Holy Thursday

There is a moment in tonight’s Gospel that almost feels – uncomfortable. At first, it sounds like humility. But if we listen more closely, it is something else. It is resistance. Because foot washing is not really about feet. It is about letting someone see you – up close. Letting someone touch the parts of your life that feel messy, hidden, even shameful.

Peter is not just protecting his dignity – he is protecting his vulnerability. And if we are honest, we do the same thing. We all have parts of our lives we would rather keep covered:  our thoughts, not what we say out loud but what runs through our minds – the judgements, the grudges, envy, fantasies – the interior life we hope no one sees. Or our habits we keep going back to: impatience, gossip, drinking too much, screen time. Or our relationships – unresolved tensions – people we avoid – love we know we should give, but don’t.  Or our past – old mistakes that still sting, moments we wish we could erase. Or our faith – the times we know the call of the Gospel, but we do not follow through.

And when Jesus comes close – we instinctively say, “Lord…not that part. Not there.” “You will never wash my feet.” But Jesus answers Peter – and us – very directly “Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me.” In other words: If you do not let me love you there …you will not really know me.”

Tonight is not just about what Jesus does, it is about what we allow Him to do in us. This is the night he kneels. The night He serves. The night He gives Himself completely. And he does not just wash the clean parts. He washes everything.

Which means this: This is our night. Our night to stop pretending. Our night to stop hiding. Our night to let Him come close enough to touch what we have kept buried. Because the truth is – Jesus is not shocked by your life. He is not afraid of your past. He is not turned away by your weakness. He kneels precisely there.

And then – after washing their feet – He says something even more challenging: “As I have done for you, you should do for one another.”

So, the question becomes: Will we let ourselves be loved like that…and then love others the same way? Not from a distance. Not when it is easy. But up close. Humbly. Personally.

Tonight, Jesus takes a towel and kneels before you. Do not pull your feet away. Because if you let Him wash you – really wash you – it won’t just cleanse you – it will change you.

Six parishioners will now come forward for the foot washing – but more importantly, every one of us is invited to give some thought to the parts of our lives we would rather keep covered, our weaknesses. Do not take off your shoes – rather open up your hearts and let the Lord wash you.

Palm Sunday

      A few years ago, a man told me about something that happened at his workplace. There was a younger employee who made a mistake – an expensive one. Everyone knew it. The boss knew it. And the atmosphere in the office changed instantly. People whispered. Some were quietly glad it was not them. Others kept their distance. The man told me, “I had a choice in that moment. I could step back and protect myself…or I could step forward.

And he did something small - but risky. He went and stood next to the young employee. He said, “We’ll fix this together.” Later, when the boss came in angry, he did not throw the young man under the bus. He shared responsibility. He said, “It cost me something. But it felt like the right thing.”

That moment, simple as it was – was a Palm Sunday moment. Because when Jesus entered Jerusalem, He came on a donkey – humble, vulnerable, peaceful. And at the same time, from the other side of the city, Pontius Pilate entered with soldiers, weapons, and power on display. Two processions. Two visions of power. Two ways of living.

One says, protect yourself. Stay safe. Stay in control. Don’t get involved. The other says, step forward. Take the risk. Stand with someone. Love, even when it costs you.

That man chose the way of Christ.

And that is the choice before us – not just once, but every day.

When someone is being criticized – do we join in or do we stand beside them? When someone is struggling – do we look away, or do we step closer? When it might cost us something – our comfort, our security, our reputation, our time – do we still choose love? Because it will cost us something.

Choices – we all face them – personally and communally: a donkey or a war horse, palm branches or weapons, laying down one’s life for another or taking down another for one’s own benefit. This is not just a historical event in Jerusalem. Today we are all Jerusalem. The choices are before us and within us. And Pilate is as real today as he was the day Jesus entered Jerusalem.

The same crowd that waved palms for Jesus would soon disappear when things got difficult. And the question for us is: will we?

 Because it is easy to wave palms. It is easy to say “Hosana.” It is harder to walk the road that comes after. So here is the line to remember: When the moment comes this week – and it will – don’t just wave the palm - walk the path!

Walk with Christ.

Walk it in love.

Walk it all the way to the cross – because that is the only road that leads to resurrection.

