Bishop Barron’s Sunday Sermons - Catholic Preaching and Homilies

Friends, our first reading and our Gospel for this weekend have a special resonance for our time because they both speak clearly about life after death. Our dominant secularist or materialist ideology says that matter in motion is all there is; the world came into being, and eventually it will pass out of being. On the other hand, an awful lot of Christians hold to something more Platonic than biblical, thinking of the afterlife as the soul escaping from the body to a purely spiritual place called heaven. But the biblical hope is for the resurrection of the body.

Friends, our first reading from the book of Wisdom makes an extraordinarily important observation that’s of both theological and philosophical significance—namely, that the very fact that something exists means that it has been loved into being. In light of that, we can read our famous Gospel about Zacchaeus as a story of the infinite love and mercy of God pouring into someone’s life—and the conversion that follows.

Friends, our second reading this week is from Paul’s Second Letter to Timothy—one of the last letters we have from St. Paul. Now toward the end of his life, Paul passes on various pieces of wisdom to his young friend, including this: “I have finished the race.” The spiritual life is like a race; it includes different stages, from the promise, energy, and enthusiasm of the beginning to the experience of hitting the wall, where you can’t go on. St. Paul experienced all of those stages, and his hugely inspiring words are for all of us: no matter where you are in the race, finish it.

Friends, our first reading for this Sunday is about a battle between Israel and the Amalekites. To many of us today, this appears to be either an irrelevancy of history or an outrageous story about God sanctioning genocide. But Origen of Alexandria helps us to see that it is neither; rather, it is a story about the battle of the spiritual life. And in the soldiers, Moses, and Aaron and Hur, we see the variegated offices and functions within the Church engaged in that battle.

Friends, our first reading for this Sunday is a section of the marvelous story of Naaman the Syrian from the Second Book of Kings. The spiritual lesson is this: where you stumble, dig for treasure. We all have some leprosy—some ailment or struggle or weakness that embarrasses us or makes us suffer. Precisely because it leads us on the path of humility, this leprosy, this debility, leads us to God.

Friends, this week, our second reading is from Paul’s Second Letter to Timothy. From prison, Paul writes to Timothy—the master to the disciple, the mentor to the mentee, the old soldier to the young soldier—and tells him to have courage, but to attach his courage to the weapons of wisdom and love. When one stands courageously, with wisdom, with love, with all the gifts of the Holy Spirit, then one is able to face down the powers of the world. When we try to fight them on their own terms, we try to conquer evil with evil, we make no progress toward the kingdom of God.

Friends, Pope Benedict XVI memorably said that the Church does three essential things: it evangelizes, it worships God, and it cares for the poor. This week, the words of Amos the prophet and Jesus’ parable of Lazarus and the rich man are meant to put us on the hook when it comes to the third task. How much do we care for those who are poor? Are we living lives of self-preoccupation and self-indulgence while our own brothers and sisters are suffering and starving at our gate?

Friends, the first and second readings this Sunday beautifully show both sides of Catholic social teaching: the balance between recognizing political, economic, and social power, and criticizing the abuse of that power. We should not demonize our leaders; we pray for them, and we recognize their importance. But we should not divinize them either; we are deeply aware of the ways that their power can be corrupted.

Friends, in this Sunday’s Gospel, we encounter the infinite, extravagant, radical love of the Creator for his creation. Jesus paints for us, in three parables, a portrait of God: he is, if I can borrow that lovely phrase from Catherine of Siena, “pazzo d’amore”—crazy in love with us, including the lost sheep and the prodigal sons.

Friends, there are a lot of people today who might be intrigued by Jesus. They find him interesting, remember him as a spiritual teacher, or have warm feelings about him. But in today’s Gospel, Jesus is saying to his fair-weather fans—those who are following him because he’s fascinating and charismatic—that being his disciple is not a walk in the park; it is something of supreme spiritual and moral importance.

Friends, at the heart of what St. Ignatius of Loyola teaches in the “Spiritual Exercises” is the idea of detachment. If we are to do the will of God, then we have to become detached from the worldly goods to which we are addicted. A basic principle of this detachment is “agere contra,” which is Latin simply for “to act against.” The idea is simple: if you are attached or addicted to some worldly good, then the best thing is to act against it—to press, aggressively even, in the opposite direction.

