Remember to say “Thank you”: Homily for the 28th Sunday of Ordinary Time

Homily for the twenty-eighth Sunday of Ordinary Time (C).

One of the lessons I remember being drilled into me as a child was the importance of saying “thank you.”  As with so many of the lessons we learn in childhood, I may not have appreciated its importance at the time, but now I’m grateful for it.  The next time I see my mom and dad, I’ll have to remember to thank them.

Today’s readings are all about remembering—and forgetting—to give thanks.  The attention that Sacred Scripture dedicates to the theme suggests that we are dealing with something much deeper than polite social convention.  Gratitude does make for more pleasant social interactions, but it is also necessary for us to see the world truthfully.  And it is something we easily forget.

Certosa di San Martino, Naples

Today’s Gospel passage, in fact, hints that perhaps we are more inclined to forget to give thanks than to remember.  Ten lepers were cleansed, Jesus points out, but only one returned to thank him.  Busyness can distract us from gratitude—we need to move on to the next thing, we don’t have time.  When we get what we want, often our tendency, instead of saying thank you, is to try to get more.  This is part of what theologians call “concupiscence,” the habit of selfishness burned into human nature by original sin.  Today we can add a sense of entitlement to concupiscence.  We like to speak of our rights—and politicians like to promise more rights—but while the rights we claim for ourselves multiply exponentially, our sense of responsibility never quite seems to keep pace.  We forget that we would have no rights whatsoever if these hadn’t been granted to us by our Creator.  To this forgetfulness we can add advertising that pushes us to buy more, to watch more, to scroll more, to consume more, and not to waste time remembering where we came from.  My parents did well to drill saying “thank you” into me because there are so many other voices saying, “Don’t worry—just give me your credit card.”

The loss of a sense of gratitude makes a truly Christian life impossible.  It’s no accident that the word that describes the central action in the life of the Church—“Eucharist”—comes from the Greek word for thanksgiving.  In some ways, this might seem surprising because in the celebration of the Eucharist, God’s action, and not ours, is central.  It is Jesus who gives himself to us; it is his power that transforms bread and wine into his Body and Blood, his living presence among us.  What we do in this sacrament we do only because he gave us the instructions.  The initiative is always God’s.  The same can be said of all of creation.  Everything that is is an unmerited gift.

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Melchizedek, Jesus, and perfect sacrifice: Homily for Corpus Christi

This month I’ve been asked to contribute Sunday homilies to the Homiletic and Pastoral Review. You can find the rest of the month’s homilies there as well. Here’s this week’s contribution:


Homily for the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ (C)

I thought I’d begin today by saying a word about Melchizedek. I’d wager most of you don’t know much of anything about Melchizedek. It’s a safe wager because nobody knows much about Melchizedek. His biographical details are limited to what you just heard in the first reading. But Melchizedek turns out to be an important figure. In the first reading, in Genesis, he seems to come out of nowhere. It turns out, when we get to the Letter to the Hebrews in the New Testament, that this mysterious origin is what makes him interesting. The New Testament speaks of Melchizedek as a forerunner of Jesus, the great high priest who has neither beginning nor end. Melchizedek, the Letter to the Hebrews says, represents an eternal priesthood — the priesthood of Jesus Christ.

In fact, perhaps it’s surprising that Genesis would mention Melchizedek at all. Even more surprising is that it mentions the sacrifice that he offers — bread and wine. At the time, bread and wine were not particularly impressive sacrifices. In the ancient world, if you wanted to impress, you offered meat. Birds were OK, lamb was better, a bull best of all. Bread and wine were not the sort of sacrifice a king would brag about.

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What to do when you don’t have a pope? Preach Jesus Christ

Homily for Wednesday of the Third Week of Easter.

Brothers and sisters, papam non habemus. We do not have a pope. Not yet.

We live in uncertain and, often, disturbing times. I’m not talking only about the sede vacante in the Church of Rome. The last few years–the last few decades, really–have been a difficult time for the Catholic Church. The Church sometimes seems confused and divided from within, and opposed by powerful forces from without. And today we also live with all the uncertainty of a papal election.

In this uncertain moment, today’s first reading reminds us of a simple but profound lesson: things have been worse. Much worse. Here we see the Church at its very beginning, tiny and persecuted. Stephen, one of the first deacons, has just been killed. The faithful are scattered. Those who persecute the Church are full of zeal, backed by the age’s political powers in all their strength. It seems like a catastrophic moment for the nascent Church, but it becomes a moment of triumph, a moment of growth. The dispersion of the faithful–even if caused by persecution–becomes the condition for the spread of the Word. Soon, we know, even the great persecutor, Saul, will convert and become the greatest missionary in the history of the Church.

