Homilies – Tony Lusvardi, S.J.

Lent’s moment of choice

Homily for Friday of the Fifth Week of Lent

Jesus crowned with thorns, 18th century, Molave wood, San Augustin Museum, Manila

We have reached the final days of Lent. Five weeks ago, this penitential season began with an emphasis on prayer, fasting, and almsgiving. The austere sign of ashes reminded us of our mortality and challenged us to conversion. Prayer, fasting, and almsgiving are the classic means of conversion. Perhaps we have examined our lives, sought to grow in certain virtues, and made personal resolutions. And perhaps now, at the end of these five weeks of Lent, we realize that we have grown—or that we have not been very faithful to our resolutions. Or, more likely, we find that the results have been mixed: some growth, some failure.

In any case, we have reached a new moment. You may have noticed that, in this week’s liturgy, we have stopped using the Lenten prefaces at the beginning of the Eucharistic prayer and have begun to use the Passion preface. And today’s readings strongly orient us toward the Passion. Jeremiah speaks of slander and betrayal, and we naturally think of the sufferings that the Lord will face within a week. In the Gospel, opposition to Jesus grows, becoming increasingly violent, and his identity becomes clearer. It is no longer possible to maintain a moderate position toward him. It is no longer possible to respect him simply as a good teacher, a prophet, or a philosopher with interesting ideas: he is either the Son of God or a blasphemer. Everyone must choose.

This is the moment in Lent when we forget ourselves. Even our desire for conversion takes a back seat, because our attention is focused entirely on Jesus. Perhaps at this very moment, even our unsuccessful resolutions and failures help us understand how much we need a Savior. We are leaving the time of resolutions and moral growth and entering the time of the Savior. This time is his. It is the time of the Son of God, the time of the One who is greater than John and all the prophets, the time of our only Lord and only Savior. Thanks to our efforts—or perhaps despite our efforts—we have arrived here, at this moment. But this is the time of Jesus.

Readings: Jeremiah 20:10-13, John 10:31-42

Original: Italian

Gregorian University Chapel

2025

Freedom and Life: the two guiding lights of Lent

Homily for Wednesday of the Fourth Week of Lent

Baptism of St. Augustine (copy), Tito Troya, San Augstin Museum (Manila0

In these two readings, we see the two points of the compass for our Lenten journey. These points are also the two sides of the sacrament of baptism, to which this journey is directed.

The first reading speaks of freedom from evil: freedom from war and oppression; the end of exile in a devastated land; liberation from captivity, darkness, hunger, thirst, and abandonment. The joy that the prophet Isaiah expresses comes from the defeat of these evils that oppress us. The ascetic dimension of Lent is motivated by the desire to be freed from the forces that hold us captive: sin and selfishness.

But the purpose of Lent is not empty freedom. Rather, it is a freedom that allows us to live in a new relationship with the Lord. In the Gospel, Jesus emphasizes his relationship with the Father. And we, at the end of this Lenten journey, hope to renew the gift that was given to us in baptism: the gift of a new relationship with the Father, the gift of being reborn as his adopted children, the gift of the Spirit of Jesus who transforms us. Jesus speaks of intimacy with God.

Prophets of doom or prophets of truth?

Homily for Wednesday of the Second Week of Lent (translated from Italian).

When I was little, I liked a series of children’s books and cartoons called “Winnie the Pooh.” In this series there was a character called Eeyore—in Italian I think it’s “Ih-Oh”—a gray donkey who talks sadly and sl-ow-ly. Poor Eeyore is always pessimistic and depressed. Eeyore is not a bad character; he is just a melancholic person—or, rather, a melancholic donkey.

I think Eeyore would like today’s readings. The prophet Jeremiah is a prophet of doom. The message he receives from God to tell the citizens of Jerusalem is pessimistic. Destruction will come to the holy city, Jeremiah says. The king of Jerusalem and his advisors do not want to hear this message, so they find a more optimistic prophet, Hananiah, and plot to throw Jeremiah into a pit.

Jesus’ words today are also, in a way, words of doom. He repeats the prophecy of his crucifixion, which the disciples consistently try to avoid. Here, instead of listening to him, they immediately turn to church politics—who will have the highest position.

Ash Wednesday homily

Chiesa di S. Maria dell’Orazione e Morte, Rome

Last year’s (brief) homily for Ash Wednesday. Original Italian.

In the readings with which we begin Lent today, we see two sides to this season of conversion. There is a public side. In the first reading, Joel calls the people to gather together, to declare a public fast, and to renew their worship. In the second reading, too, we are called to public witness: we are “ambassadors” of Christ, says St. Paul.

It might seem that there is a certain tension between these readings and the Gospel, which exhorts us to perform pious practices in private. However, there is no contradiction, because both of these aspects are part of the mission of a Christian in this world. The Gospel is a warning against hypocrisy, against the temptation to try to gain something—even if only the esteem of others—through our religious observances. All our practices—almsgiving, fasting, prayer—must be directed to the glory of God and not to our own glory.

