Fr. Kondik's Written Homilies
In this homily, I want to reflect on Mary’s divine motherhood.
Mary is the Mother of God due to the fact that the child in her womb was one divine person with two natures. The Blessed Trinity brought about the conception as the Word becomes man and grows and develops by the nourishing blood of the Virgin Mary. As our faith attests, the child to be born is one divine person, possessing a human nature—body and soul—while being perfectly united with the divine nature.
Two natures united: one divine person, the Son of God, the Messiah. This is the meaning of the Incarnation: God becoming human so that He could redeem the human race. This plan of God is sometimes described as the undoing of the sin in the garden. As Adam and Eve brought the curse of death upon the human race through disobedience and sin, so Jesus and Mary (the new Adam and the new Eve) bring a new beginning of grace by their roles in redemption. The Immaculate and Sacred Hearts are forever joined in this cause. Theirs is the cause of God’s saving love. Our Lord was truly born in time to a human mother—but not to just any woman. Mary is unique, but even more, truly special.
Jesus loved and honored His mother and shows us how we ought to act toward her. Even further, Divine Law gives us the Fourth Commandment, bidding us to honor our father and mother. If Jesus Himself honored and respected His mother, so should we. Jesus, who is God, Lord, and Savior, gave Mary a share in His work of redemption. She is our spiritual mother, who, by cooperating with God’s grace and call, gave us the Savior. Her maternal office is of the highest dignity, worthy of our veneration. The apostles and two millennia of Christians have given Mary the respect and honor that is due to her place in the heavenly court.
The greatest honor we can give to her is by imitating her virtues—her fidelity to grace. She perfectly conformed her life to every grace God gave her. While we labor under the weaknesses of the flesh and worldly allurements, we must never weary in striving to be like her: devout, humble, and steadfast. Let us have confidence in her, because she loves us and has shown through history that those who call upon her are never left unaided. She leads us to God and obtains graces for our need.
We are wise in turning to Our Lady for her intercession. For the Church has often expressed, in formal documents and in prayers both public and private, that because she is united with her Son intimately in the cause of our redemption, we should never be timid in asking her for graces from her Son. Let us also be assured that in no way do we diminish the adoration and worship we owe to God alone when we venerate the Blessed Mother. God Himself has given her the office of dispensing graces to us. Let us rejoice in having an advocate, a compassionate mother who is ready to place her protective mantle over us. God has ordained it from the beginning that Mary is the woman who would crush the head of the serpent. And we await the triumph of her Immaculate Heart as prophesied. God wishes to glorify Himself in giving honor to Mary, the chosen vessel of His grace. Recall how our Lord mystically united her with His Church in one of His last words from the Cross.
Meditate on the words of Jesus when He said to His mother from the cross: “Behold, your son,” and to the beloved disciple (who represented the whole Church): “Behold, your mother.” This is a key to unlocking the mystery we celebrate today.
Let our hearts beat with admiration, devotion, and love as we say: O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary, pray for us, O holy Mother of God, that we may be made worthy of the promises of Christ. Amen.
If we stay close to our Mother, then she will keep us close to Christ.
“The Word Became Flesh… in Us”
Today’s Gospel takes us far beyond the manger. St. John brings us back to the very beginning — before Bethlehem, before creation — to remind us who this Child truly is.
“In the beginning was the Word… and the Word was God.”
The Child born today did not begin today. He is eternal. He is God from God, Light from Light, true God from true God.
And then John gives us the heart of Christmas in one line: “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
God became one of us. Not in appearance or imagination — truly one of us.
The Fathers of the Church said God vouchsafed to save us — meaning He stooped down, He lowered Himself in mercy, He came close enough to touch, to suffer, to lift us up.
And why did He come so close? John tells us: “To all who received Him… He gave power to become children of God.”
This is the purpose of Christmas. Christ did not come simply to teach us — He came to change us, to give us His own life, His grace, His holiness.
The Council of Trent puts it beautifully: Christ must not only be born in Bethlehem — He must be born in us. Because we do not reach Heaven by passing a theological exam. We reach Heaven because God’s sanctifying grace is alive in our hearts.
