If you knew you had just one week to live, what would you do? Most of us have faced that question at some point—maybe in a group icebreaker, a job interview, or on a college application. It’s the kind of prompt that tries to cut through all the noise and get at the heart of what really matters. Would you travel the world? Reconnect with loved ones? Seek adventure, or peace?  That question came up for me again recently, brought to mind by a scene from the television series The Office which I get sucked into any time I happen to channel surf and find it on.   Office Manager Pam Beesly gets asked this very question. Her answer? “If I knew I had a week to live, I would… probably go to Europe. And South America. And the Grand Canyon. And… I would want to see the Pacific Ocean. …It would be a pretty busy week.”   I get it. When I’ve been put on the spot with that question, I’ve never been happy with my answer. Maybe that’s because, by God’s grace, it’s always been hypothetical. There’s a pressure to say something profound, to open up about what’s deepest in your heart.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for THE SOLEMNITY OF CORPUS CHRISTI – THE BODY AND BLOOD OF CHRIST (June 22, 2025). Your support means a great deal to me, and I’m deeply grateful for the many who share these messages with their friends, families and social media followers. If you’ve found meaning in these words, I’d be grateful if you’d share them with others who might benefit.

And for those who prefer listening, you can find the audio version on SoundCloud HERE or subscribe to the podcast on iTunes HERE. Your comments, messages, and the way you’ve embraced these homilies continue to inspire me.  Sincerely in Christ -Father Jim

But sometimes, life isn’t hypothetical. Sometimes that question becomes all too real.

Back in 1998, there was a young man who was a seminarian named Eugene Hamilton. He was preparing for the priesthood across the Hudson River in New York when he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. The doctors told him he had little time left. So what did he want most in those final weeks? Not to travel, not to chase after unfinished dreams, but to be ordained a priest—even if only for a moment. Cardial O’Connor petitioned the Vatican and Pope John Paul II granted permission for the extraordinary request.  Surrounded by his family in his own home, Eugene Hamilton was ordained a priest. He lived only a few hours after his ordination, but in that time he fulfilled his calling: he celebrated his first and only Mass, and offered his life completely to Christ.

That story has always moved me, and it’s stayed with me in a very personal way. At the time, I was about the same age as Fr. Eugene—just a year out from my own ordination. I remember reading about him, and my spiritual director then was serving at St. Joseph’s Seminary in Dunwoodie, where Fr. Hamilton had studied. His story hit close to home. I found myself heartbroken for him and his family, and I couldn’t help but wonder—if I were in his shoes, would I be so single-minded, so clear in my desire? Fr. Eugene Hamilton’s prayer card has been in my breviary for over 26 years now. I still think of him, and I still remember his story.

It’s tragic, of course—a life cut so short, a priesthood that lasted only a day. But it’s also incredibly powerful. In the face of death, Fr. Eugene’s greatest desire was to carry out the mission Christ had planted in his heart. He didn’t run from suffering or disappointment. He focused on the one thing that mattered: to serve, to love, to be united with Jesus in the Eucharist and to share that gift, even if only once.

When I think about that story, I’m reminded how easy it is to get caught up in all the things that go wrong, both in our lives and in the Church. There are plenty of reasons people walk away, plenty of disappointments and wounds and unanswered questions. Sometimes it feels like the darkness is too much to overcome. But then there are stories like Father Eugene Hamilton’s — people who, even in their hardest moments, choose faith, choose hope, choose to serve.

And that’s why I want to thank you for being here today. I know it’s not always easy. Maybe you come with mixed feelings, maybe you’re carrying doubts, maybe you’re tired. But you’re here. And here, together, we celebrate the greatest gift Christ has given us: his Body and Blood, received in the Eucharist. Our hearts and minds are drawn into this mystery every time we gather, but especially today, on the feast of Corpus Christi—the Body of Christ. This is Jesus’ everlasting gift to his Church, to every generation, to each of us personally. No matter our struggles or shortcomings or doubts, Christ desires to meet us here, to unite himself with us, to nourish us for the journey—both in this life and for eternity.

At its heart, that’s what has drawn people back, generation after generation. Even when individuals have failed, even when the institution has struggled, it’s the presence of Christ in the Eucharist that remains. That’s why we’re here.

Today’s Gospel isn’t one of the Last Supper narratives, or even John’s Bread of Life discourse. Instead, we hear from Luke about the feeding of the multitudes. The timing is interesting. Just before this scene, Jesus had sent the Twelve out to proclaim the Kingdom and heal the sick. But at the first sign of trouble, when faced with a hungry crowd, the Apostles doubt. They look at their meager resources and throw up their hands. They see only what they lack.

But Jesus takes what little they have and transforms it. He provides in abundance. He brings everyone together. The miracle is not just that the crowd is fed, but that Christ meets the needs of His people even when those chosen to serve feel inadequate. In the Eucharist, we remember: it is Jesus who makes his Real Presence known, it is Jesus who gathers us in, it is Jesus who provides what we cannot.  Every priest simply lends his voice, his presence to Jesus so that His real presence is made real and present under the appearances of bread and wine.

Fr. Eugene Hamilton, in his final hours, chose to give everything to Christ—to celebrate the Eucharist, to offer himself for the people of God. Even in suffering, even when time was short, his eyes were fixed on Jesus. That’s what mattered most.

For us, gathered here to receive the same gift, my hope is that we might see, just for a moment, how precious this mystery is. When Jesus himself had only a week left to live, his heart and his vision were set on us—on you, on me, on every single person. Nothing mattered more to him than offering himself in love, so that we could share in his life forever.

May our reception of the Eucharist today fill us with gratitude, and inspire us to love Jesus in return, to long for him above all else.