All Souls

 We gather today to remember those we have loved and lost this past year. Their names and faces are etched into our hearts. Some of their deaths may still feel raw, for others, the passage of time has softened the edges of grief. Each name we speak represents a story – of love given and received, of laughter shared, of faith practiced. Each of them once sat where we now sit, prayed the same prayers, and trusted the same Shepherd.

“The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.” These ancient words of Psalm 23 have comforted countless hearts through the centuries. They remind us that no matter how dark the valley, no matter how heavy the grief, God walks bedside us, guiding and leading us home.

Today we remember 27 parishioners and so many more friends and relatives from other places – other communities that are also close to our hearts. We gather with mixed emotions – grief for the empty chairs at our tables, gratitude for the years we shared, and hope for the promise that lies beyond. Psalm 23 reminds us that the Good Shepherd “leads us beside restful waters” and “restores our souls.” That is not a vague comfort; it is a bold declaration that God’s love is stronger than death.

A man once told be about a hike he took with his granddaughter. They started up a steep trail, and she kept asking, “Are we almost there?” He would smile and say, “Not yet, but keep walking.” Finally, they reached the summit, and she gasped at the view – lakes glistening below, sunlight breaking through the clouds. She said, “Grandpa, I did not know it would be this beautiful.” He softly replied, “That is what heaven will be like.”

For our loved ones, the climb is over. They have reached the summit. They now see the beauty that we can only imagine.

The French Jesuit Pierre Teilhard de Chardin wrote, “We are not human beings having a spiritual experience, we are spiritual beings having a human experience.” The truth is that our very temporary human experience is only a part of something much larger.  For our loved ones, their time on earth – these precious human years – was one small part of a much greater journey. They were spiritual beings who walked among us for a while, revealing something of God’s own kindness, humor, and tenderness. Now their spirits have simply gone home to the One who created them.

We, too, remain on that same journey. Though we walk through the valley of loss, the Shepherd stays with us. God prepares a table before us – not just in heaven but even here at this altar, where heaven and earth meet. When we receive the Eucharist, we are united not only with Christ, but with all who have gone before us.

So today, as we speak their names and light our candles, we do not say goodbye. We say thank you – for the faith they passed on, to the love they shared, and the light they leave behind. And we allow the words of Jesus from the Gospel today  to fill our hearts: “This is the will of my Father, that I should lose nothing of what He has given me.” No one is lost to God. Not one of them. Not one of us. May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Thirtieth Sunday in Ordinary Time

There is an old story about a pastor who wanted to make a point about humility.  One Sunday, after reading today’s gospel about the Pharisee and the tax collector, he said, “Now, let’s all bow our heads and thank God that we are not like that Pharisee!”  The congregation laughed – and then went quiet – because they realized that even in joking, they had fallen into the same trap. We think we are better than…

That is what Jesus is teaching us today. Two men go up to the temple to pray. One stands tall, sure of himself, reciting a list of good deeds – fasting, tithing, and comparing himself to others. The other man stands off in the corner, beating his chest, unable even to lift his eyes to heaven, and simply says, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

And Jesus shocks everyone by saying it is the tax collector who goes home justified, not the religious man. Why? Because the Pharisee’s prayer is not really a prayer – it is a performance. It is about himself, not God. The tax collector’s prayer, on the other hand, is simple, honest, and real.

God listens to real!

A few years ago, a young man went to confession after a long time away. He sat down nervously and began, “Father, I don’t even know where to start.” The priest smiled and said, “Start with your name.” The man said, “I’m Michael.” And the priest said, “Well, Michael, that is a good start – because you are not starting with your sins, you are starting with yourself. God does not just see your mistakes. God sees you. God loves you. And God has been waiting for you to come home.”

Tears came to Michael’s eyes. He had not expected mercy. But mercy found him anyway. That is what this parable is about. Mercy finds the humble. Grace comes to those who know they need it.

