Building a Spiritual Budget (23rd Sunday, Year C)

To listen to this homily, click here.

When I bought my very first new car, I spent a tremendous amount of time researching. By the time I got to the dealership for a test drive, I didn’t really have any questions about the car I was buying; I had read just about every article and review written about it! I had worked the numbers, checked my budget, and felt pretty good about being able to afford it. I was proud of myself; this was my first really big purchase. But then I went to license the vehicle and was hit with an extra cost I hadn’t planned for: the taxes. Suddenly my thorough planning didn’t seem so complete anymore! It was a lesson I learned the hard way, that with any big purchase, there are always hidden costs you’d better prepare for.

Major purchases need careful thought and planning. If you buy a house, you have to think not just about the price tag, but also the taxes, insurance, utilities, and repairs. You want to know if the neighborhood is safe, what schools are nearby, whether you can really afford to live there. We research appliances, electronics, even phones before we buy them because we know neglecting to plan could be disastrous.

As important as this kind of research is, Jesus tells us today that there’s something even more important to plan for: discipleship. Over the past three Sundays, we’ve been hearing a trilogy of saving truths from him. Two weeks ago, he told us we can only enter heaven through the narrow gate. Last Sunday he gave us the key to that gate: humility, “everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” And today, Jesus tells us what that key actually costs: “Any of you who does not renounce all his possessions cannot be my disciple.”

It shouldn’t surprise us that the cost of heaven is steep. Jesus says, “calculate the cost.” If you’re going to build a tower, make sure you can finish it. We know that’s true with cars, houses, or anything expensive. And if we want to follow Jesus, which is the only path to eternal life, we need to know the cost up front: everything.

That’s where the challenge comes in. Eternal life is precious, but it requires a willingness to give up anything that stands in the way. Jesus is asking us to take stock of our lives the way we’d look at a budget. What are the hidden costs that might keep us from really following him? You can come up with your list of possibilities but here are a few common ones.

Do I follow Christ in the way I speak to others…or about others? Am I willing to give up gossip, bragging, or putting people down, even if it feels good in the moment? Or is that too steep a cost?

What about my friends? Do they encourage me to grow as a disciple, to make good choices, to respect myself and others? Or do they pull me away from Christ and into things that harm me? Am I willing to let go of those friendships if they keep me from God? Jesus even goes so far as to say we must be willing to let go of family ties if they block our path to him. Is that cost too much?

And then there are our possessions. Am I generous with what I’ve been given? Do I give to the poor, support my parish, share my time and talents? Or do I cling too tightly to what I have? If God asked me for more, would I trust him enough to give it? Or is that too costly?

There are so many areas where Jesus invites us to ask, “Is there anything in my heart that I’ve told him is off limits?” Would I follow if he called me to the priesthood or religious life? Am I willing to work on being more present and kind towards spouse and children? Do I stand up for the dignity of every human life, even when it’s unpopular? Can I trust God enough to let him guide my marriage and family life, letting go of fear, selfishness, or the desire to control?

The cost of discipleship is high, but the promise is eternal life. That’s why Jesus tells us to count the cost, but not to be afraid of it. Whatever he asks of us, he also gives us the strength,  joy, and grace to carry out. And when we put as much effort into our spiritual lives as we do into our financial ones: planning for prayer, budgeting time to deepen our faith, examining the “hidden costs” that keep us from following, we find the freedom and peace that only Christ can give.

As we come to this Eucharist, let’s take the time to calculate the cost and embrace it. To take up our cross and follow after Jesus. Because in the end, he is not just worth the price; he is the one who helps us to pay it and the reward he offers is life without end.

Signs of Vanity (22nd Sunday, Year C)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

One of the challenges when preaching about humility is that many people have an incomplete idea of what the virtue actually looks like. We’ve all run into different misconceptions which tend to be defined by superficial or self-hating parodies. Some think humility means always putting yourself last in line, denying any praise you receive, or brushing off compliments in awkward ways. Others think humility means pretending you don’t have gifts or talents at all. But these are all caricatures and forms of false humility.

