Christ the King

The crucifixion? In November? I suspect some of you thought I read the wrong Gospel. On the Sunday before Thanksgiving – when we are thinking about turkey, travel, and Christmas shopping – the Church takes us right back to Calvary. “The crucifixion? In November? I suspect Why?

Because what we see at Calvary the message of the cross is not ancient history. The violence, injustice, cruelty, and mockery in today’s gospel is still heard today – we still see them in our world, and sometimes in our own hearts. And maybe we need to hear this gospel again because the feast we celebrate – the Feast of Christ the King – reminds us that Christ’s Kingdom is not built on power or intimidation or fear, but on nonviolence, mercy, forgiveness and by a love that never strikes back.

So, what do you see as you watch Jesus on the cross? What do you feel? I will tell you what frightens me. It is not the soldiers casting lots, or the leaders scoffing, or the criminal mocking. What frightens me is how Jesus responds:

He forgives. He refuses to retaliate. He refuses to hate. He refuses to throw back insults. He absorbs violence rather than adding more to it.

That is the King we follow. And that is where the gospel starts to get very personal. Because if we claim to follow Jesus, then nonviolence is not optional. I am not talking only about wars -- most of us are not starting wars, but we all know the little everyday violences: the harsh words, the snarky comments online, the road rage, the resentments we nurse, the ways we diminish another person’s dignity – or our own.

And maybe that is where we need to start: with the violence we do to ourselves. Jesus could meet others with nonviolence because He first lived with a deep, calm, inner peace. So, let me ask you: What names do you call yourself? What regrets do you beat yourself up with? What burdens do you carry that God has long wanted to forgive? How are you hurting yourself physically, emotionally, spiritually?

Imagine if you treated yourself with unconditional love – unconditional friendliness. Imagine speaking to yourself with the same tenderness God speaks to you: “You are my beloved. I am pleased with you.” If we begin to speak to ourselves with compassion, how might that spill into how we speak to others? Jesus tells us to love our neighbors as ourselves. But if we don’t love ourselves, then our neighbor doesn’t stand a chance. The path toward a more peaceful world begins with a more peaceful heart. The way to reduce violence out there begins with reducing violence in here. I don’t know about you, but I rarely say while driving, “That precious child of God just cut me off.” I usually call them something else.

What if we start small and begin to replace our everyday ordinary acts of violence with nonviolence? Nonviolent driving, nonviolent posting on the internet, nonviolent cheers from the bleachers, nonviolent conversations.

What if nonviolence toward ourselves and one another became our vision for the future – our offering to Christ the King? What might a nonviolent neighborhood look like? A nonviolent classroom? A non-violent workplace or home? I don’t know if we can eliminate all violence from the world. But I do know this: We do not have to keep adding to it. Not when our King shows us another way. From the cross Jesus invites us into His Kingdom: not by force, but by mercy. Not by domination, but by forgiveness. Not by violence, but by love. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” May that be our prayer and our way of life.

33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time

When things in life start to fall apart – when the doctor calls with bad news, when a relationship ends, when a loved one dies, when we watch the news and wonder what is happening to our world – we can feel like the disciples in today’s Gospel. They were admiring the beauty of the Temple – strong stone walls, gold, and grandeur – and Jesus tells them, “All of this will be destroyed.” It must have felt like the ground was shifting under their feet. The Temple was the center of their world, the sign of God’s presence and protection. If that could fall, what could they rely on?

And then Jesus speaks about wars, earthquakes, plagues, betrayals – all the things that make us anxious even today. But notice what he says next: “Do not be terrified.” “Not a hair on your head will be destroyed.” “By your perseverance you will secure your lives.”

In other words, when everything is collapsing, hold on – not to the stones, not to the structures, but to me. Faith does not mean we will be spared from tough times. It means we will never face them alone. Jesus never promised a life without earthquakes – but he did promise that his presence would hold us steady when everything else shakes.

A wise priest once said, “Sometimes God allows everything we lean on to be taken away, so that we discover what can never be taken – God’s love.” A man told me how he learned that lesson – it was a story about his business. For 30 years, he ran a small family company. It was his pride and joy. But then the economy turned, and he lost it all – savings, job, even the building. He said, “Father, I used to pray that God would bless my business. After it collapsed, I realized God had been blessing me all along – just not the way I expected. He went on, “Losing everything made me see that my worth was not in what I built, but in who I am – a child of God. I thought my world had ended. But it was really just beginning in a new way.

Sometimes, God lets the walls fall so we can discover the foundation underneath- God’s love that never fails.

As we near the end of the Church year, the readings speak in apocalyptic language – the sun darkened, the stars falling, the heavens shaking. The Gospel today is not meant to make us afraid, but to awaken us. Jesus is saying, “Don’t sleepwalk through life. Life is short, but eternity is long – live for what lasts. That is what Jesus wants us to remember. Not to live in fear of the end, but to live with purpose and peace – forgiving more easily, loving more deeply, giving thanks more often.

