ADVENT II [A]: Is 11:1-10; Rom 15:4-9; Mt 3:1-12  

This Sunday, the second candle on our Advent wreath has been lit. We sense that the countdown to Christmas has begun in earnest. The gospel reading for this Sunday presents us with someone who seems a little out of place in the run-up to Christmas. His way of addressing respectable people as ‘Brood of vipers’ strikes a rather jarring note in this season of goodwill. By any standards, it is not what would be termed today ‘politically correct’ language. His basic message is ‘Repent’. He warns those who will not heed this message that they are like trees that fail to bear fruit and, therefore, are just about to be cut down.

The reading suggests that John was intolerant of complacency. His harshest words were for those who repeatedly declared, ‘We have Abraham for our father’, and were so content in that knowledge that they never looked seriously at their own lives. We know from experience that we are all prone to complacency. The awareness that we have done nothing seriously wrong can leave us content. We can drift along feeling reasonably pleased with ourselves most of the time. As an uncompromising man of the wilderness, John had no hesitation in challenging complacency. His voice continues to call out to us to look seriously at our lives and to ask ourselves what needs to change if our lives are to bear good fruit that is life-giving for others. John reminds us that we are not yet all that the Lord is calling us to be. He asks us to keep setting out on a journey, a journey of repentance and renewal.

We need to repent because the Kingdom of God is near. We need to prepare for the Lord who is coming. John confirmed that the One who was coming was infinitely greater than himself. “You think, I'm something,” John says to those people from Jerusalem and all of Judea. “I am not fit to loosen the straps of his sandals, let alone wash his feet. So prepare,” John says, “the Kingdom of God is near.” That was the main message of John. It was also the basic message of Jesus and of the disciples. We pray for this Kingdom to come every time we say the Our Father, thy Kingdom come.

If the Kingdom of God comes, what would change in the world, in our lives? The first reading from Isaiah says that the One to Come would not judge by appearance nor by hearsay. The rich would not have an advantage over the poor should they go to court. Right now, poor people often receive far greater sentences than the rich who can afford a good lawyer. Instead he will judge the poor with justice, and decide aright for the land's afflicted. He shall strike the ruthless with the rod of his mouth, and with the breath of his lips he shall slay the wicked. Justice shall be the band around his waist, and faithfulness a belt upon his hips. Those people who are bullies in the way they treat others, those people who care only about themselves, will have to answer to the One Who Is to Come.

In a poetic way, Isaiah prophesies a time when there is no more killing, when even the animals no longer feed on each other, a time when little children no longer die. The baby shall play by the cobra's den, and the child shall lay his hand on the adder's lair.

 If this were the Kingdom of God, then accumulation of possessions would no longer be the goal of people’s lives. They would work hard for love, not for stuff. People would be satisfied with what they need, and not be concerned with what they want.

If the coming of the Kingdom of God is going to make radical changes to the world, and if we really want this, then the question that naturally follows is: what am I doing about it? What am I, what are you doing to bring about the change that results from the coming of the Kingdom? We, you are doing a great deal already. First, we are here to grow in our faith. We are here to ask the Lord to help us withstand the temptations of the world. Second, parents first, but all of us are engaged in raising children for God. Whether it’s teaching your 9-year-old to be truthful, making your home a holy place, a little church, or helping with religious education or some form of youth ministry, be it in the Church or on the sports field or in the arts, you are raising children for God. We spend a great deal of time and energy on our children, and it is all worth it if it helps them become that unique reflection of God they were created to bring to the world.

We are doing a great deal to make the Kingdom a reality, but we have so much more we can do and need to do. What can we do about the people who are homeless and who due to psychological issues, cannot hold a job? What can we do for families that have a chronically ill child or a child with mental or emotional needs? What can we do to further mutual understanding and respect in a society that has granted a degree of credence to its radical elements? There is much we have to do. Working for justice is the work of the Kingdom. It is first on Isaiah’s list of the work of the One Who Is to Come.

 

If we are to take Advent seriously, we have to take John the Baptist seriously and repent of our comfort with sin. This is the only way our society and the Church can be transformed.

Let’s pray today that the Lord may shake us out of our comfort zone and prepare us for the Coming of Christ and his Kingdom by repenting of our sins and renewing our lives through prayer, penance, and the sharing of our blessings with others.

 

 

 I  ADVENT [A] Is 2:1-5; Rom 13:11-14; Mt 24:37-44     

Today we begin a new liturgical year with the First Sunday of Advent. Advent is a season of holy longing: we look back to Christ’s first coming in humility at Bethlehem, and we look forward to his coming in glory at the end of time. The readings for Year A place us immediately in that tension between promise and urgency: a vision of peace from Isaiah, a call to wake up from St Paul, and Jesus’ own warning to “stay awake” in the Gospel of Matthew.

