God Leans In (Christmas, 2025)

  First of all, on behalf of the priests, deacons, and parish staff of Incarnate Word, let me wish each of you a very blessed and merry Christmas. It seems that every year the need grows for the hope and joy which come from celebrating our Savior’s birth. I pray these holy days renew your hearts and your homes in a deeper way as we celebrate the fulfillment of God’s promise to save humanity from sin and death.

There is a well-worn saying about weather here in the Midwest I'm sure you’ve heard many times before. It goes something like if you don't like the weather, just wait a minute. This year, the weather continues it's unpredictable nature with near record highs today and tomorrow. Then on Monday, we'll be dealing with temperatures in the teens! This unpredictable weather reminds me of a story about a weather forecaster in soviet Russia who was named Rudolf. He was famous because unlike most weatherman, this little Communist was nearly always right about his predictions and had a perfect record of forecasting when it was going to rain. One morning, with clear skies for all to see, Rudolf warned on the early news that a violent storm was coming and the town should prepare. All through the day, people told him he had finally lost his touch and he was going to look like a fool when his forecast was proven wrong. Even when he got home, his wife told him to accept defeat and the end of a remarkable run of predictions. There were still no clouds, it had been the most beautiful day ever, and no sign of rain on the radar. Still, Rudolf insisted; it would rain. 

Sure enough, a massive storm flooded the Communist town overnight. The next morning, Rudolf looked out the window and said, “See? I told you it was going to rain.” His wife sighed, “You were right again. But how are you always so accurate?” 

Rudolf smiled and said, “Because…Rudolf-the-Red…knows rain…., dear.”

Nothing like a good dad joke to put everyone in the Christmas spirit!!!

Speaking of dads, I had a fatherly moment a few weeks ago at one of our Sunday Masses. During the readings, I couldn’t help but notice how many people were coughing and sneezing, clearly fighting colds. It reminded me of growing up in a small house with all my siblings. Back then, I was pretty unsympathetic when one of them got sick. I didn’t want to catch what they had and honestly, I just found them kind of repulsive. I wanted them to stay away until they were healthy again like some sort of leper.

What always amazed me was how quickly and completely my parents stepped in. No hesitation. Even when things were messy or gross, they drew closer; cleaning us up, sitting with us, comforting us, making sure we were okay. The worse off the child was, the closer they seemed to get and the more gentle the treatment.

A few weeks ago, listening to all those coughs in church, I didn’t feel disgust or fear of getting sick. I felt compassion and concern…and a deep hope that people would feel better soon. Which just goes to show that, if nothing else, even I am growing a little as a spiritual father.

That beautiful image, a parent rushing in to care for a suffering child, is a powerful way to understand Christmas. Since the fall of Adam and Eve, humanity has been deeply wounded by sin and death. Despite God’s original design of glory and happiness for us, we rejected him and became sick beyond measure. Yet our heavenly Father never turned away. He was not discouraged, disgusted, or distant. Like a good parent, he leaned in even closer.

In the fullness of time, God sent his perfect and beloved Son, Jesus, to heal us and restore us to the glory he intended all along. In the most gentle and non-threatening way possible, the all-powerful King of heaven and earth became a tiny baby and lived among us, healing our human condition from the inside out. God entered fully into the mess of human life with a promise of everlasting healing. That is what we celebrate at Christmas: God so loved the world that he gave his only Son.

To know that we are loved that completely should fill us with hope and peace, no matter what our circumstances might be. There is no mistake that scares God away. No sin he cannot forgive if we are sorry. No mess he is unwilling to clean up if we call out to him. He is a good Father who loves each and every one of us without hesitation or limit.

And God’s closeness to us did not end on Christmas Day. Before returning to the Father, Jesus promised to remain with us always. In every Catholic church, he waits quietly in the tabernacle, present and ready to comfort us. Through the sacrament of Confession, he stands ready to forgive and heal. And at every celebration of the Eucharist, he comes even closer, offering himself as our food. It’s hard to imagine how God could possibly draw nearer to us than that; if he feels far away; its likely us who are keeping him at arm’s length.

My prayer for you this Christmas is that you experience renewed hope, no matter what darkness you may be facing. May the Father’s love overshadow you and help you realize he is closer than you think, and that he has been with you all along. May we live with confidence that we are cared for and being restored to spiritual health by a God who sees the goodness, beauty, and promise of what we can become through his grace and the gift of the sacraments.

I hope you have a truly blessed Christmas, and that you see clearly God’s love and care for you.
Amen.

