Sunday, June 14, 2020

Present in Our Hunger - Corpus Christi 2020

"[T]he LORD, your God, 
has directed all your journeying in the desert,
so as to test you by affliction 
and find out whether or not it was your intention
to keep his commandments.
He therefore let you be afflicted with hunger,
and then fed you..."

Homily for Corpus Christi can be found here.

Sunday, April 26, 2020

A Grand Re-Opening - Homily for the 3rd Sunday of Easter (A)

Their hearts were on fire.

It seems like such a small detail in the story, but it tells us everything.

The two disciples were walking away from Jerusalem and everything connected to it: they were walking away from His teaching in the Temple, the miracles in the porticos, the promises, the hope. Disappointment was their road; heavy were their hearts. In fact, like the Bread, they were broken.

And yet.

In that moment of desolation, they are met by one whom they do not recognize; one who listens to their plight, to their story, to their pain.

This One, having listened, does not simply comfort them in tones of “There, there.” Rather, He tells them to snap out of it—literally calling them fools (how insulted we would be!)—and to ponder some lessons from the past:

did not the prophets, too, endure great suffering? was not the Messiah, too, foretold by them to suffer and to die? but didn’t the prophets also promise the Messiah would rise? did not the Psalms promise eternal life from the Father? was not Elijah carried up to heaven? And still you think that the events in Jerusalem these past days are not part of the plan? Aren’t you judging prematurely? Could it be possible that you are running away from the most glorious moment in human history? Nothing awaits you in Emmaus, but you may find Everything awaiting you in Jerusalem…

They were intrigued.

They were intrigued enough to want to hear more: “Stay with us,” they tell him. They open their doors and welcome this stranger—a stranger in every way: a stranger in his appearance, a stranger in his message. A stranger who does not simply comfort hearts, but who knocks on them.

He knocked on their hearts.

He is knocking on yours in these days.


The disciples opened. It was a grand re-opening! They welcome this stranger and make him a guest. That transition, to turn a stranger into a guest is called hospitality. It comes from the Latin, hospes / hospitalis, and it is the same word from which we derive the English word: hospital.

The hospital is the place where the stranger is welcomed and cared for—for the cure of his body.

Hospitality, on the other hand, cures the heart of the host who makes a stranger into a welcomed guest.

The two disciples on their Road to Emmaus, in their moment of desolation and suffering, stop, and provide “hospital”—if even out of intrigue—to the One who had suffered on the Cross; He, in turn, provides the Divine Physician’s healing to their souls. The Medicine of which is the Eucharist.

Their hearts, once cold, now burn with fire.

(As an aside, these same words are used after the completion of the First Reading. Peter is telling the Jewish people about how Jesus is the fulfillment of all the Promises. And it says that, in response, they were “cut to the heart.” A surgeon’s blade. Cut to the heart. And they turn and repent and three thousand began to follow Peter that very day. It was Pentecost: the day of the Holy Spirit’s fire. Do you see? Their hearts now burned).


I am so convicted that these words are meant for us, dear friends. Our Lord Jesus wants to use this time in your life to heal you, to turn you around, to place your feet in the right direction on the right road, and to set your hearts on fire. To have a grand re-opening of your hearts!

He wants to deepen in you a desire that pants for His presence, that longs for it, starves for it—believes it, runs towards it.

This fire can only be given if you open your heart and your home to it. Hospitalis.

Hope and joy will only be afforded you if you give hospitality—hospital—to the unrecognized Jesus: if you allow Him, a stranger, to become a welcomed Guest.


Oh! How foolish we are! How slow to believe…!

Do you not know that there is an Unrecognized Guest at your every meal; there is a Stranger present at your every family gathering; there is a Promise at your rising and at your resting; there is a Messiah knocking, knocking…

So easy to ignore, a knock so easily drowned out by our distractions and by our pride: I am not foolish! I am not like those who were on the Road to Emmaus!

Oh, we all are!

But that’s okay. We all run to Emmaus sometimes. But be like the disciples who, while on that Road, where humbled and yet hospitable.

