Homilies & Thoughts

Advent is not only a countdown—it is a school of hope, and Mary is its best teacher. This night of recollection invites you to pray the season “through Our Lady’s eyes,” entering her waiting with trust rather than restlessness. Drawing on St. Josemaría, it introduces Lectio Divina as a concrete way to slow down, listen to Scripture, and let the Word reshape daily life. Learn to read, ponder, pray, and rest with Mary, so Christmas arrives not as noise, but as grace.

On this First Sunday of Advent, we hear Jesus’ apocalyptic words in the gospel: descriptions of cosmic signs, nations in dismay, and people overcome with fear. At first glance, these words might tempt us to despair, as they mirror the anxieties we often feel when we look at our world today. Natural disasters, political unrest, and personal struggles can leave us feeling as if everything is unraveling. But Jesus does not speak to sow fear; he speaks to give us hope.

N.B. This reflection is on Luke 3:1-6 from the Second Sunday of Advent, Year C.

In stillness we gather by candlelight to prepare our hearts for the coming of Christ. This Gospel reading from Luke, though seemingly unusual in its detailed account of rulers and regions, invites us into something profound: the historical reality of God’s intervention in the world. Luke begins with a litany of names and titles, grounding the story of salvation in a particular time and place. This is no accident, for it reminds us, as we affirm in the Nicene Creed, that Jesus “suffered under Pontius Pilate.” Christianity is not a myth, not a collection of poetic fables disconnected from reality. It is history—God stepping into time, taking on human flesh, and transforming the course of humanity forever.

“Are you a king?” Pilate’s question is a good one. How could anyone look at Jesus and believe he was a king? There he stood before Pilate, bound in chains. He had no armies, no throne, and not even any followers left. He looked nothing like the kings of this world. Yet, Jesus was a king. He is a king—a king like no other.

The kings of this world often seek to enrich themselves, to command servile obedience, and to wield their power to dominate others. But Jesus is different. He is a king who unites with his followers in solidarity. Unlike worldly kings, he uses his infinite power and freedom not to enslave but to choose suffering and death.

“Learn a lesson from the fig tree. When its branch becomes tender and sprouts leaves, you know that summer is near.” Mark 13:28 As human beings, we are naturally curious about the future, and we often seek signs in this world to guide us. We analyze political trends to predict elections. If you’ve ever followed an election closely, you’ll know how, at times, the winner is announced before a single vote is officially counted in a state. The signs are so clear that the counting becomes a mere formality. Similarly, we study financial markets to increase our wealth or determine the best time to make major purchases, like buying a home. In our daily lives, we read subtle cues to gauge moods and decide when it’s best to speak to someone. We are constantly seeking to predict and control our future, striving to ensure everything goes well for us.

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.