How many times have we heard the story of Lazarus? For many of us, the number is likely in the hundreds. We know the characters: the grieving sisters, the confused disciples, and the Jesus who weeps before he works. But if we treat this as a 2,000-year-old “magic trick,” we lose the Veritas—the Truth—that this Gospel is trying to breathe into us today. If it is just a miracle from the past, it’s a museum piece. If it’s just a “fortune-telling” of the Resurrection, it’s a trailer for a movie we’ve already seen. Through Dominican eyes, we must ask: What is the Truth of this story for a man or woman living in 2026?

Let’s look at this through a lens we rarely consider: the perspective of Lazarus himself. We often think of this as a “happily ever after” for him but think about that for a moment. Lazarus was on the doorstep of the Kingdom. He had passed through the veil; he was at rest. And yet, he is called back. He is made to “turn around” and re-enter a world of dust, pain, and eventually, a second death.

Why? Because the Truth is that our life is not our own. Lazarus was not raised for his own comfort; he was raised for the Mission. He became a living, breathing sermon—a walking protest against the finality of death. His very existence from that day forward forced everyone who looked at him to confront a reality they weren’t prepared for: that the stones we roll in front of our hearts are not permanent. Sometimes, God calls us back into difficult situations—into “stinky” circumstances—not to punish us, but because our presence there is the only way others will believe that light can penetrate the darkness.

Martha warns Jesus, “Lord, by now there will be a stench.” This is perhaps the most honest line in the New Testament. It acknowledges that some situations have gone on too long to be fixed by human hands. We all have “stinky” parts of our lives—addictions we can’t shake, bitterness we’ve nursed for decades, or a paralyzing fear of the future. The world tells us to leave those things behind the stone. The world tells us that once something starts to decay, it’s over.

But Christ stands at the mouth of our personal tombs and demands that the stone be rolled away. He isn’t afraid of the stench. The Dominican Truth is that God meets us exactly where we are “rotting.” He does not wait for us to get cleaned up before He calls us out. He calls us while we are still bound.

Perhaps the most profound Truth for us as a parish and an Order is what happens after the miracle. Jesus says the words that give life, but then He turns to the community and gives a command: “Untie him and let him go.” Notice that Jesus did not wave a hand and make the burial cloths vanish. He required the community to get their hands dirty. This is the mandate for St. Michael’s Catholic Parish/Unified Old Catholic Church. Christ provides the life-giving grace, but we are the ones called to the “Ministry of Unbinding.”

There are people sitting in these pews, or living in our neighborhoods, who have been “raised”—they have heard the call of God—but they are still walking around in burial cloths. They are bound by the labels the world has put on them, bound by the shame of their past, or bound by a lack of hope. As Dominicans and as followers of Christ, our job is to reach out and help peel back those bandages. We are called to be the hands that untie the knots of despair so that our brothers and sisters can truly walk in freedom.

As we move into Passiontide, we realize that the raising of Lazarus was the final catalyst for the death of Jesus. By giving Lazarus life, Jesus sealed His own earthly end. He traded His life for ours.

Today, let us ask ourselves: What stone are we keeping firmly in place? What “tomb” are we hiding in? The Voice that called Lazarus is calling you today. Not just to “live,” but to join the mission. To be a witness to the Truth that in Christ, nothing is ever truly “over.”

Y’all………Today is a big day!  The Sunday closest to 6 January is the day the Church celebrates Epiphany, which marks the end of the Christmas season and reflects on the visit of the Magi, or wisemen, to the baby Jesus.  Our good friends, the dictionary makers, define “epiphany” as a sudden, profound moment of insight or realization, often a spiritual or philosophical breakthrough, where a deeper truth about something is revealed, changing one’s perception.  In more simple terms, it’s an “aha!” moment, or when one realizes something that’s pretty profound, pretty life changing. 

“So,” you ask, “what does this have to do with the wisemen or three kings, or whoever?”  Imma tell ya.  Those wisemen were the first folks outside of the Nativity story to recognize Jesus as Someone Important.  So important that they traveled for quite some time, over long distances, to reach Jesus, and in doing so, let the world know that Jesus was Somebody.

