24th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Exo  32:7-11,13-14; 1 Tim 1:12-17; Lk 15:1-32

Napoleon Bonapart, the French Emperor, decided to campaign against Russia, in 1812. Napoleon was pushing on with preparations for war on a colossal scale. By the summer of 1812 he had about 750,000 men under arms of whom 450,000 were destined for the actual invasion. On 28 May this army of armies set out towards East. Immense stores were collected. Two million pairs of boots were held in reserve. The baggage was hauled by 18,000 heavy draft horses, the siege-guns and pontoons by 10,000 oxen. A million great coats had been bought. 

The army passed into Russia unopposed. As Napoleon reached Moscow he had understood the mistake he had made. The marshals too were reluctant to march northwards. With the first fall of snow the story of the march became an epic of human misery; no food, no shelter, no fuel. Icy gales froze them and killed scores every night. History testifies that it was one of the great errors of Napoleon. Out of 450000 who had crossed into Russia only 20,000 marched back. 

If Napoleon had corrected himself 430,000 men who had crossed into Russia would not have lost their lives or pushed into misery. 

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.

20th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Jer. 38:4-6, 8-10; Heb. 12:1-4; Luk. 12:49-53.

Once, in a small village overshadowed by a mighty forest, there lived a potter. One day, while walking through the woods, he stumbled upon a group of strangers—ragged, hungry, and shivering. They had been driven out of a neighboring village because they were different: they spoke a strange tongue and wore unfamiliar clothes.

The potter invited them into his home, fed them, and gave them clay pots to carry water. Soon, the villagers began to notice. "Why are you helping them?" they asked. "They don’t belong here."

The potter was shunned. His pottery shop was boycotted. His own brothers refused to speak to him. Yet he continued to help those in need. One evening, an old friend came to him and said, “You’re lighting a fire, and it will burn everything down.”

He replied, “Some fires burn, but others illuminate. I’d rather lose the approval of men than the light of God.”

Jesus said in Luke 12:49–53: “I have come to bring fire on the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled! … Do you think I came to bring peace on earth? No, I tell you, but division.”

The Assumption of Blessed Virgin Mary

 1 Chr 15:3-4, 15-16, 16:1-2; 1 Cor 15:20-26; Lk 1:39-56.

During the Second World War, amidst the horror of Nazi-occupied Poland, a young Franciscan priest named Maximilian Kolbe stood as a beacon of mercy. In the concentration camp of Auschwitz, after a prisoner escaped, the SS decided to punish ten innocent men with death by starvation.

One of the selected, a man named Franciszek Gajowniczek, cried out, “My wife! My children!” At that moment, Fr. Kolbe stepped forward. “I am a Catholic priest. I would like to take his place.” The guards agreed.

Father Kolbe entered the death cell, offering prayers, songs, and spiritual strength to the others. After two weeks, he was the only one left alive and was eventually killed by lethal injection.

Franciszek Gajowniczek would live, reunited with his family, and for the rest of his life, he told the story of the priest who had interceded for him—who stood in the gap and gave his life so another could live.

19th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Wis. 18:6-9; Heb. 11:1-2, 8-19; Lk. 12:32-48

In the old city of Prague, there’s a tale told of a master watchmaker who once gifted the town with a magnificent clock. It was intricate and grand, unlike any other, and it chimed every hour with a melody that could be heard for miles. But he left behind a single instruction: “You must wind it faithfully, each morning before the sun rises. If not, the music will stop—and with it, something greater will be lost.” For years, the townspeople took turns winding the clock—until one day, they forgot. Life became noisy, chaotic, and rushed. They stopped hearing the silence. And only when the silence stretched too long did they realize something precious had been lost.

Jesus, in Luke 12, is speaking to hearts like those townspeople. “Be dressed for action,” He says, “and keep your lamps lit.” Our faith and patience are like the daily winding of that town clock—small, faithful acts that preserve something greater: the readiness of the soul.

