The Grace of Being Brought Low

 30 Sunday of Ordinary Time, year C

Sometimes life brings us down—through illness, aging, or hardship—and we feel powerless. Yet it’s often in those moments of helplessness that we finally recognize our need for God’s mercy, opening the door for grace to enter. Like the humble tax collector, when we pray, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner,” we discover that dependence on God is not weakness but the path to true strength.

Listen to homily here:

As I mentioned at the start of Mass, I’m talking a bit funny today because I went to the dentist the other day. And for most of us, going to the dentist isn’t exactly a highlight of the week. I’ll admit, I don’t like it one bit. The main reason is because I’m a big baby when it comes to needles—I see one, and I start to panic. But there’s another reason too: when you’re in that dentist’s chair, you feel helpless. You can’t talk, you can’t move, and you’re totally dependent on someone else.

Now, going to the dentist is a minor example, but it points to a much deeper experience many people face. There are times in life when we feel powerless—when we’ve been brought low and can’t really do anything to change our situation. Think of someone battling a long-term illness, unable to control what’s ahead. Or the elderly members of our community who are losing abilities they once took for granted. Or newcomers and immigrants trying to start over in a strange country, filled with uncertainty. All of us, at some point, experience moments like these—moments that bring us low.

Although God doesn’t want us to suffer, perhaps there’s a grace hidden in these experiences. Today’s Gospel reveals something of that grace. Jesus tells us that in order to receive God’s help, we must first recognize that we need it. God can’t give us something we don’t believe we need.

In the parable, Jesus contrasts two people: a Pharisee and a tax collector. It’s a startling image. The Pharisees were known for their piety and religious devotion; they were the “good” people of their time. The tax collectors, on the other hand, were despised. They worked for the Roman Empire and often cheated people out of money. Yet Jesus flips the script. The Pharisee, who thought he had it all together, prayed as if he didn’t need God. And because of that, he went home unchanged. The tax collector, however, was humble. He knew his faults. He recognized his dependence on God, and he cried out, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” And Jesus says that he went home justified.

The message is clear: humility opens the door to grace. When we acknowledge our need, God can enter our lives.

I’ve heard many people tell their faith stories, and a common thread runs through them. They’ll say, “I didn’t really pray, I didn’t really think about God—until I hit rock bottom.” When they reached that point of helplessness, when they could no longer rely on themselves, that’s when they turned to God. That’s when grace began to work.

The word humility actually comes from the Latin humus—not hummus like the food, but humus, meaning “earth” or “ground.” To be humble means to be grounded—to be real about who we are. It means being honest about our gifts and talents, yes, but also about our weaknesses and our dependence on God and others.

So when we find ourselves brought low—when we feel powerless or uncertain—perhaps those moments are not just burdens but opportunities. Opportunities to recognize our need for God, to remember that we are not self-sufficient. And it’s precisely then that God can draw near to us.

Let us, then, imitate the tax collector from today’s Gospel. Let’s be honest with God about our need, and pray simply, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” Those words of humility are the key that unlocks the door to God’s mercy. For when we finally admit that we need Him, that’s when God can truly help us.

When God Seems Silent

 29 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Even when God appears silent, faith and prayer invite us into a living relationship with Jesus Christ—a relationship that transforms us even when our prayers go unanswered. Like waves that slowly carve stone, persevering prayer reshapes our hearts and deepens our trust in God’s love. And just as Aaron and Hur held up Moses’ arms, we too rely on one another in our community of faith to keep praying, believing, and hoping together.

Listen to homily here:

Some years ago, I read a book called Silence by Shusaku Endo, a Japanese author. I found it quite challenging, a difficult read. Some of you might be familiar with it or have seen Martin Scorsese’s recent film adaptation. The story traces the lives of Jesuit missionaries in 17th-century Japan, a time of severe persecution against Christians. Two young missionaries set out for Japan after hearing that their mentor, a priest who had gone there years before, had renounced his faith. Deeply troubled, they travel in search of him, hoping to learn what became of him and why.

Without revealing too much, the story raises the very tension that echoes in today’s Gospel—the struggle of prayer and faith when God seems silent. The heart of Silence lies in that haunting question: how can one continue to believe in a loving God who does not intervene? How can one pray when heaven appears mute?

Even centuries later, faith and prayer remain difficult for many. Faith, especially today, can be misunderstood or even misused. Some see faith as a tool for power or wealth. We think of figures who exploit belief for personal gain or of moments in history when religion was manipulated for political ends. To illustrate, imagine a leader in a powerful nation publicly aligning with influential Christians. Some citizens might celebrate, others might question the sincerity of that leader’s motives, especially if their actions seem inconsistent with the Gospel. I’m not speaking of a modern leader, but of Emperor Constantine in the fourth century.

Constantine’s mother was a devout Christian, yet his own life remained marked by violence and ambition. Near the end of his life, he was baptized, but his faith journey left many uneasy. Some Christians rejoiced that persecution had ended; others feared the faith was being diluted. It was in this moment that men and women fled to the desert to live radical lives of prayer and simplicity—the beginnings of monastic life. They longed to recover the heart of faith. Their question is still ours: how do we believe in a loving God who sometimes feels absent?

Prayer, too, is a struggle. In Silence, when the missionaries finally meet their mentor, he confesses, “I prayed so much for the people I served, but God did not answer. God was silent.” Many of us have felt the same. We pray for healing, for peace, for change—and nothing seems to happen. Others dismiss prayer as a substitute for action. We hear phrases like “thoughts and prayers” after tragedy and wish that words were joined with deeds. Yet even amid these tensions, the Gospel today reminds us that faith and prayer are not mere practices but relationships.

