Not Qualified? No Problem! (Sts. Peter and Paul, 2025)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

I sometimes wonder what it would have been like if Jesus founded the Church in our day and age. I imagine he’d get a lot of advice on organizational structure and critical role recruitment. One of the first things someone would probably suggest: form an LLC to limit your liability. And of course, someone else would insist the apostles go through rigorous vetting and testing their qualifications to see if they were fit for such demanding roles as leaders of Christ’s Church.

And when the reports came back, I imagine they'd sound something like this:

“Thank you for submitting the résumés of the twelve men you selected for leadership. All have completed our assessments. It is our opinion that most are unfit for this enterprise. Simon Peter is emotionally unstable and prone to outbursts. Andrew lacks leadership. James and John are overly ambitious. Thomas is skeptical and will damage morale. Matthew has been blacklisted by the Jerusalem Better Business Bureau. James and Thaddeus show radical leanings. One candidate, however, shows real potential. He is capable, well-connected, ambitious, and responsible. We recommend Judas Iscariot as your CFO and right-hand man.”

It’s funny and yet in purely human terms, not far off. Today’s feast reminds us: God’s power transforms the most unlikely candidates into vessels of grace. That includes us, those who often feel unqualified, unable, or unworthy.

Look at Peter. Impulsive, uneducated, and cowardly in Jesus’ hour of need. He denied Christ three times, just as Jesus predicted. Even today, after his moment of shining insight, “You are the Christ” Jesus will soon rebuke him with, “Get behind me, Satan.”

And Paul? He didn’t just dislike Christians; he hunted them. He oversaw the stoning of Stephen and actively worked to stamp out the early Church. He was intelligent, yes, but also arrogant and dangerous.

No training program could have produced the saints they became. It was God’s grace. Grace took their sin, fear, and pride and transformed them into bold, faithful witnesses. Peter, once afraid, would stand firm and never deny Christ again; even when led to his own crucifixion. Paul, once the persecutor, would be persecuted for Christ, and write some of the most moving reflections of faith from a prison cell.

And here’s something important: Peter and Paul were very different. Different personalities, backgrounds, even differing visions of how the Church should grow. At times they clashed. But Christ didn’t erase their differences, he used them. That same miracle still happens today.

Here at Incarnate Word, we don’t all look alike, think alike, or vote alike. But here we are, gathered at the same altar, worshipping the same Lord. The Church is not a club of like-minded people. It’s a body: many parts, many voices, working together under Christ the head. That unity is not a human achievement. It’s grace. It’s Jesus building his Church.

We sometimes look at saints like Peter and Paul and think, “I could never be like that.” But the truth is, they were human. They made mistakes. They doubted. They sinned. But they gave Christ their “yes,” however small, and he made them saints and leaders.

By the end of his life, Paul could say, “It is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me.” That’s the goal for all of us.

Today Jesus asks us, “Who do you say that I am?” And he invites us to let our answer shape our lives. Like Peter, we may lack faith. Like Paul, we have a troublesome past. But if Jesus could work through them, he can work through us. With grace and prayer, we too can grow from weakness to strength and do great things for God and his kingdom.

Be Satisfied (Corpus Christi, 2025)

  There are certain memories from my childhood that are so deeply ingrained, they are part of who I am. Most of them involve my family; gestures of love, patience, and support from the people who shaped me. But one memory stands out, and it has nothing to do with love or support or even people I was close to. It’s about food.

Every August, my dad’s company would host a big picnic at a park in Bridgeton. And for us kids, it was a dream come true: free pony rides, face painting, games with prizes, and best of all!!! Unlimited food, drinks, and desserts. We looked forward to that picnic all year, because for just one day, we could consume as much soda, chips, ice cream, and nacho cheese as our little bodies could handle. And often… more than we could handle.

Since these kinds of snacks weren’t part of our normal life at home, we felt like we had to make up for the other 364 days of restraint by going all in. We gorged ourselves with joyful abandon, eating until we were sick. I remember once going back to the ice cream truck for a fourth treat. They were out of the good stuff, but they still had those baseball glove-shaped ones with a hard, tasteless piece of gum in the middle. I didn’t even want it, but I took it anyway…because I had to get my “money’s worth”(even though the picnic was free).

Afterward, we’d all waddle home and collapse in misery as our stomachs struggled to recover. And yet, by the next morning, we were hungry again, already dreaming of next year’s feast. No matter how much we ate, the satisfaction never lasted.

That memory came to mind as I reflected on today’s feast, Corpus Christi, the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ.

