Second Sunday of Advent

What if I preached like John the Baptist? What if I were as blunt, as confrontational, as shockingly direct as he is? What if I stepped into the pulpit and began like this: “So what brought you slithering in here today? You sons of snakes. Why are you here? To get out of the cold? To see your friends? To feel good about how faithful you are? Don’t tell me how long your family has been in the parish or how many committees you have chaired. I want to know what you are doing with your life. Where are you going? If you are here to change, to open yourself to God, then show it. And if you are not…then go ahead – crawl back into the hole you came from.”

If I preached like that, what would you do? Call the Bishop? Complain in the parking lot? Fire off an email? Leave and never come back? Or…would you change your life?

Most of us don’t want messages like John’s – because many of us, in one way or another, have settled. We are not settled because everything is perfect; we are settled because we are tired. We are overwhelmed. We are busy. We are disappointed. We are cynical. We have created a way of living that gets us through the day, and we don’t want anyone disturbing that fragile balance.

And yet Matthew tells us that people flocked to hear John: the people of Jerusalem, all Judea, even the Pharisees and Sadducees. Why seek out someone who calls you a brood of vipers?

Because deep down, we know the truth John names. We know the cracks in the veneer. We know when we are out of balance, when we are not living who we truly are. We know the habits we keep, the fears we avoid, the relationships we resist. And after a while, it is easy to shrug and say, “That is just how it is. That’s just me.”

That is when we need John the Baptist.

Not because he tells us we need to change – we already know that. But because he reminds us that we can change. That God has not closed the book on us. That a different future is still possible. His message is simple and urgent: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven has come near.”

For years I thought repentance was mostly about behavior – feeling bad, trying harder, doing better. But life teaches us that even when we try our best, things do not always go right. So, what if repentance is something deeper? What if it is about returning to our truest self? What if it is about reclaiming our integrity, not betraying who God created us to be? What if repentance is an inner turning before it is ever an outer action? Maybe repentance is like learning to walk – not about never falling but about getting up again.

Maybe it is simply turning toward the future instead of resigning ourselves to the past. Maybe repentance is choosing hope when hope seems impossible.

And repentance does not have to be dramatic. It begins with one change. So let me ask you the questions John would ask:

What is one change you could begin today that would bring more wholeness to your life? One change that would deepen a strained relationship? One change that would soften your heart toward someone who is hurting? One change that would open a path toward forgiveness – of another or of yourself? One change that would help you see beauty, or love yourself, or trust God more?

One change.

A new start.

A future.

That is Advent. Something is coming – something holy, something hopeful, something new. So repent – not because you are bad. Repent because you are worth it. Amen.

The First Sunday of Advent

“…you do not know on which day your Lord will come.”

We’ve all had those days we did not see coming.
The day the doctor gave unexpected news… the day a baby arrived a week early… the day a judge finalized the divorce… and the day you stood at a grave and wondered what comes next.

Life is filled with those surprise days—some beautiful, some heartbreaking, some absolutely bewildering.

For example, I once planned a perfectly timed, carefully organized trip… only to arrive at the airport and discover I was at the wrong terminal… in the wrong concourse… with the wrong suitcase. That was an “Advent moment”: a reminder that I really do not know the day or the hour… or apparently the airline.

But those moments are exactly what Jesus is talking about.
Advent is not just a church season—it describes the way life really is: unpredictable, surprising, and filled with things we can’t control.

Every year, the First Sunday of Advent gives us a Gospel that sounds ominous. We imagine the end of the world. But Jesus never says the world is ending. He simply says life comes at us unexpectedly.

Look where it happens in the Gospel:
People are eating, drinking, getting married, going to work. In other words—ordinary life.

That’s the real “apocalypse”: not the end of the world, but the moments when our world shifts—when plans turn upside down, when life surprises us, when we face uncertainty and don’t have the answers.

We certainly know what that feels like today. Read the news: uncertainty everywhere. And inside our own lives? The same.

So the question of Advent isn’t, “When will the world end?” The question is: How do we live faithfully when we don’t know what’s coming next?

The poet John Keats called it negative capability—the ability to live with not knowing. To stay open, to stay patient, to stay grounded, even when we don’t have answers.

That’s what Jesus means by “Stay awake” and “Be prepared.”

Be prepared for what?
I can’t tell you. Jesus says no one knows.
But I can tell you this:

Be prepared for your life—as it unfolds, surprises, shifts, breaks, and heals.
Because every moment matters.
Every surprise contains grace.
Every disappointment holds a lesson.
And God shows up in them all.

So this Advent:
Stay awake. Be prepared.
Not for the end of the world—but for God already arriving in your world.

God is in the wonderful surprises.
God is in the unexpected detours.
God is in the simple, ordinary moments.
And God is even in the moments we wish we could skip.

Don’t miss a moment.
Stay awake. God is here.

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.