And whether you are here every Sunday, or visiting family, or returning after some time away — the message is the same: Christ came for you. He desires to dwell in your heart. His grace is offered freely to all who welcome Him.
So, on this Christmas Day, let us ask for the spiritual nativity — that the Word who became flesh may take root in our souls, push back our darkness, heal what is wounded, and make us true children of God.
Amen.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
“Prepare Him Room”
Tonight, Matthew gives us a genealogy — a long list of names stretching from Abraham to Joseph. It may seem unusual for Christmas Eve, but it is the Holy Spirit’s way of showing us that God prepared the way. Every generation, every story, even the broken ones, leads to this night.
St. Thomas Aquinas, drawing on the early Fathers of the Church, tells us that Matthew begins with a genealogy to show something simple and essential: that Christ truly became one of us. The eternal Son of God entered our history. He took on our human nature. He shared our family line, our ancestry, our flesh.
At the center of that family line stands David. Scripture promised again and again that the Messiah would come from David’s family — the Son of David whose kingdom would never end. Isaiah said it. Jeremiah and Ezekiel repeated it. God Himself promised David that a king from his line would one day rule forever.
Matthew includes David to make the message unmistakable: this Child is the One the prophets spoke of. And Joseph, being a descendant of David, gives Jesus that same family identity under the law. By taking Jesus as his son, Joseph places Him exactly where the prophets said the Messiah would be — in the royal line of David.
The promise has been kept. The King has arrived. Our Savior has come into the world.
But the Gospel also turns the question toward us: Do we welcome Him?
Do we welcome the Lord into the deepest part of our hearts? Or do we keep Him at a distance — too busy, too distracted, too caught up in everything else? God prepared the world for Christ. But now Christ asks each of us: Have you prepared a place for Me?
The Catechism of the Council of Trent gives us a powerful reminder. It says that just as there was no room for Christ in the inn at Bethlehem, we must be careful that He does not find no welcome in our hearts. Christ wants our salvation so much that He desires to be spiritually born within us. And just as He was conceived by the Holy Spirit, we too must be renewed by that same Spirit — walking in a new way of life, keeping our hearts pure, and striving for holiness.
When we live like this, our lives become a small reflection of His Nativity — a living image of the mystery we celebrate tonight.
And here is the heart of it all: The Child in the manger is not asking for a place in Bethlehem. He is asking for a place in you.
This is the moment. This is the night. This is the hour of grace.
Come, Lord Jesus, into the inn, the cave, the manger, the temple of our souls. Renew us. Transform us. Save us.
Amen.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Dear Brothers and Sisters in Christ,
As Advent comes to a close, we are invited to consider in a more focused way the mystery of God’s saving activity in our lives. We are invited to contemplate God taking on flesh in the womb of the Blessed Virgin Mary by the power of the Holy Spirit. In this theologically sublime mystery, the divine and human natures are united in the one person of the eternal Word.
What we fail to understand by the limitations of our minds, faith enables us to grasp: that God chose to enter the condition of fallen humanity by truly becoming one of us. The name Emmanuel—a Hebrew word meaning “God with us”—expresses this with precision. It is not a poetic title but a statement of what God has actually done. In the Incarnation, God enters a real human family and a real human history, taking our nature to Himself so that the human condition becomes the very place where salvation unfolds.
This nearness is not symbolic. Christ is close to us because He has taken our nature, lived our life, and sanctified every stage of human existence from within. His grace dwelling in our hearts is the continuation of that same nearness—God acting in us, strengthening us, and drawing us into communion with Himself. How different our daily lives would be if we carried this truth with us, remembering that He sees us, knows us, and desires our closeness in return.
On this earth, is there anyone who was closer to Jesus our Lord than His mother Mary and His foster father Joseph? What a remarkable calling: to form a family with the Son of God. And yet, both Mary and Joseph first encountered this calling as a dark and bewildering mystery, filled with uncertainty, until God made His plan known through His angelic messengers. They were open. Mary said, “Let it be done to me according to your word.” Joseph committed his life to God’s plan by taking Mary into his home and assuming the role of protector and provider.
