HOMILY – 1st Sunday of Lent - The Breath and the Lie

                                            ___________________ 

Have you ever noticed how temptation rarely feels dramatic?

It does not usually arrive with red lights flashing or ominous music playing.

It sounds reasonable. Harmless. Even helpful.

“Just this once.”
“You deserve this.”
“No one will know.”
“It’s not that serious.”

In the Garden of Eden, the serpent does not shout. He suggests. He plants doubt. He reframes God’s command as a restriction instead of a gift.

“Did God really say…?”

And with that subtle question, everything changes.

We start this week’s readings with the Breath and the Lie.

In Genesis, we hear something extraordinary:
“The Lord God formed man out of the clay of the ground and blew into his nostrils the breath of life.”

You and I are not accidents. We are not self-made. We are not random collections of cells. We are dust kissed by God. Clay filled with divine breath.

And then, the serpent whispers a lie: that God is holding something back. That obedience is limitation. That autonomy is freedom.

The first sin is not merely eating the fruit. It is believing that God cannot be trusted.

Adam and Eve reach for what they think will make them more alive — and instead they experience shame, fear, and hiding. The breath of God is still in them, but now it is choked out by suspicion.

Sound familiar?

Every temptation still works the same way. It begins by distorting who God is:

·        “God doesn’t really care what you do.”

·        “God is too strict.”

·        “God just wants to control you.”

Temptation always questions God.

Now we turn to the New Adam in the Desert.

Where Adam stood in a lush garden, Jesus stands in a barren desert.

Where Adam was surrounded by abundance, Jesus is fasting for forty days with nothing, but the clothes on his back.

Where Adam failed amid plenty, Jesus remains faithful amid hunger and scarcity.

St. Paul tells us: “Through one man sin entered the world… through one man righteousness.”

Jesus is the New Adam.

Notice something important: the devil tempts Jesus in the same pattern as in the Garden of Eden.

“Command that these stones become bread.”

(Questioning trust in the Father’s provision.)

“Throw yourself down.”
(Questioning trust in the Father’s protection.)

“All these kingdoms I will give you.”
(Questioning trust in the Father’s plan.)

And each time, Jesus responds the same way: not with argument, not with clever reasoning, but with Scripture. With truth. With the Word of God.

Where Adam grasped, Jesus surrenders.
Where Adam doubted, Jesus trusts.
Where Adam hid, Jesus stands firm.

The desert becomes the place of victory. 

My sisters and brothers, Lent is never about proving something to yourself. It’s about growing closer to God.

Every year Lent begins with Jesus in the desert because the Church wants us to understand something essential: Lent is not about proving how disciplined we are. Lent is about reclaiming trust in God.

The devil tempted Jesus when He was hungry. He tempts us where we are weak — tired, lonely, stressed, hurt.

And here is the uncomfortable truth: most of our sins are attempts to meet legitimate needs in illegitimate ways.

We hunger for love — we grasp at lust.

We hunger for security — we grasp at greed.

We hunger for affirmation — we grasp at pride.

We hunger for relief — we grasp at escape.

The hunger is not the sin. The shortcut, the grasping, is.

The devil tempts Jesus to turn stones into bread — not because bread is evil, but because self-reliance without the Father is.

“Man does not live on bread alone.”

In other words: you are more than your appetites.

So, what is the real battle of Lent?

We often think the battle of Lent is about chocolate, coffee, or social media.

But the real battle is much, much deeper. It is the battle over who we believe God to be.

Do we believe He is generous — or restrictive?

Do we believe He is near — or indifferent?

Do we believe obedience to Him leads to life — or limitation?

Adam and Eve believed the lie.

Jesus believed the Father.

And here is the astonishing part: the same Spirit who led Jesus into the desert is given to each and every one of us in Baptism.

The breath that animated Adam.

The Spirit that strengthened Christ.
That same Spirit lives in you.

You are not fighting temptation alone.

Now let us see the desert as a gift.

