I wouldn’t call myself a die-hard theatre fan, but there’s something about the musical Sunset Boulevard that’s stuck with me for thirty years. I first came across it decades ago—after my mom and I saw The Phantom of the Opera and were curious what the composer, Andrew Lloyd Webber would do next. At the time it was announced that his new project was an adaptation of the 1950 film. I’m still not exactly sure why it made such an impression on me. For one thing, it’s the music—the score is one I never seem to tire of, and I still listen to it pretty often.

Thank you for taking the time to read this homily for the 14th Sunday in Ordinary Time (July 6, 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

The story, based on Billy Wilder’s classic film, centers on Norma Desmond: a once-legendary actress left behind when Hollywood moved on to “talkies.” She’s a star who can’t let go of her glory days, convinced the world is just waiting for her big comeback—or, as she insists, her “return.” But as the story unfolds, reality slips further and further away from her.

Just this past year, Sunset Boulevard returned to Broadway in a jaw-dropping revival. I’ve seen it multiple times; it’s that powerful and mesmerizing. The music and script haven’t changed much—there are still plenty of nods to the silent film era and the 1950s. But this new production, starring Nicole Scherzinger (who herself once knew the heights of fame as a pop star), makes the story feel less like a period piece and more like a mirror held up to our own world. Norma’s desperate longing for the spotlight feels especially familiar today, when so many are chasing after recognition, likes, and followers—the “silent screen” she once ruled could just as easily be the glow of a smartphone.

And that makes the story even more poignant. Norma is trapped in a kind of suspended animation, living in the past, clinging to memories of adoration. Propped up by Max—her former director, ex-husband, and now her most zealous fan—she is insulated from the truth, her illusions carefully maintained. When Joe Gillis, an out-of-work writer, stumbles into their world, he sees a chance to benefit from Norma’s fantasy, even as he’s drawn into the tragedy that’s unfolding around her.

It’s not a feel-good story. We know right from the start that this isn’t one of those tales where everything works out in the end. Joe, already dead, begins a ghostly narration, flashing back to tell the story of what happened. Instead, it’s a story about the cost of chasing after the world’s applause, about what happens when our worth is tied up in what others think of us. And maybe that’s why it’s such a powerful story. Because deep down, Norma’s struggle is a warning for all of us. Near the end of the show, as things spiral out of control, Joe sings with anger and disgust, “The world is full of Joes and Normas”—and that rings true. We all have something of Norma’s longing in us, and sometimes, if we’re honest, a bit of Joe’s cynicism, too.

That’s an essential warning that echoes in today’s scriptures as well. The temptation to seek the world’s approval, to measure ourselves by applause or recognition, isn’t unique to Broadway or Hollywood—it’s as old as humanity itself. Both Saint Paul and Jesus speak directly to it, inviting us to look for something steadier, something real and lasting.

Saint Paul, writing to the Galatians, says, “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ.”   Think about that. Here’s a man who had every reason by worldly standards to boast—his learning, his zeal, his leadership. And as we celebrated last Sunday in the feast of Sts. Peter and Paul, we recalled how all of that was upended when Paul encountered the Risen Christ. His life is turned inside out. He spends years trying to reassess everything he thought he knew about God in light of the fulfillment found in Jesus Christ. When he finally takes up his calling as a missionary, he tries at first to rely on his own connections, his abilities as a debater and scholar—and he fails, again and again. It’s not until he becomes single-minded in his focus on Jesus Christ—preaching His Cross and resurrection—that anything he does bears fruit. That’s what he’s getting at in today’s second reading: “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.” For Paul, nothing in this world matters compared to Christ. He’s not looking for applause or admiration. He’s not building his identity on his own achievements or what others think. The only thing that gives him value, the only thing worth boasting about, is the love and sacrifice of Christ.

In the Gospel, Jesus sends out seventy-two disciples—not to become famous or powerful, but to bring peace, to heal, and most importantly to share the good news – THE KINGDOM OF GOD IS AT HAND.  When they return, excited by their success, Jesus gently redirects them: “Do not rejoice because the spirits are subject to you, but rejoice because your names are written in heaven.” He’s telling them—and us—that our worth isn’t measured by our accomplishments or how others see us. What matters is that we belong to God.

There’s a temptation in every age—and maybe especially in ours—to measure ourselves by how much attention we get, how successful we seem, how many people know our name. It can be intoxicating to chase after likes, followers, titles, or praise. But all of that is fleeting. The spotlight fades, the applause dies down, and if our value is built on the world’s recognition, we can end up just as lost and lonely as Norma Desmond.

But the Gospel offers something better. Our worth is not in what we do or how we’re seen, but in who we are in Christ. We are loved, chosen, and called by name. Our names are written in heaven—not because of what we’ve achieved, but because of what Christ has done for us. By our baptism, we have become God’s beloved sons and daughters. Here, in this Eucharist, we are nourished with His very life.

So maybe the question for us today is this: Whose approval are we living for? Are we chasing after the world’s applause, or are we anchored in Christ’s love? Are we letting our value be shaped by passing praise, or by the lasting truth that we are children of God?

Let’s ask for the grace to let go of the need for worldly recognition—and instead to find our joy, our purpose, and our identity in Christ alone. Because in the end, that’s the only spotlight that matters.