I Make All Things New

Fifth Sunday of Easter
May 18, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Acts 14:21-27 / Ps 145 / Rv 21:1-5a / Jn 13:31-33a, 34-35
by Msgr. Michael McCarron, Guest Celebrant

Our gospel reading today is incredibly rich.  It’s also ancient, proclaimed in the Church’s lectionary since about the fifth century.  So once again, we’re in a part of the lectionary that allows us to stand on the shoulders of giants, as they say, our forebears in the Faith.  The reason that it’s here is that it is a pivot point.  This gospel serves as a hinge from the Easter season into the anticipation of Pentecost and the season that follows immediately after, with the great feasts and solemnities.

You’ll notice that in the first part of the season of Easter, we talked a lot about the Resurrection appearances.  We talked a lot about where our Lord was, what He was doing, what He was saying to His disciples who witnessed Him.  But now we’ve jumped back to another place.  It’s not Eastertide; it’s the Last Supper.  This is part of what is called the Farewell Discourse.  And it’s a part of the Farewell Discourse that follows pretty much the plan that John sees our Lord setting out:  His service to His people and then all of the great proclamations of His love for us that we can only do by the Holy Spirit, which is what we’re awaiting.  And so, the lectionary is pointing us towards Pentecost, which is only a couple of weeks away.

I would suspect that this gospel sounds a little bit difficult to understand.  I mean understand if, for no other reason, is all the “glorified”:  God is glorified in Him and God will glorify Himself and if He glorifies Himself, He will glorify Him rightly.  After a while, you say what’s the point?  But it’s a really big point, and it’s the point upon which the pivot happens because it says, “Now is the Son of Man glorified.”

Now this is the Last Supper and “Now is the Son of Man glorified.”  What’s happening now?  He’s about to be crucified.  That’s God glorifying Him?  That’s a very powerful statement.  You remember He’s at the Last Supper, and Judas has just gone out to betray Him, and Jesus says to the rest that now it’s happened and that the Son of Man is glorified by the Father.  And He’s doing it right now, right here in this room at this table and we would have a right to say, “It sure doesn’t look like a lot of glory.”  Especially to them.  We have the wonderful gift of reflection of two thousand years and know that a Resurrection is going to happen after this, but the people here did not know that.  It’s telling us something.  It’s telling us something about what it means to believe in the power of Easter, but also the wonder of Pentecost.

One of the great sins of our society — in fact, it’s the great heresy that grips our society — is cynicism.  Cynicism, which anybody over the age of about eighteen, or even younger than that, will be afflicted by, is a belief that things just don’t change.  Nothing’s going to change. The world’s always going to be this way.  I don’t change; this is just the way I am.  A lot of people, as we get older, just kind of shake our heads and say that these are habits I’m never going to break, on and on and on and on.  It really is out there, and it’s a very particularly serious heresy for Catholic Christians, because it robs us of hope.

Hope is the understanding that in fact what you see is not what you get.  That in fact what we taste is a better sign of what we’re going to get.  That moment when she says, “I do,” and our whole world just lights up with fireworks?  That’s a taste.  It’s not always going to be that way.  The fireworks will turn into a bonfire sometimes.  But the reality is that you knew then more truly than you’ve ever known.  I say to couples on their wedding day, you are seeing more clearly the truth right now, today, than you ever will.  Remember what you see, because sometimes it’s easy to forget you see.

When Jesus says He’s going to be glorified, He’s saying it in the midst of the understanding of a living hope that the evil which is about to capture Him and torture Him and bury Him is not the end.  He dispels and destroys any basis for cynicism.  If God can take the cross (the most horrible, obscene evil that human beings can ever do to each other, much less the Son of Eternal Father) and turn it into the greatest good that ever has been (the absolute power of life over death) so that the greatest  it’s-never-going-to-change death (which all of us feel when we lose somebody) is broken, what could He not do with us?  What sin in our past that nobody knows about that we think makes us unlovable can He not forgive?

The fact of the matter is, He knows us best, and He loves us the most.  The power of His love is to birth hope.  Hope that no matter where we are, whatever situation we’re in, however lackluster or lukewarm we’ve been in our faith, He births a hope so that the glory of God is revealed in the midst of our difficulty.  Why?  Because there in the midst of our difficulty, even at our desperation point, if we have hope, we’re seeing beyond it.  We’re seeing bigger than it, we’re seeing something more powerful.  If I look at that person that I’ve always had a low opinion of and begin to hope, I’m open to the possibility that there in that person, there may be something I can give to help them.  Or I could be helped by them by forgiving them for the ill they may have done me.  If I look at my children and begin to lose hope for their future, because the world seems so topsy turvy, perhaps I could remember what I understood when I held them first in my arms here or at the hospital, and realize I’d be willing to do anything I could to give them a future filled with hope.

Faith, hope, and love.  The greatest of these is love.  You know why that is, don’t you?  In heaven, we don’t need faith anymore.  What we had faith in we’ll see right before us.  Even in heaven, hope will at last be fulfilled: that thing which points us to a world that’s different, to a belief that’s different.  But we’ll still need love even in heaven.  Practicing that love now, as Jesus says, “God’s going to glorify Me in this,” but how will we see that glory?  By the fact that you love each other.   Because you’ve experienced My love, you’ve come to love each other as I love you.  How do I love you?  I love you the way the Eternal Father loves the Eternal Son.  In just a couple of verses He is going to tell us, not only do I ask you to love that way, I command it.  To love the way God loves.  You can’t be cynical if you have that kind of love.  You just can’t.  It’s not permitted, but it’s also not possible.

In the second reading, from the Book of Revelation, John says, “I saw a new heaven and a new earth,” and that everything that I thought was going to be here forever, it was gone.  There’s a whole new way of being a human being.  As that passage continues, the Lord says, “I am the Alpha and Omega.”  He says that I am the beginning and the end.  At the end of today’s reading, the Lord says, “Behold, I make all things new.”  Even you and me.

So, if there are patterns of hurt in your relationships that you don’t think you’re ever going to change, now is the time for God’s glory to shine.  If you haven’t had a great deal of respect or a good relationship with your parents, you can change today before you leave these doors.  With the hope and the power of the Eucharist itself, the love of Jesus Christ can make a husband and a wife see each other in all new ways, if we just let it.  We cannot be cynical because the only thing that is forever is God, and God is love, and His love is for us, and that means we’re forever in love with Him.

May Jesus Christ be praised forever.

Leaving the Median

Fourth Sunday of Easter
May 11, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Acts 13:14, 43-52 / Ps 100 / Rv 7:9, 14b-17 / Jn 10:27-30
by Msgr. Michael McCarron, Guest Celebrant

It’s such a joy to be here with you again today and over these next couple of weeks.  It’s exactly the elixir that this retired priest needed:  to have a parish community again for a while.  So, thank you for that gift.

I said to someone at the last Mass, and I would repeat it, especially since it’s happened twice in a row:  8 o’clock is really early.  Especially if you’re coming all the way from Lynchburg, which is not far, of course, but it means that, for me, I have to get up around 4:45 or thereabouts and get the dog settled and myself settled, so that I don’t come out bleary-eyed and mumbling things at Mass.

It’s always a joy for me to have the distance between my home in Lynchburg to this parish here in Bedford because of that drive.  I come out on 460 and, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried it at that hour on a Sunday, when there’s almost no traffic, but that drive is absolutely delightful.  It’s not usually delightful, especially if I’m behind you saying, “Hurry up!”  But that’s my fault.  This morning, however, when I came up it was just so awesome.  There was a little haze across the fields, the deer were kind of bedding down.  You could see them heading into the woodlands, instead of the middle of the road, like they usually do.  It was just wonderful and very peaceful and a wonderful way to arrive, of course, to celebrate the Prince of Peace.  It was really a gift.

And so, as I was driving along that 32.5 minutes, according to my GPS, that it takes to get here, I was immediately lulled into those wonderful spiritual thoughts, and I began to think about the median strip.  I mean, really, about the median strip!  I’ve always been fascinated by them.  When you think about it, they’re the victims of violence, aren’t they?  Somebody has come through what was once a pasture or a road, and just created this 4-lane highway, and left there in the middle, seemingly forgotten, this strip of land.