Caravaggio, The Conversion of St. Paul, 1600-1

What I most want to emphasize today is the response of the disciples, who transformed this apparent catastrophe into a moment of growth: They continued to preach Jesus. Without panic, without discouragement. They returned and remained steadfast in the most fundamental mission of the Christian: to bear witness to the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

Today’s Gospel reading also calls us back to the heart of our Catholic faith: “I am the bread of life,” says Jesus. There is no action more important for the Catholic than to encounter the Lord in the Eucharist, in his true body and in his true blood.

Brothers and sisters, despite our anxieties and our doubts, despite the moments of uncertainty that alternate with moments of glory in the life of the Church, this message remains our rock. If we continue to proclaim it, we cannot go wrong. In a few days we will have a new pope, but our mission will not change. Times change. Popes change. Jesus Christ does not change.

Jesus Christ is the bread of life. Jesus Christ is Lord.

Readings: Acts 8:1b-8; John 6:35-40

(Original: Italian)

May 7, 2025

Gregorian University Chapel, Rome


Those interested can see my interview on the CBS Evening News with Maurice Dubois here.

Sacraments of loyalty, marriage and Eucharist: homily for the twenty-first Sunday in Ordinary Time

Homily for the 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Are there any Bears fans here?  I have a question for you: if I reached into my wallet, how much money would I have to offer to get you to root for the Vikings?  I know what you’re thinking: “You keep your wallet where it is, Father, because there ain’t enough money in the world to make me a Vikings fan.” Fair enough.  I am a Notre Dame fan, and you could fill up the collection plate with hundred dollar bills, but you’d never get me to root for USC or Michigan. 

Triumph of Faith over Idolatry, Jean-Baptistre Théodon, Church of the Gesù, Rome

In both cases, the reason why is loyalty.  Each of today’s readings is about loyalty, though much more important types of loyalty than what we show our sports teams.  When the first reading takes place, Joshua and the Israelites have spent their lifetime conquering the Promised Land after the death of Moses; here Joshua is an old man and he is putting a choice to the people.  They’ve arrived, the land is theirs, and he tells them: Now you have to decide whom to serve.  The God of our fathers Abraham and Moses got us here, and he has given us his law.  Other nations have other gods, maybe with laws that aren’t so demanding.  You are free to make a choice.  You can serve whichever god you wish, Joshua says, but “as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.”  

And the people agree to serve the Lord.  But if you continuing reading in the book of Joshua, you’ll see that Joshua asks the people a second time.  Are you sure?  Because if you agree to serve the Lord, then God will hold you to his law.  You are free, but your choice is binding.  

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Bread of life or never-ending breadsticks? Homily for the eighteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Homily for the 18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

If there were an Olympic event for complaining, the ancient Israelites just might take the gold medal. Today, after being liberated from slavery, they ask to go back, forgetting the oppression they suffered in Egypt and remembering the country as an ancient Olive Garden with fleshpots and never-ending bread sticks.  Hearing their complaint, God sends them manna and quail to eat, but we know that soon enough they’ll start complaining again—“Manna again?  We want leaks and onions, not these leftovers!”  And they’ll attack Moses: “Why’d you have to lead us out here?  Weren’t there enough graves in Egypt?”

The preaching of St. Paul, Rabat, Malta

But, if complaining were an Olympic event, the competition would be fierce.  I suspect there’s something deep in our human nature—some survival mechanism from caveman days that made our ancestors less likely to be eaten by sabretooth tigers or stomped on by wooly mammoths if they were quicker to see the negative than the positive, more inclined to fear than to gratitude.  The problem is if you’re not being stalked by a sabretooth tiger, this instinct for the negative sometimes results in clubbing our friends or retreating into the darkness of our own self-constructed caves.  

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Leftovers transformed: homily for the seventeenth Sunday in Ordinary Time

Homily for the 17th Sunday in Ordinary Time (B)

Miracle of the Loaves from the Triptych of the Miracles of Christ, Master of the Legend of St. Catherine, Flanders 1491-5, National Gallery of Victoria, Melbourne

Today’s readings give a prominent place to leftovers.  In the hands of the prophet Elisha, twenty barley loaves manage to fill a hundred people, with some left over.  When Jesus feeds the five thousand, the leftovers—twelve baskets—exceed the amount of bread there was to begin with—just five loaves.

It’s worth noting that the disciples go to the trouble of collecting the leftovers after the impromptu meal.  Living in an age of abundance, perhaps we are used to throwing leftovers out or letting them molder in the back of the fridge, but letting leftovers go to waste is a luxury most people in history didn’t have.  Certain recipes popular today were originally invented to use stale bread—bread pudding, for example, or the Tuscan bread soup known as ribollita.  The funny thing about ribollita is that what started out as a peasant dish today is served in pricey and fashionable restaurants.  What was once leftovers has become high cuisine.