Hear the words of the First Encyclical from our first Pope, Saint Peter. Hear what he says: “Beloved… conduct yourselves with reverence during the time of your sojourning…”

That is to say: as you are on this road of life, have a heart that is open at all times to the visit of your Messiah, Jesus Christ. Always have Him in mind. Hope in His Coming. Rejoice in His presence.

Remember, that’s from a man, Peter, who knew how to run away—and he did—but he also learned how to run toward. When he heard the tomb was empty, he ran towards it.


How is our Lord calling you to run towards Him now? Are there places in your daily life where He is knocking, but you are ignoring Him? Are you wasting time and grace that He is giving you? Have you let the desire for Him in your heart grow cold? Are you worried about conversations in our culture and what lies ahead?

Open your heart and your home to Him again. Run with hearts on fire for our Lord! This is where you will find healing. This is the time of hospitalis.

Sunday, March 22, 2020

And It Became Real. A Reflection on Laetare Sunday, 2020

Several times this week, Monsignor and I have mumbled aloud words to the effect of “This doesn’t feel real” and “What an indescribable time,” often punctuated by lengthy (sometimes unending) pregnant pauses—quiet, which we both know is quite loud, if only we could put to words the wordless thoughts. This entry is my attempt.

It has been a long, long week. And I feel like how I did when, in college, I would stay up all night writing a paper: the night would pass, I would grab my paper from my printer, and then open the door to the outside world and -- and then, in the too-tired stupor, the light of the day would hit and I would squint and there would be a kind of fizzle or hum in the air: sleep had passed and the night had passed and there I stood, out of place, having worked when I should have slept, and wanting sleep when I needed to work. It was college dis-orientation. 

It’s the best way that I can describe the totality of my feelings.

To quote Monsignor, again, "It is 9/11, but in slow motion."

Like most of you, it has been a week of thoughts, racing thoughts, and emotions. I have felt sadness and anger, anxiety and fear, deep peace and trust, a longing-ness, a tiredness, and a deep sense that the Divine is at work in a way that some may call this time (and its opportunities for growth and holiness and love) “privileged.” Those “some” who do so right now are on their way to being saints; those “some” who do so later are either the damned—or historians. May we be those who see the privilege of this time in the present “now.”

With that, I am going to simply free-write several of the things that have hit me during this past week. I kind of write them for myself, but also with the hope that maybe one of you may benefit from this. I’m not going to worry about length; time, it seems, has been lengthened for us all. They aren’t really connected—this is more of a “shotgun” approach—but they kind of are connected. At any rate……


Several months ago, I relayed to my staff at Saint Theodore parish that I was thinking about calling a “Year for Healing” starting in the schoolyear of 2020-2021. I had, in past years, called for a Year for Vocations and a Year for Prayer and, at the end of 2019, I was sensing in my prayer that there would be a need for a Year for Healing. Admittedly, I thought this was being given to me because there were certain things in the parish that needed divine healing.

But then I went on pilgrimage to the Holy Land. And the first stop was Magdala, the place where Mary Magdalene was healed. And, in my homily there—the first homily on the pilgrimage—I told everyone: “I feel as though God is going to bring healing to some of you in a powerful way in the days ahead.” (I had forgotten that the first person to whom a preacher preaches is himself). When I returned to the States, I found myself asking to be moved from my parish because I, myself, wanted healing in my life. The “Year for Healing,” I realized, was more for me.

But then this past week happened. And I realized that my Year for Healing that had plagued my thoughts and prayers for most of Advent 2019 was meant not only for Saint Theodore and not only for me, but for all. The Year of Grace, 2020 AD, will be a Year of Healing for everyone.


If you are anxious, let me introduce you to St. Dymphna, the patroness of those who are anxious.

If you are wondering how your prayers can change the world when you are in the “cloister” of your own home, let me introduce you to St. Therese of Lisieux. She, a cloistered nun, became the Patroness of the Missions. Oh, and she also battled the horrible illness of the lung, tuberculosis.


