I was blind, and now I see. (4th Sunday of Lent - Year A) John 9:1-41

 

Homily: “I Was Blind, and Now I See”  homily on John 9:1–41,

In today’s Gospel, we meet a man who has been blind from birth.

He has never seen a sunrise.

Never seen his parents’ faces.

Never seen the road in front of him.

And when the disciples see him, they ask a question that many of us ask when life is hard:

“Who sinned?”

Whose fault is this?

But Jesus answers in a surprising way:

“Neither he nor his parents sinned.

This happened so that the works of God might be made visible through him.”

In other words, this man’s life is not meaningless.

His suffering is not wasted.

God will use it for something greater.

Jesus then kneels down, makes clay with His saliva, and rubs it on the man’s eyes.

And He tells him, “Go wash in the pool of Siloam.”

The man could have said,

“Why mud?”

“Why walk there?”

“Why not heal me right now?”

But instead, he goes. He trusts. He obeys.

And when he washes…he can see.

That moment must have been overwhelming.

The first thing his eyes ever saw was light.

But what follows is even more remarkable.

Instead of joy, the man faces questioning.

Instead of praise, he faces doubt.

Instead of celebration, he faces rejection.

The Pharisees say, “This man cannot be from God.”

They examine him again and again.
They pressure him.
They threaten him.

But listen to his simple faith:

“All I know is this:

I was blind, and now I see.”

He doesn’t argue theology.

He doesn’t give a lecture.

He gives a witness.

That is how faith grows: not through winning arguments,

but through telling the truth of what God has done for us.

And when they throw him out of the synagogue,

Jesus goes to find him.

He does not leave him alone.

He seeks him out.

And when Jesus asks,

“Do you believe in the Son of Man?”

the man says,

“Lord, I believe,” and he worships Him.

This Gospel shows us something beautiful:

the man moves from darkness, to sight…
Then to faith…
and then to worship.

That is the journey of every Christian life.

Let me share that once again.

the man moves from darkness, to sight…
Then to faith…
and then to worship.

 

---

Let me share a short story to help us understand a little more deeply.

There was a little girl who was born with very poor eyesight.

She could not read books like the other children.

She could not see faces clearly.

She often bumped into things.

One day her mother asked her,

“Does it make you sad that you can’t see like the other kids?”

The girl thought for a moment and said,

“Sometimes… but God must have a reason.”

Years later, she was able to have a very special surgery.

And after the bandages were removed,

for the first time in her life, she saw clearly.

She began to cry.

Her mother said,

“Why are you crying? You can see now!”

And the girl answered,

“I think God wanted me to learn how to trust Him before I learned how to see.”

Wow! That is wisdom, and from such a young soul.

And that is exactly what the blind man in the Gospel learned.

Before he ever saw Jesus’ face, he trusted Jesus’ voice.

Before he ever worshiped Him, he obeyed Him.

And that is why his healing becomes a miracle of the soul,
not just of the eyes.

---

Families, this Gospel speaks to us today because many of us can see physically… but we struggle to see spiritually.

We see our problems clearly.
We see our worries clearly.
We see the brokenness of the world clearly.

But do we see God at work?

Do we see His mercy?
Do we see His hand guiding us?
Do we see His presence in our homes?

The Pharisees see the miracle… but refuse to believe.

Why?

Because they already think they know everything.

But the blind man is humble.

He is open.

He is willing to be taught.

And that makes all the difference.

Children, this Gospel teaches you something important:
Jesus is not just someone you learn about.
He is someone you follow.

Parents and grandparents,
this Gospel reminds us that the most powerful faith we pass on
is not perfect knowledge… but lived trust.

The blind man does not say,

“I understand everything.”

He says,

“I was blind, and now I see.”

That is faith.

Faith does not mean life is easy.

It means life has light.

Faith does not mean there is no suffering.

It means suffering has meaning.

Faith does not mean we never struggle.

It means we never struggle alone.

---

And look at how this Gospel ends.

The man is cast out.

He loses his place in the community.

But Jesus finds him.

When the world pushes him away, Jesus pulls him close.

That is our hope.

When we are confused, Jesus finds us.

When we are afraid, Jesus finds us.

When we are rejected, Jesus finds us.

And He asks us the same question He asked that man:

“Do you believe?”

Not: “Do you understand everything?”

Not: “Have you figured it all out?”

But: “Do you trust Me?”

And when the man answers yes, he worships Jesus.

Because the goal of healing is not comfort.

The goal of healing is communion with God.

 

Let us end in prayer:

Lord, open our eyes.

Help us see Your hand in our lives.

Help us see Your love in our families.

