Living by the sea teaches us that we cannot control everything. Here in Cohasset and Hull, we can plan the perfect beach day. We check the weather, pack the chairs, bring the sunscreen, and head toward the water. Then we arrive, and the wind is blowing so hard that our beach umbrella is trying to become a sail! We look at the sky and say, “But the forecast said sunny!” And someone reminds us, “This is New England!” Sometimes, we simply have to trust. And that is what Jesus asks us to do in today’s Gospel. Jesus tells us about workers who enter the vineyard at different times. Some work all day. Others work only a few hours. Some work only one hour. At the end of the day, the landowner gives them the same wage. And those who worked all day say: “That’s not fair!” Honestly, we understand them. If we worked eight hours and someone else worked one hour and received the same pay, most of us would probably want to speak with the manager! But Jesus is not teaching us about Massachusetts labour law. He is teaching us about God’s generosity. The wage is not simply what we receive; it is whom we receive. The workers who came early received exactly what the landowner promised. They were not cheated. Their difficulty was that they looked at what someone else received and forgot the goodness of what they themselves had received. And sometimes we can do the same thing in our faith. We may think: “I have been Catholic all my life.” “My father built this church.” “I have prayed for years.” “I have served the Church all my life.” “I give the largest check.” “Why should someone who comes back to God after twenty-four years receive the same reward?” But Jesus invites us to see things differently. No matter how long we have been Christians, whether for eighty years, one year, one week, or even one day, our purpose is the same. We are here to know God, to love God, and to serve God all the days of our lives here on earth, and to be with Him for all eternity. That is our purpose, and ultimately, that is our reward. The person who entered the vineyard early and the person who entered at the last hour are both being invited to the same destination: to belong to the Master. The great gift is not simply the length of time we worked. The great gift is that we get to know Him, love Him, serve Him, and finally live with Him forever. So, the question is not: “Why did that person get the same wage?” The better question is: “How blessed am I that the Master invited me at all?” God’s mercy is not unfair Isaiah tells us: “My thoughts are not your thoughts, nor are your ways my ways, says the Lord.” God’s mercy often surprises us. Someone may return to the Church after years away. Someone may turn to God after a lifetime of mistakes. Someone may discover Christ very late in life. And our response should not be: “Where have you been?” It should be: “Thank God you are here!” Because none of us earns God’s love. We are all recipients of grace. And when God is generous to another person, He has not become less generous toward us. Someone else’s conversion does not diminish ours. Someone else’s blessing does not take away ours. And someone else’s late arrival does not make our journey less valuable. If anything, it should make us grateful that the Master has called all of us. Trust instead of comparison. St. Paul says that whether he lives or dies, he belongs to Christ. That is the heart of Christian life. We belong to Christ. Our goal is not to keep score with one another. Our goal is not to ask who has done more. Our goal is to seek Him, know Him, love Him, serve Him, remain faithful to Him until the end, and to be happy with Him forever in heaven. Yes, very true! Whether we entered the vineyard early or at the last hour, the destination is the same: Christ Jesus. Remember that God’s reward is the very thing we are diligently seeking: God Himself. Here, at the Master’s Table, where Christ is always our Host, our Teacher, and our Bread of Life. We come with different stories. Some have followed Jesus for decades. Some of us are beginning again. Some of us are struggling. Some of us are returning. But Jesus gives Himself to us. His mercy. His very life. His Body. His Blood, His Soul, and His Divinity. The Eucharist reminds us that our greatest reward is not what we can count. Our greatest reward is Christ Himself. So, my dear brothers and sisters, let us stop comparing and start giving thanks. Instead of saying, “That’s not fair,” let us say: “Thank You, Lord, for calling me.” Thank You for allowing me to know You. Thank You for allowing me to love You. Thank You for allowing me to serve You. And thank You for the promise that one day, after all our days in this earthly vineyard are finished, we will be with You forever. Brother! Sister! Whether we entered the vineyard at dawn or at the last hour, may we all arrive at the same home. Christ is our purpose. Christ is our reward. Christ is our Telos, and at the Master’s Table, Christ gives Himself to us equally. May it ever be so. Amen, Amen.