Let God Change Your Plans (4th Sunday of Advent, Year A)

  For many people, these last few days before Christmas are full of frantic energy. Normally kind and reasonable people will run you over in the parking lot of malls, grocery stores, and the post office if you get in their way. Everyone has a list a mile long and only a short time to do it all, which can create a sort of tunnel vision. Our first reading from Isaiah takes place about 700 years before the birth of Jesus but exposes a similar, anxious spirit. 

You might picture this scene a bit like The Lord of the Rings, when Gandalf finally confronts King Théoden in the throne room of Rohan. Théoden is a king, a descendant of greatness, but he no longer looks like one. His hall is dark, lifeless, and stripped of its former beauty. He sits slumped on the throne, paralyzed by fear and exhaustion, while Wormtongue whispers poisoned counsel into his ear; half-truths, manipulations, and advice that sounds reasonable but slowly drains the king of courage and hope. Théoden thinks he is being prudent, but in reality, he is being controlled by fear and foolishness.

This image helps us understand King Ahaz in our first reading. Like Théoden, Ahaz sits on a throne that should represent confidence in God’s promises, yet his kingdom feels dim and fragile. Voices swirl around him from political advisors, military strategists, foreign powers…all whispering solutions rooted in human conniving. Fear has narrowed his vision and made him rely on himself instead of God. Instead of ruling freely as a son of David, Ahaz is spiritually weakened, unable to imagine a future that doesn’t depend on armies, alliances, or payoffs. 

When Isaiah arrives, he is like a Gandalf figure, calling the king back to faith in God with the words of the first reading. His message is clear and unsettling: Don’t put your trust in armies, politics, wealth, or clever deals. These are human solutions, and they will fail. Even the Assyrians, fearsome as they are, are only human. They are no match for God. Isaiah urges the king to turn to the Lord and to dream big. “Ask for a sign from the Lord, your God; let it be deep as the netherworld, or high as the sky!”

In other words: Invite God into this. Let Him lead.

What does Ahaz do? In a moment that sounds humble but really isn’t, he responds, “I will not ask! I will not tempt the Lord!” What looks like piety is actually pride. Ahaz has already decided how this crisis will be handled and God’s plan interferes with his own. He’s afraid that trusting God would require letting go of control so he puts God on the back burner.

Isaiah’s frustration boils over: “Listen, O house of David! Is it not enough for you to weary people; must you also weary my God?” And then comes the astonishing promise: “The Lord himself will give you this sign: the virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall name him Emmanuel.”

To Ahaz and his court, this must have sounded like madness. A virgin giving birth? A child who would somehow save God’s people? That seemed far less realistic than armies, treaties, and political strategy. Ahaz could only think in worldly terms, so God’s plan felt impossible. In effect, Ahaz says, “Thanks, God but I’ve got this handled.” His decision ends in disaster: betrayal, defeat, and immense suffering for his people.

That brings us to the Gospel… and to a very different response.

Matthew places before us another descendant of David: Joseph. Unlike Ahaz, Joseph has no throne, army, or power. He is simply described as a “righteous man”, which tells us everything.

Joseph also had his life planned out. He was engaged to Mary. His future was clear and respectable…until everything fell apart. Mary is found to be with child. Matthew gives us very few details, but we can easily imagine the confusion, heartbreak, and fear Joseph must have felt.

Then God intervenes, not dramatically but with a dream. An angel reveals the truth and asks Joseph to do something that will cost him dearly: trust God completely. Joseph doesn’t argue. He doesn’t demand proof. He doesn’t cling to his own plan. He wakes up and does exactly what the angel tells him. Matthew tells us about four dreams Joseph receives, each one requiring him to change course. Joseph’s righteousness isn’t flashy. It’s quiet obedience. Spiritual flexibility. A willingness to let God rewrite the script.

That’s the contrast Advent places before us today.

Ahaz and Joseph both receive an invitation from God. One refuses because he wants control and feels like only he can fix the problem. The other accepts because he trusts that God’s plan, however confusing or messy, is better than his own.

Advent asks us the same question: Which one will you be?

Like Ahaz, we can rely solely on our own strategies, keep God at arm’s length, and say, “Thanks God, I’ve got this handled.” Or, like Joseph, we can remain open, docile, and courageous enough to let God interrupt and re-write our plans.

As we enter these final days of Advent, may we ask St. Joseph to help us grow in righteousness: the kind that listens, trusts, and acts. May we be willing to set aside our plans and allow God to work in ways that surprise us. Like Joseph, may we become protectors of others and faithful partners in God’s saving work as we await the birth of Emmanuel: God with us.