For those of you who are homeschooling for the first time, let me pass along a note from a homeschooling family: “Hang in there. What you are doing is heroic and is beyond what we did. I mean, when we decided to homeschool, we spent months researching and getting ready and searching textbooks and testing the schedule and the home and so on. You have been thrown into this. And with little time to prep and test and so on. You are heroes. Be patient with yourself and with your children. It’s going to be a mess. And that’s ok. If your children emerge from this knowing that they are loved and that this was a time to grow as a family and in prayer, then you all get As.”


When we emerge from this, I want an evangelizing effort that heals the social ills exposed by Coronavirus and which is all the more contagious.


I wrote in my last public homily that I believed the upcoming days could act as a great purifying and a great deepening of our love for three things: Jesus present in the Eucharist; Jesus present in the community; and Jesus present in the poor. I think this is still very true and for all the reasons I mentioned.

What I did not realize was how the first private Mass (on Tuesday) would affect me.

What affected me was not simply that people weren’t there. What affected me were two things:

1)      I could not escape Jesus.

I’ve been a priest for nine years and although at Holy Mass I am almost scrupulous about focusing on Jesus and keeping Him first, the reality is also that I worry about the performative dimension of Mass. I don’t “perform” like an person in theatre (the Mass isn’t about me), but I do worry about basic things: Can people understand the prayers; how can I lead them better in prayer to Jesus; let them adore the consecrated host, but remember to keep going because people have to work; etc.

And that performative dimension does take a toll: by small, imperceptible increments, the priest is slowly taken away from the deep intimacy with Jesus that was pure, clear, and total at the First Mass.

To some degree, this is understandable—priests, after all, love their flock and they don’t really make sense without a flock. But, to some degree, it is a great, great temptation, the likes of which we see in that some priests refuse to offer Holy Mass without a flock; they are lost without a kind of audience.

In other words, not only have us priests lost—small or large—that Christocentric focus, we have also forgotten the invisible audience, the angels and saints that are at every Mass, and that, ultimately, a reverent, lovingly-prayed, Jesus-first Mass is what everybody wants and, as we have seen this week, needs.

As I offered Mass by myself—with the angels and saints in the invisible ether above—I could not escape Jesus.

And it was wonderful. And terrifying. And I realized I needed to do penance. For myself, for other priests. And I needed to pray for those priests who, because they didn’t have people in the pews, would be tempted to not offer Mass at all, thinking that these Holy Services didn’t matter unless people were there.

This brings me to the second thing that affected me:

2)      I got to receive Jesus in the Eucharist.

I don’t know why Jesus chose me to be a priest—I mean, we can all come up with reasons why we think God chose a certain man—but, I don’t know why; yes, it is pure love; or, as Pope Saint John Paul II said, it is “gift and mystery.”

I experienced both.

As every other lay person is kept from Holy Mass and reception of Holy Communion, I do not know why God the Father has so chosen me to be able to receive when so many cannot. I want to think: God is choosing me because He has a great mission for me. But, really, when it comes down to it, He wants a deep, deep intimacy with His priests—an intimacy which is not the same with others (just like it wasn’t the same with the disciples as compared to the Apostles). I don’t know why this is; but I know that it is and that, of all things, I am to sit with that and receive that and be changed by that. And I ask you to pray for priests: that they may know this and receive this.

Because, well, many of us have lost that Eucharistic impulse. We, of all people, are supposed to have the most intimate, intimate of relationships with Jesus in the Eucharist. And it is so, so easy for us to lose that and to be distracted by the myriad of other things—worthy things, admittedly, but of nowhere near as great of import as the union that Jesus offers. I mean, this is His heart that He is offering us priests. And, to reference the great book, “In Sinu Jesu,” many priests are too busy to visit the very source and meaning of their vocation, the Eucharist.

This is why we get to receive and you don’t—because so many of us are not configured enough, or maybe have even lost sight of, the Eucharistic Heart of Jesus—and Jesus is healing us priests.

While everyone is quarantined, priests need to be rediscovering the Holy Hour (cf. the book “The Priest Is Not His Own,” by Fulton Sheen) and, I think, in the hours he has free now because he has so little organized group activities, the priest should be striving for Holy Hours in the days ahead.