True humility doesn’t mean thinking less of yourself; it means thinking of yourself less. Holy humility allows us to look at ourselves with clarity and charity, both the good and the bad, and get a sense of how we appear in the eyes of God. Humility doesn’t deny the gifts God has given, it acknowledges them with joy and gratitude and then asks, “How can I use these gifts for others?”

Sometimes it helps to understand something by looking at its opposite. The opposite of humility is vanity. Vanity is the unhealthy worry about how we look in the eyes of others instead of God.

Now, it’s good to have some self-awareness. We should care about how we present ourselves: basic habits like chewing with our mouth closed, practicing good hygiene, being polite and respectful. Those aren’t vanity, they’re part of healthy consideration for others. Every year when I was in seminary, they would host a dinner class with “Miss Manners” who would attempt to wrangle 100+ seminarians to comport themselves with some dignity. Manners are not about making us fancy or pretentious. They’re about making others feel comfortable and respected. A healthy self-awareness can build bridges between us and those we are around, and those same manners can be used in our relationship with God.

Vanity, however, twists that healthy self-awareness and makes it all about me. It takes something meant to connect us with others and turns it into a spotlight shining back on ourselves.

So how do we know if vanity is creeping into our lives? Let me offer four symptoms to watch for:

First—Everything is always about us. We dominate conversations, fail to listen, and put ourselves first whenever there’s conflict. Even when we are not talking, we are preparing our response to whatever the other person is saying. A humble person makes space for others; truly listens and considers their point of view; a vain person only fills the room with themselves.

Second—We’re never wrong. The first reading says the wise love proverbs…meaning, the wise are teachable and acknowledge how much they don’t know. The humble are willing to learn, even from correction and criticism. The vain, on the other hand, never admit mistakes or always have some excuse. Spiritually, the humble want to see their sins so they can bring them to God for healing. The vain refuse to acknowledge them, thinking it’s weakness. But Jesus reminds us of the irony of the Gospel: the greatest are the servants, the first are the last, and those who admit their weakness are the ones made strong.

Third—We let the opinions of others dictate how we live. We become chameleons, acting one way at church and another way in the world, shifting who we are to win approval. Vanity makes us more concerned with reputation than with relationship; with looking good in front of others instead of being real before God. Part of being real with God is asking for help, admitting confusion with life’s mysteries, and acknowledging our inability to defeat evil by ourselves.

An especially sad example of this has surfaced in recent years whenever evil strikes. After the Annunciation school tragedy this week, some reacted negatively to the flood of promised prayers to the victims and their afflicted community. These voices loudly denounced such prayers as empty, useless, and incomplete; saying, in effect, “we don’t need prayer, we’ll solve this ourselves.” Bishop Robert Barron pointed out that this attitude is not only dismissive of faith, but it’s also a form of pride. To declare that prayer has no place in these moments of suffering is to say that we are sufficient without God, that our wisdom and strength alone will heal what is broken. It reduces prayer to a slogan instead of seeing it as the lifeline that connects us to the One who can transform hearts. And since we are in a life-and-death struggle with evil, prayer is one of the main tools we have. To try and win a spiritual battle with human efforts alone will be a tremendous mistake and always end in failure and even more suffering. 

Humility, on the other hand, never abandons prayer. Yes, we work to solve the problems we face with practical, real-world solutions. But we begin by kneeling before the Lord, admitting that the deepest healing and the truest wisdom will always come from Him. And sometimes, even with prayer, terrible suffering will happen. Why is a mystery. But to give up prayer is to cut ourselves off from the very source of peace and mercy we need most.

Fourth—We hide our true selves from God. Sometimes we tell ourselves, “God thinks I’m perfect just the way I am; there is no need to change, no need for confession, no need for growth.” But if that were true, why did Jesus come? Why did He die on the Cross? Why did He give us the sacraments of mercy and healing? The truth is, God already knows our wounds and sins. Hiding them is vanity. Real humility means coming before Him honestly, acknowledging we need Him, and letting Him heal us in the ways he has established.

Every healthy relationship, whether it’s friendship, marriage, family, or faith, depends on humility and is destroyed by vanity. The vain person is too full of themselves to have room for anyone else. The humble person makes space… for others, for God.

