Father Chris Looby

  When I was in New York City recently for a conference with our bookkeeper Jackie Black and Starr Burke from our Outreach Center.   Our first night there the three of us went out for a snack in the evening.  On the way back to our hotel, we passed a man sleeping on a park bench.  One of us asked, “Is that man homeless?” I answered, “Yes, that is his home for tonight.” And then, suddenly, we looked away and hurried back to the hotel without mentioning the man again. As I’ve reflected on that moment, I realized something important:  We talked about him, but not to him.  We noticed his situation, but we didn’t know his name, his story, or even say hello.  Instead we looked away and walked away faster toward our warm and safe hotel. He was right there in front of us, but in a way, he was invisible.  In that moment, he was Lazarus at our doorstep. That’s what happens in today’s Gospel. The rich man wasn’t violent toward Lazarus. He didn’t chase...

  Have you ever seen the movie  Catch Me If You Can ? It’s based on the real-life story of Frank Abagnale Jr. When he was just a teenager, Frank became one of the most famous con men in American history. He forged checks worth millions of dollars, impersonated an airline pilot, a doctor, and even a lawyer. He was brilliant, clever, and resourceful — but he used those gifts for dishonest purposes. Eventually, the law caught up with him, and he went to prison. But here’s the remarkable part: when he was released, those same talents didn’t disappear. Instead, Frank began working with the FBI, using his sharp mind to help catch fraudsters and teach banks how to prevent forgery. The very skills that once caused harm were now being used for good. His life became an example of how gifts can be redeemed when put to the right purpose. Today’s Gospel is one of the strangest parables Jesus ever told. A steward is caught squandering his master’s property. About to lose his job, he comes u...

  This is a picture of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem that I took on my last pilgrimage to Israel in November 2022. This weekend the Church pauses to celebrate the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. It may sound unusual—why would we “exalt” an instrument of torture and death?  But the Cross is not simply a piece of wood. It is the sign of our salvation, the throne of God’s love, the place where Jesus gave His life for the world. The roots of this feast go back to the early centuries of Christianity.  Tradition tells us that in the year 326, St. Helena, the mother of the Roman emperor Constantine made a pilgrimage to Jerusalem with one goal in mind: to find the true Cross of Christ.  She searched tirelessly, questioned the locals, and finally discovered the very place where Jesus was crucified, buried, and rose from the dead.  Constantine built a great church over that site—the Church of the Holy Sepulcher—which still stands in Jerusalem to...

 A friend of mine in New York told me this story. One weekend, her sister and another friend came to visit. They spent the whole weekend sightseeing—Times Square, Central Park, the Statue of Liberty—the works. On Sunday morning, they stepped into a beautiful old church just to take a look around. But as they were walking down the aisle, the bells started ringing and Mass was about to begin. My friend and her sister looked at each other. “Let’s stay for Mass,” they said. Their other friend stopped in her tracks. “Mass? Now? We’re in New York City! We don’t have time for that—we’ve got places to go!” But the sisters stood firm. “No. This is important to us. We’re staying.” And so they stayed for Mass. Their friend was upset—angry even—but they chose Jesus first. It’s a small moment, but it says a lot. Sometimes, following Jesus means making choices that others—even people close to us—don’t understand. That’s what makes today’s Gospel so challenging. Jesus says, “If anyone come...

Have you ever been to a wedding reception and wondered, “Where am I supposed to sit?”   Maybe you found a spot near the head table, only to realize later that it was reserved for family.  And then comes that awkward moment—someone taps you on the shoulder and says, “Sorry, these seats are taken.”  You have to get up, gather your things, and shuffle off to a less important table. It’s embarrassing. We all know that feeling of wanting to belong, of wanting a good place at the table. Jesus notices the same thing in today’s Gospel. People were jockeying for the best seats at the banquet.  So He tells a story: “Don’t put yourself in the place of honor. Choose the lowest place. Then the host may come and say, ‘My friend, move up higher.’ ” That sounds like simple dinner etiquette, but Jesus is pointing to something much deeper. He’s teaching us about humility and about the Kingdom of God. The world tells us: grab the best seat, fight for recognition, look important.  ...

When I was a kid, I was a horrible athlete.  I was small and skinny and uncoordinated.  I was the guy who would accidentally score points for the other team in basketball, trip over a base in baseball, or be constantly offsides in soccer.  I dreaded the one thing that came before every game at the park: picking teams. I can still feel that moment — standing there, hoping I wouldn’t be the last one picked, but deep down knowing that I probably would be.  That feeling of being unwanted, of being left out, of being “last.” And then I hear today’s Gospel. Someone asks Jesus, “Lord, will only a few people be saved?”   You can hear the same anxiety: Am I going to be picked? Will I be left out? Will I be last? Jesus doesn’t give a number, but he does give a challenge: “Strive to enter through the narrow gate.” The narrow gate isn’t about being the fastest, strongest, or most coordinated.  It’s not about being first in line or having the right résumé of good works....