During this season of Lent, let us seek above all purity of heart, integrity of public conduct, and an interior life consistent with the great call to follow the Lord Jesus as his disciples.

Readings: Joel 2:12-18; 2 Cor 5:20-6:2; Matt 6:1-6, 16-18

(Original: Italian)

Gregorian University Chapel

2025

Staying salty in an indifferent sea: Homily for the 5th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A).

After the Christmas break another Jesuit in our community returned to Rome after having had corrective eye surgery. The surgery went so well that for a week after he returned, he wore sunglasses at all times of day, even indoors; of course, we gave him a hard time about imagining that he had become a movie star. What happened was that, with his vision corrected, at first his pupils were letting in too much light—so much light that he couldn’t see. For our eyes to work, we need light, but we also need contrasts. Some parts of our field of vision must be lighter or darker than others, otherwise we’ll end up falling down the stairs and running into walls.

If there is no light, of course, we cannot see. But too much light can blind us too. In the Biblical world, before electric lighting, the risk of darkness was almost always greater than having too much light. In the Bible the metaphor of light is usually good, though occasionally the light of God is overwhelming—think of Jesus appearing to St. Paul on the road to Damascus. Paul is knocked over and blinded by the vision. If we were to be hit right now with heaven’s light in all its purity, we would probably be paralyzed too. In order to experience that light, we need to grow, to be re-formed—the same way my confrere’s eyes had to convert after surgery and our own eyes have to adjust when we step outside at midday. We might, in fact, say that God’s light shines even on those in hell, and that their darkness is the result of eyes grown used to the shadows, forever unwilling to adjust to the daylight. However, this world in which we live right now contains both light and darkness. In order to navigate in this world, we need to be able to recognize the contrasts.

Epiphany homily: recapturing the logic of the gift

The Three Kings, from a Mexican Nativity displayed inside the Vatican, 2025

Homily for the Solemnity of the Epiphany.

Today’s feast, the Epiphany, traditionally was the day for gift-giving in Italy, though that tradition has been somewhat superseded by the arrival of a more aggressive salesman, Santa Claus. Santa accepts both Visa and Mastercard—and, in some places, American Express—whereas the Magi bartered or traded in old-fashioned gold.

The Magi are still, however, known for their gifts. Matthew’s Gospel does not give a precise number of Magi, but since it lists three gifts, the Christian artistic tradition has always depicted three Magi—or kings or wise men, depending on how you translate the word for these learned, wealthy, and adventuresome visitors. Their gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—struck a chord in the Christian imagination, even if most of us would have trouble explaining what exactly you do with myrrh.

Ancient spiritual writers attributed symbolic meaning to their gifts: gold symbolized Christ’s kingship; frankincense—a type of incense used in worship—symbolized his divinity; and myrrh—myrrh again, gave them a little trouble. Some associated myrrh with virtue or with prayer. Myrrh is actually very similar to frankincense; both come from the resin—the sap—of desert trees, which makes them rare and valuable. Both give off distinct smells when burnt. Frankincense is sweeter, while myrrh gives off bitter notes sometimes described as earthy or somber. In the ancient near east, myrrh was used to prepare bodies for burial, so the presence of myrrh at Christ’s birth is sometimes interpreted as foreshadowing his passion and death. Perhaps that explains why myrrh is no longer popular as a Christmas gift today.

But more than the specific gifts of the Magi, this morning I would like to reflect on what a gift is to begin with. Today our idea of gift-giving is so shaped by Santa Claus—and by Amazon and Black Friday—that we sometimes lose the sense of what a gift meant in the time of Jesus. And when we lose our grasp of the logic of gift-giving and gift-receiving, we start to have trouble understanding not only today’s feast of the Epiphany, but other parts of our faith as well, like marriage and the Eucharist. Even our own existence in this world, which we did not create ourselves and did nothing to earn, becomes difficult to understand.

Homily for the Feast of the Holy Family

Homily for the Feast of the Holy Family (Year A). Original Italian.

Sardinian Nativity scene, Maracalagonis (Sardinia)

Today we celebrate the story of one particular family—and the story of every family.

On the one hand, the story of the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph is absolutely unique. There is no other historical event comparable to the Incarnation of the Son of God, and the birth of Jesus is surrounded by other miraculous events—the appearance of the archangel Gabriel, the angelic messages that come to Joseph in dreams, the arrival of the Magi, the adoration of the shepherds—which highlight the unique identity of Jesus Christ. Furthermore, Jesus is divine, Mary is immaculate, and Joseph is holy; therefore, this family is threatened by sin, but always from outside. Herod’s envy is one example.

In our families, however, we must admit that often the most damaging wounds are caused by our own sins. Nevertheless, I do not believe that this difference—the holiness of the Holy Family—creates a distance between them and us, because all the actions of the Holy Family are done for us. They are a guide, a support, and a source of hope for us.