There’s something deeply Christian in this transformation.  Ours is a faith, after all, in which the stone rejected by the builders becomes the cornerstone, the last become first, the meek inherit the earth, the poor are filled with good things while the rich go away empty, the blood of martyrs becomes the seed of faith, and in dying we are born to eternal life.  We believe not just that leftover bread can be transformed into a savory dish, but that utterly ordinary bread and wine are, in the sacrament of the Eucharist, transformed into the body and blood of Jesus. Moreover, if we approach the sacrament in faith, we too are transformed into the body of Christ; our weak and too often sinful flesh becomes the dwelling place of the Holy Spirit.

I have a friend, a Filipino Jesuit who comes from a family of restauranteurs and is an amazing chef.  He has a particular genius for being able to walk into any kitchen, open the refrigerator, glance over whatever leftovers are inside, spend half an hour spicing and mixing and reheating, and produce a feast that was better than the original meal.  Our Christian faith is something like this.  At its heart is belief in the possibility of transformation.

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A bloody Sunday: Corpus Christi homily

Homily for the Solemnity of Corpus Christi (B)

Today’s readings are bloody.  Some years the readings for Corpus Christi emphasize the bread that becomes the body of Christ, and they remind us that the Eucharist is our nourishment and also the source of our unity.  A single loaf of bread is formed from many individual grains of wheat.  

Moses, Michelangelo

But today’s readings are full of blood.  This is not a Sunday for the squeamish.  Blood sprinkled, blood shed, blood poured out, drinking blood.  If we are tempted to imagine that worship is something abstract or comfortable or safe, the blood-spattered images in today’s readings should give us second thoughts.  In the ancient world and in the time of Jesus, worship was a matter of flesh and blood, of life and death.  Entering the Temple of Jerusalem would have been a shock to the senses—crowds of visitors both from Judea and from the Jewish diaspora; animals—birds, sheep, goats, bulls—and all their animal noises and smells; the sounds of these animals being slaughtered; the smell of blood; and the songs of prayer, of the psalms rising to heaven, with the smoke of burning incense and roasting meat.  Worshipping God was not for the squeamish.

I think the fact that today’s readings speak rather vividly of the blood of goats, heifers, and bulls—bowls of blood—is perhaps a way of reminding us that Christianity—following Jesus—requires a certain courage.  In one way or another we all have to overcome our squeamishness, whatever form it might take.  The perfect act of worship, after all, the sacrifice which is the model for all other acts of worship, the death of Jesus on the cross, was not only bloody, but brutal.  There was nothing abstract or comfortable in the scrouging and beating, in the nails, the crown of thorns, or the agonizing hours on the cross.  And yet this was not, in the final analysis, merely an act of violence or a miscarriage of justice but an act of self-giving love.  The blood of the new covenant was shed for those Jesus calls to be his friends and disciples.

But why blood?  What is the meaning, for example, of what probably seems to us the very strange gesture of Moses who, to seal the covenant between God and his people, splashes blood upon the altar and then sprinkles it on the people.  When I read this passage one of my first very modern, very practical thoughts is, “How are the Israelites going to get all that blood out of their clothes?  What a mess!”  But we are told, in the letter to the Hebrews, that it is blood—the blood of Christ—that cleanses.

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Corpus Christi homily

Chapel of the Corporal, Orvieto Cathedral

“Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you do not have life within you.”  A few years ago, in Boston, I was talking to a group of kids preparing for their first communion, and one of them asked me, “If we eat the body of Jesus, does that mean we’re cannibals?”  

I thought it was a good question.  What Jesus teaches us about the Eucharist is not easy to understand.  In the Gospel, Jesus’ teaching provokes arguments and even causes some of his disciples to leave him.  But he doesn’t back down.  The Catholic Church, I’m happy to say, has also never backed down from the faith that the Eucharist is the Body and Blood of Jesus.  It’s not a prop in a play. It is not a mere symbolic reminder.  It’s not a visual aid from before the days of PowerPoint.  It may not look or taste like flesh and blood, but Jesus forces us to make a choice—do we believe our own senses or do we believe him?  It’s the same choice required to believe in eternal life, which we have never seen.  Do we trust his words?  And if we do, does that make us cannibals?

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Ascension homily

St. Mary’s Cathedral, Perth, Australia

Think about someone you know very well and love.  If you heard his voice, would you recognize it? Certainly.  If you saw her in the distance, would you recognize the way she walks?  Probably.  If it’s someone you love and know very well, you would recognize his laugh—and know the sort of things he finds funny, the jokes he tells or laughs it.  You might know her favorite foods, the kind of gestures that she makes.  You might even be able to recognize someone you know very well from the smell of the shampoo she uses.

Now another question.  If it’s someone that you love and maybe lives far away, if you had a choice, would you rather send him an email or make a phone call or zoom or see him in person and spend time with him?  I think all of us know it means so much more to spend time with someone we love in person, in the flesh.  You can’t give a hug over zoom.

What’s missing in a text message or a zoom call?  We could list a lot of things, those sorts of things I just mentioned—touch, our way of reacting to things, lots of little things, things it’s hard to describe exactly.  Let’s put a word on all these things—our humanity.

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