Not Afraid, Easter (2025)

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First of all, on behalf of the priests, deacons, and staff of Incarnate Word Parish, let me wish you a happy and holy Easter. We are so grateful for each one of you joining us today—whether you’re a longtime member, a new parishioner, or simply visiting. The Catholic Church is always at her best when her children are gathered together in worship and prayer. We hope you always feel welcome here at Incarnate Word, and at any parish where you find yourself.

As you might imagine, this is a pretty rough time of year for Satan; not that I’m suggesting we feel any sympathy for him! These are the days when his pride and weakness are exposed, his arrogance crushed, and his dominion of sin, death, suffering, and evil is utterly defeated.

There’s a story told about the devil deciding to visit a church one Sunday, hoping to reestablish a little fear and dread. He chose a small country church and appeared right in the middle of the service with a loud boom, a flash of flame, and a cloud of smoke. The lights flickered, the candles went out—and through the confusion stepped the angel of darkness himself.

As you might expect, the congregation panicked. Some people dove under the pews. Others ran for the doors. A few even managed to pry open the stained-glass windows and escape that way. Satan, pleased with the chaos, glanced around—then noticed one elderly man still sitting calmly in his pew, completely unbothered, maybe even a little bored.

He stomped over and growled, “Do you know who I am?”

The man said, “I sure do.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me?”

“Not really.”

Satan glared. “Don’t you realize I could make your life a literal hell? That I could unleash legions of demons to torment you?”

The man shrugged.

Now getting seriously annoyed, Satan barked, “Why aren’t you afraid of me?!”

The man looked him right in the glowing red eyes and said, “Because I’ve been married to your sister for 48 years.”

Now, we all know that story isn’t real—because Satan doesn’t have any sisters!

But we laugh because it’s absurd… and also because it’s true in spirit: fear loses its grip when you’ve been through the worst thing that can possibly happen and emerge on the other side.

And friends, on Easter, Jesus walked right into the heart of darkness—into sin, suffering, and death—and came out the other side. The side of life and light, hope and salvation, resurrection and victory! That’s why the angel could say, “Do not be afraid.” Because now nothing—not even death—can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

This confidence, this courage, this Easter joy—it’s not something we manufacture or earn ourselves. It doesn’t come from our accomplishments or mindset or strength. We are only able to look Satan in the eye today and every day and say, “I’m not afraid,” because of what we celebrate right now:  The day when God showed the universe who’s really in charge. That goodness triumphs over evil. That life conquers death. That any sin can be forgiven.

This is why joy is the most fitting response to Easter. Who could have imagined that death could be conquered? But that’s exactly what happened. Easter means your death and my death are not the end. Just as Jesus rose, so shall we. Body and soul, we will live forever.

Suffering does not get the final word.  

Pain does not win.  

Sin, evil, betrayal, even death—none of these have the last word.  

The love of God does.

Now, that doesn’t mean life becomes easy, or our problems magically disappear. Even on Easter, we each carry our own crosses. Some are battling illness, depression, or grief. Others feel alone, overwhelmed, or unsure of what comes next. Some may feel distant from God and wonder: “How am I going to get through this?”

Part of God’s answer is found in the outstretched arms of Jesus on the cross. He invites us to come to Him, to lay our burdens down and trust. As the mystic Julian of Norwich once wrote,  “All will be well.” Because when our lives are placed in the hands of the One who died and rose again, every hardship becomes part of a holy prayer. United to Christ crucified, even our suffering takes on meaning.

Easter means every Good Friday in your life will be followed by a Resurrection. 

That Jesus will share His power with us, if we remain united to Him. The message of Easter is that nothing can destroy us—not pain, not rejection, not even death. Christ has conquered them all.

But let’s not forget: the Resurrection always comes through the cross. New life requires that we die—to sin, to selfishness, even sometimes to our own plans—so that God can raise us to something greater.

That’s what happened to Mary Magdalene. She came to the tomb looking for the body of Jesus… but she found something better: the Living Jesus. And when she saw Him, she ran to tell the others: “I have seen the Lord!”

That’s our call too—to carry that joy, that truth, into the world.

So today, I hope this Easter celebration brings real joy and unshakeable peace to you and your loved ones. I hope it puts a big smile on your face! I hope the Resurrection of Jesus gives you strength and courage in whatever struggles you're facing. I pray you’ll see your life in a new way—through the eyes of faith, illuminated by the victory of Christ.

And I pray that, like Mary and the apostles, you’ll go out and share that joy with others.

Because He is risen! He is risen indeed! Alleluia!

 

Holy Thursday, 2025

 To listen to this homily, click here.

Four years ago, Father Schneier and I offered a series of Lenten reflections based on the classic work of Victor Hugo, Les Misérables. We used the BBC film adaptation—six powerful one-hour episodes—because the original novel is over 1,200 pages! But as long as it is, Les Misérables is not just a story of injustice and revolution—it is a story of redemption, of mercy, and of grace.