We began Lent with Jesus entering alone into the desert for 40 days. Lent, minus the Sundays, is 40 days. It is a season of repentance for not having loved God and neighbor, for having lost sight of them, for not having them be the priority. It is a time to battle temptation. It is a time when Jesus was alone.

Quarantine comes from the Italian, “quarentina.” And it means … get this: 40 days.

To quarantine someone literally means to give them 40 days alone.

I cannot help but think that the world—and not just Catholics—have all been given this 40-Day Lenten Season. And why? To rediscover God and neighbor, to make them a priority, and to repent for not having done so in time past.

It is a Lent in which we will face temptation. To simply waste the time, to pass the time, to wish it were over.

And I can tell you, the temptation Numero Uno that you are going to face is this: the temptation to feel useful … and busy.

But here’s the thing: we’ve been too busy. And we’ve lost sight of the more important things in life. And we are being given a “fast” from all of that.

Let me be blunt here: We are all in detox.

We need to detox from the craziness of life pre-March 2020, that life where we were hectic and burned out and wandering and soul-less and not cognizant of neighbor or poor or elderly or parish or prayer or spouse or …..

And we are being given a moment to breathe. And to rest. To rest for all of the Sundays that we didn’t rest. And to read again. And to pray again. And to visit Jesus again.

In a word, we are being given a chance to just…..


And, oh! That’s the hardest part of life! To emerge from “lives of quiet desperation.” Thoreau retreated to Walden Pond to rediscover contemplation, thought, proximity to nature, and solitude—that is, those places where there has been Someone always waiting for us, waiting, waiting……

And that leads me to another thought:

For devout Catholics, in addition to Lent, you are experiencing Advent, too.

Here’s why: Advent is called a Season of Preparation and a Season of Waiting.

I say you are experiencing Advent these days because you are waiting—waiting, specifically, to receive Jesus again. This Sunday may have been the first time that this really hit home, this waiting.

Waiting is not easy. To wait is to be patient. Patience comes from the Latin “patior” meaning “To suffer.” To wait means to suffer. And, strangely, a person who is in a hospital is called a “patient.”

For a long time, Jesus has been waiting for us in the tabernacle, waiting for us in the poor, waiting for us in our heart. There has been a suffering of love in His heart for us while we have been busy, distracted, elsewhere.

But, Advent isn’t only a season of waiting and preparation. It is also a Season of Hope: Jesus is coming. Indeed, He is here.

Devout Catholics: visit Jesus in the tabernacle! As you wait for Him in communion, wait with Him in the tabernacle!

And I know: in the meantime, while you cannot receive Him but only spiritually, you will be suffering. To this, I remember one of the things a counselor once told me, “Father, the worst kind of suffering is wasted suffering.” That is, the worst kind is the kind that is seen as meaningless.

For Catholics, suffering—waiting—is never meaningless. And not for the reason you might think.

When Jesus is on the Cross, He is bringing souls to heaven.

When Jesus gives you the Cross, He is asking you to join Him in that work of bringing souls to heaven.

Which means that He loves you and that He trusts you to do the work.

If you are suffering or waiting or called to be patient or a patient, you have been given this mission. Therefore, pray this prayer: “Heavenly Father, in great love you have called me to this moment. Turn my suffering into grace for those souls that need your mercy. Bring them to heaven. Father, into your hands, I commend my spirit!”

What a great hopefulness there is here!—and this is something we desperately need in these times.


I am looking forward to when this Coronavirus thing is over. While I was looking forward to an absolutely amazing Easter, I must now look forward to an amazing Pentecost or an amazing Corpus Christi (which is, honestly, my bet on when we will be back at church—and wouldn’t that be an appropriate day? the day of the Eucharistic Procession….)

I am looking forward to that day. And oh, what a great party we are going to have here in Florissant!!!

I look forward, but I also know this:

Laetare means “rejoice.” Laetare is always said on this particular weekend in Lent. On this first Sunday when we don’t have public Masses, God has so ordained it that the Mass proclaims: “Rejoice.”

How odd! … And why? Why this message?

