Homily for OT III [A] Isaiah 8:23—9:3; 1 Corinthians 1:10–13, 17; Matthew 4:12–23

In today’s liturgy, we hear a familiar refrain echo twice through Scripture—first in Isaiah’s prophecy and then again in Matthew’s Gospel: “Land of Zebulun and land of Naphtali, the way to the sea, beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles: the people who sit in darkness have seen a great light; on those dwelling in a land overshadowed by death, light has arisen.”

In Isaiah, these words are a promise. In Matthew, they become a fulfillment. The prophecy and its realization meet in Jesus Christ—the true light breaking into human darkness.

The “land of Zebulun” and “land of Naphtali” were regions in the northern part of Galilee, near the Sea of Galilee. One of their cities, Capernaum, became the center of Jesus’ public ministry. It was there that the people first experienced the Light Himself. Four fishermen—Simon Peter and Andrew, James and John—heard Him call, “Follow me,” and their response was immediate. They left their nets, their boats, and their familiar lives to follow Him and become “fishers of men.” In that moment, the light that dawned in Galilee began to spread across the world. 

But although the Light has come, darkness remains in many corners of human life. Some walk in darkness through no fault of their own, while others choose it—preferring not to see or to know what truth asks of them. The prophet’s words still speak to us: there are people “sitting” in darkness, content to remain there.

We can think of three kinds of darkness that shadow our society today.

The first is the darkness surrounding respect for life. This past week, the annual March for Life took place. Some may wonder why it still matters now that Roe v. Wade has been overturned. But the issue is far from resolved. The decision simply returned the question to the states; it did not affirm the dignity of every human life. Many still prefer not to think about what happens in abortion clinics or how deeply women and families are wounded by this tragedy. The truth is difficult and painful—but turning away from it keeps us in the dark.

A second darkness is the cruelty of human trafficking—one of the largest criminal industries in the world, generating over $150 billion annually. Much of it is fueled by a culture that thrives on exploitation and the distortion of human love. Yet many refuse to face this truth. It is easier not to think about what is hidden behind our screens, easier to look away. But those who walk with Christ cannot remain indifferent; His light exposes injustice and calls us to defend the dignity of every person.

A third, all-too-familiar darkness is the scourge of drug addiction. Hundreds of thousands in our nation lose their lives each year to overdose—a staggering destruction that touches every level of society. Families grieve, communities weaken, and hope fades. Yet even here, many hide behind excuses rather than confronting the despair beneath the surface.

As disciples of Jesus, we are called to bring His light into these very places. The world’s pain does not ask for condemnation but for compassion illuminated by truth. Some people are thrust into darkness through circumstances beyond their control—loneliness, poverty, or lack of support. These sufferings are real shadows that cry out for light. When we offer practical help, a listening ear, or simple kindness, we help them glimpse the light of Christ.

We can either be silent witnesses to a world darkened by sin and despair, or we can shine Christ’s light and allow it to transform everything it touches. In His light, our vision is renewed. What once looked hopeless begins to reveal possibility. In that light, our own stories change—from heartbreak to healing, and from darkness into dawn.   

The contrast is striking: the world is beautiful for those who live in the light; it is bleak for those who remain in darkness. As followers of Christ, we cannot keep the light to ourselves. Like the first disciples, we are sent to tell others that Jesus is alive, that He loves them, and that He calls them into His marvelous light.

Our discipleship is never meant to be private. The word Mass comes from the Latin missio, meaning “sending.” Each time we gather for the Eucharist, we are strengthened and then sent to be light-bearers, extending Christ’s mission of healing and reconciliation into the world.

Repent, for the Kingdom of heaven is at hand,” Jesus proclaimed. To repent is to turn away from the shadows and move toward the light that frees us. Each of us is personally summoned to leave behind anything that darkens the heart and follow Christ fully.

If anyone among us still walks in darkness—caught in guilt, bitterness, or fear—do not grow comfortable in the dark. The Lord does not want us simply to see His light; He wants us to become His light, reflecting Him through our words, our choices, and our compassion.