There’s an old saying: “Keep your sanity by remembering two things: first, there is a God. Second, I am not Him.” That’s humility. Faith itself can’t happen without it. We can’t grow closer to God if we’re constantly telling Him how things should be done, instead of letting Him be Lord.

And so, the invitation this Sunday is clear: let go of vanity and embrace true humility. Either we freely choose to learn from God now through prayer, service, and openness to His Word. Or we learn the hard way, by being humbled through our pride. Jesus’ words ring as true today as when He first spoke them: “Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

Embrace the agony! (21st Sunday, Year C)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

One of the things priests get to do, one of my favorite parts of the job, is answer questions. People are curious about God, about the Church, and sometimes even about our life as clergy. I love going into classrooms, sitting with small groups that have been storing up questions, or hosting a “Bother the Father” session. You never know what people will ask, and you always walk away with a fresh perspective.

Often, when someone asks about the moral teaching of the Church, they’re hesitant to reveal their personal struggle. So the question will come out in terms of a “friend” who has a problem, or in a very detailed “theoretical” situation that doesn’t sound theoretical at all. It’s easier to keep things abstract. But things get real when they touch our own life, our own struggles.

That’s the background to today’s Gospel. Someone asks Jesus: “Lord, will only a few people be saved?” Instead of giving a number, Jesus makes it personal: “Strive to enter through the narrow gate.” The better question wasn’t “Will only a few be saved?” but rather “Lord, will I be saved?” That’s a much harder question because it requires honesty about my life, my choices, my heart and the stakes are eternal!

Jesus doesn’t soften the answer. He says it takes striving. The word He uses is strong; it comes from the same root as “agony.” In other words, getting through the narrow gate is not about giving God a polite effort or checking items off a religious to-do list. It requires struggle, perseverance, sacrifice. It demands our very best effort. At times, it will feel like agony; like one of those all-out workouts where you end up on the gym floor, unable to do another set.

But here’s the good news: even though our effort is necessary, it’s not enough on its own. We cannot earn heaven or deserve eternal life. It is God’s gift, received through grace in the sacraments, through prayer, through mercy and forgiveness. But this life-saving grace isn’t cheap. We must be willing to strive, to struggle, to let ourselves be stretched beyond what is comfortable and what we think is possible.

That’s where the challenge comes in for us today. We live in a world of comfort and convenience: food in abundance, climate control with the touch of a button, nearly anything we want arriving at our door in two days or less. Spiritually though, comfort is often the enemy of growth. God doesn’t ask us to seek out suffering for its own sake, but He does ask us to reject comfort as our guiding principle. We are shaped by adversity, but we are unmade by complacency.

So what does striving look like in our world of convenience? It looks like prayer when entertainment would be easier. It looks like fasting in a culture that tells us indulgence is harmless. It looks like sacrifice and charity in a society that urges us to look out for ourselves first. And each of us must do it personally. We can’t rely on the faith of our parents or the holiness of our spouse. We don’t get in shape by watching others exercise, and we won’t get into heaven by admiring other people’s holiness.

Finally, Jesus warns us that the Kingdom of God will surprise us. Some who are last will be first. Some who are first will be last. The invitation is wide, but the gate is narrow. Which means the real question is not “Will only a few be saved?” but “Am I willing to strive, to struggle, to sacrifice so that I may enter?” Salvation is not something we accomplish through one decision or action but something we must pursue every day that we are alive. Every choice we make is either moving us closer or further from that goal.

So perhaps the Gospel leaves us with some uncomfortable but necessary questions:

• Have I grown too comfortable in my faith?
• How often do I choose the easy way simply because it is convenient, rather than the narrow way because it is faithful?
• When was the last time my discipleship actually cost me something—my time, my comfort, my money, my pride? Is my default position to choose what is easiest and cheapest when it comes to God and his kingdom? Does God get the leftovers…if he gets anything at all?

In the end, the narrow gate is not found in convenience or through some hack passed on in social media. It is found in daily sacrifice, in choosing prayer over distraction, in putting others before ourselves, in persevering when it would be easier to give up and allowing ourselves to be pushed beyond where we are comfortable.