I admit that, if you’re a traffic engineer, and you’re here in the congregation, you shake your head and say “They’re there for a purpose.”  Yes, I know they’re there for a purpose.  They do serve a purpose:  they separate the lanes and keep the lights down; they do all sorts of things!  But there’s a study that says, since the late 1950s and early 1960s, when they began the interstate system and when road construction began to take in things like median strips for safety, a group of animals has begun to adapt to living in median strips.  They don’t live anywhere else, because they can’t get off of the median strip.  And if they do, they don’t get to the other side, generally speaking.  So, there’s a whole life ecosystem going on.

As I’m driving down the road, I’m kind of watching how the wildflowers are coming up, how different things are happening in that median strip.  And I thought to myself, I’d really hate to be a median strip, because they don’t go anywhere.  They always stop at a bridge, or at an intersection, or something.  They don’t go further.  And if you’re one of those lucky animals who has decided this is home, well, you’re wrong because you don’t go anywhere, either.

Today our Lord talks, as he does on this Sunday every year, about the Good Shepherd.  The readings we hear today have been proclaimed in the Church since the fourth century. This is part of the ancient lectionary, as pretty much all of Easter is.  This particular one is called Shepherd Sunday, because all of the readings are about being a shepherd, doing shepherd-like things.

In Jesus’ day, it’s beautiful.  We have this wonderful image of our Lord with a lamb across His shoulders.  It’s very touching.  But, of course, in Jesus’ day, if I called you a sheep, you would be really upset.  It still is not complimentary.  I mean, go to a friend of yours and say “You’re such a sheep,” and see if you get a happy response.  You won’t.

In Jesus’ day, and in ours, sheep are very sweet.  I mean, who doesn’t love a lamb?  You just want to cuddle with them.  But they’re dumb as a box of rocks.  I grew up on a farm that had sheep, among other things, and you just couldn’t help but love them.  They all have different personalities.  But they don’t know anything.  They can get spooked by a branch falling in a field a mile away.  They run, once they’re spooked, until they drop.  They don’t stop; they drop.  If they’re left to their own devices, they exhaust themselves.  They’re a catering service for wolves, basically.  They don’t protect themselves; they can’t.  They run and they are challenged and, if they fall in a creek, they turn over and they can’t turn themselves back.  They get soaked in the wool and they drown.

They need a shepherd, and that is Jesus’ whole point.  Goats are like the cats of the sheep world.  They can do anything on their own.  They have brilliant minds, they take care of themselves, they gather together and they push back any danger.  They don’t really need a lot of help.  Sheep in the wild need an awful lot of help.  In fact, without the shepherd – and Jesus is making this very clear in the gospel of St. John – they won’t go anywhere.  They stop.

But His sheep know him, and when He calls them, they come forward.  This is important for people who are living in the median.  And I hate to tell you, but we’re living in the median.  That is to say, we live in a time when faith has been reduced to a kind of pausing.  Faith has been reduced to trying not to stand out too much.  Faith has become a kind of Catholic agnosticism.  You know God exists.  Everybody in this room believes that.  We’re not sure He does anything.  He doesn’t really intervene.  He doesn’t really get on our side or have our back.  When we are in trouble, we go to a lot of different places before we get to Him.  He’s kind of our desperation point, isn’t He?

You see, Jesus is the Shepherd that we who live in the median – not quite sure, wanting to be sure, but OK about staying in one place – need.  He’s the one who gets us off the median.  We need a shepherd to see us across those four lanes.  We need a shepherd to tell us that there really is life on the other side of that concrete:  the concrete of our prejudices or our own grudges, the concrete of our opinions about ourselves when we look in the mirror and just don’t like what we see if we’re honest, the concrete of the difficulties we have with our kids, or we who are kids have with our parents.  We need a shepherd to show us how to get off of that median safely.

Jesus says that they know My voice.  They’ve heard what I’ve said to them.  And I’ve put them into My hand.  That is to say I will never let them go.  I will never get them to come out into the road unless I can lead them safely to the other side.  I will hold on to them.  Our prejudices can be coming down the road at seventy-five miles an hour, and we could be in the middle of the road, but He’s not going to let us get hit by them if we stick with the Gospel.

When we’re at work, and everybody’s talking about the new Holy Father, and that he’s an American, as though the Holy Father can be minimalized into a nationality, we are able to stand up and profess our faith, and what it means to be one Church of enormous diversity, with an enormous broad Catholic reach.  It means that Jesus, who has called us, has summoned us off the median because we’ve heard the voice of one person who makes more sense than all of the stuff we see on social media, the stuff that our computer can lure us to.  It tells us that our sexuality is some kind of a playground, instead of a sacred gift, as sacred as the Eucharist is – a sacrament to be given to another with faithfulness, permanence, and love.  We may feel like we’re in a pretty unsafe place.  But living on the median, we can begin to think that sometimes the bad behaviors we compromise with, that we accept, in order not to seem different, just pass by. Those bad behaviors can suddenly begin to be a toxin that takes hold of us and changes us.

Today we celebrate Mother’s Day.  We’re glad to celebrate our mothers.  Hopefully we remember a Mom who taught us that there was a difference between love and hate, forgiveness and grudges.  Hopefully, we remember a mother who, by her own example, showed us what she cares about.

Do you know what the first memory that comes to mind of my mother, at my ripe old age of almost seventy-four?  It is of my mother putting rubbing alcohol on me when I was about twelve years old, because I had the flu and my fever had gone up into the dangerous zone.  I don’t remember much else of that fever or of that time.  I just remember her being at my bedside late at night, and bringing my fever down.  Thanks, Moms.  Happy day.  I had a good shepherd.  It looked an awful lot like my mother.

That’s, of course, the point.  “The Father and I are one,” Jesus says.  That means when they hear My voice, and they follow Me, they know that I can get them, allow them, help them, infuse them to be Me to others:  Moms to their children, husbands to their spouses, children to their parents, elderly to the young, and bless the young, to us, who are older in years.

It’s funny to be on the median, isn’t it?  It looks very peaceful, but sometimes it’s a little too peaceful.  The median isn’t the woods.  The woods give life to so many creatures.  The medians give it only to a few that will accept the narrow boundaries as normal.  We don’t.  We’re Catholics.  We have no boundaries.  Our boundaries are as big as eternity, as long and as deep as grace.  And we have a Shepherd who will never let us be extricated from His grasp.  And He’s grabbed us, tight, with a hug that leads to everlasting life.  Does it go somewhere?  It goes on forever, as it should.

May Jesus be praised forever.

Follow Him

Third Sunday of Easter
May 4, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Acts 5:27-32, 40b-41 / Ps 30 / Rv 5:11-14 / Jn 21:1-19
by Msgr. Michael McCarron, Guest Celebrant

It had been quite the week. It weighed on him more than he could possibly say. They had gone up to Jerusalem, of course, all of them with such high hopes. It was that procession, that raucous, loud, singing procession into the gates. It had all changed so swiftly. Within a week they were running and hiding, afraid to be caught like He was caught. Peter, His dear friend, leader of the rest, hid better than most of them, even denied Him. Three times.

And so, finally it got to be too much, and Peter could not live with his thoughts. And he decided just to go back to normal life, and he said, I’m going fishing. And to his great surprise and pleasure, the others had been feeling the same. We’ll go with you, they said. We’ll go back home. And so, they went fishing and, true to form for the week that had been, it was just like the week: no fish, no nothing. Nothing but a continuous heavy barrage of bad news and, especially for fishermen who hadn’t fished in so long, particularly bad news. At least there were no Romans such was the benefit of fishing at night: no tax collectors, no Romans, no fish either.

And so, as they found themselves drifting up towards the place of the seven springs, where they had often gone after they had fished successfully, where they had cleaned the fish, where Jesus had met them so many times, spending the night on that rock, telling stories, laughing, teasing each other, teasing Him. He was a sight in the morning, and they’d let him know it.