The heart of that story is found in one singular moment—a moment that mirrors the essence of what we celebrate tonight. Jean Valjean, imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family, is released after 19 years of hard labor, a broken, bitter man. Hardened by cruelty and rejection, he wanders from place to place, unwanted and feared. Then, something extraordinary happens: he is received into the home of a humble bishop, Bishop Myriel. The kind cleric offers him food, shelter, and a warm bed.

And how does Jean Valjean respond? He steals the bishop’s silver in the night and runs. Caught by the police and dragged back, it seems he is destined for a return to prison. But the bishop responds with radical grace and generosity. He tells the police the silver was a gift—and even grabs two additional silver candlesticks from rectory saying, “You forgot to take these.” Then, when the police leave, the bishop turns to Valjean and says: “With this silver, I have bought your soul for God.”

That act of mercy, compassion, and undeserved love changes Valjean's life forever. It is the moment when darkness gives way to light. Where once he was a man filled with rage and despair, now a seed of hope takes root in his heart. The rest of the story is about how that one moment of grace becomes a ripple of transformation—how one life redeemed can become an instrument of redemption for others.

What most viewers of the film and musical don’t realize, is that Victor Hugo spent over a hundred pages of the book detailing the bishop’s life before this moment. It’s easy to find that section tedious; why spend so much time on a character who doesn’t reappear? But Hugo is showing us something important: this extraordinary moment of mercy didn’t come out of nowhere. It was formed in the small, ordinary decisions of a faithful life. Acts of kindness, patience, generosity, and humility, done over and over again, made that bishop into the kind of man who could offer such radical forgiveness.

And this, friends, is the key to understanding Holy Thursday.

Tonight, we remember another moment of mercy, not in fiction, but in history. We remember a supper shared long ago—Jesus’ Last Supper with His disciples. But this wasn’t just a farewell meal. Tonight, the Church celebrates two extraordinary acts of love: the institution of the Eucharist and the washing of the feet.

The Gospel tells us that Jesus, knowing that His hour had come, got up from supper, laid aside His outer garments, and wrapped a towel around His waist. Then, the Son of God adopted the posture of a slave and began to wash the feet of His disciples.

This act was more than a gesture—it was a total reversal of expectations. Washing feet was the job of a servant, not a master. And certainly not the job of God! That’s why Peter protests—“Lord, you will never wash my feet!” But Jesus insists. “Unless I wash you, you will have no share with me.”

In this simple, humbling act, Jesus gives us what the Church calls the mandatum—the commandment: “As I have done for you, you must also do.” Love one another as I have loved you. No exceptions. No qualifications. No disclaimers. Just love.

Like the bishop in Les Misérables, Jesus does not simply preach mercy—He embodies it. Beginning with his hidden life of 30 years and then manifested magnificently in his 3 years of public ministry, Jesus lowers Himself, serves His friends, and prepares them to do the same. Moments later, He takes bread and wine and gives them something even greater. “This is my Body… this is my Blood.” He offers Himself entirely—not just as teacher or healer, but as food for the journey. In the Eucharist, Jesus gives His very self so that we might live, and love, and serve in His name.

The Eucharist is not just a memorial; it is the very presence of Christ, His saving action made present for us today. It is our daily reminder of the love that saved us and the strength we need to love others. Just as Jean Valjean carried those silver candlesticks with him for the rest of his life as a reminder of grace, we carry Christ within us every time we receive the Eucharist. We become living tabernacles—bearers of divine mercy.

But how do we live that out?

The answer, again, lies in the example of the bishop. It’s easy to admire his mercy. But to imitate it? That’s much harder. It means daily choosing compassion when we’d rather choose revenge. It means forgiving people who don’t apologize. It means looking at those who hurt us or disappoint us and seeing not enemies, but souls in need of grace.

Extraordinary acts of love aren’t formed in big moments alone. They are formed in the ordinary routines of daily faithfulness: praying when no one sees, serving when no one thanks you, showing up, forgiving again and again, and asking God to help you do it all over tomorrow. That’s how the bishop became the kind of man who could forgive a thief. That’s how we become the kind of people who can forgive, serve, and love like Christ.

Holy Thursday is not a reenactment. It is a participation. We do not come here tonight to watch Jesus serve—we come to be transformed by that service. We come to kneel with Him as he washes the feet of the unworthy and imperfect and leave each Eucharist ready to do the same.

In a world so quick to cancel, condemn, and close doors, what would it mean if we lived this Gospel out with courage and humility? What would it mean if we looked at the broken, the bitter, the forgotten—those like Jean Valjean—and offered not judgment, but mercy? What if we saw in them what Christ sees in us?

Holy Thursday brings together three mysteries: the bishop’s kindness is grace offered. The washing of the feet is service commanded. The Eucharist is love sustained. This is not a story we admire—it is a life we are called to live.