The Gospel gives us a beautiful glimpse of how God, recognizing human limitation, grants the grace and clarity needed for the mission He entrusts. In Mary and Joseph, we see that God does not ask for blind leaps into the unknown; He provides what is necessary for a free and faithful response. Their “yes” allows the mystery of Emmanuel—God with us—to take flesh in the world.
Their faithful response invites us to consider how we, too, are called to welcome the Lord’s presence in our own lives. As we approach Christmas, we are invited to receive this mystery with the same trust shown by Mary and Joseph. God has come to be with us—truly with us—and He asks only that we make room for Him. When we welcome Him with faith, the grace of Emmanuel begins to shape our lives just as surely as it shaped theirs.
Lord Jesus, grant us the grace to respond to Your call in our lives, to faithfully do Your will, and to be united one day in the final homecoming in Your Father’s house.
Have you ever waited for an answer—hoping for something clear, direct and unmistakable—only to receive something subtle, quiet, a small grace that simply points you in the right direction? That’s today’s Gospel. John the Baptist, sitting in prison, sends his disciples to ask Jesus, “Are you the one who is to come?” Jesus doesn’t respond with a simple “Yes.” Instead, He points to what is unfolding before their eyes: the blind see, the lame walk, lepers are cleansed, the poor hear good news. Jesus answers John’s question by pointing to His deeds, almost as if echoing the old truth that a tree is known by its fruit. Not the help we might expect—just the help we need: grace coming through truthful words and humble deeds, made visible in the sacred humanity of our Lord.
This is the mystery of the Incarnation: God saves not by force, but by humble love. He comes in ways that require faith—through the sacraments, through persevering prayer, through those subtle graces that quietly guide us. And that can be hard, because we often want God to fix everything immediately, without asking anything of us. But His way calls for humility, surrender, and trust.
Jesus says, “Blessed is the one who takes no offense at me.” Why would anyone take offense? Because God’s power can seem hidden, and His call can be demanding. He asks us to let go of the illusion of self‑sufficiency and to follow Him completely. When we surrender and follow Jesus, we become better people. Our lives begin to show the world—through our actions—that He truly is the One. We need not look for another.
Gaudete means “rejoice”—not because life is easy, but because God is near. Look where Jesus tells us to look: where the broken are healed, where grace flows in the sacraments, where charity lifts up the poor, where gentle graces point us in the right direction. The world still asks John’s question: “Are you the one?” The answer should come through us—through lives that point unmistakably to Jesus.
Rejoice—the Lord is near! Let’s make Him visible.
Brothers and sisters, today we reflect on our Blessed Mother.
A gift was given to her — the singular privilege of being conceived without any stain of original sin. This gift was in keeping with the high calling she would receive: to be the chosen instrument of salvation in God’s plan. As the angel Gabriel greets her, “Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you” (Luke 1:28), we see that she is already prepared by God’s grace for this moment.
And during Advent, we recall that her free consent to be the Mother of the Incarnate Word has brought a new beginning to the story of fallen man. When Gabriel announced, “You will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus” (Luke 1:31), Mary responded with her Fiat: “Behold, I am the handmaid of the Lord; let it be done to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38). With that “yes,” Christ the Redeemer comes into the world, fulfilling the prophecy: “The virgin shall conceive and bear a son, and shall call his name Emmanuel” (Isaiah 7:14).
And because of this, we can rejoice. We can be grateful for this great work of God’s love for us. As St. John proclaims, “The Word became flesh and dwelt among us” (John 1:14). Advent is not only a season of waiting, but of thanksgiving — rejoicing that God has come so near to us in Christ.
As Queen of Heaven in the court of her Divine Son, Mary is our advocate. She wishes to bring to us all the graces we need for our lives. At Cana she said, “Do whatever he tells you” (John 2:5), and she continues to direct us toward her Son today. She is a compassionate mother, who dispenses blessings and graces for the children of God.
So as adopted children, let us turn to our God in thanksgiving. For God has given us not only a Redeemer, but also a mother who intercedes for us. As St. Paul reminds us, “God chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world… to be holy and blameless before him in love” (Ephesians 1:4). Mary’s holiness and her Fiat show us the way to respond to God’s call in our own lives.