Faith is rooted in a person—Jesus Christ. To believe is to trust that in Jesus, God became human and revealed both who God is and who we are meant to be. Faith means choosing to live in relationship with Christ, to become more like him here and now. Prayer is the living conversation that flows from that relationship. In prayer, we speak and listen, we share silence, we let his Word shape us.

The Curé of Ars once told of an elderly man who prayed for long hours in church. When asked how he did it, the man replied simply, “I look at him, and he looks at me.” That quiet exchange captures what prayer truly is—love meeting love. Prayer may not always change our circumstances, but it always changes us.

In today’s parable, Jesus tells of a judge who yields only because a widow’s persistence wears him down. If even an unjust judge listens, how much more will our loving Father hear us? God answers every prayer, though often in ways that surprise us. Sometimes prayer must first enlarge our hearts before they can receive what God wants to give. I once noticed waves breaking again and again against a rock wall. Over years, those waves had carved out a hollow, even a cave. Persevering prayer works the same way: over time it shapes and softens our hearts until grace can enter.

And we are not alone in that work. In the first reading, Moses grows weary as he prays for victory over the Amalekites. When his arms begin to fall, Aaron and Hur stand beside him and hold them up until the battle is won. That image beautifully captures the gift of community. Our faith is sustained not just by our own effort but by those who pray with us and for us.

When we come to Mass, we come as that community. We lift one another’s arms in prayer. We help one another to stay faithful. In this holy place, we are surrounded by others who support us, encourage us, and remind us that we are never alone. So let us renew our dedication to faith and to prayer, grounding our hearts once more in Jesus Christ. May we persevere in trust, knowing that even in silence, God listens, and even in struggle, God is near.

Seeing the Good: The Choice of Gratitude

 28 Sunday of Ordinary Time

Louis Armstrong’s “What a Wonderful World” reminds us that gratitude isn’t naïve. It is  a choice to see the good even amid struggle. The grateful Samaritan in the Gospel shows that thanksgiving brings not only healing of the body but also of the heart. When we choose gratitude and become people others are grateful for, we don’t just see a wonderful world, we help create one.

Listen to homily here:

 

We are all probably familiar with the famous song “What a Wonderful World” by Louis Armstrong. Louis Armstrong released this song in 1967, a time of chaos and unrest, political unrest in the United States, civil unrest, and the Vietnam War. As a counterpoint to all this darkness and difficulty, Armstrong released a song that invited people to consciously search for the good that still exists in the world: “I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom for me and you, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

This song is not naïve optimism. It’s not ignoring the struggles of the world. It’s a choice—a deliberate decision to look for goodness, to see our blessings. And that theme of gratitude is something we are called to reflect on during this Thanksgiving long weekend. Gratitude matters. It’s what helps us to live differently, to see differently, to be people of hope.

We see the importance of gratitude also in the Gospel, where Jesus heals ten lepers, but only one returns to give thanks. That simple act of returning makes all the difference for that one man. Thanksgiving, even outside a religious context, is widely recognized as important. People say that gratitude is like a “life hack.” If you want to live more positively, more joyfully, you need to count your blessings, to show gratitude.

This idea isn’t new. The Roman writer Seneca once said, “Nothing is more noble than a grateful heart.” He saw that being thankful and recognizing the good in our lives was an act of nobility. In more recent times, the psychologist Brené Brown has written beautifully about the importance of gratitude. She says, “I don’t have to chase extraordinary moments to find happiness—it’s right in front of me if I’m paying attention and practising gratitude.” Gratitude helps us experience joy even in the midst of difficulties.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus shows us the spiritual importance of gratitude. Whenever I hear the story of the ten lepers, it strikes me that there are two healings happening. The first is the physical healing, which all ten experience—they are cleansed of their leprosy. But Jesus highlights something deeper. He praises the one who returns, who gives thanks. And significantly, it’s a Samaritan, someone looked down upon by others, whom Jesus holds up as the example.

That Samaritan was healed not just physically, but spiritually. He recognized that what he had received from Christ was pure gift. Gratitude begins with that recognition—that everything we have is grace. What we have in life is not simply earned or deserved; it’s given. When we live with that awareness, we live with more joy, optimism, and peace. Gratitude opens our eyes to grace. It helps us see that God truly is loving, that He cares for us personally.

So I’d like to invite us to take a moment of silence, just one minute, to think of two things we are grateful for. One might be something in your life right now—a person, an experience, something you’ve received. The other could be something connected to your faith—something in your spiritual life or in our parish community that you are thankful for. Let’s take that moment together now. 

(pause for one minute)

Taking that time to be grateful is a spiritual practice. As Louis Armstrong reminds us in his song, it’s not easy—it’s a choice. It’s much easier to notice what’s wrong, what’s missing, or what frustrates us. But when we make the decision to search for what is good, our hearts begin to change. When we see goodness and live in gratitude, we come to believe more deeply that Jesus is with us and cares for us.

As Christians, though, we are not called only to be grateful; we are also called to become people others are grateful for. It’s not enough to see the good—we are invited to be the good. To be the kind of people who bring gratitude into others’ lives. To be the ones who reach out to a friend who’s struggling, who call someone who’s lonely, who show kindness and generosity in the small moments of every day.

When we live that way, we don’t just sing “What a Wonderful World.” We help make it one.