OT:XXXIII:(C): Malachi 3:19-20a; 2 Thes 3:7-12; Lk 21:5-19

As we approach the end of the liturgical year, today’s Gospel presents us with the classic text on the “end times.” Throughout history, there have always been voices ready to stoke anxiety by interpreting these words with fear and doom. But the Christian response is not panic—it is calm trust in God’s providence.

Just listen to the reassurance embedded within the Gospel itself: “But of that day or hour, no one knows, neither the angels in heaven nor the Son, but only the Father.” If Christ Himself, in His humanity, does not reveal the day or the hour, can any preacher, sect, or doomsayer claim to know more? Jesus assures us of the certainty of His return and the gathering of His chosen, but the colorful imagery—sun darkening, stars falling—is the language of symbol and prophecy, not an apocalyptic weather forecast.

It helps to remember that when Scripture speaks of the end of the world, it often refers to the end of a particular world—the world of a generation or a people—rather than the absolute end of all things. Jesus’ words, “This generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place,” were fulfilled in the passing of the world known to His hearers: the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 A.D. Similar events throughout history—from the fall of Rome to the tragedies of our own era—have seemed like world-ending disasters, but each marks the close of one chapter and the opening of another in salvation history.

Yet none of this lessens the seriousness of Christ’s call. His words are not meant for speculation, but for conversion. We do not know when our personal end will come. For each of us, it could be this very night. That is why Jesus urges us to remain vigilant. To live each day ready to meet Him—not out of fear, but out of hope.

The “end times”—so often reduced to a date on a calendar or an era of catastrophe—are, more deeply, about a Person: our Lord Jesus Christ, the Lord of history. According to Christian belief, we have been living in the “end times” since the Incarnation, when God entered history and began the final era of salvation. This period stretches from Christ’s first coming until His return in glory. Every age experiences suffering, upheaval, and renewal, but these are not omens for calculation—they are invitations to repent, to grow in fidelity and holiness.

When disaster, hardship, or persecution arise, Christians are strengthened by Christ’s promise: “By your endurance, you will gain your lives.” Endurance—not anxiety or despair—is our call.

Too often, talk of the world’s end presents a warped image of God—as an angry judge eager to punish. But Scripture tells us otherwise: “The Lord is merciful and gracious, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love…for He knows how we are formed, He remembers we are dust” (Psalm 103:8-14). The God we await is not quick to wrath, but rich in mercy.

So, what is the true meaning of the world’s end? It is not terror before cosmic destruction, but the Christian’s confident hope in the ultimate triumph of Jesus Christ. In the end, Christ will return in glory, bodily resurrection will take place, and perfect justice and mercy will be revealed. Until then, we are called—not to obsessive worry—but to live in a state of grace, anchored by the sacraments, guided by the Word, and sustained by the virtues of faith, hope, and love.

There is no need to fear the end, for we belong to a Church that already knows how the story concludes: Christ is victorious, “as He was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.”

 

XXXII: Dedication of the Lateran Basilica: Ez:47;1-2, 8-9, 12; 1 Cor 3:9c-11,16-17; Jn 2:13-22

The 1,700th anniversary of the dedication of the Basilica of St. Johns Lateran, observed on November 9, stands as a milestone not just for Rome but for the entire Catholic Church. The Lateran Basilica, though often overshadowed by the grander and more famous St. Peter’s in the Vatican, is actually the Cathedral Church of Rome, the original seat (cathedra) of the bishop of Rome—the Pope. It bears the title “Mother and Head of all the Churches of Rome and the World,” a status rooted in its unique history and its role as the Pope’s episcopal seat.

A Sacred Heritage:

The basilica’s name reflects its origins: the property once belonged to the noble Laterani family, prominent in imperial Roman service. In the early days of Christianity, when the faith was illegal in the Roman Empire, Christians had no formal structures. This changed dramatically with Emperor Constantine, who in the fourth century first legalized Christianity and then, showing remarkable favor, donated the Lateran Palace to the Church. In 313, shortly after the Edict of Milan, Constantine gave the Lateran Palace to Pope Miltiades (and later to Sylvester I), who established it as the official cathedral of the Bishop of Rome in 324—an act commemorated by this anniversary. This was the first Christian basilica in Rome, and its dedication marked the legal, visible birth of Christ’s Church in the city that had persecuted it for centuries.