Near the end of today’s Gospel, there’s a powerful moment: Jesus feeds a crowd of thousands with just a few loaves and fish, and the Gospel says, “They all ate and were satisfied.” That line jumps out at me: they were satisfied. How rare that is. Think of all the meals we’ve eaten in our lives. How often do we truly feel satisfied—not just physically full, but content?

And not just with food. We live in a world of abundance and a nation of plenty; so much to enjoy, experience, consume. Yet we’re often restless, still wanting more. Deep down, we know that nothing in this world, no matter how good, can truly satisfy the deepest hunger of our hearts.

Only Jesus can do that.

Yes, the crowds marveled at his ability to multiply food, but what drew them to Jesus wasn't just bread and fish. It was something more. Something deeper. Because God has created every human heart with a hunger for Him. Before sin entered the world, Adam and Eve enjoyed perfect communion with God. That was our birthright, our destiny. But since then, we’ve all carried within us a longing, an emptiness, a hunger that only God can fill.

And yet, how often do we try to satisfy that hunger with something else?
Money. Pleasure. Travel. Success. Fitness. Praise. Novelty. None of these things are bad in themselves. But none of them will ever let us say, “I have eaten and am satisfied.” They leave us chasing the next thing. Only Jesus satisfies.

The most perfect, most personal, most powerful way he gives himself to us is through the Eucharist: his Body and Blood. This is the food that nourishes not just our bodies, but our souls. It is the food from heaven, the bread of angels, the one thing that can fill us completely… and still have more left over for others.

It’s easy to take this gift for granted. For many of us, the Eucharist is readily accessible. And so, we risk seeing it as ordinary, as just one part of our faith, rather than the source and summit of our Christian life. But this feast of Corpus Christi is a chance to pause, to recalibrate our hearts, and renew our devotion to this incredible gift.

It’s also a moment to ask:
What am I seeking right now to satisfy me?
What am I craving?
And will it leave me full… or still hungry?

How blessed we are, that the God of heaven and earth not only came to save us but stays with us, feeding us with his very self! How foolish we are, that we so often chase lesser things. How beautiful it is, that no matter how many times we’ve turned elsewhere, Jesus still offers us his Body and Blood, again and again.

May we receive this gift with reverence, devotion, and faith so that we can eat and be satisfied here at this altar and one day, be fully satisfied forever in the life to come.

Made for Others (Trinity Sunday, 2025)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

Many years ago, when our nation was still young, a religious group called the Quakers came up with an idea for prison reform. While we might think of them today as the people on the oatmeal box or remember them for their old-fashioned hats, the Quakers were deeply committed to building a peaceful and just society. They believed that kindness, simplicity, and reflection could help heal the world.So when it came to crime and punishment, they imagined something revolutionary: what if people who committed crimes were given space and silence to reflect and pray—completely alone, without distractions or interaction? Maybe, they thought, those people would become penitent—that is, truly sorry—and reform their lives. That’s actually where we get the word penitentiary—a place meant to lead someone to repentance through a form of secular monasticism.

But what started as a good and thoughtful idea turned out to be a disaster. Solitary confinement didn’t bring healing. In fact, it often caused deep harm. Being cut off from human contact led to serious mental health problems. Many inmates became depressed, anxious, and unstable. Despite their good intentions and noble theory, reality hit the Quakers in the face: we are not meant to be alone. Isolation, instead of helping, often breaks the human spirit.

We were reminded of that truth not long ago during the COVID-19 lockdowns. At first, it sensible to separate for the sake of safety. But even though we were protecting our bodies, we felt it in our souls. Being away from family, friends, school, church, hugs, laughter, and conversation—it took a toll. For many, the emotional and spiritual wounds ran deeper than any physical illness. That’s not because we were doing something wrong. It’s because we were living in a way that goes against how we were made.

And that brings us to today’s celebration: the Most Holy Trinity, which the Catechism calls the central mystery of our faith. We believe, based on what God has revealed through Scripture and through the Church, that God is not solitary. God is not a distant, lonely ruler on a throne.

God is relationship. God is love.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—one God in three Persons—an eternal communion of giving, receiving, and sharing love. From all eternity, the Father pours out love to the Son, the Son returns that love to the Father, and the Holy Spirit is the bond of that love. And here’s the beautiful part: we are made in God’s image. That means we were made for relationship too. Made to love and be loved. To belong. To live not in isolation, but in communion. Whenever those connections are cut off—through conflict, neglect, or simply life’s difficulties—we feel the pain. And that’s no accident. It’s part of how God designed us: for connection, for community, for love that gives itself away.

Sometimes the doctrine of the Trinity feels abstract—three Persons in one God. It’s a mystery even saints and scholars can’t fully explain. But at its heart is something deeply real and profoundly relatable: God is love. Love is who God is. Love is what God does. Love is what we are made for.