Discipleship means walking daily with Christ, allowing His radiance to dispel the shadows within us and around us. We are the people who once sat in darkness, but upon us a great light has shone. May we follow that Light wherever it leads, carrying it into every corner of our world until all creation glows with the brightness of Christ.

Lord Jesus, let Your light scatter the darkness of our hearts and the shadows of our world. Grant us the courage to answer Your call and the grace to be Your reflection to all we meet. Amen

 OT II [A] Homily: Readings: Isaiah 49:3, 5–6; 1 Corinthians 1:1–3; John 1:29–34

John the Baptist has been a constant presence in our liturgy for several weeks, and he appears again in today’s Gospel. John is about as far from a celebrity as one can get. He was not interested in saying, “Look at me,” but rather in proclaiming, “Look at him—look at Jesus.” He declares in today’s Gospel, “It was to reveal him to Israel that I came baptizing with water.”

Many people went out to the wilderness to see John; he had his own followers and considerable influence. Yet John consistently deflected attention away from himself toward the One who, as he says, “ranks before me because he existed before me.” His opening words remain his most powerful—“Look, there is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” In essence, he invites everyone: “Look at him; go to him; follow him.”

In contrast, our culture often urges us to say, “Look at me, be like me.” Yet John’s voice continues to echo through the centuries, calling us instead to look toward Jesus—to go to him and become like him. His words, “Behold the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world,” echo in every Eucharist. Just before Communion, the priest lifts up the consecrated host and repeats those same words. At that moment, we are invited, with the eyes of faith, to behold the Lord. Then we come forward to receive him, responding “Amen” as our personal act of faith. The Eucharist is the moment when we do all that John calls us to do: look upon the Lord, go to him, recognize him, and receive him.

John gives Jesus a startling title—“the Lamb of God.” He does not call him “Messiah,” though he is; nor “King of Kings,” though he is that as well. John chooses “Lamb,” because for him this captures Jesus’ mission—to take away the sins of the world. The lamb is the meekest of creatures. John could have spoken of the “Lion of Judah,” but he points instead to the lamb, linking Jesus to Isaiah’s Suffering Servant who was “like a lamb led to the slaughter” (Is 53:7). At the same time, John’s title looks forward to the Book of Revelation, where the Lamb who was slain now reigns in glory.

Calling Jesus “the Lamb of God” draws our focus to his sacrifice, which opens God’s plan of salvation. Even his name, Jesus, means “Yahweh saves.” The Word became flesh not simply to teach us wisdom or inspire us morally, but to save us—to restore God’s own life within humanity. Since the beginning, humankind has forfeited that divine life by rejecting God. The sin of Adam was the refusal to depend on God, the illusion that we could be “like God” on our own. Jesus comes as the Lamb who bears this sin, reconciling us to the Father and restoring the life we lost.

John’s entire life pointed beyond himself. His mission was to lead others to recognize Jesus as “the Chosen One of God.” He even directed his own disciples toward Jesus, humbly declaring, “He must increase; I must decrease.” Great as John was, he shaped his life around making way for someone greater.

We can all think of people who, at crucial moments, have pointed us in the right direction—teachers, parents, mentors, friends—those who helped us see what we could not yet see for ourselves. Good guides do not force us; they invite us. John did not command his followers to abandon him and join Jesus. He simply said, “Look, there is the Lamb of God.” Those who point us toward truth do so out of compassion and insight, not control. Their respect for our freedom echoes God’s own respect for human choice. Not everyone John pointed toward Jesus became a disciple, but he still invited faithfully.

Today we give thanks for the John the Baptist figures in our own lives—those who, through word and example, pointed us toward the light of Christ and remained patient even when we failed to follow. At the same time, we remember that the Lord calls each of us to be a John the Baptist for others. Our baptism gives us that vocation: to bear witness to Jesus and to help others find him.

None of us journeys to God alone. God works through people to guide us, and he uses us to guide others. We depend on this mutual support to stay on the path that leads to Christ. We can either help others walk that path or, tragically, be a stumbling block to them. Jesus reserved some of his harshest words for those who led others astray—those who, as he said, “put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me.” To guide others toward Christ is to participate in the very mission of the Gospel; to lead them away is to oppose it.

