3rd Sunday of Advent, Year C

Okay, so I need to address the pink elephant in the room — you all are thinking Fr. Chris and I are wearing pink vestments today!  They are not pink, but technically, liturgically speaking, they are Rose.  There is a church joke out there that will forever help you honor this subtle, but important distinction: these vestments are rose-colored because Jesus “rose” from the dead, he did not “pink” from the dead!


But seriously, in the Church, the liturgical colors are important; they have meaning.  Today, the third Sunday of Advent, is known as Gaudete Sunday.  Gaudete means “Rejoice” in Latin.  We rejoice because of the imminent coming of our Lord, who literally births into our world like a flower blooming, bursting forth amidst a desert of thorns…like a rose!  The rose color reminds us of this truth and that we should rejoice at the Lord’s bursting forth into our lives amidst the desert of thorns we perceive and experience in our own lives — thorns that sometimes scratch us, wound us, hurt us. Yet that beautiful, fragrant bloom comes amidst those thorns, amidst our hurt — just as our God does.


The liturgical color scheme of Advent (and Lent as well) reminds us of this truth.  The purple color — technically violet — is a penitential color.  I always tell the servers, “Purple ribbon for Penitential Act!”  Advent, like Lent, is a penitential season.  We reflect on our fallen nature, our wounded state during this season, not in an unhealthy, perseverative “I am unworthy” way, but rather in a contemplative way that leads us to awareness of how we have hurt others and ourselves and caused separation and division — a way of spiritual growth that leads us in humility to reconciliation with God and one another, drawing us into a communion of love with God and one another.


So the Church chooses the somber violet color to remind and invite us into a somber reflection of our fallen humanity, of our wounded and wounding nature, not to lead us there and leave us there, but in point of fact to lead us out of there through our salvation and redemption in Christ.  Something to be hopeful for, something to look forward to, something to anticipate — to anticipate, as we do in this season of Advent, the coming of Christ our Lord!  You see, violet is also a color of royalty; so the violet of Advent anticipates the coming of Christ our King!


This Rose color we choose today is a reminder of Christ's imminent arrival, his about-to-burst-forth, blooming into our lives.  Fr. Hyacinth Cordell, a Dominican priest, has described the rose color as “violet approaching white.” The pure white is the light of Christ coming into the world.  As Fr. Cordell writes, the Rose color anticipates the pure white of the Birth and Resurrection of Christ.  A birth and resurrection we are invited to participate in over and over again, with every Baptism, with every Reconciliation, with every Eucharist, with every act of love.  Indeed, what’s not to be joyful about?  And the Rose color of the Advent candle, the Rose color of these vestments, proclaim that Joy!


But I know; I get it.  Most of us are not capital J-O-Y-Joyful!  In fact, we often struggle to be lower-case j-o-y-joyful amidst the thorny thickets of daily life that reach out and grab us, hook us, wounding us and distracting us — obfuscating our path and experience of joy.  This is real.  How do we find joy in the midst of this reality?  First, maintain our faith and hope in Christ the Light, despite all that is going on around us, recalling that he illuminates the darkness and conquers all of the trials of this life.  Secondly, enter into and become the Light of Christ.  Bear the Light of Christ to each other.  Reach out to one another, serve one another; give to one another and do not expect anything in return.  In bearing the light of Christ to one another, we will find the Joy of Christ blossoming in our lives.  Sometimes the best therapy is to go help someone else.  The Gospel passage heard today reminds us of this:


Share your cloak and food with the person who has none…

Stop collecting more than what is prescribed…

Do not practice extortion or falsely accuse anyone…

Be satisfied with your wages…



Sisters and brothers, remember the simple act of reaching out to someone you know or a stranger with a simple work or deed of kindness can have the profound effect of imparting the Light of Christ, and joy, abiding joy to both them and us, in whatever darkness we may be experiencing. Never underestimate that.


A story that Saint Mother Teresa of Kolkata told reminds of this truth.  She writes:


I will never forget the first time I came to Bourke [Australia] and visited with the sisters.  We went to the outskirts of Bourke.  There was a big reserv[ation] where all of the Aborigines were living in those little small shacks made of tin and old cardboard ... I entered one of those [little shacks] but it was only one room, and inside the room everything .... I told the man living there, “Please let me make your bed, to wash your clothes, to clean your room.”  And he kept saying “I’m alright, I’m alright.”  And I said to him, “But you will be more alright if you allow me to do it.”  [Finally] he allowed me…


After I cleaned the room I found in the corner of the room a big lamp full of dirt and I said, “Don’t you light this lamp, such a beautiful lamp[?].  Don’t you light it?”  He replied, “For whom?  Months and months nobody has ever come to me.  For whom will I light it?”  So I said, “Won’t you light it if the Sisters come to you?”  And he said “Yes.”  So the sisters started going to him for only about 5 to 10 minutes a day, but they started lighting that lamp.  After some time he got in the habit of lighting [the lamp].  Slowly, slowly, slowly the Sisters stopped going to him.  I forgot completely about that, and after two years he sent word — “Tell Mother, my friend, the light she lit in my life is still burning.”

