2nd Sunday of Ordinary Time @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Art of Pointing: Becoming a Signpost in a Selfie World

The Airport Arrival

Have you ever stood at the "Arrivals" gate of a busy international airport? It is a fascinating place to people-watch. There is a specific kind of electric energy there. You see hundreds of people streaming out of the sliding glass doors—tired travelers, families wrestling with strollers, and tourists looking confused. Amidst that chaotic river of humanity, there are the people waiting.

They are scanning the crowd. They are on their tiptoes. They are looking for one specific face. And the moment they see that face—the moment a father sees his son returning home, or a friend sees a loved one—the reaction is almost always the same.

They point.

They might wave their arms frantically or nudge the person standing next to them and shout, "There! That’s him! That’s the one!" In that moment of recognition, the person pointing ceases to care about themselves. They don’t care if they look silly. Their entire existence, in that split second, is defined by identifying the beloved and making sure others see him too. "I am here," they seem to say, "because he is there."

We live in a culture that has largely lost this art of pointing away from itself. We live in the age of the "selfie," where the camera is constantly turned inward. We curate our lives to say, "Behold me. Look at my achievements. Look at my opinion." The primary pronoun of our age is "I." But today, the Church invites us to flip the camera. We are invited to stand in the dusty sandals of John the Baptist and recover the holy art of pointing away from ourselves. We are invited to learn how to say, with our very lives, "Behold Him."

The Witness of the Baptist

In today’s Gospel, we encounter John the Baptist at the peak of his influence. It is important to remember how famous John was at this moment. Crowds trekked into the wilderness just to hear his voice. He had disciples and social capital. In our modern world, this is the moment where a consultant would tell John to "leverage his brand."

But notice what happens the moment Jesus walks into his peripheral vision. John does not try to share the stage. He immediately becomes a signpost. He points a finger and declares, "Behold, the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world."

There is a profound humility in this text. Twice in this passage, John admits, "I did not know him." Despite being relatives, John admits he did not truly grasp the depth of Jesus’ identity until he saw the Spirit descend like a dove. John had to learn to see with spiritual eyes. He had to wait for God’s revelation.

This theme of selfless identity threads through all our readings. In the first reading, Isaiah speaks of a Servant formed from the womb, not for his own glory, but to be a "light to the nations." The servant’s identity is entirely wrapped up in being a beacon for others. Similarly, in the second reading, St. Paul reminds the Corinthians that they are "called to be holy"—not for their own sake, but in union with all those everywhere who call upon the name of the Lord.

The scriptural message is clear: Our holiness and our identity are never private possessions. We are saved personally, but we are not saved privately. We are saved to be witnesses. John the Baptist understands that a lamp is useless if it draws attention to the lampstand rather than the light. When he says, "Behold the Lamb," he is essentially saying, "My work is done. Follow Him."

We have now entered "Ordinary Time." The Christmas decorations are down, and we wear green—the color of growth. John the Baptist reminds us that our "ordinary" task is to spot Jesus in the crowd of our busy lives and point Him out to a world that is searching for hope.

The Living Index Finger

How do we do this in 2026? We do it by becoming a "living index finger," pointing to Christ through the distinct quality of our lives. Here are three ways to practice the "Art of Pointing" this week.

1. Point through Radical Humility

The next time you receive a compliment or achieve a success, try to deflect the glory. This doesn't mean putting yourself down; it means acknowledging the Source. John said, "A man is coming after me who ranks ahead of me." When you are praised at work or in your family, can you graciously accept it while acknowledging that your talents are a gift? When we act with humility in a world of arrogance, we become a signpost that points to the Humble King.

2. Point through the "Lamb" Identity

John calls Jesus the "Lamb"—the one who takes away sin. We point to the Lamb when we imitate His mercy. The world operates on the logic of the wolf: hit back harder, hold grudges, and seek revenge. We point to Jesus when we choose to forgive the unforgivable. When you refuse to gossip or when you swallow your pride to reconcile a broken relationship, you are showing the world a different way to live. You are taking away sin rather than recycling it.

3. Point by Seeing the Invisible

John said, "I saw the Spirit come down." He was looking for God where others just saw a crowd. This week, make a conscious effort to see Jesus in the "invisible" people—the grocery clerk, the lonely neighbor, the person you usually ignore. If you treat them with the reverence due to a Child of God, you are witnessing. You are telling them, "I see the image of God in you."

The Challenge 

This week, catch yourself when you start to turn the camera inward. When you feel the urge to say, "Look at me," stop and look for where God is working in someone else. Let our prayer be the words of our Psalm: "Here am I, Lord; I come to do your will."