And so, each day, we wake up and tell the Lord: Today I will strive again. Today I will take one more step on the narrow way.

Called to Be Faithful, Not Successful (20th Sunday, Year C)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

One of the remarkable things in the world of sports is the long list of greatest athletes who excelled in their discipline, dominated their position, but never won a championship. Some examples are Dan Marino in football, Joe Thornton in hockey, Charles Barkley in basketball, or Ken Griffey Jr. in baseball. These are household names, people who dedicated their lives to their craft, who were the very best at what they did, and yet they never held that trophy at the end of the season.

It reminds us of something we don’t always like to admit: you can be excellent, faithful, dedicated, and still not finish in first place.

Which would accurately describe the prophet Jeremiah in our first reading. He was one of the greatest prophets of the Old Testament. He was consecrated by God, called before he was even born, to speak the word of the Lord. He poured himself into that vocation. But if you measure his life by outward success, Jeremiah comes up short. He never won over the crowds. He wasn’t celebrated or honored by his people. In fact, he was rejected, mocked, persecuted, even thrown into a cistern to die. By worldly standards, his mission looked like failure.

And yet, Jeremiah was faithful. He did what God asked him to do. He spoke the truth. He lived the mission entrusted to him. Although the world never crowned him with success or embraced his teaching, Jeremiah’s words planted the seeds of conversion in God’s people, his faithfulness advanced salvation history, and his life was vindicated by Lord.

That is an important reminder for us, because so often we are tempted to measure our discipleship, our lives of faith, by the world’s scoreboard. We ask ourselves: Am I “successful” at this? Do people like me? Is it paying off? Am I being rewarded?

And perhaps one of the strongest temptations is to think that if everyone is happy with us, then we must be doing something right. We tell ourselves that being a Christian means “getting along” with everyone, never rocking the boat, never saying or doing anything that might cause tension. But Jesus tells us in today’s Gospel that following Him will sometimes bring division. His truth doesn’t always fit neatly into the world’s comfort zones. The fire He came to cast on the earth purifies and transforms, but it also unsettles.

So, if our main goal is to be popular, to be everyone’s buddy, we may miss the very mission God has entrusted to us. True faithfulness will sometimes mean standing apart, speaking up, or living differently.

This is not to say that we should go around picking fights or stoking controversy. Jesus is not glorifying a contrarian mindset or suggesting that conflict proves we are on the right track. For example, Jeremiah himself became discouraged at times by the resistance he faced and asked God if he was the right person for the job. He did not enjoy the rejection of his message and neither should we. But prospect of pushback and persecution did not prevent Jeremiah or Jesus from boldly proclaiming the truth. 

Which offers us a chance to reconsider our criteria for success when it comes to discipleship. It cannot be measured in popularity, recognition, or worldly achievement. True success is doing the will of God: defending truth when it’s challenged, speaking out when we see something wrong, and living the unique plan God created for each of us. That’s what makes a life holy. That’s what makes a life fruitful.

The Letter to the Hebrews gives us powerful encouragement. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses; saintly men and women who have run this race before us. They know the cost of faithfulness. They know what it means to endure rejection, hardship, and even apparent failure. And now, from their place in heaven, they cheer us on like a hometown crowd in a packed stadium. They urge us to power past every obstacle, to persevere, and to keep our eyes fixed on Jesus, who is both the goal and the prize of the race we run.

The world may not always recognize or celebrate that kind of life. But God sees. God knows. And in His time, our faithfulness will be vindicated.

Think again of Jeremiah at the bottom of that cistern: sunk in the mud, abandoned, left for dead. From the outside, it looked like the end of the line, the failure of his mission. And yet God raised him up. God lifted him out. What looked like defeat somehow became a witness to God’s saving power. That is our hope too. When we feel stuck, when the mud of discouragement or failure clings to us, we can remember that we are not alone… the saints are cheering us on, Christ is with us, and we can trust that God will raise us up. Not because we were “successful” in the world’s eyes, but because we were faithful in His.

