HOMILY – 3rd Sunday in Ordinary Time - The Light Unites

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Most of us remember what it is like to be in a dark room when the lights suddenly come on. For a moment we squint, unsure of where to look—but almost instantly, we know where we are.

Light has that power. It reveals, it orients, and it invites us to move forward.

Today’s Scriptures are about that moment when God turns on the light—not only in the world, but in the human heart.

The prophet Isaiah speaks to a people who knew darkness well. They lived under oppression, uncertainty, and fear.

Yet Isaiah dares to proclaim something astonishing: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Not will see, but have seen. God’s light does not wait for perfect conditions.

It enters precisely where hope feels thin, where the road seems unclear. And this light does more than illuminate—it multiplies joy, lifts burdens, and breaks the yoke of oppression.

That promise begins to take flesh in today’s Gospel. Matthew tells us that Jesus deliberately goes to Galilee, to the margins, to a place known for tension and spiritual neglect. It was also a place with a melting pot of cultures.

This is no accident. Jesus begins His ministry not in a center of power, but in a place hungry for light. And His first words echo Isaiah: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand.” Repentance here is not about fear or shame; it is about turning—turning toward the light that has already arrived.

As Jesus walks along the sea, He calls ordinary people—fishermen with calloused hands and simple lives. “Come after me,” He says, “and I will make you fishers of men.” They are not given a detailed plan. They are given a Person. And remarkably, they respond immediately. Light has entered their world, and it changes everything.

Can you imagine encountering someone who causes  you to drop everything and completely change the direction of your life?

In March of 2023, during my sabbatical from serving as a deacon in the Church, I traveled to the Holy Land for a pilgrimage with a group of deacons and others.

I walked the shores of the Sea of Galilee. I rode in a fishing boat on its waters. I watched nets being cast into the sea in hopes of catching fish. I basked in the sun-drenched light of the place where Jesus began his earthly ministry.  There, the Gospel came to life for me and all on our journey. It was as if a light came on, illuminating something I had been looking for.

Truthfully, this journey came at a time of pain and sadness for me. For three years, I served as pastoral leader of Christ Our Hope and St. Patrick in downtown Seattle.

I know, a deacon serving as pastoral leader. What Catholic wants that?

This assignment started just before the Covid pandemic hit and ended with an Archbishop’s decree to close one parish, St. Patrick, after 105 years serving the people at its scenic Capitol Hill location.

The closure decree was most difficult because St. Pat’s was where my wife and I were married 40 years ago. And where our youngest son and his wife were married five years ago.

My heart was still heavy as I made this journey. I was still grieving for the 230 families who experienced the death of their parish.

In some ways the light had gone out for me.

Saint Paul reminds us that light can be pushed aside or resisted, even by believers. Writing to the Corinthians, he addresses a community fractured by division, pride, and misplaced loyalties.

St. Paul asks,“Is Christ divided?” It is a piercing question.

When the light of Christ shines, it reveals not only where we should go, but what must be healed. Paul is not interested in winning arguments; he is pleading for unity rooted in Christ alone.

This reading confronts us gently but honestly.

How often do we cling to labels, preferences, or personalities—I belong to this group, I follow this voice, I see things this way—and forget that we belong first to Christ?

Division thrives in partial light. Unity grows when we allow the full light of the Gospel to shine.

The Gospel tells us that Jesus did not only preach—He healed. He touched bodies, minds, and spirits. He restored people to community.

My journey to the Holy Land allowed for light of Christ to shine again in my heart. Jesus healed my wounds. He reminded me about why I was called and what I am to do: serve Him in joy and hope.

The light of Christ is never abstract. It enters real lives, real struggles, real wounds. And He continues that work today through His Church, imperfect though it may be, when we allow ourselves to be united in Him.

But this light demands a response.

We can squint, turn away, or argue about the source of the light—or we can step into it and be changed.

Isaiah announces it. Matthew shows it breaking into history. St. Paul warns us what happens when we forget its source.

Today, Christ walks once again along the shores of our lives. He sees us in our routines, our divisions, our half-lit places. And He speaks the same words: “Come after me.”

If we do, the darkness does not stand a chance. Because where Christ is present, light is no longer a promise—it is a reality.

HOMILY – Feast of the Holy Family 2025

                                              ___________________________

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.