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
Homily for the Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time (Year A).
Bagnoregio, Italy
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
Homily for the 33rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (C). November 2019.
Reflecting on this Sunday’s readings, I turned to that great source of theological wisdom, Amazon Video. In November, at the end of the liturgical year, the liturgy speaks of the Apocalypse. Well, I discovered that there are also many films on this theme. I found earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanoes–even alien invasions. And lots and lots of zombies.
The name of one film–at a discounted price–was “Apocalypse 2012.” This film provoked the question: has the Apocalypse already happened? Was I distracted and didn’t notice? As I thought about it, I remember hearing in 1999, “The end is near. At midnight, our computers will no longer work, there will be a total collapse of civilization. Buy canned food.”
From the Church of Santa Maria dell’Orazione e Morte, Rome
Then in 2012, I did an interview for an American Catholic radio program, and they asked me about the Mayan calendar. It was about to end on December 21, 2012, they said, and asked, “Is it true that the world will end? Should we buy canned food?”
Even today, when we talk about the environment—an important issue—there is often an apocalyptic element. And this element, in my opinion, probably does not help us deal with this complex problem in a sober manner.
Perhaps you are now thinking, “But, Father, are you saying that there will be no Apocalypse?” Absolutely not. The Apocalypse is a recurring theme in Jesus’ preaching, and since time of the apostles, the Church has never ceased to proclaim the urgency of being prepared for this event. There have been many false prophets who have proclaimed “the time is near,” but that does not mean we should not be prepared. Even if the Mayan astrologers were wrong about the date, our life is short.
However, with these recent examples of false prophecies, I would like to point out that in today’s culture, the idea of the Apocalypse continues to exist but has become secularized. Earthquakes, hurricanes, aliens, computers, astrologers, pollution, zombies—in all this apocalyptic talk, the one thing missing is the most important thing: Jesus Christ.
Homily for the Feast of the Dedication of the Lateran Basilica (2023).
From the cloister of St. John Lateran, Rome
The feast we celebrate today is particularly special for us in Rome. We celebrate the dedication of our cathedral. It is a magnificent building, and probably all of us have been there to appreciate the beauty of this splendid and ancient church.
The anniversaries of church dedications are important in the Church calendar because churches are the places where we gather to celebrate the Christian liturgy, the holy mysteries of salvation. Here in Rome, however, we live in an unusual situation because there are many beautiful and ancient churches–but when we enter them, often we find few of the faithful.
We should not be discouraged; instead we should remember the faithful who still speak to us through these monuments of their faith. The churches they built and left us are not mere buildings; they are their testimony. There is a message in these buildings that the saints of past times wanted to convey to us.
But more than a message, there is still a presence. When we celebrate the liturgy, we are not alone; we enter into the presence of the saints. They are with us. On November 1, we entered the season in which we remember the saints. Churches–from St. John Lateran to this little chapel–are more than museums where we learn from the past; they are places where we encounter the saints, where eternity becomes the present.
(Original: Italian)
Readings: Ez 47:1-2, 8-9, 12; 1 Cor 3:9c-11, 16-17; John 2:13-22
November 5 is a special feast day on the Jesuit liturgical calendar–the Feast of All Saints and Blesseds of the Society of Jesus, a kind of All Saints Day for Jesuits. Five years ago, in 2020, at the height of the pandemic, I celebrated Mass in our formation community in Rome on that day. The homily, translated into English, is below.
We need saints.
Today more than ever, I feel this need. In these days of isolation, loneliness, anxiety, and disillusionment, we need companions. We need to know that we are not alone—even in the dark nights when we cannot sleep. And when we are confused, afraid, full of doubts, we need companions who have experienced confusion, opposition, doubt, sin and penance, and yet have come to peace.
Today we celebrate the great consolation that we have such companions. As Jesuits, we celebrate the fact that among all the saints recognized by the Church, there are many who made the same choice we have made, who prayed as we pray–who have, we might say, eaten with us in the refectory. As Moses says of the word of God, these companions are not across the sea but are near to us. In the long winter we are experiencing, we need only open our mouths in prayer, and these companions will be present at our side.
Church of St. Ignatius (ceiling), Rome
Today we remember not only the great names—Robert Bellarmine, who cheers us on in our studies, and Francis Xavier, who reminds us that our studies are only a means to spread the Gospel. Among these heavenly friends, there are many less famous ones, perhaps even some companions we have known in this life who are now in the Father’s house.
Every year when we reach the second half of Ordinary Time and volume four of the breviary, I find the holy card of Bob Araujo, a Jesuit who taught me in Chicago and greatly encouraged me in my studies and advised me during some doubtful moments of my formation. Bob suffered quite a bit in his life, first, from opposition in his career and, then, from a slow and painful cancer. He died in October 2015. When he died, the words of St. Paul came to mind: “I have fought the good fight; I have finished the race; I have kept the faith.” When he died, another companion said to me, “He’ll get right in.” Now I talk to Bob from time to time, and I ask him, “What do you think? How am I doing? Do you have any advice for me?” I imagine you also have such companions.
But when we talk about saints and Jesuit saints, I must admit that there is also something that disturbs me, just as there is something that disturbs us in the Gospel passage chosen for this feast: “Whoever loves his life loses it, and whoever hates his life in this world will preserve it for eternal life.”
Tony Lusvardi, S.J. 