As they drifted toward shore, it was already almost dawn. That kind of half-light of early morning obscured the view, but they could see the mooring spots where they were going, and there was someone there, there on the steps down into the water. And the person cried out, “Children, have you caught anything?” Peter cocked his head.  It was a familiar voice.  But he answered, “Nothing. Nothing, sir.” “Well then, put your nets on the right side of the boat, as opposed to the wrong side of the boat.” And so, Peter did the opposite of what he had done, but as he did, it was becoming more and more familiar to him. Déjà vu perhaps, but more real than that, until John cried out, “It’s the Lord!”

As the fish were being hauled in, one hundred and fifty-three of them, one for every nation known on earth, Peter threw on some clothes, jumped into the water, and swam to Him. There, the smell of charcoal smoke, fish cooking, and his friend. “Tell them to bring it all ashore and bring me some fish. You’ve got a lot of people that are hungry here, Peter. Come, have your breakfast.”

For many of you who know me, I’m Monsignor Michael McCarron. It is my privilege to have been the pastor of St. Thomas More for the last thirteen years, retiring last June. So almost a year into retirement, and I’ve survived so far. I will be a priest for forty-eight years on this Wednesday, which just sounds like a long time, even to me. Not to mention the congregations that have endured me. But I have to say even though that’s the case, every time I come before these wonderful mysteries, the gospels like this, I get nervous. I said to the deacon earlier today as I began, you know it’s the first time I’ve been here for fourteen years. This is the first time we’ve ever been together on the altar. It’s kind of a wonderful occasion. And I said, are you nervous? And he said, yeah, you know, and I didn’t say to him then, but I should have: so am I. I’m always nervous before I preach or teach, and why wouldn’t I be?

You see, I have been given a call. I have been asked to follow Him and right now, I’m standing before you and His call is to convince you somehow, whatever age you are or level of faith you are, to convince you about something that is true. That something is really true, and that is that you have a God who wants to make breakfast for you. Wants to make breakfast for you. You have a God so tender that one of the first things He does after He rises from the dead is meet you in the place where you have always talked into the night. Where the only memory is a memory of goodness and companionship and fellowship. To convince you that, in fact, no matter how many times we’ve denied Him, we will have opportunity, ample opportunity to nevertheless, affirm Him. “You know I love you, Lord. I’m sorry, but you know everything. You know I love you.” And He does.

I’m nervous because I know that I am called to somehow awaken every single heart here. Your salvation has been presented to me, too. The Lord wants me to tell you, Follow Him. Just the way He told Peter. No different message from the gospel. And following Him is what makes me nervous, because to convince you to do that, I’m fully aware that following Him is no easy task. Following Him means, following Him into charity and into forgiveness when they tease you at high school or in elementary school, because you’re a faithful person, and they’re not. Because you’re home schooled, and they’re not; because you live a way that other teenagers don’t live. Follow me and the urges to go to the computer and satisfy them are all there and all powerful; following Him means saying no.

There’s a better way. Even though you might not be able to see it right now, there’s a better way. I’m nervous. Because there’s a message here today that if we have a God who loves us so much that He will make us breakfast, then we had better be sure we believe He’s made us dinner and that He intends to feed us just as surely as He intended to feed them.

“Follow me” is His command at the end of this gospel. And I hope with all that I am that something, somehow, as the Lord speaks through me, blessed be God, will speak to you, whether you’re thirteen or eight, fifteen or fifty, it doesn’t matter. Do we think that a God who would cook breakfast for us is uninterested in anyone here because of their age, their gender, their aptitude, their looks? Follow Him and reject all of the false values the world will give you for acting the way it thinks you should. Follow Him so that the unborn find a voice screaming for life and a chance to live; Follow Him so that the elderly may find themselves, in fact, reverenced as wise for their years and cared for because of their giving.

What a wonderful gospel, but I’m nervous. Because you see, if you believe this gospel, listening to that first reading from the Acts of the Apostles, how can I convince you to go home and gives thanks to God for being declared worthy to suffer embarrassment for the sake of the Lord? No one wants to do that …except those who follow Him, because, where He is, we want to be. Where He goes, we want to go. The meal He prepares, we want to eat, because its dessert is eternal life.

May Jesus be praised forever.

Not With Judgment But With Mercy

Second Sunday of Easter
Sunday of Divine Mercy
April 27, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Acts 5:12-16 / Ps 118 / Rv 1:9-11a, 12-13, 17-19 / Jn 20:19-31
by Rev. Nixon Negparanon, Pastor

Today, on this Second Sunday of Easter, we celebrate Divine Mercy Sunday, a feast instituted by St. John Paul II in the year 2000, inspired by the revelations of Jesus to St. Faustina Kualska. At the heart of this Sunday is the message that God’s mercy is greater than any sin. And that we, as followers of Christ, are called not only to receive that mercy, but to live it, breathe it, and bring it into a wounded world.

The gospel today brings us back into the upper room, where the risen Christ appears to His fearful disciples, showing them His wounds and breathing His peace upon them. His first words are “Peace be with you,” and then He commissions them: “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

But then the focus turns to Thomas, who wasn’t there when Jesus first appeared. Thomas doubts, and yet Jesus does not rebuke him. He invites him: “Put your finger here… Do not be unbelieving but believe.” Jesus meets Thomas in his doubt, not with judgment but with mercy.

Our Church reminds that Christ’s resurrection is the crowning truth of our faith, and that, through it, we are not only reconciled with God, but also commissioned to be instruments of reconciliation and peace. The Church teaches that mercy is the very foundation of Christian life, not as a vague sentiment but as a mission. To forgive as we have been forgiven, and to heal as we have been healed. This is not just an idea; it is a mandate.  And we have seen this more clearly in our time through Pope Francis.

In the early days of his pontificate, Pope Francis was asked in an interview, “Who is Jorge Mario Bergoglio?” His response was both humble and powerful: “I am a sinner whom the Lord has looked upon.” That simple phrase captures the essence of Divine Mercy. Pope Francis never spoke of mercy as an obstruction. He lived it deeply and personally.

God’s mercy is our liberation and our happiness. We live for mercy, and we cannot afford to be without mercy. It is the air we breathe. We are too poor to set any conditions. We need to forgive, because we need to be forgiven. If there is a message that has most characterized Pope Francis’s pontificate and is destined to remain, it is that of mercy.

When Pope Francis was archbishop of Buenos Aires, he used to sneak out at night to visit the slums, dressed in plain clothes, to meet the poor, the addicts, the forgotten. One night he came across a man who had lived on the streets for years. The man recognized him and said, “Father Bergoglio, you came back.” The then-cardinal sat with him in silence for over an hour. When asked later why he did that, he said, “Because sometimes mercy is not in the words. It is in the staying.”

He taught us that mercy is presence. Mercy is listening. Mercy is not earned; it is offered freely, as Jesus offered it to Thomas.

As Pope Francis said that the Church is a field hospital after battle. “Heal the wounds, heal the wounds… and you have to start from the ground up.” Brothers and sisters, like Thomas we all have wounds. We all doubt. But Jesus meets us with tenderness, not condemnation. He invites us to touch His wounds and find our healing there.  Go to confession, not out of fear, but out of trust that mercy is real.

We live in a world marked by division, hatred, and loneliness. Our culture often says, cancel the sinner. But Jesus says, touch my wound.

Pope Francis reminds us that the Church is not a museum for saints but a hospital for sinners. Let us be people who forgive, who reconcile, who reach out. So many around us are like Thomas, wounded, doubting, waiting for someone to show up. We can be that someone in our homes, parishes, workplaces. Let us be that presence of peace and mercy.

In this digital, polarized, and fast-moving world, mercy can feel countercultural. Yet, it is the very thing our world longs for. In a time when wars rage, when refugees wander, when the poor are forgotten, and when many feel unseen, the message of Divine Mercy and the example of Pope Francis call us to step into the wounds of the world, not with judgment but with love.

Let us visit the sick, feed the hungry, call the lonely, forgive the unforgivable. Let us slow down, listen more, and judge less. Let us also remember that showing mercy begins at home, with our families, our parishes, and even ourselves.