Let us rejoice in this Advent season, giving thanks for Mary’s “yes” and preparing our hearts to echo her Fiat, so that Christ may be born anew in us.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
Brothers and sisters,
Picture a cold winter day. You have been outside for some time, shivering and weary. At last, you step inside, remove your coat, hat, scarf, and gloves, and draw near to the fireplace. You welcome the fire, and its warmth restores you.
This image helps us understand the grace of baptism. Outside, in the cold of sin and separation, humanity was restless and chilled. But in baptism, Christ draws us into His house, into His Church, and places His Spirit within us. The fire of the Spirit warms our souls, purifies us, and makes us pleasing to God.
John the Baptist proclaims in today’s Gospel: “He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” This baptism is not merely symbolic. It is the reality of God’s indwelling presence. Through baptism, we are joined to Christ, given a share in the life of the Blessed Trinity, and marked with a character that makes us His own.
Yet we know how easy it is to grow lukewarm, to fall into spiritual sloth or tepidity. The fire is burning, but we do not draw near. Advent is given to us as a time of renewal, a time to step closer to the fire of God’s love. We welcome that fire by confessing our sins and doing penance, by opening the Scriptures in spiritual reading, by lifting our hearts in prayer, and by practicing works of charity. These are the ways we allow the warmth of the Spirit to reach us and transform us.
And so, as we prepare for Christmas, let us carry this image with us: coming in from the cold, sitting by the fire, and letting its warmth surround us. That is what God’s love does in our souls when we draw near to Him. At Christmas, we will adore the Child in the manger. But even more, we will adore the living Lord who dwells within us, who unites us to His Father, and who fills us with the fire of His Spirit.
Let us pray.
O God, who by the fire of Your Spirit purify our hearts, grant that we may love You with all our heart, with all our mind, and with all our strength, and so reflect the warmth of Your love in prayer, penance, and charity, through the same Christ our Lord.
Amen.
Homily – Thanksgiving Day (Luke 21:20–28)
Today is Thanksgiving, a day to pause and recognize the blessings we’ve been given. In his recent article in Northeast Ohio Catholic, Bishop Malesic reminds us that Advent — which begins this weekend — is a time to slow down, listen to God, and grow closer to Him. He encourages us to spend at least fifteen minutes each day in prayer and to live with gratitude for the grace of baptism. Gratitude and hope are at the center of today’s Gospel, where Jesus says: “Stand erect and raise your heads, because your redemption is at hand.”
Jesus gives this prophecy for a reason. Catholic scholars explain that He is speaking first about the destruction of Jerusalem, which would happen within a generation. It was a warning to His followers, so they would not be caught off guard. But He also points beyond that event to His Second Coming — the ultimate fulfillment of God’s plan. His words are both a warning and a promise: turmoil will come, but redemption is near.
That’s important for us today. We know life brings upheaval — whether in the world around us or in our own families. Jesus does not tell us to despair. He tells us to lift our heads, to trust that God’s plan is unfolding even when we cannot see it clearly.
Gratitude helps us do that. On Thanksgiving, we remember that gratitude changes how we see things. Without it, it’s easy to fall into the habit of always seeing the glass as half empty — focusing on what we lack, what went wrong, or what we wish were different. Gratitude shifts our vision. It helps us notice the blessings that are already here: the gift of baptism, the love of family, the daily ways God provides. Gratitude steadies us, reminding us that we are chosen and redeemed, even when life feels uncertain.
Gratitude naturally leads us into prayer. Bishop Malesic’s advice is simple and practical: spend fifteen minutes each day in prayer. Thanksgiving is a good day to begin or renew that habit. Prayer helps us listen to God and strengthens us to face difficulties with hope. It’s in prayer that gratitude deepens, and hope takes root.
And hope is what allows us to see redemption breaking into our lives. Gratitude and prayer open our eyes to notice God’s presence in ordinary places — in family gatherings, in kindness shown to us, and in the sacraments. Hope is confidence in God’s promises, confidence that even in turmoil, Christ is near.
So today, let us give thanks not only for food, family, and freedom, but above all for baptism and redemption in Christ. As Advent begins, let us commit to daily prayer and gratitude, so that even in times of turmoil we can stand tall, heads lifted, knowing our redemption is at hand.
