First Sunday of Lent

Alone, hungry, tempted. Today we hear that powerful Gospel of Matthew – Jesus is led by the Spirit into the desert. And on this First Sunday of Lent, we are going to do something physical. We are giving each of you a stone to carry through Lent.

Why a stone? Because in the desert, everything is stone. Hard. Dry. Lifeless. And that is where Jesus goes. Not into comfort. Not into applause. Into the wilderness.

And what is the first temptation? “If you are the Son of God, command these stones to become bread.”  Turn stone into bread. Turn what is hard into something that satisfies you. But Jesus refuses. Because the deeper issue is not bread. It is trust. It is identity. It is the heart.

The devil tempts Jesus three times. Turn stone into bread. Throw yourself down and force God to prove Himself. Bow down and worship power. And beneath every temptation is this: “Take control. Protect yourself. Feed yourself. Prove yourself. Exalt yourself.” That is the stone. A stone heart says: I’ll take care of me. I don’t need God. I don’t need others. I will survive on my own strength.

And here is the hard truth: we all carry some stone inside us.

Resentment that is hardened. A grudge we have polished and protected. A habit we do not want to surrender. A prayer life that is dry. Compassion that has cooled.

The prophet Ezekiel gives us one of the most beautiful promises in all of Scripture: “I will take from you your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.”

God does not just polish the stone. God replaces it. Flesh is alive. Flesh feels. Flesh loves. Flesh bleeds. Stone is safe. Flesh is vulnerable. And Lent is not about becoming tougher. Lent is about becoming softer in the right way – softer toward God.

When we fast, we feel hunger. When we pray, we face silence. When we give alms, we loosen our grip. All of it cracks the stone.

Think about Jesus in the desert. He is hungry – physically hungry. But He refuses to feed Himself apart from the Father. He chooses trust over control. Dependence over dominance. Worship over power. That is a heart of flesh.

So, this stone you receive today is not a decoration. It is not a cute Lenten symbol.

It is a question. What in me is still stone? Where have I hardened? Is it toward my spouse? My adult child? The Church? God Himself?

Maybe you are carrying disappointment. Maybe grief that never healed. Maybe anger at the state of our country or the world. Maybe exhaustion.

Over time, unhealed pain turns to stone. And here is the dangerous thing about stone: you stop feeling it. It just becomes normal.

Jesus goes into the desert to feel everything – hunger, weakness, vulnerability – and to let the Father be enough. Lent invites us to do the same. Carry this stone somewhere you will see it. In your pocket. On your desk. In your car. And every time you touch it, pray a simple prayer:  Lord, where is my heart hard? And give me a heart of flesh.”

Because the goal of Lent is not spiritual achievement. It is transformation. On Easter, we do not celebrate improved discipline. We celebrate resurrection. And resurrection only happens to living flesh – not stone.

If we let God, God will take even our hardest places and make them tender again. And imagine what would happen in this parish if over the next forty days, hearts of stone became hearts of flesh. More patience. More forgiveness. More generosity. More trust.

The desert is not where we lose God. It is where we lose the illusion that we were ever strong without God. So, carry the stone. But don’t cling to it. Let God do what He promised. “I will remove from you your heart of stone – and give you a heart of flesh.” That is the real miracle of Lent.

Ash Wednesday

Today we come forward to receive ashes – very public – very visible. A smudge on the forehead that says to the world: I belong to God. And yet in the Gospel, Jesus says something that sounds almost contradictory. “Be careful not to perform righteous deeds in order that people may see them.”

So, which is it? Public or private?

Jesus is not condemning visible faith. After all, in the Sermon on the Mount he tells us to let our light shine before others. What he is warning us about is something subtler: spiritual performance.

It is possible to pray in order to be admire. To give in order to be praised. To fast in order to be noticed.

And Jesus says, if applause is what we are after, applause is all we will get.

Ash Wednesday begins a season of honesty. The ashes remind us, “Remember that you are dust.” Not remember that you are impressive. Not remember that you are admired. Just dust . Dependent, mortal, loved by God.

Lent invites us to do three simple things:  pray, fast, and give alms. But notice what Jesus repeats three times: “Your heavenly Father who sees in secret will repay you.”

Who sees in secret? There is a part of your life no one else sees. The prayers you whisper when you cannot sleep. The sacrifices you make that no one thanks you for. The quiet generosity that never makes a bulletin announcement. God sees that.

Lent is not about dramatic gestures. It is about returning our hearts to the Father. It is about doing small, hidden things with great love. Closing the door to pray. Letting go of a grudge. Skipping a meal and letting the hunger remind you of our deeper hunger for God.

In a world obsessed with image, Jesus invites intimacy. In a culture of posting and performing, Jesus invites secrecy and sincerity.

