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 the 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—they 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 the 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—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.