Unlike St. Peter’s, which dominates Catholic imagination as the Pope’s home church, St. John Lateran is the true cathedral of the Pope, giving it a unique spiritual and administrative primacy. The basilica’s full formal name—Papal Archbasilica of the Most Holy Savior and Saints John the Baptist and the Evangelist at the Lateran—tells of its primary dedication to Christ “the Savior.” Later, in the 10th and 12th centuries, further dedications were made to St. John the Baptist and St. John the Evangelist, serving as reminders of the Church’s biblical roots and the great saints who prepared and witnessed to Christ.

The Life of the Early Church

Reflecting on the story of the Lateran basilica means contemplating more than ancient stones. The basilica symbolizes the structure, dignity, and mission of the living Church—God’s people called together. When Emperor Constantine granted Christians freedom and the Lateran Palace, a new era dawned: no longer persecuted, the Church could build holy spaces, organize public worship, and deepen theological reflection. The great ecumenical councils, soon to include the Council of Nicaea in 325, codified Christian doctrine and unity. The Lateran itself became the home of five Lateran Councils (from the 12th to 16th centuries), each contributing profoundly to Church governance and identity.

For nearly a thousand years, the popes lived and governed from the Lateran, until fires and the Avignon papacy in the 14th century encouraged the move to the Vatican. Since that time, the Lateran has remained the “mother church,” even as St. Peter’s took on a more prominent public role. The Lateran Treaty of 1929, which established the Vatican City State, was signed here—yet another reminder of the basilica’s central place in Church and world history.

More Than a Building: A Spiritual Sign

The biblical readings assigned to the Feast of the Lateran’s Dedication illuminate its meaning. In Ezekiel’s vision, a life-giving river flows from the Temple, bringing renewal and fruitfulness wherever it goes (Ezekiel 47:1-2, 8-9, 12). St. Paul, writing to the Corinthians, teaches, “You are God’s building … Do you not know that you are God’s temple and that God’s Spirit dwells in you?” (1 Corinthians 3:9c-11, 16-17). The Gospel dramatically recounts Jesus driving the merchants from the Jerusalem Temple (John 2:13-22), a vivid sign that God’s dwelling is meant for worship, not commerce or self-interest.

These readings refocus our attention on the true temple of God—Jesus Christ, who through his death and resurrection fulfills all that the Temple promised. In Christ, the dwelling of God is no longer restricted to stone buildings but is present in every person baptized in his name. Each parish community, each believer, is a “living temple.” The Lateran Basilica is a symbol of the whole Church, the “temple of living stones” constructed from the lives, prayers, sacrifices, and service of Christ’s faithful people across history.

Liturgical and Spiritual Dimensions

The universal importance of the Lateran’s dedication is reflected in the liturgy. The anniversary of every cathedral’s dedication is a special feast for its own diocese. Since the Lateran is the cathedral of the Pope, it is celebrated as a feast day by the universal Church. When the feast falls on a Sunday, as it next will, it takes precedence even over the ordinary Sunday celebration, a rare liturgical honor.

This day is a call to spiritual renewal: it is not just about the anniversary of a building’s dedication, but about rededicating ourselves, God’s living temples, to lives of holiness, reverence, and service. The “business mentality” that Jesus challenged in the Temple warns us not to approach worship as a mere transaction, but as the essential relationship between God and his children. Every act of genuine worship, every prayer, every sacrifice grounded in faith, builds up the living Church.

This feast challenges us to reflect on our role as “living temples.” Because the Spirit dwells in us, we must strive to root out every form of impurity, division, or pride—fostering instead holiness, charity, and reconciliation.

On this feast of Saint John Lateran, let us rededicate not just this ancient basilica, but the living temples of our hearts and parish. May God’s river of grace flow through us, healing, nourishing, and transforming the Church and the world.

 

 All Souls Day: Wisdom 3:19; John 6:37-40.

Each of us, at some point in our lives, has known the pain of losing someone we love. This universal truth cuts across every culture and every time. In her wisdom, the Church brings us back to this place each November—setting aside an entire month for remembrance of our beloved faithful departed, and especially drawing our hearts together on All Souls’ Day. On this day, we’re called not simply to mourn, but to remember in hope and to pray for those who have gone before us.