May we go out into this ordinary week and, through our kindness and our mercy, show the world the extraordinary love of the Lamb of God.

Baptism of the Lord @ Ss. Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Voice Over the Waters: Finding Identity in the Mud

The Human Search for Validation

There is a profound moment in every great mentorship, parenting relationship, or apprenticeship that signifies a permanent shift. It is that moment when the teacher looks at the student, or the father looks at the child, and says, "You are ready. I am proud of you." We spend a massive portion of our lives seeking this validation. We wait for a boss to notice our overtime, for a parent to finally offer a "well done," or for the world to validate our existence through likes, status, or success. We crave the stamp of approval that tells us we matter and that we belong.

Today, on the banks of the Jordan River, we witness the ultimate moment of validation. But it happens in a way that weaves together every thread of Scripture into a single, stunning tapestry of love. The King of Kings does not receive His coronation in a palace or a temple. He receives it standing waist-deep in a muddy river, surrounded by crowds of broken people confessing their sins. He finds His glory not by rising above us, but by stepping down into the water beside us.

The Humility of the Son: Matthew 3

In the Gospel from St. Matthew, we see a collision of two different understandings of holiness. John the Baptist, the fiery prophet of the desert, is the one who has been preparing the way. He knows exactly who Jesus is. When he sees his cousin approaching the water, John is baffled. He tries to stop Him, saying, "I need to be baptized by you, and yet you are coming to me?"

John’s logic is flawless from a human perspective. Baptism, as John preached it, was a sign of repentance—a ritual for sinners washing away the grime of their past. Jesus is the sinless one; He has no grime to wash. In John’s mind, the greater should never bow to the lesser. The clean should not muddy themselves with the unclean. But Jesus replies with words that change the course of salvation history: "Allow it now, for thus it is fitting for us to fulfill all righteousness."

In Matthew’s Gospel, "righteousness" isn't just about following rules; it’s about doing God’s will perfectly. Jesus is saying that God’s will is for Him to stand in total solidarity with us. By stepping into those waters, Jesus is not confessing His own sin; He is physically taking on ours. He is stepping into the "line" of humanity. He is saying, "I am not ashamed to stand where you stand."

The Majesty of the Voice: Psalm 29

To understand the weight of what happens next, we have to look at our Responsorial Psalm, Psalm 29. This is one of the oldest hymns in the Bible, a song of awe and sheer power. It describes the "Voice of the Lord" as something that thunders over the vast waters—a voice so mighty it breaks the cedars of Lebanon and shakes the wilderness of Kadesh. For centuries, the people of Israel sang this Psalm to acknowledge that God is the King of the storm, the one who is enthroned above the flood.

So, when the heavens "tear open" in the Gospel, the people standing on the banks might have expected that terrifying thunder. They might have expected a warrior King to descend and strike down the Roman occupiers. But look at how the prophecy of Isaiah in our first reading completely transforms that expectation.

The Gentleness of the Servant: Isaiah 42

Isaiah tells us that when God’s Chosen Servant comes, He will not be a shouting warlord. "Not crying out, not shouting, not making his voice heard in the street." Instead of a storm that breaks the cedars, He is a gentle presence who "a bruised reed he shall not break, and a smoldering wick he shall not quench."

The "Voice over the waters" from the Psalm does speak in the Gospel, but it doesn't speak in anger. It speaks in intimate, fatherly love: "This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased." The power of the storm is channeled into a declaration of identity. Notice the timing: This declaration of love comes before Jesus has performed a single miracle. He hasn’t healed a leper, walked on water, or raised the dead. He has simply stood in the river with His people. The Father’s love is not a reward for performance; it is a declaration of essence.

The Universal Reach of Grace: Acts 10

This revelation completely changes the perspective of the early Church, as we see in the second reading from the Acts of the Apostles. Peter, a man who grew up believing that God’s favor was a narrow gate reserved for a specific few, stands in the house of Cornelius—a Gentile, a Roman centurion—and realizes the radical truth: "In truth, I see that God shows no partiality."

Peter realizes that because Jesus stood in the water with everyone, the "peace" God promised is available to everyone who fears Him and acts uprightly. The Baptism of the Lord broke the dam of exclusivity, allowing God's grace to flow from the Jordan to "every nation." As Peter notes, Jesus was "anointed with the Holy Spirit and power," and He used that power not to dominate, but to "go about doing good and healing all those oppressed."

Call to Action: Living the Baptismal Identity

As we officially conclude the Christmas season and look toward the stretch of Ordinary Time, the Baptism of the Lord serves as our own commission. What does this mean for us in 2026?