Faith is deeply personal, but it is never meant to be private. Genuine faith always faces outward; it seeks to witness, serve, and love. Jesus told his disciples, “Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” The prophet Isaiah, in today’s first reading, experienced a similar awakening when God expanded his mission. Isaiah thought his call was limited to Israel, but God told him, “It is too little for you to be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob. I will make you a light to the nations so that my salvation may reach the ends of the earth.” God’s vision is always larger than ours—always reaching beyond what we expect.

Today’s Gospel, then, leads us into a deeper understanding of the Eucharist and of who Jesus truly is. Each time we come to communion, we approach not just a symbol or a sacred ritual, but the living Christ—the Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world. We behold him, receive him, and carry him within us, so that through us his light might touch the lives of others.

Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sin of the world.

 

 

 

 

 

Pray for those of our loved ones who have wandered from the practice of the Catholic faith, walking far from Christ and his sacraments.​ Obtain for them, Lord, a true conversion of heart, a hunger for truth,
and a living desire for the Holy Eucharist and the mercy of God in confession. We pray to the Lord.

 

 

 Baptism of the Lord [A]: Is 42:1-4, 6-7; Acts 10:34-38; Mt 3:13-17

In the church’s liturgical year, the feast of the Baptism of the Lord concludes the Christmas season. We move quickly from the birth of Jesus to his baptism—from the child hidden in Nazareth to the adult beginning his public mission. The Church invites us to shift our gaze from the crib to the Jordan, from the hidden years of private growth to the public moment when the Son steps forward to be revealed.

From the outset, we must recognize that this is not the same baptism we receive when we enter the Church, though they are deeply intertwined. John’s baptism was a penitential act, undertaken by those who acknowledged their sins and wished to turn their lives back to God. People went down into the Jordan confessing their failures and desiring a fresh start. We can imagine the scene: crowds lining up for a baptism of repentance, and among them stands the one who is sinless, the one whom John had foretold. Understandably, John tries to prevent Jesus, saying, “It is I who need baptism from you… and yet you come to me!” In this moment, John recognizes that Jesus has no need to be reoriented toward God, because he is God made man, the Holy One standing among sinners.   

So why does Jesus undergo a baptism he does not need? From a theological perspective, this should not surprise us. As St. Thomas Aquinas explains, God did not need to become incarnate to redeem humanity; he could have done so in another way. Yet God chose to dwell among us in the person of Jesus. This choice was not strictly necessary, but it was "fitting," revealing the humility and nearness of God.

Throughout Christ’s life, we see God’s desire to be in complete solidarity with humanity. By assuming a human nature, Christ takes on everything essential to being human in order to redeem and sanctify it from within. We are so accustomed to sin that we often think it is part of what it means to be human. When someone fails, we say, “He’s only human.” But theologically, sin is not natural to humanity; it is a distortion of it. Sin is like a hole in a sock—something that does not belong there, a tear in what God created good.   

All of us know what it is like to feel isolated because of our sins or ashamed of our thoughts and actions. Such experiences can distance us from others and lead us to believe that God would want nothing to do with us. We may be tempted to hide, to stay away from prayer, from the sacraments, and from the community of believers. Today’s feast reminds us that God knows us as we are and still chooses to associate himself with us. He stands in line with sinners; he steps into the water with them. He is among us to guide, heal, and redeem.   

Christ’s baptism also reminds us that, although we are sinners and deeply loved by God, we are called to repentance. Repentance is the gateway through which God’s divine life bears fruit in us. Jesus himself had no need to repent, yet by receiving a baptism of repentance—and by giving the Church the sacrament of Reconciliation as a fruit of his sacrifice on Calvary—he shows us the Christian way: it is a way of continual turning back to the Father whose love never ceases.   

In this act, he identifies himself with the broken and the burdened so completely that nothing truly human, except sin itself, is foreign to him. Matthew has already named him Emmanuel, God‑with‑us; in the Jordan, Emmanuel steps into the water with us. He will later share tables with tax collectors and finally be crucified between two criminals. He begins his public ministry as he will end it: standing with sinners so as to save them from within their condition.   

