Just this week, my husband and I signed our wills, and the lawyer was careful to couch our transaction in gentle, abstract language: “When we lose you” she kept saying, instead of “When you die.”

It’s very uncomfortable to dwell on our death. But the Christian life does not just encourage us to do so: it demands that we do.

I once came upon a prayer consecrating the last two hours of life to the Blessed Mother. I have since found variations of the prayer online with different phrasing, but the sentiment of them all is the same: let me not be caught sleeping. Let me be ready.

When I was a child, my mother bought a book called “The Prayers God Will Always Answer.” I remember my anticipation as I cracked the spine and turned to the first page.

I had been spending a lot of time asking God — begging God, actually — over and over again for some specific things that were not materializing. Frankly, it was beginning to feel a lot like that time I asked Santa Claus for a new house, only to wake up on Christmas morning to find ordinary, non-house-shaped presents under the tree — and a growing sense of suspicion that my faith had been ill-placed.

To the great disappointment of my pre-teen heart, my mother’s book was not a directory of magical phrases God is compelled to obey. It was a list that included things like “Forgive me” and “Help me.” I tossed it aside, disappointed.

Dear Parishioners,

We are filled with immense pride and joy to share that our beloved Pastor, Fr. Emmanuel Ihemedu, has been nominated and will be honored with the 2023 Distinguished Catholic Elementary School Pastor of the Year Award! This commendation recognizes not just an individual, but the collective hard work, faith, and dedication of our community. Through Fr. Emmanuel's visionary leadership, our parochial school, St. John Paul the Great Academy, has undergone a beautiful revival.

A man at my parish was struggling to overcome a habitual sin. He said to me, “Father, I know the chance that I will commit sin again is really high. Why should I keep confessing my sins? Isn’t that dishonest?” Anyone who has felt the tyrannical power of sin — and who hasn’t? — has pondered this kind of question.

I responded to him, “What was the probability Peter would walk on the stormy water?” After some silence, he said, “Zero. But when Jesus called, he did it.” I could tell my penitent friend was re-framing the question from his own weakness to the greatness of the Lord’s love for him. The question for us should not be one of human probabilities about our sin, but rather whether or not we will trust the Lord’s grace in our lives.

What is Christianity finally about? These days if you ask almost anyone who doesn’t know the Bible you’ll probably hear an answer like this: “Being a good person” or “following the golden rule.”

No offense to the golden rule, but our faith is simply much stranger than that. This week’s feast of the Transfiguration of the Lord is a luminous example of this. Jesus becomes radiantly and overwhelmingly beautiful. The glory of God literally shines forth from his body and even his clothes.

Our culture seems more polarized and divided than ever. Into this wounded situation, our Catholic faith has a healing remedy to offer: the gift of wisdom. When the Lord offers to give King Solomon anything the monarch desires, he requests “an understanding heart” (1 Kings 3:9). In his polarized situation, the King doesn’t ask for power to defeat his enemies. He asks for a wise and understanding heart to judge right from wrong. This wisdom is elevated and fulfilled in Jesus who teaches us to bring forth “both the new and the old” (Matthew 13:52).

Life, like the church, is often burdened with evil, smallness, and impurities. The Lord’s parables give us a hope-filled perspective on all three.

Evil: in Jesus’ parable about the good farmer whose enemy plants weeds at night, Jesus tells us that God is not the cause of evil but permits evil to exist with good out of his patient love. He will finally deal with it, but his love lets things stay messy for a time.

It’s not uncommon to hear people complain that we Catholics often fail in communicating our faith. Fair enough. We can and should improve there. But it’s interesting to notice that Jesus himself was implicitly accused by his disciples of a similar failure. This week in Matthew’s gospel they are perplexed that he speaks to the crowds in ambiguous parables.

Do you ever feel restless? I certainly do. Daily tasks and challenges, but also the more basic demand of simply existing — sooner or later, this can all feel crushing and tire us out.