18th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Ecc. 1:2; 2:21-23; Col. 3:1-5, 9-11; Lk. 12:13-21

Some years ago, in a bustling European city, there lived a wealthy banker known for his enormous success and lavish lifestyle. His house was filled with rare paintings, his cars were custom-built, and he wore the finest suits. When asked how he managed such prosperity, he would smile and say, “I worked hard. I planned well. I invested wisely.” He was admired—and envied. But the day he died, something curious happened. Among all the estate papers, lawyers couldn’t find a single note about donations, family plans, or even a will. One of his distant relatives finally asked, “All this wealth, whose will it be now?”

This haunting question echoes the voice of Jesus in today’s Gospel: “And the things you have prepared, whose will they be?” (Luke 12:20).

In today’s Gospel the story begins innocently enough. A man approaches Jesus with what seems like a fair request: “Teacher, tell my brother to divide the family inheritance with me.” (v.13). It’s not unreasonable. Many of us, too, have been entangled in

17th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Gen. 18:20-32; Psalms 138:1-2, 2-3, 6-7, 7-8; Colo. 2:12-14; Gospel: Luke 11:1-13.

In Luke 11:1–13, we find one of the most formative teachings on prayer in all of Scripture. The passage opens with a remarkable moment: “One day Jesus was praying in a certain place. When he finished, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, just as John taught his disciples.’” This request is unique. Nowhere else in the Gospels do the disciples ask Jesus to teach them how to do something—not how to preach, not how to perform miracles, but how to pray. Because they saw something in Jesus’ prayer life that was different—deep, powerful, intimate.

The prayer that Jesus taught was filled with meaning.

1. “Father, hallowed be your name”

To begin the prayer with “Father” is to claim intimacy with God, not as a distant God, but as a loving parent. This invocation was revolutionary for Jesus’ time. The Jews knew God as Yahweh—holy, unapproachable—but Jesus taught His disciples to

16th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Gen 18:1-10; Col 1:24-28; Lk 10:38-42

Hospitality is a great virtue hailed in all the world civilizations. To the ancient Greeks and Romans, hospitality was a divine right. In the Biblical tradition hospitality is an obligation. The most extreme example is provided in Genesis (19:8), Lot provided hospitality to a group of men. When a mob tried to attack them, he offered his daughter as substitute and pleaded to spare his guests. 

Celtic societies valued the concept of hospitality, especially, in terms of protection. A host who granted a person’s request for refuge was expected not only to provide food and shelter to the guests, but to make sure they did not come to harm while under their care. 

A real-life example of this is rooted in the history of the Scottish Clan MacGregor from the early seventeenth century. The chief of Clan Lamont arrived at the home of the MacGregor, chief in Glenstrae, told him that he was fleeing from foes and requested refuge. The MacGregor welcomed his brother chief with no

15th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

 Deut. 30:10-14; Psalm 69:14, 17, 30-31, 33-34, 36, 37; Colo 1:15-20, Luke 10:25-37.

One of the most profound questions ever asked of Jesus was not asked by a disciple, a sinner, or a seeker—but by a lawyer. He stood up to test Jesus and asked, “Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” (Luke 10:25). It was a legal question, yes, but also a spiritual one. And Jesus, ever the wise teacher, answered with another question: “What is written in the Law?” The man, well-versed in Scripture, replied correctly: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind; and love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus told him, “You have answered correctly. Do this and you will live.”

But the conversation didn’t end there. Wanting to justify himself, the man pressed further: “And who is my neighbor?” (v. 29). This was no simple curiosity. It was a calculated attempt to define the limits of love. Surely “neighbor” didn’t include everyone. Maybe just family? Fellow Jews? Those who shared his worldview? The man wanted boundaries; Jesus offered a story—a story that shattered every barrier.

14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (C)

Is. 66:10-14; Gal. 6:14-18; Lk. 10:1-12, 17-20

Dear brothers and sisters,

We live in a time of turmoil. The headlines scream of political unrest, nations rising against nations, families being torn apart, natural disasters increasing in frequency and severity, religious intolerance fueling violence, and individuals wandering in despair, struggling to find meaning and purpose. Into this broken and chaotic world, Christ sends His people with a message that is as urgent and powerful today as it was when He first spoke it: "The kingdom of God has come near to you."

