The Fact that changes everything (Easter homily)

 Last night, in Our Lady of Good Hope and around the world, 

we kept the great Vigil of the Resurrection. 

The Mass was long, ancient in its shape, 

and rich with the story of God’s saving work—

from creation through the Exodus to the empty tomb. 

Many could not join us; the hour was late and life is full. 

If you missed it, I hope you’ll consider coming next year. 

The Vigil illuminates our faith like few other liturgies can.

At its heart came the baptism, confirmation, and first Holy Communion 

of those whom God drew here by grace. 

It is a bracing and humbling sight: 

men, women, and children choosing, late on a Saturday night, 

to die with Christ in the waters and rise with Him to new life. 

They could have stayed home. Instead, they said yes.

This morning, on the bright day of the Resurrection, 

you and I gather again. 

In a few moments you and I will renew 

the promises of our own baptism. 

Those of us baptized as infants did not choose it then. Today we do.

This is our moment to say again, with eyes open: “I believe.”

Let us be plain-spoken. 

The Resurrection we celebrate is not a metaphor, 

not a symbol of springtime renewal or personal growth. 

It is not a “lovely story” meant only to comfort us. 

This time of year we hear much about new beginnings and fresh starts. 

The eggs and rabbits can point toward hope, 

but they do not replace the astonishing Fact at the center: 

Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified and truly died, 

on the third day rose again in His own flesh.

The Apostles did not greet this news with easy sentiment. 

When the risen Lord stood before them—wounds still visible—

they first doubted, then trembled in fear. 

Only then did they fall to their knees: “My Lord and my God!”

There could be nothing half-hearted about their response. 

Meeting the One you saw die, now alive, 

leaves no room for halfway measures. 

You and I are called to be all-in.

Being a Catholic today often puts us at sharp angles 

to the surrounding culture, just as it did in the beginning. 

The early Christians faced lions; 

you and I face quieter but real pressures. 

We bear witness to the dignity of every human life 

and to the beauty of God’s design for life. 

In a world that is unsure about what human identity really is, 

we profess that true identity is found in our Creator.

This “angularity”—the discomfort of fidelity—is not accidental. 

It mirrors the shock of how Christ saved us: 

not with soft sentiment, 

but through a brutal Cross and a real Resurrection. 

Those first witnesses looked for His wounds. They knew the cost. 

One by one, most of them faced death 

rather than deny what they had seen and touched.

Death and resurrection are not exactly "comforting."

But then, is something “comforting” really enough? 

What we need is change… and power to live… 

and a solid ground for hope.

A Savior who bore our wounds with us and for us 

and comes back from the dead? 

That is change. That is power. That is hope!

So now you and I renew our baptismal promises, 

and by doing so we invite the Holy Spirit 

to give us the power of the Resurrection once again. 

This is not a story we admire from a distance. 

It is the Fact that changes everything.

Your most solemn moment (Easter Vigil homily)

 As you surely notice, the Vigil of Easter is unlike any other Mass.

Back in the day, the vigil started much later, and it went until dawn.

The readings trace God’s saving grace in relation to human wandering, 

from the beginning, to Abraham, the Jewish People, 

till Jesus comes at last.

After all that, in the deep darkness, 

those becoming Christians would be baptized and confirmed, 

and only after that would they participate in the Eucharist.

Now: think about the timing here.

Reception of the Holy Eucharist comes nearly at the end of Mass.

That means the moment 

the priest shows the Lord to the faithful, saying, 

“Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world; 

blessed are those called to the Supper of the Lamb,”

would fall just as the first light breaks. 

The words and the dawn proclaim the same reality: He is risen."

So for those being baptized tonight, this vigil is all for you.

For the rest of us—

including those who were baptized in other Christian communities, 

and tonight enter into the fullness of the Catholic Faith—

this is a re-experiencing, a rediscovery of these mysteries.

We call them mysteries, by the way, 

because the Apostle Paul and the first Christians called them that. 

The word “mystery” suggests something hidden and inaccessible; 

and that’s the point: Jesus gives us access!

The veil is torn in two; heaven is open; you and I are born again!

The other thing about a divine mystery 

is that pulling aside one veil doesn’t “solve” it. 

With God’s creation and redemption, there is always more. 

