Third Sunday in Ordinary Time 2026

 The 38th stage of the Milano Cortina 2026 Olympic Torch Relay started in Borgomanero, where the community welcomed the Flame with warmth and participation, transforming the passage of the sacred fire into a moment of shared celebration. (Photo from olympics.com)

Most of us would agree that these feel like dark times.

Not dark because there is no good in the world—there is plenty of good—but dark because so much of what we hear, see, and say is filled with division. 

People are quick to label, quick to judge, quick to assume the worst about one another. Families are divided. Friendships are strained. Communities feel tense. Even churches are not immune.

And into that kind of world, we hear these words from Isaiah today: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”

Isaiah was speaking to people who were living in fear and uncertainty. 

They felt forgotten, defeated, overshadowed by powers stronger than they were. 

And God says to them: darkness will not have the last word. 

A light is coming. And when that light comes, it won’t just make things look prettier—it will break burdens, lift yokes, restore joy, and set people free.

That same light echoes in the Psalm:
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom should I fear?”

What Isaiah describes for a whole nation, the psalmist experiences personally. God’s light is not only something that changes history—it changes hearts.

And then Paul, in our second reading, shows us what darkness can look like in a community. Not exile. Not armies. But division.

 “I belong to Paul.”
“I belong to Apollos.”
“I belong to Cephas.”

Paul is heartbroken because the light of Christ is being dimmed by rivalry, pride, and camps that divide instead of unite. 

And it doesn’t sound ancient at all. It sounds like now.

Then we come to the Gospel. Matthew makes it very clear: Jesus is the light Isaiah promised. 

He deliberately goes to Galilee—“the land of Zebulun and Naphtali,” a place considered on the margins, a place of mixture, a place some looked down on. 

And there, in that place of shadows, Jesus begins to shine. He preaches. He heals. He restores. He brings hope.

And then something important happens. He doesn’t keep the light to himself.

He calls fishermen. Ordinary men. Working men.

“Come after me.”

And suddenly, the light is no longer just in Jesus—it is being carried in human lives.

That made me think about something many of us will start hearing about in the next few weeks—the Winter Olympics in Milan. 

Before the Games begin, there has been this Olympic Torch relay. 

One flame, lit in one place, carried by many people, across many regions, handed from runner to runner, until it arrives at a moment of joy and celebration.

No runner owns the flame.
They are trusted with it—for a while.
They carry it carefully.
And then they pass it on.

That’s what Jesus is doing in today’s Gospel.

He is the Light.
But he chooses to trust that light to disciples.
And that same light has now been handed to us.

In dark times, Christians are not called to curse the darkness.
We are called to carry the light.

So what does that actually look like?

First, we stay close to the flame.

You can’t carry light if you never go near the source. Prayer, Scripture, Eucharist, silence—these are not religious chores.

They are how we stay warm by God’s fire so our hearts don’t grow cold.

Second, we refuse to add darkness.

Most darkness today is not violence—it is words.

Cruel jokes. Harsh labels. Cutting comments.

Being light sometimes just means:
“I will not speak in a way that makes the world colder.”

Third, we choose curiosity over contempt.

Division grows when we stop wondering about each other.
Light grows when we say:
“Help me understand.”
“What’s your story?”
You don’t have to agree to be kind.

Fourth, we carry light into ordinary places.

Jesus didn’t start in palaces—he started on shorelines.

Light shows up in kitchens, classrooms, hospital rooms, workplaces, family tables.

Being light usually looks like listening, forgiving, encouraging, and showing up.

And finally, we pass it on.

Light is not meant to be admired—it is meant to spread.
Every act of mercy is a handoff:
A word that heals.
A visit that lifts.
A kindness that interrupts despair.

The world doesn’t need us to be louder.
It needs us to be brighter.

Jesus is the light Isaiah promised.
He placed that light in the first disciples.
And now, he has placed it in us.

So carry it carefully.
Carry it faithfully.
And never forget—someone is waiting in the dark for the light you carry.