On the one hand, it is to remind us that Lent is almost over.

But, even more, it is to remind us that Jesus is already risen. The suffering of the Cross has already been turned into victory.

Laetare Sunday, therefore, is to be a moment of great hope. The party in heaven has already begun; the suffering is already over; the world and all its fears and illnesses and evils—well, let me quote Jesus, “Be of good cheer, little flock. I have overcome the world!”

Yes, some that have died in these days are in heaven.

Do not forget that.

Yes, there is suffering. But don’t forget heaven. And that some are already there.

Indeed, no matter where we are, this Sunday arrives and tells us: YOU KNOW THE END OF THE STORY. YOU KNOW HOW THESE DAYS AND WEEKS AND MONTHS WILL END!

The Resurrection. The Resurrection!

So, no matter where you are and what you are experiencing, you have reason: Laetare! Rejoice!


"This week, it became real."

For many, the “it” means the effects of the Coronavirus: the extent of the spread; the financial impact, etc.

For me, however, the “it” means the Cross and Resurrection—otherwise known as the Paschal Mystery.

I knew it was real. But here it is in these days. We live in times of the Cross and Resurrection; of suffering, but of glory; of opportunities of holiness and living expressions of holiness; of death and of heaven.

I pray that for many this week the “it” of our faith became real…. "This week, it became real"

Sunday, March 15, 2020

Love in the Time of Cholera - Homily for the 3rd Sunday of Lent (A)

 While in the desert, the Israelites thirsted for water. And in their thirst, they asked this question:

Is God in our midst or is He not?

The Samaritan woman also thirsted for water and also dwelt in the desert, a spiritual one, of meaninglessness and lost love. And in that thirst, she too asked that question:

Is this Jesus 'God in our midst' or is He not?

In both instances, hope does not disappoint: to their thirst, God provided miraculous and renewing water: for the Israelites, it was water from a rock; for the Samaritan woman, it is the Holy Spirit poured forth into her heart.

Hope did not disappoint. God was in their midst. And in that, there was renewal.


In the days ahead, we may also pose the same question. Is God in our midst or is He not?

Historically, plagues and pestilences have been occasions wherein God provides His people opportunity to repent and to grow in holiness-- in a word, to be renewed.

I was thinking of this fact as I was laying down in the second pew of our parish church the other day. (I hope it doesn’t scandalize you that I was doing that!). I was just laying down in the pew because I was tired and, well, the afternoon’s activities had all been cancelled, ... and I just wanted to be in my Father’s house.

And as I was laying there, I heard the birds outside. I hadn’t really paid attention to singing birds in quite some time. It was beautiful, actually. It was a little hint that Spring was almost here.

“Goodness, Lord," I began to pray, "how busy I have been, that I haven’t paid attention to the beauty of your creation around me in some time." God does this to me sometimes: He wakes me up by nature and, most times, it alerts me to a spiritual sickness-- in this case, busy-ness-- that sometimes keeps me from Him and His simple, yet beautiful things.

And so I thought and prayed some more. And I saw a connection with these days where many are worried not so much about spiritual sickness, but physical sickness....

And when it comes to physical sickness-- the flu, for example-- I never have time time for it. I’m busy/ “I can’t get sick now,” I say to myself. This stupid flu is slowing me down...!

That’s what sickness does: it puts an end to our schedules, our busy-ness, and we are just stuck there, on our backs, forcibly given a moment to reflect, to pray, and perhaps to re-prioritize life such that, when we are healthy again, we will focus on those more important things and not on the things that had us wandering in the desert of meaninglessness, searching and thirsting for the drink of actual Life.

In the case of a society facing plague, historically, it is an occasion wherein God provides His people the opportunity to slow down and to think. And this, if we allow it, can then translate into true repentance and growth in holiness.

In particular, I think our society is given this moment for repentance and holiness concerning three things-- three things that all have to do with God's presence.


The first thing is the Eucharist.

In these days of plague, yes, it may happen that some public Masses are cancelled. It hasn’t happened here and, if it does, I know that us priests will still be offering Holy Mass every day. But, at the very least, we know that throughout the world, there are many Catholics who do not have Holy Mass on this Sunday. 