So the long vigil is meant to reinforce that sense of going deeper, 

expecting a marathon, not a sprint.

And that’s why we don’t do all this only once; 

we revisit these wonders at every Mass, 

and take a deep dive once a year.

In a few minutes, the deacon and I will lead you to the font.

The Easter Candle, the pillar of fire, goes before you.

Unlike Pharaoh who perished in the sea, 

because he hardened his heart, you are led safely through!

In baptism, you die with Christ. 

We all die; but this is the death you and I choose: 

with Jesus, accepting his cross and making it our own.

Every time you make the sign of the cross, 

Every time you bless yourself with holy water, you remind yourself:

I died with Christ, and through him, I will rise again!

So I want to be very clear and serious here:

this moment is a fork in the road, an ending and a beginning.

I will ask you to renounce sin and the vanities of this world.

I will ask you if you believe in the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit, 

and in the faith given to us through the Apostles.

Before you answer those questions, I must warn you:

to be a Christian has always been costly.

There has always been a tug-of-war 

between the kingdoms of this world, the kingdom of our own will, 

and the kingdom of Jesus.

And if no one ever told you this, I tell you now:

your choice of allegiance to Jesus Christ and his Kingdom,

which is in this world, imperfectly, in his Church:

that choice will cost you, sooner or later.

It may seem over-dramatic to speak of martyrdom; 

we’re in Ohio after all, not ancient Rome!

But martyrdom comes in a thousand small, daily, tedious choices 

long before it becomes some great climactic witness.

Probably none of us will ever stand before a guillotine; 

but every one of us faces the refrigerator, the computer, 

and the emperor that is our own will.

Not a firing squad, but criticism from coworkers, friends and family, 

is what chills our blood and shakes our resolve.

So, why should anyone profess this faith? Why should you?

On behalf of the faithful, 

some of whom are gathered around you, 

and on my own behalf as a Christian, I testify:

God has acted in time and history.

Jesus, the Son of God, having our same flesh,

revealed to us a Trinity of Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

For our salvation, he embraced the Cross. 

He truly died and rose, in his mortal body, from the dead.

He is the judge of all mankind, to whom he offers not only mercy, 

but new life, fullness of life, and union with God, 

in the resurrection and the new world to come.

Jesus, risen from the dead, is the true and faithful witness!

He drew you here and he invites you to life.

Silence before the Cross (Good Friday homily)

 One of the great graces of Good Friday is the simplest: 

the time we take to face the Cross in silence.

Notice the absence of bells today. 

The liturgy itself teaches us to be quiet before this mystery, 

because the Cross confronts us with truths 

we would rather not face.

Why did Jesus go to the Cross? No one forced Him. 

As He said when arrested, 

“Do you think that I cannot call upon my Father, 

and he will send me twelve legions of angels? 

But then how would the Scriptures be fulfilled?”

From all eternity — before the world began — 

the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit chose this path.

And yet we still ask: Why this? Why the Cross?

Saint Thomas Aquinas teaches that because of the infinite dignity 

of the Son of God, even the slightest suffering of His — 

a mere scratch — 

would have been sufficient to redeem the entire human race. 

So why the brutality? 

Why the full weight of rejection, torture, and death?

Because it reveals the extravagance of God’s mercy. 

When the minimum would have been enough, God gave the maximum. 

How can we ever doubt that He will continue 

to give, and give, and give still more to those He loves?

The Cross is also a mirror. 

We prefer to glamorize sin or minimize it — 

to tell ourselves it doesn’t really hurt anyone. 

But on the Cross we see sin for what it is: ugly, violent, and deadly. 

The evil we see in our world — wars, cruelty, indifference, 

the ruthless grasp for power — does not fall from the sky. 

It springs from the human heart. 

And each of us shares in that brokenness. 

None of us can simply point the finger at “them.”

How often have we cried, “Someone must pay!”?

Someone did. And how.

Do you long for justice? There is your justice.

Do you hunger for revenge? There is your revenge — 

not in more blood, but in the Blood that was poured out for you.

Are you angry at God? Look at the Cross: 

this is His answer.

“By his stripes we are healed.”

'You are there' (Holy Thursday homily)

 About 12 years ago, I made a pilgrimage to the Holy Land.