Teach Us How To Pray (17th Sunday, Year C)

To listen to this homily, click here.

One of the things I’ve enjoyed ever since I learned how to do it is reading. Whether it’s a good story to escape into, an intriguing history or nonfiction work…or even the side of the cereal box, reading has always been a joy.

One of the downsides of loving to read, though, is that you tend to collect a lot of books. That’s not a big problem if you stay in one place for a long time. But as a priest who’s been moved more than a few times, lugging boxes and boxes of books from parish to parish gets old pretty fast. These days, I try to keep only the essentials, and most of the books I buy are digital. They’re much easier to move!

Earlier this week I was looking for a particular work on Our Lady of Guadalupe, and as I scanned the shelf, I realized how many prayer books I’ve acquired over the years. Of course, that makes sense for a priest. But I noticed something: with each new title, I think there was a part of me that hoped this one would unlock the secret, making prayer easier, quicker, more fruitful.

Have you ever done something like that? Maybe not with prayer, but with cooking, or exercise, or relationships, we’re always looking for that one method or formula that works every time. But today's readings remind us of something very basic, something we all need to remember again and again: prayer is not about getting the method right; it’s about remembering who we’re praying to.

In the Gospel, the disciples come to Jesus and ask him, “Lord, teach us to pray.” They weren’t asking for a new set of words. These were faithful Jewish men; they already knew prayers and scriptures by heart. What they saw in Jesus was something different. A relationship. They noticed how personal, how intimate his prayer was. They wanted that.

Jesus responds not with a technique, but with a name: “When you pray, say: Father.” In other words, prayer isn’t first about the how, it’s about the who. The who we pray to changes everything. If you think of God as distant, indifferent, angry, or annoyed, prayer becomes exhausting and dry. But if you believe that you're talking to a loving Father, your Papa, then prayer becomes something else: it becomes a conversation of trust and love.

We see this reflected in the first reading too, with Abraham. This story is often remembered as a kind of negotiation. But really, it’s a moment of revelation, God is showing Abraham who He is. Abraham lived in a world filled with petty, cruel, fickle gods. But this God? He listens. He cares. He is just. He doesn’t let evil go unchecked, and he will not punish the innocent with the guilty.

Abraham isn’t haggling; he’s discovering how good God really is.

Jesus builds on this image in the Gospel, revealing even more: this just and righteous judge is also our Father. And not just any father...a good one. One who knows how to give the very best gifts to his children. Jesus says, “What father among you would hand his child a snake when he asks for a fish?” And then adds, “If you who are imperfect know how to give good things, how much more will your Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask?”

We don’t always get what we pray for, not because God isn’t listening, but because He wants to give us something better. He knows the bigger picture. And when we don’t get what we ask for right away, it’s not a rejection, it’s often an invitation to keep praying, to grow in humility, deepen our trust, and let God produce something even greater in us.

That’s why Jesus tells us to be persistent in prayer, to knock, to seek, to ask. And not just once, but over and over again. The original Greek actually means “keep on knocking… keep on asking.” Jesus says we should be shamelessly persistent; not because God needs convincing but because we need the practice. Prayer doesn’t always change the situation. But it always changes us, makes us more humble, more faithful, more like Christ. That’s how Jesus prayed. In the Garden of Gethsemane, at the hardest moment of his life, he said, “Father, not my will, but yours be done.” That’s what it means to pray like Jesus.

So if prayer ever feels hard, or dry, or mysterious…don’t give up. And don’t worry about doing it “right.” The most important thing is not how you pray, it’s who you’re talking to. And if you remember that He’s your Father, your good, just, and loving Father, you’ll find yourself praying not to get some thing, but to be with the one who made all things and can do all things.

My prayer for all of us today is simple. That like Abraham, we would discover how good and just and merciful our God truly is. That like the disciples, we would come to Jesus and say, “Teach us to pray”, not to find the right words, but to share in the trust and intimacy he had with the Father. And that we would never forget that God is always ready to hear us, to help us, and to give us everything we truly need.

All we have to do is reach out in honesty, humility, and love.