Help us see Your grace even in our trials.

And when we do not understand,

let us still say with the man born blind:

“Lord, I believe.”

And may that faith become light not only for us,

but for our children,

and especially for

a world still searching for sight.

Amen

When God Calls You Blessed (4th Sunday Ordinary Time - Year A)

 

4^th Sunday of Ordinary Time – Year A

Homily: “When God Calls You Blessed”

In today’s Gospel, Jesus climbs a mountain, sits down, and begins to speak.

That detail matters.

In Scripture, mountains are where God meets His people—where heaven feels close, where hearts are laid bare.

And when Jesus speaks from this mountain, He does not shout.

He does not command.

He blesses.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit.”
“Blessed are those who mourn.”
“Blessed are the meek.”

And if we are honest, many of us hear those words and quietly think, That doesn’t feel blessed.

Because we live in a world that tells us blessing looks like success, comfort, recognition, and control.

But Jesus looks at a crowd filled with the tired, the overlooked, the grieving, the struggling—and He calls them blessed.

Why?

Because Jesus is not describing what the world rewards.

He is revealing where God is closest.

The Beatitudes are not ideals for perfect people.

They are promises for wounded people.

To be poor in spirit means you have come to the end of pretending you can carry life on your own.

To mourn means you have loved deeply enough to be broken.

To be meek means you have learned that gentleness is stronger than anger.

To hunger and thirst for righteousness means your heart aches for things to be made right again.

Jesus is telling us that these moments—these painful, vulnerable places—are not where God abandons us.

They are where He meets us.

 

Let me tell you a story that might help us understand this message a little more clearly.

There was a father who came to Mass every Sunday with his teenage daughter.

They always sat in the same pew.

She leaned against him during the homily.

People noticed them because they were always together—but what they didn’t know was why.

Several years earlier, this father had lost his wife.

Cancer.

Quick.

Cruel.

No amount of prayer seemed to stop it.

After the funeral, his daughter stopped speaking much at home.

She would go to her room and close the door.

He didn’t know how to fix it—and that helplessness was its own grief.

One night, overwhelmed, he sat alone at the kitchen table and whispered, “Lord, I don’t know how to be both mother and father.

I don’t know how to heal her pain.

I don’t even know how to heal my own.”

The next Sunday, the Gospel was the Beatitudes.

As he listened, one line pierced him:
“Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.”

He said later, “I always thought blessing meant God would take the pain away.

That day I realized blessing meant God was staying with us in it.”

So he did something small—but holy.

Every Sunday after Communion, he would quietly reach over and hold his daughter’s hand.

No words. No fixing. Just presence.

Weeks passed.

Then months.

However, One Sunday, she squeezed his hand back and whispered,

“Dad… I think Mom would be proud of you.”

That moment did not erase their grief.

But it changed it.

Their mourning became a place where love still lived.

Brothers and sisters, that is the Kingdom Jesus is talking about.

The Beatitudes teach us that God does not wait for us to be strong before calling us blessed.

He meets us precisely where we are weak.

The world says, “Fix yourself, then come to God.”

Jesus says, “Come to Me—and I will make you whole.”

The Beatitudes are not steps to happiness.

They are a revelation of the heart of Christ.

Jesus is poor in spirit—He empties Himself completely.

Jesus mourns—He weeps over Jerusalem.

Jesus is meek—He does not defend Himself before Pilate.

Jesus hungers and thirsts—for our salvation.

Jesus is merciful—He forgives the sinner.

Jesus is pure of heart—His love never wavers.

Jesus is the peacemaker—His cross reconciles heaven and earth.

Jesus is persecuted—yet He remains faithful.

To live the Beatitudes is not to escape suffering—it is to allow God to transform it.

And so today, if you feel tired in your faith…

If you are grieving someone or something you have lost…

If you are struggling to forgive…

If you are quietly trying to do the right thing when no one sees…

Hear the words of Jesus spoken directly to you:

Blessed are you.

Not because life is easy.

Not because you have it all figured out.

But because God is near—and the Kingdom has already begun.

 

As we come to this altar, we bring our poverty of spirit, our mourning, our longing for peace.

And Jesus gives us not answers, but Himself.

May we leave today trusting that even in our brokenness, even in our tears, God is at work—and His blessing is already resting upon us.

Blessed are you.      For yours    is the Kingdom     of heaven.

2nd Sunday Ordinary Time - Year A, Behold the Lamb of God (John 1:29-34)

 

Homily for the Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

John 1:29–34

There are moments in life when someone points something out to us—and afterward we wonder how we ever missed it.