Friends, I am admittedly a bit reluctant to talk about the topic of our Gospel for today—namely, this famously controversial matter of how many will be saved. I have talked a lot and written a lot about this issue, and people have very strong opinions about it: everybody will be saved, only a handful will be saved, and everything in between. There is a lot of energy around this question. In this homily, I would like to get at the question in a new and fresh way by looking at Jesus’ answer in the Gospel.

Friends, the readings for this weekend are tough. Here is the principle behind them, one that is simple to state, but difficult to take in: in a world gone wrong, those who come to us speaking and embodying the truth are going to be opposed. In our first reading from Jeremiah and in Jesus’ harsh, challenging message in the Gospel, we encounter the disruptive, burning, cleansing quality of authentic religion.

Friends, Joseph Campbell and, more recently, Jordan Peterson are very interested in the Jungian archetype of the hero's journey. We see it all over the literature of the world and popular culture, from "The Lord of the Rings" to “Star Wars." But it is also on display very strongly in the Bible. In our remarkable second reading from the Letter to the Hebrews, the author reflects on faith as a sense of trust in God and a willingness to follow him on adventure—in short, as accepting the invitation to a hero’s journey.

Friends, all three of our readings Sunday speak of a primordial spiritual truth—namely, the need to detach oneself from the goods of the world. This has nothing to do with a hatred of the world or a puritanical spirituality of flight from the world; rather, it has to do with knowing how to wear the goods of the world lightly. These goods—wonderful as they are—all finally crumble, evanesce, and disappear; they are not our ultimate good, and we are not meant to cling to them as though they were.

Friends, our Gospel for today is St. Luke’s version of the Lord’s Prayer, the Our Father. This prayer, which is probably recited millions of times a day all over the world, includes some of the best-known words on the planet. But what do they mean? It might be good for us to walk slowly through Luke’s version to see what this great prayer is about—and what we are asking for when we pray it.

Friends, the Gospel for this Sunday is the wonderful story of Martha and Mary. But the Church sets this up in a really interesting way by giving us a first reading from Genesis 18—the mysterious story of Abraham being visited by three guests. The two stories together show us that the problem is not hospitality, nor being active as opposed to contemplative; rather, the problem is being focused on many things instead of the one thing necessary, in which everything else tends to fall into the right place.

Friends, the Gospel for this Sunday is one of Jesus’ best-known parables: the story of the Good Samaritan. Karl Barth, who learned it from the Church Fathers, taught that every parable of Jesus, at the deeper level, is finally about Jesus himself. The parable of the Good Samaritan is a good example of this principle; it is fundamentally about Christ healing fallen humanity.

Friends, as we continue now our reading of the Gospel of Luke, we have today a great portrait of the Church—what the Church looks like, what its central concerns are, and what the demands upon it are. The setting is Jesus sending out seventy-two disciples. Put yourself in that position: all of us baptized people are disciples of the Lord, and we're in a relationship with him. He is sending us out on mission.

Friends, I’m going to be blunt with you: today’s Gospel is really challenging. It cuts right to the heart of the ethical implications of the Gospel. There's something of a “be all, end all” quality about Jesus, something of an either/or. As he says, “Whoever is not with me is against me.” What follows from this is what I call the principle of detachment and clarification of motives. If Jesus is unambiguously the center of your life, then everything else has to find its place in relation to him. If the good things of the world become more important than following him, then something has gone off-kilter.

Friends, we come this weekend to the Feast of Corpus Christi, the Body and the Blood of Christ. The Eucharist, as Vatican II famously said, is the source and summit of the Christian life—that from which Christian life comes and that toward which it tends. It's the alpha and the omega of our Christianity. Our three marvelous readings today bring forth three key aspects of the Eucharist: re-presented sacrifice, blood covenant, and spiritual banquet.

Friends, Trinity Sunday has been called “the preacher’s nightmare.” But while the Trinity remains a supreme mystery, Thomas Aquinas used a basic principle that helps us to get at it: beings, at all levels, tend to make images of themselves. The higher you go in the hierarchy of being, the more interior and the more perfect this principle becomes.