Christ the King
Brothers and sisters, today we celebrate Christ the King. The Gospel brings us to Calvary, where Jesus is lifted up on the cross. Around Him are voices of mockery and disbelief. Yet in that place of suffering, a condemned man turns to Jesus with a simple request: “Remember me.” And Jesus answers: “Today you will be with me in Paradise.”
What does this moment reveal about the kind of King we follow? His authority is not distant or harsh. It is merciful, personal, and full of love. He listens to the plea of a man who has nothing to offer but faith. He gives him hope, and He gives him a future. That is the reign of Christ: a reign that reaches into our lives, even at our weakest, and lifts us toward life.
We often picture kingship in terms of grandeur or control. But here, Christ’s power is shown in His willingness to give Himself completely. His crown is thorns, His throne is the cross, and His victory is the salvation of souls. Could there be a clearer sign that God’s power is exercised through love?
The Good Thief helps us see what faith looks like. He admits his guilt, recognizes Jesus’ innocence, and entrusts himself to Him. That is all it takes: a turning of the heart, a gaze of trust. And Christ responds with immediate mercy. Do we have the courage to make that same act of trust in our own lives?
The saints and theologians remind us of the depth of this mystery. Augustine saw the Cross as Christ’s throne. Aquinas taught that in the Passion we see both justice and mercy: sin atoned for, and sinners redeemed. Bonaventure spoke of the gaze upon the crucified Lord as the soul’s highest act of love. Anselm explained that in Christ, God and man meet to bring salvation. Their voices echo across centuries, helping us see that Christ’s kingship is not about domination, but about love that saves.
This feast is not about a distant monarch. It is about a King who governs the universe yet stoops to hear the prayer of a dying thief. He rules all creation, yet He cares for each of us individually. His aim is not to condemn, but to bring us home to His kingdom. Isn’t that the kind of authority our hearts long for?
So today we are invited to take our place in that kingdom. The world will tempt us with false promises, the devil will try to lead us astray, but Christ calls us to walk with Him. Not as subjects trembling before a tyrant, but as brothers and sisters beside our King who rules with love. His Mother, Mary, and the saints cheer us on, reminding us that the path of faith leads to joy. We belong to a communion founded not on fear, but on charity and grace.
Let us rally to Him. Let us entrust ourselves to His mercy. Let us walk together in His kingdom, confident that He will bring us home. And when that day comes, we will enter into the fullness of His reign, where we will see the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit face to face, and rejoice for all eternity.
Readings: Wisdom 3:1–9 | Romans 6:3–9 | John 6:37–40
What happens to the soul when the body is laid to rest? When the final prayers are whispered and the earth closes over the grave, is that the end—or merely the beginning of something greater?
Tonight, as the sanctuary glows with candlelight and the names of our beloved dead echo in our hearts, the Church calls us to remember that death is not the final word. It is the threshold to eternity. We gather not in despair, but in sacred hope. We come as the Church Militant, lifting our voices for the Church Suffering—those souls who have died in God’s grace but are not yet fully purified. They wait. They long. And they rely on us.
Death occurs when the soul departs from the body. The body, formed from the dust of the earth, returns to the earth in burial. But the soul—immortal and made in the image of God—goes immediately to its judgment. If the soul is found in perfect grace, it enters the glory of heaven. If it is separated from God by mortal sin, it is condemned. But for those who die in friendship with God yet are not fully purified, there is Purgatory—a place of mercy, not punishment.
Purgatory is the final cleansing, a purification for the temporal punishment due to sin. It is also a healing of all woundedness, all imperfection, all that remains in the soul that is not yet ready to behold the face of God. The fire of Purgatory is not cruel—it is the fire of divine love, burning away the remnants of sin so that the soul may be made perfect.
At a time when many Protestant reformers were denying the existence of Purgatory—rejecting it as unbiblical and unnecessary—the Catholic Church, through the Council of Trent, solemnly reaffirmed this ancient doctrine. In its twenty-fifth session, the Council declared that “there is a Purgatory, and the souls therein detained are helped by the suffrages of the faithful, but principally by the acceptable sacrifice of the altar.” This was not a new teaching, but a formal restatement of what the Church had always believed: that the mercy of God continues after death, purifying the soul of all remaining imperfection, and that the prayers and sacrifices of the living—especially the Holy Mass—can aid those undergoing this final sanctification.
