Homilies

The request from the apostles is disarmingly simple: “Increase our faith.” Yet the response they receive is startling—vivid images and a story with a demanding master. At first hearing, the tone feels harsh. That is on purpose. Jesus leans on exaggeration to uncover an essential truth: the Christian life is not a part-time hobby. It is non-stop. It is all-consuming. It touches everything we do because it is about everything being made new in Christ.

This parable sketches two worlds divided by a gate: a banquet inside, a wounded neighbor outside. Step by step, a life is constructed around that gate—habits, choices, comforts, and blind spots harden into architecture. When death comes, the architecture holds. As Abraham says, “a great chasm is established.” The tragedy is not only punishment; it is permanence. A man who would not cross toward communion discovers he can no longer cross at all.

Imagine being told the audit is coming and you have already blown through the budget and squandered the resources. Your stomach drops. You start thinking, not about excuses, but about how to repair what has been damaged. That is the hard reckoning that forces the manager in the parable to act—and it names us. We have all wasted what the Lord placed in our hands: hours scrolled away, skills left idle, chances to love postponed for “later.” Yet the turning point is not in shame. It is in action.

Every medicine cabinet hides a story. Bottles with child‑proof caps, labels we can’t quite pronounce, doses we would rather skip. Bitter cures seldom feel like kindness in the moment. Yet the physician who truly loves us prescribes what heals, not what flatters the tongue.

Sin opened a wound we could not stitch. Death came as the consequence, and it has torn through families, hopes, and every human story. But listen to the strange mercy of God: the punishment becomes the medicine. The wood meant for execution becomes a tree that bears life. The valley of shadows is turned into a doorway. The cross does not decorate suffering; it transforms it.

You know the hush that falls when a sunset sets the sky on fire. For a breath, everything stops and you simply receive. Then the colors dim, and the shoreline returns to ordinary. Beauty lets us glimpse God, and then it slips from our grasp. The moment was real, but it was never meant to be owned.

Our families, our plans, even our very lives are like that—astonishing gifts that point beyond themselves. Then comes the sentence that jolts us awake: “If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother, wife and children, brothers and sisters, and even his own life, he cannot be my disciple.” These words sting because love for family runs deep. Yet the Lord is not commanding contempt; he is unmasking a temptation—to clutch a gift so tightly that we stop seeing the Giver.

Jesus can feel like the guest who spoils a party—the one who stands in the doorway, notices every flaw, and starts rearranging the seating chart. Many Pharisees saw him that way: not fun, not flattering. But look closer. He is not ruining the celebration; he is teaching us how to finally enjoy it.

Hosting can be exhausting. The menu, the timing, the conversations that must be managed so certain people do not collide. Beneath the lists and the candles burns a deeper pressure: the need to impress. We carry it into our homes, our jobs, our social feeds. Show that life is curated, successful, enviable. Spend more. Prove you belong at the head of the table.

The question sounds religious enough: How many will be saved? Yet it is a poor guide for a disciple. Whether the number is many or few, nothing essential changes—love does not shrink or expand because of a statistic. Counting souls does not convert a single heart. It distracts us from the work right in front of us.

Jesus refuses the headcount and gives us a marching order: “Strive to enter through the narrow gate.” Not a spreadsheet, a path. He redirects curiosity into courage. The image is tight, demanding, almost like a trail that steepens at the end. And the warning is clear: many will try, and strength will fail. So what now?

Ancient Israel wanted soothing voices. If a message promised comfort, they would pay to hear it. Prophets became a profession, and when a profession depends on pleasing customers, the truth gets trimmed to fit the market. Many in that guild learned to say only what people wished to hear. Yet, in the midst of all that noise, a few refused to sell the word. Their sermons were not crowd-pleasers. They spoke of judgment and course correction. And when the kings needed an honest messenger, they searched for the one no one wanted to hire—the one whose words stung.

God is not a hoarder of glory. He is lavish. Open-handed. He delights to share what is his—life, joy, even victory over death. The Assumption of Mary is the radiant sign of that generosity. When the Father brings Mary, body and soul, into heavenly life, he is not making an exception to keep us small; he is unveiling what he wants for all who cling to his Son.

Look at how the story in Judah’s hill country begins: not with Mary grasping at honor, but with movement toward another. She goes quickly to serve her older cousin. Her greeting stirs new life; a child rejoices before he can speak. Elizabeth recognizes the gift and blesses Mary for trusting God’s promise. And Mary answers by directing every compliment away from herself and toward the Giver, praising the One who lifts the lowly, scatters the proud, and breaks open his storehouse for the poor. Only one line needs to be heard aloud today: “He has filled the hungry with good things.”

God is not a collector of glory. He is a giver. From creation’s first breath to the empty tomb, he pours himself out, offering his very life to be shared, not guarded. The Assumption of Mary is a bright window into that generosity. It is heaven’s way of showing what happens when a human heart welcomes God without reserve: he does not merely forgive; he exalts. He does not only mend; he makes new.

Three images tumble across this passage like waves—master, servant, thief. They do not line up neatly, and that is the point. Jesus is pressing on our imaginations until we feel the jolt of a world where he returns unexpectedly, overturns the order of things, and sets a table for the weary. Into that swirl of pictures he speaks one anchoring word: “Do not be afraid any longer, little flock, for your Father is pleased to give you the kingdom.”

When we reflect on this particular Gospel scene, we tend to focus on Peter’s confession of faith and the Lord’s response to it. But I think there is something interesting at the very beginning—when the Lord asks his disciples, “Who do people say that I am?” What is the word on the street?

The disciples offer various answers. But, in a way, I believe this part of the Gospel serves as a warning: do not listen to the crowd. There are many opinions out there, and most of them are wrong. Faith is not something determined by opinion or consensus. It is not shaped by the majority view or the prevailing cultural sentiment. Rather, faith is something revealed directly by God. That is what the Church teaches us. She calls faith an infused virtue—“infused” meaning that it must be given by God. He places it directly into the minds and hearts of the faithful.