Which is why Jesus’ words are such stunningly good news: “Come to me all you who labor and are burdened and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). How vastly weird that this man speaks as though he is capable of giving us the deep repose we desire. Is his claim the height of absurd grandiosity? No, because next he immediately proclaims that he is “meek and humble of heart.” We here touch a mystery: Jesus is capable of giving us rest because he is the one who forever reposes in the heart of God the Father. He is “yoked” to the Father in his divinity. But he is humbly “yoked” to us, sharing in our humanity.

“Move back in with us until you save enough for a decent house,” my mother told me over and over again as the birth of my second child neared.

My little family was quickly outgrowing our rented space, but the housing market in our area was a nightmare for first-time homebuyers. As appealing as the offer was, I kept refusing, convinced that my mother didn’t understand the chaos, disruption, and loss of personal space that such a move would mean for her and my dad.

I was wrong — she did. And eventually she wore me down. When my son was three months old my family of four moved back into my old bedroom. My parents made an office space for my husband in the basement, and they converted their den into a playroom for two of the loudest children you will ever meet. They told us we could stay as long as we needed to (it ended up being two years). They greeted us with love and warmth every morning and never made us feel like we were an inconvenience.

Dear Church Family,

I hope this letter finds you all in good health and high spirits.
It is with a mixture of sorrow and gratitude that I write to you today. Recently, my family suffered a tragic loss. My cousin, Odinaka, was cruelly taken from us through senseless violence in Nigeria. His sudden and heartbreaking departure left us all reeling and, admittedly, struggling to meet the financial burdens of the unexpected funeral costs.

In such a challenging time, I am deeply moved and humbled by the remarkable display of generosity, compassion, and unity this church community has demonstrated.

In the backyard of the house where I live with other priests, there is a lemon tree which produces a huge amount of fruit. One evening in the spring I needed some lemons for a chicken dish. I glanced from the kitchen and saw the tree bursting with large, bright, gorgeous lemons, hanging thick on seemingly every branch. Turning to Fr. Bob (I’ll change his name to protect the innocent) who sat on the couch, I said, “Father, could you pick a few lemons for me?” He said sure and into the backyard he went. He returned a few minutes later empty-handed. “John, there’s no lemons. Sorry.” I said, “What are you talking about?” I looked again and saw the grapefruit tree on the other side of the yard, which had recently been picked clean of fruit. He didn’t see the abundant fruit because he was looking in the wrong place!

God our Father, we give you thanks and praise for fathers young and old. We pray for young fathers, newly embracing their vocation; may they find courage and perseverance to balance work, family and faith in joy and sacrifice. We pray for fathers around the world whose children are lost or suffering; may they know that the God of compassion walks with them in their sorrow. We pray for men who are not fathers but still mentor and guide us with fatherly love and advice. We remember fathers, grandfathers and greatgrandfathers who are no longer with us but who live forever in our memory and nourish us with their love. Amen.

“These two Sacraments were born together,” wrote St. John Paul II of the priesthood and the Eucharist, “and their destiny is indissolubly linked until the end of the world.”

The Eucharist is such a beautiful example of how God, conscious of our limitations, bends to meet us. He once came to us cloaked in the flesh, that we might recognize Him. Now He comes as the very means by which we nourish ourselves: food and drink, the most familiar and comforting thing in the world to us. How easy He makes it to fulfill his command that we become one with Him. How generous He is to make such a sacred thing also accessible.

Dear Brothers and Sisters,

Please join us on Sunday, June 11, for our annual Corpus Christi Mass and Procession, a vibrant celebration of our faith, community, and shared devotion to our Lord.

The Mass begins at 10 am at St. Francis Church, promptly followed by a grand procession to Coe Park. There, we will commemorate the conclusion with a moving Benediction. We extend this invitation to everyone— every age, every background, every tongue—to join us in this time-honored tradition.

As we take our faith to the streets, we reaffirm our love for Christ and our unity as His children. Corpus Christi is a powerful testament to our community's spiritual strength and commitment. It is a beautiful opportunity to share our faith publicly, fostering connections with each other and the wider community, and it is a testament to our calling as disciples of Christ.