The Pharisee’s pride built a wall between himself and God. The tax collector’s humility opened a door. Humility does not mean thinking less of yourself; it means thinking of yourself less – so there’s room for God.

Every time we begin Mass, we echo the tax collector’s prayer: “Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.” It is not a cry of shame – it is an invitation for grace.

So today, as we gather around this altar, let us pray not with the pride of the Pharisee but with the honesty of the tax collector. “Lord, I need You. Have mercy on me. Make me new.” And if we can pray that from the heart – then we, too, will go home justified.

Twenty-Eighth Sunday in Ordinary Time

There is an old story about a little boy who was playing on a dock and leaned over too far, lost his balance, and fell into the lake. He could not swim – a man nearby saw what happened, kicked off his shoes and dove in. A few tense second but he pulled the boy up coughing and sputtering – but alive. A few minutes later the boy’s mother came running, out of breath and in tears. She hugged her son tightly, then turned to the man and said, “oh thank you – you saved my son. “The man smiled and said, “I’m just glad he is safe.” Then the mother looked at her son from head to toe and said, “Wait a minute…. where’s his hat?”

It is a funny story, but it hits home.  Sometimes we do the same thing with God. We receive blessings, grace, forgiveness, healing – and then we look around and say, “But Lord…what about that other thing? Where is my hat?”

In today’s gospel, Jesus heals ten lepers. Ten! Yet only one comes back to say thank you. And notice, Jesus does not say, “You are welcome.” He says, “Where are the other nine?” He is not angry – he is saddened. Because gratitude is the natural language of faith. It is how love recognizes love. Ten were blessed but only one was truly changed. Gratitude did not just clean his skin; it changed his heart.

His body was cured, but his heart was awakened. Gratitude made him see the bigger picture: not just what he got, but who gave it. Gratitude opens our eyes to see that life is not something we earn, but something we receive. Every breath, every sunrise, every act of kindness is a gift.

We live in a world that has trained us to notice what is missing. The news tells us what is wrong, commercials tell us what we lack, and social media shows us what we do not have. And before long, we start to live like that mother – blessed beyond all measure yet focused on the missing hat.

But gratitude flips that script. Gratitude turns our eyes from what is wrong to what is right. It makes us aware of the quiet miracles we often overlook – the people who love us, the meals on our tables, the breath in our lungs, the gift of faith that brings us here today. As one writer said, “Gratitude turns what we have into enough – and more.”

So maybe today’s Gospel is inviting us to stop searching for the missing hat and start noticing the saving grace. To thank God for not only for what God has given – but for what God spared us from. To see that every moment of life is a gift that deserves a “thank you.”

And when we learn to live with grateful hearts, we stop keeping score, stop comparing, and start rejoicing. Because the grateful person does not have more things – the grateful person simply sees more blessings.  

So here is your homework for the next week: find one person you have never thanked before – and thank them. It could be the person at the checkout, the neighbor who takes in your trash bins, or the friend who always listens. You might be surprised how those two simple words can change someone’s day – and maybe even their life.

“Thank you.” Two small words that heal, that bless, that make the world a little kinder. And maybe when we stand before God someday, the first words we will want to say will not be a long explanation or a list of excuses – but simply, “Thank you, Lord.”

Twenty-Seventh Sunday in Ordinary Time

A little boy once asked his mom:

“Why do we have nighttime?

Why can’t it just be day all the time?”

His mom smiled and said:
“If it were always day, we’d never see the bright moon and the stars.”

That is true of life, as well.
Without darkness, we would never notice the light.

In just a few weeks, when we set our clocks back to Standard Time, we will notice how quickly darkness falls. And we will also notice how much brighter the stars seem against the night sky. That brings us right to today’s readings.

The prophet Habakkuk could have written his words today. The prophet sounds like he just watched David Muir’s ABC News!

He cries out:
“O Lord, how long shall I cry for help, and you do not listen?
I see violence, ruin, misery, destruction, strife, and discord.”

Sound familiar?