This truth is rooted not only in Sacred Tradition but also in Sacred Scripture. In the Second Book of Maccabees, we read: “It is therefore a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead, that they may be loosed from sins” (2 Maccabees 12:46, Douay-Rheims). This passage shows that the Jewish people were accustomed to praying for the dead, offering sacrifices for their purification. It reflects a belief in the continued journey of the soul after death and the power of intercession. The Church sees this as clear biblical precedent for our own prayers for the faithful departed.
This is why we pray for the dead. This is why we offer Masses, gain indulgences, and visit cemeteries. Our prayers assist those souls in their purification. We do not abandon them—we accompany them. We fulfill the command of Scripture and the call of charity.
The Holy Sacrifice of the Mass—offered for the dead—is the most powerful means of grace. When we place a name upon the altar, we place that soul into the wounds of Christ. And Christ, our High Priest, pleads for them before the throne of the Father.
From November 1st to 8th, the Church grants a plenary indulgence for a soul in Purgatory to those who visit a cemetery, pray for the dead, receive Holy Communion, go to Confession, and pray for the Holy Father’s intentions. This is not superstition. This is the communion of saints in action. This is love made visible.
Picture it: a soul, weary and longing, is lifted by the prayers of the Church. It is strengthened by the grace flowing from the altar. It is consoled by the love of the faithful still journeying on earth. And then—freed from the final bonds—it soars into heaven, into the arms of God. What joy. What triumph. What mercy.
Let us not delay. Let us not forget. Let us not grow cold in our charity. The dead cannot pray for themselves. But we can. And we must. The Book of Wisdom tells us, “The souls of the just are in the hand of God.” St. Paul reminds us that if we have died with Christ, we shall also live with Him. And Jesus Himself assures us, “I will not reject anyone who comes to me.” These are the promises we cling to. These are the truths we proclaim.
So, let us lift our hearts in prayer—not with vague hope, but with firm faith. Let us storm heaven with intercession. Let us plead for the forgotten, the lonely, the suffering. Let us fulfill our sacred duty.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls, and the souls of all the faithful departed, Through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.
Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,
Have you ever watched a restoration video? Maybe it’s an old, rusted tool or a faded painting. At first, it looks hopeless—scratched, broken, forgotten. But then someone begins the work. Slowly, patiently, layer by layer, the object is restored. And by the end, it’s not just clean—it’s radiant. Whole again.
Today’s Gospel is a restoration story.
Ten lepers cry out to Jesus. Ten broken lives. Ten people cast out, isolated, untouchable. And Jesus, the Divine Restorer, hears them. He doesn’t hesitate. He tells them to go show themselves to the priests. And as they go, they are healed.
But only one returns.
Only one comes back—not just to say thank you, but to worship. And Jesus says something remarkable: “Your faith has saved you.”
All ten were healed. But only one was restored.
That’s the difference between receiving a gift and entering into relationship. Between being fixed and being made whole.
And isn’t that what the sacraments are? Not just moments of healing—but encounters with the living God. Encounters that restore us and draw us into communion with Him.
Let’s reflect on this with theological clarity:
- In Baptism, we are not merely washed—we are reborn. Original sin is removed, and we are configured to Christ, made members of His Body, the Church. It is the gateway to all other sacraments and the beginning of our journey toward eternal life.
- In Reconciliation, we do not simply confess—we are reconciled to God and the Church. Mortal sin, which severs our relationship with God, is forgiven. Grace is restored. We are spiritually resurrected, and the soul is healed through the power of Christ’s mercy.
- In the Eucharist, we do not just receive—we are united. The Eucharist is not a symbol—it is the Real Presence: Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ. It is the source and summit of our faith. In receiving Him, we are nourished with divine life and drawn deeper into communion with the Trinity.
- In the Anointing of the Sick, we are not just comforted—we are strengthened for the journey. This sacrament unites our suffering to Christ’s Passion, offers physical healing if God wills it, and prepares the soul for eternal life. It is a profound moment of grace, especially near death.