Practice the Patience of the Farmer! (3rd Sunday of Advent, Year A)

  I’ve learned a lot about myself over the years: some of this knowledge has come in prayer, on retreats and other places you expect to provide such insights. However, a considerable amount of understanding has arrived in the everyday things of life. Two specific examples related to advent have come to me via gardening, especially when I was a kid, and now, anything involving paint or wood finish.

When I was growing up, I used to love planting a small garden in the yard of our patient and kind next-door neighbor. With their help and guidance, I would till the soil, plant neat little rows, drop in the various types of seeds, pat the soil down… and then about two or three days later, be out there staring at the ground wondering why something hadn’t begun happening already. And of course, I couldn’t leave it alone. I would poke at the dirt, brush it aside, try to see if anything was sprouting yet. Any gardener will tell you: that only slows things down. But waiting felt impossible. I wanted results. I wanted proof.

Sad to report, that part of me hasn’t changed.

Nowadays, if I’m working woodworking project or painting a room, it’s the same thing. I’ll put on a coat of finish or paint a wall, and within minutes I’m thinking, “It’s probably dry enough.” So I touch it, always, and sure enough, it’s still tacky, and there’s my fingerprint or smudge. But I want the thing to be done. I want to move on and enjoy the finished product. Waiting feels like wasted time and is pure torture for my impatient side.

Today’s second reading, from the Letter of James, speaks straight to that human restlessness: “Be patient, brothers and sisters… See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth.”

The good and wise farmer waits. He knows and accepts that the seed grows in its own season. The harvest arrives in its own time, not on our schedule. That’s James’ reminder to the early Church and to us: faith moves at the speed of God’s wisdom and plan, not the speed of our desires.

For years I thought of patience as a sort of magical, spiritual commodity. I would pray that God would give me more of it, as if it were just a matter of filling the tank so it wouldn’t run out. At some point, I discovered the meaning of the Latin root of the word ‘patience’ and it changed my perspective and what to pray for. The root comes from the Latin patientia, which doesn’t simply mean “waiting nicely” or “gritting one’s teeth to get through it”. It literally means to suffer, to bear, to endure, to carry something for a long time without giving up.

So when Scripture calls us to patience, it’s not simply calling us to polite waiting or avoiding losing our temper. It’s inviting us to accept the unavoidable suffering, frustration, and slowness that come with growth. If we want to be patient, we have to accept that not everything will feel easy or quick. To be patient is to carry the tension of “not yet” without losing hope. And that’s a deeply Advent virtue.

With this background in mind, I think there are 4 main areas we are called to live patiently:

First of all, we must be patient with God. I personally find this the most challenging. Think of all the times we pray, we ask, we hope… and nothing seems to change. We wonder if God hears us or our prayers have any effect. We wonder why God isn’t sprouting something in our lives sooner. But God works like a seed: slow, hidden, deliberate. God is not late; God is thorough. And sometimes the very suffering involved in waiting becomes the place where grace takes root. Advent reminds us that God never rushes, he never forgets his promises, and he is often working beneath the surface.

Secondly, we have to be patient with the process of trusting in God’s plan. Spiritual growth is not a project we can finish on a Saturday afternoon. It’s the slow shaping of our hearts over a lifetime. The virtues grow one small choice at a time. Healing progresses slowly. Forgiveness happens gradually. Mercy grows slowly. If faith is a garden, most of the growth is underground; unseen but essential. If faith is a freshly painted wall, grace needs time to “dry,” to cure, before we see its shine.

Third, we must learn to be patient with ourselves. We all have moments when we think, “I should be further along than this.” “I should be holier by now.” “I should have this bad habit fixed already.” “I should be stronger.”

But patience means accepting the suffering of being unfinished. It means trusting that God is still working…slowly, faithfully, on the person we are becoming. God is never impatient with us.
God never looks at us and says, “You’re taking too long.” God sees the whole story. God sees the fruit that hasn’t ripened yet. 

Which leads to the 4th way we practice this virtue. If we’re going to be patient with God, with the process, and with ourselves… then we must also be patient with other people. Every person in your life (family, coworkers, friends, parishioners) is also a “work in progress.” They are carrying hidden burdens you don’t see. They are growing in ways you can’t measure. They are becoming who God wants them to be and becoming anything takes time. We never know which part of someone’s life is still “wet paint.” We never know which seed in someone else’s heart is just beginning to grow beneath the surface. And we certainly never know when our impatience might damage the very delicate work God has begun in them. To love people well is to give them space to grow, space to fail, space to try again. Patience with others is simply treating them the way God treats us.

Today is Gaudete Sunday, commanding us to rejoice. The joy we celebrate is not the joy of completion. It’s not the joy of everything being perfect or wrapped up in a bow. It’s the joy of knowing that God is at work…even in the waiting, the slowness, and the suffering patience requires. It’s the joy of believing what God has begun in us will, in God’s perfect time, come to full harvest.

