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!

Twenty-sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

By Rev. Christopher Welch • September 24, 2026
In today's parable we meet two brothers; one says he will go and doesn’t, the other says he will not go and does. The listeners decide the second did his father’s will. In life we judge people not by their words but by their actions. Those who act upon their words we honor. We are given second chances to reconsider our words and decide to do what we are asked to do. Too often it is hard to say 'yes' and act upon our 'yes'. This may have been the case with the second brother, but in time he said 'yes' by his actions. I am reminded of a meditation by Michael Quoist: I am afraid of saying "Yes," Lord. Where will you take me? I am afraid of drawing the longer straw, I am afraid of signing my name to an unread agreement, I am afraid of the "yes" that entails other "yeses." And yet I am not at peace. You pursue me, Lord, you besiege me. I seek out the din for fear of hearing you, but in a moment of silence you slip through. I turn from the road, for I have caught sight of you, but at the end of the path you are there awaiting me. Where shall I hide? I meet you everywhere. Is it then impossible to escape you? But I am afraid to say "Yes," Lord. I am afraid of putting my hand in yours, for you hold on to it. I am afraid of meeting your eyes, for you can win me. I am afraid of your demands, for you are a jealous God. I am hemmed in, yet I hide. I am captured, yet I struggle, and I fight knowing that I am defeated. For you are the stronger, Lord, you own the world and you take it from me. When I stretch out my hand to catch hold of people and things, they vanish before my eyes. It's no fun, Lord, I can't keep anything for myself. The flower I pick fades in my hands. My laugh freezes on my lips. The waltz I dance leaves me restless and uneasy. Everything seems empty, Everything seems hollow, You have made a desert around me. I am hungry and thirsty, And the whole world cannot satisfy me. And yet I loved you, Lord; what have I done to you? I worked for you; I gave myself for you. O great and terrible God, What more do you want? * * * Son, I want more for you and for the world. Until now you have planned your actions, but I have no need of them. You have asked for my approval, you have asked for my support, You have wanted to interest me in your work. But don't you see, son, that you were reversing the roles? I have watched you, I have seen your good will, And I want more than you, now. You will no longer do your own works, but the will of your Father in heaven. Say "Yes," son. I need your "yes" as I needed Mary's "yes" to come to earth, For it is I who must do your work, It is I who must live in your family, It is I who must be in your neighborhood, and not you. For it is my look that penetrates, and not yours, My words that carry weight, and not yours, My life that transforms, and not yours. Give all to me, abandon all to me. I need your "yes" to be united with you and to come down to earth, I need your "yes" to continue saving the world! * * * O Lord, I am afraid of your demands, but who can resist you? That your Kingdom may come and not mine, That your will may be done and not mine, Help me to say "Yes." — Michael Quoist in Prayers

Twenty-fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

By Deacon Paul Cerosaletti • September 20, 2026
One of my most favorite responses I get from people when I greet them and ask “Hey, how are you?” is the response, “Better than I deserve.” There is something in that response that not only strikes a chord of humility but also of God’s generosity and mercy. Most of us have a strong sense of fairness. The response “better than I deserve” is rooted in our sense of fairness and justice, a sense that might lead us to understand, and perhaps even sympathize, with the reaction of the vineyard workers who labored all day, in the heat of the day, and yet are paid the same amount as those that worked only one hour. How is that right? But the parable we hear in the Gospel is not about what is ‘right and just’. The themes of this parable are about the lavish generosity and mercy of God and , as the Gospel always is, a challenge to examine what is going on in our own hearts — what is happening with our own conversion of heart . These two themes might come alive more for us, as God speaking directly to us, if we change one word in one verse in the parable to express what God intends for us. What if the verse, “Am I not free to do as I wish with my own money?” was instead read, “Am I not free to do as I wish with my own mercy ?” See how that changes things? We are often, so often, fixated on fairness, equity, and justice. There is nothing wrong with those concepts and virtues, except when we fail to live beyond them to generosity and mercy . We have a God who lives beyond justice, in generosity and mercy, and who calls us to do the same. You see, if we stop at fairness and justice, we find ourselves in the same place with the early laborers in the vineyard, exercising judgment on what is equitable, and in so doing end up metering generosity and mercy — not even our own generosity and mercy, but God’s! Now our response becomes, “Better than they deserve…” Our true motivations get called out by the owner of the vineyard when he says, “Are you envious because I am generous?” We end up subject to the same temptation the vineyard laborers experience, the capital sin of envy , the resentment at another’s good fortune. What instead should be the disposition of our hearts? Jesus himself tells us in a related parable about conversion of heart when he says, “There will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance” (Lk 15:7). Joy! We are called to fill our hearts with Joy at God’s generosity and mercy lavished upon our sisters and brothers who hear and heed a call to conversion of heart in Christ, no matter the stage in their lives; joy over one lost sheep who is found and brought home at the end of the day. Joy is the antidote of envy. Joy is our participation in the generosity and mercy of God, the fitting response to God’s generosity and mercy. And it is nothing short of an exercise of Love, which is to will the good of the other. None of us is deserving of God's generous grace and mercy. We do not merit it, nor should we meter it with our judgement, for we are all in need of it.  How are we? I hope and pray, by the grace of God, with Joy in our hearts, “Better than we deserve.”

Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year A

By Rev. Christopher Welch • September 13, 2026
In the Masterpiece production of The Count of Monte Cristo , the main character is sent to prison; there he meets another prisoner who advises him, “If you seek for revenge, you should first dig two graves.” After the count achieves revenge he tells his friend, “The prisoner was right.” She responds, “Love can heal.” The readings today speak about forgiveness. Forgiveness is about choosing to love. When we forgive the other, we may not receive what we hoped for from the other. Forgiveness or love are not about the other person, but about me. There are many I will choose to love whom I do not like. Love is not simply about feelings, but love is a choice to forgive the other, means not hearing the words “I was wrong” or “I forgive you.” The choice to love may not change the other, but it will change me. One reason Jesus tells Peter to forgive 7 times 70 is that it may take time for the forgiveness to have an effect upon him. Jesus is familiar with the words of Sirach: hate not your neighbor; remember the Most High’s covenant, and overlook faults (Sir 28:7). Sometimes people will ask me why such and such is allowed to act as they do. I find myself reminding them that it is God who judges. King David knew he had done wrong, yet he was able to write the words of Psalm 103 — The Lord is kind and merciful, slow to anger, and rich in compassion — the psalm for today’s Mass. For the many things he did as pope, Pope Francis may be best remembered for a short phrase: "who am I to judge?" When asked who he was, Pope Francis responded, “I am a sinner.” We all have people in our lives who we would like to punish to seek revenge, but the better way is to forgive from our heart. When we forgive, we leave the judging to our God. Remember, it is “love that can heal.”