I walked the original Way of the Cross 

through the streets of Jerusalem 

and stood in the place of the Last Supper, 

the Garden of Gethsemane, Golgotha, and the empty tomb.

I was with other priests, and we had Mass – at Calvary! Right there!

We had Mass at the empty tomb: 

the very stone on which Jesus had lain was our altar.

Because the Mass is God’s work, not merely a human one, 

it is always and everywhere the one eternal Sacrifice. 

Every Mass brings us to Calvary.

Yet when we gather this evening with awareness of what we are doing, 

there is something truly electric about it.

All of Lent has led us here. 

We have prayed, fasted and shared our blessings with others, 

so that we, like the Apostles, 

can prepare to celebrate the Passover with the Lord.

The Passover, remember, was first celebrated in Egypt.

God’s People were slaves, and on that night, 

God executed judgment on Egypt, and Israel fled in haste.

Tonight, I want to illuminate some familiar parts of Mass.

To grasp the deeper meaning of the Sacrifice of the Mass, 

Let’s start by recalling what happened 

when God brought his People to Mt. Sinai.

There, in addition to giving Moses the Ten Commandments, 

God detailed how they were to worship: 

how the sanctuary and altar were to be arranged, 

and the sacrifices offered.

After this, Moses led the elders of Israel 

up Sinai to ratify the covenant. Scripture tells us, 

“They saw God, and they ate and drank” the sacrifice.

Think about that in relation to the Last Supper, and the Mass:

“They saw God and they ate and drank.”

Now you know why the altar is traditionally elevated.

As at Sinai, we ascend to meet God.

In a few minutes, we will go up to this altar, and on your behalf,

address the God of Sinai, our Father.

When we all sing, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” 

You and I are joining the heavenly hosts adoring Almighty God!

The same angels who beheld Calvary with amazement.

Some of us remember the old TV show “You Are There,” 

which transported viewers back to historic moments. 

But this is infinitely greater than any television program. 

Brothers and sisters, right now, we are there—

at Calvary, at the tomb, and in heaven, all at once.

The priest then says, ‘Graciously accept this oblation.’ 

An oblation is simply an offering—

your prayers, works, joys and sufferings—

placed on the altar in the form of bread and wine. 

It stands for you.”

The priest extends his hands over the gifts like this, 

evoking the image of a dove—the Holy Spirit.

In the Old Testament, God’s Fire descended upon the sacrifice. 

On Pentecost, that same fire came down upon the Church.

In the Mass, it is the Holy Spirit who makes our offerings

“become for us the Body and Blood of your beloved Son, Jesus Christ.”

At the Last Supper, the disciples would not have been surprised 

If the Lord had pointed to the roasted lamb on the table 

while speaking of covenant and sacrifice.

But that’s not what Jesus does.

Instead, he took bread and wine and said, 

“This is my Body, given for you. 

This is my Blood of the new and eternal covenant. Eat and drink.” 

This was something entirely new. No one had ever done that before.

It is the following day, on the Cross, when he completes the Passover. 

He took a final sip of sour wine from a sponge, and declared, 

“It is finished.”

After the Resurrection, when he showed himself alive, 

the Apostles finally understood. 

Our Holy Mass flows from that command on Holy Thursday: 

“Do this in memory of me.”

Notice how the priest lifts up the Body, then the Blood.

This is a Sacrifice: Christ offers himself to the Father.

The priest is there to be Christ to us, 

and to be us, in Christ, to the Father. 

The separation of body and blood recalls his death.

When the priest later puts a part of the Sacred Host into the chalice,

It signifies the reunion of Christ’s Body and Blood, 

pointing to his Resurrection.

At a certain moment, the priest sings, “The mystery of faith.” 

It is as if a flashing sign lights up over the altar: 

“This—right here—is the moment! 

This is the pulsing heart of the whole mystery!

Afterward, the priest begs the Father 

to accept this “pure victim, this holy victim.” 

Of course the Father accepts the sacrifice. 

Yet these words sum up the entire drama of salvation.

Without Jesus, none of us can be saved. 

Everything in the Old Testament led to this. 

Tonight, in this Mass, the moment when Jesus offered himself 

once for all is made present for us. 

This is the pivot point of all history.

Tonight, we are there: in Jerusalem, at the Cross. 

The Blood of the Lamb protects us. 

The flesh of the Lamb is our salvation.