Third Sunday of Easter, Year A

By Deacon Paul Cerosaletti • April 19, 2026
The Road to Emmaus is a metaphor and model for the Christian life. The two disciples gather. They come together. They gather in spite of the fact that they are struggling with their faith in Jesus. They look downcast when they encounter Jesus (whom they do not recognize.) Their words betray their struggling faith and lost hope: “we were hoping that he would be the one to redeem Israel”. As Christians we too gather today. We gather out of faith and in hope. And, if we are honest with ourselves, we gather because of our struggles with our faith and hope. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, it is important that we come together, we come into communion with each other, because it’s in the midst of that gathering, that communion, that God becomes present in our midst to strengthen our faith and give us hope, in Him and through one another. There is another very practical and important reason for us to gather as disciples of Christ. You see, the one thing about the road to Emmaus, the road of our faith journey, is that there are potholes! We walk together in this journey of faith just as Jesus sent his disciples together to minister. We look out for each other, watching out for the potholes in the Road of Faith to Emmaus, to warn each other, to help each other around those potholes, and to help lift each other with God’s help out of those potholes. We walk the Road to Emmaus in response to God who calls us to follow this road, planting the seeds of desire in us to follow this road, walking with each other , that we might encourage each other — and ourselves — to stay on that road. This spiritual companionship is critical. Now, as the disciples travel the road to Emmaus, they encounter the Risen Christ. Though they don’t recognize Jesus yet, Christ — God the Word — makes scripture present to them, and breaks it open for them, interpreting all that the prophets had written about him. We too, as gathered disciples today, have the Word of God made present to us through the readers who, with the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, give their voice to the breath of the Spirit in proclaiming that Word in our midst. Just as with the disciples on the road to Emmaus, Jesus makes himself present here in our midst through the proclaimed Word! Do we experience the scripture proclaimed to us in each Mass, each Children’s Liturgy of the Word, each time we pray the Liturgy of the Hours, each scripture study, each What About Monday , Cursillo, and Men’s faith sharing group, recognizing Jesus present in our midst, our God who is walking with us on our Road to Emmaus faith journey? Are our hearts burning within us when we hear the Word proclaimed? Though fed by Jesus the Word on the road to Emmaus, it is only in the breaking of the bread that the disciples finally come to recognize Christ in their midst. And how powerful and how much is in that action of breaking bread. Just as when Jesus feeds the 5,000, just as when he gathers with the disciples in the upper room at the Last Supper, just as when he gathers at table with the disciples in Emmaus, he takes the bread , says the blessing , breaks the bread , and gives it to them. The fact that Jesus chooses to reveal himself to the disciples in Emmaus in the breaking of the bread tells us that he wants us too to recognize Him today in the breaking of the bread. In a few moments, those same four actions of Christ will again be made present to us today in the priest, Fr. Chris, who will take the bread from the gift bearers, bless the bread in the Eucharistic prayer, break the bread in the fractionation rite, and give it to us as Eucharist in Communion. Ah, that we would have our eyes opened to recognize Christ, the extraordinary in the midst of the ordinary! To see Christ present, not only in the broken bread, the Eucharist, but equally important and perhaps more challenging, in one another! What happened next to the disciples at Emmaus confounds us a bit, for the Lord, who wishes that he be made known in the breaking of the bread, disappears from their sight. What are we to make of this? St. Augustine gives us insight when he wrote: He withdrew from them in the body, since he was held by them [now] in faith. That indeed is why the Lord absented himself in the body from the whole Church, and ascended into heaven, for the building up of faith. After all, if you only know what you can see, where does faith come in? But if you also believe what you cannot see, when you do see it you will rejoice. Let faith be built up, because it will be paid back with sight. (1) Sisters and brothers, we walk this road of the journey of faith, our Road to Emmaus, together. Like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, we walk it together with the Lord, whether we recognize Him in our midst or not. It is a journey of a lifetime, lived day-to-day and experienced often daily, as a journey from dark to light, from despair to hope, from unbelief to belief. It is a journey we walk by faith, and not by sight, no gracious words we hear, as Him who spoke as none e'er spoke, and we believe him near. (2) (1) St. Augustine, sermon 235 in Sermons , trans. Edmund Hill, O.P., The Works of St. Augustine III/7 (New Rochelle NY: New City Press, 1993) (2) We Walk by Faith : text by Henry Alford (alt.), tune by Marty Haugen. ©1984, 2006, GIA Publications, Inc. 