Y’all remember when our dear friend, Ebeneezer Scrooge, had his own personal Epiphany?  Like, BOOM!, a big realization and life change!  He went from being mean and hateful and dreadful to being kind and loving and generous.  That’s what Epiphany is and does. 

Epiphany is about Jesus and his message being available and relevant to people of every age and race. Epiphany is about God made present amongst us and available to all of us to worship and follow. Epiphany is about God’s love and how that love reaches beyond the everyday barriers of race, class, sexuality, political party, or anything else that separates us from each other. 

Simply put and bottom line, is that Epiphany is all about realizing that no matter who we are, what we are, we need to become more.  More loving.  More caring.  More forgiving.  More Christlike.  Jesus himself clues us in to what Epiphany is all about:

Jesus tells us in John 13:34-35, “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another: just as I have loved you, you also are to love one another.  By this all people will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”   

We, all of us, need to have this kind of Epiphany every day of our lives.  Every.  Day.  We need to remind ourselves, every day, of who we claim to serve, of how we are supposed to conduct ourselves, of how our own epiphanies have changed us and our lives.  Of the qualities we are required to show:  Justice.  Mercy.  Kindness.  Forgiveness.  Love.  Regardless of anything else that might separate us, divide us, or causes us to see people as “other.”  There is no one on this planet who God doesn’t love.  There is no one on this planet who Jesus didn’t die for.  Period.  Love.  One.  Another. 

And maybe, just maybe, because of the epiphanies in our lives, we can help others to have their own.  Amen.

We gather here in the middle of the night, surrounded by darkness, to celebrate the Light of the World. It is a beautiful tradition. But as we sit here, let’s start with a bit of honesty—something we Dominicans call Veritas.

If we were to look at the historical records, the meteorological charts of ancient Judea, or the shepherding schedules of the first century, we would likely find that Jesus was not born on a cold night in late December. Shepherds don’t keep flocks in open fields in the dead of winter. It’s likely He was born in the spring or perhaps the autumn during the Feast of Tabernacles.

So, why are we here on December 25th?

We are here because in the 4th Century, Pope Julius I decided. He looked at a world that was celebrating the return of the sun—the pagan winter solstice—and he said, “No. We do not worship the sun; we worship the Son of God.” He planted the flag of Christ right in the middle of the darkest time of the year to say: The Light has conquered the darkness.

But here is the important part: The date is liturgical. The event is reality.

It does not detract from the truth one bit. Whether it happened in April, October, or December, the fact remains: The Infinite God became a finite infant. The Creator entered His creation. The Word became Flesh.

However, we must be careful not to get stuck in the sentimentality of the scene. We look at the Nativity set, the peaceful animals, the glowing baby, the silent night—and it feels cozy. It feels safe.

But if we look closer, we realize that His birth means absolutely nothing without the Cross.

Archbishop Fulton Sheen once said that every other person who ever came into this world came into it to live. Jesus Christ is the only person who came into this world to die. His death was the goal of His life.

From the very first moment He drew breath in Bethlehem, He was marching toward Calvary.

He was placed in a manger, a feeding trough for animals, signifying that He would become Bread for the world—the Eucharist.

He was wrapped in swaddling clothes, bands of cloth that looked suspiciously like the burial shrouds that would wrap Him in the tomb.

And most importantly, He was laid on wood.

The wood of the manger prefigures the wood of the Cross. You cannot have Bethlehem without Golgotha. You cannot have the Crib without the Crucifix. If He had just been born a great teacher, a great philosopher, or a nice man, we wouldn’t be here tonight. We are here because that Baby is the Victim who would pay the price for my sins and for yours.

So, with that heavy reality in mind, what does Jesus want us to take away from this night?

He doesn’t want a birthday cake. He doesn’t want us to just feel warm and fuzzy for an hour and then go back to our lives.

He wants us to realize why He came.

He saw us in our mess. He saw us in our addiction to sin. He saw us lost in the darkness of our own making. And He didn’t send a representative; He came Himself. He “got a guy”—and that guy was Himself.

What He wants from us tonight is surrender. He wants us to look at the manger and see the Cross, and say, “Lord, if You went to these lengths—from the glory of heaven to a dirty stable, all the way to a Roman cross—just to save me… then the least I can do is give You my life.”

