Fr. Kondik's Written Homilies
Last Sunday, we reflected on the image of a scale—an instrument of justice, a symbol of rightly ordered love. We considered the steward in Jesus’ parable who acted with urgency, using what he had not to preserve comfort, but to secure a future. The challenge was clear: weigh our lives not by what we accumulate, but by how we invest in eternity.
This Sunday, the image shifts. We stand not before a scale, but at a gate. And lying at that gate is Lazarus.
The rich man in Jesus’ parable does not abuse Lazarus. He does not attack him. He simply fails to respond. And in that silence, a deeper sin emerges: the sin of omission.
St. Thomas Aquinas teaches that charity begins with attention—but it must lead to action. We are called not only to recognize our neighbor, but to respond with compassion. The rich man’s failure was not in possessing wealth, but in withholding mercy. He may have seen Lazarus—but he did not care. He did not act.
When both men die, the reversal is stark. Lazarus is carried to the bosom of Abraham. The rich man is buried—and finds himself in torment. The chasm between them is not just spatial; it is moral. It is the distance between compassion and complacency.
This parable is not just about wealth. It is about urgency. Last week’s steward acted decisively. This week’s rich man delays—and discovers that some doors do not reopen.
The readings ask us: Who is Lazarus at our gate? Is it the neighbor we avoid? The stranger we dismiss? The suffering we scroll past?
Psalm 146 reminds us: “The Lord protects strangers. He sustains the widow and the orphan.” If God sees them—and acts for them—so must we.
Let us not wait until the gate becomes a chasm. Let us reorder our love now. Let us see Lazarus now. And let our gaze become grace.
May our gaze bring blessing to those in need, and merit for us—not for pride or reward, but for the sake of God’s love.
Amen.
Picture a scale. Balanced. Honest. Just. Now picture someone tampering with it—tilting the beam, shaving the weights. That’s the scene the prophet Amos shows us:
“When will the new moon be over, that we may sell grain? And the Sabbath, that we may market wheat—making the ephah small and the shekel great, and dealing deceitfully with false balances?” (Amos 8:5)
The merchants don’t just cheat—they rush. They push through sacred time. They treat the Sabbath—the Lord’s Day—and the new moon, moments set aside for worship and rest, as obstacles to profit. They don’t ignore holiness. They replace it.
This isn’t ancient corruption. It’s a mirror. Today, we rush through sacred time—not with grain and scales, but with algorithms and quarterly targets. Companies flood holy days with sales. Advertisers drown Sundays in noise. Even Christmas gets swallowed by profit margins.
The question isn’t “When will the Sabbath be over?” It’s “How can we monetize it?”
And the scales? They still tilt. Governments massage inflation data. Corporations shrink products while raising prices. Forecasts promise stability while families quietly notice they are falling behind.
The deception doesn’t always show itself—but it’s there. And it erodes trust, dignity, and justice.
In the Gospel, Jesus tells a story. A steward mismanages his master’s goods. Word spreads—he’s about to be dismissed. So he acts. Fast. He rewrites debts. Cuts deals. Secures his future. And surprisingly, the master praises him—not for cheating, but for urgency.
Jesus doesn’t endorse dishonesty. He highlights decisiveness.
The steward doesn’t wait. He moves. And Jesus wants us to do the same—not with money, but with purpose and intention.
So we ask: Are we using what we’ve been given—or just preserving it?
The Gospel sharpens here. It’s not about being clever—it’s about being well ordered. About using what we’ve been given with intention—not randomly, not reactively, but for a higher purpose.
Let’s be clear. Money isn’t evil. It’s temporary. Its purchasing power gets inflated away through currency printing. It vanishes. It gets spent, taxed, lost, and forgotten. And it would have no weight if we tried to put some of it in our coffin.
But money isn’t the goal. It’s a tool. And tools demand direction.
We can gain from the wisdom of the Church Fathers. They spoke often of rightly ordered love—loving things according to their true worth: God above all, people before possessions, money as a servant, never a master.
St. Augustine said:
“Virtue is rightly ordered love.”
He didn’t mean affection. He meant priorities. Love must follow a hierarchy: God first, then neighbor, then self, then material things.
There’s a story Augustine tells of a man who gave generously to the poor, even though he had little. When asked why, the man replied:
“I would rather have less gold and more grace.”
That’s rightly ordered love. He didn’t despise money—he just knew what it was for.
So let’s return to the image we began with: the scale. Let it remind us to weigh things rightly. To measure not just what we’ve earned, but how we’ve used it.
And when the account is called, may we stand not just as being clever—but intentional, ordered, and ready to use things in a way pleasing to God.
Pope Pius XII once said:
“Material goods have been created by God to meet the needs of all men, and must be at the disposal of all of them, as justice and charity require.”
That’s not just a principle—it’s a challenge. A call to reorder our priorities. To see money not as a measure of success, but as a means of service to those in need, and to be used for the honor and glory of God.
Amen.
My dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
Today, the Church invites us to lift high the Cross.
Not to admire its shape. Not to sanitize its suffering. But to proclaim its truth.
Because the Cross is not just a symbol. It is the place where God chose to meet us.
And not because we deserved it. Not because we were righteous. But because He loves us.