As we reflect on Divine Mercy, let us offer our prayers on this homily as a tribute to Pope Francis, a man whose life has become a parable of mercy. He has taught us not only with encyclicals and exhortations, but with gestures: washing the feet of prisoners; embracing the disfigured; calling the young people to dream; and challenging all of us to build a Church that goes to the peripheries.

In a homily he gave during one of his morning Masses in April 2014, Pope Francis said, “How many of us perhaps deserve a condemnation? And it could be just. But He forgives. How? With mercy that does not erase the sin.  It is only the forgiveness of God that erases it, while mercy goes beyond that. It is like the sky. We look at the sky. So many stars. But when the sun comes in the morning with so much light, the stars are no longer seen.  So it is with God’s mercy. A great light of love, of tenderness, because God forgives not with a decree but with a caress.

May Pope Francis’s example stir within us the courage to love boldly, forgive radically, and serve joyfully. Dear brothers and sisters, let us not be unbelieving but believe. Let us not keep mercy to ourselves, but go forth, as the Father has sent Jesus, so He now sends us. And as Pope Francis once said, “Mercy is the very foundation of the Church’s life. All of our pastoral activity should be caught up in the tenderness He makes present to believers. Nothing in her preaching and in her witness to the world can be lacking in mercy.” May we become what we receive, instruments of mercy in a world so desperately in need.

Death Has No Sting

The Resurrection of the Lord
April 20, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Ac 10:34a, 37-43 / Ps 118 / Col 3:1-4  / Jn 20:1-9
by Rev. Jay Biber, Guest Celebrant

In Lexington where I live, we have a little bit of a reading group, and what we landed on at the beginning of Lent this year, was a work which included some homilies, done in 1981 by a German theologian.  His name was Joseph Ratzinger.  You may remember him; he  became Cardinal Archbishop shortly after Pope John Paul II was made Pope in 1978.  This book, by whom I believe now is the greatest theologian of the 20^th century (although none of us knew it at the time), was published in 1981.  This was a series of homilies that he gave in Munich in 1981.  

Looking at the piercing of Christ on the cross, and at the Resurrection, Cardinal Ratzinger took a different starting point.  It was captivating to me.   When you think of the Resurrection, what image comes to mind?  The scripture doesn’t give us that moment that shows what it was like.  We could look at the Shroud of Turin and we’re free to believe that, somehow in its miraculous way, it captures what happened beyond our knowing.  And so, I think we imagine the stories of the dazzling angels.  So, for me anyway, it’s sort of dazzling.  

But actually, when you see all the stories of the Resurrection, whether it’s the Sunday night in the Upper Room where Jesus joins the disciples, He walks through the door.  So, obviously, there’s something very different here, but He’s still in a body.  He’s still got the wounds.  He’s the same, but He’s not.  By the Sea of Tiberius, He makes a point that He’s eating fish for breakfast, like they are.  Other examples are the story of the women who are at the grave – Mary Magdalene thinks He is the gardener.  She sees Him but doesn’t recognize Him.  On the road to Emmaus, He is not recognized until the breaking of the bread.  Something profound is going on.  

Within what we call the west, there are two dimensions and Pope John Paul II was keenly aware of those.  Of course, Cardinal Ratzinger became the main theologian of the Church and then later became Pope himself in 2005.  So, if you look at what is between Greece and Italy, Greece belongs to the eastern part of the empire,  but from Italy all the way over to Germany, Austria, Finland, England, and Ireland are the western part of the empire.  I guess you could say that Poland is in the middle – it touches both the east and the west.  So, in the two parts of the empire, the art is different.  We have our representational art here; it looks like people.  We don’t want it to become idolatry, but it looks like people.  It’s got three dimensions.  In the east the Orthodox art is much more mystical, and so when you see it, you are seeing icons, perhaps the famous icon of the Trinity, or the icons of Mary with the Infant Jesus.  These are clearly not meant to be exact representations of people because they are only two-dimensional, not three.  They are created this way so that we pass through it to the deeper, mysterious, mystical reality that it leads us through.  

It turns out that this was where Cardinal Ratzinger made the point that, as far as the Resurrection goes, in the eastern part of the west, that half (all the Balkans, and Russia, Georgia, Kazakhstan, Turkey, Greece) have looked at the Resurrection in a very different way.  If you want to see it, you can see pictures of it; just punch in “the Harrowing of Hell” or “Descent to Hell.”  Remember when we pray the Apostle’s Creed, “He descended to Hell,” to the land of the dead, not to the permanent separation of God for those who have rejected or unconfessed, but the waiting, beginning with Adam and Eve, all the just people waiting for God to set things right.  And so, in the east, since there was no image of the Resurrection, the image they developed was the Harrowing of Hell.  Now, a harrow is an agricultural implement that basically roughs up the ground.  After all the vegetables, fruits, and grains are all harvested, the earth needs to be turned over so it can receive the rain, so it can receive the seed, somewhat like aerating a lawn.  The harrow is a machine that churns up, so we speak of the Harrowing of Hell.  Go online; you’ll see icon after icon after icon and with some of them, you can find the commentary, so you can even understand the details of what the symbols are.  

Basically, the Harrowing of Hell, the Descent to Hades (Sheol in Hebrew), is where Christ goes to bust up Hell. It’s very physical because he comes to break open Hell, to break all the locks, to let the light in to where there was only dark.  So, in the icons, first you see the images of Him going to Adam and Eve who have been waiting for so long, and to all the just souls who have been waiting for that great moment of redemption.  This becomes the final act in Christ’s saving work.  He has come to earth, He has taken on our flesh, and now He has died, which permits the final act – to go down to the land of the dead and say, “I did not make you to live in a dungeon.  Come out.”  The story of Lazarus is a foreshadowing of that.   “Come out,” He says to all the souls who were waiting.  So that’s the redemption.  

The harrowing is that He shows no mercy to Satan.  Satan turns out to be a nothing, just a minor thing.  The Satan that had everybody terrorized is now seen whimpering in the corner.  The death that had everyone terrorized no longer has any power. 

Now we read the Psalms with a different mindset.  Think of Psalm 24.  “Oh gates, lift high your heads.  Grow high you ancient doors.  Let him enter, the king of glory.”  He’ll break those gates open.  It’s physical, it’s athletic, it’s muscular.  Who is that king of glory?  The Lord, the mighty, the valiant.  Oh gates, lift high your heads, because death has no sting.  He has entered the world of death for our sake, His love for us, and blown it up at the middle.  

What Cardinal Ratzinger understood too, was that this is the story that applies; this is a pattern that gets repeated all through history.  For Israel certainly had the experience of the Exodus of being set free from slavery, from the dungeon of darkness, of pure solitude and the loneliness of no connection.  All that is done away with.  This is not just for once; this is a pattern of God.  It is a rhythm.  Lost, then found.  Israel would experience not only the Exodus, but hundreds of years later, the exile.  And the Church would navigate in our own way. The new Israel would navigate seas and waves and tides and winds that we could not have imagined,  every generation going through the pattern.  To even up to now; to yourselves and your stories.  Even in those moments when you felt like death warmed over, you somehow experienced that there was a new life under all this and this is true today as well.  

To go all the way back to the story of Abraham going up the mountain with Isaac ready to sacrifice him and Isaac’s asking where the lamb will come from.  Abraham says the Lord will provide.  And there he is bound on the altar and they look and see the ram caught in the thicket, and that becomes the sacrifice.  The derivative of Isaac’s name is “laughter.”  Ultimately, there is joy for the person of faith because this is the way God has set up the world.  It is a joy that courses in a laugh.  Probably most of us have been in certain situations where we thought we would never laugh again.  But no, we have too much evidence to the contrary.  With Isaac, he laughed to see the lamb, as if to say that, Yeah, I need to learn to believe that when God says, “I got this,” He means it.  

