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Growing up in Buganda, Uganda, there was an elderly man in our village whom we called Mzee Mukisa. He had a beautiful white beard, white hair, a walking stick, and a traditional bark cloth. He walked slowly, but when he began telling stories, nobody wanted him to finish! In our culture, we believe that the older we grow, the wiser we become. We often say, “Old is gold.” And Mzee Mukisa was certainly gold in our village! In the evenings, we would visit his home and gather around the fireplace to listen to his stories. People came to him for counsel, wisdom, guidance, and blessings. If someone had a family problem, a difficult decision, or needed guidance, Mzee Mukisa was one of the people they would visit. As a young boy, I admired him so much that I sometimes thought, When I grow up, I want to become like Mzee Mukisa! Of course, I imagined the good parts: the white beard, the walking stick, everyone coming to ask for my wisdom, and children sitting around me listening to my stories. I had not yet considered that growing old might also mean aching knees, slower walking, and needing someone to help me get up from a chair! But one day, I saw Mzee Mukisa kneeling before the Blessed Sacrament in church. And something struck me. This man whom everyone in the village respected, this wise elder to whom people came for counsel and blessings, was himself kneeling before Someone greater than himself. I realized that there was something more important than being a respected elder. Mzee Mukisa knew that all his wisdom came from God. I never saw a halo over his head. But I saw humility, virtue, wisdom, prudence, perseverance, reverence, and love. Mzee was not declared a saint in the official sense, but I believe he showed us what holiness looks like. And that is why I love today’s feast of All Saints. We remember all the people who are now with God in glory, both canonized and not. This feast also reminds all of us that we may be surrounded by holy people without even realizing it. In the Book of Revelation, John sees a great multitude that no one can count, from every nation, race, people, and tongue, standing before God’s throne. Their robes have been washed in the Blood of the Lamb. My dear brothers and sisters, the saints come from everywhere and anywhere. They are not all from one culture, one country, or one way of life. They are people whose lives have been transformed by the love and grace of Jesus Christ. In Buganda, we value our elders because they carry the memory, wisdom, and traditions of the community. But today’s readings remind us that the greatest wisdom is learning to kneel before God, love our neighbour, and live faithfully. St. John tells us that we are already children of God. And in the Gospel, Jesus gives us the Beatitudes: blessed are the poor in spirit, the merciful, the clean of heart, the peacemakers, and those who hunger and thirst for righteousness. Notice that Jesus does not say, “Blessed are those who look impressive.” He calls blessed those whose hearts are being formed by God’s love. Perhaps the saints are closer to us than we think. They may be elderly people who pray faithfully for their families, parents who sacrifice quietly for their children, neighbors who help without expecting recognition, or people who forgive even when forgiveness is difficult. We may never see a halo above their heads, but we may see Christ in their lives. Dear people of God, the question for us is not simply, “Who are the saints we admire?” It is also, “Are we allowing God to make saints of us?” We do not need to wait until we have white hair, a walking stick, or grandchildren gathering around our fireplace! Holiness begins today; in the way we speak, forgive, serve, pray, and love. We come at the Master’s Table. The same Jesus who teaches us the Beatitudes in the Scriptures now feeds us with His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity in the Most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist. Just as Mzee Mukisa knelt before the Blessed Sacrament, we too come before the Lord, knowing that all true wisdom and holiness begin with Him. The saints show us what God’s grace can accomplish. Jesus gives us the grace to follow their example. We are saints in making and in potency. Brother! Sister! May we recognize the holiness already present among us, honour the people who lead us closer to God, and allow Christ to make us saints-not only for the glory of heaven someday, but for the good of our community today. Some of us may not wear a halo, but with God’s grace, we can carry His light. And at the Master’s Table, Jesus gives us Himself, so that one day we may join the saints in praising Him for all eternity. May it ever be so. Amen Amen.