In Luke 10, Jesus appoints seventy others and sends them ahead of Him. These are not the twelve apostles. They are ordinary followers—unnamed disciples like you and me. Jesus sends them in pairs, vulnerable and dependent, like lambs among wolves. He sends them without money, without provisions, and without the comforts of predictability. Because their strength lies not in what they carry but in Who they carry—the presence and message of the Kingdom of God.

The Most Sacred Heart of Jesus (C)

 Ezek. 34:11-16; Rom. 5:5b-11; Lk. 15:3-7

My dear brothers and sisters

Today we celebrate the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

Devotion to the heart pierced on Calvary is nearly as old as Christianity, but it has undergone many changes over the centuries. Patristic writers saw in the blood and water issuing from the crucified Lord’s side (John 19:34) the fulfilment of his promise to give living water (John 4:13–14; 7:37), the fountain from which the Spirit flows upon the Church.

The public cult celebrated today began in the seventeenth century, when Saint John Eudes pressed for a liturgy (Mass and Office) of the Sacred Heart. In 1672, Christ appeared to a French Visitation nun, St. Margret Mary Alacoque. Over a series of visits, Our Lord revealed to St. Margaret Mary the importance of devotion to His Sacred Heart. He asked that His heart, wounded on the cross and continually wounded by ingratitude of men for his sacrifice for them, be venerated and adored as an embodiment of His Divine mercy and love.

The Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ (C)

 Gen. 14:18-20; 1 Cor. 11:23-26; Lk. 9:11b-17

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ,

Today, the Church celebrates one of the most sacred and profound feasts of our liturgical year—the Solemnity of the Most Holy Body and Blood of Christ, also known as Corpus Christi. This feast stands as a luminous beacon in our calendar, directing our hearts and minds to the central mystery of our faith: that Christ is truly present—body, blood, soul, and divinity—in the Most Holy Eucharist. It is a feast of remembrance, of thanksgiving, and of renewal, commemorating Jesus' self-giving love, His sacrificial death, and His continuing presence among us.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us that the Eucharist is the “source and summit of the Christian life” (CCC 1324). In this sacrament, we don’t just receive grace—we receive Christ Himself. And in doing so, we are transformed. A well-known saying encapsulates this mystery: “You are what you eat.” In the Eucharist, this takes on an eternal and sacramental meaning:

The Most Holy Trinity (C)

 Prov. 8:22-31; Rom. 5:1-5; Jn. 16:12-5

 

There once was a village nestled in the highlands, where a master glassblower was known far and wide for his exquisite stained-glass windows. One day, a group of students approached him, hoping to learn the art. The master agreed, but under one condition: they must first understand the secret behind his most beloved work—a majestic window titled "The Flame, the Stream, and the Whisper."

 The window portrayed a single radiant light split into three distinct forms. The Flame blazed in gold, the Stream flowed in blue, and the Whisper glowed in soft white. Confused, the students asked, "Why three, if they come from one light?" The master replied, "Because the flame burns with purpose, the stream moves with power, and the whisper speaks with love. They are not separate, but together they show the fullness of the light."

 

That window became the image through which the students would come to understand their craft and their lives—a reflection of unity in diversity, purpose in relationship, and harmony in mystery. So it is with the Trinity.

 

Today, on Trinity Sunday, we celebrate the mystery of God as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. This is not a formula to be solved but a relationship to be embraced. In the passage from John 16:12-15, Jesus reveals the interplay of the Trinity in action:

Pentecost (C)

 Acts 2:1-11; Rom 8:8-17; Jn. 14:15-16, 23b-26

Today we are celebrating the Feast of Pentecost. The word "Pentecost" means the "fiftieth day" after Easter. The Church was made manifest to the world on the day of Pentecost by the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. 

Today's First Reading from the Acts of the Apostles gives an account of the glorious arrival of the Holy Spirit.   “Then suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. (Acts 2:2) "Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability." (Acts 3:4-5)

The denial of Peter, the ambition of the apostles, the fear that hovered over them and all their spiritual miseries were wiped away the moment the Holy Spirit took possessions of their hearts. The Holy Spirit bestowed on them its gifts and the Apostles were filled with the gifts of the Spirit.

The seven gifts of the Holy Spirit are wisdom, understanding, counsel, fortitude, knowledge, piety, and fear of the Lord.