And how fitting that we also celebrate Father’s Day today. At its best, fatherhood is a reflection of God’s love—strong and steady, generous and patient, protective and present. To be a father isn’t just a biological role—it’s a sacred calling to love. To teach. To show up. To sacrifice. Whether it’s helping with homework, showing up at ball games or dance recitals, or offering quiet encouragement during tough times, a father’s love makes an enormous difference. Not because dads are perfect—but because, when they love with persistence and presence, they echo the love of God the Father. Some of us were blessed with fathers who did that well. Others carry wounds in this area. But all of us can look to God the Father, who never fails, never abandons, and never stops loving. 

Each year, the Church invites us to reflect on the Trinity not just as a truth we profess, but as a way of life for every member in their particular vocation. Our ability to reflect the Trinity is most credible when it is lived in simple acts that everyone can appreciate and understand. Things like:

• Making time for others, even when we’re busy or would rather do something else.
• Forgiving, even when the other person is not sorry or has not ‘earned’ our forgiveness.
• Serving, even when no one notices or fails to express gratitude.
• Staying close to our families and our faith community, even when it costs us something.
• refusing to take advantage of the weakness or foolishness of others and choosing to be a protector, no matter what the cost.

The next time you make the Sign of the Cross—“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”—remember that it’s not just a routine gesture. It’s a prayer. It’s a claim. It’s a reminder that you belong to a God who is love. A God who made you for love. A God who calls you into a life of love. Today, let’s thank God for the beautiful mystery of the Trinity: A God who is not alone, and who never wants us to be alone. Let’s thank God for the gift of fathers and father figures—those who, in big and small ways, reflect His care. And let’s remember: We are never alone. We belong to a God who lives in relationship. And we are most ourselves—not when we grasp for control or retreat into isolation—but when we live in communion: with God, and with one another.

God Has Given Us So Much; Pass It On! (Pentecost, 2025)

To listen to this homily, click here.

Every family has its little traditions, inside jokes, and secret recipes—those things that bind us together and give a sense of identity. Often, they’re simple things, but they carry deep meaning. In my family, one of our long-running traditions is giving gag gifts at Christmas. I know lots of families do that, but in ours, it has become serious business. Some relatives spend the whole year scouting the perfect prank gift. What’s especially fun now is seeing the grandkids get excited about it—waiting for the day when they, too, can join in the ritual. There’s something very human and beautiful about passing things on: a tradition, a story, a little treasure.

Speaking of treasures, there’s another sacred family heirloom in my household: my mom’s icing recipe. It’s legendary. A rich, fluffy, sweet-and-salty masterpiece that’s graced more birthday cakes than I can count. But here’s the catch—she refuses to share the recipe. No matter how much we plead. We've even sent in the grandkids as spies to watch her make it, but she always catches them and shuts down the operation. Her reasoning? She says this is her “bargaining chip”—a way to make sure we keep visiting her and don’t send her to “the wrong nursing home.” I’ve agreed to those terms, with one condition: she must leave the recipe in a safe deposit box for us to open after she’s gone. So far, no agreement. But what a shame it would be for something so good, so central to our celebrations, to be lost!

That desire to pass something on—something too good to keep to yourself—is at the heart of Pentecost.

Jesus spent three years pouring truth, wisdom, and love into his disciples. He taught them how to pray, how to see God as a Father, how to live a life of sacrifice and meaning. Even before Pentecost, his words had already changed their lives. But until the coming of the Holy Spirit, those gifts were still “in-house”—still private. Pentecost is the moment when everything Jesus gave them became sharable and entered the public domain. The Spirit turned their memories into mission, their faith into proclamation. Without Pentecost, the gifts Jesus gave might have died with that first generation. And what a tragedy that would have been.

But thank God, the Spirit was given—and is still being poured out in the lives and hearts of all who have baptized.

Pentecost isn’t just a story of the past. It’s a reality we’re living. The same Spirit who descended on the apostles now lives in every faithful Christian. The Spirit equips us—each of us—in different ways and desires to activate the many blessings he has poured into our lives. We are called today to ask: What spiritual gifts have I received? How has God worked through others to shape my faith? Who are the mentors, parents, teachers, or friends who passed something on to you—not a recipe, but wisdom, prayer, compassion, joy?

And then, the next question: Am I passing these on? Because the gifts of God are never meant to stop with us. They are meant to move through us—for the sake of the Church, for the sake of souls who haven’t even been born yet. For our good and the good of all his holy Church!

So how do we do that? How does Pentecost shape real life?