He wants us to leave this church different than we walked in. He wants us to carry the Light out those doors. The world is still dark, just like it was under Caesar Augustus. It needs Light. It needs Truth. It needs you to be the carrier of that Light.

Tonight, let us not just admire the Baby. Let us adore the Savior. Let us embrace the Cross that allowed us to be here.

A Blessed Christmas to you all.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.

We light the rose candle today—Gaudete Sunday—because the Lord is near, and our deep, abiding joy is rooted not in fleeting happiness, but in the certainty of our hope. Yet, the Gospel reminds us that even the greatest prophet, John the Baptist, the powerful voice crying in the wilderness, struggled. He was confined, suffering, and sends his disciples to ask Christ the fundamental, agonizing question of truth: “Are you the one who is to come, or should we look for another?” This question, asked from the prison of his doubt, teaches us that faith engages intellectual struggle; the Dominican quest for Veritas begins with the honesty of a difficult question. If the one who prepared the way can doubt, how much more must we, the faithful, admit to our own moments of uncertainty?

Christ’s reply, however, is the very substance and meat of the Gospel. He does not offer a simple declaration, but points to the evidence of God’s tangible action, fulfilling the prophecy of Isaiah: “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind regain their sight, the lame walk… and the poor have the good news proclaimed to them.” The joy of Advent is found in recognizing that the desert of prophecy is blossoming into the garden of the Church. Christ is telling John and telling us: Look at the facts. Look at the transformed lives. This evidence—this testimony of grace—is our anchor. It proves that the Truth is not an abstract concept but a living Person, manifested in acts of mercy and the saving power of the preached Word. The certainty of this Truth then empowers us.

This assurance demands the virtue of patience, as Saint James urges in the second reading: “Be patient, therefore, brothers, until the coming of the Lord. See how the farmer waits for the precious fruit of the earth.” As the Order of Preachers, we understand this patience is tied to our vocation: we preach the Word and trust in God’s timetable for the spiritual harvest. The true Gaudete joy is not found when our trial is over, but in the certainty that Christ’s Word is infallible, and our temporary suffering prepares us for His eternal glory. This promise brings profound peace and transforms our anxious waiting into active, productive hope.

So, how does this apply to your life right now? You, too, are a traveler, a pilgrim on a road marked by both joy and inevitable doubt. Perhaps you feel like John the Baptist, waiting in a personal “prison” of anxiety, illness, or unresolved problems. The Gospel tells you that your response to doubt is not to abandon faith, but to look for the signs of Christ’s presence right where you are. Has Christ helped you forgive a great wrong, offered you unexpected comfort, or inspired you to perform a costly kindness? These are the real-life miracles—the deaf hearing, the blind seeing—happening in your everyday life. Your life, like that of Mary and Joseph who were travelers on a road of uncertain promise, is a testament to the fact that God meets us precisely in our doubt. Let the rose color remind us that Christ has already come, is here now in the Word and Sacrament, and is certainly coming again. Go forth and live this joyful Truth by being a sign of Christ’s presence to every weary traveler you meet!

We find ourselves two weeks into Advent, a season the Church calls holy preparation. But for many of us, preparation is simply the relentless, daily state of being a hard-working American. Our life is a constant tension: preparing for the next bill, preparing for a medical expense that could shatter the budget, and preparing our children for a world that feels more uncertain every day. This stress, this endless worry, this anxiety, this is the real-life wilderness in which we struggle to find God.

As Dominicans, we are called to bring the penetrating light of Truth (Veritas) into this darkness. Our task today is to see how the Scripture speaks directly to our reality, offering us a foundation that cannot be shaken by the economy or by fear.

The prophet Isaiah speaks to a people whose security has been utterly cut down, reduced to nothing more than a lifeless stump of Jesse. They had no reliable foundation left. Does that not perfectly capture our fear when we see our wages stagnate while every cost of living—housing, groceries, childcare—climbs higher and higher? Our human foundation, that comfortable feeling of being “securely middle-class,” often feels just as dead as that stump.