The baptism of Jesus in the Jordan is the pattern for all Christian baptisms. The same Holy Spirit who comes down on Jesus is poured out on each of the baptized. The words addressed to Jesus, “This is my beloved Son,” in some sense echo over every font: “This is my beloved son, this is my beloved daughter; my favour rests on this child.” In baptism, Christ draws us into his own relationship with the Father so that, with the Spirit of the Son in our hearts, we can cry out “Abba, Father” as he did. His God becomes our God; his Father becomes our Father; his inheritance of eternal life becomes our destiny.   

Because of this, baptism is not just a beautiful family occasion from the past or a date on a certificate. It is the foundation of our Christian identity and the source of our deepest dignity. Today is a good day to remember our baptism, to thank God for the grace first given then, and to pray for those—parents, godparents, and community—who brought us to the font. The more we remember our baptism, the more clearly we hear the Father’s quiet word in prayer: “You are my beloved,” even when our failures suggest otherwise.   

His baptism was the day when Jesus began to do the Father’s work in earnest. The day of our baptism had a similar significance. Baptism is not only a moment of grace; it is a moment when we are entrusted with a share in Christ’s mission. Having been anointed with the Spirit, we are sent to bring God’s justice and mercy to others. This means caring for the most vulnerable, making sure not to break the "bruised reed" or quench the "wavering flame," as Isaiah says of the Servant.

Most of us were given this calling at an age when we were too young to understand it. We spend our lives growing into what that early anointing really means. On this feast, the Church invites us to renew our baptismal promises: to reject whatever distorts God’s image in us and to believe again in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Standing with Jesus in the Jordan, we ask for the grace to live as beloved sons and daughters, making our daily work, our relationships, and our service a true continuation of Christ’s mission in the world. May the Lord help us to renew in us the grace of baptism today.

 EPIPHANY OF THE LORD: Is 60:1-6; Eph 3:2-3a, 5-6; Mt 2:1-12 

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Epiphany, a word that means manifestation or showing forth. It marks that moment when the light of Christ bursts out of the humble stable in Bethlehem and shines upon the entire world. At the heart of this mystery are the Magi—mysterious travelers who remind us that seeking God is the most noble journey a person can undertake.

Who Were the Magi? Tradition calls them wise men, priests, and kings. In truth, they were likely all three. The word magi originally referred to Persian priests, scholars who studied the stars and sought wisdom in the movements of the heavens. They were the scientists and philosophers of their age—men who believed that creation itself bore the fingerprints of God.

Their arrival in Jerusalem caused great commotion. Only influential men could obtain an audience with a jealous ruler like Herod. Though tradition gives them the names Balthasar, Melchior, and Gaspar—and assumes there were three because of the gifts they offered—the Gospel leaves their exact identity a mystery. What matters most is their wisdom. In Scripture, wisdom is not mere knowledge but the ability to recognize God's will and the courage to act upon it.

The Magi came seeking “the newborn King of the Jews.” Naturally, they stopped first at the royal palace, for Herod held that title granted by Rome. They expected that a royal birth would take place in a royal household. Yet this encounter created deep tension. Herod was troubled, and with him, all Jerusalem. He feared a rival to his throne—but the Child he dreaded was not a political contender. He was the Lord of heaven and earth, a King whose power would be revealed in love and sacrifice.

It is striking that the title King of the Jews appears in Matthew’s Gospel only twice—here, at the cradle, and later, at the Cross. The King sought by the Magi as an infant is the same King who will one day hang upon a Cross for the salvation of humankind.

The story of the Magi reveals two essential movements of faith: attentiveness and action. They noticed the star because they were looking up. In our modern world, we are often "curved in on ourselves," our eyes fixed downward on our screens, our problems, or our schedules. We often miss the "stars" God places in our path—those moments of grace, beauty, or sudden conviction that call us toward something greater.

The Magi saw the star—and they followed it. They left behind comfort, wealth, and security to pursue a light that led them into the unknown. They remind us that to meet Christ, we must be willing to leave behind our familiar landscapes and venture into deeper trust.

