Current homilies

As you may have heard, there’s a new documentary out about Fred Rogers, the ordained Presbyterian minister who had a secular TV show for kids that lasted 33 years, called Mister Rogers Neighborhood.

On Memorial Day I was walking in the city all by my lonesome.  It was a beautiful day and everyone was out—the streets were crowded, the parks were filled, café tables on the sidewalks were all occupied. 

There is one window in the room where I write my homilies and screenplays on my computer, and where I read and pray and reflect. Pigeons alight upon the sill outside the window, and when they purr and coo it’s a soothing sound. 

I was in Connecticut on Friday, visiting a friend who had experienced a tornado in his neighborhood.

Years ago I used to visit someone in a nursing home, a young man who was 102 years old.  His body was only then beginning to break down—he had finally required a wheel chair to get around---but his mind survived a century of wear and tear.

Who do you love?  How do you love? 

A few years ago I was in Manhattan to meet an actor to talk about a film project I was working on. 

For you dog owners out there, I read about a recent scientific discovery that your personal smelly scent activates the pleasure centers in your dog’s brain, in the same way that the human brain responds to the perfume or cologne of someone you love.

I was at Eisenberg’s the other day.  You know Eisenberg’s Sandwich Shop, on 5th Ave and 22nd street, which claims to be open since 1929?  Their motto is "Raising New York's Cholesterol since 1929".

Yesterday a woman came up to me at the end of Mass and gave me three one dollar bills.  When I responded with a quizzical look on my face, she told me it was a donation for the Holy Water bottles that we have up here on the altar.  I told her she could just throw the money into the basket with the bottles, and she said that she wouldn’t risk leaving the money there. “Even in a church?!” I exclaimed with feigned shock.  “Listen, Father, I’ve worked in churches for 10 years, and I’m no fool!”. 

Sometimes I come into this church late at night. It is dark, very dark. I feel with my feet for the steps of the sanctuary, with my hands for the nearest pew in which to sit. Out there, behind the glass stained blue and red: the sounds of cars rushing by, a siren, an occasional laugh.

We have to practice.  Hosannah!  Hip hip hooray!  Way to go!   Two, four, six, eight--who do we appreciate?   Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord!  O.K., good.  That’s perfect for the beginning of the week. 

Some years ago I was in a desert in Southern California, literally wandering around in the desert after my mother’s passing.  I had gone to the desert to come to terms with the monumental reality of losing a parent.

Imagine a glass of water.  You don't have to imagine it, here's a glass of water right here in my hand. 

I was up on the roof of the Church of the Epiphany, looking for a pile of unused bricks that had been up there since who knows when. Like lots of things in the church, they were long forgotten relics of an earlier, more exciting time. 

Every morning as I sit down at my computer to write a homily or check my email or read today’s news, I have a cup of Bigelow’s ultra spice Chai tea, my little caffeine wake-me-up to get me going for the day. 

I don’t know if you heard about the miracle that just happened. Did you hear about the miracle that just happened? I don’t mean the super blue blood moon from the lunar eclipse on Wednesday. 

I had a long phone conversation the other night with a young man who was deeply upset.  He had left his home, and was staying with the family of a girl from his high school.