My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, one thing I have learned about living in a new country is that even the simplest things can remind us how much we need one another. Sometimes we need someone to explain a form, show us the right direction, help us understand a new system, or simply smile and make us feel welcome. A small act of kindness can make a strange place feel a little more like home. As a foreigner living here in the United States, I know that feeling personally. And I am sure many of us, in different ways, have experienced what it means to depend on the kindness of another person. That brings us to a powerful message in today’s first reading from the Book of Exodus. God tells the Israelites: “You shall not molest or oppress an alien, for you were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt.” Notice what God is saying: Remember your own story! Remember where you came from! Remember how vulnerable you once were! The Israelites had been foreigners in Egypt. They knew what it meant to be strangers in another land, to depend on others, and to long for freedom and dignity. Now that God had brought them out of slavery, He did not want them to forget their past. Their experience was supposed to teach them compassion, not make them look down on others. My brothers and sisters, this message is still very real today. Sometimes, when life becomes easier for us, we forget the people and circumstances that helped us get where we are. We forget the hands that lifted us, the doors that opened for us, and the people who gave us a chance when we had very little to offer. Perhaps someone welcomed us when we were new. Perhaps someone gave us a job, helped our family, taught us something, or stood beside us when we were struggling. We did not get here entirely by ourselves. And so, when we meet someone who is struggling today, especially someone whose circumstances are different from ours, we must ask ourselves: Will we make the road easier for that person, or will we make it even more difficult? These things are not far away from us; we see them in our neighborhoods and see them when we turn on the news. As a foreigner myself, I hear these words of Exodus not simply as a command directed to someone else, but as a reminder of the dignity we all share. Every person deserves to be treated with respect, compassion, and fairness. And this is not only about foreigners. It applies to everyone: the poor, the elderly, the lonely, the sick, the unemployed, the person who is different from us, and even the person we find difficult to understand. Jesus gives us the measure in today’s Gospel: “You shall love your neighbor as yourself.” In other words, let us use ourselves as a yardstick. Before we judge someone, let us pause and ask: If I were in that person’s position, how would I want to be treated? If I needed help, what kind of response would I hope to receive? If I made a mistake, would I want someone to correct me with kindness or humiliate me? We do not need to agree with everyone, and we cannot solve every problem. But we can choose not to treat another person without dignity. And if, for one reason or another, we cannot help someone, that may be understandable. We all have limitations. But if we cannot lift another person up, let us at least be careful not to push that person down. Sometimes, a kind word, a listening ear, a little patience, or a simple refusal to humiliate someone can make a great difference. My dear friends, none of us was born knowing everything we know today. We all began life dependent on others. Our parents, siblings, relatives, teachers, friends, neighbors, and communities helped us grow. Each of us has needed someone along the way. In truth, we need one another more than we sometimes admit. Saint Paul, in the second reading, praises the Thessalonians because their faith became an example to others. Their faith was not merely something they spoke about; it could be seen in the way they lived. That is the challenge for us, too. If we say that we love God, that love should become visible in how we treat His children. Jesus brings everything together in two commandments: love God with all your heart, soul, and mind, and love your neighbor as yourself. These two commandments belong together. We cannot sincerely claim to love God while deliberately disregarding the dignity of the people He has created. And the beautiful thing is that we do not have to manufacture this love by ourselves. We must first allow God to love us. When we bring Him our wounds, our fears, our failures, and our weaknesses, He teaches us to receive His mercy. Then that mercy begins to overflow into our relationships. The more deeply we recognize how patient God has been with us, the more patiently we can treat others. So, my beloved brothers and sisters, as we continue our earthly pilgrimage, let us remember our own stories. Let us remember the help we have received and the times we have needed understanding. The Master at His table is reminding us today the same words He spoke to the Israelites: “You were once aliens yourselves in the land of Egypt.” May we never forget our own journeys, the people who welcomed us, and the hands that helped us along the way. And if our journey has been difficult, may that experience teach us to treat others with greater compassion, rather than passing our pain on to them. Let us ask God for the grace to treat others as we would wish to be treated ourselves. We all, as foreigners ourselves, we pray that wherever we come from and whatever our circumstances, we may learn to see one another first as brothers and sisters created in His image and likeness and loved by God. When we cannot help someone, may we at least refrain from hurting them. And when we have the opportunity to help, may we do so with generous hearts. For in the end, Brother! Sister! The measure of our love for God is reflected in how we love our neighbor. May the love we receive from the Eucharistic Jesus overflow into our homes, our places of work, our parish, our communities, and every encounter with those who need our kindness. May we never forget where we came from, and may we never forget whose love brought us this far. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