Friends, Happy Pentecost Sunday! On this great celebration of the Holy Spirit, the third person of the Trinity, meditating upon the number three will tell us a lot of what we need to know about the Spirit, whose distinctive mark is not oppressive unity, nor conflictual diversity, but unity in diversity. The Church is one Body with many parts, animated by one Spirit manifesting many spiritual gifts.

Friends, on this Seventh Sunday of Easter, the Church gives us the privilege of hearing the very last words of the Bible. If you're reading poetry, a novel, or even a great work of history, the last words are of tremendous importance. We hear today a kind of coda or denouement after the great climax of the biblical story, and it gives us a clue as to the identity of the Church.

Friends, in many ways, the second reading for this Sunday is the climax of the entire biblical revelation. We find a detailed description of the heavenly Jerusalem, the holy city, coming down out of heaven to earth. There is no temple in this city because the whole city has become a temple. What began in the book of Genesis now comes to its fulfillment: the marriage of heaven and earth—the beautiful, integrated place of right praise.

Friends, on this Fifth Sunday of Easter, we continue our reading of the book of Revelation, leaping ahead toward the very end of the Bible. Looking at the arc of the whole story—from God’s creation out of watery chaos in Genesis to the sea disappearing and a new creation emerging in Revelation—we see that God's final and definitive rescue operation, in the fullness of time, is his only Son. Jesus was sent all the way down into sin and death that he might rescue us who had fallen into those depths.

Friends, during this Easter season we're reading from the book of Revelation, that marvelous, final book of the Bible. In today's reading, John sees mystically, across space and time, across the Christian centuries, all those people from all over the world who would give their lives for Christ. This army of martyrs compels a choice: Which army do we fight with? The army of the world, or the army of the Lamb, standing as though slain?

Friends, the last stanza of a poem, the last chapter of a novel, or the last lines of a play are of extraordinary significance, but only if you’ve read the whole work up to that point. Similarly, to understand the book of Revelation, the last book of the Bible, we have to attend to the great sweep of the story beginning in Genesis. The thrust of that biblical narrative—that we are meant to give God right praise, and from right praise follows right order—reaches its culmination in Christ, the Lamb who was slain, who brings the whole universe together in right praise.

Friends, Revelation comes from the Latin “Revalatio,” which in turn translates the Greek “Apokalypsis”—which means, literally, “unveiling.” This final book of the Bible, which has fascinated Christians and non-Christians for two thousand years, is not primarily about the end of the physical world; rather, it is meant to unveil something that every generation of Christians needs to see—namely, a new world that God wants to be born out of the ruins of the old.

Friends, a very blessed and happy Easter to you all! The Resurrection of Jesus is the be-all and the end-all of the Christian faith. If Jesus didn't rise from the dead, then all bishops, priests, and Christian ministers should go home and get honest jobs. If he did rise from the dead, then he's the full manifestation of God, and he must be the center of your life. In light of that, I'd like to look at three great lessons that follow from this strange and decisive truth of the Resurrection.

Friends, in the Palm Sunday Gospel reading proclaimed before the procession, the Lord instructs two of his disciples to go into the village and untether a donkey. If there is any protest, they are to say, “The Master has need of it.” This is true of every baptized person: the Master has need of your gifts, of you, of the whole of your life. Once we understand this principle, everything is revolutionized—and we are liberated to be of service to Christ and his people.

Friends, this Sunday, we hear the story of the woman caught in adultery from the eighth chapter of John. René Girard thought that this story was particularly clear in showing the dynamics of what he called the scapegoating mechanism. And in the response of Jesus to the violence of the mob, we see the glory of God, who does not sanction this scapegoating frenzy, but rather meets the misery of our sin with his mercy.

Friends, our Gospel reading for this Fourth Sunday of Lent is one of the greatest stories ever told: the parable of the prodigal son. In a way, this parable about giving and receiving gifts tells us everything we need to know about our relationship to God.

Friends, on this Third Sunday of Lent, we have the privilege of reading one of the most important texts in the Bible: God addressing Moses from the burning bush. In this passage, the true God manifests his own identity: he is closer to you than you are to yourself, yet higher than anything you can possibly imagine. And he gives himself a name: “I Am Who I Am”—not a being among beings, but Being itself.