Joseph and Mary faced great challenges: an unexpected pregnancy that changed all their plans, the misunderstanding of their neighbors, a period of extreme poverty, danger, a threat to their child’s life, exile; and then all the daily challenges, including—if we think of Jesus’ disappearance in the temple—the difficulties of communication that sometimes occur even between people of good will. At the same time, the Holy Family experienced unexpected joys, tenderness, the celebrations of their religion, and belonging to their people. They experienced the fullness of family life.

Their particular experience offers us inspiration and encouragement to live our Christian mission fully, despite the challenges.

The Immaculate Conception: God’s own Advent preparation

Homily for the Immaculate Conception (2019. Note, that year, the Solemnity fell on a Sunday.)

On the first Sunday of Advent, I cleaned my room. I must admit, it needed it—there were coffee stains on the desk; the trash can was overflowing; I found forgotten lists of things not to forget. But Advent is the beginning of a new liturgical year, the season when we prepare for Christmas, and it seemed right to start with a clean room. In the coming weeks, there will be many other things to prepare: food, gifts, decorations, travel.

Column of the Immaculate Conception, Rome

This is the second Sunday of Advent, and normally the readings highlight the figure of St. John the Baptist, who speaks of another kind of preparation, another kind of cleaning—in fact, a much deeper cleaning than coffee stains. John the Baptist warns of the need for inner cleansing, moral and spiritual conversion. And this too is part of the preparation for Christmas. As a confessor, I have to do a little advertising for my profession, strangely absent from all the Black Friday advertising we received last month. But I must say that our special offer—the forgiveness of sins, eternal life—is truly the best deal in the world.

However, this year is a bit special, because this second Sunday of Advent is December 8, the Solemnity of the Immaculate Conception of Mary, the Mother of Jesus. This coincidence of dates is interesting because the Immaculate Conception is also a feast of preparation. But not the preparation we do during this season. The preparation that God has done for us.

Capernaum’s centurion: a man of faith and hope

Homily for Monday of the first week of Advent (2019).

The figure we encounter today in the Gospel, the centurion of Capernaum, helps us to prepare. We use his adapted words to prepare for communion: “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” And today, at the beginning of Advent, the season when we prepare for the coming of the Lord, the centurion appears in the readings.

A season of preparation is a season of faith and hope—and I think the centurion of Capernaum appears today because he is a figure of faith and hope.

Both of these virtues exist in imperfect situations. We need hope because of something we lack in the present; we need faith because there is something doubtful about the situation in which we find ourselves.

Roman Sarcophagus, Palazzo Massimo, Rome

The centurion comes to Jesus asking for help. And his words—“I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof”—are poignant because in them we hear the unvarnished truth. We can easily imagine that the centurion, an officer in the imperial army, has seen terrible things and perhaps–even if only out of duty–has had to do terrible things as well. His sense of unworthiness, however, does not prevent him from turning to the Lord.

How much does heaven cost?

Homily for Monday of the 34th week of Ordinary Time (Year 1, 2019 – original Italian).

Church of the Holy Spirit, Žehra, Slovakia

How much does it cost to enter the Kingdom of Heaven?

Perhaps a lot. In the Gospels, the rich never seem to have enough. If we arrive at the gates of paradise with suitcases full of banknotes, it seems that won’t be enough. In eternity, they probably won’t accept credit cards, either.

Perhaps it costs very little. The widow offers just two cents. But if we have listened to the readings from the Old Testament in recent days—the sufferings of the Israelites under pagan rulers and in exile—we know that the price of fidelity can be very high. Martyrs pay with their blood.

Perhaps it is free. God does not need money. He created the world. What would he buy? Still, Jesus praises the widow for making an offering.

So, how much does it cost to enter the Kingdom of Heaven? The answer is everything. No more and no less.

Offering everything to the Lord means that no aspect of our lives is outside the Lord’s presence. Not just certain moments of worship–but also our financial, family, social, political, and professional decisions must be made with God at the center. The young Jews in the first reading from the book of Daniel put fidelity to divine law at the center of their lives, even in the service of the king of Babylon. We owe God nothing less than everything.

But nothing more, either. That is, God does not expect from us something we do not have, something we are not. If we are not the richest, God does not care. If we are not the strongest, God does not care. If we are not the most intelligent or the most beautiful or the most famous, God absolutely does not care. God does not want these things from us. He wants what we have–or, rather, he wants what we are. He wants an offering of ourselves.

This is, in fact, the offering that God makes to us in the sacrament we are about to celebrate. Physically, the Eucharist is not very big. But it is certainly not little. It is God’s gift of himself.

And that is everything.

(Original: Italian)

Readings: Daniel 1:1-6, 8-20; Lk 21:1-4

Church of the Gesù, Rome

November 2019

I was happy to be invited back to the pages of First Things last week to discuss celebrities, scandal, and the sacrament of confirmation. Check out the article: Sacraments of Initiation or Affirmation?