Praying for the dead is a profound act that connects us across the boundaries of this world. It is a tradition rooted in both love and faith. It keeps us linked with family and friends who, in a mysterious but real sense, are even closer to us now in Christ than they were in life. More than just a feeling or ritual, praying for the dead is also one of the spiritual works of mercy. Our prayers become channels of grace, offered so that those who have died may enter fully into the light and joy of Christ.

Today, we take comfort from the words of the Book of Wisdom: “The souls of the just are in the hand of God, and no torment shall touch them.” These words touch the deepest place in our hearts. They affirm that those we cherish, though separated from us physically, are not lost but held securely in God’s loving embrace. Their lives do not end in the darkness of oblivion but continue in God—safe from any harm, beyond the reach of suffering or decay.

Our world often wants to measure life with what can be seen, touched, or counted. Death, through these eyes, looks like defeat or destruction. The Scripture tells us, “They seemed, in the view of the foolish, to be dead.” But faith always sees further. Faith reveals that what appears as an end is, in fact, the threshold of eternal life—a transformation, not an annihilation. The souls of the just are not lost; they are found, cherished, and living in God.

The reading goes on to speak of life’s trials: “God tried them and found them worthy of himself. As gold in the furnace, he proved them.” This is an enormous comfort. The struggles, pain, sorrow, or doubt endured by our loved ones were not wasted or meaningless. In the fire of life’s challenges, their souls were purified, their love for God was deepened, and their hope was molded into something everlasting. When we saw only struggle or frailty, God saw fidelity and loving offering. Now, God calls them to Himself, finishing what He began in them.

This vision is not only beautiful for the dead, but strengthening for the living. We, too, face our own tests of faith and courage. Each patient endurance, every act of love, every quiet prayer, is drawing us closer to that same peace and to the likeness of Christ. We are all in the process of being refined—like gold in the furnace—so that, in the end, we too may be found worthy of the promise God makes to us in Christ.

In the gospel Jesus tells us that God’s great desire is that no one entrusted to His Son be lost, but that all are raised up on the last day. The words of Jesus assure us, “I shall not lose anything of what he gave me.” This tells us that our loved ones are not lost in darkness. The bonds God formed in love cannot be broken by death. They remain in the watchful care of the Good Shepherd.

All Souls’ Day is not only about those who have gone before us—it is also about hope for us who remain. Christ’s promise—“I shall raise him on the last day”—belongs to us, too. The pain of separation does not have the final word. The final word belongs to the One who conquered death and invites us to trust in His promise of eternal life for all who believe.

What we do today—praying for the faithful departed—is truly an act of love and faith. Love, because love always seeks the very best for those it treasures; faith, because faith confidently entrusts everything and everyone to the Lord’s infinite mercy. The Holy Mass, above all, is the greatest prayer for the dead. There is a story of an Irish saint, St. Malachy, who had lost contact with his sister before she died. After her death, he heard a mysterious voice say she was still hungry, not having “eaten for thirty days.” He realized it had been thirty days since he had offered Mass for her. He began again, and in a vision saw her at the church door, first in darkness, then each time in lighter garments, until finally she was radiant in white, surrounded by blessed spirits. This vision of St. Malachy beautifully shows the power of prayer—especially the Mass—for our loved ones who have died. St. Monica told her son Augustine, “When I die, bury me anywhere you like, but remember to pray for me at the altar.”

Therefore, today, as we remember our parents, grandparents, siblings, children, friends, and all the faithful departed, let us return to the words of Jesus: “Everyone who sees the Son and believes in him may have eternal life.” This is the bedrock of our Christian hope. Even in our grief, we give thanks for the promise that Christ will raise us up and reunite us in His eternal peace, one unbroken embrace of the living and the dead in the heart of God. Let this knowledge comfort us and give us strength until the promised day when we, too, will be gathered into His unending light.

 

 

 OT XXX [C]: Sir 35:12-14, 16-18; 2 Tm 4:6-8, 16-18; Lk 18:9-14

 

Prayer is something very personal to each one of us. How we pray can reveal a lot about ourselves and, in particular, about our relationship with God. This is especially the case with informal prayer. Our informal prayer in our own words tends to remain private.