1. Claim Your Pre-Performance Identity First, you must recognize that your identity is already settled. If you have been baptized, the same words spoken over Jesus were spoken over you. You are a beloved child of the Father. Most of us spend our weeks trying to become someone—trying to prove we are smart enough, wealthy enough, or "good" enough. But the Jordan reminds us that God’s pleasure in us precedes our work for Him. This week, when you wake up, before you check your emails or your bank account, say it out loud: "I am God’s beloved." Let that truth be the "mighty voice" that silences the storms of your own self-doubt.

2. Seek Out the Bruised Reeds Second, we are called to imitate the "Gentle Servant" of Isaiah. Our world in 2026 is often harsh; we are quick to "cancel" or break those who are already bruised. Isaiah tells us that Jesus doesn't snap the bruised reed. Look around your office, your home, or your neighborhood this week. Who is the "bruised reed"? Is it the coworker who just went through a divorce? Is it the teenager who feels like they don't fit in? Is it the neighbor whose "wick" is smoldering with loneliness? The Christian call is to stand in the mud with them.

3. Show No Partiality Finally, challenge your own partiality. In Acts, Peter had to let go of his prejudices to see that God was working in the house of a Roman. Who have you decided is "outside" of God’s reach? Jesus entered the water for the entire human race. This week, reach out to someone who is different from you—politically, socially, or religiously—and offer a gesture of peace.

The heavens are still open. The Spirit is still descending. The Voice is still speaking. Let us go forth not as people trying to earn God’s love, but as people who are so filled with the Father’s "well-pleased" love that we cannot help but pour it out on a thirsty world.

Epiphany @ Ss. Francis and Clare Birch Run

The Pilgrim’s Path: Going Home by Another Way

Are We Tourists or Pilgrims?

There is a profound difference between a tourist and a pilgrim. A tourist travels to see things; they collect photographs, buy souvenirs, and observe the local customs from a safe distance, primarily seeking relaxation or entertainment. They usually have a return ticket booked for the exact same route they came in on, and they return home largely unchanged, perhaps just a bit more tanned or tired.

A pilgrim, however, travels not to see, but to seek. The pilgrim is on a quest, often driven by a burning internal question or a deep, unquenchable thirst for something holy. A pilgrim is vulnerable. They rely on signs, on the hospitality of strangers, and on the guidance of stars. And most importantly, a pilgrim never returns home the same way they left. The journey changes them.

Today, on this Feast of the Epiphany, we are invited to look up into the vast, dark sky of our own lives and decide which we are. Are we tourists in our faith, observing the manger from a polite distance? Or are we pilgrims, willing to leave the comfort of the known to follow a light that leads to a humble, life-altering encounter with God?

The Tragedy of Knowledge Without Movement

Our Scripture readings today provide the map for this pilgrimage. The prophet Isaiah, in our first reading, shouts a wake-up call to a city that has grown used to the dark. "Rise up in splendor, Jerusalem! Your light has come." It is a command to stop looking at the "thick clouds" that cover the people and to start looking at the glory of the Lord that shines upon them. Isaiah foresees a time when the boundaries of Israel will burst open, and the wealth of nations—camels, gold, frankincense—will pour in. It is a vision of a God who is too big to be kept inside one border, one nation, or one building.

This vision explodes into reality in the Gospel of Matthew. We meet the Magi. These men were not Jews; they were stargazers, scientists, perhaps priests of a different religion from the East. In the ancient world, they were the "outsiders." Yet, they possessed the heart of the pilgrim. They saw a star—a phenomenon in the natural world—and they allowed it to speak to their supernatural hunger.

Notice the contrast in the Gospel between the Magi and King Herod. Herod is the ultimate "insider." He is the King of the Jews, living in Jerusalem, surrounded by the chief priests and scribes who know the Scriptures inside and out. When the Magi ask where the Messiah is to be born, the scribes can quote the prophet Micah immediately: "In Bethlehem of Judea." They have the intellectual knowledge. They know the geography of God. But they do not move.

This is the tragedy of Herod and his court. They possess the truth, but they do not pursue it. Herod is paralyzed by fear—fear of losing control, fear of a rival, fear of change. He stays in his palace, plotting to destroy the Light rather than follow it.

The Magi, on the other hand, have only a star and a longing. They do not have the Scriptures, but they have the humility to move. They travel hundreds of miles, risking safety and reputation. And when they arrive, what do they find? Not a golden throne, not a warrior king, but a child in a house with his mother.