Well, my friends in Christ Jesus, I think we have found one Bible passage that Uncle Sam and the IRS would be very happy to hear preached every Sunday: “Repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar!” I can almost imagine someone from the IRS sitting in the front pew, nodding and saying, “Father, please make sure they hear that part clearly!” or “Speak that in capital letters and in Bold.” Of course, nobody wakes up in the morning and says, “Wonderful! It is tax season! I cannot wait to fill out those forms!” Some of us begin preparing our taxes with confidence, until we open the paperwork and suddenly need a cup of coffee, a calculator, and perhaps the intercession of Saint Matthew, the patron saint of tax collectors! But jokes aside, paying our taxes helps support the communities in which we live. We want our roads maintained, our schools supported, our firefighters and police equipped, and our public services available when we need them. Whether we are driving along Route 3, walking around Cohasset, or enjoying the waterfront in Hull, we all benefit when our communities are cared for. My dear people of God, we all know when tax season comes, we may not sing the Te Deum as we file our returns; but we do have a responsibility to contribute fairly! Perhaps that is why today’s Gospel sounds like a favourite Bible verse for Uncle Sam. Some people approach Jesus and ask whether it is lawful to pay taxes to Caesar. They are trying to trap Him. If He says yes, some will criticize Him; if He says no, He could get into trouble with the authorities. But Jesus asks them to show Him a coin. “Whose image is this and whose inscription?” “Caesar’s,” they reply. Then Jesus gives His answer: “Then repay to Caesar what belongs to Caesar and to God what belongs to God.” Jesus is not simply settling a tax dispute. He is inviting us to think about a much deeper question: What belongs to God? The coin carries Caesar’s image. But we carry the image of God. Our lives, our gifts, our time, our talents, our relationships, and our very existence come from Him. We have responsibilities as citizens, neighbors, parents, workers, and members of our communities. Our faith does not excuse us from fulfilling those responsibilities. In fact, our faith should make us more honest, more generous, and more willing to serve the common good. But Jesus reminds us that no earthly authority can take God’s place in our hearts. We belong to God first. And that can be difficult to remember because life keeps sending us bills, deadlines, appointments, and responsibilities. We give our employers our time. We give our families our attention. We give our phones hours of our lives. Sometimes we give more attention to a notification on our screens than to the person sitting right beside us! But how much time do we give to prayer? How much attention do we give to God’s Word? How often do we pause to thank Him for the life He has given us? My dear brothers and sisters, St. Paul gives thanks for the Thessalonians’ work of faith, labour of love, and endurance in hope. Their faith was not just something they talked about. It showed in the way they lived. That is what God asks of us, too. Our faith should be visible in how we treat our neighbors in Cohasset and Hull, how patiently we listen to one another, how honestly we work, how we care for those who are lonely, and how we help those who are struggling. We belong to God not only on Sunday morning, but on Monday at work, Tuesday in traffic, Wednesday at the grocery store, and every other day of the week. And when we fail, we can return to Him, ask forgiveness, and begin again. At the Master’s Table, we encounter the One to whom we belong. The same Jesus who speaks to us in the Scriptures gives Himself to us in the Eucharist. He feeds us with His Body and Blood and strengthens us to live our faith in the world. We come carrying our responsibilities, our worries, and our struggles. And Christ reminds us that before we belong to any job, title, institution, or earthly authority, we belong to Him. Brother! Sister! Perhaps this week we can ask ourselves: Are we giving God what belongs to God: our hearts, our love, our faith, and our lives? We may owe Uncle Sam our taxes, and we owe our communities our honest contribution. But our deepest allegiance belongs to God, whose image we carry and whose love sustains us. At the Master’s Table, Jesus gives Himself to us completely. May we learn to give ourselves back to Him; not only with our words, but with our lives. The coin may carry Caesar’s image, but we carry God’s image. Let us live like we belong to Him.