In today’s gospel reading, Jesus speaks a parable about two people who went up to the Temple to pray. They gave expression to what was in their heart before God. They lifted up their hearts to God in the presence of other worshippers. The two men who went up to the Temple to pray came from opposite ends of the religious spectrum. For the majority of Jesus’ Jewish hearers, the Pharisees would have been respected teachers. They not only taught others how to live according to God’s Law, but they tried to live by God’s Law themselves. They took their faith very seriously and were regarded by the people. For a first-century Jew, a tax collector, in contrast, was an agent of Rome. Tax collectors purchased the right from the Roman authorities to collect taxes in a certain region. Whatever they collected over and above their contract was considered a profit for them. It was presumed they were corrupt and dishonest, likely to overcharge people. A tax collector would have been seen as a sinner who likely had shown no mercy to others.

The prayer of the Pharisee begins well. He thanks God that he has lived according to God’s Law, thereby showing his dependence on God for all his good acts. This particular Pharisee has gone beyond what the Jewish Law required. The Law did not insist that everything be tithed, but this Pharisee pays a tithe on all his possessions. There is also no requirement in the Jewish Law to fast as often as twice a week, which this Pharisee does. He would have been seen as expressing outstanding fidelity to God’s Law. However, his prayer had one fatal flaw. In his prayer, he sat in judgment upon the great mass of humanity, conveniently represented by the tax collector alongside him. He expressed a mentality that those who take their faith seriously can sometimes fall into. It is the mentality which compares our own actions favourably to those whose lives seem to us far less religious or virtuous. The Pharisee had forgotten that obedience to God’s Law cannot be separated from loving one’s neighbour as oneself. Religious observance without compassion for others is not acceptable to God.

The tax collector stands far off from others, perhaps indicating his sense of isolation from the community. He does not even raise his eyes towards heaven, suggesting that he feels unworthy to be talking to God. In beating his breast, he acknowledges his sin. The tax collector’s prayer is much more succinct than the prayer of the Pharisee. He recognizes that he is a sinner who is in need of God’s mercy. He has come to the Temple believing that he can find forgiveness from God for his sin, and his humble prayer for mercy is without any judgment of others. Unlike the Pharisee, the tax collector is aware that he has nothing to offer God, but everything to receive from God. He doesn’t say I do this and this. He knows that he can sink no further and that if anyone is to rescue him, it can only be God. Whereas the Pharisee looked around, comparing himself favourably to others, the tax collector looked within, comparing himself unfavourably to God. He recognizes his own inner truth, such as it is, and he hopes, indeed, he trusts, that God can take care of it.

Whose prayer found favour with God, the prayer of the religious professional or the prayer of the religious outsider? Jesus’ own answer to that question would have probably shocked his listeners. It was the tax collector who ‘went home being at right with God’, whereas the Pharisee did not. Of the two people who went up to the Temple to pray, only one of them was empty enough to receive from the fullness of God’s hospitable love. The parable encourages us to place our trust in God more than in ourselves. It assures us that if we come before God, empty-handed, recognizing our poverty, God’s loving mercy towards us will know no bounds.

God cannot be bribed (see Deuteronomy 10:17). We cannot curry favor with Him or impress Him—even with our good deeds or our faithful observance of religious duties such as tithing and fasting. If we try to exalt ourselves before the Lord, as the Pharisee does, we will be brought low (see Luke 1:52).

This should be a warning to us—not to take pride in our piety, not to slip into the self-righteousness of thinking that we’re better than others, that we’re “not like the rest of sinful humanity.”

The prayer of the lowly, the humble, pierces the clouds. 

Let’s pray today for the grace not to compare ourselves a lot with others, before God or before others but rather be grateful for what we’ve received. 

 OT XXIX [C] Ex 17:8-13, II Tm 3:14–4:2, Lk 18:1-8

We live in an age obsessed with speed and immediacy. From cooking meals in minutes to sending messages across the globe instantly, fast is the norm. This has brought many blessings—connections and conveniences once unimaginable. But some things cannot be rushed.

An oak tree does not grow faster today than it did hundreds of years ago. True friendships still require patience and time. Deep human relationships cannot be formed at the push of a button or the swipe of a screen. They require perseverance through joy and setbacks, faithfulness when things are hard, and the willingness to work through difficulties, sometimes with the help of others.