Food for the Journey

Holy Thursday – Evening Mass of the Lord’s Supper
April 17, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Ex 12:1-8, 11-14 / Ps 116 / 1 Cor 11:23-26 / Jn 13:1-15
by Rev. Jay Biber, Guest Celebrant

In your own families I’m sure you have a calendar of your own, just for your family.  It’s not a big calendar of New Year’s Day or Memorial Day, or the Fourth of July, like the great national calendar.  It’s the calendar of your family: the calendar of the birthdays, the wedding days, or maybe the time you first met and where you first met.  It’s the calendar of those big dates and maybe some sad dates, too:  a car accident, or a death in the family, and those things that mark the calendars down through the years.

I love to think of this Holy Week as our calendar.  It’s not a particularly special day for the country or the world, but it’s our calendar.  It is here that we count our time, and obviously, a lot of the people you know don’t recognize this timing.  Why, in the middle of all this on a Thursday, all of a sudden, you’re counting time, you’re marking time, differently?  Maybe that’s where we got that expression, “She marches to a different drummer.”

We have a rhythm.  Our whole creation has a rhythm to it the way we understand it.  It’s not just building material that we can rearrange the way we like.  It comes with a pattern; it comes with a shape to it.  Even in science, for example, there is a pattern.  The Vatican astronomer spoke up in Lexington this year.  He said, “Science is meant to lead to worship.”   We see the patterns of God, and we want to begin to know who is the One behind these patterns?  Who is the One behind these forms?  And so, we measure things a little bit differently.

With this Holy Thursday feast today, especially this year, I was struck because it coincides exactly with the Jewish Passover feast.  It coincides this year, but not every year, because of the course of history.  We’ve asked, “How are we going to measure?”  Maybe by the first day of spring, because that’s the way the sun works.  Or is it the lunar cycles, the cycles of the moon?  There are different ways to measure, and that’s why you have an Orthodox Easter and a Catholic Easter.  The Eastern and Western Churches calculated differently, but what they had in common, together with the Jewish people, is that all this creation of God and all this history is all connected.  It’s somehow all connected.

When we say, “in those years since the time of Christ,” we say “AD.”  If you know your Latin, that means anno Domini, in the year of the Lord.  That way, we’re counting time with Christ at the center point of history, with the incarnation of Christ at the very center point of the cosmos and of all human history.  He’s at the center.  That’s how we count.

Sometimes when people don’t understand what’s going on at the Mass, I’ll say, “Well, you know, it’s okay.”  The Mass is not something that started in America, nor is it something that came over from Europe.  It comes from the Middle East.  What we do always comes from the Middle East.  Those are the origins of our faith, the patterns.

This year, the whole Passover Week is exactly the same as Holy Week.  It began as did our Holy Week, as is the Jewish custom.  A lot of our roots are taken from our great Jewish ancestors.  There are a lot of the roots of this faith.  And so, the pattern for this Holy Week begins when?  Sunset, Saturday night, last Saturday night.  Because in the Jewish reckoning, the day always begins at sunset the night before.  That’s when you start counting it.  So, what we call the Vigil Mass is really a Sunday Mass, but it’s done in vigil, the night before.  That’s when Passover begins.

Holy Week finishes on Easter Sunday at sunset.  That means that the week is right smack on top of the feast of Passover.  It suggests to us, especially in the celebration of Holy Thursday, the many gifts that accompany these celebrations.  Think of the great gifts of today:  the first First Holy Communion.  Some have said the first Mass – I suppose you could, but it was definitely the first First Holy Communion for all the Apostles.  This was the beginning of the Eucharist that is to accompany us, the manna from heaven, built on the Jewish patterns.  And now, we have not the manna that came down during the night, nor the quail that they were able to kill to eat, but the Body and Blood of Christ.

So tonight, we commemorate the gift of the Eucharist, the institution of the Eucharist.  We commemorate the institution of the New Testament priesthood, not the Aaronic priesthood of offering sacrifices, but the New Testament priesthood.  When did that happen?  Well, you’re going to hear it at Mass tonight, when He says, “Do this in memory of Me.”  It’s that simple.  It wasn’t like a Super Bowl half-time show.  In all simplicity, the greatest gift to the Apostles around was: “Do this (what we do tonight) in memory of Me.”

So, think about what went before you.  I think, especially when I’m among Catholics, that every single one of you came from immigrant stock.  There wasn’t one of us who didn’t, if you check back in your family.  Maybe you remember the stories.  I’m old enough.  I guess I got the fresh stories of the trip over:  steerage in the boat, the anti-Catholic prejudice.  I got all the stories.  Maybe you got some of them.  But that’s part of your depth, because those people came with a faith.  When you think of all those in our own families who came over, they didn’t know what they were getting into.

Like a lot of life, if you really knew what you were getting into, you’d beg off.  We’d say, “I don’t think so.  I’m afraid.”  But we got into it and flourished.  We follow the Jewish pattern.  So, what happened that first Passover?  First of all, we hear the command.  Egypt is the slave-owner.  The people of Israel are in Egypt.  They were in Egypt and were enslaved, and they were just pushed harder and harder.  They’re pushed to their breaking point.  It’s Moses whom God chooses to lead them out.  And he gives them their order for Passover.

First of all, Passover is meant to be commemorated in the family or in the local community.  By Jesus’ time, when they were celebrating Passover, there was a rule:  you couldn’t leave Jerusalem.  The whole family had to come to Jerusalem.  The whole family had to get together.  This is a family feast.  The whole family had to get together because that’s where you get your strength.  And there you heard the orders:  to sacrifice the lamb, to eat the meal, a convivial meal.  The rule was that you couldn’t leave Jerusalem, because they said, on this one night, everybody’s got to be there, because it’s so important to keep that tradition.  Otherwise, we risk just falling apart, if we don’t remember.

Of course, then, the eating of the Passover lamb is a foreshadowing of Christ who will become the lamb of the Passover. The understanding is that what was begun in the Passover is continued in the pattern. First of all, the Church is still a pilgrim people.  Israel had a promised land to look forward to.  We have a different promised land, for which we depend on the manna from heaven, and we still know that we are nomadic.  We’re nomadic people in the sense still that there is no lasting city, that we can’t count on making this earth perfect. Pope Benedict said, “If we try to think this world is supposed to be perfected, we’ll make Hell out of it.”   Our lives are carried out in moments of great beauty and in moments of great darkness and sadness, where each generation, and the Church in each generation, has its own challenges on the way, always on the way, looking forward to the final resolution.

And so, we get to take nourishment from, not the manna that came down from heaven, but the Body and Blood of Christ.  On the journey, we always need to be grateful, as God taught Israel to be, for the beautiful things given it.  We must also keep faith through the sad times as well, keeping faith through tough times because Israel’s been through them, and the Church has been through them.  There’s no generation that hasn’t, and that’s a way, I think, to interpret our own lives.

In our lives, there come times of great fullness, when you can’t imagine it being any other way and equal times of emptiness, when you can’t imagine it being any other way.  Yet somehow, in every generation, we turn ourselves over finally to God.  We surrender to this manna from heaven.  So, every generation is able to give its own witness that God did provide.

Obedient, Redemptive Love

Palm Sunday of the Lord’s Passion
April 13, 2025—Year C
Readings:  Lk 19:28-40 / Is 50:4-7 / Ps 22 / Phil 2:6-11 / Lk 22:14–23:56
by Rev. Nixon Negparanon, Pastor

Today we stand at the threshold of the most sacred week of the liturgical year.  Palm Sunday, also known as Passion Sunday, begins with joyful acclamations as Jesus enters Jerusalem, and quickly moves into the depth of suffering and sorrow, as we read in the Passion narrative.  The liturgy swings between triumph and tragedy, praise and persecution.  We have palm branches, but we also listen in silence to the Passion.  This contrast is intentional.  It reflects the reality of our Christian journey, a path of glory that comes through the cross.  

Palm Sunday marks the solemn beginning of Holy Week, the most sacred time in the liturgical calendar.  It is a day of paradoxes.  We begin with the triumphant entry of Jesus into Jerusalem, palms waving and voices raised in joyful acclamation, only to journey with Him into betrayal, suffering, and death.  The liturgy captures the shift, moving from celebration to silence, from “Hosanna!” to “Crucify Him!”  This liturgical tension invites us to enter not just into an event of the past, but into a mystery that speaks powerfully to our present lives.  