 

First Things First! (16th Sunday, Year C)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

One of the themes that jumped out at me from the readings this weekend is a spiritual quality we all enjoy receiving but may have a harder time offering: hospitality.

Hospitality was a hallmark of biblical life. It wasn’t just good manners or offering someone a cold drink on a hot day. It was much deeper than that. For ancient peoples, it was a matter of honor to welcome the stranger as though they were family, because that stranger just might be sent by God… or even be God.

True hospitality starts at the door, but it’s meant to go further, to make space in the heart. That kind of welcome requires us to be open to interruptions and disruptions of our plans; two things I am absolutely lousy at embracing! But this uncomfortable, messy virtue is vital, because it opens our eyes to the moments (more frequent than we realize) when God is standing right in front of us in the form of a stranger or someone in need.

In our first reading, Abraham and Sarah greet three travelers as they pass by their home, offering them bread, meat, and rest. But in doing so, they unknowingly welcome the very presence of God. And what follows? A miracle. A promise. A blessing beyond belief. An elderly couple, long past the age of childbearing, would have a son. Hospitality opened a door to hope.

Then in the Gospel, we find Jesus visiting his closest friends, Mary, Martha, and Lazarus. He’s on his final journey to Jerusalem and seeks shelter in their home. Martha, God bless her, is doing what most of us do when entertaining a guest: cleaning, cooking, making sure everything is just right. Mary, however, is sitting at his feet, listening. And Martha, overwhelmed and likely sweating over the fire, finally says what many of us would have been thinking: “Lord, don’t you care? Tell her to help me!”

And Jesus responds, not with frustration, but with deep affection: “Martha, Martha, you are anxious and worried about many things. There is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part and it will not be taken from her.”

This isn’t Jesus throwing Martha under the bus. He’s not saying her work doesn’t matter. After all, without Martha, there would be no dinner! But what he is saying is this: Let your service flow from your time with me. Sit first. Listen first. Be still first. Then go and serve.

The point of this story and the goal of true hospitality is that prayer and action are not opposites; they are companions. If we only pray and never act, we risk becoming disconnected from the real needs of others. But if we only act without praying, without first listening to the Lord, our service can become frantic, anxious, and little more than activism. We lose our center. We burn out. We become resentful and indulge in self-pity.

I remember learning this lesson in a personal way early in my priesthood. I was asked to assist Bishop Hermann while he was running the archdiocese for a number of months before Archbishop Carlson arrived in St. Louis. Those days were full as we rushed from meetings to ceremonies to social events. 

At some point, I started complaining to Bishop Hermann that there just wasn’t enough time in the day for prayer, for study, for exercise, for all the other parts of my assignment. I felt like it was unfair that all of this had been added to my assignment.

Bishop Hermann let me vent for a while. Then he said, “We all get the same 24 hours each day. The people who pray, serve, study, and still find time to take care of themselves don’t get extra time. They just put first things first. And when you do that, the things that truly need to get done will get done. And the things that don’t? If you’ve grounded your day in prayer, you’ll come to realize they probably weren’t that important after all.”

That wisdom stuck with me, not just because of his words, but because of his example. Bishop Hermann carried out his ministry every day in a spirit of peace and joy, no matter what curveballs were thrown his way. But a non-negotiable each day, no matter how full his schedule, was time in silent prayer before the Lord.

We can think of it like our phones. You might have all the apps and features in the world, but if the battery is dead, you're not going anywhere. Martha reminds us of the importance of showing up and getting things done. But Mary reminds us that our spiritual battery needs daily recharging at the feet of Jesus.

And friends, that’s exactly what the Mass is. It’s not about doing God a favor by showing up and checking the box. It’s about what God does for us: offering Himself as food, welcoming us to His table, inviting us to rest in His presence. Every time we gather, we are both Mary and Martha, receiving and serving, praying and preparing to act.

So maybe this week, we can all take a moment to reflect: How am I using the 24 hours I get each day? What are my priorities? Am I starting my day at the feet of Jesus, or am I jumping right into the to-do list? Am I making time for quiet, for prayer, for listening? Or am I rushing through life, distracted, anxious, resentful...like Martha?