When the Magi arrived at the humble dwelling in Bethlehem, they did something truly extraordinary. They fell to their knees and did homage. To do homage is to bow completely—to surrender heart and will in the presence of greatness. Before offering their gifts, they offered themselves. Their posture speaks of total openness before the mystery of God.

This gesture continues today whenever we genuflect before the Blessed Sacrament. It is a confession of faith written in the body: “You are God, and I am yours.” Only after they adored did the Magi present their gifts—gold, frankincense, and myrrh—each a sign of the Child’s mission:

Gold for His kingship—He is the true ruler of hearts and nations.

Frankincense for His divinity—rising like prayer, a sign that this Child is God-with-us.

Myrrh for His humanity and sacrifice—a burial perfume foretelling the gift of His life for the world.

From the cradle to the Cross, His kingship is a kingship of love.

The most transformative moment in the story comes after they met the Child. Warned in a dream not to return to Herod, the Magi “went home by another way.” This line holds the whole meaning of Epiphany: once you have encountered the living God, you cannot return the same way.

Faith changes our direction. To meet Christ is to be redirected—to travel a new route with new priorities, new eyes, and a new heart. We cannot return to our old “Herods”: our rivalries, fears, grudges, or complacency. God’s light points the way toward forgiveness, generosity, and peace.

As we step into a new year, we, too, are invited to travel with the Magi. Their story is the pattern for every believer’s life—a continual seeking of Christ’s presence. The journey of faith often begins with curiosity but must end in worship. It leads us beyond our narrow boundaries into the vastness of God’s plan.

Isaiah’s prophecy today reminds us that this light is not meant for one nation alone: “Nations shall walk by your light, and kings by your shining radiance.” The Epiphany proclaims that Christ belongs to all peoples. Saint Paul echoes this in Ephesians, rejoicing that the Gentiles “are coheirs, members of the same body.” The Magi’s pilgrimage is the first chapter of this great revelation—that God’s mercy has no borders.

As we reflect on the strenuous journey of the magi today, let’s see what we can offer to the Baby in the manger? Each of us has something to lay before the Christ Child:
our gold—our talents and time offered for His kingdom;
our frankincense—our prayers and praise that rise like incense to heaven; our myrrh—our sorrows and sacrifices united with His for the redemption of the world.

The Epiphany reminds us that the light of Christ is not a private flame to warm a few hearts—it is a blazing fire meant to illumine the whole world.

So let us, like the Magi, keep our eyes lifted to God’s signs, follow wherever His light leads, and return home transformed—walking always by another way, the way of faith, humility, and love.

 

 

 

 

 

Mary, Mother of God: Luke 2:16-21

Today, as the world marks the beginning of a new secular year, the Church invites us to celebrate one of the greatest feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary. This coincidence is not merely a matter of the calendar; it is a profound theological statement. As we stand at the threshold of a new year, we look to Mary, the Theotokos (God-bearer), who stood at the threshold of a new age for all humanity.

Mary: The First Disciple and Mother

In recent decades, the Church has deepened its appreciation for Mary as the "first disciple"—the one who models what it means to follow Jesus with perfect fidelity. However, today’s feast focuses on a role even more fundamental: her biological and spiritual motherhood. Before Mary became a disciple of Jesus, he was a disciple of hers. In the quiet home of Nazareth, it was through Mary and Joseph that Jesus was initiated into the religious traditions of his people. He learned the psalms from her lips and the stories of the Covenant from her heart.

Even more essentially, Mary provided the very "yes" that allowed the Word to become flesh. She was the flesh and blood from which the human body of Jesus was formed. As St. Paul reminds us in today’s second reading, Jesus was "born of a woman." This phrase is not a minor detail; it is the anchor of our salvation. It means that God’s first dwelling on earth was not a temple made of stone, but the womb of a woman.

A Dogma of Faith: Theotokos

The title "Mother of God" is among Mary’s most exalted, but its origin is rooted in a deep truth about Jesus himself. In AD 431, the Council of Ephesus formally affirmed that Mary is truly the Mother of God. Later, in AD 451, the Council of Chalcedon affirmed this as a dogma of the Church.