So this week, the invitation is simple: Be patient with God’s timing. Be patient with the long, slow work of faith. Be patient with yourself.  And be patient with each other. Let the seeds God planted grow in their season. Let the paint of grace dry fully in your life and in the lives of others. And trust that what God has begun will, in His perfect time, be brought to completion.

Wide Asleep! (1st Sunday of Advent, Year A)

  Every once in awhile I have this strange experience while driving from one place to another. Maybe I’m on a phone call, maybe my mind is juggling a bunch of things, or maybe there’s just some other distraction consuming my mental bandwidth. But then I arrive to my destination… and I have almost no memory of the trip. I wasn’t asleep, but it’s as if my brain switched to autopilot. I was awake, but in terms of awareness, I was wide asleep.

It’s a weird feeling, a little scary, and it always makes me wonder: Where else in my life have I moved through something important with almost no presence of mind? What have I missed because I wasn’t really awake?

Maybe some of you have had that same unsettling moment of realizing your awareness has dimmed, that you’ve drifted through life without really noticing what was happening around you.

I bring this up because it speaks directly to our spiritual lives and to the heart of our readings on this First Sunday of Advent. Today Jesus urges us: Wake up. Stay awake. Pay attention. Because in the world we live, it is incredibly easy to become spiritually drowsy. Weariness, sin, comfort, distraction, and the long wait for God’s promises can lull our souls to sleep. If we’re not careful, we drift into spiritual auto-pilot.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus tells people to get ready for his coming, not by warning them about big, dramatic sins, but by warning them about being too busy. He reminds them that before the Flood, people were “eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage”, all normal, good things, yet those good things lulled them into a fatal sleep. They were so wrapped up in ordinary life that they never noticed God at work.

And here we are, at the start of December, the busiest month of the year. For many Americans it’s a month filled with stress, noise, endless to-do lists, and the pressure to buy, fix, decorate, cook, host, and celebrate. Advertisers whisper, “Treat yourself, indulge a little, buy this and then you’ll finally be at peace.” But the the cycle of noise and busyness doesn’t bring us peace…it numbs us.

Surrounded by all this, what can wake us up again? Silence. Not just the absence of noise, but placing ourselves in mindful quiet, knowing that we are in the presence of God. This sort of silence was central to one of the most important moments in my life.

People often ask how I heard the call to become a priest. One thing made it possible: interior silence. I was on a weekend retreat with high school friends my freshman year. On the last night we were watching a movie when I felt this quiet pull in my heart telling me: Go to the chapel.

So I slipped away. There, in the stillness, with nothing competing for my attention, God spoke to my heart, not with my ears, but deep inside: “Feed my sheep.” I knew instantly what it meant. I’ve had good days and bad days, and many imperfect days in between, but I’ve never doubted that call. It came in silence. That moment is still the anchor I return to.

God works like that most of the time. St. Augustine had a similar experience. He was wrestling with God for years, praying, “Lord, make me chaste… but not yet,” because he loved his sins even as he knew they couldn’t satisfy him. And then one day, in the quiet of a garden, he heard a voice say, Tolle et lege…take and read.

At first he thought it was a child playing a game, but when he realized he was alone, he opened the Scriptures and read the very words we heard today: “Not in carousing and drunkenness, not in sexual excess and lust, not in quarreling and jealousy. Rather, put on the Lord Jesus Christ…”

Those few words convicted him. In one moment of silence, God broke through. Augustine’s life turned completely around. He became one of the greatest teachers the Church has ever known. All because he finally made space for God to speak!

So here we are at the beginning of Advent, and Jesus is telling us the same thing: Wake up. Pay attention. Be quiet. God is trying to speak.

This season is short; just 25 days until Christmas. So I want to propose a challenge for all of us, one I’m committing to myself: Carve out 25 minutes of silence every day for the next 25 days.

Just 25 minutes. A tiny fraction of the time we give to screens, to noise, to busyness.

Maybe your silence can happen during your commute: just leave the radio off. Maybe it’s at home: put the phone down, leave the TV off for a while. Maybe it’s at work: take part of your lunch break and sit quietly with the Lord.

How you do it is up to you. But I invite you to join me. Give God 25 minutes of real silence each day. Because in that silence, God wants to speak. He has a message for you; an invitation, a word of encouragement, healing, forgiveness, direction. But we can only hear his whisper if we turn down the noise.

May we give our highest priority to this sacred silence, knowing that it will awaken our hearts, draw us deeper into joy, and reveal our place in God’s saving plan.

Come, Lord Jesus…help us stay awake.