Each of these sacraments is a channel of sanctifying grace. They do not merely improve us—they transform us. They restore what was lost through sin and elevate us toward our true end: union with God in the beatific vision.
So I ask you today: Where are you in this story?
Have you cried out for healing? Have you received it? Have you returned?
Because Jesus doesn’t just want to fix what’s broken. He wants to restore you. To save you. To make you whole.
Let us not be like the nine who walked away with the gift but missed the Giver. Let us be like the one who returned—who worshiped, who entered into relationship, who was truly restored.
And now, as we prepare to continue this Mass, I invite you to pray—not just with your lips, but with your heart:
Lord Jesus, I am the one who needs healing. I am the one who longs to be restored. I return to you now—not just with words, but with my heart. Receive me. Restore me. And make me whole. Lead me to my true end: eternal communion with You. Amen.
Brothers and sisters in Christ, what do you say to someone who looks at the world and asks, “Where is God in all this?”
At some point, each of us will encounter someone who echoes the cry of the prophet Habakkuk: “How long, O LORD?” They see the violence, injustice, and cruelty around them and wonder, “How bad can it get?”
We see it daily. The headlines are filled with war, corruption, and suffering. And when someone says to me, “It’s pretty bad out there,” I often respond, “You’re right—it is.” But let us be clear: God is not the author of evil. The true cause of evil is sin—selfishness, pride, and rebellion against God and neighbor for personal gain.
Scripture and Sacred Tradition speak with one voice. From Genesis to Revelation, we are shown both the consequences of sin and the call to holiness. God does not abandon us to evil; He equips us to confront it—with wisdom, courage, and righteousness.
St. Paul exhorts us in Romans 12: “Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.” And in Ephesians 6, we are told to “put on the full armor of God” so that we may stand firm against the devil’s schemes.
But our response to evil is not only resistance—it is obedience. And that brings us to today’s Gospel: “So should it be with you. When you have done all you have been commanded, say, ‘We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do.’” (Luke 17:7–10)
This is a challenging teaching. It reminds us that our service to God is not about recognition or reward—it’s about faithfulness. We are called to do what is right, not for praise, but because it is our duty as disciples of Christ.
In the face of evil, we must not grow weary. We must not lose heart. Instead, we cling to the virtues of faith, hope, and charity. We trust in God’s justice, hope in His mercy, and love as Christ loved—even when the world seems dark.
So let us be faithful servants. Let us do what we are commanded. And when we have done all, let us say with humility, “We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do.”
Conclusion What do we do when the weight of the world feels unbearable? When pride, violence, and selfishness seem to dominate every corner of society?
We do what Christ did. We remain faithful. We remain obedient. We remain resilient.
Spiritual resiliency is not about escaping suffering—it’s about enduring it with grace. Jesus did not avoid the Cross; He embraced it. And in doing so, He showed us the path to true strength.
The saints echo this truth: St. Teresa of Ávila urged us to root ourselves in deep prayer. St. Thomas Aquinas taught that obedience is the highest virtue after charity. St. Thérèse of Lisieux showed that even the smallest acts of love, done faithfully, build spiritual fortitude.
At the heart of our faith is the mystery of suffering united with Christ: • The Council of Trent taught that believers can offer their sufferings in union with His Passion, growing in holiness and contributing to the salvation of others. • As St. Paul writes in Colossians 1:24, “I rejoice in my sufferings for your sake… for the sake of His body, the Church.”
When we offer our sufferings in this way, we can merit graces for ourselves and others. This is taking up our crosses and following Jesus.
And so, we return to the Gospel: “When you have done all you have been commanded, say, ‘We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do.’” (Luke 17:10)
This is a declaration of humility. It is the posture of a resilient heart. We serve because we love. We endure because we believe. We obey because we trust. We persevere because God is our strength and His grace is sufficient for us.
Let us go forth, then, as faithful servants. Let us confront evil not with despair, but with the light of Christ. And when we have done all that He asks of us, let us say with joy and humility: “We have done what we were obliged to do.”
Because in the end, the measure of our strength is not how loudly we speak—but how faithfully we serve.
Amen.
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.