This declaration was as much about the Son as it was about the Mother. To call Mary the Mother of God is to insist that Jesus is not two separate persons—one human and one divine—but one Person with two natures. Because Jesus is truly God and truly man, Mary is not just the mother of a great prophet or a holy man; she is the mother of the Second Person of the Holy Trinity. As Elizabeth cried out in greeting, "Why is this granted me, that the mother of my Lord should come to me?" (Lk 1:43).

The Heart of a Contemplative

Despite these high titles, the Gospel of Luke brings us back to a simple, humble scene in Bethlehem. We see Mary, Joseph, and the infant lying in a manger. There is no palace, no army, only the visit of lowly shepherds. Here, we encounter Mary as a contemplative. Luke tells us that "Mary treasured all these words, pondering them in her heart" (Lk 2:19).

What was she pondering? She was weighing the extraordinary promises of the angels against the vulnerability of her newborn child. This child was entirely dependent on her for survival. Without her motherly care and Joseph’s protection, the Word made flesh would have had no earthly future. Mary’s identity was forever woven into the identity of the Savior. She was the mother of Emmanuel—God-with-us.

Jesus himself eventually expanded this definition of motherhood. He declared, "My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and put it into practice" (Luke 8:21). Mary is the preeminent example of this. She did not just bear Christ physically; she conceived him in her heart through faith long before she conceived him in her womb. By listening to the Word and putting it into practice, she shows us how we, too, can "give birth" to Christ’s presence in our own lives and in the world today.

The Covenant and the Name

Today’s Gospel also mentions the circumcision of the Lord. In the Jewish tradition, circumcision was the physical sign of a covenant relationship with God—a promise that God would be a caring Father and the person would live as a member of God's holy people. By submitting Jesus to this rite, Mary and Joseph showed their total obedience to God’s law.

At this ceremony, the child was given the name Jesus, a name chosen by God and delivered by an angel. This name, meaning "God saves," defines his entire mission. As we begin a new year, we do so under the protection of this Name and the intercession of the Mother who first whispered it.

Entering the New Year with Hope

The feast of Mary’s motherhood is the most appropriate way to begin the secular year. It reminds us that we do not face the unknown future alone. Because of the "new age" ushered in by Mary’s Son, we have been adopted as sons and daughters of God. The Spirit of the Son has been poured into our hearts, allowing us to cry out, "Abba, Father!"

As we look toward the months ahead, we likely have resolutions to keep and challenges to face. Following through on these resolutions is not down to our willpower alone. We have been "greatly graced" through Mary’s Son. His power is available to us every day to enable us to make new beginnings.

Mary is the only person in Scripture present at every major juncture of Jesus’ life, from the wooden manger to the wooden Cross. She remains present to us now, always pointing away from herself and toward her Son, saying: "Look, here is your Savior."

When Mary gave birth, it was a new beginning for the entire universe. Today, let us make our own new beginning in the power and strength of the Holy Spirit.

 

 

THE HOLY FAMILY OF JESUS, MARY & JOSEPH (Sirach 3:2-6, 12-14, Colossians 3:12-21, Matthew 2:13-15, 19-23).

 The Holy Family: A School of Love and Obedience

Today, on the Feast of the Holy Family, the Church invites us to look at the quiet, ordinary life of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph in Nazareth. This is not a feast of miracles or sermons on a mountain, but of a family at home: a carpenter at his bench, a mother tending the house, a child growing in wisdom and grace. In this simple life, God reveals something profound: holiness is not found only in grand gestures, but in daily love, fidelity, and obedience to God’s will.

In the first reading, Sirach reminds us that honoring father and mother is a way of honoring God. He speaks of the blessing that comes to those who respect their parents, and of the peace that fills a home where love and reverence are lived. This is not just ancient wisdom; it is a reflection of the very life of the Holy Family. In Nazareth, Jesus “was obedient to them” (Luke 2:51). He, the Son of God, submitted Himself to Mary and Joseph, not because He needed to, but because He wanted to show us how to live in right relationship—with God and with one another.