A friend says, “Have you noticed…?”
A parent says, “I want you to listen carefully.”
A doctor says, “We caught this just in time.”

And suddenly, what was always there becomes impossible to ignore.

That is what happens in today’s Gospel.

John the Baptist looks at Jesus and says:

“Behold, the Lamb of God.”

Not listen.
Not consider.
But behold.

Look closely.
Take Him in.
Let your life be reoriented by what you are about to see.

---

What strikes me most is not just what John says—but what he admits:

“I did not know Him.”

John had devoted his life to preparing the way for the Messiah.

And yet, when Jesus first appeared, John needed God to open his eyes.

That should give us comfort.

Because faith is not about having everything figured out.

It is about being attentive enough to recognize God when He stands in front of us—sometimes quietly, sometimes unexpectedly.

---

Years ago, there was a woman in a parish—her name was Evelyn.

Evelyn was widowed young and raised four children on her own.

She worked long hours, packed lunches, got kids to school and church, and collapsed into bed most nights exhausted.

She loved God deeply, but prayer often consisted of whispered words while washing dishes.

Years later, her children were grown and gone.

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

One evening, while cleaning out a drawer, she found an old parish bulletin from decades earlier.

Folded inside was a small prayer card with words she had almost forgotten:

“Lord, what do You want me to do today?”

She remembered praying that prayer years earlier—not for big answers, just for strength to get through the day.

Now, in the stillness, she prayed it again.

And for the first time, she noticed something:

God was not asking her to do more—He was asking her to listen more.

Over time, Evelyn became a quiet presence in the parish

praying in the church during the day,

encouraging young families,

speaking gently to teenagers who lingered after Mass.

Several years later, a young man preparing for seminary told her,

“You were the first person who ever asked me if I had thought about priesthood.”

Evelyn didn’t preach.

She didn’t persuade.

She simply helped someone recognize what God was already doing.

Just like John.

---

And John does not describe Jesus as powerful or impressive.

He calls Him a Lamb.

That is important.

A lamb is not intimidating.
A lamb does not force obedience.
A lamb must be received.

This is how God comes to us.

Quietly.
Humbly.
Close enough to miss if we are not paying attention.

---

And God’s Call Is Still Real and still calls today.

He calls through parents who pray faithfully.

Through grandparents who model steady trust.

Through parish communities that make space for silence and courage.

He calls men to priesthood.
He calls men to the diaconate.
He calls women and men to consecrated life.

But most often, He calls softly.

And if no one points, if no one encourages, if no one asks the question—those calls can fade into the noise of life.

---

That is why times of discernment matter.

This February, our diocese will offer a retreat opportunity for young adults ages 18-35 simply to listen—to pray, to ask, to sit with the Lord and say,

“If You are calling me, help me recognize Your voice.”

It is not a promise.
It is not a commitment.
It is an act of trust.

And trust is where every vocation begins.

---

And finally,

In just a few moments, during the liturgy of the Eucharist, we will hear John’s words once again:

“Behold, the Lamb of God.”

Christ will not be distant.

He will not be symbolic.

He will be here—given for us.

May we behold Him with open hearts.

May we recognize Him not only on the altar,

but in the quiet invitations He places within our lives.

And may we, like John,

have the courage to point—

so that others may see.

4th Sunday of Advent Year A - Homily on Matthew 1:18–24, The annunciation to Joseph

 

4^th Sunday of Advent Year A - Homily on Matthew 1:18–24

(The Annunciation to Joseph)

Today’s Gospel, gives us a powerful and tender glimpse into the heart of Saint Joseph.

And though Joseph never speaks a single word in Scripture, his life communicates a message the Church needs desperately today.

His obedience, his courage, and his faith show us what it means to trust God when life does not unfold the way we planned.

Matthew begins by telling us that Joseph was a “righteous man.”

In Scripture, righteousness is not about being flawless or rigid.

It means you are in right relationship with God—someone whose heart tries to beat in harmony with God’s will.

And yet this righteous man finds himself in a situation that would break anyone’s heart.

He learns that Mary, his betrothed, is with child.

It must have felt like the world stopped.

Everything he dreamed, everything he envisioned—a simple life, a holy marriage, a peaceful home—suddenly collapses.

Joseph is confused.

He is hurt.

He is afraid.

He is standing in a kind of darkness.

It’s important to say this clearly: Holiness does not mean we never experience fear, confusion, or pain.

Holiness means that when fear arrives, we respond with trust.

When confusion enters, we seek God’s voice.

When pain touches our heart, we choose love over anger.

That is exactly what Joseph does.

Even before the angel comes, he chooses mercy over pride.