Growing up in Buganda, whenever we heard that a visitor was coming to our home, we did not simply clean the house. We prepared for “the Second Coming”! it was a big deal. Mom would inspect every corner of the house to make sure everything was spotless and “spick and span.” Food was prepared. Every Sunday, something was already on the stove, just in case a visitor suddenly appeared. One Sunday, my mom and dad invited our pastor for dinner. The preparation was serious! Some food was prepared the day before. The house was spotless. We children were dressed in our nice Sunday clothes. The good ceramic/China plates came out. We were ready! And then we waited. And waited. And waited. The pastor never came. As children, we were secretly delighted! We thought, Well, if the pastor is not coming, somebody has to eat this food! Hence, we took the first portions; the portions meant for the visitor! We sat there in our beautiful Sunday clothes, eating from the fancy plates. And we even said to one another, “You know, I wish all visitors would cancel!” For us children, it was a wonderful Sunday. For Mom and Dad? They were disappointed, but they could not exactly show it in front of us! Then, a few days later, on Wednesday, the pastor suddenly appeared. And this time, there was no spotless house prepared for a visitor. No Sunday clothes. No fancy plates. Dinner was vegetable soup and potatoes! The pastor explained that he had received an emergency call on Sunday and could not come. I learned something that week: sometimes we prepare beautifully for an invitation, and sometimes the invitation comes when we least expect it. And that brings us to today’s Gospel. Jesus tells us about a king who prepares a wedding feast for his son. The invitation goes out, but some people refuse to come. Others eventually come, but Jesus makes an important point: it is not enough simply to show up. We must also be prepared. That is why Jesus speaks about the wedding garment. The invitation is a gift, but the invitation also calls for a response. And is not that true in our own lives? We can sometimes feel hurt when someone does not accept our invitation to dinner, a party, or a family gathering. We prepared the food. We cleaned the house. We made room at the table.So, my brothers and sisters, when someone rejects the invitation, it can hurt. Imagine, then, the heart of God, who continually invites us to His feast. And yet, how often do we say, “Not today, Lord.” We become too busy. We become distracted. We choose other things. And sometimes, through serious sin, we turn away from the One who has invited us. But here is the beautiful thing about God: He keeps inviting us. Isaiah tells us that the Lord will prepare a feast for all peoples. It is a feast where God will wipe away every tear and destroy death forever. This is the feast we are made for. And St. Paul gives us the secret to being ready. He says: “I can do all things in him who strengthens me.” That is the secret! We sometimes look everywhere for the secret to happiness, strength, peace, and perseverance. Paul tells us: Look no further. Look to Christ. Christ is the strength. Christ is the feast. Christ is the One who invites us. And Christ is the One who prepares us. When we have little, Christ is enough. When we have much, Christ is enough. When life is beautiful, Christ is enough. When life is difficult, Christ is still enough. And that is why the Eucharist is so central to our lives. At the Master’s Table, we do not simply hear about the heavenly banquet. We begin to taste it. Christ gives us His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. He feeds us with Himself. And when sin separates us from the feast, repentance and the Sacrament of Reconciliation bring us back to the table. Penance is not God shutting the door on us. It is God opening the door again and saying, “Come home. The feast is still waiting.” Brother! Sister! Do not let Christ be without you. The invitation has been given. The table is prepared. The feast is ready. And the secret is not complicated. Christ Himself is the secret. At the Master’s Table, Jesus invites us, strengthens us, feeds us, and prepares us for the eternal banquet where every tear will be wiped away. May we accept His invitation, put on the garment of grace, and never be afraid to come to the feast. The King is inviting us. The Table is ready. And Christ Himself is the Feast. Amen

Thank you to everyone who participated in this past weekend's pet blessing. Our collaborative is so thankful for the animals God has placed in our lives. We enjoyed seeing the variety of pets and hope next year you will come again. God Bless!