In the first reading, the Israelites on the battlefield are sustained by Moses’ prayerful posture, his hands lifted in a gesture that becomes the iconic “orans” position of prayer. Their victory is not the fruit of strategy, but of fidelity to God through intercession. Note the gesture of Moses - raised hands, the Orans or prayer posture which the priest observed during Mass when he prays on behalf of his people. But those outstretched hands also remind us of our Lord Jesus Christ when He was pinned to the cross. His death would be the final victory God would use to defeat sin and Satan. He raises his hands in surrender to God’s Providence and not as an act of surrender to his enemies. Ultimately, the battle was won not through military strategy but through fidelity and prayer. Our battles, too, are first won in prayer, not by strength or planning alone.

 

In the Gospel, Jesus frames his teaching through a parable about an unjust judge confronted by a persistent widow. But it is not the intention of our Lord to compare the unjust judge to God as an equivalent. Rather, the example is meant to show the vast contrast between a self-serving figure and the All-Merciful, Ever-Compassionate and Just God. If such an unscrupulous man could dispense justice to his petitioners when pressed to do so, should we even doubt that we will have a quick answer from the God who always has our back?
Our Lord then turns the table on us. It is not God who is on trial but us. Prayer is no longer a test of God’s efficacy but rather of our fidelity. Our Lord promises us this: “I promise you, (God) will see justice done to them, and done speedily.” We should never doubt this. Our fidelity will be tested by our perseverance in prayer even when it is difficult to do so.

Pope Francis has said that prayer is the very breath of faith. Without prayer, faith cannot live or grow. Yet prayer does not always come easily to us. One reason is that sometimes our prayers seem unanswered, and we lose heart. Jesus knew this well. That is why he tells today’s parable: to encourage us to persevere in prayer, even when it feels like God is silent.

Prayer is, above all, about relationship—a humble seeking of Christ’s mind and will. Sometimes this pursuit leaves us without words, like the young boy who, unable to recall his prayers, simply recited the alphabet in faith that God would piece together his needs. This story reminds us that seeking God is more about sincerity than eloquence. We bring our imperfect words, asking the Holy Spirit to complete and perfect our offerings. Jesus assures us: If we seek in this humble way, we shall find.

Prayer is not the only weapon we can avail of in spiritual warfare. We have the Word of God. St Paul in his second letter to Timothy which we heard in the second reading tells us that “all scripture is inspired by God and can profitably be used for teaching, for refuting error, for guiding people’s lives and teaching them to be holy.”

Jesus himself modeled this ceaseless prayer. The Gospels record him praying at every opportunity: by day, at dawn, in the evening, and through the night. Prayer was the thread uniting all the episodes of his earthly mission. But Christ also shows us another vital lesson: The discipline of fixed, intentional moments of prayer. Just as he, like all Jewish people of his time, paused daily to pray at dawn, midday, and dusk, so too should we dedicate specific times for God. Jesus joined his community in the synagogue, sanctifying the Sabbath with prayer. In imitation, the Church, from its beginnings, set Sunday as a privileged day for worship, a time to commune with God and each other.

The widow’s justice was rooted in truth. Our prayers too must be grounded in faith and truth. We do not bring empty pleas but the earnest desire for what God wills: love, mercy, justice, and peace. At times, we may feel as weak and powerless as the widow. But just as her persistence made her powerful, our persistent prayer draws us closer to God’s power—the power that transforms hearts, heals wounds, and changes circumstances beyond what we can imagine.

The challenge Jesus sets before us today is simple yet profound: Will we pray always? Will we keep faith, even when the answers seem delayed? In that perseverance, we share in the ongoing work of God’s justice, mercy, and love in our world. May the Lord inspire us to pray always and not lose heart, trusting that God hears every prayer and will bring justice in God’s perfect time.

 

 XXVIII-C: Luke 17:11–19; 2 Kings 5:14–17

Today’s readings bring us two powerful healing stories: one from the Old Testament — Naaman the Syrian, a foreign military commander — and one from the Gospel — ten lepers, including a Samaritan. In both stories, God works a miracle. In both, someone who was seen as an outsider not only receives healing but returns with faith and gratitude. And in both cases, we’re reminded that the greatest miracle is not just physical healing… It’s the transformation of the heart.

In Naaman’s story, he nearly missed healing because he thought the prophet’s instructions unworthy of him. But Naaman’s servants persuade him: if the prophet had asked something difficult, he would have done it—so why not this simple thing? We sometimes resist God’s blessings because they do not match our expectations.