But Isaiah gives us the ultimate object of our contemplation: true security lies not in the next budget plan or a stable interest rate, but in the shoot that springs from that stump. This Messiah is endowed with the Spirit of Counsel and Might—the perfect Wisdom of God. This calls us to re-evaluate what we are building our lives on. When financial anxieties create friction at home, or when the pressure of work threatens to steal our family time, we must contemplate this liberating Truth: Our ultimate well-being is not secured by a perfect 401k, but by a perfect God who promises a reign of ultimate peace and justice. Our hope is in the Christ who stands above the wilderness we currently inhabit.

And how do we enter into this reign? By heeding the uncompromising Voice in the Wilderness—John the Baptist, whose message is the exact antidote to our ceaseless anxiety: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!”

For the hard-working person, repentance is not just about avoiding some far-off, “big” sin. It is about clearing out the spiritual and emotional debt that burdens our soul as much as any credit card. John demands “fruit worthy of repentance.” What is this fruit for us? It is making a profound turn-around from the consumerist lie that tells us we need more—a bigger, newer, better version of everything—and that our worth is measured by our income. This lie is what drains our peace and drives our exhaustion. The fruit of repentance is stopping the endless, anxious striving and instead, giving our dedicated time and full attention to our family, our children—the true assets God has given us—instead of giving our exhaustion and worry to them after a long day. This is the real, gritty work of making straight the path: clearing the internal clutter that prevents Christ from reigning at the very center of our lives.

Yet, this transformation is not done in isolation. St. Paul reminds us in Romans that our strength and endurance is found in the encouragement of the Scriptures and in our community. The anxiety of our middle-class life is often suffered in secret. We are conditioned to hide our struggles and maintain the appearance of success. But the Dominican call to live the Truth in community means we cannot afford isolation.

Paul prays that we may “accord in welcoming one another, as Christ welcomed you, for the glory of God.” Our unity must be practical. We welcome one another by sharing the truth of our struggle, by refusing to judge the neighbor whose finances are strained, and by recognizing that every person in this parish is carrying a weight. Our community, therefore, must be a place of refuge, where the burden is eased by spiritual solidarity, and where we use the Truth of Christ’s welcome to break down the walls of status and striving that silently divide us.

My brothers and sisters, we are called to be the voice and the hands of Christ in this demanding age. Let the Root of Jesse be your foundation, offering the only security that will never be devalued by inflation. Let the Voice of John drive you to repentance that brings rest to your soul, not just rules to your conscience. And let the call of Paul inspire a unity in this parish that reminds the anxious world of what it means to be truly rich—rich in hope, rich in truth, and rich in one another.

Amen.

Brothers and Sisters in Christ,

In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus delivers a message that can be startling to our modern ears: “I have come to cast fire upon the earth, and how I wish it were already kindled!” and “Do you think that I have come to give peace on earth? No, I tell you, but rather division.”

These words challenge the comfortable, domesticated image of Jesus we sometimes hold. This fire is not a fire of worldly war, but the transformative and purifying fire of the Holy Spirit. It is a fire that tests our faith, burns away our apathy, and demands a radical commitment to God’s kingdom. It is a divine fire meant to refine us, not to destroy us.

The division Jesus speaks of is a natural consequence of this fire. When we embrace the Gospel, we are choosing a path that may lead us away from the values and priorities of the world, and sometimes, even from those closest to us. Our faith can create a schism—not because we seek to divide, but because our convictions are so profound that they set us apart.

As Dominicans, our call is to be both bearers and kindlers of this fire. We are the Order of Preachers, commissioned to proclaim the Truth of the Gospel with our lives and our words. This is a profound and serious responsibility. We are called to be beacons of light in a world that can be steeped in darkness, and that often means standing for truth, justice, and love even when it is unpopular.

This commitment can, and often does, cause a quiet division. We may find ourselves at odds with our families, our colleagues, or our friends over matters of faith and morals. It is in these moments that we must remember the words of our Lord. Our primary allegiance is to Him. Our peace is not the absence of conflict, but the unwavering certainty of being in His presence.

This passage is a powerful reminder that our faith is not a passive or private affair. It is an active, public, and sometimes disruptive force that demands a choice. Let us pray for the courage to embrace this fire, to live our faith so authentically that it becomes a light for the world, and to find our ultimate peace in Christ alone.