This should give us pause.

God, while He has not actively willed this (or, so I do not think), He does allow such things. And the reason is the reason I just mentioned: to repent and to grow in holiness.

To repent of what?

Well, let's all admit it: all of us—you and me both—have, at some point or another, taken Jesus’ presence in the Eucharist for granted. He has been here all week in the tabernacle and at every Holy Mass-- and there are times that we have forgotten that. Casually overlooked Sunday or received Him with lukewarmness and inattention. God forbid, but some have even received in mortal sin (which, as St. Paul notes in his eleventh chapter of the First Letter to the Corinthians, has consequences). 

We have been posed with the question, "Is God in our midst?" and we have answered in ways that need purifying.

Some may say that bishops who have cancelled Mass have themselves been lukewarm. To this, I would simply say: perhaps. And perhaps they are just like us.

What we do have control over is our own heart. And in this season, there is an opportunity to repent and be healed of any spiritual illnesses we have had regarding the Eucharist-- an opportunity, I pray, that will lead us to a deeper and more fervent desire for more frequent visits to Jesus in the tabernacle, more fervent receptions of Holy Communion, and a total curing of our hearts such that we wouldn't even think of missing Sunday Mass again.

To use Jesus' words from the Gospel, I hope that, after this, we will be renewed and will truly “worship God in Spirit and in Truth” and not in routine or in hurry as has so often marked our Holy Sacrifice, the source and summit of our faith; for is God here in our midst or is He not?


The second place where I believe the plague is giving us an opportunity is our community.

Earlier this week, I was startled by the very first time when the Sign of Peace was absent from our Holy Mass. I wondered to God: “God, why is this, too, taken away from us?” I prayed this as I also saw many pews empty because of “social distancing.”

The answer to my question was immediate and it cut me to the core: Father, we have been social distancing for a long, long time.

The busy-ness, the texting and social media (even while out at restaurants, supposedly partaking in community!), the constant distraction into entertainment (how stark has been the absence of sports!)—to say nothing about the political climate that preceded (and to some degree continues) in these days—we have been socially distant from each other for a while.

And our Sign of Peace—well, let’s be honest: has it really been a full-hearted embrace of forgiveness towards those who have hurt us—or, more, has it ever been a searching out and asking for forgiveness from those whom we have hurt?

My prayer is that, after these days are over, we may see a renewal of community. No longer distracted by the entertainments that so suck up our time, I have hope that we will once again give ourselves to the things that matter: our family, our parish community, our friends. I pray that the Sign of Peace may a true time of conversion and not an empty handshake.

We have been too afraid of real reconciliation-- much more so than we are currently afraid of germs.

We need to repent of this. And grow in holiness. For, when it comes to community, Is God in our midst or is He not? When two or three are gathered in His name, is He here or not?


Thirdly, and finally, the third way we are being given an opportunity is by the fact that this virus is taking a toll on our elderly and our poor and the vulnerable.

As many public school close, we must be aware that so too close many children’s opportunity for breakfast. It’s a painful reality, but that’s the truth.

And, more, as many nursing homes turn away those of us who visit the elderly, many of our elderly will go unvisited. And, here’s the painful truth: many of them, if they were not visited by a rare handful of souls, would not be visited at all.

I pray that this is a time when we repent and break free of our narcissistic lives and start looking for those who are vulnerable.

How easy it is for us Catholics—especially those of us in wealthy parishes—to forget about whole segments of our city and state that are poor and isolated and vulnerable.

I am convinced that many of us would be happier if we broke free of our personal pursuits (which are really just fake imposters for happiness) and took time to encounter the poor and elderly. True happiness and holiness is found there. For is God in our midst there or is He not? After all, He himself said: whatever you did to these least, you did to me.


Your thirst in these days will not be quenched by Netflix. Nor by busy-work. Nor by the internet.

It will only be quenched by coming to the well of Jesus’ love and asking Him for a drink—by answering the question: Is Jesus here with me as I read this, as I go throughout my day—or is He not?