The Mystery of the Open Door

It would have been easy for them to be disappointed. They brought gold, fit for a king; frankincense, used in worship of the divine; and myrrh, a burial ointment. These are heavy, serious gifts. To offer them to a toddler in a backwater town seems absurd. But the Gospel tells us "they prostrated themselves and did him homage." They possessed the eyes of faith. They saw through the poverty of the human situation to the glory of the Divine presence. They recognized that this child was the Epiphany—the manifestation—of God to the world.

Saint Paul confirms this mystery in the second reading from Ephesians. He speaks of the "mystery was made known to me by revelation." And what is that mystery? That the Gentiles are "coheirs, members of the same body." The wall is down. The star was not just for the Magi; it is for everyone. The Light of Christ is not a spotlight reserved for the holy few; it is a dawn breaking for the whole world.

The Theology of the Detour

But there is one final, crucial detail in Matthew’s account. After they encounter the Christ Child, "having been warned in a dream not to return to Herod, they departed for their country by another way."

They went home by another way.

This is not just a detour to avoid traffic or a tyrant. It is a theological statement. You cannot encounter Jesus Christ and go back the way you came. The old roads—the roads of indifference, of selfishness, of "business as usual"—are no longer available to you. When you have seen the Light, the old darkness is no longer navigable. You are changed. You are different. You must walk a new path.

Three Steps for the Modern Pilgrim

So, what does this mean for us, sitting here in the year 2026? How do we live this out?

1. Identify Your Star First, we must identify our star. God is still in the business of guiding pilgrims. He rarely uses a literal celestial body anymore, but He uses the "stars" of our daily lives. Perhaps it is a persistent restlessness in your heart that says, "There must be more than this." Perhaps it is the example of a friend who lives with a joy that you envy. Perhaps it is a sudden crisis that shatters your illusions of control, or a moment of beauty that brings you to tears. These are stars. Do not ignore them. Do not just take a picture of them like a tourist. Follow them. Let them lead you to prayer, to Scripture, to the Sacraments—to the place where the Child is found.

2. Bring Your True Gifts Second, we must bring our gifts. The Magi brought the best of what they had. We often hesitate to approach God because we feel we don't have enough "gold" or "frankincense." We think we need to be perfect, wealthy in virtue, or smelling of sanctity before we can kneel. But look at what the Magi really brought: they brought their presence. They brought their journey.

God does not need your gold; He owns the universe. He wants you. He wants the gold of your love, yes. But He also wants the incense of your prayers—even the distracted ones. He wants the myrrh of your sufferings—your griefs, your disappointments, the parts of your life that feel like they are dying. Bring it all to the manger. Do not hide your poverty from Him; it is the very place He wants to be born.

3. Walk the New Road Finally, and most urgently, we must go home by another way. We are about to approach this altar. We are about to receive something far greater than what the Magi saw. They saw the child; we receive the Body and Blood of the Risen Lord.

If we walk out of those church doors and immediately snap back into our old habits of anger, gossip, greed, or despair, we have acted like tourists. We saw the sights, but we missed the meaning.

To go home by another way means to let this Epiphany change the way you drive home. It means changing the way you speak to your spouse or your children this afternoon. It means looking at the "Gentiles" of your life—the people you think are outsiders, the people you disagree with politically, the people who annoy you—and seeing them as "coheirs," members of the same body, destined for the same Light.

The world outside is much like Jerusalem in the time of Herod: "darkness covers the earth, and thick clouds cover the peoples." There is fear, division, and confusion. The world does not need more Herod-like cynicism. It needs pilgrims who have been to the manger. It needs people whose faces are radiant because they have looked upon the Lord.

This week, be the star for someone else. Be the light that helps a stumbling neighbor find their way. When you leave this church, do not go back to the old road of darkness. You have seen the Lord. Walk the new way, the way of light, the way of love.

Rise up in splendor! The Light has come. Now, go and live like you believe it.

Mary, Holy Mother of God @ Ss Francis and Clare, Birch Run

The Great Identity Theft: Reclaiming the Divine Surname

The Modern Crisis of the Hijacked Identity

The contemporary world is characterized by intense anxiety over identity protection. Where digital footprints are permanent, the warning against identity theft is ubiquitous. Individuals are taught to guard Social Security numbers and employ complex encryption. If a name is hijacked, the victim loses access to resources and standing. To have an identity stolen is to become a ghost in one’s own life—estranged from the power and rights that were once guaranteed. It is a state of being legally alive but functionally disinherited. 

However, as the calendar marks the beginning of the year 2026, it is necessary to recognize a far more ancient and insidious form of identity theft. This theft does not occur on servers; it occurs within the human soul. It is the systematic hijacking of the divine identity. The world constantly attempts to replace the true identity of the human person with false labels. Society suggests that a person’s worth is a variable based on productivity, net worth, or past mistakes. This spiritual identity theft seeks to convince the individual that they are a nameless orphan, a slave to their history, or a stranger to the Creator. 