So yes, we will walk out of here today with ashes on our foreheads. You might even forget it’s there – by the end of day they will be washed away. But the real mark of Lent will not be what is on our skin. It will be what happens in the secret places of our hearts. And the Father who sees in secret will love what he sees.

Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time

If you listen closely to today’s Gospel, you might feel like Jesus is doing something slightly unfair. He says, “Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets.” And everyone probably breathes a sigh of relief. “Oh good. We know the rules. We’ve got commandments. We can manage those.” And the Jesus keeps talking. And suddenly it feels like the bar is not just raised…it’s launched into orbit.

You have heard it said, “You shall not kill.” Good. Most of us woke up this morning thinking, “I can check that box.” But then Jesus says, “Anyone who is angry with his brother will be liable to judgment.” Well, that escalated quickly. Now He is not just talking about murder. He is talking about the simmering stuff – the eye rolling, the grudges, the “I’m fine” that we all know is not fine.

The Jesus moves on to adultery. Again, some people might think, “I’m doing okay there.” But Jesus says, “Anyone who looks at another with lust has already committed adultery in his heart. At this point, I imagine the crowd looking at each other and thinking, “Does anyone else feel like Jesus just read our browser history?”

And then – just when we are hoping for a break – He gets to oaths. “Don’t swear by heaven, or earth, or Jerusalem…just let your “yes” mean yes and your “no” mean no. In other words: stop the loopholes.

That is really the theme of today’s Gospel. Jesus is closing loopholes. We love loopholes – we are professionals at loopholes. “Well, technically…” “I didn’t say that exactly…” “That is not what I meant…”  Jesus says, “I am not interested in technicalities. I am interested in your heart.” And here is where humor turns into honesty. Jesus in not making life harder – He is making it deeper.

The scribes and the Pharisees focus on external obedience. Did I break the rule? Did I cross the line? Jesus asks a different question: What is going on inside you before you ever get near the line? Because anger does not start with murder. It starts with contempt. Lust does not start with adultery. It starts with seeing another person as an object instead of a child of God. Dishonesty does not start with lying under oath. It starts with half-truths and carefully worded promises.

Jesus is not saying, “Be perfect or else.” He is saying, let me heal you from the inside out.” And the good news – because there is good news – is that Jesus knows we cannot do this on our own.

If holiness were just about rule keeping, we would all need a very good lawyer. But holiness, according to Jesus, is about conversion of the heart. That is why He ends today’s Gospel by calling us, to integrity. Be one person. The same person in church, at home, in traffic, and online. Let your faith reach all the way into your thoughts, your words, and your intentions.

So, if today’s Gospel makes you a little uncomfortable – good! It means it is working. Jesus did not come to lower the standard. He came to raise us. And He does not just command us to live this way – He promises to walk with us as we learn, stumble, laugh at ourselves, repent, and begin again. Jesus is not trying to catch us doing something wrong. He is trying to keep us healthy. He doesn’t just want well-behaved disciples. He wants whole disciples. And that is why He raises the bar – not to shame us, but to save us. He believes we are capable of more than we think.

Epiphany

We have all heard the humor surrounding the Wise men who arrived late – if they had been wise women they would have arrived on time, brought a casserole, cleaned the stable and had Jesus enrolled in a college savings plan before leaving.

As we begin this year of 2026, I would like to use this gospel story of following the star to reflect on our parish’s journey of faith. You have heard often about “Divine Renovation” – a book being used by Catholic parishes around the world to give new direction to parish life. I can honestly say that embracing “Divine Renovation” in this parish has been an epiphany for me. When I arrived 16 years ago, I could not have imagined the shape of my ministry, the experiences we would share, the struggles and joys, the faith and the doubts, or the ways my own life would be transformed by “Divine Renovation.”

Coming here in 2010, I was aware of the shrinking number of priests in the diocese, the changes in demographics here in the North Country and the level of parishioner involvement. The future was very uncertain. In prayer, I was asking God for guidance – I was looking for a star. And in many ways, Divine Renovation has been that star – not just for me, but for us as a parish.

I have learned that epiphanies are not so much “Aha, I finally understand” moments as they are “Aha, this has hold of me” moments. Something rises within us, awakens a longing, and calls us forward. Once that happens, we do not always know where it is taking us – we just know we cannot stay where we are. That has been true for us as a parish.

When we began this journey four years ago, we did not have a map. But we had a star. We had a sense that God was calling us to renewal – to be a parish that helps people encounter Jesus, grow as disciples, and live out the mission together.

Over time, that star has taken shape. It looks like a new leadership team, women and men who pray, listen, discern, and serve with generosity and courage. It looks like a clear vision statement that gives us direction and keeps us focused when decisions are difficult or change feels uncomfortable. It looks like a stronger prayer ministry because we have come to understand that renewal does not begin with programs, but with prayer – people lifting one another up, trusting God to act, and creating space for the Holy Spirit to work.

