No words from Mary. No dialogue from Jesus. Only Joseph acting — quietly, obediently, decisively.

Joseph dreams, listens, and moves.

He does not argue with God. He does not ask for guarantees. He protects his family by trusting God more than his own comfort.

This is holiness in action.

The Holy Family shows us that God’s Will does not always lead us into predictability, but it always leads us into life. Egypt, Nazareth, uncertainty — none of it is wasted. God is forming His Son in the midst of family life, hardship, and hiddenness.

And here is the quiet miracle: salvation grows in ordinary faithfulness.

So, What Does This Means for Us?

The Feast of the Holy Family is not meant to make us feel inadequate. It is meant to remind us that holiness is possible right where we are:

• In imperfect marriages
• In strained parent-child relationships
• In grief, illness, distance, and disappointment

Your family does not have to be flawless to be faithful. Like the Holy Family, your home can be a place where:

• Forgiveness is practiced more than blame
• Prayer is imperfect but sincere
• Love shows up even when it is tired

God does not wait for ideal conditions. He is born into real families.

And our real families are where our holiness comes from.

I remember struggling during formation to become a deacon.

The question I asked of God over and over again in prayer, “Is this where you are really calling me to serve?” So many other classmates are much holier than me.

The answer came in my final year before ordination.

In the fall of 2011, I sat at the bedside of my dying mother-in-law, in the final hour of her life, praying the Prayers for the Dying with her. Her end came suddenly, and I was the only person with her that day.

As she died, I realized it was the first time I had personally witnessed death. The day was October 4^th, feast day of St. Francis of Assisi, one of my favorite deacons in the Church.

In that moment, I realized that the first time I had witness a life being born was our first son, born on the feast day of one of the first seven deacons and the first Christian martyr, St. Stephen, on December 26^th. Our son turned 35 on Friday.

From my own holy family, came an answer from God, I was to be a deacon. It was the will of the Father. (PAUSE)

And remember the suitcase?

Holiness is not framed on the wall — it is carried on the journey. It is found in patience learned over time, forgiveness chosen again and again and again, and trust that God is present even when the road turns unexpectedly.

Today we ask the Holy Family NOT to make our families perfect — but to make them faithful.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, pray for us and our families.

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.