He chooses to protect Mary rather than expose her.

His first instinct is compassion.

And then—right when Joseph feels lost—God speaks.

“Joseph, son of David,

do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home.

For the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit.”

In that moment, Joseph learns that the very thing that caused him the greatest fear is the very place God is working most powerfully.

And, brothers and sisters, that is still true today.

Very often, the place in your life that feels uncertain, heavy, or frightening is precisely the place where God is preparing something new.

---

Let me share a short but meaningful story of A Father’s Yes

Some years ago, I knew a young couple who were expecting their first child.

They were filled with that beautiful mix of joy and nervous excitement.

But at their 20-week appointment, the doctor delivered heartbreaking news:

the baby would be born with significant medical complications.

They did not know if the child would survive, and if he did, he would need multiple surgeries.

The father was devastated.

His plans, his expectations, everything he imagined about becoming a dad suddenly felt unstable.

He told me one day, with tears in his eyes, “Deacon Pat, I don’t know how to be the father this child will need. I don’t feel ready.”

But something remarkable happened.

Each night, he would place his hand gently on his wife’s belly and whisper:

“I’m scared… but I’m here. I’m yours.”

When the baby was born, tiny and fragile, hooked up to tubes and machines, the father stood beside that little incubator, placed his hand on that tiny hand, and whispered again:

“I’m scared… but I’m here.”

Over the next months, the child slowly grew stronger.

And I will never forget one particular moment:

I walked into a parish festival and saw that father lifting his son into the air—laughing, smiling, playing.

The fear that once felt overwhelming had been transformed into courage, and that courage had blossomed into love.

The father later said, “I didn’t understand it at first, but saying yes—even when I was terrified—changed everything.

It didn’t just make me a father. It changed my heart.”

When he said this, I thought immediately of Saint Joseph—the quiet, faithful father who said yes even without understanding the path ahead.

---

What is Joseph’s Example for Us Today?

Joseph teaches us that authentic faith is not based on having all the answers.

Authentic faith is saying yes to God even when the road is unclear.

Joseph did not know what the future would hold.

He didn’t know how to raise the Son of God.

He didn’t know how they would survive the journey to Bethlehem.

He didn’t know about the flight into Egypt.

He didn’t know about the hidden years in Nazareth.

But he trusted.

And he obeyed.

And he loved.

And because of his trust, Jesus entered the world.

This is a powerful message for us—because every single person here has a place in their life that feels confusing, uncertain, or burdensome.

Maybe you carry a worry about your children.

Maybe you are facing an illness.

Maybe you’re struggling with finances, or loneliness, or a relationship that’s hurting.

Maybe something in your life is not turning out the way you hoped.

And like Joseph, you might feel like saying,

“Lord, I don’t understand.

Why is this happening?

What am I supposed to do?”

And just as He said to Joseph, God speaks to you today:
“Do not be afraid.”

Not because the road will be easy.

But because God is with you in every moment—in every uncertainty, every decision, every storm, every joy, every burden.

And like Joseph, your yes—even a trembling yes—allows Jesus to enter your life more deeply.

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Joseph, the Guardian of Jesus—and of Us

Think of what Joseph’s yes accomplished.

He became the protector of the Holy Family.

He shielded Mary and the infant Christ from danger.

He built a home where Jesus could grow in wisdom and strength.

In the same way, your yes has power.

When you say yes to God:

• you protect the people entrusted to you
• you bring Christ into your home
• you create a place where faith can grow
• you shape the future in ways you may never fully see

Joseph didn’t realize that his ordinary, quiet obedience would echo across centuries.

And your faithfulness—your hidden sacrifices, your love, your courage—will echo in your family and your parish for generations.

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An Invitation for This Season

As we reflect on this Gospel, I invite you to ask:

Where is God asking me to trust Him right now?
Where is God saying, “Do not be afraid”?
Where is God inviting me to say yes—even if I’m unsure?

Maybe it’s forgiving someone.
Maybe it’s letting go of anger.
Maybe it’s deepening your prayer life.
Maybe it’s taking a step toward healing.
Maybe it’s saying yes to a responsibility that feels heavy.
Maybe it’s opening your heart to something new God is doing.

Like Joseph, we may not see the whole path.
But like Joseph, we can say yes to the God who walks with us.

---

Conclusion

Brothers and sisters, Joseph’s life teaches us this profound truth:
God’s plans are often beyond our understanding,
but they are never beyond His love.

May we learn from Joseph
to listen when God whispers,
to trust when God leads,
to obey when God calls,
and to say yes—even in our fear—
so that Christ may be born anew in our lives.

Amen.