1. A Mountain of Peace (Isaiah 2:1–5)

Isaiah gives us a breathtaking vision: in the days to come, the mountain of the Lord’s house will be raised high, and all nations will stream to it. Swords will be beaten into ploughshares, spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift sword against nation, and they shall learn war no more.

This is not naïve optimism; Isaiah speaks these words into a world of violence, idolatry, and injustice. God does not ignore the darkness—he promises to enter it and transform it. Advent begins here: with a promise that God wants to teach us his ways so that we may “walk in his paths” and “walk in the light of the Lord.” The question becomes very personal: am I willing to let God re-forge the “weapons” in my own heart—my harsh words, resentments, and prejudices—into instruments of peace, forgiveness, and service?

2. Wake Up: Salvation Is Near (Romans 13:11–14)

St Paul takes that vision and presses it into our daily lives: “It is the hour now for you to wake from sleep… the night is advanced, the day is at hand.” Advent is not spiritual decoration; it is an alarm clock. Paul is not speaking about physical sleep, but about spiritual drowsiness—when we drift, compromise, and live on autopilot.

He names the darkness plainly: “orgies and drunkenness, promiscuity and licentiousness, rivalry and jealousy.” In our own language we might say: addictions, sexual sin, grudges, constant comparison, gossip, and the subtle selfishness that makes everything about “me.” Instead, Paul says, “put on the Lord Jesus Christ.” Advent is the time to change clothes spiritually: to lay aside old patterns and consciously “put on” Christ’s attitudes—his purity, his patience, his mercy, his courage.

3. As in the Days of Noah (Matthew 24:37–44)

In the Gospel, Jesus gives a sobering example: in the days of Noah, people were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage—ordinary life—“and they did not know until the flood came and carried them all away.” Their problem was not that they were doing evil every second; their problem was that they were completely unprepared. They lived as if God would never act, as if nothing ultimate was at stake.

Jesus tells us, “So too, you also must be prepared, for at an hour you do not expect, the Son of Man will come.” Advent reminds us that our lives are not circular—they are moving toward a meeting with the Lord. That meeting may be at the end of time, or at the moment of our death; in either case, it will be personal. The point is not to frighten us, but to free us from living half-awake, half-committed lives.

4. Staying Awake: Practically

What does it mean, concretely, to “stay awake” this Advent?

Spiritually: making time each day for prayer, Scripture, and examination of conscience. Asking honestly: where am I asleep? Where have I let sin become “normal”?

Sacramentally: coming to Confession during Advent, not as a chore, but as a way of stepping out of darkness and into the light. Letting Christ wash away what we cannot fix.

Relationally: choosing reconciliation over resentment, especially in families. Advent is a powerful time to pick up the phone, write the letter, or have the conversation that says, “I want peace between us.”

Morally: refusing to cooperate with “the works of darkness” that our culture blesses—whether that is impurity, dishonesty, cruelty online, or indifference to the poor—and instead taking small, concrete steps in holiness.

None of us can end all wars, but every one of us can stop one harsh word, one act of revenge, one injustice in our own sphere. That is how swords become ploughshares, one heart at a time.

5. Walking in the Light

Isaiah ends with an invitation: “O house of Jacob, come, let us walk in the light of the Lord.” Advent is not only about watching the horizon for Christ’s coming; it is about walking now in his light so that his coming will not find us strangers to him.

We are not Christians merely by label, but by life: by putting on Christ, day after day. If we let him awaken us, heal us, and re-shape our priorities, then Christmas will not be just lights and sentiment, but the celebration of a real change in us. The Child of Bethlehem is also the Lord who will come in glory.

So today the Church places these words in our ears and hearts: “It is the hour now for you to wake from sleep… So stay awake… Be prepared.” May this Advent be a time when we truly rise from spiritual drowsiness, walk in the light, and help, in our own small but real ways, to build that mountain of peace that God has promised.

 

 

 

 CHRIST THE KING: 2 Sm 5:1-3; Col 1:12-20; Lk 23:35-43.

Each year, on the final Sunday of the liturgical calendar, the Church celebrates the Solemnity of Our Lord Jesus Christ, King of the Universe. This feast stands as both a culmination and a beginning: it closes one year of the Church’s pilgrimage and opens our hearts toward the Advent of the eternal Kingdom. It invites us to look beyond the passing empires of the world and to anchor our faith in the sovereignty of Christ—a kingship unlike any other known to human history.