In the early fourth century, Saint Helena, mother of Emperor Constantine and Empress of the Roman Empire, undertook a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. She was not a seeker in the modern sense—she was a woman of imperial rank, of deep Christian conviction, and of unwavering devotion. Her faith had already helped shape the course of history, as her son would soon legalize Christianity across the empire.
But Helena was not content with policy. She desired proximity to Christ. She wanted to walk where He walked, to touch what He touched, to find the very wood upon which He died.
And she did.
Buried beneath rubble and pagan altars, hidden by centuries of persecution and forgetfulness, the Cross was unearthed. And when it was lifted high, miracles followed. The sick were healed. The faithful rejoiced. And the Church remembered: This is not just history. This is our story.
But here’s the deeper truth: We do not deserve the Cross. We do not deserve the One who hung upon it.
We have sinned. We have wandered. We have chosen comfort over courage, distraction over devotion.
And yet—He came. He descended. He chose the Cross.
Saint Paul tells us that Christ, though He was in the form of God, did not cling to His equality with the Father. He emptied Himself. He became obedient—even to death—death on a Cross.
This is the condescension of God. Not the condescension of pride, but the condescension of mercy.
He did not need the Cross. He could have saved us with a word. He could have remained in glory.
But He chose suffering. He chose nails. He chose thorns. He chose rejection, betrayal, abandonment.
Why?
Because He wanted to go all the way down. Down into our pain. Down into our sin. Down into our death.
So that no one could say, “God doesn’t understand.” “God is far away.” “God is for the holy, not for me.”
No. He is closer than our wounds. He is present in our suffering. He is lifted up, not to look down on us, but to draw us upward into His love.
Saint Bernard of Clairvaux said, “The Cross is the pulpit from which Christ preaches His love.” And what does He preach?
Not condemnation. Not shame. But this: “I would rather die than be without you.”
This is the unity of the Cross and the God who hung upon it. They are not separate. They are one.
The Cross is not just the means of salvation—it is the manifestation of who God is.
A God who does not remain in heaven, but descends into the dust. A God who does not shield Himself from pain, but embraces it. A God who does not demand sacrifice, but becomes the sacrifice.
So today, let us gaze upon the Cross. Let it silence our distractions. Let it pierce our indifference. Let it awaken our hearts.
Because the Cross is not the end. It is the beginning. It is the door. It is the throne.
And the One who reigns from it is not a tyrant, but a Lover.
A Lover who says, “This is my body, given for you.” “This is my blood, poured out for you.” “This is my heart, opened for you.”
We adore You, O Christ, and we bless You, because by Your Holy Cross, You have redeemed the world.
Amen.
Fr. Curtis Kondik’s homily for the Assumption of Mary describes the Second Ark.
Mary, the Ark of the New Covenant and Our Model of Perseverance.
My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, Today, Heaven sings. Earth rejoices. And the Church stands in awe as we celebrate the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary—body and soul—into eternal glory.
But let us not imagine this glory as something distant or detached. Mary’s journey to Heaven was not paved with ease. It was carved through suffering, through perseverance, through a love that never gave up.
She stood at the foot of the Cross. She held the lifeless body of her Son. She endured the silence of Holy Saturday. And yet, she never stopped believing. Never stopped loving.
Never stopped saying “yes.”
As St. John Paul II once said:
“Mary lived her suffering with dignity and hope, sustained by faith, knowing that the Lord would not abandon her. She teaches us that suffering is not the end, but the path to glory.”
[Mary as the Ark of the New Covenant]
In the Old Testament, the Ark of the Covenant carried the signs of God’s promise: the tablets of the Law, the manna, and the staff of Aaron. It was holy, untouchable, revered.
But in the fullness of time, God prepared a new Ark—not of gold, but of grace. Mary carried within her the true Bread from Heaven, the eternal High Priest, and the Word made flesh. She became the living dwelling place of God—the Ark of the New Covenant.
When she visited Elizabeth, the child leapt in the womb. Just as David danced before the Ark, so too did John rejoice before the Mother of the Lord.
Scripture is not subtle—it is proclaiming: This is the new Ark. This is the new covenant.
[The Assumption: Fulfillment and Hope]
And today, we celebrate the moment when this Ark was lifted into Heaven. Mary’s Assumption is not just a personal reward—it is a sign for all of us. She is the first to fully share in the resurrection of her Son. Her body, untouched by sin, is now glorified in Heaven. She is the promise of what awaits those who remain faithful.
Her Assumption is the Church’s roadmap. It tells us: This is where the path of love leads. This is what God desires for you.
[Living the New Covenant Daily]
But this feast is not only about Mary—it is about us. She is not just the Ark; she is our Mother. And she wants her children to follow her home.
So how do we live the New Covenant daily?
By saying “yes” to God in the ordinary and the difficult.
By carrying Christ within us—not in our wombs, but in our hearts.
By persevering through suffering, trusting that God is working out a greater glory.
By loving as Jesus loved—through mercy, service, and sacrifice.
Mary’s life was not free from pain—but it was full of purpose. And her Assumption reminds us: Heaven is not a distant dream. It is our destiny.
So today, let us rejoice. Let us honor Mary, the Ark of the New Covenant. Let us ask her to help us live as true disciples of her Son. And let us remember: where she has gone, we hope to follow.
Holy Mary, assumed into Heaven, Mother of perseverance, Model of faith, Pray for us.
Lead us to your Son. And help us live the New Covenant with courage, with love, and with hope.
Amen.