The processional gospel of Luke recounts Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem, riding a colt, a sign of humility and peace, rather than military power.  The crowds shout, “Blessed is the King who comes in the name of the Lord!”  Yet we know that these same voices will later cry out for His crucifixion.  This moment fulfills the prophecy of Zechariah 9:9 portraying Jesus as the Messianic King who comes, not to conquer by violence, but to save through self-sacrificing love.

The Church teaches that this act reveals a fundamental truth about God’s kingdom.  It is rooted in humility and peace, not power or domination.  Jesus is the king who reigns not from a throne of gold, but from the wood of the cross.  

In the first reading, the prophet Isaiah introduces us to the suffering servant, a figure who listens obediently to God, offers no resistance to abuse, and endures disgrace with unwavering trust.  “I gave my back to those who beat me, my cheeks to those who plucked my beard; my face I did not shield from buffets and spitting.”  The Church sees in this passage a foreshadowing of Christ who fulfills this prophecy in His Passion.  As the Catechism of the Catholic Church states, “Jesus identifies Himself with the Suffering Servant.  He makes Himself an offering for sin, taking upon Himself the suffering due to us.  This invites us to see suffering, not as defeat, but as a pathway of redemptive love when united with God’s will.”

Our second reading presents the kenosis of Christ.  In Christian theology, kenosis, from the Greek word meaning emptying, refers to the self-emptying of Jesus, particularly His voluntary limitation of His divine powers and the assumption of human form as described in Philippians 2:7-8.  Saint Paul, in his letter to the Philippians, presents what is considered one of the earliest Christian hymns.  It celebrates the humility of Christ, who though He was in the form of God, emptied Himself, becoming obedient to death, even death on a cross.  This self-emptying, or kenosis, leads to His exaltation:  “At the name of Jesus every knee should bend and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

Here we find the heart of Christian discipleship.  The path to glory runs through humility.  It is by laying down our lives, our pride, our need for control, that we share in Christ’s victory.  Christ’s Passion is not merely a tragedy, but a triumph of love over sin and death.

Luke’s account of the Passion offers a deeply human and merciful portrait of Jesus.  We witness His anguish in the Garden of Gethsemane, His betrayal, and Peter’s denial.  He is unjustly condemned, mocked, scourged, and crucified and yet His compassion never fades.  On the cross He prays, “Father forgive them.”  To the repentant thief He promises, “Today you will be with Me in paradise.”  Even in death, Jesus remains the face of divine mercy.

Our gospel today invites us to recognize the countless ways Christ continues to suffer today, in the poor, the sick, the lonely, the persecuted.  His suffering is not abstract.  It is personal and He invites us to accompany Him, not as spectators but as disciples willing to carry the cross.

Pope Francis in his Palm Sunday homily of 2020 said, “Let us look to the cross and say, with You, Jesus, I will journey from death to life.  Let us take the path of love.  Only love can save the world.”  This beautifully captures the essence of Palm Sunday.  To walk with Jesus through Holy Week is to embrace the mystery of a love that saves through self-giving.  We are not merely recalling past events.  We are being drawn into them.  

What connects all of these reading is the theme of obedient, redemptive love.  The Suffering Servant of Isaiah, the humility of Christ in Philippians, and the merciful king in Luke, all reveal that God’s glory is manifested not in domination, but in service and sacrificial love.  

Palm Sunday is not just a day of remembrance.  It is a day of transformation.  It challenges us to ask, “Who is this Jesus I follow?  Am I willing to walk with Him, not only in moments of celebration, but also in the shadow of the cross?”  The Church encourages us this week to make a spiritual pilgrimage.  Through the liturgy, we do not simply observe Jesus’ Passion.  We enter into it.  We are called to be present in His suffering, to unite our own sufferings with His and to prepare our hearts for the glory of the resurrection.  

In a world marked by war, division, pride, and consumerism, the Passion offers a radical counter-narrative.  Jesus shows us that true strength lies in humility and that salvation comes through love, not through force.  He teaches us to choose humility over self-promotion, to forgive those who hurt us as He forgave, to stand with the suffering, just as Simon, the Cyrenian, helped carry the cross, and love even when it costs us something.  

Sometimes we may feel that we run out of hope, but then there is Jesus.  Many today carry heavy crosses:  the burden of illness, grief, anxiety, and injustice that weigh heavily on their hearts.  Palm Sunday invites us, not to look away from this suffering but to enter into it with Christ, walking alongside Him and one another with presence, prayer, and compassion.  In moments when we run out of strength and hope, we discover that we are not alone, for then there is Jesus who meets us in our pain and carries us through it.  As we carry palms into our homes today, let them be signs of our willingness to follow Christ, not only in moments of glory, but also in the path of the cross.  Discipleship means standing by Jesus, not just in triumph, but in suffering.  

Holy Week has begun.  Let us walk it with reverence, with love, with a heart open to the grace of the Passion.  In doing so, we will discover the truth at the heart of our faith:  that the way of the cross is the way to life.   

Nunc Coepi: Now I Begin!

Fifth Sunday of Lent
April 6, 2025 — Year C
by Rev. Mr. Mark De La Hunt, Permanent Deacon
Readings:  Is 43:16-21 / Ps 126 / Phil 3:8-14 / John 8:1-11

Today we begin the 5^th week of Lent and next week is Holy Week.  It kicks off with Palm Sunday and Lent officially ends when Holy Thursday begins the Holy Triduum. 

I strongly encourage you to make a Lenten resolution, and whatever sacrifice you need to make, to attend Holy Thursday Mass, Good Friday Liturgy, and Easter Vigil Mass Saturday night.  I attended my first Triduum at the age of 25 and it was a conversion moment.  It opened my mind and heart to more fully grasp Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection.  The Triduum helped me make sense of the transition from the austerity of Lent to the joy of Easter.

If you recall, the week before Lent began, I preached on Jesus’ invitation to become more like Him.  I suggested doing this through practicing the Virtues and living the Beatitudes with the help of the Holy Spirit’s gifts, which perfect and complete our virtue and make us more docile before God’s will.  If you accepted that spiritual challenge or something equally daunting, you likely failed one or more times in the past four weeks.

If you have failed or simply need to dig deeper, I encourage you with the motto of Venerable Bruno Lanteri who founded the Oblates of the Virgin Mary, “Nunc Coepi,”  Latin for “Now I begin.”  It’s a Catholic way of saying, “Never give up.  Never surrender to failure or mediocrity in the spiritual life!”  (Venerable is a title for one of “heroic virtue,” under consideration for sainthood.)

We have, if I did my Catholic Lenten math correctly, nine days of Lent left to strive with grace to become more like Jesus.  Think of those nine days as a living Lenten novena.  Today’s gospel gives us hope to try.  Jesus told the woman who committed adultery, “I do not condemn you. Go and do not sin any more.” (Jn 8: 11)  Nunc Coepi.  

Jesus saw something in that woman that was worth saving.  Jesus is like Michelangelo, the great Italian sculptor, who once said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”  Jesus saw a mini-Christ in the woman who committed the sin of adultery.  He sees a mini-Christ in you and me and is chiseling and carving us to free us to be holy enough to one day enter God’s presence in heaven. 

Here is a personal story where Jesus revealed this spiritual reality to me.  I began my Lent focused on practicing the Virtues and the Beatitudes with the gifts of the Holy Spirit.  Ten days in, speaking with Jesus during prayer using Ignatian meditation, He revealed to me a weakness that He hit with His chisel the day before.

The day He spoke of was when I was driving to a doctor’s appointment in Chapel Hill, North Carolina.  (You may have driven this trip before.  You get off 29 south in Danville and turn left onto highway 86 to Yanceyville, a long rural two-lane road.)  For the first time in making that trip, I ended up behind a slow 18-wheeler.  I kept looking for opportunities to pass it, with no luck.  Anxiety was gnawing at me, as these appointments take months to get.  I kept praying, “Jesus I trust in you.”  It was Lent and I was on my game! 