On this Solemnity of Mary, the Mother of God, the Church provides a definitive status report. The liturgy serves as a legal and theological restoration of the true name and standing of every believer.

The Mark of Ownership: The Priestly Blessing

The restoration of identity begins with the First Reading from the Book of Numbers. This text provides the ancient formula for establishing a relationship with the Divine. It is the Aaronic Blessing: 

"The LORD bless you and keep you! The LORD let his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you! The LORD look upon you kindly and give you peace!" 

While these words are often heard as a poetic sentiment, they carry a profound legal weight in the context of the Covenant. This liturgy served as the primary means of maintaining the national identity of Israel. The conclusion of the passage reveals the true functional purpose: 

"So shall they invoke my name upon the Israelites, and I will bless them." 

In the ancient world, to have a name invoked or placed upon a person was a formal act of claiming property. If a monarch placed his seal upon a territory, that territory was under his protection. By placing His Name upon the people through the priests, God was asserting a claim of ownership. He was declaring that the Israelites were not a nameless mass; they were a people with a specific legal standing before the King of Kings. 

This is the primary defense against spiritual identity theft: knowing whose Name is carried. Before a person attempts to re-brand themselves with New Year's resolutions, they must first acknowledge the Name that has already been placed upon them. 

The believer does not enter the year as a self-made entity, but as a person who carries the seal of the Most High. The blessing of the Lord is not a reward for behavior; it is the consequence of belonging to His household.

The Fullness of Time: The Decree of Adoption

The mechanism by which this Name was fused to humanity is explained by Saint Paul in the Second Reading. Paul outlines the monumental shift in human status that occurred through the Incarnation. He writes: 

"When the fullness of time had come, God sent his Son, born of a woman, born under the law, to ransom those under the law, so that we might receive adoption as sons." 

This legal transaction was the fulfillment of centuries of preparation. This is the theological necessity behind the title Mother of God. If the Son of God were not truly born of a woman, He would lack the human nature required to represent humanity. By taking His flesh and blood from Mary, the Son of God entered into the human contract. He stepped under the Law to pay a debt He did not owe, because humanity owed a debt it could never pay. 

The consequence of this intervention is a total transformation of status: Adoption. In the Roman legal traditions, adoption resulted in the legal extinction of the old name and all previous debts. When a person was adopted into a new family, their past liabilities ceased to exist. The adopted person gained an irrevocable right to the father’s estate. 

Paul asserts that because of this born of a woman moment, the believer no longer operates as a slave, but as a fully legitimate heir. The indwelling of the Spirit allows the believer to cry out, "Abba, Father!" This is the ultimate protection against identity theft. The world may claim that a person is defined by their past or failures. But the legal reality in the Kingdom of God is that the believer has received a new surname. They are an Heir to the very life of God.

Reflection as Spiritual Defense

How is this identity preserved against the noise of a new year? The model is found in the Mother of God in the Gospel of Saint Luke. After the local shepherds visit the manger, the crowd is described as being "amazed." However, amazement is a fleeting reaction; it is an insufficient foundation for a permanent identity. In contrast, Luke observes: 

"Mary kept all these things, reflecting on them in her heart." 

The Greek term for "reflecting" is symballousa, which means to "bring together." Mary acted as the custodian of the divine evidence. She took the poverty of the stable, the shepherds, and the face of her Son, and she held them together. She did not allow the chaos of the journey to steal the truth of what God had declared. At the end of the octave of Christmas, the child was formally brought into the covenant: 

"He was named Jesus, the name given by the angel before conception." 

The name "Jesus" means "God Saves." This is the Name invoked upon every Christian at Baptism. It is the identity Mary protected in her heart, and it is the identity she assists the faithful in guarding today.

Reclaiming the Divine Surname: A Call to Action

As 2026 begins, the world will attempt to re-institute the theft of identity. To prevent this, three specific actions are proposed: 

First, assert the status of heir. Every morning, recite the words of Saint Paul: "Abba, Father." The day should not begin until this legal standing is recognized. 

Second, audit the heart’s narrative. Identify one lie the world told last year about who you are. Bring that lie before the Mother of God and ask for the grace to replace it with Truth. 

Third, invoke the Name as a shield. Use the Name of Jesus as a defensive seal. When the pressure to prove worth arises, invoke the Name: "Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the Living God, have mercy on me." 

Mary is the Mother of God, and she is the Mother of the faithful. She guards the inheritance of her children. May the Lord bless and keep every soul in 2026. May His face shine upon this congregation and give every single person peace. Amen.