Bishop Barron’s Sunday Sermons - Catholic Preaching and Homilies

Friends, on this Second Sunday of Lent, our first reading about Abraham and Matthew’s account of the Transfiguration orient us to a basic biblical principle. God has made us to go out from ourselves, to experience the splendor of reality. The more we let go of ourselves and our prerogatives—and the less we try to grasp and hang on to things—the more alive we become. Salvation, therefore, has a lot to do with adventure.

Friends, we commence the holy and wonderful season of Lent, the time of preparation for Easter. I always think of Lent as something like spring training for baseball players, or like the end of the summer workouts for football players. It’s a time to get back to spiritual basics, to reacquaint ourselves with the elemental things in the spiritual life that we might get ourselves ordered to Christ. So the Church, in our first reading from Genesis, brings us back to the beginning.

Friends, this Sunday, right before the commencement of Lent, the Church is giving us something of great moment to reflect on—namely, the centrality of freedom and choice for the good at the center of the spiritual life. As Thomas More puts it in A Man for All Seasons, “God made animals for innocence and plants for their simplicity. But Man He made to serve Him wittily, in the tangle of his mind.” God wants us to give him glory in a particular way: through our intellect and will—our search for truth and our love for him.

Friends, a great professor of mine at Mundelein Seminary, Dr. Richard Issel, once said, “If you want to be happy, stop worrying about being happy and get on with becoming fulfilled.” We find something similar in Jordan Peterson’s observation that “self-consciousness is equivalent to misery.” In short, we’re most unhappy when we’re turned inward, fussing about ourselves. If you want to be psychologically healthy, forget about yourself and move out toward others. I always think of this when I come across our Gospel for today from the great Sermon on the Mount.

Friends, for the next several weeks, we’re going to be reading in our Gospel from the primal teaching of Jesus: the Sermon on the Mount. And we begin today with a kind of overture to it, which we call the Beatitudes. “Beatitudo” in Latin means “happiness”—the one thing we all want, no matter who we are or what our background is. Jesus, the definitive teacher, is instructing us on what will make us happy—and so we listen.

Friends for this Third Sunday in Ordinary Time, our first reading from the prophet Isaiah and our Gospel from Matthew both have a section that’s a little weird. While most preachers skip over these sections to get to the better-known and understandable parts, I want to dwell, on purpose, on the strange parts—and they have to do with the lands of Zebulun and Naphtali.

Friends, we return now to Ordinary Time, and the Church asks us again to think about the baptism of the Lord, this time in light of Saint John’s distinctive account. John the Baptist sees Jesus coming toward him on the banks of the River Jordan, and the Baptist says, “Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world.” You recognize that line from the Mass, when the priest holds up the consecrated elements and repeats John the Baptist’s words. This declaration is of absolutely decisive significance, for John is giving us the interpretive lens by which we see and understand Jesus.

Friends, we come to this wonderful feast of the baptism of the Lord. And the first thing to know is that this was a profoundly embarrassing event for the first Christians. Jesus is the son of God, the sinless Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. So why is he going to John the Baptist to seek a baptism of repentance? Jesus begins his public ministry with a kind of embarrassing, humiliating act—and, in a way, that is the point of it. 

Friends, why has the story of the Epiphany—the three wise man paying homage to the Christ child—so captivated us over the centuries? I think, in some ways, it tells the whole spiritual life: our infinite longing that will never be satisfied here below; the following of beautiful but ambiguous signs in our quest for God; and the revelation that the one we seek has all along been seeking us—and, in the fullness of time, has come in person to meet us.

Friends, the great feast of the Holy Family follows immediately upon Christmas—a very interesting juxtaposition with a deep theological significance. The Savior came as a little baby who required the protection of a family, and from the beginning, he was opposed by forces both seen and unseen. Christmas is finally about the birth of Jesus in us—a life that might begin as something very vulnerable and that the dark powers don’t want flourishing. What do we need to protect that Christ life within?

