23rd Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Wis 9:13-18b; Ps 90:3-4, 5-6, 12-13, 14, 17;  Phil 1:9-10, 12-17; Lk 14:25-33.

It is said that long ago in the days of the Scottish Highlands, there was a young chieftain who inherited a vast but troubled clan. His people were poor, surrounded by rival clans who were stronger, and the English crown often demanded allegiance that would compromise their independence. One day, he was summoned by the king himself and offered a place of safety, wealth, and honor—if he would agree to surrender his clan’s autonomy and allow English soldiers to occupy their land. The young chieftain was torn. Accepting would mean comfort and survival, but it would betray his people’s heritage and everything his father and grandfather had fought to protect. Refusing would mean war, sacrifice, and perhaps even death. After a night of sleeplessness, he told his council, “If I must die to remain faithful to what I was born to protect, then I will die. For what use is a chieftain who saves his life but loses the soul of his clan?” The cost was real—battle followed, losses were great—but his decision kept the honor of his people alive for generations."

When Jesus turned to the large crowds following Him and spoke the words we heard in Luke 14:25–33, He was confronting people with a similar question. Many followed Him with curiosity, others in hope of miracles, others perhaps thinking He would

22nd Sunday of Ordinary Time (C)

 Sir 3:17-18, 20, 28-29; Heb 12:18-19, 22-24; Lk 14:1, 7-14

In the early 1900s, there was a man named Booker T. Washington, born into slavery and rising to become one of the most influential African American leaders of his time. Despite his extraordinary achievements, Washington was known for his profound humility. On one occasion, when invited to a prestigious dinner alongside wealthy and powerful individuals, he noticed how everyone was eager to sit closest to the host, seeking the best seats and the greatest honors. Washington, however, quietly chose a modest place at the back of the room, not demanding attention or special treatment.

As the evening unfolded, the host himself noticed Washington’s humble demeanor and invited him to join the main table, elevating him in front of the guests. Washington’s humility, patience, and dignity earned him genuine respect—not because he sought it, but because he embodied a spirit of service and humility that transcended social status.

This example echoes the words of Jesus in today’s gospel. He noticed how guests at a table jockeyed for places of honor and gave a parable that turned the social order upside down. Jesus advised taking the lowest place, not the highest, because true

21st Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Is 66:18-2; Heb 12:5-7, 11-13; Lk 13:22-30.

In the heart of the medieval city of Constantinople stood mighty walls, strong enough to repel invaders for centuries. The main gates were wide and bustling — merchants entered with carts full of goods, soldiers marched in proud columns, and travelers poured in from distant lands. Yet there was one gate unlike the rest: a small, low passageway known as The Eye of the Needle. This was not a gate for proud parades or loaded caravans. It was narrow — so narrow that a camel could only pass if its burdens were unloaded and it was led through on its knees.

At night, for the safety of the city, the great gates were shut. Any latecomer had one choice: the little gate. But it came with a price — strip off the load, stoop low, and pass humbly. Many travelers, after long journeys, stood outside in frustration. They could see the lights of the city, hear the laughter and smell the food inside, but the great gates were closed. They had to decide: hold on to their baggage and remain outside or leave it behind and enter through the narrow door.

Jesus’ words in Luke 13 carry this same image. A narrow door is open now, but it will not be open forever. And when it shuts, no amount of knocking, pleading, or past acquaintance will open it again.