Father Chris Looby

  Have you noticed that as soon as the calendar flips to December, the whole world starts moving faster?  Traffic on Route 3 backs up, the parking lots at Hannaford and Walmart fill before noon, and families rush from one school Christmas concert to the next.  We don’t walk anywhere — we hustle.  And yet, with all this movement, I wonder: are we actually moving toward God, or just moving around? The readings today are full of motion.  Isaiah says, “Come, let us climb the Lord’s mountain.”  The psalm sings, “Let us go rejoicing.”  Paul urges us to wake up, throw off, put on, walk in the light.  And Jesus tells us to stay awake, be ready, be prepared.  Advent isn’t a season of stillness; it’s a season of direction. A season of God calling us to move — not faster, but closer. And that’s the difference. December gives us speed, but Advent gives us purpose.  The crowds, the errands, the concerts, the parties — they keep us in motion.  Bu...

 Imagine for a moment the scene of that very first Thanksgiving. A small group of settlers, worn down by hunger and a brutal winter. Native people who had shown them how to plant, hunt, and simply survive. A fragile peace. A table that was simple… humble… and probably not all that full. And yet they gathered—together—because despite everything, they chose gratitude. And that brings us to a question worth asking this morning: As Americans today, how are we different from the people who celebrated the first Thanksgiving… and how are we the same? How We Are Different Those early Americans lived with real scarcity . Food could run out. Illness could sweep through a community. Shelter wasn’t guaranteed. We, on the other hand, live surrounded by comforts and conveniences they could never imagine. Their world was unpredictable —one harsh winter could be the end. We can insulate ourselves with technology, insurance, savings, and plans. They also knew, every single day, that ...

 Last month, King Charles traveled to Rome for his first meeting with the Holy Father since his accession to the throne. The visit itself was significant—but afterward he went to the Basilica of St. Paul Outside the Walls, where something quieter and more symbolic took place. The monks had prepared a special chair for him: hand-carved, beautifully made, adorned with the royal coat of arms, and engraved with the Latin words Ut unum sint —“That they may be one.” Those words aren’t just a motto from the basilica. They come straight from the Gospel—John 17:21—where Jesus, at the Last Supper, prays to the Father “that they may all be one.” In other words, that chair wasn’t only a gesture of hospitality to a visiting king; it was a reminder of Christ’s deepest desire for His Church: unity, reconciliation, and the healing of divisions. But if you stood in that basilica and looked past the royal chair—impressive as it was—you would eventually lift your eyes to the great apse mosaic above...

A preacher once stood in the pulpit, pounded the side of it for good measure, and shouted, “Repent! The end is near!” Someone in the pews raised a hand and said, “Father… do you mean the end of the world or the end of the homily ?” Because depending on how long the homily goes… sometimes the two can feel very similar! We laugh, but the truth is that people really do wonder about the end of time — especially these days. Wars rage across the globe. Our own country feels divided and anxious. Natural disasters, violence, and unrest seem to dominate the headlines. It’s not unusual for someone to ask me, “Father, do you think these are the signs? Do you think the end is coming?” And today’s readings almost seem to encourage that question. Malachi speaks of a day “blazing like an oven.” Jesus talks about wars, earthquakes, kingdoms falling, persecution. Anyone who hears that could be tempted to panic a little. But notice what Jesus actually says: “Do not be terrified.” He doesn’t tell ...

 I took this picture of the interior of St. John Lateran Basilica in Rome last month while on pilgrimage.  Pictured here is the Cathedra or the "Bishop's Chair".  The Bishop of Rome is Pope Leo XIV. Last month, during our Jubilee Year of Hope pilgrimage to Rome, I had the chance to visit one of the most important — but often overlooked — churches in the world: the Basilica of St. John Lateran. Many people think St. Peter’s Basilica is the Pope’s church because that is where you see the pope often on TV.  But it’s actually St. John Lateran that holds that title. It’s the cathedral of the Bishop of Rome — the mother church of all churches in the world.   Over the door, carved in Latin, are the words: “Omnium urbis et orbis ecclesiarum mater et caput” —  “The mother and head of all the churches of the city and of the world.” Standing there in that ancient basilica, I couldn’t help but think: this building has seen everything.  It’s been destroyed and rebu...

I am pictured here with my dear friend, Sr. Lucille Beaulieu, OSM, who passed away in 2024.   Maybe you have a photograph on your dresser, or on the refrigerator — a loved one who’s gone before you. You see that picture every day. You might even find yourself saying a little hello when you walk by. That’s not foolish or sentimental. That’s love. And love never dies. That photograph is more than paper and ink — it’s a reminder that the bond you shared is still alive in God. Brothers and sisters, today is a tender day in the life of the Church. All Souls’ Day is not flashy, not loud, not triumphant. It is quiet. It is prayerful. It is a day when the Church invites us to do something sacred, something deeply human: to remember. We remember faces we still miss. Voices we can still hear in our minds. Hands we once held. We remember people who shaped us, loved us, and in some cases—carried us through life. And even if the world expects us to “move on,” our hearts know better. Love does n...