Homilies

A friend of mine once preached on this Gospel. As he read the words of Jesus, “Let the little children come to me,” a little girl suddenly leapt up from her pew and stood beside him at the ambo. Unsure of what to do, he gently patted her on the head and said, “Thank you, you can go back to your parents now,” and off she went. It was a sweet and touching moment—until we realize that this little girl may have been the only one in the church that day who truly embodied the heart of a Christian.

It is hard to picture this Gospel scene. The world has changed dramatically over the last 2,000 years. We do not often witness exorcisms today, and we certainly do not see them happening on the streets. In Jesus’ time, however, exorcisms were not sensationalized by the media or turned into the plots of low-brow movies. They were a regular part of life. Demons were believed to be the cause of bad luck, illness, and psychological disturbance. As a result, exorcists were common, even performing their rituals in public. Walking through the streets of the ancient world, you might see people visiting a local exorcist, having prayers said over them. Some of these exorcists were frauds, taking advantage of the people’s ignorance and stealing their money. Others were sincere believers who sought to bring God’s grace and healing to a world in need.

The Apostles are often, embarrassingly, all too human. I remember attending a retreat for high school seniors several years ago. The retreat was meant to be a time for spiritual growth—a chance for students to grow closer to Christ and form stronger bonds with one another. There were spiritual talks, time for prayer, and moments of quiet reflection. But there was also paintball. And to no one’s surprise, that was the most exciting part for the students. Before the game, all they could talk about was how great they would be and how their strategies were unbeatable. Afterward, they spent hours boasting about their victories. The boys in my cabin stayed up until 3:00 a.m. arguing over who shot whom and, naturally, who was the greatest.

It is interesting to look at advertisements for charities, especially those that feed or provide medical treatment to the poor. When it comes to international charities, they often feature many pictures of those in need. These charities may even offer symbolic adoptions, where you receive photos and biographical details about a specific person. However, with local charities, this is rarely the case. Local organizations tend to avoid using photos of individuals altogether, relying instead on facts and figures. There is a simple reason for this: when we give money to distant causes in places we will likely never visit, we crave a personal connection. We want to see the faces of those we help because it makes us feel good—and it feels safe. But when it comes to giving locally, we often do not want to see the faces of those in need, because there is a chance we might run into them. We shy away from confronting suffering in our own community, fearing that if we truly grasp the depth of the need, we will be forced to share in their pain. As long as the poor remain a faceless mass, hidden behind statistics and dollar signs, we can carry on with our lives undisturbed.

In this story of physical healing, we are directed to a much deeper reality—the sacramentality of the world. Sacramentality means that the physical world is a window into God’s presence and action. In the sacraments of the Church, we see this clearly: water becomes the means of new life in baptism; bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ in the Eucharist. But sacramentality goes beyond the sacraments themselves—it is woven into the fabric of the world. In the gospel, the man’s ears are opened, and his tongue is freed. Jesus uses the physical—his hands, his spittle, his voice—to bring healing. This is not incidental. God works through the created world to bring about salvation.

I love the book of Deuteronomy. It is such a personal and hope filled work. Deuteronomy presents itself as a letter from Moses to his people. They have already escaped from Egypt and their forty years of journeying in the desert have come to an end. The Hebrew people now stand just outside the land of Canaan, their homeland, their promised land. As they stand upon the mountains and look upon their home, there is joy but there is also a twinge of sadness. Moses is dying. He will not make it home. His final act is to write a letter to his people that he has journeyed with for a lifetime.

This gospel is a sorrowful reflection on humanity’s response to Jesus’ offer of himself. While his Eucharistic speech may seem like just one teaching that is being rejected, it is actually a culmination of all his teachings, a summary of the entirety of his message. When many of his disciples walk away, they are not merely rejecting this single idea, but rather abandoning everything Jesus has taught them.

It is natural to wonder why they would make such a choice. Jesus’ teachings are centered on love, sacrifice, forgiveness, and mercy - ideals that seem universally desirable. Who wouldn’t want to live in a world where everyone loves and cares for one another? Yet, as we look around us, it becomes clear that many people prioritize greed and selfishness over the well-being of others.

I think one of the reasons people struggle with the idea of the Eucharist today is its simplicity. The mass has certainly undergone significant changes over the millennia. At times, it has been more elaborate and had many elements added; at other times, it has been more direct and austere. But at its heart has always been a very simple rite: sharing a meal with God himself—a basic meal that appears to be bread and wine. In our culture, and even at the time of Jesus himself, this ritual has a baffling simplicity. We want to see more because we live in a culture of spectacle.

The Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, body and soul, into heaven is a profound mystery. However, this feast is not just about honoring Our Lady; it is about contemplating the boundless generosity of God. God’s generosity is a characteristic that often escapes us. We tend to think of God as all-powerful, which he is, but we sometimes forget that his power is exercised in perfect humility and generosity. God does not hoard his glory or keep his love and joy to himself. Instead, he gives everything he has to anyone willing to accept it.

The Eucharist is life. That is what Jesus means when he says, “I am the living bread that comes down from heaven and gives life to the world.” The bread he gives us, his flesh, is life. It is not a metaphor. It is not a mere symbol. It really is life, the life of heaven, and Jesus freely gives it to us. He shares with us an eternal and perfect reality simply because he loves us. He does not give us the gift of his flesh and his life because we deserve it. He does not give it to us because we are amazing and inspiring examples for the world. He gives it to us despite our many sins and failures. He gives us life to prove that he loves us. And the one and only thing he asks in return, is that we do the same, that we take the gift of life that we have received, and we give it to others.

It is easy to talk about doctrine, the set of things that we are required to believe as Catholics. Today marks one of those days when it is even easier. Today begins what is called the bread of life discourse. Over the next few Sundays, Jesus will elucidate how he embodies the true bread of life, illustrating how Old Testament accounts of miraculous feedings foreshadowed his own presence. He will emphasize that partaking in his body and blood is essential for attaining eternal life within us. So we can see how easy it would be to write off the next few Sundays as moments just to talk doctrine: the real presence, transubstantiation, and all of those things. But that wouldn’t be helpful. We all know what the Church teaches. Many of us have heard it time and again our entire lives. So, let’s not talk about that today.

The feeding of the 5,000 is one of the most memorable and cherised storys about Jesus. This story isn’t just a demonstration of Christ’s power but a profound reflection of how we perceive miracles and God’s active presence in our world.

Many of us hesitate to accept miracles. We’d rather find natural explanations for Jesus’ actions, transforming his divine acts into something ordinary, yet inspiring. This skepticism isn’t just about doubt; it’s about reluctance. If Jesus truly performed miracles as signs of his divine identity, we must confront the implications: listening to him, following his teachings, and embodying his way of life. To avoid this transformative call, some have even suggested that the miracle of feeding 5,000 was merely an act of sharing, where a young boy’s modest lunch of two fish and five loaves spontaneously inspired others to share. They claim the “real” miracle was human generosity.