Fifth Sunday of Lent

This is a true church story – it is about a man who regularly came to Mass. The only problem was…when he walked in, the entire congregation suddenly became very aware of the gift of smell. They called him “Stinky George.” George was homeless. He slept outside or in shelters. He didn’t have a place to shower. His clothes were old and dirty. And when he came into church -people noticed the smell.

One Sunday he sat near a father and his little boy. The boy whispered loudly. “Dad – something stinks!” The father quietly slid down the pew a little bit. And then another family slid down the pew. And before long there was a whole section of empty space around George. Nobody was cruel to George. But nobody sat next to him. Nobody invited him to coffee. Nobody asked his story.

Later the pastor said something very honest. He said: “What really bothered us was not just George’s smell. What bothered us was that George reminded us of things we do not want to see – poverty, loneliness, addiction, brokenness – the parts of life that smell like death.

Today’s Gospel tells the story of Lazarus. When Jesus arrives at the tomb, Martha warns him: “Lord, there will be a stench. He has been dead four days.” In other words, “Jesus, this situation smells. It is too late. There is nothing that can be done.”

But Jesus does not walk away from the smell of death. Instead, he says, “Take away the stone.” And then he shouts, “Lazarus, come out!”

And when Lazarus emerges wrapped in burial cloths, Jesus says something especially important. “Untie him and let him go free.” Did you notice something? Jesus raises Lazurus. But the community must untie him. Someone must step forward. Someone must touch the grave clothes. Someone must get close.

That is where the story of Stinky George becomes the Gospel for us. The pastor later wondered: “What would have happened if someone had really sat with George?” What if someone had said: “George, want to get coffee?” “George, how can I help?” “George, tell me your story.” Maybe Geroge would have been untied. But the pastor realized something else. Maybe the people in the church would have changed too. Because sometimes the grave clothes that bind us are fear, or judgement or our comfort or the instinct to keep our distance.  Jesus still stands before the tombs of our world: the tomb of addiction, the tomb of loneliness, the tomb of poverty, the tomb of broken families. And he still says: Take away the stone. Untie him – let her go.

The truth is every church has a Stinky George: it might be someone who smells. It might be someone who drinks too much. It might be someone who talks too loudly. It might be someone whose life is a mess. And Jesus says, “Untie him – untie her – let them go free.” Because when we help untie someone else – something amazing happens. We discover that God is untying us too. And the smell of death slowly gives way to the beautiful fragrance of life.

So, the real question of the Gospel today is not whether Jesus can raise the dead. The real question is this: When Lazarus – or Stinky George – walks out of the tomb, will we step forward to help untie him – or will we slide down the pew?

Fourth Sunday of Lent

There is a line near the end of the Gospel that should make every one of us pause. The Pharisees ask Jesus, almost defensively: “Surely we are not also blind, are we?” And Jesus answers in a way that turns the whole story upside down. He says, in effect, that the real problem is not physical blindness. The real problem is thinking we see perfectly when we do not.

The man born blind in today’s Gospel ends up being the only one who truly sees. Everyone else looks at him – but they do not really see him. The disciples see a theological problem: “Rabbi, who sinned?” The neighbors see only the man they remember sitting and begging. The Pharisees see a rule that has been broken because the healing happened on the sabbath. Even the man’s parents see danger and refuse to speak openly because they are afraid. Everyone looks – but very few actually see.

And that connects with the first reading. In the Book of Samuel, the prophet goes to the house of Jesse to anoint a new king. Jesse brings forward his sons, starting with the strongest, tallest, most impressive. Samuel assumes the first one must be the chosen one. But God says something that echoes across all of scripture: “Not as man sees does God see, because man sees the appearance, but the Lord looks into the heart.”

Human beings look at the surface. God sees deeper. Which leads right into what St. Paul tells us in the second reading: “You were once darkness but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.”

The first weeks of Lent we looked at the image of stoney hearts becoming hearts of flesh – today the focus changes from hearts to eyes – blindness to sight. The tragedy in the Gospel is that the man born blind knows he was blind. That is why he can receive healing. But the Pharisees insist that they already see perfectly – and so they remain blind.

That same danger exists for us. We might think we have perfect vision but sometimes fear blinds us. When we are afraid about health, family, security or the future, our whole vision narrows. Sometimes prejudice blinds us. We think we already know who people are. Sometimes pride blinds us. We assume our perspective must be the correct one. And when that happens, we begin to look at the world the way the people in the Gospel did – seeing labels instead of people.