A Family That Faced Real Trials

We sometimes romanticize the Holy Family, imagining them always peaceful and serene. But today’s Gospel reminds us that their life was far from easy. An angel warns Joseph: “Rise, take the child and his mother, flee to Egypt, and stay there until I tell you” (Mt 2:13). In an instant, this family becomes refugees, fleeing under cover of night to a foreign land, far from home and safety. Later, they return to Nazareth, only to live under the shadow of Herod’s violence and the suspicion of a small town.

They knew fear, displacement, and the ache of a missing child when Jesus stayed behind in Jerusalem at age twelve. Yet through it all, they remained faithful. Joseph protected and provided, Mary pondered all things in her heart, and Jesus grew in obedience and love. In their home, prayer, work, and mutual care formed the rhythm of life. That is the model for every Christian family: not a life without problems, but a life where problems are faced together, in trust and in prayer.

 

The Domestic Church

The Church calls the Christian family a “domestic church” — a little church in the home. In our homes, God wants to be present just as He was in Nazareth. He wants to be honored in the way we speak to one another, in how we forgive when we hurt each other, in how we care for the young, the old, and the sick.

Paul’s words in the second reading are a practical guide for this domestic church: “Put on heartfelt compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience, bearing with one another and forgiving one another” (Col 3:12–13). These are not abstract virtues; they are the daily bread of family life. They are lived in the small things: a kind word when someone is tired, patience when a child spills milk, forgiveness after a harsh tone, and the quiet decision to choose love again and again.

Sirach’s call to honor parents is not a one‑way duty. It is part of a web of mutual respect: children honoring parents, parents loving and guiding children, and all members of the household treating one another with justice and care. When that happens, the home becomes a school of virtue, where faith is caught more than taught.

A Call to Renew Our Families

Today’s feast is not only a celebration; it is a call. A call to renew our families in the image of the Holy Family. For those who are parents: How do you lead your home in prayer and virtue? Do you make time to pray together, even if only a short grace before meals or a Hail Mary at night? Do you model patience, forgiveness, and trust in God, especially when things go wrong?

For children and young people: How do you honor your parents and siblings, even when it’s hard? Honoring parents does not mean blind obedience, but it does mean respect, gratitude, and a willingness to listen and to apologize when you’ve hurt someone. It means choosing to build up your family, not tear it down with sarcasm, anger, or silence.

For those who are single, widowed, or without a family of their own: How can you be a source of peace and love in the families around you? You can be a listening ear, a helping hand, a prayerful presence. You can help build up the domestic church wherever you are welcomed.

Nazareth in Our Homes

The Holy Family is not a distant ideal; they are our companions and intercessors. They know the joys and struggles of family life. They pray for us, that our homes may be places where Christ is loved, where His Word is heard, and where love is not just spoken, but lived.

At the end of his life, Jesus entrusted Mary to John and John to Mary, creating a new family of faith. In the same way, every Christian family is called to be a sign of God’s love in the world. Let us ask the Holy Family to help us build homes where:

Prayer is regular and sincere,

Work is done with dignity and joy,

Children are raised in faith and freedom,

The elderly and vulnerable are honored,

And love is patient, kind, and forgiving.

May the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph teach us to live simply, love deeply, and walk faithfully with God, so that our homes, like Nazareth, may become a dwelling place of the Lord.

 Christmas Dawn: Is 9:1-6; Tit 2:11-14; Lk 2:1-14 

A young boy walks into a pet shop after seeing a sign: “Puppies for Sale.” The owner whistles, and five tiny balls of fur come tumbling down the aisle, full of life and energy. But one puppy lags behind, hobbling, doing its best to keep up. The boy doesn’t hesitate. He points to the limping puppy and says, “I want that one.”

The owner, trying to be kind, explains that this puppy was born with a hip deformity. He’ll always limp. He’ll never run and play like the others. “You don’t want to buy that one,” he says. “I’ll even give him to you for free.”

The boy reaches down, pulls up his pant leg, and reveals a heavy metal leg brace supporting a badly twisted leg. He looks up and says softly, “I don’t run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands.”