Fr. Clancy has officially been installed! Our Collaborative is so blessed to have such a wonderful new pastor who cares so deeply about our ​two parishes.

Since I came to Cohasset and Hull, I have discovered something I did not expect: there are a lot of dogs here! Sometimes when I am out walking, I wonder if there are almost as many dogs as people. Almost every house seems to have one or two. And they have a pretty good life! They go for walks, they enjoy the beaches, and their owners seem to take very good care of them. I love pets, so I am beginning to think that maybe I really do belong on the South Shore. I am even thinking about getting a pet myself. Maybe this will be a gesture to let Fr. Clancy know that we belong here! Because really, how can we keep taking walks around without a dog!? Hahaha! But there is something I have noticed about dogs. When they are walking with their owners, they do not seem too worried about where they are going. They are simply happy to be with the person who is walking with them. And I think there is something for us in that. Sometimes we spend so much time worrying about where life is taking us that we forget to notice who is walking with us. That brings us to today’s readings. In the first reading, Isaiah tells us about a vineyard. The owner prepares everything carefully. He plants the vines, protects them, and gives them everything they need. But when the time comes, the vineyard produces wild grapes. Jesus tells a similar story in the Gospel. The landowner prepares his vineyard and entrusts it to tenants. But the tenants forget that the vineyard does not really belong to them. They forget the gift and the giver. And sometimes we can do the same thing. We wake up and immediately notice what is wrong. My finances. The weather is terrible. My health. Traffic is backed up. The Red Sox lost the other game, oh, the Patriots. Someone hurt our feelings. Our plans did not work out. We look at the news, politics, and there seems to be one more problem after another. And if we are not careful, we can slowly begin to see life mainly through the things that are wrong. “Negative energy” People of God, St. Paul gives us another way of looking at life. He tells us to think about what is true, honourable, just, pure, lovely, gracious, excellent, and worthy of praise. Paul is not saying that our problems are not real. He is not telling us to pretend everything is fine. He is reminding us that what we choose to dwell on can shape our hearts. My dear Brothers and Sisters, if we constantly focus on what is wrong, our hearts can become tired and discouraged. But when we begin to notice God’s gifts, something changes. We notice the friend who called us. We notice our family. We notice someone who helped us when we needed it. We notice the beauty of Cohasset Harbor. We notice an evening walk along the South Shore. We notice the children playing at Sandy Cove or Little Harbor Beach. We enjoy a simple conversation over coffee after Mass. We wake up another morning and realize: God has given us another day. And sometimes we simply need to stop and say, “Lord, thank you. I did not notice how much You have already given me.” That is why the Eucharist is so beautiful. At the Master’s Table, we bring everything with us, our worries, disappointments, anxieties, pain, suffering, tribulations, and things we do not understand. But we also come to recognize the greatest gift. The same Jesus who speaks to us in the Scriptures now gives Himself to us in the Eucharist. He does not simply tell us that God is with us. He gives us Himself the Most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist. Jesus promised never to leave us alone. He is Emmanuel; God with us. He is with us in His Word, and He is truly present with us in His Body and Blood. Brother! Sister! When we catch ourselves focusing on everything that is going wrong, perhaps we can stop and ask: “What is God giving me right now?” And maybe, as we walk through Cohasset, Hull, Hingham, or anywhere along the South Shore, we can learn something from our dogs. We may not always know where the road is taking us. But we can remember who is walking with us. And at the Master’s Table, we discover that the One walking with us is not distant. Jesus gives Himself to us. And in Him, even in the middle of life’s difficulties, there is always grace to notice, something to be grateful for, and reason to hope.