Second Sunday of Easter (Divine Mercy), Year A

By Fr. Christopher Welch • April 12, 2026
It is said that when Oliver Cromwell had his official portrait painted, he asked that it be a true portrait with “warts and all”. You may say that the resurrected Christ appeared with “wounds and all”. Here is the resurrected Christ in his glorified body, who could pass through locked doors, appearing with the wounds of his crucifixion. He is resurrected, not simply resuscitated, in his glorified body still bearing the marks of his passion and death. Why, if he is in his perfect resurrected body, does Jesus still bear the marks of his passion and death? It is an interesting paradox that the woundedness of our lives can be what makes us who we are. There is a story told about a man in therapy: When he first met the counselor, he was asked to draw a picture of himself; he drew a picture of a vase with a crack in its side. After many years of therapy, the counselor showed the man the picture he had drawn. The man asked for use of the crayons. He took a yellow crayon and drew yellow strips just above the crack in the vase. When asked why he did that he told the counselor, “The crack is where the light can get in.” Leonard Cohen summed it up well in his song “Anthem”: There is a crack, a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in. By showing the apostles his wounds, Jesus is reminding them that the wounds, the pain is not the end of the story. Many of us bear wounds from our past; they are what make us who we are. Part of the journey is the struggle. When we reach our destination, we can look back and see how the struggles made us who we are. Elbert Hubbard, the founder of the Roycrofters, once said, “God will not look you over for medals but for scars.” I am sure the disciples looked over the past three years and saw how the struggles made a difference; their time with Jesus made them new people.

The Great Easter Vigil, Year A

By Deacon Paul Cerosaletti • April 4, 2026
Growing up on the family dairy farm, there were many difficult things we experienced. Certainly, there was much hard, physical labor. But among the hardest things we experienced was caring for sick animals, and in particular, caring for cows that had been injured or lost muscle strength and were unable to get themselves up to a standing position. This typically would happen around the time of calving and might be due to a nerve injury during birth or mineral and metabolic imbalances that affected muscle strength. We called them “down cows”. What was so hard about dealing with down cows was really two things: one, the size of the animals — often 1000 lbs. or more — made it difficult, if not impossible, for us to help them physically if they had little or no muscle strength of their own. Secondly, and more profound, was the emotional burden that weighed upon us as their caregivers. We wanted them to get better and be back on their feet. We loved our animals, as all farmers do, and we wanted the best for them. Although we could help them with support therapies and medicine with help from our veterinarian and made sure they had feed and water at all times, it felt like there was only so much in our control. And the longer a cow was down, the less likely it would be that she would ever rise again. Some never did. That outcome happened frequently enough that it was a real possibility. And there is nothing that was more discouraging for us as farmers than a cow we could not help to get better. It cast a pall over our days and robbed us of hope and joy — really, robbing us of life — replacing them instead with weary discouragement. Late one Lent going into Holy Week, we had one of these down cows. It was a year not unlike this one, with the signs of spring beginning to emerge in early April. My father used to say the best thing we could do for a down cow was to get her out of the barn and out onto the earth in the fields or pasture, where there was no concrete and better footing. So we did, and we were able to get this cow out of the barn and into the hayfield behind the barn. There, day after day, we would take her food and water, administer medicine to her, and roll her over from side to side, to make sure she did not lose circulation in one hindquarter or another. If she seemed like she wanted to get up, we would try to get enough people to see if we could help her get up. Although she ate and drank, she did not get up, and as Holy Week wore on, it felt like she wasn’t going to. That discouragement set in as a constant droning undertone to everything we did throughout the day, seemingly getting louder with each passing day. Whether we were thinking about that down cow consciously or not, it seemed to affect our outlook and demeanor in everything we did. Late one night that week, my father, brother and I were finishing evening milking. It was after dark; we were at the far end of the barn, near the door going out to the hayfield. As I came out from between two cows holding the milking machine, I turned towards the open barn door and was shocked when I found myself face to face with the previously down cow, standing there, head poked in the barn door, chewing her cud! I shouted to my father, “Dad, she’s up!” We all ran over to the barn door, peering into the darkness of that night to see this risen cow. I will never forget what my father said next, turning to us and smiling: “Why do you seek the living one among the dead? He is not here, but he has been raised.” In that instant our demeanor changed. The discouragement was gone and we were filled with joy and hope. There was a lightness in our step as we finished chores that night and the following days. We knew the end of the story, and this illness was not to end in death. Everything was going to be OK! I have to imagine our Passion and Easter experience on the farm those many years ago was something of what the disciples experienced when they encountered the empty tomb, the message of the angels, and ultimately the Risen Christ. I have to imagine that joy and hope that we felt that night was some small measure of the joy and hope that filled and animated them when they encountered the Risen Christ, whom they deeply loved and who deeply loved them. They finally knew the end of the story, and came to know that it did not end with death. Brothers and sisters, we too have the benefit of knowing the end of the story. We too know that it does not end in death, but in Christ triumphing over death, not only for himself, but also for us! It is this rising to new life that we celebrate in every Mass, in every Eucharist, in every Sacrament, and especially tonight, as we celebrate with our Elect their rising to new life with Christ in the waters of Baptism. So let us be filled with Easter joy and hope, as we should be, for we know the end of the story: He has Risen, He has Truly Risen, and we with Him!