Just turn on the evening news.
We see armed guards outside malls, schools, synagogues, and churches.
We hear about terrorism and assassinations. People are shooting into places meant to be safe.
We watch tornadoes, floods, and hurricanes destroy lives and homes.

We see sickness, pain, suffering, and death all around us.

Habakkuk’s Old Testament words could be our own.

But here is the good news:

God answered Habakkuk —

and God answers us.

He tells the prophet:
“Write down the vision.”

 God tells Habakkuk,

“The just one, because of his faith, shall live.”

In other words: Hold on. Do not give up.

Faith is what carries us through our dark days.

Saint Paul tells Timothy:
“Stir into flame the gift of God.”
Do not let your faith sit there like an old souvenir on a shelf. Faith is meant to be alive. It is meant to grow.

And Jesus adds something surprising:
We do not need a mountain of faith.

Even faith as small as a mustard seed can move mountains…
Or uproot mulberry trees…
or help us forgive again.

So, when the world feels dark, remember that little boy’s question.

Nighttime exists so we can see the stars. Faith is the light that shines in that darkness. We may not control the night. But we can choose trust, to hope, to have faith. Faith is the greatest power in the world. That is what Jesus meant when he said, “If you have faith the size of a mustard seed” – this is a striking way of saying that with faith what looks impossible becomes possible.  Gandi said, “Those with a grain of faith never lose hope, because they believe in the ultimate triumph of truth.”

In the darkness, let us keep our eyes focused on the light - - and that light is Jesus Christ. And Jesus Christ, my friends, is more than enough to keep us going.

Twenty-Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time

“And lying at his gate was a poor man named Lazarus.”  We all know about gates, don’t we? Gates are everywhere. Gated communities, “members only” clubs, fences, railroad tracks, border walls – even that invisible line in town that says” this side is for the haves, that side for the have-nots.”

Today’s gospel is no different. Jesus gives us the parable of the rich man and poor Lazarus. On one side of the gate: the rich man, dressed in purple and eating fine meals. On the other side: Lazurus, covered in sores and dogs licking his wounds.

Now, before we get too smug, let me remind you: the government has defined poverty as making less than $11, 880 a year. By that math, most of us here are “rich.” That makes me a little twitchy because we just heard what happens to the rich man! But let me put you at ease – it is not about a magic dollar amount. Otherwise, the solution would be easy. Just drop your income to $11,879 and you are safe! But Jesus is not giving us a tax code or an IRS bracket. He is giving us a heart check.

See, the rich man’s problem was not his wardrobe or his menu. His problem was his gate. He had walled himself off from compassion. He never even noticed Lazarus right at his doorstep!

Look at all the ways we set gates between ourselves and others: between rich and poor, the powerful and the powerless, black and white, gay and straight, Muslim and Christian, immigrant and citizen, neighbor and enemy, or any other categories you might add to this list. Those gates are not circumstances or categories – they are a condition of the human heart. They do not just shut others out. They trap us inside. Today’s gates become tomorrow’s chasms.

That is the warning. But there is also good news. Lazarus’ name means “God helps.” The knock at our gate is not just a beggar, it is an invitation. God helps us when we open up.

What if we open the gates of compassion and concern for others, generosity and sharing, forgiveness and reconciliation, justice and peace? What would that take? Let’s look at our lives and our world. What are the closed gates in our life today? What gates are separating us from one another? It might be fear, anger, resentment, jealousy, indifference, guilt, grief, loneliness, cynicism or a thousand other things. Take a moment and listen. Listen deeply. Our gates are being rattled. Every day our gates are being rattled. Lazarus is knocking, rattling your gate and my gate. When we open our gates – through compassion, generosity, forgiveness, love – we don’t just help Lazarus in front of us. We discover our own freedom. Our own healing. Our own joy.

So today, if you hear a little rattling at the gate of your heart, don’t call security. Open it! Lazarus is knocking. And remember what his name means: “God helps.”