Growing up in a big family, Saturday was not exactly a day of rest. Saturday was chore-assignment day. Mom would gather us and assign everyone a duty for the coming week. One of the most dreaded duties was washing dishes. Nobody wanted that job. Why? Because after lunch, everyone wanted a siesta, but the person washing dishes had to stay behind and work. And there was something even worse. You could spend twenty minutes washing, thinking, finally! I’m done! Then suddenly, from nowhere, a slow eater would appear. “Just put my plate here.” And another one would come: “Oh, and here’s my mug.” You would look at the pile and think, where were you people when I was suffering? Eventually, I learned to love cooking; but washing dishes? That was not my calling! One morning, my sister cut herself while washing the breakfast dishes. Mom looked at me and said, “Louis, help your sister wash the dishes.” I immediately said, “Sure, Mom. I will do it!” Because in an African family, there is one thing you learn very early: you do not say no to Mom! So, I said yes. But my yes had a small problem. I went for my siesta. I thought, Let me sleep first. By the time I wake up, all those slow eaters will have finished eating, and I can wash everything at once. Well, I slept. And I slept. And my “I will do it later” became afternoon. Afternoon became evening. And eventually, I discovered that in my dictionary, “later” sometimes means “never.” Meanwhile, my older sister Eva-Ritah had initially said no because she had to fetch water for the animals on the farm. But she finished her work, came back, and washed the dishes just minutes before dinner! And me? Oh Jesus! I received a special family blessing: I was assigned to wash dishes for the entire next week! I remember thinking, I wish my yes had really been yes! And me? I was given the great privilege of washing dishes for the entire next week as punishment. I remember thinking, I wish my “yes” had really been yes! That is exactly where today’s Gospel meets us. Jesus tells us about two sons. The father asks the first son to go work in the vineyard. He says no, but later changes his mind and goes. The second says yes, but never goes. The surprising part is that Jesus asks, “Which of the two did his father’s will?” The answer is obvious: the one whose actions eventually matched his words. And that is the point for us: God wants our “yes” to become a way of life. Sometimes we say yes to God, but our actions say something different. We say, “I forgive,” but we continue holding the grudge. We say, “I will pray,” but prayer keeps getting pushed to tomorrow. We say, “I will change,” but we keep returning to the same habits. But there is also good news in the Gospel. The first son said no, but his “no” was not the end of his story. He changed his mind and went. That is repentance. Our past does not have to be our final answer to God. Someone can return to Mass after twenty years. Someone can go to Confession after a long absence. Someone can finally say, “Lord, I have made mistakes, but I want to come home.” And God does not say, “Too late.” He says, “Welcome home.” My dear brothers and sisters, this is also what St. Paul shows us in Philippians. Jesus humbled Himself and became obedient-even to death on a cross. His whole life was a yes to the Father. And perhaps that is what discipleship means for us: allowing God’s grace to turn our words into actions. Our “yes” becomes forgiveness. Our “yes” becomes patience. Our “yes” becomes generosity. Our “yes” becomes service. Our “yes” becomes love. At the Master’s Table, we come not because we have always said yes perfectly. We come because Jesus is teaching us how to say yes again. My dear Brothers and Sisters, today we can ask ourselves: Where is Jesus asking my “yes” to become real? Brother! Sister! Here at the Master’s Table, we see the greatest “yes” of all. Jesus did not simply say that He would remain with us; He gave Himself to us. He promised, “I am with you always,” and He fulfills that promise in a profound way in the Most Holy Sacrament of the Eucharist. He is Emmanuel, God-with-us: with us in His Word and truly present with us in His Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity. Every time we come to this Table, Jesus renews His “yes” to us: I will not leave you alone. In every situation you are going through, Mary, Pat, Bob, John, Janet, Edd, Clarice, Peter- yes, you! I will remain with you. And as we receive Him today, may His “yes” teach us to give our own “yes” to God not only with our lips, but with our lives. At the Master’s Table, Jesus gives Himself to us; may we give ourselves back to Him.

Please submit your question on Saturdays or Sundays to [email protected]

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.

St. Ann Church's Cross is back after a year and a half!

“Thank you to all who came together in time, talent, and treasure to make Walk With Mary a glorious day honoring our Blessed Mother. May Mary continue to hold our collaborative community in her loving care.”

