The Great Easter Vigil, Year A

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!

Fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

By Rev. Christopher Welch • July 5, 2026
On this July 4th weekend, we recall our land’s independence from a foreign king and a foreign government. We have thrown off the yoke of King George III; we are a free and independent nation. For 250 years we have been learning what it means to live as an independent and free society. Today Jesus invites us to consider taking upon a yoke as we go forward as disciples of him. The yoke of King George was too heavy for this nation, but the yoke of our God, we are told by Jesus, “is easy and light.” What is the yoke of Jesus? The yoke of Jesus is about the kingdom of God, learning to love others as we love ourselves. As disciples of Jesus we take on the yoke of the Gospel. When life feels heavy, we turn to our God, and our God helps to make our burdens light. There are many things in life that may seem like a yoke, a burden, but if we look at them in a new way, we see our God helping us to carry our burden. As Jesus invites us to consider the childlike, let me share with you a story: The Fable of The Birds At the beginning of time, all the animals were walking around discovering what it was like to be alive. All except the birds! They were doing nothing but complaining because God had given them a heavy burden that he’d given to no other animals: those awkward appendages on their shoulders. God must be punishing them somehow. Why did they have to carry these things around, making it hard to walk? “Why?" they asked. “Why us?” Finally, two or three of the more adventurous birds began to move their appendages. They began to flutter them, and soon they discovered that the very things they regarded as a burden actually made it possible for them to fly. And no other animals could fly. The “heavy burden” turned out to be a wonderful gift. Is there something in your life that at first glance seemed a burden, but later was seen as a gift? One reason why we value the innocent and simple among us is that they can help us to see life and who we are with new eyes. The simple or innocent can sometimes help us see what we thought was a burden as a gift. In the lives of the saints, we read about many who took what seemed to be a burden and made it an asset: The first disciples were simple fishermen. They were not scholarly, they couldn’t read, but they took their experience of Jesus and let it form them as disciples. What was a burden became an asset. Peter denied the Lord on the eve of his death. This made him more compassionate to sinners and those who struggled to have courage. Paul was blinded for 3 days; a former killer of Christians saw with new eyes and preached the good news to the Gentiles. Thomas doubted the Resurrection but came to faith in his doubt. Theresa the Little Flower loved Jesus and others with the simple love of a child of God. St. Kateri looked for and saw God present in the trees and the nature of the forests where she made her home. Mother Teresa of Calcutta saw our Lord present in the sick and dying in India. Blessed Stan Rother, a farmer’s son from Oklahoma who couldn’t read Latin, learned to speak in the native tongue of the men and women who he ministered with in Guatemala. With the eyes of a child, with childlike faith, we learn to see the burdens we carry as paths to faith in the help and care of our God. Let us give thanks today for the gift of freedom and let us give thanks for the gift of our God who makes our burdens light.

Thirteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

By Rev. Christopher Welch • June 28, 2026
Our readings today speak of hospitality: In the first reading from 2 Kings, we hear how the woman made a room for the prophet Elisha. In the letter to the Hebrews, we read, “Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” In the Gospel, Jesus speaks, “and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me.” Hospitality is the essence of the life as a Christian. Many religious communities include this action as part of their rule. Hospitality is not easy. It seems that people are not in need on my schedule. Hospitality means stopping my actions and attending to others for a time. People are not in need on my schedule. Yet if I neglect them, I may miss out on entertaining angels. This summer there will be many who are in need. To them we offer our time and our hospitality. We are fortunate in our community that a hot meal is available seven days a week. I meet many in need when I stop to help out at Saturday’s Bread. Catholic Charities provides lunches to our students in July and August. You may want to consider helping to provide meals to our homeless and our students in the summer. It is so easy to get caught up in my schedule and I miss the chance to meet Christ in my neighbors and to miss out on entertaining angels. One thing I admired about Bishop Hubbard is that when he spoke to you, you were made to feel you were the most important person. As he spoke to you, he was moving on down the line, but for that moment you felt important, you were the most important person at that moment. How often do we make others feel that they are taking up our time or are a burden? On Thursday we celebrated LEON Day (Noel spelled backwards), which reminds us that we are six months away from Christmas. Maybe this is a good time to revisit a Christmas story. La Befana: The Witch of Christmas By Il Postino Staff and Tessa Derksen The legend of Befana began thousands of years ago and remains to this day a tradition practiced by Italian children and their families. As the story goes, one day, the three Magi left their country bearing special gifts of gold, incense and myrrh for the new-born Jesus Christ. They were guided by a star across many countries. At every village that they passed, people ran to meet them and accompany them in their journey. But there was one old woman who did not join the Magi. She claimed to be too busy with her housework and promised to join them later when she had time. The next day, she realized her mistake and frantically ran after the Magi with gifts for the child, still clutching her broom. But it was too late – the Magi were long gone. Let us not be too busy to meet Christ in our neighbors. Let us not be a Befana.

A Reflection on Magnifica Humanitas

By Rev. Christopher Welch • June 21, 2026
The last two popes chose names that pointed out what their main concern in their ministry would be. Pope Francis took the name of a man who advocated for the poor among us. Pope Leo XIV took the name of the pope who advocated for dignity of the workers in the world. Pope Leo XIII wrote the first encyclical speaking of the dignity of workers. His encyclical Rerum Novarum spoke of how the church should be an instrument for change in the world. Pope Leo XIV, in his encyclical Magnifica Humanitas , addresses his concern for the use of AI in our world. AI used in the correct way can be of benefit to humanity. Used in the wrong way, AI can lead to taking away the humanity of people. He uses two images to speak of AI. AI used in the wrong way can be like the Tower of Babel. The Tower of Babel, as found in the book of Genesis, was a tower built by people who sought glory for themselves. They had a single technology, a single goal all directed toward themselves without a concern for God. They started out united and the project caused division. Here is how Pope Leo puts it in his encyclical: The result is not unity, but dispersion. Babel thus reveals the limits of any effort that, however grandiose, arises from self-affirmation, sacrifices human dignity for efficiency and aspires to reach heaven without God’s blessing. The second image is taken from the book of Nehemiah, where the walls of Jerusalem were rebuilt. This is the image for the correct use of AI -- a technology that unites people, with God at the center, and preserves the dignity of the human person. Again, Pope Leo: It is an undertaking with God at the center, which rebuilds relationships before rebuilding with stones. Thus, ancient Jerusalem rediscovers a common language -- not one of uniformity, but one of communion, namely the harmony that arises when all persons assume their own role and recognize that their strength comes from the Lord. The pope expresses concern that AI may be used in ways that deny the unique nature of humans. As we go forward, we need to decide what we will build: will we build a Tower of Babel or the city of Jerusalem? The Pope ends his reflections by giving Mary’s song, the Magnificat , as the example on how we go forward: With the same faith as Mary, let us become “weavers of hope” in our world, sharing who we are and what we have, so that the presence of Jesus may grow among us and his Kingdom take shape. In the humble fidelity of daily life, even the era of AI can become a time in which the Holy Spirit brings about the civilization of love in our lives. Indeed, the Lord continues to make all things new and offers every era the possibility of becoming part of salvation history in the light of the Incarnation. I entrust our desire to the Mother of Christ, to the Woman of the Magnificat, that she may guide our steps through this time of change and preserve in each of us true faith in the Gospel, so that we may bear witness to the grandeur of humanity, in which God has made his dwelling.