We usually avoid deserts. They are uncomfortable. Too hot. Too cold. Too exposing. Too quiet.

But notice: Jesus does not avoid the desert. The Spirit leads Him there.

Why?

Because in the desert, illusions fall away.

There are no distractions. No abundance. No noise. Only hunger — and God.

Lent is the Church gently leading us into the desert on purpose. Not to punish us. Not to deprive us. But to cleanse us.

When we fast, we discover what controls us.

When we pray, we discover who sustains us.

When we give alms, we discover what truly matters.

The desert reveals what the garden concealed.

Now let’s talk about shame.

After Adam and Eve sin, they hide.

After Jesus resists temptation, angels minister to Him.

One story ends in shame and exile.

The other begins the road to redemption.

St. Paul tells us that where sin increased, grace abounded all the more.

That means your failures do not get the last word.

The New Adam has entered the battlefield. And He has already won.

When you fall this Lent — and at some point, we all will fall — remember this: the goal is not perfection. The goal is returning to God.

Adam hid.

Jesus restores.

The Father who formed you from dust still breathes mercy into repentant hearts.

So, here is a question to carry into this first week of Lent:

What lie about God have I quietly believed?

That He is disappointed in me?

That He is distant?

That holiness is for someone else not me?

Bring that lie into the desert. Hold it up to Christ. Let Him answer it with truth.

Because the same Jesus who stood in the wilderness stands beside you now.

And when the whisper comes — “Did God really say…?”

You can answer with confidence:

Yes. He did.
And His word leads to everlasting life.

HOMILY – Ash Wednesday 2026

                                                    ___________________

Today, before we left our home, most of us looked in a mirror. We checked our hair, our clothes, maybe our face.

Mirrors are honest. They show us what is really there — no filters, no touch-ups. In a few moments, we will come forward and receive ashes. And those ashes will turn our foreheads into a kind of mirror. Not a mirror that reflects our appearance—but one that reflects our heart.

Ash Wednesday is not about looking holy. In fact, Jesus warns us directly in today’s Gospel: “Do not perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them.” Lent is not a spiritual performance. It is not about impressing others with how disciplined, how prayerful, or how sacrificial we can be. It is about something far more personal and far more beautiful. It is about returning.

Through the prophet Joel, we hear God plead: “Return to me with your whole heart.” Not with part of it. Not with the leftover pieces. Not with outward signs only. But with your whole heart.

And notice what God says next: “Rend your hearts, not your garments.” In the ancient world, people tore their clothing as a sign of grief or repentance. But God is not interested in dramatic gestures. He wants honesty. He wants the tear to happen inside. He wants whatever is hardened, divided, distracted, or wounded in us to be opened before Him.

Psalm 51 gives us the words when we don’t know what to say: “Create in me a clean heart, O God.” That is the true work of Lent. We cannot create a clean heart on our own. We cannot scrub away sin by sheer effort. But we can ask. We can open. We can return.

And here is the beautiful irony of today: Jesus tells us to fast, pray, and give alms in secret. Yet we walk around today with ashes visible on our foreheads.

Isn’t that public? Yes—and no. The ashes are not a badge of honor. They are not a spiritual trophy. They are a quiet confession worn in public: “I am dust. I need mercy. I am returning.”

Ashes remind us of two truths we often avoid. First, we are fragile. “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” Our time, our plans, our control—none of it is permanent.

Second, and more importantly: dust is not the end of the story. The same God who formed Adam from the dust can reform our hearts. The same God who raised Jesus from the tomb can raise us from sin.

So as you come forward today, don’t think of the ashes as something placed on you. Think of them as something opened within you. Let them be a mirror. Let them reveal where you have drifted. Let them remind you that it is not too late.

Because the God who calls you to return is, as Joel says, “gracious and merciful, slow to anger, rich in kindness.” Lent is not about proving ourselves to God. It is about allowing ourselves to be loved back to life.

Return to Him—with your whole heart.

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

                                                  _____________________________

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.