Growing up in a big family of seventeen people in Uganda, we had one very important rule: when Mom went to the market, somebody had to keep an eye on everybody else! Whenever Mom left, she would call me and say, “Louis, I want you to write down the names of anyone who misbehaves while I am gone.” So, I became the family CIA agent! I had my secret list. Someone talks back. Write it down. Someone refuses to work? Write it down. Someone fights? Write it down. Someone does not do the chores? Definitely write it down! And when Mom returned from the market, I would quietly hand her my report. I took my CIA job very seriously. Unfortunately, I was not very forgiving during my time in office. Then one day, Mom apparently decided that the CIA needed a new generation. She secretly gave the same assignment to one of my younger sisters. I did not know. One day, I was cooking. And, as sometimes happens when we are cooking, I burned the food! Now, in a big Ugandan family, burning the food was not a small mistake. There was no saying, “Sorry, let’s order pizza.” No! If I burned the food, I had to go into the garden, find something else to cook, bring it back, prepare it—and somehow get lunch ready on time. So, I went into damage-control mode. I covered my tracks. I found new food. I started cooking. I thought, “Nobody knows. I am going to survive this.” But somebody was watching. The CIA agent was watching! I begged my brothers and sisters, “Please! Do not tell Mom!” But nobody would tell me who the informant was. The identity of the CIA agent remained classified! Then Mom came. And eventually, the truth came out. Because I had been so good at keeping records of everybody else’s mistakes, my punishment was that I had to cook for another two weeks! And let me tell you: in our family, cooking was not a promotion! We rotated chores every week, and everybody wanted the easier jobs. Nobody wanted to cook. Nobody wanted to spend hours working in the garden. So, I thought to myself: “If only I had been a little more forgiving when I was the CIA agent, perhaps somebody would have been forgiving when I burned the food!” Sometimes we are very good at remembering other people’s mistakes and very bad at remembering our own. And that brings us right into today’s Gospel. Peter asks Jesus: “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive?” Peter thinks he is being generous when he suggests seven times. But Jesus answers: “Not seven times, but seventy-seven times.” Jesus is not asking Peter to carry a notebook like my old CIA report! He is teaching us that forgiveness is not meant to be counted. Forgiveness sets us free Sirach says: “Forgive your neighbor's injustice; then when you pray, your own sins will be forgiven.” That is a challenging teaching. We want God to forgive us generously. But when somebody hurts us, we can sometimes become very good accountants. We remember the date. We remember the words. We remember exactly what they said. We remember who was there. And sometimes, twenty years later, we can still say: “I remember exactly what you did!” But there is something important about forgiveness: Forgiveness frees the forgiver. When we refuse to forgive, we can remain tied emotionally to the person who hurt us. The event happened once, but our anger can make us experience it again and again and again. Forgiveness does not say, “What happened was okay.” Forgiveness does not mean that justice does not matter. Forgiveness does not mean that we immediately trust someone again. But forgiveness means: “I will not allow what happened to control the rest of my life.” When we forgive, we place the wound into God’s hands. And something beautiful happens. The forgiver finds peace. And when forgiveness is received, the forgiven person can also find peace. Forgiveness can free both people from the prison of resentment, guilt, anger, and the past. That is why forgiveness is not weakness. Forgiveness is freedom. Jesus tells us the story of the servant who owed his master an enormous debt. The master forgives the entire debt. But then that same servant finds another person who owes him a much smaller amount—and refuses to forgive him. The problem is not that the servant received too little mercy. The problem is that he received mercy but refused to share it. And perhaps that is the heart of today’s Gospel. We are forgiven people. We come before God with our failures, our sins, our weaknesses, and our mistakes. And God continues to show us mercy. So, Jesus asks us to become people who know how to give what we have received. Maybe there is someone we need to forgive. A family member. A lover. A friend. A coworker. Someone who hurt us years ago. Maybe someone who has never even said, “I’m sorry.” And perhaps that is the hardest kind of forgiveness. But Jesus does not say, “Forgive only when the other person deserves it.” He says: “Forgive.” Sometimes we forgive seven times. Sometimes seventy-seven times. Sometimes we wake up one morning and discover that we still need to forgive the same person again. And so my brothers and sisters, we pray: “Lord, I am still struggling with this. Help me to forgive.” And slowly, grace does its work. At the Master’s Table. And this is where the Eucharist becomes so beautiful. Every Sunday, we come to the Master’s Table. We do not come because we are perfect. We come because we need mercy. We come carrying our wounds, our disappointments, our mistakes, our resentments, and Jesus says: “Come.” At this table, Jesus does not simply tell us to forgive. He gives us the grace to forgive. He gives us His Body. He gives us His Blood. He gives us Himself. And perhaps today, when we receive Holy Communion, we can quietly bring before Jesus the name of someone we are struggling to forgive. And we can say: “Jesus, You have forgiven me. Help me to forgive.” Because forgiveness does something powerful. It frees the forgiver. It gives peace to the forgiver and to the forgiven. And it allows us to stop living in yesterday and begin living in the freedom Christ gives us today. So, Brother! Sister! Let us not keep secret CIA files of everybody’s mistakes! Let us remember our own need for mercy. We have been forgiven. We are being forgiven. And we are called to forgive. And from the Master’s Table, may we go home carrying not our grudges, but His mercy. And may Jesus give us the grace to say: “Lord, as You have forgiven me, help me to forgive.” May it ever be so. Amen, Amen.

