News - August 2026 RSS Feed

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.

My dear brothers and sisters in Christ, I have discovered that every parish has at least one miracle. It happens immediately after the final blessing. The announcements begin: “Next Saturday, we are looking for a few volunteers to help clean the church…” Suddenly, something extraordinary happens. We all become experts at avoiding eye contact.