Is there a spirit of hospitality in the way I serve others? Am I willing to accept the unplanned and disruptive moments and people who show up and blow up my day?

Jesus needed both Mary and Martha. One offered nourishment and practical care; the other offered attention and affection. And Jesus, on his way to the cross, needed both. And so does the Church. So does the world. So do our families, our parishes, our communities.

So today, Jesus isn’t choosing one sister over the other. He’s inviting both of them (and all of us) to come closer. To put first things first.

And the “one thing necessary”? To begin with Him!

How Much Must I Love? (15th Sunday, Year C)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

Looking over past homilies, I realized I’ve preached on the Good Samaritan many times. While I’ve highlighted different angles over the years, the core message has remained the same: be aware of your neighbor’s needs, and don’t limit who you consider your neighbor to be. That’s already a powerful challenge for most of us in how we live, how we practice our faith, and how we interact with others. We all have blind spots. We all have types of people we tend to avoid as we rush through our busy lives.

But there’s another lesson in today’s Gospel, one that’s easy to miss. The scholar of the law who asks Jesus, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” isn’t confused about the commandments. In fact, when Jesus tosses the question back at him, the scholar answers it correctly himself. He knows what to do. But his follow-up question reveals what’s really on his mind: “Who is my neighbor?”

In other words, what’s the least I have to do to get into heaven?

The more you sit with that question, the stranger and more familiar it sounds. He doesn’t ask: How can I fall deeply in love with God and bring joy to His heart? He asks: What must I do to inherit eternal life? Not: How can I give myself fully to God? but: What’s the minimum required?

And we shouldn’t be too hard on him. That attitude hits closer to home than we might like. How many of us have wondered, “How late can I be to Mass and still have it count?” Or we go to a Saturday wedding and think, “That takes care of my Sunday obligation, right?” Is my charitable giving based on gross or net income?! How spiritually stingy!

I’m embarrassed to admit that some of the most punctual moments of my life have come while wrapping up prayer. If I told God I’d give Him 30 minutes that day, well… that’s exactly what He got. But Netflix? YouTube rabbit holes? Random internet research? What’s another five minutes...or two hours? This minimalist mindset doesn’t just apply to time. It creeps into how we share our talents, our resources, even our attention. We can be wildly generous with ourselves, yet legalistic, calculated, even stingy with God and others.

But here’s the thing: eternal life isn’t a box to check. It’s not a reward for meeting the quota. It’s a relationship. Who would want to marry someone who asked, “What’s the least I have to do so you won’t divorce me?” What parent wouldn’t be heartbroken to hear their child ask, “What’s the minimum love and respect I need to show you so you’ll keep feeding me?”

No one serious about love would ever ask that kind of question. And yet, how often do we, even if not in words, express that kind of attitude in our spiritual lives?

Jesus, wise teacher that He is, leads the lawyer to answer his own question. The lawyer knows the right thing: love God with your whole heart, and love your neighbor as yourself. But this isn’t about knowing the right thing; it’s about wanting it. The truth is, the minimum requirement for eternal life… is everything. Love with your whole heart. Give yourself completely. That’s unsettling, because none of us can do that perfectly. If “everything” is the minimum, then none of us measures up, certainly not on our own.

And that’s why we need grace. That’s why we need the sacraments, especially the Eucharist and confession. This kind of love isn’t just about avoiding wrongdoing; it’s about being responsible for the good we could have done and didn’t. It’s no longer enough to say, “I didn’t hurt anyone.” We’re now accountable if someone needed our help and we chose not to act.

The lawyer senses this. That’s why he tries to draw a line, to narrow the scope. But Jesus doesn’t give him a nice, clean definition. He gives him a story. And in that story, the answer becomes clear: everyone you can help is your neighbor.

Jesus won’t let the man reduce love to a technicality. If you see someone suffering and can do something, that person is your neighbor. Period.

I can’t help but imagine the lawyer kicking himself after the conversation ends. Maybe wishing he’d kept quiet. In his heart, just like in ours, he knows Jesus is right. We’re called not to do the minimum, but the maximum. But the maximum is hard. It's overwhelming. It costs something. And so, like the lawyer, we’re tempted to retreat back into our own self-made rules about who’s deserving of our attention, our love, our care.