It looks like strengthened hospitality and fellowship, because a parish is not just a place you attend, it is a community where you are known, welcomed, and missed when you are not there.

It looks like something very concrete and very human: a meal train for parishioners in need – because following the star always leads us toward compassion, care and love made visible.

And now, it even looks like a new early childhood center in our school, a sign of hope, growth, and investment in the youngest among us – planting seeds of faith and belonging long before children can name them.

In your pew you will find a sheet listing all the fruits of Divine Renovation over this past year. Renovation or renewal – none of this happened overnight. None of it was perfectly planned. We did not always know where the star was leading. There were moments when we said, “I don’t know what we are doing,” or “This is new,” or “This is hard,” or “This is a little scary.”

And yet we kept following the star. That is exactly what the wise men did in today’s gospel. They did not know the destination when they set out. They could not see Bethlehem or the child. But something had claimed them, and they trusted the star enough to move. Over 180 parishioners did something like that by trusting enough to experience Alpha and that trust opened the treasure chest of their lives.

Fr. Mallon, in his book, “Divine Renovation” states, “The greatest joy in the world is to know, to experience, being used by the Lord to make a difference in someone’s life or in the world. Everyone wins.”

That is what Epiphany is about – not seeing the whole journey but trusting what guides us one step at a time. We may not see everything that lies ahead for our parish, but we know the star we are following is Jesus Christ, calling us to prayer, to hospitality, to service, to mission, and to deeper discipleship.

So the question Epiphany asks us today is not just a personal one – it is a communal one: Will we keep following the star together? Will we trust the vision that guides us? Will we continue to invest in prayer, welcome, care for one another, and the next generation? Will we open the treasure chest of our time, our gifts, and our hearts? That is the star I want to follow with you. What about you?

Holy Family

Here’s a “heads up” or a “spoiler alert”: Christmas happens in the real world. Not just in candlelight and carols. Not only on a silent night. And not safely away in a manger. Because today’s Gospel tells us  “Herod is going to search for the child and destroy him.” “Get up,” the angel says to Joseph, “take the child and his mother, and flee to Egypt.”

This a not a lullaby – a joyful Christmas carol. This is fear in the middle of the night. I can imagine Mary and Joseph terrified, running with a crying baby. That is real. And that is where Christmas happens.

Matthew’s Gospel shows us the world into which Jesus is born – the world of King Herod. It is part of the Christmas story we prefer to forget. No one sends Christmas cards with Herod on them. No one wants their child to be Herod in the Christmas pageant. Yet, Herod represents the fear, cruelty, abuse of power, and violence of the world. This child threatens everything Herod depends on. And fear always lashes out. Other children become expendable. Collateral damage – then and still today.

Joseph wakes Mary: “We have to go.” And suddenly the Holy Family becomes a refugee family.

Not much has changed. The Herods of the world still drive families from their homes. Parents still risk everything for their children.

A few years ago, someone told me they received a Christmas card wishing for “migrant-free” New Year. I thought, Wasn’t Jesus a migrant baby? What if the first Christmas had been migrant-free? What if Herod had succeeded? Why not wish for a Herod-free New Year? But the world is not free of Herods. Violence, even during Christmas, reminds us of that.

Herod is as much a part of the Christmas story as angels and shepherds. Christmas happens in Herod’s world. And thank God it does – because that is where we most need the Christ Child to be born.

Today’s Gospel spoils our sentimental illusions about Christmas.  It connects the birth of Jesus to the tears of children, the fears of parents, and the pain of the world. I am not trying to ruin Christmas – but to make it more real. I would rather be singing “Silent night, all is calm, all is bright.” But is it?

Maybe we should be singing “We shall Overcome” as a Christmas hymn. That is the “good news of great joy.” That is why Herod is afraid. This birth begins a revolution – not of weapons or power, but of hearts.

So, the question is simple: What needs overcoming? In your life? In our nation? In our world?  Is it fear of those who are different? Or is it anger, resentment, or despair? Is it the need to be right or in control? Is it revenge or indifference? Is it privilege, power or position? Or maybe the way we judge or dehumanize people? These are the marks of Herod’s world – and sometimes of our own hearts. Every time we deny them, excuse them, or live comfortably with them, we make no room for the Christ Child who comes to overcome. That is not who I want to be. And I don’t think it is who you want to be.

This may not be an easy homily to hear. It has not been easy to preach. If it unsettles you, that is okay – it should. Christmas is not meant to soothe us into complacency.

I don’t want to settle for just a Merry Christmas anymore. I hope you don’t either. We need something more. We need an Overcoming Christmas – one we live, not just sing about.

So, I wonder: What is Christ asking you to overcome this year? “O Come, all ye faithful” – but don’t just adore. Overcome.