Homilies & Thoughts

We find ourselves on a mountaintop, standing in the presence of something extraordinary. In that moment, the veil between heaven and earth is pulled back just enough for us to see the world as God intended—a world radiant with divine light, untouched by sin and sorrow.

At first, this revelation might seem disconnected from the journey of Lent. Why, in the midst of a season focused on penance and fasting, do we pause to gaze upon Christ in glory? Why, as we walk through this time of spiritual struggle, does the Church set before us this dazzling, almost otherworldly scene? It can feel like a cruel reminder of what we are not yet able to reach.

Jesus speaks often about fasting, almsgiving, and works of penance. This might surprise us. We live in a culture that has long shifted its focus. While fasting and charity still exist, they are often treated as secondary, even optional. This makes it difficult to understand what Jesus is saying. That is why we must rediscover the meaning of penance, and there is no better time for this than Lent.

Too often, when we hear the word penance, we think of extremes—medieval flagellants parading through the streets, people sleeping on broken glass, or fasting to the point of exhaustion. But these are distortions, misunderstandings that the Church has consistently opposed. True penance is something entirely different.

There is something deeply unsettling about realizing we do not see as clearly as we think. Jesus’ words confront us with this reality. We assume that we understand the world, that we can judge right from wrong, that we can identify the faults in others with accuracy. And yet, Jesus tells us otherwise. He warns that sin is not just a private matter between us and God—it distorts everything, especially our vision.

There is a reason why fishermen do not cast their nets from the shore. The shallow waters are comfortable, familiar, and safe, but they do not hold the abundance they seek. The deeper waters, though unpredictable and at times treacherous, are where the true catch is found. When Jesus tells Simon Peter to put out into the deep, he is not only speaking about fishing. He is calling Peter—and us—to a new way of life, one that requires courage, trust, and a willingness to go beyond what is comfortable.

N.B. This weekend was the annual Bishop’s Appeal for Ministries. This homily is focused around the appeal.

The infant Jesus is brought to the temple, and there, in the arms of Simeon, light is revealed. This child, whom Mary and Joseph humbly present, is the fulfillment of Israel’s longing, the answer to generations of prayers. “A light for revelation to the Gentiles, and glory for your people Israel.” Christ is the light that shatters darkness, the dawn that dispels the night of sin and death. And yet, the light of Christ is not something to be observed from a distance—it is meant to be carried, shared, and spread throughout the world.

Freedom is a word that resonates deeply within the human heart. From an early age, we long to break free from the things that bind us, whether they be rules we do not understand, limitations placed upon us, or burdens we carry. Yet, true freedom is often misunderstood. It is not simply the ability to do whatever we please; rather, it is the ability to become who we were created to be.

Prayer is essential for every Christian. It is the lifeline that connects us to God, the way we invite him into the deepest parts of our lives. When we are in need—spiritually, emotionally, or physically—prayer is where God meets us with his grace. It is in prayer that he transforms us. Because of this, we must be people of prayer.

The story of the wedding at Cana gives us a powerful example of how to pray. Mary, the mother of Jesus, shows us what it means to approach God with both simplicity and trust. When the wine runs out at the wedding, she turns to Jesus and states the need plainly: “They have no wine.” That is all. She does not embellish her request, nor does she try to persuade or plead. Mary does not worry about the outcome. She simply places the problem before Jesus.

Baptism can seem odd at first glance. We dress a baby in a white gown, pour water on their head, and take pictures while a community looks on. It is a strange ritual in a world where water flows freely from faucets, and bathing is a daily routine. For many of us, water is mundane, unremarkable. But in the ancient world, water was precious—an essential yet unpredictable gift of life. It was carried laboriously, rationed carefully, and only occasionally used for bathing. For people of that time, being immersed in water, especially as an act of worship, symbolized something extraordinary: God’s abundant love poured out in excess.

The story of the Epiphany is almost ironic. A great king, Herod, with the full backing of the Roman Empire, is terrified of a child—a newborn baby born in humble circumstances to a young girl and her understandably skeptical husband. Yet, this reaction fits the ancient world. Kings often had to fear even the young. They never knew when someone might rally the people and overthrow them, especially among the Jews, who were actively awaiting a messiah. To protect their power, rulers would resort to ruthless measures, even murder. So, while Herod’s fear may seem absurd, it is what we might expect from that culture and time.

The Blessed Virgin Mary is the supreme model for the Church and for every believer. Yet, it is unfortunate that we so often misunderstand and mischaracterize her. For far too long, Mary has been seen as merely demure and maidenly, a passive vessel who carried God rather than an active participant in the drama of salvation.

But that is not the Mary of Nazareth we encounter in scripture. A passive vessel is not the young woman who said “yes” to God. The Mary of the Gospels is the Mother of God, the model of Christian faith, and the greatest of Jesus’ disciples. God did not love her and bestow his abundant grace upon her because she was quiet and submissive. He chose her as his very mother because she was courageous. When faced with an incomprehensible mystery, she said “yes.” Contrast this with the many men in scripture who hesitated or tried to avoid God’s call. Elijah hid his face. 1 Kings 19:13 Jeremiah said, “I am too young.” Jer 1:6 Moses said, “I think you are looking for my brother.” See Exod 4:10-16 But Mary stared directly into the heart of the mystery, and with courage and faith, she said “yes.” Yes, she would give birth to the world’s salvation. Yes, she would stand by the cross and watch her only child die so that we all might live.

How often have you misplaced something important—your car keys, your phone, or even your wallet? When something essential is lost, panic sets in. We overturn couch cushions, retrace steps, and search with increasing desperation. And then, sometimes, we find the item in the most obvious place—right in front of us or even in our hand. In that moment, relief floods in, but we might also laugh at ourselves for missing what was there all along.

On this sacred day, as we celebrate the birth of our Savior, we must reflect deeply on the mystery of the Incarnation. I think we often misunderstand what it truly means. We might view it as a purely supernatural and miraculous event—God coming down to earth to show us the path to heaven, a call to leave the world behind and fix our eyes solely on eternity. While there is truth in that, it is not the whole truth. In fact, this understanding can distort the profound message of Christmas. The Incarnation is not simply about our journey to heaven; it is about heaven coming to us and transforming the here and now.