So, when everything feels like it is falling apart – health, family, plans – faith does not magically fix things, but it keeps us standing. The truth is, our faith was never meant to rest on things that pass away. It rests on the One who never does.

The Temple fell. Empires rose and fell. But Christ remains. And he says to us today, “By your perseverance, you will secure your lives.” So, if your world feels shaky – remember what looks like the end may be God beginning something new. The stones may tumble, but the cornerstone – Christ Jesus – will never move.

Dedication of the Lateran Basilica

When you walk into a truly beautiful church – sunlight streaming through stained glass, candles flickering, music soft in the background – you can feel the decades of prayer soaked into the walls. You sense that this is holy ground.

That is what the Lateran Basilica in Rome represents – the “Mother Church” of all churches, the cathedral of the Pope. It is the oldest of the great basilica, standing for more than 1,700 years. Empires have fallen, popes have come and gone. This basilica remains, not as a museum of marble and mosaics, but as a symbol of a Church that endures – because Christ endures. But this feast is not really about a building. It is about what the building points to – the living Church, made not of stone, but of people. You and me.

In today’s gospel, Jesus enters the Temple in Jerusalem. He sees the merchants and money changers turning sacred space into a market, and He acts decisively – driving them out, overturning tables, scattering coins across the floor. At first glance, it seems like anger. But this is not a temper tantrum; it is a moment of holy passion. Jesus is consumed with zeal for His Father’s house. He is doing what prophets always do – calling people back to the heart of worship. He is saying, “You have let clutter into your temple – distractions, noise, business – and you have forgotten why you are here.”

And then Jesus says something startling: “Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it up.” He was not talking about the building, but about the temple of His body. In Christ, the presence of God dwells, fully. From now on, true worship will not be tied to a place but to a person – Jesus Christ Himself.

That shift – from building to body, from maintenance to mission – is exactly what Fr. James Mallon talks about in his book Divine Renovation. This book or vision of Church is being used by dioceses and parishes throughout the world. Three years ago, the Parish Council at St. Agnes embraced the message of Divine Renovation. Fr. Mallon says too many parishes have become caretakers of temples instead of proclaimers of resurrection. We spend too much energy keeping the lights on, the floors polished, and the schedules filled that we could forget the deeper question: Are we helping people encounter the living Christ? Fr. Mallon writes, “The Church exists not to maintain buildings, but to make disciples.” That is the heart of Divine Renovation – allowing the Holy Spirit to do in us what Jesus did in that Temple: overturn what is lifeless, sweep away what is stale, and make room for new life. And the Alpha experience is key to this renewal! Alpha invites you to ponder the very meaning of your life. It affirms you as a beloved child of God and gives you a vision to live life to the full.

There is a story I love about a cathedral in Europe that was damaged during World War II. The roof collapsed, windows shattered, statues destroyed. Among the ruins was a statue of Christ – but the hands had been blown off. When the parishioners began to rebuild, someone suggested they repair the statue too. But the pastor said, “No. Leave it as it is – without hands. And place a sign beneath it that says, “Christ has no hands now but yours.”

That is what day’s feast reminds us: we are the living Church. Christ’s presence in the world depends on our willingness to be His hands, His heart, His mercy.

And yet, to be honest, renovation can be messy. Anyone who has ever remodeled a house knows that before it is beautiful, it is dusty, noisy, and uncomfortable. You find things you did not know were broken. You have to make tough decisions about what stays and what goes.

That is what spiritual renovation feels like too. Jesus sometimes has to step into the temple of our hearts and overturn a few tables – our comfort zones, our old habits, our fear of change – not to punish us, but to set us free.

When the Church lets Chris t do that, incredible things happen. Fr. Mallon tells us of parishes that moved from survival to mission – where people stopped seeing themselves as consumers of religion and became disciples on fire for the Gospel. Worship became alive again, outreach to the needy exploded, adoration of the Eucharist deepened, people and families reconnected, and joy returned. That is what it means to dedicate a church – not in history, but in every single day to let Christ claim His temple anew.

So perhaps today the Lord is standing at the doorway of our hearts, asking “Will you let Me renovate this temple?” “Will you let Me make My church new again – beginning with you?”

The Lateran Basilica in Rome may be ancient stone, but the real Church is alive and breathing right here, in this community, in this Eucharist, in you. And maybe, when Jesus walks into our lives, He will find not a marketplace of distraction, but a heart ready to be His dwelling place.  Because the Church of Christ is not built from marble and gold – it is built from ordinary people who let the Holy Spirt do extraordinary things. And that brothers and sisters, is the divine renovation that never ends.

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.