Only when Naaman lays aside pride and receives the prophet’s instruction with humility does healing occur. Healing, here, is tied to obedience and trust, even when the means seem simple or lowly. Afterwards, Naaman’s gratitude is not superficial—he changes allegiance. He declares that there is no God in all the earth except in Israel. Gratitude draws him into covenantal faith.

The Samaritan’s gratitude springs from a profound awareness that he had not earned God’s mercy; as an outcast, he asked and received it freely. His response was to give thanks and praise, recognizing the gift of healing and the generosity of God. Moreover, because Samaritans were not accepted in the Jerusalem Temple or by Jewish priests, the Samaritan leper bypassed religious formalities and came directly to Jesus to express his gratitude—a further sign of his faith and devotion.

Gratitude Requires Recognition: We cannot thank God for what we fail to notice. The nine lepers presumably returned to their families, delighted, yet they did not recognize—or chose not to dwell on the deeper meaning behind their cure. The Samaritan saw beyond the surface. In our own lives, God’s mercies are abundant but often unnoticed: a spared accident, an encouraging word, an opportunity we did not expect. Without awareness, gratitude cannot grow.

Like those two, We All Need Healing. We may not suffer from leprosy like the ten men in the Gospel, or like Naaman. But all of us carry wounds — some are physical, others emotional, spiritual, relational.

• Maybe it’s the wound of anxiety or depression.
• Maybe it's a broken relationship with a family member.
• Maybe it’s grief, or a fear about the future.
• Or maybe it’s a deep feeling of unworthiness — like we’re too far gone for God to care.

Just like the lepers who “stood at a distance,” sometimes we feel like we’re on the outside, too — far from God, far from others, ashamed or forgotten.

But what does the Gospel show us? That Jesus sees. Jesus hears. Jesus responds.

“Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!”
And Jesus does. He doesn’t heal them with a dramatic gesture — he gives them a simple instruction:
“Go show yourselves to the priests.”
And as they were going, they were cleansed.

Sometimes God doesn’t work instant miracles. He asks us to take a step in faith, and healing happens along the way — through prayer, support, obedience, sacraments, or time.

Is there a step God is asking us to take right now — a step of faith, even before things are fixed or feelings change?

The Power of Gratitude: The most striking moment in the Gospel is not the healing — it's the response.
Ten were healed. Only one came back. A foreigner. A Samaritan.

Jesus asks:

“Where are the other nine?”

It’s a question that echoes into our world today. We can be like the nine: we experience good things, but we quickly move on. We forget to return to the source — to God.

Think about this:

• How many of us remember to thank God after we get through a hard time?
• How often do we thank Him in the small, ordinary moments — waking up, a friend’s kindness, a child’s smile, a meal on the table?
• Do we come to Mass out of obligation… or as an act of thanksgiving?

The word Eucharist literally means “thanksgiving.” Every Mass is our opportunity to return to Jesus — like the Samaritan — and fall at his feet in gratitude.

The one leper who returned was not only healed — he was saved. Jesus says: “Your faith has saved you.”

He received more than the others because he came back with a heart full of worship.

So how do we live like that leper? 

Here are three simple practices for daily life:

1. Practice Daily Gratitude

One of the practical Ways to grow in Gratitude is to do a Daily Examen of conscience. Each evening, take one minute to thank God for three things. They can be big or small. This rewires the heart to look for grace. This trains the eyes of our hearts to see God’s action.

 

2. Return Often to the Eucharist

Make Sunday Mass not just a habit, but a conscious homecoming to Jesus. And when possible, come during the week — even for a brief visit in Adoration.

3. Share Your Gratitude with Others

When you notice God working in your life, tell someone. Gratitude is contagious. Your story may lead someone else to recognize God in their own life.

Finally, let’s not be part of the nine who went on with their lives and forgot who healed them. Let’s be like Naaman, like the Samaritan — those who came back, who gave thanks, who turned a miracle into a moment of faith.

Because ultimately, it's not just about being healed. It's about being saved, being whole, and living a life centered on Jesus Christ.

So… what blessings have you forgotten to thank God for?

Today, this week — return to Him. Say thank you. And hear Him say to you:

“Stand up and go. Your faith has saved you.”