Make the most of Holy Week (Palm Sunday homily)

 Listening to the Gospel we heard--the heart of our Faith --

Makes me fall silent. Maybe you, too.

That’s why we do this every single year.

If you’ve come this far in Lent, 

it may be that you feel you missed the boat.

You can still make Holy Week your Lent.

If you ever said, I wish I knew my Faith better, 

may I suggest that taking time during Holy Week,

to come on Holy Thursday, Good Friday and the Easter Vigil?

These days will help you go deeper into our Faith,

because this week is the heart of our Faith.

If you wish you’d gone to confession—it’s not too late. 

There are confessions Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday.

If you are worried about crowds on Easter Sunday, 

The earliest Easter Masses shouldn’t be too crowded.

It’d be wonderful if you can be present at Our Lady of Good Hope 

for the Vigil, when a group of men, women and children 

will be baptized and confirmed 

and receive Jesus in the Eucharist the first time.

This is his week; it’s our week.

It’s about what we did to the Lord; 

even more, what he did for us.

The hard truths about suffering (Sunday homily)

Hearing today’s Gospel can raise an uncomfortable question: 

If Jesus was willing to raise Lazarus and others in the Gospels,

why doesn’t he do the same for us?

Someone we love gets sick, and not only does our loved one 

go through so many trials, so does everyone around them. 

I could paint a picture, but most of us already know how awful this is.

And for those who haven’t yet stood where Martha and Mary stood,

your turn is coming. That moment arrives for every one of us.

So, you and I can easily say with Martha: “Lord, if you had been here…”

The hard truth is, you and I are not promised 

to be saved FROM suffering. 

If only, if only! But that’s not the deal. 

As Holy Week and Good Friday draw near, 

instead of avoiding this topic, let’s face it squarely. 

The Cross puts suffering right in the center.

Indeed, let me say that differently. 

Suffering was already at the center of human experience. 

What Christ does is put God and his salvation right there, 

in the middle of human pain. 

Jesus puts himself there, on the Cross!

This calls to mind one of the great temptations today,

that it is “compassionate” to hasten death

where suffering is too great.

We see it in Europe, in Canada, and in our country, too,

with expanding efforts to make it legal

to give people a drug to end their lives.

What began as supposedly only 

for people facing terminal illness is now, in many places, 

moving well beyond that — being advocated

for people who have disabilities, and even in some cases, for minors.

You and I are in no way dismissive of any suffering. 

But are we really prepared to say that human life 

is made worthless by trials and pain? 

To state clearly what we believe as Catholics:

It is right to relieve suffering through medication and comfort.

It is entirely appropriate to accept death when it comes; 

but it is gravely sinful to hurry it along.

Consider another example: what happened during Covid.

Our leaders and experts tried to remove all risk and worry.

We isolated ourselves from one another. 

Many of our elderly were cut off from all personal contact 

with friends and loved ones. And what happened? 

We were trying to keep them “safe.” Yet it was damaging! 

People – not just the elderly, but at all ages – 

were depressed, disoriented, overcome with sadness. 

Here again, we learn: 

life isn’t better when all danger and suffering are kept at bay. 

It seems to be inescapable that the trials you and I experience—

as with Martha, Mary and Lazarus—aren’t something to be saved from;

because—through Christ—they end up saving us!

We are not promised to be saved from suffering. 

We are right to try to soften its blows.

Yet we also know our path to fullness of life is bound up with it.

The Cross shows that God is not an observer of our pain.

He makes it his own and redeems it.

And maybe that’s one reason Jesus didn’t come and rescue Lazarus, 

and why he doesn’t simply spare us from the same path.

He isn’t just saving you and me for more of this life – 

but for eternal life.

At this Mass, friends and family members are joining us

who will, in two weeks, be baptized, confirmed 

and receive their first Holy Communion at the Easter Vigil.

Right after this homily, we’ll pray in a special way to strengthen them.

Today’s Gospel makes clear: they are answering Jesus’ summons to life.

And, they are choosing his Cross as the path to Resurrection.

As we all approach Holy Week, now is a great time to ask ourselves: 

do I really want to cling to this life, 

which will slip away no matter what, or:

Will I walk with Jesus the road of dying to self, 

dying to this world, that I may share in his Resurrection?