Current homilies

When I was growing up--at least in the later years--the ritual on New Year's Eve was always the same.  My parents would get ready to go to a neighbor's house for a little party in their finished basement.  My sister and I would be watching television beside the Christmas tree, my mother simultaneously getting dinner ready for us and applying her makeup. 

Here are two Nativity stories for Christmas 2017

Of course I went to the opening night of the newest Star Wars movie on Thursday at a huge IMAX theater in Connecticut. It’s called the Last Jedi, and I have a particular interest in it because, well, wanting to become a kind of Jedi was part of the reason why I joined the Jesuit order in the first place.

Last week it was clear that I needed to buy more Christmas trees for our Forest of Love outside.  When I proposed the project to the parish, I wasn’t sure if anyone would buy the trees so that we could raise money to bring gifts of love to our homebound parishioners and to the people sleeping on the streets of our neighborhood, but I went out on a limb and called a Christmas tree wholesaler and asked him if he could sell me 30 trees.  “Gee, Father, I don’t know, it’s pretty late for that kind of an order”. He said he’d call me right back, but it was doubtful. 

Advent is now officially upon us, and so is winter, drawing near. It grows dark quickly now, and soon to come are the deeply chilling winds of winter. 

This is the story of a man named Bobby, who works at the Con Ed plant over on 14th Street.  It's a story especially for this week of Thanksgiving, but it goes way beyond the holiday.

It was a lovely Saturday, and I was walking north along the East River towards the UN, past the Water Club and Bellvue and NYU hospitals and the helicopters landing beside the FDR Drive. 

“I’m not looking forward to getting back tonight,” Fr Austin said to me yesterday morning.  He was celebrating a wedding in Connecticut yesterday afternoon . “Not looking forward to coming back to Epiphany?” I said. 

A couple of years ago I was seated at a table in a diner with some friends, and a couple of nuns walked in and they were seated a few tables away.   It was like going back in time: they were dressed in full habit, their hair completely covered with the wimple and veil, yards and layers of black and white material covering every piece of skin but for their faces. 

I have been waiting, impatiently, for Fall to arrive. This hot, humid weather of the last month has been annoying. The New York Times recently suggested that maybe we need a fifth season, not autumn, but something called "hotumn".

ome years ago I was living in Florence Italy, running a study-abroad program for Georgetown University, and a wealthy Italian trustee of the program handed me a a round piece of crude metal.  “I thought you might be interested in seeing this,” he said.

“Come on, try it.  You’ll love it,” a friend encouraged me, holding out a fig in her hand.  I resisted. “No thank you,” I said. “I hate Fig Newtons, and I’ll always hate Fig Newtons, and if I hate them I’ll definitely hate that !” I was pretty stubborn, and as she kept urging me, I kept saying no, no, no, no, noooooo...

I celebrated a wonderful wedding Saturday in Connecticut.  Unlike many weddings these days, it was in a church. For Catholics, that was a given in years past, but not so much anymore.  In the past few years there have been very few weddings celebrated here at this central Manhattan church. Many instead are ‘destination weddings’ in a beautiful natural setting with a beach or mountain background, often officiated by friend who has obtained marrying powers on an internet site.  

Last night I was invited with the Fr Austin (the Pastor) by a parishioner and her two boys to a Billy Joel concert in Madison Square Garden.

When I meet a family—children of any age, accompanied by their parents—I like to ask the parents a crucial question: “So tell me, Maria, which one of these kids do you love the most?”  Or, “Joe, really…who is your favorite child?  Come on, you can be honest with us!”  And Sarah or Bobby or Julie or Tom immediately look at their parents’ faces, expecting the answer they have heard so many times:

“Why I love them all the same, all of them equally, of course”...

On Friday the Cassini spacecraft that circled Saturn and its moons for the last 13 years to examine and investigate its mysteries was deliberately crashed into the atmosphere of the planet, burning itself out of existence forever. The New York Times’ online edition published a series of photographs taken by Cassini’s cameras during its lifetime, and they are extraordinary. The photos appear to be a graphic artist’s imaginative representation of the ringed planet, and not the real thing!

 All this week I’ve been seeing lots of posts on Facebook about people’s children beginning the new school year, whether it be grade school, high school or college.

 I’ve just finished 25 years of teaching filmmaking at Fairfield University in Connecticut. The Facebook posts reminded me of the first day of class, a bunch of new students staring at me as I introduced myself and what I hoped would be a wonderful adventure of learning about film, and maybe more of learning about themselves. 

I was in a restaurant the other day, waiting to pick up an order for some dinner, and I tried to start up a conversation with the waiter. He reluctantly responded to my question about working in the restaurant. He was young—a year out of college---and he told me that he had moved to New York from Ohio to become an actor. 

I was moving into my new home in Manhattan on Monday, carrying boxes, lifting heavy chairs, and worrying about my goldfish who had been sloshed around in their little portable trailer home on the floor of the U-Haul truck all the way down from Connecticut.  They were my ‘rescue’ fish.  Like dogs adopted from terrible circumstances, I chose little guys from a tank packed with hundreds of their brothers and sisters, all destined to be sold as live feeder fish for someone’s turtle or ferocious carnivorous Oscar fish.  The price was also right at 19 cents a piece. 

I don’t know about you, but I have three awesome nieces. No nephews, but who needs them when I’ve got these beauties? The youngest is Julie, who always signs her notes and cards to me, “from your most beloved niece”.  Of course my cards always address each one the same way: “to Julie, to Amanda, to Hilary—my most beloved niece (our secret)”.