Mike, a teenager, walks into a little shop on the South Shore and spots a teenage girl browsing the beauty aisle. Outside the store is a shiny motorbike. He thinks, that is my opening. He walks over, trying his best to look confident, and says, “Hi gorgeous. I’m Mike, the owner of that new bike outside.” The girl looks at him skeptically. “Oh, really? Do you know who I am?” “No,” he says. She smiles proudly. “I’m the sheriff’s daughter.” Suddenly, the boy realizes this might be a much bigger conversation than he expected. But he is determined to impress her because, truthfully, Mike is not really interested in the bike; he is hoping she will be interested in him and agree to go on a date. Trying to keep his cool, he asks, “Well, do you know who I am?” She shakes her head. “No.” Mike gives a nervous smile and says, “Thank God!” Then he runs away. Apparently, his plan to impress her with a bike worked perfectly except for one tiny problem: it was not even his! Sometimes the best thing we can say is, “I know who I am.” But today’s Gospel asks us a much deeper question-not about our social status, our family name, our job, our house, our bank account, or the car sitting in our driveway. Jesus asks: “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?” And then He makes it personal: “But who do you say that I am?” Peter answers: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” That answer changes everything. Because once we know who Jesus is, we begin to understand who we are. Our world spends enormous energy asking us to build an identity. My brothers and sisters, we are told our identity comes from our families, our accomplishments, our possessions, our appearance, our education, our political opinions, our social standing, or what other people think about us. But Jesus gives us something deeper. At our Baptism, we received an identity that no job can give us, no failure can take away, and no human opinion can destroy. We are children of God. We are fearfully and wonderfully made. We are created in the image and likeness of God. That is our identity. And the question is not simply, “Do we know that?” The question is: Do we live like we know it? Who are we at home? Do the people closest to us recognize us as children of God? Who are we at work? Who are we when someone makes us angry? Who are we when we are sitting in traffic on Route 3? Who are we when we get disappointed? Who are we when somebody takes the parking space we were patiently waiting for? And perhaps the most important question: Who are we when nobody is watching? Because it is easy to look like a Christian in church. But Jesus wants to know whether Christ lives in us when we leave church. Our identity as God’s children should follow us into our kitchens, our workplaces, our cars, our friendships, our marriages, our families, our conversations, and even into those private moments when nobody else knows what we are thinking or doing. Sometimes we forget who we are. Sometimes our actions contradict our identity. Sometimes we hurt people, lose our patience, hold grudges, speak words we wish we could take back, or choose somethings we know are not worthy of a child of God. But here is the beautiful thing about our faith: God does not abandon us when we forget who we are. He calls us back. He calls us through the Sacrament of Reconciliation. He says, “Come home.” And then He brings us to another table. The Master’s Table. Here, Jesus does not merely remind us who He is. He gives Himself to us. In the Most Holy Eucharist, we receive the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ-the Son of the living God. The same Jesus whom Peter recognized. The same Jesus who calls Peter the rock. The same Jesus who knows our weaknesses and still chooses us. He says to us: “Come to my table.” And perhaps today Jesus is asking every one of us: “Whom do you say that I am?” Not just with our lips. Not just in the Creed. But with our lives. And then another question follows: “Whom do you say that you are?” You are not merely your mistakes. You are not your failures. You are not your possessions. You are not what somebody said about you yesterday. You are a beloved child of God. Brother! Sister! By Baptism, we are called to be priests, prophets, and kings, bringing Christ into the world wherever we go. So, brothers and sisters, let us remember our identity. When we leave this church today, let us carry Christ with us. Let our families recognize Him in us. Let our neighbors recognize Him in us. Let our coworkers recognize Him in us. And when we are alone, may we still remember who we are. Because the world may ask, “Who are you?” And our answer can simply be: “I am a child of God.” And when Jesus asks, “Who do you say that I am?” May our lives answer: “You are the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And then, at the Master’s Table, may we receive Him, carry Him, and never forget that He has chosen to make His dwelling within us. May it ever be so. Amen, Amen.