That boy didn’t choose the strongest, fastest, most perfect puppy. He chose the one who was broken, because he knew what it meant to be broken. He chose the one who needed someone who understood.

And that, brothers and sisters, is exactly what God did at Christmas.

In Jesus, God didn’t come as a powerful emperor, a flawless athlete, or a perfect, untouched being. He came as a helpless infant, born in a stable, laid in a feeding trough. He came into a world of pain, of weakness, of disability and disease. He came not to avoid our brokenness, but to enter into it.

The Word became flesh and dwelt among us (John 1:14). That means God took on our humanity in all its fragility: our aches, our limitations, our loneliness, our shame. He didn’t come to fix us from a distance; he came to live with us, to walk with us, to limp with us, if need be.

Think of the people Jesus sought out: the blind, the lame, the lepers, the outcasts, the sinners. He didn’t say, “You’re not good enough; I’ll wait until you’re perfect.” He said, “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.” (Matt 11:28)

In that stable, God is saying: “I see you. I know your pain. I know your limp. I know the brace you wear, whether it’s metal on your leg or sorrow in your heart, illness in your body, or loneliness in your life. I am here. I am with you. And I love you as you are.”

Christmas is not a holiday for the perfect. It is a feast for the broken, the struggling, the ones who feel they don’t measure up. It is for the child with the brace, the parent with the sick child, the elder with failing strength, the one grieving, the one who feels left behind.

God didn’t send a Savior who looks down on weakness. He sent a Savior who shares it. He sent Emmanuel: God with us.

As the first reading from Isaiah says to the Israelites, God comes to His people to redeem them, and they will be frequented by the Lord and they will not be abandoned.

According to Luke, the birth of Jesus takes place on the margins, on the edge of the human community. It was perhaps an appropriate beginning for someone who would die a marginalized figure, enduring the Roman death of crucifixion, which is normally reserved for criminals and slaves. Between his birth and his death, during his public ministry, Jesus spoke of himself as the Son of Man who has nowhere to lay his head.

The wood of the manger and the wood of the cross both speak to us of God’s desire to embrace us in his love. They both proclaim that God’s light shines in our darkness and God’s deeply personal love for each one of us never dies away. We are sent from this feast to reflect something of the light of this love to each other.

The shepherds were despised in their time, often excluded from temple worship and regarded as “unclean.” Yet, they were the first to receive the angelic message and the first to adore the Savior. The irony is divine: those who tended the temple lambs came to adore the true “Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world.” Their humble hearts recognized in the manger the presence of God Himself.

The Gospel says they “went in haste” to Bethlehem. Having encountered Christ, they returned to their fields “glorifying and praising God.” Their daily routine did not change—but they did. Their joy overflowed into proclamation. They became the first missionaries of Christmas. So too, we are called to move from hearing the Good News to becoming it—living proof that God’s love still walks among His people.

God is still speaking to us. Perhaps not through an angel’s song, but through moments of conscience, inspiration, and quiet conviction. How often have we heard a voice within urging us to forgive, to speak kindly, to act justly—and ignored it? The same Spirit who stirred the shepherds speaks today in the silence of our hearts. The question is: will we listen? Will we respond with Mary’s trust, the shepherds’ obedience, or the Magi’s perseverance?

The Liturgy today invites us to walk the shepherds’ path—from hearing to seeing to living the light. They began as listeners in the night, became witnesses at the manger, and ended as bringers of light back into the world. That is our pilgrimage as well.

The child Jesus, the adult Jesus, the crucified and risen Jesus, is God’s gracious Word to us, a Word that assures us that we are profoundly loved, that we are of infinite value, and that we have an eternal destiny. God’s word to us in Jesus also encourages us to believe that, because we are so greatly graced, we are capable of great things, capable, indeed, of a love which is a genuine reflection of God’s own love.

May we, Lord, like the shepherds, respond in worship, glorifying You for all that You have done. Help us to share the hope of Christmas with the world around us, and to live in the light of Your love each and every day. In Jesus’ name, Amen.