There is an old Buganda story about a little corn worm called Ndiwulira. Now, Ndiwulira is a Luganda word that means, “I will hear.” And this little worm certainly heard everything. The problem was that he never did anything about what he heard! Imagine a farmer’s cornfield. The corn has grown tall, the ears are full, and harvest time has arrived. The farmer goes into the field, cuts the stalks, gathers the corn, and begins bringing it home. Someone looks at the corn and says to the little worm: “Ndiwulira, you better get out of there! The farmer is harvesting the corn!” The worm answers, “I hear you. But I’m not ready yet. I will leave later.” So, the farmer begins removing the outer leaves, the husks, from the ears of corn. Someone warns him again: “Ndiwulira! The farmer is taking the leaves off. You need to get out!” The worm says, “I hear you. But there is still plenty of time.” The farmer continues preparing the corn. He gathers it together and puts it in the pan to cook. Now the warning becomes a little more urgent: “Ndiwulira! The corn is in the pan. Please leave now!” The worm calmly responds: “I hear you. I’ll leave when I feel the heat.” Well… Eventually, he felt the heat! And by then, unfortunately, the worm discovered that there is a big difference between hearing a warning and responding to it. Sometimes “later” becomes too late. Hmmm! And isn’t that a little like us? Especially when we were teenagers! Our parents could say, “Don’t do that.” “I hear you.” “Be home by nine.” “I hear you.” “Don’t drive that fast.” “I hear you.” “Let’s go to church.” “I hear you.” “Clean your room.” “I hear you!” We heard everything. We just did not always think we needed to do anything about it! Some of us probably became adults only to discover that our parents had been right about a surprising number of things. Today’s readings speak directly to this human tendency. God tells Ezekiel: “I have appointed you as watchman.” A watchman has a responsibility to warn people when danger is coming. The watchman does not force anyone to listen. He does not chase them down the street. He simply has to be faithful enough to say: “Look out. Something dangerous is coming.” And Jesus gives us a similar responsibility in today’s Gospel. He says: “If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault between you and him alone.” Jesus is telling us that love sometimes requires a difficult conversation. If someone we love is heading in the wrong direction, love cannot always remain silent. Sometimes love says: “I’m concerned about you.” “I think this is hurting you.” “I do not think this is good for you.” “Please reconsider.” But Jesus also tells us how to do it. Shhhh! Go privately. Not on WhatsApp, TikTok, X, or Facebook. Not in the parish parking lot. Not in a family group text with twenty-five people! And certainly not with, “Well, everybody is talking about you…” Jesus says, go to the person. Speak with love. Speak with humility. Speak because you care. But there is another challenge in today’s Gospel: Are we willing to be corrected? It is easy to see the stubbornness of Ndiwulira in somebody else. It is much harder to admit that sometimes we are Ndiwulira! God speaks. Our conscience speaks. Scripture speaks. Our spouse speaks. Our children sometimes speak. A good friend speaks. A priest may speak. And we respond: “I hear you.” But then we keep doing exactly what we were doing. That is why today’s Psalm says: “If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.” Notice the word today. God doesn’t say, “When you finally feel the heat.” He says, today. If we need to forgive someone, perhaps today is the day. If we need to apologize, perhaps today is the day. If we need to change something in our lives, perhaps today is the day. If we need to return to God, perhaps today is the day. Because God’s correction is not condemnation. It is an invitation to come home. And that brings us to the Master’s Table. Every Sunday, Jesus gathers us here. First, He speaks to us through His Word. He warns us. He challenges us. He encourages us. He calls us to conversion. And then He does something even more beautiful. He gives us Himself. At the Eucharistic table, Jesus gives us His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. The One who tells us to love one another gives us Love Himself. The One who calls us to change our lives gives us the grace to change. The One who warns us when we are going in the wrong direction does not abandon us. He waits for us. He feeds us. He strengthens us. So, brothers and sisters, perhaps the question this Sunday is simple: What is God saying to us, and are we actually listening? Brother! Sister! Are we listening? Let us not be like Ndiwulira, always saying, “I hear you… I’ll do it later.” Because sometimes later is too late. When the Lord speaks, let us listen. When someone corrects us with love, let us listen. When our conscience speaks, let us listen. And when Jesus calls us, let us respond: “Yes, Lord. I hear you.” Then let us come to the Master’s Table, where the Eucharistic Jesus feeds us with Himself and gives us the grace not merely to hear His Word, but to live it. May it ever be so. Amen, Amen.