There is a particular kind of persistence we know very well here on the South Shore. Anyone who has ever tried to find parking in Hull on a beautiful summer weekend knows what I mean. We drive around the block once. Nothing. Twice. Still nothing. Three times, and suddenly we begin praying prayers we have not prayed since Lent! And then, just when we are ready to give up, a car pulls out. We say, “Thank you, Lord!” Sometimes faith looks a little like that: we keep going even when the answer doesn’t come immediately.

Saturday, people from Oregon came to Cohasset for a family event and wanted to stop by St. Anthony Church to see the St. Anthony statue. The woman in the picture on the left is 90, and thanks to her relatives, our church has this beautiful St. Anthony statue from Portugal.

My brothers and sisters, a few days ago, Rev. Fr. Richard Clancy shared a story from his childhood that brought a smile to my face. When he was a little boy, everyone called him “Rich.” One day, his dad decided it was time for Rich to learn how to ride a bike. His father stood behind him with one hand on the seat and said, “Come on, Rich! You’ve got this. Just keep pedalling… pedal, pedal!” Rich did exactly that. He pedalled twenty… maybe thirty yards. He was doing wonderfully! Then he made one little mistake. He looked back to make sure his dad was still holding onto the bike. To his surprise, his father was way behind him, smiling from where the ride had begun. The moment Rich realized he was riding all by himself, he panicked. The handlebars started wobbling, his confidence disappeared, and before long, he found himself flat on the ground. He had been riding successfully all along. The only thing that changed was where he fixed his eyes. That story sounds a lot like today’s Gospel. Peter does something no one else has ever done. At Jesus’ invitation, he steps out of the boat and walks on water. As long as his eyes remain fixed on Jesus, the impossible becomes possible. But then Peter notices the wind, the waves, and the storm around him. Fear replaces faith. He begins to sink. Isn't that our story too? We begin the day trusting God, and then the phone rings with unexpected news. The doctor’s appointment does not go as we hoped. The bills pile up. Family relationships become strained. We watch the evening news, and it seems like another storm is brewing somewhere in the world. Before we know it, we are looking more at the waves than at the One who walks upon them. Peter’s greatest mistake was not sinking. His greatest victory was knowing whom to call. “Lord, save me!” Three simple words. No long speech. No polished prayer. Just the cry of a heart that knew Jesus was near. And what does Jesus do? He immediately stretches out His hand. Not after Peter proves himself. Not after Peter promises never to doubt again. Immediately. The first reading offers another beautiful image. Elijah expects God to appear in the powerful wind, the earthquake, and the fire. Instead, God comes in the tiny whispering sound. Sometimes we keep waiting for God to do something spectacular, while all along He is quietly speaking in the ordinary moments of our lives; in a kind word from a neighbour, the laughter of a grandchild, a sunset over Cohasset Harbor, the steady rhythm of the waves at Nantasket Beach, or a few peaceful moments in prayer before the Blessed Sacrament. Perhaps faith is less about seeing extraordinary miracles and more about recognizing God’s quiet presence in ordinary moments. The storms may not disappear tomorrow. Peter still had to get back into the boat. Elijah still had a mission to fulfil. We, too, will return to work, to family responsibilities, and to the challenges that await us this week. But we do not return alone. In a few moments, we will come to the Master’s Table. The same Jesus who reached out His hand to Peter now stretches out His hands to us. He does not simply tell us, “Do not be afraid.” He places His own Body and Blood into our hands and hearts. The One who calmed the sea enters our lives through the Most Holy Eucharist. Brother! Sister! Whenever the storms begin to rise and we feel tempted to look back in fear like young Rich on his bicycle or to look down at the waves like Peter, let us lift our eyes to Jesus. For the safest place in every storm is not a stronger boat, but the outstretched hand of Christ, who now feeds us at His table with His very Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity and gives us the strength to keep pedalling, keep trusting, and keep walking with Him. May it ever be so, Amen, Amen.