The truck eventually turned off that road and I was able to speed up and get back on schedule.  I thanked Jesus for His grace in staying calm.  I made my final turn off the interstate, a turn I have made several times the past four years.  But for whatever reason, it did not look right, and I ignored my GPS, looking for a familiar place to turn.  I was falling behind schedule.  I became very agitated, not only about being late, but also because of this unsettling sense of losing my memory with age. Panic set in. 

Praying to St. Joseph for help, I found the medical center.  I walked hurriedly through the parking garage, still feeling agitated.  An older woman up ahead lost her balance a little and a woman closer to her, offered to help her.  The woman who stumbled said she was fine.  The helpful woman and I continued on our way, but the helpful woman stopped again, turned around and asked the other lady if she was sure she did not want some help.  The lady said she was sure, and we proceeded to the medical center.  Wrapped up in my anxiousness to get to my appointment, I never said a word.  I did not affirm the helpful lady, nor encourage the one who stumbled.

Now, back to my Ignatian meditation the following day:  Jesus asked if the woman in the garage that I failed to help was on my mind?  I said, “Yes.”  Then I asked somewhat cheekily, “Did you place that slow 18-wheeler in front of me and cause me to lose my sense of direction on the way to my doctor’s appointment?”  He said, “Yes.”  I felt His divine chisel hit.  I was so disappointed in myself, for failing His test, especially because a couple of months earlier, I had preached on saints always being available to help.  And even more so, because I was wearing my Roman collar in case someone wanted prayer in the waiting room.  I felt the chisel strike again, and cringed thinking what that helpful woman must have thought about Catholic clergy after seeing my indifference to someone in need. 

Jesus told me that the helpful woman’s two attempts to lend aid were grace he sent me to try and awaken me.  Another strike of His chisel.  He said that I tend to focus so much on schedules and tasks that I miss opportunities to love.  The divine chisel hurts.  But then he encouraged me to begin again.  Nunc Coepi.  He told me that my focus for Lent was to be always ready to help, even when I am in a rush.  He then told me He took care of the lady in need and that He loved me.  It was as if He said, “Mark, I do not condemn you.  Go and do not sin any more.  Be ready to help another even when feeling rushed.” 

What is really cool is that a week before my trip, God’s grace began preparing my heart for His divine chisel.  Just three days into Lent, due to a history of failure in other areas of my life, I wondered if I was progressing at all in becoming more like Jesus.  I told my spiritual director, Fr. Joe, about my failures and asked him if I was progressing. He shared that Michelangelo quote about freeing the angel in the marble and spoke of Jesus using a chisel to sculpt us.  Two days later in Confession, the priest mentioned the chisel metaphor.  And then on Hallow I heard a St. Maximilian Kolbe quote on Jesus’ chisel.  Before this time, I had not heard that metaphor before.  (Pay attention when God repeats Himself three times!)  Fr. Joe then prayed these words from the French priest and scientist, Father Pierre Teilhard de Chardin: 

“Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We should like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something
unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability—
and that it may take a very long time.

And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually—let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don’t try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time
(that is to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.

Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give Our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you [chiseling],
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.”

Fr. Joe then encouraged me with the reminder that the sculpting Jesus begins in this life is often not finished until after death, in purgatory.  There He chisels whatever else we need to be freed from, to be that person we have so long desired to be, that angel in the marble that our Lord has seen from the moment of our conception, that real me and real you that He refuses to condemn IF we seek His forgiveness AND surrender to his divine chisel. 

With all of that in mind, listen again to God speaking to us from today’s readings where He invites us to pray with Fr. Bruno Lanteri, “Nunc Coepi.  Now I begin.”

From Isaiah on Nunc Coepi:  “Remember not the events of the past, the things of long ago consider not; see, I am doing something new!…the people whom I formed for myself.”  (Is 18-19;21) (The chiseling began when He made us a new creation in Baptism.)

From the Psalmist on Nunc Coepi:  “Those who sow in tears shall reap rejoicing.” (Ps 12: 5)  (Chiseling hurts and may even bring tears, but surrendering to it brings about amazingly wonderful transformation.) 

From Philippians:  St. Paul writes on Jesus not being done chiseling him, “I for my part do not consider myself to have taken possession [of being a mini-Christ]. Just one thing:  forgetting what lies behind [our failures] but straining forward to what lies ahead [Nunc Coepi], I continue my pursuit toward the goal, the prize of God’s upward calling, in Christ Jesus.” (Phil 3: 13-14)

As for the gospel, Jesus speaks words that transform the hearts of His enemies from accusation to compassion, from trying to punish to letting go and letting God.  Listen to Jesus, this time imagining Him looking directly at you with a stone in your hand.  “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” (Jn 8:7)  Then see His look of love for the person you want to stone and hear Him say, “Has no one condemned you?…Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on do not sin any more.” (Jn 8:11)  [Now that person can say Nunc Coepi, Now I begin.]

Never forget this truth: Jesus is God and His words have power to make all things new! (Rev 21:5)  He said, “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone,” and the angry mob became a compassionate community.  He said, “Lazarus come out,” and the dead man came out. “This is my body,” and the bread became His flesh.  Just as His words still change the bread into His flesh today, so too did His words do something new in those listening back then and continue to bring about something new in us listening right now.  Not only can we see where WE need chiseling, but through His grace, we also can now see the angel in others striving to be freed.  With your newly chiseled eyes and heart, be patient and compassionate with one another. And for others and yourself, “Trust in the slow work of God.”  

Now, let’s seek the intercession of a saint who was an expert with a chisel and who taught Jesus how to use one too: 

St. Joseph, you chiseled wood to make it beautiful and to make it strong enough to withstand the storms and abuse of life.  Pray for us that we forget what lies behind and surrender to your carpenter son’s chisel, trusting He will make us new, freed to be like Him.  Amen. 

Nunc Coepi, my friends. Now we begin!

Forgiven, Healed, and Restored

Fourth Sunday of Lent
March 30, 2025 — Year C
Readings: Josh 5:9a, 10-12 / Ps 34 / 2 Cor 5:17-21 / Lk:1-3, 11-32
by Rev. Nixon Negparanon, Pastor

The fourth Sunday of Lent, often called Laetare Sunday, is a day of joyful anticipation as we draw closer to Easter.  The readings today reveal God’s boundless mercy, and His call for us to be reconciled with Him.  Each passage invites us to reflect on God’s transformative love that restores us to grace and calls us home.

In our first reading today, the Israelites have just crossed the Jordan River into the promised land.  The Lord declares to Joshua, “Today I have removed the reproach of Egypt from you.”  This moment marks a turning point.  The people who had wandered in the desert for forty years now experience the fulfillment of God’s promise.  They celebrate the Passover, no longer dependent on manna, but now eating from the produce of the land.  This highlights God’s faithfulness in bringing His people from slavery to freedom, from exile to home.  Just as God provided for the Israelites, He continually offers us the nourishment we need, both physically and spiritually.

Saint Paul speaks of a powerful transformation.  Whoever is in Christ is a new creation.  The old things have passed away.  Behold, new things have come.  Paul emphasizes that through Christ’s death and resurrection, we have been reconciled with God.  He describes this reconciliation as a gift entrusted to us.  We are now called to be ambassadors for Christ, sharing His message of mercy with the world.  This reminds us that Lent is a time for renewal; no matter how far we have strayed, God offers us a fresh beginning, inviting us to be instruments of peace and reconciliation.

The familiar parable of the prodigal son is a powerful illustration of God’s mercy.  The younger son squanders his inheritance, but eventually returns home, prepared to beg for forgiveness.  Yet, before he can finish his confession, his father runs to embrace him, clothing him in a robe and celebrating his return with a feast.  The elder son struggles to understand such mercy, questioning why his loyalty was not similarly rewarded.

The parable of the prodigal son highlights the stark differences, yet profound similarities between the younger and older sons, reflecting our own lives.  The younger son’s realization and decision to return home underscore the importance of acknowledging one’s mistake and seeking reconciliation.