The path to heaven is paved with the choices we make to love like Christ. And that kind of love reaches beyond what’s comfortable. It reaches toward the forgotten, the inconvenient, the unlovable, the different. That’s the love that reflects God’s own heart; always expanding, always reaching, always healing.

So may you and I become people who don’t ask, “What’s the least I have to do?” but instead ask, “How can I love more?” May we be defined by the generous heart of the Good Samaritan. May we offer our time, our care, our presence to all those the Lord places in our path. And may we discover, in doing so, not just the way to eternal life but the joy of living it even now.

What Is Your Boast? (14th Sunday, Year C)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

First of all, I hope all of you had a great holiday weekend and a joyful celebration of the 4th of July. This year, everything seemed to line up perfectly;  the weather was hot and sunny, the holiday fell on a Friday, and it all felt exactly the way it should for parades, barbecues, sitting by the pool, or heading out to the lake.

I don’t know about you, but I have so many good memories of this holiday, especially from childhood; running around with friends and cousins, lighting fireworks, eating too much good food, and feeling like life was full and free.

This time of year, I sometimes come across stories of people who can trace their ancestry back to someone who was part of the American Revolution and the foundation of our country. For many, it’s a deep source of pride, and understandably so. I imagine I would probably feel the same way if one of distant relatives had signed the Declaration of Independence or fought alongside George Washington. 

There’s something deeply human about wanting to boast, not always in a showy or arrogant way, but in the simple desire to take pride in something that gives us meaning. For some, it’s their family name or bloodline. For others, it’s wealth, status, or accomplishments, the trophies on the shelf or degrees on the wall. Today, some people boast in newer ways: the number of followers on social media, the brand names they wear, or the vacations they take that show they’ve “made it.”

The list of what people boast about is as varied as we are. As the old saying goes, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.” And so often, what we boast about reveals what we think gives us worth.

That’s why today’s second reading from St. Paul is so striking. Paul had every reason to boast: he was a brilliant scholar, a respected missionary, and a courageous leader in the early Church. He suffered much and achieved much. But in the end, the only thing he wants to boast about is the cross of Jesus Christ.

Not his own achievements. Not his credentials. Not his strength. But Christ’s.

He says something truly radical: “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.” In other words, Paul is proudest not of what he’s done, but of what Jesus has done: for him, in him, and through him. The cross is his strength, his salvation, his identity.

We see this principle at work again in today’s Gospel. Jesus sends the disciples out on mission, not just to teach or visit people, but to actually share in his power. They go out healing the sick, casting out demons, preaching the Kingdom. Jesus entrusts them with real authority and that’s no small thing.

It’s like a parent handing over the car keys for the first time. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once. But it’s an act of love and trust.

When the disciples return, they’re bursting with excitement. They’re thrilled about everything they were able to do: miracles, conversions, signs of real spiritual power. But Jesus gently redirects them. He says, “That’s all good. But don’t boast about what you’ve done. Rejoice, rather, that your names are written in heaven.”

That’s the real miracle. That’s the real gift.

Jesus is saying: the most important thing about you is not what you can do, but who you are to God. You have a place in heaven. There is a seat at the table prepared specifically for you. That’s what you should be shouting from the rooftops; not your résumé, not your highlight reel, but the fact that you belong to God forever.

So today, maybe we take a little time to reflect:

• What do we boast about?
• What do we lead with when we meet others or think about our identity?
• What defines us in our own minds?
• Is it our job? Our appearance? Our achievements? Our reputation?
• Or is it the cross of Christ... the fact that God knows our name and has written it in heaven?

Are we investing more in things that won’t last, things that can be lost, stolen, or forgotten? Or are we building a deeper relationship with Jesus, the one thing that will follow us into eternity?

And lastly: are we letting him work through us? Jesus gave his disciples real power to bring healing, hope, and salvation. He wants to do the same through us, not because we’re perfect or powerful, but because he is. And when he’s our first and greatest priority, when he becomes the one thing we boast about...then the miracles begin.