Lent invites us to ask a very simple but very honest question. Where might I be blind?

Maybe blind to issues in your marriage or family. Maybe blind to someone’s suffering. Maybe blind to our own faults. Maybe blind to the ways God is working in our lives. The beautiful moment in the Gospel is when Jesus finds the man after he has been thrown out by the authorities. Jesus asks him, “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” And the man answers, “Who is he sir, that I may believe in him?” Jesus says, “You have seen him.” And the man responds with the most powerful words in the Gospel: “Lord, I believe.”

The one who was blind now truly sees. And that is the journey of Lent. Little by little, Christ opens our eyes. Through prayer, we begin to see God more clearly. Through fasting we begin to see what really controls our hearts. Through acts of charity, we begin to see people we may have overlooked before. Slowly the light breaks in. That is why today the Sacrament of Reconciliation will be available…a time to look deep into our hearts and confess what is keeping us from seeing life as Jesus does. If we allow Christ to touch our lives this Lent in the Sacrament of Penance, we too will be able to say with greater conviction than ever, what the man in the Gospel said: “I was blind…but now I see.”

Third Sunday of Lent

The Israelites are thirty in the desert. They are tired, scared, and angry. And so what do they do  – they complain. They turn on Moses. They even question God: “Is the Lord in our midst or not?” Their thirst becomes bitterness.

In Exodus 17, God tells Moses to strike the rock, and water flows out. A hard, lifeless stone becomes the source of life. Now hold that image.

In the Gospel, Jesus sits at another place of thirst – Jacob’s well. A Samaritan woman comes at noon, alone. She carries her jar, but she also carries something heavier: shame, disappointment, broken relationships, perhaps regret.

If the Israelites in the desert had stony hearts, perhaps she does too. Hurt can harden us. Disappointment calcifies the soul. We build walls. We expect rejection. We avoid eye contact. We come to the well at noon when no one else is around.

And into both scenes – desert rock and hardened human heart – God brings water. Through the prophet Ezekiel God makes a promise: “I will take away your stony hearts and give you hearts of flesh.” That is exactly what we see happening in the Gospel. Notice how Jesus treats her. He does not argue history. He does not shame her past. He names the truth of her life – gently, directly – and then offers her living water.

Something begins to crack open. At first, she is defensive: “How can you, a Jew, ask me?” Then she is curious: “Sir, give me this water.” Then she is thoughtful: “I see you are a prophet.” And finally, she becomes a witness: “Come see a man who told me everything I have done.” The woman came thirsty and left overflowing.

You can almost hear the stone softening into flesh. A heart of stone protects itself. A heart of flesh responds. A heart of stone says, “Is the Lord in our midst or not?” A heart of flesh runs back to town to announce, “He told me everything – and He did not reject me!”

Here is the beautiful connection: In the desert, Moses strikes the rock and water flows. In the Gospel, Christ – who will later be struck on the Cross – becomes the rock from whom living water flows for the whole world.

St. Paul will say, “The rock was Christ.” When Christ is “struck,” when His heart is pierced, water pours out…grace pours out. And that grace is what softens our stony hearts. Because the truth is, we all carry some stone within us. Sometimes it is resentment. Sometimes it is disappointment with God or others. Sometimes it is an old wound we have never let God touch. Sometimes it is a sinful attitude we can’t break.

Like Israel, we ask:  “Is the Lord really here?” Like the Samaritan woman, we avoid certain conversations. Like Moses, we sometimes feel the pressure of everyone’s thirst. But today’s readings say clearly: God answers thirst. God brings water from impossible places. God specializes in turning stone into life. And notice one more detail – the woman leaves her stone water jar behind. The jar represents her daily burden, her routine, maybe even her identity. After meeting Christ, she forgets it. The living water inside her is more urgent than the water she came to draw.

That is what happens when a heart of stone becomes a heart of flesh. It begins to move. It begins to love. It begins to witness. So, over these first weeks of Lent we have been carrying a stone around. And the question we have pondered:

Where has my heart become hard? Where is the dryness in my life?  Where have I quietly asked, “Is the Lord in our midst or not?” Bring that to Christ. Because the same God who brought water from rock…the same Christ who offered living water at the well is still at work fulfilling Ezekiel’s promise. “I will remove your heart of stone and give you a heart of flesh.” And when God does, even deserts begin to bloom.