Homilies & Thoughts

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.”

Solomon seems untouchable: wisdom like water, a temple rising in glory, a kingdom at peace. Yet his story turns tragic as multiplied loves divide his heart and altars to lesser gods eclipse devotion—until the kingdom itself begins to tear. This reflection looks at why gifted people still fall, how private drift becomes communal ruin, and why Solomon’s legacy is finally not achievement but mercy: the God who remains faithful when we do not—and invites us to return, undivided, to the One who loves us still.

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.

The Fathers of the Church see in the Transfiguration a prefiguring of the Resurrection. That is, when Jesus radiates light and his clothes become dazzling, what we behold in that moment is the world recreated after the Resurrection—a world God is going to give us in the life of heaven. And that is important, because what he is doing for three of his disciples—Peter, James, and John—is strengthening them. Knowing the journey to Jerusalem is beginning and that all these terrible events are about to unfold, he gives them a glimpse of glory to give them hope, the strength to keep going—even in the face of what is to come—so they might make it to the Resurrection.

It is striking how often isolation masquerades as independence. We live in a culture saturated by messages urging us to secure our futures—to plan diligently, save meticulously, and safeguard our comforts. These are not evil aspirations, but when detached from gratitude and divorced from relationship, they become a perilous illusion.

A voice in the Gospel today pleads with Jesus to mediate an inheritance dispute. Jesus answers, gently but firmly, and then warns: “Take care to guard against all greed, for though one may be rich, one’s life does not consist of possessions.” This line is not just cautionary advice about wealth—it is a piercing revelation about the true nature of life itself. The parable Jesus shares features a successful farmer whose land yields an abundant harvest. His immediate instinct is not gratitude to God or generosity toward neighbors. Instead, his thoughts revolve solely around storing more for himself, building bigger barns, and celebrating his self-contained abundance. His critical error is not merely financial prudence or planning for future security; rather, his folly is believing himself utterly alone. He stands isolated, sealed off from God and neighbor, trapped within the solitary echo of his own desires.

On a clear morning, Abraham stood upon a hillside, his eyes straining through tears toward the place he loved. Smoke rose in tragic columns, a stark reminder of devastation—of loss. Abraham, who once saved Sodom with sword and valor, could now only watch in sorrow as flames consumed it.

This moment, this heartbreaking moment, captures the intersection of God’s justice and the tender mercy sought by human hearts. Abraham did not merely mourn the destruction of buildings and land; he grieved a place deeply woven into his life story—home to his nephew Lot, land of battles won, place of divine blessing through the priest Melchizedek. His prayers to spare the city were not transactions; they were not desperate bargaining. Rather, Abraham stood humbly before the divine justice of God, pleading solely from a place of love: “Will you sweep away the innocent with the guilty?”

Why fuss over dishes and tidiness when the Son of God is seated in your living room? At first glance, today’s Gospel story seems to nudge us towards such simplicity. But pause and listen closely—this is not merely about choosing Jesus over chores. It is about recognizing eternity amidst the fleeting, stability amidst decay.

Consider this truth: every house we build, every effort we pour into this passing world, is destined to crumble. Our bodies age, buildings collapse, memories fade. All around us is a relentless reminder of impermanence. Martha’s anxious heart mirrors our own. Her worry is not just about serving dinner—it is an existential dread that nothing we do will outlast the pull of decay and death.

Consider the ditches we find ourselves in, those hidden places where the soul feels battered and weary. Everyone, at some point, knows intimately what it means to lie wounded, stripped bare by circumstances we never imagined. It might be a betrayal by someone we cherished deeply, a rejection that stings in silence, or simply the unbearable weight of daily expectations. Indeed, we often find that the deepest cuts come from the sharp tongues or cold indifference of those nearest to us, those who know precisely where our vulnerabilities lie. Pride, envy, greed—these are the thieves that rob us of peace, leaving us isolated and desperate in our own private ditches.