The Ascension of the Lord (C)

 Acts 1:1-11; Ephes. 1:17-23 or Heb. 9:24-28, 10:19-23; Lk. 24:44-53

The passage from Luke 24:44–53 captures a profound and glorious moment in salvation history—the Ascension of Jesus Christ. Unlike ordinary farewells marked with sorrow and loss, this farewell ends in joy, and mission. Jesus leaves with a blessing, a promise, and a purpose entrusted to His disciples. His hands, once pierced by nails, are now raised in blessing, and as He ascends, the disciples’ hearts are lifted too. They return to Jerusalem—not in mourning but rejoicing, praising God, and ready to be clothed with power from on high.

To understand the depth of this moment, we must see how it fulfills Scripture, mirrors Old Testament ascensions, demands a response from believers, and still speaks dynamically into our world today. Jesus opens the minds of His disciples to understand that everything written in the Law of Moses, the Prophets, and the Psalms points to Him. This threefold division represents the whole of the Hebrew Scriptures. The suffering, death, and resurrection of the Messiah, along with the proclamation of repentance and forgiveness, are not afterthoughts—they are the unfolding of God’s ancient plan.

From the Old Testament, we find stories that prepare us for this heavenly moment. Moses, the great leader of Israel, ascends Mount Nebo and sees the Promised Land. Though he does not enter it, his vision is a prophetic foreshadowing. Like Moses,

6th Sunday of Easter (C)

 Acts 15:1-2, 22-29; Rev. 21:10-14, 22-23; Jn. 14:23-29

Jesus said to his disciples, “Whoever loves me will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.” What a beautiful and intimate promise this is! It is not simply an invitation to follow commandments or to obey rules, but an invitation to a relationship so deep that God wants to dwell within us. It’s a promise of divine presence, of a spiritual home where God is not a guest, but a resident. In a world where so many feel lonely, abandoned, or misunderstood, this assurance gives profound comfort: God wants to live in us, with us, and through us.

There is a touching story about a little girl in Sunday school who was deeply focused on drawing. Her teacher asked, “What are you drawing?” She said, “I’m drawing God.” The teacher, amused, said, “But no one knows what God looks like.” The child confidently replied, “They will in a minute.” Sometimes, children get it right better than adults. When we allow God to dwell in us, we become His image

5th Sunday of Easter (C)

 Acts 14:21b-27; Rev. 21:1-5a; Jn. 13:1, 31-33a, 34-35

During the supper, after Judas had left to carry out his betrayal, Jesus turned to his remaining disciples and spoke words both heavy with grief and radiant with divine purpose: "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him... I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another." (John 13:31-35). These words are not a mere farewell or ethical maxim. They represent the heartbeat of Christian discipleship. In the context of betrayal, impending suffering, and parting, Jesus emphasizes love as the identifying mark of His followers.

The passage begins with Jesus' declaration of glory: "Now the Son of Man has been glorified." It is important to understand that in John's Gospel, glory is intimately connected with the cross. The cross, a symbol of shame, becomes for Jesus the very throne of glory. The Old Testament offers glimpses of this paradox. The suffering servant of Isaiah (Isaiah 53) bears our infirmities and

4th Sunday of Easter (C)

 Acts 13:14, 43-52; Rev. 7:9, 14b-17; Jn. 10:27-30

The passage from John 10:27-30 encapsulates the heart of Jesus’ message: a relationship of intimacy and security between the Good Shepherd and His sheep. Jesus’ voice calls us to follow Him, offering eternal life and the assurance that no one can take us out of His hand. This message resonates deeply across ages.

The imagery of the shepherd is deeply rooted in the Old Testament. God is depicted as the Shepherd of Israel in Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.” David, the shepherd-king, foreshadows Christ as the ultimate Shepherd who knows His flock intimately and leads them to safety. Ezekiel 34 speaks of God’s promise to search for His sheep and care for them, an echo of Jesus’ mission.

Consider the calling of Samuel (1 Samuel 3). As a young boy, Samuel heard the voice of God calling him by name. Initially mistaking it for Eli’s voice, Samuel eventually responded with the words, “Speak, Lord, for your servant is listening.” This readiness to hear and obey mirrors the call Jesus extends to His sheep.