The idea of kingship often conjures images of power, majesty, and command. Our world associates kings with wealth, political authority, and armies. Yet in the Gospel, Jesus turns this understanding upside down. When Pilate questions Him, “Are you the King of the Jews?”, Jesus responds not with pride but with profound surrender: “My kingdom is not of this world.” His throne is the Cross, His crown is made of thorns, and His royal robe is stained with His own blood. This inversion reveals the mystery of divine kingship—one built not on domination but on love, not on conquest but on service, not on fear but on mercy.

The Kingship of the Cross

On the Cross, Jesus reigns. From that place of humiliation and suffering, He exercises supreme authority by forgiving those who crucify Him, by embracing the repentant thief, and by entrusting His spirit to the Father. Unlike earthly rulers who secure power through violence, Jesus reigns through love that gives itself completely. His foes mock Him with the sign, “This is the King of the Jews,” intending it as a statement of irony. Yet in God’s providence, it declares the deepest truth of salvation: the King has come to save not by destroying His enemies but by dying for them.

In Luke’s account, we see two thieves crucified beside Him. One joins the mockery, rejecting this so-called king who cannot even save Himself. The other thief, in a moment of grace, perceives something astonishing. Beneath the wounds, beyond the agony, he recognizes the presence of true royalty. “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” With that simple act of faith, he receives the King’s promise: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.” Here the Kingdom of God reveals its nature—it is not a realm of privilege but of mercy; it welcomes all who, like the good thief, trust in the compassion of Christ.

A Different Kind of Power

Christ’s kingship forces us to reexamine our understanding of power and authority. In a world still dominated by ambition and self-interest, the Cross proclaims a sovereignty rooted in self-giving love. True authority, in God’s plan, is not the capacity to enforce one’s will but the willingness to serve others for their good. This is why Jesus tells His disciples, “Whoever would be great among you must be your servant.” He does not abolish kingship; He transforms it. He redefines what it means to rule by identifying kingship with service and sacrifice.

Pope Pius XI instituted this feast in 1925, during a time when secular ideologies were rising—fascism, communism, and nationalism. The world was witnessing leaders who sought to rule through fear, propaganda, and military might. The Church responded by proclaiming Christ as the true King, emphasizing that all political systems and human agendas must ultimately stand under His judgment. Even today, amid new forms of authoritarianism, consumerism, and moral confusion, we need this reminder. Christ is King not because we allow Him to be, but because in Him, all creation finds its order and final destiny.

Christ’s Reign Among Us

Yet the Kingship of Christ is not only a future promise; it is present even now, wherever hearts open to His reign. When we forgive, when we choose peace over revenge, when we show compassion to the poor or speak truth amid injustice, Christ’s Kingdom becomes visible in our midst. Every act of mercy expands His dominion. Every act of love proclaims His victory over hatred. As St. Paul writes in his letter to the Colossians, through Christ, the Father “has transferred us from the power of darkness into the kingdom of His beloved Son.” The Kingdom is already here, though not yet complete; it grows quietly in the hearts of the faithful until the day of Christ’s return, when God will be “all in all.”

Living Under the Reign of Christ

To declare “Christ is King” is not merely to recite a creed; it is a call to conversion. It asks whether He truly reigns in our hearts. Does His word guide our choices? Does His mercy shape our relationships? Does His peace govern our anxieties? The Kingdom of Christ begins wherever we surrender self-centeredness and allow His Spirit to lead us. That surrender is often painful—our pride resists it—but it is also liberating. Under the gentle rule of Christ, burdens become lighter, and even in suffering, we discover peace that the world cannot give.

In practical terms, living under Christ’s reign means embracing His vision of justice and peace. It means defending the dignity of every human life, seeking reconciliation instead of division, and serving those on the margins of society—the hungry, the lonely, the forgotten. In them, Christ the King is hidden and waiting to be served. “Whatever you did for one of these least brothers of mine, you did for me.” The final judgment, as Matthew’s Gospel reminds us, will not measure our achievements but our love—whether we have recognized the royal presence of Christ in others.

As we kneel before the altar today, we stand before our King. Not a distant monarch, but a Shepherd who knows His sheep; not a ruler enthroned in gold, but a Savior whose throne is the Cross. His crown is mercy, His law is love, His banner is forgiveness. To proclaim “Christ the King” is to pledge loyalty to this kingdom of love—to resist hatred, greed, and despair, and to live as citizens of heaven even while walking the earth.

May this feast renew in us the courage to let Christ truly reign—in our homes, our communities, and our hearts. 

 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.