Friends, all three of our readings for the Second Sunday of Lent emphasize the transcendent world, the goal of all our religious striving. St. Paul speaks of how the Lord Jesus “will change our lowly body to conform with his glorified body.” We get a glimpse of what this transformation, this metamorphosis, will be like in the Transfiguration of Jesus.

Friends, we come now to the great and holy season of Lent, a time to get back to spiritual basics. This First Sunday of Lent, we hear Luke’s account of the temptation of Jesus. What Jesus faces in the desert are three classical substitutes for God—three levels of temptation, three types of diversion from the ultimate good. Can we look honestly and directly at those things that will cause us to deviate from the path the Lord has for us?

There are a lot of people claiming to be spiritual gurus, teachers, and guides today. But is the person to whom you’ve entrusted your life spiritually blind? Whom are you going to follow, and why? Toward the end of Luke’s Sermon on the Plain, Jesus—the definitive spiritual guide—offers us important lessons that help us discern our spiritual guides.

Friends, whenever we give or receive a gift, we're always caught in a difficult rhythm of exchange and mutual obligation. The great exception to this rule is God, who is utterly gratuitous in his giving. But in Luke’s Sermon on the Plain, we are invited to share, by grace, in the very way that God exists and that God loves, giving to those in need without expecting anything in return.

Friends, when our heart belongs to anything in this world, we live in an empty and lifeless spiritual space. But when our heart belongs to the Lord, the rest of our life falls into right order around that center. Our readings this week raise a crucial question: To whom—or to what—does your heart belong?

Friends, the spiritual life begins with an invasion of grace out of God's sheer, unmerited love. As we direct our lives toward the light, we become more aware of our sin in order to embark on our mission as vehicles of his salvation for the rest of the world.

Friends, Jesus tells us his messiahship is one of service, not self-interest. As sinners, we have a tendency to understand our religious lives in a self-interested way, but the grace God gives us is meant to be given away.

Friends, our first reading this Sunday reminds us that we need walls to maintain our identity. But our ultimate purpose is not to hunker down behind those walls, but to go out and transform the world. We need both the walls that define who we are, and the bridges that allow us to bring the light of Christ to all the nations.

Friends, this week we resume Ordinary Time, and the Church gives us this extraordinary story of the first sign of Christ’s divinity—the miracle at Cana. Why is the first of Jesus’ miracles turning water into wine at a wedding? Because Jesus himself is the marriage of heaven and earth, who transforms the water of human flourishing into the wine of the divine life.

Friends, when we are baptized, we are grafted onto Christ, who has anointed us all as priests, prophets, and kings. Let's live out that identity.

Friends, the supposed warfare between religion and science is assumed by a lot of young people who disaffiliate from the Church today. But the Magi followed both science and religion, and on the basis of their calculations, journeyed to present Christ with gifts. Their science didn’t lead them away from God but led them toward faith.

Friends, families teach us that we don't always get to choose the people we love, but we're given people that we're then called upon to love. On this Feast of the Holy Family, let's meditate upon the importance of this calling.

Friends, most of us are stuck in the boring and narrow confines of the ego-drama. Mary is not playing an ego-dramatic game; she is playing a theo-dramatic game. We hear of how she sets out "with haste"—the sign of the saints—and it's because she knows her mission and her purpose in God's story.

Friends, on this Gaudete Sunday, we are called to rejoice! Detach yourself from the anxieties of the world and live in the peace and joy of Christ.

Friends, a couple years ago, there was a poll conducted in Great Britain that revealed that the majority of people there feel that Jesus was not a real, historical figure, but rather more of a mythic character. There are all kinds of spiritual systems that trade in mythic language bearing spiritual truths—but that’s not what Christianity is.

Friends, many years ago, in the context of a high school religion class, a very wise Benedictine nun gave me a template for understanding Advent that I’ve never forgotten. It is simply that Advent calls to mind three “comings” of Christ: the first in history, the second now, and the third at the end of time. Meditating upon each of these is a helpful preparation for the holy season upon which we are embarking.