Homilies & Thoughts

At the gates of Nain, Jesus meets a widow carrying the weight of grief and vulnerability—and he steps in without being asked. This reflection lingers over Christ’s compassion, his touch that stops the funeral procession, and the startling command: “Young man, rise.” More than a miracle, it is restoration: a son returned, dignity renewed, hope reborn. It also becomes a call to the Church to share that same mercy, especially with the overlooked and sorrowful, trusting that death never has the final word.

Virtue rarely grows through heroic leaps; it is formed in quiet choices made with Christ. Beginning with Jesus’ call to invite those who cannot repay us, this night of recollection explores charity as a selfless love freed from the need for recognition. It offers a practical path: start small, practice in hidden moments, and let grace strengthen you step by step—like a muscle trained over time. The goal is not anxious perfectionism, but the joy and freedom of a heart steadily united to God.

This passage of Scripture is truly beautiful in its simplicity and depth. The only law is to love. In this, we see that we are made for love. We are created to be loved by God, and through experiencing his love, we learn how to extend that love to every person we encounter. This vision is, at its heart, a description of the Church—God’s community of love. Yet, with all this talk of love, we must confront an essential question: what is love?

A people who knew true suffering gathered on the mountain that day when Jesus gave his sermon. The Jews had been persecuted for centuries. They had faced exile from their homeland, and in Jerusalem, Babylonians had slain men, women, and children in the streets, taking the survivors to a foreign land. Even when they finally returned, peace eluded them. New rulers came and went; kings and high priests were appointed and overthrown. At times, near-lawlessness reigned. Even in better times, there was a deep dissatisfaction with the way the world seemed to be spiraling—a tension and fear, much like our own times, of impending violence or war. This fear brought turmoil: economic strife, spiritual unease, social unrest, and discord within families.

Parish Stewardship Weekend calls us to reflect on what it means to give—not just with our hands or our wallets, but with our hearts. We see authentic, Christian generosity in the story of Bartimaeus, a blind man sitting by the roadside, crying out to Jesus as he passes by. Though people around Bartimaeus try to silence him, Jesus hears his voice, calls him forward, and restores his sight. What unfolds in this encounter offers us a beautiful image of God’s love.

Often, we are afraid to be Christians, to take the words of Jesus literally and follow him. His demands are not small—he demands everything. We are called to love our enemies, take up our cross, and become the servant of all. This can be a daunting and even frightening task. Following Jesus authentically means letting go of not only our possessions but, perhaps more challengingly, our egos. We fear that living as Christ teaches might leave us vulnerable. We worry that others will take advantage of our mercy and compassion, that we will be misunderstood or even abandoned by those closest to us. And yes, we know that we will suffer.

Christian life can’t be stitched together from separate compartments. Given on the feast of Our Lady of the Rosary, this night of recollection explores St. Josemaría’s image of the “wedding garment”: prayer, work, and penitence as threads that must be woven into one seamless interior life. It offers concrete practices—arrow prayers, sanctifying ordinary labor, and hidden mortifications—to repair the places we’ve grown selective or comfortable. The invitation is simple and demanding: let Christ touch every part of the day, until faith becomes integrity.

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.

Hypocrisy isn’t only the loud scandal we recognize from afar; it’s often the quieter habit of criticizing the world while neglecting our own conversion. This night of recollection traces both forms: the public denunciation that can hide private weakness, and the constant talk of “reform” that never begins with the heart. Drawing on St. Josemaría, it calls us back to the real instruments of change—prayer, fasting, penance, and mortification—because holiness, not outrage, is what truly converts and renews the world.