The father’s response illustrates unconditional love and the joy of recovery, emphasizing that redemption is always possible.  This reveals the heart of God, a father who seeks us out, welcomes us home, and rejoices in our repentance.  The father’s actions reflect what Pope Francis has called the joy of the Gospel.  “God never tires of forgiving us.  We are the ones who tire of seeking His mercy.”  The father in the parable runs to his son, emphasizing the need for healing, a reality many of us face.

While the younger son experiences regret after leaving, the older son who stays home in obedience grapples with resentment and the desire for recognition.  Both sons demonstrate the need for acceptance and healing, highlighting that, regardless of our choices, we all long for connection and understanding.  The parable also challenges us to examine our hearts.  Are we like the younger son, needing to return to God?  Or are we like the elder son, struggling to embrace God’s mercy for others?

Being embraced by the Father is pivotal in understanding Christianity, which hinges on the question of whether one allows God to love them as they are.  Despite God’s invitation to join in His celebration, the refusal to grant permission to be loved can create barriers to acceptance.  Ultimately, the final step toward receiving this love lies in personal consent.

All three readings center on themes of renewal, reconciliation, and God’s abundant mercy.  In Joshua, God restores His people to the promised land.  In Corinthians, Paul proclaims that God makes us new through Christ.  In the gospel, Jesus reveals God as a father who welcomes sinners home.  Together, these readings remind us that no sin is greater than God’s mercy, and no distance is too far for God to reach.

Brothers and sisters, our Church reminds us that God’s mercy is central to His identity.  God reveals His fatherly omnipotence by His infinite mercy, for He displays His power at its heights by freely forgiving sins.  The parable of the prodigal son reflects this truth.  God’s greatest strength is His ability to forgive, heal, and restore.

As we continue our Lenten journey, let us examine our own need for mercy.  In our fast-paced world, pride and self-reliance can blind us to our need for God’s forgiveness.  Lent offers us a chance to reflect deeply and seek the sacrament of reconciliation.

Let us also embrace those who have wandered.  Like the merciful Father, we are called to welcome back those who have strayed from the Church.  A kind word, a listening ear, or an invitation to Mass can be a powerful gesture of reconciliation.  As Christians, we are called to be ambassadors of mercy, especially in today’s world where judgement and division are common.  We are called to practice forgiveness, whether in our families, workplaces, or communities.  Showing compassion to those who hurt us reflects God’s mercy in action.

Our readings this Sunday remind us that our God is a God of second chances, whether we are the younger son in need of forgiveness, or the elder son called to embrace mercy.  God invites us all to the feast.  May we accept this invitation, trusting in His love that never fails.

Father, I have sinned against Heaven and against you.  May these words be the beginning of our journey back to the Father’s embrace.

Satisfying Our Spiritual Thirst

Third Sunday of Lent
March 23, 2025 — Year C  (Year A readings)
Readings: Ex 17:3-7 / Ps 95 / Rom 5:1-2, 5-8 / Jn 4:5-42
by Rev. Nixon Negparanon, Pastor

As we continue our journey through Lent, today’s readings invite us to reflect on our spiritual thirst, a longing only God can truly satisfy.  Through the image of water, scripture reveals how God reaches out to us in our need and invites us into a deeper relationship with Him.

In our first reading, the Israelites are grumbling against Moses as they suffer from thirst in the desert.  Their desperation leads to doubt, frustration, and even accusations against Moses and God.  Despite their lack of faith, God responds with mercy by instructing Moses to strike the rock, bringing forth water to quench their thirst. This reminds us that God is always faithful, even when we struggle with doubts and fears. The rock in this passage is a powerful symbol of Christ, who provides the living water that satisfies our deepest needs.

Saint Paul speaks of the peace we receive through faith in Jesus Christ in his letter to the Romans.  He emphasizes that hope does not disappoint, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit.  This pouring out of God’s love echoes the image of water flowing from the rock in Exodus.  Paul also reminds us that God’s love is not based on our worthiness.  While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.  This profound truth reveals the depth of God’s mercy.  He meets us in our brokenness and thirst, offering us the grace we cannot earn.

In our gospel reading, we see a remarkable encounter:  Jesus meets the Samaritan woman at the well.  She comes seeking physical water, but Jesus leads her to recognize her deepest thirst, a thirst for truth, healing, and salvation.  Jesus reveals Himself as the source of living water, offering her a new life in God’s grace.

There is a story of four high school students who decided to cut classes one morning and didn’t go to school until noon.  They said to the teacher, “Our car had a flat tire. That is why we were very late.”  They were so relieved when they saw the teacher smiling and heard her say, “OK, I understand, boys.  You missed a test, but you can make up for it right now.”  Thereupon, she had them seated in the four corners of the room which were away from one another.  “Now you will answer just one question,” the teacher said. “Which tire was flat?”  The boys were perspiring and gave different answers.  They had lied about having a flat tire.

Today’s gospel passage talks about Jesus’ conversing with a Samaritan woman who had many excuses at the start of her encounter with Jesus.  In their dialogue, the woman’s response is half-truth and evasive.  Jesus is asking her to fetch her husband.  The woman says that she has no husband, instead of telling Jesus the truth, that she has had six husbands. But as the gospel goes on, we see that the Samaritan woman’s transformation is really striking.  Once an outcast burdened by her past, she becomes a joyful witness who leads others to Christ. Her story shows us that no one is beyond God’s mercy, and He seeks us out even when we feel unworthy or distant from Him.

Saint Augustine reflects beautifully on this encounter saying, “You’ve made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until we rest in You.”  Like the Samaritan woman, our restless hearts will only be satisfied when we drink deeply from the living water that Jesus offers.  At the beginning, the woman was arrogant and even proud, but one by one Jesus broke down her defenses.

Jesus told the woman, “You are right, because you have had five husbands, and the man with whom you are living is not your husband.”  In other words, her life is a mess.  But Jesus does not condemn her, and neither does He excuse her and allow her to continue what she is now.  At the end of their conversation, she was changed.  Why?  Why would she be changed?  Because she opened her heart.  She did not hold on to pride, rationalizations, and traditions that kept her from realizing and accepting the truth.  In other words, she let go, she surrendered, and just allowed Jesus to take over her life.

Our Church emphasizes that the living water Jesus offers symbolizes the gift of the Holy Spirit.  This living water becomes a source of grace, cleansing, and renewal in the Sacraments, particularly Baptism and the Eucharist. The Samaritan woman’s encounter with Jesus is a powerful reminder that God invites everyone, regardless of their past, into His mercy and love.  The life which the Holy Spirit produces in us makes us a new creation in Jesus Christ. The point Jesus makes is that we all have a thirst similar to our bodily thirst for water, and that spiritual thirst, the Old Testament says, is our thirst for God.  For example, in the book of Psalms, the psalmist says, “As a deer longs for a stream of cool water, so I thirst for You, the living God.”

All three readings highlight our spiritual thirst and God’s response to that need. In Exodus, the Israelites’ physical thirst symbolizes our deeper longing for God’s presence. Paul reminds us that God pours His love into our hearts, and Jesus fulfills the promise by offering Himself as the living water that quenches our spiritual thirst.  The common thread is God’s mercy.  He meets us in our struggles, doubts, and sins to offer us new life.

We are challenged today to be like the Samaritan woman. We all have a thirst for love, meaning, and purpose.  Lent is a time to ask: What am I truly seeking?  Am I trying to satisfy my spiritual thirst with temporary things?

Let us encounter Jesus in prayer and the Sacraments.  The living water Jesus offers flows through His Church.  We can spend time in prayer, visit the Blessed Sacrament, and seek the grace of Confession to experience His mercy.  As followers of Christ, we are witnesses of hope.  The Samaritan woman didn’t keep her encounter with Jesus to herself.  In a world filled with spiritual drought, we are called to share the living water of Christ with those who are struggling. Jesus meets us where we are in our doubts, our struggles, and our thirst.  Just as He reached out to the Samaritan woman, He offers us living water that satisfies our deepest longing.  As we continue our Lenten journey, may we turn to Him with open hearts, trusting that His mercy will renew and sustain us.