So, who in your life needs to be served? Who have you written off that Christ is calling you to forgive? What wound in your heart needs healing through the gentle act of service? Tonight, as Christ kneels to wash your feet, as He feeds you with His very Body and Blood, allow yourself to be changed. Then, go. Love, forgive, serve, and give—just as He has done for you.

The bishop’s act changed one life. Christ’s act changes the world.

Let us receive His love again tonight. And let that love shape how we live—not just in great moments, but in the quiet, hidden, ordinary parts of daily life. As we begin the Paschal Triduum, may we more fully live the commandment Christ gave us: to love one another as He has loved us. Amen.

God Never Cancels Anyone (5th Sunday of Lent, Year C)

To listen to this homily, click here.

One of the terms we’ve all heard over the last decade or two, perhaps to the point of exhaustion, is so-called cancel culture. Wikipedia defines it as "a contemporary phrase used to refer to a form of ostracism in which someone is thrust out of social or professional circles.” We've seen cancel culture employed in every area of life, targeting individuals and companies in response to words, opinions, or actions deemed offensive. Most often, the cancel movement happens online and becomes a virtual mob mentality, with people quickly jumping on the bandwagon to condemn—often without all the facts or even knowing the individuals involved. Today, cancel culture plays out in politics, entertainment, business, education, healthcare, and even within the Church.

Though cancel culture feels ever-present due to global communication, social media, and a 24-hour news cycle, it’s not new. In today's Gospel, we witness a brutal version: “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law, Moses commanded us to stone such women. So what do you say?” The trap is set. If Jesus defends her, He’ll be accused of being soft on infidelity and dismissive of the Law. If he condemns her, they will ask why he so often eats with tax collectors and sinners. What does Jesus do? First, He writes something on the ground. Maybe it was the sins of the accusers, or perhaps a word of hope to the woman—“You are worth saving,” or “The Lord is kind and merciful.” Whatever He wrote, it stung their consciences. Perhaps He also highlighted their hypocrisy: where was the man? Both were supposed to be punished.

Jesus then responds with the perfect line: “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” One by one, they leave; convicted by their pride, exposed in their hypocrisy. They may fool others, but not the Son of God. Jesus remains alone with the woman. He, who will die for her sins, has every right to condemn her. But He chooses mercy. St. Augustine beautifully said, “There remained only two: divine mercy and human misery.” Pope Francis reflected on this passage in a letter during the Year of Mercy: “Once clothed in mercy... love makes it possible for her to live her life differently.” When we encounter Jesus’ mercy, we can move forward, not in shame, but with a new beginning—not annihilation, but redemption.

It’s important to clarify what Jesus’ actions do and don’t mean. Some interpret this story to suggest we should tolerate sin or never speak of it. But that’s not what Jesus does. He neither excuses the sin nor trivializes it. He doesn’t say, “It’s not a big deal.” He tells her, “Go and sin no more”—not to condemn her, but because He loves her and wants her soul saved. The same is true for us. If we see someone caught in sin, we shouldn't condemn them—but we should lovingly help them see it and turn toward God’s forgiveness.

Today’s Gospel could also be called the Story of the People Holding Stones. The scribes and Pharisees believed they had righteous anger. They had the Law on their side. They had everything—except love. They had everyone agreeing with them—except the Lord. Like the elder brother in last week’s parable, their anger and self righteousness excluded them from the Father’s banquet. It wasn’t justice driving them; it was hatred for Jesus and His mercy. Bitterness blinded them. In the end, only the sinful woman calls Jesus “Lord.” The religious leaders walk away instead of accepting His teaching and receiving his grace.

Like them, we often let anger, resentment, and bitterness pull us away from the Lord. We justify our grudges. We cling to outrage, calling for the cancellation of those who’ve hurt us or our loved ones. But unless we drop the stones we carry, we cannot stand in the presence of our loving God. The scribes refused to let go. What about us? Is our hatred more important than remaining in Divine Love? Will we accept God’s grace or cling tighter to resentment?

Sometimes, we are the woman: caught in our sins, full of shame, overwhelmed by guilt, unable to lift our eyes. But as we stare at the ground, we must notice Jesus writing in the dirt: “You are worth saving,” “The Lord is kind and merciful.” His mercy lifts us up. And His words to us remain: “Go, and sin no more.”

Today we see that cancel culture has always existed in some form. But Jesus offers a different way; not erasing someone at their worst, but calling them to something greater. Cancel culture dehumanizes by forgetting the whole person. But we are more than our worst moment. Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future. That’s why Jesus never gives up on us. God never cancels anyone! He works until the last moment to bring us home. As his followers we must follow his example by never giving up on others or join the mob who seeks to annihilate others who have sinned.

As we approach Holy Week, let us walk with the woman Jesus saved. Tradition tells us she was one of the few who remained at the foot of the Cross on Good Friday. Rescued from sin, she never wanted to be separated from Him again. With her, we can pray the words of today’s Psalm: “The Lord has done great things for us; we are filled with joy.”