There is something very Boston about carrying a cross. Sometimes our cross has a name: “Route 95/128!” Or “construction on Route 3.” You leave Cohasset or Hull thinking, “I have plenty of time. I will get there early.” Twenty minutes later, you are sitting in traffic wondering whether the cars ahead of you are actually moving or whether everyone has decided to make Route 95/128 their “permanent residence”! And the funny thing is, there is always that one person who changes lanes three times, gets nowhere, and somehow ends up right beside you again. We laugh, but sometimes life feels exactly like that. We know where we want to go, but the road is slow, frustrating, and full of obstacles. And today’s Gospel tells us something we do not always want to hear: “Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me.” Jesus does not say, “Follow me, and I will make your life easy.” He says, “Take up your cross.” Peter had just proclaimed Jesus as the Christ, the Son of the living God. But when Jesus explained that He would suffer and be killed, Peter objected. Peter wanted Jesus, but without the cross. And perhaps we can understand Peter. We want the resurrection, but not Good Friday. We want the blessing, but not the sacrifice. We want the crown, but not the cross. Yet Jesus makes it clear: following Him means giving ourselves completely to God. St. Paul tells us in the second reading: “Offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God.” A living sacrifice. That means Christianity is not simply something we do for an hour on Sunday. It is how we live Monday morning. It is how we treat our spouse when we are tired. It is how we speak to our children when they are testing our patience. It is how we react in health challenges, trials, tribulations, pain, and suffering. It is how we respond when somebody cuts us off on Route 95/128; and, Lord, that may be where some of us need the most sanctification! It is how we treat the person who disagrees with us. It is how we forgive. It is how we remain faithful when nobody applauds us. And Paul says, “Do not conform yourselves to this age.” That is difficult because the world constantly tells us who we should become. We belong to Christ; that is why we are baptised as Christians. We as Christians are called to be transformed; not by the standards of the world, but by the mind of Christ. This is why the witness of the saints matters. When Mother St. Teresa of Calcutta spoke about abortion, she did not hide behind complicated language. She spoke with extraordinary honesty and integrity. She said: “The greatest destroyer of love and peace is abortion, which is war against the child.” Those words were spoken decades ago. And we have to ask ourselves honestly: are not those words still painfully evident today? St. Teresa was willing to speak the truth even when the truth was uncomfortable. Brother and Sister, that is part of taking up the cross. Sometimes following Christ means saying what is true when the world would rather we remain silent not offend anyone. Sometimes it means defending the vulnerable, standing for human dignity, choosing forgiveness when everyone around us says, “Get even,” being faithful when faithfulness is unpopular. The cross will cost us something. But the beautiful thing is this: Jesus never asks us to carry it alone. The Psalm gives us hope: “My soul clings fast to you; your right hand upholds me.” The Lord who asks us to carry the cross is the Lord who holds us when the cross becomes heavy. Yes, He is always with us in those moments. And this brings us to the second part of the Master’s Table. At this table, Jesus does not simply teach us about sacrifice. He gives Himself to us. The Eucharist is Christ’s total gift of Himself. He gave Himself on the cross, and now He gives us His Body and Blood as food for our journey. When we come to Holy Communion, we are not receiving an idea. We are receiving Jesus Himself: Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. The Jesus who carried the cross. The same Jesus who knows suffering, pain, hypocrisy, and betrayal. The One who understands our weakness. The very same Jesus who says, “Follow me.” So perhaps this week, when the cross becomes heavy, let us not immediately ask, “Lord, how can I get rid of this?” Let us sometimes ask: “Lord, how can I carry this with You?” When we are stuck in traffic, frustrated at home, misunderstood at work, worried about our children, struggling with forgiveness, or simply exhausted by life, let us remember the words of the Psalm: “My soul clings fast to you; your right hand upholds me.” And then let us come to the Master’s Table. There Jesus gives us the strength we cannot manufacture ourselves. He gives us grace for the journey. He gives us Himself. Brothers and sisters, the Christian life is not the absence of the cross. It is discovering that Christ is with us on the cross. And when we walk with Him, the cross is no longer merely a burden. It becomes a path. A path toward holiness. A path toward love. A path toward resurrection. So let us take up our cross. Let us follow Christ Jesus. And when the road gets difficult, and especially when either on Route 95/128 or on Route 3 reminds us that patience is indeed a virtue, let us remember: Brother! Sister! We may not always know how long the road will be, but we know who is walking with us. And He is waiting for us at the Master’s Table. May it ever be so. Amen, Amen.