I’d say: keep it simple. God loves to work through the ordinary. He stirs in our relationships, our routines, our quiet efforts to live faithfully. Maybe you’re a student or professional trying to live with integrity. A spouse striving to be patient and present. A loyal friend offering kindness. A parent passing on the faith. That’s where Pentecost lives. Most of us won’t be called to change the world. But all of us are called to live in such a way that the Spirit can change someone’s world through us.

When I look back at my own family, I am humbled by what they’ve passed on to me: a strong work ethic, a deep faith, a sense of humor, the ability to laugh even in hard times, and a steadfast love that didn’t vanish when I messed up. I want to honor them by passing those things on. I want others to benefit from the goodness I’ve received.

Shouldn’t we feel the same with God?

God has poured out so much: mercy, grace, wisdom, and love—through His Son, through the Spirit, through His Church. Let’s not let any of it go to waste or end with us. As we celebrate Pentecost with the Church around the world, let’s commit ourselves to sharing what we’ve received. Let’s live lives that pass on what is good, holy, and grace-filled—trusting that by doing so, we are helping to build the Church, not just for today, but for generations to come.

Sacred Emptiness Leads to Holy Openness to New Blessings (Ascension, 2025)

 To listen to this homily, click here.

Some of the feasts in our liturgical year are easy to preach about: Christmas, Holy Week, Easter—on these occasions, the homilies practically write themselves! Other celebrations, like the Immaculate Conception or today, the Ascension, can be a bit more challenging.

For me, there’s something powerful—even a little melancholy—about Jesus saying farewell to the Apostles and returning, body and soul, to His Father in heaven. I imagine the disciples putting on a brave face, perhaps saying something like, “We’re happy for you, Jesus! Heaven is going to be amazing—and I hear the weather is lovely this time of year!”

But how their hearts must have been breaking. After all they had been through, what could have felt better than having Jesus back with them—alive, present, speaking, eating, teaching again? They had thought He was lost to death, and now He was here. And then… He’s gone again. What an emotional roller coaster they must have been on.

I think we can relate to their experience, at least in part. It’s like the ache we feel during our own goodbyes. Like when you drop a friend or family member off at the airport and drive away with that heaviness in your chest. Or when you walk away from a school building after leaving your child there on their very first day—feeling like part of your heart just walked through the doors without you.

There’s a strange, sacred emptiness in those moments. Something is missing, and it hurts. And yet, deep down, we know that letting go is somehow necessary. That we do it in love. That something important is unfolding—something we cannot yet see. And to cling too tightly, to try and hold on, would actually prevent that growth.

That’s the space the disciples find themselves in during today’s Gospel. Jesus ascends into heaven, and they are left staring up at the sky—bewildered, perhaps even feeling a little abandoned. They had just begun to rejoice again. The Resurrection brought joy, renewal, hope. He was back! Everything felt possible again. And then… He’s gone.

The Gospel doesn’t sugarcoat it. There is awe, yes—but also uncertainty. What now?

Jesus tells them, “Stay in the city until you are clothed with power from on high.” The space He leaves behind is not just an absence; it becomes the space into which the Holy Spirit will come—the Comforter, the Advocate, the very presence of God that will dwell within them, not just beside them.

The Ascension teaches us something fundamental to the human experience on earth: sometimes, God allows us to feel emptiness—not to punish or abandon us, but to make room for something deeper. Something that cannot be lost. Something even greater than what we think we’re missing.

The physical presence of Jesus was a gift. But His Spirit within us is even greater. Through the Holy Spirit, Jesus can be with each of us, always. We are never alone. Not in grief, not in joy, not in confusion. His Spirit brings joy in hardship, comfort in loss, and holy presence even when we feel most alone.

But we only receive that gift because He ascended to heaven. Just as a child only begins to grow and learn once their parent lets go of their hand and walks away on that first day of school, so too must we sometimes experience loss in order to grow into something greater.

The pain of parting is real—but it is also sacred. It opens a space for the Spirit. And the Spirit, once given, is never taken away.

So today, as we celebrate the Ascension, let us not only look up to the heavens in wonder—but also inward, with hope. The One who ascended now sends His Spirit to fill us. Let us be open to that gift.

And let us not forget that Jesus, as He was returning to His Father, gave his believers a mission: “You are witnesses of these things.” The Spirit comes not just to comfort, but to empower. To send us out. We are not meant to remain frozen in the silence, staring at the sky. We are meant to go into the world, to proclaim the good news, to be His presence in a world aching with an emptiness of its own.

The world needs our witness. It needs to hear from people who know what it means to be filled with the Spirit and live with courage, faith, and love. It needs people who have felt both the ache of absence and the joy of the Spirit. Let us accept the Lord’s invitation to be his witnesses to those around us so all can be consoled and strengthened by the gift of the Holy Spirit.