 Respect Life Sunday

Today we gather on Respect Life Sunday to reflect upon one of the most urgent and foundational themes of our Catholic faith: the profound and unshakable dignity of human life. Every human person, created in the image and likeness of God, bears a dignity that is inherent, inviolable, and sacred. This dignity does not depend on what someone can accomplish, how attractive they are, how much wealth they possess, their age, their health, or their usefulness to society. It flows simply from the reality that they are beloved children of God, wonderfully made, and loved into existence by the Creator Himself.

The Foundations of Life’s Dignity

The very first pages of the Bible proclaim this truth: “God created man in his image; in the divine image he created him; male and female he created them” (Genesis 1:27). These words form the bedrock of all Catholic teaching on life. To be human is to bear the mark of God’s own image. From conception until natural death, therefore, human life is a sacred gift, entrusted to us to protect, to cherish, and to nurture.

Yet, we live in an age when this truth is often forgotten or even rejected. Human life can be treated as something disposable. The unborn child is threatened by abortion, the elderly or seriously ill are pressured toward assisted suicide, the stranger or immigrant can be dismissed through prejudice, and too many communities are scarred by violence, neglect, or war. In many corners of our world, human life is reduced to a commodity—something to be manipulated for convenience, profit, or social utility.

Pope St. John Paul II, in his encyclical Evangelium Vitae, (Gospel of Life) described it as an ongoing struggle between a “culture of life” and a “culture of death.” The culture of death sees life as expendable and embraces violence as a solution. It isolates and discards rather than welcomes. But the culture of life, the way of the Gospel, looks at each person as a gift.

Respecting Life at Every Stage

To be pro-life is not just about opposing abortion, though that remains central and urgent. It is about weaving the Gospel of life into every stage and every circumstance of human existence. It means accompanying the mother who feels overwhelmed, supporting families who struggle, and creating a society where children can thrive free of fear. It means refusing to abandon the elderly, the sick, or those living with disabilities, and instead, offering them love, companionship, and dignity.

Respect for life also challenges us to work for peace in a world fractured by war and hatred, to reject racism and prejudice in all their forms, and to reach out to those who seem most difficult to love—even the enemy, the incarcerated, or the one who has wronged us. To be a people of life requires courage to look beyond appearances and differences, to see in each soul the face of Christ.

Mother Teresa, who spent her life tending the poorest of the poor, is a prophet of the Gospel of life. She once said, “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.” Respect for life begins right where we are—not first in arguments or public debates, but in the daily love we extend in our homes and relationships. It is in small acts of kindness, in patient care for the vulnerable, in standing beside the voiceless, that we make the Gospel of life visible.

And, as contemporary voices like Charlie Kirk remind us, “Every life has value, and every voice deserves to be heard.” These words echo the core Christian conviction: no one is expendable, no one is beyond the Redeemer’s love. Life is not a problem to be solved, but a mystery to be embraced and cherished.

A Story of Love: A nurse once cared for a premature infant abandoned at birth. The baby weighed less than two pounds and her survival seemed impossible. Yet the nurse wrapped her gently, held her close, sang to her, prayed for her, and refused to leave her side. Hours passed into days, and against all odds, the child survived.

Years later, that little girl grew into a strong young woman. She studied, worked hard, and became a nurse herself. Her life and vocation were born from an act of love that refused to measure worth, that did not calculate whether care was “useful,” but that simply recognized and celebrated the dignity of life.

This story is a parable for us all. To respect life is to choose love over indifference, tenderness over calculation, compassion over convenience. It is to trust that when we love as Christ loves, God multiplies that love into miracles beyond imagining.

As we gather at this altar, we remember the source of that love: Jesus Christ Himself, who gave His Body and Blood so that we might have life—life abundant and eternal. The Eucharist is the food of life. To receive it is to receive not only Christ but also the commission to carry His life-giving love into the world.

To be a people of life is not easy. It requires courage to defend the unborn in the face of opposition. It takes perseverance to love the elderly when society pushes them aside. It demands sacrifice to embrace the inconvenient, the stranger, and the enemy. But this is the way of the cross, and it is also the way of joy, for it leads to resurrection and lasting hope.

On this Respect Life Sunday, let us recommit ourselves to building the culture of life. Let our families become schools of love. Let our parishes be sanctuaries of compassion where no one is forgotten. Let our voices be clear and courageous in proclaiming that every life, without exception, is a precious gift from God.

Strengthened by the Eucharist, may we go forth into the world as ambassadors of life, bearers of hope, and witnesses of the God who created us not for death, but for life everlasting.

Amen.