The societal sickness will slow you down. And you will have a few less distractions. And, in that moment, the Holy Spirit will nudge your conscience to pray, to reflect, to receive, and to be renewed.

I never expected that we would all be giving up some of the things we are giving up this Lent. But, as I've learned, the best "fasts" are oftentimes those given to us.

I have hope for us all. And hope does not disappoint.

It is Lent, after all. And that is what is so truly amazing about this: that God has allowed these historic days to fall in the holiest season of our Church’s year: in the very season when we are called to repent and to grow in holiness. Let us pray for that and hope in that. Let us proclaim with the Samaritan woman:

“Yes, Lord, you are in our midst, we know that you are truly the Savior of the world.”

+ In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

Tuesday, February 11, 2020

Light Cannot Be Hidden - Homily Notes for the 5th Sunday in OT (A)

+ When I was on pilgrimage, I was blessed to go to the very place where Jesus spoke the Gospel we just heard; this Sermon on the Mount. The Mount is a beautiful hillside of beautiful flowers and chirping birds, all overlooking the Sea of Galilee. Above the hillside are larger hills and, during the time of Jesus, there were ten cities positioned atop those larger hills.

Those cities are important because, as Jesus spoke these words about how cities on mountains can’t be hidden, He likely would have been pointing to those larger hills and to those cities that sat upon them.

I mention this, not only because it is a cool tidbit, but also because by directing our gaze to those cities, Jesus was trying to make a point. What was His point?


Well, typically, when we hear, “You are the light of the world,” our tendency is to immediately hear a moral exhortation: something akin to: “Be the light,” or “Be obvious in your faith and charity,” or “Let it be seen” and so on.

But Jesus wasn’t simply giving us a moral exhortation.

What Jesus was giving … was our identity.

You ARE the light of the world.

This is why He points out those cities. Those cities already are on a mountain top and they actually cannot be hidden. They have been established. And at night, their placement provides light atop those hills.

So, Jesus wasn’t just saying, “You must be light.” He was saying you already are

You already have in your possession that baptismal candle at whose giving the priest said to you, “Receive the Light of Christ.” This is your identity as a Christian, as a disciple of Jesus, He who is the Light and who gives His Light to you at your baptism.

And what was that Light He gave to you at your baptism?

Jesus gave to you the light of Faith.

At your baptism, the priest exhorted the parents and godparents: “This light is entrusted to you to be kept burning brightly…”


Once we have received our identity does Jesus riff on what we are then to do: don’t hide that light; don’t put it under a bushel basket; don’t hide. 

Do you remember what Adam and Eve did after they sinned?

They hid themselves.

So, no hiding. 

In fact, like those cities, you cannot be hidden now. It is impossible. Even if you try to hide yourself, the light that is within you will give you away! When it comes to spiritual hide and seek with God, it is impossible for you to remain hidden.


Having received this, hear now the last words of Jesus to us this morning. He says: “shine your light before others”—why? So that “they may… glorify your heavenly Father.”

The Light of Faith is never going to be simply a private thing. It is lived in the public square. This is not a matter of “imposing one’s beliefs” upon another. It is about believing that what you have been given, the Light of Faith, is truly a gift that betters the world—like a city on a hilltop that gives light in the night.

And that’s not simply a moral exhortation. 

What you do in the public square reveals who you are.

In fact, it isn't simply about revealing who we are, either. What we do is for the purpose that others may see and glorify your heavenly Father.”

What we do in the public square is not to advance our own agenda nor to defend ourselves and even less to make ourselves look good. When the Light of our Faith shines in the public square, it is given not for our benefit, but for the benefit of others—and, in particular, that they may know the glory of our heavenly Father.

And what is the glory of our heavenly Father? It is the Light of Jesus Christ, His Son..

St. Ignatius of Loyola summarized this when he said: We dedicate all of our thoughts words and actions to the greater glory of God.


So, remember your identity: You are light of the world.

Remember the quality of that identity: A city cannot be hidden.

And live the call of that identity: Shine that light ... so that they may glorify your heavenly Father.

+ In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.