Friends, our readings for the fourth and final Sunday of Advent are all about maybe the central motif of the spiritual life. Our culture today is so self-oriented: It’s all about me and my choice. But that attitude is directly repugnant to the Bible; in fact, the Bible is constantly trying to move us out of that space and into a different space—namely, one of surrender to the higher purpose of God.

Friends, our readings for this Third Sunday of Advent help us understand what to do while we wait for the Lord. An Advent spirituality of waiting is part of Christian life; our entire life, in a way, is waiting. We pray, “Come, Lord Jesus,” waiting for Christ to come back. But this is not just a passive stance; there is a lot to do while we wait.

Friends, our first reading for this Second Sunday of Advent, taken from Isaiah 11, describes the Messiah’s arrival: He “shall sprout from the stump of Jesse,” and “the spirit of the LORD shall rest upon him.” The Messiah, we hear, will come bearing seven gifts of the Holy Spirit, gifts that come to full expression in him. The Advent season is a time of longing for these gifts—watching, waiting, and praying for them.

Friends, we come to the New Year celebration of the liturgical year: the First Sunday of Advent. This is the season of sacred waiting—four weeks of looking, hoping, and watching, with a kind of joyful anticipation, for the adventus (coming) of the Savior. If you’re like me, you rather hate to wait. Yet waiting is all over the Bible, and at the heart of it is the painful process of decentering the ego.

Friends, we come to the final weekend of the liturgical year and the celebration of the Solemnity of Christ the King. Now, our country was formed in rebellion against a king, and kingship as a political reality is far removed from us. But what does kingship mean for us spiritually? In a word, everything. If you’re baptized, you’re a king, because you’re conformed to Christ, who is priest, prophet, and king. And your job, wherever God puts you, is to order things—first and foremost in your own soul—toward the end of God’s kingdom.

Friends, we come to the Thirty-third Sunday in Ordinary Time, which means that next Sunday is the final Sunday of the liturgical year. During this time, the Church always gives us apocalyptic readings, and our Gospel today is from “the little apocalypse” in the Gospel of Luke. Apokalypsis in Greek does not mean “end of the world”; it means “unveiling”—taking away the kalyptra, the veil. This is why, when apokalypsis is rendered in Latin, we get revelatio, revelation—taking the velum, the veil, away. So apocalyptic literature is all about the showing forth of a new world. But that has to be preceded by a sort of shaking of the old world.

Friends, this Sunday we’re celebrating, with the whole Church, the dedication of the great cathedral of Rome: the Lateran Basilica. You could argue very persuasively that this see church of the pope is the most important of the four major basilicas in Rome; it is the great temple of Catholicism worldwide. This is why the readings for today are all about the temple, this place of right praise where God and his people meet—and find union.

Friends, All Souls Day, November 2, falls on a Sunday this year, so we can really spend some time reflecting on this wonderful feast, which means so much to Catholic people. Why do we pray for the souls in purgatory? I wonder if I could begin by reflecting on why we speak of the “soul”—this higher principle breathed into us by God that survives the death of the body.

Friends, for this Thirtieth Sunday of Ordinary Time, we are treated to the wonderful and deeply challenging parable of the Pharisee and the publican from Luke 18. We are meant to see in this deceptively simple story a basic and clarifying principle in the spiritual order—namely, that the ego is meant to revolve around God, not God around the ego. And this might not be immediately clear: Sometimes the people that look the most religious actually aren’t very religious, and the people that look a million miles from God are actually in the right spiritual space.

Friends, when something tragic happens and people offer their prayers, you’ll often hear now, “I've had it with thoughts and prayers. We have to act.” In some extreme cases, people of prayer are mocked, as though prayer is just something completely ineffectual that we should leave behind in favor of action. We’re the first generation in recorded human history ever to feel this way. Human beings, across cultures, have always believed in the power and efficacy of prayer. Our first reading this week from Exodus 17 beautifully displays this power—and the fact that prayer, far from undermining action, sustains and supports it.